#thinking about how 'they are the most relentless' /does/ suit the blacks

[obsidianas]

i don't vibe with the evilness radiating from the blacks in a setting where they had not yet turned on the others but those two tidbits are a vibe

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard- Chapter 3: Closer

knight!simon riley x queen!reader - featuring our favorite Scot in this chapter👀

word count: 3.2k

[<<< chapter 2]

Smile. Nod. Greet. Don’t forget to give your husband a loving look from time to time- look at him like he were the sun, the great star you revolve around. Repeat.

The King’s departure feast is tasteful, though ostentatious to be sure- just how he likes. Especially when they are held in his grace’s honor. Oh, if you could roll your eyes right now without being seen, you would.

All this for such an arrogant bastard.. truly a waste.

But you can’t deny the beauty that surrounds you, no matter the reason. The Great Hall had been thoroughly lavished in emerald silks, dripping with jewels and flowers of your choosing-

It was one of the few duties you didn’t mind giving your input and opinions on, working with the different tradesmen of the kingdom; you found you rather enjoyed partaking in the planning portion, enjoyed the creative freedom given to you behind the scenes-

But.. attending them, well, that’s a different matter entirely. They were nothing but an exhaustive performance, a true test of your goodwill and patience-

“You look positively captivating tonight, wife.” The King drawls in your ear, his hand creeping up your thigh under the table. And it’s so difficult to fight the urge to jerk away from his touch when all you can think about is the last time that hand was on you, your lip had been bruised and swollen for days afterward-

Smiling down at your plate of untouched food, you give him a sweet and temperate laugh,

“You flatter me, Your Grace.”

The hand squeezes too tightly, not painfully, but certainly not gentle or loving- it’s a possessive touch, one that worries you, makes your shoulders tense and your movements turn robotic as you place your fingers over his,

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you battle-ready, My King.. it suits you.”

You exchange pleasant smiles, his eyes on you far longer than you’re used to. It does not soothe you though, or make your cheeks flush warm. No, they’re too invasive, and the feel of them on your exposed skin makes your stomach sour-

A quiet sound trickles into your ears from behind your seat, it’s one that you had learned is deliberate, purposeful- a simple series of taps, always the same, random to everyone but you. Simon’s way of communicating- I’m here. I see you.

You tilt your head toward the insignificant little noise, only just able to see the inky outline of his shoulder in your peripherals, but it’s enough. Enough to ease your nerves and calm your relentless mind.

Knowing that he’s right there, always keeping you within arms reach- but something is different now. You can feel it. And you can’t quite grasp how, or even the exact moment the already anomalous lines in your relationship had somehow become even more blurred, but they had.

And this fading of the proverbial line in the sand, the crumbling of all your boundaries, should most certainly not make you feel the way it does- should not make your core turn molten, or your head swim in a dizzying way by just the sound of his voice, his presence-

He hasn’t even touched you again since that night, after the King left your chambers, which must have been more than a month ago, you think-

Because it was a fluke, it was the man sworn to protect you simply aiding you- he saw you bleeding and was the only one around to help.

But, he also didn’t retreat.

No, you noticed the very next morning how Simon stood just a step or two closer than he did before, following behind you like your omnipresent shadow, the sinister black armor becoming well known in the castle.

Unsurprisingly, he had garnered quite a reputation within court by merely existing at your side, speculation about his history running rampant- and you only recently heard from your lady-in-waiting that many commoners, and noble folk alike, had taken to referring to your new guard as “The Ghost”-

And oh, how fitting of a name- because you feel truly haunted by the enigmatic man; haunted by those eyes, haunted by the softness of his touch, haunted by the yearning and desire to feel it again- No. No..

Wherever you go, your dark omen follows- and for more reasons you can’t explain or justify, you find equal parts pleasure and power in his presence. Because where Lords and Noblemen once might have dismissed you entirely; or the opposite, let their eyes linger or their tongues turn crude- they now avert their gaze, they regard you intently and with due respect; and their Queen’s guard, with fear-

Tap-tap .. Tap-tap-tap

A smirk tugs at your lips, and you hope he sees it- of course, he does, and if you were able to look back at him, you would see his own smile settle at the corners of his eyes as he watches you relax slightly.

After a moment longer, you force your attention back to the festivities, eyes widening as you hear a booming voice,

“Your Grace!”

The distantly familiar accent dredges through your memories until you’re finally able to recognize his face in the crowd- seeing none other than Lord John MacTavish, your Johnny, looking back at you.

It had been years since you last saw your closest cousin-

Well, cousin is a loose term, isn’t it? We aren’t technically related by blood- but, we had grown up together as family, and neither of us had ever seen or known each other as anything else..

Yet, despite time and distance, he looks exactly the same. Blue eyes bright and full of life, and his smile infectious as it stretches ear to ear. His dark hair is longer than you remember- but now cut extremely close to his scalp on the sides, turning the messy chocolate waves on top into an overgrown sort of mohawk-

Oh, Sweet Johnny.. never one to conform to any sort of standard-

“Lord MacTavish, it’s been too long.” You say, watching him sweep into a dramatic bow, his antics forcing you to bite back a wide grin,

“Your Majesty,” Johnny turns to the man sitting by your side, “With your permission, may I have Her Grace’s hand in a dance?”

The King watches him for a moment with utter disinterest, much like he regards most of his subjects, but eventually concedes with a nod- and you don’t hesitate to push away from your chair, your ladies rushing to straighten the flowing gown but you brush them away politely, gathering the skirts in your hands instead.

Rounding the long table, you take Johnny’s arm, letting him escort you through the crowd- and you wish more than anything in this moment you could just be another woman floating across the marble floor, you wish you could toss the crown on your head away, remove the green and gold colors of your husband’s house, the crest from around your neck-

“Still always so stuck in your head, eh, Hen?”

The dance you fall into is simple in its movements, with your palm flat against his above your heads, gliding in a slow circle as the music softly builds,

“Hard not to be- but this is helping, I must admit.” You tease, giving him a wry smile.

His head tips back with a warm laugh, and you’re instantly flooded by memories of your childhood with him- of growing up together, his ceaseless pranks and joking, of the hours you would spend scouting through the woods together, soiling all your dresses, and ruining the pretty braids the maids would put in your hair.

The trouble you got in for him was “unbecoming of the future Queen” as your mother would say, but Johnny had been your best friend- much to her and your father’s chagrin, and no amount of their preaching ever kept you away from his never ending mischief.

It was like that up until he left for the army, and while you both had tried your best to keep up through letters like you promised, after your coronation, time for anything other than your duties always seemed to escape you-

“So, how’s married life treatin’ ya, Your Majesty?”

You roll your eyes at his quip, giggling when he picks you up, your hands holding his wrists at your waist until you’re on the ground again and stepping in time with the next bit of music,

“Oh, I’m sorry, shouldn’t you be married by now, m’Lord?”

Again, he laughs, ducking under your arm before spinning you both gracefully- your back against his, though your heads turned toward each other to keep up the hushed conversation,

“Glad to see your tongue is still made o’ thorns, Grianach.”

His old nickname for you stirs up a sadness that feels overwhelming, almost tangible, and the sting of tears prick at your eyes as you turn back to face him- knowing the dance would too quickly be coming to an end.

It’s during the last, slow spin that you catch Simon’s gaze- watching you from just beyond the edge of the crowd, eyes raking over your body until he sees the turmoil in your expression. And it’s like your pinned beneath him with the weight it carries, holding the fleeting contact even from a distance,

“Sunny?”

You blink once, realizing the music has easily flowed into the next tune, something slower, more somber- and when you blink again, Simon’s moved, and you struggle to not immediately look around for his familiar form, seeking the comfort he unwittingly provides you.

“Ah.. Tha’ the new Queen’s Guard I’ve heard so much about?”

Johnny offers his arm again, looking down at you with a lop-sided smirk,

“It is. And, what of it?” You ask innocently enough, finally spotting him standing a head above the rest, stoically taking his spot behind your chair- eyes roaming over Johnny’s face, still sizing this unfamiliar man up, watching how comfortable you seem with him. He misses nothing-

“Not really your style, is all.. The big, gloomy bastard doesn’t seem like he fits for my li’ bit o’ sunshine.”

How could you tell him that his sweet nickname, Grianach, Sunny, was what actually didn’t fit you anymore?

But you suppose if he stays around long enough, he’ll surely realize you relate more to the dark side of the moon than you did the sun these days..

“He’s been a good guard.. better than any I’ve had.”

Johnny nods, watching the man in question as you approach the giant table,

“Good, tha’s good, Sunny.. you deserve the best, always have.”

You don’t know why his words take you by surprise, why they make your feet feel like lead in your shoes-

“Will you be staying, Johnny?” You speak lowly, not wanting to let go of him, not when he’s the closest thing you’ve had to home in so, so long,

“Aye.. a week is all I can spare, but I’ll be here with ya, all right?”

All you can give is a weak nod before he bows for the King, kissing your cheek and bowing in front of you, as well. And those usually vibrant eyes dull a bit when he sees your apprehension- but he smiles anyway, backing down the steps and disappearing into the crowd once more.

And you do your best to plaster a warm grin on your face as you move to take your seat again, brushing past Simon, you lean down, speaking only in the King’s ear,

“I’ve grown tired-“

He waves his hand at you before you’ve even finished speaking, focused on one of his advisors- the conversation of his imminent travel far more important than anything you might have to say.

Well, haven’t the gods granted me luck tonight..

Your exit is a quiet affair, and as soon as you’re out of the Great Hall, you feel some of the tension melt away- the further you get from the raucous, the easier it is to breathe, the weight easing itself off your shoulders with every step.

“Go ahead and ready my chambers, please, Elia. I’d like to take the air.”

She goes without question, your other handmaids flitting right behind her as you take the next hallway to your right- the one that leads towards the courtyard and the gardens.

You can hear him behind you, those long, steady steps contrasting your shorter ones. Neither of you speak, but you feel his proximity intensely- always so frighteningly aware of him when you’re alone.

And it’s enough to drive you mad, how much he affects you. Because you’re so certain he feels nothing, being in your presence is his duty. He’s a man who has seen too much, experienced too much, to let the likes of you get under his skin-

The guards bow their heads graciously as they push the solid wood out of the way for you to pass through; and it’s as if the night air were a salve for your restless soul- fresh and perfectly chilled, the whispers of fall in the breeze. Just enough to get you out of your head, if only for a moment.

“Ser Simon..”

You walking slowly, your steps languid as your fingers brush over the leaves and petals, absently studying the textures as they feel under the moonlight-

“People keep asking if I like my new guard..” You ramble, moving beyond the entrance of the tall, maze-like hedges, leading you both deeper as you speak,

“But, I don’t think I’ve asked the same of you..”

Don’t.. don’t do this. Just turn around- go back to your rooms. This is petty and useless, nothing but disappointment can come of it..

“Not sure I follow, Your Grace.”

A chill creeps down your spine at the rasp in his voice, from the cold or disuse, you’re not sure. You turn with a saccharine smile, though it quickly falls away as you take him in-

He’s so entirely otherworldly like this, cast in the milky light from above, the shimmering onyx of his armor almost glowing under the pale moon- and when he shifts his weight, the light dances around him, like it simply chooses to bend and move at his will.

Beautiful.. Can monsters be beautiful?

You turn away again, unable to stand it for a moment longer. This was indeed a mistake, you should not be here.

Alone. With him-

“Do you like it?” You ask the hedge, your voice soft now, your confidence having waned, “Your new post..”

Is it seconds that pass? It can’t be minutes.. surely- but gods, it feels like an eternity. The silence stretches on around you- infinitesimal in its reach.

See? That’s enough of an answer to a silly, foolish question. Like he really has a choice in the matter of liking or disliking-

You just barely feel him before you hear him- but how? How had you not heard him move before? Maybe you were right from the very beginning- he is no man; maybe the rumors are true, and he really is a ghost.

He isn’t touching you, but you think if you took even half a step back you would be able to feel the cold steel of his breastplate.

You keep your eyes focused ahead, the dark not really a hindrance because you aren’t truly seeing anymore, so consumed by him that hardly anything else seems important- that is, until something heavy is placed in your hand.

The weight of it is awkward, and you bring your other hand to hold the object before looking down.

His helmet.

It stares back at you, devoid of the warmth you usually find there, without his amber eyes, the black metal is just that- cold, and harsh.

You have every opportunity to turn, to finally gaze upon the face that you had pondered on far too often- to confirm the features you imagined late in the night.

But, you don’t. You wouldn’t, not with the trust he had very literally placed in your hands- you don’t want to betray that, you don’t want to betray him.

“I do.” He whispers against the shell of your ear, his nose grazing over the sensitive skin of your neck as his head dips lower- it’s a slow, tentative movement, and once again your mind goes to war with itself-

Danger. This is dangerous- he is dangerous. If anyone were to see you like this, they would have your head and his, too- Hells, the King himself would probably volunteer to take it from your shoulders-

Yet, when you feel him nuzzle just behind your ear again, your mind quiets, body moving on its own. Just like the moonlight, you bend to him without thought- letting your head tilt to expose more of your skin, your lips parting in a shuddering breath when he inhales deeply through his nose.

A growl resonates from his throat, it’s fleeting, but it ignites an ache so deep between your legs it nearly takes your breath away-

“And, have I served you well, My Queen?”

You shake your head, your grip on his helmet turning almost painful as you struggle to stand straight.

“Why must you insist on saying it like that..”

The low chuckle that rumbles through his chest sounds so perfect in your ears, and the weight of his forehead gently dropping to rest on your shoulder makes you bite your lip-

“Like what?” He coos, and you can hear a barely concealed smile in his voice now, one that has the most delightful shiver snaking its way through your entire body.

He was giving you so much, but you so desperately wanted more. You’ve never wanted a man’s hands on you in the way you need his at this moment.

What would they feel like roaming over your body? Would his touch remain as tender as he’s handled you thus far?

The thought alone hazes your mind even further.

A small hum escapes as you allow yourself to spare a glance at the deep ebony locks you can see now-

Hm.. do ghosts have hair? And are they suppose to feel so warm..

The thought brings a sad smile to your lips, your cheek settling against the side of his head, and your eyes slipping shut; you relish in the feel of his hair on your skin- but, it’s that very same feeling that causes you to tense, pulling away.

Because too suddenly, all you can imagine is the feeling of his soft hair in your hands, matted with blood as you hold his head in your lap- his body cold and lifeless..

No- I will be the death of him.. I can’t- I couldn’t..

He moves just as abruptly as you do, though his motions are still so gentle as he rises to his full height again,

“I apologize-“

“No..” You cut him off, turning only enough to let him take the helmet from your hands, “Please, don’t- I-“

Words fail you. And your heart sputters in your chest as embarrassment, and shame, and grief burn through you-

“I shouldn’t- I just.. We can’t.” You whisper hoarsely, your voice pathetic even in your own ears.

Strong hands turn you, and you don’t know why your eyes clamp shut, but they do- you keep them closed, breathing in through your nose, which is just another mistake because his scent is so strong now you want to wrap yourself in it. Keep it with you-

A single finger tilts your chin up, a silent command to open your eyes, to look at him.

He’s covered again, but his gaze is so open as he looks down at you- studying you in that way that only he can, though it’s impossible to miss the unrest behind his expression,

“I know..”

[chapter 4 >>>>]

[delicateflowerss]

Don't Worry, Darling: Four

After marrying the love of your life, Rafe Cameron, you thought you couldn't be happier. But when a murder shakes the island, you learn you don't know your husband as well as you thought. When does Paradise become Hell?

Warnings: 18+, eventual NON-CON, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of murder, dark!Rafe, mentions of grief/loss, kook!reader, non-canon ages

Word Count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

“Chase was a bright, young man who had his entire life in front of him. He was loved by many, a son, and a husband. He treated everyone with kindness, constantly going out of his way to help someone in need.”

You recognized the man speaking as a friend and co-worker of Chase’s. He decided to step in and give a eulogy as Chase’s family is still too upset to be able to speak in front of a crowd.

“Forgiveness was in his nature, never holding a grudge and always seeing the best in people. Everyone has done something they’re not proud of, he would say, but it’s how a person deals with those things that shows their true character.”

You reach up to wipe the perspiration forming on your brow. The warm weather sticks to your skin while there’s not a cloud to protect you from the relentless sun. It doesn’t exactly match the morose air surrounding the sea of black attire.

Your eyes linger on the casket lying before everyone. You heard whispers that it’s almost empty, only the few remains the police could find in the marshes rest in it.

The gators got most of him.

Honestly, you find it strange that Chase’s friend would mention forgiveness, and his penchant for giving it.

Would he forgive the person who murdered him and dumped his body to be eaten?

You thought you were of the forgiving nature also. Now you’re not so sure.

This might be the closest you’ve been to him in days. You can feel the fabric of his suit jacket brushing against your arm, and the scent of his woodsy cologne fills your senses.

He’s been wearing this look of guilt since the incident. Glancing at him through the corner of your eye, you can tell the look is still there. Subtle to everyone else, but you see the pain tracing his features.

That expression alone has made you want to forgive him so many times. It’s almost like every time he looks at you, all he sees is what he did.

It makes your heart clench, thinking he feels so bad that it hurts him.

The problem is, he hasn’t apologized. You can tell he wants to, the words on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he does what he does best, avoid.

So now you both are in a stalemate, barely seeing each other. Rafe has made a home on the couch, but he works late anyway, getting home when you’re going to sleep.

Is this what it feels like to know your love is dying, withering away.

A fight between you and Rafe has never gone on for this long, but he also has never snapped at you like that, genuinely scaring you.

You feel a bit stupid, knowing about his temper and the violence he’s enacted on others in the past.

You just thought you lived in a part of his heart that none of those things would ever corrupt.

What you don’t know is how difficult it has been on him to be apart from you.

Instinctively, his fingers twitch to hold your hand, or to at least feel your skin against his. He wants to wrap an arm around you, protecting you from the cruel world of death and despair.

But he can’t protect you from himself.

After the funeral, everyone gave their condolences to Chase’s wife and family. You think the entirety of Figure Eight was at the funeral, from Rafe’s family to your friends.

You had never seen everyone so somber. Your chest felt heavy as you did the same, finding it hard to look at his normally cheery wife, now a sobbing mess, her cries filled with an ache that no one could try and fix.

Rafe could barely look at her as he did his best with his supposed consolations.

As you and your husband walked away from the ceremony, you caught Shoupe’s eye, an odd feeling of being watched coming over you.

You try to forget about it as you drive up to Tannyhill, keeping your promise to take Wheezie shopping.

Part of you thinks it feels wrong to still be doing Midsummers, the sound of Lauren’s cries still playing in your head. All you have to worry about is what dress you’re going to wear. She has to worry about how she’s going to live the rest of her life without her husband.

But Midsummers isn’t stopping for her, the preparations already underway.

Wheezie greets you with a huge grin as she gets in your car. She has a lot to say about a boy she has a crush on, thinking he likes her too.

You’re happy that she thinks highly enough of you to want to tell you all this, and by the time you two get to the boutique, she’s told you everything you need to know.

“What if we get married?” She asks, a hush falling over her voice as your eyes rake over the dresses.

“It could happen. But I think you need to talk to him first,” you lightly suggest, smiling.

She thinks for a second, not really paying attention to the clothes.

“You and my brother started dating in high school, right?” Genuine curiosity laces her tone.

Your mood shifts a little at the mention of Rafe, but you play it off, swallowing before replying, “yeah. Senior year.”

“Wow. You must really love him,” she comments.

You keep your eyes on the dress in front of you, pretending to be interested in the fabric.

“What does it feel like?”

“Hm?” You finally look over at her, confused.

“To be in love?” She clarifies, eyes set on you.

You sigh, thinking for a moment. If you were to tell her the truth, it could fracture her innocent perception of love.

So, you give her the shortened version.

“It feels like…you care about someone else’s feelings more than your own.”

You almost wince when you finish your sentence, worrying what you said was still too much. But she looks satisfied, nodding as she mulls over your words.

What you said is true, but you didn’t tell her how crushing the feeling is to care about someone like that. It’s like being pushed off a cliff to your death, and all you can do is fall.

“Why don’t you try this one on?” You recommend, holding up the dress you were looking at.

You instantly recognize the truck parked outside your house as you pull into your driveway, just getting home from dropping Wheezie off with a brand-new dress.

He’s walking back to his truck by the time you’re out of your car.

“I was wondering why I hadn’t been invited in,” he says, setting his equipment on the curb. “I thought maybe you changed your mind about me being ‘nice to talk to’.” JJ waves his fingers, curling them into air quotes, a pearly white smile on his face.

“I was just taking Wheezie shopping for Midsummers,” you explain.

“Oh, every Kook’s favorite event.”

You give an unconvincing smile at his remark.

“You not excited?” He asks, his smile disappearing. He starts to put his equipment back in his truck.

“It’s just different this year. It kind of feels like it shouldn’t be happening,” you say with your arms crossed, eyes drifting to the ground under you.

He turns his attention back to you, leaning an arm against the side of the bed of his pickup, thinking.

“Is it cause of that guy who was killed?” He asks casually, blue eyes set on you.

Surprise crosses your face, and you don’t even have to say anything for JJ to notice.

“What? You think I hadn’t heard?” His lip curls up into a smirk. “The whole island knows.”

“Well, I knew him. He worked with Rafe.” The solemness in your voice contrasts with his nonchalance.

“Shit,” he sighs out. “I didn’t know that.”

After a moment, he laughs a little, shaking his head.

“What?” You ask, interested.

The smile is wiped off his face.

“Sorry, it’s not funny,” he quickly says. “It’s just, it’s all people can talk about, you know? Maybe it’s because he was murdered but…it happens more than you think,” he considers, eyes scanning your face. “People only care because he was rich. If he was from The Cut, no one would give a fuck.”

You pull your brows together, the thought never occurring to you.

“Are you saying people are murdered all the time and I just never hear about it?”

He nods, eyebrows raised. “Pretty much. Maybe not all the time,” he adds. “But there’s a lot of shady business that happens on this island.” He looks at your house for a second, something flashing across his face. “But people like that do a better job at hiding it. Whoever killed your friend was sloppy,” he says, eyes finding yours.

“Sloppy?”

“I mean the gators were a good idea. But they obviously didn’t clean up well enough. How else do the police know a murder happened?”

Your lips part, intently listening to JJ’s rambling.

He continues with his stream of consciousness, “whoever did this was probably in a panic, which means this was their first time. Maybe they didn’t even plan it. They’re probably impulsive, have a temper.”

“You’ve really thought a lot about this. You should go work for the police,” you say, smiling a little.

He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Funny,” he sharply says. “I’m sure I’m not saying anything they don’t already know. Of course, who knows with them.” JJ shrugs his shoulders, walking to the driver’s side of the truck.

After you tell him bye, you’re left with a sinking feeling, wanting nothing more than to push any thoughts of Chase’s murder out of your mind.

It doesn’t matter how long you stare in the mirror. You can’t fix the melancholy that sits in your eyes.

Even as you smile, it’s still there.

Your eyes move to the dress you wear, hands following the feel of the fabric, fingers running over the pearl color.

You turn a little, noticing how the dress is unzipped. You try to reach for the zipper, but you struggle to grab it.

“Need some help?”

A deep voice interrupts your movements, a type of gravelly you’ve come to miss in the last week.

You find his reflection in the mirror, leaning against the doorway of the bedroom. His hair is slightly tousled, and his white button-up is open, revealing his sculpted chest that is normally covered by a polo. His stare feels heavy as he drinks you in.

All you do is meet his gaze in the mirror, letting your arm fall by your side, and he makes his way over to you.

You start to feel more aware of your breathing as you feel his body heat behind you. Something he’s done a million times feels new again, or at least different.

He slowly tugs the zipper up, and before it reaches the top, he brushes his fingers against the nape of your neck, moving your hair out of the way.

Closing your eyes momentarily, you can’t help but want more of his touch, almost like you’ve missed it.

You expect him to step away from you, but when he wraps a strong arm around the front of your neck, a gasp leaves your throat.

He keeps you there, soft lips finding the side of your hair. He breathes you in, and you feel safe and protected being enveloped by him, the feeling you’ve been craving. And for a second, it makes you forget he was the one to make you feel anything otherwise.

He swallows, his voice shaky around the words that leave his mouth, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You shift and his arm falls from you, a ghost of his touch on your waist instead.

Guilt is written on his face, that same pained look you’ve been trying to avoid this past week.

“I just want you to know,” he begins as you lock eyes. “I would never hurt you.” His voice is thick with emotion, but a soberness grounds it, making you believe him. “I don’t want you to think…” He shakes his head, his blue eyes turning into pools of unshed tears.

You feel that same weight in your chest and before you can reach out to comfort him, he continues, “I don’t want you to think I could ever do something like that to you.”

“I know. I know,” you assure him, and you don’t think about it as you step closer, burying your face into him, inhaling the traces of his scent that you’ve missed.

It’s only a second later when you feel his arms hold you closer.

“I’m also sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it,” he rasps out. “You know how it is with my dad and-.”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off with soothing words.

“I just care about you so much,” he whispers, tears finally falling.

“I know,” you mumble back, shutting your eyes as you feel the reprieve you’ve been longing for, in his arms.

After a minute, he pulls back a little and you see the evidence of his anguish running down his face.

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, you protest.

“No. No, you do, Rafe.”

He shakes his head, sniffling.

“I love you. I’ll always love you,” you say gently, making him meet your eyes again.

He watches you for a moment, your promise sinking in.

“Always?” He asks.

“For better or worse, remember?”

You can see the guilt wash away, the crease in his forehead disappearing. He seems relieved.

When he gets closer, you expect him to kiss you. Instead, he presses his lips to your forehead, a loving touch that makes your eyelids flutter.

It’s something you usually don’t get from him.

“I love you too.”

The words are a whisper on your skin.

The sun is slipping below the horizon when you and your husband arrive at Midsummers, the sky orange while lights twinkle around dancing bodies.

A heaviness lingers in the air, blanketing everyone in a warmth that some despise, and others find freeing. A hot summer night with no obligations, just excitement blowing in the wind.

Rafe’s hand stays on the small of your back as you make your way through everyone’s wandering eyes.

It’s something you’ve gotten used to, how people talk about the Cameron’s more than any other family on the island.

You’re not sure where it comes from, either a sort of envy or an admiration.

All you know is people started to treat you differently when you started dating Rafe. They watched you more, talked to you more. Surprisingly, people were nicer, but you could tell there was an insincerity underneath their smiles and kind words.

As you shy away from the attention, Rafe almost welcomes it.

He doesn’t mind their stares, especially when it comes to you.

Since senior year, there has never been a party or event where Rafe doesn’t arrive with his hand on some part of you.

He was always the jealous type, you learned that quickly. But when it comes to people being jealous of him, he enjoys it.

All you can do is take it as a compliment.

The first thing Rafe does when he spots his family is greet his father.

They seem to be on better terms since Ward pulled Rafe aside the other night and gave him a promotion. You can tell in the way Ward regards his son, almost like he sees him in a new light, like he’s finally enough.

You wonder why the sudden change, what did Rafe do to finally prove himself?

You do your best to ignore how your stomach twists, thinking about how the fight between you and Rafe happened because of his eagerness to please his father.

If Rafe finally got what he wanted, then you’re happy for him.

You find Wheezie standing alongside Ward and Rose, and you don’t hesitate to tell her how beautiful she looks in her new dress.

“Thank you, Y/N. You do too.” She gives a bashful smile before her eyes move away from you. You see the nervousness cross her face.

“What is it?” You ask, looking to see what she’s looking at.

She seems a bit surprised that you noticed her quick glances.

“It’s just…” She lowers her voice, moving closer to you. “…Connor’s over there.”

“Oh,” you say, quickly catching on. Of course, her crush would be here, her need to impress making more sense.

“Go talk to him,” you encourage her.

“I don’t know,” she says hesitantly.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

She stares at you for a moment before nodding, determination written on her face.

You give her a reassuring smile before you watch the curly haired girl approach him.

You sip from your third Mai Tai, not feeling the hours pass you by, vanishing into the darkness of the night.

You’ve spotted Sarah dancing with John B, surprised she was able to drag him to an event like this. But you also know she doesn’t want to be here either, just making her father happy.

It must run in the family.

You didn’t bother her, just catching her eye as she grinned at you.

Your mind is already feeling hazy as a lazy smile is painted on your lips, doing your best to listen to what your friends are saying.

It doesn’t help that the music is loud, making it harder to hear their voices.

“It was the worst date I’ve ever been on,” Audrey remarks, grimacing as the memory comes back to her.

“That shouldn’t mean you’re never going on another one. There are a ton of nice guys you haven’t met yet,” Caroline points out.

“Who haven’t I met?”

You turn your head away from them, finding your husband standing under the yellow lights, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He’s a little taller than the people surrounding him and you watch him take a sip of whiskey, cradling the glass between his fingers.

He laughs a little at something someone says, you think it was Kelce.

Your smile grows at that.

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the overwhelming emotions of the day making you feel so…in love with him.

“What about Topper?”

Your attention is diverted at that, wondering what Caroline is talking about.

“Topper?” Audrey asks.

“Come on. I know you have a thing for him.”

“I do not,” Audrey protests but the slight curve of her lips say otherwise.

“I’m sure Y/N could ask Rafe to put in a good word for you,” Caroline says, looking over at you.

Before you can respond, a loud voice cuts through the bubbly atmosphere.

A familiar voice.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He’s still in the same spot as earlier, now inching closer to someone you can’t see through the crowd of people.

“You’re not going to get away with it, Rafe. Everyone knows you were the last one to see him alive,” a man calls out.

It takes you a moment, but you recognize him as Chase’s friend, the one who spoke at his funeral.

It takes you another moment to realize what he’s implying.

Rafe falters for a split second, then his face is practically in a snarl, staring at this man through seething eyes.

You watch his hand curl into a fist, getting closer to him.

“What makes you think you can say that to my face? You fucking liar,” he spits out, and before he can reach him, he’s stopped by Topper and Kelce on either side of him. Topper’s now holding what you guess is Rafe’s whiskey glass.

Your mind is working faster than your body, so all you can do is watch, confused about what is exactly happening.

The man gives Rafe a searing glare before he walks away, Rafe still yelling at him.

By the time you reach Rafe, Topper and Kelce have let go of him, and you don’t miss the glace they give each other.

You swallow as you find everyone else standing still, having seen the entire thing. People are murmuring to each other before the music slowly starts playing again.

His jaw is still clenched, but his eyes soften a little when he sees you.

“Rafe, what is going on?” You ask, still shaken up.

If you were more sober, you would be embarrassed, still feeling the heat of everyone’s stares.

“Nothing. Let’s go,” he says, an edge to his voice.

You look back at your friends, finding worried eyes. Rafe is already walking into the cooler air of the building, so you decide to ignore them, following him instead.

You know you’re drunk because you find yourself feeling sleepy on the drive home. Somehow almost falling asleep during Rafe’s ramblings about how ridiculous that man’s accusations are, how he should have showed him not to fuck with him.

“I just don’t know why he would say those things, Rafe,” you wearily say, walking into your house.

“He just wants someone to blame, babe,” he replies, taking off his suit jacket, hanging it on a kitchen chair.

You don’t notice how he wipes his nose, sniffling a little.

You frown slightly, unsure of anything that’s happened tonight.

“I just don’t want everyone to think you…” You can’t finish your sentence.

You feel his hands on your arms, like he’s trying to steady you.

“You don’t need to worry, alright? I can handle it.” His voice is low, assuring, but a slight darkness creeps in.

He looks over you, continuing, “Did I tell you that you looked beautiful tonight?”

You shake your head, finding his eyes.

“Well, you do.”

You crack a smile, and as you stare at his pink lips, you think about kissing him.

But then they start moving.

“I’m sure you’re tired. Why don’t you go relax?” He suggests, and all you can do is nod.

The warm water helps soothe your muscles, making you feel even calmer. You put down your empty wine glass, letting the rest of the liquid go down your throat.

You decided to listen to your husband, running yourself a hot bath while he poured you a glass of wine, a couple candles lit to help you relax even further.

You think he’s doting on you because he still feels bad about everything. You want to smile, thinking about Rafe, but your eyelids start to feel heavy. The thought you should get out of the bath pops into your mind but the wall in front of you starts to look blurry.

You don’t think you can move your body even if you wanted to.

You feel like you’re sinking, the smell of sandalwood engulfs you as you finally close your eyes.

Your body feels lighter as you go down, the water the next thing to take you.

Tags:

@fangirlwithlou @thebuttofcaptainamerica @kkmstblog @whorefordrew @gillybear17 @alinaharlow @nichmeddar @lovedetlost @coriellesmarya @rafeslovergirl @hysteriahall @loves0phelia @igotmessymind @djconde58 @imsorare @bbqsauceonmyt1tties

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist!

[lucero-is-here]

DANCES IN WEARING BONTEMPS’ HAT, KATHERINE’S JACKET, AND A SUIT THEY TOTALLY DIDN’T STEAL FROM LAWSON.

Ladies, gentlemen and folks! Welcome to the cabaret show! Today as our star, Marla De Paradis!

Requested by:

Now I don’t know her the most- but let’s go.

- she spends a lot of time on her appearance. She wants to look beautiful, and that takes a lot of time.

- she has a lucky charm which she brings with her everywhere, because she hopes and wishes it does bring her some luck in life.

- she wears heels most of the time. Her heels are usually red, black or blue

- she takes such a long time to do her hair it’s exhausting-

- she hit someone with a frying pan before, and it may or may not have been Issac.

- she will not hesitate to punch someone. Yes she’s a badass. Yes she will resort to violence if the situation requires it.

- drinks so much coffee it’s amazing she can survive without caffeine.

- she’s pansexual.

- she loves kids so so much- she finds them so adorable and so innocent and is protective of them if you hurt a kid in front of her, make sure you can run because she can get relentless in chasing you down.

- she can run in high heels.

- amazing spice tolerance-

- majority of her wardrobe are dresses and outfits she will wear for a while.

- she likes…Pans. She can cook with them, boil water with them, hit people with them, put things with them…Yeah really useful!

- she has a great relationship with her family, but they aren’t living in Concordia sadly, but they write her letters every now and then!

- she can dance really really well. She’s a beautiful and talented dancer, and knows a lot about dancing too.

- she can play the piano. She isn’t as good as it as she is when it comes to dancing, but she can still play really well.

- she reads horror or thriller novels a lot. She is always enticed by them, and thinks they are really interesting to read. That said she knows a lot more about anatomy and the human body than you would expect.

- she has a pet parrot. She finds the parrot really really funny, and when it spoke, it repeated something Bontempts said. So she named the parrot Bontempts. The actual Bontemps has no idea whether to feel honoured or offended, and Marla laughs about it a lot.

- she likes history and art! She is really interested in history, and art is one of her favourite subjects since she can paint and draw and learn more about artworks!

- she has a brother, who’s a piano teacher somewhere. He taught her how to play the piano.

- bad memory. In the moments when she needs to remember something, she forgets it. In the moments she doesn’t need to remember something, she also forgets it. So technically, it’s a win.

- after she adopted the two kids in that one case, she has loved them and gave them the best lives she could ever give them.

- she has a diary, and several pages are dedicated to dissing off the people she doesn’t like. Like…JUSTIN LAWSON- AND DORA UMBRIGHT-

Okay I’m pretty much braindead, so posting has been really slow- I’m so sorry if your requests are only answered after a few days, but I am going through something now, and I need some time to answer your requests- but anyways! If I think of more somehow, a part 2 may or may not be posted! Now- I have to go! Bye-bye!

Lucero jumps out the window and escapes, leaving the camera running. That was when the door was broken down, and the camera turned off.

[madhixnadar]

{ SIMONE ASHLEY | 27 | CIS WOMAN ﹜ welcome to san francisco, MADHI NADAR! just to make sure, you go by SHE/HER, right? okay, great. i just have a few questions for you before i can let you go.. how long have you been here for? FIFTEEN YEARS. where are you currently living? PACIFIC HEIGHTS. what’s your current occupation? ASSISTANT WEDDING PLANNER at GOLDEN HOUR WEDDINGS but what’s your dream occupation? OWNER OF MY OWN WEDDING PLANNING BUSINESS. wow! interesting. is there a secret that we can keep between you and i? I DONT BELIEVE IN TRUE LOVE. lastly, this is a bit of a random question but … what’s your favorite song? ANTI-HERO by MINORITY 905 (ORIGINALLY BY TAYLOR SWIFT) & that’s all they wrote, friend! we can’t wait to see you around the golden city!

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of food (not eating disorders and no pictures)

tl;dr: madhi is a sassy but kind workaholic who wants to make friends but doesn't know how and is afraid of any sort of true relationship because if something were to go wrong, she is worried she can't handle it.

General Info

Name:  Madhi Nadar

Nickname: Mads, M—Madhi likes nicknames but her mother does not, so she didn’t really have many growing up.

Gender: Woman, She/her

Race: Asian (South Asian)

Ethnicity: Indian (Tamil)

Age: January 17, 1995 (27)

Place of Birth: Trenton, NJ

Parents: Janhvi & Nikhil Nadar (div. 2007, neither remarried)

Siblings: None

Cousins: Would be willing to plot!

Appearance

Height: 5’6” (66 inches; 1.68 meters)

Weight: 145 lbs (65.8 kg)

Hair: Long black hair, coarse and curly (3a)

Skin: Dark brown with a Neutral undertone

Distinguishing marks: None

Eyes: Deep, Dark Brown  

Clothing: Madhi is a fan of pant suits for work and will work to fit a blazar with almost anything. She’s never been the most dress-oriented woman; though seems ironic in an industry that is, in part, all about THE dress. She does appreciate lighter colors and she thinks that yellow is a great color on her—so long as it’s deeper and not so…fluorescent. When Madhi is not at work, she gravitates toward leggings and a comfortable top—she’s big on the texture of the items she’s wearing, and she likes the soft, breathable, movable fabrics.  

Personality

Temperament: Madhi is a determined, loyal, and persnickety individual. A combination of her family upbringing and own experiences combine heavily to cause her to want things a very particular way—mostly at work. She has been labeled a control freak at times, but that attention to detail and drive to get things perfect is what causes her to be the most requested wedding planner in her Boutique, apart from the owner and manager of course.

Madhi’s relentless focus at work has caused a bit of isolation from those around her. In part, this was a choice—relationships had caused her more pain than promise and they were uncontrollable. In addition, although Madhi would never go to therapy—if she did, she might share that emotions regarding losing or disappointing people in her life are “too much” for her to handle and she doesn’t know how to work through them to get to the other side.

Madhi is generous and kind but is also snarky and sarcastic. She has walls, and while they may not be as high as others, they are thick and it can take a while to get to her for who she really is.

Moral/ethical beliefs: Madhi is determined—she will work as hard as she can to provide her clients with the dream day they have always wanted. She will sacrifice herself to make that goal come to life. But Madhi will not sacrifice others to make it happen. As much as she stays away from most relationships, she does care about people deeply. She wouldn’t want the people in her life—whether it be clients or more personal relations—to be hurt in the pursuit of obtaining the goal. Well, to a degree. It’s debatable if Madhi understands her work ethic is perhaps hurting others, but she wouldn’t do so knowingly.

Madhi finds fulfilment in being surprising and exceeding expectations, but she won’t cheat to make it happen. She finds it lazy—Madhi has always loved problem solving and finding innovative solutions to obstacles in her way.

Religious beliefs: Mahdi did not grow up religious.  She does find herself spiritual in the sense that it’s worth doing good things for others because that is the energy the universe deserves, but not a specific higher power or religious instructor.

Political stance: Madhi has never been involved in politics, so there isn’t much here; but that can always change if necessary.

Hobbies: Madhi seems very stereotypical for a wedding planner. Always looks put together, always on time, carries a planner, has sixteen organizational methods and they all work seamlessly together. Answers for everything, dresses very feminine (even with the pant suit), had a lot of pink and whites and pastels in her wardrobe. But under the surface, Madhi is as dynamic as anyone.

Madhi adores video games, specifically multiplayer online battle arena (MOBAs) and real-time strategy (RTS) games. Remember how she enjoys problem solving?  Madhi finds these strategic games to be a great use of her skills—especially because typical games that require more dexterity are much harder for her to complete. Currently, she is playing a lot of Team Fight Tactics, though she has played Halo Wars in the past and found it just as fun.

Her other hobby is axe throwing; again, a little unorthodox—but there is nothing more empowering to Madhi than throwing an axe at a wooden target and making it stick. Oh, and she bakes.

Habits: Madhi always makes her coffee—she isn’t a coffee snob, and frankly she doesn’t even have the machines to make fancy coffee. Just her $14 Mr. Coffee machine and a regular paper filter from Trader Joe’s will do her just fine. But it’s the act of hitting the button, smelling the scent, and holding it up to her nose as her first action in the morning that really gives her peace.

She does have a habit of cracking her knuckles, back, neck or even shoulders—especially when she is stressed. She finds the sound takes the edge off a little bit.

Every Sunday night, Madhi takes about an hour to decorate her planner for the week. She is a big Passion Planner fan, and she enjoys the time she dedicates to making it look aesthetically pleasing. It sets herself up for the week in a great way.

Quirks/eccentricities: Madhi also does NOT like leftovers. At all. It’s a texture thing for her. She doesn’t like to waste food, so she works really hard to make meals that are a perfect size for one person.

She has a very specific way of walking around stores, and while she doesn’t walk around all stores the same way, each store has its own path she must follow.

The ONLY kind of basic utensils that Madhi uses are small spoon, small fork and regualr butter knives. She will use sharper knives if needed, but those are her basics. Please do not give her a big spoon, she will probably go and find a small spoon to wash instead.

Likes:

Colors: The colors sage green, olive green, gray, pastels (but not easter), Golden Yellow

Food: Murgh Makhani (her Mother’s and Grandmother’s only), Naan, Cream of Chicken Soup & Rice, Snickerdoodles, Shrimp, Sushi…ok the list goes on and on.

Cocktail: Margarita Mix & Crown Apple

Non-Alcoholic Drink: Coffee, Orange Soda

Smells: Gardenia, Apple, Chocolate Chip Cookies and…gasoline at a gas station.

Dislikes:

  Colors: Bright Red, Orange and Yellow

  Food: Yellow Bananas, Milk with Cereal, some (not all) mashed potatoes—really any super soft, mushy food.

Cocktail: Anything with Tequila. Once—and never again.

Non-Alcoholic Drink: Milk, Pepsi, Regular Mountain Dew

Smells: Any overly floral scent, Parmesan cheese.

Fears: Madhi is afraid of bugs openly. But inwardly, Madhi deeply fears rejection.

Strengths: Problem Solving, Customer Service, Seeing a project to it’s end, Adapting to her environment, measurements and visualizing a space, writing.

Weaknesses: Building meaningful relationships, understanding her own limits, letting go of control, mental calculations, self-awareness in some situations, creating work-life boundaries, anything to do with physical exercise.

Short term goals: Madhi would like a promotion to manager—or even associate wedding planner. She thinks she’s done a good job.

A secret goal she has is that she’d like some friends. Though she isn’t 100% sure where to start.

Long term goals: She wants to open her own Wedding Boutique and offer both traditional American wedding planning but also assist with other culture’s weddings, when appropriate, including her own Indian/Tamil heritage.

Hopes and desires: Madhi’s greatest desire is not one she’d admit to—but she wants to be loved. She feels like her whole life she’s had to earn it, and the wear and tear from constantly trying to prove herself is tearing her apart.

She will tell you that her desire is to plan the weddings of important and influential people through her own business and name.

Occupation: Madhi is an assistant wedding planner; she has her own clients but she still needs to work with a Associate Wedding Planner to sign off on choices and decisions she’s made.

Skills: Problem solving, Logical Thinking, Organization, People Skills, damage control, strategizing, axe throwing

Secrets:

Her biggest secret is that she doesn’t believe in love but she’s a wedding planner—so she fakes it all day long. It’s really more that she doesn’t believe love lasts—her parents were divorced at a young age and neither got remarried, believing they were better off on their own as well. Through her teen years, she saw a string of flings her friends went through and how they never seemed to last. Along with her belief that she will always have to prove her worth to those around her, how can love last if it’s always at the brink of being taken away?

Gear

Always has: her Passion Planner, a Pentel RSVP ball point pen in Black and her purse.

Events and History

Recent notable events

Madhi has recently had her 4th year work anniversary at Golden Hour Weddings

She found herself on Hinge?

She recently moved out of her mother’s house…like 6 months ago.

Bad events in the past

Her parents were divorce when she was 10—and it was nasty.

Her mother moved her to San Francisco when she was 12 and all the legal disputes were finally over

She doesn’t see her dad anymore, but they do talk on the phone.

Her mother had wanted her daughter’s life to be so much more than her own, so she pushed Madhi obsessively to achieve greatness—but it caused Madhi to feel like her current self was never enough for her mother.

Good events in the past

Madhi had a wonderful imagination growing up and could often spend hours creating kingdoms or stories or fantasies that allowed her to escape her mother’s expectations for her.

It’s the reason she loves wedding planning, even if she doesn’t believe in love herself, she does love the idea of creating these fantasies that people can escape into a live a different moment in time.

[drownmeinbeauty]

JUST THE WAY YOU ARE

What is the difference between a painting, drawing and illustration? And how many times can one paint one's wife? These questions entertained me as I navigated the crowded ramps of Gathering, the Alex Katz retrospective at the Guggenheim. It's a fitting title because the flat, oversized, prettily colored figures in Katz' canonical paintings fill the spaces of the museum like cocktail party guests, and also because the fundamental impression of the show is social rather than aesthetic. It captures the bourgeouis-bohemian milieu that Katz and his wife Ada travel in more powerfully than any aesthetic credo.

There are some dazzling works in the lower ramps, from the 1950's, with serious propositions about portraiture. Here figures are often set against a painted white backdrop, constructed paintstakingly from observation, with each brushstroke offering some critical piece of information, as semtiotics of character. Katz once said he wanted to paint faster than he could think, and the sincerity and unfussiness of these canvases communicate something close to love. A 1958 portrait of Irving and Lucy Sandler (Irving and Lucy) captures a tenderness and tenuousness about the young couple. Strange small drips of red color from his shirt collar and suit elbow, and the seemingly unfinished sliver of space in between them, feel charged with life. The two are set, simply, in the middle of a large primed canvas, shown nearly full-size, from the front, without any backdrop or acoutrements. The lack of bravado is impressive. This is a painter trying, simply, to capture the two people in front of him. And he does.

One online review refers to Alex Katz's Planes of Colour at the Guggenheim. That's a rich formal topic that's left mostly unexplored. There are some collages in the show (built very literally from paper "planes of colour") but, like the paintings, they are flattened, communicating beach scenes without any spatial tension, like a cartoon. They seem to abbreviate optics for facile comprehension.

There's a sameness to Katz's later paintings, which employ these planes of color as a signature style and Ada as his signature subject. One earlier painting, from 1960. shows her six times, from six different vantage points, while the painted portrait of a gentleman impinges on the left side of the canvas. It's about how one person can be many people, all at once, and how the work of the portraitist is relentless and futile, as their subject slips out of the present into something else, something entirely different, something perhaps unknowable. Katz's most famous works, the very pretty, very big views of Ada's face, are magnificent graphic design and magnificent love letters. But they lack the the poignancy of his early painted portraits, which struggle to capture a person who is at the very moment, as time, and they along with it, slip away.

Alex Katz, The Black Dress, 1960.

[i-may-be]

Hello!! may i request a romantic matchup with a male and female for genshin impact if you still do them?? my pronouns are she/her and I'm a ESFP 4w3 487. i’m a very shy bit friendly first meeting because I'm not the person to make the first move but when you get to know me I'm more hyper but still calm. I definitely have bit of a temper and get defensive over myself very easily as I'm a very emotional person but I tried to keep calm and be nice and sweet most of the time. I deal with alot of anxiety and sadness but usually try to fight it alone unless it's really bad. Some of my hobbies are definitely looking into astrology and typology (mbti enneagram etc). I can definitely have dark humour about my trauma at times but don't like actually dark jokes about horrible things. I'm very protective over my loved ones and animals. I'm definitely an empathy and a big animal lover. I'm definitely more insecure then confident. I have hard times making decisions and I'm also pretty snappy and lipy. also like poetry and just going out with friends. I don't really have an aesthetic but I usually wear casual clothes and the colors are usually white,black,grey dark red or blue.

hello! thank you for choosing this blog for your matchup <3

ROMANTIC MATCHUP: Lisa Minci

HOW YOU MET

You were visiting her library, searching for an astrology book- for the sack of this scenario, I don't think a poetry book would specifically suit this situation- but I digress. She noticed you searching through the shelves and something about you prompted her to stop lazing around for a moment to help you.

She came over to you and at first you both made small talk about the type of book you were looking for, until she made a proposition.

In her words; "I'll let you take out a restricted book if you promise to come here more often, hm?" And well, who would turn that down? It's not everyday Lisa gives someone special permissions.

And so, your relationship progressed from there. You were timely enough to keep Lisa's trust and her knowledge was valuable to you, especially since she seemingly knows everything under the sun, including astrology and typology.

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS

A flirt(quick, act surprised)- you'll get cute nicknames and unsuspecting compliments. She only ever flirts when the conversations are private though, and she claims it's because she "should be the only one to see your cute blush" but her real reason is simply just to not do anything that may make you feel embarrassed infront of others.

Her calm compsure really contrasts and compliments your temper. I feel like she would have a calming influence, which would help ease your anxiety and loosen up with her. Despite her relentless teasings, her priority is with helping you feel more comfortable so she's happy with the way she influences that.

I feel like your trauma humour(for lack of a better term) helps her open up a little. It may sound odd, but you being more open about your trauma helps her open up more, something she rarely does. You make her feel more comfortable in herself just as she does the same for you, it's sweet tbh :]

HANGING OUT

Most onlookers are still surprised that Lisa is so enthusiastic about having you with her for afternoon tea. She knows just how you like your tea, if you prefer herbal or the original, doesn't matter she just knows how you like it. She's made sure to negotiate for people to bring her your favourite snacks and biscuits to go with it.

Lisa is a storyteller, she can recite tales about gods and local legends- anything interesting or slightly fantastical(if it can be considered fantastical in Teyvat). She always manages to be engaging and her stories always have points to discuss after, so deep conversations usually follow or interrupt them.

You both frequent The Cat's Tail for a drink or two. Lisa knows all too well about your love for animals, and the cats in this tavern are the nearest place for you to really express that. Sometimes you'll get a pizza there too, as a special treat or if Jean is joining you both. It can be a social place for you two to meet and talk with others, but also a private place if you both close yourself into your seats enough.

[heliads]

Going for a Drive (Part One)

Tony Stark is somewhat horrified to hear that S.H.I.E.L.D. is insisting on having an agent drive him around out of fear of an enemy attack. However, his new chauffeur, Agent Y/N L/N, is starting to win him over.

masterlist / part two

Tony Stark’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. He’s got them positioned low, almost near his lap, so even if the security cameras and paparazzi stills manage to glimpse him through the tinted windows of his car, they won’t be able to see the way his knuckles are practically bone-white against the dark leather. Tony isn’t usually like this, or so he tells everyone else. It’s just that when he drives by himself on nights like this, when the sky is pitch black and there’s nobody around to either save or threaten him, he can’t help but think of a similar night back in December 1991.

Tony wasn’t there for that, wasn’t there to see his parents’ car forced off the road or the deaths of first his father then his mother, but he’s seen the recordings. He knows exactly what happened, which is why he’s doing his best not to think about it right now. The only problem with it being late at night is that he’s got nothing else to distract him from the relentless darkness, so he can’t seem to think about anything else. Tony grips the wheel even tighter, ignoring the shocks of pain sent up his fingers, and keeps going.

He’s been driving a long time tonight, which is why his stress is at an all time high. There was a conference in DC which Tony absolutely had to attend, despite his multiple attempts to cancel it, and an important meeting with some of those S.H.I.E.L.D. upper-crust bozos that had to be in person. The airports have all been backed up, so Tony decided he’d just hop behind the wheel and make sure he got there himself. Sure, it caused the usual uproar of security and Avengers paranoia, but Tony likes causing problems, so he went anyway.

Now he’s been driving for the fourth consecutive hour, and his nerves only strengthen during the darkening night. As he waits for a stoplight to turn, Tony rakes a hand through his hair, doing his best to pull himself together. How is it that he can fight off mercenaries in a giant metal suit, but the second he does something as insignificant as pull a little one-person road trip, it’s like he’s out of his mind? Honestly, it makes no sense.

Or, it does, but Tony doesn’t want to think about it. Instead, he turns on the radio, desperate for something to tune out the thoughts churning through his head. He reaches the city soon enough, and the second he’s enveloped by the usual sounds and sights of his home, it’s like he’s a drowning man just rescued from the depths of the drink. 

Tony pulls into the Avengers building, heading up the stories to where some of the S.H.I.E.L.D. officers are waiting to have a little chat. As Tony takes a seat in the meeting room, trying to fight the feeling that he’s an elementary schooler called in for a parent-teacher conference because he was caught trying to skip class and go work on his own projects again, he can’t help but take a look around him. He recognizes a few faces, but they all seem to wear the same heavy, mock-concerned expression that tells him nothing good is to come.

Tony drums his fingers against the tabletop. “Well, gentlemen, it’s wonderful to see you all gathered here again. Tell me, was there a reason we’re having this meeting at night? Last time I checked, most conferences are supposed to be in the 9 to 5 range. I just got back from the drive from DC, I was kind of hoping to get this over with quickly.”

One of the agents leans forward. “Actually, Mr. Stark, that’s exactly why we wanted to talk to you. Although we treat you and the other Avengers with the highest regards, and know full well that you’re very capable of watching your backs and all of ours-” Tony shakes his head slightly, cutting the guy off. “Skip to the end, Princess Bride. What slap on the wrist are you doling out now?”

An older agent sighs, looking as if he’d like nothing more than to leave. Tony can understand the feeling. “We’re assigning you an agent for the sole purpose of driving you to your meetings. There has been an increased HYDRA threat in the area, and we want to make sure that you don’t get blown up on your way to work.” Tony blinks in surprise. “Let me get this straight. You’re confiscating my driver’s license? What did I do, stay out past curfew?” The agent gives him a look. “Hold the jokes, Stark. We’re serious. We have received credible threats that target you, and the best way to do that is to make sure you have enough security.”

Tony gestures vaguely with one hand. “I have security. I have Happy.” The guy shakes his head. “That’s not enough. Besides, you were able to convince him not to drive you places, which was part of the reason we need to make sure that doesn’t happen again.” Tony tries a few more times, but it doesn’t look like he’ll be getting out of this. At last, he sighs in resignation. 

“Fine. Who’s my chauffeur?” He asks. A voice sounds from behind Tony just as the door clicks open. “That would be me.” Tony turns and stands to see a woman walking in, dressed in the usual dark uniform of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. She nods coolly at him. “My name is Y/N L/N. I’ll be your assigned agent for the foreseeable future.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Foreseeable future? What, is that like being stuck with the desk job nobody wants?” She doesn’t respond to this, just glances over at the other agents still halfway between rising and staying seated. “I take it you’ve briefed him?” The agent Tony had been arguing with before shrugs. “As much as he allowed us to do.” Tony grins sarcastically. “I love it when you guys talk about me. Does so much for my self-confidence.”

Y/N nods once at him before leaving again, adding something about how she has to go check in on a few late night projects. Tony watches her go, then turns back to the agents. “If she can go, I’m going too. I hope you sleep well and dream fondly of me cruising ten miles above the speed limit.”

He can’t believe it. They won’t let him drive. Isn’t that ridiculous? The next morning, Tony has a conference call across town, and he’s just starting to slip away to his car when he realizes that his keys aren’t where they’re supposed to be. He continues walking through the parking garage, peering confusedly into his bag. Where could he have put them? Tony’s just about to turn around and head back inside for a search when he hears a clinking sound in front of him.

“Looking for something?” When Tony glances up, he realizes that Y/N’s walking towards him, holding his car keys in her hand. He frowns. “Did you pickpocket me?” Something almost like a grin appears on her face. “I believe the correct term is S.H.I.E.L.D.- approved impoundment, but you can call it what you want.” Tony groans, looking between her and the car awaiting him around the corner. “I suppose this means I can’t talk you out of this driving ban, doesn’t it?” As she turns around to walk to the car, Tony swears that she’s fully grinning now. “It does indeed.”

Tony has to admit that he’s not in the most welcoming mood. He buckles his seatbelt with a grimace, he watches Y/N adjust the seat of his car with a sullen expression, all of that. However, despite his best intentions, he finds himself smirking at her occasional comment, or contributing some sarcastic comment to the conversation and feeling oddly proud of himself when she laughs.

By the end of the day, in which she’s had to drive him to two conferences, one impromptu coffee run, and back to the Avengers tower once again, Tony swears that Y/N’s growing on him. He does eye the keys in her hand when they finally leave, though. “Are you sure that there’s no way I can convince you to give those back?”

Y/N laughs. “No chance. I’m not looking to get demoted because you pouted at me and I gave up.” Tony snorts. “I’ll make up for it by forcing you to drive me to random places all day.” Y/N shrugs. “I’m not the one paying for the gas money. Do your worst.” She waves goodbye before disappearing into a different part of the complex, and Tony stands there for a little bit, watching her go. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say that he’s looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow.

For the first time in a while, Tony goes to sleep feeling almost content. This feeling, although certainly welcome, does not last long. He’s barely fallen asleep before he’s hit with another nightmare, this one worse than the previous ones. He’s there again, back in that car with his parents, forced to sit there and watch as the Winter Soldier drags first his father and then his mother out. He can hear them fighting, hear the way their screams cut off abruptly. When he finally manages to drag himself out of the nightmare, he keeps hearing the sound of the screeching tires play over and over again in his head, and he can’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.

While he’s waiting for the sun to climb back up into the sky, Tony realizes that he can’t keep doing this, the whole driving thing. That’s the whole point of why he doesn’t like to have anyone drive the car when he’s in it- Tony knows exactly what happens if you aren’t in charge of the vehicle. It happened to his parents, and he cannot let it happen to him, and certainly not to Y/N.

He meets Y/N again by the car, but this time, he doesn’t joke around. Instead, he gets right to the point. “Look, this needs to stop. I’m a functioning adult, I can drive myself. Go back to your missions.” Y/N frowns. “Am I that bad of a driver? I thought you were fine with it.” Tony shakes his head, fighting back exhaustion. “It’s not that. This just isn’t going to work out.”

A second longer, and then Y/N’s troubled gaze clears. “You’re worried that something’s going to happen, and you want to make sure you’re the only one responsible if it does.” Tony can’t seem to meet her eyes. “Stop doing your agent mind reading thing, it’s weirding me out.” Y/N just chuckles. “I’m not going to get hurt, Tony, and neither are you. Don’t worry about it.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “See, when you put it that way it sounds so easy.” Y/N has the audacity to roll her eyes. “S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have put me up to this if they didn’t think it was the right choice. I’m not going to get hurt, and even if something crazy happened, it still wouldn’t be your fault. Do you trust me on this?”

Tony harrumphs about how this isn’t really an issue of trust, but in the end he agrees. Tony tells himself that it’s just because she made a good point, but somewhere in the back of his head, he doesn’t really want to say goodbye to the agent so quickly. Maybe he’s having fun driving around and talking, maybe he’s having a good time hearing her laugh at his stupid jokes.

He gets used to it, too, which is the worst part of all. Sure, the S.H.I.E.L.D. higher-ups may have assured Tony that Y/N’s position was only temporary, but as the weeks go on, Tony realizes that he depends more and more upon seeing her and talking things through. First, he thinks of her as an acquaintance, but he eventually dares to even name her as a friend. A friend who can make him laugh with a single raised eyebrow, a friend who Tony can’t seem to stop watching as the wind from rolled down windows tugs at her hair and shirt lapel. A very good friend, and nothing more.

Tony starts trusting her after a while. He’s not sure exactly when he decided, but it came soon enough. There aren’t that many people that he trusts, but soon enough, he stopped feeling agitated whenever he was in a car with her driving. It felt like he could finally rely on someone other than himself, someone he knew wouldn’t end up dead like his parents had.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? Trust. When you start trusting somebody, you feel like you’re untouchable, like nothing bad can happen to you. So, when they’re out driving on another long intercity trek from yet another conference and Y/N’s eyes keep flicking to the rearview mirror as if she’s seeing something troubling, Tony almost refuses to believe it.

After a few minutes of this, though, with the furrow between her brows refusing to go away, Tony can’t stay calm any longer. “Is everything alright?” Y/N shakes her head slightly. “These two trucks have been following us for a while. I’m going to change lanes, see if that’ll do anything.” Tony watches the car drift over the white lines, but the two trucks behind them just move over too. When Y/N changes again, this time more quickly, they follow suit.

She swears under her breath. “Get Agent Harris on the phone, and tell her we’re being followed. I suspect HYDRA.” Tony grimaces. “That’s not wonderful to hear.” Y/N shakes her head, keeping an eye on the trucks, which are now pushing closer to them. “No, not really.” Y/N tries to get away, but the roads are crowded and there’s only so many places she can go. Slowly but surely, the HYDRA trucks pull up so that they’re side by side with the car. There are men inside, and they’re staring down Tony and Y/N like they’re in a death match. It’s not great.

Y/N’s knuckles are tense on the steering wheel. “You have that watch you designed, right? Can you get your Iron Man suit on in case something happens?” Tony frowns even as he reaches for it. “What about you?” She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. You’re the priority.” Tony stops moving entirely. “That sounds a little too self-sacrificing, and I’m not a big fan of it.”

Y/N quickly changes lanes again, but to no avail. “Tony, the whole point of my job description is to make sure you survive, no matter the cost. Just get the suit on.” Tony wants to argue this point further, but the thought evaporates from his head when he realizes that he can’t seem to get the suit to work. He holds up the watch helplessly. “They must be jamming the signal to the suit, it won’t function properly. Whatever happens is just going to have to happen.”

Y/N’s about to say something else, but Tony’s eyes catch on the truck to their left. A door is rolling open on the side, revealing a group of enemy agents all centered around a massive gun, one propped up on a tripod and pointed directly at them. Y/N’s eyes widen as she sees it too, and she reaches for Tony just before it goes off. She has just enough time to push him away from the blast before the entire car goes up in flames, and then Tony cannot feel anything at all.

It takes him a while to wake up, and even then, the ringing in his ears is strong enough to make him wish he was unconscious again. After a few moments, he can’t care about the dizziness threatening to knock him out, or the shattering pain in his limbs. All that matters is that the car they were in is currently a pile of rubble, along with a considerable part of the freeway, and he cannot see Y/N anywhere.

He can’t see the HYDRA trucks either, meaning they probably fled so S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t find them, but that doesn’t matter. Tony starts scrambling forward on hands and knees that wobble as if they’re moments from giving out beneath him. He calls Y/N’s name in a raggedy, hoarse voice, but he hears no answer.

Then, he sees it, and Tony swears that his entire vision tunnels until he can see one thing and one thing only. There’s a hand poking out from the largest pile of rubble, and on that hand is a ring. Tony knows this ring, because he bought it for Y/N a while back. He’s always been a big gift giver, but he’d taken a lot of time to pick that one out specifically because it reminded him of her. Tony remembers the way she’d smiled at him when she unwrapped the box, and the glint of it on her hand as she spun the steering wheel around corners.

It occurs to him now that this is all his fault. This entire crash, everything, is all his fault. He brought this destruction to Y/N’s life as surely as he brought her that ring, and the only one to blame is him. He may not have fired the gun, but he kept Y/N there. This is his fault, all of it.

Tony starts frantically pulling away the chunks of debris, slowly but steadily revealing the unconscious form of a woman he knows all too well. She’s streaked with dirt, dust, and a growing amount of blood. He drags her away from the rubble, although Tony isn’t sure whether there’s a point to all of it. She’s not breathing, which makes his heart stop in his chest like he’s the dead one instead of her.

A terrible idea occurs to him, and seeing as it’s Tony’s terrible ideas that have gotten him into this mess, he relies on yet another one to get him out of it. Fingers trembling, he fumbles for the arc reactor at his chest and yanks it out. Instantly, he gasps in pain, but that doesn’t matter. He manages to shove it towards Y/N, connecting it with the life support pack in her agent’s uniform. With a burst of sparks, it starts working again, treating Y/N’s wounds and keeping her alive even as the absence of the reactor kills him.

Overhead, Tony can hear the whir of helicopter blades, and soon enough S.H.I.E.L.D. agents arrive on the scene. They pull him away from Y/N and force the reactor back in his chest despite Tony’s best attempts to fight back. He wants to tell them that it’s alright, that they need to keep Y/N alive even if the only thing saving her is his reactor, but the sudden rush of air back into his lungs keeps the words from reaching his tongue. 

Tony spends an impossible amount of time in the S.H.I.E.L.D. hospital, getting checked and rechecked for every possible injury. He only pays attention to the bare amount of information, preferring instead to try and figure out what’s happened to Y/N. He asks if she’s alive, if she’s conscious, but every time Tony forms another question the doctors look between each other like they’re keeping secrets, and murmur platitudes that he’s sure they don’t mean.

Eventually, he gets cleared, and far sooner than he thought. Y/N had managed to protect him from serious injury when she’d pushed him away from the blast, which only makes Tony feel worse. She saved him, but what had he managed to do for her except keep her in danger?

After searching, he finds her hospital room and slips inside before someone can figure out where he’s going. She just underwent a few surgeries, but should be waking up soon. For a moment, all he can see when he stares at the figure in the hospital bed is that same video of his parents, with his mother pulled from the car and strewn like a broken doll across the road. Why does Tony bring disaster wherever he goes?

Then there’s a sound like a quiet cough, and Tony manages to drag himself from his self-induced misery long enough to rush to Y/N’s side. His hand finds hers before he realizes what he’s searching for, but even after that, he can’t quite bring himself to pull his fingers away. “You gave me quite a scare, you know.” He tries for a cheerful tone, but doesn’t quite get there. Y/N smiles nonetheless.

“I figured a little drama wouldn’t hurt.” Tony sighs, feeling his lungs rattle. “It did, to be honest. I thought-” He thought many things, especially that she wouldn’t survive. Y/N seems to know this, just as she seems to know almost everything Tony thinks even before he says it. She squeezes his hand. “I’m still here. Can’t get rid of me that quickly, you know? I’ll be back out and driving before you know it.”

Tony opens his mouth to object, but she gives him a look that permits no interruptions. “Don’t you even think about refusing that. You’re not the reason for all of this, you know? Besides, I was kind of enjoying the job.” Y/N grins as she says it, like she’s admitting a secret to someone very dear to her. Tony shakes his head slightly, smiling as he does it. “I should hope so. Time magazine said I was on their list of Top 10 best people for a road trip.”

Y/N laughs, wincing as her shoulders shake. “Well, they weren’t wrong.” She looks exhausted, so Tony reluctantly starts to straighten up. She fixes him with one last steady stare before he could turn to go. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Tony, I mean it. It’s not your fault. I was the one to make all the choices, not you.”

Tony sighs. “Why’d you do it, though? You should have made sure you made it out too.” Y/N smiles again, even as her eyelids start to close. “We all do strange things for the people we love.” Her voice is so quiet that Tony almost thinks he’s made the whole thing up, but the jump in his heart tells him otherwise. He leans forward, but notices that she’s asleep again.

Instead, Tony lets a quiet smile drift across his face. “I love you too.” He presses a kiss to her forehead before he goes. They’ll have plenty of time to talk about this once she gets out. Tony can only hope that day comes soon.

marvel tag list: i would drive you out of spain @rogueanschel​, @mycosmicparadise​, @ellobruv-blog​, @caswinchester2000​, @with-inked-solace​

[rocorambles]

Let's Give It A Try

Pairing: Bokuto x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Mafia AU, Sex Toys, Overstimulation, Use of Sir, Dirty Talk, Degradation

Summary: Dating a man like Bokuto Koutarou goes against every moral code you’ve learned growing up, but love has a funny way of going against the grain.

Bokuto exhales, sighing as he leans broad shoulders against the rough exterior of the building behind him, cigarette smoke floating in tendrils in front of him. He prides himself on the strength and health of his body, but when he gets in one of his moods after a particularly strenuous week, he can’t help but rely on the way the nicotine mellows out the stress of his job. Closing his eyes, he lets the muffled beat of the music inside the club reverberate through his chest, letting himself let go just a tiny bit. Foolish maybe, considering just how many people want him dead, but he allows himself a moment of lax judgement while on his turf, literally on the ground he owns, surrounded by his men both in and out of the club, under the watchful blue eyes of his right hand man.

Everything will be just fine.

And suddenly everything’s a little bit more than just fine as his curiosity peeks, sharp owl-like eyes scanning you as you come stumbling out of the club, taking deep ragged breaths, completely unaware of your surroundings as you greedily inhale the fresh night air.

He has to bite back the sharp grin that threatens to stretch across his face at your adorable jump and squeak when you finally straighten up and take inventory of who’s around you, quivering like a little mouse when you meet his intense golden gaze. There’s something different about you and he can tell with just a quick glance at you that this isn’t your usual joint, taking in your considerably conservative and casual outfit for the area’s most popular nightclub, the nervous ticks and almost bashful way you curl in on yourself, unused to the hungry look he continues to direct at you.

It takes some coaxing and he almost feels bad at how he swears he can hear your frightened and unsure heartbeat pounding your chest as he approaches you. But his talons are out, wide eyes too curious and intrigued by the prey that’s caught his attention to just let you go off on your merry way. He croons at how you stutter, tripping over your words in your nervousness, licking his own lips for a different reason when he sees your pink muscle dart out to wet your dry ones.

But he can feel his wings furl out to their full span, can feel himself prepare to lunge at you when he finds out that his sweet little mouse came all by herself, trying to get over your recent breakup by having some fun, maybe even finding someone to…

This time he does laugh when you embarrassedly trail off, ending your anxious ramblings, before pinning you down with a wild grin that makes your chest tighten.

“I can be that someone.”

There’s something about the man that leaves you on edge. You can’t deny the fact that he’s handsome, in a wild rugged way that reminds you of a predator. But there’s something...intense about him, something in his eyes, something in his presence, something in his aura that makes you shiver, keeping your suddenly heavy feet rooted to their spot. Not that you’d get very far if he was intent on doing you harm you ascertain as you stare at the muscular and toned figure in front of you.

Yet despite all that, you can’t help but believe that he really does mean you no harm. Maybe it’s what you want to believe. A last hope and faith that not all men are scum like your ex is. Desperate to believe that there are decent men out there, that you can find happiness and maybe even love one day. So going against every ounce of self-defense and common sense that’s been instilled in you all your life, you take this stranger’s hand and let him guide you away, finding comfort in his warm, calloused grip.

Even if you do end up dead after all this, you can’t help but think you’ve made the right decision, your problem more than solved as any thoughts of your ex (and anything else really) fly out your head as soon as you’re dragged into an alarmingly luxurious apartment. He really is more animal than man and you cry out as teeth harshly dig into your neck, possessively and hungrily marking every inch of you, lips greedily wrapping around perky nipples and sucking with a force that makes your eyes roll and your nails dig into his thick biceps. But that only seems to egg him on more and you vaguely wonder if you’re going to cum before he can even get to the main course, body already overwhelmed with arousal and desire as he touches you everywhere except where you need him most.

You’re positively dripping by the time he does make it between your legs, too high strung to even be embarrassed, letting out a high pitched whine instead when he teasingly blows on your sopping wet entrance, pressing your thighs apart, leaving you on full display. And you swear you black out purely from relief when a hot wet tongue finally licks a long line up your slit. So on edge already, it only takes a few flicks and lapping of your aroused clit to have you careening off that pleasurable cliff and you sob, body thrashing and convulsing as you ride out your orgasm while lips and tongue continue to work you over.

You blearily blink as you finally regain control of your body, expecting the man between your legs to take the hint as you try to sit up on your elbows. But you scream, instantly collapsing on the bed, hands fisting in the sheets besides you as two thick fingers suddenly slip inside of you, beginning a relentless pace right from the start, hot tongue still lapping and licking at your sensitive clit. It’s too much, too soon and you writhe, body trying to pry yourself away from the torturous pleasure, but also aching for another release as the coil in you is wound tight. Not that Bokuto leaves you much choice as he easily keeps you pinned down, your legs no match for the strength of his arms and upper body as he continues to feast on you, your pretty cries and screams music to his ears, your delicious juices intoxicating. And before you even realize it, you’re forced to your second peak, creaming and clamping down on the digits still stuffed inside of you, back arching, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Surely it’s over and you tell yourself that you’ll just close your eyes for a brief moment, a few seconds at most before paying him back with a blowjob, handjob, whatever he wants in return. Except your companion has very different plans on exactly how you’ll return the favor and your eyes shoot open, pathetic pleading noises spilling past your lips as you feel something hard and thick press against your entrance. But then he’s shoving inside of you, cock splitting your spent hole in two, and your mind blanks, unable to resist, unable to enjoy, only able to take and feel as it drags against your walls, going deeper and deeper.

And that’s how you pass out, one of the last clear memories you have before your mind fades to darkness, exhaustion and bliss rendering you useless as you’re ruthlessly fucked into and used by the man above you as he chases his own end, head empty except for mindless thoughts of cock, cock, cock.

There’s a few more one night flings after that and you try and convince yourself that it’s just that, nothing more, ignoring the pang in your heart when Bokuto sends you a sad face via text when he wakes up to an empty bed, ignoring the guilt resting heavy on your shoulders when you accidentally sleep in longer than you meant to and have to pry yourself from a pouting face and gentle grip on your wrist as gold eyes plead for you to stay.

But Bokuto Koutarou always gets what he wants and you find it harder to wriggle out from his strong arms as the sun’s rays filter through the windows, you find it harder to not sit down at his dining table and stay for a piping hot cup of coffee, you find it harder not to wake up and nuzzle closer to his body, cuddling and sweetly talking with him more than a casual relationship warrants.

And you find it impossible to not say yes when he asks you to officially go out with him one lazy morning as he cradles you in his arms.

Dating Bokuto is an adventure unlike any you’ve been on before and it’s so easy to be swept along in his enthusiasm and energy, giggling like children in one moment before you’re being pounced on in the next, gold eyes darkening in raw hunger and lust. Bokuto is an enigma that you wonder if you’ll ever truly understand, so easily shifting from a cheerful goofball to a dangerous predator and back again. But you don’t mind, finding the multi-faceted personality one of his strong suits...until it isn’t anymore.

You’d always had a feeling that Bokuto was hiding something from you, some things not quite adding up, the outgoing man strangely reticent about certain topics, especially regarding his work life and where his money comes from. But you had chalked it up to your sweet boyfriend being humble, not wanting to delve too much into his enormous wealth, because he must have enormous wealth from the penthouse apartment he lives in, the extravagant vacations he whisks you away on, the luxury gifts he bestows upon you without blinking an eye. And you’re correct, just not in the way you had imagined and you tearily and accusationally glare at him when you accidentally come across the hidden switch in the back of his closet, door opening and revealing crates and crates of a white powdery substance.

You want him to laugh it off like he always does, tell you some bullshit about it being for some prank he’s going to pull on Akaashi or Konoha, that it’s not what you think it is. But he doesn’t and the two of you just silently stare at each other, the pieces connecting all too clearly even without a word being said. And you leave, betrayal and hurt digging their claws into you as you leave behind a man who you thought you had known, who you had loved, but who you realize maybe you don’t really know at all.

It feels eerily familiar, a sense of deja vu flooding you when you take hesitant steps into another nightclub in the area, desperate for another distraction, another fling to fuck you free from thoughts of gold eyes and a muscular body. You tell yourself that there’s nothing similar about the solid build of the stranger you’re grinding up against, that the similarity in appearance is just coincidence as the two of you stumble to his apartment. But then lips and hands are all over you, too gentle, too soft, treating you like glass, words too cautious. Everything’s wrong, wrong, wrong and when he begins a slow careful pace, fucking you like he’s making love, so different from the way a certain man would have broken you down to pieces only to build you back up, you shove him off, uncaring of how rude you’re being.

That night when you return to your own bed, you sob in frustration, toys, dildos, vibrators scattered around you as you seek any relief you can get, looking for even the slightest mimicry of Bokuto’s touch, trying to remember what he sounds like, what he feels like. But memory and imagination can only get you so far, can never live up to the real thing, and you scream into your pillow as an unsatisfying orgasm ripples through you, the realization that Bokuto has ruined your body for anyone else, even yourself, sinking into you.

It’s absolute stupidity to be with someone just for great sex. Absolutely ridiculous. What decent human would go crawling back to their drug-dealing ex just for his good dick game? God knows what other shady underground shit Bokuto’s up to and you know it runs much deeper than a single room full of cocaine.

But maybe you’re not a decent human. Maybe that’s why you still can’t stop thinking of him despite how you try and hold out, despite the multiple flings, nights, and even entire weekends you spend with yourself in bed, spending far too much on sex toys, pussy and clit throbbing, fingers and hands aching from constantly bending to be inside yourself. Yet for all that, you’re never satisfied, every weak orgasm, every disappointing touch from another man only making your need for Bokuto even more pronounced, until you finally break. And a month later you call Bokuto, a scrambled frantic call over the phone with a dildo shoved deep inside you, a vibrator buzzing on your clit, tears streaming down your face when they do nothing to take away the yearning inside of you, begging and pleading for him to come and help you.

It’s humiliating how even just the sight of him skyrockets your arousal to levels you haven’t felt since the two of you dated and you whimper as he casually leans in your doorway, thick arms crossed across his chest, gold eyes raking over your sweating nude figure that’s writhing on top of rumpled bed sheets.

“This is a good look for a desperate slut like you. Couldn’t cum without me? No one, not even your little toys could make you feel good? Maybe I should just leave, just like how you left me. Leave you high and dry. Well I guess maybe not that dry.”

You pant, wide blown out eyes watching as he slowly approaches you, face heating when he bends down to peer at your dripping cunt, mockingly whistling at how you pretty hole is no different than a leaking faucet, inner thighs drenched in your arousal.

“Koutarou, please-”

You scream as fingers harshly twist at your nipples, eyes rolling to the back of your head as just that brutal touch is enough to bring you over the edge you had been hovering around for so long, body convulsing, a dopey grin making its way onto your lips when you finally feel the pleasure you’d been craving for so long.

“Fuck, you came from just that? Who the fuck said you could cum? Who the fuck said you could use my name? Sluts like you don’t deserve to say my name. You know what to address me as.”

You wail, pain melding with the pleasure as he shoves your vibrator away, alternating between pinching and slapping your already overstimulated clit as he enunciates every word he snarls at you, a feral grin stretching across his face at your barely coherent babbles of “sir” and “sorry”.

The constriction in his own pants is painful and he’s quick to strip waist down, slowly palming his aching erection. It takes everything in him to hold back, to not just shove balls deep inside of you in one strong thrust, your absence affecting him just as badly. But that’s not what this is about. This is about making a point, reminding you just how wrong you were for leaving him without a single word, rebuilding what the two of you once had. And as ravenous as he is, he takes his time, willing himself to slow down and rediscover every inch of you, painstakingly exploring your body once again, re-memorizing every sensitive part of you that elicits a little gasp, a tiny mewl.

And he doesn’t stop, pulling the dildo inside of you completely out, using his teeth, tongue, and finger to bring you to the edge over and over again, always backing away just when you’re about to fall off that pleasurable cliff once more, diving back in like a man starved just when you think you have a shaky grasp on your senses. Only when you’re full out sobbing broken cries of his title, a litany of “please, please, please” escaping you does he move on and he groans at how perfectly your legs wrap around his back, urging him inside you as his cock finally makes contact with your gushing cunt, your hands weakly pawing at him in a silent plea for more.

But again he stops, bringing a thumb to wipe away your tears as you begin to wail anew, frustration and denial tearing you to shreds, instinctively leaning into his touch as he gently strokes your cheekbone.

“Tell me who’s the only one who can make you feel good. Who’s the only one who can pleasure you?”

And as you scream his name, he finally slams inside of you, relentlessly pounding in and out of you, gold eyes hungrily taking in how wrecked you look, how broken you look, all because of him, only for him.

It doesn’t take long for both of you to tumble together over that edge, not when both of you are beyond pent up, absence making your hearts grow fonder and your bodies desperate for each other. And you can’t help the content warm surge inside of you when you feel hot thick liquid fill your insides, your body lax and useless in post-coital bliss, heart and mind eager for Bokuto to collapse beside you and pull you into his toned chest like he always does.

Except there is no familiar weight beside you and your head shakes side to side, drool trickling down your face when Bokuto’s softening cock is suddenly replaced by four fingers brutally thrusting in and out of you, curling just right along your still quivering walls.

“We still have a long way to go, little mouse. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t know how many times you’re forced over the edge after that, consciousness fading in and out as he assaults your cunt with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. You even vaguely remember waking up once to a dildo in your ass, Bokuto pounding into your cum-filled pussy, your body more stretched than it’s been in a long time. They all blur together, only tied together by the delirious pleasure that numbs everything else until you’re succumbing to darkness one last time as yet another body shaking orgasm rips through you.

It’s the scent of fresh coffee and bacon that awakens you and you blearily open your eyes, only to immediately wince as soon as you try to move, your body feeling like it had been rammed into by a truck (although you suppose that imagery isn’t too far off from what actually transpired). Sinking back into the plush pillow and mattress, you close your eyes, wondering what’s your next move. Force your aching body out of bed and confront the inevitable, already somewhat dreading having to face Bokuto now that your mind isn’t clouded with lust? Go back to sleep and pray that he’s gone when you wake up again, like a coward?

But Bokuto doesn’t leave you a choice and you shyly cover yourself with the blanket when he comes bounding into the room, a heaping plate of food and a cup of the delicious caffeinated beverage in his hands, heart fluttering when you see the warm and affectionate grin on his face as he approaches you, carefully placing everything on the nightstand before tenderly pecking your forehead and murmuring good morning.

You try to say something, anything, words getting stuck in your throat, but you’re shushed as the coffee mug is carefully placed in your hands, Bokuto’s soothing voice urging you to eat and recover first. And you gladly take the excuse, hunger and thirst from last night’s endurance marathon finally making itself known as you devour everything. But there’s only so long you can avoid the inevitable and with belly full and feeling more yourself, you listen as he gently grabs your hand, letting him entwine his fingers with yours as he tells you everything.

Who he is. What he does. Exactly how he’s affiliated with the Fukurodani Syndicate.

None of it is surprising, a lot of it what you had surmised and guessed yourself. But it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow knowing just how much he had kept from you, how much he had been planning on keeping from you for who knows how long. At least it’s all out in the open now though, no secrets left between the two of you, and there’s a pause as he continues to rub his thumb on the back of your hand.

“I won’t sugar coat who I am and what my life is. I don’t expect you to come running back with open arms. But if you’re willing to give it a try, I swear that there’ll never be any more secrets, that I’ll protect you, that I’ll love you. I’ll be the damn best boyfriend there ever is.”

You almost giggle at how childish the last sentence is, hope churning in your stomach when you see how genuine and passionate he is, fondness flowing through you when you recognize the man you had fallen in love with beyond the dirt on his hands. And you know it’s arguably foolish, goes against every moral code you’ve grown up with, but love never does seem to follow set equations and rules and you bring that hand to your lips, affectionately kissing your clasped fingers as you meet gold eyes.

“Let’s give it a try.”

[wolferine]

Unforgivable - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When the reader loses their temper, it causes them to commit an act they can never take back...

Warnings: Violence, blood, torture, death

Word count: 2372

Part 1

Tags: @yeetus-thyself @phoenixofash @lilclownx @yeeterthekeeper @alessiapn @diaryoflife

AN: Please read to the end before you come after me. :)

Everything is a blur. The last thing you remember is cradling Natasha in your lap and seeing the pain of betrayal in her eyes. You did this to her. You couldn’t control your anger and now she had a bullet—shot out of your gun—in her back. You hurt her and there was no way you could ever forgive yourself for that. 

You finally let Tony get close enough to take care of her, because you realized you don’t deserve her anymore. 

You run away from the Avengers Tower, your leg slowing you down, but you don’t care. Each step feels like a knife rubbing against your bone, but even that’s not enough to distract you from the pain in your chest. It feels like someone has torn you open, ripped your heart out of your ribcage, and thrown it into a bonfire.

But you have no one to blame than yourself.

Tears stream down your face as you stumble through the streets, eventually finding some privacy in a nearby forest. Your sobs echo through the trees as you crawl hand over hand, your uniform shredding open on bushes and branches. The trickle of a creek calls to you and you dunk your bloody hands in the freezing water, desperate to wash yourself of your failures.

You can’t believe what you’ve done.

The scene of Natasha falling to the floor plays over and over in your head and you would pay anything to unsee it. You curl into a ball, wiping your nose on your knees. You deserve all the pain and misery for your actions. You’re so caught up in your head, thinking about all the ways you can punish yourself, that you don’t notice the group of men sneaking up on you from behind.

“Over there! Over there!” 

“By the creek, see?”

“Wait—that’s an Avenger?”

“Looks like someone had a bad day.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you finally lift your head, only for the butt of a shotgun to slam into your face. Your nose breaks and blood fills your mouth. You turn away, not even interested in protecting yourself. If they killed you, you would thank them.

“Aw, come on. At least give us a reaction,” someone says.

The shotgun butt smashes against the back of your head and you wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked your skull. Someone kicks your leg where you were shot, and you bite your lip to hold back a scream.

“Well, this is anti-climactic.”

“Hey, if it makes our job easier, I’m not gonna complain.”

“I still think Hammer’s weird for wanting Y/N over the other Avengers.”

“Given the circumstances, he couldn’t really be picky—”

“Stop standing around and get to it!” someone yells. 

The men surround you, punching and kicking every inch of you. The bulletproof vest of your uniform does little to lessen the impact of their blows. You feel bruises forming along your ribs and your rattling teeth bite your lips bloody. It doesn’t take long for you to black out and the peace is blissful.

***********************************************************************

Sometime later—you have no idea how long—you jolt awake, finding yourself strapped to a metal chair in the middle of a dark, concrete room. A man in glasses and a gray suit with white gloves stands in front of you. 

“Hello, I’m Justin Hammer,” he says, offering a hand, then withdrawing when he realizes your arms are tied to the chair. “Sorry, force of habit.”

You stare at him. Your tongue pokes around the inside of your mouth and you notice some teeth are missing. There is a painful crick in your neck every time you try moving your head and every breath you take feels like a razor blade scraping the inside of your lungs.

“You’ve probably never heard of me, but I’m very familiar with you and your work with the Avengers. But the reason I have you here today is to talk about this man.” Hammer pulls out a folded photograph from his pocket and shows it to you.

It’s Tony Stark, but you have no desire to even think of that man anymore.

“Your best friend, right?” Hammer teases and you curl your lip at him. “What’s wrong? He’s the one who got you a spot on the team, isn’t he?” You look away from him. “I heard what he did to your girl,” he continues. “That must’ve felt like the betrayal of the century.”

“What?” you ask, confused as to what he’s referring to.

“I heard about what happened at the Avengers Tower. So tragic.” Hammer crumples Tony’s photograph and drops it on the floor. “Romanoff didn’t deserve that.”

“W-What are you talking about? Is she okay?” Your bottom lip quivers in fear.

Hammer kneels in front of you. “She’s dead, Y/N.”

“No, no…” You feel like he’s punched you right through the chest. “T-That’s not possible.”

“I’m sorry. I know she meant a lot to you.” Hammer stands again.

“How do you even know what happened at the Tower?” Given its security, there was no way news like that reached the public. At least not the truth of it. Maybe Hammer was just trying to mess with you.

Hammer motions behind him and a blonde woman steps forward from the shadows. Her face jolts your memory, but you don’t remember exactly where from.

“Recognize her?” Hammer asks. “She actually works for me, but she’s been pretending to be a SHIELD agent for some time now. She was right outside the door when your little spat with Stark went down.” Your mind flashes back to when you returned from the mission with Natasha. On your way to the private Avengers’ quarters, you remember passing the same blonde woman right outside the door.

“She heard everything that happened inside,” Hammer says as the blonde woman retreats into the darkness again.

“N-Natasha’s…She’s…She’s not dead,” you stammer.

Hammer shakes his head. “She went into surgery after Stark shot her, but due to the placement of the bullet, there were some complications and she coded on the table. They couldn’t revive her. That part was all over the news.”

You feel so sick you want to vomit. “I…I killed her?”

“No. You didn’t kill her. Tony Stark killed her.”

You start gasping for air, only worsening the pain in your chest. “No—But—He—I’m the one who pulled the trigger—”

“But you weren’t aiming for her. You were aiming for Stark, and he’s the one who deflected the bullet into her,” Hammer says. “He’s also the one who sent you two on that mission to begin with, wasn’t he? The reason you lost your cool and pulled your gun out? Think, Y/N. All of this is Stark’s fault.”

But the sadness of thinking you’ve killed Natasha is too overwhelming. You can’t focus on anything but your own guilt. You will burn in hell for this and you won’t even mind.

“Listen to me, Y/N!” Hammer snaps, striking you across the face. His rings cut into your cheek and blood fills your mouth. “I hate Stark just as much as you do. He’s been my business rival for years and I need someone to help me take him down. Who better than you, a former friend of his, who knows how to hit him where it hurts?”

You start crying at the thought of having to exist in a world without Natasha Romanoff.

Hammer tries getting your attention by slapping you again, but you’re unresponsive. You’re too lost in your grief to process anything he’s saying, and eventually he gives up, promising to come back another time to reveal his master plan to you.

It takes an entire month before he can even communicate with you. Your depression is all-consuming and their threats on your life have no effect. They’re startled to learn you actually enjoy the torture because you believe you deserve it after what you did to Natasha. But Hammer is relentless and finally figures out how to manipulate you into his bidding.

Six months after your capture and the accident, you finally crack. Your agony and pain turns into pure rage and hatred for Tony Stark. You can’t bring Natasha back, but you can get revenge on the man who took her life. After training with Hammer’s technology, which is almost as advanced as Tony’s, you’re deemed ready to be let out in the real world. Hammer personally asks for your help to kill Tony Stark, and it’s an offer you accept gladly.

***********************************************************************

Three months after the accident…

Natasha wakes up and looks to her right, disappointed to see the bed still empty. She’s tricked herself into believing that one day you’ll show up, ready to pick up the pieces and continue where you left off. But nothing has been the same since you left.

She sits up and turns the lights on. She scoots to the edge of the bed and carefully lifts her body into the wheelchair parked there.

The bullet had struck her lumbar spine, shattering her L1 vertebrae and paralyzing her from the waist down. Tony requested help from the best doctors he knew, but even the greatest modern advancements couldn’t repair her spine. He had personally designed her wheelchair, and she knows she should be grateful to still be alive, but she’s never felt so helpless and alone. 

After the accident, you ran off and no one could locate you. Secretly, she held onto the hope you would return one day, but she knows your guilt and shame are keeping you away. She wants to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and that she doesn’t hate you, but you’re not even giving her that chance.

Tony made the public announcement that Black Widow had retired from the Avengers. No one knew she had been paralyzed, nor that you had unofficially resigned from the team. Without you, without Black Widow, Natasha didn’t know who she was anymore.

She leaves her bedroom and goes into the kitchen. Tony arranged most of the food and dishes down to her new height but she feels like she’ll never adjust to not being able to stand anymore. She locates a bowl and a box of cereal and rolls over to the table. She chokes down dry Cheerios and pours her second bowlful when Tony walks in.

“Thank God you’re finally up,” he says. “When you’re done, I have something to show you.”

“Y/N?” She perks up.

“Uh…no…”

Natasha knows Tony blames himself just as much as she does for her accident, but it wasn’t his fault either. She wrestled between anger and guilt, sometimes blaming you, sometimes blaming him. But in the end, it’s easier to blame herself. She should have stopped you the moment you took out your gun, regardless of whether or not you pushed her. But she got so caught up in the moment she froze, and now she was paralyzed and you were gone.

“Just come down to my workshop, okay?” Tony disappears again.

With nothing better to do, Natasha takes the elevator down to Tony’s workshop. She doesn’t visit often, but when she does, she’s always impressed by his latest inventions and gadgets. She rolls down the aisle of old Iron Man suits displayed in glass cases, admiring the subtle differences in each one.

“Where are you, Tony?” she calls.

“Over here!” He waves her down from the other end. “I’ve been working on this for a while, and I know it’s a little premature, but I couldn’t help myself.” Tony stands next to another Iron Man suit, but it doesn’t quite look like it will fit him.

The suit is curved to fit a woman, black and red instead of Tony’s iconic red and gold. Natasha sees a red hourglass emblazoned on the belt buckle.

“What…What is this, Tony?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

“It’s an Iron Widow suit,” he says. “Or, whatever you want to call it. You’ll have to get in and test it out for yourself, but it’ll allow you to walk again and…be an Avenger again.”

Natasha wishes she could throw herself into his arms, but pulls him down to her level instead. “Thank you,” she whispers, wiping her face. She never thought she would be able to serve as an Avenger again, but she’ll take the opportunity if it means taking her mind off recent events.

“Ready to try it out?” Tony presses a button on the side of the suit and the suit opens up, bending into a crouched position so Natasha can get in it like a chair.

 She smiles for the first time since the accident.

 “I am.”

***********************************************************************

Six months after the accident…

Natasha is in the gym, lifting dumbbells on a bench when Tony walks in. Although she now has a legitimate excuse for skipping leg day for the rest of her life, she now has to make sure her upper body is twice as strong to make up for it.

“Look who decided to slide through my DMs this morning,” Tony says, shoving his phone in her face.

Midnight. Central Park Carousel. Come alone.

The text was from you.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha says, setting the weights down. You haven’t even texted her since the accident, and she’s a little hurt you didn’t reach out to her first. “What’s this about?”

“I have no idea.” Tony shrugs. “I know it says for me to go alone, but since it’s from Y/N, I wanted to ask if you wanted to tag along.”

“Of course.” In a way, Natasha feels like the text is really meant for her. Central Park was where you had asked her to be your girlfriend. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I’ll need you to be on your A-game. We have no idea what Y/N’s been up to these past six months. I don’t know if you’re gonna like what we find,” Tony says.

Natasha has spent countless nights wondering where you’ve been and what you’re doing. Now she has the chance to find out. “It’s going to be okay, Tony,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Just so you know, I’m praying more for you than me right now.”

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

Click here for Part 3!

AN: I never went to medical school, so forgive my medical inaccuracies.

[catxsnow]

LOST IN YESTERDAY J.T.

Request: Hi! The realisation that your requests are open are just the serotonin hit I needed while recovering from surgery! I'm a sucker for fluff, so if you don't mind I'd love to steal some from you. Could I please have Jason attending a Wayne Gala masquerade and falling in love with a person, only to not know their identity? Later, at another gala, he remeets them and figures out it was someone he used to live on the streets with. Does this make sense? I hope so; I love your writing. Tell me if not ♥

Warning: swearing, mentions of blood, alcoholic beverages being consumed

A/N: forever will be naming fics after Tame Impala songs and no one can stop me. Link to get on my taglist is at the bottom of this fic. 

Word count: 3,5k

Everyone knew that Jason hated the Gala's that Bruce held. The non-stop complaining that came from him occurred every time that it was brought up. Tim got annoyed, Dick was frustrated, Damian was threatening to punch Jason if he spoke another word about it. They were all tired of his antics.

Nonetheless, he went to these events - especially when there was an open bar. Jason spent his time avoiding people and (occasionally) hitting on some of the beautiful women that looked his way. It was easy to hold up the "son of a playboy act" even if he didn't care about any of the people he talked to.

To feel even more ridiculous, Bruce hosted a masquerade ball. Jason hated them to begin with, but to have a room full of strangers in masks, in Gotham? Bruce knew better, but it was what his company wanted. At least with Batman and every Robin that there was there, the people would be safe.

Jason took a sip out of the glass he was holding. Ice and whiskey sloshed around in it before meeting his lips. He leaned against the counter of the bar, eyes glazing over the crowd and not looking for anyone in particular. A red mask covered half his face. Gold decor lined around his eyes that matched the tie he was wearing.

There were a dozen other things that he could have been doing that night. Taking down criminals, getting one step closer to taking down the current biggest drug lord in town, hell he could have been saving a kitten from a tree and he would have been more content. Instead, he was stuck in a room full of rich people who couldn't care less about the people of Gotham.

Jason raised his glass to the bartender, indicating another drink. "Make that two more," a voice spoke beside him. They wore a mask similar to Jason's with the exception of silver. All black attire. Lack of a smile until looking over at him. "You looked lonely standing over here."

"That was kind of the point," Jason told them. Sarcasm was heavy in his voice, though it didn't seem to bother them. The bartender set both drinks in front of them. The stranger knocked the whiskey back in one go. Jason raised his eyebrows, shocked by the behaviour of someone attending an infamous Wayne Gala.

"(Y/N)," they stuck their hand out for him to shake. He accepted, still hesitant on what to think about this person. "What's someone like you doing at an event like this?"

"Someone like me?" Jason raised an eyebrow, though it couldn't be seen through the mask. This person clearly didn't know who he was or a thing about him. He was skeptical enough on how they were that quick to pick up on his lack of enthusiasm for being there, particularly hidden behind a mask.

Nonetheless, his curiosity piqued about them.

There was something about this person that made him feel nostalgic. Back before he was the son of Bruce Wayne and everyone knew his face, before he died, hell before he was Robin. Jason didn't get that feeling very often, but he enjoyed it all the same. For that reason alone he would entertain the idea of this person.

"Tense shoulders, wandering eyes, you don't wanna be here," they pointed out to him. He could see their face scrunch up with concentration, trying to figure out exactly where those beautiful blue eyes were from. "So why stay? Or more Importantly why come at all?"

"Call it a requirement," Jason vaguely replied.  He didn't know who this person was or why they were so interested in his reason for being there, but it was starting to get on his nerves. Sure, he was curious about her - but there was nothing more frustrating than someone trying to force a conversation.

Jason adjusted the uncomfortable mask that sat on the bridge of his nose. For someone who wore a mask half their life, he despised the one that he had on. The glitter and sequence dug into his skin and he wished for nothing more than to be able to wear the domino mask he usually had on instead.

Then again, he'd rather be anywhere else but there.

"Care to dance, Jason?" His whole body froze out the sound of his name. Sure, he was recognizable as a Wayne son, but the stranger spoke it so smoothly like they had said it a thousand times - as if they had known him. He didn't like the tone in their voice or the smile on their face as they spoke his name.

They noticed how he tensed - just as he noticed the devious smirk on their lips because of his reaction. He tried so hard to think about who this person was and what they wanted out of him. Money? Murder? Was it an old enemy of his that returned from the grave? He couldn't figure it out.

A song that Jason had grown up to, one that Bruce had gotten him to elegantly learn to dance to, began playing. As much as his mind was telling him to get out of there, to figure out what this person wanted, he offered a hand to them instead. His muscles were tense, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Jason effortlessly guided them through the dance floor. One hand rested on the small of their back, the other clasping theirs. Their bodies were flush together as they swayed to the music. Jason's eyes swept the dance floor but he could feel the gaze of the stranger's eyes on him.

"Are you going to tell me your name?" He asked suddenly.

"You're supposed to be the smart one," they remarked. Jason bit his tongue. He could have easily caused a scene, forced the name out of this person through intimidation but he knew he couldn't. Bruce would have a fit if he did anything out of line - especially anything related to being the Red Hood.

He didn't like being at a disadvantage, in fact, if there was one thing he despised it was just that. There was nothing worse than an enemy - or potential enemy- being two steps ahead of him. This person knew things about him, too many things for someone hiding behind a mask and too afraid to show their face.

Jason suddenly dipped the person, hoping to catch them off guard. The stranger was just as quick as him. They latched onto his shoulders, daring to go even lower than he had already dipped them. Their closeness had Jason completely allured by the fragrance rolling off of them. He felt himself get comfortable around them, just for a moment.

Quickly, he pulled them back up. A smile rested on their face like he had done exactly what they had wanted him to.

They pressed themselves into Jason. Hand going from his shoulder to the back of his neck. He felt a shiver run down his spine from her touch, cool hands making his baby hair stand prominent. They pressed into his skin, guiding him to lower his lips to just inches away from their own.

A sudden wave of trust filled him. He found himself wanting to lean in more until there was no space between. Before he succumbed to these desires, he sharply pulled away. The mystery person was twirled out of his chest, an arms-length apart and only held together by their fingertips.

Jason pressed his mask farther up his face as it slipped down. He pulled them back in, this time making sure to keep their hands nowhere near his bare skin.

As soon as the song was over, Jason broke apart from the mystery person. His eyes darted towards the exit. If they weren't going to leave, then he was. Jason had been there long enough to make Bruce happy and now it was time to get onto his evening with more important things.

"It was nice seeing you, Jason," The person reached up to leave a delicate kiss on his cheek. He wanted to pull away before they could connect with his skin but he was frozen to his spot. They winked at him once more from under their mask before leaving him alone on the dance floor.

He didn't know who it was, but he sure as hell was going to find out.

><

Bruce was surprised to see Jason come so willingly to a gala - especially considering that he had gone to one barely even a month ago. The gala that evening had been an extremely last minute but WE considered it necessary. So, Bruce reluctantly decided to host yet another, and Jason was on the ball to be willing to attend.

What the great Batman didn't know, was that Jason's detective work when trying to find who this mystery person was, completely failed. He couldn't find a single thing about them. They weren't on the guest list, facial recognition couldn't get a good picture of them, and he was running out of clues.

Jason was dying to know who this was and what they wanted with him to the point that he would gladly put on another suit and tie to discover the truth. Then again, it was a long shot to see if they were going to attend as well. Considering that they had just snuck in the first time, he was really pulling a hail mary that she was going to do the same again.

The most frustrating part was that this whole time he had been living on the edge. What if this person was trying to kill him? What if they had found a way to outsmart him and get to him with ease? It was agitating that he couldn't figure out how to get ahead of whoever was after him. If they were after him.

Bruce instilled it in him to be paranoid. Maybe this was just someone that knew him for being the son of Bruce Wayne or had seen him around town before. He couldn't be sure that they were even after him. Nonetheless, it was time to put an end to this relentless suffering on his own behalf.

Once again, Jason found himself planted at the open bar Bruce provided for his guests. This time, however, he was far more alert than he was last time. He could see everything happening behind him with the mirror behind the bar, his peripherals were wide open - no one could sneak up to him.

At least he thought so.

Dressed in all black, hair styled differently than the last time that he had seen them, they had sat beside him. A glass of champagne swirled around in their hands. Jason looked at them in the mirror in front of them both. Striking eyes stared back at him, a playful smirk on their face at the idea of leaving him wondering.

"You sneak in again?" Jason asked, taking a sip of his own drink. They shrugged, though the answer was clearly a yes. They leaned against the edge of the bar and faced him. It was surprising that he hadn't put the pieces together yet - usually, he was faster than this. Jason hesitated before mimicking her.

They were stunning, he could admit that.

"What do you want from me?" He asked, getting straight to the point. He was tired of being tense because of them. "How do you know me?"

They chuckled. As frustrating as it was for him - they had no idea how paranoid he really was. They didn't know about his life as Red Hood or that he was raised by Batman. They knew him as Jason Todd, the kid that persevered through everything, the kid that was lucky enough to be taken in by Bruce Wayne.

They reached out to his arm. Before they could even get close, Jason grabbed their wrist with a deathly tight grip. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Jason," They spoke calmly as if this had happened before. Hesitantly, he let go of their wrist. Gently, they pushed back the suit jacket sleeve he wore to expose his forearm.

His skin was always laced with scars and bruises - even more so since the last time that they had seen him. However, there was one thick, faint scar on his wrist that wasn't from being the Red Hood or Robin. It was from when he was a kid - a stupid accident that left him bleeding and crying.

Jason froze as the tip of their finger ran over the scar. He had gotten so many over the years that he had forgotten where most of them were from. This one, this was one of the first ones that he had gotten. One that he remembered clear as day. For this stranger to randomly pick one scar out of the dozens on his body that weren't from being a hero - it was slim. They would have had to know about it.

"It's fine, it was an accident."

"Jason! You're bleeding. We need to get you to a hospital!" Their voice was higher back then. Filled with worry and fear about the small cut that he had gotten. Jason was trying to be brave, to be strong for them. He knew how they didn't like to see him hurt in any way, especially when it had been their fault.

It was an accident. He wasn't mad, not at them. Never at them. However, the deep cut stung and he could barely stop the tears in his eyes from the pain. Maybe he did need a hospital, however, he knew he couldn't afford it - not for something that he could Maytag himself at home.

"I'm fine," Jason scowled. The cloth wrapped around his arm was becoming stained dark red. They had far more tears on their face than he had. Guilt, worry, all feelings that a kid shouldn't have run through them. Jason sighed, trying to compose himself before speaking again. "It's not your fault (Y/N). It's okay, I'm okay."

"But-"

"But nothing," Jason cut them off. "Accidents happen. Remember just last week I pushed into you and you scraped your knee. Did you blame me?" They shook their head. OF course not, they were running together when they finally stopped and Jason hadn't noticed in time. It wasn't his fault - it was theirs. Just like how this time it was his fault for not watching out. "Exactly. I gotta go home to try and fix this."

"At least let me come home with you to make sure you're alright?" They asked, wiping the salty tears off their cheeks. Jason nodded. (Y/N) was always the one to worry about him.

"What would I do without you (Y/N)?" Jason tried to heighten their mood. The boyish smile that they loved was on his face.

"I don't ever want to find out Jason Todd."

But they did. (Y/N) did have to find out what it was like to live without Jason. It was a couple of years after that incident did Catherine die, his father gone. Bruce Wayne took him in as his new ward and (Y/N) was completely forgotten about. They couldn't blame him, not really. Not when the life of his dreams was handed to him.

They always pictured Jason being happy in that big mansion. He'd get everything that he'd ever wanted, everything that they talked about as kids. He could go to a good school, use his big brains to go to college. Jason must have been happy living with Bruce, that was the only reason that he would have forgotten about his old life.

That was far from the truth.

"(Y/N)," Jason breathed out. He felt like a fool for not realizing this sooner. (Y/N) had been his closet friend growing up. They did everything together - getting away from home, being kids through all their hardships. They were inseparable until he fell off the face of the earth. Until Bruce took him in and he had to push himself away from everybody to keep them safe.

"You're getting slow with your old age," They joked. (Y/N) dropped his wrist and returned to their drink. It had to have been close to a decade since they had seen each other. Jason was far bigger than he was as a kid and it made him almost unrecognizable. "White hair and all, I guess being rich aged you."

"You..." Jason lost all trail of thought. He couldn't believe that it was really them sitting in front of him. More stunning than ever. They loved seeing him stuttering over himself, flustered that after all these years he realized that he never came back. Mostly, it was nice to see him with his cheeks flushed for the first time since they had known each other.

"It's okay Jay," They took another sip of their drink. "I figured living the high life as a Wayne would dull your street skills. I never expected you to recognize me last month." (Y/N) had gotten far more confident over the years. Never would they have acted like this when they were kids.

They were nowhere near the truth, but they were still right. He felt like a damn fool for not being to recognize them through a stupid masquerade mask. Jason stuttered out a few words before giving up altogether. He had so many things that he wanted to ask about, or even just to catch up. Instead, he just remained a flustered mess.

(Y/N) stood up from the bar stool. They leaned in to Jason, planting a soft kiss on the corner of his lips. He felt a warmth spread through his body, just like the last time they had kissed him.

"Keep an eye out, Jason. I'll be seeing you soon."  

"Wait," Jason grabbed onto their wrist before they could make a step out. (Y/N) looked down to him. The large man suddenly looked small with those big, pitiful eyes. "I'm sorry, (Y/N). I'm so sorry that I never came back for you. I wish I would have, I wish I wouldn't have been so selfish."

(Y/N) sighed. They sat back down in the chair that they once occupied. Jason looked pleased with the decision, though even more fear ran through him at the moment. What did he have to say that would make everything right? Why would they show back up now?

"You don't need to apologize. You did nothing wrong," there was sincerity in their voice. Jason was no longer the bold and brave that everyone knew him as. He was brought back to his childhood in a single moment and reminded of just how vulnerable he could be. "I'm here... I'm here because I saw you in the paper a while ago... I thought you died, Jason."

I did.

All he could hear was the worry in their voice. The worry that he had died and they never got to see them again. Never got to relieve their childhood just one more time, or tell him how far he got in their life. (Y/N) was scared that they would never get to tell him that they did everything that they promised as a kid.

He nearly lost his guard for a moment. The boyish grin that he had learned to fake from Bruce spread across his face. He gestured to himself, "as you can see I'm clearly not dead." Except he had been. Except that paper had been right and they had every right to be worried about him dying. Just as it had happened once, it would surely happen again.

(Y/N) (L/N), someone who hadn't seen Jason in years, worried to death about a rumour that spread in town. His heart ached for the first time in a long time.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Jason suddenly blurted out. "I hate these stupid galas, and I don't know about you but I'm starving." To be honest, he didn't care about where they went, he just didn't want to be under the watchful eyes of the public for such a vulnerable moment.

(Y/N)'s lips turned up at his words. "You paying, rich boy?"

"As long as you let me make up for all these years," he countered. If they wanted to, Jason fully intended to bring (Y/N) back into his life. He never realized this empty hole in his heard had been because of them. His whole childhood revolved around their times together. He craved that again.

"You drive a hard bargain." (Y/N) stuck their hand out for Jason to shake. He accepted it gladly. "You've got a deal Jason Todd. It's a pleasure doing business with you."

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[joestarwhore]

NSFW Yandere Josuke (18+) x Female reader

his little darling managed to escape her obsessive and derange boyfriend house while he was gone.

She trys to get help and does but the good samaritan is Jotaro who leads her back to Josuke thinking she was over reacting.

Josuke angry she escape he takes her back home and has idea to keep her safe and home by finally putting a ring on her

Like The Ocean Finds The Shore (NSFW 18+)

Authors Note: 18+ ONLY. if you’re a minor please find another blog, this writings and scripts are not written for your audience. thank you bb!

You didn’t know what made it worse. The tears in your eyes? Or maybe it was the pouring rain in the pitch black night; never the less, you were barely able to make out where you were, much less which direction you were going. The muscles in your body screamed for relief, the gashes angrily stinging against the rain, pushing you to run far, far away from the house that became your personal Hell.

Anywhere was better than being with him.

Your legs burned as you pushed yourself down the hill, gaining as much distance as you could away from Josuke. You couldn’t help to think of the events that led to this; gaining a stand from Keijo, meeting Koichi in odd circumstances, all the tiny little interactions that led to you accidentally tripping over a brick. Right into Josuke’s unmoving backside.

The thunder was incredibly deafening, lighting up the city of Morioh below you. You didn’t know if Josuke had discovered your absence yet, but you knew you had to be far away from him when he did. You knew it was just a matter of time.

Suddenly the grass became concrete, and concrete became asphalt. Relief flooded through you as you realized that you had finally made it into city limits. You looked around for any sign of safety you could take, your sights finally landing on the Grand Morioh Hotel.

‘Oh my god, Jotaro!’ You started sprinting towards the doors, bypassing any on looker or someone saying any comment to you, all you cared about was finding the receptionist and finding Jotaro. You ran down the hall to the Plaza, seeing the nice attendant lady who always seemed to be the one working for the desk. As soon as she saw you approach, her smile went from one of welcome to a grimace of worry. “Oh my word sweetie, are you okay?? Do you need any help??”

You leaned on the desk for a second to catch your breath. “Actually.. yes there is something.. you could do..”, you took a deep breath, “can you tell me what room Jotaro Kujo is in? We’re related & we have a family member in the hospital and it’s imperative that I fill him in on what’s going on.” Not the best lie you’ve ever told but at this point, you couldn’t afford to be precise. The desk attendant nodded with assured hums, “Yes honey of course, give me just one second.”

You breathed in relief. Thank God. Josuke definitely knew by now that you were gone, & would absolutely be searching for you. Finding Jotaro gave you a little hope for safety but even still; Josuke was relentless.

“Okay darlin, 8th floor, 6th suite, it’ll be the one at the very end!!” Relief swept over you as you quickly expressed your thanks, sprinting up the stairs towards your destination. ‘This is utterly insane’ you thought to yourself; you were running from your deranged boyfriend to his nephew that’s a decade older than he is. Your clothes were torn, wet, your skin was bruised and bleeding out, a state of being you weren’t familiar with.

The raw emotion you felt as you reach Jotaro’s door can only be described as a broken hallelujah. You banged on his door as hard as you can, not stopping until Jotaros towering frame swung the door open.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing here?” His stone cold expression seemed to always be unwavering, but at the sight of you his eyes betrayed him. “What the hell happened to you?” You tried to speak, but no words came out, simply emotion ridden gasps between sobs. Jotaro took your arm and led you in, showing you to a seat by the fireplace & brought you a hot mug of coffee. You gave him a grateful look as you took the cup, Jotaro taking the seat in front of you with a first aid kit. “What happened to you?? Is this from an enemy stand user?”

You couldn’t help but give a lifeless giggle. Certainly felt like it, didn’t it?

Jotaro let you sit in silence for a second while he cleaned the wounds gracing your arms & face, carefully watching your facial expression for any sign of emotion, anything to hint at what might be going on. You didn’t even know where to start in explaining it, or even a way to explain how this happened.

Jotaro took your chin in his hand and turned your face towards his. “(Y/N), who did this to you?” The concern in his eyes made you feel the most cared about you’ve been in months. If you could tell anyone, it’d be Jotaro.. right?”

“It.. it’s Josuke.. When we started dating he was so good to me, he was charming & caring, he’d take time out of his day to spend time with me & would make sure i felt his love; but his actions just.. escalated. He was everywhere. He would text me throughout the day about what i was doing, saying certain comments about my outfits or what stores i was in, he ALWAYS knew.” Jotaro listened intently as he wrapped your forearm in gauze, giving you a nod it was okay to keep proceeding with what you were saying. “All of a sudden one day my land lord calls me to let me know that I was being evicted out of nowhere and i had 24 hours to leave. The same day, Josuke signed the deed to his Mom’s house & told me I could live with him. I just thought it was a crazy coincidence, I didn’t think Josuke would actually ever get me evicted. Then i found my land lords phone number in his pocket book. When I asked him about it he pretended like he didn’t know, and when i kept asking he..” The memory of him holding you against the wall, his knee putting pressure onto your slit, made you visibly cringe. The way he touched you.. it was so possessive, so needy, his eyes portraying one visible message. ‘I own you.’

Jotaro closed the first aid kit & put it under the seat he was at, a pack of pills in his hand. Jotaro silently put the two pills in your hand & got you a glass of water. “I’m sorry you’re going through this & I’m sorry you’ve been hurt so badly. The pills are a sleeping pill & a pain relief supplement, take those and you can sleep in my bed. I’ll handle everything in the morning.” You looked at the two white pills in your hand & threw them to the back of your throat, quickly chasing them with the glass of water he gave you. Jotaro gave you a pair of pajama pants and a t shirt, and helped you lay in the bed. “Goodnight, (Y/N). I’ll see you in the morning.”

You don’t remember anything past that.

__________________________________

When you woke in the morning, you were blinded by direct sunlight. You squinted your eyes as tight as you could, noticing that you were being held up my two arms that were walking at a brisk pace. Gently adjusting your eyes to open, you looked up to see Jotaro, a determined glare in his eyes.

“J..Jotaro where are we?” you whispered the best you could manage. Jotaro gave you a glance down before returning his eyes to the path.

“I called Josuke.”, Your heart drops into your stomach. He wouldn’t.. he couldn’t.. “He says you lost your apartment because your anti psychotics put you out of a job, & he had your landlords number to pay your moving out fees for you.”

You shook your head in disbelief, “No, no no no Jotaro that’s a lie, i’m not on anti-psychotics, I don’t have any sort of med like that, he’s fucking lying to you!!”

Jotaro gave you an expectant look. “That’s the other thing Josuke said. You’ve been flushing them down the drain instead of taking them like you’re supposed to. Josuke only wants to take care of you, (Y/N). There’s nothing to fear of him.”

“JOTARO, I HAVE NEVER TAKEN THOSE PILLS IN MY LIFE AND YOU FUCKING KNOW”- You saw a giant purple hand come over your face and cover your mouth, restraining you from saying anymore. “I’m sorry (Y/N), but this is what’s best for you.”

You heard a door in the distance open, and Jotaro looking up and locking eyes with someone. The voice you heard next made your spine freeze, and dread pierce your soul.

“Jotaro!! Thank you SO much for bringing (Y/N) back!!”

No.. Not again..

“Not a problem Josuke, i’d rather have assurance of (Y/N)‘s safety myself then just send her back here on a bus.”

You slowly looked over, finally catching sight of your boyfriend. His tall, muscular form loomed dangerously in the door way of his house, his pompadour reminding you of so many events, so many violations of your body..

God its sick that it was making you wet.

Jotaro set you on your feet in front of josuke, letting Star Platinums hand uncover your mouth.

You couldn’t look at him.

Josukes hand ran through your hair, “(Y/N) is all okay now that she’s here with me.” He put his other hand under your chin, lifting to meet you eye to eye. It was everything you remembered. Lust, anger, relief, and above all else: obsession.

Jotaro and Josuke bid their farewells. Hands on your hips steered you into the living room, Josuke gently closing the door behind you. You could feel his eyes bore into the back of your skull, your mind erratic with anxiety. God, what’s he gonna do??

“Y’know, you didnt have to run away. You didn’t have to leave me. You didn’t have to be SO FUCKING UNGRATEFUL.” Josuke threw a chair at the wall in front of you, the force of it making you fall backwards onto your back. You gasped as your back collided with the floor, seeing Josukes towering frame turning towards you. He kneels down straddling you, the obsession of his eyes terrifying as he wrapped his long fingers around your throat. Adrenaline went straight between your legs.

“I do everything for you, (Y/N). I house you. I feed you. I FUCKING TAKE CARE OF YOU.” Josuke ripped apart your shirt, shoving his knee on your hot slit, making you gasp in surprise. Josukes delicate features possess a hunger that you remember all too well. “I also make you feel good don’t i??” He removed one of his hands from your throat to attack your nipple with, making you arch your back & moan. Josuke bit his lip in ecstasy as he shoved his middle finger down your slit, swirling it around in your hot heat. Josukes mouth rested against your temple as you gasped in pleasure, sickly wanting him to just take you then & there.

Josuke slowed down his finger, gently massaging your clit at a comfortable pace. “I’m sorry if it was because you felt unloved. If that’s the case, I really promise to be better. Because you can’t leave me, (Y/N). You’re mine, my little princess, my sweet baby girl,” His fingers started to assault you again. You heard a zipper get tugged town, and Josukes hips sweetly grind against yours. “My little fucking slut.”

You started to panic as you felt the tip of his rock hard cock press against your heat, your adrenaline skyrocketing. He’s delirious. “JoJo honey please, d-dont make me do this i’m so fucking sc-“

Josukes hand slapped your cheek, making you yelp in pain, quickly resulting in your moth being covered once again. “No, you don’t get a say. You were a bad girl, baby. And bad girls-“

Your scream was strained as he bottomed out his 8 inch cock inside you. “-they get punished.”

Josuke rammed inside of you, yourself being pummeled into the floor as he chanted “Mine, mine, mine, -FUCK-, MINE!!” His dick assaults your G-Spot as you felt an orgasm start to build in your stomach.

“Are you gonna cum baby? Does my little fuckinf slut want to cum??” Josuke slapped your clit. “TELL ME WHO OWNS YOU.”

Pleasure overruled the mine on this one. “It’s you baby! It’s always been you and it always will, I promise I’ll never leave you again just-“ you squealed as you felt your build up about to break. “PLEASE LET ME CUM JOSUKE PLEASE!!”

“Uggh FUCK, cum on my fucking cock (Y/N) show me who OWNS you.” Josukes duet of lust and rage amplified as you exploded all over him, your moans and screams sounding like siren calls to himself. Josuke rutted into you, filling you to the brim with himself. He laid himself by you, wrapping his arms around your overstimulated frame. You laid there for a couple of minutes trying to catch your breath, your heart rate soaring. You could hear Josukes soft giggles beside you as you felt a hand caress your cheek. You looked him into his eyes, seeing the unconditional love and obsession. The never ending love and obsession.

Josuke sweetly kisses your cheek, holding you in his arms as he gently picks up your left hand. You felt a cold circle of metal grace your ring finger, slipping on perfectly. Fear gripped your heart as you realized what it was.

“My pretty baby.. my gorgeous doll,” Josuke rolled ontop of you and held your face in his hands. “This will make sure we’re always together. You & me, husband and wife!! My perfect, beautiful, fuckable wife..”

Tears started to slide down your face.

So, this was defeat.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N), will you be my wife?”

You looked at the alabaster ceiling. This wasn’t possible for you. This couldn’t be happening. But you knew it was.

“Yes.. Josuke. I’ll marry you.”

Josuke gleamed as he smothered you with kisses and sweet nothings, giving you gentle touches as his lips grazed over your ears to say the only thing that comes out of his mouth: poison.

“I’ll always find you, baby doll.”

“Like the ocean meets the shore- I will always find you.”

——————————-

I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT & KEEP REQUESTING ALL YALL WANT!! TYSM!! 🤍🌿✨🌸👄🍌🌩

[elfyourmother]

Tweaking this question to suit better:

1. Why did they pick their first class/job? Why do they main the jobs they do?

Thaumaturge was her first class and she didn’t choose it so much as it was chosen for her. When she woke up in the desert with no memory of anything except her name, the only other thing she knew was that she had to go get training from the Thaumaturge Guild in Ul’dah. How or why that is she still has no idea, but she suspects it was Hydaelyn subtly nudging her in the right direction, another way of helping her acclimate to life on Source and her role by something very familiar and comfortable, magic. Though now, as of 6.1, Gisele thinks maybe Nald’thal had a hand in it too considering she was a freshly not-dead-anymore person in a strange (to her) new world without a means to support herself, and that guild is literally in his temple.

The thing is, despite her mastering many other disciplines, Gisele is first and foremost a capital-M Mage, it’s fundamentally at the core of her identity and always has been. She comes from a long line of powerful Dalish mages, including her father. Even in the Circle she was told from a young age that she had the potential to be the most powerful mage in a generation. And for a small, impoverished, chronically ill kid from the Denerim alienage who was so powerless in so many respects, that was a huge deal! To Gisele, magic meant power and her prodigious skill with it was empowering to her, for all she was locked in a gilded cage for it. Her hunger for learning, her ambition to be the very best at what she does, and her relentless drive/work ethic is what makes her so good at it. All of this combined with her Circle foundation is why she’s like a fish to water when it comes to the magic Jobs, whether it’s the destructive ones or the healing ones. 

Teleportation is literally the only “new” skill she’s picked up in terms of aether manipulation, if we’re not talking about the more overtly physical disciplines. (And I have some theories about why it doesn’t work in Thedas/the Seventh after EW, mostly to do with a surfeit of Dynamis and aetheric imbalances caused by the darkspawn taint, but that’s another post)

Magic has defined the whole of her life’s path, too, for better and worse. Take away her ability to wield a blade or a chakram or a gun, and she’ll live. But take away her magic, and Gisele’s not Gisele anymore. Which incidentally is why getting shoved into the body of a random Garlean soldier was the single most terrifying experience of her life that didn’t involve the Deep Roads.

Re: the question of what she “Mains”. From a meta standpoint, in some ways it feels weird naming a single Job for that, because Gisele’s versatility is her strength in battle and her calling card even in universe—if she were XIV’s Dissidia representative for instance, she would play a lot like Firion, Onion Knight or Bartz, Job swapping with ease in combat. But it’s that very thing, along with the running theme of Balance in all things that’s been at the core of her characterization/story theme from the very beginning in DA, that leads me to Red Mage as her main. It’s the culmination of three disciplines and even in canon one has to study Black and White Magic extensively to begin to have a grasp of Red (this comes up in the Job quests, with Arya). And Gisele already had a leg up to start, even just learning Black and White Magic, because as Thedosian Circle Mages are much more well-rounded than their counterparts on Source. She was trained in the Primal and Creation schools from the moment she got there, and those are just thaumaturgy and conjury. In Thedas she was a Spirit Healer/Arcane Warrior, and the way I conceived of Arcane Warrior was always much more akin to a traditional Final Fantasy Red Mage (with a dash of 2E AD&D Bladesinger) than the auto-attacking tin can spending all mana on buffs the way the playstyle actually worked in DA:O without mods.

Aesthetically it’s so Gisele, too. There’s the rose motif, which has been such a very strong symbol for her forever that I even wrote meta about it years ago. And it’s also incredibly stylish, which is something Very Important for someone as image and style conscious as Gisele. And if we’re talking “Dashing Lady Adventurer of Fortune” I’d be hard pressed to think of something more fitting than RDM.

But I also have to mention AST as “co-main”, if only because in universe Gisele is primarily famous for being a Red Mage and an Astrologian specifically, on top of just generally “Sorceress”. Again because of the aesthetics of course (it’s by far the prettiest of the the healing Jobs imo, from AF gear to actual spells), but also because much like Red Magic’s emphasis on inner balance, Sharlayan astrology is also very fitting for a woman whose entire raison d’etre is defiance of fate. Gisele didn’t even believe in it until her rebirth in Eorzea; “I make my own fate” was her mantra, and even though she came to believe very strongly in it and in her role as Hydaelyn’s champion, she still believed in doing it her way, seizing destiny on her own terms and bending it to her will. It’s why Haurchefant is still standing, after all, and why she jumped off an airship to save Ysayle. Gisele has never simply accepted anything at face value, she was always that child asking, “why?” So AST’s theme of nudging fate is right up her alley and it’s why she took to it so well, on top of just being damn good at any kind of magic.

(As an aside, most of her physical disciplines were taken up because of her proximity to folks who were really good at them, and her innate sense of curiosity. She learned Samurai from Hien, for instance, and Paladin from Haurchefant and Aymeric.)

(Meme here!)

[someonestolemyshoes]

Yo, saw your post about levihan prompts:

How about Hange discovering Levi’s secret hobby (of your choice)

Feel free to do whatever you feel like

And I love your work! 💕 have a good day

Hello! So sorry for the delay in this one, but thank you so much for your patience 🙏 I got stuck for such a long time in the middle of this ksksks but it is finally done! I also played around a little bit with the whole...discovering a secret aspect, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! And I hope you're ready for some sweet sweet childhood friends levihan~

**

Levi likes photography.

This, in itself, is no great secret. Hange can barely remember a time he wasn't following after her with a camera strapped around his neck, or packed into his bag—always within reach, should something striking catch his eye. A little neon plastic toy, at first; each click of the shutter cycled through preloaded images, expert shots of famous landscapes, places they could only dream of seeing. And then, a polaroid—still a toy, in essence, still plastic, still gaudy, but this one took real pictures in real time, and spit them out into their eager, shaking fingers within seconds.

Hange remembers them ruthlessly wafting the little laminate squares and watching with bated breath as black mottled into foggy grey, as the blurred silhouette of the park bench faded slowly into being. It was a fascinating thing, at the time. Magic at their fingertips. The picture turned out fuzzy and overexposed in places, where the sun had glared in over the corner of the park bench, but Levi had settled the little square on his little palms and looked at it like he held the whole world in his hands.

There were innumerable disposable cameras, too. Light little things with reels of film, never enough for Levi's insatiable desire to snap pictures of every single thing he saw. They spent half their childhood in the chemist, sitting in the hard plastic chairs, wriggling anxiously as they waited for the film to develop. Kuchel always handed them the envelope, fat with prints, with a small smile curling the corner of her mouth and a fond twinkle in her eye, and Levi always took it politely, while Hange gave a boisterous thanks, and the pair of them delved greedily into their spoils.

He was older, in his early teens, when he was gifted his first real camera. It was heavy, compared to all the others, a case made of metal with buttons and gadgets and a fancy screen on the back, to preview each picture he took. Levi was wholly enamoured with it. He spent hours adjusting it, figuring out what each button and knob did, how they affected each picture; took countless shots of the same rock in the park until he'd tested every combination of settings he could think of.

He had cycled through more cameras since then. Grown a small collection, each one a little different, a little more suited to particular shots. Hange understood the concept in theory, but the particulars were lost on her, and Levi never took the time to explain. Not that she minded—Levi's pictures were beautiful, breathtaking in the way he could capture even the most mundane details and make them something wondrous. Perhaps for the first and only time in her life, Hange had no desire for the magician to reveal his tricks.

He has an eye for things that Hange simply cannot see. She is observant—to a fault, at times, intensely analytical and endlessly curious. Everything is a question, an opportunity to research, to learn, but she doesn't see the way Levi does.

Wild daffodil. Narcissus pseudonarcissus. Hange sees a perennial flowering plant, native to Western Europe, classified by its pale yellow petals and elongated central trumpet. She sees phylogeny with a rich taxonomic history; subspecies originating all over the globe, some larger, some smaller, some more vibrant and some more muted. She sees anatomy, science.

Levi sees the way the evening sun rusts the buttery petals until they blush; sees the way dew drops hang like pearls from the tips of the leaves in the early morning, when the light is still smoky and thin. He sees a moment to be captured.

It should be impossible for a picture to hold so much detail. Hange can look at Levi's daffodil and feel the way the spring wind blows gently on her skin, the sun warm but the breeze a little biting, a remnant of the fading winter. She can smell the pollen heavy in the air, feel the tickle of short grass on her ankles, hear the trill of songbirds in the branches of distant trees.

His proclivity for photography grows with them. Hange's interests spear out in a thousand different directions, from physics and chemistry to botany, to engineering, to literature and mathematics, to history, languages and landscapes—life is a limitless source of information and Hange chases it every which way, insatiable.

And wherever she goes, Levi dutifully follows, with his camera in hand.

Until now.

Now, they are eighteen. The summer is lazily drawing to a close, and tomorrow, at 8:45am, Hange will be boarding a plane that will take her to the other side of the world to attend the university of her dreams.

And Levi will be staying here.

Despite Levi's perpetual scowling and indiscriminate grunting, their last evening together had overall been a pleasant one. Levi and Kuchel had worked hard on their meal, and it had been nice in a warm, filling kind of way, to spend her last night at home with the two of them.

Now, she and Levi are holed up in his bedroom, while Kuchel had insisted on doing the clean up herself. Hange's mind has been churning non-stop for weeks now, ramping up with each passing day, and tonight, her thoughts are unstoppable, and they spill from her with giddy, jittery excitement.

"The university is huge, but my course is pretty small—only like, 30 places. It'll be easy to get to know everybody."

"Nn."

"And did I tell you? There's a museum right on campus? They've got a huge collection, and I heard students can access it after the first semester."

"Hm."

"And there's a flower garden, too—they've got species from all over the world, Levi. They'll have plants I've never even heard of."

"You said."

"Oh! And—my accommodation isn't all that far from the coast. The water looks beautiful in all the pictures I've seen—look, see?"

"I know. You showed me already."

Hange looks up from her phone, where the screen is lit with a bright, sunny beach, tan sand and a stark blue ocean. Levi flicks his gaze over it and offers a noncommittal shrug of his shoulder. Hange frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, you know."

Levi gives her a deadpan stare.

"It looks...warm."

Hange sits back with a thump, and kicks weakly at Levi's shin. She pouts over at him. "Better than nothing, I guess."

They sit at opposite ends of the window bench in Levi's bedroom, legs tangled haphazardly together in the space between them. The window was thrown open in some vain hope of tempting in a breeze, but the air is thick, and the soft wind that does blow is still stiflingly warm. It sways Levi's fringe against his brow, but does little to stave off the oppressive heat.

The sky outside is dark, but it is alive with stars. They cast bright sparks on an inky black canvas, and there is no moon in sight. Already, Levi has snapped pictures of it, twisted dials and pushed buttons and switched lenses until he was satisfied.

It is a beautiful sight. Infinite.

Hange lets one leg dangle out the open window. Levi gives her a sour look and wordlessly closes one hand around her other ankle. She has a long history of behaving carelessly—Levi has borne witness to one too many slips and stumbles to trust her entirely. It would be just like Hange, to miss her flight in favour of a trip to the emergency room.

His thumb strokes back and forth absently. There is a callus there, rough and catching, that scratches against her sensitive skin.

Her predominant feeling is one of excitement. Studying abroad had been a dream of hers for almost as long as Levi had owned a camera—to travel beyond the bounds of their small rural town, to see more, learn more, fuel the relentless hunger in her. But there is an undercurrent of something else, some squirming discomfort that refuses to settle. It intensifies with every sweep of Levi's thumb against her skin until it sits heavy in her gut.

She looks over at him. His gaze is trained out the window, a small frown furrowing the skin between his brows, but his eyes are glassy, with none of their usual sharp, unwavering focus. Whatever he is looking at, he is not really seeing it.

It would be a lie to say that his silence had not troubled her. He had been quiet throughout dinner, opting instead to listen to Hange and Kuchel's companionable chatter as he pushed his food around his plate, and he had barely said a word since they had cleared the table and retreated to his room. He had hardly even looked her way.

Irritation bubbles within her. Levi is always more subdued than she is, content to sit quietly while Hange babbles endlessly, about anything and everything. But he usually has something to say. His silence, today of all days, makes her angry. They have one night left like this—one more night to talk, face to face, before they will be separated for who knows how long, and Levi is offering her nothing.

"Levi," she says, before she can think. Something in her tone must startle him, for he blinks rapidly, as though pulled out of a daydream, and rolls his eyes to look in her direction. His gaze settles somewhere near her shoulder. She bristles. "Can you at least—"

"Levi?" Kuchel's voice is distant, floating up from the bottom of the stairs. Levi looks at the door instead. "Can you come give me a hand for a minute?"

Hange clamps her jaw shut. Levi casts her another sidelong glance, and ticks his tongue against the back of his teeth. He squeezes her ankle once, then pushes himself to his feet. "Don't fall, idiot. I won't be long."

Hange feels distinctly like a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. It's immature, and perhaps it's unfair of her, but she had assumed that Levi's invitation for dinner might, at the very least, come with a little conversation.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. They never fight, not really—they bicker endlessly, poke each other's cheeks and pull each other's hair, childish rough housing that they never grew out of. But they don't fight and as grumpy as Hange feels about Levi's near silence, she doesn't want to start now. She runs a hand back through her hair and sweeps her eyes about the room, counting long, even breaths as she does.

Levi's room is immaculately neat and tidy. Everything has its place, on clean, dusted shelves, or stacked in straight, neat piles atop his desk. It is a level of organisation Hange has little energy for; she herself is a hurricane, picking up and dropping off detritus everywhere she goes.

But Levi's borderline obsessive cleanliness makes it easy to spot something that is out of place.

Hange's gaze falls on a drawer in the desk.  The drawer itself is as immaculate as everything else, gleaming wood and a reflectively polished brass handle. What catches her eye is the corner of a glossy piece of paper, caught when the drawer had been closed.

Hange is a curious creature. Rarely can she hold herself back from exploring an unknown, and now is no different. She unfolds herself from the bench and stretches to stand, then crosses the room on light, tip-toed feet.

Levi is, by and large, a rather private person. He does not share much of himself openly, hides behind an impassive mask, guards what is dear to him close to his chest. Hange is an exception to this rule, whether Levi wanted her to be or not.

As such, she has no real issue prying the drawer open, and is unsurprised by the predictable contents within.

Photographs.

Of course it was photographs.

Her lips tug up in a fond smile and her eyes roll, but it is as she is reaching in to flatten out the rumpled picture that had been poking out of the drawer, that she notices what they are photographs of.

Her.

Hange picks out a stack and sits cross-legged in the desk chair. She flips through them, eyes growing wider with each new picture she uncovers. Every single one is of her. Some recent, some not so recent—some must be from the very first real camera, for she is still in her braces, all thin, gangly limbs and scruffy hair and taped up glasses.

There are pictures of her in the winter, mitten-clad hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate, blowing steam into the chill air. She can see in stark clarity, the red tip of her nose and the chill bitten over her cheeks; she can almost feel the cold, taste the cocoa on her tongue.

She finds a picture of her from an autumn years gone by. She remembers it as though it were yesterday—they had spent the whole afternoon raking fallen leaves in the courtyard behind Kuchel's cafe, scooping them into a terribly tempting mound beneath the shedding tree. Hange had been unable to resist. Levi had captured her moments after her dive into the pile, sitting up with her weight propped back on her hands, dry leaves clinging to her messy hair and sticking to the fibres of her cardigan. The sun was low, and it cast her in a golden glow, highlighting the vibrant red and orange of the fall foliage around her, drawing out the auburn undertone in her hair and the amber of her eyes. Her smile is almost blinding.

Another shows her in the spring, laying on her belly in the long grass beside a row of blooming daffodils. There is a book spread open before her and she is, as expected, engrossed in it; Levi has snapped the shutter as she was turning the page, the thin edge of the paper caught between the delicate tips of her fingers.

Hange has never considered herself to be particularly pretty. She is just...Hange, a little bit of wild, a little bit of manic, a lot of clumsy and dirty. Being attractive has never been of much concern.

But there is something in the way Levi has photographed her, time and time again, in the way the light catches her, the candid ease of each new picture, that looks....beautiful, in its own way. Somehow, he has made her mess into a masterpiece.

Levi likes taking pictures of things. Plants, rocks, rivers, landscapes and skylines—he likes capturing the mundanity of everyday life and turning it into something spectacular, but he has never done the same thing with people. As far as Hange was aware, Levi had taken very few pictures of anybody at all.

And yet, she holds this pile in her hands, and there are plenty more pictures littering the drawer before her.

There is a strange feeling brewing on her as she stares at them. She had been so excited about moving away to study, so eager to explore the world beyond their quiet countryside home, that the reality of leaving had never truly sunk in. She feels it now though, acutely; a hollow ache in her chest that grows with each picture she flicks through.

Levi has been her shadow for as long as she can remember. There are few memories that he is not a part of, few moments that she can recall in which Levi was not by her side—he has been a constant for her. Something certain and dependable.

And from tomorrow, he will no longer be there.

Hange had known this. She had known it from the moment she had accepted her offer, and she had known it as they looked through her options for accommodation together, as they explored the local area through pictures and videos and maps online. She had known it as they had prepared her visa, organised her finances. Booked her flights. Every step of the way she had understood, logically, rationally, that studying abroad meant leaving Levi behind.

But the weight of it is only hitting her now. The reality of it is like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut—it leaves her shaken and breathless in the worst way.

From tomorrow, Levi won't be with her at all.

Her grip tightens on the photographs hard enough to wrinkle the glossy paper.

She had done a pretty good job of not getting too emotional about the whole thing. For the most part, Hange had been overwhelmed by her own excitement—there had been no time for sadness between all the loose ends she’d had to tie up in order to make the move a possibility. Now though, all that is left is to head to the airport and board her plane. No more distractions.

Hange doesn’t realise she is crying until the bedroom door opens again, and Levi steps into the room, coming to a sudden halt halfway over the threshold.

Hange can't tell if Levi's look of shock is because of the open drawer and the pictures still clutched in her hands, or the tear tracks on her cheeks. He stops dead in the open doorway, fingers still curled around the handle, and for a moment he stares at her with eyes wider than Hange has ever seen them, but then his brow dips low and his lip curls, and his grip tightens around the door handle. Hange holds the pile of photographs close to her chest.

She is expecting anger. She doesn't suppose she could blame him if he lost his temper with her, then. She has a terrible habit of bulldozing into everything, after all, and perhaps this was the one thing Levi had longed to keep secret from her. Her snooping, on top of his already sullen mood—perhaps this is the final straw.

But instead, he turns his face away, staring resolutely into the corner of the room. Starlight spills through the open window. Even in the thin, muted light, Hange can see a vibrant flush colouring the skin high on Levi's cheeks.

Hange sniffles, and wipes clumsily at her cheeks.

"I didn't have you pegged as a closet pervert, Levi," she says, waving the handful of pictures at him. Her voice comes cracked, and weaker than she'd hoped. Levi's knuckles turn white.

It's a funny thing, seeing Levi embarrassed. His emotional expression is usually limited to small twitches, here and there—a slight furrow of his brow, a wrinkle of his nose, a soft twitch of his lip. Hange can count on one hand the number of times she has seen his feelings show so completely. It's almost painful to witness.

"I don't mind," she says. Levi doesn't look at her. Hange looks down at the pile again. "They're nice."

Levi finally releases his death grip on the handle and pushes the door closed. His eyes are still downcast and his cheek is still cherry red, but he hasn't run away and he hasn't snapped at her (yet). Hange takes these things as good signs.

"I didn't know you took pictures of people," Hange says.

"I don't."

"Are you saying I'm not people, Levi?"

Levi lets out a disgruntled sigh. He crosses the room, and plucks the pile of pictures from Hange's hands. His cheeks are still pink, and his brows are still furrowed, but he has composed himself some.

“No, you’re not,” he says. “You’re a creature. You’ve got snot all over your face.”

Hange laughs wetly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and rubbing the mess on her pants. Levi gives her a look of pure disgust, parking his hip against the edge of the desk beside her and skimming through a few of the pictures. There’s a curious expression on his face, a softness in his eyes that Hange isn’t used to seeing.

“Stalker,” she says. Levi kicks at the desk chair without looking up. “If you wanted a photoshoot, you could have asked.”

Levi scowls. He straightens the edges of the pictures with care, and sets them carefully on the desk. “If I wanted to take pictures of you posing, I would have asked.”

“Wanted to capture me in all my natural glory, huh?” Hange braces her elbows on the desk and rests her chin in both hands, grinning cheekily up at Levi. It must look ridiculous, with her watery eyes and the red point of her nose, but Levi isn't even looking at her to notice.

Levi says nothing. His gaze lingers on the pictures for a little longer, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Hange nudges him with her elbow, smiling. The pictures are...sweet, in a way. There's something flattering about it. She slumps back in the chair, her smile wavering where a fresh wave of melancholy tugs at the edges of her lips.

“I’ll miss you, you know.” Hange’s voice cracks humiliatingly as she speaks. Levi looks over at her. Hange curses the wobble of her bottom lip and wipes at her eyes beneath her glasses. She isn’t expecting much; Levi is terrible at expressing feelings at the best of times, and so it’s more than surprising when, after a moment of consideration, he nods at her.

“Same.”

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. Hange presses her fingers into her eyes, trying to stem the flow, ease the sting there. She doesn’t want to spend their last evening together crying, but now that the tears have begun, Hange can’t seem to stop them. A lump builds in her throat, aching beneath her tongue and she can feel her chin wobbling, lips pulling down at the corners. She sniffles pitifully, draws a shuddering breath.

“Oi…” Levi says, though he doesn’t sound angry, or even uncomfortable like she had expected. His tone is gentle. It rips a sob from her.

Hange feels him move closer. He jostles the front of the chair, and when she opens her eyes to look at him she finds him standing right in front of her, between chair and desk, looking at her with a furrowed brow. It’s different to his usual scowl—his brows are a little upturned in the middle, exposing some kinder emotion; something like worry, or concern.

Hange tilts forward until her forehead presses into his chest. Levi’s hand comes up quickly to the back of her head. His touch is familiar, comforting, and Hange cries a little harder when his fingers tunnel into her messy hair, cradling her against him.

She cries until she feels spent, sniffling and gulping empty air. Her fingers twist into the hem of Levi’s shirt as she composes herself, mumbling, “you’ll keep in touch, right? You won’t forget about me?”

Levi clicks his tongue at her. “Stupid,” he says. “As if you’d let me.”

“I’m serious.” She sits back and looks up at her. Her eyes are burning, raw and wet, and the skin of her cheeks stings from crying, but she looks at him with as much determination as ever and says, “call me. Every day.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not! Just once, every day. Even if it’s only five minutes.”

Levi flicks her between her brows. “You won’t have the time, dumbass.”

“I’ll make time.”

Levi scrutinizes her for a moment, then says, “I’ll text.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

Levi curls his lip and pulls at a lock of her fringe, muttering, “brat. Why don’t you call me?”

“I will,” Hange says plainly. Levi’s eyes widen a fraction. “I’ll call as much as I can. But you need to call me too, okay? I wanna hear from you a lot.”

There is a long pause, and then Levi turns his eyes away. The light in the room is pale and muted, but it is just enough to highlight the pale flush gathering anew on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It’s almost cute.

“Fine. I’ll call. Happy?”

Hange grins at him. “Very. And I’ll send you photos of everything, all the time.”

Levi leans down towards her, pinching her nose between his thumb and forefinger and giving her head a little shake. “On your shitty phone camera?”

Hange nods. She bats his hand away and cranes herself up into his space, smiling something wicked. “You’ll hate it. They’ll be all blurry and I’ll have my thumb in the corner of every picture.”

“Pest.”

“Lots of selfies, too. So you won’t forget what I look like.” Hange blindly swipes up a picture from the desk, holding it up between them in front of her mouth and nose. Between Levi dipping down into her space and Hange stretching up into his, they are so close that Levi has to cross his eyes to get a look at it. “Not that I think it’ll be a problem.”

He rolls his gaze up to look at her over the top of the photograph. Up close, Hange can see just how bright the blue of his eyes is, how dark his lashes are; she can see the shadows they cast on his cheeks, the deepening flush bruising the skin red. Levi has always been a pale thing, but now, Hange can see the smattering of light freckles across his nose, barely visible in the low light. He looks pretty. Her heart stutters in her chest at the sight.

Hange has never fully understood Levi’s drive to photograph everything. To preserve any given moment, bottle up every minute detail. She sort of understands it, then—it’d be nice, she thinks absently, to save this particular view for forever. The thought makes her face grow warm.

“I won’t forget.” Levi’s voice is quiet, caught somewhere between embarrassment and uncertainty. He sways closer, rocks back, hesitates. And then he leans down and lets his forehead drop against hers. Hange can feel the press of his nose against her own, separated only by the picture between them.

Hange is used to being close to him. She’s a clingy person by nature, always grabbing him and hugging him, smooshing her cheek against his or shoving her face into his hair, but she is always the one to initiate such contact. Levi is tactile, in his own way—small, non-invasive touches, his fingers on her wrist or his palm at her back, always delicate, understated.

To have Levi enter so wholly into her space like this is new. It’s nice. Hange finds herself feeling very, very thankful for the paper between them, for the urge to lean forward and kiss him comes unbidden, so suddenly she isn’t sure she’d be able to resist the impulse if there hadn’t been a barrier in her way.

“Is it my dazzling good looks?” she says, acutely embarrassed by how breathless she sounds. Levi makes a small, noncommittal noise. His fingers find hers where she’s holding the picture, gripping it and pulling it until it slips out from between them. For the smallest moment, Hange feels the skin of Levi’s nose against hers, and the warm puff of breath on her lips, and then Levi straightens up, flipping the picture for her to see it.

“I’ve looked at your ugly mug every day for long enough. Don’t think I’d forget it so easily.”

It’s a truly unflattering photograph. Hange has her head tipped back, laughing boisterously at some thing or another, with her eyes pinched closed and chocolate sauce smeared over her lips, a drop of cream stuck to the end of her nose. Hange is sure she has looked better, but the thing is—despite her state, the picture still isn’t bad. Hange can hear the lilt of her own laughter and feel the tacky syrup, savour the sweetness of the cream on her tongue. There’s something so...animated about it, about the way the light dances over her skin and in her hair, and the way the background blurs around her, drawing her into sharp focus.

It’s nice, in a strange, unreserved kind of way.

But she’s still a mess. Hange snatches it and slams it down on the desk, glowering up at Levi.

“Why would you take that,” she whines, petulant. “You’re supposed to take pictures of nice things!”

“Because it’s very...you,” He says, neatly slotting the pictures back into the drawer, and moving back to sit on the window. Hange follows, drops herself onto the ledge opposite him with a pout.

“What, disgusting?”

Levi shrugs. “Messy. But...not bad.”

“I’m supposed to take that as a compliment, I guess? That’s almost sweet coming from you, Levi.”

Levi scowls over at her. She dangles one leg back out the open window, dropping the other heavily into Levi’s lap. He adjusts it until he is more comfortable, his hand wrapping again around her ankle, but does not let go once he has settled. He keeps a hold of her, his fingers tracing thoughtless patterns on her skin. The space between them is warm, comfortable. Hange leans her head back and breathes it in—the peace, the quiet, the simple pleasure of spending a tender evening with her favourite person in the whole world.

It’s nice. A small, frightened part of her doesn’t want it to ever end.

**

Hange has been set up in her student apartment for three weeks when the package arrives.

Moving had been harder than she had anticipated. She’d accounted for common issues—problems with her visa, her plane tickets, and had checked multiple transport options from the airport to her accommodation in case problems arose—but she hadn’t put all that much thought into what would happen once she settled at her apartment.

Unpacking had been boring. Her roommates were nice enough, the studious, bookworm-y type, but unlike Hange they weren’t overly sociable. They kept mostly to themselves in their rooms, perfectly content with brief conversations in the kitchen before retiring again, and with classes still two weeks away, Hange was finding the lack of social interaction difficult. She had explored some, but the city was vast in a cluttered, claustrophobic way. Hange had always enjoyed travelling, and had talked relentlessly of every adventure she could take herself on in a whole new country and all the new places she could explore, so much so that it was almost embarrassing, the way she had found herself so unwilling to stray too far from her accommodation without a companion by her side.

She’d felt a little homesick in the first couple of days, lonely and isolated. She missed the small comforts of the country, things she hadn’t even realised she had taken for granted. Quiet nights. Star studded skies. Long grass and trees and the fresh, earthy smell on the breeze. The city was unbearably loud at times, and even when the wail of sirens or the beep of car horns quieted, there was an unidentifiable hum beneath it all that never ceased even for a moment.

She felt Levi’s absence most acutely. Hange had known she would, but she hadn’t been prepared for how much it would hurt to be apart. She felt silly for it—it was ridiculous, to miss her friend more than she missed her own family, even. But Levi’s presence had been more constant than anything else, back home, and without him, she felt like a small part of herself was missing.

He called, as promised. Once a day, though oftentimes it was very late in the night for him, and he sounded tired. If Hange were less selfish, she might tell him to get some sleep instead—but she missed him. Hearing from him was the best part of her day.

It was about an hour before their designated call time when the post came. Hange answers the bell with a frown, which only deepens when the delivery driver hands her the package.

She takes it into her room, settling cross legged on the bed and inspecting the mystery item. It's a decent size, like a large shoe box, wrapped neatly in brown paper with her address lettered in tidy, familiar handwriting in one corner. Hange’s stomach lurches—she’d have recognised the writing anywhere, but her suspicions are confirmed by the return address. Levi’s.

She rips into the paper quickly, snatching up her keys to tear through the tape on the top of the box. It is stuffed full with packing paper, an envelope with her name on it sitting on the top. Hange picks it up and with trembling fingers, she opens it and unfolds the short note inside.

Hange,

Sorry things have been kind of shitty. This stuff might help or it might make things worse, but I figure you can just throw it out if it’s no good. Or give it away. Whatever. I don’t even know if all of this shit will make it through customs, so if you get an empty box it’s not my fault.

I don’t get how you eat half this junk, but I hope it makes you feel better, anyway.

Look after yourself. Eat real food.

Levi

Hange presses the note to her chest, grinning. Her heart aches, but having Levi go to this much trouble for her...it feels nice. Knowing he is still thinking of her. She’d never have admitted it out loud, but Hange had been concerned that perhaps Levi would forget about her after all, without her there to pester him all the time.

She pulls out some of the packing paper, and smiles widely at the rest of the contents.

Levi had put together what Hange can only call a care package. There are packs of her favourite snacks and sweets, things she’d complained she hadn’t been able to find in stores here; crisps, chocolate, hard candy, little mini boxes of sickeningly sugary cereal. There are tea bags with blends Levi knows she likes, each neatly labelled with instructions on what temperature to brew at and how long for. Levi had also packed some of the soaps Hange likes, the ones he uses but she refuses to buy for herself. The lavender scent drifts up out of the box and Hange’s heart squeezes tight in her chest. There’s a shirt in there, too—Hange recognises it at once, as one of Levi’s old, worn tees, thin grey cotton that feels impossibly soft in her hands. It’s far too big for either of them, and had always been the go-to item Levi would chuck at her when she decided she was staying over for the night and had nothing to wear to bed. Hange pulls it on quickly, savouring the soft feel and the smell of it.

In the bottom of the box, there is another envelope. This one is thicker than the first, and Hange knows what it contains before she even opens it.

Photographs. A small pile of them, depicting places she and Levi had frequented from when they were children right up until this last year—her favourite part of the forest, where the trees thin out and the river pools at the foot of a small waterfall. The great, open fields, sometimes full of long grass, sometimes clipped short and striped with windrows. Kuchel’s cafe, with umbrellas raised to block the sun on the tables outside, or else warm and low-lit and cosy in the cold winter. Hange settles back on her pillows as she flicks through each picture, a soft smile on her face. Looking at the images of home hurts, but it isn’t a terrible pain—she longs for these old times and these familiar places, but each recovered memory makes her happy.

In Levi’s pictures she can vividly recall moments in each and every location. He works some kind of magic with a camera, to trigger so many sensory memories—the scent of freshly cut grass, the feel of hay, dry and sharp, poking into her back through her clothing, and the gentle trickle of the river water, the splash of it as it runs over the falls, the feel of it cool on her skin. The tangy zest of fresh-pressed orange juice in the cafe, peach fuzz on her lips and the soft flesh of ripe fruit bursting between her teeth, sticky nectar coating her fingers.

Hange looks at each picture in turn, until she reaches the bottom of the pile, and there she stops abruptly, eyes widening at the last photograph Levi has packed for her.

It is one of Hange, taken in the window of Levi’s bedroom. She was looking out at the night sky, her elbow braced on her bent  knee, chin in her palm, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. The starlight haloed her, shining from her hair and illuminating the jut of her chin, the curve of her nose and the slope of her brow. Behind her, Levi had captured the bright glow of the stars like jewels on a deep velvet canvas. She looked peaceful. Happy. For lack of a better word, beautiful.

Hange grins widely. Her eyes sting and her throat aches, but the picture—the whole box, really—makes her happier than she's felt in weeks. She brews her favourite cup of tea from the blends Levi had sent her and settles into the corner of her bed, lifting her phone to snap a quick selfie. She sends it to Levi, complete with a caption: thank you for my presents 😊 all ready for your call!

Levi responds almost immediately, first with a simple you're welcome. And then, after a minute, you look good. Speak to you soon.

Hange sinks deeper into the cushions, cradling her tea close to her face, masking the pleased flush on her cheeks with the heat from the steam.

**

Hange keeps him longer than usual, today.

There is a simmering warmth in her stomach as she listens to Levi's voice over the line. It comes tinny through the speakers, low and rough in the late hour, and his dark, grainy image looks tired, lamp light casting him half in shadow. They talk of everything and nothing, same as always—Levi tells her about his day, about the cafe and Kuchel, and Hange pouts as she tells him how little progress she is making in befriending her new housemates. Levi never voices any concern for her aloud, but Hange can sense it in the dip of his brows as she talks. She gives him a genuine smile when she reassures him that classes will start soon, and she's confident she will settle better after that.

Levi seems reluctant to leave, but after a little over an hour of aimless, comfortable chatter, he is yawning and blinking heavily, the lower half of his face nuzzled into his pillow. In the end, Hange makes up some watery excuse about visiting the coast while the sun is still high, if only to let him get some sleep.

"Sure. Have fun."

"I will! Sleep well, Levi."

Levi hums. The view shifts, blurry and indistinct, the mic muffled by the rustle of sheets, and when everything settles he is laying on his side, fringe mussed and falling over his eyes. He covers another long yawn with his fist. "I will."

"You'll call tomorrow?"

Levi rolls his tired eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up in a fraction of a smile. "Sure."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Hange grins. Levi watches her for a long moment, eyes scanning over her face. Then he holds up a hand in a tired wave. "Night, Hange."

"Night."

Hange stares at the screen for too long when the call ends. That terribly selfish part of her would have loved to keep his company for the rest of the day. Maybe, with a little travel sized Levi in the palm of her hand, she'd have been brave enough to explore some more, enthused about all the new things to see with somebody to share them with.

Sighing, Hange drops her phone to the desk and stands from the bed, stretching. There are still things she can do—she has plenty of recommended reading to get through, a small mountain of books at her disposal, and she has mapped the route to her campus often enough that she isn't feeling too overwhelmed by the prospect of the journey.

As she heads for the door, Hange notices something on the floor beside the bed. A neat, rectangular piece of paper; one of the photographs Levi had sent her, laying face down on the ground.

She picks it up again and brings the paper close to her face. Levi had written something on the back of it in small, quick letters, less tidy than his usual practiced script, as though he’d scribbled it as an afterthought, or else that he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to read it.

There is a date, the same night she had found Levi’s secret photo stash, followed by Hange’s name, and the location of the shot. And beneath that Levi had scrawled a few words. Hange squints to read them, and then her eyes grow wide, blinking owlishly down at the note. Her heart swells almost painfully and something solid balloons within her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her lips tremble into a smile as she props the picture carefully on the bedside table.

The day is still young. Hange brews herself another cup of Levi’s tea and settles on the bed with one of her books, content to spend the next few hours reading—though she finds it strangely difficult to focus, with the words Levi had written on the back of the photograph swirling round and round in her head. Hange doubts they will leave her any time soon. They left her feeling more homesick than ever, but there is a soft, giddy kind of comfort in them all the same. It's a feeling that Hange will savour for as long as she possibly can.

It's weird here without you. Come home again soon x

[bluegarners]

“I have your loved one” with Dick and Jason?

heyyy, it's finally here haha! i'm slowly getting to each request lol

here it is on ao3

I Have Your Loved One

It’s Thursday.

Time: 23:47, or 11:47 p.m.

Bludhaven has hit a rough patch in its weather, a vicious storm battering against thin windows and overflowing gutters and drains. It’s one of those storms that brings in the water but no lightning, dark clouds blanketing the entire sky, remorseless and relentless in its pursuit of smothering any light from escaping. The clouds don’t muffle anything though, perhaps amplifying instead the downpour that floods through Bludhaven’s streets and alleyways. Its citizens like to think this is a New Jersey hurricane, freshly mutated and traveled from the east coast into their humble, mildew covered city.

Dick likes the rain. Likes the way it pounds against his apartment, screaming to be let in but just barely warded off by seven inches of concrete and steel. The blinds are closed against the windows, and he has towels pushed up against the sills just in case the sealing lets up. Even if they were open, Dick is sure all he would see is another wall of gray and black, dozens of delicate raindrops splattered against his windows.

Because of the storm currently wreaking havoc in his city, Dick has elected to stay indoors for the time being. Eventually, the rain will let up, its pattern being close to about 05:00, and then he’ll suit up and do a quick patrol before work. For now, he’s content with sitting on his couch and listening to the water smack against the old building and run rivers down the sides. He’d like to sleep through it, a free white noise service at the ready, but his mind simply refuses to allow him to rest just yet. In a few hours, he’s sure he’ll come to hate himself for not taking NyQuil or some other drug to help him fall asleep, but for now… Well, it’s nice. The rain is nice. It’s also very loud.

He misses the first call.

His phone is face down on the kitchen table, about eight feet away from where he lays on the couch, mindlessly staring up at the ceiling. It vibrates, buzzing for thirty seconds, before falling silent.

He misses the second call too.

Thunder rumbles through the black sky, its force shaking the windows and only encouraging the downpour. His phone buzzes again during it, quieting after another thirty seconds.

Dick hears the third call. Hears the tail-end of the buzzing, getting up from his position on the couch and padding over to pick up his phone only to miss the last few seconds. He unlocks his phone, checking the number, and feels something cold settle into his gut when he sees no caller ID. It’s the same person though, all three times, but no voicemail.

He’s about to call the number back, just in case it’s someone he knows and they’re ringing from a payphone or something else, when the no caller ID flashes across his screen for the fourth time.

Dick answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Richard Grayson?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who is this?”

The voice is feminine, a slight, western accent, longer o’s and a faint drawl. Somewhere from Arizona most likely. Lower register too. Older woman, mid-to-late fifties. Smoker.

“That’s good. I was starting to think I had the wrong number, Richard.”

“Yeah, sorry, I just didn’t have my phone on me. You didn’t say earlier, but who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter too much right now. What does matter, though, is this.”

She pauses. There’s shuffling he can hear on the other side. A faint, second voice in the background. No, three voices. At least two others in the room with the woman. He can hear the sounds of an air condition unit rattling.

“I think you might’ve cut off there. What were—”

“I have your loved one, Richard.”

Lightning cracks through Bludhaven.

His stomach falls onto the floor, pooling around his ankles. The storm outside grinds to a halt, the quiet louder than any thunder it’s ever managed to produce, and there’s a high pitched ringing reverberating inside his skull. Dick thinks he might be sick.

“What?” he chokes, the air in the room suffocating and weighing down his lungs. “What did you say?”

“I have your loved one,” the woman repeats, calm and slow. “Your brother, actually. Then again, he tells me you aren’t related by name nor blood, so we’ll settle for a loved one.”

“What do you want?” Dick demands, already scrambling to get to his computer, find where they’ve taken Jason. Find his brother.

“He did say you weren’t one for small talk,” the woman carries on, unhurried and unconcerned. “Your brother isn’t either, hardly said a word all this time.”

“Can I speak to him?”

There’s a small huff on the other end of the call, exhalation and a sigh leaving the woman’s mouth. A cigarette. She’s smoking during this conversation, blowing the smoke into the receiver.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers. There. Dick has his general location. Still in Gotham. He needs the tracker to be more precise though. It’s taking time though. Too much. “Your brother here was pretty convinced you wouldn’t answer after his daddy didn’t pick up. Cried pretty hard about it too.”

“What are you talking about?” Dick grounds out, fearing his phone will crack with how tightly he’s gripping it.

“Well, you weren’t our first choice to call, Richard. I’m sure you understand.”

Dick says nothing, focused on the computer screen in front of him. He should contact Barbara. This would be faster with her. Faster to find Jason.

“We called about seven times,” the woman continues, blowing another puff of smoke out into the phone. “Isn’t that right, boy? We called and called and called. His daddy didn’t pick up once, went straight to voicemail each time. A shame, really.”

There’s a sniffle on the other side of the call and Dick’s heart seizes when he realizes it’s probably Jason.

Batman was currently off-world, all communication with him being strictly between Justice League lines. Bruce Wayne was somewhere in the Bahamas, partying with Italian models and Spanish actresses.

Of course he wouldn’t pick up.

“Can I please talk to him?” Dick asks for the second time, fisting a hand into the couch cushions. “Please, I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

More smoke. “I’ll ask him.”

There’s a muffled thud, the phone most likely having been put down, and quiet voices filter through the line. He can’t hear much of what they’re saying, short bursts of comprehensible syllables before fading back to unintelligible noises. His computer dings with a response from Barbara. She’s going to use one of the J.L satellites to better pin-point Jason’s location. She’s also in communication with the police, reporting a child-abduction.

Keep them talking, she writes. Everything is going to be okay, Dick.

It feels like his heart is beating in his throat and his tongue has swollen to the size of a bowling ball. The storm outside is unrelenting. Lightning hasn’t struck again.

There’s more movement on the other side, clattering and scattered noises. The phone’s been picked up.

“Alright,” the woman says, raspy and uncaring. “The boy says he wants to talk to you, Richard.”

Dick holds his breath, waiting. There’s more noises, a transfer he thinks, and another sniffle interrupts it.

“Hello?” a shaky voice asks into the receiver. Dick feels like crying.

“Jason,” he breathes. “We’re going to get you out of there, alright? You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” his brother rattles, a sob latching onto the end. “I’m so sorry, Dick. I-I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Dick shushes, feeling himself get choked up at the fear in the younger boy’s voice. “I know you didn’t, bud. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, not really. I didn’t think you were gonna pick up,” he admits, voice cracking. “B-Bruce didn’t. He didn’t answer, Dick, and I-I thought you weren’t gonna either. I-I thought—”

“I’ll always answer, Jason, I promise. I’m coming for you, okay? I’m going to come get you and we’ll both go home together. Does that sound good, Jay? You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” the thirteen year old relents. “You promise though, right? You’re not gonna leave me here?”

“No, Jay, of course not. I’m not going to leave you there, I’m coming to get you. Right now. I promise, okay? Jason, I would never abandon you. You’re my kid-brother and I love you. I’m not going to-”

“As touching as this is,” the woman interrupts, “I think that’s enough.”

“Put Jason back on the phone,” Dick snarls. “I swear, if you lay a hand on him, if you even touch him, I will end you.”

“Sure, honey,” the woman drawls, puffing into the receiver. “Here’s what’s going to happen, so I want you to listen to me.”

His computer dings. It’s Barbara. She’s got the location. It’s close. Not even twenty minutes away. Border between Bludhaven and Gotham. Motel next to the gas station connecting the freeways. Room 13.

He’s out the door and revving up his motorcycle before the woman has even taken a second drag from her cigarette. The rain is beating against him, gloomy street lights flickering through the shrouded dark of the storm. Thank god for Bludhaven sewers, only slightly better than Gotham’s. The water level is only a few millimetres high.

“Now, I don’t want to keep this kid anymore than you want him to stay here with me,” the woman drones. The streets are empty. Dick blows through every red light he comes across. The tires are new, the grip is fine. “So, I think we can make this simple.”

“What do you want?” Dick growls, transferring the call into his helmet. He prays she can’t hear the rain battering against it. “Just tell me what you want already and I’ll give it to you.”

“Don’t rush me,” the woman snaps, and it is then that Dick realizes that this is all probably by chance. This isn’t some criminal mastermind who plotted to find and kidnap the son of a billionaire. This isn’t a case of a rogue villain piecing together vague details and figuring out Batman and company’s identities. It’s simply someone desperate. Someone who saw the opening and took it. The poor planning is evident, practically spelled out in bold print that these people have no real idea what they’re doing.

“Sorry,” Dick bites out, veering through a short-cut that says, in neon orange, Danger. Construction Zone. “Please continue.”

The woman on the line is vindictive though, choosing to remain quiet as the sound of a lighter clicking open tinnies through the call. She takes her time lighting a new cigarette, taking a long, slow drag and holding it in for a few seconds. Dick jerks his bike to the right, narrowly avoiding a large pothole. A passing car blares its horn at him. Finally, the woman exhales. He can hear Jason cough in the background.

“What I want,” she starts, a new color of intrigue hitting the back of her throat. He’s barely ten minutes away now. Could probably half it if he took more backstreets and increased his speed. “Is for my son to be released from prison.”

“Who is your son?” Dick asks, cursing silently as his back tire skids, hydro-planing for a moment. Thunder crashes above him and the rain continues to pelt at his body. It feels like getting hit with a paint-ball gun.

“Landon Jennings. I want you to get him released. I know you have the access to lawyers, probably have debts owed to you from people in high places. I want him released tonight.”

Time: 00:14.

01:14 a.m standard time.

“I can do that,” Dick says, heart beating faster as he sees the sign for the motel, dim in the gray, “but I’ll need a few hours. I need to contact my lawyers. Where is your son stationed?”

An icon appears in the front of his digitized visor. It’s Barbara. She sees him closing in. Police are on route. Seven minutes out. He has the option to wait on them and keep the kidnappers on the line.

“Same place they all go,” the woman barks. “Use that head of yours and figure it out. I want my son out by tonight, or you’re not going to see your brother again. And,” she rushes, “I don’t want the police involved. If you call them, I’ll know, you understand? I don’t want to hurt the kid, but I’m not scared to. My husband is here with me too, so if you try and—”

Okay, so waiting isn’t an option. He’s going in.

“No police,” Dick interrupts. “I understand. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“If you just do what you’re told, then I won’t have to.”

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, gently getting off of his bike and leaving it on the side of the road. He can’t chance them seeing him pulling into the motel lot. “You said your son’s name was Landon? If you don’t mind me asking, what is he charged with?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Dick jogs towards the motel, careful to stay out of direct light. The general office looks closed. Most of the windows facing the lot are shielded by salmon colored curtains. There’s only one floor, thankfully. Dick sees door 13. He’s shaking. His fingers are numb.

“My lawyers said they need to know in order to file for a judge to repeal his sentence.”

“Is that so?” the woman asks, suspicion tailing her voice. She takes a drag from her cigarette, contemplating. Dick’s clothes are soaking wet and he cringes every time his shoes squelch against the concrete. He decides crawling is best, ducking under windows and avoiding peepholes. “Fine then. Landon got falsely accused of statutory rape and breaking and entering. Is that what your damn lawyers are looking for?”

“Yes,” Dick breathes. He’s at door 10. He can see a faint glow coming from behind the curtains of room 13. He’s so close. “Thank you.”

He taps on the side of his helmet, sending a series of numbers that he’s sure Barbara will understand.

23-26-8-37

E-N-T-R

He can’t wait any longer.

While crawling, Dick made sure to get a good look at the motel’s doors and hinges. They’re standard, and though both Gotham and Bludhaven tend to have better locks than most other cities, Dick recognizes the model of the door and the wood it’s made out of. They’re thin enough for him to ram through. The hinges on the sides are rusted over as well, and Dick thinks they might just be weak enough to break. The windows however. The windows are his best bet. He doubts this kind of motel invests in bullet proof glass, and on some of the sills, he can see water damage. They leak. Poorly made. Meaning, if he ran at them, he could break through pretty easily.

But, if that doesn’t work. Or if he’s not fast enough to get on his feet once in. Or if the window is directly in front of Jason and the glass breaks all over him. Or if—

Stop. He can’t think about the what-ifs right now. Dick knows he can do this. Knows how to do this. There isn’t any more time to wait. He promised he would get Jason out of there, and goddamnit, he’s going to keep his promise.

“You’re being really quiet,” the woman mutters. “What’s going—”

Dick takes a deep breath and tenses. The light behind the curtain flickers. He needs to move. Now. Now.

Lightning splits across the sky and Dick can’t tell if it’s the glass shattering or the thunder that makes the other-worldly crack but it doesn’t matter because Dick lands feet first and is tucking and rolling before the occupants have a chance to react.

“Oh my god!” someone screams, but Dick isn’t paying attention to them because his gaze zeroes in on his brother, tiny, thirteen year old Jason, who’s tied up on one of the beds and staring right at him.

He can’t linger long though because he hears the words, “Get the gun!”, and he’s up on his feet again, rushing the closest person. It turns out to be the husband, a balding man with a patchy neck-beard, and Dick bunches up his fist and swings, socking the man in the stomach. He doubles over, wheezing, and Dick can see the small pistol in the man’s right hand, and Dick strikes down on his shoulder, kneeing him simultaneously. The pistol drops and so does the man, groaning, and Dick turns to the woman, who is staring at him like an animal cornered.

“Don’t come any closer!” she yells, pocket knife trembling in her grip as she shoves it in Jason’s face. “I’ll stab him, I will!”

Dick holds up his hands, sidestepping the groaning man. “Put the knife down.”

“No!” the woman argues, a strand of black hair falling into her mouth. “Now I told you- stay there! Don’t fucking move or I’ll kill this kid, you hear! I’ll fucking slice his throat open!”

With how scared the woman is, and how precarious she holds the pocket knife, which Dick can see is dull even from where he’s standing, he knows it’s not an idle threat. Scared people will do anything to get out of the situation they’re in. Scared people are unpredictable and dangerous.

But so is Dick.

So is Jason.

“I’m not going to move,” Dick reassures, eyes flickering towards his brother, “so, please, drop the knife. We can talk this out.”

“Talk?” the woman shrills, jerking the knife closer to Jason’s jawline. “You just killed my husband!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Dick corrects. “He’s just unconscious. Come on now. It’s just you and me. Let’s talk this over. I can still get Landon out if you give me back my brother. It’s as easy as that, alright? Just put down the knife, and we’ll talk. Does that sound okay?”

The woman looks like she’s considering it, the hand holding the knife still trembling, when the first sirens enter the lot. Red and blue light flash through the broken window as rain seeps into the curtains.

“You rat!” she screams, furious and terrified and desperate all at once. “You fucking called the cops! You broke—”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish before Jason snaps his head back, headbutting the woman directly in the nose. He falls to the side, getting out of range of the knife, and Dick takes his cue, leaping forwards and gripping the woman’s wrist and squeezing, weapon falling from her grasp. There’s blood spurting from her nose and Dick throws her to the floor, getting her on her stomach and hands behind her back. He sits on top of her, his weight overpowering any strength she has left, and in the next few seconds, police are banging on the door.

“This is the GCPD! Open up and put your weapons down!”

“You can come in!” Dick shouts, holding the squirming woman in place. “We’re unarmed!”

Things happen quickly after the door bangs open, several officers pouring in like the Bludhaven storm. As soon as an officer handcuffs the woman he’s on top of, Dick is rushing to Jason’s side, another officer cutting away his bindings. His younger brother turns to him, about to say something, but Dick cuts him off with a crushing hug, cradling the back of Jason’s head to rest against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Dick whispers, gathering his brother more fully into his arms. “I should’ve been there sooner. God, Jason, I’m so sorry.”

“I-I thought you weren’t going to come for me,” Jason confesses, hiccuping. “When Bruce didn’t pick up, I thought it was because he didn’t want me anymore. I-I told her that, I told her Bruce wasn’t coming but she wouldn’t listen and-and I—”

Dick wraps his arms more securely around the sobbing preteen in response, gently rocking back and forth as the mattress springs squealed under the pressure.

“I know I haven’t always been around,” he says, uncaring about the snot dribbling into his shirt, “and I’m sorry you thought you couldn’t rely on me to come and get you. You’re my brother, though, and I will always come running when you call. No matter what. I promise, Jay. Anywhere, anytime, I promise I’ll be there. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jason wheezes, the adrenaline from before slowly releasing its hold. “I trust you.”

Dick presses his face into his brother’s hair, relief washing over him as his heart slows. He’s never had a sibling before. Things were still tense with Bruce, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a big brother. There isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for this kid in his arms right now.

“What’re brothers for, right?” he mumbles.

The rain doesn’t stop and pours and pours and pours. Dick just holds Jason tighter.

The real storm was over.

Five months later

It’s Thursday.

Time: 11:47 a.m.

The stone is nice. White marble. Shiny. Expensive.

There are fresh flowers. Roses and yellow daisies. The dirt is still new too. Evidence of freshly upturned earth. Dick reaches down and pulls out a weed that’s sprung up at the corner of the stone. Tosses it away.

He doesn’t have flowers. He has a newspaper in his left hand. Reads: Mourning billionaire sets off on trip to Europe.

Jason died a month before he got back from across the universe.

Anywhere, he had said. Anytime. I promise I’ll be there.

He crumples the newspaper into a tight ball and shoves it into his pocket. Stares at the stone. The sun is out. There are no clouds in the sky. It’s nice.

It’s a nice day.

“Fuck,” Dick mutters, a familiar burn in the back of his eyes. “Fuck.”

Anywhere, anytime.

Dick Grayson is an only child once again.

[scuttling]

Signals

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Word Count: 2,063 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Overstimulation, Multiple orgasms, Oral sex, Vaginal fingering, Unprotected sex, Rough sex, Daddy kink, Dom/sub, Praise kink, Biting, Hickies, Choking, Sex toys, Subspace, Aftercare Summary: Buying a present for Aaron starts a new (very smutty) tradition. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. Link to A03 or read below! It all starts with a trip to the mall with Prentiss and Garcia.

Prentiss is looking for a new set of luggage, Garcia is looking for a few new dresses, and Sophie’s just along for the ride, but when she spots the tie, she immediately knows she wants to buy it for Aaron.

It’s a deep, dark navy blue, silk, with a paisley print—Armani, so something he would never buy for himself—and she just knows how good it would look on him with a black suit, crisp white shirt, silver watch. Her mouth practically waters, and Prentiss shoots her a knowing smile when she glances over her shoulder and sees her holding it.

“Present for your special someone?” she asks, and Sophie glances back, smiles softly.

“Yep. He’ll probably just tell me I shouldn’t have wasted the money on him, but I was really drawn to it. I’m gonna get it.”

When she gives it to him after dinner that night, his face is serious, his eyes almost amber colored in the yellow light of the kitchen, and he pulls her onto his lap, kisses her warm and deep. His hands slide up her body, holding her at the waist, and she sighs, lets herself be kissed and held up by his hands for so long that she’s foggy with pleasure when he pulls back.

“I take it you like the tie?” she murmurs, and he sets her carefully on her feet, pushes his dinner dishes aside, and lays her back on the table; it leaves her breathless, and she just looks up at him, panting, sitting up on her elbows, while he takes off her jeans and panties.

He pulls her close to the edge of the table, one of his feet on the ground and his other knee up on his chair, and he makes a fucking meal out of her, brings her off twice with his tongue; her second orgasm hits her so hard that her eyes water, and he makes sure she’s alright before pushing two fingers inside her and fucking her to a third, praising her for being sweet and thoughtful as he presses deep.

“I like the tie,” he says when she is throbbing around his fingers afterward, her face flushed and wet, and all she can do is babble in response; he kisses her cheeks softly, takes her in his arms, cuddles her close, and carries her to bed. The first time he wears it, she catches a glimpse of him putting it on in the mirror, and heat floods her body. She freezes where she stands, breathing hard, and he turns, curious; his eyes sweep over her, taking in the signs of her obvious arousal, and he looks down at the tie, back up at her face.

“Oh. You remember the night you gave me this, don’t you, sweet girl? You were so thoughtful, buying a present for your daddy,” he says, taking a step toward her. She swallows hard, licks her lips, and nods. “I rewarded your kindness the best way I know how.”

“Yes, daddy. You made me feel... very good.” She can almost feel his hands on her, his tongue, and she shivers.

“Yes, I did. It was my pleasure, and I’m happy to do it again tonight, if you like.”

“The same thing, or something different?” she asks softly, and he puts his hands on her hips, presses his lips to hers.

“Anything you like, baby. You can think about it, let me know later?” She looks up at his face, so soft and loving, knows instantly what she’d like—but she’ll let him wait it out for a little while. There’s no reason she should be the only one desperately day dreaming of tonight.

“Yeah, I’ll let you know,” she answers, breathless again, and he smooths one palm over her ass, squeezes softly, and lets her finish getting ready.

She contemplates putting on fresh panties again, but decides that there’s really no point.

“Does that feel good, baby? Is this what you wanted?” Aaron purrs in her ear as he fucks her from behind, her hands squeezing the couch cushion while he pounds into her pussy. She’s got a throw pillow under her hips to tilt them up for him, and he’s so deep, so delicious.

“Yes, oh, god, yes,” she pants, and she moves one hand to cover his where he’s supporting himself on the edge of the sofa. “You feel so good.” Her tits are smashed against the seat of the couch, her ass jiggling each time he slams against it, her clit rubbing roughly on the throw pillow, and it’s everything she imagined and more.

“Perfect, gorgeous girl. So good for me.” One of his hands moves to her hair, and he pulls it all to one side, over her shoulder, so he can see her face better, probably. “You love to be fucked hard by daddy. You love the feel of me against your ass.”

“Yes, I love it. I love you.” She spreads her legs a little, one of her feet pressing against the rug for leverage, and he gets rougher, thrusts quicker. She whines, drops her cheek to the cushion, and just lets herself be fucked, her body moving only because of his deep, relentless thrusts.

“I love you, Sophie. You’re so perfect, wanting me to use you like this. When you ask for my cock, it’s almost impossible to deny you—but you know that, honey, don’t you? You know all I want is to make your tight little pussy quiver around me.” She moans into the couch, nods weakly, and when he leans in again to bite her shoulder, she comes. “Yes, that’s it. We’re not done yet, though.”

“Aaron,” she whimpers, her clit sensitive, and he mouths at the bite, kisses her arm.

“You’re fine, baby. You’re okay.” The hand not covered by hers moves to her ass, and he squeezes as he pumps inside. “You’re okay. You can take me, can’t you, good girl?”

“Hmm, yes,” she mutters, and she’s overstimulated, but she wants to be good for him, doesn’t want him to stop.

She gets too tired to do anything with her hands, just brings them up to rest by her face, and he moves his to her hips, holds her tight, and hammers her soft, pliant body until he comes; she feels him fill her, feels some slide out when he withdraws, and she exhales deeply, spent.

“No, no,” he says when she sags against the couch. “I want one more orgasm from you, baby girl.” He lifts her hips, tucks the pillow more firmly beneath her pussy, and it’s wetter now, from both of their come. “Hump this for me, okay?”

She’s tired, and satisfied, fuzzy, but she works her hips as best as she can. Aaron’s broad palms come to rest on her ass, and he spreads her open a little, watches her grind against the pillow. It makes her cheeks heat, being inspected so closely by her daddy, and she comes, neck outstretched, moans weak and broken.

He kisses her lips, her shoulder, and rubs his hand soothingly up and down her back; they get cleaned up in the shower, and he feeds her a snack in the kitchen—cheese and pickles, her favorite. Then, he wraps her in a blanket and tucks her into the armchair while he strips the couch cushions of their covers, throws them in the washer; she watches him with a sleepy, happy smile. The tie becomes an unofficial signal: when Aaron wears it to work, Sophie knows she is going to be taken apart thoroughly when they get home, will end the night with her body aching and her brain empty, and Aaron knows she knows.

This time, he left home wearing a red tie, she’s absolutely certain of that, but when they gather for their morning meeting, he’s wearing the blue one; she literally stops mid-stride when she sees it, and Prentiss crashes right into her back, almost causing a domino effect in the doorway. “Are you okay?” she asks, clearly concerned, but Sophie just swallows hard and nods, takes her seat without a word. Aaron turns to hide a smirk, the evil, rotten, bastard.

The evening begins agonizingly slow, with Aaron stripping her of her shirt and pants, laying her back on the bed, panties pushed aside, and fingering her with only one finger for a good twenty minutes. He has her whimpering, shaking, because it feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s only when he leans in to slide his tongue through the wetness pooling around his finger that she comes, squeezing her legs together; he forces them open with his free hand, making her mumble and shiver.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. You’re so gorgeous when you get like this: needy and desperate for daddy.” She wants to reply, can’t, just nods her head.

When she’s calmed down a little, he pulls her panties off, but her bra stays on. She doesn’t understand why, at first, until strong hands push up her thighs, and he inserts himself inside her, wraps his fingers around the fabric between the cups of her bra. It pulls down, exposing her chest, for the most part, and he uses that to hold her steady while he fucks her into oblivion.

Her tits bounce with each thrust, and her hands do absolutely nothing, because she’s forgotten how to use them; all she can do is whimper, murmur daddy, and clench around his dick, so that’s what she does.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Are you fuzzy already? Was one little finger enough to make you brainless?” She nods, pants, and he squeezes his eyes shut, something he does when he’s trying not to come. “You’re my perfect girl, Sophie. You’re the best girl. I love you so much.” She whines high in her chest, licks her bottom lip a couple of times, and he reaches his other hand up to wrap around her throat.

“Mmm, daddy,” she sighs, and when he spills inside her she hums, pleased, and manages to bring her hand up to hold his wrist at her throat. He keeps it there for a moment, then lets go, takes off her bra and comes up to kiss the angry, red marks it left behind.

He slips two fingers inside her, and she’s so messy, she can feel it, groans when the thrust of his hand makes her feel squishy inside. “It’s only me, baby, it’s daddy’s come. I’ll push it deeper inside and make you shiver for me, sweet girl.” His hand moves quickly, his mouth still gentle on her breasts, and when he carefully bites down on her nipple, she does climax, trembling and breathing hard until he guides his fingers out.

He holds her, soothes her, and when she’s able to speak, it’s a flood of words like thank you and love you and so good to me and wow. “You’ve worn that tie twice this week,” Spencer mentions to Aaron in the briefing room one day. He looks down, slides his hand over it, and glances back up at him.

“I like it. Sophie bought it for me,” he explains, and Spencer nods, smiles at her.

“It’s nice. Pretty color.”

“Thanks.” She flushes and looks back down at the interoffice memo they’re supposed to be reading; she still has hickies and bite marks on her ass and thighs from the last time he wore the tie, on Monday, and her mind has been racing, thinking of what kind of reward it will earn her today.

“So, so pretty, baby,” he coos as she gasps through her fourth orgasm of the night. There is a vibrator in her pussy, a smaller one in her ass, and she droops against him where he holds her up, his back against the headboard of their bed. “You sound so pretty when you come for me, my good girl.”

He makes love to her after that, pumping slowly, gently, into her worn out body, and she musters up enough energy to kiss him, sigh Aaron, and clutch at his hair until he comes.

She calls off sick the next day, literally too well-fucked to be of any use to her team. When Aaron gets home from work, all she’s wearing is the tie.