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acourtofwhatthefuck · 7 months

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Practice On Me — Part Eight — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Everything is starting to get on top of reader and tensions rise. Azriel takes a trip to Fenlaros and comes away with a headache. Cassian does what Cassian does best. A friendly face swoops in to save the day.

Word count: 8.3k.

Warnings: A little freaky deaky 18+, NSFW, smut, minors dni.

Azriel’s kiss is a burning brand.

It’s fire and ice and earth and rain. It tastes like freshly set snow, and it feels like the refined touch of a steeled warrior.

He kisses you like he aches for you. He pulls his hands away only to remove his gloves and chuck them aside, and then he’s clasping your face once more, skin on skin. He’s always so warm — a part of him you’ve missed.

And a part of him that drives you to kiss him back with barely any hesitation.

This — his mouth on yours — feels like the answer to a riddle you’ve been puzzling out for days, weeks, months, years. You’re gasping for air, and his tongue is sliding between your lips, and his taste overpowers you so thoroughly that you think it could break something inside of you.

There isn’t much furniture left in here. A few scattered tables, a shelf or two hanging off the wall. Not much to work with, and yet it doesn’t matter, because you and Azriel will have each other however you can. You’ve spent a lifetime making do with whatever you’ve got. This is no different.

Azriel’s hands fall down to your hips, and he’s lifting you so abruptly that a yelp leaves you and lands straight on his lips. Your arms loop around his neck, and he’s fastening your legs at his waist and stumbling with you — stumbling towards one of those old tables. A plume of dust erupts around you as he sets you down and slots himself between your legs.

“I fucking miss you.” He groans, grabbing your face. “I miss…us.”

You feel so many things. There’s no chance to sort through them, verbalise them, before his mouth slants over yours again. He’s hungry, needy. Hot and sinful. This Azriel is a far cry from the one who coyly confessed to his inexperience. This Azriel writes poetry onto your lips and paints masterpieces on your tongue. He kisses like eternal happiness depends on it. He kisses as though he’s been an artful lover for centuries.

He’s been practicing, the thought pops into your head.

Not with me, the realisation follows.

And that feels like being thrown stark-naked into the snow. It’s not a nice feeling — to realise that Azriel may be treating you to skill refined elsewhere. Not when you think about kissing him more than you’d like to admit to yourself. Does it make you a gods-damned hypocrite after what you did with Cassian? Perhaps.

But none of this — not one bit of it — is reasonable, or rational, or logical.

All you know is that your stomach lurches suddenly, violently, at the thought of where else Azriel’s lips might have been. And that’s all it takes for you to shove him away.

He stares at you, wide-eyed. Perplexed.

“I needed you.” You pant, the words tumbling from you in a flurry of charged emotion. You’re not sure you planned to say it. “On Solstice — I needed you.”

Azriel’s face changes in the blink of an eye. The hunger is gone, replaced by…something else. “Y/N—”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there. You promised me.”

“I know I did. And I’m sorry—”

“Did you even think of me?” It’s awkward, but you try to scramble back on the table. You just…need that distance right now. “Did you not wonder how I might be doing, how my day might be playing out in that hellish house, before you jumped into bed with Kaeda?”

“We didn’t—”

“Did you think of me?”

“Y/N, of course I thought of you.” He tries to clamp down on your legs, but you’re moving further away, damn near falling off the table in your efforts. “But you — you said you would come and find me. I waited for you—I—”

You’re really not sure if it’s a strangled sob or a choked laugh that fights its way up your throat. Perhaps it’s both. The sound of it is jarring, and it echoes around the armoury and reminds you of where you find yourself right now. The situation you’re in. How different things might be had Kaeda not come onto the scene.

“You waited for me?” You repeat, righting yourself. “And—what? Did you get bored? How do you think it felt, Azriel, when I came to find you — the only person I wanted to fucking be around in that moment — and you were busy with Kaeda on top of you? As if I needed my heart breaking any more that night.”

You hate it — hate it so viscerally that the words won’t stop coming. That you’re bringing your heart into this and allowing it to be stomped on again. Your eyes are watering, and you turn quickly before Az can see.

For a moment, he says and does absolutely nothing. And then he takes a step closer to you.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. Believe me, I am.” He says. There’s another step. Another. He’s hovering at your back and you know he’s wondering whether he should reach out and touch you. “But, Y/N…you encouraged me to pursue things with Kaeda. Am I to apologise for that?”

You blink at his words so abruptly that your tears spill down your cheeks.

Now you’re laughing.

It’s a humourless laugh — a hysterical one. It breaks from you in a series of fractured, incredulous noises. At least the emotion boils your blood so thoroughly that it warms you from the inside.

“Apologise?” You round on Azriel, balling your fists at your sides. “No. You don’t need to fucking apologise. But you also don’t need me to practice on anymore, do you?”

He clamps down on his jaw, a telltale muscle moving. “I didn’t kiss you for that—”

“You kissed me because you miss me. Because I am…I’m just a security blanket, aren’t I? I’m what’s familiar, and you’re used to being around me, and having distance between us has fooled you into thinking that you want to kiss me.”

“No—”

“But you’ll kiss me…and make me feel good..and then the novelty will fucking wear off, and you’ll be running straight back to Kaeda because she is who you’ve wanted all along. Not me. Never me.”

“Cauldron, Y/N, will you just let me speak?!”

No.

You will not.

You can’t.

You can’t do this. You can’t break in front of him. You refuse to.

You want to sound strong, and sure, and unbothered, but you open your mouth, and the words are watery and broken. Weak.

“No.” You swallow a lump down. “No, I won’t. Just…just go, Az. I need some time.”

“We’ve spent the last week apart. That’s plenty of fucking time—”

“Go! Go back to Kaeda. Stop…stop pretending like this could play out any other way. It can’t. It won’t.”

“I’m not leaving on an unresolved fight. You and I don’t do that.”

You are far too beaten down to discuss this any longer. You shrug, and the gesture is an effort in itself. “I’m not sure I know what either of us do or don’t do anymore. Things have changed. Go.”

“Y/N—”

“Go!”

Finally, it seems to dawn on him — the realisation that you’re serious. You won’t be discussing this tonight. You’re not strong enough for that yet.

He falters a moment longer, so clearly not wanting to walk away. The two of you have never been like this. You can fight like the best of friends do, but you’ve always made the effort to resolve things, to not part on a bad word.

But things are different, now. You know it. Az knows it.

“…Fine.” He rasps after a long stint of silence. “I’ll go.”

You nod. If he’s expecting you to suddenly change your mind, he’ll be gravely disappointed.

His eyes sweep you once more, and then he’s turning. Dragging his feet to the door like a kicked animal.

“Az?” You call quietly, and he stops.

The hope in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder almost breaks your resolve. Almost, but not quite. “Yes?”

“Send Cassian next time.”

He doesn’t deign to reply.

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Azriel is not well-versed in the world of dinner parties and propriety.

He has a few decent shirts he reserves for special occasions — like when Rhys’s mother cooks a nice meal, and he and the others dress up out of respect.

Y/N would laugh herself hoarse if she could see him right now.

A thought that stings almost as much as the intense, burning gaze of Tathaln Baralas, Lord of Fenlaros.

He’s a mammoth, domineering presence at the head of the dinner table, seeming to command every bite that each person takes of their food, every sip of their wine. It’s silent unless he speaks. It’s tense because he makes it tense.

He watches Azriel as though he’s going to finish his food and then take a bite out of the shadowsinger himself. Az’s shadows are taut around him, not wanting to make a spectacle of their brilliance. The dinner so far has felt like one big, held breath.

But finally, Tathaln clears his throat, and Kaeda and her brothers sit up straight. Az does the same.

“I trust your friends have fared well since your little adventure in my camp.” The Lord addresses Azriel. “I hope the punishment wasn’t too severe. I did many similar things in my youth — though I can’t say I was ever quite so bold as to venture into a rival territory.”

Azriel inclines his head slightly. “I wanted to apologise again — for what happened. Things got out of hand.”

“I’m partly to blame, father, as you know.” Kaeda adds. Azriel damn near jumps out of his seat as her hand lands on his thigh beneath the table. “It was my idea to invite my friends from Windhaven. An oversight, perhaps, on my part. I was eager to show Azriel what Fenlaros has to offer.”

Tathaln seems to think on that as he chews his food. He washes it down with a gulp of wine and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass. The whole thing feels like somewhat of a performance, and nobody speaks a word as it plays out.

This family dynamic is…odd. Not that Azriel has much experience where normal family dynamics are concerned. But there’s a formality with which Kaeda and her brothers — not that the two males have breathed a word this entire meal — address their flesh and blood. Like he is their Lord first, and father second.

And that isn’t unusual for Illyrians — not at all. Offspring are, more often than not, treated like a prospective trophy to be paraded in front of competing families. The fiercer, more ruthless the child is, the prouder the parent will be. It’s a brutal, ugly way of living that never changes, no matter how many generations stack up.

But perhaps Azriel is at fault for having too high an expectation. Perhaps he shouldn’t ever have been fooled by Kaeda’s wings and spirit being left intact, unlike most females around her.

Tathaln is a puppeteer, and Kaeda and her brothers are his dutiful puppets.

“There was no particular harm done.” The Lord eventually says — rather reasonable, for an Illyrian. “I imagine you received a stern talking to. Revoked privileges, perhaps?”

“Lord Devlon saw fit to lecture us, yes.” Azriel concurs with a nod. “But besides that, we weren’t really handed any punishment. It was my friend, Y/N, who bore the brunt of his wrath. She’s been forced into homelessness as a result.”

A sudden, sharp kick lands on Az’s leg from beside him. He glances at Kaeda in his periphery, eyes the fierce expression with which she looks at him. It seems to be communicating, don’t bring this up now.

But Az wants to bring it up. He’s pissed off; more so than he initially thought. At himself, mostly, and at Devlon, at Rhys’s father, maybe even a little at Kaeda — at everyone really.

Tathaln pauses, his fork mid-air. And then he sits back. “Right — the girl that was here. Why has she been made homeless?”

Girl. It’s a sneer of a word in Illyrian mouths. Azriel has to clamp down on his jaw and remind himself that confronting the sexism that runs through their veins is a fruitless task in that moment.

And Kaeda sighs at his side. As if she’d rather be talking in great detail about the roasting of a boar, than about Y/N.

But it answers a question that’s been rattling around in Azriel’s mind all evening — that no, Kaeda had clearly not mentioned Y/N to her father, as she said she would.

“Her father kicked her out on Solstice.” Az explains. “He’s not a good male, to say the least. Y/N was living with myself and my friends, but after the events that unfolded here in Fenlaros, she was sworn off having any contact with us, because Lord Devlon seems to think that she’s the driving force behind any and every bad choice we make. She has nowhere else to go. It’s…worrying.”

“Perhaps she’ll think twice before wandering into rival camps.” Finally, one of Kaeda’s brothers speaks. Arlen, Azriel thinks his name is. Clearly the idiot doesn’t see the irony of his statement.

Or perhaps Kaeda doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that every other female is strictly held under.

“Arlen.” The Lord shoots him a warning glance. He turns back to Azriel. “I would argue that Lord Devlon is full of shit.”

Azriel stops. Blinks. That…that’s not what he was expecting.

“How so, father?” Kaeda’s brow furrows.

“It’s his job to keep the soldiers under his command in line, no?” Tathaln’s dark, feline eyes are assessing Azriel as he speaks — seeming to read his response. “If he finds that a single female is the cause of such disruption, perhaps it is himself he should look at. He can’t be a great leader if he has to resort to such extremes just to keep his soldiers under control, now, can he?”

Az stares back at him. The question is meant for him, but it all seems too…too easy. Reason and logic are simply not a common thing among these people. The words sound almost…false. Forced.

“No.” Azriel agrees. “I suppose not.”

“Do you find him to be an adequate leader?”

“I’ve never known any different.”

Tathaln’s mouth tips up. “That isn’t what I asked.”

No, it isn’t. But this is a fine line Azriel is treading. He positively despises Lord Devlon — thinks him an arrogant brute who uses his title to flout camp laws and customs and turn everything in his favour. Not to mention the fact that he and his cronies are so clearly threatened by Az, Rhys and Cass — an undoubtedly formidable trio. Azriel is sure that if Devlon had his way, the three of them would be slung out by their necks. Or hung by them.

But his personal feelings towards the Lord of Windhaven doesn’t change the fact that openly disrespecting him — and to the lord of another camp — is a huge dishonour. One that could blow up in Azriel’s face if this conversation were to somehow make its way back to Devlon. He has to choose his words carefully.

“He has a method of leadership that I can’t say I’m in agreement with.” Gods, he is the epitome and personification of diplomacy, if he does say so himself. Ten points to the shadowsinger. “I’m not sure that using his power to target vulnerable females was ever part of his job description. I’m sure, as a father to a female of the same age, you can see where I’m coming from.”

Tathaln takes another pensive sip of his wine. He inclines his head. “Indeed, I do. I think it’s terrible leadership. And I think you’re wasted in Windhaven.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.”

“There is no need for modesty, Azriel, the shadowsinger.” As he speaks, the Lord’s eyes inch towards those very shadows. He studies them with a strange expression that looks almost like…hunger. “Do you know why I sent my Kaeda to your camp? I may as well admit, I have an agenda.”

Azriel glances at Kaeda. She’s staring at her plate, shoulders squared. “Oh?”

“I sent her there to scope out the quality of the units that are being trained in the Windhaven Camp. My sons were sent on similar missions to other camps — Camp Theriel, Camp Steelshore, Camp Aruin. The consensus of what was reported back to me regarding each camp was that potential is not being filled. Quite frankly, a mockery is being made of Illyrians by the poor training of these legions. If war was waged tomorrow, half of our race could be wiped out.”

Bold, bold words.

Azriel finds himself stunned silent.

“We are Illyrians, no?” A thick, callused finger traces the rim of Tathaln’s chalice. “We are a warrior race. We have birthed some of the fiercest warriors in Prythian’s history and decimated tens of thousands across battlefields. And yet, it would seem, these days, that our camps are producing fewer warriors, and far more lazy, unambitious brutes who care only about drinking and fighting and fucking. Our reputation could be destroyed yet.”

This is…bizarre, Az thinks.

He also thinks that it’s a little unfair. He’s the last person to ever defend the creatures around him that are supposedly his brethren, but he also thinks that Tathaln’s assessment is wildly exaggerated.

Illyrians drink, yes, and fight, yes, and fuck, yes. But they do so in between harsh, gruelling training. They drink to forget the brutal nature of their life’s work. They fight each other because they’re just as angry as one another, and that needs an outlet. They seek pleasure, because it’s one of the few good things to be found in these parts.

Their training is not for the faint of heart. You train well, or you die. It’s that simple.

And if Tathaln, Lord of Fenlaros, truly has such concerns, Azriel doesn’t understand why the fuck they’re being presented to him, of all people.

“Is this something you’ve raised with the High Lord?” He asks — he isn’t sure he even means to say it.

Kaeda tenses beside him, and Az wonders if, perhaps, he’s overstepped the mark. But Tathaln seems somewhat pleased by the question — seems pleased that Azriel is engaged in the discussion.

“It is.” The male answers. “And I think he finds himself agreeable to what I’ve had to say. However, I haven’t yet presented my solution — what I believe to be the right course of action.”

Az takes the bait. “Which is what?”

“Eventually,” Tathaln says, “I would do away with the individual camps entirely. I would have one, sole camp to train Illyrian warriors, overseen by the most powerful members of our race. Members with rare, unique powers who can draw on the Illyrian potential and make our people what we were always supposed to be. What we once were, before we became too complacent. Better, even.”

And just like that, it makes sense that Tathaln is sharing such things with Az.

Rare, unique powers. Powers like that of a shadowsinger. So incredibly unique that Azriel has never met another of his kind.

Tathaln has ambition — he covets power. He has a vision that needs backing.

It’s like everything suddenly clicks into place in Azriel’s mind.

He finds himself looking at Kaeda, not her father. Finds himself wondering if she ever had genuine interest in him, or if that interest came entirely from Tathaln. Finally, she lifts her gaze to his, and she wears a strange, pleading look.

“Don’t get me wrong, shadowsinger.” Tathaln says. “This is not a goal that could be achieved overnight. Power takes time to build. I couldn’t take this idea to the High Lord without something to back it up — something to get him on side.”

Azriel shrugs. “But what would you have me do? I’m just a soldier in training—”

“You are a shadowsinger. Do you even realise what an asset that makes you? Perhaps your poor start in life, your mistreatment, has caused you to downplay your potential. But I see it. Your power could be a lethal weapon on a battlefield. And off a battlefield. There is so much you could be doing, and yet Lord Devlon has you landing punches on a sparring dummy and calls it training? You are made for better things than that.”

Praise is…it’s a rare thing, in Azriel’s world. And he doesn’t care about that, because the little praise he does get comes from the people who matter, and that’s all he needs.

But hearing somebody other than his close friends — his family — speak so highly of him, is…new. And he’d be lying if he claimed not to like it.

Still, Tathaln is clearly beating around the proverbial. Azriel almost doesn’t want the discussion to go any further, because his head is already full to the brim with swimming thoughts and close to exploding. But they’ve come this far already; he may as well learn what his role in this bigger agenda would be.

“What is it you want from me, my Lord?” He asks.

A small smile plays on Tathaln’s mouth. His eyes, yet again, are on Azriel’s shadows, rather than Az himself. “As I said, change cannot be made overnight. It would take years — generations, perhaps. I would need enough males — strong males — backing my cause, before the High Lord would even hear of it. But I am a patient male. I know what I want, what is right for Illyria, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Starting with strengthening my camp. Being known as the strongest of all camps. And strengthening my influence, too.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Having your power on my side could be a good thing for me. And I could hone you. I believe this mission starts with you. Abandon Windhaven and take up residence in Fenlaros. Train under my command. Come and see exactly how wasted you are in that place. Come and see what we could build together.”

“You want me to be your pet?” Azriel raises an eyebrow. “Your project?”

“I want to hone your potential and show you what an asset you are. I want Illyrians to be a feared people once more. I want to build the strongest, most powerful army in all of Prythian and make Illyria what it was always supposed to be.”

In the wake of the impassioned speech, silence sweeps in. Azriel is staring at his plate, and he thinks he might be feeling cold all over. There’s a strange tingling at the back of his neck — like a warning sign.

He still doesn’t understand why he’d be integral to such an agenda. He’s a shadowsinger, yes, and that is not to be downplayed, but he’s just Azriel. He’s just an Illyrian who trains to fight, and fights to kill, and to one day be killed. That is simply how it is.

And Windhaven — ugly and cold and harrowing as it is — is his home. His family is there. A cottage that is far too small and cramped to house a group of adults but is always a beacon of light and hope and warmth. A place in which he’s made wonderful memories and felt genuine happiness. He’s happy to tolerate the hellish ways of life around him, because he has beautiful things in front of him.

Beautiful things that wouldn’t follow him to Fenlaros. Yes, he may have broken a rule and breached a camp to attend a party — but doing so under casual circumstances is wildly different to doing so under official ones. As a soldier of Fenlaros — as one of Tathaln’s puppets — he would be expected to adhere to the strict rules and standards that he metes out. Fenlaros would be his territory, and there would be no blurring of those lines.

But could Tathaln really be seeing more potential in Azriel than had ever been noticed before? Could it truly be that Fenlaros has more to offer him? More to be done for him?

“I would be turning my back on everything I know.” Az says, the mere words tasting sour in his mouth. “My loved ones. The family I’ve built. They would be left behind. I’m not under any illusion that you’d allow our two camps to interact if I came here.”

Tathaln dips his chin. “I am not going to sugarcoat that. It would be an adjustment, and a painful one at first. But there is far more for you here, shadowsinger. I simply ask that you consider it. Just as I believe your two brothers would consider it, if I were to present the offer to them.”

“And why haven’t you? Presented it to them? Why me?”

Those dark, calculating eyes swallow him up. “I need a shadowsinger. It starts with you.”

Azriel isn’t even sure what that means, and he doesn’t want to think about it any longer. There’s a lump in his throat. His appetite is well and truly gone. He might even be sick.

He couldn’t possibly leave his family. The thought makes him violently ill.

“As I said, all I ask is for your consideration.” Tathaln watches him. And then his eyes slide to his daughter. “As this meal is clearly over, perhaps Kaeda should show you around Fenlaros. Show you what this place might have to offer. Give the shadowsinger a tour, my sweet.”

Kaeda smiles broadly. “Yes, father.”

Az wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. Too much is going on in his head. He wants to get out of there and go straight back to Windhaven, where it’s familiar and where love waits for him. He doesn’t want to be a component in a greater agenda.

When he met Kaeda, it was simply about…exploring attraction. About experiencing. Not about this.

But he can’t fucking speak. He stands without telling his body to stand.

And for some reason, when Kaeda slides her hand into his, murmurs a soft “come, Azriel”, he doesn’t protest.

Numb and stunned and sick to his stomach he may be. But he follows.

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Azriel isn’t sure if he’s heard a single word that has left Kaeda’s mouth.

She speaks, and yet it’s simply background noise. He can’t hear around the screeching in his head.

He should really just take to the skies and fly home, but perhaps he’s already a puppet — his feet stay on Fenlaros turf. Kaeda guides him around the camp as though the conversation at dinner never happened. She shows him her favourite haunts and introduces him to people whose names he forgets instantly.

It's up on a viewpoint overlooking the camp, just he and Kaeda alone, that he finally releases a slow, weary breath. He folds his arms against the railing and welcomes the cold air biting into his skin. Kaeda stands just a short distance away.

“We call this area the Widow’s Watch.” She says, daring a step closer. “It’s said that centuries ago, at the end of battle, the camp wives would gather up here with firelit torches and await their husbands’ return. If their husband returned, they’d extinguish the torch. Those that were left burning signified who did not return from war.”

Azriel says nothing; isn’t sure he’s capable. He digs his fingers into his arm.

Eventually, Kaeda stops at his side, also bracing her arms on the railing. She looks out over the camp wistfully, as though she can see hordes of wounded soldiers returning home. “I can’t imagine how eerie that sight must have been — the beacons of the dead painting the sky with fire.”

“No,” the agreement leaves the shadowsinger unexpectedly — surprises even him. “Neither can I.”

It’s then that Kaeda angles herself towards him just slightly. He meets her gaze. She’s so very beautiful — the kind of female that artists beg to paint. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her lips full. Her eyes look like shards of glimmering green rock. Never is there a hair out of place. Never a stray lash or smudged rouge. She is, quite simply, a vision.

But Az finds himself wondering if he’s ever known any part of her, or if she’s just following orders.

“I know you must have questions.” She eyes him cautiously.

“So many that my brain can’t keep up.” He takes a small step away. “Have you ever been genuinely interested in me?”

“I have.”

“Your father literally sent you to cozy up to me.”

Her eyes shutter, thick lashes fanning against her skin. “It wasn’t like that, Azriel. I mean — it was, to some degree. You’re right that my father sent me, and that he already had his sights set on you. I work for him. I’m training as his spymaster.” She opens those eyes again — wide. “Yes, he told me to get to know you. But he didn’t say romantically. That was all me. I just…like you.”

Gods, it should feel good, feel like a positive thing, to hear that. To know that the beautiful female he’s been getting to know these past months has genuine interest in him.

But he feels…nothing. No sense of relief. Only the anger that’s still simmering at this entire thing being orchestrated by her father.

“Does it not bother you?” His tone is brusque, sharp, as he stares Kaeda down. “That your father has you do his bidding? You’re a pawn in a game.”

“My father has a vision. It is an honour to serve him, and to be a contributor to that vision eventually coming to fruition. I will not apologise for that.”

“A vision. To create…to create one fucking super camp that he is to oversee? It sounds to me like your father has a hunger for power. Things have worked this way in Illyria for millennia. Why should they be changed now?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Things aren’t working. That’s just the problem.”

“You—”

“Are you proud to be an Illyrian, Azriel?” She steps closer to him; perhaps too close. “I’m not. Not with how things are right now. But I want to be. We are a warrior race. We are supposed to train, and fight, and protect. We’re supposed to be formidable. We’re supposed to be feared. But with the way things are going, fewer and fewer of those things are remaining true. If we don’t change how things are run across these camps and light a fire under our soldiers’ asses, half of our people could be wiped out when the next war comes. The Illyrian race could cease to exist entirely, and our legacy will be left at the mercy of rhyme and tale. We can’t allow that to be the case.”

Azriel studies her.

Her passion is…intense, yes, but also strangely beautiful. There’s a ferocity in her eyes that is so rare among a people who live and breathe misery; whose lot in life is to die.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that he appreciates Tathaln’s scheming, nor Kaeda’s. But they’re not exactly wrong in that ambition is a rare commodity these days. Those who can train for the Illyrian army do so because it’s what is expected of them. Those who aren’t cut out for it make do with everyday jobs around camp. Nobody has pride or passion. Nobody is prepared for war.

So Azriel’s shoulders relax just a little, even though his scepticism remains very much present. “I still don’t understand why I am being scouted for this cause, though. Why not take it to the High Lord? Or why not get Rhysand on side?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “As my father explained, we simply don’t have enough backing to go to the High Lord about this idea — not yet. He knows of my father’s opinion and even agrees that things need to change, but such a complex idea requires careful handling. And conspiring with his son about it would surely not put us in his favour.”

“So…what? I’m the next best thing?”

“After Rhysand, you’re the most powerful, yes. Your influence could aid us greatly. I don’t think you realise how highly coveted you are. Every other camp is aware of the fact that Windhaven has a shadowsinger. And they’re equally aware that your abilities aren’t being put to their full potential under Lord Devlon’s command. Changes will be made whether you accept my father’s offer or not, Azriel. But the changes we’re proposing are the best ones. The right ones.”

“I don’t see what’s right about having to leave my friends — my brothers—”

“Gods, Azriel, just…just take the emotion out of this for five seconds and listen to me.”

Az’s jaw clenches. “I am listening.”

“Then hear me clearly. Change is coming. It’s inevitable. And one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that even if you weren’t to come to Fenlaros, you would still be separated from your friends, or your brothers, or whatever you call them.” She hovers close enough to touch, now, mere inches from him. “One thing I’ve picked up on in Windhaven is that Lord Devlon is very intimidated by the strength of you, Cassian and Rhysand being together. The older you get, the more powerful you’re becoming, and people are growing aware of that. Devlon intends to separate the three of you, and by any means necessary. He can’t risk the threat you pose to him. He’ll tear you apart.”

The information doesn’t surprise Az one bit. He’s sensed a growing panic amongst Devlon and his cronies. They don’t stand a chance against the future High Lord and his two closest friends. And Azriel doesn’t doubt that if physical separation didn’t work, the callous bastards would resort to something far, far worse. Or try, at least.

But still, none of this is making any fucking sense to him. He needs a stiff drink. Or twenty. “How would coming to Fenlaros solve that in any way?”

“Beating Devlon at his own game — separating yourself from your brothers — will lure him into a false sense of security. With you gone, it’ll be one less problem to worry about. He’ll let his guard down. Meanwhile, we’ll be building our influence here and forming a case that can be taken to the High Lord. With his support of our changes, we’ll have the power to do more. And then eventually…eventually, your brothers can join you here. When we have more ground to work on. My father would never begrudge the bond the three of you have. He’d see it as a positive…having three such powerful Illyrians under his command.”

Too much to think about. Way, way too much. Azriel just wants to get out of there. He wants to lie down in a dark room and pretend nothing and no one exists.

But he stares at Kaeda. And he asks, “And what of Y/N? Could she come here, too?”

There’s a very slight hesitance — small, but certainly there. But then she purses her lips, and she shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

He’s not sure she means it. And that…that’s a whole other rabbit hole he’s not sure he can face going down right now. Another situation entirely.

Before he can say anything else, Kaeda closes the gap between them. She cups his face and leans up, close enough that their mouths are almost touching.

“Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” She says. “I really do like you, Azriel. And I really do think we could have something. Think of what we could do here, together. Of what we could be. We could make history. Just…promise me you’ll think about it.”

His lips part with a response he hasn’t even thought of. But there’s no chance to speak it as Kaeda slants her mouth over his and kisses him slowly, softly. Deeply.

Her fingers sink into the strands of his hair, and she breathes a muted hum into his mouth. She tastes like peppermint and sugar, and she kisses as though she hasn’t just laid the weight of the world on Azriel’s shoulders.

And that weight might be why he’s stiff as a board, barely reacting. Or it might be the horrible feeling of dread that this is all wrong. He kissed another female, earlier today — and that kiss had felt like burning, eternal sunshine.

This one feels like…like a ploy.

“Just promise me.” She pulls away just enough to whisper. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

There’s no way he can’t think about it. The seeds have been sown. And perhaps he feels a little slither of guilt for how rigid and cold he currently is, because he doesn’t shoot her plea down like he should.

He sucks in a slow breath and inclines his head.

“Okay.” He says. “I’ll think about it.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The fucking wall is Azriel’s fucking face.

At least, that’s what the fuck you tell yourself as you send a dagger hurtling at it and watch it bury its point into the surface. Another scuff mark to add to the growing smattering, all courtesy of you.

Fuck. Him.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so angry in your life, and Cauldron knows, you’ve had ample reason to. But this anger is…it’s consuming. It’s violent and jagged and nauseating. It’s claws sinking into your heart and your brain and dissecting everything that plagues you in both sleep and consciousness.

And it’s this severe because you care. You care so very much.

You’re sick of caring.

Why would he kiss you, after all that has happened since the last time? To taunt you? To grab your feelings in his fist and twist them? To practice on you?

And to think you almost gave in to that strange, carnal need to have his hands on you again. You cannot — will not — allow yourself to think about which deeper emotion or desire that need is rooted in. Thinking will lead only to realisations that may destroy you yet.

And he’s probably with Kaeda right now, too. Perhaps losing himself in her, forgetting all about you with the aid of her touch—

You scowl and march to the wall, yanking your dagger out. Your anger and your need to just…move, is keeping you warm, at least. Nighttime in the old armoury is about as pitiful as can be imagined, but the relentless cold is actually a strange…relief. It hurts in a satisfying way.

How fucking dare he, your mind chants, not for the first time, as you stalk back to your spot. How dare he treat you as though you’re nothing? You brace yourself and send the dagger hurtling towards the wall once again—

The door is suddenly bursting open, and the weapon only just misses Cassian’s face on its journey as he strides in, arms full of items you don’t care to look at.

He stops abruptly. Blinks. “Did you just throw a dagger at me?”

“No.” You immediately scowl, stalking over to retrieve it yet again. “Fuck you.”

“Ouch. Fuck you right back. I brought blankets and food.”

“Shove them up your ass.”

“I’d really rather not.” He kicks the door shut behind him and strides over to the pile of your scant belongings, dropping his items and freeing his arms. He turns back to you with raised eyebrows. “Is there a particular reason you’re acting like a little storm cloud, or is it just a way to pass the time?”

Finally, you sheath your blade — partly because you’re not sure you trust yourself with it right now. You face your friend, fully aware that you’re out of line and fully resentful of the fact.

“I had an argument with Az.” You admit, not even certain you mean to.

Cassian’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that explains why he nearly bit my head off earlier, too. What did you fight about?”

Do you tell him? Do you confess all your complicated, messed up feelings — the bizarre circumstances that brought them about — when you haven’t even sorted through them yourself? No. You can’t. It’s a bit too soon for that.

“It was…nothing.” You stalk over to your things. “Just nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing—”

“Thank you for bringing me these.” You toe a thick blanket with your boot.

Yet again, Cassian’s eyebrows go up. “Are you hinting at me to leave?”

“Just because I have to face the night in this hovel, doesn’t mean you should be subjected to the same fate. I wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“Well, fucking expect it, because I’m staying—”

“Cass—”

“Come here.” He opens his arms. “Right now.”

You stare at him. And in that instant, with him seeing you — seeing everything you are, everything you’re feeling, what you need — your anger simmers, and it threatens to turn into tears.

“You clearly need a hug.” He points out softly. “And I’ve missed you this past week. So come here.”

In an instant, you crumble. You’re stepping forward and damn near falling into Cassian’s arms. He catches you, just like he always catches you.

His arms band around you, warmer and more secure than any blanket. He pulls you tightly against him, and you allow your arms to snake around his waist. It’s only then that you realise how much you need the firmness of his body to hold you up. He’s like a huge, supporting wall that stops you sinking to your knees.

“I’m so sad.” You whisper, nestling your face into his chest. His scent and his warmth permeate his clothes, and they combine and wash over you in a soothing combination.

“I know.” His broad hand cups the back of your head. “Everything is a huge mess right now. But we’re going to get through it — together.”

You hate that you can’t believe him; not right now. Everything is too up in the air, too uncertain. A dark mass has followed you around this camp for the entirety of your life, and it’s closer than ever to closing in and snuffing out who you are.

“How can you be so sure?” You ask. “I don’t think I have the strength to fight anymore, Cass.”

He pulls back to study you. To cup your face and look into your eyes. “Yes.” He says firmly. “You do. You always have and you always will. There is nothing — nothing — you can’t face. I truly believe that, Y/N.”

Staring back at him feels just like…like the night in the cottage, when you lost yourself in him. Him being there for you, speaking the words that are so hard to believe and yet so what you need to hear. The same urge arises in you to give over to those feelings. Do something for yourself for once.

You think Cassian might read that thought on your face. Perhaps you wear it shamelessly.

He studies you closely — studies you hard. And his throat bobs as his eyes flit down to your lips.

“Y/N.” He says. “Let me make you feel good.”

You swallow, also. And you don’t need to think about it. “Yes.” You nod. “Yes.”

In a flash, he’s closing the gap between you, his mouth finding yours. The hot and heavy weight of his lips is a relief. One that makes you release a soft sigh.

You don’t let yourself think about the fact that you were kissing Azriel in this very building only earlier. Nor about the fact that it could have gone much further than that. Cassian gives you himself, and you take, your hands bunching in his jacket as you haul him against you.

His hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to him. And as his mouth stains yours with his urgent need, he’s backing you up, walking you back and back until you collide with that very table that Az kissed you on earlier. Cassian picks you up in an easy sweep and places you on the tabletop. He parts your legs and slots himself in between, his mouth never once leaving yours, never once faltering.

Until he parts from you and says, “Lie back.”

With his hand guiding you down, you do just that. You sprawl out on that table, anticipation coiling in your stomach. It warms you from the inside, makes your skin too hot and your clothes too heavy.

Cassian doesn’t mess around with teasing or taunting. He drags his hands over your breasts, your stomach, and down to the laces at your breeches. You don’t care about the cold air. You lift your hips and wish only for him to undo those laces faster. You want your skin bare, and his touch marking it.

“I didn’t get to taste you last time.” Your friend pants, pressing a kiss to your abdomen. “Will you let me now?”

Goosebumps erupt over you skin. You grip onto the edges of the table and breathe, desperately. “Yes. Please.”

So boldly, he yanks your breeches and undergarments down in one go. His fingers find the very centre of you, already soaked, already ready for him. What he finds there makes him groan.

“Here? You’ll let me taste you here?”

“Please.” You pant again. “Just…please, Cass. I need this.”

“I know.” A kiss lands on your skin. “I know.”

His hands drag down your legs at the same time he sinks to his knees. You bow your head forward — just to watch the predatory grace with which he aligns his face with your sex. He licks his lips like you’ve presented him with his most carnal desire.

He inhales slowly — breathes in your scent. A growl rips from his throat.

And then he dives right in.

His tongue licks a stripe up your centre, from your entrance, up to your clit. Your hips buck at the contact, one hand moving to bunch within his hair. As his tongue swirls over your clit, pleasure barrels through you that ends in a cry.

“Your taste is fucking divine.” Cass groans, and his hands pry your legs further apart. He wastes no time in lapping at your juices, damn near fucking drinking you down. He drinks and drinks like a male parched. “Gods, Y/N.”

“More.” You gasp, thrusting your hips towards him. You grind your cunt against his face, and you can’t stop your body jerking, your head lolling back. “Gods, Cass, more.”

“More?” His teeth graze against the sensitive nub. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your mouth. Fingers. You.”

A delicious, sinful chuckle, so incredibly deep and lilting, breaks from Cass and vibrates against you. He lands a harsh suck on your clit. “I love how filthy you are.”

And he shows you how much he loves it, as one finger suddenly gathers up your wetness and teases your entrance. You moan, plead, beg him to slip it into you. He does so at the same time that he fastens his lips to your clit and strokes at it with his tongue.

You feel him smile against you. Your responses seem to provide him with almost as much pleasure as your touch would.

“Just like that.” He growls the words onto you, sliding his finger out and back in — adds a second one. “Take what you need. Fuck my fingers.”

You need this pleasure. This release. He has no idea how much you need it. Nobody does. You need to feel like somebody else, feel like you’re somewhere else. You need to feel something other than…blinding pain.

And so you take what you fucking need, undulating your hips and moving yourself on his fingers, against his tongue. Cassian follows your lead, keeps up with your pace. As your moans pick up, so do the thrusts of his hand.

“Going to come for me?” His hand moves faster. “Come around my fingers?”

“Yes.” You throw your head back. “Fuck—Cass.”

“Come.” He growls. “Want to feel you.”

It’s as if your body is fully under his command, because the words have your climax bursting through your body and chasing you from every negative feeling that’s been plaguing you. It feels beautifully catastrophic, fucking mind-altering. It feels like an out of body experience.

You know, somewhere in your mind, that you’re being loud, but you don’t give a single damn. You welcome your orgasm and allow it to consume you. You allow your loud, gasping noises to echo around the building.

But perhaps it’s the loud volume of those noises that prevents both you and Cass from hearing the door open behind you. Perhaps it’s the heat of your passion that makes you immune to the sudden gust of cold air.

Whatever it is, neither of you notice a third presence until a voice bellows behind you.

“Cauldron fucking boil me, my eyes!”

Both you and Cass rise with a start, you scrambling to cover yourself. A horrified expression stares back at you both.

“Roza.” You both say at the same time. Both blink in shock, too.

Rhysand’s mother covers her eyes with her hand and turns her back to you.

“Please correct yourselves before you traumatise me any more.” She says. “Can’t turn my back on you idiots for five gods-damn minutes.”

azriel tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd

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butterfly-lies-chase-them-away · 2 months

Text

Behind the Mask - Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader (ONESHOT)

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader Scarecrow x Batgirl!Reader Word Count: 15079

Warnings: Enemies to Lovers, fear toxin, Scarecrow x Batgirl

Summary: (REQUEST) While chasing down the Scarecrow in Gotham, Y/n forms an unexpected bond with the mysterious figure. As their relationship deepens, Y/n finds herself navigating the blurred boundaries between friend and foe.

A/N: I got a request for Scarecrow x Batgirl!reader with enemies to lovers and I fucking JUMPED at this one, I did not mean to write this much, holy shit. I didn't really have a plan going into this one, so when I started writing, I was going from top to bottom, so whatever happened happened and I clearly went OFF! While writing this, I kinda had comic-book!Scarecrow in my brain for reasons I couldn't explain, but ya know... it's the same dude so yeah. I really hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it 💚

"I'll need you to be on watch in the Narrows tonight," Bruce instructed Y/n as he fastened his suit, his tone carrying the weight of his responsibilities.

"Any you want me to keep an eye one in particular?" Y/n asked, adjusting her own suit in preparation.

"Many, but the Scarecrow’s been more active recently, I want you to look out for him, I have the Joker to deal with." Bruce replied, his gaze distant as he mentally prepared for the night's challenges.

It had been a a few months since Y/n first became the Batgirl. Y/n often found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or perhaps it was the right place at the right time, depending on how one looked at it. As a bystander in Gotham City, she frequently stumbled upon scenes of crime and chaos, unwittingly becoming entangled in the city's never-ending struggle for order.

On one occasion, while walking home from work, Y/n witnessed a mugging in progress. Without hesitation, she sprang into action, using her self-defense skills to fend off the assailant and protect the victim. Little did she know, Batman had been monitoring the situation from the shadows, impressed by her bravery and resourcefulness.

This became a regular occurrence for Y/n after that, seeking out injustice in the city and protecting those in need. With each encounter, Y/n found herself drawn further into Batman's world, her actions catching his attention time and time again, forging an unexpected bond between herself and the Dark Knight.

Under Batman's guidance, Y/n evolved from a mere bystander into Batgirl, a symbol of hope and strength for the citizens of Gotham. With her skills and determination, she stood shoulder to shoulder with the Caped Crusader, ready to confront the darkness that threatened to consume their city.

The two of them went their separate ways, Y/n finding herself in the Narrows, poached on a building. And as if on cue, she heard screams coming from an alley. Immediately jumping into action, Y/n dropped down and rushed to the scene, and just as she expect, the man with a burlap mask stood over a helpless person, screaming and scratching on the floor.

"Refining your toxins, Scarecrow?" Y/n's voice echoed down the dimly lit alley, drawing his attention like a moth to a flame.

"Alone in the shadows, Batgirl?" Scarecrow's distorted voice floated back, his eerie presence sending shivers down Y/n's spine.

Without hesitation, Y/n surged forward, her determination driving her towards the looming figure of Scarecrow. Scarecrow's agility was surprising, a testament to his cunning and prowess.

Despite his speed, Y/n's athletic skills allowed her to gain ground. With a swift motion, she held out a Batarang, sending it spinning towards Scarecrow's feet. The makeshift trap worked like a charm, causing him to stumble and crash to the ground.

"Lost your footing?" Y/n taunted, her voice laced with determination.

"Lost your vision?" Scarecrow retorted, his words accompanied by a sudden burst of suspicious powder that engulfed Y/n's senses.

Coughing and disoriented, she struggled to maintain her balance as her surroundings blurred into a hazy fog.

In the midst of the chaos, Scarecrow seized the opportunity to strike, delivering a well-aimed kick that sent Y/n tumbling to the ground. With a pained groan, she collided with the unforgiving pavement, the impact jarring her senses and rattling her confidence.

As Scarecrow's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving behind only the distant echoes of the Narrows, Y/n cursed her carelessness. Still reeling from the encounter, she struggled to regain her bearings, her vision still clouded and her body aching from the fall.

"This better not be permanent," Y/n muttered under her breath, frustration evident in her voice as she struggled to regain her footing amidst the haze of her blurry vision.

With the aid of the wall for support, Y/n navigated her way out of the Narrows, determination guiding her steps despite her impaired sight. Fumbling for her walkie-talkie, she summoned Batman, her admission tinged with a hint of embarrassment.

"Hey, uh... Could you bring the Batmobile? I can't see," Y/n confessed, her tone a clear indication of her frustration.

"On my way," Batman's reassuring voice crackled through the device.

As she waited at the end of the alleyway, the familiar roar of the Batmobile's engine signaled Batman's arrival. He lifted the roof of the vehicle, his presence a comforting presence in the midst of Y/n's uncertainty.

"You getting in?" Batman's usual impatience brought a hint of levity to the situation, his words a welcome distraction from Y/n's predicament.

"Yeah, could you help me? I can't see properly," Y/n admitted, her voice tinged with embarrassment. "It's all just a black blob."

Without hesitation, Batman leaped out of the car, his strong hand reaching out to guide Y/n safely into the vehicle. As they embarked on their journey through the city's shadowy streets, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the steadfast ally by her side.

"Rough night?" Batman's gravelly voice broke the silence, cutting through the tension that hung in the air.

"You could say that," Y/n replied, her tone heavy with disappointment as she settled into the seat beside him. "Will my vision be like this permanently?" Y/n asked, the question bugging her for the last 10 minutes.

"Hard to tell with the Scarecrow, but you should be okay. It's a surprise he didn't use his fear toxin on you," Batman remarked, his voice betraying a hint of concern.

Y/n let out a sigh of resignation, her shoulders slumping as she leaned back against the seat. In the darkness of the Batmobile, surrounded by the faint hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the city outside, she couldn't help but feel a sense of vulnerability. But even in her moment of uncertainty, she found solace in the presence of the silent guardian beside her, a reminder that she was never truly alone in the shadows of Gotham.

Fortunately for Y/n, her vision returned within an hour, relieving her of the temporary blindness. Despite Bruce's insistence that she call it a night and rest up, Y/n's determination to uncover more about their adversary remained unyielding. In the depths of the Batcave, she was immersed in her research, combing through databases and news articles in search of a lead.

"Thought you'd be down here, Master Bruce holding you back?" Alfred's familiar voice echoed through the cavernous space as he descended into the Batcave.

"No, I was supposed to head home an hour ago," Y/n admitted, her attention still fixed on the glowing screen before her.

"Well, shall I fetch you some supper then?" Alfred offered, ever the attentive caretaker.

"It's alright, Alfred. Thank you," Y/n replied, offering a grateful smile in his direction.

As Alfred approached, he cast a glance at the screen, taking note of Y/n's diligent research and the meticulous notes scattered around her workspace.

"My, you've certainly done quite the thorough job. It's no wonder you landed that internship," Alfred remarked, his tone filled with pride.

"You and I both know I only got that internship at Arkham because of Bruce's influence," Y/n laughed.

"You ought to give yourself more credit, Miss L/n," Alfred's voice held a gentle admonishment as he glanced over Y/n's work. "When is your first day, anyway?"

Glancing at the clock, Y/n realized it was already 1 AM. "Tomorrow," she answered.

"I beg of you to go home, Miss L/n. Your sleep schedule is bad enough as it is," Alfred urged, concern etched in his voice.

Y/n let out a weary sigh. "I guess I'll have to leave the Scarecrow for another time."

Y/n and Alfred made their way back up to Wayne Manor, Y/n gathering her belongings in preparation to depart. Despite her reluctance to leave her research behind, she knew that rest was necessary if she wanted to be at her best for the challenges that lay ahead. With one last glance at the Batcomputer, Y/n bid farewell to the Batcave, her mind already turning towards the mysteries that awaited her on her first day at Arkham.

Y/n's first day at Arkham Asylum began with a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. The towering, foreboding structure of the institution loomed against the gray skies of Gotham, its reputation preceding it.

Working at Arkham Asylum had always been a dream for Y/n, fueled by a deep fascination with the psychology of criminals. And there was no better place than Arkham. She was aware that Bruce had played a pivotal role in securing this internship for her, primarily to make it easier to access the criminals and their files. Yet, this knowledge did little to dampen her enthusiasm. In fact, she saw it as practical to use her role for the greater good, combining her academic interests with her goal to protect Gotham.

As she stepped through the heavy, security-laden doors, she was greeted by Dr. Penelope Young, one of Arkham's leading psychiatrists and her supervisor for the duration of the internship.

"Welcome to Arkham Asylum, Miss L/n. I'm Dr. Young. I'll be showing you around today and discussing what you can expect during your time here," Dr. Young said, offering a firm handshake that Y/n returned.

Their tour began in the more benign corridors of the asylum, where Dr. Young outlined the history of Arkham, its purpose, and its challenges. She spoke with a passion that contrasted the grim surroundings, her belief in rehabilitation and understanding of the human psyche evident in her every word.

"As you'll soon learn, Arkham is more than just a holding facility for Gotham's criminally insane. It's a place of complexity, where psychology and security intersect in ways you won't see anywhere else," Dr. Young explained as they navigated through secure checkpoints.

The tour included visits to various departments, including the high-security wards where Gotham's most notorious villains were held. Dr. Young's explanations were thorough, covering the protocols for dealing with dangerous inmates, the importance of mental health assessments, and the ongoing research aimed at better understanding and treating profound psychological disorders.

"Your role here, Miss L/n, will involve assisting with patient assessments, participating in therapy sessions, and contributing to our research projects. It's crucial work that not only helps us understand the minds of those we're treating but also aids in ensuring the safety of Gotham City," Dr. Young said, her tone serious yet encouraging.

As they concluded the tour in the library, filled with texts on psychology, criminology, and the history of Arkham itself, Dr. Young offered some final advice.

"Always remember, the work we do here is challenging and often thankless. But it's also incredibly important. You're going to see and experience things that will test you, but I believe you have the potential to make a real difference."

Y/n left the tour feeling a mixture of awe and trepidation. The weight of her responsibilities at Arkham Asylum was now fully realized, but so too was her determination to meet the challenges head-on. As she prepared for her first assignment, she couldn't help but feel that her journey into the heart of Gotham's darkness was only just beginning.

Patrolling the rooftops alongside Batman had become a familiar part of Y/n's night life, yet that particular night, her performance was far from her usual standard. Missteps, a lack of balance, and a series of other minor blunders affected her efforts. Aware of Bruce's patience, she nonetheless couldn't shake off the feeling that she was more of a liability than an asset to Batman during their late-night surveillance.

"Fuck, sorry," Y/n muttered, hastily picking herself up after her foot caught on an uneven crack on a rooftop in the Narrows.

Batman halted his advance, turning to face her with a concern that seemed to pierce through the shadows of his cowl. "You should head home, you need rest," he suggested.

Y/n's gaze dropped, a wave of embarrassment washing over her. She knew he was right, yet admitting it felt like conceding to a weakness she couldn't afford.

"You're exhausted. It's been a long day," Batman tried to reassure her, recognizing the toll the day's events had taken on her.

"I know, but I feel like I need to be here," Y/n insisted, her voice a mix of determination and frustration.

"Is this about the Scarecrow again?" Batman's question cut through the tension, his insight honing in on the heart of her persistence.

"...Yeah," Y/n admitted, a mix of resolve and vulnerability in her voice.

Her obsession with stopping Scarecrow had pushed her to her limits, yet she felt an unyielding need to confront the fear he spread across Gotham. In that moment, beneath the expanse of the night sky, her dedication to their cause was as clear as the weariness she fought against.

The Scarecrow was Y/n's first real challenge with one of Gotham's notorious Rogue's. Until now, her experiences had primarily involved run-ins with lesser-known criminals. Unmasking the Scarecrow, whose identity remained a mystery to all of Gotham, would be a monumental achievement for her.

"Why don't you hang back a bit? You can stay on the scene, but I'd rather you not engage in anything major," Batman suggested, his voice carrying a note of protective caution.

Y/n nodded in agreement. She decided to approach the situation with caution, opting for observation over direct confrontation. From her vantage point on a nearby rooftop, she kept a vigilant eye on the Narrows, tracking Batman's movements as he patrolled the shadowy labyrinth below. That's when she spotted him.

Quickly, she grabbed her radio to alert Batman. "Scarecrow spotted near the north apartments!" she reported, urgency lacing her voice.

As Batman sprang into action, heading towards the reported location, Y/n felt a surge of determination. She knew she couldn't just stand by. Moving with purpose, she leaped across rooftops, her movements a blend of precision and grace, as she closed in on the two. Her heart raced with a mix of excitement and fear, fully aware of the dangers that lay ahead yet driven by a deep-seated resolve to make a difference.

His pursuit was relentless, a testament to years of honing his skills for moments just like this. The Scarecrow, a master of terror and manipulation, darted ahead, his movements erratic and desperate, aware that the Dark Knight was closing in on him.

The Scarecrow, realizing the inevitability of his capture, turned to face Batman, a sinister smile playing across his lips, hidden beneath the grotesque mask that had become his signature.

In a swift movement, Scarecrow pulled from his tattered coat a small canister, unleashing a cloud of his fear toxin directly at Batman. The gas, a potent concoction of Scarecrow's own design, filled the air, a visible miasma of terror.

Batman, caught off-guard by the sudden assault, attempted to evade the cloud but inhaled a breath of the toxic fumes. The world around him twisted horrifyingly, his vision blurring as the gas took hold, plunging him into a nightmarish landscape of his own fears. Towering figures of his past adversaries loomed over him, their taunts echoing in his ears, while the loss of his parents replayed in agonizing detail, a never-ending cycle of pain and guilt.

Y/n's heart skipped a beat at the sight of Batman collapsing, overcome by the Scarecrow's fear toxin. Without hesitation, she reached out to Alfred through her radio.

"It's urgent. Batman's been incapacitated by Scarecrow's fear gas. You need to get him immediately," she relayed with urgency.

Without waiting for Alfred's confirmation, she sprung into action, her body moving almost on instinct. She descended from her vantage point into the alleyway below, her cape billowing behind her as she set her sights on the retreating figure of the Scarecrow.

"You just can't let it go, can you?" Scarecrow taunted, turning to hurl a canister of his sinister concoction in her direction.

The moment the toxin enveloped her, Y/n's reality twisted into a nightmarish tableau. She fell to the ground, a scream tearing from her lips as the shadows around her seemed to swell with judgment and scorn. But this was different, alongside the overwhelming fear, a heavy drowsiness dragged at her consciousness.

This was no ordinary fear toxin, she realized with a struggle to maintain her awareness. Her breaths came in labored gasps, each one a battle against the encroaching darkness. Her strength ebbed away, leaving her helpless on the cold, unforgiving ground of the alley. Her vision blurred, yet she could make out the Scarecrow's figure looming over her, his mask a grotesque visage that pulsated in her dimming sight.

As her field of view narrowed to a point, she saw Scarecrow bend down beside her, his hands reaching out to grasp her. Then, as if a curtain had fallen over her world, everything succumbed to darkness.

The throbbing in her head was the first sensation that pierced through the fog of unconsciousness, a relentless pounding that seemed to echo through her entire being. Gritting her teeth in discomfort, Y/n reached up, her fingers pressing into her temples in a futile attempt to sooth the pain. With her eyes still firmly shut, she sat up from the surface beneath her.

As she became more aware, her palm registered the unmistakable chill of metal against her skin. Hesitantly, she allowed her eyelids to part, squinting against the dim light that filled her unfamiliar surroundings. This place, cold, sterile, and decidedly unwelcoming, was far from the familiar confines of her home or the Batcave. Panic fluttered in her chest as the realization set in.

She found herself lying on a stark, metallic table, the centerpiece of what appeared to be a neglected laboratory. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and decay, a testament to the room's dubious purposes. With a growing sense of dread, Y/n ran a hand through her hair, her movements halting as another alarming detail dawned on her, her mask was missing.

She took a sharp intake of breath as she frantically searched her surroundings, her heart racing. Though still clad in the protective gear of Batgirl, minus her utility belt, the absence of her mask left her exposed, vulnerable.

The sound of the door creaking open sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. She became tense, preparing for who might come through that door, her mind racing through possibilities and plans of escape.

As the door swung open, the Scarecrow stepped through, his presence immediately filling the room with a palpable sense of dread. His iconic, scratchy burlap mask seemed to leer at her, the tattered edges of his suit fluttering slightly with his movements. Y/n's heart sank, deep down, she'd known he would be her captor.

The realization of her vulnerability flashed through her mind, sparking a defiant glare, even as she attempted to shield her identity by casting her gaze downward.

"You needn't bother trying to hide now," Scarecrow's voice cut through the tense air, a smirk audible in his tone as he closed the distance between them. "I've seen all I need to see."

Acknowledging that hiding was no longer an option, Y/n understood that resistance might still sway the balance in her favor. With a burst of energy, she attempted to launch herself off the table, only to crumble to the ground, her legs betraying her strength.

"Easy, you've only just regained consciousness," Scarecrow taunted, his steps hastening towards her prone form.

In her struggle to stand back up, Scarecrow's hands suddenly steadied her, pulling her up with a firm grip on her arm. Yet, even in this vulnerable state, Y/n's resolve didn't falter. Her hand darted out, seizing a scalpel from a nearby table, and she held it towards Scarecrow, who instinctively raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. The air between them crackled with tension, each poised for the other's next move.

Scarecrow's voice was calm, yet firm. "You're hardly in a position to resist effectively. Let me help you back onto the table before you injure yourself further. The scalpel isn't necessary," he advised, his tone bordering on reasonable.

Y/n couldn’t help but notice how professionally he spoke.

"So you can subject me to more of your experiments? Yeah nah," she laughed, sarcastically.

Scarecrow, unfazed by her resistance, replied with a hint of a threat, "Whether you agree or not, you're in no condition to stand. It's only a matter of time before you collapse again."

She knew he was right. She could barely feel her legs, and the bits of sensation she did have was undeniable pain. With a reluctant sigh, Y/n let the scalpel clatter back onto the table.

Seeing her give in, Scarecrow lowered his hands and gently supported her around her waist, guiding her with a care that contrasted with his usual menace. He lifted her effortlessly, placing her back on the medical table with a carefulness that seemed out of character. Her legs dangled off the side, the height of the table leaving her feet dangling in the air, a subtle reminder of her current vulnerability.

"Why am I here?" Y/n demanded.

"Had I not intervened, you would be dead," Scarecrow replied.

"So, you hit me with your gas for shits and giggles? Or am I just another subject for your midnight experiments?" Y/n's tone was laced with anger.

"I never intended to expose you to the gas," Scarecrow clarified, moving to grab an item from a nearby table.

"And what? Your hand just slipped?" Y/n retaliated with sarcasm.

"I thought you were the Batman," Scarecrow confessed as he returned to her side.

"And how does that change anything?" Y/n challenged.

Ignoring her, he held a cup, what appeared to be cloudy water. Scarecrow pressed the cup into her hand.

"What's this?" Y/n asked, raising her brow.

"For your headache and numbed legs," Scarecrow responded.

Y/n eyed the cup warily, her skepticism evident. Scarecrow sighed, his voice distorted by his mask.

"If I intended harm, it would have been done already," he assured her.

"Then answer my question," Y/n pressed.

"What question?" Scarecrow responded quickly, playing the fool.

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Why does it matter that you gassed me if I work with Batman?"

Scarecrow remained silent, his gaze fixed on her. She returned his stare, peering into the depths of his blue eyes, an aspect she'd never noticed before, having never been this close to him without a fight.

"Why don’t you want to hurt me?" Y/n rephrased her question.

"Because I don’t want to," he replied simply.

Y/n's shoulders sagged in defeat as she took a sip from the cup, relieved to find it tasted just like water.

"What's your name?" Scarecrow's question caught her off guard.

Y/n shot him a judging glance. "Seriously? Are you dumb? Or do you think I am?"

Scarecrow chuckled, the sound crackled by his mask. "Your face isn't much of a secret now," he remarked.

"True, but a name would give away too much, wouldn't it? Besides, I doubt you'd share yours even if I asked," Y/n countered.

"Fair enough. Batgirl it remains," Scarecrow said.

Concern creased Y/n's brow as she broached the subject weighing on her mind. "So, what's your plan for me now?"

"You're not in any shape to leave just yet," Scarecrow observed.

"Okay, but when I am?" Y/n pressed.

Scarecrow hesitated. "I can't say for certain when that'll be," he admitted.

"You're the reason I'm drugged up…it was your toxin," Y/n pointed out.

"I didn't anticipate having to save anyone after using the gas," Scarecrow replied, his gaze drifting away.

Y/n sensed there was more to his reluctance than he let on. "Why won't you let me go?" she demanded.

"I told you—" Scarecrow began, but Y/n interjected firmly, "I want the real reason."

Scarecrow settled into a chair at a nearby desk.

"Aw, is the Scarecrow feeling lonely?" Y/n teased, her tone light despite the tension in the air.

Though she couldn't discern his expression behind the mask, she could practically feel the weight of his glare.

"Hey, if you keep up with that attitude, I might just have to pay you a visit in the Narrows," Y/n teased further, her words laden with playful defiance.

Y/n couldn't shake the uncertainty creeping into her mind. Was she really entertaining him with her banter?

"I suppose I'll have to hold you to that," Scarecrow retorted, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement.

Y/n couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he actually want her to visit?

"...Batman must be worried about me," Y/n spoke aloud.

"You'd be correct. He's been searching the Narrows looking for you," Scarecrow confirmed.

She's now aware of their whereabouts. Somewhere in the Narrows, not entirely helpful, but better than nothing.

Relief washed over Y/n. "So he's okay then?" she asked anxiously.

"I only administered a small dose. He's perfectly fine," Scarecrow reassured her.

"Can I leave in about 10 minutes?" Y/n requested.

Scarecrow sighed. "Yes, but let me perform one final check first," he insisted.

He approached her. "Can you stand?"

Y/n noticed a tingling sensation in her legs, a welcome sign of returning strength. She gingerly hopped off the metal table, feeling Scarecrow's supportive grip immediately. Taking a moment to steady herself with his assistance, she eventually managed to push him away gently.

"Considering how quickly Batman bounced back, I'm sure he'll be able to assist you if you encounter any further issues," Scarecrow remarked.

"So, can I go?" Y/n inquired.

"Yes, but you'll be blindfolded," Scarecrow detailed.

Y/n watched as Scarecrow grabbed an unexpected item from his coat, her mask which she had completely forgotten about. She accepted it, placing it securely back on her face. Following this, he produced a blindfold, carefully tying it around her eyes.

"What about my utility belt?" she questioned.

"It's been left in the alley. I expect Batman has already located it with the tracker," Scarecrow informed her.

It made sense, had the belt been here, Batman would have pinpointed her location instantly due to its tracking device.

"Give me your hand," Scarecrow said.

Y/n reached out, feeling Scarecrow's grip. His hand was bare, contrasting with her gloved one, allowing her to feel the unique texture of his skin. Together, they navigated towards what Y/n presumed was the exit.

"Mind your step," Scarecrow instructed.

With extra caution, Y/n raised her foot higher than usual, stepping over what she imagined was the door frame. The sound of metal underfoot suggested they had transitioned onto a metallic grate.

"Coming up to some stairs," Scarecrow said.

As Scarecrow slightly descended, he guided Y/n to the first step. Clutching Scarecrow's hand for support, her free hand found a handrail. They carefully descended the staircase together.

"Last step," Scarecrow informed her.

Her feet found solid concrete below. They continued their journey outside, Y/n blind to their surroundings. After about ten minutes wandering the Narrows in silence, Scarecrow halted.

"I'm going to spin you so you won't know which direction we came from," Scarecrow explained.

Y/n snorted, "Feels like a weird game," she joked.

Gently, Scarecrow placed his hands on her shoulders and started to spin her. Y/n laughed, her steps becoming unsteady as she spun. Once she was sufficiently dizzy, Scarecrow ceased the spinning.

"Can I take off the blindfold now?" Y/n asked.

Scarecrow loosened the knot, freeing her from the blindfold. Blinking against the light, she surveyed her surroundings, her balance off from the spinning.

"I have no idea where I am," she admitted, scanning the area.

"That was the point," Scarecrow replied.

A small smile formed on her lips. "Hey, thanks for not killing me," she uttered, a phrase she never imagined saying.

"I apoligize for using the gas on you," Scarecrow said.

"I appreciate the apology...So! See you around?" Y/n tilted her head, looking at him.

Scarecrow seemed taken aback. "You aren't planning to tackling me to the ground for Batman?"

She shook her head.

"Then, yes... until next time, Batgirl," Scarecrow affirmed.

With that, Y/n walked away, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the alley. Glancing back one last time, she found he had vanished into the shadows.

As Y/n made her way towards the mouth of the alley, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows with a swift, purposeful stride. The figure's imposing silhouette was unmistakable against the dimly lit street. Batman, cloaked in his iconic cape, his gaze fixed intently ahead.

He approached Y/n, his presence commanding yet reassuring. "Where have you been?" Batman's voice, deep and grave.

Although aggressive, she knew it was his way of showing his concern.

Y/n sighed. "I'm fine, thanks! But I wouldn’t have been if not for an unexpected turn of events," she responded, her voice a mix of relief and bewilderment.

Batman surveyed the surroundings with a beading eye, then returned his attention to Y/n. "Scarecrow?" he asked, already piecing together the encounter from the clues left behind.

"Yep," Y/n confirmed.

Batman summoned the Batmobile with a press of a button, and it swiftly glided around the corner, halting with precision in front of them. "We'll discuss it on the way," Batman suggested, sliding into the driver's seat of the Batmobile.

Y/n quickly followed, hopping into the passenger seat. The top sealed shut with a soft hiss, and they set off toward the Batcave, the engine's low rumble filling the air.

"As soon as you were hit with the toxin, I ran after Scarecrow. I know you said not to but I couldn't just stand by," Y/n recounted. "He hit me with some kind of super version of his toxin... I blacked out and later woke up in his lab... He had saved my life," she reflected, still piecing together the surreal events.

"Scarecrow...saved you...after he was the one to endanger you..." Batman's voice betrayed a hint of skepticism.

"Exactly... He said he mistook me for you and used a more lethal toxin," Y/n clarified.

Batman mulled over the information, "This must be part of some elaborate scheme."

"...When I was unconscious, he took off my mask," Y/n added quietly, the weight of her vulnerability in that moment hanging between them.

"We can't change what's happened," Batman responded with an unexpected calm. "For now, you need to stay at the batcave."

Y/n understood the protective gesture, Batman was ensuring her safety. This meant her encounters with Scarecrow would be on hold, a disappointing, yet perhaps for the best, turn of events.

Upon their arrival at the Batcave, Bruce insisted on conducting his own check up of Y/n to ensure her well-being. As he meticulously checked her condition, Y/n found her thoughts drifting back to Scarecrow.

The lanky figure behind the coarse, burlap mask now intrigued her more than ever. Despite her efforts to thwart his plans and her alliance with Batman, Scarecrow had spared her life. His actions defied the logic that he should have seen her as a direct threat, deserving of his lethal wrath.

Throughout their encounters, Scarecrow had consistently avoided using his fear toxin on her, opting for less harmful methods. And on the one occasion he did administer it, he promptly provided an antidote and went as far as looking after her back at his lab.

What puzzled her further was his reluctance, or perhaps refusal, to let her leave. There seemed to be an underlying reason he didn't want her to go, adding layers to his already complex persona. This unexpected mercy and the mystery shrouding his true intentions only deepened Y/n's curiosity about the man beneath the mask.

Y/n's second week interning at Arkham was unfolding better than she'd anticipated. Tasked with interacting with the less dangerous patients, she found them peculiar yet unexpectedly sweet, a stark contrast to her initial assumptions. Each person, in their own right, contributed to the unique tapestry of Arkham's inhabitants.

Walking through the asylum's corridors on her way to Dr. Young's office with a stack of files in hand, Y/n was absorbed in her thoughts, hardly aware of her surroundings. This lack of attention led to a collision with a passerby, resulting in her files scattering across the floor.

"Shit, sorry," she blurted out, immediately kneeling to gather the scattered documents.

The individual she bumped into stood frozen, offering no assistance or reaction. Once she collected her files and stood up to face him, she found herself looking at a tall, slender man adorned with rectangular, wire-framed glasses, his expression one of bafflement.

"Sorry, I wasn't paying attention," she said, hoping to break the ice.

Yet, the man remained silent, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open, offering nothing but a fixed stare. With an awkward smile, Y/n excused herself, moving past him to continue on her way.

"Sorry, again... Have a good day," she added, before turning her focus forward and spotting Dr. Young near her office.

"Met Dr. Crane, have you?" Dr. Young asked, observing the scene.

Glancing back, Y/n saw the man, now identified as Dr. Crane, retreating hastily down the hallway.

"Apparently. He a quiet one?" Y/n asked, intrigued by the unusual man.

"Not at all," Dr. Young confided with a hint of amusement. "He's known for being quite outspoken and, frankly, a bit abrasive. But let's keep that between us."

Y/n let out a soft chuckle, appreciating the candid insight. Together, they proceeded into Dr. Young's office. As they delved into their tasks and discussions, the brief encounter with Dr. Crane swiftly faded from Y/n's mind.

Barely two hours had passed, with Y/n engrossed in her task of organizing files, when Dr. Young re-entered the office, fresh from her break.

"It seems you've caught the attention of Dr. Crane," Dr. Young remarked as she stepped inside.

Y/n glanced up, puzzled. "Huh?"

Dr. Young, settling into her chair with a chuckle. "Well, in the cafeteria, Dr. Crane cam up to me out of the blue to ask about you. Considering he never engages in conversation unless it's strictly necessary, that was quite the surprise!"

Curiosity piqued, Y/n continued, "What exactly did he ask about?"

"Just your name and your role here," Dr. Young replied with a smile.

The thought of garnering anyone's interest, let alone Dr. Crane's, hadn't crossed Y/n's mind. Yet, she brushed it off, doubting it would have any significant impact on her internship.

Back at her home, Y/n found herself sprawled on her bed, engulfed in the unfamiliar territory of idleness. With Bruce sidelining her from night patrols, the once exhilarating darkness of Gotham's nights now stretched endlessly before her, filled with nothing but the quiet.

Letting out a sigh, she flung her book aside, a tangible sign of her growing restlessness. Reluctantly, she rose and drifted towards her computer, where the glow of her screen illuminated tabs of research left untouched since yesterday. Though the news articles of Scarecrow she had found offered little in the way of breakthroughs, she held onto the hope they might yet yield something of value.

It was then that a sudden thud against her window broke the silence, startling her. Turning to look, she expected to find nothing more unusual than a disoriented bird that flew into it. However, the repeated thudding suggested this was no ordinary accident.

With a sigh, Y/n approached the window to investigate. A crow was the culprit, determinedly striking the glass over and over. Attempting to shoo it away with a tap against the window proved futile, the bird was either stubborn or really dumb. About to turn away in defeat, Y/n noticed something clutched in the crow's beak, she naturally had to investigate.

Concerned it might be choking, she opened the window to offer assistance. The crow, uninvited, hopped boldly into her room and onto her bed.

"Hey! You’re gonna get my shit all dirty!" Y/n protested, trying to usher it off.

Yet the crow remained unbothered, stationed firmly on her bed. With a curious tilt of its head, it released its hold, letting the object, a piece of paper, fall onto her duvet.

Realizing the crow was unharmed, Y/n let out a sigh. "Okay, you can leave now," she suggested, gesturing towards the open window.

However, the crow remained stationary, its gaze fixed on her as if it had more to say. They stared at one another awkwardly, the air between them thick with uncertainty. The crow nudged the piece of paper with its beak, then lifted its eyes to hers, prompting her attention.

Reluctantly, Y/n shifted her focus to the paper, curiosity getting the better of her. The paper was torn and foled. She unfolded the ripped fragment to reveal a message that sent a jolt of shock through her.

'Found you.'

The simplicity of the message belied its ominous intent, transforming her initial confusion into a wave of dread. "Holy fuck," she muttered, her pulse quickening.

As if its mission was accomplished, the crow took its leave, soaring out the window. Y/n raced to the window, a futile attempt to keep it from leaving. "Oi!"

But her plea vanished into the night, leaving her to face the silence of her room. The solitude that had once been merely boring now felt ominously oppressive.

How had Scarecrow found her? The question echoed in her mind, a reminder that her sense of security was more fragile than she had ever imagined.

Y/n wasted no time in dialing Bruce's number, her fingers trembling with anxiety as she waited for him to pick up. When he finally answered, she didn't bother with pleasantries.

"He found me," she blurted out in a tense whisper.

"Y/n? What are you talk-?" Bruce paused. “How?”

"I don't know how he did it, Bruce. There's no way he could have tracked me from that night," Y/n replied, her nerves palpable. “He sent his fucking pet crow, or something to my window with a little note saying he found me.”

"I think it would be safest for you to stay at my place for a while," Bruce suggested, his tone urgent.

"Yeah, but what if he figures out… you know?" Y/n's worry crept into her voice.

"Is there anywhere else you can go?" Bruce asked, his concern evident.

Y/n's mind raced, but she couldn't think of any safe alternatives. "Not really," she admitted reluctantly.

"Okay, just stay safe. I'll be checking up on you," Bruce instructed firmly.

"I'll do my best," Y/n sighed, feeling a sense of dread settle over her as the call ended.

She dropped her phone on her bed along with herself. Sitting on her bed, she ran her hand down her face groaning. She just prayed he was as nice as he was the night before.

The next day, Y/n felt a sense of unease as she walked through the corridors of Arkham towards Dr. Young's office. Upon entering, she was met not only by Dr. Young, but also by the presence of Dr. Crane.

"Good morning, Y/n. I'm sure you're acquainted with Dr. Crane by now," Dr. Young gestured towards the man in the room.

Y/n nodded awkwardly, turning her attention to Dr. Crane. "Hello, Dr. Crane," she greeted, extending her hand for a shake.

"Miss L/n," he replied, his voice crisp and professional as he took her hand.

There was something strangely familiar about his touch, though Y/n couldn't quite place it. Brushing it off as mere coincidence, she focused on the conversation at hand.

"Well, we've decided to switch things up a bit and provide you with more opportunities around the asylum. Today, Dr. Crane has kindly offered to mentor you instead of me," Dr. Young explained.

Y/n nodded, trying to maintain her composure. "Oh... cool," she replied, though her uncertainty lingered beneath the surface.

"My work primarily focuses on the higher-risk patients, so today I'll be showing you around those areas of the asylum," Dr. Crane explained, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Alright, shall we get started?" Y/n asked, eager to begin.

"Certainly," Dr. Crane replied, opening the door for Y/n to exit first. She thanked him and stepped into the hallway, where Dr. Crane joined her.

"So, Miss L/n, what led you to Arkham?" Dr. Crane inquired, initiating conversation.

"Well, I studied at Gotham University for five years and managed to get an internship here. It's an opportunity I couldn't pass up," Y/n replied.

Dr. Crane nodded, showing interest. "You're interested in psychology, I assume?"

"Naturally," Y/n confirmed.

"And outside of Arkham, how do you spend your time?" Dr. Crane asked, delving deeper.

Y/n wasn't prepared for such a personal question, and she found herself struggling to formulate an answer. In truth, much of her time was split between intensive research and her activities as a vigilante. "Uh... research mostly," she replied, keeping her answer vague.

"Any specific areas of focus?" Dr. Crane probed further.

"Primarily psychology-related topics, and occasionally delving into articles about various personalities in Gotham," Y/n answered, trying to keep her response casual.

"Ah, the Gotham Rogues, I presume? Have any in particular piqued your interest?" Dr. Crane inquired, his gaze lingering on her as they made their way towards the elevator.

Y/n had been informed by Dr. Young that small talk was rarely on Dr. Crane's agenda, suggesting his continuous questions might stem from a lack of social que. Yet, as a psychiatrist, his understanding of social dynamics should be adept, making his approach puzzling.

"Ah, well... each of them are interesting in their own way, to say the least," Y/n replied, deflecting deflecting to keep the conversation neutral.

Acknowledging her response with a nod, Dr. Crane diverted his eyes ahead, the silence momentarily enveloping them as they approached and entered the elevator. With a practiced motion, he swiped his keycard and selected their destination floor.

The elevator began its descent in silence, the hum of its mechanism filling the small space. Dr. Crane stood with a composed posture, hands clasped behind his back, while Y/n could feel the tension in the air, an undercurrent of unspoken thoughts swirling between them.

After a moment, Dr. Crane broke the silence. "The study of fear is particularly fascinating, don't you think?" he started, his tone measured, eyes fixed on the elevator doors as if addressing the question to himself. "It's primal, yet so complex. A fundamental emotion that can be both a hindrance and a survival mechanism."

Y/n, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation, nodded in agreement. "Yes, it's quite a paradox. It shapes so much of human behavior, yet we understand so little about its underpinnings."

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival at the high-risk patient floor. As the doors slid open, Dr. Crane stepped out, gesturing for Y/n to follow. "Indeed. And it's within these walls that fear becomes a canvas, each patient painting their own portrait of terror."

The topic of their conversation enveloped Y/n in a sense of unease. While it was natural for a psychiatrist to delve into subjects like fear, given her recent unsettling situation, discussing it now stirred an unwelcome and deep-seated discomfort within her.

They walked through a secured door after Dr. Crane keyed in a code, entering a corridor lined with reinforced glass cells. The patients inside varied in their reactions to the newcomers, some pressed close to observe them, others retreated into shadows, and a few remained indifferent, lost in their own worlds.

"As you'll see today, our approach to treatment varies greatly, tailored to each patient's specific needs and... inclinations," Dr. Crane continued, leading Y/n past the cells. "Observation and understanding is key. Fear can be both a lock and a key in our field."

Y/n felt a chill run down her spine, not just from the atmosphere of the high-risk ward but from Dr. Crane's words. They echoed with a depth of knowledge and an intensity that felt almost too personal, as if fear itself was a familiar friend to him.

As they continued their tour, Y/n couldn't shake the feeling that Dr. Crane was studying her just as much as he was explaining the procedures and philosophies of Arkham Asylum. There was a calculated curiosity in his gaze, a probing quality that made her wonder what he saw when he looked at her.

Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked through the corridor, eventually halting in front of a door.

"This," he announced, ushering the door open with a gentle push, "is my office."

Crossing into the new space, Y/n found herself standing somewhat awkwardly, uncertain of what was to come next.

"I have a few patient appointments scheduled today. You'll have the opportunity to observe. But first, there are some reports I need to deal with. I imagine you have tasks of your own to do in the meantime?" he suggested.

With a nod from Y/n, he settled into his chair behind the desk, drawing out several files and a pen. As he began to write, Y/n couldn't help but observe him, a sense of déjà vu washing over her. There was an inexplicable familiarity in his presence that she couldn't quite identify.

Catching her gaze, he looked up, peering over his glasses. "Is there something on your mind?" he asked.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, considering her response carefully. She wasn't sure if she should bring up her recent encounter with the Scarecrow, especially given Dr. Crane's interest in fear and psychology. But something about his demeanor encouraged her to speak up. She cracked it down to the fact that he was around higher risk patients at arkham so he should understand.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. She didn't want to alarm Dr. Crane or reveal too much about her involvement with Gotham's underworld.

"Well, actually..." she began, her voice measured. "I recently had a rather unusual encounter with someone who... operates outside the norms, let's say."

Dr. Crane raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Go on," he prompted, leaning forward slightly.

"There's this... guy," she began, her voice thoughtful. "Who put me in a rather diffucult situation. But instead of leaving me in trouble, this guy… helped me. He claimed that his actions were never intended to inconvenience me, but rather someone else entirely. It's all rather confusing to me."

As she spoke, Dr. Crane listened attentively, his analytical gaze fixed on her. There was a calculating intensity in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed past it, determined to convey the essence of her experience without divulging too much.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “Why do you think he wouldn’t have helped you?” he asked.

“Well this... guy... well, he’s not exactly known for his generosity,” Y/n said, choosing her words carefully.

"I see," he murmured, his tone contemplative. "It seems you've had quite the... encounter."

Y/n nodded, relieved that she had managed to convey the situation without revealing too many details.

“Well... what about the situation confuses you?” he asked.

“The fact that he helped me, I just don’t understand it,” Y/n said.

“Had you encountered this individual prior to that?” Dr. Crane inquired.

“Yes, and he wasn’t particularly pleasant,” Y/n replied.

“Perhaps he had a change of heart, felt remorse... or maybe you interested him in some way,” Dr. Crane suggested.

Y/n recognized that Dr. Crane might not offer much assistance, especially since her account was far from the complete truth, but she valued his perspective.

“Yeah... maybe,” she said, considering his viewpoint.

The two appointments proceeded smoothly. The first patient was a paranoid individual, tormented by incessant fears of lurking threats in the shadows. As for the second patient was a woman struggling with intense anxiety and recurring nightmares. Dr. Crane navigated through their sessions with his calmness and precision, offering insightful observations and gentle guidance.

As the day progressed, Y/n found herself drawn into the complexities of the patients' minds, witnessing firsthand the challenges they faced and the therapeutic approaches employed by Dr. Crane.

By the end of the day, Y/n felt a newfound respect for Dr. Crane's expertise and a deeper curiosity about the human psyche.

Leaving Arkham, they boarded the Akrham train heading to the city center. "I trust today has been insightful for you," Dr. Crane remarked as they found their seats.

The clatter of the train tracks provided a rhythmic backdrop to their conversation as they settled into their seats. Y/n nodded, reflecting on the day's events. "Definitely," she replied. "It's given me a lot to think about."

Dr. Crane inclined his head, his gaze thoughtful. "Understanding the human mind is a continuous journey, filled with both challenges and revelations," he remarked. "But it's a journey worth undertaking."

Y/n nodded in agreement, absorbing his words. As the train rumbled on, she noticed that her stop was nearing.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane. You've been a really amazing mentor today," Y/n expressed her gratitude.

Dr. Crane nodded, acknowledging her gratitude. "You're welcome, Y/n. If you ever need any guidance or have any questions in the future, feel free to reach out," he said, his tone surprisingly warm.

As the train slowed to a stop at Y/n's station, she gathered her belongings and stood up. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you again," she said, offering a polite smile before stepping off the train.

"Have a safe walk home," Dr. Crane bid farewell as the train doors slid shut.

As she walked away from the station, Y/n couldn't shake the feeling of curiosity about Dr. Crane. There was something intriguing about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the rest of her day ahead.

Alone in the dark, a wave of fear washed over her. Her home was just a ten-minute walk from the station, but after receiving that ominous message yesterday, she felt more uneasy than usual.

The usual nightly weirdos on the street didn't bother her much, no, it was the thought of encountering Scarecrow that sent shivers down her spine.

As she walked, a group of guys stepped out from a dark alley, eyeing her with leering grins. "Hey, sweetheart, looking for some company?" one of them called out, his tone dripping with sleaze.

Y/n rolled her eyes, unimpressed by their attempts to intimidate her. "Sorry, boys, not interested," she replied, quickening her pace.

As they closed in, Y/n sprang into action with lightning speed. In one fluid motion, she lunged towards the nearest assailant, her hands moving with precision. With a swift twist, she disarmed him, the weapon clattering to the ground with a metallic clang.

Before the others could react, Y/n hit him with calculated strikes, each one finding its mark with pinpoint accuracy. With each opponent she incapacitated, the threat diminished, until finally, all that remained was a pile of defeated adversaries at her feet.

Just as she thought the situation was under control, a familiar chill ran down her spine. The dim streetlight cast eerie shadows as Scarecrow emerged from the darkness, his silhouette looming ominously. Y/n's heart raced, her muscles tensing in anticipation.

The air seemed to thicken with tension as Scarecrow's gaze swept over the scene. She braced herself as the Scarecrow raised his hand, expecting the worst. Shielding her face, she awaited the inevitable assault, but instead, she heard screams erupting behind her.

Reluctantly lowering her arms, she turned to witness a man writhing on the ground, his cries echoing through the deserted street beside a discarded firearm. Her gaze snapped back to the Scarecrow, her eyes widening in astonishment.

"One missed," he remarked coolly.

“Scarecrow…” she uttered, caught between greeting him and still processing the situation.

“Y/n,” he acknowledged.

“So...you know my name now,” she remarked, her tone barely masking her worry.

“Would you prefer I call you Batgirl still?” he asked, sarcastically.

“I suppose there’s no point,” Y/n shrugged, conceding to the truth.

Observing him in the dimly lit street, she couldn't help but notice his eerie yet intriguing presence. “Nice suit,” she commented, attempting to break the tension.

“Thank you,” he replied courteously, his mask concealing any expression.

Despite his seemingly benign demeanor, she couldn't shake off her unease about his sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?” she probed cautiously.

“Making sure you got home safely,” he responded matter-of-factly.

“You’re following me?” she questioned, her suspicion growing palpable.

“Looks that way,” he confirmed, his voice protraying no hint of emotion.

“...I’ll be off then,” she stated, turning to head back home.

His footsteps echoed behind her, prompting her to halt and face him. “You’re still here?”

"You don’t think I was just going to leave,” he remarked.

“Then can you at least not stalk behind me?” Y/n requested, her tone surprisingly composed despite her lingering unease.

Closing the distance between them, he fell into step beside her. “You know Batman might find you,” she warned.

“Not tonight, I saw him off chasing the Penguin,” he assured her.

Y/n looked ahead, contemplating their unusual companionship. “So… are you going to hurt me?” she questioned, her voice hinting her vulnerability.

“I didn’t hurt you before, why would I now?” he countered.

“Well, why else are you here?” she pressed, her curiosity piqued.

“It was you that said you’d ‘see me around’,” Scarecrow reminded her.

She recalled their earlier exchange, surprised that he remembered. “I didn’t think you’d remember… or care,” she admitted.

They lapsed into silence for a moment before Y/n broke it. “How did you find me?” she asked the question that was weighing on her mind since she got the note.

“It was coincidence,” Scarecrow replied cryptically.

“Seriously! That's all?” Y/n protested.

“I saw you... and gaining access to you was a simple matter after that,” he explained.

Y/n paused, contemplating the implications of his words.

“Wait, so you mean to say... Did I see you around?” Y/n's curiosity peaked.

Scarecrow's silence spoke volumes, confirming her suspicions. Y/n's mind raced, attempting to pinpoint any instance where she could have crossed paths with Scarecrow during the day, but nothing came to mind.

"You're annoying, you know that? Why can't you just tell me who you are?" Y/n pressed, frustration lacing her words.

"And give you the chance to share with your caped crusader? I think not," Scarecrow retorted with a hint of amusement in his distorted voice.

Y/n scowled, "This is bullshit. What kind of friend are you?"

"Friend?" Scarecrow echoed, a note of mock surprise in his tone.

Realizing she had referred to him as a friend, Y/n hesitated, "Well… I don’t know."

"Considering me a friend? That's rather... optimistic of you," Scarecrow jested.

"You know what? Fuck you," Y/n snapped, pushing him away in annoyance.

Scarecrow's laughter, distorted and chilling, filled the air.

"About that crow yesterday..." Y/n shifted the topic.

"Ah, yes, Craw," Scarecrow interjected.

"Craw... you named your bird after the sound it makes? What are you, five?" Y/n couldn't help but mock his choice.

"Feeling particularly bitey today, aren't we?" Scarecrow remarked with a hint of amusement.

"I'm just pointing out the obvious. You could have called him anything and you settled on 'Craw'? It's like naming a cat 'Meow' or a dog ‘Woof’," Y/n countered.

"I doubt your question was solely to critique my naming choices," Scarecrow deflected, steering the conversation forward.

"So, you have a trained crow... cool," Y/n conceded.

With a snap of his fingers, Scarecrow summoned the crow, which gracefully swooped down to perch on his shoulder.

"Fuck, that’s impressive," Y/n admitted, genuinely taken aback.

"He's a good companion," Scarecrow acknowledged, affectionately caressing the crow's feathered chest.

"And yet, when I mention friendship, I'm desperate?" Y/n teased with a scoff.

"I'm merely taken aback... You haven't even tried to call Batman on me yet," Scarecrow observed.

"Well, if he can have his criminal friend, I don't see why I shouldn't either," Y/n reasoned, thinking about Bruces weird thing with Catwomen.

"It only seems fair," Scarecrow conceded with a nod.

As they approached her apartment complex, Y/n paused and faced Scarecrow.

"I guess this is where I leave you," she remarked, a hint of reluctance in her tone as she gestured towards the looming building of her apartment complex.

Scarecrow tilted his head slightly, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than usual. "Seems so. You'll be safe here, I presume?"

Y/n couldn't help but feel a pang of irony at the question, considering who it was coming from. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Thanks for helping me back there," she quipped, offering him a small, genuine smile.

Scarecrow nodded once, sharply, as if dismissing any need for gratitude. "Take care, Y/n."

With those parting words, he turned and disappeared into the shadows from where he came, leaving Y/n to stare after him for a long moment. Shaking her head slightly, as if to clear it from the surreal encounter, she turned and headed towards her apartment, her mind swirling with thoughts about the night's events and the enigmatic figure that had just left her side.

The anticipation for her next encounter with Scarecrow had always been tinged with impatience, but now, there was a distinct shift in her desires. Gone was the sole focus on capturing him, instead, she found herself wanting to talk, even hang out with the guy.

Wandering the corridors of Arkham, her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by an exasperated shout not far from her location. “Damn bird!” echoed off the sterile walls.

Curious, Y/n turned on her heel to investigate. A large bird flying through the hallway, causing a commotion. But this was no ordinary crow, as it swooped closer, she recognized it instantly. Craw, Scarecrow's supposed good companion.

As the crow landed gracefully before her, Y/n crouched down, gently scooping him up. The security guard, panting from the chase, approached with a look of annoyance plastered across his face.

“Stupid bird,” he muttered, reaching out to snatch Craw away.

Y/n, cradling the crow protectively, assured him, “It's fine, I've got this. I'll make sure he's put outside.”

The guard, too worn out to argue further, simply shrugged and departed. Alone now, Y/n shifted her focus to Craw, who seemed quite content in her grasp.

Noticing a piece of paper held in his beak, she gently grabbed it, speaking softly to the crow, “Hey there, pretty. How did you manage to find me here?”

Placing Craw on her shoulder, she unfolded the note.

‘I’ll see you tonight.’

A smile unknowingly crept across her face as she read the message. Shortly after, Craw took flight from her shoulder, darting down the corridor.

“No! Craw, I need to take you outside!” she called after him, her plea falling on deaf ears.

With a resigned sigh, she watched him disappear deeper into the Asylum. “Well, he's someone else's problem now.”

Despite the mild chaos, the note clutched in her hand warmed her heart, igniting a flutter of excitement for what the evening might bring.

The walk home felt different for Y/n this evening. Each shadow cast by the dim streetlights seemed to promise the appearance of Scarecrow, echoing his note that said they would meet again. With every step, her anticipation grew, turning each corner with a mix of eagerness and anxiety, expecting to find him waiting in the familiar alley where their paths often crossed. But tonight, the alley remained empty.

The silence of the alleyway, usually filled with the tension of their encounters, now hung heavy with disappointment. She lingered for a moment, scanning the shadows and empty spaces where he might have stood, half-hoping for the rustle of his coat or the soft click of his approach. But there was nothing. Just the quiet of the night and the distant hum of the city.

As she continued her walk home, the excitement that had quickened her steps faded into a dull ache of letdown. Thoughts raced through her mind, pondering why he hadn't appeared. Had something happened to him? Had Batman managed to intervene?

Reaching her apartment, Y/n couldn't shake the sense of solitude that enveloped her. Inside, the quiet of her home only amplified her disappointment. With a heavy sigh, Y/n resigned herself to the evening's solitude, dropping onto her bed.

As she lay in the quiet of her room, Y/n found herself wrestling with thoughts that mocked her for entertaining the idea of a friendship with someone as complex and dangerous as Scarecrow. How could she, grounded in her own principles and duties, truly expect to build a connection with a figure who thrived in the shadows, a master of fear?

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a thump against her window. Startled, she glanced up, only to find the familiar silhouette of a crow striking the glass. Hurrying over, she opened the window, allowing Craw to flutter into the room. Peering out the window, her pulse quickened at the sight below.

Scarecrow stood on the ground, gazing up at her with his usual get-up.

"May I come up?" his voice floated up to her.

Without hesitation, she swung onto the fire escape, releasing the ladder for him. As he ascended, a mixture of surprise and anticipation filled her.

"Why are you here?" she inquired, as he stepped through the window into her room.

"I said I'd see you tonight," he replied.

"I thought you’d just walk me home," she admitted, a smile playing on her lips despite herself.

"Indeed, I intended to, but I was held up," Scarecrow said, his voice carrying a touch of regret.

Inside her room, with the city's night as their backdrop, she couldn't help but jest, "So, the man behind the mask has a life?"

Scarecrow chuckled below the mask, “That I do.”

Now settled in her room, Y/n found a comfortable spot on her bed, her back resting gently against the headboard.

With a curious tilt of her head, she ventured, "Could I possibly hear more about the man beneath the mask?"

He hesitated for a moment before answering, "I was caught up at work, actual work, something that required my immediate attention."

This prompted Y/n to recall her little interaction with his crow eariler. "Speaking of work, how did you manage to send Craw into Arkham?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Let's just say he found his way through a window," he replied,criptically.

Scarecrow chose a spot at the foot of her bed, directly opposite her, and gracefully seated himself. Craw saw it as an opportunity to hopped onto his thigh, finding comfort in his familiar presence.

As they sat in Y/n's room, the silence between them was palpable. Y/n couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. Curiosity, apprehension, and a strange sense of comfort in Scarecrow's presence. She studied him closely, trying to decipher the man, but his expression remained hidden.

"So, what really brings you here tonight?" Y/n finally broke the silence, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

Scarecrow glanced at her, his gaze piercing. "I wanted to check on you," he replied simply.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, skeptical of his intentions. "Check on me?" she echoed, searching his face for any hint of deception.

"Yes," Scarecrow affirmed, his tone unwavering. "After our encounter the other night, I thought I should make sure you're okay."

Y/n's initial skepticism softened slightly, replaced by a flicker of surprise. Despite their strange relationship, Scarecrow's concern for her well-being was unexpected.

"I'm fine," Y/n reassured him, offering a small smile. "But why go through the trouble? You're not exactly known for your kindness."

Scarecrow's lips quirked into a faint smile, the gesture almost imperceptible. "Perhaps I'm not as one-dimensional as you think," he remarked.

Y/n's curiosity piqued at his response, but before she could delve further, there was a sudden knock on her apartment door.

“Y/n? I called you but you didn’t answer,” it was Bruce.

The sudden interruption sent Y/n's heart racing, a surge of panic flooding her as she heard Bruce's voice through the door. She momentarily froze, realizing the difficult situation she was in. Glancing frantically at Scarecrow, she leaped into action, her movements swift and desperate.

"Under the bed, now!" she hissed, urgency lacing her whisper as she practically shoved Scarecrow towards the hiding spot.

Without hesitation, Scarecrow complied, slipping under the bed. No sooner had he vanished from sight than Y/n dashed to the apartment's entrance, her mind racing with excuses.

"Hey, Bruce, sorry about that. My phone's been on silent, what’s up?" she managed to say with a feigned nonchalance as she swung the door open, greeting him with a practiced casualness.

"I said I'd swing by to check on you. Everything's been okay lately?" Bruce asked, stepping past the threshold with a concerned glance.

"Yep, all good here," Y/n replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Y/n found herself desperately seeking a solution that wouldn't raise Bruce's suspicions, yet every moment he lingered increased the risk of Scarecrow's presence unmasking Bruce's own secret identity. Trapped between a rock and a hard place, she was at a loss, her mind racing for a strategy that seemed increasingly elusive.

Then, an ominous thump from her bedroom shattered the tense silence, causing her heart to plummet into her stomach.

"What was that?" Bruce's voice sharpened with alertness, his instinctive concern prompting him to move toward the source of the sound.

Y/n's anxiety reached it’s limits until, unexpectedly, a voice came from her bedroom. "Y/n? Who's at the door?" It was unmistakably Scarecrow, yet his voice was stripped of its usual menacing distortion, sounding disarmingly normal.

Panic painted Y/n's face with a stark shade of horror, a silent scream at the realization of her rapidly unraveling situation. However, Bruce's reaction took a turn Y/n hadn't anticipated. His expression, initially furrowed with concern, smoothly transitioned into an amused smirk.

"I didn't realize you had company. I'll leave you to your...guest," he said, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic lightness.

In that moment, Y/n's dread shifted to a baffling sense of relief to mild embarrassment. The flush of embarrassment that crept up Y/n's cheeks. The implication in Bruce's assumption that her "guest" was there for reasons more intimate was mortifying, yet it was a far more palatable scenario than him suspecting the presence of a notorious criminal in her bedroom.

"U-uh, yeah, sorry," she managed, her voice a mix of awkwardness and gratitude as she escorted Bruce to the door.

Pausing at the threshold, Bruce turned back to her, his expression lightly amused. "Have a good night," he said, his voice carrying a hint of jest before he delivered a playful wink and departed.

As Y/n closed the door behind him, a wave of relief washed over her, tinged with a lingering embarrassment. As Y/n reentered her bedroom, her gaze fell upon Craw, who had perched on the shelf by her door.

"Are you still hiding under my bed?" she asked, her knees pressing against the cool floor as she peered under the bed.

There he was, Scarecrow, his frame stretched out beneath her bed, an unexpected sight that was oddly endearing. "Yeah," came his muffled reply.

"It's safe to come out now," she assured him, her voice lifting with a mix of relief and warmth.

As Scarecrow emerged, his presence seemed to fill the room. "What was that thumping sound?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Craw decided the door looked interesting," Scarecrow quipped, a hint of affection for the mischief-maker in his tone.

Y/n's eyes darted to Craw, her expression one of mock frustration. "You bloody bird!" she growled, though the crow seemed preoccupied with scratching his wing with his beak.

"And thank you, by the way. My heart nearly stopped when he headed towards my room," she admitted, her hands finding their way to her hips.

"Who was that, if I may ask?" Scarecrow's curiosity was evident, his head tilted.

"A friend," she answered simply.

"Just a friend?" he probed further, an edge of something playful in his voice.

"Jealous?" Y/n teased, a light chuckle escaping her.

"Should I be?" he parried, his voice laced with amusement.

Y/n's laughter filled the room, a sound of genuine amusement. "Bruce is just a friend. Though now he probably thinks I've got a secret lover stashed in here," she said, the humor in her situation not lost on her.

"Bruce? As in-" Scarecrow started, only for Y/n to jump in.

"Bruce Wayne? Yes," she confirmed, closing the loop on his thought.

"I would've expected the Batman, not Bruce Wayne," he mused, his voice carrying a note of mock disappointment.

"Batman wouldn’t bother with the front door, that’s for sure," Y/n laughed.

Y/n chuckled, her fingers idly tracing patterns on her bedspread. "So, did you... you know, take off the mask when you called out?" she asked.

Scarecrow's response was matter-of-fact. "Well, yeah. I don’t know if you can tell, but my voice isn’t naturally distorted," he pointed out.

Y/n's playful pout betrayed her teasing tone. "That's not fair! My room got to see your face before I did!" she exclaimed, feigning offense.

"Your room is quite the lucky spectator," he remarked, his tone filled with amusement.

"I bet you won’t show me cause you’re insecure," Y/n teased with a playful glint in her eye.

Scarecrow tilted his head. "Or perhaps I prefer the mystery. Keeps things interesting, doesn't it?" His voice was muffled slightly by the fabric covering his features.

Y/n laughed, shaking her head. "Interesting for you, maybe. I'm just sitting here guessing if you're secretly a model or if you've got a face only a mother could love."

"Guess you'll just have to keep wondering," he replied.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, filled only by the soft rustling of Craw shifting on his perch. Y/n found herself studying Scarecrow, trying to glean any hint of the man behind the mask from his posture, his movements, even the way he spoke. There was an undeniable curiosity bubbling within her, a desire to know more about the mysterious figure who'd become an unexpected constant in her life.

As the night wore on, their conversation flowed, ranging from trivial banter to more serious discussions about their contrasting views of the city they both operated in. Despite their differences, Y/n felt a strange sense of kinship with Scarecrow, a connection forged in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Eventually, Y/n yawned, the lateness of the hour catching up to her. Scarecrow noticed, standing up from where he had been sitting. "I should go," he said, his voice carrying a note of reluctance.

Y/n nodded, feeling an unexpected twinge of disappointment at the thought of him leaving. "Yeah, I guess it's getting late."

As Scarecrow moved toward the window, Y/n called out, "Will I see you again?"

He paused at the window, turning slightly to look at her. "I'm sure you will," he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

And with that, he slipped out into the night with Craw flying after him, leaving Y/n with a mix of emotions and the lingering thrill of their conversation.

After two calm weeks, Bruce finally agreed to Y/n resuming her nightly endeavors alongside him. Although he harbored lingering doubts about Scarecrow, Y/n managed to clam his concerns, assuring him that Scarecrow would not pose a threat.

As Y/n and Batman moved stealthily through the Narrows, the dense fog seemed to cloak their presence further, blending them into the night. This part of Gotham, with its tight alleys and towering buildings, felt like a world entirely its own.

"Keep your guard up," Batman whispered, his voice barely carrying over the mist. "The Narrows are unpredictable."

Y/n nodded, her senses on high alert. The Narrows always had a way of keeping you on your toes, its residents too used to the shadows. But tonight, there was an odd stillness, as if the very air was holding its breath.

Suddenly, Batman stiffened, his head tilting slightly, the universal sign that he was receiving a communication through the cowl's integrated comms. Y/n watched him, waiting for instructions, knowing that whatever had just come through could very well dictate their next move.

After a moment, Batman turned to her, the glow from the city behind him casting a shadow over his face. "Riddler's causing trouble downtown. I need to go now."

"I'll stay here. Keep an eye on things," she offered, already mentally preparing to handle the Narrows alone.

Batman nodded, a silent message of trust and confidence in her abilities. "Be careful," he said before grappling away, disappearing into the night sky.

Alone now, Y/n felt the weight of the silence around her. The Narrows, with its whispering shadows and secrets, suddenly seemed even more foreboding. She took a deep breath, centering herself. This was her domain too, her responsibility.

"Thought he’d never leave," came a voice below her, drawing her attention downward.

As Y/n leaned over the edge of the rooftop. To her surprise, Scarecrow stood on the balcony below, his figure illuminated by the faint glow of the city lights.

"You've been here the whole time?" Y/n exclaimed, taken aback by his sudden appearance.

"I've been waiting inside. The place was abandoned," Scarecrow replied calmly, gesturing towards the building behind him.

Y/n hopped down from the rooftop, landing gracefully on the balcony beside him.

"Wow, Batman and I need to step up our game," she remarked, impressed by Scarecrow's stealth.

"Haven’t seen you as Batgirl in a while," Scarecrow noted, his gaze lingering on her.

"Yeah, thanks to you. I was sidelined. Batman thought you were gonna go after me," Y/n explained, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Keeping you safe. Wise man," Scarecrow replied cryptically, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. "More like overprotective," she whined.

Y/n could hear Scarecrow smirk behind the mask. "He has reason to be. You're not exactly easy to replace."

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she teased.

"Where's Craw?" Y/n asked, looking around.

"Is my presence not enough for you?" Scarecrow teased.

Y/n side-eyed him, and Scarecrow chuckled. "He's back at my lab."

Scarecrow leaned against the balcony railing, his gaze scanning the darkened streets below. "So, what's the plan now? Are you patrolling solo?"

Y/n nodded. "Looks like it. Batman got called away to deal with Riddler downtown."

Scarecrow hummed in response. "Well then, I guess it's just you and me tonight."

Y/n raised an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in her expression. "You planning on causing any trouble?"

Scarecrow chuckled, shaking his head. "Not tonight."

They fell into an easy silence, the sounds of the city filling the air around them. Despite the darkness that surrounded them, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie with Scarecrow, an unexpected ally in the night.

Y/n cast a sidelong glance at Scarecrow, noting the unusual cleanliness of his attire. "Not the usual tattered suit?" she pointed out.

Scarecrow glanced down at his suit. "Well, one has to look clean to impress," he replied, glazing at her.

"I'm sure Batman doesn't mind how you look," Y/n quipped, a playful glint in her eye.

Y/n leaned her back against the balcony railing, her gaze meeting Scarecrow's with a hint of mischief.

"Although, I must admit, the rugged look suits you," she teased, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Scarecrow chuckled softly, his gaze meeting hers with a spark of amusement. "Is that so? Perhaps I should stick to the tattered aesthetic then," he countered, his tone laced with flirtatiousness.

Y/n's laughter rang out across the night sky, the sound mixing with the distant hum of the city below. "You do you, Scarecrow. Just don't expect me to swoon over every torn thread," she replied, a playful glimmer dancing in her eyes.

Scarecrow leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Ah, but what if I told you I have a whole wardrobe of tattered suits just waiting to impress you?"

Y/n chuckled, her heart fluttering at the playful tone in Scarecrow's voice. "Just for me? Scandalous.”

"Well, if torn threads won't do the trick, I'll have to find another way to catch your eye." Scarecrow added.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. "Oh? And what approach are you planning to take?"

He leaned in even closer, his gaze locking with hers. "I suppose I'll have to rely on my charming wit and irresistible charm," he replied, his tone filled with playful confidence.

Y/n chuckled, the sound light and melodious in the night air. "Smooth talker, are we?" she teased, her own playful demeanor matching his.

Scarecrow's grin widened, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Only when I'm in good company," he admitted, his voice softening slightly as he held her gaze.

Y/n's cheeks flushed at his words, her gaze lingering on his captivating eyes. "You certainly know how to flatter a girl," she teased, unable to suppress the flutter of excitement building within her.

Scarecrow chuckled softly, the sound sending a thrill through Y/n. "Only because you make it so easy," he murmured, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that left her breathless.

"If I weren't on duty, I might have been tempted to steal a kiss from you right here," she teased, her fingers playfully tugging at his noose.

With a wink, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the abandoned apartment, leaving Scarecrow to ponder her words.

"You never know, the night is young," he remarked, his voice laced with playful innuendo.

"Oh, but I could never kiss a man whose face I've never seen," Y/n remarked.

"Oh, but the mystery adds to the allure, don't you think?" Scarecrow countered.

Scarecrow chuckled, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room. "Who says you haven't seen it before?"

Y/n halted in her tracks, her eyes widening in surprise as she turned back to face him.

"So, I have actually seen you before?" she asked eagerly.

Scarecrow nodded, a hint of amusement in his demeanor. "Yes, indeed," he confirmed.

Her excitement grew, and she leaned in closer. "Did we talk?" she pressed.

"We did," he replied, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Her disbelief turned into sheer astonishment. "Oh my god! Seriously? Can you tell me more?" she exclaimed.

"We had quite a conversation, and we crossed paths a few times afterward," Scarecrow disclosed.

Y/n racked her brain, trying to recall any details, but she was drawing a blank. Feeling frustrated and a little foolish for not making the connection, she sighed. Despite now knowing what he sounded like without the mask, she still couldn't piece it together.

"Holy fuck! That's incredible!" Y/n exclaimed, laughter bubbling up from within her. "Can you give me just a tiny hint about what you look like?" Y/n pleaded.

"Sorry, but that would spoil the fun," Scarecrow replied.

Y/n persisted, "Well, do you at least know if I find you attractive?"

"Why do you want to know that?" Scarecrow questioned.

"Because it might have to kiss you after all," Y/n teased.

Scarecrow considered her words before responding, "...I don’t know. You didn't seem particularly impressed when you saw me, you were just a bit awkward at first. But to be fair, so was I."

There was a hint of vulnerability in his tone, though Y/n couldn't be sure. "Perhaps my awkwardness was due to the fact I was starstruck?" she offered playfully.

Scarecrow sounded unconvinced. "Unlikely," he countered gently.

"Or… could it be because my attention was already captivated by someone else? Maybe a certain Scarecrow?" Y/n teased, aiming to lighten his spirits.

Scarecrow's demeanor shifted, his voice tinged with defensiveness. "Why the sudden interest, Batgirl? You've never shown any feelings towards me before. What's changed?" he asked.

Y/n found herself confused by the unfolding situation. When had she begun to flirt with Scarecrow, and why was she so invested in making him believe she was romantically interested? Whenever this change occurred, she didn’t mind it.

"Woah. You started this, and don't act as if you weren't flirting with me too," Y/n retorted.

Scarecrow's tone never softened, his eyes narrowing as he studied Y/n's face. "And if I was? What are your intentions, Y/n?" he asked.

"I don’t know! I was just bantering, playing along… what were your intentions then? How do I know you're not just leading me on so you can gas me again?" Y/n retorted, turning the tables on him.

This clearly offended Scarecrow. "You know it was an accident."

"Do I?" Y/n challenged.

Scarecrow's expression softened, a hint of regret in his eyes. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said quietly.

Y/n felt a pang of sympathy. "I know," she replied softly.

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air. Eventually, Y/n spoke up again. "Look, I didn't mean to upset you."

"Look, I didn't mean to upset you," Y/n said, her tone sincere.

Scarecrow took a deep breath, visible even through his attire. "And I apologize if I seemed defensive. It wasn't my intention."

Their eyes met, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Both were treading uncharted waters, neither sure of where the current would take them but willing to navigate it together.

"So, I've been meaning to ask," Y/n began, again with the playfulness in her voice, "do you wear contacts?"

Scarecrow tilted his head slightly, "Prescription ones, yes."

"But not colored?" she probed further.

"No, why do you ask?" Scarecrow's response carried a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Y/n's tone softened, warmth seeping into her words, "It's just that... you have really pretty eyes."

"Again with the flattery?" Scarecrow teased.

"It's just the truth," Y/n replied with a grin.

"And here I was thinking I might get a kiss," Scarecrow joked.

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head, "I told you, I’m not going to kiss a man I don’t know."

Scarecrow shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes, "That’s a shame."

The distant wail of sirens interrupted their banter.

"I should probably leave now," Scarecrow remarked.

"Yeah… see you later?" Y/n said, a hopeful note in her voice.

"Count on it. Until then... See you at Arkham," Scarecrow said, disappearing into the night.

Y/n's mind raced to piece together the puzzle he had inadvertently presented her. It took a moment for the realization to sink in, but when it did, her heart skipped a beat.

"Wait a minute!" she called out, but it was futile, Scarecrow was already gone.

Her mind buzzed with newfound clarity. Tall, lanky, formal speech, glasses, and now, a connection to Arkham. It all clicked into place with a sudden jolt of realization. How had she not seen it before?

"Holy fuck," Y/n breathed, her pulse quickening.

The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place, revealing a truth she couldn't ignore. Scarecrow... was someone from Arkham. And in that moment, a single name echoed in her mind with chilling clarity.

The conversations they'd shared, the topics they'd discussed, all pointed to one undeniable truth. His fascination with fear, his strange approach to their encounters, it was all too familiar now.

The memory of their first meeting flooded back, and suddenly, it made perfect sense. The shock on his face, the careful choice of words. It was Dr. Crane, right before her eyes.

Y/n couldn't believe she hadn't seen it sooner. How had she missed the signs? How had she not recognized the man behind the mask all along?

Now faced with this newfound knowledge, Y/n was at a crossroads. Should she maintain the facade of ignorance, carrying on as if nothing had changed? Or should she confront Dr. Crane, acknowledging the truth that lay between them? And what about the promise she'd made, the playful banter about kissing him. Was it all just a game, or did it hold deeper significance now?

One thing was certain, she couldn't risk revealing her discovery to Bruce. As she grappled with these thoughts, Y/n resolved to tread carefully, to navigate this delicate situation with caution. The truth had been revealed, but its aftermath remained to be seen.

Throughout the morning, Y/n felt restless as she awaited her encounter with Dr. Crane. Stuck in Dr. Young's office sorting files, she impatiently waited for the opportunity to find him.

As soon as she finished with the files, Y/n swiftly stored them away and left the office, determined to seek out Dr. Crane in the secure section of Arkham.

As Y/n made her way through the corridors of Arkham, her mind raced with anticipation. She had been waiting for this moment, hoping to confront Dr. Crane. Suddenly, she spotted him in the distance, his figure unmistakable amidst the gloom. Their eyes locked, and she saw a hint of amusement in his expression, as if he knew she was coming.

Her heart skipped a beat. Feeling a surge of determination, Y/n hastened her steps, closing the gap between them with purpose. As she reached Dr. Crane, she grabbed his arm firmly, surprising him with her sudden boldness. His smirk widened slightly, betraying a mixture of surprise and curiosity at her actions.

Without uttering a word, Y/n tugged him along, leading him towards his office. Dr. Crane offered little resistance, seemingly taken aback by Y/n's assertiveness. As they entered the office, Y/n swiftly closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock, sealing them inside.

"You sly motherfucker," Y/n breathed out.

Entwining her fingers in his hair, she drew him closer, her lips crashing against his in a fiery embrace. The kiss ignited a whirlwind of emotions, fueled by pent-up desire and the thrill of discovery.

Caught off guard by Y/n's sudden boldness, Dr. Crane hesitated for a moment before surrendering to the intoxicating allure of her kiss. His hands found their way to her waist, pulling her closer as the intensity of the moment enveloped them both.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own private universe of passion and longing. But as the kiss deepened, an obnoxious buzz interrupted the moment, reminding them of their surroundings.

Reluctantly breaking the kiss, Y/n and Dr. Crane gazed into each other's eyes, a mixture of surprise and desire reflected in their expressions.

"I... I didn't expect..." Dr. Crane began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.

Y/n's heart raced as she searched his eyes for any sign of regret or hesitation. But instead, she found a spark of something else, a glimmer of longing and vulnerability that mirrored her own.

"I'm sorry," Y/n whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "I just couldn't resist."

She noticed a blush creeping up Dr. Crane’s cheeks as he adjusted his glasses.

"Am I fogging up your glasses?" Y/n teased.

Dr. Crane chuckled nervously. "Not disappointed, I see," he replied, his tone unable to hide his embarrassment.

Y/n smiled, her eyes twinkling with affection. "Now, I could never be disappointed in my Scarecrow," she said, her words filled with warmth.

Dr. Crane's blush deepened at the endearing nickname, but he tried to maintain his composure. "I hope you don't go around kissing all your superiors," he joked, attempting to deflect the attention.

Y/n grinned mischievously. "Just you, Dr. Crane," she said, her tone teasing yet sincere.

Dr. Crane's lips curled into a soft smile at her response. "Seeing as circumstances change, you can call me Jonathan," he offered, his voice tinged with newfound intimacy.

"Well, Jonathan… I'm glad to finally know the man behind the mask," Y/n said with a smile.

"You better not go off telling your bat friend about this," Jonathan warned playfully.

"And lose my nighttime companion? No way," Y/n retorted, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Jonathan chuckled at her response. Y/n’s eyes drifted to the closed office door.

“We should probably be getting back to work now," Y/n said, a hint of reluctance in her voice.

"We should, yes..." Jonathan began, his gaze lingering on her. "But I've never been one to follow the rules too closely," he added, drawing her closer into his embrace.

Y/n chuckled softly, realizing she wouldn't be leaving the office anytime soon. With a smile on her lips and a newfound connection in her heart, Y/n embraced the unpredictable journey ahead, knowing that whatever was between them was going to be complicated. But as Jonathan's lips met hers once more, Y/n felt a rush of exhilaration, realizing that wouldn’t want it any other way.

A/N: Thank you so much for the request 💚 I really did enjoy writing this fic, enemies hit differently when it's in superhero fics and I love it. Even with the fic being 15k long, I wasn't sure how to make them 'lovers', so I ended up just making them playfully flirt and just turn it into real attraction cause...slay. So yeah, it's a bit fast paced but I am still happy with what I've written and I hope yous are too :) It took me quite a while to write as I've just been so busy with Uni and work lately, finding time between has been difficult. Thank you again and I hope you enjoyed 💚

#fanfic #jonathan crane #jonathan crane fanfic #jonathan crane x reader #dc scarecrow #cillian murphy scarecrow #batman scarecrow #the scarecrow #scarecrow #scarecrow x batgirl #batgirl #reader is batgirl #scarecrow x reader

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morallyinept · 4 months

Text

Heyday Hero! - A Marcus Moreno One Shot

Summary: Retired from his role as leader of the Heroics, Marcus finds that his life is missing something he never really slowed down to notice before, and soon the prospect of growing older and grey alone suddenly doesn't seem like such a super thought.

Pairing: Mature!Marcus Moreno x Mature/CurvyF!Reader (No name of reader. It’s you, bub. However Reader is of a similar age to Marcus, who I have made 52 in this story, and Reader is more on the curvier side in body type. Otherwise a blank slate.)

Word Count: 12.5k. I'm not sorry. Settle in, it's a long one.

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Some angst/very slight mentions of body confidence/both Marcus & Reader have REAL bodies, and very real middle age spread/coming to terms with ageing & feeling obsolete.

Explicit: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral M & F receiving/fingering - Marcus has superpower hands⚡️/lots of kissing/schmaltzy romance/Marcus doesn't fuck, he makes love.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: After seeing how distinguished and incredibly handsome Pedro looked at the Emmy's recently (and remarkably like an older version of gorgeous Marcus Moreno) this idea came to me. And I had to write it down... It's long for a one shot, but I didn't want to cut too much out as I wanted to really get inside of Marcus's head. 🧠

MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS MORENO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

In the dimly lit restaurant, Marcus fiddles anxiously with the menu as he waits for your arrival.

Sat in the swanky establishment, chosen meticulously for it’s luxurious, yet modest selection of incredibly tasty fare, the ambiance around him is a blend of soft lighting and muted colours that exude an air of quaint sophistication.

The walls are adorned with contemporary art pieces, which he can sometimes get lost inside between courses, creating an elegant backdrop to the gentle hum of conversations weaving around him like a ribbon in the background.

To his left, a couple engage in animated laughter, their cheery faces illuminated by the warm glow of soft candlelight. Across the room, a group of friends celebrate a special occasion, clinking glasses in animated jubilation.

The soft jazz music playing in the background adds a touch of romance, and the scraping of cutlery against fine china creates a comforting sense of familiarity in a place Marcus has favoured from time to time, bringing his daughter as his usual date.

The waitstaff, dressed in crisp uniforms, move gracefully between tables, ensuring that each patron experiences the epitome of culinary indulgence with a first class service.

Grateful that he chose to don his spectacles, he opens the menu and skims the appetizers and main courses, inwardly cursing his exceptional time keeping skills at arriving thirty minutes earlier than he needs to be.

He’s acutely aware of being on his own; standing out as a single amongst a sea of tables where numbers around them are even, and it crawls onto his shoulders to sit there like a heavy, unwanted companion settling in.

Despite the refined atmosphere, Marcus feels a tinge of nervousness swell in his belly. As he catches glimpses of couples sharing intimate moments and friends engaged in lively cahoots, Marcus can't help but feel like an outsider peering into a world that has become somewhat unfamiliar during his retirement.

As he sits in contemplation, considering the Filet Mignon with a Cabernet Demi-Glace alongside a glass of Malbec, or maybe the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, that would go down nicely, the restaurant serves as a swamping microcosm of the world he’s retreated into - a world filled with ordinary moments and the promise of new connections, despite the cocoon of abject terror woven tightly around them.

He wonders briefly for a moment what you will choose to eat as he skims down the list. Then he wonders if you'll actually have the courage to show; his own hesitations and fears trying to toy with him with their insidious little voices hissing in his ear.

His once steady hands now convey a subtle tremor, a physical manifestation of the nerves that have gripped him tightly ever since the idea of this date had taken root and grown limbs of its own.

A journey that still confused him, unable to believe it all started with a simple swipe over his face and a digital message shared between you...

His daughter, Missy, had perched on the armrest of the couch only a mere fortnight ago, a mischievous glint in her deep chocolate eyes that matched his own set of peepers.

"Alright, Dad, let's make you the perfect dating profile. You've got to be enticing, mysterious, yet approachable," Missy had declared with a buoyant smirk.

Marcus nodded, still getting accustomed to the concept of online dating and his acceptance to it after months of Missy berating him about putting himself out there more.

He finally caved when he realised she was right. She usually was about these things, although hardly an example to live by. Several failed relationships later, including an engagement that never led to Marcus actually walking her down the aisle proudly on his arm, and she'd thrown in the towel and embraced single life.

She'd grown in age for a thirty-something rambunctious young woman, but evidently not in maturity.

"Right, right. Enticing and approachable. Got it.” Marcus nodded. “How do I do that?"

“You’re a lost cause, jeez,” she snorted, as her fingers danced across the keyboard on the phone screen. “Luckily, you have me to help you out.”

“What are you writing in there?” Marcus asked curiously, trying to take a peek.

"I’m making you sound like a catch. Because you are.”

“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled bashfully. “I’m old.”

“Being in your fifties is not old. Trust me. You’re what, 56?”

“52.” Marcus frowned.

“Exactly. Young. Now, for the headline. How about 'retired hero seeking sidekick for life's next adventure'?"

Marcus nodded. “Mm, I sound like a sales pamphlet.” He chuckled.

With a teasing grin, Missy continued typing. "Let's highlight your strengths. 'A man of action, but also enjoys long walks on the beach and candlelit dinners.'"

Marcus scratched under his greying beard. "Look at that, I've been upgraded from sales pamphlet to walking cliché."

Missy laughed, "fine, we'll skip the beach walks, then. How about we mention your cooking skills? 'Can whip up a mean lasagna, tower of pancakes and save the day - a triple threat.'"

Marcus nodded in approval. "That's not bad. Cooking is a superpower in its own right. And one that I excel at, if I do say so myself."

"You always say so."

"Quit complaining. You eat here for free." He quipped.

As they navigated through the intricacies of the dating profile, Marcus's naivety about online dating emerged. "Do people really swipe left or right on this thing?”

“Yep. You swipe right if you like the look of them, or left if you don’t.”

“How fickle.” He wrinkled his nose at such a thought.

“Eh, it's what all the cool kids do these days.” Missy shrugged.

“Maybe that’s too cool for me. What about one where I can meet someone like me?”

“Dating specifically for retired Heroics?”

“No. Dating for… something other than a one night stand.” He cleared his throat.

“You mean you don’t want to slut around?” Missy teased. "These are your hoe years, Dad!"

“Hey! Potty mouth.” He frowned again. “And no. I-I want to meet someone who’s serious.”

Missy rolled her eyes. “Dad, this isn’t Tinder I'm setting you up on, don’t worry.” She reassured. “This is a serious dating site for old, uh, mature people who want to find something real. It just has a similar algorithm to Tinder in matching you up.”

“Well, good.” He nodded. “What’s Tinder?”

“Slut central.” Missy smirked.

“Oh.” Marcus chuckled again. “And what's with all the emojis? Ooh, is there a superhero emoji?"

Missy tittered, guiding him through the nuances. "Yes, there's a superhero emoji, we can add that, or a heart to jazz it up a bit."

“I like the purple heart. Can you put that one?”

“Purple? Why not the green one?”

“I don’t like green, purple is my favourite colour. Why would I use the green one?” Marcus questioned, wrinkling his nose.

"I don't know, green is cool. Different."

"I'm not cool. Just put the purple one."

“Purple it is.” Missy said, smiling down at him and how curiously receptive he was to it all. She had assumed he would have put up a bit of a fight and insisted he was perfectly fine on his own. But they both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

As she finalised the profile, Missy held up the phone to snap a picture of him.

“Oh no, let me just-”

“Dad, you look fine.” She groaned as he ran his hand over his head tidying his already neat hair.

“Well, let me take my glasses off.”

“No way. They’re a part of you. Now, say cheese, you uncool old man.” She snapped a few pics as he smiled awkwardly, and chose the best one to upload.

"And there we have it - the profile of a retired superhero ready to conquer the world of online dating. You're a niche in the market."

Marcus simply scoffed.

"Now, brace yourself for the flood of admirers, Dad. Your inbox is gonna be lit."

Marcus looked at the screen, a mix of nervousness and amusement on his face.

"Flood of admirers, huh? I never thought finding a date would be this... complicated."

As Missy finalised and submitted the online dating profile, a moment of hesitation gripped him. He looked at the screen, the upbeat words that described him echoed in his mind, and a pang of guilt tugged at his ventricles making him sigh heavily.

The prospect of moving forward felt like a betrayal, a step into an unknown territory where memories of his late wife still lingered, clinging on. He fiddled with the platinum band around his finger absentmindedly.

But Missy sensed her father's inner turmoil, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding as if she could read every silent thought that churned through him.

She gently placed a hand on his broad shoulder.

"Dad, it's okay. Mom will always be a part of us, no matter what. This doesn't mean you're leaving her behind."

Marcus nodded, his gratitude evident in his misty eyes. "I know. It's just... it feels strange, you know? To be potentially opening up to someone new. I feel so out of the loop."

“But that’s the fun in dating.” Missy squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and he placed his hand on top of hers. "You meet all kinds of weirdos before you find one that's the right kind of weird."

"You're a weirdo." He smirked.

"Takes one to know one," she mused. "Besides, mom would want you to be happy. And I want that too. You deserve it. There’s someone out there that's just as uncool as you are, I guarantee it."

"Thanks," he chuckled.

"I mean it. Whoever they are, they're going to fall madly in love with you. You really are a hero, Dad."

Marcus smiled up at her with rosy cheeks and a warming smile. “Love you, kiddo.”

“I’m not eleven anymore. I’m a grown woman.” She rolled her eyes at the pet name that had stuck, although secretly she loved it.

“You’ll always be my kiddo regardless of how old you get. That'a just the deal.” He confirmed with a singular nod.

With a soft smile, Marcus returned his focus to the dating profile. The words on the screen transforming slowly from potential betrayal to a blooming eagerness through some determined resilience and the capacity to allow himself to embrace a new beginning in his long absent love life with some appeasement.

Weeks had passed since Marcus and Missy created the dating profile.

Admittedly Marcus hadn’t spent a lot of time on the app, finding it tricky to navigate and the constant swiping made his thumbs ache after scrolling through reams of attractive faces that it began to overwhelm.

But he dipped in now and again to check any matches, and didn’t really expect much.

Marcus was the kind of man who harboured that dreamy infatuation of falling in love naturally in an environment reminiscent of his favourite rom coms.

Like bumping into his soulmate in a coffee shop over a foamy latte, or locking eyes through the stacks in an old dusty bookstore, or between the exotic blooms of the local botanical gardens where he liked to sit and have lunch sometimes.

But of course, life isn’t a rom com, and Marcus was convinced his had always been a gritty action adventure with no time for the romantic story line to be weaved into the dangerous plot.

One evening, as Marcus checked his phone, he discovered a notification from the dating app. His heart skipped a beat as he opened the message, revealing a match with you.

A mixture of excitement and nervousness washed over him. He read through your profile, discovering shared interests and a warmth that resonated through your words about seeking a life partner with whom you could share your zest for life with.

Your photo captivated him, namely your smile, and Marcus found he spent several minutes just trying to envision what you were like in person with those gorgeous eyes of yours staring back at him.

The room seemed to brighten as he absorbed the realisation that someone out there was potentially interested in getting to know him beyond the superhero persona.

"Hey, I got a match!" He called out to Missy, who was folding laundry in the next room.

Despite how domesticated her father was, he still loathed ironing and wasn’t really that skilled at it, so it was left for Missy when she visited, which was an almost daily occurrence. Moving out some years ago into her own place across town, she still spent more of her time at her childhood home hanging with her father when she wasn’t saving the world.

Loneliness, it seemed, was hereditary.

She rushed in, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Really? Let me see!"

As they huddled around the phone, Marcus navigated through your profile.

“Oh, she’s gorgeous, Dad.”

“Right? Far too gorgeous for me.” His voice dipped.

Missy frowned up at him. “Don’t say that, she likes you, look. And look, she loves flowers, you love your garden! Ooh, and she’s a foodie! Perfect match!"

"You think so?" He asked.

"You're officially in the dating game, Dad!" She grinned excitedly.

Marcus couldn't help but smile, a blend of gratitude and anticipation in his eyes.

“Send her a message back.”

“What do I say?”

Missy rolled her eyes. “Just talk to her, dummy.”

He nodded. "I never thought I'd be doing this at my age. But here goes nothing."

Missy playfully nudged him. “You say it like you’re on your last legs.”

“I’m so nervous. Do you think she could really find me interesting?”

Missy's face softened. "Absolutely. You’ve got so much to offer. Remember, just be yourself. And if all else fails, maybe tell her about the pancake towers… That seemed to work for you before."

The father-daughter duo laughed and then she left him to it. As Marcus prepared to message you, he felt a sense of hope blooming within him, seeding with delicate tendrils of what-if scenarios through the soil of his being.

The dating app, once an intimidating frontier, now represented a chance for connection in the palm of his hand, and the possibility of a second chapter in his life.

In the soft glow of the phone screen, Marcus typed his first message to you; a simple yet sincere greeting, with thoughtful follow up questions to get to know you.

As he pressed send, the room seemed to hold its breath with him; floundering in the uncharted territory and all the terrifying pitfalls of online dating opening up in seemingly unconquerable chasms before him.

He could feel his fingers buzz and crackle in giddy excitement, and he shook the pulsing from them as he waited anxiously.

Marcus smiled as wide as his mouth would stretch when moments later your reply came, followed with a purple heart emoji of your own at the end.

The pair of you spent the reminder of that night messaging back and forth until the early hours of the morning, both of you seeming reluctant to halt the texting for the inconvinience of sleep.

You questioned him about his previous career as leader of the Heroics, something that he made no effort in hiding from you, but he was more surprised when you brushed over it and asked him more personal questions about him and his life now.

It warmed him to know that you were keen on getting to know the man underneath the padded out suit and katanas.

As Marcus delved into the conversations that flowed eagerly across the screen, he eagerly shared those glimpses of his life beyond the Heroics. In his messages to you, he found himself excitedly revealing the most cherished aspects of his retired life - his culinary prowess and his love for gardening namely.

Through his words, never abbreviated to modern day text slang, he painted vivid pictures of his kitchen as a canvas where he crafted tasty and experimental delights, contributing to his now less-than-trim waistline.

The tales of him donning an apron and concocting flavours with pots and pans were woven into the giddy narrative - like creating his legendary lasagna and towering pancake stacks - and held a touch of pride and a hint of self-deprecating humour.

Perhaps you'll be the lucky one to experience my famous lasagna one day. I warn you though, it comes with a side of terrible superhero puns and far too much garlic bread.💜

Your response made his cheeks ache from grinning so much:

Well, lucky for you I love far too much garlic bread. And terrible puns.💜

He spoke of mornings spent tending to the plants in his back yard, nurturing them as if they were his wards. The garden, once a therapeutic escape from the demands of heroism, now became a space where he cultivated not just flowers and vegetables, but a sense of ongoing tranquillity.

As he shared these aspects of his life, Marcus was ecstatic that you saw beyond the retired hero and glimpsed the man who found joy in the beautiful ordinary.

You both spoke morning, noon and night until only a few days into your chatting, Marcus offered you his phone number and he called you, engaging in a video call conversation that lasted late into the night and curated a dinner date arranged for just a few evenings later.

And now, sitting in the restaurant waiting patiently for you, his phone buzzes in his pocket at the table and Missy’s name flashes up.

Stay away from anything garlicky 2nite, no matter how much u want it. Good luck! Love u x

He smiles at his daughter’s sage advice after responding with a thumbs up emoji, and he puts his phone back in his pocket and glances out the window.

Outside the restaurant, the early night casts its enchantment over the cityscape of downtown Austin, turning the bustling streets into a reflective mosaic of city lights. The glow of the street lamps create warm halos diffused by the previous cascading rain, warm in the Texas summer.

The restaurant, with its polished veneer and the subtle drama of its patrons all around seem to suddenly cave in on Marcus, and the nerves begin to convince him that you might feel out of place here.

He’s starting to, as he glances down at himself; his once-strong hands now showing signs of a subtle tremble and wear. He smooths down his soft cashmere sweater nervously.

Agonising on what to wear, Missy came to the rescue after his attempts at some mismatched disaster left her looking at him as though he'd completely lost his mind.

And perhaps he had for even entertaining the idea that someone could find him desirable and attractive now at the gates of a later stage in life.

After a brief fashion show of potential date outfits, they settled on a classic and sophisticated choice of a black cashmere sweater, paired with a white pressed shirt and a sleek black tie underneath, teamed with black pants and smart dress shoes that seemed to strike the right balance between the refined and approachable.

Much smarter than his grey denim that was scuffed at the knees.

"Very James Bond, Dad," Missy had remarked, a playful grin on her face.

"James Bond is incredibly smooth with the ladies. I'm more like Jack Lemon." Marcus snorted. "Got that nervous, twitchy energy down to a T... How do I look?"

With a final nod of approval, they exchanged their trademark father-daughter grin; a silent acknowledgment of the bond that went beyond snappy wardrobe choices.

Missy, ever the supportive sidekick, had not only helped pick an outfit, but infused the process with laughter and adoration, quelling his aforementioned nervous, twitchy energy. The ensemble was nothing too fussy, but equally comfortable and smart.

But now he wonders if the sweater accentuates the stomach he’s allowed to grow out of him through not working out on the daily anymore, and he inadvertently sucks it in.

As Marcus browses the menu, his mind wanders aimlessly to the days when the government relied on him and his team to protect the city. Now that gratitude seems to have faded, replaced by a forgotten indifference.

The retirement party was a mere formality, a token of appreciation for a job well done over the years, and soon he was swallowed up in the anonymity of regular civilian life.

But in the quiet solitude of his home, Marcus often found himself grappling with the stark void that retirement had suddenly left behind. The absence of the daily camaraderie of a team, and a mission, left him with a sense of purposelessness that was hard to ignore.

Days stretched before him like an uncertain horizon and weighed heavily on his shoulders. The routines that once defined his life had dissolved, leaving behind a disorienting stillness and quietness that seemed perpetually louder as the days wore on where he was left floundering. And immensely bored.

His daughter watched with concern as her father navigated this unfamiliar terrain cautiously - and somewhat alone.

The strong, confident superhero who had once faced down villains and alien entities alike, and saved the day countless times without so much as a thanks from the general public most of the time, but bore the scars and wounds that weren't just physical, now faced the formidable challenge of figuring out what came next.

In the midst of his internal battles, loneliness became an unexpected companion that walked beside Marcus; its presence more pronounced as the passage of solitude had unfolded.

In the darkest corners of his mind, Marcus grappled with the harsh reality of ageing. The once-vibrant hero who was in super shape, whose every step echoed with the assurance of a Titan-esque strength, now found himself facing the inevitability of a body that carried the pudgy weight of his advancing years and one too many lasagnes.

The grey in his beard and the subtle signs of time etched around his tired eyes, served as visual markers of a journey that had traversed the highest peaks of heroism and now meandered through the sludgey valleys of introspection.

A sense of nostalgia lingered for the days when his strength seemed boundless, and the world bowed in acknowledgment of his achievements and saviour duty.

Yet, beneath the surface, there was also a quiet, yet slow acceptance; a recognition that each new wrinkle and grey strand bore witness to a life well-lived. Overall, he was happy, accomplished; he had what he needed to be content.

But there was still a hole where a hole ought not to be. And it was starting to gape.

The memories of his late wife visited him in unguarded moments. Especially at night when the world was still and peaceful, yet his yearning was abominably loud.

Marcus missed the warmth of her presence, her body wrapped around his, the shared laughter, and the quiet intimacy that had defined their mere few years together.

He would fall asleep glancing at the tarnished gleam of his wedding band that he still wore around his finger, up until his impending date.

A metallic fragment still clinging on with her memory despite its haze, and popping it safely away inside the drawer came with a sense of unyielding sadness as it did with something excitedly eager to pursue a new chapter.

The transition from active duty to retirement weighed heavily on Marcus. The once effable hero, accustomed to the exhilaration of fighting crime and saving lives, found himself facing the stark reality of now being cast aside, overshadowed by the emergence of a new, younger fleet of heroes; his own daughter taking up the position that he once held proudly as leader of the Heroics.

Retirement, in its initial stages, felt like a forced departure from a life that had defined him. The government's decision to make way for the next generation of heroes left Marcus grappling with a sense of displacement.

The outfit, which had been a symbol of strength and purpose, now hung in the closet faded and moth-eaten; a silent reminder of a bygone era, no longer fitting him where he’d allowed himself to fill out a little.

The katanas were sheathed and stored away at the back of the furthest shelf out of reach, and out of sight, and no longer needed to be called into his grip by his own will.

And despite him still feeling that magnetised, crackly buzz in his fingers, it became less noticeable as time wore on.

His team, once a tight knit band of clashing personalities in lurid coloured suits alike, were now strangers in his phone book whom he barely heard from.

There was an inherent loneliness attached to retirement, a solitude that stemmed not just from the absence of battles, but from the realisation that the world had moved on and left him forever encased inside his heyday.

Marcus recognized that the cycle of heroism demanded the emergence of new champions; each generation contributing to the ebb and flow of the greater narrative. He knew and understood he would never be able to keep going forever, nor did he want to.

The challenge, however, lay in reconciling his sense of self-worth with a society that often failed to appreciate the depth of experience that came with age.

It was as if he had become invisible overnight.

Marcus yearned for a companion, a lover who could fill the void left by the passing of his wife. The longing for romance, for someone to share the mundane and extraordinary moments alike, for the feel of someone's bare skin writhing and cupping against his own filled his waking thoughts.

The world, once a carnival of action, now seemed incomplete without the shared tenderness of someone to enjoy it with. The quiet dinners, the walks hand-in-hand, and the simple pleasure of having a partner to confide in rooted a growing hunger within him.

The desire for companionship wasn’t just a fleeting wish; it was a profound ache that echoed through the vacant chambers of his heart, a reminder that heroism, while noble, did not shield him from the vulnerabilities of basic human need.

For your date with Marcus tonight, you'd carefully selected a dress that effortlessly blended elegance with a touch of modern flair.

The dress was a knee-length, A-line silhouette in a shade of deep midnight blue, shimmering with some well placed sequins.

The rich hue complimented your complexion, enhancing the natural tones of your skin, along with a subtle dusting of make-up to accentuate your best features.

The fabric, a luxurious blend of silk and satin, cascaded down in gentle folds, creating a silhouette that was both graceful and sophisticated and hid a multitude of sins that you felt knocking your confidence about a little.

The moment you step into the restaurant your eyes are eagerly searching for him, and you spot him at a table by the window, his eyes equally searching for you.

And it's as if time itself has stopped, and there is only him and you.

Your dress is incredible, hugging your curves and emphasising them in all the right places. He can’t help but let his eyes roam over the fullness of your behind as you turn to give your coat to the host when you walk in.

Marcus can feel his mouth salivate; a small hint of your swelling cleavage is exposed as you walk towards him, rendering his pants feeling a little tighter.

But what captivates him the most is your smile; it lights up your whole face when you dazzle him with the beam of it.

“Holy ssh…” He trails off to himself as he loses his breath.

Of course, he already thinks you're attractive; he's seen you already through your picture and your video calls that have been on his mind constantly. He’d be bashful to admit that he’s looked at your dating profile picture probably far more than he should.

(He’ll never reveal to you that he’s also used it as inspiration to chase his own pleasure as he wrapped his hand around his thick cock to impure thoughts of you whilst he looked at your smiling face. Well, he won’t tell you that just yet, anyway.)

But seeing you finally in the flesh is something else entirely.

As you approach the table, the air pulses with a blend of eager excitement, and that familiar nervous, twitchy energy.

Marcus rises to his jellied feet, a courteous smile on his tanned, weathered face; his mind racing with the age-old question of whether to extend a hand for a shake, lean in for a kiss on the cheek, or open his arms for a hug. He fears he might not let you go at the latter.

All options make him giddy; the thought of finally touching you, even for a polite greeting, makes his legs buckle.

Your eyes meet, and a moment of charming awkwardness ensues. Unsure of the social cues, Marcus hesitates for a split second, caught between the realms of old-school gentlemanly grandeur and the nuances of modern dating etiquette.

In a playful attempt to navigate the greeting, he extends a hand for a shake just as you move in for a friendly hug. The result is a momentary dance of uncertainty - a handshake that morphs into an unexpected half-hug, odd dance. Laughter bubbles up between you both, diffusing the tension of your awkward limbs, as you share an amused, bashful glance.

"Well, that was smooth," Marcus quips, a twinkle in his eye.

"Some of my best moves," you agree, chuckling in agreement.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” Marcus compliments. He pulls your chair out for you and you smile as you sit whilst he tucks you in, then takes his own seat opposite you.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you say, feeling warm all over. “Very handsome.”

“Thanks,” he says, smoothing his hands down over his broad chest. “I had some help.” He admits, his eyes crinkling in the corners behind his specs as he chuckles. “My daughter saved the day.”

“Well, she has great taste. You look amazing. You smell really good too.” You say as your nose still twitches with the heady oaky notes.

"Thanks." He smiles and finds he can't stop.

He drifts off for a moment, lost in your eyes as they observe him fondly. It takes a moment for his composure to return and his brain to remember words coherently.

“Oh, I almost forgot, these are for you,” Marcus says, pointing to the vase of extravagant flowers resting beside the table on the windowsill.

The florals are incredible, a cluster of bulbous-headed peonies and fluffy garden roses, topped with curled calla lilies; their trumpet-shaped blooms standing out amongst their companions, adding a contemporary flair to the bouquet.

A soft hue of pinks and corals greet you, and the scent wafting from them makes your head swim with their delightfully wafting fragrance.

“These are stunning, Marcus. Wow, they must have cost a fortune... you shouldn't have.” But you're glad he did as you reach forward to smell them and run your fingers over their velvety petals in awe.

“Actually, they’re from my garden.”

“You grow these?” You baulk.

“Yeah. I know you said you love the lilies; they’re some of my favourites too.”

“That’s so thoughtful... I really do love them. Thank you.” You’re stunned at the fact this incredibly adept man knows how to cultivate something so beautiful into existence from a tiny seed. “Flowers just make me so happy, you know?”

“I get that. They make me happy too.” He agrees. “Would you like some wine, are you a wine drinker?” Marcus enquires.

Despite your long conversations laughing like teenagers breaking parental curfew well into the night, there are still things you're both yet to uncover about each other.

You nod. “I'd love some.”

The waiter takes your orders and you choose the pan-seared sea bass, drawn to the delicate and flaky texture of the fish, served on a bed of lemon risotto with roasted cherry tomatoes and asparagus.

Something light that won’t aggravate your stomach with your own nerves so much throughout the evening.

But his soft, inviting smile revealing a dimple as he gazes at you whilst you talk, puts you at ease. He really is incredibly handsome in the flesh, to the point it leaves you unable to speak for a few moments in between the engrossing conversations.

But the silences are never awkward between you both.

The dark-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose adds a touch of intellectual charm to his appearance, framing deep cocoa eyes that hold the wisdom of years spent in both heroism and now the quieter, reflective moments of life.

His greying beard and moustache add a rugged yet refined quality to the sun-kissed countenance of his complexion. The salt-and-pepper tones speak of a life rich with experience, the threads of grey weaving through the tapestry of a man who has weathered both storms and serenity.

He made no attempt of keeping his heroic qualities a secret from you - his face was known for saving the world time and time over - and despite it, it wasn’t something that put you off when you learned he was a former Heroic, and that people would sometimes recognise him like a celebrity when he were out doing mundane things like grocery shopping.

If anything, it flattered you that someone of his calibre would find you attractive in any kind of way. Compared to Marcus, your life in contrast was humdrum at best with a simple, yet modest job and a simple, yet modest home.

He could have a limber woman with a body sculpted to perfection in tight spandex, but instead it impressed you at how humble, and seemingly reserved and shy he was.

And how keenly interested he was in you and everything you had to say.

“Oh, this is delicious.” You sigh after the waiter brings your food a while later.

Conversation has flowed easily between you both and he makes you laugh a lot; something that he selfishly enjoys when he sees you throw you head back and titter, making you look more beautiful than ever, and filling his head with wayward thoughts of kissing down your neck.

That tight feeling in his pants hasn’t gone away yet and he revels in the throbbing ache hanging heavy despite the discomfort, because it’s been so long since someone made his body react like this.

“You wanna try some of mine too? The meat's really good.” Marcus offers, and holds his fork out to you when you nod.

You notice he bites his bottom, plush lip as he watches you take it in your mouth.

“Mmm, that is good. So tender. This was such a good choice of restaurant.” You say.

“Thank you. I love food and kinda pride myself in finding the best places to eat.” He says with a slight flush creeping over his nose. “That probably comes off as rather arrogant-”

“Not at all. I love it that you love food so much. I do too, it’s probably why I’m more on the heavy side these days.” You chuckle as you reach for your wine glass.

Marcus shakes his head. “I think you look amazing.” He smiles and you notice the rosy blush settle in his cheeks again.

“I never knew this place was here. It’s funny, you can spend your whole life in one place and not realise what’s right under your nose, right?” You say, and Marcus can’t help but agree in more ways than one.

The meal is delicious, the wine flows between you both. Finishing the bottle, he offers you dessert with a tempting smile and arched brow, that ignites something over your skin and leaves you tingly and squeezing your thighs together.

Your mutual sweet teeth lead you both to agree on the tiramisu to share between you. Layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream, dusted with cocoa powder, promises a delightful conclusion to the meal, to which you both indulge in as you speak more.

As you discuss your favourite movies and share anecdotes, the conversation takes on a flirtatious undertone as he leaves the last creamy bite on the plate just for you.

Wholly engaged in your words, Marcus leans in slightly over the table on his crossed arms; a hint of intimacy in his gesture, and a reassuring sincerity in his eyes that convince you that he’s enjoyed this evening and your company so much.

And when you look back at him, leaning in a little closer on your elbows across the table too, watching and shuddering as his fingertips soon brush against yours, you confirm the same to him in your own eyes that glitter and beguile him to his knees in subjugation of you.

"You know, they say the best movies are the ones that leave you wanting more... I can't help but feel the same about our date. I've had a really wonderful time with you tonight," he concludes, his dark-rimmed spectacles adding a touch of earnestness to his gaze.

He watches you smile and the world outside implodes.

"I was thinking... w-would you be interested in doing this again? Maybe something a bit less formal - like maybe a walk through the city or maybe a picnic or something?"

You chuckle, your eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “I’d absolutely love that, Marcus.”

“Yeah?” He beams, all teeth and pink grinning lips.

“I’d love to spend more time with you, definitely. I’ve really enjoyed tonight too. Almost don’t want it to end.” You say as your fingers glide over his knuckles.

“Well, it doesn’t have to… I-I mean, the night is still young, perhaps we could go for that walk? Or get another drink elsewhere? I know a good cocktail lounge in town, if you're feeling fruity?” Marcus suggests.

He’s careful not to sully the line between polite etiquette and implied impropriety. But you both chuckle at his choice of words.

“Sounds good.” You agree, all twinkly at him, and he can feel his heart soar.

He fetches your coat and holds it open for you as you slip it on. He carries the vase of flowers out towards the parking lot, suggesting he puts them in the car so he can hold your hand freely as you walk together somewhere, anywhere.

But you both don’t make it on that walk, or to the cocktail lounge, as instead you turn to him and go to kiss him, taking him by surprise that he almost drops the vase of flowers as your lips barely graze his cheek.

“I’m sorry, I just had to,” you say, a little flustered and giggly.

“Wait,” he says, and you watch him plonk the vase on the ground safely, and his arms pull you towards him. “Okay, let’s try that again.”

Smiling, Marcus leans in as you tiptoe up and your lips finally meet; soft, inviting and delicate.

A smooch that lasts and morphs slowly into something more passionate, more desired. And confirms everything you hoped and imagined about him from the moment you laid eyes on him this evening: Marcus Moreno knows how to damn well kiss.

You trace the line of his bottom lip with yours, nipping it gently and it elicits a moan from deep within him that warms your bone marrow.

His hands traverse the length of your back pulling you in closer to him as he gently slips his tongue into your wanting mouth.

Your fingers trace the soft silk of his beard; his moustache gently tickling your top lip deliciously. It’s a tender, unhurried exploration, one that sparks fireworks inside your veins.

His thick fingers, calloused by the harsh realities of his journey, find their way into your hand, stroking gently, and you can feel something crackle between them.

You eventually part and draw in much needed breaths from where he’s inhaled all of you deep into his chest cavity.

“Wow, t-that was-” He begins with a bewildered stutter.

“It was,” you agree, smiling into his face as he nuzzles his nose against yours.

“You taste so good,” he groans, placing his hands on your waist gently, respectfully, as you stroke up his thick arms.

You're so close, pressed into him and you can feel the swell of him against you making you smirk.

“It’s the tiramisu,” you chuckle.

“No, it's all you.” He whispers softly shaking his head. “Would you… would you like to come back to mine for some coffee?”

“Coffee you say?” You smile with raised eyebrows. “You know that's code, right?” You tease.

He laughs. “I’m not being presumptuous, I just… I kinda don’t want the night to end. And I’d really like to kiss you some more.”

“I know what you mean. And I’d love some. Both coffee and kissing.”

Marcus opens the passenger side door for you as you seat yourself in, and he smiles warmly with glittery peepers that render you speechless.

Leaning in, he kisses you again, bent in through the door and unable to abnegate himself away from you.

With the flowers secured in your lap, he sets off and you admire the clean interior of his Camry and watch him drive as he turns to smile at you through the shadows.

He takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth to kiss over it gently as he drives.

Pulling into the driveway at Marcus’s home a short ride later, you unclick your seatbelt as he turns off the engine.

“I can drive you home at any point. Just say the word and we’ll go. I’m not expecting anything more from-”

“Marcus. Take me inside and make me some coffee.” You reassure him by squeezing his thigh gently.

Marcus’s home is large and spacious, but homely in all the right ways with subtle Hispanic influences woven through the decor, and incredibly neat and tidy than what you would expect from a bachelor living alone.

“Is this your garden?” You query as you glance out the french doors keenly whilst he makes coffee in the kitchen.

The vase of flowers is perched on the counter top, and your eyes recognise the blooms swaying in clusters the gentle breeze around the garden where he cut them from, despite the darkness of the evening.

“Yeah,” he says proudly, as he brings over the mugs.

“It looks beautiful. Can we sit out there?”

“Sure.” He opens the door for you and you step out onto the patio.

Lit by the soft glow of ambient solar lights, the garden unfolds like a hidden oasis. The centrepiece is a small, pristine pool, its turquoise waters reflecting the moonlight as if inviting a tempting midnight swim.

Your body clenches deliciously at the thought of seeing him undress to join you naked in the water - two water nymphs wet and writhing against each other.

Surrounding the pool, an array of vibrant flowers and lush greenery embraces the space. Potted plants adorn the periphery in terracotta homes, showcasing an array of herbs that hint at the culinary adventures Marcus enjoys embarking on in his kitchen.

The scent of lavender and rosemary lingers in the air, adding a fragrant dimension to the balmy Texan night that awaits you both.

As you settle by the pool at the small metal table and chairs under a large, sun-faded parasol, coffee cups in hand, Marcus shares more stories of his connection to the garden - his mother shaping his green fingered talent.

Inspiring him with a sanctuary of her own that blended the influence of his Latino heritage within the serenity of nature growing up as a boy. He also lets slip a little more about his life as a Heroic, and the fact his mother was his mentor and trainer.

“Was?” You query gently.

He nods with a dipped smile. “She passed just before I fully retired. Unexpected, but peaceful at least.” He summises quietly.

“I’m so sorry. She sounds like an incredibly formidable woman.”

“She was. She would’ve liked you.” He says with a pricking smile.

You smile under your eyelashes as you drink more of your velvety coffee.

The night unfolds under the bokeh stars, the inky expanse above causing you both to question and ponder jointly on some of life’s bigger questions and philosophies. Sharing a profound connection that transcends cultures and backgrounds to agree on more common threads that weave around you both, tethering you together further still.

Marcus, his dark-rimmed spectacles reflecting the glow of the night in the lenses, looks at you with a warmth that's far from the ordinary, what feels like hours later.

"You know, it's getting late. I could drive you home if you'd like?" He queries tentatively.

“Trying to get rid of me already, hmm?” You tease.

“God no.” He shakes his head vehemently. “Far from it.”

“I mean, I don’t wanna impose or anything.” You’re quick to add, realising that you’re probably keeping him up.

“No, no imposition at all.” Marcus assures. He reaches for your hand, slotting his fingers in yours.

“Good, because I believe I was promised more kisses, Mr Moreno.” You smile.

At that, he instantly pulls you closer to him by your seat; it scrapes across the patio and he engulfs your face in his giant hands.

“I never do this.” He says, panting after breaking the intense kiss. A kiss that he can feel igniting his whole body.

“You never kiss on a first date?” You gasp as you feel a flurry in your core.

“I mean, you’re my first date since… my wife.” He clarifies.

“I’d love for you to tell me about her some time.”

He nods. “I’d like that.”

"And it's okay. I don't usually do this either." You reassure. "But I really like it..."

"Me too," he smiles leaning in to kiss you some more.

As you sit by the pool, occasionally pressing your lips to one another for periods of time that wash away in a dreamy, pastel haze, the unspoken desire to extend the evening lingers in the air.

Marcus hesitates, a wibble of vulnerability in his voice as he clears his throat.

"Would you... consider staying? I’m really enjoying your company. I-I have a guest room, and you're more than welcome to use it." He tries not to physically wince as he lays it out bare. “I mean, I’m just enjoying your-”

“Would you like me to stay?” You question with your smile widening.

Marcus nods. “Yeah. I mean, if you want to. We don’t have to do anything, nothing’s expected. Just kissing you like this is really nice.”

“Yeah, it really does. You’re a really good kisser, Marcus.” You suck his bottom lip gently and he moans.

“Well, I really like to kiss. Feels good to have someone to kiss again.”

“I don’t want to stop kissing you all night.” You agree as he brushes his lips against yours, his moustache tickling.

“Stay? Let me hold you?” Marcus questions, although it sounds like he’s pleading with you through those strangled gasps as he tastes your tongue again.

You nod, wanting nothing more than to be wrapped up in his strong arms all night and to wake up in them. "Okay."

It feels right, natural between you. Two strangers who feel like they know one another inside out already - it’s easy with him.

And your attraction to him knows no bounds as you’re greedy for his presence and touch alike, and allow him to take your hand and lead you back inside.

Marcus listens.

Listens to every small gasp that ebbs out of you as his fingers stroke over your skin, tracing over the areas that make you shudder and hitch your breath in anticipation.

He learns that you hiss a little when he kisses your neck, when he sucks your earlobe into his mouth and nibbles gently on it with his teeth.

He learns that you’re ticklish on your hips and you giggle into his mouth uncontrollably, snorting ungraciously a little, when he does it again, making him laugh in turn.

He respectfully traverses the route of your body, mapping it out with his fingers stroking the length of your arms, his lips pressed at the juncture of your throat.

He listens to recall and remember and to please you. God, he just wants to please you and leave you satisfied.

But he also wants to leave you wanting, craving more of him. Begging even… He takes his time kissing you, tasting you and touching you. Letting you unfurl in his hands like a tiny bud, blooming into something spectacular and colourful as he waters you.

The both of you are soon in his bedroom, unable to resist being parted from one another.

His fingers feel like tingly electricity zapping through your skin layers, and he explains that he can’t seem to control it around you as your lips peck at him under his jaw rendering him a quivering mess in your own hands.

It's a curious sensation, a subtle vibration with a pinch of static as the pads of his fingers graze your cheeks gently; it makes your blood fizz through your veins as you feel it pulse into your epidermis and pores.

“What other powers do you have?” You query, lost in the richness of his eyes, as he winds strands of your hair around his digits.

“Just this." He runs his pads over your lips and you feel that soft, gently muted vibration sink into the meat of them that makes you groan as it tingles into the depth of your jaw. "I’m pretty good with a katana too.”

"Are you boasting, Marcus?" You tease.

"I'll be happy to show you my sword wielding skills anytime."

You both laugh as he realises what he just insinuated.

“So you can’t fly?” You query, stroking under his chin. Your fingers trace a small, uniquely heart-shaped patch where no hair seems to grow on the left side. You watch as he closes his eyes and pushes his jaw into your hand further.

“No, I can. But with the help of a flight device.”

“A flight device?”

“Maybe I’ll show you. Take you up. In the sky.” Marcus muses.

“You’re going to take me to new heights, hmm?” You smirk.

“Well, I’ll certainly try,” he says, rubbing his nose against yours.

He grazes gentle, languid kisses down your neck, settling on the curve where your shoulder hilts.

He runs his aquiline nose there delicately, inhaling the faint remnants of your perfume with vanilla and coconut notes that makes him salivate.

"I'm scared of heights," you murmur dreamily.

"Well, I'll be sure to hold onto you extra tight." Marcus takes a hold of you, pulling you fully into his arms.

"Like this?" You whisper.

"Just like this." He says as he wraps them around your back.

"You won't let me go?"

He shakes his head. "Never."

You find yourself straddling his lap; your bodies simply moving of their own rhythmic volition as they slot into place effortlessly and without instruction or hesitation; his large hands sweep up your back as you kiss him deeply.

Your fingers roam in the softness of the greying silk of his bearded scruff. You explore the broadness of his shoulders, the tightness of his biceps over the soft cashmere, journeying over the wide expanse of him as he pulls you closer in his protective embrace.

"I don't want this to end," he murmurs into your shoulder.

"Me either," you sigh with a smile. “This might sound incredibly forward, but... I want you, Marcus,” you whisper into his mouth.

You can feel him pressed against you, hard and swollen in his pants and it’s difficult to ignore his desire when it so brazenly taunts your own.

“You’re sitting in my lap on my bed, I think we're past being forward,” he chuckles.

“True,” you giggle.

“Are you sure that’s what you want? There’s no pressure at all. I didn’t invite you here with an agenda.”

You nod with a keen smile. “I know. But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than I am right now. Do you want me, too?”

“I’ve never wanted someone so much.” He says with glistening eyes. “It’s been so long though. I-I don’t even know if I’ll be any good.” He gulps heavily and it wrenches your heart a little.

You press your fingers to his kiss-bruised lips and he can’t help but mouth against them. “Marcus, you're perfect.”

“Kiss me again,” he whines as he presses himself even closer to you.

Attaching yourself to his lips once more, he sighs contentedly into your mouth, tongue swirling gently around yours and sucking on your lips.

He holds his arms up as you lift up the hem of his sweater. Your fingers slide over the silk knot of his tie, undoing it. He loves that when you loosen it, you use it to yank him forward to kiss you deeper still, guiding him closer to your body to be tangled up with you.

You undo the buttons slowly on his shirt to reveal tanned skin and the broadest shoulders you’ve ever seen on a man.

A couple of scars dapple over them and his sternum, like white lightning streaks against the gold shimmer of his skin, and he shudders as you trail your fingertips over them delicately.

“I wanna know all about these.” You say beholding him. “You must have some incredible battle stories from your time in the Heroics.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” He promises.

“I wanna know everything about you.” You breathe as you feel him nibble at your collarbone.

“The feeling is incredibly mutual,” he replies softly as he brushes your hair from your face. “Can I take this off?” Marcus asks, running his fingers along the silken hem of your dress that’s ridden up your thighs.

“Yes,” you smile at his politeness despite the carnal heat running through the both of you.

He pulls it up over your head and audibly groans at your choice of matching underwear, lacy and delicate.

His eyes trail hungrily over your body and you don’t feel the need to cover up the lumps, bumps and stretch marks; the way he looks at you burns in your core.

“You're just…” words fail him as you smile softly. “Wow.”

“It’s been a long time since a man saw me like this.” You admit, a little shy. "My body isn't what it used to be."

“You’re stunning. I’m lucky that it’s me who gets to enjoy you. Besides, I'm not exactly in my best shape." He grimaces looking down at the small swell of his tum puffing over his slacks.

"I think you're sexy." You say.

"Yeah?" He queries with raised eyebrows.

"Mm, really sexy." You confirm, stroking over the soft fat of him.

"Is this okay? We’re not going too fast? I wouldn’t want you to feel like I'm only after one thing.” He checks.

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Good, because I really like you. I want to see you again.” He says earnestly.

“Me too.” You agree nodding.

“Is it too early to presume this might be the start of something really special?” Marcus asks with a crooked grin. "I dunno, I just feel it."

You shake your head. “I feel it too.” You agree.

He kisses you again and you taste the truth of his words.

��I wanna feel you too. You can touch me, Marcus.” You whisper to him. “I want you to touch me everywhere with those magic hands...”

He grins, and his hands, albeit shaky, massage over your mounds, trailing around to your back where he hesitates at the clasp.

“Take it off,” you murmur as he unhooks your bra and licks his lips as your nipples are revealed to him.

Leaning forward, he trails kisses across your collarbone until his lips find your nipple and he sucks gently whilst you rake through his subtlety greying hair.

A pink wet tongue teases over your skin as he licks, causing your back to arch, pushing your breasts further into his mouth.

“Mmm,” you whine as the pull of your nipple between his lips is felt buzzing on your clit in response.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he trembles, but his voice seems deeper somehow, with more of a heavy graze inside his cheeks. “I wanna make love to you all night. Discover all the ways to please you."

He kisses down your sternum just under your breasts. "I wanna make you come all over me…” He says between rasped breaths. “God, I want you screaming my name.”

“I want you inside me, Marcus." You gasp.

He groans at that. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Me either. But it feels so good.” You say, smiling at him.

You help him remove his pants until he’s in his boxers and lying back as you climb over him, leaning down to kiss him as his hands pull you closer to him.

The hairs on your body stand tall as his hands create that wonderful tingle to curl your spine out and your nipples to tighten.

The bulge in his boxers is unignorably prominent and you can’t abnegate yourself away from reaching down in between your bodies to feel him, squeezing over him gently as he grunts into your mouth.

“You feel amazing,” you whisper as he blushes. “I wanna taste you, will you let me?”

“Uh-uh,” he shakes his head, “that’s not how we do things in my house. Ladies come first.” Marcus smirks.

He rolls with you and you giggle as he kisses down your body to the thin hemline of your panties. He runs his hands up and down your hips and stomach, and you feel those tingly crackles from his fingertips ignite your skin once more.

He kisses and lavishes gentle nuzzles against your tummy, and you hum out feeling the soft tickle of his facial hair across it.

You lift your hips as he gently pulls down your panties, watching keenly as he kisses down your legs. He takes your ankle and rests your foot on his shoulder as he lays between your thighs.

And then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, Marcus transforms from hero to villain as he licks a long, lingering stripe up your pussy.

“Oh my God, yes…” You whine.

He looks up at you with molten brown eyes as he flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit and you sonic boom inside at the sight and feel of it.

He massages and strokes your inner thigh as he tastes you, running his tongue in and around your soaked lips and murmuring in keen delight.

The softness of his beard feels like liquid silk against your skin as his nose grazes and nudges your clit whilst he teases your hole, pushing his tongue inside you.

You reach down and pull off his glasses, giggling as the lenses are smeared with your slick already.

“You taste delicious.” Marcus husks before going back in for more, hungry for your as he laps and licks.

"Mmm, Marcus..." You whine, arching your back as you keen for more of his tongue. He presses it against your clit, sucks gently on the nub and licks and sucks through your drenched folds.

He makes you come with just his mouth, sucking expertly on your clit before he slips his fingers in, coming up to suckle on your nipple again as he pumps them in and out of you.

He’s astonished how wet you are for him; his fingers squelching and the sounds are lewd as he whelves.

“God, you’re so perfect,” Marcus says as he leans in to kiss you again: his beard his damp from your secretions. “So wet and tight. Does that feel good?”

“So good.” You groan.

“More?”

“More.”

He speeds up, fingers deep to the hilt of his knuckles. “Harder?”

“Yes!” You cry as you feel it overtake you, a mesh veil cast over your sight as the room fills with gold glitter.

“Marcus! Your fingers! Oh my God!” You gasp as you can feel those crackles again, only inside you now; deep in the pit of your core right on your spot, and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

He circles your clit with his thumb and the sensation completely overwhelms as you feel it there too, buzzing all the way deep into that fleshy hub.

Your eyes catch him smirking at you as he applies the perfect amount of tingly pressure. And that look in his eye tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You’re coming quicker than you can fathom, dizzy from the pulsing shocks and giggling uncontrollably at the delicious buzzing it creates.

“Jesus!” You yelp at him as he grins devilishly. “How do you even do that?!” You gasp as he pulls his fingers out and you watch, wholly spellbound, as he sucks them clean.

“Benefits of having a superpower, I guess. I used to think it was weird... having magnetised hands.” He remarks casually, as if he didn’t just rock your world with those digits of his.

“I don’t know how I’ll compete,” you say, pushing him onto his back as he kisses you.

“You’re perfect as you are, trust me,” he breathes, watching as you slide down his body.

You kiss over the soft swell of his tummy, lavishing it with wet kisses over and over as he gathers your hair inside his hands to watch you. You look up at him as your fingers slip into the fold of his waistband.

He nods, too dumbstruck to comment verbally as he watches you slip down between his legs and pull off his boxers.

He’s big - bigger than you anticipated, and so thick. You’re unsure how he kept it hidden in his pants all night. He’s perfectly uncut with a flush pink head that’s positively dripping for you.

You make out with his cock gently, barely mouthing over him with the gooey strings of his precum sticking to your lips like gloss, and making him hiss and gasp.

He’s well groomed and the subtle greys in the thatch of neatly trimmed hairs there at the base of him are just as soft as his beard.

You tongue his head, flicking back and forth over that drooling slit and taste the salt of him before teasing his frenulum that makes his hips buck involuntarily.

"Y-yeah," he chokes on a ragged whisper.

You take him in your mouth fully, and he groans long and deep, head lolling back as he feels your hot, wet mouth encase him and suck slowly down his length.

You can take him about three-quarters of the way before you feel him prod at the back of your throat, and although you're tempted to see if you can swallow him fully and press your nose against his soft belly, tonight’s not the night for ungraceful choking.

Although, your body flares at the thought of how uncouth and dirty he could be with you; imagining his usual politeness being traded for filthy demands as his huge hands press on the back of your head, forcing you to take him all the way down your throat.

You whimper around his cock at the thought, feeling your cunt contract and drip.

“You’re so good at that,” Marcus keens as he glances down at you.

Your eyes flick up at him as you smirk around your mouthful of him and it’s not long before he’s pulling you back up and kissing you with an intense hunger that steals the breath from your lungs.

He rolls you onto your back, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he grinds against your centre.

You whine as the length of him slides back and forth against your slit, soaking and greasing him up in your slick. The ridge of his head knocking against your clit builds you up again as you bite your lip staring up into his chocolaty eyes.

"Feels so good," you whisper, clutching onto him.

“Yeah? I don’t wanna hurt you, so I'll go slow, okay?” Marcus whispers as you reach for his thick cock and swipe him through your pussy lips.

You both shudder as you do it.

“You won’t.” You reassure him as you stroke him and he groans. “I want you inside me.”

He lines up, his swollen head dipping slowly into your fleshy folds as he lingers there, pushing gently and barely against your hole.

You’re so wet he could easily slide all the way in with one flex of his hips, but it feels too damn good already, and he’s apprehensive to finish so quickly before he’s even started.

“The things I wanna do to you...” Marcus murmurs bashfully.

“Sounds intriguing,” you smirk as he pushes in a little more. "Tell me, I-oh!"

You gasp as you feel yourself opening around him, stretching as his thick head pushes in further.

“We’ve got all t-the time in the... ahhh, world,” he breathes. “All the time to find... hmmm, new ways to pull you apart on my cock. My fingers, my tongue…” He grunts as he slides in.

“Mmm, fuck," you let slip in his ear and he groans.

“Fuck indeed,” he grizzles as he pulls back a little and slides in again, and hearing him finally curse makes your body shudder.

"You're so perfectly tight around me," he puffs.

“You feel so big,” you say, nodding in encouragement. “I want you to fill me up, Marcus.”

“Yeah?” He breathes as he slides in further. “Stop me if it's too much.”

“It’s not too much. It's perfect... you're perfect. Ohhh. More.” You pant. “Please, I wanna feel all of you. I need you.”

“You need me? You need my cock, hmm?” He teases with a grin.

“Mmm, I want it so badly.”

"I want you so badly."

You look down between you as he breaches fully, hips flushed tight against you as he bottoms out and you both groan, eyes pulled back to one another.

You grapple for him, desperate for him to kiss you again as he works his hips. Soft breathy pants fill your ears as he finds satisfaction and a steady rhythm within your wet warmth.

He’s gentle, but powerful; winding slowly, and buried so deep inside you. It feels like it’s too much, but not enough and you claw at his back desperately each time he withdraws and thrusts back in.

“Mmm, you’re so deep…” You murmur into his lips.

“It’s not too much?”

“No, you feel incredible.”

“You take me so well, hermosa.” Marcus praises.

“Oh, I forgot you speak Spanish…” You smirk, all glistening teeth at him.

“¿Quieres que te hable sucio en Español?” (Do you want me to talk dirty in Spanish to you?)

You chuckle, utterly beside yourself. “I have no idea what you just said, but yes. God, yes!”

He smirks into your lips as he kisses you again, his hips doing all the work with each, deep languid stroke.

“I love feeling every inch of you.” You pant as he speeds up a little.

“All of me... Every. Inch. Of. Me.” He thrusts on every syllable, deliberately making you gasp.

“You feel so good, Marcus. I’m gonna come soon.” You sigh, feeling it build behind your core muscles, cinching and tightening in that delicious wind before you snap back on yourself.

“I can feel you squeezing me. I bet you’ll look so beautiful when you come all over my cock. Come for me. Let me see you.”

He feels your fingers bruising in his skin, tastes your pants fizzing on his tongue like sherbet.

Sitting upright, he pulls your hips right up off the bed as he slips back inside you, fucking deep into you on his knees.

He hits all the right spots at this angle and your whimpers soon become loud hollers and yelps as he pushes against your spot relentlessly and tosses you into oblivion once more.

"Come for me," he pants.

You claw at the sheets; your eyes rolled so far back that you swear you can see the inside of your skull and all the swampy lilac clouds floating around in there. Your body sheens with sweat already, as does his; mercury drizzle, shimmering in the pale light of his bedroom lamps.

You’re almost there; a flutter in your chest as your heart flies away to be gifted to him with metallic ribbon curls wrapped around it. A building warmth, igniting from within, growing more wild like fire consuming and burning everything up in its path, scorches your skin.

An electric charge of anticipation, spurred on by the crackled pulses from his fingers around your hips, pulls your orgasm right out of you like ridding you of a hostile possession.

You screech as it leaves your bones.

“That’s it, hermosa. Come for me!” Marcus pleads with a hiss as you shake and gasp as he turns you inside out.

Pulling you upright against his chest, he’s stunned at you. “You look so beautiful.” He says, almost choking as your bonelessness.

“M-Marcus!” You wail, his cock buried deeper.

“Yeah, keep coming for me,” he encourages as he watches you wind and bounce on top of him.

You groan, throwing your head back and losing count of the number of times he’s made you come already.

You slow and grind on him as iridescent bubbles flow and burst around you; your thighs never-ending in their shaking, and he watches in rapture as you take his breath away.

��From behind?” You suggest breathlessly after a few moments of coming down from that tremendous high he throws you up to so easily.

“Anything you want, beautiful.”

He slides down your body, kissing the length of your back and all over your butt cheeks before spreading you open and tasting your pussy again with his tongue.

His lips never leave your skin, even when you turn around and bend forward with your ass up in his face.

He reaches down between your legs to stroke your clit. You feel him kissing the side of your head, nuzzling into you as he pushes himself back into you slowly. And the feel of him at this angle, this depth, makes you mewl as he hits deeper than before.

He stops for a moment when he sees you backing up and gyrating on the end of his cock, reaching round to grab the meat of his thigh and moaning incoherently at how good it feels.

“You look amazing doing that,” he drawls before holding onto your hips and drawing deep into you with slow, measured thrusts shunting through your body. “That feel good, like this?”

“Yeah… so good.”

“Mmm, I-I can barely stand it,” he pants. "I'm close."

“Come for me, Marcus.” You whisper to him as he fucks you faster.

“Mmm, oh God.” He whines as his hips start to snap harder, his grip around your hips squeezes tighter.

He's marvelling and gasping as he watches you shake again, shake for him. That he still has the power to make someone feel this damn good after all this time.

That he could fathom such a thought of making love to a woman again when he had convinced himself for so long he would endure his remaining years alone, his left fist as his only release.

But then you showed up, careening into his life through a device he held in the palm of his hand; laughing at his humour, smiling that incredible smile at him. Wanting to know more about him and just... wanting him.

And here he is, deep inside of you now and not able to get enough of how you squeeze around his cock bringing him to the brink of his own annihilation. You kill him and resurrect him, to do it all over again.

“I’m gonna come!” Marcus pants, cheeks and chest flushed a glorious pink amongst the natural bronze.

“So am I. Don't stop!” You wail.

“Where? I’m so close! Tell me where you want it...” He can feel it building and rushing towards the end of his cock.

“Inside me, come inside me.” You pant.

“You sure?”

“Fill me up until it’s all dripping out of me.”

“Fuck!” He yells. "Oh fuck!"

Marcus growls out that sweet blasphemy that makes your toes curl and your cunt clench as he comes, filling you up as you so coveted, as he spurts out inside you - warm, thick and plentiful.

A brief moment of his weight against your back crushes you into the bed as he flops down over you, panting and groaning in your ear.

Smiling, you turn and kiss the side of his face buried in the crook of your sweaty neck.

“That was incredible, you're incredible.” He whimpers, voice all muffled in your skin and hair a few minutes later.

He rolls with you, pulling you into his arms against his clammy chest as you both catch your breath.

“I can’t take all the credit, you were pretty incredible yourself there, Mr Moreno.” You grin.

“Yeah. Looks like I’ve still got it after all.” He puffs with a bewildered chuckle.

“No doubt about that.” You giggle and laugh with him, as Marcus wraps the comforter around you both.

The soft hum of the morning unfolds around you.

Eyelids opening and lashes fluttering against his chest, you're accompanied by the distant sounds of nature awakening outside.

Marcus, still in the relaxed embrace of slumber, seems to embody the tranquillity of the dawn as you gaze up at him longingly.

His rhythmic breathing through soft snuffles, his heartbeat in your ear, resonates with the peaceful serenity that surrounds you in his downy sheets that smell faintly of his lingering cologne and your heady sex.

As you lay in Marcus's arms, you spend a few minutes contemplating the next exciting steps between you, when the prominent ache registers between your legs, which makes you smile as you recall the moment he first sheathed himself inside you.

It makes you clench around nothing and you moan softly in want, squeezing your thighs together at the vivid memory.

You’re compelled to kiss him, planting tender smooches across his chest and up to his neck, when he stirs and his lips find yours and latch on again.

Your hand slides down his sternum, over the warm, smooth swell of his stomach, and you find him stiff and weeping for your touch.

He grunts into your mouth as you pump him, fingers wrapped around his length as he hardens fully. His own digits course those pinpricking tingles down your spine again as you shudder and arch.

He bites his lip, eyes closing in satisfaction as you work his cock and feel it throb with need in your hand.

Soon Marcus slips in behind you, clutching you close to his chest; his fingers entwining in tight knots with your own. He fills you again, your moans surrounding him as he kisses and nips on the back of your neck, and it feels like a dream you don't ever want to wake from.

You’re full of him, sticky and drenched from the night of intense love making that never seemed like it would relent. His stamina surprised you both, but was incredibly welcome, alongside the equally surprising refractory period that will leave you aching for days.

You lost count of the number of times he was inside you. Unable to get enough of each other, wanting more, more, more and giving more, more, more.

“You’re so beautiful in the morning,” Marcus cants into your ear as he fills you to the brim, fucking softly into you from behind. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He wraps his arms tighter around you as you squeeze around his cock.

“Trust me, I'm the lucky one,” you whine as his fingers slip down and stroke over your clit bringing about another orgasm that prickles and tingles under his expert ministrations.

You soon sit in his lap, rocking back and forth on his solid cock buried deep inside you as Marcus nuzzles into your face. You work your hips riding him, his shoulders banging gently into the headboard.

His hair is a sleepy, wild mess with streaks of grey running through short curls you never knew he had under that tamed back style he had for your date, and he’s never looked more beautiful as they fall into face.

The way he looks at you makes you come again, with something so warm and so sincere swimming inside his lust blown eyes at you.

"So beautiful, hermosa," he murmurs with a smile at you.

He leans back on his hand, his other squeezing around your butt as you ride you both to a mutual intense finale of whimpers and names called out in desire and want.

After you still, feeling him seep out of you whilst he remains plugged inside until he softens, fawning and kissing over your face, you smile gently as you plant kisses along his silky jaw.

“Good morning,” Marcus smiles as you feel his lashes against your cheeks.

“Morning handsome.” You sigh dreamily.

“How did you sleep?” He enquires.

“Terribly. I had an incredibly attractive man between my legs for most of the night keeping me up.”

“That sounds awful.” He smirks as you kiss him again, and Marcus determines he never wants to stop kissing you or hearing your breathy giggles.

“Sleep is for the weak. It was amazing.” You say and he’s inclined to agree, on both counts.

“You hungry? You wanna stay for some breakfast?”

“I’d love to.” You smile.

“What are you doing later this afternoon?”

“Hmm, not much planned, will probably be thinking about you.”

“Is that so?” He enquires with a smirk.

“Mmhm. I have a feeling you'll be hard to forget.”

“Want some company whilst you think about that, maybe some lunch, too?”

“Sounds perfect. Perhaps we can drag ourselves away from each other long enough to go for that walk.”

“Doubtful,” he concedes and you giggle nodding in agreement. “But we’ll give it a shot.”

“You’re incredible.” You whisper to him and his eyes soften as you regard up at him.

It's been a long time since a woman looked at him like you are now.

“No, it's all you, hermosa, trust me.” He smiles into your mouth.

"I like that, that thing you say."

"Hermosa?"

"Yeah." You smile.

“Good." He kisses your temple. "Stay here, relax. I’ll make you some breakfast in bed. Then I’ll drive you home, okay?”

He winks as you watch him pull on his boxers and reach for a pair of grey sweatpants hanging out of the hamper.

“You spoil me, Mr Moreno.” You say, watching him pull them up his thick, muscular thighs.

“Mmm, I intend to. How do you feel about pancakes?”

“Ugh, my hero.” You swoon.

“Dad?” Missy calls as he hears the front door open around twenty minutes or so after he’s arrived back from dropping you home.

Admittedly it was hard parting from you; kissing you with soft whimpers in the car outside your place, and basking in that post first date glow.

Marcus is hesitant to wash the scent of you off of his skin, convinced that if he does he’ll wake from this wonderful dream to find you’re not real.

A text from you, complete with an emoji purple heart, convinces him to stop being silly and that you are real, and last night and this morning was wanted and reciprocated in equal yearning.

He can't stop thinking about it, about you. His cock aches again as the images of you both wrapped up in one another flash behind his glasses.

Your message confirms the time for him to pick you up later and he smiles reading that you can’t wait to see him again. And to kiss him.

And to feel him inside you again...

“Hey,” he calls out from the kitchen, feeling heated as he tucks his phone away in his pocket.

"How was the date? Don't leave out any details!" Missy warns as she makes her way down the hall.

She comes in, putting down her bag and immediately spots the coffee cups and plates as he gathers them to wash up; clear evidence that he’s had some company this morning.

Then she spies his dishevelled appearance, clad still in the creased t-shirt and sweatpants he drove you home in, and hair that hasn’t been combed as he quickly rakes his fingers through it almost desperately.

She grins up at him as he tries not to blush, but fails. “I might omit some details.” Marcus says sheepishly.

“Must have been a hell of a date.” Missy mirths, perching on the breakfast bar stool.

“Well, she’s a hell of a woman.” He says, smiling behind his spectacles. "It was really... wonderful. She looked stunning, and we had a really great time together."

"Yeah, I bet you did." She remarks with a widening grin.

"Stop it." He groans, flushed.

“You’re glowing.”

“Shut up.” Marcus mumbles and fails to stifle a wayward grin.

Beaming, Missy watches him as he fills the sink with soapy water.

“What?” He asks after he can still feel her eyes on him.

“Are you seeing her again?”

“Yeah, later this afternoon for lunch.” He smiles.

“Good.” She chirps.

She comes up beside him, picking up a dish cloth and dries the dishes as he places them in the rack.

They both complete the task in silence, both trying to stifle their grins at one another.

Once done, she turns to him.

“I’m really happy for you, Dad.” Missy says, as she wraps her arms around him. He rests his chin on top of her head and smiles.

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“Go and shower. You smell like a slut.” Missy remarks.

"Potty mouth," he points at her with a mock-frown.

"At least I know where mine's been..." She grins.

Shaking his head in defeat, Marcus chuckles, blushing beet red, as he pads out of the kitchen and up the stairs, feeling more invincible than he’s ever felt before.

💜

Thank you so much for reading my Marcus Moreno story (if you made it to the end, hopefully you did!) and I really hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to hear your thoughts about my version of him. Thanks so much! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS MORENO MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x f!reader #marcus moreno smut #marcus moreno fluff #marcus moreno x you #we can be heores fic #jett's writing #sometimes heroes are more than just super #mature marcus moreno

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pomefioredove · 15 days

Note

cater stan3000 here

i just wanna smooch him all over, could you write something to help my urges to love and cherish him?

CATER FAN!!! ignoring half of my inbox to do this first because. cater.

summary: some thoughts on dating cater type of post: headcanons characters: cater additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, cater diamond I need u

let's hope you're not camera shy

'cause dating Cater means lots and lots of pictures

some posted, some not, but he's got more than one folder on his phone with your name on it

(and a few on his computer)

immediately wants to do all the cheesy social media couple things: matching profile pictures, tagging each other in your bios, an entire highlight on his account dedicated to you...

he just likes showing you off

like, really likes showing you off

and he'll happily admit it, too

you're just so cute, and he feels like the luckiest guy alive for managing to pull you... how could he not brag about it to anyone who'll listen?

Cater is also a great conversationalist, so you never have to worry about getting dry texts ever again

he loves hearing anything you have to say: describe your day to him, gossip, complain, anything, he doesn't mind!

he just really likes being around you

but he's got a lot to say, too, so prepare to refine your listening skills

definitely the type to message you anything that's on his mind

(including a thousand memes a day)

he likes getting your take on things, too. even if you stay off social media, he still wants input on his posts

your opinion really matters to him, after all

Cater also tends to be... a little possessive

he didn't really have many friends growing up, and there's always a lingering fear within him that you'll leave him, too

he can get pretty insecure at times

...and jealous, and petty

the remedy, of course, is showering him in attention, which he needs from you like how he needs air

cuddles and kisses are all very much appreciated

expect some PDA, too. and lots of petnames

his favs are babe, honey, pumpkin, cutie... he could go on

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #cater diamond x reader #queued

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pulisicsgirl · 10 months

Text

breathe, you're okay - mason mount

summary: when the mounting pressure of a Women's UCL run is falling on Y/N's shoulders, she isn't handling it by herself as well as she would like everyone to believe she is

pairing: Mason Mount x footballer!reader

word count: 2.9k

warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, no established relationship, !!descriptions of a panic attack!!, discussions about mental heath, supportive Mase

requested: no

notes: surprise!! I'm sorry I haven't posted in months-- my life kind of went up in flames over the summer and I haven't had the time to write that I was hoping to. I have a few WIPs in my drafts, and I am still working on all of your requests! Please let me know what you think of this!

The hot afternoon sun beat down on you, and you felt the drops of sweat sliding down the side of your head and tickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you ran up and down the field, weaving between cones, carrying the ball at your feet, running through a series of consecutive drills that were designed to refine your skills and test your endurance.

You did your best to recall the instructions that your coach had carefully laid out before the team began the drill, but with the heat and the fatigue that was seeping all the way into your bones, it seemed impossible to remember. You wound up relying on the teammate in front of you to recall what you needed to do next.

You let out a heavy sigh of relief when you heard the sound of the whistle—two short chirps, signaling for you to halt your movements. You draped your arms over your head, drawing in deep, heaving breaths as you attempted to get your heart rate under control.

You joined the rest of your teammates as they gathered around the coach, preparing for his parting words before everyone was dismissed.

“Good session today, ladies,” he clapped his hands in front of him, looking around the circle. “I’m seeing a lot of good things. A lot of improvement in our touches and finishing. You all are looking really good.”

A couple of the girls clapped at his words, the rest too exhausted to do anything but listen.

“We have the day off tomorrow, so use it well. Rest, recover, and come back Monday ready to go. We’ve got some heavy prep next week before the second leg on Friday,” he continued, and a couple others whooped, getting excited for the upcoming big game.

“They’re gonna be a really tough opponent, I’ll be honest. We know that their back line is really strong, tough to break through.” Your coach’s eyes fell on you, and you knew what was coming next before he even began to speak, your stomach sinking slightly. “But that’s what we have Miss Y/N, for, right?”

Several of the girls cheered for you. The girls near you slapped you on the back, trying to get you hyped up. And the weight that had settled in the pit of your stomach grew heavier.

The Manchester United women were on an impressive UEFA Women’s Champions League run, overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds to make it to the semifinal. And according to the media (and now your own teammates and coaches), it was all thanks to you.

In the group stage, a decisive game in which your team had gone down 2-0 in the first half had seemed hopeless until you had scored two goals in the second, assisting on the third to put your team through to the knockout games. Another three goal contributions in the quarter-final matches had put you in the spotlight of all of the team’s media coverage, thrusting a wave of attention upon you that you had never asked for.

You had gone down 1-0 in the first leg of the semi-final, and now you were playing from behind. And it seemed that everyone expected you to be the one to pull them out of it.

So now, you were left feeling the pressure as the second leg was fast approaching.

“Alright, ladies. Have a good rest of the day and a great day off tomorrow.” He clapped his hands, dismissing you all. The circle of girls dispersed, chatting among themselves.

“Am I still leaving the cones out for you?” the coach raising his eyebrows at you. You only nodded in return. “Okay, don’t work yourself to death.”

You laughed humorlessly as you fiddled with the ball at your feet, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on your shoulder to try to draw your attention to him. “Get some rest tomorrow, okay? We all see how hard you’re working. Give yourself a break.”

Another nod is all that you can muster, and you don’t miss the short sigh that he lets out as he drops his hand from your shoulder and walks to join the rest of the group moving indoors.

You repositioned a few of the cones to set up your own drill and got right into it.

Across the field, on another training pitch near yours, Mason watched as you carried the ball with you up and down the field, weaving between cones, practicing a few skills that he had seen you implement in games, and taking a shot on the goal at each pass.

He was supposed to be doing a bit of extra work with a few of the boys. The men’s team had finished their training session about an hour before, but a few of them still felt like they wanted to get a bit more done before calling it a day. So here they were, running a few small three-a-side games to utilize the last of their energy that day.

But he couldn’t help but notice how you never stopped.

During the team training, you were always one of the hardest-working ones out there. When he had returned to the pitch from lunch, you were taking shots on the goal with the rest of your team nowhere in sight. He wasn’t even sure he had seen you eating lunch inside when he thought about it.

And now here you were, sprinting across the length of the field, over and over, after the rest of your team had hit the showers.

He felt a twinge of worry for you but brushed it off as one of his teammates called his name to pull his attention back to the game they were playing.

Your head was spinning as you pushed yourself to keep moving. Your entire body was drenched in sweat. Every muscle ached from overexertion as you gritted your teeth, forcing them to keep moving. The sun was dizzyingly bright as the evening set in. You could feel the heat practically radiating off of your skin. Your lungs were burning with your heaving breaths and your mouth quickly grew dry.

“That’s what we have Miss Y/N for, right?” Your coach’s words echoed through your head as you carried the ball down the field.

“Y/L/N carries the Man U Women through to the semifinal!” You recalled the title of the article as you weaved between the cones.

“I really believe Y/N Y/L/N could be the one to lead Manchester United to their first Women’s Champion’s League trophy!” You heard the words of the pundit clear as day as you planted your foot, striking the ball cleanly. It soared through the air, curving toward the goal, and struck the crossbar. The ball flew away from the goal, bouncing pathetically on the ground in the penalty area.

You took a pause, the words and expectations crashing around your mind leaving an unsettling feeling in your chest. As you stood there, you couldn’t seem to get your panting breaths to grow steadier.

Your shirt suddenly felt too tight on your neck. You grasped the fabric, pulling it away from your body in an attempt to allow yourself to breathe easier, but nothing seemed to be helping.

Your head was spinning. You felt your stomach sink, a feeling like when you plummeted down the tall hill of a rollercoaster, a sick feeling settling in your abdomen. Your skin began to crawl, and you just couldn’t stop hyperventilating.

You began to panic. Eyes searching frantically for relief. You weren’t sure what you were looking for—something, anything.

You suddenly felt like you were too out in the open, needing to seclude yourself away from the sight of prying eyes. You set into a sprint, off of the field and around the corner of the nearest part of the building to you, trying to find some shade from the hot sun and hide yourself from anyone who might see your pathetic state.

But it was too late. Mason had seen the whole thing.

They had just paused their game for a short water break. He had seen you take the shot, instead hitting the crossbar. It only took him a few seconds once you paused to realize that something wasn’t right.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell rapidly in quick, short breaths. When you began attempting to pull your shirt away from your body, he instantly knew what was taking place. He’d recognize that feeling anywhere.

You were having a panic attack, whether you realized it or not.

As soon as he saw you take off for the side of the building, he was running after you without so much as a word of explanation to his teammates.

Once in the shade of the wall you hid behind, you began pacing, unable to keep still. Every inch of your body felt jittery, and you felt unsteady on your legs. You couldn’t manage more than rapid, shallow breaths. Your throat felt tight, your breaths sounding more like wheezes, and it was starting to make your head spin. Your hands flew to your head, scratching at your scalp in an attempt to somehow rid yourself of the feeling.

You were startled by Mason swiftly rounding the corner, concern written all over his face as he stopped in front of you.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay,” he spoke calmly and evenly. He quickly reached up, taking your wrists in his hands so he could gently but firmly pull your hands out of your hair to keep you from hurting yourself.

“I can’t, Mason. I can’t,” you panted, shaking your head ‘no’ frantically and still trying to weakly pull your hand from his grip.

“You’re okay, Y/N. Try to slow down your breathing,” Mason’s calm voice directly contrasted your frantic behavior, speaking in short sentences so as to not overwhelm you more. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

A short sob fell from your lips, and you felt the tears spilling over and down your cheeks.

“We’re gonna lose,” you sobbed, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion. “The semifinal, we’re gonna lose it, and it’s gonna be all my fault.”

In that moment, everything clicked into place for Mason-- the UWCL run, your success in the games leading up to the semi-final leg, the pressure from the fans and the team, the countless extra hours you had been putting in.

A loud noise in the distance, coming from the direction of the parking lot, startled you, snatching your attention and you whipped your head to the side, eyes searching frantically for the source. He released your wrists from his hand, testing the waters as he turned your head back to look at him with a hand on your cheek.

He cradled your face with a hand on either side, keeping your focus on him. His thumbs wiped the tears away that had slipped down your cheeks.

“Hey, look at me. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you,” he repeated the affirmations he had already been telling you.

As he stroked his thumbs softly over the skin of your cheek, he felt that your breathing was already growing a bit slower. You had reached up, holding onto his wrists with both of your hands to steady yourself, feeling too unsteady on your feet. His hands were gentle and soft on your skin.

Mason watched your expression, taking long deep breaths for you to emulate. Your eyes were still wide, darting frantically around his face, but you were trying your best to follow his breathing. He continued whispering short reassurances.

“You’re safe.”

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

You were beginning to calm down, but your eyes darted to something behind Mason, pulled away from the calm atmosphere he had tried to create for you.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” he spoke gently, pressing his forehead to yours so you would only focus on him. You were shocked at how little the intrusion on your personal space bothered you. In fact, to your surprise, the closeness seemed to settle you a little more.

You continued focusing on your breathing, gripping tightly to his wrists as if you thought he’d disappear if you let go. Your eyes were clamped closed, listening to Mason’s soft and slow breathing. You felt your pounding heart being to slow its pace.

The panic you had been feeling subsided, leaving behind a wave of extreme fatigue. You felt completely and utterly drained.

Mason must have noticed the way that your body slumped over, and he guided you to sit down on the grass, leaning back against the brick wall of the building. He sat down next to you, leaving space so he didn’t make you more nervous. But in the haze you felt in your mind, you felt a need to still be close to him, leaning over so you could place your head on his shoulder. A short pang of guilt washed over you as you noticed the crescent-shaped indents you had left on his wrists, your nails digging into the skin as you had held onto him.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your eyes slipping closed as you continued focusing on breathing slowly. A gentle breeze blew through, cooling your clammy skin and brushing through the blades of grass.

“I used to get them sometimes, too, you know?” Mason broke the silence, speaking softly.

You responded with a quiet, “hmm?” unsure of what he meant.

“Panic attacks,” he explained. “At the end of last season, before I left Chelsea. There was a lot of pressure. Any time I played, everyone had something to say about it. Even when I didn’t play, some would find a reason to be upset. It all just got to be too much.”

A deep sadness filled you while you listened to his words. “How did you get through it?”

“Ben found me having one in my car after training one day.” He was quiet for a moment. “I tried to power through it—like you. Skipping lunch and staying late to train a bit extra on the field or put in an extra session in the gym. But once Ben realized what was going on, he made sure that I was taking care of myself properly and wasn’t dealing with it on my own anymore.”

You sat up so you could look at Mason’s face, and you saw a hint of sadness there. “So I’ll tell you what he told me. There are 10 other people with you on that field at all times. If you fall down, there are 10 pairs of hands ready to help you back to your feet. If you succeed, there are 10 others to celebrate with you. But it’s not all on you.”

Your eyes were misty, welling up with tears at his words. He slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a secure hug as the tears began to stream down your cheeks.

“No matter the outcome of the game next week, you’re an incredible player, Y/N.” He placed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “You’ve already done so much so early in your career. The media and the fans will say what they want—don’t let them get to you. And your coaches may get carried away with their expectations for you, but it’s just because they’re so excited to see you succeed. Just be the player you know how to be, and your achievements will speak for themselves.”

“Thank you, Mason,” you whispered after pondering his words for a moment. No words could express the gratitude you felt for the relief he had brought you just by letting you know that he was there and he understood. But as he squeezed your shoulders lightly in response, you hoped he knew just how thankful you were.

Eventually, Mason helped you to your feet, guiding you back toward the fields. You were still feeling a bit weak and unsteady, so he made sure you remained upright with a gentle hold on your arm as you walked. Deciding it was time for you to call it a day, he insisted on collecting the cones that you had been training with, not allowing you to help him by picking up even one of them.

It took some convincing but you told him you would be fine to drive yourself home—his only condition was that you texted to let him know you made it there safely.

“Alright, then. Rest on your day off tomorrow. Give yourself a break, okay?” he spoke as he put the last of the cones away. “I’ll check in with you on Monday, if that’s okay.” He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. The two of you had been friendly before today, but you wouldn’t have considered yourselves close friends. He just wanted to be sure that you knew you had people in your corner.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot,” you nodded, smiling at him. With a final hug, he sent you on your way as he turned to rejoin his (undoubtedly confused) teammates where he had left them.

“Remember: rest!” he shouted back at you as you parted ways, and you couldn’t stop the blushing smile that worked its way onto your face.

tag list: @landoslover @chelseagirl98 @thoseboysinblue @lovelynikol16 @swimmingismywholelife @masonsrem @bracedes @neverinadream @lizzypotter14 @notsoattractivearenti

#mason mount #mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #mason mount fic #mason mount fluff #mason mount angst #chelsea fc #footballer fic

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fairyofshampgyu · 2 years

Text

Corrupt File !

genre: smut, college au

pairing: programmer! beomgyu x gn reader (afab when it comes to smut)

warnings: nsfw, sub virgin nerd! beomgyu, dom! reader, corruption kink, mentions of p0rn, handjob, riding

word count: 1.8k

Choi Beomgyu. Goodie two shoes in your comp sci class who was the teacher’s pet and notorious for being an ‘excellent’ and ‘strong’ programmer who can program amazingly well in any language and has great debugging skills. Apparently he learnt how to program at the early age of 7 and made his own pac man after a week.

He’s also a little pretentious bitch. He thinks he’s better than everyone else in the class and doesn’t bother speaking to anyone, giving others judgemental stares. You’ve seen him a couple times on campus with four other dudes though but none of them were in any of your classes. He comes to every single class early with his cute little outfits, sweater vests and cardigans whilst everyone else is in their hoodies and deranged with little sleep, sits at the front and doesn’t talk to anyone but the teacher.

You? Well, you’re mediocre at programming. You’re not too bad but you prefer other aspects of computer science and your programming skills have always made you slightly insecure because you weren't the best of the best and you didn’t learn it at some ridiculously young age and program 24/7 all types of games and websites and other stuff. You had to work so hard to actually get to a good level of programming whilst it came so easy to people like Choi Beomgyu. He seems so perfect. It made you want to imperfect him.

You were late to class today, getting a bit delayed by some cats on the way there. They were really cute cats what can you say! And you loved cats. But being late to class today meant that all seats were occupied except for the front row and the spare seat, unsurprisingly was next to Choi Beomgyu. He doesn’t pay you any attention though, waiting for his computer screen to load and then the teacher begins.

“Alright, today I thought our class was in great need of some partner work and we’ll be doing programming today. With whoever is sitting next to you, I’d like you to develop a program with them. It can be on everything and anything and you have the weekend to create it, using Python.”

Wow. It was just your luck.

The boy besides you sighs, pushes his cute, round, kinda too big for his face, glasses up and turns his body to face you.

To be honest, you wouldn’t have minded working with him. Despite being slightly jealous, you did admire his skill but with how hostile he was being and how clearly he resented the idea of working with you, you didn’t think this was going to go too well.

“...We could make like a simple video game or something...” You speak up first.

“On python? And too basic.” He rolls his eyes and shuts your suggestion off.

You’re slightly agitated with him now and you show it with your tone. “Well what do you think we should do then, huh?”

“I think we should make a music suggestion tool. We could make an algorithm run that recommends music based on what we think the user will like.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree, opening up python and already starting to write some code.

For the rest of the class, you don’t contribute much, just trying to give him some suggestions to add maybe a function over there or a loop over here, maybe trying to find a reason as to why a syntax or logic error came up. You’re already halfway done and sure it would need more refining but now you know it won’t take up your whole weekend which is good. You watch him carefully as he stays very focused, fluffy dark hair falling into his face and eyes and his circular glasses that had drooped back down to his nose. You look down to his hands. He was very fast at typing and his hands were oddly very pretty.

Upon inspecting his features, you come to the conclusion that he was in fact actually pretty attractive. How had you never noticed before?

“We can carry on working on it at my place right now if you want?” Beomgyu asks, packing up his pink laptop, pink pencil case and pink notebook back into his crossbody bag after the class had finished. You stare at your own laptop that just has a black hard case cover, your pencil case that looks like it’s been through three wars, and your notebook that was really just a bunch of lined paper. Wow, he even had a theme going on.

“Oh I've actually got another class after this that won’t be done until about two hours but I can come after that. Just send me your address.” So you exchange phone numbers and go off your separate ways.

Apparently you were the only one who wasn’t informed that your class was actually cancelled today, your professor going on strike or something like that. Sighing, you check your phone to see that beomgyu had sent you his address and it’s not that far from the campus. You could go there early then.

knock, knock, knock. He was taking weirdly long to open his door and you could hear some rustling and bustling until he finally did open his door.

“Oh. You’re here early.”

“Yeah turns out my class was actually cancelled.”

His room was exactly how you expected it to look; clean and cute and quite perfectly him. The room had a pastel coloured running theme but mostly just pink and white. Fairy lights, strung across the headboard of his bed, a pastel pink record player in the right corner with an assortment of vinyls underneath, ones you recognised and liked and some you didn't recognise, an acoustic guitar to the left on a stand near his shelf and there was a worn out teddy bear occupying his bed.

He sits on his bed and you follow...and then you both just sit there doing absolutely nothing for a few seconds in awkward silence.

“Uhhh aren’t you gonna get your laptop? We wrote it on your laptop?” You laugh, awkwardly.

“Uh yeah. Right.” So he gets his laptop, very slowly opening it and he’s just about to open the .py file when his mouse board falters over the safari accidentally and the hidden window was freed with a very suggestive video on it paused and an even more suggestive website. Your eyes go wide and so does his.

“I-it’s not- it’s not what it looks like! I-it’s just when you’re watching on a dodgy website and those pop ups come up! yeah...yeah!” He’s furiously clicking the red button on the top left hand corner to close the window immediately. But you can’t help the grin slowly appearing on your face.

You move slowly closer towards him and he moves back, stopping when his head touches the pretty fairy light headboard. “Oh really? Because it seems like you were jerking off before I was here.” Your face is only a few inches away from his now and he gulps, looking up at you. When he doesn’t even say anything to defend himself, you chuckle at him. “What happened to the little goodie two shoes? I didn’t know you were such a fucking whore.”

“I’m not-i’m not a whore!”

“Are you sure?” You move to his clothed dick which was painfully hard now, lightly palming it and his whole body jerks, moaning and eyelids fluttering.

“More, more...”

You scoff. “Have you ever had a handjob before?” He shakes his head. “Do you want one?” Slack-jawed, he nods his head profusely.

You free his dick and take it into your hands, starting to stroke him and his hands fly to shyly cover his face, attempting to conceal his moans but not to much success.

“Don’t cover your pretty face.” You tut at him, “I wanna see it.” You bring your own hands to remove them away from his face. Not gonna lie, it’s turning you on immensely seeing beomgyu like this. Little put together, pretentious, perfect beomgyu is like this right now, begging you to touch him, clueless and embarrassed. You want to absolutely ruin him.

“Aw I bet you didn’t get to cum before did you?”

“yeah...”

“Don't worry, baby I'll let you cum.”

You use your thumb to go back and forth on his sensitive tip while your other hand grabs the base of his dick and his mouth hangs wide open in endless moans and gasps. You pump his dick fast up and down, ruthlessly jerking him off and his breath hitches.

“Close!” He lets out the loudest moan so far and you abruptly stop. He utters a frustrated whine, hips bucking up and pouting at you, “I thought you said you’d let me cum.”

You can’t help but giggle at him. He’s so cute. “I will. In my pussy.” That seems to shut him up.

You get on top of him, straddling his waist and gently pinning both of his hands to the headboard. He looks at you slightly nervous.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“But I want to.”

“You sure?” He nods his head.

“Okay.” You inhale a breath before positioning his tip to your entrance and you look to his face again for confirmation and when there’s no sign of uncertainty , you slowly sink down.

“Oh, fuck! Feels so gooood” His face contorts in pleasure and he turns his head to the side, burying it into the pillow whilst his mouth stays parted. You lift up and drop back down hard, making him cry out a loud moan and you begin to ride him slow.

He was already so blissed out by you riding him slow you wonder how he’d be if you quicken your pace so you do, riding him mercilessly now, basically bouncing on his cock and he moans uncontrollably, incoherent words coming out of him with a fucked out face in a daze. Only his moans getting higher in pitch by the second and the noise of skin slapping filling the room.

“C-cumming, cumming!” And with a loud whine and his eyes slightly rolling back, his dick jerks and spills all inside of you with his body trembling.

His face right after being fucked is gorgeous. He’s breathless and panting by his first proper orgasm with his cheeks and chest flushed, face glistening because of the sweat and his fluffy hair completely wrecked now, glasses a bit crooked and head in the clouds.

Yeah, maybe you won’t end up getting the program done in time after all.

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED GUYS 😭<333

#beomgyu smut #sub! beomgyu #sub!beomgyu #sub!idol #sub! idol #dom!reader #sub! txt #sub!txt #txt smut #txt scenarios #txt imagines #txt headcanons #txt reactions #beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu x reader #choi beomgyu smut #choi beomgyu x reader #kpop smut #txt hard hours

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 1 year

Text

Home At Last (141 Members x Reader)

Summary: You and your boyfriend spend some time together after an extended mission. Preference for what has changed in each of the 141 men after a long mission abroad, including Simon “Ghost” Riley, John “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, and John Price.

AN: It’s hard writing preferences so kudos to all the writers who specialise in them! I’ve found that I really like writing fics where you share a bed with the COD boys and/or they’re vulnerable with you lmaoo.

Content warnings: Some allusions to smut (Minors DNI), Reader is GN and some use of Y/N, a mixture of soldier!reader and civilian!reader

Masterlist // AO3

Your name: submit What is this?

Simon “Ghost” Riley

“Can you fix it?”

Ghost was slowly but surely making his way out and allowing room for Simon to come back, one of the eye sockets sliced apart. Part of that process was removing the mask when he was sure he was absolutely safe: in his room, door locked, preferably with you. But this part had been altered.

In his hands, he held his balaclava with the skull faceplate splintered diagonally down the middle. As he stared back at what he usually stared with, he winced. The snot green marks, mottled with violet, framed his face where the mask had crunched into him, beneath the butt of a gun. His ears were still ringing from where his brain struggled to process this attack. Vaguely he remembered an enemy soldier standing above him, raising his empty weapon to strike Ghost in the face again, to match his mask, his skull, and his moniker as truly one. Then blood spurted out the enemy’s gut, his clothes tearing in two spots, and the enemy collapsed alongside him.

Your question echoed around in his head, a sign he was failing to ground himself as well as he usually did. He tossed the mask away from him. He wasn’t sure where it landed and he didn’t care either.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice was closer now, and reverberating less. Good. Simon was coming back.

“It’s just a mask,” He replied.

It would be easy make another one. He could darn and mend clothes well enough, and making a new mask would only refine his oft-abandoned stitching skills. Plenty of spares lined his top drawer

Somewhere in his inner monologue, you’d changing into your post-shower lazy gear.

“Nightcap?” You offered.

“Fuck,” He sagged at the suggestion, “Please.

Through lazy eyelids, he watched you collect the decanter, pouring two fingers worth of whiskey into glasses. You mixed yourself a drink too. Clinking his glass against yours in the smallest celebration of the mission’s end, Simon knocked half the whiskey back. He enjoyed the burn a lot more than the bruises.

Swallowing, he heard you sniff and gag, “Oh my god, it reeks.”

In your hand was the abandoned mask. Sitting down beside him on the cot, you began unpicking the stitches that held the broken faceplate against the fabric, whilst Simon poured himself another glass then sipped and swirled at it.

With the plate removed, you held the balaclava up in front of you both, “Just needs a scrub. Save you buying a replacement.”

Good thing about the fabric being black: in the dark, you couldn’t see the dried blood.

“Thanks,” Simon knocked his head lightly against yours, groaning a curse word in instant regret. He held the cool glass against his bruise.

“How’s the rest of you?” You asked tentatively.

“Fine,” Simon closed his eyes, “Not broken.”

The next thing he felt was your hand touching his that held his glass, the gentle contact tracing up his arm until you reached his ropey shoulders. There, you began to squeeze out the first knots your thumbs found. Simon grunted appreciatively, soaking up the touch he’d missed these last few weeks.

After a few minutes, he tilted his head back to see you, knelt behind him and smiling away at your handiwork. He couldn’t help but grace over your cheek with the backs of his calloused fingers.

“You ok, sweetie?” You leant against his touch.

Simon blinked languidly up at you, “Mm, it’s good to be home.”

John “Soap” MacTavish

AN: Genuinely wrote this before Neil decided to drop his Soap in the bubble bath checklist.

John “Soap” MacTavish really knew how to brighten a doorway. His broad shoulders carried bulky arms and a body to boot, almost entirely blocking out the hall light when he opened your bedroom door and sheepishly smiled at you.

“Hey love.”

Never before had you left your bed with such speed. It was like you could fly, fairy dust and the happiest thought of your husband’s return after three months radio silence spurring you across the room. Your arms wrapped around him to prove he was really hear. There was a thunk of his bag falling to the floor, and you were swept up in his embrace.

You only realised something was off when no stubble rubbed against your neck as Johnny nudged his cheek there. Drawing back to take in his face, you gasped at the sight of several strips of white tape holding his chin together.

Your hand traced over his cheek, avoiding the injury by several inches, “What happened?”

“Razor wire, it’s fine. Healing,” dismissed Johnny, pecking your lips between his answers. You were too concerned to respond at first but then you realised he was trying not to react every time his lips pursed, tugging on his fragile skin.

“You’ll fuck up your cuts,” You tried to lean back away from his kisses, as tempting as they were.

But Johnny had you in a boa constrictor’s grip and he wasn’t about to let you go, “Don’t care. Missed you.”

“Johnny,” You said in an attempt to warn him.

“Baby,” He mocked and managed to get the one more kiss on the corner of your mouth that caused you to cave.

“Missed you too,” You said, sheepish under his fond gaze. Fingers brushing through his overgrown Mohawk, you kissed him thrice more, the final lasting until you couldn’t hold your breath any longer.

With his lips brushing yours, Johnny whispered with a smirk, “I stink.”

“I know you do.” Your hands slid down to his shoulders. “I can run you a nice hot bath.”

You thought his pupils couldn’t dilate any more, but his iris was now barely a ring around his pupil at the mention of his second greatest weakness.

Swaying from side to side, Johnny tucked his thumbs into the waistband of your pyjama pants, “Will you join me in there?”

“Scrub you down?” You raised an eyebrow. Fluttering his eyelashes, Johnny nodded with a pouting bottom lip, and you snorted at how ridiculously charming he was acting.

Despite the comedy routine, Johnny was clearly more interested in the simple pleasures that were hot water and your presence against his war-torn body. The groan that released from his throat as he sank beneath the bubbles made your cheeks warm as you removed your sleepwear.

Before he wrapped himself around you, Johnny splashed you – which you claimed was unfair since his stitches prevented you from splashing back. But he made it up to you by settling you against his chest, heart beating strong within it, arms returning to cuddle you close. You stroked over his forearms, letting the water soak his fluffy dark hairs while the pair of you flirted with each other. With the Sandman lingering over you after your extended day, you almost drifted off beneath the bathwater - twice.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

When Kyle Garrick sloped into medical, you were in your office with no idea that he was there. Being buried up to your eyes in paperwork worked wonders for preventing distractions. He was hovering by your office door and watching you in your official habitat with that dopey smile on his face, lovesick after two months away from you, and you hadn’t even noticed. Your pen continued scribbling down details of the latest entrant to the med-bay, your eyebrows creased in the centre of your forehead – the picture of intense concentration.

Unable to stand being in your presence without acknowledgement any longer, Kyle cleared his throat. Your head shot up, eyes wide to take him in, and you gasped.

“Oh my god,” You shot out of your chair, leaving a line of ink at the end of whatever insignificant word you’d just written. You didn’t care about anything else as your arms squeezed around your boyfriend and all his tac gear.

But then he grunted, restrained rather than relieved, and you pulled away, assessing his entire body as you asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Need a change on bandages.” He gave you a wry smile as he gestured to his shoulder. It was then that you caught sight, beneath his vest and jacket, of a bandage that did not look as sterile as it had presumably been when it was first dressed on him.

“I swear to God, if you went for debrief before you came here…” You trailed off when Kyle dropped his gaze, looking a little sheepish, and you couldn’t keep a wrangle on your volume as annoyance filled your body: “That idiot! Did you tell Price you needed them changed?”

No time for an answer, you dragged Kyle (by his good shoulder) to a bed in the bay. He watched with affectionate exhaustion whilst you worked and rambled about the “bloody paperwork” being nothing compared to “potential for infection, did you even have access to anti-biotics on this mission?” Even as you ranted, your touch against Kyle’s wound was as gentle as ever. The reunion with softness made the soldier shiver. You mistook it for feeling the chill of the evening and sped up your healing – and your tirade on Price’s priorities.

“Next time Price comes here, I’m not using anaesthetic. Don’t even care how much it hurts,” You grumbled as you tucked in the end of the gauze and surveyed your handiwork. Content with this conclusion, you let out a sigh like it was the first breath you’d taken since Kyle came back.

“Feel better?” Kyle raised an eyebrow with fond irony.

Peeling off your rubber gloves, you dumped them in the disposal, “No. You’re still hurt.”

“Barely a scrape. Come here.” His good arm raised to make way for you, and he kissed your forehead to welcome you back. “I missed you.”

“Me too.” You allowed yourself a little break in his embrace, before resuming your role, “I’ll get you some painkillers then we can head to bed.”

“Got all the medicine I need right,” He pecked you quickly on the lips, “Here.”

“I’m not kissing your bandages.” You proved this by kissing his cheek, “And you’re still taking some painkillers so I can cuddle you.”

Kyle sat up a little straighter. Ah yes, the most potent medicine, often best paired with kisses: cuddles in bed with a loved one after prolonged absence. It meant swapping sides on the bed so that you weren’t leaning on Kyle’s injury, but that was hardly a sacrifice.

And if there were a few more kisses on places that didn’t risk medical attention, that was between you and your beloved boyfriend.

John Price

It was an easy rule to agree to: no PDA on a mission or on base. Only in the privacy on his quarters – unofficially yours too –permitted you both to let your real feelings show. Therefore, a mission two months long had deprived you of the affection John often shared with you.

You’d gotten creative over the years: the occasional tap if his knee against yours if you were sat beside one another, or a hand touching the small of your back as he passed you by during the watch changeover if you were really lucky. But it was nothing compared to what you could get up to when you were off-duty. More than anything, the mission had been a real exercise of self-restraint, one you both took with the utmost seriousness.

Two weeks prior, when your hearing took a knock from a grenade exploding close by, John had almost given in. He was the one to cup your face, getting Ghost to shine a torch whilst he checked your eyes for signs of a concussion. He took your watch that night too.

But now, with steam curling about the small bathroom, he was able to rest his hands on your waist, pouting and pulling faces as you sliced the foam from his cheeks.

The fully-fledged beard that had grown across the mission had been hidden mostly in a balaclava, to protect against the cruel snow and ice that had battered you day in, day out. It did suit him well, as did the waves that curled in his longer tresses beneath his hat – in a sort of gruff recluse kinda way. But he had his image and reputation, and the SAS was hardly a place to be sporting untamed hair. Hence why you were carefully trimming at his beard until the floor of his private bathroom was littered with brown (and the occasional grey) hairs.

“I’ll shave it properly in the morning” he had said when, upon entering his quarters, he’d embraced you tightly and tickled your neck with his unruly facial hair.

You replied, “You could go to a barber’s, treat yourself to a hot towel.”

“You’re cruel for teasing a soldier with the prospect of hot towels.”

“Or I could do it?”

That suggestion struck a chord with the Captain, and he realised later that it was a nice way to ease himself back into the comforts of your relationship.

You were half tempted – in your post-mission mania – to shave his cheeks bare like when he was a Lieutenant and bask in the baby-face he’d suffer from for the three weeks it’d take to get his mutton chops back to their original glory. Nonetheless, as you followed the grooves of his chin, you decided that treating this act of trust as sacred was better than the split second of devilish delight you’d get from that. Maybe when you were both retired though.

Patting down his cheeks with a fluffy towel that’d been hanging on the radiator, you revealed him unto you, “Hello handsome.”

At last you could show your love for him and without worrying about getting his facial hair trapped between your teeth like dental floss. Still holding his chin up, you pressed a smiling kiss to his already pursed lips.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” He hummed against you, and you both giggled at how his appreciation – and his freshly trimmed beard – tickled the small space between you.

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dudeitiskarev · 8 months

Text

Accidentally In Love | Part One

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x florist female reader

Summary: Penelope has a plan: throw an arrow full of love dust and make you and Hotch fall in love with each other. A series of small…inconveniences keep happening whenever you two end up in the same room, so it takes her more than one try to work her magic on you. Each incident serves its purpose, though, meaning Garcia’s work is only the last push you two need to get a happily ever after—a Penelope centered fun ride with lots of fluff and all the cheesy stuff.

Word count: 2.6k

Content/warnings: nothing really. Just fluff.

Long author’s note: I can’t remember where this idea came from but oh boy, I love it so much. This little story might be my last Hotch x reader piece ever and it feels like an appropriate story to wrap up the end of an era for me. I will always love Aaron Hotchner and I’m so grateful to have found this fandom. It’s not a long fic but I’ll still split it into a few parts because I think it reads best.

To my very loyal readers, I see you always and I love you forever and thank you for everything. I hope everyone who reads it love this story as much as I do and as always, I’d love to know what you think. Enjoy! Mwaaaah <33

Penelope was born with a gift. She could see people’s hearts—like actually; bright red beating flesh inside people’s chest cavities.

Most had a glow of their own that came with a special colored aura. She often felt them as her own, too, and though that might just be the deep empathy her dad also had, she embraced others’ heartbreaks like a treasure from day one.

Her gift came with what could be considered a lethal weapon: an arc and endless arrows. It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous since she was the only one who could manipulate it and see it overall—and because the arrows were made out of clouds—but she’d never been very skilled at using it, so accidental love matches happened often. Most happened when she was a kid—when she’d just discovered her gift and would use it at the supermarket or the movie rental with two random people. It was like introducing a Ken doll to a Barbie for the first time ever so it really was just a game.

It became serious business when one of her closest friends in high school got her heart broken by some guy named Trent. It physically hurt Penelope to see her friend’s heart break and do nothing about it, so she went out of her way to find a guy with a pure heart for her dearest friend; they’ve been together ever since.

That love match was the one that made her polish her gift. She’d keep a love-matches tracker journal where she’d write down everything—from potential couples to different scenarios where she could make the magic happen. Her aim was the one thing she hadn’t been able to refine that much just yet. It has improved, but accidental matches kept happening, just not as often. Which was part of the fun, anyway.

The fun turned into dust the moment she got the call about her parents getting in a car accident. Her gift froze along with her heart that night. It took her a while to let it warm up again, even when it was all she wanted; the only thing that’d truly make her feel something other than grief.

It was hard, though. She’d witnessed love slipping away from people every day and every time she knew she could’ve done something about it. She didn’t want to push herself that much—it drained her, so she started again slow, remotely, with online love matches since she spent most of her time behind a screen and under a fake name. That worked, surprisingly— Bitter_Fruit_Punch and Dark.Knight announced their relationship through the chat 3 months after Penelope worked her magic on them.

Matchmaking has been part of her daily life ever since. It brightened up her own heart to see others fall in love so why not make it a full-time job? She was getting paid with smiles and love all around which was a much better reward than money but she couldn’t actually live out of it.

Her actual job wasn’t so bad—being recruited to work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit was one of the best things that have happened to her—it paid her rent, and she could afford colorful outfits and even more colorful glasses that matched every single piece of clothing she owned.

At the beginning of her career, she was hesitant to use her gift on the people she worked with. It was a serious and professional environment, but being surrounded by blood, murders and real-life monsters pushed her to subtly pull some strings the more she got to know her team.

She wanted each one of them to have a significant other, but not everyone’s hearts were easy to work with. Some hearts were too fragile or too stone cold. Some of them loved too much and others simply didn’t know how to show love, even when they experienced it immensely.

Emily had one of those hearts that unexpectedly loved too much once and simply would not let anyone in anymore because the one time she did, she had to die to keep herself safe.

Spencer’s heart was… something else. Which made it hard to find him the one since not many understood how it worked. He had it once, and it slipped away right in front of him.

JJ’s heart was as stunning as her eyes. Friendly despite having some scars from her past—as most hearts did. Her heart craved love and to be held tenderly, so as soon as Penelope felt how JJ’s heart would glow around a cute guy with a Louisiana accent, she threw an arrow at them.

Then there was her boss’ heart. One of the hardest hearts she’s ever come across. One of the biggest ones, too. Aaron Hotchner had a good heart, and when his ex-wife passed away, his heart only had room for his son.

Hotch was one of those cases that needed its own section in Penelope’s journal. She often thought, what if Haley was his one true love? Did it mean he couldn’t have another one? She wanted her boss to be happy, so she gave his heart all the time it needed to heal.

The right time came but she needed to test the waters first, so she put a pretty woman in Hotch’s life. Her name was Beth, but she wasn’t the one—García knew it from the beginning since their hearts weren’t on the same page. It was a good exercise that showed her that Aaron was ready to love again, though.

That’s when the real challenge began.

There was only one person perfect for Aaron Hotchner: you.

Penelope met you thanks to one of her many hobbies—theater. She needed a bunch of floral arrangements for her upcoming play, and your flower shop was a very well-known shop in the city. She walked through the door and the floral scent bathed her along with your welcoming heart.

It was like finding gold. One of the prettiest hearts she had ever seen. Glowy and generous like your smile, and so warm a ray of morning sunshine couldn’t compare. It resembled a mosaic and all she could think about while you showed her around all kinds of flowers was Hotch and how those broken pieces perfectly fitted together.

What Penelope didn’t know at that moment was that you two had met each other before. Or rather, shared a single glance.

You had the same favorite coffee shop—the one close to your flower shop that also happened to be on the way to the BAU. He’d thought you were beautiful; you’d felt the same. But that’s about it. Neither of you dared to make the first move if possible.

Until it had to happen again.

“Thanks.” You smiled at the barista while receiving your latte and turned around, bumping into a broad and very good-smelling silhouette.

You didn’t get the chance to give him a smile since your coffee spilled all over your hand.

It burnt like hell, but you didn’t even make a sound.

“Are you alright?” he was quick to assist you, taking your almost empty cup from your hand at the same time a bunch of hands around you offered you napkins.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You looked up and finally smiled at him. That wasn’t a common face so you remembered him perfectly—made your heart thunder senseless like the very first time you laid eyes on him. “You have no idea how often this happens to me,” You tried to play it cool.

Your cheeks started to grow hot from the inside out. Painfully slow. It completely erased the burning sensation on your hand. You looked down to dry the sleeve of your blouse hoping the heat of your face would disappear.

It didn’t.

“Let me buy you another one.” He moved you out of the way by your arm and guided you to an empty corner. His touch was as gentle as a petal.

“Oh, there’s no need, I promise. I’m okay. There’s still some left.” You peeked at the cup he was still holding. There was barely a sip. “I— I should go.”

“Please, I insist.”

The look of concern made him even more attractive. You couldn’t reject him with words so you simply gave him one last look and walked away in a hurry, leaving Aaron with his mouth half open before he could insist even more.

The barista called his name right after and the guilt while he received his perfect order wouldn’t let him enjoy it. He walked to his car with his coffee in one hand and your empty cup in the other. The least he could do was get you another latte, somehow. Thankfully your name and order were on the cup, and there was only one person who could make that happen with that little information.

“I need your help and I need you not to ask any questions.” He stormed into Garcia’s office and stood next to her, dramatically placing your empty cup on her desk.

She jumped at his sudden presence. “Y-yes sir. What can I do?”

Hotch gave her some more details he picked up from you from the brief interaction that could be useful. The more she typed each one on her computer, the more information about you showed up on the screen. Her naive self thought it all was just a coincidence, but then a news page popped on the screen from a couple of years ago. There was a tiny picture of your pretty face in the bottom right corner that announced the opening of your shop.

“That’s her,” Hotch confirmed.

Penelope looked up at him and caught the glimpse of a smile taking over his lips and a tiny spark inside his chest. She held the urge to squeal right then and there.

Hotch didn’t tell her much detail about how he ended up having your cup, but his heart already lit up at the thought of you. Meaning, it shouldn’t be so hard to make you two fall in love, right?

All she had to do was make something like that happen again and be there to throw that arrow.

The coffee stain on your sleeve looked like a jasmine blossom—if you really stared at it.

There was no point in washing it off since the coffee was almost dry. Plus, wet sleeves around your wrists would only worsen your day. You should’ve known it was going to be like this from the moment the hot water ran out while in the middle of your shower this morning.

But you were at your shop now. Your happy place. A dream come true. Nothing could bother you as long as you were there, so you decided to leave the embarrassed thoughts behind and went to check on the flowers and plants you had outside on display, making sure they were healthy and ready to be chosen.

They’d been sorted by size since the very first day. Tallest at the very back and smallest in front, that way none would be unnoticed.

The voice of a stranger calling your name made you turn away from the ficus trees. You didn’t know the kid or why he was handing you a cup of coffee that had your name written on it.

“I think you got the wrong person.” You hesitated whether to receive it or not. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Well, someone did. This is Silver Spring 2089, right?” He looked at the numeration behind you.

“Yeah?” You took the cup just so you wouldn’t leave him hanging.

“Then it’s for you.” He nodded with an annoyed customer-service smile. “Have a great day!” He hopped back on his bike and added, “I think there’s a note for you,” gesturing at the cup with his brows.

“Oh, okay? Thanks”

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes, pedaling away.

You stood there for a moment, frozen by confusion. You had no idea what that was about but it was better figuring it out inside rather than out in the sun. You made your way back inside your store and once you were behind the counter, you examined the cup, twirling it in 360 degrees. It only had your name on the outside.

“Hmm.” You bit your lip.

Maybe the note was on the inside? You slid down the cup holder, revealing a note written in all caps across the cup.

HOPE YOU CAN STILL ENJOY A LATTE AT NOON.

Your lips twitched into a smile and the good kind of butterflies spiraled in your stomach.

The kind that you haven’t felt in so long.

García knew her boss too well. He may have sent you the coffee but he was going to need a little push to get him to do more than that.

“So?” García walked into Hotch’s office. “How did it go?”

He lifted his eyes from the paper. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“Flower girl?” She continued. “Her coffee?”

His eyes rushed back to the document. “She received it, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” She took a few steps closer, the click-clack of her heels loud under her. “She didn’t text you a thank you, you’re so incredibly nice?”

It was very unlike you if you didn’t.

“She doesn’t have my number.” He looked at Garcia again. “So I don’t see why she would.”

“You didn’t write it somewhere in her order?”

“No?” He frowned softly, waiting to be reprimanded.

“Sir,” she huffed out a breath, sitting across from him and placing her thick sparkly journal over her lap. “That was your chance.”

“Of what?”

“Of… love.”

He paused for a moment and sighed, raising his brows while saying, “There’s no time.” As if he was trying to convince himself.

“There’s always time for love,” she quickly added.

The truth was that he didn’t want to let someone in yet after Beth. It had already been scary back then to let Beth in after Haley. There was a big difference, though. He let Beth go by choice—which was the right thing to do—and Haley was ripped away from him.

Both things have hurt his son, meaning it wasn’t just his heart that could get exposed to love or abandonment by letting someone new in.

Jack’s heart lived right behind Aaron’s, so he had to be careful.

“Is there anything else you need?” He changed the subject.

Penelope’s face dropped in defeat as she said a quiet no, though it slowly turned into a smile as she added, “I mean yes. Yes, actually, I’m here also to give you—” she riffled through her documents and took out a flyer, handing it to him “—this.”

The flyer promoted her new play, and as always, had her face on it.

“This Friday?” He took a closer look at it.

“Everyone’s invited, per usual,” she said proudly.

Whenever he got the official invitation, he looked forward to it. It reminded him of his high school years and often made him want to give it a try again now that he was older to do something out of the ordinary. But in this case, there really was no time.

“I’ll be there.” He smiled at her. “Thanks.”

“You are very welcome.” She stood up and walked to the door.

“Hey, Garcia?” Hotch got her attention, making her turn around. He remembered when she was embarrassed about the team finding out, and now they were a permanent crowd in each of her plays. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled big big. “Goodbye, sir.”

She left his office with a bright grin and an even brighter plan.

If he didn’t dare to give you his number or any other hint about his persona, she was going to make sure he did.

That very same day she sent you an invitation to her play.

Her plan? Forced proximity.

Classic me, I’m not sure when I’ll post next part but I hope you enjoyed this ♥️

PART TWO

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner fluff

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xzhdjsj · 2 months

Text

Grant Returns and Unforgotten Letters

Zaros x Reader

You leave Serulla, only returning when danger threatens your kingdom

This fic is based on THIS brilliant theory by @astralbulldragon13. I simply couldn't get it out of my head and had to write about it I have to say I'm not very happy with the way this came out, but I spent too much time on it to not post it😭

Also, this is really long (almost 3.5k words) idk how it happened🤡 when I started writing it, I just couldn't stop. Plz let me know if I made any mistakes (probably butchered some names loll)

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"There, you win. Your son is now the Eminence, but know this, if you try to rule my kingdom vicariously through your Zaros, or control his new life in any way, there is no where you could go, no hole you can hide in, that I won’t find you."

The realisation dawned on you, way before the trials began. You weren’t interested in the throne; that wasn’t where your heart lies. That position was polished and refined for your brother, but guilt has its ways of twisting one's mind and kept you fighting for a life that was stolen from him, replacing a prodigy child that was stolen from your mother.

Zaros' insults and demeaning remarks only contributed to your mindset, though that didn’t make them any less hurtful. How could they not be? Especially when coming from someone you admired and cherished. They were fuel to the fire, a constant reminder of how unfit you are.

It was hard to imagine yourself as a good ruler anyways. Sure, you were knowledgeable, but what good is education with no real experience or empathy for the struggles of your people? Not to mention being cloaked by a porcelain mask 24/7, designed and altered to meet the needs of the people around you.

Zaros, on the other hand, was different. His pernicious attitude cracked the corners of your mask, forcing raw emotions to erupt to daylight. It was a distasteful experience considering your position, but deep down you never felt more alive than when you could be yourself with him, throwing insults right back into his face. It forced the masked persona to face the real you and come to terms with what you wanted, before it was too late.

You wanted a life that was yours to live, a life where you could be yourself. Not one you are forced to live, or a person you are required to be. There were things you had to let go of and things you needed to learn.

By himself, Zaros would be a skillful leader capable of building a successful future for Serulla. He had the experience that you lacked, that alone could potentially secure Serulla a brighter future than you could ever offer. The only threat was his mother, Nira Atha’lin. She was obnoxious, quick to point out every miniscule flaw and mistake in your ways, if Zaros was unbearable, she was enough to push you to insanity. Her personality was sour and ugly, like biting into a mouldy rotting fruit. Her intentions are unclear, but it isn’t hard to see her abusing the authority of her son and the crown.

Though that didn’t matter, you trust Zaros, he would never put the wellbeing of Serulla at risk. He’s headstrong and stubborn. It’s no wonder you admire him, in some way or another he’s just like you.

He has become a decent acquaintance in your life. Looking back, he could have easily double-crossed you in the trials and spited his way to the top, but he didn’t. Every last minute of it was fair and just. Maybe that’s why you felt so strongly for him now.

Outside the hall, minutes away from a final decision, both Zaros and you stood. If you had something to do, now was the time to do it.

He reaches for the heavy gold handles of the door, but he doesn’t get to push it open.

"Zaros", you take his hand.

He ignores the door, turning to face you.

"If you are indeed the victor, which.... I have no doubt you are; I need you to promise me something."

His eyebrows perk upwards, and he steps closer, taking your hand fully in his.

"We don't know that yet. You gave me quite a challenge during the trials you know. Don't tell me you're giving up now?", signature smirk plastered to his face, though you no longer feel the need to punch it off.

“Please listen to me.”, you sigh, "I need you to promise me you'll never let Serulla suffer. I know I'm not capable of helping all the people who deserve our help, but you are. I’m certain of it, so promise me."

The seriousness in your eyes was enough to stifle his usual sarcasm.

"I... I promise." He barely mutters, no longer smiling. It’s an unusual sight, the kind that makes you feel nauseous. He's even more alarmed when you offer a pinkie to him, like you used to do years ago when you were just kids roaming the corridors and sneaking into the kitchen.

"Pinkie promise?" You smile.

He caught his own pinkie onto yours. "I promise, I'll do my best."

He knew what you were about to do. But he also knows how stubborn you are and there was no way he could stop you, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

After facing Nira that day, you smiled at him and whispered a gentle "Take care of yourself and my home for me". You swore that from that moment onwards, you’d never mask yourself again.

Those were your last words to him before you'd vanished, leaving behind only a letter. In which, you asked that he looked after your mother and detailed an apology as well as a segment of feelings you'd harboured for him. It was an intended goodbye before he forgets about you, lest you have a reason to return. You hoped you wouldn't.

Throughout your travels you faced many hardships, the expected reality of being a lone traveler. But you grew from those experiences. You learnt from the people around you and made friends.

You sharpened your survival skills as you traversed the lands, a melody of experiences of new cultures and flavours, from continents you'd only dreamt of, melted on your tongue. Those fleeting dreams were nothing compared to the reality you held in your own two hands. You learnt to appreciate life and how to trust.

The last place you ventured was the Northern Nation, though their reputation is scandalous, their culture is rich. What you weren’t expecting was to meet see a familiar face, a palace staff, an informant no less. Only now he worked for Nira, delivering letters to the most dangerous kingdom of all the nations and had informed you that you were banned from the home you grew up in.

After 8 years, it was time to turn back. It was time to head home.

There was a masquerade ball being held in Serulla at dawn, the perfect opportunity to tiptoe into the palace unnoticed. What was the plan? You weren’t entirely sure but one way or another you had to speak to Zaros. If you marched in like you own the place, you would be promptly kicked out a few feet upon entering the gate. It’s a good thing you knew your way around every crack and crevice like the back of your hand. It shouldn’t be too hard blending in once you’re inside. But first you needed clothes and a mask, nothing extravagant, just enough to blur into the masses.

Learning to walk silently made slipping in as easy as dreaming, before you could blink you were in the ballroom. Oh, did it feel nostalgic, you remember the times you were the main focus of these elaborate events. Now look at you, sneaking in and avoiding any attention whatsoever. You missed these walls, they look the exact same since you’ve left them, grand, luxurious and unchanged. You couldn’t help but take a minute to reminisce and admire.

“Can I ask for a dance later, mysterious stranger?” a young man snapped you out of your trance.

“I’m afraid not sir. I have prior arrangements for the evening”, you bow. “My sincerest apologies.”

What a nuisance, you thought, abruptly turning and leaving. You had to find Zaros. As King of Serulla he had to be here, his presence is of utmost importance and entirely compulsory for this kind of event. Perhaps he’d show up later in the evening, all you had to do was wait amongst the crowd. Maybe a drink would take the edge off while you do, maybe it would help you ignore the eyes you felt burning holes into your back.

Hours later the arrival of the king was finally announced, and there he was, fashionably late in all his blond glory. He’s just as captivating as you left him all those years ago, just as beautiful and refined. It was like staring at the sun, glowing so brightly it just might blind someone. Yes, you were staring, but so was everyone else. Who wouldn’t stare when graced with the presence of the King himself? His lips moved as he acknowledged his audience, but your mind was too preoccupied with gawking at him to hear a single word. You’re yanked back to reality when the crowd scatters at his dismissal, so you retreat to a space further away, where you could keep an eye on him as he conversed with guests. It would be unwise to approach him now, there’s too many eyes on him this early into the night. Once the crowd has had their fill of wine and was no longer capable of seeing any further than their nose, you’d seize the opportunity to steal him away.

Lay low, keep an eye on him. Two simple tasks to accomplish. But the fool you’d rejected earlier in the eventing, now a drunken fool, apparently doesn’t understand the meaning of two simple letters, no. You rejected him twice already but he keeps coming back.

“I’m not taking no for answer hic- you simple must dance with me”, before you could reject him again, he’s dragging you to the floor. If it weren’t for the fact that you didn’t want any attention tonight, his arm would’ve been broken on the spot.

You struggle in his grip as he swayed you, haphazardly and arrhythmic to the music, and FUCK you lost sight of Zaros. If only this imbecile would let go of you! And cease his gooselike movements!

“Unfortunately, good sir, they’re not available to dance with YOU this evening.”, you’re backed into a hard wall, a clothed wall? A familiar smelling wall. A speaking wall.

His sticky hands are gone from your body in an instant, he even backs away from you.

“You-your Majesty”, he stuttered.

“All of their dances are promised to me tonight. I’ll assume you weren’t aware and turn a blind eye just this once.”, the wall speaks again, replacing unpleasant hands with a gentle yet possessive grip. It's very obvious who this wall is.

“Now if you’ll excuse us, I’ll be stealing them away now”, he doesn’t wait for a response, pulling you further onto the dance floor. You’re still facing away from him as he guides your body to the tune that swirls the room.

“Welcome back Earis” he whispers and you can just hear the smirk he’s wearing.

“A bit of a lost cause on such title now, aren’t I?” you answer. “How did you know it was me?”, he moved your body effortlessly, like it was made specially to fit beneath his palms.

“How could I not? I could feel your eyes on me all night.” Following the music, he spins you around to finally face him. “Even if death took me, I’d still remember those eyes.”

You scoff, “How charming. But everyone’s eyes are on you tonight.”

“Hmm you think so? A shame, none are as captivating as yours.”

“I need to speak to you Zaros.”

“We’re speaking right now, are we not?”

Fuck, why does he always have to be so difficult?

“Not here. I need to speak to you in private.”

There was too much attention on him for you to speak freely, it’s a surprise guards haven’t escorted you out the room yet.

“Sounds alarming. And just when I thought you came back to see me.” he fakes a frown, and let’s go of your hand as he ends the dance. You curtsy, and he leans closer to whispers for you to follow him. He leaves first and you linger around the corners before disappearing yourself.

Eventually you’re back in the abandoned hallways of the palace, walking with Zaros.

“So why are you back?”

“I’ve made a recent discovery, and I was worried. I needed to talk to you about it.”

“Worried?”

“You’re aware of the notoriety of the Northern Nation, correct?”

“Who isn’t? Their name stains chapters of history text with the blood they’ve spilt.”

“Yes, that’s why it was a surprise when I found out your mother exchanges letters with their King and his court.”

He halts, “What? What are you talking about?”

You turn to him, removing the mask from your face. “While I stayed in the city of the Northern Nation, I recognised a familiar face. A Surullian informant. I’ve seen him work for my mother for years, naturally, I was confused by his presence there.”, you sigh. “I tried to get as much information as I could from him, but he knew nothing. He had simple instructions from your mother to deliver the letters to and from the Northern Kingdom. Unfortunately for me, he had already passed on the letters, so I did not get a look. He swore to never tell a soul of our encounter to avoid any further issues, but I also found out I'm blacklisted here.”

“What are you saying? Why would she even want to converse with the Northern Kingdom? An alliance with them is like an alliance with hyenas. They bring nothing but war and bloodshed. And what on Earth do you mean ‘blacklisted’?”, he shouts in frustration. “She’s my mother, I trust her. I find it all of this hard to believe.”

“Hah of course you don't believe me." you look around frantically. "Follow me.”

He stomped after you as you made your way for the nearest set of guards.

“Wait here, and watch.”

You walked up to them, as if to inquire something, only to be quickly apprehended.

“Let go of them immediately! What do you think you're doing?”, Zaros march in their direction.

“Apologies, your Majesty. We’re only following orders!”

“Whose orders?”, he yells.

“Lady Atha’lin, you Majesty!”, the fear is evident in their voices, and you give him a knowing look.

“Fuck”, he whispers under his breathe. “You’re dismissed and inform every guard in this palace that no one is to lay a finger on them. Do you hear me?”, he says, curt and unforgiving, as they shuffle away clumsily.

“As I said, blacklisted. Do you believe me now mama’s boy?”

If looks could kill, you’d be dead in milliseconds the way he glared at you. He's angry as can be, it’s not every day the tables are turned.

“A shame, had I been kicked out at the gates, you’d be oblivious to your mommy’s devious little plans.” You push.

“Oh what do you care? You left Serulla for 8 years. You’re back to warn me once and suddenly you’re high and might?”

“Hah, I was not just here to warn you. No Zaros, my initial plan was to meet your mother directly.”, you roll your eyes.

“Allow me to refresh your memory, 8 years ago, before I left, I made a promise to Nira Atha’lin that if she threatened Serulla in any way I’d be back to drag to her to hell with me. For your sake, I wanted to meet you first. But know this Zaros, if you’re incapable of handling your mother, I am not. I have no qualms in removing her by force, with or without your permission.”

You went overboard, but it was too late to take it back. The anger in his eyes boils over, as does the internal turmoil, but he keeps silent. He paces back and forth, and it might be better if you left him alone with his thoughts for a while.

“I’ll leave you be for now, when you are ready to find me again, I’ll be in the garden.”, a vast contrast to the tone you had previously.

You leave Zaros to decipher his feelings alone, it would be better if you weren’t there. You were annoyed at him for doubting you, yet that was no way for you to speak to him, especially considering the amount of information to process in such short time. How did it even progress that quickly? Sometimes old habits are hard to kill. You needed to apologise to him later.

The garden is still as beautiful as it always was, flourishing healthily despite your mother’s absence. You had heard of it, the news circulated Serulla and its neighbouring nations with the passing wind. The Queen was no more, and her child was absolutely vile for leaving her. People will always talk.

But it looks like Zaros kept his promise to take care of your home.

The garden was silence, as you stood before the two memorial tablets mounted there. One for your brother, another for your mother. You prayed that somewhere in her heart she’d forgiven you for leaving her alone. You wipe away the tears that warmed your cheek.

“She kept speaking highly of you, to the very end.”, his voice startles you, relaxed and calmer now.

“I don’t deserve it, I left her. But there was no point in returning then, if anything it made me not want to return at all.”, you replied, kissing the top of the stone with your mother’s name carved into it.

“I’m sorry.”, he sounded sincere, the most sincere you’ve ever heard him be.

“It’s not your fault, we all have to die one day, do we not?”

“No, for not stopping you from leaving.”

“What?”, confusion thickens your voice. “What are you talking about?”

“All these years you were gone, I couldn’t help but believe it was my fault. I felt guilty, like I pushed you out of your own home. Like this was never truly my place, but yours. I’d found you again after 8 years, only for you to slips through my fingers for another 8. I really am sorry.”

“Zaros.”, you stand directly in front of him. “That was not your fault. I chose to leave. I wanted to, I had to find myself. If anything, your stupid insults helped me, although they still hurt, don't get me wrong. Besides look at how well off Serulla is! You are more of a ruler than I ever would’ve been-”

“And I missed you.” He cuts you off and silence ensues, save for the soft howls of the wind. You didn’t expect him to confess that to you so openly and easily.

“I… I missed you too.” He takes a breath and smiles, not one of his devious smirks or teasing grins. A real genuine smile that once again showed a sincerity you were unfamiliar with. You sit with him in silence for a long time, admiring the stars and flowers. and you remembered a conversation you had a long time ago. He was right watching them in the moonlight was comforting. You could only hope he feels the same way right now.

“Remember how you told me to look at the flowers in the garden at night? It was so long ago; I almost don’t remember their name. What were they called again? Bitter bell something?”, you reminisced.

“Bitter bell dureni” (sorry ik I probably butchered that idk how to spell)

“Right, yes those. I got to see them tonight. They really are beautiful.”

“I’m sorry for how I reacted.", he confessed. "I promised you I’d keep Serulla safe, and I intend to keep that promise, even if it means revoking all authorities from my mother.”

“I’d much rather not use violence too. I apologise for provoking you.”

“I suppose it was a taste of my own medicine”, he laughs and you join him. “Does this mean you’re leaving again?”

“What? Do you want me to leave that badly?”

“Ha-ha, very funny.”

“No, I plan on staying a while, as long as your guards keep their hands to themselves of course.”, he laughs again and you can see yourself getting addicted to it. He sounds serene.

“Then, it’s my honour to have you.”, he reaches for your hand. “Come, your old room has been vacant for 8 years. It’s about time someone used it.”

“You kept my room vacant?”

“I may have had a little hope you’d return some day. To Serulla. To me.”

It’s hard not to smile when he says such things.

You take his hand, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, and he averts his gaze, though not enough to hide the dusty pink shade of his skin.

“I have another question.”,

“Yes?”

“Did you really mean all those things you said in your letter?”

It’s silent again as you walk the familiar path to your room. You both knew the answer to that.

#zsakuva #sakuverse #asmr #zaros #zsakuva zaros #zaros x reader

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