#flipping feline

[yugiohcardsdaily]

Flipping Feline

"If this card is sent from the hand or Deck to the GY: You can Special Summon it in face-down Defense Position. After this card was flipped face-up, if a monster(s) is sent from the hand and/or Deck to your GY, while this card is in the Monster Zone: You can target 1 of them; Special Summon it in face-down Defense Position. You can only use each effect of 'Flipping Feline' once per turn."

[runaxee]

Late Christmas sketches... oopssss

MERRY (late) CHRISTMAS TO THOSE WHO CELEBRATE!!

[thecattiestever]

Gisele chilling with her HMD Barbie movie flip phone. “Hi, Barbie!” Hi, Gisele!

[penumbralwoods]

also while im here V1 is an insect to me. goodbye

[itmor]

Posting my dumb idiot cat who I love and would do anything for

[mortifying-macaroni]

By Caine! It's happening again! The Crabening!! The birth of Crabkind!

just remember, one day you're going to open tumblr and the crabs will be raving like they never have before

[snail-day]

You swear Geto ends up on his tummy more often than not. Draped across the bed like a lazy cat, broad back rising and falling with each breath, that beautiful inky dark hair tied half-heartedly in a low bun that’s already slipping loose. A few strands fall against his cheek, casting a shadow over those long lashes and the lazy curve of his mouth. He’s so annoyingly pretty like this - it’s tempting to attack him.

And he lets you.

One hand lazily typing on his phone, sending a message to Satoru asking when he’s going to be home. So you pounce while you have the chance. (Not like he'd stop you.)

You straddle him, smack his ass a few times, knead your fingers into the plushest parts of him as if he’s your own personal stress toy. And he just hums with every little assault. Sometimes you bite him, sink your teeth into his shoulder, just to feel the sharp intake of breath, to catch the subtle twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Getting it all out of your system?” he drawls, unbothered, sending a help gif to Satoru. A message that receives a heart react.

You slip cold hands beneath the hem of his dark shirt and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets out another low hum, close to a purr, amused and warm. His chest is stupidly firm under your palms, radiating heat, and you swear he could flip you over and trap you beneath him without even trying.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s patient. Always has been, out of the two of you. He knows that eventually, you’ll wear yourself out, that you’ll end up curled right where he wants you. And so he lets you play, lets you giggle and wiggle and bite until your energy runs thin, until you’re soft and sleepy against his side, cheek pressed to his bulky shoulder, body tucked beneath the weight of his arm.

Then he turns. Just his head at first, those wine-dark eyes cutting to you through thick, heavy lashes. That slow, feline smile starts to curl across his lips. He watches you for a moment, messy, warm, half-limp beneath him, still letting out the occasional spurt of giggles.

And then he drawls, voice syrup-slow and honey-soft, just enough to make your stomach flip. For your giggles to turn nervous:

“My turn.”

[kashverse]

bedtime stories are essential for a child’s growth—they bring families together, foster creativity, and, occasionally, make your children dream a little too wildly. but when your husband is involved, bedtime stories become something else entirely.

sukuna, with his eyes gleaming under the dim nursery light, cleared his throat. babykuna, bundled up in a nest of plush blankets, stared up expectantly, little hands clutching a well-loved, slightly drooled-on copy of the little mermaid. the two feline overlords of the household, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby, sat at the foot of the bed like judgmental literature critics. “alright, brat, let’s get this over with,” sukuna grumbled, flipping the book open with unnecessary force.

“once upon a time, there was a little mermaid who was a total dumbass.”

babykuna giggled. sukuna smirked, feeling accomplished.

“she fell in love with some random guy she saved from drowning, which—let’s be honest—probably should’ve been a red flag for him. but, whatever, she went to a shady sea witch, literally signed away her voice, and—”

mr. pickles gave a loud, drawn-out meeooow. baby, not one to be outdone, stood up and began kneading at sukuna’s arm aggressively, a clear sign of feline displeasure. babykuna’s giggles faltered, little brows furrowing.

the great and mighty sukuna was being heckled. by a pair of cats. “what?” he scowled. “this is realism. the brat needs to know that—”

baby lunged. tiny paws, soft but full of silent rage, landed squarely on sukuna’s chest. mr. pickles followed, his sheer weight nearly knocking sukuna off balance. “oh, you read it then, you furry little dictators!” sukuna barked, trying to reclaim his spot, but it was too late—the feline coup had begun. babykuna, sensing an opportunity, reached out with tiny hands.

“mamaaaaaa!”

within seconds, you were summoned, the true ruler of bedtime stories. with a smug smile, you took the book, settled in beside babykuna, and began reading in a voice so soft and mesmerizing that even the cats curled up, content. sukuna, defeated, crossed his arms and sulked. “i was getting to the part where she turns into sea foam,” he muttered.

“and that,” you said, flipping a page gracefully, “is why you have been overthrown.”

meanwhile, in the nanami household, peace reigned. yuuji was already buried under his blanket, head resting on your shoulder as nanami turned a page in james and the giant peach. his voice was smooth, perfectly paced, as if he were personally trained by roald dahl himself.

“…and then, the peach broke free, rolling down the hill, gathering speed—”

you sniffled. nanami paused. “are you crying?” he asked, a single brow raised.

“it’s just… the way you narrate…” you wiped your eyes dramatically. “it’s so good.” yuuji, completely unbothered, snored into your arm.

nanami sighed, closing the book for the night. “if i recall correctly, you made me read matilda three times in a row last week just because you liked my narration.”

“and i regret nothing,” you declared. yuuji snored louder. nanami shook his head and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, then to yuuji’s forehead. “alright, lights out.”

meanwhile, at the fushiguro household, bedtime negotiations were in full swing. “megumi, mama’s got an early mission tomorrow,” you reasoned, tucking him in. “so just one story tonight, okay?” megumi crossed his arms, unimpressed. 

“papa’s not home yet.”

“he’s working.”

“so that means i get two stories when he’s back.”

you sighed. your son was already a little strategist. giving in, you started with your usual—a story about a brave princess who tamed a dragon with kindness, something soft and magical. by the time you finished, megumi’s eyes were drooping. perfect. he was almost asleep.

then, the door creaked open, and in walked toji. megumi perked up immediately. “papa, story!” toji groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mama already—”

“two stories. it’s a rule,” megumi declared. toji gave you a look, and you simply shrugged. you weren’t the one who raised a bedtime tyrant. so, toji sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking his neck before launching into a very different kind of tale.

“aight, kid, so there was this guy—real nasty piece of work, always hid out in this old warehouse, right? well, guess what? i—uh, i mean, our hero, batman—had to take him out before sunrise.” your eyes narrowed.

“toji.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m censoring it.”

megumi, already half-asleep, murmured, “what happened next?” toji smirked. “our hero dodged a knife, flipped over the bad guy, and bam—knocked him out cold. then he disappeared into the night.” megumi was completely out, breathing soft and even.

toji shot you a wink. “works like a charm every time.” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “you’re not supposed to use your assignments as bedtime stories.”

“why not?” toji smirked. “keeps him entertained.”

“you’re gonna turn him into a vigilante.”

he kissed your cheek, grinning. “well, at least he’ll be well-rested for it.”

in the gojo household, bedtime stories are a prime-time production. "alright, babytoru," gojo grinned, settling into bed beside his six-year-old daughter, who was vibrating with excitement. "where were we?"

“season six, episode four!” she announced. “princess toru and the forbidden candy kingdom!”

“aaahh, yes,” gojo smirked, flipping through an invisible script. “last time on bedtime stories, princess toru was betrayed by her most trusted royal advisor—sir mochi the talking panda.” babytoru gasped.

“mochi betrayed me?!”

“tragically,” gojo nodded. “but! fear not, for your knight in shining armor—sir papa—has infiltrated the candy kingdom’s fortress.”

"did he bring weapons?"

"no! he brought the power of love and charisma, obviously."

babytoru clapped. gojo, fully immersed, dramatically reenacted the entire rescue operation, throwing in last-minute plot twists, a villain redemption arc, and a musical number (he made up the lyrics on the spot). this bedtime story series started when babytoru was four, and now, at nearly six, they were six seasons in, complete with christmas specials, crossover episodes, and merchandising potential. if gojo played his cards right, he could sell the rights to a producer friend, get an animated series going, and dedicate it all to his little girl.

"alright, that’s a wrap for tonight!" gojo declared. 

babytoru yawned, already half-asleep, mumbling, “next time, we need a new villain...” 

gojo smirked, tucking her in. "leave that to me, princess."

little did she know, next episode was the mid-season finale.

geto believed bedtime stories should be meaningful. something with moral lessons. his twin girls? they did not share this belief.

"okay, papa, one more story!"

geto sighed. "fine. but this one comes with a lesson."

the twins, already suspicious, huddled under the covers. “once upon a time," geto began, voice deep and soothing, "there were two little girls—very much like you two—who forgot to brush their teeth before bed."

the twins gasped.

"they thought, 'what’s the worst that could happen?' but then... the tooth fairy came."

the room fell silent.

"but papa," one twin hesitated, "isn't the tooth fairy... nice?"

"ha! that's what they thought! but this tooth fairy? she didn't collect teeth under pillows. she took them straight from their mouths!"

the twins screamed, clutching their toothbrushes as if their lives depended on it. that night, they slept with their toothbrushes in hand. extreme? maybe. effective? absolutely.

the family dentist was thrilled.

choso’s approach to bedtime stories was simple: classics, classics, classics. his four kids—twin girls and twin boys—were raised on a steady diet of great literature. tonight, they were rereading the great gatsby. "papa," one of the girls yawned, “why does gatsby love daisy so much?” choso sighed deeply, looking out the window as if the tragedy of it all pained him personally.

"because, my little ones," he said, flipping a page, "gatsby believed in the green light, that orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

one of the boys muttered sleepily, "papa... you read that every time."

"and yet," choso said solemnly, "you still do not understand."

by now, the kids could quote entire passages from memory. sometimes, at school, they would just casually drop lines like, "so we beat on, boats against the current—" and confuse their classmates. one time, during a parent-teacher meeting, their teacher had pulled choso aside and asked, “mr. kamo, why do your children know the complete works of f. scott fitzgerald?” choso had simply nodded in approval.

"good," he said. "their education is going well."

[crescenthistory]

i hear searching for fluff. i raise you cat animagus reader and the animal politics that come with being a cat. oh that’s a glass of water you’ve placed on the counter? what a perfect place for my paw to go. they’re a total goodie two shoes but can never stop themselves from swatting at and generally terrorizing sirius, dog form or not. i’ve seen so many videos of woodland animals like stags befriending cats or stealing their food and everyone just being like “wdym i didn’t know they could do that”. reader starts slow blinking at people without realizing. i could go on for forever i would love to see shenanigans and hijinks

beautiful thoughts, i enjoyed all of them. i let them inspire me into a drabble situation of cat!reader terrorising sirius with reg (and rem) on her side. this is just pure chaos and silliness, thank you for the opportunity lovie<3

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, no use of y/n but your cat form is called "whiskers", james and sirius pranked you mildly, you get revenge as a cat, you are only in cat form throughout this, sibling squabbles, super minor injuries (you put your claws in sirius), platonic physical affection, general chaos and fluff

Note: this is technically in the same universe as my other two (first, second) cat!animagus!reader fics with regulus, but can be read alone. it is more of a platonic!sirius x reader fic though, it focusses on the interactions between them + reg, rem and james

Sirius had been made aware by many a parent, professor and otherwise nosey adult, that actions had consequences. Which was all fine and dandy with him, the consequences were often the sole inspiration for his actions. 

This, however. This, they did not warn him about.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he hissed, trying to shake the feline creature off his shoulder. 

Just a few seconds ago, she had been innocently peering down on his textbook, front paws resting on his shoulders as she stood on the top of the sofa he was reclining against. That didn’t last long though, as her claws came out and dug in through the fine material of his shirt, seeking the pain and destruction this evil creature seemed to live off of.

Unaffected by his shaking, she elegantly climbed down his arm – claws still out and still using him as leverage – to plop onto the table before them with a soft prrt!

“Remus, your friend is hurting me,” Sirius sneered at his boyfriend who was sat in a grandfather chair beside him, flipping through a newspaper Sirius was quite certain was out of date.

The other boy hummed noncommittally. “Does she have reason to?” he asked without looking up from the paper.

“No!” Sirius exclaimed at the same time as Regulus said, “absolutely.”

He shot his brother a glare on the other side of the sofa. He was reading through a novel in pristine condition, only looking up to glance fondly at the menace currently parading around the coffee table. Sirius was growing miffed that none of his hangout companions were sparing him any attention.

“I haven’t done anything, and if I had the minx should be over it by now.” Sirius did his best to seem authoritative, but he had a tough crowd.

You hissed at him from where you were standing on the table. Regulus looked up at that with mirth swimming in his eyes despite his impassive facial expression.

“She seems to disagree, Pads,” Remus said nonchalantly. “She’s also been running around as Whiskers for the past few hours, which she only does when she is either really pleased and really upset.”

“And she’s not pleased,” Regulus added unhelpfully.

Sirius muttered something under his breath that amounted to “I wouldn’t be pleased either, if I had to be in a relationship with such a grump” to which he received a throw pillow to the face, another hiss and an admonishing “Pads”.

"It was just a little prank," Sirius defended himself. "It's quite literally what we do." He didn't feel the need to go into the specifics; this was a dog he wanted to bury yesterday. Or, well, cat.

"To no one's enjoyment but your own, I'm sure," Regulus huffed. "If she's bothered by it, that's entirely her right."

Sirius looked to Remus for some backing up, and when he found none, he let out another groan, collapsing further into the sofa in his evident despair.

He would have happily stayed there, bitching and moaning as he pleased, had it not been for the suspicious sounds coming from the coffee table.

There, he found that you had not looked away from him and were sitting disturbingly close to the little homework station he had sat up earlier to then promptly ignore – an open textbook, half-written essay, quill and unscrewed inkpot. The look in your eyes was one you had picked up from Remus in your early days together, full of mischief and tomfoolery. 

“Don’t you even dare–” Sirius managed to get out as he sat up in his seat and pointed a chiding finger at you, but the damage was done.

With what almost sounded like cat laughter – something most unknowing students would brush off because why would a cat laugh but Sirius knew all too well must be your joy at his expense – you knocked over his inkpot. The pot was almost full and the ink fell right on top of his essay and textbook. He let out a half-screech as he moved forward to correct the damage, but you walked straight into the pool of ink, ensuring you were spreading it further around his essay and the feather of his quill. 

Regulus let out an unrestrained bark of laughter as Sirius sank to the floor in front of you, blabbering anger, while Remus simply snorted as he shook his head, choosing not to get involved yet.

“You furry bastard!” Sirius called out as he picked up his parchment, trying to shake some of the excess ink off, only worsening its condition. “You absolute menace.”

Some of the ink he shook off got on your fur, adding to what was already coating your paws from dragging it around. You solved this in the only manner that made sense in cat-world – by launching yourself at Sirius, effectively doubling his screeches within the second.

“Oi! Oi!” Sirius kept calling as you hopped onto his chest, burying your claws into him so he couldn’t simply shake you off, ink smearing all over Sirius’ previously white shirt. The assault of a lifetime, if you asked him. “Azkaban! Azkaban for all of you!” he called when he saw Regulus doubling over with laughter on the opposite end of the sofa.

“Pads! What’s going on, mate?” James’ voice called as he came half-running over after spotting the commotion the second he entered the common room. 

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but upon James spotting the feline devil currently attempting to smear more of the ink across his being, he interrupted with a coo. 

“Oh, hi there little Whiskers!” James greeted, bending down to pick you up by the neck. In that James-Potter-way he simply peeled you off of Sirius and held you out before him, just far enough that the ink wouldn’t get on him. “What’s got you in such a tizzy, huh?” he asked, poking at you with his free hand which earned him a petulant hiss.

“The bloody puma destroyed my essay and leaped at me,” Sirius huffed as he clambered back up, ignoring how he sounded like a first year telling on a classmate to McGonagall.

“I believe she is seeking revenge from that little stunt you two pulled earlier,” Remus drawled from his seat, sharing a look with Regulus who rolled his eyes. They knew.

“Which is fully within her right, I must add,” Regulus said, ever the devoted boyfriend. Bloody lucky you. “And she’s not a puma, you wanker, you’re just scared of cats.”

“Slander! ‘M not!” Sirius defended himself, but James ignored him, turning his attention to the cat wriggling in his grip.

“Did we upset you, little kitten?” James asked so friendly you almost wouldn’t catch the teasing in his tone. “So sorry. Next time we’ll hex your tie a different colour. Robe too, yeah?”

Upon receiving another hiss from you and a lunge of your paw, James outright giggled and petted the top of your head carefully, neutralising you if for but a moment.

“How come she’s forgiving you right away? I have had my property destroyed and was lightly maimed in her quest for revenge!” Sirius shook his head in disapproval, attempting to stare you down. It wasn't turning out to be fruitful.

“Sirius, I have a question for you.” Regulus didn’t continue until Sirius reluctantly met his gaze. “Did you know – and be honest with me now – that you’re a wizard?”

Before Sirius could give him a snarky response, Regulus had waved his wand casually over the ink pools on the table and stains on his clothes, cleaning both up effectively as if nothing had happened. Then he gave Sirius a smug smile that made him want to turn into Padfoot and lunge at him – which probably wasn’t a good idea given there were other people in the room.

“Imbécile grossier,” Sirius muttered under his breath as he kicked a leg out at Regulus, intended more for effect than harm.

He received a “connard stupide” in return as Regulus dodged any further assault by getting up and walking over to James, who was now fully petting the rabid killer, whispering something about “please forgive me, it was just too funny not to”. Traitor. 

“Hey there, amour,” Regulus said as he picked you up out of James’ arms. “Are you regretting marrying into the family?”

You made a huffing sound, climbing out of his arms to settle along his shoulders, over his neck, were you could cuddle against him while still scowling at Sirius.

“You and me both, sister,” Remus mumbled half-heartedly. Sirius gasped at him with every theatrical bone in his body, earning him an eye roll and – at last – for Remus to abandon the paper to give him a quick smooch.

“I didn’t realise sister-in-laws were allowed to be as sibling-y as an actual sister,” James mused as he folded his arms to take in the scene before him. 

“She’s not,” Sirius argued, extracting another eye roll from Remus who patted his thigh placatingly. “Cats are just evil.”

“You could always confront her as Pads, you know, level the playing field,” James suggested.

“Absolutely not.” Regulus turned around so his body was shielding the cat on his shoulders from the three boys. “Not that I doubt she would win against your clumsy self any day, but let’s not even go there.”

Sirius and James barked a laugh that was disturbingly similar while Remus shook his head. “Don’t worry Reg, the less time I can spend around kittens, the better,” Sirius said briskly, feeling emboldened by James’ presence. 

You poked your head around Regulus’ neck at that, so that the two of you could share a look. It’s always peculiar for Sirius to see how much understanding seems to pass between you two, especially when in different forms altogether. It's not something he expected for his baby brother and he feels his heart warm at the display – which he promptly pushes down to focus on the war currently playing out in Gryffindor.

As if you two reached an agreement through just that look, you butted your head against Regulus’ cheek while he nodded. Carefully, he manoeuvred you into his arms and plopped you down on the armrest of Remus’ chair, and disappeared from sight to a secluded corner of the common room.

“What in Merlin’s name just happened?” Sirius mused out loud, exchanging bemused glances with James who plopped down beside him.

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing good.” Remus smiled through his words as he freed one of his hands to scratch under your chin, causing you to purr and brush your feline body closer to his arm. Sirius would be remiss if he didn’t think the sight of pure love between you two wasn’t adorable, but to hells if he would admit it before you two reached a truce. 

Your purring was interrupted as you let out a soft prrt! for seemingly no apparent reason, and reached up to give Remus’ cheek a soft cat kiss – that made the boy’s face crinkle into a smile – before jumping down onto the floor. There, Sirius saw the reason for your joy and felt his heart drop in his chest.

“Oh, hi, Shadow,” Remus greeted the black cat that made a beeline for you on the floor, brushing his body against yours with soft purrs. “Come to join in on your brother’s torment?”

“Absolutely not–” Sirius started, but before he could get up and out of his seat, both cats had jumped up onto his legs and made their way to his lap. “What are you guys doing? Get off?!”

James was giggling once more beside him and Sirius had half a mind to throw the cats at him and run away. Though, he was beginning to doubt whether he would be able to as he saw the determination in Regulus’ eyes.

“I believe they’re making you eat your words, love.” The smile in Remus’ voice was so evident that had he not been as handsome as he was, Sirius would have smacked him.

His arms were frozen at his sides, hands hovering in the air, unsure of where to go as he watched the two cats settle down in his lap in horror. Your bodies were horizontal with his and flush against each other’s, becoming liquid in the cuddle puddle you were currently creating.

Sirius tried hissing at you to no avail as Regulus only slapped him with his paw in response. He tried shifting slightly to push you off, but you buried your claws through the fabric of his trousers – Sirius would give Remus a run for his money as the scarred one of the group after you were finished with him. He tried looking to James and Remus for help, but neither boy were willing as they took far too much enjoyment in the show. Remus at least pretended not to as he “read”, but James was fully angled towards him to see the events unfold, shoulders shaking with mirth. 

A sigh escaped Sirius as he accepted his fate. “I hate you lot,” he said decisively. “Each and every one of you.”

Regulus made a noise that sounded like it was in disagreement with his statement while Remus just hummed. James nodded his head as if to say “fair”.

You, however, picked your head up from where it was resting over Regulus’ and just stared at Sirius. Usually he felt like he could read you quite well in feline form, which he assumed was due to some skills of Padfoot’s transferring over, but right now you were impossible to understand. You held his gaze head on, almost as if you were studying him, but your breaths were coming so slowly you had to be calm, right? Though this forced proximity was clearly a form of punishment, you were growing comfortable. Was he forgiven?

His train of thought was interrupted as the staring competition you had for a few seconds was interrupted – by you blinking. Slowly. Keeping your gaze on him but fully closing your eyes intermittently.

A slow grin spread across Sirius’ face.

He didn’t know a lot about cats and he principally disliked them. But he did know what that meant.

“Yeah, yeah, princess,” he mumbled as his cheeks almost grew a bit red. “You too.”

[runaxee]

ART DUMP !!

Or sketch dump... idk...

ALSO IVE BEEN WORKING ON SOMETHING SRRY CHAT (*´Д`)

[comatosebunny09]

oblivious | sylus

summary: how he could confess so matter-of-factly is beyond you. you could only hope to be so brazen. but you won’t deny how it makes you feel. how your body vibrates with pleasant tingles and your mind colors with relief, knowing he feels the same. genre(s): fluff, romance warning(s): kissing, very minimal spice, short and sweet, allusions to sylus’ past? now playing: lago azul - jamila velazquez

Curiosity killed the cat.

But not knowing is killing you more.

“Sylus?” you offhandedly query from your place on the settee in his study.

“Yes, sweetie?” comes his automatic response from an adjacent armchair. He doesn’t look up from his book. Instead, flips another page, the yellowing paper flashing across the lenses of his glasses.

“Are you in love with me?”

For the first time since you’ve both occupied this room, he looks at you. Really looks, peering into the bowels of your soul. And with all the seriousness of the world, he answers, “Of course I am.”

You blanch. Nearly tumble from the couch, your tongue heavy and swollen in your mouth. Sylus watches you grapple with words, the solemness never leaving his face.

“Y-You…what? Are you serious?” Your voice is shrill, and it’s laughable how you clamber to your feet, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Yes.” He speaks evenly, as if his words will scare you off. “I am.”

“You—what?” It seems coherent sentences still fail you.

His book snaps shut with finality. He faces you fully, one leg crossed over the other as a smirk crooks his lips.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” He waves a hand as if his affection for you is as evident as the transition from day to night.

“Huh?” You could smack yourself for how foreign the English language seems today.

“Sweetie,” Sylus sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose after sliding his frames from his face, shaking his head. “For someone so intelligent, you can be incredibly daft.”

“Heh, ha! Joke’s on you; I don’t even know what that word means!” It’s your attempt to dispel the pressure that’s settled on your shoulders. To shoo away the heat branching into your cheeks, the anxiety swelling in your chest.

How he could confess so matter-of-factly is beyond you. But you won’t deny how it makes you feel. How your body vibrates with pleasant tingles and your mind colors with relief.

Without relinquishing eye contact, Sylus slides his book onto the coffee table. Gradually stands, and you stiffen as he pads towards you, steps measured like those of a feline maneuvering through the snow.

“It means foolish,” he murmurs. “Ridiculous. Insufferable, much like you’re being right now.”

You’re a comical sight. Spine ramrod stiff, petrified like a goat. You unconsciously step back until the wall collides with your spine, and you’re like a cornered sheep in a wolf’s den.

You shrink as he spills over you like liquid smoke. He places a hand on the space beside your ear, blotting out everything that isn’t him. Eases his fingers beneath your chin to coax you to look up at him, and he’s surprisingly gentle as his thumb cruises over your chin, just shy of your bottom lip.

His eyes flicker like the slow inhalation of a flame, and he studies your gaze for something. An out, a sign of discomfort. There’s no fight to you. No qualms, no attempts to push him away. And when he discovers this, he slowly pans in until your mouth is but a hairsbreadth away.

His breath fans over your lips. Filters through your lashes, and you grow dizzy from the haze of it all. Find yourself painting a sluggish triangle between his hooded eyes and the pucker of his parted lips with your gaze, and—

And somewhere between the proximity of his body…

Between the warmth of his breath and the calming scent of sandalwood he carries…

Between his thumb tenderly tugging your bottom lip down, and your throat thickening with words left unbidden…

He kisses you. Sylus kisses you, honey-slow and exploratory, fingers curling affectionately around the nape of your neck whilst his thumb slides along the angle of your jaw.

Once the initial shock peters out, you’re kissing him back. Snake your arms about his shoulders, unconsciously drawing him to your height. He pours a bitten-off sound into your mouth. Brows furrow, his expression etched into one of anguish as if he’s waited lifetimes for this.

His lips slant possessively over yours, and the tension once coiled in his muscles like a spring slowly sloughs off. He bows into you, trapping you between the rigid pane of his body and the textured wall behind.

You’re both moving on instinct now as relief washes like a soothing balm over your limbs. And you’re kissing him with equal fervency as his sweltering tongue seeks out the wet glide of yours. You sigh hot and wanton into each other’s mouths, your fingers seeking solace in the soft riot of his hair.

His hands perch on your hips. Ease down, down, down to your thighs to wrap around the backs of them. He effortlessly hoists you into his arms, securing your legs around his hips. Doesn’t once break the seal of your lips as he turns you ‘round, walking you back towards the settee.

And as he lays you down all tender, your hair fanned around you like a halo, and his body a warm, homely pressure settled between your legs…

You think, maybe I’ve been in love with this insufferable idiot all along, too.

masterlist

[lustlovehart]

You Gotta Kiss The One

A/n: This isn’t my usually writing, so this is more short scenario rather than actual story, so sorry if it isn’t my best. Anyways, I was in need of some fluff for the twst men so here we are. (This came out a bit cheesy honestly) Also, unfortunately no Jamil because i went through 7 drafts for his part and hated absolutely all of them.

Pairing: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Vil, Idia, Malleus, Rollo x Reader

Summary: [Fluff] In a turn of events, it seems you’ve lost your voice, and it’s up to the one you love to give out the cure, a kiss from their lips to yours.

Warnings: Cheesy Fluff, Reader wasn’t meant to be Yuu but they’re friends with Grim so, 50% Yuu.

Unfortunately, making potions with Grim never goes right. One moment, you’re carefully adding in the newt that assists in projecting a beautiful singing voice to its recipient, and in the next your head gets shoved in the concoction. When you finally emerge, your throat attempts to sound out your criticisms of Grim's recklessness. But, your lips are the only thing that moves in motion, your voice not even croaking out a word.

“Why ain’t yah talkin'?” Your hands quickly grab onto the recipe book pointing at the bold disclaimer at the bottom of the page.

If the potion is consumed before the newt is added, it will have the opposite effects.

Before you can read the rest of the text, your companion snatches the book from your hands, reading the rest of it on his own. When Grim reads out the instructions, your eyes narrow when you hear a slight chuckle escape from him when he tells you your only solutions. It’s either never talk again or...

Of course, never talking again has its pros, but, if you don’t have your voice, however will you tell… Him, about your feelings…? Of course, you could just write your confession, but that doesn’t have quite the kick words spoken from your chest do—

"Uhh... seems you gotta kiss your little crush [Name]!"

…

"What."

Before you're allowed to interject, Grim is already reaching his paw up and taking you by the hand, not even allowing you to tell Crewel about your situation. You’re quite sure if you had just told him you could’ve avoided the whole dilemma. Alas, Grim’s very eager in bathing in your embarrassment.

—————

Riddle is fuming at Grim's carelessness, it’s already bad enough that you have no magic in this faraway land, but to be subjected to a potion that doesn’t have a real cure? That’s even worse. He most definitely beheads the feline after he hears about the situation, immediately sending him onto a time-off corner, prattling on about how he should’ve been listening to the rules and acting accordingly in class.

His lecture is cut short at the sound of scribbling, his head turning to look at you furiously writing down on a piece of paper. Your lips are straight-lined as you lift the words to his face.

“Grim said the cure is a kiss.”

Oh… his mouth opens to question you more about this so-called cure, though the heart shape you form with your hands, however, is all the information he needs. It’s unfortunate that it only works if you kiss whoever it is you “love”, he could’ve gotten away with kissing you under the guise of helping if it was just anyone who could kiss you—

Who’s he kidding his face is close to turning red at such a thought. Of course the cure is something so basic, true love. Ah, no not true love, just simply a crush. Yes, a crush.

A crush that can’t be him.

He stays composed externally but internally he can’t deny he’s a little disappointed, it doesn’t matter however, he’ll help you get this kiss from your mystery student, even if it hurts a little to watch. The sound of flipping paper attracts his attention once again.

“So kiss me. Please.”

… What…? What…?! What?!

His eyes widen at the words, his mouth agape at the statement, his skin quickly flushing at the thought. You. Him. You and him. Him and you.

He’s essentially frozen in place. But, the extremely quiet sound of a broken up “okay” signals to you his permission. The feeling of soft lips being placed on his own snapped him out of his trance. He blinks a few times at your face, a smile invading your mouth.

“Thanks Riddle.”

—————

Your hands are furiously shaking Leona's shoulders, despite your relentless attempts at awakening him from his slumber, he doesn't even tell you to stop.

He didn’t even show any signal of stirring when Grim practically shouts to you about getting that kiss from him to “fix yah up”. Didn’t show any sign when you threw one of his shoes at the cat either.

He might be dead, he’s pretty still, like a corpse… Nah, he’s just being a douche.

Carefully, you drop down to his level, your face smooshed into his mattress as you look at his sleeping face. He looks a lot more peaceful in his sleep, his face is less serious and a bit more softer. He does look like a prince from a fairytale when he’s asleep, actually, maybe more of a princess with how pretty he is.

If you had your voice, you’re sure there would be hushed chuckles leaving your throat as you take out your phone. Your fingers are quick to swipe open your camera, lifting the device to Leona's face. Your joy doesn’t last long though, as when you’re just about to take a picture, the sight of Leona stares back at you on your screen, the subdued expression he previously held replaced with his usual face.

“What do you think you’re doin?”

…He’s awake! You’re quick to open the notes app, ready to explain the whole thing to him, along with indirectly confessing your feelings, unfortunately. But, he seems to think differently, as your phone is swiftly snatched from your palms and placed on his nightstand. When you reach over to grab it, his arm pulls you back down, your head buried into his chest, essentially being used as a secondary pillow for him.

“That typing’s loud, i’m tryna sleep.” … and I’m trying to get my voice back.

No matter how much you struggle, he doesn’t let you go. After a few minutes of trying to get your phone back, you give up, becoming his human-sized plushie in your defeat. Maybe he’ll be in the mood when he’s awake. So, your eyes gradually shut themself, sleep taking you over as you wrap your arms around the lion next to you.

…

“Hey, quit talking in your sleep.”

“Hmm…? Oh sorry— Wait what…?!” His palm flies of your mouth as words get muffled in his skin.

Appears you missed the Leona Kingscholar, kissing you. That’s unfortunate.

—————

“Hmm…? You need my help yes? Well then just sign here and I’ll get you that kiss you need!” Azul slips the golden contract across the table, the con man smiling as you read through the fine print.

In the corner, you notice the extremely tiny text saying how you’ll be obligated to stand by his side for the next month and do whatever tasks he needed to be done from you.

You swiftly slide the paper back to him as your head vigorously shakes a firm “No”.

“Oh? Do my terms not satisfy you? Your situation sounds very similar to our princess from the Coral Sea, having to kiss her prince for her voice back. I wonder how you’ll get that princely kiss…” he shrugs his shoulders before sighing, grabbing a stack of papers along with a pen, waving you off before looking at the sales revenue from this week. “No matter, if you don’t need my help please exit, I am a busy man—“

Your hand slams on the surface of his desk, his pupils widening at the sudden outburst. He stays silent for a moment, the glimmer of his glasses covering your view of his eyes. If you had, you would’ve seen the slightest hint of longing in him.

“A very determined soul you are… I'll change your conditions if you want your voice back so bad.” His fingers snap, the old contract disintegrating as a new one forms in his hands. “No fine print, I’ll help you get your kiss, and you work for the Monstro lounge for 2 weeks. Just 2 weeks. Is that a deal?” You squint, looking to make sure there really is no fine print. When you’re assured there really is none, you take a pen from his gloved palm, writing your signature on the line.

“It’s a deal it seems, now, tell me who it is you have affections for, and I’ll make sure you get that kiss—-“The sudden pull of his collar stops him mid-sentence, your lips connecting to his own before pulling away.

He’s extremely flustered, his cheeks blushed, his hat lopsided, eyes the widest you've ever seen them. He did agree to get you that kiss, but… he truly wasn’t expecting you to kiss him…! Of all possible candidates at the school…

“Wha… I’m… Huh…!?”

You straighten your posture before rolling your sleeves up, “So when do I start Azul?”

—————

Your eyes watch Vil meticulously crush, stir, and drop different ingredients into the cauldron, each one changing the color of the liquid inside. To be honest, you’re a little disappointed he knows a cure, you’ll have to wait another time before really confessing to him. His well manicured fingers take the ladle into his hand, carefully pouring the bright drink into a bowl, handing it to you as his eyes await for you to drink it up.

When you do, you set the bowl down, ready to speak, but no sound comes out. Your eyes stare into his, confusion set in your irises.

“I thought you had a dry throat?” Oh, you shake your head, your index finger pointing toward the cauldron and signaling poorly acted-out explosions and screams. “So it was a failed potion?” You pause for a moment before remembering what unit you were on in class. “It was that singing potion wasn’t it?” He contemplates for a moment before grabbing a small vile on the shelf, a potion the was already premade.

He pops it open, ready to pour it down your throat, but before he does, he pulls it back, quickly replacing the concoction with his extremely soft lips the taste of something good invading your taste buds, you assume it to be his chapstick. He stills for a moment, letting your lips lock and exchange touches. When he releases, he doesn’t give you the chance to interject, making you chug the drink down your throat, some of it escaping the corner of your lips, his gloved thumb wiping it off your chin.

“Vi… Vil…? Why’d you do that…?”

“How did Grim tell you to lift it?” He backs away from you, putting the empty glass in the sink.

“He said I… Had to kiss someone I liked. Why?”

“That’s what he said? Huh, I see.” He takes out his own brand of chapstick, reapplying it to his lips. You stay leant on the shelf of the rooms, watching as Vil’s silhouette moves towards the door. “No reason. Now, I have to get back to filming. Take better care of your lips, [Name].” He’s already out the door by the time you work up the courage to say anything else.

As he walks in the hallway, the leather of his gloves clench. It seems Grim did correctly tell you the cure. It doesn’t matter though, whether it was his kiss or that potion that worked, all he cared about was getting you fixed. He’s an actor, he’s keen to notice the presentations of people around him. He was sure you liked him, and even Rook fed into such a delusion. But, there was always a gnawing feeling of not being fair enough to you. So just in case, if you never really did like him, he won’t know.

He’s a good actor, but even actors can’t lie to themself. He really hopes it was his lips that cured you and not that potion.

…

The next day, when Vil finishes applying his makeup, the door to his room is knocked on, albeit very quickly. By the time he finally opens it, nobody is found, only a gift basket filled with fruits and low-grade beauty care, well low grade to him. If his suspicions about who this came from are correct, he can’t blame them for not having enough money to afford proper skin care.

When he looks in, all he sees is a card with a small smiley face and a heart. But he already knows who his secret sender truly is.

—————

Your knocking on Idias door gets harder and harder with every strike. You know he’s in there, but chances are he’s too absorbed in a game to notice your frantic hits. You’re about to hit the wood one more time before the door swings open and your fist is only an inch away from his nose.

“I… I only heard you just now…”

You’ve been out there for 10 minutes.

“You didn’t text me beforehand like usual… Is… Is there something you need…?” He steps to the side allowing you in his room, immediately having you sit on his bed before shutting the entrance. You look around a moment before handing him the note you had pre-written on your phone.

“No voice. Cure is a kiss from person I like. I like you, Idia. Please kiss me.”

It isn’t exactly the confession you wished to give him, but by the time you were typing it, you had deleted so much of the text you originally had from embarrassment, and by the time you looked up, you were already at his door… and Ortho was beaming in excitement behind you, you couldn’t possibly disappoint him by just walking away again.

He essentially shortcircuits the moment he reads the words off the screen.

He doesn’t speak, not even a panicked screech. The only sign of embarrassment he shows you is the sight of his hair turning pink.

“Wha… Wha… What…?”

You expected that, so you lifted your finger, signaling him to scroll down.

“You don’t need to like me back, just kiss me and i’ll leave.”

“No no, If we were in like… like a game… that type of game… you would have… ughhh…. You would have my… affection bar… filled— not filled maybe like 110%… up…” he struggled to get the words out he didn’t even make eye contact with you once in his speech. But, you understand what he’s trying to say to you. “Nevermind, forget it…! Just find someone… someone else… you deserve like a prince of something…”

His posture is hunched over, and he’s quick to turn away from you. You’re sure if he was closer to the wall he would curl into the corner and attempt to hide from you.

You’re pretty sure he’s about to do just that, he’s already slowly making his way to the corner. He’s only narrowly stopped when he feels you tug on his sleeve, pulling his face into your own.

His mouth was slightly open from shock, so his razor sharp teeth poked you, but even then it was still a nice feeling. When you part, he stares at you for an entire minute. His hair was already pink, but somehow it must’ve gotten even pinker.

“You… You won the game…”

“Did I…? What does that mean…?”

“Forget I said that. I’m gonna die now”

—————

It’s been at least half an hour since you’ve met up with Malleus, and he seems to not have noticed you don’t have a voice to reply. But at the same time, it’s nice listening to him ramble on and on about his Gargoyle studies—

“You have not spoken.” Your head is quick to turn, your body slightly jolting at the sight of Malleus’s face mere inches away from your own. Sometimes, you forget he doesn’t have any sense of space. This point is further proven when he moves his face away but your shoulders are still in contact. “Why is that?”

Your hand reaches down to your side attempting to take out your phone, but, it only grasps air. You look back down into your pocket, not noticing any holes for it to fall out of.

What? Did… Did I loose it or something?!

“This thing…” your head flips back to the man in front of you, his gloved fingers turning the phone with narrowed eyes. “I don’t understand, why not just talk to me? Would you rather use this phone than converse with me…?” You can spot early signs of Malleus’s emotional turmoils. It doesn’t take long for you to see the hint of disappointment in his eyes at the mere notion of you not even wanting to talk to him.

Along with that, clouds are beggining to form in the sky

You immediately shake your head at him, your fingers pointing to your throat while forming an x. Though your movements are so quick from the sheer panic of lightning striking, he doesn’t understand what you’re doing until you slow down.

“Ah, you did talk about that potion unit didn’t you.” You nod your head, ready to perform a collection of poorly acted-out charades to showcase your cure. You only got as far as the heart in your hands before he interrupts. “If I remember correctly, the fix to that is a kiss from the one who holds your affections… is it not?” The boom of thunder increases at an incredible rate, and even the pout Malleus holds on his face gets more obvious. “Have you come here to ask for my aide?” You can tell, it’s very obvious he’s trying to hide his dispiritedness beside a veneer of support. “Then… I will help a dear… friend.”

At his words, you shake your head the hardest you’ve probably ever shaken it to disagree with someone. You’re sure you must’ve swayed your brain too hard, by the time you stop you honestly feel a little dizzy.

“Ah, do you not want my help?” The lightning in the air starts fading, but in exchange, it’s like the clouds have gotten darker. “Am I, not allowed the see the object of your desire?” You wish you just had your phone out from the beginning, it would’ve made things so much easier. You bring your arm up, pointing at him.

Malleus is smart, he needs it if he will be Briar Valley’s ruler. Yet, he’s a bit dense in terms of human emotions and relationships.

“I thought you didn’t want my help…?” You’re sure if you could make any sound, pure screams of frustration would’ve left you. “I’m left in confusion as to how it is I can help you. I want to assist you Child of man but, I don’t wish to see you kiss anyone else—“Your hands immediately take him by the tie, dragging him into you as your lips practically smash together. If anyone saw you, such a scene would be quite the scandal for the heir. Minutes go by when you finally release him, and when you look up, the sky is the clearest it's been for the past month. “So it was me.” The look in his eyes is fond, it’s a warm sight.

“Yeah, I can’t believe you didn’t notice sooner, I didn’t hide it…”

“You didn’t?”

“I confessed to you twice before this Malleus…”

—————

(This is self indulgent cuz i’m unfortunately a Rollo fan…)

Considering how far away Noble Bell is from Night Raven, you have no doubt you’d be stuck voiceless for quite awhile before you get to see Rollo again. Grim is just left to watch you sulk as your head falls in disappointment. You honestly don’t know how to tell Rollo about your situation either, you could always text him, but how do you even tell him you need to kiss him as your cure? Along with that… over text? That’s just pathetic. He’d probably shame you for being so ungraceful with your feeling towards him.

“Quit moppin’ and tell him already! I’m gettin' depressed just watchin’ ya…” with your head buried into your arms you can feel Grim practically shaking you out of your ball of shame with his tiny paws. “Come… on…! You’re not gonna get your voice back doin' nothin’!” He’s… unfortunately, completely correct.

With a soundless groan, you reach for your phone and open your contacts, drafting the text you’ll send to Rollo.

Rollo, I need to tell you something… your fingers continuing to vigorously type your paragraph.

Three knocks disperse your attention.

“[Name] are you there?” The familiar voice immediately strikes panic in your body as you accidentally throw your phone into the air, pathetically catching it as you stumble towards the door with a loud thud. On the other side, the door can be seen harshly shaking at an impact from within the room, Rollo glancing to each side of him in confusion. “Are you okay?” The lack of a reply makes worry bubble inside of him.

Before he’s given the chance to open the entrance himself, the door swings inward, allowing him to peak in through the crevice. He looks inside with initial confusion before hurriedly shuffling towards the room, the sight of your body on the floor making him even more puzzled with every passing second.

He lifts your upper body, having you sit face to face with him in such close proximity. Your eyes are dazed, looking directly into his eyes before looking around as if you didn’t even notice this was the genuine Rollo Flamme and not just a product of your imagination.

Damn you Grim… Leaving me as soon as you opened the door…

“Your room… is very disorderly [Name].” I was on the floor and you’re focused on how messy my room is? “I did tell you about how messy it was last time I was here too didn’t I?” I get it, I’m messy, so stop rubbing it in… A moment of silence passes before he quirks up an eyebrow, suspicions of his growing by the minute. “No witty comeback this time? Have you finally decided to start listening to me?” Your lack of reply Honestly worries him. Your eyes take a glance at your phone, making his tired face look over as well.

When he moves to grab it, he pauses his hand frozen in place. Your text is still displayed on your screen, as well as the current predicament you find yourself in. Realization hits you in waves as you quickly crawl over to snatch your phone from his palm. When you tried, his hand moves away in time to avoid your reach.

“It’s quite distasteful to admit such a thing through text.” I knew it… your head leans down, once more, in defeat. But, that's quickly changed when his nimble fingers take your face and lead them to his own. Honestly, it felt as if it lasted for eternity when in reality, the exchange only lasted for a couple of seconds. It was as if, Rollo finally felt the need to indulge himself in a little sin, only a little. When you finally separate, you're both left on the floor of your room, awkwardly glancing at the material.

“So… why’d you come here, Rollo? I thought after everything that happened at Fleur City you wouldn’t wanna come here again…”

“I do. I still don’t wanna be here.”

“Then why are you—“

“There’s a holiday at Noble Bell, we have a day off. I came to spend it with you.”

A/n: If anyone has like, any thoughts for the twst characters pls share them!! I may not be doing requests right now but I might write something short of you send in an ask!! Honestly, I just really enjoy when people ramble in my inbox. Also, I’m not too familar with writing Idia and Leona so i’m sorry if they weren’t written good!

[ktownshizzle]

Honey & Citrus | an myg drabble

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not

✎ ˎˊ˗  Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~

Series Masterlist | More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist

There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.

Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).

But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.

And then there’s him.

“Iced Americano for Yoongi…” 

He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.

A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.

But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by. 

Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession. 

Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.

One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.

Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?

You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.

Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.

You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.

Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.

The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.

This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.

By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.

You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.

Not until—

“Fighting~”

You blink.

He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.

A real one.

The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.

Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.

And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.

A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.

Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.

Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.

You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.

You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.

Small wins.

The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.

And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.

The next day, though, he beats you to it.

You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”

You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.

Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.

You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.

And so it begins.

For a week, you play the game.

One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card. 

You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.

Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.

It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.

Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.

You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:

Shit. No winner today.

You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.

“Are you always this competitive?”

“Are you?”

You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.

“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”

Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.

As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.

“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”

Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.

“What?” you ask.

“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.

The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”

Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.

“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.

His ears are bright red.

The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.

You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.

But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.

He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,

“How about we have that first date right now?”

Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious. 

Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.

His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”

Huh.

You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it. 

You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”

His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”

The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...

:)

A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!

Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list.  Caved! Here's the H&C masterlist

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo

Permanent Taglist:

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

Divider by: @cafekitsune (thank you!)

[enhaflixer]

nightwing!Riki x catwoman!reader - purrrreee porn lol

cw: this is probably too filthy for a few ppl, there is ass splay, not penetration but quite a bit, a lot of spit, a lot of leather. so proceed with caution but this is quite good wank material im ngl tried and tested lol

-

Gotham City pulsed beneath you like a living, breathing beast. Neon lights flickered against rain-slick rooftops, the streets below teeming with life despite the late hour. But up here, on the rooftops, it was just you—sleek, silent, and untouchable.

Your catsuit was painted onto your curves, the black leather stretching taut over every dip and arch of your body. The fabric gleamed under the pale moonlight, hugging you like a second skin, molded to perfection. A high collar framed your throat, the zipper teasingly half-drawn down your chest, exposing just enough to keep wandering eyes entertained. Your mask fit seamlessly over your face, leaving your lips painted in a deep, sultry red—the only burst of color against the shadow you had become.

And then, of course, there was the tail.

A sleek black whip, curled around your waist when idle, attached to the small of your back, swinging ever so slightly as you moved. The perfect little touch of feline grace, a mockery of the hero who constantly tried—and failed—to catch you.

Tonight’s prize was nestled securely between your fingers: a rare, deep crimson diamond, one that shimmered even in the dark. Priceless. Enchanting. And, most importantly, stolen.

“That’s a pretty little trinket you’ve got there, Cat.”

His voice cut through the night like a blade, smooth and sharp. Nightwing.

You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there—perched somewhere just out of sight, watching, waiting, always one step behind. You smirked, holding the diamond up to the sky, letting the city’s dim glow refract off its flawless surface.

“I know, right? Thought it’d match my claws,” you purred, admiring it for a moment longer before tucking it safely into the hidden pocket at your hip. “You’d look good in red too, you know. Maybe you should try it sometime, Birdie.”

A gust of wind whispered across the rooftop, and in a blink, he moved.

He was fast—faster than you’d given him credit for. The air shifted as he flipped from the adjacent rooftop, the sound of his boots landing cleanly against the concrete just behind you. Your body reacted on instinct, spinning into a defensive stance, legs slightly spread, one hand reaching for the whip curled at your waist. His silhouette towered over you, clad in obsidian armor, muscles taut beneath the signature ‘V’ etched across his chest.

“Now, now,” you teased, flicking the whip loose with a practiced snap, the tail of it curling dangerously at your feet. “Didn’t your mentor teach you not to sneak up on a lady?”

Nightwing chuckled, but it was low, dark, something unreadable simmering beneath the surface. “And didn’t anyone ever teach you not to steal?”

You grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

And then, like the striking of a match, the fight began.

He lunged, and you countered. A dance of shadows and speed.

Your whip cracked through the air, but he dodged, twisting mid-air with that infuriating acrobatic grace he always seemed to have. His escrima sticks flashed under the moonlight, one swinging toward your midsection. You twisted, barely avoiding the hit, the leather of your suit creaking as you arched your back like a feline in motion.

He was precise. Focused. Calculated.

But so were you.

A well-aimed kick sent him stumbling back, his boots scuffing against the ledge. You grinned, licking your lips. “Getting slow, Birdie?”

He responded with a smirk that sent a chill straight down your spine.

“Just luring you in, kitten.”

Before you could blink, he struck.

A feint—a damn good one. Your wrist was caught mid-swing, his grip tightening just enough to pin your arm behind your back. In one smooth motion, he spun you, pressing your front against the cold brick wall of the rooftop.

You gasped, but not from pain. No, this was something else entirely. Something hot and heavy that curled deep in your belly.

“You never learn,” he muttered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. His body was flush against yours, the hard lines of his armor pressing into the soft curves of your suit.

You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly, just enough to make your ass brush against the front of his thighs. “Oh, but if I did… you wouldn’t be having this much fun, would you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened.

And just like that, the real game began.

The air was thick with Gotham’s night chill, but none of it reached you—not with him pressed so firmly against your back, not with his fingers digging into your hips, forcing you to feel every hard, unyielding inch of his body through the taut leather of your suit.

“You’re quiet,” Nightwing mused, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. His voice was pure sin—low, smug, amused. “Not like you at all. Don’t tell me I finally caught the little kitty with her tongue tied?”

You let out a slow, deliberate exhale, pushing back just slightly against the solid heat of his chest. His grip tightened instantly���his fingers curling possessively around your waist, dragging you flush against him, pinning you to the rooftop’s ledge.

“You’re gonna have to do more than this to shut me up,” you purred, voice laced with mock boredom, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

The chuckle he let out sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, I plan to.”

His hands moved lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers cupped the heat between your thighs. Leather on leather. A frustrating barrier.

“Oh?” His tone dripped amusement, but there was an edge beneath it, something dark, something mean. “What’s this, kitten? Squirming already?”

You rolled your hips forward slightly, teasing, taunting. “Not squirming. Just wondering if the big, bad hero has the guts to do more than talk.”

A sharp slap landed right between your legs, the sound obscene against the leather. You gasped, your body jolting from the impact, a delicious sting blooming between your thighs.

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, dragging his fingers slowly over the spot where he’d just struck. “I don’t just talk.”

Another smack—sharper this time, more deliberate. Then another.

Each one sent sparks of pleasure and pain twisting up your spine, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to truly hurt, not enough to satisfy. Just enough to tease.

“You can’t even feel me properly, can you?” he mused, his voice filled with faux sympathy. His fingers traced slow, taunting circles over the leather, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs clench. “Bet that’s killing you, huh? Knowing I’m right here, knowing I could ruin you, but all you’re getting is friction.”

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, the sound humiliatingly needy. Your hips rolled forward instinctively, searching for more, but he held you still, pressing you even harder against the ledge.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue, full of mockery. “Gotham’s biggest slut, and look at you. Desperate.”

You huffed, gripping the concrete edge in front of you. “And yet I’m still the one in control,” you shot back, twisting your head slightly to glance at him. “All this effort, and I’m still laughing.”

A dangerous smirk curled his lips. “Yeah?”

His gloved fingers curled around your throat, wrenching you back against his chest. “You sure about that?”

Your next breath hitched, and he felt it. The way your body tensed, the way your thighs instinctively pressed together. His grip didn’t squeeze—not yet. Just a warning. A silent threat.

His other hand, still between your thighs, moved in slow, lazy circles over the leather of your suit, barely pressing down, just enough to make you suffer.

“Tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “How bad do you want me to take this off?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. “Who says I do?”

His chuckle was wicked. Dark. A promise.

“You think I don’t see it?” He squeezed your throat just enough to steal your next breath, just enough to make your lashes flutter. “The way your body fucking begs for it?”

You let out a breathy moan before you could stop yourself, and he rewarded you with another sharp slap between your legs—this one harsher, making your knees buckle. Still, not enough.

“You wanna be ruined, don’t you?” he taunted, his fingers pressing down harder, rubbing you through the suit, knowing damn well it wasn’t enough.

You hated him for it.

Hated how he made you crave it, hated how you were already soaking through the leather despite not having felt his bare fingers once. Hated how badly you needed him to break you.

You tilted your head slightly, smirking as best you could despite the wave of frustration coursing through you. “You talk a lot, Birdie. Maybe you’re the one who needs to prove something.”

Something in his demeanor shifted.

And then, he dropped to his knees.

A rush of air left your lungs, a shockwave of anticipation shooting through you. “Oh?” you purred, trying to sound smug, but your voice betrayed you—breathy, eager, too damn willing.

He spread your legs wider with a firm grip, his breath hot against the leather now slick with your own arousal. He could smell it.

“Look at you,” he murmured, so fucking condescending. “Dripping. And for what?”

You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He exhaled slowly before tilting his head, eyes locked onto yours as he did something so unspeakably filthy you nearly choked on air.

He licked you.

Right through the suit. Slow, deliberate, all tongue.

The heat of it bled through the material, and even though you couldn’t feel his mouth fully, the pressure, the friction—it sent a violent shudder up your spine.

“Oh,” you gasped, knuckles going white against the ledge.

He did it again, slower this time, tasting the leather, tasting the need trapped beneath it.

It was unbearable.

“I could make you cum just like this,” he mused, dragging his tongue along the seam where the suit clung to you the tightest.

You whimpered, head dropping forward, panting against the rooftop air.

And then, he laughed. Mocking. Dark. Knowing.

“I don’t even have to touch you to break you, do I?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing under your breath.

He sat back on his heels slightly, tilting his head. “You wanna beg yet?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to keep your composure. Barely.

Instead, you gathered every ounce of pride left in your body, and with a smirk, you purred, “Make me.”

Something dark flashed behind his eyes. Something wicked. Something cruel.

His fingers dug into your hips, and you knew, in that moment, he was about to ruin you.

Nightwing’s fingers were still gripping your hips, his mouth hovering over your soaked leather, his breath hot and heavy against the unforgiving material. You were already a mess—panting, quivering, dripping despite him barely touching you.

And he knew it.

“Knew you were a filthy little thing,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over the seam of your suit again, this time slower, wetter, filthier. His spit smeared against the leather, mixing with the arousal he couldn’t even reach, his breath coming out low and taunting when he saw the way your thighs trembled.

“Oh?” he cooed mockingly, tilting his head as he licked you again, pressing harder this time, rubbing his face against the wetness. “Are you shaking, kitten? Thought you were the one in control.”

You barely heard him over the sound of your own ragged breathing. Your knuckles were white against the concrete ledge, nails digging into the surface as you clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.

But you needed more.

And you weren’t above taking it.

You reached back, gripping his hair roughly, forcing him closer. “If you’re going to make a mess,” you panted, grinding against his tongue, “then make it worth my time.”

His low, dark chuckle vibrated through you.

“Oh, you wanna be fucking used?” His voice was drenched in something dangerous, something cruel.

You didn’t even have time to answer before his hand came down hard between your legs—a wet, smacking slap.

Your moan came out broken, needy, filthy.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging his tongue along the slick surface again, making sure you heard every wet, messy stroke. “You do.”

His gloved fingers hooked into the tight fabric at your hips, tugging hard—not enough to tear, but enough to make the leather stretch. “Bet you taste just as fucking good as you look.”

He spit onto your cunt right through the suit.

The wetness seeped into the fabric, mixing with everything else, soaking you in a way that made you groan in frustration. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You needed more.

You twisted your head to look at him, your lips curving into a smirk despite the desperation clawing through you. “Pathetic,” you teased breathlessly. “All that talk and you’re still scared to take what you want.”

His hand wrapped around your throat before you could even process it, yanking you backward into him.

The sudden force of it made your back arch, your ass pressing right against the hard length in his suit. His grip tightened, his chest heaving against your back as he let out a low, ragged exhale, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You have no fucking idea what you just started.”

You barely had a second to react before he spit into your mouth.

Hot, messy, degrading—his grip on your jaw keeping your lips open just wide enough to take it.

Your moan was instant. Your thighs clenched, your entire body lighting up from the sheer filth of it.

And he saw.

“Ohh,” he laughed, mocking, low, drenched in satisfaction. “You really are Gotham’s filthiest little slut.”

Before you could retort, his mouth was on you—

Sloppy, messy, spit-slicked kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing, his tongue licking up the mess he’d made.

He turned you around in one swift motion, forcing you back against the ledge, his hand gripping your jaw, prying your mouth open again.

“You wanna be fucking used?” he murmured against your lips, his own mouth wet, his breath fanning over your face.

Then—another spit.

Right onto your tongue.

“Swallow.”

Your legs nearly gave out.

You obeyed without thinking, without hesitation, without anything but the sheer need consuming your body.

And he lost it.

His mouth crashed against yours, the kiss wet, filthy, tongues tangling with no sense of control. His gloved fingers found your waist, yanking you flush against him, grinding the hard length between his legs against you.

“This fucking suit,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip before pulling away. “Gonna fucking ruin you right through it.”

He dropped back to his knees again, this time not teasing, not taunting, just fucking devouring you.

Spitting. Licking. Sucking. Biting.

The leather was soaked.

You were a mess.

And he was just getting started.

His grip was relentless—fingers bruising your hips, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek, your suit slick with his spit. You were a mess, bent over the rooftop ledge, trembling, grinding against the frustration of leather against leather, caught in his cruel game.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Look at you,” he groaned, grinding his hips against yours in slow, agonizing rolls. Teasing. Mocking. Dragging it out.“So fucking needy. Gotham’s filthiest little slut, dripping all over my tongue, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your teeth clenched. Again.

That fucking nickname. Again.

He’d been throwing it at you all night—taunting you, pushing you, like he knew it would break you eventually.

And oh, it did.

Your entire body tensed, your hands pushing back against his chest as you suddenly turned, facing him with a slow, sultry smirk that had danger written all over it.

“Gotham’s filthiest slut, huh?” you repeated, voice sickly sweet, dripping in menace.

Nightwing’s smirk barely faltered. “That’s what I said.”

Your fingers reached for the zipper at your chest.

“Then I guess it’s time I show you what that actually fucking means.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

You didn’t just unzip the suit. You ripped it open, shoving the leather down your arms, rolling your hips as you tugged it off completely, leaving yourself standing in the cold Gotham air—wearing nothing but a tiny black leather G-string.

The look on his face?

Priceless.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched. His pupils blew wide as he took in every bare, glistening inch of you, illuminated only by the city lights.

And then, the cocky bastard smirked.

“Shit,” he murmured, licking his lips, his voice turning hoarse, greedy. “Guess you really are a whore.”

You laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Birdie.”

Then, deliberately slow, you turned around.

You bent at the waist, spreading your cheeks with both hands, letting him see exactly where that tiny strip of leather disappeared between your folds—where it rubbed against your asshole, soaked with your arousal.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat. The sound of a man barely holding himself together.

You wiggled your hips just slightly, grinding against the empty air, arching your back just enough to give him the perfect view.

Then, without a word, you crawled away.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Letting your hips sway, knowing damn well he was watching every inch of your body move.

He let out a shaky exhale, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“You…” he swallowed hard, his voice wrecked. “You are so fucking evil.”

You only grinned, settling onto your back at the center of the rooftop.

Then, you spread your legs.

Your fingers traced along the thin strip of leather, teasing, barely touching yourself, making a mess just for him.

His entire body locked up.

You smirked, rolling your hips lazily, teasing, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his gloved fingers flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from grabbing you.

Then, in the filthiest, most sinful voice you could muster, you pouted and cooed:

“What’s wrong, baby? Pussy got your tongue?”

His groan was guttural.

You weren’t done.

Tilting your head, you made a slow, come-hither motion with your finger, voice dropping into something dark, dripping in depravity.

“C’mere, Birdie. Wanna let this pussy teach you about the birds and the bees?”

His breath shuddered. His entire body twitched.

Then—he fucking snapped.

One second, he was standing there, panting like he’d lost his goddamn mind.

The next?

You were on your back, spread out on the rooftop, Nightwing between your legs, his hands everywhere, his mouth crashing into yours—hot, wet, filthy.

And for the first time all night, he was the one begging.

“Say it again,” he panted, grinding against you, licking into your mouth like he was starved for it. “Say it again, baby, I fucking dare you.”

You moaned into his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck, dragging him closer, arching up into him.

“What’s wrong, Birdie?” you panted, voice dripping in mock innocence. “Pussy got your—”

His hand clamped over your mouth, his palm pressing down hard.

“Ohh, no, no,” he chuckled darkly, his hips pressing down, making you feel every thick, hard inch of him through his suit. “You don’t get to fucking talk anymore.”

Then, with no hesitation—he spit right into your mouth.

Messy. Wet. Dominating.

“Swallow.”

Your body shuddered violently.

You swallowed without thinking. Without hesitation. Without anything but the overwhelming, suffocating need between your thighs.

And then? He fucking lost it.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your jaw, pressing your legs open wider, teasing, taunting, making a mess of you.

His mouth was on you, licking, sucking, biting, drowning in your filth, spitting between your legs just to watch it drip down your skin.

“You wanna talk about Gotham’s filthiest slut?” he groaned, dragging his tongue over the soaked fabric barely covering you.

He spit again.

This time, right onto your bare, swollen clit.

Then he licked it up, slow and obscene, making sure you heard every single filthy stroke of his tongue.

“Then let me fucking worship her properly.”

And with that, he dove in

You were sprawled out beneath him, your legs wide open, your body on full display, wearing nothing but that tiny strip of leather that was already soaked through.

And he was kneeling there, staring at you like you were something holy.

Like something he was about to worship.

His gloved fingers slid down, hooking under the thin string of your G-string, tugging it back just enough to 

Snap.

The sting of the leather snapping against your clit sent a sharp jolt of pain-pleasure through your body.

And all you did. Was moan.

Loud, broken, filthy—a sound so obscene it made his breath catch.

His hands froze for a second, his lips parting slightly as he let out a low, wrecked chuckle. “Holy shit,” he muttered, his voice wrecked with something dark, something unhinged.

He did it again.

Snap.

And you moaned again.

His pupils blew wide. His fingers dug into your thighs as he let out a low, shaky groan, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasped.

But then, finally, he gave you what you needed.

His mouth.

His hot, wet, wicked fucking mouth.

He devoured you.

His tongue licked a long, leisurely stripe over the soaked fabric, pressing down, teasing. His lips wrapped around the thin strip of leather, sucking on it like he was tasting you through it.

It was good—too good.

But it wasn’t enough.

You let out a breathless whimper, rolling your hips up against his face, chasing more friction, more pressure, more fucking anything.

He chuckled against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping into the fabric.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” His voice was mocking, his tongue darting out to flick against the fabric too lightly, too soft, too slow. “Not enough?”

You whined. Actually fucking whined.

“No,” you panted, voice raw, desperate, completely ruined. “More.”

He smirked against your inner thigh, his fingers trailing up to press just barely against your entrance, spreading your slick over the leather.

“More?” he repeated, his tone dangerously amused.

You glared down at him, panting, shaking, your hands fisting into the rooftop. “More.”

He hummed, dragging his tongue lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, avoiding where you needed him most.

His mouth was everywhere but there.

You groaned in frustration, rolling your hips up again, trying to make him touch you, do anything real.

But he just laughed, watching you suffer.

“Oh, poor thing,” he cooed, dragging his teeth lightly over your skin. “So desperate. So fucking greedy.”

Then, another flick of his tongue—light, too light—and your patience snapped.

“Riki,” you whined, your voice breaking, your entire body trembling. “I said more.”

His smirk disappeared.

He snapped.

His gloved fingers grabbed your wrist, yanking it down, forcing your hand between your legs.

“Then fucking touch yourself.”

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, before you could even process what he just said, he spit.

Right onto your fingers.

Hot, wet, filthy.

“Rub yourself,” he ordered, his voice dangerously low. “Since nothing I do is enough.”

Your entire body shuddered.

And you did it.

You slid your fingers over the soaked fabric, spreading his spit, spreading yourself, moaning at the sheer depravity of it.

His gaze darkened, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “You’re actually—”

Then he lost it.

His mouth was back on you, devouring you, licking into your fingers, sucking them into his mouth, tasting you off your own skin.

He yanked the soaked leather aside, spitting onto your bare skin this time.

His fingers were inside you.

Deep, rough, curling just right, fucking you open with no hesitation.

“Still not enough?” he panted, licking, sucking, spitting, fingering you all at once.

Your eyes rolled back.

Your moans shattered into nothing.

He was everywhere.

His spit was dripping down your skin, his mouth was wrecking you, his fingers were filling you, his voice was taunting you, breaking you, ruining you.

“Yeah?” he growled, fucking his fingers into you harder. “That enough for you now, kitten?”

You couldn’t even answer.

You could only moan, sob, beg, take it.

And he just kept going.

More. More. More.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, covered in spit and slick and sweat, your legs still spread wide open as you panted against the cold Gotham air.

Nightwing’s breath was heavy as he hovered over you, his gloved fingers still buried deep inside you, dripping with everything he had coaxed out of you. His other hand was wrapped tight around your wrist, keeping your fingers right where he wanted them—pressing into yourself, rubbing slow, messy circles soaked in his spit.

His voice was low, taunting.

“You think I’m done with you?” he murmured, dragging his fingers out, just to slap them back against your clit.

You whimpered, your body jerking from the impact.

“No,” he growled, watching the way you twitched, the way your body craved more. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

Then, with one hand still on your jaw, prying your mouth open, he reached down with his free hand—

And grabbed the stolen jewel.

Your breath hitched. Your body froze.

He lifted it slowly, rolling the smooth, perfectly rounded crimson diamond between his fingers. The same diamond you had risked everything to steal tonight.

And then—

His gloved fingers spread you apart, lower this time.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“W—wait,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your fingers clenching against his arm.

But Nightwing just smirked.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he murmured, pressing the cool gemstone right against your tight, untouched asshole.

You squeaked.

“You were so cocky earlier,” he continued, voice dripping in mockery, rubbing the gemstone right there, pressing, teasing, making you gasp at the contrast of heat and cold. “What happened to all that attitude, kitten?”

Your thighs clenched, your whole body shaking as he pushed—

And the jewel disappeared inside you.

A wrecked, broken scream ripped from your throat.

Your back arched violently, your body convulsing, a sharp wave of pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt crashing into you.

“Ohhh,” Nightwing groaned, watching the way your asshole fluttered around the jewel, clenching, squeezing, trying to adjust to the perfect, filthy weight of it.

Your fingers clawed at the rooftop, your entire body trembling.

He was stunned.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed. “You like that?”

You whimpered, shaking, nodding so hard it made him laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, watching you lose your fucking mind. “Didn’t realize you were this much of a slut for it.”

Your only answer was a wrecked, gasping moan.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his gloved fingers tracing over the jewel, pressing it deeper, twisting it, watching you shudder.“Look at you, baby. Completely ruined just from having your ass filled.”

You were gone.

Shaking, dripping, lost in pleasure.

He wasn’t finished.

You barely had time to process it before he reached for his baton.

Your breath hitched violently.

He noticed. And he smirked.

“You’re looking at me like you’re scared,” he murmured, twirling it between his fingers with ease. “Thought you liked surprises, kitten.”

Your eyes widened as you shook your head, breathless, still adjusting to the fucking jewel sitting inside you.

“Riki,” you stammered.

But he just hushed you, dragging the smooth, cold length of the baton down your stomach, lower, right against your dripping folds.

Then—he turned it on.

A low vibration rumbled through your core, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine.

You screamed.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, grinding the vibrating baton against your clit, watching you convulse beneath him. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The double stimulation was unbearable—the jewel keeping you stretched, your walls clenching around it, while the steady, pulsing vibration of the baton pushed you closer and closer to insanity.

It was too much.

Too much.

Too fucking good.

Your body arched off the rooftop, your back bowing, hands gripping his arm like you were about to break.

“Ohh, I think she likes it,” he teased, his voice breathless, watching you come undone beneath him. “Look at you, taking it so well.”

You could barely fucking breathe.

“Tell me how it feels,” he panted, pressing the baton harder against you.

You whimpered, unable to form words, your head spinning, drowning.

But that wasn’t good enough for him.

He pressed the baton against your clit again—

And turned the vibration up.

Your scream cracked.

“That’s it, kitten,” he growled, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, forcing you to take it. “Fucking lose it for me.”

And you did.

Completely. Utterly.

Your orgasm slammed through you, ripping you apart, drenching the rooftop beneath you, your thighs shaking violently as you sobbed through the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure.

You were gone.

Ruined.

And he was just getting started.

The night air clung to your sweat-slick skin, every nerve in your body alive, overstimulated, twitching from the filth Nightwing had already dragged you through.

Still. He wasn’t done.

Not until he’d ruined you completely.

His breath was hot against your ear as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, leaking tip of his cock through your soaked, messy folds.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, dripping in filth. “Fucking dripping, baby. You that desperate for me?”

Your whimper was answer enough.

He smirked against your skin, his gloved fingers tracing your slit, feeling the way you clenched around nothing, soaking his cock before he even pushed in.

“So wet,” he muttered, dragging himself slowly over your entrance. So messy.

He pressed the jewel deeper.

Your entire body lurched forward, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as the cold, unyielding stone inside your ass shifted, stretching you further, pressing against something that sent shockwaves up your spine.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, watching your reaction, his cock twitching from just the way you shook.

“Still cold, huh?” he teased, smirking against your ear. “Guess I��ll have to warm it up for you.”

Then, in one slow, filthy slide—he sank into you.

Your walls stretched around him, sucking him in, clenching down like your body didn’t want to let him go.

The sound was obscene.

Wet, sticky, a loud, filthy squelch echoing through the Gotham night.

Nightwing let out a choked laugh, his fingers gripping your hips, stilling deep inside you for a second.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Did you hear that?”

Your face burned. You tried to say something, but all that came out was a helpless moan.

He just chuckled darkly.

“Ohhh,” he mocked, pulling back just a bit before sliding in again, deliberately slow, making sure you both heard the filthy sounds your pussy made.

Another loud, wet squelch.

He groaned, laughing. “Oh, baby—it’s talking dirty to me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

Another thrust—sharp, deep, pushing the jewel further inside you.

Another loud, disgustingly wet sound.

“Fuck,” he gasped, completely lost in it. “She’s filthy.”

Your breath hitched.

“Ohh, you like that, don’t you?” he murmured, nipping at your jaw, rolling his hips deeper, grinding against the cold pressure of the jewel.

Your entire body convulsed.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he rasped. “She likes it. She likes when I press it.”

That was when something shifted.

A slow grin curled at your lips.

Your fingers dug into his arms, your body rolling into his thrusts, meeting him, matching him, overtaking him.

“Yeah,” you gasped, moaning like a slut, rocking against him. “She likes it, Birdie. She fucking loves it.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“Ohh,” you mocked, your voice thick, teasing, wrapping around his cock like a vice. “What’s wrong, baby? She too much for you?”

He let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, his pace stuttering for half a second before he lost it.

“Yeah?” he growled, thrusting into you harder, meaner, pressing the jewel deeper, his cock grinding against it from inside.

Your moans shattered.

“Ohhh, she loves that,” you panted, rolling your hips, smirking through the absolute filth.

“She’s greedy, baby,” you taunted, gripping his wrist, guiding his hand lower. “She wants it all—your cock, your fingers, your cum.”

His breath shuddered.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped, grinding harder, chasing the wet, squelching sounds. “You’re actually a fucking menace.”

“Ohhh, is Birdie struggling?” you pouted, tilting your head mockingly. “Can’t handle how fucking dirty she is?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Say it again,” he gritted, grabbing your throat, holding you still while he wrecked you. “Say it again, kitten.”

Your smirk widened.

“She wants your cum,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his every snap. “She needs it, baby—fuck, she needs it so bad. She’s sucking you in, begging for it, stretching just to take all your fucking cock.”

His groan cracked. His body shook.

But then, you arched your back further, pushing your ass against him, forcing him deeper, forcing him to feel the way the jewel shifted inside you.

“Press it,” you whispered, your voice dripping with sin. “Play with it. Show everyone what you’re doing to me.”

His breath hitched.

“What?” he rasped, his cock twitching inside you.

You smirked, looking back over your shoulder, eyes dark and full of wicked intent. “You heard me. Make her put on a fucking show.”

His hands gripped your hips brutally hard, his fingers spreading you apart, exposing the way the jewel sat inside you.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked.

“Press it, Birdie,” you purred, wiggling your hips. “Show them how deep she can take it.”

His control snapped.

He slammed deep, forcing the jewel against your walls, twisting it, watching the way your body convulsed from the sheer filth of it.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, completely lost, completely obsessed.

And as your moans turned to helpless, desperate cries, you knew—

He was going to give you exactly what you begged for

Your body was wrecked.

Your face was pressed against the rooftop, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps as you shook, convulsing, drowning in the filth he had forced you into.

And the jewel?

Still inside you.

Still cold, still stretching you, still pressing against every nerve ending, keeping you wide open, making sure you never forgot who put it there.

Nightwing wasn’t any better.

His chest was heaving against your back, his grip still brutal on your hips, his cock twitching inside you as he pulsed, throbbing, leaking, completely fucking wrecked.

“Oh, baby,” you giggled breathlessly, rolling your hips against him, making him groan, shaking from overstimulation.“She’s still so full.”

His head dropped to your shoulder, his laugh wrecked, breathless, completely broken.

“You are fucking insane,” he muttered, dragging his lips over your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“And yet,” you panted, rocking back, making him feel every aftershock, every squeeze of your body still holding onto him, still milking him. “You loved every second of it.”

He exhaled shakily, his hands trailing over your body, gripping your ass, pressing on the jewel just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re keeping it in,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement, dragging his fingers over where the gem sat snug inside you.

“Maybe I like the way it feels,” you purred, tilting your head, lips brushing against his. “Maybe I want you to take me home and keep me plugged up all night.”

His groan was filthy.

“You are a fucking problem,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

He smirked.

“Fine,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over your swollen, wrecked clit, making you jolt. “But if that jewel stays in all night, I get to fuck you with it still inside.”

Your grin widened.

“Baby,” you purred, cupping his jaw, pulling him into a slow, messy kiss.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

And as the night stretched before you, one thing was certain.

This wasn’t over.

[redflagshipwriter]

Snatching Snitches the cat Part 2: Damian 1

masterpost

“Maybe we should get him a new cat.”

Damian full-body twitched at the whisper, which was unfortunately not quiet enough to keep such idiocy out of his ears as he entered the room. “I will regain my boy,” he said sternly. “So that will be entirely unnecessary, Richard.”

Dick winced at the downgrade to his proper name. Damian huffed air from his nose, dissatisfied, but willing to consider the matter closed given the urgency of the situation. “Father, this is my budget proposal.” He used his left hand to toss the folder on the teak desk in the sunroom’s office. Father gaped at it gormlessly, not moving to pick it up until Damian lifted an eyebrow in pointed rebuke.

He waited while his father shuffled through the papers, a vaguely pained expression on his face. “Damian, I’m not sure that a million dollars is a normal amount to spend on a lost-pet advertisement campaign,” he said gently.

Dick had his best poker face on, which meant nothing to someone who knew him well enough to know that the lack of his usual expressiveness was a large tell.

Damian did his best not to roll his eyes. “Snitches is an unparalleled feline, and thus the market research for comparable campaigns was matched to something more appropriate.” He kept his tone as neutral as possible to avoid discord. “For pricing, please look at page seventeen.”

Pages flipped. “...This seems to be a list of Wayne family kidnapping incidents.” Father’s face twitched. Dick leaned over, obviously interested. 

“You’ve listed all the ransom amounts that was asked for one of us?” he checked. “Cool graph. Am I still the winner?” Dick scanned the amounts. His face fell when he encountered the humorously undignified information that, in fact, Todd was in the lead. 

“Initial amounts,” Damian said promptly. “I understand that relatively little time and money was invested into Snitches, so I chose the amount that was asked for Timothy in 2019. May, not August,” he clarified. August had been undervaluation even for Timothy.

Dick breathed out slowly through his nose, in a shamefully transparent attempt to control himself. “Tim-”

“It was before he was adopted,” Damian said dismissively. “Obviously, his current market rate is much higher. Given that Snitches was, in fact, legally adopted by myself, I thought it a generosity on my part to keep the budget that low.”

A high-pitched sound came from someone’s nose. Damian eyed his father and his eldest brother, but could not discern which one it was. How undignified.

“I understand your logic,” Father said finally. He looked tremendously old. “...Very well. One million dollars to find your cat. But that’s it!” he said, trying to regain control of the conversation. 

Damian nodded sharply. “It will be sufficient.” Just barely, but he had a plan to make it work. “Please direct your attention to pages 4 through 7,” he ordered, knowing full well that Father’s eyes would glaze over at the itemized expenses. 

“Give it to me verbally,” Father said.

Ideal. Damian launched into a painfully detailed listing of national, regional, and international newspapers which he would have a column written both in print and online, starting at Gotham and expanding regionally every day within which Snitches had not been yet located. He would have it written by Kent, as a professional courtesy. He had a list of gig work sites upon which he could recruit people to walk the streets of Gotham and put up flyers and check alleys and dumpsters. He had devised profiles of the teenagers involved in Snitches’ original kidnapping attempt, and included suggestions as to how each member of the team might use their patrol to stake out the suspects.

“I’m scheduled for 7 hours of watching the east window at a 16 year old girl’s house?” Father confirmed. His eyes were hollow and robbed of hope, exactly according to plan.

Damian gave a sharp nod. “Tonight. Todd shall do the daylight shift.”

“I doubt that,” Father said, very quietly. He cleared his throat. “Look, Damian.” 

He waited in perfect predatory stillness. 

“I think perhaps… you should rely less on patrol time for this,” Father settled on. “There are other issues outstanding, after all, such as that serial killer in the Bowery and the gang tensions.”

Damian gritted his teeth.

“Why don’t you get some other help?” Dick butted in, giving Father a warning look that Damian very much did not miss.

“Other help,” Damian said slowly, as if he had not engineered this whole conversation to lead to this conclusion. “Such as… associates?”

“Like Jon,” Dick suggested brightly. “Or your friends from school!”

“That seems like a good idea,” Father said, composed except that he winced at the word ‘friends’, knowing full well how Damian despised it. “You can get help with non Gotham vigilante associates, since we are unfortunately unable to dedicate enough time to the project.”

Damian waited a moment to sell it, portraying a struggle with indecision. He could not accept too gracefully, or someone might read his detailed budget proposal and discover that he had already allotted most of the money for specialists. “I will attempt this route first,” he said stiffly. He pretended not to notice the relief in the room. “Very well.” He reached out a hand to receive his plan. 

He left with his head held high, knowing that he was the uncontested winner in that discussion. More fools they! The obvious had escaped them in their dotage.

Snitches was, after all, no ordinary cat. He had been summoned in a ritual meant to communicate with a ghost. Perhaps he was a ghost himself, given his intangibility and near-human intelligence. The obvious first step was a consultation with one of the magicians who would accept bribery. Father disdained them, but he had, indeed, given Damian specific permission to accept help from non-Gotham vigilante associates.

Surely Justice League Dark could be counted among Robin’s associates.