#and then immediately use it in an argument

[neodazed]

enhypen - boudoir polaroids

ot7!xfem!reader - showing them the polaroids of your boudoir photoshoot

boudoir: captures sensual, intimate, and often erotic images of a subject in a private setting

warnings: husband!enha, photos taken during sexual acts (solo), masturbation, recording, use of “slut”, brief anal sex, implied unproctected p in v, oral (f), tons of nasty shit i won’t spoil, lingerine, mdni, def longer than the other ones, not proofread

idea belongs to this lovely anon. interpented it in my own way somewhat, so it’s not 100% factually accurate lol. masterlist

HEESEUNG

Heeseung, your brand new husband — the most pussy-clenching title he’s ever worn, probably.

Ever since he became your fiancé, till now, he has been extra, super hot. Has been fucking you even rougher, better, like a good little wife should be fucked (by his words).

So this thing you decided to do, now it was like the perfect answer to that, the perfect sign of devotion.

You hand your brand-new husband an envelope—pretty cream paper, little gold wax seal, soft smile on your face like “open it later, okay?”

And Heeseung waits, as long as his curiousity let’s him. Then later, when he finds himself alone for some minutes, he opens it. You, taking your makeup off in the bathroom, can hear the paper rustling, and you smile at your reflection, waiting.

Silence.

Until he goes

‘Come here’

You gently open the bathroom door, and walk back into your bedroom. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, a stack of little polaroids spread out on his lap. The look he gives you, is dark. Well, expected, because the photos are mostly close-ups of you…

— with your mouth open, two fingers shoved down your throat, gloss smudged

— you in a bridal white, fingering yourself with those same two fingers

— one with a toy, pink and cruelly realistic, barely halfway in – your eyes rolled back, thighs clenched

— one that appears to be a final shot, biting down on your veil, looking like you’re reaching your orgasm

And Heeseung?

Just processing.

Because his wife did this. For him. Because you posed like a full-on pornstar, hours before you walked down the aisle.

‘How many of these are there?’ ‘Who took them?’ ‘Where’s the rest?’

But he doesn’t actually give you the chance to explain or answer. He orders you to get on the bed. He’s already rock hard in his pants, and he is determined.

‘Wanna recreate this one.’ He holds up the shot of you with your fingers in your mouth and the toy barely inside you. His favorite.

‘But this time, you’re gonna fuck yourself on my fingers, and better keep your eyes on me the whole time.’

Obviously, it’s a sleepless night.

Doesn’t fuck you immediatelly, no, he makes you study the pictures with him.

‘Did you cum before or after taking this one?’

‘Did it feel as good as my cock?’

‘Don’t you think this is more slut than wife-material?’

And when he finally fucks you, it’s mean. No mercy, no patience, just using you to his own desires.

‘This how you looked when you came all over that toy?’

‘You wanna give me more pictures, baby? I want the ones you were too shy to include.’

JAY

It only suits you that you had a damn argument one day into your honeymoon with Jay. Maybe your plans and wants didn’t align perfectly, and the post-wedding stress was still wearing off. Jay was cold. Distant. Didn’t even say goodnight properly.

So the next day, you toss him an envelope across the bed like

‘Peace offering. Take it or leave it.’

Jay opens it like he’s giving you a favor, chin high and movements full of spite. But the second he sees the first photo?

You. His wife. In white lace. On her knees. Sucking a finger like it’s his cock. His reaction is immediate, his throat pushes out an almost choking like sound, and his whole body stiffens. Well, expect his hands which he uses to flip through some of the pictures.

One with you bent over, wedding veil still on, looking back at the camera while your hand disappears under your panties.

Another with your bra pushed under your tits and one hand squeezing lube out onto a toy off-frame.

He sits in silence for a minute. Hand on his thigh. Breathing steady.

Then folds the photos back into the envelope neatly… and comes to find you.

You’re brushing your hair or something casual when you hear his voice behind you:

‘You gave these to me just to get out of apologizing, didn’t you?’

You smirk. ‘Did it work?’

Jay comes up behind you, grabs your hips a little too hard, and leans in to your ear like:

‘You know what works better than an apology?’ He tosses the envelope onto the vanity table — ‘Giving me the real show. On your knees. Now.’

He makes you recreate every shot. Expect, this time he is behind the lens, using his phone camera to make himself even more intimate material.

‘Yes, that’s my perfect wife.’

‘Gonna save this one. Maybe send it to you next time you try to walk away from a fight.’

JAKE

Jake is the most grateful man alive on your wedding night. You could show up in sweatpants and he’d cry and pop a boner right away. But like with most things, you top his imaginations by far.

You pull out the pink envelope, decorated with a little bow in the middle. Slide it over to him on the bed, like it’s no big deal at all.

‘You should open it after your shower, babe.’

He opens it in the warm glow of the hotel lamp, fresh out the shower, towel on his hips — and he just stops breathing. Like genuinely. Just blinks. Stares. Gets real quiet. Because the first glimpse he gets, just a little part, already screams perfect. You’re layed out on soft sheets, pale ivory lingerine panties barely covering your folds. His mouth waters. Lot more of that kind. Some thigh-focused ones, some of you slobbering over your fingers and fingering yourself with the other.

The best one, though? (If gun to his head, he was forced to choose one).

It’s a close-up. Your fingers spreading yourself open, all slick and swollen. A heart-shaped lollipop resting just against your clit. Your hand holding it. His love for pussy and his habit of oral fixation are being stimulated through his eyes.

You’re in the bathroom brushing your teeth, and all you hear is, ‘Baby please come here. Right now. Please.’ In the neediest voice possible.

You walk out and he’s on his knees on the floor. Literal towel pitched up, photos spread out around him.

And when you smile and go — ‘I thought you’d like them. Do you? — he just whines.

Not groans. Not moans. Whines.

‘Are you crazy? I’m already so in love with you I could die, but this is literally attempted murder!’

Then he pulls you into his lap, kissing all over you, your lips, your neck, your breasts, going down on your stomach…

‘Fuck, I love you. I love you so much…’

SUNGHOON

You were sneaky with it. You gave him the envelope with a sweet smile, like you’re handing over a hand-written love letter rather than the dirty content it was hiding.

‘Hope you like them, Love.’

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow but takes it, fingers careful, gaze suspicious. He opens it while you’re brushing your hair.

Starting off strong, the first photo is you on your side, gripping your tit with one hand and pulling your panties aside with the other, head tilted almost innocently, but eyes filled with lust. Then a bunch of other positions, showing off your silky lingerine and delicate curves, always teasing what’s beneath but never displaying it fully.

And Sunghoon — Sunghoon does not react well.

He stands up, envelope in hand, and walks over to you with that same dead-calm expression. Slow and collected.

‘Who took these?’

‘What?’ You blink up at him.

‘The photos. Who the fuck took them?’

Though he’s not even close to being loud, you still stutter, seeing the tension on the veins on his neck, the way he grips the paper, trying not to crumble it entirely.

‘I-I took them myself, of course. Timer. I set it up. Just me. I swear.’

At that, his whole body relaxes. He might even flash a little relieved smile.

Then.

‘Get your ass on the bed.’

At first, he’s cold. No kisses, no nothing. He trips you naked, and studies the polaroids while playing with your body in real time.

‘Spread your legs. No, wider.’

And when he thinks it’s good enough (like he actually gave a fuck about how accurate it is), he grabs his phone and starts taking his own shots.

No warning. No direction, only

‘You want to give me photos? Fine. Give me new ones. Better ones. Real ones.’

‘You think your little solo pics could compare to this?’

‘You’ll look even better when I’ve filled you up.’

SUNOO

You slide it over while you two are cuddling on the honeymoon bed. You’re in a fluffy robe, bare legs over his lap, and he’s scrolling his phone when you whisper

‘I made you something. Open it after I shower, okay?’

Sunoo nods softly, excited but also curious about what could you have come up with.

But baby.

The moment he opens that envelope?

He lets out a scream.

Like a literal, hand-over-mouth, spine-curved squeal.

Because inside of that, it’s you, in a strappy white set, veil slightly off your hair, pink gloss on your lips, sucking your fingers while side-eyeing the camera like a whole whorehouse with a coquette dresscode.

One where your legs are closed on top of each other, but with your palm inside of them, obviously teasing your clit (he can just tell by looking at your face on it).

But the worst for him? Probably the one where you’re pressing your shiny little cunt down on his pillow.

‘You’re evil.’

‘How dare you be this sexy.’

‘You’re not fucking real. What kind of slutty wife does this?’ While he’s already palming his cock.

When you go over to him, giggling, saying it’s not that big of a deal, he just pushes you down on the bed.

‘No. You don’t get to act all casual after doing this to me, baby.’

After that, it’s a mess of giggles and recreating the ones he liked the most. Calls you “my beautiful wife”, “my good little girl”, and “my pretty slut” in the same ten minutes.

Sticks one of the Polaroids to the headboard like a shrine while he eats you out.

‘Just to see how much messier you can get when it’s me who makes you cum.’

JUNGWON

You hand Jungwon the envelope while you’re still glowing from the wedding night — robe slipping down your shoulders, bare thighs brushing his under the covers.

‘I made something for you’

He tilts his head to the side, like a confused little cat.

‘What’s in it?’

‘You’ll see’ Kissing his cheek. Then you stand in front of him, wanting the full, unfiltered first reaction you’ve been itching for.

Jungwon opens it.

Then he goes feral.

Cause every picture looks like you’ve carved the blurry image of them right out of the depths of his mind (which you might have, by how deeply you know and understand him).

Of course, you know he’s a tit-addict. And the photos feed right into that obsession.

You pushing your tits into the camera, covered by the prettiest white bras he’d ever seen. Gripping them, caressing them. With your bra off, looking into the camera with the deadliest doe eyes, licking off frosting (from God knows where) from your fingers, then circle around your nipple with the same one.

One picture of you rubbing your clit and wetting your sweet pussy, followed by smearing your own slick (then cum) all over your chest.

His mouth parts. He stares at them one by one, then flips through again. Ears red. So hard it’s painful.

‘Do you like them?’ You ask with a smile.

In a second, you’re under him, while he’s practically feasting off your boobs, rubbing your cunt with his hand, muttering shit like

‘Were you thinking about me while you did this?’

‘You want new ones? Want me to take them while I fuck these perfect tits?’

And he does.

Set up his phone on video mode while you’re straddling his lap, tits bouncing as he thrusts up into you.

Perfection.

RIKI

You hand Riki the envelope during the car ride back from the ceremony. He’s in the passenger seat. You’re still glowing and giggling, playing with your ring.

‘Open this at the hotel.’ And Riki just shrugs like whatever, tucks it into his jacket.

Later that night, you’re changing into something special in the bathroom, when he remembers he has it and opens it, not expecting to be flashed.

You in a white thong, back arched, pearls laying down your spine, heels still on. His favorite position, his favorite curve. Literally framed like art. It starts off like this?!

The second one might be even better though.

You bent over, panties pulled halfway down your thighs, ass cheek lifted so you can get your fingers underneath. Flash lighting up your thighs, gloss on your lips, veil around your shoulders. Looking like a fucking Goddess.

Polaroids from that position, with your finger teasing both holes, with toys rubbing over them, pearls on your spine, all pretty for him.

There’s one photo, which is…different than the rest.

No face, no pearls, no lingerine, no veil.

Just you, on your belly, knees spread, panties off, and your hands reaching back to pull your cheeks apart. The flash puts a delicious focus of the curve of your spine, ending in the most intimate, shameless shot of your tightest hole on full display — puckered, pink, just a little shiny.

Like you’d already played with it.

Like you prepared it just for him.

In that perfect little black polaroid border, you scribbled in sharp letters

“Next time, it’s yours<3”

Riki doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even move for a solid ten seconds.

Just stares. Blinks once. Closes the envelope. And then knocks on the bathroom door.

‘Babe. Come out.’

You peek out in a silk robe, small nightgown under, and his gaze goes straight down.

‘Hands on the bed. Just like that photo.’

He drops his pants, and gets behind you. Grabs your hips with so much harshness like he’s mad. Then pauses — cause you have the nerve to giggle.

‘You liked them?’

‘Stop talking.’

Then he spits on your back and watches as it slides down in between your cheeks. Your hole, it’s still open for him. Those damn pictures were freshly taken, with this exact purpose. To get him to fill you there.

So he pushes in. No more prep, no more teasing, just raw pleasure.

‘Gonna stretch it for me properly, baby’

‘You made it look so pretty… wanna see it twitch when I cum inside.’

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where some new villain made a truth serum formula and captures Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin. This villain somehow knows they’ve all been Robin at one point and decides to use the truth serum to try and drive a wedge between them all so that they stop working together. He starts with Robin, asking him who he thinks was the best Robin (Nightwing), who he thinks is the worst (Red Robin) and why he thinks that (Red Robin is annoying and arrogant). He does the same with Red Robin and Red Hood and gets varying answers that, while somewhat mean, are not enough to break the dynamic between them. Then he gets to Nightwing, who claims (truthfully) that he doesn’t have a favorite or least favorite Robin. The villain is displeased with this so they start to come up different questions to try and start an argument between the boys.

Eventually the villain asks “Which Robin is closest to the original? Closest to your Robin? Which one reminds you the most of yourself?”. Dick tries to fight the serum for a while, before finally biting out “The fourth one.” They all turn to look at Damian, and the villain scrunches up his brows, asking “Him? Really?” It was somewhat of a rhetorical question but Dick is forced to answer anyways. “No, not him. He’s the fifth Robin.” It takes a second before it clicks into place. “The girl Robin? Seriously?? I heard she didn’t even last a week!” Before anything else can be said, Batman busts into the villain’s lair and manages to take him down.

When they get back to the cave, the boys try to question Dick about it, slightly offended by the fact that he considered Stephanie’s Robin to be the most accurate to his. Dick, however, manages to evade them until the serum wears off. Dick himself isn’t quite sure how he can explain it to them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he’s proud of all the work they’ve done as Robin, he never shared their reasoning for becoming Robin. He’s not sure how to point out the fact that the main reason they got into the vigilante game was for Bruce, not for themselves. He’s not sure how to explain that Robin might’ve been given to them for them to find light and happiness in, but that initially Robin was born from his darkness.

He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce told him about Steph, about Spoiler, about how she designed her own suit and went out to stop the man she has a vendetta against, he was so violently reminded of himself that he hung up immediately and didn’t speak to anyone for two days. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Bruce came calling a little while later, telling him about Steph being in-over her head, about him firing her, about her going off on her own only to end up tortured and dead, it was like staring in a mirror of his own relationship with Bruce, and that he’d punched Bruce so hard he’d nearly broken a finger. He’s not sure how to tell them about the quiet nights he stayed up talking with Steph, when Bruce was lost in time and it was just her, Damian, and Alfred around. He’s not sure how to tell them about how when Steph had told him about her relationship with Dean, he’d been reminded of his relationship with Liu so much he’d nearly thrown up. He’s not sure how to tell them that when Dick had opened up about his guilt about what happened in Blüd, Steph hadn’t given him any false placations, and talked about the guilt she felt over her role in the gang wars instead.

He’s not sure how to tell them that while all of them have felt like failures to Bruce, none of them had felt the harsh sting of Bruce ripping Robin away from them, the pain of Bruce telling them how incompetent and unworthy they were as Bruce fires them. He’s not sure how to tell them that while he may their older brother, he was only ever Bruce’s ward. Bruce never adopted him, and despite how far they’ve all come to work as a family, Dick still feels like an outsider sometimes. He knows Steph gets it. She feels like an outsider too.

[angrythingstarlight]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DLOmnEaOvVt/?igsh=cmtsZWFrODlqZ2Q2 this is mafia!bucky and his son 😆😆

IF Bucky and Mal has a baby boy, half of their conversations would go like this.

Bucky reaches for his son, gently encouraging him to stand up. "Cmon. We have to go, the girls are waiting for us."

Baby Barnes ignores him and keeps on playing with his new toy, a colorful action figure given to him by Bee.

Bucky sighs. Drops his shoulders. Stares at the ceiling. And wonders where his son got his stubbornness from. Couldn't have been from him.

He would continue this standoff but you're downstairs, waiting to start movie night. "Malyshka said let's go."

That's all the baby needed to hear.

"My Misha!" his son beams, immediately pushing to his feet, legs wobbling.

Bucky's gaze sharpens as he takes his little hand. "Our Malyshka."

He swears his son returns his glare. "My Misha."

The argument continues during the walk to the living room and gets more intense when Bucky tries to kiss you, only to have your son shove his hands between your faces.

Bucky has to admit defeat when his son breaks out the bottom lip. Even Bucky doesn't have a defense against that and the baby knows it.

Fine. At least he has his sweet Bee.

Bucky grins down at her, arms opening. "You can sit next to me, Bumblebee."

She starts to skip over when a little voice rings out. "My BeeBee"

And just like that she changes course with a "sorry Papa, be rights back" and runs to her brother.

You carefully hid your grin when Bucky takes the seat on your other side and slumps down with his head on your shoulder. Bucky glances up at you, baleful blue eyes on your face. "You're all traitors."

"You love us."

Bucky flashes a grin, the same one plastered on the two mini mes beside you. "Damn right I do."

[sunsetcupid]

EYES OFF! ; F1 GRID.

synopsis: When you are catcalled on the street, it is only natural that your boyfriend reacts a certain way, be it possessive or enraged.

trigger warnings: Use of feminine pronouns from the reader’s perspective; Descriptions of romantic acts and behaviors; Suggestive remarks; Descriptions of cat-calling; Mentions of physical altercations

a message from the author: Once again, I added Daniel Ricciardo to this fic. I think I’ll be doing that for the rest of the stories in this series. If any of you would like to add a driver or request a certain scenario, don’t hesitate to message me in my inbox!

ISACK HADJAR

He can’t believe his ears – he can’t begin to fathom why someone would make such a vile comment, especially to his girlfriend, the sweetest, most loving person he knows. It physically repulses him, and for a moment, you think he might vomit all over the sidewalk.

Likewise, as soon as he hears the leering statement, he freezes in place. Head cocked to one side, fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. You have to practically drag him away, telling him that “It’s not worth it” because the boxer in him is just itching for a fight.

“No one should be saying those things. Not to you, not to anyone. They need to learn a lesson, and I’ll fucking teach them.” He repeats it as if it were his personal mantra, over and over.

For the rest of the day, he’s sulking. An invisible rain cloud is hovering over his head, but it doesn’t stop him from being extremely clingy. If you dare move out of his eyesight for a second (to get a snack or to put your phone on charge), he immediately panics and can’t stop kissing you afterward.

OSCAR PIASTRI

Oscar is not a confrontational guy at all. His version of arguments are stony silences, unanswered texts, and the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, he rather enjoys keeping a level head and remaining calm. But when a guy walking down the street wolf-whistles at you and cracks some lewd joke about wanting to explore the curves of your body, Oscar wants to tear him apart.

He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to regulate his rapidly pounding heart rate before it explodes out of his chest. He might consider walking away, but when he sees your panic-stricken expression, it’s game over.

Oscar stalks over to them, his voice low and gravelly as he makes the catcaller regret his existence with a few well-chosen words. He’s more forceful, more direct than you’ve ever heard or seen him be, and it turns you on. 

LANCE STROLL

His head whips to look at the culprit, his eyes widening in astonishment. For a moment, he thinks he’s imagined it, but the leering smirk on the offender’s face dashes his hopes. “What did you just say to my girlfriend?” Lance’s voice is eerily calm, not a hint of his inner rage visible on the surface.

The only way you can identify how he truly feels is the vein pulsing on his neck, and the fact that he’s gone rigid, like a tree trunk. You have to place a hand on his arm to get his body to relax.

As a result of the incident, Lance becomes more vigilant, walking in front of you at all times and blocking your body with his – a very attractive shield. He even offers to get you a personal bodyguard, but you adamantly refuse.

LANDO NORRIS

His face flushes with anger, eyes turning into flinty shards. He’s so pissed off that someone would dare to tease you, especially in such a creepy manner.

You have to whisper-hiss at him to not get into an altercation with the person who catcalled you. He’s like an overgrown puppy, growling at the person and trying to tug himself free of your grip in order to go fight the other person. “I don’t give a fuck about race penalties. He’s a fucking bastard!” 

Once he’s regained some composure, he posts a lengthy paragraph on social media, denouncing misogynistic behaviors and urging everyone to make donations to women’s empowerment groups. “We love to believe that the world today is modern and equal, but it can never truly become inclusive if these events are still commonplace.”

CHARLES LECLERC

He curses in French, letting loose a dictionary’s worth of swear words you didn’t even know existed. That’s his clash with the perpetrator. On track? He’s ready to fight. But in person? He’s less eager to do so.

In lieu of this, he wraps you up in his sweater, taking your hand in his and comforting you with his closeness. “I’m here for you, mon ange. And I’ll always protect you.”

He’s big on physical touch after – kissing your cheeks and cuddling, enveloping you with his body like he can shield you from every harsh remark people make. Perhaps he can. He’s just that magical.

DANIEL RICCIARDO

He’s absolutely incensed. The happy-go-lucky facade disappears in a snap, replaced by cold fury. He slings one arm around your shoulder, laughing menacingly. “Hey, mate! Eyes off my girl, and fuck off.”

Daniel would 100% get into a brawl with someone who insults his girlfriend, not because he is a violent guy, but because he wants to properly defend the love of his life. 

He could be bleeding and bruised for weeks after, yet he will forever be proud of his capability to defend his girlfriend.

Later, he tries to make light of the situation by making jokes. Ultimately, however, all he wants is to take you in his arms and never let you go. You’re everything he could ever want, and he hates that other people have the power to hurt you.

Credits: Dividers — @strangergraphics

[solarpunk-d]

In anti-choice art, the aborted baby gets a straight shot to Heaven, aka a land of eternal joy and peace. Yet if the baby had been carried to term and born, there’s a chance that baby might have, after passing the age of accountability, fallen away from the one true path, the straight and narrow, and wound up in Hell, aka a land of eternal pain and suffering. This is something likely to happen to a baby born to a sinful harlot or raised by an overburdened foster care system.

So by that logic, the Christian Right should celebrate people who get and carry out abortions. By aborting their unborn child, the pregnant person is risking their eternal soul to save their child from the fires of Hell.

In fact, given their belief that no sin however great is so great as to permanently separate you from God, so long as you pray and ask forgiveness for it, by their logic, a person can undergo an abortion, ask for forgiveness immediately afterwards, and be completely free and in the clear. Both parent and child can be reunited and enjoy Heaven together.

In fact, the medical personnel involved with the abortion could perform the procedure, then immediately ask for forgiveness afterwards and wind up in the clear as well.

Everybody wins!

Of course, you try to make any of these arguments with anti-choice Christians, they get really mad really quick, but that’s to be expected. The incoherence of their theology is a feature, not a bug. The whole point behind their ideology is a desire to make women they deem deserving suffer; anything else they use to argue their position is simply a tactic to try to advance their goals. You talk to any anti-choicers and it doesn’t take long for any high-minded concerns about the sanctity of life to degenerate into, “The filthy sluts must be punished!”

This can be seen in the large numbers of women on the Christian Right who, themselves, have had abortions. Because it’s different for them, y’see. They’re just the unfortunate victim of circumstance, a poor gal who made a mistake, not one of those whores who deserve to suffer. 🙄

the weirdly vengeful and petty tones aborted babies take in pro-life propaganda images are so funny like this passive aggressive "was it worth it mommy?" and "it's a shame you can't join me in heaven mommy 😔" like do you ever wonder if you were aborted for a reason you little bitch ass baby

[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.

[writeslikeanaria]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

chapter two — mr castillo

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

synopsis — during your two week break, harry takes you out shopping, forcing you to get new clothes, and just insisting on getting them for you. additionally, harry sorts out some of his own business. sugar daddy!harry AU

word count — 6k

warning tags — 18+ for eventual smut, some misogynistic dialogue, reader is described as feminine, kinda perv!harry but not really, references to cum and masturbation, references to vomiting

series masterlist | read on ao3

previous chapter | next chapter

The sun had set hours ago, allowing the moonlight to seep through the cracks within the dusky curtains, illuminating Harry’s office with a dim aura. The rest of his employees had dissipated out of his office, leaving just Harry, hunched over his desk, pouring over his work.

A looming headache had erupted against his forehead, continuing to bloom in pain, refusing to disappear, even after he had thrown back painkillers like it was nothing but water. Nothing had worked. His anxiety was through the roof, reaching new levels he hadn’t felt in years.

He felt dirty. He had done something bad and was struggling to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

On his desk, your CV sat, sitting on top of other paperwork, seemingly more important paperwork. However, he couldn’t bring himself to actually fill in any of the contracts, spaces blank as his mind remained distracted on you. 

Job no. 12. It had been a while since he had had a bright, young girl enter his office, shining smiles as they queried about his most elusive position within the company. A role completely paid for by himself, that was solely talked about in his office. Outside of the two floors that belonged to him and his crew, no one was allowed to discuss job no. 12.

It wasn’t regular to keep a girlfriend on the payroll, but desperate times had come to desperate decisions.

Last “relationship” had disintegrated quickly. Too many demands, too many maxed out credit cards, too many arguments that just left Harry feeling worse about himself than before. This job was supposed to take a weight off his back, to keep his parent’s eyes and nose out of his personal business. With a beautiful lady clutched onto his arm, able to be shown off at important events, and to be brought to every family dinner, he felt stronger, more secure. He could almost feel normal, like his brother, able to date successfully, and give his heart over to a woman of his choosing.

Except he messed up.

Harry continues to stare at your CV, his eyes gliding carefully over your name, memorising every letter. He had re-read this singular piece of paper more times than he could count, feeling himself connect with this condensed version of you. His head spun. Were you actually like these seven hundred words in front of him? He desperately tried to analyse your personality through your written tone, but it was no use.

He wished he had just talked to you when you were here, instead of immediately handing over a job, and a bonus. There hadn’t even been a proper interview process. He just looked into the eyes of the woman sitting before him and crumbled. 

Maybe it was just pity. Maybe it was something more, but he had a desire to keep you by his side.

A sharp knock at his door knocks Harry out of his reverie, his eyes flicking up to his doorway. He thought that everyone else was done for the day, leaving him as the last remaining employee on the floor. However, he must’ve been mistaken. Shoving your CV underneath some important contract that he really should just fill out, he coughs, clearing his throat. “Come in!”

A shrewd figure cracks open the door and emerges out from the doorway. Sanders’ mousy head appears through the crack, followed by his scarlet face. He looked out of breath, his eyes bloodshot from stress. Harry’s head fell into his hand, a sigh escaping his lips as he took in Sander’s evidently stressed exterior. 

Sanders’ voice escaped his lips in a squeak. “Are you busy, Mr Castillo, sir?”

“Not anymore,” Harry’s finger beckons Sander’s into his office, inviting his poor assistant into the unorganised chaos that encases him and his work. “Please, come inside. Is there anything you need from me?”

Sanders wasn’t a bad assistant, per se, but he certainly wasn’t up to Harry’s standard. He constantly rushed his work and looked as though he was about to cry whenever anyone pointed out a mistake. To Harry, it felt like walking on eggshells just to get anything done properly. He needed to break the news soon and without completely stressing out the poor man, whose blood pressure was surely already through the roof.

Harry needed to break the news to Sanders that he had hired a new assistant. It was an accident, not trying to fill Sanders' position with a new hire, however, something happened. 

He had looked into your eyes, eyes so desperate for a job, and created a new position for you on the spot. Sanders was replaceable anyway.

“You wanted to talk with me today?” Sander’s voice was too small–it freaked Harry out, “You never fetched me, so I waited unti–”

“You’ve been just waiting for me to call you in?” Harry expresses, his hands flailing around in surprise, “You should’ve gone home. It’s late.”

Sanders gulps, searching for something to stay. Yet, he keeps quiet, waiting for Harry to continue. The older man sighs, rubbing his temples, wishing his headache would just ebb away. He did not desire for this conversation to happen tonight, but it had to happen soon. Reaching for his drink beside him–a whiskey that had been mulling in his glass for over an hour–and shooting back the fiery liquid in one gulp, he built up as much courage as he thought he needed.

“Sanders, I’m letting you go.”

The colour from his face disappears in an instance, with a ghostly white sheen spreading across his cheeks. After a pause, his eyes begin to water, tears threatening down his cheeks. He rushes to Harry’s desk, crouching at Harry’s side. There’s something pathetic in the way he begs that makes Harry scrunch his nose up. Displeased, he attempts to push the ex-assistant away from his desk.

“Please, sir, whatever I’ve done, let me apologise.” Sanders’ words come out in a word vomit, piling into Harry’s ears. The grovelling affects Harry too much, forcing him to turn his body away, unable to make eye contact. “If I’ve done something wrong, let me fix it–”

“There’s nothing that could change my mind.” Harry’s voice was clipped, not allowing himself to feel any emotion, certainly not towards Sanders. “You’ve been underwhelming in your work performance for months now. Forgetting items, running late, always never neat and tidy. It lets the company down, and you are constantly letting me down. I’m not changing my mind.” He ponders his next words for a second, before they slip from out of his lips. “Besides, I’ve already hired someone new.”

Sanders mulls this over, suspiciously quiet. His hands shake at his side, a fact not unknown to Harry, who watches Harry like a hawk, anticipating an explosion of emotion. However, Sanders stays calm, until he finally brings himself to speak again.

“It was that girl who came in the other day.” Sanders sneers, his voice laced with venom, completely void of any warmth. Any expression of fear has been wiped from his face. “I thought she was supposed to be the hired whore you keep around–”

“Out!” Harry points at the door, unable to find the courage to continue this conversation. However, Sanders continues with his hurt words.

“–but oh no! She’s taken my job. Does she even have any experience? Did you just get sick of staring at me all day and needed someone to lust over–”

“I said, out!” Harry feels the fury build inside of him.

“–some stupid girl, who’s just going to make this worse for you. She came in to be your fake girlfriend, why is she stealing my job–”

Harry’s fist encloses around his phone, dialing the number to the front desk, and barking “Security!” through the phone speakers, before directing his attention back towards Sanders. “You have been incompetent and your standards have slipped. I no longer have the need for you anymore. That is all.” Harry frowns deeply. “And that is no way to talk about women. If I knew you were such a misogynist, I would’ve thrown you to the curb months ago.”

Just as Harry’s words had left his mouth, two tall security guards burst through his door, taking in the scene in front of them. Immediately, they zone into the anger filled Sanders, looping their hands around his arms and dragging him away from Harry’s office.

Desperately attempting to zone out any words coming from Sanders, Harry turns his attention back to his paperwork. Yet, anger still pulses through his blood. He’s boiling over. 

He thinks of you at this moment. Your soft face, your kind voice. You appeared so organised and ready, such a stark contrast from Sanders. It didn’t matter that you weren’t fully aware of what you had signed up for. You were going to be the perfect personal assistant, and he hoped in time, you were going to be the perfect girlfriend for hire.

––––––

The weekend couldn’t come fast enough. 

After nearly a week of being out of a job, you have realised that you were not made for a life of spontaneity and freedom. You had anxiously paced your apartment all week, drilling holes into the floor with your furious footwork, pain-stakening performing every and any household chore you could think of.

Currently, you were practicing your new hobby of choice for the day, which involved deep cleaning every inch of your kitchen. With your hands furiously scrubbing the linoleum behind your fridge, which was caked in a thick layer of grime and what you hoped wasn’t mold, a buzz at your apartment speaker caught your attention. Begrudgingly, you stand up from your hands and knees, trudging over to the speaker.

Without any caution to politeness, you speak into the microphone, your finger pressing at the stiff button. “Who is it?”

“Hey babe!” Marlene’s voice rings through the speaker, taking you aback. You were confused as to why your ex-coworker was at your door, but lethargy was the dominant force in your head, and you no longer had the energy to care.

You sigh into the microphone. “You wanna come up, Marlene?”

“Well duh,” her voice calls back, her giggling muffled by the static of the speaker, “it’s cold out here. Do you want me to freeze to death?”

Without responding to her cheeky remark, you buzz her up to your apartment, unlocking the door, and heading back into the kitchen. If you were to have company, you should really put the fridge back to where it belongs.

Just as you manage to move the fridge about two inches, your front door bursts open, and Marlene hurries into your warm apartment, peeling off layers of clothing. Her scarf goes first, flinging it to what you suppose was the hook on the wall. Unfortunately, you walk into the living room just as the scarf becomes airborne, allowing the string of fabric to make a safe landing on your head.

“Hey Marlene,” you peel the scarf away from your face, letting your eyes land on Marlene’s sheepish expression, laced with embarrassment, “Having a good day so far?”

Marlene grins, her cheeks pressed tightly to her face. Clasping her hands together, she darts to sit on the couch, inviting you along to join her. Rubbing your eyes to fight off any sleepiness that threatened to seep into your upcoming conversation, you made your way to sit beside Marlene, sinking into the comfort of your couch.

“I’ve been missing you at work.” Marlene says quietly. That doesn’t surprise you. Other than Marlene, you weren’t that friendly with your other coworkers, always keeping your distance to not overstep. You were quiet, not antisocial, but you struggled to converse with those around you, opting to keep conversation with Marlene instead. Similar age group, same gender, it was just simply easier to have Marlene as your only friend, never having the energy to start a friendship with your male coworkers. You assumed it was the same with Marlene. While she was most certainly more sociable than you, she too kept her distance. It was very rare to see her sharing words with other coworkers, outside of work conversations. You frowned at Marlene’s words, feeling a hit of guilt for leaving her alone, something that Marlene noticed.

“No, no, no, don't feel bad,” Marlene wraps her arms around you, pulling you tightly into a firm side hug, resting her head against your shoulder. “I don’t fault you for leaving. I’ve been thinking of doing the same, y’know? Maybe you’ve become a trendsetter.”

You laugh at Marlene’s words, your body heating up at her friendliness. “You shouldn’t leave just because I did. You’ll end up in the same position as me–jobless.”

Marlene furrows her brows at your statement, her head tilting downwards as she considers what you said. After a moment’s pause, she looks back at you. “So I’m assuming that the job I referred you for didn’t end up going anywhere?”

You pause. Oh, right. “Nevermind. Not jobless.”

A gasp leaves Marlene’s lips as her face lights up in excitement. Her hands leave your body as she repositions herself in front of you, staring you dead into her eyes. Her eyes have an incredulous expression, unable to fully believe you.

“You never told me you got the job!” Marlene shrieks, clasping her hands together in a string of sharp claps. “Have you started yet? I’m assuming not, looking at–” she gestures to the mess of your apartment, and the bucket of dirty, soapy water, perched upon your bench, “–all this.”

You smile, your next words spoken calmly. “I start next week. I have a couple things I need to do before I start—like buy new clothes apparently—”

“Well, naturally,” Marlene says, flipping her hair behind her shoulder smoothly, “I assume he gave you money for clothes?”

You pause, unable to answer. It was a strange thing for her to say, something she shouldn’t have known. You glare at your friend for a moment, confusion in your eyes. 

You are unable to respond to Marlene, as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking you out of your conversation. Quietly, you slip your hand into the fabric and pull out the vibrating brick. Flashing across the screen is HARRY CASTILLO BOSS, a sight you have yet to see. 

Anxiously, you raise your pointer finger to your lips, forcing Marlene to stay silent. She looks at you with wonder in her eyes, unsettled by your irrational behaviour. Hissing at your friend, you take yourself into a different room, not wanting to be overheard.

Carefully, you press the ‘accept’ button on the screen, pushing the cool phone against your hot ear. Taking in a deep breath, you hiss out a small word of acknowledgment. “Good afternoon, Mr Castillo. How can I help you?”

On the other end of the phone, you can make out the sound of someone laughing, a fact that makes you slightly uncomfortable. You gulp, waiting for a reply which, in your opinion, is taking too long. Through the phone speaker, you impatiently wait for Harry to begin speaking.

At last, he replies. “Please, Mr Castillo is my father. I want you to call me Harry—we are coworkers and we work together. Try not to think of me as someone above you.”

You cock an eyebrow at Harry’s word, unable to process his strange command. “But, sir, you are above me. You are my boss. It’s a sign of respect to call you Mr Castillo,” you purse your lips together, “Mr Castillo.” You pace around the room, keeping your body busy.

Another laugh seeps through your phone speaker. “Not so obedient now, are we? Careful there, I might have to get rid of you before you’ve even started.” Harry says it with a tone of amusement, yet the colour drains from your face, unable to distinguish his humorous jab from the actual threat of termination.

“No, no, no, wait—” your voice escaped your lips in a frantic prayer, desperately looking for a moment’s pause to express your apologies. “I’m so sorry, Mr Cast- Harry. There’s no need to get rid of me.” You inhale a sharp breath, bringing your thumbnail up to your lips, and biting down. “You’re the boss, I’ll call you whatever you want. Mr Castillo, Harry, hell- I’d even call you da—”

You cut off your ranting. Too far. 

Harry didn’t seem to notice, his laughter continuous and stretched over the phone. At least someone was finding this exchange funny. You frown at his amusement. What a strange man. 

Eventually, Harry speaks again, breaking his streak of chuckles. “I must apologise.” He speaks your name delicately, as if it were poetry. “I didn’t mean to cause any panic. Please, call me whatever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable. Mr Castillo is entirely acceptable, I’m sorry for my teasing.”

His end of the phone goes quiet as you patiently wait for his next sentence. You can tell that he’s searching for the next words to say. 

Harry’s next words take you by surprise, his tone flipping back to his professional voice. “Have you prepared yourself for work next week?”

You blink twice. “Yes, Mr Castillo. Well, I believe I have.” You begin your ramble about your previous day’s adventure. “I had a call with the IT department yesterday, and I have been added to the company’s system. I, also, have been granted access to your calendar. Everything should be smooth sailing from Monday forward.”

Harry hums on the other end of the phone, his deep timbre sending goosebumps up your spine. After a short cough, he speaks. “Did you find time to get yourself some new clothes?”

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. You had forgotten that important task, the one thousand dollar cheque still sitting on your cabinet, waiting to be cashed at the bank. It was haunting you, dread filling you every time you thought about the sheer amount of money Harry had dropped on you after five minutes of knowing you.

You gulped. “I haven’t had time, yet.”

You hear a disappointed sigh on the other side. Before you can present another excuse to Harry, he beats you to it, speaking first. “You haven’t had time?”

Cringing, you shake your head, despite knowing that Harry can’t see you at this moment. “I’m sorry, Mr Castillo, it just hasn’t been a priority to me.”

“Well, it’s a priority to me.” You hear commotion over the speaker, which sounds like movement. On the other end of the phone, Harry checks his calendar for tomorrow’s schedule, frowning as he looks at the basically filled out day.

Sighing, he mutters a couple short words to himself, beforing speaking up to talk to you. “I have an hour break over lunch tomorrow. I will send a limousine to pick you up from your apartment. There’s a nearby boutique that I’m friendly with. I may be short on time but I believe I should be available to help pick out some work appropriate attire.” He pauses. “I’m assuming you’re available?”

“No prior plans for me.”

“Well, naturally.” He chuckles over the phone. Rude. “Right, send me your address and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The phone clicks off without any goodbyes. Turning around, you notice Marlene lurking at the door frame, eavesdropping on your conversation. Smiling innocently, she bats her eyelashes at you, like she had done nothing wrong.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You scowl at her. “You already know what that phone call was about.”

Marlene giggles. “Have fun shopping!”

––––––

As the limousine pulls up to the boutique, an overwhelming sense of dread is thrusted upon you. Anxiously, your eyes flick over your surroundings, searching for something, anything, to ground yourself in this moment. The boutique reminds you of Harry’s workplace immensely. They both share similar architecture, with beautifully tall windows, inviting wandering eyes indoors. Displayed on the other side of the panes are mannequins, dressed in the most high quality outfits you had ever laid your eyes on.

You are unsure of Harry’s expectations of you at this moment. Without a sense of determination, you wander through the large doors, letting your eyes trail over racks and racks of clothes, shoes, and accessories. 

Naturally, you let yourself be drawn to one mannequin in particular. Her wig is pulled back, dark hair thrown in a messy, but slick bun. It’s stylish, but also casual, in a way you could never replicate. The mannequin’s form was dressed in a simple blouse, with the pearlescent white silk reflecting off the bright store lights, and a dark, sexy pencil skirt. It was so unimaginably tight at the hips that you wondered how the poor sales assistant must’ve put the skirt on. Clutched onto the mannequin’s arm was a bold handbag, with a price tag that made you uncomfortable to just be in the presence of.

You reach up to the silk blouse, feeling the softness of the material between the rough pads of your fingers. It was soft, and you were positive that it was the most comfortable feeling blouse you had ever come across. You were so enchanted by the feeling, that you didn’t notice the sales assistant standing behind you.

“Can I help you, dear?” You spin around, eyes locking with the tall lady behind you. She reminds you immensely of the ladies in Harry’s office, polished and perfect, that could trade their office lifestyle for a modelling career anyday. You blush under her gaze, as a realisation runs through your head. Had Harry taken the other office ladies shopping as well?

You imagine Harry, hand in hand with Liza, pulling out the tightest outfits he could find, forcing her to dress how he pleases, just like a real-life Barbie doll. You imagine the way she would preen at Harry, offering a sickly giggle at one of his poor jokes, her sweetly manicured hand pressed against his firm chest, that little portion of touch and intimacy sending sparks between the two of them. You cringe at your imagination.

However, the sales assistant’s steady gaze pulls you out of whatever daydream was being forced upon you. She’s studying you, looking at you like you are one of her mannequins, ready to be made up, dressed, and presented to the world. 

“I’m just waiting–”

“For Mr Castillo, yes.” The sales assistant smiles, taking your arm in her hand, and pulling you to the back of the store. As you walk through the rest of the boutique, you can’t help but gape at the sheer amount of designer clothes that decorate the walls. The sales assistant follows your gaze and smiles. “Is anything taking your fancy?”

Before you can reply, you notice a figure appear from a separate door. Harry emerges into the room, his phone pressed against his shoulder and his ear, a fury of words slipping from his lips in an effortless rant. His eyes press together, stress radiating from his body. His shoulders are currently holding an egregious amount of tension, visible from where you stand. However, as you enter his eyeline, his body softens in an instant, a small smile spreading onto his lips.

You can hear a small, “I’ll call you back,” before Harry removes the phone from his ear, shoving it far away in his back pocket. His body opens up, no longer tense, but welcoming to his surroundings. To you. You can’t help but feel special. 

Harry speaks your name softly. “It’s good to see you.” His hands clasped in front of himself with excitement. “I was severely concerned when you had informed me you had yet to buy yourself a new wardrobe for your new job. I’m surprised this wasn’t easier for you–how could you not be ready to reinvent your wardrobe?”

You turn away, desperate to hide the scarlet flush rising onto your cheeks. “I apologise, Mr Castillo,” you take notice at the way Harry rolls his eyes at your formality, “I had been busy, preparing for my new job in other ways–”

Harry dismisses your words, appearing to only be taking in half of what you were saying. “I told you that you needed new clothes.” His eyes scan your current choice of outfit–bleach wash jeans and a cotton shirt that was beginning to pill at the edges. “Appearances are very important in my office. You are to work close by me, which means I expect you to be presentable at every moment of the day. Understood?”

Nodding, you return his eye contact, offering a shy tilt of your head in an understanding gesture. “I understand, Mr Castillo. I will put appearances first over my work. I am allowed to slack in my productivity and efficiently, but god forbid I wear socks with sandals.”

Your attempt at a joke was met with laughter–thank god. Harry chuckles, heading towards the fitting rooms. Proud of how well your joke was taken, you hold your head up high, following Harry to the draped curtains. The fitting room area was comforting, with a soft couch, smothered in cushions, looking out at the rooms. Harry sits himself right in the centre, finds himself a nearby table, and places his phone away from his person. “Where would you like to start?”

Awkwardly, you stare at the sales assistant for some assistance. In all honesty, who have no idea where to start. Luckily, the sales assistant recognises your hesitation, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. She smiles. “I saw you interested in the mannequins near the front of the store. Should we start there?”

Dry mouthed, you nod, struggling to formulate words through your anxiety. As the sales assistant walks away, it leaves just Harry and you, alone together. You bite your lip, taking in the way Harry watches you, like he’s studying a work of art.

You speak up first. “I’ve never been here before.”

Harry nods, affirmatively. “I figured.” He looks around, his eyes trailing the sales assistant, watching to see when she is coming back. You both look on in slight amusement as the sales assistant attempts to take the blouse of the mannequin, unfortunately, in a less than graceful manner. “I would’ve taken you somewhere more,” he struggles to find the word, “high-end, however I didn’t want to stress you out anymore than you already sounded on the phone.”

You let out an unknown sound. “Mr Castillo, I say this earnestly, but this is genuinely the most high-end clothing boutique I’ve ever been to.”

You don’t miss Harry’s smirk. After a moment’s pause, you hear him speak once again.  “I know. I’m enjoying this.”

Biting your tongue, you fight the urge to argue with Harry as the sales assistant appears once again, clothes draped over her arms and shoulders. She had taken off the blouse you were admiring, emerging with the white colour, with the additional black and mauve shade as well. On her other arm, the matching pencil skirt lounges, the velvet texture appearing divine against the lights.

You squeal. With the invitation from the sales assistant, you take the clothes off her body, and make your way into the fitting rooms. Hurriedly, you throw off your current shirt, allowing it to fall somewhere. You feel like a kid in a candy shop, not worried if any dirt or dust bunnies rubbed against your personal cotton shirt.

As you pushed your arms through the holes, you nearly moaned at how good the shirt felt. It was softer than you had ever imagined, leaving you rosin feeling healthy, a stark contrast to the itchiness you are used to. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you gawk at how you look. Sophisticated, sexy, and professional. Sure, you had worn “office” clothes at your previous job, but none of those items of clothing made you feel special. Not like how you felt in this blouse.

Putting on the matching pencil skirt, you gasped at how it all worked together. You had never looked so good. The thick material hugged all your curves in the most perfect way, accentuating the femininity of your soft body. For once, you felt comfortable within the clothes you wore, allowing the material to feel like an extension of yourself, rather than just a way to hide yourself from the world.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. “And I found some appropriate heels for work!” The sales assistant calls out to you, pushing a pair of slick, black kitten heels under the curtain. You had never worn something like this before. Slipping on the heels, you push down your discomfort, trying to picture yourself as someone different. What if you were a successful CEO yourself? Would you wear this every day? Would you have your own personal assistant? Would the boutique workers know you by name?

“Are you going to show us, dear?” The sales assistant’s voice interrupts your daydreams. Begrudgingly, you muster up the courage to rip open the curtains, stepping into the limelight.

Your eyes catch Harry’s gaze, drinking in the way he stares at you. With a single hand movement, he commands you to spin, and you do so, unable to fight you submission. You put on a show for your boss, laughing and giggling as you show off the way your body moves in these clothes.

“They fit well.” Harry says, sipping at a drink that he must’ve been offered. You try to ignore the way his eyes trail down to your arse, believing that it must be just a trick off the light. However, his presence doesn’t last long, as he stands up, turning his eyes away from you. 

You try to ignore your disappointment. However, it is short lived, as you watch Harry reappear with a dress clutched within his hands. It’s a flowy teal dress, seemingly floor length, with a soft sweetheart neckline. Almost invisible ruffles border the edge of the dress, adding a layer of texture. It’s utterly gorgeous. 

“In three weeks, I have an event.” Harry begins to monologue. “It’s a gala, and as my personal assistant, you are expected to attend with me. I’m assuming you have no ball gowns yourself, so I have pulled a couple options myself.” His arm points to a rack beside you, and you realise where he got the dress from. Next to your dressing room, someone–you’re assuming both Harry and the sales assistant–had pulled three dresses from the store, all in your size. “I expect there will be more events in the future, so I have picked out a couple dresses that I expect you to wear to these events.”

You sigh, taking in the masterpieces of gowns in front of you. Unfortunately, there's one looming thought creeping your way in the back of your remind. You force out a pressed smile. “Thank you, Mr Castillo, for the options. However, with just normal work clothes, I don't think I can afford all these dresses.”

You don’t miss the way Harry stiffins, like a shockwave rippled through him. He chokes on his own spit, before sputtering out a short response. “I will pay for all of this. Do no worry.”

You step back, aghast. Surely, not everything. “Mr Castillo, don’t be ridiculous. I appreciate your continued generosity, but you have already given me an allowance of one thousand dollars. I don’t expect you to spend even more money on my wardrobe.” With the way Harry’s body reacts, you are beginning to believe he likes the way you talk about his money. How rich he is. 

Harry reaches for his wallet, taking out an elusive black card, and handing it to the sales assistant. You swear you could hear a soft gasp fall from her lips. “Everything goes under this card. Get her every colour in the blouse, and two additional skirts. Plus, the dresses I had picked out.” His eyes trail to your feet. “And those heels. Multiple pairs.”

You wouldn't believe your ears. All these clothes have already added up to well over triple your original allowance, and the idea of making such a dent in Harry’s wallet stresses you out. You whimper gently, unable to find the proper words for the situation.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to use the bathroom.” Harry excuses himself, walking back through the door he originally appeared through.

In a daze, you follow the sales assistant up to the counter, helping her out with the mountain of clothes that were now yours. At the till, you purposely stare away from her screen, refusing to look at the ever growing numbers, closing your eyes, and taking in the continuous sound of beeps sounding out from her scanner. 

Luckily, she notices your uncomfortable posture, and does not read out the total, electing to just simply swipe the card, and bag up the items. She does it like it's an art, folding each item as if it could break at any moment, and wrapping the individual item in tissue paper. It didn’t matter to you, however, you appreciate the extra level of luxury. It isn’t every day you receive new clothes.

Eventually, Harry reappears, heading straight to the counter. Effortlessly, he takes an ink pen from his shoulder pocket, and removes the cap with his teeth, scribbling a signature on the receipt sitting on the counter.

Harry turns to you with a smile on your face. “Happy?”

You aren’t sure that’s the correct word. “Overwhelmed.”

Harry hums in agreement, but doesn’t press further. Reaching his hand out, he invites you to take his hand in a shake. You oblige. It feels strange but you don’t press it any further. Harry continues. “I will see you Monday morning. I hope to see that you have prepared for your first day correctly.” He softly says your name. “Goodbye, for now.”

You watch as Harry exits out the main doors, studying the way he leaves. It hasn’t quite hit you yet that he has been a ghastly amount of money on your wardrobe. However, a sick feeling creeps up on you.

In an instant, you feel sick, overwhelmed with the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t just dread though–you actually felt like you were going to throw up.

The sales assistant seemed to recognise it immediately, pointing to the doors behind you. With a thanks on your lips, you push your way through the swinging doors, and into the nearest unisex bathroom, locking the door and crouching onto the cool tiles.

Luckily, nothing comes out of your throat. After a short period of dry heaving, the sick feeling that rumbled inside of you, dissipates. Potentially, just stepping away from the franticness of the boutique was enough to calm you, but as you settle amongst the tiles, your stomach returns to normal.

Realising your eyes are clenched tight, you open your eyes, taking in the room around you. It’s clean–exactly how you imagined a boutique bathroom. 

Turning your head, a shiny substance catches your eyes, so small you could almost miss it. You don’t even realise what you’re looking at at first. Squinting, you crawl up to the towel bowl, analysing the ceramic. 

There’s something streaky on the side of the bowl. 

You are certain your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. There is a sticky, white substance, still wet, dripping down the side of the toilet bowl. It drips to the tiled floor in an abundance, yet to have dried up fully. You can tell a haphazard attempt to clean it up had occurred, with a certain smudge around the toilet rim, but it wasn’t good enough.

Someone’s cum was dripping down the toilet.

You didn’t want to believe it. You knew who had just been in these bathrooms, the thought making your head spin.

Had Mr Harry Castillo just masturbated in these toilets?

——————

a/n — i need a nap. i wrote this and forgot to post this for a couple days. it’s been a long week. but yay new chapter yippee !!!

tag list – @joeldjarin @moyavsemoya @glitterspark @ro-nahime-things @throttlepascal @umadirectioner @roslynsworld @morganlolitta @isa942572 @ccisneros444 @ilovefictionallmenn @he-is-the-destined @tanyaherondale @wecanbepiratez @thebeautytoyourbeat @fandomunite2107 @tinyleia @lilipads @lumbiiii @jxvipike @nicholedraghoes19 @brinapedroswife @crazysouthernlady @thefalseapp @melsunshine @ultrav10l3nce @reidswifeyyyyyy @zofirellas @terrence1ovesyou @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @thefalseapp @or-was-it-just-a-dream @okyeeaaahhhh @sinarainbows @dotyoureyez @cynic-spirit

[rafeslvbug]

introducing…cia!rafe

back to basics!! (physical)

height: 6”4, intimidating for younger officers. would definitely use it to his advantage though, lift you up while kissing, or to reach things from high shelves. have you on his lap so you can be levelled, lean his arm on your head.

build: 200lbs. veiny and back muscles top priority. would participate in all those pull up/chin up challenges back in training.

age: mid thirties. experienced, lets everyone knows it. when he arrives on base, they only need one look at his face to know he’s superiority. they bend over backwards for him.

looks!! (specific)

scars and war wounds: bullet wound in his lower abdomen, that he got a week before your first year wedding anniversary during an attempt to take down a large cartel. always has bruises on his arms, scratches up them and his back too. bullet skimming his skin on his top left shoulder, and below on his upper arm too.

badge: never takes it off. always dangling round his neck, under his shirt, or tucked into his pocket with his wallet. always prepared to take it out if need be, flashing it when he has to. would honestly shove the badge in your mouth if you spoke too much.

personality

paranoid: rafe is always cautious. when you go shopping, walks in the park, restaurant dates. who knows what spies there could be? and it’s justified– on one occasion there really was someone who tried to take you from him, and rafe didn’t let you out the house without him for three weeks. drove you to work, kept an eye on you, drove you home. closed all the blinds, gave you a course on how to notice the people against him, always watching out the windows.

decisive: makes decisions immediately. they’re not uninformed, he always gets the facts first, then makes his choice. but he doesn’t hesitate– says it’s how you end up getting caught. can’t pick a restaurant? he can do it. can’t figure out which order to do chores in? barking out orders like he’s talking to his officers. luckily, you’re a nurse, you often have to make split second decisions, so he doesn’t have to worry about indecisiveness in dire situations. he doesn’t like people who do that.

firm: no arguments, you might want to argue, but there’s no chance for it. he makes a choice, he sticks by it, you can’t change his mind– for better or for worse. might occasionally interrupt you if you try to counter back at him, tends to forget he’s not always in action, and treats you like one of his men/women.

dislikes

ties. makes him feel scratchy at the neck, dangly and get in his way. can’t wear his badge when he wears them and has to wear full collared tops too. wears it to important briefings or meetings. always makes you tie it for him, because if not, he’ll spend hours trying to perfect it in the mirror.

when he turns up at a military base and they don’t show him the respect he’s owed. he’s the highest ranking officer wherever he goes, and expects to be treated as such.

when you try to get him to quit his job. take it easy. he’s never taken anything easy, he wants to fight for his country, protect people. he believes he has to do this.

your teary voice when he’s badly injured on the plane back, holding a bullet wound down, telling you to tell his son how much he loves him– because he doesn’t say it often. telling you to be strong, that he might not make it. the sobs you bite back that hurt his heart more than the bleeding.

likes

missions going his way. success. protecting his country. stopping harmful organisations. doing what’s right.

coming home to you. your son. the way you inspect him when he comes in, scanning for every injury. he doesn’t like the coddling, but he loves that you care.

showering with you. sleeping with you. lunch with you. mundane things that are drastically different when he’s on missions. he showers hardly, no time, no space. beds are small and cramped. lunch is rationed, quick and on the go. but with you, he can take his time. do things properly.

family and people-specific hcs

his nicknames for you: sweet thing, baby, darlin’

his nicknames for your son: little agent, kid, son

he’ll always come home if he can avoid going to a hospital, rather being patched up by you than some other random doctor. you’re his personal nurse at this point.

would constantly assess his son growing up to see if he’s cia material. you’re forever scolding him for it, but he does it unintentionally. watching him carefully while he plays with his toys, overanalysing each comment he makes like it could be something insightful.

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari rubbed her eyes with a soft sniffle and took a breath. Hawks words and presences had helped her calm down. Sure the pain still lingered, but it didn't hurt as much. "I... I wanna keep going. No, I need to keep going." She chirped softly after a moment. "I can't just stop now. Not yet." She informed and turned back to look over more hero logs for her father.

Training logs showing his improvement, journals that dated before Kari's birth, interviews, news reports, and so on. Eventually Kari stopped on a journal entry dated a few weeks after Kari's birth.

"August 5, I brought Kari home for the first time. She's gained a bit of weight which is good. She's such an active little girl. Kitearo was immediately so protective despite how he acted before. I guess seeing how small she was and having processed what happened helped him a lot. Therapy has been a huge help for all of them. Shade us still sneaking top shelf books when I'm not looking, last time I saw her reading Moby Dick to Kari and immediately stepped in. We made an agreement that if she didn't read these to Kari then I'd allow her to read certain top shelf books with supervision. She's enjoying spending time with Kari, reading her books while she's is in Shade's lap. Boom and Beats always love to play with Kari, running around happily with toys and including Kati in their games. Flo shows Kari a ton of different plants, mainly flowers. Fino likes to have Kari ride on his back while in a random animal form. I feel like these kids will super close when they're older. Sure they'll get into arguments and maybe even fights, but thats life. I'm just happy it looks like things are gonna be alright. Still waiting for Boom and Beats to get their quirks, I'm not sure what they'll be since Mikomi's quirk is so different. She never explained why, but I have a rough understanding. Either way, I've made up my mind and I'll help with hero work in some other way, but I'll be retiring as a pro hero before Kari's first birthday. I can't risk it right now, there is too much at stake. I'll keep doing my best for them. - Lynx Himura."

Kari gave a soft smile then went to type in her mother's hero name and began looking through the hero logs there. Eventually she came across an interview, roughly around the same time as Lynx, though it was off by a few days.

"Hello, thank you for meeting with us, Angelic."

"Of course, I'm glad I could make it work. Been super busy and all." Mikomi laughed. Her eyes, while a different color, were roughly the same shape as Kari's. Though Kari's were a bit more pointed and Mikomi's slightly more rounded. But it was easy to see the resemblance.

"Yea, you've been very busy it seems. Your already the number six hero and you're still pretty young. Any insight as to why you're working do hard?"

"Ah, going for that question already. Fair enough. Well, it's kinda has to do with my quirk being so easy to... adapt to different situations so I can help out in many areas. So I'm able to be noticed more often and so on. That and I just like helping. It feels right to me. Don't get me wrong the money is nice too but I'm not wanting for anything. I'm actually only using what I need and saving the rest for future emergencies or plans."

"You planning on starting a family?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'll never let that information slip. I'm aiming high after all. If I have kids and I'm in the top three, their lives could be in danger so I'm keeping stuff like that close to my chest." Mikomi looked to the camera and smiled knowingly almost, in Kari's direction. Kari shivered a bit.

"Thats fair," the reporter hummed off camera and Mikomi looked back at the reported. "Now, about your quirk--"

"Sorry but I'm not divulging information about my quirk either." Mikomi was quick to interrupt. "I know it is different and rather weird but I'd like to keep that to myself as well."

"Ah, I see. Well, what about your relationship with Redone?"

"Oh, I--" Mikomi blushed a bit with a grin. "Well, it's a long story but after moving back from America, I had to go cuz of my mom's job, we reconnected in highschool and haven't really been apart since. He's really sweet and caring. We've been together for a while actually."

"Can we plan on a hero wedding anytime soon?"

"Ya know, I watched his interview last week and I tried asking him when he came by with the sweet buns. He just laughed and told me he'd propose when the time is right. I'm not sure when but I'm sure everyone will be made aware eventually." Mikomi chuckled softly. The interview went on, more questions, some dodged some answered. But all in all Kari got a good feel for Mikomi's personality. Kind but firm, not willing to take bullshit but not rude either. Stands her ground and proud of it.

Kari smiled and went on to find some missions, training logs, and a family tree. Kari widened her eyes. There she was with her siblings, her mother, her father, even her grandparents. There was Maica, Core, Core's father. Her whole family.

Looks like Lynx had two younger brothers one of which was deceased while the other was still alive but no where in Japan and no contact information listed and he looked to be estranged. Lynx's parents were listed too though his father passed away the same year as one if his brothers while Lynx's mother passed two years before Kari was born. Kari frowned, concluding an accident happened that took Lynx's father and brother. She shook it off and opened up a journal from her mother, taking a breath.

"I'm simply writing this so it is on record in case something happens to me and one of my children develops my quirk-" Kari perked up a bit. "I don't know if it'll come to that but dad said it's better safe than sorry. He probably knows something since we share a quirk and all. Thats besides the point. I plan on having this under heavy lock and key until I die or if one of my children requests it or whatever. I'm not the best with formal stuff but I'll try my best. Either way, I am Mikomi Himura. Mother to Kitearo Himura, wife to Lynx Himura. My quirk is called All of the Above. It is a highly adaptive quirk, able to integrate any other quirk upon seeing it, though it takes time. My DNA is very unstable for lack of a better way of putting it. My son's quirk is vastly different to mine. Well, it's going to be, he hasn't developed it yet but I already know. Sir Nighteye's quirk has been super helpful in calming the nerves of a new mother. For the most part at least, but I'm keeping that close to my chest for now."

Kari shivered a bit, having a feeling she knew what Mikomi was referring to but kept reading.

"As for the specifics of my quirk, I'm able to use a quirk I've copied with in a certain length of time after seeing it, depending on the type. A week or two for emmiter quirks, two to three weeks for transformation and accumulation quirks, and four weeks for mutation quirks. I don't just copy the quirk, but a snap shot of the person as well for lack of a better way of putting it. It can be refreshed if I see that person again but yea. Ugh this is more difficult to explain than I thought. Uh, the reason there is a snap shot is because I can call on it to help learn quirks more effectively, they take over my body and I learn through muscle memory. The quirks I have copied as well as the snap shots of the people will be passed on to which ever of my children inherits my quirk but those quirks will be locked until certain things are met, I'm not sure how that all works. Dad hasn't explained it and I haven't figured it out. It's weird to explain and better to show but I don't plan on dying so ill be able to show my kid when the time comes. Regardless, this is just a precaution and I don't plan on needing it. With that I'm closing this journal."

Kari blinked, moving to look through more journal entries. Some where around the time she was pregnant with her siblings. Then another caught Kari's eye.

"It's July 20th today. I'm feeling pretty weak from this pregnancy. Little Kari is really sapping me, but that's fine. I've had six kids before her so I'll be okay. But I'm not gonna lie this one has been rougher than all the others so I'm a bit worried. My due date isn't for another two month so it's fine."

"July 25th, something isn't right. I asked Lynx to take me to the hospital to have a check up. I might need emergency surgery. Kari might be born sooner than expected."

After that journal entry Kari found an obituary for her mother. "Number 3 hero dies for unspecified reasons." It lists the funeral date as well as other information.

Kari sighed softly, going over to Hawks and clinging to him, shaking and crying in weak sobs. She just needed a moment to process it all. "I... I know it's not my fault... but a part... A part if me still... still hurts." Kari hiccuped, nuzzling into Hawks' leg, just letting it all out. "I wanna know her. Who would she have been? What would be going on right now if she were alive? Why did she have to die cuz of me? It's not fair." The child cried, trying to hold back a bit but still needing to let out some emotions before continuing, if she even wanted to.

Hawks stood beside Kari the whole time, his usual laid-back expression softened into something quiet and pained. He didn’t say much while she clicked through the files—he didn’t need to. His hand gripped hers back just enough to remind her he was there, grounding her, steady and real in a space full of shadows from the past.

When Kari tried to lighten the mood at the end, Hawks crouched down a little to her level and gently brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. His expression didn’t shift into pity—it never did. Instead, it was the expression of someone who understood, who had lived through too many ghosts of his own.

“Two pounds, huh?” he murmured with a gentle smile. “And now look at you. Tough enough to face all this head-on, brave enough to want answers even when you knew they’d hurt. That kind of strength? That’s rare, Kari. That’s hero stuff.”

He let the words settle before continuing, his thumb brushing over her knuckles where their hands were still locked together.

“Your dad loved you. All of you. You can feel it in every word he wrote—even when things were falling apart, his thoughts were on keeping you safe. That’s not something a lot of kids get to grow up knowing. But you? You’ve got that. You’ve got him with you every time you use your quirk, every time you snort like he did.” Hawks grinned a little at that, trying to lift her spirit without pushing her too fast.

He then stood and offered his other hand to steady her.

“We can look for more when you’re ready—your mom’s records, maybe some old hero logs. But we don’t have to do it all today. There’s no rush. What matters is you have this now. It’s a part of you, but it doesn’t have to define you.”

He gave her hand a soft squeeze, his wings flexing slightly behind him.

“You wanna keep going? Or you want a break, maybe get something warm to drink, clear your head?” he asked gently, letting her take the lead again. “Whatever you choose, I’m here, little bird.”

[kuidore]

MiRomAbby HCs 3 ✧ KPOP Demon Hunters ✧ Mira x Romance x Abby

✧ Mira doesn’t use real pet names, she calls them ‘Rom’ and ‘Abs’, because she thinks their ‘names’ are actually kinda cute. She also calls them dude. and a lot of swear words and colourful insults

✧ Romance uses pet names when they’re in public, and only calls them by their names when all together or he’s alone with one of them.

✧ His favourite one for Abby is ‘darling’, occasionally said in a really bad accent t that is supposed to be southern USA but does not sound like it

✧ He constantly switches the name he uses for Mira because he likes to see her roll her eyes as he progressively introduces more ridiculous ones

✧ he does pay attention to if she blushed or smiled though, and his deductions told him Mira’s favourite one to be called was ‘My love’

✧ He decides that is gonna go in the same category as names when he says it in public and immediately feels his toes being crushed

✧ Mira’s first reaction to embarrassment is often just mild violence

✧ Romance and Abby have gotten really good at dodging medium-sized projectiles

✧ Abby always uses their first names, sometimes he’ll use the basic ones pet names like baby or sweetie, but more often than not it’s just names

✧ when they first move in together, Mira gets stuck doing almost all the chores. She makes it two days before she starts just asking them if they can do the dishes or take out the trash

✧ by the end of the week Abby and Romance are still not doing it on their own and she’s getting to the end of her rope

✧ She tries to just stop doing them. But between them being men and demons, the mess doesn’t even bother them

✧ It absolutely was bothering her though

✧ When she literally watches Abby finish a drink and then just toss the cup in the sink without even rinsing it, she snaps at him. She yells for Romance to get his ass in the kitchen too so she can bitch them out at the same time

✧ It’s like a pair of dogs getting scolded, hunching down and looking up at her so as not to make direct eye contact and further provoke her aggression

✧ She crosses her arms and demands to know why she was being forced to essentially work as a maid in her own house. She even rhetorically asks if it’s just because she’s the chick, half expecting one of them to be stupid enough to answer with a yeah

✧ neither of them do. Neither of them answer at all, they only have to think about it for a second to realize she’s right; they don’t even really have an excuse for themselves, but they feel really bad about it (rightfully so)

✧ for once they don’t argue with her, they don’t try to push her buttons. they apologize and they spend the rest of the night cleaning the apartment on their own while Mira shuts herself in their room and goes to bed

✧ Abby and Romance take an extra long time cleaning, ralking about how they were gonna do things from now on

✧ they were gonna make sure Mira knew they weren’t pigs expecting her to tidy up after them like a mother, but partners wholly capable of doing all the responsible, adult human things they needed to

✧ They debate sleeping on the couches but decide against it. If Mira hadn’t wanted them to come to bed with her she probably would’ve made it clear as she was storming off.

✧ They were also kinda worried she was going to legitimately hate them about it

✧ She’s still got the lamp on, as if she had been at least trying to stay up waiting. She had been, but she wasn’t gonna admit it

✧ ‘it’ being that even after an argument, she slept better if she saw their faces before she did. Not a chance in hell she was telling them that, especially not tonight

✧ She was halfway asleep in the middle of the bed, just barely raising herself up when she heard the door open.

✧ She doesn’t even say anything, just waves them over and flops back against the pillows

✧ They climb right in on either side of her, Romance facing her and Abby with his chest pressed against her back

✧ Romance loses face privileges when he leans in and mumbles something about her waiting for them, earning a flick to the forehead and then Mira rolling over

✧ He pouts about it, resting his chin on her shoulder preparing to say something a little bit whiney, but Mira is already out like a light. He and Abby share a look and snickered.

✧ Romance likes facing Mira when he sleeps so he can hide himself in her neck and fall asleep engulfed by the scent of her hair.

✧ Abby prefers big spoon because he likes clinging to Mira’s back despite being easily double her size.

✧ His limbs were long enough that he could wrap them around the both of them, an arm settled across their waists and his leg hooked around theirs

✧ the next morning Abby wakes up early to make Mira breakfast and apologizes again

✧ Romance is still knocked out but basically the moment he was up, he adds his two cents into the ‘i’m sorry’ bank

✧ With a night of sleep, a full belly, and warm bodies on either side of her, Mira was a bit less angry. Only a bit.

✧ she was willing give them the *tiny* leeway that the demon realm didn’t exactly have chores

✧ She makes it clear if it ever happens again, she’s smashing all of their dishes and dumping them for real

✧ Mira is actually kind of impressed when she sees the apartment. They did in fact clean it, and they did a good job too.

✧ She has to literally bite her tongue to stop herself from making a smartass remark about how easy it must’ve been, but she does stop herself

✧ It never happens again because they never let her touch a dish or a cleaning instrument again. It’s their own little form of penance, a way to remind Mira that she wasn’t some housewife or maid or pretty trophy waiting at home with no life of her own, who always had time to be responsible for them.

✧ Every time she tried to clean something, one of them was behind her snatching the supplies out of her hand, kissing her on the cheek, and telling her to go sit down and relax

✧ She has to fight off the urge to be smug every time. She hates chores too, so it’s a double win. Mira has absolutely no issue with it, but it’s fun to pretend she does.

✧ At this point, she has no intention of even doing the cleaning when she picks up the supplies. But sometimes if she was bored, or they were off and busy doing their own thing somewhere in the house and she didn’t wanna go looking for attention, she’ll open the cupboard just to time how long it took for one of them to come speedwalking towards her

✧ Romance knows exactly what she’s doing, and usually puts the cleaning supplies away and drags her to cuddle with him.

✧ Mira grumbles and complains, pretending as if that wasn’t the entire thing she wanted

✧ Abby hasn’t figured it out yet, he still actually goes and cleans whatever Mira had pulled out the supplies for

✧ She’s not gonna be the one to tell him. She thinks it’s cute, and she definitely likes watching him do what she tells him even if it’s something as timy and stupid as washing the floor by the front door

✧ It’s a little bit of awakening, the type she’d been periodically catching sight of and purposefully ignoring because. hello, that’s so much energy.

✧ But from then on Mira starts asking they do more things for her. From going to pick up takeout to grabbing the remote that was literally five feet across the room from where she sat on the couch

✧ They did it all happily. they have a bit of a moment where they get giddy about how she never used to ask them to do anything for her and now they got to

✧ Behind her smug satisfaction, her heart races when she really thinks about how fast they jump up to answer even her smallest requests.

✧ They’d always done it when she really thought back, but Mira had just never really asked them often enough to notice the pattern

✧ Mira very quickly gets comfortable with asking for help, specifically from them.

✧ She’d still bite the curb before asking a stranger, though.

✧ She has one other nickname, for them as a duo, that she refused to use in front of them; ‘My boys’. she doesn’t wanna inflate their egos or deal with the teasing, so she exclusively uses it with Rumi and Zoey.

✧ Abby and Romance aren’t thrown off in the least by her tsundere shit, they know full well how much she likes them, and they really like finding ways to make her admit it to their faces.

✧ Mira still wasn’t sure if she loved or hated it

✧ One day they come back home from an errand run while she’s on the phone with Rumi and she doesn’t even notice them

✧ as soon as they hear her refer to them by that stupid name, the bastards started grinning at each other like they’d won the lottery

✧ She almost jumps out of her skin when they shut the door. She’s slowly turning around and really hoping they’d *just* stepped through the door.

✧ Mira sees their smug faces and she knows she’s done for

✧ She barely gets the chance to hang up on Rumi and take one step in her attempts to run away, before a pair of muscular arms are wrapping around her waist and halting her escape

✧ Mira can’t even stop herself from letting out a noise of surprise, half-assedly kicking her feet as she’s suddenly off solid ground and lifted over Abby’s right shoulder.

✧ She’s trying really hard not to laugh or smile, but she can feel her lips betraying her as she reached a long arm down and smacked Abby’s ass

✧ She was technically trying to get him to let her down, but if she was gonna be pointlessly hitting him anywhere… Two birds one stone!

✧ Romance laughs, and Abby does it right back to her.

✧ She could feel her face going bright red, stifling a laugh with her hand as she elbowed Abby in the general back area, she was’t aiming for much besides the ribcage. Mira hadn’t really thought the ass slap through enough either.

✧ She still thinks it was worth it though.

✧ Right before she’s tossed into the messy pile of bedding on their shared bed, Romance makes a comment about how she wasn’t getting away from her boys until morning. at the earliest.

[hancorys]

k.wh — small girl fantasy, pt.2

genre: FLUFF, pookie bear lovers, pairing: crush!woonhak x afab!reader wc: 690 warning: might be too sweet!! lmk if i forgot any !! you asked for it and i delivered (jk) listen: so let's go see the stars — boynextdoor

the summer heat settled over the small convenience store, the air thick with the familiar scent of instant ramen and cold soda. the hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, broken only by the occasional rustling of snack bags as you carefully restocked the shelves—by color, just the way woonhak used to.

it had become a habit now, one of the small ways you kept him close despite the miles stretching between you.

your phone, propped up on the counter, lit up with a message.

woonhak: just got out of class. my professor hates me i swear

you smiled, wiping your hands on your apron before typing back.

you: it’s because you talk too much

almost immediately, your phone buzzed again.

woonhak: wow. so mean. do you want me to suffer??woonhak: actually, don’t answer that.

you laughed, shaking your head. this was your routine now—him texting you the second he was free, sending you blurry selfies of him looking exhausted, random pictures of his university, or even just ranting about how unfair life was. and in return, you’d do the same—long messages about customers who annoyed you, the exact number of items you restocked that day, or how the store’s cat had finally let you pet it.

no one had ever said the words out loud, but it was there. in the way he made sure to call you before bed, even when he was exhausted. in the way you caught yourself waiting for his messages. in the way you both existed in each other’s worlds despite the distance.

today was the first day of summer.

you sighed, stretching your arms before grabbing a rag to wipe down the tables. just as you reached the last one, the glass door chimed—a sound you’d heard a thousand times before.

“welcome in,” you called out automatically, too focused on scrubbing away a stubborn stain to look up.

then, a familiar voice.

“you missed a spot.”

you froze.

your heart stuttered in your chest, your grip tightening around the rag. for a moment, you thought you had imagined it. that maybe, just maybe, the distance was finally making you hear things.

but then you turned.

and there he was.

woonhak. standing in the doorway, grinning like an idiot, his arms spread wide like he was waiting for you to launch yourself at him.

and you did.

the rag dropped to the floor as you ran straight into him, arms wrapping around his waist, burying your face into his shoulder. he smelled familiar—like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of his cologne, like home.

woonhak laughed, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he hugged you even tighter, lifting you slightly off the ground.

“missed me?” he teased, voice warm.

you hit his shoulder lightly, but didn’t let go. “obviously, you idiot.”

he chuckled, rocking you slightly. “good. because i was starting to think you replaced me with the store cat.”

“the cat hates me.”

“fair. but you still like me, right?”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, and the way he was smiling at you made your heart ache in the best way.

you rolled your eyes. “unfortunately.”

woonhak laughed again, his forehead bumping against yours. “guess i’ll have to make it up to you then.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.” he grinned, eyes twinkling. “so, let’s go see the stars.”

you blinked. “what?”

“come on.” he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the door. “close up early. let’s go somewhere.”

“woonhak, i can’t just leave—”

“sure you can.” he shot you a look, mischievous and familiar. “you’ve been working too much. i’m back, it’s summer, and i’m kidnapping you for the night. no arguments.”

you stared at him, the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the way he looked at you like he had been waiting for this moment just as much as you had.

and then you smiled.

the laughter between you faded into something quieter, something softer. the weight of the moment settled in the air between you—unspoken, but undeniably there.

woonhak was still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin. a touch so light, so fleeting, yet it sent warmth curling through your chest.

“let’s go,” he said again, gentler this time.

you hesitated, glancing toward the counter, the shelves, the quiet hum of the store that had become your second home. “but—”

“no buts.” he took a step closer, tilting his head slightly. “when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?”

the question caught you off guard.

because the truth was, you couldn’t remember.

you sighed, half-exasperated, half-amused. “you’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

woonhak smirked. “nope.”

you rolled your eyes, but there was no real fight left in you. because the truth was, you wanted to go. you wanted to steal this night, to press pause on reality just for a little while.

“fine,” you mumbled, reaching behind the counter to grab your bag. “but if i get fired—”

“i’ll hire you at my dad’s store.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “woonhak, i already work at your dad’s store.”

he laughed, grabbing your hand and tugging you toward the door. “then i’ll pay you in snacks.”

the two of you stepped out into the warm night air, the world stretching wide before you. woonhak’s car was parked just outside, and he opened the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. “your chariot awaits.”

you snorted, shoving him lightly before sliding in. he ran around to the driver’s side, and as soon as he started the car, the soft hum of music filled the space.

the city lights blurred past as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his thigh. you watched him out of the corner of your eye—the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead, the way his lips curled at the edges whenever he focused.

“where are we even going?” you asked eventually.

woonhak grinned, eyes still on the road. “you’ll see.”

the drive stretched on, the city giving way to quieter roads, open fields, the sky stretching endlessly above. the stars were beginning to appear, scattered like freckles against the darkening blue.

after what felt like forever, woonhak pulled over onto a small hill, the kind of place you only knew about if you spent your childhood sneaking out at night. he turned off the engine, the sudden quiet wrapping around you like a blanket.

“come on,” he said, already climbing out.

you followed, stepping onto the cool grass, the scent of summer thick in the air.

woonhak flopped onto the ground, patting the space beside him. “best seats in the house.”

you huffed but sat down anyway, stretching your legs out in front of you.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the sky above was endless, the stars flickering like tiny promises.

“i used to come here all the time,” woonhak said suddenly. “whenever things felt too big. too much.”

you turned to look at him. his gaze was fixed on the sky, something wistful in his expression.

“and now?” you asked.

he finally met your eyes, something unreadable flickering in his own. “now i think i’d rather be here with you.”

your breath caught.

the words were simple, unembellished, but they settled deep in your chest.

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your heart was practically throwing itself against your ribs. “you’re so dramatic.”

woonhak laughed, nudging your shoulder. “maybe. but i mean it.”

silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. it was warm, comforting.

then, he reached over, pinky brushing against yours. not quite holding your hand, but close enough to set your skin on fire.

you could have moved. could have pulled away, could have closed the space completely.

but you didn’t.

instead, you let your fingers curl just slightly, just enough for them to hook together.

and woonhak smiled.

and under the stars, with the summer air wrapping around you, you realized something—

this wasn’t just a fleeting moment.

this was something real. something yours. something you had been waiting for all along.

[kikiiidym]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write funny jealousy moments with the PJO & HoO boys (Nico and possibly Luke included👉🏼👈🏼), but the person they’re jealous of are fictional guys that y/n is simping over, please and thank you!☺️

I just can’t stop thinking about how funny it would be!😂

PJO/HOO BOYS REACTING TO YOU SIMPING OVER FICTIONAL MEN

Percy Jackson:

He was just trying to mind his business when you said it. A casual, innocent little sentence while scrolling through your phone.

“God, Levi Ackerman could choke me and I’d apologize.”

Percy actually stopped mid-bite of his sandwich. Just paused, stared into the void like he’d seen a vision from the Oracle.

“…Excuse me?”

You looked up, giggling. “What?”

“Choke you?? CHOKE YOU???”

He stood up like he was about to deliver a courtroom argument. “You want some tiny little anime man to choke you?! I’ve fought actual monsters, sweet girl. Titans. I’ve drowned people! I could actually choke you!”

You laughed harder, which only made it worse.

He started pacing the room. “You know what? No. You want short, angry, and emotionally damaged? I can be that. Watch me.” Then he growled at the wall and immediately pulled a muscle in his neck. Didn’t help that he kept side-eyeing your phone every time you pulled up another Levi gif.

“I swear to the gods if you say ‘Captain’ in that tone again, I’m throwing your phone in the ocean.”

Grover Underwood:

You were scrolling through Twilight memes and laughed. “Honestly? Edward Cullen could bite me any day.”

Grover dropped his salad.

“The glitter vampire?! In front of my salad?!”

You nodded. “He’s broody. Tragic. Kinda romantic.”

Grover put his head in his hands. “He stalked her.”

“Yeah but, like, in a cute way.”

He looked up, aghast. “I am literally half goat. I eat aluminum cans. I write you poetry. But you want sparkles?!”

You hugged him immediately to stop the spiral. Later, he tried to glitter himself using eco-friendly body shimmer.

He sneezed it off and swore never to simp again.

Luke Castellan:

You were watching Death Note, curled up under a blanket, when you sighed.

“God. Light Yagami is so hot.”

Luke turned his head like a slow-rotating horror movie doll.

“…Excuse me?”

You nodded. “So dramatic. So smart. So doomed.”

Luke stared at you, deadpan. “He’s a mass murderer. With a notebook.”

You shrugged. “Hot people get a pass.”

He stood up. “I led a revolution. I had a tragic backstory. Where’s my fangirl arc?”

You glanced at him. “You’re literally Luke Castellan. You had one.”

“…Fair. But say one more thing about Yagami and I’m hiding your pens.”

Nico Di Angelo:

You were rereading Bungou Stray Dogs on your bed, smiling at your screen with this dreamy, far-off look.

Nico noticed. He was suspicious immediately.

“What’s so funny?”

You sighed dramatically. “Dazai is just… everything. The trauma. The suit. The voice. The bandages. I’m in love.”

You didn’t think anything of it until you looked up and saw Nico just staring at you. Dead silent. Face blank.

He muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“I raise the dead. I literally talk to ghosts. But you—you want some suicidal trenchcoat-wearing edge lord??”

He scoffed and walked off. Minutes later you heard Will screaming, "Niccolo, stop trying to summon skeletons!"

You thought he’d let it go. You were wrong.

Later, you found him standing in front of the mirror, trying to tie gauze around his arm.

He caught your reflection and hissed, “Don’t judge me.”

Connor Stoll:

You were watching Naruto and audibly gasped when Kakashi came on screen.

“God, he could unmask just to ruin my life.”

Connor looked up from his comic book and froze. “Kakashi? The anime ninja? The one who reads porn in public?”

You nodded, dreamy-eyed.

He scoffed. “I’ve got one eye open and a sense of humor. What’s he got that I don’t?”

“Trauma,” you replied, half joking.

Connor stood. “Oh, trauma? Say less.”

He came back later wrapped in a scarf, shirt pulled up over half his face, doing dramatic sighs and leaning against walls.

You gave him a look.

He whispered, “Believe it.”

Will Solace:

You were watching Howl’s Moving Castle with stars in your eyes and a dumb little smile on your lips.

Will had seen you smile like that before. But never at him while he was on screen.

“God, I love Howl so much,” you whispered. “He could ruin my credit score and I’d say thank you.”

Will blinked slowly. “He’s animated.”

“So?”

“He’s also unstable, curses people, and throws tantrums over hair dye.”

You shrugged. “He’s passionate.”

Will tossed the remote. “I’m passionate! I heal people for free!”

He tried to brush it off like he wasn’t bothered, but for the rest of the day he kept tossing his hair dramatically and sighing loudly around you.

Later that night, he asked if he should grow his hair out. “I could rock the blonde wizard look.”

Lityerses:

It started simple.

You were curled up on the couch with your phone, giggling to yourself, scrolling through fanart and memes. Lityerses walked by, towel around his neck, hair damp from training, and glanced over with a fond smile.

“You look happy. What’s got you laughing like that?”

“Just scrolling through fan edits of Geralt. From The Witcher.” You sighed dramatically. “He’s so grumpy and scarred and brooding… Ugh. I want him to punch me into next week.”

Lityerses froze. You heard his towel drop to the floor. Slowly—so slowly—he turned to face you.

“I’m sorry. Did you just say you want to be punched by some grizzled old mercenary?”

“He’s not old, he’s seasoned.”

“I’m seasoned!” He looked personally attacked. “I used to be an assassin!”

“Exactly! You’re reformed. He’s still in his menace era. I love a feral man.”

Lityerses stood there like someone just told him wheat was fake. “Feral? I can be feral.”

You snorted. “No you can’t. You’re literally wearing fuzzy socks.”

He blinked. Looked down. Cursed under his breath.

Five minutes later, you heard rustling in the bedroom. Then silence. Then—

He stormed out, shirtless, dirt smeared across one cheek, swinging a real sword over his shoulder and growling in a faux-deep voice: “Hhhhn. Hrrr. Toss a coin to your cornfield, babe.”

You choked on your water.

He pointed his sword at you. “Say Geralt’s name again. I dare you.”

Later, when he pouted on the couch while you scratched behind his ear like a golden retriever, you leaned in and whispered, “You’re hotter than Geralt anyway.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah. Geralt doesn’t make me pancakes. Or blush when I kiss his scars.”

His entire face turned crimson. “...Still gonna learn how to growl better.”

Travis Stoll:

You were deep into a Harry Potter marathon when you sighed dramatically.

“Sirius Black could call me ‘darling’ once and I’d perish.”

Travis, eating cereal, dropped his spoon.

“The dog guy?”

You nodded. “He’s hot, and he's not a dog”

“He was in prison.”

You smiled. “So misunderstood.”

Travis got up. “Alright. You want a misunderstood bad boy? Fine.”

An hour later, he came back with fake tattoos, his shirt ripped, and an eyeliner-smudged scowl.

“Oi. Fancy a ride on my motorbike, love?”

You couldn’t stop laughing.

He held character for five minutes before tripping on a shoelace and going, “This is stupid. I’M hotter.”

Leo Valdez:

You were watching Iron Man for the billionth time, audibly swooning every time Tony Stark said literally anything.

Leo had finally had enough when you let out a little gasp and mumbled, “He’s so hot when he’s building stuff.”

His head snapped around like an owl. “When he’s building stuff? WHEN HE’S BUILDING STUFF??”

He stood up, covered in engine grease from Bunker 9. “Have you SEEN what I build? I built a DRAGON.”

You blinked. “Yeah but Tony’s a billionaire.”

Leo gasped like you stabbed him. “Oh, so money is the thing now? Is that it? Should I start charging camp for my inventions?”

He then disappears into Bunker 9 for five hours and emerges with literal IRON MAN GLOVES.

“Say it again,” he dares you. “Say Tony’s hotter. I DARE YOU.”

You couldn't stop laughing “Okay but you look like Iron Man’s kid sidekick.” Leo cries in mechanical flamethrower noises

Frank Zhang:

You were scrolling through My Hero Academia edits and let out a dreamy sigh.

“Todoroki, marry me already.”

Frank didn’t say anything at first. He just slowly turned his head, blinking like a betrayed puppy.

“…The hell?”

You grinned. “Look at him. He’s so serious. So cold. So—”

“His dad’s a literal villain, A MENACE.”

You shrugged. “Daddy issues make men hotter, AND HIS SIBLINGS???? Gods yes.”

Frank’s soul left his body. “I am kind! I am emotionally available. I make you soup!”

He looked so genuinely distressed that you had to pull him into a hug.

Later, you found him in bear form… trying to do the Todoroki half-hot/half-cold stare.

Jason Grace:

It all started when you were watching Avatar: The Last Airbender and Zuko showed up shirtless.

You gasped. “Oh my gods.”

Jason looked over. “What?”

You didn’t answer, just bit your lip.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who is that?”

You told him. Big mistake.

“The guy with the burn scar? The one who had the stupid ass haircut? The one who tried to kill everyone for two seasons? That’s the guy?”

He was spiraling. “I’m literally a Roman demigod. I command lightning. But sure, let’s simp for the emotionally constipated firebender who has a redemption arc and a shiny fucking head.”

Jason walked off, muttering something about getting a scar. He showed up later trying to pose in the mirror with a sharpie drawn down his eye.

“Is this what you want?”

Octavian:

You were sitting on your bunk in the Roman barracks, scrolling through a fan edit of Jason Todd—you know, the Red Hood, walking trauma with a sharp jawline, leather jacket, and more daddy issues than a therapy convention.

You weren’t even trying to hide it. You let out a low whistle and muttered, “Gods… Jason Todd is so hot it should be illegal.”

Across the room, Octavian—who had been calmly organizing scrolls in alphabetical order by star alignment—froze.

Silence.

Not the normal kind.

The "Octavian-is-about-to-kill-a-man-with-a-sacrificial-dagger" kind.

His head snapped toward you with the slow, calculated grace of someone about to deliver a monologue that ends in someone getting hexed.

“Jason who?”

You looked up. “Jason Todd. He’s from DC. Died. Came back. Shoots people. Hot.”

Octavian blinked. Once. Twice. Then very slowly set his scroll down like it physically hurt him to do so.

“Oh. So now we’re into vigilantes. Tragic pasts. Leather. Guns. Crime. That’s what does it for you?”

You shrugged with a dreamy smile. “He’s just… perfectly unhinged.”

Octavian’s mouth dropped open. “I ran a legion. I deliver prophecies with blood and glory. I stabbed monsters in the name of Rome. But this man—this sweaty little Gotham gremlin—he’s the one you thirst over?!”

You giggled. “He’s hot and he broods. Like a spicy Batman.”

He scoffed so hard you thought he’d choke. “I BROOD! I am brooding right now! Look at me!”

You looked. He was pacing, hands flailing in outrage, face turning that beautiful Octavian-red he got when things weren’t going his way.

“And the name?? Jason? As in Jason Grace? Are you trying to kill me?!”

He stopped. Stared you dead in the eyes.

“…Is this your revenge for me burning your favorite hoodie? Because it’s working.”

You were trying so hard not to laugh.

Later, he sat next to you, arms crossed, still muttering. “He’s not even a real praetor.”

You leaned against him. “But you are.”

“…Damn right I am.”

Pause.

“…Do you think I’d look good in a leather jacket?”

[verekatt]

I love this. Accidental Thrall!Jason my beloved, I'm so sorry poor boy.

Jason immediately calls a code red (or code mind control leading to ally death/disappearance, I'm sure Batman's prepared enough to have a specific code for that).

He recognises logically that he made a mistake, that he's done something unforgivable, but every time he thinks about it, he feels content and accomplished. He knows it's ongoing mind control, he knows that once he snaps out of this he'll be horrified and ashamed, but he can't feel that right now. All he can feel is that he served his King well.

He calls the Bats in. He knows he's compromised. His desire to protect his family, his people, is fighting the compulsion. After enough time in a containment cell, his Obsession wins out. He has to protect his people. He flips from thralldom to full-blown Obsession.

The Bats are trying, but the magic circle Jason used isn't like anything they've ever seen. JL Dark can tell it's sacrificial to the High King of the Infinite Realms, but that doesn't answer why Jason was mind controlled, why Tim was sacrificed, or how to get Tim back. Tim's property of the Crown now, and no one knows how to break that. Constantine warns them against any attempt to enter the Realms, and although every Bat has volunteered to go alone, none are willing to send their family in. It's a suicide mission, and they all know it. The Bat's self-sacrificial argument continues as Jason's Obsession starts rearing it's head.

Jason has instinctual knowledge. He doesn't know how, but he draws a circle in his own blood in his cell while the Bats are fighting outside. By the time they notice, he's gone, a circle of runes in drying blood the only evidence he was ever there.

Tim's gone, Jason's gone and mind controlled, and the Bats have nothing but a deathwish to guide them. Meanwhile, Danny's very distressed about the sacrificial CEO and the furious Revenant who followed. He just wanted a secretary!

Help Wanted ≠ Send Sacrifices

Danny gripped his bangs in his fist, staring down at the paperwork before him with endless frustration and not a lick of comprehension.

Why was there so much paperwork, anyway? Pariah Dark hadn't exactly seemed like the type to keep records. Had he done this on purpose? As punishment to whomever wound up taking the throne from him? Danny had to admit, that sounded like a really devious plan. Unless the next ruler had been, like, The Secretary Ghost or something.

… that gave Danny an idea.

Clockwork had told him about this "Kingly Connection" thing he had yet to try out. Supposedly, it made it so that the king could address his subjects all at once, no matter where they may be. In case of an urgent announcement or Realms-threatening danger, or something.

To Danny, it sounded like a really efficient way to send out a 'Help Wanted' ad. Everyone would be able to hear it, and anyone who for some reason didn't could learn about it through word of mouth. Those who felt they were qualified could come see him at the Keep, and those who didn't could just continue on with whatever they'd been doing. It was the perfect plan.

Danny flopped back in his seat, relieved for the reprieve as he shut his tired eyes. He followed the pull, down, down, into his core… and then even further, til the light behind his eyes got brighter, til he reached the power of the KING.

Hey, everyone. This is your King speaking. I need like, a secretary or something. Someone who can help me handle literal millennia of paperwork. So, if y'all could come on down to the Keep, or pass the offer on to the smartest person you know, that'd be dope.

Danny felt as the power pulsed within his chest, sending his message out along the millions of tiny strings tying all Undead souls back to his. He sighed and slouched in his chair, exhaustion finally catching up to him. All he had to do now was wait. A little nap in the meantime couldn't hurt, could it?

— — —

Jason felt simultaneously floaty and more grounded than he had since his mysterious resurrection. All his anger and uncertainty was just gone, replaced by pure drive and direction. He wasn't thinking very deeply, but he knew what he was doing. It was like laying on the surface of a sunlit lake, letting the gentle waves take him wherever they wished.

The Red Hood finished the chalk circle in the middle of the wide, empty warehouse floor and stepped back. The lines and starbursts that decorated it were drawn immaculately, without a single smudge. Now, all he needed was…

… the smartest person you know…

… Where was Tim?

[rainrot4me]

NOW THE OPPOSITE

what are the creeps turn offs when it comes to a partner? a huge no or red flag

ANGIE!!!!!!

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Someone who treats violence like a joke or a trend.

Jeff is unhinged, yes. But there’s a difference between someone who kills because they’ve lost their mind—and someone who glamorizes it like a trend. If a partner tried to be “edgy” for clout or treated killing like cosplay, he’d immediately lose interest. There’s nothing showy or fun about killing because you can’t stop yourself.

“You think blood makes you cool? You ever watch a guy cry while you twist his eyeball out? Nah? Then shut the hell up.”

✦ . ticci toby

Mocking his tics or trauma—even as a “joke.”

Toby might play the fool, but the moment someone mocks his stutter, his scars, or anything related to his neurological condition, he’s gone. He’s heard enough cruel laughter in his life to know when someone means it. He won’t fight you. Won’t scream. Just disappears. You’ll never see him again.

“Heard that t-tone before. Not stickin’ around to hear it again.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Lack of boundaries or pushing into private matters without consent.

Jack is a highly guarded, private man. If someone constantly pushes him to unmask, probes into his past without care, or oversteps emotional or physical boundaries, it’ll break all trust.

“If I haven’t told you something, it’s because I’m not going to. Pushing won’t get you closer.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Emotional manipulation or passive-aggression.

Tim has been gaslit and manipulated by the Operator for years—he knows the signs. If a partner plays mind games, guilt-trips him, or uses emotional weaponry to get their way, he’ll shut down completely.

“Say what you mean. Don’t twist your words and expect me to read your mind.”

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Someone who refuses to self-reflect or acknowledge faults.

Brian is observant and deeply introspective. If someone constantly blames others, refuses accountability, or dismisses emotional growth, he sees it as a dead-end.

“We’re all messed up, but if you can’t admit it—you’ll never get better.”

✦ . kate the chaser

People who play the victim after starting the fire.

Kate has no tolerance for manipulative victims—people who start shit and then cry when they get called out. That’s her trigger. That’s her past. She’ll cut ties fast.

“You lit the match. Don’t act shocked when the fire spreads.”

✦ . ben drowned

Controlling behavior or possessiveness masked as ‘caring’.

Ben doesn’t want a babysitter. If someone tries to dictate his life—who he talks to, what he does, how he acts—it hits a nerve. He’s lived under control before (literally, as a haunted game). Never again.

“Don’t love me like I’m a problem to fix. Love me like a person who knows what they’re doing.”

✦ . clockwork

Dismissive of emotions or mocking vulnerability.

If someone laughs when she opens up or uses her trauma against her in arguments, she’ll harden instantly. Her softness is earned, not owed. And once you cross the line? You’re out.

“I’m not your punching bag for when you feel small. Try that shit again, and we’ll see where we stand.”

✦ . laughing jack

Cruelty toward animals or children.

Jack is chaotic, yes—but if you show unnecessary cruelty to things smaller or more helpless than you, it’s over. He can’t stand people who punch down. It robs him of all amusement.

“You’re not edgy. You’re pathetic. Kick a dog again and see what I do.”

✦ . slenderman

Disrespect for knowledge, history, or the metaphysical.

Slender sees existence through an ancient, almost cosmic lens. If someone is proudly ignorant, refuses to learn, or mocks the concept of deeper thought or reality, he loses all interest.

“Fools who scoff at the unknown often find themselves consumed by it.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[aurorlia]

‎— ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎✸ ׂ ݂ ୨ ‧ ׅ JUST FOR ME ﾟ ꒱

# — art donaldson x afab!reader

♡ tags / warnings — 18+ — oral. (m. receiving). hair pulling. choking?. recording. + ..

♡ — once again, leaving for a tournament that you just couldn’t attend. He suggest the idea of something new, something he can keep on his phone to watch while you’re both so far from each other.

♡ taglist — @pittsick @nozhdyved @forgetmenotnympho @lov3lylxvender @museboos @cinnamongmm

♡ notes ! — new layout..hmm do we like it..tbh not sure I do !! + this is so short .. 😣

“come on, I just— one video and that’s it. one video to keep while I’m away from my beautiful girlfriend.” he whined against your neck, making you groan.

you gently shoved him away. “you just won’t leave it alone, will you?” you replied, earning a small chuckle from him. “No, definitely not baby. I need something to look at while im gone.”

“I mean..what if something happened to either of us?” He spoke, shrugging as if his stupid argument could actually work and newsflash..it did. he watched as you lined yourself up infront of his crotch, inbetween his legs and you watched as he got his bright red phone ready to record you. “you’re seriously crazy.” you murmured, a grin on his face as you finally let him free. His throbbing cock springing out of the barrier that were his boxers. It looked almost painful,

He groaned and you hadn’t even started, you hadn’t even touched it yet but you saw as his grip on his phone tightened. His bottom lip stuck inbetween his teeth, he huffed out in slight frustration at you. Watching as you didn’t start, just to tease him. “Don’t tease me.” He murmured, earning a sly grin from you.

you gently grabbed it, making him hiss through his teeth. you gently licked a stripe, his grip on the phone still tight and trembling and when you finally took it into your warm mouth. He gasped. “oh my..fuck, baby.” He whimpered, looking down at you making eye contact with him. He could literally cum just from that, just from the eye contact.

his whimpers filled the room and probably were gonna be the only thing you could hear in the video. He threw his head back as you took him deeper, his free hand immediately going to your hair. Gripping it like a damn lifeline, he watched as your nose hit the base. Your eyes filling with tears as you took him all way.

his grip on your hair was tight, his eager whimpers were dirty. “ohh..mph— m’so beautiful like this.” He mumbled, guiding your head. your head bobbing at the speed he wanted it to be and suddenly, his moans got louder and his grip got tighter if that was even possible. “oh oh! ohh! oh my— I’m gonna fucking cum.” He whimpered, babbling on. “okay baby?— I’m gonna cum so fucking hard.” He gasped, immediately pulling his cock out of your mouth. You quickly stroked him which resulted into his release.

he painted your face white, his chest moving up and down quickly from his panting and the grip on his phone still tight.

a few days after that, it was time for him to go and now that he was away, he walked into his hotel for the time being. It was fancy and expensive, he had the amazing idea of watching over the video.

he slipped into the sheets, pulling it up but was met with extreme disappointment. The video? was shaky and you couldn’t see much. Fuck—

so much for begging you to film a video.

[nonsense-is-everywhere]

LISTEN TO ME LISTEN. So Spamton. Hate to admit it. But he lays eggs and we all have to accept that. BUT. Okay in his battle the pipis’ make lil Spamtons to beat ur ass. Makes sense because his is SPAM mail. Those guys, once you interact one they repopulate like bunnies ig. We see this with the pop-up ads too. BUT TENNA HAS A PIPIS. Cannonically he has one and calls it a “her”, tries to keep her safe.

SO LIKE. Spam, it can be very targeted. What you’ve interacted with in the past, data of you that was sold off, etc etc. By himself Spamtons pipis only make mini Spams, asexual reproduction. It’s just copies of him. No data/genetics were used. But those things can hatch. All this to say, you think if Tenna’s pipis ever hatched it’d be a mix of them both. Targeting Tenna’s passion for the show biz and Spamtons. Spammy-ness… Less of Tenna’s looks because at the end of the day she is still just spam, not an actual TV, but she can have some physical TV traits, as a treat.

Like I enjoy the funni divorce fights for custody with the egg, but it’d be great if it hatched and was a lot more like Tenna than either of them expected. Also it’d be so funny because Tenna’s whole divorce trauma with the Dreemurrs. Not wanting his daughter to grow up watching her parents fight for even a second. I feel posts with the pipis overlook that if this thing hatches and she officially becomes Spamton and Tenna’s messed up daughter, Tenna would not for a second want that kid to grow up in an argumentative home. Spamton probably wouldn’t just buzz off after she hatches either, so negotiating with him is unavoidable, unless he wants this kid to be messed up further than genetics. Tenna immediately ends any arguments him and Spamton start up when near the Child.

I don’t know it’s 12 in the morning and I’m thinking about divorce and pipis.

I just can’t imagine Tenna arguing with Spamton in front of the kid. Or anywhere near the kid.

Ant Tenna the TV, Spamton the Spam mail and Adrianna the addison??? Dunno, I’m no naming expert. I mean Spamton is still an addison too but just ignore it for whatever naming scheme I’m trying to cook up.