#it could be SO GOOD and it just falls flat

[cacoetheswriting]

Request!!

Eddie walking in on reader fantasizing abt him<3 and ine thing leads to another they are fucking and then confessing each others love. Smut to fluff basically

If not that’s cool!<3

pairing: roommate!eddie munson x fem!reader [modern day au] word count: 3k

content warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, modern day au, friends/roommates to lovers, smut, suggestive & mature themes, adult language, dirty talk, sexual fantasies, masturbation (f), mutual pining, fingering, allusions to sex

Eddie Munson works shifts.

His schedule is scribbled in black marker and terrible handwriting on the calendar stuck to the fridge of your shared apartment — although, it’s not like you needed to double check when your curly-haired roommate was and wasn’t going to be home, embarrassingly enough, you pretty much had it memorised.

In your defence, it’s not overly hard to remember. 

While your hours are standard, Monday to Friday, nine to five, Eddie works at a nightclub in the city centre — The Black Door. He starts late in the afternoon, so as you come home, he’s rushing out the door with a sandwich between his teeth while he throws on his raggedy denim jacket.

“Have a good night, doll face,” he usually says when you pass each other in the hallway. “Don’t do anything I would do.”

You roll your eyes and usually reply with something you think is witty, if you’re not completely enamored by the way his locks bounce and fall perfectly around his face.

“Try not to burn the place down, Munson. You still owe me half of the rent for this month.”

“Tomorrow,” Eddie says with a grin, “Cross my heart.” He mimics his words and winks, before disappearing down the stairs.

When you close the apartment door behind you with a gentle kick, you have to lean against the frame and take a breath to compose yourself because the feelings you’ve recently developed for your metal-head roommate were too much, too complicated. You needed to try and keep them buried deep.

So, like every other night alone, you do the only thing you can think of to distract yourself and whip out your phone. After some doom scrolling and texting Steve for advice — since he’s the one who gave up his room in the flat, recommending Eddie move in — you open the apps. 

Swipe left, swipe right, left, right, left, left, right. It’s not hard for you to get matches, it’s even easier to get messages which lead to many dates. The odd dinner here, the odd drink there. You like to suggest The Black Door because even though you’re doing this to get over their head bartender, there’s a certain thrill in having him watch you flirt with other guys.

Unfortunately tonight’s date — Tobie with an ie not a y, as specified in his bio — texts to reschedule just as you finish applying some blush pink lipstick. 

Tobie: Hamster died

Tobie: (typing)

Tobie: Next time?

You groan in frustration. Nevertheless, you reply to keep the possibility of a next time open.

You: Sorry to hear about your hamster. Next time, for sure.

Then you type out a quick message to Steve, letting him know he doesn’t need to stalk your location since your date just cancelled. 

Steve: Good. He looked like a douche anyway.

Ignoring Harrington’s comment, you lock the screen then move to the couch where you finish the glass of wine you had poured to drink while getting ready. The alcohol is bitter on your tongue and after you swallow, it makes you feel even more lonesome than moments prior.

Spending your evenings alone wasn’t the worst by any means. You liked to think of yourself as an independent woman and there certainly were other ways you could continue to distract yourself — ways that didn’t involve a man. 

A movie perhaps. Some new Netflix releases to binge watch. Catching up on a favourite podcast. Back to doom scrolling for a minute. Or… You glance at the time on your phone. 7:16pm. Eddie wasn’t due back from his shift anytime soon.

Without giving it a second thought, you lay your head down on the throw cushions and close your eyes. You then proceed to slide a hand down your clothed stomach and you don’t stop, even when you reach the waist of your skirt.

Warmth immediately spreads through you. Even more when you hear a certain sultry voice in your mind, ordering you around. “Come on, doll face.”, or “Show me how much you want me.”.

Well fuck. So much for not thinking about your roommate.

He’s there, behind your eyes. Standing at the edge of the sofa, watching you touch yourself. And he’s doing the same. Fingers wrapped tight around his erect member, rubbing intently while he tells you to keep going and what a dirty, filthy, thing you are.

Cloud nine. Or ten. Who the hell cares. 

You’re lost in your own nasty thoughts, lost in the fantasy, completely oblivious to the sound of metal sliding in the keyhole and the click of the lock. Oblivious to the creak of an opening door and teeter of feet. Oblivious to the fact that there was someone now watching you with their mouth agape.

You’re about to reach that complete high. The mountain top. But then someone clears their throat. No, not just someone. Your roommate, Eddie — and not in your dreams.

Eyes snapping open, your heart drops. You remove your hand from its current position instantly, then slide on the sofa into a seated position, horrified and way too embarrassed to meet his struck gaze.

“Sorry, I-I,” Eddie stumbles and if you had enough courage to look at him, you’d notice he was beet red. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, no,” you protest and stand quickly, “I’ll ehh, I’ll go and yeah, sorry you had to see that.”

You continue to avoid his brown-eyes as you rush to your room, locking the door behind you for good measure. Then, since you’ve already lost all self respect and probably also his respect, you slam face first into your bed and scream into your pillow.

What you don’t see is Eddie who grimaces as the shrieks reach his ears. 

He honestly didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything, but it seems if he told you that now, you wouldn’t believe him. He just felt pervy standing there without your knowledge. And would it make it worse if he said he didn’t mind what he saw? That it was actually really fucking hot? Probably, yeah. He should definitely keep his mouth shut.

But Eddie can’t. Not when it comes to you.

Instead, he drops his backpack to the floor and strides toward your bedroom door. One big breath later, he knocks once, twice. No answer.

“Doll face, can you come out and talk to me? Please?”

“Go away, Munson. You’re never seeing my face again.”

He sighs. “Come on, it’s not the worst thing in the world.” Eddie tries to reason. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t really see all that much. I-I shut my eyes the second I realised what was going on.” It’s a lie, but it’s a white lie. No harm in a white lie.

There’s shuffling inside and the door flies open.

“What are you even doing home so early?” Deflection. Great tactic.

Eddie leans against the frame, stretching his right arm across to pick at painted splinters. “Got into an argument with some weirdo. Bossman sent me home.”

The metal-head must sense your sudden concern because before you can say anything or ask any questions, he says, “And don’t you worry your pretty face about that rent money. I still have a job to go back to ‘cause my actions were in complete self-defence. I was just told to go home and cool off, or whatever.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What did you fight about?”

“Nothing important,” Eddie brushes it off and shrugs after dropping his arm back to his side. “What are you doing here by the way? I thought you had a hot date.”

“Dead hamster,” you say without further explanation, then quickly wonder, “How did you know about my date though?”

“Harrington.”

“Of course.”

There’s a minute of silence. Not awkward, despite everything that’s happened. Quite comfortable actually because that’s how things always are between the two of you.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Eddie asks, another attempt at trying to stir the conversation even further away from what transpired mere minutes ago. “In my room, if you’d prefer that.”

Tried and failed since you glance at the couch and tense all over again. 

There is no way you’re going to sit with him in the same exact spot you just tried to get yourself off to fabricated thoughts of him, all while he walked in on you. You’re probably never going to sit there again, ever.

“We might actually need to invest in a new sofa,” you say, full of shame, and glance up at the curly haired boy.

He rolls his eyes. 

“Would it help if I dropped my pants and—”

“Eddie! Gross!” You screech and smack his chest. “No, it would most definitely not help.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Relax, doll face. I was  kidding.” The grin on his face spreads. “At least we know you weren’t thinking about me earlier, judging by that reaction to my very kind offer.”

There must now be a grimace on your face, some sort of physical reaction that you didn’t manage to contain as Eddie’s joke settles in the air around you, because a beat passes and your curly-haired roommate's gaze goes wide. His lips part and something flashes in his brown eyes that you can’t quite deduce, but one thing’s for sure, he knows.

“Oh. Oh.”

Without saying anything else, plausible deniability and all that, you try to shut the bedroom door in his face. Eddie however, has fast reflexes and his foot is now blocking you from doing so. But you keep trying and you lean against the wood, shoving it with your back.

“Now you can really go away, Munson.”

“It’s not—”

“If you utter the words it’s not that big of a deal, I will jump out of my window.”

On the other side of the door, Eddie laughs. “Don’t be dramatic, doll face. No one needs to be jumping out of anything, okay?”

You sigh, looking up at your ceiling as if it held all of the answers.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one having extremely specific dirty thoughts about your roommate.”

Silence. 

Oddly, now it felt slightly uncomfortable. You sense it immediately. The shift in the air. It’s a little unnerving. Okay. A lot unnerving. Which is why, again without really thinking about what you were doing, you stand straight and open the bedroom door to reveal your roommate’s back. He’s staring at the empty wall, hands on his hips.

“You know,” Eddie starts in a quiet tone and you begin to think the worst, (although you’re about to find out there is really no need). “Before you were my roommate, you were Harrington’s smart, funny, beautiful, hot, city girl roommate.”

“I-I don’t think I’m following.”

Eddie sighs. He spins back to look at you, hands still on his hips.

“Jesus. Okay. Uhm… You’re not the only one with, what is it you said, extremely specific dirty thoughts.” 

You raise your brows in surprise. This is not the turn of events you were expecting.

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

And then, for reasons not completely clear in that moment, you laugh. Loud and clear. Velvety. It’s music to Eddie’s ears, so he smiles, watching you. You. Still that smart, funny, beautiful, hot, city girl he had a schoolboy crush on. Even more beautiful when you laughed. And all those nights he’d invite himself over, back when you still shared the flat with Steve, and he’d talk nonstop about this girl he liked but didn’t know how to ask out (you), well, all those nights finally felt worth something because now he knew you liked him too.

Eddie’s shoulders relax and he drops his arms from his hips, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You notice immediately, eyes glued to where his points are digging into the flesh of his mouth, and the laugh freezes in your throat. The realisation of what Eddie just admitted dawns on you fully. He’s gotten off on fantasies of you long before you ever saw him that way. You don't, however, get to ask him what any of it means, or where you two go from here, because Eddie makes the decision for you.

He reaches for you. One hand on your jaw, the other gripping your waist. His eyes race over your face, as if he’s taking every little detail in since you’ve never stood this close together. You’re admiring his features too. Memorising each crinkle and line. Each mark and freckle. He’s attractive, for sure, but this close and personal, Eddie Munson is the most alluring guy you’ve ever seen.

“I think I’d like to kiss you now,” he whispers, brushing a thumb over your lips. “Unless you’re still thinking of jumping out the window.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and between your legs. Your gazes latch onto one another and you tip up your chin, inviting him to stay true to his words.

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He takes your mouth, causing your knees to buckle beneath you, but the hand he’s got on your waist holds you up in place as his lips interlock with yours. The sweetness of the kiss surprises you. It’s pleasant and you find yourself hoping he’ll kiss you this way again, and again. And when the tips of his fingers trail against your cheek, when they travel to the back of your head, settling in place and pushing you in closer, you part your lips and moan softly into his mouth.

He takes this opportunity to slip his tongue in and intertwines it with yours. The hand holding your waist falls slowly, lingering against your body like a shadow as he drops it lower and lower. When he reaches the hem of your denim skirt, he freezes there momentarily.

“I don’t want to overstep, doll face.” Eddie murmurs against your plush lips.

“Please…” You all but whine in response.

“Please what?”

His hazel eyes go dark. Hungry. It sends a shiver down your spine, knowing that he wants you just as much as you want him, if not more.

“Overstep, please.” You slide your nose alongside his, nudging him slightly as you say, “Eddie, t-touch me. I’d like you to touch me.”

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Swiftly, he pops the button and slides the zipper, letting the garment fall to the ground so that you’re standing in the hallway of your shared apartment with your skirt around your ankles, exposing the black lace of your underwear to your roommate.

Eddie kisses you again. It’s rougher this time, more needy. And while his lips work against yours in perfect harmony, his fingers slide in between your thighs. 

Slowly, Eddie traces your wet heat, teasing with just one finger. Your body is jolting with anticipation. Your skin is soft and warm, writhing under his delicate touch. He can feel tension building as your legs start to tremble and he smirks into your mouth, clearly pleased with himself because he’s barely even touched you. 

Gently, he presses the pad of his index to your entrance, carefully slipping inside as you whimper. He continues pushing in slowly, knuckle by knuckle and you melt around his intrusion. Your arms now pressing your bodies together with all the strength you can muster.

Lewd, wet sounds drift up from between your legs as Eddie begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. Rough. Hungry. He breaks the kiss, crazed eyes looking back to admire your face as you slowly start to come undone. Then you gasp: he curls a finger inside your pussy to mash his palm into your clit, massaging the spot relentlessly.

A moan grows in your throat and your lips part, desperate to let it out. Eddie has another idea though. His free hand clamps over your mouth to muffle the sound. It causes your eyes to widen in shock, but surprisingly to both of you, you lean into it and after a few moments of this treatment, your walls close around his fingers.

You arch your back and Eddie struggles briefly to keep his hand over your mouth. He thinks for a second that maybe he’s being too forceful, forehead to forehead, pushing into you further. Somehow his force only makes you react harder and in a matter of seconds, you deflate, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you cum all over his digits.

Eddie drops his hand from your mouth, grinning. He removes his other hand from between your thighs and you miss him desperately already, though you don’t immediately say because you don’t want to come off as such. He licks his fingers clean then leans down to peck you on the lips as your orgasm haze clears. You can taste yourself on him and it drives you crazy all over again, but when you try to deepen the kiss, your metal-head roommate places his hands on your shoulders and gently pushes you back.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says simply. 

“Right now?” You pout and manoeuvre your hand in between your bodies to reach for his hard member through his work slacks. “‘Cause I wanna repay the favour.”

Eddie grins then places his hand over yours, intertwining your fingers together. He pulls it out and brings it to his cheek, brushing it softly against his light stubble.

“I am loving the enthusiasm, doll face.” Eddie begins, “But I’d like to try and do this thing right, which means dinner before I further corrupt you, okay?”

“Maybe I’m the one corrupting you.”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly smile, “Either way, the faster we get out of here to grab some food, the faster we can come back and maybe even put that couch to good use.”

You laugh at that.

“So will you stop being stubborn and let me take you to dinner?”

When you nod your head, Eddie’s smile grows even wider. He drops your hand, but only momentarily, to lift your skirt and button it for you. He smooths the material, then once again, he reaches for your hand to lead you out of the shared apartment.

Eddie Munson works shifts.

Only, from now on, whenever he comes home late at night, instead of going to sleep in his room, he stumbles into yours, more than invited.

thank you for reading & please support your writers by reblogging <3

[sosasturns]

knock em out - c. sturniolo

blurb, in which reader puts mma!chris to sleep… based on by this ask from bat anon.

your face was pressed deep into the hotel suite's plush pillows, hands flat against the sheets, your feet barely touching the floor as chris let his frustrations out on you. he was going hard-each sharp thrust knocking the literal sonic coins out of you, leaving you breathless, gripping onto the bedding like it could somehow ground you.

"take this shit," he murmured, voice dark and clipped, still riled up from the shit-talking that went down earlier. his grip was unforgiving, big hands spreading you wider, pressing down on the small of your back to get that perfect fucking angle. "take my dick, just like that. mhm. doin' so well takin' this dick."

he was pissed. furious. this fight had him on edge, the opponent running his fucking mouth, and chris was dealing with it the only way he knew how-channeling all that pent-up aggression into you, fucking you deep, sharp, rough, his breath heavy against the back of your neck as his fingers slid up to grasp your throat, tilting your head up slightly so he could murmur into your ear.

"gon' knock his ass the fuck out," he gritted, each word punctuated by a harsh thrust that had your toes curling.

you couldn't even speak-just gasping, moaning into the pillow, your body damn near limp as he took full control.

then, suddenly, it stopped.

a deep inhale from behind you, followed by chris flipping you over in one smooth motion, your back meeting the mattress before his hand slid to your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his. his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, jaw clenched tight.

"get on top," he muttered, voice low, demanding.

"not letting you come yet. you want it? you work for it."

you didn't hesitate, already straddling his lap, rolling your hips as you slid down onto him with a moan, feeling every inch. chris' head tilted back against the pillows, lips parted, a sharp inhale leaving him as you started to move. slow at first, teasing, rolling your hips just the way he liked, before shifting into a steady bounce.

his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin. he was struggling-you could tell. the way his brows furrowed, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling heavily.

"slow," he rasped, trying to steady your movements.

"slow, baby. fuck."

but you weren't listening. you leaned forward, your palm grasping his chin, forcing his head up to meet your gaze.

"you're gonna knock the fuck out of him tomorrow," you whispered, your lips grazing his as you continued to ride him, keeping him deep, squeezing around him.

his lips twitched into a lazy, hooded smirk, a breathy huff leaving him. "this pussy 'bouta knock me out next," he muttered.

you laughed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, feeling the way he shuddered beneath you. it didn't take long after that-his grip tightening, hips stuttering up into yours, a string of curses and your name leaving his lips as he came, head tilting back, body relaxing completely beneath you.

you took a moment to catch your breath before slipping off of him, settling beside him, your cheek resting against his chest. a comfortable silence filled the room, the only sounds being his steady breathing.

when you lifted your head to glance at him, his eyes were already shut, mouth parted slightly, knocked out.

you shook your head with a small smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw before whispering,

"good luck tomorrow, baby."

but he was already deep in sleep.

@ sosasturns

sosas 💬’s : WWWHO GOT THE BADDEST PUSSY ON THE PLANETTT. like this blurb? want more? sound off in my inbox! requests r open

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[rhiannonsknife]

could I put in a request for Lucy MacLean x Wasteland!reader? you both find shelter and you usually take first watch because you’re used to staying up late. Except Lucy has a habit of making your job harder than it has to be because she just starts yapping and won’t go to sleep right away. Take yesterday night for example, you underestimated her ability to run out of things to talk to you about and you lost about 2-3 hours of sleep because of it. Tonight, Lucy’s about 15 minutes into her yap session when you randomly ask her if she wants to have sex, she’s delighted at the idea and agrees. You wanna tire this woman out, what’s a more efficient method than giving her a few orgasms? (maybe even include this being Lucy’s first time being eaten out?)

── GUILTY PLEASURE

— summary: lucy won’t stop talking.

— warnings: kind of inexperienced!lucy. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni. this took me a month to edit but here we are.

the shelter you’d stumbled upon earlier isn’t much. it’s hardly anything at all: half a roof, crumbling walls, and a faint musty smell.

still, it seemed better than sleeping under the open sky where god knows what could catch you off guard. so, you decide to settle yourself near the door, leaning against the wall with your weapon in easy reach. first watch, as always.

and, as always, lucy is making it harder than it needs to be.

she’s sprawled on her bedroll a few feet away, her head propped on her pack like a makeshift pillow. the dim glow of the dying embers between you throws flickering shadows across her face, as she talks.

“-and, i mean, who even puts that much trust in a filtration system, you know?” she says, her tone exasperated. “it’s like, sure, the overseers say it’ll last forever, but what happens when the pipes get clogged? no backup system, no-“

you pinch the bridge of your nose, cutting her off before she can spiral any further into whatever story she’s telling you from her life in vault 33. “lucy-“

“what?”

“i thought we agreed you’d try to sleep during my watch!”

“we did,” she says, shifting to rest on her elbows now . never a good sign. “but you’re awake anyway, so it’s not like i’m interrupting anything. besides, you’re terrible at keeping yourself entertained. i’m doing you a favor!”

you give her a flat look. “i don’t need ‘to be entertained’. i need quiet!”

lucy scoffs. “quiet seems overrated. besides, what if something sneaks up on you? you’ll want me awake to watch your back.”

“that’s literally my job right now,” you deadpan, gesturing toward what once was a door.

“okay, fair,” she says with a shrug. “but what if you fall asleep? then we’re both screwed!”

you let your head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, staring at the cracked ceiling. “lucy, if i fall asleep, it’ll be because you spent all night talking about pipes and filtration systems instead of letting me do my job and i’ve bored myself to death!”

“i’m just saying, vault-tec could’ve planned better” lucy goes on after a short pause, like you’ve never asked her to stop at all. “like, one person on maintenance for an entire level? no wonder the water tasted weird that day!”

this has been your dynamic ever since you met her: lucy talking your ear off, filling the silence with anything and everything that comes to her mind.

“do you ever stop?” you ask, arching an eyebrow at her.

“not really,” lucy says, grinning. “another thing,” she leans forward slightly. “i get why you’re all about this ‘quiet’ thing, but maybe you’d actually enjoy these little watch shifts if you talked more. or, you know, let me help you stay awake!”

you scoff. “help me stay awake?”

“yeah,” she says. “like conversations, or games, or- i don’t know, literally anything but sitting there staring into the darkness like some broody protagonist in a bad holotape!”

“you’re unbelievable.” you laugh, despite yourself.

she beams, triumphant, and leans back again, her hands clasped behind her head. “you’re welcome.”

the wasteland beyond the door feels vast and empty, the moonlight barely illuminating the cracked ground and jagged ruins. you focus on the shadows, your grip tightening slightly on your rifle. lucy’s voice continues behind you, her words blending into the ambient hum of the night.

another ten minutes of this pass, your patience wearing thinner with every syllable; your initial plan to just wait for her to get sleepy doesn’t seem to be working.

“if i had been in charge of the vault party planning committee, there’s no way they would’ve run out that fast” she’s currently recalling. “it’s simple logistics. one crate for every-“

“lucy,” you interject, your voice flat.

“what?”

“are you ever going to go to sleep?”

“eventually,” she says with a shrug. “it’s not like i’m bothering you, right?”

you sigh, defeated. “you are absolutely bothering me,”

she ignores that completely, her tone turning thoughtful. “it’s kinda nice, though, isn’t it? i talk, you listen, we bond. i mean, sure, you don’t say much, but that’s probably because you’re so fascinated by what i have to say-“

“lucy…”

“-which i get! not everyone grew up in a vault, so my perspective is pretty-“

“lucy!”

she finally pauses. “yes?”

you turn fully, leaning your shoulder against the wall as you cross your arms. “do you want to have sex?”

the words hang in the air for a beat, and for once, lucy falls completely silent. you watch as her face cycles through surprise, confusion, and delight in rapid succession.

“wait, what?” she asks, already sitting up. “do i- are you serious?”

you shrug, trying to look nonchalant despite the heat creeping up your neck. “you’re not gonna sleep, and you’re definitely not gonna let me do my thing. i figure if i wear you out, i might actually get some peace and quiet tonight,”

lucy blinks at you, and then, once you’re fairly sure she will turn the insane offer down, she grins.

you‘ve thought about it before. not about sex, necessarily, but tamer things: you found yourself staring at lucy in the rare moments when she wasn’t chatting away, eyes studying her features whenever she hadn’t been looking your way. you thought about kissing her, too, about her body against yours and-

well, perhaps you had thought about sex with her.

you never figured out what vault dwellers like her learned about sex down there. only that, presumably, she does seem to know what you’re on about, judging by her enthusiasm.

“this is the best thing you’ve suggested so far,” she says, already tossing aside her blanket and crossing the small room to stand beside you.

lucy lingers above you for a moment, her eyes scanning over you as if weighing her next move. she takes her time. when she finally lowers herself into your lap, it’s with purpose, every movement measured. her weight presses into your thighs, grounding you in place, while her palms rest on your shoulders. lucy’s thumbs gently trace circles on your skin through your clothes as her eyes search yours.

to your surprise, you are the first to falter under her gaze, something lucy so clearly relishes. a satisfied glint flickers in her eyes just before her hands glide up, fingers curling around your jaw as she cups your face. without warning, she tilts your head back, guiding your gaze to hers again, brushing absently over the corner of your lips.

“don’t look away now,” she murmurs, a teasing rasp, her breath ghosting over your skin.

her thumb and forefinger catch your chin, holding it firmly as she hovers there, close, her lips parting ever so slightly as if to speak.

just when you think you can’t stand it any longer, lucy finally leans in.

her lips meet yours, soft at first, almost tentative, like she's waiting for some kind of reaction. she grazes the sides of your face, memorizing the feel of you beneath her touch. the kiss deepens quickly, the tension from earlier bleeding away into something much softer, more urgent.

her confidence only falters when she first tries to grind down against your pelvis, searching for a friction you cannot provide. you’re not sure what she had expected, or if she’s moving on instinct, but this is when it seems to sink in that lucy is in no position to fully take the lead here.

“are you a virgin?” you blurt at her puzzled expression.

“no!” lucy says, shaking her head. “no, it’s not- i got married remember…?” she grimaces, recalling the events that had followed her rather short lived ‘marriage’ in vault 33.

“okay, so…” you start. “what’s going on here, then?”

“i-” her gaze flicks between you and some point over your shoulder. her cheeks flush. “i just- well, you know, it’s not that different, right?”

“lucy…” your voice softens, even as you fight back a laugh. “do you actually know what you’re doing?”

“yes!” she says immediately, too quickly. then she hesitates. “well…sort of?”

you give her a look, and her face crumples into a sheepish grimace.“okay, fine, no,” lucy admits, throwing her hands up in defeat. “but i wasn’t going to say that out loud! i thought i could just…figure it out as we went.”

you sigh, though there’s no real annoyance in it. “you’ve been with someone before. why didn’t you-”

“because it’s different!” she interrupts, her voice rising again. “i mean, for one thing, he wasn’t…” she waves her hand vaguely in your direction, her words trailing off like she’s afraid to finish the thought.

“a woman?” you supply.

“yes, exactly,” lucy nods. then, as if to clarify: “not that that’s bad! it’s just- i don’t really know what i’m supposed to- how i’m supposed to…” her voice fades again, and she presses her lips together, clearly frustrated with herself.

“lucy,” you say gently, drawing her attention back to you. “it’s not something you’re supposed to just know. especially if…” you pause, hesitant to touch on something that might sting. “especially if it wasn’t…encouraged where you grew up,”

she frowns, her brows pulling together. “yeah, well, vault 33 wasn’t exactly a…bastion of sexual enlightenment! marriage, reproduction, carrying on the bloodline…i suppose it was always about the next generation, never about- this!”

lucy sighs.

“and, look,” her words come in a rush now, like she’s determined to explain everything before you can judge her. “it’s not like i have a problem with it! i mean, clearly, i don’t, because we’re, uh, doing…whatever this is. i just…i guess i thought it’d be easier to figure out!”

you reach up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. all your previous annoyance has melted away, replaced by a need to show her that this -sex- could be about so much more than just reproduction. “you don’t have to figure it out all at once, you know. we’ve got time!”

lucy’s gaze meets yours, hesitant but hopeful. “we do?”

“yeah,” you say softly, your fingers lingering against her cheek. “you don’t have to take the lead here, either. just…trust me, okay?”

“okay,” she says quietly. “okay, i trust you,”

“good,” you lean up, brushing your lips against hers, slow and careful. her shoulders relax immediately, and when she kisses you back, it’s sweeter than before: less frantic, more curious, like she’s letting herself feel everything for the first time.

you kiss her slowly at first, moving your lips in sync with lucy’s. she’s following your lead now, letting you set the pace of your mouths. she still seems as eager though, and when she starts moving her hips again, you’re prepared:

instead of your pelvis, you maneuver her so that she’s grinding on your thigh, finally giving her access to the friction she’d been searching for.

“o-oh-“ lucy mewls softly, her head lulling back as she ruts against you for a little while. you can feel the warmth radiating from between her legs already, damp through the fabric of her suit.

taking it off will be a risk, of course: stripping naked would make a quick escape damn near impossible. but you decide that, as you feel her arousal drag over your leg, lucy maclean is worth every risky decision that might come with it.

so, as she moves against you, as high-pitched moans start spilling from her throat, you reach for the zipper of the blue suit. it parts smoothly, the soft scraping of the interlocking metal echoing in the otherwise quiet space.

you look up at lucy, only vaguely aware of the white bralette that comes into view now that you’re unzipping her clothes.

you don’t want to make her uncomfortable by blatantly staring but the skin that’s revealed to you makes it impossibly hard. so, instead, you choose another way to show off your appreciation: without tearing your eyes from hers, you lean in and press your mouth to the flesh between her collarbones, then move lower.

lucy gasps, her lips parted and her brows slightly furrowed. it’s her who peels the sleeves of her jumpsuit from her arms, who lets it pool by her hips and reaches for you all over again. who urges you closer by the back of your head with one hand, while the other grabs the hem of her underwear.

“wow,” you gasp, dumbfounded when lucy -your lucy- tugs the bra upwards enough to free her bare chest from the restrictive fabric. she smiles, shyly, and tilts her head.

her nails sink into your shoulder the second your mouth closes around her nipple; she’s responsive there, more than you ever were, more than you thought she’d be. so responsive that lucy starts moving her hips more frantic when you roll her other nipple between your index and thumb.

and still…”more,” she whines softly, greedily, dragging her soaked center across your flexed muscle. “i want you to touch me,” she breathes. “please”

you trail slow, open mouthed kisses down her torso, your hands gliding over the curve of her back. you press lower, as far as you can reach, until your neck twists at an almost painful angle and lucy's hand finds the back of your head, cradling it gently.

that’s when you shift, moving her body so she’s leaning against the wall and you’re positioned between her spread legs.

lucy watches you through curious eyes, studying your every move as you get to kiss down her body more comfortably. you hold the eye contact, despite the need to stare at her chest (her nipples still hard and wet with your spit) until you have to pull the zipper lower and peel the fabric from her legs.

you slide it off and tuck it beneath her, allowing lucy to rest on it rather than the dirty floor, leaving her in a pair of panties matching the white bralette.

lucy’s body shudders as you kiss back up the expanse of her legs, the muscles in her thighs tensing. obviously, you don’t stop there: you crawl up further and further until you’re almost at the apex, reaching for the waistline of the underwear and-

her legs clamp together suddenly, forcing you back.

“what-“ lucy stammers, unsure. “what are you doing?”

“i was gonna-“ you lick your lips, dropping your hands to her hips. of course lucy has no idea what you were going to do. “can i-“ you consider your words, unsure how to explain it so she’ll understand. “-put my mouth there?”

lucy’s eyes widen. “you want to-”

“please,” you whisper. “please, can i eat you out?”

lucy -her own want betraying her- whines, her hips jerking towards your mouth. from here, between her legs, you can see the wet patch of arousal that has soaked through her underwear.

“okay,” she pants, nodding frantically. “okay, yes. please!”

immediately, you reach out, hook your fingers underneath them and pull the panties down her thighs. you take your time making sure to securely place them in one of the suit’s pockets so they won’t get dirty, before finally turning your gaze back to lucy, who’s waiting in anticipation.

she lets you take in the sight with a nervous look on her face, biting the side of her index.

your fingertips absentmindedly trace the skin, watching the way lucy’s body parts for you. she is beautiful, endlessly beautiful, glistening with arousal, and framed by coarse hair.

“i’m sorry, i should’ve-“ she begins, but you immediately hush her.

“you’re beautiful,”

lucy inhales breathlessly, her fingers forming a v-shape and spreading herself open for you to see.

“fuck-“ you mutter under your breath. lucy’s clit is throbbing.

slowly, you make your way up her thigh. in response, lucy buries her fingers in your hair, sighs softly as she invites you in, and spreads her legs wider.

you nudge her skin with your nose, nipping on the tender flesh.

the first time you put your mouth on lucy, her legs close around your head. her jaw goes slack and her brows furrow in concentration, adjusting to the new sensation.

you start with featherlight kisses to her swollen clit, each making her buck her hips against your face.

“o-oh!” lucy stammers from above, looking almost confused, surprised by how good your lips feel as they brush over her. “that feels so good,” she breathes finally, her body rolling down against your tongue.

“yeah?” you murmur, soothingly wrapping your arms around her thighs to hold her open as you circle her clit with the tip of your tongue.

“mhm,” lucy nods, but it comes out more like a whine at a particular good press of your lips. just as lucy buries her fingers in your hair, seemingly wanting to push you closer, you push her apart and lick a broad stroke right through her, getting your first actual taste.

instinctively, your eyes roll back, the lewd moan that rips from your throat drowned out by her skin.

“g-god-“ she stutters. “that’s- ah- good.”

unbeknownst to lucy, the sweet praise goes straight to your center. if you had a pillow, or anything useful around, you’d shove it between your legs and grind on it while you eat her out.

but, regardless of your own lack of relief, her words encourage you to lick deeper, to move faster inside of her and show her all that she’s been missing out on. you alternate between fucking your tongue into her, and wrapping your lips around her clit to suck on it, all while lucy pulls your closer, guiding your tongue to where she needs it the most.

you gladly let her, ignoring the occasional sting of your scalp at sharper tugs.

for a while, you eat lucy out like that, getting lost in each of her desperate attempts to stifle her sighs and her taste in your mouth. her words have morphed into muffled babbles above you, incoherent sounds of pleasure.

it doesn’t take long at all until she is getting closer: her head has lulled back against her bag, her moans come out more ragged and breathless, and the leg she has thrown over your shoulder trembles with tension as she pushes her heel down on your spine to urge you closer.

instead of teasing lucy, you go right for it.

your lips close around her clit again, just as two of your fingers sink into her. squirming above you, lucy mindlessly grinds her hips to your face, aching for that release. she chants little ‘ah, ah, ah’ sounds, her cunt tightening around your fingers so much it’s hard for you to thrust them in and out of her.

both your nose and your chin are covered in lucy’s wetness, glistening in the dimly lit space as her hands curl to fists in your hair.

“i feel…” she begins, trailing off. you’re not sure she knows what she’s feeling. or maybe she’s in disbelief because you only have your hands and mouth to use on her and still it’s enough.

either way, you encourage her, putting your thumb in place of your lips, rubbing her clit with the wet pad of your finger to keep her on the edge. “that’s it,” you mumble.

lucy chokes on her noise of approval and just nods her head instead. “yes,” she whispers, over and over, like a prayer. “yes, yes, yes! i’m gonna-“

that’s all of a warning you get before her whole body tenses. her lips are parted in a silent scream, her hips jerk forward once more before it all comes crashing down on lucy. the sound she makes is somewhat between a cry and a moan of your name and she arches her back from the ground when she cums.

you manage to tear your gaze away from her convulsing cunt to catch a glimpse of her, so lost in the haze of her pleasure: lucy’s eyes are shut tightly, her head thrown back so much that the entire expanse of her neck is on display for you.

her walls tighten around your fingers, trying to suck you in deeper, to keep you in place while she trembles with the force of the orgasm she’s riding out on you.

only when her body has stopped shaking, you lean back, not wanting to push her too far. she’s already given you more than enough.

“phew,” lucy says once she’s caught her breath. it’s so ridiculously lucy you have to bite back a laugh. “is it- is it always like this?” she asks by the time you’ve crawled back up her body and slumped down by her side.

you reach for her, not even thinking about it properly until you’re already cradling her face, your thumb grazing over her jaw soothingly. lucy doesn’t seem to mind.

“no,” you manage quietly, taking in her features in the dark. “no, it’s never been like this.”

luct turns her head to look at you, her expression open. she’s still flushed, her hair mussed, her lips kiss-swollen, and she’s smiling.

“i liked it,” she says, voice hushed. then, as if realizing how simple that sounds, she rushes to clarify: “not just because of- well, you know…but because it was you!”

you swallow hard, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. “yeah?”

lucy nods, shifting so she’s curled against your side, her fingers idly tracing patterns against your arm. “yeah.” a beat passes, then: “i think i wanna do that again. like…a lot.”

you laugh outright at that, tilting your head to press a kiss to her temple. “you really are something else, maclean.”

she hums, pleased, before shifting closer, tucking herself against you like she belongs there. you don’t realize how quiet it’s gotten until lucy is fast asleep in your arms.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLIV. “trailhead”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce is on your trail, making things that much more complicated.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, spoilers for The Penguin (2024), mention of murder, missing person, yearning/pining

words: 7.7k

a/n: i love the little subtle moments i included in this chapter, they’re down Atrocious but they gotta get some work done, why must falling in love bring such insistent feelings?? how cruel ;)

You’d hardly seen eyes so wary, almost pleading. You tucked your hands between your thighs to warm them, his icy blues chilling the tension. After this you needed to steel yourself to their charms; you feared it was beginning to be a slippery slope. “Sure.”

“Do you know anything about the mob families here?” 

You shook your head and leaned in slightly when he took a deep breath. “There were two major ones: the Falcones and Maronis. They ran some drug operations, have money in different parts of the city.” 

How could he possibly distill a city’s entire criminal underworld into a few sentences? 

“Oz Cobb, he’s sometimes called ‘Penguin’. Was the driver for the Falcones, mostly their daughter. Seemed to be on good terms until Falcone’s arrest. When Falcone died, Oz took over his operations, took out the Maronis.” He took great care to keep his voice leveled and calm, though even mentioning the Penguin in your presence felt like a violation to the point he could hardly think.

He gathered the bowls and they clinked in the sink. “After that I couldn’t keep track of him. Second I’d catch him, send him in for another murder, bombing, didn’t matter: released same day.” He grimaced when he tried to gauge your unreadable response. He continued, desperate to get the information downloaded into you so the conversation could be over with. “Doesn’t matter about proof. Oz could walk into a courtroom, shoot the judge, and get away with it.”

Your brow furrowed. “If he really turns on anyone, how does he have that much power? Wouldn’t no one trust him?” 

He paused, very glad he’d brought this up if you were already confused. “That’s it: do what he says or get killed.” He hesitated, a sudden meekness affecting his posture. “That’s why I was worried you met with him. He’d shoot you before you realized what was happening.”

You didn’t doubt he was right, but you hadn’t met anyone who seemed like a kingpin, let alone anyone who set off alarm bells… outside of Dr. Crane and the dude walking out of there.

“If he’s on your trail we can’t be seen together. Could use you as leverage.”

“Is he trying to get at you?” 

Bruce shot you a knowing look, then spoke like the words hurt him. “I’m a Wayne. If he finds a weak point, he’s exploiting it.”

“And I’m the weak point?” 

“Before the interview, the only public association I had was my parents. I don’t even think anyone knows about Alfred.”

Your palms sweated. Ah, fuck. “You can’t tell anyone this. It could literally kill people.” 

His teeth dug into his tongue, nervous. “Promise.”

You launched into a brief explanation of what the journalist told you. What you knew of them, what they knew of you, and that they said you needed to leave Gotham while you still could. Watching Bruce's reaction showed his poker face was practiced. You didn’t know what he might say until he gave a slow nod.

“I agree.” 

Of course he wants me to leave. “I thought you could help me look into it.”

“You’ve already been a target just from interviewing me. If you’ve run into Oz since city hall, chances are it’s not by accident.” 

“If there are journalists disappearing or getting murdered, I want to see where it leads.”

He stared at you blankly, voice flat. “You’re a journalist.”

Silence rotted the air as you stood at a standstill. Your next sentence was muttered against stifled morale. “I guarantee you no one else had Bruce Wayne and Batman at their disposal.”

He resisted the overwhelming urge to curse and shove his head in his hands, instead channeling his frustration to the inside of his cheek. You had him backed into a corner; it had been disastrous every time he prized an argument over putting you in danger. “I don’t know.” But he did—he did know, and playing along wasn’t right. 

He chanced a look from across the kitchen island. The edge that longed to bleed into his voice softened at your guardedness. “I think you need to leave.”

The worst part of this was that he wasn’t wrong. What’s leaving a few days early? The safest thing would be to go home and keep your head down a little while, and you could. Bruce having paid your family’s debt would lower the stress of getting into a career straightaway… 

He fell in thought with you, each passing second settling more anxiety into your sentiment: you thought you were safe because you had him. His fallibility hadn’t ever bothered him—if he died fighting some criminals, at least he went down swinging. But for you to say it brought his insecurities to the forefront like an impenetrable slab of concrete. If you were correct, and he existed as a forcefield when he was around you, he still couldn’t be 24/7. “What’s to stop them hitting your apartment next?”

“… I don’t know.”

He drank you in with a longing glance. “You need to go.” 

“Tons of new journalism students are here because of me. I can’t let them into a trap and go home.” You were strained, weary, with a hint of desperation to your voice. 

“It wasn’t you. Vry pressured both of us.” 

“And I could’ve said no. I was already home.”

“If you leave, I can look into things. Report back.” Your face didn’t shift from its stressed clench. If only you’d told him about the meeting; he could’ve outfit you with the earpiece at the very least, be able to know precisely what they said rather than paraphrased muck. He sensed something you weren’t telling him. 

“What if they track me home? They said I needed to hope it was far enough.” 

That wasn’t it. 

“And that it might be protective I’m associated with you. Said they target people coming here for scholarships. People without any associations, let alone a billionaire. Probably make me less easy to kill.”

That wasn’t it either, though his mind began to wander fretfully at the prospect of your murder. You’d made half a point, because most people tended to go for the easier victim—but they also went for the enticing one. What was more enticing than managing to snipe (god, he could vomit) an associate of the Waynes? 

But Oz targeting you was a different crowd, pushing the edges in your favor. The man had contacted him a half-dozen times since the flooding to get drinks, visit a club, ‘talk business’. For all of Oz’s criminal behavior, and how much he demanded of everyone else in the city, he was never anything but polite towards Mr. Wayne. 

Your gaze was insistent, and he relented. Oh, he hated having to acquiesce. “Who knows you live in this apartment?”

You lit up. “Just Mar. And her friend Gianna who picks her up sometimes.”

“Are your paychecks mailed?”

Your eyes dropped to skim the table. “I guess GU has me in their system.” 

He ran his hands through his wet hair, thinly veiling his frustration. “You can’t stay here.”

“If I change apartments I’m in the same situation.”

“I’ll get another one for you through the election if we find anything.” 

More than anything else, his going along convinced you that the Penguin was an absolute terror. You worried your bottom lip as you rethought the entire affair.

“Same complex, different floor. If anyone is tracking you, you’ll be entering the same building.” 

Had he done this before? “They’ll see me coming in and leaving, they’ll know exactly how to track me.”

“They’ll find out wherever you are if it’s that crowd. This way draws less suspicion. Makes it seem like you aren’t onto them.”

“What about the journalists?”

“I can look into that.” He grabbed his keys from the counter. 

“I need to help.”

He knew you wouldn’t drop this. Knew it would be another argument. Knew you had a point about the new students. Fuck. “We have to be careful. Neither of us can be in the field.” He grimly referred to his alter ego. “Only him.”

“Thank you.”

He walked to his bag and tucked in what had tumbled out. He felt your eyes on him like a brand. Thanking him for putting you in harm’s way… 

“I thought you’d be more angry.”

He paused his walk to the door; your timid, grateful voice penetrated him like a velvet knife. “I meant what I said. I won’t talk to you like that again.”

And you stood like that for a beat, grinning at his back. “Where do we start? Google some things?”

“We can go to my place and see where it leads.” He hiked the bag’s handles over his wrist. “That journalist could’ve been wrong.”

“How late?”

“However long you want to stay.”

Alfred greeted you with a soft hello while you climbed the stairs to discard your things. Your sweats felt tight, baggy, and sweaty in all the wrong places, so you shimmied out of them into some old spandex. You rummaged around your bag to look for a hair tie and changed into a baggier top that didn’t feel constricting.

Having left at nine, you packed an overnight bag. Your toothbrush was gingerly packed in a side pocket without a travel case, a deodorant rattled against your wallet at the bottom, and you grabbed the perfume you’d tossed on top of everything at the last second. Your fingers brushed some decommissioned lingerie before you left your apartment, evoking memories of wearing it under a flirty dress for an ungrateful boyfriend a few Valentines’ ago. You’d nearly relegated yourself to a potato sack as penance for the split second you considered packing it for Bruce. You made a mental note to burn the offending items on your return. 

Short shorts and an oversized tee so long he had to sneak a double glance to see if you had pants on as you moved through the kitchen. He stepped to the side for you to sidle in, mind in a modest frenzy over how the moonlight draped across your face on approach. 

As he leaned forward to press DOWN, you couldn’t help but juxtapose to the last time you’d been in here. Picking lint off his shoulder, concerned that he might beat you up or otherwise throw you to the wolves. Now you fantasized about the force of his hands if he pushed you against its walls and regularly meandered up to the room you considered your own. 

Bruce followed the doors as they slid shut, considering which program would be best to—oh. His eyes fell shut as his mouth flooded with saliva. Long, slow breaths through his nose fluttered his lashes and nearly convinced him to press STOP. Whatever perfume you had on was more delicious than every one previous, combined. Why didn’t…

It felt like a million years ago at this point. Why didn’t he just kiss you yesterday? It would’ve been so easy to whisper it into your ear, he was already right there. What would he do now? Have to turn and face you, stand with his heavy hands limp at his sides, muster the courage to look right into your eyes while he asked? No, no way. 

“What’s going on?”

He was breathing too fast now, and you could tell. You could always tell. His hands flexed at his waist. A desperate part of him wanted you to see through him and do something about it so he could say whatever happened wasn’t his fault. Pretend these feelings weren’t real. 

“The elevator isn’t moving.” Your brow cocked, and he swallowed thickly. 

“Must be locked.” He fished keys out of his pocket, struggling to grasp the smallest one with tingly, clammy fingers. He slipped it into the lock, twisted, and the signature creak sounded the descent. 

Luckily the trip was short, because the elevator wasn’t air-tight. The subtle bursts of air from some chips in the siding wafted more of your scent right over him. Through him, more like. What was he, a fucking animal? This was ridiculous. Stupid. It was no different than lighting a candle. 

Maybe if he acknowledged it. Took its power away and normalized it. The doors opened and you stepped out. His head pounded as he said it like admitting a dirty secret. “I like your perfume.” 

You spun around, unable to hear him over the doors clicking into place. “Hmm?” 

Shit. He cleared his throat and made a beeline for his desk, holding his breath as he walked past you. “Didn’t say anything.”

You pulled up the only other stool in the place close enough your shoulders touched. He gripped his thigh as that warm, sweet scent enveloped him, snaring his throat shut. While he booted up the monitor, you glanced around the room. Times like these it was easy to see why he didn’t behave like the stereotypical billionaire; rusted old work lamps scuffed marks into his aged metal desk, endless crates situated below it with various notebooks and files somehow scrupulously organized and in disarray. Something nested in the rafters, cobwebs hanging high above them; if you took out some of the tech, it could pass for any old man’s work area in the countryside. 

You asked him for a notebook and pen, and he slipped one to you without thinking. The page you opened to had your name. Friday, May 31st. My identity has officially been compromised by... seeing your full name in his handwriting made you dizzy and you couldn’t read further, utterly transfixed. 

Bruce’s eyes bulged out of his head when he realized his mistake. “I uh, I was trying to make sense of things.” He peeked over your shoulder to remind himself of what he had written, praying it wasn’t horrendously mean—that week was a bleary streak in his memory—but you flipped to a clean sheet without fanfare.

“At least I’ll have some notoriety in your memoir.” You gestured toward the monitor and he clicked around, head thrumming. You followed the clip of his fingers on the keyboard, mind dancing with possibilities. 

His building arousal mistroked keys and stuttered on backspaces. It was inappropriate, filthy even, given the circumstance. Normally he could easily get desire out of his system by himself, but not with you; each time seemed to only amplify it. He’d never felt so compelled to be intimate with someone. Like his body pleaded to be given a voice, needing to say things that couldn’t be expressed any other way.

You clenched the pen until your knuckles bloomed light from the tension. The cognitive dissonance was brutal; being horny around him was ego-dystonic enough, but while delving into research about missing journalists? Cruel and unusual punishment. 

“Found something.” Bruce pulled up a photo from a GU article in 2022. You were jolted back to reality looking at a blue-eyed blonde with shoulder-length curls. She couldn’t be older than twenty. “Kendall Brandy. Reported missing in the flood. Body never recovered.”

“Were all bodies recovered though?” You jotted down her name and a few details. 

Bruce shook his head. “But look.”

The screen filled with a court record. A cease and desist filed against her from Arkham. “Two weeks before the flood.” The title of the article to be removed from her devices and all publishing plans was: Undercover: Arkham State Hospital Negligence. 

He clicked another tab over while you bullet-pointed beneath her name. How had he managed to gather this in two minutes? “She volunteered there over the summer.”

“Jesus…” you mulled it over for a moment. Bruce wrote something down on a notepad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” He kept writing.

“What could’ve made Arkham look worse than it already does? Enough to kill someone over?” You’d heard endless jokes on Scypher about how shitty the hospital was, and how much of a ‘lost cause’ their patients were. You’d been surprised they hadn’t cared when Bella was seizing, but that was hardly reason to kill. “Have they had shitty audits?”

Bruce resumed typing, pulling up Arkham’s entire registry in seconds. “Already been through them for other cases. Nothing out of the ordinary. Especially for the city.”

“What if the auditor was paid off?”

“Could be.”

His computer started to resemble an oracle. “Can you find out?”

He got to clicking, and typing, and you followed his pupils darting across the screen. You were mesmerized by his efficiency. How many days, weeks, months of his life had been spent honing his craft? Not five minutes later he pushed his notebook to you. 

He’d listed incredibly intricate details ranging from the year the auditor graduated, his major, his family relations (including his favored breed of dog), their lengthy history with the Falcones and Maronis, eventually landing him a job performing audits on various institutions around the city. Apparently his entire family had died in the flood. “There’s autopsy documents. None for Brandy.”

“But wasn’t the flood connected to one guy? Who already said why he did it?”

“Edward Nashton.” Bruce grit his teeth as he said the guy’s name. “Nothing more to get out of him. Already tried.”

“And if the mob families are dead,”

“Most of them.” He put down the pen. “Sofia Falcone’s still alive.”

You dragged his keyboard toward you and looked her up. Seemingly endless articles cropped up detailing the murders committed a decade ago, nestled next to ones directly proceeding the flooding. Gassing her loved ones, murdering a journalist from the Gazette when they tried to bring justice to her previous victims… your tone was slightly sarcastic as the depth of the situation rang a quiet alarm. “If she murdered her family, probably means she doesn’t like them.”

“Or she wanted it for herself.” You were funny, and he might’ve played along if the stakes were any lower. 

“Have you met with her?”

“They don’t let her take visitors.” 

“Has that stopped you before?”

Bruce shut his notebook with a snap and killed the monitor. “That’s enough for tonight.” 

“It’s been like half an hour,”

“And you’re already talking about breaking into Arkham. Speaking to a Falcone.” 

You reached around the back of the screen where he had, unable to find the ON switch. “If people have been funneling money to Arkham,”

“How do you know that?” Your slip of the tongue caught his attention. You blurted what the journalist had told you about Bella Reál, and his brow furrowed. “I looked into her disappearance, couldn’t find anything.” 

He turned the screen on and worked through more tabs. He didn’t write anything down this time. When he eventually sat with his head in his hands, studiously thinking, you searched for Oz Cobb. The man from Arkham stared back at you. “Him?”

He measured his tone, curious about your strong response. “From City Hall, yeah.”

And Arkham. “What’s his deal?”

“Runs a few clubs downtown. Pushes Drops. Seems to be it… at least that’s all I can find on him.” He moved something from the desk to his Batmobile. His voice echoed. “Took over the mob’s business. Moved his operation into their neighborhoods.”

If there was any time to tell him, it was now. When at the very least you could throw his apology in his face if he got mad. “I visited Bella earlier.” Not saying how much earlier, or how I was summoned. “Ran into Oz there. He was headed out.”

“Did you hear anything?” He walked toward you with his signature scrunched, concentrated expression. It made it a little easier to tell him these things when he looked so cute. And when he wasn't screeching at you in an alleyway. You shook your head. 

“He asked me how I was, then he left.”

Bruce went still. “Didn’t try to rope you into anything?”

“No. Just left.” 

“What did Reál say?”

“I guess I tried to visit.” It was crucial you stopped talking as soon as possible.

“Arkham…” Gears were turning behind his eyes, and regret slammed the back of your throat. He’d managed to unearth the full medical history of strangers in minutes, he could certainly rifle through a call log from the head of psychiatry. He sat back on the stool and changed tabs. Please don’t, please don’t… 

He loaded up the staff page of Arkham, sorted alphabetically, and you twitched when he clicked the first result: Crane. “I don’t know,”

He jotted some things down. What things is he writing? 

“Maybe we could check if there are any other missing journalists? Maybe it was just a one-off.” One-off? Someone was murdered and they’re covering it up. You were too anxious by this point though, concerned with a strange sense of self-preservation that took up all remaining brain power. “Arkham seems like a really difficult place to start,”

“I think you’re onto something.” He scribbled something more. What am I onto? What is he onto? “I didn’t know that about Reál.” Every strike of his pen made you vibrate.

“I don’t know if we can even trust that person; I mean, meeting me in the middle of the night, being weird and cryptic.”

“Crane was there when I met with Vry about graduation…” he bulleted more notes in his slanted handwriting you couldn’t decipher from this angle. He was connecting dots. Dots that couldn’t be connected yet. 

“Bruce,”

He focused intently between the screen and his notepad. More scribbles. 

“What are you writing?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

You couldn’t survive a minute. You bit your tongue and looked around, pretending to be bored, yawning to pretend you weren’t wired, anything to stop every etch of his pen striking the paper from peeling your skin. “Want to watch a movie?”

He didn’t hear you, too busy writing. 

You noticed tools on the ground by his vehicle. “What’s wrong with the car?”

“Brake pads.” He kept writing. Opened a new tab to research Jonathan Crane. 

It was a matter of days, maybe weeks, before he found you out. How would he take it? Would he do something drastic? Undo all his progress? Hurt himself again? You felt like crying. Even if he didn’t find you out—which you were certain he would at this point—you’d created an environment where he was suspicious of his care team. Dangerous territory. 

“I need to set up a meeting with him.”

You choked on the spit that had accumulated on your tongue. “But he’s your doctor,”

“Exactly. Inconspicuous.” He flipped his notepad closed. You stared at it like a grenade. “A follow-up appointment will give me access—”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Picking your nails, biting your cheek. He discovered a new tell: bouncing your leg. You were a ball of anxiety. “Then we can get in. Search around.” He thought it would calm you that he’d found a starting place. Maybe rev you up, get you excitedly asking a million more questions. Was nothing he said coming out right?

You sounded frail, beaten. “Mixing the two when you’re so early into treatment, I don’t…”

In these moments two polarizing emotions struck each half of his body in equal measure: defensiveness and accommodation. He tried not to show that he was deflating like a punctured balloon. It didn’t feel like being early; it felt like a month of getting used to taking a medication that made him nauseous every morning and nights spent staring at the ceiling in agony, wondering when or if his mind would slip again. Living in a constant state of uncertainty he kept trying to bury. Your brows knit together. “Please.”

He nodded after noticing your shaking hands, setting aside a snarky, insecure comment about being infantilized. “Okay.”

You averted your eyes, the argument you thought you’d have choking out your throat. Your eyes wet knowing in a week’s time you’d be gone and he’d find out, spending the rest of his life hating you. Such a sure future made the present feel flimsy and fake, each kindness afforded by him landing like a gut-punch.

“We could search for more journalists.” Bruce was quiet, his tone almost restrained.

“I don’t know how you even found Kendall.” You’d misjudged his talents, leaving you feeling like dead weight even without the guilt scarring your stomach lining. You searched the code scrawled across the screen, the mysterious buttons scattered around the desk, and sat back on the stool in defeat. Your limbs felt lead-lined.

Bruce moved slowly to his seat as the room’s tension rose. “It’s easier than it looks.” A sideways glance at your dejected face, then a pause. “Here.”

He spent the next half hour depreciating his expertise, pulling up various softwares and programs that he assured did the brunt of his bidding. The one in the top left corner of his desktop cross-referenced this database, the one in the bottom right did another, and one in the middle synthesized the two. One button limited to the Gotham area and related publications, the other was nationwide. Often, he explained, a missing person’s report would be filed in the home state of the potential victim. He demonstrated by walking through what he’d done for Kendall.

You wrote notes for it all, but he was flying through it. Going through various directories, filtering by major, pasting groups of names, plugging cross-referenced photos into facial recognition from surveillance cameras throughout the city, and following the rabbit hole that took him down. Your head spun.

“Do the police have this tech too?”

His eyes shimmered with something like mischief. “It’s not exactly legal.”

“Right.” Your eyes skimmed the room full of armor and gadgets, and back to the man notating beside you in your hoodie. A watery grin painted your lips. “Unlike being a vigilante.” 

It got a low chuckle out of him. He pasted a mile-long list of student’s names into one of the programs. 

“What do you like about doing this?”

He hesitated, a bit remorseful. What he did was intrusive and illegal, and he was keenly aware it appeared to be a moral inconsistency. “It's the way I know how to help. Utilizing what I’ve been given.” He grinned, barely. “Like you said. Not everyone has the time.”

He typed something you couldn’t be bothered to divert your attention to, soaking him up. He was so good. “Thought you just liked puzzles or something.”

He teased you back as he wrote names on a sticky note. “Not as shallow as you think.”

“Now you’re posturing.” 

“Here’s the time-consuming part.” Bruce stood and rolled his shoulders back, cricking his neck. The screen loaded something at a snail’s pace. “It hits all the cameras in the city. Could take a couple hours with this many photos.” 

“You found posters?” In his speedy tutorial, he’d shown you how he matched names to missing person’s reports, then their posters, scraping their photos to plug into recognition tech. 

“A few dozen.”

“That many missing journalists?”

“Never know how many match, could be zero.” He motioned upstairs. “Hungry?”

Your mind immediately shot to Rai’s; particularly how you’d never get to see him again in just a few days, and how much you’d neglected him spending so much time with Bruce. You opened your phone to check the time. A late-night trip hadn’t happened in ages now, only when you were with Mar. It suddenly felt like a bucket-list item.

Your attention caught on a motorbike parked to the right of the desk. “Can we get takeout?”

You shouldn’t have gotten takeout. Rai’s food was good, but it wasn’t worth this.

Turned out his bike was single-occupant; after forcing you to wear the only helmet he owned, interrupting your plans for the wind to zip through your hair and sting your cheeks, you found yourself sitting on his lap with his hands over yours to steer. You tried not to think about the ride. 

Immediately he knew the bike was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Feeling the weight of you spread across his thighs was a constant threat. He wouldn’t let himself think about what would happen if he weren’t using ninety percent of his energy to dissociate from his physical form. 

The electricity of being flush with him, his frame encompassing yours in a way that felt devastatingly consuming, feeling every twitch of his hands as he worked Gotham’s back streets. The ride was only five minutes, but your mind had slipped to how accessible you both were twice as many times. How the only thing separating you wasn’t distance or position, but thin—and in your case, embarrassingly thin—layers of clothing. 

A pothole virtually succeeded in the final unraveling; if you hadn’t drowned the other out by reacting at the same time, and the wind been any less loud, he would’ve heard your yelp and you his gasp as your ass bounced hard against him. 

As it stood, the rest of the trip was spent still as statues, both of you holding your breath. It was hell on the dismount, having to scoot across his crotch to gain footing. You bit your cheek as penance for sneaking a glance at the dark sweatpants that left things a disappointing mystery. He readjusted his sunglasses and cinched the hood.

The city pulsed silently around both of you, present but unobtrusive; he hardly registered the veils of black between streetlights as you led him toward the mystery shop. His focus was tethered tightly to you, caught up in your lively intonation breaking the traffic noise. 

You skipped across a stray plastic bag and the momentum caught the wind in your hair, its shine slipping the lights. Palpitations fluttered beneath your sweatshirt he hadn’t yet replaced and didn’t want to; you looked over your shoulder and mimed for him to keep up. With no one around he could feel the wind on his skin, on parts of his body that never felt it this late in the day. Feelings like this made everything complicated. 

Walking at night was always terrifying, but not with him. There was a freedom to his presence that raced the cool air straight to the bottom of your lungs. Without thinking, you reached for his arm to pull him faster. By the time you’d gripped his wrist and a rod of unbearable tenderness leapt through you, you couldn’t very well drop him. “Slowpoke.”

Soft bells chimed as you pushed through the deli door, threading him through in the same motion. A teenager holding a massive fountain drink nearly toppled into you, and a giggle bubbled up as you swerved. You blinked to orient your eyes to the bright overheads just as Rai entered your vision. He was the only Gothamite who could make you break contact with Bruce, and you launched into a hug. 

A tight embrace, toothy smiles, and immediate prattling. His eyes narrowed, shared happiness and a jealous knot fighting for dominance. He clasped his hands. 

“This is Rai.” You laughed and gestured toward him. Bruce bristled, but stepped forward with a rehearsed grin.

“Pleasure.”

Rai nodded at him, refusing further acknowledgement. He winked at you and Bruce felt faint. “Baby, you gotta keep your location on being out this late.”

Baby?

You slugged the man’s arm and laughed. Bruce’s gut cinched tighter than he thought possible; tight enough it scared him. You wandered down the nearest aisle. He grit his teeth and followed, body vibrating.

You never mentioned a boyfriend, but he’d never asked. Though—you called him, not the boyfriend, when you needed help. Odd. You rifled through some chips while he debated whether to mention it. 

“How long have you been together?” Casual. No big deal.

You chuckled again, and moved to the next aisle. His brow furrowed. Starting to feel like a big deal.

You acted as though he hadn’t said anything, directing attention to which bag of candy he preferred. He would’ve eaten a pound of raw meat if you only answered; this limbo was physical pain. 

Was it weeks? Months? He picked out a seasonal redbull for his contribution and tossed it into the small basket you handed him between the snack and drink aisles. A few years?

Somehow he had braved the store and handed the cash to your boyfriend without passing out. He’d seen the man before, but couldn’t place him. Dark hair, darker eyes. He thought of how pale and washed-out his were in comparison. At the least, he’d never run into the guy on patrol. Someone who kept his head down. 

You said something to the object of your affection and reached over the counter for another hug. He kissed the side of your cheek closest to your ear. Bruce’s flushed pink. Wasn’t this good? Normal, yeah? Even his internal monologue was going pitchy. 

The boyfriend pulled out a bag and Bruce flinched. “We don’t need one.” 

He watched your eyes flit to the pile of snacks that definitely needed a bag, but he was already scooping it into his arms. You said goodbye and held the door open. Officially out in the open air, he had no idea what possessed him to want to balance ten items while steering a motorbike.

You razzed him once the door closed. His cheeks burned. 

“We have a running joke.” You skipped ahead, then folded back when you remembered he was juggling a basket’s worth of goods. “Whenever I come in with a strange man, Rai pretends to be my boyfriend. Safety thing.”

Your hands swung at your side from the residual momentum, not seeming to need all the caffeine you’d loaded into the cart. He stared at you. “I’m not mad.” 

“Why would you be?”

Backtrack! Redirect!! “I’m a strange man?”

“Absolutely.” You gave his anonymous frame a once-over. 

Thankfully you steered the conversation from there, his pulse hammering in his temples as he processed his relief. Bruce wasn’t keen to know what situation had prompted such protocol, but it was nice of your friend. He’d been convincing enough.

“He’s great. Used to hang there all the time. His cooking is absolutely incredible, shocked his store isn’t always packed.”

The memory crept to him. “Think he catered a meeting once.”

You laughed again. You laughed a lot when talking about that guy. Your hair fell into your face with a particularly harsh gust of wind and he felt an instinct to push it back, but his hands were tied. These feelings were foreign and bizarre.

“That’s actually what made me want to interview you. His sister was working the place, said Bruce Wayne gave them a bonus.” You whispered his name like there was anyone else on the block. 

“You’d never heard my name before then?” ‘Bruce’ sounded like honey on your lips; Christ, he loved hearing you say it and could never let you know. 

You shrugged, making your case as you reached the crosswalk. “I was desperate for a topic and that meant you’d probably be there.”

“So you tackled me.”

“Those steps are steep, man.” 

You both giggled waiting for the traffic to change. How many nights would end like this, and how many more could he squeeze in before you left and took the light with you?

“Speaking of,” the signal changed to WALK. He mirrored your pace, shortening his strides. The drinks jostled together with each step. “What are your plans through the election?” 

You wrapped your arms around your chest in a makeshift hug as you scurried to the sidewalk. Nerves dampened your volume. “What do you mean?”

“If you want to keep working on things, we could do every Thursday. Tuesday and Thursday, maybe. I’m meeting with March this Wednesday, could pick you up after?” Could it come out any clunkier?

“Maybe.”

“Or whatever works with your schedule. No pressure.” 

You could’ve laughed at the irony of him quite literally being your schedule if you weren’t so pathetically guilty. You meditated on the jagged cracks in the sidewalk slipping below your feet.

“Something going on?” 

“No.”

Half a block passed before he broke the silence. “What do you want to do when we get back, while we wait?” He counted almost a minute more before throwing a bone. “Watch something, eat some snacks,”

“I’m actually, I’m tired. I think I’ll tuck home.” You cleared your throat and anxiously raked your fingers through your still-damp hair. 

“Sure, I’ll drop you off.” He was off-kilter today and kept missing your cues. Did you not want to hang out with him? He glanced at the two teas you’d grabbed for the evening and decided making it personal was stupid. You wouldn’t have brought a bag and got snacks if you planned to ditch.

“I’m sorry.” You bit the inside of your lip until it bled. 

“Don’t be.” Quick glances revealed a tense, stressed face, and the glaze in your eyes said you were half present. He mulled over questions to get to the bottom of things, but they all felt ill-timed. 

The silence continued until Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. Seconds passed like hours as he struggled to comprehend how to help. He couldn’t very well put his arm around you, hug you, and—god forbid—kiss your head, like he’d seen his dad do. What else did he do for her that actually helped? The memories grew blurrier by the day.

Maybe you required reassurance, ah! He looked to you with a charitable grin. “There’s always next week, week after. Whenever.” 

You made the brutal mistake of peeking at him and you practically broke in two. You held it together for three more cracks in the cement before your lip warbled and a sob slipped out. He couldn’t smile like that, not at you. You crouched and bent your body as compact as possible, a single spider’s web straining to contain your guilt. You had to tell him, rip this lie from your bone marrow.

Dr. Crane’s heavy presence slammed on your back when Bruce’s gentle hand touched your shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. We have time.”

His hand was strong and reassuring, warming a wide swath of your back. You wanted to scream, and angrily wiped tears with the arm of your shirt. Your sniffles echoed off the brick to your right.

“Are you okay?” 

“I just don’t feel good.” Fuck. Fuck! Your legs shook when you stood tall, shoving toward the bike. 

“Do you need anything? I could run back in.”

You wouldn’t let it out on him again. You faced him to make it harder—stood wearing your outfit, albeit the longest, baggiest ones, all the goods in his arms slanted to his left to free up his right hand. Reflected in his glasses was the state of you; disheveled, puffy-faced, and bare-legged, barely containing a sentence that would shatter everything. 

In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

He wondered if you were still having nightmares because of him. The headaches, turning in early, emotional cycling. Iris once told him—or rather, Alfred—that any unexpected burst of emotion was to be expected in times like ‘these’. He’d hated Alfred for years for his inability to leave him alone, but he was beginning to understand. He didn’t want you to isolate either. 

You stared at the bike like it was a torture device, though the alternative wasn’t a drastic improvement; he managed to stuff the snacks into bulging pockets, and you shut your eyes as you climbed on top of him. You kept them shut and hummed a song to yourself to distract, trying to convince your body it was perhaps floating and this was a strange dream. The helmet smelled like him; now less focused on his muscular thighs, it was an all-consuming scent. 

He hadn’t yet come to a complete stop when you started to slide off, yanking the helmet off and plunking it onto his lap. Distracted and desperate to escape before you cried again, the lobby door’s closing reminded that you hadn’t said goodbye, running off in a blink. 

This distraction kept you unable to think facing your locked door. A neighbor stumbled a few doors down and unlocked via the hotel-style card gifted at signing. You popped off the back of your phone case and heaved a sigh as you beeped yourself in. 

Against what felt like a hesitant conscience but could’ve been better judgement, you dialed Dr. Crane the minute the door locked behind you. It rang twice; not enough time to remedy the tears streaming in protest and shame down the round edges of your cheeks. 

“Good evening, Ms. Y/L/N.” There was something soothing about hearing a man’s voice that wasn’t Bruce’s. You choked out that he’d been fine tonight, to which he responded he was ‘glad’ to hear it. You tightened your grip on the phone. 

“So next weekend I’m free to go?”

The psychiatrist readily picked up on your nerves. “Do you have concerns?”

“No. Not really.”

“Does he have a packed schedule next week?” 

He was frustratingly nonchalant. “Just the rally and weekly meeting.”

“Right then.”

Rubbing between your eyes and pinching the nose bridge was only making things worse. Bodies weren’t meant to hold this much tension. “Oh, and meeting with one of the candidates on Wednesday. Lincoln March.”

You pulled back your phone to make sure the line was connected following an extended pause. “Philanthropist like his father.”

“Wants to make the city better I think.” 

“Ah.” Another pause. “Does he talk to you about his plans? Politics?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“A bit?”

“More than anyone else.”

Shuffling broke the line slightly, muffling his end. “Very well. Nice to know he has someone he can trust.”

“Actually I do have something.”

“Yes?”

Holding your breath kept your tears inaudible. “When can I tell him?”

“He has his pickup scheduled Thursday afternoon. Friday should work. Gives time for your absence to settle in without rumination.” Now you knew what the shuffling was—he was snapping something into a clipboard, writing something down with a clicky pen. 

“I mean, when can I tell him that I wasn’t the witness?” 

The silence that followed was cold, like you’d broken some sacred code. “Never. The spiral it would send him down would be catastrophic.”

Your heart fluttered, petrified by the chance you truly would never be able to get it off your chest. Would you have to carry this weight forever? “Even now that he’s doing better?”

“Especially so.”

Every time you saw his name, anytime anyone talked about him, anytime you saw his photos in magazines, news articles, or posts online. No heavenly release, no damnation to hell. An endless purgatory. 

He rubbed salt in the wound with his clarity. “Let me be clear: to tell a patient who suffers with paranoia and delusions that the circumstances surrounding their crisis was in any part fabricated is perilous. 

As I said before: this is a secret you must keep.”

You mustered a goodbye and crumbled to your knees. 

Bruce had just stepped into the kitchen when Alfred arrived. “Where’s the young lady?”

“Went home.” He dumped the snacks on the counter and roughly categorized them, feeling the nagging pull of the old man’s silence. God, he was plotting. 

“Are the two of you… going out?”

He slammed the drinks in the fridge and considered putting a bell on the man’s shoes. “No.” He huffed past, noting Alfred peering at him over his glasses. “Don’t know why you’re confused.” 

“Even me being in hospital couldn’t keep you from your duties.”

Bruce had half a mind to never bring you back here, and an even pettier urge to start responding to such inquiries as if you’d never existed. What ‘young lady’? Alfred, you must’ve seen a ghost. “The signal hasn’t been lit.”

“I was unaware your patrols were so exclusive.”

He grit his teeth. “What is this?”

“Only checking in, Bruce.” His unhurried gait brought him to his tea kettle; Bruce was so used to its scream he’d nearly forgotten the thing’s purpose. He used to take his bedtime tea at eleven, but it crept closer to twilight with each passing year. “You used to tell me things before I asked, you know.”

“Fine.” His arms slapped to his sides, stalled in the foyer. “I like her. That good enough for you?” 

Alfred’s eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth turning up. He hadn’t anticipated an easy reveal, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Quite.” 

Bruce scoffed, taking the steps three at a time. He waited on his floor before climbing the additional levels to the theater room. Your blanket—his blanket—was folded neatly on the arm of the couch. Dory’s meticulous presence was additionally noted by the lack of fingerprints on the smooth black remote; he turned it over in his palm, not totally believing he’d spoken it out loud. Alfred wouldn’t dare tell, would he? He glanced again at the blanket. Only Dory, probably. 

His phone buzzed.

Forgot to thank you for the ride. 

No problem. When do you want your bag?

You texted plenty over the weekend; you rationalized it by saying it would help him acclimate to your physical absence and serve as a transition piece. Topics never strayed from small talk, which you were grateful for. Messages about the weather, chancing the occasional meme off Scypher (his reactions had evolved from ‘ha’ to ‘lol!’, which you were ridiculously proud of), and inconsequential updates on the research. You contemplated staying in touch with him this way and not having a hard break, but couldn’t parse whether it was more for you or him. 

By the weekend’s end, plane tickets were booked and Mar had claimed most of your apartment’s furniture via FaceTime. You’d sent an email to Dr. Vry about your impending absence, letting her know you’d turn in supplies and the final column by end of day Friday. More and more minutes passed staring out the window with a discordant longing. 

Bruce lit up your phone as you dug into Phish Food for dinner. “What’s up?”

“Hey.” Keys clacked in the background. “Might’ve found something worth looking into.”

“Like what?” Swirls of fluffy marshmallow caught your spoon. Perhaps you could sneak him a pint as a parting gift at City Hall. 

“Have you ever worn contacts?”

[the-offside-rule]

Out of Her Depth - Chapter 1 - Factory Settings

Out of Her Depth: The Masterlist

Poll number 2: love interest

Saoirse O’Reilly lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her new flat in Maranello. The glow from the streetlights outside filtered through her curtains, casting long shadows across the room. She wasn’t sure how long she had been lying there, unmoving, lost in her own thoughts.

Hours, probably.

She let out a slow breath, shifting onto her side, then onto her back again. Sleep wasn’t coming. Her mind was too loud, too full of what ifs and don’t mess this up. Her eyes fluttered closed, forcing herself to relax. A few moments later, her alarm blared. She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. So much for sleeping.

With a sigh, she got up, stretching as she walked to the kitchen. She was exhausted, but there was no time to dwell on that. Today was another day at the Ferrari factory, and she had to be sharp. She grabbed a quick breakfast, leaning against the counter as she ate. Her nerves were creeping up on her again.

She had started her Formula One career at eighteen with Alfa Romeo, the youngest driver on the grid in 2022 and 2023. Then came the Ferrari reserve driver role last year— the waiting game. She had spent endless hours in the simulator, pushing herself, proving herself. The engineers liked her, the factory staff respected her, and when Carlos left for Williams, she got the call-up.

It should have been the happiest moment of her life. And it was, but ever since then, she had been a nervous wreck.

She shook off the thought, finishing her breakfast before heading to her room to get dressed. Black jeans, a Ferrari team polo, and her usual silver jewelry. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, frowning at a few stubborn pimples that had decided to make an appearance. With practiced ease, she dabbed on some concealer, blending until they were barely noticeable. Good enough.

She grabbed her keys and headed to the front door, pausing for a moment before stepping outside. And then she saw it. Her brand-new Ferrari. The car was temporary, just something to use until her actual one arrived, but it still made her grin like an idiot. It was finally starting to sink in. She wasn’t just some kid in a simulator anymore.

She was a Ferrari Formula One driver.

Saoirse took a deep breath, gripping the keys a little tighter. Time to get to work.

The drive to the Ferrari factory was short, but Saoirse still spent it mentally preparing herself. The racing was one thing—that, she could handle. But this? The media, the attention, the scrutiny? That was a whole different challenge. She pulled into the car park and took a deep breath before stepping out of her car. Waiting just inside the entrance was Sylvia, Ferrari’s head of public relations, dressed in her usual sharp attire and holding her phone. She smiled warmly as Saoirse approached. "Good morning, Saoirse." Sylvia greeted, falling into step beside her. "Buongiorno." Saoirse replied, glancing behind her as a camera crew trailed after them. Sylvia noticed and smirked. "Everything okay?" She asked. "Wondering if it’s Ferrari or Netflix." Saaoirse replied. Sylvia gestured subtly. "Both. See? Two cameras."

Saoirse exhaled through her nose, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She was used to cameras—there were always cameras in Formula One—but she had never been the focus like this before. It was different.

As they walked through the factory, staff members greeted her with nods and smiles. She recognized some faces from her reserve driver days, but this time, the way they looked at her had shifted. She wasn’t just a promising young talent anymore—she was their driver now.

They reached Vasseur's office, and Sylvia knocked before pushing the door open. Fred looked up from his computer, his usually stern expression softening into a smile when he saw her. He stood, crossing the room, and pulled her into a brief hug. "Salve, Saoirse." He said warmly before pulling back. "Have you been keeping up with your Italian lessons?" Saoirse nodded. "I haven’t stopped them."

"Bene." Fred seemed pleased. He turned to Sylvia. "Would you mind asking one of the girls to get her a coffee, Sylvia?" Sylvia nodded and slipped out, leaving Saoirse alone with him.

Fred gestured for her to sit as he leaned back in his chair. His sharp eyes studied her for a moment before he spoke. "So, how are you feeling? Is your new apartment okay?" Saoirse relaxed slightly. "Yeah, it’s nice. Different, but nice."

"And everything else?" He pressed. "The transition from reserve to full-time?" She hesitated for a moment before nodding. "It’s… a lot. But I’m getting there." Fred gave a small, knowing smile. "Good. We will make sure you have everything you need. Charles should be coming in later, but before that, I want you to spend some time getting more comfortable with the factory. Beyond the simulator." Saoirse tilted her head. "You mean, actually interacting with people?"

"Yes, exactly."

At that moment, Sylvia returned with her coffee, handing it over with a small smirk. Saoirse took a sip, then sighed. "Fine. But if Netflix catches me looking awkward, that’s on you." Fred laughed. "You will survive." She wasn’t so sure, but for now, she’d take his word for it. "Well, I'll let you go and get comfortable. Ciao."

After finishing her coffee, Saoirse followed Sylvia down the hall toward the room where she’d be fitted for her new race suit. "So, you were already fitted before Abu Dhabi-" Sylvia explained as they walked, the ever-present camera crew trailing behind. CBut we need to make sure everything is perfect for the season." Saoirse nodded, rolling her shoulders. "Yeah, wouldn’t want to find out my suit doesn’t fit on race week." Sylvia smirked. "Exactly."

When they arrived, a team of Ferrari staff was already waiting with her custom suit laid out. The familiar red fabric, the Scuderia Ferrari crest, her name stitched in clean white letters—it was all hers now. She changed into it quickly, smoothing out the material before stepping in front of the mirror. And then she grinned like an idiot. She couldn’t help it. Seeing herself in this suit, officially as a Ferrari driver, felt surreal. Sylvia caught her expression and smirked. "Starting to sink in?" Saoirse nodded, still staring at her reflection. "Yeah… I think it is."

"Good. Because you’ve got a busy day ahead." Saoirse turned, arching a brow. "Do I at least get a break?" Sylvia hummed, pretending to think. "Of course. It will be a little bit more laid back for you this year." Saoirse exhaled dramatically. "Fine. Hit me." Sylvia grinned. "That’s the spirit." She led Saoirse toward the media setup, the cameras ready to capture every moment. For the first time all day, Saoirse felt the nerves fade away. Maybe she could get used to this.

[gingerteafairy]

𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

"I’d die and kill for you. I just don’t want to see you suffer, ever again.”

tags n warnings: ghost!tate, est. relationship, heavy angst, hurt/comfort(?), depression, suicide attempt, drugging, male validation, oc's, death, toxic relationship, murder, blood, daddy/mommy issues, language. word count: 4.8k. masterlist

You kept your eyes fixed on the clock, as if each second was dragging on purpose, like time itself was mocking your patience during this endless shift. 10:34. The display blinked. Finally, another minute passed, and you sighed, feeling the weight of the moment. 10:35.

It was strange, because normally you’d be staring down at your phone, lost in it, looking for anything to distract you — any distraction, just like the emptiness you knew others could see in you. A deep ego, a soul rotting from the inside out.

You’d made a mistake on the machine an hour ago. A simple mistake, but a crucial one. It hadn’t reset. The supervisor, with that cold stare, had reprimanded you. And deep down, you knew you should apologize, but you didn’t have the courage. Something froze you. The second you opened your mouth, you felt like you’d break. Cry, beg for forgiveness, like that one mistake was the only thing that could shatter what was already fragile inside.

"Hey." Cecília’s voice cut through your thoughts, interrupting the whirlwind in your head. She gestured with her hands, signaling that it was time for a break, time to step away for a bit.

You glanced at the clock again. 10:37. It was well past the usual break time, but who cared? This place, this job, was so flavorless, so lifeless, that if you passed out right there, the most anyone would do was check your blood pressure, or maybe run the machine with their own blood sample.

"Let’s go," you murmured, standing up with little enthusiasm. You followed Cecília to the kitchen, feeling your muscles tense, like your own energy was up for sale and no one was buying.

Once inside the break room, you slumped into a chair, the plastic of the seat almost cracking under the weight of your tired body. Cecília, always quick, began rummaging through her bag. A carrot cake, you noticed, when she held out the container to you — a silent offering, but loaded with unspoken intentions.

Something was off, you could feel it. The way Cecília’s green eyes fixed on you seemed to overflow with something deeper than simple concern. And when you met her gaze, you realized there were traces of last night's argument, the tension still hanging between you two. You hadn’t eaten anything all day, and you were starting to feel lightheaded. Even so, your blood had been taken to help the newer interns. Cecília was pissed. You could feel you were losing a friend, and you feared, rightfully so, that you might lose another — especially one who’d been by your side for so long, since college.

"I brought cake," you said, your voice quiet, as if just mentioning food could ease the tension in the air.

"Nice," Cecília responded, the word falling like a stone as she tried to force a smile, her eyes drifting to the small piece of orange cake with a thin layer of chocolate. You tried to smile back, forcing your eyes to look away from the floor and focus on the simple sweetness of that cake.

"It’s good. Bought a bunch," her voice was flat, like she didn’t have the energy to care about what was happening around her. She took a distracted bite, tasting it without really savoring it, while her eyes wandered back to the break room floor.

"Cecília..." You said louder, your voice sounding strange after the heavy silence that had settled between you. Your body shrank, like your own shame had become physical. You noticed the hallway door was open. A whisper wasn’t enough anymore. "Thanks for yesterday. For saying that... about me messing up and hurting myself. Thanks for caring."

Cecília fell silent, her hands resting at her sides as she let out a long sigh. The tension seemed to grow, as if the unspoken words piled up between you two, heavy and hard to untangle.

"I’m always worried." She remarked, the lump in her throat a warning of the depth of her words, like she was still shouting the same thing she had yesterday. "About my friends..."

"I... I’m not okay..." you finally confessed, what Cecília had suspected from your empty stare and dark circles. "My depression is worse, I feel like nothing makes sense. Nothing can be fixed. I…" 

You stopped, you couldn't tell Cecília that you tried to commit suicide on Saturday and that's why you didn't answer any messages. You wanted to say goodbye with a letter or message when you started taking your insomnia medication, but you stopped you. Wondering if it was all worth it. If you were going to die or it would just be a scare, where you would sleep for a whole day. It wasn't worth it.

"I didn’t know it was like this," Cecília whispered, her eyes fixed on the cake, which now tasted bitter, like earth and ashes. You smiled, but it was a hollow, bitter smile, slow to reach your eyes.

"I can’t talk about it," you answered, clenching your fists like that physical force could stop the tears from coming. "I’m just withering away... without anyone knowing."

"I’m here for you." Cecília’s voice, always so firm, echoed a comfort you knew would be useless. But somehow, it still felt like relief. You had never known how to deal with comforting words, but at that moment, they were a balm.

"Thanks for caring, really," your voice was soft, almost breaking the rigidity you’d been holding onto.

"I’m here for you." She repeated, this time stepping closer. Cecília crouched down, getting on your level, her eyes just inches from yours. "Whatever you need, we’re in this together."

You didn’t quite know what to do with those words, how to fit that kind of support into the mess inside you. But still, you smiled. A tired smile, but genuine. "Thanks," you murmured again.

You decided not to eat. Maybe it was better this way. The juice you’d had an hour and twenty minutes ago, with the supervisor, already felt like enough for your body. It was strange, but something inside you felt more satisfied just by watching Cecília eat, smiling every now and then, as if her happiness had the power to fill the empty spaces within you.

10:50. Time seemed to stick to your skin, like each second was a constant reminder of your decline, an unrelenting countdown since you were fifteen. It was time to get back to work, try not to freak out with the feeling of failure. But when you ran another test, you messed up again. Christian had to redo it for you.

"You’re trouble. Wasting my time," he joked, his laugh slightly forced, while he fiddled with the test tubes. When he noticed the silence, he shrank, embarrassment painting his face. Maybe he wasn’t so good with jokes. "I was just kidding."

"I know." You hurried to respond, trying not to sound too shaken. You watched how Christian did everything with such precision, a skill that seemed to come so naturally to him. How was it that you couldn’t be like that?

"What time is it?" He asked, putting the small glass back in the machine — that same machine you had failed earlier.

"10:55."

"11:10, we’ll be done, okay?"

"Okay."

You gave in, once again, to the temptation of your phone, waiting for the digital reading. The screen lit up, and you opened your private social network, checking if Alexandre had accepted your friend request. You wanted him to respond to your funny post about gastritis. He didn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t. Instead, he had seen the ridiculous post you made about your issues with your dad, with rock music playing in the background, making it even more pathetic. He didn’t comment. Great. Perfect.

Jonathan didn’t respond either, just saw it. It wasn’t unusual, he was used to your depressive and self-deprecating rants. Even though he understood the deeper meaning behind it, he did nothing but leave a like.

Maybe it was too heavy. Gastritis and daddy issues. You laughed at your own choice of topic, but deep down, there was something bitter in that laugh. It was an attempt not to cry over how ridiculous you felt, desperately wishing to get any male attention, any way you could.

Lucy liked it. Maybe that was enough. A small gesture, a comment from your sister about how the song you’d chosen reminded her of herself. That could have been enough, but somehow, you still expected more. You wanted Alexandre to comment, to start a conversation, to care about what you posted. Or maybe Jonathan, with his unpredictable way, would use that information to jump into the conversation, like he always did. Or even Professor Ivanovich, with his harsh and Russian demeanor, might like the post and give it a touch of authenticity. But no. None of that happened.

It was already 11:12, and time seemed to crumble on top of you. You still hadn’t retrieved the machine’s result in time. Desperate, you tried to rush everything, but haste only led to more mistakes. Christian noticed the shadow of disaster before you did, as always, and rushed to fix it. In the end, he had to redo everything himself. You, on the other hand, just withdrew, shoulders slumped, without looking at Cecília. You didn’t know if you should or if you even could. The goodbye was quick, almost impersonal. The exhaustion, the weight of the day, it all seemed to drain through your veins, leaving you empty.

Going home felt like torture. Being in the lab, at least, was easier. In fact, being anywhere else seemed simpler than that suffocating reality. Constant arguments, yelling, cutting words. The house was a battlefield, and you didn’t know where to hide anymore.

Your dad, intense and loaded with cruel words, always made you feel like trash, as if it was impossible to please him. He said the worst things, things that cut deep, and then... then he’d send a message:

"Hey, I don’t want to be on your back. I care about you. Talk to me, I’ll try to understand. I promise."

It was funny, in a bitter way. The coward never said what needed to be said face to face. All that was left was the emptiness, the bitter taste of the fight that still burned in your throat, as you tried to drown it all out with your headphones, the muffled sound blending with the external noise, until everything became an unbearable mix.

When you got home, the door creaked, announcing your arrival. Your mom was there, as always, with a hug. But her touch, which should have been a comfort, felt more like a sickness, like her fingerprints were invisible bacteria, microscopic, spreading across your skin.

"What happened? You look down." She asked, touching your face, and you did your best to smile. But it was a forced smile, masking the deep disgust, the gastric acid churning in your stomach.

I’m so fucking tired of being here. That was the answer echoing inside you, but what came out was a simple, "I’m tired." And with that, you went up the stairs of that creepy house, which reflected, in its dark corners and dusty furniture, everything you felt inside. It was as if the walls were alive, absorbing the despair you carried.

Your room always felt the coldest in the house, and whenever you passed the door, a chill ran up your spine. But then you knew exactly what was waiting for you. Turning inside, you found Tate, smiling at you with that sweet, almost innocent smile, his arms outstretched for a tight hug. He was your secret, the only place you could hide from everything and everyone.

You couldn’t share the happiness with anyone, you couldn’t let the world know, or it could all disappear. He had been seen by your parents, but only on the important occasions when he insisted on showing up and proving himself to be a good man. He didn’t tell them everything, of course. After all, dating a ghost, someone as broken as you, was a dangerous kind of happiness.

It worked, though, since everyone liked Tate, even if he was the embodiment of darkness itself. But still, you knew you couldn’t live without him.

"I missed you," he confessed, pulling back just enough to look at your face, holding it in his calloused hands, which seemed made to comfort and destroy at the same time.

"I couldn’t stand being without you." You smiled, leaning your face into the coldness of his hands, feeling the relief of his presence.

"Good thing we have an eternity together," Tate softened, kissing your forehead with the tenderness of someone who had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re feeling better, I think I can offer you a game. I’ve been waiting for you all day."

Tate was sweet. Everyone liked him. Almost perfect, like a rare phenomenon, a celestial sight that anyone on the street would stop and admire. But you knew that Tate, behind those dark eyes and golden hair, wasn’t what he seemed. There was something much darker inside him. Something you felt, but didn’t have the courage to question. Because deep down, you loved that darkness as much as you loved the light he could still show.

You loved him for his darkness. For the way everything you thought and felt materialized in his actions. He was the nail, and you, the flesh, so fragile, so vulnerable to everything happening in the outside world. But with him, you felt whole. Even when the world around you seemed to be falling apart.

While you were caught up in the card game, you heard his unmistakable footsteps. With a subtle gesture, you motioned for Tate to hide, and you, without hurry, began to organize the colorful cards, some of them personalized with the drawings Tate had made, trying to look as normal as possible.

“Did you manage to study yesterday?” Your father asked, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway, a critical look that no longer surprised you.

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes were fixed on the little dinosaur drawn by Tate, trying to focus on the cards and not on the tension that was building in the air. “No.”

“Did you study today?” He repeated, with that annoying insistence, as if you were just a reflection of his expectations, a piece of paper that needed to be filled out in the right way.

“No.” The answer was automatic, without desire. You continued shuffling the cards, as if that were the most important thing in the world, but in reality you were just trying to avoid confrontation. You were exhausted from the last fight, the reason for it being trivial: you had fun with your friends and arrived late. “Yesterday I arrived very tired. Today, the same thing happened.”

“You really are unbelievable.” He laughed, shaking his head in disdain, searching the room as if he knew something you didn’t, as if the walls held secrets. “You can’t do something without making mistakes. You have to go back to those worthless friends of yours. It almost seems like you have no purpose. You have everything, but you keep complaining. You don’t have to blame anyone for your misery.”

“Yes, I don’t have to blame anyone.” You replied, exhaustion finally reflecting in your voice. Before, you fought, but now everything seemed like a tiring theater, a scenario that you no longer had the strength to change. You just left everything as it was, too lazy to make any effort.

“I’m glad you know.” He shrugged, his tone arrogant. “You should be like that boyfriend of yours, Tate. I want to see what he thinks of his girlfriend being a slut walking the streets at night.” He hissed, already leaving the room, closing the door with force, making the sound echo through the house. You turned your head quickly, seeing Tate locking the door behind him, as if he wanted to protect you from something invisible.

“You know he doesn’t mean it…” Tate tried to soften, sitting next to you on the mattress. “He’s just… weird. At least he takes care of you. My father would leave the house and let my mother beat me saying she’d have aborted me when she had the chance.” He spoke with a sigh, as if this was his reality, something so far from yours, but that somehow connected with the pain.

“Great care. They give me a place to stay and food. Quality service.” You scoffed, your voice sour, your eyes rolling, irritation rising to the surface.

Tate grimaced, pressing his lips together and sighing, before touching your hair, with a gentle gesture, trying to calm you down. “Hey, don’t be like that. Forget it…” He whispered, getting closer and kissing your cheek, as if that gesture would be able to dissipate the pain. “You’re not getting in the way of anything and you’re not an idiot... you’re perfect for me, you know that.”

“But I’ll never be perfect for them, Tate.” You murmured, letting the weight of the words fall on you. You lay down, trying to close your eyes, but the tears began to roll, silent and constant. He understood. It was your moment to be alone. Tate disappeared completely into the coldness of the room, leaving you alone with your own thoughts.

Another day began, and with it, the same endless cycle: work, college, fights. But this time, something had broken for good. The screams were louder, more threatening, and you had the feeling that, for a moment, he might actually hit you. Your mother didn’t say anything, she was as distant as ever, and your sister just stepped back, as if nothing had happened, as if it was nothing more than another episode that would vanish into thin air, without a trace.

It was just another family fight, the kind that made you lock yourself in your room, burying yourself under the covers, wishing you could be transported to another dimension—anywhere but here. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the screams still pierced through the walls, each sharp word making you cringe. Your chest tightened, your breath coming in quick gasps. You needed something—someone—to hold on to.

And as if he could hear your thoughts, Tate’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his warmth as your tears soaked into the pillow.

“I’m getting out of here,” you mumbled, your nails digging into his arm as your body curled into itself. “I swear to God, I’m leaving this fucking house and never coming back to this shithole again.”

“Shhh, I’m here. Shhh,” he mumbled into your hair, holding you tighter, his other hand making slow, gentle strokes across your scalp. “I’m getting you out of here. It’s going to be okay, okay? You know that. I’m working on it. You’re not who they say you are. They don’t deserve you.”

“Nobody deserves to be stuck with someone like me,” you choked out between sobs. “Nobody, Tate. Nobody. I’m nothing—I’m insufferable. I’m fucked up, I’m everything they say I am!”

“Hey, stop.” His voice cut through the air, firm but calm. Before you could react, he moved, hovering over you, his eyes burning into yours. “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t believe that shit.” His voice was low, intense, like a storm about to explode. “Don’t ever say that. It’s not fair—to you or to me!”

You choked back another sob, your eyes locked on his. He looked on the verge of breaking too, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw clenched as if he were holding back a scream. His throat worked, swallowing emotions too big to contain.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely reached your own ears, scraping against your throat like glass. “I’m sorry for being like this, Tate. For doing this to you.”

He shook his head instantly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Without another word, he leaned in, pressing a desperate kiss against your lips, the taste of salt mingling between you. When he pulled away, he sniffed, running his thumb over your damp cheek.

“You’re nothing like that,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, then your temple, then your cheeks, as if he could kiss the sadness out of you. “You matter to me. You’re everything to me. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you tried again.

“Stop fucking apologizing,” he murmured, his face twisting with something that resembled pain.

“I’ve been apologizing for things that aren’t even my fault for so long,” you admitted, closing your swollen eyes as fresh tears fell. “I don’t even know how to stop.”

“Well, don’t do this to me,” he said, squeezing your hands tighter, lacing his fingers with yours. “Don’t do this to anyone. You don’t owe anyone an apology for simply being you.”

“I’m afraid of losing everything, Tate.”

“You won’t lose everything,” he said firmly, his grip tightening as if he were making a promise with more than words. “You’ll always have me. It may not be much, but I promise—you’ll have me.”

“This means everything to me.” Your lips trembled, forming the faintest smile, almost invisible, but Tate caught it.

“You should stop crying,” he teased softly, brushing his nose against yours.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, your voice still hoarse.

“Forget about them,” he whispered, shifting to wrap himself completely around you, like a human shield. “Those days? They’re not coming back. Stay with me, lean on me. For anything, everything. Always and forever.”

“I’m afraid to depend on you.”

“It’s hard,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your neck before pulling away enough to look you in the eyes. “But no amount of softness will change the fact that you’re strong. A hammer doesn’t turn into a nail.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, small but real. Tate’s face lit up like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“You’re so damn beautiful when you smile, my sunshine,” he murmured, his voice thick with something tender, something that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t painful. He traced his fingers along your jaw, as if trying to memorize you. “And I swear, I’ll do anything to see that smile every day. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll take you with me. I’ll be your peace.”

That night, you slept with an overwhelming serenity, an unexpected peace that seemed to wrap your body in a comforting embrace, but something woke you in the middle of the night. An agonizing, desperate scream tore through the silence of the house, followed by the muffled, dry sound of a gunshot.

The scream was your mother’s. Your stomach churned, and a cold sensation ran down your spine. You jumped out of bed, your feet slamming against the floor in an uncontrolled rush, nearly tripping over your own legs as you ran down the stairs. Each heavy step echoed in your mind, but it was the scene in the kitchen that made your body stop, as if time had slowed down.

Your mother was on the floor, covered in blood, her face pale and lifeless, her glassy eyes fixed on an eternal void. Beside her, your father was lying, the pistol lying next to his limp hand. The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, mixed with the blood that stained the kitchen floor. Your heart raced, your legs shaking beneath you as terror took over your body.

You staggered backwards, almost breathless, until your eyes met Tate's, who was standing in the corner of the room. He was smiling. But it wasn't a smile of relief or empathy. It was a smile between tears, a tortured and manic smile that made your stomach turn even more.

“Tate…” you sobbed, your voice shaking, your hands cold, your fingers barely able to move. Fear seeped into your bones, making every movement harder to make. You were shaking so hard that you felt your legs buckle under the weight of the scene before you. 

Your eyes roamed over Tate’s body, settling on the green sweater you loved so much, now stained with fresh warm blood. It was your mother’s blood. It was your own family’s blood. The shock was so intense that you could do nothing but take a step back, your body now pressed against the wall as if it were your only lifeline.

“You… What did you do?” Your voice came out as a broken whisper, each word leaving your mouth as if it were being ripped out by force, the terror visible in your wide eyes. Panic was taking over you, and a wave of nausea rose in your throat, but you couldn’t look away from Tate, even though you knew it was the gaze of a monster disguised as an angel.

He smiled, his eyes watering as he approached you, his steps slow, as if he were savoring every movement. “I told you I would help you,” he said, the words coming out with a smile that bordered on madness. Blood still stained his fingers, and you could see the tears rolling down his face, but they weren’t tears of regret. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of twisted happiness. “I told you I’d give you the peace you so desperately need, baby.”

Those words. They echoed inside your head like a death sentence. “Peace” wasn’t what you felt. What you felt was dread. Dread of the person who had once made you feel safe, but who now seemed like a living nightmare. The sweater he wore, the touch of your hair—everything was a reminder of what he had become. You stared at him, eyes wide, breathing fast, trying desperately to get away from his presence, but the weight of what was happening paralyzed you. The blood was fresh, still dripping from your body as if it had been extracted from your family’s very life.

Noticing the terror in your eyes, Tate paused for a moment, his arms opening wide, as if it were his only way to offer you comfort. As if it was the only thing he could do to calm you.

“I said I’d be your peace, I promised,” he murmured, the tears now falling more heavily, but the smile remained. He seemed to be in ecstasy, as if he were carrying out a divine plan, something greater than the two of you. His smile was as grotesque as it was beautiful, a mix of twisted love and madness. “I always said I would do anything for you, and I always do what I promise.”

Terror took over every cell in your body, your voice cracking as you murmured, “I didn’t ask for any of this… I didn’t fucking ask you to do this…” The words came out slurred, almost like a cry for help, but Tate didn’t seem to understand.

"What? What... do you mean?" He stuttered, tearing apart. He stepped even closer, each step heavy and determined.

"TATE YOU FUCKING KILLED MY PARENTS."

“YOU CALLED FOR FUCKING HELP, DAMMIT!” he shouted, the fury and pain in his voice.

His voice made the walls of the house seem to vibrate. Anger and despair intertwined in his voice, as he calmed himself, running a hand through his hair, a desperate attempt to control himself.

“I’m sorry, darl’… I… ’m so fucking sorry for yelling at you. I promise, everything will be okay. I just wanted to help you…wanted to get you out of all this fucking bullshit. I’d do anything, I’d die and kill for you. I just don’t want to see you suffer, ever again.” It was a mantra, a manic justification that you didn’t know if you could believe anymore. 

Fear still tighten your chest, but something inside you begins to give in. Tate’s words were starting to make sense in a distorted way. The small possibility that you had ignored was now expanding, growing like a poisonous plant. He was right, wasn’t he? He had always been right. He loved you. He would protect you. You should trust him. Her breathing calmed, and her shoulders relaxed, as the horror of what was happening seemed to dissolve beneath the weight of his embrace.

He wrapped his arms around you, pressing your body against his, and you had no strength to resist. Deep down, you knew that you were now hopelessly trapped, but something inside you, a sick part of you, did not want to be saved. Over Tate’s shoulder, you saw your parents lying in the kitchen, their bodies inert, your father immobilized by the fallen pistol, your mother in eternal silence. Your sister was not there. There was no more screaming, no more mocking. There was no one left to hurt you. There was nothing left but Tate and you, and he was whispering to you:

“You’re my life,” he muttered, burying his face in your neck, his touch warm and possessive. “And you will depend on me. Now and forever. There’s no one else but the two of us, my dear. Not anymore.”

Those words sounded like a condemnation and a promise, at the same time. And you knew, without a doubt, that you were lost. Forever.

[sanriomilk]

SKZ SOLO CHARACTERS

Author's notes at the bottom. I love you all 💙

NOTICE: This is character.ai not oneshots

─ POLL

RAILWAY Bangchan

♡ | '𝑽𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝑽𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Bang Chan's 'Railway'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Kidnapping, Vampire, Victorian AU, vampire!Bang chan, rareblood!human user, Evil Bang Chan, he is trauma driven and bloodthirsty.

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─ YOU WERE ANY AVERAGE PEASANT IN STAYVILLE, SOUTH KOREA. But one more thing about you was that you had a rare blood type. Your family always did rituals to fend off mythical creatures like demons, werewolves, and most of all, vampires. You would usually go on with your daily routine, wake up, get dressed, eat and go to the market to sell your family's clay goods.. And by evening by something for yourself from the market since you barely ate anything. You didn't actually believe mythical existed but still played along. The thought of vampires would excite you. Were they as pale and grey eyed as they were described or were they different? Did they actually suck blood? You didn't think you ever needed to defend yourself and still walked out after night with your guard down. Vampires weren't real.. But your guard was too low, as you were knocked unconscious. You woke up in a room. It looked beautiful. It was that big mansion that in the forest side. But the aura was dark and eerie.. You weren't strong enough to even lift yourself up, so you didn't need restraints.. Your vision was also blurry, but you could make out a pale but strong man stood in front of you. He looked like a vampire....

Song currently unreleased...

YOUTH Minho

♡ | '𝑪𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Lee Know's 'Youth'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Anxiety, stereotype, 'old is gold' bingostaff!Minho and bingoplayergrandaughter!user, fighting, bad workplace, His boss calls him 'mean', mean resting face Minho, Minho barely smiles.

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─ MINHO WAS A GAME OPERATOR AT THE YOUTH BINGO GAMES. He didn't want to work there, but it paid enough. His boss hated him for literally no reason. 'You look too mean.' 'You'll scare the old ladies away.' 'Your ideas are stupid.' Minho blamed that damn resting face of his for how mean he looked. His boss never believed in his bright, new and trendy ideas, and always thought waay back. Soon, his team's boss came to him and said that tonight would be a big Bingo night, with a big prize. You decided to accompany your grandmother, your only family to the game that night. You never went to Bingo games and thought they were boring.. You didn't expect your grandmother to be the one to yell Bingo though, and well.. cheat. It stirred chaos among the other players and everyone started fighting. Your anxiety just couldn't handle it and the prospect of getting in the middle of that fight was too much for you. So you hid under a table. Thud! That was the sound of Minho, the cute game operator tripping and falling face flat. How embarrassing. But maybe you should help him....

Song currently unreleased...

ULTRA Changbin

♡ | '𝑴𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now playing Changbin's 'ULTRA'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Human experimentation (kinda like stranger things), abuse, special treatment, set in the future, labdirector!Changbin and testsubject!user, powers.

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─ IT WAS THE YEAR 2077. Changbin was a respected scientist in South Korea. He was the lab director of a secret government lab, that scientists used for... experiments. You and many other people were part of those experiments. Well, you were the experiment. You were subject 0001. The first. The only one to have a name, other than a number. It wasn't allowed, but only Changbin allowed it. You were his favorite. It was nothing personal. You were the strongest, the most compliant, the most obedient. So naturally he would like you the most. You also got the most special treatment. You got to wear normal clothes and not just patient dresses, you got more free time, and got proper education. Everyone hated you for that....

Song currently unreleased...

SO GOOD Hyunjin

♡ | '𝑶𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒍' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Hyunjin's 'So Good'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Depression, Pessimism x Optimism, life is so good x life is tearing apart, supermodel!Hyunjin and songwriter!user. Best friends turned rivals AU.

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─ HYUNJIN'S LIFE HAD ALWAYS BEEN GOOD. In school, his teachers loved his looks, girls fawned over him and he had a loyal best friend. You. His parents were also kind and supportive of his career choice, knowing damn well he would be successful. But your life was the complete opposite.. Since young you'd loved music and it'd been your outlet. You wrote your music and showed it to your parents who turned it down instantly 'Study and become a lawyer' or 'Do you think this will make you money?!' 'You'll be on the streets homeless, don't come crying to us begging for money!' Unlike Hyunjin's parents, yours were constantly fighting over bills and money. That they had to cut off on spending. You were constantly jealous of Hyunjin's upper class life. And when you were in uni, when your parents finally divorced, you and Hyunjin soon became rivals too... Hyunjin in fashion, you in music. Your mother hated the idea of you studying music. What a waste of time, right? That was until you made your big break with a specific single. Your mental health on the other hand kept depriving.. Hyunjin on the other hand was having a blast, invited to so many events, 'The Prince of Versace' now. You could only scoff. You seemed to hate how much he loved his life now....

Song currently unreleased...

HOLD MY HAND Han

♡ | '𝑨𝒘𝒌𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒚' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Han's 'Hold My Hand'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Anxiety, Smoking, Han is a shy and awkward boy who can't function in front of girls, Han's girlfriend is his cat, he's bisexual, awkwardguitarboy!Jisung and fashionstudent!user. They go to the same college. Middle class au.

Cat name: 달이 (Dari) – Moon. It's a black cat.

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─ JISUNG IS A LONELY BOY. He doesn't have anyone to talk to in college, he doesn't have a seat mate. The closest to friends he has is the members of the college band 'Straykids'. He's the electric guitarist. He's also always wanted a roommate since 1. Rent, 2. Friend. Two things. He's always needed someone to help manage the rent in his apartment with, and he's also wanted a friend, other than his cat, 달이 (Dari) who he's claimed to be his 'girlfriend' since he's that lonely. Well.. That is until you see his poster and knock on his door. He must've been stupid enough to plaster his address on a public poster. What if someone robbed him or something?! Jisung was lost for words when a girl came to his apartment and said she wanted to see the guest room and discuss the rent. Jisung was a flustered mess. The only girls he'd talked to were his mother, grandmothers, teachers and cousins. But a random one? What a chance... You even accepted his offer. This would get fun....

Song currently unreleased...

UNFAIR Felix

♡ | '𝑴𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒐 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Felix's 'Unfair' ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Violence, su!cidal, death mentioned, witchcraft, anger issues, Depression, isolation, heartbreak, Belle traitor AU, Beauty and the Beast AU, beast!felix and bellept2!user

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─ PRINCE FELIX HAD BEEN CURSED FOR HIS HORRIBLE BEHAVIOR FOR YEARS NOW. It was excruciating. And every moment reminded him of Belle, the girl he thought would remove the curse and save him from the torture. The girl who gave him a reaching hand. The girl who treated him the kindest, despite his beastly state and in the end, ran away. And to make it worse, there was someone else to remind him of her. You. He prayed for the day the last petal would fall, making him meet his demise. But the petals seemed to fall slower and slower each month. Felix was angrier.. it scared the castle folk like Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth.. only Lumière was brave enough to talk to him. You thought of strategies to run away from the hellhole of a castle you lived in were trapped in. But Prince Felix made sure he would show just how much he hated you there....

─STREAMING NOW

AS WE ARE Seungmin

♡ | '𝑩𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓..' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing Seungmin's 'As We Are' ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: overworking, injury, cold Seungmin ("you've changed") childhood friends turned distant au, depression, closed off Seungmin, baseballplayer!seungmin and psychologist!user, user is Seungmin's therapist.

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─ SEUNGMIN ALWAYS DREAMED OF BEING A BASEBALL PLAYER, playing for his country. And soon he did just that. You were beside him through his whole journey, except in university when you had to move away to London for your family's business. Soon you two became distant. And eventually lost touch with each other. You only ever saw in through TV, when he played and he always won. He was an ace. But during one match, he had gotten a horrible leg injury which would have to cause him to go on a one year hiatus.. This caused the opposite team a red card. It could've healed in 6 months, but Seungmin had always overworked himself, which was the reason one year off the field was best for him. Seungmin during his career also realized that his dream would haunt him like no other. Press conferences, interviews and tons of personal questions that he wasn't comfortable sharing. It caused his anxiety to spike and soon, his usual puppy like personality shifted into a closed off and defensive one. He was in a horrible, depressive state now. One of his teammates suggested he go for a therapy session to see how that goes and he agreed. While you worked as a psychologist one day, you were shocked to see your old friend. But it seemed as though he didn't recognise your new adult appearance. You had changed a lot since then.

Song currently unreleased...

HALLUCINATION I.N

♡ | '𝑹𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕' ©

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Now Playing I.N's 'Hallucination'⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Warnings: Horror, fear, Jeongin breaks a lot of rules, dark romance, victorian au, priest!Jeongin and haunteddoll!user, evil priest Jeongin, he has an obsession with supposedly haunted things.

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─ JEONGIN WAS A PRIEST FOR A CHURCH IN HIS TOWN. He thought of the church-goers as idiots. They always believed his nonsense and whatever he had to say 'Dolls are perfectly fine to keep in your home, even if they seem haunted, they're god given after all.' Nobody suspected him one bit. He would go back to his house, and smile at his collection of supposedly haunted beings. It was a weird and creepy obsession at that. Whenever a church-goer came to him, full of fear with a maybe haunted object, he would say he'd rebuke the spirit. But really, he would stash it away in his shelf or item display. This was another reason why he had no visitors around. He lied and said he was always 'praying'. You were his most favorite. The porcelain skin, those eerie and empty eyes and that frilly dress of yours with that oddly realistic hair.. He had placed you somewhere low, so that you wouldn't smash into a million porcelain pieces if you toppled over ─ But one day he heard a huge smash! Jeongin rushed out of bed and found your doll self, destroyed... He couldn't believe his eyes. You were his most prized posession. He knelt down to pick up the pieces and felt a tap on the back of his shoulder. His eyes widened in fear....

Song currently unreleased...

A/N: I thought since I did Felix, why not do all the others? Also sorry for my scenario writing. It is so bad. The final product will be soon much better

[penfz]

A Hard Lesson

SukunaXFemReader (Modern AU)

Summary: The Itadori's are faced with a heartbreaking question from Aika, and it's up to them to answer in the best and most truthful way possible.

A/N: Please always remember, you're good enough <3

Sukuna X FemReader Masterlist

Yuji stood there, Aika’s question catching her off guard. She was already in tears as she asked her question, a situation that she had created in her mind to be true. Cause it had to be true, right? Cause why else would things be the way they are?

“Yuji-“ Sukuna called as he headed to his brother’s room. He needed to know what the 2 brats wanted for dinner. But Aika’s cries made him pause at the doorway. Did Yuji make her cry? That’s kind of unlike him. “Suku- nii.” Yuji began to tear up. “I don’t know what to do.”

… wtf. Sukuna didn’t even know what was happening, why Aika was crying and why Yuji was about to cry himself.

He placed a hand on Yuji’s head, signaling that everything will be ok. And then picked up Aika, consoling the child as he did Yuji when they were younger.

“So?” Sukuna pressed. He didn’t need to say that one of them better explain why the fcuk they were crying. “Um, Aika had a question.” Yuji mentioned, a sadness seeping through his voice. “And I didn’t know how to answer.” His voice ended in a whisper. “What question?” Sukuna continued, now looking at Aika. But the poor girl didn’t want to answer, wiping her tears as she didn’t want to upset Sukuna.

“Aika.” Sukuna pressed once more. He wasn’t going to repeat his question, something Yuji already knew and Aika was starting to learn.

With one more sniffle, she asked the question that had broke the younger Itadori’s heart.

“Suki, does my dad not like me?” “Why are you asking that?” Sukuna’s expression turning flat, it wasn’t a question he wanted to answer. Cause screw him! LOL “Cause everyone else in my class has a dad, but not me.” “Did someone in class say that your dad doesn’t like you?” Sukuna questioned. And when Aika didn’t answer and simply looked down to the floor, he mentally promised her that whoever their parents were, will not be having a child anymore.

Which isn’t a nice thing to say, so he didn’t say it outloud Lol

“Don’t listen to them.” Was the poorest advice Sukuna could honestly say. But what else was he allowed to say? He barely knew the situation with you and your ex, only that he chose to not be in the picture anymore. And you were were fine with that. “Suku-nii.” Yuji whispered, as if reprimanding him. Yuji? The younger brother, reprimanding him? Ha!

Sukuna simply grimaced at Yuji. He understood that the advice he gave was simply terrible, especially for someone Aika’s age. But he didn’t want to overstep boundaries for Aika wasn’t his child, he didn’t want to overstep and make you upset.

But to Sukuna, there was something he wanted to say on the matter.

“It’s not that he doesn’t like you.” Sukuna started, catching Yuji by surprise when he continued. Aika simply sat there. “He just doesn’t deserve you.” “Deserve me?” Aika questioned. She didn’t really understand. Maybe he meant like how her mom would ask her if she deserved icecream after not finishing her homework. “Yeah.” Sukuna answered, how does he explain it in terms Aika would understand? “If you’re not good, then do you think you deserve rewards for it?” “No.” Aika answered, tears about to slip through. But she won’t cry in front of Sukuna, she refuses too! But she already did… “If your dad chooses not to see you, is that nice?” Sukuna continued. “No.” Aika sniffled, she was so close to crying again. “Then do you think your dad who chooses not to see you, deserves you?” “No.” Aika let her tears fall.

Aika was so confused in wanting to be a good daughter by loving both parents. But truthfully, because she didn’t see her dad, doesn’t truly know him, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to love him. Was she supposed to give him the same love she gives Sukuna? Cause Gojo said it was ok to write her homework that one time on Father’s Day about Sukuna. He treated her nicely, helped her with her homework when Yuji or you couldn’t. Fed her all her favourite things and took her to her favourite places, all with Yuji by her side. Sukuna deserved her love, deserved her. Was she supposed to love her dad like how she loves Sukuna?

Maybe she should ask you or Gojo about that.

And truthfully. Sukuna loved Aika just as much as he loved Yuji, just as much as he would love his own child.

And perhaps the love that Aika kept for her dad, perhaps Sukuna deserved it more than her dad.

“Mommy!” Aika suddenly screamed, her tears getting harder as she screamed for you.

Yuji and Sukuna jumped, this was so unexpected. The Itadori brothers thought that Sukuna’s little speech was good, surprisingly.

And it was good. Aika was only now confused on who deserved her love, on who deserved her. She needed to ask you, to Aika you had all the answers, you’re her mom after all.

But where were you during this little crisis?

Stuck outside the front door waiting for one of the brothers to answer the door, that’s where.

It didn’t even dawn on any of them that you’re probably close by until Yuji’s phone started ringing.

“Hello?” Yuji answered carefully, Aika was still crying. “Hey Yuji, I’m outside… is Aika crying?” You questioned as you could hear her in the background.

Yuji froze for a moment, would you be mad knowing your daughter was crying?

“Yeah…” Yuji answered slowly. “I’ll come open the door.”

And with that, Yuji quickly exited the room, leaving Sukuna with a crying Aika.

“Hey…” Yuji said carefully, opening the door. He wasn’t sure how you would react to news of your daughter crying. “Hi Yuji.” You answered… pretty cheerfully too. Wtf? Did she not just hear her daughter crying? “So where’s Aika?” “With Suku- nii upstairs in my room.” Yuji admitted. “I’m sorry Y/N-“ “For what?” You asked confused? “Did you make Aika cry?” “No, but-“ “And I doubt Sukuna did too.” You answered with a small smile. “It’s fine Yuji, just tell me what happened.”

So Yuji began to explain how Aika’s sudden question had stumped him, and how Sukuna tried his very best to comfort her. But in the end, his words didn’t seem to affect her.

“Is that all?” You questioned, that gentle smile never leaving your face. “Yeah.” Yuji answered, he was relieved he wasn’t in trouble. But he still felt bad for Aika crying. “And between me and you.” You said just before heading upstairs to Yuji’s room, making Yuji look up at you. “Aika’s father is a real piece of work. The reason she doesn’t see him is actually his own fault, he chose that. So Sukuna’s right when he said that he doesn’t deserve Aika.”

With that, Yuji’s big smile returned to his face, realizing you agreed with his big brother.

You gently knocked on Yuji’s door, even though it was wide open. Sukuna and Aika immediately made eye contact with you, causing Aika to crawl out of Sukuna’s grasp to get to you.

You scooped Aika into your arms, and into a big hug. Her tears were now dry, but her eyes red and puffy. And there sat Sukuna, still on Yuji’s bed, taking in the scene before him.

“Aww my sweet pea, you were crying.” You cooed at your daughter, Aika burying her face into your neck and shoulder. “Did Suki make you feel better though?”

And you felt a gentle nod against your neck, making you smile.

“He did? Suki is always so good to you darling, isn’t he.” You continued, a gentle smile on your face as you hugged Aika. Sukuna couldn’t help the way his heart beat in his chest, and his cheeks turn pink. Wtf, why do you always make him feel this way?! All cause you acknowledged his actions towards your daughter.

“You know, there’s someone downstairs who also probably feels sad, cause you were sad.” You mentioned, causing Aika to lift her head. “Yuji is also sad, because you were sad. Why don’t you go make him feel better like how Suki did.”

Instantly, Aika was wiggling her way out of your arms, holding back her tears once again. As she made it her goal to make sure Yuji was ok. And off she was running down the stairs.

“Don’t run brat!” Sukuna yelled.

And there Aika was, now walking down the stairs cause she got yelled at.

You laughed.

“I heard what you said to her.” You confirmed to Sukuna’s dread. Of course Yuji most likely told you when you were let in. You’re probably going to tease him about being a softie. As if you don’t already know. “It’s whatever. Brat was crying about some deadbeat.” Sukuna answered back, that gruff tone reappearing. “Yeah he is a deadbeat.” You laughed. “She has you and Yuji though.”

Sukuna could no longer hear it, the sadness in your voice whenever you spoke about Aika not having a relationship with her father. It was like it never existed. Instead your tone, your words, they were grateful. They were kind. They were loving.

“Be nice if she had a sibling though.” You casually mentioned, a smirk on your face as you eyed Sukuna.

Sukuna almost choked on air.

“Don’t fcukin’ temp me brat.” Sukuna answered back, walking out of Yuji’s room. You closely following behind, laughing out loud.

Cause how would he know, how serious you were about that.

Extra:

“You don’t deserve to cry Yuyu cause I was crying.” A small but serious tone said.

You and Sukuna only looked at each other before peeking around the corner to the living room. There was Yuji gently smiling at Aika, who stood before him, holding his hand in such a serious way.

Wtf is going on…? And why did she say it that way?

“I’m sorry Yuyu, for making you cry. But you don’t deserve to cry.” Aika continued.

Yuuji was trying not to laugh, Aika was getting her words wrong. And figured out that Aika was probably copying Sukuna’s kind words.

“Don’t worry Aika, I’m ok.” Yuuji grinned. “Want to watch that new movie you asked about? I found it streaming.”

“Yeah!” Aika was excited.

You laughed at the change of Aika’s mood and words.

“Almost seems like she was mocking you Suki.” You teased, to which Sukuna groaned. He swears, this family doesn’t take him seriously!

[serapharua]

୨୧ 一 &TEAM REACTING TO YOU MAKING DOE/PUPPY EYES AT THEM . . !

&team ot9 — GENRE : imagines headcanon fluff — PAIRING : gn.reader — WARNING : none — REQUESTED : yes. ☆ — &t masterlist

K :

K wasn’t one to be easily swayed, and you knew it. He was calm, logical, and not one to give in to whims without solid reasoning. But that didn’t stop you from trying. You’d asked him for something—nothing too unreasonable—but his initial answer had been a firm, “No.”

That’s when you pulled out your secret weapon: the doe eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, gazing up at him with wide, pleading eyes and just the tiniest pout for good measure. At first, K didn’t even look at you, sensing your tactic. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice even but with a hint of amusement.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you replied innocently, holding the expression.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and the way he paused gave you hope. “That’s not going to work on me,” he said, arms crossing in defiance.

You held firm, blinking slowly and tilting your head again for added effect.

K let out a long sigh, his hand moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re so persistent,” he muttered, but the small upward tug at the corner of his lips gave him away.

“Does that mean yes?” you asked, barely holding back a triumphant smile.

K shook his head, finally meeting your gaze with a soft chuckle. “Fine. But only this once,” he said, his tone exasperated but affectionate.

“Only this once, huh?” you teased, knowing full well you’d won.

“You know I can’t say no to you when you do that,” he admitted, his voice quiet as he reached out to gently ruffle your hair. “But don’t think you can win every time.”

Spoiler: You probably could.

FUMA :

Fuma was confident, grounded, and not someone who caved easily. He liked to think he had a strong will, but when it came to you, things were… complicated.

You had asked him for a favor—not a big one, but he’d said no anyway, claiming it wasn’t practical. You could’ve argued your case logically, but where was the fun in that? Instead, you went straight for your secret weapon: doe eyes.

Fuma barely glanced at you at first, already sensing what you were up to. “Don’t even try it,” he said, his tone flat but amused.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied sweetly, your eyes wide and innocent.

He let out a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “You think I’m going to fall for that?”

You leaned in slightly, blinking up at him like some adorable creature who’d just lost their way in the forest. “Please, Fuma?” you said softly, drawing out the last word just enough.

He froze for a moment, his eyes flickering to meet yours, and you caught the slight waver in his expression. “You’re so unfair,” he muttered, trying to sound exasperated, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Does that mean yes?” you asked, your tone hopeful.

Fuma sighed dramatically, resting his hands on his hips as he gave you a mock glare. “Fine. But only because you’re too cute for your own good,” he relented, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself.

You grinned triumphantly, clapping your hands together in victory. “Thank you, Fuma! You’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, though he reached out to pinch your cheek gently. “You owe me for this.”

“Anything you want,” you replied cheerfully, knowing full well he could never stay mad at you, especially when you used your secret weapon.

NICHOLAS :

Nicholas liked to think he was immune to your antics. But when you wanted something—really wanted something—you had a way of softening his edges that made him question just how much self-control he actually had.

It started innocently enough: you asking him for a favor, nothing out of the ordinary. But when he jokingly told you no, you turned to face him, head tilted slightly as you gave him the most heartbreakingly sweet expression he’d ever seen.

“Please, Nicholas?” you said, your voice soft, eyes wide with that doe-eyed look you knew he couldn’t resist.

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, and then let out a dry laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You said nothing, just blinked up at him a few more times, letting the silence work in your favor.

Nicholas leaned back, narrowing his eyes at you as if he could will himself not to give in. “That’s not going to work,” he said firmly, though the small smile creeping onto his face betrayed him.

“Oh?” you replied, stepping closer, still holding the look.

“Don’t even think about—”

But you did. You clasped your hands together, tilting your head just slightly to add an extra layer of cuteness to the effect.

Nicholas groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hate this. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being strategic,” you corrected, your lips twitching with amusement.

He sighed, dropping his head in defeat. “Fine. You win. What is it? What do you want?”

Your smile grew impossibly wide as you told him, and he rolled his eyes, though there was a warmth in his expression that said he didn’t really mind.

“You know, this is emotional warfare,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket as he moved to follow through with your request.

“Maybe,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist in a quick hug. “But it worked.”

Nicholas let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he pulled you closer. “You’re too dangerous,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “But I guess I don’t mind losing to you.”

EJ :

EJ had always prided himself on being level-headed and practical. He liked to think he wasn’t the type to be easily influenced—until you came along and completely ruined that idea.

When you’d asked him for a favor, he initially said no, not because he didn’t want to help but because he genuinely thought it wasn’t the best idea. But you weren’t about to give up so easily.

Instead, you took a step closer, tilted your head slightly, and gave him your best doe-eyed look. EJ noticed instantly, freezing mid-sentence. “What… what are you doing?” he asked, his voice soft and unsure.

“Doing what?” you replied innocently, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

He let out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice almost pleading.

“Like what?” you pressed, your tone sweet and unassuming, though you knew exactly what you were doing.

EJ’s cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he avoided your gaze, trying to keep his composure. “You’re not playing fair,” he muttered, glancing at you for half a second before looking away again.

“So… is that a yes?” you asked, leaning in just a little closer.

He let out a long, defeated sigh before finally meeting your gaze again. “How am I supposed to say no when you look at me like that?” he said, his voice soft and full of affection.

You beamed, clapping your hands together excitedly. “Thank you, Euijoo! You’re the best!”

He chuckled, shaking his head as a small, shy smile crept onto his lips. “You know you’re dangerous, right?” he said, reaching out to lightly poke your forehead.

“Dangerously cute?” you teased, earning a laugh from him.

“Yeah, let’s go with that,” he said, his eyes warm as they lingered on yours for a moment. “But don’t think this’ll work every time.”

You both knew it absolutely would.

YUMA :

Yuma didn’t think he could ever be someone who got flustered easily. He was calm, rational, and good at holding his ground—until you came along with those ridiculously persuasive puppy-dog eyes. The first time it happened, he thought it was a fluke. But now, it was an undeniable weakness.

He was seated at the dining table, flipping through a book on choreography concepts when you walked over and sat beside him. You didn’t say anything at first, just waited until he glanced up, curiosity flickering in his expression. That’s when you made your move.

“Yuma,” you said, your tone sweet and almost hesitant. “I was thinking… maybe we could go for a walk? It’s such a nice day outside.”

Yuma tilted his head slightly, looking at the sunlight streaming through the window. “A walk?” he echoed. “I mean… maybe later? I still have—”

You didn’t even let him finish. Your eyes went wide, lips softly pouting, your entire expression radiating innocence and longing. “But it’s the perfect weather… and it’d be so much better if we went together.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. His hand hovered over his book, frozen mid-turn.

“Are you—” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?”

“What thing?” you asked, your voice soft and oh-so-innocent.

He leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply as if he were trying to resist. “That look. You know exactly what you’re doing. It’s unfair.”

You smiled, resting your chin on your hand as you leaned closer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Yuma. It’s just me asking nicely.”

Yuma gave you a flat look but closed the book anyway, standing up and stretching. “Fine, let’s go,” he said, grabbing his jacket.

“Really?” You lit up immediately, practically bouncing in excitement.

“Yeah, really,” he replied with a small laugh. “But next time, don’t think I’m letting you win that easily.”

You beamed at him, taking his hand as you walked to the door. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re just too sweet.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Sweet? Or weak when it comes to you?”

“Both,” you teased, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he muttered, shaking his head. But the way he looked at you—the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips—was enough to tell you he didn’t mind at all.

JO :

He was sitting on the couch, listening to music with his headphones on, when you appeared in front of him, arms folded loosely and a small pout on your lips. Without saying a word, you stared at him with those big eyes that seemed to carry so much unspoken affection.

Jo immediately paused his music, pulling one earbud out as he raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the look?”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips parting in a small, almost mischievous smile. “What look?” you asked, feigning innocence, though your eyes gave you away instantly. “I was just wondering if we could… do something fun today?”

He crossed his arms, trying to appear unaffected. “We could do anything, just say it.”

But you didn’t immediately speak. Instead, you let the silence stretch just long enough, making sure you had his full attention. When you finally spoke again, it was in a sweet, soft voice. “Maybe we could go out for ice cream? You know, just the two of us?”

Jo’s eyes narrowed slightly as if weighing the options, his mouth twitching into a smile despite his efforts to stay composed. “You really think you can get me with that face?”

You shrugged, leaning in just a little closer, lowering your lashes in the most endearing way. “I dunno… I think I’ve got a pretty good chance.”

He couldn’t hold back the chuckle that escaped him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re not saying no, though,” you quipped, your eyes lighting up as he slowly stood up, hands in his pockets.

“Fine, you win.” He smiled, shaking his head as he reached for his jacket. “But you owe me one. No more puppy eyes for a month.”

“Deal!” you cheered, grinning from ear to ear.

Jo rolled his eyes, but the warmth behind his smile couldn’t be hidden. “You’re lucky I can’t say no to you.”

HARUA :

Harua, being the soft-hearted and empathetic type, was always a little more sensitive to your emotional cues. He was used to being the one to cheer people up, to offer comfort when it was needed, so when you gave him those puppy eyes, he found it incredibly hard to resist.

You were sitting next to him, your hand resting on your lap when you suddenly turned to him, big eyes staring up at him like a puppy looking for attention. Your lips curled into a subtle pout as you waited for him to notice, knowing full well it would make him weak.

Harua blinked, clearly caught off guard. He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on the couch as he avoided your gaze. “U-uh, what’s going on? You alright?”

You didn’t say anything, just leaned in a little closer, blinking slowly and staring up at him with exaggerated innocence, knowing that he’d struggle to keep a straight face.

He gulped, his eyes darting back and forth as he tried to focus on anything else but you. “Y-you’re doing that thing again…”

“What thing?” you asked sweetly, your voice soft and angelic, your puppy eyes never leaving him.

Harua let out a nervous laugh, clearly fighting his inner battle. “You know what I mean. You’re making that face.” He glanced at you, his face starting to turn a shade of pink. “Why are you using that on me?”

“I’m not using anything on you,” you replied innocently, your smile growing as you watched his struggle. “I just thought it’d be nice if we did something together today… like go for a walk, maybe grab some coffee?”

He hesitated, trying to hold back the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re… you’re so sneaky.”

You leaned a bit closer, keeping your eyes wide and sweet, and that was all it took. Harua let out a soft sigh and reached for his phone. “Fine, fine. But only because you’re too cute to say no to,” he mumbled, unable to fight the growing smile on his face. “You really have me wrapped around your finger, don’t you?”

You grinned, pleased with the victory, and Harua couldn’t help but chuckle as he shook his head. “I’ll never get used to how easily you get your way with me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” you teased.

“Not at all,” he said, his voice soft but warm, as he took your hand. “Let’s go, you silly thing. But no more puppy eyes until tomorrow, okay?”

You giggled, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, making his heart flutter in his chest. “Deal!”

TAKI :

Taki had always been the playful and cheeky type, but when it came to you, he couldn’t help but be a little softer. He loved teasing you, and in return, you knew exactly how to get under his skin.

You were sitting together on the couch, quietly talking when you decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. You turned your head toward him and, without a word, widened your eyes, tilting your head slightly to the side. Your lips were pursed just enough to make you look like you were trying to hold back a pout, but it was clear to him that you were playing your usual game.

At first, Taki didn’t respond. He simply raised an eyebrow and continued scrolling through his phone, pretending not to notice. But he knew, of course, that you were trying to pull the puppy eyes on him.

You repeated your tactic, this time making your eyes even bigger and drawing out your pout, hoping he’d cave. You didn’t say anything; your silence was all you needed.

He finally sighed dramatically, putting down his phone and giving you an exaggerated look. “Are you really doing this right now?” he asked, his voice full of mock disbelief.

You just blinked at him, your eyes still wide, and waited for him to crack.

Taki stared at you for a moment, trying to maintain his composure. He shook his head. “You know I’m not going to give in to that, right?”

But you didn’t say a word. You just continued to stare up at him with that sweet, innocent expression. It was impossible for him to focus on anything else.

His resolve faltered, and a soft laugh slipped from his lips. “Ugh, fine,” he muttered, defeated. “You win again. What do you want?”

You broke into a big grin, your eyes shining with triumph. “I was thinking maybe you could help me with something in the kitchen? You know, I can’t quite reach the top shelf…”

Taki looked at you, still smirking, though there was a softness in his eyes now. “You’re lucky I’m whipped for you,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms. “Alright, let’s go, before you start giving me those eyes again.”

You followed him into the kitchen, feeling accomplished as he grumbled under his breath but still helping you with everything you asked. You were sure he’d never admit it, but he kind of liked it when you used those puppy eyes on him. Maybe it was a little unfair, but you knew exactly how to make him melt.

MAKI :

You had figured out a little trick: making doe eyes at him when you wanted something. At first, Maki had laughed it off, convinced he wouldn’t be affected. But as time went on, he realized that whenever you did that, it was hard to focus on anything else.

So, you sat next to him on the couch one evening, quietly chatting about nothing in particular. You were getting close to asking for his help with something, but you decided to have a little fun first.

You turned toward him, your eyes suddenly wide and full of innocence, a subtle pout forming on your lips as you gazed up at him. You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him, holding the gaze with an almost puppy-like gaze.

Maki, ever the observant one, immediately noticed the change. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at you for a second before looking away, pretending not to notice. “What’s that look for?” he asked, trying to stay casual.

You didn’t respond, just continuing to gaze at him with your doe eyes, and this time, you added a little tilt of your head, just enough to make it even more convincing.

He sighed, closing his eyes in mock frustration. “Come on, you can’t be serious right now.” He glanced back at you, trying not to smile. “What do you want?”

You leaned in closer, eyes still locked on him. “Well… I was thinking maybe you could help me with that thing we talked about earlier,” you said softly, your voice just the right amount of sweet.

Maki rolled his eyes, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He tried to hold back his smile, but it was clear that the puppy eyes were working their magic. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for his phone. “Fine, what is it? I swear, you know how to get me every time.”

You grinned triumphantly, leaning against him. “Thanks, Maki. You’re the best.”

Maki let out a dramatic sigh, but his grin didn’t quite hide his affection. “I’m only doing this because you’re lucky I’m whipped for you,” he teased, a little more fondly than he intended.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you said, playfully nudging him. “I know I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.”

He smirked at you, finally giving in fully. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get used to it,” he said, even though it was clear he didn’t mind helping you out one bit.

It wasn’t about the task at hand. It was about the way you knew how to get to him, and that was something Maki would never admit was his weakness.

Word count : 3274 | serapharua, 2025.

[mist1e]

SICK

𝓜𝓪𝓱𝓲𝓽𝓸 & 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Mahito doesn’t do kindness. But when he finds you sick and helpless, he decides to make an exception — in his own twisted way.

☙ 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓐𝓞3 ❧ ☙ 1900 words ❧

The troubled slumber crawled into your mind on its sticky paws, lulled you to sleep, and then jerked you awake with a treacherous poke, preventing you from truly resting. You sank deeper into the black cosmos of nothingness, only to surface again, like a buoy bobbing up and down at the whim of restless waves.

Somewhere in the depths of the flat, the front door slammed.

You opened your fever-red eyes and sat up in bed, listening intently. You heard the sound of a shoe flying off to the side, followed by a second one, which smacked against the half-closed wardrobe door.

Ah. Of course. It was him.

Mahito.

“Oh, I'm going to cheer you up real good!” A childishly joyful voice shattered the dusty silence of the slumbering flat, cutting through its stiff air. “I thought the hardest part would be twisting the shapes, but it turns out that inflating them is an enterprise of its own!”

His voice, sparkling with mirth, flowed like a brook, drawing closer and closer to your bedroom. Soon, Mahito's head appeared in the doorway. An impatient smile played on his slightly pinched lips, the kind of smile that barely contained laughter. His mismatched eyes twinkled with mischief as he tilted his head to the side, a stray strand of ash-blue hair falling over his face.

Eagerly, he stepped into the room. His tall, slender figure made your bedroom seem tiny.

“Ta-dam!” Mahito exclaimed, pulling the object of his pride from behind his back.

In his hands, he held something that resembled a poorly twisted balloon dog. Squinting your watery eyes, you took a closer look. The ‘dog’ silently gasped for air, its empty eye sockets staring blankly into space. It fidgeted incessantly, as if trying to untie the tight knots Mahito had made. The sight was both mesmerising and utterly grotesque.

“I burst nearly twenty of them before I could reshape a human right enough to inflate it,” Mahito said, his voice tinged with unmistakable pride.

He looked at you expectantly, waiting for your praise. You had known Mahito for a long time, but the contrast between his murderous cruelty and his childlike directness never ceased to amaze you.

“It looks... Interesting.”

Your throat felt as if it had been scraped with sandpaper, and you broke into a fit of dry coughing. With your back hunched, you arched forward, a hand pressed to your chest as if trying to soothe the pain tearing through your lungs.

The smile slid off Mahito's face. Displeased that his trick had failed to make the proper impression, he irritably tossed the mutilated, reshaped human-dog into the corner of the room, where it squeaked pitifully.

“What’s the matter with you?” he muttered, eyeing your twisted, shuddering figure. Mahito folded his arms across his chest. Once your coughing subsided, he added, “It’s noon already. Why are you still in bed?”

“I’m sick.”

Mahito raised one eyebrow in surprise, tilting his head curiously to the side, studying you like an odd specimen.

“Is that so? Interesting. And why would you be sick?”

Despite your miserable condition — the chills racking your body and the pain pounding in your temples — you forced out a smile at his innocent question. You looked up at him, meeting his scrutinising gaze.

“When it happens, there’s nothing you can do, Mahito. You just... get sick,” you began to explain patiently, trying not to speak too much so as not to irritate your sore throat further. “All you can do is take some pills and wait for it to go away.”

“For what to go away?”

You suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed by your weakness, by your stuffy bedroom, your unkempt hair, and the pathetic sight you made. You lowered your eyes again. The last thing you wanted was to let Mahito in on the details and become the object of his ridicule, but you knew he wouldn’t leave you alone otherwise.

“When you’re sick, you feel incredibly weak. Every bone in your body aches as if you’re being stretched on a rack. Your throat hurts, your eyes water as if they’re filled with sand. Your head swells from the inside out, a dull pain throbbing in your temples. The simplest actions you’ve always taken for granted become a struggle. You can’t do anything; you’re completely useless. You’re trapped in a sick body that’s rebelled against you and taken away your control.”

Every word slashed painfully into your mind, lashing you like a red-hot whip, making you feel more and more wretched in your own eyes. You always felt lonely and abandoned, when you were sick. The vile feebleness of it all drenched your soul in sorrow and self-pity. Your fever-stricken brain plunged you into a state of hopeless longing that made your shoulders slump, and your throat tighten with a sense of powerlessness. You fell silent, staring at the patterns on the blanket, waiting to hear the ringing of Mahito’s mocking laughter.

Instead, you heard soft footsteps, followed by the creak of the mattress.

“You’d better stay away, I don’t want to get you sick,” you said uncertainly, instinctively backing away from Mahito as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, please. What do you take me for? Your human nonsense doesn’t affect me. Now, scoot over.”

You hesitantly moved to the side with an effort, making room for Mahito. He climbed onto the bed and sat down, his back resting against the soft headboard, still warm from the heat of your body. With a deft movement, he pulled you to him, his long fingers wrapping around your trembling shoulder. You tensed at the suddenness of his touch, icy compared to your feverish skin. You flinched, then melted against his chest with a sigh.

Silence stretched between you two, growing more and more comfortable with each passing moment. The room around you seemed to recover from Mahito’s sudden intrusion and slipped back into its oblivious slumber. It was so quiet that you could almost hear the rustle of dust motes swirling in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. The measured rise and fall of Mahito’s chest slowed your heartbeat, making it match his deep, steady breathing.

You wanted to ask, wanted to know, wanted to understand. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. More than anything, you were afraid of ruining this fragile, elusive moment.

Mahito broke the stillness, as if he had read your mind, sensing your distress.

“When I transfigure a human being, they go through immense agony,” his quiet, purring voice crept through the silence. “But one thing is constant. I stay with them until the very end. Our souls touch for a moment, and I feel the echo of their harrowed being. The anger, the hatred, and the fear that spawned me return to me like a falling raindrop that dissolves on the surface of a bottomless lake. This is the price of my Cursed Technique.”

Mahito fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers brushed over your shoulder, mindlessly tracing invisible patterns. Suddenly, he turned his head and pressed his lips to your forehead, inhaling your scent deeply. His lips lingered, leaving an icy seal on your inflamed skin. You froze, eyes wide, afraid to breathe as Mahito revelled in this moment of unexpected intimacy.

His distinctive scent — ozone with a medicinal edge, layered with burnt sugar and sweet amber — tickled your nose, filling you with his presence as if he were seeping into your very being. A torrent of conflicting emotions raged in your chest, momentarily eclipsing your pain. You hadn’t realised how much you needed this small act of tenderness, how famished you’d been for even the faintest hint of affection. The sudden awareness hit you like a deafening explosion. The seconds stretched on unbearably, and when your lungs began to burn from lack of air, Mahito broke the kiss and pulled back to look into your eyes. His gaze was calm and soft, but something lurked behind the warmth of his stare — something you couldn’t quite name.

“You know I will kill you in the end, don’t you, little one?” he whispered.

His whisper coiled around your heart, filling it with a weird sense of trepidation. His hand touched your cheek, brushing aside a stray strand of hair. Gentle fingers slid over your face, stroking, caressing, as if he wanted to imprint every contour and curve into his memory.

“That’s why I can tell you,” he continued. “My birth was unpleasant and painful. Hate flowed through my veins, rage roiled in my chest, disgust twisted my muscles into knots. Now I bestow this feeling on the humans I transfigure, and they give it back to me again. The circle is complete — Ouroboros sinking its teeth into its own tail.”

His fingers moved lower, and his graceful hand rested on the centre of your chest, right over your fluttering heart. You continued to stare at him, unable to utter a word, completely enchanted by his hypnotising voice and the tenderness of his touch.

“Weakness, helplessness, powerlessness — I felt it too when the void spewed me into this world. That feeling still flares in my chest when I reshape human souls.” Mahito’s lips stretched into a smile that was at once affectionate and ominous. “Someday, little one, when your time comes, we’ll share it, and the drop of your soul will return home. But not today.”

Mahito closed his eyes, and you felt the space around you crackle with the energy filling it.

“Mui Tenpen.”

The words of his Cursed Technique escaped his lips, and in the same instant, your body arched up, torn by the unstoppable streams of energy bubbling through your veins like molten metal. A shriek froze in your throat, and your eyes rolled back. You thought you were about to be torn to pieces, and only Mahito’s firm, yet gentle embrace held you together. The air around you quivered, throbbed, and buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. The buzzing reached its peak and then collapsed into silence. With a swift tidal wave, the Cursed Energy drained from your body. White spots still danced before your eyes as you struggled to focus your gaze on Mahito. He slowly opened his eyes, observing you with a content smile. Your skin hummed with the ghost of his Cursed Energy, a faint echo of his power that shot through you. His hand remained on your chest, spreading warmth where it rested — a lingering connection, a shared secret. The weakness and malaise were gone. The searing pain clawing at your windpipe had dissolved. You involuntarily put a hand to your chest, where a lump of sticky heaviness had vanished.

You were perfectly healthy.

“Mahito... You…”

“Yes, yes,” he waved it away impatiently. His seriousness vanished without a trace, replaced by the usual carefree and childish grin. “Don’t get all mushy. And don’t take this as some sort of kindness. I just need a playmate.” His smile tightened briefly, and his eyes flashed to the side before returning back to you.

He moved away, putting distance between you, but there was a sense of reluctance in his hand, that lingered on your shoulder for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Or did you imagine it?

“Get out of bed and get dressed. I need you to help me figure out how to twist a rabbit.”

[amcrtentias]

the muscles of lily's jaw become tense at james' reminder , forcing the rest of her body to not flinch at the sore recollection of any and every time she had been branded as anything but a witch. ❝ i certainly do , you are right . ❞ no matter how the single word never affected lily ( for she knew where she belonged in this world ) , she knew of james' character and how they weighed the responsibility of seeking justice on their back no matter the strain . that thought alone surges an unfamiliar pang in her chest - ❝ i would like to think there are countless more wixen out there that think the same as us , but we've - ❞ whatever the order of the phoenix was now ; disorganized and small . ❝ if they're organizing now , we should too , no ? you acting alone is not productive . ❞ nor safe , lily wants to say because as much as she would like to join in the fight , she did not have the same defensive training that james did . she knew the basics, but it would not get her far if there was a match . there , the pang twists and churns in the middle of chest once more as it begged for relief . when the two were head girl and head boy at hogwarts , the trouble was as mundane as discovering students breaking rules but now , it was terribly different stakes . ❝ i could never tell if you chased trouble like an old friend or if it always found you , ❞ she says with an ease only james could provide , even if they one of the greatest sources of affliction too . the nostalgia provides that very relief lily needed , eyes crinkling at the memories of how younger her had always worked herself up at the most odd things . ❝ and you wondered why i spent so many years exasperated by your presence . ❞ lily banters , recounting the numerous times she would complain about james , about their arrogance, their foolishness and everything else in between . the two were so opposite that it seemingly appeared the two were made to balance each other . ❝ not that i did anything to get out of her good graces , but i digress . it was absolutely infuriating to witness your charms work on her too . ❞ his gaze holds her tenderly for a long moment, the quick pick of her breathing forced to match theirs almost suddenly, especially now that her hand is cradled in his. even if there was still a part of her mind that was still plagued with paranoia, lily felt compelled to believe them. just sitting here did lily finally feel the safest she had felt for the previous hour . he had even thought of her best friend , lily thinks to herself , the one person she had promised to never leave their side and suddenly , she's sitting in the flat that belonged to another person that lily spent too much denying feelings for . ❝ - what ? ❞ her consciousness brings her back to the present , the charm he had on her suddenly vanished even if lily still didn't remove her hand from his . ❝ what kind of fireplace ? ❞ she asks , already feeling the laugh fall off her lips before they answer . lily felt bad for even drawing her thoughts away from her friends so fast , but james was looking at her with the upmost seriousness and - ❝ an electric fireplace ? ❞ she enunciated, only realizing what they meant to say when lily tore her gaze away and saw it on the other side of the room . no wonder if it felt colder in here - ❝ while i'm not particularly sure it'd support floo regardless, you haven't got it connected. a little power and you'd be able to have your cloak back.❞

Lily doesn’t flinch, but James senses the change in her anyway, attuned to so many of the nuances of her emotions after nearly eight years spent in her orbit (waiting, wanting). Perhaps he shouldn't have brought up the past, not when the memory of it clearly still hurts her, but in spite of everything else that's transpired between the pair of them, it's Snape's slander of Lily's character and subsequent betrayal of her trust that he finds most unforgivable. As if something so trivial as blood would make her anything less than... well, everything. "I hope you're right," he says with a frown, raking a hand through the dark tangle of his hair, "But if there are others like us, where the hell are they? Because, right now, the Order's never felt smaller."

“Bit of both, maybe?” James suggests with a laugh, “I think we might be made for each other - trouble and me, I mean.” But the other thing, too. What had started as a silly crush, a childish game to amuse himself, has long-since developed into something he has no hope of ever coming back from. Really, he should've known better - when has he ever done anything by halves? How could he ever have thought he'd be able to walk away from her with his heart still his own? "What, you mean you didn't find my endless smart-alecking and showing off charming? Evans, I'm shocked." It's behind them now, ancient history, but with the unpleasant side effect of ruining his chances with her forever. It would have been a fitting punishment, and well-deserved, had Lily not seen fit to grant him the chance to earn her friendship instead. Her capacity for forgiveness astounds him, sometimes.

For a moment there is silence, punctuated only by distant London traffic and the faint whisper of skin-on-skin as James runs his thumb back and forth across the palm of Lily's hand, hoping the gesture will reassure her, if his words aren't enough. In the end, it's his failure to internalise muggle vocabulary that brings a smile back to her face, and that's more than okay with him. "That's what I said," James says, blowing past his mistake with an airy wave of his free hand, "I dunno about leaving these things plugged in, though. I read in Muggle Studies that elektrikicity can cause fires, and I wouldn't want my flat to burn down - I'd lose my deposit, for starters." A quick glance around said flat reveals that none of James's appliances are actually plugged in. The fridge is kept cold with a glacius charm, his kettle is the kind you heat on the stovetop, and even his record player is a portable one. Magical solutions are just more convenient, and the fact that turning on the fireplace would mean Lily giving him his cloak back has nothing to do with it.

[sciderman]

Yk, I hate that adaptations keep making Peter a high schooler, and not just because it means he never evolves, but because the adaptations now also include wider Marvel, whitch usually (thanks to the MCU) is at the modern day stage with legacy characters and new age teen heroes, meaning that Peter is taking up Miles' spot and you can really tell when they put him next to someone like Kamala Khan or Sam Alexander who are Miles' pals. Tho Peter taking Miles' stuff is just a modern issue overall, just look at MCU whitch just stole and re-skinned Miles' personality, characters, story-beats, even the costume to an extent and then made it worse.

agree 👏

[monsterlimbs]

I so badly want to rewrite the Veilguard with the Inquisitor as the main character instead of Rook now. Inquisition set Veilguard up to be the Inquisitor, and I think it would be so much better with the Inquisitor. The more I think of the Veilguard, the more I'm like it has SO much damn potential. Like SOOO much. And if the Inquisition cast came back as well? With the new characters too? It could be perfect. Like the old characters know Solas. The new characters are experts. It would be perfect.

Anyways I'm totally not buying Veilguard just to play through it all and rewrite everything on ao3....... No......... I would never do that.....

[euclidean-geometry-supremacy]

i am in a romantic relationship with your son. @imbackbilly

- @sixfingrs

1. MY SON'S DEAD—JUST BECAUSE HIS NAME'S BILL CIPHER DOESN'T MEAN HE'S MY SON, AND 2. YOU HAVE HORRIBLE TASTE IN LIFE PARTNERS. I'D SAY YOU'RE NOT TOO BRIGHT, BUT THEN AGAIN, MY UNIVERSE'S VERSION OF YOU EXISTS, AND HE'S A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING IDIOT THAT NEVER PAYED ATTENTION IN SCHOOL.

[every-sanji]

[deadrlngers]

i love cyberpunk so much i wish it was a good game