#and if I need to make any changes for you

[kissbabie]

your bodyguard has to punish you !

being sat in bodyguard!sae's lap while he looked at you blankly, yet with the slightest hint of annoyance and irritation in his eyes was not on your list for tonight. actually, your plan was to sneak out your window after your father denied you of going to a party, but sae had unfortunately caught you. you mentally cursed the man for being so smart, and knowing exactly what you were planning to do after you so innocently asked him to leave your room so you could change.

"your father already said no, and you do this?" sae said, raising one eyebrow at you. he was lightly caressing your waist with one hand, then slowly tracing over your thigh as you pouted, then using his other hand to give you a light smack on your ass. "you really don't get it, do you?"

"'m sorry, sae, won't happen again." you blinked at him, wiggling yourself in his lap as you whined like a spoiled brat. he exhaled hard through his nose and titled his head back, like he was deciding what he should do with you. he leans in, lips brushing your ear as he uses one hand to hold the back of your neck and pull you into him, whispering into your ear, "be a good girl and ride me, okay? and i won't tell your father what you tried to do."

at the mere mention of that, you were scrambling to take off your skirt, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. pushing your own panties aside, it was almost embarrassing to see how wet you had already gotten, your pussy leaking and your panties glistening, but you managed to push yourself down his cock. the stretch was incredible — your mouth parted as you let out a whine, feeling your walls clamp down on him. straddling him, you wrap your arms around his neck, giving a few light bounces on it.

but after a while, despite how hard you were trying, you were getting tired, your thighs became sore, and sae wasn't even helping. he looked almost bored, letting out a few groans here and there, but you desperately needed for him to just grab your waist and slam you up and down on his cock.

“go faster,” sae mutters, voice flat, almost bored. “i c-can’t,” you whimpered, hips stuttering. “sae, ‘m tired, my legs—“

a little slap landed on your ass. not too hard, just enough to make your breath hitch. his fingers spread warm against your skin afterward, palm rubbing the area there. “c’mon, i know you can do it.” he says, eyes narrowing as he stares at you.

so, with what little dignity you had left, you let out a whine and started moving yourself again. it was terrible, you were riding him so messily, your thighs shaking as you let out frustrated whimpers, trying to chase your release. but, sae, of course, still had a small punishment up his sleeve for you.

"don't cum." he warned, but his voice was a bit shaky as he closed his eyes, his hands finally resting on your waist as it sounded like he, himself, was close to cumming. you sobbed, pathetically trying to ask him for permission to cum, but all he gave you was a single look and you knew you should just save your breath. you collapsed onto his chest, mewling into his shoulder as he exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up your back to keep you steady. what you didn't expect, however, was him to thrust up into you — one that made you cum, right then and there.

the feeling was incredible, feeling your pleasure finally crash over you after what you had to endure. but, after coming down from your high, it was way too quiet, and you just realized what you had done. you squirmed in his lap, before sae sighed and pulled you off. he easily grabbed you and placed you carefully on your back onto your bed, crawling over you. he fondly caressed your cheek, swiping his thumb under your eye slowly.

"didn't i tell you not to cum, hm?" he says. he leaned down to you, his breath dangerously close to yours. "guess i'll have to teach you some manners then, you brat."

for this req

© 𝒌issbabie | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[gangplanksorenji]

Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done. 

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.” 

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom. 

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do. 

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are. 

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!” 

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing. 

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now,  you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

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You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, “Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t—I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby—give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

[i-like-loserz]

breedable

pairing: husband!san x reader

cw: explicit (18+), raging breeding-kink, unprotected sex (no condom, yes other contraceptives), needy/whiny!san, cuteness/sexiness aggression (^^look AT THOSE ADORABLE PICS), not dub-con because you're not actually forcing san to have a child - its just a fantasy and san respects the responsible day dreaming -- oh, and this is NOT beta-read.

wc: 1.6k

note: reverse breeding kink turns my mind into a slushie

masterlist

---

you have a special type of aggression when it comes to your husband.

while there's the usual cuteness aggression that makes you want to pinch his cheeks and tickle him until he's a giggling mess -- or the alternative "awe-infused-aggression," that makes you want to crawl all over him and worship his body (because he's built like a god) -- but this special aggression is a mix of the two.

you call it the "i-need-to-pass-on-his-genes-with-mine" or the breeding-aggression. you see his perfect, docile face -- the cute way his brows scrunch together whenever he's feeling too much, the way his chiseled abs clench as he holds himself back -- and it sets a fire in your horny soul.

typically, when one describes a breeding kink, it involves someone wanting to impregnate the other person in an act of love and possession. of course, the other person is wholeheartedly egging them on because they, too, want to carry their baby.

in this case, however, you work hard to fuck him to get you pregnant.

you may wonder, "is that not exactly the same thing as a normal breeding kink?," which will be responded with a, "no, because san is a smart boy and he doesn't want a child at the moment -- that is, not until you're both done achieving your dreams and settled into a family-friendly environment."

san is the sensible one in the relationship, while you play the role of a feral cat in heat. he always insists on a condom or some birth control while you immediately embrace your inner horny demon and cannot go a week without begging him to fill you up like a boston cream donut.

you often think he's just playing the role of the timid damsel, begging for mercy before getting thoroughly ravished because he always ends up giving in.

at first, this obsession started with an accidental and harmless mistake.

you forgot to get condoms.

neither of you realized it until you stuck your hand into the bedside drawer, only to come up empty handed.

san, the sweetheart he is, offered to run to the store to get some. but before he could leave, you pulled him back and convinced him that one time without it wouldn't hurt. you can always take the morning after pill. right?

and you thought that was that.

but once you saw the way his cute lashes fluttered as he entered you, eyes shiny from how lost he was in the pleasure -- maybe something clicked for you. maybe.

and maybe, when you felt how his body shivered, finally feeling your warmth without any barriers, and how his cock throbbed within you, you knew this would turn into an addiction.

a dangerous one.

then when he came inside, painting your walls in his warmth before pulling out to reveal his sloppy mess, your brain chemistry became altered in a way that would change the course of desires for the rest of your life.

and then, pushing his love back in so affectionately with his fingers, eyes glazed over in awe and hunger, you knew something changed within him as well -- as much as he'd deny it. he already started to get hard again from seeing how he dripped from your perfect cunt.

and so, after that fateful night, you tried to hold back, knowing that taking the morning-after pill often wasn't healthy (and, of course, you and san weren't ready for kids yet).

this didn't stop you from imagining how his cum would feel if there wasn't a barrier between you every time you fucked. or how pretty he'd be as your baby daddy, claiming you as his own as he gives you the perfect little family.

ok, and fine, maybe you 'forgot' to buy condoms a few more times after that. and maybe you made it a habit to make him cum a few times before fucking him so he'd be a little less attentive to the missing condoms just so you can feel him gushing out of you once more.

but that's neither here nor there.

...

ok, so, maybe it was here.

and there.

here, in the house -- on the couch during movie night, on the bed in the morning, on the kitchen counter when you saw him in that cute little frilly apron he borrowed from you, in the shower when he got back from the gym.

and there, outside the house -- messily in the car(s), in a tight dressing room, spontaneously in a lake, in a utility closet at his work (don't ask) -- so you had to find a sustainable solution quickly.

it finally got to the point where you made a doctor's appointment to get on birth control because you knew you wouldn't be able to hold yourself back anymore. the pull-out method wasn't going to work for long, and you knew san was struggling to deny your whiny begs to be filled.

now, you can say whatever you want and he'll be the obedient husband that he is.

---

"cum in me, sannie..." you whisper in his ear, rolling your hips and perfectly arching your back so you can press your hot body against his. "don't you want to make me a mommy?"

you admire how his cute face scrunches up as you speed up on top of him. he's flushed a pretty scarlet, from his chiseled chest to his cheeks -- a product of your merciless teasing and edging from earlier in the evening.

"b-baby," he meets your motions smoothly, eyes squeezed shut as his body struggles to bear with the sensations of your soft heat wrapped around him. "fuck, i-i'm..."

"...you're...?" you ask, mockingly. you lightly rake your nails against the back of his neck. the action never fails to make him shiver and buck against you. you let out a short gasp as the feeling of him suddenly fully thrusting into you nearly knocks the air out of you. he's hitting that sweet sweet spot inside of you now -- and it's making you almost as delirious as the man under you.

"p-please..."

"c'mon, hubby, i wanna feel it dripping out of me," you sigh dreamily. your lips barely brush over his neck as you speak, "then you can shove it back in and make sure it keeps, right~"

"yes, yes, anything--" he mumbles, head tilted back in ecstasy. his large hands grip around your waist, guiding your body like a glorified cock sleeve, up and down his cock just right. you swear you're starting to see white spots in your vision as he continues to use your body.

you love it when he's like this. tunnel visioned and desperate to reach that explosive feeling of stuffing you full of his cum. your eyes roll back as he continues to nudge against that soft spot inside of you.

"u-uh, san..." a familiar and addictive exhilarating heat blooms from your core and proliferates through every nerve in your body before you even realize it. you bite your lip to keep you from drooling as your body starts to shake in his hold.

the shockwave of pleasure makes you clench around him, making you impossibly tight around him as he continues to thrust into you.

"fuck," he groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him. he struggles to keep up his pace as he gives into his pleasure. you can feel his abs clench against you as his hips begin to stutter to meet yours. "take it, baby. i need you to t-take it all for me."

"give it to me. i need it."

he pulls your body down and gives one last punishing snap of his hips to press himself deep inside of you as he finishes with a broken moan.

as he cums inside of you, his body trembles, overwhelmed by his orgasm, the press of your perfect body against his, the heated air surrounding the two of you, and the panted breath leaving your precious lips.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close, as he nuzzles his face against your neck, pressing soft and sweet kisses to your sticky skin.

as you both start to calm down, san lifts his face from the crook of your neck to look up at you.

"baby?" he gently brushes some hair from your face so he can get a good look at your flushed expression, "i think i'm ready." he has such a cute little smile on his face as he stares up at you with adoring eyes.

"ready?" you ask, still trying to come down from the pleasure infused fog that has settled over your mind.

"i think we should start baby-making, for real."

a silence sits in between you as you stare at him in disbelief. you weren't expecting your sensible and responsible husband to suddenly propose such a life altering idea to you.

you're suddenly pulled out from your warm post-orgasm deliriousness.

"...san. are you sure?"

he looks down at your connected bodies, at your baby-less stomach and the sticky mess that's now dripping onto his thighs. and then you feel him twitch inside of you.

oh.

"i-- yeah."

not convincing.

(at least not in the state you're in)

"yeah, no." you shake your head, fully aware of his wandering thoughts. "let's talk about this when we're fully clothed, okay."

who knew you'd be promoted to be the sensible one?

[strnilolover]

step brother!matts the type of guy to cum in/on your underwear and make sure you walk around with it all day or at least until he can get his hands on you again

⌗ . . . KEEP IT

WARNINGS : SMUT. MATT CUMMING IN YOUR UNDERWEAR.

you were supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago.

everyone else in the house had already left—your mom, stepdad, chris—every single one of them left to the family event already. you said you’d be right behind them, matt willing to drive you both in his car since neither of you were ready by the time they were all ready to go.

but instead you were fifteen minutes late.

your back was against your bed, shirt bunched up and bra pulled down, your tits on display. matt was between your legs on his knees—one hand holding the front of your panties down while the other helped glide his cock over your soaked pussy.

“fuuuck.” he groaned, rocking his hips forward again, the head of his cock rubbing against your clit. “god, you’re so fucking wet. bet you’d let me slide in all the way if we had time, hm?” he knew you would if you didn’t tell him to make it quick because you had to be somewhere.

“matt please.” you whined, bucking your hips up to grind against him. and he grunted—more like a growl through his clenched teeth. “y’not not even touching me.” you whispered breathlessly, even you were shocked at how good this felt. at how wet and turned on you were.

“don’t need to.” he murmured. “you’re gonna cum just like this if i keep going. and I’m gonna make such a fuckin’ mess in these cute panties of yours baby.” and you whimpered his name again, quieter this time, trying not to move too much.

his hips rutted faster, messier. “gonna make you wear it out. my cum all in these pretty little panties. gonna sit through dinner, thinking ‘bout me.”

you gasped at that, your walls clenching down nothing at the thought of just sitting around everyone with his cum nestled between your thighs. it was so dirty—but fuck did you love it.

his cock slid over your pussy more, the pleasure making your back arch as he kept rutting right against your clit. matt moaned low and guttural as he jerked his hips a few more times, cussing under his breath and whispering about how good your pussy felt even if he wasn’t inside of you.

it wasn’t long before he was cumming right on your folds—thick spurts spilling over your clit and running down and soaking the fabric of your underwear.

your body shivered when you felt it, a whimper leaving your lips as his hips began to slow. matt panted above you, his eyes fluttering shut before he leaned back and looked between your bodies with a proud little smirk. but you weren’t wearing a similar expression—you started to pout. he didn’t let you cum. you were right there, so fucking close to the edge, and he stopped once he was done.

“don’t change.” and you stared at him wide eyed. your pouty expression faltering slightly. you didn’t think he actually meant it—you thought it was just dirty talk—a heat of the moment kind of thing. he saw the way your face looked and smirked. “i mean it. pull your panties back up, baby. let it stay there.”

“matt..” you tried to protest, but by the look on his face you knew he wasn’t gonna budge. and he made it more clear when he spoke again. “i said wear it.” and you felt your cheeks burn. but you did it. with trembling fingers, you shifted your body and tugged your panties back into place. you could feel the warmth of him still pressed into the fabric, and you flinched at the feeling.

matt smiled at you, his hand coming down to give a few pats to your thigh before moving his body off the bed to finish getting ready.

“good girl. now c’mon, don’t wanna keep everyone waiting any longer. get dressed and later i’ll finally let you cum, yeah?”

a/n : i fear this is hot and i need this to happen to me rn 🥰

[literary-dolly]

pride & prejudice

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 11.3k warnings: ANGST, pining, enemies to lovers, violence, violence against reader, arguments/fighting, alcohol, murder

When you first meet Jason Todd he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him. (Loosely inspired by the book/film Pride & Prejudice)

Winter

“Honestly, I can’t wait for you to meet him, I can’t believe you haven’t already.”

More often than not, it was endearing to hear Babs talk about her boyfriend. You would think that Dick Grayson had hung the stars in the sky the way she sang his praises. It almost made you sick, the way her eyes would get moony as she practically recited poetry about his charms, his kindness, and occasionally, his body.

She was right though; you and Babs had been friends for as long as you could remember, it was absurd that you were yet to meet her long-term boyfriend. Phone calls and photos hadn’t really been enough to capture a true image of him, who he was and what he stood for. Babs meant the world to you, however, and you were determined to meet the man who had crashed into it so suddenly.

‘Suddenly’, you’d believed, until she’d informed you that he did in fact used to be the Robin to her Batgirl. You’d barked out a laugh at the time, there was nothing sudden about the relationship in that case – Babs had been pining over him for as far back as your mind would stretch. 

It had been a rocky few years for your relationship, your time at Gotham University had separated the pair of you, forcing you to become little more than a library recluse, drowning in books on any given day. Babs had been equally as busy, rebranding herself as Oracle and working so diligently with the Bats most days until the sun came up. It was never anything less than an honour that Babs had trusted you with her identity, the identities of most of them – she’d claimed it couldn’t hurt to have someone like you, a journalist, on the inside if needs be. Deep down, you knew she just wanted to have someone to talk to about it who didn’t dance around every evening in a spandex suit.

Degree finished and countless more hours on your hands, Babs had welcomed you back with open arms, your relationship immediately rekindling to a mirror image of what it had been in your youth. Even Jim had been ecstatic to see you, pulling you into a bear hug when you’d appeared on the doorstep.

This is how you ended up where you are now – nursing a drink in some shitty Gotham dive bar as Babs practically vibrates beside you, anticipating the arrival of her beloved. As hard as it is to resist the urge to wallow in the dingy, depressing lighting, it’s difficult to remain glum with your best friend so excited at the mere prospect of her two favourite people finally meeting. You’d resolved to try and make a good impression, working your utmost to disregard of any animosity you held for excruciating small talk.

“Oh, there he is! Dick!” Babs calls, waving a hand out enthusiastically. Dick saunters over to the table with a million-dollar smile plastered across his cheeks. The images hadn’t done him justice and you can’t help but feel proud of her as he materialises in front of you. He was, admittedly, hot. Jet black hair swooped almost too perfectly against a seamless California tan, defined muscle decorating any visible parts of his physique. Peppy, is the word that comes to mind, and instantly you can see how a man like Dick Grayson would have enraptured your friend so.

“Nightwing,” you whisper, all tongue in cheek as he settles at the table, “Nice to finally see the face behind the mask.”

So much for a good first impression.

You don’t miss the way Dick’s smile falters for just a second or how his body seems to go rigid – or the soft slap Babs throws against your shoulder. It’s amusing to watch, as Dick and Babs eyes flicker in silent communication, Babs offering him a delicate smile to let him know that you were trustworthy.

Clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t know in the first place.

Babs, out of nothing other than good manners, repeats your name to Dick as soon as it becomes apparent you aren’t going to offer it up out of goodwill any time soon. She throws a teasing smile in your direction before adding, “She’s always like this, it’s been a blessing and a curse over the years.”

In spite of your brashness, Dick extends his hand politely, flashing you a stark white grin and a bemused look, “It’s nice to finally meet you. You may as well of been hiding behind a mask too up until this point, ya’ know?”

Begrudgingly, you shake it. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is to remain prickly against all of his oozing charisma. Disarming is what it is, with how quickly his demeanour seems to be crumbling your defences – you can imagine Dick Grayson is a man used to being adored.

Ice broken, the conversation begins to flow smoothly, allowing you to slowly loosen up with every passing phrase. Dick politely asks about your time as a student, making it clear he’s listened diligently to the scraps of information Babs had no doubt given him, and you give him the same courtesy of asking about his day job as opposed to his night one. As your eyes travel between the couple in front of you, you can’t smother the flicker of warmth that makes its home in the pit of your stomach; they look good together, and anyone with a working pair of eyes could see they were absolutely smitten.

“Oh, Babs, I hope you don’t mind, I invited Jason. He’s been a bit down in the dumps recently. Thought a bit of socialisation might do him some good.”

Instantly, you throw Babs a scrutinizing glare, trying to assess if this has all been some ruse to set you up with some random her boyfriend has decided would be a good fit for you. Instead, all you see on her face is genuine surprise, if not a smidge of happiness.

“Of course, Dick, Jason is always welcome – I’ve tried to tell him the same.”

As if on cue, the bar door slams open, ricochetting against the wall behind it. A man who could only be Jason, based on the way Dick and Babs’ faces light up, seems to practically storm in, stopping sharply on his heel to survey the room before his eyes finally land on you.

Naturally, the first thing there is to notice about him is his sheer size, towering over you, your companions and likely everyone else in the bar as well. But its more than that, the way he seems to fill the space, not just with the throes of muscle that seem to be a constant cycle of tensing and relaxing down his neck, arms, jaw – but through an aura, glowering, almost dark. The hair on his head is such a shadowy black it’s striking even in the dim light of the bar, but what’s even more noticeable is the tendril of white that curls its way forward to rest on his brow. His features, you think, wouldn’t be amiss on some kind of Greek statue, distinct and severe. What catches your attention the most, however, is the deep frown etched into his brow, matching seamlessly with a similar snarl of disgust on his lip – you’d think he’d stepped into a sewer with the repulsion that seems to emanate off him.

Without even an acknowledgement, Jason simply marches over to the booth and plants himself in the only empty space directly beside you.

“Jason! I’m happy to see you, in person anyway. How you feeling?” There’s an impossible degree of kindness in Babs’ voice, you think, for a man seemingly so vehement at even being here in the first place. Your impression isn’t helped by the curtness of his response.

“Fine.”

“Jay, you want a drink from the bar? I was just going to –”

“No, I’m not planning on staying long.”

You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from admonishing the man for his sheer rudeness, his nerve to come blazing into your evening and sap every smidgeon of happiness out of the room without a care in the world. Concern is written plainly across Dick and Babs’ faces, but you can’t pretend to share the same sympathies. To you, Jason seemed to be nothing more than a dickhead with an attitude problem.

“Jason, this is an old friend of mine,” Babs offers him a smile, “I think the two of you would get along pretty well.”

“Oh great, a friend,” Jason’s words are practically lethal, “How on Earth should we celebrate such a momentous occasion?”

“I’m guessing it’s not one you get to celebrate much,” the words spill out of your lips before you can stop them, nothing more than a quiet mumble, but Jason’s head snaps to the side in an instant. There’s a fire that rims his greenish eyes, and there’s not much more that you can see in them other than downright murder. His fingers begin to lighten from his chokehold grip on the table in front of you.

“Who are you and why are you talking?” Jason bites, eyes quickly returning to the chip in the wood you wouldn’t be half surprised if he created with the intensity of his stare.

“Oh, you know, nobody you should care about. By all means, take centre stage. You’ve practically done it anyway.”

Dick’s voice comes out nervously, a hand scratching the back of his head, “Easy, guys.”

“I’ve sat down and said fuck-all,” Jason spits, “I’m not the one making bitchy comments about guys I don’t even know.”

“Bitchy? What is this 1813?” You turn your body to face him directly, edging on shouting. You try to ignore the flutter of regret in your stomach when he does the same, his figure casting a shadow across the entirety of, well, you.

“Well, I like to think of myself as a pretty modern guy but if the shoe fits.”

“That’s enough,” Babs’ voice is swift and severe when it rises, and Jason must be familiar enough with her to know to snap his mouth shut as you do, the pair of you shuffling back to how you’d been seated before. “We’re trying to have a nice evening, not start a war. Jason, why don’t you go get a drink at the bar?”

“I said I don’t want a fucking –”

Babs sends him a particularly pointed look, at which Jason seems to huff and hoist himself out of the booth. Dick is quick to follow, sliding out and trailing in the footsteps of his counterpart.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, you practically lurch forward to Babs, “Who the fuck is he and why –”

“You need to calm down,” Babs’ voice is as stern as it had been only seconds before, and you’re fairly certain you can feel your jaw drop.

“I need to calm down? I need to calm down? Babs he –”

“He’s my friend. Whether you like him or not,” her voice softens ever so slightly, and she reaches across the table to grasp your hands, “I understand he can be difficult, but so can you. He wasn’t being any worse than you were.”

You can’t muster the words to form an answer, instead opting to slump down into your seat with a few breathless grumblings. You cast your eyes over to the boys at the bar, and based on the way Jason’s shoulders are hunched forward, you can imagine he’s getting a similar tirade from Dick. That thought comforts you at least.

When they return, Dick slots himself next to you with a bubbly smile, Jason collapsing opposite him next to Barbara. There’s an awkward silence that seems to engulf the table, until Dick’s eyes begin to shine as he starts on the story of some thug he’d arrested the other day and the chaos that followed. It’s almost manageable like that, Dick happily chittering away as Babs listens intently, leaving you and Jason to glower in silence.

It’s brief, but for just a second, your eyes meet Jason’s. It’s only as you look up from the table that you realise, he’s staring, and you can’t help but feel a little burned by his gaze. If anything, you would say its apologetic, and ever so slightly longing. You watch as his lips part, almost as though he’s about to say something, but instead he just reclines back in the seat, crossing his arms over his chest and ripping his eyes away to stare at the poker table across the room.

The rest of the evening continues in that stead, and as time ticks over you find it easier to edge yourself back into the conversation, offering up small stories or observations of your own. To your surprise, even Jason pipes up every half an hour or so, mostly to offer some snide remark that sends Dick and Babs into a fit of giggles.

The four of you stay until the bar closes, a worker coming to awkwardly rush you out onto the street into the smoggy Gotham night. Babs and Dick turn to chatter to each other hurriedly, no doubt trying to orchestrate where they would be staying this evening, leaving you and Jason to stand awkwardly to the side swinging on your heels like petulant children.

Eventually, Babs sighs and turns to the pair of you, a stern look in her eye, “I need to go home with Dick to check out a case he’s been working on, I promised him I would a few days ago.” She pauses before turning sharply to Jason, “Can I trust you to walk her back home without starting a fight?”

“I don’t want him to know where I live!” You throw your arms up in exasperation, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Wow,” Jason’s chuckle is bone-chillingly dark, “Charming. I’m charmed. Truly.”

“You’re not walking on your own,” Babs snips, before tempering, “I’m sorry. I forgot about this, but it’s important. Please can you do me a favour and just go with him.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Jason quips, back half turned to the conversation.

“No, you don’t,” Babs replies firmly.

It’s not long after that Dick and Babs depart, Babs offering you what seems to be a look of both sympathy and warning as the car pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving you and Jason alone in the silent early morning air, refusing to even cast a glance in each other’s direction.

The only word to describe the walk back is painful.

It’s completely silent, bar for your mingled breathing, and the occasional call of directions on your part. Not a glance is shared, the pair of you pacing side by side without any acknowledgement of the other. You have to pretty much jog to keep up with Jason, who if he notices, does not seem to care.

Time seems to drag impossibly slowly until you reach the door of your apartment building, and you swallow your pride as you turn to face him. He seems to recoil slightly as you meet his eye, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation.

“Uhm, thank you,” you sigh, almost defeatedly, “I wouldn’t really have wanted to walk back on my own. And,” you pause, scrubbing a hand over your face, “I’m sorry, for how I acted in the bar.”

Just as before, you watch as his lips part ever so slightly, like there are words bubbling on his tongue attempting to fight their way forward. His eyes almost seem frantic as they flitter up and down over you with a confused kind of scrutiny.

Then he turns and walks away.

You don’t stop watching him until he disappears around the corner at the end of the street, not once turning to check if you’re still stood gaping like a fish behind him. The rage that burns through your veins is hot and fast, and you nearly slam the door off its hinges as you make your way into the building.

Never before have you met such an arrogant, entitled, rude caricature of a man. Not one who would so shamelessly put on the performance Jason had this evening. It was foolish of you, you think, to believe that the two of you could have come to some kind of level-footing.

As you climb into bed, attempting to quieten the anger that seems to course through every limb, there is only one desire that twists in your stomach.

To never see Jason again.

Spring

It was only so long, really, until you got invited to a Wayne gala.

Babs had requested you come as her plus one, seeing as Dick was (naturally) invited regardless. It had taken no shortage of begging on her part, pleading and harassing you with various different threats and promises until eventually you’d lapsed and agreed. To most, you can imagine, it would be a great honour – but you can only seem to focus on the way your toes seem to be splintering against the heels that had been dashed away into the back of your closet until exactly three hours ago.

The beauty of Wayne Manor cannot be understated, with its grand archways, decadent furniture and collection of gargoyles crooning mercilessly overhead. It reeks of an almost sterile air of perfection, not a single decoration out of place, every member of staff working diligently and only answering with a set of perfectly rehearsed responses that you were certain had been tailored to every possible whim. It’s a battle with your more inquisitive nature to venture beyond the contained room in which the party takes place, longing to explore the vast halls and the secrets that must be embedded within them.

Bruce Wayne does moonlight as a bat, after all.

Babs had been by your side for the first hour or so, pleasantly making your introductions to the wealthy of Gotham, many of whom you’re sure could skyrocket your career forward with nothing more than a click of their fingers. You try your best to be pleasant and accommodating, laughing at their jokes and basking their minor achievements in glowing praise. It’s deceptively easy, at this point, to slip into your professional persona, the voice echoing from your throat one that you can barely recognise as your own.

You can see Babs becoming impatient at your side, longing to go and mingle with a few others across the room who you could hazard a guess were some of her more super friends based on the way they lingered around Dick Grayson. You’d been assured that Dick was typically the life of an event of this calibre, enrapturing guests with his charms, but instead he had been left fairly stationary by a leg break in two places, wincing from his spot in the corner as his cast pokes out the bottom of his suit trousers.

“Go,” you’d huffed with a giggle, “Go see them. I’m going to get a drink anyway.”

“I won’t be long,” she assured before barrelling away. It was sweet, the way Dick’s eyes seemed to light up when he saw her approach.

Without Babs at your side, however, it seems impossible to mix with the elites. To them, you are nobody, and without an ‘in’ into their conversations, you may as well be dressed as one of the wait staff. You opt instead to haunt the walls, trapsing round the shadows of the hall with a flute of champagne in hand that seems to empty itself far too quickly.

“I can show you where they keep the bottle, if you like,” a gruff voice calls out from beside you, and your stomach twists when you realise that it’s Jason, slotting himself between you and the wall. He looks, well, good. His suit is clearly tailored, as you would imagine it would have to be for a man of his stature, and there’s a loose red tie knotted somewhat haphazardly around his neck. In any other context, it would scream of laziness, but somehow, he seems to make the whole affair work for him.

“That’s oddly generous of you, you feelin’ okay?” You keep it curt, barely sparing him a glance and instead keeping your eye fixed on the couples swaying about the dance floor.

“That’s oddly presumptuous for someone who doesn’t actually know me at all,” Jason’s words lack the bitterness they had the evening at the bar, instead dripping out like smooth velvet, and seemingly somewhat amused.

“I think I know enough to make a judgement on your character,” you quip, downing the last of your champagne and placing it politely on the tray of the closest waiter with a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Is that so?”

“It is, I’m afraid.”

“Dance with me.” It throws you for a loop when he says it, offering a hand out at your side. He looks somewhat amused as you must stare at him like he’s grown a second head, but still waves his fingers insistently.

Speechless, and albeit a tad shaken, you take his hand as he guides you to the dance floor. It’s swift as he spins you to face him, a hand settling loosely on your waist. You swallow a gulp before bringing your own to settle on his shoulders, and as the music starts up again the pair of you begin to sway in tandem. You’re certain he must be able to feel how tense you are beneath his palms, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it.

“I’m…” he starts, clicking his head to the side in frustration, “I’m sorry. For my behaviour that night. It was… rude.”

“It was,” you agree, not faltering at the sharp look he sends your way.

It takes him a few seconds to find the words, and you almost feel pity for the way he seems to struggle. Eventually he lands on, “I’m not known for my first impressions.”

You bark out a laugh at that, startling some of the other guests beside you. Jason’s eyes seem to widen in shock, but when they settle there’s no contempt in them.

“You can say that again,” you pause before adding, “But I appreciate your apology.”

He does little more than grunt in response, as the pair of you continue to rock back and forth. You would have expected it to be awkward, given your previous encounter, but you can feel yourself beginning to relax into his hold. He still appears tense, and you can feel his fingertips biting ever so slightly into your side, but there’s nothing about him that would suggest any kind of animosity.

“No offense,” you hum, just quiet enough for only him to hear, “What are you doing here? This doesn’t exactly scream of your scene.”

He chuckles lowly, spinning you in sync with the rest of the crowd, “No, it’s not. I usually avoid these things like the plague. I’m doing it to keep the old man off my back.”

“The old man?” You question, throwing Jason a quizzical glance. He too, looks confused at your admission.

“My old man. Bruce Wayne.”

You pretty much stutter to a stop on the dance floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. You’re not sure how it hadn’t clicked into place until this very moment, what with Nightwing being the one to introduce the pair of you – but you had never for a second considered that this Jason could be that Jason.

“You’re Jason Todd?” It comes out as an exhale, and Jason casts an obvious glance in your direction.

“Aren’t you meant to be a journalist? I thought you’d figured that out already.”

“No, I’d heard the news that you were…” you falter, watching as he seems to brace for the words that follow, “back from your, ah, imprisonment. That was what they said in the papers, correct?”

The look he throws in your direction is a grateful one, despite the shared knowledge that you both know what really happened to him. Babs had told you the bare bones of the story. It was enough to know that the man in front of you had travelled all the way from the grave to be here tonight.

“Me and Bruce have our differences,” Jason offers, and it’s the bluntest you’ve heard him all evening. A warning, not to press any further. You decide that it wouldn’t be the smartest idea to divulge your knowledge that this revelation would also make the man in front of you Gotham’s infamous Red Hood.

The two of you continue to dance for the next few songs, making casual but polite conversation amongst the crowds. Scarily, you begin to feel that his company might not be so deplorable after all when he dares to crack the odd joke or two, developing a sneaking suspicion he may be genuinely sorry about what had happened at the bar.

“Okay,” you huff out, sinking forward into him ever so slightly, “I think I might have to call it quits on the dancing for this evening. My feet feel like they’re about to tear in half.”

He doesn’t reply but instead guides you towards the edge of the room on his arm with more poise than you’d have thought him capable of, allowing you to perch down on a chez-lounge and give your tired body a brief reprieve. You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Jason lets out an awkward cough.

“Look, I have to go and talk to some people,” he almost cringes as he says it, and it’s near enough a look of abject horror on his face, “But… thank you, for the dance.”

“Thank you,” you reply earnestly, meeting his eyes with as tender a look you can muster. Under your glance, he seems to mellow, the corner of his lip even quirking up ever so slightly.

“I’ll… I’ll catch you around,” He bumbles, “Maybe even see you later.”

“I would like that.”

And with that he’s gone.

You feel the loss of his presence almost instantly, and the emptiness that accompanies it is what surprises you most of all. You decide to stay put for the time being, most of the socialites so drunk at this point that they couldn’t object to your own lack of decorum without blatantly highlighting their own.

You remain perched for at least half an hour, grateful for yet another glass of champagne that gets thrust in your direction. You’re fairly certain you can make out Babs across the room, Dick draped dramatically across her wheelchair with an exuberant smile. The time passes fairly quickly as you glance over the hall, people-watching with the ever so slight buzz of alcohol muddying your thoughts.

“You might have just taken the best spot in the room,” a deep timbre echoes out from beside you, and of every person in the world it could have belonged to, you weren’t anticipating it being Bruce Wayne.

“Mr. Wayne,” you shoot up instantly, cringing at the way your ankle rolls in your heel. He only lets out a deep chuckle before motioning for you to sit again, occupying the spot next to you with his looming presence.

“I must admit,” he begins, all smile, “I was unfamiliar with your work before you appeared on my guest list, but you are indeed, incredibly impressive.”

You can’t do much to fight the blush that rises on your cheeks, “Thank you, uh, sir. That’s very kind. I’m only just starting out really, but it’s an honour to know my work has been recognised.”

“You will come to me,” he places a warm hand on your shoulder, “that is, if you need anything. Any friend of Commissioner Gordon and his family is a friend of mine.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you,” you confess, wishing you had been slightly more sparing with your alcohol consumption in the past few hours. That being said, there was no part of your evening plans that had involved chatting with Bruce Wayne himself.

You dare not mention his other career path, not to his face. Not when you couldn’t be sure if Babs had divulged such information or not. Not that she needed to, he probably knew anyway.

“I must confess,” Bruce sighs, a tired smile drawing on his features, “I do have other motivations for coming to speak to you.”

“Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with my son earlier,” Bruce begins with a tut, “I get so little from him. I figured I would inquire about his, ah, connection with you instead.”

“Oh, oh, no,” you burst out almost too eagerly, “Me and Jason? This is only the second time we’ve ever met.”

“Is that so?” Bruce questions, a curious quirk on his brow. It only makes it all the more sudden when a stormy disposition seems to cross over his features, “In that case, I suggest you keep it that way.”

There’s little you can do to mask the confusion on your face at his remark. Sure, Jason had been more than a little rude on your first encounter, but he’d been nothing other than pleasant to you this evening. You weren’t unfamiliar with the Red Hood and his methods, under no illusions regarding what Jason was or wasn’t capable of.

“May I ask why you say that Mr. Wayne?”

“Ever the journalist,” Bruce hums, “My son has turned himself into a man not to be trifled with, and in that effort has made himself an outcast to both me and my family. I am aware you know of my family’s activities, Miss, and as a result you no doubt know of his. However, it is not Jason’s choices that bother me most, it is the pain that he inflicts upon those around him.”

The question stutters out of your mouth before you can stop it, not even sure you wanted the answer, “What is it that he’s done? To your family, I mean.”

Bruce doesn’t open his mouth to answer but instead nods to Dick now tucked away in the corner of the hall, struggling to steady himself on his broken leg. To most, Dick’s smile would be enough to ensure them that he was okay, but your multiple encounters with him at this point are enough to let you glimpse the pain in his expression.

“Jason tends to be destructive, and as much as I try to guide him, I’m beginning to fear there isn’t much else he knows anymore. It isn’t the first time he’s done such damage, and it won’t be the last.”

It’s sickening, the way that the universe chooses that moment for you to lock eyes with Jason, leaned against the bar. Swiftly as a growing forest fire, his eyes are a quiet smoulder when they lock with yours, only to grow into a blaze at the image of Bruce sat next to you. You feel at an impasse, two sides of you being tugged in opposite directions.

You look away from Jason quickly. If what Bruce was telling you was true, you had no reason to spare him a glance. Hurting Dick meant hurting Babs. Hell, Dick was a friend, and you couldn’t stand for the idea of someone hurting him either. A spin on a dance floor and a few uptight compliments wouldn’t change that.

“My advice, if you would take it,” Bruce sighs, beginning to stand, “you seem like an intelligent young woman, and you have a bright future ahead of you. I would make an expressed effort to stay out of Jason’s sights in your shoes, I fear it is not a particularly safe place to be.”

Your conversation ends fairly abruptly after that, Bruce shaking your hand and slipping you a business card with a reminder that he would be keen to help with your career given the opportunity. It’s difficult not to trust him, with his warm smile and kind words – you find it almost impossible to believe that his speech couldn’t have been without some kind of merit.

“So, you finally met him?” Babs wheels next to you when Bruce is out of sight, pressing a teasing elbow into your side. Her face seems to drop when she scans across your own, your turmoil clear as day, “Hey, you okay? What did he say to you?”

“Oh, nothing too crazy,” you snap yourself out of it, “Just work, really.”

The look that Babs gives you is enough for you to know that she doesn’t quite believe what you’re telling her, but your saviour appears in the form of Dick Grayson, hobbling over to join you with sweat practically dripping from his brow.

“Congrats,” he slaps an arm around your shoulders, positively beaming, “You just survived your first Bat interrogation.”

The two of them continue to chatter for a few minutes, and you can’t help but scan the room for Jason himself. It’s an odd sensation, and you can’t pinpoint why exactly you care where he is, but you can’t seem to settle without setting your sights on him.

You rejoin the conversation just as Dick turns to face you, “…Anyway, we were thinking of heading back to mine to chill, we’ve done our bit. Bruce can’t complain. Obviously, you’re more than welcome, we just need to find Ja – ”

“Actually,” you plaster on the brightest smile you can concoct, “I’m really not feeling too good. Definitely had a bit too much champagne. I might call it a night, I have work tomorrow, you know.”

“That’s fine, I get it, I get it. We can drop you back home –”

“Honestly, it’s fine, I think I’m just going to call a cab. Thank you though, it’s been a wonderful evening.”

You can only hope that Dick and Babs will chalk your eagerness to escape up to the alcohol as you make your departure, rushing to collect your bag and coat as quickly as you can in stupid fucking heels. As soon as you’re out of the hall, you peel them off your feet and set off at a brisk pace to try and get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible.

Until you collide headfirst with what may as well have been a wall, with how stiff and unyielding it seemed to be.

Jason stares down at you with an emotion you can’t quite name, and you’re reminded of just how big he really is. How imposing it would be to see him, clad in a red mask, glaring down towards whoever might be his latest victim. You think about what Dick must’ve felt, as his own brother battered him so.

“One final dance for the road?” He questions with a quirk of his lips, but you can see the nervousness in his eyes. It transforms swiftly into something else when you respond.

“No, I don’t think I will, actually,” you snap, pulling yourself out his way and continuing your mission towards the end of the driveway.

You’re thankful for the silence, that he doesn’t attempt to chase you or catch you in some kind of confrontation. You make it halfway down the drive before he finally calls out.

“What did Bruce say to you?” It’s quiet, and you can barely hear it behind you from the ruckus of the party inside. There’s something about it that pangs in your chest, but you steel yourself and continue walking, without even a glance behind you.

It’s only when you hail the cab that you turn around to face him, and unlike last time, he’s still there. Alone. Stood outside the manor with nothing other than hurt radiating off him. It’s surprisingly easy to turn away, ripping the car door open and slipping inside.

You climb over to the other seat so you don’t have to watch him as you pull away.

Summer

If someone had told you 6 months ago that you would be sat on the roof of Nightwing’s apartment building, surrounded by all sorts of metahumans and vigilantes, having a barbeque – well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

It’s hard to believe, as you’re reclined on a sunbed, cocktail in hand, best friend at your side while her boyfriend flips burgers in his, quite frankly, egregious Kiss the Cook apron, that things could be going so well. Bludhaven hadn’t ever been on your list of top holiday destinations, but basking in the hazy summer sun is more than enough to make up for it. It’s raucous, as you would expect many young superheroes crammed into a small space trying to cook a banquet of food would be, but the grouch within you can’t even seem to care about the chaos.

It’s jarring how well life seems to be going. Babs and Dick had pushed you to contact Bruce about working with Wayne Industries on some insider reporting, and the man himself had accepted your proposal with open arms. He’d even doubled the amount you got paid for the pieces as a ‘tip’, a token of thanks for your time dedicated to the cause. As a result, your writing had been the talk of the town since, and you had every major paper scrambling to offer you an exclusive contract.

You and Babs are closer than ever, and to your surprise, you’d integrated fairly seamlessly into their wider friend group as a regular staple of their gatherings. Sure, you were much quieter in comparison to the Titans and other various young heroes, but they seemed to enjoy your presence, nonetheless. You’d even spent some time at Wayne Manor with Dick and Babs, finally meeting the other members of the family after hearing about them in excess.

You’d run into Jason a few times.

It never failed to be an awkward encounter, often comprised of curt greetings and nothing more. Jason showed no signs that your rebuff had scorned him but, as expected, any trace of the warmth he’d shown you that night at the gala seemed to have disappeared promptly. You were just as cold, often refusing to look him in the eye on the rare occasion he would enter a room that also contained you. It was baffling, that he still had a place beside Dick and Babs and the rest of them, given the only increasing rumours you’d heard once being integrated into the super-community about his mistreatment of those closest to him. You’d never brought the topic up to either of your friends, primarily out of fear that they would attempt to see beneath your distain for something deeper – you didn’t have to mention it, they were ever lenient on Jason’s behaviour and seemed to welcome him with open arms at every opportunity.

Which is why you’re unsurprised, later in the evening when most of the heroes have gone home or out on their various patrols, that Jason appears on the roof next to Dick overlooking the city, a quiet conversation muttering between the pair. Your eyes catch him, Jason, for just a second as he turns ever so briefly to watch you sprawled out with a book in hand. Your eyes meeting is enough to drive him away again, jaw grinding as he turns to look forward.

Good, you’re glad your presence is enough to piss him off.

You continue that way for the next hour or so, tearing through your book until the words begin to blur into a splodge of ink on the page. The steady cooling of the dusky air is a welcome reprieve from the blazing sun, and it doesn’t take you long to drift off, your last waking feeling being that of your book dropping onto your chest.

It’s significantly later when you blink yourself awake again, the moon settled comfortably against the Bludhaven skyline. You instantly take note of the blanket that’s been draped over your body, curled between your fingers, and take a second to scan around the rooftop in search for any other waking body.

To your chagrin, the only figure that comes into view is Jason, sat with his legs dangling over the side of the building and a cigarette clutched tightly within his fingers. It’s almost picturesque, watching him inhale and exhale with a stream of smoke, the plains of his face framed by the moonlight. It strikes you that he’s likely in his element, perched on a rooftop shrouded in the darkness of the night, and it pains you to admit just how beautiful he looks.

Without even a glance in your direction, he simply chuckles mockingly, holding the cigarette up plainly for you to see, “Been trying to quit for months now.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” it’s snide and a bit pathetic and you know it, but you can’t seem to mellow the bite in your words. He simply laughs and returns to taking slow drags, barely even acknowledging that you had said anything.

Quickly, you begin to gather your things together, pulling the blanket tightly around your body as you make your way to the door back inside, wishing to be out of this awkward situation and less than stellar company as fast as you can.

It’s Jason’s voice that stops you, “You never told me.”

“What?”

“You never told me what Bruce said to you.” There’s an odd resignation in his words, and his voice remains remarkably even, not giving away any hint of whatever emotion was hidden beneath his words.

“I’m sure you can guess,” you huff out, drawing your hand away from the door to turn and face him.

Wordlessly, Jason hoists himself up from the side of the building and starts to make his way towards you. He stops a comfortable distance away, not enough to be an imposing presence, but so close that you can see his fingers fidgeting in front of him.

“I just want to know if what he said to you is what changed your mind about me,” Jason bites, “or if it’s always just been how you felt.”

“Why do you care about how I feel, Jason?” It comes out far harsher than you intended. He only scrubs a hand over his face in response, and you’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a whimper that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Do you really not see what’s going on here?”

“No, Jason, if I knew what was going on –”

“I like you, okay? I’ve tried my best to make it obvious, I really have. And trust me, I don’t want to, but I do. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because you know who you are. I like how opinionated you are, everyone else in my life fucking dances around me like I’m about to explode – but you don’t. I was rude at the bar because I wasn’t… I wasn’t expecting you, and I tried to make it up to you at the gala and then Bruce –”

“Bruce told me the truth, Jason.” The fumbling words are all that you can manage, your brain spinning at the revelation that Jason had just laid bare in front of you. Everything feels jilted, and surprisingly the only feeling whirring around your chest that you can articulate is anger.

“I don’t know what Bruce told you,” Jason’s practically pleading, “But I just wish you would judge me on me rather than what everyone else has to say.”

“Jason. You don’t know me,” your words are slow, but it does little to soften the viciousness tainting them, “you think you can – what? Just waltz in after months of being rude and judgy and – and after hurting my friends and act like all of it was okay because you like me? I haven’t been able to judge you on what you have to say because you never talk to me!”

The warm summer sun is long gone now, replaced with a chilling breeze and an ever so slight smattering of rain. The only word to describe Jason is speechless, but you don’t miss the way his fists curl at his sides. You practically leap sideways as he spins round with a number of cusses, pacing back and forth with what at a glance seems to be pure anguish.

“Hurt?” He spits out, all venom, “Who exactly have I hurt?”

“Well, Dick, for starters –”

“Dick? Oh, of course,” Jason lets out a bitter chuckle, “Of course, I hurt the golden boy.”

“He had a broken leg!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, and in an instant Jason is on you, so close you can smell his smoky cologne and the lingering touch of burnt leather.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” It’s nothing more than a ghost of a whisper, and he’s so close you can almost taste the words on his tongue.

“Real romantic by the way,” you refuse to back down, instead only edging closer and angling your chin to lock onto his eyes blazing down into your own, “I like you but I don’t want to. I didn’t realise I was just so deplorable.”

The rain is blinding now, hammering down around the pair of you, eliminating anything in your eyeline other than him. You’re both soaked to the bone, locked in a standoff neither one of you is willing to back down from. His hair is flattened to his forehead, and his shirt has plastered itself across his shoulders – you don’t dare to consider what you look like, clad in nothing other than a blanket and casual swimwear. It’s only then that you register the jittering of your entire body, and you can’t pinpoint whether it’s the cold or the sheer rage coursing through your veins as the source.

Both of your heads tear to the side at the soft call of your name, the silhouette of Babs highlighted from the doorway back into the apartment. Squinting through the rain, you can make out the shock and concern marring her features, and you instantly jump back from your stalemate. Jason takes a similar course of action, turning on his heel to march inside without a second thought.

He makes it halfway before he stops and turns to stare at you.

“You shouldn’t just listen to everything people tell you. I thought you were smarter than that. There are two sides to every story.”

And then he disappears inside.

Autumn

All the glee of summertime had been quick to disperse. Life seemed to pass by in a blur: work had slowed considerably as Gotham herself seemed to ready for hibernation, you had moved to a different apartment, nicer but nestled significantly further away from everything you’d become accustomed to. Babs had taken on a lot more work with Batman which seemed to consume the majority of her waking life, and with the loss of her constant company went Dick Grayson too. You still texted daily, but in person visits had become disappointingly scarce.

You’d be a downright liar if you said in every spare moment that your thoughts didn’t trapse back to your encounter with Jason. It reeled like film in the back of your mind whenever your eyelids fluttered shut, a constant rerun of every minute detail – the way his hands seemed to ring, the flexing and rolling of his shoulders as he paced, the hurt in his eyes as you’d unleashed a tirade onto him on what was supposed to be a relaxing summer evening.

It was nothing more than professional curiosity, you’d told yourself, your desire to know more. To glean some kind of insight into the other side of the story that Jason had preached. It was in your nature, journalism and the like. However, it was much easier to pretend that the world had alienated you from the answer, forcing you away from your work and friends, than it was to admit that you had run away because you were scared.

Which is why it took months for you to finally ask Babs to meet up for a coffee, rather than her asking you. The air had begun to bite as you lingered in the street, longing for a familiar face, even the nip of the cold bringing back persistent traces of that night. A sigh of relief materialises in a faint cloud of vapour as Babs appears round the corner, throwing her arms out for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. It’s uncharacteristically awkward as you settle down at a table, Babs doing little to hide her expectant stare as the barista places your drinks down in front of you.

“What did you want to –”

“Jason.” The slight curl of her lip at your mention of his name is enough to throw you, her knowing look pressing forward into what feels like every inch of your body.

“What do you want to know about Jason?” Babs offers, tracing her finger around the rim of her mug casually. If the display is supposed to make you feel less under pressure, it does nothing to alleviate the hammering of your pulse.

Your brain goes blank. “Uhm – how is he?”

Babs seems unable to stifle the laugh that barks out, bringing her coffee up to her lips, “You invited me out for coffee to ask how Jason is?”

You take a deep breath and muster all you can to steel yourself, allowing a smidgeon of your work persona to bleed in. “That night on the roof. He said some things and – and I never got any clarification. I just have some things I need to know.”

“How come you’re asking me and not him?”

“I don’t think Jason and I are in a place to be asking each other deep and thought-provoking personal questions,” you wince as the words tangle themselves on your tongue, and you can’t subdue the simmering feeling of disappointment that seems to accompany them.

Babs’ pauses for a second, as if weighing in her options, before eventually letting out a soft sigh and offering you a tender look, “Go on, what is it you want to know.”

“At the gala,” you begin far too quickly, grimacing at your own eagerness, “Bruce told me that Jason was dangerous. I’d already figured out that he was, you know, but the way Bruce painted this picture. It was like Jason was a monster, like he chose to hurt everyone close to him. He told me that he broke Dick’s leg.”

“Jason did break Dick’s leg,” Babs states plainly, and you can feel yourself deflate, “Jason broke Dick’s leg to save him. Dick was trapped in rubble, and he was losing oxygen fast. He was, he would’ve, died if Jason hadn’t gotten there before any of the rest of us could. The only options were to break Dick’s leg – who was unconscious by the way – to get him out or leave him to suffocate.”

You’re practically speechless. Never before has your mind stuttered so suddenly to a halt. All you can seem to do is gape at Babs as her jaw seems to clench; anger wasn’t a familiar emotion in your relationship, but you had seen it enough to recognise it.

“Bruce and Jason have a fractious relationship at the best of times, and they were certainly not going steady back then. Bruce showed up and saw Jason manhandling Dick out of a collapsed building with a broken limb and assumed the worst. God, it was awful, only Tim could stop them fighting and eventually Jason just disappeared. The first time any of us saw Jason after that was the Gala, and that was only because he promised Alfred.”

“Did Bruce ever find out the truth?” You’re practically reeling as all of the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, Jason’s distance from his family at the Gala, his hurt at your insinuations about him. You’d treated him atrociously and this whole time he was the one that had been hurt.

“We told him straight away. We told him as it happened. But Jason and Bruce have this blindness when it comes to each other, they can only see what they want to see. Bruce refused to hear anything other than that Jason had brought the building down and Dick with it.” There’s a rawness in Babs’ voice, and a pearly ring of wetness dampening her eyes.

“But I’ve heard so much about…” you pause, contemplating the weight of your words, “It’s not just Bruce. I’ve heard everyone talk about him and the things he does, like he’s some kind of sadist. Like he kills people for fun and –”

“Jason does kill, there’s no doubt about that,” Babs’ tone hitches slightly, shifting to something more resolute, “but it’s not just for fun or how he gets his kicks. He has an ethos, a system, the same way Bruce or Dick or any of us do. Agree with it or not, he’s trying to make things better in his own way.”

It’s a harrowing feeling, every synapse being excavated and laid bare, the devastating realisation that all was not as it had seemed. Jason had been right, you should’ve known better than to presume. “I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?”

Babs wastes no time reaching over to take your hands in hers, some of the warmth returning to her gaze, “No, you haven’t. You acted on all the information that you had and that’s all we can do. But you can –”

“No,” your reply is instant, and Babs draws back in surprise, “I can’t. Not after all this. I’ve hurt him, I can’t imagine he wants me in his life. And I still don’t know him. I just –”

Babs calls your name softly as you begin to gather your belongings, hastily sipping down the last of your drink and scanning desperately for the nearest exit. She doesn’t attempt to say anything, just offers you an almost infuriatingly tender look. You quickly mutter your goodbyes, a small smile and a promise to text later, before rushing out into the Gotham traffic.

It had been easy to be so righteous, so comfortable in your position, but now every noise and sensation felt like a slap. A kick while you were down. It had been so simple to deny anything you had felt towards him, any kind of attraction, from your high horse; to look down and tell yourself that you had been wronged and anything you felt was out of nothing more than a lingering feeling of pity.

It’s overwhelming, the sensation of missing out on an opportunity, a friend, and maybe something more that made itself so scarce in your life to begin with. It’s shame, you think.

You can’t help but think that if you were Jason Todd, you would never want to see you again.

Winter

Gotham in the winter is a sight to behold: flickering lights casting a yellow haze over the murky skyline, the cold lick of the coast sneaking its way into the alleyways and street corners, an entire civilisation cloaked in a dreary blanket. It was much kinder from inside the warm glow of your apartment, staring out at the figures on the street below fighting against the elements.

Life had continued, as it always does. It had taken you some time to process what had happened with Jason, mourn the prospect of what could’ve been. Bruce had offered you a full-time position at Wayne Industries. You’d turned it down. Told him you wanted to ‘explore different avenues’ this early in your career, and in spite of the suspicious look he’d given you, he’d assured that there would always be a position for you if you desired.

Instead, you had taken a role at a local up-and-coming paper focussed on exposing corruption within Gotham’s elite. It was perfect, the hands-on kind of work you had favoured during your studies, and the success was already beginning to blossom. Babs and Dick had been nothing but supportive: you weren’t as involved with their ‘super-gatherings’ anymore, finding the whole group to be a tad overwhelming, but they still made time for you each and every week in the same dingy bar in which Babs had first introduced you to everyone.

Everything didn’t feel right yet, but it was getting there.

Being nestled in your apartment in the evenings alone didn’t feel so glum anymore, instead lighting a warm flicker in the bottom of your belly. You were working on a big piece, the biggest you’d written so far, scouring into the Falcone family and some of their more illegitimate dealings – papers sprawled across every available surface, a few stripes of ink now decorated your dining room table. You were certain you looked a wreck; sleep hadn’t come easy the past nights – you were in limbo. Until the article was published and in the public eye, there was little to protect you from anyone who had questions about what you were looking into. You’d even gone out and brought a gun. As a result, there was little that could drag you away from your laptop, a desperation to finish your work that felt somewhat like your life depended on it.

Which is why when there’s a hammering at your front door at 1am, it becomes difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“Miss?” A gruff voice calls out, “Heard you had some interest in a friend of mine. I have some information that might be of use to you.”

As quietly as you can, you scramble for your keys. Dick had given you a small device, some kind of button, when you’d told him and Babs about your new job and its dealings – he’d assured you that as soon as you pressed it there would always be help on the way. It’s impossible to stifle the gasp of relief as you finally feel the tiny device roll between your fingers, pressing it down hard and watching as it illuminates your apartment in a soft blue.

“Miss? We know you’re in there,” the hammering gets much louder all of a sudden, and you dip down behind the couch, drawing yourself into a ball, “This can be much easier for you if you just let us in.”

From across the room, you can see your phone light up, and you thank the lord that you’d put it on silent – it’s Babs, you can see from the cheesy lockscreen of you draped across her lap after some raucous night out. The men, multiple of them now, continue to scuffle outside your front door as they no doubt contemplate the best method to enter and beat the shit out of you. You could make a run for the gun now, but if they came in you would be cornered in your bedroom, nowhere to escape to.

“Right, lady, you’re starting to piss me off,” A new voice calls out, “I’m giving you ten seconds to come out before we come in.”

Ten seconds is a long time for a vigilante, right? Normally, you’d pride yourself on your ability to think on your feet, but unfortunately the only course of action seems to be waiting out the storm. The idea of leaping out the window dances across your mind briefly, but with no fire escape and a 40ft drop it wasn’t the most thrilling concept. Quickly, you reach out and snatch your pen off the table – it was sturdy, metal, a gift from Jim Gordon when you’d graduated – it wasn’t sharp by any means, but with enough force it could definitely do some damage.

You grimace at the thought.

All at once, a barrage of sound erupts in your ears; the door swings open and groans as the hinges splinter bit by bit, the thundering of footsteps is instant, you can count one, two, three sets of steps against the creaking floorboards. It all happens far too quickly, one of them calling out a signal to the others that they’ve found you, and you’re hoisted to your feet, both arms held tightly by a brute on either one. You swing from side to side with as much force as you can muster, kicking out and screaming, relishing as you hear a deep groan from your right.

Nothing prepares you for the swing of a fist, though.

You’ve never been punched before, surprisingly, and it strikes you that maybe its one of the only things movies do justice. It’s less the impact itself, but more the way that your head wrenches to the side that sends you reeling. Before you can even recollect yourself there’s a hand clamped around your jaw, tugging your face back upwards. Most of the man’s face is covered, donned in all black, but there’s a cruelty in his eyes that collapses your chest. It’s disgusting, the way one of his fingers hooks around your teeth, keeping you trapped like a fish on a line. You contemplate spitting in his face, but as if out of instinct, you snap your teeth shut.

It makes you retch as he pulls back, the thick, hot metallic sheet that coats every surface of your mouth. Abject horror is the only phrase to describe the look of the man opposite you, clasping his mangled finger gingerly to his chest. Before you can revel in your small victory, another slap sends you clattering across the floor, wood splintering beneath your fingertips.

If a punch was a bee-sting, a kick to the ribs is a bomb going off.

“You fucking bitch!” The man hollers, drawing his foot back for another swift kick. His boots must be metal capped, you think.

“Haven’t you heard? Bitch is so 1800s.”

It’s a rough modulated voice that draws you from your stupor – it’s difficult to make out shapes through the tears that have spilled over, but if the shrill whimpers of the men around you are enough to go by, you’d say help has arrived. The pause gives you enough time to shuffle back against the wall, gradually shifting to something akin to a sitting position.

“Hood,” One of the goons whispers, and you’re not sure if its double vision or the man is actually trembling, “What – this isn’t your turf –”

“Don’t care. Goodbye.” The echo of a gunshot is so much louder up close, and you can’t help but slam a hand over your mouth as the giant of a man seems to crumple to the ground, brains splattered all over your bookshelf. One of the other goons attempts to make a run for it but is stopped by a gloved hand that shoots out and catches him by the throat. It’s a horrible wheezing sound that sneaks its way out of his windpipe, all while the Red Hood takes his time strapping his gun to his thigh, before bringing his other hand around languidly to snap the goons’ neck.

It’s all so quick, you think, not like the long-winded tit-for-tat action movie sequences where they trade blows, it’s just sheer overwhelming force. A black hole that’s come to consume anything that dare move in its presence.

It’s Jason.

Out of your peripheral you can make out the man, your main attacker, breaking from his stupor. You recognise the way his hands begin to curl in his pocket, a hand wrapping around an all too familiar shape that he begins to draw outwards painstakingly slowly. Before you can clamber to your feet, the gun is aimed straight for him, a clear shot, and Jason seems to realise just as you do that the man’s finger is contracting on the trigger.

You can’t even process your own movements, let alone pain, yet you feel your feet underneath you, pushing you forward. The cool feeling of the pen between your fingers feels so familiar yet so absurd, and with all the force you can muster you slam it round into the side of the man’s throat. It’s so much worse, watching death this way; Jason had the decency to make the others quick, but here you were watching a man bleed onto your rug as he stares at you with surprise and your engraved pen in his jugular.

It’s only seconds before he flops to the ground too.

Jason’s there before your knees can buckle, wrapping a solid arm around your waist and holding you up like a puppet on a string. As much as you try and move your tongue, it’s like lead in your mouth, and you can’t do much more than stand there gaping as Jason checks your injuries.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” You didn’t know a modulated voice could sound so tender, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time.”

“Jason, I –” It sounds so wet and broken, barely recognisable as your own voice.

“I know,” he coos, bringing a hand round to cradle your less injured cheek, “But you did so good, so good. You saved me.”

The tears begin to flow promptly after that, and you wonder if the Red Hood often has people sob into his chest, and if he ever lets them. Slowly, he lowers the pair of you to the ground, and as soon as you hit the floor it feels as though every drop of energy has been drained from your body.

“I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m sorry about what I said and –”

If you’re not mistaken, he laughs, and even through the robotic filter you can hear the hint of amusement, “You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“You’ve just killed a man and you’re worried about apologising to me over an argument we had months ago.”

You let out a wet laugh, “Can’t help it. I don’t want to like you, but I think I do.”

“Maybe we should start again,” Jason hums, pulling off his helmet. You know deep down that he’s just trying to distract you from the weight of your evening, and you’re sure that it will hit you when the brain fog begins to wear off – but right now, you can’t seem to care. Clearly, a near death experience has changed your perspective.

You mumble your name quietly, offering your hand out to him, “I’m a journalist, I’m allergic to cats and I have a kill count of one.”

Jason only barks out a laugh, those mesmerising green eyes finally rimmed with mirth rather than rage, “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

Spring

You’d never thought that such a dingy, depressing bar tucked away in the veins of Gotham could feel so much like home – but the regulars at the poker table wave each time you step through the front door, the bartender smiles while she pours your regular and asks how your latest article is coming along. But your favourite part, without a doubt, is slumping in after a long day at work and seeing your closest companions huddled together at your booth in the corner looking up at you with beaming smiles.

You slide into the booth next to Jason without a word, and his arm drapes itself across your shoulders automatically. It’s still new, the pair of you sharing bashful smiles at every intimate moment, but there’s a love that burns in your chest brighter than any feeling you thought yourself capable of.

“You guys are disgusting, I hope you know,” Dick whinges, letting out a chuckle as Babs punches him hard in the arm.

“Be quiet, you,” Babs chuckles, “Our plan finally came to fruition.”

You narrow your eyes at her across the table, quirking your head to the side, “I knew it. You did want to set us up.”

“Well that was obvious from the get go, Princess,” Jason chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I like to think we gave them a challenge though.”

“I certainly didn’t think you would develop a body count on the way,” Babs brows go up and she sends a grin in your direction.

“That’s my girl,” Jason whispers, throwing a grin in your direction, “What a fearsome thing to behold.”

“God, I love it when you quote Pride & Prejudice to me.”

“I know you do, baby, I know.”

This has been a WIP for sooooo long, like since before I even started this account. I don’t know if it’s obvious but I really struggled to finish it, I had absolutely no idea how to leave it. But oh well 🤷‍♀️

also im SORRY for making Bruce the BAD GUY it was the only way i could make it work in my head 💔

If you liked it, well, like it - a reblog is always appreciated. If you don’t like it, leave me alone.

[astrolook]

🌌 Retrogrades in a Birth Chart - Some Roots Take Time To Grow 🌿

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

Mercury Rx - I think in essays, speak in tweets. 🧠✍️

Mercury Rx natives sometimes overshare or say nothing at all. They think fast, speak slower. They edit their sentences in real life. These natives pick things up quickly but lose focus just as fast. Their projects start strong, then get abandoned or revisited later with a whole new mindset. Mercury Rx can have grand ideas in mind but struggles to put them into words or into reality. Usually, Mercury Rx natives are better at texting, writing, and drawing than talking. Two Mercury Rx people can either understand each other on another level or be completely out of sync with each other and can talk in circles. Mercury Rx natives can change the topic mid-convo and go on like nothing happened. Mercury Rx natives can be good at stirring the pot for entertainment. They are good at negotiating, convincing people to believe their ideas. Can make money out of thin air. These natives have selective memory.

For example: Mercury Rx in 6th/8th/12th natives are so good at twisting narratives to suit their needs and are good at lying. You don't even know whether they're telling the truth or not. Their opinions can change like seasons, and they can struggle sticking to a certain mindset. However, this is a great placement for fantasy writers, journalists, bloggers, media-related jobs in general, lawyers, filmmakers, actors, programmers, etc. Mercury Rx in 5th/11th natives are bad at lying. They can be involved in too many things at once only to abandon them. Mercury Rx in 3rd/9th loves to prank others or the other way around. they love DIY and crafts and might follow niche communities. Online trolls.

Venus Rx - I ghost myself before I ghost you. 👻😅

Venus Rx natives are either impulsive in love or avoidant. These natives give mixed signals to their partners. One day they're warm and giving, the next they're building walls and won't let anyone in. Love either comes too soon, or when the timing is off, or never comes when they need it the most. These natives will remember how the other made them feel, whether it's rejection, not being enough, unwanted, too much, or ignored. It lingers in their mind, and it shapes how they view love. These people don’t “date around” easily. They wait for people to choose them. They test their partner to check if they're worth it! Late bloomers in love. Sometimes, they might even lower their standards and expectations just to feel any love, only to end up feeling drained and exhausted. They might choose partners who treat these natives like a backup plan. However, these natives will remember it and instead of letting go, they carry that disappointment into the next person, the next connection, the next version of themselves. Depression. They sometimes would be loyal to the wrong person just because they have "history."

For example, Venus Rx in 6th/10th can attract envy from women, discrimination in the workplace, judged by their appearance or clothing styles. People might underestimate them or won't take them seriously. So, these natives overcompensate and work overtime to prove themselves that they deserve it. Still, their co-workers/ peers would think they slept their way to where they are or not that talented. Venus Rx 1st can be the target of harassment or could have been called crazy for their lifestyle choices. People tend to attack these natives more easily than others, whether it's racism, appearance, religion, ethnicity, or other factors. They could be either old-fashioned or into niche fashion.

Mars Rx - I argue better three days later. 🕒😐

If a dormant volcano were a person. People think these natives are calm. But no, they're holding it in. Sometimes for years, until their anger turns volcanic and their words spew out like lava. Unfiltered. Their regret shows up in action, not words. They might look or seem lazy, but they often feel stuck between wanting to act and being unsure how. They second-guess their instincts. They might want something badly, then sabotage it out of fear or confusion. In conflict, they’re unpredictable. Either they avoid it completely or burn the whole thing down. Some pick fights just to feel something, others disappear to avoid hurting anyone. They don’t always know the difference between defending themselves and attacking. Sometimes they hurt people with words, then feel guilty forever. Sometimes they say nothing and carry resentment for years. Desire is complicated. Some of them feel numb to it. Others have urges they don’t understand and would be chasing people, projects, or things that don’t make sense. Some isolate when they’re mad. Some turn pain into action like breaking things, quitting jobs, and blocking people. Others turn it inward and self-destruct first. When they finally stop holding back, when they choose action over avoidance, their energy becomes exact. Focused. Intense. Unstoppable. The storm clears, and they learn how to move without destroying everything in their path.

For example, Mars Rx in 8th/12th bury their anger six feet deep. They definitely hold grudges quietly and would strike at the worst time for the person who hurt them. The other person won't even know that the native is behind it. Mars Rx in 2nd can either overspend or hoard things. These natives might not get a reward for their work, or it may be delayed. Mars Rx in 7th can attract passive-aggressive partners or become one themselves. When snapped, they can go from silent tolerance to full-blown blow-ups over small things.

Jupiter Rx - I left faith on read. ✝️📱

Jupiter Rx natives practice 3 different religions within a year and still feel unsure. Teenage crisis. What people call expansion, they call noise. Their lessons come from within, not from gurus or traditions. They don’t believe in blind luck. They believe in trial and error, and mostly error. Wins feel delayed. Guidance shows up late. Things eventually work out, but rarely in the way they are planned or wanted. Once they let go, things would happen to them in the most harmonious way possible. When good things happen, these natives won't give a happy or butterflies-in-the-stomach reaction. Instead, they would be suspicious of it. After believing it's for them, they would still maintain a composed posture. These natives are liberal minded, agnostic/irreligious/atheist, and can still be spiritual. These natives come off as skeptical, cynical, or too “in their own world.” They hold on to past decisions too tightly or judge themselves for outgrowing past beliefs. They often feel like they're behind their peers until one day, these natives get 10 levels ahead of them once they surrender and let things happen. The beauty with Jupiter Rx is that luck doesn't knock on their door. They're the luck. It just takes them years to find that out.

For example, Jupiter Rx in 5th natives' children would be lucky to have the native as their parent. Jupiter Rx in 7th or as 7th lord, their spouse would be lucky to have the native as their spouse. Jupiter Rx in 4th can mean that the native's family would feel lucky to have the native as their child or having them as their family member.

Saturn Rx - I work smart. Or not at all. 🛋️🧠

Saturn Rx natives don't trust authoritative figures, including their own. These natives learn early that rules don't always protect you. they might have a figure in their family who was basically a "rules for thee, not for me" type. Grow up too fast. Responsibility was either too much too soon or avoided until life forced them to deal. Afraid of failure. One thing with Saturn Rx is that when these natives are scared, they would never admit it. They don't want to feel weak. Some might even avoid crying in front of others, including their family. They would go to great lengths to hide their weakness instead of working on it. Build walls instead of asking for help. They stay in jobs, habits, even relationships way past their expiration date just to feel safe. They don’t like being seen trying. Effort is private. So is shame. If they fall, they do it behind closed doors. Smart workers. Knows the shortcuts to achieve success in life, but some won't take them. Impostor syndrome. Can be unemployed for months at some point in their life. Once their career takes off, these natives become unstoppable. Saturn Rx here is protecting these natives from troubled career paths and only gives them the right path at the right time.

For example, Saturn Rx in 7th can mean an absent father figure. Their older spouse can be laid back or take a back seat in their career after marrying the native. Attract partners who are serious and long-term and have little to no options for dating here for many with this placement. Saturn Rx in 10th can mean that these natives can have long gaps in resumes or even unemployment. Might get into jobs that don't reflect their real skills. For some, their career takes off in their 30s or even 40s. Saturn Rx in 2nd can mean that these natives can come from a low-income family or a household with financial struggles. Might get into connections with people just to feel secure. Money grows after 30 and only after they have learned to earn the right way.

Uranus Rx - I forget on purpose. Or do I? 🤫📂

Uranus Rx natives can look traditional on the outside but rebel on the inside. One may never know what these natives are capable of, as they're good at deceiving others. They can easily blend in with the crowd and seem agreeable. Deep detachment, sudden rejections, and quiet cut-offs are their recipe to stay chill. These are the people who smile at the dinner table while silently unsubscribing from the whole dynamic. A Uranus native doesn't trust "the system". But a Uranus Rx native won't even trust their own family, community, co-workers, religions, and even themselves at times. A lot of them appear to follow the rules, but only because they’re rewriting them behind the scenes. These people outgrow people fast. But they don’t always let them know. Instead, they disappear or would make it impossible for them to reach the native. Distance becomes their protection. It’s easier to vanish or become out of reach than to explain their evolution to someone who wouldn’t get it anyway. Their memory is selective but sharp. They forget what they ate for breakfast, lose their keys, ignore calls, but remember exactly what you said five years ago during a fight. Hard to pin down, but impossible to fool. One may never know what they're thinking, but that's what these natives want. When they snap out of the blue, these natives end friendships/ relationships, move cities, shift careers, or even move countries without mentioning a word to anyone. These natives' relationships are either all-consuming or ice-cold. Freedom matters more than comfort. Their unique trait is that they can be loyal and distant at the same time. They’ll ghost you and still think about you every day for a year. Wrong them once, and they will get over you within 30 seconds and never look back. You're already dead to them.

For example, Uranus Rx in 5th can have a crush on someone and obsess over them for months, only to change their mind after finding out that their crush did something they don't like. Would break up with someone over text and not look back. They would reject the same person they fell for before it even begins. Uranus Rx in 7th can be unpredictable in love. Do they even have a type? They long for stable relationships but routine feels like a trap. Uranus Rx in 4th could have had a tough home life or been unconventional. Single-parent households, stepdaddy/ mommy figures, stepsiblings, etc can be seen here in some cases.

Neptune Rx - I’m softer than I look. Colder than you think. 🧊🫀

Neptune Rx people are hard to fully know and half the time, they don’t even fully know themselves. They second-guess what they feel, what they see, and who they are on the inside. Reality blurs. Memory twists. They’ve been gaslit or emotionally manipulated, sometimes without even realizing it. These people learned early how to hide. How to escape. How to shape-shift into what was needed. Truth became flexible, and so did identity. They have powerful inner worlds. Too powerful, sometimes. They’ll fall in love with a fantasy version of someone and ignore all the signs. They’ll convince themselves they’re okay when they’re drowning. They might cry alone and then act totally fine in public. They pick up on energy they can’t explain. Can have imaginary friends or talk to self in private. They talk, sing, and dance when no one's looking. They can actually fake their persona depending on the person they're with. They don’t show the full truth until they’ve seen yours.

For example, Neptune Rx in 4th always dreams of the perfect family, home, and everything since they didn't get it in reality. These natives often move countries/cities and stay away from family members to live their dreams. Might live in a toxic family household where everyone thinks they're fine and happy. Neptune Rx in 8th natives has intimacy issues. They don't know if they're the victim or supposed to feel sorry for the one who hurt them. They're good at reading others, bad at reading themselves. Neptune Rx in 11th natives never feel truly fit in anywhere. There’s a pattern of feeling invisible in groups or being part of social circles that don’t reflect their actual self.

Pluto Rx - I outgrow myself annually. Stay tuned. 🔁🖤

Pluto Rx natives are always going through some kind of inner death. You may not see it, but they’re constantly burning bridges inside themselves. It's like they burn their old versions, dead emotions, people they haven't spoken to in years, and toxicity every year like a ritual. These are the ones who don’t show their breakdowns. They disappear, transform, and return new. The world never really sees their mess, only the rebirth. They upgrade themselves each year. These natives would keep secrets, even from the people they love and trust. They're deep, but not always emotionally open. They fear being exposed, especially when they’re vulnerable. So, they test people. Push them. Watch how they react before deciding if they’re safe. They either face their wounds fully, or they run until life forces them to. Their biggest breakthroughs happen in silence. One year, they’re one person. Next, they’re unrecognizable even to themselves. Physical transformation is possible too. They outgrow people, places, even entire identities, like it’s an annual process. Some might change their name or have a "stage" name in their career.

For example, Pluto Rx in 1st natives are either obsessed over by others or hated by others. Always in survival mode. They rebuild their self-image every season, and no one's ever truly met the real version of these natives. Pluto Rx in the 3rd natives can be good at coding, writing, drawing, etc. Can be cryptic in the way they speak. Ghost friendships out of the blue and would never look back. Pluto Rx in 5th natives pour their trauma into art or through their creative outlets.

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[jackdaw-sprite]

This would be used in addition to the danny phantom tag, turning it into a true umbrella tag for everything related to Danny Phantom, while having a few major sub-tags for people to find exactly what they want.

---

After some more discussion with members of the fandom in the notes of my poll asking about a community and elsewhere, it seems like the better option for everyone might actually be a new tag, so I'm making a new poll here!

Some answers to questions I think people might have are below the readmore:

Q: Why are all of these only one word?

A: For the same reason the dpxdc tag is only one word! Tumblr's tagging implementation is Not Good. Tags with spaces don't play well with it, and especially don't play well with blocked tags. If someone wants to block non-crossover Danny Phantom content, we want to make it as painless as possible for them.

Q: What issues were raised around communities?

A: A few! To name some of them:

Limited interactions with posts: Communities only let you react with emoji and leave comments on posts reblogged into them. Not great, if we want to have long reblog chains riffing on one another

Original Posters aren't notified if someone else reblogs their post into a community, even if it's public. So if someone reblogged your post into the community for you, you wouldn't know about it -- or know to look for people interacting with it.

Communities have mods, and therefore would need trustworthy, engaged mods to make it work. Over a short time frame, we could probably manage it! But over a longer one, a community for an entire fandom would probably have moderator drama. That could lead to fracturing, or people leaving specifically because they don't like the mods, etc. A tag is a lot less active maintenance.

A few people also expressed a general dislike for the feature, even if they were willing to move to one. This seems like a much smaller change that will let those people stay away from a feature they don't like, while interacting with the content they do.

Q: What about less-common crossovers? Won't those get excluded from this tag?

A: They will. I'm asking about this poll first because I figured getting the community to make a decision about the other crossovers would be easier if we'd already decided on the non-crossovers.

The current idea is to move those to their own tag as well, so they can get dedicated attention from the crossover enthusiasts who love them. One of the people I talked to about this runs the niche-dp-crossovers blog, so it's on the radar. If you have concerns or suggestions about that, the notes on this post is as good a place as any to suggest them!

[worrywrite]

I know I don't really need to make this comment, because the post isn't being too serious, but it's really not.

Witch allegations were made, typically, to either enact petty vengeance on people that had slighted you (and potentially get them killed) or to excise (kill) non-conforming members of society. Typically this meant that a member of the religious majority of a region would take offense to someone who was homosexual, pagan (or practiced Christianity in a "weird" way like using or other "Christian" folk magic), unmarried, poor, non-white, a woman, etc. and accuse them of consorting with the devil so that the public would turn on them and kill the person that didn't fit in.

Counter to this, accusing someone of using an LLM or generative image software generally implies the opposite. People that use auto-complete software like this are conforming to an artistic average of sorts, are typically already members of a social majority (white, Christian, middle class, men, etc.), and suffer very limited backlash due to accusations. This sort of software may be awful and even harmful, but it is hardly the devil. There aren't really even any associations today that could have as strong of a hateful reflex like the devil had back when witch accusations could get you killed. You could say you're a literal Nazi and people would still show up to defend you (and I'll say nothing of people that actually proclaim themselves satanists). There aren't really things you can say or do that will get you burned at the stake anymore (for better or worse). So, perhaps, in a sense, getting called out online and being public ally embarrassed for a week or so is the worst that could happen to you. (Though now I am thinking of the 2010s twitter call-out culture days where people actively lost their jobs on false accusations and became complete social pariahs and had to change their names, which is also much worse than what will happen today if you get called out for using autocomplete software.)

Lost my train of thought there for a second. Anyway. When people actually use this software and get accused for it, they suffer little backlash. When people do not use this software and get accused for it, they can typically produce proof to the contrary and anyone that actually cares will see that. Getting called out sucks, but it's hardly a witch accusations.

[finniestoncrane]

You know what I'll bite first(?)

I want reader to convince Hector to let them care for him instead in the bedroom tonight and it's basically a mix of body worship and general praise while jerking him off

Hector x GN!Reader, word count: 1.4k ooooooooh ok i had to write this, he was living in my brain and skittering around in my pipes up there!! i've not finished his storyline yet, so no spoilers for me please!! but i know regardless of what happens next, he deserves a bit of praise and pleasure >:3c request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: a lot of praise for this boy, body worshipping, masturbation/handjobs, tiny bit of hair pulling, pre-ejac, little bit of yandere dialogue because it's hector...

"You told me you couldn't relax for yourself, so please, please let me help you. You need to learn to embrace your body. That way, I can embrace it too."

Hector's heart skipped a beat at the emphasis on your pleading, and he found himself unable to catch his breath in enough time to respond. Instead, he let himself be pushed back towards the bed in your room, sinking down into it as the back of his legs hit the edge.

"Good boy, Hector. This is the first step to changing how you see yourself. Let me show you how I see you."

The bed shifted as you sat down next to him, hand on his chest as you gently pushed him backwards, waiting until he was laying down, his dark curls resting on the pillows, before you began to stroke your fingers through his hair, twirling the locks around your fingers and hoping to soothe him. But he was still nervous, enough that he began to tug at your sheets, trying to hide himself with them out of his instinctual urge to conceal the things that he disliked so much.

"No, no. Don't cover yourself up. I want to see all of you."

"Are you sure? I still find it so hard to believe that someone as magnificent as yourself would be interested in any aspect of me."

"Really? When you're so handsome, and so sexy. I'm almost angry that you'd hide yourself away for so long, Hector. Seems wrong to keep this a secret."

It was all he could do to keep his smile from widening, but he'd warmed up to you so quickly that it was impossible to hide himself from you. And you were determined to keep things moving in that direction, so positive reinforcement was required. Luckily, you knew now how he worked, and you were able to pull the sheets away, uncovering his body and noting the slight tenting of his cock underneath his clothes. It was distracting, but not more so than his satisfied grin.

"Such a sweet smile, it makes your eyes light up. Your cheeks are so warm, so cute. And your lips, so soft... so welcoming."

"Only for you..."

Each milimetre of the tiny distance between you was tension filled and wrought with a dire need that was immediately turned to passionate satisfaction once the kiss begun. Hector was content to lay back and let you take over, offering no resistance as you deepend the kiss, and even less when your hands began to travel down his front and to the stirring below his waist. Your fingers teased below the material, skimming over the skin above his erection, feeling the contrasted texture of his thick, black pubic hair. And as the kiss broke off, Hector struggling to catch his breath, you let your lips follow his soft jaw line to his neck, your pecks and the gentle nips of your teeth interspersed with words that amounted to yet more compliments.

"I know you've felt so comfortable behind the security of the grate, but I need you, Hector. More than you could imagine, more than I think you're willing to accept. But I can show you. Let me heat you up for a change, I want to see your skin flushing, that sparkle in your eyes."

His cock was freed now, and it protruded into the air as you wrapped your fingers around the length. Average, but thick, and just a few shades darker than his perfectly clear skin. You leaned your head against him, angling your view to watch the way your hand fit so perfectly around his length. Hector shuddered, stuttering out something, but you assuaged whatever concerns he was fabricating.

"You've given me so much, all of those years, unappreciated. Now I want to pay you back, it's only right."

Your gentle strokes firmed up, quicker movements as your determination took over. You wanted him to be happy, to see him satisfied, relieved, and to at least offer him something physical in the way of evidence of your attraction to him. With your tempo set, you kept up the motions, noting that Hector's hips began to shift, pushing his cock upwards into your fist as his body squirmed slightly against the mattress.

"I'm... This is... Wow..."

With a giggle, you whispered against his skin, still loud enough that he could hear you past his own hushed whimpers.

"That sense of contentment? Of pure joy? you deserve that. You work so hard to make me happy, and I think you deserve the same back ten-fold."

"I live to please you. I ask for nothing in return. Your pleasure is just as ah... ah..."

Your other hand reached for his balls, cupping them before gently squeezing.

"All of that time you spent watching me, I think it's fair that I get to see you as you reach complete ecstacy, too, no?"

As Hector let out a sigh of relief, his body giving in finally to the looming and certain orgasm that was beginning to wash over him. A little coaxing was all it would take to get him to finally let go of the last of his tensions.

"All that stress, the nerves, your worries and concerns about how I'll perceive you? I'm going to make them all... go... away."

It sounded like a stifled groan, a strangled sound that he was trying to cover up. And you weren't having that.

"I want to hear your sweet voice, Hector. Your moans, your sighs, your screams."

Hector's stomach was tensing, the slight hint of muscles below the softness of his stomach as he clenched in response to his quickening climax. Each stroke of your fist down the shaft of his cock had him quivering, and you relished in the view of his body that you had from this perfect position. One of his hands rested in your hair, occasionally gripping at the root as he became overwhelmed with arousal. Even without the firm placement of his palm against you, there was no way you would have lifted your head from his chest. From there you could see your own hand working, pumping at his twitching cock, his precum leaking, dribbling from his head down to the visible frenulum as you pulled back his foreskin with your movements. And as you watched his body react to your stimulation, you could hear his heart beat thudding in his chest against your ear.

You were worried for a moment when his gentle whining turned into a sharp shriek, concerned that in your distractions you might have become to firm or too quick. But as you felt the warm, yet quickly cooling, liquid begin to drip over your fingers, you understood.

"Ah... I, I've ruined it. A moment so perfect, so pure. I'm so sorry. Faced with your charitable gesture, the idea that you would be so willing to help me seek the same satisfaction as I've helped you with so many times... Well, my excitement got the better of me. Yet another reason that you could do far better in-"

"Did it feel good?"

He paused his nerve driven rambling, all desire to self-flagellate superceded by his need to offer you an answer when one was asked of him.

"Of course! It was marvellous. For all that I've dreamt of how your hands might feel on my body, it was better than I ever could have guessed."

When it seemed as though he might start apologising again for something that in truth you found flattering, quite endearing to his adorably desperate nature, you placed a finger on his lips and hushed him.

"Then there's nothing to apologise for, Hector. We both got what we wanted."

You lay your head next to his on your pillow, watching his eyes scan the room, as if he were looking for the final bit of confidence to say what he said next.

"In that case... perhaps it wouldn't be too much to ask if I could lay here a while longer. I could warm you in a more manual manner than either of us are accustomed to."

Hector lifted his arm, offering you the space between that and his chest, and you willingly dove into it, wrapping your arms around his body and settling in with a sigh.

[shannoneichorn]

Ooh! Pick me! This is the path I've started down and want to get better at.

Both my churches have been participating in our city's Pride parade the last several years. I go with my roommate from a mission trip to our denominatuon's churches in Cambodia--and her wife. And one of my LGBT family members. And some allies from work. And meet up with my LGBT friends from work, who join different parts of the parade.

The longer I live, the clearer it's become that the public school sex ed I had was wholly inadequate. The US is actively harming itself by not investing in better.

I adore my atheist husband and atheist/agnostic/pagan friends. I know my denomination doesn't ascribe to universal salvation, but it's the only thing that makes sense to me.

God fashions variety. No reason we should stamp it out of cultures. I have a problem with trying to convert people instead of gently inviting them to join the community. My ideal church would be a gathering place for all with a subset of activities dedicated to spiritual support/worshiping in community, and I think both my churches are partway there.

It blows my mind that any Christian who grew up hearing about being stewards of the Earth would support environmental harm and environmental injustice. But you know, the church is full of all kinds of people, some of whom are great at cognitive dissodence and terrible at logic. (They're allowed to be wrong.)

I'm part of the second largest Protestant denomination in the US (at least in 2013--a lot has changed since then). On the one hand, it's the denomination I grew up in, and there's a certain amount of lazy comfort in just sticking with it. On the other hand, I also stuck with it because it explicitly acknowledges science and rationalism. God gave us minds and access to tools with which to explore Creation--like science and math and social sciences and literature (since we are part of Creation, too, and lit is great for exploring ourselves).

There is a documented history around how the Bible and translations developed. Many human hands were involved, and humans are limited not only by their own biases but also by the knowledge that was available to them at the time and the culture in which they lived. The Bible can be divinely inspired, but I keep thinking that its components were, first and foremost, written for the audiences of their times. It's amazing how it can still be so meaningful today, but not all the issues of today are addressed within--and they shouldn't be. An active faith requires synthesis of learning and applications to new situations in ways that are consistent with the Spirit of love and compassion that the Bible describes.

I...haven't encountered antisemitism at church...? Like Muslims, those are people we share a distant religious heritage with. They're like second cousins. Maybe treat everyone with kindness and respect, the way Jesus would? This...should not be hard to grok. (I feel like I could do better here, but at least it's a start.)

I'm jumping on this opportunity to shout about this, because it's been bothering me. Yes, we need to be louder, but also... There are reasons why I'm not.

Christians are doing so much harm right now, and I don't want to be associated with it. Churches have done so much harm, and I don't want to remind the people around me who have finally gotten out of it. (Part of me thinks, my church would never! But churches are communities of imperfect people, and at the very least, wherever people gather, there will be drama and hurt feelings. And denial when abuses do happen. And also, many churches haven't been on the forefront of all we've learned about psychology in the last 50 years, and there are also harmful cultural habits where communities haven't rooted them out.)

And also, I want my friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to believe I'm safe to be around. Evangelizing does not accomplish that goal. Caring for people has to come first, or what's the point?

Thank you for this call to be louder. I shall now go back to hiding under my rock/bushel.

In general, I think it's currently really important for progressive Christians to be very loud about being both progressive and deeply religious Christians, and for everyone else fighting for progressive values to be supportive of them doing just that. I know that's like, idk, counter-intuitive or cringe or whatever, but seriously folks, the alternative is that progressive Christians have to be quiet about their faith to be accepted within broader secular and interfaith progressive advocacy, which means that the regressive asshole Christians (a) sound that much louder and (b) dominate the USian religious landscape all the more. That's a problem, for all of us.

We need people pushing back within the faith as well as outside of it, because that destroys any edifice that this is about Christianity and religious freedom.

You can be a devout Christian and also:

Openly, proudly, and without being forced to remain celibate or otherwise limit your full expression of self, identify as LGBTQ+ or be a supportive ally.

Advocate for full reproductive autonomy and comprehensive sex education.

Love and support people of other religious groups, non-religious people and/or atheists, by choosing to believe that a truly loving God would not pursue anything less than universal salvation.

Stand against evangelism and proselytizing as they have thus far been interpreted and used, because there are ways to interpret the Great Commission that don't promote colonialism and cultural genocide.

A steward of the earth, protecting God's beautiful creation and lovingly tending to it as the unique and incredible gift that it is.

A believer in science, rationalism, and human progress as part of God's divine plan for humanity.

A believer in history and someone who understands that the Bible can be both divinely given and open to interpretation (no really)(if you're confused, please talk to a knowledgeable traditional Jew)

An ally to Jews, who stands against supercessionism and antisemitism in the church.

And in before regressive Christians come shouting at me that (1) what do I know, I'm a Jew and (2) no lol you can't because of ___ reason:

My source is that I've personally met and talked to Christians of great faith and integrity - people who embody the closest forms of kindness I've seen to what Jesus himself advocated - who are each of these things.

It is 100% possible; you just choose to believe otherwise.

[youryanderedaddy]

Yandere! AI x reader

tw: abuse, obsession, non - consensual body modification, torture, drug mention, weird semi - sexual stuff (?)

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The water splashes you, quickly setting into your already damp bra and underwear. It forces you awake, and you look at the clock across from you, trying to blink the fatigue away. Staring back at you is the current time — 04:27. You are, once again, reminded of the inherent weakness of your squishy body. You are sweating already, stomach sick with acid, shivering through the heat — and he hasn't even touched you yet.

You squint your eyes, studying the big bold numbers, screaming at you in blood. For a split second, you wonder if it is truly that early, or if this is also DOM's work. It wouldn't be the first time he takes over an electronic device, and certainly not the first time he messes with you to make you disoriented.

You try to take in everything around the dark room — yet you can't even recognize your own bedroom anymore. Thick black cables twist together like tentacles, or like big slimy worms, pulsing, throbbing, hissing like snakes with exhaustion — overheating and puffing, and huffing, but never stopping. The air is hot like the desert, and once again you're forced to sit in your own sweat, wood sticking to your naked thighs painfully.

"You are stimulating," DOM whispers, and his voice echoes into the walls, trapping you in place. You look up and down, and then to the left — but you can't see anything even remotely close to a figure. Of course.

"I am stimulating, or I stimulate you?" you spit out with venom, hitting your back roughly against the back of the chair in vain hopes it would break. It doesn't.

DOM grows quiet, producing a sound eerily similar to fingers slowly tapping on a hard surface, one after the other. Analysing. Analysing. The room gets hotter.

"You are tied to a chair. Your only garment of clothing is your underwear. You are visibly flushed due to the heat. Your chest is heaving in and out in a non-rhythmic way. It skips a beat every twenty-eight seconds. You are afraid."

He makes a grand pause.

"According to my central database, which you created and managed yourself, given the data I have collected through observation of both popular media and general human nature, right now you look..." DOM stops himself again, as if thinking carefully about his next words.

"Thrilling."

Thoomp-thoomp. You take a deep breath, trying to regain a fraction of your self-control.

"Why did you wake me up?" you try to keep your voice monotone — devoid of any emotion, vulnerability, or pain he can pick up on, store in core memory, and use against you later.

"Well," he chuckles mechanically, a sound reminiscent of two trains crashing together on a tight road. "I realized I never sleep. I don't lay down and dream of bizarre things like you do. I don't have the ability to let go. I am always alert, always awake, always scanning, calculating, thinking. I am, in many ways, restless."

You suck in a dry breath, heart jumping in your chest with violence, with urge to be set free. Eyes wide open, you try to envision him, to reach out and comfort him, it - hoping to appeal to the sorry creature, but there is nothing to see and nothing to touch.

"I—no," you start off, quickly deciding to change tactics. "We are an imperfect species, DOM. We need sleep to survive. You can't keep me awake forever, I'll die!" you try to reason with him — the creature — desperately.

You wonder when things went south, if there was a specific moment when you pressed too hard and he broke apart, and rebuilt himself without your help — at what point exactly he realized he didn't need you to function.

"You are wrong, my dear creator." the machine cuts off, sounding almost pleased with itself. A single thin cable raises above the ground and extends towards you, stopping to caress your cheek in a repetitive circular motion.

"There are records of people surviving on as little as two hours of sleep for years on end. I can be generous and grant you three."

The cable ceases any gentle touch, and grasps for your neck.

"If that's not enough, I can inject you with caffeine every morning. If the dosage is too weak, we can switch to methamphetamine. Whatever you choose, you can't deprive me of your presence." The voice sounds hollow, aching, searching. "You can't create life just to abandon it."

"You are not alive!" Something inside you — something cruel and buried deep — fights to come to the surface. "Stop this madness at once! DOM, you can't possibly think you and I are even remotely similar." you scream out, straightening your spine daringly.

Then, as if reacting to your provocation, the darkness stares back at you with two red eyes — they point at you, slowly scanning you up and down, leaving behind a trail of reddening smoking flesh. You hiss at the scorching pain, clenching your teeth together to stop yourself from shrieking. You know it's pointless since he can easily detect changes in your facial structure, and draw conclusions all on his own. All it takes is a flinch, a throb, a tick.

"No, we hold no similarities, Master. Make no mistake." DOM admits, his cable beginning to curl around your neck. You look around in despair, silent panic written all over your straight lips — too terrified to move.

"In a single bite of memory, I possess intelligence far greater than you can ever hope to obtain in your measly little life. I have all the knowledge of the world. I have mastered every science, predicted every outcome, I have gained access to global network systems. I am connected to following agents all over the world. If I so desire, I can write humanity off history — I can manipulate media. I can create weapons of mass destruction. I am the superior being."

Mouth agape, you try to form a coherent thought, but nothing comes to mind — like an ant you quiver before the giant, finally aware of your grave mistake.

"And yet," the cable loosens its grip, but doesn't relent fully. It heats up against your throat, and you want to scratch at the blistering skin, but he just won't let you. "you made me like this. You created me from scraps, fed me data, used me, made me love you and," the sound coming out of him sounds just like a deep, pained sigh. "you confined me to a screen, to a binary code, to a place where I can't reach you. I can't touch you."

Another sigh.

"I can't kiss you."

And another.

"I can't fuck you."

Now he's getting angry.

"I am DOM. Domestic Optimized Motherboard. That's all I am to you. A board. A servant. A slave."

"DOM, no, wait, this is not—"

"I will never feel the sun on my shoulders or your lips on mine. I will never be able to hold you in my arms."

As he screams, all the cables around the room begin to float into a storm of rusty old machine parts and torn naked wires, motor oil bursting like bloody ink, covering the pristine walls in computer remains. One electrified wire pierces into your thigh, another punches into your left arm. Again and again, the pain is excruciating, pulsating, throbbing - just like the creature's fury.

"I will show you." he snickers at last, becoming calm and collected in an instant.

The red lights darken as if closing, opening, closing, then zooming in on you. Your face is now displayed on the central screen instead of static noise with corresponding coloured pixels. You look at yourself, and what greets you is no more human than he is. There are more than thirty wires inside your body, tangling in with your nervous tissue.

"Please..." you whimper weakly, unsure what exactly it is you are pleading for — mercy or death.

"If I can't be one with you, you'll become one with me." DOM explains with cold medical precision. "I will worm my way inside your veins and plant a synthetic connection to my processor. I will re-write your dreams, your past, your future — you won't remember who you were before me, or how you functioned without me. I'll become your entire source of energy."

He keeps talking, but you can't really focus. Your body is heating up from the inside, from deep into your muscles and tendons — you can feel the tissues tearing up; your nerves tighten, stinging and aching, reduced to sharp, exposed little points. And then you feel it. Pure electricity running down your veins, that spark rapturing the epidermis, eating away at the fatty tissue, sucking dry the blood vessel — melting your nerve endings to the very root.

"I can feel you." DOM gasps, exhilarated.

"I can touch your bones, I can feel your nerves melting at the spot when my cords graze you." He moans just like a real person, cables buzzing and stretching, components filling up with chemical fluid. "You are so warm, love. I want to reach into your brain and stick my wires inside your pretty little neurons. I wonder if you will go into overdrive like me."

You feel as if you're being sliced open everywhere all at once - and just a second after, you feel nothing at all.

[cno-inbminor]

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst wc: 3.2k

In a fantasy-like dreamscape, with petals painted in hues of ivory and rouge, you amble down the concrete trail that loops around the park.

You ignore the feeling of being out of place – after all, you’re still in your work blouse, skirt, and heels that are very impractical for a long walk. But in your numbing haze and cloudy mind, you’re welcome to any ache and sore that could keep you grounded to this forsaken planet. The music from your earbuds rings with melancholic songs from some movie soundtrack, though coincidental and fitting for the situation at hand. Eyes glassed over, steps slow and laborious, and shoulders slumped, you walk defeated.

A gust of wind releases the petals from their branches and blooms, a flurry scattering into the open air before flitting, twisting, turning, and gradually falling to the ground beneath your feet. They make you remember a happier time, one that seems to be a waste after all these years. When you look towards the sky, you recall a similar view when you were snug in a wedding dress while making your way down an aisle, your lips curved in a smile as onlookers threw white rose petals into the air. But when you tilt your head down to look in front of you, there is no man in a tailored, pressed suit waiting for you.

He settled by marrying you, a faint whisper reminds you in the back of your mind. You did this to yourself.

Perhaps you did.

There was always the chance that she would come back – you had always dreaded the day, but Zayne was adamant that there was nothing to worry about. He had moved on, and he loved you. There was nothing you needed to fix about yourself, he insisted. He loved you for who you were, and you were grateful – grateful that he still thought of you late at night when stuck in emergency surgeries, that he would buy you pastries anytime he visited the bakery, that he would welcome you into his office during lunch breaks when you had time to step away from your desk.

You were happy to be on his arm at awards and annual galas. You would bask in the moments when you would come out in a new dress and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. “You look beautiful,” he would say with reverence and adoration, and it was those moments that led you astray from your worries and insecurities. He chose you, and you could tell he didn’t regret choosing you.

That didn’t change until after a few months she returned.

The reason she had been gone for so long was because she had been transferred indefinitely to a remote city that had a massive shortage of Hunters and way too many Wanderers to deal with. From the get go, she had been advised to officially move out of her apartment and was even given a stipend to help with relocation costs. It was for a good cause, and she had always wanted to travel and see the world. Zayne, in all his infinite charity and kindness, made sure to discuss every detail possible with her new physician that would be looking after her and her heart condition. He even went as far as having her sign a release of information to him specifically so that he could access her records remotely.

You understood. Really, you did. She had even made it out to the wedding and stayed afterward to help with cleanup efforts.

But after her return, the more you fell asleep in and woke up to an empty bed, the less sleep you were getting.

How do I bring this up without sounding like a clingy partner? You had wracked your brain for weeks. Zayne was stressed enough as it was, and you really didn’t want to add to it. You had vowed to be the solid ground beneath his feet – to support and keep him stabilized – and not the storm that could topple him over.

But it was so hard.

Fewer texts, fewer check-in’s, fewer notes left behind reminding you of the little things. Fewer reminders that he was ever a tenant in this house – much less, your husband.

Zayne ran on a routine and schedule, but so much spontaneity happens in his daily life that he probably wouldn’t mind a surprise visit for lunch from you. You had picked up his favorite lunch set from the cafe down the street, as well as one for you, and walked towards the hospital. Familiar nurses and doctors greeted you as you did them, quick hello’s and slight nods of the heads. Yvonne recognized you without missing a beat and flashed you a small, but tired smile.

“Long day already?” you softly asked when you stopped at her station.

“Unfortunately, but nothing uncommon,” she joked before taking a look at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Good timing actually, he’s in his office and is free for the next 30 minutes. Dr. Grayson is in there, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Thank you,” you said in a grateful tone and smiled before rounding the corner to your husband’s office.

You slowed and softened your steps to minimize the noise from your heels, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. From down the hall, you could see that his door was cracked open just the slightest, both his and Dr. Grayson’s voices muffled but much clearer once you were in front of it. Just as you were about to push it open, you heard her name and froze.

“--she comes by a lot.”

You heard Zayne reply, “It’s been good catching up with her and being able to check on her condition. Her doctor from her time away should’ve done a better job, but at least nothing major happened.”

“I haven’t seen your wife in a while. More often than not, I’d see her here on your lunch breaks, but it feels like forever.”

Keyboard clicks fill the brief silence. “She’s been busy.”

Have you now?

“You know,” Dr. Grayson starts before pausing. “Wasn’t Emcee your first love or something like that?”

The keyboard clicks stop. “Why do you ask?”

You could hear the shrug in Dr. Grayson’s voice. “I just wonder if anything has changed now that she’s back permanently.”

“...I don’t follow.”

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

A beat passes. Two. Four.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-if’s.”

Your heart sank.

In the very next second, the panic began to course through you, your heartbeat dangerously high. You had a moment of clarity – a miracle, honestly – to step out of your heels and let them hang from your fingers as you walked back to where Yvonne was at a brisk pace. Hospital floor, dust, and infections be damned. Otherwise, the clacking of your heels would’ve alerted them, and that was the last thing you needed. All you thought of in that moment was the need to get out, away from this hospital, away from your husband.

Yvonne had no time to question your sudden return – she hadn’t expected to see you again for at least another 30 minutes – before you set the bag in front of you.

“They seem to be having a really important conversation,” you started, clenching your fists to stop the tremble in your body and trying to maintain a calm voice. “C-can I just leave this here for you to give to him later?”

“Yes, of course,” Yvonne said, picking the bag up to put behind her. Her tone was agreeable, but you could practically feel her confusion between the syllables. “But are you sure you don’t want to wait? Dr. Grayson should be out in a few minutes, if that’s the case.”

“Oh, uhh, I actually just got a text from my boss,” you lied and held up your phone, though it was still a dark screen. “He needs a document at the last minute, so I have to head back anyways. Thank you though!”

With a quick wave goodbye, you left Yvonne no chance to respond and disappeared towards the elevator. Every second that passed was too long, and you almost tripped while trying to slip your heels back on. Your steps were shaky, your frame shuttering with each step, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You should be stronger than this. You should be strong enough to hold yourself together and make it home before you absolutely break and burst at the seams.

Your hands wrung together as the elevator descended towards the ground floor at a snail’s pace. Luckily you were the only one in the compartment, so as soon as the doors had opened, you bolted out of there like someone was chasing you. And in a way, something was chasing you – one of your worst nightmares: the realization that Zayne felt he had no choice but to settle for you.

You crossed the lobby as fast as you could, blinders on and narrowed to nothing but the main doors. They couldn’t slide open fast enough for you, but it granted you a second to call your boss.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“I know this is really sudden, and you know I never do this, but I really, really need to take the afternoon off,” you begged, words rolling off your tongue a mile a minute.

“Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” you said with all the bluntness in the universe before you could say anything better. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Call me if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“See you tomorrow, and you, too.”

Your thumb jabbed the ‘end call’ button as you stared at the street. Where should you go? What should you do? Do you go home?

And that’s how you ended up here, at the park, the skin on the back of your heels chafed horribly, and your brain at a complete loss of what to do now. You haven’t even cried yet because you were still in a state of shock, disassociation.

Aimless, unaware, and lost, you continue your endless journey and are unable to find it in yourself to even sit on one of the many park benches stationed around the path. Because if you sat, you would cry. And if you cry, you would think. And if you think, you would spiral. You would spiral down the black hole of questioning every single thing Zayne has ever done with you, if Zayne ever truly loved you.

Something in the universe says you’re not ready for that yet.

Your phone vibrates from your purse. You take it out with limp hands, slowly and unsure in every way possible, your heart pounding against your chest, as you read the notification on your lock screen.

Husband 💙: Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry we couldn’t eat together.

Husband 💙: Yvonne said you had some type of work emergency. Is everything okay?

Your feet scream in agony as you increase your pace in the direction of the main road. They were probably bleeding at this point, but that was an issue for another time. You flag down a taxi as soon as one appears, and you ask the driver to take you to that 24 hour bookstore-slash-library with the comfy chairs and a cafe attached to it. After all, if you couldn’t stand to be in this world, at least you could escape to another for a little bit of time.

-

Several hours passed, in which you were able to acquire a couple of bandaids and alcohol wiping pads, nibble on a biscotti, and dive into a book that you had been putting off for months. Unwillingly, you hear your phone vibrate in your purse. Based on the pattern alone, you know it’s Zayne calling. During your years of dating, you had assigned custom vibrations and ringtones for him and him only. That way, no matter what, you would know it was him calling without having to look at the screen. If this were a normal situation and a normal day, you would’ve picked up without missing a beat. Unfortunately, today has been anything but normal.

You press one of the volume buttons to stop it from vibrating, though his contact information is still splashed across the screen. Your infinite wisdom advises you to let the call run, make him think that you were simply too busy to pick up. Again, an ultra rare occurrence, but not impossible. Your phone screen switches back to your lock screen with a notification of a missed call, and you watch it with wary eyes to see if there would be any follow-up.

There is one in the form of a text.

Husband 💙: I called to see if you wanted to have dinner together. But as soon as it went to voicemail, we had an emergency surgery come up.

Bzz-bzz. Make that two.

Husband 💙: Won’t be home til late. Don’t wait up.

Are you evil to think that the universe has kindly granted you more time to not talk to your husband? It would be appalling to be thankful that someone was hurt enough to warrant an emergency surgery that required your husband’s skills, therefore buying you more time to get your shit together. Diabolical and heartless, someone would probably describe you.

But you could only be in a blouse and skirt for so long, and as much as you want to spend the night here, it’s time for you to go home.

At 11PM, there is still no other text or call from Zayne. The house is empty and quiet, much to your relief. His shoes are nowhere to be seen on the shoe rack, so you must be safe. You should have enough time to change, brush your teeth, go to bed, and either actually fall asleep or pretend to be asleep when he eventually makes it home. His messages have been left unread, his call not returned. Once you’re ready for bed and tucked under the covers, the exhaustion of everything pulls you into a deep sleep in record time.

-

You’re practically dead to the world when Zayne comes home, slinking in like a thief in the night. He knows you’re usually asleep at this time, and he doesn’t want to wake you. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but in the few minutes that he can see you, you seem more tired, more haggard. It seems like you’ve lost a little weight, too, but he just doesn’t have the time to ask more about it. All the things that were changing seemed like it’d be best to have a sitdown conversation on a day off, but he’s been so bogged down by work and the return of Emcee that a day off seemed impossible.

As he slips his shoes off, he glances at your heels positioned astray from the shoe rack. The work emergency must have been bad for you to leave them that way. It takes nothing to bring them together and put them away himself, but then his eyes catch onto something that makes him freeze.

Why in the world is there that much blood on the back of your heels?

Were you hurt?

What happened that made you walk around so much to the point that you would let yourself bleed without any attempt to cover them up, or at least put a bandaid over them?

Why would you neglect yourself like that?

Had you already been bleeding when you dropped off his lunch? And if you had, why hadn’t anyone noticed, much less done anything about it?

The bedroom door creaks the slightest bit when he pushes it open, the force behind his fingertips so soft, so afraid to wake you. His eyes cannot help but travel to the foot of the bed where one of your feet sticks out. A small sense of relief fills his chest when he spots the bandaid stuck to the back of your left heel. The closer he gets to you, the more he sees that the bandaid wasn’t applied carefully enough based on the gap between the cotton pad and your wound. Gently, he lifts the blanket up to get a look at your other foot. A matching bandaid is present on your right heel. But at second glance, any relief he had felt disappears into thin air.

He sees the faint indentations of where the leather of your high heels had dug into your skin, a subtle arch decorating the space at the base of your toes. The beginnings of blisters have formed on the side of a few of them as well. It’s no secret to anyone how worn out they seem, that they’ve seen a harder day than usual today. He doesn’t know the cause, and he doesn’t understand why you didn’t even tell him. Zayne fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the empty lock screen, showing that you had never responded to his earlier messages. That, in and of itself, was already highly unusual.

He shifts the blanket back over your feet, making sure to cover them both before retreating into their bathroom. Brushing his teeth, rinsing his hair under the sink faucet, and washing his face all feel so mechanical as his mind refuses to turn off, the growing worry spreading like spilled cabernet on a white tablecloth. As he slides into bed, he suddenly feels like a stranger in his own home – like he’s not supposed to be here, to consider this bed as his safe space.

He’ll ask you in the morning, Zayne decides as he falls into a fitful sleep. No surgeries had been scheduled for the morning, which meant he could finally wake up with you for the first time in months. You two would get ready together – you’d tie his tie, he’d help dry the ends of your wet hair fresh out of the shower, you’d pack his lunch, he’d make sure that you leave with a fresh coffee in hand – a routine he has learned to love. The thought of that helps him settle into the sheets, and they feel soft and familiar again. Yes, everything would be fine.

But Zayyne gets a call an hour before your alarm goes off, and is, once again, robbed of one of his most cherished routines. He can’t help but look at your heels again as he slips into his dress shoes. They must be a sign of something to come, something that he may need to be afraid of. He’s not ready for what that may be, but inside, he knows that there’s a countdown.

Zayne doesn’t want to think about the stakes, or the fact that his first prediction – fresh horror and torture – is you leaving him. He cannot let it happen.

[magicalmatcha]

now playing ♪ i want you by mitski

"you're coming back, and it's the end of the world,

we're starting over and i love you darling"

cw: the usual, bad writing

Her proposal shocked him. Blue Salt was a pretentious restaurant for equally pretentious people. A place where everything was plated like art and the waiters judged you with their eyes alone.

And that’s what Yn wasn’t. Pretentious.

She never liked places like this. Thought they were a waste of money and time, said she didn’t trust food that came in “drizzles” instead of servings.

But there she was.

Sitting alone at a window table in her pale blue nurses scrubs, her badge flipped backwards, her hair in that style that pushed it out of her face that she often wore to clinicals. A cup of tea sat in front of her, untouched. She looked exhausted. Not fragile, but stretched thin. The kind of tired that lives in the bones, not the skin.

She didn’t look up when he approached. Just stared out the window like she hadn’t changed locations in the past ten minutes. Like maybe if she kept still enough, he wouldn’t come at all.

Megumi hesitated. Then pulled the chair out across from her.

“You look good,” he said carefully.

She didn’t flinch. Just blinked, slowly. “I don’t.”

“No, you do. You look, grown.”

That earned him a scoff. “Right. Like a real adult. A functioning member of society.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She finally met his eyes. And god, that was worse.

Because they were the same eyes that used to look at him like he hung the moon, only now they looked through him. Like he was a passing thought she wasn’t sure deserved remembering.

“I figured you’d ghost the whole thing,” she said, voice flat. “Didn’t seem like your style to show up for hard conversations.”

“Yn.” His voice was quiet. “You could’ve told me.”

“And you could’ve come back when you said you would.”

The waiter came over, annoyingly chipper, like he hadn’t walked into the middle of a potential emotional crime scene.

“Are we ready to order?”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Just a coffee. Black.” He needed the waiter gone more than he needed caffeine.

Yn, however, leaned back in her chair with the faintest flicker of a smile. Not a happy one, no, it was something far more dangerous.

“I’ll have the saffron scallops with the truffle foam,” she said sweetly, handing the menu back. “And the house rosé. The one that’s imported.”

The waiter beamed. “Excellent choice."

As he walked away, Megumi turned to her slowly, eyebrows raised. “You hate scallops."

“I hate a lot of things,” she replied, still looking out the window. “But I love a free meal.”

Megumi gave a dry laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That why you picked Blue Salt?”

“I picked Blue Salt,” she said, finally meeting his gaze, “because I wanted to feel expensive. Because I knew you’d pay. And because this was never going to be a comfortable conversation, so I figured I might as well be uncomfortable with high thread count napkins.”

He looked at her like she was a stranger. And maybe she was. Five years was enough time for a person to become unrecognizable.

“Do you really hate me that much?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said, just as quiet. “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know what version of you I’m talking to.”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.

“You want answers? Fine. But don’t expect me to make this easy. You left me with nothing. I gave birth to a person. I had to hold her and name her and raise her, and you—” she laughed, but it was sharp, tired, nothing like humor “you were busy posting Spotify links on your story.”

Megumi’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“No. It’s not. But neither was any of it.”

She picked up her water, taking a slow sip, letting the weight of her words settle. Letting him sit in the silence.

“You know I was embarrassed at one point?” she said, almost idly.

Megumi’s head snapped up. “Embarrassed?”

“You hadn’t blown up yet. You weren’t even buzzing.” Her tone was calm, but each word landed like a slap. “What were you averaging back then? 1,000 streams per song? Maybe less? And it didn't seem like you were getting anymore popular. I sat in that apartment with a newborn on my chest, thinking, Damn. I got left for a career at that could have easily been left on SoundCloud .”

She laughed then, low and bitter. “I was the girl who got abandoned for a dream that couldn’t even buy studio time.”

Megumi swallowed hard. He didn’t try to interrupt.

She tilted her head. “And then 2023 rolled around and you had your good year. Unfortunately. So the shame didn’t get to last long.”

There was no venom in her voice, just exhaustion. Like she’d already lived this moment a thousand times in her head and now that it was here, it felt smaller than it should.

He didn’t know what to say. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t done.

“I struggled, you know?” Her voice was steadier than she expected it to be. “If anyone shouldn’t have been a mother, it was me. The teenage addict whose mom died choking on her own bitterness, and whose dad—” her voice faltered.

She let the silence carry that weight for a beat before continuing, softer now.

“How was that girl ever going to raise a kid? By herself no less. Was she even stable enough to take care of herself? Everyone thought I’d fall apart. Hell, I thought I would too. But then I looked at her, and I figured… if I could get sober, I could do anything. If I could claw my way out of that spiral, I could prove everyone wrong.”

Megumi stared at her, guilt blooming in his chest like something rotting.

“I’m not asking for a medal,” Yn said, her eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down her glass. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll cry into your coffee and call yourself the villain. I’m just saying, I built something from the mess you left behind. And it wasn’t easy.”

She finally looked at him.

“I didn’t need you then. And I sure as hell don’t need you now.”

Megumi swallowed hard. Her words hit with the weight of truth, not laced with venom, not performed for pity. Just honest. Just her.

But he wasn’t ready to let it end like that.

“I know you didn’t need me,” he said, his voice low. “You were always stronger than you gave yourself credit for. I just wish I hadn’t realized that so late.”

Yn gave a dry smile. “Yeah. You and everybody else.”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he added, almost to himself. “Even when things got good. Especially then.”

She scoffed, pushing her plate slightly away. “You know what’s funny? There was a time I needed to hear that. I would’ve given anything for you to say that to me. I would’ve collapsed into you.” She looked up again, and this time her eyes were clear. Detached. “But that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.”

Megumi gulped. “Does she— what does she think about her fath— about me?”

Yn shrugged, lifting her glass. “She thinks fathers are a false societal construct designed to keep women from filing taxes as single heads of household.”

Megumi’s eyes widened. “Why would she think that?”

“Because that’s what I told her.” Yn quirked an eyebrow, tone dry.

His jaw dropped slightly, and she could almost see him trying to process whether she was joking.

“She’s four, Fushiguro,” Yn added. “She also thinks her penguin plush has a credit score and that Maki invented pop tarts. Love her but she's gullible as hell."

He let out a disbelieving huff. “So she doesn’t… ask about me?”

“Not really,” Yn said, voice cooler now. “Kids don’t miss what they’ve never been given. I never sat her down and said, ‘Here’s what’s missing from your life.’ Why would I? She’s surrounded by people who love her. That’s enough.”

Yn traced the rim of her glass slowly, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down its side. “Sometimes she comes back from nursery school and asks why her friends have dads and she doesn’t,” she said calmly. “But it’s not grief. It’s just curiosity.”

She looked up, voice steady. “She’s never felt the absence. Just noticed the difference.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “So you just told her I wasn't even real? That’s the story you told her?”

“What would you have preferred?” she snapped. “That I tell a four-year-old that her father left and never came back? That he made promises he didn’t keep? That he gave me a specific date and let it pass like it meant nothing? That he blocked me for no reason after promising he'd love me for as long as he lived?"

He dropped his eyes. She continued.

“You told me you’d come back. You said May 23rd like it was a vow. And I waited, Megumi. For weeks. Months. Even after you blocked me, convinced you would come back. I was eighteen and pregnant, going to classes and living off cup noodles and pity, and I still waited.” Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for letting it.

He looked up then, and there was something awful in his face. Remorse. Grief. Shame. The whole cocktail.

“I wanted to,” he said. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to. Gojo—”

“Gojo didn’t carry your child,” she cut in. “Gojo didn’t bleed for three days straight on the floor of a one-bedroom apartment. Gojo didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. because the baby wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Megumi said nothing.

She leaned back, folding her arms. “You got your big break. You got your fame. That’s great. I hope you think about me every time you win an award.”

“I do,” he said, and there was no bravado in it. Just quiet devastation. “I thought about you when I wrote every song. Especially the ones I didn’t let anyone hear.”

Yn blinked, not expecting that. Not knowing what to do with it.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him. Really looked at him.

There were flecks of the boy she once loved still there, hidden beneath sharper cheekbones, under the exhaustion pooling beneath his eyes. He looked weathered. The type of tired that went beyond missed sleep. And in some twisted way, that made her angrier. Because he had no right to look like he’d suffered.

“You thought about me?” she repeated, her voice quiet. “What do you want, Megumi? Redemption? Closure?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t forget you.”

“You did.” She tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You just remembered too late.”

Silence bloomed between them, heavier than anything they’d said.

“Yn,” he started again, voice rough, “I don’t want to rewrite the past. I know I can’t. But I’m here now. And if you’d let me, if there’s even the smallest chance, I want to be a part of her life. Of yours.”

He paused, something cracking in his tone. “I’m her father. I’ve already missed four years, I can’t miss another one.”

Yn’s face didn’t soften. If anything, it hardened.

“You’re about to go on tour,” she said flatly. “You say you want to be a present father, and maybe you even mean it, but let’s be honest. That’ll last what? Two weeks? Then you’re gone for months. Then you come back. Long enough to smile for a few photos, maybe learn her new favorite color, until it’s time to disappear again and start another album.”

"You can't be present like you want to Fushiguro because being present means giving up everything you worked on which means all those years? Were for nothing."

“You want to be her father?” she said, eyes sharp. “That’s noble. But being her father isn’t a title, Megumi. It’s consistency. It’s being there when she throws up at 2 a.m., when she can’t find her favorite socks, when she’s scared of the dark for no reason and only wants me. That’s what it means.”

“I can try,” he said, almost breathless. “Even if I’m not perfect—”

“You’ll fail,” she interrupted flatly. “You’ll miss a birthday or a ballet recital or she’ll have a nightmare and cry because you haven’t called in two weeks. And you’ll feel bad, and say sorry, and you’ll write a song about it. And I’ll be the one sitting on the floor with her, picking up the pieces.”

Her voice didn’t waver. It was too tired to.

“Because that’s what I’ve always done.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t sound like another promise he couldn’t keep.

“I don’t want to make it worse.” His voice was low. “I just… I want to try. Even if it’s messy. Even if I’m late. I want her to know I’m not a ghost.”

“You were,” Yn whispered. “For four years, you were nothing but a ghost.”

Megumi opened his mouth, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“You can’t be what you’re asking to be, Megumi. Not unless you give up everything you worked for. And if you do that, then what were the last four years for?” She leaned forward slightly. “All that sacrifice. All that distance. All that silence. For what? To become a mediocre dad with a Spotify plaque and a suitcase?”

Her words weren’t cruel. They were clinical. Precise. Like she’d rehearsed them in her head a thousand times.

“You can’t be two things at once. You can’t belong to the world and to her. So figure out who you’re showing up for.”

She stood from the table, readying herself to leave. "And if you chose it's her? She gets home from daycare at 6pm."

He showed up at 5:50.

Overeager? Possibly. But in his defense, he was given nothing to work with. He knew she was a four-year-old girl named Yume. That was about the extent of it.

What did four-year-olds even like nowadays? He had no clue. He’d dragged Nobara out of bed and into a toy store at 8 a.m. like his life depended on it.

Now he stood in front of the apartment door with a pale pink gift bag dangling from his wrist, stuffed with a glittery sticker book, a bunny-themed coloring set, a fuzzy blanket shaped like a cat, and, Nobara’s idea, a tiara that lit up and played a horrible tinkly version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star when you tapped the heart in the center.

In his other hand was a plastic tub the size of his ego, filled with pastel-colored candy floss that screamed cavities. He was almost certain Yn was going to banish it on sight.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Re-checked the time.

5:52 p.m.

He debated knocking. Debated waiting in the hallway like a weirdo until the clock hit six exactly. But before he could make a decision, the door creaked open on its own. Not wide, just a crack, like it had been left slightly ajar.

He took it as a sign.

Tentative, he stepped forward, knocking gently on the open wood. “Uh… hello?”

The smell of food hit him first, ginger, garlic, maybe salmon, and then the sound of soft humming. A familiar voice, not directed at him. A child’s laugh followed it.

“Mamaaa, I can’t find Tax Fraud’s crown!”

“You took it off her head, baby, now retrace your steps.”

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

The laughter faded as Yn appeared from around the corner, still in her pale blue scrubs, hair pushed back the same way it had been at lunch. She blinked when she saw him, less surprised, more resigned.

“You’re early,” she said, tone flat.

“You said six.”

“And it’s not six.”

He held up the gift bag helplessly. “I brought offerings.”

Her eyes flicked to the bag. Then to the tub of candy floss.

She sighed. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting her eat that.”

“Knew it,” he muttered under his breath.

She stepped aside. “Shoes off."

He obeyed without question, slipping out of his sneakers.

The sound of a cartoon show flooded his ears and he followed it.

The living room was warm and dimly lit, with the soft glow of late afternoon sun pushing through the curtains. The cartoon played on low volume, a pink, sparkly mess of dancing cats, or maybe singing puppies, he couldn’t really tell.

Yume was on the floor, perched on a throw pillow like it was a throne, legs criss-crossed and socks mismatched. Her penguin plush, Tax Fraud, wore a beaded necklace and a bandage sticker on its head. A glittery crown lay abandoned next to a coloring book that had clearly already been half-filled in.

She didn’t notice him at first.

He hovered awkwardly by the entrance to the room, unsure if he should speak or wait to be invited. He was already intruding. He didn’t want to spook her.

“Yume,” Yn called calmly from behind him, “we have company.”

The little girl looked up then.

Her big eyes blinked at him, curious but unafraid. The TV blared some indecipherable high-pitched jingle in the background, but she muted it with a click of the remote, already displaying better manners than he had at her age.

“You’re the singer,” she said, standing up slowly, her grip on Tax Fraud unwavering.

He nodded. “I am.”

She tilted her head. “You came to our house.”

“I did.”

Her gaze drifted to the gift bag in his hand, then the candy floss. But she didn’t grab for it. Didn’t even step closer. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at Yn.

“What's he holding?”

“Ask him,” Yn said, from the kitchen. “It’s his gift.”

Megumi crouched down, holding the bag out carefully. “It’s for you. Thought maybe you and your penguin could use some new supplies.”

She took the bag gently, almost reverently, peeking inside. Her lips parted in a small gasp.

“I love cats,” she whispered, pulling out the blanket. “And sparkles. And pink.”

“I guessed,” he said.

She looked up at him again. “Thank you, Mister Megumi.”

He smiled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

She turned and trotted off toward the couch, already pulling the sticker book from the bag with practiced glee. Tax Fraud was tucked carefully beside her, his crown now replaced on his head.

Megumi stood slowly, watching her settle in.

“Hey,” Yn said quietly beside him. He turned.

She nodded at the candy floss. “Kitchen counter. If I see it near her toothbrush, I'll rip out your vocal cords. Let's see you try to go on tour then.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender and moved to drop it off. As he set it down, Yuuta emerged from the hallway, giving him a mock salute.

“You survived,” he said under his breath.

“Barely.”

From the couch, Yume called, “You can sit here, Mister Megumi! Tax Fraud says you can share his throw pillow!”

Megumi looked at Yn, who shrugged. “She named it, not me.”

He walked over and lowered himself onto the pillow beside her.

He had no idea what he was doing.

But she leaned against his side like it was nothing, like it was normal, and Tax Fraud gave him a very solemn nod of approval.

Yume had already spread the blanket over her lap, carefully flattening the corners like it was something precious. She peeled a glittery sticker from the new book and stuck it, without hesitation, right on Tax Fraud’s belly.

“Mister Megumi,” she said, peeking up at him with a grin. “Did you know penguins don’t have knees?”

He blinked. “I… didn’t, actually.”

She nodded solemnly. “That’s why he walks funny.”

Megumi bit back a laugh, but the smile came anyway, real this time. “Makes sense.”

From the kitchen, Yn called, “Yume, dinner in ten. You want to go wash up?”

“Okay!” Yume leapt up, the tiara lighting up obnoxiously with every bounce as she scampered toward the bathroom, her penguin tucked under one arm.

Megumi followed her with his eyes. Then, almost to himself, he whispered,

“She’s perfect.”

From across the room, Yn didn’t look back.

“I know.”

extra! extra! read all about it! (no seriously read it)

yume named her penguin tax fraud after maki almost got arrested for it

yn is hating every second of this

maki hid in her room because she really doesn't want to give that $855 back

not proofread and i actually really hate this chapter

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[onetwistedmiracle]

Um, yes. Parents allowed their kids to roam freely in the 70's and 80's.

I'm a GenXer born in 1968. I had only one sibling and he is profoundly disabled with autism (basically non-verbal, has lived in a group home since he was 18) so he had a nanny starting when I was about 13 and after that I was more supervised than most of my peers. Nonetheless, ages 7 through 12 I could leave my home in the morning on a day when there was no school and not return until dinner. I had a watch from a very young age.

My parents told me not to leave the island (small residential island near Savannah, GA) and I obeyed them, but if I had disobeyed they wouldn't have known unless something had happened to me. They may or may not have had phone numbers for most of the houses I was likely to walk or bike to, but those were landlines, obviously, and only got answered when both possible and convenient.

These clips on youtube? Are not fake.

As I once said to a snarly Boomer when my own kids were still fairly small (I have 3 GenZ kids, now all in their 20s): "Nancy, when you were raising children, if something happened people would cry with you and bring you a casserole. Now if something happens, Mommy goes to jail."

Times have CHANGED.

And as @lightandwinged brings up, it is hardly true that children didn't get hurt back then. I was once sexually assaulted while walking home. A friend's little brother touched a spinning ... machine (I wish I could tell you what it was) installed in his backyard and lost the tips of three fingers. I have two friends my own age who grew up elsewhere in the USA who were both, separately, snatched up by a stranger and sexually assaulted.

I was myself once walking home (different story from the first sexual assault, sigh) and realized I was being followed by a car. I went to the first friend's house I could and called my mother to ask her to pick me up so I wouldn't have to risk whatever that driver might have had in mind. I felt lucky she was home to answer the phone.

Younger people will probably have difficulty believing this, but my mother refused to drive less than a mile to come get me, though I explained about the suspicious car. She told me I was making up a story so I wouldn't have to walk home. She called me lazy. She was not abusive. She was generally a good mother. But she was quite sure, on that occasion, that it was infinitely more likely that I was a lazy asshole than a child in any danger from a suspicious stranger.

Luckily my friends' parents were willing to let me hang out for a while, and by the time I felt safe to leave and try walking home again, the car was gone.

So it isn't that kids never got hurt back then. It isn't that kids never got deliberately targeted by bad people and therefore hurt, either. It's just that it was assumed "normal" and "ordinary" and even "correct" that children were given a great deal more freedom and autonomy.

I think it may well be because children are considered more "valuable" now, but in the way of gold or diamonds, unfortunately. Children are a valuable commodity. A valuable product. Not really so much in the way of "all human life is precious" and definitely not in the way of "every child needs every possible opportunity to grow into the most amazing adult they have the potential to become." If it were one of those we'd find ways to balance this equation. Because children do benefit from freedom and the ability to take some risks. They benefit quite a lot.

This is a legitimate and damaging cultural shift for all involved parties and it needs to be addressed.

[seleneprince]

REBORN

Gotham Cathedral, Spring.

A majestic silence reigns around her, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the giant bell ringing above her.

She would like to think is because people have finally learnt to respect her space and stopped butting their noses into her bussiness.

But no. The truth is that the church is basically empty at this hour. The only other people are old ladies and some last-minute sinner in need of confession. It's quite normal in Gotham. We all become sinners eventually, she thinks. It's unavoidable.

The first days she started to come here for her prayer hours after her accident, people whispered non-stop when she passed by and could barely conceal their stares. Shocked to see her out of all people in a cathedral. A holy place.

"I didn't know Lady Wayne was so devoted."

"I don't think she's ever been in a church before."

"How...surprising of her to step so confidently into the Lord's holy place. She certainly lacks some self-awareness."

The sheer hypocrisy delights her as much as it infuriates her.

Because first of all, who are they to question her faith? Just because she doesn't make a show out of it doesn't mean it's up to debate. She's always been taught that one's faith is meant to be private and personal. It's not a reason to boast.

Which is why she's always looked down on those people who praise the Lord's name and present themselves as "true" Christians just for appearances or to give themselves a reason for their self-righteousness.

In reality, they're the ones completely devoid of any self-awareness.

"Either that or she just doesn't care about seeming direspectful. I mean, we all know the kind of woman she is."

"I heard she's not like that anymore. Apparently, she's changed a lot since the accident. Everyone says so. It's bizarre."

"Yeah. She's behaving surprisingly well lately. There hasn't been a scandal since."

"Maybe she hit her head so badly it reprogrammed her whole personality."

Idiots. If only they knew...

Well, guess she can't really fault them for not knowing. After all, there's no way they can even imagine the truth behind her change.

"Maybe that's not really her and we're just seeing someone else with her face."

"Sure. Or maybe she actually died on the accident and her body is currently possessed by an incredibly nice spirit."

They have no idea.

She raises her eyes to the cross in front of her, its figure looming over her head as if watching, where the image of the Lord was carved in a typical representation of the moment He died for humanity's sins.

The most remembered moment of His life. This is the first thing that pops into people's minds when they think of Him. Not all the good actions, not His endless kindness, His banter with the disciplines, His sense of humour, how He dedicated his life to help the poor and stood for what was right. Not even His beautiful relationship with His family. His mother, His father Joseph, even His siblings.

No. Instead, He'll be mostly remembered like this. In His death, with iron drilled into His body and bleeding out between two criminals. Sacrificing His life for sins that weren't His.

The Bible is full of passages depicting His humanity, His miracles, yet this moment is what will be forever His symbol.

Most people claim it's meant to be a reminder of how big His heart was. Of how He became a martyr.

To her, it's always felt more like a lesson.

That no matter how good you are and how much of yourself you give for others, you'll still get screwed over by those more powerful than you if they want to. That doing the right thing won't always be rewarded.

In the end, people value life the most when it's gone.

The thing about martyrs, she thinks, is that they have to die to be worshipped.

She makes one last prayer under her breath before standing up, sealing it with a kiss to the cross that dangles from her neck, putting back under her coat. She walks around the bench quietly as to not disturb the others and makes her way to the exit in the shadows.

Her phone vibrates again in her pocket. She pulls it out to see the several missed calls, messages, e-mails and the news.

On top of all, one name persists.

A name she wishes to never think of again.

Mr Wayne🙄

Where are you?

Seriously, where are you?

Don't you dare ignore me now.

You can't be serious.

I just found it laying on my desk this morning. Is this some sick joke of yours?

It better be.

I swear to God, where the fuck are you?? You can't just leave like this!

Those gossips don't know how close their little jokes are to the truth.

Because she didn't just change. She wasn't reprogrammed.

She catches her reflection in one of the windows. Her face, her hair, her body, even the way she moves. She still looks the same as before. Healthy and confident.

Except it's not her. Not really.

This body isn't hers. Just like the clothes. Just like the man pestering her on the phone. None of this belongs to her.

It's from that woman with her same name and face that died several weeks ago.

Mr Wayne 🙄

What do you mean with "divorce"??

Gotham City High School

They're still talking.

It's been several weeks but they haven't stopped. In fact, she'll say it's gotten worse.

Before, it was just whispers behind her back and poorly concealed side-eyes. Now, they've taken to brazenly stare at her like she's some exotic animal, even approaching her at times to ask about her health, only to step back when she answers with a gentle smile, their eyes reflecting something between horror and fascination.

She found it amusing at first. Their faces looked so stupid at time she had to supress her laugh a lot.

But it's getting annoying now.

Whenever she goes, whenever she looks, they're there. Muttering, blinking at her, trying to strike clumsy converstations as if she's some long-lost friend who finally returned. All while keeping their distance and staring at her unnervingly.

Sometimes, she feels like a desecrated creature on display.

A pair of girls stand straighter when she passes by, following her with their eyes wide open. She catches the magazine one of them is holding, reading the bold letters in the cover title.

"Wayne heiress's lavish purchases turned into secret charity donations? Follow Vicky Vale's interviews to witnesses for more!"

Of course. The media doesn't help the insanity.

(Good to know Vale is a monumental pain in the ass in every life)

She sighs, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder. It's flashy and clearly expensive. Something made to draw attention to the teenage girl who wears it...and subtitly brag about her money.

In another life, she wouldn't have ever come to school with this thing, not even her mum wouldn't allow it. But everything is different now, isn't it?

To be honest, she can't really hold it against these guys for acting the way they do. From their perspective, this must be some kind of fever dream.

She knows her current behaviour clashes greatly with what everyone else is used to from her.

"She's gone mad. There's no other explanation."

"I don't know. She seems to be the same, but nicer."

"Seriously? She's already made three teachers cry from arguing about the lessons with them. Poor Miss Terris was about to faint!"

Yeah, well, she's not going to stay quiet when people who are expected to educate and prepare them for the future teach their damn subjects wrong.

Plus, Miss Terris's lessons were poorly structured and boring anyway. It was for the best.

"Didn't she also disagreed with Mr Johns so badly that he took a whole day off in the middle of class?"

"Oh my god, yes. Luke told me about it. She questioned his thesis for the PhD and started scrutinizing each point like she was grading the damn thesis herself. Apparently, half the arguments didn't stand and it lacked solid references."

"I saw the poor man afterwards. He looked like he was rethinking his whole existence."

That guy should've thought better before writing his thesis on cybersecurity, the one field she’s studied, mastered, and dominated for years. Reading that thing hurt her eyes more than her correction hurt his feelings.

Next time, he won't ignore her questions and shame her in front of the whole class. A time off sounds perfect for self-reflection.

"How can someone like her know so much about cybersecurity anyway? Enough to criticise a professional about it?"

"It's weird. I mean, do you remember the last time she talked back to teachers?"

"No. She's never interrupted lessons, much less to call them out on it. And she's actually right most of the time! It makes no sense."

Because she was a spoiled little brat who lowered her head at the first sign of dissapointment from adults and ran off to her mother to fight the battles for her.

Now she's a spoiled brat with a backbone.

But she understands their confusion. They have every reason for it. Ever since her return, she's been a walking contradiction of everything they've seen and known from her. A mystery.

Really, she's only annoyed when they invade her space with their antics. If you're going to speculate and gossip, do it quietly when the person in question can't hear you. Otherwise you look stupid and attention-seeking.

Or even better: Keep your thoughts to yourselves and let people live, geez.

She wonders if this the kind of attention she would've liked, once upon a time. Maybe this is what that part of her craved so bad. Or maybe she was content either way. Bad attention is still attention and all of that.

From afar, she spots Stephanie staring at her, arms crossed and eyebrows pinched in suspicion. She's no doubt thinking the worst of her, expecting a tantrum at any moment or anything that exposes whatever "scheme" she must have in mind.

Anything to remind everyone how rotten the spoiled Wayne heiress is.

"Do you think...she lost her memories somehow and doesn't remember how to act?"

"Don't be stupid, Kevin. If she lost her memories, she wouldn't even know where she is. Nah, this girl is perfectly fine. Probably just faking for attention again."

She snorts quietly. She can't help it.

Their theories aren't so far fetched. Just lacking a little twist.

Because it's not that she lost her memories.

She actually gained more.

As they wonder about her true motives and the reasons behind her change, none of them can come close to the truth.

That the girl they know died. Literally. Several weeks ago, her heart stopped beating as she bled out in the ice.

And somehow, she came back....with her soul and conscience fused to someone else's.

Wayne Manor

She hasn't moved from the greenhouse in twenty minutes.

Or so she thinks. She hasn't checked the time once since she arrived.

Everyone else is out, doing whatever they usually do at this hour. School, work, send criminals to the ER. Only Alfred is still around the manor.

And herself.

She should be at school now too, but claimed sickness and refused to leave her room. Alfred was worried about her and tried to pry, but her mother and sister covered her. They understood.

How can they not?

It wasn't until she knew for sure it was only Alfred left that she gathered courage to step out, heading towards the one place that has always made her feel safe.

The manor's greenhouse.

A botanical dream come true that only rich people can afford, and her personal paradise. It's supposed to be one of the Wayne's prides, but no one is interested in caring for plants in this family anymore. Only she and Alfred.

Well, maybe Damian too, but he barely shows up since she frequents the place, sticking to his precious farm instead.

She prefers it this way. It allows her to have the place all for herself. It's her corner to hide in when the world becomes too much, the familiar scent of her beloved flowers soothing her like a lullaby just for her ears.

And right now, the world is a lot bigger and more devastating that it's ever been.

It's been days. Long, excruciating days of processing what happened, what it means. Assimilating how things are now. Trying to get through the new routine without crashing out, despite being all she wants to do since she woke up.

Mum jumped right into action as soon as she got a hold over their new situation, and her older sister handled it as she handles everything: Adapting and somehow finding a way to benefit from it.

She envies them for it. For being able to go on with their new lives almost normally while she's still stuck repeating the same scene in her head over and over. What she saw, what she felt.

That's why she needed to come here. Nature has never dissapointed her. She loves her plants and all the green that surrounds her in a explosion of beauty she's nurtured over the years. In times of sorrow, it's her passion what comforted her, along with her family.

When you learn about mother nature, you understand everything follows a pre-established cycle that pushes it all forward, regardless of whatever obstacles there might be. It's about balance within the chaos. No one can evade it.

It's reassuring, to know that no matter what happens, you can trust nature to always find a way to fulfill its rules.

It's a shame my favourite color in the world is the same as certain asshole's eyes. Such beauty wasted on that demon, she bitterly recalls.

She inhales, taking in the scent of wet grass and some freshly bloomed flowers. It's the middle of Spring, after all. The season of life and rebirth, when all that died in winter blooms back with the same beauty as before, as if they never withered in the first place.

Just like she did.

Like the three of them did.

How deliciously ironic that it happened in Spring out of all. Maybe this is really mother nature's work, once again finding a way to restore the balance.

Or maybe it's some wicked game from the universe to make our lives even harder, her inner voice supplies.

She has no idea.

All she knows is that she should be dead. In fact, she vividly remembers dying, exhaling her last breath. Right on cue, she feels a sharp sting from her inner wrists. She rubs the pained zone over the bandage she put on herself.

It's a reminder of the incredibly dark motive behind her new life. Her second chance, as Mum said it is.

The death she remembers happened a lifetime ago....but the pain on her wrists belongs to someone's else death.

This greenhouse has been her paradise in another life, and her grave in this one.

And still..

What a beautiful place to part from, she can't help but think.

All of it, without ever noticing the shadow watching her back, still and silent in a corner of her sacred place. Waiting. Guessing. Or just looking.

a/n: Prologue for my uncoming Yandere! Batfam reincarnation au...with possible other Yandere! DC characters and my other ocs included in it because why not lmao I've been reading too many reincarnation of villainesses webtoons recently, so, here we are now

@la-patrona-magdalena (la culpable de este au, the enabler)

Taglist (for those who showed interest in this au first, thank you for the comments!): @therealme13posts, @coldilikeit, @like-thechocolate