#mimics test writing

[imitor]

houyi ..... i think i love all my bsd ocs on a degree that has me frightened

[marmorada]

I love waking up to my 67 year old father having a 14 year old girl style silent treatment bitchfit because he's decided overnight I'm faking my hand problems for mysterious reasons and I just love being humiliated by going to class without properly brushing my hair & also do it on purpose to, idk, screw him. Because somehow this has anything to do with him at all. I guess I need to be more understanding of his apparently grievous pain and ruin my hands even more so he can stare at my hair or whatever the fuck reason this bothers him so fucking bad.

[afatalovesong]

I am sending them to Circus Babys' next chapter for fun. its my fic and I get to pick how they get traumatized

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

Batboys x alien!reader

⸻

Scenario: “You’re an Alien, But They’re Falling for You Anyway”

You crash-landed on Earth during a low-stakes invasion and never left. You’re trying to understand human customs and hide your powers.

⸻

Jason Todd x Alien!Reader

• He’s suspicious at first. “What do you mean you don’t have blood?”

• Accidentally falls for you after you save a kitten using telekinesis and then ask if it’s “a young Earth predator.”

• Loves how unbothered you are by danger. “That guy had a grenade.” “Yes. I ate it.”

• You don’t understand flirting, so he keeps trying increasingly obvious moves until you finally ask, “Are you trying to initiate mating rituals?”

• Sweet Moment: You ask what “love” means to humans, and he just… freezes. “That’s a loaded question, space princess.”

⸻

Dick Grayson x Alien!Reader

• Thinks it’s awesome you’re an alien. “Can you fly? Do you glow in the dark? Can you talk to trees?”

• Teaches you how to dance and says things like, “Just follow my lead — Earth style.”

• You mimic him for fun, but accidentally do a perfect impression of him mid-mission. He loses it.

• Constantly curious about your world. “Do you have art? Do you have pizza? Do you have me there?”

• Sweet Moment: One day, you shape-shift into his form to understand his “human perspective” — and he sees it not as mockery, but trust. “You’re trying to understand me the way I want to understand you.”

⸻

Tim Drake x Alien!Reader

• Realized you weren’t human after you accidentally turned invisible in the middle of a stakeout. You just said, “Oops.”

• Becomes obsessed (lovingly) with figuring out how your biology works. He makes you do science with him in the lab like it’s a date.

• You speak a language that sounds like hummingbird static, and he learns to understand the tone shifts.

• Extremely flustered when you tell him humans are “visually inefficient” and that he is “especially pleasing in shape.”

• Sweet Moment: He makes you a communicator that automatically translates your real thoughts into English — because he wants to know the real you, not just the version you think humans want.

⸻

Bruce Wayne x Alien!Reader

• 100% stoic mode activated. Doesn’t flinch when you say you’re from another galaxy. Just says, “You bleed green. Got it.”

• Makes you go through twelve training tests before trusting you. You pass them all in minutes.

• You confuse idioms constantly. “Killing two birds with one scone?” He just stares. “Close enough.”

• Deep talks about humanity that end with him awkwardly patting your shoulder. You patted back once and accidentally dislocated his arm.

• Sweet Moment: You save Damian and nearly die doing it. When you wake up, he’s at your side. “I’ve seen a thousand kinds of strength… yours is the rare kind.”

⸻

Damian Wayne x Alien!Reader

• At first: ”Tt. Extraterrestrial filth.”

• Then: You stab a guy with your tail to save him — and suddenly you are “adequate.”

• You don’t understand sarcasm. He says something mean and you take it literally. The guilt ruins him for three days.

• You ask him to teach you “Earth courtship.” He writes a 12-page manual and pretends it was Alfred’s idea.

• Sweet Moment: You show him a flower from your home planet that only blooms when someone is truly trusted. You grow one in your palm just for him.

⸻

[tsuyalovebot]

xia yi zhou / caleb x reader.

cw. untitled drabble (>500 words, one sitting — ignore any typos). sexually explicit content, mdni / ageless blogs dni. mc=reader. i'm still writing a long caleb piece, so please be patient with me. (_ _ ||| )

a part of my brain matter was taken away when i incorporated the position change of doggy -> prone bone in you're a catch 22.

genuinely. i think caleb hitting it from the back is a primal need that scratches the underside of one's brain so well. it's the pent-up nature of it, and the lack of tact that makes it so primal.

but the big, sentimental idiot who's spent the better part of his life craving your existence also loves intercourse in positions where he can see you. that physical connection and proximity is what cements that closeness to you. he grounds himself in the fact that your bodily warmth is proof of this all being real.

this man has you in a lotus position on evenings when he's craving you, his hands on your waist as he's whispering "i love you"s against your neck. more often than not, he has to leave bright and early the next day, so he makes sure to get his fill of you — not that you mind.

missionary is spent having staring contests where you inevitably tap out, hitting at his arms and back when he stifles his laughter against your collarbone because the one time he wins a staring contest is when he's balls deep inside of you.

he will never let you have peace when you're riding him, demanding you to keep those eyes on him otherwise he'll make you finish on your own while he touches himself in front of you.

all in all, this man is versatile.

you're marveling at your flexibility one day, eyeing the arch in your back when you mimic it in the mirror. there was nothing else behind the gesture, simply testing the bounds of your experience. maybe there were some perks to getting folded and kneaded like pretzel dough on the nightly.

so engrossed in your little experiment, you hadn't noticed caleb in the bathroom doorframe watching you, amused. you greet him when he slides into the space behind you, rubbing his tousled hair as he drapes himself over your body.

"mornin' to you too. need some help?"

you shake your head, explain your situation as his arms snake around you, his palms playing with his shirt that you wore. there's a subtle sway to how he hugs you close, his lips comfortably pressed to your hair. his eyes still hazy with slumber that lingers at the crinkled edges, a smile on his mouth.

"told you spending time together has its perks. and, y'know," he starts, mischief creeping into his tone. "we never tried it in front of a mirror before."

he's kissing along your shoulder before you can reply, and his fingers squeeze between your thighs so easily that you can't argue about it being too early either.

versatile — but you will never know peace after the first time he worships you like a deity, all the while pressing you into the sheets to keep you grounded with a mere mortal like him.

[ducksido]

I keep asking things but i love your writings so..

How would the boys react to a reader/yuu who got exposed to magic that much (much like radiation) so they can do magic, they just don't realize, or just don't care enough.

Like, thanks to the overblots they got exposed to raw magic so they have a minor, kinda unusefull, ability (or a UM); like how Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle can make objects do something by asking them to do it

(a Yuu who’s been marinating in overblot juice, i only did the first 3 dorms)

Riddle: Absolutely cannot cope. “This is irresponsible.” He thinks it’s blot poisoning. You’re behaving like a wild fae creature! You can’t just ask a teacup to stay warm and it obeys you! That’s rule-breaking! He desperately wants you to submit to magical testing. He’s convinced you’ll combust. When you assure him, “I only do it when it feels right,” he panics more.

Trey: He doesn’t really get it, but he believes you. When you ask the oven “please don’t burn the crust” and it doesn’t, he gives you this blank stare and says, “...Did it work because you said it… or because you meant it?” He starts speaking to his kitchen tools just to test it. “Yuu’s magic is like kitchen luck,” he mutters. He never burns pie after you compliment his apron.

Cater: “Okay, sooo… we’re not gonna talk about the fact that your bag literally zipped itself when you said thank you?” He’s obsessed. Posts cryptic Magicam pics like “Yuu’s magic is ✨aesthetic✨”. Tries to trick you into doing cool things on camera. When you refuse, he pouts. He also worries. Quietly asks if it hurts when you use your “gift.” It doesn’t. He’s relieved—but still watches you closely.

Ace: “THAT’S MAGIC! YOU’RE DOING MAGIC!” You insist you’re not. He’s shouting. He’s flustered because he’s working so hard in class and here you are getting vending machines to spit out free snacks. At some point he starts trying to mimic you. He whispers sweet nothings to his textbooks. He begs the dorm fridge to make his milk cold. It never works. He’s miserable. “Stupid ghost magic…”

Deuce: Completely convinced you’re some kind of ancient spirit in disguise. He becomes so respectful. Like, he calls you “Yuu-senpai” even when you’re the same age. He asks you to bless his pen before exams. You say, “Pen, do your best,” and hand it over. He’s nearly in tears. He’s also the most worried you’re going to get hurt. Keeps telling Crowley to investigate it properly. Nobody listens.

Leona: At first, he scoffs. “Tch. That’s not real magic. That’s just you sweet-talking junk.” But the third time he sees a broken piece of chalk start writing because you said, “Can you help me with this, please?”, he stops mocking you. Quietly, he starts observing. Deep down, it unsettles him—a powerless human who got infected with blot and now reality bends when you whisper to it. There’s something ancient about it. He’ll never admit it, but he once tried whispering to his pen. Nothing happened. He was furious. “...I ain’t jealous. Just sayin’ it’s weird, that’s all.”

Ruggie: “HUH?? Wait, wait, wait—you told a mop to clean and it did??” He’s both amazed and mildly horrified. You’ve got this uncanny ability and don’t care?! He thinks you’re lowkey a cryptid. He’d love to exploit it (in the name of efficiency), but the magic is temperamental. You told the vending machine, “I wish I had a soda,” and it spit one out. But when he tried it? It jammed. “Yuu... are you cursed or blessed? I can’t tell.”

Jack: Jack is stunned. A bit spooked. “You can’t just… ask the broom to sweep and it does it.” You say, “Well, it’s nice to the broom. It deserves help.” He’s silently terrified you’re going to overheat and overblot from it. He tries to subtly monitor your blot levels. It doesn’t rise. You’re just... like that. You make him nervous in the way people fear forest spirits—kind of awed, kind of reverent, kind of unnerved.

Azul: “...You’re not casting spells?” He doesn’t understand how you’re doing this. Is it residual blot? Contract-based? Unlicensed magic? He’s both interested in profiting off this and deeply nervous about it. He tries to ask you to teach him. You say “I don’t know how, I just ask nicely.” It both infuriates and fascinates him. Eventually he adds a clause in your Lounge employee contract: “If an object obeys your voice, you must log the incident.” You doodle smiley faces in the logbook and leave out important details. He’s having a stress-induced existential crisis.

Jade: He treats you like a spirit of the forest. He’s delighted. “You must have absorbed wild magic, Yuu. A kind of natural resonance. Fascinating.” He doesn’t try to study you directly—he studies your environment, your emotions, your words. He quietly logs the way you speak to objects. When you say “please,” he smiles to himself. He catches a knife once before it falls and asks, “Did you tell this not to hit the ground?” You blink. “Yeah.” “Charming.”

Floyd: Thinks it’s hilarious. “You said ‘go away’ to a squeaky door and it shut by itself! You're like a talking remote control.” He loves testing your limits. He’ll shout, “Yuu! Tell the vending machine to give me ten candy bars!!” When nothing happens, he whines, “You’re broken today.” But if you whisper to his hood to stay up during the rain, and it does, he just grins. “Creepy little shrimp~ I like it.”

[vanillarosekiss]

stepdad!john | punishments

aaaand we're back to using capitals because i've figured out that i type differently on my mac compared to on my phone LMAOOO. also figured i should write for john since most posts have been abt simon recently.

warnings: taboo themes (clearly) however all consenting!!!, bratty!reader gets humiliated, impact play, overstimulation, degradation towards the end, john being mean, and many other things i cannot think of!

word count: 0.9k

(ps. went to type 'count' and accidentally typed 'cunt' sighh.. it made me giggle)

You knew it was going to come to this one way or another. You'd been testing his patience all day, relentlessly. Rolling your eyes when he speaks, mumbling silly incoherent replies under your breath, and snapping back with rude quips every time he asked you to do something. Maybe you were having a bad day. Maybe you just didn't care. Whatever it was, John noticed straight away, and he didn't appreciate it at all.

He tried to keep his patience. Tried to give you a chance. Warned you once. Then twice. But he knew you didn't care; you were going to push him to his absolute limits.

It struck a nerve when you'd mumbled something like "It's not like you're my real dad, quit bossing me around." Whewww... the minute that left your lips you knew you'd regret it. He'd heard, of course, and that was his final straw.

"Come here. Now." he said, before you started to walk away from him.

You hesitated - just for a second - but there was something wired in your brain that made your legs move to him before your brain could think and catch up. Maybe subconsciously, this is what you wanted. Either way, you were totally fucked.

You stood in front of him, arms crossed like you had something to prove. Fake confidence. He wasn't stupid, he could tell. That defiance you tried to mimic? It only made him smirk, knowing that you were really the complete opposite of what you tried to show yourself as.

"Got a real smart mouth on you today, hmm?" he started, his voice low and in control. "What did I tell you would happen if you kept talking back?"

You shrugged. Acted like he was taking up the most valuable 5 minutes of your day to lecture you in behaviour.

He raised a brow slightly. "I said I'd teach you a lesson. And you didn't believe me, did you?"

Before you could even answer, he grabbed your wrist, tight but not too hard, and pulled you down firmly over his lap. It somehow felt like a familiar territory, like he'd done this before. The way he held you down was so solid that all you could do was squirm and protest.

"You're not my real dad," you mock yet again, mouth muffled by his large bicep.

He flipped your tennis skirt up so you were exposed, the fabric of your tiny thong being the only thing that covered your cunt. His hand came down suddenly on your ass, hard and sharp. You gasped, the stinging feeling unexpected.

"You don't get to act like a brat all day and then try to dissmiss it," he almost growled, his frustration working himself up. "You want to play grown-up, you'll get treated like one, and you'll take your punishment like one."

Another slap. Then another. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to keep stinging so much that your breath fell heavier and you couldn't stop yourself from squirming.

"Count," he commanded.

You stayed quiet. Big mistake.

Smack. One that was harder this time, you felt yourself jolt forwards in his lap upon impact.

"Fine," you hissed. "One."

Smack.

"T- two," you gritted your teeth together, knowing it would only get worse if you didn't do exactly as he said.

He kept going, slow and measured. Not only did he spank you, but he also lectured you at the same time, his voice low and close to your ear.

"You think I don't notice the way you try to push me? Tryin' to get my attention like a needy little girl, hm?"

His hand stroked between your thighs, trailing up towards your now soaked panties, a little too high. He laughed when he felt the dampness of your skin.

"Look at ya," he murmured, fingers toying with the thong. "Bratty all day just because you wanted this? Wanted daddy to fuck you? Could've asked nicely."

You first blushed in embarrassment, and then glared at him for mocking you.

"Maybe I just like pissing you off." A challenge.

He chuckled, seeing straight through you. "Yeah?"

One arm wrapped around your waist, his hand slipped underneath the fabric, fingers sliding across your slit.

He almost groaned in victory. "Soaked. And all I've done is spank you. Filthy girl, aren't ya?"

You whimpered as he pressed down just enough on your aching bud, fingers still teasing you. He rubbed slow, cruel circles before dipping inside. The strech of his fingers made your hips buck, but he pushed you down, tightening his grip on your waist.

"Stay still. You don't get to come until I tell you to."

You tried. You really tried. But the pressure, the humiliation, the way he was watching you. It was sending you into overdrive.

"John- please-"

His fingers curled a little more as you said his name like that, all whiny. "You beg so pretty when you're not mouthing off," he muttered, fingers moving stronger inside you. "What do you want, baby? Wan' to come on my hand like a good girl?"

You nod frantically, but he tsks you, slowing his movements to an agonising pace.

"Gotta use your words. Hardly being a good girl right now."

"I wanna come," you whine again. "Please, John, I-I'll be so good."

The tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes out of sheer desperation and overstimulation may have eventually softened him up. Or they may have not.

there's a link that would go so perfect with this but i cant find it :(

update… i found the gif and not the link:

Tag list 𖠋: @punkkture @slut-lmao @sebastianstans-slut @ilikeoldmen @g1rlfa1lure0 @queenoflaflames @tmartin0918 @kkloubee @goldie-221 @patricksoulmate @writingandsins @mxnee777 @bittersweetfig @mlthree @cupidswan @siphon07 @decaffeinateddelusionbread

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ VOCAL REMOTE ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Vocal Stims

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ The first time you meowed mid-conversation, ENA blinked once, paused, and offered you a deal on faux cat ears.“Meow? How quaint! May I offer you a three-for-one promotion on emotional support accessories?” You’d blurted the sound without thought—a little chime of contentment—and she’d answered it with a business proposal, solemn yet too bright-eyed. You laughed. She did not. Her eyes narrowed at the sheer marginal profit loss of wasted dopamine. Later that day, when you meowed again, more stressed this time, Meanie barked, “OH, IS THAT YOUR DISTRESS CALL OR ARE YOU JUST BROADCASTING TO THE DAMN ANIMALS?” You didn’t answer. You just meowed louder. Somehow… that felt like mutual understanding.

☆ You have a habit of repeating her last words under your breath, like an echo that got lost and never found its way back. ENA always notices. “Let’s arrange our next ambush at the scene—” “Ambush at the scene,” you echo, soft, almost reverent. She tilts her head, intrigued. “Practicing for the pitch? Or just haunted by my phrasing?” You hum, dodge the question. But you catch her testing it later. She throws out complex words like bait—“extrapolate,” “obfuscate,” “phenomenological transcendence”—just to hear your little trailing voice imitate her like a living reply. Meanie, however, hates it when you mimic her yelling. “STOP IT!! NO, I SAID STOP IT!! NO, I SAID!! NO, I—!!!” You both go in circles until you collapse in laughter. She does not laugh, but she does shut up.

☆ You tap rhythms on the countertop like Morse code for people who never learned it. Your fingers go tap-tap… tap tap tap… tap— ENA pauses her tea-stirring. “Hm. Is that jazz or a secret complaint about your eggs?” You shrug. You don’t always know yourself. Later that week, she starts replying with percussive desk taps of her own. It becomes your thing. Communication without speech. Her dual-colored hands dance out rebuttals, agreements, warnings. Meanie once banged the counter so hard trying to “respond” she snapped a spoon in two. “I’M SENDING A MESSAGE TOO, DIPSTICK!!” The message was, presumably: aggressive affection.

☆ When you stim by circling around your words, starting sentences with three false starts, ENA listens like it’s poetry. “Today I was—so I was going to—I mean I was thinking about…” She finishes it for you, gently: “Getting the lemon cake? Getting lost in a daydream? Getting ready to cry?” All three were right. You sniffled and nodded. “I read between the ellipses,” she said, smug. “Consider me your translation service for complicated feelings.” Meanwhile, Meanie had already thrown the menu across the café. “FOR GØD’S SAKE JUST SPIT IT OUT! SPIT IT, HACK IT, LAUNCH IT FROM YOUR STUPID THROAT!” She didn’t mean it unkindly. That’s just her love language: verbal bashing with a side of simmering loyalty.

☆ You sometimes sing little songs under your breath—tuned nonsense, soft melodies with no lyrics. ENA pretends to critique your pitch. “Hmmm…could use more vibrato. Also, have you considered writing jingles for our future cult?” But she never interrupts. Never mocks. Never tells you to hush. In fact, the one time you stopped mid-hum and said, “Is this annoying?”, she immediately looked wounded. “Darling. Your noise is the only sound in this world that isn’t static.” You didn’t expect her to say that. You never told her, but you wrote it down and stuck it in your pillowcase.

☆ One day, when you asked her to sing back… ENA tried. It wasn’t melodic. It wasn’t good. ENA cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a corporate anthem and then started crooning a strange, clipped verse: “Profits in the moonlight, margins in your eyes, return on emotional investment—” You burst out laughing. She looked pleased. Later that night, Meanie howled her own song through the hall. Off-key. Screaming. It was about frogs and debt and possibly your name. It was, against all logic, deeply moving.

☆ On your overstimulation days, when your stims get loud, clicks, taps, words that loop like caught records—Meanie at first doesn’t get it. “YOU’RE JUST MAKING IT WORSE! DO YOU WANT TO BE A WIND-UP DOLL ON THE FRITZ?!” But you flinch. Go quiet. She pauses. Squints. “…Hey,” she mutters, kicking at the floor. “You can, uh. Do the thing. Just… not near my megaphone.” By the third time it happens, she builds you a personal sound corner. A little cardboard tent of peace. She calls it dumb, but she’s careful never to rip it.

☆ You once meowed in public, startled, anxious and someone laughed. You shrunk. Went quiet. ENA stepped in front of you immediately, blocking the laughter with a smile sharp enough to bleed. “Dear friend,” she said sweetly to the stranger, “were you planning on finishing your sentence or just chewing your own tongue in futility?” Then, to you, quietly: “Your voice is valid currency. They just tried to pay with lint.”

☆ There’s a special stim you only do when you’re around her: a soft little click at the back of your throat whenever she talks too fast. Click. Click. Click. Like punctuation. At first, she didn’t notice. Then she started slowing down mid-sentence. “Let’s—click—organize—click—our next—click—ambush—click—” “…Are you editing me in real time?” You grinned. Clicked twice for “yes.” She laughed. She actually laughed. “I should start charging for the service.”

☆ The day you had a meltdown, full noise, spiraling echolalia, screaming, panic, ENA didn’t leave. She sat with you. Right there on the tile. Meanie yelled at the noise, not you. “OH SHUT UP, YOU STUPID PANIC, STOP TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS!!” Salesperson held your hand. “This moment is not your enemy. It’s a very intense coworker. Shall I fire it?” You didn’t answer. You just clung. Eventually, the sounds softened. The static in your mind thinned. And ENA, both of her, remained. Because love isn’t silence. It’s who stays when the noise is at its loudest.

[writing-mlm]

Nothing stays buried

Summary: People and secrets are never really gone when it comes to this family, aren’t they? Pairing: Jason Todd x Martian!Male!Reader Word Count: 6.5k Tags/Warning: Bruce is bad at parenting, talks and mentions of parents dying, talks and mentions of Jason’s death, sexual themes A/n: i probably missed a couple of tags but it’s 5am as I’m writing this

He remembers that night vividly. Jason felt on top of the world, he’d passed his math test and he’d just helped B take down the Penguin before his bedtime. Not that he had a bedtime, of course. It’s just Alfred gets worried if he’s not back at a certain time. 

Back on track. 

He was on a rooftop, well, he was making his way to the ledge to practice his Batman impression. For future references, y’know, as a Robin does. When he saw a strange little creature sitting on the edge, trying to talk to the gargoyle. His green tail swished back and forth, the red hairs on the end puffing up when a bird landed on the gargoyle. 

“Excuse me!” Jason called and the creature turned around, standing to his full height. 

“Hello,” The alien chirped. Jason almost laughed, but Alfred would’ve told him that was a rude thing to do. But in his defense, the alien reminded him of a cat. The chirp was strange, a hello broken into a he-llo, with a chirp akin to a very friendly cat but mixed with a very high-pitched voice. “Lost.” The alien chirped again, standing up. He almost laughs as the young alien is only half his height and he’s not very tall himself— Bruce says he’ll get taller when he’s older, though.

“I can help,” Jason extended his gloved hand and smiled. The alien looked at the hand and tilted their head before grabbing it. Jason counted five fingers and short fingernails before he properly grasped their hand. “I’m going to take you to my friend, okay?” The alien nodded, their pitch black eyes reflecting the little light around them in an oddly comforting manner. 

“Fr-end,” He chirped. 

“Mmhmm, I’m Robin. What’s your name?”

“(Y/n)!” 

—

“Jason?” You call into the empty cave. A whole week later after the rooftop and Bruce only let you go so far— with or without supervision. It’s only been the cave and something called a lab. “Jay-son!” Your voice chirps as you’re walking around, your tail flicking side to side. You don’t know how to leave the cave, the door is confusing and Bruce won’t tell you how to use it. Jason is sworn to keep it from you, too. He says it’s best that you don’t make Bruce upset, so you don’t. But he always seems angry at you, so you tend to avoid him altogether. 

“Jason?” You’re now dragging yourself along, bored in the cold, damp, and dark cave without any type of entertainment. Flying up, you scan over the cave and find no one but the bats hanging upside down on the dripstone. Huffing, you land on your feet and cross your arms, the end of your tail puffed up as you grow more annoyed. 

“He’s at school,” Alfred explains as he walks up from behind you. You spin around and grin up at the older man. He’s without Bruce and holding a silver platter. He’s always fun to be around when he’s not with Bruce. 

“Al-fred!” He smiles at the chirp and guides you to your little living area. It has a bed, a table and three chairs. “I go… school?” You ask, sitting across from him as he sets the sandwich down in front of you. Whatever this school is, you think you should be able to attend as well. 

“I’m afraid not,” He frowns and you mimic the action while he tries to find the best way to break it to a child that he’s considered a threat. “Master Bruce is still running tests and making sure you’re… not in danger.” He settles on saying. 

“No in danger!” You tell him through a mouthful of the sandwich. “Only in cave,”

“Yes, you are in the cave. But he wants to make sure you’re safe,” Alfred continues and you hum. You’d been taught that word. 

“Safe.” Pointing to yourself, he smiles and nods. “Safe.” You point to him and he nods again, his smile growing a bit wider. “B not safe?” That almost makes him laugh; the nickname Jason had given Bruce clearly rubbed off on you. 

“Master Bruce is safe,” Alfred corrects. “He’s making sure you are extra safe.” He hands you a napkin and you stare at it, a little unsure of what to do with the paper. 

“Oh,” You hum and your face twists as you try and find the right words. “So… we safe?” Alfred hums and motions to wipe your face with the napkin. 

“We are safe, yes.” He corrects as you harshly rub your face free of any crumbs. He cringes and takes the napkin, dabbing it on his tongue before wiping them away. 

“We are safe,” You correct yourself. “But I still here,” Pointing to the cave. “If safe, why cave?” He sighs, still not knowing how to explain to a child that he’s considered a danger— an unknown danger that Bruce doesn’t trust to be in the public; he barely trusts you alone in the cave as it is. This was easier with Dick and Jason, they weren’t aliens who needed to be under lock and key all day. They also didn’t have powers that made things all the more difficult. 

“Soon.” He nods. “You’re meeting Master Bruce’s friends tomorrow, remember?” Alfred asks and you nod, beaming at the idea of meeting more people. 

“I know,” 

—

Jason was happy to take you out of the cave, he’d even packed you a lunchbox just like Alfred packs his for school. He doesn’t eat them anymore because he’s twelve and doesn’t use lunch boxes anymore. Totally. Just don’t check his bag. Maybe he does, but Alfred has killer cooking and he can’t resist it. No one can. 

Moving along now, please. 

You’re in the Watch Tower, staring at the large TV screen that has a bunch of stuff on it, along with a picture of you. You don’t understand much, the words Bruce uses aren’t ones you’ve learned yet and you don’t know how to break them down or use the proper context clues to understand them. It makes your head hurt. But everyone is very nice so you don’t mind. The man in the red suit has given you some weird block to play with. 

It clicks!

“Genetically, he’s half Green Martian,” Bruce explains to the members sitting at the table as Dick tries to bring your attention back to the meeting and Jason is sneaking you slices of various fruits. Your favorite is the lemon slices, they burn and make your tongue feel funny. And purple. “And half unknown. For now.” He shows some diagrams of the genetic makeup he was able to piece together from his mini experiments, taking your DNA and cross-referencing it with everything he had on file. There’s something that links you to Martian Manhunter’s picture and you find his face at the table. He looks… familiar. He looks like home. 

“I am him?” You whisper to Jason and he looks over at J’onn, then you. 

“No,” He shakes his head and glances at Dick to try and help him but he suddenly becomes engrossed in what Bruce is talking about. Looks like it’s up to him to explain genetics. He’s glad he paid attention during science last week. “You know how I am human and Barry is human?” Nodding, you glance at Barry while he continues. “Well, you are half Martian and he is Martian.” Looking at him, you soak in what he’s saying and look down at your pencil. 

“Why only half?” You frown. “Am I less than him?” Looking at him, Jason panics a little. 

“No-no,” He waved his hands. “Half means one of your parents was a Green Martian.” He holds up two fingers and then takes one away. “J’onn has both Green Martian parents,” He adds a finger back. 

“We all— we were all green,” You explain, fumbling over the proper sentence structure. “My mom— my eyes.” Pointing to your eyes, Jason hums. “My dad— his eyes,” Pointing to J’onn, you see the Justice League is watching you. When did they start listening to the conversation? Maybe you had said the wrong thing. You hug your tail, playing with the red hairs on it. 

“Do you remember your father's name?” J’onn tentatively asks. “Maybe I remember him.” You smile and enthusiastically nod. J’onn smiles back, his eyebrow line deepening. 

“His name is Ma'alefa'ak,” For some reason, the room goes silent. Oh no, you definitely said the wrong thing. Sinking into your seat, you look down at your shoes while Bruce types that in and the others share glances. 

“Like the supervillain?” Oliver whispers, covering his mouth so you don’t see. Supervillain, Bruce had taught you that one. That was a bad person, the type of person who hurts people for fun. You look at Jason and then at Bruce. 

“My dad is bad?” You ask him and he only gives you a small nod, a frown deepening on his face. He doesn’t want to lie to you, even though everything in his body is telling him to. 

“But your uncle is J’onn! Yay!” Jason turns your attention back to him. 

“Yay,” You try and be as happy as he seems but you can’t lie nearly as good as he does and he rubs your back, offering to take you exploring around the Watchtower while the others continue their conversation. 

—

Turns out, Green Martian puberty happens a bit later when you’re mixed with a different species. You’d turned fourteen recently and a week later you sprouted like a beanstalk. The height also came with more powers. Better powers. 

“Yes, you hear me speaking? I know all of the words, ever created,” You grin at Jason, holding your hand to your green ear while he rolls his eyes. He’s had to deal with this for two weeks now. Although, he only pretends to be annoyed. He’s mostly upset he doesn’t need his flashcards anymore or that he can’t help you by reading his ‘old people’ books. 

Today he’s in your apartment, the one you’ve shared with J’onn since the whole Jerry Springer episode back at the Watch Tower. He’s not happy about that, but you can fly fast and the distance isn’t too far. Plus, you both know how to use a phone— now more than ever since your brain doubled in size. 

Your bedroom is nice, it’s plain all things considered. A bed, a dresser and some decorations here and there. It’s things J’onn thought most teenagers would enjoy. But Jason knows you. He knows you’d like your room with a canopy bed, a clear case filled with random trinkets you’d found across the globe. 

“That big ole head of yours remembered to get lunch?” He asks, grabbing your tail and playing with it. It flicks, moving on its own accord. You purse your lips and reach behind you, your arm phasing through your bedroom wall and into the fridge. 

“J’onn bought ten Lunchables earlier this week in preparation. Do you want the sandwich or the nachos?” Grabbing both, you present them to him and he takes the sandwich box. You don’t mind the nachos, they’re your favorite. The sandwiches get all crumbly and there’s never enough to fill you. 

“Oh, and so have got to teach you how to be a kid. You sound like your uncle,” He laughs, stabbing the juice pouch. 

“Please, bestow your wisdom upon me, Jason.” 

— 

“Look, Jay!” You rush into his room, phasing through several walls until you reach the right one. “Finally figured out telepathy!” Motioning to your mouth to emphasize that it’s not moving, Jason raises an eyebrow as if to say okay? “Aw, c'mon dude! At least act like it’s the first time someone’s been in your head.” You frown, giving him a thumbs down. Ever the theater kid, he jumps up from the bed and rushes over to you, grasping your shoulders and shaking you. 

“Wow! Oh my god, (Y/n), however are you doing that?” He fake gasps, holding his head. You blink at him and flick his forehead, dead between his eyebrows. 

“Ruined it,” Flopping on the bed, you grab the book he had been reading and hold it up in the air. “Yknow, J’onn doesn’t have any books in his apartment?” Looking over at the cover you wonder how many times he’s read through Jane Austen’s book collection. 

 “Sounds horrible,” Taking his book back, Jason lies on his stomach and slides his bookmark into place before setting it down. “Do you think he knows how to read?” He snickers, looking over at you. 

“He has to, right?” You laugh. “He’s like a genius and whatnot, I’m pretty sure he can read.” 

“Why aren’t you a genius?” He knocks your shoulder and you grab his cup of water from his nightstand. 

“I can’t be totally awesome, you still need to have something I'm not good at.” Sitting up, you take a sip before handing him the glass. 

 “Ha-ha, real funny,” He rolls his eyes, holding the cup in his hands. 

“But B thinks it’s something about being only half, I don’t get everything a full Martian would. J’onn thinks it’ll kick in later, like a second puberty. Or something, I dunno.” Lying back down, you watch as he takes a sip of water before returning to his book, holding the cup to you. 

“Makes sense,” He shrugs. “But did your mom have any powers?” He never really asks about your family, you can probably count on one hand how many times he’s asked you over the course of four years. Which you appreciate. 

“Yeah,” The glass cup hits the nightstand and you scoot up on his bed, lying on his pillow. “She could breathe underwater and touch lava,”

“Cool,” 

“Very,” Closing your eyes, you listen to the sounds of him breathing and flipping pages until he eventually gets up to put the book down and lies next to you. “I didn’t get much time with her, so I don’t remember all of her powers.” You quietly admit. 

“I miss your accent,” He admits and you crack an eye open, looking at him as he stares at the ceiling. 

“I still have it,” You laugh, closing your eyes again. Jason smiles as he hears the chirpy voice he’s almost forgotten about. “J’onn and B want me to develop a standard American accent, help me fit in.” 

“Fuck that,” He scoffs. “They’re hating on your sick ass voice.” He flips his body so he’s looking at you, and you follow suit. 

“You’re the only one who thinks that, y’know?” You quietly admit, looking down at the small space between the two of you. “Everyone else, like… I dunno, they get weird about it.”

“'Cause they’re fuckin’ jealous,” He insists. “It’s cute.”

“I’m a grown man, my voice isn’t cute,” You grumble and he laughs. 

“You haven’t even grown a mustache yet!” He gently shoves you. 

“Neither have you!” You shove him back but he grabs your hand and pulls you closer. Neither of you says anything, rather his eyes flicker down and yours follow. It’s natural, how your noses brush against each other. 

“Jason, (Y/n), lunch!” Dick shouts as he bangs on the door. The two of you jump apart and Jason shouts something back while you stare at the side of his face. 

—

“Jay-son!” You chirp, trying to find him in the large manor. He hasn’t called you back in two whole days and you figured he wanted to see you in person. “Jay!” You call again, climbing up the stairs. “Dude, are you sick or something?” At the top of the stairs, you see a red-eyed Bruce, desperately wiping his face. He looks… different. Wearing an old shirt that’s probably been sitting in the back of his closet for at least a decade and stained sweatpants that don’t seem to really fit him. His nose is red and his face is stained with similar red lines going from his eyes down to his

jawline. Which hasn’t been shaved, the stubble is growing in awkwardly and he’s gotten that five o’clock beard you’ve been trying to grow in but martians don’t grow hair so it sort of cancels out a lot of your mother's hair gene. 

“Hey, B…” You pause, unsure of yourself. “Are you okay?” He sniffs and nods, bringing a hand to your shoulder then pulls you in for a tight hug. You look at it, confused by his sudden touch— this is the man who has never even given you a high five! 

“I’m sorry,” His voice is hoarse and he can’t fully meet your eyes when you pull away while you’re desperately trying to see his eyes. You don’t know why, it’s really just this gut feeling but you really need to see Jason. 

Right now. 

“Where’s— Where’s Jason?” You stutter, about to move past him. “Yknow… um… it’s just he hasn’t answered my calls and— yknow… uh,” You shake your head and swallow and give a half-hearted chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll go find him!” Giving him a grin, you try and squeeze past him but he sighs and follows you for two paces. 

“(Y/n).” He stops you but you shake your head brushing him off, tears are starting to pool in your eyes and you don’t seem to know why. 

“Don’t worry, B! You rest, we won’t make too much noise!” You reassure, wiping your face. God, why are you crying?

“He’s dead.” He finally croaks out. 

“What?” You let out a humorless laugh, turning back to face him. “That’s a really weird thing to joke about, B.” Wiping your face again, Bruce takes a deep breath and shakes his head. Once again pulling you close but you phase through him. 

“He got into a car crash on Sunday,” He whispers. “He didn’t make it.” You stare up at him, the tears building in your eyes before they start to free fall. Your chin quivers and you can’t breathe. This feeling isn't new and yet it feels so foreign that it's crushing you. 

“No,” Shaking your head, you turn away from him and start down the hallway. “You’re lying!” Bruce watches as you run down the hallway, throwing his bedroom door open and then every single door in the manor opens. He stands there, listening to your shouts for his dead son, the aches returning to his body and guilt building in his stomach. 

He watches from the window as you fly down to his family's cemeteries before collapsing on Jason’s freshly laid grave. Clawing at the dirt and begging him to come back. You shout and you cry, your body shaking with the pain and he walks away, hardly able to contain himself for more than one reason. 

He just prays that you don’t find out the truth. Ever. 

—

When Jason comes back, no one tells you a single thing. No one seeks you out, no one even thinks about it in your presence, no one wants to tell you. You’ve spent most of your time since his death in space, avoiding anything that reminded you of him and that included Earth. You’d go on month-long missions, spend most of your free time in the tower, and only ever visit Earth for Jason’s birthday. 

It’s strange, since you left space following the death of your parents. Finding solace on Earth but mainly in Jason. Now you just felt lost, mostly angry if you were being honest. First it was your dad, then your mother, and you thought, finally, with Jason he wouldn’t have their same fate. You worried about what would happen to J’onn if you stayed, so, you left. 

Just enough not to get close but close enough you were reachable in case they ever truly needed you. Any yearn for camaraderie or things alike had died with Jason. 

This year he was turning twenty-five, ten whole years had passed since his death and you weren’t doing good. Far from it, honestly. You’d woken up with a tight face, stained from crying and just knew what type of birthday it was going to be. 

You must’ve sat at the edge of your bed for two hours, staring at the floor as your alarm beeped and beeped. The only sign that time was still moving and this was really happening. It’s really been a decade. 

“You’re awake, good.” Diana opens the door to the room you’d converted into a bedroom in the tower. “Come, there’s a meeting.” She watches as you slam your fist to the alarm, silencing it before standing up and staring at her. That’s another thing about you that’s changed since his death, you don’t talk as much as you used to. At least not out loud. 

“Can I shower first?” You ask, already grabbing some new clothes. She watches as you enter the bathroom before leaving the room and heading to the meeting room. Bruce and all of his kids are there, Clark and his family— basically all of the JLA and their family; although Jason looks a bit… uninterested in the situation. But Bruce knows his son is nervous, he had been since he caught wind of the plan for the day. Doesn’t mean he likes the stupid party hats that Barry had forced him to wear or the birthday boy's sash Lois had gifted him. (He took the nearest marker and added undead to the sash before wearing it.) 

“I don’t know why I’m needed for this meeting,” Your voice cuts into everyone’s head and Jason’s stomach drops. He didn’t realize just how much he missed you, how much he actually needed you around. He blinks and sits up impossibly straight, his fingers tapping on the metal table. “I’m going to visit some planets in an hour, so Bruce better not go on another five hour long meeting rant about whatever the fuck he does.” Your voice is only getting louder— closer and his heart is hammering. He thinks he’s about to pass out. 

“It won’t.” Bruce calls from behind him and the doors open. His breath hitches as he sees you— and shit, you’ve gotten tall. You’re in your human form and he wants so desperately to see you, not the you that Bruce and J’onn had concocted over the years. 

You walk across the room, not even bothering to look around the room. Everyone waits as you pour yourself a cup of coffee, waiting for you to see him. 

“Hey, (Y/n)!” Bart calls, suddenly next to Jason. “Can you look at this real quick?” You hum and turn to look at him. Your eyes quickly flicker over everyone before they settle on Jason. The mug clatters back down to the table when you recognize him. It doesn’t take long, you know it’s him. Despite his height, his build, and that white streak in his hair you know Jason. 

“Jason,” You softly call and he watches as you subconsciously change into your actual form. Everyone notices how you actually spoke, your mouth moving and there’s actually a sound coming from you. Your tail flicks from side to side as you rush over to him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Jay-son!” You chirp into his neck, hardly aware that your tail wraps around his leg. 

“Hey, Greenie,” He laughs, holding you just as tight. Feeling his breath against your neck, your lip quivers and you try to bury your face deeper into his skin. He feels it and runs his hand over the top of your head, the other clutching the length of your back to keep you as close as possible. 

Everyone else filters out as the two of you continue to hug. They hadn’t really understood the gravity of the situation, how this should be a moment shared between the two of you and no one else until they saw the way you lit up. They hadn’t seen that spark since Jason had died. Bruce had feared it was gone for good. 

“Happy birthday,” You sniff into his neck before pulling away, he watches as your eyes scan over his face; just taking in his new appearance. Last time you didn’t get to do this, parts of him faded from your memory and he was slowly becoming just words and feelings. No person behind them. But now the puzzle was together again and you can recall each feature he’s grown into, new scars that he’s trying to hide with his clothes, and the new air to him. 

You’re silent for a while, just softly smiling and looking at him and he waits. He doesn’t move until your eyes meet his again and even then he waits a couple of seconds. He gulps, his jaw tightening as several emotions rush through him and he can’t pick one to settle on. 

“Yknow,” You grin, your head cocked to the side. “I did learn mind reading while you were gone and unless I’m hearing you wrong—“ Fuck it, he decides. If you can hear his thoughts then to hell with waiting, to hell with letting another day slip by. Before you can even hear those thoughts, his lips crash onto yours. It’s as if years of yearning and cliffhanger chapters finally having a proper closure finally came to a halt. 

Everything in that moment was perfect, it was just… it’s what you needed, honestly. Both of you. It wasn’t about the kiss, it was about the feeling of having Jason there again. The fact that Jason felt safe in your arms again, the fact that despite how he’s changed, you’re still there. Without judgments or disgust at his new body. His new— him. 

There’s little parting in the kiss, between the hands rapidly moving along each other's body and the constant switch on who’s leading, you settle on holding him close and letting him lead. It is his birthday, after all. 

His hands settle on the waistband of your pants, keeping you as close as possible while also making it easy to move away if you wanted to. He’s comfortable like that, the kiss transforming from one born of desire and need into one that was clearly one of many, one that meant there was no rush. A promise that a repeat of the last ten years was never going to happen again. 

“Still human,” He pants as he pulls away, his face red from the lack of air and his lips wet. He gulps down as much air as possible while you watch him, slowly running along his back to coax more air into his lungs. “Fuck, one sec.” He holds a hand up and tosses his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing and his chest heaving one final, stretched-out inhale before his breathing levels out again. His other hand, the one still attached to you, squeezes the flesh of your hip and you’re sure your knees buckled just an inch more you would’ve fallen on your ass. 

“Again?” You ask and he laughs. Your head dips as you smile, your tongue dancing across your bottom lip just to get a reminder of his close he was. 

“I missed you, too,” He says instead. Gently, he places a hand on your face and watches as you instinctively nuzzle towards it. His hands are so rough now, so worn. The hardened pads trace across your new features, sharper features that whisper ghosts of the ones he’d last seen. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call.” He whispers and you shake your head. 

“It’s okay,” Your voice shakes while he blinks, one stray tear slipping past his attempts to hide them. “You’re here now.” 

—

He has your shirt pulled a little more than halfway up your chest, resting just above your nipples as he holds you. His fingers dig into your ribcage and the flesh of your hips as he kisses the exposed flesh. It’s nothing if not tender, the feeling of his lips brushing against you, him not wanting to pull away so bad that his nose drags down your chest. 

About a year into Jason coming back, the two of you are hanging around in the manor in his room. Normally you’d be at one of his safe houses but Alfred had requested everyone’s presence for the night. He was laying on the bed, rereading Jane Austen's Emma while you had found your time being filled by using a crochet machine. You say you’re making a scarf but really you just like watching the yarn loop and spin around. But that’s on the back burner for now.

“Jay,” You whisper, staring down at him. He hums, lips vibrating on your stomach. “Nevermind. Keep going,” He laughs and continues until he reaches the hand of your boxers. Jason stops there, resting his head on the same spot and watches you. Staring down at him, you run your fingers through his hair, settling on the crown of his head while your thumb rubs against his hairline. Slowly, his eyes close and you return back to making your scarf with one hand. 

Not that he would ever admit it, but Jason snores. It’s nothing major, but if you’re quiet enough and pay enough attention you can hear the small snores leaving him. He also moves a lot in his sleep, only if he’s sleeping alone, though. Whenever you’re cuddling he’s holding tightly onto you. He wakes up when you have to use the bathroom and is pointedly upset that you’d taken longer than two minutes. 

“Big baby,” You tease as you climb back into his bed. He grumbles, wrapping an arm around your waist before pulling you onto him. You don’t protest, wrapping your tail around his leg and simply scrolling through your phone. He grabs a new book from the pile, Ring Shout by P. Djèlí Clark. 

“You notice how weird B gets when we’re in a room?” Jason asks after about an hour of the two of you laying like that. It's true, if you and Jason are in the same room as Bruce, he gets this odd look on his face that isn’t there if it’s just one of you. Only when it’s the two of you. 

“He’s alienphobic and you’re his undead son dating an alien,” You shrug and he flicks your tail. “I’m just being honest. It’s either that or he can’t handle his son moaning my name.” You grin over at him and he huffs, peering at you from behind his book. 

“You should read his mind,” He sits up and sets his book down, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “They’re having their movie night or whatever the fuck it is.” He adds, stopping you from continuing to sorting objects into piles.

“I don’t read people’s minds without permission, hun,” Going back to the game, Jason huffs loudly and flips the two of you over. He lies his body along yours, trying to make you uncomfortable enough to stand up. It doesn’t work, despite his large frame. 

“I’m your totally awesome boyfriend asking you to do this one, tiny thing for me.” He reminds you, peppering kisses down your neck when trying to push you doesn’t work. 

“Not working,” You hum but he sees how you stretch your neck out for him. He grins and kisses in spots longer and a little harder, seeing the green skin turning a soft shade of brown. 

“Don’t you wanna know what he’s thinking, baby?” He whispers, his eyes shifting from your neck to your face as you cradle the back of his head. Your fingers playing with the ends of his hair. 

“Still not working, come up with a better reason,” You strain, moving him into your lap. “Or y'know… say please.” You grin, rubbing your hands along his thighs, squeezing the plump flesh every so often. His eyes narrow, looking between your eyes before he grunts and begrudgingly agrees. 

“Please read Bruce’s mind this one time.” He drags out. 

“If I must,” You grin and tap his thigh, asking him to get up. 

The two of you head down to the family room, although Jason has half the mind to have the whole idea thrown out the window when he sees you shift into your human form. It’s not that it’s ugly, your human self is quite handsome but he’s fond of the green skin and the tail— namely the tail. 

The two of you enter the room, expecting to see some shitty movie playing while everyone tries to enjoy it but find everyone sitting around on the floor, having a very intense game of Clue. Spotting Bruce holding some cards, you flip a metaphorical switch in your head and perverse in his mind for only a second before exiting. 

Not the library. He thinks as his eyes scan over the board. The kitchen, then. He shuffles through his cards and settles on a card but doesn’t look at it. 

“Good!” Tim says when he sees the two of you. “Jason, lay on the ground and die!” Bruce looks at the two of you and his mind flashes a panic shade of red. And looks back down at his cards. 

Crowbar. He thinks over and over, you see flashes of a snowy building exploding before Bruce refocuses and sees you, staring at him. You see yourself crying and trying to dig into Jason’s grave with your bare hands. Don’t. He tells himself and you see yourself as Bruce, holding a beaten and bloody Robin. Jason’s Robin. Everything around the two of them is destroyed, like a bomb had gone off. 

You blink and push further into his mind, going back eleven years for that day he died. You watch hours in a single second, seeing no, Jason didn’t die in a fucking car crash. How The Joker had killed him, how Bruce had to pretend as if he had died in a car crash to the press. How Bruce swore to the JLA to never tell you the truth. The boys never told you because it was an unspoken agreement that you knew and just never brought it up. That his death was too painful, too raw. Not even to joke about it around you.

“It wasn’t a car crash.” You say, exiting his mind. The talking around you stops and you see Jason about to lay on the ground, happily pretending to be dead. Everyone looks at you, a confused expression on their face. But your eyes are locked on Bruce. 

“Car crash isn’t even one of the methods, alien.” Damian squints, looking at the paper used to take notes. You ignore Damian, blinking as your mind replays his memories. 

“You told me it was a fucking car crash, Bruce.” You glare at him. In all honesty, you don’t know how to feel. You’re feeling so many emotions at once, there’s so much hurt, so much anger, and all those feelings from his death are resurfacing again. 

“What was?” Dick asks, looking between the two of you. It takes a moment but his face drops; his eyes settle on Bruce and he has this disappointed stare clear on his face. “B… you didn’t.” He shakes his head, setting his cards face down. 

“I had to.” Bruce shakes his head, never looking away from you. “You weren’t in the right place to handle the truth.” He continued and it clicked for Tim. It hasn’t clicked for Jason, he assumes you already know. Sure, the topic of his death has come up but he doesn’t like getting into the actual details with you, everyone’s warned him not to for one reason or another. Not to mention, between the death of your parents and then Jason, the topic of death is a touchy subject with you. 

“When would I?” You utter, anger bubbling in your stomach. “When was the right time to tell me, Bruce? On your deathbed? When someone slipped up? When?” Now, you’re not shouting. You’ve never really been one to shout, and you know it’s easier to argue with Bruce when your tone isn’t raising. But you can’t. You can’t not shout, you can’t help how the anger is consuming you. 

“Father, what is the alien talking about?” Damian asks with a glare. 

“He has a name.” Jason flicks a crowbar at Damian who catches it without looking. 

“So I’ve been told,” The little shit has only been the manor for two months so you don’t expect much from him. The name-calling is whatever, honestly. As long as he didn’t try to set you on fire again. 

“I had to,” Bruce says again and you shake your head. “The truth was too much for you to bear!”

“Was it easier to lie, then?” You ask. “To watch me leave? I trusted you! I- I thought I was some fucking bad omen!” 

“(Y/n), baby,” Jason stands up and holds your shoulder. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Your eyes snap to his and you falter, holding his hand that’s touching you. Inhaling, you shift your stance and mess with the lines on his hand. 

“Bruce told me that you died in a car crash,” You gently tell him. “That’s why he’s so weird around us.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” He breathes, his head turning to give Bruce a sharp glare. “Can’t do shit right, can you?” There’s no argument, there’s nothing to be said. They’ve spent ages repairing their relationship and in two minutes it’s gone to shit. Jason doesn’t have the energy to fight, he doesn’t want to fight with Bruce. At least in front of you. 

He leaves the room and you follow after him, struggling to keep your mind on one focused topic. 

Ten fucking years, a decade where literally everyone you knew kept this giant secret from you. All under the guise of protecting you, telling themselves it was better than you didn’t learn the truth. It felt like you just found out, piecing together the scars and the touchy subjects you never quite grasped since Jason came back to you. 

And Jason, fuck, Jason was a mess waiting to snap. He’d been healing, he understood Bruce to an extent on why Joker wasn’t dead because, in truth, Bruce had tried. He nearly killed the Joker for Jason but Clark had stopped him, reminded him that for Bruce, murder was a slippery slope he wouldn’t come back from. He’d grown to accept what happened to him, grown to move past it but it was like he was right back to begging Bruce, demanding reasons for the Joker still breathing. 

He doesn’t know if his pit rage is real, if it ever was, but he knows that feeling is coming back. He knows he can’t do this with Bruce anymore. He packs his things, his favorite items he always left behind when he and Bruce fought because he knew deep down they’d make up but this was a line Jason wasn’t sure Bruce could come back from. He’s tired of Bruce’s paranoid behavior, tired of having to sweep it under the rug, and tired of being the bad guy for pointing out the bullshit Bruce puts everyone through. 

The two of you leave the manor without a word, you’re flying beside him as he rides his motorcycle. 

“Where are we going?” You finally ask while he refuels his ride at a gas station well outside of Gotham. 

“The Outlaws.”

[dollwrites]

WAAAAAAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT! You write Tokyo ghoul???? I NEED to be aware when you open requests again, I crave anything with my favorite Uta 😍🥰 I don’t see enough of him and I think you’d write him really really well!!!

ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ᴜᴛᴀ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!ghoul!reader, oral fixation ( fingers ), masturbation ( her! ), reader’s nonverbal, very very subtle pet play ( just the vibes i feel ), finger sucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ intermission [ oral fixation ]

“Gently,” Uta reminded you, without so much as looking up from his work. with his right hand steadily swirling obsidian spirals over his newest creation, his left had been outstretched for you, willowy digits tracing the shape of your parted lips before slipping past the threshold, only to be welcomed by your eager tongue. upon tasting the pads of his fingertips, you have the sudden urge to clamp your lips down around the extremities, to suck on them, and relish the flavor of your lover, but you heed his warning and simply stroke each digit from knuckle to nail with your tongue, mouth hanging agape.

“Still quite a feral, little thing, but mind those teeth this time.” his pointer finger twisted slightly, to tap against the shape of your canines, and test their sharp edges, but you had no real intention of biting him. of course, that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t do it by accident— which has happened before. you get a little too eager, a little too excited, and you snap your jaws shut like a hungry pup.

usually, you would grip his wrist with both hands, a silent plea not to take the taste of his fingers from your mouth, but right now yours were busy, too. they had both been occupied beneath the loose fabric of the oversized nightshirt you wore, one palming your breast, squeezing and pinching at your own nipple, whilst the other was shoved hastily into your panties, strumming your greedy pussy. you had become accustomed to Uta’s doting ever since he took you in; his constant touching on you, his affectionate lips and tongue seeking out your most sensitive parts, but when he worked you were utterly neglected.

so, you would find yourself in such a position, panting like a happy bitch on your knees at his feet, sucking and licking on his fingers as you tried to mimic the pleasure he could give you with your own hands. your skill paled in comparison to his, but it was all you could do to keep from interrupting him.

Uta knows this, which is why there’s a subtle tickle of pride in the way his lips creeped up, even as his crimson gaze remains fixed on the mask before him, at every sound you make. every heavy breath, every moan of his name. he knows that you’re needy, that your desperate for him, and he knows that to make you wait was probably a cruel punishment for a sweet, but ravenous little thing like you.

“Naughty, messy little girl.” he offers in a soothing tone, feeling webs of sticky drool tether his fingers to your tongue as you lick and suck on each one. the excess dribbles down your chin, either soaking into the fabric of your shirt or leaving a small puddle on the floor between your knees. “You can pet and pet that pretty pussy of yours, but you still can’t make yourself cum like I can, hm?” there’s a hint of arrogance in his soft chuckle, but it’s one well warranted. you shake your head, your tongue too busy to answer by forming words— drawing loops against the base of each finger, allowing the tips to reach deep into your mouth as they could, nearly gagging you as they prodded at your gullet. you rubbed your own fingers against your clit faster, pressing harder until you were squirming on your knees, scooting right up to his leg to press your whole body into it. your own, deep ruby stare flickered up to him, piercing… begging.

“That’s quite alright, I like being the only one that can tame you,” he offers, retracting his digits from your mouth. you let out a soft, disgruntled huff, attempting to follow them, to pull them back in, and worship them again with your tongue, but he doesn’t allow it. they travel downwards, and you watch as strings of saliva sever and drip from them and your own lips. grabbing the fabric of your nightshirt, he gives it a tug, pulling you upright, balancing tall on your knees, so that he can reach between your thighs without bending too far away from his mask in progress. your head swims, and you let out a little whimper as slick, svelte pads push your own away and tap against your puffy button, teasing you further, assessing your sticky sex. Uta lets out a soft, fond sigh, “There she is. Throbbing and swollen for me.” your tongue flicks and rolls impatiently just behind the seal of your couplet, desperate to be occupied, too, so your own fingers pry beyond the barrier created by your lips, leaving the scent and taste of your own cunt on them. you suck on them, purring in pure ecstasy at the sensation of Uta teasing your clit. it wasn’t enough to make you cum, but it was plenty to keep you right on the edge you’d led yourself to, so as not to sully your hard work with a ruined orgasm.

“But you’ll have to occupy yourself for a bit longer, little thing.” he said, resolved, gently pulling his hand back, sitting upright in his seat again. you whine, and -to keep from losing that built up tension- slam yourself down against his foot, grinding your damp panty-clad pussy against his shoe as you lean against his leg. he gives the top of your head an affectionate pat, before he immersing himself in his art. “I’m still busy, you know.”

[etherealily]

ʀɪᴏᴛ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

This was from my poll .

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cussing, but SFW.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Situationship final boss.

(This one's for you, my twin @wintrrsoul / @wintrsoul)

..……......................................................................................................................

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it's superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's actually sort of worried you'll somehow end up in the general vicinity of his jobs and get obliterated.

It's in the way he doesn't like the fact that he can't just straight up tell you things about him.

"I like the colour blue." No, would lead to a question about how long he has and then he'd have to talk about a childhood he never had.

"I hate fast food." So, what do you eat when you're out on a job? Hang on, what do you do at your job?

See? No good.

But it's also in the way he nearly acquiesces to all of your requests. Like this morning's.

"Tell me your real name."

It's not even just that. It's the way you say it. Ask it. Your fingers are in his hair like you're scared he'll get mad at you and that's the only way you can insure yourself against him, or something. By showing him how gentle you are. It's barmy, but it's you, so he'll allow it.

"Tell me yours."

"You know my name."

Unfortunately for him, he does. He'd have actually loved to have looked you up and been unable to find a face to the name you'd given him, but it was you. Right there. Too trusting.

"The one you'd like to be called, I mean." He's stalling. He's deflecting.

"The one I'd like to be called? What is this, a test? I have to say 'yours' or summat?"

He snickers. It's a quiet one, and if you'd been anywhere but in his arms, you couldn't have heard it. "Humour me."

"Humour you? I'm afraid I couldn't come up with one if you gave me all the time in the world."

"No?"

"No."

"Shame, that.", he grunts, stretching as he turns to you. He's been up for hours. Luckily, you're too used to it to ask why he's fully clothed in a fucking suit this early in the morning. "You could have heaps of fun with it. Little activity, if you ever get bored of ghostwriting."

"I'm only bored when you're not here."

"I'm your only source of entertainment, then?"

"Cable without a subscription, yeah."

"I can't even fault that. That's a good analogy. See? You should write summat on your own. Instead of helping write for talentless pricks. Who get credit."

He's doing the thing he likes doing again. Giving you a couple of his rings to 'model'. He thinks it's funny, how they only fit on your thumb, because he has insanely heavy taste in rings.

"Not this again."

"Yes, this again! It's true, innit? Some loser who can't write needs you to do their homework for them, but they get the credit?"

"That's not how it works."

"It is, too, how it works. You told me yourself."

"All this because I asked you what your real name was."

"Not this again.", he mimics, ruffling up your hair. "Have you kept your promise and narrowed it down, then?"

"I have, actually, yeah.", you say, and he watches with a lazy grin as you sit up, the morning sun like a halo behind you, igniting your hair.

Though he's more focused on the fact that you're topless.

"Let's hear it, then."

"Nigel."

"Nigel? Like the fuckin' pelican from Nemo?", he scoffs, shifting to rest an arm under his head.

"Hold your horses, I've got more, I've got more. I've got Thomas."

"Like the tank engine? What's with you and creepy animations today, love?"

"I figure there's a reason your brother keeps talkin' about the show. Am I warm?"

He shakes his head. "You're in Antarctica.", he informs, watching you roll your eyes. Watching you. That's all he's ever done. And that's all he ever wants to do.

"I'll get it one day."

"Pray you don't. It's really hot, how pissed you get."

"I will get it, though, some day."

"Lie back down, relax. It'll come to you in a dream."

You do as he says, flexing your fingers to display his entire collection of (four) rings, glinting in the sunlight. "Arnold?"

"Fuck you, sweetheart, you're just tryna take the piss now."

He doesn't laugh much, or smile, for that matter, but he's sure one day you'll catch him off guard. Not today, though. Mm-mm. Because he feels like you're not about to let up today.

Call it a lover's intuition. But he feels like this might either be your last fight or your last fight. In short, either you never speak again, or he croaks and he really can never speak again.

"Where are you going next, did you say?", you ask, between sporadic, breathy chuckles.

"Tokyo." he reminds, leaning an arm back on the headboard while his other played with your hair like that was his next job and it paid in infinite quid.

"Can I know where?"

"Uh... just the train, it looks like."

You turn your hand around to watch the light bounce off his rings. "Will you send me another postcard, then?"

His eyebrows furrow. "Come again?"

"Like, the one you sent from Bolivia. It was tops. Alpacas and whatnot."

"I'm sorry, love — postcard?" Oh. Fuck. His brother. "Oh, yeah. Not much to do in a train, but if I find one, I'll send it over."

There's a sort of domestic silence, and for a moment, he's sure he can hear the rays of sun crash through the window, all tinkly. But that might just be the hangover.

"Why won't you tell me your real name?"

"Because I can't. You know that."

He sighs magnanimously, allowing you to rise to brush your teeth and freshen up or whatever you did to avoid the fact that his secretiveness pissed you off to no end. Which was fair, honestly.

"I just feel like we're past that point."

Any response he might have had dies on his tongue. That is fair. You have known each other near a year now. If he were you, he'd be peeved as well.

Once more, a silence flashes through the room, before he does, too, his arms crossed as he firmly leans against the doorframe.

He exhales deeply for a moment, before you spit out toothpaste, avoiding his gaze in the mirror. "Y/N."

"That's my name, yeah."

"Alright, hey—", he scoffs, moving next to you, watching you again in the mirror. "That's the last one of those you get, alright? Snappy responses or wha'ever. I'm not doin' that. The whole soft, concerned bit? Nah. That's not what we are, and we have rules. Yeah?"

"I know we had rules, and you've broken far too fuckin' much of them, but I can't break one?", you retort, unscrewing the lid of your stupid fucking bottle of Listerine. God, why did everything you do today set his teeth on edge?

"No, you can't, 'cause your ghostwriting doesn't kill anyone except your dreams. My job does. I'm not gonna receive a phone call sayin' that you're hangin' from some ceiling or some streetlight or summat somewhere, yeah?", he reminds, sternly, with a finger pointed at you, a hand on his hip, the whole shebang, before he turns back into the warmth of the bedroom, folding his suit's sleeve, now.

"Your job.", you scoff, under your breath as you gargle and then spit.

He cocks his head, raising a brow as he spins right the fuck back around. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"'S what I thought.", he mutters, adjusting his tie, running his hands through his hair, standing in front of the window on the other side of the room — you know. Basically do anything to take his mind off how fucking frustrated he is.

You're being mildly unreasonable. But he supposes he can't blame you. "Contract killer" isn't a profession you can segue into a conversation. In your head, he's much nobler. A CIA agent.

"Fuck. You can't have a normal mornin', can you?"

'And you can't have a normal reaction.', you think.

"I heard that."

You snort, shutting the bathroom door behind you as you come back out. "I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking summat, I know you were."

"I was thinking you should shave."

He's glad you're back to the jabs at him, because he can shake himself out of this odd prophetic revelation he's supposedly having about his death or your loss of interest in him. Either/or.

He grins when you finally come out, flicking your forehead as you cross paths so he can take his turn in front of the sink. He really needed some fucking shut-eye on the plane there, but for now, washing and scrubbing at his face should keep him awake enough, and— what the hell were you doing?

He dabs his hands in between a plush hand towel by the sink, as he watches you trying to get dressed, from the bathroom mirror. "No. None of that."

"I have work."

"Oh, yeah? Funny. Sit."

"I told you, I've got work."

"There's a couple hours till my flight, and I'm sure incompetent authors can wait. Sit down."

"What, it's all according to your 'timetable', then?!"

He hates this. He hates the way you've just said "timetable" like you're accusing him of lying to you.

He doesn't care about the lying allegations, but he does care about how much audacity you seem to have, even though you know that he has a gun on him every time he kisses you.

It means that you know he's, for some odd reason, toned down around you. Not even remotely likely to hurt you.

And that's not good.

"I don't see any angry fake-authors knocking at your door right now, so yeah, yeah, it's according to my timetable. Stay. Get back in bed, alright?"

"Sorry to disappoint, but I actually have to go now, so."

He knows you're bullshitting. He's seen you when you're actually late, and that pretty little fuckin' vein in your head is nowhere near popping.

This is the only way you can get back at him for talking to you like that, and you're taking the chance.

How dare you do exactly what he would do if he were you?

"Hey.", he calls, but you're still rechecking that all your bullshit's in your bag. So, naturally, he moves behind you, his hands on your shoulders pulling you back while swivelling you around to face him.

"Why, hello, there. Go deaf or summat?", he muses, holding onto your face with both thumbs at your jawline.

"What?"

"Tell you what. You get to pick my codename for this job. Alright?"

"What?"

"Yeah. You already got some ideas, then?"

"What's the catch?"

You've abandoned your task of shoving things into your bag, and he can't have you achieve the satisfaction of coaxing a smile out of him twice in a row, so he kisses the side of your cheek and your shoulders to hide it.

"No catch."

"There's always a catch with you."

"Like what?"

"You'll reject everything with some bollocks reason."

"Nah, I'll give you a fair chance. Shoot."

"Like Dave? Or James? Or Aaron, or summat? It's like, casual, unseeming. Jane Doe, but for blokes, whatever it is. "

"John Doe. Right. But what if there's some poor bloke with the same name and description?"

"I just think the odds are terribly small."

He nods against your hair. Alright, that was fair. "Maybe my brother's done some weird shite.", he remarks, suddenly.

"Why do you say that?"

Mainly because his brother has just texted him, the absolute prick.

"He hates codenames, so he's probably sending a ridiculous one to piss me the fuck off."

🍋

Fucking what?

Excuse me?

CN. 🍋

CN. Codename. His codename was fucking LEMON?!

"I can't bloody well be James or Aaron now.", he mumbles, rubbing his hand over his jaw as he glares at the phone. You hear him, somehow.

"Why not?"

"My brother's codename for this job is apparently Lemon."

"Lemon? Like, the—"

"Yeah, like the fruit."

You snort. "So, what, you have to match, now? Uh... Melon? That would be matchy-matchy, no? Lemon-Melon."

"You're lucky you're hot, or I'd have shot ya just for that.", he comments, moving hair from your shoulders. "Look at me."

"No." It's a tease, he can tell by looking into your mesmerizing, beady little eyes.

"Why not?"

"Told you, you need to shave."

"And do what? Go clean-shaven like a fuckin' prepubescent?"

"No, I think you should get rid of the beard, go with the moustache only."

He lets out a sharp laugh of incredulity. "Not a chance in hell." He already knows he's going to do it. He's not too proud to cater to the female gaze once in a while.

You shrug, and he gestures for you to sit back down on the bed.

"I still don't believe you, you know."

He huffs, groaning as he runs his hands across his face. "What the fuck do you want from me, love? I'm not givin' you any form of identification, which, if that is what you want, is fuckin' stupid, considering the amount of times I've been inside you!"

You stare back, indifferent.

You have a habit of doing this - you leave him all huffy and red and angry and you just look at him like you don't give a crap, and it's unnecessarily sexy.

"Come on, we cross paths once in a couple months. Your job, sorry to say, is much less urgent than mine, so ju—"

"I don't even think you're tellin' me the truth."

"What? About my job?", he spits, exasperated.

"What sort of CIA agent is this flexible with their routine and, like...", you mutter, gesturing around at the hotel room.

"The good sort. You don't believe me?", he questions, sucking on the back of his teeth to hide his amusement.

"Don't you get government benefits or summat? Shouldn't you have a house?"

He raises a brow, and his mouth quirks for a second before he bursts out laughing. See? He knew you'd catch him off guard and make him laugh some day. So much for that not being today. "Government benefits. You're a riot."

"You're also not supposed to tell anyone that you're a CIA agent."

"No?", he asks, tilting his head. "Oh, I'll have to kill you then, don't I?"

"Please do.", you mumble under your breath, still acting like you have better places to be. And, in all honesty, you might. The vein is this close to popping now, so he may have been wrong about your lack of things to do.

He raises both brows as you sit there.

"Are you really still fuckin' angry?"

"I just want to know your name, what am I gonna do? Write it into a story?"

"Knowing my name will prove I'm a CIA agent, then, will it? How does your mind work?", he hisses.

"Lose the suit."

"What?" Oh, you were playing his game, with the subject changes, and he didn't like how hot that was, either.

"The suit. It's trash. That shade of green is trash. Go with blue."

"Go with blue? I need to go with blue, now do I?", he sputters, shoving you further back onto the bed, his medallion chain dangling in front of your eyes as if he were about to hypnotise you with it. "You're a riot.", he says, his fingers digging into both your cheeks.

"You said that already."

"You're gonna miss me, that's what this is." He says it like an insult, and, in this odd dynamic between the two of you, it very much is. "You're losin' your cable-with-no-subscription."

"I'm just saying the green isn't classy, not even remotely."

The grip travels to your hair, and suddenly, you're eyelashes apart. "Yeah?"

"It's trash."

"Mm.", he nods, in mock consideration. "Right."

There's a moment of silence.

"You know, if I die on that bullet train, you'll regret being such a cunt today."

"I think if you die, you'll regret spending your last morning being a cunt to me."

"So we're both cunts?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, darling, we're made for each other, then, yeah?"

You roll your eyes, and he kisses you.

Like always.

..……......................................................................................................................

Seriously.

He may not have a heart, but he sure as fuck has a soul, and it really is superglued to you, it seems.

It's in the way he's pretty sure you're making the worst stylistic choices for him ever — an extremely expensive wristwatch on a mission where he'll get multiple peoples' blood on it, but he'll let you pick anyway.

It's in the way he's sure it's supremely dangerous to text you in between jobs but he'll do it anyway.

How's by you, then?

Fine. How's the train? Did you do the coin thing?

No, haven't had the chance.

Who's the target? Or whatever.

If I could tell you that, we wouldn't have had the conversation this morning, would we?

Are you on a break or summat? How are you texting me?

He grimaces, looking up at the man out of breath opposite him.

Break. Yeah.

Did you go with my codename?

Ladybird, he thinks his name was. Can't remember, doesn't need to. The only codename he needs to remember is the one you set for him.

"Move.", he grumbles, shoving his foot away.

"Lady love?", he retorts back, nodding his head at the phone.

"Summat like that. What's it to you, virgin?"

The Insect chuckles at that, and he grimaces. His laugh's not like yours, and it's kind of disgusting to him, now. Fuckin' wanker.

Yes, I did.

How do I know you're telling the truth? Do you and your brother have name-tags?

No. Turns out, he wanted me to be Lemon. Told you he doesn't like codenames, so that was his form of revenge.

No way!

This is so unnecessarily fun, he wants to kill himself. He's about to be murdered by some Russian underworld crime-lord for losing a briefcase of money and a bell-end of a son, but he's here, talking to this girl about why his codename had to be a citrus fruit variant for this particular job.

He was really fucking priority-less.

But he's not going to acknowledge how much he needed this conversation.

Instead, he glares up at Ladybug. Or was it Ladybird? Oh, right, he doesn't care.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Again, shut up, virgin.", he scoffs, eyes darting back down to his phone.

Told him he's Lemon and that's that. I'm Tangerine.

Did you say why?

Yeah, like you said. 'Cause it's sophisticated.

Good job.

There's some old guy here tryna fuck up our chances at getting our paycheque.

He sounds like a right fucking arsehole. Stealing jobs from younger people like that.

He hides a grin at that, nudging the man with his foot.

"For what it's worth, you seem like a right fuckin' arsehole, and I'm glad you're gonna fuckin' die with me.", he declares, shoving the phone into his pocket. He knows he doesn't need to say goodbye or anything. Not with you.

Especially not now. Not when he could actually die.

It's just bad form.

Buggering hell. He's dressed head to toe in you, essentially. The suit. The watch, fuck. The rings -though they were his initially - have you all over them. The fucking facial hair. And he's still on the fence about who you even are. To him, that is. Who you are as a person? He's researched every drop of information about you. And sadly, he knows there's heaps more that he hasn't found out yet.

"That's nice.", replies The Insect.

Fuck. This wanker has Lemon's phone. Lemon's whereabouts are unknown. And he's sitting here, catching his breath like he'd never taken a beating before, and thinking about you. Idiot.

But honestly. All Tangerine could do was wait around, really.

"What kind of a name is Tangerine?", asks the tosser named Ladybug.

"Back off, my girl came up with it."

My girl. That's new. Moving on.

"Your girl's your handler?"

"My brother and I don't have 'handlers', we're outside contractors. Why do you have a handler? Loser."

"You know, you have the insults of a twelve year old boy. 'Loser'. 'Virgin'."

"Fuck you, mate."

The Insect shakes his head, chuckling as he picks off some semi-dry blood. "So. Why 'Tangerine'?"

"It's sophisticated."

"In what world?"

"The one you're about to leave if you don't fuck off."

He groans and clenches his teeth in absolute fucking agony as he moves to sit more comfortably. Oh, if you were here, you'd both laugh at him and help him get fixed up, wouldn't ya?

"Just curious."

"Yeah?"

"Do they even know what Lemon looks like?"

Huh. The Insect seemed to have some sort of sixth sense that was unexpected of him. He's going to impersonate his brother, apparently.

They could both die for this. Especially with the fake fucking case, and The Insect's god-awful British accent.

Fucking hell.

He rolls his eyes and yanks the phone out of his pocket again, scrolling, scrolling, scroll— ah, there you are.

I told him he was an arsehole.

Yeah? What'd he say?

He said 'your girl can go fuck herself'.

And what did you say?

'I'll go fuck my girl myself.'

Bullshit.

He loves making up stories and telling them to you, because you believe them all and eat it up.

He knows that by "bullshit", you mean the thought of him ever calling you "his girl", and he honestly can't fault that. But you are. Always have been. He just wishes you'd know that, without him having to tell you.

You're constantly on his mind, why can't you fuckin' read it, too?

I do have to go, now.

"You have to go? Where?"

A voice message. God, is it fucking amazing to hear one familiar voice that doesn't want to bloody kill him, maim him or torture him for not taking care of their son or their briefcase!

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me, Tangerine."

And then, it happens. You coax a full-blown laugh out of him. "That's growin' on me, y'know? I'll bring back a whole box of 'em and force-feed it to you."

"Get your brother lemons, too, then."

His brother. Fuck. "If I find him."

"What do you mean?! Is he okay?"

"Listen, love, I'll call you later, alright? I've got to go sort out this Lemon situation."

"Alright, yeah."

"I'll send you a postcard."

He doesn't know why he just said that, seeing as his survival would be nothing short of a miracle, and he's giving you false hope on a catastrophic level.

God, he was a pathetic little cunt. Wearin' his girlfriend's pick of jewellery and clothing and accessories and even moustache? Of course, it made him look good, but still.

And now he's sitting here, worried that he's lied to you, inadvertently.

There's a fuckin' limit, yeah?

"Oi.", he calls, tired and reluctant, but this has to be done.

"What?"

Tangerine licks his lips as he leans against the rumbling wall of the train car, arms crossed, muscles flexed. He wipes off a spot of blood from his nose, sniffing before he speaks. "If shite goes downhill. "Hits the fan", as your people would say it.", he mumbles, unable to fucking believe that this is what he'd come to.

His fingers rub desperately at his temples.

You (or Ibuprofen) would do a peak job at that, actually. But neither are in sight.

"Mm?" The Insect's dusting off the proxy briefcase as he responds, glancing at him from over his shoulder. "You lightheaded?"

"No, I've got a fucking migraine thanks to that ten quid water bottle you threw at me, mate!", he snaps, clenching his fists so he doesn't sucker punch this proxy-Lemon again.

He clears his throat. "If shite goes wrong, uh, would you help me send a postcard, to my girl?"

The Insect guffaws for a moment, fixing up the case as he turns, before raising both brows in astonishment. "You're serious?"

"Why the fuck would I joke about my girl?"

He holds up his hands in surrender, the briefcase glinting slightly in the fluorescent train lights. "I didn't even think you actually had a girl."

"Well, I do , alright? And if I die, just tell my brother to send her a postcard, uh, with my name on it."

"Tangerine.", he comments.

"No, you absolute stupid git, my real n— Lemon'll know what to do."

"What if he dies, too?"

Tangerine's eyebrows furrow, and his lips purse. "You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't ya? Fine, if he dies, too - he better fucking not have - you get my phone. Find my girl's address, send her a postcard with my real name."

"What's your real name?"

"Oh, fuck off, it's all in my phone. 'M not tellin' you now, and then if somehow we both survive, there's someone out there who knows my real fucking name, how much of a muppet d'you think I am?"

"Alright, alright. Done. What if I don't surv—"

"You better fucking survive!"

The train door jolts open right then, and honestly? The Insect's so lucky that happened.

"If your British accent's a stereotype, I will throw you under the train.", he growls under his breath as they both step off to 'prove' that the case is still with them.

He'll get a postcard to you, dead or alive.

At the very least, you'll get a story out of it and you can write some books on your own.

Ha. Ghost-writing.

God, you'd have loved that joke.

Ugh, fuck his luck to hell.

[theskywithin]

💘 The 7th House Ruler Through the Houses

7th House Ruler in the 1st House

You learned love by becoming what others needed. Somewhere across lifetimes, you absorbed the belief that belonging is earned through disappearance. So now, your identity folds itself around the shape of the other. You call it empathy. You call it connection. But sometimes it’s amnesia. This placement is not about codependency, it’s about forgetting your edges. You don’t fall in love, you merge. And then wonder where you went. The self becomes a suggestion, flickering in someone else’s reflection. You are not the echo of anyone’s desire. You are the original pulse. The face beneath the mask. The soul before it contorted itself into something lovable.

7th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You want to be worth the keeping. Not for what you give, or how you hold, or who you become to stay. Just… worth it. But there is a part of you that doesn't quite believe it. A flicker behind your eyes that still asks: Will I be chosen when I’m not proving anything? You've carried that question for lifetimes, sometimes in silence, sometimes in gold, sometimes in staying too long with someone who never really saw you. You learned to equate closeness with compensation, as if love must be earned through self-erasure. But you're not here to barter with your being. You are not a currency. You are not an apology. You are not something to be deserved. Let love come when you're still. Let it echo back, not because you've become more but because you were always enough.

7th House Ruler in the 3rd House

You know how to mimic connection with words. You’ve spent lifetimes translating emotion into language, writing your longings into poems, answering questions no one asked just to feel close. Conversation became survival. Cleverness became camouflage. And so, you speak beautifully sometimes instead of being known. You are fluent in the dialect of detachment. You can make someone feel seen without ever letting them feel you. Because in some far-off memory, expression led to exposure. Truth led to exile. But your voice wasn’t meant to hide you. It was meant to carry your soul into the open. Let someone hear the words you don’t polish. The ones that tremble. The ones that undo you.

7th House Ruler in the 4th House

You carry the blueprint of love in your nervous system. Not from this life, from the ones where affection was quiet, survival-based, coded into ritual instead of spoken. You remember the sound of withheld tenderness. You remember reading the emotional weather of a room like scripture. Now, connection doesn’t feel safe unless it feels familiar and sometimes, familiarity means walking on eggshells. You don’t trust warmth that comes too easily. You wait for the moment it turns cold. But love is not a reenactment. Home is not supposed to feel like a test. Let yourself be held in a space that doesn’t ask you to monitor your every breath. Let your heart stop bracing. You don’t have to keep building intimacy out of ruins.

7th House Ruler in the 5th House

Your love is laced with longing for something unnamed. Not joy, not romance, something stranger. Something that lived in your chest before you ever touched desire. It’s not about expression. It’s not about passion. It’s about remembering how to feel without bracing. You’ve worn so many versions of beauty you forgot which one was yours. In other lives, you might have been adored for the wrong reasons, or watched as something precious to you was misunderstood, objectified, mythologized. Now, you carry a quiet distance from your own delight, unsure if you can trust it. You don’t want to be consumed. You want to be seen without being taken. There is a deep ache here, not to shine, but to exist in your full texture without being cast into anyone else’s story. Let love arrive as a presence that says: I don’t need you to impress me. I want to know what your heart sounds like when no one is listening.

7th House Ruler in the 6th House

You’ve made love a ritual of endurance. It’s not that you expect to suffer, it’s that you’ve confused suffering with devotion. You offer your time, your labor, your capacity to hold someone else’s chaos. You call it loyalty. But sometimes, it’s penance. In other lives, love was responsibility. Service. A sacred kind of self-abandonment. Now, you measure your worth by how useful you are. You treat your tenderness like a transaction: If I care enough, they’ll stay. If I carry enough, they’ll choose me. But love is not earned through exhaustion. You are not here to be someone's stability while starving for your own. Let someone meet you in your softness, not your sacrifice. Let them stay when you have nothing left to offer.

7th House Ruler in the 7th House

You are made for reflection, but not for erasure. Partnership is stitched into the fabric of your path. You don't just crave connection, you become whole through it. But there is danger in this mirror, too. If you’re not careful, you vanish into the reflection. You’ve spent lifetimes defining yourself through the eyes of another. Becoming their projection. Their dream. Their container. So now, you recognize love as alignment but sometimes forget that alignment requires two whole selves. This is not about attracting love. It's about remembering who you are outside of it. You don’t need to contort yourself to stay in view. You are not a placeholder. You are not a backdrop. You are a world of your own. Let love orbit you, not eclipse you.

7th House Ruler in the 8th House

Love has always been a place of unraveling. You don’t “date.” You initiate. You merge. You descend. Partnership isn’t a bond, it’s a reckoning. A portal. A ritual of shedding skin. You seek out the ones who undress your psyche, who break open the vault, who offer you transformation disguised as intimacy. But be honest, are you letting yourself be met, or are you testing to see who survives you? Somewhere in your past-lives, closeness meant betrayal, or loss, or possession. And now, even when love is safe, you brace. This is a lifetime of rewriting that contract. Of letting someone hold you without having to earn it through blood. Let love be deep without being destructive. Let someone see you without tearing you apart.

7th House Ruler in the 9th House

You remember love as a pilgrimage. In other lives, it began with distance, foreign lands, spiritual longing, shared purpose, far horizons. You didn’t just want a partner. You wanted someone to walk the edge of the world with. Someone whose love cracked you open to the eternal. Now, you still crave expansion. You want love that stretches your beliefs, your borders, your body’s memory of what’s possible. But be careful, you might keep running toward the infinite to avoid being touched in the present. Not every soul encounter comes with a lightning strike. Not every truth needs a telescope. Let love meet you in the now. In the closeness. In the simplicity of being seen on an ordinary afternoon. You’re not here to find heaven through someone else. You’re here to remember it was never separate.

7th House Ruler in the 10th House

You wear your relationships like architecture. You build love into your legacy, shape your partnerships like cathedrals, sacred, structured, high-stakes. In other lives, intimacy was status, strategy, survival. You learned to tie your worth to what was witnessed. To what the world could admire. Now, you still measure the success of love by what it looks like from the outside. You perform stability. You pose in intimacy. You know how to play the role. But love does not require a performance review. You don’t need to be impressive to be chosen. The most meaningful devotion may never make it into the biography. Let yourself be loved in the quiet. In the unposted. In the places where the scaffolding falls away and only the truth remains.

7th House Ruler in the 11th House

You are fluent in potential. You don’t fall for people, you fall for what could be. The version of them you see in their quietest moment, the glimpse they haven’t stepped into yet. You build futures before foundations. You speak to the part of someone they don’t know how to hold and then wonder why you’re left holding it alone. In other lifetimes, your vision was medicine. Now, it’s also a mask. You hide behind ideas. You chase resonance over reality. You long for something collective, but ache in the quiet of what’s personal. It’s not that your love is too big, it’s that it wants to touch the sky before it’s touched the skin. Let someone meet you where your hands are. Let intimacy be the dream you don’t have to explain.

7th House Ruler in the 12th House

You’ve loved in silence. Across lifetimes, you’ve poured yourself into connections no one else could see. Soul bonds that never took shape. Longings that lingered like perfume in an empty room. Now, you still feel people before you know them. You remember them before they arrive. But this sensitivity is both a gift and a ghost. You fall for potential, for psychic proximity, for the ache of what almost was. You grieve what never became, and sometimes, you hide behind the fog so you don’t have to risk being touched. But love is not safer in secrecy. You are not safer in silence. Let yourself be known in the flesh, not just the dream. Let love find you where you are, not only where you’ve been.

My book The Sky Within helps you break down your entire birth chart to better understand yourself and your path:

[milkteabinniechan]

♡Breaking the Formula - Han Jisung

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST

pairing: scientist! Han Jisung x fem! reader

summary: Dr. Han Jisung takes his experiments very seriously. He's close to understanding the science behind human pheromones until one of the beakers breaks all over him and he soon finds himself consumed with an insatiable need...

warnings: pheromones! primal behavior, rough sex, breeding, toxic male

a/n: this is different from the usual stuff I write but now y'all get a glimpse into what a sci-fi nerd boy I am ^.^ I hope you enjoy!!

Dr. Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He was exhausted. His entire body ached. He pushed his glasses up into his hair and sighed deeply.

“What am I missing?” He groaned into the palms of his hands.

He glanced over the papers scattered across his desk. His lips moved as he whispered the different formulas aloud. His finger trailed across each line of data.

Simultaneously, his phone lit up and showed your name. He squinted at the screen and positioned his glasses back onto his nose. You asked if you had left your notes in his lab. He sighed heavily and stood up to have a look around.

You had been assisting him in this pheromone experiment for months now. And while he would never admit it, you were a pretty decent assistant. He was never good at interacting with people, especially with people as physically attractive as you were, but conversing with you came easily to him. He genuinely enjoyed your company. You had invited him out for drinks one evening a few weeks ago. He remembered the night clearly in his mind. You had asked so casually. He knew he couldn't do it. Couldn't speak to you in a familial way. So he declined.

Dr. Jisung continued to search his lab until he finally came across your notebook, laying there next to his most recent test subject. An unassuming plant. The Orchidaceae. Or a common orchid plant. This plant was the perfect test subject for what he wanted to accomplish. The orchid had an uncanny ability, their flowers resemble female wasps, and they emit a potent chemical that mimics the sex pheromone of the female wasp. This draws in the male wasp and makes it almost powerless to the desire to procreate.

He wanted to test this pheromone’s power and ability on other creatures and see how the brain neurons respond. But so far, the pheromone hasn't worked on anything besides other plants. Dr. Jisung grabbed your notebook and made his way back to his phone to tell you the discovered news. But something caught his eye. A number in the formula he had designed. But the number was misplaced, or miswritten… he stared at the formula for a long while.

“It couldn't be…could it?” His mind felt like it was being supercharged.

He quickly ran over to the concentrated liquids that he had isolated earlier from the orchid. He followed the formula exactly like before but with one differential factor. And all of a sudden, the normal blue solution he had come to expect was suddenly purple now. His eyes widened as he stared long and hard at the beaker in his hand.

“...is this it?” He mumbled softly, almost entranced with the liquid inside. He couldn't take his eyes off of it…

Bzz! Bzzt!

His cellphone. The vibrator broke his concentration and in turn broke the beaker he was holding. He cursed as the beaker broke onto the table, causing the liquid inside to pour out into his lap. The thick, purple ooze dripped over the edge of the table and onto his stomach and groin area.

“Shit!” Dr. Jisung shouted. He was so busy mourning the loss of his possible discovery, he didn't think about the effect this purple ooze was having on his body, not until it was already too late.

Dr. Jisung stood up from his desk and attempted to wipe the liquid from his lap. He looked down and the floor began to twist and turn a bit beneath his feet. He blinked a few times to attempt to regain his composure. He glanced down at his lap to see the purple solution completely absorbed into his clothes, not a trace to be seen.

His head suddenly began to pound and pulsate at an alarming rate, causing him to yell out in pain. A strange heat was pooling in the core of his stomach. He felt extremely… euphoric. Even though he was dizzy and wobbling while he walked, Dr. Jisung knew he had done it. Well, he knew you had done it and he had to call you and tell you the good news. He clumsily dialed your number and waited for you to answer.

“Hello…?”

“W-we did it! You have…have to get here…now. Test. Brain…” Dr. Jisung tried with all his might to communicate what he needed to say. Thankfully you understood, or somewhat understood, and told him you'd be there as soon as you could.

Dr. Jisung sighed in relief. He held himself steady against his desk, waiting for you to arrive.

However, when you did arrive, an intoxicating aroma traveled with you. You opened the door to the lab swiftly and stood there for a moment. Dr. Jisung's eyes hastily glued to your body as you entered the room. His brain, still somewhat in charge, pleaded with him to stay in control. Pleaded and begged not to let these urges get the best of him.

But that voice was speaking softer and softer the closer you got to him. So close now that he could practically feel the heat coming off of your body now.

“Stay…stay back…” he moaned as you continued to step closer. His moral fiber was clearly breaking and fraying with each new step you took towards him.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw the pained look on Dr. Jisung's face.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

Dr. Jisung backed away from you slowly, even though all he wanted to do was throw you onto his desk and taste you. God, how he wanted to taste you. He always imagined you tasted sweet, with just a hint of salt. He could smell your shampoo when you two would work together. He would close his eyes and take a deep breath and hold you there in his lungs.

You watched as Dr. Jisung backed away from you. You looked his body up and down to try to assess if he was hurt or not. Your eyes roamed over his waist and the growing appendage that was laying underneath. Dr. Jisung followed your eyesight and quickly saw what you were looking at. His face immediately turned a dark shade of red from embarrassment and arousal.

“I think you figured it out…the formula.” Dr. Jisung spoke in a husky, low tone.

The sound of his voice sent shivers down your spine. You slowly started to step towards him again. Not only were the pheromones working on him, but they were starting to do something to you as well. You continued your movement towards him, slowly but surely.

Dr. Jisung tensed for a moment, worried you didn't quite understand what was happening to him, until you started to get closer. He could see the fire burning in your eyes that reflected his own. You looked so goddamn incredible. And that small shred of moral fiber he had left had finally broken apart the moment your hand reached out to touch his.

You leaned in first, pressing your lips softly against his. He lets out a soft gasp, his lips tingling at the slight touch of your own against them. He's impatient though, so he can't help but lean his head forward, trying to kiss you deeper, trying to feel more of your lips against his. He just wants to feel you however he can, and as much as he can.

He grabs your waist and easily picks you up on top of his desk. He presses his body into yours aggressively as he begins to climb on top of you. Never breaking the kiss, you buck your hips into his as he completely envelops you with his body. He whines into your mouth, his mind completely fuzzy with pleasure. He just wants as much of you as he can get, wants to feel the heat of your skin, the weight of his body as he continues to press into you.

Jisung grips your thigh and pulls it up around his waist, his other hand already undoing his belt as his eyes stay fixated on you. All he can think about is mating. Mating. Mating. Mating. He needs it. He needs to make you his. His eyes are dark and primal as he finally, slowly, slides his cock out of his pants and lines it up with your entrance. The rips your panties away as if they were tissue paper, a primal growl escaping his lips as he does.

He holds the base of his cock and slowly slides it inside of your wet hole. The instinctually whimpers that pour from his lips are almost animalistic as he hastily begins pumping his hips into you.

You gasp sharply at the initial speed, gripping the edge of the desk for stability. Jisung grabs your shirt and uses it to pull himself further and deeper inside of you. His mind completely consumed with thoughts of filling your womb until his seed pools out of you onto the desk.

Grunts and groans are the only thing that comes from his mouth as he concentrates on fulfilling his need as the fertile male. You continue to moan and writhe on ecstasy beneath him, your mind and body overwhelmed with the pheromones you both share now.

Jisung's pumping rhythm hits a climactic high and ultimately ends with an explosive finish. He holds you by your waist until he has pushed everything out of him and into you. His body, now empty, feels weak and pliant. He falls down onto the desk next to you, the two of you still trying to catch your breath. He turns his head toward you and you do the same, the two of you look at each other for a long while until Jisung finally speaks.

“Go again?”

taglist: @simply-trash5 @sugawhaaa @trixiekaulitz @chrizzztopherbang @cassidymb121 @roanns-posts @staysinbloom @yaorzu-blog @bubblebisk @cotton-candycloudz @beautyinhypnosis @domicaru @strawberry31 @slxtmeri @newhope8 @tinyelfperson @dandelions-143 @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @msauthor @fun-fanfics @ell0thebell @stephanieeeyang @juskz @kimahreummm @readr1221 @kayleefriedchicken @ovulatingrn @hwnglixho @darthmaddie25 @queen-in-the-shadows @itgirlalisaa @miinhoo @greyaia @chanchansgirly @skzleeknowcorecan @skz-smut-reader

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

One and Only

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, stalking, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You meet your biggest fan.

Based on response: She’s famous & he’s a stalker fan? 1940s au?

Characters: Bucky Barnes

This is #1 of the Valentines Roulette stories

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“I’m sending the script this afternoon, honey,” Gerald promises through the speaker. You hold the receive to your ear and suppress a sigh. It’s a blessing that he can’t see your expression. ‘Honey.’  

“Sure thing, Ger,” you reply as you try to peer through the foggy glass pane. What a miserable February. 

“Screen tests start Monday,” he intones, as if you’ve not done this before. What number is this? You signed a contract for ten pictures, this is number seven of the lot. You cannot wait to shop around for a new studio. 

“Yes, Ger,” you answer dully. “See ya then.” 

“Three o’clock. There about,” he girds. 

“I’ll be around. Monday, then, Ger.” 

“Monday, honey.” 

You hang up. You arch your brow as your lips move with the retort you’re under terms and conditions not to say. ‘If you want honey, Gerald, go find a hive.’ You sigh to your content and adjust your rob beneath the satin belt cinched around your waist. 

There’s a knock at the door. You look at the clock in its ivory frame. It must be the mailman. You answer and accept his bundle. Some from those who watch your pictures and a letter from your sister. You shuffle through them and leave them scattered over the kitchen table. 

You pace. You’d hoped to have that script early. You might not be very happy with the films they’ve put you on but learning lines at least keeps your mind busy.  

As you sweep through the entryway, your satin robe catches the air and sends a breeze around the space. There’s a scuff along the hardwood that snags on the tassled corner of the rug. You must’ve dropped it when you took the handful from the mailman. 

You bend to pluck up the scrap of paper, folded in a tight square. When you untuck the corner, it forms a sort of accordion. You carefully unfold it, careful not to tear it. You reveal its sparse contents. 

The crosshatch of an inky nib has formed an image. One you vaguely recognise as yourself. The war feels like ages ago though it only just ended. It’s back to business as usual. No more tours through Europe, no more riding in cargo bays with the prettied up dances. Everything is all so dull these days. 

In the hastily scratched portrait, your hair is painfully twisted into victory rolls and the military cap pinned at just the right angle. You remember the soldiers, the worn gray palour and dark circles, the tatters in their uniforms as the complained for drawing lines up their legs to mimic the nylon these men needed to jump out of planes. 

You examine the torn edge and a few blots of ink and some other dark hue. There’s a scrawl in the corner. Loopy writing; ‘Happy Valentines. Only you on my mind. JBB’. Those messages are not unexpected. You are thankful for your admirers if not at time, perturbed by their assumptions of familiarity. Yet, you’ve chose the studio lights and camera lenses. It comes with the territory. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s three o’clock. Bucky’s watch is set, tightly strapped to his right wrist. Out of habit, he looks to the left and finds nothing. His shoulder is itchy where his muscles should tug but there’s nothing there. Just a pinned sleeve and frustration. 

He clears his throat and keeps the thick bound folder under his arm. The boy gave him no trouble, asked no questions. I’m the porter, kid, I’ll see it to her. No need to go bothering the lady. 

He marches down the winding stone walk. His car is near the sprawl of pine. He misses his motorcycle but he can’t figure how to steer it with one hand. Even the steering wheel gives him a bit of trouble. 

He presses his arm tighter to the script as he approaches the stoop. There’s a round stone platform before the door that forms steps up to the entrance. Moulds of ancient Greek statues stand in small alcoves beneath the lights on either side of the door frame.  

He stops before the door and bends his head as he tries to fix his hair. He shaved for this. It’s been a while. He spent long with the scissors, clipping through the shanks than he did with the razor. That’s another thing that’s harder. He struggled to get just the right angle around the left side of his jaw. There’s a nick there. 

He straightens up and stares at the arched door. He needs to knock. He has to step close and batters his knuckles on the wood. He backs up and looks down. He hasn’t worn a suit since he came home. They made him do it as they shouted ‘victory’ in the streets. 

He waits. No answer. He looks around. She has a bell. He shifts around then uses his nose to press it. Damn arm. 

He fixes his posture and smiles, then quickly wipes it away. You don’t want to look strange. No, not like some of the men they took off the lines. They got that glassy look. Some of them couldn’t do anything but laugh or cry. 

Her shadow darkens under the door before she opens it. She’s surprised by him. She bats her long lashes. They are naked, like the rest of her face. He’s just as stunned to see her in her natural form. No cosmetics, all her. She’s even more gorgeous. 

“Oh, I was expecting Stuart,” she greets him. “Pardon,” she tries to fix her hair. She wears a satin robe and slippers with feathers. “You have it?” 

She gestures to the script. He looks down at it and slides it down to his hands. He examines the cover. 

“Uh, yes, ma’am, miss,” he forgets everything he meant to say. All those lines he rehearsed in the dark theatre. The script he wrote when he lay restless in his bed. 

“Thank you, sir,” she reaches for it. He hesitates to hand it over. 

“I saw you. In the Hague,” he says as she latches onto the spine. He doesn’t let go. 

She looks at him. She has a serene look on her face, even as her eyes wander down to his pinned sleeve. She almost seems to brighten. 

“With the company?” She asks. “You saw me on stage?” 

“You’re real funny, miss,” he bounces on his heels. “Charming.” 

“Well, it’s the least I could do for your men. You gave so much,” she keeps a hold of the script. 

He looks at his left shoulder then at her. 

“Some things were taken,” he grumbles. 

She blanches, “pardon me, sir, I didn’t mean--” 

“I just wanted to say,” he overrides her apology. She doesn’t need to be sorry. “When I was in the medic’s tent, all those weeks, it was you. You got me through. I saw ya in the magazines. They were old, you know? Don’t get them hot off the press in the field.” 

“Sure,” she utters, he feels the tension in the folder as she tries to wiggle it away. “What’s your name, sir?” 

“James,” he answers. “James Buchanan Barnes.” 

She smiles, “that’s a lovely name. I do appreciate you coming to give me this. And for everything else.” 

He lets go of the folder. He expected more. She might invite him in for a drink. He did lose a fucking arm so the ladies could keep their precious slippers and robes. And he came all the way down her to give her that lump of papers. 

“You have a good day, sir,” she slowly inches the door forward. 

Where are her goddamn manners? 

He slaps his hand against the door and she squeaks in fright. He keeps her from closing it in his face. He cleaned himself up nice for her, he sent her a letter. He’s sent her at least a hundred. He signed them all JBB. She knows him. 

So why is she trying to shut him out? 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stumble back as the man shoves the door out of your grasp. You gasp and the grip the script with both hands, like a shield. He steps inside calmly. 

“James,” you say his name, “what are you doing?” 

“The least you can do is ask me in, doll,” he snarls. The sudden shift in his demeanour fills you with dread. 

“No, James, I did not. You need to leave--” 

He swings the door shut and marches toward you. You raise the script and bring it forward, aiming it at him in a desperate attempt to fend him off. He knocks it away easily. He's strong. Still a soldier even in street clothes. 

“James,” you hold your palms up helplessly, “please, forgive me if I’ve--” 

“Shhhh,” he reaches between your hands and grabs you by the jaw. “I just... I want to... did you get my letters?” 

“Letters?” You gulp, writhing in his hold as you gently touch his forearm. “Well, James, I get many letters--” 

“I write to you every day,” he hisses. “It’s me. JBB.” 

“James,” you murmur. 

“Stop saying my name,” he sneers. 

You shut your mouth, your lip poking out as it trembles. You stare at him, petting his sleeve, hoping you can calm him. The war changed a lot of men. It stole a lot of them too. 

“I just... I love you, doll. You got me through. You kept me breathing,” he growls as he walks her backward. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.” 

You whimper, “why don’t you let me go and I’ll pour you a drink?” 

He stops and his brows pinch together. He looks to his left, where your liquor cabinet stands in the dining room. Where your phone is... 

“No,” his eyes flick back to you. “No, I don’t drink.” 

He pushes you until your heels meet the bottom stair. Your right slipper falls off and he tips you over the incline. You fall beneath him as he follows you down. You push on his chest and wriggle. 

He straddles you beneath him as he looks you up and down. His knees are on the step by your hips, his heels two down. You brace the sharp edge and whine. 

“James...” 

He hushes you as his thumb rubs beneath your cheekbone. He stares at your body, his chest rising and falling heavily. You push yourself down into the stairs. 

“Open your robe,” he demands. 

Your lip quivers violently as you bat back tears. You do as he says. You unknot the belt and slowly draw it open. You tug the satin apart and reveal your silky nightgown. The fabric cling to you like water. 

He shudders as his jaw squares. He bites his lip and shifts over you. He leans in slowly and your eyes meet as he gets closer. They are blue and deep like the ocean. You shiver as his nose touches yours. 

He exhales and brushes his lips against yours. 

“Show me the bedroom,” he growls.  

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He lets her up cautiously. She steadies her feet and turns up the staircase. She limps up, click, clap, click, clap. He bends to pick up her slipper and follows. 

As she reaches the top, he stops her with her name. She pauses. He gets down and she doesn’t react until he shows her slipper. She puts her foot through. He stands and points her onward. 

He couldn’t climb to see through the bedroom window. He only ever saw the first floor. She hugs herself as her robe flutters around her figure. She opens the door at the end of the hall. She steps back to let him through and he tuts. 

He makes her go in first. She enters and sweeps around, far from him. He elbows the door shut. She cowers by the wall as he strides around.  

There’s a phone beside the bed. He grabs it and yanks it free of the cord. Her slippers suddenly click in a flurry. He drops the phone and catches her at the door. He crushes her against it so it snaps back into the frame. 

“Doll, don’t be doin’ all that,” he warns as he pinches her neck and urges her away from the door. She whimpers and he turns her to face the bed, “robe off.” 

He lets her go. She pulls away and drags his hands down her neck. She shyly pushes the robe from her shoulders and peels it off her body. The silk nightgown swathes her perfectly. Her shape is so full and soft. 

She drapes the robe over the bedpost and shies away. He clucks and snaps his fingers. 

“Doll,” he looks down at himself. He has the whole getup. Jacket, vest, tie, shirt. All for her. “Need your help.” 

She faces him. Her eyes glimmer like gems. She watches his hand smooth down his jacket and he unbuttons it. 

She nears him. She smells like vanilla. She brings her hands up. They shake. She must be excited. How could she not be? Finally, they’re together. 

He grabs his lapels and guides the jacket back. She’s tender with the folded sleeve and tickles his hemmed shirt beneath. She carries the jacket to the seat by her vanity and returns to him. He can see her pulse in her throat, it’s going just as fast as his. 

She unbuttons his vest and slips it off him. Her touch is soothing. Then she undoes his tie, her fingers brushing his throat. She unveils him, piece by piece, as his stomach clenches and unclenches. 

She stalls as she gets to his trousers. Her fingers twiddle just before the button. 

“It’s your first time,” he drawls. “Dont’ gotta be shy, doll.” 

She looks at him and swallows. She nods stiffly then puts her eyes down. The unplucks the front of his pants. He can make it nice for her. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

First time... 

Nope. You won’t say you haven’t made mistakes. Still, you won’t chance angering this man. Not more than you already have. You can keep up the act if it pays off. Not in money this time, no, your life. 

You stand back as he’s naked before you. Your wipe your damp palms on your nightie. He hangs his head. You can’t help but stare at his scars. The tortured flesh around his shoulder that extends onto his chest. Looks like a burn. 

His eyes startle you. You meet them. He steps closer. 

“Your turn,” he growls. 

You look down and reach for the thin lace straps of the night gown. You slide them down and shimmy the silken sheath down your figure. Your chest peeks over and he inhales audibly. As you push the fabric past your hips, he groans. 

Your eyes wander up for an instant. He's hard, bobbing shamelessly as he nears. All at once, he herding you back against the bed. You fall over the foot and bounce on the mattress. 

He crushes you. He kisses your lips then your cheek, smearing saliva across your face with his frantic hunger. You close your eyes and go rigid as you let him do what he pleases. 

His voice escapes him like silt. He nuzzles and nips along your throat. He shifts onto his side and feels up and down your torso. He fondles your tits and his mouth trails his touch. He seals his lips around your nipple, swirling his tongue around and around. 

He hooks his leg around yours. He pulls your thighs apart and his hand traces down your stomach and pelvis. He slips his middle finger between your lips and strums at your clit. You tense and twitch as your nerves stir. 

Your breath hitches as he rubs firmly. You turn your head and bite your knuckle as a moan escapes you. You arch your back as the sparks turn to a flame. You shake through your orgasm as he drags you through it. 

He pushes another finger between your folds. He rubs up and down, smearing your juices around as he hum. He lifts his head and nuzzles your cheek. 

“Kiss me, doll.” 

You pull your hand away and press your lips to his. His tongue delves into your mouth as his fingers slide into your cunt. He growls and smothers you as he rocks your pelvis. The heel of his hand rests against your clit and your toes curl as you writhe. You bend your legs as he lights another fire in you. 

He tilts his hips, rubbing his cock on your leg as he humps you in time with his fingers. Your walls squeeze and tremour and your climax again. You whine into his mouth and he drinks it in. 

He drags his fingers free and wipes your pleasure on your thighs. He parts from your mouth and heaves himself onto his knees. He kneels between your legs and traces the curves of your body with his hand. 

“Doll, please, you put me in,” he orders. “Be careful, don’t wanna hurt you.” 

You reach down without hesitation. You want this over with. You just hope he leaves after. 

You grab his cock and angle it down against your cunt. You flinch as his tip brushes your clit and you push him further back. You line him up with your entrance and he shakes. He grunts as he tenses and inches into you. 

He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose as he impales you. You constrict around him. He’s big enough to make your walls ache. He leans over you, planting his hand next to your head, and thrusts until he’s buried to his limit. 

You slap your palm against his chest and puff out through your locked jaw. You quake around him as he pulls back. His eyes fall to the crux of your bodies as he watches himself push into you again. You dig your nails into his skin. 

He snarls and bends his arm, holding himself on his elbow. He covers your mouth with his once more and rolls his hips. You whine and nearly gag around his tongue. He pumps again and again. You press against his sides as you squeeze him between your thighs. 

The bed shakes as his rhythm picks up. You push on his stomach and thigh, begging him silently to be nicer. He doesn’t heed your pleas. You give in to the ravaging of your body as he ruts wildly. You hook your hand around his bicep and clamp down to keep from biting his tongue. 

Just a bit more and it will end. Almost there. Almost free... right? 

[ferigrievous]

attractive things they do ; haikyuu ver . ⋆˚࿔

bokuto ; doesnt know personal space or manners when it comes to you. will wave to you in the middle of a test if he sees you passing in the hallway, or will yell your name if he spots you in the cafeteria. doesn’t matter if you saw each other five minutes ago, he still greets you like you’ve been gone a year.

akaashi ; has crazy fast reflexes. despite not being as muscular as bokuto, he still never wavers whenever he catches something, as seen when he caught him after he fainted. you dont even notice you dropped something before he’s handing it back to you.

aone ; waits for you to finish talking. never cuts people off, even when they’re rambling or slow. he’ll just nod and look at you like everything you say matters. he also doesnt stutter, and takes his time to speak. you dont mind it when people stutter, but you convince yourself its because he wants to think out every word he says (to you).

futakuchi ; worst teaser to walk the earth. says “yeah? and what if i did?” and “are ya’ gonna do something about it.” more than he sees his own mother. never oversteps, and knows what specifically to not bring up, but he knows you’ll always do something about it.

koganegawa ; says everything out loud. narrates his entire life and lets people know how he’s thinking, or what he’s doing. you usually find this annoying when other people do it, but somehow hes just funny and oblivious enough for it to cancel out.

ukai ; always smells good. could smoke up a whole room and down a whole bottle of whisky in an afternoon and he’d still smell good. you can smell him even after he’s left a room, but sometimes you think its just a placebo effect. you notice whenever its missing.

takeda ; watches the credit scenes of a movie. will clap, and will talk to other people about it like its just another thing. when people ask why, he says its because ‘someone worked hard on this!’ applies to other things too, but something as small as this gets you everytime.

kiyoko ; remembers everything you say. not in a creepy way, just in a soft, careful way. the kind of person who brings up something you forgot you even told her. you’ll offhandedly mention your favorite flower and a week later she’ll give you one.

yachi ; double checks everything. did you bring your coat? do you have your wallet and keys? did you do the homework?  she’s on it. says “just in case!” with this big worried smile like she can’t help it.

alisa ; takes the best pictures. most of her pictures are candid, ones you think are ugly but she’ll cherish like its made of pure gold. she rarely asks you to pose for a picture, but she always makes sure you look good. you almost never notice when she has her camera out until she tags you in a post later that night.

akane ; always has two extra hair ties. you never notice, because she always has her hair up, until alisa asks for it and you ask her why she has so many. she doesnt answer you, but you find out its because no one ever had hairties strong enough to hold her hair properly, so she makes sure no one else has that problem. not that youlll ever let her know you know this, of course.

konoha ; mimics people without realizing. picks up their slang, their hand gestures, the way they write their &s and ?s. whenever someone brings it up, he pretends not to notice because he’s too embarrassed. 

terushima ; stupidly smart. you hate it, how he’s not a high honors student, but a highest honors student, and has been for years. you never see him study, never see him struggle, and never even hear him talk about school outside of class, but he’s never had anything lower than a 90 on anything.

daisho ; always knows what you mean. when you’re struggling with words, he knows exactly what youre going to say before you even think of it. you usually hate it when other people do it because theyre almost always wrong, but he somehow knows what you mean every single time.

sakusa ; walks on the outside of the sidewalk. doesnt care about the sidewalk rule, doesnt care if the person/people hes walking with are 10x stronger and bigger than him. doesnt mention it, does it naturally, and if you purposely switch it, he’ll switch it back without you even noticing.

komori ; makes a big deal about small wins. big believer in ‘a little is better than nothing’. even if its something as simple like doing your bed or doing the dishes, he’ll grin and congratulate you anyway.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

I saw a blurb recently that turned my brain to mush and I think a lot of the people you write for would be perfect. The idea was the reader getting gas when usually it’s the partners job and they’re like “??? What are you doing that’s my job I take care of you??? Imagine Roy Kent or Bucky they’d just be flabbergasted

ooouuuu ok ok. i think i'm gonna write for Roy bc i can just imagine how confused and annoyed he'd be.

_____________________________

Roy was driving, but it was your car that he was using. Despite it being your car, Roy insisted that he'd drive you everywhere since, as he's explained it, "I'm your boyfriend. I'm supposed to drive you everywhere."

Although you never expected that of him. In the beginnings of your relationship, you had to get used to Roy opening your door, carrying your things, letting you enter first, things like it. You thought it was ridiculous at first, however, you grew to love it. Especially since you were used to doing everything and never really had someone in your life be willing to do these little mundane things for you.

Now years into your relationship with Roy, you were used to him doing everything for you. Did his mates say he was whipped for you? Yes, but he didn't fucking hair a bit. He loves you so he'd do anything and everything for you.

This time around, you'd test to see if Roy would get upset if you tried to do things for yourself again.

It started off small like opening the door for yourself or insisting that you could carry your own bag.

You'd see how confused Roy would get, his bushy brows furrowing as he'd try to figure out why the sudden change in your behavior. But he stayed silent on the matter. Until now.

He rolls up to the petrol station and before he can even unbuckle himself, you quickly release yourself, hopping out of the car. Wallet in hand, you're ready to pump the gas into your car until Roy rushes out.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" he asks gruffly.

You look at him confused, "I'm gonna fill up my car?"

"Get the fuck inside. That's not your job."

You chuckle, "Roy, it's my car."

"Yeah, but I'm driving it, so I pay for it."

"You don't have to."

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, the leather jacket he likes to wear, tightening around his arms, "I'm your boyfriend. I'm supposed to take care of you."

You mimic his pose, "I can take care of myself."

"I know...but you don't have to."

You can't help but drop the act and wrap your arms around Roy, "Fuck you and your heart of gold, Roy Kent."

"The fuck? What the fuck is up with you?"

You pull back a bit to look at him, "Nothing. I was just testing you."

"Testing me? Fucking hell..." he asks with a cock of his brow, "Did I pass?"

"With flying colors, babes," you lean in and peck his lips, "Now fill up my car."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "Right. Of course."