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lemonmoonmochi · 17 hours ago

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PREDATOR'S CHOICE

Pairing: Male Yuatja x Female Reader

divider by: @sinisterexaggerator & @enchanthings word count: 5k synopsis: After killing the Bad blood who hunted you, you gain the attention of another hunter. a/n: Y'all don't judge me for my hear me out. I did not intend for this to end the way it did, but clearly I got carried away. For those apart of the Predator franchise, I'm new here and still learning the lore so I hope I got most of it correct. warning: 18+, yautja smut, biting kink, size kink, more plot than porn, etc.

The jungle was unnervingly quiet in the wake of the slaughter. Smoke curled lazily from the scorched wreckage of gear, bodies strewn like broken dolls among shredded foliage. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt flesh.

Above, smoke still clung to the treetops, drifting from where your unit had been ambushed. Twelve soldiers—half gone in less than ten minutes, the other half having slowly been hunted down over the course of the day. You were the only one left, though “standing” felt generous. Your breath came hard and uneven, weight braced on your rifle, every muscle screaming from hours of evasion and bursts of return fire.

You hadn’t seen the thing kill your squad, but you’d heard them die. One by one, their voices had crackled over comms—panicked screams cut short, the sound of erratic gunfire halting as you heard pleading cries dissolving into wet, choking gurgles that left no doubt about their fate.

A sharp crack broke the stillness to your right. Your head snapped toward the sound, rifle coming up in reflex, finger tight on the trigger.

What stepped—or rather, crashed—into the clearing was massive. Armour hung on its frame in mismatched plates, rusted and scored from old battles, the surface stained with rot and dried blood. The helmet was jagged, clearly scavenged, its targeting system flickering with an unstable red glow.

It let out a feral snarl, the reminded you of battle cry before it charged. That was your only warning before the hulking shape bore down on you.

You didn’t think—you reacted. Ducking under its wild swing, you drove your combat knife deep into the unarmored joint beneath its shoulder plate. It roared, claws lashing for your throat. You ducked, but its other hand shot out, fingers closing around the front of your vest. It hurled you into a tree with bone-jarring force, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, vision going white at the edges.

The creature lunged for you again. This time, you rolled, mud slick beneath your palms, and your hand closed around a fallen sidearm half-buried in the muck. You brought it up and fired point-blank into the gaps of its helmet until sparks spat from the damaged metal.

It staggered.

You surged forward, using the opening, and drove your blade into its throat. Hot, alien blood fountained over your hands, thick and bright green. You twisted hard, feeling resistance give way, and ripped the knife free. The creature gurgled once before collapsing in a final, heavy thud that sent leaves shivering from the canopy above.

Panting, you stood over the body, blood and sweat running into your eyes, staring down at the corpse. Only then did you sense another presence.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

It was another of the same kind of alien you had just killed—but this one was different. Taller. Broader. His armour was etched with intricate markings that caught the fractured light filtering through the canopy. Every step he took set the small skulls, teeth, and bones hanging from his loincloth clattering together in a grim rattle.

You swallowed hard, forcing back the instinctive prickle of fear. Everything about him screamed superiority—the easy way he moved, the measured weight of his presence. This was no frenzied brute like the one before. This was a true seasoned hunter.

The realization struck like ice: he had been here the entire time. Watching the battled you had with his partner.

His mask turned toward the body at your feet, then back to you. Slowly, he extended one massive arm and the twin wrist-blades slid free from his gauntlet with a metallic hiss.

You were already bleeding from the ribs, every muscle aching from the last fight, but your grip tightened on your knife all the same. There was no way in hell you were going down without a fight.

A low, almost amused sound rumbled from his chest—but beneath it was something else. Interest.

Then he moved.

The world narrowed to motion—your blade flashing, his gauntleted arm swiping out a strike that would have struck a normal human. But you weren’t normal. You were one of the best, forged through years of elite military training. You were ducking the backhand before your mind could even catch up with your body, pivoting and delivering a sharp kick into his abdomen hard enough to make him grunt. Pain flared white-hot through your side from your sharp movement, but you stayed upright, refusing to back down.

Steel found flesh once—your knife slicing across his upper arm. It wasn’t deep, but it made him pause. His head tilted slightly, as though you had just passed some silent, unspoken test. Then he shifted, fast as lightning, and sent your knife spinning into the dirt.

Even weaponless, you swung at him, but his palm slammed into your sternum—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The jungle tilted around you. You stumbled, vision tunneling, before a massive hand caught your shoulder to keep you from collapsing entirely.

The edges of the world blurred. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the tilt of his mask, as he studied you.

When awareness returned, it did so in fragments—heat against your skin, the slow rhythm of your own breathing, the faint hum of something mechanical in the distance.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, every muscle protesting, and realized immediately that this wasn’t Earth.

The air was thick and humid, smelling of strange herbs and cured hides. You lay upon furs softer than any wool, beneath a ceiling worked in patterns you could not read. Through a latticed wall, the light was amber and alien, casting long shadows over weapons mounted like trophies.

The fight came back to you in shards—Your murdered team, the berserking alien, the fighting. And then… him.

Your gaze flicked to the doorway as a shadow fell across it.

Your alien captor stepped inside, filling the space with his presence. Without the chaos of battle to blur the details, you could take him in more clearly now—the well-maintained armour marked with intricate etchings, the heavy, mid-length dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, and the steady, assured confidence in every movement.

In his hands he carried a carved slab piled with thick cuts of red, raw meat and a horn flask filled with water. Crossing the room, he set them on the floor within your reach, then straightened without a word. The bones and charms hanging from his armour gave a faint clatter as he shifted, his mask angled toward you, watching.

You didn’t touch the offering—not at first. Your eyes stayed locked on him, waiting for the trick, the catch. Instead of closing the distance like you might've expected, he lowered himself onto a seat across the room. Then his hands rose to the sides of his helmet, claws working the clasps with practiced ease.

A hiss of released pressure filled the air as the mask came free.

Your breath caught. This was the first time you’d seen his face—alien in every sense. The ridges along his crown swept back in bold, clean lines, their mottled patterns catching the light. A scattering of scars marked his hide—evidence of battles survived. His mandibles flexed subtly as though testing the air between you.

What struck you most were his eyes—molten gold, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you with a predator’s unwavering focus. There was a confidence there, the quiet certainty of one who knew his own skill and strength and had proven it time and again. Everything about him was so distinctly inhuman and yet, to your own surprise, you didn’t recoil in fear or disgust.

You were… intrigued. But instead of embracing your curiousity, you looked away. You still didn't trust him. He had tried to kill you, and then abducted you. You had no idea what the hell he wanted with you.

The first week passed in that tense rhythm. Each day, he returned with food—slabs of raw meat still warm from the kill. The second day, you’d shifted closer for a better look before instinct made you recoil. He’d only grunted, as though your refusal was of no consequence. By the third day, hunger gnawed deep enough that you carved off a strip and held it over the flames, certain by now it wasn’t poisoned.

At the sight, he’d grunted again, eyes narrowing as he tore into his own portion raw. All the while, he watched you, gaze following the slow chew of your jaw as you struggled to bite through the cooked meat with your ooman teeth.

Neither of you spoke—not for lack of trying on his part. He didn’t fully understand your tongue, and whatever sounds came from him were low, clicking growls and deep-chested trills you couldn’t begin to match.

But there was no mistaking the way he studied you—the way your steps carried you through his home, how your gaze lingered on the carved trophies along his walls, the way you instinctively stiffened whenever his shadow fell across you.

Just as he watched you, you watched him. You noticed the smooth, predatory ease in the roll of his shoulders when he moved through the dwelling. The way his hands—large enough to encompass your skull—handled his weapons with a quiet reverence. You took note of the small ritual before each meal, the careful sharpening of his blades, the pause at the doorway each dawn as he scented the air like a wolf testing the wind.

He never closed the door completely when he left. You noticed that too. You weren’t sure if it was meant as a test or as bait. Without your weapons, you weren’t confident enough to risk finding out.

Yet, by the seventh day, the walls of his home as if they were closing in, even your own skin felt too tight. When he stepped toward the door with a spear slung over his back, you followed him.

“I’m coming with you,” you said.

He paused, turning his mask toward you. A long silence stretched between you. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he beckoned you forward—and held out your knife. The sight of it made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it, you thought it had been left back on Earth.

The terrain outside his home was like nothing on Earth—mountains formed from jagged black stone, plains broken by thick forests of emerald-leafed trees. The air carried the distant roars and shrieks of unseen things.

That day’s quarry was a thresk—if you managed to understand his guttural growl correctly—a six-legged, deer-like creature with thick, scaled hide and wide antlers that shed once a season. It was fast and skittish, grazing in small herds on broad-leafed plants. Not harmless as you soon learned—it could gore you if startled—but it was food. He moved like the forest was an extension of him. You followed his lead, scanning the ground as he did—reading the bend of crushed stems, the imprint of heavy claws, the faint sway of disturbed foliage, caused by the passing of the herd.

When the kill came, it was sudden and brutal—your knife in the creature’s throat while his spear pinned it in place. He let you take the final strike, then showed you something strange. From his belt he drew a narrow, curved blade and cut free one of the creature’s fangs—long, polished by wear. He pressed it into your palm and curled your fingers around it. A mark of the hunt. A piece to keep even if the meat was the true prize.

You didn’t realize until later how much that small gesture shifted something between you both.

Days later, the second hunt changed everything.

You’d just brought down a gar’shun—a thick-bodied, tusked boar with spiny ridges along its back—when the air split with a scream. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the pounding of your pulse. Out of the undergrowth burst something you hadn’t seen before—a varik, all coiled muscle and hooked claws, its mottled hide blending perfectly with the ferns until the moment it struck.

You didn’t spot it until it was too close.

He did.

He slammed into you, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs, shoving you clear just as the varik’s claws tore across his chest. The sound of rending armour was followed by the wet, ugly rip of skin beneath. The fight that followed was brief but brutal—two predators colliding in a flurry of snapping mandibles, slashing claws, and spear strikes. He drove the weapon deep into its side, twisting until the creature let out a final, guttural shriek and collapsed.

When the beast hit the ground, he was already staggering.

You could have run. You could have vanished into the terrain, taken your chances finding your way home. But you didn’t.

Instead, you dropped to your knees beside him, your hand already reaching for the small pouch of emergency supplies still strapped to your belt. You cleaned the wound with what little you had, tearing strips from your undershirt to bind it tight. The alien blood was shockingly bright green, slick and hot against your fingers.

His mask tilted down at you, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravel-edged. “Why?”

It was the first time you’d heard him speak your language. The words were rough, growled, thick with an alien accent that rolled strangely over familiar sounds.

You didn’t stop working as you answered. “You saved my life. Now I’m saving yours.”

After the varik attack, that shift became more apparent.

It was subtle at first. He lingered closer when you moved through the forest—more protective. His gaze, though still sharp and assessing, had lost the hard edge of suspicion. When you worked together over the thresk carcass, he wordlessly passed you the choicest cuts—something you didn’t even notice until later.

One evening, as you sat beside the low-burning heat pit, he placed a strip of raw meat into your palm and gestured toward his own mouth.

You gave him a look. “It’s raw. Human's don't tend to eat meat raw.”

A low rumble sounded in his chest—amusement, maybe—and he tilted his head, urging. His massive hand came up, the tips of his claws nudging the meat closer to your face.

You eyed it warily, sighing when he gave your hand another insistent push. Finally, you lifted it to your mouth and took a small bite. The taste surprised you—sweet and tender, almost buttery, with a freshness that made Earth’s cooked rations seem dry and lifeless by comparison, and every time you’d been cooking it, the meat’s subtle flavour had been vanishing, becoming tough and leathery, but raw it was tender and flavourful.

After that, you stopped bothering with the fire.

Days passed, and you began to notice something about his speech. His helmet’s built-in translator let him understand you perfectly, yet when he spoke, it was almost always in his own language. The sounds were a mix of deep-chested trills, low growls, and the sharp clicks of his mandibles.

One evening, curiosity got the better of you.

“You can understand me,” you said, tearing off another strip of meat. “But you don’t speak my language.”

His mask tilted slightly, as though your observation amused him.

“You could,” you pressed. “I could teach you.”

He let out a low click, then gestured for you to continue. And so you did—pointing to objects, naming them in English, repeating the words until the alien syllables began to form on his tongue. The consonants were difficult for him, vowels stretching oddly in his deep voice, but you could hear the improvement with each attempt. Sometimes you corrected him, sometimes you laughed at how adorable he was trying to say the correct word, and sometimes he repeated a word so carefully with that rumbling growl it sent a shiver down your spine.

You fared no better when it was your turn. Listening to him rumble the Yautja equivalent of whatever English word you were trying to teach, you tripped over the sharp clicks and guttural rolls. He was patient in a way you hadn’t expected, correcting you with a low growl or the faintest click of his mandibles when you mangled a syllable.

Slowly but surely, you were both learning. The exchanges were broken, imperfect, but the gaps between you were closing. Bit by bit, you were beginning to communicate.

It wasn’t until a week into your growing truce that you finally asked the question that had been nagging at you.

“Why did you take me?” you asked, curiosity edging your voice.

He clicked his mandibles, as if weighing his answer, then spoke slowly, choosing his words. “You kill bad blood. Bad blood leader come. He take you. You fight… until die.”

You frowned. “Bad blood?”

“Me. Yautja,” he said, tapping a closed fist against his chest before pointing to a helmet resting on a shelf—one you hadn’t realized was there until now. Recognition jolted through you. It belonged to the Predator you’d killed. “Him. No honour Yautja.”

“So… me killing the bad blood would’ve had his leader take me and make me fight until I died?” you clarified.

He nodded once.

“But why save me from them?” you pressed.

He hesitated, mandibles clicking once before he spoke. “I don’t. I bring you to heal… and hunt. No honour to hunt broken. Only strong.” His head tilted slightly, his voice dropping into something almost gentle. “But no more. You now… friend.”

You blinked, the words settling heavily between you. “You brought me here to heal, and then you were going to finish your hunt?”

A part of you didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Another part wasn’t surprised—that explanation fit more with the creature you’d first met than the one you’d begun to know.

“No more hunt,” he said firmly. “You. Friend.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You know, I just realized—if we’re friends, I still don’t even know your name.”

He straightened slightly, then spoke—clicks and rolling syllables that resonated low in your bones. “Drak’ven.”

You tried it, mangling the guttural tones until his mandibles finally flared in what you guessed was approval.

“Y/n,” you replied, pressing your hand to your chest.

He repeated it slowly, tasting the human sounds, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, hearing your name in his voice made something tighten in your chest.

A few days later, you decided to test the luck of your new-found friendship.

“I need a shower,” you announced one morning. It had been weeks since your arrival, and you could take an educated guess that his kind didn’t share the same hygiene habits as humans. Still, your skin itched with the need to be properly clean, more than the small basin and a cloth you'd been using and you silently prayed he had something to help.

His head tilted, mandibles shifting slightly.

You mimed scrubbing your hair, letting your hands trail water down your arms. He watched, still as stone, for a long moment. Then his mandibles twitched in thought, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow.

The walk took you into the denser part of the forest, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the calls of unseen creatures. Eventually, the trees opened into a secluded clearing, revealing a hot spring cupped by jagged stone and draped in thick vines. Steam curled lazily upward into the shafts of golden light breaking through the canopy.

You nearly gasped. The place was beautiful, untouched. You were still taking it in when you heard Drak’ven shift behind you. Excitement to wash away days of dirt and grime overrode any hesitation; you stepped to the edge and tugged at your clothes.

His gaze followed—steady, unflinching—as you stripped and slid into the water. Heat enveloped you instantly, seeping deep into your muscles and drawing a low sigh from your lips.

When you looked back, he was removing his armour. Piece by piece, it revealed the thick cords of muscle beneath, the mottled pattern of his skin, the faint sheen of condensation forming where steam met flesh. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, the ripple of strength across his chest.

You caught yourself staring, pulse quickening in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. And when his gaze met yours again, you knew he’d been doing the same.

The water rippled as Drak’ven stepped in, steam curling around the edges of his broad frame.

You swallowed, your body moving before you had the sense to stop it, wading toward him as if drawn by something you couldn’t name. When you reached him, your hand rose—hesitant at first—until your palm met the solid heat of his chest. Your fingers traced the ridges of muscle, skimming over old scars that told stories you could only imagine, then followed the curve of his shoulder to the powerful line of his arm.

A low, resonant sound rolled from his chest—something almost like a purr, but with the underlying edge of a predator’s growl. Before you could pull away, his hand closed around your hip, claws pressing lightly into your skin as he hauled you through the water until you were flush against him.

Your breath caught. The heat of him was unmistakable, the hard, unyielding press of his body against yours impossible to ignore. Instinct tugged your gaze downward—just for a moment.

And gods help you, you looked.

Your eyes widened fractionally, and his mandibles flexed in what might have been amusement… or a warning.

You’d never cared much for human men—always finding them lacking in ways you could never quite explain—but standing this close to him, feeling the hardened length that was now pressing against your stomach, something inside you tightened. The want came sharp and sudden, curling deep in your loins like a spark catching flame.

It had been too long since you’d last touched yourself, too long since anyone had stirred your interest—and now, despite the gulf between your species, Drak’ven was the first male in years to make that spark flare.

His head tilted slightly, mandibles shifting as he scented the air. You realized, with a jolt, that he could smell the change in you—the growing arousal sweetening your already sweet scent. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was not. It was filled with growing hunger.

Yet, despite his own desires he slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled low with warning. “Me too big. You too little… to mate.”

No human man had ever come close to him in scale or presence. Not even close. You should have been intimidated by his sheer size, should have let his words cool the moment—but they didn’t.

Instead, you pressed closer, your breath hitching. “I can take you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

His kind mated only for reproduction, never for pleasure, and among the Yautja, it was the females who dominated. Mating was a brutal contest—if the male wasn’t strong enough, he could be killed in the process. This was different. He wanted you despite knowing his seed would not take.

You felt so soft in his arms, pliant where his kind were unyielding. He knew you could be a vicious little thing when you wanted. Like when he’d seen you take down the bad blood, it was why he had marked you as his next hunt recognizing the predator you were. He’d intended to bring you here, let you heal, and then face you in an honourable fight. But then you had hunted with him, fought alongside him, saved him, and something in him had shifted.

He was still considered young by the standards of his people, and the elders would sneer at the idea of taking an ooman as a mate. But the more time Drak’ven spent with you, the more he found himself seeking your presence. There was strength in you, fierceness in the way you moved, in the way you met his gaze without flinching.

Still, your body was smaller, more fragile than his own. In his grip, you felt delicate—breakable—and that unsettled him. Gentleness was not something bred into his kind. He did not know how to wield it.

He let out a low, frustrated growl, hauling you up with sudden, effortless strength until your legs locked around his waist. The water lapping at his waist. Your faces were inches apart and the weight of his stare held you in place as surely as his hands.

Your gaze flicked to his mouth—not quite a mouth, not as you knew it. The mandibles were powerful, edged with faint ridges, twitching slightly as he studied you. You didn’t overthink it; you simply leaned in, closing the distance until your lips brushed lightly against the outside edge of one mandible.

His entire frame went still.

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d crossed some unspoken line—until that low, resonant sound rumbled from his chest again, the one you were beginning to recognize as approval. His head dipped, and one mandible shifted, grazing along your cheek in a deliberate, unhurried sweep.

It wasn’t a kiss, not exactly. But it felt like his version of one.

Your breath caught, the heat of him sinking through you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that you were two different species from two different worlds—you understood him. This was his way of returning what you’d offered, of saying I accept you too.

His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you imperceptibly closer as he began to move through the water toward the rocky edge. You soon realized what he was doing when he sat down at the ledge, shifting you higher on his lap. He was leaving you in control and giving you the choice to continue with what you both wanted or not.

You stared down at him, heart pounding. Everything about this was strange, and quite literally alien… and yet, you didn’t want to pull away.

Your body was already primed and aching, heat pooling deep inside you. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were and how much of it had nothing to do with your swim in the springs. His low growl vibrated through you as your hand slid lower, feeling the firm, heated weight of him resting against your thigh. You could barely encircle him, your fingers mapping the unfamiliar texture along his length.

A deep, purring sound rumbled from his chest as you explored, tracing those ridges with tentative strokes. The warmth between you grew until every nerve felt alive, and you took your time, ensuring you were both ready and his cock was throughly slick with both your fluids before lining him up with your enterance and slowly sinking down.

You gasped as his head pushed into you, the stretch of him burning. A deep snarl tore from his throat, his entire body tensing as he did everything he could to hold back and let you adjust to his sheer size. You were so tight, so warm and soft—softer than any Yautja female—that all he wanted was to bury himself fully inside you and savour the sensation of your walls gripping him. But he held back.

As much as it drove him crazy, he let you set the pace with shallow movements, your body gradually allowing him to sink deeper inside you. Slowly, the burn faded into pure pleasure as those ridges brushed against every sensitive nerve ending within you. Soft, breathless moans slipped past your lips, your hands bracing against his hard chest as you rocked against him. His hands found your hips, steadying and guiding you until, eventually, you were taking all of him—and he was practically taking over for you, lifting you on and off his length like you were a doll for his pleasure.

Moans spilled past your lips as your nails dug into his chest in pleasure. The moment he felt the sharp pinpricks of pain, the last thread of his control snapped. In an instant, you were on your back, and he was rutting into you without restraint. Broken moans escaped you, your eyes fluttering as your head fell back against the soft moss in rapture, baring your neck. Drak’ven’s mandibles came down, pressing against your skin in a primal stake of your submission, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he claimed your body.

His claws dug into your soft skin, blending pleasure with the slightest bite of pain. Tears stung your eyes—the sensations were almost too much, yet you craved more. You urged him on, digging your nails into his shoulder and tugging him closer, earning a low growl as he snapped his hips faster, driving you steadily toward your peak. Finally, you when you were all but sobbing, that tightening coil inside of you finally snapped and your vision went white, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Your entire body shuddered as utter bliss ricocheted through you.

You barely felt it when his teeth sank into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, marking you as his mate before he pulled back with a mighty roar, releasing himself inside you.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low, purring growls rumbling from his chest. Gradually, your awareness returned, each heartbeat pulling you further from the haze.

You slowly became aware of his touch again, his tongue lapping over the tender spot where his teeth had sunk into you. The sensation was strangely soothing despite the sting, a primal mix of comfort and possession that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Mate,” he growled, the word deep and certain, resonating through you as much as it did in the air.

He pulled back, eyes molten and unreadable, before rolling to your side. One massive arm hooked around your waist, hauling you effortlessly against him as he curled around your smaller form.

You only sighed in contentment, snuggling closer. “Yours.”

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lemonmoonmochi · 18 hours ago

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a/n: HAPPY BELATED BDAY TO MY BELOVED KURONA RANZE YAYAYAYAYAYY, okay I'm so late cause I've been busy and this unfinished work was sitting in my drafts for a long time SO NOW I HAVE FINISHED IT, big big big ty to @riintone FOR GIVING ME THIS IDEA LOVE YOU, enjoy reading !!

Kurona Ranze × Reader !

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🦈

Two sharks, One tank

In which… Kurona Ranze teaches you shark facts with a shy smile, repeats his words without realizing, and you point at two sharks swimming together just to tell him—that’s us.

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🦈

The second you stepped into the aquarium, Kurona’s entire demeanor changed.

Normally, he was quiet, reserved—the type to hang back, let others do the talking. But here, under the dim blue glow of tanks and the slow ripple of water, his eyes lit up in a way you rarely saw.

“Look, look—great whites.” He tugged your sleeve gently, pointing to the massive tank where a model shark swam lazily behind the glass. His crooked smile spread wide as he leaned in closer. “Fastest predator in the ocean, y’know? They… they can swim up to twenty-five miles per hour. Fast, fast.”

You blinked at him, grinning. “Wow. Someone knows their stuff.”

His ears turned faintly pink, but he didn’t stop. “They have rows of teeth. If one breaks, another one—another one—moves forward. Always sharp.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, almost self-conscious, then mumbled, “Kind of like mine.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Your teeth are cuter, though.” Kurona froze, his face heating immediately. “C-cuter? Don’t—don’t say that.”

But the way he ducked his head, hiding the shy smile tugging at his mouth, told you he didn’t actually mind.

As you moved through the aquarium, he rattled off shark facts at almost every tank. Nurse sharks, hammerheads, reef sharks—he knew them all, voice soft but steady, like he’d been waiting for someone to listen. And you did listen, hanging on every word.

When you reached the glass tunnel that arched over your heads, a giant shadow glided above you. Kurona’s breath caught, eyes wide.

“That’s a great white—great white. Beautiful, right?”

You looked up at the shark, massive and sleek, but your gaze drifted back to Kurona’s expression—the awe written across his face, the sparkle in his usually quiet eyes.

“Beautiful,” you echoed, though you weren’t talking about the shark. He glanced at you quickly, caught off guard, then looked away with a nervous laugh. “…Don’t say stuff like that. Like that.”

But a second later, his hand found yours in the dim blue light, tentative and warm. You squeezed gently. “You love sharks, huh?”

He nodded, still watching the great white swim above. “…Yeah. Love ‘em. Love ‘em.” His thumb brushed your hand, and this time, his voice dropped quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “…Kind of like I love you.”

Your heart stopped. “…What was that?” His whole face went red. “N-nothing. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” You tugged his hand, leaning close. “Say it again, Ranze.”

He swallowed, eyes darting to the shark above like it could save him. Then, in the softest voice, he repeated, “…Love you. Love you.”

And just like that, the aquarium stopped being about sharks—because you’d just found something even rarer to treasure.

The two of you stood in front of the biggest tank in the whole aquarium, water shimmering blue and silver as schools of fish darted past. Two sleek reef sharks swam close together, circling each other lazily like they’d been paired for life.

You jabbed your finger against the glass with a grin. “Look, Ranze! That’s us.” Kurona blinked. “…Us? Us?”

“Yeah,” you said matter-of-factly, pointing as the sharks brushed fins, gliding in perfect sync. “See? They’re a couple. Obviously. That’s you and me.”

Kurona stared at the sharks, then at you, his lips parting like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His face heated instantly, pink spreading across his cheeks.

“C-couple? Couple?” He shifted nervously, scratching at his neck, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “…That’s kinda embarrassing, embarrassing.”

“Why?” you teased, leaning in closer. “Don’t you like the idea of us being shark soulmates?”

He blinked again, stunned into silence, before his gaze flicked back to the glass. The sharks swam together effortlessly, one tilting as though nudging the other. Slowly, a small, shy laugh left his throat.

“…Soulmates. Soulmates.” He repeated it under his breath like he was testing the word, his hand inching closer until his pinky brushed yours.

“See?” you said softly, intertwining your fingers with his. “Even the sharks know we belong together.”

Kurona ducked his head, hiding his grin, but his thumb rubbed against your knuckles gently. “Guess… guess we do. We do.”

And as the sharks swam past once more, side by side, you couldn’t help but think that maybe you were right all along.

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🦈

tysm for reading and have a nice day !!

ONCE AGAIN HAPPY BELATED BDAY MY GLORIOUS AMAZING FANTASTIC KURONA RANZE 🌹

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lemonmoonmochi · 19 hours ago

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Zayne birthday special ₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

— Belated dad!zayne fanfic! Obviously i just had to make this card into dad!lads again (⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡

The cabin’s golden light spilled into the snowy clearing, fairy lights strung overhead like fallen stars. The air was crisp, but laughter and warmth chased away the cold.

“mommy, daddy.. let’s make snowmans,” Jasmine said softly, tugging your sleeve with her mitten. “Three… like us.”

So the three of you got to work. Zayne rolled the biggest snowballs with ease, while Jasmine patted hers carefully, her little giggles puffing out with white breath. Soon, three snow figures stood in a row.

You adjusted the snowman’s beanie while Zayne gave his stick arms, but Jasmine only tilted her head as she was thinking. “Daddy, they should… share,” she murmured.

Zayne chuckled, unwinding his scarf. With careful hands, he draped it around all three snowmen—yours, Jasmine’s, and his—tying them together like one big hug.

“Now they’re warm,” Jasmine whispered, pressing her mitten against the smallest one’s side.

You smiled, brushing snow from her hat. “Just like us.”

The games continued from there—Jasmine lying in the snow, arms and legs moving slowly as she looked up at the sky. “Mommy, Daddy… I'm a snow angel,” she said, pointing to her shape. You and Zayne joined her, laughing as your snow angels stretched side by side.

And of course, there was the snowball fight. Zayne tossed a soft one at you with a smirk, and Jasmine tried to join, but instead of throwing, she gently placed her little snowball against Zayne’s boot. “Snowball!” she said with a smile, making you both laugh.

By the time the evening settled in, the three of you were flushed and breathless, the scarf bound snowmen watching silently nearby. You leaned against Zayne, your mittened hand sliding into his.

“Happy birthday, my love.” you whispered, lifting your lips to his in a soft kiss.

But before it could last longer, Jasmine made a little squeak and quickly covered her eyes with her mittens, pressing her forehead against Zayne’s leg.

“No…” she mumbled shyly. “Don’t wanna see.”

Zayne chuckled warmly, crouching to smooth her hat. “Alright, sweetheart. We’ll behave.”

You kissed Jasmine’s cheek instead, earning a tiny giggle. And as the three of you stood together in the snowy glow, it felt like the perfect birthday—filled with play, warmth, and love that wrapped tighter than any scarf.

Jasmine was now resting on Zayne's shoulder as she got sleepy, "Happy birthday again daddy.."

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lemonmoonmochi · 1 day ago

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୨୧ — You feel Nanami's eyes burning into you as you rock your sleeping daughter to bed. Three months since birth, and he still looks at you like he's witnessing a miracle- not just the baby, but you. Your body, transformed and lush with new purpose.

“She’s finally asleep,” you whisper, carefully placing her in the crib. When you turn, Nanami is already there at your side, arms encircling your still soft waist.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he breathes against your ear, fingers tracing the curves that pregnancy gifted you.

His hands cup your heavy breasts through your thin nightgown, and you gasp as milk begins to leak through the fabric at his touch.

“K-Kento…” you start, but he’s already lifting you into his arms, carrying you just outside his daughter’s room to have privacy with you, his wife- mother of his child.

Lifting the fabric, his mouth latches onto one peaked nipple. The pull of his lips draws both milk and a desperate moan from you, absolute music to his ears. He drinks deeply, groaning at the sweet taste while his free hand kneads your other breast gently- tenderly.

“Can't help myself,” he pants between pulls, “this body… what it’s done… what it can do…” his hand abandons your breast, sliding down to press against your empty belly, imagining it round and full once more with his child.

“My beautiful wife, let me fill you again,” he breathes, milk running down his chin as he switches sides, tongue flicking over your other sensitive nipple before sealing his lips around you again.

Later, much later, as you lie boneless in his arms, he traces sweet milky patterns on your stomach from the mess your body has made. “This life we’ve built,” he whispers, “I can't get enough of it all.”

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lemonmoonmochi · 1 day ago

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Congratulations on Your New Improvements

dick grayson x reader

Summary: You knew Dick Grayson when you were kids, back when he was Robin and you were the journalist’s daughter sneaking after stories you weren’t supposed to. He was awkward, gangly, more earnest than smooth, and you had a crush anyway. Then you left Gotham, and life moved on. Years later, you’re back in the city with a press badge of your own, chasing leads and running headfirst into trouble. Except this time, it’s not Robin who finds you, It’s Nightwing. Taller. Broader. Unfairly charming.

Content Warnings: 18+, MDNI, childhood Friends to strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Explicit sexual content (PIV sex, fingering, oral implications, dirty talk, praise kink, light begging), Overstimulation / multiple orgasms, Sexual tension, grinding, dry humping, ruined panties, Banter & Flirting, Dirty Talk & Praise Kink

word count: 16k notes – not proofread. first time writing for dick !!!!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you learn about Gotham at night is that it never shuts up. The city hums, rattles, and groans. A low, constant sound, like the world grinding its teeth. You’d grown up listening to it through your bedroom window, lullabied by sirens and laughter that never sounded quite right, but it feels different when you’re actually in it, sneakers scuffing against wet pavement as you trail after your dad.

You shouldn’t be here. You know it.

Your dad said he was going to meet a source and you’d been told, ordered, not to follow. But curiosity eats at you the way the Gotham chill eats at skin, and when you saw him grab his notebook and duck out the door, you slipped out ten minutes later, coat too thin and pulse thrumming with the thrill of doing something forbidden.

You’re close enough to keep his hat in sight, not close enough to hear the scribbles of his pen. He cuts down a side street, one you recognize from whispered family arguments: Crime Alley. A place name said like a warning, a curse, a story that ends badly every time.

You think you’ll just watch. Stay hidden. Go home before he ever notices.

And then a car door slams. Men step out, shadows too broad, voices too low. The scrape of a gun being drawn is so distinct it punches the air out of your lungs. You’re frozen before you can even think to run.

“Hey,” one of them snaps, “who’s the guy with the notebook?”

Your dad. They move faster than you thought men that big could, and your father stumbles back against a wall, palms up, words coming out too fast for you to catch. You can’t look away. You don’t even notice that you’ve crept closer, feet dragging you toward him like gravity.

Then a hand grabs you from behind. A sharp yank, and you’re pulled into the gap between two crumbling brick buildings. You suck in a breath to scream, but a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.

“Don’t,” a voice hisses. Young. Annoyed. And weirdly… theatrical?

You blink up at the figure in the dim light. Red tunic, green gloves, a cape that swishes against your legs. A mask. The only thing you can really see are his eyes, impossibly blue, narrowed like you’ve just ruined his entire night.

Robin. Holy crap. Robin has his hand over your mouth.

When he finally lets go, you gasp, “What the hell?”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he cuts in, voice cracking with the force of it. “Following a bunch of mobsters into Crime Alley? Real smart.”

Your heart is still jackhammering, but indignation flares hotter than fear. “I wasn’t! I was just—”

“You were just about to blow his cover,” he snaps, jerking his head toward the street. Your dad’s voice drifts faintly over the noise; he’s still talking, still buying time. “Do you have any idea what happens if they see you? You’d be leverage. A liability. Deadweight.”

“Wow.” You cross your arms, trying to hide the way your hands are still shaking. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn’t know Batman’s sidekick was such a charmer.”

His shoulders stiffen. “You’re lucky I even noticed you before they did.”

You tilt your chin up, eyeing him fully now. He’s shorter than you thought he’d be. Still taller than you, but not by much. Younger, too. His jaw hasn’t settled into itself yet, his voice has that awkward in-between crack, and his boots squeak when he shifts his weight. He’s a kid. A crime-fighting, cape-wearing kid.

“You’re… smaller than I expected,” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

His head whips toward you, affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” You bite back a grin, heat bubbling up despite the danger. “It’s just, everyone always makes you sound… I don’t know. Taller. Broodier.”

He glares. “I’m not here to live up to your expectations.”

You can’t help it. You laugh, a nervous little sound muffled against your sleeve. “Okay, sorry, don’t get your tights in a twist boy wonder.”

His scowl only deepens, and then a crackle from his comm has him turning his head. A man’s voice, Batman, you realize with a shiver, low and commanding. Robin mutters something back, sharp and clipped, before his gaze settles on you again.

“Go home,” he says, more tired than angry this time. “This isn’t a game.”

“But my dad…” You hesitate. Your dad is still out there, talking fast, and you can’t tell if he’s winning or losing.

“Your dad’s fine,” Robin adds quickly, softer now. “Batman’s got him. But if you stay, you’ll make it worse.”

You study him for a beat, and beneath the impatience, you catch it: the edge of worry. Not just about the mission. About you. Something inside you twists.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But only because you’re bossy.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just takes your wrist and tugs you down a different alley, cape brushing your arm as he half-drags you back toward the safer streets. He doesn’t let go until the noise has faded and the streetlamps burn steady again.

When you reach the corner near your house, he finally stops. Folds his arms. “You’re gonna stay put this time?”

“Yes, mom,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just a twitch of his mouth, quick and bright, before he shakes his head like he can’t believe you.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re lucky you’re not grounded for life.”

And then he’s gone, a flash of cape against the skyline.

You stand there on your street corner, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with mobsters, and think, So Robin is shorter than expected. Bossier. Maybe even kind of annoying.

But also…he might just be the most interesting person you’ve ever met.

The second time you see him, it’s by accident. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You weren’t looking for him. You swear you weren’t. You were only out walking because your apartment felt suffocating and Gotham, for all its broken glass and shadows, still felt like it might offer air. But when you cut down Burnside Avenue, past the flickering neon of the diner, he drops from the fire escape two feet in front of you. The cape swishes. The boots hit concrete.

“Seriously?” he mutters. “What are you doing out here again?”

You nearly jump out of your sneakers. “Oh my god! Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing.” He’s glaring, but it doesn’t land right. His mouth is tight, sure, but his voice sounds more like a boy caught between annoyance and…something else. Worry, maybe. “You don’t learn, do you? Crime Alley ring any bells?”

You cross your arms. “I wasn’t in Crime Alley. I was, like, three blocks over.”

“That’s not the point.” He sighs, the sound way too old for his age. “Gotham’s not safe for late-night strolls.”

You almost tell him it’s not safe in daylight either, but then you catch it; the way his shoulders hunch, like the weight of protecting a whole city has been shoved into bones that haven’t even finished growing. And suddenly you don’t feel like arguing. Instead, you shrug, pretending casual. “You always hang around diners waiting for girls to wander by?”

His mask tilts toward you, eyes narrowing. Then, to your surprise, he huffs a laugh. It’s short, almost embarrassed. “You think I was waiting for you?”

“Well, were you?”

“No.” Too fast. “I mean…no.”

But later, when you climb the fire escape to your roof and find him sitting there, swinging his legs like he owns the place, you realize you don’t actually believe him.

The roof of your building isn’t glamorous. Tar paper bubbled from rain, rust stains streaking down the side of the water tank, the occasional pigeon that refuses to be intimidated by you. But when you push the heavy door open and step out, the air feels different. Gotham’s hum is still there, sirens, horns, the buzz of neon, but up here it doesn’t press as hard against your ribs.

And more often than not lately, he’s already there. Robin sits cross-legged on the ledge, or sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, cape fanned around him like he doesn’t care how ridiculous it looks. Sometimes he drops down a few seconds after you arrive, startling you with the scrape of boots on metal. Either way, it starts to feel like a routine: your door creaking, his head lifting, both of you pretending not to be waiting for each other.

“Busy night?” you ask one evening, sliding down to sit a safe distance away.

“Busier than yours,” he deadpans. “You know, most people spend their nights doing homework. Watching TV. Not scaling fire escapes.”

“Homework doesn’t come with a view.” You tilt your head at the skyline. Gotham glitters in a way that almost tricks you into thinking it’s beautiful.

He snorts, but when you glance sideways, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. That’s how it always goes. You jab at him, he pretends he’s above it, and somewhere in between, you both soften.

Over time, the conversations stretch longer. You tell him about your dad, how he’s never home, how he burns through notebooks and cups of stale coffee like they’re oxygen. How you’re not sure if you admire him or resent him, and how sometimes it feels like Gotham chews your family as much as it does everyone else.

Robin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. He just sits there, chin in his gloved hand, listening like every word is weighty. When you finish, he nods once, sharp and certain, like he’s filing it away as important.

And then, in quieter moments, he lets pieces of himself slip through. Not many, always measured, always cautious, but enough. How Batman trains him until his bones ache. How his armor never feels like it fits, how the bruises bloom in places no one ever sees. How sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s saving Gotham or if Gotham is slowly eating him alive.

His voice is always lower when he says those things, almost lost to the hum of the city. Like he’s afraid of being overheard by shadows.

You never tell him, but that’s when the crush starts. Not the giggling, diary-scrawled kind your friends whisper about. This is quieter. He isn’t even cute, not really. His ears stick out, his voice still cracks if he laughs too hard, his nose looks like it’s been broken once already. But he carries himself like every problem in Gotham belongs to him, and when he looks at you, you feel like you matter in a way the city never lets you.

Some nights you talk about nothing at all. Pizza debates that spiral into full-blown arguments.

“New Trioni’s is better than Angelo’s. Don’t argue with me, I’m right.”

“You’re so wrong,” he shoots back, mock-offended. “Trioni’s slices flop over like wet paper. Angelo’s can hold its shape when you fold it.”

“Who folds their pizza?” you demand, eyes wide.

“Real Gothamites,” he says with all the gravitas of someone who’s fourteen and just learning what the word “gravitas” means.

The bickering lasts twenty minutes, ending with you scribbling “TRIONI’S > ANGELO’S” on the back of your notebook and holding it up in his face until he swats at you.

Other nights, you complain about teachers. Yours, who you swear has made it their personal mission to fail you, and his, who he can’t talk about too much but still slips through in hints. “It’s like… training disguised as lessons. Fail and you do push-ups until your arms give out.”

You tell him that’s got to be child abuse. He rolls his eyes. “It’s Gotham.”

It happens on a night when Gotham feels especially sharp. The air smells like rain on copper pipes, and somewhere far off a siren wails, long and low. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t sneak out again, but promises don’t hold much weight in this city. You’d only been a few blocks from home when the shouting started. Two guys fighting over a busted radio, the kind of thing you should’ve ignored. You’d frozen, pulse climbing, when one of them noticed you watching.

It doesn’t take long. Heavy footsteps. A hand grabbing too close to your arm. And then he’s there. Robin drops from the fire escape like a shadow snapping into place. A blur of red, green, and anger. His boot catches the guy’s chest, sends him sprawling. The other one bolts.

“You again,” he grits out as he drags you behind him, voice cracking just enough to remind you he’s not much older than you.

You mean to thank him, but the words catch when you see him stumble. Just a hitch, a fraction of a limp as he turns. His arm is tight against his side, hand flexing like he’s trying not to use it.

“Are you hurt?” you blurt.

“I’m fine.” He tries for firm, but it’s more defensive than convincing.

“You’re bleeding,” you insist, catching the dark smear seeping through his tunic.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Your voice sharpens, louder than you mean it to. “And you’re not going back out there until you let me look.”

He stares at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask, like he’s calculating the odds of you actually tackling him if he refuses. Finally, with a long, theatrical sigh, he mutters, “Fine. Five minutes.”

Your apartment is embarrassingly small. Peeling wallpaper. A couch with stuffing trying to claw its way out of the seams. The bathroom’s worse, barely enough room for the sink, the tub, and both of you crammed inside.

“Sit,” you order, tugging at his wrist until he perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, cape spilling over the floor like dark water.

“This is unnecessary,” he says, though his voice wobbles when you press a towel against his ribs.

“Unnecessary is bleeding out in a back alley,” you snap, trying to hold your hands steady. The towel comes away red. Too red. “God, do you even know how to take care of yourself?”

His eyes flick up at you then, sharp, defensive, but there’s something softer underneath. Something that makes your stomach twist.

“You sound like him,” he mutters.

“Batman?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, bandages, alcohol wipes, the kind of things your dad keeps for paper cuts and clumsy accidents, not vigilantes. Still, you make it work.

“Hold still,” you warn, tearing open an alcohol pad.

“I am still.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“You’re bossy.”

“Better bossy than dead.”

That finally earns you the tiniest smile, quick and crooked, gone almost before you register it.

You’re close now, too close. Kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his side as you patch what you can. The smell of leather and sweat clings to his tunic, the faintest hint of smoke in his hair. His breathing evens under your touch, like he’s not used to anyone bothering to fix him up.

When you look up, his eyes are already on you. The mask gleams under the bathroom’s weak light, distorting him into something untouchable. And suddenly it feels wrong. Wrong to be this close to someone whose face you can’t really see.

“You ever get tired of it?” you ask quietly. “The mask?”

His shoulders tense. He looks away, down at the cracked tiles. For a second you think he won’t answer. Then his hands lift, hesitant and slow.

The domino comes off.

You freeze. It’s not some hardened soldier under there. Not a myth. Just a boy. Hair damp and stubborn where sweat’s plastered it to his forehead. Eyes too big, too tired, too human. A face you recognize from posters years ago—the acrobat from Haly’s Circus.

“…you’re Dick Grayson,” you breathe, the name spilling out before you can stop it.

His chin tips up, defensive. “You gonna tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” The words fall out fast, desperate to close the space between you. “I’d never.”

He studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for betrayal. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, his breath lets out slow. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he mutters. “Batman would kill me if he knew.”

You nudge his knee with yours, a tiny grin tugging at your lips despite the tight knot in your chest. “Guess it’s a good thing Batman doesn’t know everything.”

For the first time, he laughs. Really laughs. It’s uneven, boyish, and it shoots straight through you, leaving you dizzy. And in that cramped little bathroom, with the hum of the city seeping through the cracked window and the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, you realize this isn’t just Robin anymore. It isn’t just Dick Grayson either. It’s both.

And it feels like a secret only you get to keep.

The day you find out you’re leaving, it doesn’t feel real. Your dad doesn’t sit you down or soften it, he just mutters over cold coffee and half-packed files, “It’s not safe anymore. We’re going. End of discussion.”

That’s all you get. No details, no vote. By nightfall, cardboard boxes are stacked in the living room, your whole life folded and taped shut. Gotham shrinks to the size of a trunk and a suitcase. You don’t cry. Not right away. But when the apartment gets quiet, when your dad slams another box closed and the walls echo hollow, you slip out the window and climb.

The roof is empty at first. No cape on the ledge, no boy dangling his boots. Just the hum of the city below, as if it doesn’t care you’re about to vanish. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at the skyline, hoping, willing, he’ll show.

And then, like he always does, he drops into place beside you. “You weren’t gonna say goodbye?” he asks, voice soft under the gravel.

Your throat goes tight. “I didn’t know how.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, mask half-lit by the flicker of a neon sign, waiting.

So you talk. About how your dad’s stories finally drew the wrong kind of attention. About how Gotham feels like it’s about to spit your family out after chewing through you all so thoroughly there will be nothing left, and this time there’s no choice but to run. About how much you hate leaving; not the apartment, not even the city, but this. These nights. This secret. Him.

He listens like he always does, quiet and intent, the kind of quiet that means he’s holding every word.

Finally, you look at him and whisper, “I don’t want to forget this.”

Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name. He shifts, pulling the domino mask off and turning it in his hands until the edges press little crescents into his palms.

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “Don’t forget me.”

Your heart lodges in your throat. You want to tell him you won’t, that you couldn’t if you tried. You want to tell him that the crush you’ve been burying is bigger than you can hold, that you’re leaving with a piece of yourself you didn’t know you’d given away. But you’re fourteen, and the words are too big, too heavy.

So instead you nod, fiercely, until the tears blur the skyline. “I won’t.”

For a moment, you swear he leans like he might say something else. Might ask you to stay, might admit he doesn’t want to forget either. But then your dad’s voice calls up from the street, sharp and impatient, and the moment shatters.

You stand. He stays seated, mask still in his hands, like he can’t quite put it back on. You want to hug him, to make the promise tangible, but you’re not sure if that’s allowed, so you just hold his gaze for one more beat and whisper, “Goodbye, Dick.”

“Goodbye,” he echoes, voice raw around the edges.

You don’t look back as you climb down the fire escape, suitcase handle cutting into your palm. The car door slams, your dad starts the engine, and Gotham begins to slide past the windows like a dream smearing at the edges.

But when you finally let yourself glance back, there he is, perched on the rooftop, cape trailing behind him, mask dangling loose in his hands.

A boy too small for the weight he carries, silhouetted against a city that will never stop asking more. Watching you leave like it’s the last thing he’ll ever let himself do.

And then the car turns the corner, and he’s gone.

You’d always told yourself you weren’t keeping tabs, not really. But the truth is you couldn’t help it. Gotham’s headlines are hard to ignore. Batman never vanished; he’s a permanent fixture in the background of every crisis, every scandal, every blurred photograph of a cape against a floodlight.

Robin was there too, at least for a while. But not your Robin. This one was smaller, sharper, someone else’s kid in colors that weren’t his. The news never explained the swap. Gotham doesn’t explain anything.

As for Dick Grayson? You never let yourself look too hard. Some nights in Metropolis, you’d type his name into a search bar, just to hover over the letters. Circus boy, ward of Bruce Wayne, rumored dropout. Then you’d slam the laptop closed before the results could load. It felt like breaking some unspoken promise, like trespassing on a secret that had only ever been yours.

So you let him fade into the background of your memory. Or tried to. Life went on. You grew up. Metropolis U gave you a degree you’re still not sure you earned. You dated a little, kissed boys who didn’t make your chest ache the way rooftop laughter once did. You told yourself you were moving forward, not circling back. And yet, here you are. Returning to Gotham with a job at the paper, retracing your father’s path like a shadow.

Your dad isn’t with you this time. He’s staying behind, insisting he’s too old for Gotham’s grind. So it’s just you and your boxes, your byline, and the faint echo of footsteps on tar paper that you never really forgot.

You pause on the corner outside your new apartment, suitcase wheels caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Gotham breathes heavy around you; neon flicker, taxi horn, the muffled thump of bass from a club down the street.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you’ll see him. And just as quickly, you remind yourself: probably not. Gotham eats people. It chews them up, spits them out, and even the ones who survive don’t always stick around.

Still, when you climb the steps and let yourself into the dim little apartment, you can’t help glancing out the window at the rooflines beyond. Half of you expects to see a flash of cape, the silhouette of a boy you once knew.

But the skyline is empty.

By now, Gotham has settled into your bones again. It’s been months since you unpacked your last box, months since you stopped flinching at the way the city exhales smoke and sirens instead of air. The novelty wore off fast. Gotham is like that; she lets you think she’s offering something new, then reminds you it was always just grit and rot under the paint.

Your nights taste like coffee grounds and exhaustion, your mornings like stale bagels eaten while jogging across crosswalks. The newsroom smells of burnt ink and anxiety, and it clings to you even when you leave.

So when your editor sent you chasing whispers across the river, you didn’t think twice. Blüdhaven, he’d said, a smuggling ring near the docks. Gotham’s smaller, meaner cousin, the kind of place your dad used to warn you about but still sent you to buy fireworks from when you were twelve.

You’d told yourself you could handle it. Gotham-born, seasoned on backstreets and rooftops, no stranger to shadows. You’ve always been too curious for your own good.

Turns out curiosity doesn’t count for much when the alley closes in on you.

Blüdhaven smells worse than Gotham. Like saltwater left too long in a rusty bucket, sharp and sour all at once. The alley is narrow, brick pressing close on either side, graffiti bleeding into one another under the yellow smear of a streetlamp. You’d only meant to skirt the block, maybe snap a photo of the cargo crates stacked like crooked teeth along the waterline. Instead, you’ve got three men cutting you off, their boots heavy, their breath reeking of stale beer.

The wall is cold against your back.

“Where you think you’re going, sweetheart?” one asks, voice slick. He’s taller than you, bulkier too, the kind of man who’s never been told no in a way that stuck.

Your pulse kicks hard. Your mind tries to measure exits, two steps left, maybe a sprint to the chain-link, but they’re already tightening the circle. The sound of their shoes on wet concrete echoes too loud, too final.

Your hand clamps around your notebook, knuckles white. For one mad second you consider swinging it like a weapon. And then the air splits.

He comes from above. A shadow drops out of the night, suit a streak of ink, boots hitting the first man’s chest with a crack that rattles the brick. The impact sends him sprawling, air rushing out of his lungs in a howl. The second man barely has time to register movement before a blur of blue arcs through the dim. The escrima stick connects with his jaw, a clean, efficient crack that folds him sideways.

The third curses, steel flashing as he pulls a knife, but it’s useless. The stranger moves faster, duck, twist, wrist locked and wrenched. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground. A sharp elbow, a spin, and the man collapses onto the damp concrete, groaning. It takes less than a minute. You don’t breathe until it’s over. Then theres silence.

The three men groan in a heap, nursing their bruises, and you’re left standing in the mouth of the alley with your notebook pressed to your chest like a shield.

He straightens. Under the weak streetlight, he looks unreal. Black and blue armor clings to broad shoulders, the stylized bird spreading across his chest in sharp, gleaming lines. He spins one escrima stick in his hand like it weighs nothing, the move so casual it’s showy. The mask gleams, eyes whited out, hiding everything but the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.

And then he turns to you.

“Still can’t stay out of trouble, huh?” The voice hits first. Familiar enough to send a jolt through you. It’s smoother now, deeper, no trace of the cracks it used to have, but you know it. You know it like you know your own pulse.

Your knees nearly give. “I-what?”

He steps closer, head cocked, smirk curling at his mouth like he’s been waiting years to use it. Except there’s nothing boyish about him anymore. His shoulders fill the armor like it was built for him, lines sleek and lethal. His movements hum with confidence, a looseness earned from years of knowing exactly what he can do and knowing everyone else is a step behind.

The mask hides half his face, but what it doesn’t hide is worse. The jawline is sharper, cut like someone sculpted it with glass. His mouth is curved in a smile that’s both infuriating and magnetic. His body radiates energy, command, like he could take on the whole block if you dared him.

Your brain scrambles. This isn’t the boy you knew. This isn’t the awkward kid who smudged ink into your margins and laughed too hard at your jokes. For a second you’re convinced you’ve conjured him out of memory. That your exhaustion and the shadows stitched together a hallucination just to taunt you.

And then, like he knows you need proof, he lifts his hands and peels the mask away.

The world tilts.

“…Dick?” It’s his eyes that betray him. Blue. Bright. The exact shade you’d memorized years ago under the moonlight on your roof. But steadier now. Sharper. Older.

“Hi.” His grin spreads slow, deliberate, every inch of it self-satisfied. “Miss me?”

You forget how to breathe. Because this…this is really not the boy you left. Not your awkward crush with too-big ears and a voice that squeaked mid-laugh. Not the kid who leaned stiffly when you first bumped his shoulder.

This is a man. He’s taller, towering over you in a way that makes the brick wall at your back feel unnecessary. Every inch of him looks carved, built, honed. His arms ripple with muscle that wasn’t there before, his chest fills the blue emblem like it was made to draw the eye. His hair is longer, darker, his mouth sharper, the grin edged with confidence you don’t know how to stand against.

He looks like someone who walked out of a fantasy you never would’ve dared to put on paper.

You blink once. Twice. Three times. Your brain refuses to reconcile the two images; the scowling boy with smudged gloves and this unfairly gorgeous man standing in front of you. “What… what happened to you?” The words fly out, strangled, mortifying. Heat floods your face before you can stop it.

His eyebrow arches. He tucks the mask into his belt, casual. “Puberty?”

It should be funny. And it is funny. The corner of your mouth twitches in betrayal, a laugh half-born and dying in your throat. But your chest is twisting, hard, because you can still see him underneath it all. Still see the boy who leaned too far forward on ledges, who let his laugh crack when he forgot to control it. The boy who told you secrets in the dark and asked you not to forget.

And now here he is, all swagger and charm and jawlines that should be illegal. Handsome in a way that would be arrogance if he couldn’t back it up with every move he just made. Your pulse is hammering, and the spiral is real. What do you do with a crush that was built on personality, on earnestness and laughter and responsibility, when it comes packaged now in a body like this? When it’s sharpened into something magnetic, commanding, impossible to look away from?

You stare at him, dazed, like you’re trying to catch up to reality. “You… you were not this good-looking when we were kids.”

His grin only widens, cocky and warm all at once. “So you were paying attention.”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Because Gotham didn’t just chew Dick Grayson up and spit him back out. It reforged him into something you are absolutely not ready for.

For a few stunned seconds after he speaks, you stand there and do nothing but hear your heart in your ears. The alley is wet and ringing; distant gulls, a siren far-off, the tinny drip-drip of a faulty gutter. One of the guys on the ground groans, rolls over, thinks better of it, and stays facedown. The streetlamp above you flickers like it’s chewing glass.

“Okay,” you manage finally, voice rasped thin. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. He tips his head, searches your face like he’s tracing the years there. Then, practical as a tide, he tucks the mask back over his eyes. The Nightwing look clicks into place with a finality that makes your stomach dip. “Walk with me,” he adds. “This block’s loud for all the wrong reasons.”

He offers a hand. Warm leather. Callused palm. The glove creaks when you take it, and you try very hard not to catalog the new details; how much larger his hand feels than it used to, how steady it is, the easy strength under the restraint. He doesn’t tug so much as guide, falling into step beside you like your bodies remember the distance they’ve always kept.

You exit the alley into air that smells like engine oil and salt-stung wood. The docks breathe: winches clicking, a forklift grumbling, water slapping pilings in a thawed rhythm. Nightwing angles you toward the brighter avenue, keeping himself between you and the shadows without making a show of it. His presence folds around you the way his cape used to on rooftops; same instinct, different body.

“You’re really here,” you say, because it’s the only sentence that keeps starting in your brain.

“So are you,” he answers. “Thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that alley. Journalism, huh?”

“It runs in the family,” you say, apologetic and defiant all at once.

He hums. “I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“Hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Bylines. Two pieces on the housing ordinance, a profile on the Jackson Street food pantry, a fire that shouldn’t have spread as fast as it did. Your ledes are cleaner. Fewer adverbs.”

You blink at him. “You… read them?”

He shrugs one shoulder. The motion makes the blue stripe arc over muscle in a way that should be illegal. “I keep an eye on Gotham. And people who used to live on rooftops with me.”

It takes a few steps to realize your face is doing the warm thing again. You look away, huff out a laugh like you can steam the heat into the Blüdhaven night. “Still a critic.”

“Still right,” he says, and there’s the grin; quick, bright, and edged with something fond. “You got sharper.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he says, tilting his chin, “you’re not the kid who followed trouble because it glittered. You followed it in there because you had a plan. You clocked their shoes before their faces. You kept your notebook hand free. You put your back to a wall.”

You glance up at him. “You saw all that in, what, thirty seconds?”

“Ten,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “Give or take.”

The walk bleeds you out toward the waterfront road. Nightwing crosses you behind a stack of palettes with the same unthinking choreography he used to have on rooftops. One hand light against your elbow, a check for traffic, the quick tilt of his head as his comm crackles something at him you can’t hear. He answers it without breaking stride, then flicks the channel off and comes back to you like you’re the station he meant to tune to all along.

“Your dad?” he asks after a beat.

“Back in Metropolis,” you say. “He says he’s retired. I give it six months.”

His mouth pulls wry. “Retirement never sticks.”

“Does it for you?” The question flies out before you can leash it. You mean it to be casual; it lands heavier, threaded with too many years, too many unsent searches of his name at one a.m.

He doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t for me,” he says. “I needed… different air. A city I could learn without being measured against a cape that walks like thunder.”

“Blüdhaven,” you say. “Gotham left out in the rain.”

He huffs a laugh. “Something like that.” Then he glances at you from under the curve of the mask, gravity sliding back in. “It grows on you if you let it. Like mold. Or a stray.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan.

“Hey, I never promised romance,” he lies very badly, because even his walk is a little romantic now, loose-hipped and careful in the dark, shoulder brushing yours when the sidewalk narrows, the night clicking into place around him like it’s learned the shape of his stride.

You pass a shuttered bait shop with a neon marlin blinking. A stray cat watches you from a garbage can lid, eyes pearls in the lamplight. Your shoes squeak; his steps don’t make sound at all. Every few yards he scans the roofs with that lifted chin. You remember the gesture, how it used to be smaller on a smaller body, and you picture the mental map overlaid on what your eyes see: viable fire escapes, plausible ambushes, routes-out stitched in blue light.

“How long were you on that roof?” you ask. “Before you dropped in.”

He contemplates the question like it has a proper answer. “Long enough to count three sets of footsteps and a knife. Not long enough to forgive you later if you’d been stubborn enough to run.”

“I wasn’t going to run,” you start, then hedge, “for long.”

He barks a laugh. It slides into something softer before it’s done. “You’re… different,” he says, the word careful, as if he’s testing the edges to make sure it won’t cut.

“Older,” you offer.

“That, yeah.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “But it’s not just that. You walk like you own your space now, not like you’re renting it. You look people in the eye longer. You… speak headline and copy without thinking.” He flicks his gaze over you, deliberate enough that you feel seen rather than scanned. “You still don’t fold your pizza, I bet.”

“I will die on that hill,” you say gravely.

“You will die incorrect,” he returns, equally grave, and a piece of rooftop-laughter that you thought you’d boxed up somewhere years ago shakes itself awake and trots between you like it never left.

“Okay, Mr. Puberty,” you say, putting a hand to your chest as if to ward off the unfairness. “Since we’re making observations, what exactly are you eating to look like you could bench-press a yacht?”

“Protein bars and spite,” he says, deadpan. “Mostly spite.”

You trip on a cracked tile and he catches you without thinking, a warm bracket at your elbow and the lightest pressure of his other hand at your hip to steady you. It lasts half a blink, then he’s gone again, space restored, the afterimage of touch ringing in your nerves like a bell. The alley stench loosens for a second, and you catch the smell of him beneath leather and city: clean soap, ozone, summer heat trapped in fabric that moves like skin.

“Thanks,” you say belatedly, and hope he can’t see the flush doing somersaults up your throat.

“Occupational hazard,” he says lightly. “Saving journalists who don’t fold their pizza.”

“I saved the notebook,” you argue, brandishing it. “That counts as self-preservation.”

His eyes crinkle. “God, I missed that.”

You were not prepared for those words. They land like a warm hand on your sternum, like the exact right weight after too many years of empty space. You swallow once, twice. The docks open into a long, bleak avenue where the streetlights flock in nervous clusters. He steers you toward the brighter end.

“I kept tabs,” you admit, voice tucking itself small. “Not… really. Not like a creep. Just… Batman was always there, and then there was a Robin who wasn’t my Robin, and I didn’t…” You shake your head, chase off the tangle. “Sometimes I typed your name and closed the laptop before the results could load. It felt wrong, like prying at something that was mine because you gave it to me.”

He walks a few slow steps without answering. The night stretches, thin and elastic. When he finally speaks, it’s soft, the timbre reaching you beneath the noise. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “Go looking, I mean. Part of me… needed to earn being found.”

You glance up. His expression is harder to read with the mask back on, but the mouth, older now, yes, and built for trouble, goes gentle in the corners. He kicks at a pebble; it skitters into the gutter. “The leaving was messy,” he says. “I had to be more than a shadow to a shadow.”

“And now you’re a bird,” you say. “Blue suits you.”

“Figures you’d appreciate the re-branding,” he says lightly, then, “yours does too, though.”

“What?”

“The re-brand. It suits you,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice now that didn’t exist when he was fourteen. “You grew up into your name. Your bylines. Your whole… thing. It looks good on you.”

You stare at him, cheeks doing that heat thing again. “My… thing.”

“Your spine,” he clarifies, and the tease bumps to the side to let the truth through. “You always had one. It just… fits you better now.”

The ridiculous urge to cry chooses that exact moment to crest, so you let out a little choking laugh instead and look at a billboard for a discount mattress warehouse like it’s fascinating art. “You’ve gotten complimentary in your old age,” you mutter.

“It’s the protein bars,” he says, solemn, and you trip into laughter that tastes like your rooftop nights, cold air, the city in your lungs, the right person at your shoulder. A night bus sways past; he slow-blinks away the wind grit. You fall quiet for a block, footsteps scuffing in sync. Somewhere inland, someone’s playing a radio too loud. It spills a chorus that means nothing and everything past the brick and rebar.

“You’re staying?” he asks eventually. “Gotham, I mean. Not a six-month and run?”

“I’m staying,” you say, and feel the words set in your body like a foundation finally poured. “When I told my dad, he said it’s my turn to decide what Gotham is to me.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Blüdhaven’s an extension of the same storm. We share weather fronts.” His mouth twists, fond and rueful. “I’ll be around.”

“You always are,” you say before you can help it.

He glances sidelong, and the grin that takes his face then is uncomplicatedly pleased. It should be arrogant; somehow it just looks like sunlight found a gap in the boards. You wonder how many people get to see that one and decide maybe you don’t want to know.

A woman behind a plexiglass window sells cigarettes and bus passes. The night wind lifts the edges of the taped notices, makes them whisper. You stop under the awning, the two of you edged into the white noise of the fluorescents, and the city swivels into a gentler key.

“I can call you a car,” he says. “Or,” He hesitates, then crooks two fingers. From somewhere you don’t see, a motorcycle growls to life, a sleek, low thing that rolls obediently out of the gloom to settle at the curb like a well-trained animal. He pats the seat with absent affection. “I can take you back.”

You stare. “Did you name it? Like the Nightcycle or something equally as lame?”

“I absolutely did not,” he lies, horrendously, then swings a leg over and steadies the bike with a boot. Up close, he’s too much again; too many lines and angles that weren’t there the last time you catalogued him, too much easy strength, too much blue. “Helmet,” he says, offering one out. It’s heavier than you expect; when you take it, your fingers brush, leather over skin, static jumping.

You hesitate. “Are you going to drive like a responsible citizen?”

He gives you a look that is eighty percent angel, twenty percent criminal. “Define responsible.”

“Alive when we get there.”

“Deal.”

You settle onto the bike behind him with the kind of care that admits you are about to do a reckless thing on purpose. Your knees fit against his hips like there’s only one way to sit; your hands find the line of his jacket and pause, hovering. He reaches back without looking, takes your wrists, and draws your arms around his waist until your palms meet. The gesture is matter-of-fact and wildly intimate. You can feel him laughing, silent and low, at your ear.

“Still bossy,” you say, because your voice needs somewhere to put the tremor.

“I remember you like being told what to do,” he says, and then, so quick and soft you almost miss it, “Sometimes.”

It shouldn’t hit the way it does. It shouldn’t make heat pool low in your stomach, shouldn’t make your pulse trip against your throat, shouldn’t leave you wondering if the helmet’s padding is enough to hide the color climbing up your cheeks. But it does.

You laugh, helpless, a little breathless, because if you don’t laugh, you might actually whimper. The sound crackles in your throat and goes thin in the rush of the night air. You can feel the vibration of the engine through your thighs, the leather of his jacket under your hands, the solid line of his body in front of you, and now, layered over all of that, his words, humming through your nerves in a way that feels dangerously good.

He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, mask bright in the streetlight. The look is quick, but it’s enough. He knows what he said. He knows how it landed. And then the bike glides into the street, smooth and certain, as if nothing in the world has shifted, even though everything inside you just did.

The city rushes at you, neon and shadow blurring into ribbons. You clutch harder without meaning to, breath hitching, and he adjusts his posture just enough to shield you from the first hard push of wind. The shift presses your chest closer to his back, your knees locking tighter against his hips.

Your chin bumps the back of his shoulder. There’s damp salt there, leather warmed by body heat, and the sound of him breathing, steady, rhythmic, the same cadence you used to fall asleep to on rooftops when he kept watch.

The bike thrums beneath you, vibration rolling up through your thighs, settling into your stomach, buzzing in places you don’t want to admit are suddenly very awake. Every curve of the road asks you to lean with him, to trust the drop of his weight and the strength in his shoulders, and every time you do, you feel him there under your hands; solid, certain, unshakable.

He doesn’t go fast. He goes sure. The kind of riding that says I know this grid with my eyes shut and my hands tied, and I am choosing to bring you home. But the steadiness only makes it worse; it gives you time to notice everything.

The way his body heat seeps into you through layers of leather. The flex of muscle when he shifts gears, the ripple of his stomach under your forearm as he leans into a turn. The casual way his hand adjusts the throttle, so close you imagine what it would feel like if he used that grip on you.

At a light, he puts a boot down, head turning just enough that you catch the angle of his jaw beneath the mask. He checks on you without a word. You don’t know if he can see the flush burning under your helmet, but you feel seen all the same, and it does nothing to calm the pounding in your chest.

When the light changes, he rolls forward, and you press into him again, tighter this time, because the vibration and the closeness are unraveling you inch by inch. Small things, all of them, his steadiness, his quiet, the way his body seems to know yours is there and adjusts like it belongs pressed against him.

They add up to something you don’t let yourself name yet, but you feel it everywhere.

The bike growls to a halt a block from your building. The engine cuts, and in the sudden hush the night feels sharp, like the air itself is watching. The silence rings in your ears after miles of vibration. He doesn’t move right away. He reaches back instead, gloved fingers brushing over yours where they’re still hooked around his waist. A silent reminder: you can let go now.

You don’t. Not immediately. Your fingers unclasp a second too late, reluctant to surrender the heat of him, the solid line of his body. He feels it, he has to, and yet he doesn’t call you out, just slides his hands free of the handlebars with a kind of deliberate patience.

He swings one leg over and plants his boots on the ground, bracing the bike steady with practiced ease. Then, before you can fumble an exit, he turns and holds a hand out. “Careful,” he says. His voice is rougher than you remember, steady but edged with something lower, something weightier. “It’s a little taller than you think.”

You could protest. Tell him you’ve managed steps taller than this since kindergarten. But the way he’s standing there, broad and sure, palm open, the easy invitation of it, undoes you in a way stairs never could.

You take it. His hand is warm through the leather, steady as you swing your leg back over the bike. You slide down too close, body brushing his chest for the briefest moment. The contact snaps across you like static. You feel the give of his armor under your shoulder, the heat rolling off him in a wave, the faint tang of leather and sweat that clings to him.

It should be over in an instant. Just a hand-off. But his grip lingers, a fraction longer than necessary, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around yours. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches, shallow and sharp, before you tug back.

You’re on your own two feet now, the pavement gritty beneath your shoes, but your body is still buzzing from the bike, from him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, your palms hot where his gloves touched.

“Still trouble,” he says at last, because he can’t help himself.

“Still bossy,” you volley back, because you can’t either. But this time, it doesn’t feel like banter tossed across a rooftop. It feels like a line pulled taut between you, humming with something you’ve both pretended not to hear for years.

He studies you for another long, unapologetic moment. His voice, when it comes, slips a layer down. “You grew up, you know.”

You swallow. “So did you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like he’s acknowledging an ocean and a bridge and a lot of half-built scaffolding. His mouth curves, not the cocky smirk he used in the alley, but something older, carved from relief and surprise and the joy of recognizing someone in a crowd. “Feels like we should…” He gestures, uselessly, as if the city might supply the word.

“Pizza,” you say, because the universe clearly wants callbacks. “So I can prove you’re wrong.”

“You won’t,” he says immediately, but his eyes go bright, pleased, like you just handed him the right answer to a test he wanted you to enjoy taking.

He reaches into a belt pouch, produces a small black rectangle you’d charitably call a phone if phones weren’t usually made by people not afraid of the apocalypse. He toggles it awake, thumbs something in. When he looks up, he’s all business again, but the softened corners remain. “Same roofline,” he says. “Different skyline. You call, I land.”

“Is that your way of giving me your number?” you ask, amused and a little breathless.

“It’s my way of saying I read your ledes and I don’t want to do that from far away anymore,” he says, and that’s it. That’s the line that carves through every defense like they were drawn in chalk.

“Okay,” you say, because a bigger word would crack your throat right now. “Nightwing?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks for the rescue.”

He dips his head once, like you just pinned a medal on him he didn’t expect to care about. “Anytime, Trouble.”

He fits the mask better on his face, swings onto the bike, and then he’s gone, blurring back into the dark with a roar that falls away quick, swallowed by Blüdhaven’s wet lungs. You stand there in the sodium light, hair mussed by a wind you’ll be thinking about for hours, hands stupidly empty of leather and heat, and you try to file this under something. Reunion. Whiplash. Beginning again.

The city exhales. Somewhere a gull laughs like it knows something. You look down at your notebook; rain freckles have started to drink through the top page. On instinct, you flip to a clean sheet, jot three words at the top: Familiar. Stranger. Home.

You fall into a new rhythm without meaning to. It starts with accidents, running into him on rooftops, in alleys, when your investigations overlap his patrols. But it stops feeling accidental when he begins showing up at your office at the end of your shift, leaning against the wall like he belongs there. When he texts pizza? before you’ve even decided if you’re hungry. When you start leaving your fire escape window cracked, because somehow you know he’ll be there.

It isn’t dating. Not really. But it also isn’t not.

He has made it clear, in every way except saying it out loud over the past few months, that he wants to be in your life. And you? You haven’t decided if you’re brave enough to admit that you want him in yours just as badly.

The first time he picks you up after work in his civilian clothes, it knocks you sideways. You’re shuffling out of the newsroom with ink on your fingers, hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun, when you see him leaning against a lamppost. No mask. No armor. Just Dick Grayson in jeans, forearms bare, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.

He waves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he hasn’t just shattered the delicate line you’d kept between “him at night” and “him in the day.”

“What are you doing here?” you demand, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Picking you up.” He shrugs, casual, like the ground didn’t just shift. “What, you’d rather take the bus?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.”

“Sure,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “But where’s the fun in that?”

It’s disorienting, walking beside him in broad daylight. You keep expecting people to notice, to point, to whisper Nightwing…but no one looks twice. They just see Dick Grayson, easy in his own skin, fitting himself into your day like he’s been there all along.

And when he slings a leg over the motorcycle and offers you the helmet with that cocky tilt of his head, you don’t argue. Not really.

The rhythm builds. Some nights it’s him dropping by your apartment, sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt while you rant about deadlines. Some nights it’s you stitching him up again, fingers brushing skin that’s too warm, too scarred, your pulse thundering at the contact.

“You’re staring,” he says once, voice sly, eyes glinting.

“I’m working,” you snap, fumbling with the gauze.

“You’re staring,” he repeats, softer this time.

You don’t deny it. You can’t. Because sometimes it hits you out of nowhere, the sheer physicality of him. The breadth of his shoulders when he leans against your counter. The casual way he tosses his escrima sticks onto your table, muscles flexing as if they’re part of the furniture. The way his laugh curls low in his chest now, rich enough to make your skin prickle.

You’d had a crush on him once, built on personality and laughter and the relief of being seen. But now that crush is packaged in arms and jawlines and a body that moves like it knows exactly how much power it has…and you don’t know what to do with that.

You catch yourself looking more often than you should. He catches you every time. And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to mind.

Pizza becomes your running joke. Trioni’s booth, sticky varnish under your elbows, slices steaming on paper plates. He folds his, smirking at you the whole time, waiting for your inevitable groan of horror.

“You’re not going to win me over,” you say, waving your floppy slice at him.

“You’ll cave eventually,” he counters, leaning back in the booth, grin sharp and pleased. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Not this time.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a slow bite of his folded slice, chewing like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriating. It’s so goddamn attractive you want to scream.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He smirks. “Maybe I do.”

You throw a napkin at him. He laughs, catches it easily, and the sound rings through you like a struck bell.

He hadn’t planned to follow you. He hadn’t. His patrol had taken him toward the Narrows, toward the docks, a dozen other places that needed him more than one crowded strip of nightlife where you were laughing too loud in a dress that glittered like you’d stolen the stars.

But the second he spotted you, he stopped. You were walking in the middle of your pack of friends, arm hooked through one of theirs, head thrown back in a laugh that made your hair slip down your shoulders. Your dress caught every scrap of neon, sequins winking like Morse code, and for a second it was all he could see. Sparkling. Distracting. You, right there, alive and incandescent. He told himself to keep moving. To stick to patrol.

He didn’t. He slipped into the shadows above instead, tracking you from rooftop to rooftop, his body humming with an uneasy mix of irritation and awe. You shouldn’t be out here this late, drunk and stumbling. Gotham eats people like that alive. And yet seeing you bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed, smile wide, it does something to him. Like he’s watching a life he doesn’t belong to but can’t look away from.

Then he hears it.

“Wait, wait, wait,” one of your friends slurs, catching your arm as you teeter on the curb. “You had a crush on Robin? Little Robin? Short shorts and all?” The words hit like a sucker punch. His boots still on the ledge, heart lurching up into his throat.

You groan, dramatic. “Don’t say it like that.”

Laughter erupts, loud and merciless. “I mean, Batman was literally right there,” another says. “Broody, mysterious, tall. And you went for the kid in green?”

“Listen,” you argue, slurring but determined, your hands slicing through the air as you stumble forward with them. “It wasn’t even because he was, like… hot.”

Dick goes still. Breath locked. Not hot. Not Batman. Not Superman. But… him. His fingers curl tight around the edge of the roof until the stone bites through the gloves. The city noise fades under the thunder of his pulse.

Your friends don’t let up. “You were in Metropolis for years! What about Superman? Have you seen him? Gorgeous. Dimples. Arms. Literal sunshine.”

“That’s not the point!” you insist, cutting them off with a shout, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. “Robin, he was… earnest, okay? Thoughtful. Responsible. He listened. He…” Your voice softens. Fragile and fierce at the same time. “He made me feel like I mattered.”

The words gut him. Because he remembers. He remembers every night on rooftops, every time you sat beside him with your knees pressed together, every secret you whispered into the dark because you trusted him to hold it. He remembers the way you looked at him like he was more than Batman’s shadow. Like he was enough.

He’s gripping the ledge so hard he thinks it might crack under his hand.

Your friends are howling again, teasing, “God, you really do have a type. What’s next, Green Lantern?” But he’s not listening anymore. He’s locked on you, on the way your laughter shakes loose and dizzy into the night, on the memory of the boy he used to be, the boy who never believed anyone would pick him.

And here you are, years later, admitting you had. He doesn’t care that you’re drunk. Doesn’t care that you might not remember this tomorrow. Because he will. He’ll remember the conviction in your voice, the way you doubled down, the way you said he made you feel like you mattered.

Up on the ledge, hidden in shadow, Dick feels it burn through him. A match struck in the dark. And he knows he’s not letting you run from this. Next time his eyes linger, next time his hand presses at the small of your back, next time his voice drops lower than it should, you won’t get to brush it off as banter. You won’t get to hide behind excuses. Because you said it. You chose him. You always had. And he thinks you still might. And God help him, he’s not about to let you pretend otherwise.

The problem with Dick Grayson isn’t that he doesn’t know how to look at you. It’s that he does. He knows exactly how long to let his eyes linger before you catch him. He knows how to tilt his head so it looks like he’s teasing when it feels like something else. He knows when to let his gaze soften, how to press just enough warmth into it to make you think about things you shouldn’t, not when you’re supposed to be friends.

And this morning, as you’re face-planted into the couch cushions in a tiny, sparkly black dress, head throbbing, stomach rolling, the last thing you need is for Dick Grayson to be looking at you.

Unfortunately, he is.

“Rough night?” His voice is bright, smug, like sunshine filtered through something wicked.

You groan into the cushions. “Go away.”

“No can do.” You hear his boots cross the floor, the quiet shift of weight as he crouches beside the couch. “I figured you’d need a little… moral support. Or maybe electrolytes.”

“I need you to shut up,” you mutter.

He laughs low, warm, and irritatingly fond. “You look like roadkill.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He’s crouched at your side, forearms resting on his knees, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt that clings a little too well. His eyes take you in shamelessly; your hair a mess, mascara smudged, sparkly dress creased from sleep.

“You’re not cute. Don’t look at me,” you mumble, shoving your face back into the couch.

“Too late.” He leans his chin into his palm. “It’s seared into my brain now. You, draped over a sofa like a tragic starlet.”

“Kill me.”

“Nah.” His grin sharpens. “Not when you give me material like this.” You don’t remember how he got in your apartment. You don’t remember much, actually, past stumbling in the door last night and half-collapsing onto the couch. But you do remember the way your friends had teased you on the walk home. Robin. Batman. Superman. And your stubborn, drunken insistence that it had always been Robin.

Heat flushes through you even now, a full-body cringe. God, what if you’d said too much? What if someone had recorded it? What if—

“You snore,” Dick says, breaking into your spiral.

Your head snaps up. “I do not.”

“Like a chainsaw.” He smirks, infuriatingly pleased. “It’s cute, though. Endearing.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed, effortless, then tosses it back onto your stomach, knocking the breath out of you. “Jerk,” you wheeze.

“Roadkill,” he volleys back like he is affirming his earlier statement. The banter is easy, familiar, but there’s an edge to it today. You feel it in the way his eyes keep tracking over you, softer than they should be. In the way he hasn’t moved from his crouch, too close, knees brushing the couch.

You shift, meaning to sit up, but your limbs betray you. Instead you flop sideways, head landing on the pillow, legs still dangling over the armrest, knees bent awkwardly on the floor. Your dress rides higher, glitter catching in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. His gaze flickers, quick and sharp, before snapping back to your face.

“You’re staring,” you accuse.

“You’re imagining,” he shoots back. But his voice is a shade too low, and it twists something in your stomach.

You try to change the subject. “So what, you just decided to drop by and harass me while I’m defenseless?”

“Defenseless, huh?” He leans in, close enough that you smell his soap and the faint tang of leather clinging to him. “Funny. Last night, you didn’t sound very defenseless.”

Your heart stutters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile turns slow, wicked. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve got… interesting taste.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water. Oh. Oh, no. He heard. He had to have heard.

“Shut up,” you say quickly, too quickly, your cheeks blazing.

“Robin, huh?” he presses, voice feather-light but edged with something deeper. “Not Batman. Not Superman. Me.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

His laughter curls low in his chest. He nudges your knee with his hand, playful. “Relax. I’m flattered.”

“That makes one of us,” you groan, wishing the couch would swallow you.

But when you peek at him through your fingers, his eyes aren’t just amused. They’re intense, sharp, gleaming with the memory of your drunken confession. He’s not going to let you forget it.

The comedy of errors continues when you try to sit up. Your foot catches on the armrest, your heel slips, and you pitch forward, straight into his chest. He catches you easily, an arm banding around your waist, the other braced on the couch. Suddenly you’re nose-to-nose, his grin right there, his heartbeat loud against your palm where it’s landed on his chest.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“I hate you,” you whisper, breathless.

“Liar,” he says softly, “You have a crush on me.” And it feels like a strike.

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you hums, heavy, loaded. His eyes flick down to your mouth before darting back up. You feel it, every millimeter, like a live wire under your skin.

“Had,” you whisper. His eyes followed the shape of your lips as they formed around the word.

“Have.” He says again, voice more firm this time. Your gaze traces his lips this time.

Your head tilts closer, like instinct, like your body is done pretending it doesn’t want him. His arm is still locked firm around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed against the heat of his chest. Your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the give of muscle under cotton, the impossible warmth of him seeping straight through your skin.

He doesn’t pull away. Just looks at you, steady, unblinking, eyes so blue they feel like they could cut you open if you let them. His breath brushes your mouth, warm, uneven. You can taste coffee and something darker on it, and your lips part without permission, every nerve in your body straining toward the last millimeter of space.

The air thickens, heavy as syrup. His fingers at your waist flex, just once, enough to draw you an inch closer. His chest rises against yours, and you feel the faintest shiver where his nose grazes your cheek, his forehead brushing yours, testing the contact without closing it.

You don’t think. Your hand slides higher on his chest, tracing over the solid line of his collarbone, up the curve of his shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, soft and warm under your touch. He exhales raggedly, his whole body tightening like he’s holding back a wave.

Because the problem with you isn’t that you don’t want Dick Grayson. It’s that you do.

“You’re not fooling me,” he says, voice low, rougher now that your lips are so close you can taste the warmth of his breath. “Not with that look on your face. Not with your hand all over me.”

Your fingers twitch against his chest, traitorous, pressing into solid muscle as though proving his point. Heat curls low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, and you hate that he can read it so easily.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage, though your voice shakes.

His eyes darken, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip where his hand grips you. “Say it again. Say you don’t still want me. Say it while you’re this close.”

You can’t. The words lodge in your throat, choking on the truth you’ve been dodging for weeks. His smirk softens, just barely, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he leans in until your noses brush, your pulse stuttering wildly under his stare.

“Had,” you whisper again, desperate, as if repeating it might make it true.

“Finish the sentence if you mean it, sweetheart.” The words vibrate out of him, certain and unshakable. His gaze dips to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate, and the sound you make is soft, caught halfway between a breath and a plea, and it has his jaw flexing tight like he’s fighting himself.

“Dick…” His name leaves your mouth broken, trembling, and he shudders like you’ve just lit a match against his skin.

His forehead tips to yours, contact so small but devastating, heat bleeding from him into you. “You can lie all you want, Trouble,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your lips, “but you don’t let someone this close unless you want it.”

Your head tilts, your lips part, your palm sliding up to his collarbone in a silent answer. For one perfect, electric second, the whole world narrows to the inch of air left between your mouths, heat, and his heartbeat under your hand.

Your lips brush his, so faint it’s almost not contact, just the ghost of it, but the shock of it rattles you down to your toes. His breath shudders out, shaky and hot, and when you lean in that last fraction, his mouth finally meets yours. It isn’t clean. It isn’t careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip and a whimper catch in your throat. The sound seems to break something in him, because suddenly his arm around your waist tightens, dragging you fully into his lap.

You straddle him before you realize you’ve moved, dress riding high on your thighs, his heat pressed solid between your legs. His hands slide down, big and certain, cupping your ass through sequined fabric, pulling you flush against the thick line of him. The spark between you roars into fire.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it, messy, hungry, devouring. Your palms splay across his chest, clutching at the muscle under his shirt, your fingers curling into the warm skin at the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until you’re gasping into his mouth, moving against him without meaning to.

His hands squeeze, firm and sure, guiding you into him, hips arching up to meet yours. The friction makes your head spin, your pulse pounding everywhere at once. He tastes like wine and want, and the low sound he makes into your mouth vibrates all the way down your spine.

For a breathless stretch of moments, there’s no Gotham, no rain, no history. Just this. Just you and Dick, tangled up, finally giving in, kissing each other like you’ll never get enough.

Your lips part beneath his, and he takes the invitation greedily, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking against yours with a hunger that has your head spinning. It’s clumsy in places, teeth clicking, mouths chasing, but that only makes it worse, better. It feels alive, electric, like every ounce of restraint you’ve both held onto has finally gone up in flames.

You rock into him, desperate for more friction, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth. His hands tighten on your ass, dragging you down against him, grinding you into the thick, unmistakable weight straining against his sweats. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body clenching around the ache building low in your belly.

You clutch at him harder, fingers fisting into his t-shirt until the fabric rides up, exposing hot skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, the ridges of muscle flexing under your touch, and he shudders, biting your lip again as though to punish you for it. You moan into him, nails digging lightly into his sides, and he hisses through his teeth, kissing you harder, like he can pour every ounce of his want straight into your mouth.

The kiss tips sideways, and suddenly you’re gasping, laughing into him when his stubble grazes your jaw. He doesn’t let up. His lips trail fire down the line of your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the delicate skin there before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. You arch into him, dress shifting higher, sequins scratching his hips where your thighs cage him in.

“Dick,” His name rips out of you, broken and desperate, and his mouth is back on yours before you can say more, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.

Your hips roll against him, helpless, chasing the friction, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up into you in short, sharp motions that make you whimper into his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours again, messy and wet, and your vision sparks at the edges. His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, sliding up your spine, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can kiss you deeper, rougher.

You’re dizzy with him, his taste, his weight, the sheer size of him under you. Every breath you drag in is filled with him, every nerve alight with the demand to get closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between you at all.

When you finally break for air, your foreheads slam together, both of you panting like you’ve run miles. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under your palms. He looks wild. Starved. Perfect. And then he’s pulling you back down, kissing you again, hungrier than before, open-mouthed, filthy, like he’s making up for every year he didn’t.

Your body can’t stop moving against him, chasing every drag of friction. The sequined dress has ridden high on your thighs, hem bunched at your waist as you straddle him. His hands are greedy now, sliding over bare skin, thumbs digging into the soft bare curve of your ass like he’s waited his whole life to touch you here. He drags you down harder, grinding you over him, and the blunt thickness straining his sweats makes you gasp into his mouth.

He’s huge. You knew he was, the outline impossible not to notice whenever he sprawled careless in those pants, but feeling it pressed solid against you, hot and heavy even through layers, makes your stomach twist and your core clench with want. You rock down on him harder, helpless, and the sound he makes is low, guttural, and almost pained. It shoots straight between your legs.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, kissing you harder, tongue driving deep like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His hips surge up in answer, rutting against you, the thick head of him catching just right against the soaked center of your panties. Your cry muffles into his mouth, nails scraping down his chest until you find skin, dragging up his shirt until it’s bunched under his arms.

His abs are hot and hard under your palms, slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you. You break from his mouth to gasp down his throat, and he’s on you instantly, lips latching to your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin like he wants to mark every inch he can reach.

“Say it,” he rasps against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. His hands knead your ass, grinding you down over him, the thick bulge in his sweats perfectly aligned with your clit. “Say you still want me.”

You can’t speak, not with the way he’s rolling his hips, relentless, the pressure building sharp and unbearable. You whimper his name instead, broken and needy, and he groans like the sound undoes him.

“Fuck—yeah, you do,” he breathes, pulling you down harder, guiding you to rock over him faster. The sequins of your dress scratch at his bare stomach, your panties soaked through, clinging to your folds as you grind over the obscene bulk of him. Each pass drags his thickness right against your clit, each grind shooting sparks down your spine until you’re gasping against his mouth, trembling in his lap. “She’s honest with me, even if your mouth won’t be,” he pants.

He kisses you senseless again, filthy and wet, tongues clashing, teeth tugging, his hips never stopping. You roll against him desperately, chasing it, chasing him, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. His cock strains against the thin cotton, massive, the outline pressed hot and unyielding against your swollen pussy, and all you can think is how good it would feel inside you.

His hand slides up your spine, into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bite at your throat again, his breath ragged. “Thatta girl. Keep grinding, Trouble. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”

The words hit harder than anything. You moan brokenly, hips stuttering against him, the rhythm sloppy but desperate, pleasure winding sharp and tight in your belly. His hands hold you steady, dragging you over him in rough, perfect circles until you’re shuddering, mouth open against his, every nerve screaming as you teeter on the edge.

And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let you run. He keeps you pressed to him, grinding against the thick, straining length of his cock until you’re shaking apart in his lap, soaking through your panties, every pulse of your orgasm spilling hot and messy against him.

He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, biting your lip until you can barely breathe. When you finally slump forward, wrecked and trembling, his hands are still on you, still firm, still wanting. And he’s still hard, throbbing against you, sweatpants damp with your release, the sheer size of him twitching under you like a promise.

His mouth breaks from yours only to press wet, biting kisses down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, muttering against your skin like he can’t stop himself. “Feel how wet you are,” he growls, his voice rough and ruined. One hand slips lower, his long fingers sliding under the edge of your ruined panties. You whimper as his knuckles brush your slick folds, every inch of you drenched and swollen. His groan vibrates against your neck when he feels just how soaked you are.

“Fuck, Trouble…” His middle finger drags up through your wetness, slow, obscene, parting you until he finds your clit. You jolt hard against him, crying out, and he swallows the sound in another bruising kiss. His finger circles you once, twice, then dips lower, pressing inside with a stretch that makes your whole body seize. He’s so much bigger than your own hand, so much deeper, curling at the knuckle just right until your thighs clamp tight around him.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pumping in and out, his thumb pressing cruel circles to your clit. “Soaked for me. Always were, weren’t you?”

You can’t answer. You can only grind helplessly into his hand, your hips jerking against him, your mouth open and gasping against his. He slips a second finger in beside the first, the stretch sharp, delicious, filling you in a way that makes you sob into his mouth. His thumb works you mercilessly, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your trembling body.

Then he pulls his fingers out, sudden, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. His eyes lock on yours as he groans low in his throat, tasting you, devouring you.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “Could live on this.”

Your whole body shudders. You surge forward, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his groan as his hands drag at your hips again. But it’s not enough. The thick weight straining his sweats is pressed solid against your soaked panties, and you need more—you need him.

“Dick,” you gasp against his mouth, clawing at the waistband of his sweats. “Out. Now.”

His laugh is harsh, breathless, wrecked. “Now who’s bossy.” But he obeys, shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip.

Your breath catches. Even soft he’d been obscene; hard, he’s devastating. Long, flushed dark, veins ridging the shaft, the broad head flushed and dripping precum. Your cunt clenches just looking at him, your thighs shaking with the need to feel it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wrapping a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, groaning through gritted teeth. “Been dying to feel you on me.”

You grind down against him, soaking panties dragging over the thick length of him, smearing wetness across his cock. The slide makes you both groan, your clit catching against his head with every pass.

He curses again, gripping your hips so hard you know he’ll leave bruises, guiding you to rock on him. His cock drags along your soaked center, fat and hot, the head bumping your clit with every grind. You can feel the pressure of him catching against your entrance, the blunt head pushing at your soaked panties, teasing what you both want.

“You feel that?” he groans, eyes wild, forehead pressed to yours as his cock slides thick and heavy under you. “So wet you’re gonna ruin me. Gonna let me in, Trouble? Let me split you open on this cock?”

Your moan is answer enough. You grind harder, desperate, the head of him pushing your panties aside just enough to catch against your opening, stretching you slightly before slipping away again. He groans raggedly, pumping his cock once against your soaked fabric, precum smearing across the sequined dress bunched at your waist.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he pants, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing. “Gonna bury this cock so deep you won’t be able to say my name without cumming.” His hands slide down, fingers curling under the edge of your panties, tugging at the damp fabric. “These coming off, or can I rip ‘em?”

“Rip,” you gasp, dizzy, desperate. And he does. The lace tears with a sharp sound, shredded by his long fingers like it’s nothing, the ruined fabric dragged aside as he growls into your mouth. The sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you shiver, but then his cock is there, thick and hot and real, dragging through your soaked folds, smearing your slick up his length.

“Fuck,” His voice breaks, guttural. “You’re dripping. Been dreaming about this for so long sweetheart, about feeling you like this.” Your hips jerk forward, chasing it, and the broad head of him catches at your entrance. He holds you still with hands locked bruisingly tight on your ass, forcing you to feel it, just the heavy pressure of him nudging in, stretching you wide, parting you slow.

The stretch steals your breath. He’s so big your body fights to take him, and the sting makes you gasp into his mouth. But underneath is heat, thick, overwhelming heat, like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Christ,” he groans, forehead slamming to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “So tight. Gonna ruin me.”

You claw at his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, panting. “More…please, Dick.”

He whines softly, and then he thrusts, hard. The thick length of him drives into you, slow enough to split you open, deep enough to make you cry out. Your walls seize around him, clenching helplessly, trying to adjust as inch after inch slides into your body. The stretch burns, pleasure laced sharp through pain, but he’s groaning against your mouth, kissing you through it, muttering ragged curses into your skin.

“Taking me…fuck, you’re taking all of me so well,” he grits out, his hips jerking up, forcing the last thick inch inside. His cock bottoms out deep, the blunt head pressed right against your cervix, so deep it makes your vision blur. You sob against his mouth, your body clutching him, trembling. The fullness is as unbearable as it is addictive; like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

“Look at you,” he pants, dragging back an inch only to slam forward again, grinding deep. “My pretty girl. So good for me.”

You moan brokenly, your hips rocking without thought, meeting him. The friction is devastating; bare, raw, his cock dragging against every swollen inch of you. Slick gushes down his shaft, wetting the base of him, smearing against his stomach where your dress is bunched. His rhythm builds fast, messy. Years of wanting crashing into each thrust, hips snapping up into you hard enough to jolt the couch under you. You cling to him, legs trembling around his waist, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans with every stroke.

“Oh baby,” he whines, mouth crushed to your jaw, teeth scraping. “You’re so fucking wet, gonna make me cum so deep inside you.”

You can only gasp, moan, sob against him, every thrust lighting you up. His hands cup your ass, dragging you down onto his cock harder, grinding you into him until your clit rubs against the base, sparks exploding in your belly. You’re close again; too close, the pressure building sharp and fast. You roll your hips against him, desperate, and he feels it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around him.

“Gonna cum?” he rasps, voice breaking, his cock driving into you relentlessly. “Gonna soak me like a good girl? Let me have it, c’mon.” Your body shatters. Pleasure rips through you, hot and unbearable, your cunt clamping down on him as you scream his name into his mouth. Slick gushes around him, soaking him, dripping down your thighs, and he curses, rutting into you harder, chasing his own end.

His rhythm falls apart, hips slamming up into you in ragged, desperate thrusts, his cock throbbing inside you with every grind. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, breath coming in short, broken gasps. “God, you feel so good,” he groans, the words spilling without thought, low and raw against your mouth. “So tight around me, so wet for me. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Perfect.”

Each word is a strike, praise so filthy and reverent your whole body shivers around him. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, rolling against him, your cunt clenching tighter every time he speaks. He thrusts deep, almost to the hilt, then stops, shaking with restraint, his cock swelling thick inside you. His voice cracks when he mutters, “I can’t…I’m gonna cum. Please. Please, let me…inside you, I want to.”

The sound of him begging makes your breath catch, your walls fluttering around him. You feel him shaking under you, his control frayed to nothing, but still he doesn’t let go, doesn’t cross the line until you give him the word. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and frantic, his tongue tangling with yours as he whispers against your lips, “Say yes. Tell me I can. Please, Trouble, I need it. Need to fill you up.”

The plea wrecks you. Heat coils sharp in your stomach, the pressure unbearable. You tighten around him, nails raking down his back, and gasp, “Yes, yes, Dick, cum inside me, please!” The sound he makes is broken, guttural, like you’ve torn the air from his lungs. His hips jerk up violently, his whole body locking under you as he buries himself deep, cock swelling as his release rips through him.

“Fuck, oh, fuck, thank you,” he gasps, his voice sick with praise, chanting it against your mouth as he spills inside you. Thick heat floods your cunt in heavy pulses, and the sensation drags your orgasm out all over again; you clench down hard, milking him, crying into his kiss as he moans your name like prayer.

He holds you down on him, grinding up into you, desperate to push every drop deeper. “So good…so good for me, fuck, you’re perfect. Taking all of it, all of me.”

You collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you panting hard, still joined, his cock still twitching inside you as his release drips hot between your thighs. His forehead presses to yours, his voice wrecked, almost breaking.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you still trembling, breaths dragging in uneven gasps. His voice is wrecked, almost breaking.

“Years,” he whispers, softer now but still aching, still desperate. “Wasted years not feeling you like this.”

Your chest tightens, words lost somewhere in your throat. So you kiss him instead, messy, deep, your lips swollen and clumsy. He kisses you back with equal fervor, but slower now, as if he wants to savor, to commit the taste of you to memory. His cock is still sheathed deep inside you, twitching faintly as he softens, but neither of you makes a move to part.

You shift against him, and his hands instantly tighten on your hips, keeping you down, keeping him buried inside. His laugh is low, roughened by exhaustion and bliss. “Don’t even think about it. Not letting you go yet.”

You groan against his chest. “You’re heavy.”

“Good,” he mutters, dropping his lips to the damp slope of your shoulder. “Means you’ll stay put.” He breathes you in, deep, reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”

You pull back just enough to search his face. His eyes are glassy, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. “How long?” you ask quietly, brushing his long dark hair out of his face.

He swallows, thumb brushing slow along your cheek, still cupping your face as if you’re fragile. “Since fourteen,” he admits, voice soft, bare. “Since the first night you sat on that roof and talked to me like I wasn’t just Robin. Like I was… a person.” His jaw flexes, like saying it out loud costs him something. “I never stopped, even when you left. Even when you came back and seemed distracted by my face.”

Your breath catches. The weight of it hits you hard, heavy and bright all at once, knocking your chest open. You don’t have to think. You know, suddenly, fiercely, that you’re falling in love with him. Not just the boy who once unmasked for you, not just the man currently buried inside you, but all of him.

“Dick…” you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips twitch, a crooked grin breaking the tension. “What, because I’ve been in love with you since I was a scrawny circus kid?”

“Because,” you correct softly, rolling your eyes even as your chest aches, “I liked you when you were gangly and angry at the world, and awkward with your kindness. That’s what got me.” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Not… all this.”

His smile gentles, the teasing melting into something shy, almost boyish. “Doesn’t hurt, though, right? The face.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but it comes out tender instead of sharp. “No. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good because you,” he says, kissing your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in quick, playful succession, “are stuck with me now. So remember that when I get on your nerves.”

You sigh, pretending exasperation, but you can’t stop smiling. “Guess I am.”

You stay like that for a while, tangled and warm, the storm outside softening into a steady patter. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lazy, reverent, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Eventually, though, the ache in your thighs reminds you both of reality. You shift, wincing slightly, and he feels it immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “don’t move. I’ve got you.”

You make a soft noise of protest when he finally pulls out, the stretch easing but leaving you empty in a way that makes your chest squeeze. Heat spills between your thighs, sticky and messy, but he’s already tucking you back against the cushions, murmuring, “Stay,” before disappearing down the hall.

When he comes back, he’s barefoot, carrying a damp towel and a glass of water, his hair even messier from running a hand through it. “Lift,” he says gently, and when you blink at him, dazed, he smiles. “C’mon. Let me take care of you.”

You do, cheeks warming as he crouches between your knees, wiping you clean with careful, unhurried motions. His hands are steady, reverent, as though the act itself is holy. He kisses the inside of your thigh when he’s done, soft and fleeting, before standing to hand you the water.

You take a sip, your throat dry, then glance at him over the rim of the glass. “You always this bossy after sex?”

“Back to bossy again?” His brows lift in mock offense as he sinks back onto the couch beside you. “But, please. I’m efficient. There’s a big difference.”

You laugh, weak but real, tucking yourself into his side. “You were efficient at fourteen too. Efficiently broody. Efficiently avoiding eye contact.”

He groans, dropping his head back against the cushions. “God. Don’t remind me.” Then, softer, with a smile that curves like memory, he adds, “And somehow you still liked me.” His face warms with a smile as he says it, looking more boyish than you’ve seen him look, like the thought of you having felt something for him all these years makes him giddy.

“I didn’t like you because of the brooding,” you tease, tilting up to meet his gaze. “I liked you because you couldn’t hide how good you were. Not from me.”

His eyes soften, his hand smoothing gently over your hip. “You’ve always seen too much.”

“And you’ve always pretended it bothered you,” you shoot back, but your smile is quiet, your chest aching.

He presses his lips to your hair, lingering there. “Never bothered me,” he admits into the crown of your head. “It scared me. That’s different.”

His lips linger in your hair, warm and steady, until your eyes slip closed. The storm outside has softened to a drizzle, a steady hush against the glass, and the room feels like it’s holding its breath with you. You set the glass of water aside, curling instinctively into him. His arm comes around your shoulders without hesitation, hand smoothing slow circles over your arm. It’s grounding, the weight of him, the heat of his body still seeping into yours.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs against your temple.

“So should you,” you mumble back, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Not tired,” he lies, and you can feel the smile pressed into your hair.

“You’re full of it,” you whisper, but the fight is already gone from you. Your head sinks against his chest, ear over his heartbeat. It’s steady, strong, the sound you didn’t know you’d missed all these years until now.

He shifts, adjusting you both, and before you realize it, you’re stretched across the couch together, tangled under the throw blanket. His hand stays at your hip, fingers curled there like an anchor, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away in the night.

You reach up, tracing lazy circles over his chest. “Dick?”

“Mmm?”

“I think,” you murmur, words already blurring at the edges of sleep, “I might be falling in love with you.”

He stills, then exhales slow, his lips brushing your hair. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’ve been in love with you for half my life.”

Your throat tightens, but your body relaxes, the truth settling into you like warmth. You smile against him, soft and certain. Outside, Gotham exhales under the rain. Inside, you let yourself drift, safe in the arms of the boy you once knew, the man you’re choosing now.

The city looks different from up here. It always does, under his arm.

You’re sitting on the ledge of a Blüdhaven rooftop, legs dangling over the streetlights, the night air cool against your bare skin. Dick’s beside you, mask pushed up into his hair, the blue symbol catching the glow of the skyline. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, steadying you like you might slip, even though you both know you never would with him here. Both his thighs bracket yours.

“Déjà vu,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder.

His grin tilts sideways, boyish and wicked all at once. “Except this time I get to kiss you instead of lecture you.”

“Mm,” you hum, leaning back into his chest. “Not sure which one you’re worse at.”

He gasps, mock wounded, then dips his head to mouth at your neck. “Harsh. And here I was thinking I’ve improved since the green tights days.”

“You have,” you say, fighting a smile. “Marginally.”

“Marginally?” He nips lightly at your skin, enough to make you squirm. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, twisting in his hold until you’re facing him. His hands slide automatically to your waist, thumbs stroking slow against the fabric of your jacket, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“You know what hasn’t changed?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“You.” His smile curves, tender under the tease. “You still sneak out when you shouldn’t. Still get yourself into trouble. Still make me chase after you.”

You snort. “Admit it. You like it.”

“Like it?” He laughs low, kissing you once, quick and sure. “I live for it.”

The kiss deepens, sweet and unhurried, the city buzzing around you, forgotten. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. “Feels like we’ve been waiting years for this,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we have.” You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Worth it, though.”

He grins, eyes bright as the city lights. “Definitely worth it.”

And when he kisses you again, laughing into your mouth, the rooftop doesn’t feel like a hiding place anymore. It feels like home.

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lemonmoonmochi · 2 days ago

Text

Voir Dire || Riddle Rosehearts

You and Riddle have been courtroom rivals since law school, trading objections like they’re love letters.

Fate keeps putting you on opposite sides, but somewhere between the feathers, lawsuits, and flushed cheeks, your hearts may just be arguing the same case.

Being an attorney is supposed to be noble. You’re the defender of justice, the knight in a blazer and tie, the brave soul who dives headfirst into legalese so others don’t have to.

You help ordinary people stand tall against corporations, loopholes, and the cold indifference of the law.

Most days, you take pride in that. Most days, you get to hold your head high and say that your job matters.

This is not one of those days.

Because at this exact moment, you are standing in the middle of a courtroom trying to explain, with a straight face, why your client should be allowed to sue a squirrel.

Yes, an actual squirrel. A bushy-tailed, peanut-munching, tree-dwelling rodent. Somewhere along the winding road of your legal career, you made a wrong turn and ended up in Looney Tunes.

And across the aisle from you, in his perfectly pressed suit and with his expression sharpened to the point of decapitation, is your opponent: Riddle Rosehearts.

Your rival since law school, the boy wonder turned courtroom menace, the man who somehow manages to cite obscure case law like he was born with a law textbook for a pacifier.

He’s staring at you right now, and his eyes are saying, “I knew you were ridiculous, but this is a new low.” And honestly? You’re inclined to agree.

The case? Park-goer versus The City of — (because apparently, the defendant is “whoever owns the squirrel,” which is just as bad as it sounds).

Your client, a poor soul with emotional damage and mustard stains, claims that a squirrel stole their hot dog. A hot dog “loaded with toppings and sentimental value,” which is a direct quote from your client’s statement.

Somewhere in your brain, a small voice is screaming at you to quit law and start an alpaca farm.

But here you are, stone-faced, professional, and committed to the bit.

Riddle clears his throat, his voice crisp enough to slice a watermelon.

“The city cannot control rogue wildlife,” he declares, glaring in your direction like the sheer force of his common sense should be enough to make you spontaneously combust.

You, unblinking, steady as a seasoned liar:

“The squirrel in question has a documented pattern of theft and aggression.”

There’s an audible gasp from the back of the courtroom. You think someone just muttered, “That squirrel again?” which suggests this may, in fact, not be the rodent’s first offense.

You roll with it. Never let them see you sweat.

Meanwhile, Riddle’s jaw tightens like he’s fighting the urge to slam his head against the bench. “Counselor,” he says icily, “are you truly suggesting we prosecute a rodent? What next? A civil suit against pigeons for loitering?”

You open your mouth to argue, already halfway into a retort about precedent, when your client leans forward and whispers, dead serious, “Ask about punitive damages.”

And that’s when you realize: you’re doomed.

You had thought, perhaps naively, that the case would be dismissed after your opening argument. Surely the judge, a man with at least three law degrees and an aura of quiet despair, would see reason and bang his gavel, declaring the entire thing beneath the dignity of the court.

But no. Instead, he leans back, sighs like a man who has seen too much, and says, “Very well. Call your first witness.”

You blink. Riddle blinks. The courtroom collectively inhales.

And then somehow—somehow—this devolves into a full-blown parade of testimonies.

First, a frazzled hot dog vendor takes the stand and solemnly describes the squirrel’s “pattern of loitering around the condiment stand,” voice quivering as though recounting a war crime.

Then a jogger testifies, claiming the squirrel once stole their granola bar mid-stride and made “unbroken eye contact while eating it.”

By the time a small child waddles up to declare that the squirrel “knows what it did,” even you are starting to believe you’re prosecuting the Al Capone of rodents.

And then the doors open.

“Exhibit A,” the bailiff announces, wheeling in a small cage.

Inside: the squirrel.

The squirrel stares at you, beady-eyed, tail flicking with what can only be described as malice. The gallery murmurs like this is some kind of dramatic celebrity entrance. You half-expect someone to ask for an autograph.

You glance at Riddle.

He’s gone very still, hands folded in front of him like he’s bracing for divine retribution. His jaw is so tight it could probably crush diamonds.

For a fleeting second, you see past the perfect composure and catch a glimpse of a man silently screaming, This is what my life has come to. I studied case law for this.

You would laugh if you weren’t also spiraling into the same existential crisis.

The squirrel chitters loudly, rattling the bars. Someone in the back screams.

Riddle drags a hand down his face. “Your Honor,” he says flatly, “the defense moves to strike this entire proceeding as an insult to jurisprudence.”

The judge just sighs again and bangs his gavel. “Motion denied.”

That’s when you realize the only way out is surrender.

So when recess is finally called, you all but drag your client out into the hallway and corner them by the vending machines, desperation leaking from every pore. “Drop the charge,” you hiss, clutching their arm like a lifeline. “Please. I beg you. No amount of hot dogs is worth this.”

“But justice—”

“Justice?” you echo, borderline hysterical. “You’re suing a squirrel! This isn’t justice, it’s a nature documentary gone rogue!”

By the time you stumble outside for air, your tie hanging askew and your soul bruised, you’re ready to bury yourself under the courthouse steps and live there forever.

And of course, standing right outside the doors like a ghost sent to haunt you, is Riddle Rosehearts.

He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at you with the faintest flicker of pity—or maybe it’s contempt, you can’t tell anymore. His expression is perfectly neutral, but you can practically hear the inner monologue: You absolute disaster of a lawyer.

You can’t even meet his eyes. You fixate on a crack in the sidewalk, mutter something that might be “good day,” and walk away briskly, praying that the next time you cross paths in court won’t make you want to spontaneously combust on the spot.

But deep down, you know the universe hates you far too much for that.

Back in law school, things were… different.

You and Riddle ended up in the same graduating batch, and through some cosmic joke, you shared nearly every class.

It was a nightmare, in the sense that he was always there, sitting prim and proper with his notes color-coded down to the comma, while you breezed in with three pens, a coffee stain on your textbook, and just enough reckless confidence to keep up.

If Riddle was first in exams, you were second. If you were first, he was right on your heels, looking like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of not being number one.

It was a healthy rivalry—or at least that’s what you called it to justify why you spent half your academic career needling him.

To you, it was entertainment. A way to survive the endless monotony of statutes, precedents, and professors who thought “fun” meant assigning two hundred pages of case law on a Friday.

Riling Riddle up in mock court became your favorite pastime.

He’d get this little twitch in his eyebrow whenever you made some wild, barely defensible argument just to watch him scramble to shut it down.

The way he’d snap “Objection!” with the fury of a man wronged was almost beautiful.

You were supposed to be practicing law, but half the time it felt like you were starring in your own private comedy routine, and Riddle was the unwilling straight man.

And then you graduated. Different firms, different offices, different lives—or so you thought.

Because apparently, fate—or maybe some drunk administrative gremlin at the Bar Association—decided that separation was overrated.

Somehow, ninety-nine percent of the cases you were handed ended up with Riddle Rosehearts as opposing counsel. Divorce settlements, contract disputes, bizarre niche lawsuits involving too many llamas—if you were there, so was he, looking just as polished and ready to destroy you as ever.

And so the rivalry continued.

Except this wasn’t the safe bubble of law school anymore. This was the real world, where judges glared, clients panicked, and your careers were on the line.

And still, the moment you spotted him across the courtroom, a little part of you lit up—not that you’d ever admit it. Because if the universe was determined to keep you and Riddle tethered together, you were determined to make it entertaining, even if it killed him.

Or, judging by the squirrel case, your dignity.

Your office isn’t much, but it’s yours. A desk that creaks when you lean on it, a chair that’s probably a decade older than you, and a stack of case files that could crush a man if they ever toppled.

You’ve made peace with it. It’s the ecosystem of a mid-level attorney: coffee stains, paper cuts, and the vague scent of despair lingering in the air like a permanent air freshener.

You’re half-buried in paperwork when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you call, already bracing yourself, because knocks during the day rarely mean anything good.

Your senior associate steps inside, a folder clutched in her hands like it’s radioactive. She doesn’t meet your eyes. Not once. She stares at the floor, the ceiling, the window—literally anywhere except your face—and that alone tells you everything you need to know.

You lean back in your chair, fold your arms, and sigh. “Alright. What’s the damage?”

She hesitates. Clears her throat. Shuffles the folder like maybe if she stirs the papers around, the contents will magically become less incriminating.

That’s all the confirmation you need. You know this dance by heart. When the senior associates can’t look you in the eye, it means someone upstairs got handed a ridiculous case by a ridiculous client, and instead of sullying their own record, they’ve decided to make you the sacrificial lamb.

A convenient scapegoat for rich kids with too much money and not enough hobbies.

You reach out and pluck the file from her hands before she can stall any longer. “Let me guess,” you say dryly, already flipping it open. “Some heir to a family fortune thinks emotional damages can be claimed for… I don’t know, losing at Mario Kart?”

She winces. That’s not a good sign.

You skim the first page.

And your soul leaves your body.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, pressing your palm to your forehead.

Your senior associate coughs delicately. “The partners… thought you’d be a good fit.”

Translation: nobody else would touch this circus with a ten-foot pole, so here you are, once again the firm’s designated clown.

And sure enough, staring up at you in bold letters is the plaintiff’s name, the complaint, and—because fate hates you with a passion—the plaintiff's attorney already listed.

Riddle Rosehearts.

You close the file slowly, calmly. Then you drop your head onto the desk with a dull thud. “Why is it always him?” you groan into the wood.

Your associate pats your shoulder like you’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. “Good luck,” she says softly, and leaves before you can throw the folder at her.

When you first read the case file, you thought, no way. This has to be a prank. Someone slipped this into the docket as a joke.

But here you are, standing in court, folder in hand, and across the aisle is Riddle Rosehearts. His expression is calm, composed, and dead-eyed, which is lawyer code for he’s given up on life but refuses to show weakness in front of you.

The case: Neighbor versus Neighbor.

The crime: Repeated late-night karaoke, allegedly off-key, causing emotional trauma.

The damages: Sleep deprivation, emotional anguish, and a broken set of noise-canceling headphones.

Your client—the karaoke culprit—sits beside you, humming under their breath and tapping a rhythm on the table like this is their pre-show warm-up.

Meanwhile, Riddle’s client looks like they’ve just returned from war: dark circles, trembling hands, and the hollow stare of someone who’s been held hostage by “Livin’ on a Prayer” for three nights in a row.

The judge looks five seconds away from leaving the bench, tossing his gavel in the trash, and opening a hot dog stand on the beach. “Let’s get this over with,” he sighs.

Riddle stands first, buttoning his jacket with the gravity of a man about to argue before the Supreme Court. His voice is crisp, professional, absolutely lethal.

“Your Honor, my client has endured significant suffering at the hands of their neighbor’s so-called ‘performances.’ For three consecutive nights, they have been subjected to renditions of classic rock anthems so poorly executed that they amount to a form of psychological torture. My client has lost three nights of sleep, their concentration at work has suffered, and they may never be able to hear in tune again.”

He pauses dramatically. “We have an audiologist’s note to corroborate.”

He slaps a piece of paper on the judge’s bench with enough force to make it flap dramatically. You’re ninety percent sure the “audiologist” is just a cousin who owns a stethoscope, but you can’t even argue that yet, because you’re too busy holding in laughter at how dead serious Riddle looks.

When it’s your turn, you rise with a flourish. You straighten your jacket, adopt your most solemn face, and declare, “With all due respect, Your Honor, the plaintiff has simply never experienced the joy of Bon Jovi at two a.m.”

A ripple runs through the courtroom. One of the jurors nods slowly, like you’ve just spoken a universal truth. Someone in the back whispers reverently, “Livin’ on a Prayer,” as though invoking an ancient rite.

The judge pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is not Legally Blonde, counselor,” he mutters, glaring at you.

“Of course not, Your Honor,” you reply smoothly. “This is far more serious. This is karaoke law.”

You see Riddle’s eye twitch. Just a little. Victory.

And then the witnesses start.

First up: the plaintiff’s elderly mother, who swears on the stand that the defendant’s rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” caused her blood pressure to spike. “I heard ‘Scaramouche’ and thought my pacemaker was malfunctioning,” she says gravely, clutching her pearls.

Next, a sleep specialist testifies that the plaintiff’s REM cycle has been “irrevocably scarred” by exposure to high-pitched falsetto.

Finally—because apparently this case requires a full Broadway production—your client demands to perform a live demonstration to prove that their singing is not only tolerable, but enjoyable.

The judge looks directly at you. “Counsel. Control your client.”

But it’s too late. Your client has already leapt to their feet, belting the opening of Livin’ on a Prayer with the unholy confidence of a shower singer.

The gallery erupts. Half the people cover their ears, the other half clap along. The bailiff hums the chorus.

Riddle sits there frozen, staring at the ceiling, absolutely refusing to acknowledge the chaos around him. His entire aura screams, I studied for years. I have memorized constitutional law. And I am now paid to sit through this.

You, of course, lean into it. “Your Honor,” you announce over the noise, “as you can hear, my client’s performances are not criminal—they’re community-building. Look! The jury is engaged!”

The jury is not engaged. The jury is praying for death.

Finally, the judge slams his gavel so hard it echoes like a gunshot. “ENOUGH. Court will recess before I revoke my own license to practice law out of sheer despair.”

The second he bangs the gavel, you collapse into your chair, trying not to laugh out loud. Your client high-fives you. Across the aisle, Riddle exhales through his nose like he’s about to astral project out of the building.

And as everyone clears out of the courtroom, you catch his eye. Just for a second. His expression is unreadable, but you swear it’s saying, You are the bane of my existence.

You grin, because you’ve never been prouder.

Predictably, you lose the case. Horribly.

The judge delivers his verdict with all the weariness of a man who has aged thirty years in the span of a single trial. “The court finds in favor of the plaintiff,” he intones, gavel striking like a death knell. “And may the defendant consider vocal lessons—or a vow of silence.”

Your client is devastated for exactly half a second, before perking right up. “At least I got to perform in public!” they say brightly, shaking your hand like you’ve just secured them a record deal. “Thank you, counselor. From now on, I’ll only come to you for my future lawsuits!”

Your smile is pained, your laughter hollow. The phrase future lawsuits echoes in your skull like a curse.

You pack up your things, shoulders sagging with the weight of professional shame, and head out of the courtroom. And of course—of course—Riddle is there. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, every inch of him as crisp and precise as ever, but there’s a faint crease between his brows, the only crack in the armor.

You give him a sheepish little wave. “Hey.”

He doesn’t waste time. “Why,” he asks flatly, “do you take these cases?”

It’s not mocking, not sharp—just bone-deep bafflement, like he’s genuinely trying to understand how someone with your grades, your skill, your ability to keep pace with him ended up here, drowning in karaoke and squirrel litigation.

You shrug, helpless. “Bureaucracies,” you say simply. Because what else can you say? You don’t choose the cases. The cases choose you, and they choose chaos every single time.

Riddle regards you for a long moment. Then, to your surprise, he nods. A quiet little concession that he, too, understands the curse of bureaucracy.

There’s a lull. People pass by, the courthouse hums with the sound of shuffling papers and tired footsteps. And then, because you can’t resist, you say, “Want to grab a hot dog from the corner stall? As a homage to our… previous squirrel adventure?”

His head snaps toward you, sharp as a whip. “Absolutely not,” he replies, clipped and scandalized.

You grin, unbothered, and head toward the vendor anyway. And though he insists he has no interest, when you’re standing there with mustard dripping down your sleeve and the taste of dubious street food in your mouth, Riddle is beside you.

Not eating, not speaking much—just standing there, polished and proper, as though he hasn’t just survived karaoke litigation with you.

And for a moment, with the courthouse fading into background noise and the absurdity of the day lingering between you like smoke, you almost feel like the rivalry is… something else. It's not friendship, not exactly, but something that keeps him there, next to you, while you finish your hot dog.

Lunch with your junior associate is usually tolerable. They chatter, you nod, and everyone gets what they want—you get to eat, they get to feel mentored, and the world keeps spinning.

Today, though, you’re blessed. Today you have good pasta. Rich sauce, perfectly cooked noodles, even a sprinkle of cheese. It’s divine. The kind of pasta that makes you believe in higher powers.

Your junior is talking, voice buzzing faintly in the background like a persistent fly. You catch fragments here and there—“ridiculous client,” “polka dots,” “neon color scheme”—but none of it stands a chance against the holy mission of shoveling pasta into your mouth as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

You nod occasionally, just enough to look like you’re listening, but internally you are a monk in meditation, laser-focused on your bowl.

And then you hear it. A single word that slices through the carbohydrate haze.

“Riddle.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. Your head lifts slowly. For the first time since lunch began, you actually make eye contact with your junior.

“…What did you just say?”

They blink, startled. “Uh—the plaintiff’s attorney? Riddle Rosehearts? You know him?”

Do you know him. The understatement of the century.

Something sparks in your chest. Maybe it’s rivalry. Maybe it’s mischief. Maybe it’s just the unholy combination of pasta-induced euphoria and your inability to resist watching Riddle suffer through nonsense. Whatever it is, it moves your mouth before your brain catches up.

“I’ll take the case,” you hear yourself say.

Your junior freezes, fork halfway to their mouth. “Really? You’ll—are you serious? You’d do that for me?” Their eyes shine like you’ve just descended from heaven in a halo of light.

“Yes,” you reply, solemn as a saint, though internally you’re screaming.

Because no, you don’t know what you just agreed to. You didn’t ask what the case was, what the client wants, or how badly it might tank your reputation. You just know one thing: Riddle will be there.

Your junior all but launches across the table to hand you the file. “Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver!”

You glance at the folder, flipping it open with all the caution of someone handling a live grenade. Bright colors glare back at you, pages covered in phrases like ‘emotional distress over clashing patterns’ and ‘irreparable damage to aesthetic sensibilities.’

You close it again. Slowly. Carefully.

“Polka dots and neon colors,” your junior repeats helpfully, resuming their meal like this isn’t insanity.

You inhale the rest of your pasta in one go, praying the carbs will give you strength.

Because you don’t know what you just signed up for. You don’t know how many brain cells it’s going to cost you. You only know one thing for certain.

You’re going to have fun at court.

Court is in session. The gallery is packed, not because anyone cares about zoning laws, but because word has spread that the neon house case is happening today, and frankly, this is better than Netflix.

And it starts off promisingly dignified. The judge enters, robes flowing, gavel in hand, exuding the aura of a woman who has seen some things but still clings to the faint hope that today might not add to her list of regrets.

Then you stand up.

“Your honor,” you begin, voice smooth, confident, the very picture of a competent professional, “this case is not about aesthetics. This is not about taste. This is about liberty itself.”

The gallery chuckles. The judge hides her grin behind her gavel.

Riddle audibly exhales through his nose. His pen clicks. His entire body radiates irritation like a space heater.

You continue. “My client, a visionary man, a pioneer, has dared to dream beyond beige stucco and boring taupe. He has painted his home neon green with pink polka dots because he believes in joy. He believes in self-expression. And he believes that when life gives you lemons, you paint them on your siding at 150% saturation.”

Snickers ripple through the courtroom.

Riddle stands, papers stacked in neat, perfect lines. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

His tone slices through the laughter. “Your honor, this house is a violation of municipal code 17.4-B, which clearly states that any exterior alterations must adhere to the neighborhood’s agreed-upon color palette. This house is not joy. This house is visual assault. This house is the architectural equivalent of vuvuzelas during the World Cup.”

You grin. Oh, he’s mad mad.

You lean casually on the table. “Your honor, I would like to remind the court that what my learned colleague refers to as ‘visual assault,’ I call ‘the American dream.’”

The judge covers her mouth. Her shoulders shake.

Riddle’s jaw tightens. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “buffoon.”

The arguments spiral from there. You cite artistic freedom, comparing the house to “avant-garde street murals in Berlin.” Riddle fires back with property values tanking faster than a cryptocurrency scam.

You call the polka dots “a symbol of rebellion against conformity.” Riddle snaps that they’re “a crime against cones and rods.” You swear the judge almost choked when he said that.

Finally, the judge slams her gavel. “Enough. I can’t… I can’t make a fair decision without seeing this for myself.” She clears her throat, trying to sound serious. “Court will recess to… view the premises.”

The gallery erupts like a stadium. People are whispering, taking bets, one guy excitedly says “field trip” like he’s about to pack snacks.

Which is how you end up in a caravan twenty minutes later, pulling into the neighborhood like a parade of doom.

And then you see it.

The photos did not prepare you. No mortal lens could. The house is so neon it practically hums. The polka dots are the size of dinner plates, splattered across the facade like weaponized confetti.

It doesn’t just clash with the neighborhood—it declares open war on it. The neon green glows like nuclear waste under the sun. The pink polka dots are so violently bright they could guide lost ships to shore.

The neighbors’ beige houses cower in its shadow, looking like they’ve been personally victimized. A garden gnome across the street has toppled over, as if struck dead on sight.

“Oh my God,” you whisper reverently, hand over your chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“No,” Riddle says flatly, stepping out of his car. He freezes, shoulders tense, jaw slack. For a brief, glorious moment, you think you’ve broken him. His hand flies to the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s worse. It’s worse in person.”

His knuckles are white. His entire aura screams kill me now.

You glance at him, see the pain radiating in his expression, and—because you are a good person deep down—fish out your sunglasses. “Here. Before you start seizing.”

To your absolute delight, he doesn’t argue. He slides them on with the air of a man who has given up on resisting evil, a martyr in Armani.

The judge arrives, and the second she lays eyes on the house, she makes a sound halfway between a cough and a wheeze. Her clerk discreetly offers her a tissue, which she waves away as her lips twitch violently.

“Your honor,” you say, stepping dramatically toward the crime scene, “you see before you not an eyesore, but a statement. A piece of living, breathing art.”

“Your honor,” Riddle snaps, sunglasses failing to hide the despair radiating off him, “this is an abomination.”

You lean toward him, voice low so only he can hear. “Come on. Admit it. You’d rather look at this than beige.”

“I’d rather look into the sun,” he hisses.

You grin. “Which is basically what you’re doing right now.”

His shoulders shake. Just barely. But enough. Enough for you to know you’re winning.

You lean closer, murmuring so only he can hear: “Admit it, though. This place could single-handedly lower crime rates. No one’s going to rob a house this loud.”

And there it is. The smallest, strangled laugh. He clamps his lips shut instantly, like a man about to commit seppuku for dishonor, and hisses, “Act professional.”

But you can see his shoulders trembling. You can see the corners of his mouth betraying him. And for the first time, standing in front of the ugliest house known to humankind, you realize you’ve won more than just the case.

You’ve cracked Riddle Rosehearts.

The restaurant is quiet, cozy, and blessedly free of neon green architecture. You’ve chosen it to celebrate your hard-won victory, the taste of triumph still sweet on your tongue. Nothing beats defeating Riddle in court, except perhaps food made by someone who knows how to use seasoning.

You’re scanning the menu, already planning your three-course feast, when you look up—and nearly choke on your water.

Riddle.

Sitting two tables away, posture flawless, napkin folded with military precision across his lap. He looks painfully out of place in the warm, relaxed atmosphere, like a porcelain figurine set down in a thrift store. And across from him sits… someone else.

The stranger across from him is leaning forward with a grin that has “I googled ‘how to seduce a lawyer’ before this date” written all over it.

You catch Riddle’s eyes for half a second. He blinks. Then looks away. Then looks back at you again with an expression so subtle, so precise, it’s practically Morse code: Kill me now.

You smother a laugh. Oh, this is good. This is so good.

You pretend to return to your menu, but you’re listening. The person across from him is relentless. “So, when are you free again? Friday? Saturday? Oh, you must have a free evening. You’re a lawyer, not the president.”

You try to focus on your menu, you really do. But then you hear it.

“So, do you always look this serious, or are you just trying to intimidate me?”

There’s a pause, then Riddle’s voice, tight and thin: “I am simply sitting.”

And then his eyes flick to you. One glance. One micro-expression. That’s all it takes for you to understand: he wants out. He is silently begging the universe for an escape route. You, unfortunately for him, are the universe right now.

You could be a good person. Respect boundaries. Let him suffer. Or… you could cause chaos, because nothing makes food taste better than victory and mild humiliation.

You glance at Riddle. His polite smile looks like it’s been stapled to his face. His knuckles are white around his fork. You can practically hear him calculating the exact number of seconds until he can escape without violating etiquette.

Not that you’re jealous, obviously. You just saved the entire neighborhood from monochrome tyranny today, you deserve to have some fun.

So you stand. And you march straight toward his table. And with all the unholy glee of a prankster god, you let the words burst out:

“BABE! HI!”

The table falls silent. The pushy dinner companion freezes mid-sentence. And Riddle—poor, unsuspecting Riddle—visibly regrets every decision he has ever made in his life.

His head whips toward you, eyes wide, face already blooming red. You can see it in him: the exact second he realizes he has dug his own grave by signaling you earlier. He wanted a lifeline, not you.

But it’s too late. You’ve committed.

You beam, pulling out the empty chair next to him. “Don’t act so surprised, darling. You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend tonight!”

The other person blinks. “Darling?”

Riddle’s jaw clenches. His eyes flick to you, then to the stranger, then back to you. For a heartbeat, you think he might deny it. He might stand up and storm out and leave you to choke on your own joke.

But then he exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters, “…Yes. Darling.”

The date sputters. “Wait—you two are—?”

You smile sweetly, sliding into the empty seat next to Riddle before he can stop you. “Oh, we’ve been together for ages. Haven’t we, babe?”

Riddle is vibrating beside you, shoulders taut, lips pressed into a thin line. But when he finally speaks, his voice is deadly calm. “Yes. Ages.”

“We’ve known each other since law school. Cutest rivals you’ve ever seen. Always neck and neck—top of the class, both of us. Honestly, if he wasn’t keeping me sharp, I’d probably have coasted. But no, he just had to outdo me every time, didn’t you, honey?”

Riddle’s eye twitches. “…Yes.”

You pat his hand like you’re proud of him for remembering his lines. “And now, we’re both lawyers. Which is just perfect, because nobody understands the trauma of explaining billable hours to family members like another lawyer does.”

Riddle inhales through his nose like he’s actively inhaling patience.

The date looks between you two, eyes narrowing. “Lawyers, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” you nod, grabbing Riddle’s water and taking a sip like it’s yours. “We deal with all kinds of nonsense. Just today, I had to defend a guy who painted his house neon green with pink polka dots. Riddle here tried to have it condemned like it was a war crime. And I still won.”

Riddle whips his head toward you, scandalized. “You did not win. The ruling was a technicality.”

“Victory is victory, babe,” you say sweetly, batting your eyelashes.

The date’s face sours faster than milk in the sun. “Well, excuse me, I didn’t realize I was interrupting… whatever this is.”

“It’s love,” you say with the confidence of someone perjuring themselves on the stand.

Riddle coughs so violently the waiter rushes over with another glass of water.

The date storms out, muttering something about “wasted time” and “should’ve swiped left.” You wave after them like you’ve just won a game show.

Once they’re gone, you turn to Riddle with a smirk. “Spill.”

His hands are clenched on the table like he’s moments away from citing you for contempt. “I was told this was a client meeting. I was deceived. It was a date.”

You nod solemnly, like you’re at a funeral. “Ah. The classic bait-and-date. Tragic.”

He glares daggers at you, but the pink on his ears betrays him.

“Well,” you say, standing halfway like you’re going to leave. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you enjoy your food. Unless…” You tilt your head, grin sharp. “You want me to stay.”

You expect to be dismissed. Maybe scolded about professionalism. But Riddle—Riddle hesitates. Looks at you. Looks away. Looks back. Then mutters, so soft you almost miss it: “I don’t mind.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Your stomach does something stupid. Something traitorous.

You sit back down before he changes his mind. “Then I’m stealing half of whatever you order. Couple’s rights.”

His sigh could power a wind turbine, but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. You talk about cases, about mutual acquaintances from law school, about how the breadsticks are suspiciously addictive. And the silence that falls between sentences isn’t awkward at all—it’s steady, easy, like maybe your rivalry was always a cover for something else.

Later, he insists on walking you home—of course he does—because Riddle Rosehearts would sooner let the sky fall than let you walk alone in the dark.

Just like in law school, even when you'd needle him in mock court, he'd always walk you back to your dorm, even if he refused to look at you.

And when your hands brush once, twice, in the dark, you both pretend not to notice.

But the night knows. And so do you.

You were still processing. Processing the fact that somewhere between fake-dating him at a restaurant, watching his ears turn pink when you teased him, and accidentally almost holding his hand under the moonlight, you’d developed the worst possible crush.

On Riddle Rosehearts. Your rival. The man whose eyebrows were sharper than most knives. The one person who could make you want to win and combust at the same time.

It was fine. Totally fine. You could bury it. Ignore it. Pretend it was just indigestion.

Except the universe, that cruel little gremlin, had other plans.

You were in your office, attempting to drown your emotions in paperwork and overpriced coffee, when your senior associate strolled in with the kind of expression that screamed “I’m about to ruin your life but also I’m not sorry about it.”

“Good news,” she chirped. “We’ve got a high-profile joint case with Hearts & Co.”

Your pen slipped. “Excuse me?”

She slapped a folder on your desk with enough force to rattle your soul. “Both firms are representing the city in this one. You’ll be co-counsel with Rosehearts.”

Your heart stopped. Your brain stopped. Your digestive system stopped. “Rosehearts. As in Riddle Rosehearts?”

“Yes,” she said, already walking away, probably to spread chaos elsewhere. “You’re both brilliant, so I expect nothing but a flawless performance.”

You opened the file with the dread of someone about to read their own autopsy.

It was a big case. Serious. Important. Actual money and precedent on the line. Not a hot dog-stealing squirrel. Not karaoke-induced trauma. Not polka-dotted houses. This was a real one. A case you couldn’t joke your way through. A case you’d have to share with Riddle.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. Instead, you said out loud to your empty office, “Cool. I’ll just die, then.”

The first strategy meeting was worse.

Riddle sat across the conference table, posture immaculate, his expression one of terrifying focus. Meanwhile, you were 90% sure your tie was crooked and your only preparation was panic and caffeine poisoning.

“Counselor,” he greeted you stiffly.

“Counselor,” you echoed, trying not to think about how his voice always dipped just slightly when he was being formal, and how your stupid heart had no business noticing.

The partners left you two in the room together to “collaborate.”

Which was code for: watch you combust.

The silence was suffocating. He started flipping through his neatly tabbed binder. You started spinning your pen like it could double as a fidget toy.

Finally, he looked up. “Do you intend to contribute, or will you simply sit there vibrating like a malfunctioning microwave?”

You cleared your throat. “Sorry, I was… uh… processing the gravity of the case.”

A pause. Then, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “…Right.”

Working with him was a nightmare in the way falling into a vat of glitter is a nightmare: suffocating, inescapable, but also slightly dazzling.

He was sharp, precise, annoyingly good at everything. And you? You cracked jokes at 2 a.m. during drafting sessions just to see him sigh and rub his temples, only for his shoulders to shake when he thought you weren’t looking.

Every time your hands brushed when passing papers, you felt it. Every time your knees bumped under the table, you felt it. Every time he narrowed his eyes at you but didn’t actually tell you to shut up, you felt it.

And the worst part? You couldn’t even distract yourself with the usual thrill of beating him, because you were on the same side. Which meant every victory was shared. Every high five would be too loaded. Every late night would be too charged.

You weren’t sure if you were going to win this case or accidentally confess your feelings in front of the entire legal team.

Either way, your dignity was already circling the drain.

What started as a normal strategy session quickly spiraled into what could only be described as an unofficial cage match with paperwork. You were supposed to be talking about precedents and structuring arguments, but then Riddle said the magic word—“flimsy”—and something inside you snapped like an overworked binder clip.

Riddle, sitting prim and proper as though the fate of the world depended on his posture, lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “A judge would cry, yes, but out of mercy. There is no substance in your theatrics.”

“Flimsy?” you barked, slamming your notes down like a gavel. “I’ll have you know my argument is a masterclass in airtight reasoning. A judge would cry tears of gratitude to hear me speak.”

And that was all it took. Suddenly, you were on your feet, and so was he. Voices rising, hands flying, the table between you becoming more of a stage than a workplace.

He jabbed his finger at your brief; you jabbed yours at his color-coded binder. He accused you of showboating; you accused him of being allergic to fun. The air was crackling, less like a legal discussion and more like the verbal equivalent of sword-fighting while your coworkers looked on in horror.

At some point—and you weren’t entirely sure when—you had closed the distance between you. One step, then another, until you were chest-to-chest, glaring into his face with the righteous fury of someone who refused to lose, while he matched you stare for stare.

The tension was so sharp you could’ve submitted it into evidence.

And that was when it happened.

“…This feels like foreplay in legalese. Should we even be watching this?”

From the corner of the room, your junior’s whisper floated through the air like a death knell:

The silence that followed was biblical.

Which might have been worse, because when you became aware of your proximity—close enough to count the grey in his irises—your brain short-circuited.

You froze mid-retort. Riddle froze mid-glare. Both of you processed those words at the exact same horrifying moment, and the realization hit like a speeding gavel: your coworkers thought you looked like you were about to kiss instead of kill.

Riddle recoiled so fast his chair nearly toppled backward. You stumbled a full step and managed to trip on your own bag, barely catching yourself before your notes rained down like confetti.

Everyone else sat in stunned, awkward silence. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly, as though acknowledging the moment would make it real.

The whole scene looked less like “two top lawyers collaborating” and more like “two alley cats startled by a cucumber.”

Finally, with his face the exact shade of a ripe tomato, Riddle cleared his throat. “We will… reconvene in five minutes.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which only made him straighten his tie like it hadn’t.

And worst of all? Deep down, you couldn’t decide if you were horrified… or just a little bit disappointed.

Then he turned on his heel and left the room at mach speed, as though sheer dignity could carry him through the flames.

You dropped back into your chair, slapped your hands over your face, and wished for divine intervention. There was no recovering from this. You could win the case, win a dozen cases, and still your junior would look you in the eye and remember the time you almost kissed Riddle Rosehearts over a binder tab.

After the chest-to-chest debacle, you and Riddle silently agreed on one thing: never again.

No, not “never again” to fighting—he’d fight you over a comma placement if given the chance. You both swore “never again” to being in the same room at the same time. Ever.

From that day forward, your coworkers became unwilling messengers, ferrying notes and verbal missives between you like poorly paid carrier pigeons.

“Tell Rosehearts,” you muttered one morning, shoving a sticky note into your junior’s hands, “that our damages argument should focus on financial loss first.”

Your junior dropped it on your desk with all the enthusiasm of someone handling radioactive waste. “You two know email exists, right?”

The note returned half an hour later, in Riddle’s immaculate handwriting: Chronological order would better serve the court. —R.R.

“Oh, we use email,” you said grimly. “We just… limit it.”

The emails were robotic. Sterile. The kind of writing that could cure insomnia. Subject lines read RE: DAMAGES SUMMARY TABLE and RE: WITNESS CROSS ORDER. No greetings. No closings. No personality. Just cold, clipped sentences, as though neither of you were actual human beings.

And you did.

The courtroom erupted in congratulations. Clients were ecstatic. The partners clapped you on the back and declared you both prodigies.

It was pathetic, but it worked. Barely. The case progressed. Arguments were built. Witnesses prepped. You won motions, filed briefs, and eventually—against all odds—you won the case itself.

For the first time in weeks, there were no more emails, no more memos, no more passive-aggressive sticky notes being smuggled across the bullpen. You should have felt relief. Peace. Maybe even a little pride.

And you? You went straight to your office, shut the door, and collapsed into your chair like you’d just survived a war.

Instead, you sat at your desk staring at the ceiling, thinking about kissing Riddle Rosehearts.

Which was ridiculous. You had won a major case, cemented your reputation, and proven yourself to the entire city. You should have been basking in professional glory. But no. Your brain had other priorities.

It had decided to play an endless loop of intrusive thoughts like: What if you kissed him in the conference room? or What if you kissed him after cross-exam? or What if you kissed him right there on the courthouse steps and gave the press the scandal of the century?

It was ruining your life.

You groaned into your hands. “I need therapy. Or possibly an exorcism. Or maybe just a large mallet to the head.”

You had no idea which would be cheaper, but they had to be better than admitting you’d fallen for your rival like a raccoon falling into a dumpster. Loudly. Messily. And absolutely without dignity.

Your junior poked their head into the office, saw you collapsed over your desk, and wisely closed the door again.

It was the fact that you, a respected attorney, had developed a crush so catastrophic it was actively impacting your sleep schedule.

You were grateful. Because how were you supposed to explain that the greatest crisis of your legal career wasn’t a case, wasn’t a client, wasn’t even the law itself.

And you had no idea how to recover from it.

Everyone at the firm had noticed your… decline.

Not in the dramatic sense—your work was still flawless. You were still winning motions, shredding opposing counsel, and drafting briefs so clean they made interns cry tears of joy. But your spark? Gone. The zing that once electrified the office every time you strolled in with a coffee and a new plan to verbally body-slam an adversary in court? Nowhere to be found.

The infamous grin you usually wore when you spotted a new case file, the one that promised you the chance to outwit Riddle Rosehearts yet again? Extinct.

The partners were concerned. Very concerned. Their star associate, once the delightfully unhinged firecracker of litigation, was suddenly trudging through cases like a soulless tax auditor. Something had to be done.

Even your junior had whispered to your senior that they caught you staring blankly at a vending machine for five solid minutes like it was about to deliver unto you the secrets of the universe.

So, like benevolent gods bestowing a gift upon a weary mortal, they presented you with a “fun case.”

Not a difficult one, not a prestigious one—no, you were given the legal equivalent of a chew toy. A ridiculous, nonsense case that existed solely to make someone laugh.

When they slid the file across your desk, your senior was smiling so warmly you almost worried she was about to adopt you.

You stared at the file. Then you looked up at the partners, who were all smiling at you like proud parents handing their child a toy.

“This,” said one of them, beaming, “will cheer you right up.”

“Ridiculous facts, colorful witnesses, courtroom comedy—it has you written all over it,” another added.

A hen owner suing his neighbor because the neighbor’s rooster was allegedly “ruining the virtue” of the hens.

You raised a skeptical brow, opening the file. The words stared back at you like they knew you’d sinned in a past life.

“Do you want me,” you said carefully, “to argue in open court about… poultry chastity?”

“Exactly!” one of them said brightly.

Your senior clapped you on the shoulder. “We just want to see you smile again. You’ve been so tense lately.”

“Think of it as comic relief,” another added. “The jury will love it. Everyone loves farm animals.”

Ah. That explained it. They thought you were overworked. Burnt out. In need of something silly to lighten the load.

They had no idea that ninety percent of your joy in this profession came from tormenting Riddle Rosehearts in court like a cat batting around a very indignant, very red ball of yarn. And the other ten percent came from daydreaming about kissing him after doing so.

Still, you knew they meant well. You couldn’t exactly explain that your “distress” stemmed from a catastrophic crush and weeks of enforced avoidance. So you pasted on your best smile, nodded, and accepted the file.

Your senior actually sighed in relief. “That’s the spirit.”

“Of course,” you said sweetly. “Nothing says ‘fun’ like litigating poultry-based malice.”

Back in your office, you dropped the file on your desk and stared at it.

It was worse than you thought. Testimonies about “innocent hens led astray.” Witness lists including an elderly farmer, two horrified neighbors, and one self-proclaimed “poultry psychologist.”

Evidence consisting of grainy photos of the rooster mid-crow, annotated with arrows and captions like ‘See the menace in his eyes.’

It was absurd. It was petty. It was beneath the dignity of the law.

You closed the file, pinched the bridge of your nose, and muttered to yourself. “This is what my life has become. Avian chastity disputes.”

And it was supposed to make you happy.

Your junior peeked in curiously. “What’s the new case?”

“Okay,” they wheezed, “I admit. This one is very you.”

You wordlessly shoved the file across the desk. They read the first page, froze, and then started laughing so hard they slid halfway down the doorframe, clutching their stomach.

You groaned. Maybe it was. But no rooster, no matter how scandalous, could distract you from the fact that your professional soulmate-slash-romantic catastrophe was across the city, probably sipping tea and writing briefs with the same precision he used to break your sanity.

And if your partners thought this poultry morality play was going to cure your Riddle-shaped heartbreak, they were about to witness some of the most unhinged courtroom theater of your entire career.

You prepared for a circus. You knew it wasn’t going to be Riddle this time—your senior had made it very clear the defense counsel belonged to another lawyer from his firm—and you had resigned yourself to a day of mediocre theatrics and farmyard metaphors.

No rival to glare at, no tightly wound perfectionist to poke until his voice hit glass-shattering pitch. Just you, a distressed farmer, and the court stenographer who was going to have to type the words “corruption of hens” with a straight face.

So when you walked into the courtroom, notes in hand, ready to resign yourself to a joyless comedy show, you nearly tripped over your own feet.

There he was.

Riddle Rosehearts, standing at the opposing counsel’s table, perfectly pressed suit, immaculate tie, hair shining like he’d personally declared war on humidity.

He made eye contact with you, froze, and then—oh, sweet merciful heavens—immediately looked away. The tips of his ears flared crimson.

You swore you could feel the dormant serotonin in your brain wake up like it had just been kissed on the mouth. Suddenly, the world had color again. Suddenly, this stupid poultry trial wasn’t just a case; it was art.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cackle. You wanted to throw yourself directly into chaos because you were back, baby.

Your client shuffled nervously beside you, muttering something about “hens led astray,” but you weren’t listening. No, you were watching Riddle, who was very studiously examining his papers, the way someone examines the ceiling to avoid looking at a crush across the room.

The trial began, and within fifteen minutes, the judge already looked like he was regretting every life choice that had brought him here.

The judge pinched the bridge of his nose. “Counsel… I remind you this is a civil trial, not the Salem witch trials.”

Your client testified in dramatic tones, describing the rooster as a “creature of lust, a feathered demon who corrupted the innocence of his hens.” He actually used the word “fornication” at one point, which made the court reporter pause mid-typing like she was reconsidering her hourly rate.

Across the aisle, Riddle stood stiff as a board, valiantly trying to argue that roosters crowing at dawn was not a crime against morality, but a biological inevitability.

Every time you countered him—smiling sweetly as you declared, “With all due respect, the rooster in question has demonstrated repeated, targeted harassment”—you watched the vein in his forehead twitch.

The back-and-forth felt like law school all over again. His perfectly phrased rebuttals, your shameless theatrics. He’d snap, “Counsel, your argument has no basis in precedent.” You’d grin, lean forward, and say, “Precedent didn’t wake the hens up at four in the morning, did it?”

And it was glorious.

Riddle sputtered. The judge sighed. Your client looked like he was about to weep with gratitude.

And you? You felt alive.

Because ridiculous or not, rooster or not, there was nothing better than being across from Riddle Rosehearts in a courtroom, watching him vibrate with controlled rage while secretly, just maybe, blushing at the edges.

The case had already descended into absurdity, but the moment the bailiff walked in wheeling a crate covered with a tarp, you knew you had crossed the event horizon.

“It is,” your client said triumphantly. “The rooster himself. The culprit. The fiend.”

The judge raised one weary eyebrow. “Please tell me that’s not—”

The tarp came off with a dramatic flourish, and there he was. The rooster. Regal. Proud. Every feather gleaming as though he’d spent the morning oiling them for the cameras. He fluffed his chest, turned his head, and locked eyes with the hens in their respective crate across the room.

And then—oh sweet lord—he started strutting.

Not just walking. Strutting. Tail feathers arched like a peacock, wings half-spread, head bobbing with the rhythm of a man who knew exactly what he was about.

It was pure seduction in poultry form. The hens, to their credit, clucked and preened, pressing themselves against the bars of their crate like they were at a rock concert and he was the headliner.

You pinched your thigh under the table, hard, trying to keep from absolutely howling.

Across the aisle, Riddle Rosehearts—immaculate, dignified, the boy who once wrote a twenty-page essay on courtroom etiquette—looked as though he’d just seen God and been personally mocked.

His eyes widened. His composure cracked. He blinked once, twice, and then pressed a hand over his mouth as if to physically hold in his sanity.

The judge dropped his gavel against the block with a dead thud. “For the sake of this court’s dignity,” he said flatly, “the rooster will be confined to a cage. Effective immediately.”

Your client was indignant, slamming his hands on the table. “See! Even here, in this sacred hall of law, he corrupts! He cannot be contained!”

The courtroom was officially one joke away from becoming a barnyard comedy show, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt just to keep from collapsing into cackles.

The trial wrapped up in a haze of nonsense, but as you stepped outside the courthouse, the façade finally cracked. The laughter burst out of you in wild, gasping waves until you were doubled over, tears in your eyes.

And then you felt a steadying hand on your arm.

He looked pale, shaken, and entirely too dignified for a man who had just witnessed a rooster perform a burlesque act. His other hand adjusted his tie like he could strangle reality back into order, but he didn’t move away as you leaned against him, clutching your stomach.

Riddle.

“Oh god,” you wheezed, still laughing. “I can’t—did you see him? That rooster was practically winking at the hens!”

You grinned up at him, wicked. “Wait, don’t tell me. You only took this case because I was here, right?”

Riddle closed his eyes like he was praying for the earth to swallow him. “Please… lower your voice.”

It was a joke—just a playful jab, the kind you’d been tossing at him since law school. But instead of his usual indignant snap-back, Riddle froze. His hand stayed on your arm, his jaw tight, his neck flushing an alarming shade of red.

He didn’t say a word.

And that silence was louder than anything.

Loved you.

Your grin faltered for a second, your heart skipping because oh. Oh. This loser. This rule-obsessed, tea-drinking, perfectly pressed lawyer who glared at you like you were the bane of his existence…

The realization hit you so hard you nearly started laughing again, not from humor this time, but from the sheer absurdity of it. You had been pining, losing sleep, spiraling over stolen glances—while he’d been quietly combusting this entire time.

You leaned just a little heavier into him, biting back another laugh. “Unbelievable,” you muttered. “We just survived a rooster scandal, and this is what finally gets to you.”

Riddle muttered something unintelligible, but he didn’t move away.

And you thought, maybe for once, the chaos was absolutely worth it.

The thing about realizing Riddle Rosehearts was in love with you was that it didn’t make you calmer, or more collected, or any closer to keeping your mouth shut. If anything, it made you louder.

You both ended up staying late at your office that night, pretending to work on a joint case but really just stewing in mutual awareness.

The rooster trial had left its mark—no one could erase the mental image of poultry seduction—but what lingered more stubbornly was the way Riddle’s hand had felt steadying you outside the courthouse. The way he hadn’t answered your joke. The way he’d turned crimson down to his collar.

So when you finally crossed paths again in the quiet hallway, both of you heading out, you didn’t bother with subtlety. You leaned against the wall, blocking his path like you were about to cross-examine him, and blurted, “Do you want to keep doing this weird dance, or do you want to kiss me?”

Riddle stopped dead. His briefcase slipped an inch in his grip. “Wh—what?”

He sputtered, going through all five stages of grief in real time. “You—! I—oh my god, we are lawyers, there is surely a more elegant way to phrase—”

“Kiss me,” you repeated, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Because I can’t keep pretending that I only enjoy you as a straight man for my comedy routine. It’s driving me insane. And also—” you jabbed a finger at his chest—“you’re terrible at hiding things, by the way.”

“JUST TELL ME.”

The silence stretched for one beat. Two. His ears were red. His neck was red. He looked like he’d swallowed a live grenade. And then, finally, he cleared his throat, very quietly, very stiffly.

“Would you… like to go on a real date?”

Riddle visibly winced, muttering under his breath about his terrible life choices. “Why… why did I fall for you, of all people…”

Your grin spread slow and wide, smug as anything. “Of course, my darling.”

And you followed, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt, thinking that after all the roosters and squirrels and karaoke lawsuits, maybe—just maybe—the ridiculous circus had finally brought you to the best verdict of all.

But his hand found yours anyway. His fingers were tense, hesitant at first, but they didn’t let go. He squeezed lightly, then tugged you along toward the door, his face still half-buried in mortification.

Not because you made an announcement, of course. No, you would never do something as professional and mature as informing your colleagues of your new relationship status. Instead, you waltzed right up to the doors of the firm, escorted by none other than Riddle Rosehearts himself.

The next morning, your entire firm found out.

He looked freshly ironed and excruciatingly proper, as if he hadn’t just spent half the night debating dessert choices with you in a café until you’d stolen his spoon.

He stopped at the curb to say goodbye, adjusting his tie like he wasn’t about to commit social suicide. And you—being the chaos gremlin you were—leaned over, cheerful as sunshine, and kissed him on the cheek.

Through the glass lobby windows, half the firm watched in stunned silence.

Right in front of the building.

Your senior turned to your junior, deadpan. “Pay up.”

Your junior groaned, digging into their wallet. “Ugh, fine. I bet they wouldn’t hook up before someone strangled the rooster, but I guess I was off by one trial.”

Another partner nodded sagely. “True love conquers all.”

Behind them, one of the partners was practically glowing. “Look at them! Our star associate is back to their old self. Radiant! Sharp! Not staring at vending machines like they’ve been cursed!”

And honestly? You didn’t care. Because for the first time in weeks, you felt like yourself again. Your spark was back. Your laughter was loud. Your case files suddenly looked exciting instead of exhausting.

By the time you walked inside, still grinning, your coworkers scattered like pigeons pretending they hadn’t been watching. But the smug glint in your senior’s eye gave it away. They knew. Oh, they knew.

Best of all, you had something new to look forward to—not just the next ridiculous trial where you could face off against Riddle across the courtroom, but the moment afterward, too. When you’d step out of the courthouse together, exchange tired smiles, and know that the chaos didn’t end when the gavel dropped.

You’d see him in court, sure. But now, you’d also see him after.

And honestly? That felt like the sweetest victory of all.

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