#ignore that he lives a life of crime
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Miscellaneous doodles
Now most times people tell you, open the images to get better quality.
I'm telling you now nothing will make these look better, I already tried.
So here's a warning, none of them make sense and none actually look good (camera quality wise). View at your own risk and don't stare at them too long, I don't recommend, you will see every tiny mistake
Anyway HERE WE GO!
Space cow! I drew a cow then watched a video about Mars, this was the result okay, don't think too hard about it, I sure don't
this was my attempt to draw the Star vs the Forces of Evil 'wah' crocodile from memory mainly because I couldn't find a reference until now ... ignore the tipp-ex please, you have absolutely no reason to look at it
Shark. There's not really much more to say except sorry Kyle, you will be missed.
Remember kids, murder only ends one way, but violence has endless potential!
A duck family 🪿Mary🪿Maddy🪿Max (ignore the extra foot)
I call this cat Coco. Coco was my emotional support doodle when I was falling asleep during something I needed to pay attention to. This is shown by the random mark across her chest marking when I eventually did fall asleep.
My attempt at Señor Salchicha from memory.
That's it. None left. Well yes ONE left but no one wants to see it AGAIN.
Unless
Okay fine I'll show you!
The fox from the Wild Robot (haven't had a chance to see the movie and read the book too long ago to remember his name, other than Pedro Pascal)
I've already posted this but it was on the same A5 page as the others (tags) so yeah. Here it is again. Bask in it's glory. Okay that's too much basking, go home. I SAID GO HOME!
#I folded up an A5 piece of paper and whenever I was bored I basically doodled in a rectangle and here's the result#that means all images are cropped and zoomed in#hence the bad quality#but I did my best to make it look ... recognizable#whatever better ones are coming!#one day#who knows when#I sure don't#if you know please tell me#it would be very helpful#thank you#enjoy#do I have to tag something for each doodle?#nah i don't feel like it#doodles#art#my art#traditional art#frog#fine one exception but Jeffy would be mad if I didn't bring attention to his cousin Jeoffrey#ignore that he lives a life of crime#Jeffy loves him regardless#GreatEggBanditArt#so annoyed I forgot my signature on each of these#does anyone even get this far in the tags?#well if you did#I thank you#have a star ⭐
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Lan Wangji might be an unstoppable force, but Xie Lian has 800+ years of practice of being an immovable object.
(poll results here for context)
#poorly drawn mdzs#mdzs#wei wuxian#lan wangji#bonus comic#The most resounding conclusion the community came to agree on is thar Xie Lian is bad at cooking on purpose#and is stubborn to the point of refusing to let go of this feature (not a bug) of himself.#though if you practice being bad at something on purpose you do just…get bad.#Poor lan wangji probably had to watch him do horrendous food crimes in the kitchen.#crushing eggs in his fists and throwing it into the bowl or pan (shell and all).#Burning water. Throwing in ingredients based on the roll of a dice. Putting in leaves and cool rocks he found.#He is living his best life mind you. And I think as long as he is happy then let him make his potions.#This is *his* version of art therapy. It just shouldnt be fed to anyone.#lwj would probably try to make it more theraputic after realizing that the bad cooking skills were on purpose. But even then XL is a rock.#he will not do anything he does not want to. Including processing feelings.#Don't idealize that btw. You will do yourself no favours by ignoring hard emotions. Love and peace everypony; Its a hard world out there.#Hua Cheng and wwx hung out during all of this and have since become hunting buddies.#Sometimes its birds sometimes it's each other. For sport.
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"How do you have negative two purple coins? Um. Uh. You've gotta spend money to make money, honey."
#THE WAY HE SAID IT??#gonna be stuck in my brain all day#is it still smallant lb if its a vod BUT a really really recent one#WHY DOES HE STREAM AT SUCH UNFRIENDLY HOURS FOR ME its horrible i never catch them live#anyways#jules be normal in the tags challenge (FAILED AGAIN)#thoughts#source: smallant only up/getting over it smo 27/10 stream#at around 17:40#ignore the timestamps thats just so i remember in the future when i go back and save it for a compilation#me if writing a whole ass essay in the tags every time i post something was a crime (jail for life)
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Bruce sends his kids little notes using carrier bats. It first started when Dick moved out and he wanted to talk to his son but didn't want to call and then have dick hang up on him or decline, didn't want to see his message be left on read, so he bought a little circus bat and taught it to fly to wherever Dick’s scent was (ie he would hang a piece of dicks clothing up at one end of the cave) and built him a nest built of dicks old bedsheets and then tied a little note to its foot, just a little question about how the weather is in Bludhaven and if hes getting enough sleep and alfred misses him, nothing that can be seen as overbearing or forcing himself into his life, and the little bat flies all the way to Bludhaven and hangs on Dicks window and Dick sees it and memories slam into him full force because bats are batman and robin and he cant, not yet. So he doesn't open the window. Ignores him. But the little bat is anything if not as stubborn as the man who trained him so he stays. And after two days Dick relents because the bat hasn't moved an inch and is probably hungry, so he brings him inside and then he sees the note for the first time and opens it and then he breaks and the tears flow because Bruce cares and bruce still wants him. And dick spends time with the little bat and takes it on missions as Nightwing because they’re both nocturnal and then finally, dick attaches a little note to the bats leg and he flies off to bruce. And bruce sees the little bat on his window and opens it, when he spots Dick standing just below, smiling faintly. “Hey b.”
Bruce gets a bat from the cave ceiling for Babs almost immediately after her accident with Joker because he has responsibilities but he cant leave her alone so he sends her notes everyday and hopes the bat is a good enough companion and when she becomes oracle the bat serves as an exchange of information and contacts and bruce still uses him to check up on her and babs rolls her eyes everytime, but its fond
And so then when Jason comes bruce finds another little bat hanging in crime alley and uses her as a therapy animal after he dies and trains her the way he trained Dick’s but the bat doesn't have anyone to fly to and bruce tries not to cry when he sends it out with notes and it returns because it has no one to deliver to… until one day it doesn't come back. And bruce is afraid and confused and a week later the bat is back, a new note attached to her leg and bruce takes it and breaks down and he gets to talk to his son again.
Tim already comes with his own bat because Nightwing has one, but the little girl imprints on Bruce right away and Tim pouts but he cant really be angry, not when Bruce sends his bat over to him almost daily while hes in the batcave or his room or the tower with reminders to eat and sleep and coupons for coffee
When Steph arrives Bruce hates himself for firing her but he just cant right now, but he stills gets a bat from the cave and sends it to her and apologizes because he cant bring himself to leave everything unspoken between them and Steph actually adores it and every so often she’ll send him a note and bruce knows hes forgiven
For Damian theres no need for a bat because he lives in the house with Bruce, but then they have Goliath and well… he serves as a messenger when no one else can get damian out of the training area
bruce has never named the bats, thinking that was for them alone to do and he didnt want to get too attached because theres always a chance he pushed too far and his kids wont send a message back, but one day all his kids were hanging out in the living room together and bruce had just come up to join them when he hears dick say "hey wheres b? the movie's about to start?" and jason chucks a piece of popcorn in his mouth and goes "idk, ill send him a note." but tim goes "no i will!" and all together they yell "ROBIN!!!" and all their bats come flying from the cave and fly to their specific masters and Bruce cant fight the tears and when every little bat flies towards him and delivers their note he walks out into the living room and gives them the biggest hug
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Why I Love Caitlyn, and Why You Hate Her
⚠️ READER DISCRETION: I am not condoning Caitlyn’s actions and behavior, I am simply exploring the depth of her character and explaining what motivated her pursuit of revenge.
There’s no denying the gravity of Caitlyn’s actions as they are unquestionably wrong. However, her character cannot be reduced to these actions alone. This sudden, devastating behavior of hers is shaped by a thread of complex motivations and circumstances, but many choose not to acknowledge this simply because of her elite background.
Like many others, I initially overlooked the point of the gassing in Zaun, which I think is a crucial thing everyone must first understand before diving into the discourse over Caitlyn's character.
The Grey, often misunderstood as being used indiscriminately, was strategically deployed against the Chem-Barons to limit collateral damage. Caitlyn chose precision over chaos, targeting those directly responsible for Zaun’s turmoil. Furthermore, Caitlyn didn’t kill the Chem-Barons; she captured them, with net-deploying bullets. While her methods are controversial, they reflect a calculated approach; mischaracterizing her raid as a reckless attack ignores these details.
This isn’t to deny or excuse the fact that Caitlyn did, indeed, gas Zaun. Who’s to say that gas didn’t seep into the streets where innocent Zaunites roamed, harming them in the process? It’s entirely possible that innocents were affected and devastated. However, my brief explanation is only added to gain better perspective over the objectives of the gassing itself.
Now moving on, despite her privileged upbringing, Caitlyn shows a genuine effort to understand and connect with Zaunites. She places her trust in Vi, a Zaunite she’s never met before, to guide her in her search for Silco. Her journey through the undercity opens her eyes to the struggles of its people, challenging her perspective.
In S1E4, when investigating the airship attack, she encounters an undercity resident and reassures him, “I can protect you.” Later in the season, when Vi gets stabbed, Caitlyn encounters someone formerly connected to Vi. He’s grown a distaste over himself due to his appearance, and yet Caitlyn embraces him with compassion and tenderness, as a silent sign of gratitude. Then, she surrenders her cherished firearm—her only means of protection—in return for a healing potion to save Vi. In S1E7, Caitlyn’s heartfelt monologue in her conversation with Ekko perfectly captures her hope and determination: “This city needs healing. More than I ever realized. Please, let me help you.”
When Caitlyn and Vi stand in front of the Council, Caitlyn declares: “Councilors, this is Vi. She was born in the undercity. Even though we failed her in countless ways, she risked everything to show me what life is really like down there. People are starving, sick, ravaged by Shimmer. They live in constant fear of the coordinated efforts of violent crime lords.” This monologue alone shows how Caitlyn embodies optimism, believing in the inherent goodness of people, even Zaunites. It also shows that she is very willing to fight for them; she sees helping Zaunites as an act of bringing justice and equality into this world.
Many overlook the depth of Cassandra and Caitlyn’s relationship, reducing it to a simple narrative of a daughter mourning her mother. However, Caitlyn’s mourning is more layered than that. Throughout her life, she has been rebellious, driven by a desire to uncover the reality her mother tried to shield her from. In S1E4, Caitlyn reflects on this by saying, “She’d do anything to keep me from seeing the real world.” Caitlyn’s defiance wasn’t just rebellion for its own sake—it was a stand for her ideals. She sought enlightenment and understanding, even if it meant stepping outside the privileged bubble her mother built for her. By venturing into the undercity and aligning herself with Vi, Caitlyn rejected her mother's own ideals.
Here's another scene in S1E8 that emphasizes this:
Cassandra: You're a Councilor's daughter. Your actions reflect on the entire body. Caitlyn: My actions? You know what else reflects on the Council? Its citizens living on the streets. Being poisoned. Having to chose between a kingpin who wants to exploit them and a government who doesn't give a shit!
In a way, her actions mirror Vi’s: just as Vi betrayed her people by working with the enforcers, Caitlyn betrayed her own mother by involving herself with Zaunites. Remember: The last time we see Caitlyn and Cassandra interact on-screen is during Caitlyn’s plea before the Council. And in that moment, Caitlyn was fighting to protect the very kind that would soon kill her own mother.
You say that Caitlyn’s drastic shift is unjustified, as she’s only experienced a fraction of the suffering Zaunites have been enduring. But that’s precisely the point! Her transformation shows how personal loss can drive the change of one’s entire character; she’s never experienced loss before which is why it feels so heavy for her. And unlike Zaunites, Caitlyn actually has the power to act on her grief. Zaunites have only known misery their whole lives. When their loved one dies, they know there is nothing more they can do but grieve. They don’t have an inch of the privilege and military support Caitlyn has. If you had given them the same resources as Caitlyn, they wouldn’t hesitate to bring ruin to Piltover. Simply put, they don’t fight Piltovans because they don’t want to, but because they can’t.
When Jinx takes her mother away, her compassionate ideals completely shatter. Having always sought justice and understanding for Zaun, Caitlyn feels deeply betrayed, as her faith in the good within every Zaunite is overturned. Her mother’s death becomes a turning point—driving her to abandon her ideals and adopt Piltover’s disdain for the undercity, finally understanding the resentment many Piltovans harbor.
We also tend to forget that, aside from losing her mother, Caitlyn has directly suffered under the hands of Jinx. Caitlyn was held captive by Jinx in Season 1—and God knows what was done to her during that period. In the tea party scene, we see Caitlyn break down in tears, visibly flinching when Jinx moves toward her. It’s clear that Jinx has traumatized Caitlyn not just once, but twice. These experiences deeply shape Caitlyn’s actions moving forward. The pain and fear she’s endured push her to a place where she’s willing to sacrifice almost anything, even if it means putting a child’s life at risk (Isha's) or severing ties with Vi.
While they share their differences, Caitlyn and Jinx are the perfect example of foil characters. Here’s an instance which proves this: Both allow themselves to be influenced by manipulative, powerful figures all while being in a vulnerable state of mind.
Jinx is haunted by guilt; her attempt to save her family only ended up killing them, leaving her with the crushing weight of self-blame. She clings to Silco, not because he was the father she needed, but because he was the father she wanted. Silco indulged her destructive tendencies, keeping her at an all-time high on the edges of chaos. Fragile and broken, Powder crossed paths with Silco at the right moment; he saw the perfect chance to mold her into someone bewildered, unrestrained, and astray.
Caitlyn has her own Silco: Ambessa, the ruthless Noxian leader with a brutal philosophy of war. Ambessa enters Caitlyn’s life at a pivotal moment, stepping in just as Caitlyn is grappling with the devastating loss of her mother. In a spiral of self-identity, Caitlyn struggles with the weight of Piltover’s expectations and her unresolved guilt over her strained relationship with her mother (as explained in previous paragraphs). Just as young Powder mourns her family, Caitlyn blames herself for the death of her mother. Caitlyn got herself involved with the Zaunites even when she was warned not to, and at the expense of her defiance came the death of her mother. Driven by guilt and a thirst for vengeance, Caitlyn steps fully into her role, declaring in S2E1: “I am a decorated officer. Leader of House Kiramman.”
Jinx and Caitlyn share a tragic parallel: they both lose everyone they hold dear. Jinx loses Vi, Vander, Claggor, and Mylo. Caitlyn is left without Cassandra, Vi, Jayce, Mel, and Tobias. Stripped of their support systems, they are left isolated, with no one to confide in or rely on. They become vulnerable, used as pawns in the larger schemes of Silco and Ambessa’s strategic games.
Caitlyn's inner turmoil is exactly why Ambessa’s manipulation is so effective. Caitlyn is compelled to take revenge, but she doesn’t know how to. And without anyone else to guide her, she places her complete trust in Ambessa's expertise. Ambessa doesn’t just give Caitlyn the authority and power to avenge her mother; she teaches her how to use them to their full potential. She toys with Caitlyn's vulnerability, making her adopt the Noxian values of wrath, bloodshed, and ruthlessness.
It’s easy to downplay Caitlyn’s grief since she comes from an elite upbringing. While Cassandra Kiramman is laid to rest in a golden casket with a proper burial, countless innocents in Zaun become victims of merciless violence, being left to die on the streets. After the timeskip however, Caitlyn is shown to recognize the moral cost of her actions. Though the series portrays this realization subtly, it becomes evident that Caitlyn is grappling with the inhumanity and immorality of her pursuit of revenge. In S2E4, this internal conflict comes to light during her conversation with Ambessa. When Ambessa attempts to stoke her fury again, Caitlyn disarms her with a piercing question: “Why is peace always the justification for violence?”
Here's another scene that subtly depicts her realization and remorse:
Caitlyn: You're a monster. Why? Why do all this? Singed: Why does anyone commit acts others deem unspeakable? ... For love.
When Caitlyn steps further and sees Orianna, she realizes that Singed's revenge is a reflection of her own: a person grieving the death of their family member. Here, there's a saddened glint in her eyes. She finally understands now, that love and grief made her do things that once seemed so foreign to her. In this case, going against her own principles just to succeed in her revenge.
Caitlyn is now forever haunted by the outcome of her mistakes, but she knows her past cannot be erased. During her confrontation with Jinx in the prison, she admits, “No amount of good deeds can undo our crimes.” While this statement is directed at Jinx, it feels like Caitlyn also holds this against herself for her own wrongdoings.
Caitlyn’s acts of atonement are done quietly. She’s not good with words; she’s bad at articulating how she feels. Ironically, Vi is much better than Caitlyn when it comes to confronting and vocalizing internal conflict. So instead, Caitlyn’s actions speak for herself. By removing the guards at the prison, she tacitly allows Vi the opportunity to rescue Jinx. She knows Vi will come to save her sister, and yet she lets her. She finally lets go of Jinx and the grudge she held against her, as a silent act of her love for Vi.
And in S2E9, Sevika is shown to be sitting among the Councilors. But thanks to a fan's keen eyes, we find out that she is sat particularly on Cassandra Kiramman's chair (which not many notice). By allowing a Zaunite to occupy her mother's seat, Caitlyn gives them a chance to be rightfully represented, a chance for their voices and suffering to finally be heard. It’s a quiet display of Caitlyn’s evolution and willingness to bridge the divide between Piltover and Zaun.
That said, Arcane’s ending left much to be desired regarding Caitlyn’s arc. The heavy focus on Hextech overshadowed the sociopolitical dynamics of Piltover and Zaun. This is the main reason a lot of hate is thrown toward Caitlyn—there is an act of accountability, but there a lack of consequence. While Caitlyn acknowledges her mistakes, her privileged status keeps her from real repercussions, unlike the tragedy other characters had to face. This is frustrating, even to me, as someone whose favorite character is Caitlyn. Yet, in a way, it realistically portrays the inequalities in our own world—where the elite are often shielded from justice, and repentance is the closest they ever come to redemption.
#arcane#caitlyn kiramman#character analysis#league of legends#caitlyn#essay#in this essay i will#food for thought#i guess we really are a league of legends#caitvi#violyn#arcane vi#season 2 spoilers
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Danny used to be a vigilante, firmly on the side of good. Like, illegally, but morally good.
Danny’s 100% sure that whatever he is now, it’s not good.
Is Gotham’s influence just Like That?
He was homeless when he got to this thrice damned city (literally, because Lady Gotham was so cursed) and now he’s… here? In a mid-level penthouse with a rotation of homeless kids going in and out of his kitchen and eating out his pantry??
Danny adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, making the conscious decision to ditch the tie. He’s a tall 6ft 4 now, taking after his Dad. His head smarted all of the time, hitting doorframes when he was being a bit clumsier than the normal ghost-like grace he had learned to channel as The Phantom.
The Phantom instead of just Phantom. Why? Because Phantom was the name of a teenage vigilante in another dimension. The Phantom, on the other hand, is an intimidatingly tall, deceptively kind, extremely dangerous kingpin.
Honestly? Danny didn’t even want this life. Like, he had no idea it would snowball like this??
He supposed that it all started when the Penguin was trying to snatch kids off of his block on Crime Alley. Not officially his block, of course, because Danny didn’t actually enter this city to be a crime-shadow thing. But he hadn’t lost enough of Phantom the Vigilante to ignore kids getting hurt. He still hasn’t, if he’s being honest. He flew into a frantic search, tracking down the missing kids to Penguin’s bar. The Iceberg Lounge. Apparently, he wanted the kids to do some menial tasks and what not. Danny, rage flickering through his core, intangibly went in and robbed Penguin of every coin and secret the man kept.
Then? Danny blackmailed the Penguin to guarantee his kids a measure of safety from the Rogue. That began the slippery slope into whatever it is he does now. Penguin was being kept in line by Danny’s threats, the grip he had on the Rogue’s weak points, and a wonderful bit of intimidation.
——
“What, you stinking phantom? I’m stickin’ to yer rules!” Penguin snarled, forced to his knees by invisible blob ghosts.
Danny, salty and pissy from the lack of sleep he’d experienced trying to keep Penguin’s men in line as a result of Penguin trying to test where Danny’s lines were, dropped the temperature to the point where Penguin started shivering. Considering the place was already cold- the Iceberg lounge lived up to its name- it meant that Danny was standing nonchalantly in a room that was negative twenty five degree Celsius in a sweatshirt, Danny was already making good on his natural intimidation factor.
“It’s The Phantom to you, Oswald.” Danny said, in the tone of someone saying ��it’s the shit, to you.”
Danny narrowed his blue eyes, letting a tiny tint of ectoplasm make his eyes glow a bit in the suddenly icing over room.
“Your people have been getting on my nerves, Oswald. Roughing up kids is so… uncultured. Are you sure you’re a Cobblepot?”
Penguin snarled, the effect of which was rendered ineffective due to his increasingly violent shivers. Plus, Danny loomed over him without even trying.
Danny, annoyed and asking himself “What Would Dan Do To Intimidate This Guy?”, gripped Penguin’s shoulder and hauled him up one handed. He dragged the mob boss over to one of the booths, avoiding the bodies he’d dropped (non-lethally) when Danny first walked in to ruin Penguin’s night. He shoved Penguin in chair he iced over, because Danny’s petty and if he saw one more bruise on his kids at Penguin’s hands, Danny was gonna go full Dan the Murderer.
He at least allowed to room to warm up before laying into Penguin, though. He stayed standing. Hey, he had the height advantage to use. He could have kept Penguin kneeling, but it was probably god the best that the mob boss got some sense of pride back.
(Danny had no idea that sitting as someone loomed over you to lecture and threaten you was even worse than kneeling. At least with kneeling, you knew where you stood. But sitting? It leaves you horribly off kilter.)
“I told you to keep your people in line. Kids are off limits, Oswald.”
“I kept them in line!”
Never let it be said that Oswald Cobblepot had a normal functioning sense of self preservation.
“Really?” Danny jabbed his pointer finger lightly on top of Penguin’s trachea and allowed his fingernails to sharpen into Phantom’s sharper digits. Penguin tried to lean away. “Then why did they start a gun fight when there were kids visible on the street? Why did I see one of my kids get hit by one of your poor excuses of a bouncer?”
“I-”
“Don’t care much for your excuses, if I’m being honest. I let you mess around with the little projects you have, without even breathing a whisper of your secrets. Sionis would love to know how you double crossed him the last deal, yeah?”
“I- I’ll keep them in line!” Penguin stuttered.
“Well, I believe in second chances,” Danny bullshitted. Ancients, how was this even working? “So I suggest you make an example of the guy that smacked Hailey around before I make an example out of you, Oswald.”
“Fine! Fine!”
——
And with that, he got access to Penguin’s resources and men and more importantly, the corrupt police officers. He made Penguin “boot out” the pedophilic ones (in a very violent way) and kept the rest.
Then? Mr. Freeze froze over the god damn pipes and Danny had to intimidate and make a deal with the Rogue so he and his increasing roster of orphans had access to warm water.
In exchange for Danny’s restorative and, more importantly, unmelting ice, Mr. Freeze was now Danny’s… on-call enforcer?? When he’s not researching cures for his frozen in a pod wife, that is.
Danny was satisfied with that. He was! But then Black Mask happened, with the man trying to engage in a battle of wits with Danny over the control of Crime Alley which, at that point, was firmly Danny’s territory.
The thing is, Danny doesn’t play nice anymore. Why bother with pointless mind games when he could just…
——
“So, you’re The Phantom.”
“And you’re Sionis.”
Black Mask twitched at the name, gloved hands pulling out his guns. Danny sat on the counter, head touching mid cabinet, and sipped out of Sionis’ favorite mug.
Because Danny broke into Black Mask’s safe house and stole his quality coffee. The man’s eyes were wary.
“How did you get in here?”
Danny shrugged. “Walked.”
Danny held the coffee out of the way as Sionis unloaded a clip into his chest and lunged forward to slap a mask onto Danny’s face. After waiting a bit, as Black Mask’s smug triumph bled into shock, Danny laughed and, using a bit of his natural strength, tossed the guy off of him. He casually took the mask off of his face.
“Jeez, I’m trying to be nice, here.”
“So, you’re a Meta.”
Danny grinned. “Eh. And you’re a cult leader with a mask fetish.”
Danny tuned out the rant about the “true face of Gotham” or whatever, already bored, and sipped at Sionis’ coffee. The ass might be a psycho, but his coffee tastes were wonderful. Danny stood up, rinsed his mug, and turned back to Black Mask.
“You’re trafficking people. Kids.” He said, cutting through Sionis’ chatter. He was sly about it too, committing violence and torture in a way that would ensure obedience and fear. Danny probably would have never caught on, Black Mask’s schemes being so ingeniously created and executed, had he not kept a hawk’s eyes on the more vulnerable members of Crime Alley’s community. And the rest of Gotham’s vulnerable communities, of course.
“My, a wonderfully obvious conclusion. Now, Phantom, I have a proposition for you.”
Sionis seemed to have gotten his bearings back. Danny tilted his head at him, looking down.
“You can work for me,” Sionis said, before opening a laptop with video feed to one of his masked men or whatever holding a knife to one of Danny’s more fearless kids. Danny snarled.
“Or, refuse, and your kid will lose a finger for every instance of your defiance.”
“I told you not to touch the kids, Sionis. I don’t allow trafficking either.”
Black Mask chuckled. “Cut off a finger, Sadness.”
“Yes, bos- ARGHHHH!”
Danny watched as Mr. Freeze froze the goon’s arms before breaking them.
“I’ve got her, Phantom.”
Danny nodded at Freeze, keeping an eye on Sionis in case the fool bolts.
“So, what are your cards now, Sionis? You’ve sure pissed me off with nothing to show for it.”
And that was the last night anyone heard from the one that was supposed to be the King of Crime.
But Gotham knew the head mounted on a pike at one of Black Mask’s hastily abandoned bases was a warning, that The Phantom was watching.
——
Then he somehow got a gaggle of more orphans that were undead zombie “Talons?”
From there, he just obtained influence over the crime bosses of Gotham. Because his Talons kept bringing him heads and blackmail and his crime alley kids and Gotham orphans kept bringing him information for food and safety?
But like, Danny never wanted anything in exchange for the safety he provided. His core could give less of a shit whether he got anything in return. But he couldn’t convince his kids of that! They’re putting themselves in danger and ugh-!
Danny checked himself once more in the mirror. Ready, he stepped out into the night to wait for the Bats at his new favorite VIP spots.
On the way, he passed Ivy and Harley, who he waved to. Pamela worked under him because he controlled Gotham’s criminal underground (which also mean the official parts of the city considering the sheer amount of corruption) and influenced them into more plant friendly methods. His dominion over Undergrowth also helped immensely.
Harley? They’re friends. He beat up and crippled her abusive ex. She gave him therapy and stopped torturing people for fun.
Danny stepped into the back door of the Iceberg Lounge. No one stopped him. No one dared to.
He settled onto a velvet couch, nodding respectfully at the server that had immediately and nervously set down his mai tai. He glanced around for cameras and wire taps, before giving up and upping his ectoplasmic output to short any recording devices out.
He sipped his drink as he waited.
“Batman.”
“Phantom.”
“Oh, good. You didn’t bring Robin,” Danny said, watching Batman tense. “Kids shouldn’t be in places like these.”
Batman stayed silent.
“Come on, sit.” Danny gestured to the couch across from him.
“This isn’t a social call. I’ll stop whatever you’re scheming-” Batman growled.
“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic. Is this where Nightwing gets it from?”
Batman snarled.
“Sit, sit.” Danny rolled his eyes.
Batman stayed stubbornly looming. Danny sighed, allowing his voice to slip into velvet danger.
“I told you to sit, Bruce Wayne.”
“You-”
“I won’t repeat myself again, Bruce. You’re testing my patience.”
Bruce sat, wary and hyper vigilant. Danny sighed, settling back in his chair.
“You’ve heard of Red Hood, yes? Don’t answer that, it was hypothetical. I know you’ve heard of him.” Danny waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t really care why he’s setting up shop in my Alley, but he’s upsetting the other crime lords. They’re asking me to interfere.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“No,” Danny acknowledged with a nod. “But I could make you, if you push it. Politeness would serve you much better right now, Bruce, seeing as I am doing you a… favor. And since I’m not shouting to the world who you are under the cowl.”
Danny gave Batman a pointed, patented, mom glare.
“��� Apologies.”
“Now, you might be wondering what that favor is.” Danny watched Batman’s cowled face carefully. “I thought you should know that the Red Hood is your “Jason Todd.’”
Batman was still. And then Batman leapt at him, snarling, “How dare you-!”
Danny caught the vigilante by the throat and squeezed.
Batman’s flurry of punches- which, mildly ow, those gauntlets kind of hurt- quickly changed to clawing and maneuvers to get out of the choke hold. Danny held steady, cutting off the vigilante’s air supply until he began to go limp. He’s not Superman. Danny will bruise and kill, if he had to.
“Are you going to listen to me now?” Danny asked mildly, emulating both Black Mask’s drawl and Dan’s effortless psychosis.
Batman gave a weak nod. Danny plopped him unceremoniously back onto his couch. He sipped on his drink once more as he waited for Batman to cough some sweet air back into his lungs.
“I’m telling you to get your little birds in line before I have to go hunting, yeah? Keep your kids out of danger, Bruce, and I won’t have to step in.”
“He- how do you know..?” The growl isn’t there anymore, and Danny felt a smug sense of vindication of having smothered it out of the guy. Woah, no, that thought was too Dan and too little Danny. Danny handed him a cup of water, which Batman didn’t drink.
Danny rolled his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Drink. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now. And as for how I know…”
Danny held up a beat up copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, filled with Jason’s writing. He tossed it to Batman, who caught it with blank eyes.
“Water,” Danny reminded him firmly, feeling like a mother hen. Batman gulped down his water, eyes flicking between the pages of Jason’s annotated book. Ancients, Danny couldn’t believe he annotated his book. A crime lord, like that? Well, it’s not like Danny could say anything.
Batman looked up at him, a silent demand- no, plea, because he’s not in a position to make demands- for an answer.
“Broke into his safe house. You should contact your fling, Talia. Seems like she dunked him into these “Lazarus pits” and told him you replaced him with the current Robin.”
Danny could see Batman’s emotional gears hard at work and honestly, he doesn’t have time for that.
“Now, we’re done here. You owe me one for the information. I’ll collect later.” Danny grabbed the Dark Knight, who stayed oddly unresisting (shock, maybe?) , and hauled him up.
“Tell Tim Drake to eat more. He looks too skinny.” With that, Danny dragged the Dark Knight to the window and punted him out. His kids were waiting on hot chocolate night and Danny had to go shopping for quality ingredients.
——
“YOU COULDN’T HAVE TOLD ME THE BIGGEST CRIME LORD OF YOUR CITY WAS THE FUCKING HIGH KING OF THE INFINITE REALMS?!”
“Hn.”
“BLOODY HELL, DON’T YOU GRUNT AT ME, YOU BROODY BASTARD!”
Constantine let out a scream. Shite, the king who held his soul contract was a crime lord. Great.
——
The reason intelligence and convoluted schemes and genius doesn’t work against Danny is because he’s got weird standards of what he’ll tolerate and the fact is that his normal dumbassery and mother hen tendencies cancels out and coherent thoughts or plans he might have had.
#danny phantom#batman#dc x dp#bruce wayne#jason todd#red hood#bamf danny phantom#danny the accidental crime lord#danny took over Gotham by adoption and intimidation#morally grey danny phantom#Gotham#scary danny phantom#tw: choking#not in the nasty way#in the intimidation tactic way#danny is losing it#a bit#nightwing#tbh I just wanted to write dark! Danny lol#without the whole world ending mass murder
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We need more young stan content out here.
And nah I ain't talking about 12 year old Stanley or 30 year old mullet Stan, I'm talking 17 year old, slicked back hair, acne riddled Stan pines.
Yeah that one.
I am so happy mullet Stan is so popular because his fit slaps ngl and the angst is so potent I can't not respect it. But teenage Stan has so much potential it's driving me insane.
There is a line dividing the 17 years of relative happiness Stan had with Ford and the 10+ years of depression and crime he had on the streets, and teenage Stan uses that line as a goddamn jump rope.
Seriously, depending on how you look at it dude is either living his best life or is fighting for said life in the trenches of homelessness and poverty.
I see a lot of content regarding Stan on the streets but it only ever focuses on 30ish Stan in his later years of homelessness where he's already a hardened adult after years of dealing with this bullshit. But Stan didn't just drive away and then magically turn 30. There were times in those first few months after Stan got kicked out where he was in his car, trying to sleep, probably starving, while still being fundamentally a child.
Hell, compared to the 30ish age of mullet Stan and the 60+ year old con man he'd later become, teenage Stan is damn near a baby. There's a certain brightness about him, a sort of warm naive optimism that still clings to him because he's straight up just too young to know any better.
He's still fully convinced he's gonna make it rich and go back to his family in a few years. He still believes wholeheartedly that even if shit sucks right now, eventually everything is gonna be okay. It has to be. But it's not gonna be okay. It's not gonna be okay for a long time. And some parts are just never gonna be okay.
Seeing a happy and oblivious teenage Stan feels like watching a baby lamb walk into a slaughter house.
The next 10-something years are going to tear him apart limb from limb. In 40 years he's going to wake up on a boat during a bout of amnesia thinking he's in Columbian prison, or he's locked in the trunk of a car and about to drown, or his shoulder is on fire and his brother is gone, or it's the end of the world and everyone he ever dared to give a shit about is about to die in front of him and it's all his fault because he was too weak to stop it.
At some point, a young Stanley is going to get into his first true life or death fight. He doesn't even have to be involved with crime yet for it to happen. He's probably bruised and bleeding, with not nearly enough money to afford a doctor. He's sitting in the driver's seat of his El Diablo having a complete and utter break down because he almost died and suddenly everything is real.
Nothing is okay, absolutely nothing is going to be okay and whatever is left of his teenage innocence, naivety, and warmth dies in that car and it never comes back.
The next 10+ years are going to fundamentally change Stanley as a person and he's never going to be the same ever again. But teenage Stan doesn't know that, he's still a kid trying to sleep in the back of his car, ignoring hunger pangs and finding comfort in the half baked business ideas his mind cooks up because he doesn't understand how utterly done for he is.
12 year old Stanley I believe is so appealing because of his bright rambunctious spirit. He's still just a kid playing on the beach with his brother, but so was teenage Stan. I just wish the wholesomeness that comes with that and the subsequent hurt that follows as that spirit is broken over and over again by the world was explored more.
Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.
#gravity falls fandom#gravity falls#character analysis#gravity falls stanley#gravity falls stan pines#gravity falls stanford#stan pines#grunkle stan#stangst#stanford pines#stan twins#stanley pines#gf stanley#stan and ford#young stan pines#mullet stan#teenage stan pines#gravity falls ford#ford pines#I NEED MORE TEENAGE STANLEY CONTENT PLEASE HES SO GOOBER#fanart#gravity falls fanart
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Wayward Twin
A large part of being Robin, besides the physical crime fighting, is dealing with secrets.
Both in unearthing them, and in keeping them.
Tim would say he's good at both of it, very good at it. After all, finding and keeping Batman's secret is how he ended up being a vigilante... among other reasons.
Speaking of 'other reasons', Tim thinks with mild hysteria, as he stared at the carbon copy of one Jason Todd. Are Todd children cursed to die early?
...
Let's backtrack a bit.
Jason Todd had a twin brother, one Danny Todd, that was given away at birth. Later, a couple under the name of J. and M. Fenton gave birth to a stillborn, and they took Danny in as theirs. Then the Fentons moved away from Gotham, and the file ends.
That is one of the things Tim had found about his predecessor when he went snooping on the bat computer. The file is incomplete, investigations dropped far before the trail runs cold, then everything is locked under heavy encryption.
Not surprising, considering all that happened after.
So, Tim knows Jason had a twin. One that probably, hopefully, lived an uneventful civilian life far away from Gotham.
Oh boy was Tim wrong.
Because when Robin and his teammates arrived at Amity Park for a team up with the local heroes team, Tim was greated with the face of his dead predecessor.
Danny Fenton, as he introduced himself, son of the local ghost hunters, and a member of Team Phantom.
Danny Fenton, who is also the local spectral hero Phantom. Not that Tim is supposed to know, but come on.
Point being, Jason's twin brother did not get to live a peaceful life, even if he grew up outside Gotham. His life is so not peaceful that he died, or otherwise created a ghost- okay who's Tim kidding, he definitely died.
Died, at the same young age of fourteen as Jason, around the same month and possibly on the same day. Tim had yet to confirm the exact date without giving away what he knows, but it's too much of a coincidence already.
Seriously, are the Todds cursed or something?
...
In the end though, this revelation changed nothing.
Robin's teammates doesn't need to know. They don't even know Tim under the mask of Robin, there's negative amount of reasons in telling them about the previous Robin.
Bruce and Dick, they don't need to know either. Jason is and always will be a sore subject, better not to dig into that old wound without some really good reason. Besides, Team Phantom is very clear from the start that they don't want to be involved with JL business unless absolutely necessary, so really it's better to let what happened in Amity stay in Amity.
Tim did, briefly, considered telling Danny. It feels wrong not to. But even ignoring the mess of secret identities spanning between them... Danny didn't know, he didn't know he had a twin. Telling him just to let him know Jason is dead feels even more wrong.
Which means in the end, it's just another secret that Tim keeps.
#and then Red Hood happened and Tim is like#so mad he didn't thought to check the grave#Danny didn't die fully who's to say his twin wouldn't be the same???#dpxdc#dcxdp#danny fenton#yj98#undead twin#timothy drake#jason todd
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Benign
Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader
Summary: Marrying a former Soviet sleeper agent was your first mistake. Letting curiosity get the better of you and saying his trigger words before sex was your second.
Warnings: 18+. DUBCON - Bucky is partly brainwashed; R is reluctant at first. Reliving past trauma (i.e., grief, prior HYDRA captivity). Rough, unprotected p-in-v.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Marrying into the mob meant one of two things: turning a blind eye to your husband’s crimes or taking them up as your own. Most of the women who had gone before you chose the former, leading lives of willful ignorance while their spouses cut deals, shed blood, stole guns, and submitted only to the laws of secrecy and discretion.
You, unlike those wives, hadn’t had the luxury of choice.
Your life, unlike theirs, had been sold to a man you didn’t know, by a father you couldn’t stand, and now your dad was dead, and this man—your husband—was to blame.
The least Bucky could do was fuck you hard to say sorry.
But no, ever since the Winter Soldier had reared its ugly head that dreadful night in Madripoor two weeks prior, your husband hadn’t laid one finger on your body that was not soft, sweet, and sickeningly apologetic to you. He seemed almost scared to initiate sex, and when he did, couldn’t help but act like a touch might break you.
After all, one almost had. Those hands he’d hear you beg and plead to put on you now were the very same ones he’d used to kill dozens, if not hundreds, including blood of your own blood. To the world, Bucky’s reputation commanded fear. To his wife, now, he felt duly obliged to prove he was more—that you were safe with him, not from him. He’d carted you off to every GP, hematologist, nutritionist, and grief specialist lauded among Brooklyn’s elite to make that happen. Fast. Frankly, these days, the thought of fucking was the furthest thing from his mind.
Unbeknownst to Bucky, somewhere along the spectrum of grief, you’d already come to settle comfortably at the ‘Need-to-be-fucked-until-I-can-no-longer-think-or-feel’ phase, and every bone in your body was crying out for respite in the form of ruthless, mind-numbing sex. It didn’t make sense. You hardly knew what to do with it. You should have lashed out, shut down, cried rivers and lakes of tears for that integral part of family that had been lost, but for whatever reason, you had to go numb.
You wanted to do something really, really fucking dumb.
Remorseful as he was, Bucky and his explanations for who or what the Winter Soldier was had been sparse. He’d told you that he had once been held in captivity by HYDRA, had his brain re-wired some way to make him a merciless Soviet sleeper agent, and that the night in Madripoor was the first in ages he had been ‘activated.’ How did activation happen? Of course, he wouldn’t tell.
But Steve would.
Steve had told you everything you wanted to know about your soldat, describing in painstaking detail how he worked, trained, operated, and could be called to action. You were almost certain Rogers had said it all as a way to assure you that it wasn’t Bucky who’d killed your father—it was someone inside him. You were more than positive Steve had never intended for you to use his intel like this.
You hadn’t believed him. Couldn’t believe him. How the fuck could someone sever all ties to their conscious mind and just transform anew into a killer? You got to be hell-bent on knowing for certain whether it’d been Bucky or him, it, whatever the hell the Winter Solider was, and on knowing it now. If your husband was faking it all and simply using this persona to justify the killing, that would be it. Trust gone, marriage over. If he wasn’t, well…you hadn’t gotten that far into your own line of thinking.
“Tell me what you want, doll,” Bucky said, pulling you back to the present.
He shifted gently against you, cotton trousers raising the friction a little as he slotted between your legs. He was still dressed head-to-toe from his meeting that morning.
“I want you to fuck me. Make me cum. Please.”
You were bare, save for one small scrap of linen and lace that somehow passed as a nightie. Your gaze was soft.
Bucky didn’t want to say no, but he also felt too guilty to say yes. The way you were watching him now, eyes so helpless and pleading, body writhing for contact, he knew you didn’t want his touch so much as needed it. Desperately. Couldn’t bear to be burdened with grief so you brushed it aside, to the furthest recesses of your mind until all that was left was desire. Starvation, really.
He could satiate you for now, but that hunger might not ever leave. The corners of his lips twitched into a frown.
“Gentle?” he mumbled.
“Rough,” you countered.
“Baby—”
“I really don’t need another fucking lecture on death, Bucky. I know I’m not myself right now, but I can still make these decisions, okay? Don’t talk to me like I can’t.”
Anger flashed in your eyes for a second, then indignation, then nothing. Without much energy left, you pushed him away. Flopped back on the bed and, seeming to sink into yourself, heaved a low, feeble sigh.
“I know. Hey,” Bucky leaned over to press a touch to your tummy, and it made you want to hurl, “I’m sorry.”
You turned onto your side.
“You still don’t remember what happened?”
The question came suddenly, almost from somewhere outside your body, it seemed. For the hundredth time.
“No,” Bucky answered, for what felt like the thousandth.
“This Winter Soldier—”
“He isn’t me.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Couldn’t know. Wasn’t…programmed for it.”
Bucky was watching you now, eyes as contrite as they’d ever been while you rehashed this subject to the brink of tears. He never could stay composed when he saw you cry.
“Baby…” he started, arms reaching out for you.
Eyes still filling with tears, you shook your head and swatted him off. You sat up, and your brows pinched together in a look he couldn’t read. Contemplating.
At last, you made up your mind.
You would try something new—and really, really stupid:
“Zhelaniye.”
“What?”
Bucky’s own expression contorted with uncertainty.
“—semnadtsat, rzhaviy, rasvet—”
He heard that. He immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Wait—”
You were curious. You had no idea what you were doing.
“Baby, baby, stop—”
“—pech, devyat—”
You were speaking so fast, surely it wouldn’t work like that. Either way, he had to stop you. He seized your arms, giving a sharp, deliberate shake, pupils blown to the size of saucers in his eyes. There wasn’t much time.
“Don’t—”
“—adin—”
No time at all.
“—dothisdon’tfuckingdothishoneyplease.”
Losing himself already. Feeling it stir inside his mind.
“—dobroserdechniy—”
‘Kind-hearted.’ ‘Benign’. You truly had no clue what these words were liable to do, much less what they meant.
Having enunciated this last part, you swallowed. Took the tip of your tongue and rolled it left-to-right across the backs of your teeth, waiting for your speech to take effect like some magical performance before your eyes.
It hadn’t, it seemed. You blinked. He blinked. You sat in a protracted silence for what seemed like seventeen years, and presently, your stomach began to churn. Nothing happened—you’d been right about this fuckery all along.
Then you remembered one last word of the sequence.
Faintly, you said:
“Soldat.”
The man above you straightened. Sitting. Stiff. Still perched by your legs at a comfortable distance but regarding you now with a pointed stare. Expectancy made manifest in a simple, sharp glare from his eyes to yours.
“...Bucky?”
The look on his face grew even harder. For a time, he persisted in that strange and silent grimace, and just when you started to suspect he was faking this whole demeanor of deadened stoicism, you heard a voice. Clawing out of his throat but sounding nothing like him:
“Who the hell is Bucky?”
The words drove a fear to the greatest depths of your bones, and you hardly knew why. You stared back at the handsome, barren man still watching you with severity, and you couldn’t seem to find your husband anywhere.
“James?” You weren’t sure why you tried his name again. You just didn’t know what else to say.
The scowl seeped into his mouth, and he frowned.
“James,” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him.
You found yourself shuffling back on the bed just then—to what, you didn’t know. You just felt a gnawing need to put some space between you and this person, this glowering face, however you could. When he grabbed your ankle, you let out a startled sound, and when he followed you up on the bed, you did more than just whimper; you lifted your leg to knee him directly in the stomach. He caught it.
Then he stared again, expression bloodless and wan.
“You’re scaring me, Bucky.” Your voice trembled as you tried to free your leg from his fist—grip unusually strong.
The man paused another moment, if only to soak in your words and let his gaze trail over your face. Your exertions did not register. And, for the very first time, you felt as though you were something more like a plaything in your husband’s eyes—not a full-fledged human being but a system to be gamed. The feeling was so unsettling that you had to turn away.
Or try to, anyway.
Craning your neck just far enough to spy your phone on the nightstand, your first thought was Steve; he would know what to do. But before you could even think to twist and lift your body in that direction, you felt a hand yank you to the bed, flat on your back. You looked up at Bucky and found yourself caged between two arms. He lowered himself to his elbows, shifted his weight to one side, and seemed not to notice your movements at all when you tried to slide away. The man just splayed his hand across your stomach and pressed it firmly. Stay.
You weren’t one to shy away from a challenge—or keep hope alive against the odds. You put your hand over his.
“James—”
“Zhena.”
The abruptness of Bucky’s word stole the rest of yours. You cocked a brow and followed his gaze to your hand.
To the gaps between your fingers, then the touch that fanned across them to settle on one digit in particular.
Bucky thumbed at the diamond and smiled. He smiled.
“Zhena,” he repeated.
You blinked.
“I— you...gave me that, Bucky. You did.”
He hummed in acknowledgment.
Bucky stared at the ring for what could’ve been five seconds or several years, and then he did something unexpected. He shifted his touch to the bodice of your dress—again, if you could even call it that—and he began to tug at the satin bow situated between your breasts.
Of course, this nightie being designed for honeymoons and supremely easy access, it didn’t take much effort at all for the folds of your dress to come apart. Your breasts spilled out of the fabric without so much as a hint of protest, your torso was quick to become fully exposed, and suddenly, shortly, your hands were fumbling at your chest in an effort to regain some smidgen of modesty. Your husband just shook his head, following your hands.
“Moya zhena,” he said, a touch more emphasis and fervor to the first of the two words.
Now it was you who was shaking your head. Trying to pry his touch away as you slid up the bed. When he followed, you saw the icy expression had been supplanted by intrigue and, though you still felt ill at ease, you couldn’t deny you were curious to know what he was thinking. Who was thinking it? Soft, plush lips swiftly replaced his hands, and before you even knew what he was doing, Bucky, or someone, was latching onto your left breast. Using teeth to graze the hardened nub and send a ripple of thick, guilty pleasure coursing through you.
You whimpered. Bucky groaned.
Your fingers slotted through his hair with every intention of pushing him away, but when you tried, he just flicked his tongue and made another delicious sound against you.
You pushed with even more force, and he groaned again.
Not Bucky, not Bucky, not him, you have to—
“Stop!” you cried.
A set of soft, warm baby blues darted up to meet you.
Some flicker of recognition seemed to cross them, too.
“Honey?”
You almost lurched toward the sound. It was Bucky.
Suddenly, your hands were making fists in the collar of his crisp white button-up, and you were trying to yank him up. You murmured his name in disbelief, relief, and gathered him up in your arms to pull him in for a kiss.
The lips that met you were soft for a moment—just one.
Then the teeth reappeared. Harsh, jarring, biting. You jerked back at the sensation, and when you found his face again, it seemed your husband was lost to you all over. The eyes were attentive still—nowhere near as cold and aloof as they had been before—but they did not radiate the same warmth and admiration that Bucky’s always did. You almost couldn’t believe what you were seeing. He was gone, just like that, and there was nothing you could do to stop it from happening.
A broad palm cupped your cheek to bring you in for another kiss, and you weren’t sure if you should indulge. It didn’t seem you had much choice anyway, because the lips that were seeking yours were hungry. Starved. Searing into your mouth with a force you couldn’t refuse.
But something inside you wanted to find Bucky again.
Somewhere inside this stranger was lying dormant a trace of your husband; you’d seen it yourself, if only for a second. It made you curious. Where had he gone? What did he do when forced to retreat into this strange, preprogrammed being, and how could you get him back?
“Bucky,” you mumbled, more of a plea than a moan.
You were kissed harder than you had been in a long time. You didn’t have to think, or do, or breathe one puff of air that this man didn’t account for. His tongue wedged a gaping space in your wet, welcoming mouth for him to fill, and somehow, you didn’t feel the urge to protest. A familiarity in the way he kissed almost put you at ease, and when his body lifted slightly, yours lifted with it.
Before long, Bucky was sitting. Kneeling between your legs with an eye to your soft, shaking torso. You’d barely even come to notice just how hard you were breathing until you felt a palm on your stomach again. There was an oddly calming insinuation in that one simple touch.
And again, he smiled. Brighter than before.
“Nashe?” He sounded eager as he said it.
You peered up at him and raised an eyebrow in question. Perhaps you should’ve felt more exposed; after all, you were sitting half-naked with your husband’s assassin alter ego stroking your stomach and beaming over you, eyeing you expectantly, and you didn’t know what to say. Apart from the short set of words Steve had taught you, you were totally clueless to Russian, and you weren’t quite sure you were in a place to ask Bucky to translate.
When it seemed words might never come, the gleaming teeth above you were shrouded in a tighter, close-lipped smile, and Bucky nodded. Appearing to understand. Instead of forcing a response from you, he just let his hand migrate down your belly, fingers tracing the skin, then settle comfortably—momentarily—at the crest of your pubic bone. Then he pressed the heel of his palm into the place residing right below it, and without really meaning to, you moaned. A quiet maelstrom of pleasure circled low in your abdomen, threatening to draw noises from your throat you weren’t planning to make with every gentle gyration of Bucky’s lower hand.
You had to purse your lips to contain the sounds.
Again, he nodded.
“It’s okay,” he said, so quiet he almost couldn’t be heard.
He let the friction continue for a while like that: just palming you, watching you react to the simplest of motions against your swollen, aching clit and try not to writhe. At length, you squirmed a little bit. Bucky seemed to want to wait for something to happen, and when you bucked your hips, a look in his eye said that was enough.
He lowered himself between your legs. Shoulders bumping your thighs as he spread them apart, chest rising and falling in measured breaths, and lips smiling all the while. You sucked in a breath when his face came to rest just a few inches shy of your bare, aching warmth.
“Bucky?”
The man looked up at you and blinked.
“Yeah, honey?”
One thumb traced over the seam of your cunt, and your back nearly arched off the bed. There he was, again, gaze safe and secure to yours and hands moving in tandem as they always would. His tongue calmly followed suit. When you fisted his hair, he blinked once more and then directed his attention back to your wet, warm, velvety folds with a pointed look and a purpose.
The sound that escaped you next could hardly be classed as anything less than a scream, but the soft and unperturbed demeanor of the man between your legs showed he hadn’t noticed at all. He just sucked diligently—damn near dutifully—on your clit with a vigor you’d never felt, and when you yanked at his hair, he hummed.
It was like his lips had been trained for perfect suction; that was how well and thoroughly he descended upon your swollen little bud. An airtight kiss and a quick flick of his tongue, paired with his hot and heavy breaths fanning over your cunt, sent your senses into overdrive. Your toes curled inward, your throat let loose a gasp, and without fully realizing it, your walls were clamping down, pulsing and leaking out desire for more of this touch.
Then, without warning, Bucky brought a hand to the throbbing and slick cunt that was presently clenching around nothing, and he fed it two fingers. So forceful and deep he nearly buried his knuckles right along with them. Then he started scissoring those two fingers, sharply.
“Open, milaya,” he said. Again, it wasn’t entirely Bucky.
But you felt a faint remembrance there. You didn’t want him to stop. Maybe you were led astray by the gentle laps of his tongue or the prodding of his fingertips, or perhaps there was something stubbornly familiar about the way he was touching you now. You couldn’t tell.
All you knew was that both of your hands were holding tight to his head and begging him, wordlessly, for more.
Your moans rang all the way through the bedroom in your new, far-too-big penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, down the hall, reverberating through every inch of the space until all that could be heard were your sounds and his and the delectable little noises of your bodies working together. Bucky hadn’t even stirred to pleasure himself.
You wanted that part to change.
With your hip pinned to the mattress and Bucky’s tongue laving over your clit in ruthlessly quick movements, you probably would’ve liked to cum all over his mouth and fingers, but you wanted to see him pleased even more.
Just when he’d worked a third finger inside you and was driving you close to your peak, you pushed him away.
Bucky parted from your folds with a glistening chin and two furrowed eyebrows, clearly frustrated to have been torn from his mission before you reached completion, but you wouldn’t let that look linger for long. You used your leverage in his hair—however slight, comparatively, that grip might have been—to pull him up on the bed.
Bucky surprised you with just how swiftly he moved.
His steel-blue gaze was on yours in a second, equally penetrating and soft.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing—”
“My baby okay?”
He surprised you again; this time by how quick his demeanor was to shift the second he sensed something was wrong. Just like Bucky. It had to be him in there.
You nodded, still out of breath from the wonders he’d been working with his tongue. You squeezed his arm and tried to coax him toward you, to help him lower his body some, and when he seemed uncertain, you offered a smile. It’s okay to touch, you won’t break anything.
Bucky eyed you skeptically, but it was clear he was more wary of himself than of you. He glanced over your body, briefly to his, then slowly, apprehensively, sank down.
“Just fine,” you mumbled, hooking your legs around his back the second his chest was close enough to yours.
You felt an uptick in his heartbeat when your heels dug a little more firmly into the waistband of his pants. While your hands started working their way toward the front of that fabric, wedging clumsily between your bodies, his gaze flitted to yours, and his brows drew even tighter together. He didn’t try to stop you, but he certainly seemed confused as to why you wanted to include him so soon. Why you cared to show concern for him at all.
You noticed that then, and in just about every moment preceding, the man was taken aback by kindness.
Whether it was pulling him closer to you, tugging his pants down with a tender touch, running your fingers across the bulge in his boxers, or simply nodding your head and letting him know it was okay to touch you back, Bucky seemed unaccustomed to any care in this area.
When your fingers made it around his cock and started stroking him, gently, he just might’ve come apart.
His chest shuddered with the inhale of a short, strained breath, and his eyelids fluttered, as if meaning to close.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he started to shake his head.
“No, let me—”
“Let me,” you finished for him, wrist flicking back and forth quietly. You paused just to rub a quick touch between your folds, collect some arousal, then return to touching him when he met your eyes again and allowed you to continue. You skimmed his sensitive underside with your palm and let the warmth of him bleed into your fingertips as you worked him up to a comfortable pace.
Bucky rutted into your touch, probably harder than he meant to. Then he planted a hand beside your head and anchored his weight above you so that he was close enough to reach your lips—but he didn’t kiss you.
His expression hardened again, and he forcibly removed himself from the pulse of your fingers. He frowned.
“You want me to fuck you, no? Make you cum?”
He sounded irritated again.
Briefly, you recalled your words from earlier and nodded. It was true, you’d said it to him like that, and you’d meant it. You just couldn’t make sense of what he wanted now.
It seemed Bucky couldn’t wait to indulge you any longer. He fisted his cock in one hand, angled the head just outside of your cunt, and burst in with one thrust.
“Then let me,” he muttered, plunging down to the hilt.
The first go was rough, and the second was no kinder. Bucky’s face screwed up with indifference again, like he wanted to get something out of his brain and just do.
Like there was a task at hand that needed to be finished.
You couldn’t deny it felt fine at first. Fucking edifying after all those horrific thoughts had been eating away at your mind and rousing your own hunger for numbness. The drive of Bucky’s thick girth in and out, in and out repeatedly was no doubt capable of rendering you dumb. But being slammed into and taken so roughly was only good for you when you knew he was feeling good too.
This Bucky was back to being entirely flinty and lifeless—practically devoid of all emotion as he railed into you.
The back of your head was forced into the pillow with the weight of each thrust and Bucky’s thumb pushing into your chin—‘Better, milaya? Is this better for you?’—and frankly, you wanted to push him back and ask the same.
But you couldn’t. The pace he’d set was suffocating, and the stretch of his cock inside you was unusually tough.
Instead, you sank your nails into his arm and mumbled:
“Bucky.”
The man’s thrusts were both stabbing and rhythmic, sending a welt of pleasure blossoming up in your chest. You tried again:
“Bucky.”
He blinked.
And slowed.
“Bucky,” he mumbled back.
Seemingly mindless and mechanical, he snaked a hand behind your head to lift your face and tilt it toward the sight below: his cock splitting you open before him, parting your insides with an easy, welcome glide through the slick of your folds. You watched as your arousal enveloped him fully. Not a single inch of his rock-hard, throbbing shaft was spared; even his balls were soaked. They felt even heavier slapping your ass with each thrust.
“You remember?” you asked, hating how small you sounded.
The man’s nostrils flared, but he gave a curt nod. Expression taut and vigilant, as though anticipating something going wrong at any second. Still, he nodded.
“Years,” he answered.
“Years?”
Since he’d done this? Felt good? Become this way?
No, Bucky was activated in Madripoor just weeks ago. He didn’t look like he was ready to indulge in any ‘feel-good’ pleasure, and you weren’t sure when he’d last been with anyone else before you. Years could mean anything.
You chanced a few soft fingertips up to his cheeks, cupping either side of his clean-shaven face in an effort to anchor you both to one place. The pit of your stomach was reeling with warmth, and friction, and fullness. It took everything in you just to pull him in for a quick, grounding kiss before the feeling gave way to even more.
Bucky’s teeth nicked your bottom lip. He flinched back.
You ignored the sting and repeated his name, murmuring it carefully up to the seal of his mouth as if requesting entry with that word alone.
It seemed to work. Bucky kissed you back with a gentle, albeit guarded, sort of tenderness that made him soften. His thrusts weren’t as rough and punishing as they were before. The dull, throbbing ache between your legs transformed into something sweeter, and your body no longer had to brace itself against strokes that, to you, were nearly bruising and, to Bucky, were just necessary.
For once, your husband let out a soft grunt of pleasure.
“They never let us,” Bucky said as his teeth grit together, “It’s been years.”
“Since what?”
The face above you tempered more—this time with a trace of sadness behind it. He continued to rut into you, but now his thrusts were sloppy, and it seemed as though he were battling against his own pleasure with every motion. He lowered one hand between your legs and began to thumb at your clit, gaze torn from yours.
“Close now?” he muttered.
Ignoring the question you’d asked.
“Years since what?” you pressed anyway. The tiny ripples preceding bliss had already begun to stir inside you, maddeningly, with every flick of his thumb, but your curiosity to know the whole truth was stronger still.
Bucky’s hips were moving at a feverish pace now; his free hand made a fist in the sheets beside your head, and his chest heaved with a series of short, ragged breaths that were no doubt meant to mask his moans as well. Notwithstanding the burn you felt between your legs—he really was much rougher and stronger now, you saw—you cupped his cheek again to tilt his face toward yours.
What you saw made your stomach drop.
Your heart clenched like a fist within the confines of your ribcage, and there it was—that terrible ache you felt each time you saw something awful materialize before you.
Bucky’s eyes were wet with tears. He wouldn’t blink.
He tilted his head into your touch, as if for support, but really, the weight of it signaled to you that he just wanted to feel you. Be assured that you were there. His big, broad arms seemed suddenly unable to hold his weight, and then he sank into your frame with a grunt and another stuttered breath. Like he was ready to collapse.
“Don’t leave again,” he said quietly.
The pain in your chest elevated, in bloom.
“Bucky I didn’t— wasn’t—” you started to say.
The friction between your bodies was almost too much to bear. You couldn’t be sure if you were talking to your husband, soldat, or some strange, inconceivable mixture of the two, but you could tell that this one was desperate.
Pleading.
“I can’t lose you again.”
The head of his cock grazed your most sensitive spot inside, and a whine seeped out through your teeth. Bucky’s whole body was blanketing yours, torso flush with your front and hips working an erratic cadence as he got a glimpse of release himself. He groaned out in pleasure and begged you to stay. You promised that you would. Your legs were still wound around his sides, but both of your bodies were slick with a sheen of sweat; it was hard to hang on. Bucky’s hair was wild and pushed back from his face, but his eyes were clear when they finally met yours, and you heard him mumble again, ‘Please stay.’
You didn’t know what else to say but okay, baby, I will.
You swore you would stay, and in between oaths, your mouth was consumed by a barrage of kisses—Bucky got to feast with a full set of teeth again, primal as ever—and then your climax hit. Euphoria washed over you whole with a force you weren’t expecting to feel, and you couldn’t help but cry out and whine as waves of pleasure coursed straight from the innermost depths of your core.
Bucky’s hips collided with yours in two more stuttered thrusts, and when he bottomed out at the last, you felt a heavy spurt of warmth. A groan coiling out of his chest. Muscles growing lax and two sturdy arms coming to bracket your head as your husband’s whole body weight went folding into yours. You kissed some more, in between frenzied intakes of breaths and steadying moments where you were simply trying to ground your body and get your heart to slow down to a normal rate.
You held each other in silence for a while. Bucky’s head fell next to yours on the pillow when the last of his spend had been emptied, but otherwise, he didn’t stir. At some point, his hands slid behind your back, and the second he hugged you to him, you felt secure in that embrace.
You were probably as far as you’d ever been from understanding who the fuck your husband was, but all it seemed you were capable of feeling for now was pity.
Pity for the years he’d lost to captivity; pity for what was little more than mere existence under HYDRA’s thumb; pity for all the things you still didn’t know about his past.
You held Bucky tighter, and, flooded with this strange, grating emotion and an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, you wished you could protect him, too.
“James?” you mumbled into his hair.
Bucky didn’t respond.
You squeezed his shoulder. Still nothing.
Against your better judgment, you tried to shift yourself underneath his body. You figured you wouldn’t make it far at all, but at least he would be aware that you were trying to get up. Maybe even start to move with you.
He didn’t.
It took everything in you just to wedge an elbow back, struggle to prop yourself up against his weight, and when you were about to let out a huff of an exasperated laugh and tell him, Bucky, you’re crushing me, honey, could you please ease up a little, your request was answered before the words could even leave your mouth.
At the sound of two new muffled voices carrying up from the living room and what appeared to be noises from shuffling feet, Bucky rose straight from the bed, off you.
Your gaze trailed his to the door, and you reached for him.
“Baby, it’s just—”
Bucky was back on his feet. Yanking his boxers and pants up his legs and buckling his belt in no time at all.
The movers. It’s just the movers bringing in furniture—
You moved your hand closer to your husband in the hopes of stalling his movements for half a second, but then a set of ruthless blue eyes had you pinned, quick:
“Stay.”
Your outstretched arm was taken up in a much stronger, stiffer one, and you were suddenly pulled over to Bucky.
But you knew from the eyes it wasn’t him at all.
And you weren’t so much being tugged toward him as you were being hauled to the floor. Thrown on your knees beside the bed, next to Bucky. He was about to leave.
Without thinking, you reached for one of the legs of his trousers and sank your nails into the fabric to hold him in place, to tell him again that there was nothing to see out there but the people you knew, no threat outside at all. But Bucky was deaf to your pleas, it seemed. He shrugged you off easily and made a move for his gun, expression blank, stolid, calm, hardened. Decided.
You tried to rise to your feet but were stopped.
“STAY,” Bucky boomed again, this time an order that he didn’t even deign to complete with a look your way.
If he had—if he even possessed the ability to consider anything but the immediate task at hand—he would’ve seen his own hand knock you to the floor to keep you from standing. Might’ve caught a glimpse of the instant your head struck the edge of the nightstand before you hit the ground. Could’ve even made out the first traces of blood that came trickling out from above your temple. Would’ve seen you cower back, viscerally, out of fear.
But holding the side of your head and watching him leave, grim realization twisted at the pit of your stomach, and you knew the man wouldn’t have stopped if he had.
If your soldat’s objective was to protect you from any harm lurking outside that door, real or illusory, nothing you were capable of doing now could stop that. At expense to yourself, at expense to him, at expense to whatever lives stood between the Winter Soldier and that unwavering, hardwired goal, he still would not ever stop.
Thinking of new, innocent lives in the balance, now, you scrambled for your phone the next second to call Steve.
You tried him once. Twice. A third time crawling on your knees, then standing, then staggering over to the door and pulling the phone from your ear just to send a string of texts to your friend while the thing continued to ring.
SOS
Need help
Pick up please
Bucky’s stuck and he’s
About to hurt people here
A crash sounded outside. You hurried to the door. Your hand closed around the knob and tried to turn it. The handle turned freely, but something behind it was refusing to let you leave the room. You pressed again.
“Bucky!”
Your cry was useless in the face of the barricade outside.
You pushed your shoulder and, behind it, the whole force of your weight against it anyway, trying to get out.
The line went dead. You tried again.
Now with your phone to one ear and the bedroom door taking the brunt of your hits from the other, bleeding side of your body, you scarcely heard much of anything else. The ring started. Stopped. Began again when you pressed a shaky finger to Steve’s contact name, and continued in a cycle for some time while you tried to force whatever was on the other side of the door away.
The second a voice broke through the haze of your frantic, half-crazed state of consciousness, you cried:
“STEVE!”
“Mrs. Barnes?”
You were shocked to hear a woman on the other end. Your pulse was still racing, shoulder aching from the impact of each desperate push you’d been forcing against the door, and then you stopped. Another loud something sounded down the hallway, further away, but you were too startled and unnerved to take any note of it.
You started to ask, ‘Where’s Steve?’ when the voice continued:
“This is Mrs. Barnes?”
“Yes,” you answered woodenly.
You held the phone as close to your ear as you could, but still, the woman’s words were coming in and out in bursts. You must’ve mistakenly accepted the call when trying to reach Steve—you couldn’t think right now; could barely retract the phone far enough to see a strange number displayed on the screen. You swallowed.
“—from Lenox Hill Hospital at Northwell Health—”
The high-rise medical center on the Upper East Side you’d visited that week. Bucky had wanted you tested for nutritional deficiencies and anemia, of all fucking things.
“—if you had a moment or two to chat and maybe—”
No, you needed Steve, not this outpatient courtesy call.
You would’ve liked to hang up. Should’ve hung up. In fact, your fingers were practically itching to hit the button the whole time the nurse was speaking to you, but something in you just couldn’t be persuaded to do it. It took several more seconds before your senses began to creep back, and by then, when you were about to drop the call, you heard a phrase that stopped you on a dime.
“—but the doctor advises prenatal vitamins—”
“What?” you snapped, far more harshly than you meant.
The nurse paused a beat, whether from incredulity at how rude you’d just sounded or to consider something. When she resumed, she sounded a little more guarded.
“Yes…Dr. Watkins did reach out to you about your bloodwork from your last visit, didn’t she? I thought—”
“No,” you said, rushed and painfully brusque, again. You tried to rein in your tone some before continuing, “She didn’t—didn’t reach out about anything. What vitamins?”
Another pause.
“Prenatals.”
You hated that she gave you another second to chew on that word before taking a breath and pressing on.
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be the one to spring that on you, Mrs. Barnes—I thought you knew…um—” The nurse was sheepish now, almost embarrassed to be speaking, “—you’re about…three weeks along in your pregnancy.”
Three weeks along.
Advised prenatal vitamins.
For the child growing inside of you.
A rivulet of blood trickled into your left eye.
Your whole body was apt to convulse, but it didn’t.
You hung up.
—
Taglist: (please lmk if I missed anyone! I can only tag 50 at a time so will continue in a separate post) @vicmc624 @she-could-never @mcira @kentokaze @identity2212 @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007 @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx @pono-pura-vida @geminiflanagansblog @buggy14 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @minimarvelingmarvel @kunakizen @ghostiebby06 @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grantspector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#marvel#mcu#mob bucky barnes#marvel smut#marvel x reader#james buchanan barnes#james bucky barnes#mob!bucky#mob!bucky barnes#mob bucky#mafia!bucky#mafia bucky barnes#winter soldier#winter soldier smut
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father charlie mayhew x undercover detective fem! reader/that one fleabag scene
5k words (i went crazy with this one)
oh boy where do i begin
TAGS: siren reader!, AFAB reader, religious themes, nonreligious reader, confession booth is sexy, oraI male receiving, big d!ck charlie, dubious consent, p in v, no protection, breeding cuz duh it’s me, blood k!nk (if u squint)
after lois was nearly detained for being belligerently drunk at work, the FBI called you in. not to work alongside her no, to survey and investigate the community. the crimes surrounded her. you became lois’s daughter’s “friend” living with her and hanging around whenever you could. fortunately for both of you, lois did actually like your company and so did her daughter.
with some miracle you became a part of her everyday life, even tagging along when she met sister megan once. the nun was peculiar and although you weren’t nearly as trusting as lois you liked her enough to fake your way into an unlikely friendship. you the hard on her luck “college student” and her the eccentric murder-obsessed nun. it worked well enough for a cover story and she seemed to buy it. given your experience you knew enough about murderers to get along with her, pretending to share her passion for serial killers and the like. she had mentioned visiting the diner over text one day, you thought it a great opportunity to get out and people watch but what you didn’t expect was that she had company.
you knew megan was unconventional to say the least but you didn’t expect her to be on a date with, the looks of it, a lady killer. the closer you got the more you had to mask your reaction, she was with the new priest. you just didn’t expect him to be near your age and straight out of a GQ magazine. you willed a smile to your lips as you sauntered to the side of her booth, throwing an around the back of her seat and leaning down. megan tore her eyes away from the priest, meeting yours after what felt like minutes. you didn’t blame her, you were having a hard time ignoring him as well. “megan! hey i hope i'm not interrupting.” you finally looked pointedly towards him, your smile withering as you met his chocolate eyes. you hadn’t seen eyes so dark in a while.
“did something happen?” she assumed you had an update, it wouldn’t be the first time since you lived so close to lois. you sometimes told her details to gain her trust, of course clearing it with lois first. you pretended you did, pretended whatever you had to say was not for the eyes of a very curious priest. his eyes hadn’t left you since you interrupted.
“no, uh we can talk later.” you motioned slightly towards him and megan realized she’d never made introductions. she broke eye contact turning towards the priest, finding him already looking at you, well more so the small sliver of skin your crop top displayed above your skirt from the way you stretched over her booth. she knew father mayhew was less traditional but she didn’t expect this.
“oh y/n this is father mayhew.” you looked at him waiting a beat before you smiled brighter than before, he was intrigued to say the least. you were confusing him, sending signals he couldn’t quite decipher. maybe he wasn’t your type because you seemed wholly unaffected by him. that or you were just good at hiding it.
“nice to meet you mr.mayhew.” there was no way you were calling him father, you weren’t religious much less catholic.
“father-“ megan started to correct you and you cocked your head to the side, ready to remind her you didn’t believe in organized religion.
“charlie is fine, please y/n, it’s nice to meet you.” he cut in before you two began your conversation, seeing the way your eyes narrowed at the correction. your eyes were back on him as soon as he said your name, masterfully hiding how your stomach flipped at it coming from his lips. it didn’t matter to him that you weren’t religious, hell it might be for the best if you weren’t. he would rather never see you or your red heels ever again.
“charlie, i’ll leave you two to it.” you attributed the startling attraction you felt to the taboo of it all. a priest, sinfully handsome, and from the look of his shoulders and arms his body was even more unholy. your glances had been brief but they were enough to spike your curiosity.
“please join us, i’d be interested to hear whatever you were about to share.” there was that egotistical expression on his face that made you think he didn’t usually get no from women.
“oh i don’t know it’s kind of a secret. can you keep a secret charlie?” you were pulling out all the stops, straightening your posture, batting your eyelids, even cocking your head to the side and if megan wasn’t so transfixed by his reaction she would’ve taken notes. he was completely drawn into you, reminding himself to blink and respond when you a smile twitched at the corner of your lips when you were met with silence. you knew you had him and he knew too.
“let’s pretend this is confession.” he drew his arms out, leaning back against the booth and you took the challenge, sitting next to megan before she could try to leave you two alone. the scent of your perfume hit him as you sat down, sensual and distinct. he’d remember it for days.
“sure confession, i’ve always liked the notion. there’s something so sexy about the whole thing don’t you think megan?” charlie watched you try to shift the subject away from whatever you came to say. he wasn’t so naive. however one thing became clear, you didn’t trust him.
“oh geez, i guess it is sexy. you’re dishing out your deepest darkest secrets in a small box where you can’t see the other person.” he could see the way your eyes softened around the edges when you looked at megan. and the way they changed when you looked back towards him. he hadn’t felt so wholly consumed by someone. whatever trap you had laid out, he was ensnared.
“i’ve always wondered who a priest confesses to?”
“God.” his eyebrow cocked at the question, eyes lighting up in amusement and you bashfully nodded your head.
“ah right.” megan laughed at your response, finding the exchange a bit trivial. she was itching to hear the new information.
“i’m gonna head back to the church, can’t exactly leave it unattended this long. sister it was great to speak with you and again nice to meet you y/n.” you waved him a goodbye as he got up and walked past you both, your eyes never leaving him until you couldn’t crane your neck much further. megan shook off the worries that were beginning to surface and instead pestered you to spill your guts. you did as soon as the diner’s bell rang to signal the door closing. you told her what you had rehearsed all the while being haunted by the ghost of father mayhew’s appearance.
the murders continued and you spent late nights with lois spinning every possible theory. you couldn’t scratch the itch that bothered you about megan and charlie. instead of asking megan to meet you, you decided to visit the father himself. although you would play it off as a last minute plan you carefully dressed for the occasion, a baby pink cropped cardigan covered your lacy tank top fit with high waisted flare jeans that hugged your curves just right. it looked casual and your skin was indeed covered enough for church but if you stretched or raised your arms even slightly your skin would show and you knew his eyes would find their way there just like before. you wore baby pink platform heels to match even, your hair up in a seemingly effortless updo that actually took you thirty minutes to perfect. and to top it all off you made sure to smell downright sinful and gloss your lips to the heavens.
he didn’t stand a chance.
you were grateful to find the church empty save the priest in question sitting in the pews reading what you assumed was the bible. the click of your heels drew his gaze over his shoulder, he would lose this battle without a doubt in his mind. he only hoped god would forgive him after. he rose to stand, abandoning the bible with ease and a smile crept to your lips as he met you in the walkway between the pews.
“y/n, what a surprise i thought you weren’t religious.” he didn’t think he’d see you again, not like this at least. maybe only in his dreams or when the desire deep inside him took over.
“oh i’m not, just curious.” you cocked your head to the side and charlie had a sneaking suspicion you got whatever you wanted when you did that. he wasn’t a stranger to using his looks to get things handed to him, he just didn’t expect to be so easily swayed by it himself.
“anything i can help you with?” as much as he would have liked to continue this staring contest he had an idea you were here on a mission. you had unsuccessfully hidden how taken you were with him. now standing at his full height you were finding it hard to disguise your attraction. he was tall, much taller than you had figured and even in your heels you came up to his shoulder. his body was crafted for sports, for modeling, for anything but the cloth. the sheer strength he wielded was going to waste, you wondered why he needed it all.
“you and sister megan are so wholly devoted to all this. i’ve never had that, something so…guiding.” he invited you to sit next to where he was situated before, you did with ease crossing your legs and sitting closer than you should be.
“your morals surely come from somewhere.”
“my parents, they weren’t religious, at least not catholic. all these murders, it just made me wonder.” you spoke in hushed whispers, the church was eerily quiet, so starkly different from the chaos of lois’s home.
“you’re scared, it’s reasonable to be. faith can give you strength but it can’t fix everything.” his head turned down towards you, onyx eyes sucking you in, you were captivated.
“hey i thought i was the atheist here.” you bumped your shoulder against his or really your shoulder against the muscle of his arms. he sucked in a breath, finding himself thinking less of religion the more he looked into your eyes. charlie drew the bible in front of him, turning the page to where he knew he’d find distraction.
“Isaiah 41:13 God promises to comfort and help those who are worried, and to take their hand and guide them through difficult times.” he turned the page to continue, not licking his finger in time and cutting his finger on the paper. it had never happened before and he didn’t even notice it until you listened on, eyes naturally drawn to his large veiny hands and then the pearl of blood that threatened to drop on the spotless floor.
“oh charlie,” you took his right hand in both of yours, thoroughly stopping his reading. you did the first thing you could think of, not wanting the blood to spill anywhere, bringing it to your lips and licking it off, meeting his gaze bashfully. the familiar taste of salty iron lined your teeth. the wet warm lap of your tongue against the pad of his finger combined with the sheen of your lips and your eye contact made charlie suddenly very aware of his corporeal form, all the rest of his blood rushing south. you did it so casually, as if consuming his blood was as natural as wine. the quiet vulnerability making him twitch in his pants. he thanked god it wasn’t well lit in the church or the bulge in his black slacks would be apparent. fortunately for him you were also too embarrassed to notice.
“s-sorry i just didn’t want it to spill.” you dropped his hand quickly, ignoring the warmth between your legs and opting to look very intently at the first button of his dress shirt. he needed to diffuse the situation before he coaxed you upstairs and smudged your damned lip gloss.
“it’s alright, i’m gonna grab a bandaid.”
“okay i’ll be hiding in the confession box trying not to burst into flames.” he laughed at your admission, he hadn’t expected you to be so embarrassed. it was probably the hottest thing he’d experienced and he thought you would own it, own that you were unabashedly seducing him. perhaps he’d misjudged your intentions all along. he came back to empty pews and he scoffed at the realization you were actually in the booth.
“what do you wish to confess?” he assumed the position, taking it as seriously as he could muster. part of him was wishing you would just tell him something substantial about yourself, he didn’t even know what you did for a living.
“how much time do you have?” charlie huffed a laugh at your words and you liked his laugh, it was airier and lighter than you expected. “i suppose ill start with the most recent sin, i embarrassed myself in front of a priest. surely that’s against some rule.”
“not entirely, embarrassment isn’t a sin.” he crossed his arms across his chest, endeared by your admission.
“right, what about lust?” he closed his eyes, he’d nearly gone half-soft but here you were painting deadly images in his mind. he felt like a teenage boy, rock hard and trying to will it down.
“lust, one of the seven deadly sins, but it can be forgiven. that is if you don’t act on it.”
“ah i’ve never been good at that part.”
“i can pray for you, kneel with me.” you did as he said, finding it hard to deny him of anything when his voice was so deep and commanding through the grated screen. you waited a beat and then another, breathing out in and out. you wondered if he was trying to remember a prayer or you were too far gone for one that readily came to mind. instead you heard him grumble under his breath, the church far too quiet for it to go unnoticed.
“fuck it.” you blinked your eyes in surprise, the wood digging into your knees as you waited another beat and the curtain to your side was drawn open and charlie stood in front of you. the sight of you kneeling nearly made him pass out, he swore he’d never been so hard in his life.
“tell me no.” his large hand, now with a bandage on one finger, slid to the side of your face, tilting your face up and up until your neck craned to meet his as he stepped closer. the heat of his body radiated against you. his thumb pushed at the plush of your bottom lip, the lip gloss was as sticky as he imagined, drawing your mouth open. your eyelashes fluttered at the gentle pressure, the coaxing, the slow sensuality of it all. you felt as if you would actually burst into flames, you wished you had worn a skirt. the denim of your jeans felt like hot coals against your skin, your underwear sticky with need. he could see the desire dripping from your gaze, but he needed to be sure.
“i can’t.” you whispered, like the obedient girl you were. and that was enough for him, he shoved the thumb fully between your lips, you hummed at the intrusion. the warm wet heat of your mouth made him whimper as you swirled around the finger sucking it like you wanted so desperately to do something else. your gaze finally moved from his eyes down the length of his body to his slacks, you raised up on your knees and you were eye level with his bulge. even in the dim light you could tell he was massive and your jaw would be sore tomorrow.
“father let me help you, please?” he huffed a breath at the name, there was no going back now though, he knew what he was doing making you kneel. he nodded at your request, removing his hand from your face so you could do as you pleased. the urgency in your motions made him scoff as you practically tore his zipper down and cupped his bulge. you fidgeted to get his length through and when you did you grinned at the sight. the shadow of his length covered your face and while you were intimidated and failing to hide it you still licked tentatively at the furious red tip.
“good girl.” he smiled down at you and you squeezed your thighs at his words, cleaning up all the precum along his slit. he was so big you didn’t think you’d get him even halfway down your throat, but you were never a quitter. your hand circled his base, one cupping his heavy balls as you licked along his shaft, veins protruding angrily and you kissed the tip one more time before flattening your tongue against the bottom of him, stretching your mouth as wide as you could to accommodate his girth. it was a struggle to attempt and you groaned at how hard it was. he chuckled at your frustration, he couldn’t deny how hot the whole scene was. he placed a hand on your head, guiding you down his length and you moaned at the feeling, shivering from how badly you needed him. you wished for some sense of relief and so you took one hand off his balls and tried to touch yourself. it was no use because charlie saw you, catching your wrist. he was gentle until then, forcing you down his length and you gagged. he was so heavy and thick you felt like you couldn’t breathe. the sensation made you nearly lightheaded and he finally released his grip letting you relax and slink back. you got into a comfortable rhythm then, pumping the length you couldn’t reach and swirling your tongue along his veins while moving up and down his length. he could tell he was close from the small groans and whimpers you could hear, his grip on your wrist tightening until he let go completely and pulled you off him. he tapped his cock against your tongue, debating if he should finish this now or give in fully to what he needed.
“tell me about your sin.” your eyes glazed over as he held his cock away from your mouth, letting you speak but making you mourn the heavy feeling. it took you a few seconds to remember what he was talking about.
“i’ve touched myself thinking about this man, but he’s devoted to someone else, to god. it never feels as good as i know he can make me feel.” your gaze traveling from his cock to his eyes, he jaw clenched as he looked away before leaning down and lifting you effortlessly out of the booth and into his hold. your legs looped around his waist and your arms around his neck. he was strong and solid against you, and you whined at the slightest hint of friction of your core bumping his belt buckle.
“we can attone later.” it’s all he says as he’s walking purposefully up the stairs and down a hallway, the walk is long or at least it feels that way when you’re nearly drunk from desire.
your back hits something soft, you realize it’s his bed as he’s climbing over you. you sit up, unbuttoning his shirt while he’s doing the same to your pesky jeans. his shirt is unbuttoned before he’s pulling them off you and you marvel at the sculpted muscles of his body. you're not sure if you’re drooling but you could be. he doesn’t bother to take your heels off, opting for your cardigan and crop top next. and you whine as you try to reach the buttons of his slacks, he tucked himself back in at some point and you don’t like the insinuation. charlie can’t help but laugh at you, maybe you weren’t the femme fatale he thought you were. “patience is a virtue.” he’s got you in your bra and panties splayed out under him and he relished in the sight of your lip gloss smudged. in the light of his room he could see all the sinful details of your body and he couldn’t wait to wreck every part he hadn’t touched yet. he kneels in front of you, shirt gone and his slacks unbuttoned, watching your chest rise and fall in anticipation as you maintain eye contact. he can tell you’re struggling to, the way your eyelids droop and narrow. when he’s finally bare in front of you, you’re looping your arms around his neck and pulling him down, finally kissing him and it’s as messy as you hoped for. all teeth and tongue, he bites your lip hard enough to draw blood and you groan into his mouth. he’s feral and you can’t help but arch into him, the hard planes of his body pressing so deliciously against you, you silently wish you could grind against his abs for some kind of friction. charlie pins your wrists above you with one of his hands, the other deftly unclasping your bra, an action that speaks volumes of his experience.
he doesn’t loosen his grip on your wrists even slightly, somehow in control despite the rabid look in his eyes, trailing his lips down your neck, biting and sucking likely leaving marks for tomorrow. you buck your hips into him, desperate for something, anything. he’s so hard against your core, sliding against your stomach. you can’t imagine he’ll fit, not with how far up your chest his length reaches. your thoughts are drawn back to the hot mouth that’s latching to your nipple, bitting and sucking like it’s the last thing he’ll do. charlie groans around your breast, massaging the other one with his hand rough palms creating a friction you try to get closer to. he’s slurping and biting so roughly you’re whining without realizing, tears pricking your eyes from the sharp pain. it’s so devastating you think it might be the way you want to go out.
and when you feel you might just come from his mouth on your breasts, he’s moving off you with a pop to his lips. it’s reminiscent of your actions downstairs and his cock twitches at the image. he leans back to take a look at his work releasing your wrists, bite marks and bruises littering your shaking chest and his lips curl in a smile. you think you’ve never seen him genuinely happy until now. he stays out of your reach kneeling between your spread legs and you almost complain until he’s peeling your underwear off you, it’s sticky and you revel in the cool air finally grazing your heat. charlie’s eyes are inexplicably drawn to how you’re nearly dripping onto his sheets, the light illuminating how badly you needed him, and from the looks of it it was just as long as he did. you can’t help the moan slip from your mouth when he’s biting his lips and spreading your folds to watch a fat wad of arousal drop down to your ass.
your pleasure ends when you see him leaning down for a taste, far too gone for any more foreplay. you need him and you need him now. you’re twitching when you slide your fingers into his hair, drawing your gaze to him. the hunger in his gaze doesn’t dissolve but the black of his eyes seems to soften when he sees your wrecked expression.
“please i need your cock, now please.” you’re begging and charlie can’t say no to that. he’s been aching for what feels like forever. he coos at your request, wiping the tears you didn’t even notice were falling and moves back on top of you, the satisfying weight against you calming whatever worries you had. but he doesn’t give you what you want. his fingers, still spreading your folds dip into you, there’s zero resistance from your sopping entrance, but the stretch makes your eyes roll back. “please.” you don’t want his fingers, you don’t care if he splits you in half at this point.
“relax baby,” he’s soothing you as best as he can when he just wants to sink into you. instead of focusing on where he can make you unravel, he scissors you open, getting impatient himself. you hum at the shift, bringing his lips to yours with a hand still threading through his hair. when he adds a third finger you groan at the stretch. “so tight darling, you won’t be able to take me.” he’s purring at you, teasing you. you can’t string the words together to dissuade him. when he’s satisfied you’re stretched enough he pulls back, licking his fingers and groaning at the taste. devine, just like he expected.
despite your wishes he’s leaning back, tapping his angry cock head against your clit, and you realize his words may be true. your legs slide over his shoulders like they were made to be there and when you look down at your entrance, panic creeps in.
“i don’t think it will fit.” he watches your eyes widen, your brows furrowed in genuine concern. it’s comical.
“where did my good girl go? you were just begging for it.” he’s teasing you, laughing at the way your wide eyes meet his. without you responding, he slips his head towards your entrance, catching on it and slipping away, fuck you were so tight. you whimpered at the feeling, trying to slink away from him but he tightens his hold on your hips. you realize, albeit far too late, your heels are still on and very much on his shoulders.
“it won’t fit.” you’re pleading with him, for what exactly you’re not sure. and then he’s leaning down, pressing the tops of your thighs back towards you, folding you in half, his lips not quite reaching yours.
“i’ll make it fit.” without warning he’s nudging at your entrance again, bullying his way in and you whine and jostle at the feeling. it’s too big, the stretch too much and you feel tears prick your eyes. he’s tearing you open, ruining your for anyone else and you can’t find it in you to care.
when the tip is finally in you breathe out in relief, there’s still an ache between your legs and you know you’re dripping onto his sheets but you think the worst is over. you don’t know you’re far from it. because while charlie is a man of faith, of perseverance and virtue he can’t hold back from how addictive your pussy is. the tight hug of your cunt around his tip drives him to ease his full length into you without warning. you paw at his chest, eyes rolling back as he pushes his way fully in nestling against your cervix and curving inside you. making you gush out more liquid than you knew you had. in fact, it’s so much you’re not sure if you’re squirting or you just came. the pain and pleasure mix into one and you think scream his name. you swear you can feel him in your ribcage and you choke out a breath.
he’s barely holding himself still when his balls finally rest against you. your walls are molding to him, and he think he might have died and gone to heaven. “so fucking tight, you were made for me.” a deep groan leaves him before he can hold back and you whine at the sound, clenching down on him and making him only more painfully turned on. you can feeling him throbbing inside, carving you out, the veins of his cock pressed against.
when you begin to squirm under him, still not used to his size but not in pain, he starts moving. every time he moves out he feels he has to push back in, your poor abused cunt is gripping him so tight, he feels bad even pulling out. the burn becomes so intense and every time his tip bumps your cervix you twitch beneath him. he presses a sweet kiss to your ankle over the strap of your heels before pressing his hips down and reaching even deeper. you cry out his name at the change in position and then he’s drilling into you like he wants you to be ruined forever. you don’t know where your orgasms start or end as he continuously fucks against your most sensitive spot, your mind numb from pleasure and the only word leaving your lips is his name and cries of pleasure.
he’s no better, he swears he might be addicted to you. the way you call out his name, the way you clench around him when he groans and how you seem to still get wetter from his thrusts. he hopes you don’t blame him when he feels himself getting close already, from the look on your face he realizes you might not be able to think at all. his pace is cruel, driving you into the mattress and likely denting the wooden floor.
your mind is fractured into a million tiny pieces; the only thing you know is that you need him. and when he’s close he’s pressing into you like he wants to get you pregnant, he’s breeding you, making you his and you come again. there’s no room for his cum inside you, so it’s leaking out the sides and he can’t have that, not after how good you’ve been, how well you take him, so he’s scooping it back up and fingering it inside you all the while pumping you full. you don’t know when you started crying but you can taste the saltiness of your tears when you pull him down for a kiss, savoring in the drag of his tongue along your teeth and you suck on it slightly, still hungry. he wishes the moment could last forever, but begrudgingly he pulls out and swallows down your whimper. how could he ever begin to atone for this? he had a feeling he would be begging for forgiveness for the rest of his life, there was no way he could forget you.
#father charlie mayhew#father charlie x reader#father charlie smut#father charlie mayhew x reader#charlie mayhew x reader#nicholas alexander chavez#nicholas alexander chavez smut#glossgojo#nicholas alexander chavez x reader
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Chance Equals Fortune — Prologue
Squid Game | The Salesman x F!Reader
Summary: parasites. that is the only thing he thinks of when he meets the players he is meant to recruit. but what happens when he meets you and you are nothing of what he expects.
an au where the salesman lives and becomes a player.
Warnings: swearing and classist thinking. in the future there will probably be canon-typical violence and i'm still debating on smut.
a/n: happy new years! i'm sorry i couldn't upload this earlier i had to deal with some long distant relatives. however, due to popular demand here is the gong yoo fic as promised. this was originally supposed to be under 1k words...
Words: 2.1k
Click. Click. Click
Those are the sounds of pristine perfectly polished black shoes on concrete. The soles of the shoes worn by a handsome-looking businessman echoed loudly, causing the sounds to reverberate into the jet-black sky. As he walked beneath the faint luminescence of street lights, case in hand and his head held high, his eyes searched for the next prey to fall victim to his silver tongue. The same mouth that twisted dark truths into sweet promises others couldn't dare reject. Never once has his articulate way of speaking failed to deliver the precise words necessary to provide his superiors with a new batch of fresh meat to satisfy their sadistic tendencies. To him, it was all the same. One less piece of vermin in the world, and more importantly, one less leech to drain the well-oiled machine that is society.
Today was no different as he strolled along the sidewalk of a small park near the outskirts of Seoul. While he walked, he felt indifferent towards the small details, like the light breeze swaying the tree branches above or the faint smell of dog shit wafting through the air. Having trained himself to ignore anything and everything that could be a possible distraction from his mission. What was his mission again? Ah yes, currently that would be you.
His steps immediately halted as he spotted your figure in the distance, a dark shadow looming over a bed of flowers and a trail of smoke emitting from the cigarette between your fingers. There you are. He squared his shoulders as he fixed his expression into one of casual ease. Now, all he had left to do was to convince you all of the problems that have stemmed from your pathetic life could be solved in the blink of an eye. That your worries could dissolve as quickly as skin in acid.
He began to move again, taking long strides to where you were standing. In the time he took to reach you, he jotted some quick mental notes.
One. Your relaxed stance oozed confidence and uninterest despite being a young lady positioned in one of the most crime-infested spots of the city in the dead of night. Meaning you either had a weapon on you or had sufficient defense skills, possibly both. He must tread carefully.
Two. You were positioned next to a tall fountain, atop stood a small marble figure of a gumiho. The spot infamously known for the shady transactions dealing with drugs and other nefarious crimes. Perhaps you were waiting for someone? He'd have to keep an eye out for any newcomers that could interrupt his process.
Three. Your mouth was...moving?
His steps faltered. There was no other person around within a 3-mile radius whom you could be conversing with, nor did you have a phone in hand. How odd. In his time as a recruiter, he has encountered all kinds of people. Drug addicts, the mentally ill, and one memorable case a delirious man on the brink of death, hallucinating from hunger. You, however, seemed perfectly sane. Keyword…seemed. He shook his head, quickly putting a halt to his thoughts. He had no time to ponder over whatever weird traits you may have, he came here to do one job. He resumed his trek towards you and was soon standing mere feet from you.
Show time.
“Excuse me miss, may I have a minute of your time?”
You remain standing still, making no indication that you had noticed him. Your eyes were distant while you continued to murmur but no sound came out. He wasn’t sure if you were ignoring him or if you really were that unaware of your surroundings. Now that won’t do.
“Miss?” He tried again tentatively, his head tilting curiously as he stepped in your line of sight. “Are you alright?”
Finally, your eyes shifted into focus, taking a moment to adjust. For a brief moment, it appeared as if you were lost. However, that moment soon passed and your eyes narrowed, annoyance filling your features.
“Why did you interrupt me?”
The bite in your tone was enough to make him raise an eyebrow. Perhaps you really weren’t in the right state of mind after all. “Interrupt?”
You scoffed, ignoring the question you brought the cigarette back to your lips. Taking in a long drag before you released the smoke right in his face. His mouth turned downward in displeasure.
“Do you need something?” You snapped, your jaw clenching as you slid your free hand in your pocket. He caught the way your finger twitched as you did so. Weapon it is then.
His face instantly changed back to that previous pleasant expression, his lips curving into a kind smile though with a lack of warmth in his eyes. Instead replaced by an empty, clinical look.
”I don’t mean to be a bother ma’am, but I’m here to offer you a proposal you’re sure to like,” he states in a neutral tone, having uttered a variation of those words dozens of times. “A way to better improve your current economic situation.”
Your body tenses as your eyes dart over his figure eyeing the suitcase, no doubt analyzing him as a threat. “Look I already said I’d pay him back!” He watches as you chuck the cigarette to the ground and stomp on it. “If he keeps rushing me like this then don’t expect to get a single won out of me! I don’t give a shit who he is!” Your volume rises as you take a step back, ready to sprint if needed.
He raises his arm in surrender. “That’s not what I’m here for. As I’ve stated, I only want to help.” His mind is conjuring up the best way to ease the tension.
He hesitantly takes a step forward.
Your eyes immediately look back down. “What’s in the case?”
Another step.
“I work for a group of people whose only interest is to help those who are struggling. Our objective being to ease the burden of the majority.” He swiftly places the case at the base of the fountain, unlocking the latch but leaving it closed. “See for yourself.”
You were the one to take the final step, closing the gap between the two of you. You gave him one more skeptical look before you focused all of your attention on what was in front of you. Slowly, both hands reached out and flipped the top wide open. Your eyes widened as you took in the contents of what was inside, or more specifically, the big wads of cash.
You remained silent, frozen as a statue as you simply stared. In an instant, you whipped your head in his direction. You took the time to study him, your mouth slightly agape and a certain look in your eye he couldn't quite place. A couple of seconds passed, you clamped your mouth shut and swallowed thickly, licking your lips before you finally managed to whisper, "What do you want?"
His mouth quirked upward in a smirk. Got you. "I'd like to play a game."
You belted out a high-pitched, contorted laugh. A childlike glee completely overcoming you. "Ab-so-fucking-lutely," you grinned from ear to ear, bouncing on the balls of your feet.
It dawned on him what that look in your gaze was...
Unstable.
A jolt of thrill shoots down his spine. "I'm sure you're familiar with the game ddakji," he reaches until he grabs the two colorful squares, carefully placing the red one on the ground, "for every time your square manages to flip mine, I will pay you 100,000 won."
You nod enthusiastically, your hand shooting out as he draws his hand in at the same time. "However, if you lose...you must pay me back the same amount."
You snatched the piece from him. “Deal.” You don't waste a single moment in hurling it, the force of the impact causing the sound to ricochet like a gunshot. The square goes flying, becoming a red blur. It stays in the air for a couple of seconds, but that time is enough for the experienced recruiter to know that you've already won. By the time it hits the ground, he doesn't even have to look to know it's flipped.
You look up expectantly at him.
He glances at her, jaw clenching. Well, this isn't how it usually goes. Before he can move to pay you, your voice cuts through the silence. "From the look on your face, you didn't want me to win, correct?" The lack of response on his part encourages you to continue. "How about, instead of doing whatever the hell you were thinking, I propose a new rule," you lean forward, your eyes sparkling with mirth, "we both keep throwing until one of us loses. If I win...you give me everything that's in that case."
"And what if I win?"
Your mouth twists into a devilish smirk. "Don't worry, you won't."
His eyes look you up and down, scanning you. His hands twitch in anticipation at the challenge, adrenaline manifesting itself as electricity in his veins. His bruised ego from losing the first round combined with his competitive nature was enough to make him agree. This was not part of the plan. He could just give you the money, the card, and go about his day like he has so many times before. He has no reason to play along other than he just wants to beat you.
"Alright," his previously fabricated smile now becoming genuine, "my turn."
With renewed vigor, he launches his square and as expected, it flips. He lets out an arrogant chuckle as he fixes his suit and stands up straight, his lips stretching into a satisfied smile.
This cycle continued for multiple rounds, the money long forgotten. The need to succeed fueled the violent fire between the two of you. After a while, he lost all track of time, fixating all of his attention solely on the game.
By now, his hair was disheveled and sweat dripped down his forehead. He panted as he recovered, his arm muscles aching from the consistent use. It was taking more energy than he was willing to admit in order to keep going but like hell if he'd let exhaustion be the cause of failing.
On his turn, he prepared himself to once again launch the disc. He readied himself, drawing his arm back and—
His eyes suddenly flickered to your lips, where your tongue darted out lick them. He watches intensely at your now damp, chapped lips, mouth slightly parted as you breathe heavily from fatigue.
In his moment of distraction, the square slips from his hand. He scrambles quickly to catch it but it's too late...
He's lost.
There is a long pause of silence, before your high-pitched cackle cuts through the air. His eyes widen in shock, the realization slowly setting in.
How...
He breathes out deeply through his nose, trying his best to compose himself. What the hell was that? How on earth could he have lost? He Never. Loses. He doesn't have any longer to dwell on the fact as you practically skip in joy to the case, already counting the amount. All of this because you managed to distract him.
Your voice soon interrupts his thoughts. "Maybe the next time you want to win, you might try not to let your eyes stray so far..." you say as you wink.
How did you even notice? Wait...was that on purpose? He clenches his fists until they turn white, the thought making his blood boil. He has half the mind to kill you and call it an accident just to quell his anger.
He closes his eyes in frustration. No, I can't ruin the games.
He takes in a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Once he knows that his voice won't betray any conflict he feels, he speaks again, "you know, there are other games such as the one we just played. And for much larger prizes as well."
He's back in his element, his persuasive tone of voice exuding reliability. He hands you the card, explaining how it works, how to enlist, and so on.
By the time he finishes his speech, you look mostly convinced. After inspecting the card more closely, your stare finds his, "I appreciate what you have done and thank you for the opportunity. I will consider your offer. If I do accept know it will only be due to a singular fact," your head leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper and your breath fanning over his, "I never lose"
On that note, you step back and walk away, never once turning to glance back at him. You soon disappear into the dark Seoul night, shadows blending with that of buildings and trees.
He lets out a small huff in amusement. If that is true, then he's excited to see how you'll fare in the games.
please don't be a silent reader i love reading comments and hearing your thoughts.
#squid game#squid game 2#the salesman x reader#the salesman#gong yoo#gong yoo x reader#squid game x reader#salesman x reader
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America: You Fucked Up
You could have chosen Hope. You chose Hate.
You could have chosen Empathy. You chose Enmity.
You could have chosen a New Beginning. You chose the Nazi.
We could have finally been rid of this cancer on American democracy. He could have been banished to obscurity, remembered only as the worst president in American history, and finally held responsible for his numerous crimes.
The ignorant, racist, misogynistic, white supremacist, pathologicial liar is now going back to the White House. He is a convicted felon, an admitted sexual predator, a total fraud, and a demented old man. He belongs in prison.
What did you do?
You ignored that the U.S. economy is the strongest in the world, that inflation is at its lowest level in four years, that unemployment is at its lowest level in three years. You believed the lies about how terrible the economy is. I knew better.
You forgot about his 30,000+ lies while he was in office. I remember.
You forgot about his complete mismanagement and ignorance over COVID, resulting in the deaths of over one million Americans. I remember.
You forgot about the saber rattling over military exercises in the pacific, when Kim Jong Un threatened us with nuclear missiles, causing us to fear whether we'd see another day. I remember.
You forgot about waking up every morning dreading to hear the latest abomination he tweeted. I remember.
You forgot about "very fine people on both sides." I remember.
You forgot about "only the best people" like Betsy DeVos, Rick Perry, Tom Price, Scott Pruitt, Steve Mnuchin, and many others who were given cabinet positions despite having zero qualifications for the job. I remember.
You forgot that 40 of his former cabinet members and dozens of former generals and officials refused to support him, saying he was "unfit to serve." I remember.
You forgot about January 6, "fight like hell". I remember.
You forgot that when he was told that his vice president was secured because the rioters wanted to kill him, he said, "So what?" I remember
You forgot about The Big Lie, "Release the Kraken" and 60+ failed attempts to overturn the election in the courts. I remember.
You forgot about "I just need you to find 11,780 votes." I remember.
You forgot about "They're eating the cats! They're eating the dogs!" I remember.
What now?
When a woman suffering an ectopic pregnancy dies because she doesn't have access to medical care, that's on you.
When they take away your neighbor, your co-worker, your friend, and deport them, that's on you.
When a woman is forced to suffer the agony of carrying her rapist's baby to term, that's on you.
When a transgender kid harms themselves because they can't get the medical care they need, that's on you.
When your middle-class taxes GO UP, while billionaires get even more tax breaks, that's on you.
When schoolchildren are killed by an assault rifle in a mass shooting, that's on you.
When children grow up ignorant because you banned books and dictated how history is taught, that's on you.
When Grandma can no longer afford a comfortable life because the Social Security she paid into all her working life, and provided income on which she now depends, has been cut, that's on you.
When violence against Jews, Asians, Hispanics rises again, that's on you.
When prices on the goods you buy skyrocket due to tariffs, that's on you.
When Ukraine, deprived of our support, is overrun by Russia, that's on you.
When the U.S. is the laughing stock of the world (as we were 2016-2020), that's on you.
What should you have done?
You should have exercised critical thinking skills, recognized the thousands of lies you were being told, recalled that his administration had four years to live up to his promises and failed at all of them. You should have realized that he is a profoundly stupid individual who doesn't give a shit about you or your family or anything except himself.
You had the last nine years to see that, and you still fell for his bullshit.
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°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°
A gentle brush along your hairline coaxes you from sleep and another against your cheek has your eyes fluttering open. Your hazy eyes take in the orc, lying on his side next to you.
The rough pads of his fingertips lightly brush a few stray hairs back as he takes in every part of your face like he'll forget if he looks away for even a second. The emotions his eyes hold are far too much for you to handle, especially after just waking up from what feels like a rather deep nap. You probably haven't slept that well since the first time you slept against his warm body, except that was in his living room.
He cups your cheek and caresses the cold skin with his thumb. His warm hand brings a shiver to your body and he chuckles before bringing you in closer. He hugs you close in such a warm loving embrace, you have to hold in the urge to push away from the sheer overwhelming affection. You allow yourself to bury your face into his warm neck, breathing in his scent.
Your hands reach out to soak up some more warmth and it's then that you remember he's not wearing a shirt, meaning he slept on your couch without even a blanket or anything covering his upper half. Do orcs just have boiling hot blood or something? Maybe he's part dragon?
The arm he has slung over you is so big and heavy, it's making you feel confined but in a way that isn't making you panic. It's rather nice to be engulfed by him. His legs are intertwined with yours, snugly rubbing together the thick material of your winter pants.
You place your palms on his broad chest, wanting to feel more of him but your fingers meet a scratchy material on his chest. You part from his neck, looking for the strange obstruction, and all the despair you felt just a few hours ago comes rushing back when you see the banged wound on his right chest.
You pull away from him to get a better look, ignoring the displeased grumble from the orc. Worry only worsens when you see the white gauze turning a yellowish orange. You must have slept for awhile if the bandage already needs changing. You sit up, with some difficulty, as your...friend? is very reluctant to let go.
You reach for the medical supplies left on the low lying living room table and waste no time gently peeling the dirty bandage off. As gentle as you can be, at least. The orc under you doesn't seem to mind any pain, the only time he expresses displeasure is when you get up to fetch some water and a cloth to clean his wound again.
Ignoring his melodramatic complaining, you get up and grab the blood soaked cloth off the floor as well as his tunic, which now has dark crusted blood embedded into the fabric. In the kitchen, you rinse both the cloth and tunic in your sink, it definitely doesn't clean all the blood off but it's better than nothing.
On your way back to the couch you see him fidgeting with the stitches and you lightly smack him upside the head, mumbling "Don't touch." He lets out a half grumble half laugh and lets you bring the cold wash cloth to his wound. You gently clean the raw stitched up skin, wiping away any excess blood and plasma that's seeped out. The red of the blood clashes so grimly with his green skin.
While you work, you're keenly aware that the orc is staring at you, very shamelessly. As you reapply the antibiotic ointment and rebandage the wound you can't help your eyes flicker up to meet his. His absolute smitten expression doesn't make you feel good, like it might in any other scenario, it only makes the prickling anxiety in your stomach bubble up further.
When you're done with the rebandaging, you assess your work and only feel shame, you know this only happened because of you. He should at least be upset but he's clearly not and that only makes you more worried.
Crossing the boarder is a crime punishable by death, You put his life in danger multiple times just because you were lonely. You should never have gone back to his cottage, he’d be much better off if he’d never saved your life in the first place.
Your orc looks at you with a questioning expression, worry pinching his eyebrows. You de-tangle from his hold again but this time he doesn't argue, only sits up with concern. You crouch by the hearth and poke at the smouldering fire, adding a log and nudging the flames slowly back to life. You sit on the floor in between the table and couch, grab your translation book and pencil from under the table and think for a moment on how exactly you should word your concerns.
After a few minutes you've scrawled a few choice words in orcish and slide it closer to him so he can see it. It reads,
"Leave. Not safe."
He reads it and pauses for a painful moment, before he looks you in the eyes and shakes his head.
You look at him in disbelief, does he mean he won't leave or that he thinks it actually is safe? Both?
Confused you point towards the Orcish words fro “Not safe” again, trying to get the point across. He shrugs and rests his head on his hand, propped up on his elbow on your couch like nothing in the world bothers him. This makes you far more upset than you’ve been in a while, maybe ever. Why would he have such a frivolous attitude towards his own wellbeing? He saved you, why wont he let you save him.
The anger must show on your face because the nonchalant expression he wore quickly turned to something more concerned. He lifts himself from the couch to shuffle closer to you. He tries to reach for your hand but you pull away, you just don’t want to touch him right now. You can barely look at him without thinking of how he looked bleeding out in the snow, arrow stuck in his chest, he looked absolutely terrified then, why is he acting this way now?
You hear him flipping through pages and the scratch of graphite on paper. He slides over his own torn piece of paper. It reads,
"Not scared"
In poorly written Human Common. You can't help but scoff, who does this orc think he is? He just got shot and could have bled to death, all from just one knight, how could he possibly say he isn't scared of more showing up? After a minute of stewing in your anger and thinking about how to possibly respond to that, you start scrawling up a response. After a few minutes you slide over your own piece of paper that reads,
"Should be. More coming."
He stares at it for a second, looks back at you and then slides over his "Not scared" note again, emphasising his point. You honestly don't know whether you should try writing out an entire paragraph trying to explain this situation to him or if you should just write the word "fool" to get your point across. You decide on just looking at him disapprovingly, pointedly moving your gaze to his freshly bandaged chest and then looking away from him, shaking your head lightly.
It's a long, tense moment before you hear graphite scratching on paper again. You look over to where he hunches over the tiny table, catching him writing the words,
"Can't leave-"
and it only feeds your anger, how can you get him to realise the trouble he's in? Was he always this stubborn? Maybe if you just kicked him out in the snow he'd eventually just walk home, away from you, away from danger. Maybe if you made him leave... Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of paper sliding on the wooden surface of the table, you give an exasperated sigh and look down at the paper.
"Can't leave you alone."
The anger that was just bubbling up, cools into barely a simmer. The realisation splashes you like a bucket of cold water to the face. He's completely right. You threatened a knight with an arrow to the skull and then you just let him go. He knows where you live, he knows no one will even notice if a solitary woman living deep in the woods just disappeared. Not to mention, if they find out you spared an orc (much less fell in love with said orc) instead of killing him for the crime of crossing the border, they'll certainly kill you too, if not worse.
Were you really so troubled with making sure he was safe that you barely even realised how deep in trouble you are? You cover your fatigued eyes with the palms of your hands, heaving a tired sigh. It feels like a ten ton stone has been dropped on your shoulders. What the hell are you going to do now? Your quiet life is completely compromised. Your hands hide the few tears that squeeze out from your eyes but you fail to hide the sniff that leaves you.
You hear your orc shuffle closer promptly after hearing your sob, you let him gently usher you into his arms. You sit in his lap, cradled by his massive frame as he rubs his huge hand up and down your back.
He says something in orcish. It’s a single word said with gentle determination. You meet his eyes, the lack of understanding obvious. He grabs his book and flips through it, fumbling with the book in one hand while the other's still on your back. You hold the well worn book for him as he points towards the word,
"Together"
You stare at it, not really surprised that's what he said. It was rather foolish of you to think he'd just leave you to deal with this situation alone. You two are now deeper intertwined than before, and that was already a lot for you. You'll figure this out together, that’s then only way forward.
You rack your brain for a solution, a resolution, anything but you come up blank. Your orc sighs down at you and runs his thumb across your forehead, smoothing out the tense muscles between your furrowed eyebrows. He leans over the table and grabs the piece of paper that says "Leave. Not safe." He folds the paper so that only "Leave." is visible and he places that paper above the other slip of paper that says "Together".
He then takes a new sheet and then spends some time writing down the words,
"Until safe."
You stare at the makeshift sentence before looking up at him, making sure you didn't misinterpret, his hopeful eyes are all the confirmation needed. He wants you to stay with him until your home is safe again. Your home might never be safe to return to. Does he know that? Does he actually know what he's offering?
He can obviously see the turmoil on your face, he knows you won't just accept his offer so easily. He holds your cheek again, making sure you can't look away and says to you, in orcish, what you're pretty sure means,
"Please, I love you"
You let out something between a sob and a laugh, clutching his hand on your cheek and kissing his wrist as he wipes your stray tear away. He looks at you with such love it pulls more laughter from your lungs, his eyes crinkle with how wide he smiles. You lean up and pull him into a deep kiss, much deeper than the first. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and his hands hold your waist, keeping you close to him, as if that's really needed. One passionate kiss turns into another and another until you're making out only separating when you laugh too much to actually kiss.
You kiss along his cheek and down his neck and his naked shoulder. He runs his massive hands up and down you waist, returning your affections by kissing down your neck, nuzzling you with the blunt ends of his pretty tusks. The feeling of his tusks on your throat makes you let out a pleasured sound you’re not sure you've ever made before, and it shocks you so much you cover your mouth with your own hand. Your orc looks at you with the same shock in his eyes, also mirroring the deep desire simmering just below the surface.
All you can do is stare into his eyes as he stares into yours, breaths heavy, bodies close. This is it. This is all you want.
And then your heart drops, the air is punched out of your lungs and ice swallows your entire body. You see the exact same dread reflected in his eyes and you know he hears it too.
The distant neigh of horses and the clopping of hooves on hard icy ground, getting closer and closer.
°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°
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#*sigh* Oh orc woodsman#it's late so sorry for any mistakes#monster fucker#monster x human#monster x reader#monster lover#monster fucking#orc romance#orc x reader#orc x human#terato#exophelia#❆orc woodsman
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kindness you can’t afford
jason todd x fem!reader
word count: 2.1k
warnings: injured character, multiple descriptions of blood + wounds
a/n: so this is the very first jason fic I’ve written since I was twelve, so forgive me while I find my jay’s voice now that I’m not a preteen. anyways I humbly offer thee my wares.
divider credit: cafekitsune
Gotham’s a shithole. You hadn’t known that when you first moved here. To be honest, you’d kind of thrown a dart at a map and gone where it landed. Alright, maybe it wasn’t literally a dart throw, more so finding the cheapest metropolitan city because New York was tempting but it would bankrupt you. Mostly you just wanted a place to not exist. And so Gotham’s relatively low rent rates and towering skylines were the pick with little to no research.
Gotham��s a shithole. You know that beyond a shadow of a doubt now. It’s surprising, honestly, how little of Gotham’s chaos makes it outside the city limits. One would think a psychotic killer clown that’s prone to gassing a whole city district or a half-plant poison lady or a guy going around dressed like a bat would make national news. And yet, no. You’d known superheroes existed, of course. Superman was the shining jewel in the crown of the country that is Metropolis. Everyone knows about the extraordinary Wonder Woman. It’s not like hyper skilled people working for the greater good aren’t a thing. But Gotham plays her cards close to her chest.
You've lived here almost two years now and you’ve managed to make it through relatively unscathed. An impressive feat especially since you live in the Bowery. The Bowery itself isn’t so bad, but its neighboring district Park Row, more often known as Crime Alley, is about the worst Gotham has to offer. You’ve heard your fair share of gunshots and sirens, and you’ll never forget the time that Scarecrow released fear toxin in the district and you had to shove every towel and blanket you owned against the cracks by the doors and windows to keep it out. However, you’ve avoided being mugged or assaulted or anything like that so far. And you’ve never encountered the vigilantes that run the night here.
But there’s always time for new and exciting experiences.
The loud thunk that sounds outside your living room window makes you jump and starts your heart pounding. You know you should just ignore it. Crawl off the couch and to the bedroom, lock the door. The lights in the apartment are already off, only the television light illuminating the room, so it would be easy to creep unseen. But you can’t. Something pulls you to the window. Maybe it’s the cat killing curiosity, or maybe it’s your own little voice of self destruction, or maybe it’s something else entirely. All you know is that you have to go look.
So you do. And there, out cold on the fire escape, is a man. A very large man. A very large man in a red helmet. A very large man in a red helmet with dual pistols holstered to his thighs. Red Hood. Red Hood is passed out face up on your fire escape. Huh.
You’d heard of him. It was hard not to. The Bat had the most notoriety by far, but it was Red Hood that truly scared the criminals of Gotham. Batman might break your bones, cripple you even, but you’d leave with your life. No such guarantee existed if you crossed Red Hood. Hurt a few innocent people and you might end up with a bullet or three in your skull. Then there was that thing about heads in a duffel bag and Red Hood running crime for a solid year in Gotham, but he’s better now, apparently. None of this is deterring you from unlocking the window, pushing it up, and stepping out into the cold winter air. Not when you see the blood seeping through his body armor start to drip off the fire escape grate.
He needs help and he can’t stay unconscious in the middle of the city. If whoever injured him didn’t find him, the cops would. He’s just as wanted as the actual rogues of Gotham. You think it’s bullshit, which is why you’re trying to find a way to get him inside the safety of your apartment. He’s huge up close. This is going to be very, very difficult. Your mind flashes suddenly to one of your favorite childhood movies and how the princess pulled the dashing rogue around with her hair. You glance down at the street before heading to your bedroom.
You come back out with sheets bundled up in your arms. You’re not even sure if this harebrained idea will work, but you weave the sheets through the gaps in the grates and around Red Hood’s waist nonetheless. You secure a knot and go back into your apartment with the length of the sheets. Your legs are stronger than your arms, so you brace them against the wall and pull. You can feel his body slowly dragging towards you and you pause to check your progress. He’s slumped against the window now. Good. You loop your arms under his, place your feet back against the wall, and pull hard. Your hard work is rewarded with his body breaching the threshold of your window and landing directly on top of you. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs. He is heavy.
It’s a struggle but you manage to roll out from under him and immediately see the massive red stain contrasting against the white of your fluffy pajama pants. A small puddle of blood is emerging on your floor under his left thigh, and droplets of blood have splattered next to his torso. He’s not in great shape. It suddenly hits you what you’ve done. You dragged an injured vigilante, known for shooting first and asking questions later, into your apartment with no plan on what to do after the fact.
What the fuck did I do?
That’s all you can think as you look down at him. Then something snaps into place inside your rattled mind and you run to your bathroom to grab your first aid kit. You’d bought it and learned the basics after Wayne Enterprises ran televised infomercials about the importance of first aid a couple months back. You’re carefully balancing all the supplies in your arms as you head back out to the living room.
The empty living room. No vigilante in sight. Then your world spins. Everything clatters to the floor as you’re yanked backwards by your waist, pinned to something solid and unable to move.
“Who are you?” A growl sounds behind you, modulated to sound semi-mechanical.
Ah. There he is. You think you should be panicking, absolutely losing your shit even. But your brain is moving in slow motion.
“Someone trying to help you,” you breathe out.
“Doesn’t answer the question.”
The grip around your waist tightens. You want to laugh. As if you could’ve made a run for it in the first place. You tell him your name, and explain that you live alone. There’s no one else here but the two of you and you really do want to help.
“You were passed out on my fire escape. I couldn’t just leave you out there,” you explain cautiously.
The two of you stay like that for a minute longer. Then, a mechanical sigh sounds from behind you and the vice grip on your waist goes slack. You turn to him and see that he’s already halfway to your window.
“Hey! Wait! I can help!” you shout, scrambling after him.
“Don’t need it,” he snaps.
“You were bleeding out on my floor!” you exclaim.
You don’t know why you feel so strongly about this. Maybe because he seemed so…mortal. It’s easy to forget that these guys running around at night are people. They’re strong, tough, and capable, but they’re still human. The fact that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the window frame proves your point.
“Please. I promise I won’t take long. Please just let me help,” you beg.
He turns around and even through that unreadable helmet you can tell he’s sizing you up. You’re sure you must be a sight in your fuzzy white cat pajama pants, old Snoopy t-shirt, and fluffy white socks. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ridiculous tableau. Massive armed man in tactical gear opposite a woman in fluffy pajamas, both bloodstained. But either you seem harmless enough or he’s in exceptionally bad shape, because he just slumps against your wall and gives a barely noticeable nod of his head.
You go into autopilot the second you get his consent. A dining room chair is dragged to the center of your living room and Red Hood drops himself into it, the old wood creaking under the force. You go to assess the damage on his torso first. Light slashes litter his waist, none of them are deep enough for stitches. You grab the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls from the floor where you kneel before warning him that it might sting.
“I got slashed. Think that might’ve hurt a bit more,” he deadpans.
“Yeah, that’s fair.”
The torso slashes are light work. It takes all of five minutes to disinfect them and seal them shut with bandages. It’s his thigh that you’re a little more concerned about. There’s enough blood that it’s soaked his tactical pants around where you’re guessing the wound is. You can vaguely make out what appears to be cut fabric, so you’re assuming he was stabbed.
“How deep did the knife go?” you ask.
“Hm. ‘Bout two inches?” he offers.
“Why’d you take it out?” you ask incredulously. Anyone with half a brain knew not to take a knife out of a stab wound.
“No idea. Should’ve just gone runnin’ around the city with a knife wedged in my leg.”
The mask’s modulator does nothing to hide the teasing edge to his voice. Of everything you’d heard about Red Hood, you’d never heard he was such a smartass.
“You know how to do stitches?” he asks.
Great. So he saw the deer-in-headlights look you had while thinking about how to fix his stab wound.
“If you count mending clothing then, uh, sure,” you reply.
The white slits of the helmet stare hard at you before a warped chuckle comes from under it.
“Well, close enough.”
Oh, so he liked to gamble with his health then. Okay. Sure. Great. You could totally do this. Untrained, unlicensed, unsupervised you. You have to stop your hands from shaking as you thread the curved needle. You have to stop yourself from vomiting with anxiety as you push the needle through his skin. He hisses and you immediately feel bad. He’d handled the alcohol without flinching, but the stitches were a different story. You whisper sorry’s with every puncture of his skin you make. Soon enough, his leg is closed up and the whole thing is said and done.
“Okay, should be good to go,” you start, “Well, not good per se, but functional to go.”
A hum and a quick nod of his head are the only response you get before he’s back on his feet. He’s about to climb out your window for the second time tonight when you call out to him again. He turns around and you’d swear he almost seems exasperated.
“Take these with you. You’ll probably need them,” you say as you toss him a water bottle and a small carton of orange juice.
He snatches them easily from the air. But then he just stands there and stares at the drinks in his hands. You think you may have somehow offended him and go to apologize when he speaks.
“Thanks,” he says, mechanical voice catching on the word.
And then he’s gone. Out your window and off into the night. Once you shut and lock the window you feel exhaustion hit you like a freight train. All the adrenaline drains from you and it takes whatever energy you have left to collapse on to your bed and drift off to sleep.
You’ll never know it, but the Red Hood spends the last fifteen minutes of his patrol sipping his orange juice and dutifully watching your apartment window.
You’ll never know it, but Jason Todd lingers across the street to make sure you get home from the grocery store safely, and he scoffs as he sees you feed and pet a stray dog. It’s silly, he thinks.
Don’t you know that now you’ve shown it some kindness, it’ll just keep coming back?
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Octavinelle 4 comedy please!
Man vs Fish || Azul Ashengrotto
For the Holiday Event!! ; Prompt: "I'm NOT jealous", Genre: Comedy
You lean casually against the bar at the Monstro Lounge, giving Azul the kind of knowing look that screams, I know something you don’t want me to know. Azul, on the other hand, is fussing with some invoices, clearly trying to ignore your presence. He’s been like this all day—tense, distracted, and oddly defensive.
“Azul~,” you start, drawing out his name like you’re about to deliver the most earth-shattering news.
He stiffens. “What?”
“I know.”
Azul pauses mid-signature, slowly looking up at you like you’ve just accused him of a crime. “You... know what?”
You smirk. “I know you’re jealous.”
His quill drops. “Excuse me?”
You pat his shoulder in mock sympathy. “It’s okay, really. I mean, who wouldn’t be jealous of a goldfish?”
Azul blinks. “What.”
“You’ve been glaring at the fish tank all day,” you explain, jerking a thumb toward the shimmering tank in the corner of the lounge. Inside, a particularly lively goldfish swims in gleeful circles, its long fins trailing behind it like streamers. “You’ve been eyeing Mr. Glub-Glub like he owes you rent.”
Azul stares at you, utterly dumbfounded. “You think I’m jealous... of a goldfish.”
You shrug. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel insecure. I mean, look at him! He’s the life of the party. Everyone stops to admire him. He’s got presence.”
Azul makes a strangled noise. “I—he’s a fish.”
You tap your chin thoughtfully. “A very charismatic fish.”
“I AM NOT JEALOUS OF A FISH!” Azul bursts out, slamming his hands on the bar. The sound echoes through the lounge, drawing the attention of a few nearby students. Jade, ever the opportunist, pokes his head out from the kitchen with a curious glint in his eye.
“Something the matter, Azul?” Jade asks, far too innocently.
“No!” Azul snaps, face already starting to flush.
You give Jade a solemn nod. “He’s jealous of Mr. Glub-Glub.”
“I AM NOT!” Azul sputters, practically tripping over himself. “I don’t—why would I be—he’s just a decorative fish!”
Jade hums thoughtfully. “He is rather elegant. Such graceful fins.”
“STOP HELPING!” Azul cries, burying his face in his hands.
You, now fully committed to this bit, lean closer to Azul, your voice soft and conspiratorial. “It’s okay to admit it, Azul. We all have someone—or something—we feel we can’t measure up to. You don’t have to hide your feelings.”
Azul groans, dragging his hands down his face. “You are impossible. Utterly impossible.”
You pat his back reassuringly. “And you’re jealous. It’s okay, buddy.”
Azul straightens up, adjusting his glasses with a newfound determination. “You know what? Fine. If I’m so ‘jealous,’ let’s settle this once and for all.”
You blink. “Settle what?”
“I’ll prove that I’m not jealous of that... goldfish,” he declares, striding purposefully toward the tank.
Jade, clearly enjoying the chaos, sidles up next to you. “What do you think he’s going to do?”
“No idea,” you admit, watching as Azul begins to... negotiate?
“Listen here, Mr. Glub-Glub,” Azul mutters, leaning down to glare at the fish. “You may think you’re popular now, but this is my lounge. I run this show. I bring the customers. You’re just... aquatic decor!”
The goldfish bobs cheerfully in the water, entirely unfazed.
You exchange a glance with Jade. “Yup. Definitely not jealous.”
Azul spins around, his cheeks blazing. “I’M NOT!”
You and Jade burst into laughter, and even Azul can’t keep the twitch of a smile off his face, though he quickly hides it behind a grumble.
As the laughter dies down, you sidle up to him and grin. “For the record, Azul, you’re way cooler than Mr. Glub-Glub. He could never rock a suit like you.”
Azul huffs, but the faint smile returns. “Well... obviously.”
“And for the record,” you add, patting his shoulder, “you’re still jealous.”
Azul groans. “You’re the worst.”
“And you love it.”
He says nothing, but the way he flushes says everything.
Masterlist
#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#twst#twisted wonderland#azul x reader#azul ashengrotto x reader#azul ashengrotto x you#azul#𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 holiday event
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When I lost you | Young!Silco x Reader
Warnings: Mentions of death - Reader is sick - Silco is still not a gang lord - Silco does not want Reader to try any drug - Italics = memories - ANGST - grammar mistakes -
When Silco was alone in his office, when he knew not even Jinx was around his mind liked to go back in time to see memories of a different time, so different that it almost seemed like these were dreams.
He remembers you well. Your face, your body, your eyes, they never once lied to him. You always showed him your true colors and motivations. You wanted a better place, a future, a good place for the next generation. Stop the undercity of being know as a place of crime.
You wanted so much.
"What's on your mind Sil?" You asked one hand under your chin as you studied him.
Once again Silco was thinking on how...how to improve lives, how could he and Vander make the undercity different?
"Nothing important" He had said "Just thinking on how you look today" He added smirking when you blushed at his words.
"Charming, I hope this does not mean you or Vande did something...because your sweet talking wont work on me"
"Doesnt always?" He asked pulling you on his lap making you laught. He smelled your hair and let out a content sound. He liked this, this moment. He wanted to stop time and be here forever.
The silence was broken by a heavy cought from you, one that made you have to stand up to breath the little air you could.
"Are you alright Love?" Silco asked getting closer making circles on your back as he saw how you nodded still breathing hard.
"Yeah, i may get a flu soon" You had dissmissed with a smile
Silco blamed himself. For how he have acted, faster or different, for not getting you out of the mines.
"(Y/N)..." Silco started seeing how you were having a hard time just walking the stairs, he had noticed how you also seemed to be slower, a side comment Vander had said on how you almost got caught on a recent work.
"Im fine" You responded back, trying to ignore the pain on your chest.
Once you two made it to the top you took a big long breath.
"You are not fine. I can see it, Vander can see it, everybody can see it" Silco said getting more frustrated by you
"Then all of them are wrong" You declared, letting yourself fall on your couch. Your eyes starting to close.
"You cant even stay awake"
"I have done much work in the mines. Im just tired"
"Then stop, I can help you, i can provide for you!!" Silco almost screamed
"You know I cant leave, what if i need the dam job later? No one will take me in. Every job out there is managed by them, i cant just leave"
"You are killing yourself"
Silco groaned at that, he wanted to go back and beat up his younger self. It was like his words had set off a curse.
Because less than a week from that talk you ended leaving the mines after collapsing and almost causing a fatal mistake.
Silco entered your home. He went to your room were he saw you reading a old book, pages yellow.
"I got you some medicine" Silco started getting it out from a bag well hided.
"Silco stop, these are too expensive!!" You said again even since he had started to get you different ones but no one seemed to work.
"Shut up, just try it" Silco said passing it to you who took it making a face.
"Its terrible"
"Well its not supposed to teast good, its supposed to cure you" Silco responded going to your kitchen to heat up some soup.
When he returned you were deep sleep. He hoped that medicine was doing the trick.
Saddly it did not.
Weeks passed and Silco saw how you became more and more weak. Pale like a ghost, eyes no longer shining but almost out of life.
"Im dying" you said to him one afternoon "Im dying and you cant do anything about it so stop beating yourself"
Even now Silco felt like your words reached him.
"No, i cant let you die" Silco said hands rubbing his hair
"Uh, i can try that thing they are selling now..."
"No" Silco had say "Next thing we need is you getting addicted"
You rolled your eyes but did agree.
The soft rain from outside was like odd music, for a couple that was seeing its end.
"I love you" You said taking his hand "Im happy i got to live my life with you"
If Silco had know these were going to be your last words he would have given you a better response. More than "I love you" and more than false promises.
He had become what you asked him not to, and while he was making on his own way a better life for the city a part of him hated himself. Hated that he had somehow betrayed you.
"Im sorry" He whispered to no one. "Im so sorry (Y/N).
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