#like i felt. like it was maybe two months maximum

[fairy-angel222]

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓, 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

—nanami is fed up of your annoying behavior

cw: smut, rough nanami, really mean nanami, heavy degradation, use of (slut, bitch), hair pulling, cumming inside you, gagging, face fucking, desk sex

a/n: this pic + mean nanami was trending months ago ik, but this is a repost so :’)

Being Satoru’s brat of a sister. Always teasing Nanami about him not having a girlfriend. You’re constantly whining in his ears about the dumbest things. You’re as annoying as your big brother, and Nanami can only tolerate so much. Especially when you decide to catch an attitude with everybody because something didn’t go your way.

That is exactly why Nanami had you on your knees taking his cock, his hand in your hair roughly bobbing your head along his thick length. “Is this what you needed to shut up, hmm?”

“Needed to be treated like the stupid slut that you are. Fuck, you’re so much less annoying like this.” He cursed, eyes dark with rage as he made you take him deeper. Loud gags filling the empty room as Nanami fucked your face.

Mascara filled tears ran down your face as you struggled to breathe. Your nails digging into the muscular man’s thighs. You could feel the tip of his cock slamming into the back of your throat with each movement of his hips. His pace fast and hard, heavy balls slapping your chin repeatedly.

Nanami’s head fell back, a string of curses leaving his mouth before groaning loudly. Two consecutive globs of his spit falling onto your face followed by the sharp slap of his palm. The man using his fingers to spread his saliva and your tears across your cheeks. “So, so much better like this.”

He yanked you up by your hair. Bending you over his desk before thrusting into your sopping pussy with no warning.

You let out soft cries as he bullied your cunt open, stretching you out almost painfully. Nanami groaned loudly when you clenched down on him. His long fingers digging into your cheeks as your moans increased in volume. “Shut the fuck up.” he grunted. Pulling off his tie in one swift motion before stuffing it into your babbling mouth.

“Just shut up and take it. Had enough of your bratty attitude.” He growled meanly.

Nanami’s hips snapped into yours inhumanly, your tits rubbing against the hard wooden desk as your body jerked with every thrust. It felt so good to put you back in your place. He was so fucking tired of hearing your voice.

Nanami this. Nanami that. I want this. I want that. Always getting on like a fucking baby when you didn’t get your way. He was sick of it.

Nanami grabbed onto your two wrists bruisingly, holding them behind your back as his other hand found its place in your hair again. Pulling you up, Nanami held you flush against him, cock reaching even deeper than before as he fucked into your shorter frame.

You felt so tiny against him, your head rested on his broad chest as your sobs were muffled by the yellow and black cloth. Forcing your teary eyes open, you could see the anger on the man’s face. His eyebrows furrowed, hooded eyes glaring down at you and his lips pressed into a scowl.

It gave him maximum satisfaction to see you so dumb on his cock. “Maybe this was your fucking goal all along. To have me ruin you on my cock and fuck that attitude out of you.” He grunted.

“Fuck, i hate you so much baby. Look at you, where’s that annoying bitch now huh?” He laughed darkly. “Gotta keep fucking you like this to keep your dumb slut of a mouth in check.”

You let out a muffled cry, his tie becoming soaked with your tears and spit as drool ran down the sides of your mouth. Knees wobbly beneath you as your eyes rolled back, the man fucking you closer to orgasm.

“Fucking look at me.” he growled, “Look at me when i break this pussy on my cock.” He demanded, his voice rough and deep. You whimpered, glassy eyes looking up at him through wet lashes till you met his brown ones.

Your pussy clenched impossibly harder, your slick running down your thighs as he fucked out your every last brain cell. Slamming up harshly until your mind was etched with nothing but him, his name, and his monster of a cock.

You could feel his veins rubbing against your gummy spot as your body began to shake. Muffled incoherent moans of his name being spilled straight into the fabric between your lips.

“Should’ve known sooner that this is what a slut like you needed. It’s all you’re fucking good for huh baby?” You nodded in agreement with a cry. Obscenely loud squelching sounds filling the room as he sloppily thrusted into your soaked pussy.

A smirk grew on the man’s face. “Maybe I should stop right now and leave you needy for my cock for the rest of the day.” You whined in protest, your tears ready to double in amount. Nanami only smirked wider, “Teach you a real lesson.”

Nanami’s mouth hung slightly in short grunts, his abs tensing behind you. “Fuck, go ahead slut. Cum, make a mess f’ me.”

Your body trembled uncontrollably, your moans and screams going unheard as you squirted. The clear liquid gushing onto the man’s thighs and tiled floor. “Dirty fucking bitch.” he spat, teeth clenched as he contemplated pulling out. “Gonna fill you up with all my cum. Someone like you is bound to be on the pill.”

Nanami stilled deep inside you, his deep groan sounding in your ear as you felt his hot ropes of cum coat your walls. “There we fucking go.” He breathed, remaining buried in your warm cunt for a few more minutes before pulling out.

Upon seeing your messy tear stained face, Nanami’s eyes widened. Did he go too far? Shit. Taking the dripping tie out your mouth, he opened his mouth to ask if you were okay. He was taken aback when you hugged him tightly, looking up at him with a wide grin. You truly were a little slut.

You giggled, “Wanted that for so long. Wish you would have done it sooner.” you pouted. And Nanami simply blinked in surprise as you nuzzled into his chest. You really were a Gojo.

[dreamersworldduh]

Seeing as the people yearn for Brenton Thwaites Dick Grayson what about a fic where reader gets sent to prison for something stupid or whatever. He gets put into a cell with Dick. Dick is indifferent to his presence, but when reader gets threatened buy some inmates Dick offers protection in exchange for- well you know what! completely consensual but is an favour exchange

Thankuuu

PROTECTION

• DICK GRAYSON x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the brutal confines of Gotham State Penitentiary, survival depends on silence, strength, and knowing exactly who to avoid. When you arrive—fresh meat, still raw with the anger that got you locked up—you expect isolation, maybe violence, definitely fear. What you don’t expect is Grayson: your quiet, unreadable cellmate who keeps to himself, barely speaks, and yet commands a kind of fear that even the worst predators respect.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 17.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I know I’ve been absence but I haven’t been doing nothing—this fic right here took a week to finish and I have more coming. So be prepared for the flood, thank you for requesting—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

For the next twelve months, your home is Gotham State Penitentiary—cell block D, unit 43, third bunk from the left. A narrow slab of metal bolted to the wall, thin mattress, no privacy, and a toilet in full view. Why are you here? Because you did something reckless. No, scratch that—something flat-out insane. The kind of act that blows up your life in one quick, satisfying explosion. You knew the fallout was coming. You just didn't care—not in that moment.

Not when you saw your ex-boyfriend's face go white. Eyes wide. Mouth half-open, like the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. That raw mix of betrayal, disbelief, and something close to heartbreak—that was the payoff. That was what you wanted. That split-second where you had all the power, and he had nothing but shock. For five glorious minutes, it felt worth it.

Then the sirens wailed. Then the cops tackled you to the ground. Then the gates of Gotham State slammed shut behind you with a metal scream that echoed in your spine.

Intake was where it hit you. Cold tile floors. Buzzing fluorescents. The stench of bleach and sweat and fear. This wasn't juvie. This wasn't a night in a holding cell and a slap on the wrist. This was a maximum-security prison built like a fortress—gray concrete walls, watchtowers, razor wire, and no easy exits. Everyone here was doing real time. Fifteen-year sentences. Life without parole. Robbery, arson, aggravated assault. Murder. The kind of men who didn't just talk tough—they were tough. The kind who broke fingers like they were snapping twigs. No metahumans, no masks, but make no mistake: these guys were predators. And you? You were the new one. The untested one. The one who still smelled like the outside.

The guards? They barely looked at you. They'd seen a thousand versions of you before—new meat with a chip on his shoulder and regret kicking in fast. They barked orders, shoved you through processing, and handed you your jumpsuit like you were a product on an assembly line. And the other inmates? They noticed you the second you stepped onto the block. Some just stared. Others smiled. A few muttered under their breath. You felt it all—eyes crawling across your skin like ants. That smug defiance you brought with you? Gone. Somewhere between the strip search and the fingerprinting and the cold metal bracelet slapped on your wrist, it evaporated. Fast.

You started to wonder.

Was five minutes of satisfaction really worth a year behind these walls?

You're about to find out.

You stepped into the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind you like a final verdict. The lock clicked with a dull thud that seemed to echo straight into your chest. No going back now. The room was barely big enough for two bunks, a toilet, and a metal sink. The air was stale, thick with the layered stench of old sweat, bleach, and institutional despair. Cold, too—like the concrete walls were leeching heat straight out of your skin.

You'd braced yourself for this—cramped quarters, zero privacy, the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. But what you hadn't expected was the guy already inside.

He was shirtless, crouched low to the ground, cranking out push-ups with a pace that wasn't fast, but relentless. Controlled. Like every movement had a purpose. His back was broad and cut with muscle, the kind you didn't get from casual gym visits. This was functional strength—prison strength. A body built to survive, not just look good. Sweat rolled down his spine in slow rivulets, catching the flickering fluorescent light above and making his skin shine like polished bronze.

His hair was damp and messy, brown and curling slightly where it brushed the tops of his ears. You could tell it had been cut a while ago, probably by clippers with no guard, the kind of rough cut you got from a guard or a fellow inmate with a dull blade. He looked young—mid twenties, maybe—but carried himself like someone much older. Someone who'd seen shit and came out the other side sharper for it.

When he finally finished a set, he rocked back on his heels and sat up, breathing steady, not even winded. That's when he turned his head just enough for you to see his face. Sharp jawline, a couple days of scruff, and a purpling bruise blooming under his left eye. His expression was unreadable—blank, almost bored. But his eyes were the curveball: deep brown, warm, soft in a way that didn't match the rest of him. Kind eyes. The kind that made you think of a loyal dog, the type that would follow you anywhere... or rip someone apart if you told it to.

You opened your mouth, figuring it was smart to at least introduce yourself. Tension like this? It didn't need help getting worse.

"Hey. I'm—"

Nothing.

He didn't look at you. Didn't ask your name. Didn't even flinch. He just reached down, grabbed a stained white towel—your towel, sitting on the lower bunk that was clearly supposed to be yours—and wiped the sweat from his face. Then, without so much as a glance your way, he dropped back to the floor and kept moving, muscles flexing again, the rhythm of his push-ups steady as a ticking clock.

You stood there for a beat, hand still halfway raised, words dying in your throat. Right. Message received.

So much for small talk.

You were seven days into your sentence, and already the rhythm of prison life had sunk into your bones. You woke up with the clang of metal, moved through the day like a ghost. No eye contact, no conversation, no sudden movements. Just survive. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your back to the wall. Blend in. Be invisible.

So far, it had worked. Mostly.

That afternoon, you sat alone at one of the scarred metal tables in the cafeteria, your tray of prison-issued "lunch" cooling in front of you. The food was barely food—grayish boiled potatoes swimming in lukewarm water and a scoop of something that might have once been beans, or maybe meat, or maybe nothing at all. You weren't trying to figure it out. You just chewed slowly, methodically, eyes locked on the tray like it held state secrets.

Around you, the room buzzed with controlled chaos: trays clattering, low murmurs of conversation, the occasional bark of laughter, the slap of boots against linoleum as guards walked their lazy loops. Nothing sounded urgent. Nothing felt out of place.

Until it did.

It started with a hush. Not loud, but unnatural. A drop in volume that spread like a ripple through water. A subtle shift in air pressure, like the room itself was holding its breath. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up before you even looked up. You'd felt it before, on the streets, in bad neighborhoods, in worse moments—when things were about to go sideways.

You lifted your eyes.

Three men. Moving with purpose. They didn't bother hiding it. They walked like they owned the floor, like the space around them belonged to them and they were just deciding what to take next. Big guys, all of them, their bodies built from endless reps in the yard and lives lived by force. Ink crawled down their necks, across their knuckles, dark lines telling stories of loyalty and violence. The one in front had a scar that split his face from lip to jaw, puckered and pale, like someone had tried to give him a permanent grin with a razor blade.

They stopped in front of your table.

Didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood there, letting their presence do the talking. The leader's hands were buried casually in the pockets of his jumpsuit, but the two behind him were coiled tight, fists clenched, shoulders squared. Ready.

You didn't recognize them, but from the way they were looking at you—like a wolf pack eyeing a stray rabbit—they definitely recognized you. Or thought they did. Maybe you looked like someone they hated. Maybe you'd stepped into the wrong shower stall without knowing it. Or maybe they just needed someone to make an example of.

Either way, trouble had found you.

And it brought friends.

The leader stepped forward until his boots were nearly brushing your tray. His shadow stretched long across your food, and the smell hit you—sweat, cigarettes, and that thick, sour stench of too many men packed into too small a space for too long. He looked down at your plate, then at you, that twisted half-smile curling up the side of his scarred mouth.

"Kang wants your tray," he said, tapping two fingers against the edge of it. Slow. Lazy. Like he was already bored with how easy this was going to be.

You didn't answer right away.

Your jaw locked. You stared at him, then at the tray—your tray. The same godawful meal every inmate got, but to you, it was everything. You hadn't bought anything from commissary since you got in. No cookies. No cup noodles. No candy bars tucked into the corner of your locker. This was it. The only food you were going to see until the next morning.

Give it up, and you were going hungry for the next eleven hours.

You looked at the clock on the wall. 6:00 PM.

No chips. No extras. Just this tray and your pride.

And pride in prison could be dangerous.

Still, you didn't move. You didn't flinch. You just met his eyes—briefly—and gave your answer.

"Nah," you said, voice low but clear. "I'm eating today."

The tap of his fingers stopped.

The smile faded. Just a bit. Enough for the temperature in the room to drop.

Kang didn't like your answer.

You saw it in the subtle snap of tension across his jaw, the way his lips twitched as if suppressing a snarl. Something shifted behind his eyes—like a door slammed shut and locked from the inside. Whatever mild amusement he'd been faking a moment ago evaporated. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. A quiet kind of fury, the kind that didn't explode—it waited.

The air between you thickened, as if the room had narrowed and the space around your table had turned into a pressure chamber. You could feel it. Something was about to happen.

Then, like someone flipped a switch, his two boys moved.

The one on the left cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, broad shoulders rolling like he was stretching before a workout. He had that look—tight jaw, steady eyes, like he was already picturing your head bouncing off the table. The other guy circled fast, his boots silent, his posture practiced. He didn't hesitate. This wasn't his first time cornering someone. He moved like muscle memory was guiding him, like he'd done this same dance a dozen times before with the same ending every time.

Your hands tensed. You pushed your legs back under the bench just enough to brace yourself. Fight or flight didn't really exist in a place like this. There was only fight or fold. And folding too early meant you'd be folding every damn day after that.

Then Kang raised a hand.

Just a flick of his wrist. No words. No theatrics.

And they stopped. Froze in place mid-step like they'd been put on pause. Neither one said anything, but they didn't need to. The obedience was instant, reflexive. Kang didn't even glance at them—his gaze stayed locked on you.

The smile returned, but it wasn't smug this time. It was calculated. Cold. The kind of smile that says, Not today. But soon.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cross into your space without touching you. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of mint gum—unexpected, oddly clean—and the sweat dried into the seams of his collar. His voice was low, casual, like you were sharing a joke.

"Eat up, rookie. Gotta keep your strength."

Then he straightened, turned, and walked away like nothing had happened. His crew hesitated half a second longer before following, their bodies still thrumming with restrained violence. They didn't look back.

You didn't move.

Couldn't. Your body was locked in place. Heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted out. You could feel the weight of the room now—every stare, every unspoken question. The cafeteria hadn't gone silent, but it had definitely shifted. Conversations had dipped. Forks hovered mid-air. Dozens of inmates had watched the scene unfold, and none of them had said a word.

They didn't need to. The looks said enough.

You'd just made a move. Or a mistake. Or maybe both.

You turned back to your tray. The potatoes looked grayer now. The mush looked wetter. Your appetite, what little there was, had vanished completely. You forced one bite. It tasted like nothing and sat in your mouth like concrete.

And then—movement. Out of the corner of your eye.

Across the room, half-hidden in shadow, leaning against the back wall where the light flickered overhead.

Grayson.

Your cellmate.

He stood there with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his back pressed against the wall like he'd been there the whole time. Maybe he had. His brown hair was damp, as usual, curling slightly at the ends. Sweat darkened the collar of his worn gray shirt. His face was unreadable.

He didn't nod. Didn't smirk. Didn't blink.

He was just watching you.

Studying you.

Like you were some puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.

It wasn't judgment. Wasn't concern. It was something colder. More analytical. Like he was mentally filing this moment away, deciding what kind of person you were—what kind of problem you might become.

And that stare? That flat, steady stare?

It rattled you more than Kang ever could.

The next day, you were knee-deep in the laundry room, sweating through your uniform and elbow-deep in someone else's filth. The air was thick—humid, heavy, saturated with the sharp sting of bleach and the mildewy undertone of fabric that had soaked in too much sweat and too little detergent over the years. It stank. The kind of stink that settled into your nose and wouldn't leave, even when you scrubbed your face with cold water later.

It wasn't glamorous. Hell, it was barely tolerable. But you'd put your name on the assignment sheet the moment you got processed, before the ink had even dried on your intake forms. It was one of the last jobs left—nobody wanted it. Most inmates scrambled for the kitchen (extra food), or the library (peace and quiet, maybe a little dignity). Laundry, though? That was bottom of the barrel. Grunt work. Lifting, scrubbing, folding, hauling. All day on your feet, back screaming, hands stinging from bleach and constant friction.

And still, you considered it a win.

The room was big, at least by prison standards—concrete floors, exposed pipes overhead, and rows of industrial washing machines the size of small cars. They clanged and rattled violently as they spun, shaking the floor and making conversation nearly impossible, which suited you just fine. Giant wheeled bins overflowed with orange jumpsuits, socks stiff with dried sweat, towels that looked like they'd been dragged through a sewer. Sorting them was mindless work—sort by color, by smell, by how likely they were to fall apart in the wash. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.

Your shirt clung to your back, soaked through. Your shoulders burned with every load you dragged from machine to dryer. Your fingers were cracked and red from wringing out piles of soaked fabric. But there was space. There was movement. There was a task to keep your brain occupied.

And, most importantly, there was no Grayson.

Your cellmate hadn't said a single word to you in a week. Not a greeting. Not a threat. Not a grunt of acknowledgment. Just... nothing. He existed in that cell like a shadow pinned to the corner. Silent. Unblinking. When you spoke, he didn't answer. When you coughed, he didn't flinch. You weren't even sure if he noticed you most of the time. It was like living with a mannequin someone had carved from stone.

At night, it got worse. You'd lie on your bunk and glance over to find him sitting upright, staring at the far wall. Eyes half-shut, maybe resting, but never fully asleep. Always alert. Always still. The man never twitched, never turned over, never made a sound. Like he was wired to stay on watch, even when the world around him went still.

That kind of silence? It wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive.

So yeah—folding underwear in a stinking hellhole for eight hours a day felt like a goddamn vacation.

In the laundry room, you had noise—clanging, hissing, grinding, rumbling machines that made it impossible to think too long or too hard. You had motion—tasks to finish, bins to move, towels to fold. You had space. You weren't being watched. Judged. Weighed and measured by a man who hadn't spoken to you but somehow still made you feel small every time he looked your way.

Here, in this sweltering box of sweat and steam, you could just be a body doing a job. No past, no mistakes, no ex-boyfriends, no cellmates with haunted eyes.

Just heat. Just noise.

And for now, that was enough.

You were working alongside Cruz—a rail-thin guy with hollow cheeks and tattoos that looked like they'd been scratched into his skin with a pen and a needle. He never talked. Just grunted now and then, more to himself than anyone else. You didn't mind. You'd grown to like the quiet between you. He folded fast, moved with practiced efficiency, and never asked questions.

A guard stood by the door. Mid-forties, heavyset, with eyes that looked half-asleep under his buzzed haircut. He wasn't watching you so much as trying not to care. Arms crossed. Slouched. Counting the minutes until his shift ended. He hadn't spoken in over an hour. You hadn't either.

For once, the silence wasn't heavy. It felt... peaceful. Like the room was its own little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the prison.

Then you heard it.

A sharp whistle. Clean. Controlled. Echoing off the tiled walls like a knife clinking against glass.

Your head snapped up.

Cruz froze mid-fold. You exchanged a glance, brief but sharp. You could see the tension rise in his shoulders. That whistle hadn't been random. It was a signal.

The guard straightened. His posture shifted just slightly—shoulders up, eyes suddenly focused. He looked at the door, nodded to himself, and then... walked out. No warning. No radio call. No command. He didn't even look back.

Just turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway like he'd never been there at all.

Your gut twisted.

Then they walked in.

Kang came first, his swagger slow and deliberate, the way someone walked when they were sure no one could touch them. His jumpsuit hung open halfway, sleeves tied around his waist like he was too relaxed to care about protocol. Behind him came his two usual shadows—huge, mean, built like failed linebackers. One of them had a split lip that never seemed to heal. The other had a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck that looked like a noose.

The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow clank that echoed all the way through your chest.

Your heart sank.

You already knew this wasn't a chat. They hadn't come here to scare you. That part had already passed.

Cruz didn't say a word. Didn't ask what was going on or if you were okay. He just wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants, walked around the folding table, and slipped past them like he wasn't even there. Like this was choreography. Like this had all been planned and he'd practiced his exit.

No eye contact. No hesitation.

And then it was just you.

Standing in the middle of the room. Hands wet from handling clothes. Shirt stuck to your back. The sweat between your shoulder blades now cold. Piles of dirty jumpsuits boxed you in like low, fabric-covered walls. The machines kept groaning, kept spinning, like they couldn't care less about the shift in air, the building tension, the inevitability of what was coming.

Kang stepped closer. That grin on his face again—casual, slow-spreading, cruel in its patience.

No words yet.

Just that smile.

And you knew, with a certainty that hit like ice in your veins: You were completely, absolutely alone.

The silence in the room wasn't natural. It didn't feel empty—it felt charged. Like a live wire had been strung through the air, humming just beneath your skin. Your heartbeat was too loud in your ears, thudding hard, fast, like it knew time was running out.

You started doing the math in your head—how many steps to the door, how far they'd have to move to cut you off, what you could use in here as a weapon. Nothing promising. Nothing that ended with you walking out of the room unscathed.

They hadn't rushed you. That was worse. They were still, deliberate, watching you with the patience of men who enjoyed dragging things out. Kang stood at the front, relaxed, loose-limbed, like this was all a game and he already knew the outcome. His two boys flanked him like shadows—silent, unmoving, faces unreadable. One cracked his neck. The other smiled, just barely.

You scanned the room again.

No help. No cameras. No corners to hide in.

The folding tables were bolted to the floor, the carts too heavy to push quickly. Wet clothes filled every bin—useless. The only things within reach were towels, shirts, and socks that smelled like mildew and stale body odor. There was no guard. No Cruz. No one sticking their head in to check on you.

No witnesses.

Maybe if you moved fast, you could sidestep them. Get to the door, pound on it, scream. But that would mean turning your back. You'd be giving them a clean shot at your spine before your foot even hit the floor.

And you weren't naïve. You weren't strong. You weren't built for this. You were wiry, sure, but that meant nothing against guys who looked like they bench-pressed concrete for fun. The kind of men whose knuckles were scarred from too many fights, whose eyes didn't blink when fists flew.

You were fast. You had a mouth. Neither of those things would save you here.

Your fingers curled into fists without you telling them to. Not because you thought you could win. But because there was no other choice. It was instinct. Cornered animal shit. If this was going down, you weren't going to make it easy for them.

Your pulse spiked again.

Kang moved without warning—no glare, no wind-up, just a blur of motion and then crack. The sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, sharp and brutal in the stale air. Fire bloomed across your cheekbone. Your head snapped sideways with the force of the slap, and your knees buckled, legs giving out like someone had cut your strings. You hit the floor hard, palms scraping raw against the rough concrete as you caught yourself.

There was no time to breathe. No time to think.

Two sets of hands grabbed you—thick, callused, fingers digging into your arms like meat hooks. They jerked you upright with zero effort, your boots scraping across the floor. You tried to twist, to pull free on instinct, but it was useless. They held you wide and exposed, your arms stretched out like you were on a goddamn cross. Their grips were iron. You were nothing but a rag doll in their fists.

Kang stepped in.

Not fast. Not angry. Just... calm. Collected. His face was blank, like he was checking a box on a to-do list. He moved into your space with the quiet confidence of someone who never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted. That slap? It hadn't been punishment. It had been punctuation. A statement.

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face. His expression was almost lazy, like you were a stain he'd been meaning to wipe off the wall for a while.

"I run this place," he said. His voice was low, smooth, practiced—like he'd given this speech before. "Not the warden. Not the guards. Me."

He took a step closer. The heat of his body was sudden and suffocating. His breath smelled like cafeteria coffee and old garlic. You could see the fine sheen of sweat along his hairline.

"When I want something," he said, "I take it. Food. Respect. Space. Doesn't matter."

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You don't tell me no. Not ever."

You clenched your jaw. Tried to breathe through your nose, to stop your hands from shaking, but your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You knew what was coming next. Everyone did. Kang didn't threaten. He demonstrated. Pain was his language, and you'd just signed up for a private lesson.

He reached toward your face again.

And then—the door creaked open.

It wasn't loud. But it cut through everything.

All four of you froze.

The machine noise faded into the background. Time stopped, suspended on that creak of rusted hinges and the faint squeak of rubber soles.

In the doorway stood Grayson.

Framed by the flickering light of the hallway, dressed in his gray work shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His posture was casual—almost too casual. Hands loose at his sides, legs slightly apart, like he'd just happened to walk in at the exact wrong time. Or maybe the exact right one.

His eyes moved slowly across the room. Took in Kang. The goons. You, held like an offering. His expression didn't change. No surprise. No concern. Just that unreadable look he always wore, like he was scanning a puzzle and hadn't yet decided if he was interested in solving it.

He didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

The effect was immediate. Subtle, but real.

The grip on your arms slackened, just slightly. Enough for you to feel it. The weight shifted behind you. Kang's posture didn't break, but something in his shoulders went taut. You didn't need to see his face to know he hadn't planned for this. And that he didn't like variables.

Still, no one moved until Grayson stepped into the room with a slow, deliberate calm, each movement quiet but purposeful—like a wolf entering unfamiliar territory, already calculating every exit, every angle. His eyes didn't flicker. Didn't scan. They locked straight onto Kang and stayed there, unwavering. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. But it sliced clean through the thick air like a razor.

"Let him go."

No shouting. No threats. Just four words, spoken with the kind of authority that didn't need volume to be heard. There was no plea in his tone. No uncertainty. It was a command, plain and final—like he was stating the obvious, and the rest of the room was just waiting to catch up.

Kang turned his head slowly, pivoting toward Grayson with a deliberate laziness, the kind that said I don't take orders from anyone. His smirk curled wider, sharp with amusement, but his eyes had gone colder, narrower.

"Well, well," he said, drawing the words out like taffy. "The silent bunkmate speaks."

He gave Grayson a once-over, casual on the surface, but you could see the tension behind his smile—the calculation. The pause as his mind worked, trying to figure out if this was posturing, bluff, or something else entirely.

His two goons didn't move. But their grips on you changed. It was subtle, but you felt it—uncertainty in their hands, the beginning of hesitation. Their fingers twitched like they were waiting for new orders. You were still trapped between them, arms pinned, but now the pressure had eased, just slightly. Enough to know they weren't so sure anymore.

Grayson didn't respond. Didn't blink. He stood there, loose but grounded, like a stone dropped in the middle of the room—immovable. His expression didn't change, and somehow, that made it worse. He wasn't trying to intimidate Kang. He wasn't trying anything. He was just watching. Waiting. Not out of fear, but out of restraint.

It was quiet. Tense.

The kind of silence where even the machines in the background seemed to hold their breath.

Then: footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Heavy.

The guard reappeared, sauntering back in with a wad of gum in his mouth and a face that said he hadn't seen—or cared about—a single thing. He didn't ask what was happening. Didn't scold or intervene. Just leaned against the doorframe, scanned the room once, and let his eyes settle on Kang.

A single nod.

Nothing more.

But it was enough.

Kang clicked his tongue in irritation, barely masking his frustration, and took a slow step back. "Another time, then," he muttered, voice low and clipped.

The moment his weight shifted, the hands on your arms released. Just like that. Like someone had pulled the plug on a machine. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the blood rushing back through your muscles like static. You stumbled but caught yourself, knees bending just enough to avoid collapsing again.

Kang didn't look at you as he passed. His smirk was back, but thinner now. Hollow. Performed.

As he brushed past Grayson, there was a flicker—just a beat—where something unspoken passed between them. No words. No challenge. Just acknowledgment. The kind of look that says, We're not done.

And then they were gone.

The door swung closed behind them with a dull, mechanical clunk.

The room was still spinning slightly. Your cheek throbbed with every beat of your heart, a deep, stinging heat settling under your skin. Your hands were shaking, though you didn't notice until you tried to wipe your face.

Grayson was still there.

Still silent.

He looked at you for a long second—expression unreadable, face set like it had been carved out of stone.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the hallway. No nod. No check-in. No acknowledgment that he'd just stopped something from going very, very bad.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

Kang had walked in to remind everyone of the rules.

Grayson had just rewritten them.

That night, the cell was colder than usual. The kind of cold that crawled into your bones and stayed there, slow and deliberate. You lay flat on your bunk, arms at your sides, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the concrete spiderwebbed from years of stress and neglect. Outside the narrow window, the yard lights cast dim streaks across the walls, long shadows that moved with the occasional passing guard. The rest of the cell was dark, quiet. Too quiet.

Your cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache. Swollen. Tender. Every time your head shifted against the thin prison pillow, the pain flared back up—Kang's signature, branded onto your skin without even breaking it. A reminder that he wasn't finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You didn't move when the cell door opened with its usual mechanical groan. You just kept staring up, eyes unfocused, waiting.

Grayson stepped inside without a word. No hesitation. No glance in your direction. He moved like he always did—silent, efficient, like the space belonged to him and you were just borrowing it. He went straight to the sink, pulled a towel off the rack, and turned his back to you.

Then, without looking, he tossed something onto your chest. A small plastic-wrapped rectangle. Cold.

You blinked, startled, then looked down. An ice pack. Already chilled. The kind they handed out in medical for sprains, bruises, maybe worse.

"I convinced the nurse," he said, voice flat as ever, like he was commenting on the weather. "Told her it was for me."

He didn't wait for thanks. Didn't ask how you were. He just sank down onto his bunk, elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, eyes on the floor like this was just another night.

You pressed the ice to your cheek. The sting hit first—sharp, biting—but it faded quickly into a dull numbness that took the edge off the pain. You winced, but you didn't say anything. Part of you wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Not just because of the pain. Because you didn't trust it. Grayson didn't do favors. He moved with purpose. He chose silence like a weapon. Whatever this was, it wasn't kindness.

After a moment, he spoke again—still staring at the floor.

"Kang's not going to let this go."

You turned your head slightly, the crinkle of the plastic pack breaking the quiet. "Figured."

Grayson nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. "He doesn't like being challenged. Not in public. Not anywhere. That little stunt in the laundry room? That wasn't just about you. That was about his reputation. You embarrassed him. Made him look weak."

You didn't respond. You didn't need to.

"He'll come at you again," Grayson said. "Sooner. Harder. Maybe not with fists next time. Maybe with something worse."

Your fingers tightened around the ice pack. You could already feel the bruise setting in under your skin.

"But not you," you said, turning your gaze toward him. "He doesn't touch you. Doesn't even look at you twice."

Grayson's jaw flexed. A faint, imperceptible shift in his expression. His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, sharp and focused, like you'd just asked a question with more weight than you realized.

"There's a reason for that," he said, quiet but heavy.

He didn't offer more. No backstory. No threats. Just a fact, dropped into the air between you like a stone in still water.

The silence stretched. Long enough to feel uncomfortable. Long enough to realize he was sizing you up—again. Reading your face, your posture, your pain. And then, without ceremony, he said:

"I'll keep Kang off you."

Like he was offering to loan you a book instead of rewriting your entire survival plan. "You'll be left alone. No more looking over your shoulder, no more counting footsteps outside your cell at night."

You stayed silent, the ice pack cold against your cheek, its edges beginning to soften with body heat. The dull ache in your face was still there, throbbing just beneath the surface, but the shock of what he was saying cut through it like glass.

Then he added—clear, calm, deliberate:

"In exchange for sex. Consensual. No games. No power plays. Just the real thing."

The sentence dropped like a steel door slamming shut. Final. Inescapable.

Your grip on the ice pack didn't tighten, but your breath did—held for just a second too long before you forced it out through your nose. Inside, your brain kicked into gear, scrambling to catch up. You'd heard things. Stories. Deals. Quiet arrangements. But this—coming from him—this wasn't what you expected.

Not from the guy who barely spoke, who moved through the prison like a ghost no one dared touch. Not from the man who hadn't so much as looked your way for a week, and then stepped in like some grim-faced deus ex machina just when Kang's fist was ready to follow his slap.

You didn't let your reaction show. Not here. Not now. Subtle was survival. Everything else was weakness.

Slowly, you lowered the ice pack and met his gaze.

He wasn't smirking. He wasn't taunting. There was no predatory glint in his eye, no sadistic edge. Just that same unshakable calm, that careful calculation. He wasn't trying to shock you. He was stating a fact. An equation, plain and simple.

He'd run the numbers.

This was the solution.

You swallowed once, quietly. "That's... direct," you said, your voice steady, even though your pulse had started to spike in your throat.

A faint flicker of something moved across his face—maybe a smile, maybe not. It was gone too fast to be sure. "Figured you'd respect that more than bullshit."

You didn't respond right away. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, but inside your thoughts were tearing in five different directions. Part of you felt insulted. Part of you was curious. Part of you just didn't know what the hell to feel. He hadn't threatened you. He hadn't cornered you. But he'd still pushed the air out of the room with a single sentence.

You looked at him, really looked—trying to find the angle. Because there was always an angle. You'd learned that fast in this place. Trust was just another word for "what's the catch?"

But Grayson... he just waited.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew you were going to weigh it.

And like he already knew which way you'd tip.

He said it the way someone might suggest a trade—cigarettes for soup. Calm. Logical. Like he'd already weighed the terms and filed them away in some internal ledger.

At first, all you could do was sit with it. Let it rattle around in your chest.

It wasn't shock, not exactly. You weren't naïve. You'd seen the system behind the system—the quiet transactions that ran this place. Protection had a price. Affection had a currency. Sex was often part of the bargain, sometimes bartered, sometimes taken. No one talked about it in the open, but everyone knew.

What did catch you off guard was the source.

Grayson.

The man who barely spoke. Who watched the room like a hawk and moved through the prison like he wasn't part of it. Who never smiled, never postured, never tried to make friends—or enemies. He was a ghost with weight, and somehow that made him more dangerous than the loudest guys in the yard.

You'd spent nights wondering what his angle was. If he even had one. And now here it was. Laid bare. Simple. Blunt.

And somehow... clean.

Your instinct was to recoil—but only for a second.

Then you started thinking.

You'd already made a mistake with Kang. Not the choice itself, but the visibility of it. Everyone saw you stand up to him. And now? That bruise on your cheek wasn't just swelling—it was a warning. A message. An open invitation.

Kang wouldn't forget. And he definitely wouldn't forgive.

You could try to bluff. Act crazy. Pick a fight. Keep a sharpened toothbrush under your mattress and pray you saw it coming next time. But deep down, you knew: you weren't built for that war. You were smart, fast, sharp with your words—but that only got you so far when the wolves started circling.

So you turned your head. Just enough to look at Grayson.

He was still sitting there—motionless. Silent. Watching you with those dark eyes that didn't blink. Didn't push. Didn't plead.

And damn it, he was beautiful.

Not soft, not romantic—but raw. Lean muscle and clean lines. Tension in every inch of his body, like he was always ready to spring. That kind of strength that didn't shout, but hummed beneath the surface. His skin glistened faintly from the heat. Hair a little messy. Jaw clenched in that permanent neutral.

And yet, his expression didn't carry lust or pressure. It carried... certainty. He'd said what he wanted. Now he was waiting.

The power wasn't in his muscles. It was in his patience.

You shifted the ice pack in your hand, feeling it begin to melt. The chill slipping down your wrist.

This wasn't about desperation. It wasn't coercion.

It was an offer.

No strings, no threats. Just a choice.

And maybe that's what threw you most of all—because in a place where choices were rare, this one was real. Yours.

You weren't sure how you felt about it. Not yet. Part of you bristled. Another part—the tired, scared part—considered it for what it really was: a lifeline wrapped in something that, under different circumstances, you might have even wanted.

And sitting in the dim cell light, your face bruised and body aching, you realized something simple and undeniable.

You were considering it.

You slowly pulled the ice pack from your cheek and placed it on the edge of the bunk, fingers lingering on it a moment longer than necessary. The skin still throbbed, but the cold had taken the edge off. You exhaled, long and steady, then lifted your eyes to meet his.

Grayson hadn't looked away. His expression was the same—still, focused, unreadable. But there was something in the quiet way he watched you, something that wasn't demand or hunger. It was patience. Restraint. Like he was giving you all the space you needed to decide.

And you had decided.

"Alright," you said quietly. "I'm in."

His reaction was subtle—barely more than a shift. A slight lift in his chin. A faint ease in the way his shoulders dropped half an inch. No smile, no gloating. Just that quiet, settled energy, like something had clicked into place for him and he didn't need to announce it. He just knew.

He didn't move. Didn't speak right away. Let the weight of your answer settle into the room.

You swallowed once, nerves fluttering low in your stomach. Not regret—just uncertainty. This was new territory, and you were stepping into it without a map.

"So..." you said, your voice a little rougher now, not quite sure how to phrase it. "How does this work? What do you want me to do?"

Grayson's head tilted slightly. Not in judgment—more like he was giving you his full attention.

You kept going, half-serious, half-deflecting. "Do I just lie there? Do whatever you say? Not touch you? Just... shut up and take it?"

The sarcasm was there, but it didn't quite mask the question underneath. You were still feeling the edges of what this was—what it could be. You didn't want to feel owned. You didn't want to feel used. You just didn't know what he wanted from you... or what you were even willing to give.

He stood then.

Not abruptly. Not to intimidate. Just stood, calm and steady, and stepped across the narrow space between your bunks. It only took two strides in a cell that small, but it felt bigger in the moment. You stayed seated, but your body tensed slightly, every nerve awake.

He didn't reach for you. He didn't tower. He simply stood close enough for you to feel him—his presence, his heat. And when he spoke, his voice was low and measured, the same steady cadence as always, but heavier now. Intentional.

"I don't want you passive."

That alone made you blink. It wasn't what you expected—not from a man who had the power to demand anything.

"This isn't about control," he said. "It's not about taking something you don't want to give."

He paused, eyes locked with yours, and his tone didn't waver.

"You're not just a body. And I'm not some caged animal looking to use you."

It hit harder than you expected—because it wasn't just reassurance. It was respect. In this place, that was rarer than anything.

You didn't look away.

"Touching's fine. Wanted, actually," he added, softer now, but not uncertain. "I want you in it. Real. Responsive. Not because you owe me, but because you want to."

You felt that—deep in your gut.

He was giving you something more than protection. He was giving you a line you didn't have to cross. He was giving you choice in a place that had stripped almost all of it away.

For the first time since Kang cornered you in the laundry room, the weight pressing down on your chest started to ease. Not vanish. But loosen. Just enough to let you breathe.

You looked up at him, heart thudding against your ribs, voice low and steady—though the tension threading through it betrayed the anticipation running under your skin.

"So... when does this deal start?" You asked him.

Grayson didn't answer. Not out loud.

He moved instead—slow, smooth, not a wasted motion. He leaned in, his presence surrounding you before he even touched you. His hand braced lightly on the wall just above your shoulder, not trapping, but claiming space. His breath reached your skin before his mouth did—warm, steady, close enough to make your own catch in your throat.

Then his lips touched your neck.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just a brush—barely there, but enough to make your skin spark under the contact. He moved deliberately, kissing the line just beneath your jaw with a quiet confidence, like he knew the map of your body without ever having to ask for directions. He wasn't fumbling. He wasn't testing. He knew.

You let out a breath—soft, shaky—more reaction than choice.

Goddamn.

It wasn't just that he was good. It was the control. The restraint. The way he didn't need to push because every movement felt earned. Like he'd been waiting for the exact right moment to act and now that it was here, he wasn't going to waste a second.

Your body betrayed you almost immediately. Your head tilted to the side, exposing your throat, giving him more without thinking. It didn't feel like surrender. It felt like instinct.

Your hands moved without command—up his chest first, fingertips brushing the thin cotton of his shirt. Solid. Tense. He wasn't flexing, but the definition was there, unmistakable. Strength built from routine, from discipline. You slid your hands lower, slow, feeling the faint ridges of his abdomen shift under your palm with each breath he took.

And then—lower.

You felt him. Already hardening. The heat of him pressed behind coarse fabric, thick and undeniable beneath your fingers. Your hand paused there, resting lightly, the reality of it grounding you in this moment in a way nothing else could.

Grayson exhaled—low, quiet, controlled. A sound you wouldn't have noticed unless you were this close. But it was enough. Enough to confirm this wasn't just physical for him. He felt it too. The charge. The gravity.

Still, he didn't push. Didn't grab. Just kept his mouth on your neck, his lips dragging slowly along your skin like he had all the time in the world.

And in this brutal, suffocating place where control was currency and vulnerability could get you killed... there was something disarming about the way he held both and still let you lead.

You let your hand curl slightly against him. Felt the response, the subtle twitch, the tension roll through his body like a wave he didn't show on his face.

This was real. Immediate. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival, desire, and the rare luxury of choice.

And as Grayson's mouth moved lower, dragging along your collarbone, your fingers still curled against him, one thought floated through your mind—sharp and clear:

Yeah... this deal might just work.

Grayson then he pulled back—not fast, not hesitant, but with a deliberate sort of calm. Like he'd decided the pace and wasn't going to let anything rush it. Not even you.

Without saying a word, he reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head in one smooth, fluid motion. The fabric slid up and off, and then it was just him—bare from the waist up under the stark overhead light. And for a moment, all you could do was look.

He was exactly what you'd imagined—only better.

His body was a blueprint of quiet strength. Not bulky, not showy, just carved from repetition and necessity. Lean muscle that wrapped around his torso in clean, defined lines, as if every inch of him had a job and no part of him was wasted. His chest was firm, his stomach tight and flat, each ridge of his abdomen catching the light like they'd been sculpted in concrete. No ink. No flash. No need to prove anything.

Just him.

Raw. Clean. Focused.

You barely had time to process it before his hands were on you. And when they were—God, they were careful. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt and lifted it over your head with a gentleness that felt almost surreal in contrast to the hardness of the space around you. There was no grab, no jerk. Just patience. Precision. He moved like he was unwrapping something rare, and he didn't want to miss a single second.

When the fabric cleared your skin, the chill of the air rushed in fast and sharp, dancing across your ribs, your shoulders, your neck. It made your breath hitch. Made everything inside you light up.

Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, hands bracing on his shoulders. His grip was strong, firm, but not harsh. Your back hit the wall with a thud softened by the hard plane of his chest pressing into you. The cold of the concrete kissed your spine, but the heat of him overwhelmed it—his body flush against yours, radiating warmth that seemed to sink into your skin.

His face was right there.

Close.

Too close.

His lips hovered a breath above yours, and you could feel everything—his exhale, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. He didn't move. Didn't close the space. He just waited, suspended in the moment, so close it made your skin ache.

And then, finally, his voice came—low, rough-edged but soft.

"Is kissing okay?"

The question slid over your skin like silk, and it hit harder than anything else he'd done. Not because of the words—but because of what was behind them. The restraint. The awareness. The choice.

Even now, with your body wrapped around his, with heat rolling off both of you like fire pressed between steel, he was still asking. Still making sure. Still giving you the space to say no.

That shouldn't have made your pulse jump the way it did.

But it did.

Because here, in a place where everything was taken, he was offering.

And the answer was already rising in your throat, warm and breathless, your lips brushing his as you whispered it.

"Yes."

You weren't prepared for the softness.

Grayson, the man who moved like a blade in a sheath—controlled, silent, always coiled—had never once given the impression that gentleness lived anywhere inside him. He existed in sharp lines and quiet authority, the kind of presence that warned people without a single word. In Gotham State, that was survival. That was currency. And you'd assumed, understandably, that if he ever touched you, it would feel like possession. Like dominance.

But now, with your back pressed to cold concrete and your body caged between his and the wall, what you felt was something else entirely.

His breath was warm against your lips. His arms held you steady, his strength obvious—but unused. He didn't press forward. He didn't claim. He just waited, suspended in that breath of space between decision and action.

He could've done anything in that moment. You'd already said yes. The deal was made. There was no performance left to put on, no power struggle to win.

And still—he waited for you.

That undid you more than any aggressive advance ever could've. Because in a place where most people only took, he was offering. Quietly. Patiently.

Your hands slid up his shoulders, anchoring yourself to something solid. Your fingers curled into the firm shape of him, skin warm under your touch, the tension in his muscles humming just below the surface. You were steadying yourself, but also learning him—tracing the lines of someone who'd spent years being unapproachable.

You gave a small nod.

Barely anything.

But it was enough.

His lips met yours.

And everything else fell away.

The kiss wasn't hungry. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was measured. Intentional. The same way he moved, the same way he spoke—every motion deliberate, like he'd thought it through before he did it. His mouth brushed yours, then deepened the kiss slowly, pulling you in without overwhelming. It wasn't the kiss of a man used to getting what he wanted—it was the kiss of someone who knew the value of patience. Who didn't take—he drew you in.

His hands stayed locked under your thighs, holding you firm, grounded. You were suspended there, between his strength and the wall, but you didn't feel trapped. You felt held. The tension in your body, the one you didn't even know you'd been carrying, began to unravel. It started in your chest and rippled outward—through your fingertips, into your breath, into the way your body softened into his.

Your mouth moved with his, slow at first, then with growing need. But the need wasn't for escape or dominance. It was for connection. For something human in a place that thrived on the absence of it.

You felt yourself give in—not because you were expected to, but because in that moment, you wanted to. The pressure, the fear, the fight you'd been clutching to in your gut like armor—it all cracked under the warmth of that kiss. You let it.

Time stopped meaning anything. The cell, the cold wall, the ever-present buzz of prison noise outside the door—they disappeared. It was just the two of you, suspended in heat and stillness, your heart beating fast against his chest and his breath breaking softly against your lips.

You didn't know what this meant.

You didn't know what it would turn into.

But for now, with Grayson's lips against yours and something honest threading between your bodies, you let go of the questions.

You let yourself feel it.

And for the first time since walking into Gotham State, you didn't feel afraid.

Suddenly, a soft moan slipped from your lips before you even realized it—quiet, breathy, but thick with heat. The sound seemed to ignite something in Grayson. His body pressed harder into yours, his hips rolling forward with slow, deliberate pressure that left no question about how badly he wanted you. The friction sent a sharp jolt through you—skin to skin in places, fabric between you in others, but nothing close to a barrier.

You could feel everything.

He was hard against you—thick, insistent, grinding in just the right way. The pressure wasn't rushed. It was controlled, like he was savoring every inch of contact, letting it build between you. Every slow rock of his hips made your pulse race faster, the tension curling low in your stomach, hot and tight.

Then his mouth left yours.

His lips trailed down along your jaw, kissing softly at first, then lower—nuzzling into the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath was hot against you, a low exhale brushing across your skin right before his mouth opened and he latched on, sucking lightly.

You gasped—eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back to give him more access. He didn't waste it.

His tongue flicked across your skin, slow and precise, teasing before he pulled you between his lips again. He sucked with a rhythm—measured, maddening—each pull of his mouth sending little shocks of pleasure radiating down your spine. You felt his stubble scrape faintly against your neck, rough and grounding, a contrast to the heat building inside you.

And all the while, his hips kept moving.

Slow. Grinding. Deliberate.

The tension building where your bodies met had you trembling slightly, your breath catching every time he shifted just right. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to something solid as your nerves sparked beneath your skin. You weren't thinking anymore. You were feeling. Reacting. Leaning into every brush of his lips, every thrust of his hips.

It was overwhelming.

The heat. The pressure. The way your bodies fit together like you'd done this before, like you belonged there—against that wall, in his arms, surrounded by cold concrete and the kind of intensity that made the whole world fall away.

You'd expected this to be physical. Transactional. Something raw and efficient—a trade of protection for sex, stripped of emotion, clean in its purpose.

But this?

This wasn't clean. This wasn't distant.

This was intimate.

Every kiss, every grind, every breath shared between you blurred the lines further. It was fast becoming something else—something dangerous, something real.

Then Grayson's hands slid beneath your thighs again, firm and steady, but this time there was a shift in intention. He wasn't lifting—you felt it immediately. He was lowering you, guiding you down with a careful kind of control, like he didn't want to break the rhythm that had built between you. Your back eased away from the wall, and gravity took over, pulling you into the next part of whatever this was.

He followed your descent the whole way, his hands never leaving you. His palms were warm, anchoring you even as your knees met the cold, unforgiving concrete. The chill bit at your skin—sharp, immediate—but you barely registered it. All your focus was fixed on him. On the rise and fall of his chest, damp with a thin sheen of sweat. On the way his eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable except for the heat flickering behind them.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

The silence between you was louder than anything words could've added. It pulsed with tension, thick and charged, the air so heavy it felt like it was pushing in on your lungs.

Grayson's hands slipped from your legs as he straightened, towering over you, and reached down to the waistband of his prison-issue pants. You watched, transfixed, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pushed both the pants and boxers down in one fluid motion. The fabric dropped, pooling soundlessly at his feet.

And then he was bare in front of you.

There was no hesitation, no need for show. His cock stood thick and hard, flushed at the tip, the shaft veined and heavy, the weight of it making it twitch subtly as it was freed. The sight of him made your breath catch—sharp and sudden. You'd imagined, sure. Thought about what he might look like under all that control and silence. But seeing it?

It hit different.

He was big—unquestionably. But more than that, there was something commanding about the way he stood there, fully exposed, entirely still. Like he knew what he was offering. Like he trusted you to take it without needing to be told.

Your breath caught as you looked up at him—Grayson standing over you, skin flushed, every line of his body drawn tight with control. His dick hovered just inches from your mouth, thick and pulsing with heat. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his eyes... his eyes told a different story.

There was fire behind them now.

Not wild, not reckless—contained, but alive. A low-burning hunger that simmered just beneath the surface of his usually unreadable expression. He wanted you. Badly. But more than that, he was letting you have this moment. Letting you choose. Still silent. Still still. But utterly focused on you.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, keeping your gaze locked to his. There was a kind of power in that—knowing he wasn't directing this, knowing he was waiting for you. You wanted him to see it, to feel it: this wasn't submission. This was your decision. Your yes. And you wanted him to understand exactly what that meant.

Your lips parted.

You took him in—just the tip at first. Warm, heavy, the taste of him blooming on your tongue, earthy and unmistakably male. His breath hitched above you, the sound sharp and quiet, but you caught it. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for you. That restraint made the heat between you flare.

You drew your tongue around the head in a slow, deliberate circle before easing lower, inch by inch. He was thick—more than you were used to—and your jaw ached as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. But the discomfort faded into sensation, into purpose. It was grounding. Real.

He let out a long, quiet breath. His abs flexed, the muscle twitching beneath the surface as he tried to stay still.

You found your rhythm—slow, deep pulls of your mouth as your hand wrapped around what you couldn't take, stroking in time with every movement. The pressure built with each pass, saliva slicking his skin, heat growing between your legs with every soft sound he didn't mean to make.

You watched him the whole time.

Every clench of his jaw. Every subtle shift of his hips. The way his nostrils flared when your tongue dragged along the underside of him on the way back up. He was still trying to hold it together—still composed, still Grayson—but you could see the edges beginning to fray.

That restraint, the way he gave you space and didn't take—it only made you want more.

You went deeper, slower. Hollowing your cheeks. Tightening your grip. You heard his breath catch again, heard the faintest curse slip past his lips, low and rough.

And that was when it clicked.

This wasn't just about the deal anymore.

This wasn't obligation.

This was something else.

With every bob of your head, every flick of your tongue, you could feel the tension rising in him. The pressure. The effort it took to stay still. And you liked it—knowing you were the one pulling him apart, inch by inch.

The man who didn't bend for anyone...

Was beginning to lose control.

And it was because of you.

Grayson's fingers clenched around the edge of the bunk behind him, knuckles whitening as they curled tight around the cold metal frame. The rigid press of steel against his skin grounded him—barely. His grip was the only thing keeping him tethered, keeping him from sinking completely into the rush of sensation spiraling up through his spine. But you were making it impossible.

Your mouth moved with slow, focused purpose. Every glide of your lips down his cock was smooth, wet, perfectly controlled. You didn't rush. You didn't falter. You knew what you were doing—and worse, you knew what it was doing to him. Your tongue traced sensitive veins, your lips sealed around his dick, the suction just right. Every pass was a tease and a promise all at once.

And your eyes—fuck, your eyes.

Locked on his. Dark with heat. Steady. Unapologetic. There was no submission in your gaze, no fear. Just intention. Confidence. You looked at him like you were daring him to fall apart.

And he was.

Grayson had spent his time in Gotham State like a shadow—quiet, untouchable, locked behind layers of discipline. He never got close. Never entertained the idea of letting anyone in. Survival here depended on that distance, on keeping your needs buried where no one could use them against you.

So when you first walked into his cell, he'd barely glanced your way. Just another body. Another sentence. Another soul trying to disappear.

But then you spoke—sharp, biting, eyes defiant even after being thrown into hell. You didn't shrink. You didn't plead. There was something alive in you. Unbroken.

And it had hooked him from the first second.

He hadn't touched anyone in months. Years, maybe. Inside this place, time was elastic. Weeks bled into each other until need became background noise—something you ignored or turned into rage. Release was rare. Trust, rarer.

But now? Now your mouth was wrapped around him, and all those things he'd buried were clawing their way to the surface.

Every movement of your tongue, every subtle shift of your lips, every sound you made as you took more of him—it built pressure in his core like a fuse inching toward its end. His hips stayed still only because he willed them to. His muscles were tight with restraint, the need to thrust forward—deep, hard—simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't. Not yet.

Because you were owning this. Guiding it. Controlling it.

And that wrecked him in a way nothing else could.

You were better than he'd expected—better than his most desperate, late-night fantasies. He knew you'd be sharp, knew you'd come into this with something to prove. But this? The way you sucked him in like you were claiming him, the way your hand stroked in time, the little flicks of your tongue that made him curse under his breath?

It was more than just good.

It was devastating.

And he loved it.

Grayson's breath was coming harder now, each inhale deeper than the last, chest rising and falling like he was in a fight—but he wasn't trying to win. Not anymore. He was teetering on the edge, and for once, he didn't want to pull back.

Because for the first time in too long, he wasn't just enduring.

He was feeling—every inch of your mouth, every drag of pleasure, every crack in the wall he'd spent years building.

And the thought hit him hard, almost dizzying:

If this is what it feels like to lose control... maybe it's worth it.

You drew his dick deeper with another slow, deliberate pull of your mouth. His stomach tightened, muscles along his abdomen flexing like cords pulled taut. For a split second, he let his eyes close, not to block anything out, but to feel it more clearly. The warmth of your mouth, the slick glide of your tongue, the tight pull of your lips—it was dragging him toward the edge faster than he'd meant to go.

And he was losing his grip.

He opened his eyes and looked down at you—saw your mouth stretched around him, your jaw working, your eyes still locked to his like you were daring him to let go.

That was all it took.

Something inside him cracked open.

Grayson's hand moved, slow but deliberate, threading through your hair until his palm pressed firm against the back of your head. He didn't force. Not yet. He just held you there—grounded you. The weight of his hand, the way his fingers curled into your hair, sent a message without needing words: you're mine now.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled forward, gentle at first, testing the rhythm. Shallow thrusts, slow and controlled, as he began to guide the motion—his dick slipping deeper, the tip brushing the back of your throat before he eased out again. You adjusted, your lips tightening, your breath coming shallow through your nose as you accepted his pace.

And that—your willingness, your trust—only poured gasoline on the fire under his skin.

His grip in your hair tightened slightly, his rhythm beginning to shift. Less careful. Less composed. The control he'd clung to was unraveling, thread by thread, replaced by something more raw, more real. His thrusts deepened—not brutal, not careless, but charged with heat and hunger. With need.

A groan slipped from him, low and ragged. It rumbled from his chest, unguarded and full. He wasn't just reacting to your mouth anymore—he was surrendering to it.

The bunk behind him creaked as he braced a hand against it, the strain in his shoulders visible, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The only sounds in the cell were the wet glide of your lips around him, the quiet suck of pressure, and the steady, increasingly broken rhythm of his breathing.

Then your eyes flicked up again.

You looked at him, mouth full, cheeks hollowed, and in that moment, something changed in him.

His gaze darkened. That controlled fire in his eyes flared into something possessive, feral. Not cruel—but intense. Hungry. Like he was seeing you not just as the person on your knees, but as his. Someone who could take him. Who wanted to. Who chose to.

And that made it deeper. Hotter. More than just sex.

This was trust. Power. Desire, tangled together until they couldn't be separated anymore.

His hips snapped forward again, harder now, your throat taking the full length of him. He felt you gag, just a little, and immediately eased up—but you didn't pull away. You held, breathing through it, letting him stay deep for a beat before he withdrew. His fingers stroked the back of your head once before his grip in your hair eased, his fingers slowly unwinding, trailing through the strands like he wasn't quite ready to let go. His chest was rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, the heat rolling off him in waves. He held your gaze as he pulled you up—one smooth, unhurried motion, like he was savoring every second of bringing you back to your feet.

The second you were upright, he was on you.

His mouth crashed into yours, and the kiss was nothing like before. This one was heat and teeth, deep and messy and full of all the tension that had been coiled between you since the day you stepped into that cell. It was greedy—desperate in a way that made your knees go weak. His tongue slid against yours, taking what he wanted, demanding everything back.

His hands moved like they had a map—roaming down your spine, finding the dip of your back, then gripping your waist tight, pulling your body flush against his. You could feel every inch of him—his chest heaving, the strain in his arms, the hard press of his cock still wet from your mouth.

Then he broke the kiss, panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

No words. Just movement.

His hands dropped to your waistband and in a single, practiced motion, he tugged your pants and boxers down. The fabric clung briefly to your skin before sliding down your legs and pooling around your ankles, but Grayson didn't give it time to settle—he kicked it aside with his foot, sending it somewhere into the shadows behind you. Gone. Out of the way.

The cold air hit your skin and made you shiver, a rush of sensation climbing your spine. But his body was already there, already pulling you back into heat. His hands returned to your waist—firm, possessive—as he turned you, guiding you toward the wall like he'd done it a hundred times in his head.

You let him.

Your palms braced against the concrete, cool and unforgiving under your skin. You leaned into it, your breath fogging faintly in front of you, chest rising as anticipation clawed its way through your veins.

Behind you, Grayson stepped in close, the warmth of him immediately wrapping around you again. His chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting across the side of your neck. Then you felt it—him—thick and hard, pressing between your cheeks, hot skin against bare skin, no fabric left between you.

One of his hands held your hip, his grip steady, grounding. The other slipped lower, fingers curling around the base of his dick as he guided himself down, the head nudging between your legs—slick, swollen, precise.

He didn't shove. He didn't rush.

He just waited there—lined up, ready—the thick head of him brushing against your hole in slow, deliberate pulses, each movement a promise, each breath a countdown.

The tension was suffocating.

And in that breathless moment, with your body open and aching, the concrete cold beneath your hands and the heat of him poised behind you, it was clear:

He wasn't just going to fuck you.

He was going to claim you.

You felt the first press of Grayson's dick against you—broad, hot, deliberate. He didn't shove. Didn't rush. Just held you there, his hand firm on your hip, anchoring you while he pushed forward with steady, unrelenting pressure. The thick head of his dick eased past the resistance, stretching you slowly, and the sensation was instant—deep, all-consuming.

He was big. You'd known it from before, seen it, felt the weight of him in your mouth—but this was different. This was inside.

Your breath stuttered, body instinctively tensing as the stretch intensified. Your fingers curled against the concrete wall for balance, knuckles whitening. Inch by inch, he sank into you, each movement slow and controlled, like he was trying to give you time to feel every part of him.

Halfway in, he paused.

His chest hovered behind your back, his breath hot against your shoulder. His voice came low—hoarse, threaded with restraint.

"Breathe."

The word skimmed your skin like a touch, and you obeyed. You focused on your inhale, long and shaky, letting it move through your body as you tried to relax around him. The pressure began to shift—still intense, still burning, but now edged with something else. Something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.

You exhaled. He moved again.

The final push was slow, smooth, deep. He filled you completely, his hips pressing flush to yours, the stretch turning molten as your body yielded. You gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. Of him.

Grayson stilled.

One hand remained braced on your hip, the other sliding up to your lower back, fingers spreading wide across your skin to keep you steady. He held you like that—completely still—his cock buried to the hilt, his breathing ragged and uneven behind you.

You could feel it.

Every inch of him. Every beat of his heart pounding through the tension in his muscles.

He was holding himself back.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

The first thrust was shallow, careful—testing. A slow pull out, a gentle slide back in. Your breath caught again, but your body was adjusting now, learning the rhythm, the weight, the heat. He pulled out a little further the second time, then drove back in with more pressure, more hunger. The sound of it echoed—quiet, rhythmic, skin meeting skin in the heavy silence of the cell.

His grip on your hips tightened.

Each thrust grew more certain, more claiming. His control was still there, but it was fraying at the edges. His rhythm quickened—steady, deep, purposeful. Like he was imprinting something with every push of his hips. Like he wasn't just fucking you. He was taking you.

And your body responded.

You pressed back into him, breath hitching with every stroke, chasing the rhythm he was setting. Your knees quivered, your palms flat against the wall for balance, your skin burning with sensation. Each thrust sent a rush of heat curling up your spine, blooming outward through your limbs.

The reasons behind this—survival, protection, need—blurred.

What mattered now was the way he felt inside you. The way he moved—like he couldn't stop himself. Like having you this way was something he'd imagined for too long, and now that he had you, he couldn't get close enough.

Each thrust now came with intention, a growing urgency pulsing through every snap of his hips. What had started as deep, steady motion turned rougher, needier, the pressure mounting with every inch he drove into you. He pushed deeper with each roll of his body, filling you until you felt stretched to your absolute limit—and maybe even a little past it. The sound of him—his skin slapping against yours, the wet drag of each thrust, the ragged rhythm of his breath—filled the concrete cell like a pulse, a beat that matched your racing heart.

You squirmed beneath him, breath catching, your body trying to process the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers scraped along the cold wall, twitching for purchase, trying to find something—anything—to brace against. The pressure inside you was intense, unbearable in the best possible way. You weren't trying to pull away. You were just trying to keep up.

But the second you shifted, the second your hands moved even a little—

Grayson was there.

His free hand swept your wrists back in one fluid motion, fast and smooth, like he'd been waiting for it. Before you could even gasp, he had both of your arms pinned behind you, your wrists locked in one strong hand, the roughness of his palm pressed tight between your shoulder blades and his chest.

You cried out—a sharp, breathy sound, half-surprise, half-desire—as the change in angle sent heat rushing straight to your core. The new position made everything feel sharper. Tighter. More exposed. More his.

Grayson leaned in, his body flush against your back, his voice low and rough in your ear.

"You're not going anywhere."

His breath was hot on your neck. His grip on your wrists firm and unrelenting. And then he thrust.

Hard.

You choked on a moan, your mouth open but no sound escaping, your body jolting forward as he bottomed out inside you with brutal precision. You arched, spine bending, the air knocked from your lungs as pleasure crashed through you like a wave. Your hands flexed uselessly in his grip, pinned tight. He wasn't letting go. He was anchoring you, locking you in place while he took you apart.

Every thrust after that came with purpose.

Not careless, not wild—but focused. He moved like he was memorizing the shape of you, the sounds you made when he hit just the right spot, the way your walls fluttered around him when he pushed too deep, too slow, too good. He groaned—low and guttural—his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath ragged now, heat radiating off him like fire under your skin.

The wall was cold beneath your chest. The floor hard under your knees. But all of that faded into the background.

There was only him.

Inside you. Around you. Taking and giving in equal measure.

And then his voice came again—right against your ear this time, deep and breathless, tinged with something feral he was barely holding back.

"Just like that."

His words sent another ripple down your spine, your body clenching in response, and you realized you'd stopped thinking about why this started—what it meant.

Now all you could do was feel.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the tiny cell, rhythmic and relentless—wet, sharp, unmistakably intimate. It bounced off the cold concrete like the walls were holding onto it, amplifying every thrust, every breath, every moan that slipped past your lips no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

Anyone walking by would hear it.

Hell, anyone on the block would.

And you didn't care. Not even a little.

Grayson had you pinned hard against the wall, one hand locked around your wrists behind your back, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His chest was slick against your back, his body moving with brutal, focused precision—each thrust deep, controlled, calculated like he wasn't just trying to fuck you—he was studying you. Learning you.

He hit that spot again and your knees buckled slightly, a broken sound catching in your throat as your forehead pressed into the wall. The pleasure was too much—dense and burning, winding through your body like fire in your veins. Every time he pulled back and slammed into you, your breath hitched, your skin jolted with heat, and you sank deeper into the rhythm of him.

It wasn't just good. It was overwhelming.

It was obliterating.

You weren't afraid. You weren't nervous.

You were fucking gone.

And it wasn't because this was some prison-born desperation. No. It was because of him. Grayson fucked like he knew exactly what you needed before you did. Like he'd mapped out every nerve ending, every twitch of your hips, every soft gasp and sharp moan—and was playing your body like a goddamn instrument.

Your ex? Forget it. That was fumbling hands and pretty words. That was heat without depth, desire without gravity. This was different. This was raw, physical, soul-deep. This was someone driving into you like he was erasing something—every bad touch, every cold night, every ache that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being unseen.

Grayson saw you.

And now he was taking you—fully, completely—like he'd been waiting for the exact moment when you'd finally let him.

Your head thudded lightly against the wall as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep, a groan tearing out of him that sounded half-possessed. His hips slammed into yours, his grip bruising in the best way, and all you could do was hold on—your body vibrating, melting, tightening around him with every punishing thrust.

And god, it was insane.

Of course it took a prison cell. Of course it took Gotham.

Of course it took getting slapped around by Kang and nearly broken by the system before ending up here—pinned, breathless, fucked half out of your mind by the one man in this hellhole who could handle you.

It should've been a tragedy.

But it felt like deliverance.

Suddenly, Grayson stopped—every muscle in his body going rigid all at once, like someone had thrown a switch.

You were so deep in the rhythm of him, the weight of him, the pulse of pleasure pounding through your body, that it took a full second to register the shift. But then you heard it too.

A sharp crackle—pshhht—followed by low, garbled voices over a walkie-talkie. Codes. Numbers. Instructions. The language of authority, clipped and cold. Then came the unmistakable sound of heavy boots echoing down the concrete corridor. A slow, measured march of guards making their rounds.

Your heart shot into your throat.

Grayson didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

His grip on you tightened—protective, grounding—as he gently eased out, the motion achingly slow, and guided you away from the wall. His hands, which had been so rough seconds ago, now moved with surgical calm. No panic. No wasted motion. Just control.

He navigated the darkness with ease, guiding you across the cell to his bunk with a hand on your lower back. The sheets were rumpled, the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to the air—thick, unmistakable. Outside the cell bars, the overhead floodlights spilled silvery stripes across the floor. It wasn't total darkness, just enough to blur details. Just enough to hide.

He lay down first—on his side, facing the wall—and without hesitation, pulled you down in front of him. Your back pressed to his chest, your legs curled into the shape of his, your skin still flushed and tingling from everything that had come before. His arm slid over your waist, holding you like a shield, like a secret.

Then he slipped back inside you.

You nearly gasped—but bit it back hard, teeth sinking into your lip as his dick pushed in slow and deep, your body already open and greedy for him. The new angle was different—less force, more stretch—but it hit something inside you that made your toes curl against the sheets. It wasn't urgent now. It was deliberate.

A quiet, controlled burn.

He held you flush to him, chest to your back, your bodies locked together like one solid shape beneath the thin blanket. His hips moved in the smallest motions, just enough to keep you full, to keep the fire stoked.

Then—clank.

The cell door rattled as the latch was tested. A flashlight beam cut across the floor—bright, white, and merciless—sweeping over the bunks.

You shut your eyes, breath frozen in your throat, willing your body to stillness even as Grayson kept moving inside you. Barely-there thrusts, slow and subtle. But the pressure was growing again, the friction impossible to ignore. Every pulse of his dick made your insides clench, your core tighten, your heart pound harder.

The light passed over your face. You didn't flinch.

Grayson's breath hovered just behind your ear, hot and slow. He wasn't kissing you—just breathing there. His lips ghosted over your skin like a secret, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

Outside the bars, the guards moved on.

Boots faded down the corridor. The radio static became distant noise. The threat passed—but the tension didn't leave.

Grayson didn't loosen his grip. Didn't pull out.

He just held you tighter.

And kept going.

His body curved perfectly into yours, every inch of him aligned like he'd been shaped for this—for you. His chest was warm and firm at your back, his breath ghosting against the nape of your neck in slow, steady waves. Each thrust into you was deep, precise, measured—like every movement was part of some intimate choreography only he knew. Even with the faint noise of guards still echoing down the corridor, he moved like nothing else existed. No prison. No threat. Just the two of you in this sliver of darkness and heat.

Then his hand slid lower.

You felt the rough drag of his fingertips first, tracing down your stomach with purpose. Then he wrapped his fingers around your dick—warm, solid, confident—and you had to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. The touch jolted through you like a live wire. He didn't hesitate. His grip was just right—firm, not painful—just enough to let you know he was fully in control.

He began to stroke you in perfect rhythm with his hips. Each push inside you was mirrored by the glide of his hand, like his body was reading yours in real time. The synergy was unreal—too perfect. Every part of you was being worked in sync: his dick filling you in slow, relentless waves, his hand coaxing your dick forward with practiced ease, his breath warming your skin in ragged exhales.

You tried to stay quiet. You had to stay quiet.

But your body was unraveling fast.

Pleasure blurred your thoughts at the edges, your nerves on fire, every muscle locked tight in anticipation. His thumb dragged across the most sensitive part of you with maddening precision, over and over again, and your hips twitched forward instinctively, chasing the friction.

Still, his rhythm didn't falter.

He was methodical—focused—stroking you just enough to push you closer, then slowing just enough to hold you there, right on that precipice. It was maddening. Addictive. The pressure was coiling in your core, heat blooming in your gut and spreading outward, your whole body tensing, tightening, needing.

Your breathing turned erratic—shallow and fast, teeth pressed into your lip to keep the sound in. But Grayson felt it. He knew. He adjusted, just barely, and the stroke of his hand picked up—faster now, firmer. His thrusts grew more intense too, still quiet but sharper, each one angled with purpose. Precision. Like he wasn't just chasing your climax—he was crafting it.

You reached back blindly, your hand finding his forearm and gripping tight—needing something solid to hold on to as your body began to tremble under the pressure. The tension built in waves, fast and brutal, spiraling through your spine, into your stomach, burning through your chest like it was ripping you apart from the inside out.

You were there.

Perched on the edge of everything—control, silence, sensation—tipping closer with every stroke, every thrust, every quiet, burning breath from the man wrapped around you.

And there was no going back.

The pressure in your core finally shattered—white-hot and blinding.

A low, broken moan tore out of you, half-smothered against the pillow, the rest caught somewhere deep in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your entire body seized as your orgasm ripped through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. Your hips jerked forward, muscles locking, then trembling as the cum pulsed out of you, thick and hot between Grayson's fingers.

But he didn't stop.

His hand kept stroking you through it—slow, firm, relentless—dragging every last spasm out of you like he was determined to wring you dry. Your body twitched under his touch, every nerve lit up and blazing, the overstimulation skimming the edge between pleasure and something more intense, more overwhelming. You gasped again, body straining, your back arching off the mattress as the aftershocks rolled through your limbs.

The world around you blurred—the prison, the cold air, the hard cement and steel. It all fell away. All you could hear was the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the wet, rhythmic sound of his hand gliding along your spent dick.

Then, as your muscles started to go slack and your breathing began to even out, Grayson shifted behind you.

Still hard. Still deep inside you.

He let out a quiet grunt, low and restrained, as he adjusted his hold, one hand sliding up your torso while the other anchored you by the hip. He moved with focus, but not urgency—like a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how he planned to take it.

In one smooth, powerful motion, he guided you flat onto your stomach. The sheets were still warm beneath you, damp with sweat and heat, but you barely had time to register it before his weight was on you again—his chest pressed to your back, skin slick, heartbeat fast. His hands skimmed down your sides, large and steady, before settling at your hips, where he gripped and lifted, raising you just enough to give him the angle he wanted.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again.

The head of his dick nudged back at your ass—slick, thick, still pulsing with need. And then—he pushed in.

You choked on a sharp gasp, your entire body lighting up as he filled you again. The sensation, so soon after your orgasm, was almost too much. But it wasn't pain—it was intensity. Blistering and deep. Your fingers curled into the mattress, jaw clenched as your body tried to keep up with the new onslaught of sensation.

His pace had changed. Gone was the slow, deliberate rhythm.

Now he moved with force. With hunger.

Grayson's hips snapped forward, hard and fast, the slap of his skin against yours loud in the quiet of the cell. He drove into you again and again, each thrust hitting deeper, sharper, the bed creaking beneath the rhythm of his body. It wasn't reckless. It wasn't out of control. It was focused. Primal. A man possessed by need, but still terrifyingly precise.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin, holding you right where he wanted you—grounded to the bed, to him. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine, your thighs shaking from the overstimulation, your breath catching with every impact.

You couldn't speak.

Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on.

Then he leaned down again, the heat of him searing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Still with me?" he growled, voice low and rough, thick with lust and that razor-sharp focus that had never once let up.

You nodded—barely able to move—teeth sinking into the sheets as another helpless moan escaped your lips.

His thrusts came faster now, rougher, each one driving into you with the kind of force that made your breath punch out in soft gasps. You felt it in everything—the tension rippling through his muscles, the bruising grip of his fingers at your hips, the way his breath broke apart against the back of your neck in short, uneven bursts.

He was close.

You could feel it.

His body was fire against yours, sweat slicking the space where your backs touched, the heat of his skin branding yours. He pounded into you harder, deeper, and you could feel every bit of it—your thighs trembling, your spine bowing beneath the force of it.

Then it happened—that telltale shift.

You felt him twitch inside you.

His abs clenched.

His rhythm faltered, stuttered—just for a second.

Then Grayson pulled out fast, sharp, with a hiss of breath gritted between his teeth.

You barely had time to turn your head, to blink, before you felt the first hot pulse of his release hit your lower back—thick, warm, unmistakable. He groaned low, the sound rough and almost broken as his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking himself through it. Thick ropes spilled across your skin, warm and heavy, his chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling waves as he rode out the last of it.

He kept stroking—slower now, riding the final throbs of his orgasm with his forehead tilted down, his breath catching like he was still inside the freefall. His body hovered over yours, the tension slowly leaking from his frame, replaced with the kind of raw stillness that only came after something real.

The air in the cell was thick—heat, sweat, sex. The scent of it clung to your skin, to the sheets, to the very air you pulled into your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Not because there was nothing to say—just because there was no need to say it.

Grayson's hands slid from your hips, fingers soft now, brushing your skin like an afterthought—like he wasn't ready to let go just yet. He stayed close, his body still pressed lightly to yours, the last of his weight resting against your back as he caught his breath, head bowed, chest still heaving.

And you—body tingling, heart racing, mind blank and full all at once—just lay there.

Feeling every inch of him cooling against your skin.

Feeling everything you'd just done settle into your bones.

The cell was quiet again.

Only the distant sounds of the prison reminded you where you were—metal doors clanking far down the corridor, the occasional echo of voices too muffled to understand, the steady electric buzz of the overhead lights that never quite turned off. The rest of the world had returned, creeping in around the edges of the moment you and Grayson had just carved out of it.

Then you felt him behind you.

Grayson moved with the same calm he always had—efficient, steady, but now slower, like the adrenaline was leaving him too. The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned forward. Then something warm, slightly rough—an old shirt maybe, or a towel that had seen better days—passed gently over your lower back.

You inhaled sharply at the first touch, more from surprise than discomfort.

He was careful.

Wiping away the mess he'd left behind with a tenderness you hadn't expected. There was none of the force from earlier, none of the raw, consuming need. His touch now was quiet. Respectful. Almost reverent. He didn't rush. He made sure you were clean.

You let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from your limbs as your body slowly settled, the last sparks of heat fading into something calmer. Something almost fragile.

When he was done, the mattress shifted again as he stood. You heard the soft rustle of fabric behind you—pants pulled up, a belt being fastened, the subtle pull of cotton sliding over skin. You stayed where you were for a few more seconds, gathering yourself. Then you pushed up onto your elbows, your shoulders tight, your spine giving a dull, satisfying ache. The blanket slid down your back as you rolled onto your side.

Your feet touched the cold floor with a soft slap, grounding you.

You stayed like that for a beat, head bowed, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heart still trying to find a steady rhythm.

Then you looked up.

Grayson stood near his bunk, already halfway dressed. He was pulling his shirt over his head, the motion smooth, practiced. His back flexed with the effort, every line of him lean and strong, carved by habit and survival. When the fabric settled into place, he glanced over at you—just once.

His face was unreadable again.

Whatever fire had burned in him minutes ago was tucked away, folded back into the quiet calm he wore like armor. His breathing had evened out. His jaw was tight. But something in his eyes lingered—something he didn't say, didn't show fully, but couldn't quite hide either.

There was no awkwardness in him. No regret. He wasn't avoiding your gaze, and he wasn't searching it either.

Just existing in that space between what had happened and what it meant.

You ran a hand through your hair, your fingers tangling for a second before falling away. You thought about speaking—but the words didn't come. You didn't know what to say that wouldn't feel too big, or too small.

So you didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood up slowly, muscles still loose, legs shaky with that strange, post-release ache—the kind that lingers in your bones long after your body's stopped moving. The chill in the cell kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs. You bent to grab your underwear from where they'd landed near the edge of the bed, the cool floor biting at the soles of your feet. The fabric felt thin and scratchy as you pulled it back up, the elastic waistband snapping softly into place against your hips.

As you straightened up, still adjusting the band with one hand, Grayson's voice cut through the air.

"Thanks for that."

You turned your head, caught off guard not by the words themselves, but by the way he said them—low, even, casual. Like you'd handed him something small, like you'd shared a cigarette or a joke. Not like you'd just let him bend you over in the dark and fuck you into the mattress until your body forgot how to breathe.

He was fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Elbows on his knees. Spine straight. Watching you. His face had settled back into that unreadable calm you were starting to recognize—not cold, not guarded, just contained. But his eyes gave something away. Not much. Just enough.

There was no smugness in his tone. No self-satisfaction.

Just quiet sincerity.

And that—somehow—hit harder than the sex.

You didn't answer right away. You weren't sure how to answer. Your heart was still beating too fast for words, your mind still trying to sort out what this all meant, if it meant anything at all.

Then he added, "You really won't have to worry about Kang or his boys again. I mean that."

Your gaze locked with his. And this time, there was no question in it.

His voice was steady. Grounded. Like a door slamming shut with finality. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a promise. Quiet and unshakable.

And somehow, you believed him.

Because something in his tone—the weight, the stillness—said he'd already decided what would happen if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way.

He wasn't offering protection anymore.

He was giving it.

And whether you'd meant for it to happen or not, something had shifted. Something real. Heavy. Irrevocable.

And now it was yours.

What you didn't know—what no one ever said aloud, not even in whispers—was why Grayson could make a promise like that and mean it. Why just a few words from him could silence the threat of Kang and every man behind him.

It wasn't just about reputation. It wasn't about owing favors, or pulling strings with the right guards. That kind of power could be taken. Challenged. Broken.

What Grayson had... was fear.

Cold. Heavy. Earned fear.

Because Grayson wasn't just respected in Gotham State—he was the reason the worst of them watched where they stepped. The ones who ran gangs, who extorted commissary and blood and loyalty out of the weak—they gave him space. Not because he asked for it. Not because he made threats.

But because they'd seen what happened when someone didn't.

Kang had a crew, sure. He had numbers. He had swagger. But he didn't have the one thing Grayson had buried in the silence behind his eyes: history.

He never raised his voice. Never threw a punch unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn't posture, didn't bark commands, didn't play the dominance game like the rest of them.

Grayson didn't need to.

He was the kind of dangerous that walked quiet and ended things completely.

Because under that steady calm, beneath the silent routines and the unreadable expressions, was a man who had once taken apart a crime empire with his bare hands. Not figuratively. Not through lawyers or backroom deals.

Richard Grayson had dismantled Tony Zucco's empire piece by piece—burned down his warehouses, exposed his smuggling routes, slit the throat of his most trusted lieutenant in front of a room full of witnesses. And when Zucco's daughter tried to run, tried to avenge the family name, Grayson tracked her down, too.

No hesitation. No loose ends.

And then, he vanished behind prison walls—and every name connected to Zucco stopped breathing.

That's what they didn't say in here.

That's why the old-timers didn't look him in the eye.

Why the guards never searched his cell too hard.

Why Kang kept his distance, even when you gave him the perfect excuse to strike.

Because when Richard Grayson said you were safe...

You were.

And anyone stupid enough to test that?

They didn't leave the same.

If they left at all.

[twostepstyless]

Elves Wanted

Main Masterlist

SFW

Author’s Note: Y/N and Harry are drama students from two separate drama schools just looking to make some extra money over the Christmas period. Colleagues to friends to lovers ig? No major warnings I don’t think, maybe a tiny little chat about Christmas being a hard time of year. 

This is my first piece of writing in a looooong long time, so please be gentle  

As always, likes, reblogs and feedback of any variety is encouraged and always appreciated - G x 

Word Count: 7.7K+

It was the middle of November when Y/N saw it. The poster looked threatening. A large font, emboldened and in scary looking shade of red. The paper had gone a bit wrinkly as if it had been clutched tightly in a hand full of piles of the same advert printed over and over again. A contact email was printed multiple times along the bottom on tear-off tabs of paper, the fact that only one tab containing the address was missing added to the overall unappealing look of the advertisement that Y/N found on the ‘Opportunities’ board in the reception of her drama school. It looked threating compared to the opportunity it was offering. 

ELVES WANTED was printed at the top of the sheet followed by a short, bulleted list of qualifications:

Must have an enthusiastic and friendly personality

No experience necessary

No maximum height limit!!!

Great pay for festive season!

DBS checks will be carried out. 

Illustrations of holly leaves and berries bordered the A4 advert and severe looking underlines on the next steps asking for a headshot and CV to be forwarded to the recruiter’s email attached to the tear-off slips. A mall elf. Santa’s little helper. Y/N didn’t think it was the worst gig she could have in the world. Another thing to add to her CV she supposed. She realises she’s trying to convince herself into doing it and she was of the mindset if you had to convince yourself something is a good idea, it probably isn’t. But the Christmas holidays were looming and her student loan never in a million years could stretch towards Christmas presents and the zero hours contract she had a greasy spoon café down the road from her flat was certainly not helping either. She was desperate for consistent income to see her through Christmas. So, with a sigh, she ripped off the email information. 

***

Across the city, Harry was stood in front of an advert on the ‘Opportunities’ board in the reception area of his drama school. Harry frowned, then leaned in closer to get a better look. He read the poster twice, then a third time, and despite his better judgment, he felt a strange pull. There was something ridiculous about it, something he couldn’t quite shake. The idea of becoming an elf at Santa’s Grotto in a shopping centre, a 6-foot (on a good day at least) elf at that, on the surface, was completely mental. But then again, he thought back to the acting gig he had over Christmas last year and thought anything would be better than that. Plus, he loved Christmas really, and getting to spread a bit of joy can only be a positive thing. He rubbed his temple as though to clear his thoughts, still staring at the flyer. ‘Great pay’, the poster said. That was tempting. What the hell? He could be an elf for a month. Maybe there was something strange and fun about playing a cheerful holiday character—something a little whimsical and different from his usual typecast as a tortured soul or brooding romantic lead. Harry's lips quirked into a smile. “I can totally do this,” he muttered to himself, snapping a photo of the requirements and ripping off the contact email and shoving it into his pocket. 

***

Y/N trudged back to her flat after leaving uni, fell into her bed and fished out her laptop to send her email to the elf recruiter. She attached her most recent headshot and newly updated CV and sent it off to the email address she clung onto. As her laptop screen faded to black, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the screen. She didn’t look happy. She looked knackered actually, with heavy dark circles around her eyes. The past few months had been a lot. Exhausting, frustrating, and filled with self-doubt. She’d just finished a semester of intense Stanislavski system classes which were emotionally, physically and psychologically taxing when she was applying them to the acting pieces she was performing. She longed for a break, for something to remind her why she had fallen in love with performing and acting in the first place. Maybe this odd elf job would do that—maybe she could rediscover some joy in performing, even if it was just a month or so of prancing around in stripy tights and painted on rosy cheeks.

Y/N sighed and shook her head, but a small smile crept onto her lips. Why not? she thought again, maybe she could learn to appreciate Christmas again. 

***

Winter had truly set in the next week when Y/N arrived at the shopping centre’s service entrance. The wind nipped at her face, the only bit of her not covered up by woolly or fleece fabric. Despite the cold, there was a gentle hum of festive energy beginning to spark. She had her phone open directing her to the disused unit nearest the newly built grotto which they had turned into a dressing room and break room for all the actors who were going to be working there over the holidays. She had to agree there would be something distinctly unmagical about a child seeing the elf that had shown them to Santa, or the big man himself, walking through the mall with a backpack over their costume to catch the tube home.  

This was it—the first day of her “elf job,” as ridiculous as it seemed. She still wasn’t entirely sure what she’d gotten herself into. At least Noelle seemed nice enough as a manager when they’d spoken over zoom after Y/N applied. (Y/N still wasn’t sure if that was her actual name or that Noelle just loved Christmas that much, she’d given it to herself, she wouldn’t be shocked if it was the latter) And hey, it wasn’t like there was anything else on her schedule at the moment, classes having broken up for an extended Christmas break this week to allow the students to pick up winter acting gigs. 

The smell of cinnamon and something distinctly chocolatey wafted through the air as she hurried through the shopping centre, the disused unit between the small Boots (the big boots was on the second floor) and Clarks shoe shop was her end goal with a note to show up at 8:30 to be assigned her costume, meet their Santa and the other elves and to be talked through what their role was and what do before the kids started arriving to meet Saint Nick at 10:30 A.M. 

She was first there. Not a shock, she’s notoriously early to everything. Just Noelle in the space, ticking Y/N’s name off the list attached to her clipboard and urging her to pull up a chair until the rest of her colleagues arrived. Tubs of celebrations and heroes cracked open on the tables for the employees to pick at if they were on break. 

Y/N quickly snagged a Malteser one from the red tub knowing those were her favourite but always the first to run out in a box of Celebrations. As she rammed the chocolate into her mouth a deep, slow voice called out.

“Hey! Are y’here for the elf job too?”

Y/N looked up. A boy—no, a man—was walking toward her, a friendly smile on his face. He was tall, like worthy of stating in your dating profile tall, with chocolatey, perfectly tousled hair like he’d just ran his fingers through it and it fell perfectly. His cheeks were also flushed from the cold, and there was an energy about him, an air of confidence that could potentially approach cockiness, but not in a dickhead way, a way that made Y/N feel suddenly self-conscious. She straightened up, trying to look more confident.

“Uh, yeah.” Fuck, she still had the half-chewed Malteser sweet in her mouth, she swallowed it harshly. “I am, yeah,” she said, his voice coming out a little awkwardly. 

The man laughed lightly, as if sensing her discomfort, and stuck out his hand. “M’Harry. S’my first day, too. So, we’re in the same boat.”

Y/N hesitated for a second before shaking his hand. His grip was firm, and his-Harry’s eyes sparkled with a kind of warmth that she wasn’t used to.

“Harry,” she said. “Yeah, I figured I wasn’t the only one.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing around. “Have y’seen the costumes?” he asked with a grin. “Noelle was pulling the rail out as I came in,” he nodded towards the rail now in Y/N’s peripheral, “and not that I’m biased towards the fact me n’you are here first… but I think we’re going to look the best.” 

Y/N snorted, suddenly picturing the pair of them in the green and red get up she could see swinging around on hangers that Harry pointed out. “Yeah, right. I’m not sure there is a looking the best in those but I’ll try not to look too much like a walking, talking Christmas tree.”

Harry laughed again, his voice light and carefree. “You could be a very stylish Christmas tree. And if not, I’m sure the kiddies will love you anyway. I mean, it’s hard t’look serious in tha’.”

Y/N had to agree. She could see tiny bells on the tips of the curly toed shoes and around the base of the pointy hat that were jingling in an absurdly cheerful way as Noelle pulled the rail up towards the congregating elves, more of whom had arrived in the time she had been speaking to Harry not that she noticed them arrive. 

“I’m guessing you’ve done this before?” she asked.

“Nope,” Harry replied with a shrug, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “But I’m an actor, so literally trained in fake it til I make it.” She glanced at him knowingly. “I’m sure you can, too.”

There was something about the way he said it, so effortlessly, as if being an actor was the most natural thing in the world. Y/N felt a pang of recognition. She was the same way, always pretending like she had her shit together when, in reality, she felt like she hanging by a thread the vast majority of the time.

“You’re an actor, too?” she asked, as Harry pulled a twirl out the box of heroes and snaffled it down just as quickly. 

“Yeah,” he said round the mouthful of chocolate, “Where d’you go?” 

 “Oh, I’m at RADA,” she said with a sheepish smile, as though it were no big deal. “How about you?”

“The Conservatoire,” Harry replied in a similar tone. “It’s… kind of intense there. Everyone’s obsessed with Shakespeare n’like fuckin’ Laurence Olivier,” he chuckled. His voice tinged with self-deprecation. “Which is fine, and y’know same but sometimes it feels like m’in an endless cycle of waiting. Auditions, classes, workshops, more auditions…” He trailed off, realizing he was rambling. “Though suppose you’re the same at RADA,” He finished.

Y/N’s eyes softened a little. “I get that. Sometimes it feels like I’m auditioning for my own bloody life instead of actually living it, and the constant seriousness can really knock the wind out of it and make you forget why you started acting in the first place.” She leaned back against her chair, crossing her arms. 

“At least this elf job is different. It’s kind of nice to do just… do something fun, you know?” Harry suggested.

Y/N nodded, a little surprised by the ease in which he found the bright side. There was a grounded quality to him that she hadn’t expected, especially when he said he attended the conservatoire. He didn’t seem to be caught up in the competitive, high-strung nature of their shared world, or if he did, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.  Maybe it was his willingness to embrace something as silly as playing an elf that made him stand out to her.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she said, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “I think I’m just overthinking it. Like, this is the first thing I’ve gotten in a minute that’s actually paying me, and I’m being weird about it. Plus, I’ve got the perfect excuse to wear a fun outfit for a month,” she giggled, hoping to match his blasé attitude. 

Harry smiled back, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. “Exactly!” 

Before their conversation could go any further, Noelle, decked out in an obscene Christmas jumper with glittery yarn and flashing lights stood at the front of the now full room.

“Hiya chookies! Welcome to your first day as Santa’s helpers!” she said brightly in her bubbly Welsh accent, clapping her hands together. “I’ve spoken to you all before but just to reintroduce I’m Noelle and I’ll be your manager for the duration of this job! You’ll be working alongside our Santa Claus, Arthur, bringing the magic to life for all the little ones we’ll have coming to visit right up until the 24th of December. You’ll mostly be working in pairs which I can split you up into- or I see most of you have split into little groups already so that will do just lovely too!” 

At the mention of already being in pairs, Harry and Y/N’s eyes flickered up to each other’s with a small smile from Y/N and a wink from Harry that made Y/N’s stomach swoop as he mouthed ‘partner’ at her. 

Noelle continued, “so we’ll get you costumed and your elf’s name assigned to you, then we’ve got a few little training things to get through before we kick off the festive season with our first visitors at 10:30!” 

***

The rest of the morning was a blur of final costume adjustments, training videos about handling children, and learning the ropes of the “Santa meet-and-greet” routine. Introduce, smile, take the kid to Santa, reassure any nervous little ones, pass out candy canes til you’re blue in the face, and sprinkle as much magic and joy in there as possible as they went. As 10:30 approached, Harry found himself standing next to Y/N at the edge of Santa’s grotto ready for the first batch of children to arrive. 

Through the noise of the shopping centre, chatter and the beep of checkouts and the rush of activity, Harry caught Y/N’s eye and offered her a dazzling smile. “Well Sugarplum,” he said, now referring to Y/N as her Elf name, as was required in their training, his voice low enough for only her to hear, “here we go. Let’s see if we can make some Christmas magic without completely embarrassing ourselves.”

Y/N laughed softly, knocking her hip against his playfully. “You’ll do great. Just remember to smile like you mean it and even if we’re pretending that it’s the most magical moment of your life.”

Harry rolled his eyes but found himself smiling anyway. “I’ll try my best. Elf-ing is harder than it looks I reckon.”

As the first family approached the line, Y/N leaned closer to him, her voice playful. “Ready to bring some joy to the world, Jingles?”

“After you, my jolly little elf,” Harry said with a smile, feeling something spark between them that he couldn’t quite name, their shoes jingling as they bounced forwards to greet their first family. 

***

The first shift was chaotic.

Y/N had been bracing herself for the madness of it all, but nothing quite prepared her for the relentless pace of the Santa meet-and-greet. From the moment they arrived at the grotto and workshop themed area, complete with twinkling lights, piles of fake presents, an enormous, fluffy teddy bear in the corner and nutcrackers as tall as Harry, it was clear that the role of an elf was not as simple as it seemed.

The instructions from Noelle had been brief—"Smile, be enthusiastic, don't get in Santa's way, and make sure every child gets their gift!"—but in practice, it felt like a never-ending whirlwind. The line of eager little children accompanied by parents and carers lapped around the grotto and down the hallways of the mall and the air buzzed with the excited chatter of families, the high-pitched giggles of toddlers, and the occasional wail of a child whose feet hurt from waiting or was a little scared of the man with the round belly and red suit. 

Y/N was feeling the initial confidence boost Harry gave her, waver. The green tunic was a tad itchy, the makeup to paint her cheeks rosy was 100% going to cause her a spotty breakout and the pointy shoes, which she’d thought would be a fun novelty, now felt like they were cutting off the circulation to her toes. She was supposed to be cheerful and welcoming, but every time she smiled, it felt a little forced. And then there was the jingle. The tiny bells attached to the hem of her outfit, hat and tips of her curly shoes made every step a clinking reminder that she was no longer the serious actor she aspired to be. No, now she was an elf, and that meant every footstep seemed to ring with the joyful spirit of Christmas. 

"Alright, Sugarplum!" Harry’s voice cut through the noise as he slid into place next to her. "You’re doing great! Just keep smiling!" His eyes twinkled with mischief, and Y/N couldn’t help but return his grin, even if it was more of a grimace.

“I’m not sure I’m pulling off the ‘joyful, Christmas spirit’ look,” she muttered, glancing at Harry. “I think the kids can tell I'm not really feeling it.”

“Oh, please,” he teased, adjusting his own costume, he had managed to twist one of the legs of his red tights around his leg as he peeled them up when he got changed and seemed completely unbothered by it. “You look like you just stepped off of an elf runway. Like we are North Pole Fashion Week right here. Autumn/Winter 2024’s finest!”

He was, in fact, a burst of holiday cheer. His costume fit well, minus the small problem with his tights. His movements were smooth and confident, and he had this way of leaning into his role that made it seem effortless. Every time a child came up to him, he greeted them with enthusiasm, making silly faces to the young ones who couldn’t talk yet, or twirling around to make them squeal and giggle.

Y/N, on the other hand, had already almost fell onto the nutcracker when a child approached her from behind. 

***

"Hey, Elves!" a little girl said in a high-pitched voice, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She was maybe seven years old, with a haughty expression on her face that both Harry and Y/N couldn’t help but find hilarious. "I want a unicorn for Christmas."

“Uh, okay, a unicorn,” Y/N repeated, trying to channel the enthusiasm Noelle had instructed them to have. “Is that, like, a stuffed unicorn or an actual unicorn?”

The little girl stared at her blankly. “A real one. With wings.” As if that was obvious, Y/N thought.

Y/N blinked. “Oh… right. Well, I think we’ll need to ask Santa if he can make that happen. Santa has magical powers, you know, isn’t that right Jingles?” she gestured to Harry, desperately wanting to involve him in this conversation to get it over with quicker.  

“That’s absolutely right Sugarplum, but I’m not sure the unicorn’s gonna make it through customs...” Harry trailed off

The girl raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care about that. I want a unicorn. With wings.”

“Understood.” Harry nodded seriously. “I’ll put in the request to Santa’s workshop immediately.” Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at Harry so turned away to get her giggles out as she organised the piles of gifts for the kids as the little girl continued on.

She gave a dramatic sniff before turning to her adult and questioning, “mummy why does that elf have all those on him?”

“All what, princess?” The little girl’s mother barely took her eyes off her phone while responding to her. 

“All those drawings,” she pointed her sticky looking hand to Harry while her mother finally looked up and over with distaste to see Harry’s lower arm exposed from where the fluffy cuffs on his tunic had ridden up, exposing the inky swirls that littered his arm.  

“I got these in prison,” Harry said to the child, seriously. 

“HARRY,” Y/N shouts whipping her head round from the reorganised piles of presents and a series of giggles. 

“Um, its Jingles to you, Miss Sugarplum,” he responded to Y/N with a sly look in his eye before turning back to the little girl, “I broke a lot of elf and safety rules,” he nodded with a sad sort of soft smile as the girl and her mother moved farther up the queue and away from Harry and Y’N’s section.

“You’re going to get sacked,” Y/N laughed. 

“Nah, no chance, I don’t reckon there’s any understudies for elves, I’m just trying to brighten the place up, they say Christmas cheer is spread through laughter,” Harry said reaching for one of the candy canes they had in a bowl to give out to customers.  

“No one says that” Y/N responded.

“Wel, I did just then,” Harry smirked before shoving his newly unwrapped candy cane between his lips. 

***

Y/N found herself laughing more, letting go of the relentless pressure she usually placed on herself. She still had moments of doubt, but they were becoming less frequent. And more often than not, Harry was there, laughing with her, encouraging her to embrace the more sparkly, joyful side of things.

By the end of the week, both Harry and Y/N were beginning to look forward to their shifts—not just for the pay check, but because of the time spent with each other. Their friendship was growing, deepening in those small moments of shared joy. They spent their breaks together, sharing their lunches and swapping stories about their schools, about their aspirations, about everything and nothing.

“I jus’ couldn’t face doing panto again this Christmas for some work experience, last year I ended up in a production of Cinderella at holiday park in the arse end of nowhere and let me just tell you never again,” Harry said round mouthfuls of the Subway sandwich he’d ran to go pick them up on their joint lunch break.

“You didn’t?!” Y/N gasped dramatically, putting her own sandwich down. 

“I did.” 

“Oh no you didn’t,” Y/N refuted.

“What y’on about? I did, I played Buttons.”

“Oh no you didn’t!” Y/N teased.

“Oh no you didn- OH ha ha, very funny,” Harry rolled his eyes playfully.  “But yeah I had to stay in a static caravan for the length of the run, and not one of those nice, posh static caravans with the deck and did y’know some of them have actual baths in ‘em too? It was a shit one, that smelt of damp and sand from the beach and had a scorch mark on the carpet from the fan radiator someone had put on upside down, the thing probably would’ve looked better if it had gone up in flames.”

***

It was the week before Christmas, when the shopping centre was at its peak. Crowds of shoppers were everywhere. Pushing, jostling, and frantically checking their lists. Santa’s grotto had gotten busier and busier and December went on, and Harry and Y/N were in the thick of it, dodging around children, parents, and cameras, keeping up the relentless pace of their elf duties. 

They were stationed in the photo line, dishing out candy canes left, right and centre to anyone who didn’t already have one clutched in their hands. The music overhead had transitioned from classic carols to the more upbeat, catchy tunes—"Jingle Bell Rock," "Last Christmas," and, of course what’s Christmas without a little bit of Mariah. 

“Honestly, feels like Christmas exploded all over this place,” Harry muttered to Y/N as a child skipped past them, jingling her own set of bells in her hair. He adjusted his own costume and shot a glance around at the sea of red and green. “I love Christmas but even I’m starting to feel a little less Santa n’a little more Scrooge.” 

Y/N’s grin was infectious. “I know, right? But I think I’m starting to really love it rather than seeing this as a quick, easy wage every week. It feels like a big Christmas party every day and really is starting to put me in the mood for the 25th.”

Harry snorted. “You’re a better elf than I’ll ever be then. I’m about two seconds from snapping the candy canes and calling it a day.” 

Y/N chuckled, her eyes glinting mischievously. “You could do that. But you’d be the elf who shows up on the ‘Naughty List,’ and frankly, I don’t think you want that reputation,” Y/N shrugged playfully.

“Well, there’s always next year,” Harry replied with a wink.

As the hours passed, the atmosphere only intensified. The mall was bursting with excited chatter, laughter, and the occasional tantrum from an upset child. Harry was starting to feel the weight of it all—the constant smiling, the relentless energy. He glanced over at Y/N, who seemed unaffected by it all. She was laughing, her face flushed from the warmth of the crowd, her energy infectious, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something—something more than the seemingly newly discovered holiday cheer that seemed to shine out of her pores like the lights round the Christmas trees. There was a depth to her that he couldn’t quite place. A vulnerability that was hidden beneath her new, bright exterior. He had seen it before, right at the start of their run—brief moments when her eyes grew a little distant or when she would zone out during a particularly quiet lull. She seemed melancholic a lot of the time at the beginning but the closer they got to Christmas her personality seemed to do a switch to the most utterly joyful person you could ever come across. Harry didn’t buy it, not completely anyway. 

After another round of photos, a break finally arrived. It wasn’t much—only fifteen minutes—but it was enough for them to run off to their break room to rest their jingled feet. Harry slumped down in his seat, taking a long, deep breath of the slightly cooler air of their break room. He caught sight of Y/N across the room, filling up a glass of water each for them from the cooler.

"Hey," Harry said, his voice a bit quieter now. “Y’alright?”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide and a little startled by the question. She blinked a couple of times, as if trying to shake off some thought she’d been lost in.

“Yeah, of course,” she replied quickly, offering a bright smile. “I’m just… y’know. Trying t’make the most of the break.” She gestured vaguely around; the room was empty bar the pair of them.

“Right,” Harry said, but there was something in her tone that didn’t quite match the smile she was giving him. He knew her well enough by now to see that something was off. It was slight, subtle even, but it was there.

He took a deep breath, feeling that the awkwardness of the moment would pass if he just said it. “Look, Y/N... I don’t want to make you uncomfortable n’just tell me t’fuck off if I’m overstepping or anything… but I feel like there’s more going on with you than you’re letting on.”

She froze for a moment before placing the now full glass of water in front of Harry. Her eyes shifted to the floor, her expression briefly faltering before she met his gaze again.

“You’re talking about the personality transplant I’ve had in the last few days, aren’t you?” she asked with a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Harry shook his head. “No. I mean… yes. But not just that.” He pulled the chair next to him round to an angle so they would be basically facing each other eye to eye as he encouraged her to take a seat. Lowering his voice slightly. “I know m’not the best at reading people, but I can tell y’hiding something. You’re not as… I don’t know… there’s something not quite right about the smile you’re painting on, right?”

Y/N’s smile faltered, and she glanced away. “I’m fine, Harry. I promise.”

But Harry didn’t buy it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something in her voice, a tone as if she was trying to convince herself of the fact and not just him, that made him feel that she wasn’t fine.

“Y/N, m’not trying to make you talk about anything you’re not ready to share,” Harry said gently. “But… you can’t just bury everything under the elf costume and the smiles. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes,” he said with a soft smile as he nudged his knee against her own. 

The room was silent. Y/N chewed on her bottom lip, clearly battling with something. Harry held his breath, waiting. Finally, she sighed deeply, as if the weight of it all had become too much to carry any longer.

“I didn’t want to bring it up, s’a bit of a mood killer at this time of year,” she said quietly, her voice thick with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “But... I guess I’m just tired. Not physically—well, kind of. But emotionally. I don’t know… I’ve been pretending a lot this year.”

Harry watched her, his brow furrowing. "Pretending?"

Y/N let out a shaky breath and nodded. “My family... my dad... this time of year is always hard for me. Christmas is supposed to be happy, right? But it just... reminds me of everything I’ve lost. Things that don’t work out. People who move on.” She paused, her voice trembling just slightly. “I didn’t want to let it affect my job here. I didn’t want to ruin the fun, or the magic… and I guess it’s been a lot.”

Harry felt a pang of sympathy for her. The words hung in the air like fragile glass, and he could see how much it had cost her to admit it. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say, he just nodded, understanding. “I get it,” he said eventually. “Y’don’t have to keep pretending, though. Not round me anyway.”

She gave him a small, relieved smile, but there was still sadness behind her eyes. “Thanks, Harry,” she whispered, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “I think I just needed someone to hear it. Even if it’s just for a second. I’m just… knackered,” she sighed.

Harry leant closer, offering gentle smile his hand reaching down to squeeze her knee. “Anytime. You know that.”

For the last few moments of their break, they just sat there, sipping on their water and cooling down for a bit, the noise of the shopping centre drifting in from the distance. Harry didn’t push her to say more, but they both knew something had shifted between them in that moment. Y/N wasn’t just his elf colleague anymore. She was a person with a past, with scars, with feelings. And Harry wanted to be there for her, even if it meant just offering an ear if she needed it.

And maybe she just needed to know that someone was there to listen, even someone she met working at Santa’s Grotto.

The break ended with the sound of a loud cheer coming from the main concourse of the shopping centre, where a new group of children had gathered to see Santa. Y/N downed the rest of her water and gave her cheeks a few quick pats to wake herself up, as if the moment of vulnerability had never happened, and smiled at Harry.

“Ready for round two?” she asked, her voice lighter than before.

Harry nodded. “Let’s do this Sugarplum.” And for the first time in a long while, Harry realized that sometimes, just being real with someone else was the greatest gift of all.

***

The day before Christmas was a blur of lights, music, and the constant hum of holiday energy. For such a manic day, it was a slow one. Harry had stopped counting the hours long ago of his shifts long ago; it was just a matter of getting through the day, but with Y/N by his side, it felt bearable. Their friendship had become a steady constant, something Harry looked forward to in the midst of the holiday madness. They spent their breaks together, talked about everything and nothing, and found little ways to make each other laugh.

But today felt different. There was a quiet tension in the air between them, an unspoken awareness that lingered longer than usual. It was approaching midday on Christmas Eve, the final shift before the big day. The mall was packed, the halls full of families rushing to get those last-minute photos with Santa, children buzzing with excitement. Harry and Y/N had just finished their break and were back on as Jingles and Sugarplum, standing in front of the grotto. They had gotten good at this—good at smiling until their cheeks hurt, good at posing for photos, good at handing out candy canes like it was second nature. But today, something felt… off. Something wasn’t quite as simple as it had been before.

“Last day,” Y/N said, adjusting her costume, the bells twinkling and punctuating her sentence, her tone almost too casual as she looked around at the busy area. “Can y’believe it’s finally Christmas Eve?”

Harry shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “It kind of feels like we’ve been doing this forever, doesn’t it? Like, time doesn’t even work anymore.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the crowd. Then, turning back to Harry, her gaze lingered a moment too long. “You know, I’ve actually really enjoyed this. Not the work, obviously, but… the time we’ve spent together. It’s been…” She hesitated, glancing down at her costume before meeting his eyes again. “Nice. A break from my usual, I guess.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t say it directly, but there was something in her voice that made him wonder if she felt the same way he did.

“I get that,” he said, his voice a little quieter than before. “It’s kind of hard to explain, but I feel like we’ve gotten into this rhythm. You know what I mean?”

She smiled, that familiar, easy smile that made him feel like he was the only one in the room. “Exactly. We’ve somehow survived this madness, and now it’s almost over.”

As they stood there, exchanging glances with the busy families waiting in line, Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of… finality. He had been dreading the end of this gig, not because he didn’t want to go back to the conservatoire and his classes after break but because he didn’t want to not see Y/N every day. The idea of her becoming just another friendly face in the crowd of his life was akin to one of Shakespeare’s tragedies to him, he didn’t want that at all.

“You’re right,” he said slowly, “I don’t want it to be over. This... thing we’ve got going on, I mean.”

Y/N paused, her eyebrows furrowing in slight confusion. “What do you mean, ‘this thing’?” 

Fuck, Harry thought as looked down at his hands, suddenly feeling self-conscious, a rarity for him. Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe he was just imagining that there was something between them. But the way her voice softened when she spoke to him, the way they laughed together, the way he felt this inexplicable pull towards her. 

“This thing where it’s easy to talk t’you. Where we don’t have to pretend with each other,” he said carefully, his heart pounding a little harder in his chest. “Where… I don’t know… I feel like I can be myself at least.”

She blinked, processing his words. Her expression was unreadable for a moment, but then her lips curled into a slow, thoughtful smile. “I know what you mean,” she said softly. “It’s like… we don’t have to be perfect all the time, right? Like, we can just… be. Together.”

The way she said the word “together” sent a small shiver down Harry’s spine. He could feel the air between them shift, and suddenly, he wasn’t sure if it was just the holiday magic, or something more. Something deeper.

He took a deep breath, stepping a little closer to her. “Y/N, I—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a loud wail from a child pierced the air, cutting through the moment like a knife. The child, no older than six, was tugging at her mother’s sleeve, refusing to get anywhere near the front door of the grotto where on the other side she’d meet Santa. Her voice was a screech of fear almost, desperate to leave.

Harry and Y/N immediately snapped back into their roles, the brief, intimate moment forgotten in an instant. It was as though the world had snapped back into its chaotic rhythm. Harry plastered on his best elf smile and turned to the mother, ready to jump back into character.

“Everything okay here?” he asked, though his mind was still racing with the things he had almost said to Y/N.

Y/N, ever the professional, was immediately by Harry’s side, kneeling down to the little girls height. “Hey there sweetness, I’m Sugarplum and this is my pal Jingles,” she said in a gentle, soothing voice nodding to Harry who waved at the shy little girl. “Y’know, Santa’s not so bad. Look, we’re elves and have worked with the big man for forever, and we think he’s pretty cool, isn’t that right Jingles?” 

The little girl sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve of her little red coat, before glancing up at Y/N and Harry with watery eyes. “Really?”

“Absolutely!” Harry said with a wink, before he too knelt down to the girls’ level, his voice bright and reassuring. “Santa’s just a big teddy bear. In fact he gave me this,” Harry pulled a candy cane from his pocket with a flourish, “t’give to you before we go in and see him!”

The girl seemed to hesitate for a moment, before nodding slowly reaching out to wrap her fingers around the candy cane Harry held out to her, “Okay…”

As the little girl settled, Harry couldn’t help but glance over at Y/N. She had a way with the kids who were a little scared or nervous, a warmth that made him admire her even more. She always knew exactly what to say, always had the right level of energy to make them feel better. It was something he’d noticed before, but today, it felt like a piece of the larger picture. When the little girl finally took a seat on the stool next to Santa’s chair and was yapping away listing off things she wanted for Christmas as well as things she thinks he should give her baby brother, Harry and Y/N exchanged a smile at a job well done. 

As the rest of the day wore on, the mall’s energy peaked and then began to mellow. The final families arrived, children almost vibrating with excitement at Santa’s imminent arrival, parents frantically snapping photos. In the quiet moments between families, Harry found himself stealing glances at Y/N. She was still the same—cheerful, warm, effortlessly glowing—but there was a new layer between them now, an unspoken understanding.

Finally, as the evening came to a close, the last group of families having exited with their pictures in hand. Santa waving a big goodbye to any straggler groups citing that he had a long night ahead of him and had to go see Mrs Claus before he set off on his journey around the world. Harry and Y/N were left alone in the grotto, it was just the two of them now, standing in the glow of the Christmas lights, the last traces of holiday music playing softly in the background.

Y/N turned to Harry, her eyes locking with his. “I guess this is it,” she said softly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, his heart beating just a little faster. “It’s weird. I kind of thought it would feel like a relief when it was over, but… now it’s here, it feels… wrong, somehow.”

Y/N smiled softly, stepping a little closer to him. “It’s not over, Harry. It’s just… different now.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hope so.”

And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, they both leaned in, just inches apart. The air between them was charged, the magic of Christmas, the long month and a half of working side by side, and the undeniable pull they felt toward each other all converging in that one perfect instant.

Before Harry could think too much about it, Y/N closed the small gap, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, tentative, but filled with something deeper—something neither of them could deny any longer.

The moment held, timeless and sweet, as they finally gave in to the feelings that had been building between them, and as they pulled back, breathing in the shared warmth of the kiss, it was clear to both of them: this was only the beginning.

“D’you think we can go get changed now? I never want to see or feel another pair of fucking tights anywhere near my legs for a long, long time,” Harry said as Y/N burst into fitful giggles her face slumping against his shoulder as she laughed

***

They had swapped numbers early on in their job, Harry’s suggestion since they were paired together in case one of the two were to be poorly or running late but had never used those numbers. As much as Harry’s fingers twitched to do so. 

They separated outside the mall after their kiss, both rushing off to get to their families to spend Christmas Day with them. Christmas morning came with a quiet calm. Y/N had expected to wake up feeling exhausted, her muscles sore from the constant running around, the endless hours of standing in character, smiling for the camera, but instead, she woke up in her bedroom at her Mum’s house… on edge. Like something had shifted, and now the world around her seemed to have rearranged itself, in ways she wasn’t quite sure she was ready for.

She also woke up to a text and her heart took off running. 

Harry 🧝‍♂️ 🎄 : Merry Christmas Sugarplum!! Hope your day is as magic as you are xx

Fucking hell, he sent kisses, KISSES… Should she send kisses back, never mind the kisses she needs to type the actual text first.

Y/N: and a merry christmas to you jingles. have a lovely day with your family Harry xx

He sent two kisses so she sent two kisses, that seemed a safe bet. 

Harry 🧝‍♂️ 🎄: When are you back in the city? Xxx

THREE KISSES!

Y/N:  i’m back on the 28th, you? :) xxx

Harry 🧝‍♂️ 🎄: Crazy, me too! I’m going to hope you don’t have New Years plans yet and wanted to ask if you wanted to do something with me? Ring in the new year together? Xxx 

A second text came in before Y/N even managed to process what the first one had said. 

Harry 🧝‍♂️ 🎄: Plus I’m not going to lie, going from seeing you and spending all day every day with you to not seeing you at all today is shit and I’ve decided I hate it xxx 

Y/N:  yes!!! let’s do it, i didn’t have any plans anyway so absolutely want to spend it with you xxx 

Y/N:  p.s i hate it too :( xxx 

***

They had met outside the tube station, a warm embrace on the pavement as a greeting as they began their walk to find a spot on Primrose Hill for the night, filling each other in on what they had been up to on Christmas Day and the days since. They had both booked a few auditions for the first few weeks of January and Y/N had decided she was changing her life in the New Year and had done a massive clear out and deep clean of her flat. And Harry? Well, he’d came home from his Mum’s with a pet cat in tow, one his Mum had recently been fostering and Harry fell in love within the space of a few hours. He’d called her Jingles. 

They found a spot on Primrose Hill, both of them unpacking the bags they had brought with them. A picnic blanket each they layered on top of each other to shield their bums from the cold ground. A flask of soup and a flask of tea to keep them warm as well as some snacks and tinned cocktails to see them through the night to the bells. Harry also had a half-sized bottle of champagne tucked in his bag for them to pop at midnight. 

They spent their evening wrapped up in each other in their own little bubble getting to know one another more than they already did and as Midnight came and fireworks began to pop and sizzle in the sky and people around them waved glittering sparklers around and the nearest church bells rang signifying a new hour and a new year Harry kissed Y/N again, this time with more certainty, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the joy of being with someone who understood her completely. For the first time, in what felt like forever, Y/N realized she didn’t need anything else.

They had everything right here and they thought that was pretty magical.

[hannahbarberra162]

Imagine Watching Robin Knit...

SFW! And an actual drabble! Can you believe it? I saw this official cover page request and a scene came to mind.

TW: None :) all fluffy sweetness

WC: ~1.4k

~

Your chin rested in your palm as you watched the 1,000 Sunny slice through the waters of the New World. Leaning against the railing of the deck, your ears and head were cold as the wind blew your hair higgeldy piggeldy but you didn’t bother to fix it with so much on your mind. 

You’d been with the Strawhats for a short amount of time but felt completely out of place.. They were so….easy going. You’d been on many other crews before and had expected a different vibe given that they were an Emperor’s Crew. You’d joined them as a jack of all trades - someone able to fill in for most positions on a ship - ranging from helmsman to navigator to sous chef to cleaning services. You’d been doing that job for years now and it fit you well, you thought, since you disliked too much work repetition.

The downside was that due to your ability to help in almost any position, on previous crews you were always working like a dog. You’d be given a long to-do list at the start of each day and expected to keep on top of everyone’s jobs, even if the crew were able to complete the tasks themselves. No matter how nice the crew was at the beginning of your stay, they always ended up stacking too much work on you which inevitably ended in you burning out and quitting the crew. You’d started this new job with the same expectations - you’d work at maximum capacity for a month or two until you couldn’t keep up with the list of demands and quit while ashore at some island. It wasn’t an ideal lifestyle but you didn’t have many other options at the present time.

Except there was something wrong with this crew. They didn’t give you a daily to-do list and they didn’t expect you to do their jobs for them. Sanji gently shooed you out of the kitchen most of the time you offered to help him, Nami offered to teach you more about navigation, and Usopp and Luffy tried to get you to play silly games with them. Some of the crew didn’t really seem to do much themselves - Robin was usually reading, Franky was busy building contraptions that didn't seem to bring value to the ship, and Zoro either napped on the deck or worked out. Part of you felt like there was a secret hidden list of tasks that they were looking for you to complete - a means to test how diligent you were. But no one commented on anything you did or didn’t do, besides compliments on the quality of your work. 

No one asked you to do much of anything, unless they needed a short break. And even then, they resumed their positions as soon as they were back. It was so different from all the other crews you'd been on where people took their time getting back to you, if they bothered to at all. It made you uneasy, like maybe they didn't trust you to do a good job or that they didn't find you capable.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself and all the extra time you had now that you weren’t needed as much. There were some duties that you took upon yourself - laundry, cleaning the dishes when Sanji would let you, taking night watch sometimes, but it wasn’t nearly enough to keep yourself busy. There simply wasn’t all that much to do once your tasks were completed. 

It made you feel purposeless. No, actually, it was worse than that. It made you feel useless.  Pointless. Meaningless.

Worthless. 

Something you’d heard beginning in early childhood that stuck with you since you left the South Blue. If you weren’t working, if you weren’t useful, if you weren’t productive - what were you? Why would anyone want you around? Every minute needed to be filled, every moment needed to be used to produce or repair or mend or….You sighed heavily. It was a never ending cycle, the desire to constantly be productive warring against your burnout and inability to balance everything in your life. There was never winning, only losing as you bounced from job to job, crew to crew…

“Anything on your mind?” Robin asked as she sat in a lounge chair knitting, her eyes downcast as her hands wound the yarn over the needles. The archaeologist was an unusual woman in many ways - you’d seen her bounty posters before you joined the crew so you knew she was a formidable fighter. But you’d never seen her do much other than reading or fiber crafts. Robin tended to favor knitting and crochet, but you’d also seen her embroider Nami’s initials on a shirt and mend Zoro’s haramaki. 

“Nah, nothing much. Just thinking,” you said with a bland smile. Robin hummed but didn’t say anything further, letting the matter drop. You’d probably drop off at the next island, this crew made you feel too out of sorts. You could deal with the burn out and the overcommitment and feeling like you were trying to hold water in your hands - that was familiar. This crew where you weren’t sure what their expectations were and constantly feeling like you couldn’t meet them? No thanks.

You looked over to see Robin knitting something smaller than her usual piece. She’d made something for everyone on the crew as far as you could tell - hats, scarves, socks, gloves, and even a smoking jacket for Sanji. She’d been working on a large afghan meant for the infirmary but apparently was taking a break.

“Robin, do you mind if I ask you a question?” you asked, turning to face her. You leaned with your back against the railing, the wind now whipping your hair forward into your face.

“Not at all. Feel free,” she answered, her eyes still counting her stitches as her fingers manipulated the yarn effortlessly.

“Why do you use your own hands to knit? Can’t you just use your power for that?” It was something you’d wondered about a few times. Robin raised her head and smiled at you. 

“Like this?” she asked as a dozen hands sprouted from the lounge chair. Each dipped into the knitting bucket by her feet and took out a different unfinished project and began working. Two additional arms sprouted from her elbows and took over the project in her hands. The progress that she made on all her pieces was astounding - the hands were able to increase the work of her true hands in moments, rather than the hours it would take manually. 

“Whoa, that’s - that’s impressive!” you said, watching the projects all progressing at a rapid rate. Robin smiled at you again as the hands stopped working. They each started removing the stitches they had just made, completely undoing the work that had just been completed. 

“Wh- wait! Wait! Don’t undo everything!” you said frantically, your own fingers twitching with the desire to stop the destruction. The hands ceased their work, put the projects back in Robin’s knitting bucket exactly as they were before. The arms poofed into flowers, the petals floating away in the evening sky.

“Why would you do that? You made so much progress,” you said despondently, looking at the now unfinished projects in the bucket. “They could have all been done tonight,” you lamented. Robin picked up the original project she’d been working on in her real hands and began casting off the stitches. She had made a cute hat that happened to be in one of your favorite colors. 

“I don’t view knitting as a task to complete or a goal to accomplish. I knit because I enjoy it. I relish the feeling of the yarn in my fingers and the ability to find calm when creating. I find pleasure in gifting my nakama the fruits of my labor, a physical remnant of the joy I had in crafting it. Do you understand?” she asked as she picked up a fabric needle from her project bucket and  began sewing up the top of the hat.

“Yeah, I get it. Thanks,” you replied easily, your mind already turning back to your previous thoughts. 

“There’s no award given at the end of life for maximum efficiency. There are tasks that need to be completed, but that’s not all there is.” Two arms sprouted from the railing and placed the now complete hat on your head, gently tucking your hair underneath. Robin came to stand next to you and put her hand on your shoulder.

“I think you need to live, not just survive.”

@mfreedomstuff

[guzhufuren]

Hey, I've noticed you've been pretty quiet lately and I hope you're doing okay. I know we're not friends or even mutuals so I'm sorry if I'm overstepping by messaging! I hope the world will treat you kindly and that you can find comfort and support if you need it 💕

hi sweetheart wow this is so genuinely nice and kind of you, thank you so much for caring to the point of reaching out

i'm on the way there! i will be okay, hopefully soon. it's not serious, i just had a medium sized break down after receiving a very negative comment on something i made, in mix with a bit of unrelated loneliness and yearning on top of that, plus many many 4am drowsy what-am-i-doing-with-my-life regretful thoughts that i have had in the last months swimming up. like for my unwellness history it's really only about 6 points on the scale where the maximum is 10, so not big. i turned all social apps off but couldn't shake off the distress caused by that one stranger on the internet being unkind to my project, despite knowing they were misunderstanding and were also not in a state to understand at all, so i was kind of confused about what's up with my brain and why it can't move on

and it was a good choice! because after being only with myself without any internet distractions for the first time in years, figured out in just a day that mood swings have been back for a while, over one month at least (so anger issues weren't totally Yunho's fault actually bless him), some other parts of mental health worsened too

got a grip on myself, went to my doctor, got back on meds, now i'm sleepy every minute of waking hours while my body is getting used to them again, but it's gonna be fine. received advice on how to write a mood log, turns out very helpful as additional treatment to keep hypomania and anxiety under control. i even started working out, doing memory exercises and preparing my exam notes tentatively, which is so hard and scary, oh my god, but i must. job search is even scarier but i'm working myself up to finding a good one with little, very very very very tiny steps but they are moving

in the first day of self made quarantine i rewatched the queer korean show Love for Love's Sake that cured me from depression for a while and from any possibility of suicidality for a lifetime last year. it didn't work the trick again, because i'm really not living in the best or even just calm psychological environment to let it do its magical healing thing the way it should, but it did give me new clarity and make me intensely cry some shit out, so that was also very nice

accidentally found the best fic ever and it brought me so much very needed comfort in the past week. it's sweet, funny and stress free. like a warm blanket. or a cup of vanilla cocoa that makes your cold toes tingle in winter. or a hug from the love of your life. first atz and woosan fic to enter my hall of all time longfic favourites. very rare honor but it deserves it completely

also found a bunch of bloggers who post videos of the ocean in Thailand, some even stream the beach 24/7. it's so cool, i watch it in the evenings for short periods of time. helps making it bearable to just survive here a little bit longer until i am able leave

i sort of of really like that when i don't spend 12 hours a day on the phone doing mind-numbing scrolling or posting, there is so much free time to do cool stuff? i have kinda felt like i can be back on here for a couple of days, but i still freak out a bit for two reasons. first, that bad comment is still hanging there and it still makes me too upset to open notifications or my own blog page, which is ridiculous but that's how my dumbass unwell-brain-made feelings are. so i will see how that goes away and i get over it like an adult. second, i'm scared to be sucked back in the addiction to the colourful little hellsite app so i usually end up throwing the phone away in panic after 5 minutes of the app being open. maybe i will work up to it more gradually, don't know, let's see how that goes too

thank you again my little treasure, i will happily take that kindness and comfort you offered here as you are a part of the world. and you can message without worrying anytime, no mutualship or officially labelled friendship necessary. i'm very cool with small amount of interactions, just not big on chatting online one on one for long and don't enjoy it super much. and also with how often i see you around we are considered friends for sure. so thank you again for being so sweet i really am so grateful to you for this, one hundred friend hugs in return

[sahisan]

Hello could you do birthday smut with either scara or kazuha or maybe both by chance since I my birthday I was wondering what links you would do but maybe you could add a bit of prasing in it?

★ summary: scaramouche x fem!reader. he gives you the best birthday present.

☆ cw: nsfw. oral recieving (reader). cunnilingus. overstimulation (a bit?). praise. use of "good girl", "love". 954 words.

☾ a/n: ty for this req! i'm really, like really sorry i ignored it for almost a month and happy late birthday to you! sorry no kazuha here though. (⁠｡⁠•́⁠︿⁠•̀⁠｡⁠) this post is also a thank you for 100 followers. for every and each one who follow me and support my works! thank you so much!(⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

this was definitely not how you intended to celebrate your birthday.

but it was definitely how scaramouche's imagined.

scaramouche’s lips curled into a wicked smirk as he felt your fingers tangle in his hair again, pulling him closer to your needy heat once more. how many times have you come on his tongue already? the action sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his core, fueling his desire to please you again and again, until you'll be satisfied. he groaned softly against you, the vibrations adding to the sensations on your clit yet again.

"you can't get enough of me, can you?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and satisfaction. his tongue expertly flicked and swirled against your swollen clit, his movements becoming more demanding and insistent, hearing your whimpers, that you truly tried to hold back, seeping out of your mouth much more loudly this time. "though, i can't deny you taste so fucking good... seems that it's me who can't get enough of you, huh?"

his hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he intensified his efforts, his mouth working you over with a relentless determination. the your body tensed, the way your moans were growing louder with each passing moment... this was just as he liked it.

you could feel yourself getting lost in the heady mixture of desire and need coursing through your veins, all of your body. the intensity of the moment fueled your aching desire, transforming his rough touch into something desperate and raw, making your fingers possessively tug on his hair once more, guiding his face closer and closer, with almost no gap between your cunt and his lips.

"s-scara- faster, a-ah... please, more!.." as your pleas filled the room, scaramouche could feel the familiar tightening in his own body, aching for release. but he held back, focusing solely on his lover's pleasure, his own desires temporarily put aside to bring you maximum of satisfaction on your birthday.

he could feel your body arching into him, your fingers tangling in his indigo locks, pulling on them almost desperately. It was a sensation he enjoyed, the mix of pleasure and slight pain fueling his desire further.

but amidst the primal cravings, a tenderness lingered. scaramouche couldn't help but be drawn to your vulnerability, to the way you trusted him implicitly with your pleasure. He adored the way your moans filled the room, how your body quivered under his ministrations.

"does it feel good, my love?" he growled, his voice vibrating against your sensitive skin. you had no time to answer, your mouth busy with moaning. "you're mine to devour, to pleasure. and I'll make sure you're left gasping and trembling by the time I'm done with your gift."

his movements became both demanding and passionate. his tongue flicked and circled over your clit, relentless in its pursuit of your release. he absolutely adored the way your body writhed under him.

but there was always an underlying tenderness in his actions. he would occasionally pause to press soft kisses to your thighs, his fingers tracing soothing patterns against your skin. he couldn't deny the swell of affection that surged within him.

as he continued to taste and devour you, two of his fingers joined in the play, slipping into your wetness to add to your pleasure. he curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot inside, his free hand gripping your thigh possessively, even if the main grip was your hand in his hair.

"mmn- scara... 't feels so good!.." you whimpered desperately, your voice almost pleading, aching for more. your body arched up, hips bucking against his mouth again and again. "please, don't- don't stop!.."

"mmm... i know, love, i won't." he murmured, his lips almost against your sensitive cunt, not letting go just yet.

he could feel your trembling, your moans growing louder, and he intensified his ministrations, urging you closer to your orgasm. with each flick of his tongue, each curl of his fingers, he was purposeful and focused on giving you the best birthday present he ever could.

"that's it, my love," he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. "you're such a good girl for me."

your walls clenched around his fingers at the praise - he definitely knew what he was doing. he held back a smirk, allowing you to guide him closer, relishing in the feeling of your fingers gripping his hair tightly.

his tongue worked with purpose and expertise, tracing circles and flicking against your sensitive flesh. his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking and teasing, fully committed to satisfying your need and desires.

as your moans grew louder, scaramouche intensified his rhythm, his actions becoming more fervent. he reveled in the taste, the texture, and the sounds of your pleasure, thoroughly enjoying the control you held over him in this moment.

his free hand traveled up your body, tracing soft caresses along the curve of your waist and the slope of your breasts. he could feel the tension building within you, the telltale signs of her imminent release. And he intended to push you over the edge again and again if needed.

"s-scara!.. coming, I'm... ah, I'm coming again!.." you pleaded, words interrupted with moans of your pleasure.

"that's it... come on my tongue like a good girl, my love." he whispered, the sensations pushing you over the edge yet again, as you released on his tongue one more time, gripping his hair tightly and not letting his mouth pull away.

he held you in his arms, allowing you to regain your breath, his touch gentle and comforting. the icy mask of his persona slipped for a moment, replaced by a softer expression.

"you were exquisite." he murmured, his voice tinged with sincerity. "i hope you know just how much I crave you, love. happy birthday."

[haroldthehuckleberry]

Pregnant boy-toy part 2/3

cw: mpreg, sex, controlling language, speed pregnancy

we sat and spoke for a few hours about the baby but i couldnt take my mind off how fucking sexy he was, i dont know if its the hormones but his physique and just everything was sending me wild, luckily my mountain belly was hiding my rock-hard cock in my sweatpants. the same couldnt be said for him… his massive member was clearly solid in his tight jock strap, he moved on to the couch next to me and my cock and cunt only twitched for him more.

his massive hands rested on my belly that dwarfed the tanned, veined beauties on the end of his wrists, his right hand slipped my tight vest up over my mountain-belly letting every inch of its tight skin breathe meanwhile his left hand glided up and down my thigh as my cock twitched and my cunt pulsed for him. suddenly i looked at myself and realised how much id changed, normally no man could drive me crazy enough to want him this much but its true- i needed him. i needed to please him. a whimper of a moan slipped out my lips followed by his gruff voice saying “good boy” to sooth me, those goddamn words that pissed me off to no-end only months ago are now ruling me those two words nearly made me cum on the spot when he say this though he wasn’t impressed

“tut tut, no slut of mine cums before i allow it” he bellowed as he pinched my sensitive swollen nipple causing me to moan again and drizzle a little milk for the first time “s-s-sorry” i whimpered in hopes hed allow me to cum, “sorry *what*” he said assertively “sorry d-d-daddy” i mutter half ashamed at how far id fallen for this God-like man and half so turned on it was starting to hurt my cock, “what a good little slut” he grinned as he pulled me up by my back and escorted me upstairs…

————————————

i lost count of how many times he came on my stomach of mass proportion but i was still not allowed. and i loved it. to think only jours ago i would have scoffed and rolled my eyes over being used like a machine but this is what i needed this whole time, i needed this man to control me. i assumed after i was finally allowed to cum i would leave and later plan the babies up-bringing but my daddy had different plans…

after another few hours of not cuming daddy finally let me and it exploded all over my belly-base as my cunt twitched and throbbed while his cock was being pulled out, i felt his spawn and his cum sloshing around inside me, i was full. maximum capacity. i didnt think my belly could get bigger when i arrived but it clearly has, i cant even sit up and i know daddy will only punish me if i ask for help so instead i ask permission to fall asleep, he grants me it before he gets me to suck him off one last time, i must obey.

after a great night sleep i expected to wake up to a slightly deflated belly as i assumed the cum would have been absorbed or whatever but no… my belly was EVEN bigger again my skin was so tight it looked nearly see through i looked about 18 months pregnant!! “WHAT THE FUCK!!” i screamed “shut it slut!” daddy shouted back twisting my pecs that had also swollen more over night, this pain added to the sight and feel of my belly immediately made my cock and cunt stand at attention ready for anything daddy wants me to do “p-p-please explain daddy” i beg trying not to make it obvious im ready for him whenever he wants me, “ you see,” he growls “my cum isnt like any other, i can get you pregnant no matter how far along you already are, and my spawn tend to grow bigger than the average” he puts his hand assertively on my globe of a stomach “normally my sluts come to me only a few months in so i have more time to utilise their breed-able bodies but you where naughty, you came to me late. so for this, i must teach you a lesson”

authors note:

thank you so much for the love on part one! i hope you enjoy this part too i have a rough plan for maybe one more part so unless i get an amazing idea there will probably be one more part to this series!

[turvi]

And I Love You So

All the images are taken from Pinterest.

"Severus and Y/n"

Severus groaned when he heard Professor Slughorn announce his new partner for potions. He thought he had impressed Slughorn enough to let him work individually, but the professor claimed that the other students could use his help.

He watched Y/n approach his desk. She looked so happy and bright. He rolled his eyes, distracting himself by collecting ingredients he would need to make potions. For now, Severus was glad that she was quiet until-

"Hey, I am Y/n L/n."

"I know"

This was how the majority of their time went by. Y/n would try to talk to Severus only to get a maximum of two words out of him. At times she could feel him getting restless beside her.

"You are putting too much Dittany root." His fingers twitched as he shifted his weight on his feet.

"Don't worry, Severus...I know what I am doing. Just wait and watch."

He scratched his head and watched as anxiety filled his chest. "It's too much it will explode on your face."

"Aww, Severus you care about me."

Severus looked at her with a disappointed look. "I care about you ruining such an easy potion."

"Trust me, Severus, I got this," Y/n said, patting his arm. Severus shivered when he felt her touch. It was so gentle and warm. His hands were never warm.

"Your hand is warm." He cupped his mouth instantly, not believing the words that came out of his mouth. It was an observation. Nothing...too bad, right? But then he saw Y/n smiling at him.

"Pay attention to your potion" He went back to stirring his potion. He never felt so warm. Probably the temperature is rising. He observed her potion and saw the dark shade of purple forming. While his potion was in a lighter shade.

What made it worse was that Slughorn gave Y/n extra credit for creating the perfect potion. He should have felt defeated and jealous. But she just looked so beautiful standing there smiling at him. What did he do for her to smile at him like that? Like a sweet summer, she shone bright, and she was so warm.

Severus shook his head. "I need a drink." He watched Y/n approach their desk with a smug smile. Severus gave a defeated sigh. "What?"

"Maybe you should put more dittany roots in your potion next time" She looked at him with a mischievous smile, and Severus let her win this time.

..........................................

A few months went by. The season of thunder and rainfall was here, indicating a bitter goodbye to the summer. He sat at the usual desk waiting for his partner- potions partner.

He felt her before he saw her. Her energy was so bright he could spot her in a crowd with his eyes closed. He waited patiently. Severus knew what she was going to say. "Did you hear the thunder?."

"Did you hear the thunder?" Y/n said and frowned when Severus chuckled. "What are you laughing about?"

"Y/n, you have been pestering me about monsoon since the start of our new term. I know how the sound of thunder and rain comforts you, and you love to dance in the rain like an idiot." His tone was more amusing than taunting, and Y/n knew.

"Ahh...so you listen to everything I say. And you say you don't care."

Severus smirked at her."I don't, darling, but you sit beside me regularly voicing your love for monsoon."

For the first time, Y/n was quiet. Her heart pounded against her chest at how he smirked at her and called her darling. She felt nice. She realised she liked seeing him smile.

After the class was over, it started raining again. "Come on, let's go."

"Y/n, where are we going. Slow down."

She didn't reply to him and walked out in the rain. "Y/n, come back. You will get sick."

Y/n twirled and let out a happy squeal. "Yeah, I will, but at least I am enjoying it right now."

Severus shook his head. The sound of her laughter felt like a warm hug in this cold weather. "Come on Sev, dance with me."

He shook his head. "No. I am not stupid like you. I don't want to get sick."

"Please, Severus, just once...then I won't bother you, please." she extended her hand. Severus had a lot of worries. What if someone saw him dancing with her? What if they get sick, what if they slip and fall. But her smile. He couldn't think of a reason someone would smile because of him. But here she was so happy and excited at the idea of dancing with him.

He cautiously held her hand and let the raindrops fall on him. His eyes widened when he felt her hand on his waist, his hands finding her shoulder and waist, drawing her closer to him.

Severus heard whispers and snickers in the background, but he just couldn't take his eyes away from her. The sound of rain and her humming drowned the sound of the whispers and snickers. He frowned only because he couldn't kiss her, thank her, or worship her just because she was patient with him. Just because she held him so gently. Just because she smiled.

.....................................

Smoke clouded his lungs as he tried to make his way through the corridor. He was in his room earlier trying to find ways to tell Y/n that he loves her. The past few days, his feelings have only grown whenever he would find her simply resting her head on his chest, holding his hand, or feeling her eyes on him whenever he looked away.

Dread filled his chest as he heard screams from the Hufflepuff tower. Severus ran as fast as he could, coughing as smoke entered his lungs, colliding with students running on the opposite side. The only thought in his head as his lungs burned was to save Y/n.

"Y/N!" Severus called out in desperation as the common room burned around him. He kept calling her, trying as he made his way through smoke and fire. Then he saw her trying to open the door to someone's dorm.

"Y/n, come out now."

"Severus, students are stuck in there. I can't leave them. Get out the fire is increasing." Y/n yelled as a pillar fell down, increasing the fire.

"I am not leaving without you." He didn't give her a chance to argue and helped her open the jammed door. "I'll put a spell that will clear the way."

Severus and Y/n finally got the door to open, and she helped the students out as Severus cleared the entrance for the students. As the last student got out, Severus got in to help Y/n out, and she smiled as she ran towards him. He picked her up and got her out of the tower before the fire consumed it.

"How did this happen?" She looked up at him as he carefully put her down. But he didn't respond. He just kissed her, his heart pounding against his chest with fear, relief and love. She smiled against his lips. "What was that for?"

"Sorry, I should have asked, I just-

She cut him off as she kissed him again. Severus held her tightly against him. The dread in his chest was still there. He felt like something was not right.

But Y/n sensed it before Severus could. She pushed him away, taking the attack that was meant for him. Severus could only catch a glimpse of the hooded figure.

Severus couldn't run after it as he held the lifeless body of Y/n. The one person who loved him. The one person who smiled when she saw him. He lost her in seconds, and he couldn't even tell her how much she meant to him, he couldn't tell her how much he loved to hear her laugh, he couldn't tell her he loved her.

Severus held her hand, but they were not warm anymore. He lost her. Forever.

...............................

14 years had passed. Severus lay there in the boathouse taking his last breaths. He knew everyone hated him, and he didn't mind, he never did. He could only hope now that Harry and his friends would win the war. He couldn't do much. He finally could rest.

But as Severus started to close his eyes, he heard a familiar. He instantly recognised her voice. Was it really her? He could see Harry was trying to revive him. But Severus didn't want to live anymore. Not when she stood there smiling at him like she did all those years ago.

"Y/n!" his voice croaked, and the trio looked around, trying to see what he was looking at but saw nothing. The trio saw life fade away from Severus. They mourned his loss, not knowing he was finally where he always wanted to be. With Y/n. Dancing with her to her favourite song.

A/N: I hope this was good. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED

[oldvampkitsuneeee]

I wrote this work last year and never planned to publish it, but I remembered it last night, thought about it and decided to translate this work (sorry if it's not very good :"D). Female reader. Jade almost drowned Yuu. Fluff. ***

Today turned out to be a very hot day. There was not a single cloud in the sky, the sun was shining brightly, and there was unbearable heat. On this day off, the students of Night Raven College mostly was in their dormitories and tried to escape the heat. Someone was running to Sam's store for ice cream and drinks.

Yuu and Grim were at their home in the Ramshuckle. It was the hardest for them. Ordinary students could use water or wind magic to somehow refresh themselves. Some of the dorms had cool temperatures, but these two didn't even have a fan and were sitting in a stuffy house.

Grim was lying on the floor in the shape of a star. It was coolest there, although it was uncomfortable. The cat stretched as best he could. The presence of wool complicated his situation, because it made him unbearably hot. Yuu was lying on the sofa, throwing one leg over the back and holding a homemade fan in her hand, fanning herself with it. – It’s horrible! – she shined from her soft place, – I hope this is the first and last time it’s so hot outside. I don’t want to sit in a stuffy school office and die from the stuffiness.

– Maybe if this doesn’t stop, we just won’t go anywhere? – Grim expressed his thought, – We don’t lose anything and the maximum is that if we do this, they will tell us how bad we are and shouldn’t do that.

At this moment, a vibration was heard coming from Yuu’s phone. Muttering something dissatisfied, she reached for the phone, which lay on a small table in front of the sofa. Her face immediately changed from dissatisfied to joyful.

– It’s Jade? – Grim asked with grin.

The girl on the sofa first glanced briefly at the monster, then took him aside, pursing her lips to hide an embarrassed smile. She had been in a relationship with Jade for several months. They didn’t really advertise it, and only those closest to them knew about their couple. It was Grim, Floyd and Azul. The latter was not very happy about this union, but remained silent. Yuu still felt awkward about some things, and half the time she was either embarrassed or went into denial and pretended there was no chemistry between her and the moray, while Jade liked to tease her about it when they were alone.

They have seen each other quite rarely lately. Both were swamped with schoolwork, and Jade also had his own duties as vise housewander and work in the Lounge.

– Hmm, he writes that they will cool off in one of the tanks, and invites us to join them. – the girl said, quickly typing out an answer, after which she got up from the sofa and went to her room to change from her home clothes into something more decent. – Couldn’t he arrange a normal date for you in the pool with all this romantic stuff? – Grim meowed and stretched, after which he stood up and also headed into the room for Yuu.

– Grim, it’s not a date!

– Yeah, yeah, as you say, henchman. ***

They arrived at the Octavinelle dorm. After a walk under the scorching sun, they breathed a sigh of relief when they found themselves in a cool room. The  hall was empty. It seems that today even the octotrio were unable to work and had a day off. Or no one wanted to drag themselves to them.

Yuu walked to the upper floors while Grim sat on her shoulder, where the entrances to the tanks were located. Azul was sitting near one of them. He was wearing only a shirt and shorts. The guy was sitting on the edge with his feet in the water. Behind him were plates of snacks and drinks.

– Hello, Azul! – Yuu greeted him. The guy looked at them and nodded in response. It was noticeable that the octopus was somehow tired today. She sat down to the right of Aschengrottno, also dipping her feet into the water, and placed a plate of takoyaki between them. Grim jumped off his shoulders and settled down on the cool floor behind them.

– Uh, where these morays? – the cat asked, – Jade seemed to invite us, but he himself disappears somewhere.

At that moment they noticed that “something” very long was swimming in the water. It leaned towards them, and very soon Floyd and part of his body emerged from the water.

– Shrimpy! Seal! You’re finally arrived! Why so long? the merfolk asked displeasedly, – Jade and I already thought that you wouldn’t come. – He pouted. Floyd swam up to Azul and put his legs on his chest, holding them with his hands. The head of the hostel did not object, but only handed the moray a sandwich. – Speaking of Jade, where is he? – Yuu asked. She was just about to say something else when suddenly her boyfriend surfaced right in front of her. Jade buried his face in her stomach and hugged her, pulling the girl closer to him. Yuu was taken aback by such actions of her young man. Her face flushed red and she looked away nervously. The girl timidly ran her hand through the moray’s hair. They usually did not show affection towards each other in front of other people. No matter how teasing the eel was, he himself was often embarrassed by many of the actions of his passion. It was much easier for these two to express their feelings in private. But apparently now Jade didn’t care about strangers. He had not seen his pearl for too long, had not heard her voice, had not touched her, had not smelled her sweet perfume. He only had her messages on his phone, which they exchanged at the end of the day to say how much they missed each other. Jade soon broke away from his girlfriend and dove under the water. What no one expected was for him to grab her legs and drag her along with him. Yuu screamed, attracting the others' attention. Grim and Azul immediately jumped up from their seats, but before they could do anything, the prefect was already under water. Having plunged under water, she began to panic. It was dark around, nothing could be seen or heard, it was hard for her to breathe. Jade's hands disappeared somewhere, and Yuu felt like she was sinking. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Suddenly, Yuu felt the merfolk's hands again, already on her waist. He pressed her to his chest and began to swim away somewhere with her.

– Jade, what are you doing?! Azul, do something! – Grim yelled, turning to senior student.

– You know, little seal, I wouldn’t recommend interfering with Jade now. –  Floyd said calmly, leaning his face on his hand, –  He has been so gloomy all this days.

After a few seconds the eel stopped. Yuu felt how they seemed to turn over, and then his long tail was under her feet so that the girl could sit on it. She felt like she was about to suffocate, but they finally emerged. – Jade! – the girl screamed through her cough, – Are you an idiot?! I could have drowned! – her hair blocked her entire view, so she began to move it apart in different directions to glare angrily at the moray eel.

The merfolk pressed himself against the top of his girlfriend's head, inhaling the sweet scent. One of his hands landed on her thigh, stroking her soothingly. – I just missed you, my pearl. – Jade said quietly in the girl’s ear with his velvet voice, which sent shivers down her spine. – But there was no need to drag me under the water. – she pouted, – Now I’m all wet! But now you’re not hot anymore. – Jade kissed his beloved on the temple, gigling. Sighing, Yuu leaned back against his chest, relaxing. – But don’t you dare scare me like that again. – she muttered, closing her eyes. – I won’t.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Baby: Part Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst, feeling broken and utterly helpless to the point of depression, wanting to die, being shot

Summary: You're trying to prove to Sam and Dean that after two months of having your soul restored, you're all better. You'll gladly play the part if it means they don't worry about you. However, that facade is slowly being stripped away from you the longer you go without facing up to those feelings. You're not okay and you need to stop pretending like you are.

Season Eleven Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

Dean pulls out of the parking lot and resumes the drive to Oregon, and you flip open the blank notebook and put your pen to the paper. Maybe in order to start to heal, you need to get out what's been bothering you. You have to do this for your kids. They'll become Sapphire Witches in the future, maybe only one of them might, but they're going to need something to fall back on when they find themselves in the same situation as you.

You pray to God that they never have to lose their souls but in the instance that it happens, they're gonna want to know what to do or how to get through it. There are plenty of books on the Sapphire Witch, even the journal that the previous Sapphire Witches had all written in. You'll write your own entries one day but right now, you have to focus on making a Scarlet Witch book.

You have to document what happened, what kind of magic you used, and how you felt so that future generations can look back on it and realize they're not alone.

Where do you even begin? From the beginning, I guess.

I am leaving this journal behind as a sort of... guide... for whoever needs to read it. I'm not even sure where to start. I don't remember much about my time as the Scarlet Witch, but I know the Mark of Cain helped me unlock that side of it. Does that mean I'll get that magic back if I ever become soulless again? I'm not sure. It's possible which means it's possible for you to gain these powers, hence this journal. The power I felt... It was like someone flipped a switch in my brain and dialed everything I felt to the maximum. It was evil. It was chaos. I could do things I can't do now. Well, maybe I can. I'm honestly afraid of using my magic in fear I'll tap into that side of me again. I craved power which is what you'll crave if you ever come across this side of you. I did anything I could in order to feed that monster inside of me, including hurting the people I love.

You take a break and look out the window before you start sobbing. Knowing how you feel is different than explaining it on paper for someone to read. It's going to be a long time before you're okay again but you have to get this down on paper before you refuse to do it. You tape the end of your pen rhythmically on the notebook as you think of what to say next.

"So, 'digging into the lore'? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Man, I needed that," Sam laughs.

"Look at that, you're finally not a virgin anymore," Dean grins. "You know what? I think it was time. I respect the fact that you know, wanted to stay true and pure and waited."

"You know what? You're an idiot," Sam scoffs.

"You even put a blanket down. Classy and thoughtful as always."

"I tried to give her my number. You know what she said?"

"We got tonight. Who needs tomorrow?"

"Is everything a Bob Seger song to you?"

"Yeah, well..." Dean looks at his brother who tries to hide a yawn. "You're tired. I'm still wired so I'm gonna pull over and get some gas. You hop in the back and get some Z's because you earned 'em. Proud of you, little brother." Dean pulls into the first gas station he sees and looks at you who is still staring out the window. "Hop up here, sweetheart."

You and Sam trade places, and you put your notebook away knowing you can't find the words to say. You don't want to rush this so you'll find some time to write later. You lean your head on the window and close your eyes. Maybe you'll get some sleep if you allow yourself to relax.

You gasp awake when you hear the sound of a train blaring its horn. You're still up front with Dean who has a book open on his lap. Sam jerks and looks around, having been shocked awake from the train as well. Dean is parked on the side of the road since there isn't a motel around for miles, and he doesn't want to drive anymore.

"Welcome to the Winchester Motel. We don't have cable, but we do have room service." Dean takes a beer from the cooler that's sitting on the floorboard by you and tosses it to Sam. "You were singing in your sleep. You know, that song Mom loved that Dad used to always play for us. I think I've actually still got the tape."

"Hey, Dean, when you and Y/N saw the Darkness, you weren't sure if it was the real thing or a vision, right?"

"It was real to me," you whisper.

"I think I've been having visions, too, lately. It's just images. I mean, more of a... feeling, really. I just had one right now, and Dad was in it, but it wasn't Dad like... like the Dad that I grew up with. It was Dad when he was our age. I guess it wasn't even really Dad. It was someone pretending to be Dad and--"

"Okay, what makes you say that?" Dean cuts his brother off from rambling.

"For starters, he told me everything I wanted to hear from him."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound like Dad."

"No. Anyways, whoever it was, they had a message to deliver. They said the Darkness is coming, and only we can stop it."

"Did they have him give you any helpful tips on how to do that?"

"He said, 'God helps those who help themselves.' I mean, maybe these visions are coming from God."

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"The first one happened after I prayed."

"You prayed? When was this?"

"Back with Jenna and Amara. After I got the phone call that Y/N was gone." You look down, remembering how you wanted to end your life. I still do. "I was worried."

"What did you pray about?"

"I guess I was just looking for answers, you know?"

"Well, I'm sure whatever is kicking around in your head right now is a side effect of being in close proximity to Amara."

"I don't think it's that simple."

"Come on, man. That quote? 'God helps those who help themselves'? God didn't say that. That's not even in the Bible. That's an old proverb that dates way back to Aesop." You and Sam look at Dean like he grew two heads. "What? I read. More importantly, when was the last time God answered any one of our prayers? It's not a vision, Sam. It's just some fever dream. That's all. As far as Dad goes, I dream about Dad all the time."

"You do?"

"Of course, I do. It's usually the same one, too." Dean looks down as he speaks, unable to look at anyone in the eyes when he says this. "We're all in the car. I'm sitting in the driver's seat and Dad is sitting shotgun. There aren't any shotguns. There are no monsters. There's no hunting. There's none of that. It's just... He's teaching me how to drive, and I'm not little like I was when he actually taught me how to drive. I'm sixteen, and he's helping me get my learner's permit. Of course, you two are in the backseat, just begging to take a turn. We pull up to the house--the family house--and I park in the driveway. He looks over and says, 'Perfect landing, son.' I have that dream every couple of months. Kind of comforting, actually."

"I always dream about mom. Usually the same kind of thing, though."

"Normal life?"

"Yeah. Normal life. Mean, I know we have a family and kids which is what we dream about, but there is no hunting."

"Yeah, I get it."

"Dean, this wasn't just a dream. I'm telling you."

"Why would somebody dress up like Dad to give you a message? I mean, it's Dad. You don't exactly have a history of listening to what he had to say."

"You two said the Darkness is sending messages to you. Y/N, is this any different than her messages to you? Maybe whatever is the opposite of the Darkness is sending messages to me."

"You think that's God?" you ask. "He's not exactly a team player at the moment."

"Okay, maybe it's not God, but--"

"Look, I know what you're trying to do here. You're trying to find some greater meaning to it all. Right? Some explanation as to what went down. I'm telling you, Sam. The Darkness? It's on us. No one's gonna help us, certainly not God, so we'll have to figure this thing out like we always do. Until then, we hunt."

"Goodnight, jerk," Sam scoffs.

"Night, bitch."

It's lights out now, so you and Dean shift so that he's lying on the seat with you on top of him. You rest your head above his heart while he rubs your back softly to calm your racing heart. You lift your head enough to catch his eyes.

"Dean, I..."

The words are lodged in your throat.

"I know, sweetheart. I do, too," he whispers.

You lean up and kiss him emotionally before putting your head back down on his chest. You don't have any nightmares and you think it's because you're in your husband's arms. 

When you wake up the next morning, Dean finishes the drive to Oregon and drops Sam off at the Sheriff's station while you and Dean head to the ME's office to look at the body. After getting what he needs, you two head back to the station and wait for Sam to be done. You're sitting in the front with your head leaning on the window just watching the wind blow the leaves on the ground. Dean reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you turn your head to look at him.

"How are you doing?"

"Okay, I guess."

"I want you to be honest with me about how you're feeling. I'm your husband."

"I wish I wasn't here. I know that's not fair of me to say but it's true. I should have let Death put me on another planet when I had the chance."

"I promised you that I would bring you back and I did. I took care of you while you were stuck inside my head. Now, I promise you that I will get you back to how you were before. No matter how long it takes." You scoot closer to him and put your forehead on his. He drops his voice to a whisper. "I promise you'll feel okay one day."

"I love you so much."

"I love you so much."

You two share a slow and intimate kiss. Everything else melts away so that it's only you and Dean in this moment. You pull away just as Sam walks out of the Sheriff's station and just like that, everything comes back into focus.

"Hey, the coroner showed me the sheriff's body. It was mauled all right. Get this, his heart was missing and his was body completely drained of blood."

"So, what? Are we looking for a werewolf/vampire hybrid?"

"Say it with me. A Were-pyre. Huh?" Dean asks with a grin.

"No."

"Come on."

"I'm not saying that," Sam snips.

"Whatever. I called Cas and told him to look into the lore. What do you got?"

"The Sheriff's replacement, Deputy Donnelly, is not the brightest bulb. I got a copy of his report, through. Maybe he missed something."

Speaking of, the Deputy walks to the window and kneels down right where Dean is sitting.

"Agents."

"Deputy."

"They must be your partners. Agent Walsh and Richards, right?" He looks from Sam to you to Dean. "Pleasure to meet you. I just want to thank you three for stopping by. We really appreciate your due diligence."

"Actually, do you know a motel where we can crash for the night?"

"You're staying?"

"Yeah, we want to be thorough."

"Well, there's a motel on Downey that'll give you a good price. If you're looking for a decent meal, you can't beat Aunt Mel's down by the train station. Parking is a bitch but it's the best damn steak in the whole state."

"You had me at 'steak'," Dean grins.

Dean drives to Aunt Mel's and grumbles in annoyance when he sees the valet parking service. He doesn't see a way out of it so he's forced to use their service. Sam looks over at his brother who refuses to hand his keys over to the very young woman.

"Dean, people valet park all the time. Come on, live a little."

Dean gets out of the car and hands the woman his keys but not without a warning.

"Yeah, listen, uh," he looks at her nametag, "Jessie, not a scratch, okay?"

You three head inside and Sam gets a table in the back, and you pull your phone out of your pocket to call Molly.

"Hey, how's the hunt going?" she answers.

"Oh, uh, okay. How are the kids?"

"The girls are angels. It's Noah I'm still having trouble with. Don't worry, I've dealt with this kind of thing before. I always leave a family with everyone loving me."

"Is he there with you?"

"Yeah."

"Put him on, please." There is a shuffle on the other end before Noah comes on the line. You step off to the side to speak privately while the brothers order food. "Noah, why are you giving Molly a hard time?"

"I want to be out there with you hunting."

"Noah... I know you want to come out with us but getting an education and being a kid is more important. You'll have your entire life to hunt but you can only be a kid once. Trust me, as someone whose childhood was stolen, being a kid is so much more important."

"Yeah, I guess," he sighs.

"Okay, look, why don't I make a deal with you? If you continue to go to school and not give Molly a hard time, I'll take you out and practice hunting with you. I'll teach you how to use all sorts of weapons and give you some training. Deal?"

"Yeah, we can do that."

"Okay, I gotta go but I love you."

"I love you, too."

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[thewarfox]

There's what I think happened.

This is my theory of things. After the debate between Joe Biden and Donald Trump, the Democrats and their machine completely gave up on any idea of winning the election. They recognized in that moment that their puppet broke, and they didn't have time to build up a new one. You can see this in the frank way all of the news organizations were acting after Joe Biden self destructed live on TV for millions to see. There was no hiding his condition anymore. You couldn't spin what we saw as him being sick. There were some attempts, but they all fell away before the debate even ended.

If the election had been that night, it would have been a more convincing victory than the 5th was.

Unburdened by the notion of even worrying about winning, the Democrat party decided to run an experiment. At first there was some notion of seeing whether or not they could keep pushing Joe Biden to the finish line, but with defeat virtually assured, they didn't want to tarnish the legacy of Joe Biden more than was necessary. He's a very old and storied member of his party, however they felt about him, and he will have some kind of lineage or legacy that might continue on in politics after him.

Kamala Harris is one of the most uniquely unlikeable people in politics. Her ability to say a lot of words and provide zero meaning is maybe the most impressive in all of politics, and that's the only strength she has. She was the perfect candidate for being a test subject. If they could get someone like her even CLOSE to the White House, it would allow the Democrat Party and its media allies to really stress test just what was possible if they pushed all the levers to the maximum.

NOTHING WAS SPARED as far as tactics thrown at Donald Trump. Every possible way to spin every story against him was performed. Every possible mention of Hitler was made. They did not hold back except for about two days after they almost got him shot(which they would not have been unhappy about at all). It is very possible, though we'll probably never know, that Biden's CIA orchestrated the assassination attempts.

The gamble was that if Harris lost, she would take all the blame for the failures of the Democrat party. If she won, she would be wielded as a puppet as was her predecessor. This is a no lose scenario for Democrats after Joe Biden's brains leaked out of his ears on national television.

This is the end of Kamala Harris' political career. And honestly, I have no reason to think she's unhappy about this. I'm sure she would like to have left in less disgrace, but I saw no reason to think she actually wanted to be the president. She was the natural replacement. The legal troubles that would have ensued if they picked anyone else over the millions of dollars raised in Biden's name would have been insane if they didn't pick his running mate. And a contested convention was straight up not an option. It would have been a bloodbath. Possibly literally.

Trump won this election months ago. He defeated a second Democrat this election cycle last night. He ended two political careers last night. No matter how you feel about that, it is undeniable that Donald Trump won in spite of all effort to stop him, and it was a convincing and thorough win. What would his victory have looked like without years of propaganda and legal pressures? What would it have looked like if he had not been pushed harder than literally any political candidate in US history?

The coalition of allies that Donald Trump gathered is HISTORIC. Disaffected Democrats, a Libertarian, and Trumpian Republicans joining a 1990s New York Democrat turned Republican. The Republican party is transformed. It is not what it was in the year 2000 anymore. It has subsumed much of what the Democrat party used to be, and the Democrat party now is the party of Middle Managers, Corporations, Elitists, and Aristocrats.

The Democrat party is in ruins. It is an unstable coalition of groups that will now fall into civil war. There will be no maintaining any grip on the Muslim community as long as the LGBT is part of the party. There is no maintaining of progressives as long as the party supports Israel and ignores Palestine. There is no maintaining the unions after Joe Biden cracked down on the railroad worker's strike. Communists drove out the Cuban and former Soviet immigrant voters. Abortion has proven itself a losing issue. It's over. Whatever form the Democrat party takes in 2028 will be unrecognizable to the party of today.

Donald Trump's victory is complete and total. His opponents have nothing left they could possibly throw at him. Republicans had better fall in line, because the people that voted for this man will not tolerate anyone getting in the way of his agenda, and they will maintain a long memory after he is gone from politics.

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

(Finding Adam!)

It's been two years since Morningstar family was thorn apart and reunited. It's been two years since the heated argument between Lucifer and Charlie that nearly broke their family, but now, they were stronger than ever.

Adam has since moved in with the Morningstars, helping raising Charlie and officially dating with Lucifer for about same amount of time since their big adventure. They weren't officially married yet, but they didn't feel it was too important for them at the moment. For now they were just happy with things as they were. Charlie herself was now 12 and just as upbeat as ever. Now, obtaining more freedom than before, she was enjoying life to the maximum, her fathers supporting her every beginning.

First story of their heartbreak was long since over... but little did they know that new one was about to start... as one night, Adam started to having weird dreams.

For months, whenever he went to sleep, he could hear a little boy, about 5 years old, talking to somebody... he never could make out what he was saying, but... it felt familiar.

Until one night, it finally came clear to him :

Adam, 5 years : Hi, I'm Adam. I suffer from short-term re-membory loss.

Was it... himself?

????? : Yes!

????? : This is exactly how you say it!

Two new voices cut through. One seemed to belong to an adult woman and other to a girl around Charlie's age... He couldn't place them in memory, nor to faces he'd seen... but they sounded so right. So familiar... comforting. Like he'd trust their every word and that, whoever these two were... they'd go out of their way to keep him safe.

Back in dream, what seemed to be his younger self, Adam was singing some silly little tune to himself, before he stopped.

Baby Adam : I forget... again?

?????? : No, no!

?????? : No, Addie! It's okay!

?????? : No biggy, Starlight.

Baby Adam : What if I forget you..? (Gasps) Would you ever forget me?!

?????? : Oh, Starlight, no...

Then, he felt something warm, like a hand, on his cheek. Whoever has that woman speaking, she seemed to care a lot for him...

?????? : We will never forget you, Adam... And we know you will never forget us...

And with that, the man jumped awake from his dream. He started to take deep breaths, like if after waking up from a nightmare... even if that dream was far from being one.

He placed his hand on his cheek, when he felt something... wet on it. Adam pulled his hand back to see... tears. He was crying? Why was he crying? Who were those woman and girl in his dream? Were they important? Did he know them? What was happening?

He dropped back onto his back, covering his face with his hand.

Just what was the meaning of this?

(Also forgive me I've only seen Finding Dorey once)

Lucifer: Hey sleepy head, you okay?

He handed his boyfriend a plate of pancakes, Adam thanked him and dug in.

Adam: I keep.... Having these weird dreams. Not nightmares but dreams.

Lucifer creased his brow: About what?

Adam: About these two women, one older one younger. They keep saying how they won't forget me......

Lucifer had been told about how Adam came with his current parents. He was lucky that didn't happen with Charlie. He felt so bad for Adam when he told him.

Lucifer: Maybe it's not a dream? Memory maybe?

Adam: If that's true I still don't know who they are. I can't see their faces.

Lucifer: Give it time Addie, it'll come to you.

[seriouslysam8]

Could you share a snippet of #6 or #7? I’m curious in what state Andy and Ted find Harry, and I want to know what Ginny’s reaction is when she finds out Harry’s sick!

I’ll give you seven because I have more of that written.

If you read the MIT series, you’ll see a familiar name. 😁

It has been ten months and four days since Sirius Black had seen the outside of his cell in Azkaban when two human guards practically dragged him from his cell, his feet fumbling to walk but they only felt like jelly from lack of use. Nobody said a word to him as they made their way down a long corridor, prisoners screaming in their own despair all around him. It seemed to take days to get to their destination. Some windowless room with only a table and two chairs opposite of each other.

Sirius grunted as they forced him to sit down. Grabbing his hands, they fastened them to manacles attached to the table before they bent down to click manacles on his ankles as well. Sirius didn’t bother to look at what his legs were attached to. He just wanted to sleep as Padfoot, to be left alone.

The guards left. Sirius leaned forward, his hands carding through his knotted hair. His eyes slid closed, wondering if this was some new form of torture he was going to be subjected to. The door opened to the right but Sirius didn’t even bother to look to see who it was. All he knew was that it wasn’t a dementor because he wasn’t seeing James or Harry in his head.

“Sirius,” a familiar female voice breathed.

Looking up, Sirius saw Andromeda Tonks standing there dressed to the nines in an emerald green sheath dress and black robes. Her big gray eyes searched his, a watery smile crossing her features as she stepped forward. Her heels clicked against the stone, echoing in the small space. She knelt down beside his chair, her hands cupping his bearded face.

“Merlin, Sirius,” Andromeda whispered, a stray tear escaping the corner of her right eye. “Is this how they treat all the prisoners?”

Sirius felt a lump in his throat. He didn’t know. He was on one of the highest floors in maximum security. Nobody there was afforded the luxury of leaving their cell. Maybe those on the lower levels were given more freedoms. Sirius didn’t know nor did he really care. He had lost everything, so the sun seemed trivial.

“Sirius, can you hear me?” Andromeda pressed, her hands sliding down his face.

“Yeah,” he croaked, his voice sounding so foreign to his own ears.

Andromeda let out a sigh as she stood up. “We should sue. The condition you are in is appalling! I mean, I expected it with the way I’ve seen those on trial looking, but it’s… I’ll get you cleaned up. I’ll push for it. You’ll need to look presentable for your trial.”

Sirius’ eyebrow rose. “Trial?”

Andromeda huffed. “Do you know how much time it took me to secure you one? The so-called Minister of Magic said it was an open and closed case. Reeks of corruption and incompetence. I didn’t take that lying down. I went to every single magazine and newspaper who would listen to me. Took ages to get people to care enough.”

Sirius nodded, trying to comprehend what Andromeda was actually saying to him. He felt weak and his head spun. Part of him just wanted to lie down but he couldn’t thanks to the manacles. He glanced down at his hands.

“Sirius!” Andromeda exclaimed. “Are you still mentally there? Did they, Merlin, did they damage you beyond repair? You need to be competent to stand trial! To be able to speak full sentences!”

Sirius blinked, his thumb brushing right above the manacle. “How…” Sirius cleared his throat. “How’s Harry?”

Andromeda let out a scoff, causing Sirius to look up at her. “Harry? You’re concerned about Harry Potter right now?”

“He’s my godson,” Sirius replied, stating the obvious because Andromeda knew all about Sirius’ love for his godson. He had sent Andromeda countless letters filled with stories about the little boy, not to mention the pictures. Merlin, he had sent her so many pictures before everything went to shit.

“I don’t know how Harry is!” Andromeda exclaimed as she sat down across from him, her arms crossing over her chest.

Sirius licked his cracked and dry lips. “Can you find out?”

Andromeda pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sure he’s fine, Sirius. He’s off doing normal toddler things.”

Sirius shook his head. “He’s with Lily’s sister.”

Andromeda sighed and glanced across the table at him. “Then I’m sure he’s having a blast with his aunt.”

Sirius sneered. “Her sister hates magic. She hated Lily. She hated James.”

Andromeda’s eyes softened. “You’re worried she’s not treating him right?”

“Either she grew a heart or she’s the same bitch I met a few years ago,” Sirius replied. “Can you check on him? Make sure he isn’t…”

Sirius snapped his mouth shut, his gaze falling back to his hands. He couldn’t say the words out loud because he feared they might be true.But a trial meant he had a way to leave Azkaban, to have the Hit Wizards look for Peter, and to be reunited with Harry. Sirius had never wanted anything more in his life than to feel Harry’s chubby little arms wrap around his neck again.

Andromeda’s hand touched his. He stilled at the touch, as odd expanding feeling filling his chest. He forgot what a nice touch felt like. Sniffing, he blinked rapidly a few times.

“Nobody is as bad as Walburga,” Andromeda whispered. “I can’t believe anyone would be as cruel as she was.”

Sirius swallowed. “You don’t know that. He’s so little. He lost everything that night and he’s with a woman who despises magic.”

Andromeda sighed, her eyes searching his. “Do you know where she lives? Her name? Anything?”

A weight lifted off Sirius’ shoulders. “Petunia and Vernon Dursley. They live in Little Whinging. Somewhere on Privet Drive. That’s all I know.”

Andromeda squeezed his hand. “All right. I’ll stop by after I leave here and before I meet with the lawyer.”

“Lawyer?” Sirius asked. “You hired me a lawyer?”

Andromeda snorted. “Of course, I hired you a lawyer. I wasn’t going to let you defend yourself. What a disaster that would be.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Who did you hire?”

Andromeda pursed her lips.

“Andy,” Sirius pressed.

“Humphrey,” Andromeda said in a cagey tone.

Sirius blinked at her. “Humphrey who?”

Andromeda cleared her throat. “Humphrey Slughorn.”

“No, no, no, I’m not having some Slughorn defend me in court,” Sirius protested.

“Look, Hugh said he’s made a lot of deals for-“

Sirius scoffed. “Wait, Hugh? You mean Hugh Slughorn? Your old Hogwarts sweetheart?”

Andromeda narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes! Humphrey is Hugh’s brother.”

“So, he’s Horace Slughorn’s nephew?” Sirius clarified. “No, I refuse.”

Andromeda arched her eyebrow at him. “Do you want to see Harry again or not?”

Sirius’ heart hammered in his chest at the very prospect of seeing Harry. He wouldn’t just want to see Harry again. No, he’d want full custody and a nice place to keep him safe. If Humphrey bloody Slughorn was the best chance he had… Sirius rubbed his chin as he listened to Andromeda continue singing her praises.

“Humphrey is your best chance. He was Lucius Malfoy’s lawyer and he’s sitting free and happy, drinking wine in his fancy Wiltshire estate. Humphrey also represented Macnair,” Andromeda continued as she held up two fingers. “Yaxley.” She held up another finger. “Do you want me to continue? There’s about five more I can give references for.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “So he basically got off actual Death Eaters.”

“If he can get actual Death Eaters off, imagine what he could do for an innocent wizard,” Andromeda stated.

Sirius sighed. “Does Ted know you’ve been talking to Hughie?“

Andromeda scoffed. “Ted and Hugh are good friends.”

“Right,” Sirius replied, his hands clasping in front of him. “Can you come by tomorrow and let me know how Harry is?”

“Merlin, Sirius, you have a one track mind! There are other things you need to be worrying about!” Andromeda protested.

Sirius shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Where would your mind be if you were in prison and helpless while Dora was off with some magic hating Muggles who hated you?”

A pounding sounded on the door. “Five minutes!”

Sirius sighed, hating that he would only feel alive and human for five more minutes before he was dragged back with the dementors to rot and become a shell of a person again.

“Andy, please,” Sirius insisted.

“Fine. I’ll find him,” Andromeda assured him. “I’ll make sure he’s all right.”

Sirius chewed on his bottom lip. “You’ll help him if he’s not?”

Andromeda stiffened. “What exactly are you asking me to do, Sirius? Kidnap the boy?”

Sirius scratched his yellowing nail against a groove in the table. “If you think they’re hurting him, then yes.

“You can’t be serious!” Andromeda hissed, leaning forward. “You cannot ask that of me!”

Sirius swallowed and looked up at his cousin. “What’s the date?”

Andromeda blinked. “The fifth of September. 1982. You’ve been here for nearly a year.”

Sirius nodded, a lump as solid and hard as a rock settling in his stomach. “So Harry is a little older than two. Two, Andy.

Andromeda sighed, her lips pursing to the right. He blinked at the only family member he still liked, willing her to understand his anxiety and fears for Harry. He didn’t know if it was magnified because of his long exposure to the dementors or because there was a very real cause for him to be so alarmed. Would Petunia actually hurt a child because of her jealousy and bitterness towards Lily?

[lurkingshan]

Step by Step Episode 11 (OF DOOM)

Warning: I really, really did not like this episode. If you’re trying to keep positive vibes you should scroll on by, friends! 

Welp. I told a few friends last week that my biggest disappointment would be if, after missing the mark on the emotional payoff of the slow burn and speed running the relationship, the show chose to break them up and do a time jump rather than staying with them in the present time and working through the conflicts they set up. And here we are! I wish I’d been wrong about where this was heading. Shouts to @waitmyturtles and @neuroticbookworm for holding me down while this show fell apart on me, I’ve been all in a tizzy about it, because I really loved it for awhile there.

This episode, yet again, felt like a disjointed mess. After last week’s cliffhanger, the idea of Pat resigning to get away from the predatory office gossip fell away within a few quick scenes. Instead the tension disappeared as the plot brought them into a bubble with only their most supportive colleagues and we swerved into a retread of the Put nonsense and a new plot about Jeng and Pat fighting to save the digital marketing team via the power of Put’s quasi-celebrity and Instagram likes. Or something. I honestly couldn’t tell you the details of what they were trying to accomplish, I was too distracted by my incredulity to pay close attention to this very sudden fake problem that they were obviously going to conquer (that, my friends, is what we call conflict with no stakes). Meanwhile, the show suddenly wants me to care about Jaab and Jen again - enough to devote a big portion of the penultimate episode’s runtime to them, what a choice - after doing fuck all with that plot for six weeks. It’s a no from me. 

It doesn’t matter anyway, because soon enough we’re time skipping again! After resolving the work challenge subplot we speed past another three months of Pat and Jeng’s relationship without addressing any of their issues, and I guess I’m supposed to be at peace with being a full nine months into their relationship with no onscreen emotional advancement? But I gotta be honest, y’all. I am not. You just don’t do this with a slow burn romance narrative. You can’t spend 80% of your runtime building to something that you have no intention of paying off, and no amount of thinking about what else this show is trying to say is going to convince me they did proper justice to the relationship. I already broke down why I didn’t think the episode 10 culmination got us there, and nothing that happened in this episode changed my opinion.

And all of this is leading to yet another time jump - two entire years this time - after the big reveal that Jeng doesn’t believe in Pat at all and literally bought his success, Evil Daddy knew it all along and waited for a choice moment to deploy the info for maximum damage while twirling his villain mustache, and Pat is finally quitting for real and dumping Jeng for good measure.

And ya know what? GOOD FOR PAT. I was completely on his side in this decision. If there’s one bright spot in this episode (other than Chot, always Chot) it’s Pat getting himself together enough to realize he deserves better than the bullshit he’s been getting from Put and Jeng and walking on out. So Jeng and Pat are now broken up, but I never got invested in their relationship in the first place, because we barely saw it, let alone got the chance to live in and feel it. I wasn’t even upset while watching this breakup scene - it left me emotionally indifferent. Which is maybe the worst thing I can say about a dramatic climax in a story.

I guess next week we’ll meet Jeng and Pat again two years in the future and get some kind of happy ending. I’m gonna stick around for the finale and cross my fingers that we get all the epilogue fluff we have definitely earned, but sadly, this show has lost me.

[noodleblade]

Swerve is hosting a human themed holiday party at swerve's and he's set a mistletoe over the door for the next unsuspecting bots of your choice who enter (very cliché) :3c

nckjsendkjsfkjef any of them bots would be good, but it has to be simpatico for you <3 its a little off topic but we get there in the end:3 also look who failed their maximum 500 words fdnksjfnkdkfv

“We’re late.”

Drift hummed unbothered, glancing up briefly from his datapad as he sat cross legged on Perceptor’s workstation. 

“Fashionably late.” He turned back to quickly type out something before adding, “We all know your social meter runs rather short so we should wait for the peak to get there.”

Perceptor…couldn’t quite argue with that logic, but he still felt the anxiety ticking through his frame, his processor tracking the kliks that passed, of the time he was missing, wasting. 

For once, he had actually planned to spend the entire night at Swerve’s Holiday Bash. He hadn’t initially when the invitation was sent to nearly every mech aboard the Lost Light over a month ago. In his servos, he held the flimsy tin pamphlet adorn with tiny, twinkly lights and glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. It promised music, drinks and “fun, Earth customs!” with a crudely drawn snowman holding a cube of energon. Perceptor was going to toss it away, ignore the social gather in favor of focusing on his work but…

His optics darted to the other half of the lab currently unoccupied. Its inhabitant was on the other side of the ship. Probably enjoying music and drinks and whatever Swerve’s best guess at Earth holiday festivities included. 

Brainstorm had been giddy when he had received the invitation. His golden optics had met Perceptor’s and casually asked if Perceptor would be going to. Any thoughts of spending the night alone had flown out the window as he gave his lab partner a single, solid nod. 

It seemed now, he was back to his usual plans. He wasn’t sure why Drift had insisted they would go together, only to keep Perceptor held up in his lab for nearly an hour, but…it felt like the cosmic forces were against him. Or maybe just Drift. Despite his neutral, calm demeanor, Perceptor felt the other mech was hiding something from him. 

“The party is going to be over before we get there,” Perceptor tried again.

Both of Drift’s optic ridges rose as he met Perceptor’s gaze. “Trust me, it won’t. Rodimus is usually the last to leave and I know for a fact he plans to spend the whole night-”

An alert sounded from Drift’s datapad. He immediately looked at it, cutting off his train of thought. A bright grin flashed across his faceplates as he jumped off the counter.

“Actually, let’s go now.”

Suspicion rose across Perceptor’s frame but…he checked his internal chronometer. Brainstorm had left with Nautica and Velocity nearly an hour ago. Perceptor didn’t want to waste anymore time, suspicions and Drift’s general weirdness aside.

“Okay,” he said, standing up quickly, hoping it didn’t come off eager. 

Judging by Drift’s widening grin, it did.

They walked in silence. Perceptor forced his pace to remain slow and even, despite wanting to rush down the halls as quickly as possible. He had been amping himself up for weeks about finally making a move and talk to Brainstorm, taking those weeks to plan out his words, gathering up the courage to cross the invisible barrier of lab partners to something more. He was ready and he didn’t want to delay it any further. He just want to get to Swerve’s, find Brainstorm and take him aside to a small, secluded booth and-

A firm hand grabbed Perceptor by the wrist, halting his pace just as the doors to Swerve’s came before them.

Perceptor couldn’t even hold back his annoyance as Drift gave him a sheepish smile.

“One more minute.”

“Why?” 

It came out blunt, almost rude. Perceptor only briefly felt bad for his callousness. 

Drift opened his mouth to explain but before he could, the doors to Swerve’s opened his optics widened. With two firm hands, Drift pushed Perceptor through the opening, an apologetic wince on his faceplates.

Perceptor stumbled. He bumped into someone and braced his hands against them for support. An apology on his lips as he turned and-

“Percy!” Brainstorm yelped. His golden optics were wide, wingtips twitching with embarrassment as he clung to Perceptor. Behind him, Chromedome stood, his arm still outstretched. “I didn’t know you were coming in! Or that you were coming at all! I thought you weren’t interested or…” the words died in Brainstorm’s intake as the jet’s optics rose up to the doorway. Embarrassment, dread and anxious desperate worry curled around his field, brushing up against Perceptor’s. “Sorry.”

Perceptor remained unmoving as he let his own optics follow Brainstorm’s, landing on a curious bundle of colored aluminum, mangled to look almost like…a flower?

Almost like…a mistletoe…

Oh.

Perceptor’s brief stint on Earth had given him a crash course on Earth and its inhabitant’s culture. Even more so, his own research had supplemented the rest. Even if the craftsmanship of the mistletoe was shoddy at best, its intent was still beyond apparent. 

“We…” Brainstorm’s intake made an audible click, “...on Earth, they have to…when humans stand under it…they have to…” the words trailed off once more, Brainstorm’s optics staring at Perceptor’s in complete and utter dismay.

Distantly, Perceptor was aware of multiple eyes on them: Swerve, at the bar, grinning bright and wide; Chromdedome, Nautica and Velocity forming a small crowd beside them; Drift surely as well behind him.

Oh. He turned his gaze from Brainstorm to throw a withering glare at Drift. Unaffected, Drift only nodded his helm back to Brainstorm, ushering with his hands for Perceptor to get on with it.

Evidentially, this had all been planned. Perceptor…didn’t have time to dwell on that. Not with Brainstorm attempting to shrink himself as small as possible while still in Perceptor’s hold.

“Kiss,” Perceptor murmured, dropping his voice low. “Traditionally, speaking.” Brainstorm’s optics were glued to Perceptor, wide and fearful. It made Perceptor’s spark drop painfully. Weeks of courage and weeks of pep talks and weeks of planning all swirling down the drain as he whispered, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Brainstorm blinked, slow and owlishly. “If…If I don’t want to?”

A sickly warmth crawled up Perceptor’s cheeks. Leave it to Brainstorm to dissect the meaning of his words now. “Yes,” Perceptor gave a faint nod, his optics closing as he added, “I am…not opposed.”

The silence was deafening. 

Perceptor began calculating the probability of socially ever being able to recover from this. It truly depended on the Rodimus and Whirl factors. If they were here and watching, the ridicule would be endless. Though with Drift watching behind him, the sting would last a bit longer. He would just have to hole up in his lab for a few weeks. Unless Brainstorm still wanted to be lab partner, then he’d have to steer clear of the labs and-

His thoughts were interrupted with a quiet hiss of depressurization. Before he could open his optics, soft, warm melt brushed against his lips. Shyly, almost timid.

Hope, horrible and all consuming hope, burst in his chest as he reached forward, one hand finding Brainstorm’s arm and the other cupping his cheek.

“Is this okay?” Brainstorm asked quietly, ringing in Perceptor’s audials.

“Yes.” Perceptor onlined his optics to meet Brainstorm’s. “Is this okay with you?”

His grin was on full display, blast mask hanging gingerly between two digits. “Absolutely, Percy.”

[ghastlybirdie]

Soulmate Paradox

(eventual) Ghost x Soap (maybe x reader?) wc: 2.9k warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, character death, mentions of death, depictions of pain/anxiety/bodily harm (pls dm me if i should add more warnings)

You’ve heard of the soulmate paradox before, nearly every time any sort of hopeless romantic conversation came around it was brought up, the idea only ever taken as a myth or fear baiting to young souls. You certainly never took it seriously. The idea was beyond the laws of nature and logic, even the idea of bound soulmates were nearly laughed at by the younger generations if not for every well documented case of soulmates.

Ancient Grecians spoke about love in humans being formed by a body with two heads, four arms, and four legs; a shared form of true love to have with another, a perfect union. Until the Gods became irate with the power of humans and their seemingly limitless love, and tore the humans apart, tearing them in two.

It broke the humans, unable to live for long without their other half, their life essence draining slowly out of their wounds the longer they stayed apart, soon enough ceasing to eat or leave a single space and dying from a broken heart.

Throughout the eons humans were able to find their soulmates, an invisible red line- a lifeline almost- that lead to their soulmate, love finally finding a way to thrive in the despair. Many say that humans evolved to feel the emotions of their soulmate, feeling their sadness, their happiness, their pain. The pain was the strongest feeling, seeing as true elation, true happiness, couldn’t be felt until you were finally joined with your other, the pain a constant reminder of your emptiness.

Though there was a phenomenon that formed throughout the lifetimes of humans, one that was rare but indeed true to some and a myth to many. The phenomenon was named the Soulmate Paradox.

It is said that if one drifts too far from their soulmate, to far to feel their heartbeat in their chest, too far to feel their emotions, even too far to feel the greatest pains, and you will become- untethered.

You will feel immense emptiness, at least for a while, a hole where your bloodline once sat, and you will no longer feel. Not a thing. No sadness, yet no happiness. No pain, yet no relief. It was no longer a balance of life. It was grounded, a still object. A lone island sitting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. Lost and alone.

You used to not believe it, not for a long time. Until you were rushed to A&E for severe stomach pain. They thought it was appendicitis judging from the patterns but when all exams came back normal you were bewildered to be told suddenly, “Perhaps you are… close to your tether? Could your other be close?”

No, that was an insane idea. Grossly unlikely and wildly inane to even suggest, especially even after the horrific bouts of pain you’ve had in your one hospital stay alone. You refused to believe it. Until it happened again. And again. And again.

The pain were all on different levels but they came unexpectedly. Some were months apart while some happened in quick successions. At some point, you stopped going to A&E and dealt the pain. Most times it was only a nagging feeling, a twinge of a cramp or soreness, but it wasn’t entirely uncommon to feel like you’ve been shot in the thigh or shoulder every so often. It wasn’t pleasant.

Which is why you ran away. You walked from your place of living, your job, your entire lifestyle, all in the name to be free of the nagging, aching pain that you felt so frequently.

At first it was unbearable. It felt like a weight sat on your chest when you crossed over into another country. Like the string that connected to your heart was pulled at it’s maximum tension, threatening to yank itself from your body with a howling force of agony.

But soon enough, with gradual ease, the pain lessened and lessened over time. What was once an elephant sitting on your shoulders turned to sore muscled turned to a gentle breeze on your skin turned to nothing.

Yeah, you felt hollow now, like a strong gust of wind could knock you over; like you were missing something important in your life. But you weren’t in pain anymore. You weren’t suffering anymore. You no longer wept from the hour long sessions of misery when it felt like your lungs were filled with dirt or your nose was clogged with gunpowder. No, you felt none of that anymore. You could sacrifice the taste of your favorite meals or the warm feeling of the sun, if it meant living life no longer suffering for someone else’s rash decisions. Someone who you didn’t even know. That you’ll never know. And that was fine by you.

Though, there were nights where you wondered where this mystery person was. What could be causing all this pain, ones that left you on the floor in tears. Were they also feeling the same? Did they feel when you bumped your toe too hard on the corner of the couch? Did they feel that time where you sliced your palm open trying to cut an avocado? Did they feel the pain when you got your wisdom teeth removed? Perhaps they hated you as much as you hated them, despite never meeting. You wondered if they thought about your existence as much as you thought about theirs as you lay in your lonely room, cold in a bed far too big for you.

Even after all this time being away from home, having left it all behind, despite wanting to leave, you couldn’t close your ears to all the talk of love. You couldn’t cover your eyes to all the pairings of people looking to each other longingly, holding their half as close to their body as their limbs would allow, melting into each other into a perfect hum of peace and resolved longing. It made your hollowness ever the more laborious.

Even though you felt no pain there was a dull pang of want- need- sounding in the back of your mind. It left your heart beat a little less proudly, left your breath a little more shallow. It left you just a little more empty. And with each passing day, it became more and more difficult to ignore. At first it was easy to, then it wasn’t. And then it was downright torturous.

Perhaps you made a rash decision. Maybe you shouldn’t have left. Was all the pain that you endured truly as bad as being left as less of a person as you were now. Your new home wasn’t warm, it was bitter and void of personality. Even your food was just enough to feed the cells that functioned your body, your sense of taste long deprived of anything good. Not even seasonal candles could make up for the loss of color in your life, leaving you in some bleak dystopian hole that you called your apartment.

It was agonizing. It was… Painful. Far worse than what you endured before. At least then, the world was full of thought and wonder. Now it was just… Grey.

So you decide to go back. It couldn’t hurt. Not like it did now. All the silly little jokes of myths and soulmates were nothing more than immature ramblings of your younger self, blind to the world and the joy that a soulmate could bring. To think that you were so close to your soulmate as to even feel what they felt, all the way down to their sore muscles and aching bones. You miss it, even from the previous pain, you missed it so so much. It made you feel foolish. You were so close and your fear of whatever this soulmate- your other half- was made you flee. And now your life was a colorless book full of dust and yellowed with forgotten age.

So you decide to go back. Back home. Back close enough to where you can feel your heart pang again with an ache that was familiar and missed. You wanted to feel the tether revive on your heart again.

You wanted to feel your soulmate. Despite it all, you wanted it. Now, more than ever, you needed it. You need them, whoever they may be. Perhaps that’s why soulmates are so strong, why they call it a lifeline. Your life and the world around you depends on it, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t avoid it.

You gather and pack your belongings, you eat the last of your flavorless food, and you go. You go back to your life where you can taste food, see colored lights, feel warmth again. And you hope, with need filling your heart for the first time in… forever, that you will finally… finally meet your soulmate.

Your other.

Your love of your life.

Ghost woke up in a violent, cold sweat. His body shaking so harshly, so fiercely that the other soldiers in the safehouse thought he went into a seizure, turning him over to his side with great resistance of the masked lieutenant.

He sputtered gibberish as chills and fire racked through his body simultaneously, his tongue mashed between his teeth and throat closing when air wouldn’t fill into his lungs. From the outside it did look like a seizure, it acted like one, but to Ghost it felt like something just tore out of his chest, a gouging hole where his heart should be. It was like a pain he’s never felt before. It was new, it was unfamiliar, and it was terrifying.

He’s felt pain before. A bullet would in the leg or shoulder, a million bruises left on his body, a lifetime worth of scars to share to no one. But this? It was ungodly, otherworldly. And it terrified him when the feeling reach a crescendo, one that he thought he’d die from, until it was just… Nothing.

Ghost felt an unimaginable pain that one could never never forget. And now he simply felt nothing.

He chose his call sign for the fear he could strike in a person. For the life he lived and crawled out of. But now, now more than ever, it truly felt like one. Like a ghost. And it gave him fear.

He blinked there on the floor of the safehouse, staring at a concrete ceiling for what seems like forever. And he blinked again, this time much longer, until he was staring at the ceiling panels of some white room, the scents around him sterile and clean yet stuffy.

The medbay.

Instinctively, like the answers would be there, Ghost reached for his chest, hand landing over his heart, fingers feeling the telemetry electrode stickers stuck across his chest. Feeling for where the hole would be. The one he knew was there.

His thoughts were interrupted when chatter filled the room, two nurses coming in with conversation shared between them. Ghost picked up very little, focused on trying to solve the confusion he held inside as he tried to solve the puzzle.

He hasn’t felt a ping of wanting or need for so long, the distant feeling of a tether having long gone slack. His sense of taste and feelings were never quite the same since then, but MREs were hardly edible let alone tasteful, and he knew every groove of his gun to know where to place his hands the moment he held it, the lack of fine tune feelings were hardly a concern of his. So the slack left in his heart- in his soul- was nothing more than the left over of his humane soul.

And now it’s come back to finally give back on all the lost time. But this felt different. This felt… final.

He was left untethered. And now there was a leak in his very being, slowly draining him. The pain he felt was nothing more than the last attempt to keep even a weak connection to his other. But it was no use. They were gone and he was left alone, his open wound now bleeding with no tourniquet, left to fester and writhe into nothing.

He thought it was foolish, amusing the rumors and legends of soulmates, of your other half. But as he rested in the medbay bed, staring at the sterile ceiling, he couldn’t ignore the cold feeling filling into the marrow of his bones, flowing into his bloodstream, a wave of nothingness filling into every crack and crevice of his body and soul.

Ghost has felt nothing before. Just earlier that day he felt very little in his mind and heart. But this was far different. This felt like being detached from a space shuttle and left to drift in space, spinning in a limitless direction, never knowing when your oxygen would deplete and the vacuum of space punctured through your suit and froze your skin and boiled your blood. Drifting. Waiting. A demise surely imminent.

Ghost was never afraid of nothing before, how could you be when you never knew what nothing truly was. It was unfathomable. Unobtainable.

Yet here he was, in the unfathomable and unobtainable. Never knowing how he truly got here.

Never knowing that the nurses that soon tended to him held the simple answer, one that would never be connected back to him and his other. His soulmate.

You died. Over the Atlantic ocean, almost on your way home. Almost there to where you belonged. Until an engine failure on the plane turned dire, plummeting you and every passenger on board to your death.

You wished you could tell someone. Anyone. What happened to you; where you were going, why… to who. But now you stand in some misty haze, trying to find a break in the fog of confusion, trying to find footing in the void filled sea encasing your thoughts.

It’d take you a while. You didn’t understand where you were, no less who you were looking at. A rugged man was all you could see in the haze, body illuminated by dingy yellow lights, black makeup shrouding his eyes being the only features you could make out.

You’ve never seen a person like this in your entire life, especially not someone so large and rough, but by the way your eyes watered but never cried, and your rythumless heart aching painfully, you helplessly reached out to the man before you, mind endlessly racing to try and finally piece together that he was the one you were seeking for such a bittersweet, short time. The torn and frayed tethered attached to either of you evidence of your once connection, now lost… Forever.

You died and now you stand stuck by some force to the person you sought after, even for the short time that you did, your hand phasing through his person whenever you tried to reach for him. A ghost to hover and haunt, still stuck to your soulmate but never reaching.

You never believed in the Soulmate Paradox, there were no evidence of it ever being a thing, but some swore it was true.

That it was true that when one soulmate is too far, too far away to feel their other, and dies, the living soulmate will continue to live though only in body. The living other will slowly start to wither and fade, their spirit slowly dying as they cannot live without their other half- their soulmate.

And so the deceased soulmate will live as a guardian, a protector of their other half’s soul. It won’t stop the slow demise of their other’s soul, but it will slow it down. Just enough for the guardian to find another, another soul to fill in the gap, and make the living soulmate whole again, and in turn finally rest in peace.

But if a guardian did not fulfill their duty? If they did not find another to fill the hole left of their living soulmate? It was greatly assumed that the living soulmate will die from a broken heart, unable to fill the hole or find a new tether. And the guardian? The one who failed their bonded love? Their soul would be gone, no longer connected to their beloved other, no longer held down by the sheer will of love. And they will be unable to have a promised afterlife with their soulmate, lost to time, to the ethos, to the void. Forever and evermore.

You didn’t know when that would happen, when your clock will run out for you- for your other- but judging by the long time spent away from your soulmate and the poor condition of your lifeline tethers even while you were alive- neither of you had much time left.

Even though you knew so little of this man, who rested with a solemn expression permanently on his face, you couldn’t bear to think leaving this man- your soulmate- to such a fate. You tried so hard to reach him and was stopped by the cruel hands of fate, unable to do nothing more than stare at his form. But here you were now, next to him, and while your circumstances were changed, the need in your heart, in your soul, was the same.

To be with your soulmate, in some way. In any way. That much, in your heart of hearts, was direly true.

a/n: Im sorry, I rushed the end, but i was like a demon being exorcised writing this omg i thought about it in the shower and shared it in the cod server and now here it is