#if he leaves he better take everything with him

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Nadezh' Interview

Summary: After Nadezh previous identity as the Firebreather, notorious Supervillain, was revealed, she thought she’d lose everything. She’s never been so happy to be wrong.

You can read Nadezh' first story (HERE)

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It’s decided that Nadezh will work in the finance department of Hero Force. She hates to leave her civilian job and her coworkers seeing the success of her budget fully bloom, but the other option is wearing the power suppressors 24/7, and their power frequency vibrates through her engagement ring in a way that reminds her of a bee buzzing, and she won’t take the ring off so.

The interview is a formality but they make her do it anyway. She prepares for it over the course of seven days, making Gannon rehearse every hypothetical question with her until the last minute.

Until the last minute meaning on the drive to Hero Force for the interview.

“There is a discrepancy in the packaging budget,” Gannon reads. He’s used to her driving and doesn’t flinch when she merges too quickly, and a chorus of Chicago drivers chastise her loudly. “There is a flat rate for three different sizes of package. According to the average order value and average product mix, packaging should be $3.5k—Nadezh, Hero Force doesn’t have a commerce division, I don’t think this is necessary.”

Nadezh knows the rest of this question. What steps would you take to reconcile actual and planned? “Of course, there’s the option to conduct a forensic audit, however—”

“We do have a forensic finance department,” Gannon concedes, “but that’s not—”

“—first would be to observe the whole packaging process. While there is a flat rate for all three package sizes that doesn’t mean all orders are being packaged for efficiency—”

Gannon reaches for her knee, thinks better of it, considering her foot on the gas pedal, and diverts to her shoulder. He squeezes, and all of the tension in her back magically eases. “Babe. You’re already overqualified. You’re going to do great.”

They’ve already had this argument, so Nadezh doesn’t say Overqualified? It’s amazing they’re even letting me into a Hero Force building, I could be the President and I still wouldn’t be qualified considering my past. Instead, she says, “Right. Right, thanks. You’re right. Right.”

“Right,” Gannon says seriously.

“Right,” she says and takes the next exit.

“Riiiiiiight.”

By the time they pull into the parking garage, Nadezh is laughing at the increasingly bizarre ways Gannon says the word right. The word barely has meaning anymore, and she’s fairly certain that if anyone else heard Hero Zone sounding so goat-like, they’d send him to psych for an evaluation.

Nadezh gets out of the car first, hurrying before he can say anything else that will set her off.

“Go save the day,” she says. Her face hurts from smiling. She tosses him the keys over the roof of the car after she closes the door. “I can get the train back.”

Gannon rounds the bumper and presses them back into her hand. He kisses her forehead. “No public transport from HQ.”

She blinks, the spot his lips touched tingling. “Is that a rule?”

“Our house rule,” Gannon says. He smiles reassuringly at her. “Just a precaution. I know too many people who get made getting followed out of HQ.”

Gannon always explains himself even though she never asks. Her heart is racing at our house rules. They have house rules. They’re engaged. They’re going to get married. She lifts her chin for a kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you.” He kisses her.

Kissing Gannon is the closest she feels to her powers these days. The warmth that runs through her, the heat in her cheeks, the pounding of her heart – actually she takes it back. It’s not like her power at all. It’s better than her power.

“Break it up!” a man calls from across the parking garage.

Electricity shoots through Nadezh. She didn’t hear him come up behind her. She tries to pull away from Gannon, to turn and protect them, but his hands on her shoulders stop her. Her brain catches up a moment later. Gannon is relaxed, warm brown eyes still happy. The voice is familiar.

“It’s not goodbye yet,” another voice says grumpily. This time Nadezh recognizes the speaker. When her tension eases, Gannon lifts his hands long enough for her to turn and greet Flare. He drapes his arms over Nadezh’s shoulders. Flare’s eye twitches. “There’s, like, a whole elevator ride to go.”

“There’s cameras in the elevator,” Gannon says.

Nadezh still doesn’t know what to make of Gannon’s Hero team. Omit – the leader of the team – is decent. Fast, sound decisions on the field, always knows when to retreat, which is important when your team is made of B and C-rank heroes.  His power – to eliminate an object from the enemy’s perception during battle – makes her uneasy. Despite his openness with her, she can’t erase the suspicion that he’s using his powers on her from her mind.

She likes Flare. The woman is bright and bubbly, almost six inches shorter than Nadezh, with all the energy of a hummingbird. Though she’s stationed on Gannon’s team, she’s in high demand across the city. There aren’t many fliers out there, and although her dragonfly wings aren’t exactly subtle, she’s fast enough and strong enough to conduct recon across Lake Michigan. Flare keeps Gannon safe when he’s out saving the world. Nobody sneaks up on them with her around.

Mostly.

“Us singles are feeling left out,” Omit says and tries to drape an arm over Flare’s shoulders.

Flare flits away. “Interview today?” she asks Nadezh.

“Right,” Nadezh says.

Gannon’s burst of surprised laughter lasts all the way to Nadezh’s floor where he waves goodbye breathlessly.

Even with his mask obstructing the crow’s feet she loves, Nadezh savors the memory of his joy all the way to her interview.

----.

Agent Briston isn’t like any other agent Nadezh has ever seen. He’s in his sixties, round, bald, and wearing a sweater vest under his regulation suit jacket. She thinks there’s a reason agents like him are kept out of sight. He looks like an easy target—no. She doesn’t think about people as targets anymore. She means that he looks like the grandfather in a commercial about watches, the one who takes the vintage watch off of his own wrist to wrap it around the grandson’s with an air of gravity.

“This interview isn’t a guarantee, despite your…recommendations,” Agent Briston says the moment Nadezh sits down. His desk has nothing but a computer, a notepad, and a pen. Somehow the harried look on his face makes it seem cluttered with paper. “We don’t have the budget for many staff. We need to be selective.”

Nadezh resists the urge to pull at the Hero Force regulation mask on her face or the power suppressors around her wrists. Part of her agreement with Foresight was that she’d wear the cuffs whenever Gannon wasn’t with her. The blue glow feels ostentatious, and she hopes Agent Briston won’t turn her down based on them. “Understood, sir.”

“Briston,” Agent Briston says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Only the heroes call me sir. My staff calls me Briston.”

Nadezh nods. “I’m Nadezh Mel—”

“No last names, Nadezh,” Briston says. He pulls his glasses from a desk drawer and puts them on. He squints at his computer. “Now. Tell me.  Do you have accounting experience?”

“Yes, si—Briston.”

Briston’s thick white eyebrows raise and he abandons his computer to focus back on Nadezh. He seems skeptical. “Really?”

“I created the office budget for my last company,” Nadezh says. She has a better way to say this, she rehearsed this with Gannon— “My plan allowed for the purchase of new chairs and a copier.”

Briston stares at her. “You really have accounting experience.”

Did he not hear her? Or did she answer incorrectly? “I-I was also part of the team that allocated reinvestment funds—”

“Foresight’s recruits never have accounting experience.”

“—and payroll for over 500 employees—”

“Payroll!” Briston looks up at the ceiling. “She does payroll!”

“I—I’m sorry?” she says. She can’t read his tone. Is he disappointed or being sarcastic? She scrambles for her next interview answer. “I have a bachelor’s in accounting from Illinois State, but I plan to complete my master’s in the next five years—”

Briston makes a sound she’s only ever heard from frightened raccoons. “You’re hired,” Briston declares. He reaches over the desk to shake her hand. “I’ll draw up a counteroffer before noon.”

Confused, Nadezh shakes his hand. His grip is surprisingly strong. “Sir? The terms of my employment should already be in my file.” Foresight had made it clear she’d be starting at the bottom level of the pay scale.

“We aren’t paying my new director that,” Briston says. “We’ll start double that and see what they counter offer.”

“They? Aren’t you in charge of salary approvals?” Nadezh asks. Then, as his words sink in, “Director?!”

Briston beams at her. “Experience, a degree, and common sense! We’ll settle for 30% higher than the initial offer with a condition for an additional 10% at the next performance review.”

“Director,” Nadezh says. When Briston doesn’t answer, ignoring her in favor of typing feverishly, Nadesh says with surety, “You’re joking.”

Briston hums and doesn’t answer her.

“Right?”

----.

Briston isn’t joking.

Gannon takes a dazed Nadezh out for dinner and drinks to celebrate. The private room he reserves is in the back of a Japanese restaurant run by a former Superhero. There are flowers on the table, candles strategically placed around the room, soundproofing on the walls, and a chilled bottle of Nadezh's favorite white wine waiting. She processes all of this distantly. She makes Gannon read her employment contract between bites of sushi. Bemused, he dutifully announces her employed status and starting salary whenever she asks.

“Guess I shouldn’t have listened to the rumors about the department head,” Gannon says. Rather than surprised, his voice carries an element of relief. “You’re barely taking a salary cut with this.”

“Cut? This is a ten percent raise,” Nadezh hisses. She stares at her green tea. “Does Foresight know?” A jolt of sick fear floods with her. “I didn’t make Briston give me a raise, I swear!”

“Nadezh, of course you didn’t,” Gannon says. He reaches across the table to nudge at her clenched hands. Automatically, she unfurls them to reveal half-moon indents from her nails. He slides his palm against hers. “You deserve this.”

“But Foresight might think—”

“He won’t.” Gannon picks up his chopsticks with his left hand, content to let his right keep holding hers so that her dominant hand is free. He’s clumsier with them and frowns as he chases salmon roe around his plate. “Briston has almost unilateral say in the finance department. Nobody can sway him. He’s known for being short-tempered, cheap, and stubborn. I’m sure Foresight will just be grateful he finally hired someone.”

Nadezh narrows her eyes. ���You said you didn’t know the person interviewing me.”

“Oops?” Gannon finally catches the salmon roe under a bite of rice and pops it in his mouth. He chews innocently. “Did I?”

“Fess up.”

“It’s not like I know a lot. People say Briston fires more than he hires.” Gannon’s eyes shift to the side.  “Aaaand that he can be heard yelling whenever it’s time to calculate overtime expenses. Or whenever the armory submits their expense report. Or when the audit team comes back with city damage claims. Or when—”

Nadezh drops her head into her free hand, letting her long black hair hide her for a moment. She forgot that Hero Force accountants dealt with destroyed skyscrapers and medical leave for when you got your arms ripped off in a fight, not copiers and desk chairs. “You didn’t think to mention any of this before the interview?!”

“You were freaked out enough.” Gannon pauses in the way he does when he’s about to say what he’s really thinking so Nadezh doesn’t interrupt. She waits as he chews until he finally says, “I’m glad he bumped your salary. I was starting to feel guilty.”

Nadezh’s hand spasms around Gannon’s. “Guilty?”

“Yeah,” Gannon says. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I argued against making you leave your job. Said it made Hero Force the sort of organization everyone always accuses us of being. Overreaching and, well…cruel.”

“You didn’t tell me about that either.” Had he been thinking that this whole time? While she made him practice interview questions with her? Did he think she was forcing herself? The thought of Gannon feeling even a tenth of the gnawing guilt that lives inside her makes her want to throw up. Nadezh shakes her head and leans across the table. She’s glad for the private room and how it allows her to show him how his words affect her. “Babe, you don’t have anything—"

“I know how hard you worked for that job,” Gannon interrupts. He licks his lips. Now it’s his turn to stare at his tea. “Please, just…listen.”

Nadezh would do anything Gannon asked. She squeezes his hand again and fights the words bubbling up her throat like lava.

“We haven’t really talked since that day,” Gannon says. He’s a Hero; he makes himself look into her eyes. “I haven’t really talked. I’ve been afraid to. I know your past isn’t…isn’t good. I do. And I know that you don’t want to forget about it or pretend it doesn’t exist.”

She wants to, but she can’t. Like hunger and emptiness, she doesn’t think Gannon will ever understand the weight she carries from the harm she’s done. The screams she’d once reveled in now haunt her in ways she could never have guessed. But he’s talking to her, so she doesn’t explain. She listens.

“I feel like I’ve been making you give up everything for me,” Gannon confesses in a rush. He speaks faster as her eyes widen, like if he makes his sentences a big enough river, she won’t be able to dam it up. “Your first civilian job, your past, and your freedom to do whatever you want to do – because you could do anything, you really could – and even your powers.” He rubs his thumb over the underside of her wrist where the power suppressors sit during working hours. His face crumples. “Every morning, I will have to take you to put them on. It’s…I hate it. It feels like I’m abandoning you, or like I’m part of your punishment, or like I’m not being the partner you deserve.”

She starts, half rising from her seat. “Gannon! How could you—?”

His grip is strong on her hand, and he gestures for her to sit with a quick jerk of his chin. His eyes close tight. “Please, Nadezh.”

She quiets.

It takes him a long time to start speaking again. He remains quiet until he’s able to look her in the eyes again. “You…that day. The day you saved my and my team’s life.”

The day she thought her fairytale had come to an end. Even now, the memory of his blank eyes as she revealed the red and gold costume of the Firebreather, one of the world’s most notorious and deadly supervillains, follows her. The cold wind whipping across the ship’s deck, the pillars of ice gleaming in the sun, his team haltingly asking her if she was going to take over the boat…and his eyes. The pain that ripped through her when she realized she would lose him was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. It had made her realize that she’d been a shell for years until she met him, that she’d been nothing until he showed her a world where she could be someone. In that moment, she’d known that she’d wasted his time on a dead end. That their dream to get married would never be the same if it happened at all and she had robbed him in her greed.

But he remembers it as the day she saved his life rather than dooming his future.

“I became a hero to save people,” Gannon says. His lips thin. “How did I put it? That day at the diner? To share the relief of having the day saved.” His face twists in a way she can’t understand. “You must have thought I was so naïve.”

“No,” she says simply.

He raises their hands so he can kiss the back of hers. “Thank you. I think I was naïve. Being a hero seemed simple, looking at the world that way, like everyone wanted to be saved and, in turn, wanted to one day go on to save someone else. Every moment of salvation would get repaid. Good things would always happen to good people.”

Well, when he put it like that.

Gannon continues, “But when I saw you standing there, dressed as the Firebreather, being saved was…different. It was all different.” He swallows hard. “For the first time, I realized saving the day wasn’t so simple. You had to reveal your identity to do it. You had to put your freedom and everything you worked for on the sidelines. Even us. You were ready to do it even if it meant we never got the chance to be married. I could tell that you weren’t going to let that stop you. You were going to save the day.  Instead of being relieved, I felt afraid.”

A small noise of protest builds in Nadezh’s throat. “Afraid of me?”

“No!” Gannon’s eyes widen and he leans over the table. “No, never. Never, Nadezh. Even when that last fireball singed the toes of my boots, I didn’t flinch for a moment. I knew you would never hurt me.”

Nadezh’s laugh is watery. “So that’s why you threw out those boots.”

“Regulation is closed toe,” Gannon says gravely. He plays with her fingers. “I was afraid because I realized there was a cost that I wasn’t willing to pay, but you were.”

“I couldn’t let you die,” Nadezh says.

“I know.” Gannon clears his throat and adjusts his grip on her hand so that he can feel her pulse against his thumb. “I know. I’m not saying that’s wrong.  Just…it was hard, wasn’t it?” His brown eyes search hers. “You knew before you even left the apartment to find me that you were going to lose everything.”

“But I didn’t,” Nadezh points out.

“But that’s what you thought.”

She can’t deny that.

“Saving the day is easy when it’s just a job,” Gannon says. “That day, I realized that I’d never really been a hero. It was a job, an important one, but not one that was going to take anything I wasn’t willing to give. That same job was the reason I let myself just stand there as Hero Force took you into custody. Like a coward. I hate myself for that moment.” His voice is raw with the admission. His free hand curls into a fist. “I should have run with you then.”

Nadezh barks a disbelieving laugh. It’s inappropriate, but the idea of Hero Zone, the most honorable hero in Chicago, running away with a supervillain is ridiculous. She hides her incredulity. “That’s—”

“I’m serious, Nadezh.” Gannon’s eyes burn through her, gaze unflinching. Her pulse jumps under his thumb. “I still think that. We could run now. Settle down somewhere and be civilians. Never show up on Hero Force radar again. Like Bonnie and Clyde hiding out from the law.”

“That’s not funny.” Try as she might, Nadezh can’t find any trace of humor on Gannon’s face. Her eyes dart around the room. When she can’t find any cameras, she leans forward and hisses, “Don’t even joke about that. You love being a hero.”

“I love being with you,” Gannon says. This time when he smiles the mole under his eye disappears with the force of it. “I told you, all I want is to marry you. No job will ever be worth more than that. So…” His smile wavers for a moment before he fixes it in place. “What do you say? Will you run away with me?”

Fuck. Her mind leaps ahead. They could get a place in the mountains. She knows how much Gannon misses his hometown on the East Coast. His family has long since disappeared from those ridges and valleys, but she can see him there, facing the sun with his arms held over his head in triumph. A field sprawled out below him blooms with green and a house sits just beyond that with a gently smoking chimney. Could she belong there too? With him?

Gannon mistakes her silence. “You wouldn’t have to wear the power suppressors ever again or worry about Briston yelling or what Hero Force will make you do. It could be just you and me like we always imagined. Together.”

Is he pleading with her? Begging her to say yes?

There will always be a part of her that wants to. The greedy and selfish part that wants to keep him all to herself, like the doll in her childhood that unraveled at the seams after only a month. The part of her that could hide him away is familiar. Too familiar.

“No.”

Gannon’s face falls. “No?”

“Not because I don’t want us,” she assures. Somehow, she feels lighter. Is this what’s been sitting silently between them this whole time? She could laugh. “I do. But I think you’re misunderstanding something. You’re not the reason why I’m cooperating with Hero Force.” She thinks over her words and then rephrases. “You’re not the only reason.”

“I’m not?” Gannon backtracks. “I mean, it’s not a problem if I’m not, but I thought…well. I thought given what you said in the interrogation room…”

“You will always be the love of my life,” Nadezh says. She finds the words as she says them. She’s had a lot of time to think about this – Gannon is not the first one to think what it’d be like to run away. “That will never change. It’s just…” Private room, she reminds herself. No one will be able to hear. She confesses, “I want to change. I don’t want to be the Firebreather anymore.”

“You’re not!”

Keep him, no one can stop you, power suppressors barely work once we really get up to temperature—Nadezh stops those thoughts firmly in their tracks. “There are parts of me that still are. I was afraid when I revealed who I was, but since then look how far I’ve come. You know all of me and you’re still here.” She lets her wonder and hope leak into her voice. Some mornings she wakes up to him by her side and can’t fathom how the universe let someone with hands as stained as hers have something so good. “I have a job. I have a way to give back for all the harm I caused. I…I think confronting my past has given me a chance to grow like I haven’t done before. A year ago, I couldn’t even accept the proposal from the man I love more than life itself. Now? I know that I can walk into work every day and have those power suppressors put on me by Hero Force -not you - and I can hold my head high.”

“Not me? Nadezh, I’m your containment,” Gannon says. His expression is tortured in the candlelight. “You say it’s Hero Force, but it’s me. I’m the one holding you back. Foresight said that Firebreather was sufficiently contained by my side, he awarded me custody—”

“Are you feeling guilty over that?” Nadezh’s mouth drops open. “Gannon, seriously?”

“I feel like I’m choosing to be your captor over being your fiancé,” Gannon says.

“Just like how you knew I would never hurt you, I know you would never hurt me. I wouldn’t even have to use my powers. I know the second I didn’t want to put those cuffs on, you wouldn’t.”

“I’m still—”

“No.” Nadezh won’t allow any room for confusion here. “Gannon. Stop. I am the one choosing to do this. That day I gave you a choice, remember? I said that you could walk away and I would be—” fine is a strong word “—I would understand. I was going to keep the memory of us agreeing to get married and let you walk away.”

There’s gravel in Gannon’s voice. He reaches across the table to capture her other hand. “I would never change my mind.”

“I believe you.” He was patient with her, waiting for her to believe it. She holds his hands back. “I believe you. So here’s what I’m asking. You gave me a choice just now. Stay or run away. Please believe me when I say I want to stay.”

“Even if it means I have to be your captor?” he asks, anguished.

She nearly snaps at the question. Isn’t he listening to what she’s saying? His tone stills her. She studies him. His eyes are teary, and she can feel his hands tremble in hers. “This really bothers you.”

He nods wordlessly.

She tries to put herself in his shoes. She imagines that he’s working as a henchman who used to be a hero. She imagines putting cuffs on him before work every day, knowing that he’d be helpless if the Villain ever decided to turn on him—She winces. “Maybe we can ask Omit to put on the cuffs instead?”

“I…we could try that,” Gannon says after a long moment. He breathes in through his nose. Out through his mouth. In through his nose. Then, “I really ruined this celebration dinner, huh?”

She snorts. Both of their eyes are red and swollen despite neither of them crying. “This is about how most of my celebration dinners have gone. Better, actually. Nobody is screaming and nothing’s on fire.”

“Yet,” Gannon says.

“See? There’s still hope.” They’ve been talking for so long that her wine is warm. She grimaces as she swallows. “Hey, captor? I think it’s time you took me to a secondary location.”

“That’s not funny.” Despite his words, Gannon’s lips twitch as he stands and pushes in his chair. “I’m really upset about that.”

Nadezh follows him to the door. She caresses his shoulder, ostensibly checking him for dust, but really needing the contact. “Should I comfort you?”

Gannon drops back to put his arm around her shoulders. “Hmmm, keep talking.”

“I think I have Stockholm syndrome—”

“I change my mind. No more talking.”

Nadezh laughs. “Riiiight.”

It’s not perfect. Nadezh knows that the conversation isn’t over. There’s a guardedness in Gannon she’s never seen before when talking about Hero Force. He doesn’t believe her, not yet. But that’s okay.

She’ll be around to convince him.

(Except for 9am-5pm Monday through Friday. She somehow doesn’t think Briston would take kindly to a hero responsible for flooding the docks every other week hanging around the office.)

----

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[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTALKERㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Dick Grayson x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How it's like having him as your stalker?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You never noticed him at first.

Which was strange, really. Because Dick was a presence—magnetic, charming, always the kind of guy who could steal attention in any room, even when he wasn’t trying.

But with you? He liked to stay hidden. Lurking in the shadows. Watching.

At first, it was innocent (or so he told himself). He noticed you at a coffee shop one day, lost in a book, chewing on the end of your pen as you scribbled something in a notebook. He found himself drawn to the little things—the way you furrowed your brows when concentrating, the way you smiled at something on your phone, the soft way you carried yourself. It was just curiosity at first. That’s all.

Then he saw you again. And again. And suddenly, he was seeing you everywhere.

It became a habit, a compulsion. He memorized your routine like it was a mission. When you got coffee. What time you left work. What stores you liked to browse in. He told himself he was just making sure you were safe—because Gotham was dangerous, right? A girl like you, alone? Vulnerable? It only made sense that he’d keep an eye on you.

Then he got closer.

It started small. Brushing past you on the subway, close enough to inhale the scent of your shampoo. Sitting near you in a cafe, pretending to be busy on his phone while he listened to the way you spoke. Learning your favorite drink, so he could leave it waiting for you at the counter when you arrived—anonymously, of course. You’d glance around, confused, but never knew it was him.

You weren’t even aware that he was already in your apartment.

Not when you were there, of course—he’d never scare you like that. But while you were out? He’d slip inside with an ease that almost disappointed him (you really needed better locks). He never took anything—he just… looked. Examined the little pieces of your life. The books stacked beside your bed. The jewelry you left on the dresser. The clothes draped over the chair, still carrying the ghost of your body’s warmth.

He touched them sometimes. Ran his fingers over the fabric. Just to feel close to you.

The obsession grew.

He started taking things—small things, things you wouldn’t notice were gone. A hair tie. A receipt you left on the counter. A half-used tube of lip balm. They were trophies, proof that he was part of your world even if you didn’t know it yet.

And the pictures. Oh, the pictures.

They covered his walls. You smiling. You asleep on the bus, head tucked against the window. You looking at a menu, deep in thought. Hundreds of them, from every angle, every moment of your life he could capture without you noticing.

And the best part?

You liked him.

You had no idea, of course, but Dick could see it. The way you glanced at him when he finally started talking to you, when he finally made himself known in your life. It was easy—he was charming, he was sweet, he was everything you’d want in a guy.

So he inserted himself into your life, seamlessly.

“Oh, hey, fancy seeing you here!” A bright smile. A friendly laugh. “What a coincidence, huh?”

It wasn’t a coincidence.

It was orchestrated, down to the second. Every “random” encounter, every meeting—it was all planned, deliberate. But you didn’t question it. Why would you? He was Dick Grayson. A gentleman. A hero.

You never realized the full weight of his devotion.

Never realized how deep it ran.

Never realized how much worse it could get.

Because the thought of losing you? The thought of someone else having you?

It made him sick.

It made him furious.

It made him violent.

You noticed the change after a while. The possessiveness in his touch, the way his grip lingered on your wrist, the way his blue eyes darkened when you so much as smiled at another man.

“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” he’d say, voice honey-sweet. “You’re too trusting, sweetheart. Not everyone has good intentions.”

Not like him.

So when your ex went missing, you didn’t think much of it.

When that guy at work—the one who flirted with you—got mugged and beaten within an inch of his life, you chalked it up to Gotham’s crime rate.

And when you started feeling like you were being watched, even in the safety of your own home—well.

Dick was always there to reassure you.

“It’s okay, babe,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

And he meant it.

Even if that meant keeping you all to himself.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[yanderedrabbles]

Foreign Yandere x Air Hostess Reader

He's beyond shady. Got connections and friends in all the lowest places. But you're just a little too slow to realise it.

Foreign Yandere who sees you for the first time on his first flight out of the country. He’s a sketchy guy, got a pack of fake passports in a hidden compartment in his bag, but you smile at him like you don’t see the tattoos, the scarred knuckles, the too quick hands.

Oh, you’re pretty. All the cabin crew are, but you’re something new. Exotic almost. Got him wondering exactly how different you are in bed too, got him wondering if you’d put up a fuss if he cornered you in the bathroom. Hell, you might like it. Folk always said foreign girls were down for so much more.

It’s a long-haul flight and your supervisor is bitchy about damn near everything you do. Passengers aren’t much better after twelve hours with their legs cramped up and only shitty plane chow to eat. He can see it wearing on you, can see the way your smile gets tighter after every too sharp complaint. Makes him want to beat their faces into a pulp.

His last straw comes at hour sixteen, when you’re clearly exhausted and one passenger just won’t let up. Practically screaming at you about not getting his specially ordered meal. You’re dealing with it as best you can, but everyone has a limit. He can see the tears starting to brim behind your waterline, can see you struggling to fight them back.

He stands so fast that his seat mate actually flinches. Comes to stand behind you and glares at the troublemaker. The man doesn’t let up, just switches his anger to him.

“You got a problem, huh?”

Foreign Yandere who doesn’t have a lot of English, but he knows a threat when he hears one. He leans down, shoots the man a smile filled with all the menace of a streetfighter.

“What did you say to me?” he asks, in his own language. It isn’t the standard dialect. It’s the regional kind, the type that’s as rough ‘round the edges as its speakers.

The man quails.

 “Sorry,” he mutters. But that’s not good enough.

Foreign Yandere who jerks his head at you, his message clear even across the language barrier.

Apologise to her.

The guy does. Red in the face, resentful about it, spitting his sorry through his teeth like an insult.

You look up at him, the foreigner with the hard eyes, and thank him. In his own language.

Your accent is thick, the pronunciation too rounded on the vowels. But he’ll be damned if it ain’t just fucking adorable.

“Anytime,” he tells you.

It’s not long after he’s back in his seat that you bring him a complimentary cup of coffee and a muffin. The good stuff too, not the swill that usually gets served in economy. He grabs your wrist before you can leave, grip just a little too tight without meaning to be.

“Can I see you again?”

Your grasp of the language isn’t the best, and it takes you a minute to puzzle out what he's asked. When you finally get it, you smile at him and shake your head. Rueful.

“Against company policy to meet the passengers after the flight ends.”

He lets it go. Sighs and says he understands, wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. A surprisingly polite answer from a man who looks like he never hears the word no without following it with a punch to the teeth.

But he doesn’t let it go. Not really. After the plane is deboarded, he skips lines and almost skips customs to keep his eye on you. When you get into a shuttle bus with the rest of your coworkers, he takes careful note of the hotel name scrawled on the side.

His business goes well - if you can call smuggling business that is. The boys he’s dealing with have their own plane to get him home. The kind of small jet that never lands at any airport marked on a map. He slips them all a little something extra under the table and asks if he can bring a guest.

“Will they be conscious?”

He grins. “Not if I can help it.”

Getting you is the tricky part. He borrows a suit and cleans himself up. Shows up at the hotel desk in the middle of the night and tells them he’s here to pick you up for an unscheduled early flight. He knows your name, your company, even your damn rank in the crew. Everything he says checks out. And if the receptionist that calls you thinks he looks a little rough to be a driver, she doesn’t mention it.

You show up with your uniform a tiny bit askew and a sock sticking out of your suitcase. You must have scrambled out of bed without even bothering to double check with your supervisor. Good. The less people that know the better.

He mostly keeps his back to you. Doesn’t want you to recognise him too soon. He shouldn’t have worried. You’re too jetlagged and blurry eyed to even recognise your own mother.

It’s only when you’re in his car and speeding down the wrong highway that you start to get suspicious. Start to come awake fully.

“Which company did you say you work for again?”

He doesn’t reply. You’re going to have to put more effort into learning and speaking his language. No point encouraging you by answering.

“Excuse me?”

You lean forward to get his attention and when he hears your little gasp, he knows the game is up. That you recognise him. Honestly, he’s a little offended that it took you this long. He could keep track of you through a sea of faces back at the airport after all.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re here. But please stop the car.”

See? You’re speaking his language a bit better already.

“No chance sweetheart. You’re coming home with me.”

He can almost admire your guts when you go straight for the door, despite the speedometer showing over 200. Locked of course. He’s not an idiot.

When he finally arrives at the hangar, it takes him and two other thugs to finally hold you still.

“Fucking feisty thing,” one of them snarls when you land a good kick to his knee.

When he finally manages to prick the injection into your neck, you’re crying so hard that your mascara is running.

“You put up a good fight baby,” he comforts you as you go limp in his arms. “But I just want this more than you.”

His buddies smirk when they look at your body sprawled out on the seat.

“Nice catch. I’m mad I didn’t see her first.”

“You gonna be nice and share?”

That makes him grin. “We’ll see. If she’s too much to handle, well…”

That makes them snicker.

You shouldn’t assume someone’s a thug just ‘cause of the way they look. But in his case, those scars weren’t earned through gentle accidents.

And when he gets you home, someplace probably tropical, someplace where a missing foreigner isn't that surprising a thing, he'll show you exactly how dangerous it is to smile at a criminal and expect him to just let it go.

[22ayla21]

Disease

You are sick, and your partner is taking care of you. With the participation of: Mydei, Phainon, Anaxa

From the Author: I have been sick for three days now and I would really like some comfort from someone.

• He sits next to you, not leaving a single step, as if guarding your sleep. Even if you say that everything is fine, Mydei remains in the room, quiet and focused, watching your breathing and temperature. If necessary, he will sit silently in a chair all night to help at any moment.

• He brings decoctions and medicines, brewed according to old Amphoraean recipes. They are bitter and smell strange, but he looks so seriously and attentively that it is simply impossible to refuse. Moreover, he always checks that you drink to the last drop, even if he needs to hold the cup himself.

• If you are cold, he takes your hands in his without further ado, warms them with his breath, sitting next to you. His body radiates natural heat, so he can literally warm you, like a living heater.

• If you fall asleep, he will straighten the blanket, remove the hair from her face. He can lightly and almost imperceptibly touch your forehead with his lips, checking the fever. For him, this is not something ostentatious - just a natural desire to be close and protect.

• He will build an almost military regime: medications by the hour, only healthy food, bed rest and a complete lack of physical activity. Any attempts to get up are ignored. He will gently but firmly put you back down, making it clear that he is in charge here.

• Anaxa would first conduct his own "research" of the symptoms, writing down every little detail in a notebook. He would be skeptical of conventional treatment methods, choosing the ideal formula for a balanced tea from the rare herbs of Amphoreus.

• He would strictly ask everyone nearby not to make noise and not to disturb you. And he would only allow himself to speak in a hushed voice, staying near the bed and whispering something like: "Silence helps the body concentrate on regeneration."

• Anaxa would clearly draw up a schedule for your rest, food intake and medication. Any deviation would be accompanied by his serious and condemning look.

• And despite all his scientific approach and bold character, Anaxa awkwardly but sincerely held your hand when he thought you were sleeping and whispered: “Just try to get better... I still need your ridiculous hypotheses.”

• When the fever subsided and you came to your senses, Anaxa would arrange quiet conversations, telling you about what he had read while you were ill. All with the hidden purpose of not getting bored and keeping your thoughts away from the illness. "You don't think I'll let you fall behind in knowledge, do you?" he would say, adjusting her pillow.

• If someone from the Grove of Muses wanted to bother you or impose their "treatment", Anaxa would silently stand in the way, looking lazily but coldly: "She is under my protection. And no, your methods do not stand up to criticism." No one argued.

• For his beloved, Phainon has always been a true protector, and when you got sick, he completely enveloped you in all possible care. He carefully monitors your warmth, straightens the blanket, takes care of the silence around and tries to create an atmosphere of peace, as if with his actions he wants to protect you even from illness.

• While you sleep, Phainon stays close. He spends time reading books, not letting you out of sight, periodically checking your condition. These moments of silence are the most exciting for him - he rarely shows his worries, but when you are sick, he cannot hide his inner anxiety, and silently protects your sleep.

• Phainon tries not only to care, but also to cheer you up. When he sees that you are getting bored or sad, he can unexpectedly add a little humor to his care to distract you. He does all this with a serious look, which is why light jokes sound especially warm and sincere, making you smile.

• The most touching moments happen when you are almost falling asleep. Phainon gently brushes the strands of hair from your face, mentally noting how defenseless you look. It is important for him to know that you will recover, because your presence gives him strength. He rarely allows himself such quiet displays of affection, but it is at these moments that care becomes almost sacred.

• When you are sick, Phainon does everything to create an atmosphere of peace around you. He is not intrusive, but his presence is felt constantly - he remains nearby, even if he cannot find words of comfort. Just his silent attention and willingness to come to the rescue give you a feeling of security.

[apatheticsunday]

Batfam Eldritch Horror

AKA "inspired by that one post about Danny being a flerken and living with the Batfam" idea! Except he looks pants-shitting, "oh dear god, what is that" terrifying.

I just love slightly feral animal-like Danny in a... shape. It's not immediately identifiable as a cat or dog, maybe he has a few too many legs that kind of look like a tail at one point? And when he skitters up walls like a particularly small dog-sized tarantula, it's terrifying enough to make seasoned criminals squeal.

Let's imagine Danny had some sort of accident with a portal and was Wizard-of-Oz'd into Gotham, a literal hellmouth of a city with so many curses that it'd make John Constantine start to sweat. And this city also has... weird Ecto. (In my brain, there's a connection between the Lazarus Pit and ectoplasm, like pit waters are the sewers of ectoplasm or something.) It's enough for Danny to still exist but he can't seem to stay human-shaped. It's better than being a Blob Ghost, but not by much. His fur-scales-feathers-skin-something look dark as the midnight sky.

And who should stumble on this weird-looking Thing aside from Damian, secret animal-whisperer and passionate Pokemon collector? Damian, who known what a scared feral animal looks like and who can coax it into his arms? It doesn't matter that Danny has maybe five or six limbs. He can make himself slightly smaller at will (not in a Magical-Girl-Transformation way, mind you. When he changes shape, there's the distinct snap of bones breaking and wet, fleshy sounds of his organs, muscles, ligaments, tendons, everything shifting).

Damian has literally been trained by the League of Assassins under the Demon Head. He's likely seen more people's insides than an ER surgeon; he's killed more than enough people in incredibly grotesque and violent ways to be totally unphased by Danny changing shapes. Maybe he'll actually be sort of touched, a bit pleased, that his new Thing pet would change itself so violently so Damian could hold it.

What would Damian name it? He's outwardly violent and aggressive towards others, but pretty passionate and heartfelt once he cares for someone. Alfred the Cat comes to mind. So maybe Damian takes one look at this supposedly scary Thing and thinks, "It looks like Father."

As in, Dark as Night? A shadow inspiring fear amongst criminals? Spoken about in whispers, sometimes laughed off as a joke but still cautiously reverent, just in case?

Danny's new name is Batman.

Of course, this causes some confusion when Damian comes home to Wayne Manor and says, "Batman and I will retire to my room." In front of Bruce, who naturally and kind-of-correctly assumes his son picked up another animal while on patrol. Bruce had a hard time explaining this to a very concerned Dick, who was holding up a wooden stake and a bible (Dick totally wasn't going to kill Bruce if he turned out to be a vampire but it's always good to be prepared!), after Damian apparently made a wayward comment that "Batman refuses to eat anything besides raw meat."

And Danny is having a great time!! Sure, Damian treats him like a pet, but he gets affectionate pats on the head, incredibly expensive steak, and a soft place to sleep. He awkwardly dragged several blankets from the living room to Damian's room to make a bed in the kid's closet. (Alfred watched from behind the couch as this six-legged hairy-ish catlike Thing determinedly waddled with three blankets in its mouth, occasionally tripping on its own legs. He went back to dusting the crown moulding silently. So, that's why Master Damian requested uncooked sirloin steak twelve times in last few days. Hm.)

So, the Batfam accept there is another Batman in the family. Except they haven't actually seen Danny (aside from Alfred and Damian).

Until Dick needs to talk to Damian and goes into the boy's room. But it's empty?? He could've sworn he heard somebody talking or something in here, but maybe not? He turns to leave and then hears it again: a soft kind of thump coming from Damian's armoire. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face as his Older Brother Instincts kick in. Jason used to hide in closets and try to scare Dick when he was little; Damian, despite being a child soldier and trained assassin, was still a little kid at heart, right? The kid's clearly hiding from Dick to scare him or something.

(Damian was in the Batcave, studiously typing "Google, what non-Earth animals reside in Gotham, please?" into the Batcomputer. I like to think that Damian uses the internet like a 85-year old man who thinks a Google employee personally replies to each question.)

So, Dick creeps forward and abruptly slams open the armoire doors!! Only to let out an unholy shriek of terror as Danny, who was taking a nap, frantically skitters out of the closet looking like a Frankenstein cat-dog with bat wings. He crawls under Damian's bed as Dick scrambles into the hallway.

The cat-dog-Thing is out of the bag now. Damian looks utterly deadpan as he explains that Batman is his pet and not to concern themselves with it; Bruce, Tim, Jason, and a white-faced Dick disagreed. They need to see it to make sure the Thing won't harm anybody, especially considering it's fucking living with them!! How do they know it won't try to eat them in their sleep??

"Batman does not eat raw human meat, Todd. Why are you concerned now? It has resided with us for two months now."

"Two months?" Dick nearly faints (again).

"Yes, Batman is very well-behaved, Master Dick." Alfred, who's been feeding Danny for the last two months and has seen all the little quirks the Thing has, offers a consoling half-smile.

Ultimately, the Batfam decide to keep Batman in exchange for scary dog privileges. They'll have to think of another name for Danny considering having two Batmans in Gotham would be pretty confusing (especially if one of them decided they did, in fact, like raw human flesh).

[neontiger]

everywhere, everything

♡Jason Todd x reader

♡Fluff. Shopping with Jason Todd. Risqué hand-holding and forehead kisses, oh my!

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The sun and Jason Todd were a rare combination you couldn't get enough of. You were so used to seeing him under dim streetlights or the glare of cheap LEDs that now in the brightness of the afternoon you were struggling to keep your eyes anywhere but him as you walked through the arcade. His hand keeps a protective grip on your hip to hold you close through the crowds. There's a serious expression stuck on his face, as if this is a mission he'd rather be in uniform for and not simply a Sunday shopping trip.

You reach up and pinch his cheek. The seriousness in his eyes doesn't wane, but it's tinged with slight irritation when he narrows them at you. If it wasn't for the corner of his lip twitching you'd actually believe he was upset. "Couple more stores," you say. "Can you handle that?"

Jason makes a face. You reach up again, this time to ruffle the bangs that hang messily over his forehead. He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth to bite the tips of your fingers gently.

You elbow him in the ribs, knocking him off-balance. His hand leaves your waist, and you take the opportunity to storm ahead of him, slipping into the crowd.

He's never far behind, hands fisted into the pockets of his leather jacket. Your steps take on a rhythm. You know he's watching the way your ass sways in your dress. The fabric clings in a way that's better suited for a night out, but Jason likes it on you too much for it to stay stuffed in your closet.

You glance over your shoulder as you pull open the door to a bookstore. Blue-green eyes meet yours for the briefest moment before a family of five passes loudly between the two of you, and you take advantage of the distraction to slip inside and disappear.

Inside is calm and quiet, shoppers milling about the shelves. Music plays low over the speakers and from the café the scent of warm coffee wafts over towards you, mingling with the familiar smell of paper. You wander among the books, gaze dragging over the spines, mind elsewhere.

His presence is felt before his hand even grabs yours. It's like a weight on your soul, a squeeze on your heart that causes a skipped beat, a flutter in your stomach. His fingers lace through yours and tug you back to him.

"Don't run away from me." Jason pinches your chin. You scrunch your nose and narrow your eyes, a cat caught in its owner's arms, but you don't pull away. Arms wrap and capture you in a tight embrace, and he kisses your forehead, the smack of his lips against your skin loud enough to be embarrassing.

He smells like...musk, citrus... and nightfall, which to you is a mixture of cold city air and gunpowder. More a feeling than a true scent, but it's wholly him. Your hands find their way under his jacket, under the plain black shirt, to brush against the skin of his back. Fingertips trace muscle and scars, paint small circles as he keeps you close.

You break the embrace. Jason couldn't; the air is heavy with words unsaid, kept behind teeth tightly clenched. You take his hand and lead him. This time, his eyes are glued somewhere more appropriate...on that tangle of fingers, yours through his. How much smaller your hand is. All the thoughts in his head swirl into one: keeping you safe.

"Are we looking for something?" His eyes dart up to your face, catching the concentration in your expression as you're now reading the book spines. He glances at them, but nothing stands out.

You shrug. "Anything interesting."

Now he's concentrating, looking for the answer in the hardcovers. Something you'd like. It has to be him that finds it. The desire to be useful burns in his fingers and toes, twists his heart tight.

If he's not useful, then what is he to you?

You stop, a particular title catching your eye. Jason frowns when you pull the book from the shelf, but remains quiet, reading the blurb on the inside of the jacket from over your shoulder. A romance, set in the future. The promise of rain and heartbreak.

"Really?" Jason cocks an eyebrow.

"Why not? Sounds good." You close the book and hug it to your chest in one arm, the way they taught you in elementary school. "Maybe you can read it with me."

He nods but won't admit out loud how much he wants to. You take his hand to lead him once more, this time towards the back of the store, away from the crowds at the café and registers.

Quiet, except for the low hum of the music. You step away from him but don't let go of his hand, and he uses that to tug you back. His free hand grabs your waist as his body crowds you against the shelf of books pertaining to European history.

Jason dips his head down. This time his lips meet yours, for a kiss that starts short and sweet but inevitably evolves into one that has you clutching your book in one hand and his bicep in the other. His tongue smooths over yours. Hearts beat a weighted pattern, both anxious and overstimulated, with purpose and need.

"Jay," you whisper, on a rare breath. He pauses, eyes sat on your mouth as it shapes around the nickname.

He wants to go home. He won't say it because he doesn't think it's what you want, and he'll follow you wherever you like until you're tired. His wants are coated in selfishness anyway, instead of proper reasons.

Your head rolls back against the shelf. Despite what Jason thinks, it's not hard to tell what's on his mind. "Maybe we should go home. I'm getting kind of tired."

He nods. "Me too."

You're a weakness. He knows it's not right, not safe, to have you like this. You're his heart, and one stray bullet, one misstep, and this world - you, his entire world - comes crashing down around him.

He furrows his brow. You catch it, the almost imperceptible movement, but before you can speak, his lips are closing on yours in another kiss.

[angelfic]

yandere!DAMIAN WAYNE x reader

warnings — yandere themes, jealousy, mentions of violence and murder. unedited! a/n; idek what to say. i felt crazy things writing this

Damian Wayne doesn’t consider himself a jealous person.

Protective? Yes. Possessive…? Fine. But not jealous. He considers jealousy as something only lesser men succumb to — men who allow emotions to cloud their judgement and who lack control. Damian has spent his entire life mastering control and discipline over his mind and body, so no. He doesn’t get jealous.

And yet, here he is, mentally cataloguing every single flaw of the guy working at the concession stand at the movie theatre who was clearly trying to flirt with you. While you were very clearly here with Damian. He’s holding your handbag with the sparkly charms on it, for crying out loud. And he paid for everything (naturally) in front of the guy, so why did this idiot think he had a chance with you?

It wasn’t right. It was bordering offensive. Practically a crime, punishable by….

Well. Damian could get creative.

He doesn’t like what he’s feeling. It’s sharp and hot, like a knife being slowly dragged along the inside of his ribs every time you laugh like this guy is the next great comedic mind of your generation.

And where the hell are the rest of the customers, he’s thinking with a scowl on his face. There’s no line behind the two of you right now, probably why the theatre worker is taking such liberties. Damian makes a mental note to research peak movie theatre times to avoid this in the future.

The movie is what he’s discussing with you — a franchise that you’re a fan of and that Damian has no interest seeing, but he rarely says no to you. He’s such a good friend, a fact you constantly remind him of.

When the guy hands you the popcorn, his fingers brush against yours for a split second.

Damian’s eye twitches.

You don’t react or seem to notice the action, but Damian finds it hard not to stare at his hand, resting on the counter, now inches away from yours. It would take minimal effort to break a few fingers, he thinks. Just as little physical exertion to snap his wrist. Damian could even make it look like an accident — some unfortunate mishap with the popcorn machine.

He takes a deep breath to quell the molten, irrational feeling burning under his skin. He has rules and moral codes to live by, but they're being threatened by something animalistic clawing at the edges of his carefully maintained composure.

“Hey, you okay?”

Your voice pulls him out of his little spiral. He internally reprimands himself for not being less obvious when he notes that you’re looking at him, head tilted, concern evident in your eyes.

He schools his face into a perfectly neutral expression. “Fine. Should we go?”

Understanding dawns on your face and you give him a sheepish smile, mistaking the glassy, faraway look in his eyes for boredom. Better that, he thinks, than you suspecting the mental blueprint he had been drafting on how to stage a minor but effective felony on this moron.

Speaking of, you turn and thank the worker for your drinks and snacks before gesturing for Damian to leave for the movie. You don’t give him a second glance (despite the disappointed look in his eyes) and Damian finds himself relaxing slightly. Fine. It’s fine, just a friendly conversation.

What was he so worked up about again?

“We need to work on your resting face, because I’m pretty sure that guy thought you wanted to kill him,” you say, laughing happily at the thought.

Somewhere beneath the fluttering in his stomach at the way you’re gleefully talking about murder (even if you’re only kidding), he registers a hint of panic. Maybe he was being obvious.

No matter. He’ll be more careful in the future.

Or maybe he won’t. He considers the way you loop your arm through his as you walk and wonders if you sometimes do this on purpose, allowing people to flirt and talk so openly with you.

Were you doing this on purpose? He can’t tell if you’re the most blissfully oblivious or sadistic person he’s ever met.

“He was undeserving of your attention.” The words slip out before Damian realises what he’s saying and when you glance over at him, brows raised, his pulse starts racing, considering his next moves.

He could deflect. He could lie. He could manipulate, he’s definitely good enough at it.

And then you laugh.

“You’re so protective, Damian,” you giggle, nudging his shoulder. “It’s cute. And relax, you’re the only one currently holding the position as my best friend.”

He smiles blandly.

You don’t notice how he clenches his jaw, his breathing coming out a little shallower at the mention of such an offensive word. Friend. You don’t know just how wrong you are about that, but he allows you to continue thinking it for now.

Completely unaware, you sip your drink before offering him the straw and his brain stutters. You’re not even looking at him, too busy balancing the popcorn in your hand, but Damian is staring hard at the mark of your lip gloss painting the straw.

Indirect kiss.

The words slam into his skull like a battering ram. No, it’s fine. He can be normal about this.

Damian swallows. Forces himself to actually move and slowly, deliberately, he reaches for your cup.

His fingers brush yours and a spark shoots through his veins and he berates himself. He can’t freak you out, what if you’re never this casual about these things again? He adores that quality about you.

He lifts the drink, bringing the straw to his lips and finally taking a sip, looking at you as he does it.

The drink is… fine. He barely even tastes it, choosing to look at you as his lips are wrapped around the straw that you were just drinking out of and—

Calm down, he wills his beating heart to not go into cardiac arrest when you finally glance over, your eyes settling on his as he looks up through his lashes before darting to his mouth.

Damian feels his breath leave him immediately.

Your gaze lingers, fingers tightening around the popcorn bag for a moment. It’s barely any time at all, but Damian is observant — more so when it comes to you, of course.

So the way your breath hitches slightly and how you’re refusing to meet his gaze causes his earlier irritation to melt into something completely different.

Interesting. The realisation settles in his chest, slow and warm.

After a long, agonising pause, he pulls the drink away, licking a stray drop of soda from his lip.

Your eyes follow the motion.

Ohhh, this is fun.

He’s practically giddy when he speaks next. “Ready to go in?”

“Hm,” you say, blinking out of your distracted state and taking the drink back to sip at it again.

Damian follows you into the theatre, fingers twitching at his sides. Heat crawls up his spine, spreading to his ears, his neck — everywhere, all at once.

He was barely going to be able to concentrate on the movie before, but it would be an impossible feat with you next to him now.

He simply has too much to think about.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

Your work is amazing, I love the way you interpret Simon’s personality and speech patterns in the prosthetic arm Simon fic.❤️

hello, anon! thank you so much for the kind words. i just wanted to take this opportunity to post this deleted part of prosthetic arm simon.

sfw. angst (?). highschool dropout simon. shame.

the prosthetic is finished.

it fits like a second skin. moves smooth, seamless, with no lag between thought and motion. it’s perfect. better than anything he could’ve gotten himself. better than the overpriced models he looked at years ago, wondering if he could stomach the debt just to feel normal again.

and for a moment, as he flexes his fingers, as he watches the metal articulate like flesh, he feels… proud. proud of you, of your work, of the precision in every detail. he turns his hand over, watching the way the joints move, the faint hum of technology so advanced he still doesn’t fully understand it.

but then— the thought creeps in, unbidden, unwelcome.

his throat tightens.

does this mean he doesn’t have an excuse to see you anymore?

his fingers still, mid-motion.

the past few months have been good. better than he expected. seeing you, talking to you, getting to know you beyond the surface-level interactions he usually keeps with people.

but now?

now there’s no more check-ups. no more adjustments. no more need for him to stop by so you can make small tweaks, run diagnostics, ensure everything’s running smoothly.

simon swallows, something cold curling in his chest. he tells himself he’s being ridiculous. that if he really wanted to see you, he could just— just call, just text, just ask.

but that’s not how he works.

he’s spent so long just coasting with people. staying at arm’s length, keeping interactions simple, necessary, easy to walk away from.

but you? you’re not easy to walk away from.

“you did good,” he says, and he means it. he just hopes you can’t hear everything else under it.

you don’t seem to notice his unease, too excited as you bounce on your heels, practically beaming.

“oh- i have news!”

he blinks. tries to steady himself. “yeah?"

“my thesis got picked to be presented at congress!”

it takes him a second. longer than it should. he hears the words, knows what they mean, but they feel far away, like his mind is still caught in the spiral from before.

but then he sees the way you’re looking at him, the pure joy on your face, and something inside him lurches

“shit,” he breathes. “that’s- that’s incredible.”

and it is. you deserve this. you deserve more than this.

he shows up to the congress.

he doesn’t tell you he’s coming. he doesn’t even decide until the last minute, standing in front of his closet, staring at the one half-decent button-up he owns.

but then he’s there, standing outside the venue, and he brings flowers.

he’s never done that before. never even bought flowers before, really. but he stands outside the venue, fingers tight around the cheap bouquet, feeling ridiculous and out of place.

he feels out of place.

too big, too rough, too obviously not part of the sleek, academic crowd milling around in suits and dresses. he tugs at his sleeves, shifting his weight, half-ready to just leave the flowers somewhere and go before—

then he sees you. scanning the crowd, eyes searching.

and when you spot him— you light up.

like he’s supposed to be here. like he’s not just some guy who stumbled in, unsure if he even belongs in moments like these.

you rush over, practically colliding into him, and he barely has time to react before you’re grabbing the flowers, pressing your face into them, laughing breathlessly.

“you came.”

his throat works. he clears it, rubbing the back of his neck.

“’course i did,” he mutters.

you smile.

…

he knew this was a bad idea.

he knew from the moment he walked into the restaurant, stiff in his chair, palm sweating against the napkin in his lap.

knew when you slid into the seat across from him, looking bright and effortless and so at ease, still glowing from your big presentation, still beaming about the congress.

knew when he looked down at the menu and realized he didn’t recognize half the words on it.

simon’s spent years in places like this— quiet, dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of good food and low conversation. but he’s always been alone. always sat in a corner with his back to the wall, a meal in front of him and no one expecting him to talk.

but now— now there’s you.

and you’re talking, telling him about the congress, about the people you met, the questions they asked. you sound so fucking excited, like the whole world is opening up in front of you, and simon—

simon just nods.

he doesn’t know what to say. doesn’t know how to keep up.

he’s never been smart like you. never been the type to sit in lecture halls, to write papers, to stand in front of a room full of academics and present something that matters.

he barely finished school. left home at sixteen, signed his life away at eighteen, spent more years holding a gun than a pen.

simon’s just good at breaking it.

he doesn’t belong in places like this. doesn’t belong next to you. you who's all bright ideas and ambition, the kind of person who builds things, who makes the world better.

he shifts in his seat, hyper-aware of how he looks— broad shoulders hunched awkwardly, big hands clumsy against the silverware, a goddamn mutt at a dinner table.

he wonders if you notice. if you see it. if you realize you could do better.

your food arrives. you thank the waiter, pick up your fork—

and before you can even take a bite, it slips out.

“i-”

you pause, fork halfway to your mouth.

simon grips his napkin under the table, flexes his fingers, heart thudding heavy in his ribs.

he shouldn’t ask. should just let this be a nice dinner, let you go home, let you move on.

but—

“would you…” he swallows, throat dry, stomach tight.

he shouldn’t ask.

“would you want to go on a date with me?”

the words hit the table like lead.

silence.

he doesn’t breathe. doesn’t move. because fuck, he actually said it.

and now there’s nothing but the space between you, the quiet hum of conversation, the faint clink of cutlery against plates—

and you. staring at him.

he braces for rejection. tells himself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s—

“yeah,” you say, voice light with something he can’t name. “i would.”

his stomach drops.

relief. disbelief. something dangerously close to hope.

he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. nods, just once, like he’s acknowledging an order. like his hands aren’t trembling under the table.

“okay,” he mutters.

then, quieter—

“good.”

[ryuucam]

HANDS OFF !

˓𓄹 ࣪˖ what’s their favorite part of your body? multi-fandom scenario

contains nsfw (duh), oral (both receiving and giving), handjobs, boobjobs/paizuri, marking (a disgusting amount tbf), lots of spit, nipple play, breeding, bondage (m! receiving YES!!!) sub!character but idk if anyone minds actually, ass slapping + ass play, last part is shorter bc i had no more ideas ..

notes writers block is so real u guys .. also i just spent 20€ on hsr somebody sedate me!!!! please!!!! (gallagher and sunday are almost in all of those i need a lobotomy)

he likes your HANDS, likes the way they’re smaller and softer than his. loves when you run them through his hair, even when you pinch his cheeks (even if they end up red and swollen after).

he’s the type of person that loves holding your hand during sex. it doesn’t matter if he’s being rough, or if it’s just gentle lovemaking, you best believe your hand is getting held tightly by his. it’s comforting, grounding, it shows you that he’s here, no matter what, and you can trust him to take care of you. when his hands are busy doing other things (such as keeping your legs open or restraining you from squirming so much), he likes having your hands holding onto his shoulders, or cupping his face, anything’s fine as long as you keep touching him.

handjobs are his guilty pleasure. sure, they may be nothing over the top, but he thinks there’s nothing as arousing as having your small hand (or hands) wrapped around his cock, doing your best to bob them up and down, even if the amount of precum he’s leaking makes everything so sticky and wet. he just sits back, enamored with the little huffs and puffs you let out every once in a while, struggling to grab his whole cock. but that’s what makes you so charming to him, how cute you look when you’re so intent on nursing on his dick, how you whine at him to just help you out. he’s not a mean man, but just this once he’ll just sit in silence watching you.

kaeya, ayato, alhaitham, kaveh, neuvillette, lyney, childe, kinich (genshin impact) welt, sampo, luocha, jiaoqiu, aventurine, gallagher, phainon, anaxa (honkai star rail) chigiri, kunigami, nagi, itoshi sae, kaiser (blue lock) byakuya, nagito, kokichi, rantaro (danganronpa) mikey (lazy ass), chifuyu, ran (lazy ass n2), nahoya “angry”, kokonoi (tokyo revengers) dazai, ranpo, fukuzawa, tachihara, odasaku, jouno, nikolai (bungou stray dogs) deku, aizawa, sero, mirio, dabi (my hero academia) hinata, oikawa, iwaizumi, matsukawa, semi, kenma, yaku, akaashi, suna (haikyuu) whitney, syndey, wren, brian (degrees of lewdity) gojo, shiu, nanami, sukuna (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your THIGHS, and likes napping on them even more. regardless of how much he likes to laze around, the soft skin always lulls him into a deep sleep. and when he’s not sleeping, he’s tracing countless patterns on them as he talks about his day - or listens to yours. he bites you sometimes, then licks and kisses the skin better. call him a freak, but he’d die for your thighs, no questions asked.

have you guys ever seen those memes that are like “i’d be happy to die crushed by my gf’s thighs”? that’s him. point blank. he spends hours and hours between your legs, overstimulating you to the point of tears, and the more you cry and try to close your legs the more he enjoys it and keeps going. he starts by kissing your legs, inching closer and closer to your core, leaving numerous hickeys and bite marks all over your inner thighs. when he starts sucking and licking your clit, his hands squeeze the fat of your thighs, further bruising the flesh. you can’t even get mad at him, really, because the massages and creams and who-knows-what he gives you during aftercare makes up for it.

when you’re not feeling like having full on sex, you both agreed on letting him fuck your thighs. it’s a win-win, really, since he gets off and you can lay down and rest (as much as you can while having your boyfriend rutting in your legs from the back, to be fair). the slick coats your skin, making it easy for his cock to slide in and out of your thighs. his tip peeks out from the front, red and throbbing while he overstimulates himself. he groans in your ears, about how “you feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart, you’re such a doll for letting me fuck you like this”. well, you can’t really resist him when he’s like this, so when his cock doesn’t go down after the nth orgasm he’s had, you just tell him to fuck you properly. he can’t wait.

diluc, albedo, xiao, gaming, zhongli, kazuha, thoma, wanderer, pantalone, childe (genshin impact) caelus, dan heng, dr ratio, moze (honkai star rail) isagi, bachira, rin, sendou (blue lock) makoto, kiyotaka, gundham, hajime, shuichi (danganronpa) mikey, kazutora, inui, mitsuya, souya “angry” (tokyo revengers) atsushi, tanizaki, chuuya, tecchou, sigma, mark twain, poe (bungou stray dogs) kaminari, tokoyami, shinsou, monoma, tamaki, hawks (my hero academia) kageyama, yamaguchi, hanamaki, sugawara, goshiki, fukunaga, bokuto, atsumu (haikyuu) kylar, robin, doren, mason, alex (degrees of lewdity) choso, ino, gojo, geto (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your BOOBS. a worrying amount, actually. he feels like a teenage boy all over again, but he can’t help the way his eyes always drop down to your cleavage (regardless of the shirt you’re wearing, or lack of thereof). his hands are always grabbing your chest, squeezing the fat like they’re stress balls, and he won’t stop unless you whine enough or he’s satisfied (very unlikely). he could spend his whole life tugging and circling on your nipples, sucking on them, biting your tits, anything, really. and obviously your boobs end up swollen, bruised and overstimulated, but can you really be mad at him, though, when he looks at you like a kicked puppy?

a while ago, one of his friends showed him a video of this dude fucking his girlfriend’s tits, and the thought hasn’t left his head ever since. not to say he doesn’t like your pussy, or mouth, but there’s just something so lewd, so messed up about sliding his cock in and out of your boobs. he’s lucky to be dating a cutie like you, honestly, since you let him do just that. he’s a freak, he knows it, but your tits are just so soft, so warm and tight and wet that his dick slides against them so well. sometimes you’re sweet enough to take his tip into your mouth, licking and suckling on it, spreading precum all over your lips. he’s a meanie, though, cumming all over your tits and face. other times, he just rubs his cock all over your chest, pace quickening against your nipples. and no matter how many times he cums, his dick always gets hard again when he sees your doe eyes and pretty tits. be patient with him, yeah?

having you ride him is definitely one of his favorite positions, since it’s a win-win for both of you: you’re taking all of his cock (or at least, you try to), and he has your tits bouncing right in his face. yeah, having you twitch and squirt all over is length is nice (well, more than just nice, but you get my point), but he’s so mesmerized by your boobs. as stated above, he’s no better than a teenage boy, and just a handful of tits is enough to get him going and cumming deep inside you. sometimes he grabs your chest, sucks on your nipples hard enough to bruise them, but when you get sick of all the marks and spit, your best bet is to just tie his hands up. all he can do is whine, “c’mon baby, don’t be so mean. just wanna touch you” and “you’re bein’ so mean to me, i’ll be good, yeah?”, but you know him well enough to know they’re all lies. well, all the more reason to take control for once, no? he does deserve a little punishment every once in a while.

venti, kazuha, ayato, ororon, wriothesley, capitano, dainsleif (genshin impact) caelus, luka, gepard, jing yuan, boothill, moze, blade, gallagher, sunday, mydei, phainon (honkai star rail) isagi, aiku, reo, ness, nagi, rin itoshi, sendou (blue lock) mondo, nagito, kazuichi, korekiyo, kokichi (danganronpa) baji, kazutora, ran, shinichiro, izana, inui, hakkai, draken (tokyo revengers) dazai, ranpo, akutagawa, chuuya, fyodor, nikolai, jouno (bungou stray dogs) deku, shoji, bakugo, todoroki, sero, tamaki, monoma, shigaraki (my hero academia) kuroo, fukunaga, kageyama, tsukishima, osamu, kita, bokuto, sakusa, iwaizumi (haikyuu) kylar, robin, eden, sydney (degrees of lewdity) toji, gojo, higuruma, choso (jujutsu kaisen)

he likes your ASS. it’s a classic: who doesn’t? he likes laying his head on it, likes groping it when you’re wearing short, or skirts, or… never mind, he’s always touching it. whistles when you walk by, slaps it when he passes by you. call him childish but he could care less.

most of the time, he’s fucking you from behind, just so he can see the fat of your ass recoil and bounce when it hits his pelvis. he’s so rough, but he just can’t stop when you’re wrapped so tightly around him, not when the room is filled with the squelching sounds of your cunny. when you whine too much, he just slaps your ass, leaving big, red handprints on it, but he knows you don’t mind it. you won’t mind if he sticks his thumb inside your puckered hole, right? he doesn’t care about that “embarrassing” nonsense you keep on blabbering about, just let him take care of you. you seem to cum harder when he’s playing with your hole, anyways.

kaeya, dottore, tighnari, alhaitham, itto, zhongli, pantalone, childe (genshin impact) sampo, jing yuan, gallagher, mr reca, mydei, boothill, anaxa (honkai star rail) leon, gundham, kaito, k1bo (danganronpa) sae (canon), aiku, kunigami, barou (blue lock) baji, nahoya “angry”, draken, rindou, kakucho, mitsuya (tokyo revengers) kunikida, tachihara, jouno, mark twain (bungou stray dogs) bakugo, kirishima, aizawa, mirio, overhaul (my hero academia) bokuto, ushijima, hinata, yaku (haikyuu) bailey, sirris, mason, wren (degrees of lewdity) geto, shiu, gojo (jujutsu kaisen)

[wvyik]

tease me. d.w. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

dean winchester x fem! reader

summary; after a day of teasing, dean finally gives in, showing you just how much he’s been craving you. passionate and intense, it’s everything you both needed.

warnings; mdni! smut, explicit content, sexual themes, rough sex, adult language, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, intense physical interaction, consent implied, dirty talk, mild degradation if you squint, possessiveness, passionate and heated moments.

notes; guess who’s getting more comfortable writing smut… anyways!! here’s your dose of dean winchester, no filters, no holding back. buckle up, baby, it’s gonna get wild.

words; 971

The second Dean’s lips met yours, it was no longer the teasing, slow burn you were used to. No, this was desperate, urgent— his hands tugging at your clothes as if he couldn’t wait another second. And honestly, you weren’t much better.

“You wanted this,” he growled against your mouth, pulling your shirt over your head in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him. He didn’t even pause to admire you, just yanked your shorts down, rough and impatient, before lifting you off the ground with a strength that made your head spin.

“Dean—”

“Shut up, sweetheart.” He kissed you again, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, demanding control, and you gave it to him willingly, pressing your body against his as if you couldn’t get close enough. His hands gripped your hips hard, pinning you against the door of the Impala as he ground his hips into you.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he rasped, his teeth biting down on your neck, making you moan. His hands slid between your legs, fingers slipping into the wet heat of your pussy without hesitation, making you gasp.

“So fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, his breath hot against your skin as he slid a finger inside you. “Did you want this all day, huh? Touching me, teasing me? Now you’re gonna get what you asked for.”

You moaned as his finger worked inside you, his thumb brushing against your clit with every stroke. But it wasn’t enough. It never was with him.

“Please,” you begged, your hands scrambling to push his jeans down. “Dean, I need more.”

He smirked, the bastard, and pulled his fingers out, leaving you whimpering in frustration. “You’ve gotta earn it, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. He shoved you against the window again, his hand tight around your throat as he kissed you hard, his free hand finally unzipping his jeans. “I’m not gonna just give it to you. Not until you beg for it.”

You swallowed hard, your body aching, needing him like nothing else. The only words that left your lips were a soft, desperate, “Please, Dean, I need you.”

That was all it took. Dean wasted no time, pulling his jeans down just enough before aligning himself with your entrance, his green eyes locking with yours. “You asked for this,” he growled, and in one swift motion, he thrust into you. The sudden fullness made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you adjusted to the stretch.

You barely had time to think before he slammed back into you, his cock pushing deep, filling you in one smooth motion. The stretch was dizzying, your body not quite ready for him, but Dean didn’t care. He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Dean groaned, his fingers digging into your skin as he lifted your hips, forcing you to take him even deeper. “I knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Been thinking about this all damn day.”

Your nails dug into his back as you gasped for air, your body jolting with each thrust. The pressure was already building in your core, every nerve on fire as he fucked you harder, faster. You could feel him everywhere— inside you, beside you, taking control in a way that made your head spin.

“Dean…” you whimpered, your voice barely a breath as he hit a spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more. “I can’t… I—”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, his hands tightening around your waist, pulling you closer as he pistoned in and out of you with animalistic force. He was relentless, pushing you to the edge with every deep thrust. “You’re gonna cum for me, baby. You’re gonna scream my name.”

The tension in your body was building, unbearable. Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, your muscles trembling as Dean fucked you harder, faster, his rhythm steady but unforgiving. The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the car, mixing with the desperate moans spilling from your lips.

He pulled out briefly, just enough to flip you around and slam back into you from behind. You cried out at the sudden change, your face pressing into the seat of the Impala as Dean’s hand fisted your hair, pulling you back to meet him with each punishing thrust.

“You like that, huh?” Dean growled, his voice rough and unrelenting. “Like being fucked like a dirty little secret?”

“Yes, Dean,” you gasped, your hands gripping the car for support as he fucked you even harder, the sound of his hips against your ass drowning out everything else. “God, yes, please don’t stop...”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers expertly finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you. The pressure in your belly was building, the need to release almost unbearable. “C’mon, baby, you’re close,” Dean grunted, his breath hot against your neck. “Cum for me. I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You couldn’t hold back any longer. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body shaking as you cried out Dean’s name, the release crashing through you in waves. Dean followed right behind, his grip tightening as he filled you, his hot breath on your skin as he groaned your name like a prayer.

You both collapsed against each other, breathless and trembling, the only sound the heavy rhythm of your breathing. Dean’s hand rested on your hip as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” he whispered, his voice still thick with lust. “You got it.”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men React To Thinking You're Moving Out

AN: Thank you for requesting and yes I did just use an unrelated gif of absolutely stunning Aragorn.

Request: Hello, I absolutely loved your last post!! It was so fun to read, lol. I went through your master list right after and I also read the one about you moving in with the lads men (gold.) Which make me think of a scenario... If you take requests now, what do you think the lads men would do if: You just moved in with them. Everything is fine, but unpacking is kinda slow because both of you need to work. One day you are off from work and decide that day is the day everything will be put in place because it's already suffocating to have that many boxes. He is at work from morning till evening and so happy to come back home to *you*. Just that when he entered the apartament he saw a box next to the door with your clothes in and you packing yet another box with your clothes. But shouldn't you be unpacking? Are you packing your things back?? (Mc just got a better look at everything she owns since she needs to unpack everything and decided to donate some stuff. She had no intention of moving out)

Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader

Genre: fluff

Xavier:

He walks in, probably tripping over the box. Somehow, completely oblivious.

"Xavier!" You rush to him, helping him sit up. "Are you alright?! Oh my god, did you hit your face?"

You both are trouble magnets.

"It’s bruising!" You gasp, already hurrying to grab an ice pack while he sits on the couch, face buried in a cushion.

Please, just sit with him and coddle him until he recharges enough to help you unpack.

Rafayel:

"Where are you going?" Instant tantrum mode. Hands on hips, standing like someone’s disapproving dad.

"I told you, moving in was an irreversible deal. We share the lease. You’re not going anywhere."

Picking up your box of clothes, he strides into your shared bedroom, where you’re busy unpacking his boxes, blissfully unaware, your back to him.

He sighs, pauses, and keeps talking to your back. "Alright, I won’t let the seagulls eat all our salmon. And… there won’t be any more running nude painting jokes..."

"What?" You pull out an earbud, blinking in confusion. "When did you come in?"

Rafayel stares.

"Aw, thanks for bringing in my box! I was just about to get to my closet," you grin, pecking his lips. "When did you get back?"

Let’s just say, Rafayel does not recount the great monologue you just happened to miss.

Zayne:

Conceal, don’t feel kind of guy.

He stands and stares at the box.

Then, without a word, he steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug. He’ll stay there for as long as you allow him to.

"You’re back early," you murmur, leaning into him as he buries his face in your shoulder.

This is normal, him being extra clingy after a long shift.

"What’s the matter?" You turn, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Did something upset you?"

"No," he replies, looking up at you. "I missed you. Let’s go out for dinner tonight."

He’ll go out of his way to make these last few hours with you memorable.

The next day, when he returns home from work, expecting an empty house, the sight of you curled up on the couch is nothing short of pure joy.

He heads to your room, only to find all your clothes neatly hung next to his.

Sylus:

"Have you finally decided to accept the vacation?" he all but purrs, conveniently ignoring the lack of a suitcase.

"Those are for donation, Sylus. And no, I am not taking time off for another vacation." You reply, tossing some of his clothes into the donation pile.

"Um. No, you’re not." He plucks a dress from the pile, inspecting it like it’s a priceless artifact. "I like this one on you. And this too," he mutters, rummaging through your does-not-spark-joy pile.

"No, we are not keeping it!" You snatch the clothes back. "You are banned from the pile. Hands off."

Somehow, he is more offended about giving away clothes than he is concerned about the idea of you leaving.

He considers everything you own part of his hoard.

Caleb:

Hides the box.

Immediately rushes to the kitchen to cook a feast.

Pulls you to a fully loaded dining table, all smiles.

"So, what are your plans tomorrow?" he asks, piling food onto your plate.

"Mmm, I think I’ll be joining the hunters’ food and clothing drive in the morning. Let me know if you want to give away—"

And he's gone.

Sweating, watching you devour the food.

Oh. Oh, no.

He did not just accidentally drug you.

You’re going to be so mad at him. Especially for making you miss the drive.

Excusing himself immediately, he goes to cancel the flight to his private island.

Caleb is now on damage control duty.

[euphoria-looney]

Astro!

Yan!Batfam x Neglected!Reader Squid Games!AU

m. list|next

"And goodness knows, The Wicked's Lives are lonely. Goodness knows, The Wicked die alone. It just shows, when you're wicked, You're left only, on your own." 'No One Mourns The Wicked' by Wicked the Musical

Divider creds: (?) and @dollywons

As a kid, all I longed for was someone to play a game with me that didn’t require some form of technology to keep both of us entertained.

Well, be careful what you wish for, because I have reached an all-time low, willing to kill people with children's games to earn money.

How much longer will I spend in this twisted game before getting killed? Maybe this is better whether I win or lose, I still gain freedom.

One choice is just the better option. 

That’d be losing winning.

Sure I would feel immense guilt, but I’d be free from debt… and then what? No longer needing to slave anyway from the amount of money I receive.

What then?

Could therapy even help? They’d probably send me off to a mental ward. 

Who's going to believe I won millions from playing some children’s games?

I looked around and saw the old man again from earlier, sitting alone in a space, I approached him, and he accepted to play with me.

“When I was little, this was one of my favorite games as a child.” The old man told us while we were walking into an open area.

“Really? I’ll be honest, I’ve never played this game before.”

As we finally found a point to play the game, we conversed.

—

“Did we do this to make a pact?”

He held out his hand, his pinkie and thumb sticking out, I laughed, wrapping my pinkie around his, pressing our thumbs together.

“Sir, no my gganbu- I think that’s what they called a really close friend right?”

—

Eventually we went all for nothing, this was the funniest game I ever played… I almost forgot the fact that I was going to die at the end.

“Ah, guess you won, betting all my marbles for your single one. Didn’t see that one coming.” I chuckled sadly.

He held my hand and placed the last marble in my palm.

“Take it, it’s yours anyway.” I looked up at him in shock, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“We are gganbu aren’t we? Remember we swore on it. And Gganbu always shares everything no matter what. You made this all possible.” My shoulder shook, as I could only stare at my shoes, my eyes felt like facets at the point. 

And then I felt these same hands embrace me, and I felt like a child all over again.

“What a great way to go.”

He pulled away, making me face him.

“Thank you. I had a good time.”

I hugged him once again, my tears overflowing on his shoulders.

He let go and I walked out of the gates.

Sniffles were all I could do before I heard the voice behind me.

“I remember my name now. My name is Il-nam. Oh Il-nam.”

I kept walking then flinched when I heard a ‘bang’ go off.

Surrounded by all these dead bodies, and these empty emotions, I pushed forward.

[Player 1, Eliminated]

—

Despite everything, I’m still having these selfish thoughts of staying alive.

We had just played ‘glass bridge’ leaving three of us here, dressed in suits, and eventually I was talking with Penelope, she’s the one that helped me out of the restraint we were in after we left for the first time.

“Hey, [name], just in case either of us can actually make it out of this hellhole, promise that we will take care of each other's loved ones, okay?” 

“Don’t say that, we’ll be okay.”

But she took more damage than any of us once the glass had shattered and was losing blood fast.

“Stay where you are, I’ll go get someone.”

I left and went to the guard or whatever they were, to beg, plead, for a doctor, maybe one that could’ve been on standby, but instead they walked past me with a coffin.

I could only stare at my once best friend standing over her bed.

I ran over there and held her body up, shaking her for some sign of hope.

“No, Penelope, please, no…”

—

Approaching the end game, we ate a feast, so fresh and nicely made, I felt the need to puke.

We place in the field shapes surrounding us, to resemble a squid, this was, Squid Game.

The rain soaking both of us, gray skies, and a single guard on the side.

Astro’s shirt still soaked in blood, his suit back on. He spoke before the game began, a knife in hand.

“I ended her suffering. You know she would have died anyway.”

The tears that once stained my face had been washed off by the rain, and now I could only feel disdain for the man I once knew in front of me.

“That’s bullshit, stop lying. She could’ve survived, they could have treated her.”

He retorted.

“I know what you’re like, you’re the reason I had to kill her. I knew you two would stop all this, so she didn’t die there. Even though we’ve gone so far, just to quit?” 

It seemed so similar to the time back at the manor.

—

“Damian had a lot happen to him as a child, are you going to blame him for this?” Dick sighed Damian behind him with no remorse for the fact I had slashes on my arm, not deep but painful. And though they wouldn’t leave scars, would that really matter?

He held a weapon against me while all I had was a stack of books now discarded and torn on the ground.

“[name]. You’re older than him, he’s still a child. You are the reason for this, it could’ve been avoided if you didn’t egg things on. Don’t blame Damian for your faults.” Egg him on? All I did was try and avoid him.

It wasn’t fair.

—

Now, if it wasn’t high before, my blood pressure had to be spiking. For that petty reason? Simply because he didn’t want all of this going to waste?

“Was that it? You killed someone because this might end?” My voice trembled.

“Yeah! You and that girl would have been the majority you needed to get out! Going home without anything! I couldn’t live with that!”

“And you think that means anything?! What?! one more life on top of the others you’ve stolen isn’t enough, and won’t be enough until you receive something?! You’d rather have one more dead than for all three of us to leave and somehow find another way to bring something, anything home?!” I shouted back at him.

I took my knife out of my pocket.

“It's over…”

“I won’t let you leave here with the money.”

3RD POV

While the VIP’s finally stood up to watch this entertaining last game.

Two people who have developed over time physically and mentally, once friends, were squabbling, fighting with very small amounts of energy, but a passion to win.

Both stabbed the other when eventually, player 456 was able to get the other on the ground and punched him over and over again.

The Waynes couldn’t help but be relieved this was it, they’d never let her go again, they would make up for everything starting with making sure she would be okay.

“Found the location heading there soon!” They heard Cassandra on the other line.

Late, but they would make it.

—

[name]’s POV

I held my knife, before stabbing it into the field, next to his face, before limping over to the goal point, it felt miles anyway, the guard had his gun loaded and aimed at Astro.

There before me was the practical finish line.

I can’t… No, I refuse to if anything, playing this game has fucked me other the head, but I refuse for one second to let this game be the last thing I ever see Astro at.

“I wanna end here.” I face the guard walking back to them.

“Clause Three of the agreement. The players are able to end the game when the majority agrees, so if we both give up,  you have to end it right?” I stumbled over.

The guard spoke on the walkie-talkie while I gazed back at Astro.

“Astro.”

“Back when we went to the same school, we’d hang out together and study before leaving chasing after our purpose that called out for us. Nothing's calling anymore.” After all this time, he still is.

I smiled at him, that once gummy smile I adorned, one that I hated so much.

“Let’s go”

I extended my hand to him. 

“Let’s go together.”

He slowly lifted his hand.

“[name], I’m sorry.” 

And before I could react, he took that hand and grabbed the knife that I put right next to him, and impaled himself in the neck with it. 

Blood gushed out and he choked out blood.

I quickly went to his side, stabilizing his head.

“Astro! Astro!”

“[name]..”

“No, no, don’t speak! Hang on!” I was panicking, this can’t be the end of us.

“M-my mother, please take care of my mom. And…”

“I love you.” That made me freeze my erratic movements, I was sure he could’ve seen my eyes widen.

“Loved you since meeting you.” With that, he closed his eyes and I could only call out his name, and held onto his body, it was getting colder fast.

[Player 218, Eliminated. Congratulations, Player456]

—

3rd POV

“Believe in Jesus or go to Hell!” A guy holding two signs chanted outside in the rain, strangers walking past each other, a white limo rolled up on the side of the street, dumping a bruised and exhausted body on the sidewalk, the same guy chanting untied the girl.

“Believe in Jesus.”

The girl was in the bank depositing 4.56 billion dollars before withdrawing some out. Her hair a mess, eyes sullen and eye bags that dragged down her face, she seemed exhausted. Walking back to the store she once worked at, a sign stated ‘SOLD’ and next to it a reef, “Rest in Peace, Conny Claire, Died too soon, old shop owner that meant so much to many people.” Flowers that surround the message.

The girl that came there for a snack could only sink to the ground in shock, hands rising to cover her face, body shaking and quivering.

Walking down a store alleyway, Astro’s mom approached the girl.

“How have you been, here take some food for the road after losing…” She sighed, and patted the girl's back, walking back to her shop.

“Have you heard from… Nevermind.” 

The girl opened her run down apartment where she once lived and went to see all the old photos in the yearbook of classes she had with Astro and in all of the group ones featuring her, her classmates, and Astro she noticed how in each one he was looking at her, with those fond eyes.

She could only fall onto her bed, her tired state crept on her before she fell asleep.

Some time later, the girl kept her promise to Penelope and helped out her family, then left them with Astro’s mom, leaving a wealthy sum of money, they became a family… somewhat of a replacement for the other's loved one, and the girl left paying off whatever debt any of them had.

The girl was sitting alone at the pond, drinking some alcohol. Before an old woman approached her, a flower basket in hand, it seemed she needed to sell them immediately before they wilted away. The girl reached into her pocket, handing her some money before the old woman went off. 

Picking up the nicely wrapped flower, a card appeared, making the girl stumble at picking up the card before reading it.

Approaching a hospital, card in hand.

It was the old man.

“What is this… Who are you?”

“Pour some water for me. Please, [name].”

And there she sat, anger rising in her, but she couldn’t do anything against the man who made the games.

She sat listening to the man talk, about the homeless guy below them, about how everything he said about himself was true, how he missed the old days, him and his friend used to have the time of their lives, and how no matter if you're homeless or rich both lives are no fun. Then a clock struck.

She looked at the machine to see that his heart was no longer beating, instead a flat line appeared. Getting up, she closed his eyes.

That’s when she finally started her life again. She got it together.

So, at the first place, her life changed at the same bus stop, well across from it, the skies were clear and the sun was glaring into the area. It had been a regular day for her, working at her own company and all.

Maybe that’s why when she unlocked her car and stared right in front of her at that same place, she was shocked to see her father, Bruce Wayne, and his family.

That’s it for this part of Astro! Did you like it?

Also, unlike Squid Game, soon after [name] left, everyone that participated in Squid Games got arrested, which made it on the news, but was looked past after a few months, [name] made gravestones for Penelope and Astro.

Ofc the Batfam got the credit and got even more famous for uncovering this incident, which is also why they hadn’t ‘visited’ [name] and now are just getting to it.

Not the update you expected, but I hope you like it.

Any comments, advice and corrections are appreciated!!!

-ILoveeeMoney

Taglist time! ❤

Also, I love the idea and from fic from both @jellyfishmoon97 and @not-weirdoshrek and a new addition that I'm super happy I bumped into @alilobsessive.

@holysoulsweets @sh4rk-k1d @sillysealsies @loomspuddle @cantfindmelol @alwaysholymilkshake @leitor-sonolento @randomlyappearingartist @beyondblissxoxo @sirairi @yhin-gg @frankie-moon3 @welpthisisboring @yokesmam @bat1212 @enchantingarcadecreation @twismare @delias-stuff @ladylupuscrow @ferchu0406 @c4xcocoa @cruzerforce4256 @anonymoushehehehe @godoreo22 @blerp-22 @facelessisnthere @sirenetheblogger @themightybee4067 @boredselkie @tiffyisme3760 @random4137 @midnightgrimoire @mybones537 @chaoticmoontimetravel @jsprien213 @crazycaoticsimp @elfollaburras3000 @czarinera @tiffyisme3760 @exactlynumberonekryptonite @gwyneveire @k-anaru @a-lurking-fae @nxdxsworld @ryuushou

I think that's everyone who wanted to be tagged, I hope I didn't spell anyone's name wrong and tag the wrong person.

[fangdokja]

🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.

♡ Yandere! DILF's x Fem. Reader. Sugar Daddy, Old Money, Professor, Sponsor

♡ Headcanons. Midas Eyes - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 3,057

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy who should be repulsive. A man-child in his late thirties who spends obscene amounts of money on everything except dignity. A peacock draped in silk and cashmere, leather shoes that cost more than an entire human life, a watch that gleams like the price of someone's soul. Gaudy, loud, excessive. He reeks of expensive cologne and desperation, of old money envy and cocaine dreams. And yet, here you are, letting him fuck you raw in the penthouse suite of a hotel that costs a year's salary just to breathe in.

You're so fucking good at this.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy groans, breath hot against your neck, hands bruising your hips as he fucks you into the mattress like he’s trying to hammer his name into your body. He has the stamina of a man who has nothing better to do than chase pleasure and the money to afford every enhancement available. You don’t know if it's the genetics, the hormone injections, or sheer willpower that makes him last so long, but it's obscene, and it works.

“Fuck, you’re—” he pants, a laugh caught between his teeth. “You’re just so good for me, princess.”

You moan because it gets you more things. Louder, a little breathy, making sure your body clenches just right around him. He groans like you’ve fed him a shot of pure heroin and throws another ten thousand into your mental bank account. You let yourself go slack, let him manhandle you however he wants, plaything that you are. He likes to think he’s in charge. He isn’t.

Not when he’s gripping your thighs so tight he might leave fingerprints on your bones. Not when his voice is breaking, so desperate, so fucking eager, like he’s about to worship at the altar of your cunt.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Gonna stuff you so full, baby, fuck, just take it, take it all, yeah?”

You bite your lip, nodding prettily, and he loses it. Thrusts go sloppy, frantic, all that practiced charm falling apart as he groans against your shoulder, spilling deep inside like he thinks he can buy you with his cum.

And maybe he can.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy flops next to you, panting, still hard. Of course he is. He always is.

“Again?” He grins, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair.

You stretch, arching your back just enough to make his breath hitch. Then you turn, lazily trailing a finger down his stomach, watching his abs tense beneath your touch.

“A hundred grand,” you murmur.

He stares. Then he laughs. Loud, delighted, and just drunk enough to think this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You’re a menace,” he says, grabbing your wrist and rolling you onto your back. His cock presses against your thigh, hard and needy. “Fine. But I get to make you cry for it this time.”

You smile, letting your eyes flash with that hypnotic galaxy hue. His pupils blow wide, breath hitching, completely enthralled. He’s already under your control, but you let him think he still has some.

“Go ahead, Daddy,” you purr. “Make me earn it.”

———

♡ Yandere! Old Money who was born into wealth so vast, it would take you several lifetimes to count the zeros in his family’s offshore accounts. Who never had to work a day in his life but did so anyway—because ruling over empires is simply what men like him do. Who was bred for supremacy, sculpted for dominance, and taught that anything can be bought.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who trained you, shaped you, and refined you like a diamond under pressure. Who took a filthy, starving guttersnipe and made her into a masterpiece. Who remembers the first time he saw you—some nameless thing, all hunger and teeth, tearing through a gilded party with the eyes of a wolf in a silk dress. Who saw potential in you, who sharpened your mind, your body, your soul. Who honed you into a weapon, only to find that the blade had a mind of its own.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who both despises and adores what you’ve become. A whore with no loyalty, a predator without a master. Who made you into something untouchable, yet still seethes with jealousy every time another man gets too close. Who is tormented by the fact that the very skills he bestowed upon you are now being used to elude him. Who doesn’t care how much you cost—because at the end of the day, you are his investment. His creation. His.

You never really understood love. Never cared to. Love was an abstract thing, messy and useless, the sentimental currency of the weak. Money, on the other hand—that, you understood. The raw power of it, the absolute control. You could make anyone do anything for enough money. But there was always one exception. Him.

It had started as a game. A little cat-and-mouse. A battle of wills between the old master and his disobedient little protégé. But now? Now it was something far worse.

Now you were in his bed.

Now his breath was against your ear, his hands moving over your body like they had every right to be there. As if they had never left.

“You come back to me like a bad habit,” he murmured, voice rich and deep, laced with amusement and something darker. His fingers traced down your spine, sending an involuntary shiver through you. “But I suppose I should be flattered. Even the most expensive sluts still come home to their first owner.”

You should have left. You should have fought. But you didn’t.

Because you knew, deep down, that this was always how it would end.

His grip was firm as he pulled you onto his lap, your silk robe slipping from your shoulders. The candlelight glowed against his sharp features, those cold, aristocratic eyes drinking you in like fine wine.

“How much?” he asked, deceptively soft. “How much do I have to pay to remind you of your place?”

You smirked, reaching up to run a finger down his cheek. “All of it.”

The answer made something wicked flash in his gaze.

“Greedy girl.” His hand closed around your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you that you were nothing in his hands. “You think you can sell yourself to the highest bidder and I won’t notice? That I won’t hunt down every single man who has ever touched you and make them disappear?”

“You trained me for this,” you reminded him, tilting your head, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t act surprised when I outgrew you.”

♡ Yandere! Old Money chuckled, dark and amused. “Outgrew me?” His grip tightened, forcing your legs apart as he shifted, the silk sheets whispering beneath you. “Oh, darling.” His free hand slid up your thigh, tracing the inside like he was claiming territory. “You haven’t outgrown anything.”

His mouth found yours in a searing kiss, all dominance and possession, teeth and tongue warring for control. You gasped into it, back arching as his hand found its way between your legs, teasing, taunting. He was cruel, methodical, drawing out every sound he wanted from you with the skill of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.

“You act so untouchable,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers sinking into you with devastating precision. “So untouchable, yet look at you now.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound. But he wasn’t done yet.

♡ Yandere! Old Money pulled back, surveying you like an artist admiring his own work, his own creation. Then, with an almost lazy arrogance, he unbuckled his belt.

You watched, entranced, as he freed himself—thick, hard, proud, the very embodiment of dominance. Your mouth went dry, your body betraying you as he pressed the tip against your entrance, teasing, just barely there.

“Say it,” he commanded.

You refused.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he thrust in all at once, bottoming out so deep you nearly sobbed.

“Say it.” His voice was low, a whisper of silk and steel.

You gasped, trembling, but held his gaze, even as he started moving. Slow at first, deep, dragging, making you feel every inch of him. Then faster. Harder. Ruthless.

“You,” you finally choked out, your pride shattering like glass. “You own me.”

The words ignited something in him. His grip tightened, his pace brutal, pounding into you like he was branding himself into your very soul. You clawed at his back, nails digging into flesh, but he only laughed.

“That’s right,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You can sell your body all you want, little girl. But your soul? Your soul belongs to me.”

And in that moment, as he drove you to the edge of oblivion, you knew he was right.

You could have all the money in the world.

But you would never escape him.

———

♡ Yandere! Professor who has the poise of a man carved out of marble—cool, composed, and entirely unreadable. A man with the patience of a saint and the mind of a devil. His words are scripture; his touch, a revelation. He speaks in measured tones, every syllable deliberate, as though calculating the exact reaction each word will elicit from you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who watches you over the rim of his glasses, calculating, assessing. He is not moved by beauty alone—intellect is what ensnares him, and you, for all your feigned simplicity, are a masterpiece of complexity. You lure men with your body, but he is the only one who sees the hunger beneath. The void you so desperately try to fill with money. He has no interest in your wealth, only in possessing you—mind, body, and soul.

♡ Yandere! Professor who has studied you longer than you've known. Who understands your patterns, your weaknesses, the exact inflection in your voice when you are lying. He does not need to tame you; he needs only to set the right trap and wait. You are a strategist, a predator, but so is he. And in this game of chess, you are already in checkmate.

♡ Yandere! Professor who fucks like a man unraveling scripture. Every touch is precise, every movement methodical, unraveling you in ways you did not think possible. He does not need to be cruel to dominate you. He simply dismantles you with patience, with precision. You, who have seduced kings and moguls, who have named your price and watched the world pay it—now trembling under a man who has not spent a single cent on you just yet.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not believe in rushing. Who makes you beg, not with words, but with silence. With the way he simply watches you, fingers tracing the outline of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Who keeps you spread open on his desk, untouched, until your body betrays you, slick and shivering, whispering pleas you swore you’d never give him.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not kiss you. Not at first. He will taste every inch of your skin, bite into your throat, your shoulder, but he will not give you the intimacy of lips pressed to yours. Not until you’ve earned it. And when he finally does, it is not tender. It is ownership. It is his teeth against your lower lip, his tongue carving his claim into your mouth, swallowing every noise, every breath, until you are left gasping, dizzy from the sheer control he exerts.

♡ Yandere! Professor who takes his time. Who makes you sit on his cock, unmoving, as he reads a book, as if your desperation is of no concern to him. As if your pleasure is simply a matter of patience. Who will stroke your thighs absentmindedly, turn a page, glance at you over his glasses with a look so calm it is maddening.

"You are always in such a hurry," he murmurs, fingers grazing over the sensitive flesh between your legs, deliberately avoiding where you need him most. "And yet, for all your intellect, you fail to grasp the simplest lesson: anticipation makes the reward sweeter."

♡ Yandere! Professor who teaches you the meaning of desperation. Who coaxes sounds from your throat you did not know you were capable of making. Who turns your arrogance into broken cries, into choked-out prayers, into the breathless realization that, for the first time, you are not the one in control.

♡ Yandere! Professor who marks you, but never where others can see. His teeth bruise the inside of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts. His fingers dig crescents into the softness of your waist, but when you stand before your admirers, you look as flawless as ever. No one will ever know the depth of your submission. No one will ever see how he reduces you to nothing but trembling need.

♡ Yandere! Professor who makes you say his name. Properly. Not in moans, not in screams, but in reverence. In acknowledgment of the fact that, despite everything, despite your hunger for wealth and power, despite the way you have played and conquered men like pawns—he is the only one who has ever truly had you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not allow you to leave his bed until you are completely ruined. Until your body is boneless, your mind too fogged with pleasure to form coherent thoughts. Who cradles your face after, thumb brushing over your swollen lips, watching you with quiet satisfaction.

"Money is not the only thing worth worshiping, my dear. But don’t worry—I have all the time in the world to teach you."

———

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who never had money, not really.

Not the kind that keeps your hands clean, anyway. It was all blood and sweat and torn muscle—fought for in the filth, carved out in the trenches, scraped together with broken fingers and clenched teeth. He’s the kind of rich that still walks like he’s got nothing, the kind of powerful that still looks at people like they might turn on him at any second. And you—

You, with your dead gaze and even deader heart, the whore with a price tag bigger than a small country’s GDP—you fascinate him. Not in some romantic, poetic way. No, he isn’t built for that kind of weakness. It’s visceral. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when you move, the way his hands twitch when you speak.

You’re money. You are the thing he’s fought for all his life. And now you want him to own you?

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who doesn't fall for your tricks.

Most men are easy. One look, one shift in tone, one tilt of your head and they crumble like the worthless sacks of flesh they are. But him? He watches you like a predator sizing up a rival. You’ve met a lot of men in your line of work. Soft ones, weak ones, strong ones who thought they were stronger than you. But he’s something else.

He doesn’t give a fuck about your Midas Eyes.

That first night, when you sat in his lap and whispered the price in his ear, he just laughed. Low and dark. A sound that sent something unpleasant slithering down your spine. And then he grabbed your jaw, rough, unforgiving.

“Try that shit on me, and I’ll break your legs.”

You believed him.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who fucks like he fights—dirty, brutal, and without mercy.

The first time he takes you, it’s not in some luxury suite with satin sheets and a view of the city skyline. It’s in the grimy backseat of a blacked-out car, somewhere between a deal gone wrong and another fight that left someone (not him) bleeding out in an alley.

You’re bent over his lap, dress hiked up, face pressed against cracked leather while he yanks your panties down with zero patience. There’s no tenderness, no soft prelude—just the sound of his belt unbuckling, the sharp bite of cold metal against your thigh as he restrains you, the hard press of his cock against your slit as he forces you open.

“You want money, right?” His voice is a rasp against your ear, breath hot, words edged with amusement and something darker. His fingers dig into your hip, keeping you in place. “So work for it.”

And then he shoves inside.

The stretch burns, delicious and cruel. You gasp, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just thrusts, hard and deep, filling you up until your body molds to him.

He doesn’t fuck like a man who cares. He fucks like a man who takes.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who likes to see you break.

You thought you were good at playing the game, but he’s better. You moan for him, whimper his name, pretend to shudder when he hits the right spot—but he sees right through you. And it pisses him off.

So he makes it worse.

He angles his thrusts just right, buries himself so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your guts. His fingers slip between your legs, rubbing tight, ruthless circles around your clit. The belt around your wrists tightens. The car rocks with the force of it.

And when you finally, finally cum—when you arch and shudder and cry out like the perfect little whore he paid for—he doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you. Keeps using you. Keeps pounding into your oversensitive cunt until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation, until your thighs shake and your breath comes in ragged, broken little gasps.

“Thought you wanted money, baby,” he murmurs, voice dripping with mockery. His hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your head down. “Gotta earn it.”

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who pays you just to keep you.

He never tells you to stop seeing other men. He doesn’t have to.

Because when you wake up the next morning, sore and wrecked and aching in places you didn’t know could ache, there’s a suitcase on the nightstand.

It’s full of cash.

More money than you’ve ever seen in one place. More than you could make in months.

A message, loud and clear.

You’re his now.

And there’s no fucking way you’re leaving.

Yandere! DILFs

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Sugar Daddy, Old Money, Professor, Sponsor

Headcanons 1 : Midas Eyes (General)

Some women play hard to get. You play impossible to afford.

You're not a gold digger. You're an entrepreneur. And business is booming.

🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.

He’s not jealous. He just needs to remind you why no one else can fuck you like he does.

🔞"You wanna act like a whore? Then be one. On your knees. Now."

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @yandereaficionado , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @futuristicxie

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[inchidentally]

he hoped Oscar thought mostly the same as him and he did :3 as always!

like the way it’s always Lando making sure Oscar is seen and represented and noticed in media and social media etc bc Oscar is still focusing just on his driving and leaving other people to do the media and networking and non driving stuff - bc it’s still early in his career! and Lando was NOT a natural at on camera stuff when he started in Formula 1 and was painfully shy and he remembers what it’s like when your teammate knows what they’re doing and you don’t yet! Oscar sometimes takes the lead like Silverstone 2024 when he specifically said he wanted to cheer them/Lando up but otherwise he knows better than most (and literally says) that Lando is comfortably settled and established as a major player on the grid.

and there’s something very emotional in how Lando made this huge leap in himself and as a driver when he became The Leader and The Senior Authority and found a teammate who was genuinely overjoyed to have Lando be The Face and The Guy - esp when Lando was so dismayed and uncomfortable with the idea of being in that position in a dynamic at first. and that Oscar stalking/fanboying/knowing Lando so well as a driver and all he’s shared on stream and social media, means that Oscar knew Lando would be a great leader and wouldn’t be unwilling or intimidated by the idea of letting Oscar have an equal share in certain things. that Lando wouldn’t be toxic or arrogant or possessive (which certain group of Lando’s own fans often misrepresent him as bc they have warped ideas of him !!) and would actually thrive from having someone close to him in age and who was extra hungry - because unlike Carlos or Daniel and now Lando - Oscar has everything to prove about himself. he’s done exceptionally well but as someone staring down years of waiting in the wings not too long ago, he’s far from feeling established in the way he wants to be one day. Lando remembers that feeling very well so he’s the perfect one to see the bigger picture for both of them and have the most experience because he can see from both perspectives so recently!

like it’s just so sweet and subtle and specific to their dynamic in ways that make the whole brocedes/bust up/melodrama expectations keep falling flat. it’s not that they don’t argue or battle and it would be extremely weird if they didn’t want win all the time (and a 24yo driver with no major money behind him is NOT a candidate for a “spare” or support driver). it’s that they slot together so well even when it comes to drama and they hop on a plane together giggling and chatting mere hours later.

Oscar trusted Lando to lead and Lando learned to trust himself as a leader <3

[under0-0s]

Here’s Tony’s POV in response:

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe, for a second too long.

Because that look—just a little longer than before, just a little less careful—was enough to make his world tilt.

She turned away, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done.

Pepper Potts could pretend all she wanted. She could stand there in her perfect dress, holding her perfect composure, playing the part of a woman who had moved on. But Tony knew better.

Because if she had, she wouldn’t have looked at him like that.

Like he was still hers.

Like she was still his.

It was the kind of look that took him back, back before the ring, before the fallout, before everything got so goddamn complicated. A look that made his fingers twitch with the urge to reach for her, to do something reckless, something irreversible, something like taking her hand and pulling her away from this crowd, this noise, this distance between them.

But he didn’t.

Because that wasn’t who they were anymore, was it?

The thought sent a bitter taste to the back of his throat, and he downed the rest of his drink before he could think too much about it. Before he could let himself feel what he already knew—that no matter how much space was between them, no matter how many miles or weeks or unspoken words, she still had him wrapped around her damn finger.

He shouldn’t still be standing here. Shouldn’t still be waiting for something—anything—from her. He had never been the type to linger, never been the type to wait for things to fix themselves. He was a man of action, a man who built solutions with his bare hands, but this?

This wasn’t something he could fix.

Not like this.

So he did what he did best. He forced a smirk onto his face, rolled his shoulders like none of it mattered, and let the crowd swallow him up again.

But that look? That look would stay with him.

Because if there was one thing Tony Stark knew how to do, it was recognizing unfinished business.

And Pepper?

She was the one thing he had never been able to leave behind.

SATURDAY OPEN RP! GOLDEN GALA CHARITY EVENT HOSTED BY EMERSON ENTERPRISES CEO!

The atmosphere within the main ballroom is spectacular with all the golden accents on top of black table clothes. The room is decorated to the nines with everything that could ever be done. James has his staff to thank for that.

The guests start to trickle in slowly but surely. The splendor of it all actually makes some of them gape in awe.

James knows he's going to have to go around the room talking to each one throughout the night, and maybe they will talk to each other. Tonight is about making connections and possible friendships with the people of the city. They have to band together to fight what could possibly come. This is his strategy.

This is just one step of many to take down HYDRA.

But they aren't on his mind tonight.

He greets everyone with a smile when he walks up to them. And they greet him in return when they want to speak with him.

The auction will be towards the middle of the event followed by dancing. He's pretty sure the ones with children won't stay for that.

Mingle and have fun.

Even though there are Anti-Mutant protestors threatening to show up at any moment.

At least Rumlow isn't going to be here.

//OOC Instructions: Mingle, have fun, and make some chaos happen.//

@luna-draven-barnes @wilsonfisk-thekingpin @under0-0s @the1-and-only-peggycarter @thund3randrain @thebestmerc-1 @the-daily-bugle-official-blog @nearthewaters @theoldcapsicleicle

If I missed your tag, I'm sorry, I can't remember everyone that I talked too for some reason (probably fibro brain fog) and anyone is welcome to join!!!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

For the Both of Us

Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.

Word Count: 2,493

Content Warning: mentions of injury

It starts as an offhand comment, something I don’t fully think through before saying it.

“We should run a marathon.”

Harry doesn’t even blink. “Alright.”

I pause mid-bite of my sandwich, glancing up at him from across the kitchen island. “Just like that?”

He shrugs, casually tying his hair up as he leans against the counter. “Why not?”

I squint at him. “No questions? No protests? No ‘that sounds miserable, why would we do that to ourselves’?”

He grins. “I like running.”

Of course, he does.

I narrow my eyes, setting my sandwich down. “I thought this was going to be one of those things where I had to convince you, and then you’d be all dramatic about it.”

Harry smirks. “Sorry to disappoint.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

Still, there’s no backing out now. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.

Training in New York happens because we’re here, and it makes sense. Early mornings in Central Park, the world just waking up as we weave through runners, cyclists, and dogs too eager for their own good. The air is crisp, the pavement familiar under our feet, and for once, I don’t hate running as much as I thought I would. Maybe it’s the routine of it, the way my body adjusts to the movement, or maybe it’s just Harry, a few strides ahead, turning back every now and then with an easy grin like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright back there?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Shut up,” I pant, pushing forward.

He laughs, slowing just enough to match my pace. “You’re getting better.”

“I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not.” He bumps his arm against mine. “One day, you’re gonna love this.”

I glare at him, sweat dripping down my back. “Doubt it.”

But then we go to Italy, and everything shifts.

We run because we’re already there, because it feels right, because some part of me—some stubborn, determined part—wants to prove him right. The streets are quieter in the early morning, the sun just starting to stretch across the sky as we move through small villages and winding hillsides. It’s different here, softer somehow. The air is warm, carrying the scent of citrus and fresh bread from the bakeries just opening up for the day. There’s no urgency, no dodging commuters or stopping at crosswalks, just open road and the steady rhythm of our feet against the earth.

Harry doesn’t speak much when he runs, but I can tell he’s in his element, moving effortlessly like he was made for this. I watch the way his shoulders stay relaxed, the way he breathes in even counts, the way he looks completely at ease, and for the first time, I get it.

At some point, I stop thinking about how much I want to stop and start thinking about how much I want to keep going.

And when Harry turns his head, catching my eye with a knowing smile, I realize he knew this would happen all along.

One evening, long after the sun has set and the warmth of the Italian day has settled into something softer, we sit on the terrace of our rental, sipping wine and watching the lights flicker in the distance. My legs ache, but it’s a good kind of ache, the kind that reminds me of everything we’ve done today, of the miles we’ve put behind us.

Harry stretches his legs out, rolling his shoulders before turning his head toward me. “We should do Tokyo.”

I blink at him, processing. “Do Tokyo?”

“The marathon.” He tilts his glass, watching the wine swirl before looking back at me. “We’ve done all this training. Might as well put it toward something.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You said that way too casually.”

He grins. “Because I already decided.”

I arch a brow. “You already decided?”

“Mhm.” He takes another sip. “Figured if we’re gonna do a marathon, might as well make a trip out of it. Stay for a bit, sightsee. The weather will be nice.”

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. “And when, exactly, did you decide all this?”

A lazy shrug. “Somewhere between mile six and seven today.”

I groan, letting my head fall back against my chair. “I knew that second wind of yours was dangerous.”

Harry laughs, nudging my foot under the table. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a good idea.”

I lift my head, watching him. He’s relaxed, loose-limbed and comfortable in the way he always is when he’s made up his mind. And the worst part? He’s right. It is a good idea.

I sigh, feigning reluctance. “I can’t believe you’re using my own tactics against me.”

His smile grows. “So that’s a yes?”

I shake my head, unable to stop my own grin. “That’s a yes.”

He clinks his glass against mine. “Good. Because I already started looking at flights.”

The decision is made, and just like that, Tokyo becomes the destination, the marathon the reason—but not the only one. Training continues, days blending together with long runs, ice baths, and Harry reminding me that we actually signed up for this.

The trip comes quickly, faster than I expect, and before I know it, we’re stepping off a plane into the crisp Tokyo air, the city sprawling out before us in endless color and movement. It’s different from anywhere we’ve been—bright, electric, alive in a way that feels both overwhelming and exhilarating.

We settle in easily, our days leading up to the marathon filled with late-night ramen stops, temple visits, and walks through neighborhoods that feel like they belong in a different time. Harry’s the one who insists on going to every convenience store we pass, fascinated by the rows of neatly packaged snacks and drinks. I let him, if only because it means I get to watch the way his face lights up every time he finds something new.

“Are you ever gonna eat the food you actually buy,” I tease one night, watching him place yet another snack onto our growing pile.

He grins, unapologetic. “Eventually. Maybe.”

I shake my head, shoving a bag of matcha-flavored candy at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, tossing a Pocky stick into his mouth, “you love me.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

The night before the race, we sit on the floor of our hotel room, stretching out our legs and pretending not to be nervous. Harry leans back on his hands, rolling out his ankles. “You ready?”

I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs. “I think so.”

He watches me for a beat, then nudges my knee with his. “You’re gonna do great.”

I glance at him. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.” His voice is steady, certain. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Something in my chest tightens, but I push past it, knocking my foot against his. “Don’t go leaving me in the dust tomorrow.”

He smirks. “I’d never.”

It’s a lie. He absolutely would.

But for now, I let myself believe him.

The morning of the marathon comes quietly, the city still stretching awake as we make our way to the starting line. The air is crisp, the kind of cool that settles into your lungs without biting. There’s an energy around us, a nervous hum of anticipation that thrums through the thousands of runners gathered, their breath visible in the morning chill.

Harry stands beside me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. He looks completely at ease, like this is just another run, another morning, another challenge he already knows he’ll conquer.

“Last chance to back out,” he teases, tugging lightly on the sleeve of my jacket.

I scoff, shaking out my arms. “Not a chance.”

His grin is wide, proud. “That’s my girl.”

And then the countdown begins, the crowd buzzing, the excitement thick in the air.

Three.

I exhale, steadying my breath.

Two.

Harry shifts beside me, the warmth of him grounding me.

One.

The horn blares, and we run.

Tokyo unfolds around us, the streets lined with spectators, their cheers blending into the steady rhythm of our feet against the pavement. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, the city alive with movement, the energy unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Harry stays beside me, keeping pace with effortless ease, checking in with a quick glance, a subtle nod. I feel good, strong even, my body moving in sync with the course, my mind focused.

We pass temples and skyscrapers, bridges stretching over quiet rivers, the neon of Shibuya just a distant blur. The kilometers tick by, each one a small victory, each step bringing us closer to the finish.

And then—

It happens fast.

A misstep, a shift in the pavement, the sudden, sharp twist of my ankle. Pain shoots up my leg, white-hot and immediate, and before I can fully process it, I stumble forward, catching myself just before I hit the ground.

“Shit.”

Harry is there instantly, his hand on my arm, steady, solid. “What happened?”

I clench my jaw, testing my weight. It’s bad.

“I—” I try to step forward and nearly collapse. “—I think I’m done.”

Harry’s face darkens, his grip tightening. “Okay, let’s—”

“No.” I shake my head, inhaling sharply. “You have to keep going.”

His brows furrow, his jaw tightening. “I’m not leaving you here.”

I look at him, my chest rising and falling too fast. “Harry.” My voice softens, pleading. “You have to finish. For me.”

He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get to the medical tent, but you need to keep going.” I force a smile, swallowing against the frustration rising in my throat. “You trained too hard for this. You need to finish.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes scanning my face, searching for any reason to stay.

“Please,” I whisper.

A beat. A breath. And then he exhales, nodding once.

“Alright.”

He hesitates for just a second longer before reaching out, cupping the side of my face briefly, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “Don’t move too much, yeah?”

I nod, watching as he pulls away, glancing back one last time before taking off down the course.

A volunteer helps me over to the medical tent, their voice calm as they ask me basic questions—where it hurts, how it happened, if I can still move my foot. I answer automatically, my focus still on the course, my heart still pounding from the rush of adrenaline and frustration.

The tent is efficient, a blur of movement as runners come in and out, quick assessments, ice packs, stretches, taped-up ankles. One of the medics kneels in front of me, carefully rotating my foot as I wince.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” they say, pressing gently along the side of my ankle. “Probably a bad sprain. You’ll need to rest it for a while.”

I nod, barely processing their words as they wrap it up and hand me an ice pack. “Can I still walk on it?”

“Carefully. But you shouldn’t put too much pressure on it.”

I exhale, shifting in my seat. My race is over, but Harry’s isn’t. I glance toward the tent’s entrance, the noise of the marathon still pulsing just beyond it.

“Do you need to call someone?” the medic asks.

I shake my head, gripping the ice pack tighter. “No.”

Because I already know where I need to be.

I thank them quickly, carefully testing my weight before hobbling out of the tent, determination burning through the dull ache in my ankle. I won’t make it to the finish line in time to see him cross, but I’ll be there when he does.

Because if I can’t run this race, I can still be waiting for him at the end.

The journey to the finish line is slow, each step sending a dull ache up my ankle, but I push forward anyway. The marathon course winds through the city, but I take a more direct route, slipping through gaps in the crowd, careful not to put too much weight on my injured foot. My heart beats faster—not from exertion, but from anticipation.

By the time I reach the finish area, the air is thick with celebration. Runners stumble past the line, gasping for breath, clinging to each other in exhausted relief. The crowd swells with applause, cheers rising and falling like waves. I scan the finishers, my gaze moving quickly, searching.

And then I see him.

Harry moves through the last stretch, his strides steady despite the exhaustion weighing on his frame. His curls cling damply to his forehead, his arms pump with one final push, and when he crosses the finish line, his head drops forward, chest heaving as he slows to a stop.

A volunteer approaches, draping a medal over his neck, but he barely reacts. His hands find his hips, his head lifting as he drags in a deep breath—then, as if pulled by something unseen, his gaze shifts, scanning the crowd.

Looking for me.

I don’t move, don’t call his name. I just wait.

His eyes flick from face to face until they land on mine, and the moment they do, his entire body exhales. He doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward me with purpose, stepping around other runners, dodging spectators without so much as a glance. When he reaches me, his hands find my face before I can say a word, his palms warm and firm, thumbs brushing just beneath my cheekbones. His breathing is still uneven, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to my wrapped ankle, his brows knitting together. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I had to be here.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” I admit, and it’s quiet, because I know how much he means it.

He lingers, his fingers curling slightly at my jaw like he’s anchoring himself to me. His touch is careful, like he’s making sure I’m real, like he’s still coming down from the high of the race and the low of worry.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment, the noise of the world muffled around us. Then, finally, his lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something softer.

“So…” he murmurs, voice teasing but tired. “Do I get to pick our next stupid challenge?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that slips through. “Not a chance.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, and though his hands drop from my face, his fingers brush against mine before he steps back.

And even though I didn’t cross the finish line, I don’t feel like I lost.

Because I was here.