#laser the second he steps a little too close | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 5 months ago

Note

maybe wheezie or even sarah needing rafe to pick them up from school or attend a back to school night. like the school calls rafe to pick up sarah after getting in a fight. or the teacher calls him in to discuss that wheezie struggling in math

thank you for the request!!! 🫶🏻🫂 i think rafe's always had a soft spot for wheezie so i did this one for her cause i personally can see their dynamic being really cute.

we're both older now - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

Sitting in the passenger seat of Rafe’s truck, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at him. His hands were on the wheel, jaw clenched just enough for you to notice, but not enough to freak out.

It’s been months since rehab, and you swear, you’ve never seen him like this before—so focused, so... responsible. It’s kinda hot.

But that’s not what you’re here for. Not right now.

You’re headed to Wheezie’s school because, apparently, she’s been struggling with math. She didn’t want to tell Rafe because Ward’s rarely at home these days and she didn’t want to bother him. When you found out, you could’ve smacked her. You get it—Rafe’s been under a lot of pressure lately—but you don’t think she realizes how much he cares about her. That’s why you two are heading to a parent-teacher meeting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s not.

“I should’ve known something was off,” Rafe mutters, breaking the silence.

You look over at him. “You couldn’t have. Wheezie’s good at keeping stuff to herself.”

He shakes his head, his grip tightening on the wheel just a little. “I’m her brother. I should’ve noticed.”

You reach over, resting your hand on his arm. “You’re doing your best, baby. That matters.”

He lets out a breath, his tension easing under your touch. God, sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who used to pick fights at every chance he got just a few years ago. It’s been almost a year since his last relapse, but every day you see him fighting to be better—for himself, for you, for his sisters. And honestly? It does something to you, seeing him like this.

You pull into the school parking lot, and he parks the truck, turning off the engine. For a second, he just sits there, staring straight ahead. You know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if he’s good enough to handle this, to handle all of it.

“You got this,” You say softly.

Together, you walk into the school, and after a quick conversation with the receptionist, you’re led to Wheezie’s teacher’s classroom. The room smells like dry-erase markers and stress, the kind you remember from my own high school days.

Except, this is a private school, completely different from what you were used to, and back then, you loved school. You were good at it too—really good, actually. Straight A’s, honors, full ride to a decent college…but life had other plans.

You look at Rafe as you wait for the teacher to start the meeting. He’s sitting up straight, listening intently, and your chest tightens a little.

The same guy who used to blow off any responsibility now sitting here, laser-focused, ready to step up for his little sister. The teacher starts talking about Wheezie’s grades, how she’s been falling behind in math, and you can see the guilt in his face. You squeeze his knee under the table, trying to ground him, but honestly? This was hitting a little too close to home for you, too.

“I can help her,” You hear yourself say before you’ve even really thought about it. Rafe turns to look at you, surprised, and you shrug like it’s no big deal.

The teacher blinks, probably not expecting the girlfriend to jump in with a solution. “What did you score on your final exams?”

You move in your seat, not expecting the question but not exactly shy about your answer either. "I got a 1600 on my SATs," You said, trying to sound casual about it, even though you could see Rafe’s eyebrows shoot up next to you.

The teacher’s eyes widen slightly. "That’s impressive," she says, "You must’ve had a lot of options for college."

You shrug again feeling that familiar feeling of bittersweet regret. "Yeah, I had a full ride to a few places.”

“And you didn’t go?”

The way she says says it—like she can’t imagine why you wouldn’t go—hurts a little.

"Yeah, well... life happened." You try to brush it off like it doesn’t bother you.

Rafe’s hand slides over to yours under the table, interlocking your fingers and giving you a gentle squeeze. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for you. To remind you that you made the right choices, even if they weren’t easy ones.

The meeting wraps up pretty quickly after that.

The teacher gives Rafe some advice on how to help Wheezie stay on track, and you both thank her before heading out of the classroom. As you walk down the hallway, he stays quiet for a bit, and you can’t really read what’s going through his head.

By the time you get back to the truck, he turns to you, his brow furrowed slightly, like he’s still processing everything. "You got a perfect score on your SATs?"

Three years into the relationship and he’s still learning things about you every day.

You let out a small laugh, brushing some hair behind your ear. "Yeah. It’s not a big deal."

"That’s kinda insane," he says, looking at you like he’s seeing a whole new side of you. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

You shrug for the millionth time today, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I don’t know. It just never came up. It’s not like it matters now, anyway.”

"It does matter." His voice is firm, and when you glance over, you can see how serious he looks. "You gave up a lot to help your sister. That’s not nothing."

Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow down the emotion rising inside you. The way Rafe says it, like he actually gets it, means more than he probably knows. "I just did what I had to do."

He nods slowly, like he understands that feeling all too well. "You didn’t have to offer to help Wheezie today. But you did.”

You don’t want to make a big deal out of it. "I want to help her. She deserves it."

Rafe doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with this soft, almost disbelieving expression. Like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re still here, beside him, helping his family without a second thought.

"You’re amzing, y’know that?" he murmurs, his voice low and warm in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You feel your cheeks heat up, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "Stop."

"I mean it." He reaches over, cupping your face gently with his hand, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His eyes soften as they meet yours, filled with so much adoration it makes you want to hide. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m really fucking grateful."

You bite your lip, glancing down at his other hand on your knee before looking back up at him.

"You’ve been working hard. For yourself, for us. I see that."

His jaw tightens just slightly, and he looks down, almost like he’s not sure how to take the compliment. But when his eyes meet yours again,

"I’m trying," he says quietly. "I’m trying to be better."

"And you are," you whisper. "Every day."

The months of hard work, the late nights when you’ve held him through his doubts, the mornings when he’s shown up for his family even when it was hard. It’s all there, between you, unspoken but understood.

Rafe leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you. "I’ll always be here," you whisper back. "We’ve got this."

“I don’t think I would’ve made it this far without you.”

You swallow hard, trying not to let it hit you too deep. But it does. Because for all the mess you’ve been through—his ups and downs, his relapse, his constant fight to be better—it always comes back to you. To this.

“I’ll always have your back,” You remind him quietly. “You know that, right?”

He nods, like there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind. “I know. You’re really good with her," he says after a beat. "With Wheezie. And with Milo."

You smile, leaning back in your seat. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta look after the kids, right? Might as well be me."

Rafe’s lips twitch into another smile as he leans over, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "Thank you, baby.”

“For what?”

“For sticking around,” he says, pulling back slightly to look at you. “Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

“You make it worth it, Rafe. You always have.”

Because seeing him like this—happy, strong, responsible, and healthy—it’s more than just him trying. It’s him becoming the person you always believed he could be, from day one on that stupid country club. And that? That’s something you’d stick around for any day.

When you and Rafe pull up to Tannyhill, the sun’s already setting. You grab your bag from the backseat, and he takes a deep breath, his hand hovering near yours like he needs to hold onto you just for a second longer. When you step into the house, you’re greeted by the usual stillness that fills the place. It’s huge, but it always feels too quiet.

Wheezie’s sitting at the kitchen island, hunched over her phone, clearly trying to distract herself. Her leg’s bouncing nervously under the stool, and you don’t even have to say anything to know that she’s been dreading this moment.

As soon as she sees the two of you, she freezes, eyes wide, "Hey," she greets, her voice shaky.

Rafe glances at you, and you give him a small nod. You know he’s trying to figure out how to handle this—he’s never really had to play the role of ‘responsible older brother’ before. But he’s doing it. He’s trying. And that’s what matters.

"Wheeze," Rafe starts, as he walks over to her, and you can see the panic rising in her eyes as she sits up straighter like she’s preparing for the worst. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

She bites her lip, glancing between the two of you. "I-I didn’t want to bother you," she mumbles, her voice small. "You’ve been dealing with a lot, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought I could handle it on my own."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s quiet for a second, and you can feel Wheezie’s anxiety practically buzzing out of her. She’s probably expecting him to yell, to go off on her, but instead, he takes a step forward and pulls her into a hug.

"You ever keep something like that from me again," he mutters into her hair, his tone firm but warm, "and you’re grounded."

Wheezie’s eyes go wide in shock, like she wasn’t expecting that at all. Her arms wrap around him a little awkwardly, but you can tell she’s relieved. She pulls back after a second, staring up at him with those big brown eyes of hers. "You’re not mad?"

Rafe shakes his head, but his expression is serious. "I’m not mad. I’m worried, Wheeze. I’m here, okay? I got you."

"I’m sorry," she whispers.

He sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at her. "Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again."

She nods quickly, and you step closer, offering her a small smile. "You’re not in trouble, Wheezie. I’m gonna help you with the math stuff, okay? I promise."

Wheezie looks over at you, clearly surprised, and then back at Rafe. "You’re… really not mad?"

Rafe rolls his eyes but in that big-brother way that’s full of affection.

"No, Wheeze, I’m not mad. But next time you’re struggling with something, tell me. That’s what I’m here for."

She nods, relief washing over her features. "Okay. I will."

Rafe reaches out and ruffles her hair, something so casual and brotherly it makes your heart swell.

"Good. Now go do whatever you do, and remember—grounded if you pull that shit again."

You slap his arm, “Will stop cursing in front of her?”

He shoots you a half-smirk, looking completely unbothered. "Please baby, she’s sixteen. You think she doesn’t curse?"

Wheezie lets out a small laugh, covering her mouth as if she’s trying to keep it together, but you can tell she’s relieved.

"Yeah, but maybe not in front of her big brother," you tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

Rafe shrugs, looking like he couldn’t care less. "If she’s smart enough to hide it from me, more power to her."

Wheezie giggles again, and you can’t help but smile. "Yeah, yeah," you sigh, rolling your eyes at him playfully. "You’re a great role model, Rafe Cameron."

He groans, “Please don’t use the full name.” The corners of his mouth tug up in a grin that makes your heart skip. “Alright, no more big brother lectures tonight. We’re good, yeah, Wheeze?”

Wheezie nods, still smiling. “Yeah, we’re good.”

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espresso1patronum · 20 days ago

Text

Nine Lives, One Knight

(batman!gojo x catwoman!reader)

synopsis: By day, Gojo Satoru is Gotham’s golden boy—billionaire, genius, untouchable. By night, he’s the Bat, a relentless force in the city’s shadows. You? You’re Catwoman—master thief, chaos incarnate, always one step ahead. You’ve spent years dancing around each other, neither willing to truly win. But when a new faction, the Black Veil, sets its sights on Gotham’s most powerful players—including you and the Bat—you’re forced into an uneasy alliance. Tension crackles, lines blur, and the game you’ve always played turns deadly. Because this time, it’s not just about the city. This time, it’s about each other.

cw: batman au, mutual pining, slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, angst, violence, blood, injury mention, gun violence, kinda gory? kinda forbidden love? Toji, geto, shoko and nanami cameo lmao

word count: 10.1k

author's note: this had been in my drafts for a very long time and after the poll results, I thought i'd finish this. it's not much, but I enjoyed writing this jjk x dc crossover.

Gotham was never silent.

Not even at midnight.

Not even when the rain came down in thick, suffocating sheets, drenching the city in shadows. Somewhere below, sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A single gunshot cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.

To some, the noise was chaos. To you?

It was home.

You move across the rooftop with practiced ease, the weight of the Black Veil’s encrypted drive tucked safely into the pocket of your suit. The heist had been too easy. A little slip past the lasers, a quick crack of the safe, and just like that—you were out.

Something worth a small fortune in your hands. Or rather—something that could destroy half of Gotham’s elite if it ended up in the wrong hands.

(Or the right ones, depending on who you asked.)

A clean escape. A successful job. You should be gone by now.

And yet—

A shiver runs down your spine. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From something else.

Something you can’t see, but feel.

You land soundlessly on another rooftop, pausing only for a second to scan the city below. Nothing. No movement. Just the familiar neon glow of Gotham’s underbelly.

Still—your fingers twitch. Instinct coils in your gut, whispering a warning you don’t want to acknowledge.

Too easy.

Too—

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth as silk, dark as thunder.

You don’t startle. You don’t turn. Instead, you let a slow, knowing smirk curl at your lips before you finally glance back.

There he is.

Perched on the edge of the rooftop like he belongs in the night, the rain dripping off the edges of his cowl, his cape shifting slightly in the wind. Batman.

Or rather—Gojo Satoru.

You should’ve known he’d show up. Maybe you did. Maybe you ignored it.

"Bold of you," you murmur, fingers flexing, ready to bolt. "Sneaking up on a cat in the dark."

His head tilts, and though the mask hides half his face, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please," he drawls. "You knew I was here before you even touched the ground."

He's right. You did. But you don’t let him win that easily.

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Bat?" You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders, keeping it casual. "Or do you just like following me around?"

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. The way a storm rolls in—inevitable.

"You stole something," he says.

You sigh, dramatically. "I steal a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific."

"You know what I’m talking about."

He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of blue beneath his mask. The kind of dangerous blue that makes your pulse stutter for half a second before you shut it down.

"Give it to me," he says, voice quieter this time.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. "Oh, Bat. You always ask so nicely."

Before he can move, you bolt.

And that’s when the rooftop explodes.

A deafening boom shatters the night, the blast wave knocking you clean off your feet. You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react—your body moves on instinct, twisting midair, boots scraping against the slick rooftop as you skid dangerously close to the edge.

Shit.

The explosion wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you.

You barely have time to register the shift in the air before an arm wraps around your waist—strong, unyielding, and familiar—yanking you backward just as the ledge beneath your feet crumbles.

You don’t fall.

Because he doesn’t let you.

When the smoke clears, you’re half-sprawled against him, one of his arms still locked around your waist, his other hand braced against the rooftop. Your breaths come hard and fast, heart pounding against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

"Well," you huff, dazed but not broken. "Didn’t think you cared, Bat."

His grip tightens—just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"I don’t," he says flatly. But his jaw clenches. "Stay down."

You snort, pushing off of him as you roll onto your feet. "You and I both know that’s not happening."

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. Because whoever just tried to kill you isn’t done.

And they’re not alone.

From the rooftop across the alley, figures emerge from the shadows. Armed. Precise. Waiting.

Batman’s shoulders go rigid. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"They knew you’d be here."

You exhale sharply, adjusting your gloves. "Looks like we’re on the same side tonight, Bat."

The rain slicks the rooftop, turning it into a death trap. But you’ve fought in worse.

Across the alley, four figures move into position. Their weapons gleam under the glow of a distant streetlight—guns, knives, and something that looks an awful lot like a taser baton.

Cute.

Satoru tenses beside you, assessing. Calculating. His voice is low, barely audible over the rain. "Stay behind me."

You scoff, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening."

He doesn’t waste time arguing. Because you’re both outnumbered, because the enemy is moving—because there’s no time to fight each other when you’re about to fight them.

And then—they strike.

One gunshot. Two. You react on instinct, dropping low, twisting away, boots skidding against the rooftop. Batman’s cape flares as he moves—one sharp flick of his wrist, and a batarang slices through the dark, knocking a pistol clean from one of their hands.

Fast and efficient. Classic him.

You? You have your own way of doing things.

The second attacker lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, grab their wrist, twist—the blade clatters to the ground. Before they can react, your elbow smashes into their ribs, sending them stumbling backward with a wheeze.

"Really?" you taunt, dodging another strike. "You came all this way just to embarrass yourselves?"

Batman doesn’t look at you, but you swear you can feel his exasperation.

"Focus."

You grin. "I am focused."

And then you flip over one of the attackers, landing smoothly behind them before slamming them headfirst into a ventilation unit.

Batman exhales sharply. "Could’ve just knocked them out."

"They’ll wake up." You dodge another strike. "Eventually."

More gunfire. Batman twists mid-air, cape flowing like liquid shadow as he dodges the bullets. In the same motion, he grabs your wrist—yanking you forward, pulling you out of the line of fire just as another shot rings out.

You’re so close you can hear his heartbeat.

For half a second, the world shrinks. The rain, the chaos, the rooftop beneath your feet, it all disappears.

It’s just you and him. Breathing the same air.

Then—"Move."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You both explode into motion, flawless in sync. A kick to the ribs. A punch to the jaw. A perfect sweep of your leg sends another attacker sprawling.

It’s fast. Clean. Too easy.

When the last enemy collapses, groaning, you barely break a sweat.

You exhale, shaking out your arms. "Well," you say, breathless. "That was fun."

Satoru glares at you. "This wasn’t a game."

"Could’ve fooled me." You step over one of the unconscious bodies, crouching slightly to pat them down. No ID. No insignia. No obvious ties to the Black Veil.

But then— your fingers brush against something cold. Metal.

Your stomach drops.

A small device is clipped to one of their belts. Black, sleek, with a blinking red light.

Shit.

Your head snaps up. Satoru sees it the same moment you do, his voice is sharp. "Bomb." A soft beep. A single second.

And then— the rooftop blows apart beneath your feet.

Pain.

It drags you back to consciousness, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from deep water. Your body aches, the sharp sting of a fresh wound cutting through the dull throb of bruises.

The last thing you remember—the rooftop. The explosion.

And then—falling.

Your eyes snap open. You’re not on the street. You’re not dead.

Instead, you’re somewhere dimly lit, the soft hum of an old heater filling the silence. A safehouse.

Your head tilts slightly. The room is small—just a battered couch, an old desk, and a half-broken lamp casting flickering shadows against the walls.

And across from you— standing near the door, arms crossed, still in full suit— is Batman.

Gojo.

Watching you.

You shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp pull at your side stops you. That’s when you realize— your suit is torn and your stomach is bandaged, and you sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "Didn’t take you for the hands-on type, Bat."

His jaw ticks. "You were bleeding."

"Aww," you tease, voice still hoarse. "You do care."

He steps closer. The soft glow of the lamp catches the edge of his mask, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders.

"You almost died." His voice is quiet now, lacking its usual smugness. Too honest.

You tilt your head, studying him. Something about the way he’s looking at you feels... different.

Like he hated seeing you like that. Like it unnerved him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick, heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Then—he exhales, stepping back, breaking the moment.

"You need rest," he mutters.

You shift again, testing the pain, biting back a wince. "I need answers."

"You need to not die."

"You didn’t answer my question."

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is sharp, precise. Avoiding something.

"The bomb was a trap. Someone wanted you dead."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I figured that part out, Bat."

He ignores the sarcasm. "Who else knew you’d be at that vault?"

"Just me."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and assessing. Like he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. "Look, I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers about a buyer wanting the drive. But if they’re willing to go that far to kill me for it—"

"—then you’re already in too deep."

There’s something grim in his tone that makes your stomach twist. You study him carefully. His cowl hides most of his face, but you’ve seen him fight, seen him move.

Gojo Satoru is always too confident. Too smug. Like he knows he’s the strongest, the fastest, the smartest in the room.

But right now? Right now, he looks... frustrated.

Not at you. He is frustrated for you and the realization is dangerous.

You push it down and swallow it whole. "Relax, Bat," you say, forcing a smirk. "I still got, what, six lives left?"

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t take the bait. But then your breath catches as he kneels infront of you but you don't move.

You should. You should say something—anything—but you don’t. Because his hands are on you again, pressing carefully against your bandaged side, checking his work.

He’s too close. His touch warm, solid, and careful.

And for the first time, he looks at you—not as an opponent. Not as a thief. But as something else entirely.

The silence stretches and you wish it hadn't because your heart is pounding in a way it isn't supposed to.

And then— he shifts.

You feel it before it happens. The slow lean forward. The weight of his stare. The way your own pulse betrays you, beating too fast, too hard, in the space between you.

Almost—

But then, the moment shatters.

The old radio in the corner crackles to life, static hissing before a voice cuts through. "Breaking news—an attack on Gotham’s financial district just moments ago—"

You blink as he pulls back and you just clear your throat, wanting to push all the wierd thoughts that were clouding your mind right now.

Satoru's expression hardens, as he stands, straightens his suit and steps away. "You stay here," he says, all business again.

You smirk, ignoring the sharp ache in your ribs. "Come on, Bat. You know that’s not happening."

He exhales, long-suffering. "You’re injured."

"And yet I still fight better than half your enemies."

He pauses and stares at you as though you'd said something wrong. Then, finally—a reluctant smirk. "Try to keep up, kitten."

Satoru hadn’t always been like this in the past when you met him. He was obnoxious, full of himself, always eager to show off his strength and speed in front of you. But today—this time—he felt different. For the first time, he seemed genuinely serious. And maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way he spoke, in the way Gotham’s Batman spoke.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with you. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder—what if it did?

Sneaking into Gotham’s financial district isn’t hard. But sneaking in with Batman?

Now that’s a challenge.

You slip through the shadows like you were born for this—because you were. Satoru moves beside you, silent, precise, and still annoyingly smug. You glance at him. "Not bad, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you. "Not trying to impress you, kitten."

Liar.

The building looms ahead, dark and empty except for the guards patrolling the perimeter. "Twelve," you murmur, already counting. "Four on the roof, two at the entrance, six inside."

He hums. "I’ll take the roof. You take the inside."

You grin. "Awfully trusting, Bat."

"If you get caught, I’m not saving you."

You both know that’s a lie.

Getting in is easy. Getting to the main office where the stolen drive is hidden? Even easier. You’re already at the vault, fingers working over the lock, when— you hear footsteps.

Shit.

You whirl around, but it’s too late—one of the guards spots you. The alarm blares.

"Dammit," you hiss, already moving, flipping over the desk as more guards storm in. You could take them. You should take them. It's really easy for you actually.

But before you even get the chance— a blur of black crashes through the skylight. Batman lands hard, cape billowing, taking down two guards before his boots even hit the floor.

You blink. "Show-off."

"You’re welcome," he mutters, throwing a punch.

It’s a blur of fists, kicks, and electricity. You move too well together, too in sync. It’s not just skill—it’s instinct. Every time you dodge, he’s already covering your blind spot. Every time he moves, you’re already reading his next step.

It’s flawless. It’s deadly. It’s perfect but— a bit too much. At some point, you end up back-to-back. Panting, bruised and your adrenaline spiking.

His voice is low, breathless. "You good?"

You swallow hard because you shouldn’t be this affected. You shouldn't be affected by anything he says or he does because you don't care, right?

"Always."

And then— a hand grips your wrist. It was a guard you didn’t see. You twist your hand, ready to counter, but before you can, Batman moves first.

Fast. Too fast.

His hand grips the front of your suit—yanking you forward, spinning you behind him as he slams the attacker into the wall with enough force to shake the room.

With a loud thud, the guy drops instantly and you hear nothing but the silence that is lingering in the air. The only sound is your breath and his, his hand still gripping your suit, still holding you.

You look up at him and find him already watching you. He’s too close for your liking. Or is he?

His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in steady yet controlled breaths, and his grip on you remains firm. Your pulse slams against your ribs. There’s something in the air—something that shifts, pulling both of you in. You feel it. And so does he.

You hate this. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. But the truth is, you can’t stop it. It’s happening, inevitable and inescapable. This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is something else entirely. And this time, no one interrupts. No radio crackling to life, no explosions in the distance, no convenient excuse to look away.

It’s just you. Him. And a choice.

Before you can even pull yourself back, before your mind can fully grasp the situation, Satoru makes the decision for you. He yanks you forward, his lips crashing onto yours, his mask half-pulled up—just like yours. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer.

And despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t—you kiss him back.

Your back slams against cold metal, the impact sending a shiver down your spine—not that you can focus on it. Not when he’s leaning in, fingers curling into your suit, pulling, pressing, taking.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until it’s too late. Until your hands are in his hair, gripping, tugging, dragging him closer. Until his weight is the only thing keeping you upright.

The vault. The alarms. The entire damn mission—forgotten. Because all you can think about is—

This is dangerous. This is a mistake. This is—

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips.

And then— he pulls back, barely.

His breath is ragged, his gloved hand still firm on your jaw, his eyes burning with something wild, like he can’t believe he just did that or like he can’t believe he wants to do it again.

The silence between you crackles like a live wire.

Then he swallows. “We can’t—”

You shove him off. Hard.

Your body still hums from his touch, your lips still tingling, your pulse betraying you. But you don’t let any of it show. Instead, you smirk, sharp as a blade.

“Didn’t know the Bat had such bad impulse control.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the exact moment he chooses denial. The way his walls snap back into place like steel reinforcements.

His mask comes down. His voice turns cold. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now, the line between you is blurred beyond recognition. Because now, you know what he tastes like. Because now, everything has changed.

And there’s no undoing it.

Gotham’s elite love to party.

It’s how they distract themselves from the fact that their city is rotting beneath them.

Big money, expensive champagne, and a ballroom filled with people who don’t care about anything but themselves.

It’s your kind of scene.

A place where no one notices a missing diamond necklace. Where a stolen keycard goes unreported. Where masks are more than just accessories.

And yet— tonight, you’re not here to steal. Tonight, you're here for him.

It had been a few days since that night—since everything that happened between you and Satoru. Or Batman.

Now, another party was being thrown by Gotham’s elite, and of course, Batman had been invited. And, of course, you had to see him again.

It felt awkward.

Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, that kiss had meant something. To both of you. And you didn’t want it to.

You wanted to talk to him like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever would happen again. Right?

You wanted to tell him it was just the adrenaline, just the chaos of that night, nothing more. That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be.

Gojo Satoru feels you before he sees you.

A shift in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

And then— you walk in, dressed to kill.

Silk. Black. Dangerous. A slit running high up your thigh, the soft glint of diamonds resting against your collarbone.

And when your gaze meets his across the ballroom— his throat goes dry.

Because he hasn’t seen you since the kiss. Because you’re smiling like it never happened. Because the second you do— you turn away, and walk straight into another man’s arms.

You feel his stare before you even see him. It lingers on your skin, heavy and unrelenting, like a touch without contact. But you don’t look. Not yet.

Instead, you let the man beside you—some rich idiot with more money than sense—pull you closer, his hand brushing over your waist, his breath warm as he leans in.

"You look exquisite tonight," he murmurs, voice smooth, practiced.

You hum, barely interested. "I know." And still, you feel him.

Watching. Brooding. Jealous. Exactly as you wanted.

So when you finally turn—when your gaze finally locks onto his across the crowded ballroom—you make sure to smirk.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But you know better. He didn’t leave. Not really.

So when you step outside onto the balcony, the cool Gotham night air brushing against your skin, you’re not surprised to find him already there. He stands by the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed, fingers curled around a glass of untouched champagne.

His mask is gone, but his walls? Higher than ever.

You exhale slowly as you step closer, watching him carefully. "Didn’t take you for the jealous type, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "I’m not."

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Could’ve fooled me."

Silence settles between you, thick with unspoken words and something else, something heavier. The tension coils between you like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

And then, you break it.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you say, your voice quieter now.

His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t shift. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"Maybe," you admit. A small smirk tugs at your lips as you step even closer. "Or maybe I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not how this works, kitten."

"Then how does it work?" Your voice is softer now, your gaze steady. "Because last I checked, you kissed me."

His breath hitches, barely audible.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

And then— you’re against the railing, his hand is on your waist, his grip firm, fingers pressing against the silk of your dress as if anchoring himself in place. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and edged with something dangerous.

"It was a mistake," he murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind the words.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because you already know.

And when his grip tightens on your waist, when his breath ghosts over your lips, you can see it—the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

You could kiss him right now. It would be easy. He’s already too close. His body is practically caging you in, his presence overwhelming. His fingers press into your waist like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath his touch. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

And you know he wants it. Because he hasn’t moved away. Because his grip keeps tightening, like he’s fighting himself but losing the battle.

Because when you whisper, "What are you so afraid of, Bat?" his lips part—like he’s about to answer.

Like he’s about to give in. Like this is finally it.

And then— "We’ve got a problem." The comm in his ear crackles to life, shattering the moment.

Just like that, his entire body stiffens. The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold, something distant. You watch it happen—the exact second he shuts down. The moment he remembers who he is. Who you are. What this is.

His hand falls away. His walls slam back up.

When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of whatever had been lingering between you just seconds ago. "I have to go."

You don’t let it show—the disappointment, the frustration curling inside your chest, the ache you don’t want to name. Instead, you force a smirk, tilting your head slightly.

"Duty calls, huh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "Always."

And with that— he’s gone.

But there's always a problem. You should've known this was a setup. You should have left the party the second he walked away.

You should have ignored the champagne, the meaningless conversations, and the empty laughter echoing through the ballroom. You should have disappeared into the night before anyone had the chance to notice.

But you didn’t. And now, you are paying for it.

The moment you step out the back entrance and into the dimly lit alleyway, something slams into you with brutal force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you stumbling. Before you can react, a sharp sting pierces the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs instantly as your body feels heavy and unsteady. The world tilts beneath you as you struggle to stay upright, but your limbs refuse to cooperate.

Through the haze, a voice reaches your ears, low and amused. "Nighty night, kitty."

Darkness swallows you whole.

"Say that again."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Shoko hesitates over the comms. "She’s missing. No one’s seen her since the party. Word on the street is—"

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. He is already moving. His mind is no longer in the conversation. His focus sharpens, narrowing in on a single, undeniable truth.

Someone took you. And that changes everything.

This isn’t part of the game you and he have played for years. This isn’t the usual chase through Gotham’s streets, the endless dance of pursuit and escape. This isn’t teasing smirks and near-missed captures.

This is something else, something darker.

Someone dared to take you, and that is a very, very big problem.

Because you are his to chase. Because no one else gets to touch you. Because if they have hurt you— he will burn this entire fucking city to the ground.

Pain is the first thing you register. The feeling's not new at all though.

A dull, throbbing ache pulses behind your eyes, heavy and unrelenting. A sharp sting burns at your wrists where the rope digs into your skin. Cold metal presses against your ankles, the bite of steel cuffs locking you in place.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself as the haze begins to clear. You’re tied to a chair.

The air is thick with the scent of damp concrete, musty and stale, like an old basement that hasn't seen fresh air in years. A single lightbulb flickers overhead, its dim glow casting long, shifting shadows against the cracked walls.

You take a slow breath and assess your surroundings.

You’re underground. Maybe an abandoned warehouse. Maybe a storage facility. Wherever you are, it's hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

And whoever took you here—they know what they’re doing.

You flex your fingers, testing the restraints, but before you can shift too much, a voice cuts through the silence.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The words are smooth, laced with amusement, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an entertaining inconvenience to him.

Your eyes snap toward the source of the voice, adjusting to the dim light, and when you finally see him, irritation flares in your chest.

Fushiguro Toji.

You let out a slow breath, biting back a groan. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. "Surprised, kitty?"

"Annoyed," you correct, rolling your shoulders against the ropes. "Didn’t think I was worth your time."

He chuckles, dark amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Oh, you weren’t. But then I heard about your little… situation with Gotham’s Bat."

The words are casual, but your stomach twists.

You don’t react. You don’t tense. You don’t let the flicker of unease show on your face. Instead, you arch a brow and smirk. "Didn’t know he had fans."

"I wouldn’t call myself a fan," Toji muses, tilting his head. "But I do love a good weakness. And you, sweetheart?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re his."

Your heart skips just for a second.

But you keep your expression neutral because he’s wrong.

Right?

Right.

…Right?

Gojo finds the first guy in ten minutes.

The second in five.

By the time he gets to the third, his knuckles are already bloodied, bruises forming across his fingers from the force of his hits.

The man stumbles back, pressing himself against the brick wall, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. "I-I don’t know where they took her, I swear—"

Gojo’s expression is unreadable beneath his blindfold, but his voice is ice. "Where."

It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.

The man chokes, scrambling for words. "P-please, man, I just heard they took her underground—"

That’s all Gojo needs.

His fingers loosen, and the man collapses to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. But Gojo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone. Because he’s close. Because they took you from him. Because they think they can keep you.

And they’re about to learn just how wrong they are.

You won’t let him see you sweat.

Not when the ropes burn against your wrists, cutting into your skin with every twitch of your fingers. Not when your head pounds from whatever the hell they drugged you with, the fog in your brain refusing to lift. Not even when Fushiguro Toji leans in, eyes dark with amusement, the sharp glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light.

He’s enjoying this.

Enjoying the way your muscles tense when the blade spins between his fingers. Enjoying the way your gaze flickers toward the door, toward the single exposed bulb swaying overhead.

Enjoying the way you’re waiting for something.

Or rather, someone.

"What’s wrong, kitty?" he murmurs, the cold edge of steel pressing against your cheek. "Thought your Bat would’ve come for you by now?"

Your lips curl into a smirk, masking the way your stomach coils with unease. "What, jealous?"

Toji chuckles, low and amused, before his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His grip is firm—not cruel, but controlling. A predator playing with his food.

"Nah," he muses. "Just curious how long it’s gonna take him to break."

Your stomach tightens because if there’s one thing you know about Gojo Satoru, it’s this— he doesn’t break.

He shatters. And when he does— he takes everything down with him.

Gojo hears your heartbeat before he sees you. He has some sirt of a bat instinct, you see.

Faint. Steady. Alive.

That’s the only thing keeping him from ripping this place apart.

But the moment he steps inside—the moment his eyes land on you, tied to that fucking chair, with Toji crouched in front of you like a wolf toying with its prey—something inside him snaps.

"Step away from her." His voice is quiet and deadly. The kind of voice that promises violence.

Toji doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he grins, spinning his knife between his fingers. "Took you long enough, Bat."

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. "This is your only warning."

Toji finally turns, his sharp green eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Or what?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then—he smiles. "Or I’ll show you why Gotham is afraid of the dark."

You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen the way he moves—quick, calculated, precise.

But this? This is different. This isn’t the controlled Bat, this isn’t the patient hunter.

This is Gojo Satoru with nothing left to hold back. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s not just fighting Toji.

He’s dismantling him.

A fist meets flesh with a sickening, brutal crack. Toji throws a punch—Gojo catches his wrist mid-air, twisting hard enough that the snap of bone echoes through the empty warehouse.

Toji grits his teeth, lunges—Gojo moves faster, dodging with ease before slamming him into the concrete so hard the ground cracks beneath them. There’s no banter. No smirk. No teasing.

There’s just rage.

And the worst part? Gojo is enjoying it. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is everything.

This is Gotham. The corruption. The powerlessness.

This is every ounce of anger he’s swallowed down for years, unleashed on the one bastard stupid enough to give him an excuse and if you don’t stop him now— he won’t stop at all.

"Satoru." Your voice barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears.

But the second you say his name—his real name— he freezes.

Fist still curled in Toji’s bloodied collar. Breath coming in slow, heavy exhales. Shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury.

And then, slowly—he turns. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, they flicker—from Gotham’s Bat to the man underneath. That’s all you need.

"Let him go."

Gojo stares at you, unmoving, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath—he lets Toji’s unconscious body drop to the ground. The tension in his frame lingers, coiled tight, but his steps are steady as he moves toward you. The anger is still there. The darkness. The weight of everything he just did.

But his hands are gentle when they find the ropes binding your wrists.

"Let’s get you out of here."

The silence is suffocating.

You should be grateful though. The moment he cut you loose, he got you out—carried you through Gotham’s backstreets, made sure you weren’t followed. Now, you’re in a hidden safehouse—one of his, no doubt—sitting on an old couch, trying to ignore the dull ache in your wrists.

And him? He’s in the bathroom. Avoiding you.

You hear the water running, the steady drip of blood swirling down the sink. You should leave, you should run. But you don’t. Because you’re not done with him yet.

But for him it keeps replaying in his head. The way you said it.

'"Satoru."'

Not Batman. Not Bats. Not some teasing, smug nickname meant to piss him off. Just his name.

Like you knew exactly what it meant to use it. Like you knew it would break him.

His knuckles sting as he washes off the blood. He should have killed Toji. He should have— no.

No, he shouldn’t have let you get this close. He grips the edge of the sink, eyes burning into his reflection. He can’t want this. He can’t want you.

But then—a creak of the floorboard, a shift in the air. He doesn’t need to turn around to know you’re standing in the doorway. And when you speak— he already knows he’s fucked.

"Let me see your hands."

He doesn’t move, neither does he look at you. But he also doesn’t stop you when you step forward and reach for his hand. The bruises are already blooming, dark and angry across his knuckles.

You should say something sharp—something to piss him off, make him smirk, drag him back into whatever stupid game you’ve been playing for years. But for once, you don’t want to play.

"You could’ve killed him," your voice is quiet.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I should have."

"That’s not who you are," you say as you caress the back of his hand.

That makes him snap.

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. "You don’t know who I am."

But you don’t let go.

You squeeze his hand—challenging. "Then tell me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and you feel frustrated.

And then, softer—barely a breath. "You don’t want to know."

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, coiling around your throat like a noose.

His hand is still in yours, bruised and warm, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to pull away.

Or worse—hold on tighter.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe— maybe this isn’t something you have to fight. Maybe this doesn’t have to be another battle, another game of pushing and pulling until one of you finally lets go.

Maybe— but then his grip tightens, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse. "You should leave."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You force yourself to smile, to tilt your head like this is nothing, like you aren’t standing on the edge of something that could shatter you completely.

"So that’s it?" you murmur, fingers tracing absent patterns along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath your touch. "I almost die, you almost lose your mind, and now you’re just gonna pretend none of it happened?"

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing, but he doesn’t pull away. "It can’t happen."

You scoff. "Can’t, or won’t?"

He exhales sharply, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this something it isn’t."

Anger flickers hot in your chest, and this time, it’s you who tightens your grip. "And what exactly is this, Satoru?"

He doesn’t answer and that’s the worst part. Because you can take a fight. You can take sharp words and heated arguments, can take anger and fire and frustration.

But this? This silence? This refusal to even acknowledge what’s between you? This is what fucking hurts.

You shake your head, laughing bitterly as you finally drop his hand. "You know, for someone who always acts like he’s got all the answers, you really are a fucking coward."

Then you turn. And this time, you walk away first.

He lets you walk away, though he shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Because if he stops you—if he says anything else, if he gives in even an inch— he won’t be able to stop himself at all.

He won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you back, from letting himself want this, want you, from letting himself believe that there could ever be a world where this doesn't end in disaster.

So he lets you go. He stays in that goddamn bathroom, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white, staring at his own reflection like it’ll give him an answer he doesn’t already fucking know.

Because he knows.

He knows that no matter how many times he tells himself to stay away, no matter how many times he buries it— it’s still there.

It’s been there for years. And now? Now it’s unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. Because the moment you walked away? He felt it.

The weight in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to take it back, to do something—

And fuck.

Fuck.

He slams his fist into the mirror before he can stop himself, glass shattering beneath his skin, pain blooming sharp and hot across his knuckles. He doesn’t even feel it. Because all he can think about—all he can fucking think about— is you. And that’s when he knows. This is it. This is the breaking point.

Because the second something happens—the second something puts you in danger again, the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way— he won’t be able to stop himself.

And this time? He won’t fucking try.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

You tell yourself you should be used to it by now—used to the push and pull, used to the way he always leaves first, used to the way you always let him.

But this time? This time, it feels different.

This time, it feels like something inside you has been cracked open, exposed, left bleeding in the space between you. This time, you were the one who walked away—and it still fucking hurts.

Because the truth is— you wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to prove you wrong. But he didn’t.

And that? That fucking stings.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples, eyes fluttering shut as you try to push it down, try to shove it deep, deep, deep beneath the surface where it can’t touch you anymore.

But the second you open your eyes, the second you see your reflection in the grimy window of your apartment—

You know. You know this isn’t over, because no matter how hard you try to run from it— it always brings you back to him.

You were lost in your thoughts, more like consumed by them that you forgot. You're Catwoman. You're in the freaking city of Gotham. You should've known. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re walking down the empty streets of Gotham, the cool night air biting at your skin, the weight of earlier still sitting heavy in your chest—

And the next? You’re surrounded.

Shadows slip out from the alleys, footsteps closing in, voices murmuring in low, amused tones. "Look what we have here…"

"Thought you were untouchable, sweetheart?"

Shit.

You recognize them instantly—Falcone’s men. Which means this isn’t a random attack. This is a message, a warning. A consequence for getting too close to Gotham’s Bat.

You bite back a curse, hands twitching at your sides, muscles tensing as you count the men, assess the distance, calculate your odds.

Four—maybe five. Armed? Most likely. A fight you could win? …Not without consequences.

But what other choice do you have? Because you already know— no one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Satoru feels it before he hears it.

It’s instinct.

A sharp, sudden shift in his chest, a gut-wrenching pull like something inside him is being ripped apart. Then— the comm buzzes.

"We got a situation." Nanami’s voice is clipped, urgent. "Falcone’s men. Five of them. Near Harbor Street."

And before he can even think—before he can stop himself—he’s already moving. Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

You don’t go down easy. They think they’ve already won. They think this will be easy.

They think you’re just a pretty little thief, just a girl who got in too deep, just another lesson to be taught. And that’s their first mistake. Because you don’t go down easy.

You move before they do—a sharp kick, a twist, a knife pulled from your belt and pressed to the throat of the closest man before he can even blink.

"Try it," you hiss, voice laced with venom.

He hesitates, and in that second, you know—you have an opening.

But then— a gun cocks.

And a voice—low, amused, familiar—cuts through the night like a blade. "Tsk. Always making things difficult, aren’t you, kitten?"

Your blood runs cold because you know that voice.

Suguru Geto.

And that? That changes everything.

You’ve honestly been in worse situations. But not many.

Not ones that make your stomach twist quite like this, not ones that make your pulse hammer against your ribs in something too sharp, too visceral, too close to fear. Because this isn’t just anyone. This isn’t some low-level thug. This isn’t even some mob boss looking to put you in your place. This is Suguru Geto.

And he doesn’t waste his time on small threats. No, when he moves, when he speaks, when he smiles—it means something.

"You’ve been causing quite the stir lately," he muses, stepping closer, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "Getting on the Bat’s good side, stepping on all the wrong toes—really, kitten, I expected better from you."

You force your grip to stay steady, the knife still pressed against the throat of the man you caught off guard.

"Flattered, really," you say, keeping your voice light, like your pulse isn’t hammering, like your fingers aren’t itching to grab your grapple and run. "Didn’t think I’d be important enough to warrant a visit from the great Suguru Geto himself."

He chuckles—low, smooth, condescending. "Oh, you’re important," he says. "Just not in the way you think."

Your jaw tightens. "Yeah? Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already figured out. "Because," he hums, "you have something that belongs to me."

The USB.

Shit.

Your grip on the knife falters for half a second—half a second too long. Because before you can react, before you can process, before you can even think— The man you were holding twists, shoving you off, the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your ribs before you can recover.

And just like that— you’re out of options.

Satoru's close.

Close enough that he can hear the words, close enough that he can hear your fucking pulse spike.

And that? That’s what does it. Because it’s one thing to be reckless. It’s one thing to be stubborn, to push him away, to insist that you don’t need him, that you can handle yourself.

But this? This is different because Geto doesn’t make idle threats.

And the second Gojo hears the sharp intake of your breath, the second he hears the shift of movement, the second he realizes exactly what’s happening— he moves. Fast. Too fast for them to react.

Because one second, Geto is smirking, enjoying his little game— and the next? He’s eating pavement.

Satoru doesn't hold back. He could, he should. But he doesn’t.

Because the second he sees that gun against your ribs, the second he sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flicker with something you never let anyone see— it’s over.

The first punch sends Geto flying. The second cracks something, leaves him coughing up blood.

The third? That one’s personal.

Because Gojo has been patient. He’s let things slide, let lines blur, let the underworld think he’s just another player in the game. But this? This is different. This is you. And that? That changes everything.

You've seen his fight countless times, but not like this. Not like he’s tearing through them without a second thought, not like he’s this close to losing control, not like the only thing keeping him from going too far is the fact that you’re standing right there.

It should scare you.

It should make you rethink everything, should remind you why you’ve always kept your distance, why you’ve always told yourself you couldn’t afford to get caught up in whatever the hell is between you. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think, as you watch him break Geto’s men like they’re nothing— is that he came. That you didn’t even call for him, and he still fucking came.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and Geto is left bloody and laughing on the pavement, when Gojo finally turns to you, breath ragged, knuckles split, eyes burning— you don’t run. You don’t even flinch.

Because you know what this means. What it’s always meant. And maybe—maybe this time, neither of you will walk away first.

You really think you should stop this. You should. You should shove him away, should tell him this doesn’t change anything, should remind yourself why this is a bad idea, why this has always been a bad idea.

But when his fingers curl around your wrist, when he tugs you closer, when his breath ghosts over your lips— you don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe. Because this isn’t like before.

This isn’t a game, isn’t a moment either of you will walk away from, isn’t something that can be brushed aside when the night is over. This is the point of no return.

And when he finally, finally closes the distance— you let him.

Because maybe—just maybe—you were never meant to run from him in the first place. It was always going to be you, always.

From the moment you first slipped past his defenses, from the moment you first met his gaze across the rooftops of Gotham, from the moment you first left him standing there with nothing but your name on his tongue and your laughter ringing in his ears— it was always going to be you.

And now? Now, with you in his arms, with your fingers tangled in his hair, with your taste on his lips, he knows there’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.

Because if Gotham is his curse, if the mask is his burden, if the weight of this city is something he’ll never escape— then you? You're the only thing that’s ever made it worth it. And for once, just once—he’s taking what he wants.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him, where it all began.

The city glows beneath you. The skyline stretches out, endless and alive, neon lights flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of Gotham’s heartbeat steady and unyielding.

It’s always been like this. Always moving. Always demanding. Always taking. And you? You’ve always been running.

But tonight? Tonight, you stand still. Because Gojo is in front of you, mask off, white hair ruffled by the wind, the cut on his lip still fresh from the fight, his eyes— those damn blue eyes—locked onto yours like he’s trying to memorize you, like he already knows what’s coming.

"So this is it, huh?" he says, voice low, rough.

You swallow hard, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Bat. You knew it wouldn’t last."

His jaw clenches. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You step closer, tilting your head. "You’ll live."

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to say something—something real, something that might make you stay— but you can’t let him.

So you reach up, fingers barely brushing his jaw, a ghost of a touch, a silent goodbye.

"Goodbye, Batman," you whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be. "Gotham needs you."

For a second, just a second—you think that’s it. That he’ll let you go. That he’ll watch you disappear into the night like you always do.

But then— his hand catches yours. Tightly. Desperately. And when he speaks, when his voice finally breaks— it nearly stops you in your tracks.

"Why don’t you stay, Cat?" he murmurs, raw, unguarded, everything. "I need you."

Your breath catches as your heart lurches. Because that—that’s the one thing you weren’t ready for. But you force a smirk, even as your chest aches.

"That’s your problem, Bat." You squeeze his hand once, just once—before slipping free. "You’re not supposed to." You pause and for once give him a big genuine smile. "See ya later batman."

And with that— you step back and you turn, as you disappear into the night, like you always do.

Because Gotham needs him. And maybe he was never meant to need you.

@do-morochaa @madamechrissy @katthekat1234 (hope y'all like it😭💗)

#jjk #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru #jjk satoru #batman x reader #batman x catwoman #jjk x you #batman gojo #jjk angst #gojo angst

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anomaliex · 20 days ago

Text

Collection of headcanons not elaborate enough for own word vomit post:

- I don't think Kristen can swim. She has the vibes of someone who never learned as a kid and now it's too late to bring up without being embarrassed. (Also I thought about what would happen if she fell in water — mechanically she's wearing heavy armor, would Brennan just let her swim since she's in universe only in a tracksuit or would she sink without a sufficient strength check? Idk, but that's how I got to the no swimming conclusion.)

- insanely weird hc to have but i think Fabian shaves his arm hair. Also like legs and arm pits i guess but the way more unusual and therefore notable thing is arms. This guy kills any body and facial hair on sight. Like no one has ever seen him with as much as stubble outside of Cathilda or the Bad Kids when they were sleeping over. Why? Idk he just prefers that, no deeper reason. I do think elves generally have less body hair but here his human genes come through so he has to shave. Or get it lasered away I guess. You can do that right?? He's rich. Maybe he'd do it.

- also Fabian's depth perception is dog shit. Using his crossbow is less impressive because Fandrangor is simply a better weapon and his flourishes and manoeuvres rely on melee combat, I know, but to me it's also just that he's better at hitting things real close to him.

- Riz is the kinda guy to have chronic migraines and think it's fine. "Everyone has headaches sometimes and I do sleep a lot less than I should ahaha" (the amount of coffee he drinks is barely saving him from the horrors.)

- Adaine also gets a lot of migraines in what I think are more. Passive non specific visions? Like a gut feeling that's always correct and also makes her body hate her. The proper visions are comparable to absence seizures I think? Like I don't wanna say it's that because it's magic but the process is kind of the same in the sense that she's out for like ten to thirty seconds and it can really suck

- I also think Adaine has synaesthesia! I can't really put this into words well so I'm not even gonna try, but she perceives certain sounds and/or colours at times where there shouldn't be sounds and/or colours. I think those associations also to an extend help in drawing connections between less specific visions and real life.

- we know Gorgug has a drumset in his room I think it's electronic. But like not in a normal way like we have them irl it's some insane artificer shit that would justify so much more noise complaints than a regular one and also could probably have its own pyrotechnics idfk. It's fully a safety hazard but it doesn't even rank on the top 10 of worst things to have in your house that is a TREE that the Thistlesprings casually own.

- I think either Fig or Kristen would be the shortest medium creature type Bad Kid. Like obviously Riz is four feet tall max but he's in a whole different category lmao

- Fig sometimes puts little braids in Jawbone's fur and he happily lets her. He only properly adopted Adaine and Fig has more than enough dads, but he does still act as sort of a paternal figure to her (and every other kid ((which in this case includes Ragh but maybe not Aelwyn)) in mordred manor because he's just a caring guy and it's hard not to grow attached) so that's their pseudo daddy-daughter bonding

- Fabian doesn't like, hate Gilear as much as he used to? Like he still has his moments but overall he thinks he's a good guy and absolutely has the "well I can shit on him but I'm gonna kill this other guy who did. How dare you make fun of my Mama's beloved??" mindset. But uhm he tries to make Gilear work out with him so he can "stop being death fodder". Gilear is a commoner and everyone else in Seacaster Manor absolutely is not and like he likes it and he loves these people but he does kind of live in hell. His wife? Could kill him. His step son? Could kill him. The maid? Could kill him. The dog slash motor cycle?? Could kill him. One hit. Also the entire current Seacaster household are dexterity based fighters they're all so graceful and skilled he's fully just a guy that spills every drink ever on himself

- I think the Hangman loves Cathilda because she gives good chin scritchies (hound form obviously lol) Generally he tends to mirror Fabian's attitude towards people anyway so he's always liked her, but once he started being a hound more she started petting him and giving him treats and he is smitten

- Gorgug (and sometimes Ragh or Ayda) play extreme fetch with the Hangman. Like I need to stress that he's not just a big dog he's large enough to be a mount, which means he'd have to be the size of a horse. Maybe a small horse sure but that's still a horse-sized dog. I think his mini looks fairly big but in my heart he's bigger. So yeah fetch with him (which they mainly do because they want him to feel comfortable in both forms because he's so good) is really big sticks. Like not logs or anything but sticks the average person can't huck all that far. Fabian casts enhance ability on himself so he can also do it, lol. The wonders of multiclassing into bard.

- I think the only Bad Kids who never use makeup are Riz and Kristen. Gorgug doesn't do it every day and not that much but he uses eyeliner sometimes. Fig's makeup is the most noticeable and usually very fun.

- Gorgug has kissed Ragh at least twice. So at least one time after the prom thing. I don't mean this in a ship way I mean this in I look at Gorgug and then I look at Ragh and I go yeah these guys have shared at least one tender bro kiss. I mean I think Gorgug is the kinda guy that would kiss all of his friends if they wanted to because it's not that big of a deal to him and he loves them but not everyone is comfortable w/ that lol. He and Kristen kiss each other on the cheek though, I think (this does not mean he wants to see her naked in public please put your clothes back on Kristen??)

#rambling into the void #dimension 20 #fantasy high #headcanons #bad kids #fabian aramais seacaster #riz gukgak #fig faeth #adaine abernant #figueroth faeth #gorgug thistlespring #kristen applebees #jawbone o'shaughnessey #the hangman #ragh barkrock #bite sized ramble #technically. lmao #the bad kids

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vyzz-undercover · 5 months ago

Text

pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

———————————————————————————————————

im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k x reader #space marine x reader #reader insert #ultramarines #cato sicarius x reader #cato sicarius #honestly its more like:#cato 'allergic to introspection' sicarius #writing

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dearggntlereader · 2 months ago

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Nr.11 Ice Rink ༻¨ : ·.. ｡⋆⍋*｡

Book!Percy Jackson x reader CW: probs OOC, picture does not represent the readers looks

You let out a scream that’s somewhere between a laugh, a yelp, and whatever noise a baby goat makes as it wipes out. You’re not sure. What you are sure of is that you’re about to faceplant into the ice.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Bambi!” Percy’s voice is full of laughter as he grabs your waist, saving you from total humiliation and bruises on your knees.

Of course, he takes the opportunity to steady you a little too close, grabbing your waist instead of your Shoulders.

Your face heats up, but thank the gods, the biting cold explains the pink away. You glare up at him, teasingly offended. “Not all of us can be ice royalty, Your Grace.”

Percy smirks, the kind of smirk that would make monsters want to throw themselves off a cliff. “I’m the Ice King. Bow down, peasant.”

With that, he lets go of your waist (rude and slightly painful for his bleeding heart) and glides backward like he’s auditioning for Frozen: The Live Show, striking a ridiculous pose with his arms stretched wide.

The loss of his warmth causes a stinging in your chest, but you know Percy: he’d sacrifice anything for a good bit.

You take a shaky step forward, laser-focused on remembering his advice: knees bent just slightly, feet pointed forward, back straight. Easy, right?

Nope.

You instantly flail like you’re being attacked by invisible harpies, stretching out your arms to save yourself.

Percy doubles over with laughter, his whole body shaking.

“Oh gods, this must be what monsters felt like chasing me—slipping everywhere, totally desperate to keep up. Sweet, sweet revenge.”

“Percy,” you whine, glaring at him, wobbling dangerously, “if you don’t get over here right now and keep me from face planting—”

“Then what?” He raises an eyebrow, skating in a lazy circle. “You’re gonna chase me? While I skate away, all graceful and heroic?” He winks, but his smirk softens as he starts gliding toward you again, betraying his previous threats.

You try to focus on skating, but Percy’s stupid face makes it hard. His eyes are bright with joy, his laughter echoing off the ice, and you hate to admit it, but seeing him this happy makes every second of embarrassment worth it. The cold wind messes up your hair, your cheeks are probably redder than Apollo’s sun chariot, and yet—judging by the way he keeps sneaking glances at you—you might not look that bad, after all.

He reaches you, grabbing your hands in his gloved ones. Even through the layers, his touch burns like fire.

His hold on you is steady as he starts skating backward again, pulling you along easily.

You stumble a little, your fingers tightening instinctively around his. The movement pulls you closer—so close that you’re practically nose-to-nose. Percy’s eyes flicker down to your lips for half a second, and for once, no teasing remark comes to mind. He just...stares.

Before he knows it, he’s leaning in, his forehead brushing yours.

He’s imagined this a thousand times—kissing you in some heroic, epic moment—but somehow, this is better. You, laughing and awkward and just...you.

And for once, Percy is absolutely, one hundred percent speechless.

Thank you all for supporting my blog!! As always, I appreciate all comments and reblogs. It's what keeps me going.

Comment to be added to the taglist: @dustie-faerie

#writing #x reader #prompt advent calendar｡⋆⍋*｡#percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson #percy pjo #percy x reader #percy jackson x you #percy jackson x reader

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christopher-bangnaldoskzz · 2 months ago

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Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Genre: Dark Fantasy x Enemies to lovers

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: This story is about to get real dark so if you don't like that shit stay clear.

Summary: Inspired by the amazing Fourth wing novel's, take a deep dive into my fucked up brain.

Her whole life, all Y/N wanted was to use her powers to heal those who had been broken. However, she didn't expect her life to be completely turned on its head the moment Han Jisung walked into that hall. He forever changed the way she viewed the world, altering her life in ways she could never have imagined.

Welcome to oddinary!

Your heart pounds in your chest as you wade through the thick, heavy mud, each step a battle against the sticky earth that clings to your legs. Panic grips you as you desperately try to reach him, your voice breaking the stillness of the air as you cry out in despair, "Nooooo!" The sound echoes around you, mingling with the noise of your frantic breathing—the harsh rasp of air filling your lungs as you push onward.

The weight of the mud slows your progress, each movement requiring more effort and determination. Sweat beads on your brow, mixing with the muck that splatters your clothes. Still, you refuse to give up. Your thoughts narrow, laser-focused on the body ahead, a silhouette just out of reach. The world around you blurs and fades, becoming an indistinct backdrop to your singular goal. Every ounce of your being drives you forward, fuelled by a desperate hope to reach him before it’s too late.

“Please.” Your throat tightens painfully as you kneel in desperation, raising your voice to the heavens in a heartfelt plea for mercy. With every fiber of your being, you urge the higher powers to intervene, to grant him the strength he so desperately needs to hold on for just a little longer, to fight through the overwhelming darkness that surrounds him every second.

He lays there choking on what looks like his own blood, fuck he’s bleeding internally, you think, making the final steps towards him. “Ji, I need you—please, he’s dying!” Panic laces your voice as you turn to see him standing there, his brow furrowed with urgency. You catch a glimpse of the bender looming behind you, a menacing figure shrouded in shadows. Without hesitation, he raises his hands, summoning two ice daggers that glint ominously in the dim light. With a swift, precise motion, he launches them towards the bender, their sharp edges slicing through the air as you feel the weight of desperation pressing down on you.

With a gentle tone that conveys both comfort and reassurance, he softly says, "It's okay." Kneeling on the damp earth, he carefully strips clean water from the muddy area. After filling his cupped hands, he hovers them over the wound, taking a moment to assess the injury before beginning the cleansing process.

With deliberate care, he starts to flush out any debris or dirt that may have settled into the wound, making sure to rinse it thoroughly. He watches closely for any signs of pain, doing his best to be mindful and minimise any further discomfort as he gently cleans the area. The cool water flows softly, washing away the remnants of the muddy surroundings, while his touch remains steady and reassuring throughout the process.

As the grim realization dawned upon you, the words "I can't heal him" reverberated in your mind like a haunting refrain. Each syllable felt like a heavy stone dropping into a still pond, sending ripples of anxiety throughout your being. An overwhelming tide of panic began to swell within you, threatening to drown out all rational thought.

Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity, amplifying the weight of the situation pressing down on your chest.

You could feel despair seeping into the very core of your being, a dark shadow that loomed larger as you desperately searched for a glimmer of hope. No matter how hard you tried to muster the strength to do something—anything—the stark reality remained: you were powerless to alter the tragic outcome. The anguish of knowing it was beyond your control threatened to engulf you completely, leaving you gasping for breath amid the crushing tide of sorrow.

“You can… just give me -“

………..

*1 year earlier *

“Y/L/N.” The sharp, authoritative call of your last name reverberates through the lecture hall, cutting through the low murmur of voices and rustling papers. You instinctively lift your head, your heart quickening as you lock eyes with your professor. Their intense gaze pierces the crowd, focused solely on you, leaving no room for distraction. The weight of their attention makes your palms slightly clammy, and you feel a rush of both apprehension and curiosity about what comes next. The moment feels suspended in time as you try to gauge their expression.

You pause for a moment, the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air as you gather your thoughts. With a hesitant breath, you finally say the words, "Right, sorry." The sound of your voice is tinged with apprehension, and you can feel a knot of unease forming in the pit of your stomach, twisting tighter with each passing second. As you glance at the group of second-year students, an unfamiliar wave of nervousness washes over you, making your palms slightly sweaty. You wonder if they will even welcome your presence. The chatter around you feels overwhelming, and you can feel your heart racing as you consider your next move, torn between the desire to connect and the fear of being overlooked.

As you walk over to the group, the whispers of students surround you. Passing by a group of second-year boys, one of them suddenly calls out with an exaggerated mock-seriousness, "We don't bite!" His words hang in the air for a moment, and then he adds with a cheeky grin, "MUCH!" This playful jab sends the entire group into fits of laughter, their gleeful voices echoing around the hall.

You are practically shoved in-front of the group as the professor moves you along “Chan, Minho and Changbin… we will not be having this discussion again, just because you have served you first year here does not mean you will live to see your second through…do I make myself clear” he says just low enough so only myself and the boys could hear.

Chan nervously gulps and apologizes, "I'm sorry, sir. I understand my mistake and I assure you it won't happen again."

The professor smiled and said, "Good to hear that. I believe you have a lot of talents, and it would be a shame if they went to waste." He paused for a moment, looking into the eyes of the student to convey his point, then turned on his heel to continue the task at hand, resuming the calling of names from the list with a practiced ease.

You stood there and watched as one by one the first years are being split up into the groups The air was thick with nervous energy, and you could see the mix of excitement and anxiety on everyone's faces.

Amidst the chatter, you heard Changbin let out an exasperated groan beside you. “Good, I hope we don’t get the element bender,” he muttered, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. You could only imagine the eye roll accompanying his words as he glanced over at you, before turning his attention back to the stage where names were being announced.

As you waited, your mind raced with thoughts of what it would mean to have someone powerful like the element bender in your group. Would you be able to keep up? Would they be friendly or standoffish? And as the minutes passed, you felt the tension in the room rise, each name called out making the stakes feel higher. You looked on, hoping the next name wouldn't be his, but knowing that fate always had a way of surprising you.

As the professor surveyed the vibrant sea of students milling about in the busy atrium, his gaze landed on a young man with tousled brown hair, slightly disheveled from the morning rush. "Han," he called out, his voice cutting through the hum of chatter. The boy hesitated for a moment before making his way through the throng, weaving past clusters of students engaged in animated conversations until he finally reached the professor's side.

With a subtle nod towards our group, the professor gestured confidently, saying, "You will be joining section 3 over there," Pointing right in your direction.

From the back of the group, Changbin let out an exasperated groan, his frustration palpable in the way he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Oh, come on, sir," he complained, his tone a mix of disbelief and impatience, echoing the sentiment shared by many around him.

A look of deep frustration is etched on his features as he levels a piercing glare at Changbin, his voice sharp and laced with barely contained anger. "I've heard quite enough out of you, Mr. Seo," he snaps, every word dripping with resentment, as if he has reached his breaking point.

Changbin, undeterred, mumbles something under his breath, his eyes darting away. Meanwhile, a first-year student hesitantly approaches our group, retrieving his belongings with trembling hands and laying them down just in front of you.

“Y/n,” you call out gently, leaning in to engage him.

“What!” he whispers, his voice loud enough to draw attention yet filled with surprise.

With a sweet smile that contrasts the tension in the air, you introduce yourself, “Hi, my name is y/n.”

“Jisung,” he replies curtly, his expression stone-faced and devoid of warmth.

As you retreat to your place in line, a soft murmur escapes your lips: “Trying to be nice, but whatever.” The weight of the moment lingers heavily in the air, wrapping around you like a thick fog.

Chan leaned closer, his voice low and urgent, “If I were you, I’d steer clear of him. Element benders like to stir up trouble.” His eyes narrowed, conveying an unspoken warning.

“MR. BANG... if you or your... entourage so much as make another peep... I will have the entire third section excised. Do I make myself clear?” Chan’s arms flexed at his sides, tension rippling through his body, as he stood firm and unwavering.

“Sorry, sir... I’ll... it won't happen again,” he replied, the fight draining from him as his rigid posture finally eased. You notice the first years filing through, and the third years begin to move over to their assigned sections, a mix of excitement and anticipation in the air.

“My name is San, and I’ll be your section leader,” he announced confidently, gesturing with a welcoming smile. “This is Jamie; she will be your team leader. If you encounter any issues, we’ll be just down the hall.” San’s gaze swept across the group, making eye contact with nearly everyone, his demeanour both reassuring and commanding.

“Alright, listen up, everyone,” Jamie calls firmly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the first years like a knife. She turns on her heel, her long hair cascading behind her as she begins to stride confidently down the hall. “If you would kindly follow me, I’ll get you sorted into your bedrooms.”

“That’s your cue, little one,” Chan says playfully, giving you a gentle nudge from behind as he pushes you out of the throng of students. You glance back at him, ready to snarl, but instead you find him grinning and giving you a thumbs up, his smile annoyingly cheerful.

“What a jerk,” you mutter under your breath, grinding your teeth in irritation as you reluctantly follow Jamie. She leads you into the vast expanse of the first-year quadrants, her authoritative presence commanding attention as she calls out names and assigns students to their respective bedrooms.

“Y/n y/l/n,” she announces, and you step forward, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

“Jackson’s little sister, right?” Jamie beams at you as recognition dawns on her. You nod slightly, dragging your heavy bag along the polished wooden floor. Jackson, your older brother, had graduated at the top of his class the previous year, celebrated for his exceptional skills as a syphon.

“Cute,” she remarks, her smile warm as she gestures for you to keep moving. As she continues to navigate the massive crowd of first years, her enthusiasm is contagious, drawing you into the excitement of what lies ahead.

“Han Jisung,” she blurts out suddenly as he strides toward the door, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. The name hangs in the air, thick with unspoken tension.

You can’t help but smile at him, your spirits lifting as Jamie walks away, leaving you alone with the new neighbour. “Looks like we’re neighbours now,” you say, emphasizing the word ‘neighbours’ with a playful grin, hoping to coax a reaction from him. But instead of engaging, he merely glances back at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he turns away and shuts his room door with a soft thud.

“Dick number two… okay,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes dramatically at his closed door. The moment feels a little ridiculous, but you can't shake off the intention to break through his stoic demeanour.

With a huff of annoyance, you close your own door behind you, the click echoing in the quiet hallway. You take a moment to collect yourself before beginning to slowly unpack your bag. Each item you pull out—a few clothes, a couple of books, and your favourite Pen—feels like a small step towards claiming this space as your own. Yet, the encounter with Han still lingers in your mind, a mix of curiosity and determination pushing you to try again.

…….

“Yo …..y/l/n” you turn to look at the table where majority of your group is sitting. Well basically everyone but Han jisung.

“Hi!” you reply, your smile warm and inviting as you spot Minho shifting in his seat to make room for you. He gestures towards the empty spot next to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Your brother was our leader last year,” Changbin chimes in, his mouth half-full of food, crumbs scattering as he grins at you. “He was absolutely amazing!”

“Definitely one of the best,” Chan adds enthusiastically, leaning forward with a look of admiration. The way he speaks conveys not just respect but genuine pride in your brother's leadership. You can’t help but feel a swell of warmth at their commendation, knowing your brother made a lasting impression.

“Super dreamy,” a girl you’ve never really noticed before suddenly exclaims, her eyes glazed over as if caught in a daydream. Just as quickly, she shakes herself back to reality, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.

“Sure, whatever you say…” Chan replies, an eyebrow raised skeptically. He shifts in his seat, sliding as far away from her as he can manage without causing a scene, as if her words were contagious.

“Anyway… he told us to keep an eye on you, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he says, trying to maintain a friendly grin. But the look on your face, filled with irritation and annoyance, reveals just how his words are landing. You feel an overwhelming frustration bubbling up inside you, ready to burst.

“I don’t need you to look after me… I’m an adult!” you snap back at him, your voice sharp and filled with defiance. As the anger flares, your eyes begin to glow a fiery golden hue, a tell-tale sign of your rising emotions.

“Careful now…..” but you are fighting the urge to use your powers to brake his arm.

“Ouch okay….i get it i won’t protect you” he says lowering his voice.

“I didn’t know healers could cause damage like that” chan leans across the table. You tilt your head to the side in confusion.

“Chan is a mind reader” Changbin interrupts.

“Get. Out” you shoot your thought right at him.

“Okay Jesus… I’m out I’m out” your eyes narrow at him.

“Yes healers can also hurt….we have the ability to cripple or destroy bones if you get us angry enough” chan gulps.

“You’re terrifying” he almost stutters on his word.

“I suggest you stay out of my head then chan” you saying scooping some much needed food into your mouth.

“I like her….can we keep her?” Minho grins, his smile so wide you take it in knowing well this is probably the only time you will see Minho smile.

You giggle as chan slaps Minho’s arm “are you trying to get me killed” he grinds through his teeth.

Not that you could ever kill anyone, besides the threat you don’t have the ability to put bones back together yet let alone break them. The whole room goes silent, and you immediately know who has just walked into the room.

Han jisung is walking through the cafeteria door, it doesn’t take long for people to go back to talking “talk about terrifying” Changbin says.

“I heard he’s an incredible fighter” Minho interjects

You can help but stare at the boy his soft curly hair sweeping over his face. “We will see at training tomorrow” Changbin shoves a stack of meat into his mouth.

“You any good with a blade Y/N” Minho says trying to spark up a conversation.

“Oh ah….honestly I’m not much of a fighter” you say snapping out of your trance.

“Well I can help if you want to learn” his lip twitch into a soft smile.

“That would be lovely if you could” you scrunch your nose at him in a sweet smile.

You swear you see his cheeks go a light shade of pink before he says “okay sweet…I’ll see you fight tomorrow, and we’ll go from there” before he is back to eating again.

“Make sure you get some rest kido” chan says before getting up and cleaning his try.

You scoff at the use of the work kido “I’m 20 actually and you’re not that much older than me” you shout over the crowd.

“Okay noted….no terms of endearment” he chuckles. You shoot him a look and he suddenly remembered you conversation you had not but a couple of minutes ago.

……….

“Okay… it’s just a sparring match, right? There’s no way they’re going to kill me, right?” Anxiety prickles at the back of your mind as you watch the others. They stretch, limbs fluid and poised, their expressions a mix of focus and excitement as they prepare for the randomised testing matches. The atmosphere around you crackles with energy, and the sound of feet hitting the mats and the soft thud of fists meeting pads fills the air. You gulp, trying to shake off the unease that tightens your chest. Each participant seems so confident, so seasoned in this routine, and you wonder if you’re truly ready for what lies ahead. The questions swirl, relentless and insistent, as you try to calm the tumult inside you.

You let out a silent sigh of relief as you reflect on the fact that first-year students are only permitted to spar with one another. It seems only fair; after all, facing off against more experienced second or third-years would undoubtedly be an uneven contest, putting newcomers like you at a significant disadvantage.

The professor’s voice breaks through your thoughts, crisp and authoritative as he announces the next sparring match. “Han Jisung and Park Sung-hoon,” he calls out, gesturing to either side of the mat. The tension in the air shifts, as both students step forward, preparing to take their places on the mat. You can sense the anticipation building in the room, as fellow classmates gather around, eager to witness what promises to be an interesting duel between the two. The atmosphere crackles with energy, and you can’t help but wonder how each of them will use their skills in this competitive setting.

“Take your positions,” the referee announced, his voice cutting through the tension in the air. “You can start the match at any time. No weapons…no powers…hand-to-hand combat only.” A rush of relief washed over you at the mention of the rules; without the chaos of weapons or the unpredictability of powers, you might actually have a fighting chance.

The arena was charged with anticipation, a ring of eager spectators surrounding the Sparing mat. Your heart raced, but you steeled yourself for what was to come.

“I heard he was an amazing fighter,” came a soft voice from behind you. Turning slightly, you caught sight of a young blond first-year student. He seemed almost ethereal, with hair that glowed in the light and eyes that sparkled . His delicate features were like a finely sculpted statue, and the freckles sprinkled across his nose added a charming touch to his perfectly symmetrical face. He had the kind of beauty that made people stop and take notice.

You couldn't help but feel a flutter of nervousness at his admiring gaze, mixed with the thrill that perhaps, in this moment, you were about to prove yourself as a fighter—if you could keep your nerves in check and harness your instincts.

“Well, we are about to see,” the baby-faced boy replied, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

As the scene unfolds, you can’t help but be transported back to the intense dinner conversation between Minho and Chan just yesterday. The two boys circling each other like cautious predators, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Nearby, you catch a glimpse of Sung-Hoon, who swallows hard, the tension evident on his face. Across from him, Han’s lips curl into a teasing smile, his confidence radiating outward.

“Are you scared of me, Sung-Hoon?” Han taunted, his voice dripping with playful mockery as if he were savoring the moment.

With a flash of determination, Sung-Hoon challenges the laughter rising in his throat. “Why don’t you just yield now and we can call it a day?” he retorts, his bravado barely masking the nerves flickering beneath the surface. In a sudden burst of resolve, Sung-Hoon lunges toward Han, throwing a punch in his direction. But Han, quick on his feet, effortlessly dodges the blow as if it were nothing more than a gentle breeze.

“Good…” Han said, his tone surprisingly serious as he eyed Sung-Hoon. “Next time, don’t step forward before throwing a punch. It's a dead giveaway.” You can’t believe he’s actually taking the time to teach Sung-Hoon.

Sung-hoon lunges forward, delivering a sharp jab followed by a powerful hook, but Han effortlessly blocks both strikes, a smirk playing on his lips. "FIGHT BACK!" Sung-hoon snarls, grinding his teeth in frustration, yet Han remains unfazed, standing like a statue, patiently anticipating Sung-hoon’s next move.

The hushed whispers from the guys behind you resume. “He’s toying with him,” one mutters, barely containing his excitement.

“It’s like he’s analyzing every single move,” the second one replies with wide eyes, captivated by the unfolding match.

“Quick to anger, I see,” Han taunts, his voice smooth and taunting, continuing to play these mind games with Sung-hoon. Confusion washes over you. What was Han trying to accomplish? Then it dawns on you: with each punch Sung-hoon throws, Han is meticulously studying his opponent’s fighting style, pinpointing the weaknesses lurking beneath the surface.

As the fight progresses, you catch subtle details about Sung-hoon’s technique. He fights with an aggressive flair, yet his style is flawed—he leaves himself vulnerable, exposing his body before lunging in to strike. His footwork is clumsy, a lack of balance that makes you wonder how one wrong step could send him crashing to the ground, defeated by his own mistakes rather than Han’s skill.

Jisung snaps a punch to his wide open rib cage and you swear you hear the snapping of bones. Everyone stands still when the blood curdling scream escapes sung -hoons mouth.

“Okay Han…. I think he’s had enough” the professor steps in between the two, jisung had barely even broken out into a sweat.

“Y/L/N on the mat,” you feel as though your heart is beating out of your chest, you begin to sweat there is no way you can fight that good.

“Rowyn you too” rowyn was a rather lanky person. A feeling of self conference washes over you as you take you mark on the mat, looking over to your team where Han now sits in your seat.

“Ready……..FIGHT” your heart beating at an alarming rate, you were not a fighter in the slightest. Yes of course you knew how to fight, your brother had made sure of that but you had never actually been in a situation where you had to before now.

…….

As you lay there on the fighting mat, panting and exhausted from the intense sparring match, Minho extended his hand to help you up. You grasped his hand tightly and he pulled you up with ease. However, as you both stood up, you noticed a look of disappointment etched on Minho's face.

"Well, that was a complete disaster," Minho said, his voice tinged with frustration. You could tell that he was disappointed with the way the match had turned out.

Suddenly, Chan interrupted. "Minho, stop," he said, snacking Minho's shoulder. "I have to agree with Minho, that was pretty brutal," Changbin added.

You couldn't help but feel a little disheartened by their comments, but you knew that they were only trying to help you improve.

“You attacked when you should have been defending” a voice echos from behind the boys.

“Rowyn had the advantage on every front, you should have defended and tired him out” just like that the group turns around to jisung strapping his wrists as if he’s ready to go another round.

“Excuse me?” you retort, folding your arms tightly over your chest in a gesture of defiance. The fire in your eyes reflects a mix of indignation and determination. How dare he question your skills? You’ve trained tirelessly, pushing your limits day after day, and yet here he stands, dismissive and skeptical. You can feel the muscles in your arms tense as adrenaline courses through your veins, igniting a spark of challenge within you. What does he truly know about what you are capable of?

“Ha,” Han chuckles before he looks up from his hand. “Cute, you think because you're Jackson’s little sister that you're going to get a free ride?”

“Excuse me!” you exclaim, your voice rising with anger. Your heart is racing, and you can feel the heat flushing through your cheeks. You've always prided yourself on being calm and collected, avoiding conflict whenever possible. Yet, something about this guy, with his smug grin and condescending tone, sends a wave of frustration surging through you. It’s as if every nerve in your body is ignited, and the usually reserved part of you can’t help but react. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the simmering rage only intensifies, pushing you closer to a breaking point.

Han scoffs lightly, a mix of amusement and disdain flickering across his face as he pivots towards the gym. He peels off his jumper, the fabric sliding down his arms to reveal a snug tank top that clings to his brawny frame. As he rolls his shoulders back, the powerful muscles ripple beneath his skin, showcasing not just strength but a sense of readiness for the challenge that lies ahead. The air around him shifts with an electric energy, hinting at the intensity of his workout as he prepares to dive into his training routine.

“Come on, Y/N! Let’s get you out of here!” Chan and Minho exclaimed, pulling you away from the training room. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Chan added with a warm smile, trying to ease your worries. “I’ve got your back and I’ll make sure you get the training you need!” His reassuring words filled you with a newfound sense of energy and determination.

“We all will” Minho adds

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @armystay89 @bakedlilgoonie

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thursdaygxrls · 2 years ago

Text

thin ice — two

part one | part two | part three

summary — peter invites her to his hockey game, and shocker, she shows up.

pairing — uni hockey player!peter parker x fem!journalist!reader

disclaimer — i do not own peter parker/marvel. marvel pls don’t sue me for making peter sexier 🙏

warnings — reader is referred to as ‘kitty’ (there’s a reason, i promise), slight one sided enemies to lovers, possible maybe slightly ooc, and very unedited

Stark Memorial Rink was a lot more crowded than she remembered. To be fair, when she was there two days ago, it was during a closed practice. Now it was loud, crowded, and filled with the blaring noise of the patrons and loudspeakers.

“What are our seats again?” MJ asked, hanging off her arm with a big, goofy smile. She was dressed in an Empire State University sweatshirt—‘I have to show my school pride’, she said. Sure, that was the reason.

“Section one hundred ten, Row C, seats four and five,” she replied, her voice near robotic.

“Y’know, you can at least pretend to be excited,” MJ teased. “I’ll buy you a soft pretzel if you act like you’re having fun.”

“Woo-hoo. Yippee. Hooray,” she said monotonously, a small grin curling on her lips.

“Come on,” a whine leaves MJ’s lips, “This is cool! It’s not just any game, this is the tournament—like, national. If they win this, they’ll make it down to eight teams. Eight teams!”

“And your sudden love of hockey spawned on its own, right?” She raised a brow at her friend’s words, “Not because of some sweaty guy who likes to ice skate?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” MJ mumbled in reply, though her eyes softened a bit, a smile adorning her painted lips. They shuffled through the crowds of people with some struggle, but eventually made it to section one hundred ten.

When she was there days ago, she hadn’t quite paid attention to the format of the seats. The assumption, though, was that they flowed in alphabetical order, making Row Z the one closest to the plexiglass. They slipped towards the steps, ready to descend just a few stairs when they looked down. A big, yellow ‘Z’ was right under their feet. That meant–

“Oh, my God.” Her voice was more like a whisper than anything.

“You said Row C, right?” MJ asked, her eyes glued to the letter.

“Row C,” she confirmed, sucking her teeth. Was it even possible? Okay, sure, this was just a university game, but this game was a big deal. The place was insanely crowded. How could he just give away seats that close to the glass?

“Well, let’s go,” MJ interrupted her train of thought, tugging her arm to follow her. One, two, three, four…they descended lower and lower until the sound of ice scraping along the skates of those practicing was louder than the buzz of the crowd. Their seats gave them a perfect view right behind the net. Purple and black jerseys whizzed by in a flurry of sticks and pucks and ice shaving off the ground. They say for a minute, soaking up the reality of where they were before MJ let out a cough.

“So, Kitty, soft pretzel?” She glanced over with a smile.

“Yeah,” she agreed, already popping up from her seat. Shuffling back to the stairs, her gaze was pulled back to the rink where she caught a flash of a neon purple ‘13’ zipping by the glass. Hazel eyes settled upon her through the brackets of the helmet—but only for one second. One small ounce of time in which their eyes connected like laser beams. And then he was gone again, and so was she.

“I’ll get you a slushie, too, if you do a little cheering,” MJ’s voice pulled her back.

“Extra large?” She raised a brow in return.

“Whatever size you want,” MJ beamed.

By the time they were back to their seats, the game was almost starting. The National Anthem was sung by a local high school talent. The team introductions flew by (MJ, of course, screaming for Harry). When number thirteen, Peter Parker, Empire State Lightning Bolts Team Captain was introduced, the thunder of feet pounding on the floor rang through the stadium. He slid across the ice in an oddly graceful fashion. He was sort of gangly, and the bulk of the uniform provided a strange juxtaposition, but his movements were clean and precise, more like a figure skater than a hockey player.

“Look at that, number thirteen,” MJ giggled into her ear, receiving a smack on the arm for her laughter.

“I have eyes, I can see.” Was her grumbled response.

The game was intense. They were single-round eliminations, meaning that if ESU lost this, they were out of the tournament. Pennbrook, in their glossy green jerseys, were just as vicious. The net in front of them was the home side first, so they were able to see every goal that was blocked, and inevitably the ones that slipped through. What seemed to (begrudgingly) stand out the most, though, was Peter.

He was aggressive. At first, she thought it was just excitement, or anger, or some irrational emotion that sent him flying across the ice and ramming into people. But the face under the helmet was always calm. Cold, even. Every outburst was a precise calculation. Yes, he was combative, but it was never out of his control. Nothing was out of his control, not even when the puck went skidding across the ice on the other side. It took him seconds to cross the rink and swoop in for quick saves. Time seemed to flash by. The buzzer signaled the end of the first period, and the teams skated back to their respective sides.

“It’s not that bad, right?” MJ nudged her, sucking down the last of her blue raspberry slushie.

“I’m definitely viewing something,” she responded in a sarcastic tone. MJ groaned, nudging her as she collected their empty cups and discarded napkins.

“Keep up the good attitude,” she shot back, sticking out her tongue as she went to throw away the trash.

The second period was similar to the first: high tensions, high testosterone. By the third period, the score was 4-5 with Pennbrook taking the lead. It was, of course, only a momentary lead. A play by Harry and Miles tied them up again, and then a swift shot by Zack got them the lead. Pennbrook’s number ‘36’ had been on Peter’s ass nearly the entire game. He was always so close that half of the ice shavings on Peter’s ankles were probably from him. But it hadn’t been anything more than a chase until Peter brought the score up to 7-5.

The movement was quick, but not nearly as unnoticeable as he likely intended. While sliding behind the net, 36’s elbow came up to check Peter. He was probably aiming for his shoulder, but everything just came out wrong: Peter turned his head toward 36, 36’s elbow jabbed at an awkward angle, and the hit ended up slamming into Peter’s face.

Her breath caught in her throat. When he turned back to the plexiglass, blood was dripping down his chin. He’d been clipped just right so that his lip busted against the hard plastic of the mouthguard. Resounding ‘boos’ sounded through the stadium, but the sounds fell deaf on her ears as she watched Peter throw off his glove and swipe the blood from his skin. It was like she could see the gears turning in his head. Hit, blood, fight. He looked to 36, ready to raise his bloodstained fist. Then, for just a second, his eyes flitted to her.

He knew she was there. He knew she was watching. None of the hardness left his eyes, but there was something new there, too. Pride, maybe? Excitement? It lingered in his vision the entire time his eyes were on hers. When his bloodied lips curled into a smirk, she forced herself out of the breathless haze she was caught in. She was only concerned because that was the normal human reaction; you see someone get hurt, you worry. Or you laugh. It wasn’t like she was—

Peter’s fist connected with 36’s cheek. She could hear the hard smack through the glass to Row C. 36 stumbled back on his skates but regained his balance. Before he could deal a blow, refs blowing hopelessly on their whistles swarmed the two, pulling them like two growling dogs. Once again, Peter looked up at her, making sure that she was still watching. When he smiled at her, she could see that his teeth were now coated in blood from the wound on his lip.

“Holy shit!” MJ was squealing, but her voice was lost on the girl next to her.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “Yeah, holy shit.”

Neither Peter nor 36 were let back on the ice for the rest of the game. A penalty was dealt to ESU, but any other punishment was still unknown. She watched the rest of the game on high alert, trying to stop her eyes from traveling to the penalty box where Peter was seated. It was hard to view him from her position, but she could see a shock of brown hair every once and a while.

When the game was over, ESU had won 8-7. The crowd roared as the buzzer sounded, and when MJ shot up, she joined her. Adrenaline shot through her as she watched the guys on the rink scream and nearly slam into each other. Her view, though, quickly adjusted to Peter as he fled the penalty box. He slid onto the ice with the same practiced ease he’d used during the game. She could see him say something to Zack as he grabbed him by the shoulders. When his eyes finally landed on her, her pulse thrummed in her ears. He knew she was watching him, and that’s just what he wanted her to do.

“Where y’headed?”

The sound of someone’s voice nearly made her throw her water bottle. She’d only just left Xavier Hall when she was accosted (or rather spoken to) by someone who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Her head whirled around to meet hazel eyes and a busted lip.

“Are you stalking me?” She spat out, her eyes wide.

“Stalking you? Oh, my God, no,” Peter laughed, wincing when his split lip tugged into a smile, “I used to do a little photography for the paper, I know where the meetings are.”

“Right,” she nodded, “But, like, how did you know I would be leaving right now?”

“Lucky guess?” He suggests, cocking his head in a boyish way. She narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, he was already speaking again; “Saw you at my game yesterday.”

“It technically wasn’t your game. It was the team’s game. Both teams’ game.” Her voice was pointed as she spoke. When she began walking down the stone pathway that led to a dining hall, Peter followed without question.

“But I was there,” he responded, “And so were you.”

“MJ didn’t want to miss it,” she dismissed his words.

“Oh, yeah, she and Harry are getting pretty serious,” he hummed.

“Mhm,” she replied. She didn’t want to look at him, really. Every time she did, her gaze was drawn to the nasty gash on his lips. Her eyes, however, decided to betray her. She studied it, the way it moved with him, the way it would inevitably split further each time he grinned.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Peter said, almost as if he was reading her mind. Her eyes shot up to meet his.

“Did you get kicked off the team or something?” She asked as if she didn’t already know the answer.

“Hell no,” he laughed, “Just a slap on the wrist. Couldn’t finish out the game, but you already knew that.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, “I would’ve thought there would’ve been a little more.”

“I’ve never really gotten in a fight–and that wasn’t even a real fight,” he grinned

“So was that just you showing off or something?” Her brows creased.

“Something like that.”

They reached the entrance of the dining hall. Peter, in all his gangliness, was able to swipe his card before her and open the door. His smile just seemed to widen as she eyed him with a generous amount of suspicion.

“Thanks,” she said slowly as she stepped through the door.

“No problem,” he replied, “See you around, Kitty.”

“You can’t call me—”

He was gone before she could finish her sentence. The door fell shut in his absence, and she watched him walk away through the glass. He carried on down the pathway with his hands shoved into his pockets. A groan slipped from her lips when she realized that she was just staring at him. Her body moved into the dining hall, but her mind wandered (unwillingly) to Peter. He was annoying, and cocky, and smiled way too much for someone with a busted lip. Yet, the main thing stuck in her head was his hazel eyes and the way he watched her with them.

a/n — hey babes!! thanks for the love on this series so far. i’m not sure how long it’s gonna be, but i def have some plans, it’s def gonna get smutty at some point. anyways, hope you enjoyed!!

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm peter parker #peter parker x you #hockey peter parker #tasm! peter x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #tasm! peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #hockey

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gay-dorito-dust · 6 months ago

Note

So so so so i need short reaction

“‘They’re your great aunt/ uncle y/n!’ Stanley shouted just as you fully stepped out of the portal before it closed behind you for one final time, plunging the room in almost darkness had it not been from the ember coloured gem that hung from your neck. You removed the hood from your head to reveal your aged face and slight hints of silver that streaked your hair permanently. “

The portal will shut down slowly And then a laser shot y/n from behind as they dies infront of them and the portal finally fully shut(cus y/n is off guard) CUS I THINK ITS FUNNY IF ‘i fixed this portal with my brother for 30 years, now i can see my lover again’ to ‘WHAT THE HELL, NO!’ AGAJAJAJAHAHJASG

You devious little shit. I love it!

Warning: reader is dead in this one. So sad.

The moment the laser hit you did Stanley thinks his entire life was one massive joke.

Ford has to quickly get the kids out of the lab to avoid them seeing their great aunt/uncle bleeding to death as the portal died almost immediately afterwards.

Thirty years and all Stanley got in return was to watch you die as you bled out in his arms, still smiling up at him while he felt his heart crumble and crack into nothing.

Thirty years of being apart and the only time you got together was when you were telling him that the minutes you got to see your precious Stanley’s face, handsomely aged like fine wine as you said weakly, wishing him happiness despite the fact that his entire reason for being happy was slipping away and he was helpless to do anything.

Sure Ford must be getting help upstairs while the kids constantly pestered him with what was happening but Stanley knew that even if they did arrive you wouldn’t make it, you were already starting to feel could as you would soon admit to him, but still found the strength to touch his tear stain cheek to tell him they he was far too beautiful to cry over you.

A call back to when he told you that you were far too beautiful crying over a douche of an ex as you sat on a bench in the rain, he wished he could go back to the night you first met and married you then like he always dreamed he would when you stayed by his side; even when you fell into the portal Stanley wanted to marry you as soon as you came out of the portal, only for you to get fatally shot right before his eyes.

He wasn’t destined to marry you, that wasn’t aloud and instead he was doomed to suffer a long and isolating life with your smile, laugh, kisses, hugs and willingness to go along with his schemes and yet not once did he ever had the strength to tell you he loved you.

Stanley has so many regrets and such little time to admit to them as his vision of you was blurred with tears that he felt like laughing, even his own body was against him seeing you.

‘Thirty years.’ Stan whispered as he pressed his head against the side of yours. ‘Thirty years I spent getting trying to get you back sweetheart, not once did I ever get you out of my head. I refused to as I thought that if I forgot you for a single second I’ll forget what you look like for the rest of my life and I don’t want to ever forget you when you’ve been nothing but the best thing in my entire life and now you’re being taken from me, again.’ Stan finished, pressing kisses into your cold skin.

‘I found a dimension where we’re married Stanley.’ You spoke hoarse. ‘Married and I’ve never looked happier than I did.’

‘Where was it sweetheart.’ Stan asked as he held you closer to his chest.

‘Here, at the mystery shack.’ You told him, smiling at the ceiling of the lab that would become your resting place. ‘You never liked the idea of signing an overpriced piece of paper just to officially show people they we are in love.’ You added with a chuckle that ended in you coughing up blood.

‘Stop speaking toots,’ Stanley panicked as he felt his heart break somehow even further as he burrowed his face into your neck, wanting to remember how you felt against him once last time, ‘stop speaking please and save yourself the energy.’

‘We both know it’s too late, so allow me to say this. I love you Stanley pines, I would’ve loved to have been married to you and scam people with deep pockets together in another life.’ You said and those were the last words you said as the last aspects of your life had left your body.

Stanley had lost his happiness for the second time and he didn’t get to tell you he loved you, or that he would’ve loved the scam people and be married to you too…

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #stan pines x you #stanley pines imagines #stan pines imagines #stan pines imagine #stan pines x reader #stanley pines x you #stanley pines imagine #stanley pines x reader

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rosystained · 21 days ago

Text

lovesick

i'll just sleep until i fall dead to the memory of your lips (laufey - lovesick) or jiung can never get enough of kissing you

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. jiung x reader

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 0.8k words, fluff, established relationship

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. warnings: pet names (for reader: baby; for jiung: ungie, ji), kissing, shy jiung <3

Jiung stands at the mirror, smoothing out his tie. Leaning in, he glances over his hair once more before turning back to see you in the bathroom.

“Ready to go, baby?” he calls.

“Just a second!” your voice chimes. “I just need to find my fancy perfume…”

“Your fancy perfume?” Jiung repeats, tilting his head like a lost puppy even though you’re not even looking at him. “How come? You always smell nice.”

He hears the clattering of your things in the bathroom as you rummage through the drawers. “Well you said it was a fancy thing and a hard reservation to make, didn’t you?” He thinks he can hear the little smile in your voice. “Just wanna look nice and match the occasion. You put so much effort into today.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, yn,” he says softly. “You always look amazing, y’know.”

“Thank you, Ji. Hm, I just can’t find–oh!”

With the shutting of the drawer, you stand, looking yourself over once more before finding Jiung’s eyes on you from the bedroom.

“Oh, Ungie, you look great!” you exclaim, scurrying over to him and wrapping your arms around him. The button up simply accentuates his broad shoulders and curve of his jaw in just the right ways. The world will simply have to forgive you for ogling your dashing boyfriend. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, your hand wanders over the crisp white shirt. “So handsome.”

Jiung smiles softly, finding your eyes in the reflection staring back. “You think so, baby?”

“Oh I know so.” With another peck, you begin to pull your hands away, already turning to scan the room for your bag.

When your touch starts to lighten, Jiung’s brain scrambles and he grasps your wrists. As you begin to face him once more, tilting your head and blinking expectantly at him, he feels his thoughts start buffering.

“Hm? What is it?” you hum.

Well, how could Jiung explain what overcame him a moment ago? If he had to confess there was ever one person whose touch he could never get enough of, it was yours. It’s just…actually admitting it would make him squirm under your gentle gaze.

His mouth opens and closes quietly as he tries to think of something. “Oh um…” He brings a hang to his neck, feeling the knot of his tie that rests against it. “My-my tie, it’s a bit t-tight.”

“Let me see?” You step in front of him, squinting at the little piece of cloth. With furrowed brows and a soft bite of your lip, you gently take his hand in one of yours and inspect the fabric.

Jiung blinks, as if your expression will magically have changed in the millisecond his eyes are closed. If you keep looking so sweet, so focused on him with your pretty lips he loves to taste tucked between your teeth, so kissable, smelling so warm, like home, what is he supposed to do?

“Oh, I can redo the–”

His fingers quickly find your chin, tilting your head up from its laser focus on his tie to him. In a swift motion, he leans in, his lips brushing yours. Almost as if it was a figment of your imagination, delicious pressure builds before Jiung jolts back with wide eyes, staring at you.

Blinking back at him, a hand still around his tie, you let your lips part, trying to put together the last couple seconds. It seems Jiung is too, his face blooming shades of pink by the second.

“I-if–” Jiung clears his throat and bobs his head back. “If you wanted a kiss, y-you could just, just say so,” he stutters.

“I—Jiung, you—I—”

There’s a timid curve to his lips as he takes the hand still clinging to his tie in his. “No need for games; I’d always do it if you asked.”

“I—what are you—”

Pausing, you reach up to pinch his flushed cheek. Jiung’s eyes are shy, elusive moons that avert from your warm gaze studying him despite the soft curve of his lips, and it clicks. Shaking your head, you simply smile.

“Nevermind.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widen, his face now a bright shade of red. “W-what do—”

“Alright, I admit it.” Brushing a strand of his hair out of his vision, you blink softly at the man you love. “Maybe I did want a kiss. But I think you owe me a do-over; that one was way too short!”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you lean in, bringing your lips to his. You bite softly, teasing the seam of his mouth with your tongue and tugging softly at his hair, and Jiung thinks he could simply melt into a puddle at your feet right this moment if you asked.

Just as he brings his hands to rest at your waist, you pull away, and Jiung’s eyes flash open to a teasing grin on your face. “C’mon, let’s go; we’re gonna be late!"

a/n: inspired by this scene from hidden love that i was reminded of earlier!

hi um i guess this is my piwonblr debut? this is the first writing thing i've been able to finish in a Hot minute so please have some mercy on me...i was originally planning to post smthn else first but it seems to be giving me some trouble and that it's gonna be a long one so this little guy first...if you've made it this far ty for reading <3

#p1harmony x reader #piwon x reader #jiung x reader #p1harmony fluff #jiung fluff #p1h x reader #p1h fluff #jiung imagines #p1harmony imagines #choi jiung x reader #choi jiung fluff

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lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

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please tell me i’m not the only one who thinks soap would be horny at the WRONG times?

like let’s say you’re hosting your very first end of the year bbq and you invite your close friends, the task force, + los vaqueros. you’re excited because you just had moved into your first house as well.

all is good until good until soap starts getting needy, purposely brushing up against your backside whenever he passes by, mumbling the most sarcastic ‘oops my bad’. he even says something along the lines of ‘sending everyone back home so we could have some alone time’ and plays it off as a joke but you know he’s being serious 💀 like that man does NOT CARE, he’ll take you in the bathroom if he has to.

a/n: naur, you're onto something anon. I always picture Soap as a horny bastard; not much restraint in his not-so-little body. got a little carried away on this, lol. warning(s): nsfw, horny stuff, fem!reader

imagine you bought a house together and the nice idea of throwing a little housewarming party, for him, for you — inviting his co-workers and some friends of your own. he insisted a thousand times that you didn't have to invite them; but only because of all the embarrassing stories they were going to tell you about your boyfriend.

but, when all was said and done, it was a great gathering. you did it all yourself — the meals, the decor, the staging of your newly purchased outdoor furniture — everything. it was alluring to Soap, how frazzled and insistent on "perfection" you were. though, you heard about a thousand times, that they would eat anything you put in front of them.

when you two sat around the fire, gaz asked how you two planned on celebrating the new house once the festivities died down. an innocent question; but it sparked in your boyfriend's mind. "aye, we'll find a way to celebrate, that's for sure. jus' gotta make sure the timing's right," he played it off with a chuckle, but there was no mistaking how flustered it made you.

it was going perfectly, or as perfect as a party with these people could be. a lengthy dinner in the backyard, endless conversations, and a little too much indulgence in the booze for some of them. "great party, great house. should have you decorate the base sometime, eh? if it's half as nice, it'll help with morale." price commented as he talked to you and him.

Soap's arm remained around your shoulder, your waist, or anywhere throughout the night. you didn't think anything of it, frankly, you were too laser-focused — until his neediness grew. brushing against your backside, a caress on your thigh lingering, a small wink when the guests weren't focused on you.

some went off to the side to smoke, and others remained on the patio to continue their conversations. by now, it was time to get the mess cleaned up. plates, cups, wrappers, empty bottles, and the other trash that had accumulated.

"i'll help you with that, love. you've done enough tonight, haven't ye?" he approached after dismissing himself, grabbing the second stack of silverware and following you inside. Soap finally had his opportunity to seize what he desired, when he knew the party was much less alive, much less prying eyes on you two.

you stepped inside from the patio, him closing the sliding door behind you. dumping the plates into the sink, you turned on the faucet with the intention of beginning a long night of clean-up duty. his hand reached around you, turning off the faucet, "not what i meant by helpin' you, lass. c'mon," he motioned his head in the direction of the hall.

you took one more look out the window, seeing the preoccupied guests, most paying little mind to your guys' close proximity in your new kitchen. why the hell not? might as well cross the guest bathroom off your list of "places we've had sex in our new home" — right?

before the door even closes, he's hiked up the hem of your evening dress, shoving his hand down the waistband of your panties. Soap ends up fucking you senseless on the bathroom counter, gagging you with his fingers in case any of his co-workers came inside the house to grab another chilled drink. you were only a few feet from the kitchen, it was the definition of risky.

mid-thrust, there was a soft knock. price, goddamn price. "everything alright in there, sweetheart?"

even with his superior on the other side of a door, about a foot away, did Soap stop? no, of course not. he slowed down but never stopped. he removed his fingers from your mouth, biting his lip to mock you that look in your eyes, whilst they shot open in a frenzy. you cleared your throat to conceal a moan, using every ounce of strength to not feel Soap bottoming out over and over again. "uh, just a— just a little wine on my dress, John. no worries!"

as soon as price's steps retreated down the hall, Soap's ragged, growly breaths resumed. in a split second, his ruts went from mockingly slow, back to a relentless pounding.

before there was any chance of another interruption, he finished with a sneer on his face. "wine on the dress, eh? smart girl. i like that." he heaved against your lips, gently wiping any mess that smudged on your lips. you were livid, despite coming down from your own high. a palm smacked his chest repeatedly until he shut your heated whispers up with a hundred pecks across your jaw and mouth.

Soap walks outside first, blaming the lost time on him fishing through the moving boxes for a Tupperware you needed. whether it was believable or not, that was up for debate. the sweat lingering on his brow, the afterglow of sex on his face? unmistakable.

now, you've either have to splash water on your dress to imitate where you would've scrubbed a wine stain off. or... just, walk on out of there like you hadn't just been fucked stupid — with trembling legs, naturally.

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fabricated-misslieness · 2 years ago

Text

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: earth 42 miles morales x spider gn reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: the prowler and the spider had an infamous rivalry—the prowler was always improving, and the spider refused to die.

ᴀɴᴏɴ: Earth42! Miles had a s/o who was bitten by a spider as well (maybe just an AU where 1116 Miles didn’t get bitten by the spider or there was another one) and they are both rivals under the masks but literally love eachother without them bc they don’t know each other’s identity?? And some angsty if they were in battle and he was beating them tf up and literally about to kill them and removes the mask and MORE ANGST AHH.

ʀᴇ𝐐: yes ~ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.4k ~ alternate universe (within alternate universe) where the reader is bit instead of earth 1610 or earth 42 miles

part 2 (crackfic)

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: swearing, violence, blood, near death experience

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: we had so little of earth 42 miles so personally i dont like him yet but the request is good

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You had to hand it to him, he was good. He brought a new little gadget each time to take advantage of one of your weaknesses, which thankfully allowed you to discover them yourself and patch them up; but that didn't take away from the fact that he was inventing these little things so quick, or that he was noticing your mistakes.

The Prowler delights himself in your shocked little eye goggles when you punch him with your powers and it doesn't affect him, "D'ya like that? Can't use your little electricity powers on me anymore."

"Personally, I call it Venom, but I suppose," You pull back, regaining your bearings, cracking your knuckles, "it's too much to ask for a little respect."

"Getting tired?" Prowler closes the distance between you easily with his physics defying boots.

"Not at all." You press yourself onto the wall behind you, climbing on with your hands and feet to prepare for an attack. "Just caught me at the end of my shift, 's all."

"Exactly."

You ignore the little comment and aim up to shoot a web towards the ceiling, but then... click. Fuck, you were out of web fluid. He really was paying close attention to you.

You push yourself off the wall instead, diving towards him to topple him over. He dodges with his boots, leaving you to stumble onto the ground. He brings an empowered punch down while you're off your feet, but you roll over to the side, onto your back to dodge.

The ground beside you shatters as his punch lands, incredibly loud. Your ears ring as you hop back onto your feet.

"What's next? Lasers? Cat machine guns?"

"Cat machine guns?" The Prowler laughs, standing straight again. "What are you, nine?"

"Are you not nine? I thought we were the same age." You punch, but he blocks it with his sturdy gauntlets. You hop back before he can counter.

"Oh, you definitely did not." He lunges forward, aiming a punch to your head, but you dodge under and sweep his feet. He falls harshly onto his back, leaving him stunned for a second. You try to take advantage of it, but as you pull back your arm for a punch, your spider-sense warns you of something from behind.

You dodge to the side. As you regain your ground, your feet slip and you fall against the wall. For a moment, as the both of you focus up, you look around the room. What triggered your spider-sense? There was nothing or no one here, no one except for the Prowler.

Speaking of, he stands, clutching his head with one hand; and he's laughing.

"That was one of your tricks, wasn't it?"

Your powers allow you to regain your composure much faster and you take the opportunity to punch him.

The Prowler falters, taking a few steps back but keeping himself on his feet, "You punch like a baby."

"I don't want to kill you." You reason.

"Kill me?" He laughs, "With what, kindness?"

As he stabilizes himself, something else triggers your Spider-sense, and you dodge at nothing again. Another comes from behind and you stumble forward, right into his range. The Prowler punches, and it connects.

"What's up with that, anyway?" The punch knocks you back against the wall and you climb up desperately out of his reach. "You never kill. I always come back."

"It's my one rule."

"No one's asking you to keep it."

Another thing triggers your Spider-sense, then another, different directions, you can't keep up with them at the same time. Trapped in a corner, you let out a burst of Venom to try to decimate them before they can even reach you.

"What a pathetic little Spider."

The Prowler swings up, allowing his gauntlet to burst out with its usual mechanical power... and your Venom. The shock brings you to the ground, where you writhe in its cold tile with a searing pain and aftershocks of electricity. You're pretty sure you broke something–or pulled something, you really can't tell.

"Reusing my Venom?" You snicker with the last energy you have, "Running out of ideas, Prowler?"

"A blabbermouth 'till the end." You can hear the humor in his voice as he brings a punch down.

Crack!

His hands stays there, atop your head, his other one pins your shoulder to the ground. So this was it.

"I don't suppose," You wheeze out, "my rule applies to you?"

He ignores that comment, staring down at you. The mask tore in the area of one of your eyes.

His mask was always ruthless. It resembled a gas mask, preparing for the worse, but it also projected an image: his narrowed, emotionless eyes. To top it all off, he almost seemed to have the horns of a devil.

"You have nice eyes."

He was about to kill you and he was cracking jokes... he was about to kill you, and you never got to say goodbye to Miles.

"I wonder what you look like." He grabs a hold of your mask harshly with his gauntlet, "Did you ever wonder what I looked like?" and he pulls.

Now, without the mask in the way, you spit blood onto the tiled ground.

Suddenly, he seizes up, like he's frozen in place.

"Don't you think you're dragging this out?"

The Prowler lets go. He falls to his knees beside you, beginning to sob. He gathers you in his arms like you're glass, like he wasn't so hellbent on stopping your heartbeat just a few seconds ago.

Powerless, you simply rest in his arms. "This is a change, isn't it?"

"God, where do you find the strength?" He questions, chuckling a dry laugh. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"A lot of coffee, let's say."

"Shut up."

The mask on his face disassembles itself, and–oh.

"Miles?"

"I'm so fucking sorry." He buries his head into the crook of your weak neck. His sobs make you feel the need to protect him, to kiss the tears that stain his face away, but you can barely move.

You can still, however, heave a sigh of relief. "Look, I'm not dead yet." Though your mouth was lathered in disgusting coppery blood. "Surely my little genius can carry me to safety?"

"Yes." He stands, shell shocked, with you in your arms. You felt so light, so weak, and it was all because of him. "I'm–"

You bring a weak hand to cup his jaw, the highest you could bring it. You can feel the wet tears gathered there. "You can be sorry later."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

You examine yourself in the mirror of the Morales apartment–thank that little spider that you've got healing powers–when you hear the front door open, meaning Miles is back with some first aid shit. "Miles, how am I supposed to explain this to my aunt?!" You call.

Miles stumbles towards the bathroom, the rustle of the plastic bag accompanying his footsteps.

He didn't know how you were so quick to forgive all the injuries he'd given you, all the harm he'd caused. He didn't know how you weren't screaming at him, how you didn't want to kill him. He had done you wrong so many times and you weren't even angry.

But when he stops in the bathroom doorway and you turn to him, he sees the look in your eyes. It's the same as always, full of love for him, appreciation for him; like everything good in the world was embodied in him.

New scars were forming on your face, the same that littered his body, the telltale scars of being struck by lightning. "I guess we match now."

He stares down at the rolled up sleeves of his hoodie. He'd never shown them to you, the very scars you caused him unknowingly. They were like lightning up his arms and his legs and his torso, only missing on his face. He was a dangerous storm, and you had dared to love him.

"I love you." He drops the bag and brings you in his arms again.

Your knees give in, for you were still weak, but he had you. He was there to support you, to keep you up. "I love you too."

"I'm sorry." He says again.

"I know." You reply simply. "...you are what keeps me going, by the way. You're the reason I find strength even in the worst of times."

"Te amo, te amo, te amo..." Miles whispers over and over again. (I love you.)

He didn't need to question why you weren't angry with him, so long as you loved him.

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chicago-pd-is-weird · 11 months ago

Text

Hank Voight x IAD!Reader

Synopsis: reader is an IAD an agent tracking Voight, but when Voight is gentle with a child, reader has second thoughts, later, when reader later gets into trouble, Voight is there for them.

TW: mentions of abuse, rape and suicide

Voight knew something was up. He was perceptive like that - smart. He knew you were tailing him when he ran a red light on purpose. It meant you had to stop. To not seem suspicious. Good thing you had his GPS location.

You continued tailing him as he drove. Originally, he seemed to be heading home, but now he was leading you away, to the outskirts of the city. You considered for a moment, asking yourself whether you should keep on him or just let him go and cut it as a loss. He was moving further and further out of the city, and seemed to be moving toward the silos.

You followed.

When you arrived, he was leaning against the side of his SUV, hands crossed over his chest. He watched as your car pulled up, his eyes staring into your soul, or so you felt, despite him not being able to see you yet.

You let out a soft breath, then got out of your car, walking around to the other side. “Sergeant Hank Voight,” you said with a hum. “Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“You could’ve come to my office, you know. You didn’t have to follow me all the way out here.”

“This is where you buried Kevin Bingham, right?” You abruptly changed the subject, cocking an eyebrow.

“If you know about that, then I’m sure you’ve read the report. There wasn’t any body found here.”

“It’s really funny how your buddy took the fall for that. Shame he had to lose his life over it.”

Voight visibly tensed, and you knew you hit a nerve. He looked you over. “Do you have a point to this?”

“I’m (Y/N), your new IAD agent.”

“And?” He looked back up to your eyes. “What is it you want? Doesn’t it say in my file that I don’t make deals with IAD anymore?”

You hummed, then nodded, taking a step closer to him. “Your file… has a lot of interesting things. The last few IAD agents ended up either resigning or arrested, right? Trust me, you won’t run me away.”

His lips pulled into a sly smile. “We’ll see how you feel about that in a few months. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

With that, the both of you got into your vehicles and parted ways. You were ready for the challenge that was Hank Voight. You were going to be the one to catch him in the act.

— —

The day finally came when Voight made a mistake. Looking over a few of his arrest reports, some things didn’t line up. You studied them, and recreated the cases as closely as you could, tracking his every move. You knew none of his team would flip on him to tell you what happened for sure, but you had dirt on a few of the beat cops that had been around. You could piece together a timeline based on their statements and what you knew. “Gotcha,” you whispered, before gathering everything and putting it into a neat case file, a small smirk pulling at your lips. Finally, you’d gotten Voight. Finally, you’d take him out of his job.

When you arrived on scene to find him, you had every intention of making a huge show of his arrest. However, after talking to his people, you realized Voight was inside a house they’d previously thought to be rigged with a bomb. Bomb squad confirmed it was safe and Voight had gone inside. You couldn’t be stopped by any of the nearby officers, simply opening the door to step inside.

The sight all but shocked you. A boy, sitting in a taped square with a laser pointer on his chest. He was upset, saying how he couldn’t leave the square otherwise the house would explode. One of the detectives, Upton, was sitting on the opposite side of the room. Voight was crouching, facing toward the boy. His back was to you, but he focused on giving the boy soft reassurance that there was no bomb.

Something inside you crumbled, tears brimming your eyes. Just like when you were little and scared, mistreated by people, and someone, a cop, came to your rescue. Voight was rescuing the little boy. You couldn’t help but melt at the sight. You watched intently as Vought coaxed the boy up and out of the square, then embraced him tightly, as if he were his own son.

With that, you swallowed hard and walked out of the house quickly, getting in your car and leaving without a word or even a look to anyone. How could you arrest him now? Knowing how gentle he was, and knowing that he really only did hurt bad people, how could you be so cold hearted? He saved so many women and children over the years. How could you take him off the streets?

You couldn’t, and Voight knew it. It was your weakness.

— —

“Hey, you work with that Voight character from the 21st, right?”

You glanced up at his name. He’d been more of a side project the last few months. You documented everything but took on other projects, ones that didn’t put as much guilt on your heart. “Yeah, I’m on Voight. What’s going on?”

“You’re going to want to see this.” Your coworker walked in and handed you a file speculating Voight shot a perpetrator out of revenge - an unarmed perpetrator, to be precise. All of the video in the file showed Voight shooting the man point blank. You nearly cringed, thanking your coworker and shooing them away.

You knew you could get Voight on this, but it weighed heavily on you. You needed to get a meeting with him, off the books, right away.

Later that night, you stood outside in the Chicago cold. Your eyes ran over the water, searching for answers. You still had no idea what to do. Do you take him in? Or, do you let him continue to go off the rails? Isn’t that why you have a job in the first place?

Voight wasn’t like other cops you worked with. He was older and more experienced, but most of all, he had this knack for always getting a specific outcome - one that always protected himself, even at the cost of others. Alvin Olinsky came to your mind pretty quickly as you pondered it. You hadn’t been on the case, but reading over the case files was the better part of your first week in the role. Olinsky had died in Voight’s place, to protect Voight from jail time and losing his job. To keep the intelligence unit alive.

You were pulled out of thought as an SUV rolled up, LEDs flashing past you, then turning off. He got out and walked over, his hands in his jacket pockets. “What was so important?”

You hummed and handed him the Manila folder of evidence. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s on book. Yet. This conversation will determine if this little ‘incident’ is included in the report.” You hummed as you gave Voight the ultimatum, taking the folder back when he was finished with it.

“You know, the last people to hang things over my head like this ended up in jail.”

“I’m clean, Voight. There’s nothing you can put me in on. Besides, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” He laughed mockingly. “Help me with what? I don’t need your help.”

“You do, because if anyone sees the footage on that disk, you’ll be doing life for murder.” You shook your head. “Like I said, nothing is on book yet.”

“So what’s your bargain, then?”

You looked back out over the water, taking it in for a moment before looking back to him. “You owe me. That’s all.”

Voight considered it, looking you over. “So that’s it? All you want is a favor in the bank?”

“Mmhm,” you affirmed quietly. “Can you manage that?”

“And what will happen to that footage?”

You turned back to the water, leaning on the railing. “It’ll show exactly what it needs to, making this whole thing cut and dry.”

Voight moved beside you, also leaning over the railing to look out to the water. “Alright, then. I owe you.”

You nodded a little, standing at the water for a minute more, though you weren’t sure why. You moved to stand, but his voice kept you in place. “That guy orchestrated the kill on Al.”

You didn’t look up. “I know. That’s why you’re being investigated like this. You and Al were close. There are a lot of people higher than me that want to put you away.”

“And you don’t?”

You sighed, looking to him now. “I came to arrest you a few months ago. Something petty you probably could’ve weaseled your way out of anyways. I wanted to be the one to take the trophy. To make a big show of it.” You shook your head, looking him over as he met your eyes. “And then I saw you with that little boy. I reevaluated. What was truly important? The methods in which things are done, or the people that are ultimately saved?” You shrugged a little.

“That’s why you’ve been off my back, then? Had my file tossed to the side?”

“I’ve still been collecting and doing my job. There’s just not much to go on. You cover your tracks really well.”

Voight hummed and looked back out to the water. “You know, I’ve looked into you, too. I have favors in the ivory tower.”

“I know,” you replied with a soft shrug. “I have nothing to hide. You could’ve asked me anything.”

“That’s exactly what they told me,” he said with a soft chuckle, standing upright now to face you. “But, I did read into your file, and your history. I even talked to Officer Buchanan.”

You nodded, looking away at the name as you remembered him. The man who had saved your life. The officer who had rolled onto the scene first when you were on the ledge, trying to find the courage to jump.

Every fiber of self-preservation in your body told you not to, but your mind pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You wanted to die. You needed to. You were a burden. You swallowed a sob, tears streaking down your cheeks. You heard a door behind you open, and you looked back to see a single CPD officer. He was standing in the doorway, putting his hands up. “Hey, I just want to talk.”

“I’m done talking. Nobody listens. It’s too late now. People should’ve listened when I spoke up years ago!” You sobbed, shaking your head. You were 25, and had been mistreated for years. Nobody listened to you, seeing as you were the spouse of a politician. “Leave me alone. Just go back to where you came from. It’s too late for me.” You wiped the tears from your eyes, your entire body trembling.

“It’s not too late. It never is. I’m here to listen to you now. I wish I’d met you earlier. I would’ve listened. Sometimes all it takes is the right person.”

For over an hour, you went back and forth with the officer, who you later learned was named Richard Buchanan. He became a close friend of yours after you got out of therapy, and even let you stay with him for a while until you got back on your feet. He lived alone, so your company was welcomed. He had never been married or had kids, thinking the job was too dangerous to put someone through the grief. You had mirrored that sentiment when you joined the academy, pushing away any and all romantic interests so you could focus on your job.

The beat was rough, but you had soon passed your detective test, and when you ended up permanently injured, you moved into Internal Affairs. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but you did it well.

You still visited Officer Buchanan on the third weekend of every month. You could barely believe Voight had talked to the man about you. You wondered exactly how that conversation had gone down. You looked to Voight as you pulled yourself back into reality, letting out a breath. “So, what then? You find any dirt on me besides trying to jump off a ledge when I was 25?”

“Nope,” Voight replied with a shrug, his eyes meeting yours. “Nothing substantial.”

You matched the hike of his shoulders and hummed. “Then I’ve got you, and you owe me a favor.”

“Alright,” he agreed, holding out his hand. You took it and shook firmly, then hummed and walked back to your car, manila folder still in hand. You took it away and to a friend, who doctored the footage to make it look like the man had reached for a gun. Then, you submitted your investigation a few days later as Voight having a clean shoot and no further action was taken. Having his favor in your back pocket would come in handy when you were ready to use it.

The morning after you’d submitted the clean report, an envelope was slipped beneath your door. You looked up, walking quickly to open your office door and see who could’ve slipped it, but nobody looked out of place. You furrowed your eyebrows, picking up the blank envelope and opening it to reveal a blank “thank you” card. It had no writing on it, nothing personalized, but you knew exactly who it was from. You smiled a little to yourself, then slipped it into your desk drawer.

— —

Over a year later, and you continued covering for Voight, but watching him to ensure he didn’t go off the rails all the same. You knew if he ever got in too deep, you wouldn’t be able to save him without going down yourself. You looked at the blank card and envelope often, even though all it said was “thank you” and some cheesy pre-printed message inside. It made you smile, and it was something you held on to. You hadn’t met with Voight again outside of official meetings when you had to investigate him or someone inside his unit. Of course, it always either came up clean or inconclusive for whatever reason.

That day, a call buzzed on your phone, pulling you away from witness reports on a beat cop case. You glanced to your phone, finding a familiar number on it, but you’d never saved the contact. You took the call, hearing “it’s time,” on the other end before they hung up. You grabbed your stuff and took furlough for the rest of the day, citing that your stomach was off.

That was an understatement.

Finally, it was time. Your stomach was in knots. You weren’t sure how to feel. It was all so bittersweet. You went to your house, dropping your car off and changing into clothes you hated - clothes you’d kept for years. You waited for nightfall, biding your time and getting everything ready as needed. You cleaned your gun, although you weren’t inclined to use it, it was in case something went wrong. You’d never done anything like this before, but studying Voight had given you a pretty good idea of how to cover your tracks.

You grabbed your knife set, still in the leather case, and put it into a small duffel bag, along with a change of clothes and some other things you’d need to get rid of the body. By the time nightfall arrived, a black car came up to your house, and you grabbed your duffel bag and left your house, getting into the car.

The man you knew from the phone drove you out of the city, right to the outskirts. An abandoned warehouse was there, where he was being held. Him, he who had abused you, raped you, and let you try to kill yourself. Him, who was so perfect in everyone else’s eyes. Him, who’d gotten away with it.

He won’t ever do it again. Not after today.

You’d been biding your time for years, over twenty years at this point. You were ready to do this. Ready to make him suffer the way you had long ago. You wanted him to feel pain. You wanted to take back what he had stolen from you long ago.

You got out of the car, watching as it drove away, then walked into the warehouse. You were on your own, now. What happened here stayed here. Nobody would ever know.

You walked in, seeing him tied to a chair and struggling to get loose, to no avail. You hummed and grabbed a crate, pushing it in front of him and sitting on it, letting your bag drop beside you. Your gun was in the back of your waistband, just in case, and you hummed as you watched him struggle. “Having fun?”

“You sick, psycho bitch!” He spat at you, still struggling to get out. “Fuck you!”

“You did, remember? You did it, over and over again, even when I asked you to stop. Even when I passed out, you kept going. Just to get yourself off.”

“Is that why you’re wearing that? I remember you had on the same thing the night you tried to jump. You should’ve done it.”

“Maybe, but then I wouldn’t be here to take the pleasure in this.” A dark smile creeped onto your face.

It was nearly 3AM when you were finished with him. When he couldn’t move anymore, when he begged you for mercy, when he laid limp on the floor, finally, you were finished. You took the gun from your waistband, bloody fingers gripping it as you knelt on top of him. “Good riddance,” you growled before finally giving him the mercy of death, putting a shot straight through his brain, and another through his heart.

Then, you picked up the shell casings and dug the bullets out of his limp body. You put them into a bag and set them aside. You pulled his body over to a tarp and began wrapping him up meticulously. As if you’d done it before.

You made good work of the body, then cleaned the blood before stripping off your clothes and changing into the fresh ones. You hauled everything out to a fire pit, where it had already been set up, dumping the body and your clothes into the pit and starting the fire. It burned and raged. The smell was terrible, but you somehow didn’t mind as you watched the flames dance, engulfing the man who had hurt you so badly.

As the fire went on, you heard a twig snap in the woods. You grabbed your now clean gun from your waist and turned quickly, just quick enough to see someone in a hoodie running away. “Shit,” you mumbled, debating as to whether you should stay with the body or run after the man. You decided on the latter, slinging your duffel bag across your body and bolting after the man who had seen you.

You chased him for about a mile before he got tired and you caught him, tackling him to the ground and holding the gun to his head. “Who are you?!”

“T-Travis!” He said, wincing and panting from running. “I-I-I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for what?!”

“Did you kill that guy? I-I didn’t mean to see you!”

“It’s your mistake,” you huffed, but before you could take care of the problem, you heard sirens and saw lights. You got up, pulling him with you at gunpoint. “Let’s go. And if you scream, you’re dead.”

The man agreed, shaking, probably high out of his mind judging by the skunk like stench radiating from him. After walking back toward your scene, you pushed him to his knees near a tree. “Stay here. If you move or scream, I’ll put a bullet in your head.” You huffed as he nodded, leaving him there and taking a few more steps toward the edge of the woods where you’d been earlier.

The fire department and police were there, trying to put out the fire. Your stomach dropped. “Oh fuck,” you mumbled to yourself, knowing it was only a matter of time before they figured out who was dead and who had done it. Your mouth ran dry and you felt like throwing up. Not only had it started to sink in that you’d mutilated, tortured, and killed someone, but you’d pretty much been caught now too.

You went back to the man, pulling him up and pulling him with you by the arm. He protested but you shushed him quickly as you ran. You ran out to the opposite side of the woods, then pushing him down next to another tree. You pulled out your cell phone, that had since been off, and turned it on. Then, you dialed the one person you could think of to get you out of this.

“Come on,” you mumbled. “Answer the phone.”

When he finally answered the phone, voice heavy with sleep, you swallowed hard, tears coming to your eyes. “You owe me,” you said sternly. “I need you. Now.”

A pause came over the phone as you waited in silence, then he spoke again. “Where are you?”

Some time later, you saw his car pull up. The man who was high had since fallen asleep, but you hadn’t stopped pacing. Voight pushed into the woods to find you, catching you and furrowing his brow. “Alright, tell me everything.”

You couldn’t help but let out a quiet sob, gun still in your hand, clenching it tightly. “Voight, I-I…” You swallowed hard. “This guy saw me and I-I didn’t want witnesses but then someone must’ve seen the fire and-and-“

“(Y/N),” he said, stern but soft as he reached out, gripping your shoulders to pull you back into reality. “Start from the beginning. Tell me everything so I can help.”

And so you did, telling him everything he needed to know to help. You cried softly as he held your shoulders, not knowing whether you should continue living or just shoot yourself here and now.

Voight held you as you spoke, then took the gun from your hand, putting it into his own waistband. Then, he pulled you into a tight hug, which made you break down further. Being in his arms made you feel safe, as if it were all a nightmare.

When he pulled away, he looked at you, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “It’s going to be alright. I’m going to keep your gun. Give me the shell casings and knives.”

You sniffled, handing him the entire duffel bag, then looking to the man who was sleeping. “What about him?”

Voight nodded. “You let me take care of it, all of it.”

“W-What do I do?”

“Don’t tell anyone anything. Business as usual.” He nodded to you. “Come on, go get into my car. I’ll take you home.”

You nodded and did as you were asked, sitting in the passenger seat. Voight took a few moments to wake up the high man and talk to him, then left him where he was. He put the evidence in the back seat, then sat in the driver’s seat beside you, nodding. “Everything’s gonna be alright, (Y/N). I promise.”

You swallowed hard, wiping your face as you tried to keep yourself together. “I can’t go home…”

“You have to,” he said with a small shrug. “It wouldn’t be right if you stayed with me, since you’re my IAD agent.”

You scoffed a little, shaking your head. “I don’t even care about all that,” you mumbled. “I’m only in IA because they won’t let me back in the field. I hate it there. Going after good cops? Screw my job. I want to quit.”

“You’re tired. It’s the grief talking,” Voight replied. “Don’t do anything rash. Just go in tomorrow, business as usual.”

You sighed shakily and nodded. Voight dropped you off, but before you got out of his car, he grabbed your hand. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

You swallowed hard and looked up at him. “Thanks,” you mumbled, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I owed you,” he replied softly with a small smile and a shrug. “Might as well go out helping someone I care about.”

You blushed, and with that, you leaned over again and kissed him softly. He reciprocated, gently putting his other hand on your thigh. You pulled back after a bit, a small smile pulling at your lips. “I care about you too.”

“I know,” he replied with a small nod, caressing your cheek. “I’d never let anything happen to you, favor or not.”

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