#the one where he repeats the question?????

[redwinelew]

SAVE YOUR TEARS | LEWIS HAMILTON

type written fic (one shot)

pairing lewis hamilton x driver!reader

summary you need a distraction and your teammate is the perfect person for that

word count 3.7k

warnings 18+. smut. nsfw. porn with oh so little plot and even little feelings. unprotected sex. rough sex. emotional sex. prone bone then missionary (idk i tried), praise kink. hints of depression, self doubts etc etc idk lmk what i missed. english is not my first language.

author's note self-indulgent if u couldn't tell from the warnings. that's it. sorry.

masterlist

lewis didn't expect you to turn up in front of his hotel room tonight night, face wet with tears staining your cheeks, lips trembling as you held back a sob.

nor was he expecting you to ever utter these words to him.

"i need you to fuck me."

lewis' lips parted, unable to get any words out, too shocked by your sudden request. he has a million different questions appearing in his brain all at once. what the hell is happening? why are you crying? who did this to you? and why on god's green earth did you just ask him to— he couldn't even repeat it to himself. it didn't feel real, didn't even sound like you were asking. pleading, more like it, in pure desperation.

he calls your name softly, like he's trying to wake you up from a dream. his thick eyebrows tie together in confusion. "what are you—"

"please...." you cut him off, the last syllable getting more inaudible as it trails away. tears beginning to fill up your eyes again before they drop, reaching your jaw and fall to the floor.

lewis has never seen you like this, and he's pretty sure nobody else on the grid or the public did either. his teammate whom in his eyes, the one who always got her shit together. he's almost jealous at how composed you always presented yourself to be, on and off track, never letting any unwanted criticisms by fans or media from getting to you, always quick to shut them down cleverly. the last person anybody could ever take down, mentally.

then he realized, that he held you to such a high standard to the point where he had forgotten that you were still just a human. it's only a matter of time before you break and if lewis personally had his moments where he was at his lowest, he couldn't imagine being in your shoes right now.

everything immediately clicked for lewis right there and then. he had never invited a girl inside so fast, never undressed her so quickly.

"what's your safe word?" he asks, needing to know before he proceeds.

"pancake."

lewis nods. he was about to crash his lips against yours when you put your hand on his clothed chest to stop him firmly, almost clenching your hand on his shirt, head turn away slightly.

"no," you refused.

kissing means this would get personal. complicated. and you do not want complications in the future. this is not going to be a love-making session. this is going to be lewis fucking you hard until your eyes roll back and your vision turns white. until the thickness of his cock makes your hollow soul lights up again. until you feel alive from his hand around your throat.

nothing else.

and that's exactly what he's doing right now. no kissing. he immediately understood it from the minute you refused his lips, getting what this is going to be.

lewis' tattooed hand fists on your shirt hard as he avoids your lips and kisses your neck instead, finding those spots that make your knees buckle and focuses particularly on there. you remove his hair tie, and tangle your fingers with his braids. he groans, his hair a particular sensitive part on his body. his thick lips travel lower to lay kisses along your collarbone. no marks either, he doesn't need to be told that.

though for some reason he does not understand, it is suddenly quite hard to resist himself from leaving purple bites on your skin. not when he had someone like you in his arms whom he had found beautiful since the first time his eyes laid in you.

no, lewis tells himself silently. this is not about you. this is about her. she's struggling. there's a demon that she needs to defeat and she needs your help. so help her.

you find yourself walking in reverse as he advances towards you, before your back hits the soft mattress of his hotel bed.

"yes." you say, already breathless, letting him know this is exactly how you want it. no tip-toeing, no hesitation or being overly careful, because you trust him enough to know that he knows what he should and shouldn't do, or you wouldn't have knocked in his door. you might be mentally fragile, but not your body. you need him to get to work quickly, to get you out of the mess that is currently your mind right now. he doesn't need to be gentle, because all you desire is the exact opposite.

lewis does not respond. instead he takes off your shirt and bra, throwing them somewhere on his floor without caring where they land. you do the same with his. lewis climbs over you, leaving neither of you time to admire one another's half naked bodies. nothing to gawk over. this is not what you came here for and lewis was quick to understand that.

his lips were fast to attack your bare chest next. his tongue swirls over your nipple, coating it with his spit before sucking hard, creating sounds as lewd as your moans right now. he also groans silently, the vibration sending more waves of pleasure inside you. he lets you gather his braids to press his face harder on your breast while one of his hands went to grope on the other, flicking your already sensitive nipple before giving it the same attention with his tongue. your back arches, and you find yourself pressing both your thighs together, desperate for relief on your lower half.

he senses it and leaves your chest. he pulls down your pants next, then your panties. you catch the way he visibly swallows at the sight of your dripping pussy, his own cock starting to throb in need.

"tell me what you need," he asks breathlessly, his voice huskier than usual, making your walls clench around nothing.

"your fingers." you answer without hesitation. the rational part of your brain manages to slip through, making you wonder for a split second just what made you so bold tonight, demanding all sort of things you never even had the courage to ask anybody.

maybe it's demons in your head, the one you are desperate to get rid off so you are forcing yourself to do the absolute craziest, just to feel like your old self again.

lewis nods. part of him is still in disbelief over what is currently happening but he tries to leave it at the back of his head. you let him spread your legs with ease and he doesn't waste any time to slide his digit smoothly over your fold to gather your arousal, earning a sharp gasp from you. he spits on your cunt, his saliva mixes with your wetness before he pushes.

still he was careful, only using one finger for now. he's well aware of the thickness of his digits and not sure how much you can take if he immediately adds more.

"m-more." you're whimpering already and the sound goes straight to lewis' dick, forcing him to take a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to calm his twitching cock.

but it's difficult. this is lewis hamilton, seven times formula 1 world champion. the greatest of all time. admire by billions. and yet when he has a pretty girl like you underneath him, at his mercy, your beautiful cunt clenching hard around his fingers, suddenly lewis is just a normal man. one who is not sure how much longer he can hold himself from claiming you all for himself.

lewis takes a deep breath. this is not about you, he tells himself again. you need to listen to her. give her what she needs. you can get any girl to come to your hotel room for fucking, and yet she only has you, the only man she clearly feels safe enough to ask of this.

"faster." you ask and lewis starts to deliver, pushing your legs apart even further before his hand picking up its pace, until the only sounds in the room are your ragged moans and the slickness of your cunt.

you are gorgeous. absolutely breathtaking, lewis thinks to himself. the way your face is flushed, sweat staining all over your face and neck. how your figure, hypnotizing as if it was blessed by aphrodite herself writhe underneath him, chasing that high. sinful moans and whimpers from your lips, enchanting his ears, making him curl his fingers until they find that one spot inside that makes you only whine louder, addicted into finding even more ways to earn those sounds from you. your legs part even wider as if not getting enough, silently begging for more than just his fingers.

"fuck...." lewis cannot help but groan. he sees the way your breath is getting shorter, more ragged. following his own impulses, lewis stops, withdrawing his hand from you.

you whine shamelessly at the sudden emptiness. you look up, watching lewis licking your arousal clean from his lips. the sight should be dirty, should make your pussy pulses in lust but instead your brain is protesting, head thrown back on the mattress in frustration. no, no, no, no, the brain says. you were far from reaching your peak since lewis had just started fingering you but you were at bliss at how preoccupied your mind was, having no room to think about anyting but his fingers inside you.

the insecurities starting to come back. the demon has gone back to work, playing in your ears and whispering doubts into you again.

maybe lewis is regretting this. he thinks you're sick in the head and he wants you to leave. he's going to tell the team—

"you're gonna come on my cock only."

oh—

oh.

you don't have time to be dumbfounded when lewis gets off the bed to remove his pants, eyes stay on yours. a hiss leaves his lips as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his rock hard cock that already leaks with pre-cum while keeping his lustful gaze on you the entire time before he gets back to the bed to you.

your mouth almost waters at the visual. yes, you came to his hotel room, crying, begging him to fuck you. and yet it's unbelievable to see lewis like this. the champion, feared by the rest of the grid, respected by the whole wide world, is currently hard and throbbing in front of you. for you.

your cunt is wet again, pulsing around air thinking about just how he'd fit himself inside you but before you could do anything, he flips you flat onto your stomach. you yelp, caught off-guard by his sudden action. the mattress dips as his knees sink into it on either side of your body. he grabs his pillow before shoving it under your belly.

condom is on and when you feel his tip pressing against your entrance, you gasp silently, already gripping the sheets.

"we can stop if you want." he says, lowering his voice down to a softer tone, giving you a way out. he's willing to ignore the way his dick twitches, begging to be taken care of, if you desire to stop. but instead....

"n-no." you shake your head fast, voice shaky but with a hint of firmness behind it. "no, i don't want to stop. please."

"what do you need then? tell me exactly."

"i don't want to think. please, just— use me. i don't care. don't be gentle. i want it hard. i need it rough."

part of lewis regrets that he asked because holy fucking shit. sweet baby jesus. he doesn't recognize the sound that he makes, deep from his chest, filled with lust after hearing your dirty, desperate request.

on one hand, he's more than happy to fulfill your desire, knowing this is just going to be sex and nothing more. it's easier for the both of you in the future, knowing that this is a one time thing and absolutely no feelings would be involved.

but on the other hand, though lewis presents himself to the public and media as the calm and collected person you'd see on TV, but like every other man, he has his own wants and needs as well. and you have absolutely fucking idea what the hell you had just woken up inside him.

"fuck. fuck, you can't just fucking say that. you're fucking killing me, baby girl."

you moan at the nickname, then the volume becomes louder when you feel him pushing himself inside you slowly, one palm on a side of your head while the other is gripping your hip so fucking hard no doubt it'll bruised tomorrow.

you want it to bruise. and you know what you just asked of him. it's nothing like you had ever asked of a man before. to take you like a ragdoll for him to be used, to be toyed with whenever his please. to use you like you exist only and solely for his pleasure. because the thoughts that you are having about yourself are way worse. you want it to bruise, to hurt. you want to still be able to feel him for days. to have difficulties to walk so you will always be reminded of tonight. because at least your mind will be distracted from wandering to places you have been working so hard to avoid again.

lewis slides in easily but the stretch burns. you whine, fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly as you try to breathe properly in order to relax yourself so you can accommodate to his size, which is bigger than anyone you had ever taken. what he lacks in height, he certainly makes up for it in his length.

when he's fully inside, lewis gathers your hair before yanking it hard, making your neck arches back and you cry out. the pain in your scalp is weirdly delicious, combines with how he's making you feel so full having his dick deep inside, unmoving.

"say thank you." lewis demands, his tone no longer kind amd gentle like before, goosebumps prickle all over your skin. you never heard him using that kind of tone during work, never even imagine that he'd be the type to sound like that in bed. "thank me for fucking you."

"t-thank you."

"louder." he bottoms out before slamming into you hard, pulling a loud gasp from you.

"thank you!" you choke out.

lewis starts out slow at first, looking for the right pace. he remembers how you want it but he's not going to give it right away, out of care and of course pettiness.

but as he continues, he couldn't help but craving to hear more of those sweet bits of noises that you keep making. to hear the way your breath hitches at how he's filling you up to the brim, at how good he's fucking you.

lewis lowers his body, caging your body from behind but still careful not to crush you completely with his weight as his pace increases, ramming his cock inside you, his restraint getting thinner.

"take it. you want me to fuck you so bad? fucking take it. you asked for this." he grunts, and you whimper with no shame left in you. it's difficult to care, not when you could feel yourself getting dumber on his dick, which is exactly what you were asking for. and all this couldn't be more perfect.

lewis' movements grow harder, rougher by the minute. your moans mixed with his and the sound of his hips snapping against your ass echoes to the entire room. you wish you could be quiet, knowing that this whole hotel is rented by your entire team. but the way lewis is fucking you is making you do the exact opposite. you know he wouldn't want you to be quiet either, the mechanics be damned.

it's starting to be too much. nails digging into the bedsheet, you find your body inching forward. you are not sure if you are trying to run away or get closer to him but when lewis notices this, he grabs both your wrists, pinning them above your head. his teeth nibbles against a specific spot under your earlobe, pulling another whine out of you.

"you can take it. fuck— good girls take what they asked for. you can do it."

your cunt somehow gets even wetter with his filthy words, at how his accent thickens, voice gets deeper and more hoarse. your pussy shouldn't be squeezing around his dick at his praises, but it did. and the grunts he lets out making it all worth it.

when he hits that sweet spot inside you that no other man has ever quite managed to find, your eyes roll back in ecstasy. you gasp, tears starting to fall again at the sweet pleasure you're experiencing.

the sex is perfect, you know lewis wouldn't disappoint. but your demon is back, suddenly haunting you and making you feel terrible about yourself again.

"what the hell do you think you're doing? oh, that's right. you wasn't. you aren't. you're just a dumb bitch making herself even dumber on this pathetic cock. if only you could see yourself. absolutely shameless. what a whore. begging for this man to fuck you like you never seen a dick before. nothing will ever be the same ever again. he will never look you in the eyes, he'll think of you differently. why didn't you just—"

lewis suddenly stops.

the voices do too, and you are left in confusion. his grip on your wrist is gone now and you didn't even notice. you turn your head, only to see him pulling out.

no. oh, no. no, no, no. the voices were right. he's pulling away. he's regretting this. he's gonna ask you to leave, isn't he?

"can i turn you on your back?" he asks instead.

silence from you for a few seconds before you let out a quiet "what?" before lying on your back on your own. you remove the pillow from under your belly and set it aside.

"you were crying." he points out, brows furrowing as a shadow of concern illuminating his handsome face.

you swallow. you were hoping he wouldn't notice and even if he did, he'd thought that it was because you were enjoying yourself this. the fact that he knows it was the opposite tells you that he knows there are million different things running in your mind right now and you hate it.

"y-yeah but it wasn't— not because of you."

pause. "you want me to slow down?"

again, you shake your head fast.

"i'm okay. please." you hate how quickly you beg for him again.

it's lewis' turn to swallow, his eyes darken slightly at your pleading. he nods before crawling back to you, determined to pick up where he left off, trusting that you will know what to say if you truly desire for him to stop completely.

he grabs one of your legs, wrapping it around his waist before bringing the other to his shoulder. you bite your lip at the way his gaze never wavers from you, making you wonder if he fucks every other girls like this.

no. fuck. stop it. why do you even care?

lewis takes his dick before burying himself inside you once more slightly easier this time. you can't help but moan and thanking him again.

he is slow again at first but it isn't long before his cock slams back at the perfect pace, the sound of skin against skin once again filling up this suite. your whimper mixed with his hisses when you claw on his tattooed back, pulling him closer.

lewis leaves kisses all over your leg, wherever he could reach before his hand sneaks up to fiddle and squeeze your bouncing tits.

you didn't expect him to wipe your tears next.

your eyes locked with his. he continues fucking you but it feels as if time has stopped. he has that look behind the lust that screams sympathy. pity. you hate it but at the same you don't push his hand away, letting him cup your face momentarily. but even lewis doesn't let this gesture happens for too long, always remembering the point of having you underneath him.

it doesn't take long until you feel an invisible knot in your lower belly. you're panting now, almost reaching your peak. lewis realizes this and he fucks you harder, his hand travels down to rub your clit.

"i'm—"

"i know, sweetie," he says, breathless as well. he lowers his body, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and kissing it all over as he feels his own orgasm nearing. "come for me."

a few more thrusts, and you see white. your mouth is agape as you moan silently. his grunt and groans is music to your ears as he spills himself inside the condom.

silence.

lewis never realized how much he needed this as well. not just the sex, but the connection, which he knows is insane to find with someone like you in circumstances like this but what just happened felt different. to be so close with someone he actually knows and not just another girl he calls to his room, not even bother to learn her name.

before he could gather his breath, he feels your body underneath him slipping out. his eyes feels heavy but he tries to hold on, watching you collecting your clothes and dressing back up.

"what are you—"

"that was really great. thank you." was all you said before you left, in a hurry like you refuse to spend another minute in the same room with lewis.

while the man is still on the bed, naked. he hasn't even removed his condom yet. a sigh escapes his lips, lying flat on the bed before staring at the white ceiling.

he did what you asked for, and he could only hope that you would feel better tomorrow morning.

and yet why does his heart suddenly aches, not having you in his arms anymore?

[hanafubukki]

Can be seen as a continuation for this fic and this one.

Riddle never thought he would be the type of father who would show off photos of his child to his colleagues when given the chance. If someone from Heartslabyul were the type to proudly show off pictures, most would guess Cater or Deuce, or even Trey. It doesn’t take much for Riddle to take out his phone or his wallet where he kept them.

The ones on his phone ranged from cute and proper photos to those taken candidly, angled and blurred in some and others of a face too close to the camera or only of a wide smile seen.

The ones in his wallet weren’t much different. Some were crisp-cut photos, freshly printed. While others are worn with age and many folds and some with cute stickers and decor.

If one were to visit his home, they would see a house filled with frames; of smiles tender and sweet.

Riddle kept every photo ever taken.

He wanted to blame you for the mess in the kitchen caused from baking, but Riddle knew he was just as guilty.

Flour settled on the counter after floating in the air from being flickered at each other.

Giggles heard as the little one drew smiles on the counter from where they stood on the stool.

He blew at the stray strands stuck to his face that were now coated in white.

Smiling at the squeal as he picked up his child and placed them on the counter. He placed the bowl on the little one’s lap and covered their hand with his.

This mess will need to be cleaned up later.

For now, the strawberry tart took precedence.

He lightly nudged you away with his hip and scrunched his nose at you when you asked if he wanted the oyster sauce.

Riddle would watch whenever his mother visited.

His relationship with her was cordial at best.

He respected her for her achievements, but even he knew she wasn’t the mother of the year.

She would make comments about his little one’s studies and development in magic. How they should have their unique magic by now.

Riddle maintained his child would develop it in their own time. Every child’s milestone is different and he felt no need to push his.

It was always a tense affair with her. More of a formal meeting with a boss than meeting a parent.

But she treated her grandchild well enough and with no incidents, he made sure of it.

If one were to ask him what his favorite time of the day was, he would reply nighttime.

Riddle loves reading books. He loves it even more when he reads to his little one.

Reclining on a softly worn leather chair, a blanket wrapped around him and his child as they read a book.

Riddle would let them pick a book and he would read to them. His child would join in at times or question a passage he didn’t understand. He would patiently explain it every time. He would wait as they would try to pronounce a word and gently correct them at times.

He loved to watch as his little one would yawn and curl into him as the activity of the day got to them. His voice would gradually quieten as their breathing deepened.

He would pick them up and carry them to their room. Too old to sleep in his bed but he made sure to tell them they’re always welcome to come in, his door unlocked for them always.

Riddle tucks them into bed, laying a kiss on their head, before leaving.

He joins you in bed.

His world is at peace.

Been in a Riddle feels lately, and then the newest JP twst update came for my throat and inspired this. Riddle doing everything he ever wanted with his family. 🥹💞💚 Never denying his child that love and comfort. He’s at peace 💞🥰🥹

Ngl I debated about Mrs. Rosehearts and her role in his life, and I think I like how I portrayed it here. Despite everything he went through, he still respect her and her achievements. Feelings and relationships are complex after all. But, I also believe he wouldn’t allow history to repeat itself with his child. 🥺🫶

I also thought of the whole parents who are strict becoming less so with grandchildren route but…honestly, that always irked me and gives me mixed feelings. Even irl, it’s like?? You put your child through so much? And suddenly think everything is okay? Or can be changed because you’re older? What about the hurt you caused?

Besides, I see Mrs. Rosehearts stubborn even in her old age lolol 🤣😆

I hope you enjoyed the fic 💞💚 I was probably a bit too telling with my notes but…it’s okay, I feel most of us Riddle fans have similar experiences and can relate to these emotions. 🙏🥺

[bunnyinvanilla]

you just need reassurance from old sugar daddy!john price aaall the time — bunnies are territorial, especially a soft, young, little bunny girl like you… (laaaarge age gap, reader is 21 and price is in his late 40s)

“what the heck is a barracks bunny?”

the urgency behind your voice rung in john’s ears like an alert bell, like the one he’d always felt when he’d been a lieutenant — he hadn’t expected you to stomp in front him like that, phone in hand and frowning.

“what? who taught you this word, doll? was it Johnny-“

your sweet voice interrupted him, followed by your free hand, lifted upwards towards him in a dismissive manner, “no no, sir, pleaser, answer my question.”

he’d never seen you like this, hand adorably set on your hip, titled in the most delicate yet delicious way, doe eyes narrowed and slightly squinted, excepting an answer — your sweet, sweet bunny features clearly petty over something.

always so polite and obedient, so sweet and kind, what had gotten into you?

“is there one at the base, sir? I promise, if the answer is yes i-“

but you stumbled on your own words, because as soon as he caught the sparks of irritation in your voice, he stood up, straightening his muscular and board shoulders — he looked down at you, his buff body that always picked you up so effortlessly slowly inched closer to you.

“you what, doll? mmh?” his voice sounded rougher, a hint of threatening warning behind it.

you flattered your lashes, tenderly, a silent, docile sign of submission in the midst of that moment,

“is there one, sir?” you repeated, your voice small but steady, tilting your head all the way up to meet his intense, sharp gaze.

“you already know the answer, princess, of course not. where did you even learn that from?”

”it doesn’t matter, sir, I-“ you replied dismissively, but his voice rumbled taking over your own, a low, gruff baritone that echoes deeply in your eardrums

“asked you a question, sweetheart. where.”

you swallowed, your eyelids trembling softly as you blinked up at him, shifting your position — when bunnies felt neglected, they pushed their nose against their owner’s body, seeking, demanding attention and clarification.

“everyone on the internet is talking about being afraid of their men in the military possibly having one, and-“

“and you immediately thought we’d have one at the base, huh doll?”

you softened your expression, and he could finally recognize his bunny back, obedient and gentle “you can’t blame me sir, i was only worried, was simply a question, i never know what really goes on at the base and—“

“no, no, no doll, you need to remember who you’re talking to, even when you ‘only want to ask’” he lifted his large hand and cupped your chin, squeezing your cheeks with a firm, yet gentle enough grip. “understand?”

your cheeks burned, bright and red between his calloused fingers, “I know but—“

a flicker of warning passed through his thin, squinted eyes like a shooting star, “do you understand, doll?”

you pressed your lips together, the serious look behind his eyes making your imaginary bunny ears tug down, back towards your head, and your tail tuck between your legs — you only nodded, still holding the same pouty expression.

he tilted his head expectantly, deepening his voice and cooing down at you, slightly raising his brows “that’s not how you answer me, is it sweetheart?”

“yes, daddy,” you finally let the words slip out, eyes softening even more when you recognized the tiny twitch of his mustache, that tried to hide and disguise his growing entertainment —

your cheeks burn brightly, a warm, red blush that almost felt warm against his calloused fingers, how could he be mad at his bunnygirl for being worried about her daddy? you’re so clingy and possessive, and it amuses him :(

with a short tug of you chin, he lifted your face closer to his, mere inches from his beard as he almost breathed against your lips, his voice so rough and low it sounded the rumble of distant fireworks.

“we don’t have that sort of thing at the base, angel, would never allow it, the only bunny I have hopping around me is you, little one. guess that makes you the captain’s personal barracks bunny, doesn’t it?”

[myerssimp21]

Iceberg's Jewel pt. 1

This is just another idea rattling around in my head! While this is still yandere Batfam, the premise is slightly different—here, they haven’t quite met you yet. The focus starts with Oswald Cobblepot and the Iceberg Lounge, but trust me, the Batfamily won’t be far behind. Timeline-wise, this would technically come first, even though in my other yandere Batfam fics, Tim and Jason have already had their moments with you. So yes, there will be a plot hole later where they’ve somehow already hooked up with you—just roll with it. Consider it canon-ish, but mostly just me playing around with ideas. tl;dr: This is a prequel of sorts to my other yandere Batfam fics, but I’m mostly here to have fun with the concept. Hope you enjoy! 💙 word count: 3201

Oswald Cobblepot prided himself on running a tight ship. The Iceberg Lounge was a beacon of opulence in Gotham, catering to a clientele that wanted their danger with a side of champagne. When he put out that little “Help Wanted” sign as a joke—an amusing way to signal to the people he was looking for that he was ready to onboard—he hadn’t expected someone like you to waltz in.

You were nervous but bright-eyed, clutching a copy of your résumé (how quaint) in one hand, wearing a Gotham University sweater that screamed student loans and part-time hustle. The smile you gave him when he walked into the lounge floor was disarming—too genuine for this city. You asked to speak to someone about the janitorial position, and Os had to bite back a laugh.

“A janitor? Here? Sweetheart, you might be too good for this place,” he muttered under his breath, too quietly for you to hear, before waving a hand dismissively at one of his goons. “Send her to my office.”

His office wasn’t where interviews were usually held—far too personal, far too… revealing. But for some reason, he wanted to gauge you himself. Maybe it was your naivete; maybe it was the way your gaze lingered on the crystal chandeliers and plush carpets like you’d never seen luxury this close before. You were looking at him as a normal boss, not a criminal mastermind, and he realized he might like that.

By the time you’d been seated in the chair across from his polished mahogany desk for only 15 minutes, he was already hooked. He asked simple questions at first—your availability, your experience—but quickly veered into territory that let him know more about you. Your classes at Gotham U were interesting, but you worked too much to fully appreciate them. You loved your psychology major but struggled with scheduling, hoping that the pay here was more than the measly pay you scrounged from your other two jobs. He listened with great interest as you spoke of your genuine excitement to be working in a "classy place like this."

He didn’t have the heart to tell you this place wasn’t really classy—just good at pretending.

Cobblepot tilted his head, the curiosity in his expression sharpening as he tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked, a sly grin forming. “So, what do you think of our little city?”

“Oh, uh…” You laughed nervously, shifting in your seat. “It’s… something, that’s for sure. Gotham’s kinda like… I don’t know, a scrappy mutt? It bites, like, a lot, but you can’t help but wanna pet it anyway. It’s scrappy and loveable.”

Oswald chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Lovable?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’re a strange one. Most people run for the hills when it comes to Gotham.”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “I’m already here, so I might as well figure it out, y’know? Plus, it’s not all bad. I mean, the people are tough, and the city’s got… personality. A weird, messed-up personality, but still.”

He found himself appreciating your honesty. It was a rare thing in his world—people who weren’t either trying to butter him up or wring him dry. And that smile… Hm. Something about it didn’t belong here.

Then, the door to his office slammed open. A goon stumbled in without so much as a knock, huffing like a dog chasing its own tail as he fumbled a thick stack of papers in his hands.

Oswald snapped to attention so fast it was animalistic. One second, he was relaxed, bemused by you—the next, his face contorted with fury, his lips curling back in a snarl that made the dim office feel suddenly suffocating.

“What?” Cobblepot snarled, his tone cutting like ice. The very air in the room seemed to turn electric, humming with the promise of violence.

The goon froze mid-step, eyes darting between you and his boss. He looked like he’d just walked into an execution chamber by mistake.

Oswald’s teeth clenched so tight a vein throbbed visibly in his temple. “You knock before coming into my office,” he seethed, voice dropping to something far more dangerous than the initial explosion. Cold. Calculating. A blade slipping between ribs. “You wait. You don’t—”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you.

Frozen.

Wide-eyed.

And just like that, the change was immediate.

His snarl vanished. The storm passed in an instant, like flicking off a switch. The barely-contained rabid rage that had been twisting his face smoothed into something almost… embarrassed. Guiltily casual.

Cobblepot glanced back at you, then at the goon, then back at you. For a brief, telling second, he looked—not regretful, but calculating. Then he sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off an unpleasant thought.

"Handle it later," he ordered, voice abruptly warm. Silk-soft. As if he hadn’t just been inches from taking a man’s head off. His hand flicked lazily toward the door, a dismissive gesture. “Can’t you see I’m with someone?”

The goon scuttled out of the room like a kicked dog, the papers in his hands rustling violently as he clutched them to his chest.

The moment the door shut, Oswald let out a measured breath, as if centering himself. Then, in a whiplash-inducing shift, he turned back to you with an awkward, almost sheepish smile.

"Sorry about that,” he said, voice dripping with artificial sweetness, as if his outburst had never happened. He waved a hand, dismissing it entirely, his gaze keenly watching your expression for any lasting tension. “Some of my employees just don’t have any manners.”

You offered a polite, thin smile, still shaken, but brushed it off with a shrug. You had already figured this place wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming, but the speed at which his fury had vanished was... unsettling.

Oswald noticed.

He noticed everything.

And for the first time in a long, long while… he wasn’t sure if he liked the way your smile still had a hint of nerves clinging to it.

The Batcave was unusually quiet, save for the faint tapping of Tim’s keyboard and the low hum of the monitors. Bruce sat at the console, watching the live feed from Oswald Cobblepot’s office. You were seated across from the Penguin, a mixture of nerves and polite excitement etched on your face. The Iceberg Lounge’s chandelier lights reflected in your wide eyes as you gestured animatedly, your Gotham University sweater and résumé betraying your earnestness in a city that thrived on deception.

“Can’t decide if she’s brave or just clueless,” Tim remarked, leaning back slightly as he toggled between camera feeds. “She walked into Cobblepot’s lair with a résumé. A résumé, Bruce.”

“She’s a student trying to make ends meet. That’s not bravery—it’s necessity.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the comms. “She really responded to a ‘help wanted’ ad? Tt. Typical. Of course that bloated bird would choose a naive one. She’ll probably end up scrubbing vomit out of his VIP lounge carpets.”

Tim tutted thoughtfully at Damian’s comment. “I mean…..he’s probably aiming higher than janitorial work for her. Did you hear the way he sweetened his voice?”

Damian scoffed but didn't reply. 

A new voice broke in over the comms—Dick, speaking from his position on patrol. “You think she knows what she’s getting into? Working there isn’t exactly safe.”

“She doesn’t,” Bruce answered simply, “But that doesn’t make her unique. Plenty of people stumble into Gotham’s underworld without realizing it. We can’t save everyone.”

Tim muttered, “Still doesn’t mean we should ignore it. If Penguin’s targeting her for something, we’ll want to know why.”

Damian chimed in again, his tone slightly mocking. “We already know why, Drake. He likes his toys naïve, optimistic, and disposable. She won’t last a week before she gets a reality check—or worse.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward the feed as Cobblepot stood, offering you a hand and gesturing toward the door. “They’re moving,” Bruce said. “Tim, keep the office feed rolling, and find another camera angle.” 

“We won’t have audio and depending on where he’s taking her, I’m not sure we’ll have visuals either.”

There was a moment of silence, the kind that spoke volumes in the Batcave.

Dick broke it. “She’s smart enough to know what Cobblepot is, right? I mean, who walks into the Iceberg Lounge thinking it’s just a nightclub?”

“People who don’t know Gotham,” Tim replied, scrolling through files, soaking in what he can on you. “..She’s a psych major at Gotham U, full-time. She’s been juggling two jobs already, so she’s probably just desperate for the paycheck.”

Damian’s tone turned sharper. “Desperation or not, she’s still a fool. You don’t wear a sweater with your university’s name on it when you waltz into the lion’s den.”

Tim smirked. “Guess she didn’t take Gotham’s prerequisite: Street Smarts 101.”

The screen now displayed the empty office, Cobblepot’s desk abandoned. You were out of their sight, and for the moment, out of their reach. But the Batfamily wasn’t about to let you disappear into the darkness of Gotham without a trace. Tim was scrambling to find a feed that would give them info as to where Cobblepot’s taking you, but at the very least, they have relevant info on you.

Dick’s voice again. “Did you hear her in that interview? ‘Lovable but scrappy.’” He smiled faintly at the words. “She actually likes Gotham. We should keep it that way.”

Tim again, confirming some details. “Transferred to Gotham U from out of state. No criminal record, no red flags.”

Damian’s voice cut in, sharp and dry. “Other than walking into the Iceberg Lounge with a résumé. That’s a red flag for stupidity.”

Dick countered, his tone softer now. “She doesn’t know any better. Give her a break.”

Jason laughed, his voice snarky over the comms line from his own patrol. “Oh, sure, Grayson. Let’s all gather around and shield her from the big bad city. What’s next, care packages?”

Dick sighed audibly, “Don’t you have a crime boss to scare right now?”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already done. You should’ve seen the look on his face. Priceless.” Another faint noise came through, likely the reloading of a gun.

Bruce’s voice cut through before Dick could respond. “Enough. Focus, Jason.”

“Whatever you say, B,” Jason replied breezily, though the teasing lilt was still in his voice. “I’ll keep an eye out, too, just in case our scrappy little friend stirs up any trouble at the Iceberg.”

Damian snorted. “I’ll enjoy seeing Cobblepot’s face when she quits.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on your face, captured mid-smile on the monitor. Quietly, he murmured, “She’ll need another job. A safe one. I’m sure Wayne Enterprises will have something available for her.”

“Keep me updated,” Batman ordered as he stood, his cape swishing as he headed toward the Batmobile. “If she gets in over her head, we’re pulling her out. No debates.”

Damian’s voice came back, quieter this time, reluctant. “She’s already in over her head.”

Little did they know, Oswald Cobblepot’s schemes for you were the furthest thing from exploitative labor. In his mind, the idea of you actually toiling away with a mop and bucket was quickly becoming unthinkable—borderline offensive, even.

The moment he saw the way your eyes sparkled with hope and determination, and saw the way you'd listed your good grades on your resume in a hopeful attempt at impressing him and proving your aptitudes, he’d decided he’d let you sleep on the job if you wanted to. Hell, he’d set up a whole suite in the back of the Lounge if it kept you close and content. You could waste time dusting the empty liquor shelves or filing nonexistent paperwork all day if it made you feel productive. What mattered to him wasn’t what you did—it was that you were here, where he could keep an eye on you.

But of course, Cobblepot wouldn't admit that to himself. Not yet, at least. No, this was just “good business,” he rationalized. You were a valuable asset—your charm and friendliness were enough to lighten up even the Iceberg’s darkest corners. You had a way of making the whole place feel... welcoming and warm, like you were untouched by Gotham’s grime and crime. Plus you wanted to be productive. He scoffed under his breath, amused. Of course one of the first fresh faces ready to work at the Lounge was also someone who he didn’t dream of involving in his actual operations. Just his luck.

So, if you decided you needed an afternoon nap in the dusty janitorial closet? He’d send a goon to bring you a pillow. If you scoured the cleaning supply catalog for hours without actually ordering anything? He’d find it endearing. As long as you were happy and oblivious to the underworld swirling just beneath the Lounge’s polished surface, you could do whatever you wanted.

Unbeknownst to them all, while they debated your safety, Oswald was sitting back in his office, already plotting ways to make your life easier. Sure, he’d keep up the charade of being your boss for now—keep you busy with harmless tasks so you didn’t get suspicious. But he wasn’t about to let you work too hard. Not his sweet, naive new hire.

You didn’t belong in Gotham’s shadows. And as far as Oswald Cobblepot was concerned, he’d make sure you never had to find out just how dark they could get. Or at least, he’d try. 

By the time Oswald walked you to the janitorial closet—a tiny, forgotten room in the back of the lounge—he was already plotting how to keep you close. The closet was practically empty, a detail that normally wouldn’t bother him, but the way your face fell at the sight made him want to slap whoever was supposed to manage the damn place.

"Um… is this where I’m supposed to… work?" you asked softly, your voice unsure as you peeked into the empty closet. Your eyes darted around, taking in the barren shelves and dusty floor, as though you’d missed some hidden stash of supplies. "It just… doesn’t look ready yet?"

"Ah… this won’t do," he said quickly, covering his irritation with a smooth smile. "Looks like someone’s dropped the ball here. Don’t you worry about this, darlin’. I’ll get one of my guys on it—someone reliable. You’ll have everything you need to get started." 

His tone was honeyed, and though he aimed for casual reassurance, his sharp eyes flickered to the shelves like he wanted to set the whole closet ablaze for offending you. For fuck’s sake.

“No, no, this won’t do at all,” Oswald said again, shaking his head and clucking his tongue like he was personally offended by the state of the janitorial closet. “You deserve better than this mess, darlin’. I’ll have it sorted by tomorrow, you have my word.”

You blinked at him, “If you want me on the job today, I can make something work,” you offered tentatively, gesturing toward the dusty shelves. “I’ve been in worse spots before.” You gave him a sheepish smile, trying to seem accommodating.

Cobblepot scoffed softly, waving a dismissive hand. “No, no, absolutely not. I won’t have my new employee starting off in such... subpar conditions. It’s a poor reflection on me, and I can’t have that, now can I?” He straightened his tie with an air of exaggerated importance before leaning on his cane. “Here’s what we’ll do instead. You take the night to get familiar with the Lounge—on the house, of course. Have some drinks, relax, mingle a bit. Consider it my way of welcoming you to the team.”

You blinked again, even more confused. “Oh, um, that’s really generous, but shouldn’t I, like… fill out some paperwork first? Or sign something?”

Oswald chuckled, a warm, low sound that almost made you feel silly for asking. “Paperwork? We’ll handle all that boring nonsense tomorrow. No need to rush into the dull parts of the job, eh?” He gestured toward the door, ushering you back into the main lounge. “For tonight, enjoy yourself. Swing by the bar, meet some of the staff, maybe say hello to the security team. It’s important to me that you feel comfortable at the Iceberg.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was some sort of test, but his expression was disarmingly sincere. “Well… if you’re sure…”

“Positive,” he interrupted, clapping a hand on your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Now, off you go. The night’s young, and the Lounge is at your disposal.”

As you stepped out of the closet and back into the opulent main floor, you glanced over your shoulder to see him watching you with a smile that seemed too genuine for someone of his reputation. You didn’t know him, but you’d heard some things. 

Unbeknownst to you, Cobblepot wasn’t just offering you free alcohol or a night to relax—he was staking his claim. He wanted you to feel at home, to see the Lounge as a safe haven, a place you’d always want to return to. Sure, there’d be paperwork eventually, but for now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you here, comfortable and unaware of the darker dealings hidden beneath the glamour.

Tim leaned back in his chair, toggling between the camera feeds inside the Iceberg Lounge. He was alone in the Batcave now, the others out on patrol in the city. “Well, there she is,” he muttered, zeroing in on his view of you at the bar. You were perched on a sleek barstool, your Gotham University sweater a stark contrast to the high-end fashion of the Lounge’s usual clientele. “She’s… drinking. A lot.”

Jason, freshly back from patrol—or what little of it he actually bothered to finish—sauntered into the Batcave, pulling off his helmet and setting it down with a thud. “That’s her?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.

“Yeah,” Tim replied without looking away. “You decided to show up?” His eyes flickered to the time down at the bottom of his monitor. "Thirty minutes early? B's not gonna be thrilled."

Jason ignored the jab, stepping closer to get a better look. “Huh,” he muttered, crossing his arms as his sharp eyes drank you in. You were laughing at something the bartender said, your cheeks flushed. You gestured animatedly with your glass while saying something they couldn't hear. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Jason. “That’s what you cut patrol short for? To see her in person?”

Jason shrugged, his gaze fixed on you. “I was curious. Heard you and Damian going back and forth about her. Figured I’d check it out for myself.” His lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Didn’t expect her to be… this.”

Tim tilted his head. “This what?”

Jason gestured vaguely at the screen. “This… normal. Sweater, messy hair, drinking like she’s celebrating her midterms being over. Doesn’t scream ‘Iceberg Lounge material,’ y’know?”

Tim chuckled, toggling to another camera feed for a better angle. “That’s kind of the point. She thought she was interviewing for a janitorial position, Jason. Janitorial.”

Jason blinked, then snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “She walked in there with a résumé—an actual paper résumé—and asked about cleaning floors or whatever. Cobblepot probably laughed his ass off before offering her a drink.”

“He’s footing the bill by the way,” Tim added, toggling to a feed that showed the Penguin subtly watching you from across the room as he conversed with some guests. “She hasn’t reached for her wallet once. He’s just… letting her.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Penguin’s expression. There was no malice there yet, no obvious scheme in motion. Instead, Cobblepot looked almost… satisfied, like he was pleased with what he was seeing. “The hell’s his angle?” Jason muttered, his top lip curling in disgust at the possibilities.

“No idea,” Tim replied. “But if I had to guess? He’s trying to butter her up. Make her think the Lounge is a safe place, keep her happy and oblivious while he decides what to do with her.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the console.”She won’t last a week.”

Tim smirked. “You’re awfully invested for someone who just met her. Maybe you should prep a care package.”

“I didn’t meet her,” Jason shot back, though his eyes flicked back to the screen almost involuntarily. “I’m just saying, someone needs to give her a reality check before she gets eaten alive.”

“Maybe,” Tim said, watching as you swayed slightly to the music, chatting with another patron who’d joined you at the bar. “But she doesn’t look like she’s in danger. Yet.”

Jason grunted, pushing off the console and grabbing his helmet. “Yeah, well, I’m keeping an eye on this one. If Penguin tries anything, I’m ending it.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you’re helping? Didn’t you just skip the last half of your patrol?”

Jason smirked as he turned toward the exit. “Hey, monitoring Gotham’s underworld is part of the job, isn’t it? I’m just doing my part.”

Tim shook his head with a laugh as Jason disappeared up the stairs. “Sure you are.”

Back on the screen, you were oblivious to the scrutiny, to the way the curiosities of Gotham's vigilantes were beginning to blossom into something more.

[everythingseasoning]

Curses and Lifts.

Rafayel x Reader. // angst, fluff. abandonment issues, relief.

Rafayel has just finished telling you the story about his “friend” who’d gotten himself stranded on the surface, 800 or so years ago. Surviving only because of a woman who noticed and cared, his friend went on to live, saved in the same way you rescued that fish a minute ago. But Rafayel called it a tragedy.

“Because he fell in love with the girl who saved him?” You ask him. The night surrounds the two of you, a smooth midnight blue. It’s like the two of you are underneath the deep ocean itself, the air cool against your skin.

“Love?” Rafayel asks, confusion flitting across his face as he stares at the ground. It’s as if he’s taken aback slightly by the word.

Rafayel’s gaze suddenly locks onto your face, his violet eyes glimmering like stars in the lamplight.

“…Yeah,” he says, the weight of his gaze pulling you in like the tide. He looks at you like you’re his world, like he needs you, like you’re the oyster and he’s the pearl seeking refuge. It’s tinged with hurt.

Rafayel turns back to focus on the fountain in front of him, a thoughtful expression creased onto his features. “Love,” he repeats, the word solid as it leaves his mouth.

“Now do you see how dangerous the world can be?”

It’s suddenly silent. Rafayel has entered his mind space again. He’s lost in thought as you study him in all his quiet, the urge to know what he’s thinking growing stronger by the second.

Love is the most twisted curse of all. Be careful who you save. You might end up cursing them with tragedy instead.

Your soft, “Hey,” brings Rafayel out from his thoughts. His eyes have always been so expressive.

“What’s wrong?” You ask gently, your smaller hand reaching out to touch Rafayel’s cold one. He jumps slightly before looking wide-eyed at where your skin touches his.

His hand moves on top of yours in a flash, his grip surprisingly firm as his face closes the distance between you two.

“You can’t leave me again, okay?” Desperation and insistence lace his words.

“Promise me— promise me you’ll never disappear again,” Rafayel breathes, his violet eyes boring into yours. You blink rapidly.

“Rafayel— You…” you start, before swallowing. “That wasn’t really your friend in the story, was it?” You ask, believing now that he had woven fiction into his personal anecdote, making it up that his friend was a merman, that it was centuries ago. He had probably been left by a woman he took great interest in, instead. Your heart aches for him. You always knew he hadn’t been loved properly in his life; The signs were there. His clinginess, his immaturity, his urge to be cared for— they had all made it clear.

Rafayel ignores your question, imploring you again.

“Promise me.”

Your other hand moves to clasp his, both of your hands cupping Rafayel’s now. You swear you saw tears glimmering for a quick, fleeting moment.

“I promise, Rafayel,” you say, your gaze firm and gentle all at once.

Something passes in Rafayel’s eyes. You can’t name it yet. You can’t study it either— Rafayel has engulfed you in a hug before you can blink, taut muscle and warmth pressing against you.

“Good. Thank you,” he whispers before his voice comes back strong, “Don’t ever leave me.” Rafayel’s breath is soft against your ear, the little tickle contrasting the hard desperation in his voice. His arms squeeze you tighter. Tears spring to your eyes. Rafayel… you must have been through so much.

“You’ll never be alone again, Rafayel.” You breathe the promise into the night air.

You feel a sudden pressure against your jawline—

The warmth pulls away slightly. Rafayel stares into your eyes, your faces inches away, his strong arms still wrapped around you. The proximity makes your heart race, and you’re sure he can feel it too. His breath is hot, the sounds of breathing drowning out the nearby bubbling of the water fountain. As Rafayel gazes into your eyes, you realize he had kissed your neck.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he’s looking at you like he needs more— needs to be closer— needs to have you, needs to know you’re his, not just by words.

You respond in kind, cupping his face gently, pressing your thumb into his cheek, tenderly swiping his skin. He nuzzles into your touch, pressing another soft kiss onto your hand.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Rafayel looks at you, leaning forward more as his hands find your cheeks, holding your face in his hands. He stares down at you, murmuring into the small space between you two.

“You were the one who cursed me in the first place. It’s only fair that you lift it.”

…

To be continued?

…AN below:

my heart, I’m so sorry

You were just an unloved soul who didn’t know what love was until you were unexpectedly rescued, then abandoned.

No wonder you’re so fucking clingy and immature. No wonder you need constant communication. You never once tasted a stable love. Rafayel, you are so afraid of being left alone forever again. (I will never abandon him.)

[wedriftlikelonelyplanets]

Hello :) thank you so much for writing these propmts! I would like to request number 8 with landoscar (i dont know if this is allowed or not so please feel free to ignore this but i would love if it was about Oscars broken rib. However i will totally appreciate everything you write!!)

of course you're allowed to ask!!!! i'm pretty chill about trying to make requests fit the request! unless it's something i'm absolutely weirded out by. so no worries there.

from this prompt list here, number 8: "are you hurt"

Apologies again, this isn't really angst despite the "angsty prompt list" i'm apparently only capable of writing SOFT

It's hard to breathe, when he gets out of the car, can't stop himself from letting out a long, hissing breath as he frees himself. He sees the team waiting for him already as he climbs out, bated breath and broad grins. It feels good, knowing they're waiting for him, but he has to prepare himself.

He's already overstimulated from the pain, knows he's going to have to talk to Kim about it, but it's not like they have infinite amounts of time between Austria and Silverstone. He's probably just going to have to put his head down and grin through it. After all, it's what he's good at anyways. He hugs them, allows for pats on the back, gritting his molars together as sparks burst behind his eyelids. He just needs to make it through the podium, and then he can lie flat on his back in his driver's room and breathe through it.

Pop some extra strength ibuprofen and hope it's enough. Wonders if it's a pulled muscle, a pressure injury, even. He hopes that it's an easy fix, because he can't imagine sitting any part of this season out. Not with their car being a rocket ship. Not with the team where they are in the standings.

The podium celebration happens in a blur, leans himself into Carlos a little too heavily when his vision goes a little blurry from the pain of keeping himself completely upright. Knows his face probably looks deathly pale, but hopes no one else notices. He's relatively unscathed, when he makes it off the podium.

He's still got media left to do, still has the post race press conference, and the longer time stretches, the more exhausting it feels. The more energy it requires. It all passes in a blur, he can't remember the answers that spill out of his mouth to the questions he's asked. Knows that George and Carlos can probably tell that something's wrong, but they're probably not about to ask them what. Especially not George, riding the high of his victory.

When it's all over, he stumbles back to his driver's room, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, eyes fever bright, he doesn't know why anyone didn't stop him.

It's slow-going to get his fireproofs off, every movement sending a sharp pain through his side, exacerbated by every breath he takes. He's only got them stripped to the waist when there's a knock on the door.

He opens it, and his mouth opens, and then closes, before he steps out of the way, wordlessly. Letting Lando barrel past him and flop down dramatically on the massage table in the middle of the room. It was a shit race for Lando, and Oscar knows he has to be fuming. He's just not sure he has the energy for it right now, doesn't have the energy to listen to Lando bitch about Max. All he wants to do is put something comfortable on, crawl into a car, and then crawl into his hotel bed, and sleep until morning before they have to repeat the week all over again, but at Silverstone instead.

"You alright?" he asks, trying to muffle the gasp of pain that escapes as he bends over to finish pushing off his fireproofs. But Lando doesn't answer, and when Oscar looks up, Lando's looking at him, eyes laser focused, lips downturned.

"Are you hurt?" the question comes out forceful, almost accusatory, and Oscar nods, a short, sharp jerk of his head.

Lando pushes himself up into a sitting position, looks at him, head tilted. "You told Kim yet?" he asks, and Oscar's reminded of a dog, waiting for a bone. "Haven't had the chance, have I, mate?" he says, sharply, turning his back on Lando, forgoing peeling the rest of his suit off to pull off his fireproofs instead.

Lets Lando see the long, naked line of his back in hopes that it'll be enough of a distraction, as he pulls on a t-shirt, zips on a hoodie over it. He still has to change his bottoms, get himself out of the fireproof leggings and the rest of his suit, but the idea of it is exhausting. He wants to flop down onto the massage table like Lando did, and cease to exist for just a little while.

"How bad?" Lando's still on the topic, and Oscar wants to tell him to let it go. "Mind yours," he hisses through his teeth, as he runs a hand through his hair, moves towards his backpack, where he knows he has a stash of ibuprofen stored. Lando grabs his wrist as he walks by, and Oscar allows himself to be reeled in, until he's standing between Lando's spread legs, so close their noses are practically touching.

"How bad, Oscar?" Lando asks again, and Oscar swallows heavily, the click of his throat loud in the quiet of his driver's room. Darts his gaze to Lando's blue-green eyes, and then away again, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

"Hurts to breathe," he mutters, and Lando nods, brushes his thumb reassuringly over the slope of Oscar's wrist, before leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, soft and chaste.

"I'm getting Kim," Lando says, finality in his tone. And then he's hopping off the table and making a beeline for the door, turning back for one second to look at Oscar, eyes burning through him with their intensity.

"Stay," it's a command, if he's ever heard one.

[aonemanarmy]

For several long moments Sephiroth stared at the two people before him, his gaze cold and unwavering in silent judgment. Truthfully, the madman did not expect much from the woman after he'd made his request. No one had ever taken his desires into consideration before, as they had always been brushed aside if not outright dismissed.

Weapons didn't have desires or feelings.

The thought was an old familiar mantra he'd repeated to himself throughout the course of the years. It helped to ground him, to make him push down the emotions he wasn't supposed to have, to bury them down deep where they'd remained until that fateful day five years ago.

Which was why the madman now felt an increased level of unease at the way those feelings threatened to bubble up again. Had it only been anger then he could've managed without much real thought, but the confusion along with another feeling he couldn't quite place left him growing increasingly irritable. None of that was helped by Jenova's consistent psychic assault that had her seek out any sign of weakness to seize upon in order to regain control of him.

In the midst of that mental struggle Sephiroth had little patience remaining to spare for the woman who claimed that she was his mother. He didn't know how she expected him to believe her based purely on her word alone, but he had to give the woman credit for her persistence. For whatever reason she was quite invested in the lie, although a small voice in the back of his mind questioned this line of thinking and while before he would've swiftly crushed it now he found it difficult to do so.

Why was that?

Mentally chiding himself Sephiroth returned his attention to the matter at hand and watched warily as the woman in white spoke once more and held out her arms to him. The gesture was unexpected, but ultimately it rang hollow to him just like all human behavior did.

“You offer me something that you yourself admitted to be impossible, or have you forgotten? Or is the immortality you lay claim to a lie?”

If Lucrecia did possess the immortality she claimed then as soon as Sephiroth would cut her down then the wound would heal and leave no lasting physical damage. Such was the gift of Jenova's cells that any being with a high enough concentration of them were neigh on indestructible with only the most extreme and catastrophic damage able to 'kill' them. He knew that fact from personal experience, which was something he was certain that the woman had no clue about or else she wouldn't have made such a proposal in the first place.

Perhaps if Lucrecia had been aware of his true state of being then she would've avoided touching him altogether. However, it wasn't as if Sephiroth understood the woman's need to touch him in the first place, but the fact the flesh he now donned was not truly his own and was merely Jenova's proxy would've no doubt been a bitter pill for the woman to swallow.

“And why would you care to begin with?” He asked, honestly unable to understand why Lucrecia did what she did other than seeing it as some sort of ploy. It was another sad sign that he was so far removed from human kindness that he couldn't understand it, much less accept it at face value. “It is meaningless.”

Before Vincent could prevent Lucrecia from touching Sephiroth, the silver-headed male deflected as though he had been touched by a burning torch. It was painful to behold, yet it wasn’t surprising to the gunslinger. Lucrecia flinched painfully when Sephiroth pulled away from her, simultaneously shocked by Jenova’s invasive thoughts. This caused Lucrecia to cry out and drop to her knees, gripping her head, the tears resuming their stream. Vincent immediately joined her side and held her close to his chest.

It was no use… “Sephiroth…” Lucrecia’s trembling voice was hardly anything more than a whisper as she buried her face against Vincent’s cloak, her tears staining the red velvet garment. Any hope she might have had to rejoin with her son had faded, and Vincent could feel it in her voice. “Lucrecia,” The gunslinger whispered, an equal amount of despondency in his own voice. “I shouldn’t have… perhaps I was wrong to…” The mournful mother trembled, but she managed to lift her head and look up at Vincent. She shook her head and seemed to realize how she had pushed Vincent away the entire time ever since Sephiroth had appeared. He chilled trembling fingers lifted and caressed Vincent’s face, aiding him to look at her. “N-no… no. Don’t be. You’ve done more for me than anyone. This…” She slowly turned to look towards Sephiroth, the painful knot in her throat swelling up, but she swallowed it back with much effort. To hear her own son tell to not touch him, and to treat her like some sort of disease… she understood. “…This was all my doing,” Lucrecia finished, her eyes directed at Sephiroth as she spoke to Vincent. “I’m the one who…” The words of Jenova once again rang in her head. Your every move… only damages him further. Tears poured down silently down both her cheeks. It was all true. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened. She knew he had been bred and raised to own a mighty power. At the time, she had thought Jenova to be an ancient, but as her time at Shinra came to a close, she realized who the alien was and what her son would become. And there stood the product of her choice—a weapon who would be wielded against the planet. Vincent had been kept in the dark. He had tried to stop her, but she had not only closed her ears to his pleas, but also chose to disregard the well-being of her child for the sake of science. This was her reward for her crimes. Bereft of a child she didn’t deserve… and one who would never see her anything but a monster. Lucrecia’s thoughts were once again diverted towards her son; her ears ever keen to his movements and his voice. His request made her fall silent. Though Vincent knew her asking Sephiroth was an invitation for issues, he was surprised to see her face looking as though she were weighing Sephiroth’s wish. The gunslinger searched Lucrecia’s face and gripped her shoulders as if to gently bring her back to reality. But he was once again ignored, and Lucrecia slowly stood up, Vincent following her movement as he too stood up, eyes locked upon the back of her head as she faced Sephiroth. “Sephiroth,” Lucrecia’s voice softened, this time keeping a respectful distance from him, letting him know she wouldn’t attempt to get close again. “…I understand. The people have wronged you. And this world sees you as a monster.” She lowered her head, her hands clasped over her chest as she continued softly. “You want closure… an end for those responsible for your suffering.” A tightness seemed to take hold of Vincent’s chest when he sensed what she was doing. “…I may not be able to fulfill all of your wish, and I know I cannot mend your heart. But…” She stood up straight, slowly holding her hands up towards him as if she were gifting him something in her hand. She then slowly opened her arms wide, the cold breeze flowing through her silk dress and soft tresses. “But if it will give you any sort of peace… I’m here for you.” Vincent’s eyes widened in horror. “Lucrecia?!”

[shizuturnspages]

Do you think yan Diluc would dream about you bearing his surname, as in you introducing yourself as [name] Ragnvindr? Or hosting galas at Dawn Winery with you standing beside him as the other head of the Ragnvindr clan?

A Ragnvindr by Name, A Ragnvindr by Fate

Synopsis: Oh, he’s thought about it. Dreamed about it. Late at night, when the Manor is cloaked in silence and even the crackling fireplace can’t warm the hollow ache in his chest, Diluc allows himself to indulge in the thought—you, standing beside him, draped in elegance, introducing yourself with quiet grace as [Name] Ragnvindr. His wife. His partner. His other half. Pairing: Yan! Diluc x Reader

Diluc dreams of you.

Not just in fleeting moments of longing, not in the restless nights where his hands clutch the empty space beside him, but in visions so vivid that when he wakes, he has to remind himself they were never real.

But one dream lingers more than the rest—one that replays in his mind like a wish yet to be granted.

It starts with a whisper—your voice, clear and soft, ringing through the grand halls of Dawn Winery.

"My name is [Name] Ragnvindr."

Diluc’s breath catches.

The words settle into the room like the warmth of a well-aged wine, rich and full of meaning. His heart pounds, his fingers twitch against the cool glass in his hand.

You say it so naturally, so effortlessly, as if it has always been yours to bear. As if the name Ragnvindr was not merely an attachment, but a destined truth.

"Ragnvindr," you repeat, testing the weight of it, and the sound is exquisite.

He watches from across the grand ballroom, hidden in the shadows, drinking in the sight of you—clad in fine attire, standing tall as you introduce yourself to Mondstadt’s elite. The lords and nobles listen, nodding in approval, accepting you without question.

Because you are his.

Because there is no one more fitting to stand by his side.

The dream shifts, and suddenly he is with you.

You stand beside him at the head of the ballroom, your hand resting against his arm—a claim, a promise, an anchor. The chandeliers above cast a golden glow over the estate, their light catching in your eyes, making you appear almost ethereal.

Dawn Winery is alive with music and conversation, filled with the warmth of celebration. A gala in honour of the Ragnvindr name, a night meant to showcase that Diluc is not alone.

That he has a partner, a counterpart.

That you are part of him.

The nobles murmur praises. "Lord Ragnvindr and his spouse—how fitting they are together!"

Diluc stands taller at the words, pride swelling in his chest, but he does not reply. He does not need to.

Instead, he looks at you, his crimson gaze dark with possession, admiration, obsession.

You turn toward him, a small smile playing on your lips, and whisper something only he can hear—something warm, something that ignites every selfish need within him.

"This is perfect, isn’t it?"

Yes.

Yes, it is.

Because this is how it should be.

Diluc wakes with a sharp inhale, his body tense, his fingers curled into the silk sheets as if trying to hold onto the remnants of the dream.

The space beside him is empty.

As it always is.

A bitter taste settles in his mouth.

Because it was not real.

Because you are not yet his.

But the dream lingers. The image of you bearing his name, standing beside him as the other half of the Ragnvindr household—it does not fade with the morning light.

It festers.

It becomes a need, a truth yet to be realized.

And if the world will not give him that future naturally—

Then he will simply make it so.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Private Dances 7

Club!Blue Jones x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist

Summary: Blue comes to find you when he's in a bad mood.

A/N: A huge thank you to the epic @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: Smacking (in the face - Blue receiving), p in v sex, cream pie, oral sex (f!receiving) Blue crying, reader says Blue's crying turns them on, small argument - but like it's a scene, overuse of italics, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is so lovesick), not beta read, swearing, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books for reasons unknown to the reader. Reader is a backup dancer that Blue has nicknamed Lion.

Word Count: 3100

Blue’s in a foul mood. Worse than foul. 

The tension in the air is heavy, spiked with electricity like the moment before a lightning strike. 

You’re helping Penny and Swan with the A Quarter stock check when you hear it: Blue’s yell. It’s harsh and sharp, cutting through the air like shattered glass despite how low the sound is. Anger radiates through the walls, his tone clear and precise even though the words and their meaning are muffled and lost. 

Penny and Swan jump at the first shout, poor Swan nearly dropping the items in her hands. Her fingers shake as he tries to compose herself. She’s fairly new and has never been under Blue’s direct warpath, but she’s heard enough stories to develop a healthy apprehension. 

Penny gives you a nervous glance, “That sounds bad.” 

You nod. 

“You…” Penny swallows, her eyes downcast. 

You know what she wants to ask. Can sense it. It’s almost like her words are echoing in your head, running along your synapses. It’s the same thing nearly everyone wants to ask, though no one has dared to yet. 

“Blue…” Penny tries again, breathing in as she searches for the right words. 

“You’re one of his favourites, right?” Swan blurts out. It’s funny almost, the bluntness of her words. But her eyes are wide and honest, and there’s a shine of fear in them that robs you of all humour. 

Penny tuts before you can answer, swatting Swan on her forearm. “You don’t just say that.” 

But why? You want to ask. Why is there this unspokenness to some things? No one had ever told you not to question, but it was ingrained anyway. 

“It’s alright.” You say and give them both a small smile. “It’s fine.” 

Swan rubs her arm and Penny looks relieved. 

“I know some of the… others,” Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal, “aren’t too… they don’t like being asked.” 

But that wasn’t quite right; some of them didn’t mind either, some of them freely gave information when it wasn’t too much to talk about. Crystal was the only one where asking a question was like a flip of a coin. You never knew if you were going to get an answer, a vicious comment, or your eyes clawed out. 

Some twisted hierarchy. 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” You repeat. 

“What’s he like?” Swan asks, a morbid curiosity in her voice. 

All you can think about is the scars on his skin, how soft his eyes look when you press against his windpipe, the quiet, wanton moans that pass his lips when you squeeze. 

You shrug, trying to find substantial words. “He’s…”

“A fucking monster.” Penny shakes her head at Swan. “Why are you asking Lion stuff like that? You know what he’s like.”

Swan frowns, “Hey, I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter.” Penny folds her arms. “It’s-”

The door flies open, smacking into the wall with a crack. 

Penny jumps while Swan lets out a little cry of surprise. 

You turn instinctively, your mind racing.

Blue storms into the room, a deep scowl etched into his face like a scar. His gaze first falls on Swan and she takes a sharp, shaky step backwards her eyes downcast. 

Without thinking, you take a step forward and Blue turns at the sound. His glare softens when he sees you, but barely. He doesn’t steak, just grabs your bicep and pulls you from the room. You stumble, his firm grip keeping you upright as he practically marches you to his office. 

The door is barely open before he drags you inside and spins you around to face him. 

You stay quiet, but fix him with a hard stare. 

He breathes heavily, his shoulders relaxing. He’s the one that blinks first, his eyelashes fluttering and then looking down as his grip on your arm relaxes. 

“What?” You ask simply, your voice firm but quiet. 

He shakes his head. 

You place your hand on his cheek and tilt his head upwards. “Blue?” 

“I’m sorry.” He mutters, his blinking heavily. “I… I should have…” 

You let him stumble over his words. 

“I… that was impolite… of me.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

He shakes his head again, but this time the action is not dismissive. You can see the cogs wiring in his mind as he tries to regulate his emotions. 

Softly, you rub your thumb against his cheek and he leans into the soothing motion. His breathing slows, his jaw loosens as he closes his eyes.

“The conversation with Gerald,” one of Blue’s lawyers, “about regulations… building permits.” 

Ah. This was to do with Blue’s planned expansion of the club.

“It didn’t,” he breathes deeply as he leans further into your touch. “I became… upset. I wanted…” He pauses again, opening his eyes to stare intently at you. “I needed to see you.” 

“There are better ways of getting my attention, aren’t there?” 

His nose wrinkles in displeasure. “Why were you even out there anyway?”

You go to drop your hand from his face but he grabs your wrist, squeezing slightly as he keeps you firmly against him. 

Rage sparks under your skin. “You want me to stay locked up in your rooms all day and night?” You hiss.

Your conversation with him the night before echoed in your ears. ‘You don’t have to do anything Lion, just stay here.’ Even though he hadn’t intended it to sound like a prison sentence, the idea still chilled you. Isolated from everyone but him. What happened if he just woke up one day and decided to throw you away? What happened when he did?

“Is that such a curse?” He growls, his eyes dark. 

Something in you snaps, the smallest thread of self-control splinters in your temple. You twist your hand, moving so that your fingers dig into one cheek, while your thumb presses against the other. You squeeze, tilting his head back. Feeling the indent of his teeth under your fingertips. 

Blue lets out a little gasp of surprise, his head falling back under the force of your grip. 

“Lion,” he lets out, broken and weak. 

You step closer. “What kind of fucking behaviour is this?” You whisper, letting your anger burn along your words. “I know we spoke about your reputation.” You sneer. “How it’s best for you to be perceived by others. But don’t you dare take that tone with me-”

“I’m sorry!” He sobs, his voice thick, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

You shake him slightly, a jolt that has him whimpering. 

“Never interrupt me.” 

His shoulders shake as he tries to fight down the wave of sobs that threaten to wreck his very core. 

You watch him with hard eyes. 

“Lion?” He whines. “Please, I’m so sorry-”

“I thought we were past this.” 

He breathes in shakily, tears spilling out and over his cheeks. “I didn’t mean, I’m so sorry, I shouldn't have been rude to you, I shouldn’t-” He bursts into full-blown tears, practical hysterics. Something that you haven’t seen from him before. 

You loosen your grip, wrapping your arms around him quickly and pulling him closer. “Shhh,” you rub his back, cradling his head as you soothe him. “Shhh, it’s alright.” 

“I didn’t,” he hiccups, trying to get air into his lungs and failing, “I didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to upset you. Disappoint you, I, I, I-”

You kiss his temple, gently leading him to the sofa, which is easier said than done while still holding him and his face pressed into your neck. 

As you sit down you take his cheeks in your hands, stroking his skin with your thumbs and smearing his tears. You kiss his nose and he smiles weakly while still crying. 

“Usually when I grab your face like that you get a boner.” You give him a soft look. 

He laughs once and nods, trying to calm himself down. 

“And we end up with your face between my thighs.” You keep your voice gentle and he swallows, nodding again. “Blue…”

He looks up at you, his eyes red. “I’m so sorry, Lion.”

You shake your head, about to tell him not to be when he puts his hands on your wrists. The touch is light this time as he lightly strokes your skin. “I was… I thought that was going to happen.” He says quietly. “I intended it to… To be our usual game.” He looks up at you a little nervously when he says ‘game’ and relaxes when you give him a warm smile. 

“Don’t be sorry.” You soothe. 

“I just… suddenly it felt…” He absentmindedly touches under his left collarbone, rubbing the thick, deep scar that you knew resided there. 

“It’s alright.” 

He nods. “Thank you.” 

Still cradling his cheeks, you kiss his temple, and then under his eyes, tasting the salt of his shed tears. 

He nuzzles into you, kissing your neck and chest over your clothes. You let him, kissing the top of his head and stroking his back. 

He moves lower slowly, pressing his lips to your thigh. 

“Blue,” you say softly, coaxing his face up so you can see him fully. “You don’t have to.” You don’t want him to think he has to perform, has to be constantly… oh. 

He gazes at you with heavily lidded eyes, his erection straining against his trousers. So much so you were sure he was going to pop a button. 

Lightly you trace along the edge of it with your fingernail and he groans, his eyelashes fluttering and still wet with tears as he smiles. 

“I’d like you too…” He swallows, already starting to feel like he’s floating. “I’d like you to ride me and…” he bites his lip, shivering. “I’d like you to smack me.” 

“Smack you?” You say, thinking back to when you had him across your lap. 

“Hmm,” he sighs dreamily, “here.” He touches his cheek. 

You’re not sure if this is such a good idea, especially after his sudden tears. “Blue-”

“Please Lion,” he bats his eyes and bites his lip. “Just sit on me, you don’t even have to move. Just keep,” he inches closer, almost swaying, like a predator about to pounce, “hitting me and let me come and I’ll clean up all my mess afterwards.” He rubs his nose against yours, slipping his tongue past your lips and kissing you desperately, drinking down your moan like a glutton. 

You wish it wasn’t so easy for him to coax you out of your clothes, for him to strip you bare while you were so distracted with his kiss. But there was a reason Blue was so used to getting his own way: he was undeniably persuasive. 

He has his suit jacket off, the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone and his tie loosened when he pulls you into his lap. He keeps kissing you, keeps running his hands up and down your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

Blue groans into your mouth as he squeezes the outside of your thighs before he hastily unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly. He pulls his aching cock out in a hurry, almost rough with himself, a vast difference to how slowly and reverently he had undressed you. 

He squeezes the thick base with one hand, pulling his lips away from yours long enough to groan, “Hmm, Lion, please, can you- ah!” His gasp is sweet and pools heat in your belly as you take him in hand and guide him between your folds. 

He lets you take control immediately, gasping as you glide his leaking tip through the wetness between your legs before you press him to your clit. 

He moans deeply, his eyes blown wide. “Lion,” He swallows, his throat bobbing, “God, you’re so wet, does seeing me cry turn you on?” There’s the smallest grin on his lips, and even though you know it is just a tease, you can’t help yourself. 

You squeeze the base of his cock a little hard and his eyes roll back. He lets out a harsh groan as he squirms. You know, for most, the action would be painful. 

“God Lion, please, you’ll make me come before I’m even inside.” He whimpers, his voice strained. He presses his head back against the sofa, trying to gain some control over himself, and grabs hold of your hips, squeezing his fingers into your sides. 

You chuckle and slowly press his fat tip to your entrance. There’s the smallest resistance before he breaches.

Blue swears, his eyes rolling back. His neck taut and exposed to you as he leans back. 

You spread your knees a little wider as you ease yourself down onto him. “It does, by the way.” 

“Hmm?” He looks up at you with hazy eyes, already drunk on the feel of you. 

“Seeing you cry turns me on.” 

“Fuck.” He tenses, the base of his cock pulsing. It takes all his will in the world to not come there and then.

You smile, stroking his hair as you sink further down. “That desperate for me?” 

He nods rapidly. “Yes, Lion, yes, so desperate.” He moans loudly as your thighs meet his, finally swallowing him to the hilt. “Thank you, thank you.” He whispers, blinking hard.

“Are you sure you want me to hit you here?” You trace a heart over his left cheek with the tip of your finger and he nods. 

“Please.” 

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” 

“I will, I promise.” He looks up at you, staring like you were the one who placed the stars into the sky. “I trust you, Lion.” 

You kiss him softly before you sit up fully. Blue hisses at the change of angle, his cock twitching as it rubbed against your walls. 

“Ready?” 

He manages to nod once before your palm collides with his cheek. The sound is sharp. It echoes like a bell ringing loudly in your ears. Blue’s face snaps to the side at impact, your hand tingles with the force. 

But his deep gasp and moan quickly alleviates any worry you had. 

He turns back to face you, his cheek already growing red. “Again.” 

You smack him. Harder this time. 

He turns quickly. “Again.”

Smack.

“Again.”

Smack.

“Agai-”

Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Blue wimpers, his body singing as the pain mixes dizzyingly in his veins. He can taste iron in his mouth. But it doesn’t stop him from turning back to face you.

Smack.

He gasps, groaning as his hips buck once, his back arching. Pleasure rushes over him, pulling him deliciously high before dragging him down, down, down into dark, sweet depths. He spurts inside you, warm and copious, filling you to the brim and trickling down his balls. 

He squeezes you as he comes, shuddering and shivering until he blinks heavily. 

You’re holding him close and tight, and he’s never been safer than this moment. Never been more protected than in your arms. 

He moves slowly and you loosen your grip so he can look up at you, dazed and happy. 

He doesn’t like how your eyes widen when you look at him. 

“Blue,” you swallow. There’s red in his teeth. You go to touch his lip and stop yourself. 

“Oh,” he runs his tongue over his incisors, and chuckles. “Just a small cut.” He pokes out his bottom lip to show you, he’s right. It is a small thing. “I think that was from the third hit.” 

“Blue-”

“It was so good, Lion. Please,” he strokes your cheek. “Don’t worry. I would have stopped you if it wasn’t, I promised didn’t I?” 

You nod, still a little uncertain. Your worry distracts you momentarily, and Blue leans up quickly to kiss you. He licks into your mouth, groaning as his blood hits your tongue. 

You take a sharp intake of breath, but you don’t pull away. You kiss him back harshly, lightly nipping at his lip and squeezing his shoulders when he moans. 

Gently, he coaxes you around so that he can lay you back against the sofa, with the armrest behind your head. 

He hisses as he pulls out, part of him already lamenting being away from you, but the sight of his spend dripping out of you makes him groan. 

“Oh, yes Lion,” he presses at your thighs, spreading you wider. “A feast.” 

You gasp as he dives to your core, dragging his warm tongue slowly through your folds in one long lick. He watches you intently as he runs over your clit, ending with a flick before he starts the whole process over again.

You jump, squirm, thrusting closer to his mouth and groaning when he uses one hand to press against your soft stomach, keeping you in place as he continues his languid torture. 

He refuses to go faster, to even sink his tongue in deeper, no matter how much you beg and pull at his hair. Always keeping up that same firm pressure and drawn out pace that is starting to make you lose your grip on reality. 

“Blue,” you plead, wriggle, your clit throbbing as he makes another slow trek through your pussy before his tongue can soothe the ache in your bundle of nerves. 

But even as he reaches that part you need his touch so desperately, it isn’t nearly long enough. You buck, trying to get just a little tiny bit more of that pressure, but it’s fruitless. 

“Blue,” you moan again, your tights shaking. Your stomach is pulled so tight you think you might explode, that heavy throb is painful. Maddening. 

He starts up again, groaning as he licks and, “Fuck,” you shiver, shake as he just drags over your clit, even slower than before, pushing firmer and, and-

You scream, your muscles tensing and spasming as pleasure explodes along your nerves, runs along your veins and overtakes your very being. 

You shiver in his arms as he swirls his tongue over your bundle of nerves again and again, watching you with lust blown eyes as he prolongs your pleasure for as long as he can. 

You sob, shaking with aftershocks as, finally, you start to recover. 

Blue places a light kiss to your core, then belly, before he moves up and settles back between your legs. He’s smiling as he strokes your cheek, looking the most content you’ve ever seen him. 

Lightly you trace his moustache, it’s soaking with his spit and your come. 

Sweat cools on your skin, and you notice the state of his shirt. “You’re going to need to change.” You tease and he laughs. 

Thank you for reading!

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[quandledlngle69]

"FINE, KEEP MAKING CONVERSATION...I GUESS."

☆ CONTENT: Your a troubled student, kicked out of your prestigious private school for beating one of your bully's. Your settled into your horrible local high school where your fighting almost everyday, yet when your reputation pokes at a certain persons bubble, he takes interest in you. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Trouble maker reader, reader gets bullied in the first half, mentions of snapping, fighting, beating, hair pulling, reader being nonchalant, Shidou being interested in reader, reader having a sick mother, reader is female, reader is implied to have braids, mentions of past discrimiation and racism, classism, implying that Shidou and the reader are both black, Shidou also being a problem student and fighting. ☆ PAIRING: Trouble!Maker!Reader x Trouble!MakerShidou ☆ W.C. 1.8K

It starts with insults, and it ends with fists.

That's the way of thinking you subconsciously drilled into your head from middle school. You realised quickly that having good grades or being kind just wasn’t enough to smoothly get through the once prestigious private school you attended. 

Bullying was something you absorbed, that swirled like a disgusting parasite around you. Maybe it was something about you not having the latest phone, the newest shoes–or it was a micro aggressive comment about the deep colour of your skin or your hair being the opposite of pin straight. You didn’t ever talk back or defend yourself, hoping the less reactions given, the less satisfaction would be gained and a next sorry target would be found. Unfortunately, that never happened.

You remember the day you finally snapped.

It was a regular tuesday, and although the past few months had been nothing but dread, you felt eerily calm, like you subconsciously knew what was going to happen and had already accepted it. It was sunny for such a day in march, and you appreciated the breeze, considering it was rare to be interrupted during your lunch breaks.

Today was not one of those days.

It was the same group most of the time, a handful of girls and two boys. A cycle usually occurred, it was first grabbing your attention, then insults, maybe some physical contact, knocking some stuff out of your hands, more insults, and repeat. 

You didn’t wait until the insult part.

When your mind decides to black out on you while beating on someone, one finds it quite hard to remember all the details. It was the sound of your backpack dropping to the ground at first, then the slightly panicked tone of insults, questioning what you were doing, and then your first impact of knuckles to flesh. You're sure you and the girl both tripped on each other's feet at some point, scrapping your knees, you both hit the ground accidentally tackling her. You remember how the strands of her blonde hair that had found its way to wrap itself around your fingers felt–coarse. Ears ringing, you ignored her high pitched banshee shrieks of pain while you pulled on the strands, hard. You felt them snap at the scalp. You could feel how with each collision of your closed fist to the soft tissues of her face, her sobbing grew more and more heavy. It took the two boys of the group to pry you off her. 

Later you sat in the principal's office, the extra chair for one of your guardians empty. It always was when you got in trouble. You knew it would add stress on your already ill mother. The surface skin of your knuckles were raw and the scratches on your knee began to sting as the adrenaline faded away, the soothing cream the nurse had applied weak against the pain.

A broken nose, one chipped tooth, two black eyes, and a few tension caused bald spots. 

You were told–no, screamed at by the beaten girl's mother, that you were lucky the police weren’t called, and the only consequence you were getting was that you would be expelled. 

You should've been angry, maybe distraught at the fact you were being kicked out for defending yourself, of being kicked out of the most prestigious school in the district, especially since you were on a scholarship. But–nothing. There was a sense of indifference that surrounded you like a protective bubble, even as you were screamed at, even as you were given a formal letter of expulsion you were supposed to give to your mother, even as you were escorted off school grounds.

It almost scared you, how you really didn’t care anymore.

It had been four years since that event.

Now you were in some shitty local school that you honestly could give less of a dime about. 

It had been another cycle of detentions, fights, wounds, stings, sores, aches and a whole calypso of sorts. And they couldn’t expel you, with you having nowhere else to go.

Again, you were in after school detention for slamming a locker door shut on a girl's head. Not your fault she decided it would be a perfectly plausible idea to spit on your sneakers. 

Here you are now. It was a rundown classroom in the back of the school, like the staff was trying to hide the bad kids away to avoid staining the school's decent reputation. Not like you cared. The desks had symbols carved out with sharp objects and permanent sharpies, graffiti on the walls, floors and ceiling and a foul smell coming from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint. You had been in there so many times to the point you had gotten comfortable enough to just nap for the hour you were stuck there. It was the usual placement of connecting your head to the desk, turning away, and ignoring the others that were usually there for the same reasons just like you. 

But you also did it to ignore the fact there was always an intense stare piercing the side of your head as soon as you put your head on the table. But you let it roll off you, after all, staring towards you was just another familiar wave of negativity. The guy was notoriously known for his fights and appearance, sure, but it's not like you truly cared who he was or the feared reputation he built for himself.

For the first time, Shidou is intrigued. He watches as your slumped form in the corner back of the detention room, not talking, not even looking at anyone. No arrogance, no puffed chest—just you, head on the desk, tapping your fingers in a rhythm against the wooden leg of the desk like you were waiting for something.

So he tests you. A few direct comments out loud, a smirk, a challenge. And when you finally look at him—dark eyes, unreadable expression—he knows you're different just from the look in your eyes.

And for the first time, Shidou may have found himself someone who might just be as reckless as him.

The clock ticks slowly, each second dragging like a slow–burning cigarette.

Shidou Ryusei slouches in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his lip still split from the fight that landed him here. He smirks at the memory—some senior had mouthed off, and Shidou, never one to back down, tracked him down and made sure a knuckle sandwich was given–something like that, anyway. You don't acknowledge his poking words, just pulling the drawstrings of your hoodie up further (an item of clothing that didn’t comply with the school rules either), shoving your hands into your pockets. From where he sits, Shidou can see the bruises along your knuckles, a fresh scrape along your cheekbone.

He knew you got into fights, but seeing the damage up close? It makes something in him spark. 

The room is silent except for the scribbling of a teacher grading papers at the front desk. Shidou drums his fingers on his desk, gaze flicking between the clock and you–who hasn’t looked up once.

“Who was it?” he finally asks, his eyes fixed on the clock, but you know he’s addressing you.

You don’t move. Don’t even react.

Shidou leans back, stretching his legs out, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. “Who’d you fight?” he tries again, smirking slightly. “Gotta be bad if they stuck you in here with me.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You talk too much.”

Your voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut. Shidou raises a brow, interested. Most people flinch or get defensive when he pushes. You didn't.

“I’m just curious,” he says, tilting his head towards your general direction. “A girl like you throwing punches? Gotta be a juicy story. Right?”

This time, you do glance at him—just for a second. Dark eyes, unreadable, sizing him up like he’s just another fight waiting to happen. 

“No story,” you mutter bitterly. “Just a bad day.”

Shidou studies you, almost like how a tiger looks at its prey, almost like he wasn’t deterred by the bad mood radiating off you. “Yeah? Guess we both had one.” He gestures vaguely to his busted lip, almost smug. “Wasn’t really my fault, though. The guy was fucking begging for it.”

You huff, barely a laugh, more like an exhale of disbelief. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the desk, and you're able to see the quiet–but explosive glow of his pink eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His question hits you like a light slap to the face, managing to surprise you. For the first time, something flickers in your eyes—something he recognizes. A mix of exhaustion and defiance. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted in your seat, the metal legs groaning under your weight. Tilting your head toward him, your eyes met his, tense. “Why do you care?”

Both of your expressions mirrored each other, nonchalant, unreadable.

There was another long beat of silence as your eyes darted around his face, his blonde hair with pink tips that was definitely the reason he had a ‘delinquent’ title, you think. His nails are sloppily painted black, and you could imagine how his punches hurt like a bitch with how many rings adorned his fingers. His blazer was nowhere to be found, his jumper sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His sneakers were scruffy, his buttoned collar undone.

Shidou himself seemed as if he was deep in thought looking at you himself, as well as considering your words. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe because you're different. Maybe because you're quiet, a silent but deadly type. Maybe it’s because you're the same as him, a foreign presence in an unfamiliar environment. Maybe it’s because rather than seeing a sea of pin straight black hair, it was the neat ocean of mahogany brown braids that skimmed your lower back. Maybe it was because of the fresh manicured set of nails that you got every other week, something he observed more than the normal person should. Or maybe because, for the first time, someone isn’t playing his game, and you peaked his rare curiosity.

He gives a lopsided grin, tilting his chair back until the front legs hovered above the floor. “I don’t. Just making conversation.”

You don't respond at first, ripping your eyes away from the intense staring competition–just turning your gaze back to the window, as if he’s already forgotten. But Shidou? He’s still watching you, still curious.

And it takes a lot to get his attention. 

He focused on your glossy pout, and how it seemed to soften slightly with your next words.

“Fine. Keep making conversation…i guess.”

When you meant keep the conversation going, you never implied for him to thrust his desk right next to yours, almost bumping shoulders with you. He ignored the weak yelling of the teacher telling him to go back to his place. You were amused by his actions, not even telling him to back off like you would to anyone else.

Maybe you’ll let him talk your ear off a bit more.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[xxnashiraxx]

WIP Whenever 🩸

@khywren tagged, and so I shall heed the call. 😌

I'm way too excited to leave all this angst behind- so much, that I'm halfway done with Chapter 20! And it's going to be a TREAT 😏

Here's a little snippet for everyone!

On one hand… it’s almost enough. Something’s missing- his words are pretty, but still… lacking. It’s nothing more than a feeling- one she can’t quite put a name to as it flits, elusive, just outside her periphery. When she looks at him, she tries to search for it in his eyes, swallowed by the darkness that eclipses his claret irises. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears, a deafening roar that tries to drown her insight with tantalizing images of his lips on her skin, siphoning salvation from her artery like a man at the altar. It clouds every space in between, leaving her leaning slightly forward, hair falling behind her shoulder. “I want to start over,” He repeats his earlier appeal, lids drifting softly, crowding into her space with barely an inclination of his head. “My name is Astarion. I’m a vampire from Baldur’s Gate.” The spell lapses for a moment, and she snorts. “Nice to meet you,” “Stupid,” She mutters, though she can’t hide the smile trying to break free. Either she’s the fool, doomed to repeat her mistakes over and over, or he is. And if it’s the latter, he’ll be sorry. But not now… now she’ll reclaim that crown to a kingdom of ignorance- population one. “I’m Ofelia,” She says, breath catching when his fingers cover hers, mooring her to the stone beneath and keeping her from drifting off. “I’m not from Toril… and I’m possessed.” His lips twitch, trying to cover his amusement. “Hope that’s okay,” “More than, darling,” She cradles him in her eyes, oblivious to the powerlessness of her hold over him. It burrows like shrapnel, creeping closer and closer to ending his tireless charade- one she too knows nothing of… Though she’d tried to latch onto it, now it slips through her fingers into obscurity- buried where even he hopes he won’t find it. Maybe… it’ll never see the light of day again- maybe, they can both share her throne. Together. “Drink,” She petitions, more of a declaration than a question. He spares her from further objection, rising to his knees to tower over her. It’s as if she can see the moon behind him again, blue flora illuminating him with ethereal silver. “Like this?” He questions, hands hovering over her shoulders in an impression of laying her back. She shakes her head, unwilling to fully relive the experience, before turning completely from him. If… they try something different, maybe she won’t linger on memories that now hide away from the light he’s relit within. “Behind me,” She murmurs, feeling him settle around her to pull her close. A thousand emotions bubble up through her skin, flooding the surface in gooseflesh and stilted anticipation. She feels almost trapped, yet at the same time freed- the blade reflecting her acceptance and willingness to help him while flashing the side of hesitance and fear for what he may say or do in the future… The sharp edge of her wariness to trust again, coupled with her desire to surrender to it. Give in, give in, give in… But that’s how she got into this predicament in the first place. “Astarion,” A bitter taste, settling at the back of her tongue, and she sucks a breath in when he brushes the hair over her shoulder to expose the right side of her neck. “Make it hurt.”

No pressure tagging my beloveds (you can ignore if you've already been tagged in these the last couple days! I'm trying to narrow my list and not be genuinely unhinged with tags): @pinkberrytea @caffeinatedmunchkin @andromedaancunin @bby-bel-art @nerdallwritey @lanafofana @vividiana @heylittleriotact @inkymoonbunny @roguishcat @obsessedwhyyes @bloodinwine @hellethil @verbenaa @alwaysmauria @deadly-diminuendo @marlowethebard

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"CAN I...?"

Another fic with him because I need him so bad isn't funny anymore, please just one chance Dave PLEASE I love him

I hope you like it!

You and Dave had been friends for quite some time.

You had gone to each other's houses on countless occasions, but in the last few weeks something had changed between you.

Your best friend ignored your messages and when you were together he would quickly look away from you, as if he was trying not to pay you more attention than necessary.

That's why, tired of that strange situation, and taking advantage of the fact that you were alone in his room in the middle of an afternoon of studying, you decided to leave the notebook on his bed, where you were doing your homework, to look at him.

He turned around when he heard the knock, his blue eyes went from the notebook to you for a moment.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, putting a hand on his chest. "You scared me."

"We both know that's not true," you said, crossing your arms. "Spit it out."

"What?" –he questioned, staring at you intently-

-You've been ignoring me for weeks, Dave –you reminded him, as if he didn't already know- if I've done something that has offended you, I'm sorry, okay? But I can't go on like this –you confessed- I miss my best friend

He left the pen he was holding on the table, while he turned his desk chair around to focus fully on you.

-Sorry, it's just been a few rough weeks and I… –he swallowed hard- yes, that's the reason I've behaved like this

-You're a very bad liar –you murmured, holding his gaze- I know you too well to know when you're being sincere and when you're not, and now you're not –you paused for a second before asking in your most reassuring tone- What's wrong?

He lowered his head for a moment, before focusing on the slippers he was wearing.

-I… -he swallowed nervously- before I tell you, promise me it won't affect our friendship

You raised an eyebrow

-Are you gay? –you questioned, he frowned and shook his head vigorously-

-What? No!

-It wouldn't be a problem if you were –you added- there are a lot of boys in our school who…

-I like you –he interrupted you, making you open your eyes wide-

You blinked a couple of times quickly, as if your ears had gone bad, and you hadn't understood him well.

-What? –you asked, dazed, staring at the way his blue eyes shone-

-I like you –he repeated, looking away somewhere other than you- I'm sorry, I… I wanted to tell you before, but I didn't want to… -he took a deep, shaky breath- I was afraid this would end our friendship

-Nothing is over, Lizewski –you affirmed- you will always be my friend, no matter what

-No matter what happens –he repeated in a low voice-

Now it was your turn to ask

-Since when? –you wanted to know, he tilted his head, sketching a shy little smile that made you want to get up to kiss him-

-I don't know for sure –he confessed- but I think it was since we were paired together in the science project –he explained- Do you remember? you invited me over to your house to do it, and then when it got late you insisted I stay for dinner and the night –he looked up at you again- you were wearing green jeans, a white t-shirt and a black bow to hold your hair back –he listed blushing with embarrassment as he remembered all the details- you were… -he swallowed nervously again before finishing- you were very pretty

-Oh, Dave, I… -you started, but he stopped you with a nod-

-It’s okay if you don’t feel the same –he said- I… I feel better now that you know –he confessed- it was too heavy a burden to carry alone

-I was going to say that I feel the same for you –you confessed, this time you were the one who blushed and he stared at you with his beautiful blue eyes- I’ve never felt this way about anyone –you confessed- and I think… -you pressed your lips tightly before saying- I think I’m in love with you

-Really? –he asked hopefully, as he stood up and sat down next to you on his bed slowly-

-Yes –you whispered, his closeness making all the barriers you had built around yourself to protect yourself from his charm fade away little by little- Are you…?

-Yes –he interrupted nervously- yes, I think so –he said making both of you smile- Can I… -he looked down at your mouth before fixing it on your eyes again- can I kiss you?

-It's not that you can –you whispered unable to take your gaze off his pink lips- it's that you have to

His lips connected with yours delicately, as if he was making sure that this was real, that you were in front of him and that this was really happening.

You returned the kiss following the movement of his lips, at the same time that you placed your hands behind his neck, catching several curls of his brown hair between your fingers.

He sighed into your mouth as you lightly pulled him closer. You felt like you were going to melt just from hearing him.

He pulled away from you to catch his breath, the lenses of his glasses fogged up and his lips swollen from the kisses you had given each other. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of each other.

-It seems that I'm not the only one who had dreamed of this moment -he mocked, sketching a half-smile-

You shook your head as if it were hopeless, before hooking your arms behind his neck again, bringing him closer to you.

-It's possible -you ventured- now kiss me, Dave

And that was exactly what he did

[spaceyjessa]

Clone x OC Week Day 1 : Introduction

Pairings: Solé x Crosshair Rating: G / SFW Words: 1,092 Warnings: Order 66 Mention, brief mentions of grief, absolute second hand embarrassment (please my girl is a disaster I love her)

Synopsis: Solé is doing her best to adjust to life on Pabu, but after her life was turned upside down by Order 66, all she finds herself wanting is to go home to Naboo. Until she meets someone who might be even more out of place than she is.

@clonexocweek Thank you for hosting this event!

Pabu was few little pieces of the familiar wrapped up in a galaxy of unknowns. She had tried to adapt. Adaption was key. With enough work to keep her busy and on the verge of exhaustion she had found a way to accept the life happening around her. For better or worse. But she couldn’t shake the sense that it still wasn’t home. It wasn’t Naboo.

With foods she understood and soil that didn’t fight her every time she tried to grow a plant. Every simple thing she had taken for granted, every smell and sound and taste, was left behind on a world she didn’t recognize while she tried to pick up the pieces of her life. Solé shook the thoughts away as she strode into the marketplace. No, here is where I am. And that’s all there was too it. The marketplace was just as unfamiliar as the rest of Pabu, a breath of Naboo whispered by in the sunshine that fell along the stalls but the wares in them, the foods and trinkets, all refugees of another world left her feeling hollow. Her appetite had been growing thinner by the day and as someone who studied nutrition and food for a living she knew she would have to put her anxieties away and at least try to eat something.

She had been on Pabu for a few weeks, thrown by earthquakes, threatened by the Empire she was trying to escape, and finally a relative peace had settled. Solé wished her shaking hands and anxious heart would see it the same way. There were more refugees now. Like her, but not like her. Clones who had been betrayed by their leaders. By their own bodies. Shep had explained it all to her when she wasn’t able to face them, clued her into the truth of what had happened when he had brought some of them to her as patients.

Soldiers, battle weary and heavy, they seemed to adapt faster than her to the light buoyant atmosphere of the island or they would shuttle off to help the cause. The cause was something so vast that Solé had trouble really imagining it. A part of her ached for it. Ached for answers to what had happened. Esteemed senator dead, chancellor so different than he appeared, and the Jedi…her heart clenched and she thought of the brother she had known as a child. Such a bright eyed boy. The galaxy was a vacuum now sucking away anything familiar and leaving her…here.

It was silly really, but Solé could almost feel it was the Force that made her look up towards that one particular stall. A slender man was standing very still in front of the stall that was selling some sort of fruit that looked deceptively familiar to her homesick heart. The man was standing with stiff shoulders, scarring on one side of his head, and though he wasn’t as sturdily built as the others she could guess right away from his military bearing that he was a clone. He was looking between the fruits, a scowl deepening the lines around his mouth and brows knit together. He picked one up with his left hand, examined it, put it back.

He looked as out of his depth as she felt on that particular afternoon. “Do you need a hand?” Solé approached on instinct, it wasn’t her way not to help someone especially if it had anything to do with food. He didn’t respond at first until Solé sidled up next to him, repeating her question.

The man turned to face her fully and a fierce blush colored her fair skin.

Hand.

He only had one. Her earlier words ricocheted around in her head like a stampeding Shaak. One eyebrow raised and his brown eyes were full of caution, if not down right irritation. Solé did what she always did during confrontation or embarrassment. She made it worse.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean a hand in that sense—I meant do you need any help? Not that I don’t believe that you’re capable of helping yourself because of your disability—“ She was willing herself to just stop talking, she really was. Whatever other gibberish passed out of her mouth was put to a mercifully abrupt stop.

“Crosshair! Did you get everything?” A young blonde girl, bounded up to him and when his attention turned Solé took it as the opportunity that it was.

She wouldn’t necessarily say she ran from the situation, but she was at her little base — she couldn’t call it home — with her back firmly pressed against the closed front door, cheeks still burning from embarrassment before the pair had been able to turn back to her. Angry tears stung the corner of her eyes and she rested her closed fist against her forehead before running the thin braid she kept in her hair between her fingers. She tried to summon up some Jedi saying, something her mother had always whispered to her in times of distress to remind her of her brother, and came up short. All she could do was resign herself to a dinner of leftovers from the conservator and try to forget today had ever happened.

By the time Solé woke up the next morning the sting of embarrassment had lessened, at least partially. She had repeated the scene in her mind enough times, assured herself that it was a perfectly understandable accident and vowed never to make eye contact with that man again. Everything was fine.

After brewing a pot of caf, pouring the hot water from her kettle slowly over the ground beans and admiring the rich scent that reminded her of a thousand late nights and early mornings, she went outside. The sun was bright and she vaguely wondered if she had overslept again when her foot hit something on her tiny garden path.

A bag.

A bag full to the brim of yellow fruits with dimpled skin. Solé stooped and spied a note tucked into one side. She drew out the piece of flimsi and unfolded it as best she could with one hand as she took a sip of the still too hot caf.

‘Looks like you were the one who needed a hand. Ironic.’ Solé’s face burned even redder than it had the day before, but this time there was a smile too.

Author's Note: I'm so excited to be posting things for Solé finally! I've been developing her as a character since November and getting to share her is so exciting! Hope you enjoyed reading their first meeting <3

[oatmealwrites]

A Night To...Forget? Ch.5

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 4 | Part 6 -> coming soon!

[a night to forget masterlist here]

Synopsis : Keigo is suspiscious when you finally come home but offers words of encouragement for your upcoming date. Classes drone by, some work piles up, but it's finally time for your date with Shōta. Of course you triple check your purse before heading out the door: Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Apartment Keys...? whoops

Tags : Mentions of hickies, french kissing, only first base -> he's a gentleman, mentions of ogling, both parties flirting, alcohol, situationship? Kiego a hypeman but also an ass, JEALOUS AIZAWA, no established title yet, precursor to nsfw hehe, MDNI, 18+

a/n: this was supposed to include nsfw you guys fucking but the chapter got a bit too long -> i already wrote it though, so I'll post it soon as ch.6!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The elevator ride up from the lobby to your apartment is done mindlessly as you walk to your door and turn the key. Recalling the moment of kissing Aizawa over and over again is at the forefront of your mind; your quirk ensuring each detail is in perfect view as the scene unfolds on repeat. 

As you step inside, a dreamy grin on your lips, you barely register the company that’s sitting at the kitchen island watching your every move. Calloused hands remove the cap to a bottle of beer while a blonde eyebrow raises in a mixture of concern and frustration.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.” He takes a sip with a questionable expression as you startle slightly and kick off your work shoes. “What happened to ‘I’ll be up in a few minutes’?”

You ensure the zipper of your winter coat is zipped high under your chin and move to awkwardly shuffle past him to your bedroom while rolling your eyes. He spins on the chair when you don’t offer an actual explanation.

“Your winter coat is still on.”

“Oh– I’m just gonna…. Uh, hang it up?” you stop short and try to nonchalantly keep walking away but his eyes keep you locked in place.

“In your room?” He stands up but remains in the kitchen. “You have a coat closet by the front door.”

There’s a moment of silence; a deaf countdown to when either one of you will move next. Within a fraction of second you both scramble to run: you towards your bedroom door, and him to stand in front of it.

Keigo reaches it at the same time as you, and when you twist to turn the knob he angles further to drive your balance forward. In a moment of the scuffle, your coat collar dips forwards and his height gives him an angled view down the fabric and at your neck.

“OH MY GOD”

In a scramble forward to tug your collar down further, you swat him away and try to avoid his incredulous stare. Keigo surrenders your coat and instead blinks rapidly in excitement and eagerness.

“You guys fucked? When?!... NOW?” He makes a dash for the living room window and swivels his head to examine every corner of the parking lot in a frantic hurry.

In defeat, you walk towards your actual coat closet and shimmy off your parka before hanging it up and meandering over to your kitchen island. Keigo is still frantically searching the parking lot for a sign of Aizawa’s car and shuffles over to the next set of windows for a better view.

His breath is fogging up the glass as he hovers in front. “Where is he?? He's gonna lay pipe with my best friend, and not even walk her up?!”

“Keigo–” you warn curtly, and he takes the cue to come back into the kitchen and slide into the spinning island stool across from you. “Can’t we just eat?” You whine, eyeing the to-go packages and plates all set up.

He shakes his head and leans onto the counter further as you pile your plate with fried chicken wings and a few sides; his gaze is brutal. “Spill. Now.”

You squirm slightly and pick up a fry from your plate; your fingers dip into a sauce container but never bring the food up to your lips. “Well… I don’t really know what it is to be honest–”

“Huhh?? Your neck is covered in bruises!” He points at you with the bone of a wing he had previously finished. 

“It’s complicated.”

You sit feeling torn, a mixture of excitement and frustration at the lack of clarity of everything which just happened. Keigo sits and, for once in his life, remains silent while you work out the sentence on the tip of your tongue. “I had to leave after we kissed… but we did confirm the dinner is a date.”

Keigo claps his hands and is satisfied enough to now continue eating as he congratulates you. “I knew you could do it! On your date, just ask if it’s a casual thing or something exclusive!”

Feeling slightly better, you take a few bites of the food on your plate and work out the logistics of how to bring that topic up. It’s not like you wanted him to commit to something super serious right away, but it would be nice knowing he saw you as something more than a colleague or potential quick fuck. 

Chewing happily and sucking a few crumbs from the fat of his thumb, Keigo reaches over and opens another bottle of beer and slides it across the island to you. He finishes the current skewer between his fingers and places the stick on his plate with an intense gaze before clapping his hands once.

“Alright, now it’s time for the important part.”

You raise an eyebrow and don’t bother to question him, throwing a few sauce covered fries into your mouth as your appetite increases.

He raises his hands up slightly over his plate and keeps them touching at the palms. “Ok, now... Tell me when to stop.”

“Wait, what–”

He slowly begins separating his hands in a form of measurement and you roll your eyes. “Are you ser—”

“Woa, ok so average…” Keigo continues the distance.

“Keigo.”

“Woa, ok– didn’t expect that..”  His hands are around seven inches apart.

“Keigo.”

“OK, now this is just showing off.”

“KEIGO, STOP”

He stops his hands at around nine inches and looks between you and his hands with a shell shocked expression. “Here?! That just looks painful– how are you walking? Let’s restart, ok.”

“Can you just shut up?” You rub your eyes with the back of your hands; mascara slightly flaking off. “We didn’t fuck, ok?”

Keigo looks down at his hands before glancing at his own crotch in thought before resigning to continue his food; his gaze on you is still skeptical. “Ok… so he just sucked your neck like Nosferatu and left? Either impeccable self restraint or a total virg.”

“Can you be helpful for once, please?”

The man across from you laughs and raises his hands once in surrender before he continues eating. “Ok ok. I’ll be serious– though it is good you guys didn’t fuck in the car; the back aches are not worth it.”

You roll your eyes at him and poke your tongue out in disgust. “Ugh, gross.”

Satisfied, you finish your chicken wing and wash it down with the cold beer Keigo had slid you earlier. There’s a comfortable silence as you both finish your meals and he silently takes on the task of putting away the dirty dishes when you leave to change out of your work clothes.

Sweatpants and oversized hoodie on, you rejoin Keigo in the living room as he mindlessly scrolls through a variety of programs in search of something good. Sitting in your usual position next to him, you pivot slightly and hold your phone.

“What do I do now?”

He hums slightly and settles to watch a few moments of a Hallmark romcom before flipping to the next channel. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do I text him now? Or do I wait for him to reach out first?”

“Ha, you’re so overthinking this.” He laughs slightly before settling on an obviously staged ‘real housewives’ program. 

“It’s not like I can not think about it– the moment is literally seared into my mind forever.”

“Kinky.”

You shove his shoulder and Keigo finally puts down the remote to face you better from his seat. “Ok, just relax alright? If you guys didn’t settle on a title or label, then you’re still just colleagues… and now maybe friends who happen to makeout and go on dates.”

Deflating slightly and opening your phone for the 100th time since you got home, you sink into the sofa cushion when there’s no new notification. “That doesn’t sound like friends…”

“Well, that’s all you got right now”

You purse your lip and stare down at the screen in thought. “If it’s casual then it shouldn’t matter if I send a message right? It’s chill…platonic, right?”

Keigo chuckles but is obviously happy to see you in slightly better spirits as you open your messaging app and pull up Aizawa’s contact. Well, now it’s technically ‘Shōta’ between you both.

To: Aizawa Shōta

Thanks for the ride earlier! I have some classes and externship work this week so my schedule is a bit tight… but I’m excited for our date next week!

You place your phone on the coffee table and sit back on the couch trying to convince yourself that you’re fine. You’re not. Despite attempting to watch two women passive aggressively fight over something menial, you’re glancing down at your phone every few seconds. 

Why isn’t he answering?

Keigo peels his eyes off the screen and notices the way you sit uncomfortably while staring at your phone as if it’s paint drying; with a sigh he stands up and pats your shoulder before walking to the coat closet.

“Alright, I’m heading out. You need to relax.” He tugs on his signature hero jacket and fixes the collar. “Shower, sleep, do school work or something.”

You lean up over the back of the couch and watch as he fixes his boots on and pats down his pockets to ensure he has everything. “I’ll be busy tomorrow, but if you’re up for lunch after your lecture the day after, I can swing by.” He offers while taking out your spare apartment keys.

With an anxious ‘goodbye’, you watch as he opens the door and clicks the lock; when the sound of his boots disappear down the hallway you stand up and head for the shower. 

It’s your usual evening routine of a quick warm shower, skincare, and a few social media scrolls before you’re tucked into bed and setting your morning alarm. The warmth of your comforter is enough to let drowsiness wash you over you and to finally subside the worry that was sitting under your skin for the past few hours.

Heavy eyelids shutting, you’re convinced that none of the things you’ve been worrying about really matter– and that you don’t need the approval of a man to make you happy anyways. 

Ping!

Immediately you throw off the covers and snatch your phone from your nightstand to see who had messaged you as the device pings again.. 

From: Aizawa Shōta

I look forward to it as well.

Please let me know if you work late again, I don’t mind driving you if it means you won’t be walking alone at night. 

Straightforward and chivalrous, despite your bruised neck, his message is permanently memorized into your mind as you read it over a few times. Giddy energy leaves you kicking your feet slightly and a sensation of happiness washes over you; though the time is too late to respond and make it seem like you weren’t waiting by the phone.

Smiling to yourself and preparing to shut the device and sleep, it pings in your hands once again.

From: Aizawa Shōta

It’s also a nice excuse to see you.

~~~~~~

The days leading to the date seem to drag on endlessly as you count down to the night where you ask him what the fuck the two you were and could be. Keigo makes good on his promise and meets you for lunch a few times; his presence is surprisingly helpful as he casually offers advice. 

“I just don’t know what to make of Shōta not mentioning the fact he remembers parts of that night without telling me– he’s totally hiding something.”

Keigo eyes the leftover scraps of food on your plate with begging eyes before he peels them back in shock. “Are you gonna finish– Wait. Shōta?? He’s letting you use his first name?”

You slide your dish to the man and shrug slightly in explanation he had offered you to speak casually. “Can’t you ask Kayama for that video? Toshinori explained she had her phone out all night with the camera open.”

Keigo doesn’t hesitate to finish your food before you can change your mind. “I tried, but she won’t give me it.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin when you pass him one from the dispenser. “Said she couldn’t show anyone the video ‘cause of some promise.”

You rub your chin in thought for a few moments, reviewing the behavior. “A statute of limitations for a blackmail video between friends is definitely suspicious… someone probably told her not to share it for a good reason.”

“Probably Tsukauchi–” Keigo starts before loudly sipping the last few drops of his drink and sloshing the ice around in the cup. “The stuckups at the police department would probably chew his ass out for having fun.”

It’s a reasonable explanation that you and Keigo agree on before continuing your usual conversations. 

The week also progresses with you taking Shōta up on his offer; his first name foreign on your tongue at first but slowly relaxing into it. You only work late at the office twice, and both times his car sits idling in front of the building with the seat warmer already on and awaiting your arrival. 

Each one gets progressively more casual as you settle into a comfortable rhythm of talking about your days outside of the little snippets you’ve begun texting each other about. It becomes funny class stories, cafes you want to try out, and even movie trailers that seem interesting or potential flops. 

The drives also increase in length, the route he ‘blames his GPS for’ takes additional detours and pathways that make the 20 minute drive turn into 30 and then 35. You don’t mind it though; his company quickly becomes something you crave and grow accustomed to in a way different from that of your friends or Keigo. 

Each time he drops you off also ends in around 20 minutes of sloppy makeouts. 

It starts with a simple smile while his lips linger on yours as you say goodnight but make no effort to leave; his car is always parked in a visitor spot rather than the ‘5-minute passenger drop off’ lane in front of your complex. What starts as a few pecks when you meet at the console ends with his tongue down your throat and the windows fogged from the heat. 

It’s enough to make your lips chapped and swollen for the amount of biting and sucking he does against them. The act is somehow more sexual than the first time despite the fact he leaves no new bruises and manages to reign himself in before you can offer for him to come upstairs. 

The erotic and sensual scene leaves you weak at the knees, your panties a mess, but your head full of frustration as you quickly deduce this was becoming a ‘situationship’ which you had no desire of being. Hell, you would even settle for friends with benefits if it meant some sort of label could be placed on whatever the fuck you two were.

But there wasn’t. Each time you parted for air Shōta would open his mouth to speak before doubling back and having a distant look in his eye as he seemingly talked himself down. It’s obvious he’s pent up and just as curious as you that creates such intense frustration in your bones.

When you hestiate to speak, his lips chase yours and he slithers his tongue inside; when he pauses to contemplate, you tug him by the hair to meet your mouth once more. Chivalrous hands never make an effort to escalate past first-base while he has you pinned against the car door in the hottest makeout you’ve ever been in. 

He hasn’t even undone your blouse buttons yet, but each time you end the ride with such a sloppy and desperate kiss, it leaves you feeling as if he’s already fucked all the air out of your lungs.

~~~~

By the day of the date rolls around, you’re a slighlty nervous wreck as you sit in a lecture on campus.

Class is particularly excruciating this morning; your professor droning on about a proposed memorandum to an act you’ve never even heard of as you snap yourself awake several times. It’s a lecture in which none of your friends are in, and the room is so small you can see the laptop screens of everyone else from your tucked away corner position in the room. 

Online shopping, answering externship emails, and reviewing the menu of the restaurant over and over again is the only way to pass the time until the course wraps up and you’re the first person out of the room. 

It was the final class of the day on your schedule, and walking out of the law building lobby towards the campus gates you spot Jackson in front of a vending machine. Idly choosing between two beverages, you tap his shoulder and shuffle to the opposite side with a grin.

“Ah, you got me.” He turns back to the selection buttons and presses the code for a bottled coffee. “You ready for tonight?”

You lean against the metal and watch as he takes a few long sips of the drink with a grateful sigh at the caffeine. “Ready as I can be, though maybe I’m not ready for after…if he decides it’s something casual.”

Jackson nudges your shoulder and pulls out his cellphone to check his course calendar and mentally plan the easiest route across campus to the art & humanities building for his music elective. “Aw you’ll be fine y/n. If you’re free this weekend I can try and throw a part–”

“–Ha, thanks, but I’ve got to meet with some defense lawyers from the villain case I’m assisting with.”

Jackson nods and offers you a reaffirming pat on the back as he slides on his headphones for the trek across campus. “Alright, alright. But I’m gonna pry every detail out of you during our next study session!”

You smile as he heads off before making your way to the metro station near the school to head home. You’ve got a few hours to get ready before Shōta picks you up for your reservation at 7; Keigo has already offered to be at your apartment at around 5 to help you get ready.

Of course ‘helping you get ready’ is more of an excuse to get out of work early and eat the food in your house while watching reality TV. Music plays on your phone as you finish up the last few steps of a long ‘everything shower’ and Keigo whines against the bathroom door as you take your time.

Steam fogs the mirror and when you click open the lock of the door, he immediately shuffles in while pushing you out of the way. “Damn woman, how long do you need to shower?”

He doesn’t wait for you to leave as he lifts the lid of the toilet seat and haphazardly undoes the fly of his jeans to take a piss. You roll your eyes and grimace while stepping out and examining the damage to your living room. Throw pillows on the floor, your stashed bags of chips empty and thrown about, and a few cans of soft drinks litter the coffee table.

“Seriously Keigo?” you yell back to him while shuffling into your bedroom.

The toilet flushes and Keigo sighs slightly before washing his hands. “I’ll buy you more.”

Lotion and body oil on, hair dried and falling casually; you sit on the floor, still wearing your bathrobe in front of your mirror. It’s a giddy feeling to do your skincare; the feeling intensifies once it’s absorbed and you start on your makeup. The look is casual face products with your eyes being a bit smokier with a few touches of under eyeliner. 

Makeup completed, you move to your closet to grab the dress you had already decided on wearing several nights ago and toss it onto your bed. It’s a simple formula you’ve worked out given the amount of Google Maps photos you’ve stared at in order to get an idea of the restaurant vibe.

A black off the shoulder long-sleeve mini dress, black opaque tights, and slight heeled boots are the aspects of the outfit. Every friend you’ve sent an image to has approved, and stepping out of your robe and into the garments leaves you feeling confident despite the nerves building. If the date were to end in the worst possible way, at least you would look hot in the process.

You toss your robe over your door to dry and step into the living room while digging through your purse when Keigo briefly looks up from his position in front of the TV and nearly drops his freshly opened beer bottle onto himself. 

“Oh, hey you done– woa.”

He shamelessly stares and sits upright, placing his drink on the coffee table as you smile and do a little spin. “Sooo, how do I look? I clean up nice, right?”

Keigo opens his mouth and shuts it a few times as he takes in the image in front of him. “Yea I mean…shit you look…yea–”

You laugh and walk further into the living room. “Perfect, that’s the reaction I was going for.”

He admires your figure a moment more before looking up to meet your eyes. “You and Aizawa are friends, who get to makeout while you wear that? Remind me why I never got this perk in our friendship?”

You take a pillow from the loveseat and throw it at him; he catches it with a laugh and before you can scold him a notification pings on your phone. 

From: Aizawa Shōta:

After-class training wrapped up sooner than expected. I’ll be there shortly.

SHIT

Keigo sits upright on the couch to tease again before you nearly patch out to dig through your purse and run to the kitchen. “Keigo, where did you put my–?”

He hops up and runs into the kitchen ahead of you, signaling to the counter. “Two tequila shots already prepared for us.” A coy smile on his lips. 

You pull out your chapstick with a grateful sigh and slide it back inside your bag. “I wasn’t gonna say that, but… ok”

Keigo holds his smirk and slides you a glass; no salt or limes prepared, though you’re not picky given the time crunch. Grateful for the liquid courage, you down the shot with a wince and look at the glass bottle on the counter. 

“Another?”

Keigo laughs and picks up both empty shot glasses and puts them in the sink. “Uh, maybe not the best idea considering the last time we had tequila.”

You nod with a pause; if Keigo was the one telling you to lay back, it must be pretty serious. “Ok ok fine– I’m just nervous~”

Keigo peers over from his spot at the sink and splashes his fingers at you while mocking your whining pitch. 

You flip him off and scurry backwards away from his hands. “Ugh, asshole! I’m gonna have a heart attack here– how am I supposed to face him?”

He wipes his hands down on your old kitchen towel and leans against the counter with his hip. “Like I said earlier– he’s a guy.” Keigo points up and down to your outfit. “And you… look like that.– trust me, he’ll be just as nervous and into you, as you are to him.”

A slight blush on your cheeks from his compliment, you shrug humbly and pull the hem of your dress down slightly. “Yea but, I like him. Of course I want him to think I look good.. But I also want him to actually like me.”

You watch the way he gives you an earnest smile and drags his eyes up and down one last time before glancing the other way with a slight cough. His voice is lower and slow. “You’re fine, y/n. He’s seen you plenty of times in your work clothes and now even your bummy hangover outfit–and he still proposed coffee and this date.”

He places a supportive pat to your head and walks around to open your fridge in search of anything else that catches his eye. You rummage through your purse and confirm a triple check of everything inside: chapstick, mints, wallet, phone, lip gloss. A mental headcount of how many hours until your deodorant runs off, a ping from your phone makes your heart beat cold. 

From: Aizawa Shōta

I’m outside; no rush if you aren’t ready yet.

..SHIT.

Keigo watches with an amused glint in his eyes as you fluff your hair and breathe out to calm yourself a few times; he takes a few strides to push you towards the door. “Alright, go ‘em tiger.”

“W-wait! Maybe I should brush my teeth again! O-or I think I’m coming down with a fever, I should cance–” Pushing you into the hallway, Keigo blocks the doorframe to prevent letting you scramble back in. “Deep breaths, act natural, and fuck already!”

The door shuts in your face and the lock clicks into place– ah. Keys… you don’t have your keys.

“But my–”

“Text me when you're on your way back and I'll leave it unlocked” He yells through the door. “But if I fall asleep… you’ll have to find somewhere else to spend the night.”

You can practically see his shit-eating grin through the door as he cackles. What have you gotten yourself into?

Mindlessly walking to the elevator as your heart rate spikes to nearly 200 bpm, you pick apart your appearance in the reflective walls of the elevator over and over again. All the hickies have disappeared and you adjust the way your hair falls once again before the doors open with a ‘ping’.

The lobby is colder than you expect, and walking up to the entrance doors you debate running back upstairs and banging on the door to beg Keigo to toss you a jacket. It’s too late though– you spot the familiar black sedan idling in the passenger pick-up zone and watch the way Shōta opens the driver door to stand up. 

It’s happening. This is really happening.

A breath to calm yourself, you push the front door open and step out into the cold. He shuts his own door and looks up to walk over to the passenger side to get your door, pausing when he fully takes in the sight in front of him. 

A blush on your cheeks mirror the one on him. His stance falters slightly at the image of you walking over, trying desperately to avoid ogling too much.

Shōta is dressed in black slacks, a pale blue button up with the top button undone, and a matching black blazer. His long dark hair is styled into a half-bun and his face is cleanly shaven once again; he looks like a dream as you approach the passenger side.

You wave slightly once you get close and flash a nervous smile on your glossy lips. “Hi.”

“...oh! Uh, Hi.” He stutters out once he realizes he’s taking too long to answer. 

Shōta’s eyes never leave you, even after you slide into the seat and he shuts the door for you. The seat warmer is on full blast and his car is impeccably clean; scents of his woodsy cologne fill the air and the excitement in your veins begins to bubble. It’s really happening.

He sits back in the driver’s seat behind the wheel and clicks his seatbelt into place before offering you a nervous half-smile and putting the car in ‘drive’. The buildings begin to pass as the radio station plays a soft jazz in the background.

“You look really nice. Well, you always do but uh–”

“Thanks, Aiz–” you pause to correct yourself. “Shōta. You look really handsome yourself.”

The man glances at you from his peripherals and slides the nail of his finger over the skin of another in an effort to wake himself up if he were dreaming. He accepts your compliment and turns back to the road with a long exhale.

Sitting with your hands in your lap and trying to busy yourself with staring at the scenery, you make an attempt to bring up similar conversation you two would typically have.

“So, how were classes today? Anything crazy happen?”

A gruff exhale as he smoothly turns the car down another street. “Well, if the baseline of normality is one student trying to kill another for simply offering help…I’d say it was pretty normal.”

You chuckle and lean into the seat; the warmth coming from the leather provides some comfort. “Mmmm, I’ve heard a few stories from Toshinori about how rowdy they can be.”

Shōta continues explaining today’s training and how his students were progressing; obviously proud of them despite his tendency to state the opposite. You sit and listen, silently taking in the different atmosphere of this drive than the ones you’ve previously shared.

It felt real. More official and raw than your previous times; the vulnerability noticeable in his body language. Despite having his tongue down your throat on more than one occasion, his hands sit politely at 10 and 2, only ever leaving to adjust the volume or the mirrors. 

Fiddling with the hemline of your dress and looking out the window slightly, you miss the way his eyes dip down to the flesh of your thighs where the fabric ends; he swallows thickly and peels his gaze back to the road. 

“And how was your day? You had classes as well, correct?”

“Oh, it was the usual, nothing too interesting…”

He tilts his head and drags his eyes to meet yours. “It’s interesting to me though.”

Damn he’s smooth.

You’re convinced he’s not even trying to be suave; his gaze is slightly hooded but his tone is deep and honest. A blush on your cheeks, you sink slightly into the seat. “W-Well, I had a morning lecture, bumped into a friend, and did a few tasks for my mentor remotely from my apartment. It’s not nearly as exciting as your life I’m sure.”

Shōta frowns slightly and presses further. “Mmm, did you do anything while at your apartment though? I’m sure you had a few breaks.”

“Ha, actually there’s this stupid reality show Keigo got me hooked on– the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.” Memories of the program come flooding back.

This time Shōta doesn’t react when you mention the man’s name, instead he tilts his head and takes in the image of you in his car once again. “Sounds interesting. Maybe…you can show it to me sometime?”

“Agh, this season is so dramatic too–” you ramble slightly, agreeing but not registering he had inadvertently offered an unofficial second date to be more intimate and private.

The drive to the restaurant is filled with you explaining various drama between ridiculously wealthy women, and while Shōta has no interest in petty celebrity arguments, he greatly enjoys listening to you speak. You’ve basically given him a run down of the first few seasons, hyperbolizing the intensity of the show with drastic hand movements by the time you arrive at the restaurant. 

“It’s such a dumb show– I’m sure it’s staged. Oh! But this one episode–”

The passenger door clicks open as a young valet pulls it back and offers you a hand; blinking slightly in shock, you turn to Shōta who chuckles a few times and steps out. You slide your purse on your shoulder and take the hand, walking back from the car and watching the way your date passes the keys to the employee. 

Guiding you by the lower back, Shōta ushers you inside the restaurant and leaves your side to explain the reservation to the hostess. 

It’s hot. He’s hot.

The way he acts as a total gentleman, and guides you to follow the employee to the table and pull your chair out for you. It’s a fancy restaurant, but not inherently romantic. A few families sit eating, there’s a group of people in work attire for a business dinner, and a handful of friends and couples are scattered at the other tables. 

The lights are dim, but not too dark, and there’s a comfortable background chatter as music plays gently in the background. As you take in the view, silently comparing it to the online reviews for the ambience, you take in the way Shōta sits across from you; shoulders are tight and his spine is arched to a perfect posture as he sits stiffly behind his menu.

“This place is really nice. Thanks for recommending it.”

He peers up and relaxes slightly. “Really?”

“Mhm. It smells really good, and the vibe is relaxing.”

Shōta smiles to himself and places the menu lower; his anxiety slowly melting away as you begin to review the menu as if you haven’t preplanned your meal days in advance. After a few moments of small talk about the dishes, a waitress walks up and offers a trained customer-service smile.

“Hi there, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I bring you anything to drink? Maybe a bottle of red?”

Shōta gauges your pause and responds on your behalf. “Sure. Is there a house recommendation?” 

“I can bring a bottle of Shiraz for you to sample.”

“That’d be perfect.”

The waitress disappears as quickly as she arrived and Shōta nudges your foot from under the table with a slight smile. “I take it you don’t know much about wine.”

You shrug slightly in defense. “They taste so similar anyways. I only buy for two reasons: it’s on sale, or if I'm on a da–” you pause. He looks at you expectantly and you take a breath. “Unless I’m on a date.”

Shōta looks up with an amused smile, obviously feeling at ease. “Ah, that’s nice to know. Maybe in the future we can expand your palate?”

Face flushing you nod and feel yourself settling into the moment. “I didn’t take you for a sommelier.”

“I’m not– and I’m not the biggest drinker either… just a few years of fancy dinners for some pointless higher ups has left me with a bit of knowledge.”

You smile and when the waitress returns with a bottle to taste which Shōta approves of, you order your meals and enjoy the complimentary bread while sipping on wine.

“Sooo, you take all your dates here then?” You giggle, the flush of the alcohol making you both a bit looser. 

He scoffs and takes a sip. “Ha, I actually found this place from Hizashi, or uh, Yamada.” 

You nod, recognizing the blonde man’s first name and bring your glass to your lips again. “Ah, hopefully he won’t think I’m taking his spot.”

Shōta rolls his eyes but holds an amused expression, the evening no longer feeling awkward or forced; instead, ridiculously easy in each other’s company. Your phone pings several times throughout the evening, most likely check-ins from Keigo, and each one you ignore– too wrapped in your company to even think about looking away. 

The waitress returns with your meals and offers if you would like a second bottle; the fact you two had already killed one is a surprise. Accepting the offer, you ‘oo’ over the amazing taste and find yourself getting comfortably warm as your glass is always filled. 

“To be honest, he had talked my ear off about this for a while.” Shōta explains, a pink tinge from the wine making his lip looser than usual.

“Hm? What do you mean?” 

“Well, I mean this.” He gestures to you both. “He had been talking nonstop about finally taking you on a date.”

It’s not a huge confession, but it makes your heart swell slightly as Shōta continues eating, unaware of the exact implications of his words. You lean over the table slightly, feeling a bit flirty. “Yea, but didn’t I propose we come here when we had gotten coffee last week?”

He leans in slightly, “Yea but I was the one that brought it up last Fri–” He pauses and rushes backward to sip awkwardly on his wine. 

Before you can press further, eagerly wanting for him to divulge a bit more, the waitress returns to offer the dessert menu.

You’re definitely a bit tipsy, though Shōta seems to hold his alcohol much better than you regardless; she leaves to give you both a few minutes. 

“Do you need time to sober up at all? We can order dessert.” You offer while glancing through the list of pastries and gelatos listed. Taking a moment to feel just how warm your face was feeling, you spin the bottle of wine on the table around and gulp when your eyes linger on the alcohol percentage of 17%.

Oh shit. How many glasses has it been…?

You knock your elbow back slightly and the purse hanging on your chair falls to the floor; on instinct you lean down to pick it up. Of course you don’t even realize the perfect view down your dress it gives your company. Tits basically pouring out as you pucker your lips in effort to reach the strap, Shōta’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows while blatantly staring. 

He coughs slightly, now staring at your lips as you return to your upright position. “I’m feeling warm, but definitely a good idea to wait a bit. I don’t mind eating something sweet either.”

You don’t look up– too  absorbed in now scanning over the dessert list once again. “Oh really? Do you have an idea in mind?”

“Yea, I do.”

Eyes looking up in curiosity, Shōta snaps out of his trance and frantically searches the now nearly empty restaurant for something, anything to save himself. “The… uhhh… tiramisu? Is really good.”

You both settle on ordering it and the waitress clears the table except for the remaining wine and your glasses; by this point he’s not exactly slick at the glances he makes and you’re feeling maybe too bold considering your current blood alcohol content. 

His second button now sluttily undone as he continues explaining his current hero training schedule for upcoming class events, you flutter your lashes at him and bring your hand up for your chin to rest on. It seems like you’re just super interested in his current routine; in reality you’re using the flesh of your bicep and forearm to smush your tits together a bit more while they partially raise above the already low neckline. 

And as much as Shōta is a gentleman, Keigo is certainly correct that at the end of the day, he’s still just a man. Eyes dart down to your cleavage before peeling them back up in an attempt to be respectful before he glances back down again. 

You swirl the wine in your glass with your free hand and pause to set your spoon on a now empty dish of dessert; Shōta’s years of staring at villains leaves him unblinking across from you, taking in every move. The bottle of wine is empty, and when his story comes to an end, you notice the now quiet atmosphere of the restaurant. 

Most tables are empty, and the waitstaff sits in the back organizing silverware and glasses in preparation to close. You peel your gaze back to the man across from you and offer a sheepish grin at your realization that you had been here for several hours.

Shōta’s long empty glass is pushed away from the edge of the table as he stands up and adjusts his blazer; taking out your phone and standing as well, you notice the time of 10:45 and several missed calls from Keigo. A few texts from him are full of encouragement while your eyes linger on the most recent one.

From: Keigo ;p

Heading out of your apt.

I forgot to leave it unlocked... oops!

Shōta takes a few steps to stand at your side as you slide your phone back in your purse and try to think of a way back into your apartment. You still had no keys to get back home…

“Are you ready to go, y/n?”

You spin and adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder and awkwardly let out a forced casual exhale. “Hm? Oh, yea.. Totally. But, don’t we have to pay?”

Shōta guides you back towards the front doors and gives a small nod to your waitress as she brings a tray of fresh glasses from the kitchen to the bar. “Already did. I just had them use the card I kept on file for the reservation to pay for the meal.”

“Wait–” You turn to him but continue his guidance to the exit. “You really gave me no chance to try and pay, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You laugh at his traditional chivalry and lightly nudge him while the valet runs out to retrieve the car. Shōta makes no effort to stand firm, letting himself be swayed by your small push and leaning right back to remain steadfast at your side. 

Sliding into the passenger seat and grinning when he shuts the door for you, a quick panic ensues within your mind. It’s plausible that Kiego might be able to come back and give you his spare keys… but maybe Jackson would let you crash on his couch? Sleeping in makeup and without pajamas was not the most appealing, but it’s better than sleeping in front of your door until morning when maintenance could let you in.

“Are you alright?” Shōta looks at you as he slides his seatbelt into place and adjusts his rearview mirror.

“Hm? Oh, y-yea…”

He isn’t convinced and keeps his gaze intently on you; the look is so serious that you wonder if he’s stone cold sober for a moment. “Listen, if you’re thinking of a nice way to say you aren't interested in a second date… that’s fine. You can just say it now, it won’t–”

“Wait.” You raise your hands and wave them. “No! I’m not thinking about that at all. I’d love to go on another date in all honesty.”

Shōta pauses and lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God. Ok, that’s a nice reassurance… but why are you looking nervous like that?”

He doubles back on his words when you slide down the visor and flip open the attached mirror to examine your makeup for a moment. With a pathetic chuckle as he slowly pulls out of the parking lot, you take a few deep breaths in attempt to figure out the most casual way of stating you had nowhere to stay for the night.

“I just…I might be–” You start and trail off; Shōta gives you a patient look with some concern. “I am locked out of my apartment.”

There’s a beat of silence and Shōta opens his mouth once before his face slightly contorts in a thought process of how you would have managed that. He slows down and pulls into a parallel spot with ease to allow other cars to pass.

“Can I ask how you managed that? You can’t just forget your keys, right?”

You sink into the seat in embarrassment and fiddle your thumbs sheepishly. “No, that wouldn’t usually be possible. It’s just that...I did have a list of things to put in my purse…and my keys didn’t happen to be on said list.”

He chuckles beside you and raises an eyebrow. “Ok, I’ll bite. What was on the list that was more important than your house keys?”

You purse your lips and look up guiltily at him. “Phone, wallet, chapstick…” He leans down a bit further when you pause. “... mints and my lipgloss. That’s it.”

Shōta chuckles heartily when you complete the packing list and offer him an apologetic smile. “Mmm, those do sound very important.”

“Ugh.. don’t rub it in.” 

You sink down a bit further at his sarcasm until he pauses to look genuinely at your face; the warm city lights illuminating the shine of your hair and lips. His gaze darts down to the hemline of your dress that hugs the upper portion of your thighs before dragging his eyes to the plump swell of your breasts that sit nearly pouring out of the top. 

 He coughs slightly and looks back at the digital clock on the car radio. “What’s your plan then?”

Taking your phone out of your purse and sending another message to Keigo, you note that he hasn’t sent a message in 90 minutes, and sigh slightly. “I can see if my law school friend is awake… or I can always wait in the lobby of my apartment until maintenance comes in at 7am.”

“No way, you’re not just going to sit in your lobby alone for hours on end. Does anyone have a spare key?”

You fiddle with your thumbs again and look down. “He’s not answering…”

Any resolve or self restraint that Shōta had been holding in is now completely drained. You don’t even need to say the name to know you’re talking about Keigo. Shōta knew you two were close friends– a camaraderie similar to nearly that of siblings, but that didn’t stop the ugly and vile envy that always coursed through his veins whenever the name was mentioned.

It was childish to feel jealous of a friend who you firmly trusted, and the mentor to one of his own student’s internship, but Shōta couldn’t help it. ‘Keigo this’, ‘Keigo that’; it was half of the topics you happened to ever talk about. The way you two were physically comfortable also rubbed Shōta the wrong way– though none of it was inherently romantic or sexual, it still made the older man insecure. 

That night, Friday night, had been a tipping point. You came into the bar with him, and had a few drinks before even walking over to the table of your expecting company. Being forced to watch the way Keigo wiped your mouth was too much, and before he could stop himself, Shōta had used erasure on the man. 

It didn’t do anything, other than make Keigo feel slightly uncomfortable, but it was enough for the table to laugh and ridicule Shōta for acting so brazenly. Now sitting here, with you in his passenger seat, texting a man who wasn’t even bothering to respond, was once again Shōta’s tipping point.

The words fall off the tongue with urgency, desperate for you to know you could depend on him to be there for you; to always respond to your texts and calls if you sent any. Shōta can’t even blame the alcohol, himself a relative heavyweight anyways, and he’s not sure there’s anything to blame the sentence on besides the facts he’s just a man trying to make a move on the most beautiful girl he’s ever had the privilege of knowing.

“You can stay with me tonight, if you want.” 

a/n: I KNOW ITS BEEN FOREVER i'm sorrryyy

[I've been traveling a lot on the weekends so I haven't had much time to sit and write -> i'm staying local the next two weeks so i'll be grinding it out i promise]

ALSO: this was supposed to include you staying the night but it got too long so I have to post it as a ch.6 [it's gonna be a loooong night let's just say that ;) ] -> i have it written tho so i'm just gonna wait a few days to post it

i love all your support on this series, it's been so much fun to write it!

likes/comments/reblogs all appreciated and i luv reading all ur comments

LMK if u wanna join the tag list

<3 - oatmeal

tags: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351 @beachaddict48 @lynnesm @lashaemorow @kriscr0ss @hotvillianapologist @loverofdeepspace

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Thousand Yard Stare Chapter 2

Summary: Bucky Barnes has served his country well, and at a great personal cost.  After being rescued as a prisoner of war, he is struggling as he gets back into civilian life.  His newfound PTSD is severe.  His friends and family try to help, but he needs a lot more than they can give.  His mother signs him up for a Veteran recovery home, where he meets people struggling just like him, and the home director who has her own dark past to deal with.  He might just find love along the way as he searches for peace.

Warnings: mentions of physical assault, violence, being taken prisoner; sexual assault/r@pe; PTSD/anxiety/depression/panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares; suicide/minor character death; eventual smut

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TRIGGER WARNING

His eyes stung as the sand in the wind whipped against his face.  He was dragged into a small room, cuffed to the farthest wall and searched.  He could hear screams in the distance, and a strange clapping sound that he soon recognized as skin against skin.  He cringed when realization hit of what was happening, shutting his eyes tight.

He was questioned for hours.  He couldn’t understand them except for a few words here and there, and they became angrier the longer he stayed silent or kept repeating, “I don’t know.”  The pain from the blows raining down on him seemed never ending, bruises blooming and his skin splitting after particularly sharp hits, his blood staining his clothes, his hair, and the sandy ground around him.

It went on for days.  They would feed him bowls of some kind of goopy liquid that made him want to throw up, splash water on him that he would try to drink so he could keep his strength.  His team would find him, they had to.  He would go home.  This will end soon…

The clapping sounds went on for hours each day, mixed with the disgusting grunts and groans of the men who captured him and the screams and pained noises from the women.  Then one of the men came alone into his room…

“Bucky!  Bucky wake up!”

“Pretty American boy,” the man leered at him.

“Wake up, honey, come on!”

He tried not to scream as the man hurt him, pulling his hair roughly from behind.

“You’re here!  You’re safe!  BUCKY!”

Bucky jerked awake, panting as his throat burned.  His light was on, blinding him momentarily.  He felt a body that was hovering over him, pushing at his shoulders and panicked.  He twisted them, pinning them to the mattress, his hand wrapped around their throat and he squeezed before something bit him, making him yelp and pull away.  When he focused back on the person his mind finally caught up and he recognized her.  

“Y/N?” Bucky gasped.  He flung himself away from her and tumbled off the bed, scurrying into a corner of the room, folding in on himself to be as small as possible.  Y/N gasped for a moment, her hand massaging her throat before she quickly got up and followed Bucky.  “I’m sorry,” he cried, heavy tears falling from his eyes.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m sorry–”

“Hey,” Y/N said, crouching down in front of him but keeping herself a foot away.  “It’s just me.  I’m okay.  You’re okay.  It was just a nightmare.  It’s not happening to you now.”  She inched forward and her hand reached for his elbow closest to her.  When her fingers touched him he flinched and his wide eyes watched her.  “You didn’t hurt me.  I’m fine,” Y/N said more firmly.  She sat down in front of him on the floor, inching forward just a little more.  Bucky’s eyes looked down at her throat, seeing a slight red ring where his hand had squeezed and he shut his eyes tight.  

He felt a cold nose sniff his hair and looked at Teddy who was whining softly and started licking his tears.  Bucky sighed heavily, his body slightly relaxing against the wall.  Y/N’s hand moved from his elbow slowly to his hand, not making him move but squeezing it from the position it was in.  “You’re at Mama’s House.  You’re safe.  No one here is going to hurt you.  It was a bad memory, it’s not happening to you now.”  She reassured him again, gently running a finger over his knuckles.  “I’ve got you.”

Bucky didn’t know what came over him at that moment.  He had pushed away physical contact with people as much as he could since he got home, only letting his family or people like Steve or Sam be close to him.  But right then, in the middle of the night, after another nightmare reliving the worst days of his life, he just wanted…needed comfort.  Bucky’s hands shot forward and gripped Y/N’s wrists and pulled her toward him.  She made a surprised sound, followed by a soft “oof” as he pulled her into a hug.  Her legs straddled his lap as he wound his arms behind her back, holding her tightly against him as his face rested against her chest and he cried even more.  His sobs were heavy and painful to hear, and he heard Y/N’s breath stutter as she fought back her own tears as she recognized his first real, big cry since coming home.  Bucky needed someone to just hold him, like how his father used to hold him when he was little.  Y/N’s hands softly ran through his hair.  He stiffened around her when she got to the back of his head and she stopped, her fingers moving back up his head and then down the sides of his neck to avoid the area.  He focused on her heart beat, letting himself settle down and breathe along with her rising and falling chest.  

“I’ve got you,” Y/N whispered into his hair.  

***

TRIGGER WARNING

After that first night Bucky felt better about opening up to Y/N more.  His first appointment with her for the comfy building was coming up and he was wondering if she’d tell him her experience.  She had been nothing but kind and open with him, so he had no reason to think she wouldn’t.  The first week at the home had been good.  The other veterans were all kind and understanding without being pushy, and he appreciated how much freedom he had to do whatever felt right for him outside of the schedule he was assigned.  His therapist, Dr. Strange, seemed knowledgeable and no-nonsense, which he liked.  He was eagle-eyed in spotting trauma points and helped Bucky work through some major issues in that first session.

On that Friday night Bucky headed toward the comfy building, feeling trepidation mixed with anticipation.  As much as that hug they shared had been for his own sanity, he secretly enjoyed it, and wondered what tonight would bring.

He stepped in and smiled at the fairy lights around the top of the walls that were turned on in place of the regular overhead lights, the smell of lavender and tea tree in the air from the candle burning on a table nearby.  In one corner on a large couch sat Y/N, watching a show on the TV across the way from her.  She looked over at him as he entered and smiled.

“Hey Buck,” she greeted him, pausing the show and standing.  “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Bucky said.

Y/N huffed a laugh at him and led him to the walled off room.  She sat at the couch and gestured for him to sit on the bed across from her.  Bucky sat at the edge and waited.  “You wanna get comfortable?” she asked.  “You can lay down, take your shoes off, relax.”

Bucky took his shoes off and set them aside while pulling his jacket off.  “I’ll just sit for now,” he said quietly.

“Alright.  Well, honestly I’m not sure where to start with you,” Y/N said, looking at him warily.

“Why?” Bucky asked.

“Well, last week you seemed okay with me touching you, and I thought that was going to take time.  Or was that just a spur of the moment kinda deal?” she said teasingly.

Bucky smiled then sighed.  “I’m honestly not sure,” he said quietly.  

“Can I make an observation?” she asked.  Bucky nodded.  “You didn’t like me touching the back of your head.”  Bucky now eyed her warily, then slowly nodded.  “Care to tell me why?  Or would you rather I guess?”

Bucky breathed in deeply.  “You said you knew how I felt.  More than I could imagine.  Care to tell me why?” he countered, trying to take the focus off of himself.

Y/N smirked at his candor.  “I’ll tell you my deep dark secrets if you tell me yours.”

“Deal,” Bucky said quickly.

Y/N’s smirk fell from her face and she looked down, her fingers intertwining.  “I’m sure while you were going through special ops torture training that you were taught about the 9 Lost Girls?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, thinking back.  “The 9 women that were captured and tortured after their base was attacked.”  Y/N nodded and gave him a look, her eyebrow raising.  Bucky stared at her for a moment until he finally understood.  His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open slightly.  “No…”

“Yes,” Y/N confirmed.  “I was one of them.  One of the last ones still alive, actually,” she said, her voice softening as she looked away again.  She motioned to her back.  “I’m sure you saw my lovely scars the day you got here.”  Bucky nodded.  “I was an assistant, I didn’t have any information, but they didn’t care,” she sighed heavily.  “They beat us, whipped us, then when they got bored with that they raped us for days.  Of course they don’t talk about that part as much in training,” Y/N said, a sarcastic tone to her voice.  

Bucky’s eyes felt hot as he fought off tears.  She did know how he felt, had it even worse than he did.  He couldn’t tell whether that comforted or horrified him more.  “I was…raped,” Bucky said.  It was the first time he fully admitted it, and it hurt, his heart pounding and his ears ringing.  Y/N looked up at him, her eyes conveying nothing but understanding and sadness for him.  “The rest of it I could take.  The punches, kicks, I’d rather eat that shit they force fed me for the rest of my life than feel that again,” he said, his voice getting louder and his breathing becoming ragged.  Getting it all off his chest, off his heart, as much as it hurt, was incredibly freeing.  “They were raping women all the time…I could hear them,” he said, and Y/N’s eyes closed, a look of mourning on her face.  “Then one of them came to me, alone, and he…he pulled my pants down,” he couldn’t seem to stop talking, his tears falling finally and he stood, pacing back and forth in front of her.  “He started touching me and I just froze.  He put something on my ass, like lube or something, and then he…” Bucky’s hands gripped his hair as his face screwed up in pain.  “He just shoved it in.  It hurt so fucking bad,” he turned to Y/N who stood and approached him with her hands held out.  He reached out and took her outstretched hands, grounding himself.  She pulled him towards the bed but he couldn’t make it, his knees giving out.  He kneeled down as she sat on the bed in front of him.  “He left me there like that, with his…jizz leaking out of me, my pants around my feet, that’s how the team found me!” he yelled as Y/N cupped his face, making him look at her.  “The looks on their faces?  It was…humiliating,” he cried, his hands gripping her thighs.  He cried against her like he did the week before, his head resting in her lap, but this time it was louder, filled with despair, a full wailing as he tried not to go into a full panic attack.

“He yanked your hair?” Y/N asked quietly.

Bucky nodded as he cried harder, remembering how it felt as his head was wrenched back, nearly ripping his hair out.  “He called me ‘pretty American boy’,” Bucky grunted.  “I…didn’t wanna give him the satisfaction.  Didn’t make any noise.  But it hurt…it hurt so bad.”

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Y/N whispered, petting his hair with one hand and the other rubbing his back as she leaned over him.  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.  You didn’t deserve that, no one does,” she said.  He could hear her sniffling as she cried with him.  

Y/N then pulled his head up.  She cupped his face again and swiped some of his tears away with her thumbs.  She made him look at her and he saw her eyes red-rimmed and tears streaked down her face. “Can you trust me?” Y/N asked.  Bucky sniffed, his eyes searching hers, but ultimately nodded.  Y/N gave him a reassuring smile then her fingers reached up into his hair.  “Keep your eyes on me,” she said quietly.  Bucky nodded again, as focusing on the task was helping him start to relax.  She started to run her fingers through his hair slowly, scratching his scalp.  After going in circles around his head she moved towards the back of his head.  Bucky tensed up and blinked rapidly.  “It’s just me,” she whispered.  “I won’t hurt you.  I’ve got you.”  Bucky inhaled deeply, keeping his gaze on her face.  Y/N waited until he slowly relaxed and then scratched her way to the back of his head.  She moved her fingers in small circles, then gripped his locks softly.  She didn’t pull, just held his hair in between her fingers.  Bucky sighed as her soft touch seemed to help that small part of him heal slowly, replacing the ripping feeling with something soft, caring, loving, and gentle.  

“Please,” Bucky whispered.  He didn’t know what he was asking for, practically begging for, but Y/N understood.  She released his hair, gave the back of his head a short scratch, then she gripped his hair again and slowly started to tug.  Y/N was slow, careful, and gentle, the tugging feeling more like a massage.  Bucky’s eyes closed, more tears falling as for the first time in over a year he felt safe, an overwhelming feeling of peace oozing through his body.  

“I’ve got you,” Y/N whispered again.  “He’s gone.  They’re gone.  They’re dead, and you’re here.  You’re home, safe, right here and now.  Just you and me here,” she rattled off, her forehead resting on his forehead.  “Thank you for telling me.  I know how hard that was for you.”

Bucky exhaled and licked his lips, sniffing hard as he tried to collect himself.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  “For helping me.”  He opened his eyes and looked up at her.  Y/N slowly pulled away, and he was sad to have her hands leave his hair.  “And for telling me your deepest, darkest secrets,” he half smiled.

“No problem.”  She leaned back and smirked.  “Can I hug you?”  Bucky nodded enthusiastically, leaning forward to hug her, his arms wrapping around her torso and resting his head against her chest as she held him close.  Y/N held him for a long time before taking a deep breath, Bucky copying her.  Their collective, heavy exhale felt like a release.  “So, will I see you next week for another session?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered immediately.

“Good.”

@wintrsoldrluvr @isitbiorisitlesbian @starfly-nicole @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

[redflagshipwriter]

Cupid is Wanted for Questioning ch 6

masterpost

The door silently receded into the wall, introducing them into the fell lair of the most dangerous creature in Gotham City. The faint hum of machinery was the only sound as they entered the gloom. A harsh overhead light struck sleek hair and metal from above, lighting their lines with cold precision. If the room had been a work of art, it would have been a showing of MacMurtrie’s Interactive Birds. The mere act of approach was a reminder of moral ill. His own? Yes, perhaps. If he were a better man, perhaps she would not haunt him so.

Damian wished very much not to trod any further. His feet were leaden in a reluctant approach. Yet she would not wait forever! Indeed, she broke the silence.

“I have a lead on your witness.”

The electronic witch’s voice echoed around her tower. She turned her chair to face them, facial features positioned in sly amusement. Her slim limbs recalled the slim, graceful lines of a Birds sculpture. 

Brown pranced forward without even noticing the foul air of the place. “Yay,” she sang, and perched her behind on the computer desk, haplessly pressing the space button. The witch did not falter from her gimlet stare upon Damian even as an open document began obediently adding space between the cursor and the last known placement of Barbara Gordon’s attention. Would that that were him!

Damian reminded himself that he was the son of legends and managed to configure his face into something of a smile. “This is good news,” he complimented.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” She tossed her shining plumage over her shoulders and beckoned him closer. “I agreed that he looked homeless, I tracked him back to the bus depot, found where he’d originated, and then found him in the social services system.” A screen flicked on, showing a school photo of a small boy with a wide grin. 

“Cute kid,” Brown commented.

Damian scowled, troubled. “Yes,” he agreed. “He is unhoused?”

Barbara Gordon nodded. “Correct. Billy Batson, 12 years old, resident of Fawcett City.” 

“Batson,” Brown repeated quietly, but with feeling. 

“Verily,” Damian agreed, wearied by the inevitabilities. He had already determined this before he had heard the name, but— “I will ask him if he wishes to be adopted by Batman, to save time.”

“Efficient,” Barbara Gordon muttered, and then raised her voice to go on. “He isn’t on security footage often, but he occasionally is seen with this boy, Freddie Freeman, and his adoptive family. He was in Gotham with them for a birthday party at the arcade.” She put up a new photo, this one of Freeman. Neither child was overtly supernatural or superhuman, but Damian’s keen instincts said to remain alert.

“That’s… a choice.” Brown seemed unnerved, frowning. “They’re not normal,” she diagnosed, kicking her feet. “That’s a level of disregard for danger that you only see in people with a really big club to swing. Maybe these kids are dangerous, and that’s why sweet little Billy saw Cupid.” She pointed accusatively at the children to emphasize her point.

Damian looked at the photos of two twelve year old children, one of whom was using a wheelchair. “Agreed,” he said crisply. Hopefully they were not overly villainous. He simply did not have the spare time for a redemption arc. “Which aligns with the extraordinary capacity hinted at in regards to Batson’s powers of perception.” He narrowed his eyes at the first photo. Billy Batson might look like a helpless child, but Damian knew the truth in his chest. There was something hidden under the surface.

The witch scoffed and hid her face behind a hand. “Of course, to be in such August company as yourself in noticing the threat, Billy must be a very special boy.” 

He nodded, ignoring the odd quality of her tone. “Where might we find him?”

That got a true frown from her. Damian and Brown both went stiff with alarm.

“I can’t say where he spends most of his time, but he ends up at this diner most mornings, early, and gets a free breakfast there.” Barbara Gordon put the address up on screen for them to memorize. “He seems to sleep in abandoned subway tunnels. Fawcett City doesn’t have a very thorough system of cameras, so there’s a lot that’s outside of my ability to surveil. Are you going there today? I can make sure the Zeta doesn’t alert Batman, but Captain Marvel will get a ping that someone came onto his turf.”

Brown grimaced. “That’ll have to be fine,”  she said. “Maybe he won’t even notice.”

“Indeed,” Damian concurred. “He is hardly the most administratively competent of the Justice League. He operates based upon vibes.”

Brown looked at him. Barbara Gordon looked at him. He raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge for them to disagree with his assessment.

“You’re not wrong,” the largest predator in the Gotham City ecosystem said. “Alright. I’ll authorize the Zeta from the tower to Fawcett. Are you going in costume or civvies?”

It was a hard call to make. 

“It must be in our personas,” Damian sighed.

“I agree, if Captain Marvel realizes someone came in, it would be identity-compromising to reveal that Damian Wayne and I have access to the Zeta system.” Brown groaned. “Oh man. Should I be Spoiler or Batgirl for this?”

Damian looked at her sideways. “Retrieve your old Robin costume, or come as Nightwing, it matters not,” he dismissed scathingly. “For all that I care, you may impersonate my father. The fool in Fawcett will not know the difference.”

She paused. “...Do you have a Red Hood costume in my size?” Brown asked Barbara Gordon. “I won’t shoot any guns, but I think I would feel really cool if I had them.”

Gordon heaved a sigh and looked at her ceiling. “Go as Batgirl, Steph. Get out of my dread lair.”

Damian gave her a very socially correct bow to excuse himself. “We thank you for your assistance,” he said formally, and left without turning his back. He pretended not to hear that the two young women had a quiet exchange behind him. It mattered not. In fact, it was in pursuit of his personal well-being to not become overly involved in the affairs of Barbara Gordon.