#like i think i was possessed or some shit

[swtheartz]

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

[rafes-slut]

Wanting to make you jealous again he sends you video of him fingering some girl

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Ex!You (established relationship with another man)

Warnings: Toxic behavior, manipulation, jealousy, explicit content (18+), fingering (male x female), video sent without consent, emotionally abusive undertones, cheating themes, possessiveness, mentions of past intimacy, strong language, angst, argument over text.

You thought you were done with Rafe.

You really did.

You’d walked away from him months ago, left behind the chaos, the volatility, the screaming matches that always ended with one of you storming off and the other crawling back. The cycle that had been your normal for far too long. And for once, you stayed gone. You didn’t respond to his texts, didn’t show up when he baited you, didn’t let him in.

And you met someone else. A good guy. Someone stable, kind—everything Rafe wasn’t.

But Rafe didn’t believe in letting go.

Not when it came to you.

You were curled up on the couch, your boyfriend’s arm slung over your shoulders as you watched some mindless show. The glow of the TV flickered across his face, relaxed and peaceful. His thumb gently traced your skin, grounding, sweet. The kind of affection you used to dream about.

You should’ve been happy.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up in the dark room. You knew that name before you even looked.

Rafe Cameron.

Your stomach twisted, a familiar tension settling in your chest. He hadn’t stopped texting—not once. Even when you never replied, he still sent messages. Dumb shit. Obsessive shit. “Miss me?” “Bet he can’t touch you like I did.” “You still think about me, I know it.”

You never responded.

But you always read them.

Tonight, you hesitated. Your boyfriend didn’t seem to notice, too focused on the show. So you let the message go unread, forcing your attention back to the screen, pretending like your heart wasn’t racing in your chest.

An hour later, he kissed you goodnight, heading off to bed while you stayed behind to “finish the episode.” The second you heard the bedroom door click shut, you reached for your phone.

The message stared back at you, unread.

Rafe Cameron: Thought you might like this.

Video attached.

You knew better.

You knew better.

But you opened it anyway.

It started with darkness, the sound of rustling fabric and a low chuckle you knew too well. Then the camera shifted, focusing on a girl lying back on his bed—the one you used to fall asleep in. Her legs were spread, his hand between them, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Yeah, just like that, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” His voice, low and smug, made your skin crawl. Not because you didn’t like it—because you did. Because it hit too close to home. Because those were the same words he used to whisper in your ear when his fingers were buried deep inside you.

Your stomach churned, heat rising to your face as the video continued. He panned the camera to his hand, slick with her arousal, then back to her face—eyes shut, lips parted, gasping for breath.

You should’ve turned it off.

You didn’t.

Because you knew exactly what this was.

This wasn’t for her.

It was for you.

A calculated move. A mind game. He wanted you to watch. To think about him. To miss him.

And damn it, it was working.

Your fingers tightened around your phone. Your chest heaved with the weight of it all—anger, jealousy, something uglier beneath the surface. You knew you shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of replying.

But the pull was stronger than your will.

You opened the message thread, heart pounding as your thumbs flew over the screen.

You: You’re sick.

Rafe: You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?

You: You’re disgusting. Fucking some random girl just to get my attention? Pathetic.

Rafe: Pathetic? You’re the one who opened the video. You needed to see it.

You: I didn’t need anything from you.

Rafe: Then why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be with your little boyfriend? Or did that video get you all worked up?

You stared at the screen, seething.

You: I feel sorry for her. You’re using her like a pawn.

Rafe: I could say the same about him. You still think about me every time he touches you. You know it.

You: You’re delusional.

Rafe: Am I? Tell me, did you get wet watching that? Or were you picturing you on my bed again?

You could barely breathe, fingers trembling.

You: You’re a fucking asshole, Rafe.

Rafe: Maybe. But I’m the asshole who knows exactly how to ruin you.

You wanted to scream. To throw your phone across the room. Instead, you typed back, your anger boiling over.

You: Go to hell.

Rafe: I already have. It’s life without you. How’s that for hell?

You froze.

And as much as you hated him…

You hated how much you still felt.

And you hated that he knew it.

You lost this round.

[aquasoftware]

"HAVE SOME CLASS!"

FT║ Fem!Reader ✘ Sukuna | WC ➜ 624 ♪ ML

Desc | Dating a criminal with zero tech skills as a “high-class” model was your first mistake. ➜ Now, thanks to one accidental upload, the whole world knows exactly what you look like crying his name.

Cw║ (N)sfw 18+, màt!ng press, accidental sēx tape leak (Kuna being a dumbass whoops,) hūm!l!aț!on, degrādatiøn, sp!t k!nk, pøwer imbalance, s!ze k!nk if you squint, model! Reader + criminal!sukuna.

The world knew you as more than a model—a goddess. A vision draped in designer, skin kissed by flashing lights, a body sculpted to be worshiped. Your name carried prestige, once spoken in admiration. Now, it was scandalized like the greatest sin.

The leak had spread like wildfire. A single clip, no more than a minute long, of you folded in half beneath him—knees pressed to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, his weight caging you in as he rutted deep, relentless, possessive.

Sukuna.

An infamous criminal—untouchable, unstoppable, and the last man anyone expected to see fucking you senseless.

The video was grainy, taken from a low angle, but there was no mistaking you. Manicured nails digging into his forearms, lips parted in a wrecked gasp. And him—looming over you, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other forcing your legs further back as he drove into you, each punishing stroke stealing the breath from your lungs.

The way your body arched for him. The way his inked hands owned every inch of you. The way your lips trembled as you whimpered his name, so pathetic “Kuna…”

But the worst part? Your voice—wrecked, needy—cut through the sinful symphony of flesh against flesh. “Spit in my mouth, please.” Sultry, desperate, dripping with desire. And he did—gripping your jaw, tilting your head back before letting a slow, deliberate trail of saliva fall onto your waiting tongue. The moan that followed? Indisputable proof of how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

And the cherry on top? His voice, mocking between every ruthless snap of his hips, calling you his little slut. Filthy words blending into the slick, obscene melody of him stretching you open. Your tight cunt clenched around his thick cock, a creamy ring forming at the base each time he bottomed out—proof of just how devastatingly deep he reached, and how much you craved it.

Your reputation was in shambles.

Your agent’s frantic calls went ignored. Social media was a wasteland, your name drowning in every filthy hashtag imaginable. Some people shamed you; others called you lucky to have a man like him wreck you so thoroughly.

And Sukuna?

That bastard was amused.

You stormed into his penthouse, the city skyline glowing behind him as he lounged on the couch, phone in hand. His sharp eyes flicked to yours, a slow smirk curling on his lips.

“Enjoying your newfound fame?” he drawled, tossing his phone aside.

Your rage surged. “What the fuck did you do?”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, stretching lazily. “Relax, princess. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know hitting the wrong button would post the damn thing?” He exhaled, tilting his head back. “They need to make this shit less complicated.”

Your breath hitched. “You’re telling me you accidentally leaked it?”

His smirk widened. “Tsk, I was trying to send it to you.” He rolled his shoulders like this was some minor inconvenience. “Guess I hit the wrong button.”

“Sukuna, you fucking idiot—”

Your words shriveled as he grabbed you, yanking you onto his lap. His grip was firm, unyielding, his breath hot against your ear.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jawline. “The whole world’s seen you now. They’ve watched you break under me, fall apart for me. You think any other man can look at you without seeing me buried inside you?”

Heat surged through you, a mixture of anger and something far more dangerous.

Sukuna’s fingers pressed between your thighs, feeling the warmth even through your designer dress. “Oh?” he purred. “You like that, don’t you?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe, a wicked grin curling against your skin.

“Let them look, princess. They already know who you belong to.”

Divider/Boarder creds | enchanthings-a + miffyvirtuales.

[boohorns1136439]

Learning to belong ~ poly!MHA x fem!Reader (10)

So it’s been a while, huh? I think the beginning of the year crashed into me like a bulldozer, and I wasn’t in the mood to write. Well, I did write, but everything looked like shit from the butt. But at last, I managed to push through it. I tried something different with the writing here, so I hope it’s better than my previous work. Enjoy!

Tags: Pack! Izuku Midoriya X Bakugo Katsuki X Shoto Todoroki X Kirishima Eijirou ; Pack! X fem!Reader ; Omega!Izuku Midoriya ; Omega!Bakugo Katsuki ; Omega!Shoto Todoroki ; Omega!Kirishima Eijirou ; technically Beta!Reader ; modern Au ; post-UA ; Reader has a quirk ; non hero!Reader ; smut eventually ; fem!Reader ; afab!Reader

09 <- 10 -> 11

Masterlist

Taglist

Izuku truly wished they could put this whole incident behind them and move on. He had hoped that once Todoroki sent an email to the hospital director—a carefully worded, deeply sincere apology addressed to Doctor L/N and the hospital, sent the day after his failed attempt at apologizing in person— would lift some of the weight off Todoroki and Kirishima’s shoulders. That soon enough, things would settle, and the pack would be back to normal.

But from the moment Todoroki first told them what had happened, Izuku had a bad feeling. He knew that Todoroki going to the hospital alone to apologize was the right thing to do, but there had been something in Todoroki’s eyes, a sharp glint of excitement that didn’t sit right with him. And when he’d returned home that night, he’d found him on the couch, motionless, his hand buried in a bowl of peach slices and his fingers sticky with juice. His expression vacant, and absent. Kirishima hadn’t been the same either. If anything, after hearing about the failed apology attempt, he had gotten worse. Somehow, a single alpha, one Izuku had never even met, had managed to throw his entire pack into chaos.

Rationally, he knew it wasn’t the doctor’s fault. If anyone was to blame, it was his mates. But the whole situation was so strange, so frustrating, that he couldn’t help understand how the hell they had ended up here. He’d tried to ask Todoroki about the alpha, about you, but all he got was a name, and something about the way Todoroki said it made him hesitate to press any further. When he turned to Kirishima, he got even less. The redhead had been too angry that day to remember much at all. All he recalled, a few days later, was an unfamiliar fruity scent mixed with Todoroki’s before he broke the door open.

Now, three days had passed, yet the air in their apartment only grew heavier. And Todoroki—Todoroki was hardly there at all, more shadow than man. He spent most of his days asleep, and when he was awake, he barely moved, barely spoke. Just sat there, eyes fixed on the wall with an hollow expression, as if he were somewhere far beyond their reach. He wasn’t eating either, at least not enough. He’d claimed to have no appetite. The only thing Todoroki had asked for—had eaten without hesitation—was peaches. Not just a few, but an almost absurd amount, day after day, like he was possessed. He would sit there, silent and distant, methodically working through bowl after bowl, as if peaches were the only thing tethering him to reality. And the strangest part? He never seemed satisfied. No matter how many he ate, it was never enough. Since when did Todoroki even like peaches this much? Izuku had no idea and he was getting weird out by the sheer amount of peach’s pits in their trash can.

Izuku had tried to get him to eat more, something other than just peaches. He tried a soft approach, casually suggesting he add something else to his plate, like rice or any protein, just to balance it out. But no matter how he went about it, Todoroki refused every time, just shaking his head and mumbling that he wasn’t hungry. Kirishima’s attempts weren’t successful either, he had brought home soba from Todoroki’s favorite spot, but Todoroki only took a couple of bites before pushing the bowl away. Katsuki couldn’t do any of the gentle approaches. He had yelled, scowled, and was a breath away from shoving food down Todoroki’s throat. But none of it worked. It was like trying to start a fire with wet wood—Todoroki just sat there, blank-eyed and distant, completely unreachable.

It was a mess. A complete, exhausting mess. And if Todoroki was worrying him to death, Kirishima wasn’t far behind.

At least he was still functional—he still ate, still spoke, still went to work—but there was something off. He was quieter, his usual warmth dulled at the edges. Kirishima was their glue, the one who lifted their spirits and held them together when things got rough, but ever since they failed to get through to the hospital—failed to contact you—he hadn’t been himself fully. The only response they had gotten to Todoroki’s email was a generic, automated reply, and that had done nothing but add to Kirishima’s guilt.

Izuku sat on the couch, his laptop on the coffee table while he absentmindedly tapped his fingers against his knee, his thoughts running in circles.

This wasn’t the first time Todoroki had been reckless. Beneath that calm exterior, he could be just as stubborn as Katsuki and him, even rash. But this? The complete detachment, the disregard for his own well-being, the strange obsession with a single food ? It wasn’t just a quiet withdrawal from his pack, It was like he’d stopped caring about himself completely. And that’s worried Izuku to death. He felt sick and helpless, and powerless. Why is this happening? His thoughts spiraled, fast and frantic. Was there something we missed? Maybe he’s just really tired and it will all get sort out ? But this isn’t like him. He’s shutting everyone out. Izuku’s chest tightened. What if I can’t fix this? What if it’s already too late? His mind kept racing, as it always did, with no answers, just more and more questions.

The coldness from their mate reminded him too much of their early high school days, when Todoroki had been a boy made of ice, all sharp edges and frozen shut doors. Izuku felt like the bond they shared had frayed, leaving him disconnected, adrift, as if though he was fading from their grasp.

The pieces didn’t add up. Frankly, the more he thought about it, the stranger it became. How had a simple visit to the hospital turned into this? What exactly had happened in that room? Izuku couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. And when he felt like that, he did what he always did—he investigated.

He started with the hospital itself, combing through their website, news articles, and patient reviews. Most of it was clean. No major scandals, no malpractice lawsuits, no patient complaints that weren’t immediately resolved. Still unsatisfied, he called the hospital again, this time pushing harder for answers but all he got was a meeting with the director of the hospital tomorrow afternoon which was better than nothing.

After that call, something clicked. When Todoroki came back home, he’d been in heat—and Kirishima had stayed with him through it. But it had been early, too early. The pack tracked their cycles meticulously, they had to. If all of them ended up « indisposed » at the same time, and a high-profile villain struck, it would be a disaster.

This wasn’t just odd. It was wrong, he thought. There has to be an explanation for this.

And so, he dove into research again, scouring medical papers, forums, even the more questionable corners of the internet. At first, all he found were the usual causes—stress, sudden hormonal shifts, pack mates, environmental factors. But none of those fit. None of them explained why Todoroki’s heat had hit him so randomly. And then, buried under layers of medical jargon and old case studies, he found it.

It was possible to induce a heat. Not naturally, not safely, but with the right mix of drugs, it could be done. Hospitals wouldn’t do it legally, of course, but the medications required for it? They weren’t rare. Every one of them could be found in any hospital.

Did someone do this to him? His heart hammered in his chest, just imagining this possibility. The thought alone made his hands tremble with anger. Alphas abusing omegas were not rare, and doctors abusing their patients were even less rare. It disgusted him to think Todoroki and Kirishima were beating themselves over this incident when the doctor was responsible after all. No, just potentially responsible. He couldn’t know for sure but part of him was already certain that this was the explanation.

As Izuku scrolled through paper after paper on this drug, the apartment remained still allowing him to fully soak every information he could find online. The low hum of the heater was the only sound breaking the silence. It was just him and Todoroki tonight, though he hadn’t seen his mate since morning.

But then, footsteps.

Todoroki stepped into the living room, his movements slow, mechanical. He didn’t acknowledge Izuku, didn’t even glance in his direction—just crossed the space and sank onto the couch with a quiet, exhausted sigh. His posture was loose, almost boneless, but there was no real relaxation to it—just the weight of someone running on empty.

Izuku’s fingers hovered over his laptop. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed, how deep he’d buried himself in his research. Outside the glow of his screen, the apartment was already dark, save for the dim light spilling from the his pc. It was late. Later than he’d thought and he probably start to make dinner for tonight.

Izuku still remained sited on the couch though, seeing Todoroki like this—so empty—only made his anger burn hotter and made him stop his tracks. But he forced himself to swallow it down. He couldn’t afford to lash out, not when he still wasn’t sure. He had to wait for tomorrow, when he’ll have the meeting with the director.

One way or another, he was going to get answers.

Izuku shut his laptop, fingers lingering over the lid. He didn’t want anyone finding out about this—not until he had proof. But before he could fully gather his thoughts, the sudden bang of the front door swinging open, followed by the unmistakable rasp of Katsuki’s voice, nearly sent him jumping to his feet.

“The hell is it so damn dark in here?” Bakugo grumbled, irritated as he flicked on the lights.

Izuku blinked at the sudden brightness, squinting as his blond mate strode inside with Kirishima trailing closely behind.

“Hey, I thought you guys had night patrol,” Izuku said, glancing toward the clock hanging on the wall. They weren’t supposed to be home yet.

“We did,” Bakugo responded as he tossed his keys onto the counter. “Something came up, someone covered for me.”

Kirishima didn’t say anything at first. He moved past Bakugo, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the back of the couch, his gaze flickering toward Todoroki. Checking on him.

“My agency had an emergency downtown,” he finally said, voice lacking its usual warmth. “A villain attack turned into a rescue op. They needed extra hands for search and rescue. By the time we were done, they gave me my evening.”

Izuku hummed in acknowledgment, but his attention drifted to Katsuki, who hadn’t moved from where he stood. His gaze was locked onto Todoroki, sharp, expectant.

Waiting

But Todoroki didn’t react. Didn’t look up. Didn’t even acknowledge any of them too.

Just nothing

Bakugo grumbled something under his breath before heading into the kitchen with anger in each step.

I hope y’all enjoyed the chapter! Chapter 11 will be out soon, and we’ll get a Bakugo POV soon too. I wanted to focus on the pack dynamics before the reader enters, and there’ll be more of that next chapter. I think it’s important to show the established couple’s bond, so yeah we’ll get a lot of it and even more after the reader come in the picture.

Doing a taglist is a too much work omg, no wonder most people don’t do it nowadays. On one hand I like that it hard bc that’s mean so many people want to keep up with my fics that I ended having to tag many people, on the other hand this lowkey discouraging me from posting bc I know I have to update the list every time 😭

This is such a fake ass problem to have, I am self aware.

As always, criticisms are welcomed

Big thank you to @cafekitsune who made the beautiful dividers

09 <- 10 -> 11

Taglist: @too-much-gacha ; @electronicexpertshark ; @poopopp ; @cjdjfhfhfufjfdj ; @kimi01985 ; @icycoldbeanieweanies ; @ghostlyworld ; @marsbars09 ; @queenondeezmatatas ; @imnotherw ; @bedheadloser ; @chrisbiniesluvrr ; @fsocs-blog ; @jadeddangel ; @qardasngan ; @goldenglow149 ; @andysteve1311 ; @pinkmelodies ; @hopefulb1ue ; @redkarmakai ; @zukusluvr ; @navezepol221 ; @candiiee ; @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaq ; @mniya ; @randomhuman112 ; @mintvender r ; @deadendgrim ; @captainswanarcher ; @figbaby ; @midnight-nightmare ; @talilosha ; @bawlangya ; @optimisticprime3 ; @purplescorpi0 ; @astrolovedy ; @desiree-lee ; @okaysxx ; @the-faceless-bride ; @thelameone101 ; @gethexxed ; @lowkeyhottho ; @bvirrious ; @heespretty ; @roxy776699 ; @kamy-thee-egg ; @talia-the-gemini ; @pikachuzhc ; @itsnotjustmyself-blog ; @roxy776699 ; @mystic60 ; @reallysparklychaos ; @sixxze ; @blurryperrtymoonlight ; @1poison-cat1 ; @allyfoxglove ; @mindsbloody ; @jkvolgs ; @haruaikawa ; @k3nmakyan ; @my-anime-garden ; @fto6 ; @hanniesroom ; @readeryn68 ; @queenofsimps001 ; @mai1em ; @demonzgutzz ; @sleepy-x-snake ; @xxang3|zz ; @decadentcrusadefun ; @shhhstar ; @n3ptOnee ; @nxcx|Ixsevens ; @mailem ; @aslos ; @thatone-gayweeb ; @eveylynnn ; @nervoussangel ; @inakyo ; @graythecoffeebean ; @ninabinna ; @3thr3al ; @barrythestrawberry041 ; @omgeyeless-blog ; @primary-022 ; @prettyprojectshq ; @bluepatrolbear ; @literallyjustmyself23 ; @p3n310p3 ; @slayerdiva ; @hw-shorty ; @quixoticcat ; @fluffypuffyfishyswishy

[iamthatonefangirl]

miss possessive pt. 2 - congressman bucky barnes

thank you all so much for the love on part 1 of this. i love you all so much you are literally my motivation to keep writing. i hope part 2 does you all justice!

part 1

~~~

after the crash, Bucky was pissed off, to say the least. entirely at himself. 

Bucky should have sat on the passenger side, not you. he would have been completely unharmed. maybe if he’d reacted quicker, used his enhancements to pay more attention to his surroundings, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this position. 

he felt his heart drop to his stomach when he saw the blood dripping down your face after the crash. you were right next to him, within his reach all night, but he had to remind himself this wasn’t something he could have protected you from. it almost broke him. 

you were in an ambulance pretty soon after. your head hurt like a bitch; you were a little too focused on the searing pain to make out the words Bucky was saying to the first responders, telling them they had to let him ride with you in the ambulance. he was your husband, after all. 

wait, what? 

did you hear that correctly?

through the burning pain, you tried to keep a level head. it made sense that Bucky lied; it was the only way for him to come with you. but hell if it wasn’t embarrassing riding in this ambulance with him just staring at you the whole time. 

the paramedic was asking him a million questions that he didn't know the answers to. of course he didn't, he wasn't actually your husband.

you answer them.

yes, you had alcohol in your system. you’d just come from an event. how much? uncertain. 

yes, you were on medications. which ones? great, now Bucky gets to hear. 

no, no chance you’re pregnant. you’re sure. yes, you’re sure. 

“Bucky…” you mumble. 

“yes? what’s wrong?” 

“Bucky?” you repeat. okay, wow, suddenly you feel a lot worse.

the world goes dark.

~~~

to put it bluntly, this was insanely embarrassing.

the hospital staff think he's your husband, so he's allowed to stay. when you ask him to leave, he refuses to go anywhere.

hours later, after some stitches and a million scans of your head, you're left alone in the hospital bed. with Bucky still staring at you.

"you can go, you know," you tell him. "it's been a long fucking night. no reason to stay."

he grumbles under his breath, "not goin' anywhere."

you wish he would. watching him, sitting here with you in such a vulnerable state hurts your soul. he's here out of obligation. of course he cares. he would be heartless not to, and Bucky Barnes is anything but heartless.

but he doesn't care in the way you wish he would.

you wish he'd be the guy that looks for you, only you, all night at the gala. you wish he'd refuse to leave your side, never letting you out of his sight. you wish he would look at you all the time, not just when another man is taking you upstairs, not just when you've had your skull cracked.

you wish he'd be the one to whisk you away at the end of the night. you wish he had told you how pretty you looked tonight, because he's the only man you'd gotten all dolled up for.

tears spring to your eyes at the thought, so you turn back to face the ceiling and shut them before they can fall.

but he's still staring at you. he sees the change in your demeanor.

"what is it? what's wrong?" he asks, jumping to his feet to stand next to your bed.

you shake your head and lie through your teeth. "head hurts."

it's not a lie entirely, but. mostly.

you open your eyes to look at him, and he actually looks pained, as though he's the one in the hospital bed, not you. you backtrack, reassuring him that you're completely fine, it's fine, you're used to it. you're used to the pain.

suddenly, he looks confused. fuck, why are you the one complaining about your own issues? don't you remember the shit he's been through?

he's been through worse than you could ever imagine. stop fucking complaining.

"I'm fine, Mr. Barnes. go home."

he shakes his head in exasperation. you're so fucking stubborn, you know that? why won't you just let him do this for you?

he wonders a million different things. you got hurt while working for him, and he knows this isn't your ideal job, that it's only temporary. when he gets elected, he'll get a new assistant, and if he doesn't, then he won't need one anymore. he won’t need you anymore. 

of course he’ll always need you.

that was the deal that was agreed upon, but he can't fathom never seeing you again. especially not after he let you get hurt on his watch.

he wonders if you blame him for not doing enough, for not being enough to protect you from what happened. 

he knows you don't. doesn't help ease the feeling.

"stop calling me that," he says. he says it with a faint smile on his face, trying to maintain his composure. trying to bring a smile to your face.

he sees you roll your eyes at him, and how the action clearly disturbs the headache you have as you recoil from it.

he has to press. he has to do something, anything–

"I know you know my name. you said it in the ambulance," he begins to tease, smirking. 

it doesn't have the intended effect. he wanted to see you smile, see you laugh, but instead? instead, he's made you cry. 

you bring your hands to your face as you wipe the tears away. why can't he see how difficult this is for you? he has to know that you're stupidly in love with him, it's not that hard to recognize the longing in your eyes.

so no, you won't call him Bucky, because that makes it too real. it's way too close to home and you have to remind yourself that this is not and never will be anything more than a working relationship.

"please don't cry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," he says, taking your hand in both of his. you look down to where he's touching you.

you're done for. your mind short circuits. you don't know if you should pull your hand away, or if you're going to cry, or what. your mouth speaks before you consciously make a decision.

"can you do me a favor?" you ask him, wiping your face with your free hand. "can you bring me my stuff?" you request, indicating to the large plastic bag in the corner of the room.

he releases your hand and steps away to grab it. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

you pull your dress out of the bag and begin to inspect it.

a black, velvet, off-the-shoulder dress. sleek and classy for a professional event, but it still made you feel confident and desirable. you bought it specifically for tonight.

you bought it specifically with Bucky in mind.

god, you really are fucking pathetic, aren't you? you just wanted him to look at you and think you looked stunning. but that's stupid, and childish, and impossible.

you inspect the neckline of the dress where your blood spilled onto it. you try to rub out the spots covered in dust from the crash, and almost cry again at seeing all the snags in the fabric.

oh my god. somehow, the thought completely slipped your mind.

you look back up to Bucky and see your blood staining the crisp white fabric of his shirt. you recall now how he pulled you in after the initial crash that caused your injury. you ruined his shirt. 

"fuck, your suit, I'm so fucking sorry," you tell him, looking up to meet his gaze.

when you do, you see the same look in his eyes that you had seen before the crash. that look. why can't you place it?

you can't tear your eyes away from him. not now. no car crash can make you. because you feel like he can actually see you, like he doesn't see you as the mess of broken pieces that you are. like he genuinely sees you.

you're shocked when he looks away and sits on the side of the bed, facing you.

you're even more shocked when he reaches for the fabric of your dress and runs his fingers over it. you watch his lips part, as though to speak, before biting his tongue. it confuses you.

he tries again,

"I don't think I told you this, but you looked beautiful tonight."

no.

no, no, no. it's too much. what is he saying? is he trying to make you feel better after everything that's happened? or–

it's the elevator all over again, the limo all over again. is he seriously still on this? you'd completely forgotten about what that dipshit said about you, when suddenly he brings it up again, reigniting the pain and shame that came with Bucky having witnessed it.

"I don't care about what that man said in the elevator, okay? I thought I asked you to drop it," you bite. 

at first, he looks confused and almost hurt by your words, but pretty quickly he understands.

"no, that's not– I'm serious."

you shake your head at him, aggravating your headache all the same, but you don't care anymore. you can't deal with this anymore.

"stop-" you begin, but he cuts you off, standing from the bed and raising his voice.

"no! you stop. stop brushing me off. yes, I meant what I said, that you shouldn't listen to that asshole or any other idiot who can't see how perfect you are. but forget about that. right now, I'm trying to tell you something, and you're not listening."

that shuts you up for once.

with a much calmer tone and quieter voice, he continues, "I'm just trying to tell you that you looked beautiful tonight."

"yeah, and it doesn't fucking matter because–"

you pause, remembering you can't say it doesn't matter because he doesn't love you.

"–because I'm sitting in a hospital bed now, and I'm going to have a fucking scar on my forehead for the rest of my life, and no man in their right mind will think I'm beautiful then!"

"then maybe I'm not in my right mind," he says quietly. "because I will still think you're beautiful then."

the impact of his words are worse than the car crash. you're truly at a loss. he can't do this to you, he can't hurt you like this.

is it a game? is he messing with your emotions because he knows you're in love with him?

you want to believe it's not.

"even now, in this hospital bed, you're beautiful."

you can't help but let yourself believe him, because it's all you wanted to hear from him all night. so you do something rash. 

you reach for the collar of his shirt, pull him in close, and kiss him.

~~~

he was not expecting that. 

he wants to hold onto you with all his might, hold you to his chest for the rest of both of your lives. he wants to kiss you until you both forget where you're at, until you forget anyone else exists.

when he pulls back from you, you're prepared to get reprimanded and fired. you're ready for whatever it is that he's about to tell you. you force yourself to watch the look on his face, expecting the impending horror that's going to appear in his expression.

he looks between your eyes, scanning for any sense of pain or hesitation you may be feeling.

he kisses you again, and you let yourself melt into him. without breaking away, he moves onto the bed, laying next to you.

it's like a fever dream. you feel like you're on cloud nine, the happiest you've ever been in your entire life. this is all you've ever wanted.

you eventually have to pull back. this whole time, you've been letting your emotions run rampant, and you've conveniently forgotten about how shitty you feel, how tired you are.

you run your mouth before he can say anything.

"fuck, Bucky, I don't want to stop, but my head fucking hurts. I'm so tired," you say, shutting your eyes and letting your head relax into the pillow.

he runs his hand through your hair, careful not to disturb the bandaged cut on your hairline.

"want me to go?" he whispers.

you mutter out a 'no' and lean into his arm that wraps around you as your weariness takes over.

~~~

he holds you gently as you sleep. he may not be able to protect you from everything, but right here, right now? he can be here for you as you rest.

a nurse eventually comes in the room, and he begins to remove himself from your bed.

"don't worry about it, sir. just adding notes to her chart."

he sighs in relief.

"you're a good husband. a lot of the husbands I see around here... not so much."

husband. sure, it was a lie he told them so he could stay with you, to make sure he knew what was going on. that you were going to be okay. 

after everything, he never thought such a life would be in the cards for him. all those dreams and hopes were left in the century before. could he be a good husband? would you even have him, if he asked?

woah, okay, too early to be proposing, he reminds himself.

~~~

eventually, you come to, and the first thing you sense is the weight in the bed with you.

holy shit, you weren't dreaming? this wasn't just a concussion-induced hallucination?

you blink your eyes open, and there he is, staring at you like always.

"hi," you whisper.

"hi." he whispers back.

and then the searing pain shoots through your head, causing you to cry out in pain, clutching your face in your hands.

he almost freaks. seeing you in this kind of pain? you didn't deserve this. it should've been him, he's experienced it, dealt with it before. why couldn't it be him and not you?

he runs for a nurse.

thirty minutes later, the opioids kick in, and you feel light as a feather.

"Bucky?" you begin. he's seated in a chair immediately next to your bed.

"yes, sweetheart?"

your heart pounds in your chest. you're high on the drugs you've been given, and you can't help it when you smile and giggle at the pet name.

"call me that again," you whine, to which he chuckles.

"sweetheart? you like that?" he asks.

"like anything you do," you whisper. "so perfect."

the drugs put you back to sleep real quick.

~~~

it's been another day, and you're being discharged. Bucky still hasn't left your side once, and yet you haven't talked. you can’t let yourself talk about it, because you know that none of it was real. how could it be real? you were hurt, and he was trying to be there for you. 

you crossed the line by kissing him, and it was time for you to let go of your desperation. you had to let it go, and move on. move on from the job and him entirely. 

you anticipate his overbearingness in terms of ensuring you get in the door safely when you arrive home. you don't anticipate him telling you that he intends to stay.

"Mr. Barnes, it's okay, I can take care of myself," you assure him.

you see the annoyance on his face.

"aren't we past this by now?" he asks you.

he sits down on the couch next to you, very closely, right up against you. he brings a hand to your face to turn you to look at him.

you lick your lips. "Bucky."

you watch him for a second, and you wish the look in his eyes was real. 

“Bucky, I quit,” you whisper. he clearly was not expecting you to say that, because he pulls away from you. you mourn the loss of his touch on your skin, the heat of his body near yours. but you're doing what needs to be done. 

“you can’t quit. I’m not– it’s not–”

“I have to quit, Bucky,” you explain to him. “I can’t do this. not anymore, it’s too much.” 

he begins to plead with you, “what? what is too much?”

“you,” you admit to him.

he doesn't understand.

"fuck, I just can't do this. because I love you, and I just can't..."

"I love you."

you're stunned into silence. no, of course he doesn’t…

he moves closer to you. 

“don’t quit because you think this was a fluke, or because you think I was just trying to make you feel better while you were in the hospital. I meant all of it. you are perfect, and beautiful.”

he puts his hands back on your face, gently, rubbing a thumb over the carefully stitched cut near your hairline. 

“please,” he whispers, and you can’t believe that he’s sitting with you, in your apartment, telling you all the words you’ve ever wanted him to say. “I love you. please.”  

you nod, and all the pain goes away as he pulls you in close and kisses you. 

~~~

“didn’t like seeing that idiot putting his hands on you in the elevator,” he whispers into your ear later that night. 

you lean back into his arms wrapped around your waist as you lay in bed.

“oh, please. you had that woman all over you, just begging you to fuck her,” you retort. 

“jealous, sweetheart?” he teases. 

“oh, please, you started it,” you laugh. 

“don’t worry about her. could only ever want my girl.” 

~~~

i really want to write smut for them or like another part so lmk if i should

part 1

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@starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @ijustwantcomfypjs @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @moncherriis @clavedelune

[wordsinhaled]

The things Charles touches in Hell

Everyone run and look at @qwanderer's amazing gifset of the things Charles touches in hell that inspired this meta!!!!

TL;DR Charles' journey to get Edwin is not just retracing Edwin's steps following the maps in the notebook but also on some level specifically reflects the doubts Charles holds about his own capacity to be a good person (and, extrapolating from Edwin's confession, a worthy romantic partner for Edwin in the future). Everything Charles touches in Hell (the mirror in Limbo, the bell, the lock, the claw machine + Maxine grabbing him on the stairs) is designed to sow doubt in Charles - incidentally, much like Orpheus experiences doubt on the journey out of Hell with Eurydice.

-

The mirror

The mirror shows Charles his reflection, which he hasn't been able to see since he died. Jayden said in a Cameo that when he acted in this moment he was embodying Charles giving himself a pep talk about saving Edwin - so he's thinking about whether he is different enough from his father to be able to pull off this rescue, whether he's capable of it.

The mirror also reminds him that, being corporeal in Hell, he doesn't have the capacity to mirror-hop to Edwin, which would have been the easiest way to get to him. It's a tool he'd have had as an incorporeal ghost, a tool that he lacks in Hell. The mirror highlights Charles's need to be Useful to his loved ones and the doubt that if he isn't capable of being useful (especially in rescuing/protecting them), he isn't loveable. Later he says to Edwin "Well, I'm here now," and is able to use the tools in the bag of tricks to distract the doll spider and get Edwin to safety.

And though I don't think Charles is as consciously aware of this bit, the mirror's also a bit of a metaphor for Charles' people-pleasing and how Charles effaces himself in favor of his loved ones. Charles isn't able to be seen in reflections normally, as a ghost, just as he puts the comfort and mood of others above showing his authentic feelings/frustrations, so he isn't "seen" in those relationships. In the mirror in Hell, he can see himself, for the first time in over three decades, and it echoes a fear/doubt that if he shows up fully present in a relationship, romantic or otherwise, he will take up too much space for himself, or people won't like what the see when he is visible.

The bell

The bell speaks to Charles's doubts about impulsivity and its unintended negative consequences. Charles' on-the-spot impulsive decisions are a theme throughout the show - he identifies himself as "the one who does shit like this" in the pilot when possessing Esther. And he compensates for or offsets these things really successfully with resourceful thinking (see: the enchanted jar to replace the sprites' smashed vessel, etc.), and his quick thinking is a huge strength. But the bell here is an example to Charles of a time his impulsivity hurt others, even without him realizing.

Charles and Edwin have an exchange about it: "What about the bell?" "No - it hurts them." Charles experiences direct proof that his impulsive action caused harm to others that he can't fix or soothe, and this moment leads directly into Charles slowing down to take time to process/figure out his feelings for Edwin during the staircase confession rather than impulsively saying he was in love back right away. The bell reflects his fear of how his impulsivity could be a hurdle or liability in his relationships. The bell can also represent the fear that even something that typically makes Charles an asset to Edwin, a strength or a positive, can become something harmful if Charles isn't careful. It's the doubt that Charles' quick thinking, which complements Edwin's more regimented nature and desire to always "have a proper plan in place," could have an unintended harmful shadow side if Charles allows it to, so that he can't trust himself.

Also, the ringing of the bell that is meant to summon someone, much like the mirror, also speaks to Charles' desires to take up space and be perceived by others, and ties back to his doubt that he might take up too much space in a dynamic with someone else. Charles has missed being visible and living, wished to be "seen by someone his own age who's alive." The 'attention' piece might reflect Charles' occasional showiness - which became comfortable over years with Edwin, but which while alive he probably used to associate with negative consequences for himself for taking up 'too much space' or otherwise putting himself in a position where his dad or his peers would 'cut him down to size,' so to speak.

The ringing of the bell at a counter is, in theory, used to seek attention or service from someone, which would also mean Charles knowing what he wants in order to ask for it - and, in a relationship, being able to articulate his desires and needs. It would mean Charles subverting his usual way of being where he makes sure others have everything they need, to prioritize his own wants and needs. It represents his doubt of his ability to be vulnerable in a relationship.

The lock

Irene's phrasing "manipulate for access" about the lock got me thinking about the idea of Charles being able to pick any lock, having confidence in his ability to do so, and even others having confidence in his skill at it ("Big lock" "I'm sure you can open it"). It parallels Charles being good with people, being the one who "everyone likes […] eventually" because he's a "good sort of chap" - but also makes me think it reflects a fear that others will be taken in by the façade of affability he takes care to put on for others' comfort, and make themselves vulnerable to him only for him to hurt them. The classic sort of not-wanting-to-continue-the-cycle-of-abuse type fears.

The bell also highlights Charles's differences from David (who Crystal says "must have lied to [her]" to get her to "let him in" to possess her, as Edwin put it in that same scene). Charles doesn't actually manipulate people for access to their bodies, but it calls back to the doubts he experiences in 'The Case of the Two Dead Dragons' about being compared to Crystal's ex/Brad and Hunter in how they exploited women. The lock also speaks to the doubt that once he has actually gotten someone to like him, or if he were to enter into a relationship with Edwin, they're only there because they've been 'taken in.' Charles knows how to be a "cute distraction" to others or a temporary fling, he doesn't think people should be let in to see the dark emotions at the depths of him that he suppresses. The lock is a bit tied into the claw machine, I think.

The claw machine

The claw machine is associated with grabbing prizes and reflects Charles' self-doubt in general and the ways he seeks praise. It speaks to his issues with feeling fundamentally deserving of love and the fear/doubt that he doesn't actually deserve the "prizes" he gets (being praised by others, or receiving Edwin's love without any expectations or conditions).

It's also a game, and in those types of claw games there's usually a lot of maneuvering the claw, trying over and over and failing to grab the prize, "falling short" if you will, even despite having skill at the game; the prize might slip free and be lost, etc. - much like how Charles always felt he was falling short of his dad and never reaching making him happy/proud ("no matter how nice I was, or how good at sports I was"). When it comes to Charles + games: Cricket was a game Charles excelled at and yet never quite made the mark of his father's approval no matter how many trophies he got, etc.

The claw machine can also be a metaphor for the cycle of abuse. It speaks to the idea that Charles was caught up in a sort of 'rigged game' - an endless cycle of abuse in which his abusers held physical, emotional, social, or systemic power over him and he would inevitably end up 'losing' the game with its uncertain rules and would be hurt (by his dad/his peers or by society). While alive he was playing the assimilation/likeability game with his friends for the prize of feeling belonging, only for them to turn out to be the ones to kill him.

(Notably, the way out that Edwin ended up taking was a hole smashed in the wall behind the claw machine, bypassing the game entirely - and Charles retraces the path Edwin took. This shows how Charles doesn't need to actually keep trying and failing to reach an unattainable/shifting goalpost in order to be loved unconditionally or be deserving of love. It also foreshadows he can take a different path that would break the cycle of abuse, that indeed he is already breaking it.)

+ Maxine

Bonus, since this one touched him and not vice versa - Maxine grabbing Charles on the stairs and knocking him off-balance. In life Maxine was a stalker, an abusive person who was invasive towards and controlling towards her romantic interest. Ultimately she became physically violent and tried to kill Jenny. This has been spoken on in other metas, but much like the Devlin House reflected his fears of becoming like his dad, Charles encountering Maxine on the stairs reflects Charles' basic fears of continuing the cycle of abuse in a romantic relationship and emotionally or physically hurting his partner by being overbearing/controlling/violent. Maxine being present on the staircase during the confession also underscores this doubt in Charles.

[snail-day]

Inked: Daddy's Girl

Tattoo Artist! Sukuna x Reader

Previous // part 3 // masterlist

WC: 3k

TW: Yandere Behaviors (possessive & manipulation), Very Toxic Established Relationship, Mean/Jealous Sukuna, Dubcon/Noncon themes, Big Age Gap (Reader is twenties, Sukuna is pushing forty) , Oral m!receiving, Rough sex, use of piercings. Use of Daddy.

A/n: Was going to do Toji instead but...I don't think Toji would like to be called daddy gives him like ptsd

Tattoo Artist Boyfriend!Sukuna who’s rough around the edges - hell, he's nothing but rough edges. Sharp tongue, inked hands, always smells like cigarette smoke and motor oil. He’s the kind of man people glance at twice: once in curiosity, and once in warning. Definitely not the kind they expect to see with someone like you.

You, with your young pretty voice and starry eyes. Barely in your twenties, still figuring yourself out - meanwhile, Sukuna’s pushing forty and already decided you’re his, even if your parents kicked your sweet ass out the house.

He doesn't know how he managed to get you wrapped around his finger. Some nights, he looks at you curled against his chest and thinks you should know better. Thinks you’ll wise up one day.

But not today. Not when you're clinging to his arm like he's gravity. Not when you sit pretty beside him at late-night yakuza dinners, decked out in silk, lip-gloss, and shy little smiles. The Zenin boys tease him for it.

“Robbing the cradle, huh, Ryo?” Teasing him in-betwen sips of beer, if they weren't clients he'd be knocking their eyes out for gawking at your chest. They just love watching what's his. What keeps his bed warm at night. Watching the way you lean into him like you don’t hear a word. He just grins in response - sharp and cocky -tightening his burley-inked arm around your waist.

“Jealous?” he fires back, and lets his hand rest just a little too low. Palm hitching up the hem of your mini dress, enjoying the way you hide your warm cheeks, muttering to stop. It's cute really. Like a little bunny.

Sometimes - rarely - he thinks about how he’s your first for almost everything. Your first boyfriend. First kiss. The first man to touch you like that. That he probably shouldn’t have taken so much from someone so soft, so new.

But then he always remembers the way your body folds for him, soft pliant skin for his roughened hands, how your voice breaks when you moan his name, how you cry when you come - clinging to him like he’s the only thing that makes you feel real. Any hint of guilt burns away. You were too young to know what you needed.

Lucky for you, he did.

Yeah, you’re young. Sweet. Barely know what the hell you’re doing.

But you’re his.

Can’t just be letting go of a perfect little cunt that milks his cock every night. It does something to him, makes him think, just for a second, that maybe he actually loves you.

So it’s not exactly something he plans on fixing anytime soon.

He likes being your first for most things.

Except your first tattoo.

You weren’t stepping foot into his shop. Sukuna’s old school - heavy lines, bold color, blackwork sleeves and dragon back pieces that take twenty hours. Not some dainty little butterfly above the hip. That’s not his style, and he told you flat-out: “I ain’t doing none of that delicate princess shit.”

Besides, he knows you. Knows how you squirm and pout, whine and wriggle at the slightest sting. The brat in you would turn a two-hour session into four, just for attention. (Not that he doesn’t enjoy putting you in your place, but not with gloves on and a machine buzzing in his hand.)

So he didn’t care where you went. Really. As long as the work was clean and they didn’t leave a mess on your skin, he wasn’t gonna throw a fit.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

But then you came home. Face glowing, bandage peeking out from under your cute little top, practically bouncing as you beamed, “Look! It’s done!”

Of course he was gonna have a look. Had to make sure they didn’t botch it. Had to check the lines, the shading, the healing wrap. Make sure you weren’t upcharged just for being sweet-faced and clueless.

But when you peeled back the wrap, soft skin shining, ink still fresh - his red eyes narrowed. It was pretty. Clean. Finer than he expected. What kind of prissy-ass artist did you go to for this kind of work?

Then he looked closer. And his lip curled. Hidden in the curve of a line. Subtle. Too subtle for you to notice. But he noticed. Of course he did. Only an experienced artist would catch it.

Someone marked their fucking claim.

The rough pad of his thumb brushed over it like he was double-checking. Like maybe he imagined it.

He didn’t.

G.S. Right there swirled into the shading.

His stare went flat.

Geto.

The Gojo clan’s favored pretty boy. Well besides the yakuza clan head. Though Geto, the soft-spoken, smirky bastard with his fancy upscale studio and staged Instagram shots. The one blowing up online with dotwork and minimalist florals like tattooing was some kind of aesthetic lifestyle brand instead of a craft.

Who the fuck puts plants in a tattoo studio and cares about natural lighting?

Geto’s only been featured twice. Meanwhile, Sukuna has been praised, published, and respected for years. He told you that. Told you which artists were safe. Gave you a list. Vetted portfolios. Studios run by pastel-haired girls with gentle hands and sterile tools.

He expected you to go to one of them.

Not to Geto fucking Suguru.

And now that signature’s engraved into your skin.

Of course, Sukuna wasn’t going to throw a fit - not to you, no, no. You’re just his sweet little babe who wanted to look all cool for her older boyfriend that clearly all your friends hate. Catching onto how you're babbling on and on about how Utahime has been friends with Geto. He gets it. Wanted to surprise him, maybe impress him a little. That pretty head of yours wasn’t thinking about hidden signatures or rival artists marking their claim. You were just excited.

And besides, he didn’t have the time to deal with it. He had a full backpiece to draw up for some cocky kid in the Zenin clan, and frankly? He had better things to focus on.

Like the way you look when you’re under his desk, mouth stretched and drooling around his cock while he sketches between grunts and praise. You always find the perfect way to “help” him work.

So, no, he didn’t bring it up. Didn’t mention the initials, or how Suguru must’ve known exactly who you belonged to when he etched those tiny letters into your skin.

But when Sukuna came home from his three-day trip? He wasn’t exactly expecting you to be bashful.

He wasn’t expecting this.

You’re not lounging on the leather couch of his apartment, not curled up in his bed, not running into his arms like you usually do the second he comes back from a trip. You’re in the hallway - half-hidden behind the doorframe like a guilty little bunny, wrapped up in the sheer silk robe he bought you for Valentine’s. The one that barely covers anything. The one he told you was “just for Daddy’s eyes.”

Thin as mist, the sheer fabric clinging to your body, doing nothing to hide the swell of your breasts or the slight stiffness of your nipples pressing through the fabric.

His red eyes narrow into slits.

“You gonna come greet Daddy properly or what?” he drawls, voice low and rough from travel, tinged with irritation, but there's that dangerous gleam in his red eyes. The kind that always means he knows something’s up.

You step out slowly. Bare feet soft against the floor. Fingers nervously tangled in the belt of your robe.

“I… I have a surprise for you, Kuna.”

Sukuna raises a pink brow, drops his duffel on the couch with a heavy thud.

“Yeah?” he says, stepping toward you. “Better be worth the fuckin’ wait.”

You nod, eyes wide and shimmering with anticipation. Then, with trembling fingers, you untie the robe.

It slips from your shoulders and slides down your arms, pooling at your feet.

His gaze drags over your body like smoke, slow and burning with lust.

And then he sees them.

Two silver barbells pierced neatly through your nipples, still pink from the needle, skin taut and freshly marked. They're healing. They're new.

They're not from him.

Sukuna goes completely still.

He steps forward. Then again. Close enough for you to smell the leather and cigarette smoke on his jacket, that manly scent that always makes your head spin. You try to speak - try to explain, defend yourself, maybe soften whatever expression has just settled across his face - but he silences you with nothing more than a sharp grin.

“Well, well…” he mutters, voice dropping low as his hand lifts. “Look at you. Princess is getting a little bold now.”

He cups one breast, rough palm warm over your soft skin. His thumb brushes lightly over the metal, and you flinch, just enough to make his grin widen.

“Still sore?” he asks, all faux sweetness.

You nod quickly, lip trembling. His palm tightens. His other hand lifts too, thumb and forefinger teasing the other barbell, rolling it with ease. Just enough pressure to sting. Just enough to make you gasp, one of his favorite little sounds.

“And who did it?” he asks, even though he already knows. He remembers that offhand little story you told him before he left, how Geto had mentioned piercings. How you’d laughed about it, brushing it off like nothing.

The question isn’t for confirmation.

It’s for you.

For a sweet little thing who should know better.

“Geto,” you whisper, like maybe saying it quietly will make it sting less.

Sukuna laughs. A quiet, mean sound that transforms to an amused hum, stepping closer, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Geto’s real fuckin’ bold, huh? Touching my girl’s tits. Thought he could leave his little signature and poke you full of steel?”

His tongue clicks. “Tch. Should’ve come to me, princess. You know I would’ve done it for you.”

You shiver, lashes fluttering, bottom lip caught in your teeth. He leans in, his mouth dragging over your jaw, hot breath curling against your skin.

“You let him touch you here?” His thumb presses down - hard - on the piercing, and a whimper escapes. “Let him roll these sweet little tits around in his hands? Let him make you flinch? Cry a little?”

You try to shake your head, but your voice is stuck somewhere between shame and arousal.

“Don’t worry,” he croons, fingers now rolling both piercings between calloused fingertips. “I’m not mad at you. You didn’t know any better.”

His voice drops to a whisper, soft and vile.

“Didn’t know Daddy would’ve loved to watch your eyes go glassy from the sting. Bet Geto was real gentle, huh? Took his time. Spoke to you nice. What a good little professional.”

You make a small, wounded sound clearly embarrassed, overwhelmed and it only makes him grin grow wider. His hand slides behind your neck, firmly, guiding you to look up at him.

“But now I gotta clean up his mess.” Pressing his forehead to yours, eyes locked on yours, the air thick and hot and possessive. “Now I gotta remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

His hand slips to the back of your hair, rough fingers curling tight, guiding you through the hallway, you’re something he owns and he expects you to understand that. You follow without resistance, robe forgotten on the floor, the cool air brushing your bare skin, making your new piercings ache.

He leads you to the full-length mirror in the bedroom - the one he usually watches you through when he’s got you bent over the edge of the bed, when he wants you to see what you do to him.

But this time? He positions you in front of it. Chest bare. Legs trembling. Face flushed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, settling behind you, one hand on your hip, the other sliding slowly up your stomach. “Real proud of yourself, huh?”

You try to shake your head, stammer something soft and along the lines of that it was a gift of sorts, but he shushes you with a low hum, nose brushing the side of your neck.

His hand moves higher.

Fingers ghost over one of the barbells, tugging just enough to make you gasp, watching your reflection as your eyes flutter and your lips part.

“Pretty little things,” he murmurs, rolling the piercing between thumb and forefinger. “Too delicate for my style, but you do wear them well.”

He pinches, just a bit harder, and your breath catches. His voice is right against your ear now.

“You let him touch you here? Mark you up while you squirmed on his table?” A small chuckle. “Bet you made those same little sounds too. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

Your throat tightens.

“Say it,” he presses, watching you in the mirror. “Tell me what he did.”

You blink up at your reflection, lips trembling. “He… he touched me.”

“Where?”

“M-my chest.”

“Like this?” Sukuna’s palm covers your breast completely now, fingers digging in, his thumb brushing over the piercing again, gentler this time - a rare softness. “Was it like this, baby?”

“N-no,” you breathe, eyes glassy. “Not like that. It wasn’t like this.”

That pleases him. You feel it in the way his mouth presses against your neck, the low grunt that rumbles from his chest.

“No,” he agrees, “’Cause he’s not the one you fuck at night.” His other hand comes up, cupping your other breast now, both pierced nipples under his control, sore and swollen and so, so sensitive. He massages slowly, never breaking eye contact with your reflection.

“You know who they belong to now, don’t you?”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“They’re yours,” you whisper, barely audible. Tears clinging to your lashes as you force yourself to look at his red eyes that seem to be holding you in place.

A low growl escapes his throat, satisfied. “Damn right they are.” And then he’s guiding you down to your knees - still in front of the mirror - because he wants you to see exactly what happens to bad little girls who let another man mark their body.

He doesn’t even have to say it - you sink to your knees for him like it’s instinct. Like your body already knows what to do when he gets like this. Your knees press into the hardwood floor, cold against bare skin, as Sukuna stands behind you, gaze fixed on your reflection. His fingers thread through your hair, slow and firm, guiding your face toward his belt.

“Keep your eyes on the mirror,” he mutters, voice rough, thumb dragging across your cheek. “You’re gonna watch yourself while I fuck your mouth - see what it looks like when someone who owns you uses what’s his.”

Your fingers tremble as you reach up to undo his belt, and he lets you, watching the way your hands shake with anticipation. When you pull him out, thick and hard, already leaking for you, he even got a special tattoo just for you. A black thick line at the base of his cock. So that way your pretty little mind knows where to stop everytime.

“Open,” he commands, and you do, lips parted, tongue flat, eyes wide, flickering to the mirror and up at that toothy grin of his.

He slides in slow at first, letting you feel the heavy weight of him on your tongue, but the second your eyes flick up in the mirror - watery, pleading, already so full of him down the column of your throat, his control cracks.

His grip tightens in your hair.

“You’re gonna choke a little,” he chuckles, voice a rasp as his grip tightens around your hair, roughly shoving the full length down, ignoring your choking gags as you tap his thigh for air, nails digging into the skin. “But you’ll take it. You let another man touch what’s mine, so now you’re gonna earn me back.”

He starts moving - hips rolling slow but deep, the kind of pace meant to leave a bruise in your throat. You gag, whimper, spit starting to drip down your chin, but your eyes stay locked on the mirror like a good girl, watching yourself get undone.

“Look at that,” he snarls, fucking deeper. “Suguru ever see you like this? With tears in your eyes and cock in your throat?”

You make a wet, broken sound around him, and he grins.

“That’s right. He didn’t. And he won’t.”

He pulls out with a wet pop, letting you gasp for air, tears streaking your cheeks, spit clinging to your chin. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s hauling you to your feet and bending you over the vanity - hands pressed to yet another mirror, cheek against the glass.

“See those piercings?” he murmurs, grinding his cock against your ass. “They’re cute. Real cute. But you know what they’re missing?”

You sob out a weak “W-what?”

“My fucking bite marks.”

And when he pushes in, rough, hard, and possessive, it knocks the air right out of your lungs. Your pierced nipples brush the cold mirror, sending sharp little zings through your chest, while his hands anchor hard around your waist, pulling you back to meet every punishing thrust.

“Keep your eyes up,” he growls when your head starts to drop, hands reaching for some form of stability, silent looks into his gaze to slow down because the words refuse to escape your throat. “Wanna see your face while you cry for me.”

But he doesn’t let up. Why would he? Not even when you’re shaking. Not even when you’re babbling his name, your voice cracking between broken gasps. He fucks you until your legs give out, until the mirror is fogged with your breath, until your thighs are sticky, your skin bruised, and your pretty new piercings ache under the press of his chest.

You’re a mess, hair all tangled, makeup smeared, barely able to hold yourself up as he stays buried inside you, one large hand stroking over your hip like he’s trying to soothe you. As his cum threatens to spill out of your pulsing walls. His forehead rests against the back of your neck, breath hot, voice low and full of gravel when he finally whispers:

“Next time you want something pierced… you come to me. Got it?”

A weak nod in response, a soft, fucked-out “yes” falling from your lips. Before he's picking you up in his arms.

Neither of you hear the soft chime of your phone from where it sits charging on the nightstand, screen lighting up with a new message.

💜 Geto 💜: How are the new piercings? Did your boyfriend like them? 😊 I remember you mentioned needing a job while you’re in school - turns out I have an opening. Just desk work lol :) Message me if you’re interested.

Taglist: @the-proper-possum

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XLVIII. “Bliss”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: everyone knows about you and Bruce… except you, and Bruce—though this, among other things, heats up.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, giggling kicking feet

words: 14.2k

a/n: hiiiiiii this is the longest chapter yet!! Luminol, my beloved, you’ve been upstaged (just a lil bit). this was a (fun) beast to write, and thought it needed to be allll one chapter. have fun, lovelies!! also… I definitely didn’t stay up all night finishing this with an ear infection bc I love them and y’all <3 lmaooo

The first half of the meeting went by without a hitch; you figured you’d be snubbed more by the press, but it was quite the opposite—faces that had pinned to the back of your thoughts by the shove of their cold shoulder faced you with smiles and handshakes. Some even pretended they hadn’t seen you before, and if you were of sound mind, you might’ve challenged their niceties. Oz had grabbed you by the neck and rattled your confidence to the bone. 

Why had Bruce known that comment would set him off, and why had it in the first place? Making a comment at Bruce’s expense, the resident billionaire, didn’t make sense for Oz having the bad reaction. Was it based in something traditional, like a distaste for women talking back? Embarrassing their man? Obsessing over it only worked you in circles, teeth tearing at your cheek as you struggled to pay Mr. Convoy any mind.

The budget looked no different than last year’s, though this was in spite of the population actually growing for the first time in a decade. You had no reserves to call out the discrepancy, to stick your neck out for the little guy, too busy worrying about yours getting severed. Every thought was a downward spiral from Oz’s glass in the trash to Bruce’s supposed imagination, making your head spin whenever you lingered there. It was the only thing that pulled you out of your anxious reverie. 

Notions of a universe where Bruce pictured you in the same frame capsized everything you thought you knew about boundaries and guilt. That single taste of him made you want him more, and more, and more, on an endless loop. And, shit, if you didn’t bite back a tremble reminiscing on how his lips felt on your neck… 

Convoy’s voice was grating, at least against the velvet memory of your lips. He knew why you’d done it; if it had been Oz coming in, it would’ve been suspicious to just be talking. Two lovebirds finding the closest private room to make out was smart, quick thinking. Hopefully you thought he was trying to sell it, too; hopefully, you weren’t reading into that imagine, but if roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have a single deviating thought. 

Concentrating on the meeting wasn’t an option. Your skin… it was soft, supple and warm beneath his lips, an absolute dream. He absently traced his lips with his tongue, biting down when he felt himself begin to breathe deeper, harder, faster. Fake or not, it was enough to undo every knot he’d so carefully tied. Bruce gripped his thighs under the table. 

“Mr. Wayne.” 

He blinked to the meeting’s intermission. “Seth.” A gnarly purple bruise glared at him from his temple. 

“Watch out.” Gavenstein pointed to his forehead, face deadset. “See what that bitch d—”

Bruce stood from his chair with a loud scrape, shoving it back into place. “Lucky she didn’t do worse.” He didn’t concern himself with awaiting a reaction, the man’s string of words dulling as he turned to notice you were no longer in the conference room, and nothing else mattered but finding you. 

His breath caught when Oz walked up to you from the front doors, and it took supreme restraint not to sprint across the foyer at lightning speed. It was like slipping a hand into glove when Bruce finally wrapped an arm around your waist. It hadn’t been subtle, and surely, Oz would read it as possessive. He didn’t much care.

“Oz.” He monitored his expression, keeping it neutral to pleasant. Penguin glanced between him and you, wearing a laugh and a brutalized leather jacket; it hadn’t looked that wrinkled at entry. If he didn’t know any better—and how could innocent Bruce Wayne?—he would’ve wrung his neck and checked him for blood splatters. He tightened his abdomen as he fought not to hold his breath. 

“Thought I’d leave over some shit wine?”

Yes. “Surprised not to see you in there.” Bruce hoped you’d stay quiet, not by any fault of your own. One slightly misplaced word, a sideways glance, and you’d be on his hit list. It was too unbearable to think about you being targeted, and what he might do to anyone who hurt you. The flexing of his moral code was almost as disturbing as the black eyes in front of him. He dug his fingers tighter to your waist. 

“Had to take care of some business. You know how it gets.” Penguin put his hands in his greedy pockets, Bruce analyzing his every move like prime prey, every sense heightened by your presence; everything too high stakes. 

Bruce couldn’t manage to get a word out, only a watery grin and nod. Why’d you have to come to Gotham? And why, god why, had he let you get involved in the research? Though he was grateful to meet you, to hold you, you walked a tightrope every second you remained. You were too precious, your mortality as visible to him as a throbbing carotid. 

“Man of few words, huh?” Penguin gestured to you, eyebrow raised, and you tightened against him. You were scared. As you should be with him, as he wished you would’ve understood before getting your hands dirty. He would spiral if he lingered much longer. 

“Trust me, I’ve talked to him about it.” He felt you slap his chest, feigning a laugh that was convincing enough, benign enough, but no—nothing was benign enough with Penguin. Probably spinning a narrative in his head about if you’d talked to Bruce about him, signifying that he didn’t want to talk to him in particular, and this was going to snowball, and his throat went dry, tight, and this was excruciating. 

What once had been anger had melted into pure fear. Penguin had something valuable now, could tell by how he pulled you into him, by how he pulled into the corner of your waist with his fingers, how he tracked every pull of every ligament in Penguin’s face for danger, any inkling he needed to jump in front of you to deflect a bullet. 

“Guy doesn’t need to talk, right? Money does.” He dared nudge your arm, and it felt like a bullet to his chest. He gripped you too tightly already, resisting the impossible urge to pull you closer, tighter, merge your body into his; signal that if Penguin ever touched you, ever even looked at you… his thoughts drew increasingly violent. He glanced at you to melt them away, like sun to snow. 

You laughed, and said something he couldn’t track, too invested in how Penguin sized you up with just a glance, eyes squinting and widening, seeming too interested. Oh, this made him absolutely ill. Fuck. You deserved more than he could give you. Staying here, with his beady eyes on you, was the beginning of a death sentence. 

You jammed your elbow into his rib, and Bruce attended to the words falling out of Penguin’s mouth, only catching the tail-end. Something about just joking, about never too busy for a Wayne, something about it being an honor. He forced himself to agree, play along, because it would make you safer, only for your safekeeping. Fuck. Fuck! This was visceral, tangible fear, capable of snuffing him out. He barely registered when Oz walked away, except that the air was less suffocating. 

“I need to pee.” You pulled him by the wrist down the hallway, and he was so out of it that he really thought you were going to the restroom, and startled when you got close, so close your perfume whacked him, making him dizzy; everything was getting too much, and his hands were clammy, and his lips parted and he wanted to hug you, and hold you, and never let you go, and never see you again. 

“So we’re going to the club tomorrow night?”

“We?” He hadn’t known he was agreeing to we, and the only thing filling his thoughts were expletives. “No, I’m going alone.” 

“You said we were going together.”

“I didn’t say it.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. 

“But you agreed to it.”

“I didn’t catch that.” He jammed his tongue into his cheek, looking anywhere but at you. He must not have worn his spiral well, because your hands came to his cheeks and straightened him to face you. The mist broke when he met your eyes. 

“We’ll be fine, it would be weird if we didn’t go together. It’ll solidify things.”

Convoy called the meeting to resume, and Bruce very nearly took you back home, but acquiesced to Penguin’s pull. He’d think it strange if he disappeared, give him something to read into, a reason to be more suspicious…

He didn’t have to pull you into his chest this time, you went there. Your hand knocked into his pocket, and you jumped at the small, rectangular box. “What’s that?”

“Benadryl.” He muttered, keeping an eye out for where penguins loitered. 

“I told you, you shouldn’t have it again.” 

He shook his head, responding without thought. “It’s for you. Keep it on me, just in case.”

Bruce was too busy scanning the foyer to notice the way you looked at him. No one had been that thoughtful with you; you’d even forgotten to bring your goddamn epipen back with you after the last visit home. A surge of warmth replaced the chill Oz had left. 

His gaze darted frantically across the room, and even a yank at his wrist—not gentle—wasn’t enough to tug him out of his hyperfocus. You grabbed his forearm and led him back around the corner, just out of view, and put your hands on his shoulders. He carried the weight of the world on them. 

Ocean blue eyes pored over your face with the weight of a truck. You rubbed his shoulders, down his bicep, all the way to his wrists, repeating the motion until his breathing evened. While his stare wasn’t a shred less frantic, it became increasingly focused, almost pinning you to the wall with its intensity. Mr. Convoy announced the closing of the doors, Bruce took a breath, and you both slipped into the conference room as he pulled the door shut behind you. 

Every second of the meeting was pulled teeth, every minute agony. You sat behind him, which was partially ideal with Penguin flush to his shoulder—but that meant Bruce couldn’t see you, either. He tore at his nail beds under the table, something he’d never done before. Scraping nail tips and cuticles distracted him from the intrusive worry that if Penguin looked at him just the right way, like you had, maybe he would deduce the same damn thing, and everything would be gone: forever. 

Bruce felt chained at the meeting’s end as he refused his instinct to make a quick getaway. He bid goodbye with a plastic grin and empty words of how thrilled he was to see the lounge, and what time was it again? Got it, great, awesome, excited to see you, and wrapped his arm around your shoulder as his thoughts flew him. Pulling you down the wet stairs past the paparazzi caused a slip, but he caught you, and you smiled, and he laughed, and it was hollow, but also not, and the paps got lots of photos of that, and he let you into the front seat, and you were in the car now, it was okay, but was the car fucked with, had Penguin cut the brakes? 

“What was that about a storm?”

His grip clenched around the wheel. Rain spattered the windshield, side streets already struggling to drain the excess water as the car zipped past. “There’s a bad storm that runs through every fall. Expected to hit tomorrow night, forgot about it.” 

“How bad does it get?”

He glanced at you before refocusing on the glittering road. Your tentativeness sat like an untrained animal, its gentleness cruel. 

“A few days of staying in.” 

You tapped his shoulder, then gestured down a random alleyway. Confused, but desperate as ever to please, he followed. Your face was stern as he switched off the car, and his chest thrummed with variations of what you might say, about the kiss, or his imagination, or anything else. But all you said was: “I’m okay.”

He rolled his shoulders back. “I know you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

He slumped back into the seat, his head knocking against the leather headrest. His eyes fluttered shut, deep breaths accompanying the affirmative sound you made from the passenger, somewhere close to ‘I told you so’. “Oz. Freaks me out.” 

“Freaks you out?” An edge crept into your voice. 

“I don’t want him hurting you.” 

“So obsessed with me getting hurt.”

Bruce was almost offended. You said it like it was stupid, dismissed it like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world; like he wasn’t born to worry about you. You didn’t return his stare, instead watching a raindrop drip down the glass. 

Silence stretched the length of the cabin, seeming to inflate with every blink. He startled—a rarity—when you severed it. 

“We could go shopping tomorrow.” 

He side-eyed you. 

“For club outfits. Another outing for people to photograph.” 

Bruce couldn’t say he wasn’t interested in doing another activity with you, or that he wasn’t pleased at you taking Penguin more seriously. However, he ping-ponged this interest against the fear of your heightened visibility. Going to meetings together was one thing, but making a habit of public outings elsewhere? 

He followed your lead, concentrating his nervous energy into raindrops on the glass. Showing up without you would do more harm than showing up with you; this was simply the best course of action for supporting his and your public personas. His gut cinched at your needing one, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at present; it didn’t help his tension knowing the only time he’d get to act like this with you was when things were public, and fake. Penguin had certainly dampened things, but it was still peaceful having you close. 

He nodded at you, and put the car in gear. The remainder of the drive was quiet; it didn’t exactly make you uncomfortable, but you were cued into his anxiety like it was your own body. You knew he didn’t like this arrangement, and wrestled with new guilt about taking him away from his patrols, his research, to do mindless little things in an effort to protect you. Though, you reminded yourself, it was protecting him, too. 

Bruce paused before the final turn to his house. Strange that one of the most notable skyscrapers in the city you’d walked past time and time again with Mar was now a ‘house’. “Can you do something for me?”

The hair that’d been swept behind his ear fell into his eyes with his sigh, and your stomach somersaulted. “Stay at my place. Through the storm.”

“Sure.” 

He was struck by your resolute acceptance, but he wouldn’t push his luck. If you were finally seeing how risky things were, he wasn’t about to change your tune. 

“Can I get some of my stuff, then?”

A pile of chairs stuffed to the side of your apartment door made you cringe as you flicked on the lights, and you hoped he wouldn’t read into it. In your periphery, you noticed him glance over it, and clenched your hands. 

“For future reference,” he picked up one of the chairs after shutting the door, pushing it at a certain angle against the doorknob. “This is most effective.” 

You nodded and walked to your bedroom, Bruce keeping his list of hypotheses to himself. Nightmares, probably. Hell, he still had them twenty years later. He’d ask you about them soon, but not now. Dresser drawers shifted and closed as he roamed the open plan living-dining, analytical gaze inspecting for sign of intruders. His circling landed him at the freezer, where an opened pint of Ben and Jerry’s sat alone in the corner. 

The gentle, cool breeze of it closing locked him to his mind. Sentimental over ice cream? He distracted by looking out the kitchen window. When he took in the skyline—you had a stellar view from here—it was difficult to justify the inevitable time that he would spend talking with you, looking at you, and thinking about you that could be given to the city. You tied him down like an anchor. 

“How many days will it last?” You shouted, and the sound of your voice was an immediate balm. 

“Sunday evening.” 

A selfish smile snuck up on him as he stared at the kitchen tile; true, he wasn’t helping the city, but he was with you. No matter how illogical it was, his feelings remained unshakeable, and refused not to be indulged. 

Sweats and baggy tees sat in the bottom of your backpack, slowly being crushed by the toiletries you stuffed on top. You doubled-back to your dresser to find something worth being papped in, but nothing was sufficient. You drew increasingly worried as you faced the reality of one dress, one pair of trousers, and a couple fine-knit sweaters. Maybe that would work, but…

You stopped yourself with a fistful of sweater, bringing yourself back to your body. There was no use starting this cycle; you were okay showing up exactly as you were. You grabbed a sweater, an extra tee and jeans, and avoided the lingerie you meant to throw away—and extra avoided how your mind connected them to the condoms in your nightstand. 

You moved to leave the bedroom, but stalled. Really, no? Wasn’t it best practice to have them regardless? What if… you felt a bit dizzied. Surely there was no world where that would occur, and… but… every day you spent with him brought you closer to that fantasy, at least in your thoughts. Locked in over the weekend through a storm would provide ample opportunity, and maybe you’d get cabin fever and he would too, and maybe you both would try it out since you were faking things in public anyway…

Through sheer force of will, you blocked the thought, turned off the light, and stepped into the kitchen, letting Bruce know you were ready to head back out. 

You were both stiff and silent as you walked down the hall toward the elevator. Bruce interrupted it once to ask if he could carry your bag, but tightening your hands on the straps was the only thing keeping intrusive thoughts from spilling out, so you refused. The ding! of its arrival exposed a cluster of friends who gasped as they looked behind you. They pressed themselves to the corners of the elevator to make room, their faces varying shades of pink. 

Bruce grabbed your hand, softly, every touch from him was like a whisper; almost like he was afraid to touch you. You’d thought you were better than the people who fell all over him, but here you were, fighting goosebumps at a choreographed touch of his fingers. A giggle erupted behind you, but neither you nor Bruce brought attention to it. Your focus was entirely taken by the heat of his skin on yours. 

Cameras flashed through the lobby windows, the paparazzi’s shouting echoing coolly off the walls. His grip tightened, nearly too much. They knew where you lived, now. Would they camp out indefinitely? Bruce had done a good job of losing the cars that followed from the meeting, tucking into the parking garage seamlessly, but it was as if he’d posted his location. 

He tucked you closer to his chest as you walked, the backpack bumping against his side with each step. Men shouted, fawned for attention, peppered questions you couldn’t quite make out through the glass, though you swore the word ‘scandal’ and ‘relationship’ popped through a handful of times. If it already spread this much throughout Gotham, why hadn’t Dr. Crane mentioned it? Did he not pay attention to that sort of thing? 

“Sorry.” Bruce spoke quietly into your ear as you descended the second elevator, and thankfully, the parking garage was empty. You hadn’t realized until he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze that your breathing had become dysregulated, or that spots had entered your vision. He made efficient work of leaving the garage, and you pulled a grin as the doors lifted. Am I smiling too much? Not enough? What are people going to say about this? Intrusive images of your face plastered across tabloids in checkout aisles made you shiver. 

Paparazzi didn’t lessen when you arrived at Wayne Tower; hiding in the back had been necessary before. They snapped photos on the sidewalk, waved, yelled, and some even moved so close to the car you jumped, worried that Bruce might accidentally run someone over. When his garage doors slid shut you felt your body deflate. Holy shit. That single interaction had made this whole thing real. 

Bruce sensed how much it affected you; you weren’t exactly keeping your nerves hidden. And how could you on your first run-in with these vultures? He unbuckled, hesitating before stepping out. “I…” his head shook, just a little, words failing him. Your eyes cast down and away, and his gut cinched. “I’m sorry.” 

You played with your fingernails again and, though he knew how ridiculous it was, he wanted to die. He shifted toward you, caring less how the words came out and more just that they did. “Don’t worry about catering to them.” 

Rage tensed his muscles as you gnawed at your lip with your teeth. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for either of you but stay trapped; the options were to waste his family’s legacy for all the public knew, or be poked, prodded, and analyzed by them until the day he died. “You look fine.” 

You shoved your hands into your pockets when a hangnail began to bleed and sting, following his lead to yet another elevator. Bruce pressed for the top floors, and everything became routine. You walked up the stairs first, after saying a drive-by hello to Alfred, found your way to your room, and shut the door behind you. 

The room felt bigger and emptier than it had last night. Would he talk to you about that new apartment now that you did find a lead? Would he ask you to move in here? You admired the high ceilings and thought of the echoey halls in the night. Would you want to? 

Marble flooring was cool beneath you, the short length of the dress dropping the temperature a few degrees. You peeled it off, kicked your heels across the room, and threw on pajamas. You sat in a huff at the edge of the bed, lost in vague, blurry thoughts, letting emotion wash through you as you rocked back and forth. 

Eventually, you rattled yourself out of it by remembering your purpose: you were doing a good thing. For Gotham, and for Bruce. You wiped under your eyes to make sure no wetness remained, and smoothed your fingers over your hair to catch any flyaways that might’ve cropped up from changing. There was a reason you were doing this, and you needed to take advantage of it. 

You padded down to the kitchen, finding Bruce and Alfred speaking in hushed tones by the sink. Alfred smiled when you entered, and all conversation ceased. “What’s going on?”

“Wanted to know if you were okay after the ordeal on the way, Miss.” Alfred wrung his hands on a dish towel, a ray of comfort breaking through his evident fretting. Could be the accent.

“I’m okay. Thanks.” You clasped your hands together and followed Bruce as he walked to another elevator. Your head spun. 

“If you need anything, let me know. Our house is yours.” 

You nodded over your shoulder gratefully, settling in flush to Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t say a word until it had descended, you’d both stepped out, and he’d logged into his computers. Your stool was still in its place, and you wondered if he’d made any headway on the research since Monday night. 

He hadn’t. The monitor opened to the same screen you’d left it on before he clicked away. It only took a short glance to see that something ate at him. He pulled up the camera software and cursed under his breath, making some command and stepping back from the desk. You squinted at the monitor, noting a name you barely recognized as the Times reporter, with his headshot.

Approx. ten minutes remaining.

You felt slow, foggy. Fighting with things to break the silence, you questioned the giant tunnel leading to the basement before broaching the elephant of research, which you hadn’t a clue how to approach.

“Has anyone found you down here?” It was just… open. 

He spoke with curious conviction. “People don’t think about what’s underground.” 

You drummed your fingers on the edge of the stool, and bit the bullet. “Did you find anything else about Morrison?”

Bruce shook his head, running his fingers through his hair with an air of delicious frustration. Oh, how a movement like that used to set you on edge; now you wanted to soothe it out of him, barely restraining yourself from thinking up ways to. 

He ripped off a sticky note and began writing bullet points. You steeled yourself and scooted until you could read it. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, pausing with his pen above a scrawled M. 

Gary Morrison, GU head of journalism. ‘Deceased’, ‘river accident’ in March 2014. 

Wife reported she ‘wanted body to rest’

Last seen via cam August 7, 2024

Rimmel building

Clifford Marks, Times interviewer. ‘Retired’. Age 35.

Interviewed Morrison’s wife

‘Retired’ from Times month later

Approx. eight minutes remaining.

“So Morrison was only there? Didn’t come or go from anywhere?”

“Nowhere the cameras caught.” Bruce set his pen down and stuck the note to the side of the monitor. The stool creaked beneath him. “By his stride pattern, he approached from the west. All we have.” 

“Can you confirm if he was that victim?”

“Caught on too late.” He leaned over the desk, pinching his nose bridge. This was where the frustration came from. 

“So… where do we go from here? If he could be the dead guy, or,” you snapped your fingers, feeling excited. “or maybe he was the killer!”

Bruce cast a blank sort of look your direction. Your shoulders dropped. “Your evidence for that?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “And your evidence against it?” 

“He never left the building.” 

“At least not in a way the cameras recognized him.” 

He rolled his eyes, and your stomach curdled. “This isn’t ‘true crime’.”

You pressed on, despite how much that hurt. “Was he that mutilated you couldn’t tell it was him?” 

“Look, I’ve got it covered.” He pulled off the note from the monitor and grabbed his pen, fixing his stare pointedly at the screen, which had jumped to one minute left. 

“I’m trying.” You cleared your throat when it came out whiny, fiddling with a hole in the side of the seat’s leather. “I want to help.”

He tapped the pen’s tip on the corner of the note, placing small dots at random. “You being here helps.” 

“Don’t placate me.”

“I get distracted when you’re a–way.” His pen dropped as his sentence fizzled out. There had been two sightings: one at Arkham a month post-the interview, then the airport that same day. 

Two blurry videos loaded from each; Bruce played the Arkham footage first, where Marks was seen shouting, pointing his finger at the security guard who shoved him out. He shouted from the ground, but there was no audio, and there was no way to make out the words on a lipread from such low quality footage. 

“Wait,” you squinted, squishing closer. You pointed to the ground by his foot. He rewound the footage, and a shimmer crossed the camera’s lens by his leg. 

“A knife.” Bruce scrawled something else on the note, then pulled up another software you’d never seen him use before. GCA. Airport records. 

“How the hell do you have access to all this?”

He clicked to another tab, writing something else down. 

“What? Tell me what you’re finding.”

“He was headed to LA.” Keystrokes. “Stopped in Denver.”

“And?”

You waited what felt like an hour for him to respond, watching him pull up that camera software, other programs, notate more, moving at such rapid speed you wondered how he even caught what was on the first screen before moving to the next. 

“He left the Denver airport, never came back.” 

“Why would he do that?”

“Didn’t want to be tracked. Most flights are direct.”

“So we look into Arkham.” You swallowed hard, knowing this would end terribly, but knowing too many signs pointed there to ignore any longer. Maybe you could keep him specifically to that time frame, and he wouldn’t have to find out about things happening now. Namely, you.

“We find out where he went in Denver, and talk to him.” 

“For all you know he paid cash for a random car and could be anywhere in the country.” 

“It’s a lead.” 

“There’s so much shit that points to Arkham.” 

“Thought you said I shouldn’t look there yet.” He’d paused his incessant typing and scrolling, eyes dipped to the screen’s bezel. 

“I think we won’t get anywhere until we look into it. Too much to avoid now.” If he hated you, at least people would be safer for it. At least you were trying to do something good for him and them, even if he might not see it that way when he got there.

“We need to talk to Marks.”

“Arkham is right here. You said yourself he hasn’t been spotted elsewhere.” 

Bruce was well aware why he worked alone, but he became more certain he’d continue with every ‘helpful’ comment by you.  

“What, are you going to tap into every security camera in the US and hope it caught the right angle?”

“I’m following the lead.”

“Arkham is also a lead.”

“We don’t even know what to look for there.” His shoulders turned toward each other, feeling squeezed. Anger sat at the tip of his tongue, snide comments creeping along the walls of his skull. “I’m used to doing this alone.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m sorry. I’m getting frustrated.”

He said it so plainly it was almost funny, if you weren’t so insecure about your incompetence. You shifted in your seat as you looked around the basement, noting his giant Batcar jacked up to get serviced, and put a pin in it, wanting to redirect. 

“We’re meeting Oz tomorrow. What do we want to look for down there?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re going there to be allied.”

“We can’t double-task?”

Guilt warming his conscience, he gave you an inch of the reigns. “Have anything in mind?”

“You said he’s a dealer, right?”

“Drops. Already know everything about that.”

You sat in thought for a moment while he organized his desk space. The click of his pen brought Arkham to the front of your thoughts again. “The mayor, Bella. She had that task force thing. The journalist talked about it.”

“Yeah?” Bruce looked increasingly interested, his shoulders shifting square to yours. 

“We don’t know why she was put in there. Maybe they found a new drug or something.”

He mused on that, and by the very second you internalized being a complete idiot, he grabbed another note and scribbled things down. He was always in a hurry, and you kind of understood it now. He had competence and power to make an impact, and he was caring and kind, wanting to help as many people as possible. It was valiant, almost like he was some sort of hero.

You blinked away the thought; idolizing him would do no good, especially with the inevitable end you hurtled towards with this research. If you kept adorning him with a halo, you’d never recover. 

Could you recover at this point? When just packing your bags had you wondering about condoms and lingerie and perfume? You hadn’t needed to pack things like body wash, you knew he had that here, but you wanted him to know you, to smell you, like how you smelled him every time he got close; in case he memorized you like you did him. Juicy papaya, guava, surely that would make an impression… 

Suddenly the air between you popped like it held a charge. Being alone with him threatened the firmest of your resolve against the backdrop of the kiss. You bit the inside of your lip and abruptly stood, refusing that rabbit hole. The car caught your eye for the second time, and you followed it, asking him to show you what needed fixing.

A few hours later, you tucked a towel into the rack as the shower warmed; your hands and arms were covered in grease because apparently, giant cars had millions of parts that needed constant tweaking. You shut the glass door as you stepped inside, feeling sleepy and full to bursting. The shower was pleasant. Everything was. 

You tugged clothes onto damp skin and wrapped the towel atop your shoulders so as to not leave a trail to your room. Bruce waited at the top of the stairs, his hair only slightly drier than your own. You wondered why he stood there, he’d already thanked you on the elevator up, but didn’t complain. He was a vision in his quintessential black, emphasizing the softness of his eyes. 

“What do you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt Alfred’s plan.”

“Thought I’d make it tomorrow.” 

“Those burnt pancakes were pretty good.” You grinned. “Lot of personality.” 

The timbre of his laugh made your face heat. “Will-do.” 

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” 

You paused before turning to the door. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.” 

He nodded, putting a hand on the railing. “Good.” 

Breakfast had been nice; the food was noticeably less charred, and there was an actually full jug of orange juice. You’d been so excited when he woke you up in the morning that you hadn’t checked your phone until you were finding parking at Saks. 

Bruce looked concerned when you groaned, skimming the curb of the parking garage before correcting. “What?”

“I was supposed to go home this weekend.” You’d missed a call from your mom, received a text updating about the shot. Everything went well, and she commented on how delightfully busy you must be. 

Let me know you’re safe, honey. 

The garage had no signal, so you put it in your trouser pocket. You could practically feel how close she was to assuming you were busy with Bruce; last night before you’d gone to sleep, you’d decided to scroll through your unread messages. Aunts, uncles, and cousins just ‘checking in’, acquaintances from high school coming out of the woodwork. It was beginning to feel impossible not to reckon with what this meant, bleeding past what you could mute notifications on.

Walking into a luxury store made your gaze heavy, focusing on the floor. Bruce let go of you to shake a worker’s hand as they welcomed him in, and you startled when he introduced you. He didn’t give you a title, no girlfriend or partner, but he didn’t need to. Your hand was cold on the shake, ears booming with the shouting and cameras banging on the windows behind you. 

First was the men’s section, and you didn’t expect otherwise. You coming along was an afterthought to them, starry-eyed by the presence of Bruce Wayne. They walked him right past brands like Eton, Canali, and Ralph Lauren, motioning towards names like Garavani, Prada, Saint Laurent, and Givenchy. You nearly felt bad for even breathing on any of the items. 

Bruce was overtaken by the man who was apparently his personal shopper for the day, and you thought the staff had completely forgotten your existence until you pulled out an enticing black dress shirt, and he plucked it from you with a pearly smile. “Impeccable taste, ma’am.” He left you to your own devices with an armful of items already taken to the back. You stifled a laugh at how overwhelmed Bruce looked the next rack over. 

Taking advantage of the shopper’s absence, you moved to the pants, and gasped at the prices. 

“Find anything?”

You shook your head, thumbing through strange cuts, textures, and colors. “Only the ugliest shit I’ve ever seen.” 

He chuckled. “Don’t want me in…” he held up tan, ribbed joggers that looked like long johns. “Four thousand dollar sweats at the club?”

Sometimes you forgot he wasn’t as old as Alfred, and knew terms like ‘ghosting’ and basic club etiquette. You averted your eyes to the rack, swooning over this dynamic. It felt effortless. “Your closet’s probably full of them, just in black.” 

You moved to a rack of black dress pants, shivering to think someone would willingly wear the others in public. Flipping through hangers ran your pinky across smooth, silky fabric, and you paused, pulling out pleated Saint Laurent with a thin, flat waistband. Saint Laurent. You’d only heard the name in songs. 

“Will that be all for now, Mr. Wayne?” The shopper had arrived, holding out his arm to take the trousers. 

Bruce looked at you as you handed it over. “Up to you.” 

You’d picked one shirt and one pair of pants, but followed Eric (his nametag was small), and Bruce to his dressing room; it was enormous. Full-length couch plus loveseat, plush throw carpets, and rows of shoes, handbags, and jewelry in addition to the racks of clothing already chosen. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, leaving you and Bruce standing in the hallway. 

He gestured for you to come in. You crossed your arms tight to your chest and sat yourself on the couch. He grabbed the outfit you chose, and hesitated long enough you noticed. You covered your face with your palms and heard buttons and zippers, clenching your teeth when his pants plopped softly on the ground. 

“This?” 

“You sound confused.”

“I’ve just… never worn anything like it.”

You peeked, seeing the back of him as he faced the mirror. The fabric was a thin silk—no, satin; which was more matte?—looking like a normal dress shirt at first glance. At the points where the light hit, the sheer was especially obvious, highlighting the curve of his shoulderblades. The pants hugged his frame like they’d been crafted with him in mind, tight and flowy in a way that elevated the simple silhouettes. He looked over his shoulder, and you snagged on the turn of his waist. Shit. 

He caught your sharp inhale, and quickly turned away. He fiddled with the cuffs, then undid an extra button at the top of the shirt when he began to sweat. “I, uh, think he picked things for you.” 

And Eric had. Bruce faced the opposite wall while you shimmied on a silver mini dress, trying on shoes and watches. 

Metallic mesh with thin straps connected by hardware accents. You grabbed a pair of silver heels he’d left, and checked yourself in the floor mirror, then stopped, half your foot in the heel. 

It looked… gorgeous. You never figured silver would complement you so well. If Mar were here, she might’ve started squealing.

“Like anything?”

“Um, mhm,” you stammered as you shoved your feet in the heels and smoothed out your hair. In an instant you felt vulnerable, consumed by the fact Bruce would see you like this. Why’d it feel so fucking intimate?

“Can I see?”

“Yeah,” you said, weakly. 

Bruce took a step back, his breathing taking a hit. “Whoa.” You fussed with the dress’s edge in the mirror, and he was grateful for the extra seconds to pull his expression together, hoping he’d said it so quietly you hadn’t heard. 

Your eyes narrowed as you took yourself in, and he couldn’t fathom why. “What do you think?”

He needed a cold glass of water, that’s what he thought. He felt himself turn red. “Looks like it was made for you.” 

Has all the air been removed in here? Can Eric show up? Please? Your heart raced, and you were certain he could see goosebumps with this much exposed skin. Your gaze betrayed you and you checked his outfit in the mirror to your left, heartbeat rushing to your throat seeing both of you together. 

Your phone buzzed, twice. An email had never been such a saving grace. Thankfully, Bruce went back to whatever he was doing in the corner, and you read the message from Dr. Vry. 

“Can we stop at GU on the way? Since I’m not leaving, Dr. Vry says she has something for me.” 

“Sure.” He kicked off the shoes he just tried on, reaching down to grab them. They looked nice, and shiny. 

You both changed facing opposite walls, heads buzzing. 

Eric checked you both out, and you winced at the five-thousand dollar price tag on just your dress. Bruce carried the bags out, and you actually felt happy seeing the paparazzi, knowing that… his hand slipped into yours, and you grinned. 

Bridgit met you at Dr. Vry’s office, holding a spiffy black handbag. The hallways seemed smaller now. “Hey, she told me to—”

She beamed, handing the purse to you. “Janay told me.” Janay? Since when? “She wants you to bring this to events from now on. Represents the prestige of the university.”

Prestige of a public university? In Gotham? You took it, confused. It felt sturdy, like thick, unyielding leather, with gold accents. You thanked her, and left. 

Bruce’s eyes flashed when you entered with it, and he informed you on the short drive to his house that it was a Birkin bag. “If you thought the dress was expensive…”

Thirty-two thousand dollars was the price that came up on Google, and you carried it gingerly up to your room to change, petrified of leaving a fingerprint. You set it on the spare dresser, just enough out of reach it couldn’t be bothered if you tried. What the fuck was Dr. Vry thinking? You pulled on your dress and strapped on your heels, threw on some makeup from the bottom of your purse, and headed downstairs.

You struggled to avoid looking at Bruce as you headed to the elevator. Alfred appeared, the clip of this cane comforting you. You thought it might be easier to look at him than Bruce, but he was positively beaming; did he know this was fake, or was he leading him on, too?  

“Have fun.”

Bruce handed you a pair of contacts when you got to the garage. He said he had three pairs to be able to rotate through, in case they tore. He grabbed a contact case and plopped his in no problem, and you struggled until you swore your mascara would bleed. 

Bruce’s hand was warm and reassuring as you walked into the Iceberg Lounge. Mar had visited a few times, and you recognized some booths and light fixtures from half-drunk selfies she’d sent over the years. 

If you thought eyes had been on you at City Hall, you were the goddamn Mona Lisa here. Bruce tucked you under his arm as the hallway narrowed, and you swallowed spoonfuls of saliva at the contact. Possibility electrified your limbs, rendering them half-numb and hypersensitive. To think that anything went here… that getting handsy, or a kiss, or stuffing him into a corner booth to have your way with him would only help the cause. Tasting his tongue against yours, running fingers down his thighs—playing the part. It left such wonderful deniability; for all he knew, you were a dedicated actress. 

The man in front waved a keycard to security, but Bruce made it through without a hitch. He held you tighter as a drunk group of men swaggered past, bumping you against his dense, muscled body. 

It was a perfectly normal club; downstairs was noticeably less noisy, but it still boomed, tickling your eardrums. A quick scan of the room didn’t show Oz anywhere, which was upsetting and relieving; Bruce’s brief on the way about what set the guy off had been unsettling—anything that could be read as pandering, insulting, or condescending would get you clipped. 

The bartender nodded as you both settled into seats at the counter. They quickly saddled you with a water glass, and you ran your fingers on the lip, trying to calm your nerves. Red and blue reflections of the club lights glinted through it, projecting a kaleidoscope on the countertop. The low lighting also illuminated the curves and valleys of Bruce’s muscles.

Every night pounding the pavement in that heavy suit had formed his build into a fucking menace; so different than how you might’ve imagined Batman would look, bringing butterflies to your stomach. You took a swig of water, avoiding further analyzing. You kept forgetting he was fucking Batman, even that he was a Wayne, but you felt the presence of both now. It dizzied you. 

But could you blame yourself? Was there anyone who wouldn’t want him? Anyone who would sit in your position looking into those ocean blue eyes with those long lashes, feel the comfort and strength in his touch, the sultry invitation of his breath wafting across your cheeks, and not fall head over heels? 

“What do you want to do?”

You wanted to take him to the back rooms you kept seeing the dancers take men to, that’s what you really wanted. Unbutton his pants and pull his shirt over his head, trail kisses everywhere usually hidden, hear whatever sounds that pulled from him, damn. You toyed with the glass again, the only thing you could.

You rushed to fill the space with something other than erotic thoughts, and landed on what you and Mar always pulled out once it passed eleven, and all catch-up conversations had been positively exhausted. “Truth or dare?”

Pulling up questions on your phone from some random generator sites, you placed it between you. One red button for DARE and a blue button for TRUTH sat there, ready to roll the dice. “You first.”

Bruce hit truth, and you mused the politics of his decision. Too shy to pick dare? Also, having him touching your things? Exhilarating. Having his undivided attention? Fucking addicting.

What’s your favorite curse word?

“Damn, starting tame.”

Bruce rested his chin in his hand, thinking way too hard about this. A crease appeared between his brows, and after about thirty seconds, you had to nudge him. Maybe he wanted that closer contact. Seeming like you were in the grips of intense, loving conversation, making eyes. He knew what moves to make, he knew how to manipulate. His eyes flicked to yours. “Fuck.”

That felt intimate. Too intimate, and your body rattled. You managed to a nod, clicking on your request.

“Ooh.” Bruce hummed when you clicked dare, and the screen spun. When had he started that humming thing? Since when did he make small little comments like this?

Eat a teaspoon of hot sauce.

You thought Bruce was moving toward letting you off the hook, so you waved down the bartender and requested a shot of it. You felt a strange desire to impress him, like a kid at recess trying to impress a crush. They asked how spicy, and you said medium. The bartender brought back a half-filled shot glass, and you slammed it back without a wasted second.

“Shit.”

A swell of pride speared through you at making an impression. The heat hadn’t hit in full yet, percolating on the roof of your mouth. His eyes widened, and he sat up from his slump.

“Not spicy?”

As if on cue, it attacked your tastebuds, screaming to be heard. Your face contorted, and you chugged the rest of your water; Bruce passed you his, and in a second that was finished, too. Your eyes watered, your stomach turned into a knot. 

“What the fuck sauce do they have here?!” You flapped your hands at your sides as if that would make a single dent—and noticed how happy he seemed. You wanted to tease, how dare he like when you were in pain, but the crinkle by his eyes always felled you. The bartender must’ve been watching, because they brought you a jug of water, and you drank it like you never would again. Bruce smiled, and you fought to join him.

“Since you were so brave.” He clicked dare, and you tried not to feel ecstatic at being called brave by Batman himself. Somehow, it wasn’t at all condescending. You hoped you could get a few more rounds in, seeing as your phone was at a measly five percent.

Show your most recent Google search.

Bruce’s lashes fluttered, and your face scrunched. “Such an easy one, this game’s rigged.”

Pink spread across his cheeks, and his voice became softer. “There’s no ‘skip’?” He laughed, halfheartedly, and you cocked your head at him. He eyed you. “Since you got such a big one,”

“No, no.” You were curious now. “Show me.”

Bruce gingerly pulled out his cell, and when he opened it, you saw he didn’t have a password. Surely he knew better than that, right? Or did he have a hack for that too, some sort of bomb that would go off in the battery if he ever had an inkling it was lost?

He opened Safari, and your eyes flit between his increasingly red face and the loading screen. He shifted in his seat and glanced at the table underneath. You could tell when it loaded, because his face flushed the darkest you’d seen it.

An article, titled: Romantic Conversation Starters (+ Tips to Set the Mood).

You chanced a look at him as you tucked your lip under your teeth, barely abating a laugh. You felt yourself turning warmer, and tempted the increasingly tense silence; you could feel he was about to combust. You called it out before your anticipation got the better of you and you zeroed in on things you shouldn’t. “You’re blushing.”

“Wanted to make it believable.”

Your laugh escaped you, unable to be contained. “By going on WikiHow?”

It was so endearing; he navigated these rooms so seamlessly, had people falling all over him, desperate for his attention, practically on their hands and knees to whatever the hell he had to say, including yourself, but he was just… awkward. Unsure. It was written all over his face. And fuck, it only made him more attractive.

“You got a better idea?” His defensiveness was creeping in, as expected. You might’ve fallen into the floor in his position. You mirrored his earlier posture, resting your chin in your hand.

“Be yourself.”

He clicked the phone off, slipping the evidence back in his pocket. The movement pulled at the fabric across his bicep deliciously. “‘Myself’ doesn’t want to be here.”

“What would make it more tolerable, Mr. Wayne?” You sipped at the remainder of the water from the jug like it was a delicate glass. His blush flushed deeper, which you didn’t think possible. Teasing him was fucking adorable; how could you not?

“Thought I was baby.”

You struggled not to show how that affected you, because it affected you. “Thought you were shy.”

“Sometimes.”

Another imperceptible cock of his brow and that deep, penetrating eye contact. The rise and fall of your shoulders was tighter, higher. You thought of pushing it further, teasing more, being a bit more forward, but your tongue tied, and he wasn’t breaking eye contact, and your hand was going numb under the weight of your body pressing toward the counter for balance, and—

Out of the corner of your vision, you watched Oz enter, pulling some pills out of a bin to his side. When he distributed them to the table, they stuck their tongues out at each other, showing a bright red bloom from the drug. They laughed and handed over cash. So bright and bloody… Mar did something like that once. She’d told you about it. Showed you the tongue stain a year ago. 

Oz pulled out two more pills, then locked eyes with you. You smiled, but it felt like ice water thrown down your neck. Bruce tensed as he approached. 

“Welcome, welcome! Got a coupla drinks, yeah? How ‘bout we keep the good vibes going? On the house.” he held out the pills, and you hesitated; Bruce began a deflection, but you grabbed one. His attention shot to your mouth, and he started stuttering something out, eyes wide, but you swallowed.

Oz chuckled, pushing his hand closer. “C’mon, don’t let your lady outdo ya.” 

“He’s the designated driver, I’ll have my fun tonight.” You winked at the man, and he grinned, but it faltered for a second before he righted it. Bruce needed to be careful, shooting daggers at you with Oz right there. 

“Hey baby, yeah yeah.” Oz apologized, saying he’d bring you both back to ‘his section’ soon. The second he was out of earshot, Bruce leaned in, whispering heatedly. 

“What the hell was that?”

“You want to know what this does, right? This isn’t Drops, this is newer.”

Bruce glared at your red tongue. “We could’ve asked any druggie here.” He slammed his palm just hard enough against the table to make you stiffen. “For all you know he could’ve laced it.” 

“He pulled it out of the same thing he gave everyone else, I watched him.”

He softened when you jumped, moving his hand down to his pocket. There were better ways to get his point across than scaring you. He faced you with apologetic, worried eyes. His chest felt heavy, breathing more labored. “I’m scared it’s dangerous.”

“Well then,” you scrambled not to look like a total airhead, knowing you had your reasons, but struggling to articulate them. “I’m the perfect control either way. We know I haven’t drank anything, I’m not on other drugs,”

He sighed. “Wish you would’ve consulted me.” 

“He was about to get suspicious. Now you have an out.” You sipped some water to try to abate the rising anxiety; it didn’t work. “Rich guy who doesn’t want to total his favorite car, I don’t know. Get his ditzy girlfriend all wasted.”

He turned to you, waiting for you to look at him. You didn’t. He brought his hand to your chin, and you thought it would be harsh and rough, but it was gentle as he tilted you to face him—always gentle. He looked a bit like he had at City Hall the day before. Frazzled, concerned. “You can’t leave my side, okay?” 

You swallowed hard, immobilized by the pull of him. “Didn’t plan on it.” 

His hand left you, but his stare didn’t. “How are you feeling now? We need a baseline.”

You remembered at this point that he was wearing the contacts, and you were, too, when he didn’t take out his phone to notate. Oz’s big hand gestures from a table across the way signified it wouldn’t be long. “Uh,”

“Fatigue? One to ten.”

“Uh, two.”

He pressured his speech, likely feeling Oz’s inevitability as much as you. “Brain fog?”

“I don’t know, one? Zero?”

“How does your body feel?”

“I don’t know, my feet hurt from the heels,”

“Hot? Cold?”

“Flushed, warm, I don’t know, a tiny bit warm? The hot sauce?” And conversation.

“What’s your mood?”

“Uh,”

“Apathetic? Euthymic?”

He was moving at lightning speed. “I don’t, a little anxious? Kinda sad, I don’t, I can’t quantify it right now,”

“Sad, scale of one to ten.”

You picked at your nails. “Four?”

“Anxiety?”

“Like a five?”

“Do you feel weak at all?”

“No.”

“Unsteady?”

You only had time to shake your head before him.

“Hey, VIPs!” Oz shouted from the corner, waving you and Bruce toward the back of the bar. “Follow me.”

It only took a few steps for things to shift. The world blurred out, and you were suddenly gone; all worries about what Oz was doing, all anxiety about the night: disappeared. The lights went increasingly hazy, and then it snapped into a mist; you couldn’t help but laugh. 

You leaned harder into Bruce, your knees weakened. Every brush against his arm was so electric, sensual, like foreplay. It was blissful. 

Oz said something about the party finally starting, and you thought he looked at you, but you were lost in the strength of Bruce’s hand and how much of his skin you could touch. A bright smile peaked the apples of your cheeks as you felt genuinely, stunningly happy. The music settled into the background in a dull pulse. Your thoughts rolled into a mess of ferns and twigs and pine needles that amounted to one singular need: Bruce.

Bruce tightened his grip on you, feeling you begin to drag; he wanted to make sure you were okay, but Penguin was showing him towards a back room, refusing him space to avoid eye contact. 

Stepping behind the bar revealed a moderately large lounge, close enough to 44 Below’s main stage to be involved, far enough to be private. The space was moderately large, with a glowing green EXIT sign to the left, and a long hallway to the right. No one else was back here. 

“When I’m not upstairs, you know, doing business? This is my zone, my asilo. Make yourselves at home, go on.” He moved for him to take a booth, and you clomped down next to him with a delighted huff. Bruce looked at your half-lidded eyes and enormous grin when you rustled the table, desperate to know what was going through your head. 

Penguin pointed at you, and launched into a speech about how business shifted since the flood. Bruce couldn’t make sense of why he started shifting to talking about drugs with him; was he this confident now of not catching consequences? 

“Needed to find something to help the people here. Lost lives, families, homes. Who wants to go to the club when their lives are falling apart, huh?” Penguin held his arms like he was bragging, like he was selling something. Did he want him to go in? 

You shifted and giggled beside him. God, he needed to talk to you. 

“Those eye things,” Bruce pretended not to recall, snapping his fingers in thought. 

“Ah, Drops.” He made a disappointed, dismissive sound and waved his hand, as if one of the most dangerous and widespread drugs in all of Gotham was nothing more than a passing project. “Nah, nah. That brings people down, makes ‘em nostalgic. You’ve tried it, right?”

“Makes things slower, yeah.” Was Penguin observant enough to catch the non-answer? Bold enough to call it out?

“Right, right. So this, this is something beautiful. Brings people up, keeps them excited, partying.” He straightened, gesturing every which way with his hands, his tone moving in and out as it only did with him. “And the best part is, thing’s all natural. Straight from the soil.”

Mushrooms. Why was he saying all this?

“Sure you don’t want any, boss man?”

Bruce barely contained a disgust response. With no other way to see out of it besides throwing the relationship under the bus, that’s exactly what he did. 

“Paps have been fucking ruthless since they got those photos.” He shook out his arms and set his face to look annoyed. “If they catch me with anything for a while, whew.” A tight shake of his head would finish it, and a pursed lip. “Gonna have to stay sober tonight.” 

“Prince of Gotham, alright.” The man held his hands up like he was being accused, though his demeanor remained agreeable. “Ain’t wanna be responsible for corrupting that.” 

Bruce played along, deepening this faux rapport. “People already try to discredit,” he recycled your earlier attacks on him. “Nepotism, all that bullshit.”

“Right, right. Lotta rumors.”

“Exactly, Oz.” Bruce blew a heavy breath from the bottom of his chest, making himself look as frazzled as possible. He performed musing on something, then moved like he might get up to the bar. “You know, I might get a whiskey,”

“Nah, not in this section.” Penguin, almost angry, motioned for him to sit back down with a shoo. Bruce stifled a grin; like hell he would leave you. “I’ll send one of the girls to get something for you.” 

You slumped against him as Penguin turned the corner. He didn’t waste a second. “How are you feeling?”

Your hands crawled up his arm and shoulder, and your grin got louder, and louder, which he didn’t know a grin could do. He reflexively smiled at your supposed euphoria, never seeing you so content. Your smirk went straight to his chest. 

Bruce measured his breathing when you moved your hands to his hair, twirling it between fingers. He bit his cheek when your hand slid lower; down his neck, past his abs… he gulped and moved your hand away, his body lighting up. You pouted, making a pitiful noise that went straight through him. 

“Please.” You slid nearer, whining, closing the space; your pupils were so wide your eyes were almost entirely black, your shoulders squeezed inward, like every muscle in your body was tense, needy. Your fingers moved to his thighs, rubbing the top in smooth, languid strokes. 

That please echoed through him like a fucking gong. He shook it from his thoughts the second it ricocheted. Shallow and quick, his breathing hitched, and he shifted away with another swallow. 

Heat spread across his face as he darted a look at yours. You bit your lip, and he averted his eyes to under the table. No chance you would’ve taken it if you knew it would increase your libido this sharply. With his awareness cast down, he noticed you press your thighs together, crossing your ankles. 

“I want you.”

He caught your hand as it traveled to his waistband. His fingertips were freezing, head turning staticky at your touch. You pouted again, and he looked at you with increased resolve. 

“No. You’re not sober.” Gentle, yet firm. Your eyes went glossy, almost with tears. He took your hand to bridge the distance, rubbing what he hoped was a relaxing circle along your palm. 

Your eyes pleaded with him. “It’d be so fun like this.” 

“We can talk.” 

“Can we talk about it?” You rested your head in your hands, fluttering your lashes to frame your doe eyes. 

He didn’t hesitate shaking his head. You thought long and hard, and he theorized you were mining for a loophole. “Can I look at you?”

His expression eased. “You can look.” 

You were so thrilled it was like the past conversation hadn’t happened. You analyzed every pore of his face, admiring it like some great statue or famous painting. When he felt himself start to wonder what you were imagining, he pivoted. “Tell me. How are you feeling?”

“Could be better.”

He paid the insinuation no mind. “One to ten?”

“You’re funny.”

Huh? “How am I funny?”

“Soo serious.” You pressed your finger between his brows, uncreasing them. He let his shoulders relax. “There you go.” 

You sat back, gazing dreamily. “You should talk more. I love hearing you talk.” 

Should he… stop talking? Was it making it worse for you? Were you lucid? “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Talk, baby. Come on.” 

Like he was zigzagging his car through Gotham, but unable to lose them. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I just wanna watch you.” 

He regretted the question as it passed his lips, loathed how he couldn’t help but blush under your focused attention, but he’d endure it. If he needed to dodge your advances for the next ten hours, the whole weekend, so be it. 

“You’re so cute!”

You looked pained, a growl edging out your sentence. “Is that a bad thing?”

“UGH.” You slammed back into the chair, giving him barely enough time to place his hand behind your head; his knuckles knocked into the wood, and he winced. 

Was this because he wouldn’t let you touch him? Tentatively, he removed his hand. “If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

“Whiskey for Mr. Wayne?”

“Thanks.” His fingers wrapped around the drink, leaving visible prints against the smooth siding. You still faced forward, looking upset. 

He worried his hands along the lip of the glass, needing to make himself perfectly clear. “I don’t want you feeling rejected,” he took a deep breath. “but there’s no way anything is happening while you’re like this.” 

“Not that.” You scoffed, like you hadn’t just begged him to let you. 

“What then?”

“The storm.” Your expression twisted, and you really looked like you might cry. “All the animals, and birds,”

“What about them?” 

“They hate getting wet.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. Mood swings. “Walter hates getting wet. What if he was here?” 

He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep a laugh at bay, reminding himself you were obviously wrecked over it. It was no small feat evicting humor from his tone. “I’m sure animals here are used to rain.”

You sat in thought. The booming sounds from the dance hall upstairs filled the silence, and the sharp click of a dancer’s heels as they pulled a customer to the back went along with the beat. “Can we go dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

He’d tried to convince you on the stairs to ditch this idea, but you’d quite literally yanked him to the dance floor. Admittedly, he liked this possessiveness, but under different circumstances. 

The crowd was tight, and only got tighter as word spread. Anxious thoughts circled like a shark, threatening to drown, but not you. Fully invested in whatever song was blasting through the speakers, you held your hands high, swaying side to side, grabbing his hips at every switch in the beat. You mouthed the words—you knew this one, had you gone clubbing with your friend much?—and he tried to mirror your movements, though subtly, feeling embarrassed. 

He shut his eyes for just a second at the overstimulation; he needed to be firmly rooted here to keep you safe. He wanted to help you have fun, too, and he wanted to enjoy this, or at the very least tolerate it. What kind of person would he be if he interrupted your joy, no matter what caused it? 

When he opened his eyes, a flurry of people were pressed against him, fighting to claim his attention, touching him in ways that made him want to jump out of his skin. He only panicked for a moment at your disappearance, easily looking over shoulders to find you just behind. You stared at the back of their heads with amusement; somehow, he thought you’d be angry. 

You laughed, so loud he could hear it over the bass, and jammed your way through them limb by limb, shoving your body flush to his. He caught you, feeling a profound sense of home when you pressed into him, your perfume and shampoo and whatever else made up you filling his senses in a way that shot him straight to heaven. He felt you rumble against him, hearing your laugh even closer now. He moved his mouth to your ear as you tightened around him. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.” You rolled your eyes so casually, like he hadn’t burned to tell you so for weeks. 

His lips curled into a small grin. “You think I’m yours?” 

Those half-lidded eyes met him again, spearing him. “Of course you are.” 

You didn’t wait for him to respond, and that was good, because he was full of nothing but looping thoughts of yes, yes he was, he was yours. 

You brought his hands to your waist and he held you carefully, the room shifting to a closed concept as he absently moved in tandem with you, following your lead as his nerves fell away. He wouldn’t ask you how you meant it, not now, possibly never, but he could pretend. Pretend you could feel how much he cared; that somehow, despite his best efforts, you knew with unwavering confidence that he was entirely, deeply yours without ever having to say it. 

As you both danced, he kept a shield around you. When someone got too close, he’d shift you away or pull you in without you even noticing. He caught you the rare times you stumbled, and every time you laughed, he placed the memory in a locket. Your face lit up when he’d dip his shoulders to the beat, rolling his body just enough to feel the rhythm deep in his core. Eventually his movements became smoother, more evocative, encouraged by your enjoyment. When you got too dizzy, he let you catch a breath in his arms. You’d lean in, whispering that you knew he would get into it, that you knew he could let loose. 

You pressed your foreheads together, panting. He realized he’d been working up a sweat, moving more than he had outside of patrol in years. “You don’t dance, huh?”

He laughed, and it didn’t feel strained or hollow. “Didn’t think so.” This wasn’t scary, not at all. 

He guided you off the floor when your eyes shut, rubbing your shoulders to keep you awake. He whispered to you. “Let’s say goodbye to Oz,” and brought you downstairs, already anticipating… Penguin laughed, giving him a wink and a nudge.

“Have fun, kid.” 

Disgusting. 

He snuck you out of a side door, wanting to limit photography, when he felt a punch on his right shoulder. He pushed you against the brick wall as gently as he could, but not as gently as he would’ve liked, as he caught sight of a knife. 

Disarming the assailant was easy; it didn’t take three steps and a few uppercuts for the weapon to clatter to the ground, and him to fall to his ass. Usually, if he were in the suit, the criminal would scoot back wildly, scrambling to escape further punishment; but this guy thought he was dealing with prissy Bruce Wayne.

The man lunged for his ankle—elementary. He had his wrist in one hand, wrenching his elbow until he screamed. Desperate not to escape but to hurt, the stranger lunged forward, teeth bared. Bruce yanked hard on his arm, hearing a crack, and slammed the heel of his shoe against the man’s jaw. He fell on his back, dazed, blood trickling down his nose. 

From the ground, he eyed you with a glare in the second it took Bruce to decide to scuff his shoes. Against thigh, then stomach, then chest. The last hit had the man yelping, dragging himself down the alleyway in as much a limping hurry he could manage. Bruce huffed, feeling the impact on unprotected knuckles. 

“What the fuck…” 

You were disoriented, blinking slowly, out of it. He wrapped you in a hug, shielding you from the rain he hadn’t felt until now, rushing you out front to the valet. He helped you into the passenger seat, buckling you himself so he didn’t worry, and slipped beside you, hurrying past the crowd. 

The weather worsened by the second. Umbrellas swayed and flew out of hands on the sidewalk, and rain pelted the car like bullets. If you’d left any later, he might’ve had to carry you home. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled into the drive. The piss-poor weather had deterred most of the paparazzi. 

Not even six in the evening, Alfred startled at the state of you, eyes struggling to open, slumped into Bruce’s side. “What happened?” 

“She’s fine.” 

“Bruce,”

“Went to meet Penguin, she took some drugs,”

“Drugs?”

“I told you, it’s fine,”

In his haste to get the old man off his back, you tripped on the first stair. Bruce barely caught you before you nose-dived. He helped you upright, whispering for you to jump; it was halfhearted, feet barely an inch off the ground in your exhaustion, but it was enough. He carried you the rest of the way, tenderly setting you in the middle of your bed. 

You grumbled, shifting to your side. Your heel grazed him. Right. He knelt to pull them off, setting them under the bed. He massaged the back of your heel until your grumbles turned to sighs, then hums. When your mouth slacked open against the pillow, he knew you’d passed out. 

Silently, he rose and snuck to the door, careful not to rouse you. He’d keep the door open, check on you every half hour. He grimaced, spiraling on how much could go wrong in that time. Maybe every quarter hour. 

“Don’t leave.” 

His heart cracked when he heard tears. He stepped back into the room, your scrunched, tired face staring at him like he’d committed a cardinal sin. “Okay.” He let go of the doorknob. “I won’t.” 

You patted the bed next to you, and scooted to make room. He laid on the bed’s furthest edge, arms tight to his torso. You shook your head. “Closer.”

He scooted toward you, and you dragged yourself into the crook of his arm. Your body softened and the sniffling stopped. Bruce kept deadly still, scared he’d interrupt your sleepiness with full breaths. 

It was impossible not to follow suit; just as he thought he might nap, you rustled in your sleep. His body jerked in response when you sat up, mumbling about feeling hot, and promptly yanked off your dress. Half awake by that point, he only realized you’d undressed when you threw it to the end of the bed. You thudded into him like nothing happened.

He almost fell asleep again, but you started pawing at his chest, muttering. “Too scratchy, take it off.”

He hesitated, instead pulling the blanket higher to cover it. You fell asleep quickly, and he did the same. 

You heard a thump. 

More thumps. 

You opened your eyes and saw a quilt, and felt a weight draped over your hips. You blinked a few times, groggy, and realized it was a heartbeat that you heard. 

Bruce rustled, and what was apparently his arm moved off your hip to rub at his eyes. You sat up and felt a breeze, becoming aware of your discarded dress, and your stomach shot to the back of your throat. 

You tried to remember what happened. Everything was blank, outside of entering the club and playing some truth or dare. Had you dared to hook up with him? Had he dared you? 

“How are you feeling?” His voice was slightly hoarse, from fatigue or something else. 

Your mouth went dry, posing the question even seeming too intimate. “Did we, uh,” you pulsed with embarrassment, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “have sex?” 

Suddenly you were quite breathless. A ghost of an ache pulsed between your thighs. Ah, fuck, you’d fucked him for the first time and you couldn’t even relive it. 

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you remember?”

You tried to, but it was like the time hadn't passed. He swung his legs off the bed, moving to stand. His shirt was half-tucked, his hair undone just enough to be sexy. You wished you’d fucked him; but your body, it… it felt like it had. It was needy, and spent. “Nothing.”

“You can watch the recording, then.” Bruce held out his hand, and you stared at it. You placed your hand in his, and a small noise fell from him. You ripped it away, and his brow quirked. You burned. “Contacts.” 

Timid, you peeled the contacts off your dry eyes and handed them over. As he put them in a case, you patted the bed for your phone. He pulled it out of his pocket, apologizing for the oversight as he plugged it in. “It died at the bar, sorry.”

“Why were we in bed together?” You figured you’d find out soon on the tape, but the anticipation was ruining you. Maybe you hadn’t fucked, but you’d made out, or touched him, or he touched you, because your pussy ached like it’d been made sore, and you couldn’t fucking place why or how. You clenched. 

“You cried when I tried to leave.” 

Cried?

“Wanted me to stay while you slept.” 

You believed him, but that felt humiliating to admit. “Then why was I half naked?”

“Said you were too hot.” He shrugged, moving toward the exit. “Glad you’re alright.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You took Oz’s drug.” 

Your face fell, a crumb of memory resurfacing. His worry, his questions, and how bitter the pill was on your tongue. 

“Meet me in the kitchen and we’ll go down together.” 

Bruce pretended to work on his car while you watched the video; he thought you couldn’t tell, but you were excruciatingly aware of his presence and knew you’d be doing the same thing if he’d been behaving this way. It was mortifying.

Every time you gasped or looked away from the monitor—he definitely wasn’t watching you, no—he would attempt to soothe, telling you that ‘everything worked out’, and ‘seemed like you had fun, that’s good’. You did not agree. 

Watching your hands glide over his body, getting dangerously close to his zipper, fuck. The beg in your voice, saying that you wanted him, saying please, oh, you could’ve died. Creeping on him like that… Why hadn’t he let Oz take you out back with a shotgun?

“If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

You jumped. The basement went quiet, the worn concrete walls choosing now to absorb all sound. You skipped forward, gulping back a scream, as your head pounded at the implication. 

It killed you to type ‘marked increase in libido’ and ‘risky behavior’ into his computer, but externalizing it walked you back from the cliff. A third word: ‘euphoria’. That feeling had been the loudest. You didn’t want to keep watching, but you had to. 

The fucking dancing. This couldn’t be too bad, right? No talking could happen under these circumstances. You unwound watching Bruce blush under the lights, moving stiffly like the concept of rhythm was entirely foreign. 

Bruce took a peek at you as he bolted the last tire on, watching you grin and tuck your lower lip under your teeth. He grabbed the bottled water at his side and swigged it, wishing just a little bit that it was whiskey.

You got pushed aside by a group practically clawing at him. You boiled inside, bruised, but heard yourself laugh. You pushed your way through them, easier than you thought, especially for someone drugged, and suddenly your vision was dark, clouded against his chest. His voice was right in your ear. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.” 

Jesus, how did he react? Just when you thought you might actually die, you watched him grin. Cold flashed through you. 

“You think I’m yours?” and it sounded really rhetorical, really delicate, and what the hell did you say to that? 

“Of course you are.”

Oh, shit.

You paused the footage, feeling caught between worlds. Technically, you’d already told him all the things you were so scared of. A side-eye in Bruce’s direction showed that he wasn’t working on his car anymore, and his empty hands looked inviting. That neediness was back, and you nearly stepped toward him, but stalled. Your heart could’ve beat out of your chest. 

When your breathing caught, you took it and rushed to the elevator, fully aware how fast you were moving, and how suspicious it was. But Mar would want to know what happened, you’d told her you’d gone clubbing, and she did need to know you were safe, and you wanted to know if she’d escaped the storm. But all you told him was you wanted water. 

“Can I go with you?”

You nodded, knocking the hair out of your face with shaky fingers. Every stride between his car to the elevator ratcheted your heart rate up a notch, and you swore it was as visible as the clothes you wanted him to tear off. Your hands clenched into fists as he stepped inside. “Sorry for acting like that.”

“No need.” 

“I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.” He pressed UP, and you began the ascent.

“Do you mean that?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob, and started feeling like the question you asked was more intimate than you thought. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“What do you mean?”

His back pressed against the elevator wall, like he wanted to create distance. “Do you just want water, o-or want me to make you something?”

“Why are you stuttering?”

“Why are you asking?”

The doors opened, and he practically lunged toward the kitchen sink. You watched, breathless. He didn’t think you were fully sober. Maybe you weren’t. 

You cut upstairs, head pounding. ‘Right now’. ‘Imagined’. That grin of his, and how sure you sounded. You struggled to grip the doorknob, palms slick. It wouldn’t turn, and you smacked the wood, spirit weary. You wished you’d never found out about Batman, that you’d never gotten tangled up in this shit so you didn’t have to wonder, and worry, about what was placation and what was real; so that you could break the ice and ask him yourself, or tell him, and not silently read into every glance, holding memories with white knuckles.

The door popped open, and you stumbled inside. Your phone glowed on the nightstand. Thinking nothing of it, you fell into bed and unlocked it.

The glass shattered in the sink as Bruce heard you scream. No thoughts came, only fear, and he traveled the steps four at a time. You flung the door open and slammed into him. He’d never felt someone shake so much, and held you so tight he thought he might break you, but you were squeezing him harder than anyone ever had, and shrieking. His teeth went cold. 

Your limbs tingled, weightless, and you moved and breathed on instinct alone. Bruce’s arms were around you, but you didn’t quite feel them. Presence and dissociation carved out your stomach. 

You pulled away, a dead, empty feeling bloated with adrenaline to keep you moving. A brightness filled your chest, but like a glowing hot poker. Explanation spilled out of you like you couldn’t breathe, like you were hyperventilating, but you weren’t there. 

Bruce cupped your face, but you saw him through gray mist. Alfred popped out and said something, but the waves of shock drowned him out. 

“I should’ve fucking gone, I was supposed, I planned to fucking go,”

Bruce guided you to the edge of the bed through your bursts of anger. He crouched in front of you as you listened to the other voicemails. His hands warmed your knees, his attention unwavering. 

‘Tried to call, but I’m on the way to the hospital now…’

You barely registered what you agreed to until you were halfway down the road; you didn’t react when Bruce fought the car against endless hydroplaning, but jolted back to a portion of the moment with the splatter of hail on the passenger window.

Tears flooded your lap like the monsoon outside. The buildings changing to greenery on the side of the highway choked reality down a bargaining throat. A realization that this was a moment you had to be there for, present for. You sniffed up a wall of tears. You could disappear after, if she didn’t wake up.

His hand moved to your knee. You blinked at how calmly the conversation went. Shaking hands finding delayed flights, and the complete lack of fight when he told Alfred to find the nearest operational jet. A prickle of it found you now in the form of guilt, weighing on you like the weekend bag in your lap. In a blip of lucidity, you’d asked him why he was packing a duffel. He said you were in no state to be alone right now. That if he could help, he would. That he’d leave whenever you asked, but not until you were at the hospital. 

‘fell’, ‘unconscious’, ‘waiting game’. You leaned your head to rest on his shoulder. You squeezed your puffy eyes shut, body wracking with choppy, sobbing gasps. Bruce laced his fingers between yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. He didn’t say it would be okay, or that everything happened for a reason. He let you be sad. He just let you cry.

[puppyjt]

ok all caste rewrite. bc i've had it on my mind for a while. insanely long post (for me at least) so strap in if you care and skim politely if you don't. this took way too long.

i must preface by saying, i have not fully read rhato 2011, i absolutely hate scott lobdell, so if anything here is totally wrong relating to that, my bad, i tried my best to incorporate stuff from canon. ALSO i do not know shit about spirituality irl, this is a fictional philosophy, okay? okay.

my all caste is very soul magic focused, this type of magic is wielded by all caste and i think its very insinuated this is the main type of magic used and that their magic/work/training focuses on soul related things.

this is how dc fandom wiki defines soul magic:

"A type of magic that is powered by the souls of others; it allows its user to view one's aura, manipulate the soul to reveal knowledge within another, steal the powers of others, and recharge mana by grazing through other's souls. The Faust family line are notable practitioner, as it requires a user to have either no soul or a tattered soul and to be demonically empowered to cast."

but i'm going to redefine some things. these are MY definitions/revisions of these concepts/things, as stated before, they are not going to align perfectly with the comics/canon. "oh but you said that as a statement/the truth when it's not in dc canon", it is true, in my rewrite.

for soul magic, let's talk about the last part. i'd argue that jason has a "tattered soul" and essence has no soul, but neither is "demonically empowered", so scratch that off the criteria. "oh but what about all the other all-caste members?", let's say that to have a somewhat pure soul, your soul must be somewhat tattered. therefore any one who is cleansed, trained by the all-caste, and uses soul magic, must have a tattered soul. tattered ≠ corrupt. tattered = damaged/having had experienced hardships.

purity and evilness/corruption - a measurement of someone's soul/aura based off their actions, the effects of the actions, and mildly the intentions behind them. (think the points system in the good place, but like, slightly less flawed lol.)

here's a visual representation of some of these things as i feel i do not have the skills to properly verbalize how i visualize it:

^ related to this; being fully on one side of the spectrum does not mean one cannot have "evil" or "pure" aspects. additionally, being "fully corrupted" and "fully pure" does not necessarily mean they are untitled or all-caste, or that they have touched the absolute evil or cleansing.

the cleansing - opposite to absolute evil. a powerful "water" that can cleanse the souls of those who are not (fully) corrupted. if someone's soul is too corrupt or has touched the absolute evil, the cleansing kills them.

absolute evil - deriving from the well of sins. opposite to the cleansing. a powerful "water" that can corrupt the souls of those who are not (somewhat) pure. if someone's soul is too pure or has been cleansed, the absolute evil kills them.

the untitled - ancient evil race, of essentially demons, descending from eight siblings who touched the absolute evil. they take positions of power to lure people in and corrupt their souls.

all-caste - ancient cult of warrior monks created by the ninth sibling, ducra, who resisted the absolute evil and found the cleansing. cleanses people and then trains them to take down the untitled. members also train to have omniscience.

omniscience - (the "all" in all-caste.) the ability to see the future, past, and present all at once, specifically in regards to aura/souls. they can see how corrupt or pure someone has been, will be, and is. this helps members find the untitled amongst regular people. those who have this also tend to be colder and drier as they see much corrut

all-mother - the leader of the all-caste. possesses the ability to read anyone's soul/aura and determine whether or not they can be cleansed (or corrupted). gains the knowledge of members once they die. formerly ducra, would be essence but she technically refused the title, although she attempted to rebuild the all-caste after they were slain and before she was trapped in the blood blades.

all-daughter / the first daughter - essence. the first daughter and the heir to the all-caste. will gain all of the power and knowledge of the all-mother (and thus all deceased members) in the event she is killed.

the chosen / the last son - jason todd. the one prophesied to take over the all-caste when ducra died, originally thought to be essence by most until jason rolled around.

chamber of all - a magical space that apparently has a gateway to hell and the past?—really could not find a solid definition for this. help.

acres of all - a land within Tibetan mountains that is the home of the all-caste. surrounds/built around the chamber of all and the cleansing waters.

all-blades - a weapon made of the physical manifestation of one's soul. classically conjured into blades (hence the name), though can be conjured as other weapons as technology advances. kills the untitled/those with fully corrupt souls, cannot harm anyone who is not fully corrupted. held by jason todd.

blood blades - a weapon made from of the blood of the holder. same as above; can be conjured as any weapon but typically blades. traps the untitled/those with fully corrupted souls, cannot harm the pure—if one does, they themselves are trapped inside. held by essence/isabel ardila.

(all doesn't look like a real word anymore...)

personally, i think defining good and evil like this is so silly, but for a fictional little world, it's okay.

also i added that the blades can be made into other weapons bc i think the idea of jason using guns with all-blade/soul manifestation bullets is the most peak thing ever!!!!! if you take any concept away from this, let it be that!

okay. moving on to ducra and essence.

who is ducra? the all-mother. an ancient magic user who was extremely corruptible (in that middle circle of our spectrum), but cleansed herself of evil. completely omniscient. currently deceased, but her soul is present in the acres of all and can communicate with her daughter.

who is essence? the last daughter. an ancient being with no soul. she was originally born as a real girl, where she witnessed her aunts/uncles touch the absolute evil. has been continually remade by her mother using the shadows (think god making adam out of clay). NON-HUMAN (fuck you rh:o for calling her human). is technically the leader of the remaining all-caste, however has not trained anyone yet and likely will not for a while. currently bound to the blood blades and isabel ardila.

i wrote the above after the below, so below is explaining/elaborating on some of the above:

-> so, i've questioned, is essence supposed to be about the same age as jason ? i always think it's kind of weird that she's supposed to be ancient and he's like, mentally fifteen.

i've seen it done as ducra and essence endlessly giving birth to each other, and that's fine. i'm not sure if it's canon but idc. my idea is that ducra continuously recreates essence (using the shadows of course) and does not allow her to have the memories of her former selves, so that she can learn knew things each new life and study different areas—and also so ducra can teach and tell her selective things and information. this would make sense as essence would be 17/18 when her and jason, ahem, begin their relationship. but then when ducra dies, essence gains the knowledge of all of her former lives, and all of the all-caste, and essentially becomes thousands of years old mentally. thus there is no weird age difference when they initially hook up.

-> i'm also totally not sure on whether ducra is dead or not??? rhato2011 claims her and the rest of the all-caste were killed, but red hood: outlaw features her and another all-caste member. essence also sees them as force ghost type things. let's say (mildly based off very vague canon) the force ghost thing is the last manifestation of their soul/magic. ducra had a lot so hers can stick around for a long time.

additional info, some important, some not:

-> the all caste, specifically ducra, is extremely puritanical, for a buttload of reasons and with a buttload of causes:

the untitled basically breed like crazy, so sex is viewed as an evil/untitled act. ducra perpetuates this by using the shadows to rebirth essence instead of actually rebirthing her (although given the fact that ducra is ancient i don't think that would be biologically possible anyway).

the absolute evil and the cleansing must touch bare skin to work, so nudity/being unclothed is viewed as extremely weak and dangerous because you are allowing yourself to possibly be exposed to the absolute evil. it is only allowed when you are being cleansed (and obviously changing showering etc, but that is done in private quarters).

this is why the all-caste monks wear the layers they do (actual buddhists monks do wear robes to cover such things, as well as for practical reasons like the cold etc), and essence always had the full black body suit (it is considered completely scandalous for it to be skin tight, but she gets away with it because she's ducra's daughter) .

i'm going to make a few posts relating to all of this; at LEAST, one with visuals of how i view everything, and one going in depth on jason and essence's relationship in my revision. i might also write some fics based off this au/revision.

-> i want to say that the acres of all are immune to omniscience and anything that happens within them is not known to everyone else. but this is iffy because i mostly like the idea because i want jason and essence's relationship to be a secret for most of it (not sure if that's canon or not).

-> while training, bruce was offered to train the all-caste/ducea but once told about the cleansing, he refused. he was worried that the cleansing would kill him because he was too corrupt. :(

ask questions, give suggestions, and give constructive feedback. this is all for fun but my goodness ive put so much thought into it. its three am and this hasn't been proofread so ill fix it up later.

some posts that partially inspired/helped the creation of this one: what-ifs @moon-ayyye , talking about essence @spiritsglade , these reblogs and replies @autisticrosewilson , + some others that i can't find :( and literally anyone who has ever posted about the all caste on here because i've read so many posts.

[dovalore]

hey so how are we feeling about the latest pvpciv ep

yapping about my thoughts under cut

um, spoilers for everything up to minecraft but i battle the tridents of pvp civilization

also before i continue, she's a catgirl! anyway this isn't going to be about her design, so that's all i'm gonna say about it for now

i'm going fucking crazy over tabi only ever acknowledging whatever her feelings are towards evbo through killing him. like, at the end of s1 she had a clear shot of getting rid of him forever, but she didn't

when zam was about to get him with the eternal trident, tabi dealt the final blow to spare him. sure circumstances were really different then, but she was presented with two chances to actually kill him and both times? nothing! she chose to spare him again, but this time her own fucking life is in danger because there's nothing stopping zam from killing her if that's what he decides to do

we know her weapons (assuming that she did keep her swords because why wouldn't she) are running low on durability from what she says to pierce about the cost of invisibility potions (granted, we don't know how much those cost, but they can't be cheap). she doesn't say anything about her diamond sword specifically, but we do know that a lot of its durability was spent on opening the swords' final red gate (almost 400 attacks). the eternal sword is broken, so it's in kind of a weird spot

the thing is, we don't know what happens to players if their born weapons breaks while they still have another weapon in their possession (assuming their acquired weapon is also being held in one of their hands when it happens). we do know that armour stands will still activate regardless of what kind of weapon is used on them. otherwise, nobody from the axe civilization would've been able to go through the tridents' labyrinth and neither would've evbo

tabi didn't mention her axe specifically when talking about how many attacks she had left and this was before she entered the labyrinth (so my guess about invisibility potions being pretty damn expensive checks out), i wouldn't be too surprised if she did try using the eternal sword to stock up, then discovered that she's shit outta luck for some reason, probably because it's broken

but this could also mean that eternal weapons are locked from buying things from armour stands. think about it, if you gave someone an eternal weapon that never breaks, what's stopping them from just buying things for their friends/the people around them forever so they don't have to watch their durability slowly drain over time and kill them?

so now my question is, where the fuck did pierce get all of the invisibility potions he used to coerce ferre into giving up his respawn powers? we don't know how long these things last in pvpciv and we don't have a frame of reference for exactly how long he was spawn camping outside 'long enough for ferre to give up basically eternal life'

did he break his original axe to get them? did he get the other axes (like tabi) to help him out with buying them? was pierce's invisibility during that entire sequence even coming from potions or something else entirely?

well, whatever's going on with pierce is still pretty up in the air, so i'm bringing this back around to tabi. because if we're going with the assumption that other people have been spending their attacks on pierce's behalf, it's probably safe to assume that between battling and her own purchases (y'know, to keep herself alive and on top of others in pvp), she's likely the one who's spent the most to aid him in his cause

which makes it extra fascinating to me that she was willing to attack evbo with anything that wouldn't permanently kill him when she's already nearing the end of her durability. yeah of course you're gonna spend attacks during any old fight, but neither of the times evbo died to her so far were battles at all. she actively chose to save him

she's terrifyingly devoted to the axes' cause of ransacking other weapons' eternal weapons, willing to throw herself into battles constantly eating away at the number of attacks she has left. she can't fall back on respawning if something happens to go really, really bad and um. she's currently facing down someone who's actively trying to become god through whatever means possible, we don't know what's going to fucking happen there. i'd... honestly be more surprised if this is where her story ends, i want to know how her arm's going to be twisted by zam because he got front row seats to her stealing his kill from him. as an act of mercy towards evbo

i'm pretty sure he's aware that evbo's convinced himself that tabi's his friend, but not so much on tabi's side of things until well, right now

okay i think that's everything important i wanted to say, it kinda goes places but that's just how i am with things

anyway here's some rapid fire, not as important things that i don't want to leave in the tags since people can just see them

you don't understand just how fucking thrilled i was when we went into the trident civilization and a lot of the skins cc evbo chose for its residents were sea/diving-themed, CHAT WE WERE RIGHT TO ASSIGN TRIDENTS FISHY TRAITS

i mentioned altering my design idea for zam because he wasn't a godly figure, well um. i guess my initial instinct was somewhat right because that's exactly what he wants to become lmao

fine i'll talk about tabi's design for a little bit here. she's a cat because i love cats and the way her name is pronounced is literally "tabby". tabi the tabby, except the pvp version of her isn't exactly a tabby. she's a serval

[shadow-genesis-yay]

I'm bored so I'll do this lol - Galaxy Steve 🌌

🎉 - Idk uhh a year maybe? We only figured out we were a system when our host at the time (Naeus), felt heavily 'connected' to a character, only to basically see them in their head (i guess?)

💯- 197. God help us. Only like 1? is created/brainmade, ig. the others either split off of another headmate, were a 'fusion' (not the system kind, source thingy) of some that later became their own alters instead of jjst when two specific headmates front and 'fuse' in front, and then like maybe 6 OCs. IDK whats considered created?

🧠- Wasnt intentional. Like 90% sure it was due to either trauma, loneliness, and the universe saying "hey i'd think itd be funny if they became a system" or smth

💭- Our headspace is like a mix of a airline plane interior (the seats), a train like one you can 'live' in, and a ship (specifically cruse) that has small lookin rooms that are actually very big on the inside. Feels almost like a hotel lol. And the front area feels like a control room that changes theme to fit whos 'in control'. We called our system at the time, the Ph4nt0m-F1ight-Voyager system, and the changin space was from our old system name, Fiction Trick System

🌅- No clue. Our first headmate is either gone, was our OC Eilian, or Naeus.

⚖️ - Closest to a power imbalance is just one mf who can destroy the universe in the blink of an eye, to haha possessed car (assuming this is what you mean)

🦄- I dunno. traumagenic? whatever loneliness would be?

🏇- We barely get irl shit done we are the most non functional system /ij

🧬- No clue. (can you tell i suck at this/suck at answering stuff that isnt yes or no/true or false?)

🎭- We switch, and do have different speech patterns and stuff, but mostly mask it. The only really noticable stuff for those outside of us, are different foods we liked/used to like, and dress style

🕯️- Eh, kinda neutral. Some stuff sucks as we get very down when blurry, or when too many people are fronting (even if they arent 'in control')

🗣️- Assuming i know what you mean, we insult the hell out of eachother in headspace or online.

📚- Uhhh none

🎨- I'm hyper and sometimes whats called ditzy, compared to alot of our more serious alters, formal, or 'childish' alters

🌈- Unsure. We only used Simply Plural in June of 2024, and most of us are hosts/get front stuck alot. I'd say Naeus and Entity tho, but now its mostly Entity, as Naeus had alotta traumatic stuff happend that almost made them go dormant (for us ig its just shuttin yourself in your room and never comin out tho)

🕵️- Alot of our system terms are existin ones. I think the only ones we 'coined', are Analyzers and Observers. Observers just observe headspace and can almost be like a gatekeeper. While analyzers are kinda like a defense mechanism thing. They analyze situations and deal with them.

😡- No, but we've had the classic 'omg *factive headmate*, whens *question we dont know*?" for our Youtuber alters like Sb737 and ClownPierce. Like chat you wish we knew when Friend or Foe was back

📋- Yep! Alot of our headmates are from the same source, and we have alot of different things that didnt happen 'in canon' (its pissed alot of ppl off. its funny) I, Galaxy, remember spending time, forgiving and making up with my family, compared to my source counterpart who hates some of their guts/is hated by family/was unintentionally abandoned.

🧑‍🧒- We have like 3 littles, with another one age regressor. They're all children from source or regress due to trauma they have from source.

📺- I dont think so? I forgot what an introject is, + alot of headmates who'd prob be considered introjects dont feel like they are

🍝- I dunno

🌠- Not really. We were already the 'weird kid' so if we talked to ourselves when younger, it wouldnt help

🧱- no idea

🛸- Kinda? One person we did tell but dont think they cared/remembered cus they dont really ask or anything

🧁- A bunch of queers who are either funny block game Minecraft, TRANSFORMERS ROLL OUT, sentient fuckin car, or "whats up guys, today were going to-" (youtubers). Oh and we insult eachother alot

Created plurality ask game

These questions are meant to be answerable by both created systems and mixed-origin created systems.

🎉 - How long have you been a system? How do you define when you became a system?

💯 - How many headmates do you have? Are they all created?

🧠 - Why did you create headmates/create a system? Was it intentional or not?

💭 - Do you have a headspace? What's it like? Did you build it?

🌅 - Who created the others? Who is the first created headmate?

⚖️ - Is there a power imbalance in your system, especially between created and non-created headmates? What's the nature of this imbalance?

🦄 - What's your specific origin? Do you have more than one?

🏇 - Are you currently working on any system skills? What are they?

🧬 - How developed are your created headmates? How do you define this?

🎭 - If you can switch, do you have different mannerisms or speech patterns between headmates? Was this always the case?

🕯️ - How has having a created system impacted your life? Has it been a positive experience or not?

🗣️ - How do you and your headmates communicate? If you are mixed-origin, do you experience interaction with created headmates differently than non-created headmates?

📚 - What methods did you use to develop your headmates? Is there anything that worked particularly well for you?

🎨 - How different are you and your headmates from each other? Has it always been this way?

🌈 - Who's the most common fronter? Has this changed in the past?

🕵️ - What sort of terminology does your system prefer? Do you have any terms you've created for personal use?

😡 - Have you experienced discrimination or bigotry for having created headmates? What happened?

📋 - Do you experience exomemories? Are any of them traumatic?

👨‍👦 - Do you have any littles? Is them being little influenced by your created plurality at all?

📺 - Are any of the created headmates introjects? What kind of introject?

🍝 - Would you say being created origin is important to how your system functions currently? What does this mean to you? Has this changed over time?

🌠 - Do you wish you were plural earlier in life? Mixed origin systems, do you wish your created headmates could have been there earlier?

🧱 - What barriers do you have in your system, such as memory or thought barriers? Did you make them? Did you want them?

🛸 - Does anyone IRL know you're a system?

🧁 - Give me a silly oversimplification of your system and who's in it.

[caterpills]

20 Fanfic Author Questions

Hi!! I was tagged by the lovely @cha-melodius and @anincompletelist for this!

I've only written 2 (!!!) fics, so you're going to have the excuse the repeats in answers!

1. How many works on AO3?

2 🥰

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

99,315

3. Top 5 2 fics by Kudos

This is More of a Comment Than a Question

If You've Got It, Haunt It

4. What fandoms do you write for?

Red, White, and Royal Blue

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do! If you've left me one, I have probably responded to it. I love getting comments, lots of warm little fuzzies. Plus I'm always so excited to see what others liked or noticed about the fic 🥰 (Sometimes commenters picked up on things that I didn't even realize and that is just awesome.)

6. Angstiest Ending?

Uhhh, I don't really write angsty endings? Comment/Question is angsty (but not terribly so) but the ending is still happy, full stop. I'm probably always going to put characters through it, but they'll end up together. I'm a sap, what can I say?

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

Happiest? This is More of a Comment Than a Question. While, yes, If You've Got It, Haunt It is pure hilarious chaos aka "a silly goose time", the payoff (I believe!) is more satisfying in Comment/Question, just by the sheer nature of it being a multi-chap versus a short one-shot!

8. Do you get hate?

I don't think I've gotten hate. I've gotten a few comments that have come off really unkind. Those aren't great either, but they aren't outright hate.

9. Do you write smut?

I do not! I read a whole heck ton of it (😏) but it never felt easy for me to write. The closest I'll get is non-explicit sex and other soft intimacy, but you're probably not going to see my writing venturing into E-ratings because it is not a skill I possess!

10. Do you write crossovers?

Nah. I don't think I ever would either. I love AUs, but most of the time, my fandoms and their characters are staying in their own little separate bubbles! (Doesn't mean I won't read them though!!)

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Nope! (Or at least, not that I know of!)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have not, but if someone ever wanted to, that would be cool!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Not... yet. 👀 (iykyk — there's a doc with ideas, and me saying "okay hear me out" every five seconds.)

14. All time favourite ship?

I'm not answering this! You can't make me choose.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I can't really say. I have docs for all my WIPs (some y'all don't even know!!) with the intention of finishing them. Some have become more work than originally planned and I'm generally a slow writer. So like nothing is abandoned, but it may be in a few weeks or a few months before they are done!

16. Writing strengths?

URGHHH, this question. Narrative voice, I think? I'm confident that the narration, when in a certain POV, is sound and that you can really hear it come across when reading. Also, details. I've gotten complimented a lot on all the research and little narrative bits I throw into fics. (Pulled from the reality of living it, baby *finger guns*)

17. Writing Weaknesses?

Before ANYONE boos at me, I'm going to say setting. You may not think so, but some of the most difficult parts for me to write were/are the descriptions of places. I'm also shit at worldbuilding. Also, I don't really know how to be succinct. And while people may say "it's not a bad thing!" it truly is a detriment because I'll spend three paragraphs describing something that needs three sentences.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

Totally cool with it!

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Pretty sure it was me becoming friends with the actress who plays Lex in Jurassic Park, and then us going to Jurassic Park, written on a yellow legal pad when I was eight.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

It's always going to be my first born, my whole heart: This is More of a Comment Than a Question

I'm going to quickly tag a few others, but zero pressure: @alasse9 @14carrotghoul @onthewaytosomewhere @theprinceandagcd @jafffacakess @porcelainmortal @faketrex @emeryhall @dezinthecloud

[animelover20]

Y'all why the fuck was I going back through my doffy wips after ages and realised that 4 months ago I blacked the fuck out one night at like 3am and wrote 5-6 paragraphs of the most descriptive, heart wrenching thing I've ever read.

AND ITS IN MY NOTES? I WROTE THAT?!

genuinely reading the dialogue pulls at my heart strings(hehe strings anyway-) it's from doffys pov(atleast so far)which makes it a bit strange but holy shit you just get to peak into this man's thoughts in the best way.(It's so sweet too🥲)

I'd describe the story but I don't wanna spoil it. However I may not even post it because I doubt the rest of the story could compare to how poetic the beginning is.

I suck at writing beginnings(it holds me back a lot cause I know what's gonna happen but I can't get there.) but this is the most poetic shit and it actually makes sense,aside from a few very moments where I use the wrong word.

Btw I also have question regarding the end of that. I can't tell whether sleepy brain was correct or I'm correct. Sleepy me said a window was projecting light but shouldn't it be reflecting? Listen I know that's really dumb but google sucks.

I'm sorry for this big ol ramble out of nowhere lmao I just went back and reread my masterpiece and god it's great.

I'm really proud of it,even if I'm the only person to ever see it.

[stefisdoingthings]

silence

also this is from Wolfwood's POV (in case it isn't clear) i have 0 normal thoughts (every song ever is VW)

[rafesbbyy]

I am barking right now. Screaming. Crying. Throwing up. This is going to be very long because I cannot stop about how much I love this.

Your favorite flowers sit in a vase on the marble countertop. A book you once mentioned offhandedly rests on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A closet full of designer dresses in your size hangs neatly beside rows of shoes and handbags.

HELLO?? This is actually insane. You know how I said Rafe didn't really care about her or something?? Well I take it back because this man clearly listens to her!! I was expecting him to want things to be his way even in this new house of theirs. But I'm so glad to see him recognizing some level of individuality in reader. To be seen is to be heard, or how ever the quote goes. Like it's literally so sweet of him to remember her fav flowers and book?? (maybe the bar is on the floor but this is the same man who was a lil cold and uncaring just a few chapters before!!) Also, the closet full of designer clothes?? MEOWWWW. Can I pls live readers life??? Rafe could tell me to bark and I would if it meant I'd be getting a closet full of rich shit.

The words are shaky, written in a child's uneven scrawl. They tell a story of loneliness, of always being second place.

Can you hear me crying??? You did not have to break my heart like that babe 💔💔💔

"She’s not naive," Rafe says, his voice even but firm. His arm drapes over the back of your chair, a casual but unmistakable show of possession. "She just grew up with people who never listened to her."

I have never been more turned on in my life. I have to keep reminding myself that this man isn't real. I'm so glad he stood up for her like as he should honestly!! Fucking finally!! Its the way he was exerting dominance in this scene tho—like yes pop off king!! Him saying what needed to be said in one simple sentence—OOOFFF I AM DYING. We love a protective man💗💗Lets hope now his ass can also stand up to his friends smh.

For once, someone stood up for you.

I am CRYING. She's way too sweet for Rafe🥺. I feel soooo bad for her honestly, like poor baby🥺🥺Rafe better treat her right or else I hope reader drowns him (she probably won't cuz poor thing has no other option but to be his lmaoo)

Your father exhales, shifting in his seat. Your mother fidgets with her bracelet. Your brother watches you, expression unreadable. "If you can’t accept that," you continue, "then don’t bother coming."

Oh her family is annoying annoying. Like, why are they all acting so clueless?? First they isolate her, make her feel dumb and all, and then make fun of her right in front of her future husband? Istg, I'm so glad reader put them in their places!! She's learning (from Rafe, I'm afraid).

"Shh, angel." His palm presses against your core through your dress, the heat of him seeping into you. "I like seeing you like that. Strong. Knowing what’s yours." Your thighs clench, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it. "You know what else is yours?" His voice is low, teasing, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, barely brushing where you need him most. You bite your lip, your pulse thrumming. "What?" Rafe tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Me." And just like that, any tension from the night melts away—replaced by something else entirely.

I just came in my pants. I think this is his first time acknowledging her as a person? Like acknowledging her individuality and actually appreciating it. I'm afraid all the bad things I said about him have to be taken back because he's actually so hot. Like so hot I wanna stay on my knees forever for him. Also, love the contrast from the previous chapters, where she's always 'his' but now he's "hers". Ahhh they're both so cute n hot together.

(Also, this might be super weird but for some reason the way you wrote Rafe sometimes would remind me of Mads Mikkelsen?? Maybe I'm dumb or reaching, but Rafe just gives me Mads Mikkelsen vibes, especially the coldness, the sugar daddy vibe.)

Anyways, I love how you've written something so electric and beautiful!! If Rafe was real, I'd be running away from him (and maybe towards him) but you write him in such an electric charming way that I just can't help but fall in love with him despite him being an asshole lol. I've also been daydreaming about sugar daddies so I blame you, no one else for making me this way 💔💔 Love this chapter like always 💗💗

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WARNINGS — controlling behaviors, possessiveness, family problems, light smut mdni

You weren’t expecting a detour.

Rafe had told you you’d be meeting your family for dinner, but instead of heading straight there, the car turned onto a long, tree-lined driveway, leading to an estate tucked away from the city.

Your brows knit together as you glance at him. "Where are we?"

Rafe doesn’t answer immediately. He simply steps out of the car and comes around to open your door. There’s something unreadable in his expression as he takes your hand, guiding you up the front steps.

The house is massive—far bigger than your penthouse, though just as sleek and expensive. But when you step inside, it’s different. You expect something cold and unfamiliar, but instead, the space already feels… lived in.

Your favorite flowers sit in a vase on the marble countertop. A book you once mentioned offhandedly rests on the nightstand in the master bedroom. A closet full of designer dresses in your size hangs neatly beside rows of shoes and handbags.

"You like it?" Rafe’s voice is casual, but there’s an edge of expectation beneath it.

You swallow. "This is… ours?"

"It’s ours," he confirms. "We’re moving in after the wedding."

You open your mouth to protest—to at least discuss this—but then something catches your eye. A door, slightly ajar, at the end of the hall.

Something about it makes your stomach twist.

You step forward hesitantly, your fingers trembling as you push it open.

The room is immaculate. Soft pastels, delicate lace curtains, a bassinet already in place. A nursery.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Rafe."

He hums behind you, his hands settling on your waist. "Go ahead. Take a look."

Your heart pounds as you step inside, the air suddenly too thick. It’s not just a house. It’s a future. One you never planned.

"Rafe, I—"

His grip tightens, his breath warm against your ear. "This is ours, angel. You knew this was coming."

You swallow hard, a strange weight settling in your chest. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it before, but seeing it—physically standing in the life he’s building around you—makes it real in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, turning you in his arms. His gaze is steady, unwavering. "We’re done pretending otherwise."

You’re not sure whether it’s comfort or control, but either way, it sinks in.

Because maybe you never really had a choice at all.

—

The drive to your parents’ house is even quieter now.

You stare out the window, fingers clenched in your lap.

Rafe notices. He always does.

"You nervous, angel?" he asks.

You shake your head. "No."

A lie.

He hums, unconvinced.

When you arrive, your mother greets you with a polite kiss on the cheek. Your father barely looks up from his phone.

It’s your brother who makes the biggest show of it—grinning as he pulls you into a one-armed hug, ruffling your hair.

"Look who it is!" he teases. "Still the baby of the family, huh?"

You laugh lightly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

You tug Rafe’s hand. "Come on. I’ll show you my room before dinner."

Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remember.

Pink sheets still hug the bed. Books still line the shelves.

"Didn’t change much, huh?" Rafe muses.

"Guess not."

You kneel by the dresser, rummaging through an old jewelry box. You don’t notice the way Rafe moves, fingers grazing along your desk—pausing on a small, worn book.

Your diary.

He flips it open.

It only takes a few seconds for him to understand.

The words are shaky, written in a child's uneven scrawl. They tell a story of loneliness, of always being second place.

Of feeling forgotten.

His jaw clenches.

Rafe has always known you were his. But seeing this—seeing how long you’ve felt unwanted—does something to him.

He tucks the diary back into place just as you turn around.

"Found it," you say, holding up a trinket.

Rafe nods, gaze unreadable. "We should head down."*

You don’t notice how he holds you just a little tighter than before.

As predicted dinner is tense.

Your parents are polite, but distant, treating you like a guest rather than their daughter. Your brother, on the other hand, can’t resist slipping in jabs—mostly harmless, but enough to make you squirm.

"You remember how she used to follow me and my friends around?" he chuckles. "Swore she was one of us."

You laugh lightly, even though the memory stings. You were always on the outside, trying to fit in, never quite enough.

Your mother smiles dismissively. "She always was a bit… naive."

That’s when Rafe puts down his fork.

It’s subtle, but it makes the whole table pause.

"She’s not naive," Rafe says, his voice even but firm. His arm drapes over the back of your chair, a casual but unmistakable show of possession. "She just grew up with people who never listened to her."

Silence.

Your father clears his throat. Your mother gives a nervous chuckle, brushing off his words, but your brother looks like he’s actually considering them.

Rafe picks up his fork again, like nothing happened. But beneath the table, his hand slides to your thigh, squeezing gently.

You don’t say anything, but something warm blooms in your chest.

For once, someone stood up for you.

After dinner, as everyone lingers in the living room, you take a slow breath before turning to Rafe.

"Can you wait in the car for a minute?"

His brows furrow slightly, but he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping outside.

Your family looks at you expectantly.

You hesitate for only a second before speaking. "I want you all at the wedding."

Your mother’s lips press together. "Sweetheart, of course we’ll be there—"

"But not if you’re going to treat me like a child." Your voice is steady, surprising even yourself. "I get it. I was always the little sister. The quiet one. The baby of the family. But that’s not who I am anymore."

Your father exhales, shifting in his seat. Your mother fidgets with her bracelet. Your brother watches you, expression unreadable.

"If you can’t accept that," you continue, "then don’t bother coming."

Silence stretches between you all. It’s terrifying, but liberating.

Your mother is the first to speak, softer this time. "We’ll be there."

You don’t wait for more. You just turn and walk out the door.

—

The car ride home is quiet at first. You stare out the window, letting the weight of the night settle in.

Then, you feel it—Rafe’s fingers tracing slow circles on your bare thigh.

"You did good back there," he murmurs.

Your breath catches. His hand slides higher.

"Rafe," you whisper.

"Shh, angel." His palm presses against your core through your dress, the heat of him seeping into you. "I like seeing you like that. Strong. Knowing what’s yours."

Your thighs clench, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it.

"You know what else is yours?" His voice is low, teasing, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, barely brushing where you need him most.

You bite your lip, your pulse thrumming. "What?"

Rafe tilts his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Me."

And just like that, any tension from the night melts away—replaced by something else entirely.

[strawberri-draws]

shuichi posting