#i have to clutch onto what little dignity i still have

[maxdibert]

Ok, but what about the fact that Snape was a complete hypocrite? He openly looked down on Muggles and Muggle-borns. When his friends cursed someone, he had no problem with it. And he didn’t hold back from making nasty comments about them either. Lily didn’t like the fact that he hung out with them, but he didn’t care—he brushed it off as ‘just a joke.’ Yet he expected Lily to stay away from the Marauders. He showed some pretty nasty tendencies even as a kid.

Oh, so now we’re pretending people aren’t shaped by their environment? That kids don’t absorb the biases of the world they grow up in? That someone who’s been abused, neglected, and ostracized isn’t going to develop warped coping mechanisms, internal contradictions, or, I don’t know, cognitive dissonance?

Let’s break this down like you’re five.

Severus grew up in an abusive household, with a neglectful Muggle father who likely hated everything about magic, and a mother who was a beaten-down, powerless witch. His entire experience with the Muggle world was pain, humiliation, and isolation. Of course he gravitated toward the magical world as an escape. And when the magical world itself was split into factions, he latched onto the side that promised him power, belonging, and a way to finally matter.

Do you think that kind of upbringing magically (pun intended) turns someone into a well-adjusted, morally pristine human being? That he would just wake up one day and unlearn all the resentment and bitterness that had been drilled into him since childhood? That he, a literal outcast, would immediately reject the ideology of the only people who accepted him? Because news flash—that's not how human psychology works.

And yes, cognitive dissonance exists. People hold contradictory beliefs all the time, especially when those beliefs are shaped by pain, trauma, and survival instincts. Snape genuinely loved Lily, yet he still harbored prejudice. He despised the Marauders for tormenting him, yet he didn’t think twice when his own friends tormented others. Because people—brace yourself—are not consistent. They rationalize, they compartmentalize, they act on emotion rather than reason.

And this is where the real irony kicks in: you whine about Snape being a hypocrite, but fail to see that this very hypocrisy is what makes him a well-written, deeply human character. You act like contradictions in a person’s mindset invalidate them, when in reality, they’re what define us. People change, people regret, people make mistakes. The difference between a shallow, black-and-white character and a rich, layered one is that the latter struggles with these contradictions instead of magically overcoming them in a neat little redemption arc that makes you feel comfortable.

So yes, Snape was prejudiced. He was bitter. He was deeply, tragically flawed. But he was also capable of love, remorse, and change. He spent decades working against the ideology he once clung to, sacrificing everything—including his dignity, his safety, and ultimately his life—because he realized he had been wrong.

And that? That’s what makes him more compelling than any of the one-dimensional "good guys" who never had to fight their own demons. That’s what makes him more interesting than the people who had privilege, support, and love, yet still acted like assholes just for fun.

So go ahead and clutch your pearls over "hypocrisy," but just know that all you’re doing is proving that you have a painfully shallow understanding of human nature, storytelling, and, frankly, reality itself.

[solxamber]

Giving Them Chocolates on Valentine's Day with: Octavinelle

Go here for other dorms

Azul Ashengrotto

You approach Azul in the Mostro Lounge, your heart pounding against your ribs. He’s behind the counter, meticulously checking over inventory, looking as polished and composed as ever.

At least, until he notices the neatly wrapped heart-shaped box in your hands.

His sharp eyes narrow slightly in suspicion. “What’s this?” he asks, adjusting his glasses as he peers at the chocolates like they might explode.

You blink. “It’s chocolate.”

“I can see that,” he says, ever the businessman. “What I mean is—why?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Typical Azul. Always thinking there’s some hidden clause, some kind of catch. You hold out the box a little more insistently. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day. And because I like you.”

The effect is instantaneous.

Azul’s expression shatters. His carefully maintained composure cracks like glass. His fingers twitch where they rest on the counter, and for the first time, he seems completely, utterly lost.

“You…” He blinks rapidly, his voice quieter now. “You like me?”

You tilt your head, watching his face turn a shade of pink you didn’t even know he was capable of. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”

Azul makes a sound. You’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a quiet gasp of disbelief. Either way, he clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He exhales sharply, adjusts his glasses again—completely unnecessarily—and shifts his weight like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, as if desperately grasping onto something familiar, he clears his throat and straightens up, the businessman in him taking over.

“Well,” he says, smoothing a hand over his coat, “in that case, it would be highly inappropriate of me not to offer you a proper date.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Oh?”

Azul nods, trying so hard to appear composed despite his ears still burning red. “Mostro Lounge serves only the finest cuisine. Allow me to treat you to dinner tonight. Naturally, I’ll cover all expenses.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re really making a date sound like a business transaction.”

Azul scowls immediately, crossing his arms as he actively fights for his dignity. “That’s not—! I just meant that it would be—! Ugh.” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his temple before looking at you again, this time softer.

“…I’d like to take you to dinner,” he amends, quieter now. “Because I like you too.”

Your chest warms.

Now you’re the one who feels a little breathless, your heart stuttering at the rare sincerity in his voice.

You smile. “Then I’d love to go.”

Azul exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He nods, then quickly busies himself with setting out a reserved sign for the best table in the lounge—as if planning everything right this second will keep him from combusting.

You watch him, amused, and so, so fond.

For all his smooth talk and confidence, he’s just as flustered as you are.

Jade Leech

You really should have prepared for this better.

Jade Leech was not the kind of person you could just walk up to, hand over chocolates, and expect a normal reaction. You knew that. And yet, here you were, clutching a heart-shaped box like it was a live grenade, stumbling through your words as his ever-present, knowing smile grew sharper with every passing second.

“So, um,” you start, regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “I—I made these for you. Because it’s, uh, Valentine’s Day. And also because I—uh—”

You stop.

Jade is watching you way too intently, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he waits so, so patiently for you to finish your sentence.

You take a steadying breath and just force it out. “Because I like you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he hums, soft and thoughtful, as he takes the chocolates from your hands—his fingers brushing against yours, just barely. Then, without warning, he leans in.

Way too close.

Your breath catches.

Jade tilts his head, studying you like he’s greatly enjoying the way your face is rapidly heating up. “How interesting,” he murmurs, his voice low and far too entertained. “You’re quite adorable when you’re nervous.”

Your stomach flips.

Jade watches your reaction for a moment longer—dragging this out on purpose, the menace—before finally pulling back. And even then, not by much.

His smile softens, and there’s something almost warm beneath the teasing glint in his eyes. “I accept,” he says simply.

It takes your brain a full three seconds to catch up. “Wait—you—”

“I like you too,” he continues, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink, still thoroughly disoriented, and Jade laughs quietly, clearly enjoying himself. “Shall I take you to dinner tonight?” he muses, tapping the box lightly. “It would only be fair, since you’ve already given me such a lovely gift.”

Your heart is fighting for its life.

“…Yeah,” you manage. “That sounds nice.”

Jade grins. “Perfect.”

And just like that, you know you’ve fallen right into his trap.

Floyd Leech

You’re pretty sure you’re about to die.

Because the second Floyd spots the chocolates in your hands, his entire mood plummets.

One moment, he’s just existing—normal Floyd behavior, a little lazy, a little restless. And the next? Oh. Oh no.

His grin disappears. His eyes darken. His whole posture shifts, and suddenly, he looks one wrong move away from squashing the nearest person to death.

“…Whatcha got there, Shrimpy?” His voice is low, slow, and dangerous, like a predator catching the scent of something it doesn’t like.

Your fight-or-flight instincts scream at you to run.

But you don’t.

You force yourself to stay put, lifting the chocolates a little higher in a silent please don’t kill me gesture.

“…They’re for you,” you manage.

Instant. Mood. Whiplash.

Floyd blinks. And then—all at once—he’s grinning again.

“Ehhh? Really?!” His entire demeanor flips so fast it gives you whiplash. Suddenly, he’s giggling, practically bouncing as he snatches the chocolates from your hands and leans in so, so close.

No personal space. Not even a little.

It’s our space now.

Floyd hums, inspecting the box like he’s debating whether to eat the chocolates first or eat you. “Y’know,” he drawls, tilting his head, “if these were for someone else, I probably would’ve squeezed ‘em real, real hard.”

Your stomach drops. “I—uh—”

“But they’re for me!” he interrupts, all teeth and delight, pressing the chocolates against his chest like a prized possession. “So it’s fine~!”

You exhale, shaky. “Great. Love that.”

Floyd chuckles, and before you can react, his arms are around you. Tight. Secure. Warm. He leans in close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin.

“Mmm… you’re mine now, though.”

Your heart short-circuits.

Floyd giggles again, sing-song and sweet, but his grip is firm, unyielding. “Forever n’ ever, right, Shrimpy?”

You swallow hard, helplessly flustered. “…Yeah.”

His eyes glint with satisfaction.

“Good,” he purrs, and somehow, you just know—

You’re not gonna regret this. (probably)

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[hy6erion]

i need the FILTHIEST jayce smut like imagine him going to work and you’re all needy and he walks in on you humping his pillow 🤤🤤

𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 + 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞

⇢𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐬/ 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧/ 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫), 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 (𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠), 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 (𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝟐-𝟑 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬), 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐭...)

The morning had started with Jayce kissing you goodbye, pressing his lips to your forehead as he tucked the blankets around you, murmuring about how he’d be home late after a long council meeting.

You’d nodded sleepily, mumbling something about missing him, but when he left, you felt the ache almost immediately. A deep, insatiable need curling in your belly, growing worse as the hours ticked by. You tried to keep yourself busy—tried to distract yourself with books, with chores, even with one of his shirts that still smelled like him. But nothing helped.

By the time midday rolled around, you were in his bed, sprawled across the sheets that still carried his scent, burying your face into his pillow. Your body was burning, thighs rubbing together, heart hammering against your ribs. You whined into the fabric, breathing in the lingering scent of him, fingers clutching the material like it would somehow make the ache go away.

And then you started moving.

It was instinctual at first. A slow, desperate rut of your hips against the plush surface. Your panties were already damp, thin fabric sticking to your needy cunt as you chased some sort of relief. You moaned softly, grinding harder, pleasure sparking at the friction.

You needed him. You needed Jayce so bad you thought you might go insane.

Your movements grew more frantic, pressing down harder, rubbing yourself into his pillow like a needy little thing. You could practically hear his voice in your head—soft and teasing.

That desperate for me, sweetheart? Can’t even wait ‘til I get home?

Your breath hitched, face heating as you imagined him watching you like this. Seeing how shamelessly you were rutting against something as ridiculous as his pillow. But you couldn’t stop. Not when you were so close, not when your body was trembling with need—

The door creaked open.

You barely had time to register the sound before Jayce’s voice cut through the silence. Deep. Sharp.

“What do we have here?”

Your body went rigid, panic flooding your veins. Your head shot up, wide, mortified eyes locking onto Jayce’s frame standing in the doorway. He was still in his work clothes—his usual council attire slightly rumpled, as if he’d left in a hurry.

And his expression? Pure amusement.

“Jayce—”

You scrambled to move, to roll off the pillow and regain even a sliver of dignity, but he was already closing the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. His footsteps were slow, deliberate as he approached, his dark eyes dragging over your flushed, desperate form.

“You missed me that much, huh?” he murmured, standing at the edge of the bed. His voice was honeyed, teasing—but there was something darker beneath it.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you tried to sit up. “I—I was just—”

He hummed, cutting you off, one large hand pressing against the small of your back to push you right back down. His strength was effortless, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Keep going.”

Your breath hitched. “W-What?”

Jayce’s fingers trailed down your spine, slow and deliberate, stopping at the curve of your ass. He squeezed, spreading you slightly, just enough to make you whimper. His lips curled in satisfaction.

“I said—” His hand came down with a sharp smack, making you jolt. “Keep going.”

You sucked in a breath, shame and arousal twisting together in a delicious, unbearable knot. Your body trembled, still aching with need, and when he applied the slightest pressure to the small of your back, you obeyed.

You rocked your hips forward again, grinding against the pillow, this time with him watching—no, commanding you to do it. Your moan was shaky, humiliated, but the way Jayce groaned low in his throat made it worth it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, palming himself through his trousers, watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Look at you, baby. Such a desperate little thing. I leave for a few hours, and you’re already humping my pillow like a needy slut?”

A whimper caught in your throat, fingers clenching around the sheets. “Jayce—”

“Ah, ah.” His hand tangled in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head back. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, voice dark and syrupy. “You keep moving, sweetheart, or I won’t let you come.”

You let out a shaky sob, your body betraying you, hips pressing down harder, chasing friction as your soaked panties rubbed against the soft fabric.

Jayce groaned, watching intently, one hand gripping your hip to guide your movements. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Show me how bad you need it.”

You were panting, writhing, grinding shamelessly, and the heat coiling in your gut was unbearable. Jayce was right there, watching you fall apart, making you fall apart, and you were so close, so close—

And then, he ripped the pillow away.

A desperate, wrecked sob tore from your throat, your body jolting at the sudden loss of friction. “No—Jayce, please—”

He grinned, wicked and smug, flipping you onto your back in one smooth motion. He was over you in an instant, pressing his knee between your thighs, pinning you beneath him.

“Oh, baby,” he cooed mockingly, dragging his fingers up your thigh, barely brushing against where you needed him most. “You think I’d let you get off on just my pillow when I’m right here?”

His dark eyes locked onto yours, voice dipping into something even deeper.

“You wanted me, sweetheart?” His breath ghosted against your lips. “Well, now you’ve got me.”

His hands were everywhere, and the last coherent thought you had was that you’d never be able to look at that pillow the same way again.

His mouth was on you before you could even catch your breath.

Hot, insistent, claiming—Jayce kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he needed to devour every little gasp, every whimper that spilled from your lips. His weight pressed down, keeping you caged beneath him, his broad hands sliding over your trembling body with a possessiveness that made your head spin.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with arousal. His fingers traced the waistband of your panties, still damp from your desperate rutting against his pillow. “Look at you, baby. Look at this mess.”

You squirmed, face burning with embarrassment, with the raw need still pulsing hot between your thighs. He caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your head back until your eyes met his—dark and heavy, amusement and hunger tangled together.

“You’re lucky I got home when I did,” he said, voice dipping lower, sending a shiver straight down your spine. His other hand dragged down your belly, slow and teasing, stopping just before he reached the aching heat between your thighs. “Or were you planning on getting yourself off all alone? Making a mess of my bed, my pillow, all by yourself?”

Your breath hitched as he pressed his knee between your legs, forcing them apart with an effortless command. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jayce chuckled, shaking his head, his fingers slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties, brushing lightly over your swollen, dripping folds. “You meant it. You were so needy you couldn’t even wait for me to get home.”

His fingers slid lower, spreading you open, teasing your entrance but refusing to push inside. “Tell me, baby,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your jaw. “Were you thinking about me while you were humping my pillow?”

A pathetic whimper left your lips, your body jolting at his teasing touch. He was barely touching you, barely giving you the friction you needed, and it was torture.

“Answer me,” he said, and his voice had that dangerous edge to it, the one that sent a pulse of heat straight through you. “Or I’ll leave you like this. Desperate, dripping, and completely untouched.”

You sobbed, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “Yes,” you gasped, voice shaky, barely a whisper. “I was thinking about you.”

Jayce groaned, low and approving. “That’s my good girl.”

The praise sent another rush of heat through you, but before you could revel in it, Jayce pulled away entirely, sitting back on his heels. He reached for your panties, hooking his fingers into the waistband, and dragged them down your legs, taking his time, watching as the damp fabric peeled away from your needy cunt.

“Fuck,” he muttered, tossing them aside. His hands spread your thighs wider, exposing you completely, and his eyes darkened with something almost feral. “Look at you. So wet, just from humping my pillow.”

You whined, trying to close your legs, but his grip was firm. “Jayce—”

He smirked. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You were so eager to grind against my pillow, but now that I’m here, you’re shy?”

You turned your face away, but Jayce wouldn’t have it. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I want you to show me, baby. I want you to show me exactly how desperate you are.”

Your breath caught. “W-What?”

Jayce leaned back again, settling between your spread thighs, gaze heavy-lidded. “Go on,” he murmured. “Touch yourself for me.”

Your whole body burned, heat pooling in your stomach, but Jayce’s eyes—so dark, so focused—left you completely at his mercy. Slowly, your trembling fingers slid between your thighs, pressing against your aching clit.

A soft moan spilled from your lips at the contact, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him. You needed his fingers, his mouth, anything.

Jayce let out a soft groan, watching you like a predator watching its prey. “That’s it, sweetheart. Keep going.”

Your fingers moved in slow circles, teasing, desperate, and you gasped as pleasure curled hot and tight in your belly. But it still wasn’t enough. You needed more. You needed—

A strong hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling your fingers away. “That’s enough.”

You barely had time to process before Jayce was on you, his mouth crashing against yours, his hand slipping between your legs, long fingers sliding through your slick folds.

“You want my fingers, baby?” he teased, pressing one thick finger against your entrance, just barely pushing inside. “Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” you gasped, arching into his touch. “Please, Jayce—”

He didn’t make you wait. He slid one finger inside you, groaning at how tight and wet you were, then added another, stretching you open, curling them just right. Your back arched, a broken moan leaving your lips as he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deliberate, pressing against that sweet, sensitive spot that made your whole body tremble.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he muttered, watching your face contort in pleasure. “You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, grinding against his hand, chasing that high that was so close, so devastatingly close—

And then he pulled away.

A wrecked sob tore from your throat. “No—Jayce, please—”

Jayce laughed, wicked and smug. “Patience, baby. I’m not done with you yet.”

Before you could protest, he was flipping you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up, positioning you just how he wanted. His hands smoothed over your ass, kneading, spreading, appreciating every inch of you.

Then, without warning, his mouth was on you.

A silent scream tore from your lips as his tongue flicked against your clit, hot and relentless. He groaned against you, sucking, licking, fucking you with his tongue, and you lost yourself. Your hands fisted the sheets, body writhing as he devoured you, as he owned you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmured between slow, deep licks. “My perfect little girl. So desperate, so needy.”

You couldn’t take it. You were on the edge, shaking, ready to fall apart—

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Jayce ordered, voice thick with authority, with need. “Come all over my tongue.”

And with one last flick of his tongue, you shattered.

Your whole body convulsed, a sobbing, writhing mess as pleasure crashed over you, as Jayce held you steady, drinking in every last drop of your release.

When the aftershocks faded, you were left boneless, gasping, trembling beneath him. But Jayce wasn’t finished. He pressed a kiss to the small of your back, voice low and husky as he murmured,

“Oh, baby. I hope you didn’t think we were done.”

And as he unbuckled his belt, the hunger in his eyes made one thing abundantly clear.

Jayce’s belt hit the floor with a low clink, the sound sending another shiver down your spine. You barely had the strength to lift your head, your body still trembling from the intensity of your orgasm, but you felt him—his presence, his heat, the way his hands trailed over your ass, kneading, spreading, claiming.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “So fucked-out already, and I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

You whimpered, pressing your cheek against the mattress, legs shaking as his palms smoothed over your thighs, fingers tracing the slick mess between them. You were dripping, ruined, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Jayce’s thumbs spread you open, exposing every glistening inch of you to his dark, hungry gaze. “Fuck,” he groaned, more to himself than to you. “You were made for me, weren’t you? This perfect little cunt, soaking wet, just begging for me to fill it up.”

A choked moan slipped from your lips. He loved to talk, loved to make you squirm with his words alone. And it worked—every damn time.

Jayce chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. “You love when I talk to you like this, don’t you?” He dragged his fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness before circling your aching clit, pressing just enough to make you writhe beneath him. “Gets you even wetter. My filthy girl.”

You whimpered, pushing your hips back in a desperate attempt to get more—but he pulled his hand away entirely, making you whine in frustration.

Jayce tutted, his large hand coming down in a sharp slap against your ass. “None of that. You’ll take what I give you, sweetheart.”

You gasped, the sting sending another pulse of heat straight between your legs. He soothed the spot with a slow, gentle caress before gripping your hip, his strength undeniable as he pulled you further up, angling you just the way he wanted.

Then, you felt him.

The heavy weight of his cock pressed against your slick entrance, thick and hot, teasing you with shallow rolls of his hips. He groaned at the feeling, at the way your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate to pull him inside.

“You want it, baby?” His voice was deep, rough, dripping with amusement and desire. “Want me to stretch you open, make you feel every inch?”

“Yes,” you gasped, pushing back against him, thighs shaking. “Please, Jayce. I need it. I need you.“

His grip on your hips tightened, his breath ragged as he pressed forward, the thick head of his cock stretching you open, inch by devastating inch. Your mouth fell open, a broken moan spilling free as he filled you, the stretch intense, toeing the line between pleasure and pain.

Jayce groaned, the sound deep and wrecked. “Shit, baby—you’re so tight. Always so fucking tight for me.”

He bottomed out with a slow, deep thrust, grinding his hips against yours, making sure you felt every inch of him buried inside you. You were full, stuffed so perfectly you could barely breathe, your body molding to him like it was made for this—made for him.

Jayce stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands smoothing over your back, down to your hips. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he murmured, his voice dripping with praise, with affection. “Such a good girl for me.”

A soft, desperate whimper left your lips at the words, and he felt it—the way your walls fluttered around him, clenching tight at his praise.

Jayce grinned against your skin. “You *love* that, don’t you?” He pulled back, slow and teasing, before snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. „Love when I tell you how good you are. How perfect this pretty little cunt is.”

You could barely think, barely do anything except feel as he started to move, his thrusts deep and measured, each one designed to make you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned, rolling his hips in that perfect way that made your toes curl. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You couldn’t stop the sounds that spilled from your lips—high, desperate moans, gasps that bordered on sobs. It felt so good, the slow drag of his cock against your walls, the way his hands gripped you like he’d never let you go.

And then he picked up the pace.

Jayce fucked you deep, hard, each thrust forcing a choked moan from your throat. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, a plea, and he ate it up, groaning as he pounded into you, taking you the way he knew you needed.

“You hear that, baby?” he growled, leaning over you, his chest pressing against your back. His lips brushed against your ear as he slammed into you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Hear how wet you are for me?”

You could. The obscene, messy sounds of your slick, of his cock stretching you open over and over filled the room, only adding to the heat coiling tight in your stomach.

You were close. So close.

Jayce knew it, too. He reached beneath you, fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, circling it just right. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he commanded, voice thick with authority, with need. “Come all over my cock.”

Your whole body locked up, pleasure ripping through you like a live wire. You sobbed his name, thighs trembling, walls clenching down around him so tight it nearly broke him.

Jayce groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own high. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m gonna—”

And then he was coming, his grip bruising on your hips as he slammed deep, burying himself inside you as he spilled, his groans low and wrecked.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, your bodies still tangled, still joined.

Then, Jayce moved, slipping free, a mess of his spend and your release dripping between your thighs.

You barely had time to recover before he was flipping you onto your back, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss.

Jayce kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Slow, deep, lazy.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips before sliding in, tasting, teasing, claiming. His hands roamed your body, warm and steady, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, your thighs, the slight tremble in your legs that made him hum in satisfaction.

You were still twitching from your orgasm, body wrung out, pliant beneath him. But that didn’t stop Jayce from drinking you in, savoring every little aftershock, every shiver, every soft whimper that spilled from your lips as his mouth moved from yours to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“You did so well for me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat, voice thick with something warm, something fond.

His hands smoothed over your sides, gentle now, soothing. The contrast made your breath hitch—how he could ruin you one moment and cradle you the next. It made your heart ache in ways you didn’t fully understand, made something inside you unravel when his nose brushed against your cheek, his lips ghosting over your temple in a lingering, tender kiss.

Jayce felt it—the way your body melted under his touch, how the tension that had been coiling inside you all night finally began to loosen. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his brown eyes dark but soft, searching.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Your chest swelled with warmth. You nodded, but the moment you tried to speak, your throat felt tight, your voice barely above a whisper. “Y-Yeah.”

Jayce frowned slightly, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “Sure?”

You swallowed, blinking up at him, overwhelmed in a way you couldn’t quite explain. But Jayce didn’t push, didn’t demand words you weren’t ready to give. He just knew —the way he always did. His expression softened further, and then he was shifting, wrapping you in his arms, holding you close.

His chest was warm against your back as he pulled you flush against him, his arms locking securely around your waist. His lips pressed into your hair, his breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “Just breathe for me, baby.”

You did. Inhale, exhale. Your heartbeat steadied, your body settling into the safety of his embrace. And Jayce held you there, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin, grounding you, keeping you.

Minutes passed, and when he felt you fully relax, he smiled against your temple. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, giving your hip a small squeeze. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined softly as he pulled away, your body protesting the loss of his warmth. But he was already moving, already gathering you into his arms as he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the adjoining bathroom.

The room was dimly lit, the air still warm from the steam of previous showers. Jayce set you down on the cool marble counter, brushing a few damp strands of hair away from your face. “Just sit tight for me, yeah?”

You nodded, watching as he turned toward the bathtub, rolling his shoulders, the muscles in his back flexing as he leaned down to turn the water on. He tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting the knobs until he was satisfied, then grabbed a small vial from the shelf, pouring a generous amount of oil into the filling tub. The water frothed slightly, the scent of lavender and vanilla curling into the air.

Your heart clenched. He always remembered what you liked.

Jayce turned back to you, his eyes warm as he stepped between your legs. “Let’s get you in, baby.”

His hands were steady as he helped you down, guiding you carefully into the water. The heat licked at your skin, soothing the ache in your muscles, and you let out a soft sigh as you sank deeper, the tension in your body slowly easing away.

Jayce followed soon after, stepping into the tub behind you. The water sloshed as he settled, his long legs bracketing yours, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just existed there, wrapped in warmth, in each other. Jayce’s hands moved in slow, lazy patterns over your stomach, your thighs, tracing idle shapes in the water.

Then he reached for the washcloth, lathering it up before running it gently over your skin. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured, his voice low, soothing.

You hummed, leaning into his touch as he cleaned you with the utmost care, wiping away the mess of sweat and slick, of him, of everything. His movements were slow, reverent, like he was cherishing every inch of you.

When he reached between your legs, his fingers brushed over your sensitive skin, and you twitched, gasping softly. Jayce immediately eased his touch, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Easy, baby. I got you.”

Your heart squeezed at the gentle reassurance, and you let him take care of you, let him soothe the lingering soreness with tender strokes, let him murmur soft praises against your skin.

By the time he was done, your body felt boneless, your head lolling against his shoulder. Jayce chuckled, his lips curving against your temple. “You falling asleep on me?”

You made a soft noise of protest, but your eyelids were heavy, your body completely at peace in his arms. Jayce smiled, pressing another kiss to your hair before draining the tub, carefully helping you out and wrapping you in a thick, fluffy towel.

He dried you off with the same careful attention, then pulled one of his shirts over your head, the fabric swallowing you whole. You sighed at the warmth of it, at the scent of him wrapped around you.

Jayce guided you back to the bed, tucking you beneath the sheets before slipping in beside you, gathering you against his chest. His arms curled around you, holding you close, his lips pressing one final, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice low, soothing. “I’m right here.”

And as you drifted off, safe in the arms of the man who adored you, you knew you’d never been more at home.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

BUTCHERED TONGUE | CS55

summary : carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not.

wc: 0.9k

an : this is a thing my bf does to me so i thought it’d be cute :> non-spanish speaking reader!!

Carlos’ latest obsession is, by far, the most infuriating one yet.

Forget about his short-lived fascination with perfecting latte art or his undying allegiance to the soccer team he won’t shut up about. No, this is worse.

He has declared it his personal mission to teach you Spanish.

The most maddening part? His methods. Subtle? No. Gentle? Not a chance. He’s decided that every sweet moment between you is an opportunity to slip in a little Español.

You’re tangled in the blankets, half-asleep, basking in the comfort of a warm bed when you feel the mattress dip beside you. A soft breath brushes against your cheek, then, nothing. Silence.

Your eyes remain closed, waiting for the familiar morning kiss.

Nothing.

You frown. “…Carlos?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re just… sitting there?”

A pause. Then, his voice, far too smug for the hour, “I’m waiting.”

“For what?” you mumble, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

“For you to ask me properly.”

You crack one eye open. He’s leaning over you, grinning like a cat who caught the canary. “Carlos,” you groan, “kiss me.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no, no, bebé. En español, por favor.” in spanish, please

Your glare could set the room on fire. “Carlos, it’s too early for this.”

“¿Demasiado temprano para aprender?” Too early to learn?

He gasps dramatically. “Nunca es demasiado temprano para aprender español.” It's never too early to learn Spanish

You groan louder, rolling onto your stomach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a dedicated teacher.”

“You’re an obnoxious teacher.”

Carlos leans in closer, lips hovering just out of reach. “Say it. Dámelo.”

Your brain, still fogged with sleep, tries to piece together his demand. “Dámelo… what does that even mean?”

His grin widens. “It means ‘give it to me.’ Very fitting, no?”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his face. He catches it effortlessly, laughing.

“¡Violencia!” he cries, clutching the pillow to his chest. “Is this how you treat your teacher? After all I do for you?”

“Carlos,” you growl.

“Yes, mi amor?”

“Just. Kiss. Me.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Pídemelo bien.” Ask me better.

You let out a strangled noise. “You’re impossible!”

“I’m waiting~”

You squeeze your eyes shut, gathering the shreds of your dignity. “Carlos, dame un beso.” Carlos, give me a kiss

A satisfied hum leaves his throat. “Mmm, qué bonita suenas cuando hablas español.” Mmm, you sound beautiful when you speak Spanish

And finally—finally—his lips meet yours, soft and warm. You melt instantly, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

But it’s over too quickly.

You blink up at him, betrayed. “That’s it?”

He taps his lips. “Your pronunciation was a little off.”

Your mouth drops open. “Excuse me?!”

Carlos laughs, dodging the swipe you aim at him. “Relax, bebé, I’m kidding. Mostly.” He settles back on his elbows, still grinning. “But if you want another one… conjugate el verbo ‘besar’ en presente.” Conjugate the verb 'to kiss' in the present tense

You groan so loudly it rattles the windows. “Carlos!”

“What? It’s very simple. Yo beso, tú besas, él besa…” I kiss, you kiss, he kisses

“Nosotros rompemos,” you snap, throwing the blankets over your head. We're breaking up

Carlos bursts into laughter. “Oh, so now you can conjugate!”

You peek out just enough to glare at him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

He smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Y tú eres muy afortunada de tenerme.” And you are very lucky to have me

You huff but can’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. What’s ‘kiss me again’ in Spanish?”

Carlos lights up like you handed him a trophy. “Bésame otra vez.”

You try to repeat it, but your tongue stumbles. “Bes…a…me otra vez?”

His eyes soften. “Perfecto.”

You hum, feigning thoughtfulness. “And what’s ‘stop being annoying’?”

Carlos gasps. “Deja de ser molesto. But that’s not nearly as romantic.”

“Oh, but it’s accurate.”

“You wound me.” He clutches his chest. “After all this effort to enrich your mind-”

“To torture me.”

“-to nurture your linguistic abilities-”

“Molesto.” Annoying

Carlos leans in, eyes gleaming. “You love it.”

Unfortunately, you kind of do.

—-

Later, Carlos continues his relentless campaign.

You’re in the kitchen, trying to make coffee, when arms wrap around your waist. A chin rests on your shoulder.

“¿Qué haces?” he murmurs into your neck. What're you doing?

You sigh. “Trying to survive.”

“That’s not Spanish.”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“That’s also not Spanish.”

You sigh deeply. “Estoy… intentando… sobrevivir.” I'm trying to survive

Carlos squeezes you, proud. “¡Muy bien!” Very good

“Coffee first. Spanish later.”

“Coffee is Spanish. Café.”

You elbow him lightly. “Stop.”

He laughs but doesn’t let go. “Okay, okay. But when you drink it, say está delicioso.”

“If I spill it on you, that’s intentional.”

“Intencional. Good job, bebé!”

You groan but can’t help laughing.

—-

By afternoon, Carlos has moved on to labeling objects around the house with sticky notes.

You walk into the living room and find the remote with a bright yellow note: control remoto.

The fridge: refrigerador.

Even the dog is not spared, a tiny note precariously taped to its collar: perro.

You stare at Carlos, who is sitting smugly on the couch.

“Really?”

“What? Visual aids are very effective.”

“You labeled the dog.”

Carlos shrugs. “Perro needs to know who he is.”

The dog glares at him and stalks off.

You pluck a sticky note off the lamp. “This is getting out of hand.”

Carlos leans forward. “You’re learning, though.”

“I’m learning to throw these at you.”

“Lánzamelos. Go ahead.” Throw them at me

You throw one at his forehead. It sticks. He doesn’t even blink.

“Wow. Fluent.”

—-

By evening, you’re curled up on the couch, Carlos half-asleep beside you.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you murmur.

“Mmm. Ridículo.”

You nudge him. “I’m serious.”

His eyes crack open, lazy and soft. “But you’re learning.”

You sigh, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.”

Carlos smiles, eyes closing again. “Te quiero, bebé.” I love you, baby

You smile against his shirt. “Love you too.”

A beat.

“Say it in Spanish.”

You groan into his chest. “Carlos-”

“Come on…”

“…Yo también te quiero.” I love you too

Carlos hums contentedly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Perfecta.”

[miioouu]

Ghost's New Neighbour pt2

I wasn’t planning on making a second part of this, but since you all like it and asked for it, here we go, i guess. Tw: Smut, Oral (male receiving), no gender used for reader (but a little feminine?), mean Ghost (sorry, i tried many times to write a sweet simon fic but i just can’t!!) Wc: 842 

“Come over later, 8:30 pm sharp, I don't appreciate tardiness” His words ring in your ears, distracting you from your tasks. How are you supposed to focus on putting your plates away when you can still feel the ghost of his lips against your skin? 

You know it’s a bad idea; first of all, he’s your neighbour, it’ll be awkward later on, you’ll definitely regret it, and what if the word comes out; do you really want to be known as the building’s resident slut? Second of all, he’s a stranger, you don’t know anything about him. Even the doorbell doesn’t have his name on it, paper white without even an initial or anything to give you a clue about this mysterious man. You’ll regret it, you definitely will. 

So why are you smoothing down your clothes? Rechecking your lipstick for the nth time? Why are your fingers hovering above this damn ringer, throwing all morals away?

It’s 8:30 sharp when the ding echoes in his rather empty apartment; he chuckles, part of him certain that you’d come over, the other held hope that you’d be a little wiser than this, a little more modest than this; but you weren’t, of course not, else you wouldn’t have let you touch him like he did in the elevator, wouldn’t have shivered when his words tickled your ear, wouldn’t have gotten wet at the feather-like brushing of his cock against your ass. No dignity, he thinks as he lazily makes his way over to open the door for you, internally laughing at the sight of you making yourself all pretty for him, what a nice shade of lipstick. 

He liked it so much, that pinkish tone that made you look a little more glowy, a little more flushed, not that you needed that enhanced. He liked it so much on your lips, and even more when it left a mark around his shaft. Honestly you don’t remember how you got here; one moment you were shuffling in his doorway, struggling to greet him without stuttering, the next you were in the middle of his living room, on your knees, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth languidly. His hands find your hair, guiding you back and forth around his length, setting a slow pace at first, wanting to relish in the feeling of your warm mouth, the tightness of your throat constricting as you gag whenever he pushes a little too deep. 

But Simon was never a patient man, sure he learned how to dismiss his frustration on the field, learned how to manipulate himself into being more forbearing, but he will not use those tricks now, not when he has bright, glossy eyes looking at him, begging him to use their mouth. Who was he to deny them anyway? He thought about warning you, but where’s the fun in that, right? In a swift motion, he pulls you closer until your nose nuzzles against his pelvic, his pubes tickling you but you don’t have time to adjust because he’s already pistoning his cock in and out your warm cave. He lets out a groan, his head falls back as he feels your nails dig in his thighs, holding onto him like a lifeline, creating bloody crescents on his skin, just some other scars to add to his collection. 

The once always empty, always eerily silent apartment, now feels suffocating, loud with groans and hisses from the tall man, mixed with your gagging echoing through the room. “Slut” that whispered word is what broke the chaotic symphony. Your pride is telling you to pull away, glare at him and defend your honor, but you can’t do that; not with his hands clutching at your hair and keeping you in place as he fucks your mouth, not when your thighs are pressing together, imagining, knowing, just how soaked the pretty panties you were wearing became.  

You can feel him getting closer to the edge with the way his thrusts became messier and more erratic, with the way his grip on your hair keeps tightening and getting loose over and over again, with the way his eyes are fluttering, cheeks are getting redder and his chest is heaving, letting out mumbled curses under his breath. “Fuck…come on make me cum, pretty girl” The demand alone made your thighs clench, a whimper escaped you, vibrating around him and sending goosebumps all over his body “Fuckin’ slut” he groans, accent heavy, as he finally stills, reaching deep as he releases ropes of hot, sticky liquid, painting your throat white. 

You’d think this was only the beginning, the way his hand loosens around your hair, massaging your scalp where he was pulling too hard, making you melt and whimper, heart skipping a beat at his gentleness, only to be broken the moment he pushes you back, adjusting his sweatpants properly before turning away. “Tomorrow at the same time, don’t be late. Now leave my house, it’s not the place for a desperate whore like you.”

Tag List: @blkmtllvr @curtaindiver4000 @moozinomoto

[goldfades]

anniversary! | JOE BURROW⁹ [011]

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe's second wedding anniversary!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | nothing but sweet, unfiltered fluff! hayes being a cutie, mentions of baby #2, joe being the best hubby and dad + soft!joe, reminiscing about old times, just a sweet fic

The first thing you noticed was the soft, warm weight of Hayes sprawled across your chest, his tiny hand clutching the fabric of your sleep shirt. The second was the smell of coffee and something delicious wafting through the air, nudging you out of the last remnants of sleep. You blinked your eyes open, the sunlight filtering through the curtains casting a gentle glow over the room.

Joe was already awake, perched on the edge of the bed with a tray in his hands, grinning like a man who had just accomplished something grand. And maybe he had.

"Happy anniversary," he said, his voice soft but full of warmth. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he placed the tray carefully on the bed beside you.

Your gaze shifted to the tray, taking in the sight of a steaming mug of coffee, perfectly golden pancakes stacked high with a dollop of whipped cream and fresh berries, and a little vase with a single flower—picked from the backyard, no doubt. It was simple, thoughtful, and so Joe.

"Wow," you murmured, your voice still thick with sleep. "This is… a lot nicer than the burnt toast I made you last year."

Joe laughed, his hand brushing your hair back from your face before leaning down to kiss your forehead. "I figured I’d set the bar a little higher this time."

Hayes stirred against you, his messy curls tickling your chin as he stretched and let out a little yawn. His big eyes fluttered open, and when he saw Joe, his face lit up with a sleepy smile.

“Dada!” he babbled, reaching his chubby arms out toward Joe, who immediately scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Good morning, buddy,” Joe said, settling Hayes between the two of you. The little boy wasted no time grabbing at the tray, his curious fingers aiming straight for the whipped cream.

“Hey, no, no,” you said, laughing as you intercepted him. “This is Mama’s anniversary breakfast, not Hayes’ whipped cream buffet.”

Joe chuckled, leaning back against the headboard with Hayes tucked under one arm. “Let him have a little,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a special day.”

You sighed in mock exasperation but couldn’t help smiling as you dipped a finger into the whipped cream and held it out for Hayes, who giggled as he tasted it.

As you shared bites of pancake and sips of coffee, the three of you tangled together in the blankets, Joe turned to you with a look that made your heart flutter.

“I was thinking last night,” he began, his voice low and steady, “about how much has changed since our first anniversary. Back then, it was just us, and now… now we have this little guy.” He ruffled Hayes’ hair, earning another giggle. “And I just… I can’t believe how lucky I am. To have you, to have him.”

His words were simple, but they carried the weight of every moment you’d shared—the highs and the lows, the laughter and the tears.

“You gave me everything I never knew I needed,” he continued, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve made my life fuller than I ever thought it could be. And Hayes—” He glanced down at your son, who was happily smushing a piece of pancake between his fingers. “He’s the best thing we’ve ever done. Thank you. For him, for you… for all of it.”

Your throat tightened with emotion, and you reached out to take his hand, your fingers threading together in an unspoken promise. “You don’t have to thank me,” you said softly. “This… this is everything I’ve ever wanted, too.”

Joe leaned over, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had melted away, leaving just the three of you in this quiet, perfect bubble.

Hayes chose that moment to interrupt, babbling something incomprehensible as he patted Joe’s cheek with sticky fingers.

“Alright, alright,” Joe laughed, pulling back with a grin. “Looks like someone’s ready for his second breakfast.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, too, your heart swelling with love for the two most important people in your life. It was the perfect start to a day that would be all about celebrating the life you’d built together.

Joe slid the tray to the bedside table, giving Hayes free rein to crawl around on the bed, his tiny legs kicking excitedly under the soft blankets. You stretched, letting the warmth of the morning and the weight of Joe’s words settle over you. Everything about this moment felt right—unhurried and filled with the kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures to be felt.

Hayes, meanwhile, was fully invested in his mission to crawl across the bed. He tugged at the hem of your pajama shirt before plopping onto Joe’s chest, making his dad laugh as he sat there proudly like he’d conquered a mountain.

“Look at this guy,” Joe said, hoisting Hayes up so they were nose to nose. “You think you’re the king of the castle, huh?”

Hayes let out a squeal, his tiny hands smacking Joe’s face in what could only be described as pure toddler enthusiasm. Joe didn’t even flinch, just caught one of Hayes’ hands and pretended to chomp on it, earning more squeals of delight.

You sat back and watched them, your chest tightening in that bittersweet way that always seemed to happen when you took a step back and truly saw them. Joe, who had spent years mastering precision on the field, was completely at ease letting your son tug on his ears and drool on his shirt. And Hayes, who had inherited his father’s boundless energy, was the happiest little boy you’d ever seen.

“You’re really good at this, you know,” you said quietly, your gaze lingering on Joe as he pulled Hayes into a bear hug.

“At what?” Joe asked, glancing at you with a raised brow.

“This,” you said, gesturing toward the two of them. “Being a dad. Being his dad.”

Joe’s expression softened, and he looked down at Hayes, who was now attempting to grab the string on Joe’s hoodie. “He makes it easy,” he said simply. “And so do you.”

Before you could respond, Hayes decided he’d had enough of the bed and began squirming in Joe’s arms, reaching for the edge like he was ready to tackle the day head-on.

“Alright, little man,” Joe said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing with Hayes perched on his hip. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you stick to something.”

You laughed as Joe carried Hayes toward the bathroom, the sound of their laughter echoing back to you. You took a moment to stretch out on the bed, savoring the quiet before the day truly began.

When Joe returned, Hayes was freshly changed and looking quite pleased with himself. Joe plopped him down in the middle of the bed, where he immediately began babbling to himself, his little hands exploring the folds of the blanket.

“I was thinking,” Joe said, sitting down beside you and leaning back on his hands. “After breakfast, we could take Hayes to the park. Let him run around a bit. Maybe tire him out so we can actually have a peaceful dinner tonight.”

You smirked, leaning into his side. “I like how you think. But you know he’s like you—boundless energy. It’s going to take more than a trip to the park to wear him out.”

Joe chuckled, his arm draping over your shoulders. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got you to keep me in check.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest as Hayes crawled toward you, his little face lighting up when you scooped him into your lap. The three of you sat there for a while, tangled up in each other, the world outside your little bubble feeling distant and unimportant.

Eventually, the sound of Hayes’ tummy rumbling reminded you that breakfast wasn’t the only thing on the agenda. Joe stood and took the tray back to the kitchen while you changed Hayes into a tiny pair of overalls that made him look like a mini Joe.

When Joe returned, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, that’s unfair. He’s going to outshine me today.”

You grinned, adjusting Hayes’ straps. “He’s been outshining you since the day he was born, Burrow. Better get used to it.”

Joe leaned down, kissing your temple before crouching to kiss Hayes’ cheek. “As long as you two are with me, I don’t mind.”

With Hayes on Joe’s shoulders and your hand in his, the three of you headed out to start the day. It was simple, just a walk to the park, but it felt monumental in the quiet way that only family moments could.

As you walked, Joe started talking about the future—not in the usual, vague way, but with detail. About how he wanted Hayes to grow up knowing the value of hard work but also the importance of slowing down. About how he wanted to make sure you all had time to just be together, no matter how chaotic life got.

You squeezed his hand, your heart full as you watched Hayes point excitedly at a dog passing by. “Sounds like a pretty good plan,” you said, your voice soft but sure.

Joe looked at you, his smile gentle but full of meaning. “It’s the only plan that matters.”

And in that moment, with the sun shining and Hayes laughing on his dad’s shoulders, you knew you wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

Joe leaned against the kitchen counter, a spatula in one hand and a dish towel draped over his shoulder. The warm glow of the pendant lights above the kitchen island cast a golden hue over the room, complementing the aroma of garlic and rosemary wafting through the air. Dinner was simple—pan-seared chicken, roasted vegetables, and a crisp salad—but it was made with the same care and intention he put into everything for you.

Hayes had finally tapped out after a day of running wild at the park and chasing bubbles on the front lawn. Now, he was sound asleep in his crib, his tiny form sprawled out in the unbothered way only toddlers could manage.

You stood by the counter, watching Joe cook, a glass of wine cradled in your hand. The sight of him—hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, focused on the skillet—made your heart ache in the best way.

“Can I help with anything?” you asked, though you knew he’d say no.

Joe glanced over his shoulder, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You can keep me company. That’s help enough.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but stayed put, sipping your wine and letting the soft clinking of utensils and the low hum of music from the speaker fill the comfortable silence.

Once dinner was ready, Joe set the plates on the table, dimmed the lights, and lit a single candle in the middle. It wasn’t elaborate, but it felt intimate—like something straight out of those quiet, golden moments you dreamed about when imagining a life together.

“You really went all out, huh?” you teased as you sat down.

Joe shrugged, pouring himself a glass of wine before taking a seat across from you. “It’s our anniversary. Gotta remind you why you put up with me.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t need a candlelit dinner to remember that, Joe. But I appreciate it.”

The two of you ate slowly, savoring both the food and the moment. Conversation flowed easily, starting with Hayes and his antics at the park before drifting into memories of the early days of your relationship.

“Do you remember our first date?” Joe asked, leaning back in his chair, his plate nearly empty.

You grinned. “Which part? The awkward small talk or when you almost spilled your drink all over me?”

Joe groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I thought we agreed to never bring that up again.”

“No, you agreed to that,” you said, laughing. “I still think it’s funny.”

Joe shook his head, but his smile gave him away. “I was so nervous. I thought I was going to blow it.”

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. “You didn’t. Even then, I knew you were something special.”

Joe’s expression softened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I didn’t always make it easy, though.”

You knew what he was referring to—those moments when his career demands felt like a wedge, when the long-distance stretches tested your patience and resolve. There were times you wondered if it would be easier to let go, but something always pulled you back to him, like gravity.

“Neither did I,” you admitted. “But we figured it out. And now look at us.”

Joe’s gaze drifted toward the baby monitor on the counter, where the soft static hum of Hayes’ breathing filled the room. “Yeah,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Now we’ve got the best thing we’ve ever done.”

You followed his gaze, your chest tightening with emotion. “We really do.”

Joe’s eyes flicked back to you, a spark of mischief in them now. “You know, I was thinking...”

“Oh, no. That’s never good,” you teased, but your heart fluttered at the way he was looking at you.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Hear me out. I was just thinking how much fun Hayes would have with a little brother or sister.”

Your brows shot up, and you set your glass down carefully. “Joe Burrow, are you saying you want another baby?”

“Not right this second,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “But... yeah. I’ve been thinking about it. A lot, actually.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “And what exactly have you been thinking?”

Joe leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Well, if it’s a boy, I can already picture Hayes teaching him how to throw a football. They’d be inseparable—best friends for life. And if it’s a girl...” He paused, a soft smile spreading across his face. “If it’s a girl, she’s gonna have me wrapped around her finger from the moment she’s born.”

Your heart swelled at the thought, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. “You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

Joe nodded, his gaze steady. “I just... I love what we’ve built together. And I want more of it. More memories, more love, more us.”

You reached across the table again, your hand finding his. “I want that too,” you said softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of the conversation settling in the most beautiful way. Outside, the world carried on, but here, in the soft glow of the candlelight, it felt like time had stopped, just for you.

Eventually, Joe stood, clearing the plates and tidying up the kitchen while you refilled your wine glass. When he was done, he settled next to you on the couch, Hayes’ baby monitor still humming on the side table.

Joe pulled you close, his arm draped over your shoulders as he kissed your temple. “Happy anniversary,” he murmured.

You smiled, leaning into him as the warmth of the day’s love and laughter lingered in the air. “Happy anniversary, Joe.”

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[l0v3gore]

Aftermath ☠︎︎

Yikes!!! - The link to the inspo of this oneshot 🥲

Kirishima.ver - here!

Feat.Katsuki Bakugo

Warnings:- Hangover, vomiting, near death experience and over all suffering.

Synopsis:- When you wake up with a sprained foot, a stomach that hates you, and a memory of a goldfish, you know it’s been an insane night. But things really hit rock bottom when you realize Katsuki Bakugo—the guy who literally saved your life from going splat run over by a lorry—has stuck around to witness your suffering firsthand. Between the projectile vomiting, the awkwardly holding a bucket, and Bakugo’s zero-tolerance for your stupidity, you’re left wondering if this is what true love looks like—or if you’re just lucky he hasn’t killed you yet. Either way, you’ve got a lot of apologizing to do... after you can stand up without throwing up again.

If you hadn't hit rock bottom already, you were definitely going there.

Your foot? Sprained. Your stomach? A warzone. And the last segments of your remaining ego and dignity were long gone after the first sip. So much for keeping up with that mysterious, nonchalant aura.

You didn't remember much of the night before—or maybe you were better off not trying to.

The stinging pain in your foot that slowly travelled up your back as you were practically grappling for your life in the middle of the road, the blinding lights that cut off your vision as the lorry preyed on your struggling form—Yikes!!!

Nevertheless, bad decisions were made, and here you were doubled over a bucket retching as your stomach revolted against you. Retching was a nice way to put it, but if we're being completely honest, it sounded like an exorcism was being performed, and in a way of its own, it was. Of course this was absolutely not left unheard by Katsuki as he approached you, mumbling curses left, right, and centre.

You barely lift your head. "Kats, I think I'm dying… --BLEGH"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep exhale as he does, "Good."

You whimper, clutching the bucket as another wave of nausea hits you like a tonne of bricks. Katsuki, on the other hand, reluctantly crouches down beside you. His hand—warm, firm—rubs small circles against your back in a way that almost makes you feel human again.

"You're so fucking lucky I was there," he grumbles, but his words hold no malice, rather an undertone of worry.

The only response you had left in you was a mewl as you lurched forward once more, practically burying your face in the bucket as you held onto one of his arms to support your weakened, frail frame: "Please kill me."

He clenches his jaw. "You almost got flattened; wasn't that good enough, dumbass!?"

Your personal recollection of the night before was limited compared to Katsuki's; it was vaguely painted out in black and white, and his little remark rebooted your memory just enough to lift your heavy head and lock his eyes with yours.

"Oh." That was it; that was all you could muster.

"Oh?" He snaps. "Is that all you have to say??"

"...Thanks for saving me?"

He rolls his eyes, not saying much, as he presses a bottle of water into the palms of your hands. "Drink up. Slowly," he warned.

You sip at it gingerly, eyes fluttering shut as the cool, refreshing liquid cleanses the palate of your tongue, the lingering bitter taste instantly washed away in one go, and after a small, hollowing silence, he speaks up.

"You're a pain in the ass." A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips after he said that, his hand still on your back, soft and steady, holding you in place even as you slump over, exhausted and wrecked. You know he's not going anywhere, letting out a small hum in response, pausing a moment, "...I know..." You say, barely just above a whisper, as you let your body collapse against him, taking in all his warmth and comfort.

[melliemell]

Happy Birthday to the biggest baby ever!

Shoutout to Flamey for hosting his bday party and encouraging us to participate (gosh, I love her writing so much, you've no idea)

Pairing: Ranpo x reader

Contents: SFW, Ranpo being a menace, bike riding 101 + public transport is for losers, approx 2.1k words

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t see the point in that,” Ranpo declared with all the dignity in the world as he flopped down on the pavement. Carefree. And too calm.

You levelled your breath, trying to balance the bike on your hip as your anxiety grew by the second. You’ve been employed at the ADA for some time now, not enough to be on familiar terms with your colleagues, but enough to have figured out some of their quirks and knacks over the weeks.

Ranpo was a pretty open book, to be frank. A man that whined and lazied about most of the time, but most importantly– he never seemed to be in a hurry for anything. 

“This is the best I could do,” you said, clutching the bike’s handles in exasperation. “Please, Ranpo. If we don’t go now, we’ll be late for the 4 pm meeting.” 

You could, under no circumstances, be late for that. Especially Ranpo, seeing as he was the one who’d be leading the update on the new case you were signed to. He was signed to. Not you, you were merely the unlucky clerk who happened to be at the office at the wrong time. You had wondered why everyone scurried away when Yosano asked for assistance with Ranpo.

The man was an absolute disaster with public transport. 

Even more so when said transport was also nonexistent, and you might be somewhat stranded in an unfamiliar neighbourhood with no available taxis and a bored out of his mind detective looking at you like you’ve grown a second head in the span of 2 seconds.

“What?” you asked.

Ranpo leaned back on the heels of his palms, head cocked as he raised a brow. “You don’t even know how to ride that, by the way. How’s that gonna work out for ya?”

You don’t remember mentioning that to him. You raised your chin. “It’s a matter of balance more than anything. And determination.” Or so you hoped; not that it mattered. It was this or the walk of shame.

Not on your watch.

“Sure sure,” Ranpo answered absently as he flipped his phone, a catchy melody spilling from it a moment later, a familiar rhythm game flashing briefly from what you could see on the screen.

You pursed your lips.

You looked down at the bike, trying to focus. Most things really did come down to a few simple truths– an insistent mindset and a healthy dose of delusion and you were good to go! Although, as you sat down, one leg tentatively balancing your weight, and Kunikida’s voice of stern encouragement in your head–he would do what he must for his responsibilities, truly a man to look up to–you stepped on the pedal and–

The bike swirled, your eyes widening in panic as you fought in that millisecond to regain balance. You heard a low wohoo from behind you even if Ranpo’s eyes were still glued to his phone. 

Yes, right. Determination.

It was almost like a mantra, one that sounded more and more exasperated in your head with every attempt at moving this damned bike. It just wouldn’t keep still. Clutching onto the handles for dear life made little to no difference in your fight against gravity. But your annoyed huffs and general aura of built-up exasperation did finally bring about something.

That is, Ranpo sighing dramatically before standing up. 

He leaned close, poking you in the shoulder. “That’s not how you do it, stupid.” 

You looked at him, forcing a face of serenity on your features. “I only need a bit of time.”

“I’m bored. Looking at you failing at basic physics made me hungry too.”

A thought popped into your mind. You smiled innocently. “Is that so?”

“Don’t try that with me.” He looked around, trying to mask the giddiness in his body before he spoke again. “My work is very tiring and I need my deserved downtime. With snacks provided.”

“But you’re not finished with work.”

“Helloo?” Ranpo waved his hand in your face. “Case closed, job done. And I already sent a text with some details while you were wriggling in the air like a sardine.” He pouted, crossing his hands. “What’s the point in talking to a bunch of old men about their job when I already did it for them.”

Kunikida had briefed you on this before. You knew perfectly well where this was going. 

“Ranpo,” you began, not letting his dejected puppy face sway you in the slightest. “It is in the best interest of the Agency that we proceed in a customary manner. If we wish to maintain the respect we’ve attained, then I will do what is–”

“They knew they couldn’t solve their case without me, though,” Ranpo stated matter of fact. Like it was common sense.

You blinked. “Yes, because of the ADA’s reputation–”

“Nuh-huh, not that. They know my reputation. Can’t help it, being the best that I am.”

“Ranpo, I can’t deny your immeasurable talents–” you could almost see his ears perk up at the compliment, “–but… we still need to get there, they need to hear from yourself about everything. And impress them in person with your deductive prowess.”

You were grasping at anything at the moment. Convincing Ranpo was more concerning than the bike situation, and besides, multitasking was for losers. One victory at a time.

But it seemed to do the trick, at least a bit. Ranpo was far more receptive than earlier and with just the right amount of push… a man with vanity was easy to spin around, although it leaves you with a bitter sense of disloyalty in the end.

“Hmm,” Ranpo hummed, eyeing up the bike behind you as his hand came up to his chin in thought. “You know we’ll definitely run over a car sooner or later. Or a poor grandma, they run about in the afternoons a lot.”

“Uuh,” you said, dumbly. Not like you could argue with that.

A silent pause of a few seconds, followed by a prolonged groan as Ranpo slacked his body forward.

“We’ll begin slow; I’m a quick learner if–”

Your words died in your throat as Ranpo all but heaved a great sigh and plopped himself on the bike seat. 

He threw a glance over his shoulder, “I’m doing this once and only once. And only after you agree to stop by a candy shop on the way.” He patted the remaining space behind him as you looked at him, surprise written on your face.

No way. No way was this man–this man who barely knew how to punch up the right buttons on the ticket machine thinking he’d be the one in the front.

“You know, I think it would be best if I was at the handles,” you started, earning a scoff from Ranpo.

“Sure, if you insist. Aaall the way from the back. And do the navigation; I still don’t know where we are right now.”

You came closer, still unsure. “Ranpo, don’t tell me you actually know how to ride a bike?”

“What kind of loser doesn’t learn it when they’re a kid,‘ he said, then cocked his head. “Besides you, I guess. Weren’t we in a hurry, by the way?”

You eyed Ranpo suspiciously. Although he was sitting with an air of confidence that could belong to someone who knew what they were doing.

Or he was just being Ranpo. 

Tentatively, you sat down in the space behind him, earning a finally from Ranpo as he faced forward. The remaining doubt in your mind all but exploded into a rush of panic and clutched hands in fabric as sudden wind engulfed you, the street you were in a messy blotch of colours as it flew by.

“Hey!” Ranpo shouted over his shoulder, wriggling. “It’s just a small slant, so stop clinging so much! Work on checking where that store is.”

You hadn’t realized you had all but glued yourself to Ranpo’s back, hands clutching the front of his vest like a lifeline. You tried loosening your grip, enough to give him some breathing space but ended up just wrapping them in a different position. Not a chance…

“I am not taking out my phone, Ranpo. Please slow down. Please. Very please.”

“We’re almost down, it’s fine. I also don’t know where we’re going,” Ranpo said, glancing at you briefly. “Do you have motion sickness or something?”

You gritted your teeth. “No. I’m fine. Just don’t get us to the main road or I might really die–”

“No problem. No clue where that is.”

You sighed. Cars and traffic lights didn’t sound like they’d go well with you both right now. You could get by pretty okay with general directions, so you’d be fine so long as you kept away from any vehicles. An idea formed in your mind as Ranpo slowed down by the end of the road.

“Take a left here,” you said, calming your breathing. Ranpo nodded.

You got the hang of it by your third or fourth crossing, careful to keep by residential buildings rather than risk your luck. You knew you were heading in the right direction at least. You had silently hoped Ranpo would drop the candy shop idea, there was barely time for that, and it seemed the case he was more amused by chatting aimlessly as he pedalled along to your directions. You barely listened to him at the start but as the minutes went by you found yourself relaxing, bit by bit, his words serving as a distraction.

Knowing Ranpo, it might have been on purpose. Or not. He rarely cared for such things, but you still found yourself smiling gently at the possibility. He could be nice when he wants to. 

“Hey, where now? You look spacy back there, should I bring up the speed?” Ranpo asked, snorting at your quick stammer of absolutely not, don’t you dare, Ranpo!

Buildings and streets soon turned into nestled playgrounds amongst trees, and the number of benches with senior citizens gossiping about their day brought about a peaceful change of scenery as you entered one of the bigger parks. You breathed a sigh of relief. You were pretty near by now.

Ranpo whistled absently, looking about. “You know, just when I was thinking we’d spare the grandmas.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Okay okay, I’m sorry for panicking earlier. We’ve been doing pretty great so far, let’s keep it at that.”

“Hmm.” Ranpo stretched back, moving your body with his as you got a mouthful of hair in your face. “Only because I saved the day here. It’s exhausting being in the front.”

“Why, do you want to switch places?” You said, shaking his hair from your face.

The bike slowed down as Ranpo’s green eyes stared back at you. “Obviously. But that also means I’ll have to suffer the consequences. Don’t wanna.” He flopped back, fully resting against your front as he pouted. 

You weren’t used to that much proximity with him, but then again his disregard for personal space had always been pretty much there. “Just a bit more, we’re almost there, you know.”

“Bleh.”

“Come on, come on,” you said as you began poking him incessantly in the cheek. He batted your hand away and you laughed. “I promise I’ll know how to ride a bike in case of a next time.” 

Ranpo sighed dramatically, but picked up the speed. “I still haven’t forgotten about the snacks. You owe me, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. What a big baby. “Yep, they’ll be on me. So long as you get us on time.” You poked him again for emphasis. 

“Hey!” Ranpo grabbed your hand, drawing it back to its place around his torso. “And you stay there, sheesh.” 

You nestled back on his shoulder, hiding the grin spreading on your lips. He was pretty fun to tease. 

Ranpo eyed you, and then after a pause– “Meeting’s gonna be a bore. I’ll give 15 minutes tops and we’re out of there, you hear? That’d be enough for you to find a pastry nearby, right?”

“Wait, now?” You had thought more along the lines of ‘bring him some chocolates next time at work’ type of situation. This did catch you off guard. 

“Duh, and don’t lose the bike,” he said, matter of fact. “Might as well educate you on how not to run into trees. Or children.” That was accompanied by your yelp after a risky manoeuvre around a group of running children. 

This… wasn’t something you expected. You tried to look closer at Ranpo’s face but he kept his gaze straight ahead, features neutral save for a light flush that had spread on his cheeks. He was rather handsome, now that you think about it. And as annoying as he could be, you found yourself wondering what else you could learn about him.

Life was about trying out things, wasn’t it? “If you make fun of me again I swear to you Ranpo Edogawa, I will eat all of the snacks I’m bringing.”

“Hey, now! That’s mean.”

“I’m paying for them, mister. You’ve been warned.”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Their planning session didn’t bear much fruit. Harrington had tried the water in his sink, and it came out a murky black. When he pulled snacks out of a hidden bottom in one of his dresser drawers, each unopened pack was full of mold and ash. 

They had no weapons, no game-plan, and the sky was still red. In short, they were fucked. 

The bickering was kept barely civil by the need to control their volume. 

“–just think we should consider scoping the place out!” Harrington was whispering but enunciating like a shout. “For all we know there’s good food at the store, or a way out of here right where we went in, or at least some water at the quarry!”

“You want to drink quarry water? That shit’s inedible even when there’s not toxic ash particles floating in it!”

“That’s not the point!” Harrington’s passing in front of him, raking his hand through his drooping hair. “We can’t just hide in my room forever. No one’s coming to save us!”

“Not forever, man.” Eddie replies, leg twitching from where he’s still sitting at the edge of Harrington’s bed. “But that thing’s still out there. I don’t know about you, but I think we should have a better idea for surviving it than just hoping it’s not out there!”

Harrington droops, shoulders, mouth, hair, and then drops to the carpet where he was standing. “Shit, okay, okay, you’re right.”

That same thrill goes through him at seeing Harrington beneath his feet. He squashes it down, scooching off the bed to sit across from Harrington on the floor. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, voice gone quiet and kind at the look of desolation on Harrington’s face. “We’re gonna figure this shit out, man.”

Harrington laughs, and it sounds remarkably like the laugh he always heard across high school hallways and cafeterias and gyms. Hollow. Eddie has the absurd urge to throw his arms around him. 

“Okay man, how about we start by raiding your closet. I don’t know about you, but my clothes reek like your rich-boy pool.”

Harrington scoffs, but dutifully levers himself off the floor to shuffle through his open closet. He throws a navy blue long sleeve in Eddie’s direction, followed by an awful pair of bleach-washed jeans, socks, and a pair of underwear. 

Then, like Eddie’s another jock and they’re in the locker room after practice, Harrington starts stipping with no regard to modesty. Eddie quickly turns his back from the sight and begins to do the same. His jeans jangle when he drops them on the carpet, chain and lunch box rattling when they hit the floor. Eddie holds a silent memorial for all the dignity he was about to lose.

He’s just pulled the slightly short pants on and buttoned the fly when he hears the little “huh,” Harrington lets out.

Quickly pulling the shirt over his head, he turns to see what Harrington’s on about. Luckily, the other boy still had his underwear on. Unluckily that was all he had on as he crouched down and stared at the ring cradled in his hand. Absurdly, Eddie thought of Gollum and had to bite his lip on the laugh in his throat.

“Whatcha got there, Stevie boy?”

Still crouched, Harrington held the ring up toward Eddie, clutched between pointer finger and thumb, looking like a man picking the worst possible moment to propose marriage.

“This yours?” he asks.

It was. “Where’d you get that?” he demands, snatching it from Harrington’s grasp.

“Fell out of my pants.”

Eddie looks down at the little ring in his palm. It was his Mom’s–the perfect size for only his littlest fingers. He remembers the pressure and sudden pain of his finger being wrenched out of where it was tucked into Harrington’s pants. He hadn’t even realized it was missing. 

Slipping it onto his other pinkie, Eddie murmurs a quiet “thanks,” cheeks blooming with color at the implications. 

Harrington doesn’t respond, but Eddie can feel his gaze on the back of his head as he walks over to Harrington’s horrific plaid curtains and twitches them back to look outside. There’s nothing to see but the same red sky, the same vine-covered pool, the same empty backyard they’d fled last night. 

Not wanting to stare at the hopeless sight anymore, Eddie bends down to pull the borrowed socks and his slightly damp boots back on his feet.

Eddie can hear the sound of clothes shuffling behind him, refusing to turn back around until the sound stops. But then Harrington gasps out, “Nancy?”

Eddie turns, expecting to see Harrington’s girlfriend miraculously in the room with them, but there’s nothing but Harrington spinning wildly around the room, looking for something Eddie can’t see. 

“Nancy?” he says again, louder this time, still at nothing.

Eddie’s sure he’s gone around the bend, and he’s going to have to put him down like old yeller, but then he hears it, “-would he have gone?” It’s quiet, muffled, but there.

“I don’t know, Nancy,” another voice replies, sounding exasperated. “Maybe he’s off with his parents vacationing in Europe or something. Who cares? Can we go before someone calls the police?”

“Barb?” Steve calls again, growing louder still. 

Eddie still can’t see anyone, but he calls out “Wheeler?” desperate to be heard.

“Will is missing, though!” Wheeler replies. Her voice sounds shrill—less like she’s panicking and more like she’s about ready to lose it and sock her friend in the jaw. “Do you really think that’s a coincidence?”

“Yes!”

“Nancy!” Steve calls again, this time loud enough to echo through the room.

Eddie’s yanked open the closed door to the Harrington’s stupid en-suite bathroom, like Wheeler and her mystery friend will suddenly appear in the bath tub, hanging out like the world is still normal. He’s even poked his head into the dark interior of the closet they’d slept in, but no dice.

Harrington is still screaming his head off to the two girl’s who are either playing the world’s cruelest prank or simply can’t hear him, when Eddie opens Harrington’s bedroom door.

It happens before he’s taken even one step out into the hallway. There’s that sound that makes his hair stand on end. Foxes chittering, television static trapped in an enclosed box and made horrific and animal. Eddie closes the door.

Harrington’s still screaming as it grows louder—grows closer.

“Harrington,” he snaps, voice cracking on each syllable.

He doesn’t stop screaming until Eddie’s backed up right into him, unable to look away from the door as he trips over Harrington’s feet. His shoulders are setadied.

Nancy’s still talking. Eddie can’t hear her over Harrington’s ragged breathing, over that thing chittering up the stairs.

“Munson, what’s—” He must hear it because he stops talking, and his nails really dig in, little pricks of pain that Eddie wants to lean back into.

He finds himself bargaining in his brain to some nebulous being he doesn’t believe in. He’ll let Harrington beat him bloody if that thing doesn’t come into this room. He’ll tell Wayne he loves him more. He’ll stop skipping P.E. He’ll go to church, god damn it! But none of it works. The sound grows louder.

Harrington’s forearm is suddenly in front of his sternum, pulling him along backwards. Eddie stumbles further into him, letting his weight drop onto Harrington fully. The bastard doesn’t even seem to notice, as he continues dragging Eddie bodily away from the door.

Wheeler’s friend is talking now. Eddie has no idea what she’s saying, only that her voice turns angry and shrill just as Harrington begins to slide his bedroom window up. Just as that horrific nightmare of a monster busts down Harrington’s bedroom door like it’s a cardboard playhouse.

He’s paralyzed, rooted to the spot as the thing opens its gaw and screams, twining horrifically with the mundanity of two invisible girls arguing. The blinds clack together as Harrington lunges through them, pulling Eddie out the window behind him. He can hear the strings holding them together snap–knows the sound intimately from all the guitar strings he’d broken while learning.

His back scrapes painfully on the top of the sill as he’s crammed through the opening. He doesn’t care what shapes Harrington configures his body into as long as he keeps pulling him away from that thing. 

His opinion holds as Harrington drags him bodily across the shingles of his roof. The monster lunges, stuck halfway through the too-small window, as Eddie’s hauled upright.

“Fucking, go,” Harrington yells, shoving him toward the sheer drop off the roof. He’s just considering jumping when he continues, somehow finding the energy to sound exhausted, “the gutters, man. Shimmy down. I do it all the time.”

He’s not looking at Eddie anymore, back turned like somehow keeping the monster in sight will stop it from swallowing them whole. 

Eddie eyes the gutter. It looks flimsy and too smooth to hold onto, but the horrific sounds emanating from Harrington’s bedroom make a compelling argument. He kneels, latches his hands into the loop of the gutter and swings himself off the roof. 

Vertigo almost takes him down, but Eddie manages to hang on, shuffling quickly down as he hears glass begin to splinter from above. 

Harrington’s foot catches him in the shoulder before he makes it all the way down. His fingers slip–he falls.

It’s not a long fall, but he lays, winded in the aftermath and watching Harrington leap and roll like some goddamn action hero, before he’s yanking Eddie up and dragging him blindly away from the house.

It’s quiet by the time they reach the woods. Eddie can’t hear Harrington behind him past his own ragged breathing. He only knows he’s there by the warm hand clutched tightly into his vest, like he’s a school child fond of running into the road. Eddie doesn’t mind.

He minds even less when, once fully ensconced in the trees, Harrington pushes him against a tree and pulls him down beside him. 

It’s reminiscent of those first moments in the closet. They’re close together, Eddie can’t catch his breath, and they’re both staring, horrified in front of them waiting for the big bad wolf to come eat them.

Harrington is holding his hand.

Part 4

[pryllee]

Eating Out?

Blade x Fem! Reader

The title is self-explanatory, cunnilungus / fingering, slight degrading kink, interrupted at the end, reader is implied to have a date + kinda implied to be friends with some benefits...

A/N: Got inspo from an old fic, and old blog I made/had. Wanted to try making it kinda better though, this time with Blade cus his personality fits it juuuuust right... Might've not went the way I planned it, tho.

——

"Hey," He calls your name, "Are we eating outside this time?" asking a question, and you raise a thumbs up behind the couch in response.

"Was that a yes or a no? I can't tell what you're truly thinking if you dryly raise a gesture into the air without a word." He emphasized the word ’dryly’, with his brows slightly furrowing in annoyance as you continue to remain silent.

Reluctantly, he decided to walk closer to you to find out what you were so focused on that he didn't need to be in your sight.

"So, a yes?" He spoke again with a questioning voice, crossing his arms as he scanned your figure. Head down, staring at your phone mindlessly.

Suddenly, he let out a disgruntled sigh which finally peels your eyes off the screen thats been distracting you so much.

"Oh... Uhm. Sorry. Just get take out..." You spoke with a dejected voice, raising one of his brows.

"Sure, what should we...—" He stops in the middle of his hundredth question as he found you, once again, boring eyes into your phones screen, stuck in a DM with someone.

The last time he had replied was a few hours ago. When he accepted your proposal out to a cafe — a date.

Your train of thoughts were broken as you felt your legs being slowly spread apart, your skirt stretching slightly.

"Blade?" You voiced a concern, finding his head inbetween your thighs, planting a hand on one of them.

"Actually, I think I'd rather eating out today, no?" He pushes the hem of your skirt upwards, then plastering his mouth onto your clothed sex earning a little confused yelp from you, loosely holding onto his hair.

"So, what happened this time?"

He was used to this, actually. You were always suddenly ghosted by people you've matched with on a dating app.

"Hnn...— The usual..." You let out a shaky breathe, adrenaline coursing through your veins as he slid your panties down, discarding it somewhere near.

"Hm, is that so?" He pauses, slipping a finger inside, "Perhaps it's because of how lewd you are with your roommate." Adding salt to the wound, quite like him.

"God...— You're always, mngh.. The one that...!"

"That what?" He adds another finger, making it two. It's starting to bother you with how still he is.

You buck your hips slightly, hoping for some friction from his rough fingers.

He only watches you.

Eyes analyzing your embarrassed expression, you would try to close your legs for your dignity — but you can't, frankly. His upper half was stopping that from happening.

"C'mon. Show me how much you need it."

This fucker, hes amused. But somewhat, you can't help but feel more aroused in this situation. You grind your hips slightly against the couch, his fingers slowly curling inside.

You grit your teeth, curling your toes as you feel yourself nearing your climax. You try to speed your pace to feel the satisfaction — yet was left disappointed as he withdrew his fingers.

"Nnh...– Ugh, I worked too hard to get off from just your fingers just for you to do that." You pout slightly in frustration.

"Mmh, what a slut. I'll get to that in a second. Be patient." He licks a stripe up your folds, making you shudder back into the pillows. You clutch onto your slipping lips trying to stop a waterfall of moans.

"Aah... Ren" You spoke with a trembling voice, his name slipping out in bliss. Completely forgetting the disappointment he just caused you.

He pushes his tongue in, causing your back to arch euphorically.

Fuck, his tongue, you can feel it all too well—

You whine helplessly when his hand slides down your waist, opting to rub your clit in a circular motion as his tongue thrusted inside.

"Shit! Ren, 's so good–" You sob, clenching onto his hair harshly, putting him into a headlock position as you hang your legs over his shoulders.

Your stomach feels tingly. Your minds starting to fog up at the sensation of his mouth against your lips.

.

You breathe heavily, his forehead touching yours as he knees against the couch with him bucking his hips. Still loosely wrapping your arms around his head, legs being lifted up by him.

You suddenly hear a rhythmical knock on the door, luring out an irritated groan from him at the sound. Probably Kafka.

He reluctantly lets you go, resting on the couch on your side.

"Wait for me, won't you?"

——

[ddreamywitch]

Chapter Four - That You Are

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 4k

a/n: this is my favourite so far

warnings: mentions of violence and blood, arranged marriage

song: That You Are - Hozier

You let your eyes wander. 

It was not a rarity for the king to request to dine in the gardens, though you don’t understand why he never has a tent put up so one might not suffer so much beneath the mid-day sun. 

It is still summer, the last inklings of it clawing uncomfortably at your dignity as you excessively fan yourself, just below the line of impropriety. 

Your sister has clicked her tongue at you multiple times now, in hopes that you might calm yourself, but you cannot and you will not relinquish your only means to cool down the tiniest bit. 

To your right sits Benji. Actually sits and does not lurk behind you or a few feet away, as your father, so very graciously had ordered him to take a seat and is now boasting over how smart the deal he made with the Brackens and the Blackwoods is and how only a true king could come up with such skilled thinking. 

You’re fairly certain that this could not have come from the little bit of dazed brain he must have left but nobody speaks out, least of all Benji, who simply nods and every now and then thanks the king. 

It’s all quite arduous to sit through and your mind keeps circling back to the end of town and wondering whether the medicine you had made in a hurry two nights ago was doing what it was supposed to do. 

Marion had gone bright red in the face when you had informed her of your indiscreet meeting in the dungeons but you cannot seem to muster up even an ounce of concern over having shared your secret with Benji. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

You allow yourself a stolen glance at him and this newfound sensation overwhelms you again. You cannot figure it out, incapable of identifying the strings that pull at your heart, but it has fluttered up ever since you had entrusted him with your concoction, grown stronger still, when he gave you a clandestine wink to inform you that everything had arrived safely and where it should be. 

Cordelia nudges you beneath the table. “Did you hear a word he just said to you?”

You frown. “Tristan didn’t say anything.”

“No, but father did. You are to begin a courtship with the young Lord Cathcart.”

Your heart drops to your feet, hand clutching onto your sister’s before you glance up to see a wide-smiled Lady Cathcart, her spider-like fingers curled around the king’s biceps. 

Just then your father lays his eyes upon you and smirks. “Is that not wonderful news? And your knight will be there to protect your honour throughout this. Before we know it, there will be more grandchildren roaming the world.” That last part he directs at his mistress, with a beyond disturbing wiggle of his brows. 

You look at Cordelia and Tristan, both of them blank faced. 

Benji swirls the wine in his cup from side to side and nobody speaks for an awfully long amount of time.

The other advisors at the table do not seem thrilled either. 

House Cathcart births unpleasant people, to put it quite kindly. Their Lady was a great example, an insufferable little parasite, clearly seeking to fuck her way into power and sparing nothing but ill-temper and rude words for anybody she does not view as important. 

She is an embodiment of sleaze, if one that has been blessed with wonderful teeth and hair. 

Her younger brother is not much different. You had heard the ladies of the court whisper about his disgusting lack of manners. 

“Father, might I remind you that I have many offers from much…,” you pause, contemplating whether you would actually like to speak your mind. “Well much more esteemed birth.”

Apparently your father has had enough of your face because he no longer makes the effort to look at you. “And yet, you have not enticed them. You will begin your travels to visit him tomorrow.” 

You desperately try to think of a young nobleman you would prefer to spend time with, yet your mind goes blank, your brain one continuous noise of a warhorn being sounded.

You let go of your sister’s hand and scrape your knife across your plate as the conversation resumed, occasional attempts of naming other highborn heirs, perhaps even from another kingdom.

Sure, you think to yourself, might as well remove me from the only home I know. Might as well let me be a cattle to be bred an ocean away.

“Your highness, I believe it is time for your dance lesson,” Benji says. 

Your head snaps up. It is not. 

He nods, the slightest bit, and then turns away. 

You are not certain, but you think the apples of his cheeks are tinted light pink. 

“I must be excused,” you say, as Benji already pulls out your chair for you. 

Cordelia and Tristan exchange a look that you wholeheartedly ignore and yet nobody else bats an eye.

A third-born daughter’s daily schedule is not of importance to them. 

In long strides you walk away from them all, with every inch of distance you can feel your heart cinching, breath shortening and by the time you’re inside the castle, you cannot see straight ahead.

“Hold on one moment, Princess,” he says and grabs your arm to push you down a narrow hallway, his arm around your waist the moment you are hidden from plain sight. Gratefully you lean your whole body weight against his, until you are back in your kitchen. 

With a swift movement you are sat on your chair, hunched over desperately trying to get air into your lungs, even stale and wet dungeon air, tainted by the stark smell of clandestine medicinal practice.

But you cannot. 

Your mother had died shortly after birthing you. Cordelia had struggled through every pregnancy, growing weaker with each child planted in her body and then clawing its way out. 

You think you might hurl. 

“Princess..,” Benji carefully mumbles. 

You try to see him through the blind panic and fury that clouds your mind but your eyes won’t focus, horrible images of what would happen to you. 

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp. 

He kneels in front of you, his hands clutching at yours. “Yes you can.” 

His voice is laced with uncertainty, as though he doesn’t believe his own words.

Firmly you shake your head. “No, get me out.”

He drags his thumb across the soft palm of your hand. “Out of where?”

Another sharp gasp. 

Here, this palace, this family, this kingdom, this world. 

“My corset,” you all but whimper. 

There is a moment of hesitation, where you cannot hear or feel anything but your own soft cries. 

Then he gets up and walks behind you. 

“My god, this thing is built like a trap,” he mumbles, rough fingers fiddling with your bodice. 

You might have laughed at that. 

It takes him long to help you out of it, revealing the fishbone corset, your hands now clawing at your neckline, praying for some sign of sweet release. 

He is taking forever, or maybe he is not but you have lost all sense of time and space.

Finally there is the sound of a barbaric rip and you are left in your linen shift, panting heavily.

You slump forward and bury your head in your hands. 

Unwilling to be seen, or look him in the eyes - eyes that are undoubtedly looking at you with nothing but pity. 

“Princess..,” he whispers again. You can feel one rough hand through the thin fabric as he circles around to your front.

You shake your head, like a child. “He can’t do this. I’m not ready.”

A soft touch against your wrists, softer than you had thought possible from him. “You’re a witch. Just put poison in his wedding night supper,” he says. 

You snort, an ugly sound, much unlike your usual demeanour. “You-” Hiccup. “Speak treason, Ser Benjicot.”

Carefully he interlinks your hands into one and pulls them from your face. Your forehead hurts from where you dug your nails into it. “You’re smart for a capital girl, you will manage.”

His face is kind and warm, a desire to make you smile clearly etched into the twinkle of his eyes.

“I won’t kill my husband. He is not at fault for my father’s failures.” 

Benji huffs. “And I am the one speaking treason.”

You hiccup again. “He is the king but he is my father no less. And he is horrible at both.”

His fingers sweep hair out of your face, unthinkingly, quickly. “His children turned out quite well either way. A benevolent queen, an honourable heir to the throne and a witch.”

Now he manages to make you smile lightly. “My god, what must a lady do for you to not tease her.”

“I would rather not say,” he answers, and you know there is a double meaning there but you don’t know how to decipher it. You have studied the human body but some things will lie beyond your book knowledge.

Until your bedding ceremony, that is.

Your face drops again and you lean back. “Have a seat somewhere, would you? I do not wish for you to crouch in front of me.” 

“I am your knight. Kneeling comes with this duty.”

You huff. “Does ripping up royal corsetry and sneaking potions into town also go along with it?”

He scrapes the chair across the floor and plops down beside you. 

The two of you sit, and though your eyes are set on the cauldron in the corner of the room, you know he is looking at you.

Perhaps he wants you to say that you feel better?

You decidedly do not, this is after all your deepest fear becoming reality.

Benji nudges the tip of his boots against your calf. 

Everything between the two of you is contrasting. 

“We will find a way. The counsel is against his choice as well, he may be the king but he is not a king at heart and soul.”

A deep sigh escapes you, hiccups slowly fading away.

 “Mayhaps he will be overthrown by the time we reach Lord Cathcart’s castle,” Benji adds. 

Would you want it that way? 

Yes. 

Yes you would.

You would not want him dead, you think, but you want Tristan to rule. You want your father to desert the throne and leave it for somebody capable and dignified. 

Somebody who has honour. 

“Won’t you cheer up, little witch. You still have Marion and me to come with you.” 

A hand flies to your mouth. Marion. “She won’t come. And even if she would like to, I will not let her. Her love won’t let her. Her life is here and her family and friends.” Your hands claw at each other, nervously digging into tender flesh. 

Benji hums. The weight of his oath must be a harsh burden to carry. He will never have a choice but to go where you go.

“I am sorry,” you whisper. “For it all. I know you hate it here.”

He shrugs and grabs your hand. To prevent you from scratching it bloody, you’re certain. 

“I am a man of honour and strength. I suppose it is best put to use for your protection. And the occasional smuggling and destruction of dresses far more expensive than my pay.”

You snort. “It didn’t suit me anyways. Made me pale.”

“Told you. I like red best.” 

He winks. “Like the colour of your cheeks turn sometimes.”

With little force you shove him, your fingers still securely interlinked. “Watch it, I’ll begin sobbing again, my knight.” 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had bid your goodbyes to everyone at dinner tonight.

A courtship, successful or not, could take many moons and this one is nearly set in stone to end in marriage. Your return home, for now, is a distant dream that you can’t put faith into.

Surprisingly many people had grieved over your farewell. 

Much of the courtiers and even more of the staff insisted that they would miss you. 

Cordelia did not leave your side the entire evening and repeated many times that marriage is less scary than one might expect and that for the most time, your husband would likely leave you be. 

Even Tristan, ever so calm at all times, had looked as though he might like to tie you up if that meant you got to stay and you couldn’t help the deep gratitude you felt for Benji’s consistent, calm presence next to you.

Though you couldn’t claim that you were not deeply embarrassed over how dishevelled he had seen you today, even after he had assured you multiple times that he did not care, as you snuck through the secret passageway back to your room, his cape draped around you. 

Marion had wept the most; her waterlike, bendy fingers preparing your hair for dinner, achieving perhaps her finest work yet. 

It seems sadness is the greatest motivator of the human mind, tears streaming down her face and yet leaving your hair in neat braids. She had apologised many times, that she could not go on this journey with you and that she would likely forever miss your generosity, something you felt she was inflating greatly. 

After all, she had risked her position and even her life every single time she snuck you in and out of the castle walls. 

Your fingers cramp around your quill.

Over the course of your meal, you have come up with a plan once again, though this one might be the most idiotic one yet.

You know that almost everyone with blood rushing through their veins inside this castle is opposed to this marriage and maybe there could be another way to get out of it, but you know it would take long and you will not let your father torture you in the mean time.

Droplets of ink stain your wrist as you scratch forcefully across the parchment. 

You are not dense. You had never tried to trick yourself into believing your betrothal would occur from a love match but you had always been able to comfort yourself with the fact that at the very least you were to do something useful to your family line.

Marry into another important house, a house of wealth or with a strong army. Something that would strengthen the crown and its representation in the kingdom. 

Colour drains from your face each time you think about this fate. 

You’d be ridiculed in the history books, married off to a Baron, the lowest of ranks anybody in your line had married into, ever since the claiming of the throne.

No, you must leave and you must do so quickly. 

Your finished letter remains on your pillowcase. 

Wrapped in your velvet robe you peek out of your door into the hallway where the nightwatch had taken Benjicot’s place a few hours ago. 

“Ser Lawrence. Ser Timon. I wish to not be disturbed during my last night in the castle. Any and all visitors must immediately be sent away,” you tell them.

“Yes, your highness.”

Satisfied you go to lock the door, but then quickly remember. 

“Ser Timon, please tell your cousin that he must reapply the bandage and salve everyday.” 

And with that you turn your back.

You switch your robe out for the most simple dress you own.

While Ser Rodrick had still been around, Marion had kept a better disguise hidden in one of the trunks beneath your bed, but when the change of protector was imminent, she had taken it back home, in fear of being caught. 

You slip into a hooded cloak, in hopes it might do more to keep your identity hidden, wrap a satchel filled with jewellery around your waist, in hopes to pay for travels.

You wish you could take your horse.

Fury is a good horse, in your humble opinion, the most empathetic and perfect companion one can ask for.

Weirdly, she reminds you of Benji, now that you contemplate it.

She looks scary; tall and black and when you had gotten her she was unruly and stubborn but that quickly faded.

A terrifying thought crosses your mind suddenly.

What would happen to Benji? If you were to disappear, would he have to die for it?

You halt in the middle of your room.

No.

That is not a price you are willing to pay for your freedom. You could not in good conscience be responsible for such an atrocity.

Maybe they would let him off the hook? After all there had been a deal made with the Blackwoods, perhaps his family would revolt? 

Would your father have his head still? 

And in mere seconds your last bubble of hope had burst and rained onto you in glittering glass shambles. 

Benji was tough to crack and a little rebellious but you won’t have his blood on your hands forever.

You gaze out the window, see the distant sea. 

But you could still sneak out. For one final night. Check on your medicine. Maybe you could find a tavern to spend time in.

Marion had always said that she loved nothing more than to dance with the common folks, telling never-ending stories of how much lively the music is than at your royal balls, how free and funny the people are.

Yes, you might not run away but for once in your life you would simply do what you wanted to do. 

You pull up your hood and slip into the narrow staircase behind your bookcase. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The streets were bustling, even after nightfall, people chatting away, merchants yelling from every corner, sounds of life buzzing in your ear.

You are smiling, weaving through the crowd. A stranger had handed you a daffodil, proclaiming his inn had the best hunter’s stew in all the kingdom.

Another had told you she could read your future from the palm of your hand, which you of course deemed ridiculous, but had let her do anyway.

She told you that you were destined for a great love. Ridiculous, but endearing in a peculiar way. 

Now you were hoping to find that tavern that Marion so loved to frequent. It was called duckling, or something to that extent. An odd name for a place where people go to drink and celebrate. 

But your feet carry you still, steps lighter than air. You had noticed that your boots were a tad too white, and had promptly walked through every possible puddle to blend in. 

It was exhilarating. You know your privileges and you know them well, but while all the rest of the nobles question how the people of lower birth could live like this, you wonder how you could have gone your life without this. 

Every path revealed something exciting. 

When you had snuck out with Marion, she had dragged you through quiet back alleys, to avoid as many people as possible, but now you wonder if she wasn’t also trying to keep you from being drawn into this magical world you are witnessing now.

A shoulder bumps you and you stumble a bit. 

“Oi watch where you’re going,” came a gruff voice and you almost want to laugh, heart melting at the vulgarity of it, but you have the good sense to not.

“I’m sorry, good man.” 

He grunts and goes to move along but then something catches his eye and he stops.

“Where you from?” He asks.

He has a strong build, tall and burly. You try not to let that worry and flash him a smile. “Arbormere.” 

The man steps forward. You don’t step back. Marion and Ser Rodrick had drilled into you for a long time, that fear is one’s worst enemy. 

“Are ya, now? I ain’t ever met a girl from over there.”

You shrug. “I am their queen’s handmaiden. She is visiting her family,” you lie, quick as the wind and then you decide that you should not remain in one place for so long, shuffling to step past him. 

He blocks the way and before you know it he’s grabbed your arm, with enough force to make you shriek in surprise.

You squirm beneath his grip, attempting to meet the eye of a passerby desperately but nobody seems to notice this scene playing out. 

“Let me go,” you order, with as much authority as you can muster.

With too much ease, you are ripped into a side street. It smells rotten and you close your eyes when the back of your head meets the cobbled wall. 

“Pretty girls like ya’self shouldn’t roam foreign streets,” he says. His breath smells acidic as it fans across the side of your face. 

“Help,” you croak out but you know it is of no use. There isn’t a soul here to hear you in this dark corner.

He squishes your face between one hand, thumb deep in the soft of your cheek. 

“Somebody should teach you a lesson, aye.”

“Yeah and somebody should teach you some fucking manners, you fucking cunt,” a voice rings. 

Benji.

Your face is freed from his grip and you rub where it hurts. 

“Piss off, lad. Ain’t none of your business,” the man tells him.

Something unfamiliar flashes across Benji’s face, a shadow of something sinister. 

Bloody Ben, you think. 

“Get the fuck away from her,” he growls through clenched teeth.

He laughs at Benji, his arms crossed. “I’m not gonna fucking say it twice, boy. Piss–”

He can’t finish his sentence before Benji is on him, a disgusting sound of bones cracking as his fist connects with his nose. 

You yelp, a hand pressed to your mouth in an instant. This stranger is considerably larger than Benjicot, who himself could not be described as a slender man. 

The pair of them tumble to the ground and with every hit your sworn protector takes, you wince, as though you were feeling them yourself. 

Blood sprays across their faces, their hands, the hem of your shirt and you wish you could avert your gaze. 

Something glitters. 

“Knife,” you scream. “He has a knife.”

But Benji has already registered it. 

In a movement so smooth and quick that it was barely noticeable, the knife is stuck in the man’s hand.

He wails, guttural and gory and tries to crawl back. 

Your knight gets up from the ground, towers above him. “Get the fuck away.” Then, in an act so raw you are almost taken aback, he spits on him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the stranger staggers away, as fast as his delirious self can. 

There is a sickening swirl in your stomach and for a moment you think you will cry, but then good sense wins and you leap toward Benji.

Panic strains your voice. “Are you well?” You ask, gently inspecting his face. His nose is bleeding profusely. It stains your fingers, streams down to your wrist, thin red streaks across your skin and white linen sleeves. 

He nods. Distance clouds his eyes but then it is almost like he snaps back to this world. 

He flicks your hands away, and searches your face, the way you had done his. 

You grimace. He is clearly in much worse condition. 

“You fucking idiot. Don’t fucking ever frighten me like this again,” he whispers. 

“Do you know what could have happened? What you look like?”

He raises your hands to eye level. “Your hands are soft, you’ve not done work with them ever. Your hair shimmers, you walk like a fucking fairie and you reek of rose and lavender.”

With each word his voice raises to a whisper-shout. “Do you know how lucky you are that you weren’t recognised? How lucky you are that I got here in time?”

The tips of your ears run hot. “I just wanted-”

“What? To run away and die in a ditch?” 

You shake your head fervently. “No! I was going to return, I just forgot to rip up the letter! I didn’t mean to-”

He scoffs. “You’re lucky I was the one to find that thing. You’re the luckiest girl in the world, in fact.” 

Now there will likely be many moments in the future where you regret this moment but you cannot help yourself. “You call this situation lucky? I am lucky that I will be shipped off to be fucked by a disgusting little man for the rest of my life, be forced to bear his children, do as he pleases me to do, until the day I die? You think this is lucky? I would rather spend my time working every hour of every day of every week of every moon until my bones fail me.”

Benjicot comes even closer, the tips of your noses are almost touching. “Do not ever do something like this again. I will give you as much freedom as I can, but I suppose you did not plan to spend a night of freedom being defiled in some dark alley. Don’t you ever do this to me again.”

To him. 

“Understood?” 

He has engulfed your senses, speaking seems too hard a chore now. You nod. Is it normal for a knight to chastise his princess like this? 

“Good,” he whispers, but you don’t let him get away. 

You use the tissue tucked into your cleavage and dab at his nose. Crimson red stains the colour of house Aprikate. “I think I should set your nose.” Your voice is faint, like you’re worried you might scare him off, like some jittery woodland creature. 

“Hmm.” 

Your hand pulls away and your eyes lock. You swallow thickly. That new sensation haunts you again. 

Benji’s hand curls around the small of your back. 

This feels dangerous. You can’t bring yourself to end the moment. 

He does it for you.

“Let’s return to the castle.”

The air feels tense, new and vibrant the entire way home.

taglist:

@dancingbaek

@jhepolie

@knight-of-flowerss

@majoso12

@rebeccawinters

@poppyflower-22

@nixtape-foryou

@accidentpronedork

@xlittlefiend

@vqmpyrecult

[fastboatsmojito]

Nightmares - Scott Miller

| a/n; this isn’t technically for Moontober bc nightmares is day twenty seven and I have something different planned, but I woke up about an hour ago from a nightmare myself and this felt like the appropriate response tbh

| cw; just some angst and a little fluff, talk about nightmares, probably very self-indulgent idk what to tell you, one bed trope whoops, not super proofread as per the tags <3

| wc; 800

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You woke up suddenly, out of breath and sweaty, sitting up and trying to will yourself into thinking about anything else.

“Jesus, you alright?” There was an unfamiliar softness in his voice, probably just from being woken up by your panicked breaths, though you jumped anyway, shaky as you looked over at him, uncharacteristic worry on his face as he sat up.

“Shit sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Just a bad dream.” You mumbled, words caught in the back of your throat proving difficult to come out, both exhausted from a restless sleep and energized from the pure panic and anxiety. That was always the worst part, being too scared of your own subconscious to go back to bed, involuntarily keeping yourself awake to stop yourself from drifting back into the personal hell you’d found yourself in before.

“Do you.. want to talk about it?” His voice still came out low, though the gruff from not having talked on purpose quite yet was peeking through. He wasn’t too sure how to comfort anyone at all - questioning himself more than you, you weren’t so used to it either; his words rather than his voice alone surprising you this time.

You shook your head, less responding to his question - though it sufficed, more trying to shake out the mental picture and get your brain to function correctly because it wasn’t difficult to understand nightmares but understanding why they happen didn’t seem to help much.

You had a sleep journal, you corrected them as best you could in your head after writing them down, you drank stress relieving tea and read articles and books on dream study and what it all means and it helps but it doesn’t fix the deepest, strangest anxieties that build up over time. The bizarre collection of everything you’ve thought about in the last month coming back to haunt you in a way that feels personal because it is.

Your brain knows the absolute worst combination of everything you’ve thought about or seen or heard, and if you eat too much fucking dairy or think about one specific thing for just the right amount of too much time, none of the rest of it matters anymore. And maybe you weren’t doing enough but maybe you just needed someone to tell you that it wasn’t real because hearing it from yourself so often was getting a little old and -

The tears were sudden - they usually are, soft and warm running down your face and you didn’t notice until a tear dropped down onto the hand still clutching your chest.

And then a warm hand was cautiously rubbing your back and your overly-worried coworker was trying to understand. Surprising himself again when a simply reassuring ‘you’re alright’ found its way out of his mouth, yawning quietly after and probably trying not to roll back over and fall asleep - bless him.

If it were just a few days ago you would’ve been shocked at the mere fact you were even in the same bed - a little mixup caused by none other than Javi, but sharing a room was excuse enough to get a little too comfortable for ‘professionalism’.

You gave up on the whole ‘oh I’ll just sleep on this tiny, uncomfortable chair for a few days until it’s sorted’ act days ago, diluting your dignity and climbing into bed with your similarly less than enthusiastic coworker who gave up on that shtick after the first night.

He wanted to go back to sleep - he really did, his eyes were practically closing themselves. But he surely couldn’t sleep next to someone actively crying and though he could be mean and - more accurately; a dick, he wasn’t completely emotionless. In fact he found himself scared that you were hurt or something was wrong and he had no way of fixing it when he woke up to your rushed breaths next to him. He still wasn’t sure he could really do anything, he didn’t tend to have dreams very much at all let alone bad ones.

There was no protocol to go over in his head about comforting a coworker-turned-roommate after a nightmare. He couldn’t exactly control your brain for you, though after a second thought he would if it’d help more than the apprehensive hand on your back.

Once you’d calmed yourself down enough and wiped the slowest string of tears from your cheeks you turned to look at Scott with something akin to a smile in the darkness.

Hoping that it made up for the lack of spoken gratitude that was clouded up in the panic in your head for the quiet comfort he wasn’t really looking to be thanked for anyway.

☾⋆⁺₊⋆

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The guard till the end

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x F!OC

Words: 7 543

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! angst, hurt/comfort, themes of grief/death/mourning, some blood/gore, fighting, swearing, a bit of fluff if you squint

Summary: Talia, an ex-assasin, and Oberyn Martell were sent on a mission together. A mission to the past for the girl.

A/N: This little piece is for the amazing @almostfoxglove and her #almostfoxgloveangstchallenge. This is the first time writing for Oberyn, so I hope it worked out. I am actually proud of this so I hope you all will like it.

The beautiful moodboard is also made by @almostfoxglove <3

The sun-kissed strands of her blonde hair swirled in the seaside breeze, moving in rhythm with the ocean's undulating waves. Her actions seemed to echo the water's rhythm, and in spite of her strenuous efforts, her breath stayed regular. Her gaze was locked onto something unseen, a spectre only apparent to her. Her hands, firmly yet flexibly clutching her weapon, were primed for any sudden change in combat dynamics. Her footfalls were soft yet assured, making her deadly battle routine appear like an elegant ballet to an untrained eye. 

A man observed her from a distance, a tender smile gracing his lips. She was his sword and his shield, a creature of terror to some, a vision of beauty to others. He was privileged to witness these intimate performances whenever he chose to visit her training grounds.

He was a beast in his own right, but his first encounter with her had instilled in him an unprecedented fear. He had been sure, for the first time in his life, that he would meet his end. Her lethal combat skill was as bewitching as it was horrifying, especially when the cold steel of her blade brushed against his throat.

And yet, here he stood, still among the living, watching the same formidable assassin execute her lethal dance. He remembered the change in her gaze when their eyes had first met. His dark orbs contrasted sharply against her gentle blue ones.

He'd asked her numerous times about what had transpired in that single moment when their gazes had locked. She always cleverly dodged the question, promising to unveil the truth when the time was right. However, that moment still hadn't arrived.

"Do you not have more pressing matters to attend to, my Prince?" Her voice softly interrupted his thoughts. Of course, she had sensed his presence. Nothing ever slipped past her. That was why she was the only guard he truly trusted, the only one he regarded as his equal.

"How many times must I request you to address me as Oberyn, my dear?" He watched as she turned to glare at him. She had never been one for sweet nothings. Yet, he derived immense pleasure from pushing her buttons, from eliciting a response.

"And how many times have I informed you that I would honor your request the moment you best me in combat?" His scoff was met with a soft chuckle from her. Talia, sheathing her weapons, approached him. Despite her petite frame, she held herself with an air of dignity, never allowing anyone to belittle her. "My Prince," she added, provoking a growl of mock irritation from him, which only elicited another chuckle. "I'm surprised to find you awake at this early hour. I presumed the men and women of the court would have kept you entertained till the wee hours."

"Are you envious, my rose?" His question was met with a hearty laughter. "I believe you are the only woman in all of Dorne who rejects me."

"I haven't rejected you, my Prince," she retorted, her gaze locked onto the ocean.

"Then honour me with your company tonight. I can make the necessary arrangements." He moved in closer, their faces mere inches apart. 

"I refuse to be another notch on your bedpost, my Prince." Her words made him recoil slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips. His attraction to her was no secret. "I'll consider your proposition when you make a genuine one," she added.

"I'm not the kind who settles down," he whispered, his lips perilously close to hers.

"And I'm not the kind of woman who indulges in frivolous dalliances." She shrugged and took a step back. "Not anymore, at least." His smile in response signified his acceptance of yet another defeat.

***

"You called for me, your Highness," she said, kneeling before the frail Prince. It was unusual for him to request her presence in his office. Their discussions usually took place in the gardens or his private chambers, where he felt most comfortable. As such, today's summons was likely a matter of business rather than personal.

"Stand, and please have a seat." He was a kind ruler, deserving of the utmost respect. After years of spy work and assassin training, she valued a place where power wasn't the only measure of a person. "How is my brother faring?"

"He's living life in his own unique way," she replied. The Prince chuckled, and she joined him with a soft smile. "He mentioned something about travel."

"Naturally," she quirked an eyebrow and he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "You two are inseparable, sharing every secret."

"I am his weapon, his shield. His guard, the last line of defence against those who dare to harm him."

"Yet he refers to you as the strongest," she offered a warm smile at that. Oberyn Martell was renowned as one of the mightiest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, yet he considered her his equal.

"He has never truly sparred with me, never unveiled his full power. I doubt I could withstand his spear." Doran nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his wine, and gestured for her to do the same with her cup, always ready for her when she visited.

Her life in Dorne had been full of first experiences. It was the first time she had disobeyed orders, the first time she had turned her back on her master. The first time she had shown her face to someone who didn't own her, and the first time she had tasted liquor. After a sip of Dornish wine, nothing else could compare.

"He entrusts his life to you as much as I do," Doran paused, gazing into the distance with a sigh. "We've discovered a small town violating our agreements." She furrowed her brow but said nothing. "We dispatched men, but none have returned. We suspect it might involve someone you know."

"Scorpion," she murmured, a chill running down her spine. The man who had forged her, imparted all her skills. The man who had sold her to a buyer who sought Oberyn's death.

"I need him gone." She met his eyes, understanding the significance of his decision. Doran Martell favoured peace over violence, resorting to the latter only when necessary. "You know him best. However, I can't send you alone. The kingdoms must know that we handle our own problems personally."

"So, Oberyn will accompany me?" She finally asked, to which he nodded.

"I see the way you look at him." Her head jerked up, but he stopped her before she could protest. The Prince of Dorne was more perceptive than most realised. "Personally, I would be thrilled to call you my sister, but we both know my impulsive younger brother." She looked away, swallowing hard. "I don't need to tell you, but please keep him safe. This might be the most perilous mission I've ever sent him on."

"Certainly, your Highness. I will ensure his safe return, even if it means my own life." That was his biggest concern. He had a sinking feeling that he might lose either his reckless brother or the woman he had come to consider a sister.

***

"I could use some wine." She fought back the urge to roll her eyes at his petulant complaint. They had been journeying for quite some time, both of them garbed in the traditional attire of the desert dwellers. Black robes that concealed everything but their eyes, a necessary shield against the harsh desert climate and a safeguard for their identities. It was safer to merge with the locals than to draw attention as foreign travellers. Besides, Oberyn was too well-known to go unnoticed. "And a comfortable bed with…"

"A willing partner to share it with," she completed his sentence, smirking as he arched an eyebrow at her. "You forget, my dear Prince, that I know you better than anyone else out there. Maybe even better than you know yourself." He laughed at that, unable to deny it. It was true. She had seen him in the most compromising, unflattering, and downright ridiculous situations. She had listened to his drunken babbling more times than she could count. If anyone on this planet knew him thoroughly, it was her.

However, the same couldn't be said about her. He knew only the basics. He was aware of her past - to some degree. He knew of her fighting style, her weapon preference, and the fact that she had never touched alcohol before coming to Dorne. He also knew of her strangely reverent faith in his older brother, as if he were some deity. He knew her waking and sleeping times - unless she was occupied taking care of him. He knew all this, but still felt like he knew nothing about her.

No, that wasn't accurate. He knew that her touch was the gentlest he'd ever experienced. Despite having claimed more lives than any of them could count, her touch when she cared for him was softer than the most exquisite silk in the palace. He had always thought her touch was as tender as a calming breeze that incessantly pacified his tumultuous inner storm. She was the only one who could quiet his restless spirit with nothing more than a caring touch and a gaze as soft as the morning dew, acting like a lullaby sending his fatigued soul to sleep. The concern in her starry eyes always dissolved his fears, giving any doubts he had a new perspective. Giving his life a new purpose.

But that wasn't sufficient for him. He selfishly wanted more. He wanted to know her dreams, her likes, and dislikes. It was truly pathetic. He was Oberyn Martell, for goodness' sake. He was a man whose heart roamed from one bed to another, seeking delight in temporary affairs, never really looking, never longing for any kind of consistency. Until she arrived.

Talia wasn't one for short-lived pleasures, she was a constant, the only constant in his desire-ridden life. She was a puzzle, a beautiful mystery shrouded in the brilliance of her devotion. A devotion he imposed on her. She guarded her heart just like her emotions, deeply within the armour of her resolve. She was like a fortress that was impregnable and firm, something so alien to the Prince of Dorne. He found himself attracted to her mystery. He wanted to understand. No. He ached to understand her, to decipher this puzzle, this mystery that she was. But she never let him. She kept him at a distance, her fortress standing tall and her armour still unyielding.

"I can see the town," he was jolted out of his daydream and looked up to see the first signs of the small town that bore the scars of its bloody past. It wasn't easy to reach. It was hidden from the world by a daunting, ominous desert that seemed to choke the last bit of fresh air that was still left untouched. The buildings were made of hard, cheap stone, grey and decrepit, arranged in gloomy, narrow streets. The windows were dark and vacant, much like the hollow eyes of the dead. 

This wasn't a place where people came to start anew, to find new hope. It was a place where hope came to die, dragging the unfortunate with it. Every corner echoed with the whispers of the dead and the murdered, and those unfortunate souls who were forgotten even by death itself. The people moved about like ghosts, their faces pale and haggard, their eyes lifeless and dull, filled with their own pain and despair. There was no laughter here, even the children seemed mournful, deprived of a life they never had the chance to live. The days rolled on, and the customary laughter in their lives was replaced by the bitter tears of those who became orphans.

"You grew up here?" He asked quietly, unable to tear his gaze away from the pitiful sight of the people and orphaned children who looked like they hadn't had a proper meal in their lives. He didn't even want to imagine her living like that, enduring that kind of life.

"It wasn't always like this," Talia answered, scanning the streets for someone desperate enough to offer them assistance. "Before Scorpion arrived, Villion was like any other town." She bit her lip as the townspeople started to take notice of them. Not what they wanted. They needed to blend in. Ditch the horses, discard their travelling attire. Become one with the locals here. "Let's go, we need to blend in." Oberyn nodded and followed her, his eyes still glued to the streets.

***

The "Crooked Paw" was tucked away in a secluded alleyway, its dilapidated structure jarring against the town's overall sombre ambience. It looked more like a ruin than a refuge. The thatched roof was a mishmash of patches, with prominent holes that would offer no protection against the elements. 

Windows, if they could be called that, were broken, their sharp edges coated with layers of grime and dust accumulated over the years. A massive, neglected oak door served as the entrance to the inn, its creaking, rusted hinges discouraging anyone who dared to enter. The entire building seemed to stand as a stark warning about the dangers that lurked within the town. 

The innkeeper, a bent old man with a missing eye and a malicious glint in the other one, sat at the bar, observing his patrons with a predatory look. As his gaze landed on the newcomers, his face contorted into a grotesque grin that silenced the room. 

"Who do we have here?" He paused, looking at Talia. She hoped she still had some allies in this forsaken town. "Some travellers who've lost their way, I reckon, if they've stumbled upon my humble Inn." She sighed with relief and smirked at the man, signalling to Oberyn that they should approach the bar. 

"I need a place to stay," she said, rolling her eyes at the innkeeper's raised eyebrow. "I'll pay." 

"You've got quite a bill to settle, girl," he muttered, his eyes darting to Oberyn, whose face was concealed by his desert mask. "I have a room with a bigger bed. But there's only one." 

"We'll take it," The Prince interjected before she could respond. "The smaller the bed, the better." 

"Do you know this bugger, or do you want me to handle him?" She chuckled and shook her head. 

"I'll pay the bill and give you twice as much for a room where we won't be disturbed." The innkeeper nodded, understanding her meaning. 

"He'll kill you when he finds out you're here," he growled, handing her the keys to the room. 

"Not before I find him," she murmured, pulling Oberyn by the sleeve and guiding him to the room she knew all too well.

***

"Quite the friendly bloke," Oberyn muttered, finally able to shed his stifling clothes. The traverse through the desert had been both tiring and filthy. "And this place is quite delightful. Where exactly are we?" 

"My home," she replied, halting in her actions to turn and regard him. "Before Scorpion took me under his wing and trained me, I was brought up here." She sighed, clearly reluctant about divulging this information. "I can't recollect how I ended up here. I was too small to remember. But Hilt was the only person I could think of as family. He was home, and this room was a haven for me. Even when I joined Scorpion." 

"So, that's where you get that sulky demeanour from," he said, his grin broadening at her reaction. 

"I am not sulky!" 

"Of course, you're not." He laughed and ambled towards the window. "So, what's our move?"

"We can't delay. He will know we're here. He will know I am here." Her brow furrowed, unease welling up inside her. She had hoped she would never have to return here. The town stirred a flood of memories, each corner of each street holding a fragment of her past. Each memory was more powerful and painful than the last. 

Her heart twisted as memories played in her mind. She could almost hear the echoing shouts of her trainer, feel the lash of the whip on her skin, see the harsh disappointment in his eyes each time she didn't meet his expectations. Those days had instilled nothing but insecurity in her, the terrible sensation of never being enough wrapping a vice-like grip around her young, solitary heart. 

That constant nagging in her head made her feel unvalued until when she completed her first successful mission. The hours of gruelling work and painful training faded into insignificance as she stepped into the role she was created for. She felt invincible. She felt like nothing could defeat her again. She learned to handle her emotions by suppressing them. She didn't need them. Her life became void of meaning, her eyes devoid of life, because it was easier that way. It was easier not to feel anything since it was easier to die that way. It was easier not to form attachments, easier not to lead a life worth living. 

However, that all came crumbling down when she met him. It was a mission like any other - a name, a face, a life to be snuffed out. But this time, it all felt different. She was prepared to slit his throat, ready to extinguish another life, until she looked into his eyes. They were so full of life, brimming with joy and passion, something she had never seen before in her hometown. It stirred something within her, a feeling she couldn't quite understand.

She had him at her mercy, and could have ended his life with a single stroke. But she hesitated, for the first time in her life. Her hand quivered on the hilt of her dagger. His eyes never left hers. They were so pure and full of life that they pierced through her heart, a heart she believed she no longer possessed. 

When he asked her to come with him, to stay in Dorne instead of killing her, she was astonished. The only reason she had a chance against him was because she had observed him for a long time and learned his every pattern. She had been diligent and it had always paid off. She did not expect him to ask her to become his bodyguard. A man like him didn’t need a guard. He was the Viper. She was an assassin, a spectre of death. But as she looked into his eyes and saw nothing but trust and respect, she found herself accepting his offer. She found herself wanting to protect him, to keep him safe.

For the first time in her wretched life, she felt something powerful, something she had never felt before. Happiness, a profound happiness of being needed. Of being desired. It made her feel lighter than she had ever felt and yet it terrified her because he was tearing down all of her fortified walls, the walls she had learned to build. 

She looked up, recoiling when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Her name sounded so soft coming from his lips. The concern in his eyes twisted her stomach in self-reproach. She was supposed to be strong for him. She was supposed to be his pillar and not the other way around. 

"Forgive me, my Prince," she said, stepping back and letting his hand drop from her shoulder. "We rest today, and act tomorrow."

"You're behaving oddly," he said, his voice filled with concern. He rarely spoke to her like that, rarely showed such seriousness. "Are you sure you…"

"Do you question my abilities, your Highness?" His eyes hardened at the formal title she used, which she knew he detested. "I am more than capable of carrying out the mission your brother entrusted me with." She held his gaze steadily. "Pardon me for not behaving like an entitled child when I am fully aware of the perils that await us." She had never been so direct with him before. She had corrected him when he acted spoiled, but she had never been so forthright. After all, he was a Prince of Dorne, one of the most feared men not just on the continent but across the globe.

Oberyn's facial expression mirrored his current state of mind - a blend of irritation and worry. His eyes, usually lively and playful, were now clouded with annoyance. The twinkle that typically danced in his eyes was replaced with a glint of unease, a clear sign of his displeasure. His eyebrows knitted together in a tight frown. The crease on his forehead deepened, symbolising his concern. His eyes, often warm and inviting, were now cold and distant, indicating his preoccupied thoughts.

His lips, quick to form a grin or a smirk, were now pressed firmly together. His jaw was clenched, the muscles taut. It seemed as though he was grinding his teeth together, forcing himself to remain silent, to keep his composure.

"Talk to me," she said, surprised by his unusual calmness. Despite his apparent frustration, there was a gentleness in his demeanour, a compassion that was hard to overlook. The way he looked at her made her realise the depth of his feelings. He was willing to move mountains if it meant easing her pain and the turmoil she was experiencing. It was this kindness, this readiness to assist, that gave her a glimmer of hope. It reassured her that she wasn't alone in her battles, that she had someone who was prepared to stand by her side. He held that power over her, a power that frightened her.

"He is ruthless," she began, tearing her eyes away from his as she tried to choose her words carefully. Attempting to alleviate his concerns for her, to demonstrate her resilience, despite the haunting memories and the looming future. "He doesn’t allow anyone to escape. He always finds them and ensures they pay, and I am no exception." As she met Oberyn's gaze again, her eyes were a maelstrom of emotions. Her eyes, usually so full of resolve, were now a stormy sea of fear and defiance. They held a chilling portrayal of her ordeal, a silent plea for understanding seeping through her gaze. Yet, despite everything, a spark of defiance still burned brightly in her eyes. It spoke of her determination to fight back, her refusal to let anything happen to him. And it was this spark, this indomitable spirit, that only increased Oberyn's respect for her.

"You’re not an easy target, darling," he smirked, his expression turning serious when she shook her head.

"For him, it would be too easy," she held his gaze, unwavering. "It’s not his style. Torture is his delight, but more than physical pain, he revels in mental torment. He... " Her voice wavered slightly, but she never looked away. "He finds the one thing, the one person you love the most, and destroys them before your eyes."

"Well, thankfully you don’t have anyone you love, so no worries, sweetheart." He chuckled, but his eyes widened when she didn't break her gaze. It was as if she was challenging him, daring him to look away, daring him to understand what she was implying and to flee.

She shook her head and retreated a step, when he whispered her name. So gently, so affectionately that she couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. She had lost again, this time in this emotional game.

"It doesn’t matter," she finally said, not allowing him to say anything else. "Tomorrow, we need to strike first. I will operate from the shadows, and I need you to gather information. Try not to draw too much attention. It wouldn't be wise to have all of Scorpion’s men on our..." But she didn't get a chance to finish, as he closed the gap between them in one swift stride. His hand reached out, gently cradling her cheek and tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His touch was warm and gentle, in stark contrast to his usual intensity.

"My Prince?" she started, her voice barely a whisper. But he silenced her, pressing his finger to her lips.

"Do you ever stop talking?" He smiled softly, before continuing. "I need you to grasp one very crucial fact." He murmured, his gaze still locked with hers. She had never seen him like this. His eyes were a pool of emotions - fear, determination, hope - all intertwined. The intensity of his gaze was almost overpowering, yet she couldn't turn away.

And then he leaned in, his breath wafting over her lips, just a moment before his own brushed against hers. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, hesitant and tender at first, but it quickly gained intensity as he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her dangerously close to him. His lips moved against hers with a passion that left her breathless, his kiss a clear testament to his feelings.

When they finally parted for air, she was panting slightly, her eyes wide with surprise and something else - something that mirrored the intensity in Oberyn's gaze. He looked at her, his gaze softening as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

"I care for you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The words lingered in the air, their weight undeniable. As he looked at her, his gaze unwavering, she knew he meant every word. And before she could say anything else, she was kissing him back, slowly moving towards the bed behind them.

***

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from a nearby candle casting long shadows against the stone walls. Oberyn found himself a world away from their troubles.

Lying on his back, Oberyn's gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil. His chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, the rhythm a calming melody in the quiet room. The flickering flame reflected in his dark eyes, dancing in the depths of his gaze.

Beside him lay Talia, her head resting comfortably on his chest. Her body nestled against his side, drawing comfort from his warmth. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along his bare chest, a silent communication of her gratitude and love.

Turning his head to look at her, Oberyn's hand moved to gently brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her cheek before tucking the strand behind her ear. His touch was gentle, conveying a tenderness that words couldn't express.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The concern was evident in his tone, his gaze never leaving her face.

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. The resilience in her gaze was inspiring, a testament to her strength. "I am," she replied, her voice soft yet firm.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their thoughts. The flickering candle, the rhythmic sound of their breathing, the warmth of their bodies against each other - everything seemed to blend together, creating a cocoon of tranquility around them. In that moment, they were just two people – two souls seeking comfort in each other's presence.

***

In the hushed stillness of the room, the only light came from a thin slice of moonlight filtering through the heavy drapes. Oberyn lay asleep, his breaths slow and even in the tranquility of slumber.

She knew she had to depart. There was a past she needed to face, a journey she had to undertake alone. The thought of endangering Oberyn was unthinkable. She couldn't bear to see him ensnared in the web of her past.

With careful movements, she eased out of the bed, ensuring not to disturb him. She dressed in the dim light, her fingers deftly manoeuvring the familiar straps and buckles of her leather gear. Her weapons found their usual spots at her side. Pausing for a moment, she cast a final look at Oberyn. His peaceful face tugged at her heartstrings.

He looked so serene in sleep, his features softened, devoid of the usual intensity. She longed to crawl back into the warmth of the bed, to lose herself in the comfort of his arms. But she knew she couldn't. Not when so much was at stake.

Tears threatened to blur her vision, but she wiped them away, bracing herself for the inevitable. She leaned over him, whispering a faint "I'm sorry, Oberyn. I can't let you get hurt because of me."

The weight of her choices hit her then, leaving her feeling surprisingly hollow. She wanted to confess her feelings to him. She wanted to let him know how much he meant to her. But she didn't. Love was a luxury she couldn't afford. It was a weakness she couldn't risk. So she lay with Oberyn until he drifted off, treasuring the feel of his touch.

"I love you, my dearest Prince," she confessed in a whisper.

With those words, she turned towards the door, her footsteps barely making a sound. As she stepped out into the frosty night, a pang of regret washed over her. But she knew she had made the right decision, for both her and Oberyn.

And so, she melted into the darkness, leaving behind the warmth of Oberyn's bed and a possible future they might not have a chance to explore. She had a mission to complete, a past to confront. But as she walked away, she held onto the hope that one day, she could return to the man who taught her the true meaning of love.

***

The morning sun seeped through the weather-beaten shutters, casting a warm glow across the room. Oberyn Martell, stirred from his sleep, his mind still foggy from the night before. His eyes fluttered open, the room coming into focus. His gaze fell on the empty space next to him, the bed cold and untouched. His brows furrowed in confusion, a sense of unease settling into his chest.

Her scent still lingered in the room, a sweet and intoxicating mix of wildflowers and the sea. The night before flashed before his eyes, a whirl of passion and laughter, secrets whispered in hushed tones and shared smiles. But the tranquillity of the memory was quickly shattered by the harsh reality of her absence.

His heart pounded in his chest as he saw the note perched on the bedside table. It was hastily written, the ink smeared in places. He scanned the words, her familiar handwriting causing a lump to form in his throat.

"I'm sorry. I had to. Don’t follow me."

His heart sank. He knew what she had gone to do. The man they were sent to kill, the man who had trained her, twisted her into a weapon. He was dangerous, a viper in the grass, not unlike Oberyn himself. But she had gone alone.

His fists clenched, the paper crumpling under his grip. Anger flared inside him, hot and unyielding. She was stubborn, reckless, and brave. Too brave. He admired her spirit, her strength. But this... this was folly.

"How could you?" He thought, frustration seething in his veins. “You can’t just touch my soul and leave!” His mind raced, formulating a plan, a way to find her before it was too late. 

But what then?

Would she welcome him with open arms? Or would she see it as a betrayal, an invasion of her trust? He didn't know. He didn't care. All he knew was that he couldn't let her face the man alone.

In a flurry of motion, Oberyn was on his feet, hastily dressing in his usual attire of black and gold, forgotten the desert clothing from the day before. His heart pounded in his chest, the anger giving way to fear, fear for her safety. But he pushed it down, steeling himself for the task ahead.

He had a girl to find, a man to kill, and a promise to keep.

***

"The prodigal daughter returns," he sneered, stepping into the faint moonlight to reveal a face marred by battles - the Scorpion.

He was a formidable figure, an entity that inspired fear and commanded the shadows of the underworld. As venomous as his namesake, he was a sinister whisper in the dark corners of the Seven Kingdoms.

His face was a testament to battles fought and won, etched with scars that indicated a life steeped in violence. One prominent scar, a vicious slash, ran diagonally across his face, distorting his features into a grotesque mask that instilled fear in the bravest hearts - including hers, even after all these years. His eyes, however, were his most terrifying feature. They were cold, cruel, and devoid of any humanity, reflecting the icy void where his soul should have been.

His physical strength was prodigious, honed by years of relentless training and ruthless combat. Every muscle in his body was a testament to his lethal prowess. He moved with the grace of a predator, his every motion a dance of death.

As an assassin, his skills were honed to perfection over the years. He was a master of the shadows, able to vanish and reappear at will. His fists were extensions of his arms, lethal and swift, pushing down his enemies with terrifying efficiency.

But his most dangerous weapon was his mind, as sharp and deadly as his blades. He was a strategist, a manipulator, a puppeteer who orchestrated events from the shadows. His cunning was as legendary as his ruthlessness, a combination that made him one of the most feared men in all of Westeros.

This was the man who had trained her, who had moulded her into the deadly weapon she was today. The Scorpion was a harsh mentor, pushing her to her limits, honing her skills until she became a mirror of his deadly efficiency. But she was more than just his protege - she was his greatest masterpiece, his most lethal creation. And now, she was his greatest threat.

“I doubt you came back because you missed me.” he mocked, revealing his yellowed teeth. His eyes roved over her form dangerously. 

“Reneging on deals with the Prince of Dorne isn’t your smartest move, Scorpion.” His grin widened, and he broke into a loud, sinister laugh that echoed around the training ground where he had once trained her. She knew he had been expecting her here. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

“Oh, of course, you work for him now.” Something in his gaze darkened. The air around him grew thick with tension. “Like a whore changing patrons. What did he give you that I didn’t?” His towering figure cast a menacing silhouette against the backdrop of the training ground, pulsating with raw anger. The air, heavy with the scent of sweat and steel, vibrated with tension, each passing second ticking by like a countdown to an inevitable clash. His icy blue eyes, typically cold and calculating, now blazed with chilling fury – a deadly storm brewing within his ruthless soul.

His protegee stood defiantly before him, her gaze unwavering. She had been his finest creation, moulded into a weapon of lethal beauty under his watchful eye. But now, she was a traitor, having left him for the Prince of Dorne and Oberyn. The bitterness of her betrayal was like a festering wound, gnawing at his insides, fueling his wrath.

“Respect. He doesn’t see me as just a weapon he can use.” She retorted, her hands slowly reaching back, searching for her knives. She knew he would attack any minute now. It was only a matter of time before his temper flared, as it always did.

“I didn’t raise a fool,” he sneered, irritation lacing his voice. “Pathetic, that you believe in that. I can take you back, you know,” a dangerous glint shone in his eyes. “Of course, I would have to punish you first, but it would be nothing you haven’t endured before.”

“I’d rather die!”

“That can be arranged!” His low growl echoed around them as he lunged at her, his movements a seamless blend of raw power and deadly precision. His fists, hardened by countless battles, were like iron battering rams, each strike aimed to incapacitate, to punish. His wrath was a tangible force, an unstoppable storm of violence and fury.

Yet, she stood her ground, her lithe figure dancing around his brutal onslaught. She was a wisp of a girl, nimble and swift, her movements a mesmerising spectacle of agility and grace. Her strikes were sharp, precise, aimed to hurt, not to kill. She was his creation, after all, shaped by his hand, and she would not be easily defeated.

Their battle was an electrifying exhibition of strength and skill, a deadly dance of fury and betrayal. The Scorpion, a hulking beast of raw strength and ruthless determination, clashed against a swift and agile force of defiance and resilience of hisprotégée.

With a swift, unexpected move, he swept her off her feet, sending her crashing to the floor with a bone-jarring thud. He towered over her, his icy eyes devoid of any mercy, his breath coming out in harsh, ragged pants. His scarred face was a mask of rage, the vicious slash across his cheek seeming even more grotesque in his fury.

Yet, even as she lay there, pinned under his merciless gaze, her spirit remained unbroken. Her eyes, defiant and proud, met his without flinching. He could see the resolve in her gaze, the determination that he himself had instilled in her. It was a testament to his training, a silent acknowledgment of his mastery.

But even as a hint of pride flickered in the depths of his icy eyes, the Scorpion’s fury remained unabated. He was a beast of wrath, a creature of retribution, and he would not be denied his vengeance. His roar echoed through the chamber, a chilling promise of the fury that was yet to come.

The Scorpion towered over the fallen girl, his colossal frame casting an ominous shadow over her. His breath, a harsh, ragged symphony of fury and betrayal, filled the air around them. His fists, hardened by countless battles, clenched and unclenched in anticipation, eager to deliver the crushing blow. His icy eyes, a chilling mirror of his ruthless soul, bore into her with a merciless intensity.

The room hummed with the anticipation of the kill, the tension so palpable that it was almost a physical entity. Talia sprawled on the cold, hard floor, defiant in the face of imminent death, met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes, a resolute blaze of defiance, mirrored his fury with her own determination. 

As the Scorpion drew back his fist, ready to end her life, a sudden whirlwind of movement caught his attention. Through the dim light, a figure moved with the grace and speed of a viper, intercepting his deadly blow.

Oberyn, the Prince of Dorne, stood between the Scorpion and his own private guard, his dark eyes blazing with fury and concern. His slim, agile form was a stark contrast to the Scorpion’s hulking figure. He brandished a slender spear, its tip gleaming menacingly in the low light.

His anger was palpable, not merely at the Scorpion, but also at the girl for leaving him and wandering into danger. Yet, his love for her was evident in his protective stance, in the way his eyes never left her even as he faced the Scorpion.

The Scorpion roared in fury, his wrath a palpable force in the room. However, Oberyn remained unflinching, his gaze steady, his stance ready for combat. With his love still alive behind him, he lunged forward, spear leading, his movements a blur of lethal precision.

Their battle was a breathtaking spectacle, a deadly dance of strength, speed, and skill. The Scorpion’s overwhelming raw power clashed with Oberyn’s swift agility, their weapons clashing and sparking under the strain. The room echoed with the sound of steel against steel, the harsh gasps of exertion, the grunts of pain.

Meanwhile, the woman, undeterred by her fall, rose to her feet, her eyes never leaving the brutal spectacle unfolding before her. She was battered, bruised, but not defeated. She was a warrior, trained by the best, and she would not stand idle.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, she joined the fray, her movements a seamless blend of strength and grace. Together, they fought the Scorpion, their combined strength and skill a formidable force against his raw power. The training chamber, once a place of instruction and discipline, was now a battleground, echoing with the sounds of a furious struggle for survival.

She was a force to be reckoned with. Her every movement was a perfect blend of strength and grace, her strikes sharp and precise, her evasions a dance of agility and speed. Her eyes, alight with courage and determination, were fixed on the Scorpion, her spirit unbroken by the intense battle.

Their dance was a symphony of chaos, a ballet of death and survival. With Oberyn they moved as one, their actions a harmonious blend of speed and strength, their strikes and parries in perfect sync. Their eyes met in fleeting moments, silent exchanges of assurance and love amidst the brutal battle.

The Scorpion roared, a guttural bellow that echoed through the chamber, shaking the very walls with its intensity. The Scorpion, a monstrous beast of a man, lunged at Oberyn, his eyes gleaming with a lethal intent. Oberyn was ready, his spear poised to strike. But before he could move, the girl stepped in between, her weapon raised in defence. The Scorpion's fist descended upon her, a brutal blow that sent her crashing to the ground.

Oberyn roared, his heart clenching at the sight of his beloved falling. But she was not defeated. With a grunt of pain, she rose to her feet, her face a mask of determination. Her body was wracked with pain, her blood staining the cold stone floor. But her spirit was unbroken.

"Talia..." Oberyn's voice was a whisper, a plea. But she silenced him with a look. Her eyes blazed with resolve, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Finish this," she mouthed, her voice barely a whisper.

With a roar of fury, Oberyn lunged at the Scorpion. His spear was a blur of steel, each strike aimed with deadly precision. But the Scorpion was a formidable opponent, his movements a brutal dance of raw power.

Talia, despite her injuries, moved with a relentless resolve. She staggered towards the Scorpion, her weapon a gleaming promise of retribution. With a primal scream, she lunged, her weapon sinking into the Scorpion's back. The beast of a man roared, his body convulsing in pain.

The distraction was what Oberyn needed. With a swift, lethal move, he thrust his spear into the Scorpion's heart. The Scorpion staggered, his icy gaze meeting Oberyn's. A moment of surprise, a moment of realisation, and then he crumbled to the ground, defeated.

Silence fell upon the chamber, the brutal symphony of their struggle replaced by the harsh panting of the victors. Oberyn rushed to Talia, his hands cradling her face. Her eyes were dimmed with pain, but her spirit was as fierce as ever.

"We did it," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She managed a weak smile, her hand reaching up to touch Oberyn's face. "We did it, Oberyn."

Oberyn nodded, smiling even as tears filled his eyes. "You finally called me by my name, you stubborn woman.”

“I did make a promise," she responded. He chuckled at that, his hand moving to stem the blood seeping from her stomach, the aftermath of Scorpion’s punch. “It was your eyes," she said, her voice quiet, just above a whisper. Her hand gently caressed his cheek. “I have never seen such beautiful eyes. Eyes that radiate the joy of life. Eyes so soft and gentle. How could I kill someone who loves life so much?” She pulled him closer and kissed him tenderly. “You defeated me completely, my love. I never thought I would be able to fall in love with someone. I never thought I had it in me, to care for someone as deeply as I care for you.”

“You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?” She chuckled at that, wincing at the pain in her abdomen. “I have never and will never love anyone as much as I love you. If I defeated you, what does that make you? I’m ready to settle down, but only if it's with you.” Tears slipped down his cheeks, but a smile still played on his lips. “You turned the biggest bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms into a sentimental fool, my love.” 

“Will you take me home?” Her question brought a wry smile from him. “Will you still love me when we’re back?”

“Always my love.” 

As Talia's eyes fluttered shut, her breath slowing, Oberyn held her close, his tears a silent testament to their victory. They had triumphed, but the cost was heavy. Their love had been their strength, their bond unbroken by the storm of battle. But it was also their greatest vulnerability.

He stood, her body cradled in his arms, ready to return home. Back to Dorne. Together, no matter what.

[agoodroughandtumble]

Vienna - Sanji x Reader

Status: Part 1 of 2 [Part 2 is Zoro x Reader] Summary: Inspired by the Ultravox song - Reader is going through a break up. Sanji offers some words of comfort Warning: 18+, Language, angst

It had been fairly obvious that your last romantic relationship had not exactly a hit with the rest of the crew. Thankfully, for Sanji at least, your now ex had never been offered a place amongst the crew so any interaction was few and far between. Still, when Nami had told him why you had been a bit distant the past few days he couldn’t help but feel sorry for you. Even though your choice in men was questionable at times, downright awful at worse, there was nothing he liked seeing less than you being upset – especially over some arsehole that had never been worthy of your attention in the first place. Not that Sanji cared about who you were dating – at least, no more than was a normal amount for a crew mate. And it was purely coincidental that he had spent all morning making your favourite dessert and then the next half hour trying to find you – annoyingly, he found you back where he had started in the kitchen.

“Cheer up, love.”

You lifted your head up from the table, quickly wiping your eyes at the sound of Sanji’s voice and eyeing him a little suspiciously as he walked over to you – a tray full of your favourite cakes in one hand.

The cook gracefully set the plate down in front of you and slid onto the bench. “It is positively criminal for someone as beautiful as you so look so sad.

You rolled your eyes, though despite your best efforts you could feel a small smile tugging at your lips. Still, no one walks in on someone sat with their forehead against a table and assumed what they want is chit-chat. “What are you after?”

His eyebrows creased in confusion, a look of hurt across his face and one hand clutching at his chest. “(Y/N)! Is that how lowly you think of me?” He tilted his head suddenly, a thought occurring to him. “Although… perhaps a kiss from lips as sweet as yours could soften the blow a little…?”

“Sanji-”

“Alright,” the blond pushed the plate of dessert further towards you as a peace offering. “Nami told me what happened.”

“Great. That’s just… fucking great.” You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall and trying to retain some of your dignity. Being dumped was bad enough, embarrassing enough without the entire crew gossiping about you love life. “Look, I don’t want any of this,” you gestured towards both the food and the cook. “I want to wallow for a while. Contemplate my complete inability to be loved.”

A silence fell over you for a moment or two. Sanji had an unreadable expression on his face, although at present you couldn’t bring yourself to wonder what he was thinking. Obviously he wasn’t taking the hint as he shuffled further into him – so much so that you could smell his cologne mingled with smoke. It wasn’t the worst scent in the world, comforting, almost. You could feel your eyes starting to water again, and took a deep inhale to try and steady yourself.

Crying at all was bad enough – crying in front of a crew mate was unacceptable. Especially since Nami was apparently far more loose lipped than you had previously thought. The idea of everyone else knowing, of them fucking pitying you was almost as bad as having your heart ripped out in the first place.

“You don’t have an inability to be loved.”

It was the softness of his voice that caught your attention. Sanji was never soft. He was charming, and a flirt and usually more often than not a complete pervert but he was never soft. You shuffled uncomfortably under such an earnest gaze, biting your lip as though such an action could prevent the inevitable tears from spilling. “Well, he certainly doesn’t. Not any more.” You sniffed a little. This was pathetic. You were pathetic. No wonder he’d finally decided to get rid of you.

“I do. I mean, we all do. The crew. We love you.” Sanji inwardly cringed. Of all the times he could have accidentally blurted that out, of all the ways he could have told you, whilst you were trying not to cry over some completely arsehole was certainly not one of them. Hopefully you didn’t think anything of it – and he could simply explain it away as a way of cheering you up – reassuring you that the crew would always have your back. Hopefully you wouldn’t think anything more of it and he could go back to loving you from a distance, the periphery.

He cleared his throat, trying keep such thoughts at bay. You were upset, you were crying over another man for fuck’s sake. There was so many ways in which this situation could go horribly wrong. He started to stand up, “I should go. You can’t wallow with company.” He tried sound light-hearted, obviously he failed as your face dropped further.

You caught him off guard, almost instinctively clutching onto his sleeve. “Wait – I…” you trailed off, struggling to work out exactly what you were trying to say. “Can we… can you…”

He sat back down, watching you curiously. If he didn’t know any better he would think there was a look of pleading in your eyes. This was the first time he had had a chance to properly take you in, his heart sank at the redness of your eyes, delicately framed by bleeding mascara and your chapped lips – no doubt from chewing on them in an attempt to fight back any more tears. “Can I what, love?”

“Can you just. Just stay? For a little bit?” You let go of his sleeve and started fidgeting with your nails instead, eyes downcast. “If you want.”

Sanji’s heart shouldn’t swell at the thought of you wanting him, needing him. And he wasn’t so delusional to think you would be asking anything different if it was Luffy, or, God forbid, Zoro that had been the one to walk into the kitchen. But right now, right there, it was him that you wanted – and how could he possibly refuse?

He could pretend it was just because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and yes, of course he would do the same for Nami but his breath wouldn’t hitch the way it did if she leant in against him. His heart wouldn’t be racing at a thousand miles an hour if Nami was wrapping an arm around his waist, using him to anchor herself and finally allowing herself to be vulnerable. Against all of his wishes, this would always just be for you. He kissed your forehead – he could have that one little indulgence. “Of course I will, darling. Whatever you want.”

[riddley-art]

Pawns of the Past: A RiddleCat love story

Chapter 7

Summary: Set six months after the fall of the Justice League, thanks to the Suicide Squad, and five years after Arkham Knight, Riddler tracks down Catwoman, who’s been living far from Gotham, determined to reclaim the money she stole from him. Their tense confrontation takes an unexpected turn as old sparks reignite. What begins as a mission of revenge slowly evolves into a complicated romance, forcing both Selina and Eddie to confront their feelings, their pasts, and the possibility of a future neither expected.

I’m beyond excited to finally share the project I’ve been working on with the incredible @adhdnursegoat! This is our very first RiddleCat fic, and we’re so thrilled to bring it to life today. 💜💚

Rated: Mature

Need to catch up or re-read? Here's the link to: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 Chapter 6- On Archive of our Own

Edward stirs, his face buried in the pillow, the warmth beside him noticeably absent. It takes him a moment to register the void where Selina had been. He blinks groggily, rolling over with the sluggish determination of someone trying to reclaim what they’ve lost. His hand reaches out blindly, searching for her familiar form.

Instead, his palm lands on something firm. Very firm.

His fingers hesitate, then press again, his mind struggling to reconcile the sensation. What in the world— He lifts his head, bleary eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the room.

The sight before him makes his stomach drop.

“Riddle me this,” a deep, unmistakably smug voice drawls, the tone heavy with mockery. “What kind of genius doesn’t understand the concept of ‘bright and early’ for a lookout?”

He jerks upright, his heart leaping into his throat. “Crosby!?” he yelps, his voice cracking as he scrambles backward. In his panic, his legs get caught in the blanket, and he tumbles off the bed with a thud that does nothing for his dignity.

Sprawled sideways on the bed, Crosby props himself up lazily on one elbow, looking entirely at ease in his black V-neck and jeans. The shirt stretches slightly over his broad chest, the casual fabric somehow amplifying the air of smug confidence radiating off him. His grin is wide and wolfish, clearly relishing Edward’s discomfort.

“About time you woke up,” Crosby says, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed with infuriating nonchalance. “We should’ve left an hour ago.”

Edward scrambles to his feet, clutching the blanket around himself like a makeshift shield. His face burns red, the heat creeping up his neck to his ears. “You know,” he snaps, his voice sharper than he intends, “there are plenty of ways to wake someone up that don’t involve crawling into their bed and scaring the life out of them!”

Crosby just smirks, leaning back with an expression that practically screams relax, kid. “You’re too easy to mess with, Nygma.”

Edward glares as he snatches his glasses from the nightstand, shoving them onto his face with a huff. “You’re lucky I don’t have a trapdoor installed in this bedroom.”

“Good thing I’m light on my feet,” Crosby retorts, chuckling as he tosses a gift bag toward Edward. “Get dressed, genius. We’ve got work to do.” He turns his back, giving Edward a sliver of privacy while crossing his arms, still radiating smug amusement.

He catches the bag with a scowl, trudging toward the bathroom. “Where’s Selina?” he asks, peeking inside the bag to find neatly folded clothes. His tone is flat, but there’s a faint note of curiosity. “She’s usually the one waking me up.”

“She and Holly went for a run,” Crosby says, his voice casual as he faces the wall. “Selina told me to let you sleep in a little longer since you had, and I quote, ‘an exciting night.’”

Edward snorts, pulling the shirt from the bag and inspecting it with mild disdain before heading to the sink. “I wouldn’t call getting punched in the face ‘exciting.’”

Crosby turns, one eyebrow arching as his gaze sweeps over Edward with a knowing smirk. “I don’t think she meant that part was the exciting part,” he says, his tone loaded.

It takes a second for the words to sink in, but when they do, Edward freezes. His face goes from faintly flushed to full-on crimson in record time. He stiffens, his mind racing as the memories of the night before come flooding back—Selina’s touch, her laughter, the way she’d left her mark on him in more ways than one.

“Dammit,” he mutters, his voice muffled by the toothbrush as his free hand flies up to cover the evidence on his neck. He turns on his heel and retreats into the bathroom, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

Crosby’s laughter booms through the room, the sound rich and unapologetic. “Relax, lover boy!” he calls after him. “No one’s judging you—well, except me.”

From behind the bathroom door, Edward’s muffled voice groans, “I’m never letting her convince me to do that again.”

“Sure you’re not,” Crosby replies, his grin audible in his voice. “Take your time, Romeo. I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”

Edward sighs, leaning against the sink for a moment. The cool ceramic edge presses into his palms as he steadies himself, his mind spiraling back over the last forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours that feel more like a week. A month.

The first night, staying up with Selina for hours. Their quiet, shared moments laced with unspoken words. The connection between them had been immediate, undeniable, and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from sinking into it.

Then there was the... encounter. Heat rushes to his face, his blush rising as he shuts his eyes against the memory. It had been electric, all-consuming. He can still feel the ghost of her touch, the curve of her smile when she leaned in too close. It’s too much to process, even now, even after everything else that’s happened since.

Meeting her “family” came next. Holly with her sharp tongue and quick wit, Crosby with his mountain of muscle and endless smirks and quips. They had poked and prodded at him like he was some strange new species. And in a way, maybe he was. He wasn’t used to this—being pulled into someone’s circle, being given a place among their people.

The night feels like a fever dream, a blur of lights and music that blends into fleeting moments. Derek’s smug face flashes in his memory—the instant Edward had stood his ground. The punch—he winces at the thought of it, the ache still faint but present—was something he’d never believed himself capable of. Yet it had happened. And the way Selina had looked at him afterward... it wasn’t just approval. It wasn’t pity. It was something warmer, deeper. She had looked at him like he was more than the Riddler. More than Edward Nygma.

And then there was the shower.

He catches his reflection in the mirror and his stomach tightens. The faint, dark marks on his neck and chest are a glaring reminder, their edges soft but unmistakable. His blush rises, spreading like fire under his skin. The memory floods his mind unbidden: the heat of her hands, the deliberate press of her mouth, the intensity of her gaze. The way her touch had felt like a claim, like she was leaving fragments of herself etched into him, pieces that would stay long after the water had gone cold.

Edward swallows hard, pulling his tie into place as though the action will anchor him to the present. And now this. Playing buddy-buddy with Crosby—a man whose scrutinizing stare feels like a constant reminder that Edward is out of his depth. Crosby looks at him the way a predator watches prey, like he’s weighing whether Edward’s worth the trouble or if he should simply crush him and be done with it.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The past two days have been a whirlwind. No, not just a whirlwind—a hurricane, pulling him so far out of his comfort zone that he’s almost forgotten what his comfort zone even is. Plans, puzzles, order—all of it feels distant, as if belonging to a different version of himself.

And yet, there’s a strange, undeniable allure to the chaos. To Selina. To this unexpected orbit he’s been pulled into. Against all logic, he doesn’t want to leave it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

After a few more minutes, Edward splashes water on his face, and steps out of the bathroom, his polished appearance belying the storm still swirling in his mind. He wears a navy-blue button-up shirt, meticulously tucked into tailored slacks, and a sleek black tie that adds an edge of precision to his look. His damp hair is combed neatly back, every strand in place, a portrait of control he doesn’t entirely feel.

Crosby glances up, giving him a once-over. His nod of approval is subtle but unmistakable. “Not bad. At least you look the part. Come on, I’ll fill you in on the details in the car.” Without waiting for a reply, Crosby turns and strides toward the door, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure.

Edward lingers for a moment, his gaze trailing after Crosby before his stomach interjects with a low, audible growl. He veers toward the kitchen, his instincts kicking in as he scans the counter for something to eat—or at the very least, coffee. His hand reaches for the nearest mug.

But before he can make it farther than a step, Crosby’s grip hooks him by the collar, pulling him back with an almost practiced ease. “Sorry, Rid. You missed your chance. We’re out of here before the place gets too crowded.”

Edward wrestles free, tugging at his collar as he shoots an annoyed glare. “Can I at least grab an apple? A granola bar? Something? I need brain power.” Without waiting for an answer, he darts into the kitchen, his hand landing on the first piece of fruit in sight—a pear.

Leaning casually against the doorway, Crosby watches the scene unfold with a raised eyebrow and an expression teetering between amusement and exasperation. “A pear? Really?”

He straightens, holding the fruit like a small victory. “Don’t judge me,” he quips, defiant, before taking a deliberate bite. “It’s fuel.”

Crosby rolls his eyes, his lips twitching as if holding back a smirk. “Fine. Just don’t get juice on that tie, genius. Let’s go.”

As they step outside, Edward’s ears pick up the telltale jingle of car keys, followed by the smooth beep of a locking system disengaging. His eyes dart toward the sound, landing on a sleek grey BMW. Its polished metallic surface gleams under the morning light, and its angular, aggressive design catches his attention.

For a moment, he hesitates. Something about the car—its precision, its stark efficiency—pulls at a corner of his mind. It reminds him, inexplicably and unpleasantly, of the Batmobile. The association is fleeting but potent, a flood of memories rising unbidden. Nights spent in the shadow of Gotham’s most relentless force. Schemes foiled. Ego bruised.

Edward grimaces briefly. Old times. The phrase feels like a relic, something too sharp-edged to hold comfortably.

Before he can sink too deep into his thoughts, a familiar voice calls out, clear and vibrant. “Hey, Eddie!”

He turns quickly, his heart giving an involuntary jolt. Selina jogs up the driveway, her strides graceful despite the sweat glistening on her skin. Behind her, Holly trails at a more leisurely pace. Edward’s face lights up instinctively at the sight of Selina, though the heat crawling up his neck betrays him—yet another moment of infuriatingly obvious vulnerability.

Crosby groans loudly from the car, leaning lazily against it. “Fantastic. More delays. Better make it quick if you want to say goodbye!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Without a word, he breaks into a light jog toward her, his steps quick but unsteady. He’s not exactly built for speed. Holly passes by them with a casual wave, heading straight for Crosby, who nods at her in acknowledgment, his impatience simmering just beneath the surface.

When Edward and Selina meet in the middle, she bends forward slightly, hands on her knees, catching her breath. Her ponytail sways with the motion, a few strands clinging to her flushed face. She’s wearing gray leggings and a purple sports bra, the simplicity of her outfit doing nothing to diminish the effortless grace she carries, even after a run.

“Good morning,” Edward says, his grin sheepish as he tries—and fails—not to look utterly flustered. “You should’ve woken me up. I would’ve joined you for the run.”

Selina glances up, her lips curving into a smirk despite her labored breathing. “Oh, please. You? Run? I’d pay to see that.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. “I could surprise you.”

Her smirk widens, her voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “You already did last night.”

The words hit their mark perfectly. Edward’s face flushes deeper, the memory of the shower and every touch rushing to the forefront of his mind. He quickly averts his gaze, adjusting his glasses as if that might shield him from her knowing eyes.

Selina straightens up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, her amusement evident. Behind them, Crosby’s voice slices through the moment, sharp and impatient. “Tick-tock, lovebirds! Some of us have places to be!”

Edward glances back at Crosby, who looks one groan away from honking the car horn, and then turns to Selina. He sighs heavily, the reluctance plain on his face as he fidgets, his fingers twitching with unspent nerves. Finally, he reaches for her hand, gripping it lightly but firmly.

“Please, for the love of God, come with me,” he blurts out, his voice pitched with desperation. “I don’t want to be alone with Crosby. I’m terrible at small talk.”

Selina’s expression softens, her teasing replaced with something gentler, more understanding. She threads her fingers through his, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine, Eddie. I promise. He’s not as bad as he seems��he just likes messing with you. Underneath all that muscle, he’s a big teddy bear. I’ve known him since we were kids.”

Her free hand lifts, brushing gently against the bruise on his cheek. Her touch is light, tender, and he can’t help but lean into it ever so slightly.

“Just talk about the mission,” Selina says, her tone steady and encouraging, though there’s a glimmer of teasing in her eyes. “You might even find out you’ve got more in common than you think.”

Edward exhales sharply, the weight of her words sitting uncomfortably in his chest. He’s unconvinced but willing to trust her judgment—mostly. “That’s... a big might,” he mutters, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance.

Though, when Selina grins, her smirk softening into something warmer, he feels the tension relax in his shoulders. “Think of it as a bonding moment,” she says, tilting her head. Then, with a casual but deliberate gesture, she motions between them. “Besides, if this—” her fingers wave lightly in the space between them, “—keeps going, you’re gonna have to get along with him.”

His breath catches, heart thudding unexpectedly hard. Is she really thinking about that? About a future where he’s... in her life? His throat tightens, words stalling on his tongue. “Well, I—”

A loud car horn blares, cutting through the moment like a knife. “Rid! Let’s go! Not gonna say it again!” Crosby’s voice barrels from the car window, loud and impatient.

He groans audibly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Selina laughs softly, the sound light and teasing. “Well, hurry along,” she says, her tone playful but warm. Her green eyes hold his, and for a moment, it feels like she’s holding him in place. “And don’t be late for our date tonight. Be back no later than six. I figured we could cook dinner and have our movie night.”

The promise in her voice strikes something deep in him. Before he can respond, she leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his unbruised cheek. Her lips are warm, and the gesture sends a quiet thrill down his spine.

For a moment, his mind goes blank, both from the kiss and when he remembers last night’s discussion on the dance floow. His eyes widen as the realization crashes over him. He’d completely forgotten about their plans amidst the chaos of the night before—the fight, the shower, everything.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out with more sincerity than he expects. On impulse, he leans down and kisses her back, this time on the lips. It’s brief, just a light brush, but it leaves them both smiling when they pull away.

“Good,” Selina murmurs, her eyes sparkling. “Now, get going before Crosby has a meltdown.”

Edward nods, the grin tugging at his lips feeling almost foreign in its ease. He turns and jogs toward the car, his steps lighter, more purposeful. Despite Crosby’s irritated shouts, the world feels quieter, softer, somehow less daunting.

As he slides into the passenger seat, still grinning, Crosby raises an eyebrow, giving him a once-over, but he says nothing. 

Glancing out the window as they pull away, he waves back at Selina, feeling a little reluctant to leave. Selina stands in the driveway, her figure framed by the morning light, one hand resting on her hip, the other raised in a casual wave. Her silhouette grows smaller as the car moves down the main road, but Edward keeps looking until she disappears from view.

“About forty minutes to get there,” Crosby says, his hands steady on the wheel, his tone calm but businesslike. “It’s not far from the main shopping center here in town.”

He reaches over without taking his eyes off the road and hands Eddie a folder. “Here. I printed out more info on the guy who owns the place.”

The pear’s sweetness slips along Edward’s tongue as finishes it off and reaches for the folder, his hand brushing against the rough texture of the paper. He balances it on his lap with an arched brow, the motion casual but precise, a habit born of years of meticulous planning. With his free hand, he flicks it open, the rustle of paper sharp against the steady hum of the car’s engine.

“Client ‘Woodlands’,” he reads, his voice thoughtful, almost mechanical, as if testing the weight of the name. “Owned the business for over twenty years. Good reviews…” His gaze flickers up, sharp now. “But you think he’s running more than just a jewelry store?”

Crosby’s focus never strays from the road, his posture rigid yet composed, the sunlight cutting clean lines across his face. His jaw tightens briefly before he speaks, his tone even, almost too controlled. “We know he’s hiding something,” he says. “And it might not even belong to him.”

“What do you mean by that?” Edward’s fingers brush together, ridding themselves of the pear’s faint stickiness, as if clearing his hands will somehow clear his thoughts.

“Rumor has it he pulled some shady deals in Gotham back in the day. Could be tied to the Falcones or Rupert Thorne.” The weight of his words is deliberate, Crosby’s voice dipping lower. His grip on the wheel tightens subtly, knuckles paling. “If that’s true, we’re not just taking from some guy trying to make an honest living—it’s dirty money.”

Leaning back against the seat, Edward lets the folder rest heavy in his lap. He stares out the window, the scenery rushing past in a blur, though his mind latches onto each word Crosby just said, turning them over like pieces of a puzzle. “So, if this guy’s connected to Gotham’s crime families, he’s fair game,” he murmurs, half to himself. “A bunker makes sense. Could be hiding the dirty money there.”

“Exactly.” Crosby glances at him briefly, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “While we’re in there, you’re hacking into their systems. Get everything you can—just don’t make it obvious.”

Edward tilts his head slightly, his skepticism seeping through his expression. “And how exactly are we pulling that off?”

The corner of Crosby’s mouth lifts in a quick grin, a fleeting moment of levity. “Glad you asked,” he says, slipping a hand into his pocket. He produces a sleek business card, handing it over with an air of theatricality.

With his lips twisted in a skeptical line, Edward takes the card, the polished surface gleaming under the soft light of the dashboard. His fingers trace its precision-cut corners as if testing its legitimacy. The details on the card seem absurd at first glance—more absurd still as Crosby’s grin stretches wider, brimming with unchecked amusement.

“You’ll be Edward Brookelny,” Crosby announces, his tone theatrical, like he’s delivering a sales pitch. “A psychology professor from Metropolis University. You’re here to purchase a ring for your ‘lady.’” He caps the statement with a wink, clearly reveling in the absurdity of it all. “And I’ll play the part of your bodyguard, to make it believable.”

With the card still balanced in his hand, Edward studies it, the skepticism already etched across his face deepening. “And this bruise on my face?” he asks, voice dry, as his thumb absently brushes the textured print.

“Perfect cover.” Crosby doesn’t miss a beat. “It sells the idea that people are targeting you because you’ve got money. You’re just a rich academic with a rough patch of luck.”

Groaning under his breath, Edward drags a hand over his face, his fingers pressing momentarily into his temples. “A psychology professor?” he repeats, incredulous. “Seriously? And you think this is believable?”

A chuckle rumbles low in Crosby’s chest, his confidence unshakable. “With your big words and smug attitude, it’s practically typecasting.”

Edward shoots him a flat glare, but the card disappears into his shirt pocket with a resigned flick of his hand. “Fine,” he mutters, crossing his arms and leaning back against the seat. “But don’t expect me to act impressed by your so-called bodyguard skills.”

 “Don’t worry, genius.” 

Unfazed, Crosby’s smirk lingers, his grip on the steering wheel casual yet firm. “Stick to the plan, and we’ll be in and out before you know it.”

A skeptical frown shadows Edward’s features as he fixes Crosby with a pointed look. “And how exactly do you expect me to hack into their systems while I’m busy talking to people?”

Glancing at him briefly, Crosby shifts his weight, his eyes flicking back to the road. “Haven’t noticed yet? Those glasses you’re wearing aren’t your usual ones.” He gestures toward Edward’s face with a quick tilt of his chin. “They’ve got a camera built into the frame. It’ll scan any device—cameras, computers, whatever—and send the data straight to your system for remote access later.”

The revelation pulls Edward upright, his posture snapping into focus as he carefully removes the glasses. Turning them over in his hands, he inspects them closely, his brow furrowing as he takes in the subtle modifications. “Wait a second…” He shoots Crosby a narrowed gaze. “How did you even get my prescription for these?”

“I picked up the pair that went flying last night during the fight. Guess you didn’t notice.” Crosby grins, a flash of teeth making his smug face even more unbearable for Edward. 

His mind races, piecing together fragments of memory—the jarring impact of Derek’s fist, the sting in his cheek, and the chaos that followed. His glasses had been the last thing on his mind at the time, and the realization that Crosby had scooped them up without him even noticing stirs a mix of unease and begrudging respect.

“Well, that’s... unsettlingly efficient of you,” Edward mutters, sliding the glasses back onto his face. 

They settle into place with a weight that feels both familiar and foreign, the knowledge of their hidden tech making them feel heavier than they should. Adjusting them with a precise flick of his index finger, he casts Crosby a wary glance, his mind already running calculations on the potential risks and advantages of this unexpected addition to their plan.

From the driver’s seat, Crosby chuckles, the sound low and easy, as if he’s in on a joke Edward hasn’t caught. “Relax, genius,” he says, his tone breezy. “You’ll thank me later when this plan goes off without a hitch.”

Edward rolls his eyes, leaning back in the seat, his silence a mix of begrudging acceptance and simmering skepticism. As much as he hates to admit it, Crosby’s foresight is... impressive. Too impressive, maybe. The man is annoyingly competent for someone who seems to operate primarily on gut instinct. Still, Edward’s natural inclination toward distrust hums quietly in the back of his mind. He files the thought away, focusing instead on the present.

The silence that follows feels oppressive, thick and stifling like a humid summer day. Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, each passing second pressing down on Edward’s chest. Conversation has never been his strong suit—he thrives on structure, on knowing the rules of engagement. Small talk, on the other hand, is a minefield of unpredictability, and the thought of navigating it with someone like Crosby makes his stomach churn.

He shifts in his seat, Edward’s fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. The tension builds until it’s unbearable, and he decides—reluctantly—that he has to say something. Anything. Like ripping off a bandage, he reasons.

“So...” he begins, the word hanging awkwardly in the air. His voice is hesitant, uncertain. “The weather’s... nice, at least.”

“Sure is,” Crosby replies curtly, his tone utterly indifferent. He doesn’t even glance at him, his hands steady on the wheel. 

Edward winces inwardly, the heat of humiliation creeping up his neck. That was a disaster. A complete and utter failure. Determined to salvage the situation, he clears his throat, forcing himself to try again. “Uh... how’s it like being a bartender at a club?”

“It pays the bills.” Crosby shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Can’t complain.”

The words are flat, offering nothing, and Edward clenches his jaw to keep from groaning aloud. Another misstep. He glances out the window, watching the blur of trees and asphalt, desperately searching his mind for something—anything—that might spark a real conversation. This is worse than getting punched in the face, he decides. At least with Derek, there had been an obvious solution: hit back.

“Really nice car you’ve got,” he says finally, the words tumbling out in a tone so strained it makes him cringe.

“Thanks,” Crosby replies, his tone still neutral. “Just finished paying it off.”

Edward pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration simmering just below the surface. Torture, plain and simple. Crosby’s conversational indifference is a brick wall, and Edward’s social repertoire isn’t built to scale it. His eyes dart to the dashboard clock, the numbers glaring back at him like a countdown to his own demise. Twenty-five minutes left.

Exhaling sharply, he slumps back in his seat, muttering under his breath, “This is hell.”

Beside him, Crosby glances his way, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Not much of a chatter, are you?” His tone is casual, like he’s enjoying Edward’s discomfort.

Turning his head slowly, Edward shoots him a sideways glare, his voice flat. “No. And clearly, neither are you.”

“Don’t worry, genius,” Crosby chuckles, the sound deep and annoyingly amused, his grip on the wheel steady as he shifts lanes. “You’ll survive. Consider this practice for when we’re in the field.”

“Practice for what? Talking to brick walls?” Edward grumbles, crossing his arms and sinking deeper into the passenger seat.

Shaking his head, Crosby lets out another quiet laugh, the smirk still etched on his face. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Edward groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as if that will block out the infuriating man beside him. Patience is a resource in short supply, and Crosby’s cryptic quips are testing its limits. The silence feels heavier than the noise, pressing down on him, prickling at the edges of his thoughts.

Part of him wonders if this is his fault. Socializing has never come naturally—friendships even less so. After years of being overlooked, dismissed, or mocked, he’d stopped trying altogether. People didn’t make an effort with him, so why should he? The logic was airtight. Rational. He needed no one, and no one needed him. That’s what he told himself.

But now…

Now, there’s Selina. Her laughter, her sharp wit, the way her green eyes soften when they land on him. She’s pulled him into her orbit with a gravity he can’t resist, and for the first time in years, he feels a pull to connect, to belong. Crosby matters to her. That much is clear. And if Edward wants something real with her, he knows—begrudgingly—that this has to matter too.

His sigh is quiet, almost imperceptible, as he shifts in his seat. The leather creaks under the motion, and his gaze flicks to Crosby’s arm. There, beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, a tattoo stands out. He’s noticed it before, glimpsed in passing, but never paused long enough to study it. Now, in the stillness of the car, the details come into focus: a simple cross, stark and clean, with a name etched beneath it—Sarah.

The name burrows in Edward’s mind, prodding at his curiosity with an insistence that won’t let go. Reaching out, caring—this isn’t him. Not naturally, not easily. But Selina’s voice rings in his thoughts, her laughter, her teasing warmth. If being part of her world means learning to navigate these uncharted waters, maybe, just maybe, he can try. 

Straightening slightly, he tilts his head toward Crosby, his voice soft but threaded with genuine interest. “So,” he begins, hesitant, but the words spill out before he can second-guess them, “who’s Sarah?”

The moment the question leaves his lips, the car jerks violently. Crosby slams the brakes, narrowly avoiding running a red light. Edward lurches forward, his chest colliding with the seatbelt as it locks him back with a harsh snap. The air in the car turns electric, buzzing with tension.

“What the hell!” Edward sputters, his fingers gripping the armrest like it might steady his racing pulse. The words shoot out sharper than intended, more from the adrenaline than anything else.

Crosby doesn’t answer. His hands grip the steering wheel with a white-knuckled intensity, his gaze fixed ahead like he’s staring down a memory instead of the road. His jaw tightens, the muscles flickering in sharp relief under the muted light. He doesn’t look at Edward.

The silence stretches, too taut and too loud. Edward sinks back into his seat, the question hanging between them like an echo that refuses to fade. His heart still pounds, but it’s not just from the sudden stop now. Clearly, I hit a nerve. Regret needles its way into his thoughts, but it’s tangled with an unexpected pang of guilt. He hadn’t expected to dig this deep.

The light changes to green. Crosby eases his foot back onto the gas, the car resuming its smooth, steady motion as if nothing had happened. But the air hasn’t cleared. If anything, it’s grown heavier, suffocating with unspoken weight.

Minutes pass, long and uncomfortable, before Crosby finally breaks the silence. His voice is low, deliberate, and thick with a tightly leashed emotion. “She was my wife,” he says, the words landing like a sharp-edged stone between them. His grip on the wheel loosens slightly, though his knuckles still betray a tension he can’t quite shake. “My beloved wife.”

Edward blinks, the revelation hitting harder than he’d anticipated. Wife? He hadn’t expected such a raw, personal truth. His usual arsenal of quick comebacks and razor-sharp wit feels suddenly inadequate, leaving him floundering for something—anything—worth saying.

“I—” he starts, then stops. The weight of the moment makes every word feel wrong, too hollow, too small. Shifting awkwardly, he glances at Crosby out of the corner of his eye, searching for some sign, any sign, that this conversation isn’t a complete disaster.

“You didn’t know, so it’s fine,” Crosby says, his voice calmer now, though there’s an undertone that betrays his struggle to keep steady. He doesn’t glance over, his focus still locked on the road. But the words feel practiced, not entirely true.

Crosby exhales, a sound too soft to be a sigh but carrying the same weight. “She died that night,” he says, his voice dipping lower, the edges roughened with a pain that time hasn’t dulled. “That Halloween night... during Scarecrow’s wrath.”

The car feels quieter now, the engine’s hum reduced to a soft undercurrent against the unspoken tension. Edward shifts slightly in his seat, the weight of Crosby’s revelation pressing against his chest like a heavy hand. He wants to say something—to ask, to understand—but the way Crosby’s knuckles flex and relax against the wheel warns him to tread carefully. Sometimes silence carries more meaning than words.

Swallowing hard, Edward lets the moment settle. The name Sarah echoes in his mind, wrapped in the context of Scarecrow’s chaos. That night had left scars on everyone who had lived through it—himself, Selina, even Batman. A night etched into Gotham’s bones.

“I’m... sorry to hear that,” Edward finally says, his voice quieter than he expects. The words feel clumsy on his tongue, but they carry sincerity. He doesn’t know what else to offer, only that he needs to say something.

Crosby inclines his head slightly, his grip on the wheel loosening but not entirely relaxed. “Appreciate it,” he replies, his tone signaling he doesn’t want to linger on the topic.

The silence that follows feels softer, no longer suffocating but heavy with shared understanding. Edward turns his gaze to the window, the city rolling by as his mind churns. Crosby’s loss carves a sharp contrast to his own memories of that night, their connection to Gotham threading a tenuous bridge between them.

Breaking the quiet, Crosby speaks again, his voice low, almost tentative. “Selina never told you much about me, did she?”

Edward glances back at him, caught off guard by the shift in tone. Twiddling his thumbs in his lap, he shakes his head. “Only that you two grew up in the orphanage together,” he admits, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

Crosby nods, his gaze steady on the road, his posture softening. “Yeah, that’s the simple version,” he says, his voice carrying a note of something deeper. “I was older, so I left the orphanage before her. Ended up joining the Army, went the medical route.”

Edward tilts his head slightly, the awkwardness of the conversation giving way to genuine interest. The details add layers to the man beside him, shifting his perception.

“Met Sarah while I was in,” Crosby continues, his voice gaining a rare warmth. “She was in the Army too. We both got out with honorable discharges, got married, and... had a daughter. Grace.”

The name feels like a ghost. Edward watches Crosby’s face, noting the way his jaw softens, the way his grip on the wheel relaxes completely for the first time. There’s a bittersweet curve to his mouth, a fleeting smile that speaks of a life long past but not forgotten.

Leaning back, Edward feels something stir in his chest—respect, sympathy, perhaps both. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Crosby follow the thread of his own story.

“We moved to Gotham after that,” Crosby says, his voice hardening slightly, as though stepping into a darker chapter. “That’s when I crossed paths with a man named Jason Todd. You’d know him better as the Arkham Knight.”

The shift in Crosby’s tone pulls Edward upright, his posture stiffening as Jason Todd’s name hits him like a jolt of static electricity. The memories flood in unbidden—Jason’s icy precision, his calculated fury, the raw force of his presence. Edward can still recall the brief but indelible impression the Arkham Knight left on him. “You worked with him?” he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief. “The militia? The entire operation?”

Crosby nods slowly, the motion weighted, reluctant. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s confessing. “Not exactly a high point in my life. But back then... he promised me the kind of money you dream about. Enough to keep my family safe. Enough to get out.” His hands tighten on the wheel briefly before relaxing again. “He trusted me to head his medical team—practically his personal physician. We went way back.”

Edward’s eyebrows lift, the puzzle pieces reshuffling in his mind. “You knew him before all that?” he asks, the sharp edge of curiosity cutting through his initial shock.

For a moment, Crosby doesn’t answer. The wheel creaks faintly under his tightened grip before he exhales a low, tired sigh. “Yeah. Army days. He was... different back then. Angry, sure, but not like he was later. Not broken.”

Leaning back slightly, Edward folds his hands in his lap, his mind turning over the implications. “And you believed him? About the riches?” he presses, unable to keep the skepticism from his tone.

A bitter chuckle escapes Crosby, low and humorless. “Desperation makes you believe a lot of things you shouldn’t,” he says, his voice darkening. “Especially when you’ve got people you care about, people you’re trying to protect.”

The gravity of Crosby’s words presses against Edward, stirring something uncomfortable in his chest. He recognizes the tone—the regret, the bitterness of choices made under duress. Edward doesn’t interrupt, sensing the story isn’t finished.

“I thought it was my ticket out,” Crosby continues, his voice heavier now, like every word costs him. “A clean break. An early retirement. But I was blind because...” His sentence trails off, his jaw working as he fights to get the words out. After a long pause, he takes a breath that shudders slightly. “During that time, my wife was back in Gotham. Alone. Our baby was out of state, visiting her granddad, and that lunatic Zsasz...”

Zsasz. 

The very mention of him sends a chill down his spine. Edward knows the name too well, knows the blood-soaked trail that monster left in his wake. Refusing to work with Zsasz had been one of the few ethical boundaries Edward hadn’t dared cross.

“He killed her.” Crosby’s grip on the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles go white, the tremor in his voice betraying the storm beneath. “In cold blood. I wasn’t there to protect her.”

The silence that follows feels suffocating, as if the car itself is holding its breath. Edward glances sideways, his own hands twitching uselessly in his lap. He doesn’t know what to say—what could possibly be said in the face of that kind of pain?

“I found her,” Crosby continues, his voice breaking now. “I... I came back and... she was just there. Gone. Because I wasn’t there to stop it.”

His words crumble into silence, and Edward notices, with a tight pull in his chest, the single tear tracking down Crosby’s face. The man, so steady and unshakable, suddenly feels like someone else entirely—someone Edward barely recognizes.

Awkwardly, Edward reaches out, his hand hovering for a moment before settling on Crosby’s shoulder. The gesture feels clumsy, inadequate, but it’s all he can think to do. Crosby doesn’t flinch, doesn’t acknowledge it, but he doesn’t shrug it off either.

The car crawls forward in the sluggish morning traffic, the lull giving Crosby a moment to lean forward, resting his head briefly against the steering wheel. Quiet sobs shake his broad shoulders, the sound low and muffled, like he’s trying to keep it contained.

Edward, out of his depth but unwilling to sit idle, rifles through the glove compartment with fumbling fingers. The mess of papers and trinkets spills over until his hand closes around a small packet of napkins. He pulls them out and holds them toward Crosby, his voice softer than usual. “Here.”

Crosby takes the napkins with a quick nod, the motion brusque, his shoulders still hunched from the weight of his words. He blows his nose loudly, the sound cutting through the thick tension in the car. “Thanks,” he mutters, his voice rough and raw.

For a moment, Edward doesn’t know where to look—out the window, at the road ahead, or at the man beside him who seems to be unraveling. Who is this person? The Crosby he imagined, the one built from sharp smirks and gruff teasing, feels unrecognizable in this moment. Vulnerability seeps from him like a wound left too long untreated. And yet, it’s not Crosby alone that unsettles Edward—it’s the way he sees himself mirrored in this transformation.

Five years ago, Edward Nygma would have sneered at the idea of “softness.” Weakness was what he called it then. Compassion was a tool, a puzzle piece to manipulate others. He’d have looked at the man he is now, offering napkins and silent support, with disdain, mocking how far he’d fallen from his self-perceived heights. Yet here he is, unable to retreat into the safety of his old armor, his jagged edges smoothed by time, by pain, and by Selina.

A low sigh escapes Edward’s lips, unbidden, as he tries to piece together something—anything—to bridge the heavy silence Crosby’s confession has left in its wake. Finally, hesitantly, he ventures, “So... your daughter is still alive, then?”

Crosby sits back against the seat, his chest rising and falling with a long, measured breath. His expression softens, and a faint, weary smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah,” he says, his tone quieter, more reflective now. “Grace is safe. She’s with her granddad here in town.”

For a moment, that smile twitches, a flicker of something brighter in the storm of his grief. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by the shadow of frustration. “The bad thing is, after Jason fled that night, most of the militia got arrested for the damage we caused in Gotham. Me included.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. “Destruction of property, mostly. Others had worse charges. And because of that...” He exhales heavily, his jaw tightening. “The judge decided I couldn’t have full custody of my daughter. Now, I only get to see her twice a month.”

Anger creeps into his voice, turning the edges of his words sharp. His fist slams against the steering wheel, the thud reverberating through the car. “Sarah’s father—he’s furious with me. Furious I didn’t protect her. He limits my time with Grace. And... I get it.” Crosby’s voice cracks slightly, his frustration tempered by guilt. “I really do. He has every right to be mad at me.”

The car inches forward as traffic finally starts to move again, but Crosby’s tension doesn’t ease. If anything, it seems to build. His grip on the wheel is almost crushing, his knuckles pale as his voice rises, raw and brittle. “But dammit, he’s right! I should’ve protected my wife! I should’ve been there for her, not running around for that stupid Arkham Knight.” The bitterness in his tone twists, morphing into something darker. “And what does Jason do? He runs away like a scared little bitch because his daddy called him home.”

Edward watches him from the corner of his eye, feeling the weight of the man’s pain as if it’s filling the confined space between them. This is uncharted territory for him—sitting in silence, allowing someone else’s emotions to take up all the oxygen. Words linger at the tip of his tongue, but each one feels too small, too inconsequential against the raw torrent pouring out of Crosby.

“But hopefully,” Crosby says, his voice softening as his grip on the wheel loosens, “with my bartending job and Selina’s help, the judge will eventually grant me at least half custody.” A faint, almost fragile smile flickers across his face, a moment of hope breaking through the storm.

Sensing the shift, Edward straightens slightly, deciding to latch onto the positivity like a lifeline. “So,” he ventures, his tone lighter but still careful, “Selina moved here for you, it sounds like.”

“Yeah,” Crosby replies, nodding as his smile fades into something more solemn. “She’s like a sister to me. Always has been.”

The air thickens again as Crosby’s expression darkens, a shadow falling over his features. He casts Edward a sidelong glance, sharp and unflinching, and Ed braces himself for whatever’s coming next.

Crosby’s voice lowers, the weight of his words gathering force like a rolling wave. “The other worst part? I had no idea she was being held like a prisoner by an idiot that night, too. I couldn’t protect her, either. I couldn’t protect any of the people I loved.”

The statement is jagged, and Edward feels the tension in the car thicken, suffocating, his stomach twisting as the memories surface unbidden. Crosby’s hands grip the wheel tightly, the taut cords of his forearms betraying the storm of anger and regret brewing beneath his calm exterior. The car speeds up, a subtle but undeniable acceleration that mirrors the escalating emotions inside.

For Edward, the mention of that night is like a trigger. It brings back the chaos, the calculated cruelty he had once prided himself on. He remembers the decision to use Selina—her defiance, her vulnerability, her silent strength. At the time, she had been a means to an end, a piece on the board he could control. But even as he schemed, even as he locked her away, there had been a gnawing discomfort beneath his ego-driven justifications. She wasn’t supposed to feel so real, so... human.

That night had been a tipping point. The Riddler in him had reveled in the power, the control, the carefully orchestrated chaos. But Edward—the part of him buried deep beneath layers of bravado—had known better. Selina had looked at him not with fear but with contempt, and it had been unbearable. He’d told himself it didn’t matter, that she didn’t matter. But now? Now he sees her differently.

He leans back, the leather seat creaking softly under the motion, and closes his eyes for a fleeting second. The words he’s about to say claw their way up from a place he doesn’t often acknowledge, raw and unfiltered. “Look,” he starts, his voice breaking the silence but quieter, steadier than he expects. “I know what I did was messed up, and I know nothing I say or do will ever fully fix that.”

His gaze shifts toward Crosby, catching the faint lines of tension in the man’s jaw. Edward’s own hands tighten reflexively in his lap. “But I want you to know that I’m truly trying to get better,” he continues, the words coming more easily now, even if they feel strange. “Just like you—proving something to someone.”

The admission is awkward, like stepping onto fragile ice. Edward isn’t used to this—baring himself, speaking without the protective armor of riddles or calculated wit. Vulnerability grates against his instincts, yet here he is, pressing forward. “I’m not the same person I was that night,” he says, his voice softer now, barely audible over the low hum of the engine. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone is. But I’ve realized something... how much Selina means to me. I care for her deeply—more than I’ve ever cared for anyone in my life.”

The tension wraps around his ribs, unrelenting. Edward exhales, his chest tightening as he waits for Crosby’s response. The pause feels interminable, each second dragging out with the force of a held breath. Crosby’s hands relax on the wheel, his fingers flexing briefly, their whitened knuckles softening against the leather.

With a deliberate exhale, Crosby drums his fingers against the steering wheel, each tap deliberate and steady, like a man pacing his words. “Look, Rid,” he begins, his tone blunt, unvarnished. “I’m gonna be honest—nothing would bring me more joy than to punch the Riddler’s nonsense right out of that idiot brain of yours for what you did to Selina.”

Edward flinches, even though the sharpness of Crosby’s words doesn’t come as a surprise. His chest tightens, the sting of guilt mixing with something more complicated—an ache to prove that he isn’t that person anymore. He watches Crosby’s profile, noting the tightness in his jaw, the steady focus on the road ahead.

“But...” Crosby’s tone shifts, softening just enough to break through Edward’s thoughts, “what you did last night—standing up for her, squaring up to that guy? I have to admit, it impressed me.”

“Wait—” Edward blinks, the unexpected compliment throwing him off balance. He can’t help but search Crosby’s face for any sign of sarcasm, but the other man doesn’t look at him, his attention fixed firmly on the stretch of road ahead. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” Crosby nods, the movement brief but definitive, and definitely laced with caution. “Not only that, but you took that punch like a man. Didn’t back down, didn’t crumble. That says something—more than you probably realize.” He casts Edward a quick sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “So,” he continues, his tone measured, “I’ve decided to give you a chance—not just on this job, but with Selina. For some weird, inexplicable reason, you seem to make her happy. And if that’s true, I’m not gonna stand in the way.”

The words settle, and Edward feels an unexpected rush of warmth. A tentative smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, growing despite his effort to suppress it. “Thanks,” he says quietly, the sincerity in his voice surprising even himself. “That... means a lot.”

“Don’t get too excited, genius,” Crosby teases in a near musical tone. He smirks, his tone shifting back to its usual gruffness, like the brief moment of vulnerability never happened. “I’ll still be watching you like a hawk. Screw this up, and you’ll wish you were dealing with the Batman again.”

“Noted.” Edward lets out a nervous chuckle, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Loud and clear.”

For a moment, silence settles in again, but it’s lighter now, the earlier tension dissipating. Crosby’s fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel as the car glides along the road. Eventually, he breaks the quiet, his tone softer, almost casual. “Also... thanks for listening,” he says, the words carrying a quiet sincerity. “Guess I needed to get that off my chest.”

Without warning, Crosby throws a friendly fist bump against Edward’s shoulder—not hard, but enough to jostle him. The gesture, rare and unexpected, leaves Edward blinking in surprise before wincing theatrically, grabbing at his shoulder.

“Well,” Edward says with a grin, his voice tinged with dry humor, “I am a psychology professor, apparently. Just doing my job.”

A genuine laugh bubbles out before he can stop it, surprising him with how easy it feels. The sound even earns a flicker of amusement from Crosby, whose smirk deepens as he shakes his head, his eyes still on the road.

“Not bad, Rid,” Crosby says, his voice carrying a faint note of approval. “Not bad at all.” The corner of his mouth twitches, just shy of a full smile, but Edward notices, and it feels like a small victory.

As the miles stretch out behind them, the car grows quieter again, but it’s a comfortable quiet now. Edward leans back in his seat, his body finally relaxing. The earlier weight pressing on his chest seems to lift, replaced by a tentative sense of ease.

His mind drifts, unbidden, to Selina. To the future he’s slowly trying to piece together—fragile and uncertain, but something he wants desperately to hold onto. For the first time, he allows himself to hope, not just for the success of the job ahead, but for the possibility of something more. A connection, however tenuous, with Crosby. A chance at a life that doesn’t feel like it’s teetering on the edge of chaos.

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, there’s room for this. For her. For them. And, against all odds, for the idea that someone like Crosby could one day be a friend.

Just shy of 11 a.m., the car rolls to a smooth stop in front of Woodland Jewelers. The building looms ahead, all sleek glass and elegant signage, projecting an aura of wealth that feels almost suffocating. Edward stares at it through the windshield for a moment, his fingers fiddling absently with his tie, as if tightening it could tether his nerves.

Beside him, Crosby straightens his jacket, his movements calm and deliberate. He turns, giving Edward a steady, appraising look. “You ready?”

With a sharp inhale, Edward straightens in his seat, nodding as much to convince himself as Crosby. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, attempting a grin that feels just shy of convincing.

Opening the car door, Edward steps out into the crisp morning air. It carries a slight chill, grounding him as he adjusts his tie one last time. Crosby follows close behind, his towering frame and easy confidence exuding the kind of authority Edward can only hope to mimic. Together, they cross the short distance to the store, their footsteps measured, purposeful.

The bell above the door chimes softly as they enter, announcing their presence. Inside, the jewelry store gleams with opulence. Polished floors reflect the ambient light like a still pond, and the display cases, lined with velvet and lit with precision, sparkle as though the diamonds within have caught tiny fragments of stars. The air smells faintly of fresh flowers, subtle but unmistakably curated for a luxurious experience.

Edward adopts a confident stride, his hands slipping into his pockets with feigned ease. The persona of a wealthy professor accustomed to such places weighs heavily on him, but he knows it must feel natural. Beside him, Crosby’s presence looms large—a silent bodyguard, stoic and unflinching, completing the illusion of importance.

From behind the counter, a well-dressed clerk lifts their head, their expression shifting into a practiced, professional smile. Their attire is immaculate, every detail designed to put customers at ease while reminding them of the exclusivity of their surroundings.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” the clerk greets warmly, their voice smooth, polished like the store itself. “Welcome to Woodland Jewelers. How can I assist you today?”

“Good morning.” Edward allows the faintest smile to play at his lips as he steps forward, every movement calculated. His heart pounds harder than he cares to admit, but he doesn’t let it show. “I’m looking for something special. For someone... very special.”

The clerk’s smile widens slightly, their eyes alight with interest. “Of course. I’d be delighted to assist. Do you have something specific in mind, or would you like to browse our collection?”

With a subtle glance toward Crosby, Edward catches the faintest nod of encouragement. Drawing a breath, he steps forward, his fingers brushing against the frame of his glasses as he adjusts them—a gesture that steadies him as much as it completes his polished facade. “Ah, yes,” he begins, his tone measured, aiming for that elusive mix of refined yet approachable. “I’m looking for something special—a ring. My, uh, lady and I are celebrating an anniversary, and I thought it was about time to make things official.”

The clerk’s practiced smile widens, a glimmer of excitement lighting their expression as they step around the counter. With a graceful gesture, they motion toward a gleaming display nearby. “Of course! We have an exquisite selection of engagement rings. Allow me to show you.”

Trailing behind, Edward follows the clerk’s lead, his movements deliberate, each step calculated to exude confidence. Meanwhile, Crosby lingers a few paces back, his arms crossed and his gaze sweeping the room. His eyes flick methodically over the security cameras, the exits, the store layout—his demeanor the epitome of a bodyguard scanning for potential threats. Leaning slightly toward Edward, he murmurs low enough that only he can hear, “Stay sharp. Clock’s ticking.”

A subtle nod is Edward’s only response as the clerk begins their presentation. They slide open the glass case with practiced precision, revealing rows of glittering rings nestled on velvet. “These are some of our finest pieces,” the clerk explains, their voice smooth, almost reverent. “Do you have a particular style in mind?”

Feigning interest, Edward leans closer, his eyes scanning the display with a deliberate slowness. “Oh, definitely something timeless,” he replies, his words careful, deliberate. Beneath the surface of his composure, the tiny camera embedded in his glasses begins its silent work, scanning for the network access points scattered throughout the store. The data streams back to his hidden system, but his expression betrays nothing.

Behind him, Crosby shifts, his looming presence an anchor for the charade. His tone sharpens, low and gruff, as he plays his part. “How long will this take?” he grumbles, the irritation in his voice perfectly staged.

Edward casts him a quick glance, his mouth twitching in what could almost pass for a reassuring smile. “Not too long, I hope,” he mutters, the tension threading through his words subtle enough to blend with the role he’s playing. The glasses continue their silent sweep, mapping the store’s infrastructure even as Edward pretends to weigh the merits of diamonds and settings.

The clerk, oblivious to the undercurrent of subterfuge, chuckles nervously. “Take all the time you need, sir. A decision like this is worth careful thought.”

Edward forces a thin smile, the weight of the operation pressing heavily on him. “Careful thought,” he echoes under his breath, the words carrying a quiet edge of irony. “Right.”

Leaning in slightly, the clerk’s professional smile sharpens, eager and polished. “So, sir, what do you do for a living? And what’s the lucky lady like? Knowing more about her will help us find the perfect ring.”

Edward hesitates just long enough to seem thoughtful, then adjusts his glasses with an easy, calculated motion, slipping effortlessly into the role. “I’m a psychology professor at Metropolis University,” he says, his tone smooth and measured. He injects just the right amount of gravitas, channeling the confidence of someone accustomed to being admired for their intellect. “My work keeps me busy—lectures, research, the occasional book publication. It’s a bit of a balancing act.”

“Impressive!” The clerk nods appreciatively, their eyes glinting with interest. “And your partner? What’s she like?”

Clearing his throat, Edward glances briefly at Crosby. The man’s raised eyebrow speaks volumes, but he remains silent, his arms crossed and his demeanor as impenetrable as ever. Edward returns his gaze to the clerk, his expression softening as he answers. “She’s... incredible,” he begins, carefully layering warmth into his voice. “Brilliant, driven, confident. The kind of person who lights up every room she walks into.”

The clerk beams, their smile widening. “Sounds like she’s quite the catch.”

“She is,” Edward says, allowing his tone to dip into something quieter, almost wistful. “She’s always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. That’s why this ring has to be perfect.”

A low grunt from Crosby punctuates the moment, the sound impatient but perfectly in character. Shifting closer to the counter, he fixes the clerk with a pointed look. “Enough chitchat,” he growls, his voice gravelly. “The professor’s got a busy day. Show us the best you’ve got.”

Snapping to attention, the clerk straightens, nodding briskly. “Of course, of course. Right this way.” With a fluid motion, they move to another display case, carefully pulling out a velvet-lined tray of dazzling rings.

Trailing behind, Edward adjusts his tie, glancing quickly at Crosby. The man offers a subtle nod—confirmation that the glasses’ scan is almost complete. For now, though, the charade must hold.

The clerk places the tray on the counter with the precision of someone handling priceless artifacts. Their voice takes on a reverent quality as they gesture toward the rings. “These are some of our finest options—timeless and elegant. Each one is designed to make an unforgettable impression.”

Edward leans over the display, feigning deep consideration. The gleaming stones catch the light, casting fractured rainbows onto the polished counter. Beneath his composed exterior, the hidden camera in his glasses quietly transfers the final streams of data. “They’re certainly impressive,” he says, letting his voice carry the weight of deliberation. His finger hovers above a modest but exquisitely cut diamond before he points to it. “Tell me more about this one.”

The clerk’s enthusiasm swells. “An excellent choice,” they say, sliding the ring forward for closer inspection. “This is a classic solitaire design, handcrafted with the highest quality materials. It’s understated yet striking, a testament to the wearer’s sophistication.”

“Understated but sophisticated,” Edward murmurs, tilting his head as though weighing the words in his mind. “Yes, I think that suits her.”

Leaning in slightly, Crosby’s voice cuts through the air like a low growl. “Professor, are we about done here?”

“Almost,” Edward replies, suppressing a smirk as his glasses signal the scan’s completion. He straightens, brushing his fingers over his tie in a practiced motion. “But decisions like this can’t be rushed, can they?”

The clerk lets out a nervous laugh, their hands clasping together with an eagerness that borders on uncomfortable. “Not at all, sir. Take all the time you need.”

A faint smile tugs at Edward’s lips as he casts a sidelong glance at Crosby. “Patience, my friend. We’re nearly there.”

As he continues to feign deliberation, his eyes flickering over the rings with mock interest, the clerk’s gaze shifts toward Crosby. The man stands like a sentinel, arms crossed, his presence looming over the transaction. Curiosity gleams in the clerk’s eyes as they hesitantly venture, “If you don’t mind me asking... why the bodyguard? Is it because of your work, or...?”

Edward pauses, his movements deliberate as he adjusts his glasses. Crafting a response with the precision of a scalpel, he finally answers, “Well, when you’re a public figure in academia—particularly one who’s written controversial research like I have—you tend to attract... attention.”

“It’s true.” Crosby smirks faintly, his sharp gaze catching the clerk’s. “Professor Brookelny has a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. His theories about human behavior? Not everyone’s a fan.”

The clerk’s brows lift, their intrigue palpable. “I see,” they say cautiously, glancing at Edward’s cheek with mild hesitation. “And, um... the bruise?”

Edward raises a hand, his fingers brushing the discolored skin as he lets out a sheepish chuckle. “Ah, this.” He exhales as if embarrassed, his tone carefully measured. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. Occasionally, the ‘attention’ gets a bit physical. A rather disgruntled attendee at one of my recent lectures... well, they didn’t appreciate my stance on morality and decision-making.”

Crosby steps forward, the brown leather of his jacket creaking faintly as he folds his arms, his expression darkening with well-practiced intensity. “Which is exactly why I’m here,” he says, his voice low, almost threatening. “People think they can just walk up and take a swing at him without consequences.” He leans slightly toward the clerk, lowering his tone as if to share a secret. “Let’s just say I make sure they regret it.”

A flicker of unease crosses the clerk’s face, but they nod quickly, their demeanor shifting back to polite professionalism. “That must be... nerve-wracking,” they offer, their sympathy genuine but tentative. “But I suppose it comes with the territory, being as accomplished as you are.”

With a modest shrug, Edward adjusts his glasses, the faint glint of light off the frames catching the clerk’s eye. “It’s part of the job,” he says smoothly, his voice calm and composed. “But I have people like him—” he gestures to Crosby with a subtle smile, his tone hinting at camaraderie “—to keep me safe.”

Standing rigid and authoritative, Crosby nods curtly. “All in a day’s work.”

The clerk’s gaze shifts between them, visibly impressed. Turning back to the array of glittering rings, they smile warmly. “Well, I hope this new chapter for you and your partner brings nothing but happiness. She sounds like she’s worth all the trouble.”

Edward’s fingers brush lightly against the edge of the display case, his touch deliberate, contemplative. A soft smile graces his lips, one that feels just real enough to sell the act. “She absolutely is,” he murmurs, his words carrying a sincerity that surprises even him.

The faint hum of the glasses’ system vibrates in his awareness, signaling the data upload is complete. A brief glance exchanged with Crosby confirms it. Time to move on.

Straightening his posture, Edward taps the display case with an air of finality. “You know, I think I’ll need to sleep on it,” he says, his tone measured and thoughtful. “A decision like this can’t be rushed, after all.”

The clerk’s polite smile falters just slightly, disappointment flickering across their features before professionalism overrides it. “Of course,” they reply graciously. “Feel free to come back anytime. We’d love to help you make this moment special.”

Edward dips his head in acknowledgment, his movements smooth as he steps back. “Thank you for your time,” he says, his voice steady, almost charming. “I’ll be in touch.”

Trailing a step behind, Crosby gives the clerk a terse nod, his imposing presence maintaining their cover as they head for the exit. Once the door closes behind them, the atmosphere shifts, the tension ebbing with each step toward the car.

Crosby leans slightly closer, his voice a low mutter. “You actually didn’t do half bad in there, genius.”

Adjusting his tie with a smirk, Edward casts him a sidelong glance. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Crosby replies, the gruff edge of his voice softening just enough to pass for humor. “But if you ever call me ‘your person’ again, we’re gonna have a problem.”

A laugh escapes Edward, genuine and unguarded. The weight of the mission, the nerves, the charade—they all lift, replaced by a rare ease as they approach the car.

Before any words about their successful operation can pass between them, both Edward and Crosby silently agree: leaving the area is the immediate priority. Drawing unnecessary attention isn’t just inconvenient—it’s dangerous. Crosby keeps his pace measured, casual yet purposeful, as they exit the parking lot and merge into the late-morning traffic. The hum of the car engine feels like a barrier between them and the tension they’ve just left behind.

At a red light, Edward lets out a yawn that feels like it’s been building since dawn, stretching stiffly in his seat. “This professor needs coffee,” he says, the words escaping in a half-grumble. “Can we please stop somewhere before I collapse?”

With a sidelong glance, Crosby raises an eyebrow. “Not a bad idea,” he replies, his tone almost nonchalant. “I’ve got a few errands to run in town anyway.”

Edward perks up, his curiosity sparked. “Errands? What kind of errands?”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Crosby smirks faintly. “Just some business,” he says, his voice carrying that maddening air of vagueness. “Sit tight, and we’ll grab coffee on the way.”

Leaning back into the seat, Edward rubs his temples, the tension of the morning still in his body. “Fine,” he mutters. “As long as it’s strong. And not from some gas station convenience store.”

A dry chuckle escapes Crosby, his smirk widening just slightly. “Relax, genius. Even I have standards. There’s a café downtown—good coffee, decent snacks, no baristas asking too many damn questions.”

“Now that sounds like a plan.” The corner of Edward’s mouth quirks upward in reluctant approval. “Coffee first, questions later.”

As the car picks up speed, the pressure of the jewelry store mission starts to dissipate, replaced by the steady rhythm of the city waking up. The morning sunlight filters through the car window, soft and warm, and Edward feels his shoulders begin to loosen.

Arriving at the shopping center, the two step out of the car. The air smells faintly of asphalt warming in the sun, mingling with the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting from a nearby café. Edward inhales deeply, his senses drawn to the promise of caffeine, and follows Crosby toward the entrance.

Inside, the café hums with quiet activity. A moderately long line snakes toward the counter—not ideal, but manageable. Edward sighs and glances at Crosby, his tone begrudging. “What do you recommend?”

“I usually go for black coffee.” Crosby shrugs, his gaze flicking lazily to the menu board. “If I need a kick, Americano.”

The line inches forward, and when it’s their turn, they’re greeted by a cheerful young woman whose radiant smile seems to brighten the cozy interior. “Hey, howdy, hey! What can I get you, gents?” she chirps, her enthusiasm almost contagious.

Crosby nods toward Edward, nudging him with his shoulder. “Just a regular coffee. And whatever he wants.”

Caught off guard, Edward hesitates, his eyes darting to the menu. “Umm... I don’t know. What’s your favorite?” The words tumble out awkwardly, his indecision palpable.

The cashier’s face lights up. “Well, you can’t go wrong with our mocha latte, but my favorite is the caramel vanilla latte.”

“I’ll try that, then,” Edward says, managing a small smile as some of his earlier stiffness fades.

As she rings up the order, the cashier’s gaze lingers on Edward, her expression shifting subtly. Her brows knit together for a moment, her lips parting slightly as if she’s trying to piece something together. Then, like a light flicking on, recognition dawns. Her eyes widen, and she points a finger at him, her voice rising with excitement. “Wait, hold on!” she exclaims, her finger flicking toward the bruise on his cheek. “You’re the guy from the club last night—the one who punched that guy clean out, right?!”

Heat rushes to Edward’s face, blooming across his cheeks and crawling up his neck. He hadn’t realized just how small this town was. “Oh, well, umm, yeah,” he stammers, raising his hands defensively as if to ward off the sudden attention. “But I didn’t mean for it to get like that.”

The cashier grins, clearly unfazed by his awkwardness. “No, I totally get it. And honestly? It was kinda hot.” She winks, her tone playful and teasing.

Edward freezes, completely at a loss for words. His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He stares at her, his thoughts scrambling for a coherent response, caught entirely off guard.

Beside him, Crosby chuckles, a deep, amused sound that only heightens Edward’s discomfort.

“You’re on the house,” the cashier announces cheerfully, her fingers dancing over the register as she enters the discount. “Hero’s discount.”

Hero…? He’s never been called a hero before—a villain, a fiend, an ass, an asshole, an asshat—but never a hero. 

“Th-thanks,” Edward manages to mumble, his voice barely audible as Crosby claps him on the back with a grin.

As they wait for their drinks, Crosby leans in, his smirk practically gleaming. “Looks like you’ve got a fan club, genius.”

“Shut up,” Edward mutters, his cheeks still burning. He glances at the floor, wishing he could melt into it, but Crosby’s laughter only grows louder.

When their drinks are ready, they carry them to a small table by the window. Sunlight streams in, catching the steam rising from their cups and bathing the café in a warm, inviting glow. Edward stirs his latte carefully, using the moment to center himself.

“Well,” he says finally, his tone dry but laced with resignation, “we’re just gonna pretend that didn’t happen.”

Crosby leans back in his chair, pulling out his phone. “Holly would die if she heard about this.”

Edward freezes mid-stir, his eyes narrowing sharply. “Hold on. You can’t just text something like that!” He lunges forward slightly, his hand outstretched toward Crosby’s phone.

With practiced ease, Crosby raises a hand, keeping the phone just out of reach. “Calm down, lover boy,” he teases, his smirk firmly in place. “I’m not spilling your little fan club moment. Just letting them know the job went smoothly. Also checking my to-do list. Got errands to knock out before we head back.”

Settling back into his seat, Edward glares, his voice clipped. “You could’ve just said that instead of making it sound like you were about to broadcast my humiliation.”

Crosby takes a triumphant sip of his coffee, his grin widening. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Edward rolls his eyes and lifts his cup to his lips, taking a tentative sip of his caramel vanilla latte. The moment the flavor hits his tongue, his expression shifts—first surprise, then reluctant approval. “Okay... this is actually pretty good.”

“Better than expected, huh?”

“Yeah,” Edward admits begrudgingly, glancing down at his cup. “Almost worth the embarrassment.”

“See?” Crosby grins, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone isn’t so bad.”

Edward shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. “Says the guy who drinks plain black coffee.”

With mock seriousness, Crosby replies, “Hey. Some of us don’t need dessert in a cup to function.”

For a moment, they sit in companionable silence, the hum of the café surrounding them. The faint clinking of spoons against porcelain, the low murmur of voices, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine weave together a soothing backdrop. As Edward takes another sip a small sense of normalcy settles over him. Almost.

The calm shatters almost immediately. With a bounce in her step, the cheerful barista returns, a plate of pastries balanced expertly in her hands. She sets them down with an overly bright smile, her gaze holding a little too long on Edward.

“Since it seems like it’s your first time here, I thought I’d treat you to some pastries,” she says sweetly, her voice practically dripping with enthusiasm. Her eyes remain fixed on Edward, who instinctively leans back in his chair as though trying to escape the spotlight suddenly thrust upon him.

“Oh, thanks, but that’s really not necessary,” Edward stammers, his voice pitching higher than he’d like. He gestures faintly toward the pastries, hoping to deflect the attention. “I’m fine with just the coffee.”

The barista waves off his protest with a playful laugh, dismissing his awkward refusal entirely. “Oh, please. A man like you needs carbs to keep his strength up—for punching out punks like that.”

The words hit Edward like a sudden gust of wind, and he feels his face heat again, a traitorous blush creeping up his neck. Before he can muster a response, she reaches across the table, grabbing his coffee cup with a confidence that leaves him stunned.

The sound of her pen scratching against the cup fills the air, and Edward’s eyes widen as realization dawns. His gaze flicks to Crosby, who is now watching with a mixture of amusement and mild disbelief, one brow arched in a silent commentary Edward can almost hear: You’ve got to be kidding me.

Setting the cup back down, the barista leans forward slightly, her smile downright conspiratorial as she winks. “Here’s my number,” she says, her tone sly. “Give me a call if you ever need some company.”

Edward’s face turns a deeper shade of red, his collar suddenly too tight. He tugs at it reflexively, the heat of embarrassment overwhelming. “Umm, thanks, but... I’m actually seeing someone,” he manages, his voice strained.

Unfazed, the barista tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, well, she can join us too. I’m open to things like that.” She blows him a kiss before spinning on her heel, her stride confident as she saunters back behind the counter.

For a moment, the table is frozen in silence, both men staring after her in varying degrees of shock. Edward’s hands hover uselessly over the cup, as though he’s debating whether to throw it away or hide it.

“What... just happened?” he finally says, breaking the silence. His voice is tinged with disbelief, as if saying it aloud might help him understand.

Crosby shakes his head slowly, his expression one of equal parts amusement and awe. “I don’t know, but I’ve officially seen everything.”

Groaning, Edward buries his face in his hands, his embarrassment complete. “This... is absurd.”

Unconcerned, Crosby reaches over and plucks a pastry from the plate, examining it briefly before taking a large, unapologetic bite. “Looks like the ladies are into your whole ‘professor meets Riddler’ vibe,” he teases. “Must be the outfit... or maybe it’s the bruised, mysterious charm.”

 “Please don’t tell Selina about this.” Edward glares at him over his fingers. “You clearly saw I didn’t encourage it.”

Crosby chews thoughtfully, taking his time to swallow before responding. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Selina would get a real kick out of hearing how you’ve managed to start your own little fan club.”

“I’m serious, Crosby.” Edward’s tone sharpens, his glare intensifying. “This? Stays between us.”

With exaggerated nonchalance, Crosby leans back in his chair, smirking as he grabs another pastry. “Relax, lover boy. I’m not gonna say anything... for now.” He pops the pastry into his mouth, his grin widening. “But you might owe me one later.”

Edward groans again, sinking back into his seat and reluctantly picking up a pastry. “This day just keeps getting better and better,” he mutters before taking a bite.

Crosby laughs, a deep, hearty sound that echoes in the café and only adds to Edward’s regret at having walked through the door.

As they finish their coffee and pastries, Crosby leans back in his chair, studying Edward with an intensity that makes him shift uncomfortably. The weight of Crosby’s gaze feels like a puzzle he can’t quite solve, and Edward braces himself, half-expecting another round of biting sarcasm.

“What?” Edward says finally, brushing a few stray crumbs off his lap. “I know, the bruise on my face is huge. No need to point it out again.”

“Nah, it’s not just the bruise.” Crosby shakes his head slowly. “Your hair’s looking a bit... uneven. Now that I see it in the light, it’s like it gave up halfway through being styled.”

“Seriously?” Edward’s frown deepens as his hand flies self-consciously to his hair, smoothing it down in a futile attempt to assess the damage. “It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”

“Look, you’ve got a big date with Selina tonight, right?” Crosby stands, stretching with the ease of someone who doesn’t care much about appearances but knows when to spot a flaw. “Might as well look sharp for her. Trust me, she’ll notice if you don’t.”

The suggestion gives Edward pause. He considers Crosby’s point, a twinge of doubt curling in his chest. “You think so?” 

“Absolutely. Come on.” His partner cranes his neck towards the door, already heading out. “I know a great place to get a haircut. We’ve got time to kill anyway while we’re waiting for the store to open.”

Trailing behind, Edward makes a point of avoiding eye contact with the flirty barista as they leave the café. The lingering sting of her antics still makes his skin crawl with embarrassment. He discreetly tosses his coffee cup into a nearby trash can, as if erasing the physical evidence might somehow erase the memory.

“This way.” Crosby gestures down the street with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. “It’s only a couple of blocks.”

Edward follows, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, the brisk air brushing against his face. As they approach the barber shop Crosby mentioned, a flicker of uncertainty worms its way into his thoughts. The lively chatter and bursts of laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk make the place seem warm, welcoming—and utterly overwhelming.

When they step inside, Edward hesitates near the entrance, his discomfort growing as his eyes dart around the room. A handful of patrons lounge in the chairs, most of them chatting with an ease that marks them as regulars. The air carries the clean, sharp scent of aftershave and hair products.

From across the room, a woman in her mid-40s lights up the moment she spots Crosby. Her presence is magnetic, her wide grin warm and unapologetically confident. “Well, look who it is! Big, tall, handsome Crosby,” she calls, spreading her arms like she’s greeting an old friend. “Come on, give me some sugar!”

Crosby grins, stepping forward to embrace her with the familiarity of someone who’s clearly been here more than a few times. “Hey, Darcy. Good to see you.”

Hovering near the door, Edward feels out of place amid the cheerful energy of the shop. He shifts on his feet, his discomfort evident as a few curious patrons glance his way, their gazes lingering a beat too long.

Darcy pulls back from Crosby, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto Edward. She gives him a once-over, her gaze tracing the bruise marking his cheek. Her lips curve into a sly smile. “And who’s this serious-looking man? With just a hint of danger, I see.”

Before Edward can offer a response, Crosby clamps a hand on his shoulder, his grin widening. “This is Edward. He’s new in town and an old friend of Selina’s. He’s got a date with her tonight, so I figured you could spruce him up a bit.”

Edward opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get a word out, Darcy strides forward with the authority of someone who’s already made up her mind. She grabs his arm, her grip surprisingly firm, and starts guiding him toward one of the chairs.

Darcy’s exclamation carries a brightness that fills the shop, her enthusiasm palpable. “A date with my girl Selina? Oh, la la!” she says, her tone teasing yet warm. “Say no more. Come sit down, sugar. I’ll make you look fit as a fiddle by the time I’m done with you.”

Edward shoots a panicked glance at Crosby, silently pleading for intervention. But Crosby leans back against the counter with an infuriatingly amused smirk, crossing his arms as if settling in for a show. “You’ll thank me later.” 

The cosmetologist gently but firmly steers Edward into the barber chair. The chair squeaks faintly as Edward sinks into it, his discomfort plain. Darcy snaps the cape over him with practiced ease, fastening it snugly around his neck. “Alright, Edward,” she says, tapping her fingers against her hip as she surveys him. “What’s the plan? Something classic? Rugged? Or are we going full-on heartthrob for Selina?”

Edward groans softly, slumping ever so slightly in the chair. “Just... something decent. Not too much, not too little.” 

“Don’t you worry, hon.” Darcy’s grin widens, her eyes sparkling as she starts gathering her tools. “Selina’s a dear friend of mine, and I’ll make sure you look so good she won’t be able to take her eyes off you.”

Edward sighs heavily, the heat rising to his face. “No pressure, right?” 

“Oh, sugar, there’s always pressure when it comes to a woman like Selina.” Her scissors snip with a deliberate rhythm. “But lucky for you, I’m the best in town.”

“Relax, genius.” From his spot by the wall, Crosby chuckles, his arms still crossed as he watches the scene unfold. “By the time she’s done, you’ll look like you belong on the cover of Gotham Style.”

Edward narrows his eyes at Crosby through the mirror, his tone dry. “If this backfires, I’m blaming you.”

“Trust me, sweetheart.” Darcy winks at Edward’s reflection, her scissors pausing briefly. “You’re in very good hands.”

Removing Edward’s glasses, Darcy sets them aside with care before throwing a thoughtful glance at his reflection. She tilts her head slightly, a gleam of contemplation in her eye as she assesses him. “Hmm... Date with Selina. Now that’s a new one,” a barber working on another patron chimes in, his voice light but curious. He shifts his gaze toward Crosby, his brow arching. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to make a move on her, Cros. You two have history.”

The comment makes Edward’s stomach drop. His eyes widen in the mirror, and his face loses a shade of color as he instinctively looks at Crosby. What history? The thought rattles around in his mind, and for a moment, he’s unsure if he wants to know the answer.

“Nah, man.” Crosby, unfazed, waves off the remark with a lazy grin. “Selina and I? We’re like siblings. Always have been, always will be.”

For a moment, his grin fades, replaced by a softer, more reflective expression. “Besides,” he continues, his voice lowering slightly, “I’m not sure anyone could ever replace Sarah—not for a long while, at least.”

The shop grows quieter, the hum of clippers and low conversations momentarily subdued. Even the man who had made the comment nods respectfully before returning to his work. The weight of Crosby’s words settles in the room, a quiet testament to the pain just beneath his usual bravado.

Edward watches Crosby in the mirror, a pang of sympathy cutting his discomfort. He recalls the rawness Crosby had shown in the car, but seeing it resurface here, in this quieter, more public setting, feels different—heavier.

Darcy, ever the professional, breaks the silence with a gentle smile, her voice light as she moves around Edward. “Well, Cros, you’re right about one thing—Selina sees you like a big brother. And let me tell you, this one here,” she motions toward Edward with her comb, “has his work cut out for him if he’s going to impress her.”

Crosby’s smirk deepens, his usual good humor sliding easily back into place. “Oh, he’ll manage,” he says with a shrug, his confidence radiating like the hum of a well-tuned engine. “One way or another.”

Edward groans, sinking lower into the chair, the cape brushing against his knees as if to swallow him whole. “You’re not exactly helping.”

“Not my job to help,” Crosby shoots back, adding a wink for good measure. “My job’s to make sure you don’t screw it up. Besides, you’re already doing fine—this man here punched the living daylights out of some guy for Selina last night.” His smirk stretches wider, clearly relishing Edward��s discomfort.

Pausing mid-snip, DJ—the barber working nearby—leans on his station with raised brows. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of amused disbelief. “That explains the bruise! I thought maybe you’d tripped and clocked yourself on a payphone or something.” A hearty laugh escapes him, rough yet good-natured.

Edward sighs, his cheeks flushing as he slumps deeper into the chair. “Honestly? I’d prefer the phone story.”

“You’d be surprised, DJ,” Crosby continues, his tone now tinged with something that almost sounds like pride. “Edward here can take a punch like a champ. Even caught me off guard.”

In the mirror’s reflection, Edward glances at Crosby, caught off guard by what sounds suspiciously like a compliment. Crosby notices, grins wider, and taps the edge of the counter. “Gotta give credit where it’s due, genius. You’ve got guts.”

Darcy, her scissors working methodically, jumps in with her own assessment. “Well, a man willing to throw hands for Selina? That puts him way ahead in my book. She’s not the kind to let just anyone fight for her, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it.” Edward offers a small, sheepish smile, unsure of how to respond. “It just... happened.”

“That’s called instinct,” Crosby cuts in, leaning casually against the counter. “And if Selina didn’t care about you, trust me, you wouldn’t have walked out of there in one piece.”

“Selina’s tough, no doubt.” DJ nods, a knowing expression crossing his face as he picks up his clippers. “If she’s letting you stick around, you’re definitely doing something right.”

A flicker of relief loosens the tension in Edward’s shoulders. He catches a glance at himself in the mirror, the corners of his lips curving into an unintentional smile. “Well,” he says, voice lighter now, “I guess that’s something.”

“It’s more than something,” Darcy chimes, stepping back and surveying her handiwork with a satisfied gleam in her eye. “And once I’m done here, she’ll be falling head over heels all over again.”

Edward chuckles nervously, watching his reflection as she snips the final strands, the sharp rhythm of the scissors oddly soothing. A new him stares back—a sleeker, sharper version that even he finds hard to recognize.

As Darcy tidies up the station, DJ speaks again, his tone casual but inviting. “Hey, Edward, you a poker man?” he asks, brushing stray hair from his clippers. “Me, Crosby, and some of the other guys get together for poker night every other week. Could use another formidable player—that is, if you’re planning on sticking around.”

Edward’s expression shifts in an instant. Poker. Now that, he knows. The question doesn’t catch him off guard—it invigorates him. His lips twitch into something close to a smirk, his fingers adjusting the frame of his glasses with slow, deliberate ease.

“Poker?” he echoes. “Let’s just say I have a certain… proclivity for games.” His voice dips into something almost pleased with itself. “I wouldn’t want to clean you all out too quickly, though. That wouldn’t be very hospitable of me.”

DJ lets out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Oh-ho, I like this guy.” He jerks a thumb in Edward’s direction. “You hear that, Crosby? We’ve got a real shark in the making.”

With a roll of his eyes, Crosby scoffs, clapping Edward on the shoulder. “Alright, genius, don’t get ahead of yourself. I don’t care how good you are at numbers—I’ve been running this table for years. You wanna sit with us, you’d better bring more than just a sharp mind.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.” Edward’s smirk widens and he taps a thoughtful finger against his temple. “Bluffing, misdirection, reading the opposition—I’m afraid you’ve invited someone who takes these things rather seriously.”

“Well, damn. Guess we’ll see just how seriously soon enough.”

Edward lets out a quiet laugh, the thrill of a challenge lighting up something sharp behind his eyes. “Indeed,” he muses, already calculating strategies, already playing the game before the first hand is even dealt.

“Good. We’ll hit you up for the next game.” DJ finishes wiping down his station, his grin widening. “Be ready to lose your first few hands, though—it’s tradition.”

The warmth of the exchange settles over Edward like a coat. So this is what it feels like, he thinks, a little less chaos, a little more... life. For the first time in what feels like an eternity—probably ever—he lets himself feel something foreign yet welcome: belonging.

“Alrighty, sugar!” Darcy’s cheerful voice cuts through his thoughts as she whirls the black cape away with a practiced flourish. “What do you think?”

Turning toward the mirror, Edward’s eyes brighten. The reflection staring back at him isn’t drastically different, yet it feels transformed—sleeker, sharper, a style that exudes quiet confidence. The sides are perfectly trimmed, the top evened out, the lines clean and precise. It’s a glimpse of something more—a version of himself that feels like a balance between who he is and who he might become. “It’s perfect.” He runs a hand through his freshly styled hair.

“Told you!” Darcy beams, clearly pleased with her work. “You’re looking sharp enough to knock Selina’s socks off.”

Leaning forward to inspect Edward’s reflection with a teasing smirk, Crosby nods. “Not bad. You might actually pass as a respectable man now.”

Edward rolls his eyes, though the smile pulling at his lips betrays his amusement. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

“You should,” Crosby quips, tossing a few bills onto Darcy’s counter without hesitation. “This one’s on me. Consider it a down payment for not screwing up tonight.”

Caught off guard, Edward blinks. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re part of the team now.” With a shrug, Crosby’s smirk softens into something almost brotherly. “And besides, Selina deserves the best. You’ve got big shoes to fill, genius.”

Swallowing the unexpected lump in his throat, Edward nods, his voice quieter. “Thanks. Really.”

Darcy waves them off, her voice ringing out as they head for the door. “Good luck tonight, Edward! And don’t forget—confidence is key!”

Stepping outside, Edward catches his reflection in a nearby window, his gaze studying the sharp lines of his haircut, the slight lift of his posture. For the first time in years, he not only looks like someone worth believing in—he feels it.

As the bustling sidewalk hums with life, Crosby gestures toward a storefront just a few paces ahead. “Here,” he says, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Edward follows, glancing up at the understated sign above the door. A phone store? he wonders, noting the quiet atmosphere as they step into the nearly empty space. Before he can voice the question forming on his lips, a cheerful employee with thick glasses approaches, their smile bright and welcoming. “Welcome in! How can I help you today?”

“Picking up an order. Should be under Selina Kyle,” Crosby says, his tone brisk as he leans casually against the counter.

Edward’s ears prick at the mention of her name, curiosity sparking as the employee nods and disappears into the back. “Oh, so we’re here to pick something up for Selina,” he murmurs, nodding slowly as the pieces click into place.

“More or less,” Crosby replies, his tone cryptic, his posture relaxed but watchful.

Moments later, the employee returns, carrying a sleek box with the kind of care one might reserve for a priceless artifact. “Here we are—the newest smartphone, fully set up with an unlimited plan,” they announce, opening the box to reveal the glossy device inside. “And in light green, as requested.”

Edward’s eyes widen, the polished surface of the phone catching the store’s soft lighting. “Wow. That’s... nice,” he admits, a flicker of envy passing through him. The phone looks like something out of a high-tech catalog, far from the outdated brick he’s been carrying around.

As Crosby takes the box, Edward’s hands instinctively pat his pockets. A sudden realization dawns. “Wait a second,” he mutters, brow furrowing. “I think my phone’s still in my bag. I haven’t touched it since... well...” His voice trails off, thinking back to his last tense conversation with Harley.

“Funny thing about that,” Crosby interjects with a grin, casually reaching into Edward’s bag and pulling out the old phone. He sets it aside before handing over the new device. “Hope you weren’t too attached to that ancient relic, because here’s your upgrade.”

The screen of the new phone lights up as it powers on, sleek and modern, like a window into a better-connected world. Edward’s lips twitch into a childlike smile, his fingers brushing over the pristine edges of the device. “This is mine?” he asks, disbelief threading through his voice.

Crosby nods, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Yep. All yours. And don’t worry—your contacts, emails, and apps? All transferred. Even set you up with a new number. Now you’re off Waller’s radar, at least for a little while.”

Edward blinks, his brain struggling to catch up. “I... I don’t even know what to say,” he murmurs, overwhelmed by the gesture.

“Say it to Selina,” Crosby replies, his tone softening as he hands Edward the bag containing the phone’s box, charger, and accessories. “She’s the one who set this up for you. Numbers already programmed—hers, mine, Holly’s. She wanted you ready.”

A swell of emotion rises in Edward’s chest.. “She really didn’t have to do this,” he says quietly, his fingers curling around the phone.

Crosby smiles knowingly, stepping toward the door. “That’s Selina for you. She doesn’t do anything halfway for the people she cares about.”

Edward swallows hard, slipping the phone into his pocket as they step outside. The air feels lighter somehow, and he wonders if it’s the phone, the gesture, or the growing sense of connection weaving through his fractured life.

As they head down the street, the phone vibrates against his leg, a series of rapid notifications lighting up the screen. “What the—?” he mutters, pulling it out to see a cascade of messages filling the screen.

Ahead of him, Crosby glances back, laughter bubbling from his chest. “Oh, right. Forgot to mention—welcome to the group chat. Holly and Selina don’t exactly believe in moderation.”

Edward stares at the phone, squinting at the endless string of messages. “A group chat?” he says, his voice laced with both dread and mild amusement. “Fantastic. Just what I need—another place to be publicly roasted.”

“Get used to it, genius.” Crosby smirks, hands shoved in his pockets as he walks ahead. “They’re relentless. They won’t hold back.”

Still fumbling with the phone, Edward shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I was better off when my old phone barely worked.” Despite his complaint, a faint smile tugs at his lips as he hesitantly types a thank-you message to Selina. The words feel awkward, but they’re heartfelt, and he presses send before he can overthink it.

Ahead, Crosby calls over his shoulder, his tone brisk. “Come on, genius. We’ve got more errands to run. Bookstore first, then a suit shop. Formal event at the club coming up. And while we’re at it, maybe we’ll find something sharp for you—for your date tonight.”

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Edward picks up his pace to catch up. “A suit? What, you think Selina’s expecting me to show up dressed like her old friend Bruce Wayne?” His voice drips with sarcasm, but there’s an undercurrent of genuine uncertainty.

Crosby raises an eyebrow, smirking as they fall into step together. “Do you really want to show up looking like a guy who just rolled out of bed? Trust me—a suit’ll do you some favors.”

Edward frowns, his skepticism plain. “I can’t even afford this stuff. I can’t let you keep buying things for me.”

Waving off the protest, Crosby lets out a dry laugh. “Please. Selina’s basically the sugar mom for all of us. We’re set for a while, and if this job goes as planned, we’ll be set for life.”

Tilting his head, Edward narrows his eyes. “Then why do you even have a job?”

Crosby huffs, rolling his shoulders as they cross the street. “Because I’ve got a judge to impress if I ever want more custody of my daughter. Gotta prove I’m turning things around.”

The answer makes Edward pause, his curiosity sharpening. “And the job helps with that?”

“Yeah,” Crosby says, nodding. “It’s steady. It shows I’m meeting people, making connections, doing something honest. The judge doesn’t exactly love the idea of me mooching off Selina.” He gives Edward a pointed look, a teasing grin curling his lips. “Unlike some people.”

Edward raises his hands defensively. “Hey, I didn’t ask for all this. She just keeps... helping.”

“That’s Selina for you,” Crosby says, his tone softening. “She sees potential in people, even when they don’t see it in themselves. Don’t worry—you’ll pay her back. In your own way.”

Exhaling deeply, Edward lets his shoulders relax slightly, the weight of the day momentarily easing. “I guess.”

Clapping him on the back, Crosby gestures toward the row of shops ahead. “Come on. Let’s get you suited up. Big night ahead, and trust me—you’re gonna want to look like you belong by Selina Kyle’s side.”

The words hit harder than Edward expects, but he swallows the lump forming in his throat and follows, keeping pace with Crosby as they approach a sleek boutique. Inside, the store smells of cedar and leather, with racks of tailored suits arranged under soft lighting that feels more like an art gallery than a clothing shop. Everything about the place radiates expense.

Edward waits by the entrance, his gaze darting over the polished mannequins and perfectly pressed fabrics. “Are you sure about this?” he mutters, his unease plain as he trails behind Crosby.

“Relax, genius,” Crosby says with a smirk, leading the way to the formalwear section. “You’ve got the haircut. Now you just need the rest of the package.”

Before Edward can voice another protest, a young woman in a sharp black blazer approaches. Her confident stride and practiced smile are disarming, but Edward stiffens instinctively as her gaze flicks between him and Crosby.

“Hi there!” she greets brightly. “Looking for something special today?”

Crosby gestures toward Edward, his smirk widening. “My buddy here’s got a big date tonight. Needs a suit that’ll leave an impression.”

Her smile broadens, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a touch of mischief as she sizes Edward up. “A big date, huh? Let’s make sure you’re dressed to impress.” Tilting her head slightly, she adds with a teasing lilt, “And here I thought you were one of those rugged types who’d skip the suit altogether.”

Edward feels his cheeks flush under her scrutiny, his discomfort obvious. “I, uh, don’t usually do this kind of thing.”

Her laugh is light and easy as she steps back, beckoning him to follow. “That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry—we’ll find something perfect. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

As she rifles through racks with practiced ease, the salesperson pulls out options, her movements confident and precise. Crosby leans casually against a nearby display, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Looks like the fan club just added a new member,” he mutters under his breath.

Edward shoots him a sharp glare, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Not funny.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Crosby replies, his smirk widening as he gestures for Edward to relax. “Just go with it, genius.”

The woman returns moments later, holding up a sharp charcoal gray suit. She positions it in front of Edward, her smile bright and encouraging. “This one’s perfect—classic, sophisticated, with just enough edge to turn heads. It’ll definitely catch her eye.”

Edward hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line. But her enthusiasm, paired with Crosby’s insistent smirk, leaves him with little choice. “Fine,” he mutters, disappearing into the fitting room with the suit draped over his arm.

When he steps out, the salesperson tilts her head, her sharp eyes assessing him critically. She taps her chin thoughtfully. “It’s good, but it’s not perfect. Let’s go for something timeless—classic black. It’s sharper, more confident, and works for every occasion. Trust me, it’ll suit you better.”

From his perch against a rack, Crosby nods in agreement. “She’s got a point. A black suit never misses.”

Edward groans softly but takes the sleek black suit she hands him. The fabric is rich, smooth, with a faint sheen that speaks of understated elegance. “Alright, I’ll give it a try,” he mutters, disappearing once again behind the curtain.

When he emerges, the transformation is immediate. The salesperson’s face lights up, her excitement palpable. “Now that’s the one,” she says, stepping closer to adjust the fit on his shoulders. “Bold, polished, and with just enough edge to show you mean business.”

Crosby straightens, giving Edward an appraising look. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re finally looking like someone Selina might actually want to show off.”

Edward tugs at the cuffs, rolling his eyes as he glances at his reflection in the mirror. “Can we just buy it and call it a day?”

“Not so fast,” the salesperson interjects, her tone playful but firm. She holds up a handful of ties, each draped over her arm. “The suit’s the foundation, but the tie is where you add personality. Let’s find the perfect one to seal the deal.”

She spreads them out on the counter: sleek black, deep burgundy, a subtle silver-gray, and a striking emerald green. “Which one speaks to you?” she asks, her tone inviting.

Edward stares at the options, clearly overwhelmed. “Uh... I have no idea.”

The salesperson’s smile softens as she picks up the green tie. “What color are her eyes?” she asks, her voice gentle but pointed.

Edward freezes, the question catching him off guard. He swallows hard, his voice dropping. “Green,” he says quietly. “Like... emeralds.”

The words feel heavier than he expects, his mind immediately conjuring the memory of Selina’s piercing gaze. He can almost see her in the dim glow of last night, her eyes locking onto his, holding him in place with an intensity that left him breathless. Heat rises to his cheeks as the memory settles over him, vivid and unshakable.

“Then this is the one,” the salesperson declares, holding the tie against the black suit. “This’ll make her melt.”

Crosby raises an eyebrow, his smirk tinged with curiosity as he notices Edward’s far-off expression. “Still with us, genius?”

Clearing his throat, Edward nods quickly, his tone clipped. “Yeah. The tie’s fine.”

Crosby chuckles knowingly. “Good choice. Trust me—Selina’s going to notice.”

The salesperson folds the suit with care, tucking the tie neatly into the bag before handing it over with a satisfied smile. “All set. You’re going to knock her socks off.”

Edward takes the bag, his grip tentative as he sneaks a glance at Crosby. “Thanks, I guess,” he mutters, his voice quieter than usual.

Crosby claps him on the shoulder, the gesture firm but encouraging. “Good work, genius. You might actually pull this off.”

As they step out of the store and onto the bustling street, Edward’s gaze drifts to his reflection in a nearby shop window. Though he’s still wearing his usual clothes, the promise of the suit in the bag gives him a moment of pause. For the first time, the thought of stepping into Selina’s world—if only for one night—feels a little less daunting.

Pulling out his new phone, Edward checks the time: 1:00 PM. The day is slipping by faster than he expected. Adjusting the shopping bag in his hand, he picks up his pace to catch Crosby, who strides ahead with casual ease.

“Where else do we need to go?” Edward asks, his tone edged with curiosity as he falls into step beside him.

Crosby gestures toward the street ahead, his voice steady. “The bookstore. I want to grab a mixology book—brushing up on recipes never hurts. And I promised Grace I’d find her something new to read. Thought it’d be a nice surprise when I see her next week.”

As they step into the bookstore, Edward takes in the familiar scent of paper and ink. The quiet ambiance wraps around him like a comforting blanket, a sharp contrast to the bustling city streets they’ve just left. His eyes drift across the shelves, the orderly spines offering a brief sense of calm. He’s always liked being surrounded by books. They hold knowledge, clarity, and a sense of control—qualities he admires. Books don’t talk back. They don’t judge.

But recently, Edward has found himself enjoying the company of people who do challenge him. The dynamic is new, and while it’s uncomfortable at times, there’s a strange satisfaction in it. Maybe this is what change feels like.

“What are you looking for?” Edward asks as Crosby scans the Bartending and Mixology section.

“Not sure yet,” Crosby replies, his eyes darting over the spines. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”

Edward lets Crosby be, his feet carrying him down the aisles without much thought. His fingers trail along the edges of the books, their cool, textured covers grounding him as he meanders. It isn’t until he glances up that he realizes where he’s ended up. The sign above reads: Romance.

Heat creeps up his neck as he freezes. Glancing around to ensure no one has noticed, he takes a cautious step forward, his eyes landing on a sleek book with a title that makes him falter: The Bedroom Blueprint: A Practical Guide to Pleasure.

The cover is minimalist, adorned with clean, geometric designs that mimic a literal blueprint. Edward’s fingers hover over the book, intrigue flickering in his mind. He’s always liked blueprints—logical, straightforward, and easy to follow. But this? This feels... different.

His hand finally settles on the book, and he pulls it from the shelf. At the end of the day, I really have no idea what I’m doing in bed, he thinks, his chest tightening slightly. Selina had assured him he’d been wonderful, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispers otherwise. What if she was just being nice? What if she didn’t want to hurt my ego?

The doubt gnaws at him, compelling him to crack the book open. The pages are filled with diagrams and practical explanations, the tone clinical yet approachable. It’s more detailed than he expected, and his face flushes as he skims through it. This is... educational, he thinks, his heart pounding faster the longer he reads.

“Reading up before the test, huh?” Crosby’s voice rumbles near his ear, making Edward jump so violently that the book nearly slips from his hands.

“Crosby!” Edward hisses, slamming the book shut. His glasses slip slightly down the bridge of his nose, and he pushes them back with a frustrated shove. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Crosby leans against the shelf, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Relax, genius. Just teasing. But I wasn’t expecting to find you in this section.” He raises an eyebrow, the smirk turning downright devilish. “So... were you a virgin before that night?”

Edward’s jaw tightens, his glare sharp. “Why does everyone assume that? Do I really give off a virgin vibe?”

“Kind of.” Crosby shrugs, clearly enjoying himself. 

Groaning, Edward runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he can’t seem to break. “For the record, no, I wasn’t. But it’s been years, okay? And if this thing with Selina is real, I just... I don’t want to screw it up.” His voice drops. “I’m not exactly the most experienced person, and I feel like I need to be better. For her. I don’t want to let her down.”

The smirk fades from Crosby’s face as he studies Edward. Clearing his throat, Crosby picks up the book, flipping through the pages with a casual air. “Not that it’s any of my business—because it’s really not—but Selina did mention something about you... scratching the itch.”

Edward’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “She said that?”

“Well, not in those exact words,” Crosby admits, smirking again as he hands the book back. “But she seemed happy enough. You’re doing fine, genius.”

Edward exhales, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “You think so?”

With a casual shrug, Crosby steps back, gesturing toward the register. “A little studying never hurt anyone. If this’ll help you get out of your head and focus on what really matters, go for it. Hell, I’ll even buy it for you. Call it an investment in your future success.”

Edward blinks, startled by the gesture. “You’d actually do that?”

Crosby grins, his confidence unwavering as he snatches the book and tucks it under his arm. “Sure. Selina deserves the best, doesn’t she? And if this helps you stop second-guessing yourself, it’s worth every penny.”

A faint smile tugs at Edward’s lips, reluctant but genuine. “Thanks, Cros. I mean it.”

“Don’t get sappy on me now,” Crosby teases as they stroll toward the checkout. “Think of it as you owing me one.” His smirk widens as he places his own selections on the counter—a glossy mixology book and a bright, colorful storybook clearly meant for Grace.

Standing beside him, Edward watches the cashier ring up their purchases. An unfamiliar warmth blooms in his chest, something he’s not entirely comfortable with: gratitude. Crosby’s jabs are relentless, but beneath the rough exterior lies an unexpected kindness. Edward can’t remember the last time someone extended a hand without ulterior motives. 

After paying, Crosby hands Edward the bag containing his book. “There you go, genius. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Edward shakes his head, unable to suppress a chuckle. “You’re not as bad as you want people to think, you know.”

“Keep that to yourself,” Crosby says with mock seriousness. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

As they step outside, the sunlight bathes the sidewalk in a golden warmth. The hum of the city fills the air, blending with the distant chatter of passersby. Edward feels an odd calm settle over him, a reprieve from the chaos that usually clings to his every step.

“So,” Crosby says, nudging him with an elbow, “what’s the plan for tonight? Or are you just winging it?”

Edward rubs his side where Crosby jabbed him, shooting him a mildly annoyed glance. “She mentioned making dinner and watching a movie... Dirty Dancing, I think? Never seen it.”

Crosby raises an eyebrow, nodding approvingly. “Classic romance. My wife used to love that movie—it’s actually pretty good. You might even learn a thing or two.”

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Edward’s face. “Dinner, though... what are we even going to make? I haven’t checked her fridge, so I have no idea what’s in there.”

Crosby laughs, shaking his head. “We’ll stop somewhere on the way back. Selina loves catfish. If you want to impress her, go with that—it’s one of her favorites.”

“I love catfish!” Edward’s eyes light up, his enthusiasm slipping past his usual composure. “People act like it’s a garbage fish, but it’s seriously underrated.” 

“Then it’s settled,” Crosby says with a grin. “We’ll grab what you need, and you’ll dazzle her with your culinary skills—or, at the very least, not set the kitchen on fire.”

“I’m an excellent cook, I’ll have you know.” Edward raises his chin, mock indignation in his tone. “It’s probably why my brain is so sharp. All those nutritious meals.”

“Alright, Top Chef, let’s get moving. Car’s this way.”

They reach the car, loading their bags into the back seat. Edward moves toward the passenger side, but stops short when Crosby suddenly freezes. His easy demeanor vanishes, replaced by something taut and watchful. His eyes lock onto a figure across the street—a man standing by the curb, his posture stiff.

“You alright?” Edward asks, his hand resting on the door handle.

Crosby shakes his head slightly, brushing off the question. “Yeah. Totally fine.” His tone is clipped, his focus unbroken. Tossing the keys to Edward, he adds, “Start the car. I’ll be right back.”

Before Edward can respond, Crosby strides away, his movements sharp and purposeful. Edward watches him cross the lot, heading straight for the man on the sidewalk. There’s tension in his steps, something that sets Edward’s nerves on edge.

“What the hell is he doing now?” Edward mutters, closing the car door softly. Curiosity gnaws at him, and he finds himself trailing after Crosby, keeping a safe distance. His steps are measured, his posture casual, as though he’s just another pedestrian. He angles himself behind a parked car, far enough to avoid detection but close enough to catch fragments of the exchange.

As Edward moves closer, the muted voices sharpen, and he can make out Crosby’s words. The older man standing across from him has a guarded posture, his arms crossed tightly, but Crosby’s tone is laced with raw desperation.

“Please, David,” Crosby says, his voice low but pleading. His hands clasp together like a man praying for a miracle. “Let me see my baby girl. I’ve got a job now, a stable home. I’ve turned things around. Twice a month isn’t enough—I need more time with her.”

Edward halts a few steps away, his eyes narrowing as the pieces fall into place. This must be David, Crosby’s father-in-law, the man with full custody of Grace. He can feel the tension radiating from them.

David sighs heavily, his expression softening just enough to show he isn’t unmoved, though his stance remains firm. “Crosby, I can see you’re trying. And I appreciate that—you moving down here shows a lot. But you can’t just erase what happened. You can’t undo the years you weren’t there.”

From where Edward stands, the slope of Crosby’s shoulders makes it clear the words hit hard. His head dips slightly, a defeated sag in his frame that Edward hadn’t seen before. David’s voice isn’t cruel, but the steel in his tone carries an air of finality. He isn’t budging, and Edward can sense it as if it were a lock clicking into place.

Then Crosby speaks again, his voice cracking at the edges. “I know I can’t change the past. I’ll never stop regretting what happened, but I’m doing better now, David. Please, let me do better for her.” He pauses, the name catching like glass in his throat. “You know Sarah would’ve wanted that.”

David’s face flickers with emotion at the mention of his daughter, his resolve shifting just slightly. Edward notices the hesitation, the barely perceptible crack in his armor, and something clicks in his mind.

Before the moment slips away, Edward steps forward with an easy, confident smile. “Ah, so this must be the world-famous David I’ve heard so much about,” he says smoothly, extending a hand. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Both men turn, surprise flashing across their faces. Crosby’s eyes widen, panic flashing briefly as though Edward is about to make things worse, while David regards him with caution. “And you are...?” he asks, his tone sharp but curious.

Feigning mild embarrassment, Edward chuckles and retrieves the business card from his pocket—the one Crosby handed him during the jewelry store job. “Oh, of course, forgive my manners. Edward Brookelny, psychology professor at Metropolis University,” he says, holding up the card. “I’ve been working with Crosby for a little over a month now. Helping him process the loss of his wife and take steps to improve his life for Grace’s sake.”

David blinks, his furrowed brow easing slightly as he glances back at Crosby, who looks like he’s just been tossed into an improv scene without a script. “I didn’t know Crosby was seeing a psychologist,” David says, his tone a mix of skepticism and intrigue.

With a practiced air of sincerity, Edward steps closer, his voice warm and professional. “Ah, yes, Crosby wanted to tell you in person—which is why I’m here. It’s not often I travel, but I happened to be visiting an old friend in town and thought I’d meet Crosby in person while exploring your lovely community. Truly charming, I must say.”

Edward smiles, slipping an arm casually around Crosby’s shoulders, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Most of my classes are online these days, so I get to avoid the chaos of city life—well, except for the occasional run-in with Justice League antics.” He waves a hand dismissively, his tone light but authoritative.

David regards him carefully, his skepticism softening into consideration. “And you’re saying Crosby’s been... improving?” he asks, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing Edward’s words.

“Remarkably so,” Edward replies without hesitation. “His dedication to bettering himself and creating a stable environment for Grace is nothing short of inspiring. I can say with confidence that he’s committed to being the father she needs.”

Crosby clears his throat, finally catching up to the act. “It’s true, David. Edward’s been a big help—keeps me on track, gives me tools to work through things. I wanted you to hear it from someone qualified.”

David’s gaze flicks between them both, his guarded expression betraying the faintest hint of uncertainty. For a long moment, he says nothing, the weight of his thoughts hanging in the air. Finally, he exhales slowly, his stance relaxing just enough. “Well, I’ll admit... I didn’t expect this.”

“Progress takes time, David.” Edward’s smile widens, though his tone remains calm, measured. “Every step forward matters.” His gaze shifts briefly to Crosby, his expression softening. “And Crosby’s been taking those steps.”

A beat of silence settles between the three men. David’s eyes flick between Edward and Crosby, scrutinizing them both as if searching for cracks in their sincerity. For the first time since Edward has known him in these few short days, Crosby looks uneasy. His usual bravado is replaced by a faint, twitchy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the kind of expression that makes even Edward’s skin prickle with secondhand discomfort.

Sensing the tension, Edward pulls out his phone, slipping easily into the role of the ever-busy professional. He presses the device to his ear, pretending to answer a call as he steps back, creating a bubble of privacy for Crosby. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says with a polite nod to David, his voice effortlessly smooth. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” The charm in his tone contrasts with the slight falter in his expression as he turns away.

Edward paces near the car, phone held to his ear as he carries on a convincing, animated conversation with no one. His gaze, however, never strays far from the two men. He observes their body language carefully—Crosby’s slouched shoulders, David’s guarded stance. The older man’s posture suggests reluctance, but there’s something softer beneath it, a hint of consideration that wasn’t there before.

David exhales deeply, the sound heavy with thought. “Alright, Crosby,” he begins, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “Since you’re clearly making an effort and even getting professional help...” He trails off, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing his next words. “I’ll take a step, too. I’ve got a meeting with the judge coming up. Maybe I can propose something—like a week at a time. See how it goes. If that works out, we’ll start talking about shared custody. But no guarantees.”

Crosby doesn’t hesitate, clasping David’s extended hand with both of his. “Thank you, David,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I swear, I won’t let you—or Grace—down. I’m going to keep working at this. And Edward...” His voice trails off as he glances toward the car, where Edward continues his “animated” phone conversation. “He’s someone I’m learning to depend on.”

David pats Crosby on the back, his firm demeanor softening. “Good. We’ll stay in touch.” With a final nod, David turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving Crosby standing alone for a moment.

Relief rushes through Crosby like a breaking wave. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself before turning back toward the car. 

Edward, still pacing dramatically with the phone pressed to his ear, notices Crosby’s approach and quickly “ends” the call with an exaggerated sigh. “All sorted,” he says with a crooked grin. “So... how’d it go?”

Before Edward can fully process what’s happening, Crosby closes the distance and pulls him into a bear hug, his arms wrapping around him tightly. Edward freezes, his hands awkwardly hovering midair as Crosby’s grip locks him in place. A couple of tears streak down Crosby’s face, but he quickly swipes them away with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Thank you,” Crosby says, his voice thick with emotion as he pulls back just enough to look Edward in the eye. “What you just did... you have no idea how much that means to me.”

Edward blinks, stunned by the raw gratitude in Crosby’s tone. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he awkwardly pats Crosby’s shoulder. “You said I owed you one,” he mutters, his tone quieter now. “This seemed like the least I could do.”

Crosby laughs, a deep, almost disbelieving sound, as he tries to compose himself. “Yeah, well... consider the debt paid. Ten times over. Seriously, Edward. I don’t get people going out of their way like that for me. Not often. Not ever.”

“Let’s just say I’ve had enough people go out of their way to make my life worse.” Edward shrugs, his smirk faint but genuine. “Figured it was time I tried the opposite.”

“You’re alright, genius.” Crosby claps him on the shoulder, his trademark grin returning. “Better than alright.”

“Don’t get sappy on me now,” Edward retorts, stepping toward the car and tossing his suit bag into the back seat. “We’ve still got groceries to buy. Selina’s not going to be impressed with an empty fridge.”

“Fair enough.” Crosby chuckles, wiping traces of tears from his face as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “But seriously, Ed... thanks.”

Settling into the passenger seat, Edward leans back, an unspoken sense of accomplishment settling over him like a warm coat. Crosby starts the car, giving Edward a quick fist bump as they pull out of the parking lot.

“You’re a good friend,” Crosby says suddenly, his tone sincere as he glances at Edward.

Feeling something unusual, Edward's head tilts, his brows lifting slightly. The word echoes in his mind, unfamiliar but oddly comforting. “Friend,” he repeats softly, almost to himself. The weight of it is heavier than he expected but not unwelcome.

“You good, genius?” 

Edward swallows, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a small smile. “Yeah,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “It’s just... no one’s ever called me a friend before.” He pauses, his face flushing slightly as he adds, “Besides Selina, whatever we are.”

Crosby grins, his gaze fixed on the road. “Well, you’ve got one now. And soon enough, you’ll have Holly and the rest of us in your corner. Hell, poker night’s officially open to you. Trust me, Edward, when you decide to change for the better, good things start happening.”

He stares out the window, Crosby’s words settling somewhere deep within him. His thoughts drift to the changes in his life: Selina’s faith in him, Holly’s tentative acceptance, and now Crosby calling him a friend. It feels fragile, but for once, he doesn’t feel the urge to sabotage it.

“Better things,” he murmurs, the words carrying a sense of hope he hasn’t felt in years.

“Damn right, genius.” Crosby glances at him, his grin widening. “Now let’s grab those groceries before your big night. You’ve got a date to knock out of the park.”

As the car weaves through the city streets, Edward’s small but genuine smile lingers. For the first time in a long time, the future feels just a little brighter. 

[st6rly]

gods no longer.

SYNOPSIS: love, as in the feeling, is fate. love, as in the choice, is conscious (or in other words, 4 times where zhongli gets close enough to the truth of the matter and the 1 time he does) | word count: 1.8k

characters: god!office worker!zhongli x deity!barista!gn!reader

categories: apocalypse au, modern au, angst, hurt / comfort, fluff, 4+1 fic

warnings: mentions of typical apocalypse stuff ( blood, injury, death, etc.), mentions of food & drinks, ooc zhongli sorry TwT

notes: i went a little too silly and related falling in love to the cycle and formation of a rock. ok the au sounds confusing but i promise it makes sense- also i ended up using parallels as a writing device way too much in this my bad :’D

surprise surprise @lychniis / @ainescribe !! im your astro twerk secret santa :DD im sorry if this fic is messy in structure and probably doesn’t make sense in the long run but i hope you enjoy some parts of it at least TwT happy holidays !!

I. WEATHERING & EROSION.

The world was crumbling to its knees and yet, all Zhongli could think about was how his morning tea was bitter. 

Gravel crunched under his foot, topsoil turned over to reveal the small bits of life that had yet to fall through the cracks. The pavement had split, rumbles having left long and jagged fractures in the ground and buildings tilted. Sun bore down on skin battered with small cuts and contusions, a layer of dirt covering both his forearms and the formerly white dress shirt he wore. His shoes scuffed along the deserted road, steps deliberately languid. He screamed, thrashed around in his mind, prayed that others had survived. In the back corners of his mind, he hoped none did. 

Selfish; maybe that’s all he’d ever be to the people. Gold ran down his arm, trickled from the punctures left from stone and debris. The ichor in his veins served as a shackle of what he could not have and Zhongli stared down at it in disdain, fist clenched. For the better, he assured, pulled free a steel pipe from the framing of a store, and continued on. Gods couldn’t die by a knife to the throat. They could if forgotten. 

Zhongli knew he tore a seam in the dress shirt he wore when range of motion wasn’t such a struggle, able to lunge himself up over fallen street lamps and what once used to be apartments with ease. There was no destination and he was sure that if he had one, it wouldn’t be standing. 

He walked because if he didn’t, then nobody else would. Zhongli does not die easily; not in this way at least.

II. TRANSPORTATION.

The world was at an end; you wished it had come sooner or not at all. 

You pulled yourself from beneath the rumble and broken frames of the shop you had so dearly loved, clawed a hand through sharp edges and chipped paint, to come face to face with the remains of flattened machines and shattered glass panes. The first thing you noticed was the front entrance that withstood the initial fracture. The next was the blood and dusty limbs that laid on the floor. 

The grief was worn like sticky sunscreen on a beach day, a protective and mocking cover over your skin as you ran, scuffed sneakers thundering along ridges and bumps in the uneven lane. In hindsight, it was stupid of you to exert so much force when there wasn’t a place you could run to; you just needed out, to scrub the dirt and grime and blots of red and gold until the only thing that was leftover was whatever shred of dignity you still kept. Flee and leave it all behind, there was nothing for you anyways.

Until him.

“It’s you,” the man stated, finger poised accusingly, “you gave me the wrong order of tea.” 

You blinked back owlishly, lost for words as he pointed at you with a scowl. Hesitation in your actions, you slowly lowered the plank of wood with one nail stuck through it in your hands and squinted your eyes. The sleeves of his shirt were ripped and rolled to his biceps, hair tied back loosely, and posture high on alert as he clutched onto a metal rod with a death grip. 

“And you are…” you trailed off, voice cracked and lips dried as your throat protested the strain of letting the words out. It had been months since the dirt beneath your feet started to split; weeks since you’d seen another share the means of language. 

“An unsatisfied customer.” The reply was blunt and left no room for argument. It was not a final answer. 

If he hadn’t just been locked in a stare down with you mere minutes ago or held himself in such a manner, you would’ve snorted and laughed it off. 

“Listen, I really don’t think now is a good time to be talking about tea.” you groaned, a heavy sigh falling from your lips. “It’s not like I can fix it either.” 

The stranger responded with silence. His eyes darted quickly over your figure and you shifted your weight from foot to foot.  

“Travel with me.” 

You blinked once, twice, stared at him until your eyes burned and forced you to close them again. Words died out on the tip of your tongue, the embers and syllables smothered out in the muddled mess of your own thoughts.

“What?” you croaked out. He looked back as if it were common sense. 

“You’re one of them.” It was only after those words that you realized he had fixed his gaze to your arm. A shaky breath left your lips, the sting of the cut underneath a flimsy wrapping of torn cloth grounding. You could feel it now, the way the liquid gleamed when caught under the light, its brilliance shown as it started to trickle down your skin again. 

One of them. 

“There’s nothing left here,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Your jaw went tight and nails dug into the soft flesh of your palms. 

“You think I don’t know that?” The words were bitter as they left your throat. “Do you think I’m that detached?” 

He ignored you. 

“Come with me,” he took a step closer and held out a hand. “You won’t be forgotten.” 

It was neither warm or inviting, but enticing nonetheless. He knows, you calmed yourself, he knows he can’t kill me. 

“If not for that, then for the company?” 

Blindly, stupidly, you took it.

III. DEPOSITION.

Tin cans rattled softly, the noise muffled by the worn fabric of what you called a backpack, as you rummaged through food and water supplies. The box you pulled out was supposed to be white, the plastic smooth and red cross marked in the centre bright and bold. Somewhere underneath the dirt, it still was. 

He’s all too familiar with the furrow of a brow and the soft brush of fingers against his shoulder. He suppressed a shiver when your breath tickled his neck, held in a sigh when you blew gently on the cut after cleaning. With careful movements, you wound the bandage around his arm, the occasional ghost of your skin against his startling. Zhongli found it wasn’t unwelcome. 

It was you who broke the silence. 

“You aren’t who you say you are,” you stated, words hushed and still rough around the edges. He locked eyes with yours, searched them only to come up empty; not a single bit of malice or spite was present in the look you gave him. That was either a good thing, or an equally bad one. The ground was stained with tinges of gold, bits that clumped up dirt, left shimmer in its wake. The small pads of cotton used to wipe the bleeding were stained vibrant yellow. 

He barked out a laugh; the sound was foreign to his ears. 

“You’re one of them. One like me,” you whispered when his voice died down. 

“And we’re different in every way,” he said, hand clutched to his ribcage at the cramp that began to form. “Why do you insist on fighting so hard?” 

“What?” 

“We’ve lost what makes us like this. Why do you continue to try?” 

“We were, I was, never a proper god to start with,” you spoke carefully, considerate. “It was never up to me what went on.” 

“In the blink of an eye,” Zhongli matched your tone, “you could wish this all better.” 

“Just as you could make it all the worse.” You hummed and leaned your head back, eyes averted away from him. “I guess I just found something worth trying for.”

Zhongli’s heart pounded.

IV. METAMORPHISM.

“Grab my hand!” 

The Earth groaned and rumbled, opened its mouth, swallowed up buildings and wires without much thought. You braced yourself against the broken chain fence, glancing up at where Zhongli stood up on the roof opposite from you, having made it before the cracks had begun again and the distance grew. 

Grave desperation set his nerves alight, every fibre alert, and arm reached out to where the joint could’ve pulled loose had he gone farther. His face pulled into a cruel grimace as the concrete ledge of the other building dug into his stomach below the ribs and something in him burned, shouted and throbbed beneath layers of flesh and bones, in an intelligible mess of tightness and ache. 

“Please, Y/n!” he shouted. Begged. He’d bare his throat to you in a heartbeat if it meant you believed in this, believed in him.  

You jumped. His heart dropped to his stomach, legs weak, when your hand grasped his wrist and met his eyes. Feet dug into the cracks of the barrier, he pulled you to him, the quiet gasp of relief he let out once you touched down on solid ground lost to the wind. 

God can’t die. Gods cannot die, he repeated to himself, a mantra of painful reassurance. Zhongli’s hands melded with the fabric of your shirt, cloth twisted in a similar way that could only mock the feeling in his chest. 

You tugged on his hand, laced your fingers slowly with his before the rumbles started again. Down the both of ran, across unsteady roofs and rusted fire escapes, until the sky turned dark and the shakes stopped, 

Adrenaline, nerves, the worry he’d lose you again, whatever it was, he fell for it. It was winter when he first kissed you under the moonless sky; it felt more like early spring with the warmth that still laid heavy in the air and the dry crust of dirt that coated everything. 

“You should have just let me,” you had mumbled against his lips the same night. 

“I made a promise and I intend to keep it,” he replied back, the words sitting just right as he spoke. “I wish it were more. You deserve more.”

“This,” you hummed, a hand cupping his cheek, “is more than enough.”

V. ROCK MELTING.

It was summer when the ground beneath his feet first began to give out and the streets ran rampant with silence; it’s summer again when he found a new life with you.  

This was all laughable, really. Hands intertwined, the sun that peaked over the horizon and set alight to the dust in the air, the domestic nature, it all was a joke. You’d, turned and brushed stray hairs from his face with light touch and features set into a grim, yet foolishly hopeful, face. 

He gazed at you like you could craft the universe anew, match his destruction blow for blow and reverse everything. In some sense, you could. Not this one though. 

“You could find them again, you know,” you mumbled, not so he couldn’t hear but it felt right. “What would you do if you did?”

Zhongli paused, licked his lips as he stared out into the open expanse of the wasteland. 

“My love is a choice,” he smiled as he spoke, a delicate thing, “and that choice is you.” 

“Took you long enough,” you chuckled with a soft nudge to his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Zhongli released a long sigh, squeezed your hand and traced an outline around the joints of your thumb, before letting out a small ghost of a chuckle when you squeezed back. How low he had fallen, mad at something as simple as the grime that separated the true touch of your palm in his. “It did.”