#please just take a full step back from the internet

[qqquib]

so real! why does dream think people can’t make their own opinions! why is he acting like tubbo is not a grown adult who can make his own decisions and opinions!

“i think tubbo is just misguided”

why does dream get to say that? i don’t. understand. i’m really trying to be so unbiased here but the way he keeps implying that people can’t have their own opinion bc it’s not his, it’s not cool.

it feels so, as tubbo said, infantilizing. these people aren’t kids, they aren’t below below dream, they’re on equal footing.

i don’t like it :/

[hoonieyun]

interview with a vampire

pairing: sim jaeyun x reader genre: vampire!jake x talk show host reader, suspense/thriller, angst, supernatural, internet forum theme (?) warnings: mentions of blood, neck biting and other vampire activities lol, reader is a skeptic and a bit mean, jake is a vampire so you know... kissing, suggestive, 18+ not proofread lol

synopsis: yn, the new face of late night tv has made a calling on centering her show on supernatural and paranormal activities and entities because of her skepticism. tonight, she faces a real life vampire on her show; intending to prove his existence: false.

wc: 3017

“places! filming in 3.. 2..” the director signals a hand that filming has begun and a bright red light turns on in the far corner that says, “filming in progress”. 

“hello, everyone. my name is yn, the host of spooky skeptics and i’m going to cut all of this introduction bullshit and go straight into it– tonight, we have a special guest.” you said confidently, a flirty and sassy attitude wrapped around your tongue as you go through the introduction of your show. 

“as you can see, our usual live studio audience is empty and that’s because we have a real life ‘vampire’ in the studio tonight. he’s been alive, or i guess, dead? –for thousands of years, allegedly, and has taken time out of his busy schedule of being an undead creature to come onto my little show.” you continued, putting emphasis on certain words like vampire, allegedly, and undead to push the narrative that you’re very skeptical and find none of this to be true. 

that was the premise of your show after all. 

spooky skeptics first started out as a little youtube show, you’d make video essays on paranormal and supernatural events and creatures which eventually led to you going insanely viral on the internet, landing you a gig as a tv show host. 

what started off as you being, in all honesty, a hater on the internet, turned into a full blown production on a tv set and filming lot. 

“i know there isn’t an audience tonight but we are streaming live to all of you at home, so… everyone watching at home please give a warm welcome to jaeyun..” you said, with a barely warm tone as you welcomed him on your show. his aura is strong as he steps onto the stage, he’s wearing a beige suit, hair slicked, and features sharp but he has a warm smile on his face. 

it was like he was overjoyed to be there. 

“hi, jaeyun. welcome to spooky skeptics; i’m– yn.. i know.” he says, cutting you off when you attempt to introduce yourself. it catches you a bit off guard but you don’t fully let it show because inside, you know it was just an attempt to throw you off. 

“please introduce yourself.” 

“hello world, i’m sim jaeyun; but all of you can just call me, jake.” he says, a mysterious smile on his face as he looks into the camera.

“wait! let’s cut! sorry we’re having weird transmission issues, give us a second.” a staff member calls from the back and everyone cuts. the light in the back is now green, indicating that filming has paused. you drop your cards with your script on the table with a bit of an aggravted sigh, slightly slouching into your chair as they try to figure out what’s going on. 

“you look a bit tired.. are you alright?” jake asks, turning his head towards you but his body remains still in position. 

you look up at jake and blink at him, not expecting the question. 

“what is that accent? australian?” you ask and he nods. 

you pout and nod at his response. 

“um.. no i’m not tired– well kinda. we did have to film pretty late today, per your request, but anything for the show, right?” you tilt your head, a bit of a condescending smile on your face as you answer him. 

jake had several requests before making his appearance on your show. 

1: limited witnesses, right now there was only you, the director, and 3 other staff members. 

2: filming would take place after midnight because you know… he’s a “vampire”

3: for you to be open to him even if you’re skeptical of his existence 

you had followed all of these rules, maybe the third one not as much, but you tried your best not to be so strong with your skepticism. 

“you're..” jake says, eyes boring into yours. 

“what?” you ask, not completely sure of what you heard. 

“okay! we’ve got it situated, let’s run it back.” the cameraman says and soon filming restarts, picking up where you left off. completely forgetting the small conversation you were just having with jake. 

filming goes on and you ask jake several questions, a regular interview routine, and he seems to answer them with a sense of grace and maturity; not completely playing into your games. you weren’t completely sure if jake was just toying with you but his answers seemed to run in circles just enough so that it sounds fundamental but doesn’t have an actual answer within it. 

as much as you wanted to take this seriously it felt like he treated this interview as if  it was a joke. he didn’t give definitive answers, often responded with questions of his own, and tried his best to make you look like a fool for not believing in him. 

“okay– none of this even makes sense. if we go off of basic vampire rules and such, then none of it is correct. we can see you on the cameras and mirrors; and quite frankly, i actually had garlic wafted through our ventilation system and you seem completely fine. 

jakey.. can i call you that? jakey– i’m sorry but i don’t think you’re a real life vampire because vampires. don’t. exist.” you say with a shrug punching each word at the end– a smug expression on your face as you grill into him for the false narrative that he’s presented on your show. 

“everyone at home, i’m going to be honest… this episode is a bust and– give.” jake interrupts you with a single word and your face instantly turns towards him. 

you give him a puzzled expression, head slightly tilted to one side. 

“what did you say?” 

jake shakes his head with a pout as if he hadn’t said anything and when you look towards your team, they’re all exchanging glances with each other like you were crazy. seemingly enough, they hadn’t heard anything the way you had. 

maybe it was because they weren’t sitting right next to him. 

“um.. anyways. okay, please give me and our viewers at home a bit of a run down on what it’s like being a ‘vampire’.” you say, putting air quotes around the word vampire. 

jake chuckles with a scoff, a half smirk on his face as he looks down before looking directly into the camera to speak. “you know, being a vampire isn’t all it's cut out to be. i have to remain hidden, nonexistent, and constantly waiting. 

i wish i could be like you, all of you, living my life the way i want to. indulging in my cravings the way you all do. give into temptations. unleashing my desires for the world to see.” 

his voice is low but clear. he speaks with a cadence similar to a tune; like a lullaby almost. you’d be lying if you didn’t feel like you were in a bit of trance as you listened to him speak but you shook that feeling off when he looked back at you before he finished speaking. 

“mine.” 

once again, you look at him with a puzzled look but you choose not to address it. you for sure heard him clearly, he had said mine but the word was out of place from his previous statement. your eyes are narrowed at him as you slowly pull up your cue cards, almost like a shield, however not one that is effective. 

“right.. um.” you start to stutter a bit, like the longer you’re in the presence of jake, the harder it gets to remain focused. you weren’t sure if it was because you were getting tired of the interview or if it was due to jake’s unnerving aura. 

he wasn’t even doing anything but his lack of energy was replaced with a certain ambience that shifted as soon as he stepped in front of the camera. jake was merely sitting on the small couch in front of your desk, one leg crossed over the other with his shoulders back and posture upright. he was looking directly at the camera in front of him and would only look at you when he was speaking to you. 

you couldn’t help but take in his features. despite claiming to be a vampire, his features were soft. he had big round eyes, one of like a puppy, plump lips that look like they’re stained by strawberries, and a tall nose that grounded all of his features together. 

if you weren’t trying to prove this man as a farce, you would’ve complimented his looks, but you had a character to uphold. 

“to..” 

he speaks before you get a chance to read the next thing on your card. 

“what?” 

jake doesn’t move or respond so you decide to continue. 

“um– so, tell us jake. is there anything you want the world to know about being a vampire? not that i totally believe you are one.” you added, widening your eyes in doubt. 

“i exist.” jake looks straight into the camera with a stoic expression. his face barely even contorts when he speaks, like a statue or a puppet of some sort. your cameraman had his camera focused on your guest, eyes glued onto him as he watched the alluring man in front of the camera. 

“ah, shit!” the cameraman exclaims out of nowhere. 

“is everything alright?” you ask

“yourself..” 

jake’s words don’t register in your mind as your focus is on your team. “fuck– my nose is bleeding. sorry guys, give me a moment.” the cameraman excuses himself, hands around his face as blood begins to drip from his nose, covering his hands in crimson. 

small droplets fall onto the floor, trailing behind him. 

jake swallows the lump in his throat, forcing himself to remain unphased– but deep inside he wanted nothing more than to jump from his seat and chase down your cameraman and drain him of all the blood in his body until he’s become shriveled up– nothing but bones and skin left behind. 

you clear your throat before continuing. 

“let’s cut.” you suggest and everyone takes a break but because the main cameraman was dealing with his bloody nose, no one shut off his camera. “you know, my goal isn’t to convince you that i’m real, right?” jake speaks up as you’re taking a sip of your coffee. 

“then what is your goal?” 

“yourself..” 

“what? your goal is.. me?” 

jake slowly turns his head towards you, gaze piercing into your own as you get a full view of his face. your bottom lip starts to tremble as you battle and try your best to hold his gaze. jake doesn’t speak for a second, almost like he’s challenging you in a staredown. his dark orbs were like a blackhole and the longer you looked into them the more you felt yourself getting pulled in. 

“me..” 

and suddenly jake is rising from his seat on the couch and sauntering over to you. like he was floating almost. you begin to lean back into your chair so much, wishing it would just swallow you whole as you watch jake get closer and closer.

“what are you doing?” your voice falters as you question him.

but jake doesn’t answer. each step he takes makes your heart thud louder. all the while, jake can hear it 100x more than you can. the blood rushing through your veins and coursing through your body is like a lullaby to him. drawing him closer and closer. 

you look to your team for help but suddenly there isn’t anyone there. the director sitting in his chair was gone, everyone behind the cameras and lights, gone. nothing but stale air and a slight ringing in the atmosphere as your eyes wander. 

jake slamming his hands on your wooden desk and throwing it away with a crash causes you to flinch. the loud sound and aggressive action startled you as jake was now towering over your shaking body. you tried not to look him directly in the eyes but when you turn away, jake’s hand flies to your chin and pulls your face towards his. 

“don’t look away now love, didn’t you want to know if i was real.” he says, his voice was still low but it felt different. before, he sounded calm and reserved, sometimes his inflection would raise but now it was like a whole other person had stepped into his body. he sounded playful, almost like he was toying with you. 

“do i look real to you?” jake says, lowering his face closer to yours. so close that you could feel his breath on your skin. 

you swallowed the dryness in your throat, frozen against his touch. jake’s skin was freezing. not just cold, but freezing. you felt your body’s temperature fall several degrees when you felt his hand touch your face. so cold that the room itself began to feel like there was a constant chill wafting in the studio. 

you were able to spit out a small no through your quivering lips but jake’s grip on your chin only gets tighter as you try to fight him off. he brings his face even closer, his cheek slightly grazing yours as he brings his lips closer to your ears. 

“what about now?” he whispers into your ear, lips ever so lightly brushing against the shell of your ear as his words pool inside of your head. before you could answer, sharp fangs elongate inside of jake’s mouth and a searing pain in your neck causes you to gasp, an agonizing moan escapes from your lips. 

jake was indulging in your blood and you could feel all of your blood swimming towards his lips that are attached to your neck. you begin to get light headed, the studio lights above you getting brighter and brighter the longer jake sucks onto the supple skin of your neck. the fear rages through you and it only makes jake’s meal taste even sweeter. 

he smiles into your skin before pulling away. 

blood drips from his mouth as he looks down at you, eyes drooping and head bobbing around, trying your best to stay conscious– but you eventually succumb to the feeling. 

“delicious.” jake whispers. 

he stands up straight, fingers gently trailing over your lips before he dusts off his blazer. later wiping the blood off of his face and sucking the excess blood off of his skin. red, staining his face as your sweet and vibrant blood is smeared across his chin. his head slowly turns to the camera like an owl. 

a sinister smile slowly spreads across his face as the cameras suddenly cut, nothing left on the screen’s of the viewer’s watching at home. 

⸸

r/Supernatural Did you guys see this week’s episode of Spooky Skeptics? WTF was that?  submitted by: QuackPuma PrettyFoxPrince I saw it!! That was so crazy?? You think it was real? I doubt it, then we’d hear all about it on the news right? OrangeCatNyaaa That was so fake. I love YN and Spooky Skeptics but that episode was so whack.  BambiBoy God, that was insane. I hope YN is fine and that this was all a prank or something. Anyone find any updates on that guy by the way? I tried looking into him but I didn’t get anything besides some articles from the 1600s that were in a random ass language.  PrettyFoxPrince in reply to BambiBoy I tried to look him up too and didn’t get anything. I even tried reverse image searching him with a screenshot from the stream and I swear it gave me a virus or something. The words on my computer turned into random characters and when I refreshed the page it just said error.  IcePenguin Did you guys catch this? Whenever he’d say a random word, YN would look hella confused and I watched back the stream and put the words together. It took a bit of time but I was able to mix the words around and came up with this, “You’re mine. Give yourself to me.”  Fucking weird dude.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, what the fuck!! I just tried to rewatch the stream and it fucking crashed midway and when I refreshed it was gone. Someone needs to check in on them.  QuackPuma [NEW] Guys, I got an update. This is so fucked… I can’t believe it.  Article Linked: Late Night TV Show Host and staff found slaughtered on their TV set. Footage from cameras and security cameras on the premesis have been wiped. OrangeCatNyaaa in reply to QuackPuma What? That makes no sense, there’s a whole stream of it.  IcePenguin in reply to QuackPuma Yeah, that weirdo vampire guy named Jake did it?? Why is no one talking about him?? He’s a fucking murderer!! PrettyFoxPrince in reply to IcePenguin Who is Jake? That stream literally doesn’t have anyone on the screen besides YN?? She was probably tweaking the whole time and made it all up.  BlackCatShadow in reply to IcePenguin Bro, you’re tripping. I just watched the stream again and it’s just YN talking to an empty couch. Are you sure you aren’t behind this too? This is probably a publicity stunt or some shit. LAME! BambiBoy in reply to IcePenguin Ain’t shit there bro. YN probably hired you to come up with this hoax because her show was starting to flop. Click the link QuackPuma sent, they literally talk about a wild animal breaking onto their set. 

That was the very last episode of Spooky Skeptics. YN’s show on YouTube had 100 videos and her Late Night Show lasted for 2 seasons. 

The episode titled “Interview with a Vampire” was only up for one hour after the stream ended, suddenly disappearing from the internet– and when it returned at exactly 6am, the footage only shows YN seemingly interviewing nobody when static interference cuts the interview for 27 minutes before returning to normal. The sight of the aftermath of the slaughter remains on the screen for the rest of the playback before the screen goes black. 

⸸

ᡣ•.•𐭩♡ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @manaah02 @zorange13 @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy

copyright 2025 - present © hoonieyun all rights reserved all writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned. if you enjoyed reading this please consider reblogging and following <3

[thedevilsoftruth]

"It's just a tank top."

B. Barnes x f! Reader

Sum - You buy a new shirt that makes your husband act in a certain unexpected way when you model it for him.

W/c - 933

Smut tags: smut!! Breast play, Bucky's filthy fucking mouth, very light and barley mentioned daddy kink,even lighter breeding kink, bucky just really likes your boobs, reader is also implied to be plus sized/chubby because I'm selfish and self indulgent. Not beta read.

[ also my request box is open! Please see my pinned post for more information regarding my request rules. ]

I do NOT consent to my work being reposted on ANY website. Reblogs and comments are more welcomed, though.

MDNI!!! I am NOT responsible for what you find on the internet!!!

It starts out innocent enough. You're completely oblivious to the way Bucky had been craving you all day, and especially oblivious to the way your nipples were already hard against the new tank top you bought. It was just a tank top, anyway. There's nothing that special about it. But you had just come out of the shower and put the little thing on. It was a bit small on you, but it was the only one there that was remotely in your size range, and you just loved the color and design of it. It was a light baby yellow with the straps and low neckline laced. The hem was frilled. It hugged your stomach just right, and rode up just enough to almost let your belly button peak out. Your wet hair from the shower dripped onto the shirt a bit.

But the moment you stepped out of the bathroom, put your arms above your head, did that little spin and said in your pretty, sweet, innocent little voice, "what do you think, baby?" Bucky just knew he had to fuck you.

Your tits bounced when you spun. You had this beautiful little smile on your face that he wanted to watch disappear into one that was scrunched up in pleasure when he buried his cock into you. Not only that, but he could literally see your areolas through the yellow fabric. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he just could not wait any longer to get your fat pussy on his tongue.

"Come here." Is all he says. You frown at him and you toy with the hem nervously. You knew it was just a tank top. There wasn't anything special about a tank top.

"You don't like it?" You ask your husband, sad, but completely unaware of his hardened cock under the lavender bedsheets.

"Baby, that's the problem. I fucking love it. Now get your ass over here before I throw you on this bed and fuck you stupid."

Your pussy flutters. His voice is so deep and commanding that it instantly has your chubby legs pressing together. You hesitantly walk over to the foot of the bed, and he scoots down to it, putting his big hands on your bare hips, moving you to stand between his thick thighs.

"Can fucking see everything through this little thing." He says, low and gruff before he leans down and takes one of your clothed nipples into his mouth. Your back arches and you moan louder than you imagined you would. His eyes flick up to meet yours. "Never, ever wear this thing out in public."

His cold metal hand moves the tank top up and above the peaks of your breasts. Your nipples harden even more at the cold air brushing against them. You make the mistake of asking him why, and the fucker laughs at you.

"Cause you're not gonna see it the same way again after I fuck a baby into you tonight." His voice drops again and his hand cups the flesh of your soft stomach like magic. A warm feeling pools deep into your abdomen, and your eyes widen.

"Bucky..." You try to speak, but his mouth is back on you. His beard, thick, dark and full, scrapes against your skin as he kisses down to the underside of your breast. Your breath hitches and your chest heaves as he kisses and sucks.

"Mm, that's daddy to you." He says, pretty blue eyes staring up into your soul as he alternates to your other breast, wanting to give it the same attention. His metal hand palms the breast he was just worshipping while his thick, wet tongue laps over the peak of your breast. Your knees nearly give out when he grabs your stomach and rises to his feet. You bite your lip, looking up at him with innocent, big eyes.

"Get on the bed and spread your fucking legs." He grunts through gritted teeth, pushing you down onto your shared bed. A small noise leaves your mouth as your back hits the mattress. You prop yourself up on your elbows, disheveled and embarrassed. He stands at the foot of the bed, his hands on the black leather belt around his thick waist. You weren't going to obey because of the heavy embarrassment you were feeling, but your thick thighs automatically fall open for him anyways when he shoves his pants down and crawls up your body on the bed.

"Mm, such a pretty little thing." He says, eyeing your soaked center. He palms your sex with a large flesh hand, and you nearly start sobbing. "This from the shower or are you just that turned on from my voice?" He asks, rising up your body to nuzzle his face between your breasts. You whimper, your brain too fuzzy to form proper words.

"Yes." You breath, your hips moving against his palm without your permission. He pulls his hand back and smacks your pussy and bites the side of your right breast lightly. You cry out and his cock strains.

"Try again." He tells you. You pant, frustrated.

"Yes, daddy." You answer, your hands scrambling for the sleeves of his black henley for purpose. He grins and takes your nipple back into his mouth, his vibranium fingers tweaking your other one.

"Good fucking girl." He mutters against your skin. The vibrations make you shiver, but he leaves your skin with a wet pop.

"Now why don't you come up here, sit on my face and let me eat that gorgeous pussy of yours? Daddy's hungry."

[lazysoulwriter]

safe here. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: fluff overload, cuddly Pedro, big arms, big hands, small girlfriend energy, fans noticing how he melts into her hugs, gentle physical intimacy, relationship goals vibes

---

Pedro gives the best hugs.

Like, award-winning. God-tier. Can-he-suffocate-me-with-love level.

It’s the arms, really. Thick and strong, always wrapping around you with this all-consuming kind of warmth. One second you’re upright, the next you’re fully cocooned in him—your cheek to his chest, your entire body dwarfed under the size of him.

And those hands? His palm practically covers the entire top half of your back when he presses you close. It’s ridiculous. Unfair. Euphoric.

He always holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s making sure you know: This is home.

Even when people are around, cameras flashing, interviews waiting—he’ll take a second, wrap his arms around your waist from behind and rest his chin on your shoulder.

“I needed this,” he’ll murmur into your neck. “You okay?”

And the thing is, he never lets go first.

Even when you start pulling back, he holds on just a beat longer. Like you get to decide when the hug ends, not him.

It drives the internet insane.

After one red carpet, a clip goes viral:

You’re hugging him before stepping back for photos. Pedro’s arms are fully around you, your face pressed to his chest. His hand spreads massive against your back, and people start timing it—

“she pulls away first and he doesn’t even move 😭” “you can see his thumb rubbing her back just once before she steps away omfg” “this is PEAK boyfriend behavior” “his hand is literally half her back. i would never recover.”

And the zoom-ins? Unhinged.

Fans start calling them “Pedro Hugs™” and begging for a hug POV video. Some say they’d pay rent just to be held like that once. One person starts a countdown of how long it takes him to let go in public hugs.

Pedro finds it all hilarious. And maybe a little blushy.

“They’re obsessed with your arms,” you tease one night, scrolling.

He raises a brow, smug. “Jealous?”

You snort. “Only because I have to share you with the internet.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Nah. These arms?” He wraps them around you again, snug. “Exclusively yours.”

And he holds you until you say when.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[kunareads]

how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things

actor!satoru x popstar!reader

you and satoru fulfill the prophecy (he picks you up, pulls them down, turns you around).

prev / next

series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4.7k

satoru "filthy mouth" gojo!!! i had to stop writing this multiple times because of what he does to me. PART 3 VALENTINE'S DAY (comment for taglist)

content: fluff and SMUT! even more tension, you and satoru are once again the subjects of internet speculation, making out, 69, oral (m! and f! receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v sex, pronebone, cowgirl, he's very much in control here

18+ please <3

the internet does what it does best: fill in the blanks.

neither of you say anything. no statements, no denials, no acknowledgments. but speculation spreads like wildfire.

it started small. the blurry afterparty photos, the red carpet chemistry dissection, the think pieces about hollywood's most unexpected flirtation. the usual.

then you post an instagram story.

nothing special. just a close-up of a wine glass, city lights blurred in the background. no context, no caption. but the fans? they think they know.

twitter erupts.

@/satorumess: not to be crazy but i mapped out their locations based on timestamps and—

@/fulltimeshipper: this is worse than when the CIA redacted half that UFO document

@/ynupdates: y/n posting a cryptic story the same night satoru is spotted downtown… oh we are in the trenches forreal

then, satoru likes a tiktok.

a slow-motion edit of you in your red carpet and afterparty looks, set to some dramatic song, captioned this woman is dangerous, your honor.

he doesn't comment, doesn't follow the account. just leaves one single like. and the internet implodes.

@/fandomedits: nah this isn't pr this is a man down BAD

@/popcultupdates: GOJO SATORU LIKING THIRST EDITS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT WE HAVE LOST HIM COMPLETELY

@/ynstan: this man saw a slo-mo thirst edit and said "yeah let me cosign that"

but it gets worse.

an old clip resurfaces. a red carpet from last year. you and satoru, near each other but never interacting. a moment that meant nothing—until now.

fans slow it down, zoom in, analyze every tiny detail:

satoru steps onto the carpet, and your eyes flick toward him, barely noticeable.

he glances in your direction.

there's a beat where he exhales, seems to collect himself—something no one caught before.

and suddenly, it's evidence.

@/fathergojo: why do their interactions feel like deleted scenes from a romcom

@/yninvestigator: guys. GUYS. what do you MEAN she looked at him FIRST. what do you MEAN HE TOOK A BREATH AND LOOKED AWAY.

@/stanwars: suddenly i believe in fate. suddenly i understand greek tragedies.

apparently, none of this is new.

you and satoru are just catching up.

+++

+++

satoru isn't good at waiting.

patience isn't exactly his strong suit, but when the reward is this good? he doesn't mind.

you walk in like the last week never happened. like the chaos never even registered.

the rooftop lighting catches the silk of your dress, the shine of your jewelry, the sheen of your lips. it makes you look untouchable.

attention follows you effortlessly. heads turn, backs straighten. someone says something, you smile—polite, charming, distant. you're impossible not to watch.

and satoru watches.

he's become acquainted with the effect you have, but it hits harder tonight than it did a week ago.

because now he knows how you taste.

the glass in his hand is cool, condensation falling between his fingers. he takes a sip, tracking you, cataloging details no one else would catch.

the way your shoulders shift, subtle, as you get closer.

the flick of your gaze toward him before you fully reach him.

you stop beside him, close enough for the scent of your perfume to settle between you.

a pause before you meet his eyes.

"so… how's your week been?" you ask, tone light, a smile gracing your features.

satoru exhales a laugh, tipping his glass like a toast. "surprisingly quiet. you?"

as you talk, your fingers trace the rim of your glass. he watches. you let him.

he leans in when he speaks. you don't move away.

he notices the way the waiter lingers, the way you dismiss it with a polite, distant smile.

you notice the way his expression shifts at that, just slightly. neither of you acknowledge it.

"you're kind of a nightmare," you tease.

satoru grins, unbothered. "funny. some people call me a dream."

you laugh and roll your eyes at him. he takes his time with his next sip, letting the tension settle. you're watching him watch you.

it would be easy to let you play this game, to see how long you can act like you're not as impatient as he is. but he leans in, voice quiet, just for you.

"you gonna make me wait?" low, taunting.

you could, but you don't. instead, you lean in too, meeting him halfway. you set your glass down carefully. he mirrors you.

someone—a bartender, another guest—tries to pull you into conversation, but you don't reply.

you lean into him, your voice calm but sure.

"let's go."

+++

streetlights skim over sleek black paint as the car pulls up, satoru swinging the door open. you barely take a step before his hand finds the small of your back, fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

he grins lazily. "last chance."

you roll your eyes as you step in. "so dramatic."

he closes the door after you and circles the car, the driver pulling off.

the backseat feels too small.

you cross your legs. his knee brushes against yours, and he doesn't move away. his hand rests on his thigh, relaxed, too close to yours. deliberate.

you pretend not to notice, but he knows better.

the silence is louder than words. the city blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeding into the dark. the hum of the engine, the distant murmur of traffic, the faint pulse of something unsaid.

satoru exhales slowly, gliding his tongue over his teeth, thinking. he pushes a button, the partition rising.

you're both quiet, but it's a silent signal: stop pretending.

the second it clicks into place, he moves. or maybe you do. it doesn't matter. he's closer now, facing you, and you're already leaning in.

a beat. a sharp inhale.

his fingers skim your thigh, higher this time.

"i was trying to be good," you say quietly.

his voice drops, tight with restraint, and your breath catches. "don't."

the second the word leaves his lips, you're on him. a hand finds the back of his neck, drawing him in.

the first kiss is slow, but not reluctant. he drags it out because he can. he tilts his head, deepening it. he hums against your lips when you press closer, pleased.

his fingers tease higher. yours twist into his hair, nails scraping just enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

the car rolls to a stop.

neither of you move. not right away.

satoru's grip tightens, like he's considering pulling you onto his lap. like he could keep you here a little longer, let the city blur beyond the tinted glass while he takes his time.

instead, he drags his lips down your jaw, then lower. he breathes you in before murmuring, "upstairs."

+++

the door clicks shut, sealing you in. no music, no distant hum of the city, just quiet, dense and charged.

neither of you break the silence.

satoru steps in first. the air seems to crackle around him here the same way it does everywhere else.

you hold his stare, challenging. he waits.

a test. a game.

then, finally, you reach for him. his grin is lazy, knowing. like he was waiting for you to break first.

this kiss is purposeful. his lips brush yours—once, then again. a silent question, just the slow press of his mouth, the barely-there slide of his hands down your waist.

your fingers slip under his shirt, nails grazing skin, just enough to pull a slow, amused breath from him.

his hands find your hips, insistent, pulling you in until there's no space left. the shift makes you gasp into his mouth, and he drinks it in, looking smug, like he expected it.

like he's been waiting for this all week.

his grip tenses, like he's about to pull you closer—but then he's gone. his heat vanishes, his lips just a ghost of pressure before they disappear completely.

he barely moves when you chase him a bit, just tilts his chin, smiling. like he knew you wouldn't let him go. like he was counting on it.

you inhale, frustration sparking low in your chest, and you move before you think. your hands find his shirt, tugging him back in—but before you can, his fingers close around your wrists, catching you with ease.

his grin is knowing, his grip firm but teasing. he tilts his head, amusement spreading across his face.

"easy, princess," he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. "what's the rush?"

you arch a brow, fingers flexing in his grasp. "you did haul me out of the car."

his grin widens. "not like you put up a fight."

you push.

you press into him, backing him towards the wall. he lets you. lets you kiss him deeper, hands still wrapped around your wrists but relaxing, giving you room to move.

for a second, you think you've won.

then the world tilts and your back meets the wall with a gentle thud, your head tipping back slightly as he crowds you.

he smiles at you, eyes sparkling, enjoying himself too much. his hands settle at your waist, keeping you where he wants you.

you should be annoyed. instead, you match him and smirk right back.

you like the way he handles you.

his touch is maddening.

his fingertips skate over your ribs, your stomach, but never where you need them. it's intentional and exploratory, like he has all the time in the world.

and he does. his apartment is a sanctuary from the mess of the last week. no prying eyes or a disgruntled kento to interrupt here.

you shift, trying to lead him downward, but he only chuckles, barely making a sound.

"you can be patient for me, can't you?" his voice dips lower, "or are you already too far gone?"

he's mocking you, and reflex kicks in—your thighs squeeze together, and you feel the heat creep up your neck when he notices.

his fingers ghost up your inner thighs, teasing warmth into your skin before retreating. every near-touch is calculated, just enough to remind you of how easily he could give you what you want.

he watches as impatience builds in your expression, as your breath stutters when his hands graze your waist again.

your nails press into his shoulders, a silent dare. before he can smirk, before he can gloat, you roll your hips against him, slow, deliberate. the response is immediate.

his breath falters, a groan through gritted teeth. his jaw tightens like he wasn't expecting you to test him. for a split second, he stills entirely.

you smile at him. message received.

"if you wanna ruin me, do it right, satoru." a taunt disguised as a whisper, just enough to chip at his restraint.

his hold turns bruising, like he wants to leave something behind. the teasing tone vanishes, his smirk dissolving into something darker. your breath catches—not in surprise, but excitement as something kindles in your stomach.

because suddenly, it's not a game anymore.

the realization barely registers before he has you pinned, wrists above your head, mouth at your ear.

"hope you know what you're asking for," he murmurs, hips flush against yours. his voice is different now—rough, heat twisting through every syllable. you shudder at the sound, your body responding. he makes good on his words immediately.

his hands find the backs of your thighs—then, suddenly, you're weightless, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. your legs draw around his hips, heat pooling fast.

a startled breath leaves you, but he's already moving, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing at all.

he drops you onto his bed, grinning at the glare you send him when you bounce.

you don't even get the chance to scold—his hands are already on you, pulling your panties down.

his teeth graze your inner thigh before he bites down, sharp enough to make you whine, hips squirming. he exhales with a smile. "thought so." his tongue follows—slow, indulgent, a promise to ruin you.

you've barely found your breath when he shifts, broad hands pressing into your thighs, spreading you open. his gaze lifts, dark and teasing.

"comfortable?" he asks, lips skimming the inside of your knee.

you roll your eyes, about to retort—but your fingers curl into the sheets instead when his mouth finds your core, hot and devastating.

your hips shift, back arching, and he hums against you, content.

you move the moment he adjusts—quick, decisive, hands pushing into his shoulders. he lets you shift the balance, rolling onto his back, breath catching when he opens his eyes to find you above him.

your fingers work fast, tugging at his belt, yanking it free with a sharp pull. you work on the button, the zipper, pulling the fabric down just enough to free him.

he was so fucking cocky a second ago. now, he's not even breathing right, body taut under your hands. so you stroke once, then twice, then take him into your mouth.

no warning, no reluctance.

his grip tightens on your thigh, breath punching out like you knocked it loose. his head tilts back, jaw tensing, a soft "fuck—just like that, baby" escaping him.

you hum around him, pleased, tongue teasing, and he swears again under his breath. his hands fist into the sheets, trying to ground himself.

but satoru doesn't like being outmatched.

his fingers skate up your thigh, squeezing. and then his mouth is on you, tongue dragging through your folds, slow and deep.

you gasp against him, body tensing, and he grins.

"that's better," he mutters against you, lips brushing sensitive skin before his tongue circles once, twice.

the sound you make is muffled around him, and he groans in response, the vibration rolling through you both.

you try to keep a rhythm, fingers curling at the base as you sink down, but every time his tongue moves just right, every time he sucks at your clit, you falter.

he notices, and he loves it.

his hands tighten on your hips, keeping you still as he buries his face deeper, determined, fucking into you with his tongue, sending you to the edge without mercy.

you try to keep going, try to keep your lips wrapped around him, but every nerve in your body is on fire, pressure winding as you moan around him.

he grins against you. "that's it, princess. lemme hear it."

his fingers dig into your skin, tightening as he licks into you with purpose, drawing desperate sounds from your throat.

it's too much. you pull your mouth off of him, panting, lips slick and hips twitching against his face as the bliss hits all at once, unraveling you from the inside out.

"satoru, fuck," you gasp, the words nearly unintelligible through your moans. you can't do anything but let it consume you, your body seizing before the release finally drives through you.

you gasp, sharp and unsteady, his name tumbling past your lips again, voice cracking into a whine.

satoru doesn't stop until you're shaking, your legs weak, pleasure rolling over you in dizzying, tormenting waves.

only when your thighs twitch, too sensitive, does he finally pull away. his face is wet, and he's breathless. he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking up at you, eyes dark and lazy.

"you're fucking perfect," he murmurs, voice hoarse, before flipping you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress.

you're still coming down when he lifts your hips, tucking a pillow underneath them.

his breath is warm against your shoulder, steady and grounding. his lips trail down your spine, flirting, savoring the way you squirm. a hand settles on your hip possessively, making sure you don't slip away.

his other hand trails lower, sliding between your legs, fingers pressing in—gradually, unhurried, teasing the mess he left behind.

"fuck, baby—you're dripping for me." his voice is all rough edges and satisfaction, murmured against your ear. you shiver. his fingers slide through your folds, spreading your slick, teasing the spot he knows will make you gasp.

"been thinking about this all week," he mumbles, kissing the curve of your neck. his fingers dip lower, pushing inside, slow and deep. "bet you have, too."

you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"should've had you like this that night. should've fucked you right up against that wall."

his fingers move at an unbearable pace, curling, pressing into the spot that makes your knees weak. your hips jerk, but he holds you still.

"needy, huh?" his breath is burning against your ear, teasing, smug. "tell me how bad you want it, baby."

your fingers clutch the sheets, patience fraying. you should fight him— push back, make him work for it—but you're too far gone for games.

"satoru—"

his fingers stall. "mm, not good enough."

"want you," you gasp, growing desperate. "need you inside me."

he groans like you just hit him where it hurts. he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty for barely a second before the thick of him replaces them.

he slips the tip through your folds, slick and teasing, but doesn't push in. "this what you wanted?" he asks, rougher now.

"yes."

"say it again."

your breath stutters, but you give him what he wants. "yes. please," you gasp.

his hands flex against your hips, keeping you still as he pushes forward, stretching you open with an unrelenting drag that knocks the air from your lungs. it's almost too much—almost—but you want all of it. you take all of him.

he moves in slowly, and a shaky gasp escapes as he bottoms out, deep inside you, holding himself there, letting you feel it.

his breath is ragged now, his exhale hot against your skin. "fuck."

his hands slide up your sides, guiding you, holding you where he needs you.

"you feel so fucking good," he breathes, voice dipping into something ruined.

his hips roll, deep and slow, like he wants to feel everything. like he wants to make this last.

you think for a second that you won't survive at this pace.

satoru brings his body lower, pressing his chest flush against your back, all heat and tension, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he sinks in.

his arms slip under yours, palms spreading over your shoulders, drawing you into him. not just pulling you back, but owning the space between you.

hi thrusts are indulgent, stretching, coating himself in you. his breath is uneven, satisfaction humming in your ear.

you push your hips back into him, matching his rhythm.

satoru exhales a sharp breath, fingers digging in. "you trying to make me lose it?"

you don't answer, just push back harder on instinct.

his response is immediate—a sharp, precise thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, ripping a moan from your throat before you can swallow it down.

"thought so," he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder.

his pace turns deep and steady—controlled, measured. he brings his face close to yours, wanting to watch you react, to feel you tighten around him with every movement.

but you're impatient. you shift, pressing up onto your elbows, angling your hips just enough to take him deeper.

his pace stutters. he swears under his breath, voice raw, and one arm locks around your waist. he holds you in place as he fucks into you now, hard enough to leave you trembling, helpless against the bed.

his name leaves your lips, breathless and desperate.

"fuck—it's so good," he groans, half-choked, messy. his face buries into your neck, hands gripping like he's holding on for dear life. "let me hear you, baby."

you can barely think, barely breathe. his hand slides between your legs, fingers finding that spot, pressing slow, teasing circles.

"satoru—"

he chuckles, low and smug, but there's an edge to it now, a tension in the way his hips stutter, his movements losing their precision.

and then you tighten around him, body seizing, pleasure cresting all at once—

"fuck," he bites out, breathless, grip tightening like he's trying to hold on.

and then—he pulls out.

a sharp inhale, the loss making you gasp, but before you can even form a thought—

he flips you over.

"not done with you yet," he mutters, voice rough, gaze dark as he hovers over you.

and just like that, everything shifts.

his hands find you the second he pulls out—a sharp, dizzying shift as he flips you over, settling beneath you. his hands slide up your ribs, brush over your breasts, then slide back down.

his fingers splay wide on your hips, steadying you, but it's his gaze that pins you in place. "wanna see you like this," he murmurs, voice low, still rough from before.

your lips part, but the way he looks at you makes it hard to tease. instead, your nails drag down his chest, unhurried, feeling his abs tense beneath your touch.

"yeah?" you breathe.

his fingers flex, tightening just slightly. "yeah, baby. show me how bad you want it."

you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once, slow and teasing, just to watch him squirm.

his jaw clenches, but he doesn't push. he lets you take your time, lets you set the pace, struggling to hold back.

you don't make him wait long.

you line him up and sink down, savoring the stretch—the way he exhales, sharp and shaky, fingers digging in.

"fuck," he breathes, watching you, eyes dark, half-lidded, all heat.

one of your hands finds his shoulders, nails scraping lightly as you start to move. the other moves down to where you're connected, feeling just how far he spreads you open.

at first, it's slow—like you're figuring each other out all over again. a careful roll of your hips, tension simmering, teasing at something deeper.

but it doesn't last.

his grip firms, guiding you down, matching your rhythm. he thrusts up to meet you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

"you feel me, princess?" he asks, pulling you down harder, deeper.

you answer him with a desperate little whimper that makes him melt.

both of your movements are messy, desperate—like you both know exactly where this is going and you need to get there.

your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping, tugging just slightly, and he hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

his hands slide up your spine, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing to yours, breathing hard.

"you feel so fucking good," he murmurs, almost a whine. "so wet for me, so fucking perfect."

you can't even speak. your thoughts blur, pleasure winding tight, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

he shifts beneath you, angling deeper, hitting exactly where you need him. the sudden jolt of pleasure makes your whole body tighten, makes you let out a sound you didn't mean to make—

a loud, broken moan, breathy, helpless.

his head snaps up, eyes wild, something cracking behind them—like he just lost his last thread of control.

"oh," his breath shudders, grip tightening. "oh."

and then he's gone.

he snaps his hips into yours, his hands gripping, guiding, setting a pace that's relentless, that has you gasping, nails biting into his shoulders.

your vision goes hazy, body tightening, winding up unbearably fast. you try to tell him you're close, but all that comes out is a shaky, broken "satoru—"

"oh, fuck—there it is," he breathes, voice dropping, eyes dark and triumphant. "knew you'd sound so fucking sweet falling apart for me."

his hand finds your clit, pressing just right—teeth gritting as he holds on, watching you break first.

and you shatter.

it slams into you, sharp and consuming, a shockwave rolling through your body. your breath stutters, a broken gasp stumbling free as you tighten around him, locking him in.

he feels it—the way you pulse around him, the way you tremble, how your moans dissolve into something helpless. it undoes him. his arm slides your waist, his other hand finding the back of your neck, and he pulls you closer like he needs you.

he curses as you tremble against him, holding you close, burying himself deep in you as he falls apart.

your name leaves his lips like a prayer, breathless, reverent. he groans against your skin as he finally spills into you. pleasure crashes through him, and for a moment, all he can do is feel **the heat of you, the way you throb around him, the way your body takes him like you were made for this.

for a second, you both stay still; the only sound between you is the sharp, uneven puff of breath.

your hands shake against his chest. his fingers are still locked around your waist.

he exhales a wrecked laugh, warm and lazy against your temple.

"so fucking worth the wait," he murmurs, voice low, sated. he kisses all over your face, palm smoothing down your spine. "knew you'd be perfect for me."

+++

morning light spills through the curtains, golden and soft, warming tangled sheets and bare skin. everything is still. quiet, but not empty. satoru is warm against you, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. at some point in the night, your leg found its way between his, one of his arms draped lazily over your waist.

you shift, stretching slightly, and his fingers flex at your hip, like some part of him refuses to let you go.

he murmurs something unintelligible, voice low and drowsy. then, with a slow, easy smile against your skin, "stay."

you huff a quiet laugh. "clingy."

"mmm," he hums, voice is thick with sleep. "you're warm."

he still hasn't opened his eyes. he just shifts a little, nestling deeper into you. his fingers pressing idly into your hip, like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath them.

you stay like that for a while.

you steal a button-up from his closet when you finally get up, slipping it over your shoulders before following him into the bathroom. he doesn't comment, just flicks his gaze over you, lips twitching, before rummaging through a drawer. a moment later, he presses a spare toothbrush into your palm.

"definitely took you for the clingy type."

he grins, stretching lazily against the counter. "not my fault you're so soft."

you brush your teeth side by side, bleary-eyed in the mirror. he stands just a little too close, bumping into your arm like he can't help himself.

and when you head back to bed, he follows, catching your wrist just before you climb in, guiding you back under the covers with ease.

"wait." his lips brush your shoulder. "just stay there."

"i am staying," you point out, amused.

"good," he hums, pressing one last kiss to your head before disappearing into the kitchen.

satoru returns minutes later, two mugs in hand. he sets yours on the nightstand before wordlessly disappearing back to the kitchen.

you wait until you smell breakfast, then you get up and follow the scent out to his kitchen island.

he doesn't ask if you're hungry. he just plates your food and sets it in front of you without a second thought.

you steal sips from his juice between bites, and he lets you, just watching, amused, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

soft touches happen naturally, thoughtlessly.

his palm finds the small of your back when he moves past you, warm and steady.

your fingers brush when you both reach for the same thing.

his knuckles graze your thigh when he leans back against the counter.

none of it feels unfamiliar.

you stay longer than you expected to. he doesn't call you out on it.

the goodbye is unserious, drawn out in a way that makes it obvious neither of you is in a rush.

"try not to miss me too much," you tease, pulling on your shoes with a grin.

he smiles, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. "oh, i will."

his tone is playful, but something about the way he says them makes you hesitate, just for a second.

and as you step out, just before it closes behind you, he calls after you.

"i'll be thinking about you, y'know."

tags (ongoing): @moonchhu @httpstoyosi @lavnder311 @harryzcherry @perkypeony @katecupcakekate @hellicify @oh-my-god-donald @jupiterbinnie @i88b0nten @satxoru @chuuminn @moncher-ire @r0ckst4rjk @flwerie @raendarkfaerie @pinksdump @blkmystery @pearlessance @satoruxsc

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

Caught in 4K

George Clarke x Reader (ArthurTV’s sister) Warnings: Swearing, mutual pining, secondhand embarrassment via YouTube comments

Summary: You join Arthur and George in a YouTube video, the last thing you thought would happen was fans going crazy over you and George. 

Word Count: 1600

Masterlist

You hadn’t meant to be in the video.

Honestly, you just came to drop off Arthur’s phone charger and maybe steal a Diet Coke from his fridge. But then George Clarke was there, stretched out on the couch in a hoodie that had definitely been washed too many times, looking up with that easy grin that always made your heart stutter.

“Oi,” he said. “You staying or just passing through?”

You should’ve passed through. Should’ve said no and gone home and spared yourself the entire internet finding out about your very inconvenient crush.

Instead, you dropped onto the arm of the couch, right beside George, and said, “What are we watching?”

It was supposed to be a throwaway reaction video. Just you, Arthur, and George reacting to painfully awkward dating show clips.

But then George laughed at one of your sarcastic comments. And you laughed at his. And you started leaning into each other without realizing, shoulder brushing shoulder, sharing a blanket by the end of it.

And when Arthur shouted, “Alright, I swear if you two flirt any harder I’m cutting the camera,” you just rolled your eyes and flipped him off — but George?

George flushed.

Not a lot. Just a little. But enough.

The video goes up the next day. You think nothing of it. Until your phone starts blowing up.

Your DMs. Your texts. Your Twitter notifications. A friend sends you a TikTok.

✨ “POV: you’re watching George Clarke fall in love in real time.” ✨ Captioned: he’s never looked at Arthur like that 😭

You blink. Open the video. And yeah. That’s your face George is staring at, soft and distracted, in 1080p.

There are hundreds of comments already.

“why does George look like he wants to kiss her every time she speaks 😭” “can we get a ship name or…?” “petition for a double date video with George and reader 👀” “bro Arthur has no idea”

You stare at your phone for a full minute. Then: You: “Arthur. Have you seen the comments.” Arthur: “Yeah what the fuck is this.” Arthur: “Did you two plan that or???” Arthur: “Also are you dating??” You: “NO.” You: “Absolutely not.” You: (less convincingly) “Right??”

You’re halfway through doom-scrolling when your phone buzzes again. George Clarke: I think the internet ships us. You: Lmao I saw 😅 George: Do we correct them? Or just let them spiral? You: Let’s see how bad it gets first. George: So you’re saying there’s a chance 😏 You: George. George: Right right. Professional. Totally normal. No flirting. George: …Unless you want to.

You stare at that last message for longer than you’d like to admit.

You see him again three days later. Arthur invites you to watch the Arsenal match at George’s flat, and when you show up, George opens the door like he’s been waiting all day.

“Hey,” he says, eyes dropping to your hoodie. “Is that my jumper?”

You glance down. It is. Definitely.

You shrug. “Maybe.”

George steps back to let you in. “Guess it looks better on you.”

You nearly trip on the rug.

Halfway through the game, Arthur disappears to take a call. You and George are left alone on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn between you.

“I’m not gonna lie,” George says, “some of those edits were kind of flattering.”

You snort. “You liked the one where they said you looked like a Victorian man in love?”

George grins. “You didn’t?”

“Please. I looked like I was seconds from throwing up.”

He nudges your knee with his. “You looked beautiful.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then: “You’re just saying that so I’ll come on more videos.”

George shrugs. “Can’t say I’d mind.”

Your heart does something stupid in your chest.

Later, when Arthur’s in the other room and the match is over, George walks you to the door like some sort of gentleman. You pause, turning to him before leaving.

“So,” you say, voice too quiet. “Still letting the internet spiral?”

George watches you for a beat. Then steps just a little closer.

“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s getting harder to pretend they’re wrong.”

You blink.

Before you can answer, Arthur yells from the kitchen: “Oi, you leaving or moving in?”

You both laugh, flinch apart, and you step out into the night with your heart in your throat.

It gets worse before it gets better.

Worse, in the sense that you and George keep pretending you’re not flirting when you absolutely are.

He starts texting more. Sending voice notes. Suggesting film nights — just the two of you. He finds excuses to touch your arm, to sit too close, to comment on your photos like he’s not in love with you.

You pretend not to notice. Mostly because Arthur definitely is noticing.

“You and George have been acting weird,” he says one night, halfway through a shared Deliveroo order. “Weird how?” “I dunno. Suspicious. Coy.” “Coy?” “Like you’re two teenagers trying to hide a crush and you think you’re being subtle.”

You laugh way too hard at that.

Which doesn’t help your case.

The truth is, you and George are very not subtle.

A fan makes a compilation: “George Clarke being absolutely gone for ArthurTV’s sister for 7 minutes straight.”

It goes viral.

Arthur sees it. Of course he does.

You find out when he storms into your room holding his phone. “You didn’t tell me you actually like him.” You look up from your laptop. “I don’t—” “Don’t lie,” he says, deadpan. “He literally zoomed in on your face during a TikTok like he was filming a wedding video.”

You groan, dragging a pillow over your face. “Can we not?”

But Arthur isn’t angry. He’s just… stunned.

“You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“You being in love with my best friend is inherently weird.”

You peek over the pillow. “You’re not mad?”

Arthur sighs. “Honestly, I’m more mad at George for being such a coward about it.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He smirks. “He’s been into you since December. At least. Possibly longer. It’s been hell watching him fumble every time you walk into a room.”

Your heart stops. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he says, grabbing his charger. “Sort your shit out, yeah?”

You don’t see George for a few days. It’s not intentional, just a mix of work and nerves and—okay, maybe it’s a little intentional.

Then he messages.

George: Do you want to come over tonight? Just us. George: I’ve got the good snacks.

You stare at the screen. Then type:

You: Yeah. I think we need to talk anyway.

He opens the door like he’s been holding his breath all day.

You step inside, brushing past him, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of everything — the soft light, the way his hand lingers at your back, the heat in your cheeks.

“So,” George says, once you’re curled on the couch with popcorn you won’t eat. “You wanted to talk?”

You glance over at him. He’s not watching the movie. He’s watching you.

“I talked to Arthur.”

George freezes.

You continue, voice quiet: “He said you’ve liked me for a while.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean for him to find out.”

“Is it true?”

He hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah.”

You exhale. Your hands are shaking a little.

“I didn’t tell him about us,” George says quickly. “I didn’t want to mess things up with you. Or with him.”

“There isn’t an us,” you say.

George flinches.

You add: “But there could be.”

That gets his attention.

“You sure?”

You nod, slow and certain. “I think I’ve been sure for a long time.”

He laughs under his breath, almost disbelieving. “God. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There’s a beat. Charged, quiet.

And then, like gravity’s had enough of the waiting, he leans in.

It’s slow — cautious, warm, his hand curling at your jaw, your breath catching — and then it happens.

And it’s everything.

Later, tangled up on the couch, the movie long forgotten, you glance at his phone buzzing with a new comment notification.

Top comment on your last video:

“George finally pulled Arthur’s sister?? I KNEW IT” 37k likes. 400 replies.

George groans into your neck. “We are never living this down.”

You grin, brushing his hair from his face. “Totally worth it.”

Then his phone lights up.

A new text.

Arthur: Fine. Just don’t break her heart or I’ll kill you.

George reads it out loud and winces. “Noted.”

You laugh, kissing him again.

Top Comments:

💬 @arthurtv:

I leave you two alone for FIVE MINUTES. ↳ @georgeclarke: sorry dad 😔 ↳ @y/n: don’t act like you didn’t know. ↳ @arthurtv: I DID I JUST DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT WITH MY EYES

💬 @fanpage_georgeclarke:

WE WON. WE ACTUALLY WON. ↳ @fanpage_yt_ships: this is my Super Bowl ↳ @thatcompvidgirl: shout out to me for making the edit that started it all 💅

 💬 @randomuser368:

“Arthur’s soft launch was when he introduced her in the first video lol”

💬 @randomuser398:

Bro waited YEARS. He deserves this. ↳ @user7474: THE SLOW BURN PAID OFF 😭

 💬 @randomuser420:

“this is better than a romcom.”

 💬@randomuser298:

 “she joined ONE video and he was never the same”

💬@randomuser354:

 “we need a YouTube q&a ASAP”

[seoafin]

ship of theseus (V) pairing: dick grayson x black widow!reader warnings/tags: word count: ~7.5k

please heed warning tags here

“He’s staring at you.”

You don’t take your eyes away from the spreadsheet open on your computer as you log in returned books. Four books are going straight to the ‘on hold’ pile. Now that The Oresteia’s been returned, you can keep it to the side for James, a highschooler at Bludhaven High who comes in biweekly to prepare for his SAT because he lacks steady internet at home. He wants to go to Gotham University on a competitive scholarship named after some rich gothamite. “Hm.”

Lucy giggles. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see her twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Despite the smile on her face, she grits out your name. “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

You slowly drag your gaze up. Blue eyes overtake yours instantly. Objectively, he’s attractive. Devastatingly so even. You take him in, assessing him with a glance. Clean shaven, with a sharp jawline and full lips and joyful eyes so blue they stand out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. There’s a flirtatious curl to his lips, but not so much crass as it is friendly. Inviting. Like he could make you the most important person in the room just by looking at you. And he carries himself with the confidence of a man who knows it all too well.

You stare at him blankly until the high resting smile on his face slightly falters at the edges.

You return your attention to the monitor. 

Lucy’s grip on the armrest of your chair tightens. “He’s coming,” she rushes out, with a note of reverence in her voice. “He’s walking over. Oh god, he’s so hot. He looks like he smells good. He’s got to be single, right?” She straightens.

You don’t plan on finding out. You rise from your seat, and grab the nearest stack of books to be shelved.

There’s three books in your arms. Alice in Wonderland, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Little Prince. You’re systematically rearranging the middle shelf of books, when someone approaches from the other side of the stacks. You can see his face through the gaps of the books. You don’t stop. 

“I haven’t seen you around,” the man says casually, head slightly cocked to the side. The blinding smile is back, revealing pearly white teeth. “I’m Dick. Are you new here?”

It’s not flirtatious as you had been anticipating. He sounds genuinely curious. It doesn’t mean anything. Before you find yourself focusing on the cadence of his voice, the rhythm of his breaths, and the dilation of his pupils, you shelf a book. No more, you think. Not anymore.

Be friendly , Fiona, the head librarian had hissed to you hours earlier. The parents are complaining you’re unsociable.

“Yes.” It had taken a chance job opportunity, a twenty minute hack job, and a fake degree, and you had somehow managed to swing the job interview by playing up your enthusiasm for the dewey decimal system and how you didn’t mind working overtime. What else did you have to do.

“Thought so. I check up on a few kids here, and thought I haven't seen you around before. New to the city?”

You give him a once over, taking in the lax posture, and easy smile. Except. You can tell his weight is evenly distributed on both feet; ready for fight at a hat’s drop. He had walked towards you swiftly, steps light, while also conserving his pace. The gait of a man who thinks quickly on his feet, and moves even faster. His body is subtly angled towards the exit, either suspiciously shifty or keen on observing the people walking in and out of the library. 

Not a cop. Not even special services. Something more. 

“Yes.”

He nods. “I moved to Bludhaven myself a couple of years ago. I’m from Gotham.”

If the man is daunted by your monosyllabic responses, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he seems completely at ease with this one sided conversation. You straighten a few books, and rearrange a couple of books on the wrong side of the shelf. 

There’s a few heartbeats of silence.

He drums a few fingers on the shelf from the other side of the stacks. “So, you like books?”

Only a sliver of his face is visible. You meet his gaze through the singular empty gap in the shelf, just narrow enough for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Dark blue. You think of the sky just before a storm, and the ocean you tried to drown yourself in.

There’s a look on his face as he regards you. Calculating, amused, and fascinated all at once. It reminds you of her so much you can’t look away. It reminds you of her so much you almost ask him to stay. 

“No.” You slot the book in place, removing his face.

2.

You’re being followed. 

You clock it as soon as you turn the corner. Petty thieves looking to make an easy penny. You’ve never experienced being mugged before. You suppose walking around with a famous six foot something super soldier around the streets of New York practically guaranteed criminals away. You’re almost tempted to let them take your wallet. It’s nice being a normal person. 

Bludhaven is a city of suspicious character. When you first arrived in this world, you had discovered cities by names you didn’t recognize. Gotham. Metropolis. Star city. Central city. Vigilantes abound, protecting their individual cities. In your world, you had observed your government try to enact a law regulating super powered individuals, and the ensuing civil war. You don’t know how these vigilantes would feel about such a thing. But perhaps the group calling themselves the Justice League bypasses it all anyway.

Your google search for Bludhaven’s vigilante yielded easy results. Pictures of dubious quality to pictures shot with professional cameras unearthed a man in skintight spandex. Black with some sort of bird stretching across his chest down his finger stripes. Nightwing. You perused it all: reddit threads dedicated to tracking the movements of vigilantes, facebook fan groups speculating different identities, twitter users liveblogging hero sightings. 

Not so much different from your world. Though your heroes didn’t care much for hiding their identities. Peter was the exception. Except, Peter always seemed to be the exception. 

Out of all the cities in the United States, the general consensus seemed to be that Gotham was the most crime riddled, with its own set of depraved villains that had everybody but the Gotham born and bred wondering why anybody lived there.

Bludhaven, Gotham’s sister city was separated by a forty minute drive on the freeway and boasted the same impressive crime rate. You had chosen this city to be your home. Strange, and bleak, but interesting. Which is why none of this comes as a surprise to you. It’s 2am. You had bid James a goodnight, watching him get onto his bicycle and speed away like hell was on his wheels. You suppose he didn’t want to stick around these streets at night. Now you are walking the full forty minutes to your apartment, right next to the water you’re sure doubles as toxic waste. 

You slip into an empty alleyway with a dead end. You hear footsteps following. Three men. One of whom is slightly drunk. You turn just as they fan out, surrounding you.

“Hey there missy,” one of them says, saggy, patched jeans and a greasy shirt. He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth. “Lovely night, eh?”

You stare at him. 

“This one doesn’t seem like much a talker,” the one to your direct left says. Bald. He leers at you. “But I’m sure I can get some nice noises out of you. Where d’you live sweetheart?”

Another one laughs. There are pit stains on his dirty white button up. “In fact, why don’t we all have some fun?” He eyes your bag, but he leans on one side of his body. The drunk one. “We’ll make this nice and easy fer ye. Just hand yer bag over—” out of his back pocket he pulls out a 9mm handgun “—and let’s have a nice time at yer place.”

“I’d rather you shoot me,” you intone.

The three exchange a brief look of disbelief. 

The man with the gun tightens his grip, an ugly snarl building on his face. “I don’t think you understand me—” 

There’s a movement in the darkness behind the men. You don’t bring attention to it by not looking. Then a glass bottle shatters on the ground, and a wide eyed blonde girl stares at the four of you in shock, before taking a step back. She looks like she just stumbled out of the nearest dive bar. A college student.

The man swings around, pointing the gun at the girl, whose eyes go very, very wide.

“Well, well, looks like we’ve got another one.”

“Um. I. I. I can give you my wallet.” The girl fumbles with the purse at her side. Her fingers are shaking. “I have money. I can—”

“Shut up.” He’s still pointing the gun at her. The man to your right looks uneasy. The one on your left grins, staring at the girl’s bare legs in her leather miniskirt. Nothing good can come from a look like that. “Get over here.”

The girl flinches. “I—”

“He’ll shoot you!” The bald one cackles. He saunters over to the girl, body locked tight. “C’mon sweetheart, we’ll give you a good time. Promise.” He slides a hand down the girl’s bare back before pushing her towards your direction. 

The man without a gun has her wrist in his hand, her body trembling in his grip. “Just stay still,” he mutters, annoyed.

You don’t move a muscle because you know the man is trigger happy enough to shoot. The appearance of a younger, much more frightened girl has emboldened him. Now, he’s serious. You should have taken these degenerates out on the street. Your mistake.

“We can go to my apartment,” you say quietly. “Without the girl.”

He snorts. “Why have one when I can have two?”

You watch as an epiphany hits his face, and know what he’s about to do. All you need is two seconds. No time to think. One gun.

You hesitate. Normal. You promised yourself. No, you promised her. No, she promised you. No more. Just us . Except there was no you without her. There is no you without the blood on your hands. You feel your stomach curl. No more, you told yourself. No more. 

In the next second, the man has the college student in his clutch, arm pressed to her neck, as he holds the gun to her head. To you, he says, “Take off your shirt.”

The relief cuts against the despair, so stark it snaps you back into the correct mindspace. This, you can do. 

You unbutton your shirt. It drops to the ground.

“That’s more like it,” baldly groans, coming up behind you and pressing his body against yours. He smells of something rancid. 

The girl is crying silently now, eyes pleading with you. You don’t think your gaze conveys much comfort. She closes her eyes. You look to the third man, who doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Don’t leave me waiting now,” the man grins. “Pants too.”

Your pants join your shirt in a crumbled heap.

A whistle right behind you. An arm snakes around your waist, fingers playing with the edges of your panties. “ God damn! Think I need this one on her knees. Let me take a go with her first. You went first last time!” You let him roughly shove you to the ground, on your back. Rocks dig into your skin. 

“Oh god,” the girl whimpers, crying harder. “Oh god.”

He forces your legs open. The man unzips his fly, shoving down his pants. You wait. Until he gets close enough that you can put him to sleep. 

“Shut the fuck up bitch,” he grinds out in her ear. “Just wait until your turn and—”

Two things happen at once. An escrima stick slams the gun out of his hand. It skitters underneath the garbage disposal. The girl is let go of, and she drops to her knees as a blur of a man dressed in black lands a kick straight to his chest, sending right to the ground. The man is ripped off of you. Nightwing throws him into the nearest brick wall, hard enough that you hear something crack, and punches him until he’s unconscious on the ground once more.

The girl stands on shaky legs, and runs out of sight.

The third man starts to run after, but Nightwing catches up easily, slamming a baton into the side of his face. You see blood and a tooth that gleams in the light, both landing somewhere in the dark.

You rise from the ground.

“— scum like you who have nothing better to than—”

“You’ll kill him.”

Nightwing stops, one hand clenched around the man’s shirt, the other bloodied fist raised high in the air. His chest is heaving, but not from exertion. The domino on his face makes his gaze indecipherable. 

In all the pictures you’ve seen, there’s usually a smile on the vigilante’s face. An air of joviality that surrounds him, so that you can discern it, even in pictures. It’s uncharacteristic of a vigilante that operates out of a crime infested city. You think this is a sight he must see often enough. A drunk man, a half naked girl. The anger surprises you, even though you shouldn’t. You know good people exist. 

Nightwing lets go of the man, who falls in a pool of his blood. His fingers curl shut, knuckles briefly going white.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he tries casually, trying to infuse his tone with good humor. There’s a smattering of blood across his cheek. It falls flat. “Are you alright?”

The concern is real. He doesn’t approach, as if you’re some easily spooked horse. It reminds you that you aren’t wearing clothes. 

“Fine,” you say, turning back to your crumbled clothes. Nightwing glances away as you redress, shifting on the balls of his feet as if he doesn’t quite know what to do. His body language is taut, torn between outrage and the need to comfort. He hides it well. You can tell he’s still angry. Angry enough to punch out a few more teeth. 

“The police are coming to get them,” he says solemnly, jaw tight. “I won’t let them hurt anyone else.”

“Thanks.” You rarely have an opinion on the police on a good day other than useless.

You walk away, expecting him to disappear into the shadows or the rooftops or whatever the vigilantes of this world do. Instead, he follows.

At the foot of the alley, connecting to the main street, the girl is crying into her knees on the curb.

You debate on letting good samaritan Nightwing handle it. You’ve never been good with comfort. You can feel his gaze bearing into the back of your head, and know he’ll likely follow you home. You also can’t help but feel…responsible.

You sit down next to her, leaving enough space not to overwhelm her.

“That was scary, wasn’t it?” You say softly.

She lifts her head, tear face puffy. “That was awful! I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. “They were going to—”

“There’s no point in focusing on the what ifs. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

She blinks at you. Her lipstick stained lips warble. “How are you so okay?”

Because there is nothing a man could do to you that hasn’t been done to you already. That you had been opening your legs for men since you were a child. That it’s much easier to be afraid of things you don’t know. You know men.

“I’m not,” you lie, looking her in the eye, “but I will be.”

Nightwing slowly sits down on the opposite side of her, making himself smaller. “Do you have anyone that can take you home?”

She wipes her face with her arm, nodding. “My friends are coming in a cab now,” 

He breaks out in a smile. “That’s good. I’m Nightwing, what about you?”

She giggles, albeit tearily. “You can call me Julie.”

The two make light conversation until a cab pulls up.

“ Omigosh Julie, are you okay?”

A crowd of coeds exit out of the cab. 

“Guys, I’m fine. I’m literally fine. It’s okay!” The girls crowd around her, but more than a few glance at you and then, much more interestedly, Nightwing.

Minutes later, Julie and a couple other girls are waving out the window as the car drives off. Nightwing grins, waving back until the two of you are alone, once again. 

You stand. Nightwing clears his throat. “I can walk—”

“No need,” you dismiss, knowing you’ll be followed from the rooftops anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, pressing his lips together in clear disapproval. You trace the lines of his face in the dark, that familiar runner’s build. “If you say so,” he musters up cheerfully.

There’s a smothered twinge of annoyance. All these ghosts, all these memories. Everything you want to forgot. Tonight is not a good night. “She would’ve been fine. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her.” That is the truth.

You watch the steel line of his jaw, and you wonder if you’ve hit a nerve. But Nightwing’s voice is exceedingly gentle. “Julie’s not the one who was—”

“Better me than her.”

You hold his gaze in the dark, daring him to say more. 

Then you turn on your heels and walk away.

3.

The restaurant is nearly closing when Dick rushes in. Your server, a college student by the name of Kimberly, who had given you a free glass of wine on the house after you appeared to have been stood up, glares at him. Dick winces.

Approaching your table, he eyes the appetizers and plate of food the servers had heaped upon your table in pity. There’s only you and one other table, a group of friends towards the end of the room. You calmly appraise him. 

“I am so sorry,” Dick says, genuinely upset. “I know there’s no excuse. I had a—family emergency. And by the time it was over, I realized I completely forgot—!”

From the host stand, Kimberly shakes her head in pure judgement, eyes narrowed.

You can tell he’s avoiding weight on his left side, and favoring his right. Bruised ribs, and maybe even a leg injury. 

He clears his throat. “How long have you been here?”

You shrug. “Four hours, give or take.”

Dick blinks, taken aback. “And you stayed?”

Why had you stayed? You had stayed because you had been curious. You wondered if he’d come. You knew firsthand fighting crime could easily become a priority, overtaking everything else in life. It left no room for a life outside it. Some people threw themselves into the life, some people left it for love. Dick Grayson, you think, chooses both. 

“I had nothing else to do anyway.”

He winces again, looking apologetic enough that Kimberly stops glaring at him from the entrance of the restaurant. “Oh god. I’m a dick. No pun intended. Please let me make it up to you.”

He awaits your response with the apprehension of a hostage waiting for a gunman to pull the trigger. You stare at him in silence, as he looks uncharacteristically fidgety.

“Okay.” You stand. “Let’s go.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right now? I mean, you’re not even going to throw that drink at me?”

“I can if you want to.”

He raises both hands up, a relieved smile teasing at his lips. “I deserve it, and I would definitely understand. Can I say you’re taking this exceptionally well?” He has a dimple. The girls in the back crane their necks to see him, giggling. Even Kimberly looks less apprehensive. 

You incline your head. “I’m reserving judgement.”

“As you should,” he agrees cheekily, offering you his arm. 

The restaurant is about to close as Dick pays for your meal, tipping Kimberly generously, eventually winning her over.

The two of you go to Dick’s favorite pizza joint down a couple of blocks. You’re not as hungry, but you take a square slice to go. Dick talks about himself easily enough. So easily, that not many people would notice how he carefully side steps here and there from revealing too much information. He talks about growing up in a circus. Then with a billionaire after his parents’ deaths. His childhood with Bruce, and eventually wanting to step away from Gotham to become his own person. Not so different from you. You understand the need to step away from everything.

He’s a beat cop, not necessarily out of any love for the job. You don’t ask him why. You can gather it has something to do with an investigation. A more personal one. This is when you’d usually play the role of an interested date and ask all the right questions. Except right now, you find that your curiosity is organic. Genuine in a way you usually aren’t.

You tell him a sanitized version of the mundane life you’ve made up for yourself. You grew up in New York. When your parents died you were shuffled around from one foster home to the next before aging out of the system. A ghost of a grimace flickers across Dick’s face at the mention of the foster system.

He believes you. You haven't given him a reason not to.

Dick has siblings. Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood of children. Siblings, Dick happily goes into details about. You tell him you’re an only child, and ignoring the whiplash of phantom anguish, like vines wrapping around your heart.

By the end of the night, Dick drops you off at your apartment. If he was a mark, you’d kiss him and bring him back to your bed. You don’t kiss him.

You leave him there, on your doorstep. 

4.

Dick is staring at you hard enough that you can’t bring yourself to keep quiet. 

“Is there something on my face?”

He breaks into a smile, but worry lines the corners of his eyes. “Can’t I admire my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend doesn’t imply a permanency you remind yourself. 

You lean back into Dick’s couch, and put down the remote. Something’s bothering you , you’d say. Except that would imply knowing something’s wrong. You watch as he draws a breath, just before the tense lines of him soften, and feign ignorance.

“Lucy told me you've been calling out regularly,” he says lightly. “Feeling better?”

You think Lucy should learn to keep her mouth shut. 

“Just a sore throat. On and off,” you reply. Last week, you spent the day tracking down the girl you had seen off into a cab with Nightwing. Julia Bell. A twenty one year at Bludhaven U whose sorority initiation that night had taken a turn for the worse. You were glad to see her in high spirits again after that whole ordeal. Apparently, getting saved by Nightwing himself made her a celebrity on campus.

Dick’s practiced smile turns a degree strained. “Just that?”

You look him in the eye and say, “Yes.”

He presses his lips together, jaw working as if the words won’t quite come out.

Dick is an exceptionally easy person to talk to in a way you’ve never known anyone else to be but one. A man you regarded more like a brother than a friend, whose devotion to his faith made talking to him feel vaguely like a confessional. You watch him carefully, for the nuances of internal conflict in the planes of his face. Whether to push too hard and reveal his identity or let you be. This the precipice of your relationship: how many lies will he take? How many until he won’t? 

On the other hand, you could tell the truth. It's been months since then. You had hoped it'd be forgotten by now, except it hasn't. You know objectively you haven’t exhibited any behaviors characteristic of sexual assault victims, because the truth is you were never in any real danger. Only Julia. In your previous line of work, in another life entirely, sex was commonplace, one of the many rules that governed the world you lived in. Another asset in your arsenal. 

On account of having had it so many times, your feelings on sex border a blasé indifference, except for the rare times you do want it. A passing pretty girl in the bar, the minister’s wife while you had been on an assignment in a southern methodist town, the one and only man you had ever wanted to be with intimately.

Well, not the only one.

You pick up the remote, turn back to the tv, and press play. Dick had been appalled when you told him you never watched 101 Dalmatians . You didn’t tell him the only Disney movies you were familiar with were all propaganda you were forced to listen to. 

Dick pulls you close into his chest, and you can pick up the slightly elevated pace of his heartbeat. Not enough to be worried, but enough to let you make an educated guess.

Forty minutes into the movie, and Dick is still making smart quips about this and that. But you know he isn’t paying attention. Not completely, when he’s still lost in thought. He hasn’t quite settled, legs tense as if putting effort into not shaking. You feel his fingers absentmindedly rubbing your shoulder. A livewire ready to erupt.

You pause the movie. 

It takes several seconds for Dick to notice. He blinks, eyelashing fluttering. You turn, sliding your palm against his cheek, and kiss him. His hands come to your waist, fingers curling into you, as he presses into you eagerly. Lips slotted against your own, you feel his breaths in your mouth, just before his tongue slides against your own. Bold without being overbearing. Not needlessly dominant. You like that. You feel a tendril of heat spreading to your panties, and feel slick gathering.

The Red Room took too much from you. Every small, unexpected pleasure is a victory. 

He’s a good kisser. It’s your last thought before Dick ruts into you, hard. 

“Bed?” He asks against your lips.

“Sure.” Bed, couch, floor, you don’t really care.

Dick rises, carrying you with him, movie forgotten. He’s stronger than he looks. In normal circumstances, you’d run your hands over his body, assessing. Now you just want to touch him. His is a body built for movement and agility. He had grown up an acrobat, and he’s clearly stayed the course. You’ve seen shaky videos of Nightwing executing flips and turns that should be inhumanely impossible. But he’s no mutant either. Just a flesh and blood human being. 

His lips are on yours as soon as the two of you enter his bedroom. The bed is soft against your back. You lose your jeans, and Dick tugs off his shirt, losing it somewhere in the darkness of his bedroom. Then the two of you are kissing once more, as if he can’t bear to be separated for more than seconds. Your hands trace his lean muscles, the various scars crisscrossing his body. You wonder how he explains his scars to an unsuspecting hookup or two, and if he’s waiting for you to ask.

You won’t. You’re past the need of trying to discern him with uncomfortable questions here and there. You’ll let him keep your secrets. You have too many of your own. 

With one hand, Dick pushes down his jeans, revealing briefs. Your lips quirk as Dick aims a lopsided grin at you while attempting to wiggle out of his pants. 

You push him down back on the bed, straddling him and pulling off your shirt. You hadn’t bothered with a bra. Dick’s gaze darkens, a heat in them that has a fresh wave of anticipation licking at your skin. 

You’re no stranger to a man’s gaze against your naked skin, but like the way Dick looks at you. Without claim. Just fondness. 

You press kisses to his jaw, and your hand sneaks down, lightly pressing the heel of your palm into the wet fabric of his briefs outlining his cock. He exhales, head tipped back, revealing his jugular, the bob of his throat. 

You haven’t killed a man in bed in a long, long time. 

Precum has gathered on the tip of his cock as you slide your hand down the length of him, rough without any lubricant, and squeeze. 

“Jesus,” Dick nearly wheezes, strong thighs bucking into your hand. “You’re killing me.”

You’re glad to know you haven’t completely lost him. You’d rather he lose himself in you than his thoughts.

One of his hands is splayed on your bare back, heated. It strikes you that you haven’t been with anyone in years now. Nobody has touched you since her death. You briefly close your eyes. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” You ask, his hardness filling your hand. You want him to, just as you want to get on your knees and work him into your throat until he’s whining. You want him to hold you down on the floor and fuck you until your knees are bruised. Until you dissolve into nothing. 

“Anything,” he says, and it feels like a promise. He gently tugs your wrist away, before flipping you back on your back, eyes glinting. “My turn.”

Dick’s hand traces the outline of your face, thumb pressing on your bottom lip. You draw two of fingers into your mouth, listening to his breath hitch in his throat, his eyes wide, and suck until saliva runs down his hand. Dick’s tongue is in your mouth as his fingers press into your cunt, opening you up. The tightness burns, and you let out a breath that sounds like relief. His thumb circles your throbbing clit.

The two of you briefly separate after a sloppy kiss. You break the string of saliva by licking your lips. Dick doesn't break from scissoring you open with deft fingers, accompanied by hot sparks of pleasure racing down your spine. You burn with want. Useless, useless, want. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, pretty eyelashes casting shadows on his cheek. “So, so, beautiful.” He looks at you like he’s never had another girl in bed. Flatterer, you think, with the highest regard. But you like that, being just another girl in Dick Grayson’s bed. A normal, boring girl. One he whispers flatteries to in the night because he’s a good man. You won’t do him the disservice of not believing him. 

You raise a hand to his nape, and bring him back to your lips. He sucks your lips, your tongue, swipes his tongue against your lip, all wet heat and need.

“I want you to fuck me,” you say quietly, intently. You want to feel him stretch you open. You want to feel his body drape over yours. 

Amusement fills his face. “We’ve got all night. What’s the rush?” He kisses your cheek. “You’re tight,” he murmurs, lips tracing the shell of your ear. “Gotta open you up.”

“It’s been a while,” you reply.

It’s the wrong thing to say. You know it as soon as it leaves your lips. You’re not used to saying the wrong thing. Never.

Dick’s fingers still in you. His shoulders go rigid, chest beginning to heave. You feel the spike of his heartbeat. The underpinnings of panic on his face. He’s seeing you on the ground, half naked, a strange man between your legs. 

“Dick,” you say. 

“I have to know,” he says, a touch too quickly. “I can’t just—” his eyes are wide, and very blue in the dark. “Do you want this?”

You look at him calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks torn.

First, you think: someone hurt this man, and you will make them pay. And then you think: it’s unfair that bad things happen to good people. You are different: you deserved everything you got. 

“Do you want me?”

Dick stares down at you, eyes blown dark with arousal. “I—Yes,” his throat works. “Yes.” It’s less a word, and more one raw noise.

He reaches over into his bed stand and quickly grabs a condom in his top drawer, sliding it over his rapidly hardening cock. You don’t bother telling him you can’t get pregnant.

Dick slides into you after pumping himself once, grip tight, and claims your lips once more. You exhale unsteadily into his mouth at the ache. You close your eyes as Dick rocks into you, effortlessly practiced, and too gentle. His fingers stroke your clit in synchronous movements, and you hook your legs into him to bring him closer. You’re dripping, and Dick lets out a small, awe infused huff of laughter that also doubles as a moan when he bottoms out.

“You feel amazing,” he says breathlessly, hand on your face, eyes peering into yours. Looking for assurance. Your hand joins his, fingers running over his scarred knuckles. 

This is normally the time you’d stare at the ceiling and go over every detail of your plan. What you need to take, what you’ll say to him in the morning, how easy it’ll be to disappear. How you’ll contend with her disappointment later. 

Then Dick pulls out enough that your body is immediately mourning his loss, and thrusts back in at an angle that has white edged pleasure turning your nerves alight. Your mouth parts soundlessly. You buck into him, and Dick shoots you a cheeky grin as he spreads your folds wider around him. You could kill him. But his hands are everywhere on your body; your thighs, the plane of your stomach, your breasts, teasing and pinching, sending heat directly between your thighs. 

An easy rhythm is established, and each push is made slicker and wetter. Dick adjusts his hips just enough that you’re throbbing, feeling pressure build in your gut. His hands dig into your hips, holding you down just the way you like it; and then his cock brushes that sweet spot that makes you see white at the edges of your vision, rocking directly into it. 

Something like a moan leaves your lips. Every pound of his cock makes you feel full, and slightly lightheaded: a flood of feelings that makes you feel like it’s all too much. You had forgotten that when it was good, it was good. It could be good. 

“Dick,” you breathe out, and his fingers are pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core.

“C’mon sweetheart,” he murmurs, without missing a beat, “you’ll come for me, won’t you? I want you all over my—”

You yank him down by the neck and kiss him. He moans enthusiastically. 

Dick thrusts in just right, and your body arches off the bed, feeling wave after wave of pleasure. You shiver, just as Dick slams into your body once more, as if he wants to mark you permanently. He exhales roughly in your ear, and you listen to him breathe, the thump thump of his heartbeat. You had wanted him to come in you.

He pulls off, making quick work of the condom. There’s a slight ache at the side of your neck as he collapses on his side and then his back, and brings you with him, arms curled around your waist, holding you to his chest.

“That was—” he breaks off. He absentmindedly rubs at your back. “Wow.”

The smallest movement at the corner of your lips has him immediately perking, shedding off all post sex exhaustion.

“That was a smile!”

You school your face back into neutrality. “No.”

“You can’t fool me. I know what I saw.”

You don't respond, laying your head on his chest.

He grins, a hand curling around your neck. You feel his fingers brush the spot of throbbing and you meet his sheepish gaze. A hickey. How mundane. You take him in, all swollen lips and tousled hair, and no hint of earlier ghosts in his eyes. This is a man whose entire being is rooted in touch. It could not be further removed from your own touch averse lifestyle. 

Later, when Dick is sleeping, you rise from his bed, slip on your clothes, and walk out his door. He has patrol in an hour.

You’re doing him a favor.

5.

You meet Damian Wayne for the first time at a park in Gotham. You are sitting on a bench, watching a surprising amount of ducks swim around the large lake.

Gotham seems to be a polarizing topic on social media, with many lamenting why anybody would choose to live in a city with villains as absurd as the condiment king and a murderous clown. And of course, the infamous vigilante Batman. The urban myth turned into reality. The city is a mixup of towering modern skyscrapers, and gothic architecture incorporating flying buttresses and gargoyles overlooking the city, and at the center of it all, is Wayne Tower, the highest building in Gotham. 

With the onset of winter, the sky is gray, giving the usual polluted air of Gotham an even more gloomy tone. Even the lake is freezing over on the edges. The cold numbs your fingers, and nothing can prevent the heartache that swallows you up whole. You think of her hand pressed to your heart, the both of you shadowed in the dark. Just the two of you. 

You stare out, waiting for it to pass. It always does.

You hear Dick call your name and turn to see him approaching with a boy at his side. Side by side, they almost do look related. Except Damian’s eyes are a piercing green, just a shade darker than hers. You look away, and stand.

Dick grins, one hand on the sullen boy’s shoulder. You maintain a safe distance footsteps away. No normal twelve year old boy carries himself like a soldier.

He narrows his eyes at you, and then turns to Dick, betrayed. “You are a liar Richard,” he grits out, “You told me you were taking me to the museum.”

You share the boy’s sentiments to a lesser degree. He isn’t the only one who’s blindsided. Though, you suppose you should’ve been expecting it. You had feigned ignorance to his pointed remarks about missing Gotham, and dropping in at the manor to visit his brothers.

“This is Damian,” Dick squeezes Damian’s shoulder in a show of reassurance, but you’re sure it’s more for your benefit. Be good, it says. Don’t do anything incriminating. “My youngest brother.”

The silhouette of the boy’s body gives you the image of a cat crouched low, tail dangerously swishing side to side. He looks like Mr. Wiggles, the feral cat who roams your apartment building as a free agent. You feed him occasionally. 

You don’t step closer. “Hello,” you say, not unkindly, and introduce yourself.

“Hello,” Damian repeats curtly, before crossing his arms, and looking away. 

“Aw, don’t be like that Dami. I am taking you to the museum! I just thought we could make it a fun day out!”

Only Dick could manage to put a positive spin on a forced bonding outing, and truly believe it. 

Damian scowls. “You’re delusional.”

You look to Dick who winks, clearly used to it. 

“This could have all been avoided had Pennyworth stayed.”

Dick squeezes his shoulder once more, in actual reassurance. “C’mon Dami. Even super butlers need their time off.”

Damian scrutinizes you once again, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Your romantic relationships are an exercise in futility Richard.” Then he walks off to crouch low and stare at the ducks squawking at each other. 

“Jeez, that kid.” Dick says, offering you a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

“He’s definitely someone’s kid,” you say as Dick’s hands cover yours, thumb rubbing at your knuckles. You feel the first warmth of the day in his hands. It becomes easier to breathe. 

“I don’t have to come,” you say, softly. “Really.”

“He’ll get over it,” Dick replies confidently. “He’s just out of sorts because Alfie—our butler—is out for the week. Thank god Bruce is off—” he chokes, stumbling over his words “—out on a business trip. In Nepal. I was going to invite Tim, but he’s in San Francisco for the weekend.”

You accept it. “If you say so.” 

Dick drives you three to the museum in a Rolls Royce that would give a certain man made of iron car envy. Dick doesn’t even attempt to be subtle. You suppose in Gotham there’s always some notorious image to live up to. Lucy has started leaving you glossy covered gossip mags on the shared table in the staff room as if you care whichever supermodel of the week Bruce Wayne is dating. 

You glance at Damian in the back with the front view mirror. Sitting in sulky tempered silence, he glares out the window. You suppose you’re the unwelcome third party here. You know Dick has been busier as of late, some investigation as Nightwing he hides from you. Visits to Gotham have been sparser. 

You understand the childish resentment. Wanting someone’s attention all to yourself. Hating having to share. Wanting it to be just the two of you, forever. Then you grew up.

At the wheel, Dick is rambling about his coworkers, and how despite it all, he hates the fact that there are no Bat Burger chains in Bludhaven. 

Thirty minutes later, at the museum, Damian stalks off for the exhibit he had come for. 

Dick’s fingers slip into yours, and the two of you wander around the museum. Dick points out a few paintings here and there. Turns out, Bruce Wayne has an entire wing of the museum named after him, with a collection of Seurats donated straight from his own private collection, along with a handful of other French post-impressionist artists. 

The two of you circle back around to the exhibit Damian had come for. A photography exhibit. Surprising, but it seems Damian has an eye for art in all forms. You think of Peter, swinging around New York with a camera slung around his neck, and the picture of the sunset he had taken on top of the Statue of Liberty, and feel a knot in your throat. 

You tell Dick you’ll meet him after you use the bathroom, but instead make your way down the emergency exit stairwell until you reach a door leading you to an alley with garbage disposals lined against the walls. You figure Dick and Damian could use one on one time. So you’ll wait out the rest of the day here.

You pull out a box of cigarettes from your pocket, and the cheap lighter you had bought at a bodega before meeting up with Dick and Damian. You light the end and inhale. 

Not your preferred brand, because your preferred brand doesn’t exist here. You’ll make do, as you have. 

You finish your first cigarette, and then your second. You’re on your fourth when the door slams open, hitting the side of the building. Damian steps into the alleyway, car keys swinging in his grip. Of course. 

He freezes when he sees you, eyes momentarily going wide. In the next second, a trained composure settles over him, stance going on the defensive. 

Damian eyes your cigarette, unable to hide the distaste on his face. 

You stay silent, the two of you staring at each other. Your cigarette burns, warming your fingers as ashes fall to the ground and smoke wafts. You stub it out with your thumb, enjoy the dull flicker of pain from the nerve signals in your thumb that haven’t been burned off, and wait for him to speak first.

Damian scowls, as if understanding exactly what you’re doing. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” you lie, and watch him carefully. “I don’t think the cops will take too well to a twelve year old driving, no matter who his father is.”

He stiffens, as if your words have hit him square on the chest. He rears forward, fists clenched. “ You have no idea—”

“No. I don’t.” You don’t bother with fake sympathy. “Dick is looking for you. He was excited to finally spend time with you.” Are you going to hurt his feelings?  

Damian settles, anger dissipating. There’s a flash of uncertainty splayed across his face, but he covers it up, clicking his tongue. “You’re the interloper,” he mutters.

“That’s me,” you say agreeably. “It’s hard to hate someone with good intentions, isn’t it?”

Damian scoffs, crossing his arms, and for the first time since you met him, looks his age.

“...I’m keeping the keys.”

“Car accidents are the third leading cause of death. It’s estimated that 115 people die daily.” 

“Perhaps if the lung cancer doesn’t kill you first,” he sniffs. 

Charming.

You think of Yelena, for the first time in a long time.

You reek of smoke.

You don’t tell him you’d be surprised if it was lung cancer of all things that killed you. You’ve been subjected to chemicals, radiation, injected with strange substances, and experimented on. It’s made you hardy. You are exceptionally durable. 

Damian goes to open the door.

It’s locked. 

[citywitchwithanxiety]

What Kind of Love Do You Need To Welcome Into Your Life?

a pick a pile reading!

Take a deep breath and choose whatever image calls out to you the most!

Pile 1

Song: Andromeda ~ Weyes Blood

What Kind of Love Do You Need To Welcome?

2 of swords & 3 of swords ® For you pile one, you need to welcome in the love that is making decisions! Let’s face it, sometimes it’s easier to sit back and let everyone else make the decisions, but it doesn’t feel good does it? Now you are left with a life that isn’t actually what you want, it’s what someone else wants. It’s incredibly unfair to yourself to live this way. You deserve to live a life full of the things you want.

Advice For Welcoming This Love?

wheel of fortune ® & hanged man ® My biggest piece of advice for you pile 1 is to be selfish. Make choices that leave you feeling good and happy with yourself. Put yourself first when going out into the world. Figure out what you actually want in life and chase it. You deserve good things and you deserve good things that you want. Yeah, you’ll probably seem like an asshole sometimes. That’s what happens when you start saying no to people that expect everything from you. But you will find people that want to see you thrive and those are the people you actually want to be around.

Words of Encouragement!

Tower ® & 6 of Pentacles My words of encouragement to you are to remember that you have the power to release yourself from the oppression you may be facing right now. It’s going to be awful and uncomfortable but the end result is going to have you thriving and feeling immensely grateful that you put in the effort. I love you and good luck <3

Pile 2

Song: La Perfeum De Fleurs ~ Ensemble Fove

What Kind of Love Do You Need To Welcome?

4 of wands & the lovers Babe, when I tell you that the 4 of wands and lovers FLEW out of my deck I mean it. What an incredible way to start a reading, my goodness. Pile 2, my darlings, you need to let some romance into your life. Now, don’t roll your eyes at me I mean it. You probably think to yourself “nooo but I’m not into anyone right now” or “but no one likes mee”. Babe. Darling. Honey. Are you sure? I need you to take a couple of deep breaths and think about it for a moment because the cards are telling me otherwise.

Advice For Welcoming This Love?

queen of cups & queen of swords My advice for you is to actually take the moment to figure out your emotions. I know you didn’t actually do it. Find some journal prompts. Maybe do your own tarot reading if you feel like I’m lying. Your next step after you have figured out your emotions is to tell someone. Listen I’m getting the vibe that maybe someone asked you out and you said no because your like “I don’t do romance or attraction” but now that you have thought about it you have realized you do actually like that person and you may have made a mistake in saying no. So go tell them. Send a heartfelt text and apology. Or maybe there’s someone you’ve been crushing on for a while and you want something to happen. So make something happen! Ask them out, confess your feelings. Just do something please.

Words of Encouragement!

8 of swords ® & Judgement This is going to be a pain in the ass for you, I know. You are incredibly stubborn and don’t really want to believe a random tarot reader on the internet. But you need to be honest with yourself to allow growth. The unforeseen aspect of the future is scary but I can assure you it will all work out. I love you and good luck <3

Pile 3

Song: Someone New ~ Hozier

What Kind of Love Do You Need To Welcome?

the Empress & death Hello pile 3! I just have a quick question for you; why do you think you aren’t good enough? Like hello? You my friends, need some serious self-care and self-love. And I’m not talking about face masks and fancy baths. I’m talking about eating healthy, brushing our teeth, putting the phone away before we go to bed. Those kinds of things. You’d be surprised how much they help us to feel better mentally. I have a feeling that you haven’t been in the best spot recently. That’s okay, you’re allowed to have emotions and feel them fully. What we aren’t going to do, though, is allow ourselves to wallow in self pity instead of trying to feel better.

Advice For Welcoming This Love?

knight of swords ® & the tower ® Things are tough, I know. Trying to improve yourself when you have no motivation or longing to is incredibly difficult. My advice to you is to just pick one thing that you can do and try to stick with it. Does that mean doing it perfectly everyday until the rest of time? No. It means doing your best to do it as often as you can, and not beating yourself up over the mistakes you make. Everyone deserves kindness and that includes yourself.

Words of Encouragement!

queen of cups & 9 of cups ® I know that it’s going to be a struggle to get anything done. That maybe you don’t feel like you deserve to show yourself kindness. But you do, you really do. You are deserving of putting care into yourself and showing yourself compassion even when you make a mistake. I love you and good luck <3

[psformybss]

All Eyes on Us

drew starkey x actress!reader

a/n: i love writing them y'all. coming up with their banter and actress!reader’s sarcastic remarks is so fun.

You knew walking this red carpet was going to be chaotic.

You just didn’t realize it was going to feel like being dropped into a stadium full of caffeinated banshees.

The SUV creeps forward like it’s bracing for impact. Outside the window, the crowd is practically vibrating with excitement. Signs wave in the air, some with glitter, some with poorly printed cast photos, one that you’re pretty sure features a full mugshot of John B with hearts drawn around it in pink Sharpie. You blink. Yep, it’s laminated.

“Why are they screaming like we just discovered a new planet?” you mutter, leaning closer to the tinted glass as another shriek cuts through the air. “Or cured cancer. Or kissed in public. God forbid.”

From the seat beside you, Drew doesn’t even flinch. He’s a picture of unbothered calm in a perfectly tailored navy suit, one he claimed not to care about until he spent a full ten minutes adjusting the lapels in the mirror.

“They’re just excited,” he says, casual and collected like this isn’t his first soft-launch rodeo.

You raise an eyebrow. “Excited or unhinged?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “A little bit of both. Like Austin after three cups of hotel coffee.”

You groan and flop back into your seat. “I still can’t believe they made a bet about us.”

His mouth twitches with a smirk he clearly doesn’t deserve. “I can. Chase started a group chat for it.”

You whip your head toward him, scandalized. “There’s a group chat?”

“There’s a bracket,” he adds, like that somehow makes it less offensive.

Your jaw drops. “A bracket? They March Madness’d our relationship.”

“To be fair,” he says, utterly unbothered, “Carlicia did say you’d threaten a reporter.”

You blink. “Did I?”

“Not yet,” Drew replies, right as the car rolls to a stop.

Before you can decide whether to kick him or kiss him, the door swings open. You brace yourself, clutch in hand, as a tidal wave of noise slams into you like a brick wall wrapped in flashbulbs. Paparazzi, publicists, and screaming fans all blur into one overwhelming cloud of light and movement.

Drew steps out first, then turns and holds his hand out to you like some old-school gentleman or a Disney prince who swears too much.

You hesitate. “If I fall and eat it in front of Variety, I want you to tell everyone I died instantly.”

He’s already grinning. “I’ll say you were pushed.”

You take his hand.

The instant your heels touch the carpet, the crowd detonates like someone set off fireworks made of sound. Screams surge, flashes strobe like a disco on steroids, and for a dizzy second, it feels like you’ve stepped into an alternate dimension—one where you’re actually famous-famous, not just “supporting role on a Netflix show and allegedly dating Drew Starkey” famous.

A handler motions you forward. You and Drew exchange one look, that silent, chaotic kind of communication that says: Is this really happening? Are we really doing this? What timeline is this?

And then you both step forward.

“Drew! Y/N! Over here, please! Just the two of you!”

“This way! Perfect, hold it right there!”

“Smile!”

The cameras flash like lightning. You fall into autopilot, one hand resting on your hip, the other looping casually around Drew’s arm. He stands tall beside you, jaw set, posture cool, with that specific kind of confidence that says, I don’t care, but yes, I spent twenty minutes styling my hair in the hotel mirror.

Then, in that familiar low voice only you can hear, he leans in and says, “You’re about to break the internet.”

You don’t even blink. “Good. I was getting bored with it anyway.”

He laughs, quiet and genuine, and that’s when the flashes hit a new level of seizure-inducing frenzy.

You know what this looks like. Of course you do. The two of you standing close, laughing, touching like it’s second nature. It looks easy. It looks comfortable. It looks like love.

Which, naturally, makes you want to deny everything.

Before you can make a break for it, someone from Netflix—wearing a headset, holding an iPad, and already ten conversations behind—flags you down with the energy of a soccer mom late for carpool.

“Hi! Hi guys, can we grab you really quick for a soundbite?”

You glance at Drew like you’re weighing your chances of escape. “Do we have to?”

Drew, ever the media darling, flashes his camera-ready smile. “Play nice,” he says through clenched teeth.

You sigh like the universe has personally wronged you. “Ugh. Fine. For the fans.”

The interviewer is practically vibrating with excitement. “You two look amazing. First OBX red carpet, how’s it feel?”

You deadpan, “Loud. I had thoughts earlier. Haven’t heard one since I got out of the car.”

The interviewer laughs a little too hard. “You’re hilarious. And the look—who are you wearing?”

You glance down at your dress like you just remembered it exists. “Fabric. Mostly.”

Drew snorts beside you and quickly jumps in to rescue you from yourself. “She means Dior.”

You pat his chest sweetly. “Look at that. He’s not just a pretty face after all.”

He glances down at you, eyes crinkling with affection, like he’s memorizing your face. The kind of look that doesn’t just say I love you, but screams it in flashing lights, bold font, full caps.

You ignore it, obviously.

The interviewer, blissfully unaware that she’s standing in the middle of a will-they-won’t-they slow-burn romance arc, presses on. “So, what’s it like filming Season 3? Bigger? Wilder?”

“Less sleep,” you reply. “More sand in uncomfortable places.”

Drew nods. “Still haven’t found half my socks.”

Then comes the inevitable. A new reporter pushes in, eager, aggressive, eyes locked on you like she’s about to unearth TMZ gold. “You two walked together! Is this your official couple debut?”

You blink like you don’t understand the question. “Did we?”

Drew just smiles and slides his hand to the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Annoyingly perfect.

The photographer next to them chimes in before you can throw another sarcastic grenade. “One more together! Right here!”

You pose again, this time your head tilted toward Drew, expression softer, like you’re indulging the moment instead of fighting it. You glance sideways. He’s already looking at you.

Like you’ve hung the stars. Like you built the moon from scratch. Like he’s never wanted anything more than to just be here.

You scowl. “Stop staring at me like that.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Can’t.”

By the time you catch up with the rest of the cast, the chaos is in full swing.

“There they are!” Madison hollers, pointing with the energy of someone spotting a bear in the wild.

Rudy throws his hands up like he’s conducting an orchestra. “The power couple arrives!”

JD gives you both an exaggerated slow clap. “I lost fifty bucks, but you know what? Totally worth it.”

“Pay up, baby!” Carlicia sings, waving her phone triumphantly. “I told you they’d walk together. You owe me Korean BBQ.”

Austin slings an arm around Drew like a proud dad watching his son graduate from romantic denial. “My boy. Made it official. And didn’t even trip on his own shoelaces.”

Drew groans. “Please stop talking.”

You squint at Chase. “Okay but who did you bet on?”

He grins like the devil. “I bet you’d call someone out before the second photo op.”

“That’s fair,” you admit, then turn to Drew. “Is it too late to trip him?”

Madelyn slides over and gives you a once-over. “You guys looked like a Vogue spread back there. It’s honestly disgusting.”

You blow her a kiss and link your arm through Drew’s again.

More flashes. More shouting. Someone yells, “Group shot!” and the whole cast collapses together into a disorganized pile of limbs and designer clothing. JD lifts Carlicia off the ground like a human prop. Madison and Chase strike dramatic poses like they’re auditioning for a perfume commercial. Rudy keeps yelling, “Say chaos!” instead of “cheese.”

You and Drew end up in the middle of it, arms tangled, laughter shared under your breath, pressed in by a group of people who feel more like family than coworkers.

Later, after the screening, after the standing ovation, after at least three fans in the third row wept like it was Titanic and you’re pretty sure someone proposed to Chase (still waiting on confirmation), you and Drew finally manage your great escape.

You slip out of the afterparty like fugitives dodging bad cocktails and overly ambitious camera flashes, which, to be fair, isn’t far from the truth.

The rooftop is quieter, blessedly so. The bass from the party still pulses below, a faint heartbeat through concrete, but up here it’s still and cool. Cinematic. The kind of night that feels borrowed, like something you’re not supposed to have.

You kick off your heels the second your feet hit gravel, sighing like a tragic heroine freed from the constraints of fashion. Your dress pools around your legs as you settle on the ledge, toes dangling just over the edge like you’re flirting with gravity, or danger, or both.

Drew joins you a moment later. Of course he does.

He doesn’t speak, just takes the spot beside you like it belongs to him. He looks unfairly good for someone who’s been hugged, photographed, and possibly groped by Rudy in the last hour. His sleeves are rolled up, his collar undone, no tie in sight. There’s a flush on his cheeks from the champagne or the crowd or the simple fact of being too attractive in public, and his hair is just messy enough to look accidental.

“Damage report?” you ask, nudging your knee into his.

He glances over, eyes soft. “Define damage.”

“Did we bankrupt anyone in the betting pool?”

He laughs, low and easy. “No one had money on us walking in together and holding hands.”

You snort. “Amateurs.”

He grins. “Although Rudy’s still insisting you owe him a hug.”

“Gross. Tell Rudy I’d rather be mauled by a raccoon.”

“That was his second guess,” Drew says with a perfectly straight face.

You give him a look. “I hate how well that tracks.”

He leans back on his hands, tilts his head toward the sky. “You were great tonight.”

You toss your hair like a diva. “I know. I was charming, sarcastic, devastatingly hot in high-definition…”

“Flawless,” he says, like he’s stating a fact.

You squint at him. “You trying to get laid, Starkey?”

He smirks. “Not if I have to try.”

You make a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“And yet.”

And yet, you’re still here. Barefoot on a rooftop, wearing a dress people will probably write headlines about, sitting beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His gaze slides to you, softer now. A little more careful.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Your heart skips a beat like it’s trying to trip you up. You nudge his shoulder with yours, playing it cool. Always playing it cool.

“You realize we’re going to be all over fan accounts by morning, right?”

He shrugs. “Let them talk.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re getting bold.”

Another shrug, just as easy. “I’m in love with you. Might as well let the world figure it out.”

You roll your eyes, instinctively. Sarcasm’s always been your favorite defense.

“Gross,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “You’re so annoyingly perfect.”

He leans in until his shoulder brushes yours. His voice drops, low and warm and steady. “Takes one to know one.”

You glance over. His smile. The crinkle at the corners of his eyes. The way he’s looking at you like he’s memorizing it all.

And then he’s closer.

So close.

Your breath catches, but you don’t pull back. Don’t tease. Don’t deflect.

Instead, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first—tentative, warm, something that hums low in your chest like the moment before a fire catches. His hand comes up, fingers curling gently around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s still not sure you’re real.

You kiss him like you’ve been meaning to all night. Maybe longer.

He kisses you like he’s finally allowed to.

And when you pull back, just a breath apart, he’s still looking at you like the stars have nothing on you.

You let yourself lean into him. Just a little.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

[eroselless]

───────────────────somebody else // 3

series summary: you just work in hospitality for McLaren and he’s their star driver. what happens when your paths cross and you find yourself questioning your feelings for each other? [3.1k]

[lando norris x reader]

masterlist | previously

warnings: angst, insecure reader, unprotected smut (don’t be silly, wrap that willy!)

note: Magui is mentioned in this chapter and will be mentioned going forward and I know there’s lots of conversations on the internet about her. I honestly just used her in this story to avoid having to come with an original character. I don’t like to comment or get into driver’s actual personal lives so please if there’s any comments y’all want to make of her that doesn’t have to do with this story, please take it elsewhere. 

The morning inevitably comes, the early light filtering through the blinds, gently pulling you from your slumber. You blink slowly, discarding sleep from your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you suddenly remember where you are. Lando's arm tightens around your waist, and his face burrows deeper into your back, still deeply asleep. Carefully, you try to slip out from under his arm without disturbing him. His hold loosens reluctantly as you rise, and you begin gathering your things in silence. 

You catch a glance of yourself in the full length mirror he has sitting in the corner of the room. What you see is almost something pulled straight from a dream. Your hair is disheveled but in a way that only shows how deeply you had slept the night before. Lando’s shirt clings to your body, falling to the tops of your thighs. As you stand there, you can see him breathing deeply behind you. His arm is outstretched, reaching over your now empty spot on the bed. He’s almost lost in the clouds that are the blankets of his bed. 

You swell with emotion, the domestically of this moment proving to weigh too much on your chest. You swiftly pull the shirt off, fold it and leave it on a chair before putting on your clothes from last night. Moving towards the door, you feel your foot nudge something hard on the floor. Your eyes flicker down, seeing what you only assume is Lando’s phone resting there, almost dead. Picking it up, instinctively, you plug it into the charger by the bedside table, eyes catching a 12 hour's old message illuminating the screen. 

Your stomach twists when you see the name on the message. Magui. You’d see her linked to him, seeing him around Monaco with her things, driving her around in his cars. You peer over the phone, eyes reading over the words on the phone. 

The knot in your chest tightens as you read the text:

already missing you, when are you coming over again? last night was fun ;)

Every letter seems to twist in your chest like a knife. The implication was clear-–whatever happened last night, before your tryst under the dancefloor lights, was anything but friendly. Your breath hitches, and you set the phone down carefully, it feels too hot in your hand now. It's almost as if it’s trying to mock you with the memory of last night’s events. It was too good to be true, you think, the thrill of last night fading into the cruel light of reality. Maybe you happened to just be in the right place at the right time, a convenient substitute for something he had been craving. 

Your footsteps are light as you make your way out, taking one last glance at Lando’s sleeping form before closing the door behind you.

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The sun is already high in the sky by the time you arrive at the track. The same excited buzz that lingers in the air feels different today, it causes your stomach to turn and every step you take feels heavier the further in you go. Your heart pounds as you step into the paddock, nerves running high as you anticipate Lando’s visit, a pavlovian reaction you’ve developed. But you’re assigned to the Ferrari garage for today, something about the overwhelming influx of guests and reporters.  

You’re grateful for the distractions, being away from the McLaren suite is a welcome relief–-you don’t think you could handle facing Lando just yet. You keep reminding yourself that it was a drunken kiss, a mess of touches that happened in the heat of the moment, a memory Lando might not even remember. The glow of the text message on his phone only reinforces that idea. It might as well be left off as a memory, you think. After all, it seemed to imply that he already had someone to occupy his time. You were just … there. 

You’re pouring a drink when you hear a familiar voice greet you from behind. Turning, you find Carlos leaning casually against a table, an easy smile hanging from his lips as you hand him a bottle of water.

“Looks like you’ve been promoted, working for the red team today,” he teased lightly.

You chuckled, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess they needed someone with my impressive drink-carting skills,” you joked, catching his eye.

Carlos grins, taking a long sip before lowering the bottle. “Well, at least you’re making this garage look better,” he adds, giving you a playful once-over.

You laugh again, this time a little more naturally, but as your eyes meet his, you see something shift in Carlos’s expression—his gaze briefly darting past you.

You turn just in time to see Lando making his way over, his strides purposeful. Carlos straightens, the easygoing look still on his face but a hint of something else lurking beneath it. The tension between the three of you is almost palpable. There’s that twist in your gut, the face you’d been dreading to see again. There was that voice that lingers in the back of your mind, once again reminding you that it told you so. 

“Hey, you,” Lando greets casually, his voice steady but lower than usual. He doesn’t hesitate pulling you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that feels almost possessive. His lips brush your cheek in a fleeting kiss, the scent of his cologne enveloping you. It’s warm, familiar, but it only makes the tension inside you grow. It makes your head spin. 

“Hi,” you manage to say, feeling breathless as you return the hug. Your voice feels quiet, fragile. Almost like if you spoke too loudly, it would shatter in your voicebox. You try your best to keep up the smile that had been painted on your face just a minute later. You can feel Carlos’s eyes still on you, watching the interaction closely. You can’t place Lando’s expression, unsure of what could be going on in his head. 

As you step back from Lando’s embrace, you give Carlos an apologetic smile before excusing yourself to attend to the guests nearby. With a quick smile, you excuse yourself, leaving Lando standing there, watching as you disappear into the crowd. The moment you’re out of earshot, the air between the two drivers shifts. 

Carlos arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Lando narrows his eyes slightly. “Just making sure everything’s in check.”

Carlos smirks, clearly picking up on the unspoken tension. “Yeah? Everything in check, huh?” He pauses, and then with a more pointed tone, he adds, “Including Magui?”

Lando stiffens slightly, but doesn’t take the bait. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Hasn’t it?” Carlos tilts his head. “You know, mate, maybe it’s time you figure out what you actually want before someone else makes that decision for you.”

Lando frowns, not answering immediately. His gaze flickers to where you’re standing, deep in conversation with a group of guests. There’s a carefree look on your face as you interact with them, a genuine smile he can’t help but adore. Carlos, seeing the hesitation, claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder.

“Look, if you’re serious, don’t just sit around waiting for it to blow over,” Carlos says, his tone shifting from teasing to genuine. “Otherwise, someone else might step in. And who knows,” he adds with a smirk, “maybe I will.”

Lando gives him a look, but Carlos just laughs it off, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, man. You’ve got enough to deal with, but you’re playing with fire.”

Before Lando can respond, a team member calls him away, and with a final look between them, Carlos steps back, watching Lando go with a knowing smile.

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The day passes in a haze, the roar of the engines filling the air and drowning the chatter in your head. You do your best to focus on your duties in the Ferrari garage, but the weight of Lando’s gaze bears heavy on you whenever you catch a glimpse of his car zooming past you on the track. It's like a tether—one that pulls tighter and tighter with every passing moment. 

The race finally comes to a close, the sun having fallen through the sky, dipping below the horizon. The energy in the paddock becomes electric as he comes in second, right on Carlos’s tail. The cheers and celebrations blur around you as the drivers finish their interviews, spraying champagne and basking in the excitement. You can feel Lando’s eyes on you, even as he stands among the flashing cameras and jubilant crowds of journalists. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as move around the paddock, eventually returning to the equally bustling McLaren suite. 

As the crowd thins, you don’t get far before you feel a hand wrap around your wrist that tugs you away from the crowd. It weaves you through the paddock, past the media, past the throngs of people, until you find yourselves alone in the privacy of his driver’s room. 

The door clicks behind you, the noise now muffled by the walls around you. The tension between you hangs heavy in the air as you stand nervously at the door, it's thick and suffocating. 

“Lando–”

He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift motion, he pulls you against him, mouth encapsulating yours with a fervor that catches you off guard. It's not unlike how he kissed you at the club but this time you have the reassurance that you’re both stone cold sober.

His kiss is heated, desperate, as if he’s trying to pour every ounce of feeling into that moment. The taste of champagne lingers on his lips, and you feel the raw energy coursing through him, a mixture of adrenaline and something deeper—something possessive.

Your body betrays you as you respond to his kiss, the want, the need of him too strong to resist. His hands roam your body, pulling a whine from your lips as he presses his hips to yours. He anchors you to him but it’s more than just a physical desire now. There’s something else in the way he touches you, as though he’s afraid to let go. 

It's dizzying, the way he holds you, his fingers digging into your skin. You respond just as eagerly, hands tangling in his curls, feeling the way his hair slips through your fingers, unruly and messy after being trapped under his helmet. He deeps the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Just like he did in the dimly lit bathroom, he seems to take your breath away, setting a fire in your chest.

You feel his body against yours, solid and warm, heat radiating from him like a furnace. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips firmly as he walks you backward toward the small bed. Your legs hit the edge, and you stumble slightly, but Lando doesn’t break the kiss, his mouth still moving with fervor against yours as he lowers you onto the bed.

He hovers over you, not yet ready to press his full body weight on top of yours. You whimper as his lips trail down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. It makes you arch your back into him, hands taking purchase of the thick muscle of his back. 

“Lando…” you breathe, the sound barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He responds with a low, guttural hum, his lips moving lower, his teeth grazing along your collarbone before his hands begin to tug at the hem of your shirt. You help him, lifting your arms as he pulls it over your head in one swift motion, leaving you exposed beneath him.

His eyes darken as he looks down at you, his breathing heavy. There’s something primal in the way he stares, as if he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. His hands find your skin again, exploring, caressing, his touch both gentle and possessive as his fingers trace patterns across your stomach, your sides, your breasts.

You feel your pulse quickening with every sleight of his hand, every kiss he places along your exposed chest. He takes his time moving over the vast plains of your skin, counting every freckle, every mole. He’s savoring you, trying engrave in his mind the way you taste, the way you feel against him, the way your whines echo through the room. You bite your lip to stifle a moan as his lips wrap around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, sending shivers down your spine.

His hands are everywhere, stroking teasing, setting your skin aflame as he worships every inch of you. His lips trail lower, leaving a hot trail behind them as he moves closer to waistband.

Your lustful trans in interupted as you see his phone light up silently where it's thrown carelessly on the table nearby. He doesn’t notice it as he moves to unbutton your pants. You want to pull away, tell him to stop. Tell him you don’t want this, that you don’t crave this—the closeness, the intensity of his touch. But you don’t. 

It’s the same part that wanted him back in the club, under those neon lights. But now, even with him so close, the doubt lingers in the back of your mind. Magui’s name feels like a ghost between you, hovering in the room, even though you don’t dare utter it aloud.

You reach for him again, the feeling of his lips on the tops of your thighs bringing you back. You pull him up, pressing your lips to his once again. You tug at his fireproofs, pulling it over his head, revealing the toned lines of his body, muscles softly rippling beneath his skin. The rush of the moment stills for a second and now it's your turn to try to memorize what he looks like. 

Your fingers dance delicately over the taut skin, dragging them down his sternum, counting every mole and feeling each valley you come across. Your eyes flicker up briefly, catching a glint in his eyes you hadn’t quite seen before. But before you can mull over it too much, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s just as intense as before. 

His hands slide into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down, leaving you bare beneath him. The cool air hits your skin and you suck in a breath, the coolness being replaced by his warmth. His body is pressed against yours and hard as you might try, you can’t bring yourself to stop the sinking feeling you begin to feel in your chest. 

His kisses grow more frantic, more needy, and you can feel his desire for you in every movement, every touch. You respond in kind, your own need for him matching his as your hands roam his back, his chest, pulling him closer. The world outside the room fades away, and for a brief moment, it’s just you and him, tangled together in a mess of limbs, breathless kisses, and heated skin.

When he finally moves between your legs, you gasp, your body arching into him, craving the contact, the connection. His eyes lock with yours, and there’s a moment of stillness as he hovers over you, the weight of everything unspoken between you pressing down on your chest.

Each touch, each breath shared between you only makes that nagging voice in the back of your mind grow louder. Does he feel this way with her too? Is this just another moment, another temporary high, easily forgotten once the race weekend is over? Will he be quick to forget you as he’s forgetting her—quickly falling into her embrace as he is falling into yours?

The questions fail to reach your lips, dissolving on your tongue as he licks into your mouth. He pushes into you with a groan, his forehead resting against yours, and you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the sensation overwhelms you.

The rhythm between starts off slow, tender, as if he’s trying to say a million words with every thrust, every kiss, every movement. But it’s not enough. Doubt still lingers in the forefront of your mind and even though your body responds to his ministrations, your heart remains guarded, wary. 

His pace quickens, his breathing ragged as he moves faster, deeper, and you cling to him, your own breath coming in short gasps as the pleasure builds. He cries your name, lips finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, the way his hands grip your hips, the way he looms over you. 

Your body reaches its peak, but as the waves of pleasure crash over you, the doubt remains. You can almost imagine her in this same position, writhing beneath him as he gives himself to you. Her face haunts you, the image of them together, his hands over her, holding her just as tight. 

But you don't bring it up, you don’t ask the questions that repeat over and over in your mind. You're afraid of what the answer will be. Afraid that this moment will merely be a chapter in the novel of time, lost in the frayed pages of a book long hidden away. 

When it's over, he lies on your chest. It's terribly domestic as he draws circles on your exposed belly and chest, lips tracing over the skin tenderly. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. The words are there, waiting to be spoken—questions, doubts, confessions—but neither of you has the courage to break the silence. Maybe it’s easier this way, not confronting whatever this is. Maybe it’s safer to pretend it’s just the high from his victory, that this moment will pass, leaving no lasting trace.

His phone lights up again and you see his eyes flicker to it briefly before you both begin to rise from your temporary bliss. That's when you realize it. You don’t have the heart to keep doing this. The uncertainty, the doubt, that cry in the back of your mind. It’s all too much. You can’t be part of something where the lines are so blurred, where neither of you is willing to admit the truth.

So, you walk away.

tags: @sltwins @sarx164 @f1fantasys @obxstiles @moonvr @spideylovin @lipstickstateofmind

a/n: hi everyone, thank you much if you've gotten to this point! i was honestly so excited and surprisingly had lots of fun while writing this rather emotional chapter. let me know what you guys think of it, i always love to see what you guys have to say!

[devdozes]

♥wifi ritual

idk man, hope yall like it even though i made this cuz i was bored

The café was comfortably warm, the hum of coffee machines blending with soft indie music overhead. You sat at a corner table, sipping on your overpriced latte as you tapped away at your tablet. The place wasn’t too crowded—just a handful of customers lost in their own worlds, either working, scrolling through their phones, or chatting in hushed voices.

Your laptop sat open, but the Wi-Fi was painfully slow. The café’s connection was nearly unusable, so, with a sigh, you decided to do what any chaotic individual would do. You turned on your personal hotspot, set the name to something entirely unhinged, and leaned back with a smirk.

"Scream PENIS whoever wants the Wi-Fi password."

It was a joke. A dumb joke. A joke you never expected anyone to actually acknowledge. It was just one of those things you did for your own amusement, waiting to see if anyone would at least notice and maybe snicker to themselves before moving on with their lives.

You didn’t expect anyone to actually do it.

But then—

“PENIS!!”

The entire café went dead silent.

Your brain short-circuited.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turned your head toward the source of the voice.

There, standing in the middle of the café, was a man with silver hair, bright cyan eyes, and an expression of absolute, unshaken confidence. His long, elegant coat draped over his frame like he had just stepped out of a fashion editorial, yet his stance was casual, almost relaxed, as if screaming profanities in public was an everyday occurrence for him.

You knew who he was. Phainon. One of the most eccentric and unpredictable members of the Flamechasers. You’d seen his name in countless reports, heard stories about his antics, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for this.

The other café patrons all turned to stare at him in stunned silence, their expressions ranging from mild horror to barely concealed amusement. The barista at the counter looked like they were debating whether or not they should ask him to leave.

Meanwhile, Phainon simply glanced around, looking vaguely pleased with himself, before tilting his head at you.

“Well? I screamed. Where’s my Wi-Fi password?”

You lost it.

A strangled wheeze escaped your throat as you hunched over, nearly knocking over your drink. Your shoulders shook violently as laughter burst from your chest, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop.

He actually did it.

He actually got up in the middle of a public café and screamed the word “penis” at full volume for Wi-Fi.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you gasped between uncontrollable wheezes. You had no idea how to react. You were the one who set the trap, but you never thought anyone would walk into it so confidently.

Phainon, completely unbothered by your near-breakdown, walked over and slid into the seat across from you, resting his chin in his palm. His cyan eyes sparkled with amusement.

“What’s so funny? I followed the instructions.”

You had to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle another ugly cackle.

This man was insane.

Struggling to breathe, you finally managed to unlock your phone, shaking from laughter, and typed the password into a note. Turning the screen toward him, you exhaled through your nose, still giggling uncontrollably.

“There. You earned it, champ.”

Phainon hummed, taking out his own device and casually connecting as if he hadn’t just publicly humiliated himself for internet access. After a few seconds, he gave a satisfied nod.

“Nice. Thanks.”

You wiped at your eyes, still occasionally wheezing as you took a sip of your now slightly colder latte. The secondhand embarrassment you should have felt never came—this was way too funny for that.

Finally, once you’d somewhat regained composure, you looked at him properly. “…Do you just do whatever instructions tell you to?”

Phainon smirked. “Only if they amuse me.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, your grin still plastered on your face. “You do realize the whole café now thinks you’re clinically insane, right?”

He shrugged. “Let them think whatever they want. I got what I wanted." and then looks at you with a smirk before continuing— "Well, Since I'm here, May I get your number? Or should I do another embarrassing act just for you?" damn.

sticking out your gyat for the rizzler (phainon)

[grabby-smitten]

Pinky promise

Subjects: Bunny Hybrid!Xavier x Human F!Reader

Word count: 2.9K

Content: Hybrid AU, fluff mostly, domestic stuff, sprinkles of angst here and there, no beta and not edited, commas placed everywhere, gender-neutral for this part(i think), idk… let me know if i missed anything. Second part has smut and will be posted separately.

A.N: Happy late birthday Xavier and Halloween especial… I guess xD. Two birds one stone?

Your local shelter was always overflowing. new hybrids coming in each week, at least according to their social media updates. It was heartbreaking watching the shelter on your work commute, multiple sounds overwhelmed that side of the street, strong smells on the pavement and everything you witnessed trailed after you to work and back home.

But not once did you step foot on the shelter. Were you scared? Probably. From what your coworkers said, it was extremely hard to care for a hybrid. Very complicated creatures. And expensive. you could barely take care of yourself. Not to mention that you hated social environments and from what you read on the internet; hybrids are social creatures. Alone you were fine… or so you thought.

Yet, you couldn’t just let the older hybrids get— well, you know what they do in most shelters when nobody adopts.

So here you are, waiting in line to fill out some forms and get your first hybrid. Sweat running down your back, and your feet hurting from standing in the same position for far too long. How long has it been since you first stepped in the line? two hours? Three? and the line barely moved.

Leaning to the side, you watched the attendants at the counter seem tired, and their hair sticking to their forehead confirmed your suspicions that the air conditioner wasn’t working as well as it should.

You had enrolled in the adoption program as soon as new spots opened for this term and just your luck with a spot on the special campaign. Besides, trying to speak yourself out of it hadn’t worked. You would give it a try and if things didn’t work out— then you would find a solution.

Today, the shelter was holding that special adoption campaign. Something about not charging the usual fees, the first year of medical expenses free and just one written evaluation to the future owners.

A couple came out of the visiting room with a young dog-hybrid. It was jumping around them and wagging its tail so enthusiastically that it kind of scared you. What if you got a hyperactive one? Your worlds would crash and the inevitable would happen.

Soon you heard your name being called out by one of the shelter workers and it snapped you out of your tragic daydream.

“Hey, Y/N, right?” He asked while reading the papers on his clipboard.

“Yes,” you replied while nodding.

“Okay, let’s see…” the shelter worker skimmed through his papers not really looking at you, “with what you filled the form with, this should be a good match. He’s a bunny hybrid and…” he trailed off, “that’s all we know,” he started to walk and you assumed it was a sign to follow him.

As you walked after the shelter workers, you passed some cages. A few were empty while others were full with more than a pair of hybrids in them. Your hands in fists, not being able to handle seeing such a scene, but you repeated to yourself that you were already doing your part to help fix this broken system. Adopting is a good way to help, you kept chanting in your mind.

“Sedentary lifestyle, doesn’t use much space and no noise, yeah. This should do.” Again, you were snapped out of your thoughts by the shelter worker. Turning a deaf ear to how he described the bunny hybrid, you noticed the door in front of you had the word abnormal painted in red bold letters.

“Hey! Xavier! A cute lady has come to visit you!” The worker banged his clipboard on the door making you jump in surprise.

“Please don’t do that.” The coldness of your voice came unexpectedly. As a reflex, you even raised your hand to try and stop the worker’s movements.

“Sorry, but it’s alright.” He pointed to the inside of the cell-like door. “He never says anything.”

His comment infuriated you to no end. Your insides were burning with rage, but you kept quiet. The faster you’re done with this, the faster you can go home.

You watched him open the door and the acid air from the inside hit you first. The smell triggered a wave of helplessness within you. how could all these be alright to a living creature? You couldn’t… you shouldn’t… but what other things could a normal civilian do to change the new world and its fucked up system?

In all truth, you knew, you dreaded this very moment when everything came crashing down on you, but Rome wasn’t built in a day. You were here and it wasn’t gonna change the whole world but you would, indeed, change someone’s world.

Once inside you grimaced at the unsanitary state of the room. Old food scattered everywhere, a lump of sheets and cloth in a corner, and… no hybrid?

“Ah, he must be under all that,” you heard the worker speak and he began to move towards the big ball of sheets at the corner.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it.” You didn’t want him near the hybrid more than necessary.

Making sure your steps were loud and clear, you approached where you guessed the hybrid would be hiding.

It all happened so fast. One moment you were reaching for the lump of sheets, and the next your hand got pulled under and a stinging sensation palpitated in your palm.

Did… did he just bite you?

Just as fast, you snatched your hand back, cradling it against your chest as you swallowed the yelp you wanted to let out.

“Hey, Xavier?” You managed to sound as calm as possible, “I probably startled you, right? I’m sorry for that… uhmm…” You proceeded to tell him your name, internally praying that the guy outside wouldn’t interfere.

The lump of sheets moved and hope struck you. A blue eye adorned with long dark lashes peeked from a small opening in between the sheets and your heart instantly softened. You saw fear clouding his striking pupil. Forgotten was the small, almost nonexistent, injury in your palm. All you wanted was to calm that vast raging blue ocean in such a small eye.

“I get it,” you said softly, “I practically had you corned and you reacted. I’m not mad, promise,” and you showed him your pinky finger.

Xavier wasn’t sure what to think. What he knew was that you were not one of the usual workers at the shelter and that you didn’t smell like… danger. You actually had a nice scent, different from everyone he had ever met in his long life— nothing overwhelming, it was almost soothing. That’s why he instinctively went straight for your hand. He didn’t even realize when his teeth had nibbled at your palm.

A pinky? That’s what you were offering. Still under the tons of sheets, Xavier wondered what was he supposed to do.

“You can lock your pinky finger with mine if you want,” you explained, seeing his eye suddenly frown and look perplexed at your gesture. “It means a promise has been made.”

The sound of fumbling cloth raised your spirits. Then a pale hand came from under all that and his pinky finger intertwined with yours. He had relented to your words… because it was the first time he was offered a choice. Not forced. Not bribed. No threats.

Convincing Xavier to come out was another ordeal. One that you achieved eventually, after negotiating with a second pinky promise of fresh food.

What actually left you with your mouth hanging open was his height. How come someone so tall was a bunny hybrid? well, the white ball of a tail and his ears sticking from his head were a dead giveaway. But still… he was taller than your average person.

The walk back home wasn't hard. Nothing eventful took place, just two jumpy individuals trying to make it back home without tripping with their own two feet. What a peculiar pair.

Less than an hour of meeting Xavier and you were already protective of your bunny hybrid. Your step might have faltered but your grip on his hand didn’t quiver. You made sure he knew you were taking him somewhere safe and that you didn’t hate his presence.

Such intention was hard to convey, especially when you tried to get him to bathe. Leaving him alone in the bathroom was a waste of time, it only made him panic and built a lump of towels.

So here you stand, in shorts and an old shirt trying to help Xavier shower.

“Xavier, please, just— wait! The water!” And with a push from the bunny hybrid, you came toppling down into the bathtub. Splashing the soapy water everywhere.

He saw your head dive in first as your arms attempted to stop your fall.

“I’m fine! It’s okay!” Moving the wet hair out of your face, you smiled sheepishly at Xavier.

He was taken aback by your reaction. He expected anything but a smile.

The first few weeks went like that. Food? The same. Xavier would panic and throw half of what you prepared to the ceiling and walls and then the rest on you. When you finished cleaning, you would find him under a pile of blankets in the kitchen.

And yes, almost no sounds came from the bunny hybrid. His blue eyes shone with a hurricane of emotions but his voice never expressed them.

You told yourself you had to be patient. All the incidents weren’t really directed at you but at whatever ghost that kept hunting him. Remembering the word painted in red on his door back at the shelter reaffirmed your resolve to give Xavier the chance he never got before.

Weeks became months and things slowly but steadily improved. Xavier no longer had those unexpected reactions and he stopped hiding under blankets and towels— well, almost— he still built those forts once in a while. He seemed more comfortable around you, so much so that he began talking to you.

The first time you heard his voice you almost screamed bloody murder. You still remember it as the night you nearly died of a heart attack.

It was a stormy night, and the electric storm was rampaging for hours now. All lights had gone out, but you were comfortable in bed reading a book with a flashlight. When a deep but soft voice you have never heard before in your life interrupted your night reading. You heard your name come from your door and it slowly opened.

You practically jumped out of the bed, one foot getting caught by your covers and your forehead hit the ground with a thud and a cry. Quickly, your eyes hovered over the side of your mattress searching for the owner of the voice, when your eyes landed on Xavier standing at your door.

“Xavier?” Gathering your thoughts, you realized the voice calling your name in the middle of the dark was his. “I-is there something you need?”

Of course, you were stunned by this new development but you knew that if you didn’t handle the situation accordingly, you would lose this opportunity. Calm and collected were the words you mentally chanted as you slowly stood up with your heart beating wildly in your throat.

“Can I…” he felt his hesitation rising as the hands of anxiety began to squeeze Xavier’s insides.

You send him a look full of warmth, encouraging him to keep going, and the sudden nails digging into his stomach slowly evaporated.

“Can I stay here?” His deep but melodic soft voice traveled to your ears and you felt like crying, but you held everything in. This was about him.

“Sure, Xavier. Let me get you more blankets.” You smiled, storm and the almost-heart attack left in the past. “I know how much you like them.”

A few blankets later and a bunny hybrid wrapped in them like a burrito, you went back to your book. you expected Xavier to just fall asleep. But oh, boy… he had different plans.

“Why are you so kind to me when I have been nothing but trouble to you?” Xavier’s whispers broke the silence in your room.

Closing your book and leaving it on your bedside table, you turned your attention completely to your bunny hybrid who rested comfortably on the pillow next to yours.

“I promised, remember?” You lifted your pinky, “aaand do I need a reason to be kind? Maybe it’s an instinct to be this way, just like you with your blanket forts or I just don’t know how to be mean.” You lightheartedly joked with the last part.

A while passed after your words and you thought your answer had satisfied Xavier. So you got cozy in your bed and closed your eyes, assuming that your first-ever chat with Xavier had come to an end.

And again, he was a bunny hybrid full of surprises. Your assumptions were wrong because that was not the case. Xavier had ambushed you once more. Out of nowhere, he began to speak again.

“That’s not true. I remember you verbally berating the neighbors the other day.” He casually mumbled.

You widened your eyes, startled by his words. “No— that’s— Xavier, they were being too loud and you got scared!”

“I know,” he then turned around and went to sleep. Just like that. Leaving you all dumbfounded beside him.

More than a year together and things were good until they weren’t. Xavier began to behave weirdly around you and it just kept getting worse. He presented fevers, cold sweats, and very abnormal noises at night.

And so you did what you thought was best and called his doctor.

“His heat? Wha– what do you mean his heat?” Your phone nearly slipped from your hand and your eyes almost popped out of your skull at what the doctor was telling you. “But–but the shelter said he never had one before! That he’s too old! I don’t— yes, I understand but—” you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “What do you mean the first heat could last about ten months?”

You did not sign up for that… that was… how would that even work?

“Okay, thank you.” A couple of more suggestions from his doctor and you finally ended the call.

Hunched over the bathroom sink, you took some deep breaths before coming out to look for Xavier. You would ask for his consent first and foremost. What the doctor implied in the call sounded awful but you had little to no options. Ten months, the first week should be the worst and then the rest should be manageable with what? Get him a prescription? Suppressant? A mating partner? Gosh… your brain was fried.

“Hey Xav? Are you awake?” You said softly as you opened the door. He had been taking more naps than usual to keep… to keep whatever was happening with his system under control.

He grunted a response from his bed, once again the blanket forts were back in place.

With a heavy heart, you told him what the doctor had said, and instantly you got a strange growl in response.

“Do not use that tone with me,” you lightly reprimanded followed by a soft chuckle on your part. “I get it, really. I didn’t like the options either.”

“The others,” he began to say, voice a bit muffled under all those blankets, “at the shelter, they could withstand their heat. I can too.”

He sounded so sure, but you? From what you heard the doctor say? You doubted it. After all, Xavier was a late bloomer. For whatever reason, be it trauma or lack of nutrients, or feeling unsafe, his body didn’t allow him before. Now, that he has a safe environment? That was a different story.

Needless to say, you were right. Things got out of hand pretty fast.

“Chain me,” Xavier demanded behind his closed door. Blocking your path to his room.

“What? No! Xavier, I can’t—“You banged your fist for the hundredth time. “Just let me in! We’ll find something!” You were desperate. He meant the world to you and vice versa. Both grew to be the one thing each other needed.

“Chain me! That’s what they did with the others.” He kept insisting. “It’s for your own good! I can withstand the week! Just go get them!” Xavier shouted, a desperate look clouded his delicate features.

Your heart broke for him as his pleas traveled through the door. He had never raised his voice before and as tears ran down your cheeks, you made up your mind, nodding, and with pain constricting your chest you went straight to buy a collar and a set of chains.

Hours became days and you couldn’t step into Xavier’s room without breaking into a sobbing mess. You didn’t get the chain, that was too much. Instead, you got just the collar and a harness which did the work just fine.

It was almost done, you told yourself as you paced back and forth outside his door. Only three more days and he would be less affected by his hormones.

Click here! Smut inside! pls be aware! -> PART 2

[sunny44]

I can stay

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fem!reader

Warnings: none I guess

Summary: Y/n, feeling hurt and insecure after seeing photos of Lando with another girl, assumed that he moved on but he unexpectedly shows up at her door, leading to a heartfelt conversation about their feelings.

Previous Part

Several months have passed since Lando decided to leave, leaving behind what we had. I had already grown accustomed to his absence, trying to move on with my life. Tonight, I planned to go out with my friends to a local bar, hoping to distract my mind from the thoughts that haunt me.

We were having fun, laughing and chatting animatedly, until I decided to take a look at Instagram. And there they were - photos of Lando with a girl, smiling and looking completely in love. My heart sank as I read the caption confirming my worst fears: she was his new girlfriend.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the bar felt heavy and suffocating. I could no longer concentrate on my friends' conversation, my mind spinning around the image of Lando with that girl. And then my insecurities started to creep into my mind, of how that girl was everything I was not, and that led me to a conclusion.

And apparently the problem was me.

Without a word, I abruptly stood up from the table and ran out of the bar.

Back in the comfort of my apartment, tears began to stream down my face, smudging my makeup. I sank into the couch, trying to process the flood of emotions flooding my heart. How could I be so naive as to think he would come back to me or that I would be enough for Lando Norris.

After I finished cleaning my makeup, I put on my pajamas and as I was finishing tying my hair into a bun, I heard knocks on the door.

My heart skipped a beat with the startle I got from the loud knocks, but I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope and at the same time I was full of anger and hurt. Reluctantly, I went to the door and opened it.

And there he was, standing in the hallway, with a look of regret on his face.

"Y/n, please, let me explain," he began, his voice full of urgency.

I looked at him incredulously, my mind spinning with a mixture of emotions.

"What is there to explain, Lando? I saw the photos. You have a new girlfriend, so if you came here to rub that in my face you can leave, you wasted your time.”

I went to close the door but he held it.

"No, Y/n, you're misunderstanding. She's not my girlfriend.” He said with some despair. “And I would never do something like that.”

I rolled my eyes, unable to believe a word of what he was saying.

"Oh, sure. And the romantic photos are just a coincidence, is that it? Or the fact that you show up at my door after months right after the photos went viral on the internet?”

"I know it looks bad, but please, give me a chance to explain."

“And why do you care to explain to me? We are nothing to each other and you made that very clear when you walked out that door leaving me alone that night.”

“Please.” He begs.

I hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to slam the door in his face. Finally, I took a step back and let him in.

"All right, Lando.” I muttered, my voice full of resignation. "But I can’t promise that I’ll believe you."

He nodded, silently thanking me for the opportunity. We sat on the couch and stayed silent for a few minutes, me waiting for him to speak and him thinking about what he would say.

“She's not my girlfriend.”

“You've already said that, but those photos show otherwise.”

“They were taken out of context, you know how it is.” I sighed because I knew how his world worked. “Max dragged me to that party and she was a friend of his who yes, hit on me and tried something but I pushed her away.”

“That doesn't change the fact that you broke my heart. That I begged you to stay that night and you simply turned your back on me and ended everything we had or didn't have.” He tried to wipe the tear that fell from my face but I dodged his hand. “And then I open Instagram and see a photo of you with a girl much prettier than me, and then with the writings “Lando Norris and his new girlfriend”, and then I felt like garbage because you wanted a girlfriend, just didn't want it to be me.”

“Don't say that, never say that again.” He holds my face. “You're perfect for me and it's all I want, but I'm an idiot who doesn't deserve your love let alone that you cry over me.”

“If you really think that, why did you leave me?”

“Because I'm a coward, I was afraid of my feelings for you.” He dries my tears. “I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you, and that scared me so I thought it was easier to leave than to say out loud that I love you.”

“What did you say?”

“That I love you and that I'm an idiot for leaving and even more idiotic for leaving it for months until I had the courage to come here.” He sighs. “I admit that the photos were what encouraged me to come, because I didn't want you to think I was with someone after saying I didn't want a relationship with you, even if it was a lie.”

“All right.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“I forgive you, but it still hurts to know that you preferred to run away than to talk to me.”

“I know and I'm sorry for that and I promise to make it up to you.”

“Can you stay? Please?” I asked and he smiled.

“I can stay.” He kisses me and for the first time he really stayed.

Taglist: @sltwins @hiireadstuff @lunaetxc @ssararuffoni @lansmclaren @ushygushybaby @daemyratwst @alymariec @mahhi7 @kaa212 @halaxxxx @ryanandshanearemydads @kapsylia

Guys, the names that have a line on top is because I couldn’t tag

[lazysoulwriter]

cannes you not? - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x actress!wife!reader, Cannes Film Festival, chaotic flirty married couple energy, power couple in separate films, too-hot-for-the-red-carpet behavior, public teasing, mutual obsession, media going feral

---

It wasn’t supposed to be a thing. You were both there separately. Professionally.

Pedro was immersed in the press circuit for his latest dramatic epic — a weighty, thought-provoking film that marked a bold shift from his usual roles. You were starring in a glittery, sensual dark comedy directed by a Cannes darling. Very not the same vibe.

And yet?

Somehow, you two became the most talked about thing at the festival.

Power couples were supposed to be poised. Elegant. Giving “Oscar royalty” — not giggling between takes, not whispering jokes into each other’s ears in the middle of press interviews, not nearly making out on the red carpet while photographers begged you both to please just stand still for one frame.

But that’s the thing: you weren’t trying to behave.

“I’m in trouble,” Pedro whispered when you stepped out of your car in that custom couture gown. You were supposed to meet on the steps, wave politely, and move on. Instead, he immediately turned and bit his fist. Cameras clicked. The internet died.

Later, during one of the press junkets, a journalist asked if you ever got competitive being in the same festival with different films.

You both said “Yes” at the same time — then Pedro added: “She wins everything. Always. She wins my heart. She wins the carpets. She wins being hotter than me. It’s fine. I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you really?” you teased.

He looked you dead in the eye and said, “No. I’m barely functioning.”

By the time the photographers caught you at the amfAR Gala — him spinning you in your dress like it was prom night, and you kissing his cheek so hard you left a lipstick mark — the media had labeled you “the couple that Cannes was made for.”

Your publicist begged you both to behave.

You posted a blurry picture of Pedro zipping up your dress with the caption “we tried.”

Later, at the closing night party, you stood on the balcony with two glasses of champagne, waiting for him to come back from a very serious, very formal interview.

He found you there, hair pinned up, skin glowing, and eyes already teasing.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, pressing one hand to your waist and the other to your face.

“Says the man who made me late to my own premiere by taking off my underwear.”

He smirked. “No regrets.”

“None?”

“Well. One.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“That I don’t get to take you home yet.”

You melted. Punched him in the chest. Kissed him like the party didn’t exist.

And just like that, you two — the chaotic, over-in-love, can’t-keep-their-hands-off-each-other couple — became Cannes’ favorite tradition.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[thedropsofblood]

Awesome!, can I please request a platonic yandere dad with a serial killer y/n! In which he doesn't mind and is actually encouraging them!

Word count: 6k

Being a full-time serial killer, as cool and amazing as it sounds, is honestly a really shitty job, especially when you're only doing it for the money. Your family was torn apart by a nasty marriage, leaving you with your dad while your brother goes with your mother.

Your father's performance at his job worsened because of it, leading to him being demoted to a fairly bad position, and suddenly you can't afford to attend school anymore.

Something worse than having to say goodbye to your classmates is having to find a job in this economy, who in the world would hire a 16 years old for a full-time job without any degrees or prior work experience? Even if they do, the pay would be so bad that you might start picking up spare coins in the streets instead. You went through sleepless nights extremely conflicted and stressed out just because of it. While at your darkest moment, your mind threw an idea at you that made you question yourself more than expected.

What if you became a serial killer? There's plenty of information on the internet to help with it. And organs sells, doesn't they? Even a kidney or an eye makes a person rich overnight on the right market, and one less person on this earth wouldn't hurt, would it?... You mean, you'll only be targeting junkies and prostitutes anyways, and that'll be fine, right?...

And that's how you committed your first murder, a man high on drugs in the middle of an alleyway at midnight. A clean stab at the back of the throat followed by one to the head. You had to hold back the urge to vomit as you wrapped his body into a plastic bag and into your basement while your dad was asleep.

With a surgical knife and gloves on, you became your "procedure", lungs, heart, liver, wrapped neatly in ziplock bags and placed on ice. You tried not to think back about it when you held the wads of cash in your hand, blood money, as they said. But does blood money really matter if you have enough money to sustain your family for months on end?

You hoped he wouldn't mind you lying about winning a scratch lottery that day. As time goes by, you've long gotten used to the feeling of taking a person's life and repeating the same step over and over again. Kill, down to the basement, dissect, sell and profit. It was a neat little routine, you've even bought a lock for the basement, just in case your father decides to enter it at some point.

But no amount of preparation could've prepared you for this. You opened the door to the house, clicking your tongue at the creak before dragging the bagged body in, making sure to close the door behind you. Your victim for today was a prostitute, normally, it would've been easy to just blindfold them and slice them cleanly in the neck, but this time, you got careless and couldn't finish them in one or two stabs, getting yourself a nasty bruise on the side of your head and injuries on your arms. You still finished your job, of course, what kind of killer would you be if you didn't?

As you dragged the body towards the basement, you were flashbanged by the lights of the hallway turning on. Panic surges through your body, causing you to freeze in your place before snapping your head to look at your father looking back at you in the end of the hallway. You looked at the bagged body and back at your dad, trying to find an excuse.

Your words were caught in your throat, no matter how much you tried to speak up, nothing came out, only a silence filled between you and your dear father.

A sigh escape from your father broke the silence, the eyebags on his face, the exhaustion in his sigh, fuck, he was waiting for you and here you were, coming home at 2 in the morning, dragging a dead body towards god knows where?

You grit your teeth, before you can even speak up and make an excuse to defend yourself, he barks at you with a stern tone. "Sit down. You can explain it to me later, why were you out so late and why are you bleeding?"

You jumped at the mention of your wounds. Right, you completely forgot about that. You decide to bite the inside of your cheek and sit down onto the couch, preparing yourself for an hour lecture or worse, getting kicked out of the house and being left to rot on the streets. Your dad wouldn't do that, right? Sure, you've been a problem child ever since you were a kid, but your dad loves you... Right?...

Your thoughts were cut in half when you felt the sting of alcohol being applied onto the wounds on your arms, causing you to hiss and look up at your father. You wanted to complain like you usually do, yet, you couldn't bring yourself to do so, especially not when your father still had the same worried look in his eyes. Instead, you bit your pride and let your father bandage you up.

He pulled you into a hug, something completely unexpected from somebody like him. You've always seen him as such a strong, superhuman person, the pillar of your family, but you've never seen him feel so... Helpless? Worried? Scared? Ever since the divorce with your mother.

"You worried the hell out of me, kid. You don't even know how many calls and messages I've sent you, I thought you fucking died in a ditch somewhere. And don't even give me the 'I was working overtime' bullshit, I've seen enough, I'm not five, I know what you do."

Your body completely froze in his arms as you looked at him with wide eyes. You hesitantly hugged him back, burying your face into his shoulder. "And you don't hate me because of it?"

Silence filled the room, broken by a sigh from him. "No. You could've just... Chosen a normal job instead of risking your life everyday over a few wads of cash. I don't care what you want to do, as long as you're safe and happy."It felt so weird to have someone finally supporting you after trying to be independent for so long, you tightened your hug around your father before you buried your face into your father's shoulder, tears beginning to build in the corner of your eyes.

As you sobbed quietly, your father's hand patted your back, silently comforting you until you succumbed to sleep. You've already had a long day today, he doesn't want to bother you anymore.

The next night, when you were getting ready to set out, you made sure to put the lunchbox filled with the dinner your father made for you into your backpack on your way out for your 'job'.

A/N: I'm not even gonna lie if I had a dad like this I would be killing people left and right /nsrs

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM BILLIE EILISH'S HIT ME HARD AND SOFT *  assorted lines from the album, some slightly adapted, adjust as necessary

baby, i think you were made for me.

i wish you the best for the rest of your life.

i need to confess, i told you a lie.

you were the love of my life.

i can't fall in love with you.

i see the way you want me.

i gotta be careful, gotta watch what i say.

god, i hope it all goes away.

did i break your heart?

you're just so sweet.

i don't need to breathe when you look at me.

keep it brief.

you seem so paranoid.

if this is how i die, that's all right.

open up the door for me.

i just want you to touch me.

i've never paid this much attention to you, ever.

i want you to stay.

i'll love you 'til the day i die.

i want you to see how you look to me.

you're so full of shit.

if you go, i'm going too.

we should stick together.

did you take my love away from me?

i never did you wrong.

fell in love for the first time with a friend.

it's a good time.

you told me it was war.

if it's forever, it's even better.

i don't know what i'm crying for.

call me when you're there.

i bought you something rare.

it's a craving, not a crush.

people say i look happy.

the old me is still me and maybe the real me.

i think she's pretty.

can you open up the door?

am i acting my age now?

i'll run a shower for you like you want.

if i'm allowed, i'll help you take them off.

bring that over here.

i need to be alone now, i'm taking a break.

am i already on the way out?

when i step off the stage, i'm a bird in a cage.

you said i was your secret.

the internet is hungry for the meanest kind of funny.

do you still cry?

i loved you for so long.

i could eat that girl for lunch.

tastes like she might be the one.

i don't know why i called.

i don't know you at all.

i could never get enough.

you need a seat? i'll volunteer.

i'm interested in more than just being your friend.

do you know how to bend?

when i come back around, will i know what to say?

there's a part of me that recognizes you.

do you feel it, too?

when you told me it was serious, were you serious?

they tell me it's all been a trap.

no, don't say that.

did i waste your time?

i tried to be there for you.

you said you'd never fall in love again because of me.

i love you, don't act so surprised.

things fall apart and time breaks your heart.

i wasn't there, but i know.

you don't need to remind me.

i should put it all behind me, shouldn't i?

did i cross the line?

good things don't last.

life moves so fast.

every time you touch me, i just wonder how she felt.

i know you didn't mean to hurt me, so i kept it to myself.

i'm trying my best to keep you satisfied.

you don't wanna know how alone i've been.

we don't have to fight when it's not worth fighting for.

you don't wanna know what i would've done.

i loved you and i still do.

just wanted passion from you.

it's not my fault, i did what i could.

you made it so hard like i knew you would.

after i left, it was obvious.

we're so glad it's over now.

say you miss me.

don't be afraid of me.

please don't call the cops.

bet i could change your life.

i tried to save you, but i failed.

i hope you'll read it this time.

i left a calling card so they would know that it was me.

i memorized your number.

if something happens to him, you can bet that it was me.

i'd like to mean it when i say i'm over you.

i thought we were the same.

he never learned to sympathize with anyone.

i don't blame you, but i can't change you.

it's over now.