#i *finally* finished this so now i can finally turn back to finishing some of my WIPs!!!

[landoughnut]

Pit Stop Staring

♡ masterlist - request - emoji anons

♡ pairing - lando norris x mechanic!fem!reader

♡ summary - lando notices you during a pit stop, gets distracted and stares at you, and embarrasses himself on the radio being aired as he gushes over you, but with a little push from Zak, he makes his move on you!

♡ warnings - fluff, BLUSHY and nervous lando, love at first sight, a pinch of jealousy, Zak's a wing man, lando being cute and STUTTERINGGG hehehe

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.86k | #ilovetommy

Today was your first day working as a mechanic during an actual race, and you couldn't be more excited. You'd just finished your months of training and you felt pretty confident in yourself, so you weren't too nervous.

The McLaren team was more than welcoming when you first started, although some were a little apprehensive to have a girl working with the heavy tires, you proved them completely wrong and quickly gained their admiration, making friends with some as well.

As for the two papaya drivers, you had only briefly met Oscar about a month ago while leaving a meeting. He told you he was happy to be working with you soon, and he thought you will do amazing. You spoke shortly before he was being called off by someone, but he said goodbye and wished you best of luck.

The other driver, Lando, you had unfortunately not met yet. You heard quite a lot about him, and people said he was kind with a great sense of humor, so you crossed your fingers and wished you were able to catch him and introduce yourself. You also had seen some edits of him on your feed, not that you would tell anyone that, but you couldn't deny that he was quite a looker.

Back to today, though, you were waiting to see the bright papaya cars pull into the pit stop for their tire exchanges. After some laps, the first one to pull up was Oscar, and you and the others quickly got to work with a successful change in just about 2 seconds.

You beamed as he drove away and got a high five from your mechanic friend, Tommy, and he grinned at you, "That was great! And your first time too! You'll be putting me out of my job soon," he laughs.

You shake your head and poke his side, walking back to the garage, "Don't be silly! I did learn from the best," you say and give him a dramatic wink.

"Ha. Ha. You flatter me," he pats your head. You just push his arm away and turn your head to look at the race stats.

Oscar is in a good fourth place currently, and Lando in second, four seconds behind Max. You watch the race for about three more minutes before you hear that Lando was told to box next lap, so you and the mechanics rush out to the pit once again and prepare your gear.

A few moments pass before you can spot Lando's bright helmet in his car coming closer. He finally arrives and pulls up into his spot, while doing so, he glances around and his eyes land on you.

His mouth drops open slightly and he whispers a little, "Wow." Everyone does his tire change just as fast as Oscars, but Lando was still staring at you, who he thinks might be an angel sent down from above just for him.

Wow, he thinks to himself again, you have to be the most gorgeous person he's ever seen. He doesn't even realize that everyone has cleared the way for him to exit the stop until he sees you tilt your head and he hears his race engineer's voice, "Lando! GO! What are you doing, mate?!"

That snaps Lando back to reality, and he quickly drives away, now in last place due to how long he was there. He feels his neck and cheeks heat up in embarrassment. There's no way he would have a chance with you after that.

"I-I'm so sorry, she was s-so beautiful, and she looks like an a-angel, I-I got distracted," he stutters quietly to Will, his race engineer.

"Oh my- Lando this is being aired, you can't say stuff like that, mate!" Will sighs but he can't help but laugh a little bit. However Lando does the opposite now, he chews his lip like he's about to cry of humility, since now he knows you just heard him say that and you were the only girl there, so you know he had to be talking about you.

Back to where you were, you laughed at the radio message, curious to who he was stuttering over. Tommy's eyes bulge as he hears it, head whipping toward you.

You look at him and furrow your eyebrows, "What?"

He just blinds at you before yelling, "Lando Norris said you're beautiful! And look like an angel!"

"What? No he didn't?"

"Are you- who else would he be talking about?!" Tommy puts his hands on your shoulder and gently shakes you.

"Uhh," you laugh and glance at the other mechanics who are smirking and you and raising their eyebrows up and down. "I don't know, there are some women team members right over there," you point to the side.

Tommy just drops his head down and shakes it, "No. He was talking about you!"

"But.. I'm.. well, me? Just an average new mechanic," you look down at your uniform, "in some very unflattering working clothes."

Tommy just steps back and crosses his arms, "First off, don't ever say you're 'just you', because you're my best friend here," he whispers, so the others won't hear him, and you giggle. "Second, the clothes may be a little unflattering but you're still a very pretty girl," he smiles at you.

"Awhhhhh, Tommy! Who knew you were such a sap!" You hug the boy in thanks and he reciprocates it as you walk to the garage once again.

"So are you going to ask him out later?"

You almost choke on your breath, "What? No! Of course not! Are you crazy?"

He rolls his eyes, "Come on, he was just stuttering. Lando Norris was stuttering over you, if that isn't love at first sight then I don't know what is," he shrugs.

"Tommy!" You slap his arm, "We are done with this conversation."

"But-"

"End of discussion!" You huff, turning on your heels and walk away. Leaving your friend to rub his face in defeat.

When the race ended with Lando placed seventh due to the mishap from before, he hopped out of the car and rushed over to Zak.

Zak pulls the boy in for a hug and ruffles his hair, which was quite the opposite reaction Lando had thought he would see, since he cost the team points.

Once he lets go of Lando, the only thing he gets out of his mouth is, "Who was that?"

Zak lets out a laugh and tries to keep in a grin, "Who? Her?" he nods over to you, standing while chatting with Tommy again. Lando frowns as he watches you two.

"Are they dating?" he asks the older man.

"Hmm," he pretends to think about it, "yes," he nods. Of course he's only kidding, trying the get a rise out of the British boy.

"What?" Lando's head snaps to the man, looking utterly devastated. Zak starts laughing loudly, looking at him, and thinks this is what the human version of a kicked puppy would look like.

"I'm only joking, buddy, why don't you go and ask her?" Zak pats Lando's shoulder.

"U-uh I don't know...."

"Oh, come on! You're Lando Norris!"

The boy sighs and looks at you longingly. That was until you glanced over at him and he quickly turned back to Zak, his face now turning red again at being caught. "What about no work relationships?"

Zak sighs and shakes his head, "Listen, I'll talk to people about it and I'll make it work, okay?" He smiles and Lando lets his lips twitch into a tiny smile. "Now, go get your girl!" He turns his shoulders and pushes him forward a little bit.

Lando blinks fast and his heart races as he nervously makes his way over to you two.

You don't notice but Tommy does and bites back a teasing comment. "Lando Norris! The legendary man himself!"

You look to your right and see the boy bouncing slightly on his feet, twisting his hands and he looks back and forth between you both. "H-hi," he whispers to you, his ears turning red at your kind gaze.

"Hi! It's nice to finally meet you," you smile at him.

Tommy nods, "Yeah, and nice radio message today, man, real smooth," he chuckles.

Unbeknownst to you, Lando now wishes the floor would swallow him whole. "Uh, y-yeah, thanks?"

Tommy just laughs, "Oh! I think someone is calling me, gotta go!"

You watch him walk away, and Lando glares at him. "Did you hear someone calling him?" you ask.

"No, but, um, I-I'm sorry for today, a-and I didn't-"

You quickly shake your head and smile, "No! Don't apologize, really! I'm honored!" You put your hand on his arm, causing him to tense. You quickly remove it and apologize, "I'm so sorry! I should have asked-"

"N-No!" Lando says, and Zak drops his head into his hands as he watches the scene from afar. "You can touch me anytime! I-I mean- bloody hell- n-not like that! I mean you can if you wa-" he slaps a hand over his mouth before he can embarrass himself and more.

You just blush as you watch the boy, you find it endearing, to be honest, you've never had someone act like this with you before. "Lando! Please, don't worry, I think your rambling is cute, and... you yourself are cute too," you put your hands behind your back.

"Me? Really? You think I'm c-cute?" He lets out a nervous laugh in disbelief.

"Is that so hard to believe?" You frown.

"I... guess not.. but you're.. you! W-way out of my league..." he trails off.

"You have to be joking!"

He just looks down at his feet and smiles, his body slowly untensing as he feels a little less nervous. It's not that he's stuttering and blushing because he's scared of you, he's just never met someone so... perfect.

He slowly raises his eyes back up to look at you, "Well... then would you m-maybe want to... get dinner with me later?"

Your smile widens at the hopeful look in his eyes, you pinch your arm once, just to be sure this is really happening and not a dream. "Of course! Oh, I'd love to, would you like my number to send me the details?" you ask him.

He nods and pats his pocket for his phone, "Oh! I left my phone in my driver's room... but if you have yours, I'll give you mine?"

"Sure," you nod and hand him your phone, watching as he creates a contact for himself. "Well, I do have to go back, I promised my friends to hang out for a bit after the race but I'll see you later," you tell him.

He smiles at you, "Alright, see you!"

You turn around, walking to your friends who were giggling to themselves, watching the whole thing.

Lando is left in his spot, practically lovestruck, "What a woman," he whispers to himself dreamily.

He jumps with a yelp when he feels a hand on his shoulder, "Well done, kid! You got yourself a date!"

Lando turns to look at a way too excited Zak Brown, "Yeah... I suppose I did."

[plainclothesdisaster]

“Heya.” Danny says as Batman stalks into the kitchen and looms directly over his table. He crunches smugly on a baby carrot. “What’s up?”

Captain Marvel shrinks in his seat next to Danny. Even though Batman’s glare is not pointed at him directly, the radiation alone is enough to make him cringe. He always feels more like Billy Batson around Batman more than any of the other Justice League members, like a kid out of his depth. Everyone except for Danny, who makes him feel like Billy in a different way, like he’s another kid who’s constantly earning his seat at the table even though he’s more than proved he deserves it.

On Danny’s left, Green Lantern takes a generous sip of his smoothie, looking back and forth between the two of them in anticipation.

“A word, please.” Batman peers down his nose at the mixed company. “In private.”

Danny smiles with all his teeth. “There’s nothing to discuss that can’t be said right here in front of your trusted colleagues.”

Batman’s jaw feathers. “It’s a personal matter.”

“You know me. I’m an open book.”

“Please, just come to the meeting room-“

“No can do, Bats. I’m on break. So spit it out or let me finish my snack in peace, hm?”

Activity in the kitchen has noticeably quieted as other staff try very pointedly to appear like they aren’t eavesdropping. Billy wishes he could melt into his chair.

Batman sighs, audibly. “What are your intentions with my son?”

Green Lantern chokes on his smoothie. Danny’s eyes practically sparkle with mischief.

“Oh, he broke the news did he?”

It’s hard to hear over Green Lantern’s continued coughing, but then GL pulls himself together enough to sputter, “You’re dating Batman’s son?”

“We haven’t really put a label on it yet,” Danny shrugs. “But yeah.”

Batman continues to glare in silence.

“Except,” Danny continues, “there’s no way he’d tell you. So, you’ve been doing your usual bat-involuntary-surveillance slash borderline stalking of us, huh?”

Batman doesn’t reply, to which Green Lantern says, “Ohhhh shit.” He turns to Danny, practically bouncing in his seat. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“None of your business, ring boy.” Snickers echo between the definitely-not-listening staff around them. Danny smiles sweetly before he turns back to Batman.

“If this is some kind of shovel talk, let me just stop you now. First things first, I think you lost the right to make threats on his behalf before he turned fifteen-“

Batman actually stiffens straight, which is more of a reaction than Billy’s ever seen. Not that he knows what the heck Danny is even referencing.

“-and second of all-“

Billy could swear the room gets ten degrees colder in an instant.

“He’s under my protection now. So really this talk should be directed the other way, don’t you think?”

They lock eyes in a silent battle. Finally Batman relents.

“Understood.”

Danny leans back and it’s like the pressure in the room lifts. The microwave dings, and the staff around them resumes milling about the kitchen as normal.

Batman, always tactful, changes the subject. “The gravity stabilizers on the lower levels have been acting up. Will you look into it?”

“You know I will.”

With that, Batman leaves.

As soon as his cape disappears through the doorway, Green Lantern whistles. “You’ve got some major cajones Danny. That or a death wish.”

“Batman’s the one who introduced us, in a manner of speaking, so he really can’t get mad at me for taking advantage.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea though?” Billy chimes in.

“All my ideas are good ideas.”

He’s joking, Billy knows, but he envies his confidence anyway.

DPxDC Mechanical Engineer Danny

Danny caught the attention of Batman while studying at Gotham University for his alternative energy projects. He’s hired right out of college to work on the Watchtower.

He shows absolutely no tell of his abilities till there’s a dire situation- Flash’s electric discharge messes with one of his projects in progress and the whole base would have lost air pressure if he hadn’t done a quick fix using telekinesis and ice.

Of course Batman notices.

Batman assumes the worst- he suspects Danny’s a rogue of some kind, someone who has infiltrated the Justice League with an ulterior motive. But he can’t just fire Danny now- he’s the only one who knows how the new Watchtower energy source works. Plus, he’s not letting Danny go anywhere until he’s figured out his true motives.

Cue Batman subtly testing Danny- tossing things at him to trigger inhuman fast reflexes, having him lift too-heavy machinery, setting up convenient opportunities to steal or snoop or otherwise be up to no good. Danny does take advantage but only once, to use a computer terminal with unlocked clearance. He didn’t plant any bugs that Barman could find, and he otherwise kept up his powerless civilian act perfectly.

Still, Batman’s not satisfied. He brings an infrasonic sound emitter to Danny’s lab one day, and that, of all things, is what gets Danny to break.

“I know what you’re doing,” Danny admits with a sigh, finally. “If you’re really that suspicious of me, I can leave, but I kinda like my job so I’d prefer not to. The benefits are insane compared to what’s standard.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. yeah. How about you turn off the freaking noise generator and we can talk?”

“Hm.” Batman obliges, and he takes the stool next to Danny at his gesture.

“Number one, I’m not a meta. Despite all the data and conclusions you’ve probably drawn otherwise. Number two, I’m on your side. I’m here to work on the base, that’s it. I follow your rules to the letter.”

“The-“

“The classified files I looked at? Yeah that was the one exception. You already know what I looked at, I’m sure, but maybe you haven’t figured out why. It goes back to point one- I may not be a meta, but I am something that organization, the GIW, cares about. I looked at your files on them to sus out your relations. Seeing as I don’t particularly love being the victim to twelve degrees of human rights violations if I can avoid it.”

“Hm.” The Ghost Intelligence Ward was one of many government agencies that the Justice League hadn’t worked closely with. But they also hadn’t been flagged for Justice League investigation. Danny’s comments made him doubt that call.

“Any other questions?”

“If you’re not a meta, what are you?”

“I’m an engineer. A pretty decent one. And I’d really, really like it to stay that way.”

Batman considers, and ultimately lets him stay. He likes Danny (everyone likes Danny), and it would be a massive pain in the ass to replace him. He really is a good engineer.

It’s only much later that his faith in Danny is repaid in spades.

Batman finds Danny on the Watchtower command bridge. Alarms are blaring, the station has been knocked out of orbit, out the window there’s shrapnel floating everywhere as a space battle rages around them.

On the station it’s chaos. Technicians run around, shouts from the med bay, sparks from the walls.

Batman and Danny stand at the main controls, watching the battle outside, stoic, unmoving.

Wonder Woman’s harried voice crackles through on coms: “We need backup.”

“There is no more backup.” Batman replies, while looking pointedly at Danny.

“What?”

Batman doesn’t move.

“What.”

“The impact from Darkseid’s initial attack should have sent this station on a terminal trajectory toward the planet.”

“Well. We aren’t currently plummeting to our deaths, so turns out it didn’t do that.”

“You did something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe Superman nudged us back on course in all the chaos.”

“I’ve been watching the trackers. No one else with the capability has come near the station.”

“Can’t you just be grateful we got lucky?”

Sounds of peril screech over the coms. Danny’s face scrunches.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. As it is now, we are going to lose this fight.”

“Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”

“I’m asking you. You can help, can’t you?”

The glare-off lasts a long moment more before Danny breaks.

“Fuck. Fuckity fuck.” Danny runs his hands through his hair. “Shit. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to save this and countless other worlds from a genocide. I’m also asking you to save my friends.”

Danny looks at him, hard, weary, and with a kind of deep resolve that feels far too ancient to be on the face of a supposed twenty-something.

“Fine. Fine. Okay.” He steps back and transforms. If Batman is surprised when he shakes off his human appearance like an old coat, he doesn’t show it. But what’s undeniable is the being in Danny’s place has the unmistakable presence of power.

“No one else can know.” His voice echoes in a way that’s sonically impossible, both sounding closer and further away than he should be.

He pulls a gear-shaped medallion seemingly out of thin air and puts it over his head in one motion.

“If I get in trouble for this, I’m blaming you.”

He vanishes. Outside, the shape of the battle changes instantly. The stars seem to glow brighter as the arms of the galaxy flash with the colors of the aurora. Then it’s like the void of space itself comes alive. It moves the spaceships back like they’re toys, plucking them from one side of the field to the other. It finds Darkseid at the heart of the chaos and massive arms of nothingness and darkness wrap around him. He’s screaming as it swallows him whole.

His armies scatter. The battle turns. The JL deal with the stragglers, but the air of relief is palpable.

Danny reappears next to Batman, once again donning his grease-stained coveralls. Arms folded.

“Happy?”

It took all of five minutes. Less, probably. Batman tamps down a thousand questions.

“Thank you.”

“I’m gonna need two weeks off minimum.” Danny snaps. “One to deal with the bureaucratic nightmare you’ve just caused me, and another to recover from the headache.”

Batman blanks. “Granted.”

Danny sighs. “And I’m not fixing the station until I’m back. It won’t fall out of the sky as is. Make up whatever excuse you want.”

“Done.” He considers. “I would prefer to tell them the truth. That you saved us.”

Danny glares. “I’m not supposed to save you. I made a pact not to use my power to influence the mortal realm.”

“A pact with who?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “The embodiment of Time. The concept of Justice. Among others.” He smirks at Batman’s confusion.

“And what, exactly, does that make you?”

He stands, framed by the space window, haloed by the stars. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

Batman frowns.

“Look. I like you guys. I like working on your base. I like supporting the work you do. But you can not go factoring me in to any of your plans or contingencies. This was a one time thing.

“So to answer your question again: I’m an engineer.”

[hoe4hotchner]

The Final Lap

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 2.3k | CW: A little swearing, one midly suggestive comment, champagne, I don't know - is sweat a cw?

A/N: I finished writing this at 2am, so some of the environemt might not make sense, I'm not changing it though ;)

The Ferrari garage was electric, the air thick with the buzz of movement as engineers murmured over headsets, eyes glued to the data screens, pit crew readying themselves for the next stop, and the unmistakable scent of fuel and burning rubber that clung to the humid night air and only got stronger with each lap.

Yet despite the organized chaos around you, your world had narrowed to one thing: the red blur blazing around the track.

Aaron Hotchner.

A two-time World Champion, one of the best drivers this generation of Formula 1 had ever seen. But tonight, that was all coming to an end. He was retiring. Mid-season at that. It had shocked everyone in the paddock.

Retiring in the middle of the season? Unheard of.

Speculation had run wild—injury, contract disputes, internal politics, a baby?—but no one had guessed the truth. Hotch wasn’t leaving because of any of that. He was leaving because he wanted something more than the endless race weekends, the constant jetlag, the hotels, the pressure of performance, and the fear of injury. He wanted a life, and that life had you in it.

For the first time in over a decade, Hotch had found someone he didn’t want to leave behind every other weekend. Someone who made the circuit feel small, someone who was waiting for him to come home, not just to a race but to a life beyond the track and parties.

Right now, he was in P2, chasing down Max Verstappen with only a handful of laps to go.

The garage was tense, every engineer hanging on the telemetry. You stood in the garage, chewing your lip, arms crossed and fingers digging into your skin as you watched the screen, tracking his every move.

“Gap to Verstappen, 1.2 seconds,” his race engineer, Paul, relayed over the radio. “He’s struggling with tire degradation. If we push, we can get him.”

Hotch’s voice came through, steady and composed. “Understood.”

God, you loved him.

You loved how focused he was, how in control he remained even when every part of his body must’ve been screaming for release, for a break.

But not tonight. Not when this was his last race.

A sudden thought struck you, and without hesitation, you turned to one of the engineers, pointing at a spare headset on the workbench. “Can I say something to him?”

The engineer hesitated, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, but then smirked. “Make it quick.”

You pulled the headset on and pressed the comms button, taking a deep breath. The air in the garage felt thick with anticipation as everyone waited for you to make your move, but in that moment, you only had one person on your mind.

“Hey, handsome.”

Silence.

Then, a breathy response came through the radio.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was softer than it ever was during a race. Always so composed, never losing focus—never even swearing, like many of his opponents—yet you could tell by the slight drop in his tone that he was smirking.

You grinned, your heart racing. “You look good out there.”

The air shifted in the garage, the engineers going silent as they eavesdropped on the comms.

“You should see me up close,” Hotch murmured back, and you swore you could feel the weight of his words in your chest.

Hotch flirting mid-race? The fans were going to have a field day with this recording you thought.

You bit back a laugh, suddenly feeling a flutter in your chest. “I’ll hold you to that,” you teased, voice dropping just slightly. “But I think P1 would look even better on you. Let Max eat your exhaust fumes”

A breath from him, holding together a laugh. Then, a low and steady reply:

“Copy that.”

The garage went completely still. The next few seconds would determine everything.

Lap traffic ahead. Two backmarkers. Hotch’s team didn’t even need to tell him twice. He saw the gap, recognized the opportunity, and now it was up to him.

The roar of the engine shifted, the engine note rising as Hotch pushed harder. Paul’s voice cut through the static. “Verstappen’s losing time in Zone 4. This is our chance.”

Hotch didn’t hesitate. He was already setting up for the move.

As they approached the Anderson Bridge, Max hesitated behind the Aston—which was unlike him. It was the opening Hotch needed.

ERS deployed.

He dove down the inside at Turn 12, braking impossibly late. The Ferrari twitched, almost losing the rear, but Hotch held it steady, centimeters from Max's rear.

And then—he was ahead.

The garage exploded into triumphant chaos. “He’s done it!” “He’s in P1!”

Your heart raced, your hands trembling as you pressed the comms button again, breathless with excitement. “Aaron, you absolute machine.”

Through the radio, you heard his low chuckle. “Told you to hold on tight.”

Final lap.

You barely registered the world around you. You were all but consumed by the sheer will of the moment. Every corner was a battle. Every turn was his. The world around you blurred into the background, the only thing that mattered being Hotch and the finish line that was now within reach.

Turn 17.

Turn 18.

The final corner.

The checkered flag waved.

“AARON HOTCHNER WINS THE SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX!”

The words rang in your ears as the Ferrari surged across the line, the crowd roaring, the Tifosi screaming in unison. It was over. The moment had arrived.

The Ferrari garage erupted. Headsets slammed onto tables—clearly not caring if they broke—engineers leaped into each other's arms, and bottles of champagne were already being cracked open. On the pit wall, a sea of red uniforms flooded the monitors, clapping, shouting, barely able to contain themselves as the realization set in—Aaron Hotchner had just won the Singapore Grand Prix. Your breath caught, hands pressed to the headset, every nerve in your body still wired from the last ten laps. The tension had been unbearable—Max had been defending his spot like his life depended on it, and for a while, it seemed like P2 was where Hotch would finish his racing days.

Until he didn’t.

The radio was full of cheering, the entire Ferrari team shouting over each other. Hotch’s voice finally broke through—breathless, steady, softer than you expected. “Yes!” A rare burst of raw emotion. “That was—unbelievable. Thank you, guys.” Paul, his race engineer, was practically laughing.

“Aaron Hotchner wins in Singapore! What a move. What a drive. P1, baby!”

And you? You pressed the comms button, voice teasing. “Told you P1 would look good on you.”

A chuckle—low, warm, the kind of laugh that curled through you like fire on a cold day. “Guess I couldn’t let you down.”

Your fingers tightened around the headset. Out on the circuit, he was still weaving his car side to side on the cool-down lap, burning the last of the fuel, fans screaming his name from the grandstands. Red flares ignited in the sky, casting a glow over the Marina Bay circuit.

The final results came in:

🥇 Aaron Hotchner | Ferrari

🥈 Max Verstappen | Red Bull

🥉 Charles Leclerc | Ferrari

A Ferrari double podium in Hotch’s last race. If the garage had been loud before, it was deafening now. But you stayed rooted in place, eyes locked on the screens.

He pulled into parc fermé, stopping in front of the #1 marker. Engine off. Helmet off. You watched as he climbed out of the car, sweat-soaked fireproofs clinging to his body, hair damp, chest rising and falling as he took in the moment, before climbing on top of his car, with his helmet raised to the sky.

And then—That smile. Not the usual, small, controlled one. This was real. Wide, bright, a kind of happiness he couldn't control. Mechanics surrounded him first as he climbed back down, clapping his back, congratulating him. He took it all in stride, shaking hands, hugging his engineers. But then—He started searching for something.

No, not something.

Someone.

You.

The second the cameras shifted to the post-race interview area, you ran. Through the garage, past team personnel, ducking under barriers as you weaved through the sea of red. And then he saw you. A split second of recognition—Then open arms.

You collided with him, the scent of fuel, sweat, and somehow champagne already clinging to his suit, but you didn’t care. His arms locked around you, tight, body still thrumming with adrenaline. His voice was hushed, just for you.

“I was waiting for you.” Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the hammering heartbeat. “Had to make sure you really won.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. “You doubted me?”

“Never.”

The Ferrari crew around you whistled, someone muttering something about "Hotch getting a different kind of trophy tonight." You flushed, but Hotch only laughed under his breath, fingers brushing the side of your face before a team official clapped his shoulder.

“Podium time, Hotch.”

You squeezed his wrist. “Go. I’ll be watching.” His gaze lingered before he nodded, turning towards the podium ceremony.

The circuit was alive with energy. Red flares burned, fans roared, and the Ferrari team crowded together in the pit lane, waving flags and cheering.

At the top of the paddock, the podium gleamed under the bright floodlights, a red carpet leading up the stairs where FIA officials and race stewards stood waiting. Above, the massive digital screen displayed the final race standings: Aaron Hotchner in P1. Max Verstappen in P2. Charles Leclerc in P3. If anyone was unsure of the standings.

You stood just below the stage with the rest of the team, heart racing as you watched Hotch climb the steps. His suit was still damp with sweat, the red and black fabric clinging to his body, and yet he carried himself with that same unwavering confidence, like a man who had done this a thousand times before—which it felt like he had. But this time was different. This was his last time.

The podium announcer’s voice echoed across the circuit, listing the finishing positions in order. Charles was introduced first, stepping onto the third-place podium to a chorus of cheers. He shook his head slightly as he adjusted his collar, still breathless from the race. Then Max, accepting his second-place finish with the usual tight-lipped nod, the competitive edge in his eyes refusing to dull—no doubt he would power through several simulations the following days.

But it was when the announcer called Hotch’s name that the world seemed to explode.

Everything erupted. Fans chanted his name, flares burned brighter in the night, and as he stepped onto the highest tier of the podium, he exhaled slowly, drinking it in. His final podium. His final win. But instead of sadness, there was peace in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, in the way he ran a hand over his jaw before placing the Pirelli cap on his head.

Even with the weight of history, of legacy, of an entire nation behind him, his gaze still searched for you.

The American national anthem played first, Hotch standing motionless as the flag was raised above him. Then the Italian anthem, and if the fans had been loud before, they were deafening now. Every single word was sung, voices carrying over the circuit, filling the air with pure, unfiltered passion. And through it all, Hotch stood tall, head slightly bowed, fingers flexing at his sides. You had never seen him look so at home.

One by one, the trophies were presented. Charles accepted his first, shaking his head with an exasperated smile before turning to congratulate Hotch with a playful nudge. Max followed his grip tight on his trophy, still smirking slightly like he was already thinking about the next race. And then, finally, the presenter stepped forward with the massive gold-plated winner’s trophy.

The weight of it was nothing compared to the moment itself, but Hotch lifted it with ease, raising it high above his head.

The second the trophies were set down, the champagne bottles were cracked open. Charles was the first to strike, popping his bottle and immediately drenching Max, who let out an indignant shout before retaliating. The two of them descended into absolute chaos, but Hotch, ever the strategist, waited—watching, calculating—before launching his own attack. He shook his bottle furiously, angling it just right before absolutely soaking Charles in champagne. Charles yelped, attempting to shield himself, but the cameras had already captured his fate. The crowd ate it up, loving every second of the carnage, knowing that they would miss the relationship between Hotch and Charles on the track.

Through it all, you watched, heart swelling with something deeper than pride, something warmer than admiration. You had loved him in so many ways, in so many lifetimes, but seeing him here—drenched in champagne, racing suit and fireproofs sticking to his frame, a rare, boyish smirk on his lips—you had never loved him more.

And then, before you could react, he was moving. Away from the cameras. Away from the podium. Away from the crowd. And toward you. Not caring about the interviews.

His fingers curled around your waist, tugging you in until you were flush against him. He was still damp, still smelled of adrenaline and gasoline, but you didn’t care. His lips brushed your ear, voice low, teasing, the same voice that had made your heart race over the radio.

“I think I like winning.”

You let out a breathless laugh, pressing your hands against his chest. “Then why retire?”

He exhaled, warm against your skin, fingers grazing the small of your back. And then, softly and simply smiled—

“You know why.”

Because it had never been about injuries. It had never been about losing. Aaron Hotchner was retiring from Formula 1 because he had already won the most important thing of all.

You.

[thirrith]

my cuck hat, aka hat that made my dad call me a kuomintang secret agent, aka my 1920s working class allegations etc.

is now finished! (ft. hand-felting process)

This is the Dublin Cap pattern by Cheryl Andrews. Someone in a forum post called it the most complex knitting pattern they've ever encountered. It is indeed very complex and an extremely interesting construction. You'd need to knit the two brims separately using short rows and decreases, put them on stitch holders, knit a narrow lining in the round, attach the brims and then use short rows again to shape the two sides of the cap; then you'd knit back and forth from the top side of the upper brim and as you go combine the top of the cap with the two sides, bind off the few stitches left at the back with a 3-needle bind off to connect with the lining, and finally sew the lining to the inside of the cap.

The reason why I call it my cuck hat is because it's a green hat.

The original pattern doesn't call for hand-felting, but the designer has another pattern of the same cap without the cables that does call for felting. Someone felted the cable version and I really like the effect, so I made sure to use non-superwash yarn and to knit the cap not too tightly so that I could felt it and make it shrink without making it too small for me.

It was my first time doing hand-felting, but I knew that the result of felting can differ a lot depending on the yarn, the time spent, amount of agitation applied and the way it dries. I put the cap in the sink, turned my faucet on at the hottest setting, and added a bit of detergent while the sink filled up. I then put on gloves and rubbed the fabric against itself like I was washing regular clothes:

I would squeeze the water out and try it on every 5 minutes to make sure I didn't over-felt it. (needless to say... my head was wet and smelled like wool by the end of it.) I've seen a hand-felting tutorial say that the knits will stretch a bit first before shrinking, and I find that to be true! The first photo below was taken before felting, and each of the rest of the photos was taken roughly 5 minutes apart. You can see that the felting seemed to speed up after 10 minutes. I ended up not doing the full 5 minutes in the last round, which means I felted the cap for 23 minutes in total.

To control the way the cap dries and get the shape I wanted, I put it on my head again to have an idea of what the shape was, took it off, scrunched up some newspaper into a mushroom shape and put it under the cap to let it dry (spot the kim jong-un):

I manipulated the fabric while it was still wet and especially made sure that the two brims were flat and crisp looking.

[muhlsworld]

GOOD FOR YOU

pairing: nika muhl x fem!reader

synopsis: you want to show off that you’re nikas girl

WARNINGS: suggestive (no smut) and cussing

nika and the rest of the uconn women’s basketball team had made it to the elite eight of the tournament and they couldn’t have been more excited. and you were so proud of nika for the role she’s taken this year.

yours and nikas relationship wasn’t public to the media. sure your friends and nikas teammates knew but you were ready to be in the public eye yet. nika understood and said she’d wait till whenever you were ready. and you were grateful for just how understanding she was.

it was the day of the elite eight match and you had managed to snag a chance with nika before she got busy for the day. you had been meaning to ask her something so you were glad you got the chance to do so.

she was glad to see you too before the game and before everything got hectic that day. “hey i’ve been meaning to ask you something.” you said. “what up?” nika asked ready to hear what you had to say. “can i maybe wear your jersey to the game?” you ask shyly.

nikas eyes widened with joy. “oh my god are you sure?” nika said. you nodded and said “let me show you how proud i am to be yours.” you said looking at her all doe eyed. nikas mouth went dry at the statement. she immediately handed you her extra jersey. you smiled at her as you took the jersey.

“and who knows” you started saying as you walked closer to her. “maybe i’ll let you fuck me in your jersey” you said in whisper right next to her ear. nika let out a satisfactory hum and then she grabbed your waist and placed a quick and needy kiss to your lips. which you happily returned.

after you two had pulled apart nika let out a breath and said “you’re such a tease saying that to me knowing i have to leave soon.” you simply shrugged your shoulders and walked away knowing she had to leave. you turned around and blew a kiss in her direction. your guys thing before every game. a good luck charm if you will.

the basketball team was now warming up since the game would be starting soon. you like showing up early to get the most of your time there. you had gone with your best friend and sat down in your seats. nika had gotten you guys some relatively good seats and you were grateful.

nika was warming up when she looked up at the crowd and she spotted you almost immediately. her breath caught in her throat as she saw you in her jersey. it was the most beautiful sight she had seen. you looked amazing in her jersey. in nikas mind you wore it better than her.

the game had just finished and uconn had managed to beat usc and advanced to the final four of the tournament. you saw nika immediately jumping for joy with her team. you had made your way down to the court and that’s when nika saw you.

she had run up to you and picked you up and spin the two of you around in a circle. once she placed you back on the ground. your arms were still around her neck and you brought her in for a kiss. she was initially shocked that you kissed her while the cameras were around but still immediately kissed you back.

“i’m so proud of you.” you said as you pulled back from the kiss and rested your forehead on hers. “i love you.” she replied. you smiled and said “i love you more.”

you had waited for nika to get done with the media. and once she did she gave you a hug. she was so happy it was practically radiating off of her. “lets get out of here.” she said practically dragging you out of the building. “what’s the rush?” you questioned while you let out a laugh. “there’s something i wanna do before we go out and celebrate.” she said calmly.

you guys had made it back to your shared dorm and right as you walk through the door you had beat nika to the idea that she had. you placed your lips onto hers immediately after she closed the door. she happily returned the kiss and placed her hands on your waist.

you guys broke apart for a moment and nika spoke “what was that for?” she said out of breath. you look up at her seductively “i just wanna be good for you.” you said. and with that nikas knees almost gave out. she immediately latched her lips back into yours. you let out a soft groan and nika loved.

eventually one thing led to another and you guys ended up on one of the beds. you had wanted to make nika feel good. especially after the game that she just had. and you did exactly that.

your face dripping from the aftermath of what had just happened and nika thought it was so hot. the mess on your face while you were still wearing her jersey. just looking at you it turned her on again.

and the rest of the night had consisted of you guys making each other feel good. the jersey never coming off. nika loved the way you looked in it and wouldn’t let you take it off. not that you minded.

you guys ended up slightly late to the celebration for the win. but you still enjoyed the rest of the celebration with nikas teammates. most of all you enjoyed the happiness that nika was showing.

A/N: this is kinda bad because i wanted to get it out tonight so im sorry about that

[waytootiredforthistoo]

this was my favorite response, so I wrote it,,

After four years at Hogwarts, Remus was well aquainted with the process of recovering from a full moon. Still, this one had been particularly brutal. Somehow he'd managed to break both his legs, early enough in the night that the wolf had kept moving on them despite the pain.

Now, Remus was praying for the pain to tip him over the edge into unconsciousness, because he burned through every pain potion Poppy gave him so quickly she was too afraid to give him any more for fear he'd overdose.

She asked where his crew is. Remus recognizes the question for what it is, a welcome distraction. One Sirius, Peter, and James would usually provide. He watched her glance at the door like she's half-expecting them to break it down any minute.

"Detention." Remus says through gritted teeth. He knew they tried to avoid detentions near the moons, but sometimes needs must, and Severus had called Sirius a mama's boy, so really they had no choice in the matter.

She laughed and says “I remember those days.”

“You got detentions?” He asked, almost unbelievingly.

Her wand waves over him as she performs another scan. Remus chooses to look at that instead of the bone that's rammed its way through the skin of his knee.

“I don’t talk much about my time as a student, do I?”

Before he even had the time to react, she pressed hard with some spell and the bone slid lower. "No!" He bit out, shoving his fist into his mouth.

This was a part of their system. The waiting was always worse. He preferred if she'd just fix him, no count downs or fanfares. He'd prefer to not break at all, but there was only so much magic could do.

She hummed for a second and turned around to get another potion off her cart. "Drink this."

He exchanged the hand in his mouth for a vial of what he recognized by now as a blood-replenishing potion.

"You, detention?" He repeated, looking for anything to take his mind off the little bit of bone that still hung out.

“Yes, back then I served several detentions. I always maintained that Minnie was the real instigator, that I was just dragged along for the ride, but I think we both know how true that is.” She shot him a knowing wink. 

“Minnie?”

“Minerva- Professor McGonagall- we were classmates.” She smiled to herself. 

Remus felt his head reeling from some combination of the blood loss and the newfound knowledge that Professor McGonagall had once been a troublemaker too. 

She ran her wand down his body and all thoughts left him. A scream was pulled up his throat like knives on his already worn vocal chords. 

Eventually the pain subsided enough that he could once again hear Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. 

He swallowed roughly before he spoke. “Tell me more. Please.” 

She paused her fussing and looked into his eyes. Whatever she saw there must have convinced her, because as soon as she continued setting his bones, she was speaking. “Right. What to tell? There’s really so much isn’t there…”

Snap!

He jolted, which only made the pain worse. “Alright, well, this cannot leave this room, but I’ve got a story for you. Would you like to hear it?”

Snap!

Remus nodded. 

She took her time, carefully resetting his bones and telling her story. Twice, they had to pause, not because of the pain, but because they were laughing so hard in spite of it.

When the last of his skin was finally closed over, she gave him one final pain potion. He drank it as she finished talking. “-and to this day, Minerva holds the record for most house points ever lost in a single day.”

“Woah…” Madam Pomfrey’s eyes glistened with mirth and nostalgia as she turned to clean up. “I can see why she doesn’t want that one getting out.”

“Oh no.” Her tone was serious, but light. “Especially not to Misters Potter and Black.” She turned and gave him a look. 

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s convinced if they found out that was the record, they’d try to beat her!” They were both still laughing about it when the hospital wing door flew open. 

“Moony!” His friends rushed to his side and all started talking at once, but he got the idea. It was a mix of are you okay’s, sorry we’re late’s, and what’s got you laughing so hard’s. 

Remus turned to thank Madam Pomfrey again, but she had already excused herself to her office, where she would no doubt sit for the next 10 minutes before ushering them all back out again so that Remus could get some rest. 

hc that Minerva McGonagall was a menace in her days at Hogwarts.

Specifically that a young Minerva McGonagall holds the Hogwarts record for most house points ever lost in one day.

She lives in fear that one day the Marauders will find out about it and wreck the school trying to break her record

[espresso1patronum]

Nine Lives, One Knight

(batman!gojo x catwoman!reader)

synopsis: By day, Gojo Satoru is Gotham’s golden boy—billionaire, genius, untouchable. By night, he’s the Bat, a relentless force in the city’s shadows. You? You’re Catwoman—master thief, chaos incarnate, always one step ahead. You’ve spent years dancing around each other, neither willing to truly win. But when a new faction, the Black Veil, sets its sights on Gotham’s most powerful players—including you and the Bat—you’re forced into an uneasy alliance. Tension crackles, lines blur, and the game you’ve always played turns deadly. Because this time, it’s not just about the city. This time, it’s about each other.

cw: batman au, mutual pining, slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, angst, violence, blood, injury mention, gun violence, kinda gory? kinda forbidden love? Toji, geto, shoko and nanami cameo lmao

word count: 10.1k

author's note: this had been in my drafts for a very long time and after the poll results, I thought i'd finish this. it's not much, but I enjoyed writing this jjk x dc crossover.

Gotham was never silent.

Not even at midnight.

Not even when the rain came down in thick, suffocating sheets, drenching the city in shadows. Somewhere below, sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A single gunshot cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.

To some, the noise was chaos. To you?

It was home.

You move across the rooftop with practiced ease, the weight of the Black Veil’s encrypted drive tucked safely into the pocket of your suit. The heist had been too easy. A little slip past the lasers, a quick crack of the safe, and just like that—you were out.

Something worth a small fortune in your hands. Or rather—something that could destroy half of Gotham’s elite if it ended up in the wrong hands.

(Or the right ones, depending on who you asked.)

A clean escape. A successful job. You should be gone by now.

And yet—

A shiver runs down your spine. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From something else.

Something you can’t see, but feel.

You land soundlessly on another rooftop, pausing only for a second to scan the city below. Nothing. No movement. Just the familiar neon glow of Gotham’s underbelly.

Still—your fingers twitch. Instinct coils in your gut, whispering a warning you don’t want to acknowledge.

Too easy.

Too—

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth as silk, dark as thunder.

You don’t startle. You don’t turn. Instead, you let a slow, knowing smirk curl at your lips before you finally glance back.

There he is.

Perched on the edge of the rooftop like he belongs in the night, the rain dripping off the edges of his cowl, his cape shifting slightly in the wind. Batman.

Or rather—Gojo Satoru.

You should’ve known he’d show up. Maybe you did. Maybe you ignored it.

"Bold of you," you murmur, fingers flexing, ready to bolt. "Sneaking up on a cat in the dark."

His head tilts, and though the mask hides half his face, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please," he drawls. "You knew I was here before you even touched the ground."

He's right. You did. But you don’t let him win that easily.

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Bat?" You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders, keeping it casual. "Or do you just like following me around?"

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. The way a storm rolls in—inevitable.

"You stole something," he says.

You sigh, dramatically. "I steal a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific."

"You know what I’m talking about."

He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of blue beneath his mask. The kind of dangerous blue that makes your pulse stutter for half a second before you shut it down.

"Give it to me," he says, voice quieter this time.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. "Oh, Bat. You always ask so nicely."

Before he can move, you bolt.

And that’s when the rooftop explodes.

A deafening boom shatters the night, the blast wave knocking you clean off your feet. You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react—your body moves on instinct, twisting midair, boots scraping against the slick rooftop as you skid dangerously close to the edge.

Shit.

The explosion wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you.

You barely have time to register the shift in the air before an arm wraps around your waist—strong, unyielding, and familiar—yanking you backward just as the ledge beneath your feet crumbles.

You don’t fall.

Because he doesn’t let you.

When the smoke clears, you’re half-sprawled against him, one of his arms still locked around your waist, his other hand braced against the rooftop. Your breaths come hard and fast, heart pounding against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

"Well," you huff, dazed but not broken. "Didn’t think you cared, Bat."

His grip tightens—just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"I don’t," he says flatly. But his jaw clenches. "Stay down."

You snort, pushing off of him as you roll onto your feet. "You and I both know that’s not happening."

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. Because whoever just tried to kill you isn’t done.

And they’re not alone.

From the rooftop across the alley, figures emerge from the shadows. Armed. Precise. Waiting.

Batman’s shoulders go rigid. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"They knew you’d be here."

You exhale sharply, adjusting your gloves. "Looks like we’re on the same side tonight, Bat."

The rain slicks the rooftop, turning it into a death trap. But you’ve fought in worse.

Across the alley, four figures move into position. Their weapons gleam under the glow of a distant streetlight—guns, knives, and something that looks an awful lot like a taser baton.

Cute.

Satoru tenses beside you, assessing. Calculating. His voice is low, barely audible over the rain. "Stay behind me."

You scoff, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening."

He doesn’t waste time arguing. Because you’re both outnumbered, because the enemy is moving—because there’s no time to fight each other when you’re about to fight them.

And then—they strike.

One gunshot. Two. You react on instinct, dropping low, twisting away, boots skidding against the rooftop. Batman’s cape flares as he moves—one sharp flick of his wrist, and a batarang slices through the dark, knocking a pistol clean from one of their hands.

Fast and efficient. Classic him.

You? You have your own way of doing things.

The second attacker lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, grab their wrist, twist—the blade clatters to the ground. Before they can react, your elbow smashes into their ribs, sending them stumbling backward with a wheeze.

"Really?" you taunt, dodging another strike. "You came all this way just to embarrass yourselves?"

Batman doesn’t look at you, but you swear you can feel his exasperation.

"Focus."

You grin. "I am focused."

And then you flip over one of the attackers, landing smoothly behind them before slamming them headfirst into a ventilation unit.

Batman exhales sharply. "Could’ve just knocked them out."

"They’ll wake up." You dodge another strike. "Eventually."

More gunfire. Batman twists mid-air, cape flowing like liquid shadow as he dodges the bullets. In the same motion, he grabs your wrist—yanking you forward, pulling you out of the line of fire just as another shot rings out.

You’re so close you can hear his heartbeat.

For half a second, the world shrinks. The rain, the chaos, the rooftop beneath your feet, it all disappears.

It’s just you and him. Breathing the same air.

Then—"Move."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You both explode into motion, flawless in sync. A kick to the ribs. A punch to the jaw. A perfect sweep of your leg sends another attacker sprawling.

It’s fast. Clean. Too easy.

When the last enemy collapses, groaning, you barely break a sweat.

You exhale, shaking out your arms. "Well," you say, breathless. "That was fun."

Satoru glares at you. "This wasn’t a game."

"Could’ve fooled me." You step over one of the unconscious bodies, crouching slightly to pat them down. No ID. No insignia. No obvious ties to the Black Veil.

But then— your fingers brush against something cold. Metal.

Your stomach drops.

A small device is clipped to one of their belts. Black, sleek, with a blinking red light.

Shit.

Your head snaps up. Satoru sees it the same moment you do, his voice is sharp. "Bomb." A soft beep. A single second.

And then— the rooftop blows apart beneath your feet.

Pain.

It drags you back to consciousness, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from deep water. Your body aches, the sharp sting of a fresh wound cutting through the dull throb of bruises.

The last thing you remember—the rooftop. The explosion.

And then—falling.

Your eyes snap open. You’re not on the street. You’re not dead.

Instead, you’re somewhere dimly lit, the soft hum of an old heater filling the silence. A safehouse.

Your head tilts slightly. The room is small—just a battered couch, an old desk, and a half-broken lamp casting flickering shadows against the walls.

And across from you— standing near the door, arms crossed, still in full suit— is Batman.

Gojo.

Watching you.

You shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp pull at your side stops you. That’s when you realize— your suit is torn and your stomach is bandaged, and you sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "Didn’t take you for the hands-on type, Bat."

His jaw ticks. "You were bleeding."

"Aww," you tease, voice still hoarse. "You do care."

He steps closer. The soft glow of the lamp catches the edge of his mask, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders.

"You almost died." His voice is quiet now, lacking its usual smugness. Too honest.

You tilt your head, studying him. Something about the way he’s looking at you feels... different.

Like he hated seeing you like that. Like it unnerved him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick, heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Then—he exhales, stepping back, breaking the moment.

"You need rest," he mutters.

You shift again, testing the pain, biting back a wince. "I need answers."

"You need to not die."

"You didn’t answer my question."

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is sharp, precise. Avoiding something.

"The bomb was a trap. Someone wanted you dead."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I figured that part out, Bat."

He ignores the sarcasm. "Who else knew you’d be at that vault?"

"Just me."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and assessing. Like he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. "Look, I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers about a buyer wanting the drive. But if they’re willing to go that far to kill me for it—"

"—then you’re already in too deep."

There’s something grim in his tone that makes your stomach twist. You study him carefully. His cowl hides most of his face, but you’ve seen him fight, seen him move.

Gojo Satoru is always too confident. Too smug. Like he knows he’s the strongest, the fastest, the smartest in the room.

But right now? Right now, he looks... frustrated.

Not at you. He is frustrated for you and the realization is dangerous.

You push it down and swallow it whole. "Relax, Bat," you say, forcing a smirk. "I still got, what, six lives left?"

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t take the bait. But then your breath catches as he kneels infront of you but you don't move.

You should. You should say something—anything—but you don’t. Because his hands are on you again, pressing carefully against your bandaged side, checking his work.

He’s too close. His touch warm, solid, and careful.

And for the first time, he looks at you—not as an opponent. Not as a thief. But as something else entirely.

The silence stretches and you wish it hadn't because your heart is pounding in a way it isn't supposed to.

And then— he shifts.

You feel it before it happens. The slow lean forward. The weight of his stare. The way your own pulse betrays you, beating too fast, too hard, in the space between you.

Almost—

But then, the moment shatters.

The old radio in the corner crackles to life, static hissing before a voice cuts through. "Breaking news—an attack on Gotham’s financial district just moments ago—"

You blink as he pulls back and you just clear your throat, wanting to push all the wierd thoughts that were clouding your mind right now.

Satoru's expression hardens, as he stands, straightens his suit and steps away. "You stay here," he says, all business again.

You smirk, ignoring the sharp ache in your ribs. "Come on, Bat. You know that’s not happening."

He exhales, long-suffering. "You’re injured."

"And yet I still fight better than half your enemies."

He pauses and stares at you as though you'd said something wrong. Then, finally—a reluctant smirk. "Try to keep up, kitten."

Satoru hadn’t always been like this in the past when you met him. He was obnoxious, full of himself, always eager to show off his strength and speed in front of you. But today—this time—he felt different. For the first time, he seemed genuinely serious. And maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way he spoke, in the way Gotham’s Batman spoke.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with you. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder—what if it did?

Sneaking into Gotham’s financial district isn’t hard. But sneaking in with Batman?

Now that’s a challenge.

You slip through the shadows like you were born for this—because you were. Satoru moves beside you, silent, precise, and still annoyingly smug. You glance at him. "Not bad, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you. "Not trying to impress you, kitten."

Liar.

The building looms ahead, dark and empty except for the guards patrolling the perimeter. "Twelve," you murmur, already counting. "Four on the roof, two at the entrance, six inside."

He hums. "I’ll take the roof. You take the inside."

You grin. "Awfully trusting, Bat."

"If you get caught, I’m not saving you."

You both know that’s a lie.

Getting in is easy. Getting to the main office where the stolen drive is hidden? Even easier. You’re already at the vault, fingers working over the lock, when— you hear footsteps.

Shit.

You whirl around, but it’s too late—one of the guards spots you. The alarm blares.

"Dammit," you hiss, already moving, flipping over the desk as more guards storm in. You could take them. You should take them. It's really easy for you actually.

But before you even get the chance— a blur of black crashes through the skylight. Batman lands hard, cape billowing, taking down two guards before his boots even hit the floor.

You blink. "Show-off."

"You’re welcome," he mutters, throwing a punch.

It’s a blur of fists, kicks, and electricity. You move too well together, too in sync. It’s not just skill—it’s instinct. Every time you dodge, he’s already covering your blind spot. Every time he moves, you’re already reading his next step.

It’s flawless. It’s deadly. It’s perfect but— a bit too much. At some point, you end up back-to-back. Panting, bruised and your adrenaline spiking.

His voice is low, breathless. "You good?"

You swallow hard because you shouldn’t be this affected. You shouldn't be affected by anything he says or he does because you don't care, right?

"Always."

And then— a hand grips your wrist. It was a guard you didn’t see. You twist your hand, ready to counter, but before you can, Batman moves first.

Fast. Too fast.

His hand grips the front of your suit—yanking you forward, spinning you behind him as he slams the attacker into the wall with enough force to shake the room.

With a loud thud, the guy drops instantly and you hear nothing but the silence that is lingering in the air. The only sound is your breath and his, his hand still gripping your suit, still holding you.

You look up at him and find him already watching you. He’s too close for your liking. Or is he?

His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in steady yet controlled breaths, and his grip on you remains firm. Your pulse slams against your ribs. There’s something in the air—something that shifts, pulling both of you in. You feel it. And so does he.

You hate this. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. But the truth is, you can’t stop it. It’s happening, inevitable and inescapable. This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is something else entirely. And this time, no one interrupts. No radio crackling to life, no explosions in the distance, no convenient excuse to look away.

It’s just you. Him. And a choice.

Before you can even pull yourself back, before your mind can fully grasp the situation, Satoru makes the decision for you. He yanks you forward, his lips crashing onto yours, his mask half-pulled up—just like yours. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer.

And despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t—you kiss him back.

Your back slams against cold metal, the impact sending a shiver down your spine—not that you can focus on it. Not when he’s leaning in, fingers curling into your suit, pulling, pressing, taking.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until it’s too late. Until your hands are in his hair, gripping, tugging, dragging him closer. Until his weight is the only thing keeping you upright.

The vault. The alarms. The entire damn mission—forgotten. Because all you can think about is—

This is dangerous. This is a mistake. This is—

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips.

And then— he pulls back, barely.

His breath is ragged, his gloved hand still firm on your jaw, his eyes burning with something wild, like he can’t believe he just did that or like he can’t believe he wants to do it again.

The silence between you crackles like a live wire.

Then he swallows. “We can’t—”

You shove him off. Hard.

Your body still hums from his touch, your lips still tingling, your pulse betraying you. But you don’t let any of it show. Instead, you smirk, sharp as a blade.

“Didn’t know the Bat had such bad impulse control.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the exact moment he chooses denial. The way his walls snap back into place like steel reinforcements.

His mask comes down. His voice turns cold. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now, the line between you is blurred beyond recognition. Because now, you know what he tastes like. Because now, everything has changed.

And there’s no undoing it.

Gotham’s elite love to party.

It’s how they distract themselves from the fact that their city is rotting beneath them.

Big money, expensive champagne, and a ballroom filled with people who don’t care about anything but themselves.

It’s your kind of scene.

A place where no one notices a missing diamond necklace. Where a stolen keycard goes unreported. Where masks are more than just accessories.

And yet— tonight, you’re not here to steal. Tonight, you're here for him.

It had been a few days since that night—since everything that happened between you and Satoru. Or Batman.

Now, another party was being thrown by Gotham’s elite, and of course, Batman had been invited. And, of course, you had to see him again.

It felt awkward.

Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, that kiss had meant something. To both of you. And you didn’t want it to.

You wanted to talk to him like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever would happen again. Right?

You wanted to tell him it was just the adrenaline, just the chaos of that night, nothing more. That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be.

Gojo Satoru feels you before he sees you.

A shift in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

And then— you walk in, dressed to kill.

Silk. Black. Dangerous. A slit running high up your thigh, the soft glint of diamonds resting against your collarbone.

And when your gaze meets his across the ballroom— his throat goes dry.

Because he hasn’t seen you since the kiss. Because you’re smiling like it never happened. Because the second you do— you turn away, and walk straight into another man’s arms.

You feel his stare before you even see him. It lingers on your skin, heavy and unrelenting, like a touch without contact. But you don’t look. Not yet.

Instead, you let the man beside you—some rich idiot with more money than sense—pull you closer, his hand brushing over your waist, his breath warm as he leans in.

"You look exquisite tonight," he murmurs, voice smooth, practiced.

You hum, barely interested. "I know." And still, you feel him.

Watching. Brooding. Jealous. Exactly as you wanted.

So when you finally turn—when your gaze finally locks onto his across the crowded ballroom—you make sure to smirk.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But you know better. He didn’t leave. Not really.

So when you step outside onto the balcony, the cool Gotham night air brushing against your skin, you’re not surprised to find him already there. He stands by the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed, fingers curled around a glass of untouched champagne.

His mask is gone, but his walls? Higher than ever.

You exhale slowly as you step closer, watching him carefully. "Didn’t take you for the jealous type, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "I’m not."

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Could’ve fooled me."

Silence settles between you, thick with unspoken words and something else, something heavier. The tension coils between you like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

And then, you break it.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you say, your voice quieter now.

His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t shift. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"Maybe," you admit. A small smirk tugs at your lips as you step even closer. "Or maybe I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not how this works, kitten."

"Then how does it work?" Your voice is softer now, your gaze steady. "Because last I checked, you kissed me."

His breath hitches, barely audible.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

And then— you’re against the railing, his hand is on your waist, his grip firm, fingers pressing against the silk of your dress as if anchoring himself in place. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and edged with something dangerous.

"It was a mistake," he murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind the words.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because you already know.

And when his grip tightens on your waist, when his breath ghosts over your lips, you can see it—the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

You could kiss him right now. It would be easy. He’s already too close. His body is practically caging you in, his presence overwhelming. His fingers press into your waist like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath his touch. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

And you know he wants it. Because he hasn’t moved away. Because his grip keeps tightening, like he’s fighting himself but losing the battle.

Because when you whisper, "What are you so afraid of, Bat?" his lips part—like he’s about to answer.

Like he’s about to give in. Like this is finally it.

And then— "We’ve got a problem." The comm in his ear crackles to life, shattering the moment.

Just like that, his entire body stiffens. The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold, something distant. You watch it happen—the exact second he shuts down. The moment he remembers who he is. Who you are. What this is.

His hand falls away. His walls slam back up.

When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of whatever had been lingering between you just seconds ago. "I have to go."

You don’t let it show—the disappointment, the frustration curling inside your chest, the ache you don’t want to name. Instead, you force a smirk, tilting your head slightly.

"Duty calls, huh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "Always."

And with that— he’s gone.

But there's always a problem. You should've known this was a setup. You should have left the party the second he walked away.

You should have ignored the champagne, the meaningless conversations, and the empty laughter echoing through the ballroom. You should have disappeared into the night before anyone had the chance to notice.

But you didn’t. And now, you are paying for it.

The moment you step out the back entrance and into the dimly lit alleyway, something slams into you with brutal force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you stumbling. Before you can react, a sharp sting pierces the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs instantly as your body feels heavy and unsteady. The world tilts beneath you as you struggle to stay upright, but your limbs refuse to cooperate.

Through the haze, a voice reaches your ears, low and amused. "Nighty night, kitty."

Darkness swallows you whole.

"Say that again."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Shoko hesitates over the comms. "She’s missing. No one’s seen her since the party. Word on the street is—"

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. He is already moving. His mind is no longer in the conversation. His focus sharpens, narrowing in on a single, undeniable truth.

Someone took you. And that changes everything.

This isn’t part of the game you and he have played for years. This isn’t the usual chase through Gotham’s streets, the endless dance of pursuit and escape. This isn’t teasing smirks and near-missed captures.

This is something else, something darker.

Someone dared to take you, and that is a very, very big problem.

Because you are his to chase. Because no one else gets to touch you. Because if they have hurt you— he will burn this entire fucking city to the ground.

Pain is the first thing you register. The feeling's not new at all though.

A dull, throbbing ache pulses behind your eyes, heavy and unrelenting. A sharp sting burns at your wrists where the rope digs into your skin. Cold metal presses against your ankles, the bite of steel cuffs locking you in place.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself as the haze begins to clear. You’re tied to a chair.

The air is thick with the scent of damp concrete, musty and stale, like an old basement that hasn't seen fresh air in years. A single lightbulb flickers overhead, its dim glow casting long, shifting shadows against the cracked walls.

You take a slow breath and assess your surroundings.

You’re underground. Maybe an abandoned warehouse. Maybe a storage facility. Wherever you are, it's hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

And whoever took you here—they know what they’re doing.

You flex your fingers, testing the restraints, but before you can shift too much, a voice cuts through the silence.

"Ah, you��re awake."

The words are smooth, laced with amusement, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an entertaining inconvenience to him.

Your eyes snap toward the source of the voice, adjusting to the dim light, and when you finally see him, irritation flares in your chest.

Fushiguro Toji.

You let out a slow breath, biting back a groan. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. "Surprised, kitty?"

"Annoyed," you correct, rolling your shoulders against the ropes. "Didn’t think I was worth your time."

He chuckles, dark amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Oh, you weren’t. But then I heard about your little… situation with Gotham’s Bat."

The words are casual, but your stomach twists.

You don’t react. You don’t tense. You don’t let the flicker of unease show on your face. Instead, you arch a brow and smirk. "Didn’t know he had fans."

"I wouldn’t call myself a fan," Toji muses, tilting his head. "But I do love a good weakness. And you, sweetheart?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re his."

Your heart skips just for a second.

But you keep your expression neutral because he’s wrong.

Right?

Right.

Right.

…Right?

Gojo finds the first guy in ten minutes.

The second in five.

By the time he gets to the third, his knuckles are already bloodied, bruises forming across his fingers from the force of his hits.

The man stumbles back, pressing himself against the brick wall, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. "I-I don’t know where they took her, I swear—"

Gojo’s expression is unreadable beneath his blindfold, but his voice is ice. "Where."

It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.

The man chokes, scrambling for words. "P-please, man, I just heard they took her underground—"

That’s all Gojo needs.

His fingers loosen, and the man collapses to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. But Gojo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone. Because he’s close. Because they took you from him. Because they think they can keep you.

And they’re about to learn just how wrong they are.

You won’t let him see you sweat.

Not when the ropes burn against your wrists, cutting into your skin with every twitch of your fingers. Not when your head pounds from whatever the hell they drugged you with, the fog in your brain refusing to lift. Not even when Fushiguro Toji leans in, eyes dark with amusement, the sharp glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light.

He’s enjoying this.

Enjoying the way your muscles tense when the blade spins between his fingers. Enjoying the way your gaze flickers toward the door, toward the single exposed bulb swaying overhead.

Enjoying the way you’re waiting for something.

Or rather, someone.

"What’s wrong, kitty?" he murmurs, the cold edge of steel pressing against your cheek. "Thought your Bat would’ve come for you by now?"

Your lips curl into a smirk, masking the way your stomach coils with unease. "What, jealous?"

Toji chuckles, low and amused, before his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His grip is firm—not cruel, but controlling. A predator playing with his food.

"Nah," he muses. "Just curious how long it’s gonna take him to break."

Your stomach tightens because if there’s one thing you know about Gojo Satoru, it’s this— he doesn’t break.

He shatters. And when he does— he takes everything down with him.

Gojo hears your heartbeat before he sees you. He has some sirt of a bat instinct, you see.

Faint. Steady. Alive.

That’s the only thing keeping him from ripping this place apart.

But the moment he steps inside—the moment his eyes land on you, tied to that fucking chair, with Toji crouched in front of you like a wolf toying with its prey—something inside him snaps.

"Step away from her." His voice is quiet and deadly. The kind of voice that promises violence.

Toji doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he grins, spinning his knife between his fingers. "Took you long enough, Bat."

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. "This is your only warning."

Toji finally turns, his sharp green eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Or what?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then—he smiles. "Or I’ll show you why Gotham is afraid of the dark."

You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen the way he moves—quick, calculated, precise.

But this? This is different. This isn’t the controlled Bat, this isn’t the patient hunter.

This is Gojo Satoru with nothing left to hold back. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s not just fighting Toji.

He’s dismantling him.

A fist meets flesh with a sickening, brutal crack. Toji throws a punch—Gojo catches his wrist mid-air, twisting hard enough that the snap of bone echoes through the empty warehouse.

Toji grits his teeth, lunges—Gojo moves faster, dodging with ease before slamming him into the concrete so hard the ground cracks beneath them. There’s no banter. No smirk. No teasing.

There’s just rage.

And the worst part? Gojo is enjoying it. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is everything.

This is Gotham. The corruption. The powerlessness.

This is every ounce of anger he’s swallowed down for years, unleashed on the one bastard stupid enough to give him an excuse and if you don’t stop him now— he won’t stop at all.

"Satoru." Your voice barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears.

But the second you say his name—his real name— he freezes.

Fist still curled in Toji’s bloodied collar. Breath coming in slow, heavy exhales. Shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury.

And then, slowly—he turns. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, they flicker—from Gotham’s Bat to the man underneath. That’s all you need.

"Let him go."

Gojo stares at you, unmoving, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath—he lets Toji’s unconscious body drop to the ground. The tension in his frame lingers, coiled tight, but his steps are steady as he moves toward you. The anger is still there. The darkness. The weight of everything he just did.

But his hands are gentle when they find the ropes binding your wrists.

"Let’s get you out of here."

The silence is suffocating.

You should be grateful though. The moment he cut you loose, he got you out—carried you through Gotham’s backstreets, made sure you weren’t followed. Now, you’re in a hidden safehouse—one of his, no doubt—sitting on an old couch, trying to ignore the dull ache in your wrists.

And him? He’s in the bathroom. Avoiding you.

You hear the water running, the steady drip of blood swirling down the sink. You should leave, you should run. But you don’t. Because you’re not done with him yet.

But for him it keeps replaying in his head. The way you said it.

'"Satoru."'

Not Batman. Not Bats. Not some teasing, smug nickname meant to piss him off. Just his name.

Like you knew exactly what it meant to use it. Like you knew it would break him.

His knuckles sting as he washes off the blood. He should have killed Toji. He should have— no.

No, he shouldn’t have let you get this close. He grips the edge of the sink, eyes burning into his reflection. He can’t want this. He can’t want you.

But then—a creak of the floorboard, a shift in the air. He doesn’t need to turn around to know you’re standing in the doorway. And when you speak— he already knows he’s fucked.

"Let me see your hands."

He doesn’t move, neither does he look at you. But he also doesn’t stop you when you step forward and reach for his hand. The bruises are already blooming, dark and angry across his knuckles.

You should say something sharp—something to piss him off, make him smirk, drag him back into whatever stupid game you’ve been playing for years. But for once, you don’t want to play.

"You could’ve killed him," your voice is quiet.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I should have."

"That’s not who you are," you say as you caress the back of his hand.

That makes him snap.

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. "You don’t know who I am."

But you don’t let go.

You squeeze his hand—challenging. "Then tell me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and you feel frustrated.

And then, softer—barely a breath. "You don’t want to know."

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, coiling around your throat like a noose.

His hand is still in yours, bruised and warm, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to pull away.

Or worse—hold on tighter.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe— maybe this isn’t something you have to fight. Maybe this doesn’t have to be another battle, another game of pushing and pulling until one of you finally lets go.

Maybe— but then his grip tightens, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse. "You should leave."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You force yourself to smile, to tilt your head like this is nothing, like you aren’t standing on the edge of something that could shatter you completely.

"So that’s it?" you murmur, fingers tracing absent patterns along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath your touch. "I almost die, you almost lose your mind, and now you’re just gonna pretend none of it happened?"

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing, but he doesn’t pull away. "It can’t happen."

You scoff. "Can’t, or won’t?"

He exhales sharply, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this something it isn’t."

Anger flickers hot in your chest, and this time, it’s you who tightens your grip. "And what exactly is this, Satoru?"

He doesn’t answer and that’s the worst part. Because you can take a fight. You can take sharp words and heated arguments, can take anger and fire and frustration.

But this? This silence? This refusal to even acknowledge what’s between you? This is what fucking hurts.

You shake your head, laughing bitterly as you finally drop his hand. "You know, for someone who always acts like he’s got all the answers, you really are a fucking coward."

Then you turn. And this time, you walk away first.

He lets you walk away, though he shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Because if he stops you—if he says anything else, if he gives in even an inch— he won’t be able to stop himself at all.

He won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you back, from letting himself want this, want you, from letting himself believe that there could ever be a world where this doesn't end in disaster.

So he lets you go. He stays in that goddamn bathroom, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white, staring at his own reflection like it’ll give him an answer he doesn’t already fucking know.

Because he knows.

He knows that no matter how many times he tells himself to stay away, no matter how many times he buries it— it’s still there.

It’s been there for years. And now? Now it’s unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. Because the moment you walked away? He felt it.

The weight in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to take it back, to do something—

And fuck.

Fuck.

He slams his fist into the mirror before he can stop himself, glass shattering beneath his skin, pain blooming sharp and hot across his knuckles. He doesn’t even feel it. Because all he can think about—all he can fucking think about— is you. And that’s when he knows. This is it. This is the breaking point.

Because the second something happens—the second something puts you in danger again, the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way— he won’t be able to stop himself.

And this time? He won’t fucking try.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

You tell yourself you should be used to it by now—used to the push and pull, used to the way he always leaves first, used to the way you always let him.

But this time? This time, it feels different.

This time, it feels like something inside you has been cracked open, exposed, left bleeding in the space between you. This time, you were the one who walked away—and it still fucking hurts.

Because the truth is— you wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to prove you wrong. But he didn’t.

And that? That fucking stings.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples, eyes fluttering shut as you try to push it down, try to shove it deep, deep, deep beneath the surface where it can’t touch you anymore.

But the second you open your eyes, the second you see your reflection in the grimy window of your apartment—

You know. You know this isn’t over, because no matter how hard you try to run from it— it always brings you back to him.

You were lost in your thoughts, more like consumed by them that you forgot. You're Catwoman. You're in the freaking city of Gotham. You should've known. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re walking down the empty streets of Gotham, the cool night air biting at your skin, the weight of earlier still sitting heavy in your chest—

And the next? You’re surrounded.

Shadows slip out from the alleys, footsteps closing in, voices murmuring in low, amused tones. "Look what we have here…"

"Thought you were untouchable, sweetheart?"

Shit.

You recognize them instantly—Falcone’s men. Which means this isn’t a random attack. This is a message, a warning. A consequence for getting too close to Gotham’s Bat.

You bite back a curse, hands twitching at your sides, muscles tensing as you count the men, assess the distance, calculate your odds.

Four—maybe five. Armed? Most likely. A fight you could win? …Not without consequences.

But what other choice do you have? Because you already know— no one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Satoru feels it before he hears it.

It’s instinct.

A sharp, sudden shift in his chest, a gut-wrenching pull like something inside him is being ripped apart. Then— the comm buzzes.

"We got a situation." Nanami’s voice is clipped, urgent. "Falcone’s men. Five of them. Near Harbor Street."

And before he can even think—before he can stop himself—he’s already moving. Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

You don’t go down easy. They think they’ve already won. They think this will be easy.

They think you’re just a pretty little thief, just a girl who got in too deep, just another lesson to be taught. And that’s their first mistake. Because you don’t go down easy.

You move before they do—a sharp kick, a twist, a knife pulled from your belt and pressed to the throat of the closest man before he can even blink.

"Try it," you hiss, voice laced with venom.

He hesitates, and in that second, you know—you have an opening.

But then— a gun cocks.

And a voice—low, amused, familiar—cuts through the night like a blade. "Tsk. Always making things difficult, aren’t you, kitten?"

Your blood runs cold because you know that voice.

Suguru Geto.

And that? That changes everything.

You’ve honestly been in worse situations. But not many.

Not ones that make your stomach twist quite like this, not ones that make your pulse hammer against your ribs in something too sharp, too visceral, too close to fear. Because this isn’t just anyone. This isn’t some low-level thug. This isn’t even some mob boss looking to put you in your place. This is Suguru Geto.

And he doesn’t waste his time on small threats. No, when he moves, when he speaks, when he smiles—it means something.

"You’ve been causing quite the stir lately," he muses, stepping closer, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "Getting on the Bat’s good side, stepping on all the wrong toes—really, kitten, I expected better from you."

You force your grip to stay steady, the knife still pressed against the throat of the man you caught off guard.

"Flattered, really," you say, keeping your voice light, like your pulse isn’t hammering, like your fingers aren’t itching to grab your grapple and run. "Didn’t think I’d be important enough to warrant a visit from the great Suguru Geto himself."

He chuckles—low, smooth, condescending. "Oh, you’re important," he says. "Just not in the way you think."

Your jaw tightens. "Yeah? Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already figured out. "Because," he hums, "you have something that belongs to me."

The USB.

Shit.

Your grip on the knife falters for half a second—half a second too long. Because before you can react, before you can process, before you can even think— The man you were holding twists, shoving you off, the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your ribs before you can recover.

And just like that— you’re out of options.

Satoru's close.

Close enough that he can hear the words, close enough that he can hear your fucking pulse spike.

And that? That’s what does it. Because it’s one thing to be reckless. It’s one thing to be stubborn, to push him away, to insist that you don’t need him, that you can handle yourself.

But this? This is different because Geto doesn’t make idle threats.

And the second Gojo hears the sharp intake of your breath, the second he hears the shift of movement, the second he realizes exactly what’s happening— he moves. Fast. Too fast for them to react.

Because one second, Geto is smirking, enjoying his little game— and the next? He’s eating pavement.

Satoru doesn't hold back. He could, he should. But he doesn’t.

Because the second he sees that gun against your ribs, the second he sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flicker with something you never let anyone see— it’s over.

The first punch sends Geto flying. The second cracks something, leaves him coughing up blood.

The third? That one’s personal.

Because Gojo has been patient. He’s let things slide, let lines blur, let the underworld think he’s just another player in the game. But this? This is different. This is you. And that? That changes everything.

You've seen his fight countless times, but not like this. Not like he’s tearing through them without a second thought, not like he’s this close to losing control, not like the only thing keeping him from going too far is the fact that you’re standing right there.

It should scare you.

It should make you rethink everything, should remind you why you’ve always kept your distance, why you’ve always told yourself you couldn’t afford to get caught up in whatever the hell is between you. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think, as you watch him break Geto’s men like they’re nothing— is that he came. That you didn’t even call for him, and he still fucking came.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and Geto is left bloody and laughing on the pavement, when Gojo finally turns to you, breath ragged, knuckles split, eyes burning— you don’t run. You don’t even flinch.

Because you know what this means. What it’s always meant. And maybe—maybe this time, neither of you will walk away first.

You really think you should stop this. You should. You should shove him away, should tell him this doesn’t change anything, should remind yourself why this is a bad idea, why this has always been a bad idea.

But when his fingers curl around your wrist, when he tugs you closer, when his breath ghosts over your lips— you don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe. Because this isn’t like before.

This isn’t a game, isn’t a moment either of you will walk away from, isn’t something that can be brushed aside when the night is over. This is the point of no return.

And when he finally, finally closes the distance— you let him.

Because maybe—just maybe—you were never meant to run from him in the first place. It was always going to be you, always.

From the moment you first slipped past his defenses, from the moment you first met his gaze across the rooftops of Gotham, from the moment you first left him standing there with nothing but your name on his tongue and your laughter ringing in his ears— it was always going to be you.

And now? Now, with you in his arms, with your fingers tangled in his hair, with your taste on his lips, he knows there’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.

Because if Gotham is his curse, if the mask is his burden, if the weight of this city is something he’ll never escape— then you? You're the only thing that’s ever made it worth it. And for once, just once—he’s taking what he wants.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him, where it all began.

The city glows beneath you. The skyline stretches out, endless and alive, neon lights flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of Gotham’s heartbeat steady and unyielding.

It’s always been like this. Always moving. Always demanding. Always taking. And you? You’ve always been running.

But tonight? Tonight, you stand still. Because Gojo is in front of you, mask off, white hair ruffled by the wind, the cut on his lip still fresh from the fight, his eyes— those damn blue eyes—locked onto yours like he’s trying to memorize you, like he already knows what’s coming.

"So this is it, huh?" he says, voice low, rough.

You swallow hard, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Bat. You knew it wouldn’t last."

His jaw clenches. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You step closer, tilting your head. "You’ll live."

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to say something—something real, something that might make you stay— but you can’t let him.

So you reach up, fingers barely brushing his jaw, a ghost of a touch, a silent goodbye.

"Goodbye, Batman," you whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be. "Gotham needs you."

For a second, just a second—you think that’s it. That he’ll let you go. That he’ll watch you disappear into the night like you always do.

But then— his hand catches yours. Tightly. Desperately. And when he speaks, when his voice finally breaks— it nearly stops you in your tracks.

"Why don’t you stay, Cat?" he murmurs, raw, unguarded, everything. "I need you."

Your breath catches as your heart lurches. Because that—that’s the one thing you weren’t ready for. But you force a smirk, even as your chest aches.

"That’s your problem, Bat." You squeeze his hand once, just once—before slipping free. "You’re not supposed to." You pause and for once give him a big genuine smile. "See ya later batman."

And with that— you step back and you turn, as you disappear into the night, like you always do.

Because Gotham needs him. And maybe he was never meant to need you.

@do-morochaa @madamechrissy @katthekat1234 (hope y'all like it😭💗)

[relia-robot-writes]

I'll fuckin do it pal don't tempt me

---

"Number three reactor's going critical! Repeat, cascade event imminent! Clear the bay!"

"Eject, 43!"

"Negative, command." 43 wiped blood from her eyes as she watched the countdown on the monitor tick. "There's still time to get it under control, but I have to be here to do that." There was an awful crunching noise from her left leg, the mechanisms finally failing after the beating they'd taken. 43 howled in agony as the force-feedback sensors let her know just how bad it was. She stopped for a moment, hunched and panting at the controls, sweat and blood dripping off her chin. She spat, and adjusted her reactor dials to give herself another precious handful of moments. She dragged herself forward, through a haze of pain and half-heard shouting over the comms. The lip of the bay turned out to be too much, and she collapsed, a long, drawn-out process she felt every inch of. Darkness pulled at her vision, and she tried to blink it away, to will herself to get back up, keep the reactor stable. She heard the sounds of laser cutters, and then suddenly there were hands all over her, disconnecting the force feedback systems, smearing the blood and oil she was covered in, tearing her hands off the controls. She fought back, kicking and screaming, desperate to get back to the monitor, to keep the countdown from finishing just a moment longer-

It stopped. "REACTOR STABILIZED," read the screen. "TIME REMAINING BEFORE MELTDOWN" was paused at 0:03.

43 collapsed, allowed herself to be pulled away, made small again. After some amount of time which might have been seconds or could have been years, a hand reached down to pull her chin up.

"You look like hell, 43."

43 tried to stumble to her feet, to salute, but only managed to fall off the chair onto her knees. Behind her handler, the ground crew was spraying coolant foam at the reactor casing they'd pulled out of her. A crane had been enlisted to move her shattered leg so the bay door could close properly, and the ground crew was already cutting and pulling at the twisted mass of metal that had been her left arm. 43 blinked, hard, and rubbed her biological left arm, trying to restore feeling to it.

Her handler ran her fingers through 43's hair. "You've had a rough day," she cooed at her. "Let's get you patched up, and then you can get your reward."

43 shivered.

---

The med room was bright - far too bright, after the warm soft red lighting of the cockpit - but the checkup didn't take long. Some dermis sealant for the lacerations taken when the cockpit caved in on her, and every other wound was psychological. Her leg still dragged behind her, and she had to remind herself not to hobble.

Her handler met her at the exit, holding a package. "Hit the showers, 43. You've earned it. I got you something to wear," (43 looked down at her flight suit, stained with every kind of fluid and sliced half to ribbons) "so meet me in the larboard lounge when you're done."

43's heart skipped a beat as she accepted the package. Larboard lounge? That was only a two-person space, nicknamed "lover's lounge" by the crew. What did her hander want from her there?

The shower, at least, was a godsend. The waters ran black, then burnt red, and finally, eventually, white with suds. 43's hair was short by necessity, but it felt like it had been caked with thick mud. Warm water ran over her, relaxing tense muscles and reminding her that she was in this body, here, at least for now. The package turned out to contain a luxuriously soft towel and, of all things, a set of soft green cotton pajamas, with slippers. 43 slipped them on and threw her old flight suit straight into the waste recycler.

She made her way to Larboard lounge, unsure of what to do. Should she... unbutton her top? A little? Was her handler expecting her to... or would she... 43 was red in the face thinking about the possibilities. It had never happened to her, but, she'd heard stories of... fraternization. Did she want that? Did she have a choice? And why these pajamas?

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she went right past the lounge. A hand on her shoulder caught her. "Hey, 43, you missed!"

Visions of leather and lace boiled up in 43's head as she slowly turned to see her handler... in the standard base uniform. Her handler was pretty, she thought, looking at her face, barely blinking, barely breathing. What now?

"43? You okay?" Her handler gave her a concerned look. "I got something for you, but if you're not up to it..."

43 shook her head, trying to clear cobwebs, embarrassment, fatigue, and the echoes of flashing reactor alarms all at once. "No, Ma'am! I- I'm fine!"

Her handler gave her a look 43 couldn't decipher, her head still half-full of fog, but dropped it. "Here," she said, steering 43 into the lounge. "This will be good for you."

Inside, 43 expected to find - well, she wasn't certain. Whips and chains? A school desk? A simple cot? All wrong, it seemed. Instead, there was a small table, set for two, and a lavish spread - real strawberries, fried protein rations arranged delicately, an artfully twisted nest of long noodles in a sauce that smelled of garlic and herbs, and a few other things set aside under metal domes for later. 43's stomach growled, and she blinked. "Wha?"

Her handler pulled out a chair for her and placed her hand on her shoulder to help her sit down. "Tada! I've been saving this stuff for a special occasion."

43 was at a loss for words as her handler sat down across the table from her. She managed to recover her tongue, but could only think to say one thing: "Why?"

"Why not?"

"I- I failed the mission, is why not! I didn't secure the objective, I got shot up so bad it'll take weeks to refit me - it - whatever! I lost everything! I should be punished, not-" 43 stopped, a hot feeling buzzing behind her eyes.

Her handler got up, walked to her side, kneeled down, and took her hand. "You came back," she said, softly. "That's worth celebrating."

43 resisted for a moment, then broke down sobbing onto her handler's shoulder. Her handler held her for a long time.

Eventually, she pulled back, and her handler offered her a handkerchief. 43 blew her nose, and then looked at her handler again. "Oh, your uniform..."

She waved off the comment. "I've got others. Let's eat, before it gets cold."

43 took a bite, and it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

[antinousletmehit]

im screaming after your odyssey!telemachus and epic!telemachus drabble could we pretty please get relationship hcs for odyssey!telemachus 😭

—-Getting Into a Relationship with Him

🐺—Telemachus is not the type to fall in love easily. He’s too prideful, too stubborn, and too convinced that emotions make a man weak. If he likes you, he’ll be in denial for a long time. He’d start off as annoyingly dismissive of his own feelings, scowling when you’re around, scoffing at any sign of affection, and acting like he’s above whatever nonsense he’s feeling.

🐺—When he finally does realize he’s into you, he won’t confess like a normal person. Instead, he’ll just claim you, standing a little too close, scaring off potential “competition”, and treating you like you’re already his before you even agree to it.

🐺—-He gets jealous so fast. Some poor soul so much as looks at you the wrong way, and suddenly Telemachus is cracking his knuckles like he’s about to start a war. 🐺—-The first time he actually expresses his feelings, it’s probably after a fight. He’s frustrated, you’re frustrated, and before you know it, he’s grabbing you by the wrist, gritting out, “Do you think I’d let anyone else have you? Do you think I’d let you go?”

🐺—- Congratulations! You’re now in a relationship with the most arrogant, stubborn, and unbearably possessive prince of Ithaca.

—Being in a Relationship with Him

🐺— Telemachus is very protective, to an almost overbearing degree. He has to know where you are at all times, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust anyone else. He’s also smothering in his own way. He won’t outright say “I love you,” but he’ll do things like draping his cloak over your shoulders, walking you to your chambers, or standing between you and any potential threats.

🐺—- He’s picky about who you spend time with. Antinous? Hell no. That slimy bastard would hit on you in a second. Other suitors? Dead before they can blink. His mother? Fine. But only because she doesn’t see you like that.

🐺— He gets so smug when you show him affection. Kiss his cheek? He smirks. Hold his hand? He smirks. Tell him you love him? He’s insufferable for days.

🐺—- But when it’s just the two of you, when no one else is watching, he softens, just a little. He’ll rest his forehead against yours

🐺—- He acts like he’s the dominant one in the relationship, but if you really wanted to, you could get him to do anything. Bat your lashes, give him a sweet look, and suddenly this tough, arrogant prince is grumbling but doing exactly what you asked him to.

—-Arguments with Him

🐺—-Oh, you will argue. A lot.

🐺— He has an attitude, and he’s not afraid to use it. He’ll get all defensive, arms crossed, voice sharp, and gods forbid you try to walk away, he’ll grab your wrist and make you finish the conversation.

🐺— If it’s a serious fight, he’ll get broody and sulk for hours, arms crossed, jaw tight, completely refusing to admit he was wrong. But if you’re genuinely upset, if you turn away from him or try to leave for real, his pride shatters. He grabs you, pulls you against him, and grits out an apology like it physically pains him to say it.

🐺— “Fine. I’m sorry…just please don’t leave” (He will never say that in front of anyone else.)

—-Physical Affection

🐺— He acts like he doesn’t care about it in public, but the second you two are alone, he demands your attention.

🐺—- “Come here,” he’ll say, opening his arms expectantly. If you don’t immediately comply, he’ll just pull you into his lap himself.

🐺—- If he’s feeling particularly possessive, he’ll wrap an arm around your waist in front of everyone, just to make sure they know you’re his. He lives for back scratches and hair playing, but he’ll never admit it. Run your fingers through his hair while he’s resting, and suddenly he’s all soft and pliant, blinking up at you like a cat in the sun.

🐺— He kisses with purpose. He doesn’t do light pecks, no, he kisses like he’s claiming you, like he wants to leave an impression, like he’s making damn sure you never forget who you belong to.

🐺— If you ever tease him by pulling away too soon, he will chase after your lips, muttering a “Don’t start something you can’t finish, woman.”

Bonus: If Someone Else Likes You

🐺—- Bad news for them.

🐺— Telemachus doesn’t share. He doesn’t tolerate rivals. If someone flirts with you, he’ll either shut it down immediately or (if he’s feeling particularly violent) break their nose.

🐺—“What? He looked at you wrong.”

🐺—-If he catches you smiling at another man, even innocently, he’ll get pissy. He won’t start a fight right away, but later that night, he’ll pin you against the nearest surface and growl, “Do I need to remind you who you’re gonna be married to?”

🐺— If anyone actually confesses to you in front of him, gods help them. Telemachus will drag you away, glaring over his shoulder like he’s seconds away from starting a war.

@sunshinewhosketches since you asked for a similar thing.

[midnight-bay-if]

Saw an ask where what would the ROs react to a possessed MC. But what if the role were reversed, what would the ROs react if they were the one possessed and only managed to break out of it after they badly hurt the MC..

(I know you said 'badly hurt', but I didn't have the heart to write the ROs badly hurting MC, even if by accident. Umbra, for one, would never recover from such a mistake. But I had fun writing what the ROs see during possession. Hopefully, it will provide some useful insights.)

S: Their mind had been ticking like a clock; predictable, dependable, fast but organised. Then, a flash of light, and suddenly, they are unable to linger on a single cohesive thought. They tunnel vision on what lies ahead, on what they see... Rain, Taj, MC... all of them lying broken and bloodied. A howl of agony forces its way through their lungs as their legs push them forward.

How?! How could they have missed this? They should have prepared better - planned more thoroughly; what is the point in them if they cannot even protect the people they love?! They do not possess Rain's magic, Umbra and Taj's agility, nor N's strength; their brain is all they have.

"S! I'm right here! Whatever you're seeing; it's not real!"

The words sound muffled, distant, as if screamed through a pillow. But it sounds like MC. How? I see them... standing right in front of me... oh, god, no. They are so bloodied, so broken... I have to get closer, I have to reach them.

They feel a force pulling them back, ripping at their clothes to keep them away from their friends. The only explanation is that the evil that broke their friends has come to finish the job. So, they lash out and swing around with their fist to dislodge the menace from their person.

But now they hear it clearer. "Ouch! For goodness sake, S, it's me!"

MC.

They blink, and the black shutters that had separated reality from dream separate. They see you upright, alive and wonderful... holding a bloodied nose. "Darling!" They no longer care for propriety and immediately encase you in the tightest hug the left of their strength can manage. "I thought you dead." They pull away long enough to assess the damage. "I am so sorry, my love... I--"

"I'm fine. We're all fine."

They are. They are alive. All of them, alive. And S finally feels as if they can breathe.

Rain: They see home. More than that, they see it whole. How long has it been since they saw the river flowing through lines of crystal or heard the deafening waterfall glinting in the sun's rays? They kneel down beside the flowerbeds, desperate to inhale the familiar scent.

In the blink of an eye, the pleasant sun rays morph into a molten inferno. Fire rages around them, and the pleasant rain turns into a blood-red storm. Rain feels their porcelain heart, already cracked, shatter inside their chest. They want it to stop; they need it to stop.

"No! Stop! Ma! Pa! Where are you?!"

Their lungs with the intensity of their screams, but there's no answer amongst the black smoke.

"Rain! I'm here! It's okay!"

The voice sounds like a lie; they dare not listen. They shove their hands over their ears as they fall to their knees. It's only when arms reach out to them that they lash out. "No!"

"Ouch! Rain! It's me!"

The vision shatters, and Rain falls limply, the fire no longer blazing. All that is left is... you. "MC?" They wretch on your name, hardly able to believe their eyes. You're bleeding, and it's their fault. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. I didn't--"

You pull them into the tightest hug, and it's all they ever needed. Home is gone, but you are here, and that is more than enough.

Taj: This is what they have been reduced to. A species of parasites in dark caverns no better than the rats we live with. They swore they would never return to this; Selby promised they would never have to. They lied. How could they lie to them?! Where are they? Why aren't they here?

It's too dark. They don't want to come back here, back to this cage. They have to find a way forward, find their way back... find the sun.

They force their legs forward through the darkness, their eyes already well-adjusted to navigate it. The cavern echoes with each step, and their ears twitch, listening for any signs of other life.

Nothing. They are entirely alone.

They need to find a way through, out of the gloom, out of the cage.

Then, hope. "Taj! I'm here! I'm right here!"

MC? Of course! MC! Are they trapped down here with them? No, that can't be allowed to stand. Their legs push harder through the murk, but your voice is echoing from every direction, and Taj begins to panic.

"Koel! I'm coming! I will find you!"

Then, something reaches out through the darkness to grab their wrist, and Taj's fight-or-flight demands action. They duck low while kicking up in the direction of their attacker. The cry that follows sends their blood running cold.

"MC?"

The dark cavern crumbles to the light, and no longer are they trapped deep beneath the ground. Taj blinks, once, twice, before their eyes adjust to the scene around them. Then, they see you.

You're slightly hunched, cradling your face, brows furrowed. It hits them. It wasn't real. "MC, I... Fuck, I didn't--"

As impatient as ever, you do not wait for them to find the right words, instead pulling them into a tight embrace. They stiffen, then curl their fingers into your back, clinging on for dear life.

"Idiot." N: One moment, they are lounging on a chaise in a room of rich red and gold; the next, they are surrounded by hellish fires in razed villages and bloodied battlefields. They grimace as they burn the flesh off another soldier, and they count the number 212 before it is drowned out by the words 'failure', 'waste of space', and 'sycophant' repeating inside their head, goading them to further destruction. Power. What is left but that? They need more. Hesitating demonstrates weakness; they cannot afford to be weak. It will spell ruin for them all.

So, they will continue to count.

Then, they hear it; a different voice, serving as a liferaft in the darkness. "N! Stop! It's not real!"

It's not real? Ludicrous. The blood splatters on their face are more than real. Keep going; stopping now will only mean punishment.

Then, they feel it. A soft hand daring to touch their blazing skin amongst the carnage. Then, the screams; so loud, as if coming from inside their very head.

Wait. It is.

MC.

The fire burns out, and only you remain. You hold out your hands in front of you, skin already blistering.

N gasps. "My dear... I didn't mean--"

You shake your head. "I know. I'm just glad you are okay."

Umbra: Darkness; the abyss; the endless nothing. No pain, no touch, no freedom... They always guessed they would end up back here, but not yet. They still have a purpose... but more than that... they feel desire. Desire? No, no, no, no... that is not right. If they still have desire, they still have feelings.

MC? Where is MC? They can't move, they can't breathe... yet they yearn for them. Everything is wrong. It's all mixed up inside them. Take it all away. If they can't be with MC, they do not want it. Any of it. Let them forget. They will disappear into the shadows forever, only being pulled by the strings of their handler.

"Umbra! Look at me!"

They would recognise that voice amidst any darkness. "MC?!" Fear (they still fear) grips their heart. Why are you here? Where are you? They need to find you before you are swallowed whole.

Then, a hand. It grips their arm, and Umbra thinks their strings are being pulled. Away. Away. Away from you. Umbra turns, teeth tearing at the strings, desperately attempting to cut themselves loose.

You scream.

The light dispels the darkness instantaneously. Umbra's lip wobbles with the fear, but then they see you, grimacing down at a bite mark in your hand.

Umbra's hands shake. "I'm terrible... a monster... I can't-- I shouldn't--"You ignore the pain you feel, reaching out to pull Umbra into an embrace, but they pull away. "No, I can't... I don't deserve--"

"Enough, Umbra," you chastise gently, "you are enough."

[lyculuscaelus]

Ok now maybe imagine if it didn’t take too long for Odysseus to finish the oar quest as instructed by Teiresias, say, a year or two (maybe three but tops I swear) from when he sailed from Ithaca to the mainland and went all the way northwards, until he at last finished the ritual and then returned once more back to his homeland.

It wasn’t a woeful journey, this time—just receiving Xenia from different cities, meeting some old faces and new faces (cue Acarnan and Amphoterus sons of Alcmaeon in Acarnania; maybe catching up with his brother-in-law Alyzeus in the city of Alyzia; maybe visiting Amphilochus in Amphilochia cuz why not; maybe helping out a young Thesprotian prince Polypoetes son of Pheidon the deceased king in a war and having to sign an adoption contract), disguising as an old man, lying his way northward—“hey look I’m just a simple Cretan but I can tell you about Odysseus if you want” (turns out all those non-Homeric traditions are stories Odysseus in disguise told to those Epirotes along the way), maybe all the way to Buthrotum where Helenus and Andromache welcomed him unaware of his identity (as he yapped about how he was a Ciconian whose hometown Ismarus was destroyed by cruel Odysseus as he was brought along the way until getting marooned in Thrinacia and something something Phoenicians and stuff) as they traded stories and ended up lamenting the fall of Troy and talking shit on Odysseus—including Odysseus himself (“fun,” says Odysseus as he continues throwing slanders on himself, “now shall I tell you how he died by some guy named Telegonus, someone born to him on Aeaea though I didn’t see anything”), maybe reaching the land of Illyrians where he heard about their history from Cadmus’s arrival to the not-so-recent Epigonoi war (and all Odysseus can think about is his bestie), maybe finding his way past the Riphean Mountains to Hyperborea where he finally performed the ritual (I mean, no ship, no salt…sounds like it).

Then maybe he’s picking a path south-east to visit some old friends (*snaps* what did you say Nauplius has done again *picks up a rock* alr say it again), maybe traversing the rest of Greece from Thessaly (didn’t see you back in war—how are y’all faring, O so many sons of Heracles?) to Mycenae (your dad sends his regards from hell, Orestes) to Argos (wait where the heck is my Diomedes) to Sparta (Menelaus: hehehehe I knew you’d make it old buddy oh btw your son has your thighs) to Pylos where Nestor finally gave him a ship to go home cuz he had no oar left (Nestor: also Peisistratus my boy I know you want to go to Ithaca for some…*coughs* specific reasons so here’s the ship and you’re the captain).

Back to Ithaca! Telemachus celebrated Odysseus’s return with joy (and was surprised by Peisistratus’s arrival). During his father’s absence he had run the kingdom well—a good job continuing to reestablish the class of nobility in Cephalonia as Odysseus willed it. Then Odysseus found Penelope waiting at the olive tree, as she met his gaze and smiled—and the world was again back into shape, for Odysseus, the great craftsman.

And this time, Odysseus finally realized he was this old, this tired, after all the years of traveling. The world of wanderings, in the end, had become too much, too far away, for the man of twists and turns. Not even the world of reality could mend the scars left in his heart, a mind forever haunted by shadows of the past. But for now, a world of home would do—it’d be everything for him, really—just a man with his family, and the peaceful days he had long craved.

So he swore to stay, here by the side of his love ones, never again to be apart. So he stayed, for the rest of his life, till death in the coming days did them part…

He’d inherit his father’s farm after old Laërtes’s death, and teach Telemachus the art of gardening, to take care of all the grape vines, fig trees, pear trees, apple trees, and…olive trees. He’d sing his tales to the new generation of Ithacan children, mentoring them on the virtues of Xenia, of bravery, of love. And he’d go back to his old habit of carving, sculpting figurines out of wood—oh, but he’d make so many wonders—the monsters of legends (that he had seen), the faces of old acquaintances (that he would never forget), the images of gods (that he had stolen)…and he’d show them all to his family, and sometimes, to his people struck by curiosity.

Meanwhile, Telemachus would be so delighted to indulge a father who had long missed the chance to raise his own child, as a son who had never got the chance to make any childhood memory with his father. And so often would they roam around in the forests, catching up days forever lost to them both. Meanwhile, Penelope would be so enamored of her husband’s passion, as the one who knew his mind best (oh, what a blessing of homophrosyne). And so often would they pace around in the farm, chattering at length from the rosy-fingered Dawn till the star-filled night…

Maybe at some point, the memories would prove to be too heavy for the old king. Days and nights his family would find him whispering commands that went unheard, words of comfort that he no longer needed—or that he needed the most. All he saw were illusions of the horror he had once witnessed. All he heard were hallucinations of the Siren song he had once heard. Maybe after all these years, ptsd had finally caught up with him. Maybe it went even worse after Penelope’s passing…

Until one day, a stranger knocked the gate of Odysseus’s palace open.

Prince Telemachus offered him food—he politely refused, asking to meet the old king right away.

Odysseus came out, fixing his gaze on the visitor’s face—it seemed foreign, yet strangely familiar—it was as if he had known him so long ago, in a place he couldn’t quite name. But the stranger only moved forward, meeting Odysseus’s eyes.

“Come,” he said gently. “Time to join the rest of them…time to join her.”

And Odysseus knew.

Turning to his son, Odysseus muttered a few words of comfort. Somehow, Telemachus knew this to be a farewell—he embraced his father one last time, smiling in tears.

The prince of Ithaca watched the two of them walk away, to the sea where the stranger came from, as he suddenly leapt, spreading a pair of wings, carrying Odysseus off quickly. Realization struck him finally.

The stranger was none other than fearful Thanatos.

So this is the Death that comes to him from the sea, in such a gentle way.

[tinythebunni]

Can we get some pope x bitchy!kook princess reader (maybe with some bimbo/hoochie R) headcanons I love that fic babes😘🩷

Pope usually never has this problem with you. You’re a bitch to everyone else, never him! He wouldn’t call you a bitch ever but there’s no other synonyms which could correctly describe the situation you’re putting him in.

Since two mornings ago you’ve been in a grouchy mood. You woke up that first day with him facing away from you so you did what any upset girlfriend would do! You used your foot to push him off the bed. Confused, he woke up with a start and looked at you. But all you did was huff in reply and pull the blankets over you.

When he got back up to get into the bed, you turned over and pointed a perfectly manicured and sharpened nail at him.

“if you wanna keep those two balls you got swinging down there, i suggest you stay down.” you snapped. He looked at you but there was not an ounce of hesitancy in your eyes.

Pope sighed and got up, it was 9am anyways. As he left the room to make breakfast he briefly hear you mumble something. He assumed it was just you going back to sleep. As he finished making you both breakfast he walked up the stairs. He neared the bedroom door but saw it was closed. He set the plate down on a table in your hallway, raising a knuckle to knock at the door.

“Wait a fucking minute!” You yelled, frustration evident. He had no idea what he did wrong but he wanted to fix it. fast.

You opened the door after 2 minutes and Popes eyes lit up. “baby” he started as he walked over towards you to hold you. But then as he got closer he did once over of you and he finally saw what you were wearing. You had on a mini skirt he forbid you to wear and a crop top that barely hid your perky nipples from the public. The heels you had on clacked against the floor as you pushed past him and walked away.

Pope was sure he looked like a fish out of water right now. Probably a fucking silly sight to see. Closing his mouth and running after you he reached you before you could get to the door. He pinned you against the wood and made you look at him.

The height difference had your thighs clenching everytime you noticed it, and he noticed the effect it had on you. Trying to keep his mind in check he focused on the issue at hand. “What the hell is wrong babydoll? Tell me what i did please.” He begged, tilting his head to seem more apologetic. You almost gave in, but something changed. You scoffed and shoved him, which did nothing to move his strong frame. “A man thinking everything is about him, classic.”

You tried to get around him but to no avail. He got tired of this game and flipped you over his shoulder. He walked back to the bedroom this all started in with you kicking your feet and pounding at his back.

“Let me down you fucker! I didn’t do anything. This is America and i have free fucking will you bi-“ he shut you up with a swift slap to your clit, the moan that crawled its way out your mouth making him smirk.

When he finally got inside the room, he put you on the bed carefully, but with enough force to let you know he was mad.

“You’re not leaving this room until you apologize and act like a big girl so i can know what’s wrong.” You just stared up at him, letting out “hmph” and turning your head away from him.

“fine. we can’t act like a big girl? Then i’ll treat you like a lil kid. Go stand in the corner.” Your eyes looking up at him with defiance made him only more firm in his stance. He used his strength to pull you to your feet by your forearms. Poor pulled you close and whispered. “Go stand in the fucking corner. ‘m not bullshitting here. Do it, now.” You followed his directions with your head looking down at the floor, a blush in your cheeks, and sluggish walk.

you don’t know how long he made you stand there but eventually your knees got weak and you fell to the floor, kneeling on accident. Before you could get up, he was already there. As if he was watching you, and he was. His eyes never left you.

“Learned your lesson?” Pope asked, rubbing the back of his hand across your cheek. You nodded, leaning up to try and kiss him. “Nuh uh. no kisses for you. Not until i know you’re my good girl again. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

you stood there, staring at your feet. How could you tell him you didn’t know what was wrong? “well?” he asked, getting impatient as he watched you fiddle with your hands.

“don’ know Po. I just wanted some attention” your voice withered as you pouted, tears welling in your eyes from embarrassment.

“Oh my poor thing. I’ve been neglecting you?” with your head nodding yes, he sat on the bed scooped you up in his lap, so you were facing him.

“don’t worry, imma make it all better again. Like daddy always does, ‘Kay?” you stared at him, head already cloudy from the lack of distance between you two. His hand reached up to pull your chin between his fingers, using it to forc you to nod. Pope pulls you closer, finally letting you get the kiss you’ve wanted.

He slides his right hand from your hip down to your lace covered cunt under the skirt. As he thumbs your clit he uses the moment you moan out a gasp to stick his tongue inside your mouth. There’s no fight for dominance, you always welcome the intrusion.

Once he feels like you might be wet enough, he rubs his hand across your lips, feeling your arousal soak his hand. He sticks pointer and middle finger inside without it warning. You whine, the tears finally falling as you look up at him. “Nuh uh. None of that. You’re supposed to be my good girl now, making it up to me and shit. Now sit there and take it. Keep those pretty eyes on me”

It doesn’t take long for you to cum. it never does with him. He pays such good attention to you that he just knows how to make you cum quick and how to make it last long and pleasurable. As he speeds up with your walls clenching around him, he uses this moment to leave hickies on your neck. That always makes you cum immediately, and this time is no different.

He lets you ride out your bliss, almost leading you into overstimulation with how he continues even after. He pulls his hand from under your skirt and licks the wetness off his hand. He sticks the same fingers he just had inside you in his mouth, moaning as if it was the sweetest thing in the world.

You paw at his chest, trying to get some of his kisses, but he stops you. “You’ll get what you want in a second baby, we’re not done yet.”

[redicillin]

Hiiii, could you write smth about reader (part of House's team) and Chase teasing and throwing suggestive comments each other all the time until something actually happens?Thanksss

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬. (𝐫.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞)

whilst your’s and chase’s relationship was… unconventional, you never crossed any true lines. until you did.

CW | 18+ MDNI. afab!reader, definitely not allowed workplace engagements, unprotected piv, porn with plot

fem!reader ☆ 4.3k ☆ masterlist.

The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead as you flip through the patient’s chart, skimming the details of yet another medical mystery.

A 37-year-old woman with an unexplained fever, muscle weakness, and—of course—negative test results for every common diagnosis. House’s kind of case. Your kind of case.

“Could be lupus,” Chase offers, leaning lazily against the back of his chair.

“It’s never lupus,” you counter automatically, not bothering to look up.

“One day, it will be,” he muses, smirking at you. “And when that happens, I’ll personally accept your apology… preferably over dinner,”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the hint of a smirk. “You assuming I’d take you to dinner if you were right is cute. Delusional, but cute,”

“Then I’ll settle for drinks. You can even pretend it’s a pity outing,”

House, who has been listening to your exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally interjects. “I’d tell you two to get a room, but I think you’d rather keep up this foreplay in front of an audience,”

Cameron coughs, Foreman scoffs, and Chase—completely unfazed—shrugs. “If we’re keeping score, I think I’m winning,”

You arch a brow at him, shifting in your seat. “Oh? And what exactly are you winning?”

“The game,” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping enough to sound almost conspiratorial. “You know… the one where you pretend you’re not enjoying this,”

Your pulse jumps for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “You wish,”

House claps his hands together, effectively cutting through the moment. “Much as I’d love to watch this unresolved sexual tension play out in real time, we have an actual patient. So unless this is leading to some kind of medically relevant insight, I’d suggest you both channel that energy into something useful,” He pauses, eyes flicking between you and Chase before smirking. “Or at least wait until after work to rip each other’s clothes off,”

Cameron looks deeply uncomfortable, Foreman mutters something about needing new colleagues, and Chase? Well, Chase just winks at you, smug as ever.

Game on.

—

The patient’s condition is getting worse, and House is nowhere to be found—probably off harassing Cuddy or playing mind games with Wilson. That leaves the rest of you huddled around the conference table, sorting through test results.

You tap a pen against your lips, eyes narrowed at the list in front of you. “Her liver enzymes are elevated, but no sign of hepatitis. Negative for Wilson’s disease, negative for autoimmune markers…”

“Could be a parasitic infection,” Cameron suggests, glancing up from her notes.

Chase leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward you. “Sounds messy. I hope you don’t mind getting your hands dirty,”

You shoot him a look. “That depends. Are you offering to be my assistant? Or just my parasite?”

Foreman groans, rubbing his temples. “Oh my God. Can you two just—?”

Cameron nudges his arm before he can finish. “Shh. I have twenty bucks on them cracking by the end of the week,”

You and Chase turn to her at the same time. “Excuse me?”

Cameron shrugs, feigning innocence. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just… kind of obvious,”

Foreman crosses his arms, smirking slightly. “I said a month, but now I’m reconsidering. You two can’t go five minutes without turning everything into an innuendo,”

“You’re imagining things,” you say smoothly, ignoring the way Chase’s knee just barely brushes against yours under the table.

“Yeah,” Chase adds, grinning. “I’d never use a serious medical discussion to flirt,”

You scoff. “Right. Because that would be wildly inappropriate,”

Cameron exchanges a knowing glance with Foreman. “Exactly,”

—

The hospital is quieter at night. The usual hum of activity dulls to an ambient murmur of overnight nurses and the occasional beeping monitor.

You’re in the diagnostics office, reviewing test results while Chase leans against House’s desk, absentmindedly tossing a stress ball in the air.

It’s just the two of you.

“This is the part where I should tell you to go home,” you say, not looking up from the file. “But I know you won’t listen,”

Chase catches the ball in one hand and smirks. “And miss out on the chance to keep you company? I’d never,”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “What a gentleman,”

He pushes off the desk and moves closer, just enough for you to feel the shift in proximity. “I can be, when it suits me,”

The air is different tonight. He’s always been flirtatious, always toeing the line, but this time, there’s something heavier in the silence that lingers between words.

You glance up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak. It would be easy to close the gap. To push just a little further.

But you don’t.

Instead, you exhale, shaking your head as you look back down at the file. “You should really get some sleep, Chase.”

He lingers for just a second longer before letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping back. “You too,”

As he leaves the office, you find yourself staring at the door for longer than you should.

—

It’s been one of those shifts where the exhaustion settles deep into your bones, where you feel like you’ve been going nonstop for days, even though it’s only been a few hours.

Chase, ever the one to escape stress with some humor, suggests grabbing drinks. The others quickly agree, but you and Chase end up walking out of the hospital together, the others trailing behind.

You’ve worked together long enough to know the difference between casual group outings and just the two of you.

When you get to the bar, the atmosphere is warm, filled with the sound of low conversations and the clink of glasses. You order your drinks, the chatter flowing easily at first. It’s comfortable—like it always is when you’re with Chase—but tonight, there’s something different. The usual teasing that’s exchanged over the complexities of medicine starts to feel like something else.

“Well, you know, if you were paying attention, I did say we should run the ANA panel last time,” you tease, stirring your drink. You catch him watching you, his expression almost smug, but you don’t break eye contact.

“Oh, I heard you,” he replies, his voice low, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I just didn’t think you were right,”

You tilt your head with a scoff, narrowing your eyes. “But now you do?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he replies, taking a step closer. “But I think you like the challenge of proving me wrong,”

You lean back in your chair, trying to act unaffected, but your heart races. The space between you has closed in ways you hadn’t expected. “Not everything’s a challenge, Chase,”

He grins, his voice dropping a little further. “Sure about that? Because if you think I can’t keep up with you, I’m happy to prove you wrong,”

It’s playful. It’s always playful, right?

But tonight, there’s an edge to it. A tension that neither of you have addressed, but both of you are clearly aware of.

The way his eyes follow your movements. The way his smile lingers just a second too long on your lips. You feel the weight of his words like a challenge you don’t want to back down from.

It’s subtle, but it’s there—an almost imperceptible shift. You feel it when his hand brushes against yours on the bar. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do you. For a heartbeat, everything around you fades, leaving only the space between the two of you.

It would be easy. So easy.

You could lean in, and he could kiss you, and you wouldn’t need to say a word. You could blame it on the alcohol, or the exhaustion, or just the chemistry that’s been crackling between you for weeks now.

But then, just as quickly as it started, you both pull back.

You laugh—maybe a little too loud, trying to cover up the moment that nearly shattered the wall you’ve both built around yourselves. “You’re an idiot,” you say, a little breathless, fingers tapping nervously on the edge of your glass.

Chase smirks, but there’s something softer in his expression now. “Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you like idiots.”

He leans back, turning his attention to his drink, and the playful banter resumes—but it’s different. There’s an edge to it now, an undercurrent of something else simmering beneath the surface.

Neither of you acknowledges it directly. Instead, you both talk about the case again, acting like nothing has changed. But you both know. Neither of you is fooled.

For the first time, the game isn’t just a game anymore. And it’s only a matter of time before one of you breaks.

—

The next day is a blur of frantic phone calls, lab reports, and running from one department to the next. The case has taken a turn for the worse, and the pressure is palpable.

Everyone is on edge, moving faster than usual, but the answers still aren’t coming. You and Chase work side by side, your minds racing with the mounting frustration.

The stress is starting to take its toll.

You’re reviewing the latest test results when Chase steps closer, his eyes scanning the board. "We’re missing something. There’s got to be a piece we’re overlooking,”

You feel his breath just a little too close, your heartbeat quickening. "Yeah, no kidding," you mutter, running a hand through your hair. "If I knew what that piece was, I’d have figured it out by now,”

“Don’t snap at me,” he says, voice quiet but teasing. "I’m on your side here,”

You glance at him, frustration flashing in your eyes. "You think I don’t know that?"

The tension between you is thick, heavier than it’s been before, each word a spark in the charged air. The room feels too small, too close, the adrenaline turning everything you say and do into something else—something that doesn’t belong in a hospital.

Chase takes a step back, but the distance doesn’t help. He’s still close enough to make your skin feel tight, still close enough for you to hear the quiet beat of his pulse beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” You sigh, exasperatedly taking your hands through your hair. “I’m just stressed,”

There’s a pause, a breath held in the space between you. Then, without a word, he steps forward, his hand finding your arm.

“You need a break,” he says, his voice low and urgent.

You swallow hard, feeling your breath catch in your throat. “I don’t need a break. I need answers,”

But the words feel hollow even as you say them. You don’t need answers. Not right now.

Before you can think, before you can even process what’s happening, Chase pulls you gently but firmly down the hallway, into a small, empty supply closet.

It’s a tight fit—your back pressed against the cold wall, his body just a breath away. The air in the small room is thick with the same kind of tension that’s been building between you for weeks, but now, it’s palpable. You can feel it in your skin, in the way your breath comes faster than it should.

You give a small laugh. “This isn’t the break room,”

And then, just like that, the moment snaps.

Chase closes the space between you, his lips crashing into yours. It’s not the slow, teasing kiss you expected—it’s urgent, hungry, desperate. All the months of flirtation, the innuendos, the playful jabs, finally culminating in this.

His hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can’t help but respond, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, and the world outside the closet fades away. There’s only the rush of adrenaline in your veins, the heat of his touch, the way your bodies move in sync, as though they’ve always known this was coming.

His hands slide down your back, pressing you even closer, and for a moment, you forget about the case, forget about everything but this. His lips trail down to your neck, and you let out a soft gasp, heart pounding in your chest.

“Are we really doing this right now?” you breathe, barely able to form the words as your breath hitches in your throat.

Chase pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression intense, searching. “Do you want to?” he asks, voice low, a mixture of desire and uncertainty.

Your mind races, the heat of the moment clouding your thoughts. But you don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping your lips before you pull him back to you.

The kiss picks up again, but this time, it’s more than just passion. There’s an urgency to it—something unspoken that has been building for far too long.

His hands roam, slipping beneath your shirt, and you don’t stop him. Every touch feels electric, igniting something deep inside you. The adrenaline from the case, the rush of being so close, the need to feel something more than just the constant stress of the hospital… it all comes together in that moment.

You don’t think about the consequences. You don’t think about anything except the way he makes you feel.

But even in the haze of desire, the question lingers. What happens after? What happens when the game is over?

Right now, though, you don’t care. All that matters is the way his lips feel against your skin, the way his hands fit perfectly against you. It’s everything and nothing at once.

And for the first time, you don’t pull away.

Chase is driven insane by the smallest things. The way your fingers curled into his belt-loops to tug him closer. The feel of your nails, scraping over his scalp as your hand slides through his hair. The way you breathe his name as he dips his head, mouthing at the hollow of your throat.

Too much. He thinks, as one hand comes up to curl around your wrist, pinning your hand against the door of the closet. Too much but still not enough.

He’s lost the ability for rational thought. It’s been pushed aside for need, for desire. Your name’s a constant on his lips, a hushed whisper as he presses kisses onto your neck. Teeth skimming over your skin, tongue soothing the light sting.

He finally draws back to meet your gaze. His expression is dark, pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed so pretty. “I want you.” He says it as an absolute truth. As if you don’t already know that by the way his knee is slotted between your thighs.

He watches you. The way your lips part on a breath, an almost involuntary sound falling from them as he draws his knee up. “God, look at you,” He murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “So pretty already and I’ve barely even touched you,”

His hand slides up the inside of your thigh, his touch almost reverent. The tip of his nose grazes your ear as his fingers dip under the edge of your pants. “Want you. So, so goddamn badly.”

And in contrast to the sweet way he speaks to you, the way he’s touching you is downright dirty. It sets the pit of your stomach on fire as his hand dips lower, cupping you through your panties and giving a slow, testing drag of his palm.

It’s a low, breathy moan that escapes you, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment and your head thumping lightly against the door. “God-“ he groans, “I’m not going to last.” He hooks a finger around the waistband of your pants and tugs them down just enough for him to get a better purchase on you.

He doesn’t even tease. His hand immediately slips under the soft, black cotton of your underwear, his fingers dipping into you in a fluid motion. “God you’re so hot—“ He asks, his breath hot against your ear. “All this for me?”

Your answer comes in the form of a stifled gasp, your hips moving of their own accord to meet his hand. “Chase.” It’s the only word you manage, and it’s half formed, coming out on a whimper. Like you’re pleading.

It’s that sound and your pleading tone that does him in. His breath shudders out of him in a low sound of want. “You’re killing me.” He mutters, his words punctuated by the sound of his belt unbuckling.

He’s impatient, and it’s evident in the way his hand pushes at the fabric of your underwear. There’s nothing romantic about it, no sweet murmurs of sweet nothings or gentle coaxing. It’s needy and desperate and it’s you and that’s all that matters.

He keeps one hand planted on the wood of the door, keeping you pinned in place. The other dips, and the feel of his fingers is immediately replaced by the head of his cock, already leaking as it stretches out your entrance.

A low curse is muttered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

He moves with purpose, his hips rolling forwards and pushing his length into you in a single steady motion. Chase gives a quiet grunt, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

The whole thing feels like it’s happening so fast. Too fast. Neither of you are thinking clearly. But it’s you and it’s him and his face is still buried in the crook of your neck and his cock stretches you out so good that it leaves you whining.

His hand drops from the door, shifting to grip one of your thighs and hitch it over his hip. It gives him a different angle, one that he takes full advantage of.

He picks up the pace, and the hand that he’s gripping your thigh with gives it a firm squeeze. “I’ve thought about this.” He whispers, the words almost lost against your skin, “Can’t get you out of my head.”

He’s babbling now, his words low and punctuated by heavy breaths. And you’re so pretty like this, your eyes squeezed shut and your back arched against the door as he takes and takes and takes.

He can’t remember the last time he came so quickly. All it takes is a sound from you, a breathy sigh of his name and he’s done. He lets himself lose control, giving a loud curse as his hips stutter in their motion, desperately trying to pull out despite the instinct to bury his spend inside you.

Instead, it dribbles down the inside of your thighs, coating your skin and your underwear alike.

The moments after are filled with a tense, lingering quiet. Neither of you speaks immediately, neither of you moves to pull away. Your heart is still racing, your mind spinning with everything that just happened.

Chase stands there for a moment, his forehead resting gently against yours, both of you catching your breath. But neither of you says anything.

It’s like a flicker, an electric pulse, that connects you both, and then just as quickly as it began, it feels like a weight pressing down. The weight of what just happened, of the unspoken words, of the fact that everything has changed.

“Chase…” You break the silence, your voice a whisper, uncertain. You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, but the question sits heavy on the tip of your tongue. What now?

He steps back slowly, his hands resting at his sides. He doesn’t look at you directly, his jaw tight. “We shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have…”

But the words trail off, unsaid. He doesn’t finish the sentence, and neither do you.

A moment passes, and the world starts to feel like it’s slowly realigning around you both. The air no longer feels suffocating, but it’s thick with the weight of everything you didn’t say. Neither of you makes a move to break the silence. Finally, Chase gives a sharp exhale. “We should get back to work.”

You nod, a little too quickly, still lost in the aftershock. Your fingers graze your lips, still tingling from the kiss and everything after, but you don’t let yourself linger on it. There’s nothing to say.

Not yet.

—

The next day, you and Chase are back in the diagnostic office like nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. The air between you is a little too thick, a little too aware of the space you now share. Every word feels heavier, more loaded. And whenever your eyes meet, it’s like there’s something you both are trying not to acknowledge.

But neither of you says a word.

It’s House, of course, who does notice. He’s always observant, always sharp when it comes to his team’s dynamics. He watches the two of you from across the room with a knowing smirk, almost as if he’s been waiting for this.

“Is it just me,” House drawls, breaking the silence as he slides into the office, “or does it feel like someone’s been… busy?”

You freeze, and you can feel Chase tense next to you. You don’t want to look at him, not with House’s smirk aimed squarely at both of you. You can’t look at him.

“You two should get a room,” House continues, unbothered by the tension hanging in the air. “It’s honestly like a live soap opera around here,”

Cameron, overhearing from the other room, raises an eyebrow. “What’s going on now?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, barely able to keep your cool. “Nothing happened,”

But House just fakes a sigh, fishing out his wallet and holding out a tenth dollar bill in Cameron’s direction. “I guess I owe you twenty bucks,”

You can hear the amusement in his voice as he takes a seat at his desk, eyes gleaming with too much satisfaction. He’s not going to let this go. Not for a second.

“You guys slept together?” Cameron’s voice is a mix between amusement and mortification as she takes the cash, and you groan.

Chase clears his throat and straightens up, trying to salvage some sense of normalcy. “It’s nothing to write home about,”

“Oh but it is,” House says with an exaggerated smirk, leaning back in his chair. “Talk about a HR violation,”

—

The next few days pass in a blur of awkward silences, quick glances, and sidelong looks between you and Chase. Neither of you brings up the supply closet, not once. Instead, you focus on the case, on everything but what happened behind closed doors.

The chemistry between you both is still there, still undeniable, but now it’s wrapped in layers of unspoken words. It’s the elephant in the room you both avoid acknowledging.

And yet, as you work together—closer than ever before, eyes meeting more often than they should, the energy still humming between you—you both know something has shifted. You’re not sure what it is yet.

At one point, when House pushes you to continue working late on a particularly difficult diagnosis, you end up alone with Chase again. The tension between you both feels just as charged as it did that night in the supply closet, but now, it’s thicker. More complex.

Chase stands next to you, looking down at the patient’s chart, but you can feel his gaze flicking toward you, gauging your reaction. His voice is quieter this time, as though testing the waters. “So…”

“So,” you reply, keeping your voice steady, but there’s a nervous edge beneath it.

He sighs, clearly sensing the unease between you. “What do you think? Is this it then”

You hesitate, the words sitting heavily in your chest. This is the question. What happens now? What happens when the game is over?

You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the flutter of uncertainty in your stomach. “I don’t think it’s just a game anymore, Chase,”

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the silence stretches between you both. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—a mix of hope, uncertainty, and that ever-present challenge.

And in that moment, you realise: neither of you has to have the answer right now.

“You’re right,” he says softly, his lips curling into a smile. “Maybe it’s not,”

And so, the game continues—only now, it’s not a game at all. It’s something else entirely, something neither of you is ready to define yet.

But that’s okay.

[seeker-of-stories19]

𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙈𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙠𝙖𝙞 𝙏𝙖𝙞𝙠𝙖𝙞 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙗𝙮 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙞𝙣

I have had this in my drafts since before part one was released and I never finished it, after part two I came back to it because we didn’t know the Sekai Taikai victor yet. Now I feel like we all know how it’s going to end but I thought this might still be interesting to post before the final episodes drop.

I love both characters and I really believe that Miguel losing is just as important as Robby winning for their respective story arc in the series so these are some of the reasons I think the narrative would make more sense if this was the outcome. While I don’t think this is actually going to be the result of the tournament I feel very strongly that Robby being the victor makes the most sense to the show so I’m going to lay out some of the reasons I think this would be the best ending.

- Robby is the underdog and the original karate kid was all about the underdog story. Miguel hasn’t been the underdog since the first season but Robby has gone through so much shit throughout the series, specifically in the tournaments, and constantly gets mistreated and stuck in his own head. Even in season one when Miguel had more of an underdog story he was still the instigator with Robby. He’s been through constant trauma, incarceration, homelessness, struggling to pay his moms bills, physical abuse, sexual assault, mental health issues etc. and has yet to get a major victory. Even in part two you can see how they reinstate Robby’s role as the underdog repeatedly (specifically in relation to him struggling to manage his emotions and insecurity which has been an ongoing battle for him through the series) before Miguel gives him the confidence and support he needs to step up.

- Robby is the best fighter in the series, he’s able to master incredibly advanced moves like the two legged kick after only training for a couple months and he holds his own with many opponents who are bigger and more experienced than him. He’s also able to fight off all of Cobra Kai at once in season four, only getting taken down when he turns his back. In my opinion Robby is the most talented and skilled fighter but the least consistent as he is so vulnerable to his emotions, still we’ve seen that he can win when he finds balance which is what his whole arc and a lot of the show is about.

-Robby’s kicks are his go to move and they’ve specifically stressed kicks as being important in the Sekai Taikai, both earlier in the show when Robby Miguel and Hawk are talking about how high the contestants kick and again when they get there and Robby and Kwon do the kicking competition. Not to mention it’s how Robby beat Kwon both times. Even in the teasers for part three you see Robby practicing his kicks and many of his significant moments in the series have been centered around kicks as well.

- Robby also has the strongest ties to both dojos, with so much of the show being everyone coming together I feel like Robby being Johnny’s son and Daniel’s first student he would truly represent victory as a combined dojo better than any of the other students.

- Finally Cobra Kai has tried really hard to bring Johnny’s side of the story to light and I think after him being so haunted by his loss against Daniel Cobra Kai ending in the opposite way with Robby following a different path and ultimately winning would be a really great full circle moment.

Now for the second part of this post here are the reasons I want Miguel to lose. (I know this sounds mean but it’s because I think it honors his character journey and storyline better.)

- Miguel has already won a tournament, and backed down from the second one because there were other things that were more important to him. I feel like that was a very important moment for him, especially after how far he was willing to go to win the first tournament, that showed him wanting to find himself outside of Johnny’s influence and that karate wasn’t the most important thing in the world. Which again shows that he had grown a lot since the first tournament where he hurt Robby.

- Miguel feels like the tournament is his only chance at Stanford which I personally think has a lot more to do with how desperate he is to win, it’s about his future dream at least as much if not more than it’s about karate. But Miguel could still get into Stanford without winning the Sekai Taikai (and even if he doesn’t get into Stanford he’ll go to another really good school.) To me this is important because Miguel has been set up with other possibilities while Robby hasn’t. Miguel realizing that is a significant moment because he apologizes to Robby and makes sure he knows he is on his side. This is a massive moment after the ups and downs in their relationship and it marks so much growth for him in being able to look past his own wants and care enough about Robby to put him first.

- Growth is what makes characters and stories interesting and there’s been a lot with Robby and Miguel over the course of the series. I feel like Miguel winning would take away from some of the significant moments in his story where he has to start building an identity and future for himself outside of Johnny and karate but still using the lessons he’s learned. Miguel fixing things with Robby and coming far enough to cheer him on would be a better end to the series than anything else with them both having satisfying well rounded ends to their respective character arcs and their overall dynamic.

Now having heard about the leaks it doesn’t seem like this is the ending that we’ll get which is very disappointing and (again in my opinion) a very unsatisfying and poorly thought out choice. I don’t have very much faith in the writers and while there are obviously many things I love about the show there are also some major issues I have with it such as Miguel’s unrealistic recovery, how Robby and Johnny’s relationship is handled, their general inability to write good romantic relationships, the whole Johnny and Carmen plot even before the baby, and Robby being sexually assaulted without it being addressed.

At this point I’m incredibly nervous for the final episodes but still somewhat excited and there’s always fanfic to fix things. Now that I’ve finally finished this I’ll share it and hopefully someone finds my rambling interesting.

[mybelovedsylus]

Listen team, it’s been one of those days. So here’s me service - aka it’s a really fluffy piece of Sylus just showing up and being there for MC. Literally just garbage fluff- enjoy, and feel free to send me any headcannons or requests you would like to see. I’m finally writing again for the first time in years, and it makes me really happy to explore these worlds again. As always I didn’t proofread - it’s just a thing with me, I know forgive it. If I reread to correct it, I will never be happy with it so it is what it is.

_____________________________________________________________________________

It was one of those days where she felt like she was about to unravel, like the next breath could very well result in the collapse of her being - or at least her sanity. It had started at work. Her coworker had decided to go behind her back on a mission, screwing her over for what was supposed to be her next assignment. Next, she found her lunch had disappeared from the communal fridge, and so as she’s sitting at her desk eating the stale protein bar from the back of her drawer she gets an email that causes her to cuss under her breath. Finally the day comes to a close, and as she’s walking back to her apartment, the sky lets out a torrential downpour, soaking her to the very core. Then when she gets back to her apartment, the power is out. Luckily Mephisto had already been waiting and her phone rang a mere moment after she came to the realization, flipping the switch repeatedly with no change in results. Although she wondered if Mephisto reported back how long she stared at his picture and name on the screen, an internal war raging as she tried to decide if it was even worth picking up. Ultimately she had, which is how she found herself standing on the side of the road waiting for Sylus to pull up.

The wind was biting now that the sun had set. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, pulling the coat closer to her frame as she tried to shrink back into the wall of the building. She’s tired, irritated, wet and her mood is darkening by the moment. When he finally pulls up, she’s ready to lose it. Not that anything is his fault, but her emotional regulation is shot at this point. At least, that’s what she thinks until he’s out of the car hauling her soaked and freezing frame directly into his warm embrace.

“Come on kitten, there’s a hot dinner waiting in the car and we’ll go N109 speeds back to base,” he mutters in a soft voice, his hand smoothing down her hair, and the dam breaks. She fists her hands into his shirt and finds herself sobbing into his chest. They’re both shocked. She’s never one to cry, to let her emotions out quite so freely, and yet at this moment there’s nothing she can do to hold it back. She feels his arm sweep under her legs as he hoists her with ease, setting her down in the passenger seat and jogging back over to the driver’s side. He turns the seat warmer to max, and passes her a bag full of her favorites from the burger place down the road.

“Let’s get you fed, showered, and then we can hang out in front of the fire with whatever you want playing on the tv,” he says softly, his hand reaching out to caress the side of her face and wipe a stray tear with his thumb.

She offers him a watery smile and a sniffle as he speeds away from Linkon City. She finishes her food and curls against the window, watching as the lights streak past. It’s in record time that they’re pulling into the familiar surroundings of the base, and for some reason just the sight of it settles something inside of her.

Sylus is at the side of the car in an instant, opening the door, and holding a hand out for her.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and get you some dry clothes.”

He leads her straight to his room, clothes are already laid out on the bed next to fresh towels.

“You didn’t really make Luke and Kieran fetch all this did you?” She asks with a small chuckle, fingers trailing over the soft change of clothes and fluffy towel.

“They offered when I explained it sounded like you might need an escape,” he stated with a shrug. She felt the familiar sting of tears, and swallowed hard to keep them at bay. When was the last time she had felt this seen and taken care of?

“Thank them for me?”

“I gave them the night off, but I will send them a quick message to relay your gratitude. Take however long you need, I’ll get the fire started so you can warm up,” his tone is gentle as he tells her his plan. Then with a gentle kiss on the top of her head, he leaves the room, true to his word about letting her have whatever time she needs.

She emerges from his room roughly a half hour later, feeling a lot more human and a lot more settled than she had been all day. Smiling softly to herself she finds him lounging on the sofa, the fire roaring as he reads through some folder of information. He’s quick to put it down when he hears the soft click of his door shutting. He shuffles closer to the arm rest, leaving plenty of space for you to curl up next to him. He throws his arm around your shoulder as you settle and drags you into his space until you’re practically laying on him.

“Feeling better sweetie?”

“I am. I don’t know how you always seem to know what I need, but I can’t thank you enough,” she tells him, nuzzling into his chest, enjoying the way his fingers toy with the damp ends of her hair. He seems to hum as her words settle over him.

“I am here to help, all you have to do is ask.”

“I’m learning that. Thank you for being my safe place today,” she mutters, flashing him a soft grin before leaning up to place the gentlest kiss on his lips. The grin she gets in return is downright boyish, and she finds her own smile widening in response. Who knew the widely feared leader of Onychinus would be such a softie. Er, well, her softie. Also who knew she would let who a few months ago was her enemy see her at her most vulnerable; and let him comfort her until the weight of the world was more bearable?

“You have me forever, if you want it.”

[darlinluxx]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : mentions of anxiety

summary : you and your girlfriend spend a hot summer day together

a/n : can u tell i miss summer

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he sun beams down on your bare shoulders, each ray a tiny hammer against your skin. it’s the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer and the asphalt look like a melting ribbon. you shield your eyes with your hand, squinting up at the sky, a canvas of brilliant, unforgiving blue. Saebyeok sat beside you on the bench.

“hot enough for you?” you ask, your voice a little breathless.

Saebyeok doesn’t turn her head, her gaze fixed on the indifferent city beyond the park’s edge. her short dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to cling to her damp forehead. even in this sweltering weather, she’s impossibly cool, a study in contained energy.

“it’s summer,” she says, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through you even at this distance. a half-smile tugs at the corner of her lips, only you would notice it. “what did you expect, snow?”

you chuckle, the sound dry and raspy. “just wondering if you feel alive enough to get some shaved ice with me. the corner shop has new flavors.”

she finally turns, her eyes, those intense, dark pools, locking onto yours. you still can’t fathom how you ended up here, with her. a North Korean defector, hardened by a life that would break most people, now sitting beside you in a park, contemplating shaved ice. it’s both unbelievable and the most natural thing in the world at the same time.

“new flavors, hm?” a glint of something you recognize as amusement sparks in her eyes. “i’m not sure if i trust their interpretation of ‘mango’.”

“they had like lychee, and coconut too, and strawberry.”

you pull yourself off of the bench, feeling the dampness stick to your skin. “come on, i’ll even let you have the bigger half.”

Saebyeok lets out a small, nearly silent laugh, a sound that always manages to make something inside you unfurl. she stands with a lithe movement, all angles and sharp edges, yet there’s a grace to it that always catches your breath.

you start walking, the pavement radiating heat up through the soles of your sandals. Saebyeok falls into step beside you, her stride long and purposeful. the air feels thick and heavy, like wading through a warm bath, and you find yourself breathing in time with her, a rhythm that soothes the slight thrum of anxiety that the heat always brings.

the corner shop is a small, unpretentious affair, its shelves lined with colorful candies and plastic-wrapped snacks. the small bell above the door chimes as you enter, a welcome distraction from the oppressive heat. the air inside is cooler, the scent of artificial fruit and sweet syrup a comforting assault on your senses.

you watch as Saebyeok scans the menu, her brow furrowed in concentration. she’s so serious about everything, so focused, it’s another one of the little things that makes you adore her. finally, she points to a picture of a towering mound of shaved ice drizzled with bright red strawberry syrup.

“that one.” she says, her voice a touch more relaxed in the cool air.

you pay for the ice, feeling the stickiness of your fingers gripping the paper cup. you take a small spoon and hand it to Saebyeok.

you take a bite of your own, the lychee cool against your tongue, a burst of floral sweetness that washes away a little of the heat. you steal a glance at Saebyeok and she catches your eyes with her own. you’ve learned to read the subtle shifts in her expression, the slight curve of her lips, the faint softening of the muscles around her eyes. and in that moment you see a quiet joy, a simple pleasure, and it warms you even more than the sun outside ever could.

you finish the shaved ice in comfortable silence, the only sound the gentle scraping of your spoons against the paper cups. as you step back out into the heat, the air doesn’t feel quite so oppressive anymore. you reach out, your hand brushing against hers. she looks down at your hand, then her fingers intertwine with your own, a silent acknowledgment of the summer heat, and the quiet strength of the bond you share.

“let’s go home.” she says, her voice soft, and you know it isn’t just anywhere. it’s your home, together. your heart lifts, light as the summer breeze that touches your skin as you walk, hand in hand, towards somewhere cool and safe. you’re not just surviving in this heat, you’re living, and she’s right beside you.