#i have more thoughts as always but for now it’s just

[rosiereveries]

Part three of CEO!John Price

Part one | Part two

CW : smut, oral sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mating press, little power imbalance, reader is a female

After you read the note that John left for you on your table, you are left feeling quite nervous but also excited. You were prepared for this. When you were getting ready for work this morning, you put on your favorite underwear. Lacy pink panties and matching bra that made your tits look great. You put on a lot of perfume, the one John had bought for you. You wore your best outfit, and you felt sexy and confident. You wanted to impress John, yesterday took you by surprise, but now you were in charge. When the time for his lunch break came, you were ready, so when you went to his office you knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

You find John sitting behind his table, working on his laptop. He looks good, so fucking hot without even trying. When he realizes that it´s you, who just walked in, he immediately shuts up his laptop and his full attention is on you. “Suddenly my day just got a lot better” he says and walks to you.

He gently places his hand on your cheek, and he kisses you. It’s nothing like the kiss you shared yesterday. This one is soft and gentle, like now he has time to taste you properly. He takes his time kissing you. When you try to touch him more, he pulls away. “Not now sweetheart, we have plans don’t we”. John walks out of the office with you. His hand on your back walking you through the whole floor like you’re his wife and not his secretary.

You’re confused. You expected a quick sex in his office, just like yesterday, you expected him to just pull your skirt up and fuck you on the desk. But now he is taking you somewhere in his expensive car and you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

You don’t know how John is feels about dating. You always thought that he was the type who just had casual sex with different partners. Since you started working for him, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but you heard from your colleges that he enjoys a company of beautiful women. Sometimes the relationship lasts longer but mostly there were a few weeks hook ups.

You stop in front of some Italian restaurant. He opens your door for you and like a true gentleman he helps you to get out of the car. The restaurant is lovely, there are only a few people inside and it looks really cozy. After you order your food he asks about your day, how did you sleep and what are your plans for the evening. He acts like you’re on a normal date and not on a business lunch. “I can see that something is bothering you, you don’t like it here?” John asks you after he notices how out of the place you look.

You tell him that you don’t understand what is going on, why are you here and what are you doing. “Well, I know that you don’t go out for your lunch break, so I wanted to take my girl out, take care of you.” He says it is not a big deal. “Your girl?” you ask. “What did you thought that I’m just going to fuck you in my office, when I am will be bored? John asks and your face goes red. That is exactly what you thought he would do. “I take care of my partners. I want to spoil you. Since you started to work for me you have been such a good girl, making my life so much easier. Now it is my turn.” You’re left speechless.

After the lunch, he takes you back to the office. His hand is on your thigh while he drives and it’s making you insane. Yes, you do like that he took you out but you’re so horny. The whole morning you imagined what he would do to you, and you were excited. And now he is teasing you with his fingers lightly brushing over your skin and each time he goes higher and higher.

At one moment when John’s hand is almost all the way under your skirt you moan. He looks at you with a playfulness in his eyes. Now he is teasing you on purpose. He continues to drive while his hand is slowly making its way in your panties. “Fuck love, you’re soaked, you could tell me that you wanted me so much.” Gently he starts to circle your clit and you’re opening your legs more for him.

He slowly puts two of his fingers inside you and after a while he starts to move them. You’re almost at the office building when he makes a turn and starts to drive in a different direction. “Where are we going?” you ask. “I made a promise to you yesterday, haven’t I. Were not fucking in my car. I am taking you to my place, so we don’t have to worry about some of your colleagues catching us fucking. We would want Janice from finance to see how good you take my cock. Am I right?”

To be honest you don’t care if Janice saw you. You’re so close and you can feel your orgasm approaching. John still casually drives while his fucking your pussy with his fingers. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you’re desperate, you just need a little bit more and you know that he knows it too. “You will come on my face in a minute don’t worry” John says.

And he is right the drive to his house is short and you both quickly get out of the car. When the door to his house closes behind you, he is immediately on you. Kissing you passionately and lifting you up so your legs are wrapped on his hips. He walks with you up the stairs not letting you go.

 “Everything off, I want to see you” he says when he lays you on his bed. You’re quick with your clothes and now you lay before him in nothing but your panties. “Fucking beautiful, and I bet you taste even better than you look.” “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart, let me see you” he gently pulls your panties, and he shows his head between your thighs. You’re already so wet and when he finally starts to lick your pussy your gone. You arch your back, and you can hear him whisper fucking perfect for me.  

When his tongue finds you clit you’re gone. He looks up at you and you can see your wetness on his beard and it’s the hottest thing you have ever seen. He quickly brings you to your orgasm and as he promised you to come on his face. When you finally come down from your orgasm you can see him taking his shirt off. He unzips his pants and quickly takes them off. He is on you naked, and you can see his hard dick leaking precum.

“I want to see your face this time, I want to see how pretty you’re going to look when I make you come on my dick.” He slowly pushes in you. “You were made for me honey, youre going to be the death of me.” he growls, and he starts to move in you. John is a big man and the way his stretching you is amazing. You can feel him everywhere and you are full.

It’s completely different than the sex you had yesterday. This is slow, his thrusts are hard, but it’s not rushed like the last time. He plays with your nipples, and you can feel that your second orgasm is approaching. “I am going to cum” you tell him, and you can feel that he is close too. He pushes your legs to your chest in a mating press and you can feel him so much deeper. “I need to come in your sweet pussy, please sweetheart be a good girl and let me” he says and you just nod. His fingers start to rub your clit and your orgasm hits you. He follows shortly after you spilling his seed into you. When he pulls out of you, he pulls you to his chest and he holds you so tight. You just lay there and you on his chest and his hands holding you.

You don’t go back to work that day, you stay at his place the night and the next day he drives you to your apartment. He tries to convince you to take the rest of the week off, so he can enjoy your company, but you tell him that he is the boss, and he needs to work, and he can’t take a vacation just because he is horny.  You go to work and when you go to your desk you see a note there, just like yesterday. But this time it says: My office now! And loose your panties on the way.

Masterlist

[xhyjin]

heian era sukuna as a husband!

husband sukuna! who first saw you by the river near your village, washing your hair under the soft glow of the setting sun. the peaceful moment didn’t last long; one of his cursed spirits emerged from the shadows, plucking you from the water like prey and tossing you onto his horse. before you could even scream, you were taken to his cursed shrine high in the mountains, a dark and eerie place where countless other frightened girls from distant villages had been gathered, all trembling in the presence of the king of curses.

husband sukuna! who you had heard countless stories about him in your village, the king of curses, a monstrous being with unmatched power. you always thought they were just myths to keep children from wandering too far. yet, when you finally saw him in all his terrifying glory, his four arms and four sets of piercing eyes radiating an otherworldly dominance, fear wasn’t the first thing you felt. instead, it was curiosity. unlike the other girls who cowered and sobbed, you couldn’t help but step closer and ask, “can i touch you?” your boldness caught him off guard, the faintest flicker of intrigue crossing his face, a reaction he hadn’t shown to anyone in centuries.

husband sukuna! who found himself so intrigued by how someone like you, so small, so mortal, did not tremble in fear. instead, your soft hands reached out, touching his face and arms as if he were some kind of untouchable deity carved from stone, not the monstrous king of curses. he didn’t even realize he had agreed to let you touch him until your fingertips brushed against his skin, your curiosity pulling him into a moment he couldn’t understand.

husband sukuna! who picked you out of all the other frightened girls, initially seeking only a concubine to satisfy his desires, but something shifted when he met you. there was something about your calm, unshaken presence that stirred something in him. you, unlike the others, didn’t cower in fear. you didn’t beg for mercy. your boldness, your curiosity; it intrigued him, and for the first time, he found himself considering you not as just another possession, but as something more. a wife, not a concubine.

husband sukuna! who throws the most lavish wedding the heian lands have ever seen, inviting even the emperor to show off his new wife, his queen of curses. it’s a grand event, full of gold, decorations, and luxury, but all eyes are on you, his chosen, the woman who stood by him, not as a fearful servant, but as his equal. you, his queen, now dressed in the finest clothes, a symbol of his power and the bond between you.

husband sukuna! who started to feel this strange pull every time you were near, like you were the only thing that could fill the emptiness in his heart. he didn’t understand it, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to keep you close, even if it meant pretending he didn’t care.

husband sukuna! who would rarely show it, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, like he was studying you, learning you. he couldn’t stop himself from being drawn to you, no matter how much he tried to act indifferent.

husband sukuna! who started questioning everything he knew about emotions, especially when it came to you. every time you were near, his heart would beat faster, and he didn’t know if it was anger or something else. he wasn’t used to feeling this way, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit.

husband sukuna! who, despite his power, couldn’t control the strange desire to protect you. he didn’t know why, but when danger approached, he felt this overwhelming urge to make sure nothing touched you, even if it meant putting himself at risk.

husband sukuna! who started seeking your company more often, even when it wasn’t necessary. he would pretend it was for something else, like business or duty, but deep down, he just wanted to be near you, to figure out what it was about you that made him feel this way.

husband sukuna! who never expected to find someone who could make him question everything, someone who didn’t fear him the way others did. you were the only one who didn’t tremble when he looked at you, and that intrigued him more than anything else.

husband sukuna! who, without realizing it, started to crave your touch. at first, it was just the occasional brush of your hand, but soon he found himself seeking out those moments, lingering just a little longer than necessary, wanting to feel the warmth of your skin against his.

husband sukuna! who never thought he’d want to spend time with someone like this, but with you, it felt different. he started planning small things just to see you. whether it was a casual walk or sitting together in the garden. he didn’t need a reason; he just wanted to be near you.

husband sukuna! when, during one of your strolls through the garden, you mentioned how much you loved roses (or any flowers you like) he made a mental note of it. the very next month, the entire garden was filled with roses, rows upon rows of them, in every color, and bloom. it was his way of showing you he was listening, even if he never said it aloud. the roses, a silent gesture of his affection, were now there just for you.

husband sukuna! who makes sure all your kimonos are made from the finest and silkiest silk, each one carefully chosen to complement your beauty. your combs, made from the finest bamboo, are crafted with delicate precision, perfect for brushing your long, flowing hair. he ensures that every little detail of your life is as luxurious as possible, from the softest cushions to the finest food, all to spoil you in ways you never imagined. every item, every gesture, is his way of showing how much you mean to him, even if he never says it outright.

husband sukuna! who found himself realizing just how head over heels he was for you when you had to leave his estate to visit your family in the village. the moment you left, an unexpected emptiness washed over him, and he realized how much he missed you already. it was then that he wondered, if I miss you this badly just when you’re at the village, what would I do if you were gone forever? he couldn’t shake the thought. you weren’t immortal like him, and the idea of losing you, someone so human, so delicate, filled him with a kind of fear he never expected to feel.

husband sukuna! who tries to figure out every possible way to make you immortal like him. he couldn’t imagine his life without you, and the thought of losing you one day terrified him more than he’d ever admit. he searched for solutions, delving into ancient texts and forbidden rituals, determined to find a way to keep you by his side forever. the idea of you growing old and leaving him, or even worse, being with someone else, was unbearable. he would do anything to make sure that never happened.

husband sukuna! who, after much searching, discovers that the key to making you immortal like him is by carrying his heir. his immortal blood would imprint on you and his child, ensuring that you would live on, as long as his bloodline continued. when you return, he is sure to tell you of his plan, his determination clear in his eyes. it’s the only way he can guarantee you’ll never leave him, and the thought of sharing his immortal legacy with you fills him with an overwhelming sense of purpose.

husband sukuna! who is the happiest man—or curse—alive when uraume tells him that you are pregnant. a rare, genuine smile spreads across his face, one that few have ever seen. the news fills him with a sense of pride and joy he’s never known, and for once, his usual calm demeanor cracks. the idea of you carrying his child, an heir to his immortal blood, makes him feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. it’s as if everything he’s done, all his power and control, has led to this moment. you, carrying his legacy, makes him feel more alive than he ever has.

husband sukuna! who spoils you rotten throughout your whole pregnancy, making sure you’re eating well and getting everything you need. he hunts himself, ensuring you have the freshest, most protein-rich food, and even arranges for the finest fruits to be delivered from the emperor’s lands. he may or may not have threatened the emperor into compliance, but it didn’t matter. all that mattered was making sure you were well cared for and that nothing, not even a tiny discomfort, would touch you. your well-being was his top priority, and he would go to any lengths to ensure you and the baby were healthy.

husband sukuna! who doesn’t allow you to walk on your own, no, he has four arms for a reason. you’re going to be carried by him everywhere and anywhere. whether it’s across the estate or through the garden, he insists on carrying you in his arms, making sure you don’t lift a finger. he doesn’t care if it’s impractical or if anyone else thinks it’s too much, his only concern is making sure you’re comfortable and safe during your pregnancy, and he enjoys having you close to him at all times. no one else gets to have you but him.

husband sukuna! who has a small throne made for your baby, placing it beside his massive one. with your and his child’s thrones on either side of his, he feels a sense of contentment that he’s never known before. it’s a simple gesture, but it means everything to him, his family, his legacy, all sitting together with him in his domain. the sight of it fills him with pride, knowing that soon, your child will sit there beside you, carrying on his immortal bloodline. it’s the perfect symbol of everything he’s built, and it’s all for you.

[moonlitwitchdaisy]

Gift Ribbon

“suguru—fuckkk…” the words slipped past your lips as you rode your fiancé’s massive cock, blindfolded and with your hands tied.

“sssshh, baby. you wouldn’t want to wake the girls, would you?”

oh no, you definitely wouldn’t. having the girls catch you—their soon-to-be mother—and their father in such a filthy, compromising position was definitely not part of the plan.

“but—but…” the sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, and once again, you questioned how you’d ended up like this. yet every time suguru’s cock hit that sensitive, pleasure-filled spot inside you, all your thoughts evaporated.

god, it felt so good.

you had always welcomed your fiancé’s cock with greedy enthusiasm. the way your warm, snug walls clenched around his cock made it impossible not to surrender yourself as his little plaything, eager to do anything he wanted.

“s-shit…” suguru leaned his head back, groaning. “just like that, baby. ride my cock so hard that tomorrow morning—ugh—every step you take reminds you of this moment.” his head lolled against the back of the couch, one hand moving to toy with your sensitive nipple.

this was torture. exquisite, mind-numbing torture. with your hands bound and your vision stolen, you were utterly at his mercy, drunk on the way his massive cock stretched you open. and the way he pinched and played with your nipple only heightened the intoxicating pleasure.

“sugu—baby…” your head tilted back as a loud moan spilled from your lips. you had no strength left to keep going. your hips had been rolling against his cock with quick, rhythmic movements, but the effort was taking its toll.

“oh, is my baby getting tired?” his teasing drawl sent a flood of heat to your cheeks, and you cursed softly under your breath.

his large fingers were still playing with your nipple, alternating between gentle strokes and firm squeezes. sometimes, he’d roll it between his fingers, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

he was entirely in control.

“guess I can’t let my fiancée wear herself out, huh?” in one smooth motion, suguru pulled you flush against his chest, the hand that had been tormenting your nipple now gripping your waist. he started thrusting into you, deep and hard.

his pace was relentless, his thick cock filling you up in a way that made you want to melt into him forever. the soft, velvety tip kept brushing against your g-spot with every thrust, making you wish you could stay like this—utterly wrecked and ruined by him. but the need to keep quiet gnawed at the back of your mind. if you got too loud, the girls might wake up. so, desperate to muffle your moans, you bit into his left shoulder.

“fuckin’ feral girl… hah, you know that only turns me on more, don’t you?” one of his hands slid to the back of your neck, pulling your head up from his shoulder. his lips crashed onto yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

there was nothing gentle about it. suguru’s tongue invaded your mouth, his kisses hungry and wild, claiming every inch of you. you wanted to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him even closer, but your hands were still bound behind you.

even as his lips devoured yours, his hips never faltered. each deep, rough thrust sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you, his cock pushing deeper, harder. the slick mix of his precum and your arousal dripped down your thighs, evidence of how completely he owned you in this moment.

suguru geto always fucked you like he worshipped every inch of you.

when he finally broke away from the kiss, gasping for air, you managed to stammer, “you’re too fast… c-can you just slow—”

“slow down? not a chance, baby. I know you’re close. fuck—this pussy is going to be the death of me… FUCK.” he yanked you tighter against him, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his growls vibrating through your skin. his hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he pounded into you with a feral intensity.

“come for me—fuck—come all over my cock, baby… OH GOD—” his voice broke into a guttural groan as you felt his thick, hot release flood you. the warmth of it sent you over the edge, your walls clamping down around him as you came with a cry muffled against his shoulder.

neither of you moved, both of you panting heavily as you tried to catch your breath. his cock remained buried inside you, still twitching slightly as the aftershocks ran through both of your bodies. your hands were still bound, your vision stolen by the blindfold, leaving you completely at his mercy.

pressing his lips softly to your ear, he whispered, his voice low and rough, “merry christmas, my soon-to-be wife.” his fingers brushed over the silky ribbon tying your wrists, the same one he’d used to bind his favorite present of the night—you.

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

[luvyeni]

⚔️… ( drabble ) never let you leave ! ୨୧ 一 이희승 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ ヾ

yandere!heeseung・ reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・fingering , manipulation wc ・ ‎0.8k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

request. y/n & heeseung are on a break from their relationship even though hee opposed SOOO to get her to come back he kindof stalks her & makes her feel unsafe so she asks him to come back & protect her .. . ??

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 im a little rusty with yandere i hope you like it !!!

he was too controlling, he never let you be; always calling when you were out with friends, or out at work — or just in general he was always calling. he did this under the premise of “there are bad people out there” or “im just trying to protect you.” you could take it anymore. so you broke up with him, told him you just needed space.

he didn’t take it well at first; and you expected that. he cried, begged you to stay; he said he couldn’t live without you — that probably would’ve worked in the beginning, but you were tired. “i don’t even feel safe with you anymore heeseung, being with you scares me more than anything now.” and with that you left him.

he left you alone after that; you didn’t even see him anymore, in fact you didn’t see him for almost a month after that. his friends said all he did was stay home and play games, which made you sad, but this was for your happiness, so you couldn’t just back down. “as long as he gets the help he needs i wish him nothing but the best.”

heeseung in fact wasn’t getting the help he desperately needed. in fact he was getting worse, he was dying without you; he felt like he couldn’t breathe because he wasn’t near you — well not as close as he wanted to be.

you began to feel it a month later; you let your guard down, and that’s when you began to feel like you were being watched. you tried to ignore it, but it was hard when it was all the time, even in your apartment. you began to close the blinds. but that didn’t work, you felt like you were exposed in your own house.

“it’s heeseung isn’t it?” you friend said, you shook your head, quick to defend the boy. “no jake said he’s getting help.” what you didn’t know is that heeseung was always one step ahead of you, watching you. waiting for you. he saw your every move; even in your home with the cameras he installed.

you couldn’t take it anymore; you felt like you were going insane and nobody believed you, they thought you were just exhausted from work or something. “you just need sleep.” how could you sleep if you felt like someone was watching you!

you began to think maybe heeseung was right, maybe he was the only one that could protect you. maybe the world was too dangerous for you. which is why you found yourself knocking on his door. “poor baby.” he saw your tired state. “you look so tired.” he smiled to himself as you let yourself in. “i can’t sleep, i can’t go out alone, im scared someone will hurt me.” you rushed to say. “didn’t i tell you that?” he said. “you didn’t listen, now look.”

you wrapped your arms around him, and he wanted to hug you back; but he had to teach you a lesson — don’t ever think about leaving him again. “hee im so tired.” you looked up at him with those eyes. “yeah?” he said. “let’s get you to bed then.”

he guided you back to his room, laying you down on his bed. “please don’t go.” he smiled, laying next to you. “im not.” his hand was resting on your stomach. “i won't go anywhere.” his hands now moving. “you can just stay here with me.” you moaned softly. “heeseung.” he kissed the side of your head. “you don’t even have to go out, i’ll make all the money and spend it on you.” he said cupping your heat. “fuck you’re so wet.”

you couldn’t believe you fell for again, allowing his fingers to explore your insides like before. “you missed me?” you nodded. “use your fucking words.” he growled. “missed the the way i held and protected you.” he said. “the way i fucked you?” his fingers curled, hitting the spot that made you moan. “fuck hee please keep going , i need you.” you cried out. “need you so bad.”

he sped up, your hips following his movements. “you’re mine, everything you do is because i give you permission to.” you’d complain if he wasn’t fucking your open with his fingers. “you understand, you’re mines, your body is mine, your mind is mine?” you were desperate, ready to cum. “fuck yes hee im yours.” you screamed. “i’ll never leave again i promise.”

that was all he needed, before he whispered into your ear. “cum.” and it was like your body was finally at peace, your mind too. “hee.” your breathing was heavy from your orgasm, eyes heavy from your long exhaustion. “shh, go to sleep.” he said. “when you wake up we can handle me okay.” he held you softly in his arms. “im fine holding you just like this.” you slowly drifted off to sleep in what you thought was the safest place at the moment — but you couldn’t be far from wrong.

because you in fact were sleeping right in the arms of the reason you were feeling so unsettled and by time you woke up you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it… you gave yourself to him.

you were his now, all his and was never gonna share you again…

©️LUVYENI

[lqvesoph]

A thin line between love and hate || LN4

landonorris x fewtrell!reader

enemies to lovers, brother’s best friend

Summary: Through your brother’s friendship with Lando Norris, your families have been interwined for as long as you can remember. Seven years had passed since you last saw your brother’s best friend, and you were thankful because he really was one huge pain in the ass. But now your families decided to go on vacation together, where the tension between the two of you shifts

Part 2

1.7k words

masterlist

Prologue

The bright, golden sunlight of the Amalfi Coast gleamed off the crystal-clear waters below as you stepped out onto the villa’s terrace, inhaling the salty sea air. It had been seven years since the last family vacation, but the memories were as sharp as if they’d happened yesterday: pranks, endless teasing, and the way Lando Norris always seemed to get under your skin. You’d vowed to keep your distance this time. You weren’t the same timid teenager he used to torment.

Yet here he was.

You spotted him as soon as the familiar sound of his laugh carried through the open patio doors. Leaning casually against the doorway, his grin as infuriating as ever, he looked taller, broader—more grown-up, sure—but the glint in his eye said some things never changed.

Sure you hadn’t gotten around him in the past years. Ever since the obnoxious asshole made it to Formula 1, you saw him everywhere. Stores, ads, social media. Even some of your friends were F1 fans, which forced you to listen to countless of hours of them discussing the sport, and him, and on top of that watch some of the races.

Though the last time you saw him in person must’ve been seven years ago, when you were freshly 14 years old and he had just been signed to the Young Drive program of Mclaren.

He looked up, catching your eye, and his smirk deepened.

“Bambi-” He started but then paused. “No, wait. You’re taller now.” He tilted his head, feigning thought. “Bambi’s mum? Nah, Bambi still fits best.”

You scowled, tugging at the hem of your flower sundress. “Lando.”

“Y/n,” he replied smoothly, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward you, his strut more pronounced than you remembered. “Seven years, huh? You missed me.”

“I missed the silence,” you shot back, refusing to let him rattle you.

Your brother, Max, appeared just then, slinging an arm around Lando’s shoulders. “Behave, mate,” Max said with a laugh. “Y/n’s got a sharper tongue these days. She might actually kill you if you try anything.”

Lando raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t falter. “Me? Misbehave? Never.”

“Let’s get down to the beach!”, Max interrupted your starring contest, slapping Lando’s shoulder twice before turning him around and leading him out of the room.

You sighed.

This will be a long three weeks.

As the evening stretched on, the sense of unease lingered, twisting and turning in your chest. Lando wasn’t acting the way he used to, and that subtle shift in his demeanor unsettled you more than you cared to admit. The teasing was still there, but it wasn’t aimed to sting. It was sharper in a way that didn’t cut; instead, it grazed, danced along the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

He wasn’t just present—he was attentive. Too attentive. His every move felt deliberate, almost calculated, though not in a cold way. It was something warmer, something charged. You felt it when his gaze caught yours and lingered just a second too long, his blue eyes betraying an intensity that wasn’t there before. The casual air of indifference he used to carry seemed to have melted away, leaving behind something… intentional. Something directed entirely at you.

It wasn’t just his words, either. His presence was louder now, even in the quiet moments. You could feel him, could sense him, even when he wasn’t directly engaging you. Like a static charge in the air, subtle but undeniable. His movements seemed deliberate in a way that only made you more aware of him. The brush of his fingers as he passed you a drink, the casual way his knee bumped yours under the table, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes when they caught yours across the room—all of it felt deliberate.

And that smile. That maddening, crooked smile. It wasn’t as smug as it used to be, wasn’t as cocky. There was something more controlled in it now, something that made your chest tighten every time it flickered your way. You hated that you noticed. Hated that it made your breath catch, that it made your heart race even as you told yourself it was nothing.

And then there were the small moments—fleeting yet impossible to ignore. When his fingers brushed yours as he passed you the glass, he didn’t pull away quickly, letting the touch hang between you. Or when he leaned in close, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you as he murmured something playful into your ear, his voice low, almost intimate. It sent a shiver down your spine, one you couldn’t attribute to the evening chill.

The air between you felt different tonight—charged, heavy with something unnamed. Every glance, every stray touch felt like it meant more than it should. You wanted to dismiss it, to brush it off as your imagination running wild, but you couldn’t. Not when the warmth of his gaze lingered even after you looked away, not when his presence seemed to carve itself into your awareness with an infuriating

You hated how aware of him you’d become. How you caught yourself stealing glances when you thought he wasn’t looking, only to find his eyes already on you. He wasn’t just a presence anymore; he was magnetic, drawing your attention even when you didn’t want to give it. The lines of his face were sharper now, his boyishness replaced with something more defined, more grown-up. It was unfair, really, how he’d managed to grow into himself like this—effortless yet entirely deliberate, the golden light from the villa’s windows framing him as if the universe had designed this exact moment to make you falter.

And you were faltering. The banter didn’t sting the way it used to because it wasn’t meant to. There was no malice, no underlying competition—only something softer, something far more dangerous.

You felt exposed under his gaze, like he could see more of you than you were willing to show. It wasn’t just annoyance anymore, and that realization hit you harder than you expected. It was something deeper, something that twisted in your stomach and clawed at the walls you’d built to keep him out.

You didn’t know what to call it yet, but it scared you. It scared you because you didn’t want it—and yet you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from falling into it.

The teasing had always been a game between you, a back-and-forth you could handle. But this? This wasn’t the same game.

It wasn’t annoyance anymore, or at least, it wasn’t just annoyance. It was something else entirely. Something you weren’t sure you could handle. Something that made you want to run, but also made it impossible to look away.

This was something else entirely, and it left you unsteady, unsure of the rules, unsure if you even wanted to play.

You were too busy scolding yourself for the thought to realize he’d caught you looking. When you finally glanced his way again, his eyes were already on you, his lips quirking into that maddening smirk. Heat flooded your cheeks as you snapped your gaze down to your plate.

“Everything okay over there, Bambi?” His voice was low enough that only you could hear, his tone laced with amusement.

Your grip on your fork tightened, and you didn’t look up. “Fine,” you muttered. “Just wondering how you’ve managed to stay so insufferable after all these years.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, clearly delighted. “Talent, I guess.”

Your blood boiled, as you accidentally clashed your fork against your plate, making both of your parents look at you.

“Behave you two, you’re adults now,” your mum intervened before you could say something. Lando raised his hands in defense. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise. Can’t speak for little Bambi here tho,” he smirked, causing you to kick his leg underneath the table.

But it wasn’t just anger anymore, and that realization left you even more off balance. The villa’s warm, sunlit glow felt stifling now, the air charged with a tension you couldn’t place. Lando might still be obnoxious, but there was something new in the way he looked at you. Something that made it harder to hold onto the image of him as the boy who used to torment you.

And that unsettled you more than anything else.

part 2

[bloodxbat]

Heyyy, could you do an NSFW fic with Spencer where it’s best friends to lovers and they’re roommates and maybe it’s a really hot day and readers barely wearing anything and Spencer can’t control himself etc 🫶🫶

Hey Anon! absolutely I can!! I had so much fun writing this, I've not written a fan fiction in so long so I hope this is ok!!

My requests and taglist are open so feel free to send me a wee message!!

Hope you enjoy the fic :))

Can’t Control Myself

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut!!! 18+, MDNI, P IN V sex, unprotected, creampie, oral (fem), best friends to lovers, swearing! Dom Spence, Praise, Marking kink, all the good stuff 

Reblogs help me stay motivated to keep writing fics! :))

Taglist: @writing-wh0re Message to be added 

Word Count: 2,649

Prompt(s) used: none

Summary: You and Spencer have been best friends for 3 years, you’ve lived together for almost 2 now. Spencer has always had a ‘’thing’’ for you but has always been way too shy to admit it. On a particularly hot day he loses control of himself over the clothes (or lack thereof) you’re wearing. 

Masterlist

The apartment you and Spencer shared was small, which made this weather even more unbearable. Books piling up, almost touching the ceiling keeping in all the heat, stopping cold fresh air from coming in. Any outfit you put on was just sticking to your skin in an instant. The fabrics attach themselves as if they were part of your skin. You huff out a frustrated sigh as you peel off yet another outfit that suffocated you in this heat. 

Throwing your wardrobe all over your room trying to find the loosest outfit you owned you finally found something. ‘Please let this one help, please’ you thought to yourself as you pulled on the clothes. 

You’d found a black short-sleeved crop top, so short that it barely covered your tits when you lifted your arms, and a pair of loose fabric shorts that showed off the underside of your ass accenting its curves under them. A sigh escapes your lips, you sway your hips and air brushes itself up your skin giving temporary relief from the heat. 

Finally having found your outfit you make your way out your room and down the small hall leading to the living room/kitchen to grab a cup of ice cold water. Spencer was sitting on the brown leather couch that took up the centre of the room in front of the TV, which was not switched on of course as Spencer would never ‘’waste his free time watching that thing’’. You chuckled to yourself as you noticed he was reading The Odyssey for the hundredth time it felt. 

Brushing your hand over his shoulders you greet him 

‘’Hey Spence’’ you smile walking into the kitchen area.

Spencer looks up from his book feeling your slight friendly touch, turning round to see you in the kitchen. You were stretching up on your tiptoes to reach the cupboard where the glasses were kept. His eyes went wide, your crop top and short had rode up your body at the movement. Exposing your skin, your curves, your perfection. He had never seen so much of you before. 

‘’H-hi Y/N’’ he manages to stutter out, clearing his throat.

‘’The Odyssey again Spence?’’ You ask not looking at him as you grab ice from the freezer, bending over in front of him. 

Was this a dream, his eyes didn’t leave you, devouring your body. His mouth was salivating, he wanted too much to know how you tasted, how you felt. He hadn’t even processed your question before you were walking over to him, glass in hand waving in front of his eyes.

‘’Earth to Spencer’’ You chuckle

‘’S-sorry I lost track- wh-what did you uhm whatdidyousay?’’

‘’I asked if you were seriously reading The Odyssey again? Does it not bore you?’’

‘’Yes i’m reading it again and no of course it doesn’t bore me, this is one of the greatest classics of all time!’’

You chuckle at his passion for the book. Taking a seat next to him, taking the book out his hands, your fingers brushing his skin slightly, such a small gesture but enough that his vision was turning blurry and his mind racing. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your skin so you looked up at him. 

Spencer was wearing a white loose fitting linen shirt, the top button undone exposing the skin of his chest to you, and brown hemp trousers. Even in this heat he still tries his best to look professional, even from the comfort of his own apartment.

‘’Everything ok Spencer?’’ Your voice filled with genuine concern, looking at your friend he doesn’t seem quite himself. He is normally hyper focused, aware of every surroundings, given the nature of his job, it's not paranoia it's just…him, but now he seems distracted.

‘’I-’’ Spencer licks his lips trying to think of the words, the right words to tell you how he really feels. How all these years he has found you the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on. How he’s up late at night thinking about you, what he could do to you, how he could make you scream his name. How you would feel pinned below him. He could feel himself begin to grow at the thought, your touch bringing him out of his thoughts. 

You placed your hand on his arm, stroking your thumb along his skin. Waiting patiently for him to answer. His deep brown eyes caught yours, god his eyes were beautiful, you could stare into them all day. You felt strange thinking of your friend this way but it also felt so right. You couldn’t deny that Spencer Reid wasn’t attractive, he wasn’t named ‘pretty boy’ for nothing because he certainly was that. 

‘’You’re driving me crazy’’ Spencer says suddenly, his voice low and raspy.

‘’W-what?’’ your breath hitched in your throat at his sudden boldness.

‘’You heard me pretty girl’’ his eyes stare holes into yours with burning passion ‘’You’re driving me. Crazy’’ he emphasises the last word. 

Spencer shuffles closer to you, grabbing your hand and taking it off its place on his arm. The cool air touching your palm from where his warm skin used to be moments before. Your eyes never leave his, as you watch him lick his lips once more. 

‘’Wearing this outfit, practically naked…fuck’’ he groans

Spencer rarely swears in fact you've only ever heard him swear when he clumsily bumps his head off of a shelf. My god it was hot, those types of words just rolling off his tongue.

‘’It’s getting harder to control myself around you Y/N, ever since I laid eyes on you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. 3 years, for 3 long years i’ve not stopped thinking about you, thinking how you would feel, how you would-’ he paused letting his eyes roam over you ‘how you would taste’’

His words cause a heat to form in between your legs, a wetness forming on your shorts. It was only then you notice the bulge appearing in Spencer's trousers, the zip practically about to burst up against him. 

‘’Why don’t you come and find out’’ You don’t know where this bold side of you came from but the way it turned the expression on Spencer's face to complete lust, his eyes growing darker from your words. You hope that the image burned itself into your eyes so you would never forget it. 

Without hesitation his lips were on yours. The kiss was soft and gentle at first, his lips were so smooth and inviting, they felt so familiar to you, like they were meant to be on yours and only yours. You could feel his tongue graze your bottom lip slightly wanting more you open your mouth inviting him in. Your tongues dance at first, softly brushing over each other, he tasted of coffee, humming against him at the taste. The kiss became more hungry, tongues battling for dominance which Spencer of course won. 

He pushed you down so you were beneath him on the couch, his hands grazing up your sides causing you to shiver. His hands reached your breasts that lay under your shirt, his fingers found their way to your hard nipples, pinching them softly. Your back arched up into him as you moaned softly at the sensation. You could feel him pulse onto you through his trousers at your noises. 

‘’That feel good?’’ he smirks, his lips travelling down your jaw and onto your neck, sucking and biting. 

‘’Mhmm, p-please spence’’ you hand made its way into his golden brown curly hair that stuck to the nape of his neck from sweat, tugging slightly as he continued to kiss down your neck. Ripping your shirt off of you to get a better look at your body beneath him.

‘’Fuck’’ he groaned, his eyes taking in every inch of your exposed skin. ‘’So fucking beautiful why didn’t I confess sooner’’ 

Before you could say anything his lips are back on you, attacking your skin sucking every inch he could find leaving red marks behind him. 

‘’S-spence’’ You gasp at all the marks

‘’Shh, I’m marking you as mine, d’you understand me? Everyones gonna know who you belong too’’

His words were like sex itself to your ears, the very thought of everyone being able to see that he had his way with you causing a pool to form soaking your thighs. Your fingers made their way to his chest, undoing the buttons on his shirt pushing the material off his shoulders. His chest was so smooth and toned, your eyes roamed over the sight in front of you causing Spencer to smirk. 

‘’Like what you see?’’ he says

All you can do is nod, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth, then looking into his lust filled eyes. 

‘’Good- because it’s all yours angel’’ 

It didn’t take long before the rest of your clothes were discarded on the floor. Both of you tangled in a hot mess on the couch skin sticking to the leather beneath. Spencer started to train his kisses along your chest. Teasing your already hard nipples with his tongue, soft moans spilling out your mouth. He continues his way down further, nestling his head between your thighs, wrapping his arms under you keeping you in place. 

Feathering kisses on your inner thighs, nipping at the soft skin slightly, your back arching up into him. Silently begging for more. 

‘’Need you to use your words if you want something angel’’ He continues to kiss your soft skin.

‘’P-please Spencer’’ 

‘’Please what?’’

‘’I n-need you please’’

‘’Want me to taste you angel is that what you want?’’

He wasn’t continuing until he got confirmation from you. 

‘’Mhmm’’ you nod, looking down at him. The sight of him looking up at you through your thighs drove you crazy.

Without warning Spencer slammed his lips against your heat. Lewd noises filling your small shared flat. His tongue sliding between your wet folds, lapping up every bit of you, savouring your sweet salty taste. Spencer could’ve came right there, he groaned onto you as he sucked on your clit, causing vibrations to shoot right through you. Waves of pleasure bringing you to the edge. 

Who knew Dr Spencer Reid was so damn good with his tongue. You reached down, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer to you as you neared release. 

‘’Fuck Spencer oh my-’’ You moaned breathlessly. 

‘’Taste. So. fucking. Good.’’ Spencer said between licks. Not wanting to be away from your heat for even a second. 

Your grip on his hair got tighter, earning a groan from him. 

‘’You gonna cum angel? Go on, cum on my tongue, wanna taste you so fucking bad’’

His words sent you over the edge. The knot in your stomach unleashing as you reached your high all over his face. Waves of pleasure coursing through your body, your legs going limp, that was the most powerful orgasm you’ve ever had. Spencer moaned onto you as he hungrily lapped up all of your juices. He pulls back, his chin glistening with you all over him, licking his lips before crawling up to be face to face with you.

‘’Good girl’’ he groans softly before taking your lips with his. You could taste yourself on his tongue. 

Spencer's hard length brushed up your folds. The sensation causes you to shiver. His tip was red, angry, needing attention. He positioned himself outside your hole. 

‘’Gonna fuck you now angel, otherwise i’ll lose control’’

‘’Please- please fuck me’’ desperation on your tongue. Hearing you talk to him like this drove Spencer crazy. Knowing he was the one to make you this way. Slurring your words with absolute pleasure. 

He slowly thrust forward, stretching you out. Your mouth hung open at his size, it felt unlike you've ever felt before, pain, pleasure, it was almost overwhelming. You gripped onto Spencer's skin so tight, your nails dug into his flesh leaving crescent shapes. Silent moans falling from your mouth as your foreheads touched together. 

‘'M’gonna move now angel ok?’’ Spencer groaned

He slowly pulled out, almost all the way before thrusting back into you, he was so deep you could feel him in your stomach. That first thrust forced out the most sinful moan, the noise going straight to Spencer's cock, he practically collapsed into your neck. He continued to thrust in and out of your wet cunt, the sounds of skin slapping filling the air. 

‘’Mm oh- fuck Y/N, so fucking tight’’ 

His pace quickened, your body shaking with pleasure. You didn’t care how loud you were being, you wanted people to know who you belonged to, who made you feel this way. Spencer's mouth was beside your ear, whimpering and moaning with every thrust he made into you. Your walls clench around him with every noise he made. 

‘’I’m not gonna last if you keep tightening around me sweetheart’’

‘’Please- wanna feel you’’

‘’What do you wanna feel angel?’’

He never stopped thrusting into you, he was going unbearably fast, you were definitely going to have a few bruises tomorrow. 

‘’Cum S-spencer, please gotta feel it’’

Your words cause blood to rush straight to his length.

‘’Fuck Y/N where do you want me to cum hmm? Getting so fucking close’’

‘’I-inside Spence, p-lease’’

‘’Are you sure?’’

‘’Yes- please need to feel it, fill me up Spencer please’’

He would like nothing more.

‘’Whatever you want, angel’’ he groaned, continuing to pound into you. He was so close, both of you breathless and sweating all over each other. Your eyes lock, both mouths agape with pleasure. Spencer's eyes turn dark, they turn lustful, he is close. You push yourself up against him more. 

‘’Fuck’’ He almost shouts, moaning loud as he releases thick white ropes into you, coating your twitching walls. The feeling of him cumming into you causing you to reach your second release. Eyes rolling to the back of your head with pleasure, you didn’t realise you were drooling over yourself. Spencer reached his thumb up, wiping it away, still inside you, waiting for both of you to catch your breath before pulling out. 

Spencer focussing on your convulsing hole watching as his cum spilled out of you, the sight almost enough to make him ready for round two. He got up and grabbed a damp cloth cleaning you both up, before pulling you into his arms.

‘’That was-’’ You begin still breathless and speechless from what you just did.

‘’Amazing’’ he finished your sentence for you.

‘’How long?’’ you asked, looking up at him, tracing shapes on his exposed glistening chest ‘’How long have you felt this way?’’

‘’Honestly- since the day I met you’’ he confessed, all you could do was stare at him with a smile creeping on your face. 

‘’I was too scared to say anything, I didn't want to ruin the friendship we had, you were, are, too special for me to lose’’ Your heart warming at this confession.

‘’But seeing you in that outfit…I just couldn’t keep it to myself any longer, I'm just glad you feel the same way’’ He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

You grab his face and lightly kiss him on the lips. Sighing into him pressing your foreheads together. 

‘’I’m glad I chose this outfit then’’ You chuckle leaning your head up against his shoulder. 

You both stayed there, naked on the couch, holding each other. You convinced Spencer to watch TV with you, he actually enjoyed the show but he would never admit it. Neither of you got up to put clothes on, it was too warm for that. 

You fell asleep watching TV snuggled into him, your soft snores peeling Spencer’s eyes away from the screen. Not wanting to wake you he just smiled and kissed you softly.

‘’Good night Angel’’ he whispered.

[lizziesangel]

thinking of rafe wiping your tears after a bad day

the ocean breeze was cool against your face as you sat on the beach, the salty air stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. you hugged your knees to your chest, trying to block out the whirlwind of thoughts that had been tormenting you all day. it felt like a never-ending cycle: the pouges were your escape, your freedom—but returning to the kooks, to your so-called friends, always brought the weight crashing back down.

a shadow loomed over you, and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“wow, running back to the pogues didn’t work out, huh?” rafe cameron’s voice broke through your thoughts, laced with his usual teasing tone. “what, they get bored of you already? or are you just avoiding us kooks again?”

you sighed, tilting your head to glare up at him. “not now, rafe. seriously.”

his smirk faltered as he noticed your tear-streaked face. for a moment, he just stood there, his teasing demeanor slipping into something more uncertain. “hey,” he said, crouching down to your level, his voice quieter now. “you good?”

“as if you care,” you muttered, looking back out at the waves.

“okay, rude,” he replied, but there was no real heat behind it. “i mean, you’re sitting here all sad and stuff. if it’s those pogues making you feel like this—”

the way you looked at him must have caught him off guard because he paused. “wait,” he said, stepping closer. “are you… crying?”

“it’s not them,” you cut him off sharply, your voice trembling. “they’re the only ones who actually care.”

“just leave me alone,” you add, turning your head away from him and furiously wiping at your cheeks.

rafe raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by your sudden honesty. he sat back on the sand, his arms resting on his knees as he watched you cautiously. “so, if it’s not them… who is it?”

his teasing demeanor softened as he spoke. “y/n,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual edge. “what’s going on?”

“why do you even care?” you snapped, though your words didn’t carry much bite.

“because i just do, okay?” he said, his voice surprisingly sincere. “look, if it’s not those pogues making you feel like this, then who is it?”

you hesitated, biting your lip. a part of you screamed not to tell him—rafe cameron, of all people—but the words spilled out before you could stop them. “it’s just macy and liv.”

he frowned, his brows knitting together. “macy and olivia? aren’t they your besties or whatever?”

“they’re supposed to be, but all they do is make me feel like crap. they keep saying things to me, and they just don't realise how much they're hurting me.”

“so, whenever i react to them in the same way they're talking to me, liv keeps saying how rude i am and stuff.”

rafe stayed silent for a moment, watching you. then, to your surprise, he shifted closer, reaching out to gently tilt your face toward him.

“hey,” he said softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear on your cheek. his touch was warm, unexpectedly comforting. “you don’t deserve that. not from them, not from anyone.”

“they keep saying i’m rude and how sensitive i am, that i get angry over nothing. but it’s not true, rafe. i’m not like that.”

you stared down at your hands as his hands fell from your face, now holding your hands. your voice kept trembling and more tears spilled from your eyes as the words kept pouring out. “in class, they always turn their backs to me, like i’m not even there. and if i try to join in, they ignore me. so i just… stopped trying.”

“i don't think they even care that i keep quiet.”

rafe stayed quiet, letting you talk, occasionally squeezing your hands.

“and then there was this secret santa thing. i spent so much money and time making this burr basket for liv, and she didn’t even say thank you. she just complained about how much wrapping paper i used.”

you laughed bitterly, blinking your tears out of your eyes. “it’s stupid, right? i shouldn’t care this much. but i do. i feel like i’m always third-wheeling, like i’m not enough for them. like i’m just there.”

“and it hurts, rafe. it really hurts.”

rafe was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes fixed on you. when he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically soft. “it’s not stupid.”

you glanced at him, surprised.

“look, i’m not great at this whole feelings thing,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “but… that sounds rough. and if they’re making you feel like that? screw them. seriously. you deserve better than that.”

you blinked, his words catching you off guard. “you think so?”

“yeah,” he said firmly. “i mean, if you can put up with those pogues, you can handle anything, right?” he smirked, but it was gentler this time, not mocking.

“they don’t deserve you. if they can’t see how great you are, that’s on them, not you.”

you blinked at him, caught off guard by his words. “you think i’m great?”

“obviously,” he said with a small smirk, though the warmth in his voice didn’t waver. “i mean, you’re stubborn, and you spend way too much time with those pogues, but…” he trailed off, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “you’re still pretty great.”

a laugh bubbled out of you despite yourself. “you’re kind of an idiot, you know that?”

“yeah, well, you’re not the first to say that,” he replied, his grin widening.

he brushed away another tear, his touch lingering for a moment before he dropped his hand. “and for the record? if you ever need someone to remind you how awesome you are, i guess i could do it. just don’t expect me to make a habit out of it.”

you smiled at him, the ache in your chest easing for the first time all day. “thanks, rafe.”

“anytime,” he said, leaning back on his hands and glancing out at the ocean. “just don’t start crying every time you see me, okay? people are gonna think i’m soft or something.”

for a moment, the two of you sat there in silence, the ocean waves filling the space between. rafe’s hand lingered back to your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek one last time to wipe away a tear before he dropped it back to his lap.

“thanks,” you said softly, meeting his eyes.

“anytime,” he replied, leaning back on his hands with an easy smirk. “but for real, don’t tell anyone i was nice to you. i’ve got a reputation to protect.”

you rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face was real this time. and as rafe stayed by your side, watching the sun dip below the horizon, you realized that maybe—just maybe—there was more to him than you’d thought.

maybe he cared more than you thought.

MASTERLIST

A/N: wowww, this was honestly sooo crusty dusty, i apologizeeee. just mentioning that ALL your requests are in process

[moonlightwritingf1]

Unspoken Desires | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ Lando and Y/N had been friends for some time, having met through mutual friends. Lando had been attracted to Y/N from the moment they met, and his admiration for her only grew over time—particularly for her breasts. He thought no one knew about his fixation, but Y/N had figured it out. Once she realized Lando's obsession, she started wearing more revealing tops whenever she knew they would be in the same place. One night, when they ended up alone, Y/N began teasing Lando with her breasts. It was then that she confessed she knew about his attraction.

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 2.8k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

Lando shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to avert his gaze as Y/N walked into the room. She had chosen one of those tops today—the kind that seemed designed to test the limits of modesty. The fabric clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination, and he could feel his pulse quicken as his eyes instinctively drifted downward.

Her boobs. He swallowed hard, cursing himself for being so obvious. Focus, Lando. Just focus. But it was no use. Every time she moved, the material stretched, teasing him with glimpses of what lay beneath. He wondered if she noticed his ogling. Surely not. He prided himself on being discreet, on making sure his admiration stayed hidden behind a veil of casual indifference.

Y/N sat down across from him, crossing her legs in a way that made the hem of her skirt ride up just enough to keep him guessing. "Hey," she said, her voice smooth and inviting. "You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind."

"Uh, nothing," he stammered, quickly glancing away. "Just… just thinking about work, I guess."

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Work? Really? Because you’ve been staring at my chest for the past five minutes."

His face flushed instantly. "What? No! I wasn’t—"

Y/N leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. The movement caused her top to dip slightly, revealing just enough to make his breath hitch. "Relax," she said, her tone light but laced with something deeper. "It’s not a crime to appreciate a good pair of… assets."

Lando felt his throat go dry. Was she messing with him? Testing him? Or was she really this nonchalant about it? Either way, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her confidence was intoxicating, and the way she toyed with him made it impossible to think straight.

"I… uh… I wasn’t staring," he mumbled, though the words lacked any real conviction.

She chuckled softly, leaning back in her chair. "Sure you weren’t. And I suppose you haven’t spent every night since we met fantasizing about them either?"

His jaw dropped. "How—how do you know that?"

Y/N’s smile widened, and she tilted her head ever so slightly. "Let’s just say I’m observant. And you’re not exactly subtle, Lando."

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he felt heat rising to his cheeks, his heart pounding in his chest. She knew. Somehow, she knew. And instead of being freaked out or angry, she was… playful. Teasing.

"Listen," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It’s okay. You don’t have to hide it anymore."

Lando blinked, unsure if he was hearing her right. "I don’t?"

"No," she replied, her tone confident yet inviting. "In fact, I kinda like it. It means you’re paying attention."

Her words sent a jolt through him, and he felt his resolve slipping. There was something in her demeanor, in the way she held herself, that made him want to lean in, to close the space between them. But he hesitated, unsure of how far she was willing to take this.

"Look," she continued, her hand reaching out to gently brush against his. "Why don’t we stop pretending? You want me, and I… well, I want you too."

Her admission hung in the air between them, heavy and electric. Lando’s mind raced. This was insane. They were friends. They had always been friends. But now, with her so close, her touch so warm, the lines blurred.

"Y/N," he began, his voice shaky. "Are you sure about this?"

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stood up and rounded the table, her movements slow and deliberate. When she reached him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers tracing small circles against his skin. "Positive," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear.

Lando shivered at her nearness, his body responding instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, but he was afraid—afraid of ruining whatever this was, afraid of pushing too far.

"Don’t overthink it," she whispered, her lips brushing against his earlobe. "Just let yourself feel."

And then, without warning, she stepped back slightly and pulled her top over her head, tossing it aside. Her breasts were exposed now, ripe and full, the pale curve of her nipples begging to be touched. Lando’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes fixated on her form.

"Y/N…" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

She smiled again, stepping closer until her hips were pressed against his lap. "Go ahead," she urged, her hands moving to guide his own. "Touch them. Adore them. Let me feel how much you’ve wanted this."

Y/N’s fingers curled around Lando’s wrists, her grip firm yet gentle, guiding his hands toward her breasts. His palms were sweaty, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst through his chest. He wanted to pull away, to tell her he couldn’t do this, but the weight of her confidence and the undeniable thrill of finally being allowed to touch her paralyzed him.

Her skin was so soft.

His fingertips brushed against the underside of her breast, and she let out a small, breathy moan that sent a shiver down his spine. She didn’t stop him, didn’t scold him for moving too slowly. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her head tilting slightly as if she were savoring the sensation.

“Lando…” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “You’ve been dreaming about this for so long, haven’t you? Don’t hold back now.”

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and nodded dumbly. Her nipple grazed against his palm, and he almost jerked his hand away in shock. But she tightened her grip on his wrist, anchoring him in place.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Feel how perfect they are. Tell me what you think.”

His mouth moved, but no words came out. All he could do was stare at her chest, at the way her breasts jiggled ever so slightly with every movement, at the rosy tips that seemed to perk up under his hesitant touch. He didn’t know what to say, how to articulate the chaos of emotions swirling inside him. Desire, guilt, disbelief—it all crashed together in his mind, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” he stammered finally, his voice cracking.

She chuckled softly, a sound that was both comforting and intoxicating. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said, her tone warm and inviting. “Just show me how much you’ve wanted this. Show me how much you’ve thought about my body when you’re alone.”

Her words were a dare, a challenge, and Lando found himself unable to resist. With a quiet groan, he cupped her breast fully in his hand, his fingers tightening instinctively as if afraid she might slip away. The feel of her weight in his palm was surreal, something he had fantasized about countless times but never dared to believe could be real.

She was real.

He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the rapid flutter of her heartbeat as it pressed against his palm. And then there was the taste of her name on his tongue, the way it rolled out of his mouth as if it belonged there.

“Y/N…” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

She rewarded him with another soft moan, her eyes fluttering closed as she pressed herself more firmly against his hand. “Yes, that’s it,” she whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Touch me, Lando. Let me feel how much you’ve wanted this.”

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his composure. Every stroke of his fingers against her skin felt like a spark igniting aflame within him. His other hand rose tentatively, mirroring the movements of the first, until both of her breasts were cradled in his palms. He kneaded them gently at first, marveling at their softness, their weight, the way they filled his hands perfectly.

And then, without warning, his thumbs flicked over her nipples, catching them between his fingers and rolling them teasingly. Y/N arched her back immediately, her head falling backward as a gasp escaped her lips.

“Oh…” she cried out, her voice trembling with desire. “Lando, yes… just like that.”

He could feel her pulse quickening beneath his fingertips, her body reacting to his touch in a way that made his own arousal impossible to ignore. His cock twitched against the fabric of his pants, aching for release, but he couldn’t tear his focus away from the woman in front of him.

Her breasts were even more magnificent up close, their pale perfection streaked with the faintest blush of pink. He marveled at the way her nipples hardened under his touch, the way they seemed to beg for more attention. And when his fingers circled them again, pressing lightly before releasing, she whimpered softly, her hips shifting against him.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her voice breathless and urgent. “Please, Lando… I need more.”

Her desperation sent a surge of triumph coursing through him. For so long, he had been the one craving, the one yearning for her attention. Now, she was the one begging, and the power of it was intoxicating.

With renewed confidence, he changed his technique, sliding his hands up to cup her breasts more firmly. His thumbs dragged slowly across her nipples, teasing them until they stood proudly, begging for more. Y/N’s moans grew louder, her hands gripping his shoulders for support as she pressed herself closer to him.

“Harder,” she demanded, her voice breaking slightly. “Touch me harder, Lando. I want to feel how much you’ve wanted this.”

Her words were a command, and Lando obeyed without hesitation. He pinched her nipples between his fingers, twisting them gently but firmly, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. She bucked her hips against his lap, grinding against him in a way that left no doubt about her arousal.

“Ah! Yes!” she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. “God, Lando… I knew you had it in you.”

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. His own need was growing unbearable, his cock straining against his zipper as he continued to explore her body. Each moan, each shudder of her body against his, only served to fuel his desire further.

“Y/N…” he muttered again, his voice hoarse with longing. “I can’t… I can’t take much more of this.”

She opened her eyes, her gaze smoldering as she looked down at him. “Then don’t,” she said simply, her tone daring him to push further. “Take what you want, Lando. Stop holding back.”

Y/N smirked, her eyes locking onto his as she slowly slid off the couch, her movements deliberate and confident. She knew exactly what she was doing. Lando watched her with wide eyes, his breath hitching as she dropped to her knees in front of him, her face level with his crotch. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken desire that neither could deny any longer.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was no real question behind it. He knew exactly what she was doing.

“What do you think I’m doing?” she replied, her tone playful but laced with something deeper—something that made his heart pound harder in his chest.

Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she reached for the zipper of his jeans, her fingers brushing against his skin as she pulled it down slowly, deliberately. His cock twitched at the sensation, already hard and pressing against the fabric of his boxers. Y/N hummed softly, a sound that sent shivers down his spine, as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and tugged them down just enough to free his aching erection.

“You’re so eager,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing as she wrapped her hand around his length, giving it a slow, firm stroke. “I can feel how badly you want this.”

Lando groaned, his head falling back against the couch as her touch sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. “God, Y/N…” he muttered, his voice strangled as he tried to hold himself together. “You have no idea.”

She laughed softly, a sound that made his stomach tighten with need. “Oh, I think I do,” she said, her tone dripping with confidence. “I think I know exactly how much you’ve been dreaming about this.”

Before he could respond, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against the tip of his cock, teasing him mercilessly. Lando’s hips jerked involuntarily, his hands fisting in the fabric of the couch as he fought to stay still. “Please…” he begged, his voice cracking. “Don’t tease me like this.”

“Hmm, but I thought you liked it when I tease you,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes as she took him into her mouth, her warm, wet tongue swirling around the head of his dick before sliding down his length.

Lando groaned loudly, his body arching off the couch as her mouth worked its magic on him. She sucked gently at first, her lips tight around him as she bobbed her head up and down, taking him deeper with each movement. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain, framing her in a way that made her look even more irresistible. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tried to steady himself. “You’re killing me…”

She pulled off him with a pop, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she looked up at him. “Am I now?” she teased, running her tongue along her lips as if savoring the taste of him. “Well, maybe I don’t want to kill you just yet.”

With that, she shifted her position, kneeling up slightly as she cupped her breasts in her hands, pushing them together to create a perfect shelf for his cock. Lando’s eyes widened as he realized what she intended to do, his breath catching in his throat as she guided the tip of his dick between her cleavage.

“Do you like that?” she asked, her voice sultry as she began to rock her shoulders, using her tits to fuck him. “Do you like feeling my boobs wrapped around your cock?”

“Yes,” he choked out, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as he struggled to stay upright. “God, yes…”

Y/N continued to move, her breasts slick with the saliva from her mouth as she pressed them tightly around him, squeezing him with each thrust. Lando’s vision blurred with pleasure, his whole body trembling as she worked him over, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re so good at this,” he managed to pant, his voice hoarse with need. “I can’t believe you’re doing this for me…”

She grinned wickedly, her eyes locking onto his as she quickened her pace, her tits bouncing with every movement. “Believe it,” she said, her tone sharp and commanding. “And don’t you dare come until I tell you to.”

Lando groaned, his head falling back again as he tried to obey her command, but it was nearly impossible. Her tits felt so good around him, so warm and soft and tight, and the way she moved only made it worse. He could feel the pressure building in his balls, his orgasm threatening to spill over at any moment.

“Y/N…” he warned, his voice strained as he opened his eyes to look at her. “I don’t think I can hold back much longer.”

She smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “Good,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Because I want you to feel every second of this.”

With that, she tightened her grip on her breasts, forcing them even closer together around his shaft as she rocked her hips, her movements becoming more erratic as she pushed him toward the edge. Lando’s breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body tensing as he felt the climax begin to build.

“I’m close,” he admitted, his voice barely audible as he struggled to hold on. “So close…”

Y/N didn’t say anything, just kept moving, her eyes never leaving his as she drove him closer and closer to the brink. And then, finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer. With a loud groan, Lando came, his release spilling out over her breasts as she continued to milk him until every last drop was gone.

Panting, he collapsed back against the couch, his body limp and spent as he stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. Y/N, meanwhile, sat back on her heels, a triumphant smile playing on her lips as she looked down at him.

“Told you I knew what I was doing,” she said, her tone smug but undeniably sexy.

Lando couldn’t help but laugh weakly, his body still buzzing with pleasure. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice rough. “You definitely did.”

[pricegouge]

price x pregnant!f!reader meetcute drabble i whipped up on my lunch dedicated entirely to the girl at work who's too heavily pregnant to fit her scrubs rn. john price would love you, girl, keep your chin up

The worst part wasn't actually the discomfort of the papery material, nor the cheap elastic waistline which dug into your plush sides and itched like a sonofabitch. It wasn't even the embarrassment of having to track down your lead at the start of your shift and shamefacedly admit that you could no longer fit into your designated scrub pants and ask if he could maybe please find some spares somewhere? (He couldn't, because apparently no one on the team before you had ever fallen ill with a baby in the belly or even just gained a little weight.)

No, the worst part was the noise.

It hadn't been something you'd even considered until you were already barging into your first patient's room, swishing away with each step. Mr. Jeffreys had grumbled in his sleep, eye peeking open just as you'd leaned over him to start your morning check. Enough ruckus, woman. You'd thought he was just being irritable, a common enough occurrence, but then it happened again and again, each new room bringing another grumpy occupant, displeased about being woken up so far ahead of breakfast. Still, you almost preferred that to the early risers, the old biddies who would turn to greet you, already alert, take one look at you with your swollen belly overhanging the thin paper pants they'd made you wear over your reliable leggings, and start cackling loud enough to draw attention from the other orderlies. 

You weren't the first pregnant woman to outgrow her pants, but you were perhaps among the first to have done so in a professional setting. 

At least it got easier the more the day dragged on, quippy remarks coming more naturally to you the more you had them levelled at you in kind. You'd even let a little boy doodle on your shin, an attempt to keep his mind of his mother groaning in pain, attempting to work through a kidney stone. You're fairly sure you're rocking an Incredible Hulk there now, but it was a bit hard to tell with the way the magic markers had bled across the tyvek weave. 

"Missed your calling." 

You frown down at the man before you, thick brows only slightly pinched despite the way you knew his shoulder must be killing him. GSW. Didn't get many of them 'round here, but you'd seen enough hunting accidents to figure out the good stuff didn't always cut it. And this didn't seem like your average misfire, or pulled-shot graze. He'd been the talk of the nurses station when the call had come through to prep for him, bullet taken straight on, center mass. He wasn't from here, didn't seem to know anyone from here. No one believed it was a simple hunting accident, but the authorities had come and gone, sent skittering by a rather severe woman yielding a badge no one had gotten a good look at. No arrests, minimal testimonies. Rumors had sprouted roots, grew too tall too quickly to be believable. You'd heard everything from a jilted lover to some sort of military coup, but you hadn't placed much stock in anything other than the three letters which had remained unchanged on his chart since the moment he'd been admitted, and then later the surgeon's notes.

GSW. Successful operation.

That had only been two days ago. You'd been in his room once before, set about the same task. He'd been fast asleep, the handsome man who's been visiting offering charming but ultimately short conversation. It hadn't bothered you as you'd been in a rush, and you'd known full well the stress loved ones usually felt, trying to ensure the best possible rest for their injured loved ones. 

He had no guard dog today, no one to send you packing when your putzing made too much noise. And now you've woken him, poor man.

"Pardon?" 

Blue eyes blink open, cloudy with pain and the influence of strong meds but surprisingly alert. They flick down to your leg, shoulders tensing a bit as he lifts his head to see properly. "Pretty tree you've made there." 

You can't help but laugh. "Seems I'm right where I should be, then, seeing as that's supposed to be the Hulk. I think," you add once you've earned a smirk.

"Can't even remember what it is you've drawn? You the reason I can't find a comfortable position? Been stealing my morphine?"

"I wish," you sigh, pat your belly dramatically. "But they say it's bad for baby."

His brows lift into his hairline, pain momentarily forgotten as he looks you over again, as if seeing you for the first time. You realize pretty quickly that he's one of those people, the crinkling around his eyes revealing him as the type. It's one of the weirdest parts of being pregnant, the strangers who look at you with awe, as if you've hung the moon. You try not to think too much of it, don't like imagining couples who've tried for years when all you've managed to do was slip up your birth control one time, like a fool. This man isn't wearing a ring, but that doesn't mean much. Most women who carry on after you are single, too. At least he's not trying to touch your belly.

"Is that why you're half way to a paper gown? Come wandering from maternity?"

"Har, har," you deadpan, waving your stethoscope at him although you know full well he's seen it - hard to miss, resting atop your swollen tits. "No, I've simply grown too fat for my scrubs. And I think my lead's having too much fun embarrassing me about it."

He frowns, somehow vaguely patronizing even while heavily medicated. "No spares for someone in your condition?"

"Nope! Apparently I'm lucky enough to be the only fertile little heifer ever on the team," you snark, and then squint at his monitor when his pulse spikes unexpectedly. 

"Sorry," he mumbles - odd - and when you check, you notice some color to his ears. He clears his throat to distract you from fretting, though the softness is gone from his eyes again, replaced by an implacable type of tension. "Perhaps they're simply not used to expectant mothers working so late into their term?" 

Ah. At last, the well-meaning concern. It grates at you worse than usual, the ease and simplicity (albeit annoyance) of your silly morning falling apart in seconds. Perhaps it's that, the whiplash, that has you huffing irritably, mood plummeting. "Well. Someone's got a pay my bills," you gripe, snapping the claw of his clipboard just to work out some aggression. Maybe it's the hormones.

There's a huff of breath, almost as animated as yours. When you look to make sure he's not aspirating or something, your new friend's absurd mustache is twitching. "Well. That's what Mr. Pretty Nurse is for, no?" 

The phrasing makes you smile, hands gentling as you busy yourself with his monitor. This is familiar ground, at least, a path well-tread which you'd like navigating with a conversational partner who would call you Ms. Pretty Nurse. "Sure," you concede, tapping away at his station to check the trend of his vitals. Steady, even. All night. Like he was practiced at taking bullets. "You ever see him, you tell him he owes me a back log of bills, alright?" In truth, your 'mister' never was a mister, just some guy you'd been trying to blow off steam with. He'd cut and run the second you'd brought up the pregnancy, but you'd decided to keep it after some thought and had never followed up with him, deciding it ultimately was no longer his concern. You harbored no ill will, really, but the dead beat dad was a common schtick, an easy conversational piece when simply shooting the shit with talkative patients. If the worst part about pregnancy was the noisy pants (and the morning sickness, and the belly hair, and the leaky nipples and the -) then the best part was surely the built-in small talk.

"Be sure to let him know," chops murmurs, voice tight. You check his file again, correct your mental dub with his real name, John Price. Traditional, like the neat beard hiding the growing color in his cheeks. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly rougher. "Who did that, then?" 

You think he's pointing to your belly, far too forward, but when you check you see his finger aims lower, towards the art that started this conversation. "Kid over in pre-op. Was upset watching his mom writhing around. Passing a stone," you supply with an exaggerated whisper, as if telling him some scandalous secret.

John grins, soft again. "You'll be good at it, then."

"Pardon?" you ask absently, watching as his heartbeat seems to flutter weakly. 

"Said 'too round for scrubs,'" he chuckles. "Good job, mama."

You scoff, scandalized, but when you turn to him you find he's got that far off look in his eye, a sharp contrast to the lucidity of his speech. That does it. You tut, leaning over him to check his forehead with the back of your hand. And outdated practice, sure, but still useful in a pinch. He doesn't feel overly warm, but his focus has slipped back into that slight haziness, blissed out and vaguely absent, staring a good half a foot below your eyes.

"Mr. Price -," you start but he interjects.

"Just John, love."

"Sure. John. Are you feeling okay?" 

Eyes crinkling again, he gives you an unbearably soft smile, at odds with everything you've managed to glean from his chart. "Never better, doll."

banner by @/cafekitsune

[theverycoolfish]

1. Usually Times new Roman.

2. Probably. I did that in my first years. BUT MY EDITING WILL BE HARD

Okay there is a LOT of questions I’ll choose some of them

9. Last time I thought I saw a ghost was like 3 days ago. Apparently it was my reflection. I am no longer going into the bathroom in the middle of the night.

17. This WIP is something I work on like 2 days a year and then forget about for ages BUT I always return to it after like a year. And it has my heart. SOOOOO ITS ABOUT THIS GIRL CALLED ZINA AND HER BROTHER ZHIN (10 year old or something thought it was the best names) WHO KIND OF HAS MAGIC POWERS. Very weak powers tho BECAUSE HERE WE HAVE THE LORE. The powers are stolen from gods in complicated ritual (not complicated at all I just felt like saying it) but slowly get returned to the gods in a complicated way (this time I mean it). SOOO THE POWER GET PASSED DOWN THROUGH THE GENERATIONS BUT LETS SAY PARENT HAS 10 POWER (I just mad that up) and kid get 9 power then parent only has 1 power (well it works like that but it’s not measurable in number power). Then ops parent DIES then the 1 power is returned to gods. Well it works like that but hundreds of years ago they had like 104683937280917263636648292792037473739 8263738928193736 power or something

Soooo now most is returned to gods and it’s very weak because siblings share and all that so the power is weak.

Zhin wants to get MORE powers so he figures out the old ritual and comes up with a secret plan with Josef (but has a top secret plan himself) neither of the secret plans is revealed until the end when everyone dies.

Well back to how tje reader will experience it.

Josef has returned from a quest, which he had failed. He was not the first but Zina doesn’t think he will face the same punishment as everyone else who had failed since Zhin and Jacob always had been friends (spoiler): 🏳️‍🌈. But then again she didn’t know wtf it was about.

Okay I am tired so I’ll summarize the rest quick. Betrayal in all ways. Josef DEAD. Zhin DEAD. Zina NOT DEAD

Oh my god Sherlock vibe

So yeah I need to do something else now so bye

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?

2. If you had to give up your keyboard and write your stories exclusively by hand, could you do it? If you already write everything by hand, a) are you a wizard and b) pen or pencil?

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed?

4. What’s a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

5. Do you have any writing superstitions? What are they and why are they 100% true?

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

8. If you had to write an entire story without either action or dialogue, which would you choose and how would it go?

9. Do you believe in ghosts? This isn’t about writing I just wanna know

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

14. Do you lend your books to people? Are people scared to borrow books from you? Do you know exactly where all your “lost” books are and which specific friend from school you haven’t seen in twelve years still possesses them? Will you ever get them back?

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

16. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used as a bookmark?

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

20. If a witch offered you the choice between eternal happiness with your one true love and the ability to finally finish, perfect, and publish your dearest, darlingest, most precious WIP in exactly the way you’ve always imagined it — which would you choose? You can’t have both sorry, life’s a bitch

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

23. Describe the physical environment in which you write. Be as detailed as possible. Tell me what’s around you as you work. Paint me a picture.

24. How much prep work do you put into your stories? What does that look like for you? Do you enjoy this part or do you just want to get on with it?

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

26. How do you get into your character’s head? How do you get out? Do you ever regret going in there in the first place?

27. Who is the most stressful character you’ve ever written? Why?

28. Who is the most delightful character you’ve ever written? Why?

29. Where do you draw your inspiration? What do you do when the inspiration well runs dry?

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

31. Write a short love letter to your readers.

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

33. Do you practice any other art besides writing? Does that art ever tie into your writing, or is it entirely separate?

34. Thoughts on the Oxford comma, Go:

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice…what do you Know?

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

38. What is something about your writing process YOU think is Really Weird? If you are comfortable, please share. If you’re not comfortable, what do you think cats say about us?

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

40. Please share a poem with me, I need it.

[withahappyrefrain]

Unraveled- Bob Floyd

Summary: Bob Floyd likes to think he can keep it cool. Then along comes a sundress.

Warnings: friends to lovers, smut, so much pining, language,

Bob Floyd didn't like to brag, but he considered himself pretty dang smart and sensible. 

He knew the ins and outs of every jet he has flown. Hell,  he could break it apart and put it back together again within a few hours, if that.  He was able to quickly assess a situation, weigh the pros and cons, and come to a sound decision. It’s why he was the top WSO for the mission in Miramar. 

So why has a piece of fabric thrown him for such a loop? 

All Bob was trying to do was be polite. You had mentioned taking an Uber to the Hard Deck tonight and Bob knew the polite thing to do was to offer a ride. After all, he wasn't going to drink. You would save money. It's what any good friend would do. It had absolutely nothing to do with the crush he had been harboring since your first debriefing. 

He was just trying to be courteous. The gentleman his Mama worked hard in raising. Getting to spend time with you, without the other members of your shared squadron around or loud music, wasn't even near the forefront of his mind when he made the offer. Bob was just trying to be a good friend. A good friend who just wanted to help. A good friend who was forcing himself to look at you through a platonic lens, not a romantic one. 

Bob liked to think he was doing pretty well at that. 

That is, until a dress came along and unraveled him. 

Perhaps you said hello when you opened the door.  You probably did, considering how polite you were. But all Bob could focus on was the way the fabric of your dress hugged your curves. 

And what little fabric there was. He had seen you in civilian clothes before. But never anything like this. His mind absolutely went blank when you hugged him and he could feel how much of your bare skin was exposed. Due to the halter style of the straps, nearly your whole upper back was now perfectly visible.

“Um you-you look um nice,” Bob barely got out. He was too busy trying to burn the feeling of your soft skin into his brain. You were warm, like a walking ray of sunshine. 

“Thanks! I got it yesterday and I figured with the weather being so nice, today was the perfect day to wear it!” you said, giving a little twirl. Bob tried to focus on the pattern of dress; how the green brought out your eyes. 

But all he could focus on was the curves of your body, now being highlighted. The way the halter style made your breasts swell and the lack of a bra very apparent. How the fabric stopped at the top of your thighs when you spun, giving Bob a peek of what he often thought about late at night. 

This was bad. 

“I take it you came early to watch an episode of Love Island before we leave?” You asked as he stumbled walked in.

The truth was, Bob wasn’t a fan of reality TV. But he watched because it gave the two of you a chance to talk to one another. Just as friends, nothing more. When watching the silly show, you two could make jokes, talk about things other than work. 

“Yeah! Ready to watch hot people make poor decisions again,” Bob said with a nervous laugh. The joke failed to put him at ease. If anything, it reminded him that he was about to spend at least forty minutes with you and that did not include the drive to the Hard Deck. 

“You’re using my tagline!” your smile lit up your whole face. Bob was certain it could light up the whole turmac. All he could do was nod, his heart fluttering when you grabbed his hand, leading him into the living room. 

"I have some kettle corn in the microwave for you! I also made cherry seltzer water!" Bob could feel heat rush to his face. You always remembered the little details that no one else seemed to pick up on; that he loved salt but had an even bigger sweet tooth. How in an attempt to cut back on soda, he switched to sparkling water. His favorite flavor was cherry because it reminded him of cherry coke. 

"Did you see the video I sent you?" You gently squeezed Bob's hand as you two sat down. 

"Y-yeah. You're absolutely right, having three otters would be my dream." Ever since learning about Bob's favorite animal, you had sent him every otter-related video you came across while scrolling the internet. You even got him a pair of Otter socks for his birthday.  It was the fact you paid attention to seemingly minor details that made Bob fall head over heels for you. 

But alas, you were a coworker. The problem at hand wasn't whether it was allowed, ‘incest’ (as Jake unfortunately called it) happened all the time in the Navy. After all, there were only so many things you could do on a ship before switching to people. No, it was the potential issues that came with dating. Rejection being the main one. Bob had no trouble believing you and he could be professional should you two date and it not work out. That happened all the time. What worried him was rejection. Having to go to work everyday and put on a facade, that things were fine. When deep down, he knew he'd be heartbroken. And even worse, he'd no longer have your friendship. 

So Bob settled, as he often did when it came to love. He took comfort knowing he'd still have you, albeit as a friend instead of a partner. That should be more than enough. For the last few months, he had convinced himself that it was enough. 

But God was it difficult when you bent over right to grab the remote. 

The hemline of your dress inched upwards, showing off the backs of your upper thighs and- 

he could see the swell of your ass. He could see the flash of red lace. Your skin looked so soft and supple and you were so close he could just reach out and- 

Oh God he was hard. Oh no. 

This was bad. Worse than that time he popped an erection during sex ed in middle school. There, he at least had a jacket and a desk to cover it. 

But here? He was a full grown adult and San Diego’s seventy degree weather didn't give him any additional layers. Bob looked around, desperate for something, anything, to hide his cock that was currently straining against his jeans. 

Thank fuck for your love of decorative pillows. 

He grabbed the closest one, shaped and designed like a pomegranate. You were so excited the day you picked it up from some Facebook Marketplace deal. He had driven you, partly out of wanting to spend time with you, partly because he wanted to ensure you were safe. It was adorable and definitely shouldn’t be used for nefarious purposes, such as hiding a boner. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.   

Bob was trying to think of anything and everything that would kill this boner. But his spot on the couch aligned perfectly with the entranceway of the kitchen, where you currently were, rummaging around to fix Bob a drink. 

What ever happened to doors? Why were people so opposed to doors? Doors were lovely. You could close doors. Every time he tried to think of something, you were right in his line of view, turning every thought into something more devious. 

His family? His family would love you. If you two got married you could make  your own family. 

Work? You worked with him, in that damn flight suit that clung to your every curve. No one else could make that god forsaken green fabric look good.  

School? God, you were so smart. The top of your class. And witty, always ready with a clever, underhanded comeback. It’s how you two originally bonded, both having muttered something about Jake under your breath. 

Bob Floyd was screwed. Thoroughly. 

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that soon you two would be watching people in their early twenties making the dumbest decisions over dating. If anything were to be a boner killer, that had to be it. He just needed to make it through then. 

“Bob?” Your lithe voice broke him out of his thoughts. Not that it was much of a reprieve, with the way you were standing at the kitchen entranceway with a glass of sparkling water in each hand, “You good?”

“Me? Oh yeah, I’m great!” He said with an all too eager nod, desperate to convince you this was truly the case. Fuck, you were so beautiful. And you were showing so much skin. He had seen you on the beach before, adorned in athletic shorts and a sports bra. But this was different. 

The dress was far too nice for the Hard Deck. No, you deserved to be taken to a nice restaurant, one with a lovely outdoor patio. The image of you sitting on a lovely chair with a glass of wine in your hand came easily to Bob. It was also the perfect dress for a picnic, particularly at the nearby park, specifically in that little secluded area. God, the idea of you laying down on a red and white checkered blanket, the hem of your dress pushed up your thighs as he leaned over you, ready to take you-

Bob leaned forward, clutching the pillow as he tried to will himself the strength to get it together. 

“Bob? Are-are you okay?” You quickly placed the drinks down on the coffee table, rushing over to kneel in front of him on the couch. 

Oh what a sight that was, you looking up at him with big eyes, full of concern. Your hands were on his biceps, and Bob knew if he looked down he would have the perfect view of your breasts. 

 It was so hot and also the very last thing Bob fucking needed. 

“I’m good. Stomach doesn’t agree with what we had for lunch, that’s all.” Lying was never good, his mother instilled that in him at an early age. But in this scenario, Bob was certain the truth was much worse. 

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Bob opened his mouth to protest, though no words came out due to seeing not only the tops of your thighs, but a flash of your ass as you spun around to go back into the kitchen. 

For a few seconds, the  supple, plump flesh was so close to him. Practically within arm’s reach. 

Maybe he should just leave while you were in the kitchen. 

But that would be rude. Not only rude, but it would raise your suspicions if they weren’t high already. Plus, he had already promised you a ride to the Hard Deck. He couldn’t just leave you hanging, not after you brought a dress for the occasion. He may be in dire need of a cold shower, but the last thing Bob Floyd was going to do was hurt you. He squeezed the pillow, knuckles turning white as he tried to find strength. For once, he couldn’t wait to start an episode of Love Island. Hell, he would even take an episode of The Bachelor at this point. 

“Here ya go,” You sat down on the couch next to him, glass of ginger ale in hand. You even remembered how much ice he preferred in his cold beverages. You were perfect. 

“Thanks,” Bob slowly took one hand off the pillow, the other still holding onto it for dear life. 

“You uh, like that pillow?” You chuckled, though your nerves still shined through. 

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Bob looked down, ensuring his big problem was still covered, “It uh, helps my stomach!”

You raised an eyebrow, though you didn’t further question it. Instead, much to Bob’s delight, you reached for the remote, clicking through until you finally landed on the desired episode. With a shaking hand, Bob gulped down the ginger ale, promptly placing it on the coffee table so he could have both hands on the pillow. 

The room was silent, saved for the ridiculous conversations happening on the TV screen. Normally you and Bob would be shoulder to shoulder, laughing as you both narrated your opinions on the contestants. But today Bob was rigid, his fingers still clutching to the pillow on his lap. He hadn’t even touched the bowl of popcorn. 

"Do you like my dress?" It took everything in Bob not to groan at your question. The last thing he needed was a reason to look at you. But how could he deny himself such a chance? So he put on his best smile as he turned to face you.    

"Uh yeah it's lovely. I'm sure everyone will love it-" 

"I got it for you.” Your voice was soft as you hit the pause button on your remote, eyes remaining on the screen. 

The words hit Bob like a freight train. 

"What? Why would you-"

You shrugged, fingers toying with the short hem of your dress, "I thought maybe, if you saw me in something different, something that wasn't my flight suit or a tee shirt, that maybe you would finally notice me?” 

You finally looked him in the eyes, “Maybe you'd finally notice that I've been trying to flirt with you for the last few months?" 

Bob opened his mouth just to promptly close it. He thought back to the last few months, now analyzing every seemingly ordinary interaction he had with you. 

The way you insisted on sitting next to each other during lunch. As well as during briefings. And when you went to the Hard Deck. Whenever a guy tried to flirt with you there, you turned them down, focusing your attention back on him, continuing your conversation about his latest D&D campaign or a Lego set you had found that reminded you of him. The way you always touched his arm, your hand lingering on his skin as you bore your eyes into his. How you always texted him. How you baked a cake for his birthday. The little trinkets you’d bring him. 

Oh god, he was a fucking idiot. 

The tension in the room was thick. You, sitting restlessly as you waited for Bob to acknowledge what you had said. Bob, processing your words and what they meant. 

“How long?” Bob asked, his voice soft yet firm.

You chuckled as you shook your head, “Honestly? First day. We hadn’t even spoken yet. I saw you walk in and you just were….not only handsome but also looked so kind? Then you offered me a spare pencil, made that comment about Jake’s driving and I….was a goner.”

“I saw you talking to Halo before the briefing room was open,” He confessed, “She said something that made you laugh and it….it was the prettiest sight I had ever seen.”

“We’ve wasted a lot of time, huh?” You both stared ahead at the TV, still too fearful to face each other. 

Bob dryly chuckled, “Yeah….a lot of time. Months, if we’re being more exact.” 

The two of you remained in silence, your words sinking in. Neither sure what should be said, if anything should be said. Until finally, you spoke up. 

“Bob? What’s underneath the pillow?” 

His hips shifted, involuntary, “What?” For a moment, he forgot about the darn pillow and the erection he was covering with it. 

The cluelessness in his voice brought a giggle, “The pillow? Why are you using it to cover your lap?”

Bob sighed, “Can I at least kiss you first?” 

You nodded, moving to close the gap between you and Bob. Pillow be damned, his hands cupped your jawline, giving you a sweet smile before leaning in, closing the gap between your lips and his. 

Bob Floyd’s lips were soft, no doubt due to the sweet mint chapstick you'd watch him apply countless of times. You didn't want to admit how often you'd wondered about the taste, what his hands would feel like on your body. God, they were huge. His thumbs rested comfortably on your jawline, but you could feel his other fingers spanning your neck, down to your collarbone. 

The first kiss was gentle, practically modest. Your lips were only apart for several seconds, if that, before connecting again. 

You easily found his shoulders, grasping them for purchase. The gap between your bodies was too much, Bob wanted to be as close as possible. So his hands trailed down your body, skimming along until they found the back of your thighs. Using his strength, he moved your body, situating you onto his lap. 

A high pitched gasp fell from your lips upon feeling the bulge that was straining against his jeans. Good god, he was thick. You had heard whispers, chalking it up to typical locker room talk. 

Nope, those rumors were one hundred percent true. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob groaned, hands exploring your soft curves. Worst of all, he sounded earnest, only making you want to touch him more. 

“I-I wore this on purpose ah-after all,” you confessed, finding it difficult to speak as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your exposed chest. 

Right. You wore this on purpose. To entice him. To see if perhaps he felt the same burning desire. Once realization hit him again, Bob’s hands moved along your back, just stopping above your ass. 

Wait, he was about to touch your ass. 

“We-we shouldn’t,” Bob mumbled, retracting his hands from your body. You stilled, a crestfallen look painting your face. 

“We shouldn’t?” Repeating the words felt like driving a knife through your heart. Had regret finally emerged, beating the rush of adrenaline? Was he going to regret this, ask that you two never speak about it ever again, pretend it never happened?

“I…” Bob sighed, “I need to take you on a date first.”

Bless his heart. 

Sighing, you relaxed your body into his, resting your head in the crook of his neck, “You’re too sweet, y’know that?”

Bob chuckled, “That's supposed to be my line.” 

His hands gave your hips a loving squeeze, causing you to nestle further into him, until your bodies were nearly molded as one. Your lips searched for his, trailing up his neck, his jawline, along the side of his button nose until finally reaching his soft lips. Bob shifted in his seat, causing you to do the same. As a result, you could feel his erection, despite the layers of clothes. 

“Good lord Bobby, you've just been walking around with all that?” Bob groaned, but not due to your words. No, it was because you had started moving your hips in circles, his erection now pressed against your covered core. 

“I’m- I’m trying to be a gentleman.” Bob couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to stop. He should stop. Maybe you two could skip the Hard Deck and go out to dinner. Then he could take you home and not feel as guilty. 

“You can be a gentleman later,” by throwing your arms over his shoulder you finally had access to his neck. His skin was so soft, so delicate. How could you not sink your teeth into his neck? 

Normally you'd have better self control than this. But you were ovulating and had six months of sexual frustrations and wet dreams- 

“You had dreams about me?” Uh-oh. That wasn't meant to be said out loud. Granted, maybe it was for the best to get everything out in the open. 

Timidly nodding, you explained, “Yeah. The days I didn't sit next to you were because….I had a dream about ya the night before.” 

A band had snapped within Bob, no doubt due to the numerous times you didn't sit next to him during briefings. 

Within seconds, you found yourself on your back against the couch, the bespectacled WSO hovering over you. There was a fire flickering in his blue eyes as he remained laser focused on your face. 

“After this, you're putting this dress back on and I'm taking ya out to dinner, is that clear?” his voice was gruff and deep, similar to when he did a hundred pushes that one day (that you definitely didn't think about while masturbating). 

Chest heaving, dress pushed up to your upper thighs, lips kiss bitten, God, you looked like an angel to Bob. He remembered learning about angels in church growing up. How pious they were, that seeing them was a sign of comfort, that they would guide one to safety, to a holy life. 

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to you. 

His mouth was hot, searing kisses along your skin. Your back arched into him, desperate for me. But he always seemed to pull away before you could get enough. Would you? Ever get enough of Bob Floyd? 

Finding an answer would have to wait, for now you wanted to relish in the feeling of Bob’s hands kneading your breasts. It was obvious you weren't wearing a bra, a fact Bob ob had spent forty minutes trying not to think about. He still felt a smidge of guilt, as though the newly drawn line between friends and more hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Was he even supposed to be doing this?

“You can keep going. I want you to.” You sensed his hesitation. In all the time you knew Bob, he had never taken someone home for a one night stand. He wasn’t like that. He needed time to build a connection, to feel comfortable enough to be himself. That’s why he loved spending time with you. With you, there was no need to put up a front, no need to be fearful of judgement. 

“And then afterwards, we can order some Thai food and continue watching the episode, if you want. Or we can just do that now,” your hands cradled his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you. He found a sweet, reassuring smile, similar to the one that made him smitten six months ago. 

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” Bob could be blunt, and often was when it came to his colleague’s shenanigans. But with his own feelings? He always chose his words carefully. 

Hence why his admission took you some time to process. Bob could see it on your face; first your eyes widened, lips slightly parting as if driven by the need to respond immediately. But then your lips closed, your brain quickly gaining back self control. 

“I’m falling in love with you too Robby.” You were the only one who could call him that. It was that familiarity, that intimacy, that gave him the courage to move his hands to your hemline up to your hips, revealing the thin, lacy red fabric underneath. 

You were breathtaking. Always were. But this? This solidified things for Bob. You two had made a step forward in your relationship. Many things would still be the same. But there were now new things to experience. Simply another layer of intimacy had been added.

His long fingers skimmed over the fabric of your panties, every touch sending a spark of electricity along your spine. Every stroke caused a small gasp to fall from your lips, music to Bob’s ears. Lowering himself, Bob decorated your hips with opened mouth kisses. Finally, gaining enough courage, his fingers pushed your panties to the side. 

Fuck, you were wet. 

If there was any hesitation left in Bob, it died upon seeing how visibly aroused you were. He had done that. No one else. Lowering himself even more, he was now at eye level with your wet cunt. This wasn’t some vivid wet dream. 

When his touch licked a broad stripe up your slit, a broken moan fell from your lips, echoing off the walls. It was the prettiest sound Bob had heard. He wanted to hear it again. All the time. 

With more confidence, Bob begins lapping up your arousal, determined to taste every inch of you. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. Looking down, you see his glasses are now crooked, though you highly doubt Bob cares, given how his eyes are half closed in pleasure. 

Wait, was he grinding against the couch? 

The discovery caused your thighs to clamp over Bob’s ears, your hips thrusting upwards to get more of his talented tongue. Bob wasn't reserved around you, never had been. But this was a new side to him that you had wondered if it ever existed. Animalistic. Devouring. Loud. 

His groans vibrate against your core, only heightening the pleasure. Slowly, his right hand goes from your hips to your core, mouth moving to your clit as the long digits trace your opening. 

“Oh my God, please,” you all but beg, not quite ready to admit how often you thought about his fingers and how they would feel inside of you.

Always thinking about your comfort, Bob started off with just one finger. You tried to fuck yourself with it, your own fingers gripping the soft strands of his hair for better leverage. The thought of making you beg crossed Bob’s mind. Would you like that? Would you be open to that? There were so many new topics to discuss, so many new boundaries to explore now. 

You happily welcomed the stretch of two, three fingers. Bob found the little moans you let out to be quite adorable. He could feel his cock throb against his jeans, but pleasing you took priority. 

“C’mon honey. Wanna feel you come on my fingers.” His voice was low, husky even. 

“C-can you be inside me? Like your…your cock?” A broken groan fell from Bob’s lips at the very thought of being inside of you. 

“I don't….I don't think I'll last long,” he admitted sheepishly. Hell, he could probably come just from eating you out. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it sounded pretty good- bringing himself to the height of pleasure just from ravishing you. 

“I don't think I will either,” you giggled, “But we’ll….we have lots of other times to go slow.” 

Bob helped you sit up on the couch. “You wanna go to the bedroom?” He asked, thinking about how this could be more comfortable for you. 

Instead, you shook your head, hands moving to his jeans, hastily undoing the buttons. 

Now it was your turn to explore, to discover. There was a dark trail of hair that went past the waistband of his jeans. He wore boxer briefs. And Bob Floyd had the prettiest cock. 

His face turned bright red at the compliment, “Oh it's…I mean it's like fine, but it's not-” 

“Take the damn compliment Robert,” you all but scolded, eliciting a laugh from him, your favorite. The high pitch, near giggle one. The one that made your heart flutter. 

Feeling at ease, you moved so that you were hovering over Bob’s lap. Your fingers moved to the base of his cock, making you realize you would have to ease yourself into it. 

“I gotcha,” his hands found your hips, slowly easing you down. His sapphire eyes never left your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. He went slow, waiting until you made it vocally known you were ready for more. 

By the time you reached the base of Bob’s cock, you were a mess. You wanted him to move, to fuck you within an inch of your life. But he was also so big. The stretch was nothing you had experienced before. 

“Hey, we can take our time, okay? I know it's, that it's a lot,” he assured you, as though he could sense your internal conflict. His lips found yours, and in that kiss you found comfort. Bob grounded you, always had, whether it was up in the air or right here on your couch. 

How much time had passed, who was to say? You could recall both your phones vibrating a few times, no doubt messages from the rest of your squad. Those messages could wait. 

“I think I'm ready,” you whispered against Bob’s lips. He needed, digging his fingers into your hips to gain a better grip. With his help, you lifted yourself no more than a couple of inches off his cock, returning to the base. 

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bob moaned. You just made Bob Floyd curse. Something not even a bird strike could do. That four letter word gave you the confidence to lift your hips up on your own accord, returning swiftly. Slowly, just an inch or two, which became several inches. Up and down motions turned to swiveling your hips in a circular rhythm. What was once a quiet living room, saved for a few small gasps and the static from the TV, had now become a symphony of melodic pants and groans. 

Bob could tell you were close. Your pussy was tightening around his cock more and more, your fingers dug into his broad shoulders, as if trying to anchor yourself. You practically whined at the sight of Bob taking two fingers into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. He lowered them to where your bodies connected. 

Upon first contact with your clit, your head dropped to the crook of his neck, unabashedly moaning his name, hips moving in a now frantic motion. 

“That's it, I gotcha.” Fuck, we he going to talk you through it? Was Bob Floyd a talker? Ironic, considering at work he was known as a man of few words. 

“Feels s’good, being inside ya.” Fuck, he was a talker. You were doomed, “Wanna, wanna make us cum. Bet ya gonna feel even better when ya soak- fuck- soak my cock.” 

Your brain was hazy. Was this real? If it was a vivid wet dream, you never wanted to wake up. Was it wrong to hope that you were in a medically induced coma, so that if this  was indeed a dream, you wouldn’t have to wake up so soon? Surely, your friends and family would understand upon meeting Bob. 

Then he pointedly thrusted his hips upwards, reminding you that no, this wasn’t a dream. No, you wouldn’t wake up feeling frustrated and unable to look him in the eye. After this, you two could go out to eat, on a real date. Not some hey let’s get dinner that feels like a date in everything except in name. You could also order delivery and cuddle up on the couch. Maybe you could even shower with him beforehand, and see his bare body, find out what was truly hiding underneath that flight suit. Oh, he was deceptively strong, you always knew that. But to see it, to feel the hard planes of his muscles? Oh, that would be quite the joy to experience. 

“Sweet girl,” you clenched at that nickname, you wanted him to continue calling you that for eternity, “Let go. Know ya want it.”

“I-I do,” you all but whined. Bob found the noise cute. What other sounds did you make? What would you sound like if he kept fucking you after you came? What about if he ate you out for hours? Or teased you until you were teetering on the edge?

There were so many questions, so many areas to explore. But for now, Bob was satisfied with experiencing how tightly you clenched his cock, how you practically sang his name as you came. Your release triggered his, pulling your hips down until they were flushed against his. His lips smashed against yours, swallowing your moans. 

Then there was silence. No words spoken. Only the sounds of panting, you both clearly trying to catch your breath, and kisses exchanged, ones that neither of you could resist giving. 

Realization hits you like a freight train. “I’m on birth control.”

Bob’s eyes widened, “Oh thank God.” He was usually so good about asking, about pulling out. But you….you made his brain feel like cotton. 

“You saying you don’t want to have kids with me?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek to let him know you were only saying it in jest. 

“Not yet.” You sat up to find he had an earnest smile on his face, cheeks rosy and eyes shining in adornment. 

Bob Floyd was going to be the death of you. 

So you brushed several strands of sandy brown hair off of his forehead, replacing them with a kiss, "Gotta get me a ring first."

Luckily, you were going to be the death of Bob Floyd.

[lostfracturess]

symptoms and causes | ch. 16

pairing — professor gojo x med student reader

summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.

word count — 11.5 k

warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark and themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.

previously — unable to watch satoru turn to his abusive family for help with naoya's massive lawsuit, you're heading to his party against satoru's wishes, hoping to find something, anything, that might help his situation. but what happens when satoru decides to crash the party? and what will you find in that locked room?

author's note — hello lovelies, welcome back !! this chapter picks up right where we left off, but through satoru's eyes this time. also important note: this chapter contains a brief mention of SA concerning a background event not related to any of our main characters. as always, please mind all trigger warnings. and now enjoy the chaos <3

series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad

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I saw her the moment I stepped into that goddamn party, and everything inside me went still. 

Like that moment right before you drown, when the water first fills your lungs and the world goes quiet. Terrifying and so still.

She stood there under those cheap neon lights, looking scared and yet so beautiful—beautiful in that terrible way that makes you want to destroy something, that makes you want to tear it apart just to prove it's real.

Every fiber of my being screamed to go to her, to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Away from this place, away from him, away from all of it. 

But I couldn't move. Couldn't let the mask slip, not here, not with all these eyes on me. So I plastered on that easy smile and played the part of the mildly annoyed professor who just happened to crash a student party.

As if my skin wasn't crawling with the need to use again, veins begging for something—anything—to take the edge off. As if the mere sight of her didn't make me feel like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my fucking heart out, her next breath away from something I might regret.

She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, and I saw the guilt there, swimming just beneath the surface. And for one horrible moment I thought, Good. Let it pull her under like it's pulling me. Let it fill her lungs the way fear is filling mine.

I almost hated her then — for lying to me again and again, for doing stupid things behind my back again and again, for making me feel this goddamn helpless again and again and again and fucking again.

But what lay beneath was worse. Because I knew why she was here. Always trying to save me, even if it meant throwing herself into the deep end, drowning right alongside me. And that's the worst kind of torture, isn't it? 

Watching the person you love cut themselves open on all your broken pieces, bleeding themselves dry, yet still reaching for more. And that thought made me want to scream.

"We'll talk about this later," I said, forcing that easy smile back onto my face though everything inside me was screaming to get her out of this goddamn house before she got herself into more trouble. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need a drink."

I pushed past her, shoulder grazing hers, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning back. Had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from saying something I couldn't take back. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did, and that was even worse.

Love and hate tangled together in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Because that's what she does to me — makes me feel everything at once, until I can't tell what's real anymore. Until I can't tell if I want to love her or ruin her. Until I can't remember which one would hurt more. Who I was before her. If I was anyone at all.

And it hit me then, as I left her standing there, all defiance and reckless stupidity and so unbearably precious it physically hurt—this must be what they mean when they say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Because I loved her so much it felt like hatred. Hated her so deeply it could only be love.

Always on the razor's edge. One wrong step, and we'd both bleed out. Maybe we already were.

When was the last time I even went to a party like this anyway? Years ago, probably. Back when I could still pretend I had my shit together. Before I understood what it meant to love someone so consuming that self-destruction became a form of worship.

I needed a drink. Maybe ten. Maybe something stronger. 

Bass thundered through the floorboards as I shouldered my way deeper into the house, some shitty pop track slamming in my skull. Or maybe that was just the rage still burning in my bloodstream.

Sweaty bodies pressed in on all sides, but I barely noticed, lost in the chaos raging in my head. Lost in the desperate need scratching at my throat to turn back, to find her, to make sure she hadn't slipped away like every other good thing in my life.

I ordered vodka. First sip burned, but not enough. Never enough to wash away the fear, to forget that she was here, in this house, with him. The same bastard who'd tried to—My grip tightened on the glass. Yeah. Definitely needed something stronger. Here's hoping these kids still remember how to party.

"Professor Gojo! No way!"

A group of my students appeared beside me at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. Aoi, of course—that kid was everywhere. And Miwa, looking starstruck as always. Just my fucking luck.

"Is this what you all do instead of studying for my exams?" I asked, letting that easy smile slide into place.

"Come on, Prof, we've been killing ourselves over your damned hard exams," Miwa chimed in, all bright eyes and alcohol courage. "We deserve a break."

I let myself slip into the familiar role. The cool professor. The guy everyone wants to hang with. It was easier than I expected, letting their drunken energy wash over me, cracking jokes, making them laugh. Almost enough to wash out the withdrawal that made it nearly impossible to think straight. Almost enough to forget why I was really here. Almost.

Aoi was rambling about something, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I turned slightly, catching her gaze across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. Funny, how we wanted the same thing sometimes.

My woman. My stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating woman. Even now, with me watching her from across the room, I could see that defiance bright in her eyes. Even now, even here, in defiance of everything I'd asked of her, she stood her ground. 

It was admirable, really. And sometimes, that very defiance made me want to break her. Perhaps only to prove I could. To prove she wasn't in control. Perhaps because I was terrified that I wasn't. That I never was.

It's terrifying how thin that line is.

"See? Fucking legend!" Aoi raised his beer, at something I said, I think. I can't remember. Something clever, probably. Something that fits the role. "To the coolest professor on campus!" 

I raised my glass, I think. I can't remember. And that's when I caught sight of them by the front entrance. Suguru walked up to her, still standing where I'd left her, and cradled her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. My god, could he be any more obvious about it?

I knew that look in his eyes. Had seen it countless times before, during all those long hours in the lab when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he'd lean in close to check her work, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment too long. The way his eyes would follow her every move.

My best friend, in love with the love of my life. What a sick fucking joke.

He was examining her face now, probably making sure she was alright, being the good, caring friend he always was. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and something violent stirred in my gut. Because she didn't pull away. Of course she didn't. She never did, not with him.

They looked good together, standing there in the dim light. The brilliant researcher and his gifted student. No addiction between them. No sharp edges that sliced you open if you got too close. And I hated that.

I watched as she placed her hand over his, the gesture unbearably tender. Watched as he smiled down at her, that gentle smile he reserved only for her.

And just for a moment — one single, agonizing moment — I let myself picture a world where I hadn't reached her first. Where she'd chosen him instead. The better man. The one who'd never drag her down into his own personal hell.

The thoughts spiraled darker, louder, until I could barely breathe through the noise. Glass creaked under my grip. I needed a fucking pill. Needed something, anything, to make this stop. To make everything just fucking stop.

"Professor?" Miwa’s voice. "You okay?"

More students crowded the bar, blocking my view of them. One of them—what was his name? Third-year, not a complete idiot—shoved another beer into my hand. I chugged it in one long pull, their chatter fading to background noise.

"Well." That voice. That fucking voice. "Look who decided to crash my party after all."

I turned, meeting Naoya's scarred face with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Zenin. Quite the gathering you've got here."

"Indeed." He signaled the bartender. "I gotta say though, I'm surprised to see you here, Professor. Don't tell me you're playing chaperone tonight?"

His words stripped away any pretense. He knew. Of course he fucking knew why I was really here. Not that I'd been particularly subtle about it.

"Just felt like reliving my youth," I said, taking the drink he offered. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from finishing what I'd started with his face.

Zenin's smirk widened, the scars pulling his flesh into something even uglier. "Ah yes, the good old days. Back when teachers knew their place and didn't go around screwing their students."

The fake smile slid off my face, the glass creaking in my grip as I pictured how easily his windpipe would crumple under my hands. How satisfying it would be to watch that smirk disappear for good.

"Careful, Zenin. Your face is already fucked up enough as is. Would be a damn shame if something happened to what's left of it."

He laughed, the sound grating on my last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. "Always so protective. But tell me, Professor, does she know the real reason you're here? Does she know about the—"

"Enough," I bit out.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" His eyes flicked across the room, landing on her. The way he looked at her made my vision bleed red around the edges. "She really is something else, isn't she? Too bad I didn't get a chance to get her alone that night—"

My hand lashed out before I could think, fisting in his collar. The fabric bunched in my grip as I hauled him close enough to see my own fury reflected in his eyes. "You fucking—"

Then Suguru was there, his hand slamming down on the bar between us. Silent, steady—a wall between me and a one-way ticket to unemployment. He didn't say a word, just fixed me with that look. The one I'd explicitly asked for earlier. Stop me before I do something I'll regret.

Fuck, I was really starting to regret that request right about now.

Then I felt her—her touch impossibly gentle as she laid her hand on my bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through my shirt. She leaned in close, "Satoru, can we talk for a minute?"

Her soft plea sliced through the haze, and suddenly I became acutely aware of the deafening silence that had fallen over the room, of the countless eyes boring into us.

I uncurled my fingers from Naoya's collar one by one, even though everything in me screamed to finish what I'd started. To paint the walls with whatever was left of his face. But I couldn't. We both knew. So I stepped back and followed her.

─── ·✧· ───

She led me through the crowd, her fingers still wrapped so gently around my arm. We pushed our way past the prying eyes, down a hallway, until she found what looked like an empty office. Probably belonged to Naoya's father, judging by the dark wood and that rich people smell.

For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us willing to shatter the fragile silence. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, turning everything silver and strange, like we were underwater. Maybe we were. I wasn't sure anymore. Her hand slipped from my arm, and suddenly I felt cold.

I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the leather groaning under my weight. She stood silhouetted at the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, and I had to look away. Had to focus on something else, because I knew one glance at those eyes and I'd break.

My fingers found the pill on their own. Out of habit, really. Without thinking, I snatched up the silver letter opener next to me and crushed the pill beneath it, watching the powder scatter across the polished wood like fresh snow. I bent down and let the burn fill my nose, sear through my brain, numbing everything in an instant. 

When I looked up, she was staring. Always fucking staring, with eyes that flayed me to the bone. And she did it so effortlessly. Saw through everyone around her with that unnerving precision. Or maybe she saw through everything so clearly because she looked for the very things she wanted to hide from others.

"That's new," she said. Not an accusation. I was glad it wasn't.

"It's faster."

I averted my gaze and sank deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest as warmth flooded my veins and the ceiling blurred and shifted above me. And then everything went soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.

A long exhale escaped my lips. Finally—fucking finally—the constant noise in my head, all that shit I can't shut up—the love, the hate, the fucking terror of it all—it faded to a whisper. The world got a little quieter, a little less sharp. A little more bearable.

For one perfect moment, I could actually breathe. Could almost convince myself I was in control. That this wasn't killing me. That I could walk away if I had to. That I wasn't fucking terrified of losing her. Of becoming him. Of everything.

I groaned, fingers raking through my hair, pulling, needing the pain. My hands were shaking again. Or maybe they never stopped. I couldn't tell anymore.

"You're angry," she said.

"No shit. What gave it away?" I scrubbed my hands over my face. "You showing up here after I specifically fucking told you not to? Or me nearly rearranging Zenin's face again?"

"Satoru—"

"Don't." I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers yanking at my hair again, trembling worse now. From the drugs, the rage, the fear, who the fuck knew. It all bled together these days. "You have no idea what he'd do. If something happened—" I stopped. Couldn’t continue.

"I'm not alone," she said, like that made a difference. "Maki, Yuta, Toge—they're all with me. We're being careful."

"Careful?" I sat upright, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "There's nothing fucking careful about this! It's reckless! You shouldn't even be—"

"I'm doing this for you—"

"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't make this about me."

"But it is!" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What, you expect me to just stand by and watch? While you fall apart?"

"This isn't your problem to fix—"

"Like hell it isn't!" Another step. Her eyes seared into mine. "I can't fucking take it anymore. You're in this mess because of me. Because you protected me that night. So don't you dare tell me this isn't my problem to fix."

I stared at her, something in my chest fracturing. "You think that's why I'm doing this? Because I feel obligated?"

"I think you're trying to protect me, like you always do."

"Then don't make me protect you all the goddamn time!" I shoved up from the chair and braced my hands on the desk. "I beat him within an inch of his life that night. I would've killed him if—" My throat closed around the words. "And I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. That's what scares the shit out of me. What I become when it comes to you."

She went still.

"And if he hurt you again," the words scraped out of me, "I—I don't know what I'd do. So please. Just please don't make me find out."

I said the words I'd been turning over in my head for what felt like eternity. Don't make me find out, don't put yourself in danger, don't break my fucking heart. Which really meant break me all you want, just don't leave. I wouldn't survive it.

Her gaze dropped briefly to my hands, and she said, "You done?" 

Her question threw me. Done? God, this infuriating woman. But then I followed her line of sight and saw my hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the desk’s edge. I slowly released them, my knuckles cracking in the sudden stillness.

I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, defeated, throwing an arm over my eyes. "God, I fucking hate you." The way she stood there, unflinching, unafraid—it made me insane. "I hate that you make me feel like this—so fucking terrified all the time."

"You don't hate me," she said.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure anymore," I answered.

How does it never get easier, I wondered. Loving her. Needing her. It just cuts deeper, spreads further, until I'm drowning in the ache. Until I can't breathe without feeling it in my lungs. And yeah, I hate her for that sometimes.

I couldn't look at her. I knew she'd be there, unyielding, waiting, enduring everything I threw at her, as she always did. Never breaking. Maybe that's what I hated most.

"You're so fucking stupid," I breathed, but it came out wrong. Too soft. Too much like 'I love you'. Too much like 'Please don't leave.' 

"I think that's mutual." She crossed the room then and leaned against the desk, arms folded over her chest. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

I lowered my arm and looked at her. "No, you're not."

"I am sorry for worrying you," she tried again, and I almost believed her, wishing desperately that she'd never have to worry about anything the way I worry about her. "Go ahead, say it. Tell me how stupid I was to come here. I know you're dying to."

"Why would you think that?"

She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because it's true. I make the wrong choice every fucking time."

I watched her, this brilliant, stubborn woman that I love so much, beating herself up over choices that weren't really choices at all—just impossible situations with no right answers. Like there was ever a right answer. And sometimes she reminded me so much of myself. As if I hadn't spent years doing the same thing, and probably still do.

But seeing her do it—it was like staring into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection, but the reflection of everything I hated about myself.

"I think that's mutual," I echoed her words back to her.

With a heavy sigh, I pushed up from the chair, gripping the edge of the desk for a second. Then I reached for her, hands landing on her hips, tugging her close, needing her close. My lips ghosted over hers. Hesitant. Unsure. When she didn't pull away, I kissed her. My hand came up to cradle her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone as I deepened the kiss.

"Alright, what's the plan?" I murmured against her mouth.

She told me about the locked room upstairs and her plan to get it. So calm. She told it so calm. Like it was that simple. Like this wasn't the most insane thing I'd ever heard. But I knew she'd go through with it no matter what I said.

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you anywhere near him with alcohol involved?"

"No," she said. "I think you're going to help me."

"Times like this, I'm really feeling that age difference between us," I said, but we both heard the resignation in my voice. The moment I'd already lost this fight.

"So you'll help?" she asked, ignoring my comment.

Before she could celebrate her victory, I yanked her closer, fingers twisting in her hair. With a sharp tug, I forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet my gaze, her throat bared. Our eyes locked, and I saw the instant her breath hitched.

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"When we get home, you're gonna make it up to me for all the stress you've caused. Got it?"

"Is that really how you want to play this?"

"Oh, love, I think we're way past propriety at this point."

A shiver ran through her — one that made me almost smile. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, could feel the way she melted into me despite herself. It almost made this whole mess worth it.

"Now then." I pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. "let's have some fun, shall we?"

─── ·✧· ───

So, here's the fun story about how I ended up playing beer pong with my arch-nemesis (besides Sukuna, that is) against my future lovely wife and some chemistry nerd who wouldn't shut up about covalent bonds. Not exactly the Saturday night I had in mind.

I mean, here I was, standing next to Naoya — yeah, the same guy whose face I'd rearranged a few months back — trying to aim at red plastic cups while you were absolutely wiping the floor with us. Turns out that whole '10 years of grief training in alcoholism over your dead father' wasn't just a cute phrase you threw around. Who would've thought?

But really, trying to out-drink an opioid addict? That's like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. Except the fish is in heavy withdrawal. So like, with no fin. Not my finest analogy. I blame the alcohol. What was my point again?

Anyway. Most annoying part? This chemistry department kid with these wide, bright eyes wouldn't stop talking to you about molecular structures. And you were actually entertaining him. At a party. About electron transfers. Of all the insufferable things.

"So if you consider the aromatic compounds—" he was saying, and I swear on my medical license, I didn't mean for the ball to hit him. And I definitely didn't mean for it to hit him that hard. Pure accident, really. 

The ball bounced off his shoulder, effectively shutting him up. They both turned to look at me. "Molecular restructuring in organic compounds? Really?" I shrugged. "At a party?"

She shot me that look. You know the one. The classic 'I-can't-believe-I'm-sleeping-with-this-idiot' glare. It's become quite familiar these days.

"Trouble in paradise?" Naoya said beside me, and I briefly considered rearranging his face again. For symmetry's sake, of course.

But then she bent over to pick up the ball, and suddenly organic chemistry was the furthest thing from my mind. I definitely shouldn't have let her leave the house in that skirt. Though knowing her, she probably wore it just to torture me. 

"Getting distracted, Professor?" she said, straightening up with that little smile that never fails to make me want to do wildly inappropriate things to her in very public places. She leaned across the table, deliberately tapping one of our cups with her finger, giving me her most innocent eyes. Because apparently, driving me insane was her new favorite pastime.

"Me?" I lifted the red cup she'd tapped to my lips, taking my sweet time with the drink, my eyes never leaving hers. "Never."

And somewhere in the haze of beer and the way she was looking at me, I tried to remember why the hell we were even here. Oh right—something about stealing keys. Real professional operation we've got going here. The medical board would be so proud. Their star surgeon, reduced to playing beer pong as a distraction tactic. 

Naoya's keys were right there on the table, practically screaming to be grabbed. But between her legs in that skirt and the way she kept biting her lip every time she lined up a shot, I found myself giving fewer and fewer shits about saving my career and more about how quickly I could get her alone. Priorities. I clearly had them. Alcohol might have scrambled them a bit, I guess.

I caught a glimpse of Suguru standing off to the side of the beer pong table. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her like he was watching the world's most stressful tennis match. I really owed him one for putting up with this shit.

Near the chemistry kid, a girl approached who looked a bit like Higurama's intern—though I wasn't entirely sure. She looked different, wearing makeup and dressed up. But that couldn't be her. She'd avoid places with flashing lights because of her epilepsy. I must be seeing things.

Then Naoya, because clearly this shitshow wasn't enough of a disaster already, decided to "level up the process." He snapped his fingers at a passing bartender, and before I could process what the fuck was happening, there was a tray of perfectly lined up tequila shots on the table. Complete with cinnamon and orange slices, because apparently, we're keeping it classy while trying to get my future wife drunk.

"New rule," Naoya announced, his scarred face pulling into what I can only assume was meant to be a grin. "Next shot I sink, you drink both. Beer and tequila."

I glanced over at her, my gut churning. Not from the alcohol—it'd take a hell of a lot more than this to get me there—but from the way she met Naoya's challenge with a nod. That stubborn tilt of her chin that always meant trouble. My palms started to sweat.

Of course, Naoya's ball dropped perfectly into her cup. Because the universe really does have a sick sense of humor.

Watching her reach for both drinks, I found myself wondering what the medical board would be more pissed about — me playing drinking games with students, screwing one of my students, or the fact that I was seriously considering murder. Again.

Then, by some physics-defying miracle or sheer dumb luck, the chemistry kid actually landed a shot. He looked as shocked as the rest of us when the ball plopped into Naoya's cup. But it was her next shot that really got my attention — perfect arc, clean landing, like she'd been doing this her whole damn life.

"Drink up, Professor," she said, but there was something different in her voice.

She reached for the tequila, and then—fuck me—propped one leg up on a nearby beer crate, the motion making her skirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of skin above her tights. Wait. Those weren't tights. Those were fucking stockings.

My brain short-circuited as I realized she'd been walking around all night in stockings. Actual stockings, with what I knew had to be a garter belt hidden under that criminally short skirt. The same spot where she was now deliberately sprinkling cinnamon.

The sight of that exposed sliver of skin between stocking and skirt made my blood boil. When the hell had she even bought those? Had she worn them just for tonight, knowing they'd make me lose my goddamn mind? Was she trying to get herself killed?

Because right now, watching her purposely dust cinnamon on that band of exposed skin, I wasn't sure if I wanted to murder her or fuck her. Probably both. My mouth went dry, and it had fuck-all to do with the alcohol.

"Well?" She tilted her head, all innocence except for that knowing look in her eyes. "Coming to get your tequila?" 

Like she had to ask twice. Yet I hesitated. With all these people watching? What was she playing at? It was reckless, careless, like she was deliberately trying to expose us. It was power play, a challenge. And I knew, that she knew, that I couldn't resist.

A slow smile spread across my face as I sank to one knee before her, the crowd fading into a blur of noise. All that mattered was her—the way her breath hitched as I gripped her calf, the way she tensed as she realized that I made a whole show for her (poor girl didn’t expect that now, did she?)—the feel of her skin on my tongue.

I took my sweet time with the cinnamon, letting my tongue glide over the exposed strip of flesh, feeling her shiver. My teeth grazed her skin, just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. If she wanted a show, I'd give her a show. And part of me wanted to shove that skirt higher, to chase that taste of salt and cinnamon further up her thigh until—

Focus. Fucking focus.

I straightened, stepping into her space. She held an orange slice in one hand, the shot glass in the other, and I couldn't help but notice how her pupils had blown wide, how her chest rose and fell just a little faster than normal.

I plucked the orange from her fingers with my teeth, my lips brushing her skin, then took the shot glass, using the movement to press closer, my mouth right by her ear, "What exactly is your plan here?"

"Create distraction," she breathed back.

God help me, but it was working. I was definitely distracted. Whole damn crowd was distracted. And watching her play this game—watching her play me—was probably the hottest and most infuriating thing I'd ever experienced. And I'm pretty sure everyone could see I was hard too.

"You're distracting the wrong audience," I whispered before knocking back the shot.

In the midst of trying to control my homicidal urges over those goddamn stockings, she caught my eye and subtly jerked her head. I turned, making it look like I was just checking something, and spotted them—Zenin, Okkotsu, and Inumaki hovering on the other side of the table behind Naoya, waiting for their chance. 

Right. The keys. The whole reason we were here. I almost forgot.

The game continued, the tension building with each shot. We were down to the last round — winner takes all. That's when she decided to really test my patience.

"Let's make this more interesting," she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Losers jump in the pool." A pause, then because apparently she was hell-bent on giving me a coronary. "No clothes."

"You wouldn’t dare," Naoya scoffed.

"Try me," she replied. 

I shot her a warning look. She subtly chewed on her bottom lip, meeting my gaze with an unnerving calm, perhaps her way of saying everything's gonna be okay. It did little to ease the knot in my stomach.

One shot left. If she made this, Naoya and I would be stripping down for a midnight dip. If she missed—

I tried not to think about her in that pool. Tried not to think about those stockings getting soaked. Tried not to think about murdering every sorry bastard who might lay eyes on her. Either way, this woman was going to be the death of me. If I didn't kill her first.

Naoya landed his shot, fucking prick. I missed mine for obvious reasons. Chemistry kid missed too, leaving everything on her shoulders. The ball left her hand, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It circled the rim, then rolled away.

The crowd went wild. Naoya's victory smirk made me want to punch his face in. I glanced over at her, wondering for a second if she'd missed on purpose. But there was no time for that.

"Well?" Naoya's voice. "I believe the losers owe us a show."

"The game wasn't exactly fair—" I started, but she cut me off.

"Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Naoya?" She turned to him, her words sharp. "To see me undress without having to drug me first?"

The crowd went dead silent. Naoya's scarred face contorted into something ugly. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're not as untouchable as you think."

"And you're pathetic," she spat back, then turned away from him. "At least I get to choose when I undress, right?”

She started walking toward the pool, each step deliberate, commanding. I followed, caught between pride and sheer terror at what she was about to do. At the edge, she turned back to me.

"Don't," I pleaded, but she was already reaching for the hem of her skirt. It fell, revealing the dark lace of her stockings. Then her top followed, and I stepped closer, trying to shield her from the leering eyes.

"This is insane." But my protest died as she stood there in only black lace, and then I saw them—the bruises from the fire still painted across her waist and ribs. Dark purple and yellow marks that hadn't yet faded, cruel reminder of how close I'd come to losing her.

The sight sobered me instantly. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and painful. The bruises I'd carefully tended to, the ones that still made her wince when I changed her bandages—on full display for this crowd of drunk idiots, turned into a spectacle.

"Please," I begged, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."

She met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d reached her. But then that smile—the one that sealed my fate—touched her lips. "Sorry, Professor," she whispered, and then she was gone, falling backward into the pool, taking a piece of me with her.

The splash echoed in my ears like a gunshot, and I was already shrugging off my jacket, ready to either dive in after her or use it to cover her when she surfaced. A cold, hard fury settled in my gut. Naoya was going to pay for this.

The crowd roared as she surfaced, her hair plastered to her face, water tracing the curves of her body beneath the soaked lace. Our eyes met across the distance, me standing at the pool's edge, and I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Something flickered across her face—regret maybe, or shame—before she looked away.

Hell broke loose. Bodies crashed into the water, sending waves across the pool. Even Naoya stripped off his shirt and dove in, reveling in the attention. The whole party seemed to shift to the pool in a matter of seconds — clothes flying, drinks splashing, the pristine water turning into a churning mess. 

Perfect distraction.

But I barely registered any of it, my world had narrowed to her. I watched as she climbed out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the concrete, practically sprinting past me, her gaze fixed on the floor, while water dripped from her hair, her skin, the dark lace clinging to her form.

Behind her, the pool had turned into chaos — exactly what she'd planned, I realized. 

I gathered her clothes from where they'd fallen and followed her inside. I caught a glimpse of Okkotsu's quick movements near the discarded clothes by the pool. 

Well played.

─── ·✧· ───

Her dripping form drew curious eyes as we moved through the foyer. Each step felt like a penance—hers for the recklessness, mine for letting it happen. Heads turned, conversations died, the sudden silence punctuated only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from her hair.

Kento’s face flashed past, but I barely registered him. No doubt he'd give me shit about it at the university later, like he didn't already know something was up with me and her.

I wrapped my jacket around her shivering shoulders, fighting the desperate urge to reach for the opioids hidden in my pocket. Withdrawal, guilt, and fury burned together in my veins, making me want to crawl out of my own skin. 

I stepped in front of her, partly to block all those eyes on her, partly to hide how bad my hands were shaking. None of it was worth it. Not the keys, not avoiding my parents, none of it. How did we end up here? How did I allow things to get to this point?

Upstairs, she dressed quickly, water still dripping from her hair, leaving damp patches on her clothes.

"Are you cold?" 

"I'm okay," she said, avoiding my gaze. 

She was shaking. I could see the goosebumps on her arms. "You're shivering," I said and reached for her, but she pulled away.

“I’m fine, really.”

Despite her words, I pulled her close. She didn't resist this time, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes were bright, and for a second, I thought she might cry. The world could have been watching, for all I cared. If those tears fell, it would be my undoing.

And then I thought of everything she'd done, everything she'd had to do—for me. My twenty-four-year-old student, forced to protect me from my own damn parents, to beg for my own money. Because I’d hit a guy who tried to hurt her. Why was it all so fucked up?

The high was long gone, leaving this gaping hole. My limbs felt heavy, detached, like they belonged to a stranger, unable to reach out and fix what I’d broken. And we were so far from where we started.

"You're disappointed," she finally said. She wasn't asking.

"We should leave." Because I couldn't bear to watch her sacrifice one more piece of herself for me.

"You can leave."

Before I could say anything back, Zenin came bursting into our corner, Okkotsu and Inumaki right behind her, her eyes all lit up. "That was fucking insane!" she yelled, waving something around—Naoya's keys. "But it worked! I can't believe it actually—" She stopped short, finally noticing the tension between us.

The win felt empty. Yeah, we got what we came for. But what did it cost? Looking at her, still shivering a little in my jacket, I wasn't so sure it was worth it. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I just kept watching her throw herself in the fire for me. 

Some professor I was. Some man I was.

Strange how winning can feel so much like losing, especially when you realize you're not the one paying the price.

─── ·✧· ───

I stayed outside Naoya's room, playing lookout. At least that's what I told them. Truth was, I couldn't stand being in there, couldn't bear being near her, watching her fight my battles while I was barely holding myself together.

The itch under my skin had spread, making my whole body crawl with invisible insects while she did the dirty work. Even after everything, she was still trying to save me. 

And I was still letting her.

I slid down the wall, my head hitting the floor. How did we end up here? What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing?

I'm thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake. Why was I acting like a goddamn teenager? I should've stopped her, shouldn't have let her leave the house to begin with, should've been the adult. But instead, I let it happen, standing by and watching where it led. Again.

This whole situation was insane. We were in too deep, and I knew it. But I couldn't seem to find my way out, couldn't seem to stop this trainwreck we were on. It was like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body, powerless to change course.

What kind of man was I? What kind of professor? I was supposed to be her mentor, her… something more. Instead, I was dragging her down with me.

I thought back to that night, the one that started it all. The night I found her in the lab, working late, hunched over her microscope. She looked up at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that seemed to see right through me. And I was lost. I knew it was wrong. I knew I should have walked away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Drawn in. Consumed.

And now, here we were. Trapped in this fucked-up situation of our own making. I wanted to blame her, to say it was all her fault for being so reckless, so damn stubborn. But I knew that wasn't true. I let this happen. I didn’t stop it. But why? 

I could replay the events in my mind, frame by frame, but the crucial moment, the point where I should have intervened, remained a blur. It was as if some part of me had wanted to see where this ended.

Music still drifted up from downstairs, the bass thumping through the walls. It felt wrong, out of place. Like we were in a different world, a fucked-up one, while everyone else was living their normal, happy lives.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. That we weren't here. That everything was okay. But it was happening. And I was in it, and I knew I couldn't hold my breath much longer.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Kept seeing things in the corners of my vision. Shadows that shouldn't move but did, faces that weren't faces at all. The wallpaper breathed. In and out. In and out. Like a lung.

Stop it. Just stop all of it. Make it stop. But it won't stop, can't stop, because she's in there right now, digging through his things, trying to save me save me save me why won't she just stop trying to save me?

Everything felt wrong, sick, twisted. Too bright and too dark all at once. My skin didn't fit right anymore. Nothing fit right anymore. God, I needed a goddamn fix.

A cough. I pressed my hand against my mouth. When I pulled it away, my palm was red. 

Huh. That's new. 

I stared at the blood, watching it pool in the lines of my hand. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, too thick. The longer I stared, the more it seemed to move strangely, crawling along the creases of my palm.

Was blood supposed to move like that? Like it was alive? Like it was trying to tell me something? I couldn't remember anymore. I couldn't remember a lot of things lately. The blood kept moving, kept spreading. 

Maybe this was it—maybe I was finally losing whatever scraps of sanity I had left, sitting here on a dirty floor watching my own blood drip down my palm.

A part of me wondered if he'd been right all along, that I was becoming him, the very thing I’d always feared. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be better, different. Not this—huddled on a filthy floor at a college party, watching my blood move as if in psychosis, while she risked everything for me. Again. 

The door handle turned. Shit. I wiped my palm against the dark carpet, smearing the blood into the fibers where it vanished like it was never there. I scrambled to my feet just as they emerged. She moved quickly, shoving something beneath the waistband of her skirt. Before I could speak, she grabbed my arm.

"Let's leave." There was something like panic in her voice. "I'll tell you outside."

I gripped her hand, my own pulse quickening, and we went downstairs and pushed through the mass of drunk students. But then the music cut abruptly, plunging us into a moment of strange silence before panicked voices filled the void. 

"What the hell—?" Okkotsu’s shout cut through the din from behind us.

Then I saw the flashing lights—red and blue strobing through the windows. Fuck. 

"Cops!" Someone shouted, and the whole house erupted into chaos as people scrambled in every direction.

"Everyone freeze!" A voice boomed through the foyer. "Nobody moves!"

We reached the entrance as two officers shouldered their way through the front door. The bigger one looked like he benched trucks for fun, taking up almost the entire doorframe as he planted himself there.

"Listen up!" he bellowed, one meaty hand resting on his belt. "Party's over. Nobody leaves until we check IDs."

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I felt her tense beside me, those things hidden in her waistband might as well have been burning her skin. I could practically feel her panic.

"Look, officers." I stepped forward, forcing my voice into something professional. "There seems to be some confusion—"

"No confusion here," Truck-Bencher cut me off, the scar on his lip twisting as he frowned. "Got noise complaints, reports of underage drinking. Everyone stays put."

"I'm faculty at the university. These are my students and they're all over twenty-one. You're wasting everyone's time—"

"Nobody leaves until we say so."

"You really want to process IDs for over two hundred students?"

"You telling me how to do my job?" He shifted closer, chest puffed out despite me having two inches on him.

Withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like insects, each bite feeding the rage that built vertebra by vertebra up my spine. "Depends. Are you actually doing it, or just power tripping?"

"Back the fuck up." His hand dropped to his belt. "Last chance."

I felt her fingers digging into my arm, trying to pull me back. But the rage was a living thing now, burning away anything resembling sense or restraint. "Or what?"

The punch came fast. I dropped, and heard the sickening crack of bone against flesh—not mine. Some poor student next to me. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then chaos.

Bodies everywhere. Screaming. Shoving. Radio static cutting through the roar. Her hand in mine as we pushed through the surge. Her friends somewhere behind. Everything blurred. I can't remember when she let go of my hand.

I just remember the scream. Different from the others. Then her voice, "Get her on the ground!" I shoved through the mass of bodies. Saw the girl on the floor. Ice flooded my veins.

I knew that face. Higurama's intern. My patient. My responsibility.

I dropped beside her, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. Her eyes rolled back. Withdrawal made everything too sharp, too bright. I couldn't think. Couldn't—

Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. It was her voice. Fingers gripped my arm. "Satoru, look at me." I met her eyes. Steady. Unnerving. "Focus."

Everything snapped back into place. My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. "This is Dr. Gojo from Jujutsu Medical. Twenty-six-year-old female, epileptic, pre-seizure presentation. We need immediate assistance."

My voice was mechanical, professional. Inside, my mind screamed. Why was she here? Had she been drinking? Were her meds interacting with something? I should know this. Should be better than this. Should be fucking better. 

Nausea rose in my throat and I'd never felt more like a failure in my entire fucking life.

Behind us, the fight continued to rage. A man’s voice bellowed, trying to restore order. Then Suguru was there, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle as he cradled her head. He murmured something, soft and low. The tenderness in his movements caught me off guard. 

"The ambulance is taking too long." His voice cut through everything. Before I could process it, he had her in his arms, head protected against his chest and moved.

─── ·✧· ───

I can't remember how we got to the hospital.

Everything blurred into fragments. Flashing lights, squealing tires, the weight of everything crushing my chest. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until I swallowed three pills. Maybe four. I lost count.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh, making my skull feel like it was splitting open. I wanted to crack my head against the wall.

Some part of me was still moving, still speaking in that detached doctor voice — rattling off medical history, medications, possible interactions. Years of training overriding the screaming in my head. But they never trained us for this.

Never trained us for how guilt tastes like acid in your throat while watching your mistakes breathe shallowly on starched white sheets.

They taught us to make clean incisions, to suture arteries, to restart hearts. But not how your own heart would seize when you recognize the face on the floor. Not how your girlfriend’s hands would be steadier than your own worthless trembling ones as you fumbled for your phone, your throat closing around the words "this is my fault", "please" and "I'm sorry."

Didn’t prepare us for withdrawal turning your hands into treacherous strangers while someone seized at your feet. For the shame that festers in your gut as you come down, struggling to remember basic fucking dosages through the need scorching through your veins.

They never warned us how love would carve you open worse than any scalpel, making you both butcher and victim, instrument and incision. Never warned us about loving someone while you’re falling apart. How it feels like drowning in open air, your chest cracked wide and your beating heart wrenched out into daylight, desperate and terrified and somehow still pumping, still fighting, still so fucking afraid.

Higurama's intern lay still now, the steady drip of the IV marking time like a metronome in the silence. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, my mind replaying the medications, the dosages, searching for the mistake I must have made. There had to be one. There was always one.

Perhaps he was right about me after all. Funny how even now, even here, I could still hear his voice so clearly.

"You okay?"

She sat across from me, swallowed by my spare clothes—an old t-shirt and sweatpants that draped loosely on her frame, a blanket draped over her legs. Anything was better than those clothes from before, those fucking stockings I'd personally thrown in the trash.

"Satoru?" she tried again. "You okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"Talk me through her meds again," she said, resting her head in her palm. Her eyes, piercing and unwavering, never left my face as she waited.

I rubbed my temples, trying to focus through the exhaustion. "Standard anticonvulsants. Levetiracetam, 500mg twice daily. Added phenytoin after the first seizure." I fell back into my chair, scrubbing my hand over my face. "She couldn't tolerate the Levetiracetam, so I switched to Topiramate, 500mg thrice daily."

She was quiet for a moment. "Side effects?"

"Minor. Tremor in her extremities sometimes, but nothing she couldn't handle. It was working." I paused. "It was supposed to be working."

"EEG results?"

"Showed mild abnormalities. Nothing that would explain a seizure this severe." I scrubbed at my face again, harder this time. "I should have seen it. Should have caught something."

"Satoru." Her voice held that gentle firmness I knew so well. "You did everything right."

"Then why did she seize?" I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against linoleum. I turned away, unable to bear her gentle gaze. Outside, dawn was breaking in shades of grey. No color, no warmth, just an endless stretch of concrete and clouded sky bleeding into each other. "If I did everything right, why is she lying here?"

"Because sometimes that's just how it goes. You know this better than anyone," she said. "Medicine isn't perfect. Neither are we."

My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and distorted in the glass. Dark circles, stubble, hair a fucking mess. A doctor coming down from a high while his patient lay in a hospital bed.

"I should have increased the dosage earlier. Run more tests. I should have—"

"Seen the future?"

"I should have been better."

"You are already the best," she said, but it felt like a lie to me. "But even the best can't control everything."

Higurama's intern stirred slightly in her sleep, and we both fell silent, the moment stretching taut between us. I dragged myself back to the chair, sinking down with my face in my hands.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead. "Sometimes life just happens, and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces."

I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to. But the truth sat like stones in my stomach.

"I hate this," I whispered.

"I know."

Silence.

"Do you blame yourself?" she asked quietly.

"How can I not?"

Because it's stupid, you know this. I could feel them in my bones, the words forming on her lips before she could speak them. "How did that ever change anything?" I said before she could start.

She leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Do you think we are terrible people?" she asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.

I turned to look at her then, really look at her. Even exhausted and worried, wearing my old clothes, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Like a drug I couldn't quit, a high I'd chase until it killed me. 

And what did that say about either of us? That I wanted to crack her open, crawl inside her skin and nestle myself in her marrow? Wanted to consume her, devour her, until there was nothing left but the two of us, fused together in the most depraved way possible?

It was as if we were always meant to find each other. But it was a penance, for both of us.

"I think I am what I am because of you," I finally said.

And it was the truth. She'd molded me, shaped me, just as I'd shaped her. We'd ruined each other for anyone else, stripped away the innocence and left only the filth and grit behind.

Her hand fell from her face, her eyes meeting mine. "And I am what I am because of you."

"Does that scare you?"

"I think one gets used to it."

"Yeah," I said finally, my voice rough. "I guess you do get used to it. Until you don't."

She frowned, but before she could voice something, Suguru stepped inside. 

He said we should leave, and maybe that was for the better anyway, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was an edge to his voice. Anger, perhaps. But I couldn't blame him. Not really.

I grabbed her things, my hand finding its familiar place at the small of her back as we headed for the door. Suguru's voice followed us down the corridor. "What did you find in Zenin's room anyway?" he asked, as if it were something to be discussed in the doorway.

I walked ahead.

I didn't need to hear again about the unconscious women on the Polaroids. 

─── ·✧· ───

Too quiet.

He was never this quiet.

"How bad is it?" I asked, perched on the edge of the exam bed where the paper sheet betrayed every nervous shift of my weight with stupid crinkles. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the linoleum floor.

I'd coughed up blood again earlier this morning. More than last night. The metallic taste had filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. I'd stumbled to the bathroom, careful not to wake her—she needed the rest after we spent the whole damn night at the police station.

I stared at the red running down the drain. Way more than there should be. I'd blamed it on stress and alcohol last time. But now? It meant my liver was probably failing faster than I'd thought. Coagulation system breaking down, blood vessels becoming fragile. Textbook end-stage.

I called him then. He was still at the hospital, had slept there while looking after Higurama's intern. His face had gone pale when he saw me walk in. Guess I looked as bad as I felt.

We ran tests. All of them. Blood work, chest X-rays, the works. And now here we are. I watched him reading what I assumed was my death sentence, waiting for him to finally look up, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.

But he kept his eyes fixed on the test results, holding himself with the careful rigidity of someone handling explosives. Another bad sign.

"Suguru."

He exhaled slowly, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that said everything before his mouth could form the words. "You should have started treatment sooner. We talked about this months ago."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I tried to wave off his concern. "What do the results say?"

His fingers tightened on the papers until the corners creased. "Your liver enzymes are through the roof. AST over 1000, ALT even higher. Bilirubin's climbing while albumin's dropping. Your PT/INR values—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. Not just damaged anymore—failing."

I let the clinical terms wash over me. The doctor in me understood the implications perfectly. The addict in me wanted to laugh at the irony.

"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my tone, "guess I should have listened to you sooner, huh?"

Suguru's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke. Without immediate intervention—" He caught himself, but I could read the rest in his eyes as clearly as any lab report.

Without immediate intervention, I was dying. Fitting, really. That my body would choose to betray me just when I'd finally found something worth living for.

"How's the withdrawal going?" Suguru asked, setting down the test results.

"Managing." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how even that simple movement felt like too much effort. "Reduced the hydromorphone gradually. Down to about 5mg now."

"Satoru." His voice carried that familiar note of frustration, the one I'd heard a thousand times before. "You need to stop completely. Not reduce—stop. Your liver can't handle any more strain."

"I'm trying," I snapped, then immediately regretted the harshness. "Sorry. I know you're trying to help."

Suguru pulled up a chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "We need to start treatment immediately. The protocol won't be pleasant—high-dose corticosteroids, immunosuppressants, possibly plasmapheresis if things get worse."

"Sounds fun."

"It'll be brutal," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "The side effects alone—you'll need to be monitored constantly. Multiple blood draws daily, frequent imaging. And absolutely no narcotics—your liver won't survive it."

I absorbed this, the clinical reality of what lay ahead settling into my bones. "So basically, I get to feel like shit while you stick me with needles and watch me suffer."

"That's about right. But it's either that or start planning your funeral."

"At least you're honest." I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'll admit you tonight, get you set up in a private room," Suguru said, already reaching for admission forms.

"Monday morning."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"I have a family dinner on Sunday," I shrugged. "Can't skip it."

"Are you insane?" Suguru's voice rose to fill the small room. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. This isn't something you can postpone for a damn dinner party."

"Monday morning," I repeated firmly. "I gave my word I'd be there."

"Your word won't mean much if you're dead."

"I can manage two more days."

"No, you can't." Suguru slammed the test results down with enough force to make me flinch. Since when is he always so fucking tense? "Your numbers are critical. Every hour we delay treatment increases the risk of complete liver failure."

"Monday."

"For fuck's sake, Satoru—"

"I said Monday. I need to do this, Suguru. Please."

He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

"Fine. Monday morning, first thing. But if you show any signs of deterioration—any at all—I'm admitting you immediately. And no alcohol at that dinner. Not a single drop."

"Deal."

"I mean it, Satoru."

"I know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy atmosphere. "You can do all sorts of things to me on Monday. Not like I have much on my schedule anyway."

"So Yaga has exempted you?"

"Temporarily relieved of my teaching duties until further notice." I tried to keep my voice light, but the words still choked me. "Apparently, licking your student's leg in public view isn't considered acceptable behavior. Who knew?"

"Everyone would have known that."

"Most people were too drunk to remember anyway, or too busy dealing with the police raid afterwards to care." I shrugged. "Silver lining?"

"This isn't funny. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Your career—"

"My career?" I almost laughed. "In case you missed the memo, my liver's failing. I think my career concerns just got bumped down the priority list."

Suguru fell silent.

"Besides," I added, "maybe it's for the best. Can't exactly teach while going through treatment, can I?"

"Yaga doesn't know about your condition?"

"No, and he's not going to. As far as he's concerned, I'm just taking some time to... reassess my professional boundaries."

"And when he asks why you're not fighting this?"

I sighed. "Let him think what he wants. I've got bigger problems right now."

"Like a family dinner you're insisting on attending despite being on death's door?"

"Exactly." I flashed him a grin, this one a little more genuine despite everything. "See? You're getting it."

"You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

"That's why I'm going to enjoy sticking you with needles on Monday."

"Kinky."

His expression sobered, eyes searching my face. "You should tell her."

The mere mention of her sent a knife twisting in my gut. "No."

"Satoru—"

"I said no. She has enough to deal with right now. This stays between us."

Suguru shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew me too well to waste his breath.

"I will," I added softly, more to convince myself than him. "When I'm a bit better."

"This will kill her."

"I know."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," I finally managed. "For being an asshole. For everything. And... thanks for coming to the party with me."

"You already apologized."

"I mean it." I met his gaze. "You've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of the friendship we'd shared before everything got so complicated. Before I'd dragged us both into this mess.

"Just don't die on me," he said. "I've invested too much time in keeping your stupid ass alive."

I pushed off the bed, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that threatened to knock me over. "See you Monday."

"You're a stubborn idiot," he called after me. I didn't disagree. 

I stopped at the door, turning back. "Hey, what's going on between you and Higurama's intern anyway?"

Suguru stiffened slightly. "Nothing. Just concerned since she's my patient now too."

I studied him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze shifted slightly left—his tell when he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"Sure," I said, too exhausted to push it further. "See you Monday."

As I walked away, I wondered if he knew how obvious he was. Then again, who was I to judge? I was hardly an expert at handling matters of the heart.

─── ·✧· ───

I paused outside our apartment door, my hand trembling on the handle. Withdrawal clawed through me, a living thing twisting my gut. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs constricting as if they'd forgotten their purpose. Just breathe, idiot. In, out. You're almost there.

Relief flooded through me the moment I opened the door. Her shoes were there, neatly arranged next to my scattered ones. Her coat on the hook. She was home.

Strange how that simple fact could lift the weight crushing my chest, made breathing a fraction less painful. No matter how bad things were, coming home to her felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.

Dog bounded up to greet me, tail whipping back and forth, before darting off toward the bedroom. Smart boy knew exactly where to find her. I kicked off my shoes, let my jacket fall where it would, and followed.

She was there, sprawled across our bed in a sea of papers, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. The sight of her stole what little breath I had left. Hair messily pulled back, drowning in one of my old t-shirts, completely lost in whatever she was reading. Beautiful. It was a beauty that made my heart ache.

Without a word, I crawled onto the bed, dragging myself up until I could rest my head on her stomach. I paused, remembering the bruises on her midsection. But before I could pull back, she gently tugged me closer and I surrendered, resting my head against her warmth. 

I wrapped my arms around her waist and her fingers found my hair instantly, like they belonged there, gentle strokes that made my eyes flutter closed and I thought, this was home. This was peace. Even as my body screamed for relief, even as guilt gnawed at me, here with her, I could almost believe everything would be okay.

"What are you reading?" I mumbled against her shirt, already knowing the answer. Why did she still throw herself into this project? Did it even matter anymore? But I already knew that answer too. Distraction.

"Research papers. For our project." Her fingers never stopped their magic. "Everything okay at the hospital?" I wondered for a second how she knew where I went, but then she said, "Antiseptic smell."

Did I always smell like that? Like the harsh, sterile scent of the hospital? I hated it. Hated how it seemed to cling to my skin no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands raw. Hated the way it reminded me of sickness and death.

I hugged her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent as that was so unlike the clinical smell of the hospital as I crafted the lie. Yeah, everything's fine, I told her. Had to check on something with a patient. Normal stuff, nothing to worry about. Standard procedure.

But even as I spoke, the guilt in my stomach twisted. The truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going like this. I could feel myself slipping, losing my grip on the things that mattered most and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd even make it to the end.

If I'd be there to witness the results of our research, to stand by her side as we perhaps do something great. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the feel of her beneath me, the steady rise and fall of her breath.

Her fingers paused momentarily in my hair, and I knew she sensed something off. She always could read me too well. But then she resumed the gentle stroking.

"You'd tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Of course," I whispered, another lie to add to the growing pile.

I tightened my arms around her waist, as if by holding her close enough, I could somehow make up for my betrayal. As if loving her fiercely enough could somehow balance out the pain I was about to cause her. Monday felt both too far away and not nearly far enough.

Desperate for a distraction, I asked about how it went at the police station. She said it was fine, her friends were with her as they'd needed to clarify their statements, she explained, her fingers still weaving through my hair. Everything had been too hazy right after the party.

She mentioned they needed me to verify my own statement again too. I bit back the urge to say that they'd likely have to come to my hospital bed for that. Instead, I just hummed in response. Whatever it took to make that little shit pay for what he'd done.

"He won't hurt anyone else," she added. "We'll make sure of it."

Something about her struck me as odd. How could she be so unaffected by everything that had happened? Like we didn’t just discover that Zenin Naoya was—

"You're so calm about it." 

"And what would you have me do?"

I didn’t know. Maybe I should be grateful that at least one of us could keep it together. 

I turned my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how sorry I was for dragging her into this mess, how I feared the rumors that would follow her through university halls. How fucking terrified I was. How much I loved her. But it all just crowded in my throat, tangled with all the other truths I couldn't voice.

Instead, I just held her tighter. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"For what?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Or lie again. I clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, pressing my face into her stomach, trying to blur myself into her very being. "Satoru,” she winced, a small sound escaping her lips. "You're hurting me."

"Please," I pleaded, tears pricking at my eyes. “Just… bear it for a moment. Please.” But then, a sudden tickle rose in my throat, and I sat up abruptly, he movement sending the room spinning.

"You okay?" she asked, sitting up as well, her hand cradling her side.

"Yeah," I managed, before another cough clawed its way out. I stood, turning away from her, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. When I pulled it away, blood glistened on my palm.

"Satoru? You sure you're okay?"

"Everything's fine." I curled my fingers into a fist, watching red seep between my knuckles. "Just need some water."

I should call him again. Should probably head to the hospital right now. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to seek help, to stop this madness before it was too late. 

But Sunday's dinner loomed in my mind. One last chance to fix things with her, to make things right before everything inevitably crumbled around us. Just two more days. I just needed to hold on for two more days and then I could let the chips fall where they may.

Even as blood painted the back of my throat red, I clung to that desperate hope, that foolish notion that I could make this right. I knew I was being stupid. Reckless. Playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. 

But then again, what did it matter anyway?

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

author's note — welcome back, i hope this wasn't too intense, even tho i went through all stages of grief writing this chapter, but i'm quite happy with how it turned out. hope you all survived seeing things through satoru's eyes once more. writing from his perspective is always both challenging and thrilling in some strange way.

quick note, as this is somehow not obvious to some people: i understand that this story deals with controversial topics and might not be everyone’s cup of tea but this is purely fictional work, and i'm just here to enjoy a stupid little hobby. i am not looking for criticism. if the story makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me and move on.

for those following the spin-off: yes, this chapter runs parallel to remedies and reasons chapter 04 ! if you want to see how certain events played out from a different angle, definitely check out the suguru spin-off.

and i want to thank you all for your incredible support. your comments, messages, and theories continue to blow me away. seeing how deeply you connect with this story and catch all the little details i sprinkle throughout brings me so much joy. your thoughtful analyses and wild speculations make writing this stupid story so much fun !! :''))

also a massive thank you to @/nanamis-baker who beta reads all these chaotic chapters, listens to my rambling about plot points, and talks me down whenever i'm convinced everything i write is terrible <3

& second quick note about the alcohol consumption in this story: while it's serve the narrative of the story, please remember that alcohol is toxic to the body and brain, with no "safe" amount. please be mindful of your health and wellbeing.

next chapter we'll be back to our regular pov as we deal with the aftermath of... well, all of this. until then, take care of yourselves ! and as always, thank you for joining me on this chaotic journey and being patient with my slow updates <3

ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !

tags — @browrm @panteramarron @starlightanyaaa

@myahfig4 @rosebluod @bloopsstuff @depressedemosantaclaus @nanamis-baker

@tofumiao @shoruio @s3vtrue @rosso-seta @bnha-free-writing

@chiyokoemilia @bonequinhagojo @janbannan @mikkmmmii @yeiena

@coeqi @faustina @glenkiller338 @yenmrtnz @buni-bunnydoll

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[rizzanon]

05 | UNTOUCHED MEMORIES

m.list | prev | next

Things between you and Damian weren’t perfect, but they were better. Slightly better.

Since that day, the tension that used to hang heavy between you had softened, just a little. He no longer avoided you like the plague, nor did he try to dismiss you every chance he got. Sure, there were still moments where you clashed—Damian was Damian, after all—but now, it didn’t feel like an outright war. It was more… playful. Almost.

He still had his sharp remarks, but they didn’t cut as deep anymore. And you? You’d give them right back, though with less heat than before. It was oddly satisfying to watch him bristle, his retorts coming slower and more thoughtful, like he was beginning to actually enjoy the verbal sparring. Though he definitely wouldn’t admit that.

One day, you decided to test the waters further.

You found Damian in the sitting room, a book in his hands and Titus curled up at his feet. He didn’t look up as you approached, though you knew he’d already noticed you.

“Hey, Damian,” you said, holding the plate out in front of you.

He finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “What is it now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I made these with Alfred. Thought you might want to try them.”

He eyed the plate suspiciously, like it might explode if he touched it. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you offering me one?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. “What’s your angle?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “No angle. If you don’t want them, you don’t have to take them. Simple.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want them,” Damian said quickly, his tone defensive.

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “Oh? So you do want them?”

He scoffed, snatching the plate from your hands like you might change your mind. “I’ll try them. But don’t expect me to praise you if they’re subpar.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Damian took a deliberate bite, his expression carefully guarded as he chewed. You watched him closely, waiting for his reaction.

“Well?” you asked.

He paused, his lips twitching ever so slightly before he schooled his face back into indifference. “Adequate.”

You snorted. “Adequate, huh? That’s basically high praise coming from you.”

“Tt. Don’t let it go to your head,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop eating.

You grinned, shaking your head as you turned to leave. “Enjoy them, Damian. Or don’t. Whatever.”

As you walked away, you heard him mutter under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch: “I will.”

You didn’t look back, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

No, things between you and Damian weren’t perfect. But this? This was progress.

Stephanie twirled her mug between her hands, the steam curling into the air as she sat perched on the couch at the Clocktower. Across the room, Cassandra sat cross-legged on the floor, cleaning and reassembling her grappling gun with quiet precision. The rhythmic sound of Cassandra’s movements usually put the blonde at ease, but today, she couldn’t shake the restless thoughts spinning in her head.

“I don’t get it,” Stephanie muttered finally, breaking the silence.

Cass didn’t look up, but the subtle tilt of her head told Steph she was listening.

“It’s been almost three weeks,” Steph continued, gesturing with her mug like it emphasized her point. “Three weeks since (Name) quit, and I haven’t seen her here. Not once. No check-ins, no training, no anything. She just… stopped. Like she wasn’t serious about any of it to begin with.”

Cass paused her movements, her sharp gaze flicking to Steph. “Serious..?”

“Y’know, serious about being Batgirl..!” Steph exclaimed, setting her mug on a table with a clink. “I mean, she was so into it. Always had to be the best, always trying to prove she could do everything better than me. And now? Nothing. It’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.”

Cass raised an eyebrow, her hands moving again to tighten the grappling gun’s grip. “You miss her.”

“What? No! I—” Steph’s protest faltered under Cass’s calm stare. “Okay, maybe a little. But that’s not the point.” She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “It’s just so unlike her. You know what I mean?”

Cass considered this for a moment, then nodded. “She fights. Always fights. And she doesn’t stop.”

“Exactly!” Steph said, throwing her hands up. “She’s stubborn as hell. She’d never just quit without a reason. It’s like she’s a completely different person all of a sudden.”

Cass’s gaze stayed steady on Steph, her expression unreadable. “Maybe something happened.”

Steph frowned. “Like what?”

Cass furrowed her eyebrows, setting her grappling gun aside and leaning back on her hands. “I don’t know. But something.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Steph admitted, slumping against the back of the couch. “I mean, yeah, we weren’t exactly besties or whatever, but we spent enough time together. I thought I had her figured out. Now I feel like I don’t know her at all.”

Cass tilted her head. “Did you? Know her?”

Steph opened her mouth to respond but stopped. She hadn’t really thought about it that way. Most of her interactions with you had been competitive or snarky, sure, but there had been moments—rare ones—where it felt like there was something deeper under the surface. She just hadn’t taken the time to dig for it.

“I don’t know,” Steph admitted, her voice quieter. “Maybe I didn’t. But I thought I did.”

Cass nodded slowly, as if that answer didn’t surprise her.

“What about you..?” Steph asked, turning the question back on Cass. “What do you think of all this?”

Cass didn’t answer immediately. She sat in thoughtful silence, her dark eyes focused on nothing in particular. “Not sure,” she said finally. “It feels… off. Like she’s hiding.”

Steph frowned. “Hiding what?”

“I… don’t know.”

The room fell silent as Steph mulled over Cass’s words. For all your bravado and stubborness, there had always been something raw about you, like you were desperate to hold onto something—anything. Maybe Cass was right. Maybe something had happened—something you didn’t want anyone to know.

Stephanie sighed, reaching for her mug again. “You’re probably right. She’s hiding something. But what exactly is she hiding, that’s the question.” She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing slightly at the bitterness. “I hate not knowing. It’s driving me nuts.”

Cass offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You care.”

“Of course I care!” Steph shot back, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I mean, yeah, she’s annoying and stubborn and always has to prove she’s better than me, but…” She trailed off, her voice softening. “She’s still one of us. Right?”

Cass nodded, the smile lingering.

Stephanie leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll try talking to her. Or something. I don’t know. This is just… weird. It doesn’t feel right. To just leave things as it is.”

Cass watched Stephanie closely, her quiet curiosity cutting through the lingering silence. “What was it like?” she asked, her voice calm but insistent. “Between you and her?”

Steph froze, mid-sip of her coffee. Her first instinct was to deflect, to brush the question off with a joke or a sarcastic remark. But Cass’s gaze—steady, patient, unyielding—made it clear she wasn’t going to let it slide.

“What do you mean, ‘what was it like?’” Steph muttered, setting her mug down with more force than necessary.

“You and (Name),” Cass said, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “Before all this. When she was still Batgirl. When you were still Spoiler. When you became Batgirl as well.”

Steph shifted uncomfortably, her lips pressing into a thin line.

What was it like?

“It was… complicated,” she said finally.

It was anything but normal.

Cass tilted her head, waiting for her to elaborate. Steph sighed, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

Stephanie could still remember her first few nights as Spoiler, still rough around the edges and carrying the weight of Cluemaster, her father’s, shadow on her shoulders. She’d been furious when she found out after he claimed to be “rehabilitated”, he actually returned to crime instead, leaving no clues behind this time. She knew then and there that something had to be done—that she had to do something—to stop her father. So, she made her Spoiler costume, and set out to stop her father. That night, she’d intercepted one of his coded messages and had made the decision to spoil yet another of his schemes—alone.

It hadn’t gone according to plan.

The warehouse was dark and cold, lit only by a few dim bulbs hanging from the rafters. Stephanie had crept in quietly, her heart pounding as she hid in the shadows. The stolen tech Cluemaster planned to sell sat piled high in crates, guarded by a dozen armed men. She’d hoped to sneak in, plant some evidence for the police, and leave unnoticed. Instead, she’d tripped a motion sensor and found herself surrounded.

She fought back with everything she had, but it wasn’t enough. Her moves were sloppy, unrefined, and born of sheer desperation. A blow to her ribs sent her sprawling across the floor, and she barely managed to roll out of the way of another thug’s steel-toed boot. Just when it seemed like she was out of options, a flash of movement from the rafters caught her attention.

You arrived like a force of nature, swooping down in your Batgirl suit, taking out two of the goons before they even knew what hit them. For someone who appeared composed and confident, Stephanie noticed quickly that your movements weren’t as fluid as you likely hoped they were. You were good—better than her, no question—but your hits didn’t land with perfect precision, and you occasionally stumbled, as though still learning the weight of your cape.

Still, the two of you managed to fight off the group, leaving the thugs groaning on the ground. Stephanie was leaning against one of the crates, clutching her side and breathing heavily, when you turned to her.

“Who are you?” you demanded, stepping forward.

“I’m…” She hesitated, brushing off her torn sleeve and trying to stand straighter. “I’m Spoiler.”

“Never heard of you.” You crossed your arms, looking her up and down. “What are you even doing here? Who are you working with?”

Stephanie groaned, more from frustration than pain. “I’m not working with anyone.”

“Then why are you here?” You gestured to the tied-up henchmen. “This isn’t exactly a neighborhood bake sale.”

“I’m here to stop my father,” she snapped, throwing her arms up.

That made you pause. “Your… father?”

She sighed, already regretting the slip. “Yeah. My father.”

You frowned, the pieces slowly clicking together. “Wait… you’re Cluemaster’s daughter?”

“Congrats, you solved the mystery, want a prize for that?” she muttered sarcastically, shrugging your hand off her arm when you instinctively tried to grab her.

You stepped back, your stance cautious now, your expression wary. “Why are you trying to stop him?”

“Because someone has to.” Stephanie said, her voice rising. “Because I don’t want people to get hurt because of him. Is that good enough for you, Batgirl?”

You stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “You shouldn’t even be out here. This isn’t a game.”

“I’m not treating it like one!” she shot back. “I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t,” you replied bluntly, but your voice softened after a moment. “But… I guess I can see why you’re doing it.”

Stephanie braced herself for you to knock her out or drag her to Batman, but instead, you just grabbed the nearest thug and tied him up.

“You’re not going to say anything?” she asked, suspicious.

You didn’t look at her. “Not tonight. But don’t make me regret it.”

And with that, you had disappeared into the night, leaving Stephanie confused and to her own thoughts, unsure of what to think about you, Batgirl.

Why did you let her go?

It didn’t make sense.

Stephanie leaned back against the nearest crate, ignoring the dull ache in her ribs as her mind spiraled. Was it pity? Did you feel sorry for her something?

The thought stung more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t need anyone’s pity—least of all from someone who’d clearly been at this vigilante thing longer than her. Or maybe—you just thought she wasn’t worth the effort of turning in.

Over the next few weeks—for some reason—Stephanie kept on running into you. Sometimes it was because you were actively following her, and sometimes it was sheer coincidence. Each time, the dynamic between the two of you shifted slightly.

“I don’t need your help,” Steph had snapped when you intervened in another one of her plans to foil her father’s, her voice tinged with irritation. She’d bitten off more than she could chew, but the last thing she wanted was you swooping in to save her.

“You’re welcome,” you’d replied coolly, barely glancing at her as you tied up the last of the thugs.

Steph had bristled. “I had it handled.”

“Sure you did,” you’d said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why you were about two seconds away from getting your head bashed in.”

This cycle had continued for weeks—an endless back-and-forth of barbed comments and unspoken challenges.

But then there were quieter moments. Like this one night—you both got stuck during a freezing rainstorm, huddled together under a flimsy overhang.

“You’re shivering,” you’d noted, tossing your extra cloak over her shoulders without a second thought.

Steph had blinked at you, surprised. “…Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” you’d said, leaning back against the wall and pulling your own cloak tighter around you.

That same night she’d cornered you on the rooftop after the two of you left evidence for the police and Batman to find to deal with Cluemaster.

“Why?” she’d asked, crossing her arms. “Why’d you go along with my plan instead of running to Batman?”

You’d glanced at her, your expression unreadable. “Because you’re not like him,” you’d said simply.

“Cluemaster, I mean. And because… I do think you mean it. The whole ‘trying to stop my father’ thing.”

For a moment, Stephanie had been speechless. She hadn’t expected that kind of answer—or the quiet sincerity behind it.

She hadn’t expected that. Not from a Bat. They weren’t exactly known for handing out compliments—or trust. Especially not to someone like her.

But then again, from the moment she met you, you hadn’t exactly acted the way she thought someone trained under Batman would. Not that she would know what that was like.

Stephanie’s arms dropped to her sides as she studied you, standing there under the faint glow of the Gotham skyline. You didn’t look like you were second-guessing your words or regretting them. You were calm like you’d just stated a fact. Like you really meant it.

Stephanie felt the knot in her chest tighten. What if you were wrong? What if she was like him? She hadn’t exactly proven otherwise had she?

Sure, she was trying to stop him now, but that didn’t erase the fact that she was his daughter. His blood ran through her veins, no matter how much she hated it.

But then, there was another thought, quieter and harder to ignore. What if you weren’t wrong? What if—just maybe—you’d seen something in her she couldn’t see herself?

Stephanie didn’t know what terified her more then—the idea that someone believed in her, or the possibility that you might be right,

She glanced at you again, half-expecting you to take it back or brush it off like it didn’t matter. But you didn’t. You just stood there, calm and steady, like your words had been obvious all along.

And for a moment, she let herself believe it. Just a little.

“Thanks,” she muttered, her voice barely audible, as she looked away. She didn’t know if you heard her or if you’d even care, but it felt like something she had to say.

When she turned back around though, you were gone.

Stephanie blinked, her breath catching for a moment as she scanned the empty rooftop. “Really?” She muttered, dragging a hand down her face.

“Was that a ‘dramatic exit’ thing, or do all you bats have to disappear every time someone tries to say thanks?”

“Afterwards…” Steph began, her voice soft. “I didn’t really get to see much of her.”

Cass looked up briefly, her head tilting in silent acknowledgment.

“I mean, even after I met you,” Steph continued, “I didn’t see much of her. I thought we were chill. You know?”

Cass’s hands paused over the grappling gun. “Thought?”

Steph hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. Her gaze fell to her mug, and she let out a slow breath. “I guess… everything kind of changed when Bruce ‘died.’” She set the mug on the table and leaned back against the couch. “When you quit being Batgirl, and gave me your costume to take over you.”

Cass blinked, her expression neutral but her body language subtly shifting. “Oh.”

Steph turned to face her fully, brows knitting together. “I thought things would still be fine, but no. Not when Dick and Babs allowed me to take up the Batgirl mantle.”

Stephanie had found you on the rooftop of an old apartment building, your silhouette outlined against the Gotham skyline. The wind cut through the air, sharp and cold, but you didn’t flinch, your posture rigid as though the weather didn’t touch you.

“I figured you’d be here,” she’d said softly, walking closer, the crunch of gravel under her boots breaking the silence.

“What do you want, Stephanie?” Your voice was hoarse and low, but your tone was sharp enough to stop her mid-step.

Steph froze, the weight of the Batgirl costume suddenly feeling heavier than ever. There was something in the way you said her name—so cold, so distant—it made her chest tighten.

“I just… wanted to talk.”

You let out a dry, humourless scoff, still not turning to face her.

Stephanie clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself to continue. “Look, I know you’re upset. I don’t know why Dick decided to bench you from being Batgirl, but—“

“Oh, you don’t know?” You spun around, finally facing her, your eyes burning with frustration. “It’s because of you, Stephanie. He benched me so you could play hero. He chose you. You. Over me. He’s saying I wasn’t good enough to be Batgirl. His Batgirl.”

Stephanie’s heart sank at the venom in your voice. She took a step closer, shaking her head. “That’s not true… Cass wanted me to take over her as Batgirl because—“

“Because what?” you snapped, voice rising. “Because she thought I couldn’t handle it? Because she thought you deserved it more than I do?”

“No!” Steph said quickly, her voice breaking slightly. “Because she thought I needed it. And maybe she’s right. But that doesn’t mean—“

“It doesn’t mean what?” you interrupted bitterly. “That it wasn’t a slap in the face? That it didn’t rip away the only thing I had left?”

Your voice broke, just slightly, and Stephanie’s heart clenched as she watched your walls crack under thr weight of your emotions.

“My father is dead, Stephanie. The one thing that he gave me that meant something, the one thing that I thought could truly be mine, was ripped away. Do you know how much it hurts to watch you parade in that suit like it didn’t mean anything to me? Like I don’t mean anything?”

“It’s not like that,” Steph shot back, her voice more desperate. “I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. I never wanted to hurt you—“

“Just stop,” you interrupted, turning away from her again. Your shoulders were stiff, your voice cutting like ice.

“I don’t care what you wanted. I don’t care what excuses you or Barbara or Dick have. They decided you were better than me. That I wasn’t good enough. That I was expendable.”

“That’s not true,” Steph said desperately.

“Oh sure,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “You somehow convinced Dick and Barbara to let you play Batgirl while I’m sidelined and tossed aside. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t know what this would do to me.”

Stephanie felt frustration bubbling under the surface. “Do you think I have it easy? Barbara doubted me from the start! She didn’t think I’d survive as Batgirl. She only gave me a chance because I refused to back down—“

“So then why did they replace me?” you snapped, your eyes glistening with tears you refused to let fall. “Why did they bench me while you got to take my place? Even Cassandra seems to think you’re better than me.”

Steph froze. “That’s—“

“Am I really that replaceable?” you interrupted, your voice trembling.

Stephanie opened her mouth, but no words came out.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Save it, Stephanie. I don’t care what their reasons are. You want the mantle? Fine. It’s yours. But don’t come here pretending you didn’t know what this would do to me.”

Stephanie took a shaky step forward. “I’m not trying to—“

“I’ll prove them wrong,” you interrupted, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ll prove I’m better than you. Better than any of them thought I could be. Even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Stephanie stared at you, stunned, as your words hung heavy in the air.

“So enjoy being Batgirl, Stephanie,” you said coldly. “And stay the hell away from me.”

Steph stood there for a long moment, frozen, as your words hung in the air. She wanted to say more, to fix this somehow, but the look in your eyes told her there was nothing she could do.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the night as you turned back to the skyline, the cold wind biting at your skin.

Stephanie’s hands tightened around her mug as she replayed the memory in her mind.

“From then on,” Steph said, her voice soft, “she did everything she could to one-up me. Patrol routes, takedowns, intel—anything. It was like she was trying to prove herself, not just to Dick and Barbara, but to me, too.”

Cass tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

Steph hesitated before asking, “Why… didn’t you seem bothered by her quitting? Didn’t it… I don’t know, feel weird to you?”

Cass stayed silent, her hands stilling over the grappling gun.

“Cass?” Stephanie pressed.

Cassandra sighed softly. “If it’s what she wanted, then everyone should respect it.”

“But isn’t it weird? That she suddenly quit?”

Cass’s gaze flickered. “Yeah,” she admitted, her voice calm. “But it’s better if she doesn’t continue this path.”

Steph’s brow furrowed. “Better? What do you mean?”

Cass hesitated, her voice even. “She wasn’t built for this life.”

Steph blinked, confused. “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

Cass looked at her, her voice quieter but resolute. “I’ve always seen it. A… blockage. In her body language. When she fights, when she moves, it’s always there. It never goes away.”

Steph tilted her head, confused. “A blockage? What does that even mean..?”

“It’s like… a wall she can’t break through.” Cass explained, her tone calm but firm. “No matter what she does, it stops her from reaching her full potential. And that wall… it’s dangerous. For her.”

“But she’s strong—“ Steph opened her mouth to protest, but Cass cut her off, her tone firmer.

“She’s strong,” Cass agreed, “but not for this. That blockage is something she can’t overcome. And if she keeps pushing herself, it’ll hurt her. Worse than being benched. Worse than losing the mantle. She should live a normal life. Away from this.”

Steph stared at Cass, her confusion shifting into an uneasy understanding. The weight of Cass’s words settling heavily in her chest. Cass’s ability to read body language was unparalleled—if anyone could see something like that, it was her.

“But…” Steph started, trailing off, her voice uncertain.

Cass shook her head, her voice soft but final. “This life—it would break her. It’s better this way. For her.”

Stephanie leaned back into the couch, the weight of Cass’s words pressing down on her. For the first time, she felt a flicker of doubt—not about you, but about what this life demanded of you.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Her thoughts swirled as she tried to piece it all together. Cassandra had always been the most perceptive person Stephanie had ever known, able to read people in ways that felt almost supernatural. If she said there was a “blockage,” some invisible wall holding you back, Steph believed her. She had no reason not to.

But why hadn’t Cass told you about it? Why hadn’t she tried to help you work through it instead of letting you walk away? Cass wasn’t the type to give up on people, so why had she just… let you go?

Stephanie’s grip tightened on the mug. She thought back to the nights she’d watched you push yourself too far, the way you’d thrown yourself into patrols and fights with a reckless determination that bordered on desperation. It made sense now, in a way. You weren’t just trying to be good enough—you were trying to be better than everyone’s doubts.

“I don’t…” Stephanie hesitated, her words faltering. “I don’t know how to feel about this.”

Cassandra didn’t respond, her silence stretching between them like the distant hum of the city outside.

The weight of the conversation pressed on Steph’s chest, but then a stray thought flickered in her mind, pulling her out of her tangled emotions. She striaghted slightly, her brow furrowing.

“Wait. Where’s Barbara anyway?” she asked, glancing around the Clocktower.

Cass tilted her head, thinking. “Not sure,” she said simply. “I think… she said she had plans. With someone.”

Steph raised an eyebrow. “Plans? With who?”

Cass shrugged, her expression giving nothing away.

Steph groaned, flopping back against the couch. “Great. So now Barbara is being cryptic too. What is it with you Bat people and your secrets?”

The lunch spot was cozy but buzzing with just enough noise to drown out any awkward silences—though not nearly enough to mask the tension sitting between you and Barbara. She sat across from you, her gaze flickering between the menu in her hands and you.

You should have refused the lunch. Should have claimed you were busy. But the text Barbara sent you left you with no real excuse:

“Lunch? 1 PM? Don’t pretend you’re busy, I know your schedule. ☕”

And so here you were, caught in what felt like an ambush.

As the server came over, you placed your order for a black coffee and a bagel.

Barbara blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Black coffee?” she repeated after the server left, her brows slightly raised.

You glanced up from your phone. “Yeah?”

“I just… didn’t think you’d be the type.”

It took you a moment to register her confusion, but then it hit you. Back when you were sixteen, you hated coffee—especially black coffee. You’d always opted for sugary drinks or anything sweet enough to mask the bitterness. Sixteen year old you would’ve gagged at the bitterness of black coffee. But time had changed you, as had many sleepless nights spent staring at mission briefs or reports, that you’ve gotten used to the taste of coffee.

“Just need all the energy I can get,” you replied, plastering on a small smile.

Barbara hummed, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further.

The two of you fell into a strange silence, interrupted only by the soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter around you. Barbara shifted in her wheelchair, wondering why this felt so… awkward.

Were you always this… standoffish?

After what felt like forever, Barbara finally spoke up. “I heard about what happened to your friend.”

Your fingers stilled against the edge of your cup. Oh.

Barbara glanced at you, gauging your reaction before continuing. “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry. That he got caught up in everything. I should have been more thorough.”

Your lips twitched downward, your voice coming out sharper than intended. “Yeah. You should have.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Barbara’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the honesty of your tone catching her off guard.

Silence again. This time heavier.

The tension thickened between you both, the silence growing louder by the second. Barbara swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your words settle uncomfortably in her chest.

She opened her mouth again, determined to steer the conversation somewhere less hostile. “How’s school?”

You shrugged, your tone clipped. “It’s alright.”

“Are classes okay? Teachers good?”

“They’re fine.”

Barbara frowned, but she pressed on. “And your friends? Have you made any new ones?”

“No, not really.”

This wasn’t working. Every answer you gave was short, distant, like you were putting up walls. It felt unnatural, almost deliberate. Barbara wasn’t sure if she should press harder or back off entirely.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” she finally asked, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer. Was this about your friend getting hurt? Was this about her not being quick enough to prevent the incident? Or was it something else all together?

You paused, but your face remained impassive. “No,” you replied flatly, taking a bite of your bagel.

Barbara’s stomach twisted.

That wasn’t a no.

Not really.

Before she could respond, a voice spoke from behind her.

“Hey, I thought I recognized you two!”

The familiar voice broke through the tension like a wrecking ball, and Barbara couldn’t have been more relieved.

Dick.

He slid into the seat next to Barbara, flashing his trademark grin, though his eyes darted to you with a hint of hesitation. “What’s this? A secret meeting without me?”

Oh, so this was a setup.

Dick must have told Barbara about you avoiding him, and they must have planned this.

You straightened, folding your arms and leaning back into your chair like a wall had gone up.

Dick, oblivious, leaned forward with his usual enthusiasm. “What are you guys talking about? School? Life? Come on, catch me up.”

“Not much to catch up on,” you muttered.

Dick frowned slightly but pressed on, his tone light and cheerful. “You know, I’ve been meaning to hang out with you more, (Name). It feels like we haven’t really spent time together lately.”

You didn’t respond.

“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime?” Dick offered, smiling earnestly. “Or I could swing by the manor and we could—”

“I actually have plans, so I can’t stay,” you said curtly, reaching for your bag.

Dick blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “What? No, wait,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “You just got here.”

“I already told you,” you said, standing up. “I have plans. I can’t hang out.”

“But—”

“Thanks for lunch, Barbara,” you interrupted, sparing Barbara a quick glance before heading for the exit.

“Wait—”

You were already gone.

Dick watched you go, his shoulders sagging as the door swung shut behind you. He slumped back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. For a moment, he was quiet, his usual energy dimmed.

Barbara sighed, setting her cup down. She wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t have the words. After all, you’d been acting the same way toward her. Aloof, distant, standoffish.

“Don’t take it personally.”

That was all she could come up with.

Dick frowned. “She’s never acted like this before. It’s like she doesn’t even want to be around me.”

Barbara didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say. She just wished she had an answer.

“She hates me,” he said quietly, his voice almost drowned by the chatter from the cafe.

Barbara glanced up at the man. “She doesn’t hate you, Dick.”

“Feels like it,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “It’s like every time I try to talk to her, I just make things worse.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “….You don’t think she’s acting like this because of what happened before, do you?”

Barbara leaned back in her chair, her expression softening. “Which part of ‘before’ are we talking about?”

Dick’s gaze dropped to the floor as his mind pulled him back, unbidden, to those first turbulent days after Bruce’s death.

The cave had never felt more suffocating, its dim light and cold walls amplifying the tension crackling in the air. You stood across from Dick, your posture tense, fists clenched at your sides.

“You’re benching me?” Your voice was sharp, anger barely masking the hurt underneath.

“It’s not permanent,” Dick said, his tone measured but firm. “You’re not in the right headspace right now—”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I’m doing my job, same as I always have.”

“No, you’re not,” Dick countered, his voice tightening. “You’re reckless. You’re putting yourself in danger for no reason.” He took a step closer, his jaw tight. “I’ve seen you out there, and it’s like you’re not even trying to come back in one piece. You’re acting like you have nothing to lose.”

Your heart lurched at his words, but you refused to show it. “Don’t stand there and psychoanalyze me. I’m doing my job. If you think I’m not good enough, just say it.”

Dick let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. You’ve been through hell—losing Bruce—your father—and instead of giving yourself time to deal with it, you’re throwing yourself into the field like you have a death wish.”

Your fists clenched tighter. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit around, doing nothing? Let Gotham fall apart while you and Damian play Batman and Robin? I’m trying to help, Dick!”

“I know you are,” Dick said, his voice softening, but there was a steel edge to it. “But this isn’t helping. Not like this. You’re going to get yourself killed, and I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

“You can’t what?” you demanded, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “You can’t trust me? Can’t rely on me? What, am I just some burden to you now?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Dick snapped, his frustration finally boiling over. His voice echoed through the cave, bouncing off the walls. “I’m saying I care about you, and I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself like this.”

The raw emotion in his voice caught you off guard, but it only fueled the fire burning in your chest. “You don’t care about me,” you spat. “If you did, you’d let me do what I’m good at instead of sidelining me. You’re becoming just like father—deciding what’s best for everyone else without asking.”

Dick flinched at the comparison, but he recovered quickly, his expression hardening. “This isn’t about control. It’s about keeping you alive. You’re grieving, and it’s clouding your judgment. Until you can think clearly, I can’t let you keep putting yourself in danger.”

“You can’t let me?” you repeated, your voice cracking as your anger reached its peak. “You’re not my father, Dick. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do!”

“No, I’m not your father,” Dick shot back, his voice low but sharp. “But I am your brother. And I am Batman now. So it’s my call.”

The words landed like a blow, cutting through the air between you. Your breathing was ragged, your chest heaving as you stared at him, your emotions warring inside you—anger, betrayal, grief, all swirling together until you couldn’t separate one from the other.

“Fine,” you said finally, your voice cold and flat. “Do what you want. Bench me. Replace me. I don’t care.”

Dick’s expression flickered, a crack in his resolve, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond. You turned on your heel and stormed out of the cave, your footsteps echoing behind you.

The memory twisted in Dick’s chest like a knife. A few days later, he’d seen someone in Cassandra’s Batgirl costume, her movements unfamiliar, the seams of the mantle not quite fitting yet.

“Tsk, tsk. Sloppy.” Damian had commented.

“How is this the woman who led the League of Assassins? The “warrior” who ran the outsiders at father’s command?” he had asked sharply.

“You’re right..” Dick muttered, narrowing his eyes as he realized who it was.

“She’s not as good as the other batgirls..”

When he confronted Barbara about mentoring Stephanie, the conversation had been anything but calm. She believed in Stephanie, believed Gotham needed a Batgirl. He’d been reluctant, furious that Barbara had allowed Stephanie to go around Gotham wearing that Bat symbol on her chest when she’s not prepared for what the city has become in the absence of Batman. But he’d eventually agreed, seeing how much Stephanie needed this, seeing how much Barbara needed this too.

But when you found out? That had been the breaking point.

The sound of hurried, angry footsteps echoed through the Batcave, snapping Dick’s attention from the monitor. He turned just as you came storming in, radiating anger.

“Are you serious?” you demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the cave’s machinery.

Dick sighed, already bracing himself for the confrontation. He should have expected this, but the fury radiating off you still caught him off guard.

“Stephanie’s Batgirl now?” you said, your words laced with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“She’s doing good work,” Dick said, keeping his tone neutral, though he could already feel the tension building.

“She’s replacing me!” you snapped. “Neither you nor Barbara even thought to talk to me about this. Not a single word. You didn’t think for one second about how I’d feel.”

“She’s not replacing you, (Name),” Dick said, his voice taut as he tried to keep his composure.

“Yes, she is,” you shot back, your tone rising. “You’re saying I’m not good enough. That I’m not fit to be Batgirl anymore.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Dick countered, his patience beginning to fray.

“Then what is it about?” you challenged, stepping closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided I wasn’t worth it. You didn’t even give me a chance to prove I’m not—”

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Dick interrupted sharply.

“Clearly, I do!” you spat. “Because you didn’t just bench me. You handed over my mantle to someone else, like I didn’t matter. Like I’m just… disposable!”

“That’s not what happened,” Dick said, his voice rising. “This isn’t about replacing you—it’s about keeping you alive!”

You froze for a split second, stunned, before your expression hardened. “Keeping me alive? What the hell are you talking about?”

Dick exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Like I already told you, you’ve been reckless. Ever since Bruce died, you’ve been—”

“Don’t bring father into this,” you interrupted, your voice dangerously low.

“I have to,” Dick snapped back. “Because ever since he died, you’ve been running yourself into the ground, throwing yourself into danger without a second thought. You’re not thinking clearly, and it’s going to get you killed. I had to take you off the streets before it was too late.”

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not fine,” Dick retorted, his voice sharp. “You’re angry, you’re grieving, and you’re not in the right headspace to be doing this. You think I wanted to bench you? I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” you bit out. “And you chose her.”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “Because Gotham needs a Batgirl who can think straight right now. Someone who isn’t running on grief and anger. That’s not you right now.”

“Oh, so Stephanie’s better than me now?” you said bitterly. “I see how it is. First, you replace Tim with Damian—without even talking to him about it—and now you’re doing the same thing to me.”

“This isn’t the same,” Dick said, his voice hardening.

“Isn’t it?” you challenged, stepping closer. “You didn’t even ask me. You just made the decision for me. Like I don’t get a say. Like I don’t matter.”

“Tim can handle himself,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp. “Damian can’t. He needed someone to guide him, someone to keep him from spiraling out of control.”

“And I don’t?” you fired back. “I lost my father, Dick. Everything changed the moment he’s gone. The ‘normalcy’ I had was no longer there. But instead of helping me, instead of guiding me, you just… tossed me aside. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

“That’s not what I did,” Dick said, his voice quieter but no less firm.

“Then what did you do?” you demanded, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

“I’m trying to protect you!” Dick shouted, his frustration boiling over. “You don’t see it, but you’re not okay. You think you can just power through this, but you can’t. Not like this. If I let you keep going, you’d—” He stopped himself, his voice catching.

“I’d what?” you pressed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt.

Dick’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at you with a rawness in his expression you weren’t expecting. “You’d get yourself killed,” he said softly. “And I couldn’t live with that. Especially when I’m in charge.”

“Don’t make this about me being reckless or grieving or whatver you think is wrong with me,” you said through gritted teeth.

“It is about that!” Dick snapped, his voice rising even more than before. “You’re spiraling and you know it. You’re not in the right headspace to be out there right now, let alone as Batgirl.”

“I’m fine. I’ve been fine. I’m doing my job—“

“You’re throwing yourself into danger without thinking,” Dick interrupted, his voice sharp. “You’re not acting like someone who’s fine. You’re acting like you don’t care if you live or die, and I’m not going to let you do that under the Batgirl mantle.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, your emotions a chaotic storm. But instead of softening, instead of understanding, the words only made the ache in your chest worse. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you said coldly.

“Someone has to.”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “No. You don’t get to make that call, not for me. You didn’t even try to understand. You just made your decision and moved on.”

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed toward the exit, leaving Dick standing in the empty cave, his hands clenched at his sides.

Dick stood there, staring at the spot where you’d disappeared. His chest felt tight, a mix of guilt and frustration twisting inside him. He didn’t mean to hurt you. That was the last thing he wanted. But letting you keep going out there, in the state you were in, wasn’t something he could allow.

“It’s for your own good,” he murmured to himself, but the words rang hollow in the silence of the cave.

Dick stared down at the hot cider Barbara ordered for him, the steam curling lazily above the cup. His voice was low, almost pained, as he broke the silence. “It had been rocky after that,” he admitted, the memory of your argument still sharp in his mind. “Even after I told her not to go out as Batgirl, she disobeyed me. Again and again.”

Barbara didn’t respond, her gaze steady on him, waiting for him to continue.

“I’d bench her, and she’d show up on patrols anyway,” Dick said, his tone bitter with frustration, but there was no hiding the regret beneath it. “At first, I thought she was just trying to prove a point—to prove me wrong—but the more I watched, the more I realized…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “She was just hurting. She threw herself into every fight like it didn’t matter if she came out of it.”

Barbara shifted in her wheelchair, her fingers tightening around her own mug.

Dick ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to admit then, but I didn’t know how to handle it. I thought taking her off the streets would help, but it just pushed her further away. The fights got worse. She wouldn’t talk to me—or if she did, it would get messy. She didn’t trust me anymore.”

He paused, exhaling heavily. “And I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for that.”

Barbara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she stayed quiet, sensing there was more.

“When Bruce came back, I thought things would go back to normal,” Dick said, forcing a hollow chuckle. “I thought we could reset, you know? Bruce took over as Batman again, I went back to being Nightwing, and she officially went back to being Batgirl. It was like the pieces were all back in place. Like things were the way they were supposed to be.”

Barbara tilted her head slightly, catching the way his voice softened.

“But they weren’t,” he admitted, his voice breaking just slightly. “Not really.” He hesitated, gripping the edge of the table. “(Name) quit three weeks ago. Officially. And… she’s been avoiding me ever since. I see it in the way she leaves before I show up, the way she makes sure she’s never in the same room as me. It’s like—like whatever this is, it’s irreparable. Like I played into her quitting.”

Barbara reached out slightly, her hand brushing against his briefly, grounding him.

“I don’t think I was wrong in my decision,” Dick said, though there was an ache in his voice that made it hard to believe him. “I just—I handled it badly. I hurt her, Babs. And now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to make it right.”

He fell silent, staring into his drink like it held some sort of answer.

Barbara shifted her gaze to him, guilt clawing at her chest as her own memories surfaced.

“I…. should have handled things better too,” she admitted softly, almost to herself.

Dick glanced at her, surprised by the admission.

“I should have been there for her,” Barbara continued, her tone quiet but heavy with regret. “(Name) wasn’t in the right state of mind, and I knew that. I knew it. But I…” She hesitated, gripping her mug tightly. “I chose to focus on Stephanie instead. To guide her. To help her become Batgirl.”

“You were trying to do what was best for everyone,” Dick said gently, but Barbara shook her head.

“No, I wasn’t,” she said firmly. “I was avoiding the harder choice. Helping her—helping someone who was grieving, who was hurt, who needed someone to pull them out of that spiral—that would’ve taken more from me. More patience. More time. And I didn’t give it to her.”

Dick’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I thought Stephanie needed me more,” Barbara said, her voice cracking slightly. “She was trying so hard to prove herself, to find her place—find what she needs. And she deserved my guidance too—but I shouldn’t have left (Name) behind. Not like that.”

The two of them fell silent for a long moment, both lost in their thoughts.

“She deserved better from me,” Barbara murmured, her throat tightening. “And now I have to live with the fact that I didn’t give it to her. I have to live with the fact that I let this gap between us grow so big. And I don’t even know when it happened.”

Dick looked at her, his expression softening. “It’s not too late to fix that.”

Barbara gave him a small, sad smile. “How do you fix something when you don’t even know where to start?”

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but the weight of her words settled over him. He knew exactly how she felt. But just like her, he didn’t have an answer.

“She’s so… closed off now,” Dick said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how to approach her anymore. Every time I try, it’s like there’s this wall between us, and I just—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “How did I mess up so bad?”

Barbara studied him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Dick admitted. “I just—I wanted her to be okay. I wanted her to stop putting herself in danger, to stop tearing herself apart over everything she lost back then. But now… I don’t know if I helped her at all. I think I just pushed her further away.”

Barbara placed a hand over his, squeezing it gently. “You did what you thought was right,” she said softly.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” Dick muttered, his voice thick with regret.

They sat there in silence for a while, both of them weighed down by the choices they’d made and the consequences they were still grappling with. Neither of them knew how to bridge the gap you’d left behind—but they both knew they couldn’t just leave it like this. Not anymore.

finally done with this chapter lol. it’s been long overdue, so sorry about that 😭😓 i had to rewrite a lot of these scenes so many times because i wasn’t satisfied with it…but hopefully you lot are okay with this chapter haha.. 😬🙃 i slightly adjusted stephanie’s relationship with reader in this compared to the background info i posted because i thought this would fit better with the dynamic i intended for her to have. but for now, have this while i’m going to take a semi-hiatus/break to celebrate my bday which is coming up in 4 days and some other stuff 🫶 next chapter will most likely come out on 28 dec so yeah, until then, i’ll still try to reply to whatever is in my inbox 🫨

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[reylin-alloro]

Honestly, it was my fault. My parents always told me that I see the good in people, maybe a little too much even. I just thought the guy was passionate, about illegal things yes but who was I to judge ? I had nightmares of me being brutally murdered every night because I can't stop myself from listening to true crime podcasts.

And now I had a gun pointed to my face by someone who I considered my friend... He actually never talked to me unless needed but I just felt like we didn't need words to know each other.

"Why the hell are you so calm ? I'm pointing a gun at you."

"I imagined myself killed a bit more brutally than this if I'm being honest"

What my parents had also told me is that I'm great at confusing the enemy. In all of my school life I never got bullied because I simply agreed with every insult thrown my way. When I was getting robbed, I looked at the person in shock telling I was also about to rob them. So clearly my roommate shouldn't have expected more form me.

"Okay so before you tell me anything more that would make you unable to keep me alive, I would like to get to my job on time because otherwise they will fire me. See you at dinner"

Today you just found out your roommate with strange hobbies, like knowing how to pick a lock, knows how every puzzle and cipher by heart, or how to commit tax fraud, and so many other things, wasn't a guy with ADHD, he was an ex-assassin and now you have a gun pointed at your face

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 1)

@lanfear-is-my-darkmistress

You are a profiler for the FBI when you get called to help catch a serial killer in Westview. (Killing Eve/Hannibal AU)

Word count: 4200

Warnings: descriptions of violence, fear

The phone rings at 7:30 in the morning on your day off and you want to throw it against the wall. 

You had been sleeping – having a very good dream, actually – when the harsh ringtone roughly jolts you out of your slumber. 

“Hello?” you answer groggily, rubbing your face with your hand. If it’s a spam call, you think you might lose your mind. 

“Is this Agent Y/L/N?” A gruff voice asks and you shoot up out of bed into the sitting position. 

You clear your throat and try to sound professional. “Um, yes, this is she. Who am I speaking with?”

“This is Director Hayward,” the man says, and your eyes widen. The head of the FBI is calling you. “Have you heard of the town of Westview?” 

Your forehead wrinkles while you rack your brain for anything that sounds familiar. “No, sir, I don’t think so.” 

There’s muffled sounds from the other side of the phone and then you can hear Director Hayward clearly. “It’s a small town in New Jersey. Nothing special, nothing too out of the ordinary.” He pauses like you’re supposed to recognize it, but after a moment of silence he sighs and continues. “About seven months ago, we believe a pair of serial killers moved into town. Bodies started piling up, seemingly no rhyme or reason to who was killed, only that the victims were all female.” 

“Okay,” you say slowly, trying to wrap your head around all this. If it’s been going on for this long, why haven’t you heard about it? “Are we sure they’re connected if there’s no pattern of victim? Usually men have a type when they do this kind of thing; the women usually look like an ex-lover who broke their heart, or their mom.” 

You can practically hear him roll his eyes through the phone. “They were all killed the same way: poison to sedate them and then their hearts were carved out. And there was a purple azalea left in every single one of the victims’ chest cavities. So we’re pretty sure they’re connected.” Sarcasm drips copiously from his tone and you wince. Way to make a good first impression on the director of the FBI. “And it’s not a man. It’s a woman.” 

This makes you perk up with interest. “Oh?” As a profiler for a branch of the FBI in Miami, you’ve handled your fair share of serial killers. It may make you sound insensitive, but you were only really interested in the female ones. Men were so boring and predictable. Women knew how to make it a challenge, and there was always some deep, underlying motive for why they did it. There was nothing you enjoyed more than piecing together that puzzle. 

“They’re calling her The Witch. The poison used on the victims is like nothing we’ve ever seen before, so we think she must be making it herself. But since female serial killers are kind of your thing–” 

You cut him off before you can think twice, thoughts whirling through your head. “How do you know it’s a woman? Cutting out a heart, that takes a lot of strength. Most female serial killers tend to use gentler methods, like poison, so it makes sense that there’s at least one woman involved. Are you sure she isn’t working with someone though? Lavinia Fisher would poison her victims and then her husband would finish the job.” 

“How quickly can you get to Westview?” He asks, completely ignoring your question. 

“Oh, you want me to go there?” 

He scoffs. “Yes, Agent, we want you to go there. I’ve already informed your boss and he’s given his approval. No one has been better at catching the female killers than you, so we really need you on this. You can take the Miami jet as soon as you’re ready, but they want you there as soon as possible.” 

“Will I be working with the Trenton branch?” 

“Just the Westview PD for now. They’ve assured us that they have their best detectives on the case. But if you need backup, let us know and we can send in some more profilers. Whatever it takes to bring this woman to justice.” He hangs up without another word and you grab your to-go suitcase that you keep packed for times like these. You throw in a few extra sets of clothes just in case it takes longer than expected, and then you’re out the door, driving to Headquarters. 

You walk into your boss’s office and knock on the door. The director of the Miami branch, Tony Stark, looks up at you. “Hope you packed some warm clothes,” he says and you chuckle. You definitely did not.

“Hayward said I could take the jet?”

Tony nods. “It’s out back and already fueled up. Good luck, kid. Be careful, okay?” 

You scoff. “Careful? I’m always careful.” He fixes you with a stern look and you acquiesce. “I promise.” 

“I don’t need to remind you what happened last time you worked on a case like this, do I?” 

It hits you like a punch to the gut and you shake your head. “No, sir, you do not.” But you know he’s going to tell you anyway. 

“That woman destroyed you,” he hisses. “You got so focused on finding her that you stopped eating and sleeping. The obsession completely consumed you.” 

“I caught her, didn’t I?” You mutter, knowing full well that isn’t his point. He slams his hands down on his desk and you jump. 

“She almost killed you,” he almost yells and your face twists at the memory. 

The Scarlet Killer terrorized Miami about three years ago before you finally brought her down. At first, she would sneak into houses of families with twins and slit the parents’ throats and kidnap the kids, but the twins would always resist so she would end up killing them too. 

After a while, she stopped caring about the twin aspect and started killing anyone with children. 

You had spent days in the office, pacing and pouring over the evidence board, trying to make sense of it. There was no DNA anywhere, but there was also no sign of forced entry, so you figured that she was invited into the house somehow. The hunt for children made you think she had lost her own, or had some sort of abusive childhood that made her want to protect kids. She was possibly a twin as well, and very amicable if people were having her over willingly. 

It took two months before you figured out the perimeter of her murders. She was making a hexagon shape with the houses of the victims. Hexagons can represent balance, so you figured she felt as if she was balancing out some score with the universe for something that had happened to her. 

And then one fateful night, you realized where her next target was. A family had just moved into a house perfectly on the border of the hex, as people around the office started calling it, and they had twins. 

You spent almost an entire week camped out in front of their house waiting for the Scarlet Killer to strike. You think during that time, you slept a total of ten hours. Hallucinations plagued you and you would doze off and then wake up babbling something about catching her. Agents would bring food by your car and beg you to take a break, but you kept your eyes strained on the house, determined that you wouldn’t let her get away with it again, determined to prove that you were right about where she’d be.

And you were. 

Except the knocking that should’ve been on the front door of the house, the knocking that would inevitably lead to more death, was on your car window. 

You had jolted awake to find a redheaded woman standing there, looking worried. You opened the door and got out to help her when she had pulled a knife out and stabbed you in the stomach. 

Thank god she didn’t go for her usual M.O. of slitting throats. 

You were able to weakly unholster your gun and take a shot at her as she was running away and by the yelp, you knew you had hit her. A consolation prize as your vision faded to black. 

Somehow, you woke up two days later in a hospital room, Director Tony Stark by your bedside. They had caught the killer a block away thanks to the appendix your bullet had ruptured that rendered her unconscious, a woman named Wanda Maximoff, who had lost her twins in a horrible house fire, and made it a mission to try and replace them.

And her knife had missed anything important, and all you had was a nasty scar and the weariness from everyone else whenever there was a new female serial killer to catch. 

“She didn’t kill me though,” you tell Tony, who rolls his eyes. “I’ll be careful. I won’t get too involved this time.”

He slides open a drawer and takes out a file and a business card that he holds out to you. You reach across the desk to grab the two and you scan the card. 

Rio Vidal, Therapist, Westview. With an email and phone number. 

You hold it up and raise an eyebrow. “You want me to see a shrink?” You already completed your mandated fifteen hours of therapy after the Maximoff incident and you weren’t eager to go back. 

“You don’t have to, it’s just so you have an option. In case you feel yourself becoming too ‘involved.’” 

You purse your lips but you slip it into your pocket and tighten your grip on the file. “Guess I’ll see you whenever we catch her.” 

He salutes you and you make your way to the jet out back. 

It’s a three hour flight and you spend your entire time pouring over the case file. You know there’s still some information that you’ll have to get from the Westview PD, like witness statements and exclusive photos that haven’t been released yet, but what you do have is brutal. 

Photos of shriveled up bodies with barely any skin still on their bones, their cheeks hollowed out, like something sucked the life out of them. Not to be sexist, but you can tell why Director Hayward thought it was a woman. 

Although there’s a gaping hole in their chests where a heart used to be, the cuts are neat, precise. And the blood has been completely cleaned up. What should be the bloodiest crime scene you’ve ever seen is void of any fluid, like the killer methodically mopped and bleached and cleansed the scene of everything. But this also means that the victims are dead before the heart is cut out, from the poison. 

The most chilling thing is the singular, perfect flower placed in the cavity of their chest.

You flip through the toxicology reports but can’t really make sense of anything. One report says one chemical was the cause of death, another report says another. The levels of chemicals in the bloodstream are also different from victim to victim. 

It reminds you of Jolly Jane Toppan, who would experiment with different medicines and chemicals to murder patients at hospitals. 

Is the killer a nurse? A chemist? You’re able to figure out why she’s called The Witch, because it’s like she’s brewing up potions of sorts, but you have no idea why she would bother cutting their hearts out if she’s killing them with poison. 

The precision of the blade also means that her hands are steady. Another reason she could be a nurse. 

You flip through the pictures of all the victims – eleven, so far – and the first victim’s cut is just as accurate as the last victim. This woman is either a natural, or this isn’t the first time she’s killed. 

Pulling out your computer, you search the database for any serial killer cases that match this same type of crime, male or female. You’re still not entirely convinced she’s working alone. 

But there’s nothing. No cold cases, no open cases. She has truly shown up out of nowhere. 

You tap your fingers to the tray table, your mind trying to make sense of the details for the rest of the flight. 

When the plane lands, you’re ushered into an uber and taken to the motel where you’ll be staying. Your rental car is already in the parking lot. Even though Westview is a small town, it means a lot that they’re giving you all these accommodations. 

Your room is complete with a kitchenette, a queen sized bed, and a good sized bathroom. You drop the files on the table, throw your suitcase in the bedroom, and grab your work bag before locking the door behind you. 

The rental car is a small sedan that has a strange smell, but it does the job and you drive through the quaint twisting roads to get to the police station. You park up front, take a deep breath, and walk in. 

No one stops you or asks what you’re doing here (no wonder this case hasn’t been solved yet) so you make your way to the back where you find the Chief’s office. 

He’s a skinny man with a mustache, spots of something that looks like mustard on his shirt, talking to a woman with her back to you. All you can tell is that she has long, dark hair that flows down your back.

“Hi, excuse me?” You say, knocking on the glass door. The Chief stops and the woman turns around to face you and you’re momentarily struck by how attractive she is. “I’m Agent Y/N? The, uh, criminal profiler from Miami? The FBI sent me to help with The Witch case.” 

“Oh, shoot, that’s right,” the man says, wiping his hands on his jacket before standing up. “Chief Phil Jones. This is Detective Agatha Harkness–” He motions to the woman standing there who smiles knowingly, raking her eyes up and down your body. “– our best. She’s been working this case day and night.” 

“Any leads so far?” You ask her. 

“Why don’t I show you what we have so far?” She offers and you nod, following her out of the office and trying not to look at her ass. She takes you into  a different room with a bulletin board filled with pictures and string and post-it notes. You squint at it, trying to take everything in, while you hear more people enter the room behind you. 

“So, Miami, what do you think?” A man taunts and a few others snicker at him. You ignore him, you’ve been used to this your entire career. 

You’re still scanning the board when something catches your eye. The witness statements. They don’t corroborate with each other. From the six people that have seen something, they all agree that the killer had dark hair. But some say it was long, others say just past her shoulders. Some think she was taller and lean, others say shorter and just a little more filled out. There’s a detail from two witnesses that gives you pause though: they say the woman had a mask of sorts on the bottom of her face, almost like a skeleton. The other witnesses make no mention of not being able to see the killer’s entire face. 

You tap the papers. “Why don’t the statements line up?” 

“Surely you know how unreliable eyewitness testimony is,” Agatha drawls, and when you turn around, she’s watching you carefully. 

You frown. “I do know, but it seems like there’s two different people here. So either we have a copycat, which would be unlikely due to there being no change in the level of detailedness from murder to murder, or–” You trail off, chewing on your lip. You’re waiting for someone, Agatha maybe, to finish the sentence, or to tell you you’re being crazy. 

“Or?” She prompts like she’s daring you to go on. There’s a look in her eyes, a look you don’t quite recognize. 

You give the men in the room a glance. Will they laugh? “I really think we’re dealing with two killers here. Working together. One poisons the victims, the other cuts out the heart. I thought it was a man and a woman, but it seems like two women. They’re obviously very close to each other, and they’ve got it down to an easy routine.” 

“Why hasn’t anyone seen two women then?” Agatha asks, but you feel like she’s just guiding you to a realization, rather than criticizing your theory. 

You hum, tossing the question around in your head. “Maybe…maybe because they want us to think there’s only one killer? They’ve fooled everyone, even the FBI. Easy to chalk it up to faulty witness statements.” 

“Why wouldn’t they try to look alike then?” Agatha presses, and your brow furrows. It’s a good point. 

The pictures of the mutilated victims on the board stare back at you while you look for anything you could’ve missed. “Are they toying with us? Do they want us confused? The poison, the cut-out heart, the flower left behind, the different descriptions, it’s like this is a game to them. They’re cocky, they feel confident that they can’t get caught. Maybe both of them are narcissists, but definitely are on the Antisocial Personality Disorder spectrum.” 

“Why do you think they do it?” Agatha says in a hushed voice. You can’t help but notice that she seems excited. 

Is that because she finally might be getting a break in her case? 

“I don’t know,” you admit and she looks disappointed. You spin to face the board again. “There’s no obvious connection or pattern between the victims, so it doesn’t seem like there’s a personal vendetta against them. Nothing stands out about the locations either. It seems like they’re just killing for fun, right now.” 

“That’s pretty dangerous,” she says, and you can feel the front of her body brush against your back. You’ve been so entranced that you didn’t even hear her notice her coming over. “That means anyone could be next.” 

Goosebumps spread over your body at her hot breath on your neck, but her words sober you up. She’s right. You’re not able to rule out potential victims based on how many kids they have or don’t have, like with Wanda, or what they look like or don’t look like. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding your head. “We need to send out a BOLO for two women with dark hair now. Put these descriptions out, tell them to keep an eye out for a skeleton mask? Hopefully we can get some tips and put a stop to this before anyone else gets hurt.” 

“What should we call the other woman?” One of the male officers speaks up and you’re surprised that it’s an actual question. 

Agatha watches you with interest while you think about it. “How about…Lady Death?” You offer and she gives a nod of approval. “Put a BOLO out for Lady Death and The Witch.” 

You make copies of everything that’s on the board and paper clip them together to put in your bag. As you’re packing everything up to go back and leave to the motel (Tony would be proud of you for leaving the station at an acceptable time), Agatha comes over and leans on the table. 

“What do you think their relationship is? Lady Death and The Witch,” she says, amusement lacing her tone when she says their nicknames. 

You shrug. “Sisters, friends, wives? Maybe they’re just two crazy people who met each other and want to kill people.” She chuckles and studies you curiously. 

“You know, we’ve had some other profilers come in, but none of them have been like you. You know your stuff.” 

“Female serial killers are kind of my thing,” you say. “There’s just something about untangling the mystery that’s so much sweeter. Makes me feel…alive. Which I know sounds bad, because so many people have died, and I’m sorry.” 

Agatha looks like she knows exactly what you’re talking about. “No, don’t apologize. It’s exciting, isn’t it? The exhilaration, the moment when you finally get what you want, what you’ve been working toward.” Her voice is low and you nod, leaning in before you can realize what you’re doing. Your gaze drops down to her smirk and then back to her blown-out pupils. “Do you think you’ll be able to find them?” 

“Yeah, I do,” you breathe, and she looks positively delighted. Out of nowhere, the scar on your stomach stings and you grimace. Agatha looks at you, concerned but you brush it off. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?” You ask, standing up and slinging your bag onto your shoulder. 

“See you then, superstar,” she says with a grin and watches you leave. 

When you get back to the motel, you spread all the pictures and notes out, trying to connect some dots. You scribble down Friends? Sisters? Lovers? on a sticky note and press it to the wall. 

Why do you think they do it? Agatha’s question still haunts you. You don’t want to believe that it’s just for fun, there has to be some meaning, some motive for poisoning and then physically removing hearts. There has to be some significance to the flower left behind. 

But what is it? 

Your stomach grumbles so you decide to take a step back and go pick up food from a restaurant in town. As you’re pulling out of the parking lot to come back to the motel with wings and french fries, you get a call from Tony Stark. You accept it, taking a sip from your cup quickly. 

“Hey, Director,” you say. 

“There she is! How’s it going?” 

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “Not too bad. Just went and got dinner. See, I’m taking care of myself.” 

He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he’s heard. “Glad to hear it. Any new leads in the case?” 

“There’s two women, not one. They’re working together.” There’s silence on his end of the line for a second and you wonder if he heard you. “Did you–?

“Yeah, I got that. Shit, so you think you’re looking for partners? I don’t like this,” he says. 

“I’m okay, I promise. What happened with Wanda won’t happen this time,” you reassure him as you turn back into the motel lot. “I’ll check in with you whenever you want. I’ll go see that shrink. I’ll be careful.” You’re worried that he’ll pull you off the case if he thinks you’re too obsessed. Your hyperfixation tendencies almost cost you your life, and you know Tony doesn’t want that to happen to you again. He’s become somewhat of a father figure to you since you started working there, and it’s touching how much he cares.

He hums in satisfaction. “I expect you to eat three meals a day and get at least five hours of sleep.” Before you can protest, he continues. “And I want you to make an appointment with that therapist. Just get ahead of your spiral, maybe talking about the case with someone removed will help you be more level-headed.” 

“I will,” you vow. “Okay, just got back to the motel, I’ll talk to you later.” He says goodbye and hangs up. When you get out of the car with your food, the hair on the back of your neck stands up and your scar tingles. 

Something feels off. 

You get to your door to find it slightly ajar and you frown. You remember locking it. Maybe room service cleans at night? 

“Hello?” You call, pushing it open. Taking a few cautious steps into the room, you scan from wall to wall looking for anything or anyone.

There’s no one there, nothing seems out of place except for your suitcase that is now on your bed. You tentatively walk over to it and unzip it, jumping back like you’re expecting something to pop out. Inside, you find all the clothes you packed gone, and entirely replaced by a new wardrobe. Pulling them out, you gasp when you find cashmere sweaters and silky blouses and comfortable but professional looking pants. There’s a bottle of perfume with the word “Thanatos” printed in perfect calligraphy and you take a whiff. It smells like flowers and wood at the same time and it makes you think of a forest. 

So someone broke into your motel room just to give you some new clothes and perfume? You rustle through the rest of the suitcase and a piece of paper flutters to the floor. 

Heart pounding, you lean down to pick it up. It’s the same sticky note that you put on your wall before you left to get food. 

Friends? Sisters? Lovers? 

Only now, the word ‘lovers’ is circled, with a small heart drawn. You drop the paper like you’ve been burned and run over to where all your case information is and you feel nauseous. 

Nothing has been touched. Nothing is out of place. 

Except for the single purple azalea resting on the middle of the table. 

They were here. 

[lxndonorris]

priorities - Charles Leclerc

Y/N x Charles Leclerc Theme: Fluff Charles returns home right after the award ceremony due to you being ill word count: 1930+ taglist: @game-set-canet @cloud-55 gif by me open for requests :)

EN: I was, actually still am sick, so I would have loved that. Charles, where were you??

It was a strange mix of emotions—pride and longing—watching Charles accept his trophy for finishing third in the championship. You were curled up on the bed with a blanket wrapped tightly around you, your body battling a persistent flu.

You protested when Charles suggested staying home with you instead of attending the FIA Award Ceremony in Rwanda, but he insisted that you mattered more. 

Of course, you didn't let him.

You practically pushed him out the door, promising to watch the stream and cheer for him from afar.

Now, with the stream paused on your iPad, the image of Charles on stage—dressed impeccably in his black tailored Ferrari suit—etched into your mind, you couldn't help but smile.

He looked breathtaking, even through the screen, the pride radiating from him evident in every gesture. Your heart swelled at the sight of him holding the trophy, but a sharp cough pulled you out of your thoughts, a bitter reminder of why you weren't there to share this moment with him.

Exhaustion took over, and you drifted in and out of sleep, the faint hum of the evening ceremonies filling the background. Time blurred, and you weren't sure how long you'd been half-asleep when a faint sound startles you.

It is the front door opening and closing softly.

Confused, you force yourself to sit up, groggy and disoriented. You tell yourself you are imagining things, but the shuffle of footsteps and the unmistakable clack of a lock being engaged tell you otherwise.

Your heart flutters with both apprehension and hope as you slowly make your way toward the bedroom door. Cracking it open just enough to peek through the gap, you see him.

Charles.

He is still wearing his black Ferrari suit from the ceremony, the faint glow of the hallway light highlighting his sharp features.

He looks incredible; the jacket fitting him like a glove, his tie slightly loosened, and his hair a little tousled from the night. Carefully dragging his suitcase behind him, he clearly tries not to wake you.

You push the door open wider, the hinges creaking softly.

"Charles? What are you doing here?"

He turns sharply, clearly startled, his hand freezing mid-motion as he slips his keys into his pocket. 

"I didn't mean to wake you up," he says, his voice soft and apologetic.

"You didn't," you assure him, though your voice is raspy. "But... why are you here? You should be celebrating."

He blushes slightly, his hand running through his hair in a gesture you know all too well.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he admits. "Worrying about you. So... I came back right away."

A small giggle escapes you, but it quickly turns into a cough. "Don't make me laugh," you protest weakly, and he is by your side in an instant, his warm hand rubbing gentle circles on your back.

"See? This is why I needed to be here," he says with a small smile, his voice teasing but laced with genuine concern.

You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his waist as his scent—woodsy and clean, with just a hint of the cologne he always wears—envelops you.

"You didn't have to," you murmur against his chest. "This was your night to celebrate. You deserved it."

Charles shrugs as if it is nothing, his hands smoothing down your back. 

"It was nice," he admits. "But not as nice as being here with you."

You pull back slightly to look up at him, your chest warming at the sincerity in his gaze.

"You're unbelievable," you whisper, shaking your head.

"And you're sick," he counters, gently leading you back toward the bed. "Come on, back under the covers."

You don't protest as he helps you settle back into the warm cocoon of blankets, propping your pillows up just right. Once you are comfortable, he starts to undress, and you can't help but watch as he works on his tie first, loosening it and pulling it off with practiced ease.

"You looked good tonight," you croak, motioning to the paused stream on your iPad beside the bed.

He glances at the screen and smirks, clearly pleased.

"Did I?"

You nod. 

"incredible. Like a movie star or something."

His expression softens at the sound of your voice, which is still rough from coughing.

"I hate hearing you like this," he says, a small pout forming on his lips as he drapes his tie over a chair.

You roll your eyes playfully, though it takes more effort than usual.

"I'm fine. Just... tired."

Charles doesn't respond immediately, instead focusing on his suit jacket, which he carefully folds and places on the same chair. Then comes the shirt, the buttons undone slowly, his fingers deft and precise.

As the crisp white fabric falls open, revealing his toned chest and the faint tan lines from the season, he glances at you.

"The ceremony was good," he says, continuing the conversation as if he isn't slowly undressing in front of you.

"Max was happy, of course, and Lando and Oscar were joking around like always. But..." He hesitates, sliding the shirt off his shoulders. "It just made me want that first-place trophy even more next year."

You smile at his determination.

"You'll get it," you say with quiet confidence. "I know you will."

His lips curve into a small, grateful smile before he moves on to his belt, the faint clink of the buckle filling the room.

"Thanks," he murmurs, his gaze soft as it meets yours. "That means a lot."

Soon, he is left in just his boxers, his suit pants and shoes set neatly aside. He slips under the blanket beside you, his body warm against yours as he wraps an arm around your waist. 

You try to protest weakly. 

"You shouldn't," you mumble. "You'll get sick too."

"I don't care," he says simply, pulling you closer. "You need me, and I'm here. Besides, I have a good immune system."

He lifts an eyebrow, checking your face for any reaction. You nudge his side playfully, causing him to giggle, his voice melodic as always.

"Un...believable." You sigh, relaxing against him despite yourself.

His presence is like a balm, soothing the aches and chills that have plagued you all day. As his hand traces lazy patterns on your back, you can't help but smile.

Sick or not, having Charles here makes everything feel a little better.

The warmth of his body beside you is comforting, grounding you in the moment despite the haze of sickness and exhaustion. He has one arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you close as if afraid you might slip away.

You feel happy, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest gently against you, yet you can't help but feel a pang of guilt.

"You really should've stayed and celebrated with the others," you murmur, your voice still hoarse but steady enough to convey the weight of your words. "The season was long enough, and you all earned it."

He doesn't respond right away, just smirks that signature Charles smirk—the one that melts your heart every time—and shakes his head. "I'm needed here," he says simply. "What's done is done."

You pout, biting your lower lip.

"You're impossible."

"I know," he teases, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. 

"But I'm your impossible."

A small laugh bubbles up, though it quickly turns into a cough. He frowns instantly, his free hand coming up to rub your back in soothing circles. 

"See? This is exactly why I am here," he says, his accent coming through more pronounced, a sign he's meaning it. "You need someone to take care of you."

You sigh again, knowing there is no point in arguing. Charles is as stubborn as they come, and when it comes to you, his determination knows no bounds. Instead of protesting further, you reach up to cup his cheek, your fingers brushing gently against the warmth of his skin. 

Charles leans into your touch, his lashes fluttering closed for a moment as if savoring the sensation.

"You're too good to me," you whisper, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. 

Your fingers brush over his neatly groomed goatee, marveling at the soft yet slightly coarse texture.

His eyes open, their oceanic depths locking onto yours, and he gives you a look so full of love that it makes your chest ache.

"Not possible," he says, his voice soft but firm.

His hands, warm and steady, rest on your sides and back, pulling you closer until there is hardly any space between you. His scent—clean and undeniably him—wraps around you like another blanket, chasing away the lingering discomfort of your illness.

As you continue caressing his cheek, he turns his head slightly to press a kiss to your wrist, his lips featherlight and warm against your skin.

Your heart swells at the gesture, and you can't resist letting your hand drift lower, your fingers brushing against the firm planes of his chest. His skin is warm to the touch, his muscles taut beneath your palm. 

He lets out a soft laugh, the sound low and melodic, and you glance up at him in surprise.

"Your hands are cold," he protests, his voice tinged with amusement as he catches your hand in his and presses it against his chest, trapping it there.

"Sorry," you murmur, though you can't help but smile.

Charles shakes his head, his smirk softening into a fond smile as he gazes down at you.

"Come here," he said gently, pulling you even closer until you are tucked firmly against him. 

His warmth seeps into you, melting away all the lingering chills in your bones.

You nuzzle into his chest, your cheek resting against the smooth expanse of his skin as you let his steady heartbeat lull you into a sense of calm. His arms wrap around you securely, his hands tracing gentle patterns on your back once more, as if to reassure you of his presence.

"I can see it," you murmur after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're so tired... the flight, the ceremony, worrying about me—it's too much."

Charles presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment.

"It's never too much when it's for you," he replies, his voice soft but resolute.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes at his words, but you blink them away, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

You let yourself relax completely in his embrace, your fingers trailing wide circles along his sides as you memorize the feeling of being so close to him.

His breathing begins to even out, the exhaustion finally catching up to him despite the earlier insistence. But even though, part of him moves closer to you: his thighs gently brushing against yours, his chest shifting every so slightly and his fingers grazing along your skin, their movement slowy fading.

You can feel his grip on you loosen slightly, though he doesn't let go entirely, even in his sleep. Pressing a soft kiss to his chest, you allow yourself to succumb to the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat and your own eyes growing heavy as well.

In that moment, with Charles holding you close and the world outside fading away, everything feels perfect. And as you drift off to sleep together, you can't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the man who gave up his night of celebration just to be by your side.