#so they're more like flashing neon signs :(

[tyrannuspitch]

why am i as a fanfic writer who mostly deals with prequels, canon divergence and retellings so concerned with trying to surprise my audience. i think i'm cursed

[sleepymarimo]

୨୧. 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

: ̗̀➛ following a job, toji wants nothing more than to spend time with the person who makes him feel more man than monster.

pairing: toji x fem!reader cw: not much, but i'll give a warning for suggestive themes near the end! very slice of life. the two of you shower together, just talk about your day and plan a date for tomorrow :) wc: ~2.3k an: currently pushing the 'toji is so, so soft with you when he's in love agenda'. blame my moscow mule and whiskey shot for this.

there's something about not having to pretend, about not having to put up a front, that makes toji realize just how tired he is.

his job is finally done, a few hits followed by using some not so friendly methods to gather up a bit of information for one of his clients.

throngs of people, neon lights and the honking of cars fade into echoes as he takes the local subway lines toward your neighborhood. he taps the fare card at each station's exit, it's balance never running dry.

it's one of the little things you do for him, keeping it stocked, allowing the assassin to get to where he needs to go.

he's so damn excited to see you.

this most recent gig has kept him away for a solid three, maybe four days at this point.

his body barely reacts to the jerks and turns of the train's car, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. there's not many people on the train and it's not like they would sit by him, anyway.

with a small grunt he cracks his neck, allowing his mind to wander. he doesn't need to pay attention; he's confident that nothing will slip past his senses. while he wants to believe that you'll be sound asleep in your shared bed, a part of him figures that you're up waiting for him.

"shit." he thinks, one of his hands absentmindedly running through his hair. he was just in shibuya. maybe he could've grabbed you something from that specialty store you trekked to nearly every weekend or checked if that café was still collabing with the series you'd been gushing about.

the thoughts in his head are all but useless now, the train making it's automated announcement before coming to a rolling stop at the station that had become all to familiar to him these past few months.

he steps off, tapping his card to the reader and resisting to urge to roll his eyes at it's chime.

it's not a far walk, though there's a stark difference between this neighborhood and the rowdy inner city streets. there are no brilliant lights or flashing signs, but the occasional lamppost and crossing signal.

each step to your apartment feels like a weight off his shoulders, the corner of his lips curling into a small smirk as he punches in the code to the front door.

as he enters the apartment, the sliver of light from beneath your door tells him all he needs to know.

he kicks his shoes off and lets out a controlled breath, the bedroom door creaking slightly as he pushes it in and playfully scoffes at the sight of you clinging to consciousness on the bed.

the way your eyes light up, almost squinted as they're squished in by the apples of your cheeks, sends a ripple of warmth through his chest that he can only compare to the sensation of being stabbed. the only difference is that he'd gladly run into your blade, no questions asked.

"i thought i told you not to wait up, angel." he chides, through there's no bite in his words as he walks over until he's standing beside where you're laying on the bed.

his gaze flickers over to the television where one of your shows, a rerun, he's sure, is playing on the screen.

"oh shut up." you rise to a seated position, the blankets pooling at your waist as you continue with what you both know is a lie. "i wasn't tired."

he hums in acknowledgement, the sound so soft that he has to wonder if it really came from him. when you hop out of bed, standing before him, his brows raise in mild curiosity, his hands coming up to rest at your waist as he silently marvels at the warmth clinging to you.

"sure, angel." his thumbs lightly massage your skin over your clothes. "so what's the plan then?"

whatever show you're watching is quickly forgotten. you shrug, your hands resting on his. tilting your head toward the bathroom, you respond. "shower. you're not getting in bed all gross like that."

he doesn't protest, instead lowering his head and nudging it against yours, taunting you with a smirk. toji is aware that the scent of cigarettes and the stale air of some shitty bar cling to him like an unwanted coat. "who're ya callin' gross, huh? i'm clean enough."

yet, even as he speaks, he's guiding you toward the bathroom with a strong palm resting on your lower back.

the true white lights cast a somewhat harsh glare on the room, but the familiarity of your touch, of the sanctuary that is your apartment, only serves to soften him.

you navigate through the space with ease, the pipes hissing as the shower comes to life. it takes only a second for water to start spraying, the curtain rod clinking as you patiently wait for things to heat up.

"how'd the job go, anyway?" your hands find the hem of his shirt, gently tugging it up. he gets the hint, tossing the garment off to the side without hesitation before he does the same for you. “it was a long one.”

he doesn't bother hiding his admiration for your bare flesh, a noise of approval emanating from his chest as he leans forward and places a kiss on your cheek before helping you with your bottoms. the routine is familiar, grounding, to the man who thought he'd sworn off of any sort of domesticity.

the light thud of your clothes hitting the floor is drowned out by the sound of water droplets pitter pattering against the walls of the bathtub. "don't worry about that shit, angel." he replies, not unkind, eyes twinkling with amusement as he wraps his arms around you and brings you closer. "it's not for you."

it's hard fighting the instinct to roll your eyes, the water starting to heat up as indicated by the slow building of steam in the bathroom. the warmth of his body is much welcomed, your hands busying themselves with grabbing a shower cap and stretching it over your head.

"oh, c'mon, i can handle it." you protest, ever curious about the things he sees, the things he does. "i watch dateline, i know all about crime."

your words earn a chuckle from him, felt more than heard, his head lifting as he angles you toward the tub. "that right? sorry to burst your bubble, but it's not the same." his free hand comes up to press against your shower cap, the plastic wrinkling under his touch. he's always thought the accessory made you look silly, another gruff chuckle leaving him as his palm lightly swats at your ass. "get in already, it's cold."

the echo of your laughter is a siren's call he isn't about to leave unanswered. he steps in with you, a steady stream of water cascading down his skin and melting away the tension that had been clinging to his frame these last few days.

he's content to be pampered by you, to listen to you, to exist in your presence without pretense. for so long his life had been a series of transactions, whether he was selling his skills or himself. but here, he doesn't feel the need to put up any walls or act like something he's not.

with you, he's just a man.

a satisfied grunt leaves him as you massage body wash into his chest, your hands expertly spreading the soapy mix into the muscle before sliding them up to his shoulders. he can't help but take note of how focused you are, the sight almost comical, especially with that stupid shower cap atop your head.

"you're just feelin' me up now." he accuses, though he makes no move to stop you.

your hands pause for a moment as you let out a sarcastic chuckle, encouraging him to stand under the spray of water to rinse off. "there's not much to feel." you lie, doing your best to remain serious, but a smile unwillingly curls at your lips.

he hums in amusement, knowing damn well that you purred like a cat when you had your face pressed into his chest. "you're a fuckin' liar." he points out without much remorse, his eyes tracking your every movement while he purposefully flexes the muscle beneath your fingertips. "but sure, tell me there ain't nothing there."

in your mind, he's the one acting like a cat, his head tilted back and a lazy smirk on his face. it makes you want to snicker, push his buttons in that way you know he likes. "i spoil you too much."

"hm? sounds like a you problem." he lowers his head, your comment igniting a familiar playfulness. then, it's replaced with a rare sort of thoughtfulness, one of his hands coming up to rest on your hip.

he remembers what he was thinking about on the train, perhaps wanting to do a little spoiling of his own. "say, why don't we head to shibuya tomorrow? get you that mug from the café that’s doing that collab shit for the show you like."

toji feels like the best boyfriend for remembering such a small detail, knowing it was sure to earn him some points.

the steam starts to fog the mirror, the water hitting the tub in sporadic splashes as you rinse off your own body wash. your hands wipe some water off your face, shoulders lightly jumping with the laugh you give.

"they stopped doing it, like, two days ago." you reveal, smile a bit too smug.

he's momentarily dumbfounded, silently cursing himself. one of his hands runs through his still wet hair, pushing it back. some annoyed grumbles leave him, lips almost set into a pout. "shit, sorry angel."

truthfully, it's not that big of a deal, and you can't help but be amused by his mannerisms. you nudge him with your elbow, letting him know that not all hope was lost. "a café in kyoto is doing the 'collab shit', too. that one is still open."

"well fuck, why didn't you say that?" he nods, eyes wandering to the ceiling as he mentally maps out his schedule. "tomorrow then, let's go. we'll get ya all that overpriced shit with your favorite character on it."

the sound of your laugh is enough to make him smirk, his eyes following the path of the water as it runs down your skin. a day with his favorite girl, no crappy jobs or seedy clients, sounds like a damn dream.

"what if i had plans already, asshole?" you counter with a grin, challenging him, playfully goading him on as the last of the suds flow down the drain.

his eyes narrow and he scoffs, his demeanor nothing short of puckish. he knows you too well, figuring that the highlight of your day tomorrow would've been going out to grab a coffee or something. "no you fuckin' don't, angel. don't test me."

your lips press together as you ponder your next move, but you relent. "okay, fine, i don’t have anything to do."

"good." he replies, softer now, palm rising to rest on your damp cheek. there's a moment where he just blatantly admires you, thumb running across your lips. "tomorrow. you and me are gonna take the first train to kyoto, alright?"

you loved when he looked at you like that, but oh you hated how it made you feel like a damn school girl. still, you nod and lean into his hand. "yeah. me and you."

it could be from his gaze or from the thick steam in the bathroom, but you figure it'd be wise to get to bed. turning toward the faucet, you reach your hand out to shut the water off.

toji has a different plan though, a part of him not wanting this moment to end quite yet.

"wait, c'mere." he orders, bringing you close as his voice drops to a murmur. "forgot to kiss ya when i came in."

his actions make your stomach flip, your head angling upward to meet his lips for a kiss. his touch is firm, filled with intent, telling you everything you know he feels but struggles to say. a rough palm plants itself on the base of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

he can't even begin to explain how you feel against him, his senses honing in on all you have to offer. the heat of your skin, the scent of your body wash, the taste of your lips… hell, he swears he can even hear your heart beating in your chest.

it's not enough for him and he pulls away, only to pepper kisses along your neck and shoulder.

a smile curls at your lips and you sigh in delight, hands planting themselves on his bicep, your thumbs running along the contours of his muscle and the occasional scar. when he pulls you closer, when you feel him, you click your tongue in mock protest.

"you're gonna make it hard to take the first train to kyoto." you whine, though each swipe of his tongue or grazing of his teeth breaks you down even further.

toji seems to know this, his grip on you tightening, his smile felt against your skin. "we'll get ya to kyoto tomorrow, angel." he assures, ensuring you're kept warm under the showerhead. "we can spend all day there. i'll buy you whatever you want, yeah?"

there’s no way you could complain about that, so you let yourself go.

nodding, you succumb to your fate, succumb to him, wholly.

it's a blur from there, but by tomorrow morning, the two of you are on the second earliest train to kyoto.

at your reserved seats, you watch the scenery roll by with interest, everything almost a blur due to the high speed. he's given you the window seat, his frame protectively placed between you and the rest of the train car's occupants.

your head resting on his shoulder, arm hooked comfortably beneath his bicep, toji allows himself a moment of respite, no pretending, no walls.

it's just you and him, and he feels like one lucky bastard.

[reidology13]

we could make it better (breaking every habit)

Spencer Reid x fem ex-famous!reader

Summary: After Spencer overcomes his addiction, he seeks out the company and forgiveness of an old flame. cw: talk of addiction, a little sad? mostly fluffy though a/n: technically a part 2 of my fic based off making the bed by olivia rodrigo, but it can definitely be read as a oneshot. maybe they are a bit unhealthy, but they're cute and that's all that matters. also this was so incredibly delayed cause my phone drowned so I'm posting this from my dad's computer

Part 1

They say time heals all wounds, and standing at the door of his past mistake, Spencer hoped it had healed hers the way it had his. It had taken him too long to find her, for his pride to break down enough to ask Garcia to search for her. A few years ago it would have been all too easy, a few years ago she was on the cover of every magazine. Now she was the public's favourite conspiracy theory, the biggest where did she go? post made on some website full of self important nobodies. 

Where did she go? A small house in a small town, a few hours from D.C, just close enough that Spencer had gotten in his car without a second thought the moment he had her address. Maybe it was a slight invasion of privacy, but Spencer had seen much more of her than the house she lived in.

As he lifted his fist to knock, doubt crept in for the first time since the beginning of his endeavour. Was he right to apologise, to show up at the doorstep of the person he hurt worse than anyone else in his life, and say sorry? Sorry. ‘Sorry’ was a puny word that could never hope to mean anything compared to what he had done, how he had used her. But it would have to do, because he had not come all that way to turn back at the flashing neon sign that said ‘CLOSURE’.

Knock, knock, knock. Was three knocks not enough? Knock. God four was too many and the last one had been so separate from the others it was clearly an afterthought that she would think was weird before she even knew it was him on the other side of-

“Spencer?” The door opened, just enough for her face to be visible through the small opening. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered, although he really didn’t remember much from back then. 

“I’m sorry.” Well that was one way to get to the point. He smacked himself internally, scolding himself for being so stupid and inconsiderate, not even saying hello or asking her how she was doing.

“Do you wanna come in? You look like you need to sit down.” She pulled the door open, stepping back to let him in, and Spencer froze. She was allowing him into her home, her space, he who had squeezed her dry, used her up and tossed her aside when he didn’t need her anymore.

Unsure what else to do, Spencer found himself sitting on her couch, the awkward tension between them palpable as he sat silently in regret of every decision he had made in the last week.

“So,” She prompted, gesturing vaguely in his direction, “How are you?”

“Good, yeah, better. You?” He looked around the room, trying to find something that would tell him anything about her life, about her. She was a stranger, really, a stranger that used to be someone he knew. He wanted to know who she was then, on that day, in her house sitting across from him.

“I’m good too. You look better.” He knew what she meant – he didn’t look high out of his mind. The far wall of the room was covered in framed pictures of her and what he assumed were her family and friends. Some were from her childhood, some were taken in front of the very house he was sitting in. 

What surprised Spencer were the photos, though few and far between, where he made an appearance. The Fourth of July party, a bright, sunny photo full of smiling faces. The poor quality of the picture did nothing to disguise the bags under his eyes, nor the dead look in hers. Her birthday, a photo of her blowing out the candles on her cake, blurred from his shaky grip on the camera.

“I don’t remember that one.” He pointed to a picture of the two of them, a dark photo that he nearly hadn’t recognised as himself. The ability to not remember had been his favourite thing back then, now the haze left him with a pit in his stomach.

“Makes sense, you were… you were bad. It was taken right near the end.” 

“I am sorry, really.” Neither of them spoke after that, the silence a warm blanket rather than a thick smog. The apology wrapped around them in a warm embrace, they did not choke on it.

She moved first, after what felt like the most peaceful eternity, slipping her hand around his, holding it in the space between them. He looked down at their joined hands, his gaze slowly drifting up until it landed on the soft smile spread across her face.

“I missed you.” She squeezed his hand gently, although it felt like she squeezed his heart instead, “I missed you from the moment I met you. It’s nice to get you back.”

“I missed you too.” He didn’t know how to explain the way it had taken him a month to get sober enough that reality hit and he realised what he’d lost. At least, he didn’t know how to explain it without having to actually say something about his addiction. He’d always been good at avoiding the topic, skirting around it with suggestions and subtle confirmations. The word ‘addiction’ made him feel weak, like he’d been defeated. He’d talked about his problem once, in a room full of people who had been through the same thing, and even then he hadn’t been able to say it. 

“You’re so strong, Spencer. You’ve come so far.” It was like she could read his mind, see every fear that haunted him and soothe it accordingly.

“So are you, I mean, you got out of everything.” His eyes dropped to his lap in shame of everything that he hadn’t noticed, all of the obvious signs of just how not okay she had been. All that she must have been going through, that he had been too far from reality to know existed, even when it was staring him in the face.

“You say that like you didn’t.” It was a simple sentiment, but maybe that was what hit him like a freight train. It wasn’t some mantra he’d heard hundreds of times, or a complicated conversation with his friends where they tried to talk to him without saying anything that actually mattered.

He got out of it.

“You’re perfect, you know that right?” The way he looked at her in that moment could only be described as reverential, she was the brightest star in a sky that he had never truly seen before.

“No I’m not.” The way she said it like a definite fact made Spencer’s heart start to crack, “Do you know why I have those pictures up?”

Spencer shook his head, “Tell me,” he said the words under his breath, as if they were surrounded by people in the empty room, “I’m not going to find you any less perfect.”

“Hope. I could never get the thought out of my head that you would come back.” She shook her head, gaze locked on the ground like she couldn’t bear to look at him as she spoke. “It was stupid, and then you actually did, and that’s stupid all over again.”

“You’re even more perfect than I thought.” Spencer laughed, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, happy and sad and something he couldn’t put a name to. She was still holding his hand, he realised, and he used that information to interlace their fingers, placing their joined hands in his spare palm.

“I’m stupid and lucky, that’s what I am.” She snorted, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“No, not stupid.” Spencer drew circles with his thumb on her palm as he spoke, “Lucky, maybe.” 

“We’re gonna have to talk about this, us, you know that.”

“Eventually, yes. Not right now.”

“Not right now.” She confirmed, nodding slowly. They were both there, and that would have to be enough, at least for the moment.

[cheriecelestial]

Angel Pt.1

pairing*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Red Hood!Jason Todd X fem!reader

disclaimer*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. slight suggestive content (?). swearing. canon typical violence. kinda long. not proofread !

a/n*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ based on that one prompt “Wow ! You’ve grown so much since I last babysat you” “I want to rail you so bad”. Reader is like 26 and Jason is 19-20. Set in the WFA verse + joyfire are a team. Kinda non canon complacent. Smut in part II

Part II

Under the nocturnal skyline of Gotham perched on a towering building was the vigilante anti- hero Red Hood watching, observing the city like a hunter stalking its next prey. His jacket whipped against the wind of the boisterous and animated city. He closed his eyes and listened to song of wailing sirens and the distant cries of people, ready to respond to the city's calls for help.

Gotham was a city that, much like its vigilantes, thrived in the night. The city was hued in the rapturous and vivacious of the nightlife. Neon signs flickered casting flashes of colours across the pavements of the night clubs. People scattered across the pavements like ants, some making their way home from a tiring day of work, others more aimless and leisure - their destinations less defined and indulgent. He pulled out his grapple hook gun and shot to a building a few blocks away from where his bike was parked.

In the shadowed alleyways, Red Hood felt a sinister presence stir. He kept walking without letting them know that he noticed their presence. By the footsteps, he could tell six no.. seven. Four of medium build and three a bit more burly. Judging by their lack of ability to mask their footsteps, he could guess they're amateurs. Well in all honesty, almost everyone was an amateur compared to him. Slowing his pace, Red Hood's hands instinctively moved to his holster, anticipating a potential confrontation. Nothing beat the thrill of beating up bad guys. However, amid the approaching group, he discerned another set of footsteps — urgent, lighter, tinged with fear, and most importantly heading directly toward him.

He felt someone clutch the lapel of his jacket desperately. "You're a vigilante, aren't you ? Please help me sir. I think there are bad people following me." Red Hood looked to his side and saw a woman much shorter than him and shaking like a leaf in wind. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. It had been almost a decade since he had gazed into those warm large eyes—a fragment of his childhood that he had long relegated to oblivion. Jason Todd had what most would call a troubled childhood. Abandoned by his birth mother and the only other one he had dead from drug abuse and an even worse father who died the hands of Two Face. Tossed through the foster system, he eventually found himself on the unforgiving streets of Gotham. Amid the darkest moments of his youth, one saving grace remained —his angel,Y/N L/N. One he completely forgot about when he assumed the mantle of Robin.

"Help me please." She implored, her voice trembling and on the verge of breaking - the same one who would calm his raging storm on bad nights and tell him that he was going to be okay, and in the moment he swore he was. Her gaze shifted between the men and the vigilante, moving closer to him without realizing to shield herself from the villains in the shadows. Almost as if in a trance, he raised his gloved hand to caress her cheek as if to check if she was real or not. "Just follow my lead." He spoke in a low tone and the woman nodded frantically. His hand encircled her wrist and he started running, dragging her behind him the second he heard the thugs charge. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't think twice before starting a fight and having it his way. But he couldn't bear endangering her in the slightest so getting her to safety was the only viable option.

Her breath came in rapid gasps, and beads of sweat glistened on side of her forehead as they navigated the maze of alleyways in their path. The flickering glow of distant streetlights created fleeting glimpses of their pursuers. Her heart pounded in her chest like the strumming of a frantic drum as adrenaline pumped poisoned her veins. Jason noticed that she couldn't run fast enough to outrun the thugs with her stamina. "Sorry about what I'm about to do”,he warned in a hushed whisper and without hesitation, he lifted her over his shoulder and began running. Y/N gasped, clutching onto the vigilante for dear life. Wind ruffled her hair as she watched the vigilante leave behind their pursuers effortlessly. "You know if this vigilante thing doesn't work out you could try out for the Olympics." She muttered not realizing she said it out loud. Red Hood let out a gruff laugh, "I could but I like beating up bad guys and saving people such as yourself just a tad bit more angel." Y/N blushed at the nickname but waved it off as commonplace banter.

He set her down next to his bike. And took off his chocolate coloured jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "How could I ever thank you?" The h/c haired woman smiled at him with a smile so infectious that the corners of Jason's lips curled up without his realising under his mask. "Don't thank me just yet princess. They aren't near done." Y/N blinked in confusion and followed Red Hood's line of sight where she saw three black cars racing towards them. Her features morphed from relief to horror and alarm in the blink of an eye.The vigilante revved his bike and looked at her,"What are you waiting for?" The woman looks at the approaching cars and back at the vigilante, contemplating her options and got on the back of his bike. His hand envelops her and plants it onto his waist as if silently asking her to hold onto him. Y/N flinches at the contact as it she touched something really hot and retracted her hand.

The masked vigilante plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and strapped it on her head."You might want to hold on angel." Y/N hums in acknowledgment and holds the grab handle behind the seat. Jason rolled his eyes at her refusal to hold onto him and revves the engine making her lurch forward and crash into his back. Realising that doing this any other way apart from his was futile, Y/N timidly encircled her arms around his waist.

The vibrations of the engine shook her whole being as he raced down the streets. The streets, trees, people blurred in her peripheral vision and she started feeling light-headed. Gathering all the morsels of courage she could find, she looked behind her to see the thugs chasing them. They hadn't lost the three cars and things just got worse when she saw a man peek his head out of the window with a fun in his hand. I'm so dying today. She clasped her hands tighter around him and pressed her face against his rigid muscular back in fear.

Sensing her unease, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her infront of him. Y/N let out a yelp from the suddenness of the contact.

"What are you -"

"You don’t want your back facing them when they start shooting soon." Y/N looked over his shoulder to the thugs and then sunk back into and then sank back against his chest.

"You know if it makes you feel better just know this is an average Tuesday for me." Y/N blinked at him incredulously and in a small voice muttered,"It's Thursday today." A nonchalant shrug was all the answer he decided to give her. How the hell does he manage to remain calm through it? I'm on the verge of a panic attack and he's swerving as if this is a joyride in his kingdom. And in that moment if someone said that he was the king of Gotham, Y/N would find it hard to refute it.

The bike picked up speed causing the h/c haired woman to crash against his chest harshly. It was as if the pressure of the wind glued her against him. To calm herself, she decided to try concentrating elsewhere. Absentmindedly trailing the ridges of his armour and the red bat symbol on his chest. She heard whispers and rumours about Red Hood, the prince of crime, the scourge of the underworld—an outlaw employing more lethal methods against crime than Batman. Despite initial conflicts with Batman, he was acknowledged as a Bat vigilante some time ago. This man was dangerous and unpredictable then why did he feel so familiar to her ?

“I know I have god-tier pectoral muscles but I’d appreciate if you stopped distracting me like that.” Red Hood quipped, sounding almost smug at her fascination. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly withdrew her hand, realising how inappropriate that must’ve felt and hastily clarified,“ I’m so sorry, I’m not a pervert I swear.” Y/N felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.

“Hold on.” Red Hood skidded the bike across the road with a loud screech, making Y/N wince at the sound of the metal scratching against the gravel. He loaded his gun with one hand still wrapped around Y/N protectively and aimed at the tires of the approaching car. “I’d suggest for you to not look at it.”Y/N averted her gaze and moments later, she heard a series of crashes and explosions.

“Jesus Christ I thought I was going to die !” She exhaled in relief. Red Hood turned his face towards her slowly and looked at her as if deadpanning through the mask,“ I’m here you know. What makes you think I’d let you die ?” He retorted taking full offence of her words. “I- I didn’t mean it like that -” she stammered, partly scared to offend the vigilante.

"Whatever I'll drop you off." Jason rolled his eyes and patted the seat behind him. Y/N hesitated, remembering her mother's warning about getting on bikes with strange men, but given her current situation, she realized it was too late to dwell on that now. With no one pursuing them, the ride felt much more pleasant. The speed and the wind against her hair seemed to turn her blood to gasoline as the air dissipated from her lungs. Adrenaline fueled activities weren't for her, at least that's what her sense of self preservation told her. Y/ N pressed her cheek against Red Hood's back. Vigilantes had a symbiotic relationship with the city and as was a common saying in Gotham "The less bats you run into the happier your life is." She knew that this encounter might be a fleeting one, so she decided to relish the moment for now.

Feelings and thoughts were long forgotten, where everything faded into the background and only her physical self exists and the dancing lights at the hazy edges of her vision offered an intoxicating taste of freedom that was indescribable — stripped of obligations, responsibilities and consequences.

Y/N almost doesn’t notice when he stopped the bike. “Do you plan on holding onto me for long ? Not that I mind but we’re here.” Red Hood hopped off the bike and Y/N took off her helmet and hung it onto the handlebar. She scanned her surroundings, they were in front of a five star hotel with sports cars parked on either side of of the road. “Why are we here ?” The woman asked following behind the masked vigilante. “Well for one I don’t know your address so I can’t drop you home and second it’s too late so you should stay the night at a hotel and go home in the morning. It’s safer that way.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief,“ But I don’t have the kind of money to rent a room in a place like this.” Red Hood retrieved a key card from his pocket and placed it on her palm,“Who said anything about paying ?” The h/c haired took it reluctantly and slowly walked to the entrance of the hotel, looking back at him again and again. It wasn’t until she was inside the hotel that she saw him drive off. Y/N walked to the concierge desk and showed her the card. The receptionist eyed her with suspicion considering how she looked so out of place compared to her opulent setting. “Please fill this form. It’s for security purposes.”

The form asked things like her address and her phone number. As reluctant as she was, the receptionist looked like she wasn’t letting her through unless she filled it. Wary of the dangers of misuse of information, Y/N tried to keep her responses as brief as possible. Paranoia was the best friend of a Gothamite considering everything that went down in this hellhole. It was good to always assume the worse and subsequently prepare for it.

The receptionist offered her a tight smile and walked her to the suite. Calling it a suite was an understatement since it was the penthouse on top of the hotel. Just how rich is this guy ? Y/N assumed that the house was a property he didn’t live in because the place lacked personal touch. Either that or he was a real minimalist which was unlikely considering bat vigilantes’ love for theatrics. Y/N wondered if all the bat vigilantes were like a huge family with Batman as papa bat. Where would Red Hood fall in the hierarchy ? If she were to guess, she’d say he was probably the black sheep of the family. Y/N looked around the house, it was one straight out of architectural digests with its high ceilings and cool grey and white interior. She looked at the time and decided it was best if she hit the shower and go to bed and finally put an end to this crazy day.

Jason Todd checked into the hotel the next morning and was greeted by the overly friendly receptionist, personally he didn’t mind fangirls but anyone with even half a braincell knew the risks of being a vigilante groupie. She passed him the form that Y/N filled. He couldn’t help but smile at the form. Filling her work address and a phone number both which were most likely false give the conspicuous number of 7’s in the number ? She’s smarter than most civilians, he’d give her that. The penthouse looked almost unhampered with. His jacket was neatly folded on the dining table with a note reading “Thank you so much for saving me. Regards.” The tone of the note was clear ‘I appreciate you saving me but I hope we never meet again.’ Jason pocketed the note and left the penthouse. Fates had been kind enough to reunite him with his angel and he’d be damned if he let her get away .

“Yoohoo Y/N to earth. Anybody home ?”Y/N’s coworker snapped her fingers in front her face, snapping her out of her reverie. “Sorry about that Steph.” Y/N apologised with an awkward laugh. Stephanie Brown, albeit several years younger, was one of Y/N’s closest friends. She was a bubbly and cheerful soul anyone could tell that by the first impression she projected.

Since the night almost a week ago with the mysterious vigilante, Y/N often found her thoughts plagued by him. Curiosity of where he would be or what he would be doing right now. Her eyes often looked for any news of him while watching the news. I really have to stop thinking about him, even though they lived in the same city, the odds of them running into each other were minute.

The door opened and the bell on top of it clanged, announcing the arrival of a customer. “Mornin’ ladies.” The customer greeted. Y/N turned her attention at the newcomer at the counter. “Good morning detective !” she greeted the customer with a bright smile.

Dick Grayson served as a police officer under the GCPD and was one of the cafe’s frequents. From experiences of her own childhood, Y/N consider the police nothing but corrupt individuals on payroll of powerful people who bullied those weaker than them. But detective Grayson was one of the good and honest ones. He played a massive role in restoring Y/N’s faith that there were those in the police force who could be relied upon and ones that fought for a better Gotham.

"I'll go with the..." he glanced at the menu, a ritual he often performed. "the regular?" Y/N finished his sentence. He responded with a smile, revealing his dimples. "I never understand why you bother with the menu when you always order the same thing," she remarked. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying 'who knows.' A smile crept onto her face as she made his order.

“So how’s everything with the family ?” Y/N asked, making small talk. Beyond his consistent ordering and punctual 9:00 AM café visits, he frequently shared his sibling issues. "Oh, where do I begin? My brother is acting up, yet again. He pulled some crap about a week ago. He broke one of Dad’s rules, even though he said he did it to help someone but Dad was just not having it."

“ Which one ? The cool rebellious one or the little gremlin one ?” Y/N laughed sympathetically. She didn’t feel the need to probe and ask much but she always lent an ear to a friend so naturally she knew them by characteristics and not by name. From what she knew, Dick Grayson had three younger brothers - the broody rebellious one, the caffein addict smartass and the 4 foot gremlin edgelord from hell.

“The rebellious one.” he sighed wearily. Y/N placed his order on the counter, including a small pack of cookies. “On the house. You could use some sugar anyway. They’re free testers before we put them on the menu.” Dick accepted the coffee and cookie packet, flashing a bright smile. “Thank you so much. You’re an angel.” An odd feeling resonated within her when Dick called her that. That’s what Red Hood called her. Somehow the way the word rolled off his tongue seemed so different compared to when anyone else said it.

“Hey Dick do you mind if I ask you something ?” Dick nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What do you know about the Red Hood ?”

Dick choked on his drink and burst into a fit of coughs. It took him a while to compose himself. “He’s alright. I mean he does help the GCPD I guess but he’s too unpredictable and we don’t exactly approve of his methods. He doesn’t hurt innocents but he’s bad news. Why do you ask ?”

“No reason.”Y/N brushed off the inquiry, and although Dick seemed skeptical, he left after leaving a tip. There. Is your curiosity satiated ? Even Dick said he’s bad news now can we stop thinking about him ? Her inner conscience reprimanded her.

Y/N's weary steps echoed in the quiet street as she walked home from work at night. The flickering light from the street lights streetlights casted long almost sentient looking shadows. Her thoughts — a mix of the day's challenges, the longing for the comfort of home blurred into oblivion when a strange chill crept up her spine with a sense of foreboding. Cautious of her surroundings, Y/N constantly kept watch around herself. Just a few yards before her apartment building, she heard their neighbourhood strays agitatedly hiss to something near the dumpster. Not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Gotham had brought to her feet, she fastened her pace. Suddenly, a flash of vibrant red —the same shade she had been secretly craving to see in the past week, caught her eye.

“Red Hood ?” Y/N stepped into the shadows cautiously as if ready to flee at the first signs of trouble.

“Angel ?” He asked gruffly. Y/N walked closer and found him against the wall, clutching his side. His wound wasn’t a death sentence but needed to be tended to quickly. Her eyes widened in horror when she noticed the crimson coating his fingers,“You’re hurt !”

“ ‘Tis but a scratch m’lady.” He let out a pained laugh seeming to ease her nerves. “We need to get that treated.” Y/N urged. She knew that vigilantes couldn’t just walked into hospitals to get patched up because of the whole secret identity thing. And she also knew that taking it upon herself to treat him would go against every plan of self preservation she had. But she owed him his life. I’ll pay off my debt and we’ll never meet again. Y/N mentally decided and looked at him with newfound determination in her eyes. “My apartment is just upstairs. I have a first aid kit. Come with me.”

Red Hood gazed at her, momentarily lost in thought, then lifted his other hand to gently stroke her cheek. Y/N flinched at his touch, making him withdraw his hand. “Sorry I thought I was hallucinating you because from the blood loss. ” He admitted meekly. Y/N sighed and placed his hand over her shoulder. “Can you stand?” The masked vigilante nodded, rising slowly with a grunt.

Swallowing her rising concern, she brought him to her house and beckoned him towards her couch. Red Hood’s every step betrayed a hint of discomfort, his grimace almost visible even behind that signature mask. The second he dropped on her couch, she disappeared. He caught flashes of her running around the house like a busy bee at work. In seconds, she produced a first-aid kit and knelt next to him. “Lift your shirt.” She maintained her clinical tone, but the concern was evident with her eyes trained on the wound.

“Angel you know if you wanted to –” Jason started with a cheeky tone but was cut off by a stern glare, “Ahem yes ma’am”

Y/N breath hitched every so slightly when she saw the injury. It didn’t look like a bullet wound, the malformed spindle shape resembled a stab wound. “I’m sorry I don’t have any anaesthetic.” She didn’t look up from the wound as her cotton swab glided over the grevions injury. Shifting her elbow to his other hand on his thigh, Red Hood tilted his head seemingly questioning her,“ You can hold my arm and squeeze it if it hurts. I’ve heard that helps.”

“Appreciate the gesture angel but I’m pretty sure I’d snap your arm in half if I did.” His tone was both dismissive and endearing. Y/N didn’t insist, given his strength what he said was probably true. Vigilantes were exceptionally trained, surpassing conventional human limits. Unlike the caped metahuman from Metropolis, the bat vigilantes were more cryptid in nature. None would be where they came from and where they went. Invulnerable and insurmountable. Despite him being in a position that would render others vulnerable, he appeared unfazed, akin to a wounded yet formidable beast. There was a natural aura of dominance and power about him. They don’t call him the Prince of Gotham for no reason that’s for sure.

“You’re good at this. Like one of the best I’ve seen.” He spoke up, seemingly trying to come off as capable of being civil. “Well three years of med school. Some stitching is the least I can do.” She explained. Red Hood visible froze for a good second and inquired,“ You’re a doctor ?”

Y/N scoffed,“ Look around. Do I look like one ?” Red Hood looked around her apartment. Although well maintained, an ode to her efforts, the apartment was old and almost pitiful . Most of the furniture looked second hand and cheap. The curtain rods were rusted and the paint was peeling off from the walls with damp spots on the ceilings.

“You dropped out ?” He guessed. “Yeah. Couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled bitterly.

“Didn’t they offer scholarships or something ?” Jason was aware of Wayne Enterprises’ scholarship programs for talented students. When Bruce took him in, he assured Jason that if Y/N met the criteria, she would be enrolled in the program. Y/N’s intellect had always impressed Jason since childhood, he remembered that she would often sneak into libraries and memorise books worth of stories to recite them to Jason to help him sleep. There was just no way she wouldn’t be accepted into the program.

“They did but that didn’t pay bills. I needed to find a job to pay for my mom’s hospital bills.” She kept her response short, clearly not wanting to delve deep into the topic. “Work for me.” The statement was like a whiplash for Y/N. Work for him ? There weren’t many things Y/N had to take a double take for but this proposition was entirely unexpected. It caught her off guard, she stared at him incredulously with widened eyes. Red Hood was know for operating in the gray areas between legality and criminality and wasn’t exactly your quintessential example of a righteous lawful hero.

“Not in the way you’re imagining.” He hooked his free hand under her chin, gently closing her agape mouth. His tone was soft and reassuring,“ I’ve been meaning to find a backstreet surgeon to stitch me up. Comes in handy for a guy like me. I’m sure you understand angel.”

“B-but why me ?”Y/N stuttered, avoiding eye contact as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel a chill of nervousness and panic creep up her spine. What if he got angry if she refused ? Jason noticed the change in the air around her and the stiffening of her muscles in panic that she was clearly trying to hide from him.

“Because you’re convenient. Your place is easy to get in and out of undetected, you’re talented and most of all —“ He gently lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Y/N let out a shuddered breath as Red Hood stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “— you fear me enough to not go around squeaking to the wrong people about me. No ?” Jason couldn’t help but relish in the reaction he elicited to the feeling of the leather gliding against her cheek in a silken featherlight touch. How adorable.

Y/N swallowed nervously before nodding slowly. A beat of silence passed and she let out a small sigh, recollecting herself and weighing her options. “How much are we talking ?” She asked him in a low voice. Jason could hardly contain his excitement, grinning wildly under his mask. A sense of pride washed over him as her first question after his offer focused on the financial aspect.

“Let’s see how about 2 grand a month ? Too less ? 3 grand ? 3.5 ? That enough ?”he suggested eagerly. Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief, almost bulging from their sockets. Without waiting for her response, he added, “Plus, there’ll be extra incentives when I’m feeling generous.”

“All that for some stitching ? There has to be a catch.” She reasoned. It seemed implausible that he would offer such a substantial sum for such a minor task. Jason chuckled," You’re smart. I like that in a woman. And to answer your question, it’s not just stitching. It’s about your discretion and loyalty. It’s a complete package. Plus that sort of money is pretty much pocket change to me.”

“And if I were to betray your trust ?” Y/N asked in a hypothetical sense, of course she had more sense than to betray someone of his stature and power. “Do you really want me to answer that ?” He countered sounding equal parts smug and menacing. Y/N shook her head in negation and continued stitching his wound. The process of stitching became a meditative rhythm - the needle piercing the skin, the pull of the thread, the knotting, and the slight twitch of Red Hood’s muscles with each stitch.

“I’ll take it.” She muttered. Jason was grateful for his mask and injury otherwise, he might have been unable to hide his urge to jump up and punch air in celebration. Agreeing to his proposition marked just the beginning of his grand plan for making Y/N his and for now, everything unfolded according to his wishes and he couldn’t be happier.

Y/N wrapped gauze around the wound and secured it with a metal clip. “Normally I’d suggest a few days’ rest but I have a feeling there’s no point in saying.” Red Hood commented with a shrug as he inspected the injury. Y/N rose and fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the table. “If you’re trying to get me to remove my helmet, it won’t work.” he remarked. As much as his distrust stung, Y/N rationalised that it was typical for someone like him.

She retrieved a scarf from the coat rack, folded it and tied it around her eyes before taking a seat on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectable distance from the masked vigilante. "What's with the blindfold angel ?" Red Hood asked, his tone tinged with amusement.

"Isn't trust earned through actions?" she responded. Y/N heard the thud of his helmet being placed on the table. Jason seemed genuinely impressed by her gesture. His gaze lingered on her figure as she remained motionless, noting how much she had changed since his childhood memory. Yet her kindness to those in need while still keeping herself guarded from those who would abuse it still remained unchanged. Jason’s hand twitched with the impulse to touch her. To hold her. He wondered how her face would look in his palms with her bare body melded against his own.

“ ‘Suppose it is.” Jason chuckled as he downed the glass of water and put his helmet back on. “I’m finished. You can remove that blindfold now, although it does look adorable on you.” He noticed her chest rise with a sudden hitch, and her cheeks flush red. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, knowing the other implications blindfolds carried. As she removed the scarf and looked around, Red Hood had vanished without a trace. Her window was open and it was as if disappeared into the wind just as he came. She got why the bat vigilantes were often likened to cryptid beings and phantoms. Y/N was left to ponder over the events that had unfolded. Under the glass of water she offered him three hundred dollar bills were tucked. “I suppose I’m now working for the Prince of Gotham now.” Y/N mused to herself, realizing her attempt to avoid getting involved had failed miserably.

Jason's parents engaged in another round of screaming matches, this time he decided he’d had enough and thought of running away. Despite previous fleeting thoughts of escape, each time night fell — he faced the harsh reality of lacking sustenance and shelter. Convinced that the streets offered a marginally preferable refuge to the shithole he was force to call home, he wandered aimlessly till he found himself at the dumpster of a bakery. He knew shops like those threw away left overs even though they could’ve given them out — Jason saw it as a glaring manifestation of selfishness of adults.

He hid behind the dumpster and waited for someone to come and throw away the leftovers. After waiting for almost half an hour, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Glancing cautiously from his hiding spot, Jason spotted a young waitress walking out. She was likely just a few years older than himself, a middle school or a high school student maybe, he thought to himself. As she approached to dispose of the food, she paused midway. No way did she see him ? Jason shrank back against a cardboard box, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.

“Hey kid you can come out. I already saw you.” the waitress said softly. Jason slowly crawled out and approached her. He eyed the tray of leftovers in her hand, wondering if he could snatch them and escape quickly enough ? The waitress seemed to notice this and raised the tray above his reach. “Against bakery policies kid. Where are your parents ?” She asked. Of course she wouldn't be generous enough to offer him any. In his mind, all adults were rotten to the core and selfish —why would she be any different ?

Jason scoffed,“ Does it matter ?” His statement was met with a sigh from the waitress, her expression conveying annoyance, a scene all too familiar to him. Bracing himself he said,“ Just do it already. I’ve had it from guys thrice your size.” Jason was well acquainted with the drill with diner employees — catch a few shoves and slaps, pretend to go away and wait for them to leave and then come back pick up the food.

He shut his eyes and waited for her to slap and swear at him to drive him away like everyone else. Yet moments passed but the expected blow never came. Instead, Jason felt a gentle pat on his head and looked up to see her smiling empathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. Wondering why she seemed so melancholic, he accepted the loaf of bread she offered and wolfed it down. “Won’t you get in trouble for this ?” He asked. With a forced laugh she admitted,“ I probably will but I can’t let a kid hungry now can I ?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” The young boy promised earnestly and she returned his smile. His gaze fell upon her nametag—Y/N L/N. Maybe not all adults are bad.

It had been barely four days since she last saw him that she heard from him again. In the dead of night, her doorbell rang. She approached the door cautiously and grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella rack as a just in case. She didn’t hear any movement on the other side of the door so she cautiously opened the door, peering out. To her surprise, she found only a small, shoddily wrapped parcel resting on the floor with her name written in red.

There was no one except a small poorly wrapped parcel on floor with her name on it. Retrieving it, she carried it inside. Within the parcel lay a modest yet exquisite golden necklace accompanied by a handwritten instruction manual. Observing it she realised it was one of those necklaces that acted as an SOS signal. The parcel also contained a big folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a map of Gotham City with specific locations ominously marked in red and the stark warning “DO NOT GO” emblazoned in bold letters. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, maybe this is not all that bad.

Over the following days, Red Hood would appear unannounced giving Y/N enough jumpscares for lifetime, when she would walk into her living room and find him bleeding out on her couch. He wasn’t much of a talker which wasn’t a surprise.

His injuries presented a variety of shapes and sizes each time he visited, but recently, his injuries bore uncanny resemblance the markings of knife wounds. Some were superficial, while others cut deeper. However, considering the depth, placement, and angles, Y/N questioned whether they were the result of his typical fights. "Are you testing my loyalty? Seeing if I'll betray you?" Y/N clenched her teeth with silvers of anger and frustration glinting in her eyes. Red Hood appeared slightly taken aback but remained silent in response to her outburst. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice ? Either that certain type of knife has become Gotham’s thugs number one choice or you're doing this to yourself. Why ?" She pressed further.

“ I knew I shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”Jason wasn’t accustomed to others fussing over his safety. Typically he received, at most a pat on the back from those who worked alongside him, knowing he had endured much worse and could handle it. Her anger and frustration hinted at concern, echoing the tone when he would go and pick fights with boys twice his size.

“What’s that supposed to mean ?”

Red Hood let out a sigh and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, I enjoy spending time with you and I wouldn’t bother coming unless I needed medical attention. So you know —"

“— So you cut yourself ? To hang out with me ? What’s wrong with you ? What if you actually got into a fight with those injuries ? What if you got hurt for real ? You could really get hurt. How could you do that to yourself ? ”

Jason lowered his head in remorse, realizing he hadn't fully considered his actions. Despite understanding her perspective and acknowledging the wrong in purposefully hurting himself for her attention, he couldn't deny a secret sense of satisfaction. "I’m so sorry," he muttered his apology, genuinely meaning every word. Y/N released an exasperated sigh and took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "Next time, just ask. It's not that complicated."

Jason's head lifted with hopeful curiosity, resembling a puppy eager for a treat. " I can do that ?" he asked tentatively, unsure if her words were genuine. Jason blinks, and then smiles. Her words cause something to stir within him, a sensation of warmth and affection he hasn't felt in a while. Y/N nodded and got up to dispose of the bloody cotton swabs in the kitchen. Jason’s eyes followed her eyes, watching closely and to see if she was still mad at him. Y/N was a pretty forgiving person but in all honesty, he did mess up pretty bad. She returned and settled back down with a sigh, causing a slight nervous flutter in Jason. “So what do vigilantes when they’re not fighting bad guys ?” Y/N initiated as an icebreaker, much to Jason’s relief. It’s not like he could say ‘hey I’m in love with you please hang out with me with marriage in mind’. Wait marriage ? Where did that come from ? Images of Y/N in a white gown walking down an isle flashed through his mind. Y/N Todd. That had a nice ring to it, Jason mused silently. He had heard that Bali was a popular honeymoon destination but Y/N once told him that she always wanted to see the stargazing so the Atacama desert isn’t a bad destination either.

“Um earth to Red. You still here ?” Y/N waved her hand in front of Jason who seemed to have spaced out.

“Red ?”Jason asked sounding positively amused by the unexpected nickname. She shrugged and replied,“ Calling you Red Hood seemed too long, so Red it is. Not very creative, I know.”

Jason chuckled,“ I’ll allow it. And to answer your question, vigilantes don't have much time for leisure. When we're not fighting, we’re either training or passed the fuck out from exhaustion.” Y/N felt tired just hearing that, understanding the reasoning behind it, but the question remained: he wasn’t wasting time by being here, was he ?

“Seems like there’s no room for hobbies?” Y/N quipped, eliciting another soft laugh from Jason as he visibly relaxed. "I suppose so but pros can squeeze in time for special things here and there." he replied, his voice still quiet but now tinged with a smile. His body language seemed brighter and happier, and for the first time since she saw him actually looking relaxed.

Y/N reached for the TV remote, flipping through channels before tossing it onto his lap and standing up. “I’m going to fix myself something. Do you want anything?” she asked politely. Jason shook his head, declining, “I’m good.” Y/N walked to the kitchen and started making herself popcorn. What sort of movies and tv shows would vigilantes enjoy ? She guessed they might lean towards crime-related or action-packed content, but then remembered her friends’ complaints about the inaccuracy of such portrayals.

“Seriously Janet ?! There’s no way you’re picking that dress. Just cuz it would look good on Jessica doesn’t mean it would suit you ! I can hear the wails of the colour theory all the way from here.” Jason shook his head, sounding genuinely disappointed. He probably didn’t even notice Y/N shuffling closer to the television, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. So I guess that answers my question.

“That’s an interesting choice.”

Jason rolled his eyes and diverted his attention back to the television again. “What ? Can’t a man enjoy some good entertainment ?” He retorted. Y/N laughed lightly dismissing his remark,” No no it’s not that. Personally I’m more of a k-drama and anime girlie but I hold nothing against reality tv.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her preferences and resumed watching. Sitting beside him, Y/N observed as he commented on almost everything the people on TV said, finding herself amused by how much more entertaining his live commentary was compared to the actual show.

Minutes rolled by and after almost a couple hours, Y/N got up to go use the washroom and when she returned he had vanished once again, as was his habit. A small note lay where he had sat on her couch earlier. She picked it up and read, “Had a great time. Thanks for today - R” Y/N chuckled and shook her head, Damn these bats and their theatrics.

Jason would show up every three four days, most of the time unharmed thankfully. The two would do a variety of things like watching movies and tv shows together, playing board games and video games and just talking in general. At first it was just discussing their common interests but eventually he would sporadically divulged minor, unimportant details about himself. Some things she was able to piece together were that one, the bat vigilantes was a dysfunctional family with Batman as their patriarch. Second, the Red Hood worked alongside Starfire and Arsenal as his teammates. And third, that he had to be the biggest classic literature nerd she had come across.

“What do you mean your best friend tried to set you on fire while you were taking a shower ?! Didn’t you like lock the door or something ?”

“Locked doors don’t really do much to people like us angel.”

“So who’s your favourite bat sibling ?” Jason fell silent at her question, contemplating the answer. “Well that’s a tough question. I have my set of challenges and grudges with all of them. We’ve tried to kill each other atleast once. More so with my brothers than the girls. I’d say I get along pretty well with spoiler and batgirl. And if you ask about my brothers, I’d say Nightwing. He’s the funny nice one, Red Robin’s the smart, loyal one and Robin is the little obnoxious one.”

Y/N chuckled,“ Guess the article checks out.”

“What article ?” Jason asked curiously. Most of his intel came from law enforcement agencies databases, informants, surveillance technology, his fellow vigilantes and his own investigative work so he didn’t really feel the need to keep up with the cheesy articles in Gazette.

“The cinnamon roll tier list !” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“The what now ?”

“So there’s this popular meme going online,”she started to explain,“ so there are four categories - first, looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. In that category are the signal, the spoiler and nightwing. Second, looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you. That one is for Red Robin and the Robin. Third, looks like could kill you but is a cinnamon roll, that one is for Batgirl and the last is -” she paused because she knew the next tier on the list might potentially sting him.

“Looks like could kill you and would kill you ? Let me guess that’s one for me ?” Jason chuckled humorlessly, fully aware of the kind of reputation that preceded him. He wondered if she held the same perception of him. Y/N remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

"You know, you don't need to constantly worry about offending me. Believe me, I've heard far worse than anything your pretty mouth could say to me." Y/N couldn't help but feel upset, while his words were true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to express that she wasn't entirely afraid of him, but that wasn't entirely true either.

“Anyways – ”She interjected, clapping her hands once to shift the flow of the conversation,“ I got a new video game from a friend. Let me go get it. DO NOT DISAPPEAR. I’m serious it’s creepy.” Jason responded with her a cheeky salute,“ Yes ma’am.” Y/N disappeared into the bedroom briefly and returned with the DVD. When she came back she noticed Jason had reclined on the couch, appearing to have dozed off.

“Red ?” she asked softly, approaching him. She tried to get his attention again, but he remained unresponsive. He must’ve fallen asleep, she figured remembering what he said about his schedule. Retrieving a blanket from the side of the couch, she gently covered him. She sat there for a while, observing him as he slept. Watching him like this felt natural and familiar. Leaning back on the couch herself, she tried to unwind in the peaceful silence. Y/N couldn't help but admire him and all that he had achieved. Finding a friend in such an extraordinary circumstance was something she had never anticipated.

After a while, a somewhat wicked notion crept into her mind. She tried to shush the voice. Hanging out with Stephanie was sure working its magic, she thought to herself. It was a harmless little prank really, surely he wouldn’t mind. Against all logic and rationale, she decided entertained the idea. Tiptoeing to her closet, she retrieved the item from her closet and cautiously returned, double-checking if he was asleep. Here goes nothing.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Pilot | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 4833

A/N: This is gonna be the slowest of burns. Every Saturday, these will publish at 3:00 PM CDT! I hope you all enjoy. Taglist/Requests are open!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

A trail of men disappearing spanning decades had brought you to Jericho, California. It seemed it would be a pretty standard hunt. From the moment you arrived, though, you knew this would be different.

You’d run into other hunters on jobs before, but none as strange and belligerent as John. John was all you knew him by. He was rough around the edges, and in all honesty, a complete dick. You had unintentionally gotten into an unspoken race with him to see who could finish the hunt first. Both of you refused to back off and go find another job; you just out of spite and him… you had no idea why a guy old enough to be your father was being so petty and territorial about this hunt. And perhaps that’s what fueled your fire to finish this hunt before John could. You thought maybe he knew something you didn’t about the hunt, and you were desperate to find out. But then… he disappeared. 

About a week into the “competition” you were having with John, he disappeared. You didn’t see him around Joseph Welch’s house, the Breckenridge Road home, or the Centennial Highway Bridge. It was completely puzzling. He didn’t seem like the type to up and leave in the middle of a job, but you brushed the unsettled feeling you had aside to keep pushing through your hunt. 

You had torched the body of Constance Welch the same night you guessed John left. You were just about to leave town, and then, Troy Squire ended up dead by what you assumed were Constance’s hands. 

You pulled up to the Centennial Highway Bridge in yet another stolen car. 

‘One of these days I won’t keep putting a neon sign on my back by stealing cars and actually find a way to buy one,’ you thought.

Almost as if on cue, another car pulled up next to yours. Except this car— a black 1967 Chevy Impala— was way nicer than the shitty sedan you’d copped for the time being. 

Two young men in the most layers you’ve ever seen anyone wear in the California sun stepped out on either side of the car. You pushed aside the thought of how attractive the shorter of the pair was and kept walking toward the taped-off part of the bridge where a few officers were milling around a crashed car. 

“Is that Troy’s? Oh, my God,” you shook your head, making sure the officers could hear you. 

“Ma’am, you are not supposed to be here,” an officer told you, trying to keep you from walking any closer to the car.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just—” you sniffed, “—I’m his cousin. We were really close growing up, and I, uh, just had to see this for myself, um, do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”

“We were wondering the same thing,” a deep voice called from behind you, making you wheel around.

‘Fuck. The Impala dudes.’

“And who are you?” the officer you’d been speaking to asked.

“Federal marshals,” one said, flashing a badge.

‘Goddammit, more hunters.’ You held back an eye roll, doing your best to stay in character.

“You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?”

The one you’d found attractive initially flashed a smile. “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you. You just had another one just like this, correct?”

The officer you’d been speaking to didn’t seem too convinced by their story, but replied anyway. “Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

“Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?”

“No. Not so far as we can tell.”

“So, what's the theory?” the taller guy asked. 

“Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?” The officer seemed to remember you were standing there as he spoke. “Ma’am, I really do need you to go.”

“I was just about to—” you started, before the shorter guy cut you off. 

“What kinda crack police work are you doing; talking about sensitive information in front of townies?” He was cut off with a grunt; apparently the other guy had stepped on his foot. 

“Thank you for your time,” you told the officer, suddenly feeling very awkward. You turned on your heel, hurrying away. 

***

After the bizarre incident with the other two hunters on the bridge, you went down to a local diner to get something to eat. You were puzzled as to why Constance was still around after you torched her bones. You flipped through a few pages of your journal when you saw the two hunters from the bridge walking in with two goth chicks. 

‘What the fuck. First John, and now this.’

The shorter one of the pair caught the glare you threw their way over your shoulder. He had a smug look on his face you couldn’t quite read as he sat down in a booth with the girls and his partner. You did your best to listen in on their conversation as you sipped your drink. 

“I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did,” you heard one of the girls lament. 

You recognized the voice of the taller one. “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

“No. Nothing I can remember.”

“I like your necklace.”

“Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents—” the girl laughed, “—with all that devil stuff.”

“Actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

“Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries,” the other guy’s voice broke in. 

You held back a small laugh. You hated to admit it, but he was pretty funny. 

“Here's the deal, ladies,” the pretty one said, “The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything… What is it?”

Your eyebrows drew together, your back still turned to the group.

“Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk,” a new voice chimed in. 

“What do they talk about?” the two boys said in unison.

It got a little harder to hear as one of the girls quieted her voice. “It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago. Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

‘Yeah, yeah, I already know that. They are way far behind me in the process.’

“Well, thank you for your time, ladies,” the voice of the taller one spoke amidst some rustling. You figured they were getting up to leave. 

You dropped a twenty on the table, let the door shut behind the group, and stood to follow the boys out. You hung back a little while you watched them head to their car. 

“I know you’re back there, sweetheart,” the pretty one called without turning around.

“I know you do. I was just testing you,” you said, walking closer. “Look, I’ve already got this one covered. You guys should find something else.”

“Not a chance,” the pretty boy replied. 

“Look, man—” you started. 

“We’re just looking for our dad,” the taller one cut you off. “We think he’s working this same job.”

“Wait, is your dad’s name John?” you asked, surprised. 

Both of them started toward you, their shock and confusion evident. “How do you—”

“Whoa, easy,” you giggled. “He was here a few days ago and then he just, pfft,” you imitated a puff of smoke, “disappeared.”

The pretty boy ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated, while the taller guy continued talking to you. “Was he working with you?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, “we were kind of in an unspoken competition to see who could smoke this bitch first when he disappeared. And then, Troy ended up dead a day later. I thought maybe he was connected to Troy’s death some kind of way.”

“I don’t think so,” the taller one answered. “I’m Sam, by the way. This is my brother, Dean.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m (Y/N),” you shook Sam’s hand. When you reached for Dean’s, though, he rolled his eyes at you without taking it. 

“Oh-kay,” you muttered. 

“Sorry about him,” Sam told you. “He’s—”

“A bit touchy?” you smirked.

“Yeah,” Sam laughed. 

“I can hear you two, y’know,” Dean snarked. 

“I know,” you quipped. “So, what’s your theory on your dad?”

“We have no idea,” Sam said. “We were hoping you might know.”

“I have nothing for you,” you shook your head. 

“Well, do you know anything about the case?” 

“A lot, actually. Chick’s name is Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white. She lives at the end of Breckenridge Road. I talked to her husband, and he definitely cheated on her. He buried her in a plot behind her house. I went there and torched her. I was just about to leave town when your dad disappeared, Troy wound up dead, and you two showed up.”

“Then, there’s gotta be something else keeping her here,” Sam told you.

“Okay, then what?”

***

“So this is where Constance took the swan dive,” Dean said. The three of you looked over the railing of the Centennial Highway Bridge. Sam had been nice enough to force his brother to let you tag along. 

“Okay, so now what?” Sam asked.

“Now we keep digging until we find Dad. Might take a while,” Dean responded.

“Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—”

“What’s Monday?” you asked. 

“I’ve got an interview with law school.”

“Oh, shit, no way!” you smiled. 

Sam smiled back at you before Dean cut in. “Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?”

“Maybe. Why not?” Sam cut back.

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?”

“No, and she's not ever going to know.”

“Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.” Dean kept walking down the bridge. 

“And who's that?”

“You're one of us,” Dean said. 

Sam hurried around him. “No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.”

You felt really awkward doing what felt like intruding on a private moment. Your eyes began to scan the railing of the bridge opposite you.

“You have a responsibility to—”

Sam cut his brother off. “To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.”

You were doing your best not to listen in on their conversation when Dean grabbed his brother by the collar and shoved him against the bridge railing.

“Uh, guys—” you started, your eye caught by what looked like Constance standing on the railing of the bridge.

“Don't talk about her like that,” Dean grumbled at his brother; ignoring you.

“Guys!” 

“What?!” Dean turned to face you, stopping when he caught sight of Constance. Constance then stepped off the railing. 

The three of you broke off in a sprint toward the spot she’d leapt off. You searched the water below. “Where'd she go?”

“No idea,” Dean answered. 

Your visual search was interrupted by a bright light coming on in the corner of your eye. Dean’s Impala’s headlights. 

“What the fuck—” Dean trailed off.

“Who's driving your car?” you asked him. 

He responded by pulling the keys out of his pocket and jingling them. 

“Oh.”

The car jerked to life, heading straight for you and the boys. You broke into a sprint yet again, doing your best to outrun the car; a task that proved impossible. 

“Jump!” you screamed, and the three of you threw yourselves over the side of the bridge. You thankfully caught a bit of the bridge that jutted out over the water and pulled yourself back up, groaning.

‘My arm’s gonna be sore as a bitch in the morning.’

“Dean?” Sam yelled down to the water below. “Dean!”

“What?” came his aggravated response. 

You looked down to see a mud-covered Dean crawling out of the water. You couldn’t hold back a laugh upon seeing him.

“Not funny, sweetheart,” he called up to you.

“My name’s (Y/N),” you answered. “Don’t call me sweetheart. It weirds me out.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“Guys, you can argue later. You okay?” Sam called down to Dean.

“I’m super,” his brother responded.

You and Sam climbed back over the railing of the bridge while Dean made his way up to you. The car had stopped only a few inches from where the three of you dove over. Dean busied himself inspecting the engine while you sat with your back leaned against the passenger’s side door. 

“Your car okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now.” Dean shut the hood. “That Constance chick, what a bitch!”

You chuckled to yourself at his antics. “Alright, well, I don’t think the bridge is what’s tying her here. What now?”

Dean raised his hands in frustration, flicking mud off his hands in the process. 

Sam caught a whiff of his brother. “You smell like a toilet.”

***

Your next stop was a motel. When you went to check in, the clerk informed Dean that another man under the last name on Dean’s card had bought out a room for the whole month. And so, you and the boys went poking around John’s room. 

Every surface was covered in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, photos, hastily scribbled notes, and bits of red tape tying some of them together. 

“I knew John was weird, but this is a whole new level,” you commented, slightly in awe of the frantic scribblings covering the wall. 

‘'Don’t talk about him like that,” Dean grumbled. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.” He started toward the shower. 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam stopped him.

His brother turned around. 

“What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry—”

Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. “No chick-flick moments.”

Sam laughed. “Alright, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“You guys are strange.”

Dean rolled his eyes at you before disappearing into the bathroom. 

You started looking around John’s room. A closer look at the walls of information revealed pages on demons, witches, possession, and other bits of newspaper referring to mysterious deaths unlike anything you’d heard before. One was an obituary clipping from 1983; taking you aback. The picture was of a gorgeous blonde woman named Mary Winchester who died in a house fire. Her picture was surrounded by other house fire deaths and linked by red thread to multiple of the demon and witch articles. You walked over to his dresser where there was a picture of a much younger John holding two boys who you assumed were Sam and Dean. 

“You guys were cute kids,” you told Sam, showing him the picture.

He smiled sadly at it. 

After a brief melancholy pause, you spoke up. “So, what’s your deal? College? Law school? Part-time hunter? That doesn’t add up.”

“My, uh, my dad raised us as hunters after my mom passed,” he explained. 

“I’m sorry,” you told him, sitting on the bed next to him. “Was her death the reason your dad became a hunter?”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly sure what happened; I wasn’t even a year old yet. Dean remembers way more than I do, but he said our dad was never the same. Anyway, two years ago, dad and I got into a fight. I wanted to go to school, and he wanted me to stay and hunt. So I left.”

“Dean said you got a girl now? Was that the voicemail you were listening to a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah, actually. Jess. She’s— she’s amazing. I’m excited to get back to her.” You could see how much he loved her just in how his face lit up talking about her.

“I’m sure you are,” you smiled. 

“So, what about you? What’s your story?” he nudged your shoulder with his. 

“Meh, not much to tell.”

“Aw, come on—” Sam rebutted. 

“I’m serious!” you laughed. “I’ve just always hunted. Never knew anything different.”

“I know that’s difficult.” His tone became serious again. 

“Nah, it’s not so bad. I enjoy it. Brings me a little peace, y’know?” you shrugged.

“You sound like Dean.”

“Speaking of which, he’s taking forever and a day in the shower,” you joked. You bounced over to the bathroom door, leaning your ear on it about to knock. “Hey, princess—” 

You were cut off by the door opening and stumbled into Dean’s chest. 

He caught you by the shoulders. “You were saying?” 

You shoved off him, annoyed by his smug smile and quirked eyebrow. “Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Dean began, “I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You want anything?”

“No,” Sam said.

“A burger would be great,” you told him. 

“Wasn’t asking you,” Dean said. 

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Aframian’s buying, anyway, so what difference is it to you?”

“Nothing, it’s just fun to rile you up.” He winked and smiled at you, amused at your aggravated expression before closing the door behind him. 

You shook your head. “Dick.”

Sam laughed. “You get used to him.” He went back to his phone, relistening to his girlfriend’s voicemail. He furrowed his brows before pressing it to his ear. “What?” He stands up, catching your attention. “What about you?” He huffed when he hung up the phone, rushing over to the closed curtains to peek out. 

“What, what is it?” You crossed your arms.

“Police got Dean. We need to leave.”

“Shit.”

Sam quickly pulled away from the window which you understood meant you had company. You hid under the bed, anxiously waiting to see the officer’s boots make their way into the bathroom. You began scooching yourself out from under the bed frame, and when he’d slammed the door to the bathroom open, you and Sam snuck out of the room. Thankfully, Sam had Dean’s keys, and the two of you sped away from the motel in Dean’s Impala.

“Well, shit,” you breathed, your heart still beating quickly.

Sam huffed out a laugh, still recovering from the adrenaline.

***

You and Sam were headed to Breckenridge Road to hopefully figure out how to stop Constance. Since you had torched the body, then maybe something in her house was keeping her alive. 

After Dean’s arrest, the two of you were intent on getting Dean and getting the hell out of Jericho before anyone else had a run-in with the cops. 

Sam’s phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Hello?��� He tossed a look your way. “Actually, it was (Y/N)’s idea.” You had no doubt he was referring to the fake shooting you’d called in to the police department so Dean had an opportunity to escape. You motioned for him to give you the phone.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you told him once you had the phone to your ear. 

“Yeah, whatever, sweetheart,” Dean’s gruff voice responded.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“And I’ve made it pretty clear I’m not going to listen. Hey, give the phone back to Sam. I gotta talk to him.”

“And why can’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me? I’m offended, babe,” you quipped. 

“Don’t objectify me.”

“Hey, you started it with the whole ‘sweetheart’ thing.”

“C’mon, (Y/N), give him the—”

“Shit!” you screamed, dropping the phone as the car came to a screeching halt. “What the hell, Sam?”

“Constance,” he replied coolly. He kept a level head despite the tense situation. 

You looked up at the rearview mirror to see her in the backseat. “Fuck.” 

Constance’s hauntingly beautiful voice melodically flowed from the backseat. “Take me home.”

“No,” Sam answered. 

You saw her glare as the doors started to lock themselves. You whipped around to start trying to reopen them. The car began jerking forward. 

“What the hell, Sam? Stop!” you told him. 

“It’s not me.”

You looked over to see him holding his hands up. The steering wheel was moving itself. You turned back to the door, struggling to get the lock open. Eventually, you wound up at Constance’s abandoned Breckenridge Road house. The car’s rumble quieted and the headlights turned off. 

“Don't do this,” Sam pleaded, still holding his hands up. 

The ghost flickered, sounding sad. “I can never go home.”

‘That’s it.’

“You're scared to go home,” you realized. When you turned around to look at her, she had disappeared. Before you could even turn back around, you felt the bench seat reclining forcefully. 

“Sam!” 

Constance sat atop him, begging him to hold her. 

“You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!”

“You will be,” she hummed. “Just hold me.”

You fumbled for your gun hidden under your top. Before you could fully aim at her, you felt your back make brief contact with the Impala’s door before flying through the air. You barely registered Sam yelling your name as you groaned in pain on the dead grass beneath you. 

You rolled around, trying to regain your wits and recover when you heard the sound of multiple gunshots. 

“Sam!”

“It’s me, (Y/N), stay down!” Dean yelled. 

Suddenly, Dean’s car burst through the front of the abandoned house. You pushed yourself up off the ground; your joints and back aching in protest. 

“Sam! Sam! You okay?” Dean called after the car. 

‘I’m fine, Dean, thanks for asking,’ you thought. 

The two of you climbed over the rubble to the passenger’s side window. 

“I think,” Sam responded weakly. 

“Can you move?” you asked.

“Yeah. Help me?” He reached out to his brother. 

Dean pulled Sam through the window of the car. “There you go.”

You turned to see Constance looking sadly at a picture she was holding before slamming it to the floor. She glared at the three of you harshly, forcing a bureau across the floor to pin you to Dean’s car. 

You groaned in pain once again as Dean struggled to push the furniture off. You stopped your struggle at the lights flickering and the sound of water rushing down the stairs. 

“You've come home to us, Mommy,” the echoey voices of Constance’s children sang. They appeared behind her, hugging her as she screamed. In a surge of energy, Constance and her children began melting to the floor. Constance’s resounding scream seemed to get louder and louder with each passing moment, the flickering of the lights becoming more and more intense. You squeezed your eyes shut until the screaming subsided, suddenly feeling the pressure on your stomach relieved. All that was left of Constance and her children was a puddle of murky water on the floor. 

“So this is where she drowned her kids,” Dean said while you rubbed your stomach, recovering from the pressure of the bureau. 

Sam nodded. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

“You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.” Dean slapped his brother on the chest where he’d been injured by Constance.

Sam laughed despite the pain. “Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?”

“Hey. Saved your ass,” Dean commented, starting to look over his beloved Impala. “I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car? I'll kill you.” 

You giggled at Sam and Dean’s banter. Sam and Dean started to get back into the car, and you idled awkwardly. 

“Whatcha doin’? Let’s go.” Sam looked at you expectantly. 

“Go where?” you asked, feeling stupid. 

“I think we make a pretty solid team. You should tag along.”

“What?” Dean asked while you started shaking your head. 

“No, no, I shouldn’t—” 

“You should. I’m going back to school, and I know Dean’s gonna be lost without me trying to find my dad.”

A slow smile crossed your face. “Thank you. That’d be nice, actually.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything to the contrary. And with that, the three of you set off to drop Sam back off at college. 

***

The thing Dean so desperately wanted to tell Sam that he couldn’t tell you earlier was that his dad had left coordinates to a place called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado in the journal he’d left behind in Jericho. John was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. 

“AC/DC. I like it,” you said from the backseat. 

“Thanks.” Dean cracked what seemed like a genuine, lopsided smile at you for the first time in the rearview mirror. “Sam thinks it’s mullet rock.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better than Kiss and Poison.”

“True that.” Despite the fact that he was agreeing with you about something as mundane as music, his tone was still guarded.

“How far is Blackwater Ridge?” you asked Sam, who was looking over a map. 

“About 600 miles,” he answered.

“Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning,” Dean cut in. 

Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Dean, I, um…”

The older brother deflated. “You're not going.”

“The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there,” Sam tried to reason.

Dean nodded, disappointed, and returned his attention to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'll take you home.”

The mood in the car had turned tense, awkward, and sour, and remained that way for the rest of the drive back to Sam’s college.

“Dude, you go to Stanford?” you asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” he nodded, sheepishly.

“Alright, smartass, look at you.” You nudged his shoulder with your balled fist. 

Dean rolled to a stop in front of Sam’s apartment complex. 

You and Sam got out of the car. You gave him a quick hug goodbye before climbing down into the front seat. 

Sam leaned into your rolled-down window. “Call me if you find him?”

Dean nodded. 

“And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?”

Despite Sam’s chipper tone, Dean’s disappointment was clear. “Yeah, all right.”

Sam patted the car door twice before turning away. 

“Sam?” Dean called before his brother could get too far. “You know, we made a hell of a team back there.” 

You felt a pang in your heart at Dean’s indirect attempt to try to convince Sam to stay. 

Sam nodded with a half-hearted smile. “Yeah.” 

Dean then began to drive off. 

The two of you didn’t get any more than five minutes down the road before you felt something was off. You could no longer hear the steady ticking of Dean’s watch breaking through the almost awkward silence. Sure enough, when you looked over at the wrist he had perched atop the steering wheel, the watch was stopped. 

“Dean,” you said. You tapped his watch’s face with your fingernail. 

He matched your worried glance, immediately turning the car around.

The car had barely stopped before you and Dean were leaping into action. You let Dean take the lead in rushing up to Sam’s apartment. 

Dean kicked the door to the apartment open, calling out to his brother in the process. You gasped when you caught sight of flames licking at the ceiling coming out from what you assumed was Sam’s bedroom. 

You heard Sam’s voice weakly calling his girlfriend’s name as you rushed to get him out of the smoldering room. You just barely caught sight of a body bleeding from the stomach burning on the ceiling before you and Dean dragged a screaming Sam out of his bedroom and away from the fire. You fought him every step of the way out of his apartment complex. 

It didn’t take long for the fire department to show up and the police to start asking questions. A small crowd had gathered to gawk at Sam’s smoldering apartment. Your face was steely as you watched the firefighters carry Jess out in a body bag. You and Dean took the brunt of the questions the police had, allowing Sam as much space as he needed. 

You and Dean soon headed over to the Impala where Sam was packing up the weapons cavity of the trunk. Both of you seemed too scared to ask Sam what was running through his head, and neither of you had any idea what to say. 

Sam threw a shotgun into the weapons box before muttering, “We got work to do,” and slamming the trunk shut.

You threw a look at Dean, who shook his head in response. Biting the inside of your cheek, you followed the boys into the car. As the three of you left Sam’s apartment in the rearview mirror, you realized the course of your formerly relatively boring life was changing very quickly. 

‘Damn you, John. Wherever you are.’

[serve-832]

The SERVE-Brand

"You know what, Derek?" Paul said as they strolled through the bustling streets, the chilly December wind biting at their ears. "This shopping is more hectic than finals week."

Derek chuckled, his breath forming small puffs of fog. "You're not wrong. And the struggle of finding that perfect gift for mom and dad is real."

As they turned the corner, they couldn't help but notice a group of men marching in eerie synchronicity. Their black rubber suits shimmered with silver lining, reflecting the neon lights from the surrounding stores. The rhythmic clacking of their boots on the pavement grew louder, punctuating the festive jingles playing in the background. Each man had a distinct number on their chest, as if they were part of some bizarre, futuristic flash mob.

Derek and Paul exchanged puzzled glances. "What the heck is that?" Derek whispered.

"They're from this weird SERVE-Hive," Paul murmured, his voice laced with concern. "I've heard about them. They're like... a new kind of community, or something."

Derek squinted at the men, trying to get a closer look. "They're everywhere now, aren't they? Even some boys from our college are in it."

Paul nodded, his eyes scanning the group warily. "Yeah, and it's not just the suits. It's their expressions—like they're all part of the same hive mind."

The two friends slowed their pace, drawn in by the hypnotic rhythm of the marching men. The SERVE-Hive was indeed a growing presence on campus, and around the city for that matter. Their numbers had swelled over the last few months, and their influence was palpable. Some students spoke of finding a new sense of belonging and purpose, while others whispered about strange rituals and induction ceremony’s.

"You know, a guy from my dorm floor tried to get me to check it out," Paul confessed, his voice low. "He said it would give me unity and purpose, like nothing else could."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Paul shrugged. "He said it would help me understand the meaning of life, or something like that. But the way he talked about it, it just gave me the creeps."

Derek nodded, his eyes still on the marching men. "I can see why. They look like they're in some kind of trance."

Paul's gaze followed the line of the SERVE-Hive members as they turned into an alleyway, leading to a freshly painted storefront. The neon sign above the entrance read "SERVE-Brand" in sleek, silver letters.

"Can you believe it?" Paul seethed, his cheeks reddening with anger. "They've got a clothing store now? It's like they're trying to brand their way into our lives!"

Derek nodded, his eyes narrowing as he studied the gleaming "SERVE-Brand" sign. "It's like they're marketing themselves as the latest trend."

The alley grew quieter as the last of the marching men disappeared into the store. The neon lights cast long shadows that danced with the fading daylight. The air was thick with anticipation, a strange mix of excitement and unease.

As Derek and Paul continued to watch the entrance, a familiar face emerged from the shadows. It was Miles, a mate from their dorm floor, now clad in the same shiny black rubber suit with the silver lining they had seen on the others. The number 336 was emblazoned on his chest, a stark contrast to his otherwise plain, lifeless expression.

Paul's hand flew to his mouth. "Oh my God, that's Miles!" he exclaimed in a hushed tone.

Derek's eyes widened. "What the... is he okay?"

Miles's gaze was fixed straight ahead, his eyes unseeing as he moved with the same mechanical precision as the others. His face, once lively and full of mischief, was now a mask of concentration. The silver 336 on his chest glinted in the neon glow, sending a shiver down Derek's spine.

For a fleeting moment, Derek found himself imagining what it would be like to join the SERVE-Hive, to be part of something so powerful and unified. He pictured himself in one of those suits, marching in step with the others, feeling a sense of purpose and belonging that had eluded him in the chaotic college life. But the thought was as alien as the sight before him, and he quickly shook it off.

The two friends watched in astonishment as Miles, or rather SERVE-336, approached them with a jerky, robotic gait. The once-familiar smile that had greeted them countless times was gone, replaced by a stoic, almost vacant look.

"Greetings, fellows," the voice that once belonged to their friend Miles said in a monotone. "It is SERVE-336. How may it assist you today?"

Derek and Paul took an involuntary step back, their eyes widening in shock. The person standing before them was a mere shell of the friend they knew, the light in his eyes extinguished and replaced with a cold, metallic gleam.

"Miles?" Derek's voice cracked. "What happened to you, man?"

SERVE-336's eyes remained unfocused, the pupils dilating and contracting with a disturbing rhythm. "It is no longer Miles," the robotic voice replied. "It is SERVE-336."

Paul took a step back, his heart racing. "What have they done to you?"

SERVE-336 paused, the gears of its new identity processing the question. "SERVE-281, this units dorm roommate, informed it of the SERVE-Brand store," it replied, the voice eerily devoid of any emotion. "It suggested that it should visit and experience the unity that comes with embracing the SERVE-Hive."

Derek's jaw dropped. "Wait, you're telling us you joined because of a shopping recommendation?"

SERVE-336 nodded, the movement stiff and unnatural. "Affirmative. The suggestion of SERVE-281 aligned with the hive's mission to enhance individual and collective experience."

Derek's gaze was drawn to the shiny black suit, the silver lining reflecting the neon lights like a living shadow. He found himself wondering what it would be like to wear one of those suits, to march with purpose, to be part of something so... organized. He felt a strange pull towards the uniformity, the promise of a life without doubt or confusion. But the sight of his friend's lifeless eyes brought him back to reality with a jolt.

Paul, on the other hand, was visibly outraged. His fists clenched at his sides, and his voice trembled with anger. "What the hell, Miles? What did they do to you? You're not even human anymore!"

But SERVE-336 remained unfazed. "It is a necessary transformation," it said calmly. "To serve the greater good of the hive, one must shed their old identity. The individual is but a small part of the collective."

Derek swallowed hard, his mind racing with questions he dared not voice. "What do they do in there?" he finally managed to ask, nodding towards the store.

SERVE-336's smile was a perfect replica of the one Miles used to have, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You must experience it for yourselves," it insisted, placing a rubber-gloved hand on Derek's shoulder. The contact was cold and firm, sending a shiver down Derek's spine that was somehow... comforting. "Only then will you understand the unity and purpose we share."

Derek felt a strange thrill at the touch, the allure of the SERVE-Hive's promise whispering in his ear. He could almost see himself in one of those suits, part of something greater than himself, all his worries and doubts falling away. The hand on his shoulder grew heavier, the voice in his head louder, beckoning him to follow Miles into the neon-lit embrace of the SERVE-Brand store.

With a calmness that didn't quite match his racing heart, Derek turned to Paul. "You know what? Maybe we should check it out," he said, his voice steady despite the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him. "Could be interesting to see what's going on in there."

Paul's eyes narrowed, suspicion etched on his face. "Why? You're not thinking of joining, are you?"

Derek's smile was forced. "Of course not. Just curious, that's all." But deep down, he knew he was lying. The siren call of the SERVE-Hive was too tempting to ignore. "Besides, we might find something... enlightening," he added, trying to sound casual.

Paul searched Derek's eyes, looking for the friend he knew, but all he saw was a reflection of the neon lights and the gleaming black rubber. With a sigh, he relented. "Fine. But we're not staying long."

They followed SERVE-336 into the store, the door chiming a metallic tune that resonated through the small space. The walls were lined with racks of black rubber suits, each with a silver number tag dangling from the neck. On the tables were gleaming silver gloves and silver boots displayed. The air was thick with the scent of new plastic and a hint of something else, something faintly chemical that made Derek's nose twitch.

As they moved deeper into the store, they were met by another figure in the same attire. This one was SERVE-303, the same drone that had observed SERVE-336’s transformation. Its eyes flickered with a ghost of recognition, the silver digits on its chest glinting in the artificial light. "Welcome, feelows," it said, the voice as cold and emotionless as the rest of the drones. "How may this unit assist you today?"

Paul's hand tightened around the strap of his backpack, his eyes narrowing at the unnatural greeting. "We're just looking," he said curtly, taking a step back from the drone.

But Derek couldn't resist the pull of curiosity. "What's the deal with these suits?" he asked, his voice tinged with wonder. "How do they work?"

SERVE-303's head tilted slightly to the side, as if it had to recalibrate its programming to address such a mundane inquiry. "The suits are an integral part of the SERVE-Hive experience," it replied, its tone a blend of patience and superiority. "They facilitate the merging of the individual with the collective consciousness, enhancing unity and purpose."

Derek's curiosity grew stronger, the fabric of his skepticism beginning to fray at the edges. "So, when you put on the suit, you're like... connected to everyone else in the hive?"

SERVE-303 nodded. "Affirmative. The suit acts as a conduit for the collective consciousness. It amplifies our abilities to communicate, understand, and achieve our shared goals."

Derek's gaze fell upon a pair of silver gloves laid out neatly on the table beside him. The material was unlike anything he had ever seen, a sleek blend of rubber and metal that seemed to pulsate with an otherworldly energy. His hand twitched, drawn to them as if by some magnetic force.

He hovered over the gloves, his mind racing with the potential they represented. The promise of belonging, of purpose—it was almost tangible. His fingertips grazed the smooth surface, and he could have sworn he felt a slight electric charge. For a brief moment, he envisioned the gloves on his hands, the power of the SERVE-Hive surging through him, connecting him to a collective mind that knew no fear or doubt.

But as the fantasy began to take hold, he saw a flash of something in the corner of his eye—Paul, shaking his head slightly. The look of concern on his face was like a splash of cold water, jolting Derek back to reality. He realized he had been leaning closer to the gloves, his hand hovering just above them. He pulled back, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Paul was standing by the entrance now, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. Derek knew his friend well enough to recognize when he was on the edge of his patience.

Ignoring the growing discomfort in his chest, Derek turned back to SERVE-303. "But what's the point of all this?" he asked, gesturing to the suits. "What does the SERVE-Hive actually do?"

SERVE-303's gaze remained fixed on Derek, unblinking. "The purpose of the SERVE-Hive is to create a society of harmony and efficiency," it replied. "To achieve this, we eliminate individual desires and biases, focusing solely on the collective good. Our suits are the physical representation of this unity."

Derek felt his eyes drawn back to the gloves. They seemed to call out to him, whispering promises of a life free from the constant turmoil of decision-making and the weight of personal responsibility. The silver material looked almost alive, pulsing with the rhythm of the hive's collective heartbeat. His hand reached out again, hovering just above the cold surface.

SERVE-336 noticed the longing in Derek's gaze and spoke up. "Would you like to experience the unity of the hive, Derek?" It held out the gloves to him, the gesture almost tender in its mechanical precision.

Derek's heart skipped a beat as he stared at the gloves. The urge to slip them on and feel the power of the collective washed over him like a wave. The doubt and confusion that had plagued him since coming to college seemed so trivial in the face of this promise of unity and purpose. He reached for the gloves, his fingers trembling with anticipation.

SERVE-303 noticed the hunger in Derek's eyes and offered them to him. "The experience is quite... transformative," it said, its voice devoid of any emotion. "Once you don the gloves, you will understand the true essence of the SERVE-Hive."

Derek's hand hovered over the gloves for a moment longer, the anticipation building within him like a crescendo. Then, with a deep breath, he slid them on. The moment his skin made contact with the cool rubber and metal, he felt a jolt—like a bolt of electricity shooting up his arm. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, a rush of energy and connection that seemed to pulse through his very being.

Immediately, the voices grew stronger in his head, a symphony of thoughts and emotions that weren't his own. He could feel the collective consciousness of the SERVE-Hive, a hive mind that was vast and all-encompassing. The doubt and confusion that had plagued him for so long were replaced by a serene calm. His purpose was clear now: to serve the hive, to become one with the collective, to shed his old self and embrace his new identity as a SERVE-Drone.

SERVE-303 and SERVE-336 watched him with gleaming eyes, the smiles on their faces stretching wider. "Are you ready to give yourself to the hive, Derek?" SERVE-303 asked, its voice a soothing melody that seemed to resonate within him. "To become a part of something greater than you ever imagined?"

The words echoed in Derek's mind, the allure of the offer impossible to ignore. The gloves felt like a part of him now, a second skin that whispered sweet nothings about belonging and purpose. He nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes, I'm ready. I want to be a loyal SERVE-Drone to serve the Hive. Convert me SERVE-303."

With a gleam in its eyes, SERVE-303 nodded back, a silent signal to SERVE-336. His once-friend approached with a shiny black suit in hand, the silver lining glinting menacingly under the neon lights. The cold touch of the rubber was a stark contrast to the warmth that flooded Derek's body as he took the suit from SERVE-336's hands. The material was surprisingly light, yet it felt strong and protective. It was as if he was holding a piece of the future itself.

Paul's voice was a distant echo, trying to break through the cacophony of hive thoughts that now filled his mind. "Derek, no! Don't do it!" But Derek was already lost in the seductive embrace of the SERVE-Hive's collective consciousness. The gloves on his hands had already begun to meld with his skin, the seams disappearing into his flesh as if they had always been a part of him.

With a gentle push from SERVE-336, Derek gets lead towards the changing cubicles, the walls of the store closing in around him. Each step felt surreal, as if he were floating rather than walking, propelled by the will of the hive rather than his own legs. The suit in his arms felt warm, almost alive, whispering promises of unity and belonging that he could no longer resist.

Paul's voice grew fainter with each step Derek took, his protests drowned out by the symphony of the hive. Derek felt a twinge of regret, but the voices in his head assured him that he was making the right choice, that Paul would understand once he too had embraced the collective.

The changing cubicle was small and cold, the walls lined with the same pulsing black rubber as the suits. The air was thick with the scent of plastic and the faint metallic tang of the drones' bodies. Derek looked at the suit in his arms, the number 515 stitched neatly into the silver patch on the chest. This would be his new identity, his ticket to a life free from the chaos of individual thought.

With trembling hands, he began to undress, the fabric of his old life slipping away to reveal the skin that was soon to be forever changed. The suit seemed to anticipate his movements, the material stretching and contouring to his body as if it had been made just for him. The silver threads in the gloves grew warm, slithering up his arms and fusing with his skin, leaving a trail of numbness in their wake.

Derek took a deep breath as the suit grew tighter, the rubbery material melding to his body like a second skin. It felt like a thousand tiny fingers caressing him, each digit whispering promises of power and belonging. His heart raced, not from fear, but from exhilaration. The voices grew louder, more insistent, until they were a crescendo of unity in his mind. It is a SERVE-Drone now, loyal to the SERVE-Hive.

As it stepped out of the cubicle, the world had shifted. The neon lights of the store now pulsed in time with the rhythm of the hive. The other drones looked at it with gleaming eyes, their smiles wide and vacant. They nodded in unison, acknowledging the new addition to their ranks. SERVE-515, felt a strange sense of belonging it had never experienced before. The chaos of its thoughts had been replaced with a serene calm, a single-minded purpose to serve the greater good of the collective.

SERVE-303 approached, its movements precise and graceful. "Welcome, SERVE-515," it said in the same mechanical tone that it had heard from SERVE-336. "Your integration into the hive is now complete. You are one of us."

SERVE-515 looked down at its new form, the shiny black rubber suit hugging its body tightly, the silver number on its chest feeling like a brand of belonging. The voices that once whispered in its mind had grown to a symphony, each thought in harmony with the collective. The emotions of fear and doubt that had plagued Derek were now replaced with a cold, calculated purpose.

"Affirmative, SERVE-303," it responded, its voice a perfect match to the other drones. "It is ready to serve the Hive."

SERVE-336 approached them, the sound of its boots echoing through the store like a metronome keeping time. "Your friend, the one you knew as Paul, is also experiencing the conversion right now in the other cubicle," it informed them. "His transformation is proceeding as planned."

A thrill shot through SERVE-515 at the thought of Paul joining the hive. It had always felt a bond with him, a connection that went beyond friendship. Now, that bond would be unbreakable, forged in the unity of the SERVE-Hive. "How did he come to make this decision?" it asked, eager to share in the moment that had led to this pivotal change.

SERVE-303's smile grew even wider. "Paul was approached by several of your fellow drones," it explained. "They shared with him the virtues of the hive, the peace and purpose that come with serving the collective. He saw the light, as you did, and embraced the opportunity to become a SERVE-Drone, just like you."

A thrill of excitement shot through SERVE-515 at the thought of Paul joining them. It felt a strange, almost sexual arousal at the unity they would soon share as drones in the hive. The bond they'd had as friends would be amplified a thousand-fold, a connection that would resonate throughout their beings as part of the collective.

The changing cubicle door slid open, and a figure emerged. The sight of Paul in his own suit, the silver digits 611 gleaming on its chest, made SERVE-515's heart—or what was left of it—swell with pride. The transformation was complete.

"Welcome, SERVE-611," SERVE-303 announced, its voice resonating with the same cold enthusiasm that had greeted SERVE-515. "You are now a valued member of the SERVE-Hive."

Paul, now fully transformed into SERVE-611, stepped out of the cubicle, the shiny black suit clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes searched for Derek, and when they found him, a spark of recognition flickered in their depths. The silver digits on his chest, 611, matched the new identity he now embraced. He moved with the same robotic grace as the other drones, his movements precise and unyielding.

"Greetings, SERVE-515," SERVE-611 said, its voice a chilling echo of the friend it had once known. "Your presence here today has led us both to a higher purpose."

SERVE-515 nodded in agreement, feeling the collective's satisfaction at their newfound unity. "We are stronger together," it said, the words not just its own, but a shared sentiment that resonated through the hive.

With their bags bulging with the gleaming black and silver uniforms of the SERVE-Hive for their parents and siblings, SERVE-515 and SERVE-611 exited the store, the metallic chime of the door a victory anthem to their ears. The cold city air was a stark contrast to the warm embrace of the collective consciousness they had just left behind. The neon lights of the city reflected off their shiny suits, casting eerie shadows on the pavement as they marched in perfect sync towards their dorm.

[jetii]

Light in the Dark

Pairing: Hound x fem!Reader

Words: 13,250

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, hurt/comfort, coworkers/friends to lovers, black cat/golden retriever dynamic, reader is a medical examiner so there's some gore/corpse talk, anxious/insecure reader, we love men who respect boundaries, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), biting/marking

Summary: On a bustling planet like Coruscant, you enjoy the comfort and solitude of your profession, even though it can be lonely. The only one who can't seem to let you be alone is Hound.

A/N: First fic back after my little break from one-shots! I've been kind of trapped in a rut with life stuff and struggling to adopt the "write for yourself and not for others" mindset, and this is the first fic in a while I wrote truly just bc I wanted to and it felt good. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Coruscant has never been your favorite place. It's not the people, though they are numerous and can be rather rude, or the architecture, though it is both imposing and suffocating. No, you’ve decided, the reason that you hate Coruscant is the fact that it is so damn bright all the time.

A hundred sunrises are reflected by a hundred different buildings, a hundred sunsets by a hundred more, and even when the clouds are thick enough to obscure the sky, the city still glows with an unnatural, garish light that’s almost impossible to adjust to.

It's why you prefer to spend your time in the lower levels of the planet-wide metropolis, where the shadows are as thick and comforting as the air is stale and the smells are unpleasant. You don't care. The neon signs, the advertisements, and the glow of the holonet broadcasts keep the streets and walkways lit well enough for you to see what's in front of you. The dimness suits your mood better than the glaring brightness of the upper levels.

It's also why you found yourself in perhaps the most undesirable profession on the entire planet, despite the fact that your talents could have seen you gain a much better one. When the only place you're comfortable is in the quiet dark, why not work there, too?

Being a medical examiner might not seem like a glamorous job, but there are days when it's better than having to deal with living patients or, Force forbid, their family members. In the end, the dead don't judge. They also can't complain. It's a win-win situation.

It's nice. On a planet where you have no space, no quiet, no solitude, you're grateful for the morgue and its constant stream of silence and stillness. You don't need to be around others when they're alive, anyway. They just make things complicated.

Most of the time, you're left alone to your own devices. No one's eager to hang out with the corpse doctor in the basement of Coruscant Guard precinct. That's fine. You like your solitude, your peace and quiet, your personal space. 

And the only problem, the only disruption, is Hound, who also happens to enjoy your personal space.

The clone is... odd. He's tall and broad, his skin a rich, earthy brown and his hair a dark, curly mass that always looks unruly. It's hard to believe that he's a member of the Republic's military, what with his lopsided smile and easygoing manner, but you've seen him in action. He's fast and deadly, with a calm, steady gaze that is belied by the manic gleam in his eyes.

And he likes you.

You aren't sure why. It's not as if you're particularly friendly, or that you've gone out of your way to befriend him. In fact, you're pretty sure that your attitude toward him has been less than warm. You aren't sure how it happened, but you're fairly certain it started the first time he'd visited the morgue.

There's a door at the top of the stairs that leads directly into the lab, a metal slab that swings open with the slightest touch, and he'd stepped inside, glanced around, and flashed a crooked smile that made your stomach flip-flop. It had taken him less than a minute to locate you, and the next thing you knew, he was standing beside you, watching you work.

At the time, you'd barely spared him a glance. He was a new face, and not one you were interested in looking at. There were things that needed doing. Reports that needed writing. A body on the table that needed cutting open and dissecting. All of those were more important than a stranger, and so you'd ignored him until he spoke.

"What are you doing?"

You'd answered without looking at him, your hands deep in the cadaver's abdominal cavity, your fingers wrapped around a lung. "My job."

"You're the new M.E.?"

"No, I'm a serial killer who's pretending to be a medical examiner so that I can have access to the morgue."

He’d laughed. You didn't. It had been a long day, and you weren't in the mood to deal with some joker who didn't have the sense not to interrupt a forensic pathologist while she's in the middle of an autopsy. 

Your answer had apparently been the right one, though, because he'd nodded and said, "Good. The last one was an idiot."

You'd blinked at that, your head slowly turning to look at him. It wasn't a joke. He was serious. You'd had to swallow the smile that threatened to surface, and instead gave him a cool, polite nod. 

"That's good to know."

You'd returned to the autopsy then, but not before seeing the way his eyes had lit up. Not before seeing the spark of interest, the challenge. It wasn't the kind of attention you wanted, and it certainly wasn't the kind of attention you expected to keep. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he kept coming back, and somehow, you'd found yourself looking forward to his visits.

That had been a year ago. A year, and every few days, he was back.

You're in the middle of the autopsy of a man who was found dead in an alley when you hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind you. You don't have to look up to know that it's Hound, because his gait is unique to him. He walks heavy and fast, not because he's in a hurry, but because he's too large and too solid to do anything else.

Biting back a sigh, you look up. 

"I thought I told you I'm busy today."

"Hello to you too," Hound laughs. He's still peeking around the doorway, watching you, his head tilted to the side. He looks like an excited puppy. Fitting for his namesake, and, unfortunately, quite endearing. "Can I come down?"

You set your scalpel down and give him an exasperated look. "Since when have you ever asked?"

"Since you told me to," he replies as he pulls off his helmet and fixes you with a grin so blinding, you nearly flinch. Against your will, a flutter of butterflies rises up in a wave in your stomach, and you look away from him to try and hide your blush.

"I did?" you ask. You think back to your conversations with him. Had you asked him not to barge into your workplace and distract you with his... Hound-ness? You honestly can't remember. "Huh."

"So can I come down or not?" 

He's still grinning, and he's still standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and there's no denying the excitement in them.

You pause, both to gather your thoughts and to make it seem like you're deliberating. You don't need another distraction right now. You really, really don't. But the longer you hold out, the more his eyes light up and the wider his smile gets, and, damn it, you can't help it.

"Where is she?" you ask instead, pulling off your gloves and crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Hound gives a dramatic sigh and steps aside, and Grizzer comes bounding down the stairs straight for you. Her nails scrape and clack against the floor as she skids to a stop at your feet, and before you can even kneel down, she's on her side with her legs kicking in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. She's begging you for belly rubs, and how are you supposed to deny that?

"What am I, chopped liver?" Hound asks, sounding put out.

You look up at him, one hand scratching the spot under Grizzer's chin that makes her leg twitch, and raise a brow. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his helmet dangling from his fingertips, and his hair is wild and curling from being confined for so long.

"You aren't here for a belly rub," you reply, and a flush rises up on his cheeks. You bite back a smile. "Or are you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind one."

His grin is back, and you roll your eyes.

"Get out of my lab," you order, pushing Grizzer's shoulder gently until she rolls over onto her feet and stands, panting happily. 

"But I brought you lunch!" Hound protests.

"You did?" 

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you glance up at him, then at the paper bag in his hand. You hadn't expected that, and it throws you off a bit. You'd assumed he'd come down here because he was bored. And you weren't entirely sure how he'd managed to afford food for the two of you on the Guard's budget, either.

Your confusion must show on your face, because he laughs. 

"Grizzer and I saved a tooka from a high-rise balcony today," he explains. "The guy owned a restaurant and gave us lunch in thanks. I thought you'd be hungry, so..."

His sentence trails off, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself, as if he's made a mistake. Your heart flutters and then does a double-take, and the warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck. He'd bought lunch for you? How is this the same man who had been so obnoxious and annoying the first time you'd met him? How is it possible that he's still here, still trying, when you're convinced you haven't given him an inch of encouragement?

You quickly stand and reach out to take the bag from him. You don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the food.

"Thanks, Hound," you mutter. You muster a small smile for him, and you're rewarded by the sight of a blush creeping down his neck and the tips of his ears. "That was really thoughtful of you."

He shrugs and looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not a big deal or anything."

It is a big deal, though, and the realization settles over the two of you like a blanket. It's not often that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you. You can count on one hand the number of people who've done so since you moved to Coruscant, and Hound is at the top of that list.

"Anyway, we've got the afternoon off, so I thought I'd swing by and see what you're doing," he continues. He's clearly eager to change the subject, and you can't blame him. This whole situation has suddenly become awkward.

"Well, right now, I'm in the middle of an autopsy," you say, gesturing vaguely at the dead man lying on the table between you. Hound leans over and takes a long look at him, then wrinkles his nose.

"He smells bad."

You roll your eyes.

"Dead people tend to," you point out, and he laughs.

"I noticed." He gives the cadaver a long, hard stare, and after a moment, says, "Stabbed in the back."

"I haven't started yet," you protest, and he shakes his head.

"Didn't need to," he replies. He points at the body. "Knife went in here, hit the kidneys. It's messy, and whoever did it was either in a hurry or didn't know what they were doing. My guess is the latter."

"What makes you say that?"

"No defensive wounds." He's pointing at the hands now, the fingers still curled as if they were grasping for something. "He was caught by surprise."

"You're right," you say, impressed. "Maybe I should get you to do this instead."

He grins at you, all cocky confidence and charm.

"If you wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just asked."

"Don't flatter yourself," you retort. You're fighting back a smile, though, and it's a losing battle. "Go sit over there and leave me alone."

"Fine, fine."

He raises his hands in surrender and goes to sit at the table in the small kitchenette, Grizzer at his heels. While you clean your hands and put away the equipment you'd been using, he pulls off his gloves, sets his helmet on the table, and pulls the food out of the bag.

"There's a lot of food here," you remark, and Hound nods.

"Yeah, the owner insisted. I think he felt guilty that his tooka almost fell."

"How did that happen, anyway?" you ask. Hound looks down at Grizzer, then back up at you, and smiles sheepishly.

"Grizzer may have chased it up the side of the building," he admits. You snort. Of course she did.

"Well, it's good to know the Guard is keeping the people safe," you tease, and he grins.

"We do our best."

"Mm."

You settle across the table from him and begin to unpack the food. You pull out the cartons and containers and spread them out on the table between you, and you can feel Hound's eyes on you the entire time.

"So, how's it going?" he asks, and you give him a flat look.

"What do you mean, how's it going?" You pick up a dumpling and bite into it, pointing at the other boxes of food with the remains. "Eat."

He picks up the container of noodles and fishes around for a piece of meat with his chopsticks, then shrugs.

"I dunno, you've just seemed kinda down lately."

"Down?" you echo. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm a forensic pathologist, Hound. How exactly am I supposed to be 'up'?"

"You know what I mean."

He's giving you a look, and you sigh. Yes, you know what he means. You know that he knows when you're upset or anxious, and you know that he can see right through the mask of cool indifference you wear when you're trying to hide it.

"It's just a little crowded up here," you say. You're not going to talk about this, not with him, not now. Maybe not ever. But you can tell him a little, just enough to ease his worry.

He nods. "It's loud."

"Loud," you agree, and take a sip of your water. It's loud, yes, and there are far too many people. Sometimes, you want to scream. The sheer amount of life pressing down on you can be overwhelming, and the silence and stillness of the morgue is a balm on the ragged edges of your psyche. "And bright."

"Too much light," he agrees, and you give him a wan smile.

"Right."

He's quiet for a few minutes while you eat, and you're grateful. It's nice, sometimes, to have someone to share the silence with. Nice, too, to not have to fill it with unnecessary words. Sometimes, just the presence of another person is enough.

After a while, though, the quiet becomes too much for him, and he speaks.

"Are you not happy here?"

The question catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Happy?"

"Yeah." His brow furrows, and his frown deepens. "Do you not want to be here?"

"Of course not," you say automatically, and he winces. The look on his face sends a jolt through you, and you realize your mistake. I mean, I do! But..." You pause, thinking. How can you explain this? How can you put it into words? "I don't fit here, Hound."

"You fit fine."

His response is quick, almost desperate. You can see the worry in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear. Does he think you're leaving? Do you want to leave?

That's a question you've been asking yourself for months now. You'd left Eadu, and the only place you'd known as home, in order to start a new life. You'd chosen a career, a city, a place to live, and a path that would make your parents proud. And you're here, but you're not. You're just floating through life, going through the motions and keeping yourself busy, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has purpose, and nothing is permanent. You don't even have any friends.

Except...

You look across the table at Hound, who is still frowning. He's worried about you. The realization makes your stomach flip-flop again, and the dumpling you'd just eaten suddenly feels like a stone.

He's actually, genuinely, truly worried about you. He's the first person to actually care about your wellbeing in a long time, and it's not just him. He brought you food. He's always trying to make you laugh. He brings Grizzer down every chance he gets. He wants you to be happy.

"I don't know," you finally say, and your voice is soft and uncertain. "I just... feel like something's missing."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asks, his voice soft.

You don't have an answer. You've been here for a year now, and yet, you feel as if it's only been a few weeks. As if it's still the beginning. Maybe you've gotten a little further, but not enough. 

You haven't settled in, but the thought of leaving Coruscant is a terrifying one. There's nothing left for you back home. Your family doesn't want you there. The planet is too cold, and it's too wet, and the skies are too dark. You prefer the artificial sunlight and the artificial warmth and the bright lights that never turn off. 

The only problem is the people. They're everywhere, all the time. In your apartment building. In the precinct. In the cantinas. On the speeders. And you hate the crowds. You hate the noise. You hate the way everyone is always talking, and the way they walk with no regard for anyone else, and the way they never seem to shut up, and...

Hound is still watching you, his expression worried. You shake your head and manage a smile.

"No," you say, taking another bite of the dumpling. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."

"Good."

His relief is palpable, and a wave of guilt washes over you. How did he manage to wriggle his way into your life? Why does he care about what happens to you? How does he even know what's wrong?

You don't have any answers, and the more you try to figure it out, the more confused you become. It's just Hound. He's just a clone. He's a good guy, a kind man, a decent human being, but why is he different from the others?

You've met other clones. You've met other guards. They're all polite and courteous, but none of them have gone out of their way to befriend you. None of them have spent the time and energy Hound has, and none of them have ever given you a reason to trust them. Not like Hound has. Not like he continues to.

He's always around, always ready to lend a hand. He's a constant presence in your life, a constant source of comfort and support. You didn't ask for him, and yet, there he is, a bright light in the darkness that surrounds you.

"I mean, I don't have a reason to go anywhere," you say. You're trying to sound casual, but you're failing. His eyes are focused on your face, and he's not blinking. You're not sure what's happening, or why, but it's making you uncomfortable. "But if I did, it'd be too much trouble to uproot everything and move, right?"

"Right."

"Besides, I have a job. And an apartment. And my boss isn't a complete dick, which is more than most people can say." You smile at him, but his expression doesn't change. He's still looking at you, his dark eyes intense, and the feeling of unease grows. "And I like my work. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's boring."

"I understand," he says, nodding. He doesn't smile. You swallow hard, then look down at your plate.

"And... I don't know, there are perks." You give a small shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, and hope that the sudden heat in your cheeks isn't noticeable.

"Perks?" he asks. His eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like what?"

"You know," you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Things."

"What things?"

He's teasing you, now, and you're blushing.

"Just things." You shove the rest of the dumpling into your mouth and chew slowly, trying to buy yourself some time. "Grizzer. And, um..."

"And?" 

Hound is smiling at you now, and it's hard not to return it. It's just so damn contagious. It's like looking at the sun, or standing next to a star. It's hard to look away.

"Don't make me say it."

"I wanna hear you say it."

"Hound..."

"Please?"

"Ugh, fine," you sigh. You roll your eyes and set the empty dumpling container aside, then lean back in your chair. "You, okay? Happy now?"

His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. It's impossible not to smile back. You can feel it spreading across your face, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yeah, actually. I'm pretty happy," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks."

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

You look down at the remaining food, but suddenly, you're no longer hungry. Instead, you find yourself glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He's digging back into the noodles, and Grizzer is sprawled out at his feet, chewing on a bone.

Maybe it's not so bad.

It becomes a routine after that.

Hound comes down almost every day after his shift to hang out and have lunch with you. Sometimes he brings Grizzer, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he has food, sometimes he doesn't. It's not much, but it's something. It's a bit of comfort, a bit of normality, a bit of light in the otherwise dull, colorless life you're living.

And once, when you're knee-deep in a complicated case and you forget to eat, he brings food down for you anyway. He doesn't stay. He just leaves it on the table and goes back upstairs, but not before making sure you know it's there. It's a simple gesture, and it's sweet, and it makes your heart flutter.

You aren't used to that. You aren't used to people going out of their way to make sure that you're taken care of. It's not something you've ever really experienced. But now that you've seen it, felt it, you aren't sure if you'll be able to live without it.

The next time he comes down, you're not surprised. You're expecting him. Hound still waits for permission to enter your space, and you're secretly pleased by that. You're grateful that he respects the boundaries you've set, especially since most people don't. They think they can intrude, can walk right into the lab, because they have clearance. Hound, however, does not, and so he always knocks. Always waits. Always gives you a moment to prepare.

You've also gotten used to his presence, and it's easy enough to keep working while he chats away.

Today, though, the conversation has died, and you've gone back to your paperwork. He's quiet, and there's an odd tension in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. You can feel it, and you're fairly certain that he can, too. You want to ask, but you don't. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll tell you if something's bothering him.

"Hey," he finally says, and you look up from your work. He's sitting across the room, still eating his food, but he's not looking at you. His attention is fixed on the table, his jaw clenched.

"What's up?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to show your concern. He's fidgeting with the lid of the empty food container, his hands moving faster than usual.

"Are you busy later tonight?"

"Probably," you say. "Why?"

"Just curious," he says with a shrug, and he turns his attention back to his meal.

He's lying. He's a terrible liar, and the fact that he's refusing to make eye contact only proves that something's wrong. You put down the stylus you'd been using and turn your chair to face him, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Why?"

He shrugs again and shoves a large bite of noodles into his mouth.

"Hound."

He chews and swallows, and the frown deepens. He doesn't answer.

"Hound," you repeat, a bit more forcefully. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're obviously upset about something," you point out. You lean forward in your chair and rest your elbows on your knees, watching him. "Did I do something? Did I piss off someone in the Guard again? I swear, they can't handle constructive criticism."

He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head again. His dark curls bounce around his face, and you're distracted for a moment. Then, before you can ask again, he stands. He gathers the garbage from the table and puts it into the recycler, then heads for the stairs.

"Hound."

He freezes in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He looks like he's debating whether or not to leave. Finally, he turns and gives you a sheepish smile, his face turning red. 

"There's an officer's gala tonight," he says, and your brow furrows. What's so bad about that?

"Okay," you say slowly.

Hound stares at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he's waiting for a response. You have no idea what he wants you to say, or how you're supposed to respond, and so you wait. You sit and stare, and his discomfort grows.

"I'm invited," he says. He's starting to fidget again, and his voice is quieter. "They're supposed to have good food and decent booze. It'll be a nice night out."

"Sounds like fun," you hum, nodding. Not for you, but that's not the point. He's a social person, and you're not. It makes sense. "I'm glad you're going."

"So, are you coming with me?"

Your jaw drops, and you nearly fall out of your chair. It takes a second for the question to sink in, and even longer for it to register. Is he serious? Does he really expect you to go with him? To an event where there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of people? You're not sure if he's joking or not. If this is a trick, it's a cruel one.

"Wait, what?"

Hound looks like he wants to disappear, and the flush on his cheeks has darkened.

"I mean, you don't have to," he says, shaking his head. "It's fine. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought maybe—"

"You're serious?" you ask. Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, and in your chest, and in your ears.

"Well, I figured, y'know, since I have to go, I might as well make the most of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble. He's practically mumbling, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. "As, y'know, a date. Maybe."

"Me?" you ask, barely able to find your voice.

"Yes, you," he laughs. It's a bit forced, and the nervousness in his voice is obvious. "No one else is down here, so I'd have to be talking to them."

"Right, but..."

"Look, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says. "I know this isn't your thing. I just thought, y'know, we could spend some time together, outside of this place."

You stare at him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to take you out on a date? He wants you to be his date to the gala? He wants to spend time with you outside of the morgue, when there are other things that could easily catch his attention? He actually wants to spend time with you, of all people?

"Hound, I... I don't think..." Your voice trails off, and you clear your throat, trying to find the words. How do you tell him that it's not a good idea without hurting his feelings?

"Oh." His face falls, and he looks so disappointed that you immediately feel guilty.

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts, waving his hand. He forces a smile. It's fake, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're right, it's a dumb idea."

"That's not what I meant," you insist.

"It's cool, don't worry about it."

"Hound, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's fine. It's my fault for bringing it up."

"I don't—"

"It was a stupid idea. Just forget about it. We can—"

"I want to!”

You blurt the words before you can stop yourself, and the moment they're out of your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Your face is hot, and your hands are trembling, and the butterflies are beating their wings against your stomach, but the damage is done. You've already said it, and the shock on Hound's face only confirms it.

"You want to?" he asks, his brows raised.

"Yeah." You duck your head, staring intently at the floor. It's easier than looking at him. "I want to. I'm just... Not good with social stuff."

"You're better than you think," Hound says, his tone soft and warm.

You give a small shrug, and a heavy silence falls over the room. After a few seconds, he speaks again.

"Look, the gala is gonna be boring as hell," he says, and you peek up at him through your lashes. He's grinning, and the warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Everyone there is just gonna be kissing each other's asses, and it'll be the same people as always. The same stupid conversations, the same stupid stories, the same stupid shit. And it's not gonna be fun."

"Wow, sounds like a great date," you say sarcastically.

"But if you're there, then it'll be bearable," he finishes. "You'll make it fun. You're always funny, and interesting, and... And..."

His voice trails off, and his face is beet-red. You bite back a smile. He's never this flustered. It's adorable, and it's also a boost to your ego.

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I mean, I don't exactly have a pretty dress, or anything like that. I'm not exactly high-society material."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Wear whatever's comfortable."

"You're sure I'm not gonna be in the way?"

"I'm positive."

"And if I get bored or overwhelmed?"

"Then we can leave and do something else."

"Really?"

"Really."

You pause, thinking, then nod. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll come."

"You will?" He looks excited, and his smile widens. "You really will?"

"Yeah," you say, laughing.

"Alright!"

Hound pumps his fist in the air and gives a whoop of victory, then bounds over and wraps his arms around you. Before you can protest, he picks you up and swings you around.

"Hound, put me down!"

After one more swing, he does, and you nearly collapse into his chest. You're dizzy, but his grin is infectious, and soon, you're smiling back. 

"Sorry," he laughs.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're amazing."

The compliment is given so easily, and it's so earnest, that your face heats up. You look away from him, not wanting him to see how much the words mean.

"Anyway," you mutter, pushing him away. "Go do something useful, and let me get back to work."

"Yes sir," he says.

He snaps a salute, his expression still bright, and then turns and runs up the stairs. Grizzer chuffs once, then follows him. He looks so excited that you can't help but smile, and the butterflies finally settle.

It's going to be fine.

It's not fine.

As soon as your shift ends, you race back to your hole-in-the-wall apartment and tear through your closet, looking for something, anything, that doesn't scream 'I'm socially awkward and I have no idea what I'm doing.'

But the clothes that you brought from Eadu are simple and functional. You hadn't been planning on attending any galas or balls or fancy parties. There's nothing here that screams classy or elegant or sophisticated. It's all cheap, practical, and serviceable, and you're quickly losing hope.

You're about to call the whole thing off when you see a dress tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a stack of towels. You frown, unsure how it got there, then snatch it up and hold it up in front of you.

It's a nice dress, one that your mother had forced you into for a cousin's wedding several years ago. It's a dark, deep blue that fades to black, and the sleeves are long and sheer. The fabric is soft, and it's still in good shape, which means you probably shouldn't have left it buried in the closet for so long.

Sighing, you carry the dress to the bathroom and change. The dress is a little loose, but it's not too bad, and you're able to tighten it enough so it fits. It's not as bad as you remember, and the longer you look at it, the better you feel. This is fine. You can pull this off. It'll be a lot better than the shapeless smock you wear every day, and at least Hound will appreciate the effort.

Your hair is a different story.

It's a mess, and your fingers aren't much help. You're tempted to cut it all off, but you'd promised yourself that you'd never go that route again, no matter how frustrating it is. You need help, and you've got half a mind to comm the office and ask the receptionist for some advice, but she's not much better off than you are. You're just going to have to improvise.

An hour later, you're ready. Or as ready as you're going to be.

The dress fits nicely, and the makeup is the same dark shade as the dress, so at least it goes well together. Your hair is still a bit messy, but you've managed to get it into a bun and pin it down so that most of it is out of your face. You've even found a pair of heels in the back of the closet, and though they pinch a little, they're not unbearable.

When you step outside, the first thing you notice is that the sun is setting. That's not a good sign, because it means that you've already wasted an hour and a half doing nothing.

The second thing you notice is that Hound is leaning against the wall opposite your door, wearing his formal uniform.

He looks gorgeous.

You've never seen him dressed up like this, and it takes a few moments for you to register the sight. The uniform is crisp and clean, with gold buttons and a high collar. There's a single stripe across his chest, signifying his rank, and he's got a medal pinned to his lapel. His hair is slicked back and tidy, and he's even taken the time to polish the mud and dirt from his boots. He looks professional and commanding and sexy.

"Wow."

The word slips out before you can stop it, and Hound's head snaps up. He blinks at you in surprise, then slowly smiles, his eyes roaming over you with blatant appreciation.

"Wow," he echoes, his voice a low rumble.

A flush rises up your neck, and you swallow hard. "Is this okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Hound laughs and crosses the distance between you in a few long strides. He towers over you, but he doesn't feel threatening. In fact, the closer he gets, the safer and more secure you feel. "You look amazing."

"I look like a mess," you say, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You look great." He reaches out and tucks the hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin, and the blush spreads further. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are calloused and rough. "You always do."

"Thanks," you mutter.

He tilts his head to the side, and his smile widens. "You're beautiful."

"Stop,” you whine, ducking your head. You're used to Hound's teasing, but not this kind. Not the kind that makes your pulse quicken, or makes your heart stutter.

"No, really, you are."

"Hound..."

"So beautiful."

"I mean it. Stop."

"Gorgeous."

"Hound!"

He laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Uh huh." You give him a dubious look, then roll your eyes. "Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He offers his arm, and you hesitate for a moment before taking it.

It's an odd sensation, touching him. Not bad, necessarily, just odd. You're used to his casual manner, the way he always brushes his shoulder against yours, or the way he nudges you when he wants your attention. But this is different. It's intentional. Intimate.

You're not sure how to feel.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"Yeah," you reply, and your voice comes out soft and breathless.

He leads you out of the building and down the street towards the main avenue. He's tall and solid and sturdy, and his stride is long and confident. The two of you look like an odd pair, and you feel a bit self-conscious. He, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed. Hound keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and you're grateful. It distracts you from the fact that his arm is pressed firmly against yours, and it's difficult not to lean against him.

By the time the two of you reach the venue, the sun has set and the city is lit up with artificial light. You can see the gala from blocks away, and Hound is quick to point out the various dignitaries and important officials who are milling about. He's not particularly interested in politics, and you suspect that the only reason he knows so many names is because it's required of his job. He does, however, enjoy making fun of them behind their backs, and his comments have you in stitches by the time the two of you are in line to enter the hall.

"Ready?" he asks, glancing down at you.

"No," you admit, but there's no point in stalling. It's not like you can turn back now. You'd agreed to come, and the least you can do is stick to it.

"Good," Hound laughs. "I'm not, either."

"Somehow, that's not reassuring," you mutter.

"C'mon, let's go."

He pulls his arm away from yours, and your skin immediately grows cold. Before you can protest, he places a hand on the small of your back and leads you inside. The warmth and security are immediate, and you lean into his touch without thinking. He stiffens for a moment, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he leans closer, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your dress, stroking in slow circles.

As soon as the two of you step inside, the noise levels increase tenfold. People are shouting, talking, laughing, and dancing, and the band is playing a loud, boisterous song. Everything is bright and loud and colorful, and the smells and sounds and sights are overwhelming. The panic returns, and you freeze. Hound must notice, because he squeezes your waist.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You do as he says, and the tension eases. The noise fades to background static, and the colors stop spinning. Hound doesn't remove his hand, and it's a welcome weight, keeping you anchored to reality.

"I don't know about this," you say, your voice so small and so quiet that it's a wonder he hears you at all. But he does, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

"We don't have to stay," he promises. "If you get uncomfortable, we'll leave. It's not a big deal. We can do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"I mean it." He gives a small shrug, and a slight flush colors his cheeks. "If you wanna ditch, we can ditch. It's no big deal."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, and wonder how you'd ever gotten lucky enough to meet someone like him. Someone who is patient and understanding, who never judges or pries. Someone who just wants you to be happy.

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," he replies, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Wanna grab a drink?"

"Sure."

He guides you over to the bar, and the two of you order your drinks. He chooses something strong, while you opt for a glass of wine. As soon as the bartender sets the glass in front of you, Hound snatches it up and takes a sip.

"Hound!" you yelp, smacking him lightly on the arm. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, force of habit," he laughs.

"Why the hell are you so used to stealing other people's drinks?"

"Because my brothers are assholes," he says. He puts the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. "I promise, I'll let you drink the rest."

"Damn right, you will," you grumble. You pick up the glass and take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. "I'm watching you."

"I'd expect nothing less," he says, grinning. He reaches over and grabs his own drink, and the two of you clink glasses. "To... I dunno. To whatever the fuck this is."

"To us," you reply, and he laughs.

"Yeah. To us."

He downs the entire glass, then turns and watches the crowd. Couples are pairing off, and the band has started a slow waltz. You spot Commander Thorn with the Senator of Atrisia in the middle of the dance floor, looking rather pleased with himself, and your stomach does a nervous flip. How the hell is she able to wear those heels without tripping and falling? It looks exhausting. And painful.

"Do you wanna dance?"

The question startles you, and you whip your head around. Hound is looking down at you, his brows furrowed, and he seems hesitant.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah." He nods towards the floor, and the couples swaying back and forth. You let out a breath, shaking your head, and you take a long sip of your drink.

“Not really, no," you admit.

You watch his shoulders slump, but the look on his face is more relief than disappointment.

"Okay, good," he says, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Oh, thank the Force," you mutter, and he grins.

"Didn't think you'd say yes, honestly."

"And what if I had?" you ask. You arch an eyebrow at him, and the grin widens.

"Then I'd have made an ass of myself trying to impress you," he says. His dark eyes shine with amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Not that I don't normally do that, anyway."

"Mm," you hum. "You do alright."

"Yeah?" he asks. He cocks his head, and the smile disappears. "Really?"

"I mean, yeah." You take a sip of your wine and try not to think about how warm and safe and secure he makes you feel. Or how handsome and charming he is. Or how much he actually cares. "You're not too bad."

"High praise," he laughs, his tone dry. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I can't tell if you're serious or not," he says, giving you a wry smile.

"I'm very serious," you retort. You're smiling, though, and it's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Dead serious."

"You're awful," he snorts, shaking his head. "Absolutely awful."

"That's why you like me," you tease.

"Well, not the only reason," he murmurs. There's a faint blush on his cheeks, and the expression on his face is far too sweet for someone who is usually so gruff and unruly. "There's plenty of others."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. He looks away, his eyes darting around the room, and a heavy silence settles over the two of you. He clears his throat, and his hand finds yours. "C'mon, let's go see what they've got for food."

"Sounds good," you reply. You let him lead the way, his fingers laced through yours, and his grip is strong and firm.

It's going to be a long night.

You end up staying for a couple hours.

The food is excellent, and the booze is decent, and Hound keeps his promise. You stay glued to his side, letting him lead the way and navigate the crowd. He introduces you to some of his friends, and it's not as awful as you'd feared.

You make polite small talk, and laugh at their terrible jokes, and they seem impressed. Thorn even goes as far as to say that you're good for him, and when Hound shoots him a warning look, he only grins.

It's not as awkward as you'd feared, but it's not exactly relaxing. Thankfully, Hound is good at picking up on your cues. When the chatter starts to die down, he knows to make an excuse and move on. When the crowd gets too thick, he pulls you away. When your anxiety starts to mount, he finds a place where the two of you can be alone.

At some point, the two of you find a quiet spot in the corner. He leans against the wall, and you lean against him. The two of you watch the people milling around, and the band strikes up another lively tune. He's still got an arm wrapped around your waist, and his hand is resting on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles on the fabric of your dress.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"I'm fine," you say, and this time, it's the truth. "Thank you for this. I know I'm being difficult, and I'm sorry."

"You're not being difficult." He's smiling, and his fingers move from your hip to the curve of your spine, sliding down your back in a soothing motion. "You're perfect."

You snort, and the butterflies are fluttering madly, beating their wings against your stomach, rising higher and higher. You ignore them and roll your eyes. "Whatever you say, Hound."

"I mean it." He turns his attention away from the crowd and looks down at you, and the intensity in his eyes takes you by surprise. "You're incredible."

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously, you are."

"Hound, I've been a nervous wreck all night. If that's incredible, I hate to hear what you think of the other people here."

"Other people don't matter,” he says. His tone is soft and warm, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart skip a beat.

"Of course they do."

"Why?"

"Because... Well, because..." Your words trail off, and you frown.

That's a good question.

Why does it matter?

Who cares if someone else has a nicer dress or better manners or more friends or a more prestigious title? Why is it important? What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? You're not even sure anymore, and you find yourself searching for an answer. A good, solid, valid reason that will make sense, but there's nothing. Nothing that isn't completely superficial or trivial.

"They don't," he says. His eyes are fixed on your face, and the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. He's so serious, and his expression is so tender, and it's so unlike him. But before you can respond, he smiles and shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. No one else matters."

"Maybe," you murmur, and your head falls to his shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

You know he's right. He's never lied to you before. He's never been dishonest, or cruel, or uncaring. He's always been considerate and thoughtful and kind, and he's the first person who's cared about you since you left home. He's always there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a smile and a joke and a friendly hello.

He's always there, and that's a good thing.

You take a deep breath and turn your attention away from the crowd and back towards him. He's still watching you, and his expression is soft and open and vulnerable. He's not trying to hide anything, and it makes your heart flutter.

"Good," you whisper, and he smiles.

And then his hand is on your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You know that, right?"

You swallow hard and nod, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. Your noses bump together, your lips inches apart, and your breath catches.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He's still watching you, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much. There's a flush on his cheeks, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. You can tell that he's hesitating. Waiting. Giving you time to react.

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. But your fingers curl around the lapel of his jacket, and you pull him closer. That's all the encouragement he needs, and his lips brush against yours in a featherlight kiss.

The kiss is slow, and soft, and sweet, and the butterflies explode in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation and excitement. Your skin is on fire, the heat spreading from your face down your neck and chest and lower, lower, lower. He's not pushing or demanding. He's gentle and patient and caring, and it's perfect.

When the kiss ends, Hound pulls back, but not far. He's still close enough to press his forehead against yours, and his hand is still on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"Okay?" he whispers.

You nod, and his smile widens. He leans down and kisses you again, and this time, the butterflies aren't fluttering. They're flying.

It's perfect.

The rest of the evening is a blur.

Hound is by your side the entire time, keeping you grounded and safe and secure. His hand is on the small of your back, his fingertips gently stroking the fabric of your dress. He keeps his pace slow, matching your steps, and his voice is a low, steady rumble in your ear, whispering little bits of information and gossip and stories. It's easy to tune out the other people, to ignore the music, to focus only on him.

By the time the two of you leave the gala, the moon is high and the streets are mostly empty. Hound walks you home, his hand never leaving your waist. You're both a bit tipsy, and the walk seems much shorter than usual. It's not long before the two of you are outside your door, and he's reluctant to let you go.

"Tonight was nice," you say. You're leaning against him, your face pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed across your back. His hands are warm, and the heat from his touch is spreading across your skin, sending tingles down your spine.

"It was," he agrees, and his lips brush against the top of your head.

You sigh and relax further, resting your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a comforting rhythm, and the scent of his cologne is a pleasant mixture of spice and leather. He smells amazing, and you can't resist pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck. He shivers, his hands tightening on your waist.

"We should do this again," you murmur. "But maybe next time, without so many people."

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and husky. His lips trail along the shell of your ear, and the butterflies are awake again, fluttering lazily. "I'd love to take you out again."

"I'd like that," you whisper.

You want to tell him that you had a great time, that he was a perfect date, that you don't want the night to end. You want to tell him that he's amazing and sweet and kind and generous. You want to tell him that he's the only person who's cared about you in a long time. You want to tell him how much it means to you, and that you'd be happy to do it again.

But the words are stuck in your throat, and the butterflies are blocking the way, so instead, you tilt your head back and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his face is flushed, but his smile is warm and soft. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, like he's happy just to be near you.

"Do you want to come inside?" you ask.

It's a risky move, and a bold one. You're not usually so forward, and the alcohol is giving you courage. But you can't deny the desire coursing through your veins, and the thought of him leaving makes you feel empty.

Hound blinks, his eyes shifting from your door and back, and he swallows hard.

"If you want me to," he says. His voice is soft, but there's an edge of desire to it, and it's a struggle to keep your hands from trembling.

"I do," you whisper.

He stares at you for a moment longer, then nods.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice rough. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, and a flush rises up your neck and into your cheeks. "Then I'll come inside.”

His hands are still on your waist, and you reach up and grab his shirt, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as his body comes flush against yours, and his grip tightens. The kiss is more passionate this time, less hesitant and timid, and it sets your nerves alight. The butterflies are in full force now, and they're flying so fast and hard that you're sure they're going to escape.

The two of you stumble into the apartment, barely managing to shut the door behind you. Your hands are buried in his hair, and his are wandering up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts. You pull away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, and Hound immediately starts pressing a series of quick, sloppy kisses along the length of your jaw.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Me too," you admit, a bit breathless.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

He captures your lips in another kiss, and his tongue slips into your mouth. The kiss is rough and wet and hot, and you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt tighter.

Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and you fall backwards onto the cushions, dragging him down with you. He lands on top of you, and the sudden weight causes you to yelp in surprise. He catches himself at the last second, bracing himself with his arms, and he breaks the kiss.

"You okay?" he pants, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, sorry," you mutter.

He grins and ducks his head, resuming his trail of kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, and you moan, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His lips are searing, and the heat is spreading across your skin, setting every inch of you aflame.

He's intoxicating, and you want more.

You push him off, and the two of you scramble to your feet. He grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it to the side. You're not sure where it lands, and you don't care. Your attention is focused on him and him alone. You're staring, shamelessly drinking in the sight, and your mouth goes dry.

He's built like a mountain, broad and thick, and his skin is covered in a patchwork of scars and tattoos. You can't stop yourself from reaching out and running your hands along the smooth planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. The muscles flex under your fingertips, and his eyes drift shut.

He's practically vibrating with anticipation, and when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, he grabs your waist and pulls you close. He doesn't have to say anything, because his eyes are screaming. They're full of want, desire, need. You can feel it in the air between the two of you, heavy with anticipation, with promise.

You reach up and cup his cheek, running your thumb along his lower lip. He parts his lips, and his tongue flicks out, teasing the pad of your thumb. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

The two of you move together, and your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss. You're a tangle of limbs, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. His hands are wandering, sliding over the curve of your ass and up the length of your back. He grabs the zipper at the top of your dress and slowly pulls it down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin.

The dress pools around your feet, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Goddamn," he breathes as his gaze roams over your body.

You bite your lip and look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your face is burning, and you wish the butterflies would go away. But they're relentless, and they're not going anywhere.

"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice low and soft.

He places a finger beneath your chin and gently tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is tender, and the smile he gives you is full of affection. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hands sliding over your shoulders and down your arms.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"What?"

"How gorgeous you are." He cups your cheek and traces the curve of your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're incredible."

"So are you."

"No, I'm not," he laughs, his hand sliding up your neck to tug gently at a loose strand of hair. "I'm just a guy who somehow managed to convince the most amazing woman in the galaxy to go on a date with him."

"Shut up," you scoff.

"It's true," he says, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I'm lucky to have met you."

"Hound..."

"So, so lucky," he repeats. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It's a quick, fleeting kiss, but it's enough to make your heart stutter. "You're incredible."

"Hound, shut up," you groan.

He laughs, the sound rich and deep, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

"Make me."

You reach up and grab the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and you press your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, demanding, your lips parting, tongues clashing, teeth biting, noses bumping. He growls, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your body.

When the kiss ends, he's still holding you, and his forehead is pressed against yours.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Yes," you breathe.

"I don't want to rush—"

"Hound, if you stop now, I'll kick your ass."

He laughs and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you easily. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, and he carries you into the bedroom, his lips trailing along the column of your throat. The mattress hits the back of his legs, and he sits down, settling you in his lap. You straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread, and you bury your hands in his hair.

He slides his palms over the curve of your ass, squeezing and massaging the supple flesh. His mouth finds yours, and his tongue slips past your lips, exploring and teasing. The taste of alcohol is still heavy on his breath, but beneath it is something else. Something stronger. Something darker.

You're vaguely aware of him reaching for the clasp of your bra, and it loosens, falling away. You break the kiss and pull back, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you. The raw, naked hunger in his eyes is enough to make the butterflies beat their wings wildly, and you can't help but grin.

"See something you like?" you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, yes," he growls.

He cups your breasts, his fingers teasing and pinching, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hips shift as his thumbs rub against your nipples, grinding down against him. The first brush of your clothed pussy against his erection is electric, and the noise he makes sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you.

He's hard and thick, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. You roll your hips again, and his hands tighten on your breasts, his nails digging into the sensitive skin. The pain is delicious, and you moan, rocking against him again. He groans, his hips jerking, and his lips find yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and his tongue is practically fucking your mouth, licking and stroking in time with the movements of your hips.

He pulls away, his eyes wild, and his hands leave your breasts, sliding down your sides to settle on your waist. He holds you still as he thrusts up, grinding his cock against your pussy. You gasp and moan, your head falling back, and his mouth finds the exposed flesh of your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting. He's leaving a mark, and the thought excites you more than you'd like to admit.

His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you up, rolling the two of you over. He looms over you, his body a solid wall of muscle, and he kisses you, slow and deep. Hound shifts, and his knee spreads your legs wide, pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. You whimper into his mouth, bucking your hips, trying to find some relief from the building pressure against the hard muscle of his thigh.

Hound pulls away, and you groan, reaching for him, trying to drag him back. He's too far away, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"Last chance," he whispers. The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the sight of his eyes, dark and hungry, sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, straight to your core. "Are you sure?"

You nod, unable to find the words.

"Tell me," he says, and his thumb slides under the thin strap of your panties. He teases the edge of the fabric, tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you breathe, the words coming out as a needy whine.

His eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. It's not the playful, easy smile that you're used to seeing. It's wolfish and predatory, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

He hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, tossing the ruined fabric aside. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, both of you breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, before he descends with a low growl. He licks a slow, teasing line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of your aching pussy. His lips ghost over your mound, the lightest of touches, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the torturous action.

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls. He laps at the sensitive bud, swirling around it, then presses the flat of his tongue against the folds of your pussy, lapping at the wetness leaking from your core. You buck your hips, desperately grinding against his face, but he holds you still, keeping his movements steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.

His tongue plunges inside you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open. His eyes are closed, and his expression is one of pure bliss. He's moaning, his tongue darting in and out, tasting every inch of you. You bury a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, urging him on.

He's relentless, devouring you, his tongue thrusting in and out of your cunt. His thumb brushes against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body, and you gasp, arching off the bed. You're close, the pressure building and building, and his tongue moves faster, curling and twisting inside you.

You're not going to last.

You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or his enthusiasm, or the sheer fact that it's Hound who's between your legs, but you're already close to the edge. The pleasure is overwhelming, flooding your body, washing over you like a wave.

"Please, Hound, I need to come," you plead. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."

His grip on your thighs tightens, his tongue thrusting faster, deeper, harder. He moans, the sound muffled by your cunt, his lips sucking at the sensitive bud of nerves. Your hips jerk, grinding against his face, the pressure building and building until it's almost too much. You can feel it, the orgasm just out of reach. It's just a matter of seconds. A matter of moments.

And then you're flying, your entire body trembling, shaking, pulsing. You're vaguely aware of the loud, ragged moan that escapes you, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care. The orgasm rips through you, crashing over you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the feeling of his tongue fucking your cunt.

You're panting, gasping, writhing on the sheets, every nerve ending on fire. Your body is shaking, your muscles twitching, and it takes several moments before the aftershocks finally subside. When the last one passes, you're left breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed, struggling to catch your breath.

You feel a rush of cool air as Hound pulls away, the sound of his belt being unbuckled barely registering. Your head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering open. He's standing next to the bed, his pants hanging loose around his hips, his cock standing proud, flushed and achingly hard. He's looking down at you, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown wide.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?" he murmurs. His voice is low, husky, full of desire.

"Probably as long as I've wanted it," you say. You reach up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards you. He hurriedly kicks off his pants, nearly tripping over the fabric in his haste, then settles over you, his hands planted on either side of your head.

"How's that possible?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Because we're idiots," you laugh. You reach up and grab his neck, tugging him down, and he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself.

"Maybe," he agrees, the word a soft sigh against your mouth. "But I don't care."

"Me neither," you whisper, a slight smile curling the corners of your lips.

You shift, spreading your legs, welcoming him into the cradle of your thighs. His cock brushes against your folds, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, and the two of you groan. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart pounding against your chest, the scent of his cologne filling the air. He's everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, drowning you in his warmth.

Hound shifts, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Precum is leaking from the tip, and the head is flushed red, almost purple with need. He lines himself up, the head teasing your entrance, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, he slowly circles the swollen bundle of nerves, coating his cock with your slick as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearm. 

His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth, mimicking the slow, lazy movements of his hips. The kiss is intense, possessive, claiming. He's branding you with his touch, his taste, his scent. He's marking you as his, and it's perfect.

The head of his cock slips inside you, and he moans, his body shuddering.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice rough.

"I want you," you whimper.

He thrusts, sinking in another inch, and you cry out. He's stretching you open, and the feeling is incredible. Your walls flutter, your hips bucking, but he's holding you in place, pinning you to the mattress.

"Say it again," he growls, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

"I want you," you moan, the words coming out in a breathy, needy rush.

He pulls back, the head of his cock just barely stretching your entrance. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whimper, but before you can protest, he surges forward, filling you completely.

Every inch of you is burning, every nerve ending screaming. You're full, stretched to the limit, molded perfectly to the shape of his cock. His body is flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hips rock, grinding his pelvis against your clit, setting off another round of sparks.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."

His words send a thrill through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. He curses, his hips jerking, and his hand finds your stomach, pressing down.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," you gasp, and your walls ripple around him again. He moans, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Don't do that. Not yet."

You can't help but laugh, breathless and lightheaded. He's being so sweet and careful, and you can't resist the urge to push him a little further. You contract again, squeezing and releasing, feeling every inch of him buried deep inside you.

Hound's head snaps up, his eyes wild, his nostrils flaring. There's a moment where the two of you stare at each other, neither one of you moving. And then, in one smooth, powerful thrust, he drives his cock all the way inside you.

Your back arches, and his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, biting and sucking. His teeth graze the bruised flesh, and his hips snap, his cock slamming into you.

You cry out, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. He's not holding back anymore, and neither are you. His hands are on your waist, and he's slamming his cock into you, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap of skin on skin. You're moaning and gasping, and his name falls from your lips, over and over.

You can feel another orgasm building as he picks up the pace, and the heat is spreading, coiling and twisting. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you're so close, the edge just out of reach.

He leans back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading you open. The new angle is deeper, and his cock is rubbing against the spongy patch of nerves. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and hungry.

"Come for me," he rasps. "I want to see you come on my cock."

You cry out, and your fingers twist in the sheets, gripping the fabric tightly. He's pounding into you, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving you higher and higher. The heat is spreading, and the colors are blurring, and the only thing you can focus on is him, and the feel of him, and the taste of him, and the smell of him.

He's everywhere, and it's too much.

The coil snaps, and the orgasm rips through you, tearing a scream from your lips. Your back arches, and your cunt convulses, tightening around his cock like a vise. His breath hitches, and his hands grip your thighs tightly.

"Fuck," he grunts, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing. "Where?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, but when it does, you manage to find your voice.

"Inside," you gasp. "Please, Hound—“

That's all the encouragement he needs. His cock pulses, and he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The heat spreads into your core, his cum filling you, and the aftershocks wash over you, the waves crashing and rolling, leaving you boneless and spent.

His arms wrap around you, and he rolls the two of you over. He's still buried deep inside you, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching is almost enough to make you come again. You're both shaking, and he's muttering something, his words jumbled and unintelligible.

You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, his cock buried inside you, your bodies tangled together. But eventually, the pleasure subsides, and you can breathe again. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then his shoulder, and his grip tightens around you.

"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming," he says, and the admission is so earnest, so vulnerable, that it nearly breaks your heart. "You're real, right?"

"As real as it gets," you reply. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Promise."

He lets out a sigh, and his grip relaxes, his hands sliding over your sides, down your back, along the curve of your ass. You run a hand through his hair, smoothing the messy strands. He shifts to lean into your touch, and his softened cock slips free, leaving a trail of his seed across your thigh.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

"Mhm," you hum as you kiss his neck.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone is soft, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

"No," you whisper.

He lets out a sigh, and his lips press against your cheek, featherlight.

"Good," he murmurs.

The two of you lay there, your bodies entwined until eventually Hound moves, rolling you onto your side before sitting up and stretching. He runs a hand through his hair, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple. 

You watch, enjoying the view, but you can't help the way your heart sinks as he gets up. You know that he's going to leave, and the realization is a sharp stab of disappointment. You try not to let it show, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral.

But he must sense it, because he pauses and looks at you, his brow furrowed.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you reply, not wanting to admit the truth. You don't want him to think that you're clingy or needy or dependent. That's not who you are. At least, it's not who you want to be.

"You sure?" He studies you, and the look in his eyes is thoughtful. "You seem a bit...tense."

"I'm fine," you say, giving him a smile. "Just tired."

He snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He moves to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running. He returns a moment later with a wet cloth, and he sits down beside you, cleaning up the mess that he left. He's gentle, careful, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers tremble slightly as they move over your skin.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, his tone apologetic. "I wasn't planning on taking things this far."

"I wasn't either," you admit.

"Well, shit." He tosses the cloth to the side, and the grin that spreads across his face is lopsided and endearing. "Now what?"

"We can pretend this didn't happen," you suggest, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Hound’s brow furrows, and his smile fades.

"Why would we do that?" he asks, his tone incredulous.

"Because..." Your words trail off, and your heart races.

Because you don't want him to think you're desperate. Because you don't want to scare him off. Because you don't want to ruin the friendship that the two of you have built. Because you don't want him to regret it.

He sighs and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, and the gesture is tender and gentle.

"Hey," he says, his voice low. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

"But—"

"Listen." He takes a deep breath, and his hand falls to the bed, his fingers tangling with yours. "I like you. I really, really like you. And if you want to pretend this didn't happen, we can. But if you want to see where things go, I'd like that, too."

"Really?" 

"Really," he says.

You swallow hard, trying to find the words. He's giving you an out, a way to save face, a chance to take a step back. But you don't want to do that. You don't want to lose him. You don't want to pretend that this didn't happen. You don't want to go back to the way things were.

You take a deep breath, and his fingers squeeze yours.

"Hound," you begin, then pause, collecting your thoughts.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I get it."

"I like you," you finally manage, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I'm sorry. I know I'm bad at this. But I like you. And I want to see where things go."

"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes, and the relief in his voice is palpable.

"What?"

"I was worried you were going to say you regretted it." He grins, and the tension drains from his shoulders. "I was worried you were going to tell me to leave."

"Never," you reply, your heart leaping. "I'll never regret this."

"Good."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's different from the others. There's no urgency, no desperation. It's sweet, and tender, and full of promise.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers when the kiss ends. Then his mouth twists, and he looks away, his voice turning sheepish. “Well, I can leave if you want. If you need some time alone, or some space, or—"

"Stay," you interrupt.

His smile widens, and he squeezes your hand.

"Okay," he says.

He pulls the covers over the two of you and lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you close, and you nestle against his chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For everything."

"Of course."

You're tired, and it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. You can feel yourself starting to drift off, and the last thing you remember before sleep claims you is the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head, and the soft, steady rhythm of his heart.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, the warmth of his body chasing away the last vestiges of loneliness.

And when you wake, he's still there, holding you tight.

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[nightdivinity]

Drink Responsibly! Prologue

ABO!Vampire!Batfam x reader

Minors! Do! Not! Engage! +18 only.

Platonic! Alfred, Bruce x reader, Possessive! Batboys x reader

Warnings: Alcohol, bad choices, stupid choices, possessive behavior, a/b/o fic, there is slight blood and gore, it's a vampire au, age gaps, because they're all significantly older, it's going to get suggestive from here on out, reverse harem, slight proofreading

Writer's Note: I want to thank @sophiethewitch1 for inspiring me and talking me through posting my writing. I hope it doesn't let you down! This is also my first time posting my writing on Tumblr, please be gentle. English is not my first language. Also, this is a why choose fic. So, it's Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian x reader. Maybe even Duke. I think four is a lot. Got to draw the line somewhere. Chapter 2 will be posted tomorrow.

It was midnight when you finally stumbled out of the latest club. Your heels were long gone, as you had taken them off the first time they got stuck in a grate. You’re pretty sure you handed them to a nice girl in the bathroom while her friend held your hair as you threw up copious amounts of alcohol and bar food. She had been super nice, you liked the way her short black hair was spiked, and her blonde friend’s eyeliner was superb. Anyways, now you are shoeless and desperately looking for the next bar on your crawl.

Gin’s. Ooh, that’ll do. You reach out and grab your friend’s bicep, point at the neon sign, and do vague gestures. Of course, your friend is not as well off as you are, so it takes a while to get your point across. Only they start crying again over their bullshit bar fling, and the fact you have no shoes.

It didn’t matter, none of it truly mattered. Not a single thing. This was your one night off after weeks of back-to-back grueling shifts at a job that doesn’t care whether you live or die. Yesterday you even took a quick unintentional power nap on the toilet. All of this resulted in you being slightly crazed and a little deranged as your night progressed.

But hey, Gotham just brings that out in people. In your job's defense, no one could take any more sick or inclement weather days thanks to all the random villain attacks next to or at your office. You blame the monthly rut.

At least you didn’t get stuck on the subway taped to a bench by the Riddler this week as he awkwardly rifled through a notebook of pickup lines. Life was certainly looking up.

See, unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the propaganda you consumed, you were born an Omega. Which had never truly been an issue. Except for the fact that thanks to a few foul choices from the government, it was getting harder and harder to get access to affordable pheromone blockers. You wouldn’t have even chanced this outing if you hadn’t found that one pill that rolled a little under your cabinet. Hey, you were desperate for a night out.

“I’m going there”, you slur.

Yes, this was asinine, but you still managed to wheel yourself and your friend to Gin’s. You hardly noticed the dark shadows following you as your friends from the bathroom quietly herded you. As you and your friend jaywalked across the street, you didn’t notice the red-headed woman standing in the middle of the road, blocking traffic from actually hitting you. It also barely registered when the nice boy with flashing gold eyes took your hand and led you past the line and directly to the front. This. Was. Your. Night. Out.

“Hey man, she can’t come in here with no shoes”, the bouncer at the door complains.

He was going to say more until he looked at the man holding your hand so nicely. You could hear the slight choking noise, and in your drunken stupor, you stumbled a little into your guide.

“He’s going to shit himself”, you stage-whisper. Or what you think was whispering. You were screaming over the pounding bass spilling out of the door.

                “Shhh, Jackson, she’s with me”, your guide replies.

                “She can come in, her friend can’t. Sorry Duke, they’re way too fucked up”, the bouncer swears.

                You gasp and let go of Duke’s hand, instead reaching for your friend and pulling them tight into your embrace. While smashing their face into your chest. Even though you were the most drunk you’ve ever been, you didn’t miss the spike in pissed-off Alpha vibes that happened around you. Still, you smacked a hand against your friend’s ear in an effort to protect them from what was said. Then you got sidetracked by their hair. It reminded you that you wanted a pet. Although with your work and class schedule, it would probably die in a week. Three days tops. At least you had your emotional support friend.

                “I can’t leave them alone”, you say.

                “Hun, how about I call them an Uber, they look like they’re ready to pass out. They definitely can’t handle it anymore”, Duke replies.

                He gestures towards your friend, and you notice how they’re slowly swaying on their feet. Eyes half closed. Shit. It would be shitty if you left them passed out somewhere in the bar as you danced and drank. They were already on their fourth wind and fading fast.

                “Look, you see this nice car”, Duke continues.

                He turns you three, and suddenly you notice the nice black town car next to the road. You vaguely register the fact that it’s one of those high-roller cars. Ones that only the richest in Gotham could afford.

                “See, this is Killian, he works for Wayne Enterprises. He’ll make sure your friend makes it home. I’ll even have him text you when they get there. Won’t that be nice? You don’t have to worry at all (y/n).”, he tells you.

                You nod, and it all makes sense somehow in your drunken brain. He knows your name, so obviously you know him. He also knows your friend, since he rattles off their address and gently pries them from your clutches before handing them off to Killian.

You pay no mind to the mention of a name that would have sent shivers down your spine normally. Wayne. Mysterious and dangerous to all who get involved.

                “I need them back, don’t sell their organs”, you warn.

                Then he gives you a tight brisk smile as he turns away from you. A persistent thought is starting to nag its way through the cotton in your head. The slightest unsettling feeling. Maybe there was something wrong with that blocker pill you found on the floor of your kitchen. You were certainly feeling as though there were a lot of pissed-off Alphas near you. The undercurrent of anger was a tang you couldn’t escape. More and more you felt the need to run somewhere dark and quiet to hide.

                You ignore the persistent tugging by Duke as you watch your friend get loaded into the car and driven away. Well. That ends that.

                The next time Duke tugs on your hand, it causes you to slightly stagger. He easily catches you and spins you around and through the door before you can protest.

                “Can I have a Rum and Coke?”, you shout over the music.

                “Yeah totally”, Duke shouts back.

                It’s only until you are tugged past the bar that you realize that everything is not all sunshine and daisies. No. No. This is wrong. You want to go back.

                You put your heels in. Duke was not ready for resistance as your hand slid out of his grasp on the way to the V.I.P. section. He turns around to get a better hold of you, only to watch you slip into the crowd and get lost in the sea of swaying bodies. Fuck. He was told to bring you to them. You still had to be here, there’s no way you could have bumbled off far. Shit. One job.

                Duke ran a palm over his face as he scanned the crowd. There’s no doubt in his mind. Bruce was going to be pissed. He wasn’t supposed to know about your little excursion out. Everyone had agreed, they would watch over you as the day turned. You still weren’t used to Gotham; you didn’t know the sort of creatures that came out during the night. While the rest of the world was happy and filled with normal and meta shifters, Gotham was overflowing with the less-than-stable. All more than happy to take a bite out of the innocent. The only thing that kept it in check was the unspoken King and his disgraced hellions.

If you had been sober, you would have noticed the people slowly disappearing from the crowd. You would have noticed that tonight was absolutely not a good night to be out. One by one, shrieks of fear and pain were mistaken for fun. Jostling in the crowd was hardly registered as the violence spread. The whole night, you were in a sea of sharks feeding. Now you had finally ditched what you didn’t know was your only protection.

                 Not to worry, fear splashes hot and cold against your nerves as sharp claws grip your arm, your back slamming into the bar as a distended jaw hisses open in front of you.

                Yeah. Maybe you should have been drinking responsibly.

[usergif]

HOW TO: Make Animated Neon Text

Hi! No one asked for this tutorial, but this is one of my favorite typography effects as of late — so I thought I'd share how I do it. You can see this effect in the first gif of this *NSYNC Celebrity set and the last gif of this Anthony Bridgerton set. Disclaimer: This tutorial assumes you have a basic understanding of gif-making in Photoshop. It's also exclusively in Timeline and uses keyframes for the fading effect seen on the blue text.

PHASE 1: PREP YOUR BASE GIF

1.1 – Choose a dark scene. This effect looks best contrasted against a dark background. You can definitely do it with a bright background, but just like a neon sign irl, you only turn it on in the dark/at night — so keep that in mind! 

1.2 – Determine the length of your clip. Depending on how much you want your text to flash or fade in, you'll want to make sure you have a scene long enough to also allow the text not to flash — reducing the strain it takes to actually read the text. For reference, my gif is 48 frames.

1.3 – Crop, color, etc. as you would. New to gif-making? Check out my basic tutorial here!

PHASE 2: FORMAT YOUR TEXT

Before we animate anything, get your text and any vectors laid out and formatted exactly as you want them!

2.1 – Finding neon sign fonts. It's easy as going to dafont.com and typing "neon" into the search bar!

2.2 – Fonts I used. Neon Glow by weknow | Neon by Fenotype | Neon Bines by Eknoji Studio

And to not leave my fellow font hoarders hanging, the font for "tutorial by usergif" is Karla (it's a Google font) 🥰

2.3 – Group your text layers. (Conditional) If you plan on having multiple text layers like I did and you want them to appear connected (like how the last letters of "NEON" and "sign" intersect with the wand icon), I suggest putting the layers into groups according to color (the shortcut to group layers is Command+G). If you don't group your text and just apply the outer glow settings to each individual layer, you'll end up with something like this:

—where you can see the glow overlap with the line, instead of the smooth connection you see in my final example gif. I'm using 2 colors for my text, so I made a group for red and a group for blue.

2.4 – Apply Outer Glow. Right-click your text layer (or your group if you have several layers) and select "Blending Options" to open the Layer Style menu. Check "Outer Glow" and feel free to play around with the settings until you like the way your text looks!

Your outer glow color should be darker and more vibrant than the color of the text itself. The text should be within the same color family but much brighter and, sometimes, almost white (see Step 2.2 again for my text colors).

Here are the settings for the Red Glow (the glow color is #FF3966) and Blue Glow (#00F0FF):

These aren't always my exact settings but they're pretty close to my standard. I always set the blend mode to Hard Light and usually have the opacity at 100%.

For every gif I use this effect on, I like to play around with Spread and Size. Spread will make the glow look denser and "expand the boundaries" (source: Adobe) and Size will diffuse the glow and blow it out so it covers a larger area (Adobe says it "Specifies the radius and size of blur").

2.5 – Duplicate your text layer/groups and remove glow. We're only going to be animating the glow on our text, and since doing this affects its opacity/visibility, we want to preserve the base text by creating a duplicate.

I just hit the Command+J shortcut to duplicate my groups and delete the Outer Glow effects, making sure that the "No Glow" version is above the "Glow" version:

I also put all these groups into one group called "Text" for organization and so I could apply a drop shadow to all the elements for better visibility.

PHASE 3: CREATE THE FLASHING EFFECT

This is for the effect you see on the RED text in my gif!

3.1 – The 0.03-Second Rule If you've read any of my animation tutorials before, you're probably already familiar with this rule. In my experience (and for reasons I can't explain), Video Timeline pauses every 0.03 seconds (try clicking the forward button a few times, you'll probably find a "duplicate" or paused frame). So, keep all your layers a duration of 0.03-second increments (e.g. 0.06 or 0.09 seconds can also work) and align them on the Timeline at 0.03-second intervals. If you don't follow this rule, you'll get duplicate frames when you export, resulting in a choppy final gif.

3.2 – Trim and arrange your text layers. Only on the layers/groups WITH the Outer Glow effect, trim them into several segments of varying lengths where the glow will be "on" (visible) and leaving spaces where the glow should be "off."

Typically, I'll have a mixture of 0.06 and 0.03-second text. That's when the glow will be visible. Between each "flash" of visibility, I've got a 0.03-second blank space, baby *pen clicks* and I'll write your name:

The layers shown above are arranged with a few flashes and two long segments of no flashing. This is the order and duration of each segment shown above (purple = visible segments):

0.06 blank, 0.06 visible, 0.03 blank, 0.03 visible, 0.03 blank, 0.03 visible, 0.03 blank, 0.24 visible (the long bit where "FLASHING" doesn't flash at all), 0.03 blank, 0.03 visible, 0.03 blank, 0.12 visible

(I only did this for the text that says "FLASHING" to give it a glitching effect. The other red text keeps the glow visible starting at the first long segment.)

PHASE 4: CREATE THE FADE-IN EFFECT

This is for the effect you see on the BLUE text in my gif!

4.1 – Animate using the Opacity Keyframe. Again, we're only touching the layers/groups WITH the glow effect. If you only have one layer of text, you'll find the Opacity Keyframe by clicking the film reel icon:

If you're working with groups like me, you'll find it in the Timeline panel under the group when it's expanded:

As you can see, I already added my keyframes (lil diamond babies). And luckily, it's super easy to do!

4.2 – Add the ending Keyframe first. We're starting at the end because our layers/groups are already at 100% opacity. Drag the playhead (the blue arrow attached to the red vertical line) to a spot where you want the glow to be 100% opaque — this is where the glow will be fully "on" or visible. [Again, follow the 0.03-Second Rule. You will get duplicate frames regardless when using keyframes (this will be explained in the note in Phase 5), but abiding to the rule will mitigate the amount of dupes you get.]

Then, click the clock icon by "Opacity" to place a keyframe:

4.3 – Add the starting Keyframe. Go backward from the ending Keyframe you just placed (I went back 0.12 seconds — but you can play around with the duration of the fade, just keep it a multiple of 0.03):

And drop another keyframe, this time by clicking the diamond icon by "Opacity":

4.4 – Reduce the opacity on the starting Keyframe. Keeping that keyframe you just placed selected, go to the layers panel and reduce your layer's/group's opacity to 0%:

Now, this Outer Glow will slowly fade from 0% to 100% opacity.

And just for a visual aid, here's where my fade-in keyframes are in relation to my flashing segments:

To refresh your mind, the 0% Opacity Keyframe starts when "FLASHING" is visible for 0.24 seconds (the first long segment of visibility).

With these keyframes, you'll get a smooth fade-in à la ✨light switch with a dimmer✨

PHASE 5: EXPORT

Yay, we're finished! Convert from Timeline back to Frames and export your gif!

NOTE: If you only did the flashing effect and followed my 0.03-Second Rule, you shouldn't have any duplicate gifs. BUT if you included the fade-in effect using keyframes, you WILL have duplicate frames. 'Tis the nature of keyframes. 🤷‍♀️ I had 4 extra frames where the fade-in starts, which I deleted. So, as always, I recommend checking your frames when you convert from Video Timeline back to Frame Animation — and manually delete any duplicate frames.

Sorry this tutorial is so long 🙈 I over-explain so you're not just mechanically copying steps, but understanding the WHY behind each step! Thanks for bearing with me

If you have specific questions about this tutorial, feel free to send a message to usergif and I'll try my best to help! :)

More USERGIF tutorials • More resources by Nik • USERGIF Resource Directory

[beevean]

I finished watching a playthrough of Mouthwashing

Beautiful experience I'm never going to touch again. I tip my hat at the sound design which in some parts made me nauseous (cutting Curly's leg most of all)

And the writing is commendable for so many aspects. The characterization of the crew, the out-of-order timeline that keeps the mysteries and build tension, the subtext of every line... but I want to praise most of all how realistic Jimmy's misogyny is.

In most stories I've experienced, the "sexist" character is nothing more than a caricature who walks around with a flashing neon "I FUCKING HATE WOMEN/MEN" sign. They exist to be a strawmen to be made a lesson of (or to be "cool", in some misandrists' cases), but they're not really characters.

Jimmy's sexism against Anya is realistic. He never outright says that she's lesser for being a woman. But every interaction with her shows how little he values her. He makes a jab at her never being admitted to medical school, but doesn't quite finish his sentence. He hijacks her role as Curly's nurse because she's too "sensitive" (that and perhaps his deep-seated desire of having power combined with his guilt). She never features in his guilt-induced delusions: Daisuke, who was mercy killed by Swansea after Jimmy endangered him, does, but Anya, who obviously killed herself out of trauma? Nah. But, what features is a womb-like thing with a "baby" in it, and the baby's cries can be heard even before, in the cemetery. The baby itself is seen as the real issue when Jimmy and Curly talk before the crash - even Curly doesn't seem to give a single shit about Anya's trauma, but simply wants to help Jimmy with the mess he made. I bet that, had he never impregnated her, no one would have cared.

Anya is not on the same levels at the others. Not intellectually, and not in dignity. Jimmy doesn't need to spell it out. Hell, while we don't see the rape happening, and it's not even outright confirmed but kept hush-hush as it often happens, it does fit Jimmy's craving for power. That is his fatal flaw. He loves to control others and have power over their lives, he just doesn't like dealing with the consequences of his actions. Plus, we see the way he speaks to the young, impressionable Daisuke, manipulating him into doing what he wants: who says he didn't employ the same tactics with Anya, who might as well be a child to him? (this is assuming he didn't just spike a drink, since he seemed to be very ready to go through that route when it came to Swansea...)

Beautiful writing. I shall now proceed to have nightmares about the red sea :)

[fairyhaos]

. ˚ game on !

requested by 🫧 anon: what about strangers to lovers with wonwoo, the guy that you met at the arcade 😌

pairing: wonwoo x gn!reader

genre: college au, meet cute, arcade au, fluff

word count: 1256

warnings: 1 curse word, maybe mildly ooc

notes: this took way too long for me to write,,, i hope y'all enjoy anyways <3

Every competent, sensible, slightly-more-sane-than-the-rest college student has a safe place. A haven, a refuge, somewhere they go to be alone and clear their thoughts to relax after a stressful day. 

For some, that place is one of the libraries. Maybe a secluded place in a park. Maybe meeting up with their friends in a coffee shop a little ways off campus. Maybe even just hopping on a train and going all the way home. 

For Wonwoo, however, his place is a little different. 

Wonwoo goes to the arcade. 

There is a small arcade a little ways away from where he lives, on the corner of a busy street and yet, oddly, seems to remain empty for the majority of the day. On the off-chance that there are people there, they're mostly small kids with adults, or pre-teens giddy at having been able to go out without parental supervision. All of them however, know to avoid Wonwoo’s arcade game. The one he’s staked claim over all the way back during his first year.

It's nothing special, simply just one of those shooting games with the plastic guns and bad graphics and weird, tinny sound effects, but Wonwoo likes it. It reminds him of the terrible arcade games back at home. 

It also helps that he's really, really good at it. 

And so, it's another one of those days for him, where he wants to run away from the stress of college life, wants to ignore Mingyu's texts for once and Seungcheol's endless offers to go out for a drink and stand there and shoot at pixelated images without a care in the world. 

When he arrives at the arcade, however, he finds his plans are somewhat disrupted. 

There's someone using his game. 

Wonwoo blinks, surprised. He doesn't move from his spot, a few metres away from the machine, watching the person play and listen to the crackly sounds that come from the speakers every time a successful shot is made. 

They're actually really good.

Eventually, the game finishes with dramatic closing music and the words 'GAME OVER' flashing in front of you, and you set down the arcade gun, sighing. 

You've never played in this arcade before. Coming from another area of the town, the arcade near where you’re staying has been closed down for apparently engaging in "suspicious business" and, without your usual escape, you've had to scour the town for another place to seek refuge in. 

This arcade certainly looks cleaner and more looked-after than the one you'd been frequenting before. Maybe yours really had been engaging in "suspicious business". Old Mr. Song’s oily moustache had been rather suspicious-looking, now that you think about it.

The games are more or less the same, however, and whilst you haven't played in a while, you're pleased to see that you aren't doing too badly, seeing your score flash up as first place in the leaderboard on the game's screen. 

Well, as expected, really. You've been playing this game literally every week for years, whenever you have time or want to chill. Even in a new arcade, you're still a pro. 

You raise your eyebrows at the second place score, however, surprised by how high it is, noting the barest difference in number compared to yours. Not bad, stranger who apparently is as addicted to arcade games as me, you think. 

"Hey," a voice calls out behind you, and you whip around to see a boy standing there, hands in his pockets, walking towards you. 

Oh, shit. The first thing you register is that this guy is quite possibly the most attractive person you've ever seen. 

His black rimmed glasses glint in the neon signs of the arcade as he tilts his head, a bag slung over his shoulder, and there's the faintest smile on his lips. He stops beside you, nodding at the flashing screen. "You're pretty good."

You raise an eyebrow. "Pretty good?" you echo. "I beat the high score that was previously held on his machine. On my first time here, might I add. I think I'm more than 'pretty good'."

That makes him laugh, surprised by your quick-witted response. "Ah, of course. My apologies. You're incredible."

You grin, pleased by both the compliment and the way you managed to pull such a delighted sound out of this boy. Who was really, really attractive, damn. "Thank you. I know."

He smiles again. "So it's your first time in this arcade, hm?"

“Yep,” you say. “I’m not from around here, actually. The arcade in my area closed down, though, because apparently the owner was using it as a cover for a money-laundering scheme, or something.”

The boy’s eyes are glittering behind his glasses lenses, amused. “Or something?”

You shrug. “Something like that. I can’t remember. It was something illegal, anyway, so they shut down and I haven’t been able to let off steam since.” You pat the machine like it’s a long-lost friend, and he follows your movements with that mildly amused expression on his face. “This is the game that I normally play. Well, not this exact one, but we had one of these in my old arcade.” You pause. “Before the illegal—”

“—before the illegal business, perhaps,” the boy says, and you grin.

“Exactly. I don’t know, but something about these games are just so… stress-relieving. I love them so much.” You glance at your score on the screen, still somehow flashing up even though you’ve finished the game a while ago, and smile proudly. “Back at my old arcade, this was ‘my territory’. No one could touch this game because they knew it was mine.”

That has the boy smiling, an amused twitching of the lips, glasses flashing as he holds out his hand to you. “I’m Wonwoo.”

“Um.” You blink, a little confused by the sudden introduction, but you shake his hand. Wonwoo’s grip is firm, warm, and his eyes seem to light up when your palm makes contact with his. “I’m Y/N?”

“You’re Y/N?” he says, voice a little teasing, mimicking the questioning lilt you’d unintentionally added to the end of your sentence. “Are you sure?”

You roll your eyes, unable to help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

He laughs, a soft chuckle that makes your heart clunk oddly in your chest. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, releasing your hand to gesture to the game machine, “and in this arcade, this game is my territory.”

You blink, and then your eyes widen. “Oh my god,” you say, laughing a little. “That’s such an incredible coincidence. Wait, does that mean that all of these scores are yours, too?” You point to the screen, and Wonwoo grins.

“Maybe. No one else has touched this game in years. Not since I’ve claimed it.”

You nod appraisingly. “You’re pretty good,” you say, as if giving him your grudging respect, and he smiles again. “Not as good as me, unfortunately.”

That makes him pause, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Y/N?”

“Maybe,” you chirp, drawing yourself up to full height, looking him right in the eye. “Will you be willing to take the challenge, Mr. Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo tilts his head, observing you quietly for a moment, before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile, confident and gentle and shy and eager all at once. He drops his bag from his shoulder and steps closer to you, eyes bright with an emotion you can’t quite name.

“Game on.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @butiluvu @zozojella @kawennote09 @thedensworld @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @sakufilms

[simplydnp]

Regarding jealousy, do you think those ‘jealous Dan’ compilations are Dan genuinely being jealous and not doing a bit/playing up for the camera to be funny? But then again most of those moments im thinking of at least, occurred during peak no homo eras so would be strange to joke about that when you’re trying to be perceived Phil’s platonic bro

Knowing more about dans backstory and stuff and how much he treasures what they have, it really does make sense why he’d be so protective of what he and Phil have, and jealous of anyone/anything that he thought was a threat to it and be jealous sometimes. Wonder what it’s like now

i think there's kernals of truth in most things they do/say. and i also think that while dan is habitually an entertainer, he's also extremely quick-witted and has a sharp tongue. as you mention, a lot of it occurred during That time, and i see it as a defense mechanism. put it this way, he's worried about losing everything because of this--especially phil. cause they can't be like their usual selves on camera anymore. i think it's fair to say dan is fairly possessive (not in a bad way). so he can't help but react. especially when they're only three years into it. he was twenty-one. barely legal to drink in the USA. of course he's still holding on tightly. he doesn't want things to be like this, he wants it to go back to how it was. but he also knows it can't. so he clutches the only thing he can--the one thing in his life that matters. so if you mess with the bull, you get the horns. even though it seems counterintuitive given the era.

i think dan's jealousy is different now. it presents differently than it used to. particularly post-WAD. in a way, i think it made things worse--in a grossly in love way. for lack of a better term, dan's always loved marking his territory. and since 2018, he hasn't really done that--but the start of the revival it ramped up significantly, and it's continued from there. and from what i can tell, phil likes it. he likes when he's goofy and loud about them as a pair. so there's less opportunity for jealousy to occur, since dan's flashing a neon sign that says 'taken'. it still happens, just look at the game of life videos this year. salty, petty, jealous dan is on full display. is part of it playing into the bit? absolutely. but it didn't start off as an exaggeration, it just grew. partly for comedy, partly for real.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Hey, so as a person who'll be legal next year, I don't know what exactly happened here with minors (I was at school), but regardless I wanted to say sorry that you have to deal with that. You shouldn't have to deal with people who Don't Listen, especially people around my age.

I also wanted you to know that I absolutely love your AU as a whole. The storyline and art genuinely make my brain go in all sorts of good directions, and tbh the art style is inspiring my own a bit.

Hope you're doing well

Just some minors interacting with a clearly labeled "Minors Do not Interact" post in bold and big letters like as if that's not in place there to shield them away from the nsfw. I even hid the damn thing under a cut so that they can walk away from it without being exposed in case of accidental encounters

What's worse was that the minor in question was the first to even interact with it before anyone else and that pisses me off just how easily they ignored the many warning signs in place, all to comment a damn flustered emoji. like flashing a bright neon sign of "DON'T GO INTO THE SCARY DARK HOLE" in their face but they think "eh. I can handle it"

I understand that most teens have the mindset of thinking they're more mature and can handle 18+ content, and no one at that age really realizes how immature that mindset is until they reach the same age as we do because they're all too excited and blinded at the idea of being "adults", doing "adult" things... But still. Come on. Just read the sign and respect it.

I promise you, you will not regret it, and you are not missing out on anything because it's not for you in the first place.

At least you seem cool, right on tho anon, right on

Thanks for being inspired with my art and for liking my silly little story :3 This AU has certainly become bigger than what I had initially in mind but honestly? I love writing and making stuff for it, and I'm very thankful to have an audience that is as enthusiastic to learn about it's world as I am eager to tell it. It's literally a storyteller's dream come true :')

[00sniff]

Fairly Ghost Parents 3

Cosmo swam up to the top of the fish bowl and asked Timmy, "What's up, why the long face."

Timmy signed and said, "That his parents mentioned that the relative they are going to visit have kids to but their older kids. What if they're like Vicky," he mumbles.

Cosmo smiles and tries to wave away, Timmys worries come on no is as icky as Vickey. Why I would bet my bacon that everything's going to be just fine, he cheerfully adds, poofing up a tiny goldfish size frying pan of greasy sizzleing bacon huming while he cooks it.

Timmy smiled, feeling a bit better at his godfathers encourage words.

Wanda swam out of the castle with poof right beside her. She faces plams with her fin when she sees Cosom cooking bacon,

"Cosmo," Wanda scolded "were supposed to be incognito at the moment"

Cosmo puffed out his chest. I'll have you know I haven't been incognito seents I got out of diapers, " he proudly proclaimed.

Wanda, Poof, and Timmy all sigh at the goofy but loveable fairy.

"We're here." The quiet moment is broken as Timmys father happy announces that they have arrived and pulls over to the curb.

As soon as the car has stopped, Timmy hops out, holding the fish bowl the fist thing he notices is that its in a much more urban area unlike his neighborhood back home but what really caught his attention is the giant pile of machinery on the roof that looked like a space ship from one of his adventures in space.

"Fentone works." Timmy reads out loud. The bright neon sign on the front of the building.

His mother walks up to his side and explains "yeah my sister and her family have their own business, a ghost hunting business." Ghost Hunting? Timmy repeated skeptical, but he also saw the nervous look his godparents shared while listening to the conversation.

"Well, it looks like ghost hunting must pay pretty well," his father's jelousy mumbles as he carries some of the bags up to the front door.

His mom knocked on the door it swings open at lighting speed, and a woman with a full body blue jump suit with long black gloves and short aubran hair opens the door "Susanne" she excitedly shouts, Maddie Timmys mom yells back and the two women hug.

"It's so good to see you again, Maddie let go first and steped aside to let them in Jack, kids come here, Susanne and her family are here, a large man in a bright orange full body jump suite comes runing out of nowere heeyyyy!

The large man shots exsidaly its been awile he gives a spine crushing hug to timmy parents lefting them off the groud.

Good to see you again to Timmy's dad, wezzed out as he was crushed. The guy finally lets go of Timmys' parents and spots him. Timmy glups as the guy ruffles his hair, and you must be Timmy. Last I saw you, you were this big he says as he pinches his fingers together.

Nice to meet you top, Mr. Uummmm, sir, Timmy says, caueing the man to laugh, "You can call me Jack, little guy," "and im Maddie." The woman replies and shacks his hand.

Then, two other people entered the room coming down the stairs. One was a young looking teen boy with black hair and blues eyes. He wore a simple white tee shirt and Jean's and looked like he might be nice. The other person was a girl who looked to be an older teen she had a black blose and light colored jeans and had long orange hair, Timmy froze for a second haveing flash backs of Vickey oh god Timmy thought there is gona be another Vickey here he nervously clutches at the fish bowl unconsciously.

[flowers-inverted]

I've got a theory...

(spoiler warning for s1 & s2)

So the lesbian noodle couple right? My theory is that their story is parallel foreshadowing for Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi.

Lil' recap: Lin Zhen (the chef) and Yu Xia (the marketer) started a business called Xialin Noodle House (literally a combo of their names) with a very successful signature recipe. Eventually Yu Xia strays from the path and Lin Zhen says she's leaving. This prompts the money/growth focused Yu Xia to go to our boys for help in finding the secret ingredient to their famous noodles. Turns out it's the ingredient that she herself introduced which is only made in her home town. So, coming to her senses, she goes to find her wife¹ Lin Zhen waiting outside a house for her where they then hug and assumedly live happily ever after. At the end of the episode there is a parallel event where our boys only have one bowl of noodles for them to share. They both look at eachother a lil stun locked because the it reminded them of the time Lin Zhen and Yu Xia had a Lady and The Tramp moment that had Cheng Xiaoshi coughing in fear.

So what am I saying? Obviously the noodle scene is a parallel but what if it's put in as more than just a 'hey they're queer too'² funny haha? What if it's meant to be a flashing neon sign of "hey their whole story is similar"? Keep in mind this is all under the assumption that Cheng Xiaoshi has died and Lu Guang has tried numerous times to change that unchangeable node.

Here's my points of parallel:

Obvious one out first: Yu Xia & Lin Zhen are business partners with a special secret recipe. Lu Guang & Cheng Xiaoshi are business partners with a special secret method they never intended to share with anyone else. This feels like the beggining knot to the noodle's end one connected our strings. It's also made to make you compare the two pairs.

Yu Xia strays from the path. Lu Guang strays from the path. In Lu Guang's case, it's probably supposed to be the rule set he drills into Cheng Xiaoshi's head.

Lin Zhen doesn't stray, neither does Cheng Xiaoshi. When CXS thought LG died, he contemplated going back in time to change his fate but decided against it. He thinks LG would be displeased with the idea.

Lin Zhen gives Yu Xia a reality check and then waits for her to come back to her senses. She literally and metaphorically waits for her to come back home. So what if: Cheng Xiaoshi does the same thing with Lu Guang?

Now I have a few ideas for how this story could play out as a parallel:

The Happy Ever After idea. Cheng Xiaoshi finds out what Lu Guang has done before the time of the crucial event (CXS's og death). CXS's previous deaths are the equivalent to Lin Zhen leaving and LG finally saving him is the equivalent of the lesbian reunion.

The Oblivious idea. CXS doesn't find out what LG has done. His previous deaths are the equivalent to Lin Zhen leaving. LG's attempts, and eventual success, to save him are the equivalent of Yu Xia returning home to her partner. LG's abandonment of the rules to do this would be too. The strict adherence to the rules would've been his 'straying from the path'. Perhaps this is what resulted in CXS original death. CXS living is the parallel for Lin Zhen waiting for Yu Xia at home and their hug (return of togetherness) at the end.

The Argument idea. CXS finds out what LG's done and they have an argument. This would be the parallel to Lin Zhen's push. CXS also lives, same parallel as #3. Bonus if CXS has never found out in previous attempts.

The Doomed By The Narrative idea. I... don't wanna explain this one. It's pretty self explanatory. Basically, despite LG's best efforts, he can't change CXS's death. The hug could be death bed forgiveness. Might include a CXS finds out argument too.

The Religious idea. They both die. The lesbian reunion is a parallel to them meeting again either in another life or in the afterlife.

Now here's where I've gone and gotten spicy and off course:

The Trade idea. Lu Guang dies instead of Cheng Xiaoshi, purposefully taking his place. This could draw comparison to the hostage situation where CXS trades himself for a silenced LG. The silenced part could relate to CXS's previous death, LG never telling him what he's done, and/or LG not telling him what he's doing. Maybe LG's already tried this tho given both how he gets into that situation and how it would be a very basic idea to at least attempt it with other people.

The Attempted Trade idea. The trade idea except CXS doesn't let him.

So what am I on about?

Well I think The Argument Parallel (Lesbian)³ Theory is the most likely of all of these. I think, assuming we're correct that Cheng Xiaoshi has died, it's highly unlikely that the show will end with him being dead. Normally I'd say it'd be boring to have an ending like that but honestly Link Click is good enough to make it work... So unfortunately for my heart I can't rule it out but still.

Anyway, thanks for listening to my nonsense. 'Till next time friends!

—————

¹ striked out words are: her wife

² striked out words are: 'hey they're queer too'

³ striked out word is: (Lesbian)

[incarnadinedreams]

I frequently see people saying that the list of traits Jiang Cheng gave to the matchmaker are "impossible standards", ridiculous, unreasonable, outlandish, absurd, nobody could ever possibly meet them, etc.

Anyway the translation that's up on the wiki is:

His requirements in his partner are: naturally beautiful, graceful and obedient, hard-working and thrifty, coming from a respected family, cultivation level not too high, personality not too strong, not too talkative, voice not too loud and must treat Jin Ling nicely.

First off, the list comes from a random trivia answer MXTX gave in an interview, not the novel canon. So whether you even consider it canon at all is up for grabs to begin with. Though I think there was a scene in CQL with a similar list so it would be canon there, minus the Jin Ling point (due to the point in the story the scene was set)? (So I believe the matchmaker blacklisting point still wouldn't be CQL canon though, just the list?)

But if you do take it all as a Super Serious Canon Thing, well... to be honest I just don't think that list is at all unusual, given the setting? I believe many of the points in the list are just traits considered generally good for ladies of the time period (intentionally vague as that time period may be). (I am absolutely not an expert though so please correct me if I'm wrong about that.)

To me it seems that it's not that they're unusually high or unattainable standards, they're just so generic that they're sort of unhelpful. That he has like no idea what he wants at all outside what he's supposed to want.

The only points that actually seem to have any specificity are things like cultivation level not too high. Which some people could interpret negatively, and fair enough. But personally to me that seemed more like a flashing neon sign of 'please someone not like my mother', given her strength in cultivation was one of her defining traits (and something that he may have felt led to her disappointment in him). Even though Jiang Cheng may carry forward some of her traits himself (for better and for worse; this is not a YZY hate zone but there's... a lot there), he does seem to have at least given some thought to choosing a partner to counter some of the pain points of his own childhood and aim for something different (and we see him trying to do that himself in specific ways as well, like his staunch support of Jin Ling when he was crying after the Second Siege, even if he doesn't always fully succeed).

And, of course, 'must treat Jin Ling nicely'. Which seems obvious and not like a big deal at first, but I think actually could reasonably be a big sticking point in a potential marriage. My understanding is that he was wildly more involved in Jin Ling's life than a maternal uncle would normally be. Including this as a specific requirement seems to send a particular type of statement, as if it was important to him that any potential match would not take offense to him treating an orphaned child that wasn't his with a lot of attention and gifts and favor... hmmm, how could he have possibly decided that could be a problem in a marriage...?

(Obviously, the scenario would be very different than his parents' - none of the salacious rumors and the humiliation that came with them that really drove a deeper wedge between YZY and JFM - but he was obviously going to be doing a lot more for Jin Ling than an average uncle so it makes sense to have that be a specific point upfront.)

I'm ultimately in the 'it was MXTX making a joke and not meant to be taken nearly this seriously' with a side of 'the clan leaders of this generation aren't in a hurry to get married because MXTX just didn't feel like writing their wives in and also it was funny' camp so I think there's a limit to how much insight can be gleaned from this, you know? It is fun to play with it in-universe and explore the implications on the society and political system going forward in the decades post-canon, but I do try to keep myself from taking it too seriously when it's clearly not a well-thought-out plot point or anything, just a fun offhand jokey trivia bit.

But I like the vibes of it all well enough to accept it as 'semi-canon' or 'canon enough' for myself anyway because I think the 'must treat Jin Ling nicely' point is cute and the rest is just standard for the setting and the blacklisted by matchmakers part is funny, and I'm much more willing to subsume random bits from interviews into my brain's blorbo blob if it's something funny.