#scratch classes for kids

[boy--lilikoi]

Scratch is a programming website for free

kids can create your own interactive stories games and animations

子が自分で作った英単語問題

大好きな殺せんせーのｲﾗｽﾄ+ｱﾆﾒｰｼｮﾝ+ﾌﾟﾛｸﾞﾗﾐﾝｸﾞも全部scratchで作っ�� 楽しいせいか100単語くらい速攻で暗記

2時間ほどでﾌｫｰﾏｯﾄ完成で 単語はいくらでも増やせるら��い

scratchは学校配給のPCでも無料で使えるからおすすめだよ

単語は殺たんから抜粋

[fingertipsmp3]

Yes I like musicals yes I was kind of a theatre kid back in the day no I don’t particularly care about Wicked one way or the other. We exist

[freddieandersen]

Irish dance tumblr I know u are deceased in favor of Irish dance Instagram and now probably Irish dance tiktok however I have just been to my first class in 8 years and learned 4.5 new steps, two of them in single jig (a dance I have Never danced before)

[luulapants]

25 ways to be a little more punk in 2025

Cut fast fashion - buy used, learn to mend and/or make your own clothes, buy fewer clothes less often so you can save up for ethically made quality

Cancel subscriptions - relearn how to pirate media, spend $10/month buying a digital album from a small artist instead of on Spotify, stream on free services since the paid ones make you watch ads anyway

Green your community - there's lots of ways to do this, like seedbombing or joining a community garden or organizing neighborhood trash pickups

Be kind - stop to give directions, check on stopped cars, smile at kids, let people cut you in line, offer to get stuff off the high shelf, hold the door, ask people if they're okay

Intervene - learn bystander intervention techniques and be prepared to use them, even if it feels awkward

Get closer to your food - grow it yourself, can and preserve it, buy from a farmstand, learn where it's from, go fishing, make it from scratch, learn a new ingredient

Use opensource software - try LibreOffice, try Reaper, learn Linux, use a free Photoshop clone. The next time an app tries to force you to pay, look to see if there's an opensource alternative

Make less trash - start a compost, be mindful of packaging, find another use for that plastic, make it a challenge for yourself!

Get involved in local politics - show up at meetings for city council, the zoning commission, the park district, school boards; fight the NIMBYs that always show up and force them to focus on the things impacting the most vulnerable folks in your community

DIY > fashion - shake off the obsession with pristine presentation that you've been taught! Cut your own hair, use homemade cosmetics, exchange mani/pedis with friends, make your own jewelry, duct tape those broken headphones!

Ditch Google - Chromium browsers (which is almost all of them) are now bloated spyware, and Google search sucks now, so why not finally make the jump to Firefox and another search like DuckDuckGo? Or put the Wikipedia app on your phone and look things up there?

Forage - learn about local edible plants and how to safely and sustainably harvest them or go find fruit trees and such accessible to the public.

Volunteer - every week tutoring at the library or once a month at the humane society or twice a year serving food at the soup kitchen, you can find something that matches your availability

Help your neighbors - which means you have to meet them first and find out how you can help (including your unhoused neighbors), like elderly or disabled folks that might need help with yardwork or who that escape artist dog belongs to or whether the police have been hassling people sleeping rough

Fix stuff - the next time something breaks (a small appliance, an electronic, a piece of furniture, etc.), see if you can figure out what's wrong with it, if there are tutorials on fixing it, or if you can order a replacement part from the manufacturer instead of trashing the whole thing

Mix up your transit - find out what's walkable, try biking instead of driving, try public transit and complain to the city if it sucks, take a train instead of a plane, start a carpool at work

Engage in the arts - go see a local play, check out an art gallery or a small museum, buy art from the farmer's market

Go to the library - to check out a book or a movie or a CD, to use the computers or the printer, to find out if they have other weird rentals like a seed library or luggage, to use meeting space, to file your taxes, to take a class, to ask question

Listen local - see what's happening at local music venues or other events where local musicians will be performing, stop for buskers, find a favorite artist, and support them

Buy local - it's less convenient than online shopping or going to a big box store that sells everything, but try buying what you can from small local shops in your area

Become unmarketable - there are a lot of ways you can disrupt your online marketing surveillance, including buying less, using decoy emails, deleting or removing permissions from apps that spy on you, checking your privacy settings, not clicking advertising links, and...

Use cash - go to the bank and take out cash instead of using your credit card or e-payment for everything! It's better on small businesses and it's untraceable

Give what you can - as capitalism churns on, normal shmucks have less and less, so think about what you can give (time, money, skills, space, stuff) and how it will make the most impact

Talk about wages - with your coworkers, with your friends, while unionizing! Stop thinking about wages as a measure of your worth and talk about whether or not the bosses are paying fairly for the labor they receive

Think about wealthflow - there are a thousand little mechanisms that corporations and billionaires use to capture wealth from the lower class: fees for transactions, interest, vendor platforms, subscriptions, and more. Start thinking about where your money goes, how and where it's getting captured and removed from our class, and where you have the ability to cut off the flow and pass cash directly to your fellow working class people

[bisaster-energy]

Guys I forgot how much scheduling for college sucks major ass. Like.majorly

[zahara-education]

Upgrade your digital skills with a comprehensive MS Office course in Sharjah, covering Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Outlook, and more from beginner to advanced levels. Learn through practical, hands-on training with flexible schedules, expert instructors, and certification upon completion. Whether you're starting from scratch or looking to enhance your skills, find the right course near Al Taawun and open doors to exciting career opportunities.

[tutree]

Scratch Coding Classes for Kids in Maine

Introduce your child to the fun of coding with Scratch classes in Maine! Tutree provides engaging lessons where kids create their own games and animations, boosting creativity and problem-solving skills. Our expert tutors make coding easy and exciting. Enroll today!

[cloudedcreams]

thinking of a cold! yandere who loved you too late and now has to pay the price.

you were annoying! he stands by the fact, constantly clinging onto his arms and twirling with strands of his hair. it was so easy to see you were obsessed and there were times he yearned to push you away from him, to watch you back out in fear and crawl away to never speak to him again.

he was the quiet kid at the back of the class. nobody cared if you bothered him, and though your attempts towards him were always so sweet and sincere he couldn’t handle the frustration that it left coursing through his veins. you were just so clingy.

he never reciprocated, and you came to realise the fact with a hearty acceptance. it broke your heart, noticing the cold looks he sent your way, the smile that always failed to grace his face. you wondered what he’d look like if his face lit up in joy, and you yearned to bring him such a feeling, but over time you realised you were incapable, and as such forced yourself away from him.

he realised too late of the mistake that he had made. thinking back to the lingering touches that you used to leave him with, only to realise that though they had once filled him with such annoyance, they were a feeling that he couldn’t live without.

he scratched at his arms to replicate the feeling, and left them sore and red. he wondered if you noticed, but in the recent days you seemed more invested in your work if anything. you barely gazed at him and he wondered if that was all he had been to you, a phase?

he wondered how long it’d take for him to reach out to you. to force your hands to his neck and beg for your touches again.

[em1i2a3]

Moonlight Desires

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve wanted Rhett Abbot since the day you laid your eyes on him. So when the opportunity for a friends with benefits arrangement presents itself you immediately take the plunge, even though there is a risk of hurt feelings on both ends.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut (a lot of it), Jealousy, Angst, Fluff, and Swearing. We love when people don’t know how to communicate their feelings properly and seek arrangements that may cause issues! We love a jealous cowboy though…Can’t say no to that.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Sensual Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Biting, Scratching, Very Light Choking, Bruising (not intentional bruising…But there’s bruising lol), Spitting ((hopefully I didn’t miss anything)

Author’s Note: Oh how we love a juicy friends with benefits fic. I eat these up, especially when you’ve got two people who don’t know how to communicate their feelings for one another and it tailspins…With a happy ending of course (in more ways than one HA! ZING!) anyways! Thank you for @haydenlizz for your lovely request! I hope this lives up to the ask, and that I met all requirements :), enjoy!

Word Count: 11,698

You knew who Rhett Abbott was before you ever really met him.

Everyone in Wabang did. He was that roughed up boy with grass-stained jeans and dirt-slick boots, who rode bulls on weekends and left class with scabbed knuckles and a crooked grin. He had a laugh like summer and eyes that always looked like they’d seen more than a kid his age should’ve.

He wasn’t exactly a jock, nor was he the best student either. He floated between circles–grinning at teachers, fumbling over flirting with girls he had no intentions of keeping, and disappearing before anyone could really get close to him.

You had a lot of classes together. He’d copy your history notes with a lazy drawl of ‘ya got the best handwritin’ I’ve ever seen,” and sit behind you in English, whispering dumb jokes until you were biting your lip to keep from laughing.

You truly didn’t think he acknowledged you as more than a classmate, until one day he walked you home after your truck died in the school parking lot after a football rally. He had dust on his boots, and rope burns on his palm and arms when he came up to you, and that blue-eyed smirk had softened into something quieter.

”Don’t want you walkin’ alone,” He’d said, “Town gets too quiet after dark…Wouldn’t want anythin’ happenin’ to you.”

After that day you weren’t able to look at him the same, and you’d been half in love with him ever since.

———————

The both of you stayed in Wabang after graduation. Neither of you left for college–you didn’t find a good enough reason, and Rhett just didn’t have the guts to leave, even when he told you–more than once, usually after a few drinks–that he would.

“I’m not stayin’ in this damn town forever,” He’d mutter, picking at the label of a peer bottle, with the porch swing creaking under the weight of both you bodies. You’d glance sideways at him with a smirk.

”Sure you’re not.”

But you both knew the truth. Wabang had its claws in you. It wasn’t just the land or the quiet or the unspoken expectation that you’d stay and carry on what was already here. It was the comfort of familiarity. The way the roads remembered the tires of your truck, and the way the stars always looked better from the Abbott’s fence line.

The way he was still here…That was enough for you…

You didn’t really talk about your friendship. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could sum up in words. It was just a constant.

It was Rhett knocking on your door at 11 p.m. with a busted knuckle and a lopsided grin, asking if you had any more of that whiskey he liked. It was you handing him a bag of frozen peas without comment, and sitting beside him on the couch while a movie played in the background–neither of you really watching it.

It was you keeping a spare key under the doormat for him–just in case.

It was him fixing the squeak in your truck door without you asking.

It was the dumb inside jokes, and shared music taste, and the way you always knew when he was lying to you because of the way he wrinkled his nose and batted his eyelashes.

You didn’t flirt with him, but the tension was always there, crackling beneath the surface like dry kindling waiting for a match. You called it closeness, his mother called it something else entirely, especially when she would see the both of you in action together, or when she would see you watching him.

Because you went to every single bull riding meet.

It didn’t matter if it was fifteen minutes outside of town or two hours into the next county–you were there, usually wedged between Cecilia and Perry Abbott, with your hands clenched tight around a plastic cup, with your heart hammering through your ribs every time he got thrown.

Rhett always spotted you in the crowd, even with his adrenaline spiked high and dirt caked into his skin, he’d look toward the fence line the moment he climbed off that bull–head tilting just a little, eyes sweeping the stands until they found yours. When you waved, he’d smile, soft and crooked, as if seeing your worried face made things worth it somehow.

Afterward, you’d sneak him away from the crowd and bandage his wrists or ribs in the front seat of your truck, your hands careful, your eyes averted, and your voice scolding but warm.

“Y’know you don’t have to prove anything right?” He would shake his head at you, wincing as you tightened the bandages, before reaching for his painkillers, mumbling.

”Ain’t about provin’–just gotta feel somethin’.” And you understood that on another level.

Then there were the weekends where you and him would go out drinking together, with or without Perry.

Sometimes it was a bonfire at someone’s ranch. Oftentimes, it was the back booth at a random bar, with Rhett’s knee pressed to yours beneath the sticky table as you made fun of the live band or ripped each other a new one about the latest town gossip about one another. Then sometimes you would play darts until your aim got too loose to win.

Sometimes he walked you home, and sometimes you walked him home.

More often than not, you ended up in each other’s living rooms, continuing your drinking on the comfort of a worn couch. You’d pass a bottle back and forth, taking sips and cringing. He’d take off his boots and prop them on your coffee table like he paid rent, and you’d push him and tell him to take them and put them at the front door like a normal person.

Neither of you put labels on what you had, and you never asked for more.

But you were in his life the way sunlight lives in dust–not loud or obvious, just always there.

He called you when his truck broke down, when his favorite horse got colic, when his brother went missing for two days and nobody would say why.

You called him when your water heater flooded the kitchen, when your uncle got sick, when your hand shook too much to open a stubborn jar and you didn’t want to cry alone.

He always showed up.

So did you.

And through it all–years, really–people kept asking.

”Y’all together or what?” You’d laugh, and he would smirk, shaking his head ‘no’.

But sometimes, when the music got low and the lights in your trailer softened to that familiar amber haze–when you were half-drunk on bourbon and closer than two people with no claim had any right to be–you wondered:

Why not?

Why wasn’t it more?

You never asked.

And he never offered.

But the ache settled into your ribs like something permanent. Something sharp and quiet and always humming under your skin.

Then lines were crossed…

——————

The night it happened started like any other time you and Rhett hung out.

A six-pack between you on the coffee table. Two bottles already open and held in your respective hands. The same playlist you always put on when the sky turned indigo and the bugs outside started their midnight song. It was low, something moody and twangy, bleeding softly into the corners of your living room like it knew not to intrude.

Rhett was sprawled across your couch, legs wide, his shoulders sinking into the cushions like he’d been there a hundred times–which, to be fair, he had. That old red flannel he always wore after a long day was clinging to him in the heat, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, buttons undone just far enough to show the sweat-shined skin at the base of his throat. His hair was still combed back, only being held by his posture, it he leaned forward tendrils of his light brown locks would certainly fall out of line and get into his eyes.

You were tucked into the far corner of the couch, feet up, knees pulled close to your chest, wearing a faded band tee and your usual cotton sleep shorts–barely-there, worn soft from a thousand washes. No bra. No effort. Just comfort.

Not for him, not really at least.

But still—there was something about the way his eyes kept flicking toward you between sips of beer. Something about the way he lingered, just a second too long, on the exposed stretch of your thigh or the slight sway of your chest when you shifted to grab another bottle.

The air was thick. Summer-heavy. The kind of slow heat that settled into skin and made everything feel a little lazier, a little looser. You were both warm from the drinks, buzzed from the day, and quiet in that way that only ever happened with people who didn’t need to fill silences.

And then he said it.

“I haven’t had sex in a while.”

You blinked, the words falling like a flat rock into the still water between you. He was staring at the beer label, picking at it with his thumbnail like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. But his voice was too casual. Too practiced. The sentence didn’t belong there. Not between that song and the one before it. Not between the rhythm you’d spent years building together.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Wow…So that’s where we’re at now, huh?”

Rhett huffed a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Guess so.”

You studied him then. Really looking at his expression and his body language. His jaw was tight. His posture was just a little too still for how he normally was. His thumb had stripped the label halfway down the neck of the bottle, and his gaze hadn’t lifted once since he’d said it.

“You tellin’ me that because you think I should know,” You said, “or because you want me to do something about it?” That got his eyes on you. Sharp, and steel blue, and more tired than you expected.

“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t think maybe you’d…I dunno. Get it.” You shifted in your seat, your heartbeat hitching once, then steadying.

”Get what, exactly? Being celibate?” He shot you a look. The side of his mouth twitched–almost a smile, almost a smirk, but weighed down by something heavier.

“Not what I meant,” He muttered, taking a quick sip from his bottle, “Just figured you might be in the same boat.”

You raised your brows. “So what, we’re comparing dry spells now?”

“I mean,” Rhett leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch like he wasn’t deliberately invading your space, “If you wanna get competitive, I’ll win on stubbornness alone.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “You? Stubborn? No way.”

He grinned for real this time–wide and a little too cocky, like he was trying to climb back into comfortable territory.

You took a sip of your beer. “So let me get this straight. You haven’t had sex in a while, and now you’re sitting here telling me that fact for…What? Sympathy? A medal?”

“Didn’t think I needed a reason,” He drawled. “Just sayin’–sometimes you spend enough nights alone, you start thinkin’ too much.” Your eyes lingered on him. And then you said it–because someone had to.

“Sometimes you start thinking about the wrong people.” The words landed hard. You didn’t mean them to…Or maybe you did.

The air shifted. Heavy, warm, alive with the tension that had been lingering between you for years but had never been close enough to touch like this.

Rhett looked at you again, quieter now.

“You think this would be a mistake?” He asked, voice low.

You held his gaze.

“I think it’d be a mistake we’d both want.”

A beat passed. Then another.

His bottle hit the table with a soft clink. He shifted closer–just a little. Enough for the outside of his knee to touch yours. Enough that you could smell the beer on him.

“We’ve been dancin’ around this for a long time,” He said, almost under his breath.

You nodded once. “Yeah. We have.”

He licked his lips, glancing down at yours. His voice dropped to a murmur, like if he said it louder it might break the spell hanging between you.

“So you’ve thought about it then?”

Your breath caught. “Thought about what?”

He leaned in–slow, deliberate, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

“Us,” He said softly, “Like this.” His nose brushed against yours, a barely-there drag that left your skin tingling. His lips hovered close—too close. Just far enough that you could still pretend it wasn’t a kiss yet. That it was still a choice.

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your mouth, the sharp tang of beer on it, the way it mixed with that unmistakable Rhett scent–something dusty, sun-warmed, and sweat-slicked, like hayfields and leather and the faintest trace of musky cologne long since faded.

Your chest rose and fell with tight, shallow breaths.

You could see the flecks in his eyes now–the stormy silver threads inside the blue, rimmed dark where his pupils had blown wide. He tilted his head, just slightly, lips brushing your lower one without quite committing.

Then he whispered:

“Bet you’d taste like trouble.”

You made a sound–something between a breath and a hum, your lips parted on instinct.

And then you kissed him.

You moved first, but he met you–his mouth opening the moment yours touched his. It wasn’t polished or perfect. It was a little off-center, and a little too much, and so goddamn honest you felt your whole body flinch toward it. His hand was already at your hip, fingers digging into the bare skin just above your waistband. Yours went instinctively to his jaw, thumb dragging along the scruff of his cheekbone as you deepened the kiss. He groaned–low and guttural–like he’d been holding it in for years.

Your beer bottle was still in your other hand, cold and slick with condensation. You didn’t even look–you just reached out beside you and set it on the coffee table blindly, fingers fumbling for a second before it settled with a quiet thud.

Your now-free hand went to his shoulder, then up–curling behind his neck, slipping into the back of his hair. He shuddered against you.

“Fuck,” He breathed out, like it knocked the wind out of him.

His hands moved–one gripping your thigh tight enough to anchor you, while the other slid up beneath your shirt completely now–calloused fingers skimming your ribs, dragging heat in their wake as they climbed higher. You could feel his fingertips hesitate at the swell of your breast. And then–with reverence and hunger in the same breath–he cupped it.

You gasped.

Your nipple was already stiff, so sensitive from the heat and the tension that you whimpered the moment his palm made contact. He groaned again, deep and ragged, lips crashing into yours harder now–needier, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was starving.

His thumb flicked over your nipple. You moaned into his mouth, hips shifting instinctively against him, thighs pressing tighter around his.

“Christ,” He muttered against your lips. “You’re gonna ruin me.” He moved fast after that–his hands firm but careful as he grabbed your hips and pulled you across the short distance, settling you right into his lap, your legs straddling his thighs.

Your breath hitched at the feeling of him–solid, strong, and so thick beneath you. Denim rubbed rough against the cotton of your shorts, right where you were already aching, and the sudden friction made your stomach flutter.

You shifted–grinding once, experimentally.

He hissed.

His hands locked down on your hips. “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my goddamn mind.” You did it again anyways. This time he growled–low and from the chest, one hand sliding up your back, under your shirt, splaying wide between your shoulder blades to keep you close. You buried your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging at the back as you kissed him again–open-mouthed, hungry, teeth scraping, lips plush and pink and bruised with want.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable now. The trailer felt thick with it. Sweat beading at the base of your spine, sticking your shirt to your skin. You could feel Rhett’s thigh muscles flexing beneath you, hard and solid, his jeans taut across them as he rocked up into your core with just enough pressure to make your toes curl.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against his, eyes fluttering shut.

“Bedroom,” You panted heavily, and he didn’t have to be asked twice. He wrapped his arms around your waist–one fluid, grounded motion, strength rolling through his spine as he stood with you in his arms like you weighed nothing.

Your legs locked tight around his hips.

Your breath stuttered as your back bumped gently against the hallway wall. His mouth found your neck–wet, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his teeth catching once on that spot just below your jaw that made your knees go soft. You whimpered. He groaned. The sound he made was pure need.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” He rasped against your throat. “Should’ve known you’d feel this fuckin’ good.”

Then he nudged your bedroom door open with his foot and walked you straight in.

The mattress creaked beneath your combined weight as he set you down gently–but his hands didn’t leave you. His mouth didn’t, either. Not for a second.

He hovered above you, body bracketed between your thighs, and when his hips rolled down again–hard, and slow, with just enough pressure to make you gasp against his lips. The grind of denim against your already-damp cotton was delicious and mean, a friction that bordered on unbearable. Your hands flew to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, breath catching.

Rhett stopped you.

“Let me,” He said, voice wrecked, eyes already dark and heavy with heat.

His fingers curled around the edge of your shirt, slow, deliberate. He peeled it up like it meant something–like unwrapping a gift he didn’t know if he deserved. And when it cleared your head and hit the floor in a soft flutter?

He just looked at you.

His breath hitched. “Jesus.”

Then he lowered himself again–slow. His lips found your collarbone first, the press of his mouth warm and open. His stubble scraped gently against your skin, rough and deliberate, like sandpaper edged in softness. You arched, gasped, fingers threading deeper into his hair as he worked lower.

Down the slope of your chest. Between the soft curve of your breasts.

“You’re burnin’,” He whispered, kissing a path along the swell. “Can feel your heartbeat.”

You moaned as his mouth found your nipple–his tongue wet and warm, his stubble catching just beneath as he sucked you gently into his mouth, tongue flicking slow, then faster.

Your thighs squeezed around his hips. “Rhett–fuck.”

He groaned against your skin.

He kissed lower, trailing fire along your ribs, your stomach, every exposed inch he could reach. His hands never stopped touching–one roaming up to cradle your breast, thumb flicking softly over the one he’d just worshipped with his mouth, the other gripping your waist like he was holding onto something holy.

You were panting now, nearly writhing under him, and your fingers scrambled at the buttons of his flannel, cursing softly when they wouldn’t come undone fast enough.

Rhett sat back on his knees, catching your hands gently in his. “Let me,” He murmured again.

He popped the buttons open one by one, slow and steady, like he wanted you to watch.

And you did.

You watched as the soft fabric fell open and revealed the toned stretch of his chest–sun-kissed, sweat-slicked, dusted with just a little bit of hair–and there, just over the right side of his chest, was the ink you’d seen a hundred times before but never like this.

The bull rider. The rearing beast, hooves kicked out mid-buck, the rider clinging on, frozen in that impossible eight-second storm.

You swallowed hard. You’d seen it before. But not in this light. Not in this context. Not when he was kneeling between your thighs, flushed and panting, staring at you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” He said, voice a low rasp, “And this ain’t gonna last long.” You reached up, palm flattening over the tattoo, fingers splaying across the hard plane of his chest.

“You look better in this light.” His grin faltered–just for a second. Something moved in his eyes. Something softer than lust. Then it was gone, buried under the groan that tore out of him as he pushed you back down again.

He leaned in, kissed you hard, and whispered–

“Wanna taste you.”

You froze. Your heart skipped.

Then you nodded.

And Rhett wasted no time.

His hands were already at the waistband of your shorts, dragging the cotton slowly down your thighs like he was peeling away something sacred. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he did it, not once. They flicked down only when the fabric passed your knees—just enough to take in the sight of you bare before him.

And when they did?

God, his whole expression changed.

His breath hitched, jaw flexing like he was trying not to say something filthy, and then it softened. You’d never seen him look at anyone like that before–like he was staring at something breakable and holy all at once. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You shifted up the bed slightly, breath coming fast, your back meeting the pillows as you settled deeper into the mattress. The air between your thighs felt electric now, flushed and hot and wanting. Rhett followed–crawling after you like something primal and starved. His palms braced on either side of your hips, shoulders hunched as he ducked his head low.

He kissed your knee first.

Then the curve just below it.

Then your inner thigh.

And then again, higher.

Slow, wet kisses dragging open-mouthed up your leg, the scrape of his stubble leaving heat trails across your skin–just abrasive enough to sting, just soft enough to make your breath catch.

When he reached that sensitive, untouched place where your thighs met, he paused. Pressed his cheek there, the heat of him burning into you.

“Been thinkin’ about this–about you–way longer than I should’ve.”

Then he spread you open.

His hands were firm on your thighs, parting them wider, guiding them over his shoulders until he was fully settled between them, mouth hovering just above your soaked core. You could feel his breath—hot, reverent—ghosting over you.

Then his tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your folds.

You gasped, spine arching, fingers immediately tangling in his hair.

“Rhett–oh my god–”

He groaned like your moan alone had done something to him, like it lit a fire in his gut. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping them steady as he licked you again–slow at first, then firmer, the tip of his tongue circling your clit with maddening precision.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was messy and hungry and a little clumsy–but it was real. Eager. Worshipful.

He moaned into you, mouth slick, tongue relentless, lips pressing wet kisses to your clit between each sweep of his tongue. You felt like you were unraveling–bit by bit, every nerve ending lit up with the heat of his mouth and the press of his stubble, your legs shaking around him.

“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling back for half a second, lips glistening. “You taste like a goddamn dream.” Then he dove back in.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except hold on–fingers curled tight into his hair, head thrown back, mouth open with sounds you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.

He sucked gently at your clit now, tongue flicking fast, and your body jolted.

“Oh, fuck, right there–don’t stop–”

His hands came up to your hips again, holding you down as your thighs threatened to close around him. His name fell from your lips like a prayer–again and again–and he just kept going, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was drunk on the taste of you, the feel of you squirming beneath his mouth.

When your orgasm hit, it hit like wildfire.

Hot, blinding, breath-stealing. Your whole body arched off the bed, a cry ripped from your chest as your hands gripped his hair and your thighs trembled around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. Just kept licking you through it, slower now, more deliberate–like he was helping you ride it out, tasting every bit of it.

Only when your body went limp against the mattress, your fingers slack in his hair, did he finally lift his head.

His lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with something darker than lust. He kissed your thigh once more, slower this time. Then he looked up at you.

“You good?” He asked, voice thick, rough-edged from use.

You stared at him, dazed. “You just…Jesus, Rhett.”

He grinned, cocky and sheepishly all at once.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” He said, crawling back up your body like a man with a mission, “We’re just gettin’ started.”You laughed, breath still uneven, your skin flushed and damp beneath him. “You sure you don’t need a break?” you teased, brushing sweat-matted hair back from his forehead.

Rhett huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a growl. “Darlin’, if you think I’m done after one taste, you don’t know me at all.”

His mouth found yours again—hot, slick with your arousal, and unapologetically greedy. You moaned into the kiss, your fingers dragging along the ridges of his spine, nails scratching lightly just to feel him shudder.

When he rocked against you again, still fully clothed from the waist down, the friction of denim made you both groan. You reached down without thinking, tugging at his belt buckle with quick, practiced fingers. His breath stuttered as he pulled back just enough to watch you.

“Impatient, huh?” he murmured, voice thick with that rough drawl, eyes flickering dark.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you whispered back.

He didn’t argue.

You popped the button on his jeans, dragged the zipper down slow, and slipped your hand past the waistband to cup him through his boxers. The groan he let out sounded like it came from the center of the earth.

“Fuck–” He rasped, head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smirked and gave him one last squeeze before helping him shimmy out of his jeans. He kicked them off the bed with a grunt, then slid his boxers down in one quick motion, tossing them somewhere behind him to even the playing field.

And then you saw him.

Hard, flushed, heavy–his erection curved slightly up toward his stomach, the tip already wet and glistening. He was thick enough to make your breath hitch, veins prominent along the shaft, the base dusted with soft, light-brown hair that was trimmed but not overly neat–natural, just like the rest of him. Masculine. Raw. Beautiful.

You stared a little too long.

He caught your gaze, saw the way your lips parted–and he smirked, wicked and self-conscious all at once.

“Like what you see?” He asked, accent thick, almost shy in the corners of it.

“I knew you’d be big,” You whispered, licking your lips. “Didn’t think you’d be this pretty.”

That made him flush–the redness high in his cheeks. His cock twitched against his stomach, and he groaned like you’d physically touched him.

“Jesus,” He muttered, hand bracing beside your head, voice dipping low. “Do I need a condom?” You shook your head slowly, eyes locked on his.

“As long as you’ve got a clean bill of health and no STD’s I somehow don’t know about…”

He raised both hands in surrender, playful but sincere.

“Healthy as a horse, darlin’,” He said, drawl thick, words hot against your mouth as he kissed you again, “But I gotta warn you–I ride real hard.”

You laughed–giddy, breathless–and wrapped your legs around his hips to pull him close.

“Then quit stalling, cowboy,” You whispered, “And show me what all that riding has done for you.” Rhett laughed–low and warm and breathless–as he shifted forward, his chest brushing yours, the heat of his skin pressing close.

“Quit stallin’, she says,” He muttered, mouth hovering just above yours, “Like you ain’t been teasin’ me with those damn eyes all night.”

You felt the blunt head of him brush against your soaked folds, your breath catching immediately at the pressure. He rolled his hips once–just enough for the thick ridge of him to drag slick and slow through your arousal, not quite entering, just testing. Your thighs twitched around him.

“Rhett,” You gasped, fingernails curling against the nape of his neck, “Please.”

His jaw flexed. His hand found your thigh and gripped tight, grounding himself before he finally, finally pushed in—slow, careful, inch by inch.

Your mouth fell open. A cry caught at the back of your throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhett groaned, voice cracking in half. “You’re so damn tight—fuck.”

The stretch was overwhelming. Not painful, just full—full in a way that made your whole body arch beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your nails scratched across sweat-slick muscle. He paused when he was about halfway in, panting against your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered, kissing your temple. His voice was shredded, barely holding on.

You nodded fast, but your breath was still broken. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Just…big. Just need a sec.”

Rhett’s hand slid up and down your side in slow, grounding strokes, his forehead pressed to yours. “Take your time, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no rush.”

You clenched around him, and he swore—soft and low and filthy.

After a few more seconds, you shifted under him, rolling your hips a little—testing. Adjusting.

“I’m good,” you whispered, voice steadier now. “Rhett…move.”

He obeyed.

Slowly, reverently, he sank in the rest of the way—grinding his hips down until he was buried fully, seated deep and pulsing against your walls. Both of you moaned in tandem, loud and shameless, the sound tangled with sweat and need and every year you’d spent pretending this wouldn’t happen.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “You were made for this.”

Then he started moving.

His thrusts were slow at first, deep and deliberate, dragging along every sensitive nerve ending inside of you like he was memorizing the exact way to break you apart. His jaw was tight with restraint, eyes squeezed shut, the muscles in his neck pulled taut from the effort of not losing control.

You clung to him—arms around his back, lips on his shoulder, whimpering every time he bottomed out.

Then he shifted—sat back just a bit, bracing one hand beside your head and the other slowly dragging down your stomach until it rested just above your pubic bone. He pressed down lightly.

Your vision whited out.

“Oh–fuck–Rhett–what the–”

He grinned, wicked and lazy, watching your eyes go glassy with pleasure as his hand held you down while he rocked up into you again, hitting deeper.

“You feel that?” He rasped, a small bead of sweat glistening down his jaw. “That’s me hittin’ right where you need it. Got this little trick from a girl back in high school–don’t worry though,” His thumb stroked the skin of your stomach, “You’re already screamin’ way louder than she ever did.”

Your hips jerked beneath him and you cried out, body caught between overstimulation and need, your thighs shaking on either side of his waist.

He growled low in his throat and leaned down again, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “Told you I ride hard…Hope you got stamina.” You could only moan, helpless under him as he kept you open and trembling, his thrusts still steady but picking up pace, your nails dragging down his back in desperation. Every time he rocked into you with that pressure on your belly, it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through your spine. Rhett’s gaze never left your face.

He watched you fall apart beneath him–watched the way your lips parted, the way your brows drew together like you couldn’t make sense of the pleasure surging through your body. He watched your chest rise and fall in uneven little gasps, your skin flushed and dewy in the soft light of your bedroom.

He grinned–that same cocky little smirk that drove you crazy when he used it in bars or before bull rides, except now it was darker. Hungrier. Wrecked.

“Goddamn,” He rasped, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, his thrusts still deep, still slow–but sharper now, more precise, “You’re makin’ the prettiest fuckin’ faces right now.”

You whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, and he groaned–like the sound alone made him twitch inside you.

“Could watch you like this all night,” He murmured, voice rough in your ear. “Eyes all glassy, mouth open… You keep squeezin’ me like that and I ain’t gonna last.”

Then, without warning, he dipped his head and bit into the soft spot between your neck and shoulder–just hard enough to make your whole body jolt.

You cried out, hands flying to his back, nails dragging down instinctively. He soothed the bite a second later with his tongue, warm and slow, lips pressing there with something tender that made your chest ache.

“You’re so wet for me,” He whispered against your skin, hips grinding in deep and holding, just to let you feel it. “You’ve been so fuckin’ wet this whole time. Can feel it runnin’ down me every time I slide in.”

You let out a broken sound–half a moan, half a sob–and he shuddered above you, thrusting again. Harder this time. And again. And again.

The headboard started hitting the wall–soft at first, then louder as he picked up speed. A steady rhythm, punctuated by the slap of skin on skin, your moans, his groans, and the creak of the bed springs beneath you.

Your hands were everywhere–on his back, in his hair, clutching his shoulders like he was the only solid thing left in the world. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All you could do was feel–feel him, thick and hot and buried so deep it was dizzying, feel his sweat slicking against yours, feel the way your body was building again, tighter and tighter like a storm winding itself up from the inside.

“Come on, baby,” Rhett grunted, his voice catching with every thrust now, like he was chasing the edge of his own pleasure just behind yours. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You did.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train–sharp and fast and blinding, your whole body locking up and shaking under him. You screamed his name, voice ragged and high, your nails raking down his back so hard you knew you’d leave marks.

“Fuck–” He choked out, hips jerking once, then again, deeper, harder. “Fuck, I’m gonna–shit…” He buried himself to the hilt, body trembling above you as he let out a raw, guttural sound against your neck. You could feel every pulse of it inside you, hot and thick and perfect.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

The only sounds left were the ragged gasps of your breathing, the thump of your heart in your ears, and the soft whimper Rhett let out as he collapsed on top of you–still buried deep, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and wrecked.

He didn’t move. Just wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your neck like he needed to stay there, skin to skin, where it was safe.

You were still trembling.

He felt it.

He kissed your neck once–soft this time. Then again. Then he whispered:

“Still think it was a mistake?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No definitely not…I think it should…It should happen more often.”

———————

After that night, it wasn’t just a one-time lapse. It became something else–something raw and frequent and borderline unmanageable.

You and Rhett started sleeping together like your bodies had been waiting for permission and now couldn’t get enough of it. Like something old had snapped and neither of you knew how to put it back. There was no declaration, no sit-down conversation about what it meant. Just a shared, wordless agreement that this was a thing now. A thing that happened often. A thing you both needed like air.

He’d show up late some nights, boots dusty from the barn or the bar, a tired smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. You’d let him in without a word. Sometimes you were already in bed, sometimes he’d catch you in the kitchen still finishing a drink. The routine was always the same: a kiss before the door was fully shut, clothes in a trail to your bedroom, soft groans swallowed against skin as you dragged each other down into the sheets like you were starving.

And he never stayed.

That part was clear from the beginning. He always made a point to wrap himself around you for a while afterward, breath still ragged, one hand splayed against your bare stomach like he needed to feel it rise and fall. He’d press his mouth to your shoulder, sometimes your neck, and hold you like he meant it.

But he always left before morning.

Sometimes he had early chores. Sometimes Perry needed help with something on the ranch. Sometimes he just didn’t say. And you never asked.

You told yourself it was fine. It was what you signed up for. You respected the rules. No staying over. No sleepovers. No falling asleep in each other’s arms.

It didn’t mean it didn’t sting a little every time the sheets cooled beside you.

You didn’t go to his place much–not since you both agreed it’d be weird sneaking around with his dad or his brother still milling around the property. So you didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more. You didn’t press into the soft ache that bloomed every time his truck door shut and the gravel cracked beneath his tires at 2 a.m.

Instead, you adjusted.

The hookups came fast and varied–sometimes drawn out over hours in your bed, all heat and filth and tangled limbs. Other times they were desperate things done in the back of his truck or the passenger seat of your car, fogging up windows and whispering each other’s names like it was a secret that burned too hot to speak aloud.

One night it was on the hood of his truck just off the road behind the rodeo grounds–your back against warm metal, his mouth between your thighs with stars spinning overhead and his hat hanging low on his head.

Another time it was in your laundry room, barely making it through the door before he bent you over the dryer and fucked you with his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from moaning loud enough for the neighbors.

He never said no when you reached for him. Never hesitated when your shirt came off. But afterward? When your legs were still trembling and his forehead was pressed against yours like maybe he was breathing you in?

That’s when he always started pulling away.

Always with that soft kiss to your shoulder.

Always with a low, muttered, “Gotta go, darlin’,” like he didn’t want to.

And maybe he didn’t.

But he did anyway.

And you let him.

Because friends with benefits didn’t ask for more. They didn’t ask why he always left or why he never let you fall asleep in his arms or why he sometimes looked at you like you were something he couldn’t hold on to for long.

They didn’t ask.

And you didn’t either.

But it was all eating away at you…And it came to a head one night.

It was late when it happened.

Later than usual, even for you two. The town was quiet, half-asleep, shadows stretching long across the pavement as Rhett pulled his truck down a gravel backroad and parked at the far end of a field you both knew well–an open patch behind the Miller place that hadn’t been tended to in years. No one would see. No one ever came back here.

The night was thick with summer, and the windows fogged fast.

He kissed you before the engine was even off–one hand tugging you over the console and into his lap, your thighs straddling him, the other already palming the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d disappear. His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue sliding into yours like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance. Your hands were on his shirt, pushing it up, exposing warm, sweat-damp skin that tasted like salt and beer and him.

It escalated like wildfire.

Your shorts were pushed aside, his zipper dragged down rough and quick, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance before you even fully realized you were grinding down against him like your life depended on it.

“Jesus Christ–” He rasped, arms wrapping tight around your back as you slowly sank onto him, both of you groaning in unison, low and filthy. His head tipped back against the seat, throat bare, jaw clenched like the stretch of you around him was something sacred and brutal all at once.

“Always so tight for me hmm?” he grunted, voice thick, hands sliding down to grip your hips. “Fuckin’ hell, Y/N…”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, the sound of your bodies slick and obscene in the quiet truck. The windows had gone fully opaque, the only light spilling in from the moon, catching faint on the sheen of sweat gathering at his collarbones, the curve of your bare thighs grinding down against him. Your hands cupped his face, holding him steady–thumbs brushing the ridge of his cheekbones, your foreheads pressed together.

His eyes were wide and dark and unfocused, his breath a ragged pant. He looked ruined already.

“You feel too good,” He muttered, almost dazed. “Too fuckin’ good.”

You kissed him again–messy, open-mouthed, your moan swallowed by the groan in his throat as you rocked faster. Your hands slipped into his hair, fingers gripping tight, tugging, and he whined. He actually whined.

The sound did something to you–flipped a switch.

You leaned in close, your breath heavy against his mouth, and spit into it.

Not aggressive. Not calculated. Just…Natural. Intimate. A little filthy. A fully primal.

His lips parted instinctively to take it in, and something in him snapped.

Rhett’s growl was sharp and guttural, his hand shooting up to wrap around your throat–not hard, not painful, but firm. Possessive. Like he didn’t even know he’d done it until your breath caught and your pupils blew wide with heat.

“You dirty fuckin’ girl,” He rasped, voice shaking. “You knew what that would do to me.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he started fucking up into you with force, the truck seat creaking beneath you, the angle tight and punishing. His hand held your throat like a command, thumb resting right over your pulse point as his other arm anchored you down hard to his lap.

The sound of skin against skin echoed off the fogged glass. Wet. Furious. Desperate.

You were both sweating, trembling, completely gone.

“You like me chokin’ you while you ride me?” he panted, eyes wild, face flushed. “Like when I’m deep enough you feel me here–” He pressed his palm lower, flat against your abdomen where the head of his cock hit deep. “That what you want?”

Your head fell back, a moan tearing from your throat as he fucked up into that spot over and over again. “Yes–yes–right there, please–”

He was growling now, “Gonna come on me, Y/N? Right here in the fuckin’ truck where anybody could see if they tried hard enough?”

Your whole body tightened.

Rhett bit down against your neck, sucking hard at the skin there, and the pressure, the stretch, the grip on your throat–

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a freight train–wracking your body, your hands shaking, thighs squeezing around his hips like a vice. You sobbed out his name, head tucked into his shoulder, fingers clawing at his back.

He came seconds after, hips stuttering, choking out a gasp of your name like it was a confession and a sin all at once. His cock twitched deep inside you, spilling hot and thick, his arm locked tight around your back as he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, shaking.

Neither of you moved for a while.

The only sound was the ragged pant of breath and the faint hum of the cicadas outside, still singing like the night hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Eventually, Rhett’s hand eased off your throat—replaced with a soft, reverent touch along your jaw.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked.

You nodded into his shoulder, chest still heaving. “Yeah…Yeah.”

He kissed the side of your head softly. You stayed curled against him, breath finally slowing, your body still trembling from aftershocks and overstimulation. Rhett’s arm was around your back, hand splayed warm and wide across your spine. His other hand had drifted down to your thigh, thumb tracing soft circles in a rhythm that didn’t match the frantic one from minutes ago.

Eventually, you shifted. He did too. Just enough to kiss your shoulder again before helping you carefully off his lap and back into the passenger seat. You winced a little, tugging your shorts up over your hips while Rhett tucked himself back in and adjusted the hem of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke until he reached forward to twist the key in the ignition, the old engine rumbling to life beneath you. The AC kicked in, pushing out sticky warmth, and the windows slowly started to defog as he pulled out of the field and back onto the gravel road.

Your hair was a mess. His collar was damp. You didn’t bother fixing either.

The silence was comfortable. Familiar. Until Rhett’s hand dropped from the gearshift back to your thigh and stayed there. You glanced down at it–at the way his fingers spread, slow and easy, like they belonged there, even though it wasn’t anything to be read into.

“You doin’ anything this weekend?” He asked eventually, his voice still a little hoarse.

You turned your head toward him. “What kind of ‘doing’ are we talking? The biblical kind, or the regular?”

He cracked a grin, that familiar boyish smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Was gonna ask if you wanted to come to the bar. Saturday. Me, some of the boys…Y’know the usual.” You shifted a bit in your seat.

“Yeah, I’m in,” You said, “But fair warning–you’re drivin’ us there, not back. Because I fully plan on matching you drink for drink and I will end up dancing on someone’s table.”

Rhett huffed a laugh through his nose, patting your thigh affectionately. “That right?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I don’t mind walkin’ back to your place,” he said, glancing over at you. “Would just have to be prepared for the second trek back to my place.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “You say that like it ain’t something you do every time anyway.”

His smirk faltered.

You leaned your head against the window, voice casual. “You ever think about staying? Just once?”

That landed heavier than you meant it to. Rhett’s hand went still on your leg. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw shifting tight for a second like he was grinding molars behind closed lips.

“I mean—” you added, trying to sound breezy, “Not a demand or anything. Just a question.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“I think about it.”

You blinked.

His fingers resumed moving, brushing lightly now, thoughtful. “More than I should, probably.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. His expression was unreadable–serious, but not cold. Distant, but not cruel. Like he was wading through something heavier than the question itself.

“So why don’t you?” You asked softly.

Rhett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than you’d expected. “Because I don’t know how to make it mean less.”

You stared at him.

He glanced your way. “Stayin’ over, I mean. That ain’t just sleepin’. Not for me.”

You nodded, slowly. “So what is it then?”

He didn’t answer.

Just kept his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing idle patterns into your skin as the truck rolled on, headlights stretching into the dark.

You didn’t say anything else.

And neither did he.

The silence didn’t feel quite like comfort anymore.

Not this time.

———————

The bar was already halfway full by the time you and Rhett walked in, the familiar pulse of country rock vibrating through the wooden floorboards, neon signs buzzing quietly above the heads of locals hunched over whiskey and worn conversation.

You were both a few drinks in by the time it started.

Nothing serious–just beer, a round of tequila shots with the boys, and the hazy sort of warmth that settled into your limbs the way a summer night always did after a long day. Rhett had his arm slung casually along the back of your barstool, his body close but not touching, eyes half-lidded as he nursed a beer and laughed at something one of his buddies said.

And then the guy approached you.

Not from town. Definitely not one of Rhett’s people. He had a clean look about him–more polished than usual for Wabang. Collared shirt. Straight teeth. That too-easy charm of someone who knew they were decent-looking and had never been told otherwise.

You could feel Rhett tense before he even spoke.

The guy leaned against the bar beside you, grinning like he had time to kill and no one to kill it with.

“Hey,” He said, eyeing the bottle in your hand. “That what I think it is?”

You looked down. “A beer?”

“Not just any beer. That’s a Lone Star. You don’t strike me as a Lone Star girl.”

You smirked, humoring him. “Then what kind of girl do I strike you as?”

The man’s grin widened. Rhett went quiet beside you, the fingers wrapped around his bottle flexing just slightly.

The guy kept talking. You flirted back, just a little. Nothing serious. A tilt of your chin. A cocked eyebrow. A laugh that was more out of habit than real amusement.

Rhett didn’t say anything–but he moved. Sat up straighter. Pulled his arm back from behind your chair. His knee knocked into yours once, not accidental, and you felt it. That shift. That heat.

When the guy reached out to brush his hand against your arm–a soft touch, not gross, but bold enough–Rhett stood up.

“Gonna hit the head,” He muttered to no one in particular. But his eyes flicked toward you when he passed, and they didn’t hold that usual warmth. There was something sharp in them now. Hurt, maybe. Something darker.

He disappeared into the back hallway, and your gut twisted a little.

The guy leaned in. “That your boyfriend?”

You gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He looked disappointed. “Shame.”

You didn’t respond. Just slipped off the barstool and made your way toward the hallway.

You found Rhett by the back exit door, hands in his pockets, staring at the dusty floor like it had personally offended him.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice low.

He shook his head without looking at you. “Nothin’.”

“Rhett.”

Still nothing. Just the dull hum of the jukebox spilling in from the main room, laughter echoing down the corridor behind you.

You stepped closer. “You sure about that?”

His jaw tensed. “Yeah. Just…Tired.”

It didn’t sound like the truth. But you let it slide.

Eventually, the night pulled you both back to the bar. More drinks. Another round of shots. You ended up on the dance floor for a bit, swaying together, laughing when Rhett pretended to be too drunk to spin you. But he never fully relaxed–not the way he usually did. Not the way he always had with you.

When the bartender rang the last call bell, the room had thinned. Most people had filtered out already, and your feet ached from the boots you regretted putting on.

Rhett threw down enough cash to cover both your tabs and stood.

“C’mon. Leave the truck. I’ll get Perry to help me pick it up tomorrow.”

You nodded, following him out into the warm night, the buzz of alcohol still humming beneath your skin.

The walk back to your trailer was quiet. The gravel underfoot crackled in rhythm with your steps, the stars wheeling silently overhead. You walked close enough for your arms to brush, but neither of you reached for the other.

Not yet.

Not after that.

You didn’t ask again what was wrong.

And Rhett didn’t offer.

But whatever it was–it was still there. In the silence. In the sting of it.

And it wasn’t going away.

The trailer creaked softly as you both stepped inside, the screen door groaning a little before it clicked shut behind you. The air was warm–still holding the heat from the day–and smelled faintly like lavender from the aromatherapy humidifier. Rhett toed off his boots near the door, silent, and you locked up behind him.

He didn’t follow you into the kitchen right away.

You moved on instinct–tossing your keys onto the counter, flicking the dim overhead light on low. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence as you pulled it open and reached for the Tupperware you’d stacked there earlier.

“I got some leftovers from last night,” you offered gently, glancing over your shoulder. “That stew I told you about–still good cold, but I can heat it up if you want.” Rhett didn’t answer right away. He hovered near the small table, one hand resting on the back of the chair, eyes downcast. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but inside his own head.

You set the container on the counter and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. “Or just some water, if you’re feelin’ it.”

He let out a soft exhale through his nose and finally sat down. “Water’s good.”

You filled both glasses and brought them over, sliding one in front of him before taking the seat across. He took a sip, then held it in his hands like it might anchor him.

He still hadn’t looked at you.

“Okay,” you said softly, careful not to make it sound like a demand. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

Rhett blinked. His jaw flexed. But he didn’t look angry. Just…Tired. Off-kilter. Like whatever was eating at him wasn’t done chewing.

“You’re not usually like this,” You added, resting your forearms on the table. “You’ve been quiet all night. That wasn’t just the beer.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours–and they held something in them you couldn’t quite name. Something you weren’t sure you were ready to see.

He shook his head once, slow. “I dunno,” He muttered. “Feels like somethin’s slippin. And I can’t… Grab onto it.”

You leaned in slightly. “You mean us?”

He looked away again, jaw working. “I dunno what I mean.”

“You’re allowed to say if something hurts, y’know,” You said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t always have to act like everything’s fine just ‘cause that’s what we agreed to.”

There was a pause.

Then: “It wasn’t just the flirting,” He said, so quietly you almost missed it.

You waited.

Rhett’s eyes found yours again, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“It was seein’ you smile like that,” He said. “With someone else. Like maybe… Maybe I ain’t the only one you do that for.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“That’s not fair,” You said gently. “You’ve never asked me to not entertain anyone else. And I haven’t until tonight.”

“I know,” He said. “That’s the thing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” You watched the way his hand gripped the glass. The tension in his fingers. The way his knee bounced slightly beneath the table, betraying nerves he was too proud to name.

“Rhett,” You said, quieter now. “Were you jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Just sat there, in the dim light of your trailer, with his jaw clenched and his eyes shadowed, the silence stretching so thin between you that it almost hummed.

You rose from your chair slowly, the legs scraping softly against the floor. Rhett’s eyes didn’t follow. His stare stayed fixed on the table, as though whatever lived in the grain of the wood was easier to face than you.

But you didn’t let that stand.

You stepped in front of him, and he still didn’t look up. Not until your hand reached forward–two fingers tilting his chin up gently.

“Look at me,” You said, softly.

His eyes lifted, wary and wide, the blue of them darker in the dim light. He looked vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed–like he wasn’t just holding his breath, but his heart too, trapped in his chest, unsure if it was about to break or leap.

You leaned in, hands rising to cradle his face between your palms, your thumbs grazing the bristle along his jaw. His breath caught. The angle of your touch forced him to keep his head tilted up, eyes locked with yours. There was nowhere to look but you.

“Were you jealous?” You asked again, quieter this time.

He didn’t blink. Just swallowed hard. His lips parted, then closed. Opened again.

And finally, he said it. Barely a whisper.

“Of course I was.”

Your breath stuttered softly. You could feel it—that subtle shift in the air between you. Like something sacred was about to be said. Or undone.

Your hands didn’t leave his face.

“Because you want me to be yours…” Your voice dropped, a breath more than a whisper, “And yours only?”

His lashes fluttered like he hadn’t expected you to say it aloud.

There was a long pause.

Then, a quiver in his bottom lip. His mouth opened. No sound. He closed it again. Tried once more.

“…Yeah.” It came out rough. Unsteady. Real.

Your heart gave a slow, traitorous ache in your chest. His eyes were glassy, like something too honest had cracked open and spilled out of him. You swallowed hard, gaze flicking over his face. You could feel the heat rising in your own cheeks. Something low in your belly tightened at the way he was looking at you now–like you were something holy he hadn’t meant to touch, but couldn’t stop reaching for.

You leaned in closer. Your hands slid down to his neck, your forehead nearly brushing his, and your lips ghosted the space beside his mouth.

“Then claim me for real, Rhett,” You whispered, barely audible. “Not just in the dark. Not just when it’s easy. Claim me as yours.”

Rhett didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His mouth crashed into yours like it was instinct—like he was answering the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t rough like the others, not rushed or desperate. This kiss was slow. Deep. Laced with something that burned hotter than anything he’d ever let show. Like he wanted you to feel what he hadn’t had the words to say. Like he wanted to taste every part of the ache he’d been trying to bury.

You moaned softly against his lips, and his hands rose to your waist, gripping tight like he was grounding himself. Your body leaned into his, and he stood—just like that, lifting you as easily as breathing.

You didn’t even have to think–your legs wrapped around his waist like they’d been waiting for that cue all night. Like it was reflex. Clockwork.

The kiss didn’t break as he turned, carrying you toward the bedroom. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently at the roots, and he groaned low into your mouth, that sound vibrating straight down your spine.

By the time your back hit the mattress, both of you were already breathing hard. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands smoothing along your thighs, bunching your dress up higher and higher until it pooled at your hips. His gaze drank you in like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Goddamn,” He muttered, running a hand down your bare leg like he was reverent. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached up, grabbing the collar of his shirt to yank him back down. “Then prove it.”

And he did.

His mouth met yours again–hotter this time, wetter. Tongues sliding, teeth clashing. It was messy and full of spit and hunger and the kind of kiss that left you both panting. You felt his hand slip between your legs, fingers stroking through the slick already gathering there, and you gasped into his mouth.

”Always so wet…All for me…” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak against your lips. “Fuck.”

You didn’t have the breath to answer–not when he was dragging his fingers up and down your slit, teasing the edges of your clit before dipping into your entrance. Not when he curled two fingers inside you and started fucking you slow and deep, eyes locked to your face like he couldn’t bear to look away.

You moaned–loud and shameless–and he swallowed it in another kiss, his free hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place while his fingers worked you open.

The sound of it was filthy. Wet and obscene and echoing faintly in the room.

He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, stroking that spot inside you while kissing you so thoroughly it felt like your bones might dissolve. His mouth broke away only to trail down your jaw, then your neck, biting gently, licking the spot after.

“Want you to come like this,” He rasped, voice ragged. “Wanna feel you gush on my fuckin’ hand before I even get inside you.”

Your hips bucked up helplessly. You couldn’t help it. The pressure was coiling fast–faster than you expected. It was the look in his eyes. The rough sweetness of it all. Like he wanted to ruin you just enough to keep you his.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat starting to gather along his brow. “Come for me, Y/N. Just like this…Just on my fingers.” You whimpered, legs trembling as your release built sharp and tight, and then–

It hit.

Your back arched and you cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other digging into his shoulder as you came with a shuddering gasp. He held you through it, fingers slowing just enough to milk every last tremor, his mouth brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” He whispered. “All mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Rhett was on you again.

There was nothing slow about the way he pulled your dress over your head—nothing neat, nothing gentle. It caught on your arms for half a second before he tugged it free and tossed it somewhere across the room. His hands were back on you immediately, rough palms sliding up your stomach, over your chest, thumbing the soft weight of your breasts like he’d been starving for the feel of you.

You arched into his touch, mouth parting on a gasp, and reached for the hem of his shirt in turn. He helped you, pulling it over his head with a growl caught low in his throat, like he couldn’t stand another second of skin between you. And once it was gone–thrown blindly behind him–his mouth was everywhere–neck, collarbone, the soft rise of your breast–kissing, biting, licking, like he was trying to memorize you through taste. He pulled one nipple into his mouth with a groan, tongue swirling slow and wet, while his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to feel you under his palms, needed to know you were real.

And then he was tugging at your panties, the fabric sliding down your legs with a quiet, desperate sound. You kicked them off without thinking, letting them land somewhere in the mess already forming around the bed. His belt was next–your hands fumbling with the buckle, too frantic to be graceful. Rhett cursed softly against your chest, helping you, pushing his jeans down with a rough jerk of his hips until they were halfway down his thighs.

He didn’t stop to take them off.

Didn’t need to.

Because his body was already pressing into yours–hot, heavy, solid–and you could feel every hard inch of him, thick and aching, dragging against your slick folds like it was killing him not to be inside you.

He leaned over you, one hand bracing against the mattress beside your head, and with the other–he reached for your hand. Intertwined your fingers with his and pinned them down beside your head, palm to palm, knuckles grazing the pillow.

His eyes searched yours for a beat. Just one.

Then his hips surged forward.

The stretch made you gasp, made your back arch, made your fingers squeeze his tighter as he filled you in one deep, unrelenting thrust. You felt the tremble in his arm, the strain in his breath, and when he bottomed out, he groaned–low and filthy–his forehead pressing to yours again.

“Fuck,” He breathed, voice shaking. “You always feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

Your free hand clutched at his shoulder, nails digging in for something to hold onto. He started moving–slow at first, but deep. Every thrust hit that spot inside you that made your eyes flutter, that made your thighs fall wider open, welcoming every inch of him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” He rasped, voice pitched low against your mouth. “That dress. That smile. The way you looked at him…”

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him.

“You wanted me jealous, didn’t you?” He growled, dragging his hips back and slamming forward again. The bed creaked. The headboard thumped once. “Wanted me to lose it.”

“No,” you gasped, breath catching. “I wanted to be yours for real….”

His grip on your hand tightened–possessive. And he fucked into you harder then, still deep, but more urgent now. Less rhythm, more need.

“Mine,” He said, grunting with the hard thrust he gave you. “You hear me? Mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody gets to feel how fuckin’ tight you get for me.”

Your body shook with every thrust, with every word.

“Say it,” He demanded, hips snapping harder, “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” You moaned, eyes fluttering. “Fuck, Rhett–You. Only you.”

That broke something in him.

His mouth was on yours again, kissing you like it hurt, like he was drowning in it. His thrusts turned frantic–still deep, still dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips, but now he was desperate too. Desperate to make you feel it.

He reached between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, and your legs shook again.

“I want you to come around me,” He groaned, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, “I want it to be messy, darlin’. Wanna feel it…I need it.” You were already there–so close, the coil pulling tight, the pressure unbearable with the way he was working your clit and pounding into that sweet, swollen spot deep inside.

And then it hit–white-hot, sweeping through your entire body like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. You cried out, clenching around him as your orgasm shattered through you, trembling so hard your hand almost slipped from his.

Rhett groaned like he felt it in his soul.

“Goddamn…That’s it, Y/N…Just like that–fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so fucking tight.” He thrusted once, twice–then he was spilling into you with a broken, guttural moan. His hips stuttered and he stayed buried deep, pressing down so hard you could feel his heartbeat in the way his cock pulsed inside you.

His hand was still gripping yours. Tight. Like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just rested his weight over you, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, lips brushing your temple.

“You wreck me,” He whispered, voice wrecked and ruined. “Every fuckin’ time.”

You smiled–soft, dazed–and turned your head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“And you still come back for more.”

He let out a soft laugh, one that warmed against your skin. His grip on your hand loosened just enough for your fingers to thread tighter, more secure.

“I always do,” He murmured. “Always will…And now that you’re mine…I’m going to stay the night with you.”

[awearywritersworld]

megumi's teacher — gojo satoru x reader

tags/warnings: fluff. fem!reader. gojo beefing with an eight year old. 700 words.

ever since megumi started the second grade, it's been (l/n)-sensei this. (l/n)-sensei that.

gojo picks up megumi's favorite ice cream, only to be scolded by the young boy. "(l/n)-sensei's favorite flavor is strawberry, so that's my favorite now!"

gojo tries to help him with his math homework, and it's "(l/n)-sensei did it this way. that means you should too!"

gojo reaches down to tie megumi's shoes for him, before his hand is promptly smacked away. "(l/n)-sensei said big boys tie their own shoes!"

honestly, gojo is starting to feel a little jealous. megumi's known you for what? two months?

he's been raising megumi for the past few years, but does that earn him an ounce of the adoration the young boy seems to have for you?

apparently not, though he perseveres nonetheless.

he and megumi are spending the afternoon out in the city and they stop at a small bakery for lunch.

while megumi is distracted looking at all the sweets behind the glass counter, the bell on the door draws gojo's attention.

his eyes fall upon a pretty young woman. actually, you might just be the prettiest woman he's ever seen.

and of course, a smirk forms on his lips when he catches you looking his way. he's puffing out his chest, running a hand through his hair.

he's always had a certain effect on the ladies, and he's never been more happy about that until this very moment—

"megumi?" you call from a few feet away. the wide smile adorning your face makes you look even more radiant.

while gojo visibly deflates, megumi's head whips around at the speed of light. "(l/n)-sensei!"

oh.

gojo very quickly comes to understand why the boy is so enamored by you.

megumi launches himself at you, while you crouch to meet him with open arms.

"i'm so happy to see you!" he practically sings, clinging to your neck.

you chuckle at his enthusiasm. "i'm happy to see you too, 'gumi."

gojo clears his throat, hoping that megumi will take the chance to introduce you two, but he is completely ignored.

"what are you going to get? i'll buy it for you," he states proudly, despite having zero money of his own.

your gaze shifts to gojo for the first time, and having your attention even just for a brief moment takes his breath away.

"that's very sweet megumi, but that's alright." you ruffle his hair when he pouts at your words, standing back up. "who's this?"

"oh that's just gojo. don't worry about him," he states with a wave of his hand.

the white haired man gawks at him in response. the nerve on that kid! he silently decides megumi will be losing dessert privileges for a week. no, two.

you stifle a giggle before offering your hand to him and introducing yourself as megumi's teacher.

he repeats your name, taking satisfaction in the way it sounds rolling off his tongue.

"that's a pretty name," he compliments, trying to recover from megumi's dismissal. "heard a lot about you. in fact, the kid never shuts up about you."

this earns him a glare from megumi, but gojo is too preoccupied with the shy look that crosses your features to notice.

gojo insists on paying for your order, a show of appreciation for taking such good care of megumi in class. you chat with the pair of them for a little while longer before eventually excusing yourself.

"thank you again, gojo-san. i'll see you on monday, megumi!"

just as you're turning on your heel, gojo calls your name and you look back at him expectantly.

"when, uh," he struggles, scratching the back of his neck. "when do i get to see you?"

nice.

"oh! well, parent-teacher conferences are only a few weeks away! i'll look forward to seeing you then," you answer sweetly, misunderstanding the meaning behind his words.

you bid them goodbye once more and they both watch your figure disappear down the street.

megumi turns to look at gojo smugly. "weeks? that sounds like a really long time—"

"shut it, kid."

[eggfriedricedwasian]

Tim Drake probably got into fights at school, but he didn't start the fights, he'd finish them. He'd also get away scott free.

People think that they can ruin the Drake's name with their kid getting into fights and causing problems, but no. They encourage him to do these.

Janet had a firm stance in her belief to have the upper hand, so he'd never get in trouble, because she'd blackmail and/or grill into the principal so hard they had to let him go and give the other kid(s) punishment.

Jack had one solid rule, don't start a fight, finish it, and always win. He enforced it by having occasional spars with Tim whenever he could and signed Tim up for all kinds of martial arts to make sure he knew how to fight.

Janet signed him up for whatever else extracurriculars he wanted(ballet, gymnastics, theater, art, vocal coaching, instruments, figure skating, track, etc.).

So just imagine, Tim Drake, publicly known to get into and win so many fights but with no prior context is seen as a trouble maker till they see how well behaved he is. They talk badly about him though, how much of a bad kid little Tim Drake who physically looks like his father but has the face and acts exactly like Janet when he speaks and leads.

And then his parents die and he doesn't cry. They think he's an even horrible kid for not caring about his parents' death even though he's torn.

And then he becomes a Wayne and his reputation, which only Alfred and Bruce know, brings the Wayne name down.

And then he becomes CEO of Wayne Enterprises and everyone expects him to be just like Bruce. What they don't expect is Janet Drake 2.0 when it comes to getting his way and the way he acts or Jack Drake 2.0 with his outstanding leadership and ideas and proposals and what not.

When the rest of the Waynes find out about his reputation, they don't believe it till they see it for themselves.

It's probably at a gala or some sorts. A socialite is being inherently racist towards Damian and talking about how bad of a kid he is. Tim is not standing for it.

"Oh I'm sorry!" he says just a but too loudly to get the attention if everyone in the place, "Would you care to finish that vile comment about my brother? That he was a what now."

"I do, in fact. Perhaps after everyone hears this you Waynes will do better to control that little devil and his unnatural brow-"

The socialite doesn't even get to finish his sentence when Tim karate chops their neck, making them choke(literally) in their own words.

"Oh what was that? Did someone who is actively cheating on their own wife with the underage heir of another company be racist towards my underage and tri-racial brother? Sorry? Did a pedophile defiling the 15 year old daughter of the Miller's family say my 11 year old brother's skin was the sign of the devil? Hm?"

No one says a word, even as they watch Tim twist his words and spill out every secret and dirty fact about the socialite.

They don't even stop him as they watch him beat the crap out of the person with out even trying when said person tries to throw hands with Timothey Jackson Drake, publicly known for getting into fights and winning as well as being graduated from every martial arts class in Gotham ever.

Police were involved, headlines were made, the Miller heir was no longer seen in public and her younger sibling was pronounced heir, and Tim Drake, not Wayne, got off without a scratch, repercussion, or warning.

Damian has never felt an older siblings' loving protection more than he did when he saw Tim grill that socialite. He s never felt more respect for the guy before. And suddenly Dick was lower on the sibling scale.

He was lower on the sibling scale for everyone. Good by #1 sibling Dick Grayson and hello Tim Drake.

Have a problem? Someone's mean or is picking a fight? Don't worry, Tim Drake's there.

Drake is more noticeable than Wayne when it comes to Tim, and everyone finds it out the hard way.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader (fluff) fic summary . . . Oscar Piastri can't help but gush about his girlfriend in every interview, effortlessly weaving you into his conversations with pride and admiration

( main naster list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

Oscar Piastri had a habit—one that everyone in the paddock noticed almost immediately. He couldn’t stop talking about his girlfriend. And not just in the offhand, casual way people might expect, like a passing mention here or there. No, when Oscar talked about you, it was like flipping a switch. His entire demeanor softened, his eyes lit up, and his words came tumbling out with an earnestness that left no room for doubt: he was absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and he made sure the world knew it.

It started innocently enough during an interview early in his rookie season. The journalist had asked about his study habits for learning new tracks, expecting a typical response about simulator hours or reviewing footage. But Oscar, with that easy grin of his, took a completely different direction. “I mean, I’ve seen how my girlfriend studies for her exams, so this should be pretty easy,” he said with a playful shrug. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he added, “She’s top of her class, by the way.” The pride in his voice was palpable, his expression glowing with admiration. The journalist couldn’t help but chuckle, already mentally jotting down notes to find out more about this mysterious academic powerhouse who clearly had Oscar wrapped around her finger.

And that was just the beginning.

During a fan stage Q&A, he managed to take things up a notch. A young fan asked how he stays calm under pressure, and Oscar didn’t even need a moment to think. He leaned into the mic, his face lighting up in that boyish, unfiltered way of his. “Oh, that’s easy. The other night, my girlfriend—she’s a top athlete, by the way—was prepping for this big event she had. Watching her manage everything so smoothly kind of puts my little race stress into perspective.”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate: a mix of cheers, laughter, and a collective ‘aww’ that made Oscar’s cheeks flush faintly. He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, like he hadn’t just melted half the audience’s hearts with a single sentence. The sincerity in his tone was undeniable, and the moment was all the more charming because it was clear Oscar didn’t think he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He was just telling the truth, proud and in awe of you as always.

But even then, he wasn’t done. “Honestly,” he added with a laugh, “if I handled pressure half as well as she does, I’d be unstoppable.” It was a line delivered with such casual reverence that it didn’t just make the fans smile—it left them convinced that Oscar Piastri wasn’t just a rising star in Formula 1; he was also a contender for the title of world’s best boyfriend.

Then there was the time he was caught on McLaren’s YouTube channel, unabashedly gushing about how much he loved going shopping with you. It started as a casual behind-the-scenes segment—just Oscar and Lando killing time between commitments. But when the topic of hobbies came up, Oscar’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas.

“No, seriously,” he began, animatedly waving his hands as Lando looked at him like he’d lost the plot. “She’s got this incredible eye for things. Like, we’ll walk into a store, and she’ll just pick something up and instantly know it’s perfect. I don’t even know how she does it.”

Lando, ever the mischief-maker, raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your contribution to this magical shopping experience?”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “I…carry the bags,” he said with a proud grin. “It’s a good system.”

Lando snorted, muttering, “Golden retriever boyfriend,” under his breath, fully expecting Oscar to deny it. But Oscar, in his usual laid-back way, just shrugged and smiled wider. “I mean, if the shoe fits.” The clip went viral almost instantly, with fans agreeing that if there were ever a category for Boyfriend of the Year, Oscar was already a shoo-in.

Then, there was the time during a press junket when a reporter asked him about his organization skills. The question was meant to highlight how drivers juggle their packed schedules, but Oscar’s response was anything but rehearsed.

He laughed, a warm, self-deprecating sound that filled the room. “Honestly, I would’ve been doomed yesterday if my girlfriend hadn’t reminded me about something I forgot. She’s the organized one in the relationship. I just…drive cars fast and hope for the best.”

The room burst into laughter, a few reporters exchanging amused glances at his candidness. But Oscar just grinned, his expression softening with the unmistakable fondness that always seemed to creep into his voice when he talked about you.

“It’s true,” he added with a shrug, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to openly admit just how much he relied on you. And that was the magic of Oscar Piastri—his genuine, unabashed love for you turned even the simplest of conversations into something that felt warm and unforgettable.

Even in the most casual conversations with fans, you always managed to find your way into the spotlight through Oscar’s words. Like the time a fan brought him a book about racing during an autograph session. He accepted it with a warm smile, flipping through the pages for a moment before looking up. “Oh, my girlfriend loves reading,” he said, almost absentmindedly but with so much fondness it felt deliberate. “She’ll probably finish this before I do and then give me all the highlights. Saves me time.”

The fan giggled, clearly charmed, while the rest of the queue exchanged knowing smiles. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it, like mentioning you was the most natural thing in the world. And for Oscar, it was.

Then there was the post-race interview after one of his toughest performances. He’d started the race in a dismal qualifying position, clawing his way through the pack to secure points in a way that left commentators breathless. By the time he reached the interview pen, his suit was damp with sweat, and exhaustion painted his features. But even then, the familiar warmth of his smile made an appearance as he approached the mic.

“You know,” he began, his voice still catching its breath but steady, “I think a big part of getting through today was remembering something my girlfriend told me.” His words were met with curious expressions from the reporters, who leaned in just a little closer. “She’s amazing at staying positive no matter what, and she’s always reminding me to focus on what I can control.”

He paused for a second, his gaze drifting toward the camera as if he was speaking directly to you. “So, yeah, this one’s for her.”

The sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt. This wasn’t just an offhand mention or a fleeting thought. You weren’t just his girlfriend in name or title—you were his anchor. The way he spoke of you wasn’t just endearing; it was grounding, a reflection of how much you truly meant to him. 

One of the sweetest displays of Oscar’s affection unfolded during a behind-the-scenes McLaren vlog. The team had been filming some candid moments during a break, and the camera panned to Oscar sitting in a corner, scrolling through his phone. His expression was soft, his lips curved into a barely-there smile. Then, as if remembering something, he nudged Lando, who was lounging next to him.

“Oh, look, my girlfriend,” Oscar said, holding up his phone. His voice was tinged with a quiet kind of excitement, like he’d discovered a hidden treasure he couldn’t wait to share. The camera zoomed in just enough to catch the sparkle in his eyes as he looked at the photo. “She sent me this earlier. Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Lando let out an exaggerated groan, flopping dramatically against the couch. “Mate, you’re insufferable,” he muttered, though the amused grin on his face betrayed him. “Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it comes to her,” Oscar replied without missing a beat, his smile growing wider as he looked at the picture one more time before carefully locking his phone.

The clip went viral within hours of the vlog’s release. Fans couldn’t get over how sweet—and utterly smitten—Oscar was. Comments flooded in, praising his open adoration and dubbing him the “ultimate golden retriever boyfriend.”

But for those who knew him, this was just Oscar being himself. No matter where he was or what he was doing, you were always on his mind. And he made sure everyone around him knew just how proud he was to call you his. Whether it was your achievements, your quirks, or simply the way you lit up his life, Oscar never stopped finding ways to weave you into the conversation.

It wasn’t just about the words he said, though. It was the way he said them—with genuine admiration, unwavering pride, and a love so pure it could light up the entire paddock. His tone softened when he spoke about you, his expression grew warmer, and his smile turned just a little brighter.

If Oscar Piastri was the golden retriever boyfriend the world had come to adore, then you were undoubtedly his favorite human, his everything, the one who made all his happiest stories worth telling.

The atmosphere was electric at the Yas Marina Circuit, the tension so palpable it could’ve powered the floodlights. It was the last Grand Prix of the season, and everything was on the line for McLaren—the Constructors' Championship title hung in the balance. Among the sea of orange and black, you stood out—not just because you were there to support Oscar Piastri, but because you radiated an energy that seemed to magnetize the young driver to your side.

From the moment you both arrived on Thursday for media day, fans couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast in your personalities. Oscar, always reserved and thoughtful, seemed content to let you take the lead, his quiet confidence complimented by your vibrant presence. When a fan asked how you two had met, you lit up with a mischievous smile.

“I adopted him when we were in school,” you said, glancing fondly at Oscar, who was shyly smiling at the ground. “I guess he just stuck to my side.”

Oscar, standing beside you, squeezed your hand in his as he chuckled. “Well, it’s hard not to stick to you. You kind of pull people in.”

Throughout the weekend, Oscar was a picture of quiet affection. Whether it was holding your hand, wrapping an arm around you, or resting his chin on your head during quieter moments, his touch was constant. Fans caught glimpses of him whispering things to you that made you laugh, your bubbly personality clearly rubbing off on him in the best ways.

When race day arrived, the stakes were high, and Oscar’s nerves were evident. But even after a dramatic first-lap collision with Max Verstappen that caused him to spin out and drop down the grid, you were still cheering for him like he’d just secured pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waved, McLaren had done it—they’d secured the Constructors' Championship. Despite Oscar’s rocky race, you were beaming with pride as he pulled into the pit lane. Seeing your smile waiting for him made every frustration of the day vanish from his mind.

After the podium celebrations for the team, a surprising transformation unfolded. Your extroverted energy seemed to seep into Oscar as if he’d caught your enthusiasm like a contagious laugh. Gone was the usual quiet and composed Oscar. In his place was a driver buzzing with excitement, grinning from ear to ear as he darted around the paddock.

He didn’t just take pictures with the team; he orchestrated them like a director at a photo shoot. “Lando, get over here! And grab that trophy!” he called, dragging his teammate into a chaotic group photo. When Lando least expected it, Oscar grabbed a bottle of leftover champagne and sprayed him without mercy, laughing so hard he had to lean on you for balance.

“You’re ridiculous!” you teased, wiping the champagne splatter off your face.

Oscar grinned wickedly. “Oh, am I now?” Before you could react, he turned the champagne on you, spraying it in a gleeful arc. You squealed, half-laughing, half-shouting as the fizzy liquid soaked your hair and clothes.

“Oscar!”

He set the bottle down and pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek as if that would make up for it. “You look even better drenched in champagne,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. His giggles, boyish and utterly unguarded, filled the space between you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile as you ruffled his hair. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The two of you stood there in the middle of the celebration, drenched in champagne and surrounded by the joyous chaos of the team. Oscar looked at you, his face softening. “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know. Even when it’s rough, you make it all worth it.”

You smiled up at him, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. “And I’ll always be here, no matter what.”

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).

[tutree]

Scratch Classes for Kids in Arizona

Bring coding to life with Scratch classes for kids in Arizona! Tutree offers fun, interactive lessons that teach children to create games and animations while boosting creativity and problem-solving skills. Let our experienced tutors spark your child’s coding interest today!

[mywritersmind]

HE’S SICK OF IT? - LN4

summary : Lando’s had enough with your people pleasing attitude and goes off about it. And here you thought he just hated you…

listen up : reserve driver x lando norris!!!! people pleasing activities plus swearing. so i wrote this in art class

words : 785

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“You’re unbelievable.” I didn’t even realize someone else was in here. Dressed in his race suit, water in hand, Lando Norris shakes his head at me. What the hell is he doing here?

“What did I do now?” It’s been months of this shit. He doesn’t like me, never has. This fact only made me hate him more.

“You’re being pushed around so easily.” I scoff at the sudden attack, crossing my arms over my chest and realizing he just saw me accept intern work from a kid four years younger than me. “Are you that naive? Or do you just get off on doing other people’s dirty work?”

My guard is up in an instant. “You really want to go there? At least I'm not like you. Pushing people around when it suits you best-”

“That’s not what I do. Open your eyes and listen the fuck up. I know my worth.” His face is hard, staring me down now as he walks closer. “You just lie to yourself.”

I take a breath, “I am a good person.”

He nods slowly, his look filled with sarcasm, “Yeah you’re a great person who lets herself get beat up by someone below her.”

“Below me? Are you hearing yourself?” I know I shouldn’t be giving into his aggression but I can’t help it.

“Are you?” He shouts back.

“You are such an asshole! Just say you fucking hate me and move on!” I groan, running a hand through my hair, “It’s ridiculous, Norris! You barely know me yet all you do is bitch and moan about me!”

“Yeah because I’m sick of your people pleaser bullshit.” What the hell? He’s sick of it? He’s yelling now, “You’re a big fucking deal. Act like it.” His voice is stern, his face inches away from mine.

I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t even yell at him because I know he’s right.

He breathes out, his volume lower as my eyes lock onto the floor, “I don’t hate you. I hate how I seem to be the only person who sees you as more than an excuse.”

His words hit me like a train. The one person I can’t stand, the one person who can’t stand me, is the one who’s sticking up for me.

It’s fucking pathetic. Tears threaten my eyes that are still glued to the floor.

A soft touch meets my chin, forcing it gently up so I'm looking at him. I blink and am met with his soft green eyes.

“You’re a driver, Y/n.”

I let out a shaky breath, “I’m a reserve.”

“Do you drive a formula one car or not?” He snaps partially. I nod. “And you drive it better than the kid in your seat.”

I can’t help but laugh now, tears falling down my face but not getting the chance to meet my uniform because they’re being pushed away by Lando’s thumbs. “You can’t say that.” I sniff.

“I can say whatever I want.” I roll my eyes at him, “You know why?”

I blink at him, “Because you’re a big fucking deal?” His grin is wide and mischievous.

“You’re getting it now.” He seems to remember his hands are on my skin, my eyes dry now and my face getting progressively hotter. He drops his hands to his side as if I was made of poison. “I uh- I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

I play into it, “Well you did.”

“I’m sorry.” His words confuse me, I almost laugh.

“Is Lando Norris-” he’s already rolling his eyes, “The Lando Norris, apologizing?” He steps back but he’s smiling.

“Don’t get used to it.”

I stand up straighter, “I hope you won’t make me cry again.”

“If I do, it’ll be on track.” God his smile…

“I’m looking forward to you trying.”

“So uh…” he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking nervous, “you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. You were right.”

“Well I'm always right.”

I raise a brow, “Maybe we both need to work on our attitudes.” He smiles.

“Maybe we can over a drink.” He says it so casually that it doesn’t hit me until seconds later. Did he just ask me out?

“Hm…” am I dreaming? “You asking me out, Norris?” There’s a split second where I'm worried he meant it in an ‘i’m sorry for making you cry’ way. But then he blushes.

“Yeah.” He nods, “Are you saying yes?”

I shrug, “I’ll go with you.”

“Is that what you want to say… or what I want to hear?” I lean back against the wall, breathing out and whistling.

“I’ll tell you after you pay.”

[sukeruton-san]

Sorta Maybe Blind pt 3

First Previous Next

There's a group of people, about seven of them setting up big crates and boxes filled with products of the dangerous variety around the room. Chatting about this and that.

"Can you warn Me the next time you pick me up randomly, I know bad guys just came in but I want a little warning." the blind child grunted at him softly making sure to not make much noise.

"This will be the last of spontaneous trips for you"Bruce answered back in the low quiet voice.this is a tricky situation he founded himself in, the child was entirely unexpected coming through the broken down doors and landing right in front of them. Looking exhausted and famished.

Being a child without a guardian is already dangerous enough in Gotham being blind on top of that is practically a death sentence. Who are the child's parents, why did they leave him alone for so long, and where are they now.

Does he even have parents? Is he a orphan?

" Chong, you have the merchandise ready for receivable" Calin Honching asked one of the goons who we now know is named Chong

" Ye, got them all sir. these suckers are top of the line shit right here." Chong replied

" Excellent! We'll surely make lots of money this load"

Calin Honching is a man of upper class having a business named Honcare, a medical hospital that specializes in trauma care and surgeries. he is also a man he has been pursuing for a while now. Honching has been doing weapons deals across Gotham. Selling them to traffickers and meta-traffickers alike. The weapons mostly consists of guns and torturing devices though some of them are hefty loads of sedatives. He has been doing those deals in exchange for money and promise to get there victims treatment at his facility without being exposed of there wrongdoings. The man was horribly greedy wanting to make sure that you will have patience coming in Even if he's passively caused those patients wounds himself.

Another group of people came in with their own boxes. likely the buyers known as the horrforce they have been taking mostly children in the 13-15 range. the leader is named Kimlig Horrin

"Dr. Honching I hope you have my order ready "

"That I do Mr Horrin"

"Lovely, absolutely lovely bring the goods over."

" Batman " the child softly whispers " i heard something that sounds like scratching next to the voice of Horrin" looking around Horrin he spots the biggest box that they have brought big enough to fit at least one human teenager inside. A soft sound of nails scratching against wood can be heard if you listen for long and focused in that area enough

" How well can you hear it?" He asked

" Pretty well. I have really sharp hearing. if I didn't how else will I know that someone is approaching me.I listen for footsteps or a Heartbeat. And there's definitely one erratic heartbeat and frantic scratching over there" the child tensely states.

He may be a meta if he is able to hear heartbeats like Superman. He would have a suggested Kryptonian but kryptonians tend to be indestructible and clearly something happened to this child for him that become blind if the scarring creeping up his neck says anything.

Carefully he readjust the child and his grip before reaching his hand up to his com " Robin, Oracle, have we have a possible hostage situation along with the weapons deal be sure to be prepared"

" Affirmative "

" You got it B! Also been looking at reports for any missing children of his description and there are none for your information. How many children do you have now? 7? 8?"

"Hhuunn"

" Good chat B "

" Batman has 7-8 kids?" The child confusingly responds.

" You can here me?"

" Yes Mam "

" Weeeelllllll how about that!! should have probably known when you said you can hear heartbeats without any device. My name is Oracle what's yours?"

" Danny " he hums

" Good to meet you"

" Well Dr. Honching a say we have quite the lovely collection here!" Kimlig exaggerated shouts" what's your price"

" I think it's time to intervene Batman" Robin clicks before shutting the comm off and jumping on one of the goons knocking him out on impact.

Batman quietly crouches down in a more concealed area tucking Danny in a corner with his duffle bag that somehow hasn't made a sound during the whole scuffle. " Will you be all right if I leave you here" He concernedly ask

" I will be okay, go do your job"He gives you a reassuring smile and a thumbs up, almost hitting the box next to him.

Batman begins to nod look or thinking better of it "good stay here" turning around he jumps into the fray of the battle.

___________________________________________________

Danny may have reveled too much about his hearing, but it was for a good cause because his obsession was roaring its head about the victim inside that box and he couldn't do anything about it.

Sitting in the corner he watches the bats movements, watching them fighting in a way that almost seems like dancing and they are the only ones who know to moves to it. It's kind of mesmerizing.

Looking at the abandon the box he leaves his duffle bag tucked into the corner and swiftly moves forward towards the box feeling around the sides he looks for something after he used to open it. After a bit of searching he finds a latch and lock. He morals his fingers around something revealing the lockpick he phaced into his finger you long time ago. You may never know when you might need one.

"Try and be still okay I am here to help you okay"He states hearing and feeling movement behind him He grabs onto their arm disarming them before judo flipping them up on the floor. delivering a kick to the face He knocks the enemy out cold.

He resumes his task of unlocking the wooden box. opening the box he finds a frail girl a little younger than him terrified before her face morphed into confusion and disbelief.

" You're blind. . . ."

" Thank you for stating the obvious, now do you want help out of the box or not" He holds out his hand in her direction, she hesitates before taking the hand and he pulls her out and close. then running back to the direction of the corner Batman lead him too.

" We'll stay here until they're done, what's your name?"

" . . .Carrie"

"Nice to meet you Carrie, I'm Danny what's you favorite color?"

He asked question after question making sure she's distracted from the situation at hand. she hesitates a bit before answering the questions, but as the more it goes on the more comfortable she gets. Until eventually Batman and Robin comes over to tell them the threat is resolved.

Danny puts his duffle bag back on when leaving the building they go into Pairs. Batman is checking Carrie over for injuries and Robin turns over to him " The GPD will be here momentarily. I want to congratulate you on the move you pulled back there. It was impressive for someone of inexperience in these types of situations."

" Well if I can do something, then I'm going to do it"

" A good moral code dut also a dangerous one, Daniel"

One Full body flinch and a pained grimace " please don't call me that, is either Danny or if you prefer last names it's " what was his new last name again? oh wait " Nightingale "

". . . Your last name is Nightingale"

"Yup" he agreed with a pop of the p

Batman comes over when done checking her over and making her comfortable why she waits for the medics to arrive. " Your skills in spatial awareness despite being blind is immaculate. Were you taught that move by someone?"

"My mom. . . When I was younger" holding the duffle bag closer he gains a conflicted face before smoothing his features out waving his hand "anyways since I found a weapons deal instead of a place to sleep you happen to have any good recommendations instead? kind of don't want to end up in a completely different situation that I know my luck will end up doing. you're the heroes of the city so you know the best areas, I'll tack any suggestion"

" Are you by yourself in the city?"Robin asked

". . . Yes, yes I am" he revealed

" I have an acquaintance that will be happy to let you stay the night" Batman admitted

Robin snapped his head toward the bat signing aggressively ' are we really doing this right now? do you really need any more children? I do not need another brother, father' Robin huffs

Rubbing the back of his neck"I don't want to bother the guy if he's busy"

" He is not busy at all" sirens could be heard little ways away of abandoned apartment. " I believe that is our cue to go. Danny, will bring you there in the batmobile if you so desire" they make sure Carrie gets to the medical professional there stating that he is all right and to focus on her. he turns over to Batman.

"That . . . Sounds awesome actually, thank you" at his words Batman brings said vehicle to a location beside the building. Taking his hand they lead him over to the car with Robin glaring holes into the back of Batman's head. Batman holds the back side door open for Danny to get inside then close is it. Robin gets into the passenger and Batman gets into the driver

They head off into the unforeseen night

( Sorry, it took so long to write this part but I hope you all enjoy it!!)

( edit went through the people who wanted to be tagged for the next part so @bushbees @not-your-average-url @i-have-three-feelings )

(edit #2 I realized my last paragraph was a seizure and a half so I fixed it)