#even if your first instinct is to hate it

[pucksandpower]

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 13

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

You hear the commotion before you see them.

It starts as a low thrum, a murmuring argument outside the villa gates, the kind of disruption that makes birds scatter from the garden hedge. Oscar is still in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands halfway through chopping garlic. The villa smells like basil and something warm, something domestic. For a brief second, it feels like a home.

Then the front intercom crackles, and a deep voice echoes into the hall.

“This is Carlos Sainz. Tell that boy to open the gate before I have it torn off its hinges.”

Oscar freezes mid-chop.

You don’t breathe.

Not until he says, calm, flat, “Stay in here.”

He wipes his hands on a towel, drops the knife in the sink, and walks out without another word. You don’t follow. Not immediately. You press a hand over your chest like it’ll calm the sudden wild kick of your heart.

But you don’t stay behind either.

You follow the raised voices to the entry hall, just far enough to hear them before they come inside.

“You’ve made your point,” Oscar says evenly, the door still closed. “You found us. Congratulations. Now leave.”

There’s a sneer in Carlos Jr.’s voice. “You’re not even going to deny it? What, was hiding her away not enough, you wanted to make sure everyone knew you had your hands on her?”

“You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“Oh, spare me the knight-in-shining-armor act. You don’t care about her. You just hate me.”

A new voice cuts through the argument.

And your knees go weak the moment you hear it.

Your father.

“What a filthy, shameful situation this is.”

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. You imagine his jaw locked tight, his hands curling into fists.

Your father goes on, his tone rising. “Do you understand the scandal she’s caused? The dishonor? The lies you’ve told, dragging our family’s name into your circus-”

Oscar cuts him off. “She didn’t drag anything. She left on her own.”

You grip the wall.

There’s a silence — brief, hot — and then the front door slams open.

Oscar backs into the entryway first, his body blocking the doorway as best he can. But Carlos Jr. is right behind him, followed closely by your father.

He hasn’t aged a day.

Sharp suit. Silver cufflinks. The gold ring he never takes off flashing on his hand as he points at Oscar like a judge pronouncing a sentence.

“You think you can hide her from me?” He barks. “You think I won’t find my own daughter?”

“She’s not hiding,” Oscar says quietly. “She’s staying somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” Carlos Jr. laughs bitterly. “Safe from what — morality?”

“From you.”

Your father’s voice turns thunderous. “You insolent little-”

“Where is she?” Carlos interrupts, his voice cold now. “Where is she, Oscar?”

Oscar glances over his shoulder, toward where you’re still half-hidden by the hallway corner.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. To you.

Your father sees the movement. His face contorts.

“You’d rather live like a harlot with a heretic than return to your family?” He roars.

You step forward.

It’s instinct.

You don’t think. You just move.

And all three men go still when they see you.

Your father’s eyes flash. Carlos Jr. flinches slightly. Oscar steps aside only enough to let you be seen, never once taking his eyes off the Sainzes.

Your voice doesn’t come easily.

Your mouth is dry. Your body trembles. Every bone screams to retreat.

But you speak anyway.

“I’d rather live free.”

The silence is total.

Your father stares at you like you’ve slapped him.

“I beg your pardon?” He says, too softly now. Dangerous.

Your hands shake at your sides, but you force yourself to stand taller.

“I said-” and this time your voice doesn’t falter, “I’d rather live free.”

You’re aware, in a surreal sort of way, that this is the first time you’ve ever spoken back to him. Not questioned. Not hinted. Spoken back. There’s no mistaking the line you’ve just crossed. And your father — so composed, so full of certainty — looks shaken.

Carlos Jr. gapes at you like you’ve grown a second head.

Oscar? He doesn’t move a muscle.

He’s just watching.

Ready.

As if he knows this is your moment, and he won’t take it from you.

Your father recovers fast. His voice hardens. “You ungrateful child. After all we’ve done. After what you’ve cost-”

“I never asked you to arrange a marriage for me,” you say. “I never asked you to use my life as a business deal to suit your image.”

“That man gave you a future! And you spat in his face.”

“No,” you say, trembling but steady. “I said no. That isn’t. That’s choosing.”

“You don’t choose!” He thunders, eyes bulging. “You obey. You serve. You sacrifice.”

Behind him, Carlos Jr. looks shaken now too. Like he didn’t expect this part — this full unraveling. But he says nothing.

Oscar takes one step closer to you, like a shield re-positioning.

“You’ve made your point,” he says. “It’s time to go.”

But your father isn’t done.

“You think you’re in love?” He scoffs at you. “With this boy? You’re a child. Blinded. You don’t know what’s real.”

“I know what cruelty is,” you whisper.

The words drop like a stone in the room.

Carlos Jr. flinches again.

Your father’s face darkens into something unreadable.

Oscar is entirely still.

Then he speaks, quiet but low, dark with a kind of steel you’ve never heard from him before.

“You don’t get to come here and tell her how to live anymore,” he says to both Carloses. “She’s already better off without you.”

Carlos lunges a step forward, but your father catches his arm.

His grip is white-knuckled. And there’s something final in it.

“We will not forget this,” your father says, glaring between you both. “You’re throwing away your family, your future, your soul.”

“I’ll pray for it,” you whisper. “But I won’t give it to you.”

Your father turns.

Your brother follows.

No goodbyes. No last threat.

Just retreating backs and the click of the front door swinging open then shut.

Oscar moves fast.

He relocks the door. Bolts it. Draws the curtain.

But you … you're still standing.

Frozen.

You turn slowly and reach for the knob.

And then you slide down the door until you’re sitting against it, knees drawn in, trembling.

You don’t cry.

You don’t speak.

You just breathe — shallow, ragged — as the weight of what you just did settles on you like a shroud and a crown all at once.

***

The door is cold against your back.

Your knees are pulled to your chest. Your palms tremble where they clutch your shins. You don’t cry. You can’t. It’s like your body is waiting for permission. For safety. For something to let go into.

The silence feels too big. Too hollow. Like the echo of a cathedral after the last hymn fades.

Then Oscar crouches beside you.

You don’t look at him. Not right away.

You don’t know how to.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You flinch.

The word is too gentle. You don’t deserve gentle. Not when your father’s voice is still thunder in your ears. Not when the shame feels carved into your ribs like scripture.

But Oscar doesn’t leave.

He just slides down beside you, knees bent, spine against the same door you’re pressed to. For a moment, the two of you just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the stillness.

“I disobeyed him,” you whisper finally.

Oscar turns his head slightly.

You keep your eyes down.

“I looked my father in the face and I told him no.”

“I know.”

Your chest caves with the weight of it. “I’ve never said no to him in my life.”

Oscar exhales slowly. “You did today.”

You laugh, but it comes out broken. “He’ll never forgive me.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you didn’t ask for forgiveness. You asked for freedom.”

You finally look at him.

His face is calm. Tired. Lit only by the fading evening light creeping in through the curtained window. But his eyes are on you — sharp and steady and full of something fierce and unshakable.

“I feel …” You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I feel. Like I’ve ripped something out of myself. Like I’ve snapped some part of me that was always supposed to stay intact.”

Oscar’s hand finds yours.

He doesn’t lace your fingers. Doesn’t pull.

Just rests there, warm and steady, against your shaking one.

“You’re not ruined,” he says, voice low and certain. “You’re reborn.”

The words strike something so deep, so raw, you forget how to breathe.

You look down at your lap, whispering, “I still feel broken.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what it feels like when the cage door opens.”

You choke back the sob rising in your throat.

It doesn’t work.

You curl inward, the tears coming hot and helpless. Ugly. The kind that shake your whole body. The kind you’ve been holding in since the night you left, since the day your mother looked away, since you said I’d rather live free with a voice that sounded like someone else’s exactly four minutes ago.

Oscar shifts beside you, and then his arms are around you — pulling you into him, anchoring you like a lighthouse in a storm.

You bury your face in his chest and sob.

There’s no judgment in the way he holds you. No tension. No urgency to fix it or hush it. He just stays there, silent and solid, letting your body release everything it’s held for far too long.

After a long while, when your breathing evens out again, he murmurs into your hair, “You were never meant to be theirs to break.”

You don’t respond.

But the words settle into you like heat. Like light.

You don’t know how long you sit there on the floor, tangled in silence, in memory, in each other. At some point the sun finishes setting, and the villa grows dim. He shifts only to flick the hallway light on, then comes right back beside you.

You whisper, “They’ll come again.”

Oscar nods. “I know.”

You glance up at him, a tremor in your voice. “And if they bring lawyers next time?”

He sighs, rubbing a thumb gently across your knuckles. “Then we handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know that too.”

Your stomach twists.

“Oscar …”

“I knew what I was doing,” he says, meeting your eyes. “When I said you could stay. When I said I’d protect you. I’m not taking it back.”

“You lied to the press,” you whisper. “You said we were engaged.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“I know.”

“I hated you for that.”

“I figured.”

“And now I don’t know how to feel,” you admit. “About anything.”

He tilts his head, eyes softening.

“I know how I feel,” he says.

That quiet stillness again.

The kind that makes your chest ache.

You whisper, “How?”

He brushes your hair back from your face.

“Like I want to build a world where you don’t have to be afraid of your own voice. Where you get to want what you want.”

You glance down at his chest, where your hand rests now, flat over his heart.

“And if I want you?”

He stiffens for just a second. “Then I’ll make damn sure you’re safe enough to mean it.”

You nod slowly.

You don’t say I do mean it.

Because the thing is … you’re still not sure.

You want him. Yes. You crave him in ways you don’t know how to name. His voice. His steadiness. His mouth. His body. The quiet ferocity of his protection. The parts of him that don’t make sense, that shouldn’t feel holy, but do.

But what if you only want him because he saved you?

What if what you feel isn’t love, but sanctuary?

What if you’re wrong?

He must see it in your face, because he lifts your hand and presses it to his chest, where his heart beats firm and steady beneath your palm.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “Not love. Not gratitude. Not even understanding.”

“But I want to understand,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Then we start there.”

The door is still behind you.

But you don’t feel pressed to it anymore.

Oscar stays with you there on the floor until the villa is completely dark.

Eventually, he helps you up.

You both move through the space quietly, like the silence still holds power. You end up in the living room, curled together under a blanket on the couch while he puts on music. Just something soft. Instrumental. A piano playing slow chords in a minor key.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. But for the first time in days, in weeks, you feel like you might sleep tonight. Not because the nightmares are gone. Not because the fear has vanished. But because, maybe, it doesn’t own you anymore.

Not entirely.

Not when someone sees you through it. And stays.

[xreader1989]

Hi 👋 johnny storm x reader where she has powers of ice and is terrified to touch anyone (especially Franklin) but Johnny shows her that touch is ok?

Please 🙏 and thank you 😊

THIS IS SO GOOD!!!! I think it can even be a series! I love writing soft Johnny, I feel like we got a lot of that in F4. Thank you so much for your request, enjoy ❤️

Fire and Ice
Johnny Storm x fem!reader

Author’s Note: Thank you for all the requests and love. I hope you enjoy this one—it might be my favorite so far! I am working through your requests, please keep sending!

Word count: ~3.4k

Masterlist

You sat curled up in your bed at the Baxter Building, sniffling. One arm wrapped around your knees while the other stretched out in front of you, fingers splayed. You could feel the freeze in your veins, see the light-blue hue creeping from the sleeve of your sweatshirt toward your fingertips. The ice was getting stronger again—until a loud knock at the door startled you.

You jumped. When you looked back at your hand, the icy texture had begun to fade. You shivered and quickly pulled the sleeves of your FANTASTIC 4 crewneck over your hands. You always had a chill you couldn’t shake—ever since—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Your thoughts were interrupted.

“Go away,” you called, loud enough to be heard through the door.

“Come on, Frosty, open up.”

Johnny.

You rolled your eyes. “You know I hate that nickname.”

You knew he was just trying to lighten the mood. You’d spent the afternoon in the lab with Reed, who was running tests on you—again. When he reached out to pat your back, his sudden touch had startled you. Your body had reacted instinctively, your skin icing over, and his hand had lingered just a second too long. The frostbite wasn’t serious—he assured you it was fine—but it was enough to make you retreat back into yourself. You’d barely left the Baxter Building since the accident.

It had been a year since it gave you your powers. Reed had been trying to recreate the cosmic rays that gave the team their abilities—on a much smaller scale. In hindsight, it had disaster written all over it. An explosion, weeks of tests, and suddenly, you were the opposite of Johnny Storm: ice.

And you still didn’t know how to control it.

“I’m still here…” Johnny’s voice rang through the door again, breaking you free of your thoughts.

You wiped your eyes and reluctantly got up, unlocking the door and cracking it open. “What?”

“Let me in, pleeeeease.” His voice was playful. He held up a plate of cookies and smiled wide, like a kid begging for recess.

You hesitated for a second before rolling your eyes and opening the door just enough for him to slide in. He glided past you like he owned the place and plopped right onto your bed.

“What’s got you down, Fros—friend,” he caught himself just in time.

You sat on the edge of the bed and took a cookie. “I just feel… dangerous, I guess. I haven’t had my powers as long as you guys, and no matter how hard I try, it feels like I keep hurting people instead of helping them. You all have purpose. You save people.”

You took a bite, tears slipping down your cheeks. “And I gave Reed frostbite. You guys save the world, and I’m just… dangerously cold. I can’t hug people. I can’t go out in crowds. I just freeze up—literally.”

Johnny sat up, eyes locked on you. “Hey, you’re great for instant chilling my drinks,” he joked.

You glared at him.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But seriously—it took me almost two years to figure out how to harness all this fire in me. Look at how far you’ve come. When Reed first started working with you, you were sneezing icicles. Now, you can control the cold in your hands. You can aim. That’s huge.”

You didn’t respond, the weight of it all still pressing down on your chest. Johnny read the silence for what it was—he recognized it all too well. That helpless feeling. The fear of your own body.

“Let’s try something.”

He turned to face you. You mirrored him, sitting crisscross on the bed. He held out his hand, palm up.

You hesitated, then placed your hand in his.

“Alright,” he said with a grin. “Ice me, princess.”

You blushed at the nickname, thankful your hair was wild enough to hide your the warmth in your cheeks.

You focused, feeling the cold rise from your chest to your shoulder, down your arm, and into your fingertips. The icy blue shimmered as it started to form—but then Johnny’s hand ignited. Gently. Warmly. His fire didn’t hurt; it soothed, counteracting your ice as it formed.

The blue of your skin and the orange flicker of his flame danced together like art. It was beautiful, you couldn’t look away.

“See?” he said softly. “You can’t hurt me.”

It was a shrug for him, like it was no big deal—but to you, it meant everything.

“I know you’re scared,” he continued. “I didn’t touch anyone for a long time when my powers first hit. But you’re getting better. And at least you know now—you can’t hurt me.”

Your eyes locked with his, and before you could stop yourself, you lunged across the bed, wrapping your arms around him. He froze for a split second, then wrapped you up tightly in return.

Your body against his—for the first time in a year, you felt warmth. Real warmth. Relief. Like your body had been starving for it.

And maybe… he needed it too.

You stayed like that for a long while. It had been so long since someone had held you. When you finally pulled back, you missed his warmth instantly.

“I know this sounds stupid,” you said, eyes lowering. “But Franklin is going to be three soon, and I haven’t held him since… everything. He’s so precious, and I just—if I ever hurt him…” you trailed off, voice cracking.

Johnny stood. “That’s not stupid at all. And you won’t hurt him. Because I just decided I’m going to help you.” He gestured dramatically to himself. “Let’s ramp up your training. Two months. That’s all I need. If you work hard, we’ll get there.”

What you didn’t know was that he meant every word.

In the days that followed, Johnny used every spare moment to train with you. By day 31, it hit you—somewhere between dodging fireballs and hearing his stupid one-liners—you had a crush on Johnny Storm.

You laughed at something he said—really laughed—and it startled you. It had been so long.

He made it a point to touch you—light brushes against your hands, your back, your arms—controlled, intentional touches to help you master the cold. And it worked. But it also made you want him to touch you more. You found yourself constantly reminding yourself that it was for training purposes.

You started joining the team more, like old times, spending less time hiding in your room. You felt comfortable in your skin again. It felt good. Like you were becoming you again.

On day 53, you had another successful training session, “You should’ve been training with me from the start,” Johnny said one day as you walked out of the training room. “I mean, what does Reed really know about elemental manipulation?”

“I mean, a lot,” you teased. “But I guess he doesn’t have your first-hand experience, Fireball.”

He grinned.

“You know, Johnny… I can’t thank you enough,” you stopped walking and turned to face him. “I haven’t felt like myself in over a year. But this past week, I don’t know, I feel normal again. And that’s because of you.”

He looked at you seriously. “You never have to thank me. I’ve wanted to do this. I hated seeing you so down. It’s good to see you smiling again.”

You smiled back, realizing how close you were standing. His warmth washed over you in waves. Your eyes flicked down to his lips before you could stop them and you hoped he didn’t notice you staring.

You quickly cleared your throat and stepped back. “Well, thanks again. I’ll see you at dinner,” you said too quickly, retreating down the hall and leaving him standing there.

Once back in your room, you shut the door and leaned against it, heart racing.

Was that a moment?
Did he feel it too?
Or are you just falling for the charm?

You shook the thoughts away and got ready for dinner and headed out. As you turned the corner into the kitchen, you only saw Johnny and HERBIE.

“Where is everyone?” you asked.

Johnny shrugged. “Just us tonight, Frosty. Ben’s off pining over that teacher, and Reed and Sue took Franklin for an ‘evening stroll.’ Their words, not mine.”

He started eating. “Well? You gonna sit down, or just hover awkwardly?”

You smiled and sat across from him. HERBIE brought your food, and you gave the robot a grateful pat.

Truth was, you didn’t know what to say after what happened in the hallway. You were convinced it was one-sided. Johnny Storm was literally a cover model. Girls fawned over him. His face—and butt—were on billboards. And you? You were just lonely. This couldn’t be real.

“So,” Johnny broke the silence, “we’re basically at the two-month mark, and you haven’t given anyone frostbite since I started helping. How’re you feeling?”

You sighed, smiling. “Honestly? Really good. I feel like my old self. Who knows—maybe I’ll start saving the world with the Fantastic Four soon.”

He grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Dinner went on normally, but you slipped off to bed not long after, trying to escape the feelings bubbling inside.

Seven days left.
Just seven more days.
Then maybe everything could go back to normal.

Or maybe, it never would.

On Day 60, you strolled into the training room, feeling good. When you swung the door open, your jaw dropped.
“Shit, you’re early,” Johnny said breathlessly.

You looked over and saw Ben hanging a banner on the wall that said "Congrats Frosty" with snowflakes drawn all over it, while Reed held out a bottle of champagne. Sue bounced Franklin on her hip as he giggled. Ben finished pinning the sign and stood next to the others.

“SURPRISE!” they all shouted in unison.
You couldn’t help but smile. “What’s this for?”

Johnny took the champagne from Reed and began to open it and pour glasses.
“We’re so proud of you. Two months time and you’re basically a pro. Who would’ve thought Johnny Storm was an expert in elemental manipulation?” Reed looked at Johnny, who was smiling as he handed you a glass.
“I could’ve told you that myself, Reed. Plus, I had a great student,” he said, clinking his glass against yours. “I think you’ve officially graduated from the Johnny Storm School of Witchcraft and Cosmic Superpowers. You’ve come so far, and I’m so happy to have you feeling like yourself again.” He looked directly at you. “We—I mean we—are so happy.” He cleared his throat and turned to face everyone else.
“Cheers!”

You all clinked glasses, laughing and chatting when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sue put Franklin down and point to you. He hobbled over and lifted his arms.

Requesting uppies.

You gulped, looked around, everyone eagerly watching. You handed Johnny your glass and reached for him, scooping him up. He giggled and quickly nuzzled into you like he used to before everything happened.

Tears threatened to spill as everyone smiled. You did it. He was safe and happy as can be.

Johnny put the champagne glasses down and walked over, gently placing a hand on your lower back.
“See?” he said, smiling gently.
You smiled back, placing a kiss into Franklin’s wild curls. You were both gazing at each other when Ben cleared his throat.

You jumped and turned to the other three in the room. Johnny quickly removed his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Well, we’ll leave you two to your final training session,” Sue said suggestively, coming to take Franklin from you.

She and Ben shared a look. Reed followed her, not catching on at all. You watched as the door closed behind them.

When you turned back to Johnny, he was right next to you. He was looking at your face softly, and then his eyes flicked to your lips.
No… that can’t be. It’s all in your head. It’s one-sided.

As if reading your mind, he lifted his hand and softly caressed your cheek.
“I don’t think you need any more training, but I don’t want to stop spending all my spare time with you…” he nearly whispered.

Your lips parted to respond, but before you could, he leaned in and kissed you.

You’d thought about this moment for months—what it would be like to kiss Johnny Storm. You always saw it as just a dream. An impossible situation. But here you were, in the training room, kissing him back—and it was better than you could’ve ever imagined.

His lips were soft and warm; you felt the roughness of his hands on your cheeks. You could stay like this forever.
He pulled away and looked at you.

“I’m sorry if that was sudden. You not needing me anymore just had me wanting to tell you how I’ve been feeling. I can’t get you out of my head. Ever since we started this, I’ve been trying to untangle these feelings I have for you. I like you. A lot.”

Still holding your cheek, you rested your hands on his waist.
“Johnny Storm… do you have a heart?” you feigned shock.
He laughed, leaning his head back. “I’m not the one made of ice,” he said with a smirk.
“I like you too, Johnny,” you smiled, almost giddy to have finally said it out loud.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss you again.
“God, it’s been so hard to keep my hands off you while we train. I’ve wanted to hold you and kiss you for months,” he admitted, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

You savored the warmth of being so close to him, soaking in the moment.
Jonathan Storm freaking liked you back.

Then you heard a creak. You both turned your heads to the door to see Sue and Ben quickly move out of the little windows.
“Seriously?!” Johnny shouted, hearing them clamor around whisper yelling at each other, causing you both to break into fits of laughter.

He moved his hand from your cheek to your hand, interlocking fingers.
He lit a small fire, encouraging you to do the same—so you let the ice move to your fingers, mixing with his flames.

“Fire and ice, baby,” he said, smiling.
You laughed and leaned into him, looking up and kissing him again. Fire and ice.

[jkthinkythoughts]

The lake took heat like a secret. Steam rose where her skin met the water and vanished into the night air as if it had never been. Mulan slid deeper until even her shoulders were covered, braid coiled on a rock like a rope she could pull if anyone came. Mushu paced the shore, flicking sparks at midges.

“Two o’clock, three meatheads,” he hissed, tail lashing. “Laughing about feet. I told you they’re weird.”

She went under on instinct and came up to her nose. Cold seeped behind her ribs. The voices grew from the reeds first, then the shapes of Yao, Ling, and Chien-Po, shirts slung over shoulders, boots clapping each other free of dust.

“Lake time,” Ling announced to the moon.

Mushu glanced at her, whispering “don’t move” then sprang onto a half-drowned log and threw his little body to twice its size with pure theater. Sparks cracked. Smoke coughed out of him like a bellows.

“Halt, mortals,” he boomed in a voice he absolutely did not own. “This waters is cursed by an evil lizard demon.” A pause, then with relish: “Me.”

The boys stopped. Three shadows against the pale water.

“A lizard demon,” Yao said, flat.

“Ancient. Cruel. Territorial. I hate soap,” Mushu said. He rolled his eyes back and worked up a gout of smoke that turned the reeds into trembling silhouettes. “Any man who lingers will be turned into a woman. Slowly. Horribly. With cramps.”

Chien-Po folded his hands. Ling snorted and then did not laugh.

Mulan edged behind the rock, and kept her mouth closed. Stupid. Should have gone upstream. Should have- Mushu’s glance pinned her again.

Yao spat into the grass. “There’s no such thing as lizard demon curses.”

“Oh yeah? Then how come one of your comrades already took the hit,” Mushu said, pointing grandly at the water. “Guy dove in like a hero to warn you latecomers and bam - afflicted.”

Ling’s head whipped toward the surface. “Who’s in there?”

Mulan pushed just enough of herself up that they could see a face in steam and dark, eyes wide above water. She pitched her voice lower and rough from lake chill. “Don’t,” she rasped. “Get out.”

If Mushu had set a stage, the lake breathed the line for her. Ripples ran. Frogs kept absolutely silent.

Chien-Po bowed toward the water. “Brother, thank you.”

Yao took a step back. Then another. He planted his hands on his hips like that made it a choice. “We weren’t going to go in anyway.”

“You absolutely were,” Ling whispered, which did not help.

Mushu leaned in. “The transformation starts in the… sensitive regions. First hour, poof - nothing you want to brag about in the barracks. Second hour, more complicated. By dawn his, um, voice will be higher, his patience will be shorter, and if any officer catches him he’s going to the surgeon and then to a farm where he can braid hats for the rest of his days. Tragic.”

Mulan closed her eyes against the heat that rose in her face. You could maybe not improvise the whole anatomy of humiliation. She kept her chin level in the water.

Yao turned his back to the lake and addressed the reeds. “Nobody tells the captain. We’re not getting Ping in trouble for heroics.”

“Ping?” Ling blinked. “That was Ping?”

“Who else sneaks off to bathe like a scholar and then never looks anybody in the eye for a full day,” Yao asked, almost rhetorically.

Mushu hummed, pleased. Smoke made a thin veil between them. “You boys owe him.”

Chien-Po nodded without hesitation. “We can bring him clothes. And a blanket.”

“Don’t bring him anything,” Mushu snapped. “Contact spreads the curse. Visuals from the collarbone down, also risky. He’s going to need solitude and a lot of respectful averting of eyes.”

“Right. Averting,” Ling said, studiously staring at the stars.

“Go,” Mulan managed. “Please.”

They went. Not running. Not quite looking over shoulders. The reeds breathed again. Mushu sagged like a damp match and wiped his nose on his arm.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

She let herself laugh once, too short. “Vagina curse?”

“You want results or poetry,” he said, already scuttling for the bag she’d left under the willow. “If they’re going to keep a secret, it has to be one that keeps them out of trouble, too. Fear of sudden womanhood? Powerful motivation.”

“Accurate, unfortunately,” she said, and hated that the truth of it warmed her more than the water.

By morning, the curse had a name and rules. It lived on chalk on the latrine wall – a rough lizard with horns and a note: No bathing between last drum and first light. Time limit ten minutes. No lingering. Offerings accepted: fish bones, shiny rocks, respect. The characters were crooked but careful.

Ling arrived at breakfast with two small red cords tied around his wrists. “Protection against lake demons,” he said lightly to anyone who asked. Nobody did. Most of the camp had grown up with grandmothers who pointed at door lintels and warned about what lived in wells.

Yao became a gatekeeper at the water barrels. “Ten men at a time, move it,” he barked. If anyone asked why, he opened his mouth like he had a deep reason and then they remembered Ping and shut up.

Chien-Po, who prayed over meals anyway, added a line about lizards to his morning mutter.

They were not good at subtlety, but they were excellent at complicity. When Mulan tripped on a loose stone and caught herself sharper than she meant to, three hands reached at once then stopped mid-air because of the contact rule and hovered awkwardly. She shook them off, embarrassed, and saw how relieved they were to obey the boundary they had invented for her.

When Shang asked why the squad had drawn a circle of ash around the practice dummy and declared it a no-splash zone, Yao looked him dead in the eye and said, “Superstition, sir.”

“Superstition,” Shang repeated.

“We will work harder, sir,” Chien-Po added, serene.

They did. Push-ups rose from the dirt like crops, even when nobody counted. They passed canteens without the sideways jokes. They ran together instead of a blur of lonely races. Mulan tasted what a unit could be when everyone had a reason not to fail each other and nearly cried on a hilltop for no noble reason at all.

Shang watched with confused skepticism. He liked results. He distrusted sudden ones. At the noon break he caught Mulan alone by the cookfire, sorting greens into a washbasin.

“You seem tired,” he said.

“Long night,” she said, careful with the angle of her face.

He considered that and considered the odd perimeter of red cords in the camp and seemed, briefly, as if he might press. Then he didn’t. “You’re keeping pace,” he said. “No complaints.”

“No complaints,” she agreed. Not a lie.

He nodded once. Tentative. Pleased in spite of himself. “Whatever you’re doing with the men - keep doing it. Within regulations.”

“Of course.” She put a leaf in the water and watched it darken.

Mushu, from the cookpot rim, mouthed within regulations and almost fell in.

At drill, Yao barked at anyone who drifted toward the lake edge. “Eyes on the captain. Eyes on the mountain. Eyes anywhere else and you’re cursed.” Nobody wanted to look at the lake. That helped with focus.

The secret softened around its edges until it felt less like a lie and more like a pact. Poor Ping, afflicted by the vagina curse, had made a mistake, and that made him theirs. They positioned themselves so he walked in the middle without it being obvious. If someone came too close in the washing line, a cough rippled down the rank. He didn’t reach for buckets they could carry. He hated that and accepted it because defiance would bring more attention.

Mushu kept the performance warm. A glimpse here, a hiss there, a scrap of blackened reed “accidentally” found as a demonic scale. He did not breathe fire except once, discreetly, to help the cook start a damp pile of twigs. The cook’s gratitude wrote another line on the latrine wall: No eating lizards. Bad luck for seven campaigns.

On the fourth day, the captain made them spar in pairs and then as a unit, shields linked, boots thudding as one. When the shield wall closed, Mulan felt the click in her bones that meant a group had become something solid. Fear held them together – and so did the quiet agreement to steward one another’s humiliations. There was honor in that if you squinted.

After, Shang stood apart and watched them file past. He shouldn’t have looked proud. He did, a little. “Your squad is getting along,” he told the lieutenant beside him.

“They’re… creative, sir,” the lieutenant said, eyeing the red cords, the chalk lines, the way Yao would physically relocate Ling’s elbow like they were brothers.

Shang followed his gaze to the lake. The surface was flat, unreadable, moon waiting in it for later. A bundle of reeds tied with cord had been set on the bank like an offering. He opened his mouth to ask what that was and closed it again. 

“Fine,” he said. “If it helps.”

He walked on. The reeds clicked together softly in the breeze. The pact held.

Mulan AU where she does get caught by the other fresh recruits while she's bathing but Mushu helps her spin it like the lake is cursed by an evil lizard demon and will turn men into women if they stay in it for too long.

From there it's not actually difficult to get the other soldiers onboard with covering up the fact that poor Ping took one for the team and got afflicted by the vagina curse, especially since it would have been all of them if they hadn't gotten the warning ahead of time. So they agree to help him cover it up, because obviously the army's not going to understand.

Shang is... tentatively glad that the men are bonding and getting along, even if they continue to be deeply weird about it.

[maragivesyouwings]

Accidentally On Camera Max Verstappen × reader

Monaco, late evening.

The soft hum of the PC fans filled the apartment, blending with the faint sound of Max’s voice through his headset. Three curved monitors glowed in front of him, their light reflecting off the glossy paint of his helmet collection neatly mounted on the wall above his desk. The room smelled faintly of rubber and the salty evening breeze drifting in from the balcony, just behind the swaying curtain.

Y/N stood quietly at the door for a moment, plate in hand, watching him with a small, fond smile. His back was rigid in the racing seat, fingers gripping the wheel tight, voice sharp and focused. “Oh god, what the hell? What the hell was that?” he muttered frustratedly.

She stepped forward silently, the curtain moving gently behind her. Her footsteps were barely audible as she placed the plate of pasta down on the narrow space between his keyboard and the glowing PC tower.

Max jumped. Instinctively, he reached out and covered the webcam mounted above the central monitor. With his other hand, he hit mute on his mic. The live chat exploded. @OrangeArmy33: WHO IS THAT?? @maxyfanforever: …did we just see Max’s girlfriend?? @f1girlies: omg she brought him food that’s so cute @teamredlinefan: LOL he panicked so hard @sstrangecatzz: WHAT JUST HAPPENED?? @15senna.thebest: OMG, a WOMAN @maxfutureGF: nah, no chance for me now

“You scared me,” he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder with a sheepish smile. “Also… congrats, you just leaked yourself to like twenty thousand people.”

Y/N’s eyes went wide as she looked at the screen, reading the chat. “Wait, what? Did they see my face too?” she asked, a bit anxious. “They saw you, but I think your face didn’t show clearly… just wait for the internet detectives to start digging,” Max said with a small laugh.

By the time the pasta had gone cold, the internet had already connected the dots. Gossip accounts on Instagram were posting the clip in 4K quality, and Twitter threads were pairing screenshots from the stream with blurry paparazzi shots of her at the Monaco marina and near stores—right alongside Alexandra Saint-Mleux, which would mean nothing if she weren’t Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend.

@F1Tea (1.2M followers)

@F1Tea: Spotted on Max Verstappen’s stream tonight 👀. Same girl who was seen with Alexandra Saint-Mleux at that festival? @monacogurl: Same hair as the girl seen with Alexandra in the Barcelona race omggg!!! @cuppoftea: Shirt matches that one Max wore in Austria… @maxxxine1: You’re all crazy, maybe it’s his sister Victoria. ↳@f1is4thegirls: Nope, his sister’s blonde. The girl on stream had long brown hair… like this one.

Later that night, Y/N curled up on the sofa in the living room corner, directly opposite the glass shelves where Max’s trophies caught the dim light. “I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t want people to know like that,” she said softly, eyes glued to her phone. “What if they hate me? What if they follow me everywhere now?” She glanced at him, searching for reassurance.

Max sat down beside her, his knee brushing against hers. “Look, if some people don’t like it, that’s their problem. I’m not hiding you, Y/N. I’m happy with you. That’s what matters.” He gently took her hand. “Maybe they’ll talk, yeah, but you just let them. Everything’s gonna be alright.” “I hope you’re right,” she whispered, looking back at her phone as he kissed the top of her head.

A couple days later, Y/N was out shopping in Zara with Alexandra and Rebecca (Carlos’s girlfriend). “I’m just nervous people might start leaking stuff about my family or something…” she said, running her fingers over the soft silk of a dress. “At first it’s confusing, girl… but you have to act confident. Trust me,” Alex said. Rebecca chuckled in agreement. “She’s right, and besides, now you’re with the group. The other girls will love you.” That made Y/N feel a little lighter.

Two days later, their social feeds spoke for themselves. @maxverstappen1

@maxverstappen1: Not much of a secret anymore, I guess. I love you so much to keep you secret.❤️ @yourusername

@monacogurl: GUYS I KNEW. WE WERE ALLLL RIGHT @yourusername: I love you too <3<3 @f1wagspretty: We should start thinking of ship names. @maxxxine1: oh. ↳@maximaxdududu1: for real, that's the only thing I can say now.

@yourusername

@yourusername: Getting used to the spotlight… ✨

@f1channel: I think we will love her @girlystuffig: She looks so pretty and confident!!! @redbullracing: Welcome, Y/N @monacogurl: Hi Y/N, you say hiiii? ↳@yourusername: Of course love, hello! @maxxxine1: She is kinda cute for Max yeah...

The change was gradual but real. Y/N started walking into the paddock with her head held high, chatting with the other girlfriends, even posing for the occasional photo.

The noise from the crowd no longer made her insecure — she knew what was real and what wasn’t, and that’s all that mattered. She could kiss him, hold his hand, and be his support — on the paddock and in the garage — without hiding. All thanks to being caught accidentally on camera.

Hiii! It's my first time writting and posting here, I've been reading fanfics and stuff since a lot and got my ideas but was too embarrassed or lazy to write/post... so I'm trying now!

If you are a writter or know well how to use this, I'd love the help!!

THANKS

[bearforcecaptions]

It happened fast, but not fast enough to miss.

I was leaning against the counter, making dinner plans with Rachel, just a normal Wednesday night. She was in the bedroom folding laundry, talking through the door about sushi or Thai. I was half-listening, checking the time, when Eric — our roommate — walked in.

He stood there in the hall, half-shadowed, holding something in his hand that shimmered like oil on water. His face... I hadn’t seen him smile like that before. It was calm, collected. But underneath it? Smug. Ugly.

“You’ve really got it all, huh?” he said, not even looking at me at first.

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Eric took a few slow steps into the kitchen. “You. The job. The girlfriend. The little domestic thing. You think this is you. Like you were ever meant for it.”

“What—?”

“I’ve had to watch you stumble through a life you don’t even deserve. Every night. Listening to her laugh at your stupid stories. Watching her kiss you goodnight like you’re worthy of her. You’re not.”

I backed up instinctively, bumping into the island counter. My heart rate spiked.

“What’s going on, Eric?”

He held up the object — it looked like a small, jagged crystal embedded in a metal ring. The air pulsed around it. I swear the shadows on the walls started moving.

“What is that?”

“Let’s call it a key,” he said, eyes glinting. “To a better version of reality. One where things make more sense. Where I’m not living in the shadow of some bland, forgettable nobody.”

“I’m calling Rachel,” I said, voice shaking.

But I didn’t make it two steps.

Eric muttered a word — I couldn’t even register it — and the air broke. My body seized. Pain like liquid fire raced down my spine. I collapsed to the floor, convulsing, gripping the tile like it could anchor me to who I was.

“Don’t fight it,” Eric said, stepping over me. “This is a one-way rewrite.”

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. My limbs stretched. My muscles inflated — my arms ballooned with thick, veined biceps, my chest thudded with each spasm as it packed on slabs of mass. My shirt shredded at the seams as my body grew.

“I’m going to take your place, just so you know,” Eric said, crouching beside me. “Rachel’s going to look at me like she used to look at you. She’ll never remember you. She’ll think you were always the guy sleeping on our couch. The idiot who leaves gym socks everywhere. The raunchy, stinking embarrassment who was just ‘too nice to kick out.’ That’s your new role.”

My scalp burned. I screamed as my hair pulled inward, strands falling around my face, my temples throbbing as it shrank back to a short, brutish buzzcut. At the same time, thick black stubble erupted along my jawline. It wasn’t a beard — not quite. It was a dirty, unkempt chinstrap, sharp and oily and wrong. I clawed at it, but my fingers were different now — swollen, stubby, rough-skinned.

My face in the oven’s reflection warped — my nose wider, brow heavier. My eyes dulled, losing the glint of recognition. My mouth slackened, forming into a natural smirk that felt foreign and obscene.

“You’ll forget her,” Eric said softly, almost kindly. “You’ll forget you. You won’t even miss it. You’ll love being the new you.”

The last thing I remember was the sound of Rachel’s voice calling my name from the hallway — my real name — and Eric answering.

And then..

--

Phone’s at five percent, but I’ll charge it after I get this pic up.

I swipe through the front camera real quick. Lookin’ solid. Tank’s sticking to my chest — soaked a bit, but it looks good in the mirror. Traps are hittin’. Got that shine on my shoulders. My beard’s looking tight, too. Rough and low and dirty, the way I like it. Chinstrap’s filled out real nice since I stopped trimming. Girls hate it. Dudes love it. Not my fault I know my demographic.

I tilt my head, smirk a little, lift the phone, and snap. Hell yeah. That one’s going straight to Grindr.

They can complain all they want — Rachel and Eric. Always acting like I’m some kind of feral dog they let crash here out of pity. She makes a big deal about the smell. Keeps saying I’m “stinking up the bathroom” again, like it isn’t just me. Natural musk. Man-funk. I earn it. Two workouts a day, no deo. Can’t cover this up — the bros would be disappointed.

Eric’s worse. Mister Perfect. Always cleaning the kitchen after me, always muttering when I leave laundry in the machine. I know he hates that I’m still here. But what’s he gonna do? Tell me to leave? Not happening. Not until I’ve got a place of my own. Not until the tips from the foot pics and private vids stack up enough. Living here sucks, but not more than being broke.

Besides, I got my own thing going on. Got my followers. Got my boys. I’ve got dates lined up for the weekend, and I’m booked solid tonight. One of them wants me to bring my gym bag and not change first. Says he’s into “raw” smells. I told him I haven’t worn socks for three days. He sent three fire emojis.

I flex in the mirror one more time. Yeah, I’m lookin’ good. Thick, smelly, and cocky as hell. That’s the brand.

Upload photo. Caption: “Smell like I lift. Come find out.”

God, I hope Rachel doesn't light another candle. The smell in here’s perfect and I’m not about to let her ruin the vibe before I get picked up.

Still — wouldn’t mind getting out of here. New place. My own fridge full of energy drinks, no one bitchin’ about the smell, just me and my bros. Someday.

[naamahdarling]

Politeness/civility/conversational kindness won't always save you, but here are some points that make it very much worth doing:

If you try kindness first, you always have room to change tack without it rebounding on you too badly and fouling up your future efforts.

If you act like a shitty little tool, you are going to have a hell of a time walking that back and have probably screwed the pooch completely if it is a low stakes thing, like the example above, where there is no need to form a basis for further interactions. They're going to write you off, and will frequently inconvenience you if they can, no matter how mildly.

Being chill and being shitty are both satisfying in different ways, but only one of them actually advances your mood in a way that is going to feel more than momentarily vindicated.

Being shitty, punishing people, or being difficult or assholish from the jump, is very satisfying in the moment. But it doesn't really work out long term. You just wind up in a shittiness loop, being a dick to the world and getting dick back, and thus perpetually feeling like shit re: your position in the world. It is so bad for you to just...hate people. That's a thing that by the time you will openly say it has already turned against you and is eating away at your stability and ability to love and help yourself.

Being decent can end an annoying interaction with less conflict, which means less stress hormones or whatever, and your body literally will feel worse and form an instinctive stress response to people. Shit loop.

When it doesn't really reduce the conflict, you still have less stress hormones, AND anyone who sees you will be way more likely to think the other person is an asshole, meaning their conses have gotten way more likely to quence because they just hung their whole ass out.

Being decent FUCKS with people. Just. Fucks with 'em. They don't know what to do with it, they may back off, reality check themselves, bluescreen, or suddenly reveal a completely different emotion that was at the root of what you saw and did not like. They can't walk away and say honestly to themselves that you were rude, that the way you treated them justified the way they treated you. They may TRY to tell themselves that, but the majority still know it is a lie.

Being shitty doesn't make people change. LOVE isn't always enough to make someone change. You absolutely cannot hate people into changing. Being shitty does make them more likely to double down.

You have planted the seeds in them of realizing they are acting badly. Not all will fully realize this. The ones that do learn more from kindness than anger/cruelty.

Being cool about shit is better for you. You can give zero shits about them and still benefit from being more easygoing and less hate filled. It doesn't have to be about morality or them being people who deserve respect. It can be about not being stressed all the time because you believe you are surrounded at all times by terrible people.

I prize efficiency in interactions where there is friction. Being easygoing is extremely socially efficient.

They may behave completely differently the next time. We got dogshit service at a hotel restaurant once, but it was one we loved, and servers don't get paid enough so we still tipped generously because even an asshole might have a dependent who relies on that tip. ALWAYS TIP I know you hate it, choke it back, it isnt about teaching them a lesson, this is solidarity with the working class. Unless they are personally fucking horrible to you, like bigoted or whatnot, tip them. The next day when we went back, the same person was SO GOOD. They knew they had not done their best, I think, and proceeded to do much better. And they probably went on to have a better day and be better to people.

You do not know what the hell is going on behind the scenes. Had a nurse be kind of bitchy to me once, but I trusted the clinic and other staff, and knew they would not tolerate an asshole among them. I was doing okay that day so I was polite and respectful and as efficient as possible, and let her WEIRD behavior be her problem. Next time I saw her she was really sweet and has been ever since. There was a shadow there. What the fuck had happened that day she was unpleasant? If it had been a pattern, that is different, sometimes people are shitty. But most people are not. They're just human.

You can't get to know what people are like when they are not being assholes if you are being an asshole.

Being an asshole by default and being shitty in interactions makes you look really...I don't know the word. Weird, bad? "What's HIS problem?" "What's up THEIR ass?" "Who pissed in HER Cheerios?" It others you. It makes you look at fault. Unreliable. Unstable. Someone who can be safely dismissed.

Being nice sets a good or at least neutral baseline. Deviating from that has more impact. Being sharper when you are usually chill then becomes a means of emphasis, a signal that something is truly wrong, and not just your nature.

Seeing the better side of people is great.

Nobody anywhere ever has been perfect. I do plenty of the shit above when I am under pressure. But leaning into forbearance has made me much happier than being angry ever, ever did .

You may not make progress quickly and may not be good at it because you have not learned to be. Be open more often, though, when you can. You will be surprised to find out how many people respond very well.

People absolutely will not remember exactly what you said or did. They may not even remember your FACE. But they will not forget how you made them feel.

I am firmly of the opinion that we have to love other people at least a little (but often) or we lose ourselves to hopelessness and hate, and apathy, and those are miserable to live with inside you all the time. And they make the world so much worse.

People are not innately bad. You're just emotionally worn the fuck out and don't communicate with others often and openly enough to help overcome that.

Ugh. I am so passionate about my love for humanity. I'm sorry if this didn't make sense or words or sentences were weird. I am VERY sleepy. But had to say that hate didn't come free with your humanity. Your humanity was stripped from you by a hard world and hard life, you hurt because you feel strongly, you aren't wrong to be defensive and angry. But you deserve better. And in the end? In the end, you absolutely must participate in repairing yourself. The world can't do that for you. Not won't. It literally cannot. And you deserve better than a bitter life spent around living beings you hate without knowing.

Please please try to want better for yourself. It isn't about becoming a more moral person, it's about having a place in yourself for the good things in life, so you do not miss things that might bring you joy.

not to sound like a christian facebook mom but some of yall need to have grace in your hearts for the people in your lives or the people you pass once on the road and never see again like you literally need to stop assuming the worst of everyone and their intentions it is poisoning your brain. you can be careful and responsible without being a miserable person. it is possible i promise

[rowan-no-rizzz]

Two Paths, Two Hearts

DC Masterlist

ׂ╰┈➤ Jason Todd x Female reader

Oneshot

𖤓

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

WARNINGS: Violence, some dark themes, language, angst, trauma, sexual content.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

𖤓

SYPNOSIS: She’s known Jason Todd since before his return from the dead, and their relationship has always been complicated. As Jason struggles with his past and the fractured Batfamily, she wants to become a constant in his life, a source of stability amidst the chaos. But their bond grows stronger, leading to moments of passion and conflict as she helps him navigate his emotional scars and the challenges of being part of Gotham’s vigilante world. Torn between her loyalty to Jason and the Batfamily, she must decide what she truly wants, and whether she can heal alongside him or let go of the past.

Rain slicked the rooftops of Gotham like oil on glass. The city pulsed with the familiar hum of distant sirens and low thunder rolling through the clouds. You stood on the edge of a high-rise, the worn soles of your boots gripping the ledge as you scanned the alley below. The scent of damp concrete, smoke, and rain clung to your jacket, comforting and foreboding all at once.

It had been years since the night Jason died, and the city still hadn’t changed. Or maybe you hadn't. Still chasing shadows. Still hoping to see a flicker of the boy who used to fight beside you, his laughter echoing even louder than his rage. You remembered the way he used to stand right here, two feet to your left, cracking jokes even when blood ran from his mouth.

"We’re all just ghosts in this city," he’d once said. "Might as well haunt it properly."

Beside you, Tim Drake adjusted the cowl of his suit, glancing down at the alley. His silhouette was slimmer than Dick’s, less volatile than Jason’s. Calculating. Clever. "Still can't believe Bruce let you patrol solo tonight," he said, voice tinny through the comms.

You gave a half smile. "He didn't. You're here, aren't you?"

Tim chuckled under his breath. "Point taken."

You didn’t dislike Tim. Not really. But his arrival had been salt in a fresh wound.

You’d seen Bruce stagger back into the cave that night, his cape torn, his cowl in his hand, and blood all over him, Jason’s blood. You’d screamed at him. Blamed him. Tried to hit him. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t speak.

He just knelt in front of Jason’s shattered mask and didn’t move for hours.

You barely slept after that. You stopped eating. You couldn’t look at Alfred without crying. The grief was a storm you couldn’t outpace.

And then, not even a year later, Bruce introduced Tim.

The new Robin.

You hadn’t spoken to Bruce for three weeks.

Tim had tried to connect. You gave him silence. But Tim was persistent, and slowly, reluctantly, you stopped hating him. You even found yourself respecting him.

But there would never be another Jason.

Tim nudged you now. "You're zoning out again."

You blinked. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... Gotham nostalgia."

"You always get like this around this time of year."

You didn't respond. You couldn’t.

Lightning split the sky. A scream echoed from the street below.

Both of you leapt from the rooftop.

Your hair snapped behind you as you descended, landing hard in the alley. The scream had come from a young woman cornered by two thugs outside a closed bar. One wielded a switchblade, the other a pipe.

You moved first, grabbing the pipe mid-swing and slamming your knee into the attacker’s chest. Tim flipped over the other, sweeping his legs out from beneath him.

A gun went off, loud and sudden. Your body moved on instinct, diving to protect the girl. The bullet missed. Barely.

Tim threw a flash bomb. Light exploded.

When it cleared, both thugs were down. The girl fled with a breathless, "thank you."

You wiped blood off your knuckles, breath heavy.

"Another night in paradise," Tim muttered. He looked up to the rooftops. You followed his gaze.

A figure stood silhouetted against the moonlight. Leather jacket. Helmet glinting red.

"Who-?" you started.

Tim narrowed his eyes. "Red Hood."

"The gunrunner Bruce’s been tracking?"

The figure watched you. Unmoving. The red mask hid any expression, but something about his posture made your stomach flip.

You stepped forward slowly. "Hey!"

He took a step back.

Tim moved beside you, reaching for a batarang. "Should we engage?"

"Wait..." you murmured. "Something’s-"

A smoke bomb dropped to the ground.

By the time it cleared, the rooftop was empty.

Scene Two: Echoes of Ashes

Back in the Batcave, the mood was tense. The surveillance footage of the Red Hood encounter replayed on the screen. Bruce stood silently, arms crossed. Tim typed furiously beside him.

You paced. "He didn’t attack us. He didn’t even speak."

"He knew who we were," Bruce said. "He chose not to engage."

You turned toward him. "But why? Why run if you’re armed to the teeth and ready to pick a fight?"

No one had an answer.

Footsteps echoed behind you. Damian Wayne entered the cave like a storm cloud wrapped in arrogance. Sword strapped to his back. Scowl on his face.

"You’re all overthinking this," he said. "He ran because he’s a coward."

You raised an eyebrow. "Damian, right? Bruce’s secret kid?"

Damian’s eyes narrowed. "And you’re the one clinging to the memory of a dead sidekick."

You were across the cave before Bruce or Tim could react. Tim caught your wrist just as your fist was about to make contact with Damian’s face.

Damian didn’t flinch. He smirked.

"Enough!" Bruce’s voice echoed, stern and low.

You stepped back, breath ragged. Your heart pounded, not from rage, but from how easy it had been to let yourself slip. Jason used to do that too. Drag the worst out of you.

Only, it never felt like the worst with him.

Later that night, you stood alone in Jason’s old room. It had never been cleared out. His books still lined the shelves. His jacket hung on the back of the chair. You sat on his bed, fingers curling into the worn blanket.

Flashback

The last time you saw him alive, he had smiled at you with blood on his teeth.

"Don’t worry," he’d said. "I’ll be back before you can miss me."

Liar.

You had screamed when Bruce brought back the empty cowl. You had screamed until your throat bled.

And now

Now someone who moved like him, stood like him, watched you like he knew you,

Wore a red helmet and vanished in smoke.

A few days later, you met Dick in Blüdhaven.

Nightwing pulled you into a quick hug before leaning back with a grin. "You look like hell."

"You always say the nicest things, Grayson."

He sobered quickly. "Bruce told me about Red Hood. You think it’s him?"

You shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe. I want to be wrong. But something in my gut says it’s Jason."

Dick exhaled, jaw tight. "If it is... we’re not ready. Not for that."

Later, the League called. An arms shipment was moving through Metropolis. You joined Young Justice for the mission, Nightwing leading, Artemis already suited up beside you, M’gann floating nearby, and Wally bouncing in place.

"You still brooding?" Wally teased.

"You still talking?" you shot back, earning a laugh from Artemis.

Conner landed with a thud beside you. "Didn’t know Gotham let its heroes off the leash."

You arched an eyebrow. "Didn’t know they let science experiments flirt."

He smirked. "Oh, that wasn’t flirting. But give me time."

Nightwing called for formation.

The mission went south quickly. The shipment was bait. An ambush.

You fought hard, blades and shadows, dancing between bullets. Conner went flying. Artemis fired arrow after arrow. Wally moved like lightning.

Then you slipped.

A sniper got a bead on you. You turned too slow.

A shot rang out.

But it wasn’t you that dropped.

Red Hood tackled you from the side, taking your soon to be second hit in the shoulder. He rolled, popped off two shots that disabled the sniper, and stood with alarming grace.

You looked up at him, dazed. "Why?"

He didn’t answer.

You reached for him, but he tossed a flashbang.

When the light faded, he was gone again.

"Who the hell is that guy?" Wally muttered.

You stood in the middle of the smoke, heart racing, pulse ringing in your ears.

You knew who he was.

You just didn’t know why he kept saving you.

Later, back at the safe house, Conner crossed his arms, watching you stitch up your own shoulder.

"So who’s your mystery man in red?"

You didn’t answer.

Conner added, more serious now, "He looked at you like he knew you."

"Maybe he does."

Conner’s jaw tightened. "And he didn’t like me."

You snorted. "Yeah, well. Jason didn’t like a lot of people."

Conner blinked. "Jason?"

You cursed under your breath.

Across the room, M’gann looked up. "Wait… Jason Todd?"

The air shifted.

Nightwing stepped into the room, arms crossed. "We need to talk."

Later that night, the safe house was quiet, lit only by a dim lamp and the soft hum of computers running diagnostics on the Metropolis op. You sat curled in a chair, stitches fresh on your shoulder, Jason’s name still tasting bitter in your mouth.

Dick leaned against the doorway. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him, his presence was always warm, steady. He let the silence stretch before crossing the room and sitting in the chair opposite yours.

"You said his name," Dick said quietly.

You winced. "Didn’t mean to."

"Doesn’t matter. It was already on our minds. It’s been on Bruce’s too."

You looked up. "He won’t say it."

"He can’t." Dick sighed. "You know how Bruce grieves. He doesn’t process. He compartmentalizes. Pretends. Jason was more than a soldier to him, he was a son. And he failed him."

Your voice cracked. "We all did."

Dick leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But you... you haven’t stopped carrying it. You were closest to him. You think you’re the only one who’s still bleeding from it."

You looked away. "Sometimes I still hear his voice. Like he’s going to walk through the door, cocky as hell, bloodied but smiling. I wait for it. Every night."

Dick nodded slowly. "Then it’s time to stop waiting. And start preparing. If it’s him behind that mask, he’s not the same."

"I know. But... it still feels like him."

Dick didn’t answer that. Instead, he reached across the gap and took your hand in his, squeezing gently.

A few minutes later, Conner came in, glancing between the two of you. His jaw was tight again, but there was something different in his eyes, something more vulnerable.

"Can I talk to her?" he asked Dick, who nodded and stood.

Conner moved to the same chair Dick had just vacated. He didn’t speak right away. You watched him silently, waiting.

"You love him," Conner said finally.

You blinked, caught off guard. "That obvious?"

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. I can see it. Even when you talk about him now... it’s like he’s in the room."

"He was everything I hated and everything I needed."

Connor leaned back, arms crossed. "He saved you. Twice now. Risked his life to do it. That doesn’t seem like a coincidence."

"No. It doesn’t."

Conner hesitated, then said, "You should know, I don’t like him. Whoever he is."

"Because he doesn’t like you?"

"Because he looks at you like he’s drowning. And I don’t like seeing people hurt you. Even if he’s doing it silently."

Your breath caught.

"You don’t owe him anything," Conner added. "Even if he is Jason. Especially if he is."

You swallowed hard. "But I want to. I want to know why. I want to know how. I want to understand what happened to him."

Conner stood slowly, lingering at the door.

"Then we’ll find him. But if he hurts you again... he’ll answer to me."

You watched him leave, heart thudding.

Jason was no longer just a mystery.

He was a reckoning.

And it was coming.

The warehouse on Gotham’s East End was supposed to be a weapons drop, a quiet bust. In and out, intel gathered, maybe a few warning shots if things got messy. You knew better than to trust those expectations. Gotham never stayed quiet.

You adjusted your earpiece and glanced at your reflection in the broken side mirror of a rusted truck. Leather jacket, knee-high boots, shorter than longer length skirt, part of your hair tucked into your jacket. Civvies, not vigilante gear. A whisper of who you used to be when the nights were longer and Jason would sneak out of the manor with you to do recon on the Narrows, both of you pretending you weren’t just kids playing soldier.

"Comms check," Dick’s voice whispered in your ear.

"Read you," you replied. Conner, Artemis, and M’gann echoed confirmation.

Nightwing and Artemis were stationed on rooftops. M’gann phased into the walls for mental coverage. You and Conner were going in as buyers, undercover, close quarters.

Conner walked up beside you, his leather jacket fitting a little too well. "You’re sure you’re ready for this? You look... tense."

"I’m fine," you lied. "Just ready to get this over with."

He gave you a side glance. "Because of him?"

You ignored the question, pushing the warehouse door open.

Inside, rows of crates were being unloaded by masked men. One stood apart, clipboard in hand, barking orders. You made eye contact. He approached cautiously.

"You're early."

Conner stepped forward. "We're efficient. You got the merch or not?"

The man looked you both over, then nodded toward the back. You and Conner followed, pretending to inspect the wares, LuthorTech disruptors, WayneTech pulse rifles. This was bad. High-level trade.

Conner leaned close. "They shouldn’t have access to this. This is Justice League tier."

You nodded subtly. "Get pictures. I’ll mark the crates."

Suddenly, the power flickered. A loud thunk echoed from above. The skylight shattered.

Chaos erupted.

Smoke bombs hit the floor. Shouts. Gunfire. And then, the unmistakable sound of boots hitting concrete, someone dropped into the fray like a hammer.

Red Hood.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t pause. Just moved like a storm, twin pistols knocking weapons out of hands with precise shots. You ducked behind a crate, heart hammering in your chest.

One of the smugglers tried to flank Conner, Red Hood shot him in the leg without hesitation.

Then Hood turned.

And for a second, just a second, he saw you.

You knew it. Felt it.

His aim wavered. The pistol dipped an inch. His breath caught. Yours did too.

You stood, half in defiance, half in recognition. "Wait-"

He was gone.

Grapple hook. Smoke. Silence.

Nightwing’s voice cut in. "What the hell just happened?"

Conner was beside you in a flash, grabbing your arm. "You froze. You never freeze."

"I... I think he looked at me like,"

Conner’s jaw clenched. "Like he knew you."

You didn’t answer.

Because for the first time, you were almost certain.

It was him.

You waited until the mission reports were filed, until Dick’s voice was out of your ear and Conner’s worried glances faded behind the Watchtower’s shimmering transporter pad. You waited until Bruce returned to the Cave, Damian trailed close behind, and Tim locked himself in the Batcomputer hub. Then you slipped out the back of the manor.

You knew how to track a ghost. Jason had taught you.

The Narrows were quiet this time of night. Damp asphalt glistened under amber streetlights. Your boots made no sound. Every corner, every rooftop, every fire escape told a story. Bloodstains that had long since been washed away. Bullet holes patched over with rust and grime. Jason’s fingerprints were all over this place.

You found the alley by instinct.

The one with the old water tower, the burnt out streetlamp, the crumbling red brick tagged with a symbol only the old Bats knew. A signal. A meeting place.

And he was there.

Red Hood stood under the flickering light, back to the wall, arms crossed. He hadn’t drawn his guns. Yet.

"You’ve been following me," his voice was filtered through a modulator, gravelly, colder than you remembered.

You stepped out of the shadows, slowly. "You’ve been making it easy."

A tense silence stretched between you. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

"Jason."

He flinched. Barely. A twitch of the shoulder.

"That’s not my name anymore."

"It’s mine to say," you whispered. "You died. And then I guess you didn’t. And none of us, none of us knew."

He tilted his head slightly. "You weren’t supposed to."

"Bullshit. I mourned you. Every day. I went into the field with your blood still on my boots. I screamed at Bruce. I didn’t talk to Tim for a year. I-"

"You moved on," he cut in. The modulator made it hard to read tone, but there was steel there. Something wounded.

You took a step closer. "You left me no choice."

He stepped back.

"Don’t. Don’t get closer. You’re not safe here."

"From you?"

He didn’t answer.

You opened your mouth, then froze. The shadows behind the fire escape shifted. A silent presence.

"We’re not alone."

Jason’s helmet turned toward the movement just as three figures dropped into view, silent and precise.

Bruce. Tim. Damian.

Tim had a bo staff raised. Damian’s sword gleamed. Bruce’s presence filled the alley like thunderclouds.

"Step away from her," Bruce said.

Jason straightened. No weapons. No retreat.

"Always with the drama," Jason muttered.

"Remove the helmet," Bruce commanded.

"Or what?"

"Or we will."

You stepped between them, heart pounding. "Stop it. All of you. He hasn’t done anything."

Damian sneered. "He’s a criminal."

"He’s Jason."

Tim’s expression tightened. "That doesn’t mean he gets a free pass."

Jason’s helmet turned toward you. His voice cracked slightly through the modulator. "You should go."

"Not without you."

"Then you’ll be disappointed."

He fired a smoke pellet at the ground. Vision clouded. You coughed, lunged forward, but by the time the smoke cleared,

He was gone.

Again.

You were left standing between your past and your future. And both were breaking apart in your hands.

That night you didn’t go back to the Cave.

You didn’t answer Dick’s calls. You shut off your League comms. You ignored the messages Conner left you, his voice low, worried, asking you not to disappear like Jason did.

But you did.

You packed light, combat gear, a burner phone, a few weapons, and the dog eared journal Jason gave you before his first solo mission as Robin. It was full of half sarcastic advice, dumb sketches, and the last thing he ever wrote to you, "If I don’t come back, don’t stop running. Gotham needs you more than I do."

You found him again two days later. Brazil. Rio’s back alleys were filled with whispers about a masked man toppling gun running networks, torturing info out of cartel lieutenants and vanishing before sunrise.

You caught him mid-mission bloodied knuckles, panting breaths, body armor cracked across the ribs. He looked like a soldier who never stopped fighting.

He didn’t aim at you this time. But he didn’t welcome you either.

"You're persistent," Jason muttered, helmet tilted toward you.

You crossed your arms. "You're bad at hiding from me."

"Go home."

"Not without you."

He ripped off the helmet. His eyes were red rimmed, a cut on his cheekbone still bleeding. He looked older than you remembered, heavier with fury.

"I don’t belong there. Not anymore."

"That’s not your call to make."

"It is when Bruce let me rot in the dirt! When he replaced me like I was a busted tire. When you-"

He stopped.

You stepped forward. "Say it. When I what?"

Jason’s voice dropped, tight and bitter. "When you let Tim take my place."

The words slammed into your chest.

"You think I let that happen? You think I wanted to see someone else in your suit, Jason? I screamed at Bruce for months. I couldn’t even look at Tim without thinking of you. I didn’t choose anything."

"But you stayed."

You swallowed hard. "Because I thought you were dead."

Jason turned his back to you. "Maybe I should be."

You grabbed his arm. "Don’t say that. Don’t you dare."

"You don’t get to play the martyr now," he snapped. "You’ve got the League, your team, the family, hell, you’ve got your little Boy Scout Connor breathing down your neck like he’s waiting for a shot."

You stared at him. "He’s my friend."

"He wants more."

"And you’d know that how?"

He didn’t answer.

You stepped in front of him. "You think I’m picking sides? Fine. I am. I pick you. I’ll keep picking you until you stop running."

"Then maybe you’re just as dumb as I was."

He walked past you, toward the fire escape.

"Jason, wait."

He paused at the ladder, not looking back.

"If you follow me again, I won’t hold back. I’m not part of your team. I’m not your mission. And I’m not your charity case."

You let him go.

But only because you weren’t done fighting yet.

The safe house in São Paulo was bare, just concrete walls, a cot, a flickering desk lamp. You hadn’t slept in twenty hours, your body wired and restless, mind spinning with Jason’s voice echoing in your head.

You didn’t hear them arrive. But you felt it.

The air shifted. The hairs on your neck stood up.

Then, “You are the worst at staying gone.”

You turned to see Dick leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. A second later, Conner stepped into the light, worry written all over his face.

"I asked you not to vanish," he said softly.

You stared at them. “I had to try.”

"He’s not ready," Dick said. “He’s not healed. And dragging yourself into his spiral won’t fix either of you.”

"You think I don’t know that?"

Conner approached, his voice low. “He’s not the only one that matters, you know. We’ve got something real. You and me. You just have to stop chasing ghosts.”

Dick gave him a look, but said nothing.

You looked between them. “I’m not chasing a ghost. He’s alive. And he’s hurting. That matters to me.”

"And what about us?" Conner asked. "What about the team? You think you’re the only one breaking over this?"

Before you could answer, an alert buzzed on Conner’s device. He glanced down, then looked up grim.

"Gotham. League priority. Weapons heist at Axis Chemicals. Red Hood’s involved."

Silence fell like a bomb.

Dick met your gaze. “You need to choose. You ride with us, we go in clean, coordinated, with a plan. Or you run to him again. And God help you if you do.”

Conner said nothing. Just looked at you like he was already bracing for your answer.

You opened your mouth,

but the words wouldn’t come.

Because for the first time, you didn’t know who you were without him. And you didn’t know who you were becoming with him.

Two paths.

Two hearts.

And you were standing in the fire between them.

The rain hit Gotham like it always did, fast, sharp, and cold. You stood on the rooftop of the Axis Chemical plant, staring at the smoke billowing from its shattered windows. Sirens screamed below. The mission had already started without you.

You were alone for only a moment.

Then, a voice behind you.

"You picked both of them by standing still."

You turned. Talia al Ghul.

She was dressed in shadows, poised and untouchable.

"He’s unraveling, you know. And you, standing in the ashes of his war, are the threads he keeps pulling."

"Why are you here?"

"To see how far you'd fall."

You didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t wrong.

The rooftop door slammed open behind her.

Conner. Out of breath.

"We’re going in. He’s already inside. It’s a trap. He’s not trying to stop the heist. He’s trying to burn it all down."

You hesitated.

Dick’s voice rang in over the comms. “You with us, or are you going rogue again?”

Talia tilted her head. "Choose wisely."

You looked at Conner.

And jumped.

The descent into Axis Chemicals was chaos. Flames licked the edges of crumbling catwalks. Smoke curled through broken glass. Red Hood was at the center, face hidden behind his mask, gun drawn on a merc who was already on the ground, unarmed.

"Jason!"

He didn’t turn.

"This isn’t the way."

He fired. A warning shot. Inches from the man’s head. The merc cried out, scrambling away.

You stepped forward through the heat. “I’m not here to stop you. I just want you to hear me.”

He looked at you then.

That voice again. Distorted. Inhuman. "There’s nothing left to hear."

Conner landed beside you. His fists clenched. "Step away from her. Now."

Red Hood aimed at him without hesitation.

Dick’s voice boomed from a nearby speaker: “You shoot, you answer to me. You burn this place, you answer to Bruce.”

Red Hood turned slowly. "Then maybe it’s time someone made him listen."

The rage in his voice shook the walls. Literally.

Jason tossed an explosive.

Conner lunged.

You dove after Jason.

Flames erupted, and in the smoke and light and heat, he grabbed you.

Not to hurt you.

To shield you.

Your back slammed against a pipe, Jason’s arms around you, the weight of him real, alive, trembling.

His voice, near your ear, no modulator now:

"I don’t want to hurt you. I just don’t know how to stop."

When the fire settled, Red Hood was gone.

Conner was burned. Dick was bruised. You were silent.

And in your hand, tucked into your glove during the blast,

A folded slip of paper.

Coordinates.

Another chance.

Another choice.

The coordinates led you deep into the old Gotham docks, abandoned shipyards and silent cranes looming like skeletons. The air smelled like rust and rot and salt. You moved alone, the echo of your boots swallowed by fog.

It wasn’t a trap. But it wasn’t safe either.

A single floodlight lit a path into a cargo ship, the hull tagged over with gang signs, the deck rusted and torn. You climbed aboard, pulse loud in your ears.

Inside, a small burner lantern flickered in the corner of the captain’s cabin.

Jason was there.

Mask off. Sitting on a crate like he hadn’t just burned half a factory to the ground.

His eyes met yours. Red. Tired. Human.

“You came.”

“I always do.”

He held your gaze for a long time before looking away. "I didn’t leave that note as a promise. I left it as a warning. You shouldn’t be here."

You stepped closer. “Then why give me the option?”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “Because every time I think I’m too far gone, you show up and make me wish I wasn’t.”

Silence settled over the space.

Outside, the waves hit the hull with dull thuds. Inside, your breath caught.

“Jason…”

“I don’t know how to be him anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “Robin. Son. Brother. Yours. I can’t be all those things again.”

“You don’t have to be all of them. Just be here. Just be you.”

He looked at you again. This time softer. This time letting some of the pain bleed out where you could see it.

“I killed a man at Axis,” he said. “Not one of the mercs. A mole. League. Planted to test me. I knew him.”

You blinked. “Why tell me?”

“Because I knew it’d hurt you. And I couldn’t let that be a surprise.”

You sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his. “You think I don’t already carry you with every bruise I get?”

He leaned his head back against the wall. “I don’t know how this ends.”

You stared out the porthole into the dark.

“Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we just… keep moving. One step, then the next. Together or not.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out something small. A comm link. Yours.

He handed it to you.

“Whatever happens next, you decide if I hear it.”

Your fingers closed over it.

No promises. No ultimatums.

Just a choice.

And this time, it was yours.

The call came that night. Gotham again. Intergang resurfaced, smuggling black-market tech through the old Narrows subway lines. Jason had the intel. You had the clearance.

You met him on a rooftop an hour before the strike.

“No masks,” you said. “Just you and me.”

He gave a grim nod. “Just like old times.”

The mission went sideways fast, one of the smugglers had alien weaponry, and the tunnels were rigged to collapse. But you and Jason moved like a single shadow, back to back, silent, brutal. You still knew how to read each other without a word.

It was Conner who arrived next, eyes glowing, jaw tight. He froze when he saw Jason.

Dick and Tim followed. Then Bruce.

No one moved.

Until Damian stepped out from behind Bruce, sword drawn.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Jason’s mouth curled. “And you’re still swinging toys you don’t know how to use.”

“You abandoned us,” Tim said.

“I died, remember?”

Bruce’s voice cut through the air. “Enough.”

Everyone fell silent.

Bruce looked at you. “You knew.”

You didn’t deny it.

“He needs help,” you said. “And you guys keep treating him like a ghost instead of a brother, a son.”

“He’s a criminal,” Damian spat.

“He’s family,” Dick said quietly.

Conner looked at you, unreadable. “What are you choosing now?”

Jason didn’t look at anyone. Just said, “I’ll go. I got what I needed.”

He turned,

But you followed.

Later, at an old safehouse just outside the city, the tension broke. Rain beat against the windows as Jason stripped off his gear, bruises blooming across his ribs.

You sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

He stared at the floor. “You still want to fix me?”

“I just want you to stop bleeding alone.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he didn’t know if he should hold you or push you away.

You reached up, touched the line of his jaw. “I’m not afraid of the wreckage. I’m afraid of losing you in it.”

He leaned in slowly, like the decision might break him.

And then he kissed you.

Not with desperation.

But with truth.

Like he finally believed he could still be something more than broken.

Morning in Gotham came in shades of gray.

It filtered through the cracked window of the safehouse, washing over dust covered floorboards and tangled sheets. The warmth of Jason’s skin still pressed along your spine, one arm slung lazily over your waist. For the first time in years, the silence between you wasn't a wall, it was peace.

You shifted slightly. His grip tightened reflexively, and he let out a soft, gravelly sound in his sleep, half a sigh, half a groan.

You looked over your shoulder.

He was awake.

Eyes still shadowed but softer now, blinking like the sunlight was something foreign.

"Hey," you whispered.

He said nothing at first, just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then, voice low, “You stayed.”

“You didn’t run.”

He let out a huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Give me some credit. I waited until after.”

You smiled, but only briefly. Because now the dawn was here, and that meant facing everything you’d both been dodging in the dark.

He noticed the shift.

“What are you thinking?”

You hesitated.

“I’m thinking about Bruce. The others. Conner.”

Jason sat up, grimacing at the sore pull in his side. “Don’t say his name while we’re still naked.”

You threw a pillow at him. “Jason.”

He sobered. “They’re not gonna forgive me overnight. I don’t expect them to.”

“They’re not the ones who need to.”

He turned, facing you completely, hands braced on his knees.

“Then who does?”

You swallowed.

“You.”

The words settled in the space between you like something fragile and sacred.

Jason exhaled slowly. “I don’t know if I can. Not yet.”

“That’s okay.”

You reached out and took his hand.

“You don’t have to do it all at once.”

He looked down at your fingers entwined with his. “You know this doesn’t get easier, right? There’s still blood on my hands. The League won’t stop coming. Bruce still sees me as a mistake. The others see me as a threat. Hell, some days, I believe them.”

“I don’t.”

He looked up.

“I never have,” you said. “And I never will.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not. But I’m here anyway.”

Jason leaned in, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you.”

The words were barely above a breath. But they hit harder than any bullet you’d ever dodged.

You closed your eyes.

“I love you too.”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Deep. Possessive.

There was nothing gentle about it.

You fell backward onto the mattress as he followed, lips tracing fire down your throat, hands pulling your hips flush to his. The ache between you had built for months, years, lifetimes.

He kissed like he fought, with heat and bruised knuckles and the need to never let go.

Sheets vanished between gasps and whispered names. His mouth mapped every scar on your skin like he’d memorized the topography of your pain and was determined to rewrite it in pleasure.

He growled against your neck as you arched into him.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“I love you.”

“Louder.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair and repeated it between ragged breaths until he was moving inside you, slow at first, measured, controlled.

Then faster.

Harder.

Until it wasn’t about control at all.

Until it was about being seen, being wanted, being known.

He held your face as you came undone beneath him, lips never leaving yours, his own release following with a shudder that left him breathless.

And in the aftermath, wrapped once again in sheets and heartbeat thunder, he didn’t pull away.

He stayed.

The Batcave was colder than you remembered.

You stood at the edge of the training mat a week after your last sighting with the Bruce. Jason beside you. His helmet tucked under one arm.

Bruce stood in front of you both. Not armored. Not looming. Just… Bruce.

“Ground rules,” he said. “No killing. Not under my roof.”

Jason gave a half smirk. “Does the roof extend to rooftops?”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “Don’t test me.”

“Noted.”

Tim stood nearby, arms crossed. Still wary. But he didn’t say anything.

Damian glared, of course. Dick stood between them all, quiet but ready.

You stepped forward.

“I brought him home. But this only works if we stop dragging the past like a corpse behind us.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Jason met his eyes.

“I’m not here to apologize,” he said. “But I’m done hiding.”

Bruce gave a single nod.

It wasn’t a warm welcome.

But it was a beginning.

Later that night on some abandoned rooftop in Gotham, you and Jason stood under the neon skyline of Gotham, hair whipping in the wind. Below, the city buzzed with crime and chaos. But up here, it was still.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” you asked.

“No,” Jason said. “But I’m not walking alone anymore.”

He turned to you.

“You in?”

You reached for your comm and clicked it on.

“Always.”

[dirtyl0ver]

Safety Off - Part 4 (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader)

CW: Sexual content, degradation, power imbalance, blood, gunplay, mask kink, squirting, toxic relationship, violence, mentions of death, psychological domination, themes of obsession and control.

Summary: His return shatters the silence and the truth is revealed.

Wordcount: 8k

Part 1: HERE Part 2: HERE Part 3: HERE

You hadn’t heard from him in a week.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. A thousand chances to say something, anything - and all of them ignored.

You were curled up on the far end of the couch, knees hugged close to your chest, phone in your hand. The blue glow from the screen flickered softly against the walls, lighting the living room in pulses. You weren’t even really scrolling, just swiping out of muscle memory, your mind a hundred miles away, replaying every second of your last encounter with him like some sick, looping reel.

You hated how much you needed it - the adrenaline, the danger, the brutal way he touched you like he couldn't decide if he wanted to ruin you or save you. And worst of all, the way you liked it.

No, craved it.

You thought maybe if you could decode him, if you could just understand what made him so distant, maybe you'd know what to say. What not to say. Like "I love you." That had slipped out, raw and instinctive, and the look on his face… it burned behind your eyelids every time you closed them.

You hadn’t meant to say it. But it was the truth - or at least, the kind of truth that made sense in the dark, between shallow breaths and heavy silences and the cold press of his gun against you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at the last message you sent him. “Are you okay?” Read. Two days ago. Nothing since.

He was closed off. That much was obvious. But there were moments, brief flickers, where something in him cracked open. A look. A touch. The way he had bought you food after pretending you meant nothing to him.

You didn’t know what “off-grid” meant to someone like him. You had theories, of course. Maybe he was in some kind of underground fight ring. Maybe he was ex-military. Maybe he was hiding from someone, or something. The wound on his chest - deep and jagged, still healing - he said some guy with knives gave it to him in a fight. He said it like it meant nothing. But that wound was deep enough that it should’ve meant something.

You swallowed hard. That was the part that lingered, wasn’t it? The not-knowing.

Not knowing what he did. Not knowing what he was.

And not knowing why the thought of him walking back through your door - unannounced, unexpected - still made your chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.

You sighed and tilted your head back against the couch cushion. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant traffic outside. It was late - past eight, maybe nine - and the light from the hallway lamppost slanted through the blinds in pale streaks across the floor.

Then–

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You froze.

Three knocks. They made your pulse jump.

You sat up, heart suddenly thrumming too fast in your chest.

You didn’t move at first.

Just stared at the door like maybe you imagined it - those slow, heavy knocks still echoing in your ears. Your phone slipped out of your hand, forgotten, landing facedown on the couch.

Another knock never came.

You forced yourself to stand. Legs shaky. Bare feet silent against the cold floor. The moment your fingers touched the lock, your heart stuttered in your chest, like it knew before your mind could catch up.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, framed like a nightmare. Tall, still, and absolutely soaked in blood. Thick streaks down his arms, splattered across his chest and jeans, seeping into the fabric in dark, wet patches. His hoodie was torn at the hem, clinging to him in places, the black mask with the red eyes and downturned frown giving him a grotesque, emotionless expression.

He didn’t say a word.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Your throat was dry, like your body was trying to protect you from the scream that threatened to claw its way out.

“Brian…?” you whispered. You didn’t know why you used his name. It felt like something sacred in a moment that felt anything but.

No answer.

He didn’t even look at you - just stepped inside like he belonged there. His boots left bloody prints on the tile as he walked past you, silent as death, straight toward the kitchen.

You turned slowly, heart pounding, body trembling from head to toe.

Was it his blood?

It didn’t look like it - at least, not all of it. It was too much. Too wet. Too fresh. It clung to him in places that didn’t make sense unless someone else had bled on him. Unless someone else was– You swallowed the thought before it could finish.

You followed him. Carefully. Like if you moved too fast, he might vanish - or worse, turn around and shatter the illusion of safety that still lingered between you.

“Are you–” you tried, voice catching in your throat. “Are you okay?”

He sat down.

Right there at the kitchen table, like this was just any other night. Like he wasn’t wearing that goddamn mask. Like he wasn’t covered in someone else's blood.

You stood in the doorway, breath shaking, gripping the edge of the wall just to stay upright. Your eyes scanned his body, trying to find the wound, the injury - something to explain it. But there was no limp. No wince. Just that unreadable, blood-smeared stare behind red lenses.

He didn’t move or speak.

You were suddenly, painfully aware of yourself - the oversized sleep shirt that barely reached the tops of your thighs, the way your hair clung messily to your neck. You hadn’t been expecting anyone, much less him, much less like this - and still, in the thick fog of confusion and panic, there was a small, shameful part of you that wished you looked better for him.

Like it mattered to him. Like he saw you at all under that mask.

You crossed the room slowly, legs weak, and grabbed a dish towel from the counter, unsure of what the fuck you were doing, only that you had to do something.

“Let me–” you started, voice barely above a whisper. “Let me clean you up.”

You reached toward him.

And for a second, he didn’t move. Just watched.

He sat perfectly still.

That same haunting silence - the kind that felt louder than shouting. The mask watched you from across the kitchen table, those red eyes painted into an eternal scowl. The blood on his clothes was starting to dry, darkening to rust around the edges. The air was thick with the metallic tang of it.

You moved toward him with the towel in your hand, fingers trembling.

“Let me help,” you said softly, afraid of breaking whatever spell was holding him in place. “Brian, are you–are you hurt?”

He didn’t move. But his voice finally came, low and steady, slicing clean through the air.

“You said you loved me,” he said. Flat. Matter-of-fact. “Said you wanted to know me.”

Your breath caught.

“I…” You tried to speak, to explain, but the words tangled. “Brian, I–come on, look at you, are you hurt? Is this even your blood?”

Stillness.

Then, slowly, he reached up and pushed the mask up onto the crown of his head.

Your breath caught again, sharper this time.

That face. God, that face. Cold. Expressionless. Blood on his cheekbone, drying along the edge of his jaw. Eyes like glass - no warmth, no recognition. Just that hollow stare, locked on yours like you were the one who’d lost your mind.

“I’m showing you,” he said. “You wanted the truth. Here it is.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Like he wasn’t angry, not yet, but something darker was coming. Like a pressure building in the room, waiting to snap.

You took a step back.

“Brian… come on, this isn’t–” You couldn’t keep your voice steady. “Talk to me, don’t just–what happened? What the fuck happened?”

And then he snapped.

He stood, fast, chair scraping against the floor, and you flinched instinctively.

“I kill people,” he said, voice sharp now, rising. “That’s what I do, do you get that? You want to know who I am? I’m not some fucking misunderstood guy that you get to fix. I’m a killer. That’s what I am. Now you know.”

You froze. Everything in you stilled, like your body had decided your brain wasn’t handling things well enough and just shut down. The towel slipped from your fingers, falling to the floor.

“You think this is some fantasy?” he barked, gesturing at himself - the blood, the mask, the wreckage he brought to your home. “You think I’m gonna fall in love and settle down and start fucking healing? You think I’m gonna hold your hand and tell you everything’s fine?”

Each word hit like a blow.

He was breathing harder now. And worse than the anger was the truth in it. The absolute conviction in his voice. Like he wasn’t trying to scare you. He was just telling you.

And that scared you more.

You stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling like you couldn’t get enough air. Your legs felt numb. Your mouth moved like it wanted to say something, anything, but no sound came.

He saw the way you backed away - just a single step, but it was enough.

Something shifted in his expression.

Quiet again.

And in your head, everything blurred - the memories, the moments, the pieces you thought you understood. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you. The way he disappeared and always came back, like some kind of tether tied you to him.

But you didn’t know him.

You never had.

You could barely hear yourself think.

The blood was roaring in your ears. Your body felt too light, your limbs distant, like you weren’t fully inside your skin anymore. Like none of this could possibly be real. Like maybe if you blinked hard enough, he’d vanish - blood and mask and rage, all gone.

You stared at him, eyes wide, voice barely a whisper.

“What are you talking about…?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Just looked at you with that unreadable, ice-flat gaze. And then, slowly, disturbingly calm, he lowered himself back into the kitchen chair. Same exact place. Same posture. Like he hadn’t just torn everything apart seconds ago.

Like this was a conversation.

You watched in frozen silence as he reached into the pocket of his jeans.

And pulled out the gun.

The one he always carried. The one you’d seen and felt so many times. The one you knew by weight and shape.

He placed it on the kitchen table with a soft clack.

It was smeared with something dark. Sticky. Wet at the grip.

“This,” he said, tapping the barrel with a blood-slick finger, “is the one you like so much, right?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’ve begged for it,” he continued, eyes still on the gun, like he was remembering. “Opened your mouth for it. Rubbed yourself against it. Had it inside your pussy. Made you so fucking wet.”

Your stomach turned.

A flush of heat, shame, and confusion rushed to your face so fast it made your vision blur. You wanted to say stop. You wanted to scream. You wanted to not remember the way you’d looked up at him with that gun between your lips like it meant something. Like it connected you.

He looked up then. Right at you. Eyes dark and empty.

“It just killed someone,” he said. Voice calm and cruel. “Thirty minutes ago, this was inside someone’s mouth while they begged me not to pull the trigger.”

You couldn’t move.

Your knees felt locked, your hands numb at your sides. The room was suddenly too quiet, the air thick like it had been sucked out of the world. Your gaze dropped to the gun, the gleaming metal, still warm, still carrying death on its breath, and something in you twitched.

A pulse. Low in your stomach.

You hated yourself for it. Hated how fast your body betrayed you. How fast the fear bled into something else.

And you knew he saw it. He always saw you too clearly, too sharply, like he was built to notice the things you didn’t want anyone else to see.

You didn’t know what to say.

Humiliation twisted in your gut, hot and sick and unbearable. Your face burned. Your throat ached. You didn’t know what this made you - what kind of person you were, still reacting like this, even now.

Even knowing what that gun had just done.

You tried to speak. Your lips parted.

Nothing came out.

Just a soft, shaky breath.

And he just watched you, like he was waiting to see what would break first: your body, your voice, or your delusion.

You stared at the gun for a long, heavy second. Blood dried along the ridges of the metal like rust. It sat there between you like a second mouth - silent, but full of terrible things. And still, you couldn’t look away.

Your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, but one thing remained, clear and anchored:

You wanted Brian.

God, even now, even after this, after the things he’d said, the things he’d done, you wanted him. Wanted to understand him. To touch him. To hold some part of him that hadn’t already been hollowed out by whatever the fuck his life was.

Slowly, you stepped forward.

You didn’t speak. You just reached across the table, picked up the towel from where it had fallen, and pressed it gently to the slick grip of the gun. You wiped the worst of the blood away. Careful. Like this was something you’d done before - like he hadn’t just told you it had killed someone minutes ago.

His eyes never left you. You felt them, sharp as knives, dragging across your skin. Watching every move.

You couldn’t tell if it was judgment or awe.

When the gun was clean enough that it no longer looked like murder, just metal, you set the towel aside and turned toward the kitchen counter.

You needed something to do. Something that didn’t involve looking at him.

So you made him a sandwich.

It was stupid. Ridiculous. You didn’t even know if he was hungry. But your hands moved on autopilot - bread, meat, cheese, knife, plate. You barely noticed what you were putting on it, only that you needed to do something, needed to give him something. Anything.

When you finished, you turned back around, the plate balanced in your trembling hands.

You walked it over to him, carefully, and placed it in front of him without a word. Like playing house with a loaded gun on the table. 

And then you stood.

Still.

Waiting.

Your heart was pounding. You could feel it in your throat, in your ears, in your fingertips. You didn’t dare sit down. Didn’t dare breathe too loud. He hadn’t said a single word since the gun.

But he didn’t look away.

He looked at the sandwich. Then at you. Then back down again.

And then, without a word, he picked it up and took a bite.

You almost cried at the sound. The soft crunch of the bread. The way his jaw moved. Like everything else he did, even this was purposeful. Controlled.

You stood there, frozen, watching him eat, and something inside you cracked.

Something almost like closeness and belonging.

He didn’t say anything after he finished.

Just sat there, one arm resting on the table beside the empty plate, the other hanging loosely by his side. The mask still sat pushed up on his head like some terrible crown, his face pale and streaked with dried blood, lips slightly parted from the last bite.

His eyes were unreadable.

You stood there in silence.

The weight of the room pressed down on your shoulders until you couldn’t stand anymore.

So you moved. Slowly, like testing a dream to see if it would shatter.

You stepped between his legs, hands trembling, your breath shallow. And then you sank into his lap, facing him.

He didn’t stop you.

His thighs were warm through the blood-stiff fabric of his jeans. His chest didn’t rise to meet yours, he just let you be there.

Your arms curled loosely around yourself, unsure where to place them, unsure if you even had permission to touch him. You didn’t know what you were asking for by sitting there. Comfort? Forgiveness? Punishment?

You didn’t know anymore.

His voice came after a long, cold silence.

“You’re sick, you know that?”

You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“Fucked up in the head,” he continued. “You should’ve screamed. Called the cops. Thrown up. Anything but this.”

You couldn’t look at him.

Your voice came out small.

“…I know.”

There was nothing else to say. He wasn’t wrong. You were sick. What kind of person did this - let him in, fed him, touched him after what he said, after what he was? What kind of girl sat in a killer’s lap just to feel close?

You.

You were that girl.

The weight of it pressed into your chest like a stone, but you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You finally looked at him, and he looked back, those unreadable eyes locked on yours, unblinking, unflinching. You stared at each other like that for a long time, until your mouth moved before your mind could stop it.

“I hate this.”

Your voice shook.

“I hate you.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything he could’ve said.

You didn’t take it back. Because it was true, and at the same time, not.

You hated him for what he’d done. For who he was. For the parts of you he brought to the surface. For the way he made you feel everything, and then nothing at all.

You hated yourself more.

His stare sharpened, a faint twitch at the corner of his jaw. “You hate me so much,” he said, voice low and venomous, “then why the fuck are you making me a sandwich and sitting on my lap like an idiot?”

The words landed like a blade to the gut - sharp, unflinching, and designed to cut deep.

You didn’t answer. 

Without warning, his hand shot forward, fisting the front of your shirt and yanking you toward him so hard your breath caught. The sudden pull jolted you forward on his lap, your nose almost touching his.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against your cheek. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, voice low and cruel. “That’s why you let me in. That’s why you keep me here.”

Your fingers twitched against his forearm, but you didn’t push him away.

And then his mouth was on yours.

He surged forward, teeth and blood and fury crashing into you all at once, slamming his lips against yours with no tenderness - just need. His hands gripped your jaw hard enough to bruise, pulling you deeper into him, swallowing your breath, your fear, your self.

You tasted iron, thick and sharp, could feel the blood between your mouths, from him or from you, you didn’t know. Didn’t care.

Your fingers clutched at his hoodie like lifelines, dragging him closer, needing to feel him real and here, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. His breath was hot, erratic, his body tense like he was seconds from tearing something apart - maybe you.

You didn’t stop.

And then, suddenly, he pushed you off him.

Rough. Like he couldn’t stand you, like he needed you gone.

You barely had time to react before he was on his feet, grabbing you by the arm and shoving you back, hard, into the kitchen counter. Your lower back hit the edge with a sharp jolt, but you didn’t cry out. You just gasped, breath hitching, as he pressed into you, caging you in.

And then his mouth was on yours again.

Messy and wet and desperate.

His hands were everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, curling into your hair. His tongue slid over yours with brutal insistence, stealing the air from your lungs. You whimpered against him, overwhelmed, strung out between pain and pleasure and the terrifying ache of still wanting him.

You were pinned between the cold counter and the heat of his body, blood on your skin, shame in your chest, your heart a drumbeat against your ribs.

You let him take what he wanted.

You gave it.

Because in this moment, even drowning in everything he was - the killer, the monster, the man who hurt you - he was still the only thing that felt real.

And you’d rather be ruined in his hands than untouched in anyone else’s. 

His mouth was crushing yours, swallowing the words you weren’t even sure you had the right to say - but they came anyway, muffled against his lips.

“You should’ve told me,” you gasped, breath breaking between kisses. “I want to know you–”

His grip tightened painfully in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his mouth to tear away from yours.

“Shut up.” The words were sharp, almost spat, his breath hot against your cheek.

“I mean it–”

“I said shut up,” he snarled, and the way his voice dropped made your stomach flip. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Your chest heaved. “I do–”

His hand was suddenly at your throat, heavy and unignorable. His other hand dug into your hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.

“You think you want the truth? You think you want me?” His tone was like a blade. “You’re just a lonely girl who’ll take whatever attention she can get, no matter how fucked up it is.”

The words hit harder than the grip on your throat, but you didn’t look away.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, and you weren’t sure if you believed it.

He studied you for a beat, cold, assessing, then released your throat only to grab your arm, spinning you so fast you barely had time to gasp before he shoved you toward the hallway.

“Brian–”

“Move.”

His boots were loud behind you on the floor, his hand still clamped around your arm as he steered you like he owned the space between your bones. You barely registered the kitchen disappearing behind you until his free hand reached back to the table, fingers closing around the gun.

The sight of it in his grip sent a hot pulse through your chest you couldn’t control.

And then you were in your bedroom, his shadow swallowing the doorway, and he didn’t so much place you on the bed as throw you.

You landed hard, breath catching, hair falling into your face.

He stood at the foot of the bed, the gun in one hand, his other curling into a fist at his side, and he looked at you like you were something he’d caught.

“Undress,” he said.

Your breath caught. “Brian–”

“Do it.” His voice was low, flat, like there was no space for argument.

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “Please… just tell me. Tell me who you killed. Tell me why. How many–how many have you–”

“Stop it.” His tone snapped like a whip.

“–I need to know–”

“Stop it.” His voice rose, sharp and sudden, a roar that made you flinch. “You don’t want the answers to those questions. You don’t know what you’re asking for. Now shut your mouth and get undressed.”

You were shaking, chest tight, but you couldn’t stop. “I just–please–what kind of life is this? Why–”

The muzzle was suddenly in your face. Close enough that you could smell the oil, see the faint streaks of blood still clinging to the barrel.

“I said undress.”

Your throat closed around the sob that wanted to escape. Not from the gun. Not from the shouting. From the way he was looking at you. That razor-edged, unblinking stare that cut through every reason you should hate him.

And you did it.

Your fingers moved to the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. It was damp in places where the blood had smeared onto you. You peeled it up slowly, the cotton clinging to your skin, the air suddenly cold against the damp patches.

When it fell to the floor, you sat there in your panties, trembling, tits bare and exposed to him.

You didn’t look away from him.

The muzzle didn’t move. It stayed fixed between your eyes, steady in his hand, the weight of it pressing down on your heartbeat until you could hear nothing else.

You swallowed hard. Your mind was screaming at you to stop, to turn away, to say no, but your body didn’t listen. 

You should’ve done anything but what you did next.

But you needed him to see you. To look at you. To want you in whatever twisted way he could.

So you leaned forward.

The barrel brushed your lips, cool metal against the heat of your breath. You opened your mouth and let it in. That familiar tang of steel flooded your tongue - only this time there was something else. Thicker. The faint, metallic bite of iron. Blood.

You closed your lips around it, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked, tasting death like it was something intimate.

He didn’t say a word. Just watched you, chest rising a little faster, the tendons in his neck tight. The control he always had didn’t slip, but his breathing betrayed him - heavier now, almost audible.

Your knees dug into the mattress, your hands resting lightly on his arm for balance as you worked your mouth along the barrel. You couldn’t look up at him - not with your face this hot, not with your shame sitting so thick in your chest you could barely breathe.

But you felt his eyes. Dragging over you. Pinning you in place. 

He was letting you do this. Letting you debase yourself on something that had just killed someone.

Your heart hurt with how much you wanted him to keep watching.

Then, without warning, he pulled it from your mouth.

The barrel left a trail of saliva and blood on your lips, and before you could even draw a full breath–

Crack.

Pain bloomed white-hot across your cheek as the side of the gun slammed into your face. Your head snapped to the side, your hair falling forward, your lips parting in a sharp, unsteady inhale. The sound of the hit rang in your ears, almost louder than his voice.

“You’re fucked up,” he said.

It wasn’t a shout. It was worse, low and flat, completely certain. A statement, not an insult.

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t move. The air between you was thick with the humiliation of knowing exactly what you’d just done, and knowing you’d do it again if he told you to.

You forced yourself to look at him. He was still watching you like he knew every sick little corner of you.

And the worst part - the part you could never admit - was how much that look still made you want him.

“I thought you were pure,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was quiet. Almost… disappointed. “Good.”

The words sank into you like stones in deep water.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “But you’re not, are you?” His tone hardened, any trace of softness burning away. “You’re just as sick as I am.”

You wanted to argue, to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Because a part of you knew it was true.

His hand rose slowly to the crown of his head. He peeled the mask back, the black fabric, the red eyes, that permanent downturned mouth. His hair was damp with sweat, his jaw sharp.

Then he stepped forward.

The mask was still warm from his skin when he pressed it into your hands. You stared at it, your chest tightening, your pulse stumbling over itself.

“Put the mask on,” he said.

You hesitated. Only for a second. Then you lifted it.

The fabric smelled like him - faint gun oil, sweat, and something darker you couldn’t name. The inside was soft but damp with his heat, clinging slightly as you slid it over your head.

The world narrowed to darkness. The fabric brushed your lips, your cheeks, your lashes. Then light returned, thin and distorted through the hard edges of the eye holes.

You could see him, but not like before. He was filtered now. Distant. Every movement of his body framed by the mask’s red-eyed scowl.

And you realized something that made your stomach twist - this was how he saw the world. This was the face he wore when he killed. And now it was yours.

Your breath caught, shallow against the fabric. You could smell him with every inhale. Taste him when the mask shifted against your lips.

Your thighs spread without you even realizing it, your body betraying you.

He set the gun on the nightstand beside the bed, his eyes never leaving the mask on your face. His fingers moved to the hem of his hoodie, peeling it up slowly, revealing the pale lines of his stomach, the faint sheen of sweat along his skin.

And still, he just stared at you. Not at your body. At the mask.

Like he was seeing himself. Like he was deciding what that meant.

And it hurt. God, it hurt. Because you couldn’t tell if this was connection or erasure - if wearing his face made you closer to him, or just confirmed you’d never really have him at all.

You didn’t look away. You wanted him to keep looking. Even if it meant he was looking at the mask and not you.

His hands moved to his belt. The metal buckle clinked as he pulled it free. The sound was loud in the room, each slide of leather through denim like a measured threat.

The belt dropped to the floor. His fingers worked at the button of his jeans next, pushing them down over his hips. The heavy fabric fell in a slow drag, pooling around his ankles before he stepped out of them.

He stood there bare, half-hard. Unguarded in body if not in expression, and still… his eyes never left the mask.

You swallowed hard behind the fabric, your breath warm and quick inside it. You wondered if he even saw you anymore, or if all he saw was himself staring back.

Then he moved to you.

His fingers hooked under the fabric of your panties at your hips, and in one smooth pull, they slid down your thighs. The cool air kissed you in their absence, and you felt it - the undeniable heat between your legs, the way your body had already answered him long before you gave permission.

His fingers brushed your cunt, just enough to feel.

A low sound escaped him - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh - as his thumb dragged lightly across you. “Already,” he said, almost to himself.

Your face burned behind the mask. You wanted to turn away, to hide from him, but the eyeholes wouldn’t let you escape his gaze.

No matter how wrong it was, no matter the blood on his hands or the gun on the nightstand, you were already wet for him. Needy. Desperate.

You hated that he knew it. You hated that you wanted him to.

He positioned himself above you and pushed forward without warning, his hips driving into yours in one deep, claiming thrust. The breath punched out of you, your back arching as the mask shifted against your face.

A sound tore from your throat before you could stop it - a low, desperate moan at the stretch, the heat, the shock of him filling you after so long.

“God… Brian–” your voice trembled, the words spilling out before you could catch them. “Feels so good… I’ve missed you–”

“Shut up,” he cut in sharply, his tone more dangerous for how quiet it was.

But you couldn’t. The way he was moving - steady, deep, dragging every nerve to the surface - made silence impossible.

Your hands rose before you realized it, finding his hair, tangling in the strands at the back of his head. You tugged him closer without thinking, and the angle brought his face to yours.

The rough fabric of the mask brushed his cheek, the red-painted scowl between you both for the briefest second. You could feel his breath through it - hot, uneven, mixing with yours inside the stale, intimate heat of the mask.

He shifted suddenly, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting them high until your knees rested on his broad shoulders. The angle forced him deeper, so deep, that the air left your lungs in a shuddering gasp.

His hands pressed down against your chest, pinning you to the mattress as he drove into you, each thrust hard, grinding, relentless. Heat pooled low in your stomach, spreading until it felt like your whole body was burning from the inside out.

“Please–” you breathed, your voice breaking. “Brian–”

Your hands found him instinctively, roaming over the solid plane of his torso, the tight pull of muscle over bone. Your fingertips traced raised lines and rough patches - scars, old wounds, the unhealed marks of a life you still didn’t understand. You wanted to memorize each one, to know the story behind them, to keep some part of him for yourself.

But when you looked at him through the narrow eyeholes, you realized… he wasn’t looking back.

His gaze was fixed on the mask - on the dark fabric, the painted scowl stretched over your face. His expression was unreadable, but there was an intensity in his stare that made it clear he wasn’t completely here with you.

It was like he was chasing something in the mask, something that had nothing to do with you at all.

And still, you clung to him - to the heat, to the weight of him inside you - desperate to pull him back into the moment, into you.

“Please…” your voice shook as the heat coiled tighter in your stomach. “Let me take the mask off–”

His hand shot up to your throat, fingers locking around it in a grip that was firm enough to warn, not yet to crush. His eyes burned into yours through the mask’s narrow view.

“Just take it,” he said, low and sharp. “Don’t fucking talk. Just take it.”

And you did. Because the way he held you, the way he filled you - it was impossible not to. Every thrust drove the air from your lungs in shallow bursts, the pleasure blurring into pain and back again until you couldn’t tell them apart.

It felt so good. Too good.

His grip on your throat stayed as he pushed harder, deeper, the rhythm tightening like he was chasing something. His words started spilling out between breaths, rough and unfiltered.

“You’re sick.” “You’re absolutely disgusting.” “You deserve to die.”

The words hit you in the chest, jagged and heavy - but then you heard it. The way his tone shifted, the way his eyes weren’t seeing you anymore.

He wasn’t talking to you. He was talking to the mask. To himself.

Every thrust, every insult was aimed at the black fabric and red-painted eyes staring back at him. It was his face he was cursing, his reflection he was punishing, and you were just the body wearing it.

And still… you didn’t stop him.

Because even if he wasn’t with you in that moment, you were still with him.

It built fast - too fast. The heat coiled tight inside you until it snapped, your whole body shuddering violently beneath him. You gasped his name, the sound breaking apart as the wave hit, raw and uncontrollable.

Your hips bucked helplessly, and then you were coming hard, pleasure ripping through you until your vision blurred. A flood of heat spilled out of you in hot, uncontrollable pulses, drenching him, the bed, everything.

It was bliss so sharp it almost hurt, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

And he didn’t stop. Not for a second. His hips kept slamming into you, relentless, driving every aftershock into something unbearably sweet and raw.

You were still trembling when you saw it - his arm stretching toward the nightstand. Your breath caught, the haze of pleasure giving way to something colder, sharper.

His fingers closed around the gun.

And then it was there, between you, the muzzle suddenly pointed straight at you.

Your stomach dropped. Your pulse spiked so hard it almost hurt. For a split second, you thought– He’s going to shoot me.

But it wasn’t rage on his face. It wasn’t even heat.

It was nothing.

His eyes were empty, detached, as if something in him had completely unhooked from reality.

The mask’s red eyes stared back at him from your face, and in them, he saw something you couldn’t. Something that made his grip on the gun tighten.

Your whole body was still trembling, the aftershocks pulsing deep in your core. 

You ripped the mask off and threw it aside. It hit the floor with a dull, lifeless thud, landing face-up - those painted red eyes still staring.

“Brian–” your voice cracked, breathless and shaking. “It’s me. Stop it. What the fuck are you doing?”

The gun didn’t lower. His eyes didn’t change.

Terror surged up your throat, thick and choking, but you forced yourself to move. Your fingers wrapped around the barrel, cold and slick with faint traces of blood, and shoved it hard to the side until it was no longer aimed between your eyes.

Before he could bring it back, you caught his jaw in both hands, gripping tight enough that he had to feel it - your warmth, your skin, you.

He resisted, the tension in his neck like steel under your palms, every muscle tight, ready.

“Brian, look at me,” you begged, your voice splintering under the weight of fear.

For a second, he didn’t.

For a second, you were sure he was going to pull the trigger anyway.

Then you surged forward, crushing your mouth to his.

It was raw, desperate, teeth and salt and heat, your lips pressing to his like you could drag him back from wherever he’d gone.

You were sobbing before you realized it, tears hot against both your cheeks. Terror mixed with the aching need to have him here, to feel him real. Your hands clutched his face, forcing him to stay close, to breathe you in.

And something shifted.

It was small at first - a softening in the way his mouth moved against yours, the faintest flicker of focus returning to his gaze. His grip on the gun loosened. The cold barrel lowered away from your body.

You kept kissing him like your life depended on it - because in that moment, it felt like it did.

And slowly, painfully, you felt him come back to you.

Your breath was still ragged, your cheeks wet with tears when you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Lay back,” you whispered, voice trembling but certain. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. But then he let you guide him down onto the mattress, his body stretching out beneath you, the gun left abandoned at his side.

You swung a leg over him, straddling his hips, and sank down onto him in one slow, aching motion. The stretch made you gasp, your hands braced on his chest as you took him in fully.

Then you started to move.

You rode him like it was the only thing keeping you alive, every bounce desperate, your thighs burning, your body greedy for the deep drag and press of him inside you. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room, matched by your breathless words meant to hold him there with you.

“You feel so good–” you moaned, your voice breaking on the next thrust. “So deep–God, Brian–stay with me–”

His big hands came up, tracing your body like he was relearning it. Rough palms slid along your ribs, cupped your tits, gripped your hips to help you move faster. The contact sent heat spiraling through you, every nerve alive and straining toward him.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the wound on his chest - the one that had been raw and angry a week ago, now more faded to a pale, raised mark. You kissed it softly.

A sound escaped him, low, almost a groan, and his hips jerked up into you, deep enough to make your eyes flutter shut.

For the first time that night, you felt him there with you.

Your mouth found his, and this time the kiss was hungry in a different way - not to pull him back from the edge of madness, but to keep him here, tethered to you. His lips moved against yours with a heat that made your pulse stutter, his breath mixing with yours.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in, guiding your movements as he started thrusting up into you. The force of it jolted through your body, made your moans melt into his mouth.

You could feel it - the way his hips moved sharper, the way his breathing grew heavier. He was close.

“Just like that,” you whispered against his lips. “You’re so good… stay here with me… just like that…”

It wasn’t much, but the words felt like a lifeline between you, thin but unbreakable. His hands clenched harder, holding you exactly where he wanted you, his thrusts turning erratic.

And then he broke - hips driving deep, his whole body tensing under you as heat spilled into you in sharp, pulsing waves. You gasped, clinging to him, the stretch and fullness sending a shiver down your spine.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, petting it gently, grounding him. Your lips found the line of his throat, kissing him there, tasting the salt of his skin as you moaned softly into him.

For a moment, there was nothing but the heat between you, the weight of his body, and the sound of your breathing tangled together in the quiet.

You slid off him slowly, your whole body trembling, and settled on the mattress beside him. For a moment, there was only silence - the kind that felt heavy, pressing down against your ribs.

And then it all hit you.

The mask. The gun. The way his eyes had gone hollow. He was going to kill you. Brian is a killer. Not a metaphor. Not an exaggeration. A dangerous man, unstable, fucked up in ways you couldn’t even begin to fix.

Shame, panic, and something sharper than grief flooded you all at once, making your chest feel too tight, your breaths too shallow. You wanted to curl into yourself, to disappear into the sheets and not have to face him - or yourself.

Beside you, the mattress dipped as he shifted. His hand moved tentatively across the space between you, fingers brushing toward yours - not forceful this time, not demanding. Just… searching.

It was the touch of someone who’d come back to himself too late, who’d realized, in the cooling aftermath, just how badly he’d fucked up. How much he’d scared you.

And before you could stop yourself, before you even thought about it, you said it:

“Get out.”

The coldness in your own voice startled you. It didn’t sound like you.

He stilled. You felt his eyes on you before you turned your head - a glance, sharp and searching. Then his face closed off again. Detached.

He nodded once. No argument or protest.

You turned your back to him, unable to watch. The sound of him dressing filled the room - the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of his belt buckle, the faint thud of boots on the floor.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

And then the door opened.

Closed.

And he was gone.

You stayed on your side long after that, staring at the wall, listening to the hollow quiet he left behind.

It didn’t feel real.

None of it did.

The smell of him was still on your skin, the sheets, in the air - but the memory of the gun in your face, the mask on your skin, the cold in his eyes… it all sat in you like a weight you couldn’t move.

Your chest tightened until you thought it might break.

And then the sobs came.

Small at first, sharp and stuttered, then harder, deeper, until your body shook with them.

You pulled your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself, but it didn’t make the room any warmer. It didn’t make the ache go away.

Tears soaked the pillow beneath your cheek, your breath hitching in uneven bursts. The sound of it filled the emptiness, but it didn’t make you feel any less alone.

You were overwhelmed. And numb. All at once.

Like every nerve in your body had been stripped bare, then buried under ice.

You stayed there, shaking, until there was nothing left but the sound of your own breathing.

And the cold.

Extra Scene

The dirt road was nearly invisible in the dark, the truck’s headlights cutting a narrow path through the trees. Brian drove in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound in the car. The mask sat on the passenger seat, its red eyes staring forward like it had a mind of its own.

The woods opened into a small clearing, and the old house came into view - its porch light faint, more shadow than glow.

Tim was there. Sitting on the porch stairs like he’d been waiting for him, one forearm resting on his knee, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers. The glow flared when he took a drag, painting his face in brief, amber light.

Brian killed the engine and sat for a moment, his hands still on the wheel. Then he shoved the door open and stepped out, boots crunching on gravel.

Tim’s eyes flicked over him as he approached - the blood on his clothes, the exhaustion in his posture, the look on his face.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you?” Tim said, taking another drag. “You look like you’ve… I dunno. Been through a war.”

Brian didn’t answer right away. Just stopped at the bottom of the steps, exhaling a slow sigh. He thought about walking inside without a word.

Instead, he dropped onto the stair beside Tim, elbows braced on his knees. 

For a moment, they sat in silence, the night pressing close around them.

“I almost killed…” Brian’s voice was low, hoarse, like gravel dragged across metal. “…my girlfriend.”

Tim let out a short huff through his nose. “Girlfriend.” He said it slow, like tasting a word he hadn’t used in years.

“Don’t,” Brian muttered, eyes fixed on the dark tree line.

Tim smirked, that ragged, easy grin of his tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, whoever  the hell she is, she’s got somethin’ in her. Takes a rare kind of woman to stand in the way of your temper… and your gun… and walk away in one piece.”

Brian stayed quiet.

Tim flicked his cigarette into the dirt, then pulled another from the pack, holding it out between two fingers. “Go on.”

Brian glanced at him, then at the cigarette. His jaw tightened, but he took it anyway. Tim lit it for him, the flame catching the sharp planes of his face for a second before disappearing.

They smoked, the silence heavy but never uncomfortable. Every now and then, Tim’s eyes cut toward him, like he was on the edge of saying something - I knew you had a girl. I’ve been seeing it on you for weeks. But he never did.

After a while, Tim bumped his shoulder into Brian’s - not hard, just enough to say I’m here.

Brian didn’t look at him. But he stayed right where he was.

[jennelikejennay]

Morality toward enemies and devils

(in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds)

SNW has gotten me thinking about good and evil, about when shades of gray do and don’t exist. Which is good! That’s what Star Trek does. I’m not sure they’re coming up with the right answers, but I would rather have them asked than not asked, either way.

There are two basic ethical frameworks humans use when dealing with evil, often without really thinking about it. There’s the way you deal with an enemy who is a person, who theoretically might cease to be your enemy at some point if you play your cards right. We’ll call this Enemy Morality. And there’s the way you deal with an absolute evil that must be exterminated because you will never be able to placate it. We’ll call that one Devil Morality.

Spoilers up to “Through the Lens of Time” under the cut.

Enemy Morality goes like this: I am angry at this person or group because they have hurt me, and I will fight them. But at the same time, I recognize that there is something in them that is good, and that there are reasons why they’re acting like that. I will push back firmly when necessary, but I will also be on the lookout for a peaceful option. I will be careful that my tactics against them fit into what is fair, and that I try cooperation first and at every open opportunity. When peace is made, I will do everything I can do to preserve that peace, even though I am still angry and would prefer to get my revenge. I will, if not forgive, choose to leave our enmity in the past.

This is the type of moral lesson shown in the TOS episode Arena, with the Gorn. Kirk’s legitimate anger against the Gorn is subordinated to his rational knowledge that it is not pure evil, that peace could theoretically be made, and he is rewarded for this.

Devil Morality goes like this: The evil before me is absolute and undiluted, and I will not give it any quarter. I will feel no obligation to be fair to it. I will not stop until it is annihilated. If it starts to look pathetic and beg for its life, I will harden my heart and deliberately choose to continue hating it, because I know it’s a trick and any mercy will simply give it a chance to come back.

This type of moral lesson rarely comes up in Star Trek’s early series, but I could point to the Borg as an example.

Obviously Enemy Morality comes up a lot more often in real life. I am a materialist and don’t believe in an absolute, conscious evil being of any kind. But I think Devil Morality still has its place—I’m not a moral relativist. Examples:

Tuberculosis is not evil by its own lights—it’s a bacterium just trying to live its life—but we can’t give it any quarter because it behaves as a devil to us. It can’t be placated and we can’t make peace with it. Harnessing our instinct to attack what feels evil to us is one way we can motivate ourselves to wipe it out.

Hitler was nice to his puppy and his wife, but we choose to ignore that because there came a point at which it became clear that peace was not possible there. Waffling about whether we could put him off for a while just ended up making it worse.

The person who hurt me most in life was once a sweet little boy who was almost certainly a victim of abuse himself. But by the end of his life, he had committed so many extreme acts of abuse that he had to be stopped. He had also built a cult of hundreds of thousands of people whom he manipulated into giving him more victims. Showing him mercy, once his behavior was finally revealed, was not kind. It muddied the waters and allowed his organization to continue his legacy. A hard line would have been better—even though I know he isn’t the devil. I just know that a lot of appeals to “he was a victim himself,” “he’s old now and basically harmless,” “don’t you believe in forgiveness,” are actually scripts intended to soften the righteous hatred people have for what he did, and to let him get away with more of it.

Okay, so far so good. How is Strange New Worlds handling it?

Pike’s attitude toward the Gorn is definitely Devil Morality. He says that sometimes a monster is just a monster. We’ll kill them whenever we can, we would kill their children and smash their eggs, because if we don’t, they’ll do horrific things to us and all the species we like.

People are rightfully doubting whether this is appropriate. First, because that isn’t how the Gorn were in TOS, so if they canonically can be worked with, then we shouldn’t admire characters who fail to recognize that. And second, because there’s a real question as to whether they are genuinely that evil. We have never successfully communicated with the Gorn, but we know that they do communicate. To me that’s a big sign that there are steps toward peace which haven’t been tried. It’s not weakness or failing to acknowledge evil to recognize that—it’s the rational knowledge that whenever peace is possible, it is the way we save the most lives.

But you could also argue that this is another case of Pike failing a challenge Kirk will later win. He just isn’t the right guy. (Whether viewers are going to pick up on that if it’s not explicitly said in-show is another question—but I will, anyway.)

M’Benga’s attitude toward the Klingon ambassador is, to me, an explicit case of using Devil Morality where Enemy Morality should apply. Keeping his desire for revenge alive could very well have sunk the whole cease-fire and restarted the war. However righteous his anger is, it’s not going to cure his PTSD to end up back on the front lines, now is it? We don’t get it clearly said that he’s wrong in this, but I think sensible viewers can draw that conclusion.

Now, this week’s episode with the Vezda. You don’t get more explicit Devil Morality than this. They’re cosmic entities that are fully aware of what they’re doing and deliberately use our compassion and mercy against us. It does seem reasonable to harden our hearts against that and go full scorched earth. Asking it for a parley would have only given it time to cause more trouble.

Yet this time, Pike waffles: “Good and evil are relative terms, son.” Odd to hear this from Mr. Sometimes a Monster Is Just a Monster of last season. It feels almost as though that line is put in as a mouthpiece for the other point of view, purely to be smacked down.

Good and evil are relative terms, in fact, because some things are more good or more evil than other things and very few things are unmixed one or the other. But it’s a nod to total moral relativism where there is no such thing as good or bad, really, only our point of view, which Pelia is right to tear apart. There is every sign that the Vezda are completely evil and Devil Morality applies. So in that way I don’t disagree at all with the episode’s take, the way I did about the Gorn.

BUT. There’s also the question of why you choose one story over another story. Why did Tolkien, writing just before, during, and after WWII, pick a Devil Morality story where Sauron is just plain bad and negotiation is a massive mistake? Well, my guess is, because that is the narrative that was most real in his own life. Also, because he was Catholic, and the battle between pure good and pure evil is the way Catholics visualize their own inner struggle.

Meanwhile TOS chose Enemy Morality almost exclusively. And when it does, it’s often self-consciously, to talk about the Cold War: we need to stop using Devil Morality. It was the right call with Hitler (insert many caveats about the times in WWII this was not true)—but it’s the wrong call here. We could literally wipe ourselves out as a species if we fail to find the humanity in our enemies and work toward peace. That's the explicit narrative of many TOS episodes.

Why is SNW choosing stories about Devil Morality? Are the struggles before us as a nation (this being a US show) and a species mostly about Devil Morality? Is Devil Morality what we need to keep before us as we go out into the universe? Which error is worse, to use Enemy Morality when Devil Morality applies, or vice versa?

Generally speaking, when dealing with conscious beings in real life, we need to always default to Enemy Morality, and only bring in Devil Morality when efforts for peace have been tried and failed. Are there struggles today where we genuinely need to negotiate less, attack more, and give no quarter? Absolutely. But I wouldn’t say it’s most of them, let alone that it was most of them last year when they were writing it. There are people currently viewing Star Trek who think the problem is that their president of choice isn’t coming down hard enough on the left, that the devil that needs to be exterminated is the immigrant community or trans people.

If I were in that writers’ room, I would be thinking about how to get through to them, not how to confirm their current worldview while vaguely making progressive noises so that the rest of us still watch it. Because, as much as media isn’t just a moral lesson, it does affect people’s moral thinking, for better and worse.

Is this a complaint? Not exactly. It’s the compliment of in-depth criticism, which I don’t bother with when I think there’s nothing redeeming about a work. I’ll certainly be following the Vezda and Gorn plotlines with interest. Because Batel being able to speak the Vezda language is…interesting, to me, and suggests there is a connection between them that might entirely change the perspective we have so far on the Gorn.

[jukeboxtea]

Jimmy sits up in the lighthouse for a very long time. Peeking over the edge, pacing between TNT minecarts, thumbing the levers beside each one–fidgeting for long enough to pass several hours. He waits, eyes stalking the path leading up to the front door below, even as night falls slowly around him. 

He taps a pattern into the hilt of one of the levers. His fingers feel electric, a strong current of energy buzzing through them. The feeling runs up through the rest of his body and makes him shudder. 

He figures it’s just a weird new manifestation of red life bloodlust. Everyone feels it differently, he supposes, and this season has been odd enough already. He practically expects things to twist and change on a whim nowadays. Like the double-boogey situation today, or… whatever the hell Etho and two-thirds of the Villies had going on a few weeks ago. He still isn’t sure what that was, honestly. 

So it’s probably bloodlust. A weird, nervous type of bloodlust. But an insistent, much-less-rational part of his brain says that this electric feeling is what’s left over from the lightning strike that brushed him earlier. 

It’s rare that he hears it. They always tease him about it, you know–always being the first one out of the series. And as much as he hates to admit it, well, they’re right. He’s bad at surviving, and if he’s not the first out then he always comes shortly after. 

So he rarely hears that roar of thunder. The one that accompanies that single lightning bolt–not striking a player, but instead scorching the ground right after they’ve left, marking the place where they’ve lost their last life. It’s not like a normal lightning strike, although Jimmy can’t place what’s different. Maybe it sounds off? Maybe it lasts a second too long, hits the ground a bit too harshly? Leaves scorch marks a bit too stark?

Regardless. He hardly ever hears it. It’s rare that anyone dies before him, and, well, it’s not like he can hear the thunder that marks his own death.

So it’s even rarer that he gets to see it. He’s seen the sky flash brightly a few times, accompanying a bright red death message posted in the chat, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen the actual bolt hit the ground.

Well. Now he has. 

He replays that moment over and over in his head. He has a lot of time to think in that lighthouse–way too much time, really. God, do the Villies ever come home?

So think he does. He thinks about that moment again, then again, then again. 

It was so sudden, really. Such a mundane moment. Tango had just cried out for B to watch for creepers–and, really, wasn’t that ironic? “I saved your life,” Jimmy heard Tango call. Then the next thing he remembers is seeing that ugly, bright bolt of lightning, reaching down to scorch the earth and leaving a message behind in chat that made his throat close. Tango didn’t even scream. 

And it’s terrible. It’s terrible, because part of Jimmy expected to die with him. 

It’s stupid, really. It’s very, very stupid, and Jimmy can’t believe that the thought crossed his mind in the first place, much less the fact that he’s still entertaining it hours later. But it’s true. That lightning struck, feeling for all of the world like it was meant for him too, and when the death message flashed he checked his own health bar out of instinct. 

It’s stupid. And he tries to ignore it, but he’s just got so much time to wait until a Villy comes home, so instead the scene replays in his head until he’s sick of it.

The moon shines tall in the distance; Jimmy paces another lap around the lighthouse. He ignores calls from his teammates, ignores people messaging about Tango’s funeral. He just sits there, gaze trained on the path that leads towards the lighthouse door, and thinks. He taps his fingers on a lever to ignore the way they still tingle.

[mariquitaaa]

random riri headcannons

cuz i can

a/n: bored. have no ideas. this is my assortment of riri williams headcannons. emphasis on assortment i change topics rlly fast be careful dont get whiplash. feeding u so u don’t starve until my other hcs come out. fluff + nsfw at the end. comment to be added to taglist. guys i dont write nsfw so if its ass don’t tell me🙈🙊🙉 i’ll let y’all know when im open for criticism tho i WILL be askimg for y’alls opinions ok enjoy

- ik we’ve all seen @mitchesmoon’s arguing w riri headcannons and while they’re incredibly accurate i feel like she’d genuinely hate arguing w her partner. like it’d cause her indescribable anguish she couldn’t bare it (maybe im projecting but we’ve seen how she acts when she has even slight disagreements ie, her mother, xavier)

- i feel like she just has horrible communication skills and doesn’t know how to clearly express her thoughts

- everything she says is super blunt anyways so she has to work around her normal wording in order for things to come out better (they never do)(they often seem passive aggressive)(the personification of ‘i’m finding it’)

- riri is so dadcore

- i alr talked abt this in a former post but she is def checking ur car whenever u are over with it

- and don’t let her be a girl mom she’d be teaching her daughter everything abt them cars

- her heart would drop if u ever did one of those “i put the green one in the tank, it was cheaper.” pranks cause she may have to kill u if u put diesel in any of her vehicles

- u can never take riri to a movie theater cause she never shuts up

- she is incapable of not talking during a movie she just has to say something,the characters need to hear her behind the screen (i am her)

“now why would he do that?”

“dumbass!!! she know whats behind that door.”

- she will also ask a million questions like its not ur first time watching the movie too

“wait so what happens at the end”

- riri def prefers calling when it comes to u

- her constant excuse is

“i just wanna hear ur voice”

- she cannot bear to feel away from u for long

- sends u photo dumps and expects u to reply to every mf photo

- we alr know this but soso needy like needs to be touched and loved on all the time

- helps u study cuz she knows she doesn’t HAVE to spend a lot of time studying for herself, she just does it anyway

- most of those study dates end up w u two absolutely not studying

- i feel like she was one of those mascs w a secret wattpad acc in highschool

- she was feeding the wlw community even tho she hated writing basic essays for school

- gets so nervous in large public spaces alone. she prefers going w someone

- her love language is def physical touch and quality time like she just wants to be with u no matter what either of u are doing

- riri always talks abt her mom’s spiritual stuff to her face but secretly she believes all of it so she’d def date someone who is spiritual

- ri is def bi but in a comphet way like tells everyone shes “gay” but to be “specific” she’s “bisexual” but has only dated girls and never been in a serious relationship with a man lmao

- she has a special talent at knowing someones real intentions/personality/feelings about u right from the jump.

- basically a mothers instinct.

“ion like her”

“why, riana. you just met her!”

“idk. but i do not like her and i don’t think you should hang around her. she’s shallow asf!”

- she was right. that girl was fake asl.

- with that being said she is so scared of love like serious relationship love, marital love cause she’s afraid she could lose you.

- this def causes her to make some stupid decisions

- but the minute she gets over that fear and knows ur the one, you are meeting her mother with haste

- after her mother approves (she will) ur meeting the family

- her gf is her hairstylist no questions asked

“who did your hair?”

“my girlfriend.”

“she a braider? i need my hair done i’ve been looking everywhere for a-“

“no.”

- emphasis on her hairstylist. having anyone else up in that chair is practically cheating. 100 bodies.

- unironically has an i❤️mygf shirt

- was rlly shy when y’all first got together but when y’all started dating her head got big lmao

- lowk gets horny when u play with her chains cause why are u looking at her like that and ur fingers are brushing her neck and ur so close

- its a horrible concoction

- is an eater, loves to be eaten too but, the girl’s an eater

- she’s enthusiastic, but she listens. she knows what u like and don’t like

- loves to be praised. will 100% get off on a

“you look so pretty”

or

“you sound so good, ri”

- when u say her name she almost has an aneurysm

- especially if it comes out as a whine? she’s down for the count

- thinks doing it with half ur clothes on is hot asf but eventually she gets pissed at the barrier

- only loves a quickie if they aren’t actually rushed. she just likes doing them out of her own free will lmao

- she’s sub like 60% of the time but that 40%??

- likes thigh grinding but when ur grinding on her thigh

- her talk u through it game is perf, really

- likes being edged

ok im done

i hope y’all enjoyed cuz ik i did😝

@mitchesmoon @mrsudakuwilliams99 @rheas-ripley @riris-heart @riridefender

[myhobari]

alright, alright 😭😭

could you give us something about having an argument with central cee, giving him the silent treatment and then making up?

- talk to me

central cee x black reader

Summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: first cee fic, i was my biggest critic for this one. i hope you like ittt!

masterlist

————————————————————————

Two days.

That’s how long you’d been pretending not to hear cee when he spoke.

Two days of brushing past him in the kitchen without a glance, of turning over in bed before he could even try to touch you, of keeping your tone clipped and cool when you had to answer.

It was exhausting — not just for him, but for you too.

The air between you felt heavy, thick with everything you weren’t saying.

Tonight was no different. You sat on the couch in an old tshirt , legs folded under you, scrolling on your phone like you couldn’t feel him pacing behind you.

“You really gonna keep this up?” His voice was low, almost calm — but you could hear the crack in it.

You didn’t look up.

The next sound was the slow creak of the couch as he sat down beside you. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let the quiet stretch until it was almost unbearable.

Then his hand slid onto your thigh — warm, broad, and firm, fingers curling just enough to make you glance at him.

“That’s all I get?” he murmured, voice dipping lower. “Two days of nothing?”

Still, you said nothing.

⸻

He leaned in until his breath ghosted your cheek, warm and slow. “You know I hate this.”

His fingers flexed against your leg, thumb brushing over your skin through the thin fabric of your hoodie. His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face toward him with a patience that felt dangerous.

The look in his eyes wasn’t soft — it was heat, frustration, and want tangled together.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t quick. It was deep, deliberate, like he was pulling every word you hadn’t said straight out of your chest. His mouth was warm and insistent, his tongue sliding against yours with a rhythm that had you melting into him before you could stop yourself.

The hoodie shifted as his hands slid underneath, palms hot against bare skin. You shivered at the contrast — his heat against the cool air — and he noticed, smirking against your mouth.

⸻

The kiss broke just long enough for both of you to catch your breath. His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged, his thumb stroking your chin.

“You mad at me still?” he asked, voice husky.

You didn’t answer — but your legs parted when he leaned in again, pulling him closer without thinking.

The shift in his breathing was immediate.

⸻

His mouth moved down your jaw, slow, each press of his lips deliberate, almost taunting. You could feel the faint scrape of his teeth against your neck, and your fingers instinctively curled into the back of his shirt, holding on.

He let his lips linger there, the heat of his breath fanning over damp skin, before dragging them lower — a slow, maddening path that had your pulse pounding in your ears.

Every movement felt exaggerated after days of restraint — the way his hands gripped your hips, the slow grind of his body against yours, the way sweat was already beading lightly at the nape of his neck.

⸻

You tugged his shirt over his head, and the cool air hit his skin, making him shiver before his warmth was pressed to you again. His chest was firm under your palms, muscles shifting as he moved.

“You’re gonna stop ignoring me now,” he said against your lips — not a question, but a promise — before kissing you again, deeper this time.

His mouth was still on yours, slow but unyielding, like he was determined to erase every second of space you’d kept between you these past two days.

You could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat under your palms, the subtle flex of muscle every time his hands shifted you closer.

“Oak— please…”

When he leaned forward, you felt his weight settle over you — warm, solid, grounding — his breath brushing your cheek as he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Missed you.”

It wasn’t soft. It was rough around the edges, like he’d been holding it back.

⸻

His hands roamed with purpose now, tracing familiar lines along your waist, your hip, down to your thigh, before sliding back up again in one unbroken path that left your skin tingling.

The couch felt suddenly too small for the space you needed, and before you could process it, he was guiding you backward — the shift in your position making your hoodie slide higher, the air cool against your skin.

Your breath caught. Not because you were cold, but because of the way he was looking at you — eyes dark, locked on yours like every movement was a silent question he already knew the answer to.

⸻

He pressed in closer, his forehead brushing yours, his body fitting against yours in a way that felt inevitable. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the faint sheen of sweat at the nape of his neck when your fingers threaded into his hair.

Every movement slowed to a crawl — his lips against the curve of your jaw, the low hum he let out when you tugged him closer, the way his hands tightened at your sides like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

⸻

By the time his mouth found yours again, the anticipation was almost unbearable — every inch of contact feeling sharper, deeper.

The rhythm of your breathing matched, faster now, tangled with quiet sounds you couldn’t quite control. His grip shifted, anchoring you to him, the weight of his body leaving no space between you at all.

His hand slipped down the front of your shorts, stopping right before your mound.

“Why— why’d you stop?” you whine.

“You’re gonna apologize to me.” he said, visibly strained, holding himself back from breaking his own request.

“I’m sorry Oak— I really am…”

“Now please… touch me?”

Initially, he was going to make you apologize multiple times.. make you beg for him, beg for his touch. But he didn’t hold himself back any longer and slipped all the way down your heat.

“Oh, fuck.”

Cee would play with your clit for some seconds, gather up your wetness at your entrance and then proceed to slip one finger in. His slender, yet long fingers curled.. hitting right where you needed it the most. He leaned in for a kiss, much reciprocated by you.

And just when the tension threatened to snap, he whispered against your lips — not an apology, not an explanation — just your name, like it was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“Never do that again. We talk through things, not brush them away.”

“You got it baby, swear.”

——

let me know y’all’s thoughts!

muah 💋

[khathir-bowl]

Didnt have anything out of the ordinary today so i just binged some of s9. WHAT THE FLIP MAN NO. ACTUALLY WHAT THE FLIP.

Ep 1 -meteor shower.

-SAM?!?! HOSPITAL?!!?

-smart move on deans part.

-CAS.

-he moved bobby to the front.

-HE HAS CROWLEY IN THE TRUNK.

-help.

-SHE JUST KNOCKED HIM OUT.

-SHE WANTS HIS VESSEL.

-why am I thinking lucifer is in that house lol.

-"bite me."

-NOT LUCIFER ITS DEATH.

-put your seat belt on.

-HIM TAKING DEANS FORM TO GET SAM TO SAY YES, ABSOLUTELY GENIUS MAN.

-i completely forgot that cas wears a suit under his tench coat.

-HE LEFT THE COATT NOOOOOOOO.

-im wondering how sams reactions gonna be to all this later.

-wait crowley is still in the trunk.

Ep 2 -burnt chicken foot.

-CROWLEY.

-rehydrated chicken.

-HUNGER GAMES REFERENCE.

-isolation to torture the yapper.

- (-y) girl this joke better end with (anything supernatural).

-it didnt, just ended with a tired sigh.

-is she gonna make herself queen orr find a way to free lucifer??

-so queen okay okay.

-KEVIN...

-why all the pretty evil ladies like the skinny weak men :( no offence to kevin he's average built.

-he's using kev to pass the time.

-HE BETTER NOT HAVE HURT KEVINS MA AND JUST RAGE BAITING KEVIN.

-OH OH MAN DOWN.

-WHAT THE FLIP.

-THE SHADOW WITH THE FEATHERS FALLING.

-whoever said that dean winchester is like the eldest daughter, your so right for that like that speech sounds like one my older sis would give me.

-sam guilt trying to eat at him but dean keeps dragging it away.

Ep 3 -i saw cas and screamed.

-me when i drink enough water.

-OH UM WRONG SIZE??

-THEIR USING A REAPER TO FIND HIM??

-girl i love that your kind BUT YOU DONT LET RANDOM MEN IN YOUR HOUSE WHEN YOU LIVE ALONE, EVEN DUDES WITH PRETTY BLUE EYES.

-"no , i read "pie". The rest is just blah blah blah".

-GIRL DO ALLOS FALL THAT EASILY IN LOVE/LUST??!!

-the girl is gonna die isnt she, cuz they all die to move the plot.

-cats when you bring a new cat home.

-cas loves spices.

-is he gonna make him stay with garth???

-sam always comes first.

Ep 4 -indiena jones but if he was a cool lady.

-the thing in the bottle is giving that one gray child they made in a microwave in tawog.

-oooh it spilled EW EW EW EW EW BRO I JUST ATE BREAKFAST.

-DEAN AND HIS FAV SIS and sammy.

-YEAA EXPOSE THOSE CORPERATIONS CHARLIE.

-deans older siblings instinct kicking in when she brought up hunting.

-"which sounds like a YA novel if you say it out loud." She hates reads them and get annoyed when the mc ends up with the dude who treated them like less than trash. she also got dean hooked on them and they angry discuss them, sam is not touching those books ever.

-DEANS FACE I CANT.

-she wants those chill siblings expriences, get this girl some take out and put the entire Narnia on, while charlie braids sams hair and dean braids hers, they end up having sam hold dean in a tight grip so they can braid his hair. And they all end up knocked out cold in the makeshift pillow castle.

-IS CHARLIE GONNA BECOME A WITCH???

-WHY IS IT, THAT THE SWEET YAPPER CHARACTER DIES MAN???

-i dont think ive ever watched the wizard of oz and if i did i didnt know english at that time so my brain deleted it.

-he shot his lung i giggled.

-dean cleans the kitchen and keeps the place tidy, while sam doesnt. This shows so much about their characters and how they function. Like sam grew up in motels so the mess is what he remembers, while dean grew up with their mom so he remembers the tidiness. Dean keeps everything clean and tidy not only as a way to hold on to marys memory, but also to have some sense of control with all the chaos he lived/is living through. Sams only known the chaos, the quickness even in stanford he would be rushing to study. so there isnt time to fold clothes and give everything a perminent place because to him it wont ever be perminent.

-"that's my girl." Me with my little brother.

-SHE THREW HERSELF INFRONT OF DEAN.

-dean choosing his loved ones over hunting EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. My eyes are getting watery.

-THOSE ARE AMAZING, I NEED TO RIDE EVERY ONE OF THOSE CARS AND MOTORCYCLES.

-killer heels.

-deans worried about charlie.

-"there's no place like home." SAM SAMMMMM.

Ep 5 -snake man?

-snake cowboy man??

-i hate trophy hunting.

-only reason to hunt is if the animal is trying to kill you. I dont like the idea of injuring it then killing it, its the reason why i stick to butchered chicken, lamb and beef. a quick swift slice to the neck slicing all the majors to make sure the animal dies a quick easy and less painful death. The knife must be extra sharp to not make the animal feel the pain for longer than needed.

-he's gonna eat the cats isnt he.

-YUP HE DID.

-dean is becoming snow white.

-he just fetched it, kevin did say its mind melding, does that mean deans gonna start acting like a dog???

-he is.

-mail man scene.

-he became furry snow white (i need to check out furry spn fanart now)

-he pulled a gun on a pigeon.

-IM GIGGLING THEIR HEADS ARE OUT OF THE WINDOW ABSOLUTELY AMAZING SCENE.

-"we?" Yes, bring the dog.

-NAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH.

-belly rubs.

-he freed the dogs. I dont understand people who dont adopt old animals they deserve to live out their old days in a happy home.

-cinderella dean

-he wants to eat sam.

-someone pls time travel a dyson to sam pls his hair is getting worse.

Ep 6 -he's got the whole dr house fit.

-PINK LIGHT????

-cas??

-CASSSS.

-his name tag says steve.

-is she calling him autistic??

-WHATS WITH THE GIRLS AND FALLING FOR CAS???

-danganronpa.

-he's watching cas.

-i love that they show sam using the younger sibling ability to rage bait to get what he want.

-have a feeling shes gonna die.

-I CANT.

-IT WASNT A DATE HE'S A BABYSITTER.

-cas bro....thats sad like really sad, wow dude is going through it.

-what is crowley doing??

-does he want to feel human??

-cas....

Ep 7 -i need to see more sam enjoying a good read.

-so got caught stealing food and got sent to a boys home; john finds him QUICKLY and just left him there as punishment.

-Adding it into the list of john winchesters A+ parenting. The more i learn about this man the more i hate him.

-deans defending john, pls bring back the dean realising his dad is trash and could have been better. Like what happened to that man????

-"let him rot in jail." FOR STEALING PB AND BREAD?!? My hate for john winchester grows.

-the hand shake scene bro my heart.

-my problem is that john put his son at risk of harm, im happy nothing bad happened but still something couldve happened and no good parent would risk that.

-its the wife haunting the place.

-sam learning about his brother.

-dean was finally given a stable place where he can be a kid, study, explore intresets and actually think for himself without having someone depend on him for survival. But he couldnt leave sam alone in that life so he sacrificed this 2nd life to be someone sam can lean on. Im actually fighting tears rn. They were just kids man, dean was given 2 months of being an actual kid, doing stupid things and having dreams for the future.

-sam knowing that his brother left that life to look after him, that hurts man.

Ep 8 -azula.

-sams battery not recharging thats not a good sign.

-JODDYYYYYY.

-what does that group mean.

-OOOOOHHHHHHHHH.

-demi-aro dean and gray-ace sam are canon in my heart.

Ep 9 -bloody glee club.

-garth???

-CAS?!!

-"Cas is back in town." Im smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

-okay i have an idea, why not send sam back into the bunker so zeke doesnt more mad than he already is, like use the excuse of helping kevin.

-MERV????

-WHAT DO U MEAN HE ISNT WHO HE SAYS HE IS?????

-so he wants to rebuild it.

-whats gonna happen to sam if he leaves him?? Just drop dead?!

-their shocked scared eyes are similar.

-CAS WHAT THE FLIP UM BRO THE BROTHERS BETTER SAVE HIM.

-HE JUST TOOK HIS GRACE.

-deans worried about cas.

-"yesterday, cinderella." He makes jokes when he's stressed just like me.

-his stance aint right that isnt sam

-KEVIN NOOOOOOOOO

-HIS TARGET WAS KEVIN?!?!

-he was acting as sam.

-dean lost another person he considers family brooo.

Ep 10 -KEVINS PHOTO WITH HIS MOM AAAHHHH BRO I NOOOOOO i cant cry rn bro i just cant.

-cas comforting dean and not letting him fall into guilt.

-field trip??

-no shot gun.

-CAS'S GRIN GOT WIPPED OFF HIS FACE, crowleys joy im giggling.

-THATS HIS OLD VESSEL.

-he's grown attached to dean??

-"He's not my amigo."

-he has a family.

-he killed him...

-DOES THIS GAL NOT UNDERSTAND THAT SHE JUST CANT KILL EVERYONE SOME ARE GONNA BE SEMI AGAINST HER BUT THEYLL BE USEFUL TOO.

-dean trying to distract himself.

-"i prefer the word "trusting"."

-crowley raising his hand im giggling.

-"i see you again", "im dead yes, i know. I love you too." Me saying bye to my friend after annoying her for the entire school day (idk how she stands me).

-"Daddy's home." Bro is petty till the end.

-he has a point, atleast crowley punishs for a reason.

-deans guilt.

(So we got dean mentally suffering more than usual, im not even in the middle of the season and bro went through an emotional rollercoaster. Schools getting closer man i hate it but i cant wait to annoy my friend again, no joke how does she handle me???)

[rondinella]

girlie i need to get back into writing shape so heres a lil something with our fav dragon. requests are welcome idgaf i need to stop being a scready dumbass.

Pairing: sylus/you

Characters: Sylus Qin/Qin Che, You(no use of yn tho it kills the vibe)

You look at him as he waltzes out of your office and you can’t help but imagine the satisfaction it would give you to throw your pencil case against that stupidly toned broad back of his.

Sylus Qin, your coworker and only turbulence in your otherwise peaceful work environment.

You don’t know why this man has the capacity of getting such a visceral reaction out of you, but he, and his stupid sickening nicknames, never fail to make your blood boil; every time he curses you with his presence, you find yourself stomping your feet in frustration and nearly hissing.

Kitten

And of course, given the fact that he occupies your every thought during the day, you can’t be free of his clutches even while you sleep.

Those dreams are the proof that your brain hates you.

Because the only thing you can see are those crimson eyes staring up at you with a need that makes you ache, those big hands tied behind his back, chest heaving, pleading words falling from his lips like bullets aiming at your sanity.

You still can’t forget that dream where you had your shoe on his-

You are pulled out of your thoughts the moment you walk straight into your desk, desk that you did not notice because that man was plaguing your every waking, and sleeping, moment.

You quickly turn around in the hopes that nobody saw you but of course, there he is.

And the smug look on his face, as if he is entertained by your suffering, makes the thought of murder oh so very sweet.

Sweetie

So you turn, pretending that you didn’t see him even if the image of that stupidly handsome face lurks in your head.

And the impeccable ways in which he dresses, as if he’s going to a five star hotel and not into an office.

Does he even need to work if he can afford that kind of clothing, that kind of cars?

And cars is plural, as in more than one.

Maybe that’s what you hate the most about him: his perfect looks, his perfect face, his devil may care attitude as if he owned the world and everyone in it.

The damned ease with which he commands attention.

But still, you soldier on, coming every day in contact with him and his little taunts, keeping at bay with miraculous courage the thought of sending your boss a resignation letter with the motive of psychological damage.

Because you love this job, you love your coworkers and he will not ruin it.

“A penny for your thoughts, sweetie?” your hands instinctively turn into fists.

You hate the fake concern in his eyes, hate it with every fibre of your being.

“No.”, that’s all you say, before you turn your back on him.

But you feel him.

Feel those crimson eyes seeping into your clothes and into your skin, feel them as if they want to get into your bones, into every nook and cranny of your being.

You close the door to your office, to keep him out as if he is a demon that will enter your office like red mist.

You don’t understand him: he arrived into your life with an intensity that you never felt before, those eyes looking at you as if he has known you before, the ease with which he occupies the empty space by your side as he goes down the stairs with you everyday without fail.

And sometimes, he lingers.

Lingers as if he is waiting for you to do something, but can you do?

You barely know this man, no matter how sometimes you find yourself staring at him not with desire but with something close to recognition, as if something of him is pulling strings at your memory.

But for the rest of the day you think of your work, and if when you get home you dream of him at your feet, what’s so wrong with that?

Aside from the blue circle around your eyes that you try to conceal, and fail, and have to show up at work the next day with.

“My, my, sweetie.” Sylus drawls, first thing in the morning with that stupid voice of his, and something travels up your spine.

You call it hatred.

“Do we have problem sleeping?” and here it is again, the concern, the slight crease in his forehead, the concentration in his eyes, the scrutiny.

“Yes.” you reply, too tired to deny him.

He gets closer, and you retreat.

And he looks at you as if your inability to be close to him hurts.

You want to bite him, give him something to actually hurt for.

“I can help you sleep.” he says, voice so soft that you barely hear him.

You don’t even have the time properly snort before he disappears, living you alone.

You hit your head on the vending machine; what was that supposed to even mean?

You try your best to no think a single thought that has to do with Sylus for the rest of the day and order something like a bag of chamomile tea in the hopes that it would help you sleep, and it dawns to you that you and Sylus never actually speak, or rather, he tries, and you deny him.

It’s instinctual, as if he burns you and you feel the need to protect yourself from the heat.

The work day passes like torture, but once you are finally home, you order some food and go straight to bed, sighing.

You are about to get under the cover when your phone rings.

Why would an unknown number call you this late?

Out of curiosity, you pick up the call.

“Hello?” you ask, and your blood turns cold.

“Still up, sweetie? Seems like you really need my help.” your heart soars to your throat.

Sylus actually called you.

“You thought I forgot?” he asks, and you clutch your phone to your ear.

“Your lack of faith in me hurts me deeply.”, he adds, his tone flat.

“I am sure you will survive, Mister Qin.” you say, out of habit.

You never call him by his name, it sounds-

Intimate.

“Mister Qin? You can call me by name, sweetie.” he says and you shake your head to no one that can watch you.

Aside from those weird red dots outside of your window, but those have been there for longer than you know the man of the phone.

“Oh, I- well, it doesn’t seem like the right thing to do.” you answer.

Ah! You have won the argument, and now he will have to retreat.

“How so?”

Oh.

You didn’t think he would bring the argument further.

And you mumble something in reply, and he hums.

“It’s not polite!” you say, and he laughs.

He honestly laughs at you, a laughter that sounds so expensive it could solve world hunger.

“Polite? Well, sweetie, if you want to be polite, than come to dinner with me tomorrow. Show me how polite you can be.”

You don’t know what to say, this all conversation leaving you at a loss from words.

“Dinner?” you echo, feeling cornered by him, by your own desire.

“Yes, Kitten. We’ll go together after work. Are you in bed?”

His voice sounds so sure, and for some weird reason, all the times he tried to talk to you replay themselves in your mind.

Why does he want to be around you?

What does he want?

You bite your lip as curiosity slowly sips in your mind.

That invisible string pulls and pulls, throwing you in the direction of the man on the other end of the line.

“Yes.” you say, more to yourself than to him.

“Oh, well. I can sing you lullaby, then.” he says, and you can move, as if he’s making himself comfortable.

“I meant about the dinner, Sylus.” you add. It’s first time you’ve ever said his name.

The first thing you hear, is the sound of glass shattering, and he quickly clears his throat, as if to cover it.

“Goodnight then, Kitten.”

You open your mouth, but he ends the call before you can say anything.

The next day, you live with a weird sense of anticipation, but not with the fear you expected.

Sylus, however, is nowhere to be found for the vast majority of the day, but you don’t worry; for some strange reason you know that he will not leave you waiting.

And, as if summoned, he appears at the door of your office just in time.

He doesn’t greet you, but he looks at you; sometimes you have the weird thought that his eyes shine, as if they can see more than anybody else can.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and you nod.

And when you look at him, his eyes aren’t as sharp as they are every time somebody tries to talk to him; they are soft, gentle.

There’s an image of a field in your mind, red flowers and gentle eyes.

You shake your head as you walk toward him; you seriously need to sleep more.

And from the corner of your eye you see how his hand come up to cup your elbow as you walk through the door, how it falls.

The disappointment you feel surprises you more than you expected.

So you walk side by side, and for the first time you don’t hurry to walk away form the proximity, you accept it.

Sylus opens the door to his car to let you seat on the passenger seat, and you suddenly feel anxious: his clothes speak of a quiet elegance, while you simply look like someone who just got ended their work day.

He looks at you as he starts the car.

“I haven’t seen that shirt in a while. I like it.” you scrunch your nose in response, and he laughs.

How does he even remember this shirt? It’s one of your fancy once and you didn’t wear it in months.

As the car goes, the silence is surprisingly comfortable, instead of being weird.

It dawns of you probably a little late how stupidly fancy this car is.

Leather interiors and all.

It dawns on you that you know nothing of the man beside you.

But instead of being anxious, you are curious.

“Who are you?” you ask, turning your body as much as you can to look at him.

You can see how the question surprises him, but he is quick to hide it.

He always is.

“Just your humble co-worker, sweetie.”

You scoff and he smirks.

“A humble coworker would never be able to afford this car. Or the others.”

He tilts his head toward you. “Oh, you noticed?”

“It was hard not to.”, you answer, playing with you necklace.

“I’m glad.” he says, and you look at him, not understanding his answer.

“We’re here.” he whispers, and you are confronted with what his probably the most beautiful restaurant you’ve ever seen, and this is only the outside.

You are so stunned that you don’t notice the outstretched hand he gives you until he starts to retreat it, but you act, fat as you can, and clutch his hand with a grip that is as hard as you can make it.

The way he looks at you now, at your hands, it’s so sweet, so tender, so surprised and yet relieved that it breaks your heart a little.

Were there was once the instinct to run, now is a need to cling, to hold, to have.

You feel as if he had betrayed you by leaving you, and now you need to be so close to him, to live inside his skin to make sure he never goes away again and the feeling is so strong it takes root inside your bones, as if it real, as if it makes sense, as if it has a right to exist when it doesn’t, it shouldn’t, but it does.

So you let him take the lead, while this ancient rage and longing take place inside of you, and you wonder about what is left about your rationality.

As you seat, you are seething.

A rage so big, so uncontrollable, you have no idea where it comes from.

You have never been angrier with someone in your life, and you don’t even know why.

As you grip the fork as if it has offended you, Sylus seats and looks at you.

You forget about everything: the fancy restaurant, the fancy cars, everything but the man in front of you.

There are tears in your eyes, words coming out of your mind without a single thought behind them, just the pure rage of a broken heart.

How did everything unravel so quickly?

“You left me.” you say through gritted teeth, a voice so low and pained it doesn’t sound like your own but it is.

“You know why.” he answers, eyes kind, his hands in the middle of the table.

When did you let go of him?

Your fists bang on the table.

“I don’t care!” you scream, no sense of manners, of nothing but the pain,

You shouldn’t have let him come close to you, you should have let him suffer like he made you suffer, let him pay for what he did to you-

“Sweetie.” Sylus whispers, his hands on your clenched fists.

Your eyes are so full of tears he is nothing but a blurry image.

You don’t remember what happened in images, but you remember the feeling.

He left you.

You don’t care about the motives, you only care about the outcome, about the devastating loneliness that only a love known and lost can give you.

Everything is so sudden that you’re almost dizzy, but you feel like you know the man in front of you in such agonizing depths that you own him.

It’s the natural state of things.

So you grab him, and he laughs.

“Quicker than I thought. Sweetie.”

You want to touch him, you want to hurt him, you want him as far away from you as possible.

You kiss him.

But where you expected passion, he is hesitant.

He grabs you, and you’re still crying, looking at his backs and shooting daggers with your eyes.

But in the car, in the car he holds you in his arms, kisses your hair, eyes closed.

He thanks you, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“You left me.”

Sylus shushes you, small kisses on your mouths, shakes his head.

“I am here now, aren’t I?”

You pull his hair as you deepen the kiss, propped on his thighs.

He is here.

He is here and he is real and he is not going to leave you.

You hug him, you grind on him, you push and pull and bite.

And he lets you, a smile on his face as if he’s been waiting for a long time.

But he doesn’t take things further, he just lets you do what you want with him.

You grip his face tightly, almost a bruising grip and he looks at you, those shining red eyes.

“Do you want me?” he asks quietly as if he has all the time in the world.

You angle your head, more beast than woman.

“I own you.” you reply, your voice flat and deep as if it is a known thing.

But he nods fervently, and you kiss him, tears at his clothes as he carefully undoes the button of your shirt, stuck in a parking lot.

Somehow you make it to backseats and one look at his chest has your head on his collarbones, his hands at the back of your head as you give careful kisses to the middle of his chest.

Your want for him is blind, scorching.

You want to chain him to your side; instincts and longing at war inside of you.

Lip trembling, your hand at his jaw.

“Don’t leave me.” you ask him and he breathes you in.

“You said yourself, Kitten. You own me.”

He is on top of you now, so gentle, the leather under your naked skin so soft.

“I am not leaving you for as much as I belong to you, you belong to me.”

His hands are big, warm.

Warm inside of you, warm on every inch of your skin.

You bite him, scratch at him as if it would make your presence known, as id you want to brand him and he moans, deep in his throat as it makes you throw your head back.

To have him, all the fields and all the flowers, for the rest of time.

[parspicle]

i think an underappreciated part of Being A “Functional Adult” is learning to appreciate something You Do Not Like, but a Loved One Does. it’s a skill you do need to work on, to listen to something You Do Not Care About, But They Do, but it is so, so worth it

[i3utterflyeffect]

Can we use Tim's head as a basketball ball

mods. put them in The Box /j