#unfortunately i will not be normal about them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

er1nne · 18 hours ago

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⸝⸝⸝ ⑅ —໒ྀི ִֶָ rafe cameron is kown for throwing the best parties, so of course your best friend had to attend, but who'd guess she'd leave you alone with him to take care of you

word count: 6.4k sorry lol

warnings : roofing / slight drug use, mostly fluff, misunderstood rafe as usual lol, also not proofread unfortunately so excuse any mistakes

AN: the problem is left ambiguous & left to the imagination so you can make up the problem, you guys loved the last one lol :) i have plenty more in the vault so let me know if y'all want them. enjoy!

(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)

You don’t know why you’re here.

The party is overwhelming, a pulsing, chaotic blend of music, voices, and movement that sets your nerves on edge. The heat of too many bodies pressed into one space makes the air thick, suffocating.

You hadn’t even wanted to come, but your friend had convinced you, promising it would be fun, promising she’d stay by your side. Your friend had dragged you along, practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of getting into a this party in particular for some reason. You don’t understand, she had gushed, fingers tight around your wrist, her eyes wide with something close to desperation. People would kill to be invited to one of these. She had promised it would be fun, that she wouldn’t leave your side, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.

All lies. And just as quickly as you arrived, she had disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by the chaos, leaving you stranded in a place you had no business being. That promise had shattered the moment you stepped through the door. See, what she didn't tell you however, that it was at the famous Cameron Estate. As quickly as you both arrives, she had disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stranded in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

You don’t belong here. Not among the drunken recklessness, the glossy, carefree people who thrive on excess. Not in a house where money drips from every surface, where the air itself feels steeped in entitlement. You’ve heard the stories—everyone has. Rafe Cameron’s parties are one of a kind. But you're not the type to be interested in the whispers and gossip everyone spreads about them on campus.

Now, you hover near the wall, gripping a red solo cup with fingers that feel too tight, the plastic bending under the pressure of your grip. You're not normally a drinker, but given your nerves right now, you definitely needed the drink. You take a slow breath, exhaling through your nose. You’re not here to have a bad time. Maybe you just need to loosen up. One drink to take the edge off. You bring the cup to your lips, letting the liquid burn as it slides down your throat. It’s stronger than you expected, too sharp, making you cough slightly. You grimace, the burn lingering on your tongue, but you swallow it down anyway, hoping the warmth will spread, will make you feel like you belong here. You roll your shoulders, forcing yourself to relax, but the tension in your body remains stubborn, coiling tight in your muscles.

The bass reverberates through the floor, through your chest, making your pulse feel off-rhythm. People are laughing, shouting, clinking drinks together in messy toasts that spill onto the already sticky floors. Someone stumbles past you, knocking into your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. You flinch, pressing yourself closer to the wall, hoping to make yourself smaller.

Still, you scan the room, searching for your friend, but she’s nowhere in sight. Irritation flickers through you—how could she just abandon you like this? You shift on your feet, debating whether to go find her or just leave altogether. But then, you feel it. A prickle at the back of your neck. It’s faint, barely noticeable at first, like the sensation of a cool breeze brushing your skin. Goosebumps rise along your arms, but you tell yourself it’s just the temperature shift from the packed, overheated room. The feeling lingers, subtle and nagging, trickling down your spine before settling deep in your gut. You shake it off, shifting your weight from foot to foot, convincing yourself it’s nothing more than the side effect of being in a crowded space with unfamiliar faces. But as the seconds stretch, so does the discomfort. The undeniable feeling of being watched. A vague, creeping unease, like an itch beneath your skin.

At first, you ignore it. The party is crowded, filled with wandering gazes and fleeting glances. It’s probably nothing. Probably just your imagination. But as the moments stretch, the feeling lingers, heavy and persistent. You force yourself to move, to look natural. You take another sip of your drink, even though the taste is sharp and acrid against your tongue, even though your stomach twists in protest. The burn should be grounding, but it only heightens the awareness prickling along your spine. You scan the room carefully, slower this time, more deliberate. Your gaze drifts past groups of people caught in conversation, past the drunken laughter and the messy dancing, past the flickering glow of the chandeliers overhead. Your fingers tighten around your cup as you look toward the bar, toward the far end of the room where the shadows stretch just a little deeper.

And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s across the room, leaning against the bar like he belongs there, like he owns the place -- oh wait he does. Shit. You're the one who doesn't belong here. A drink dangles loosely in his fingers, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. He’s not talking to anyone, not engaged in the revelry like everyone else. He’s just watching.

Watching you.

His gaze is a weight, heavier than it should be, anchoring you in place even as every nerve in your body is telling you to move. To look away. To do something. But you don’t. You can’t. The darkness in his gaze draws you in too close. The dim lighting carves deep shadows along the sharp edges of his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the cool detachment in his features. He looks almost statuesque, like he was placed there, perfectly sculpted, perfectly still. And yet, despite the stillness, despite the casual way he leans against the bar, drink loose in his grasp, his presence feels anything but passive. It almost feels like an accusatory stare, but something in your gut tells you it's something else.

You swallow hard, pulse flickering unevenly as you force yourself to breathe. He’s like a fixture in the room, unmoving, his presence both effortless and overwhelming. The dim light carves shadows along the sharp lines of his face, accentuating the cool detachment in his gaze. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t pretending not to stare. Doesn’t break the stare. He just is.

You look away, but your body betrays you. A shiver traces your spine, and your fingers tighten around your cup. The weight of his attention settles over you, thick and suffocating. You shift from foot to foot, adjusting your stance, suddenly unsure of yourself in a way you hadn’t been moments before. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s not even looking at you. But when you glance back, just for a second, his gaze hasn’t wavered. The space between you feels charged, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

Your throat is dry, so you take another sip of your drink, trying to dispel the tension. The burn should be grounding, but it only adds to the growing warmth pooling low in your stomach. The room feels different now, like you’ve slipped into another layer of reality where things happen slower, where every movement matters. The ice in your glass has long since melted, leaving behind a diluted, lackluster drink that won’t do anything to soothe the warmth pooling low in your stomach. It’s the perfect excuse. A reason to step away, to put some much-needed space between you and the weight of his gaze, still heavy, still unwavering. The kind of look that sinks beneath your skin and stays there.

A group of people pass between you, momentarily breaking his line of sight. The spell should break. It doesn’t. Your heartbeat presses against your ribs, too fast, too shallow. He’s still watching, still waiting. You tell yourself you’re overreacting.

The other side of the bar feels farther than it should. The walk is a slow unraveling, each step meant to shake off the feeling of his eyes still following you, still holding on even when there’s distance. But it doesn’t work. Your heartbeat presses too hard against your ribs, too shallow, too quick, the way it does when something isn’t quite right. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that it’s just in your head, that you’re overreacting.

But then your head starts to feel heavy.

Your fingers feel a little looser around your cup, but you barely register it. You take another sip, but the taste is wrong now—bitter, artificial. The warmth that had been pleasant before now sits heavily in your stomach, slow, syrupy. A strange warmth spreads through your limbs, slow and unfamiliar. Your vision feels sharper and blurrier at the same time. The music presses against your eardrums, a dull, throbbing hum that no longer matches the rhythm in your chest. The music distorts, stretching and bending at the edges. The lights seem dimmer, then too bright, flickering as if they’re keeping time with your unsteady pulse. The conversations around you feel distant, layered on top of one another like a badly tuned radio. Your breath catches, sharp and uneven. The sensation is gradual, creeping, and for a moment, you convince yourself you’re just tired, or maybe you drank too fast.

You steady yourself, shifting against the wall. But the floor feels different beneath you—less solid, somehow. Your limbs feel lighter, and at the same time, unbearably heavy. A cold sweat beads at the back of your neck. Something isn’t right. But it takes longer for your mind to catch up with your body, to connect the dots between the warmth in your stomach and the sluggish, detached feeling seeping into your bones. Panic claws at your throat. You try to take another step, force yourself to move, but your limbs feel detached, foreign.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to shake the feeling, but it only makes the vertigo worse. The heat of the room presses in on you, suffocating, and the sound of laughter and music stretches, distorts, becomes something distant and hollow. You want to move, want to breathe, but it feels like you’re wading through thick fog, each step heavier than the last.

A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck. Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, erratic and deafening. A sickly nausea curls in your stomach, spreading outward in slow, unbearable waves. The cup in your hand feels impossibly heavy, the plastic slick against your palm. You let it slip from your fingers, hear it hit the floor, but the sound is muffled, insignificant against the chaotic hum surrounding you.

Your vision tunnels, and for the first time, real fear grips you. The once vibrant room is now a mess of shadow and movement, colors bleeding together, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore. You open your mouth, trying to call for your friend, but the words die before they leave your lips, dissolving into a breathless whisper. The realization is slow, unfurling like a nightmare you’re just starting to understand.

Your drink. Something is wrong with your drink.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast, too tight. Your fingers twitch, grasping at nothing, muscles sluggish and unresponsive. The walls seem to bend and stretch around you, the lights overhead shifting like distant stars, too bright, too sharp. You blink rapidly, but it only makes the dizziness worse. The edges of your sight blur further, darkening. The room feels impossibly far away, your awareness slipping, slipping—

And then there’s a presence beside you.

A firm grip on your arm. The touch is steady, grounding, but you barely have the strength to turn your head and see who it is. You don’t have to.

You don’t know who it is.

The scent reaches you first—something clean, sharp, expensive, mixed faintly with alcohol. A voice cuts through the fog, low and steady, but the words slip past your understanding. The presence is steady, firm, an anchor against the overwhelming sensation that you’re floating, weightless. A name—your name?—is spoken again, but it barely registers, as if it belongs to someone else.

You part your lips to respond, but the words slip away before they can form. A strong arm curls around your waist, another against your shoulder. The world tilts, and you realize you’re being lifted. Your body feels light, unmoored, like a doll in someone’s grasp. Your head lolls against a broad chest, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your ear, grounding but distant. Footsteps echo—slow, purposeful—but you barely process them. The lights of the party blur into a smear of gold and shadow, flickering at the edges of your vision as you’re carried away.

The voices, the music, the chaos—it all drifts into silence. The world fades. Everything dissolves into black.

Dawn arrives in fractured light and warmth. The first thing you register is the persistent press of sunlight against your closed eyelids, insistent and intrusive. The dull ache in your skull pulses in synchronicity with your heartbeat. The silences of the space unsettles you—too stark a contrast to the last thing you remember.

A scent infiltrates your awareness—rich, savory. Coffee. Bacon. The comforting familiarity should soothe, but instead, it feeds the dissonance pooling in your gut. The weight of the blankets drapes over you, cool fabric against your overheated skin. Your limbs remain sluggish, burdened by an inexplicable fatigue.

Blinking against the light, you lift a hand to rub at your eyes. The motion feels distant, disconnected, as though your own body resists you. A tremor skates along your fingertips. A creeping unease slithers through you.

The room resolves in pieces. Soft, sun-dappled sheets. A nightstand, its dark wood surface adorned with a solitary glass of water. The low murmur of movement, distant yet present, beyond a partially ajar door. Every detail unfamiliar.

You sit up too fast.

The dizziness crashes into you, rendering the world momentarily unsteady. Your stomach churns in protest. A cold sweat prickles along your spine as you press your palm to your forehead, struggling to tether yourself to the present.

Where are you?

Your breaths come faster, shallower. The space surrounding you—spacious, curated, the kind of elegance that exudes wealth—does not belong to you. The bed is too large, the sheets too luxurious. The walls are adorned with artwork that suggests taste and affluence. This is not yours.

And you do not remember how you got here.

Your stomach knots, nausea clawing its way up your throat. Fragments of the night attempt to surface—the party, the music, the sensation of liquid sliding down your throat, the slow unraveling of your control. A pair of eyes lingering in the distance.

And then—

Nothing.

An abyss where your memory should be.

A new sound pulls you back—footsteps, nearing, steady. Your pulse stutters, skittering in your chest. Fear coils tight in your ribs, an instinctual response to the unknown.

The door swings open.

The figure standing there is silhouetted against the morning light, their presence filling the doorway with an unsettling quiet. You try to focus, to piece together something recognizable—an outline, a familiar stance—but the fog in your mind is thick, unrelenting. Your hands grip the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as your breath catches, morning crust still coating your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Good morning.” The voice is smooth, calm, too composed. It should be comforting. It is not.

Your throat tightens as the memory gap yawns wider. Who is this? And why are you here?

The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with something else—something darker, something you can’t yet name.

And then the figure takes a step forward, slow and deliberate. The weight of their presence fills the space, shifting the atmosphere in an unplaceable way. Shadows stretch and contract in the morning light, their silhouette still obscured by the glare of the sunlit doorway. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each thud a heavy punctuation against the silence.

Your fingers tighten against the sheets, as if their fabric might tether you to some semblance of control. But control is slipping. Your breath catches in your throat as they advance further, their posture unreadable, their face still hidden from view. The scent of coffee lingers, but now it’s mixed with something else—something faintly metallic, almost sterile, unsettling in a way you can’t name.

They pause just short of the bed, standing over you now. A tension lingers in the air between you, thick, expectant. And then—finally—their voice cuts through the quiet again, smooth and even, but carrying an undercurrent of something you can’t yet define.

"You’re awake."

The voice sends a shiver down your spine. Familiar, yet distant. Your eyes finally adjust, your surroundings sharpening into something tangible. The deep mahogany furniture, the neatly pressed linens, the faint scent of cologne woven into the fabric of the room. Recognition dawns in pieces, fragments of memory slipping through the haze like sand through fingers.

Your breath stutters. This is Rafe Cameron’s bedroom.

Panic blooms in your chest, sharp and unrelenting. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, grounding yourself as the weight of realization crashes over you. How did you get here? The last thing you remember—the party, the drink, the slow, dizzying descent into something dark and consuming. Everything after that is a blur, an abyss where memories should be.

The tension in your limbs loosens, but a strange warmth replaces it—one you can’t quite define. The proximity, the realization that he had carried you, that he had seen you at your most vulnerable. A rush of heat blooms beneath your skin.

You shift against the pillows, suddenly hyperaware of the way the fabric clings to your skin. The weight of the night presses down on you, something heavy and lingering, something you can’t shake off. Your arms pull in close to your body, shrinking in on yourself instinctively, the way you might if you were trying to disappear. The feeling creeps in, insidious and unspoken, settling in your chest like an ache.

Rafe notices.

He exhales, his posture shifting as he takes a step closer, then hesitates, watching your reaction. "Nothing happened," he adds, quieter this time, as if anticipating your thoughts. "I just... made sure you were okay."

You swallow, your throat dry. Your fingers twist into the sheets as you nod, the weight of the moment settling over you. He moves again, this time toward the bed, lowering himself onto the edge. The mattress dips under his weight, closing the space between you in an intimate proximity that makes your pulse stutter.

Your breath catches. He took care of you.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, charged, filled with unspoken questions neither of you seems willing to voice. Your gaze flickers to his hands, resting loosely on his lap, his fingers curled slightly as if he’s resisting the impulse to reach out.

You should say something, anything. But all you can do is sit there, the warmth in your cheeks betraying you, your heart hammering against your ribs as you struggle to process what this moment means.

And Rafe just watches, waiting.

"Why?" The word leaves your lips before you can stop it, barely more than a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. It lingers between you, heavier than you intended, like it carries more meaning than just the question itself.

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away again. There’s something about the way he won’t meet your eyes, the way his fingers press into his palms like he’s holding something back.

"You don’t remember much, do you?" His voice is quieter this time, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head, swallowing around the lump forming in your throat. "Not after a certain point. Just… flashes."

You think you see something in his expression shift, something fleeting. His jaw clenches for half a second before he nods, just once, like that was what he expected. And then he looks past you, toward the window, like there’s something out there more bearable to face than this conversation. Like maybe he doesn’t want to see the way you’re looking at him now.

Rafe leans forward, resting his chin slightly down as if in deep thought. His jaw tightens, like he’s considering his words carefully. "Because that party wasn’t for you. You’re not like them."

His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something almost reluctant. As if he’s saying more than just that, as if there’s something else sitting on the edge of his tongue, something he won’t let himself say out loud. Your breath hitches. He noticed you. Not just that you were there, but that you didn’t belong there, that you weren’t the kind of girl who let herself get lost in that world.

His fingers tap absently against his elbow before he exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Without a word, he reaches toward the nightstand, fingers closing around a small, amber bottle. He twists off the cap and shakes out two pills into his palm before handing them to you along with a glass of water.

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to respond to the weight of his words. A thousand questions press at the back of your mind, but none of them make it past your lips. So instead, you just look at him, studying the way his shoulders stay tense, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they rest.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the offering. The silence lingers, thick and unspoken, but he doesn’t push. Just watches, unreadable, until you take them from his hand. The cool glass feels solid in your grip, the only thing grounding you in the moment.

"It'll help," he finally says, voice low, controlled. Not an explanation, not an insistence—just a fact. And then he looks away again, like the moment never happened.

Your heart stutters, warmth creeping up your neck. You aren’t used to this side of him, this quiet sincerity. It makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

You clear your throat softly, fingers tightening around the blanket as you shift. you murmur a quick thank you to him, the words barely above a whisper, like you’re afraid to break the fragile quiet between you, you must have lost your voice last night.

Rafe doesn’t react at first, doesn’t acknowledge it right away. He just sits there, staring at a fixed point on the floor like he’s lost in something too deep to name. And then, finally, he nods—just once, a subtle dip of his chin. No arrogance, no teasing. Just acceptance.

The silence stretches, thick and unmoving, pressing against the walls of the room. The air between you is charged with something neither of you is willing to name, a slow, smoldering tension that lingers in the way he breathes, in the way his fingers twitch just slightly where they rest against his knee. The world beyond the bedroom feels impossibly distant, like something you left behind the moment you opened your eyes.

You can hear your own breathing, the slow, measured inhales that feel too loud in the quiet, the way your pulse thrums against the side of your throat. Everything is heightened, magnified—the subtle shift of the mattress beneath his weight, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of the sheets, the way the sunlight spilling through the curtains catches in his hair, illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

Rafe doesn’t move. He hasn’t since he handed you the water, since he watched you take the painkillers without a word. He just sits there, his posture loose but intent, his forearms resting against lightly against his body, as if he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what. You don’t know if he does either.

Your fingers tighten around the glass, the condensation cool against your skin. The weight of his attention is suffocating, not because it unsettles you, but because it’s steady. Because he’s not watching you the way other people do—not with expectation, not with scrutiny, but with something quieter, something that feels like it belongs entirely to this moment.

You shift beneath the covers, suddenly aware of the space between you, of how small the room feels despite its size. There’s no rush, no urgency, but the tension coils slow and tight in the air between you, a pull that neither of you acknowledges, but neither of you breaks.

You should say something. Maybe to fill the silence, maybe to push away the weight of whatever is settling over the two of you, but the words don’t come. Instead, you glance at him, at the way his jaw is set, the way his gaze flickers—just for a moment—to the space where your hands curl into the blanket, to the way your shoulders have drawn inward, like you’re bracing yourself for something.

The realization lands heavily: he’s waiting for you to be okay.

You exhale, slow, measured. It should ease some of the pressure in your chest, but it doesn’t. The sheets smell like him. The realization makes your stomach twist, sharp and unexpected, and you inhale quickly, trying to steady yourself, to push it away. But it’s everywhere. His scent, his presence, the ghost of the weight of his gaze on you.

Rafe leans back slightly, his movements deliberate, unrushed. He shifts, settling more comfortably, but it does nothing to loosen the tension laced through the room. If anything, it solidifies it, makes it more tangible, makes it something that feels like it could snap at the slightest provocation.

The past few hours are a blur, a haze of flashing lights and distorted sound, of the world tilting beneath your feet, of a hand—his hand—steadying you before everything went dark. And now you’re here, in his bed, wrapped in the lingering remnants of a night you can barely piece together, but one thing is painfully clear: Rafe Cameron didn’t leave you behind.

And that fact, that certainty, makes your stomach twist.

Your fingers toy absently with the edge of the blanket, your gaze trained on nothing in particular. You can feel him watching you, can feel the weight of it in the space between you, in the air that crackles with something unspoken, something slow-burning and unrelenting.

It’s infuriating, the way he’s so still, so quiet, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to make sense of whatever is unraveling inside you. Like he doesn’t care how long it takes.

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he shifts, pushing himself up from the bed with a slow, fluid motion. His presence doesn’t leave with him, though—it lingers, draped over you like a second skin, woven into the air you’re breathing, into the space he just vacated. He pauses near the door, his hand resting loosely on the frame, his body turned slightly like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you, a glance that lasts only a second but feels like it stretches forever, before he turns and disappears into the hallway, leaving you alone with nothing but the ghost of his presence and the steady, relentless pounding of your own heart.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just stand there, staring at each other, something unspoken stretching the space between you like a frayed wire. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your breath catch, makes your fingers twitch at your sides.

The weight of the night still lingers between you, thick like smoke, curling around the edges of whatever fragile thing this is. The silence isn’t empty—it’s full, layered with everything that wasn’t said. The flicker of his throat as he swallows, the way his fingers flex against the counter like he needs something to hold onto. His presence is a solid thing, inescapable.

He clears his throat, breaking the stillness like shattering glass. "I should take you home," he says, voice low, even. "You probably want to get out of here."

You nod automatically, but the motion feels disconnected, like it doesn’t belong to you. The truth is, you don’t know if you want to leave. You don’t know if you’re ready to walk out of this moment, out of this strange and suffocating thing pressing against your ribs. But it’s the logical choice. The right thing to do. So you shift your weight, stepping further into the room as if that will make it easier, as if that will make it feel real.

Rafe watches you for a second longer before pushing off the surface he was leaning on. He moves with the same careful deliberation he always does, like he’s in control of everything, like nothing touches him unless he lets it.

But then, as he reaches for his keys, his jaw tightens. His movements slow. His grip on the metal rings shifts slightly, like he’s debating something, like something about this moment doesn’t sit right with him. And then he looks at you again, his eyes catching yours, something flickering in his expression—something restrained, something almost unreadable.

"Be more careful next time." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges. "

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest as a slight warmness fills your cheeks, even if he can't see it. The words settle between you, heavy. He’s not scolding you, not angry. But there’s something else beneath it, something darker. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. But maybe it's all in your head.

A part of you wants to say something—to defend yourself, to explain—but nothing comes out. You just nod, barely, the movement almost imperceptible. He watches the way your fingers tighten around the hem of your shirt, the way your shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales sharply, turns toward the door, and motions for you to follow.

But the moment doesn’t end there. The shift in the air is subtle, but it’s there. His fingers flex around the keys, his body pausing for just a second longer than necessary before he moves. Like he’s giving you the chance to say something. Like he’s waiting.

You don’t take it.

The cold air hits you the second you step outside, sharp and biting against your skin. It’s the kind of morning that lingers somewhere between the last remnants of night and the hesitant promise of day, the sky washed in pale hues of blue and gray, the world still and quiet.

You don’t say anything, but the shiver that rolls through you betrays you, your body instinctively curling inward as if you can escape the chill. Rafe notices. Of course he does. He hesitates for a second, just a fraction of a beat, then lets out a slow breath, as if he’s annoyed at something—himself, maybe.

Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket.

It’s heavier than you expect when he drapes it over your shoulders, the thick, well-worn material settling around you like a second skin. The scent of him lingers in the fabric—something clean but deep, a mix of faded cologne and the unmistakable warmth of skin, like the kind of comfort you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

The jacket is old, but not in a neglected way. More like it carries weight, history. It’s a varsity jacket, dark navy with white leather sleeves, the kind that looks like it’s seen late-night drives, fights behind stadium bleachers, and moments that don’t belong to you. His name is stitched into the fabric on the chest, subtle but undeniable: Cameron. The embroidered lettering is slightly frayed at the edges, as if it’s been touched too many times, traced over absentmindedly. On the sleeve, a faded championship patch clings to the leather, the numbers slightly worn, a quiet reminder of a past you know nothing about.

But he doesn’t just let it fall into place. His hands stay there, gripping the edges just beneath your collarbone, holding it closed, holding you—if only for a second too long. His touch is light, almost hesitant, but deliberate in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, one that has nothing to do with the cold.

The space between you feels smaller now, the tension stretched taut, humming like a wire between you. His fingers shift slightly, his knuckles grazing your collarbone through the fabric, his touch warm even against the cold bite of the night air. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosts over your cheek, close enough that if either of you leaned in—just a fraction—you’d close the distance entirely.

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to meet yours, something unreadable passing through them, something almost thoughtful, almost careful. It’s a contradiction—the way he holds the jacket like he’s reluctant to let go, yet his jaw is set, his expression betraying nothing.

You swallow, fingers curling around the edges, your hands on top of his, pulling it tighter around yourself. It’s warm, warmer than his hands. Too warm, maybe, but you don’t push it off.

Rafe watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers on you that makes your breath come slower, makes your chest feel too tight and your hands are touching before he reluctantly pulls away, almost as if not to scare you off or harm you.

"It’s cold," he mutters, like that explains it, like that’s the only reason he did it.

You don’t challenge it. Because maybe that’s the reason you don’t take it off, either.

And just like that, whatever this moment was slips away, fading into the morning light as he leads you to his car.

The world beyond the house feels different, like the air is thinner, lighter, no longer weighed down by the silence between you. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you follow him toward his car, your steps feeling almost mechanical. The sky is still streaked with soft shades of dawn, a nostalgic blue still coating the sky, the edges of the horizon tinged with the last remnants of night. The streetlights on the corner on still on,

He unlocks the door, pulling it open for you, but you hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

His fingers tighten around the top of the door, his gaze flickering to yours. But he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You don’t know what you’re looking for. Some kind of confirmation. Some kind of explanation. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. And the space between that feels too charged to make sense of.

You step inside, settling into the seat, the leather cool and smooth beneath you, molded from years of use, broken in but still exuding something undeniably expensive. The scent of rich leather and faint motor oil lingers in the air, a combination of luxury and the kind of careful work that doesn't come from a mechanic’s shop.

The dashboard glows with a soft luminescence, highlighting the precision of the controls—sleek buttons, polished chrome accents, the faint imprint of his hands worn into the steering wheel. The passenger seat, by contrast, is almost untouched. The leather is stiff, uncreased, lacking the wear and shape molded by frequent use. There are no stray belongings, no faint imprints of past passengers, no lingering signs that anyone else has ever sat there. It feels untouched, almost foreign, as though this space was never meant for anyone else. The thought makes your stomach twist, the realization settling in like a whisper you can't quite decipher. For all the history his car carries, for all the work and time poured into every inch of it, this seat feels like it doesn’t belong to anyone—except maybe, just maybe, to you now. The seats cradle you, low and firm, the kind of comfort designed for control at high speeds. A faint scuff on the door panel catches your eye, and you can almost imagine him there, late at night, sleeves pushed up as he worked under dim garage lights, fine-tuning something only he could perfect.

The convertible top is locked in place for now, but the idea of wind rushing past, of the open road stretching ahead, lingers in the air like a promise. This isn’t just a car. It’s his, in every sense of the word. And now, for the first time, you’re inside it.

You grip your hands together in your lap as he closes the door with a quiet click. The sound lingers in the air, final in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The car is dimly lit, the dashboard casting a faint glow across his face, sharpening the lines of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He doesn’t look at you right away, just exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The movement is small, restrained, but you notice it. You notice everything.

The drive is silent. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either. The road stretches ahead, the faint hum of the tires against the asphalt the only sound between you. The air feels heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm, thick with something unsaid.

Your fingers twitch slightly, pressing into the fabric of his jacket still draped over your shoulders. It’s too big on you, the sleeves hanging long past your wrists, the collar brushing against your cheek. The warmth of it, of him, lingers against your skin, a constant reminder that he was close, that he chose to put it there. You could give it back. You should. But you don’t.

The leather of the steering wheel creaks as his hands flex, his grip tightening like he’s forcing himself to keep steady. You steal a glance at him, at the way his jaw tenses, the muscle there twitching slightly. The way his fingers tap once against the wheel before stilling. He’s holding something back, something weighted, and you don’t know if you want him to let it go or keep it buried between you, a secret neither of you knows how to say out loud.

The headlights cast long shadows across the empty road, the outside world slipping by in streaks of gray and muted gold. But inside the car, it’s different. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in a silence that feels almost sacred, like speaking would break something fragile, something delicate.

You shift slightly, the fabric of the seat cool beneath your legs, your knee brushing against the center console. The touch is barely there, a whisper of contact, but his fingers flex again, his grip tightening like he felt it too. Like he’s trying not to react.

You turn your gaze back to the window, but you don’t really see the passing streets. Not when every part of you is aware of him, of the tension strung between you like a wire ready to snap. It hums beneath your skin, lingers in the space between your breaths, curls in the air between you like smoke.

A red light slows the car to a stop. For a moment, the world outside is still, painted in the muted glow of streetlights. You chance another look at him, catching the way his fingers drum lightly against the gear shift, restless. His eyes stay forward, locked on the road, but his shoulders are stiff, coiled with something unreadable.

Then, without looking at you, without taking his eyes off the road, he exhales, slow and measured. "You warm enough?"

It’s nothing. Just words. Just an excuse for something else. But the way he says it, low and rough, makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers curl tighter around the sleeves of his jacket.

"Yeah," you murmur, voice softer than you mean for it to be. "I’m fine."

He doesn’t believe you. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his gaze settling over you, careful but unrelenting. When you finally look at him, his eyes are already on you, studying, assessing, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you even understand yourself.

His grip on the wheel loosens slightly, but he doesn’t look away. It’s not just concern. It’s something quieter, deeper, something that lingers in the way his brows draw together just enough to show he’s holding back words he doesn’t know how to say.

His mouth parts, just slightly, like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers shift against the gear shift again, as if grounding himself, as if trying to keep some sort of distance between whatever is happening between the two of you. But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his throat moves when he swallows, in the way his shoulders seem to tense and relax all at once. And suddenly, the car feels smaller, the air thinner, the space between you pressing in from all angles.

The light turns green, and he finally looks away, jaw tight as he presses down on the gas. But the moment lingers, stretching across the quiet miles, settling somewhere neither of you wants to name.

His fingers drum against the gear shift again, once, twice, before stilling. The light turns green, and the car moves forward, but the moment stays, lingers between you like an unanswered question.

Another mile passes in silence. Another breath held too long before being released. The weight of the night still clings to you, woven into your skin, into the spaces between your ribs. And you know, without him saying it, without needing to ask, that he feels it too.

You tighten his jacket around yourself, pressing your fingers into the thick material. You don’t want to acknowledge how it feels like something you weren’t supposed to have, like something borrowed but not meant to be returned. But neither of you moves to change it.

The distance between you and the night before stretches, but it doesn’t fade. Whatever this is—whatever happened back in that house, in that room, in the space between breaths and silence—it isn’t over.

And somehow, you don’t think it ever will be.

© ER1NNE est. 2024. all rights reserved. unauthorized use, duplication, or reposting of any original content from this blog without explicit permission is prohibited. please respect the creator’s work.

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azullumi · 2 days ago

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"to your never, to my nothings" ; phainon

premise— he had never known the extent of his affection, of his adoration, until he had looked for you everywhere he went, searching for a semblance of you in a crowd. an unfortunate thing, however, as everyone knows that he likes you, except you. content tags & warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | one-sided pining (somehow), fluff, v3.0 trailblaze mission mentioned and used, lovesick phainon i advocate, reader is a normal citizen, phainon worries about reader, not proofread | wc: 1.4k | tagging: @felibrary

"jellyfish" — i hit my shin against the edge of the table while i was writing this and i nearly died

Not a single person is unaware of the affections a certain Chrysos Heir holds towards you.

The three children who bear different smiles were the first to notice—subtle, fleeting glimpses that betrayed PHAINON's carefully composed facade. They see the gleam in his eyes, talking—or gossiping—it among themselves even as he stands right there, lips pressed into a thin line, unable to protest without confirming their suspicions. The heat creeping up his neck is answer enough.

He can’t say anything against it, but only asking them to not tell anyone about it, albeit they tease him further. However, nothing can escape the golden threads of a certain demigod as the man found himself conversing in a topic about the weight of his feelings and the weight of his responsibility.

Then guess what happens after? Yes, news travels fast—like wildfire carried by the idle breeze—reaching Mydei because how come he also has something to say?

And of course; “Lord Phainon, your ears are red.” The lady, adorned with flowers, would say as they walked away from your store after the man himself insisted that he had to check on something, on you. Phainon brushes it off, muttering something about the weather being unusually warm. Albeit his deflection is as transparent as glass and the only thing helping him is the fact that he's a step ahead and Castorice couldn’t see the red that dusts his cheek.

He knows he adores you, and perhaps it is a terrible thing that he loves you more than he loves himself, because your name itself reverberates through the hollow chambers of a heart that beats only for you, his thoughts composing a fine melody that yearns for you to feel the same. And when the Titan of Strife had come to strike the city, the tremble of his fingers and the falter of his composure disturbed the calm waters of his gaze.

“The city is under attack!”

The sound of rubble crashing down, a cloud of dust and thick smoke consuming the place, chaos and screams everywhere filling all of his senses. His eyes flick over from one place to another, his feet never stopping as he runs, brandishing his blade against titankins who stand in his way. His gaze searched for you amidst the fire and debris but you were nowhere to be found; he had asked citizens for any sights of you and got nothing at the same.

Fear seeps into his skin, violently clawing and numbing him, an icy grip tightening around his chest. But before he could let the feeling consume him, a fragile, desperate voice pierces through the haze of destruction.

“Phainon!” His head whips around so quickly you fear it could have snapped in half. A blur of smoke and shattered concrete, and then, you’re there. Relief washed over him like a violent wave and he nearly dropped his claymore at once; the heavy weight that dragged his footsteps against pavement became light, his legs moving before his mind could catch up, and before you could even comprehend it, you’re pulled in a tight embrace.

“You’re alright.” He says, low and breathless, his voice trembling as words stumble out, scratched with exhaustion and raw relief. You feel him relax as you pat his back, comforting him as the warmth of his own spill into yours.

Phainon releases you moments after, his hands lingering as he checks up on you for any wounds you might have. His expression doesn’t relent and you have to reassure him that you’re fine—but he doesn’t believe you, not until he’s certain with his own eyes. However, his fingers brush against a spot on your arm, and before you can stifle it, a wince slips past your lips.

Thus, he sees it—a gash that begins from your forearm, extending to near your elbow, and his face tightens with a grimace. You jerk your arm away instinctively, turning from him to hide the wound, and the gesture cuts deeper than you intend. His lips part, trembling slightly, trying to find the words to say.

His hand tries to reach for you but it simply hangs in the air, hesitation lingering in his bones, and it falls away to his side.

“Phainon,” You say firmly, your gaze stilling on him, laced with conviction as if nothing he will say will move you. “ I’m okay, but there are others who are not.”

“But—”

“You must go.”

He is reminded of his responsibility once more, of the constant voice of his duty whispering against his ear, of the weight of the prophecy and his title—it draws a blatant line between you and him, making him fearful to cross it.

A bitter smile crosses your lips when you see his reluctance, your voice taking on a gentler tone when you speak: “It’s alright, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” Your words don't scour the tension on his shoulders but it managed to carve away the sharp edges of his worry. Not entirely, but enough. He exhales a slow, weary sigh—a quiet surrender—and steps closer.

Without a word, Phainon tears a strip of fabric from his cape, the sound of ripping cloth sharp against the quiet between you. The chaos, the sound of destruction around you seem to have faded into nothing as the world holds its breath for the two of you.

His hands move with practiced care, fingers steady despite the storm lingering behind his eyes. He wraps the makeshift bandage around your wound, his touch feather-light, as if afraid you might shatter under the weight of it. His brows furrowed with concentration, but there’s a softness there too, woven into the way he avoids pressing too hard, the way his thumb brushes over your skin like an apology he can’t speak aloud. All the while, you watch him, listening as he tells you to look for the High Priest, Tribios, for safety.

You don’t say a word, instead, you just nod, because it’s easier than admitting the fear clawing at your ribs. His hand hovers near yours, as if he wants to say more, do more—but instead, he steps back, leaving a hollow space where his warmth had just been.

And he leaves.

But you, the recipient of these affections, however, is oblivious. The very person who mistakes every small gesture, every stolen glance, every carefully chosen word, as nothing more than the courtesy of a Chrysos Heir fulfilling his duty. You dismiss his offers of assistance with casual gratitude, his thoughtful gifts as tokens of mere friendship. You brush off the moments when his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens when it’s your name on his lips.

“You’re a great friend, Phainon.” You’ve told him once. Friend. Friend. The word itself echoes, clinging to the corners of his mind, a bittersweet anthem that both comforts and torments. He wears the title with a quiet resignation, even as his soul yearns for more.

But who was he to expect more? After all, he’s not pursuing you with grand gestures or bold confessions, the way love stories are. Yet, it’s the small things that betray him—the quiet, unnoticed acts that slip through the cracks of his careful restraint. Like how he willingly takes the longest routes, detours woven into his path with the fragile hope of glimpsing you by chance. Like how his hands seem to find trinkets and gifts that remind him of you, delicate offerings tucked into his pockets until he can gather the courage to present them, just to see that fleeting smile bloom on your lips.

And it is never for the hope of you liking him back. But surely, surely you should notice.

Maybe it’s the way his voice falters slightly when he says your name, or how his gaze softens in a crowd when he finds you, like a lighthouse catching sight of home. Maybe it’s the silence between his words, filled with everything he wishes he could say but can't because his feelings are messy, irrational things—and yet, here he is, drowning in them.

Maybe it’s the way he stands a little too close, but not close enough, like the distance is both a comfort and a curse.

But you don’t notice. And perhaps you never will.

Yet, even if his words remain unheard, even if his gestures remain unseen, even if you’ll never know, he finds solace in being able to adore you from afar. The fire consumes him quietly, burning bright and unseen, tucked beneath the layers of his being. And he carries it quietly, like a secret melody only he can hear—serene, enduring, and his alone, etched not in words, but in the spaces between.

#honkai imagines #honkai #honkai x reader #honkai star rail #honkai sr #hsr imagines #hsr #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon #amphoreus #phainon hsr #phainon fluff #hsr x reader #star rail #hsr phainon x reader #hsr fluff #azul.writes

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gangstalkerbarbie · 2 days ago

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People treat autistic people as if they're, like, fairies or something, completely incomprehensible to the rest of man and ontologically not capable of anything we would call sin. They just work so differently, you know? Except they don't.

Actually it's just a brain wiring that makes you interpret the world in a specific way that, when you interact with the majority of people, who are allistic, unfortunately causes all of you misery.

There's nothing about that that education can't fix. I'm allistic, my mother isn't, I spent my whole life in the misery vortex usually experienced by autistic people, and what I got from there was an ability to come off almost kind of quasi-normal to autistic people by autistic standards. I thought I was stupid and broken and wrong on the inside, but I was perfectly able to be perfectly charming and normal, for a while.

My autistic friends frequently try to claim me, which is annoying but I see why — what allistic has ever been taught to understand them and value their perspective? No allistic could be except someone like me, with a largely autistic family who all believed that they were the norm or even an ideal and lived in a curated world largely designed around their preferences. We're just not that frequently the neurominority anywhere.

There's a specific way that autism interfaces with patriarchy and with the internet that produces recognizable effects:

Most autistic women, being women, internalise that the problem is them and live lives full of suffering, in the full belief that they could never even intellectually grasp what it is to be "normal". Some autistic women reject this paradigm but only have one other to turn to, and this is the type specimen of the femcel, a noble but tragically tormented creature.

A concerning number of dipshit autistic men start chanboards where they convince each other that they are the human default and socialize each other into considering the most unhinged and depraved shit normal, and then launch psyops against wider society from there because... something or other, resentment and noncomprehension probably, I don't know, I don't care. They used to do this in different ways in the analog world (if you've met enough clerics in any religion you will instantly know what I mean), the internet just made it easier.

Dipshit allistic men browse them too, but they don't usually live there, whereas the way it's designed and the ostensible community culture is engineered by autistic megachuds to attract and retain more of themselves in an endless, fetishistic spiral of miserywank. Somehow we've arrived at a point in the culture where young boys think they're super cool because they're under an impression that the insanity on those forums is what grownup society is really like under a veneer of feminism, which is bad because it means they have to listen to mommy.

The humour on there toes a specific line between casual self-deprecation, countercultural edgelorddom and internalised ableism that is deeply appealing to little boys, a weak demographic that everything male and older than them shits on from a giant sequoia and has in every patriarchy since the dawn of human memory. (Granted, less in some than others. Jewish men tend to be kind of normal about little Jewish boys.)

Autistic kids are particularly vulnerable to being groomed into such cultures because they offer them alternatives to an allistic world that doesn't want to try to understand them and punishes them for trying to understand it, and when you combine it with the general patriarchal impulse to solve all problems with mass violence, well.

I think this is a new phenomenon, probably enabled by online gaming, because I don't know how else this demographic would manage to interface with impressionable schoolchildren not already in the loop. But the way it works is very old, and it puts grown men into the world who think being autistic while male is a form of oppression so severe that they should just be allowed to do whatever to whoever in recompense. Call them out? They don't even have to defend themselves, people who want to use autistic people to virtue signal and believe that autistic men are all harmless little infantile oompsymoompsyboos will do it for them.

A mirror of this is readily observed on tumblr, where any time you tell someone with demonstrably similar socialisation that they worded something in a way that was kind of fucking shitty, they jump down your throat to tell you off for tone policing a 31-year-old neurodivergent minor.

Except I don't have to give a shit what anyone on here says ever, at all, whereas on 4chan the culture is gleefully violent and supportive of doxxing in exactly the kind of way you could expect from a collection of rancidly pseudo-macho autistic chuds who internalised the rules of the playground in 1990 and decided they applied to everything forever.

between kanye, elon, and thousands of misogynistic twerps on the internet i think we should finally be allowed to talk about how autistic men kinda suck and do weaponize their condition to excuse awful behavior.

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heliosunny · 2 days ago

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Then can I ask for something with Nanook and a darling who's a bit of a walking calamity? They don't do it on purpose. Just they presence tends to Tigger chain reactions that bring civilizations down. Whatever it's the reason they interest Nanook or of if it's a manifestation of they interest is the darling is up to you.

Yandere!Nanook x Reader

Y/N L/N is your name. But instead of calling you by that, you had been called many things—an omen, a harbinger of ruin, a god of misfortune. People feared your presence, though you had never once raised a hand against them. Their crops withered, their cities fell, their stars dimmed in the sky, and yet, you were only ever a traveler.

But you had learned not to dwell on it.

The galaxy was vast, filled with wonders beyond comprehension. If one world collapsed, there was always another waiting, glimmering in the distance. And so, you wandered, a being untethered by time or fate, carrying nothing but the echoes of places left behind.

You had long stopped trying to stay.

People either feared you or sought to use you. The few who welcomed you with open arms never lasted long. You had learned to laugh at it, to brush off the weight of it all.

"Well, that was unfortunate." you would hum to yourself, standing at the edge of yet another ruined city. "Guess I'll be moving on."

It was easier that way.

-----

The planet had been thriving once. You could still see the remnants of its beauty—the intricate spires of its capital, now crumbling under fire and smoke. The streets, once filled with life, were now silent, save for the crackling embers of ruin.

You had only arrived yesterday.

A sigh left your lips as you stood at the edge of the city, hands on your hips.

This one fell fast.

Usually, it took weeks, sometimes months, before the cracks started showing. You hadn't even had the chance to try the street food yet.

You took a step forward, the dust swirling at your feet.

It's not my fault, you reminded yourself. It never was. You didn't start the fires. You didn't bring the war. These things simply... happened.

You had accepted that a long time ago.

Still, there was something odd about this one.

The destruction felt too clean, too deliberate. Normally, disasters were random—an accident here, a misfire there, the slow decay of systems failing in impossible ways. But this?

You crouched, running your fingers over the cracked stone.

There were scorch marks, yes. But beneath them, you could see the symbols. The same ones you'd glimpsed on other fallen worlds, carved into ruins, etched into broken walls.

No.

Not again.

The realization settled over you like a suffocating weight.

You had always known there were those who whispered your name with reverence. You had heard rumors of a sect— fanatics who believed in the divine cycle of destruction. But you had never given them much thought.

People believe all sorts of things. You had told yourself that more times than you could count.

But this was different. This was too much.

The symbols, the way the city had burned—it wasn’t coincidence. This had been orchestrated.

Had it always been like this? Had your travels, your carefree wandering, been nothing more than a trail of kindling for someone else to set alight?

You stumbled back, shaking your head. No, no, that couldn’t be right. You had seen worlds fall before—seen them unravel by sheer misfortune, by the unseen force that clung to you like a curse. But this?

They were doing this in your name.

And then, the air shifted.

"Why do you weep?"

The voice was smooth, slow, and laced with amusement. It came from behind you, curling around your spine like the first tremor of an earthquake.

You turned.

A figure stood amidst the ruins, haloed by golden light. His form was vast, shifting between something human and something impossibly cosmic, as if the very fabric of existence bent to accommodate him. His eyes burned with the light of dying stars, watching you with something akin to fondness.

Nanook.

But why in that form?

You had never seen them before—not in all your wanderings, not in all the deaths that trailed in your wake.

But they had been watching.

"Why do you despair?" Nanook asked. They gestured to the ruins, to the smoldering city beneath your feet. "You were not made for weak, fleeting things."

Their presence swallowed the world around you, vast and consuming. As Nanook stepped closer, and the ground trembled beneath them.

"You were made for me."

Nanook’s words rang in your skull like a bell, reverberating through your bones with an awful certainty.

"No," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wasn’t made for anyone."

Nanook only chuckled. It was a deep, resonant sound, something that should have belonged to a being incapable of laughter.

"Is that what you believe?"

Their gaze swept over you, and there was something terribly fond in the way they looked at you—like a collector admiring the rarest piece in their possession. "You have wandered for so long, destroying all that you love, running from the truth carved into your very existence. And yet, you still resist."

Your nails dug into your palms.

"I never wanted this" you snapped, the weight of it all crashing down. "I never wanted them to—" Your throat closed up, bile rising in your chest as you gestured wildly at the ruins around you. "They did this in my name, Nanook! They burned this city to the ground, they slaughtered people because they thought it would please me!"

Nanook watched you, unbothered by your outburst.

"And?"

The word made you flinch.

"And—?" you echoed, voice cracking. "And you think that’s fine? That this is—" You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "No. No, I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this."

Nanook sighed, as if indulging a stubborn child.

"You misunderstand." Their hand remained outstretched, waiting. "This is not about what you want. It never has been."

"You were never meant for fragile things, my love." Nanook's voice curled around you like silk, patient and inescapable. "You were never meant to hold, only to break. You have always known this."

No, no, that wasn’t true. You had held things before. You had loved cities, people, fleeting moments of warmth. You had admired the way life bloomed in the strangest places, had marveled at art, at music, at the endless wonders the universe had to offer.

But all of it—all of it had crumbled the moment you got too close.

The child who had given you a flower had fallen ill the next day, their village lost to an inexplicable plague.

The man who had offered you shelter had perished in a fire that consumed everything he owned.

The kingdom that had welcomed you as a guest had been swallowed by war before the week’s end.

No matter what you did, no matter how carefully you walked, everything you loved was destined to die.

The realization hit you like a blow to the ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Nanook took another step forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. They towered over you, vast and endless, a being that could not be escaped.

"Come, there is nothing for you in this fragile world. Leave it behind, and I will give you something eternal."

"And if I refuse?"

Nanook’s smile widened, slow and knowing.

"You won’t."

Their hand finally met your cheek, warm and firm, and the cosmos cracked open beneath your feet.

Nanook’s fingers brushed against yours, warm and steady.

You didn’t pull away this time.

There was no fear in their touch, no trembling hesitation like the mortals who had once tried to hold you. Nanook was not afraid that you would break them—because they could not be broken.

"You think you understand me" you murmured, lifting your gaze. "But you weren’t there."

Nanook tilted his head slightly, waiting.

"You weren’t there when the child who gave me a flower grew sick the next day." Your voice was even, but the words weighed heavy. "You weren’t there when I was chased out of cities for bringing ruin to their gates. When people cursed my name, when I—" You swallowed. "When I tried to stay, only to watch everything fall apart."

A quiet moment passed. The cosmos stretched endlessly around you, golden constellations pulsing like a slow heartbeat.

Then, Nanook spoke.

"And yet, you still sought fragile things."

You looked away. "Of course, I did."

"Why?"

You hesitated. The answer should have been simple. Because they were beautiful. Because even if you had lost everything, for a brief moment, you had been happy.

But saying it felt foolish now.

"Then why are you here?" you asked.

"Because you are mine."

You felt the weight of those words settle deep in your chest.

"If I were truly yours, Nanook," you murmured, "wouldn’t I have gone to you long ago?"

Their lips curved into something almost indulgent.

"You were always coming to me." Nanook lifted a hand, tracing a single golden finger along your temple—not forceful, just a reminder of their presence. "You simply took the longer path."

"If I stay," you said carefully, "I need to know one thing."

Nanook watched you patiently. "Speak."

"Are you keeping me because I interest you? Or because you care for me?"

For the first time, Nanook was quiet.

Not because they didn’t know the answer—no, you could tell that they did. But rather because Nanook understood why you were asking.

"Do you think an Aeon incapable of both?"

You weren’t sure.

But for now, you listened.

------

The journey back was unlike anything you had experienced before.

Nanook did not walk. They did not travel.

Instead, the universe itself bent around them, folding and shifting, until the mortal world disappeared entirely—until there was nothing but golden infinity.

You had always assumed the realm of Aeons was a void of silence and solitude, but now… you realized you were wrong. Well maybe.

Because there were others.

They stood beyond the light, their forms shifting, flickering between shapes that barely registered to your mortal perception. Some resembled human figures, adorned with celestial robes, their faces obscured by divine masks. Others were puppet-like constructs, their limbs moving with an eerie smoothness, as if they existed outside of time itself.

Aeons.

They had gathered here. Just to witness a sight. You and Nanook.

The air in the realm hummed with energy, shifting with unspoken words. The Aeons did not communicate as mortals did, yet their attention was unmistakable.

They were looking at you.

Not with the wary glances of mortals, nor the outright fear you had grown accustomed to.

No—this was curiosity.

A voice, layered and eternal, echoed in the void.

"A mortal…? No. Not quite."

A figure wrapped in deep blues and endless constellations observed you with something akin to amusement. Their presence felt like an ocean of knowledge—one that could drown you if you ventured too deep.

"How strange" another mused. "How fragile. Yet still standing beside the Destroyer."

You stiffened, your hands clenching the cloak Nanook had given you.

Nanook did not react at first. They simply stood beside you, golden light radiating from their being. Unmoved. Unbothered.

Until one Aeon took a step forward.

Unlike the others, this one was smaller, their form shifting between a marionette-like construct and something more fluid, their movements unnatural yet entrancing.

"Tell me, Nanook…" Their voice curled through the air like silk laced with hidden thorns. "What makes this one so… special?"

The moment the words were spoken, a shift occurred.

The golden void around you grew heavier, denser, as if unseen hands had pressed against reality itself.

Nanook did not move, but you could feel it—the silent command, the unspoken warning.

"They are mine."

The Aeons did not challenge Nanook’s claim.

But they did observe.

Their gazes weighed on you, some in curiosity, others in calculation. You could not tell what they saw—what conclusions they drew from your presence beside Nanook.

But you knew this:

You did not belong here.

And yet…

You looked to Nanook.

They stood beside you, their golden radiance unwavering.

You did not belong anywhere else, either.

The weight of the Aeons’ gazes still lingered on your skin long after you and Nanook had left. The journey through the cosmos was not something you could truly comprehend.

One moment, the void stretched infinitely around you, the stars shifting in ways that defied logic. The next, reality bent, and you stood on solid ground.

Except…

It wasn’t solid at all.

You looked down, and the "floor" beneath you was a sea of golden dust, shifting with unseen currents, swirling like sand caught in an eternal storm.

Yet, despite its movement, you did not sink.

Above, the sky was fractured light—not a sun, not a moon, but something vast, illuminating the endless horizon. Floating structures loomed in the distance, remnants of something once grand but now long destroyed, left to drift as ruins across the golden expanse.

The air was not air. There was no wind, no temperature—only Nanook’s presence, filling the space like a constant hum beneath your skin.

This was not a place meant for mortals.

This was their domain.

And you… You were standing within it.

You took a slow step forward, the golden dust shifting beneath your weight, parting as if making way for you.

Nanook observed in silence, their humanoid form beside you as still as the remnants of the world around you.

“…This is your universe?” you finally asked, your voice quiet.

They turned their head slightly, their unreadable golden eyes locking onto you. “It is.”

You exhaled softly, scanning the endless horizon. “It feels…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “...Lonely.”

"It was."

Was?

You turned to them fully. Nanook simply continued to watch you, their expression unreadable—divine and unknowable, yet something about them felt so terribly certain.

A strange emotion settled between you, unspoken yet undeniable.

You were not sure if you should break it. But you did.

“...Show me more?” Your voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “Of your world?”

Something shifted in Nanook’s gaze.

"Come."

They did not need to take your hand, nor did they need to guide your steps.

And yet, as you walked forward, they remained beside you.

-----

It started as something subtle.

At first, you thought it was simple exhaustion, the weight of everything that had happened, the endless journey through Nanook’s realm, the way the golden dust never settled beneath your feet.

But then… it got worse.

Each day, moving became harder. Your limbs felt heavy, your breath came shallower, the energy that once surged through you was slipping.

And Nanook knew.

They had known before you even realized.

"You are fading."

You felt their touch, felt a hand at your back, another cupping your cheek.

"This universe does not welcome you."

This was Nanook’s domain—a universe meant to be ruled, not inhabited. The very essence of destruction that pulsed through it rejected you. Slowly, surely, it was breaking you down.

And yet, Nanook would not allow it.

"You need me."

The words were absolute. Not a question. Not an offer.

At first, you resisted.

You tried to manage on your own, ignoring the weakness in your limbs, the slow ache in your bones. But Nanook was always there.

And the moment you staggered—just once—their arms were around you, catching you with terrifying ease.

"Enough."

You felt the shift before you saw it, Nanook pulling you against them, their energy pouring into you, wrapping around your very being.

It was intoxicating. Like warmth after a bitter cold, like air after drowning. Like salvation.

Your fingers clutched at them before you even realized it. Your body betrayed you, seeking them, clinging to them.

And Nanook smiled.

"You understand now, don’t you?"

"You are mine. And I will never let you wither."

It became routine.

Each day, Nanook would feed you their energy, keeping you whole. A hand at your nape, fingers ghosting over your wrist, an arm slipping around your waist. Constant.

Every moment, you became more reliant.

Every moment, Nanook tightened their hold.

-----

"I want to go back."

Your voice was quieter than you intended, but the weight of it still hung in the air of Nanook’s realm.

The Aeon of Destruction did not answer immediately. Their form loomed above you. Their fingers, which had been idly tracing the curve of your wrist, stilled.

"You wish to leave me?"

"Not... leave" you corrected quickly, gripping their hand before they could pull away. "Just… visit. A planet. Somewhere familiar. Just for a while."

"You do not understand your place yet."

Their fingers trailed to your chin, tilting it up, forcing you to meet their gaze.

"But you will."

You expected them to refuse.

But instead, light surged around you, and before you could react—

You were falling.

When you opened your eyes, you were standing on solid ground.

The sky stretched endlessly above you, the air crisp and filled with distant voices. A city hummed with life ahead, its streets bustling, its towers standing tall.

It was beautiful.

It was alive.

For the first time in so long, you felt real again.

And yet, the moment you stepped forward, something cracked.

A distant sound. You turned sharply.

Nanook stood behind you in silence.

"Go on" they murmured. "Walk."

You frowned but obeyed, moving toward the city. And as you did, the streets darkened, the lights flickered, the air grew heavier. A ripple of unease spread through the people, their voices faltering, their steps slowing. You barely noticed it at first. But then a single, horrifying scream ripped through the air. Buildings trembled. Glass shattered. A wave of unseen force spread outward, like a silent explosion tearing through the city.

You stopped.

The destruction stopped.

Your breath came fast, uneven. Your hands were shaking. Your presence alone had done this.

"Do you understand now?"

"You were never meant to walk among them."

You turned to them, chest heaving, the weight of reality crashing down on you.

"This is why you will never leave me."

Nanook stepped closer, fingers brushing against your cheek—not cruel, not forceful. Just… inevitable.

"You belong at my side."

Their lips ghosted over your ear, their voice a whisper of divine possession.

"Come home."

And despite everything—despite the fear, the sorrow, the ruin you had witnessed, you did.

Because Nanook was right.

One moment you were still on the planet, the next you were back in Nanook’s realm. You barely had time to catch your breath before warm hands were on you.

"You see now" Nanook murmured, drawing you closer, deeper into their grasp. "There is nothing for you beyond me."

You had fought for so long, fought against the weight of your own existence, fought against the inevitability of Nanook’s grasp.

But now, standing before them, shaken and drained, you felt the exhaustion settle into your bones. You felt the relief of being caught.

Of being wanted, despite it all.

"I have you" they whispered against your ear, their touch firm, unrelenting.

"I will always have you."

The next breath you took was shaky. Nanook’s presence was too much—too close, too overwhelming.

Their fingers traced over your wrist, the touch left an energy that thrummed beneath your skin, lighting your nerves aflame.

"You were made to fit into my hands" they murmured. Heat curled in your stomach at their tone.

Their lips brushed against your temple, soft at first. Then your cheek.

Your breath hitched as you felt their warmth ghost over your skin, testing, savoring. Their grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, pulling you flush against them.

"You need me" Nanook whispered against your pulse, their lips barely skimming it.

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you—leaning into them.

"Say it."

Your fingers curled into their clothes, nails pressing against them in silent defiance. But your body had already surrendered.

"Say that you are mine."

"I’m yours."

The words left your lips barely above a whisper—shaky, breathless.

But Nanook heard.

"Good."

"You belong to me. No one else will ever hold you like this. No one else will ever touch you like this."

You let them guide you, let them mold you into the shape they desired. Let them worship you.

"Mine"

And you accepted it.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #nanook #nanook hsr #hsr nanook #nanook x reader

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krakereir · 2 days ago

Text

Part 2 - My Best Friend's Girl (you're something else) Trafalgar Law x reader

18+ Rating: E - Sexual content. 10k. fem!reader

PART 1 HERE

They find their seats, but as Law pulls up his phone to switch it off, yes, he switches his phone off at the movies, it’s not that weird, he sees that she’s sent him a new message. A new picture. No no no no, not now. Bad idea. Unfortunately, there’s no way he can refrain from looking at it now that he knows it exists. That would be asking his imagination to fire up all his dirty fantasies right before the movie starts. He’ll just have a short peek. Who knows, maybe it isn’t even- Fuck. Law is fucked.

“So Penguin is dating Shachi,” Law says the moment Bepo picks up his call.

“Hey Law!” Bepo answers and though he sounds like his usual cheerful self, there’s a subtle, yet unmistakable nervousness to his tone of voice.

“And you knew,” Law continues.

“Well, I-” Bepo begins.

“So when I called you last week complaining about Penguin’s girlfriend-”

“Law,” Bepo pleads.

“-it didn’t occur to you to mention that he can’t have one?”

Only silence meets him at the other line.

“Why? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It wasn’t my place,” Bepo explains. Law waits for him to continue and after another pause Bepo does so, albeit reluctantly. “If for any reason Penguin lied to you and said that he got a girlfriend, it wouldn’t be right to tell on him, not even to you.”

“You couldn’t even have told me that he by chance also has a sister with the same name? That it all could be a big misunderstanding?”

“Law, you’re being unreasonable. Two people can be named the same thing.”

“I know that! But-” Law sputters. “Well, it’s just- Argh!”

“I know,” Bepo says and Law could have sworn it sounds like he’s holding in laughter.

Oh, so this is funny to him?

“So when are you arriving today?” Bepo asks and Law decides to let it all go for now.

“I got off the train just now, but there’s a lot happening today, opening of the conference, dinner and probably drinks afterwards,” Law says with open disgust. Just the thought of the kind of people he’ll be forced to be congenial with is making him sick to his stomach.

“Are you still free tomorrow evening?”

“As planned I have bought our tickets for the movie at 8.30pm tomorrow.”

“You’ve booked them already?” Bepo says, now openly laughing. “Law, this is a small town, you don’t have to book cinema tickets in advance on a tuesday.”

“I know that,” Law protests, “but now we have good seats. You know I hate sitting up front.”

Bepo laughs again and all the nagging in Law’s brain has been silenced, he smiles too as he wonders how a town as unassuming and unpleasant as this one could feel so much like home.

----

In the days that have passed since Sunday, and the dramatic reveal of Penguin’s true relation to Y/N, Law has been feeling off.

Of course it was a nice surprise. He was happy to learn that she was single and very likely interested and first and foremost, NOT dating one of his best friends. Yes, it made him happy.

It just left him feeling, well, off.

Just the tiniest bit unbalanced. Ever so slightly unwell. High-strung, jumpy and a little sweaty. Totally normal bodily fluctuations that don't necessarily mean anything.

The problem was just that the situation was so… anticlimactic. In the true sense of the word.

They didn’t even kiss.

No wonder he was feeling high-strung. It’s only natural.

He didn’t manage to get even one measly little peck and the most frustrating part is that it was absolutely his fault. She threw herself at him all week and when it was revealed that he could act upon all his indecent desires, that she wanted him to, he didn’t do anything. They formally exchanged numbers and a mutual interest in seeing each other again as if they were at the end of a fucking job interview. But really, what else could he have done with the threat of Penguin constantly looming over them like a hawk?

Still, he can’t shake the feeling of having lost his chance. Why couldn’t he have made a bolder move when he had her right there? She had basically confessed to seducing him.

Law would be lying if he said that it didn’t still drive him crazy just to think about that part.

Especially now when it’s early in the morning and he finds himself hundreds of miles away in a tiny hotel room with the blinds down and his hand down his pyjama pants, lazily jerking himself off, wishing he had her at the other side of the wall again.

Looking back on last week, Y/N’s actions are even more arousing now that she has confirmed that it was all for him. It was all to seduce him.

He’s jerked off to the memory of her sounds so many times that his fantasies have practically overwritten his memories by now. He finds it difficult to differentiate between what really happened and what he later has made up in a daydream, attempting to fill in the blanks. It’s still effective material, but when he knows that the real thing might be within his reach it ends up lacking.

He slows down the pace even further to make himself last longer. He knows the climax will be nice, but again, lacking, and as long as he keeps it at bay, his pent-up mind half-way believes that it’s not his own hand making him come.

In his head, he can see how pretty she would be underneath him. He would take it slow and she would complain. She would be so fucking needy. Maybe she would try pushing his buttons to provoke him. Shove and hit and pull and bite. She would bite him hard and he still wouldn’t budge. Then when the time was right, he would-

Beep beep, be-be-beep beep, beep beep

Fuck.

He forgot to turn the alarm off when he woke.

The annoying melody drags him down from his high, unfortunately skipping the release, and he regrets dragging out the climax, but finds himself depressingly indifferent to whether he reaches it or not.

With a groan he grabs his phone to turn it off, but as he does he sees something that brings back all the excitement and more to spare.

Two new messages. One text and one… picture.

Y/N When are you coming back?

It’s so simple, so casual and really could mean nothing at all, but then the picture beneath loads.

It shows her face and naked shoulders lit up by an early beam of sunlight. She’s lying on a bed with two fingers stuck in her mouth as if she’s licking something off of them. It’s a beautifully filthy picture. So subtle in its suggestiveness that it in turn becomes pornographic, offering everything up to imagination, but with a subtext clear as day.

Law can’t deny the grin spreading on his face at the sight, he wouldn’t want to. He collapses back on the bed, phone in his hand, and finishes what he started, swiftly and passionately.

----

One day earlier

When Y/N wakes up in her own apartment for the first time in a week, it’s a disappointment. It feels like waking up from a very pleasant dream to see that your everyday is bleak and lonely in comparison. What she priorly thought of as a quite pleasant apartment now seems boring. And empty.

She feels defeated. She had the chance of a lifetime, a week living in the same apartment as the boy of her dreams with her neurotic brother way out of the picture. She had 6 whole days and still she couldn’t bag him.

She shakes the disappointment away and gets up, getting in the mindset of a new day. A new, normal day. It’s not so bad.

She works part time in the small, independent camera shop where the pay is as bad as the people are nice. In the beginning she was hired to help them move the bookkeeping to a digital system and keep up the website, but as the years went by business declined horribly and now there’s only a handful of employees who haven't left for where the grass is greener, so the manager needs her help with a lot more. She likes that it’s varied, but it’s not as flexible as it used to be when she mostly did digital work.

Once upon a time her friends and family were shocked when she told them she would become something as mundane as an accountant, but to her it was never a hard decision. At least you can do bookkeeping from Bali. And it’s a pleasure to keep an independent shop afloat, albeit barely.

Today she’s been more restless than usual and the last couple of hours before they close she’s left alone to tend the shop, which means that instead of being cooped up in the dark room, which she is partial to, she has to stand up front at the cashier, which she finds horribly boring.

No one has come by in almost an hour now and she’s starting to consider leaving a note and going out back again when the doorbell tells her that someone’s entered the shop. She looks up to see-

“Shachi! What are you doing here?”

“Pen mentioned that you were working today, so I thought I’d stop by,” he grins. “He recommended that I come see it before it goes out of business and you lose your job.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” she teases back. “I’m closing up in 40 min, do you want to wait and then grab a bite?”

“Nah, I don’t have much time. Just wanted to say hi.”

“Well, it’s not much,” she says, gesturing to the one room shop they’re in, “but it’s a lot more fun than other jobs I’ve had.”

“I didn’t know you were into photography.”

“I guess I have developed an interest as a result of working here,” she explains. “It surprised me, but I actually like the service work too. I mostly do digital bookkeeping, so I have been able to keep the job even when abroad.”

“You are a very fascinating person,” he says.

“Not any more than you,” she counters. “How are things? Has the school-year begun yet?”

“Last week,” he confirms. “I’m setting up a volleyball tournament to get the kids excited. It’s fun to see them flail around.”

“And how’s my brother doing?” she asks with a comical wiggle of her eyebrow.

“He’s fine,” Shachi shrugs, but a slight, pinkish tint appears over his cheeks. “It’s nice to have the apartment to ourselves, with Law gone this week.”

The silence that follows is filled with the awkwardness of indirectly bringing up both her brother’s and her own sex life in the same sentence, and none of them manages to find anything to say. A customer comes into the shop and hands her a film roll, pays and leaves.

“Are any of these yours?” Shachi asks when they’re alone again, gesturing to the photos on the wall behind her.

“No no no,” she protests. “I could never. Besides, the photos I like to take aren’t the kind you hang on the wall.”

“I see,” he says, smirking. “Have you sent any to Law yet?”

She shakes her head. “Do you think I should?”

“Yes,” he says in all seriousness.

She stops abruptly.

“Really? I- uhm, are you sure? I don’t want to presume-”

“If you want to make him lose his mind, you absolutely should.”

“You’re not messing with me, right? I don’t want to scare him away. He seems so… respectable?”

“I see your concern,” Shachi says, “and if you want to take things slow, you should.”

“But?”

“If you want to seduce him, you should send him the most desperately horny pictures, but show minimal nudity. Trust me, he’s depraved, but prudish at the same time. He loves that convoluted shit.”

“Hmm,” she contemplates it. “You gave me great advice last time. If it weren’t for the fact that he did his best to keep away from me, I’m pretty sure it would have worked.”

“It did work! He’s hooked, you just need to reel him in.”

“You’re horrible, you know that? You enjoy this way too much,”

“Maybe,” he snickers. “Well, I have to go now. Have a good one!”

“Thanks for stopping by!”

----

At the end of the second day of the conference, Law is already sick of it. He can’t stand the thought of even one more quarter of an hour in the presence of his colleagues. He even had to forgo his usual, most-needed 3 o’clock coffee, simply to avoid the flock of assholes surrounding the machine and the conversation they most-likely would trap him in.

But now the day is over and he can finally get to the whole reason for this extraneous trip in the first place. The beam of light in the darkness. The only reason Law even said yes to this horrid idea of a 5 day conference: it happens to take place in the same town where Bepo is doing his residency.

Despite only being 3 hours by train, he hasn’t gotten to see him much at all lately and getting one or two nights with his best friend is worth all the stuck up academics he needs to refrain himself from smacking.

They meet downtown after Bepo is done with his shift, have chinese and then a glass of wine before wandering through the small centre of town, waiting for the movie.

“You seem very happy,” Bepo says, his brows furrowed, as if happiness is a rare disease Law has contracted.

“I’m not,” Law argues, “this conference is at my personal 4th circle of hell.” He keeps his voice level, but the corners of his lips lift up on their own and he can’t make himself mad at it.

“I’m so happy for you!” Bepo exclaims and Law wonders if Bepo ever really listens to what he says.

“It’s nothing big, it’s just-” Law begins before he knows how much he actually wants to reveal. “It’s just that I might have met someone.”

Bepo’s eyes get huge with shock and his smile widens even more. "Does this have something to do with Y/N?"

Even though Law already had called Bepo to berate him for not telling him that Penguin has a sister, he had refrained from mentioning anything concerning his indecent desires about said sister, but it seems that Bepo had already put two and two together.

“It might,” Law answers with a sigh.

“I knew you two would hit it off!” Bepo exclaims. “Hadn’t it been for Penguin, I would have insisted you two meet a lot sooner.”

“I’ve been wondering about that. Shachi hadn’t even met her, so when did you meet her?”

“Oh, she moved apartments last year. Shachi was away and Penguin didn’t want to invite you, so he asked if I could help out. She’s so sweet!”

“I didn’t think Penguin would be the type to be overprotective of his sister.”

“He’s not.”

“Oh yes, he is,” Law insists.

“He’s overprotective of you,” Bepo says and Law’s mind screeches to a halt.

“… what?”

“He doesn’t want her to steal you away from him,” he explains. “Apparently, she’s kind of a flirt.”

Law chooses not to comment on that.

They find their seats, but as he pulls up his phone to switch it off, yes, he switches his phone off at the movies, it’s not that weird, he sees that she’s sent him a new message.

A new picture.

No no no no, not now. Bad idea.

Unfortunately, there’s no way he can refrain from looking at it now that he knows it exists. That would be asking his imagination to fire up all his dirty fantasies right before the movie starts. He’ll just have a short peek. Who knows, maybe it isn’t even-

Fuck. Law is fucked.

The picture is arousing alright.

She’s splayed out on a couch, dressed in only a loose robe that has slipped off her leg, showing off skin all the way up to her hip bone and large parts of her outer thigh. The picture’s taken from above her head so her face isn’t in the frame, but her one naked shoulder is. The fabric hanging loosely off it barely covers the left part of her chest and he’s sure he can see the darker skin of her areolae just beyond the hem of the robe and the hand that isn’t holding the phone is casually resting on her thigh, fingers reaching ever so slightly into the robe on their way to do god knows what and Law is turned on like a light switch.

His cheeks flame up with heat and he grips his phone harder as he struggles to turn it off before someone else sees what’s on it. Then there’s the humiliating task of positioning himself so that there’s as little friction as possible between the coarse material of his tight jeans and his very unwelcome erection.

At his side Bepo looks at him worriedly and seems like he’s about to say something, but then the commercials come to an end and the light goes down in the theatre. Law takes deep breaths, forcing himself to push all indecent thoughts away and when the familiar theme music of Sora, warrior of the sea: Encounter of Kings blast out of the speakers, he feels confident that he will succeed.

That’s when Pink Poison takes the screen. Dressed in a sheer nightgown she kills 5 soldiers. With her mouth.

Law is so fucked.

----

Bepo lives on the outskirts of town in student housing and has to get up early the next day. When the movie ends, Law walks him to the station and they say goodbye. Maybe they’ll manage to see each other once more before Law leaves, maybe not. Right now though there’s only one thing on his mind and the moment Bepo’s bus drives off, Law calls up Y/N.

“You ruined Sora,” he accuses her when she picks up, but despite his stern tone, he’s sort of smiling.

“Law?”

“Your actions have consequences you know.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t understand at all,” Y/N says. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures,” he explains painstakingly.

“Ohhh.” There's a pause before she continues, “so you did get the pictures.”

He swears that he can hear her smirk.

“Yes, I got the pictures,” he says.

“Well, you didn’t answer, so I wasn’t sure,” she explains. “I thought maybe the first one didn’t go through, so I sent one more.”

It hits him that he didn’t even think about answering her pictures, despite having masturbated to them, twice. That’s not only embarrassing, but blatantly disrespectful. Not to mention frightfully uncool.

“Well… did you like them?” she asks and her amusement is obvious.

“That’s besides the point!” he sputters.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re mad you had to sit through a movie with a boner?”

“I’m mad that I missed 10 minutes of it when I was forced to do something as downgrading as relieving myself in a cinema toilet.”

It just spills out of him and the moment he admits to this out loud he’s struck by regret.

“What?” she exclaims in shock, then a laugh follows, so loud he has to pull the phone away from his ear. “Why didn’t you wait it out?” she asks.

“I couldn’t,” he mutters, cursing himself for continuing on this degrading and embarrassing subject.

“What do you mean you couldn’t?”

“The movie was sexy, okay?” he whispers reluctantly into the microphone.

“‘Sora, warrior of the sea’ was too sexy?” she asks, now cackling even louder.

“It wasn’t a problem the last time I saw it, so obviously it’s-”

“Law, hold on.”

He freezes at the change in her tone.

“You’ve seen it before?”

“Well, yes. Once, but-”

“You’re blaming me for making you miss 10 out of 200 minutes you’ve seen before?”

“... yes.”

“Law, do you want me to stop with the pictures?” she asks and it’s a straightforward question, free from teasing and flirting.

“Of course not,” he says, without even thinking.

“Then I won’t,” she says simply. With a short chuckle she adds, “Sorry about Sora.”

“I forgive you,” he says genuinely before realising that she wasn’t actually that sorry. She laughs loudly again.

“You are really something, Trafalgar Law.”

Law doesn’t know what to say.

“Call me again soon,” she says and with that, she hangs up.

He’s left dumbstruck.

Then his hands move on their own and before he knows it, he’s pulled up the message log with the pictures. Looking at them now, they’re quite tame. Not that they’re bad, the very opposite actually, they’re good pictures. The composition and lighting enhances its subject in a very… flattering way. It’s just that they’re not as risque now at a second glance. It’s embarrassing to think that this was all it took to rile him up so thoroughly.

He still saves them to his phone.

Then he sends off a text.

LAW I’m coming back on the 10th.

After a second of contemplating he sends off another one.

LAW I really like the robe.

Compared to how much he enjoyed the pictures, it’s a weak compliment, but he can’t get himself to be more explicit. Being sexy in person is hard enough, the pressure of being sexy over text is terrifying.

And he does like the robe. He really, really likes the robe.

Y/N Come see me on the 10th? LAW Okay.

He cringes at how indifferent he sounds, but doesn’t dare to write anything more, afraid to make an even bigger fool of himself.

----

Y/N I think the pictures worked! I kept it very subtle, but he even called me to complain about them. That’s a good sign, right? Shachi complain how? Y/N That he got too horny I think? I didn’t really understand, but he was sort of annoyed that he was out in public when he saw it. Shachi amazing!! your on the right track next step is leave him wanting more! if you want to send more pictures, make sure they’re not as desperate as the ones you started with Y/N I can’t say I understand, but I trust you wholeheartedly. Shachi update me l8er Y/N Say hi to Pen for me Shachi he says hi back! Y/N Really? Shachi actually he says “stop texting my bf, homewrecker” Y/N That’s more like it.

----

By the time Friday rolls around, Law has been to 4 boring dinners, 1 slightly fascinating lecture, 3 frightfully bad ones and 1 disgustingly opulent fundraiser. He’s gotten 5 new pictures from Y/N and masturbated a lot more times than he wants to count.

He’s spent.

Really, he can’t remember the last time he was this exhausted and he regularly does 12 hour shifts.

He got sick of the group of academics he’s travelling with already at the first lunch, they’re all terrible conversationalists. He’s used to zoning out the long monologues and self-praising around these guys, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying.

Tonight is the goodbye dinner and he would pay good money to get out of it, but alas, his boss is one of the worst of the bunch and Law can’t afford pissing him off more than he already has. One can say Law has toned down his punk attitude since his manifesto-creating-days and is now what you can call a typical 30-year-old sell out on the cusp of his big break, who very well knows the importance of pampering important men with big egos.

She would laugh at him if she were here.

He hasn’t called her since that day. She did tell him too, but he figured it would be too much. What would he even tell her, how many more times he’s masturbated to the thought of her since last they spoke? No, thank you.

The pictures were a blessing at first, a welcome escape from his personal hell, but lately every new message he receives is like an additional ball and chain around his foot, reminding him of exactly what it is he doesn’t have. They’re still very modest, but paired with the knowledge of how she sounds when she chases her climax, it’s awfully effective even so.

The more she sends him, the more starved he feels.

----

Y/N I think I fucked up Shachi shit what did you do? Y/N Just what you told me to! But he hasn’t called me again and he’s not responding to the pictures, it’s been like 2 days since he replied maybe he’s disappointed by the new ones? They are a lot less horny than the first Ahhh, now I just feel stupid I’ve spent hours taking these photos, Shachi… HOURS Shachi nooo but honestly it sounds like hes only being his regular loser self and doesn’t know how to text but if you really feel like your losing him you could try to amp up the heat a little gtg now but good luck!!!!! update me l8er

Amp up the heat, huh?

----

“Trafalgar! Are you married?”

Just when Law believed he could go through the whole week without answering questions about himself, one of his colleagues had to learn just a smidge of common decency in the nick of time and ask him a question.

“No, I am not,” he answers simply.

“Thought so,” the other man grunts. “None of you youngins are able to keep a job and a girl at the same time. In my time…”

Bla bla bla.

At least Law won’t be forced to answer more questions for a while now that the “When I was young”- monologue has begun.

He subtly glances down at his phone and sees that he’s received 1 new message and 3 new photos from Y/N in only the last 30 minutes. He knows he should wait until he’s back at his room to have a look, but he can’t help himself. Something nice for his inner eye to look at is exactly what he needs to survive this dinner and none of the latest pictures have even come close to being as explicit as the first two, so he figures he’ll be fine.

He opens the app and the first thing he sees is that she’s sent him her address and an invitation to come to her when he gets back. Then he slowly scrolls up to see the new pictures and-

… Law flatlines.

“Trafalgar! Are you alright?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy.”

He locks his phone and looks up to see everyone around the table looking at him in a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“I have gotten some disturbing news,” he says slowly and doesn’t even have to pretend to act shocked. “If you will excuse me.”

On the way out of the restaurant he grabs their waiter, pays his share and gives her a weighty tip, while asking her to communicate to his dinner companions that he was forced to leave in the case of an emergency.

30 minutes later he’s checked out and on his way to the train station. He gets to his platform just in time to see the last train roll into the station and he thanks the lord above, who he doesn’t believe in.

4 hours later he’s at Y/N’s address.

----

“Hi.”

“Law,” she greets him, a slight indication of a smile on her lips, as if she’s considering whether to laugh or not.

“Hi,” he says again, softer.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“It’s the tenth,” he says and holds up his arm to show her his watch. It shows 00.42.

“So it is,” she chuckles softly in surprise.

“And you asked me to come,” he says, slightly short of breath, “on the tenth.”

“I did do that,” she says, almost in a whisper.

The silence is loaded with everything unspoken. He catches her glancing down at his mouth. She catches him trailing her figure with his eyes.

“So, did you want to come in?” she asks, as if he was just a normal guest ringing her doorbell on a normal day, not the man she’s been thinking about constantly the last two weeks ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night.

“Please,” Law says. He too almost succeeded in sounding completely normal.

When she lets him in, it dawns on her what this means, having him here, now, in her apartment. The embarrassment seeps into her as the overwhelming shock of seeing him again settles.

“I didn’t expect-” she says, with a slight stutter.

She was going to shower, she was going to shave, she was going to take out the trash blocking the doorway and she was going to clean up the multiple bowls of old, soggy cereal on the kitchen counter. He was not supposed to come before-

“Y/N,” he says in a quiet, breathy voice. He speaks so close to her ear that she feels a tingling down her spine. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, I just-”

He stops himself mid-sentence and she looks up to see why. In the dim light of the corridor, his eyes almost look black. They’re still golden, but now they’re dark, like petroleum, like oil, and she could simply drown in those eyes. What a terrifyingly sweet death. She would let him drag her down into the sticky black goo of delicious tar in a heartbeat.

“Y/N?” he repeats, for the first time tonight with a smile.

“Ye- Yes,” she says, a small chuckle escaping her at how utterly stupid she must look and the fact that she simply does not care. She doesn’t even care about the two bags of trash at their feet. She doesn’t care about her greasy hair, about being sweaty and dirty. This is the best thing that could have possibly happened tonight.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks.

She nods before she can register what he was saying and a prominent line draws down over his brow in worry.

“I am?” he asks. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“Law,” she coos and without even thinking, she lays a reassuring hand on his cheek, her fingertips gracing the soft strands of his hair. “It’s good to see you.”

He eases up under her touch, ever so slightly even leaning into it.

“Likewise,” he murmurs.

“Would you like to stay the night?” she asks, not really sure why, it’s really way too late for him to go anywhere else, but it does feel right to ask. It lets her reveal that she really wants him to.

“I would,” he admits, a shimmer of amusement in his eyes. “And would you like it if I kissed you now?” he asks her in a low murmur.

She gives him his answer by running her hand further into his hair, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him towards her slowly.

Firstly, their noses meet for a second. It’s only a small colliding of noses, but it breaks the ice and makes what comes after seem easier.

Secondly, their foreheads touch. A touch that is not innocent, but rather heavy and solid. A meeting of two minds, aching for connection.

When their lips finally meet it’s slow, but more than that, it’s deep. It’s as if they just skip past the first stages of a first kiss and instead swiftly fall into the hungrily unabashed type of kiss, slowly and meticulously tasting each other. They fit together like they were always meant to be doing this.

The sizzling chemistry between them does not crystallise itself in a fit of passion, but rather as an all-consuming void. A black hole swallowing their whole world and opening up the pathway to something completely new. Something scary, but exciting.

But with him, there’s no need to worry. It feels like she’s been kissing him for years and she knows exactly what to do. Even though it's scary to feel as if she’s being swallowed down into a hole of nothingness, it feels as if they’re going down together. She doesn’t doubt for even an instant that he will follow her.

“Thank you,” Law manages to say in between kisses.

“For what?”

“For- Fuck, the pictures. Thank you for the pictures.”

“You’re very welcome,” she grins into the kiss.

“But also for being so…”

“So?”

“So… Ehm, it’s just, I’m not a brave person, Y/N,” he begins while she places a trail of kisses down his neck and behind his ear. “Ahh- I- Well, I find these things difficult. And it might have been a lot harder if it weren’t for the fact that you’re so…”

“So…?” she repeats, absolutely teasing him for his ramblings.

“So fearless.”

“What-?” she protests, smiling wide from the flattery, but too embarrassed to do anything else than pull away from him and hide her face.

“So easy to want,” he further explains, cupping her face with both his hands and chasing her back to steal just one more kiss before he adds, “So kind.”

Y/N simply looks back at him for the longest couple of seconds before she can’t contain herself anymore. She needs him. She firmly grips a hold of his jacket and starts dragging him up the short flight of stairs.

Law makes an undignified yelp at being hauled away and he momentarily halts them both in an attempt to take off his outerwear. She tries to drag him with her despite it and he almost loses his balance.

“My shoes-?” he asks, in a way of explaining why he can’t just let himself be dragged inside.

“Leave them on, throw them away,” Y/N suggests hastily, letting go of the grip and disappearing into the bedroom. “I don’t care about the shoes! Just come here.”

“Yes,” he adheres blindly and follows her shortly after.

She waits for him by the edge of the bed and has begun slowly pulling off her sweater. He rushes to reach out and wrap his arms around her when her arms are lifted and the skin of her torso is exposed. As her face appears again from under the fabric, he kisses her lips softly, lazily.

“Y/N,” he moans.

“I need you so badly,” she murmurs back into his lips.

“Tell me more, please,” he begs her.

“About how much I need you?” she asks with an insolent grin.

He nods, his eyes are droopy and fluttering closed as he touches her, kisses her.

“So much,” she breathes out. “I need you so much, Law, I can hardly-”

She interrupts herself when she drops down on the bed and unexpectedly lands on something cold and mysterious. From under her ass, she pulls out sheets of paper- Oh fuck. The fucking comics. She doesn’t even know why, but that’s so embarrassing.

“Oh, these,” she says, not having a clue what she’s going to say, “I borrowed these from the library, just-”

“It was so fucking hot,” he groans and follows after her down on the bed. He takes the comics out of her hands and carefully slips them down on the floor. Then he pulls her over in his lap and grinds up against her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “All the pictures were, but- those last ones with the comics and the- Oh, fuck, it was so sexy.”

“Really?” she almost whines, shocked by both his enthusiasm and at the sparks of pleasure shooting up in her at the way he ruts against her.

“I couldn’t help myself, I just had to jump on the first train,” he pants. “Only for you. Because I need you too. So much.”

“Fuck, Law, we need to,” she sighs, “we need to hurry. Off with these. Now.”

“Yeah?” he asks, not speeding up the touches, but actually slowing down and not making any move to remove any of his clothes either. “Are you impatient?”

There’s been a change in him. She couldn’t say when, but at one point he grew confident and now, he’s teasing her.

“Come on,” she orders, “this is not the time.”

He smirks, it’s small and subdued, but so free. It makes her want to smile along and join whatever he’s got planned, but Y/N has an agenda and Law getting fired up with teasing her is not a part of her plan.

“It’s not funny,” she says, trying to sound stern and failing.

“It is actually funny, Y/N,” he argues, “because I knew you’d be like this. All week, while you’ve been teasing me with your pictures, I have spent every waking minute thinking of ways I wanted to tease you back, when I finally got my hands on you.”

“Oh fuck, really?” she asks, getting warm at the thought.

“I knew you’d be so easy to rile up,” he murmurs as he embraces her to unclasp the bra at her back. When he finally gets it to work and pulls the fabric off of her, he lets out a satisfied groan. He starts kissing her chest, gently cupping her breasts with his large, warm hands.

“Oh, these are-” he moans and then his words get muffled as the kisses turn into small, tender nibbles and then an insistent sucking, “mmmh…”

Y/N can’t help the self-consciousness seeping through her pleasure and making her tense.

“They’re not that- I mean, I know that they’re-”

“No, they’re so perfect,” Law interrupts, pulling back to look up at her. “I love them.” He looks so wasted, so far gone. It puts her at ease.

“You think?”

“You are made for me,” he whispers, before once again putting his hot mouth on her nipple, giving it a light tug and releasing it.

“So are you going to give me more?”

“What are you talking about?” he chuckles, cupping her breasts and now even massaging them gently, taking a lot of pleasure in every squeeze. “I’m giving you so much already.”

“You know what I want,” she challenges him, her voice weak and breathless, but he ignores her.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs to himself, burying his face into the crook of her neck again, taking a long whiff of her scent.

Her head falls against his shoulder. She’s giving in to his teasing, revelling in the pleasure she gets, the way his touch feels so feverish and tingling against her skin. She does her best to just enjoy that and to put off all thoughts of what more she wants. She tries her best to just stay in the moment with him, not get impatient and definitely NOT start to beg or anything of the sort. But alas, she can’t help it.

“Please fuck me,” she whimpers before she can stop herself. “I just want you to fuck me hard, Law.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” he coos, but there’s no warmth in his reassurement, only vicious satisfaction at her weak state. “Begging already? You couldn’t wait any longer? I must say I’m almost disappointed. So impatient, but still so docile.”

She groans in frustration and gently tugs at his sweater to get him to take it off.

”Uh-uh,” he says. “You first.”

He undresses the rest of her and when all that’s left is her underwear, he lets her pull the sweater off over his head along with the t-shirt underneath. When Y/N lays her eyes on his naked chest and shoulders, it’s like she’s equipped with new energy. She takes charge and pounces, pushing him down on the mattress and keeping him there with force as she straddles his hips.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about these,” she says, letting a nail scrape against a line of his chest tattoo. Law inhales sharply, clearly affected by her newfound initiative.

She keeps tracing his tattoos with a faint touch and he responds instinctively, arching his back and lifting up to meet her touch, to get her to do more.

“Fuck, I just love your tattoos, Law,” she whispers, currently following the markings on his left arm, then all the way out to his fingers. She continues exploring the tattoos, but now with her mouth. Greedily, she takes three at a time, letting her tongue circle around each finger.

“Y/N,” he warns, sounding utterly weak.

She hums and buckles her hips down against his’, making him curse. At once she lets go of his hand and she leans over to meet him, face to face.

“Miss being in control?” she asks, teasingly. “Is that it?”

“No,” Law scoffs.

“I don’t believe you,” she sing-songs.

“So now you want to tease? I thought you were getting impatient?” he asks, obviously trying to get back in the driver’s seat. She isn’t going to let him.

“I think you’re very uncomfortable with giving away control,” she says, tenderly placing a kiss at the corner of his mouth, “but I also think it makes you even more turned on when someone takes it from you.”

Law manages to laugh, but it’s a hollow laugh, only made to conceal that what she’s saying is right. That the way she’s holding him down and taking the reins, is simply making him go insane.

“I am not going to deprive you of that depraved lust, baby,” she whispers, grinding down on him once more. “I’m going to shower you in it. I’m going to take care of you.”

“Y/N,” he moans.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Just give it to me,” he sighs. “I’ll take it all.”

She laughs. “Oh, how the tables have turned,” she teases, “but now it’s your turn to wait.”

“Please,” he begs, “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying, Law,” she says, fondly caressing his forehead. “You’re living.”

“Ah,” he sighs. “It’s exhausting.”

While she strips him naked, he’s mostly quiet. A soft gasp here and there as her nails scrape against his skin or as she leaves an unexpected kiss along his thighs.

The last item of clothing she removes is the black boxers, keeping his very hard dick encaged in the tight fabric. She’s already noticed that it’s big, that it would be more than satisfying. She’s caught herself biting her lip in suspense just looking at the outline of it, more times than one. He’s probably caught her a few times too.

But when she actually strips the boxers off him and it bounces against his stomach in its natural state, she can’t help but widen her eyes at the sight.

“Shit, you are big,” she murmurs in surprise.

“Yeah, uhm, well,” he begins, shifting uncomfortably up to lean against his elbows, “it can be a bit much.”

She swallows hard, feeling excitement bubbles inside her at the thought and wondering just what “a bit much” would entail.

“Do you have any lube?” he asks. Suddenly he’s back to being uncomfortable and anxious, avoiding her gaze.

“Sure,” she says, moving closer to him and picking up his hand, “but I don’t think we’re going to need any.”

Then she leads his hand to push past the edge of her underwear and into the pooling wetness that lies beyond.

He inhales sharply when the tips of his fingers easily slide deeper into her, lubricated by one simple touch.

“Fuck me,” he gasps, “that’s incredible. You are fucking incredible.”

She recognises that if there’s one time where it’s appropriate for her to take control, it would be now. Even though Law’s eyes are clouded with lust from feeling her wetness with his own fingers, he still looks unsure of how to proceed. She would guess that he’s had multiple bad experiences with feeling guilty from hurting people during sex with his big, fat dick. Y/N would laugh if he didn’t look so distraught.

“Are you clean?” she asks, pulling off his panties.

He nods slowly.

“Me too,” she tells him, “and I’m on contraception.”

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I guess I’m asking you if you would mind fucking me without a condom?”

Law’s jaw goes slack, then he nods.

“So you would mind?”

“What? No, I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind,” he corrects himself, his cheeks flaring up.

“Ok?” she asks as she takes a hold around his dick

“But shouldn’t we-” he begins.

“Just let me give it to you,” she reassures him, finding her place on top and lining herself with him.

“Are you sure?” he asks through gritted teeth as the head hooks into her entrance and the tip enters her.

“Yes,” she gasps at the delicious stretch, “I’ll take care of it. Just give me a minute before you do anything.”

“Fuck,” he curses, “yeah, ok.” He does his best to control his breathing as she begins sinking down.

He’s warm. And of course big. Girthy. She’s overwhelmed just from taking a little part of him.

“It’s not that bad,” she gasps, “just a little more time and I’ll be opened up and-”

That’s when the stretch becomes almost too much. She shifts her knees in order to lift herself up again ever so slightly, but then her knee lands on something slippery under the covers that makes her thigh glide further away.

In an attempt to keep herself upright, she tries leaning forward with her hands planted on his chest, but at the same time, Law lunges forward too, trying to grab her hips to keep her from falling and-

She slams down on his hips and he bottoms out into her, going deeper than she’s ever felt anything before.

“AHh, fuck.”

He groans at the long-awaited friction while she whimpers at the overwhelming stretch, painful and pleasurable at the same time.

“I’m so, so, sorry,” he begins. He takes a hold of her hips and tries to help her off him, but she won’t budge. She’s frozen, clinging to his torso with all she’s got.

“Y/N, get off,” Law orders, but it’s clear that it takes him a lot of restraint to utter those words, “I’m hurting you.”

“No,” she groans, “no, we have to stay like this for now.”

“Y/N-”

“It’s just so good, I can’t-” she gasps for air. Then she moves her hips in the slightest buckle and lets out a moan.

“Oh fuck,” Law groans, automatically gripping her hips in an attempt to get more movement out of her.

“Don’t move,” Y/N orders.

“Of course not,” Law croaks. “Wouldn’t fucking dream of it.”

“I just need this for a little bit,” she murmurs, once again grinding down very gently and very controlled, drawing out a frustrated whine from Law.

Oh. That’s nice.

She wants to hear it again, so she does it once more. It’s really too much for her, but it gives her just what she wanted. His groans are so deliciously arousing and she begins rocking in a constant movement to keep them coming.

“No, this is no good. You’re hurting,” he says and stops her movement with a firm grip around her waist. “Let me.”

There’s something in his voice that makes her turn compliant again and she lets him lead her off him and down to lie on the mattress. He pulls out another comic from under the sheets, presumably the cause of her little slip up. She whines in disappointment, already aching at the loss of him inside her, but then she feels a touch at her entrance again and quickly after a finger plunges deep into her.

Even though the pressure from one single finger is lacklustre compared to what she just experienced, the swift motion makes sparks fly all the way up to her ears.

“Again,” she begs.

He complies, but he must have added another finger already because the pressure increases, giving her a new type of shock.

“I’m done teasing you now,” he murmurs softly, “this is purely practical. Now that I’ve felt you all the way, I can’t help myself. I need to open you up as quickly as possible, so that I can fuck you hard, just like you asked me to.”

His words send a jolt through her stomach in time with his fingers sliding back in. This time, though, he keeps them there and slowly begins pulling her open from the inside, stretching her good. Then he pulls them out to an indignant groan from her.

“Y/N. Lube,” he orders.

“In the drawer,” she pants, “the nightstand.”

When his fingers return, they’re colder.

“You can take one more, right baby?” he asks softly. “You can take three of my fingers?”

“Yes,” she insists.

She can. Three whole fingers are stuffed into her and when he somewhat curls them, deep inside of her, her hips involuntarily buckle up into the air. She lets out a breathy whine.

“Yes! Do that again,” she pleads.

“Of course,” he grins.

And he does.

“Oh, I- it’s… ah,” she whines incoherently.

“You’re getting so loose,” he praises her. “Can you do one more?”

“I’ll take anything you give me,” she says, so high on the endorphins, feeling like nothing more than a pliant blob in his grip. He adds one more and now the stretch returns, but now it’s only good, no longer painful.

“You’re ready for another go?” he asks. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes!” she moans. “Fuck, I want to.”

His fingers pull out and she waits for him with her eyes fluttering closed. He finds his place and lines himself up, but he doesn’t push in. He rubs his tip against her folds, dipping in and out of the pool of heat.

She loves it so much, she doesn’t even think to complain about the teasing of it. She is even disappointed for a second when he stops, but then he begins sinking into her again and she can’t focus on anything else. She breathes deeply, ordering herself to relax into it, to be good. She wants him to think that she’s good.

He sinks in completely and stays there,

“Breathe,” he orders her. She releases the breath she’s holding. “Good. How does it feel?”

“Good,” is all she can think to say. “So good.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not like last time.” It’s hard to put together the words in whole sentences. It does hurt, but it’s not a scary hurt. It’s good. It’s so, so, so, so good. She feels like her brain is submerged in goo, making everything happen slowly.

“Just keep breathing. Until you’re completely relaxed,” he inhales deeply, “I won’t move at all.”

Y/N focuses all she’s got on her breathing. With each inhale she feels him stretch her more and with each outhale she relaxes around him. She’s sure he could have begun moving a long time ago without bringing any real hurt to her, but the slow pace brings a kind of excitement with it.

“60,” Law whispers, “59, 58.”

Slowly, he begins counting down. Without actually knowing what will happen when he reaches 0, Y/N can feel her arousal blossoming up even more. She begins yearning for movement, for friction.

“43, 42, 41.”

His mouth is almost at her ear and each whisper causes tingles down her spine.

“36, 35.”

She moans in response, showing him what he’s doing to her and how eager she is for him to reach the end of his countdown. He chuckles, but he doesn’t lose track of the counting.

“19, 18, 17.”

“Yes, Law,” she whispers. “Please, I want it.”

“11, 10, 9.”

She clenches hard around him, eager for the stimulation and he skips a number in response.

“6, 4,” he gasps. “3, 2, 1.”

Law pulls out halfway before he slowly pushes back in.

“Yes!”

It’s bliss. It’s only pure bliss.

He begins pumping into her, still not fast, but hard. Long, deep strokes. He takes her legs and lifts them up to get even deeper and she gasps at the sensation.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he pants, “is this okay?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes, it’s perfect.”

He replies with a filthy groan, picking up the pace considerably.

She can’t stop making sounds, it’s like he’s fucking them out of her. It’s like he’s unlocked a blockage in her chest and now all her airflow has to be made into sound. She’s chanting his name with each thrust.

“You’re so good for me,” he praises.

“Law.”

“Y/N,” he gasps, sounding close to his climax, “how can you come?”

“On top,” she manages to croak in between breaths.

In the next moment he pulls out of her and she’s being tossed around to land on top of his chest.

“Come on, please, just use me however you want,” he begs. “I’m yours.”

And she does.

It takes a while to build up, but when it arrives, she rides him through her climax with a grip around his shoulders so firm that she probably bruises him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, “fuck, you’re sexy. So perfect.”

“Law,” she groans, tensing up and collapsing on top of him.

“Let me fuck you, please, let me fuck you til I come,” Law begs.

“Yes. Just use me back,” she complies, feeling so completely relaxed and submissive, as if no real tension exists in her body. “Whatever you need, Law, take it.”

He fucks her fast, up close and intimate, forehead touching forehead, untill he comes deep inside her with a long-drawn groan and a sigh of her name.

----

When she comes back from the bathroom she finds an extremely relaxed Law, spread out across the bed. He lifts his arms, just barely, to show that he wants her to lay down next to him.

“Next time, I’m going to tease you-” he yawns in the middle of the sentence, “-a lot more. So just prepare yourself.”

“Yeah,” she grins, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You don’t think I could drive you insane?”

“Sure, but you would drive yourself insane first.”

A sheepish grin draws on his lips. It’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen and she pulls herself closer into him.

“Law,” she sighs.

“Yes?”

She hasn’t got anymore to say, but she lets out another satisfied sigh. He chuckles in response.

“I agree,” he murmurs.

“Remind me to thank Shachi,” she mutters to herself.

“Ok. Why?”

“He was the one who told me to send you the pictures,” she explains, almost half-asleep already. “He was the one who gave me all the advice during last week too. Told me to wear those skimpy shorts and to get you to drive me everywhere. To show up in the middle of the night with a bottle of wine.”

Law wakes from his postcoital stupor with a jolt.

“Wait a minute.” His face is drawn down in a frown of confusion. “You’re taking advice on flirting from Shachi?”

Y/N now too recovers to a more conscious state. Regret flashes over her face as she says, “Yeah, I uhm- Is that bad?”

Law falls back on the bed and buries his face in his hands. For a second it looks like he’s crying and Y/N begins to really freak out, but as he moves his hands to reveal his face, she sees that he’s laughing. Like a proper laugh. Big mouth, showing teeth. She even gets a glimpse of his tongue. It’s so different from all the smirking, chuckling and sinister laughter he usually does, it catches her completely off guard.

“I really overestimated you,” he sighs, coming down from his laughter high.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asks.

“Here I thought you were some magical siren creature, created from my deepest desires. Instead, it appears that I have a mole in my midst, leaking private information and you, it turns out,” he smiles, “are just as neurotic as me. Fuck, that is such a relief actually.”

As he says it, he reaches out after her and pulls her into his embrace. She ends up resting against his chest with her head against his shoulder. Suddenly him calling her neurotic is the highest compliment in the world.

“I might be neurotic, yes, though I could never compete with your nerves,” she argues, but all real concern is washed away and she is now in a blissful state of complaisance.

“Are you sure?” he counters. “Seemed like you could very well compete with my need for control. Maybe there’s more we have in common.”

“Let’s find out,” she chuckles.

“I can’t wait,” he responds fondly.

Y/N turns around and lies down on the top of his chest to look at him face to face. After studying him for a few seconds, gathering courage, she asks, “Be my boyfriend, Law.”

His eyes go big and his jaw goes slack. She holds her breath waiting for his response.

“Oh, okay,” he finally says. “Yeah, I would love to.”

“Really?”

“Fuck yeah, I’ll be your boyfriend,” he confirms, “and you’ll be my girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” she says.

“Shit,” he chuckles. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“But good.”

“Good.”

They both sigh deeply, almost in unison, both knocked out by the heat and passion of what they just experienced. And by the fear of finding something this good. Something they would want to keep forever, if they could.

Part 1

On AO3

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daddysfangirls-dc · 1 day ago

Text

THIS IS BEAUTIFUL.

But I also hate it.

I hate how they are comforting each other while talking about her. They never comforted her. They never offered her any affection. It makes me angry listening to each of them talk about what they could have done-No. It is what they SHOULD have.

I agree with Damian. He is the only one who has the right to call her his sister. As he was the only one (besides Duke) who actually acknowledged her, of course, it wasn't always kind, but this, i's Damian we're talking about, kindness is an afterthought when image is not a priority. I'm happy they're getting redemption and trying again.

And as for Duke. I don't think he is as bad as the others, but he's not good either. If anything, Duke was a bystander. Unlike the other, it doesn't look like he got the " she isn't for this lifestyle" talk, so he acknowledged her more than the others. At the same time, he has eyes and ears. I have no doubt in my mind that the boy saw what was happening, but since everyone else treated it like it was normal, he fell into line like everyone, and that is very unfortunate.

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“Cassandra.”

Her name barely carried through the still air, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t acknowledge the voice.

She sat there, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her entire body curled inward like she could somehow shield herself from reality.

From this.

From your name carved into stone.

The graveyard was too peaceful.

The world around her was too bright.

The sky was impossibly blue, the kind of endless, cloudless stretch that belonged to better days. The sun hung high, warm and golden, spilling light over everything as if this were just any other afternoon. A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the trees, and the grass beneath her was still damp with morning dew. The air smelled fresh—too fresh.

It was a beautiful day.

And Cassandra hated it.

It wasn’t right.

Why wasn’t the sky dark? Why weren’t the clouds swollen with grief, heavy and suffocating? Why wasn’t there a storm, wind tearing through the city, rain drenching the ground, filling the cracks in the pavement, turning the earth around your grave to mud?

Why wasn’t the world mourning with her?

It should be.

Because this—this wasn’t just another day.

This was the day Cassandra Cain sat in front of your grave, alone in the silence, mourning the loss of you.

You.

The person who was supposed to be her younger sister.

The person who shouldn’t be here—not like this. Not beneath the ground.

A shadow passed over her. She barely acknowledged it.

Duke.

He stood for a moment, just watching her.

Duke hesitated before he stepped closer.

His movements were slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

And maybe that’s what Cassandra was.

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You can’t stay here forever,” he murmured, his voice quiet, gentle.

Cassandra didn’t respond. She just nudged his hand away, still staring at your name carved into the stone.

Duke exhaled, long and slow, before lowering himself to the ground beside her.

They sat in silence.

Neither of them wanted to be here.

But neither of them could leave.

Not when this grave was here. Not when it held you.

And it still didn’t feel real.

Duke ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his eyes. He didn’t blame Cassandra for shutting down like this.

Because he was still trying to understand it too.

Duke stared at your name, carved into stone, like if he just looked at it long enough, it would make sense.

But it didn’t.

It wouldn’t.

Your death—

God.

It wasn’t just tragic. It wasn’t just painful.

It was sudden.

It didn’t feel possible.

One day, you were here. And then you weren’t.

And Duke didn’t know how to process that.

He kept thinking—kept replaying everything in his head. The details. The reports. The last time he saw you.

And the same question kept coming back to him, again and again and again.

Why didn’t you call him?

You knew he would have helped you. You knew that.

Right?

You knew he wouldn’t have thought twice.

Right?

Would he have thought twice…?

No, surely not.

Right?

You should have known that.

So why didn’t you?

Why didn’t you tell him what you were doing? Why didn’t you let him back you up? Why did you go after that drug ring alone?

You should have called.

You should have known he wouldn’t hesitate. That he wouldn’t have even thought before coming to help you.

You should have been standing here with him.

Not lying six feet underground.

Duke let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the gravestone, his chest tightening like something inside him was caving in.

It wasn’t fair.

None of this was fair.

And the worst part? The part that made him feel sick?

Losing people—he knew what that was like.

He lost his parents.

And now—

Now he had lost you.

And you weren’t just anyone.

You were—

God, you were you.

You weren’t perfect, but you were alive in a way that few people ever truly were.

You had this way of making things feel easier. Not because life actually was easier, but because you had a way of making it manageable. Making it bearable.

And you were stubborn.

God, you were so stubborn.

You never backed down, never walked away, never let things go when they mattered. You fought for people. You fought for him. Fought for yourself.

You weren’t his sister by blood, but blood had never mattered in this family. Not really.

You had been his friend before you were his family.

And now you were gone.

And he was just supposed to accept that you were gone?

That he was supposed to sit here, staring at a piece of stone with your name on it, instead of looking you in the eye and telling you you were a dumbass for going in alone?

No.

No, that didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense that you—the person who had somehow become his sister—was just gone.

And he—

He hated this.

He hated this so much.

“What…. do you think her last words were…?”

Cassandra’s voice broke through the silence, small but steady.

Duke’s throat tightened. He barely held back a flinch.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted.

And he didn’t want to know.

Because the moment he let himself think about it.

The moment he let himself wonder what your last moments were like—

He wouldn’t be able to take it.

Had you been waiting for someone to save you?

Had you been hoping for some kind of miracle?

Or had you known?

Had you known you weren’t going to make it?

Had you realized that help wasn’t coming?

Had you been scared?

Duke clenched his jaw and swallowed hard.

He didn’t want to think about that.

He couldn’t—

He couldn’t think about that.

Cassandra didn’t look at him, but she was still staring at your grave, her expression unreadable.

But he knew what she was thinking.

She was blaming herself.

And she shouldn’t.

She wasn’t even in Gotham when it happened. There was nothing she could have done.

But logic didn’t matter.

Because you were dead.

And she hadn’t been there.

Neither had he.

And he was always going to carry that with him.

Cassandra had learned you quickly.

How you liked your coffee, how you always leaned against walls instead of standing straight, how you tapped your fingers against your thigh when you were thinking.

How you always waited a second longer than necessary before answering a question—like you were testing the weight of your words before letting them go.

You had been sharp, but soft.

Blunt, but kind.

The kindest of them all.

You had been quiet, but so damn loud in the way you existed.

And now—

Now you were gone.

And Cassandra was still here.

And she didn’t know how.

Cassandra didn’t know how to fight that.

Didn’t know how to fight the weight pressing against her chest, the grief that curled around her like a vice. It was strange. Loss was something she should’ve been used to. Death was something she had faced time and time again. It was part of this life. It was part of the job.

So why did this feel so different?

Why did it feel like something was clawing at the edges of her ribs, carving out a hollow space where you used to be?

She had died before. Her heart had stopped beating, her body had given out. But she had been revived, dragged back to life before the darkness could fully claim her. She had cheated death, walked away with a heartbeat that wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.

So why hadn’t that been you?

Why had she gotten to wake up, gasping, with another chance at life—while you had been left to rot in the ground? Why had she been spared while you had been taken?

Cassandra’s hands curled into fists on her lap, her nails biting into her palms as she forced herself to breathe.

It didn’t help.

Her eyes flickered to your name on the gravestone. The letters carved into the stone were so sharp, so permanent. You weren’t coming back. No second chances, no miracles. Just a name, a date, and the suffocating silence of your absence.

She swallowed thickly and let her gaze drop lower.

No flowers.

Cassandra stared at the empty space in front of your grave, and something in her chest twisted. No matter how hard she searched her mind, she couldn’t remember what kind of flowers you liked.

What flowers did you like?

Did you like lilies—soft, gentle, but heavy with the scent of mourning?

Did you like daisies—bright and stubborn, growing even in the cracks of concrete?

Did you like marigolds—bold, striking, impossible to ignore?

She hated that she didn’t know. Hated that she had spent years at your side and still, she didn’t know what flowers to bring you.

It was ridiculous, how something so small—so insignificant in the grand scheme of things—felt like another knife to the ribs.

Cassandra had always been good at reading people. She had always been good at reading you.

And yet—she didn’t know this.

Didn’t know something so simple.

The realization made her stomach twist.

She had memorized the way you carried yourself, the way your fingers twitched when you thought too hard about something, the way you always paused before speaking, like you were testing your words before letting them go.

She knew how you fought, how you moved, how you breathed.

And yet—she didn’t know this.

This was all she knew.

What did you actually like to do?

What did you like to eat?

What was your go-to drink?

Did you drink coffee out of necessity, or was it your favorite?

What music did you listen to when no one was around?

What did you hum under your breath when you thought no one was paying attention?

Did you like the sun or the moon better?

Did you ever have a favorite book? A favorite movie?

Have you ever fallen in love? Fancied a guy or girl from afar?

Everything that a sister should know—she didn’t.

And now, she never would.

Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her pants.

To think—to think—of all the times you had tried to stay by her side.

Of all the times you had tried—tried to connect with her, tried to understand her, tried to make her feel like she belonged in this family—and she hadn’t let you.

She had been distant. Subconsciously pushing you aside. Not because she hated you—no, never because of that.

But because you two were so vastly different.

Because she saw you and thought—you weren’t built for this life.

Because she looked at you and thought—you shouldn’t be here.

You weren’t a killer. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t someone who should have had to claw and scrape your way through the darkness of Gotham.

You should have had a normal life.

You could have had a normal life.

And maybe, maybe—if she had pushed harder, if she had done more, if she had made you see what she saw—maybe you would have left this life.

Maybe if she had pushed harder, you wouldn’t have ended up like this.

You wouldn’t be here, six feet under, with a name carved into stone and a body lost to the dirt.

Maybe she could have been there.

Maybe she could have saved you.

Cassandra clenched her jaw, her fists tightening further.

No.

That wasn’t even it.

That wasn’t even the truth.

It wasn’t about whether you should have been a vigilante. It wasn’t about whether or not you belonged in this life.

It was about her.

It was about the choices she had made.

If she hadn’t thought she knew what was best for you—if she hadn’t dismissed you before even giving you a chance—maybe things would have been different.

If she had helped you instead of discouraging you—if she had guided you instead of pushing you away—maybe you wouldn’t have felt so alone in this.

Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to prove yourself at every turn.

Maybe you wouldn’t have pushed yourself so far—so recklessly, so relentlessly—that your body had begged you to stop, had screamed at you to rest, and yet, you had ignored it anyway.

Because you had something to prove.

To yourself.

To everyone else.

To her.

And why?

Because she had made you feel like you weren’t enough.

Like you weren’t competent enough, weren’t worthy enough, to stand beside them.

Like you had to earn your place in a way that no one else had to.

And that—

That was what crushed her.

That was what made her stomach churn and her chest tighten, what made her fingers twitch at her sides and her jaw clench until it ached.

Because she had done that.

She had made you feel that way.

And it had cost you your life.

If she had just been there—if she had helped you, taught you, stayed by your side as a sister should, instead of leaving you to figure everything out on your own—maybe you wouldn’t have needed to push yourself to the brink just to keep up.

Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you had to bleed just to prove you deserved to be by their side. By her side.

Maybe—just maybe—

You would still be here.

She didn’t know where the thought came from, only that it settled deep inside her, heavier than stone.

She should be used to loss. It was part of the job, part of the life they all lived. People died. People left. That was just how things were.

But Cassandra Cain didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t have you in it.

Why?

Because your presence had been undeniable.

Not in the way that others were loud—not in the way Dick filled a room with laughter, or in the way Jason made his presence known with his sharp words and sharper gaze, or in the way Tim existed like a shadow, quiet but calculating.

No.

You were present in the littlest ways. The kind of ways that most people overlooked.

But she noticed.

She always noticed.

The way you drummed your fingers against your thigh when you were thinking—not impatient, not absentminded, just… rhythmic, like you were keeping time to a song only you could hear.

The way you always lingered in a doorway before stepping inside, as if you were gauging the room, the people, the atmosphere—like you needed to prepare yourself before crossing the threshold.

The way your shoulders stiffened whenever someone called your name unexpectedly, like you were always bracing for something, like you had learned a long time ago that being noticed wasn’t always a good thing.

The way your eyes softened, just barely, whenever you looked at her.

The way you tilted your head when you were confused, the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were frustrated, the way your fingers twitched whenever you held back from saying something.

The way you carried yourself—quiet, but never unnoticed. Soft, but never weak.

You had been everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

In the way the floorboards creaked in a rhythm only you walked in. In the faint scent of your shampoo that lingered in the halls long after you passed through them. In the way the air felt just a little different when you were around—charged, like something unspoken was always hanging in the space between you and everyone else.

And now—

Now you were gone.

And the world felt wrong.

Her nails bit into her palms as she exhaled sharply.

The weight in her chest grew heavier, suffocating, pressing against her ribs until she could barely breathe.

She wanted to say sorry.

For not being there when it mattered.

For not being the sister you had wanted her to be.

For all the times you had reached for her and she had turned away.

But apologies were meaningless now.

There was no use in apologizing to a grave.

The dead could not hear the apologies of the living.

And she hated—hated—how it seemed like she just wanted to get rid of the guilt, like this was just another weight on her shoulders that she was desperate to shake off.

It wasn’t that.

It wasn’t about making herself feel better.

But to anyone else, it might seem shallow, like she was just trying to justify her regrets.

And that—

That was when she exhaled sharply, her voice quiet, raw, and firm.

“I failed her.”

Duke stiffened beside her.

“Cass…”

“No.”

She finally moved.

Finally stood.

Her knees ached from kneeling too long, but she ignored the feeling, ignored the way the world spun for half a second before steadying again.

She looked down at the grave—at your name, your absence, the proof that you were really, truly, gone.

“There’s a lot of things I regret,” she admitted, her voice steady. “A lot of things I should have done. A lot of things I shouldn’t have done.”

She exhaled.

“But there is no use feeling this way when—”

She stopped.

When what?

When you were already gone?

When nothing she did would change that?

When no amount of guilt, no amount of grief, no amount of anything would ever bring you back?

Duke watched her, silent, waiting.

And finally—she finished.

“There is no use feeling this way when the only person who could have forgiven me isn’t here anymore.”

Duke inhaled sharply. His lips parted—ready to argue, ready to refute, ready to tell her that it wasn’t her fault.

But he didn’t.

Because she was right.

And they both knew it.

There was nothing either of them—or anyone else—could do.

The damage was done.

You were gone.

And Cassandra would have to live with that. He would have to live with that.

She turned to Duke, her expression unreadable, her body language tight.

Her shoulders were stiff, arms curled inwards, fingers twitching ever so slightly at her sides. A silent scream compressed into muscle and bone, into tension that refused to unravel. Her breath was steady, too steady, the kind of control that only came when someone was barely holding themselves together.

And then, after a moment—

He moved first.

Slowly, carefully, as if giving her the chance to pull away, to reject the gesture before it even landed. But she didn’t.

So he pulled her into a hug—strong, firm, grounding.

A weight. A warmth. A presence she didn’t realize she needed until she was sinking into it.

Cassandra didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t go rigid, didn’t pull away out of habit, didn’t keep that careful distance she always did when she wasn’t sure how to accept comfort.

No.

She closed her eyes and let herself feel.

For the first time in hours. In days. In what felt like forever—she let herself be held.

Let herself be comforted.

Even though she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

Because what right did she have to be comforted when you weren’t here?

What right did she have to grieve you when she had been part of the reason you were gone?

But Duke didn’t let go.

He held onto her like he understood. Like he knew that if he let go, she might just disappear, might crumble into something irreparable, something that grief would consume whole.

So she stayed.

And for now—

For now, that would have to be enough.

128 hours, 13 minutes, and 27 seconds.

That’s how long it’s been since Gotham fell into chaos. Since the family fell into shambles.

Since you took your last breath.

Tim’s fingers twitched over the console, knuckles pale, hands locked into position as if frozen mid-action. The blue glow of the Batcomputer flickered against his face, casting long, sharp shadows that made the bags under his eyes seem deeper, his expression more hollow.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed.

Because he couldn’t stop watching.

The footage looped again. And again. And again.

Warehouse. Low light. South Gotham docks. Camera angle, elevated—one of Batman’s hidden surveillance feeds.

You moved like a ghost. A shadow.

A blur of motion cutting through the dark.

Tim rewound the footage. Slowed it down. Watched. Memorized. Analyzed.

His eyes were red from the hours of staring at the screen. The footage ran in a constant loop, a ghostly reminder of everything that had gone wrong. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away, even though he knew it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe this time, there’ll be something he missed.

That’s what he told himself.

It was a sickening kind of hope, one born from desperation. He needed something—anything—that would prove this wasn’t just another casualty of the mess they lived in. This wasn’t an accident. He couldn’t let it be an accident. If it was, then what was the point? What was the point of all of this? If it was just an accident, if this was just the way things always were, then what the hell was he even doing here? What was the point of it all?

What was the point of all the fights, the struggles, the years of fighting against the darkness if it could just snuff out a life like that, without any warning? Tim couldn’t accept it.

His heart hammered in his chest as he hit replay again. He didn’t even realize how many times he had watched this same clip. How many times he had gone over it, scrutinizing every frame, searching for something that wasn’t there. There’s something.

There has to be something.

A sign.

A clue.

Anything to prove this was deliberate, something he can blame.

But no matter how many times he watched it, no matter how many hours he spent scrutinizing every damn detail, nothing would change. Nothing could undo what had already been done.

But still, he couldn’t stop himself. He had to watch. He had to know. He had to find the why, the how, the reason behind it.

Why had you gone in alone?

Why hadn’t anyone been there for you?

Why hadn’t he been there?

The rest of the world had moved on, or at least tried to. Gotham was still reeling from the explosion of chaos that followed the takedown of the drug ring you’d infiltrated. The criminals, the ones you’d exposed, some of them were caught, while others were already on the run, their operations disrupted in ways they hadn’t anticipated. The whole damn city had been thrown into disarray because of this.

Tim gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He felt a knot twist in his stomach, one he couldn’t untangle, no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to blame the criminals. He wanted to blame them for everything. For the sudden rise in crimes. For the sudden disarray in Gotham. But it wasn’t them. He couldn’t make himself believe that. No. It wasn’t their fault. Not exactly.

It was yours. It was yours and no one else’s.

It’s all because of you.

That thought stung, burned in the pit of his stomach, and yet it lingered, demanding to be acknowledged. Tim didn’t want to think that way—he didn’t want to blame you. But how could he ignore it? You had done your job, you’d exposed something they couldn’t ignore, but now it was a nightmare. Gotham was chaos, because of you.

No.

He slammed his fist on the desk, glaring at the footage, refusing to accept that thought. No, this wasn’t your fault. It couldn’t be. It was never supposed to happen like this. You had been right about the drug ring, and you had fought damn hard to stop it, all by yourself. But that’s where it went wrong, wasn’t it? You hadn’t called for backup. You hadn’t reached out. If you had—if you had just asked for someone, anything, anyone—maybe you would still be here.

Tim couldn’t stop the wave of anger that crashed over him. But it wasn’t at the criminals who had shot you, it wasn’t even at the fact that Gotham had spiraled into a warzone. No. It was at you.

Fuck.

Even now, after everything, he was the one left to clean up your mess. The same way he always had. The same way he always would. The same he always did. But this time—

This time, you weren’t there to hear him run through the details, to see the frustration in his eyes when things went sideways. You were gone.

And that was the most fucked up part of it all.

Where had it all gone wrong? When had things shifted from predictable to catastrophic? What had gone wrong between your last breath and his desperate attempts to piece together every detail, every frame of this damn footage? How many more people did he have to lose before he could just accept it?

Tim’s hands tightened around the desk, nails digging into the cool surface, but his thoughts kept spiraling out of control. He should be used to this by now. Loss. Death. People getting torn away from him like everything was just so damn fragile. But no. He wasn’t used to it. No matter how many times he told himself he should be, no matter how many people he’d lost, he wasn’t.

It never got easier.

It was almost too much. Too much to bear, but it wouldn’t stop. The losses he faced just kept looping over and over again. The image of you, falling to the floor of that warehouse, blood pooling beneath you.

Tim exhaled shakily, his nails scraping against the desk as he forced himself to take another breath. His chest was tight, his ribs felt like they were caving in, like his own body was rejecting the sheer weight of everything. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop looking at you, frozen in time, caught in the endless cycle of your last moments.

The footage looped again. And again. And again.

His brain wouldn’t stop dissecting it, wouldn’t stop scrutinizing every movement, every frame, as if the sheer force of his obsession could change something. As if watching it just one more time would suddenly make it all make sense.

But it didn’t. It never did.

He slammed the replay button, forcing the video back to the start, watching as you darted through the shadows, your movements swift and efficient. You had been so sure of yourself. You had to be, because you wouldn’t have done this otherwise, right? You wouldn’t have gone in without backup unless you knew you could handle it. Unless you thought you had no other choice.

Right?

But why?

Why?

Why hadn’t you asked him for help? Or anyone else for the matter.

Tim dug the heel of his palm into his eye, as if he could press the questions out of his skull, force them into submission.

Hah. Who was he fooling?

He knew why.

Because this wasn’t the first time.

This wasn’t the first time you’d come to him with a lead, eyes sharp and voice brimming with certainty. You’d always been like that—so sure, so goddamn convinced that you were right. And most of the time?

You weren’t.

Tim had been the one to prove it almost every time, the one who always had to go back, retrace your steps, find the gaps in your logic, the flaws in your deductions. He’d been the one who had to clean up after you when things didn’t go the way you expected.

And this time—

This time, you had been right.

The realization hit him like a knife to the gut, twisting, tearing.

You had been right. You had exposed something big, something that should have been on their radar, something that had been festering in Gotham for longer than any of them had realized.

And it had cost you.

Tim’s hands trembled over the keyboard, his fingers curling into fists. That’s why he can’t blame you. That’s why he can’t let himself be angry at you.

Not really.

Because if it hadn’t been for you, this whole operation would have gone unnoticed. Would have slipped through the cracks, just like so many things before it.

You had forced them to see it.

And now Gotham was paying the price.

Now you had paid the price.

Tim gritted his teeth, his breath unsteady.

If you had just—

If you had just waited.

If you had just asked for help.

If you had just asked him for help.

His vision blurred for a moment, but he wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or frustration or something worse. He swiped at his face, barely noticing the wetness on his fingers before his hand hovered over the keyboard again. He had to—

“Tim.”

The voice cut through the haze of his spiraling thoughts like a gunshot.

He barely reacted. His shoulders tensed, his gaze stayed locked on the screen, his fingers frozen above the keys.

“Tim.”

He heard her footsteps approaching, the sharpness in her tone laced with something else—exasperation, frustration. Concern.

He ignored it.

The footage replayed.

Again.

And again.

“Tim.”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

And then there was a hand on his shoulder, yanking him away from the screen, forcing him to look up, to register the anger, the exhaustion, the raw frustration carved into her expression.

Stephanie.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tim blinked at her, dazed, uncomprehending.

Stephanie’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening. “Are you even aware of what’s happening out there? Gotham is a fucking mess. And you’re down here—what? Watching the same damn footage on repeat? Watching (Name) die over and over again?? Like it’s going to change something?”

Tim’s fingers twitched. His throat felt dry, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I have to—”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by something harsher. “You don’t, Tim. You’re just—” She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, do you even know where Damian is?”

That made Tim hesitate.

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Tim swallowed, his jaw locking. “I’m—”

“You’re what?” she cut in, voice sharp and furious. “Busy? Too busy staring at a screen, trying to—what? Bring her back? Figure out some convoluted explanation that makes this make sense?”

Tim flinched.

And Stephanie didn’t stop.

“Because guess what, Tim? It doesn’t make sense. It never makes sense. And you just sitting here, watching her die on repeat? Analysing her every move, every breath, every mistake? It’s not going to fix anything.”

Tim exhaled, slow and shaky, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.

“Bruce, Jason and Damian are god knows where. Dick’s gone on a rampage. Cass and Duke are off on their own, trying to keep shit from burning down completely. Helena and Kate are out there trying to contain the damage—we had to call Dinah in because there aren’t enough of us—”

Her breath hitched, her voice shaking now, but she pushed forward, because Stephanie Brown didn’t stop when things got hard.

“And you? You’re here. Acting like this is going to change anything.”

Tim’s fingers curled into fists.

Stephanie shook her head, anger flashing in her eyes. “She’s gone, Tim.”

“She’s not gone.”

Tim’s breath was coming in quick, ragged bursts. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he wasn’t sure if it was from frustration or the way Stephanie was looking at him right now—like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“She’s not dead…!” His voice cracked, but he barely noticed. His hands slammed against the desk, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles went white. “She can’t be dead—she just—”

“Tim, do you even hear yourself right now?!” Stephanie snapped, stepping closer. “(Name) is dead! Dead, Tim! And you need to start—”

“No.” He shook his head, refusing to let her finish. “No, because what about all the other people we thought were dead? Superman. Bruce. Conner. Bart.” His voice was climbing now, chest heaving as his mind raced faster than his words. “And you—you, Stephanie. Every single one of you somehow came back to life, whether it was because you weren’t actually dead, or you were brought back by—”

“That’s not the same thing!” Stephanie’s voice was sharp, but Tim didn’t stop.

“It is the same thing!” His eyes were wide now, wild with something he didn’t know how to name. “Superman was literally killed, and what happened? He came back. Bruce—we buried him, and guess what? He wasn’t even dead! Conner—he died during Infinite Crisis and came back! Bart sacrificed himself during —” His breath hitched, and he barely held it together. “And you.” His voice was shaking now. “You faked your death, Steph. You let me and everyone think you were dead for months...! And yet—”

Stephanie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “But this is different, Tim! She’s different!”

“How?! How is this different?”

“Because she was shot, Tim!” Stephanie practically shouted, frustration burning in her chest. “She wasn’t resurrected by some Kryptonian regeneration matrix, or caught in some bullshit time displacement! She wasn’t lost in the timestream like Bruce, or cloned by some insane scientist, or mysteriously revived by the Speed Force! She was shot! Bullets went through her, Tim! There’s no coming back from that!”

Tim’s breath stuttered, but he clenched his jaw, shaking his head rapidly.

“No,” he muttered, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “No, that doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. Her suit was reinforced—there’s no way a bullet could have—”

“Because we weren’t prepared, Tim!” Stephanie cut in, her voice cracking. “She wasn’t prepared! Those bullets weren’t normal—those weren’t some cheap rounds from street dealers—they were made of promethium, Tim. Promethium. Her suit wasn’t designed to withstand that kind of impact.”

Tim faltered for half a second.

But it wasn’t enough.

“No.” His voice was flat, empty. “No, because if that’s true, then that means—” His breath hitched again, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. “That means she wasn’t supposed to die.” His voice grew distant, his mind racing through every scenario. “That means there was a way we could have stopped this. That means there was a way I could have—”

Stephanie’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“You always do this,” she seethed, voice shaking. “You always think it’s on you to fix everything—to stop everything before it happens.” Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. “Well, guess what, Tim? Not everything is your fault.”

Tim let out a humorless laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh yeah? Because it sure as hell feels like it is.”

Stephanie inhaled sharply, rage flaring in her chest.

“She’s gone, Tim,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “And you’re sitting here acting like you’re the only one who lost her.”

Tim flinched at that.

She’s right.

How could she not be?

“You think you’re the only one hurting?” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who can’t believe she’s actually gone?” She shook her head, frustration bleeding into every word. “Newsflash, Tim—I can’t believe it either. None of us can.” Her breathing was uneven now, the weight of the past few days pressing down on her like a vice. “But you—” She exhaled sharply. “You and (Name)? You weren’t even close.”

Stephanie saw Tim stiffen, and she felt her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop. Even though she knew she didn’t have any right to say the next few words.

“I mean, I can’t even talk, right? Because it’s not like she and I were friends or anything. But whatever we had was at least something—more than whatever the hell was going on between you two.” She swallowed, voice thick with something she refused to name. “So why, Tim? Why are you acting like this? Like you’re the only one who lost her?”

Tim opened his mouth—then closed it.

Because she was right.

And he hated that she was right.

Because he didn’t know why.

Didn’t know why this loss felt different.

Didn’t know why it felt like he was suffocating on it.

Maybe because he had never taken loss well.

Maybe because every time he lost someone, it felt like another piece of him was being ripped away.

Maybe because he still wasn’t convinced.

Maybe because he still felt like there was a way to fix this.

Before he could say anything—before either of them could keep unraveling—a sharp, piercing alert rang through the cave, slicing through the air like a blade.

Stephanie jerked her head up, eyes narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

Tim’s entire body went rigid.

He turned to the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. His heart pounded against his ribs, his stomach twisting. His eyes scanned the system logs—

And then he froze.

Stephanie immediately stepped closer. “Tim?”

Tim didn’t move.

“Tim.”

Nothing.

Then, slowly—so slowly—he turned to look at her. His expression was unreadable.

“…That’s the alert Bruce installed at the graveyards.”

Stephanie felt her stomach drop.

“What?”

Tim swallowed, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s an alert that goes off whenever someone is digging up the graves.”

Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat.

And then—

Tim clenched his jaw.

“The alert that just sounded… was for (Name)’s grave.”

The Batcave was silent.

Not the kind of silence that came with solitude, nor the kind that settled between brief moments of stillness.

No—this silence was suffocating.

Not in the literal sense—there was no smoke, no lack of oxygen, no pressing physical force keeping them in place. But the weight in the air, the way it clung to their skin and settled in their bones, made it impossible to ignore.

It was the kind of silence that pressed against their ribs like iron bars, the kind that wrapped itself around their throats and made it hard to breathe. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t truly silent at all—because beneath it, there was tension, rage, a storm waiting to break.

The only sounds were the quiet hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional distant drip of water echoing through the cavernous walls. Even the bats that lurked in the high crevices seemed to hold their breath.

It had been silent since they got back.

Not the comfortable silence of routine, not the practiced quiet of soldiers working in tandem, but a silence teetering—on the edge of something irreversible, something that could snap at any second.

Bruce had yet to turn around.

His back remained to them, shoulders squared, posture impossibly still, and yet—somehow, in some unnatural way, he still managed to command the entire room. Still made every breath feel like it had to be earned, like speaking out of turn might shatter something fragile and irreparable.

But the silence couldn’t last forever.

Bruce’s voice, when it finally came, was low and sharp as a blade.

“Damian.”

His name cut through the air like a blade.

Damian inhaled sharply, but he did not falter.

His shoulders squared, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw locked in a way that made his teeth ache, and he forced himself to meet Bruce’s gaze when his father finally turned around.

“Why did you do it?” Bruce’s hands had curled into fists at his sides.

“I had to take a chance.”

The words left him before he could second-guess them, before he could even consider any other way to phrase it. As if putting it any other way would make a difference. As if making it sound more reasonable, more calculated, more understandable would change anything.

Bruce’s stare didn’t waver.

His response was immediate.

“No.” His voice was harsher now, dangerously close to breaking. “This isn’t the way.”

The words were spoken like a fact. As if there was no arguing it, as if the conversation should have ended right there, as if Damian had already lost.

But he hadn’t.

Because this wasn’t about right or wrong.

This wasn’t about rules.

This was about you.

“Why not?”

His voice came sharper this time, cracking through the space between them, pushing against the weight of Bruce’s certainty, forcing something else into the silence. Something raw. Something desperate.

“I had to take a chance.”

He had to.

Bruce inhaled, slow and measured, before exhaling just as steadily.

When he spoke again, his voice was still calm.

Unshaken.

And somehow, that only made it worse.

“(Name) is dead, Damian.”

A sharp breath.

His stomach twisted violently.

His body tensed, his nails pressing so hard into his palms that the sting barely even registered. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, but outwardly, he refused to react.

He refused.

“She’s not—”

“Damian.”

Bruce’s voice cut through his own, and the finality in it sent something cold shooting down his spine.

But he shoved it down.

He wouldn’t accept this.

He couldn’t.

Damian’s hands curled into fists. “Then I should have gotten her to the pit sooner.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then how does it work, Father?” Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the cave like a whip. “Tell me—tell me how it makes any sense that Jason could be revived but not—” His voice caught for half a second, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. “Not her.”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence—it was almost worse than anything he could have said.

“That was different.”

Damian’s fists clenched.

“How?”

Bruce inhaled again, and something in the way he did it—something so controlled, so deliberate—made Damian’s stomach twist even further.

“Jason wasn’t brought back to life by the Lazarus Pit.” His voice was firm, but there was something almost reluctant in the way he spoke, like he didn’t want to explain this. Like saying it out loud would make something real. “The pit only restored his mind. It erased the damage. That’s different from what you tried to do.”

The words felt like they didn’t make sense.

Like they didn’t fit.

Like they shouldn’t exist.

Like they should be impossible.

But Bruce—

His father was saying them like they were true.

Something shifted.

Something small.

But Damian noticed.

Bruce stopped speaking, his sentence left unfinished, hanging in the air like a rope about to snap.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

His jaw tightened—just slightly, just barely.

His mind raced—whirring, unraveling, dissecting—because it should have worked.

He had done everything right.

He dug you out of your grave, broke through the dirt with his own two hands. He had brought you to the only Lazarus Pit in Gotham, he dragged your lifeless form across the damp cavern floors. He had submerged you into the emerald waters, the same way his mother had shown him, the same way it had worked before.

But nothing happened.

The pit remained still.

The water glowed, but it did not churn, did not surge with life.

It removed the scars you’ve gotten over the years. But that was it.

You—

you did not wake up.

You remained still. Cold. Gone.

Why?

Why didn’t it work?

It should have worked.

Unless—

A voice rang in his ears.

His mother’s voice.

“The Lazarus Pit restores the body to its perfect condition—before death.”

Before death.

Is that why?

Is that why the Lazarus Pit didn’t work?

Jason was barely alive—barely sane—when he was thrown into the pit.

But he was alive.

And you—

You weren’t.

Damian couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t bear to say it.

No.

No, he refused to accept that.

You couldn’t be gone. Not like this. Not this easily. Not this pathetically.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke again.

Something inside him cracked.

“You knew.”

The words felt like an accusation.

Bruce didn’t deny it.

Damian’s hands shook.

“You knew it wouldn’t work, didn’t you?” His voice was quiet, but it carried through the cave like a gunshot.

Bruce still didn’t deny it.

“You knew, and you still let me—”

Damian felt himself faltering. He felt the words get caught in his throat.

“You still let me dig her up.”

His throat tightened, and he felt something press down on his chest, something suffocating, something that refused to let him breathe properly.

“You let me take her to the Lazarus Pit. You let me think it would work—”

Bruce inhaled, slow and even. “You needed to see for yourself.”

Damian’s vision blurred for half a second.

Then he snapped.

“That’s bullshit.”

Bruce remained still.

“You wanted me to fail.”

Bruce remained silent.

“You wanted me to see—” His breath hitched. “That she was really—”

He couldn’t say it.

Because if he said it—if he let himself even breathe those words—

It would be real.

Damian couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t accept it.

Because how could he?

When you had died such a meaningless death?

When you had gone out like that?

He hadn’t gone to your funeral.

Hadn’t watched them lower you into the ground.

Hadn’t stood beside the rest of them, listening to empty condolences and meaningless words.

No.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he refused to accept that you were really gone.

Because you had always been so stubborn.

So reckless.

Because you shouldn’t have died like that.

Because you should have let them help you.

Because it wasn��t supposed to be like this.

But who was he to say that?

When he was just like you.

Stubborn. Reckless in his own way.

Just as self-destructive.

And it was eating him alive.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Damian’s eyes snapped toward Tim.

Tim, who had been standing quietly until now.

Tim, who looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Tim, who had alerted Bruce—who had found Damian at the Lazarus Pit, alongside Stephanie.

Damian let out a sharp scoff. “Huh.” He tilted his head, voice dripping with something venomous. “And what would you know?”

Tim’s expression flickered—just for a second.

“More than you think.”

Damian scoffed, shaking his head. “No. You wouldn’t.”

Tim exhaled sharply. “You think you knew her.” His voice was low, measured, but it wavered slightly. “But you didn’t.”

Damian’s chest tightened. “And you did?”

Tim’s hands curled into fists.

Damian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You hated her.”

Tim stiffened. His jaw clenched.

“No, I didn’t.”

The words were immediate. Unshaken.

And somehow, they hit harder than anything else so far.

“You never even acknowledged her.”

“Yes I did—“

“Well I suppose it wasn’t enough apparently.”

Tim’s breath stilled, his shoulders locking, his throat bobbing in a way that Damian almost wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.

“Well you pushed her away every chance you got,” Tim shot back, voice sharp, words cutting. “So don’t act like you actually cared.”

Damian’s fingers twitched.

“I did care.”

Tim exhaled, bitter.

“Yeah? She definitely knew that for sure.”

Damian froze.

His breath hitched.

You knew.

You had to know.

Didn’t you?

Even when he had insulted you, even when he had been a complete bastard—

Even when he was cruel, even when he acted like you were nothing but a nuisance, even when he never said anything—

You had to have known.

Didn’t you?

“I had to take this chance,” Damian said, quieter, breath uneven, hands shaking. “Because she was my sister.”

Tim’s expression flickered.

And then—

“She was my sister too.”

The words left Tim before he could stop them.

Before he could even think.

Everything stopped. The words lingered in the air, sinking into the silence like a blade buried deep into flesh.

She was my sister, too.

Tim hadn’t meant to say it.

Hadn’t planned it.

Hadn’t even thought about it before the words just left his mouth, before they hit the space between them, before they cut into something raw, something real, something he hadn’t even let himself acknowledge until it was already too late.

His own breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his pulse hammering against his skull as if his own body was trying to reject what he’d just said.

Because why now?

Why was he only saying it now?

Why was he only acknowledging it when you were already—

His throat locked up.

Damian’s fingers twitched.

His mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, as if to say something, but no words came out.

The air between them was thick, suffocating, the weight of everything pressing down on Tim’s ribs so hard that he felt like he could barely breathe. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, like his own body didn’t know how to process what had just happened.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Damian’s voice was quiet.

Too quiet.

Tim exhaled sharply, his jaw locking. “What?”

Damian’s shoulders squared, his arms stiff at his sides, his fingers still shaking even as he clenched them into fists. His breathing had turned uneven, almost unsteady, but his voice—his voice was sharp.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Tim scoffed, shaking his head, but he felt something tightening in his chest.

“I don’t get to say that?” His voice came out bitter, biting, but his own hands were trembling slightly now. “(Name) was my sister too, Damian. That’s just a fact.”

Damian’s breath stilled.

For a split second, his body went completely still.

“Then why did you treat her like she wasn’t?”

Tim’s chest clenched. His breath hitched.

Damian took a step closer, voice cutting deeper, something sharp in his expression, something broken in his stare.

“Why did you act like she didn’t matter? Like she wasn’t even worth your time? Why did you act like she—”

His breath stuttered for half a second, something cracking through his voice before he forced it back down.

“You pushed her away.”

Tim clenched his teeth. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Damian’s hands twitched.

“I never pushed her away.”

“You shut her out,” Tim snapped, voice cracking under the weight of it. “You resented her.”

Damian’s stomach twisted.

“I did not.”

“You didn’t care about her when she was alive.”

“I did.”

“You barely even acknowledged her—”

“I did not hate her.”

“But now you suddenly care?” Tim let out a bitter laugh. “Now, suddenly, she’s your sister?”

“She is my sister,” Damian snapped. “And you don’t get to say otherwise.”

Tim’s breath hitched.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

Because that—

That wasn’t the same thing.

That wasn’t—

“That’s not what I said.”

Damian’s nails dug into his palms.

“Yeah, but it’s what you meant.”

Tim inhaled sharply, his hands twitching at his sides, something thick in his throat that he didn’t want to name.

He shook his head, exhaling, his breath uneven. “You think I—”

“You think I hated her?” Damian cut in, voice sharp, voice dangerous. “You think I would have wannted her to die? You really think that’s what I wanted all this time??”

Tim clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Really?”

Damian took another step forward, his body tense, his posture unreadable, his fingers curled into fists like he was trying so hard to keep himself steady, to keep himself from doing anything other than this.

“Then what are you saying?”

Tim exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop back to his side, something tight inside of him, something that was pressing too hard against his ribs, something that felt like it was clawing at his chest from the inside out.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this.”

Damian stilled.

“You keep saying that,” Damian said, voice tight, voice low, voice lined with something Tim couldn’t fully decipher. “Like you actually know what she wanted.”

Tim’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t know her, Drake.”

A beat of silence.

“You don’t get to say that,” Tim said, voice shaking with something raw. “You don’t get to act like you gave a damn about her when it actually mattered.”

Damian’s eyes burned.

“You don’t get to act like you knew her, either,” he shot back, his voice venomous. “You don’t get to tell me what she would have wanted—”

Tim let out a breathless laugh. “And you do?” His voice was rising now, sharp with frustration. “You think you had the right to drag her out of her grave and throw her into the Lazarus Pit because you couldn’t deal with it?”

Damian’s stomach churned. “Shut up.”

Tim stepped forward. “You think she would’ve wanted this?”

Damian’s nails dug into his palms.

And at that moment, Stephanie, who’d be silently listening to the entire argument, stepped forward. “Okay, that’s enough, guys—”

“You think she would’ve wanted to wake up in that pit—if she even could?” Tim’s voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t stop. “To wake up wrong?”

“No,” Tim interrupted, his voice raw. He stepped closer, his fists trembling at his sides. “You think you’re the only one who wanted her back?” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through. “You think you’re the only one who couldn’t accept it?”

Damian exhaled sharply, looking away.

“You thiink you’re the only one who’s thought of dumping her in a Lazarus Pit, hoping that somehow—”

Tim’s breath caught.

He stopped.

Because he couldn’t say it either.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Would make it final.

That there really was no way of bringing you back to life.

And for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved.

“That’s enough.”

Bruce’s voice cut through the air, sharp, commanding, absolute.

Tim sucked in a breath.

Damian’s hands shook.

Silence.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. Almost unbearable.

Tim felt his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath still uneven, his body still tense from the argument—no, from the fight. Because that’s what this was.

Damian wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

His hands were curled into fists so tight that his knuckles had turned white, his shoulders were stiff, his breath was shallow, and his entire posture was wound so tightly that Tim thought he might just snap.

But he wouldn’t.

Not in front of Bruce.

Bruce, who had spoken with finality, whose voice had cut through the air like a blade, sharp enough to make even Damian shut up.

Tim swallowed, dragging a hand down his face before exhaling sharply, trying—failing—to let go of the tension clawing at his chest. His other hand clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm, grounding him, steadying him, because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

Damian still wasn’t looking at him.

He wasn’t looking at Bruce either.

He was staring straight ahead, at the cave floor, at something that wasn’t even there, his entire body locked up, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable—

And then his gaze shifted.

Just barely.

Tim saw the exact moment his eyes landed on your body.

—or, at least, where your body should have been.

You were still there.

Your body was still there.

They had laid you down. Covered you up with a white sheet. Tim hadn’t been the one to do it—he didn’t even know who had done it, if it was Bruce, or Stephanie, or if they had both done it together, but he knew it hadn’t been him.

He hadn’t looked.

Not really.

He hadn’t let himself.

Damian’s fingers twitched.

His breathing hitched.

And then, before anyone could say anything—before Bruce could look at him, before Tim could process anything, before Stephanie could even move—

Damian turned and stormed out of the cave.

His boots struck the floor hard, fast, and then he was gone.

Stephanie opened her mouth, but nothing came out of it.

Bruce was already turning back toward the Batcomputer, already refocusing, already shutting down, because that was what he did. That was how he functioned.

Tim exhaled sharply.

The tension in his chest was still there.

Still suffocating.

Still unbearable.

He thought back to what he’d said. Thought back to what Damian did.

And Tim hated how he would’ve done the exact same thing Damian did if he were given the chance to.

Hated he was just like Damian in that sense.

Without a word, without a look, without a second thought—

Tim turned and left, too.

The alley reeked of rain-soaked asphalt and cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to the air long after the ember had burned out. A flickering streetlamp cast jagged shadows against the crumbling brick, the light barely reaching past the fog curling along the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—short-lived, swallowed by the city’s restless hum.

Then came the scratch of a lighter, a brief glow illuminating a worn trench coat, a sharp inhale followed by a slow exhale, smoke drifting through the damp air.

“Well, ain’t this a bloody mess.”

woops… 😬 heyyy guys…!! 🫣 did y’all miss me HAHA. this was definitely long overdue… i think i probably gave yall trust issues 😭 actual chapter 7 will be out at utc+8 12am on 14 Feb 🥰

taglist is closed ‼️(i’ll think about opening it again soon 🤫)

(1/3): @fangxout @dusk-muse @quethekillerqueen @isupportorbitalbombardment @nxdxsworld @vanessa-boo @coffeeaddictxd @moonsbluekingdom @yuya-bubbly @percythebitchwitch @anonymousdisco @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @redsakura101 @what-0-life @idkwhattoputhete @secretyouthcomputer @witch-waycult @allycat4458 @dazed-lavender @eclecticfurylady @wizzerreblogs @marsmabe @daddysfangirls-dc @hoeinthehouse @beeweensblog @ilxandra @agent-nobody-knows @thethingwiththefeathers @mochiivqi @pix-stuff @narration-ator @nebulousmoon3990 @delias-stuff @froggy-voidd @jjsmeowthie @kore-of-the-underworld @nen-nyy @juthesillylesbain @vikkus-main @emilylouise123 @blueiones @horror-lover-69 @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wassupbroski55555 @reallyromealone @plsfckmedxddy @sea-glasses @203moonysello @luvly-writer @dovey-quacks2332 @love-theangel @hotdinoankles @vebbiewuzhere (so sorry to those who’ve been moved to the second taglist—i can suddenly tag those i previously couldn’t 😭🙏💀)

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contamination-zone · 2 days ago

Note

wanted to ask how Nightmare found out about how comfortable Fresh gets in encloses spaces?

Ah, I think it would be pretty easy. Nightmare is a constrictor by nature, and Fresh's reactions would just give it away.

yapping under cut

Its like, Nightmare is an asshole and doesn't really care about other people's personal space. [I also think its easier to experience negativity if he's touching someone.] So in his normal... harassment of everyone around him, I can see him grabbing a lot. Also just manhandling to bring people places or get them out of the way or whatever. Grabby individual.

He'd probably just do it to see if he could, how much he could harass Fresh until it bites back, boiling frog style. Unfortunately this frog really likes being boiled HAHA. Nightmare has found the singular individual to exist who likes wet, room-temperature, full-body hugs.

Further on, if they were already allied/hanging out more regularly, just watching Fresh's habits [enjoying hiding under his desk, liking smaller rooms, generally being more lax if its dark or when the humidity is up] would be enough. Nightmare is clever enough to get it. He'd probably put two and two together [ie. Fresh likes my weird awful slimey hugs because it likes... den like places? and moisture?]

#unfortunatly I would also like the wet room temp full body hug. it sounds very nice... slimey....#Fresh #fresh sans #fresh!sans #nightmare #nightmare!sans #nightmare sans #fresh & nightmare #utmv #undertale multiverse

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furioussheepluminary · 3 days ago

Text

𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭

Pairing: nerd!jisung x popular!afab!reader, secret friends, highschool!au, nonidol!au

Synopsis: it was just a tutoring class. Just. God, but the way he wanted you to be his...every time he saw you with the popular guys. He would make you know how much he needed you.

Warnings: secret friends because of reader's reputation, Jisung wants to be more, needy!jisung (I love me some of that), jealousy, severely suggestive, swearing

A/n: y'all should leave me alone I can't write smut so live with this 😭

The stuffed library was quiet for a Thursday afternoon, save for the occasional rustling of paper and muffled coughs. You sat in front of Jisung at one of the far tables, pen tapping against your notebook as he explained some theory in economics. The cost of production, was it? You really couldn’t care less about it. His voice was soft, a little shaky, and you know it had nothing to do with economics.

It was you. It was always you. you could tell by the way he would stare in every class, darting his eyes elsewhere while chewing the back of his pen when you caught onto him. When you walked past him and his weird friends at the cafeteria, you were certain one of them was ogling. When you had asked him to tutor you for the semester, he was impulsively acceptive. He came early to the locations, poured his heart out in the subjects you struggled with and always helped you do your assignments. Cute right? Yeah, but like, he wasn’t that important to you. And he knew unfortunately.

You glanced up from your paper, eyes narrowing at the way he kept fidgeting as he spoke. His pen hovered above his notebook, sketching a graph on something you couldn’t remember. Jisung smelled like faint chocolate and cedarwood, his hair falling over his glasses as he furrowed his brows. He was cute, cute, sweet and nerdy in a way your friends would never understand. They also never understood why you even talked to Jisung. He looked up at you.

“Did you understand me?” Your eyes met. You blinked blankly at then smiled. “No, baby I think you have to explain it to me one more time. I just love the sound of your voice honestly.” He blushed and looked down.

“You need to stop doing that.” He looked at his notebook, pushing his glasses back into position.

You pouted. “Stop doing what?”

“Lying.”

You were confused. Jisung would normally blush and play along with your stupid flirting. In fact, he would take them seriously. “You okay, Sungie?” you asked acting less concerned about his reaction. “Aren’t you meant to be giggling and blushing and all that?”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he turned to you eyes flickering with something raw and desperate that it made you straighten your posture.

“No,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m not okay.”

Your brow furrowed. “Why? You not feeling well or something?”

Its not that. Oh, hell no it wasn’t. He was alive and well. Well enough to see you today dressed in his hair color, clothing that obviously wasn’t allowed as uniform. Well enough to drown himself in his perfume for you. Well enough rehearse his greetings and awful jokes to you four times in the mirror. He was so well he had enough strength to literally jack off to the thought of how your skirt rode up when you sat with your girls during lunch. But he couldn’t tell you how much of a pervert he’d been for you. That’s disgusting. He wanted to be a good boy. Your good boy. You had told him that the relationship between the two of you— if it ws even fit to be called a relationship, was strictly professional and secret. None of your friends had to know he was tutoring you. Oh, and how he hated being your secret. He didn’t want to be your secret anymore. And that? That was the problem.

“Look, Jisung,” you sighed, leaning back in your chair. “I get that this whole tutor-friend thing is confusing for you, but let’s not make it weird, okay? You here to teach and I’m here to learn.”

His hand clenched around his pen, knuckles whitening. You could see the tension radiating off him, and for a second, you wondered if you'd crossed a line.

"Weird?" Jisung repeated, voice low and taut. "You're the one making it weird.” Your brows furrowed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He rolled his eyes and dropped the pen."It means I can't keep doing this." His voice cracked, frustration spilling into every syllable. "Sitting here, pretending I'm okay with being invisible to you outside this library—like I'm just your little nerdy helper while you go out there and let everyone else see the side of you I want.”

You want? Hold up, what?

"Jisung—”

"I like you," he cut you off, voice trembling. "I have for a long time, okay? But you don't care. You don’t even see me that way.”

"All I asked for was tutoring, Jisung. I didn't ask for this," you said coolly, folding your arms across your chest. "You're the one who keeps making it complicated.” His breath hitched, and for a second, you thought he'd back down. But then he leaned forward, voice low and rough with desperation.

Oh. Well you didn't expect him to be that blunt about it. But then again you weren't really surprised at his approach. You'd always known he had a thing for you. He always wore his heart on his sleeve. But you couldn't let it matter. C’mon you had a reputation to keep up. Imagine how the whole school would look at you if they found out you were dating Jisung.

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t care anymore."

The fire in his eyes made your stomach twist, a flicker of guilt gnawing at your insides. He looked different—less timid, more desperate. Like he was ready to snap.

“You don't care? You do realize my grades are on the line right? Don't push it, Jisung.” You spoke, your tone raising a bit.

A hint of regret flashed in his eyes. No no no. He's sorry, he does care. Really, he does.

But he has to prove his point now. He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "God, do you even realize what you do to me? The way you talk, the way you dress, how you look at me with that stupid smile when you want something... It drives me insane." His voice cracked, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, like he was trying to pull himself together.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.

"And then you hang out with them." His voice softened, breaking into a raw whisper. "Those fucked up jocks who knows nothing about you. Guys who get to be seen with you. They touch your arm, laugh with you, and look at you like they own you." He swallowed hard, lips trembling. "And I’m just... here. Invisible. The guy you only call when you need help with homework.”

He saw you with them? You never took those boys seriously you'd just hang out with them.

“Jisung, it’s not like that—”

Don’t lie to me," he cut you off, eyes shimmering. "I know what I am to you. A secret. Someone who doesn't matter. But God, I wish I didn’t care." His voice shook as he leaned closer, his need palpable. "I wish I could stop thinking about how your skirt rides up when you sit, or how your perfume stays on my hoodie after we sit here for hours.”

You felt your face heat, heart racing at the bluntness of his confession. He's been looking at your skirt?

"And I hate it," he added desperately. "I hate that I want you this much, even when you make me feel like I’m nothing." His breath hitched. "But I still want you.”

Oh, fuck. None of the dudes you dated were ever this blunt. Or this cautious. The vulnerability in his voice made your defenses waver. You’d always liked the power you held over him—the way he was yours to command in this little bubble. But now? Now, it felt like that power was slipping through your fingers.

"Jisung..." you began, unsure of what to say.

He exhaled shakily. "Just tell me what to do," he whispered, voice raw with need. "You want me to stop tutoring you? Fine I'll stop. You want me to leave you alone? Heck, you won't even see me anymore. You want me to embarrass myself in front of the whole school? I'll do whatever you want if it means I can have a piece of you. Please."

The desperation in his words hung between you, suffocating and electric. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you could keep pretending this was just tutoring. Jisung has always been harmless— cute, eager to please, a bit to obvious with his feelings. But this? This was raw, desperate and far too real. And it made you uncomfortable.

He was good for you.

“Jisung you need to understand the kind of lives we have, are different.”

Lies. Fucking lies.

He looked like you’d punched him in the gut. "So that’s it?" he asked quietly, voice cracking. "You don’t care? Not even a little?”

You bit your lip an squeezed your eyes. Man, fuck your reputation.

Jisung's face was flushed, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His eyes glistened, filled with frustration and need that tugged at something deep inside you. You hated it—hated how he made you feel like you were losing control. But more than that, you hated the way your body reacted to his vulnerability. The way your pulse thrummed at the thought of wiping that hurt expression off his face in a way that words couldn't.

"Come with me," you whispered suddenly, grabbing his wrist.

"W-What?" he stammered, but you didn’t give him a chance to protest. You pulled him up from his chair, weaving through the rows of bookshelves until you found a secluded corner hidden from prying eyes.

"Y/N— What are you doing?!"

You shoved him back against the bookshelf, your breath hot and heavy. His eyes widened, shock flickering across his face.

"Destroying my reputation. Is this what you wanted?" you whispered, your voice low and daring. "Is this what you've been craving, Jisung?"

He swallowed hard, his lips parting as if to respond, but no sound came out. His silence only fueled you further.

"Answer me," you demanded, your body pressing against his. "Y-Yeah," he choked out, his voice breaking. "God, yeah."

You didn't wait. Your lips crashed against his, fierce and unapologetic. His gasp melted into a needy whimper as he clung to you, his hands trembling as they gripped your waist. The sweet taste of him mixed with desperation, and it ignited something reckless inside you. His glasses tilted awkwardly, and you pulled back just long enough to yank them off, tossing them onto the nearby shelf. "Better," you murmured against his lips before kissing him again.

Jisung whimpered, the sound raw and needy as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His fingers dug into your hips, like he was afraid you'd pull away. But you weren't going anywhere—not right now.

"You drive me crazy," he whispered against your mouth, as you bit down on his lower lip. He shuddered, pressing harder against you. "I want you," he admitted breathlessly. "God, I want you so bad.” Your heart raced, his desperation feeding your own wild energy. His words melted any resolve you had left. You nipped at his lip, pulling a soft gasp from him, before you trailed kisses down his jawline.

“You really do like being my secret, huh?” You teased against his skin. “Only mine?”

He groaned, his voice thick with need “Yes. Please—just—” You chuckled breathlessly. “Yeah? Is this what you've been thinking about when your supposed to be tutoring me?”

His face flushed, but he didn't deny it. “Yes,” he admitted hoarsely. “Every damn time.”

The rawness in his voice ignited something in you. You silenced him with another kiss, not caring about the library, the rules, or what anyone would think if they saw you. Right now, there was only Jisung, entirety and desperately yours.

yay! Second one! I swear all your gonna get from me are heated moments and all. I can't write smut for the life of me 😭. Han's one of my wreckers so I see myself writing for him more.

Taglist:

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather

If you'd like to be added you can drop your blog name in my asks!

~kc 💗

#stray kids #skz #stray kids x reader #straykids #han jisung #hanji #han jisung x reader #hannie #han x reader #smut #skz suggestive #stray kids fanfic #skzco #x reader #skz smut

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deadhands69 · 2 days ago

Text

Cute When You Stutter

loser!Shigaraki x gn/afab Reader

prev ◁ part 2 ▷ next

[series masterlist]

After planning a mission with the league all day, you’re exhausted. Kicking your shoes off at the door of your bedroom, you immediately crash on to the bed. When you pull out your phone, you expect to see a lot of notifications since you haven’t been able to check while in meetings. What you don’t expect is a text from the ex you saw at the grocery store yesterday.

When the two of you broke up, he blocked you as a way to not have to listen to your feelings or be held accountable for anything. Unfortunately, people let him and, in spite of everyone knowing your story, they all still tolerate his bullshit. Some of them even believed whatever he made up about you. Most chose to go with some middle ground peace keeping and he thrived on that. This means you had way more to worry about at the time than remembering to delete his number. You open the message, cringing in advance.

ex: that wasn’t actually your boyfriend, was it?

He took you off block for this? You reply quickly.

y/n: yeah, that was my boyfriend you begin to type, quickly changing was to is.

ex: oh come on, that dude looked terrified of you. there’s no way youre dating

What if I like them terrified you think as the texts continue to pour in.

ex: just wait until the group chat finds out you faked a relationship to make me jealous

ex: still fucking pathetic

Fucking asshole. This time you block him, not bothering to reply. Your heart is pounding out of your chest as you stare up at the ceiling.

Great, now you’ll have to convince your friends you’re dating your boss so you don’t look like an absolute idiot when he tells everyone. Maybe you shouldn't have grabbed his hand. Although, the other alternative was letting him tell everyone how sad and single you were in the Valentine's aisle by yourself. There was never any winning. Unless you can get Shigaraki to help you. He's had a crush on you for ages, he'll probably jump at the opportunity.

You grab your phone to text Shigaraki and see if he’s home before throwing it aside. Of course he’s home, he barely ever leaves his room.

Knocking a few times as a warning, he doesn’t immediately yell at you to go away so you push open his door like you usually do. He’s laying in bed playing his switch. His whole body stiffens as you enter the room. Fuck, he really does look terrified of you.

“Don’t worry,” you say, trying to sound as reassuring as you can manage, “I’m not here to sit on your lap or hold your hand or anything.”

Your words are the opposite of comforting, the blush on his face only deepens.

“Well, not yet at least,” you add. He glances away, no longer able to look you in the eyes. “I’m here to ask you a favor. And in return I’ll…” you pause to think of something he might want, “I’ll let you touch my boobs.”

“Under the shirt?” he asks so quietly you almost don’t hear him.

“Yeah, whatever. I just need your help.”

“What do you want?”

“I need you to take pictures with me and let me pretend you’re my boyfriend online,” you blurt out almost too fast for him to understand. Setting the switch down, he nods. You’re surprised he doesn’t question any of this, acting as if you just asked him the most normal thing ever.

“And you’re okay with people thinking you’re with me?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn't.”

A few minutes later, you’re back in your room. This seemed like the better option considering that his desk is currently covered in tissues and takeout boxes that you'd rather not have in the background of any pictures you post.

Sitting on your bed, you gesture for him to join you. He does, picking a spot clear on the other side.

“I need you to sit next to me,” you say while moving closer to him, “because you have to be in the picture with me.”

He nods.

You wrap an arm around him, smiling. Holding your phone at arms length you take a few selfies at different angles then look to see which is the best. He looks awkward, to say the least. His arms are crossed firmly over his chest and he’s not looking at the camera.

“You have to at least try,” you tell him, deleting bad ones (all of them.)

“I don’t know what to do,” he grumbles, face turning pink.

“Just do what you’d normally do in pictures with a friend and we can go from there.”

He stares at you as if that's the most outlandish thing you've said all night.

“Okay, got it. Uhm, start by putting your arm around me.”

Awkwardly, he does. Leaving all five fingers hovering above your shoulder. You lean into him, bringing your free arm around his back. Taking a few that you think will be cute, you turn and remind him to smile. He tries and you end up adjusting the camera angle to make it work. For the last one, you plant a kiss on his cheek. He gasps, nearly jumping off your bed.

Once you stop laughing, you look through your options. With the weird angle, you can make them work in a boyfriendcore-overly-aesthetic-Pintrest-board kind of way. You post a few of the cute ones then set the last one as your lock screen background.

Success! That was easy. Well, almost. You’re not quite done yet. There's still the part where you have to fulfill your end of the deal.

Moving to stand in front of Tomura, you grab the bottom of your shirt, bunching it up over the lower half of your face. Bold to just go for it, but if there’s anyone who won’t judge you for it it’s him. You aren’t wearing anything underneath which he very much notices. His jaw drops.

“Wow. C-can I? I’ll be careful,” he gulps staring up at you.

“Yeah, that was the deal.” Biting your shirt to keep it in place, you gently grab his wrists and move his hands onto your chest. With his pinkies up, he gives a tentative squeeze. When you arch your back to press into him, he clutches you tighter. His fingers slide over your skin, thumbs grazing your nipples. They harden at his touch so he pinches them lightly at first then harder. Your eyes close, focusing on his touch as he rolls you between his fingers.

Involuntarily, you let a moan slip out. His eyes flick up to yours. Biting his lip, he groans, grabbing the front of his pants before he jumps up and towards the door.

“I have to go now,” he mumbles, running back to his room.

next - series masterlist - bnha masterlist

taglist: @shigarakislaughter @kalulakunundrum

#do you ever look at reader and think no stop don't #bnha smut #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura smut #tomura shigaraki #loser shigaraki #tomura x reader #my hero academia smut #tomura shigaraki x y/n #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki x smut #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura #mha shigaraki

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brain4stew · 1 day ago

Note

Uhm. Hear me out.

Hcs or whatever you want to write on forsaken characters and gamer reader. Like a reader who’s played forsaken and just ended up in an isekai type situation, so they just have to deal with knowing everything and every character.

I CANNOT WITH ISEAKI THINGS. I AM SO SORRY ANON!

But I can try… 💔💔

(Again, I do not know the characters exact personalities and so on, so they might, if not most likely will be OOC!!)

That being said, headcanons/something is under the cut!! ;

(For the sake of this post, you’ll be a survivor, for let’s be honest. I don’t think anyone would have the qualifications to be a killer. Especially when there’s someone with a gun, a sword, a whole ass turret, and a mf ex-military man on the survivor side. You’d end up dead right away.)

• You have become ADDICTED to the game forsaken on Roblox. You even know most of the lore, and the characters. (Hell, even the upcoming characters too!)

• You’ve come home one day from school/work, and just want to relax and have some fun playing forsaken.

• …You didn’t expect to be fucking transported there. WHY ARE YOU IN FORSAKEN OF ALL GAMES?!

• Unfortunately for you, you cannot respawn back into the lobbies as the other survivors. Sooo… You might be cooked….

• Every survivor was confused, weary and on edge. Where’d you come from? Who are you? What are you? Are you friendly or not? Can they trust you?

• Whenever there is a round, you can maneuver over objects and things, such as; windows, broken walls, and stuff and things you can climb. The other survivors can’t, unfortunately, neither can the killers.

• The killers find you annoying, especially 1x1x1x1. You actually infuriate him to the point he almost gives up being a killer. (He’s just being petty is all.)

• You, knowing that Elliot can’t heal himself, you wing it, and get a medkit for him. Just so he can survive and heal himself up, as he can’t heal himself.

• You once, accidentally got flung on top of a wall, due to John Doe’s spikes. Which, he actually felt guilty off. (You were fucking terrified because of that.)

• Surprisingly enough, Jason can tell that you aren’t any normal robloxian. So, you’re safe from him at least.

• C00lkidd, finds you both annoying and fun! You can run way better than the other survivors, without conserving your stamina! (You do need to conserve your stamina still, otherwise it’ll be a pain for your lungs… And legs…)

• The survivors, are unsure about you, but, Builderman, Shedletsky and 007n7 trust you, as they also noticed you aren’t like them. (Robloxians.)

• Builderman and Shedletsky stay by you, surprisingly. They don’t want the only survivor, that is an actual human, and not a robloxian, just… Die.

• Unfortunately, being in forsaken, will most likely be your downfall. Really.

#roblox forsaken x reader #forsaken roblox x reader #forsaken x reader

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rebelliousstories · 1 day ago

Text

Hearts

ValenFics

Relationship: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Brief Angst

Word Count: 713

Main Masterlist: Here

Criminal Minds Masterlist: Here

Summary: A simple note that makes all the difference.

Consider Donating: Here

“The most important thing in communication is to hear what isn’t being said.” Peter Drucker

“Honey, would you please calm down? Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Aaron pleaded with his wife as she fluttered about the house, focused on her tasks.

“If you had just told me earlier, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” She shot back, tossing some of his under shirts into his go bag. “You just told me that you’ve known about this for three months. I don’t care what you do to remember but you should definitely remember something like this sooner than the day before our reservations.”

Sighing in defeat, Aaron scrubbed his hands over his face. “I know. I know and I’m sorry. Just, please, don’t be mad.”

“Aaron, I’m not- I’m not mad. You realize that we made those reservations a month ago? If you would have just checked your calendar, we wouldn’t be in a predicament like this.” She tried to reassure her husband. Placing her hands on his chest, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. Thankfully, he wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her close, melting into her affections.

“I really am sorry, honey.” He whispered back to her once they separated.

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of it. You have to get on your case.” Patting his chest one more time, Mrs. Hotchner finally let her husband go back to what he was doing.

Unfortunately, Aaron left for Oregon that very afternoon. The entire time he was a grumbling and more irritated than normal. Which is why Dave took over after they had been at the case all day, sending everyone, especially Hotch, back to the hotel for the night.

Agitated, Aaron threw his bag from his shoulder to the floor as he entered his hotel room. The case files and IPad that he also carried were tossed to the bed, before he finally went to put his gun in the safe in the room. Picking his bag up from the ground, he set it on the bed to begin putting his clothes away. His suits were hung up, his shirts, underwear and other clothing items were set inside the dresser.

As he went to pull out his toiletries bag from the bottom of his suitcase, a card caught his attention. Picking up the red envelope, he quickly recognized his wife’s handwriting on the front. Dropping himself down into the chair, Aaron delicately opened it to read what his wife sent for him.

On the front, a bunch of hearts of various colors were printed on it. His ringed hand opened the stiff paper to see that she had left a message inside.

Get home safely please. We have reservations next Saturday to make up for it. I love you so much, my beloved G-man. Love your precious wife <3

Aaron smiled with all of the muscles in his face at the short message. She could have just texted it to him, but this was something he enjoyed. He loved having his wife and son’s handwriting in the form of notes when he was away from home. It reminded him of what he got to come home to.

He traced over the hearts on the cover, and the one she had drawn. Such a small thing, but Aaron traced his eyes over it one more time. Once he had committed it to memory, Hotch opened a pouch on the side of his duffel bag. At least a dozen cards and pieces of paper were lined up inside, and these were just the ones from the beginning of the year. He slotted the card near the front so that they were in chronological order for him to keep organized when he eventually moved them out of the bag.

Before he went to bed that night, Mr. Hotchner sent a text to Mrs. Hotchner.

I love you too. I’m sorry for all the trouble. You’re too good for me sometimes. See you soon. <3

Sophie Kinsella once said, “True love is hard. It requires work, compromise, tears and sweat. It brings periods of fear, anger, sadness, questions, sickness and space. But it also brings periods of hope, laughter, happiness, dependability, answers, healing and closeness. That’s what it makes it worth it.”

#rebelliousstories #writing #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner #thomas gibson #Thomas Gibson imagine #Thomas Gibson x reader #valenfics #valentines fics #valentines day #ValenFics 2025

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

Text

OFF-LABELS | O3

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Hoseok being a menace with medical terminology, innocent (but absolutely calculated) comments about oral muscle endurance, subtext so thick it's suffocating, plausible deniability at an elite level, flustered reader, casual intimacy that feels dangerous, and dinner table tension that might actually kill you.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.2k

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT | PREVIOUS

→ A/N: Listen. I don't know what is wrong with me. I sat down to write something normal, and then suddenly I was researching orofacial muscle fatigue like a lunatic. WHY is this man like this? Why does he say things so kindly while ruining your life? Why is he explaining anatomy while looking directly at you like that? Anyway. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever choked on their food while someone smiled at them way too nicely.

PLAYLIST

It starts in the kitchen.

Which is unfortunate, because the kitchen is small. And there are only so many places to stand before proximity becomes a problem.

You’re hyperaware of it—the space (limited), the air (too warm), him (entirely too close). But it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re just making tea, and he’s just existing, leaning against the counter like this is his apartment instead of your brother’s. Like he belongs here. Like his presence isn’t making it impossible for you to function like a normal person.

(He’s not even doing anything. Which somehow makes it worse.)

“I didn’t know you liked green tea.” His voice is easy, just conversational. Not a trap. Probably.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. “Yeah. I mean—I do. It’s good. Antioxidants and stuff.”

Brilliant. Truly stunning commentary.

Hoseok just hums, and you hear the soft clink of his rings against his glass as he lifts it to his lips. He’s drinking water, which seems unfair. Water is neutral. Water doesn’t require decisions. Meanwhile, you’re standing here, internally debating whether you’re taking too long to steep this tea, if leaving the bag in too long will make you seem weird, if—

“Relax, Chip.”

The words are casual. Just a little offhanded throwaway of a comment. But it lands like a dropped match, tiny but catastrophic.

You blink. Slowly. “What?”

Hoseok sets his glass down with a soft thud and turns to you fully, eyebrows lifted in lazy amusement. “You’re overthinking your tea.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s a thing people do—casually observe someone else’s entire internal meltdown and name it out loud.

Which, to be fair, is exactly what he’s doing.

Your ears feel hot. “I am not.”

“You are.”

He’s enjoying this. You can tell. It’s in the corner of his mouth, the hint of a smile he’s barely holding back. Not mean—just knowing.

And then it clicks. The name.

Chip.

“Wait,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Did you just call me—”

His grin sharpens, eyes flashing with something teasing, but infuriatingly innocent. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Chip. Short for chipmunk.”

You stare at him. Your brain scrambles for a response and comes up with absolutely nothing.

He keeps going, undeterred. “You do this thing when you’re overthinking—” He gestures vaguely at your face, at you. “Your cheeks puff up. Just a little.”

Absolutely not. That does not happen.

Except—you know exactly what he’s talking about.

Which means he’s noticed.

You turn back to your tea, because looking at him feels impossible. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he says again, softer this time. Almost amused.

You risk a glance at him. He’s watching you, expression easy, mouth still curled slightly at the edges.

It’s not a big deal.

It’s just a nickname.

But you can feel it settling somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome, curling into the spaces he’s already managed to take up.

Chip.

You should tell him not to call you that.

You should absolutely, definitively tell him not to call you that.

But you don’t.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

That he’s just being himself—casual, playful, thoughtless in the way people like him can afford to be. That it’s just a nickname, not a calculated attack on your sanity.

And yet.

Yet.

You feel it every time he says it after that.

The first time, it’s two days later. He and your brother are in the living room, a game on in the background, when you walk by with your laptop. You aren’t even stopping—just passing through—when he glances up and says it like it’s always been your name.

“Where you off to, Chip?”

The sound of it makes you trip over your own feet. Embarrassingly. You don’t even answer, just keep walking, face burning, fully aware of the way he watches you go.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Sometimes it’s subtle, slipped in like an afterthought. “Hey, Chip, toss me that.” “You always this quiet, Chip?”

Other times it’s deliberate. Measured. Like he’s testing the weight of it, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll react.

You don’t.

You refuse.

(Which only seems to encourage him.)

And then one night, it’s just the two of you. Your brother’s in the shower, music spilling under the bathroom door, and you’re curled up on the couch, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Hoseok is sitting way too close for comfort.

His arm is slung over the back of the couch, loose and easy, and every so often, when you shift, your shoulder brushes against his.

(You should move. You should absolutely move.)

Instead, you stay where you are and pretend to be very, very interested in the show playing on the screen.

Hoseok shifts. You feel the weight of his attention before you see it.

“You don’t like it?”

You blink. “What?”

“The nickname.” His voice is low, smooth, barely above the sound of the TV. “You never say anything about it.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know what to do with him, watching you like he’s reading something written just under your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say, and it’s not convincing.

His lips twitch, but his voice stays neutral. “You sure?”

You nod, too quickly.

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the shower running down the hall, the TV filling the air with white noise.

And then—so soft you almost don’t catch it—

“Good.”

It lingers in the space between you, something light, something easy. But you feel it settle somewhere deeper. Somewhere dangerous.

Because now, you know for certain.

He’s not going to stop.

And that’s the problem. It’s a problem. Because Hoseok is nice.

He’s just nice.

He’s warm and charming in a way that isn’t practiced—it just is. The kind of person who remembers how you take your coffee after hearing it once, who laughs with his whole chest, who makes people feel like they belong.

He’s good at things, too. Competent in that effortless way that makes it infuriatingly easy to admire him. You’ve seen him fix things around your brother’s apartment without being asked, roll up his sleeves and lean under the sink like it’s nothing, like he was built for it.

(Not that you were watching. Not that you noticed the way the muscles in his forearms shift when he grips a wrench.)

The point is—this is just how he is. With everyone.

So it’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Or at least, it would be, if he’d stop saying things.

Because then, it happens at dinner.

And the reason for Hoseok being here is simple.

He’s always here for dinner.

Not every night, but often enough that it’s routine. That your parents barely bat an eye when they see him at the table, that your mom still sets an extra plate for him when she cooks, that your dad asks about his job like he’s part of the family.

Because he might as well be.

He and Caleb have been friends since his first year of university—long enough for Hoseok to be comfortable in this house, for your parents to know his favorite foods, for you to be so used to him being around that you shouldn’t be affected by it anymore.

(And yet. And yet.)

Dinner is normal.

It’s just the five of you at the table, passing dishes around, the smell of takeout filling the air. The conversation is easy, punctuated by laughter, by the scrape of chopsticks against plastic containers.

It’s nice. It’s comfortable.

Or at least—it should be.

Except your eyes keep tracking him. They always do. The way he sits—too at ease, too familiar. The way his sleeves are pushed up just enough to be distracting. The way his fingers grip his chopsticks, loose and confident, movements fluid and practiced.

(It’s stupid. It’s stupid that you’re noticing these things.)

Your dad is asking Hoseok something about work, and you force yourself to focus, desperate to ground yourself in the conversation instead of spiraling into a pit of your own making.

“How are you managing, with the residency?”

“It’s been busy,” Hoseok says, setting his chopsticks down neatly. “But good. No complaints.”

Your mom tuts. “You work too much.”

Hoseok just smiles, warm and self-effacing. “It’s not so bad.”

Your dad nods approvingly. “That’s a good mindset. A little hard work never hurt anyone.”

“And at least someone in this house is doing it,” Caleb says, nudging you lightly under the table.

You roll your eyes. “I work plenty.”

“Studying doesn’t count,” Caleb argues, because he loves to be annoying.

“It literally does.”

Your mom sighs, long-suffering. “Can we have one meal where you two don’t bicker?”

You sit back in your chair, focusing very hard on your plate, on not looking at the person sitting just to your right. The conversation flickers and tumbles around you, but you don’t register much of it.

And then—

“You should use your mouth more, Chip.”

The table goes quiet.

Your heart stops.

Your stomach plummets.

Your entire soul leaves your body, hovering somewhere above the dinner table, watching this play out like a nightmare in slow motion.

Because—because—

He didn’t mean it like that. He can’t have meant it like that. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Your dad is right there. Your mom is right there.

Hoseok is just sitting there, utterly relaxed, a picture of perfect innocence.

You’re the only one who reacts.

And that’s the problem.

Your brother—oblivious, as always—just scoffs. “I keep telling her that.”

The world tilts.

Your face burns.

Because Caleb just agreed. Like this is a normal conversation. Like this is fine.

And maybe it is fine.

Maybe you just missed something again—some context, some crucial piece of information that would make this make sense.

You frantically rewind the last few minutes, trying to figure out how this could possibly be about—

“She eats too fast,” Caleb continues, like he’s talking about the weather. “I’ve been saying it for years.”

Your entire body deflates.

Oh.

It’s nothing.

It’s just about chewing. About how you’re always the first to finish your plate, about how your brother has been calling you out for it since you were kids.

You were imagining it.

Your hands are clammy. Your heartbeat is still a mess. But you take a slow breath, trying to pull yourself back together.

You force a weak, strangled sort of laugh. “Right. That.”

Hoseok hums, tilting his head slightly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He taps his chopsticks against his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, as if genuinely weighing his next words. Then, with the kind of mild, absentminded curiosity that should not be dangerous but absolutely is, he continues—

“Oral muscles are surprisingly adaptable. With the right conditioning, they can handle prolonged exertion without fatigue.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Absolutely not.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the weight of his voice, the way the words land, the way your lungs forget how to function. You try—desperately—to convince yourself that he means nothing by it, that this is just a fun little fact, the kind of thing anyone might say in casual conversation.

(Except no one says things like that in casual conversation.)

Your parents don’t react. Your brother doesn’t even blink. They just keep eating like this is normal, like this is fine.

You, meanwhile, are staring at your plate, trying not to choke on air.

And just as you’re about to die from sheer mortification, he adds—

“For instance, brass players develop impressive endurance. Hours of embouchure control, you know?”

Embouchure control.

You think you might be having an out-of-body experience.

Because he’s not even looking at you. He’s just sitting there—calm, innocent, like he’s just making an offhand comment about music, like he’s not actively ruining your life.

It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s science.

(Except it’s not.)

You need to leave.

You shove your chair back, your hands shaking. “I’m—gonna grab some water.”

Hoseok watches you go. You feel it.

At the sink, you grip the counter, staring hard at the faucet as you fill your glass.

It’s fine.

It’s nothing.

You’re imagining things.

It’s Hoseok being Hoseok—friendly, completely unaware of the way his words get tangled in your head, twisted into shapes they were never meant to take.

You gulp down half the glass, hoping it might cool the heat rising under your skin.

Behind you, the conversation moves on. Your dad is talking about a trip, your mom is mentioning something about the neighbors.

Everything is fine.

But when you turn back, Hoseok is still watching you.

Not in a way anyone else would notice—not in a way your brother does, too focused on his food, or in a way your parents would think twice about—but in a way that you notice.

In a way that makes something low in your stomach twist, tight and uncertain.

And then, like he knows, like he can read the exact trajectory of your thoughts, Hoseok smiles.

Soft. Innocent.

Like he didn't do anything at all.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe

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