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pucksandpower · 2 days

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Hands On

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: celebrations after Lando’s first win get a bit hands on after he notices your obsession with a certain body part

Warnings: 18+ content

Based on this request

The pounding bass rumbles through the Miami club as Lando pulls you close, his arm snaked around your waist. The dim lights cast his face in chiseled shadows as he lets out a whoop of joy.

“We did it!” He yells over the music, eyes bright with elation. “My first bloody win!”

You beam up at him, heart swelling with pride. “I knew you could do it.” Standing on your tiptoes, you plant a lingering kiss on his lips, tasting the tang of celebratory champagne.

Lando grins against your mouth before reluctantly pulling back. “Let’s get a drink to toast, yeah?”

Nodding vigorously, you allow him to lead you through the crowd to the bar. Lando orders some lurid cocktails that probably cost more than an average person’s weekly grocery budget. You don’t care — tonight is for indulging.

As he hands you a glass, his calloused fingers brush yours, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. You quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice. But of course he did.

“Alright there, love?” Lando asks with an amused quirk of his brow.

You force a laugh. “Just, uh … got a chill, that’s all.”

“Mmhmm.” He gives you a look that says he’s not buying it, but allows the subject to drop for now.

The two of you migrate to a plush VIP area, sinking into the soft leather couches. Lando slings an arm around your shoulders and you snuggle into his side, basking in his warmth and earthy scent.

God, you’re so proud of him.

“To us,” Lando murmurs, clinking his glass against yours. “And many more race wins to come.”

“I’ll drink to that.” You take a sip of the violently purple concoction. It tastes like alcoholic cough syrup but you don’t care.

As the alcohol works its magic, you feel yourself relaxing further into Lando’s embrace. Your eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the delicious smattering of faint freckles, those gloriously long lashes ...

Your gaze catches on his free hand resting on the arm of the couch. You find yourself fixating on those slender fingers, the calluses from years of clutching the steering wheel ...

“Y/N?”

You start, blinking rapidly as Lando’s voice pulls you from your trance. “Huh? Sorry, what?”

“You’re staring again.” His lips quirk in that devilishly handsome half-smile.

Flushing hotly, you look anywhere but at him. Or more specifically, his hands. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you absolutely are.” Lando chuckles, low and teasing. “Go on then, what’s so fascinating?”

You squirm uncomfortably, feeling your face heat up even more. How to put this delicately ...

Apparently catching onto your distraction, Lando sits up straighter, settling his drink on the table with a muffled thunk. “Actually, don’t bother answering that. I think I know.”

Before you can protest, he reaches out to gently grasp your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb strokes your flushed cheek as those clever eyes bore into yours, equal parts amused and intense.

“It’s my hands, isn’t it?” Lando murmurs, voice dropping to a low rumble that has your heart tripping in your chest. “You can’t stop staring at my hands.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but Lando’s penetrating stare has you frozen, the words sticking in your throat. Slowly, you give a tiny nod.

Lando hums in acknowledgement, the pad of his thumb still caressing your skin in a maddeningly distracting way. “They are rather nice hands, to be fair. Years of keeping a firm grip, you know?” He winks at you roguishly.

You make a small, strangled sound in the back of your throat. Goddamn him and his innuendos.

“Would you ...” Lando pauses for dramatic effect, gaze dropping to your parted lips briefly. “Like a closer look?”

Every rational neuron in your brain screams at you to say no, this is too far, you’re in public, oh god. But your desire-muddled mind doesn’t seem to be receiving those signals. Instead, you give another mute nod, feeling yourself leaning the slightest bit closer.

“Yeah?” Lando’s voice is barely more than a gravelly rumble now. “You want my hands on you, don’t you?”

You make a tiny whimpering sound of assent, mouth suddenly bone dry. Your eyes drop of their own accord to those wicked fingers, still cupping your jaw so tenderly.

Lando lets out a quiet chuckle, deliciously sinful. “How bad do you want it, baby?”

Squeezing your thighs together self-consciously, you manage a strangled, “S-So bad ...”

“Good girl.” The praise has you melting into a puddle right there on the couch.

Then, in one torturously slow movement, Lando lowers his hand from your face … trails his knuckles down the column of your neck … over the swell of your chest … all the way to the hem of your skimpy dress. He hooks a finger under the silky material, drawing it up your bare thigh with agonizing leisure.

You inhale a sharp breath at the sensation of his rough skin on your flushed flesh. Your eyelids flutter shut, every nerve ending thrumming with exquisite tension.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap back open at Lando’s commanding tone. He gazes back, brows raised in silent challenge. You force yourself to hold his searing gaze as his hand maps lazy circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“Good girl,” he praises again, the words liquid sin. “Nice and relaxed for me.”

Despite the burning awareness of being in a public place, you feel yourself subconsciously parting your thighs ever-so-slightly, allowing those talented fingers higher access. Heat pools between your legs, your rapid pulse thrumming double-time.

“God, you’re so wet for me already,” Lando husks in approval. “I fucking love how worked up my hands get you.”

As those dexterous digits tease feather-light strokes over your quickly dampening underwear, you have to bite down hard on your bottom lip to stifle a whimper of shameless need. Every touch from him sets your body alight with feverish want.

“Shhh, inside voice, darling,” he chides quietly, humor dancing in those multicolored eyes. “Don’t want to cause a scene, do we?”

You rapidly shake your head, wholeheartedly agreeing. The last thing you need is for someone to wander over here and catch you being debauched by your boyfriend in a public place.

The thought should probably mortify you more than it does.

Lando gives you a crooked grin, like he can read your deliciously filthy thoughts. “Good girl,” he praises again, rewarding you with another teasing caress between your legs.

You suck in a shuddering breath, spine arching ever-so-slightly as Lando’s sinful fingers work their magic through the damp fabric. He knows every spot that drives you crazy, rubbing and stroking with perfect pressure until your inner muscles quiver with delirious need.

“You’re dripping for me, love,” he murmurs in a thick rumble. “Been thinking about my hands on you all night, haven’t you?”

No use denying it anymore — not with the embarrassingly loud squelches coming from between your shamelessly parted thighs. You give another frantic nod.

Lando makes a tutting sound. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes,” you force out in a ragged whisper. Already, your breaths are coming faster, the molten coil in your core winding tighter and tighter with every deft stroke. “God, Lando, please ...”

“Since you asked so nicely ...” With those words, he slips one long finger under the sodden lace, finally making direct skin-to-skin contact with your aching heat.

You choke back a moan as he delves into your dripping folds, crooking his finger to find that spot that makes you see stars. Alternating between tight circles and firm strokes, Lando works that magic digit at an agonizingly slow pace. Your hips lift shamelessly into his touch, desperate for more friction.

“So greedy,” he chides with a dark chuckle. But he acquiesces, slipping in a second finger to join the first.

You have to clamp your lips shut to muffle the broken keen that tries to escape. The stretch and burn as he scissors you open is pure bliss. Your inner walls flutter greedily around the delicious intrusion.

“Like that, baby?” Lando’s hot breath ghosts your cheek as he leans in close. “You feel so fucking good stretched around my fingers.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into the buttery leather as he starts pumping those wicked digits in a steady rhythm. Each slick thrust has your whole body tensing and the knot in your core winding ever tighter.

“You take me so well,” he praises in a hoarse rasp. “Always so tight and perfect around my cock too. Can’t wait to be buried in that sweet little pussy later.”

A broken whine escapes you at the filthy promise. Your thighs are trembling now, pleasure spiking through your veins with every curl and drag of those talented fingers. You’re quickly spiraling higher, that euphoric edge looming tantalizingly close ...

Lando’s free hand drifts up to toy with the strap of your dress, tugging it down to bare one straining nipple to the heated air of the club. He leans in to lave his tongue over the tender peak and you practically convulse in his lap. Too much, too good, you’re going to combust-

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your damp skin. “Let go.”

The low, commanding growl is your undoing. With a strangled cry, you shatter apart on his fingers, back arching as the pleasure crashes over you in relentless waves. It whites out your vision, every nerve ending set alight in blinding ecstasy.

You come back to reality cradled in Lando’s arms, his lips brushing reverent kisses over your damp hairline. As the pulses gradually subside, you slump bonelessly against his chest, thoroughly spent.

“That’s my good girl,” Lando murmurs, rich voice laced with smug satisfaction. He slowly retracts his drenched fingers with one final curl that has your body giving a languid shudder.

A blissed-out hum is all the response you can muster right now. Your eyelids are heavy, head swimming in that delicious post-orgasmic haze. Lando chuckles softly, tightening his embrace as he drops another kiss to your brow.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me yet, yeah? The night’s still young, love. Got plenty more celebrations planned for you ...”

***

The door to the lavish hotel suite bursts open with a bang as Lando practically shoves you through the entrance. You stumble slightly on your high heels, drunk on anticipation and champagne fumes. Before you can regain your balance, his strong hands are on you, spinning you around to pin your back against the nearest wall.

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night,” Lando growls against the sensitive skin just below your ear.

You shiver at the rumbling timbre of his voice, already growing hazy with rekindled desire. “Y-You already did at the club ...”

He rewards your cheek with a teasing graze of teeth. “And you were such a good girl, taking my fingers so nicely in front of everyone.” His hips grind against yours, allowing you to feel every rigid inch of his arousal. “But now I want more. Need to be inside you properly.”

A broken whimper escapes your parted lips as Lando’s hands roam greedily over your body. You arch shamelessly into his possessive grip, craving his burning touch everywhere at once.

“Arms up,” he commands in a gravelly murmur.

You immediately comply, and he wastes no time in dragging your skimpy dress up over your head, leaving you in just a flimsy scrap of lace. His heated gaze rakes over every newly exposed inch of bare skin with undisguised hunger.

“God, look at you ...” Lando exhales a harsh curse through gritted teeth. “I swear you get more gorgeous every bloody day.”

Face flushing beneath his scorching appraisal, you resist the urge to cover yourself with your arms. You know he prefers an unobstructed view.

“Turn around,” he orders in a voice that brokers no argument. “Hands on the wall.”

You spin obediently, biting back a needy whimper as your breasts brush the cool surface. The room suddenly feels several degrees warmer from the blazing anticipation alone.

There’s a pause where you can practically sense Lando’s eyes devouring the lines and curves of your body. You fight the urge to squirm beneath his piercing scrutiny. Then his callused hands are on your hips, squeezing with delicious possessiveness as he steps in to blanket your back with his solid heat.

“Already so wet for me,” Lando observes in a rough purr, dragging your lace underwear aside to reveal your slick folds. “Seem to recall you liking a taste of your own medicine at the club, hmm?”

The tip of his index finger glides through your arousal in one torturously slow pass, gathering the evidence of your desire onto his skin. Before you can so much as draw a shaky breath, he brings that glistening digit to hover just in front of your parted lips.

“Open up, love.”

You moan softly in anticipation, obeying without hesitation. The instant his finger slides into your mouth, your eyes flutter shut in wanton bliss. Your tongue swirls around the thick digit, hungrily lapping up every last trace of your own tangy essence.

“That’s it, nice and sloppy,” Lando praises in a low, heated rumble. “Show me how much you love the way you taste on my fingers.”

Spurred on by his heated words, you begin sucking in earnest, hollowing your cheeks with shameless enthusiasm. The slick sounds of your efforts fill the air, the wet noises doing absolutely nothing to quell the rising tide of arousal between your legs.

Behind you, Lando exhales a harsh curse. “Fuck … so bloody good at that. Should’ve known you’d look perfect with my fingers in your greedy little mouth.”

A fresh gush of arousal floods your center at his filthy words of approval. You can’t help the desperate whine that vibrates around his digit as you increase your pace, desperate to drive him as crazy as he’s driving you.

“Alright, enough teasing now.” There’s the sound of a zipper rasping, then suddenly Lando’s other hand is shoving yours away from the wall and around to grasp his newly freed erection.

You moan again, shocked but overwhelmingly aroused by his boldness. He pumps his length slow and purposeful, engulfing your smaller hand with his larger one to set a languid but firm pace.

“Good girl, that’s it ...” he rasps out harshly. “Wanna feel how hard you’ve got me, baby? Aching to be inside your perfect cunt ...”

At his filthy words, your core pulses with a fresh rush of molten want. You can feel the fat head of his shaft nudging demandingly against the crease of your thigh, leaving smears of pearly fluid on your heated skin.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Lando spins you back around to face him. His eyes are blazing with dark, predatory hunger as he swiftly sheds the rest of your flimsy underwear. Then he’s hauling you up by the backs of your thighs, pinning you against the wall with his hips nestled firmly against your aching core.

“Tell me what you want,” he rumbles in a tone of deliciously wicked authority. The thick head of his erection drags through your slick folds in one maddening tease after another.

You whine high in your throat, scrabbling at his broad shoulders for purchase. “P-Please, Lando! Need you inside me ...”

“Need me to what?” He tilts his hips in a slow, torturous grind, spreading your arousal in a slick glaze. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Fuckmefuckmefuckme ...” The desperate mantra spills shamelessly from your lips as you try to pull him closer.

Lando rewards your begging with a wolfish grin. “As you wish.”

And with one slick thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching and filling you in the most exquisite way. Twin groans echo through the suite — his a guttural growl, yours a high-pitched mewl of relief.

There’s an endless moment where you both simply still, savoring the friction of being so intimately joined. Lando’s forehead drops to your shoulder, the pair of you panting harshly against one another’s sweat-slicked skin.

Then he starts to move.

It starts with a slow roll of his hips, languid but purposeful strokes that drag his length through every last velvet inch before pulling nearly all the way out. You clutch desperately at the carved muscles of his back as he sets a relentless pace, each powerful thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“So tight ...” he grits out in a gravelly burr. “Taking me so deep, god, you feel incredible...”

You can only whimper helplessly in response, overwhelmed by the feeling. Every nerve is alight with shuddering bliss.

Soon Lando’s lazy rhythm devolves into harsh, pounding strokes, the harsh clap of flesh on flesh echoing like thunder. The solid wall at your back provides delicious traction as your boyfriend jackhammers up into your fluttering heat with rapidly mounting frenzy.

“Yes … yesyesyes!” The breathless affirmations tear from your lips in sync with each punishing slap of his hips.

“Can hear how much you love this, getting pounded against the wall like a desperate little thing,” Lando rumbles with dark approval. “Am I hitting all those perfect spots, baby? Making that greedy cunt squeeze me so damn tight?”

“So close, so close!” You chant in a high, thready whine. Your release is rapidly building, that glorious crest just out of reach.

As if sensing your desperation, Lando shifts his grip so one hand can snake between your bodies. His clever fingers instantly find the swollen bundle of nerves at your apex and start working tight, purposeful circles with just the right amount of pressure.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god ...” The frantic mantra punches from your lungs in time with his feral thrusts. You can feel yourself teetering right at that blissful precipice, every nerve pulled tourniquet-tight with impending release.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Lando coaxes in a rough growl. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock ...”

His filthy words are your undoing. With a sobbing cry, your vision whites out in a supernova of shattering ecstasy. Pleasure rockets through your veins in pulsing waves, every muscle locked in the most beautiful torment. Vaguely, you feel Lando snarling curses against the fevered skin of your neck as your convulsing walls grip him in scorching velvet vice.

When your senses finally begin drifting back to you, Lando is peppering your sweat-dampened face with gentle kisses. He brushes the mussed hair from your brow tenderly, eyes brimming with naked adoration.

“So perfect for me,” he murmurs in hushed reverence. “Every bloody time. Fuck, I love watching you fall apart.”

You manage a weak, boneless smile at the affectionate praise, still riding the afterglow. You feel deliciously hollowed out, pleasantly achy in all the right places. Like every muscle has turned to warm honey.

After another moment, Lando carefully lowers your trembling legs until your wobbly knees find purchase on the plush carpeting. He frames your face with those gloriously rough hands, calluses catching on the flush of your cheeks.

“That good for you, love?” He asks with a hint of gentle teasing.

“Mhmm ...” You nod drowsily, leaning into his solid palm. “S’always good with you.”

Lando’s answering smile is bright enough to power every chandelier in the lavish suite.

***

“Baby, where are you? I’m home!”

Lando’s voice rings out as the door to your shared flat opens with a muffled snick. You pause your lounging on the couch, book falling forgotten to your lap as he steps inside, hauling a discreet black bag.

“In here!” You call out with a smile, already tingling with curiosity.

He appears in the doorway, flashing you that signature crooked grin that always has your insides melting. “There’s my gorgeous girl. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

You sit up a little straighter, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

Rather than answer, Lando moves to the couch and deposits the bag between you two with a heavy thunk. Your brows shoot up quizzically.

“Well someone’s being mysterious,” you tease, giving the matte exterior an experimental prod. “What’s in this, Mister Norris?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he gestures towards the zipper pull.

Fighting a grin, you obligingly grasp the metal tab and pull, allowing the discreet covering to gape open. The first thing you register is a tangle of padded straps and buckles in sleek black leather. Then your eyes catch on the protruding shape nestled securely in the center … and you promptly choke on your own tongue.

It’s a hand. Or rather, a perfectly molded silicone model of one — every crease and callus captured in lifelike detail down to each delicate whorling fingerprint.

A whimper catches in your throat as realization slams into you with dizzying force. This hand … this hand with those long, talented fingers you’ve fantasized about more times than you can count … this hand is modeled after Lando’s.

“Oh my god ...” The words slip out in a strangled exhale. “Lando, is this ...”

His expression is carefully neutral, but the fiery glint in his eyes gives away his smug satisfaction. “You’re always going on about how much you love my hands. Figured you deserve to have the full experience whenever you want it, love.”

“I ...” Words temporarily fail you as you lift the shockingly realistic appendage free of its padded enclosure. The weight and articulation is uncanny, from the subtle flare of knuckles to the blunt tips of each digit. It’s almost unsettling how realistic it is.

You glance up to find Lando observing you with dark, hooded interest. His tongue darts out to wet his lips in a reflexive tell of arousal.

“What do you think?” He asks in a low, rough murmur. “Want to take it for a test drive?”

Heat lances straight to your core at the blatant suggestion. You reflexively squeeze the silicone digits in your grip, reveling in the slinky give and firm resistance. Already you can vividly imagine those fingers pumping into your dripping heat, stretching and stroking with that same delicious friction you’ve come to crave ...

“Y/N?” Lando’s voice pulls you from your lust-hazed daze. His eyes are blazing now, pupils blown wide. “Need you to use your words, sweetheart ...”

You make a small, needy sound as your thighs instinctively shift in subtle search of friction. “Yes … yes, I want to try it. Please ...”

That’s all the encouragement he seems to need. In the span of a heartbeat, Lando is divesting you of your thin cotton shorts and guiding your legs apart to settle between them on the couch. The hand rests heavy and solid in his palm as he holds it aloft, allowing you an unobstructed view.

You bite your lip against a whimper, already flushing with a heady cocktail of arousal and shameless anticipation. Lando’s lashes dip to half-mast as he brings the sculpted digits to his lips and lays a reverent kiss to each knuckle.

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” he rumbles in that low, raspy tone that never fails to have you melting. And then, with agonizing leisure, he trails the smooth pads down your chest … over the soft swell of your stomach … through the damp thatch of curls at your apex ...

A gasp punches from your lungs at the first glancing stroke against your folds. This may be an inanimate object, but its perfected shape coupled with Lando��s practiced touch feels so exquisitely familiar. Like the real thing is finally breaching that aching place inside you ...

“Bloody hell, you’re already dripping,” Lando observes in a rough growl. The flexed digits slide through your arousal in one slick pass, gathering your essence onto the sleek silicone. “Is this what you were thinking about, love? Having my fingers buried knuckle-deep in that greedy little cunt?”

You can only whimper and nod frantically as he draws tantalizingly close again. That unhurried brush of solid firmness against your most sensitive flesh already has your inner muscles fluttering desperately.

“Tell me what you want,” Lando rumbles in a tone of smoldering command. Those clever fingers circle your aching entrance, spreading your slick arousal in a torturous tease.

“T-The hand,” you stammer out in a pitchy whine. “Lando, please ... I need it i-inside me ...”

A wolfish grin curves his lips as he rewards your obedience with a searing kiss. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are blazing with liquid smoke.

“As you wish.”

Then Lando is tipping the toy at just the right angle to catch on your swollen entrance. With one smooth, purposeful thrust, he sheaths every last inch to the knuckle root inside your clenching heat.

The fullness is glorious, that solid silicone bulk stretching you wide in the most delicious way. Every delicate ridge and contour drags against your velvet walls with maddening friction with the slightest movement.

“Fuck ...” Lando practically snarls the curse through gritted teeth as he begins pumping the toy in a slow, purposeful rhythm. “So goddamn hot seeing you grip it like this, baby … squeezing so perfectly tight.”

You can only whimper helplessly in response, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation. With each careful stroke, Lando angles the silicone fingers to create a firm nudge against that spongy cluster of nerves. Jolts of electricity hoot up your spine until you’re shuddering and whimpering.

“There you are ...” Lando’s voice is a rumbling growl of smug satisfaction as he locates that magic spot. “Squirming like a desperate little thing on my hand.”

To punctuate his words, he rotates his wrist with a purposeful flex of hard knuckles against your tender front wall. The exquisite pressure has your hips jerking upward in a helpless spasm, eyes flying open to lock gazes with your wickedly grinning boyfriend.

“Like that, do you?” He husks, lips brushing your cheek. “Never seen you make noises like this before. So hungry for my fingers buried deep...”

As if to emphasize the slick sounds already filling the air, Lando picks up the tempo of his thrusts in rapid, punishing strokes. The squelches are more erotic than anything you’ve ever heard as he rails you open on that delightfully thick silicone.

“Oh god, oh g-god ...” The desperate mantra spills shamelessly from your lips as white sparks begin bursting across your vision.

“Let it happen, baby,” he coaxes. “Need to see those gorgeous walls fluttering when you come ...”

With a startled cry, your spine bows off the cushions as your long-awaited climax finally detonates. Searing pleasure lances through every nerve ending in tsunami waves. You’re vaguely aware of choking out Lando’s name over and over in a breathless keen, your inner muscles flexing uselessly around the thick silicone toy.

When you finally drift back down, it’s to the feeling of damp hair being brushed from your brow. You blink blearily to find Lando gazing down at you with naked awe and unguarded adoration.

“You’re a vision like this,” he murmurs reverently. The hand-shaped toy is finally, carefully extracted with a slick sucking sound that has you flushing. “So beautifully ruined all because of my hand ...”

In a tender gesture, Lando cradles the back of your skull and brings the glistening silicone digits to your parted lips. The clean, musky tang of your own arousal coats every contour.

“Clean it up, love,” he commands. “Know how much you love the taste ...”

You moan faintly at the filthy demand, feeling a fresh slick of heat pooling between your legs. But there’s no way you can deny him this or yourself the heady intimacy of such an act. So with hooded lashes, you obediently part your lips and take those thick fingers onto your awaiting tongue.

Lando’s low groan of approval vibrates through your very bones as you seal your lips in a tight ‘O’ and suck with wanton fervor. The harsh breaths punching from his lungs spur you on, swirling your tongue over every crease and imprint hungrily.

“So fuckiny gorgeous,” he grits out in a tone of strained reverence. “You have no idea the effect you have on me, do you?”

As if to emphasize his words, Lando shifts position — and you suddenly become aware of the painfully rigid line of his erection pressing against your hip. With a needy whine, you instinctively grind up against that hot, insistent length through the thin barrier of his athletic shorts.

Your boyfriend’s lashes flutter as he bites back a growl. “Easy there, minx. You’re going to get me inside you soon enough.” He nips sharply at the bolt of your jaw, silicone fingers still working your slack mouth in shallow thrusts. “But first I want to watch you come apart on the real thing one more time ...”

A full-bodied shudder races through you at the dark promise underlining his words. With a pitchy sound of submission, you allow your heavy eyelids to slip shut and your jaw to unhinge obediently around the thoroughly used toy.

Every expert curl and flick of those clever digits is centered on the singular goal of dismantling you again. You’re powerless to resist, simply allowing the heady l sensations to crest higher and higher. Lando’s hoarse rumbles of encouragement cradle you, pushing you higher until you finally shatter into sublime oblivion once more.

And fuck, you love it when Lando’s hands on.

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gothmods · 2 months

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Halloween kurhn?

Halloween kurhn :3c

Just a quick post because i know these will also be up other peoples alley

They come with tiny stickers to put on the dolls (or your own nails?) but they are very delicate. Did manage a few after i took photos.

They are very cute and i like that they are in that realm of costume but like, in a cute fashion-y way.

#my dolls #kurhn #kurhn doll #its not super clear in these photos but they also have slightly different screening #purple eyes with a light purple shadow and dramatic lashes

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falsementor · 2 years

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@inmiasma said: ✘ what happened between you and wukong?

— ✘ my muse has to answer with complete honesty ( 3/10 )

Macaque’s back is turned, his shadow an inky silhouette paved on the ground. It’s eyes open, as if studying the one who asks such a question. So straightforward, so brutally direct... And he has no choice but to answer it truthfully! Well, if he’s gonna be honest, he might as well do it with some flair, right?

“ Eheh.. Desperate for an explanation, aren’t you ? Are you sure you wanna know ? I hate to break it to you, but the great Monkey King isn’t as great as you all think he is. ”

And then, the lights dim drastically, to the point it’s almost hard to see. The demon whirls on a dime, his cloak flaring out behind him. Macaque throws his hands up dramatically, and the lights shift with a sinister purple hue. Behind him, his shadow stretches up along the wall, morphing into a pair of silhouettes that vaguely resembled two monkeys with their hands clasped together, one in particular with a distinct curled headband.

“ We were BEST FRIENDS ! ” Six-Ear exclaims, his voice downright unhinged with twisted euphoria. His tail lashes back and forth manically as he continues, unable to stop the flow of words that rushed out.

“ Ooor so I thought ! You can never really know what your worth is with that guy, honestly. Hahaha ! ” A bitter laugh, and Macaque shrugs. As he does, the silhouette with the headband abruptly lets go of it’s companion's hand, turning away while the other reaches out for them. “ See, despite how perfect our world was together, it actually wasn’t good enough for Sun Wukong. And once he got real power, he forgot all about our friendship ! He couldn’t care less about what happened to me. It was like I never even existed ! Funny, right ? ”

And yet, he’s not laughing. Macaque’s smile is twisted and forced, lip trembling with effort to remain taut.

And the shadows just reflect his tragic tale as he speaks, just as he’d shown once before on a theater’s stage some time ago. Eventually, it’s just his lone shadow, surrounded by a thick, purple light. The demon’s expression then darkens, his tone dropping to a angered growl.

“ You don’t really know a person until they’ve seen you at your worst. Then, and ONLY then will you realize who actually has your back and who doesn’t. And Monkey King ? Heheheh... He never had mine. Even though he’s the HERO like you all SAY he is. He never came to save me. ”

#✘ — lets see how fast you can run! ( ic. )#✘ — stick around ‘cause i’m about to show you. ( inbox. )#inmiasma #PHEW #SPENT A WHILE ON THIS ONE FELLAS #considering the fact its a truth serum meme this is a one-off thing. but i felt inspired and drabbled a bit #ty for the ask!!

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from-a-reckless-writer · 3 years

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here's me jumping into the bandwagon :D

(read on ao3)

It's just after sunset when Kara finally gives in. She veers off from her patrol down to a route she knows by heart.

The moment she lands, the first thing she notices is how the sliding doors are a fraction open. It’s a small thing, nothing to even be thrilled about, yet still, her drumming heart cannot be helped.

"Knock, knock," she says, stepping inside.

Her heart turning anxious when she takes in the sight in front of her. The room is a mess; books on the floor, drawers open, Lena’s frazzled appearance. She's standing over a suitcase thrown open in the middle of the bed, a mountain of clothes on top of it.

She was told that Lena was going on a trip, that it would probably take three weeks tops.

Packing for a trip doesn’t look like this, this looks a lot like... leaving.

Going on a trip, Kara remembers that’s what her family told her too.

You and Kal are going on a trip but you don’t have to worry, we’ll be with you the rest of the way, they told her.

A trip implies there would be a home to come back to. And Kara believed it. She believed it for a total of ten seconds before her planet exploded and a shard of her home knocked her off-course.

"Need some help?" Her voice doesn’t tremble. Kara considers that a miracle, really.

"I didn't know Supergirl helped poor hapless women pack suitcases,” Lena retorts, walking over to her and kissing her cheek in greeting. It doesn't go unnoticed by Kara how clingy Lena's been since she's been back.

"Well, I wouldn’t exactly consider you poor and hapless," Kara counters.

"I may have had a slight,” Lena pinches her thumb and forefinger together, “panic over which and what to pack earlier.”

Yeah, Kara can definitely see that.

"Good thing I’m here then?”

"It's always good whenever you're around,” Lena says in such a casual way and it’s like the past year didn’t happen. As if it has always been this good. And...is this even allowed? This much affection from Lena? All the sweet words, the gentle touches, and the constant close proximity? It shouldn’t be allowed, not if it will be taken from her almost immediately after.

Unfair, is what it is.

******

“Okay, so why don’t we just move this out here yeah?” Kara voices, leaning over and hugging the lump of clothes to her chest, dumps it out from the suitcase and onto Lena’s pillows.

Lena’s fabric conditioner filling Kara’s senses entirely. For a brief moment, she considers stealing one of Lena’s shirts then and there. Something to tide her through once Lena leaves.

“Great. You’re on folding duty then,” Lena declares, “I’ll just go sort my babies, quickly. I’ll be right back.”

(Her 'babies' being the thick books lining every inch of this place.)

Lena disappears through the door. The domesticity of it all pulling at Kara’s chest.

In another world, where life ran a little differently, Kara would be packing their suitcases for a trip to Argo, or maybe one of the planets she’s always wanted Lena to see, or maybe it’d be nothing that grand. Maybe, just a trip back to Midvale. Lena would read to her on the whole drive there, her hair whipping from the winds down coastal roads.

Maybe not even a trip. Maybe in this other world, she’s assigned on folding duty, while Lena tinkers around their house. Maybe, even a dog or a cat. Maybe, something small at first, just an aquarium of fishes.

She doesn’t notice how deep into the fantasy she’s gotten till Lena speaks up from the door.

"My, my, CatCo would pay a million dollars to see this."

"Uh-"

"Supergirl found in bed, folding Lena Luthor's undies."

Kara looks down at her hand. She’s holding a lacy purple panty, she spots the matching bra laying a few inches away. She drops it lightning quick, feels her face flush.

"Oh, Rao. Lena, I'm so sorry I didn't mean to- I wasn't- It was just there and I-"

"Relax, Kara. I was just teasing,” Lena reassures her, she’s got three books tucked in her arms, she lays them down on the bed, before picking up the underwear Kara’s dropped and folding it neatly.

The contrast of the dark fabric against Lena’s pale fingers makes Kara flush an even brighter red.

Kara tries hard to exclude Lena's lacy panties in her fantasy.

She fails.

******

They give up on packing entirely two hours later. An all out pillow fight breaks out somewhere between Kara fishing out her favorite hoodie from the pile--discovering t'was not in fact missing like she thought it was--and Lena denying that she stole it.

They’ve fallen right on top of Lena’s clothes. Laying opposite each other, Lena lying upside down, her feet propped up on the pillows, toes touching the headboard, whilst Kara’s legs dangle at the end of the bed. Their heads close together.

From this angle, she can see the defined slope of Lena’s nose; stares at the way her lashes curl every time she blinks.

“So, what do you think you’ll find there?” Kara breathes out into the silence.

“I don’t really know,” Lena whispers.

“Let me rephrase then; what do you want to find?”

“I- I don’t know either.”

She tries to crane her neck to take a better look at Lena. Her eyes are closed, and it takes every ounce of self-control for Kara not to lean over and just press a kiss to Lena’s lips. It would be so, so easy. She settles for shifting just a bit closer instead, their temples touching.

It’s good enough.

“That’s okay," Kara murmurs, "not knowing is part of the adventure, right?”

She tries not to think about how she isn’t really part of this adventure. It isn’t about her, really. Kara’s decided the next three days will be about Lena. Kara will have time for breaking down once Lena leaves. The three days pales in comparison to how much Lena’s sacrificed in getting her back.

“I guess so.” she hears Lena say.

On the ceiling, Kara sees two shadows dancing with each other, tries not to look too deep into it.

And then,

“I had Jess trace down a couple of documents for me,”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s an orphanage that could help me, she thinks.”

Kara’s ears perk up at that, she imagines Lena as a small child crying for her mom and then being whisked away from everything she ever knew. Kara wishes she could hold that little girl’s hand. Why did nobody hold Lena’s hand through it all? Kara wonders if somebody did, would Lena even have met her? Would she have needed somebody like Kara in her life? She likes to believe that Lena would still have met her. A reality without Lena was too painful, Kara knows all too well.

“Is that where you’re going to visit first?”

“Yeah.”

A brief silence engulfs them.

“Hey, Kara,” Lena calls out. “Do you think-”

There’s a deep exhale and a sigh.

“Do I think what?”

“Do you think my mom would want me to find her again? Do you think she’s proud of me?”

The question was so full of uncertainty and insecurity and there's nothing that Kara wants more than to just wrap around Lena and tell her how goddamn amazing she is.

“Oh, Lena," Kara whispers, "your mom would be so happy if you found her. I’d even say she’s been waiting for you. And of course, she’s proud of you!” Kara sits up at this, can’t contain all her awe for Lena.

“You’re amazing! Have you met you? Your mom would be so proud of you. I just know it, Lena.”

Lena opens her eyes, smiles shyly at her, reaches up to cup Kara’s cheek. Even though the angle is awkward, Kara feels her entire being light up at the touch.

“Thank you. You always know just what to say.”

Kara's right hand comes up to keep Lena’s hand steady, before tilting slowly to press a kiss to her palm.

She registers the up-tick in her heartbeat before letting go and laying back down again.

Kara’s beginning to understand, now. Lena doesn’t want to wonder anymore, maybe if she knew where she came from, who she could’ve been, and what kind of life she could’ve led, existing wouldn’t be as hard as it is now. Maybe Lena wanted to know that a Luthor isn’t all that she is. Even though Kara has repeated again and again that she is so much more. Lena needs to figure that out for herself, Kara guesses.

Maybe, Lena finally needs a name other than what has been ingrained in her. Maybe Lena needs to name the parts of herself she never had before.

“Maybe you came from a family of thieves,” Kara murmurs, closing her eyes too.

“Kara.” she feels Lena shift, she opens one eye to see Lena propped on her elbows leaning over her. “Are you saying you think being a hoodie thief is genetic?”

“You never know, Lena you never know,” Kara manages to say, her brain a loop of, Lena’s eyes are so pretty, so pretty, so pretty, her hair smells so nice, please kiss me, please kiss-

Kara closes her eyes again to make the chanting stop.

“You do know I'm a scientist, right?”

“Mm. Doesn’t make you any less of a hoodie thief.”

That earns her a pillow on the face.

“Personally, I think you’re some lost princess though," Kara divulges.

Lena lets out a loud incredulous laugh at that.

“What?" Lena blurts out, "You think I’m a princess?”

There’s a cheesy pick-up line there somewhere that Kara chooses to ignore.

“Well, you have the whole Snow White look down to a T, after all. Pale skin, dark hair. The whole ensemble really.”

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," Lena groans, “but, I think you might be right. God, I even have the whole evil stepmother-stepbrother dynamic down. Does that make you one of my dwarfs?”

“Dwarf? Really? Lena, really?”

She’s glad to learn that Lena had picked up a thing or two from their Disney marathons. That doesn’t mean Kara appreciates being called a dwarf though. She sits up and leans back on her elbows too; their faces inches from each other now. Lena’s eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You turn into Grumpy when someone eats your ice cream.”

Kara gasps, clutches her heart as if wounded and falls down dramatically. Lena just laughs at her, lies down again before asking, “Think I’ll find Prince Charming there, then?”

“You don’t need Prince Charming.”

I’m right here.

“True,” Lena agrees. Lena doesn’t need anybody, although would it really hurt if she says that she needed Kara the way Kara needs her?

“Ireland seems like the best place to run off into the sunset though," Lena wonders aloud.

“Is that what you wanna do?” Kara asks, “Just run off into the sunset?”

Because, because, if it is, I can do something even better. I can fly you off into the sunset. All you have to do is ask. Her heart is galloping in her chest and she’s grateful that out of the two of them, she’s the only one with super hearing.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lena answers and Kara lets out a none too subtle breath of relief.

“You don’t have to search for a home, you know,” Kara whispers. She just- She just needs Lena to know this, okay?

“I know,” Lena answers. “I still need to do this though.”

Once Lena Luthor makes up her mind there’s no changing it, it’s something Kara’s come to know through the years.

“You’ll come back soon though?”

“Maybe. Honestly, Kara? I don’t really know about ‘soon’. How close is ‘soon’ anyway? Would there even be a good reason for me to come back?”

How Kara held her all screams in the moment Lena said that, she doesn’t know.

******

There are balloons and cake and confetti but it doesn’t feel anything remotely close to a party.

It feels more something along the lines of, train wreck and heartbreak and building on fire. In short, disaster.

She vaguely registers Kelly asking her to hover and hang the banner. Why would she want to hang a banner screaming “We”ll Miss You!” in glittering blue? Kara grabs the ends of it and hangs it up anyway.

We’ll Miss You doesn't even begin to cover Kara’s feelings about Lena’s departure and oncoming absence.

But then again, this isn’t about her.

The door buzzes before Kara can spiral down her blackhole again.

Andrea comes in through the door with a bottle of champagne, which she hands off to Kara along with her coat. Kara fumbles after Andrea.

This isn’t CatCo! I’m not your employee! And champagne? Really? What is there to celebrate?

Lena arrives shortly after and streamers are let out. They make in-jokes and everyone’s laughing and Alex keeps telling Lena to bring home ‘some of the good stuff’ and Brainy keeps asking if he’s allowed to tinker with Lena’s projects while she's away, and Nia’s handing Lena an old film camera, “Document everything for me? Alright?" and Kara’s trying, she really, really is.

Even though she can’t understand how all of them are happy and smiling at the thought of Lena leaving them.

She doesn’t even notice what she’s doing till she’s bracing herself for take-off out in Lena’s balcony, when a hand lands on her wrist.

“Hey.” Lena anchors her back to the ground. It’s a mistake to turn and meet Lena’s eyes.

“Stay? Please?” Lena asks.

Unfair, Kara thinks again. It’s unfair that she gets to ask that.

******

Kara stays.

She stays till the lights are off, the blankets drawn and Lena’s snoring in her arms.

She’s eyeing the suitcase at the corner of the room.

I forgive you, she thinks, I forgive you for taking my heart in the suitcase you packed.

She didn’t even know it was trapped inside till Lena’s zipping everything up and Kara couldn’t breathe.

“Please, please, don’t go,” she pleads into the dark. .

Lena shifts, mumbles incoherently and burrows deeper into Kara.

******

The runway is shimmering after the early morning drizzle, and Lena Luthor looks like someone from a magazine, standing there in her velvet coat and aviators. There’s only the two of them, and there’s a smug pride in Kara about the fact that Lena didn’t want anybody here but her.

She’s leaving today. In a few hours, they’ll be on different continents. Kara wouldn’t be able to trace her heartbeat anymore. Lena made her promise not to chase the plane. She’s still pretty bummed about that.

“You know I’m gonna call you everyday, right?” Kara mutters in her ear, arms wrapped tight around Lena.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from Kara Danvers.” Lena squeezes back, before pulling away.

“G-good.”

“Well, this is my ride,” Lena tells her, gestures to the jet behind her. “This is goodbye then.”

“For now.” Kara insists.

“For now.” Lena confirms, “Goodbye, for now.”

She turns to go but Kara can’t-

“Lena, wait.”

She tugs on Lena’s hand and she comes back to her willingly. Before Kara loses the nerve, she presses into Lena’s lips. She cups her face gently, feels the warmth of the sun on her cheeks, feels the moment Lena’s brain catches up to what’s happening.

It doesn’t taste like goodbye, Kara realizes. It tastes like a promise of something more.

“What was that for?” Lena breathes out, Kara can hear their hearts hammering in sync.

“Your reason to come back home.”

[special shoutout to @mssirey who gave great writing advice to this poor hapless writer（〃｀ 3′〃）i kith u on the forehead. ]

#if u see a typo no u dont #the reckless writer writes #a supercorp ficlet of sorts #here have a super self-indulgent fic before the next disaster of an ep drops #sg spoilers

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robboyblunder · 2 years

Photo

Private design commission for my pal @pastrytown for the king of his coming comic series 'Medical Malpractice'! Designing the king was a lot of work and fun, and in the end I'm really pleased with the results (as is my client of course!)

I'm absolutely honored you chose me to design an important character for you; thank you so much for your support! I can't wait to see him in action someday! :)

image ID under the cut!

(please don’t repost/use these images or designs, and leave my description; thanks! reblogs highly appreciated!)

start Image ID:

the first image is of three busts of a white middle aged man with gold spotted eyes and long wispy and wavy light brown hair tied back in a ponytail by a purple ribbon. He has a close shaved beard. In the left bust he has an intricate roman helmet and sun shaped crown with many points, orange gems, and a large pearl in the center. In the left and middle busts he is wearing thick makeup similar to historical white powder and war paint with purple lash-like makeup painted over his eyes and nose bridge with dark red around his brow line. his lips are painted dark red with gold outlining them and going across his eye on the right. The right bust is the same man without makeup.

the second image is the front and back of a man dressed in historical royal clothing in purple and olive green decorated with intricate gold lace patterns on the vest, jacket trim and shoulders, sleeve cuffs, and back. He is also wearing white gloves, a cravat, and buttoned wraps over high heeled boots. leather straps wrap just bellow his knees and over his boots clasped with gold buckles. his face is painted with period accurate makeup with red lips, red dusted cheekbones, and purple eye shadow.

the third image is the same man from the previous image but now wearing a large royal purple cape lines with cream colored fur that has small black spots speckled over it. the cape has two patterns, a dark purple one and a gold lace one. on his right shoulder is an ornate platinum gold pauldron with amber orange gems. A large sun shaped amulet sits on the front of the cape with chains connecting it to a similar smaller one on the back with small orange gems hanging from the chain. He has similar jewelry with pearl and orange gems throughout his hair and on his ears. A pointed roman helmet and sun spike shaped crown wraps around his head with the same gemstones. His makeup is darker and more dramatic with darker red lips, darker purple makeup across both his eyes like war paint, and gold speckling over his cheeks.

/End Image ID

#king dominicus #medical malpractice #commission #commissions #king #royalty #bunsterkeaton #pastrytown #medmal

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minor-solemnity · 3 years

Text

Invention and Intrigue

This might turn into a multi-part fic? I haven’t decided yet, but let me know if you want to read more of this one though!

He doesn’t look angry, or even particularly concerned is the thing. He looks like he’s considering something. Thoughtful, interested. “That was quite the performance,” He says at last and walks over to you, his shoes tap tap tapping against the stone floor. “I think I’d like an explanation.”

The dungeons are one of those places that you don’t go near unless you can absolutely help it. You’d dropped Potions the moment you’d been allowed, not because you’re not good at them - it had been one of your best subjects in actuality - but because the dungeons aren’t safe. Not for someone like you.

This is why you’re currently cursing every bloodline that makes up your best friend’s family tree as you gingerly descend the stone steps into the depths below. Melanie Lindhurst has a date. A date with a boy who she has been pining after since fourth year. She also has a very expensive rare textbook that she needs to return to Slughorn that night but she can’t because of said date. This is why you’ve been roped into finding Slughorn and returning the book yourself. Which means you have to go into the bowls of the castle and pray you don’t run into any Slytherins whilst you’re there.

Melanie had said you were being dramatic when you’d grouched about it over dinner. She finds your reticence to go near the dungeons very amusing. But then she’s not the one who spent most of fifth year creeping around the castle waiting for a mystery monster or madman to sneak up behind you. She’s not the one who had Victor Lestrange whispering that he wished it had been you when they removed Myrtle’s body from the bathroom. So Melanie doesn’t get to laugh at your objectively sensible reluctance to step foot in the snake pit.

After ten minutes of wandering the corridors, you have to admit that you’re lost. All the tunnels look exactly the same and you don’t know where Slughorn’s office is. Maybe Melanie had a point when she said you have a flair for the dramatic, but honestly, never mind Slytherins, you’re going to die down here because of your terrible sense of direction. You take another turn and hear voices coming from behind a door. Lestrange’s unmistakable cackle carries through the air and the door slams open. You press yourself against the wall and hope that no one spots you. Tom Riddle leads Avery and Lestrange out of the door.

God. The snake pit indeed.

You’re in the middle of breathing a sigh of relief at not being noticed when Riddle stills and turns to you. “Are you lost?” He asks, and the other two boys turn to stare at you too. You school your expression into something polite and unassuming and valiantly try to ignore the nasty smile that’s stretching across Lestrange’s face. Riddle, for his part, looks faintly amused. Like he knows exactly how little you want to be here and finds it all rather funny. Still, you feel yourself stand a little straighter despite yourself. He’s the Head Boy, after all, well known in the castle for his pleasant, quiet demeanour and his strict adherence to the rules. It’s not strange that you want to make a good impression.

“Good evening. I, ahh, I have to return this book to Slughorn. My friend borrowed it and he wanted it back tonight.” You explain, feeling vaguely ridiculous as you raise the book up to show them that you aren’t lying. “I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

Avery rolls his eyes, reaches towards you and takes the book. “I’ll bring it to him. I need to talk to him about my last potions essay, anyway.” He says. You notice that he very carefully doesn’t touch you and you bristle at the implication that the thought of touching a muggleborn is beneath him.

“Of course. I’m sure you’re more familiar with this area of the castle than I am.” He leaves soon after. You decide to switch Melanie’s conditioner with hair dye as vengeance for her leaving you. In the snake pit. With Lestrange. The two remaining Slytherins watch you - Lestrange with haughty contempt and Riddle with a kind of detached interest. You rather get the impression that he’s waiting for you to do something idiotic. “I… Well, good night.” You say at last deciding that making a speedy escape is your best plan of action.

You've made it to the end of the tunnel when you hear Riddle say goodbye to Lestrange and his footsteps recede into the distance. You frown and your grip on your wand tightens when you don’t hear Lestrange follow after him. “You're being paranoid,” You mutter to yourself and begin to try and retrace your steps. Five minutes later, you realise that you’re even more lost than you’d been to start with. With a rueful smile, you have to admit it’s hardly surprising. You haven’t stepped foot in the dungeons in two years, and even then it was only ever to the Potions lab. Your knowledge of this part of the castle is severely lacking.

It’s as you’re mulling over your predicament when a flash of purple light illuminates the space around you and a cry escapes you as your shoulder erupts in blistering pain. Lestrange’s laughter echoes down the hallway and before you can think it through, you’re lashing out with your own curse. “Confringo!” A stone bust next to where Lestrange is standing explodes and he yells in surprise as a chunk of marble very nearly knocks him over. He raises his wand but you’re quicker: “Crudesiko.”

The effect of the spell is immediate. Lestrange staggers back, his eyes wide and fearful. You smirk. Serves him fucking right. His already pale complexion is turning practically ghostly and when he opens his mouth, blood burbles up the back of his throat and spills down his chin. You’re fairly sure that if you left him much longer, he’d die. Which would be bad. Very bad. You don’t want to go to prison for murder. With a flick of your wand the curse lifts and Lestrange stops coughing up blood. You stalk over to him, anger and adrenaline making you reckless, “If you ever try to touch me again, I swear I will do so much worse. Do you understand, Lestrange?” You hiss, your wand digging into the hollow of his throat. He nods, still pale, still shaken, still scared. “Don’t tell anyone about this - stupid little muggleborn like me? Compared to your fucking pedigree? No one would believe you.”

Over his shoulder, something shifts in the shadows. You take a step back from Lestrange and let out a shaky breath. He gathers himself, schools his expression into one of disdain and quickly retreats back to the safety of the Slytherin common room. Now that you’re alone, the weight of what you’ve done hits you. You’d hurt him… Hell, you could’ve killed him. You sink slowly to the floor and stare blankly in front of you, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to think about the gravity of your actions. Adrenaline bleeds out of you and you have to choke back a sob. Regardless of what you’d said to Lestrange, you know that if he so much as breathes a word of what transpired you’d be facing expulsion. Probably worse.

“Scourgify,” A smooth, calm voice interrupts your panicking and you snap your head around to stare up at Tom Riddle who is currently cleaning up the trail of blood Lestrange left in his escape. He tucks his wand away and turns to meet your gaze, one brow arched. He doesn’t look angry, or even particularly concerned is the thing. He looks like he’s considering something. Thoughtful, interested. “That was quite the performance,” He says at last and walks over to you, his shoes tap tap tapping against the stone floor. “I think I’d like an explanation.”

You don’t get up from the floor. Resignation sits uncomfortably on your shoulders, the weight of your disappearing future hanging heavily over your head. Head Boy Tom Riddle is your judge, jury, and executioner. “Do you really need one? You saw what I did.” You mutter, unable to look at him as something like shame curls up your spine.

He sighs and then, as though he’s explaining something very simple to a small child, he says, “I didn’t say I needed an explanation. I said I wanted one.” You chance a glance at him then and find yourself fixed under the weight of his scrutiny. When you still don’t say anything, he sighs again and this time you can detect a hint of impatience. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to explain this to the Head Master?”

“No!” You yelp, unable to stop the hint of hysteria from creeping into your voice. He hums approvingly and you’re not sure why, but you start to believe that maybe you’re not going to get into trouble. “I just… Lestrange started it.” You gesture to your shoulder which is still aching, the fabric of your shirt is slashed open where the curse hit you revealing a nasty burn across your shoulder and collarbone. “I’m not helpless. I’m not going to just… not defend myself because he thinks he’s better than me.”

There’s a tense moment where neither of you speaks. Riddle’s gaze is impossibly intense, his eyes flicker from the burn to your face to your wand and you can’t look away. From your position, he towers over you and you think you should be afraid but somehow you can’t will the emotion into existence. After what feels like an age, Riddle takes his wand and murmurs something under his breath. A pleasant coolness wraps around around your shoulder and the pain recedes and the burn mark melts, leaving smooth clear skin in its place.

He offers you a hand. You’re a little surprised by how delicate his hands look. Pristine pale skin stretched over piano players fingers. He’s wearing a gold and onyx ring on his ring finger. It looks antique; strangely it suits him. As though he was born to wear that ring. You take his hand and he pulls you up in one fluid motion, a display of strength that you’re not sure why shocks you. His skin is cool and the way he holds your hand and doesn’t let go even when you’ve found your footing sends fission of something down your spine, pooling in your stomach.

“Allow me to walk you back to your common room,” He says and begins to lead you down the hall. He still hasn’t let go of your hand. “What spell did you use?” He questions after a few moments of silence and you can practically hear the wheels turning in his mind as he considers you as though he’s truly seeing you for the first time. “I didn’t recognise it.”

Despite yourself, pride twists in your chest. “You wouldn’t have,” You say simply. “I invented it.” At this, Riddle’s eyes widen briefly before he dispels the shock from his face and regards your guarded curiosity. At his prompting, you explain what the spell does. “It’s designed to drain the blood from the victim. Ideally, they wouldn’t start coughing up blood, but I’ve never used it before so I guess there’s room for improvement.”

To your surprise, he laughs. It’s not the polite hum of mild amusement you sometimes hear him make in front of professors, it’s surprisingly high pitched, light, melodic. “This is your main concern? That it didn’t work exactly as intended? Not the fact that you almost killed the heir to one of the most respected pureblood families in Britain?” He must sense the sudden flood of panic and worry that washes over you because he glances sideways at you, a small, oddly reassuring smile curling his lips. “Lestrange won’t breathe a word unless I tell him to. And I think this might be a secret best kept between us, don’t you?” He smiles down at you and you could maybe believe that he’s just being immeasurably kind if it weren’t for the dangerous glint in his eyes and the way his hand tightens around yours. It’s a warning, maybe. It feels like a promise.

Riddle walks you the rest of the way to your common in silence and you’re painfully aware of how close he stands when he finally comes to a halt. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his hand around yours, the light puff of an exhalation against your cheek as he leans down and murmurs in your ear, “I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.” He raises your hand between the two of you and grazes your knuckles with his thumb. It’s an oddly tender gesture. “Good night.”

You stand there, alone in the corridor, for several minutes after he leaves, wondering just what in the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle imagines #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fanfiction #minific

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hopelesshawks · 3 years

Text

History of Us Part 12- Your Mother's Daughter

Summary: Once upon a time Todoroki and (y/n) were best friends. Now they haven’t spoken in years. When (y/n) is forced to transfer to UA, will she and Shoto reconnect or will their troubled past keep them apart? A childhood friends to enemies to lovers hybrid fic.

If you don’t want to see History of Us content blacklist #hopelesshou

Warning for canon typical violence

Masterlist Kofi

Bakugo’s text apology, believe it or not, was more eloquent than the one he offers in person but you appreciate the gesture and the brief hug he gives you when he realizes you’ve been crying. “It’s fine dumbass, you made it to the finals now just give it your all,” he huffs. Kirishima also pulls you into a hug, much longer than the one Bakugo had given you, and spends the whole time giving you a motivational speech about how incredibly cool and manly you are and how sure he is that you’ll do even better in the finals. You really are lucky to have the friends that you do. Especially since you anticipate the crowd is about to sour towards you.

All too quickly it’s time to return to the stadium where Principle Nezu is waiting on a raised platform with a box filled with slips of paper with bracket placements on them. The energy in the stadium is electric as the crowd anxiously waits to see what the bracket will be. It’s different than with the first years, where everyone’s an unknown. The crowd recognizes most of the names now from news reports and hero rescues. Dyed hair could only hide you for so long. “We will now call up the finalists one at a time to draw lots for the bracket!” Nezu announces. One by one you hear others around you getting called up. Bakugo, Midoriya, Shoto, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, Denki, Sero, Hitoshi Shinso, Neito Monoma, Tokoyami, Iida, Uraraka, Jiro, Ibara Shiozaki and Itsuka Kendo all get called to roaring cheers and applause. That’s 15 names. The little fucking rodent had left you for last. Probably likes the idea of the dramatic reveal. “And last but not least, our 16th finalist (y/n) (y/l/n)!” Nezu calls and it’s like the air is sucked from the room as the crowd gets quiet and then starts murmuring to themselves. You keep your head held high as you walk to the stage even as you notice some of your classmates staring at you and the members of class b whispering. You take the last remaining lot with your head held high, throwing a wink at a nearby camera to further show them their displeasure won’t deter you.

You feel the stares of your classmates as you walk back down the stage. It’s them you really care about in all honesty. 3A had been nothing but kind to you since your arrival and it would hurt a little for their friendship to sour (you’re definitely not thinking about someone in particular at that statement) but before anyone can say anything Bakugo and Kirishima are standing next to you protectively. Kirishima links his arm through yours. “Come on, let’s head to the stands while we wait for them to start the first match,” Kiri grins at you. You give him a grateful smile and are pleasantly surprised when the rest of class a seems to fall in line behind you. None of them look at you any differently, there’s no shift in the atmosphere or added tension. Even as you can feel the glares of the crowd on your back, your new friends shield you from it until you’re in the safety of the tunnel and heading up to the stands.

“You and (y/n) stopped talking about 10 years ago right?” Midoriya asks Shoto as they walk at the back of the pack of class A students. “Yes,” Shoto confirms. “So that’s about when Black Storm was-“ “Yes.” “So Endeavor made you stop talking to her so you wouldn’t be associated with Black Storm.” “Basically.” “Jesus.” Midoriya places a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. Shoto briefly acknowledges the gesture but says nothing as everyone settles into their seats. Nezu then begins to explain the rules of the last game. It’s essentially a wrestling match, the whole stadium is fair game and you win if you can pin your opponent for five seconds or completely immobilize them. Injuries are fine but take it too far and Eraserhead and Cementoss will shut it down. You nod along as the bracket is projected onto the monitors. Your first round is with the Neito Monoma kid, you don’t know much about him, just that the mere mention of his name has Bakugo growling “You better beat that fucking extra.” “Like I’d get eliminated in the first round,” you scoff back, confidence starting to build again as your classmates continue to support you.

You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to see a guy with a large shock of purple hair and bags for days under his eyes leaning down to wave at you. You hear Denki yelp and nearly fall out of his chair nearby but ignore it. “(Y/l/n) huh?” he asks, a slight smile. “Yea. Problem with that?” you ask. “Not at all. Villain quirks gotta stick together right?” he smirks as he offers his hand. “I’m only half villain quirk but sure,” you smirk but then you freeze, eyes glazing over before you can reach to take his hand. He smirks back at you as your hand moves to shake his without your permission. You find yourself reaching for your phone, it unlocking once it recognizes your face, and then going to your contacts before plugging in a new number. You snap back to awareness a little stunned, looking between the new contact in your phone and the baffling boy with the mind control quirk who’s currently walking away. “If you wanted my number you could’ve just asked like a normal person!” you call after him. Unbeknownst to you, Shoto watches the entire interaction with barely concealed jealousy.

It’s not long before it’s finally time for your first match. The others had briefed you on Monoma’s quirk, warning you about his copying ability. “Can he copy a quirk if he doesn’t know you have it?” you ask curiously. “I don’t know actually. Most people don’t have two quirks you know, although I don’t necessarily see how it would help?” Kirishima offers with a shrug, having already made it through his first round and into the table of 8. “Trust me, I have a game plan,” you assure him. “See you guys on the other side,” you tell him as you walk down to the tunnel to wait for them to announce your entrance. “And on our left, here she comes. Ready to blaze her own trail and show the whole world that she is more than her name, it’s (y/n) (y/l/n)!” Present Mic’s voice booms over the loud speaker as you walk into the stadium properly. The crowd boos and you must admit it stings a little but you aren’t entirely unaccustomed to the negative attention. Your eyes wander over to the section where your friends are. Bakugo gives you a nod as Denki, Sero, Kirishima, Mina, and Jiro scream and cheer for you, their bodies half over the railing. They can’t drown out the rest of the stadium but they’re trying to and that warms your heart. You grin at them before locking eyes back on your opponent, stepping up to the start point they’ve indicated. “START!” Present Mic’s voice booms and immediately you lunge forward, drawing shadows into your palm before pushing them forward to race towards Monoma.

You’re not shocked when Monoma counters with shadows of his own, knocking yours away, but you can’t help but grin when you notice he’s producing shadows from both of his palms instead of just one. “I should’ve recognized you had Daddy’s quirk the minute I saw you during the qualifying rounds,” Monoma needles and you know he’s just trying to get a rise out of you but you can’t help how your temper starts to flare. He may be using your quirk but he’s clumsier with it, the result of picking it up for the first time now versus your years and years of experience. You send forward another burst of shadows making sure to get your left hand caught in the blast so it looks like both are doing the work. As Monoma clumsily sends forward his own to redirect yours you close the distance in, sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He quickly rolls before you can try to pin him down and you just barely manage to dodge the kick he’d aimed at you in retaliation. “You were there weren’t you? The day your father went rogue,” he taunts. You suck in a harsh breath allowing him an opportunity to lash out at you again and you wince a little at the sharp sting it leaves on your cheek where he’d managed to cut you with your own quirk. Your first instinct is to heal it but you hold off. Not yet. It’s not time to reveal your hand yet. “How the fuck do you know that?” you grit out before lashing out at him harder and faster. He extends both palms out, shadows flying forward to counter your own and as his hands retract you can see black crawling up his arms. Good. Your plan is working. “Oh the little daddy daughter field trip was all over the news sweetheart, we all know you were there to watch the carnage. Why do you think no one trusts you?” Monoma taunts. He fires off both palms again but this time instead of dispersing the shadows you raise both your hands, again feigning that both are doing the work, you push back against his, the shadowy energy growing and growing as you’re both slowly pushed backwards by the force of it. You hold strong though even as more and more black veins crawl up your right arm and your forearm begins to burn with the pain. You can hear Monoma grunting in pain on the other side so you kick it up a notch, fighting through your own pain until finally he breaks. He releases with a gasp, hunching forward with the pain. He looks up expecting to see you in a similar state but instead he finds you glowing as you stride towards him, the black veins rapidly fading as the light you radiate chases them back. Once you're in front of him he barely has any time to react before you deck him across the face, knocking him to the ground. You put one foot on his chest to keep him down, increasing the strength of your healing quirk just so that you’ll glow a little more brightly as you lean down to look him directly in the eye. “I may be my father’s daughter,” you start as the monitor counts down five seconds, “but I’m also my mother’s.”

The countdown finishes and an airhorn blares to signal your victory. You turn away from him, leaving him gaping at you like a fish on the ground as you walk back to the tunnel. The booing of the crowd that follows you out is music to your ears.

As far as you’re concerned? They can die mad about it.

A/N: Ngl I made Shinso so smooth in this one I was like alternate route? 💀 But n o lmao this is Shoto’s fic. OH ALSO we got even more about what happened when (y/n) was 8! I love mixing in her lore, I've actually had the very basic idea for her backstory and potentially where I’m going to take this fic after the sports festival arc since when I first started watching the show. The fight with Monoma in particular has been plotted out literally since I watched the final exam arc I think back when I was primarily a Todoroki simp oop so it's been really fun for me to get to write it here considering I never thought it would be a concept that left my head.

Taglist: @sorrythatspussynal @miss-bakugo-writes @pixelwisp @larkspyrr @sokkaandzukosimp @akkaso @sunaispretty @mindofess @todoplusultra @oliviasslut

#hopelesshou #shoto smau #shoto x reader #shoto x fem!reader #shoto x y/n #todoroki smau #todoroki x reader #todoroki x fem!reader #todoroki x y/n #shoto todoroki

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syndianites · 3 years

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A Queen Serves and Protects

Chapter Three

First Chapter --> Last Chapter --> Current --> Next Chapter Summary:

Post-Style Queen, Pre-Queen Wasp.

Chloe finds the Bee Miraculous, but instead of finding an obliging, subservient Kwami, she finds the Kwami of Order and Subjugation, and Pollen is not about to let herself be used like Nooroo was.

Granted, the only danger in a teenage girl is the damage she poses to herself. Can Pollen shape Chloe into a hero? Or will she stubbornly refuse to change and remain the bitter, harsh person the city has long since known?

[My take on how Chloe’s character could have developed] ——————————————————————————————

Getting akumatized was a special sort of uncomfortable. But it was exhilarating in all the same ways. Everything that one felt became louder, bigger, something beyond what it used to be. It grew into power. The power to act and take what was yours.

For Chloe, it just made her more upset. The anger had almost fizzled out, but the akuma brought it back with a vengeance. But unlike the last time she had been akumatized, her sorrow manifested much stronger than her rage.

Her skin darkened to a deep blue, almost purple, like the edge of the night sky after the sun had set. Where her hair had been in a high ponytail, it was undone and draped down and around her face. It looked stuck together and damp as though she had just been rained on. Chloe’s makeup looked washed out and runny both from her own tears and the transformation.

Most notably, her clothes became a simple long t-shirt and sweatpants that looked worn down and overused. The pants were a bright, light blue, while the shirt was a dark, deep crimson. To top it off, her sunglasses molded into a hat not unlike what her mother wore, but with goggles inlaid into them.

Without a word, Chloe put her hands before her and a large pair of scissors, easily the size of her chest, formed in her hand. Transformation complete, she turned on a dime and walked out the locker room.

A moment of silence followed before Pollen poked her head out the locker she had hidden away in. “Well, this isn’t good.”

//////

Marinette had never been so uncomfortable in her life. That included that time when she was seven and her twice removed cousins from her dad’s side came over and asked her why she didn’t wear dresses if she liked making them so much. And that one time she stepped foot first into a mud puddle, lost her shoe, and had to walk home with a sock soaked in mud.

It was bad.

Audrey, once Chloe had stormed out, continued on her tirade. “Ugh, how dramatic. Little Charlie needs to learn her place. She simply can’t compare to talent like yours, dear.”

Starting at being addressed, Marinette gave her a pinched smile.

“Now,” Audrey continued. “You simply must come to New York with me. The opportunities are endless, and skill such as yours would flourish under my attention!”

Her heart skipped a beat. New York was a big deal for fashion. Next to Paris, it was the place to be, and opening up her contacts to overseas big names would be a huge step for her career.

But could she work with someone this awful?

Sure, Marinette didn’t like Chloe, but even she thought that how her own mother treated her was cruel. It made her feel bad for the girl. It explained a lot about her, and for a moment Marinette considered being nicer to Chloe.

Not that that would make Chloe suddenly decide to be a good person. It would take the inevitable explosion of the sun for that to happen.

“I-i, um, I need to think about it, Mrs. Bourgeois.” Marinette glanced over at her parents. “I have a lot to consider about leaving or staying, and my parents still need my help at the bakery.”

Her parents, and oh how she loved them, spoke up immediately, “Oh, we can manage the bakery dear! Don’t worry about little old us, what’s important is your future.”

Please, take the hint guys.

Before Marinette can struggle to find more excuses to deny her request, Adrien pipes up, “Mrs. Bourgeois,” he flashes her an award winning smile, “Don’t you think that the way Chloe was handled was a bit… out of hand?” Gabriel laid a hand on Adrien’s shoulder, squeezing it gently before sharing a look with Natalie and wandering off.

Audrey rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses. “Oh, darling, for such a sweet thing you can be so daft. Girls like that need a quick strike down before they let their misguidedness get to their head.”

Adrien, for his part, kept smiling. For those who knew him well enough, they could see the twitch in his eye as he struggled not to snap at the woman. “Ah, my apologies. In my experience, the best growth comes from a guiding hand that focuses on building a person up rather than tearing them down. But I suppose, for a critic, that is not the case at all. Though, the modelling experience is often different from the experience of those who make judgement calls on others’ hard work.”

Bringing a hand to her chest, Audrey sniffs derisively. “Sure, dear. Of course, most models are meant to make anything they wear look pretty, so it can be hard to see where their accessories are lacking when all they see is themselves.”

Marinette wanted to desperately be anywhere but where she was standing. She almost wished that someone had bust in with the Bee miraculous and caused a scene just so she could excuse herself.

She’d rather deal with her own mistakes a million fold over than this.

Mayor Andre, for his part, smiled a shaky press smile as he tried to talk his wife down.

Adrien, fed up with Audrey, grabbed Marinette ’s hand and pulled her away quickly. Natalie spared him a glance before going to converse with his bodyguard.

“Can you believe her!” Adrien simmered. “How cruel can you be to your own child!”

Marinette laughed awkwardly. “I mean, at least we know where Chloe gets it from?”

Adrien rounded on her. “Chloe is not as bad as her!”

Taking a step back, she watched Adrien wide-eyed. He sighed, taking a breath to calm himself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That display was just awful.”

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing up carefully styled locks.

Hesitating, Marinette asked, “Is she… always like that?”

Adrien gave a tense nod. “Since we were young. Chloe always wanted her mother’s support, but well,” he waved his hand back in her direction, “You try reasoning with that.”

Before either could pick the conversation back up the front doors to the building burst open. Carrying comically large scissors and dressed as what could only be called a fashion disaster was an akuma that looked one bad day away from a mental breakdown.

Or, well, in the middle of a breakdown.

“Audrey Bourgeois! You claim to recognize talent when you see it, but failed to see how your own daughter can be exceptional. Well, I am the Queen Killer and if I cannot be exceptional then no one can! I’ll cut your reign to shreds.” The akuma accented her speech with a threatening snip of her scissors before launching forward at the Style Queen.

Before anyone could react, Queen Killer had Audrey between her blades and closed. A thing, white line appeared where the blades connected and, as Queen drew her weapon away, there was a horrifying moment where Marinette was sure Audrey was split into two pieces.

Instead, a dark shadow started spilling out of Audrey, enveloping her body as she screamed. When the shadow dissipates, a twisted, snarling version of Audrey that looked like she was fused together with five other versions of herself appeared. It lashed out at those around her, screeching and clawing at them.

Queen Killer laughed. “Now everyone will see how hideous and cruel you are!”

Marinette jolted out her shock as Adrien roughly pulled her away. This, unfortunately, brought Queen’s attention to them as the rest of the room also began to run.

“Dupain-Cheng!” If she had any doubt that that was Chloe, she had none now. ”You stole my mother’s love from me!”

As Queen launched forward with her scissors open, Marinette screamed, “That was not my intention! I didn’t know she would ask me to go to New York with her all over a hat!”

Alas, her pleas were not enough. Stuck in her civilian form, Marinette could not outrun the enraged Queen. Twin blades circled around her waist and cut, forcing Marinette to stumble and fall.

Adrien, worried for his friend, stopped and tried to go back for her. But, between a snarling Queen and Marinette urging him to keep running as a dark shadow overtook her, he kept running. The best thing for Marinette would be Chat Noir and Ladybug. He would have time to check on her later.

Marinette , meanwhile, felt the shadows come off her and… she looked the same. For a moment, she was confused. What was the akuma’s power supposed to be?

But then it bubbled up. Nothing physical. No, that would be too easy. As she looked up towards Queen and thought ‘I need to transform into Ladybug’ a wave of crushing doubt and insecurity gripped her throat.

She would just mess up again. Like she had when she started out, when she lost the Bee miraculous, and every time she let someone get harmed by an akuma. There was no way she could do this. Chat Noir would be better off without her.

As the building cleared and Queen ran out to terrorize the fleeing patrons, Marinette stayed on the ground, shaking. What could she do? Make things worse? Disappoint all of Paris? Put Fu and Chat Noir in danger?

Distantly, she heard someone talking to her, urging her to get up and move. The voice disappeared as he heard footsteps and she was lifted into someone’s arms. A hop, skip, and a jump later had her safely placed down on a chair in a private room, looking into the eyes of Chat Noir. His eyebrows were brought together in concern.

“Stay here, okay? I promise Ladybug and I will fix things for you.” He offered a reassuring smile before dashing out of the room.

When she couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, Tikki flew out of her pocket. “ Marinette !” The little ladybug placed her paws on her face, getting her to look at Tikki. “Are you okay? What happened after she cut you?”

Shaking her head, Marinette focused on her breathing. ‘C’mon Mari,’ she thought to herself, ‘You can’t let Chat do this alone.’

“I, uh,” she looked back at Tikki, “It’s so bad Tikki. I’m going to mess up and make things worse. Like yesterday with the Bee miraculous! I lost it! Instead of getting help, I lost a potential ally and a powerful magical artifact. If I can’t even keep track of things placed under my care, how can I protect Paris?”

Tikki was at a loss for words. This reminded her so much of the Marinette she first met- unconfident, afraid, and so uncertain in her actions. It was like the cut brought out all the most hurtful parts of herself…

“ Marinette ,” Tikki began, “We all make mistakes. What’s important is working to fix them. Sure, if you do nothing you can’t mess up or disappoint people, but you also can’t grow and succeed. Paris needs its Ladybug, regardless of what the people think of you. I know you can do this. Chat will be there to help you too, I’m sure of it.”

Doubt in her eyes, Marinette nodded. While her doubts and insecurity swirled in her mind, the urge to help others reigned supreme. She had to at least stop the akuma and set things back to normal.

“Alright Tikki,” Marinette swallowed thickly. “Spots On!”

///////////

Chat was not having a good time.

His first thought upon finding Queen snipping people in half with her scissors was that he could easily beat her in combat. What could she do with a pair of large scissors when he had a versatile staff?

A lot, apparently.

As he dodged backwards from another attempt to cut him in half from Queen, he tossed a jab her way. “So is clashing colors the new look, or did I miss the memo?”

Queen huffed at him, “Says the boy in full leather! I would know a fashion disaster when I see one!”

She ran at him again, holding the scissors completely open so she could swipe at him with a blade. Chat blocked it with his staff, before pushing her away as she tried to close the blades on him.

“Excuse you, Queenie!” He retorted. “I’ll have you know that my outfit is purr-fect.”

Clearly, she disagreed, if the groan and slash at him was anything to go by.

What a party pooper.

But what was worse was that he couldn’t get close enough to her to properly disarm her. Nor could he figure out where the akuma was while trying his best to not get cut in half. Chat needed to regroup with Ladybug, but she was nowhere in sight.

Biting his lip, Chat jumped back and up onto a rooftop. Giving Queen Killer a salute, he started away from her.

“Get back here you mangy cat!” Queen simmered on the ground below where he ran off. “You better bring back Ladybug so I can take you both off your high horse!”

///////////

Pollen was not the best at sneaking around. Not for lack of trying, of course, but people were ingrained to see a blur of yellow and the sound of buzzing and think ‘Bee!’ It didn’t help that she was larger than the average bee.

What did help, however, was people being too busy staring at an akuma running full tilt down the street to pay attention to the yellow being that was trying to stay unnoticed behind them. So Pollen got a front row seat to Queen’s akuma speech and display of her powers. When Chat Noir showed up she waited for her chance to talk to him or Ladybug whenever she came around.

And, well, there went Chat running for his life.

Pollen sighed. At least flying along rooftops was less obvious than following an akuma.

After shooting past building after building, she manages to get closer to the black blur that was Chat Noir. He was vaulting along, keeping an eye out as he worked on not plummeting to the ground. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, Pollen nearly sped past him.

As Chat retracts his staff and starts to dial Ladybug, Pollen drops down in front of him. “Oh!” He stumbles back, “Hello? Who are you?”

Pollen smooths out her fluff and offers a paw. “I am Pollen, Kwami and Order and Subjugation, and the one who dwells inside the Bee Miraculous. You must be Chat Noir. A pleasure.”

Chat, mystified, offers a finger. “Nice to meet you. I thought you would be with Master Fu and your miraculous?”

“Ah, well,” Pollen tilted her head. “Did Ladybug not tell you?”

He pinched his lips. “No?”

“Ladybug lost my miraculous in the fight with Style Queen. You weren’t there, though, were you?” Pollen considered him for a moment. “I don’t blame you for that, nor do I blame Ladybug for losing my miraculous. But that isn’t important right now.”

Accepting the hand Chat placed out for her, she settles into his palm. “I need to talk to you and Ladybug, but the akuma is our first priority. What do you know about them?”

“Well,” Chat began, “I believe it is Chloe Bourgeois. But as for the akuma,” He scratched the back of his head with his free hand, “I’m not too sure. My current two guesses are her scissors or her hat, since she normally doesn’t have either on her.”

Pollen nodded thoughtfully, despite having seen the akuma land in Chloe’s sunglasses. There was no way she could tell Chat Noir without him having at least some suspicions as to who she was with at the moment. At the very least, he could narrow it down to who had been around Chloe when she transformed.

Chat pushed on. “Even if we managed to subdue Queen Killer and get the akuma out, we wouldn’t be able to do anything until Ladybug gets here to purify it. The best we can do is wait and try to stop as much damage as possible.”

“Actually,” Pollen butt in, with a slow smile spreading across her face, “I may have a solution to that.” Chat tipped his head to the side. “I can immobilize people with my power. As long as I can hold onto the power they will remain frozen, or until I touch them to let them free.”

He perked up, stars in his eyes. “Like how Plagg can use Cataclysm when he’s himself! That’s perfect, Pollen.”

She nodded eagerly, before stopping. “Wait, did you not know kwamis can use their own power?”

Chat looked confused, but nodded slowly. “I didnt figure that out until he used it to free from an akuma a while ago.”

Pollen buzzed, frustrated, before saying, “The Guardian should have told you that! It’s important for a holder to know about their miraculous and kwami, especially a trouble maker like Plagg.”

“Well,” Chat scuffed his foot on the roof, “I don’t speak to the Guardian that much. Last time we talked was when he came to my house and talked about the Miracle Box and such.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Pollen moved out of Chat’s hand and floated in an irritated circle. “You should be just as informed as Ladybug. It’s not fair to you or her to pile information on one of you and expect the other to just go along with it!”

Chat shrugged. “That’s how it’s been for most of it. Besides, I trust Ladybug with my life.”

“But, when keeping so many secrets, can she trust hers with you?” Pollen replied with a meaningful look in her eyes.

She received no response. Instead of dwelling on the matter, she urged Chat to get back to Queen Killer. They still had a job to do, after all.

/////////

Ladybug arrived on the scene to find Chat nowhere in site and Queen Killer happily snipping at random citizens. Great. Before she can engage with the akuma, she hesitates. Could she really do this without Chat? What if she lost her miraculous because she let her civilian self get hit with the akuma’s power?

Shaking her head, she prepared to head in when a flash of black caught her eye. The familiar form of Chat pole vaulting across the rooftops to her left filled her with a sense of relief. She really, seriously needed to keep it together.

Taking a second, she throws her yo-yo to wrap around a chimney in Chat’s path. Her heart races as she tests the line and jumps. Shit, shit, shit, she’s gonna hit the wall, then Queen will notice her, then-

She made it on the roof with two scraped knees. Not flawless, but still unseen. Chat landed beside her, more than happy to see his Lady. A frown creased his brow as he took in her demeanor.

“Are you alright?” He checks her over for wounds, but comes back with nothing beyond a few scratches. “Did something happen?”

Ladybug goes to dismiss the idea before Tikki’s words ring in her head again ‘Chat will be there to help you too.’ Shaking her head, she gave Chat a grimace. “Queen managed to cut me while I was in my civilian form. Even after I transformed the effects are bothering me. It’s… brought back a lot of my insecurity and confidence issues. But we can do this, I know we can.”

Chat nodded, resting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. And some back up.”

“Backup?”

A yellow figure lands on Chat’s shoulder. “Hello, Ladybug. It’s nice to see you again.”

Blinking in shock, Ladybug exclaims, “You’re the kwami from the Bee miraculous! Oh god, another thing I messed up, I’m so, so sorry.”

Pollen holds up a paw, stopping her. “It’s not your fault. You were in a tight situation and did the best you could. Besides, I’m with someone who may be a good ally in the future. They just need time.”

Chat and Pollen brought Ladybug up to speed on their ideas, to which she poked and prodded at. They exchanged glances before nodding and Chat and Pollen split. Still standing on the roof, Ladybug calls her Lucky Charm. It dropped from the sky as a red and black spotted crowbar.

Keeping the crowbar in hand, Ladybug drew Queen’s attention with a hit to her scissors. “Hey!” Ladybug called out, “Don’t you know scissors are dangerous?”

Queen Killer growled back, “Of course you would start preaching at me, little miss perfect. I bet everyone in the whole city loves you. Well I’m here to cut your heroic tales short!” She launched forward, bouncing off a car and digging her scissors into the side of the building to propel her up to the rooftop to get on Ladybug’s level.

Ladybug, in a quick move, flipped over her and flung her yo-yo around the scissors to send Queen flying back to the ground. Before she could hit a lamppost, Queen dug the blades into the street to slow herself down, only to run back to Ladybug.

‘Good,’ Ladybug thought to herself, ‘Keep coming.’

In the moments before Queen got back in range, Ladybug took a moment to eye the area around her for clues on how to use the Lucky Charm. Nothing stood out, so she sprung from the rooftop to land before Queen and send her yo-yo swinging at her feet.

Queen, quick to the punch, lowered her scissors to cut the yo-yo string. Ah, what a lovely and easy mistake to make when fighting a person who used scissors with a string based weapon. Panicking, Ladybug brought up the crowbar to stop the scissors from striking her.

Pulling back, Queen raced in again with the blades open, looking to trap Ladybug the same way she had Chat in their fight before. Ladybug readied her crowbar, bringing it up to block again. Queen smirked, shutting the blades in a smooth motion. By luck or skill, Ladybug managed to sidestep the action, getting the crowbar’s hook caught in between the blades. Seeing her chance, Ladybug used the hook to pull the scissors from Queen’s hands.

Spitting a curse, Queen abandoned her scissors to tackle Ladybug.

Chat, meanwhile, called forth his Cataclysm and rushed the scissors, destroying them with a touch. When no akuma appeared, he looked back confused. Queen kept fighting Ladybug, managing to get the upper hand as Ladybug hesitated in kicking her off. As Queen pinned Ladybug’s hand with one of her own and reached for her miraculous Chat sprung towards her.

He wouldn’t make it in time.

But Queen stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide beneath the wide-brimmed hat. Pollen popped up from behind her, giving Ladybug a little giggle. “Sorry, I meant to do that a little earlier.”

This time with no reservations, Ladybug pushed Queen off of her. Chat bounded over to her to help her up, to which she shook her head and pointed at Queen. “Find the akuma.”

Receiving a nod, she picked herself up to retrieve the cut off part of her yo-yo. Chat, in this time, took Queen’s hat and ripped it. For good measure, he broke the goggles on them as well. Lo and behold, the akuma haphazardly fluttered out. Before it could escape, Ladybug snapped it up in her yo-yo.

“Bye, bye little butterfly,” Ladybug murmured, letting it fly off into the sky. With a nod to her partner, she threw her crowbar into the air and let forth the rush of ladybugs to fix the damage done.

Pollen, seeing Chloe safely de-akumatized, gave Chat a little nod before rushing off. He made a move to go after her when a bawl reached his ears. Chloe, freshly purified, was trying her best to keep it together. But as Chat knelt to help her to her feet, she jumped him for a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry that I was too pathetic to not get akumatized again. My mother was right about me, I’m so, so sorry.”

Chat rubbed her back slowly. “What your mother said was cruel and unfounded. You’re not pathetic at all, Chloe.”

“And it’s definitely not your fault. Even the strongest, most exceptional people can get akumatized,” Ladybug added, “Besides, even heroes have bad days.” Not that she considered Chloe even close to a hero.

Andre chose this moment to come bustling through the doors of the building behind them. “Princess, my darling!”

Seeing that she was in good hands, Chat and Ladybug pound their fists together and part ways.

Ladybug, however, is stopped by Pollen two blocks over. “There you are! Thank goodness. Can you show me where your miraculous is so I can return it to Master Fu?”

“No,” Pollen told her quietly, “But I want to ask you to trust me. I’ve found someone who needs my help. Maybe one day she could be a great hero, maybe not. But this person has gone through a lot of heartbreak and I don’t want to be another person that leaves her behind. I want you to tell Fu that I have decided to stay with them.”

“Wait, but what about secrecy? How will we know they won't spread the word about the miraculous or accidentally lead Hawkmoth to you?” Ladybug fretted, cupping her hands for Pollen to land in.

“I haven’t told her the transformation words, yet.” Pollen stroked her hand reassuringly. “That way if things go south I can still manage to keep my power from being abused. Please, Ladybug, trust me.”

Biting her lip, Ladybug hesitantly nodded. “Please stay safe, Pollen. If you ever need my help don’t hesitate to ask.”

Giving her a bright smile, Pollen floated up to nuzzle Ladybug’s forehead. After giving parting words, they went off in different directions.

Hopefully, Pollen hadn’t just made a huge mistake.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #ml #ml fanfic #ml fanfiction #chloe bourgeois #chloe bourgeois redemption #ladybug #marianette dupaign-cheng #chat noir #adrien agreste #pollen #pollen (ladybug)#pollen the kwami #bee kwami #tikki #plagg #marinette dupain cheng

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preetsposting · 3 years

Link

After their emotional night in the inn, Dimitri and Byleth have a....fun....time fighting Demonic Beasts. Ingrid is NOT happy.

“Byleth?”

“Yes, Dimitri?”

“Do you think we might have gotten ourselves in a little over our heads?”

The two leaders of the Kingdom’s army stood back-to-back in a field, surrounded on every side by Demonic Beasts.

“No. No, I think we can handle this.” Byleth held up the Sword of the Creator, imagining that in another world, a painter would capture her and Dimitri’s dramatic stances. The Azure King and the Sublime Demon, they would call it. Or something stupid like that.

Dimitri hacked at a beastly head with Areadbhar, cleaving it eventually in two. The weapon bent slightly, but sprung back into place - after all, not many weapons could handle the strength of a Blayddid. “I should have brought some extra lances with me. These beasts are posing a challenge.”

“What, are you suddenly planning to become a dual-wielder?” Byleth raised an eyebrow. “Anyway, how about a challenge. Which one of us can defeat more beasts before our weapon crumbles?” Byleth grinned as she swung her sword, the blade neatly stretching out into links as it sliced cleanly into one beast and grazed another. “There are more than enough here to keep us fighting till these relics dissolve.”

“My love,” Dimitri spun in a circle, swiftly stabbing into a bloodshot eye. “That can’t be fair. You have the Hero’s Relic to end all Relics.” He absentmindedly poked at the dead creature on the ground before leaning his back into Byleth’s to provide her with more support as she lashed out at another animal.

“Oh, poor Dima.” Byleth teased. “Wielding the great spear of one of the Ten Elites, the only weapon that can handle the freakishly strong crest to end all freakishly strong crests.”

The two still roughly back-to-back, Byleth crouched, allowing Dimitri to stab at a jumping beast over her head while she jabbed roughly at the paws of the one that faced him. Gristly growls and unearthly screams filled the air as the two warriors read each other’s movements almost telepathically.

Dimitri turned to face Byleth, squatting down to the ground with his hands outstretched. Without breaking her follow-through, she stepped into his palms and he lifted her up into the air, tossing her as high as he could while she prepared a spell with one hand and aimed her sword point-down with the other. With a whipping motion, she unlocked the links of the Sword of the Creator, tying two beasts uncomfortably in place while she cast Dark Spikes at them.

“Damn. If only someone was around to see how flashy that looked.” Dimitri caught her in one arm, gently lowering her down onto the ground as the two beasts dissolved into strange purple light.

“Actually…” Byleth pointed at a moving shadow on the ground then arced her arm up to point at the sky. “We might be in trouble.”

Rapidly growing in size, a pegasus and a wyvern flew towards them, becoming clearer by the second.

Byleth shot a ball of fire directly into the mouth of the snarling creature approaching her, clearing out enough space for one of the two fliers to make a hasty landing.

“What. The. FUCK, guys?!” Ingrid’s face was a mask of fury as she dropped Annette off on the ground near them, floating back up slightly to allow Seteth to land his wyvern so a scowling Felix could slide off.

#dimileth #fe3h fanfic #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth #byleth eisner #dimitri fire emblem #fe3h dimitri #ao3 #fanfic #preets writes

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booksandgalore · 4 years

Text

A Day Late, A Dollar Short

Your old life ends on the day you accidentally notice the white paint on Taehyung's face—and those red lips of his colored into a mischievous, all-consuming grin.

PSYCHOLOGICAL, HORROR, inspired by the JOKER

Yandere!BTS preview with a female reader

SPECIAL THANKS to @cakebite for the header. This upcoming one-shot is a gift for you (estimated date: before the end of summer—end of July or early August)! You’ve always been cheering me on.

PREVIEW OF FINAL ONE-SHOT

Grades were still important despite the college acceptance letter in your hand, so, like you told your mother, you really did go to the library to study, even if your studying just happened to last for five minutes before you stumbled upon the yellow brick road to Jeongyeon’s house, where it was conveniently—no, coincidentally—shy of a minute’s walk from the library in the first place.

Now, now, details didn’t need to be disclosed.

Minuscule effort had to count for something in your senior year, especially when your days should be simple, mundane, free of worry, merely existing to count down graduation. You did study against the finer essence of things, did you not?

Similarly, senior year perpetuated the same beliefs in Taeyong. Always pushing the limits of when he would start his Calculus homework, your classmate preferred Animal Crossing over graphs and lines that seemed to bend one way more than the other, but was it such a bad thing, pray tell, for him to do what he wanted to do at his own pace? And for you to do whatever you felt like doing because it was your God-given right?

You scratched the sole of your left foot with your right and scrolled through the random slime videos recommended on your feed. Somehow, you became addicted to watching these dessert items being smushed by hands, disrupting the illusions of the cakes and cookies to reveal that the items were, in fact, slime, much to your surprise.

From the corner of your eye, however, you noticed Jeongyeon’s chest rising and falling to every deep breath, her shoulders slouching and her fingers curling tightly around the electric fly swatter she had been waving around for a good ten minutes.

You sank deeper underneath her blankets, the thick weight relaxing the tension in your muscles.

“Did you get it yet?” you asked, accidentally double-tapping a random advertisement from scrolling too fast.

“As you can see,” Jeongyeon swung at the air, “no.”

“Hurry up and kill it.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” Aggravating her was always a fun pastime.

But maybe it wasn't as fun when your legs were suddenly being crushed by the weight of Jeongyeon’s body and, GOD, was she heavy. When she wiggled around, the pressure amplified.

“I need water,” she demanded, soft brown locks clinging to the sweat on the sides of her face. “I need snacks.”

The epiphany struck you late, but you realized how some words were never meant to be spoken when Jeongyeon leered down at you with her petty, little eyes.

“This is your house,” you emphasized, and you reluctantly adjusted yourself out of these blankets to shove Jeongyeon away from her own bed. ”Guests should be treated like kings.”

“You raid the fridge every time you come. It’s time you return the favor, you freeloader.”

That was not true. You raided her cupboards as well.

“Oh, yeah?” You huffed, straightening your shoulders and puffing out your chest. “Would a freeloader do this?”

Releasing a wistful sigh, you smoothed the crinkles on her pillow before dropping your head dramatically on it, her one-hundred-percent-cotton fluff being put into good use.

Jeongyeon loomed over your body. “Go and do what I ask. . .” she brandished the swatter close to the tip of your nose, ”or else.”

You raised your hands. You were just messing around, but she didn’t have to go that far. The circular light on the handle was still green, and with one wrong move, one wrong step, she could fry off your skin.

Jeongyeon continued staring at you, and for a second you thought she would bring it closer—out of pure curiosity to observe what it was like for flesh to burn—until you blinked and the racket was nowhere near your vicinity.

Unconsciously, you started laughing. “Good one!” you said, the repressed stammer lodged in your throat doing you a favor.

As Jeongyeon stood back, the evening sun filtered through the seeps of her blinds, ironically highlighting the shadows of her face instead of the soft planes of her lips, or the curve of her long lashes. Gone was the girl you viewed her as moments before, her cheeks now sharp, strong, and. . .gaunt, if you were allowed to confess this.

When she smiled, it felt a bit lopsided. “You’ll be a good friend, right?"

You thought her teeth seemed sharper for a moment.

“You’ll get me what I ask for, won’t you?” Her eyes were a little too wide for your liking.

But then you blinked again, and this funny interpretation of her vanished.

Jeongyeon puffed out her cheeks and placed her index fingers on top of them. “Jeongyeon”—she whined—“wants some snacks and some water!”

Oh, a horrible sight!

You threw a pillow at her. “Don’t ever act cute.”

Begrudgingly, you made your way out of the comfort of her bed as she applauded you for your efforts, each slow and calculated smack of her palms against one another lingering in the air mockingly, matching the pace of your own beating heart. You wrenched the door open and navigated yourself down the stairs, nothing but the creak in the wooden floor boards accompanying you now with each step, before you arrived into her kitchen.

There, on the table, laid an unopened bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, but your tongue already shriveled up at the taste. Nevertheless, you grabbed what Jeongyeon requested, snatched an extra water bottle for yourself, and were about to hightail it back to her and her room and her oh-so-comfortable bed when a sharp noise reverberating from the hallway ceased your movements.

You turned your head around curiously, retracting your foot from the first step of the stairs to listen, but the sound never returned.

Deeming it to be nothing, you brought one foot on top of the steps again when it resumed, louder this time, and you recognized that it was some sort of rough laughter, vaguely manic, oddly bitter in nature.

Jeongyeon did have a twin, but it wasn't any of your business to disturb him.

With that in mind, you craned your neck back to the stairs in front of you, yet the same rough laughter ricocheting off the walls had shifted into that of a faint, sorrowful tone, hardly distinguishable to the human ear, the change so slight it was a miracle you had picked up on it just barely.

Was it encroaching on his privacy if you checked up on him?

Conflicted, you let out a breath. It didn’t help how Jeongyeon had confessed, very vulnerably, might you add, that she felt disgusted when her friends would talk to her brother. You couldn’t blame her—not when she gave you detailed stories about her classmates back in Korea, who befriended her for the sake of getting closer to him.

“And if you can understand me,” Jeongyeon had told you after school one day, her voice hoarse and lips downturned, “can I trust that you will do this for me?”

And you did comply to her request like the good friend you were—for four years now and counting.

But when another rumble of laughter, tinged on the edge of what seemed like despair, echoed mindlessly, it tugged at your heart, dragged its teeth for good measure, and reminded you of a memory you worked so hard to suppress—of your father and the hollows underneath his eyes and his desolate gaze.

Perhaps Jeongyeon could make an exception this time. You weren’t like them.

Quietly, you ambled down the hall, stopping short when you noticed the generous slit of the bathroom door, revealing Taehyung who. . .

You felt your breath hitch as your heart leapt in your throat.

A question, colored in red, was written on the mirror:

WHY SO SERIOUS?

You traced the edge of each letter, but it became increasingly difficult to breathe.

“AH HA HA!”

Taehyung covered both of his eyes with his hands momentarily. Then, he peered at his reflection again through the gaps of his fingers, as if unable to do nothing but stare and stare forevermore. His entire face was smeared with some sort of white paint chipping along the edges of his jaw, the flakes dropping to the odd, purple suit he adorned as a green tie rested around his neck.

“AH HA HA!” He leaned in closer to the mirror. “AH HA HA!” he repeated, each forced laugh willing his shoulders to heave up and down with every breath.

Taehyung’s lips extended unnaturally from cheek to cheek, a thin red line, wavering slightly at the ends, drawn on to resemble an everlasting mischievous grin.

You had to go back to Jeongyeon. This. . .this wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal.

You stepped back, but you should have known better when the floor creaked and Taehyung’s gaze pierced into your very being through the mirror.

You expected him to speak, to part his mouth to sputter out a few rushed words, but he didn't. Instead, he simply stared at you with that crazed, inhuman glint in his eyes, and with those curved lips of his that just would not stop smiling. Slowly, he dragged his tongue across the expanse of his skin, never once breaking his transfixed stare, as a sneer escaped through the clench of his teeth.

You were unable to distinguish if his smile was truly painted on, or if it was replaced by something else entirely, a viscous liquid in its stead, the crimson color plastered across his face switching to a shade darker, a shade sinister against its nature.

Much to your relief, however, the light fixture in the bathroom had flickered off. For a moment the darkness binding your vision provided you with a small sense of comfort, while the sound of your labored breathing, shallow and quick, reverberated throughout the halls.

But just as suddenly, the light flickered on again, and Taehyung’s smile stretched impossibly wider through the mirror this time.

“You ever get tired of life?” Taehyung smacked his lips, speaking to you with his reflection. “When the razzle-dazzle isn’t cutting it out anymore? Hmm?”

It was hard for you to see past his paint.

#yandere bts

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layniapetrovnaaa · 4 years

Text

In cauda venenum

[Natasha Romanoff x Reader]

Request: @honeyxbucket

Hi there! I would like to request a Natasha x reader fic! A one shot more specifically kinda angst I hope that’s okay! Plot: Y/n is peter parks biological sister and shared the same powers as him and even has her own suit (it’s basically just a light purple Spider-Man suit) well anyway one day they are on a mission (you can choose who the villain is) and at the end y/n almost died and is sent to the hospital and Natasha freaks out but y/n ends up okay lots of fluff at the end

(I’m sorry this is so short, but I hope it was what you were looking for!)

“I like the new suit.” Peter spoke innocently.

The orange glow of the sunset cocooning him in warm light. The sun felt nice on your skin, given the cool NYC fall temperature.

The two of you sat atop a medium sized apartment building, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity.

Ever since Mac Gorgon, or Scorpion, had escaped from prison you and Peter had been on the look out.

Apparently you weren't the only ones.

The two of you had recently gotten a tip from Daredevil (a recent acquaintance and new ally) that he was hiding out in a small garage right near the Hudson river.

So there you were.

“I thought a change of pace might be nice.” you say, glancing down at the sleek and tight fitting purple suit.

“Very inconspicuous.” he teases.

You laugh, punching his shoulder lightly.

“Look who’s talking!” you retort and he puts his hands up in defense.

Once your giggling starts to fade, you turn your head to look out at the city.

You noticed a shady looking man unlocking the door to a building a little ways down the street.

“Peter, eight o'clock.”

“Is that what time May said to be back for dinner? Cause--”

You scoff.

“No, look.” you nod with your chin.

He leans over, looking in the correct direction.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

As he speaks, the man turns his head to scan the streets, just long enough for you and Peter to note the prominent scar on his face.

“Oh shit.” your brother lets out.

You both put on your masks.

“Let’s go.” you order, standing up and shooting out a web after you made sure that the criminal wouldn't see you.

You should have noticed the signs upon entering, he was expecting you.

Your spider-senses were telling you that he was on the ground floor, but your eyes told you otherwise.

It was odd, he was no where in sight, and the building was a few degrees cooler then it was outside.

“I don’t think he is here [Y/N], we should go back to our post” Peter says quietly.

As you turn around and start to head for the exit, you hear his sinister voice.

“Leaving so soon?”

You turn round to see him coming out of the shadows.

You had known about his enhanced abilities, given to him by experiments, but you were in the dark about the Scorpion-like suit he was currently donning.

“Oh fuck me.” you curse under your breath as you watch the orange colored sunlight reflect off of his knife-like stinger.

“You like? My friend Doc Ock made it for me.” you could practically hear the malicious grin in his voice.

“Not bad, but its a bit bulky, don’t y’think?” you reply sarcastically.

You see his smile drop and he starts charging towards you and Peter.

“Watch out!” you exclaim as he goes to attack Peter, your web hitting one of the beams in the ceiling and you swing yourself up there.

“That reaction was a bit dramatic, I mean you did ask for her opinion.” Peter grunts out as he wrestles with the villain.

You stick on the ceiling, crawling so that you are behind Scorpion, launching your web to stop his poisonous tail from impaling your sibling.

He whips his head around to face you before jumping onto the wall, sticking his claws into it and crawls his way over to you.

You detach yourself from the ceiling, only hanging by your fingertips, and aim your webs at his ankle as you pull him down to the ground with you.

The fight continues, each interaction becoming more killer than the last, you knew it was time to call in.

“This is [Y/N] Parker, I’m calling for backup, we are at an old abandoned garage near the Manhattan cruise terminal on 12th, please hurry.”

You had underestimated the speed and strength of Scorpion, and now you were reaping the consequences.

You break into a sprint towards the monster who had his back to you, but he was faster than you and turns just in time to inject his venomous stinger into your pectoral muscle, right below your left collarbone.

You gasp and feel your toes leave the ground by an inch.

The venom that coursed through your veins felt like lava.

Mac grins and removes the stinger, you collapse to the ground.

“[Y/N]?” Peter lets out in almost a whimper.

Your eyes squeeze shut and you clench your jaw, trying to bear the pain.

An alarm like sound comes from Scorpions wrist.

“This isn’t over spidey, you’re next.” he growls, jumping onto the wall and crawling through the big open window near the ceiling.

You open your eyes to look at the wound, seeing Peter rush to your side in a blur.

He rests your head onto his lap, throwing off his and your mask.

Not a second later the garage doors burst open.

Natasha, Tony, and Rhodey stand on guard until they finish scanning the perimeter.

She had to do a double take when she noticed you and your brother on the ground.

As soon as she realized the predicament, she ran over, settling at your side, opposite of Peter.

“Natasha?” you murmur, starting to fall in and out of what they all hoped was consciousness, reaching your hand up to touch her cheek.

“I’m here.” she says as she grabs your hand.

Your head rolls back and she takes in a sharp breath.

“What the hell happened?!” she asks sharply.

“I-I-I I don’t know...it-it all happened so fast.” Peter lets out in almost a sob.

“We need to get her back to base, now.”

When a second passes and no one moves, she demands again.

“I said move, goddammit!” she growls, the four the superheros immediately snapping into action.

“It’s gunna be okay, [Y/N]. You’re going to be fine.” she breaths, talking more to herself than you.

“It’s gunna be fine...”

***

The water ran down Natasha's hands as she rung out the warm washcloth. The wood floor was cold on her bare feet as she lugged her way towards the grey monochrome bed where her sleeping girlfriend lay. Natasha let out a low sigh as she sat down on the side of the bed. She gently laid the damp towel on the girl’s forehead.

Again she sighs.

Had it not been for your spider like powers and Doctor Banners wicked brain, you wouldn't have made it.

The redhead would flinch almost every beep of the heart monitor, and the IV hooked to your arm made her tense.

The light from the window next to the queen bed seeped through the blinds, and as it seems, right into your eyes as you start to come back to consciousness.

Your lashes flutter, and you hear Natasha mutter to herself.

"If only I could have been faster. Ah god" her voice cracks.

Natasha wipes the tear from her cheek quickly, as if she was embarrassed somebody would see.

"I don't know what I would have done if I had lost you," she says as she lets out a shaky breath.

"I can't lose you Y/n.."

Slowly you grab her hand.

"Natalia..."

Her head whips in your direction.

"Hey, your supposed to be asleep." She sniffs.

"You could never lose me Tahsa."

Natasha huffs.

"So you heard all that?"

"Don't blame yourself for my mistakes." You said weakly. She shakes her head.

"Y/n/n, I— I thought I was going to lose you...and I don’t know what I would have done.”

"Nat.."

She huffs.

“My whole life has been calculated and cautiously planned, but you make me throw caution to the wind. You make me unable to think straight, I can hardly form a coherent sentence when you are around [Y/N]. You wreck me in the most glorious ways, you break down every barrier I have, you see me for me. I-I just can’t loose you.”

A tear slips down your cheek at er confession.

“Wow, Nat I-I don’t know what to say...”

“Don’t, don’t worry about it.” she shakes her head lightly

"I love you Natalia, you are the most beautiful, badass, and selfless person I know."

She chuckles and scoffs.

"I love you too, Y/n."

She leans down to kiss your lips, they're soft and warm, and it's just electric between you two.

“I should go tell Bruce you’re awake.”

You nod and she gets up from the bed.

As she opens the door, her hand still on the door nob, she speaks.

“I meant everything I said...I love you so much it hurts.”

You nod and bite your lip, the corners of your mouth drifting upwards.

She nods, a tight lip smile threatening to grace her face as she walks out, shutting the door softly behind her.

“I never thought I’d see the day the Black Widow went soft.”

“Shut it Stark.”

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #peter parker #Black Widow #natasha romanoff imagine

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curly-bangtan · 5 years

Note

#15 with yoongi - fluffy or smutty :D

#15: “you’re so annoying and needy… fine just come over here.”

Warnings: oral (f), lil bit of dry humping cos u know i love that shit teehee

A/N: Wow I love writing Yoongi, might have to bang out all the drabble requests for him while I’m at it… Didn’t mean for this to get smutty but oh well.

You let out a whine, high-pitched and exaggerated, and flip the page of your novel. Glancing up, Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice the slight irritation in your tone, or if he does, he doesn’t show it.

Hmph. Why is he like this?

Another sigh leaves your pouting lips. At this point, you’re not even absorbing the words you’re scanning into your head anymore, so you put the book down in defeat. Click click, goes his mouse. Your boyfriend is completely immersed in his music production, his big black headphones caging his ears, isolating him from the rest of the world. The rest of the world being you.

You throw your arms back to stretch like a cat, ruffling the neatly made covers of his bed. It’s a pet peeve of his, the way you never make the bed. You’d always tune him out when he would lecture you about not leaving your room in a mess; just because he’s your daddy doesn’t make him your dad too. But right now, you kind of miss his low monotonous voice droning on and telling you off.

Because even that, or just anything, is better than him not giving you the attention you’re craving.

But it’s also not in your nature to beg. He either notices that you’re lonely or he doesn’t. It’s his duty as your boyfriend to care about you.

“Ow!” You suddenly yelp.

Nothing is hurting, you’re just testing whether he can actually hear you or not.

Yoongi’s neck immediately snaps around, round poker face searching yours. You quickly pretend to rub the imaginary paper cut on your finger. His gaze lingers on your hand, flickers to your face, and to your disappointment, turns back to the screen.

Not even a word. Wow.

Feeling cranky at his apparent lack of concern, you whip your phone out and start scrolling so aggressively that the pad of your thumb feels raw. You can’t even muster enough care for the people on your screen. Cool, Yeji went to Tokyo with her boyfriend. Sure they look cute, sure you wish you and Yoongi were in Japan right now too, but whatever. Who gives a shit. Aggressive scroll.

One of Yoongi’s best qualities is how hard-working he is. One of Yoongi’s worst qualities is how hard-working he is.

Of course you love how he reaps the benefits of his diligence. His newest record got approved by his agency again and is currently being worked on in the studio with a new up-and-coming artist. You genuinely cannot be prouder of him. He does what he loves, and loves he does. That’s really admirable nowadays.

But, but, as his girlfriend, you would really wish for him to pay some attention to you every now and then. You don’t ask for much, just an occasional kiss, or even acknowledgement that you’re in the same room would be nice, thank you very much.

“Yoongi, I’m tired.” Code for: Yoongi, can you come over and spoon me so we can sleep already?

He grunts a response that vaguely resembles ‘go to sleep, I’ll be done a sec…’ which would be inaudible to any ears except your own, because by now you are trained to be able to distinguish his low grumbles and murmurs. You want to throw your book at him. Wait, that’s not even a bad idea. Because that would at least get his attention, piss him off.

Instead, you trud over and switch off the lights. But not before you change out of your clothes into his favourite SG shirt, the beige one since he’s wearing the black, purposely not wearing pants so he can catch a glimpse of your ass when you get up.

Yoongi clears his throat but averts your eye, the blue light of the screen illuminating his face in the new darkness.

You want to strangle him. Stupid sack of rice. What man ignores his girlfriend prancing around in his T-shirt and a sexy red thong?

Slightly too dramatic, maybe, you start pretending to call your friend Jimin. “Hey! What’s up?” You purposely don’t keep your voice down even though you know how much Yoongi appreciates a calm ambiance while working. A ball of satisfaction sinks in as you notice his shoulders perk up in attention. “That’s great! … Nah, I’m not up to much, just really bored and sleepy.” Emphasising volume on really. “Yeah, Yoongi’s good, working again of course. You know how he is. Haha, yeah I saw her post too, she’s in Tokyo with her boyfriend. I want to go so badly with Yoongi but he’s busy all the time ‘coz he’s doing really well with his music and all that… Wait seriously? Let’s actually go together!”

Okay, maybe you’re getting carried away with your narrative. But can anyone blame you?

Yoongi’s chair swivels so abruptly at you that you drop your phone, startled. He rests his headphones on his neck and watches you with that annoyingly blank expression of his.

Swiftly, you pick your phone back up to orchestrate your fake goodbyes with ‘Jimin’, excusing that you’re going to bed soon. You stare back at your boyfriend, awaiting him to finally say something.

He sighs. “Jimin smashed his phone today.”

Oh.

You feel the flames rush to your cheeks, soaking in embarrassment. You don’t even know what to say because what the fuck does one say when one gets caught pretending to be on the phone with someone?

“Is your book boring?” His back is turned from the screen, shadow casted on his face, yet you can tell that he’s frowning lightly.

You still can’t say anything. Mind in a state of malfunction at the humiliation.

“Let me see your paper cut.”

Shit. Caught twice.

“Um. It’s nothing, not even any blood, you won’t be able to see it.” Heat continues to flood your face. His bullshit sensor aas never failed him before, why do you even try to lie to him?

Yoongi exhales in exasperation, clearly fed up. And you feel small, diminished, guilty. “You’re so annoying and needy. I’m working, I said I’ll be done soon.”

“Yeah but you say that every time…” You half whisper half whine. “I just miss you, that’s all…”

For a moment, he just looks at you, expression unreadable as usual. You think he’s going to turn back to resume his work, but then he sighs and says, “Fine, just come over here.”

The smile immediately blooms across your face, it’s the pure and genuine kind of smile that infects all of your facial features. And in the darkness, you spot the slightest smallest quirk upwards of his lips too as you crawl across the bed to plop yourself onto his lap. His hands instinctively run up your bare thighs and rest on your ass as you straddle him. The chair turns from the momentum you induce so your back is facing his computer and his face is once again lit up.

Your arms snake up his chest and around his neck, their permanent place of residence. You bask in every drop of his attention, loving the way he silent studies every inch of your face.

“You called me annoying and needy.” Brows drawing, you pout at him, luring out more of his care.

“That’s synonymous with cute, don’t you know me?”

You giggle, forehead falling onto his. Your legs feel warm on top of him, especially as he begins to feathering up and down them, his fingers tickling your ass more and more each time. Goosebumps.

“You can’t walk around with no pants like that, baby girl.” You feel a sudden pulse on your clit at his name for you. His pinky is fiddling with the lace of your thong now, and habitually you press your crotch onto his. “You’re so impatient.” His other hand reaches for your face, touch trailing down your jaw so soft it feels like a ghost. “So demanding.” He squeezes your ass.

Nose brushing, Yoongi glimpses up at you through his lashes and you know you’ve won. He has succumbed to you.

His kisses taste like midnight coffee. Slow, lethargic, but no less passionate. He removes the headphones from around his neck without breaking the seal between your lips, hauling you further up his lap until you feel his semi-hard member jab at your core. And when you dare grind your clothed slit over him lasciviously, you both shudder at the friction, his own hips buckling up to meet you. His fingers dig into the flesh of your bottom, guiding your idle rhythm.

“It’s ‘coz I want you.” You whisper into his mouth. “I always want you.”

The throaty groan he releases is enough to gather a rich dampness between your legs. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are as you rub yourself over him.

“Well, if you had waited a little longer,” he pauses to nibble the skin of your neck, “you would have found out that I was planning on eating you out tonight as soon as I’m done with this track.”

Your breath snags in your throat, almost as if he had bitten into your jugular. Hands traveling up his shirt, you cosset his soft milky skin, he himself mirroring your action.

“And… are you done with this track?”

“No. But priorities.”

Yoongi lifts you off his lap onto the desk, his mouse gliding away at the contact with your side. And slowly, head burrowing under your shirt, he sucks purple petals onto your breasts, teasing your nipple between his teeth. Then comes the languid trail of kisses from your sternum down to navel, tongue marking a wet path to your cunt.

As he tugs your panties off, he peaks out from under your shirt, gives that lazy lopsided smirk of his that made you fall in love with him in the first place, then disappears underneath again. Kissing your thighs nearer and nearer to you slick, he props your legs over his shoulders and you can’t help but pull him closer with your ankles.

Fuck, you’re already a goner.

When his warm mouth meets your clit, you jerk up, narrowly avoiding slamming your palm onto his keyboard. If making music is what Yoongi is best at, then devouring your pussy is what he’s second best at.

Your moan is unsuppressed. Each time his tongue flickers around your clit, you feel a pulse of desire ripple through you. He doesn’t stop, showing no mercy because this is what you had ask for, so this is what you shall receive. You want him? You have him. And when he inserts two fingers while he sucks on your swollen bud, teeth scraping at your folds, you call out his name like he’s your religion.

He makes you come thrice that night. All times on his desk.

05/11/19

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hetvi1498 · 3 years

Text

Makeup Products for Beginner

Whether you're new to makeup or have been experimenting with it for years, having a collection of beauty essentials that will help you to create a go-to everyday look is key. It's a lot easier to add fun or fashionable makeup products to your collection and incorporate them into your beauty looks once you've mastered the basics.

Makeup Essentials – Face:

1. Face Primer

While some people believe that face primer isn't necessary, I consider it to be an essential part of my makeup procedure.

Face primers have a variety of impacts on your face and makeup, but their main goal is to keep your skin smooth and your makeup appearing fresh all day. Whether you're searching for a product to regulate oil and/or acne, hydrate, smooth out uneven texture, colour correct, or anything else, there's a primer for you.

2. Foundation

Foundation is undoubtedly the most difficult component of your makeup regimen to master, because you must consider not only the level of coverage you like (sheer/natural, medium, or full), but also your skin type and undertones.

If you're new to foundation or aren't sure which type or shade is best for you, I recommend visiting your local Sephora, MAC, or department store and having a makeup artist assist you in selecting one that matches your skin tone and meets your coverage requirements. Requesting a sample is also a smart idea if you want to check how a formula feels on your skin before purchasing it.

Even if you prefer to buy foundation at a drugstore, I recommend that you get matched at a higher-end store first. This will help you figure out which colours to look for.

3. BB Cream

I prefer BB cream to traditional foundation because it gives a more natural appearance. If you're searching for a product with skincare advantages like moisturizing or priming, this is an excellent choice (some BB creams have primer built in).

Furthermore, if you are new to makeup, a good BB cream is a better place to start than foundation because it feels lighter on the skin, is difficult to overdo, and can be applied with your fingers.One significant disadvantage of BB creams is that they typically come in limited shade ranges and do not cater to darker skin tones.

4. Concealer

Concealer is a must-have if you have acne, dark circles, or any other type of discoloration.Concealers are available in full-coverage and sheerer-coverage formulations, and which one you should use depends on how much you want to conceal.

When selecting a concealer for acne and/or discoloration, choose a shade that is as close to your foundation/BB cream shade as possible for the most natural look.

Dark circles are a little trickier to conceal because there is so much variation in their shades and how they appear on different skin tones, but in general, a peach or pink-toned concealer will do the trick.

5. Blush

Applying blush can have a significant impact on your overall appearance, and I never leave it out of my makeup routine. Blush is especially important if you're wearing a foundation with more opaque coverage, which can leave your skin looking a little flat. Blush is available in powder, gel, and cream forms, with powder being the most popular. However, cream and gel blush have recently gained popularity.

When selecting a blush colour, choose one that will give you a natural flush. Regardless of your skintone, avoid going too bright or applying with too heavy a hand, as these can make you look clownish.

Pink and peach tones look best on fair-to-medium skin tones, while mauve, purple, and maroon tones look best on darker skin tones.

6. Highlighter

Highlighter, like many other beauty products, comes in a variety of forms, including powder, cream, liquid, stick, and powder/cream hybrid. Each of these forms has its own set of advantages, but for beginners, I recommend powder or stick because they are the easiest to work with.

My go-to highlighter application technique is to lightly dab it along the bridge of your nose, the tops of your cheekbones, your cupid's bow, and just below your brows. You can even use your highlighter as an eye shadow!

Finally, finding the right shade of highlighter, like finding the perfect shade of foundation, is dependent on your specific skin tone and undertones, so it's a good idea to test out different colours in person if possible.

7. Bronzer

Using the right shade of bronzer is essential if you want to achieve a sun-kissed look. I suggest going no darker than one or two shades darker than your natural skin tone, and lightly dusting it all over the high points of your face for a healthy glow, or simply in the hollows of your cheeks (below where you'd put your blush) for a more chiseled look. In either case, use a light hand and blend thoroughly.

The choice between matte and shimmery depends on the rest of your look: If you're using all matte products on your face and want to add some radiance, try something with a bit of sparkle. However, if you're already wearing shimmery makeup, stick to a matte formula to avoid shine overload.

8. Setting Spray/Powder

Setting spray/powder, like face primer, works to keep your makeup in place all day.

There are various formulations available depending on the type of finish you want (matte, radiant, etc.) and what skin care benefits, if any, you want your setting spray/powder to have (e.g. moisturizing, oil-absorbing, etc.). But, if you want your makeup to last, don't skip this step.

Makeup Essentials – Eyes:

9. Eye Primer

My eye makeup would literally be virtually gone within two or three hours before I started using eye primer, so it's been a lifesaver for me.

Not only should a good eye primer keep your eye makeup from sliding off, fading, and creasing, but it should also have a formulation that keeps colours appearing true to how they should all day.Keep in mind that eye primers aren't just for oily skin–there are a variety of hydrating, color-correcting, and anti-aging formulations in the market.

10. Eyeshadow

Eye shadow is my favourite cosmetic product, along with highlighter, because it comes in so many various hues and finishes and can be used in so many different ways.Finding makeup colours and tones that match your eye colour is a terrific method to make your eyes stand out.

Always define your crease, regardless of the style you're striving for - from natural to smoky. By blending the shadow into the crease, you may create depth to your eyes and make them appear larger. The key is to use a soft fluffy brush to build up the eye shadow in a back-and-forth motion.

11. Eye Pencil

If I had to choose only one cosmetics product to wear before leaving the house, it would undoubtedly be eye pencil (or kohl). Because "eyes speak louder than words," I believe they should always be highlighted.

Always begin at the outside corner and work your way inwards while using an eye pencil. Always use tiny strokes and don't be afraid to press the pencil towards the waterline. You will not injure yourself while performing this task. Eye pencils are creamy and silky since they are made with the area in mind where they will be utilized.

12. Mascara

Mascara has a magical way of bringing your entire eye look together, and it comes in a variety of formulas to lengthen, thicken, and curl your lashes.

Most individuals can get away with black mascara, but if you have really light-colored lashes, you might want to try a brown mascara instead for a more natural effect.

13. Eyeliner

Eyeliner, like mascara, may offer that additional something to truly make your eyes pop.

While black eyeliner is frequently considered a must-have, if you have lighter skin, try brown or dark grey. Eyeliner may be applied in a variety of ways, but my preference is to draw a fine line at the lash line and wing it out just a little beyond my eye.If you want to make your eyelashes look thicker, line the waterline with eyeliner. Eye pencils and kohl products created exclusively for this delicate area are available.

If you're concerned of messing up with liquid eyeliner, I recommend lining your eyes first with a similar-colored eye shadow or pencil liner, then going over that line with the liquid liner.

Makeup Essentials – Lips:

14. Lip Gloss

Lip gloss was popular in the early to mid-2000s, but has lately resurfaced, with trendy brands such as Anastasia Beverly Hills, Glossier, and Fenty Beauty all offering their own variations.

When you're in a hurry, don't have access to a mirror, or when the rest of your makeup is more dramatic and calls for a subtler lip, go for lip gloss.

15. Lipstick

You can't dispute that lipstick is having a significant moment right now: whether you prefer a liquid or bullet formula, a glossy, satin, or matte finish, or a glossy, satin, or matte finish, there's a lipstick out there to suit your preferences!

Beginners should start with a colour that is near to their natural lip colour, as this is the easiest to apply and remove.

Once you've mastered that, it's a good idea to invest in a basic red that works with everything and can be worn to class or on special occasions. For a softer look, try a glossy formula or a lip balm, or a matte formula for a more glamorous look.In addition, I recommend wearing a red lip with minimal makeup or none at all.

#makeup #bueaty #mua #fashion #makeupartist #cosmetics #bueatiful #eyelashes #eyeshadow #lipstik #looks #love #brushes

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kindofcashton · 4 years

Text

𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕 • chapter 2 (Calum Hood AU)

THE REST OF dinner was much more enjoyable once Calum left. Luke, Michael, and Ashton had no problem making me feel at home, and soon I was laughing and free from the stress of the day.

From what I'd gathered, Luke and Michael about a year younger than Ashton. They'd all finished high school and decided against university, much to their parents' pleasure. Ashton however had landed a pretty lucrative gig at an advertising firm, even without a degree, and he said that it was the kind of job good enough to support him as long as he needed. Luke and Michael had odd jobs here and there, preferring the care-free bachelor life to a scheduled, overworked routine. I envied their easy-going attitudes; if only I could afford to live as freely as they did.

"We're not total bums though," Luke defended himself, blue eyes smiling. The five us were sipping beers around the table, lights dimmed since it was so late. "Mike is wicked good with video games and is helping this guy with his startup. And I work down at the music shop, but the manager says he's gonna try to hook me up with an internship at a record label."

Michael snorted. "I can not imagine you fetching people coffee. And they'd probably force you take out that lovely lip ring."

Luke rolled his eyes and took a swig of his beer. "You work for a guy with a purple tiger tattoo, of course you can keep your eyebrow piercing."

Ashton waved his hand dramatically, other arm slung over Hannah's shoulder. She'd moved her chair so close to his she was practically on his lap.

"Yeah yeah, you're little startup and you're little internship are cute, but I am working on the next campaign for Fido Feed."

Everyone burst out laughing, and I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "What's that?"

Hannah slid her hand down Ashton's cheek lovingly, and said, "It's a dog food brand, and he is single-handedly pioneering their success." Ashton grinned and gave her a kiss.

"Hey, Ash, what happened to the wheat crackers ad? I thought you were killing it with the cracker game." Michael bat his lashes innocently.

Ashton flipped him off and I took a sip of my beer, happy and buzzed. This was the most fun I'd had in a long time, and only hoped it would be like this every day. Leaving university had been a difficult but inevitable decision, and I'd feared I wouldn't be happy for a long time. Anxieties still plagued the back of my mind, but right now I found it easier than ever to ignore them.

"Alright, I don't know about you morons but I'm pretty tired." Michael stood up from the table and motioned to me. "How about I show you you're suite now, madam?"

I smiled and nodded, as Luke reached over to throw away my empty beer for me. His blue eyes were so warm and kind, and I think I was most grateful for his calming presence.

Michael led me up the stairs into a darkened hallway, and I noted four doors upstairs. One was partially open, revealing the bathroom. One at the end of the hall was shut tight, with quiet music reverberating softly from it. I guessed this was Calum's room, and as Michael led to me to his my stomach sank. I'd be right next to Calum, bumping into him as we went downstairs or tried to get to the bathroom.

Great, more opportunities for him to hate me.

The room was fairly small, but not cramped. The bed was big with dark blue sheets, and the gray walls were plastered with posters of all different types. A closet had been cleared out for me, as well as a set of drawers and desk in the corner. It was definitely a nicer place than I thought I'd be staying in.

"I don't know how to thank you," I admitted, still embarrassed at Michael's charity.

He crossed his arms, goofy smile on his face. "You'll figure something out. I like anything with cheese or frosting, so maybe start there?" I laughed, and he gave me an encouraging thumbs up before turning out of the room.

"Night, Scar!" he called, and I closed the door gently behind him.

My bags were all arranged in one corner, and I reminded myself to thank Luke later. Blowing out a sigh, I fell onto the bed. The events of the past couple months truly felt like bricks on my shoulders, and every day was a struggle to get by. The ache in my heart never seemed to subside, even during happy times like tonight. Pulling the blankets over my shivering body, I simply hoped for a good night's sleep to be able to tackle tomorrow.

Unfortunately, my prayers were not answered. I tossed and turned all night long, partly because of the unfamiliar atmosphere and partly because of my never ending anxieties. Pale dawn light was peeking through the curtains when I finally opened my eyes, and I frowned.

Quietly getting up, I checked my reflection in the mirror and yawned. My hair was tousled, the hoodie I wore nearly covering my shorts. I didn't look too great, but I decided it was better for people to see this me early on, seeing as she'd be around a fair amount.

Padding down the stairs, I didn't notice anyone awake. Ashton had stayed the night with Hannah, both of them down in the basement on the futon. Michael was passed out on the living room couch, red hair disheveled.

Suddenly a sound from the kitchen made nearly jump out of my skin. I whirled around to see Calum fishing through the cupboards, clad in only sweatpants. He must have heard my surprised gasp, because he turned to me with a scowl.

"Of course you'd be up this early." He faced away from me as I entered the kitchen, pausing as I gripped the back of a dining chair. His back muscles were taut and tan, his bare shoulders rimmed with shadow in the dim light. His hair was curly and messy, laying just over his eyes.

"You're up this early," I countered innocently, meaning it more as a joke. He gave me a distracted glance.

"Never really went to bed, I guess," he grumbled, moving to set up the coffee maker. His movements were clumsy and confused, and I could tell he had no idea what he was doing.

"Here, let me," I offered softly, striding over. His brown eyes tracked me as I dumped the ground coffee into machine, once again completely unreadable. I worked quietly, my movements automatic as I had done this a million times at college in order to survive late nights and early classes.

"Ashton usually does this," he mumbled, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. I shrugged, flipping the lid down and setting the timer. I turned so I was leaning against the counter, arms folded. Calum backed away from me, choosing now to busy himself in the fridge.

I sighed, but was thankfully saved by Michael waking up over on the couch.

"I really hope that racket was coffee being made," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Shut up, we weren't that loud," Calum snapped, finding the milk and grabbing some frosted cereal. Soon Luke was awake and joined us in the kitchen, followed shortly by Ashton and Hannah from downstairs. She looked lazy and happy, glowing almost. Luke rolled his eyes and shot me a smile; we all knew why the two of them looked so content.

We all sat at the table, Calum included. He ate his cereal silently, and didn't look up when I poured him a cup of coffee. I took my mug and sat down, letting the warmth of the coffee seep into my cold hands.

"Cream and sugar?" Luke asked, but I shook my head.

"No, this is fine."

"You take it black? Damn, badass." He grinned, and I chuckled. Calum snorted, and everyone turned to look at him.

He reddened at our stares, and said curtly, "What, she's some brave hero for drinking black coffee? Please."

Luke didn't take his comment to heart, his expression amused. "Right, I forgot no one is cool in your eyes. You enjoy vodka straight out of the bottle." Calum met his eyes, and for the first time I saw a spark of humor in the brown orbs. Little flashes of the boys' friendship peeked through sometimes, and I knew despite his rough exterior the guys really loved Calum.

"What are we doing today?" Michael asked, stuffing some toast into his mouth.

"Some of us have serious jobs to go to," Ashton joked, and Hannah giggled as she ran a hand through his curls. I was jealous of how close they were, wishing I had someone like Ashton to support me. He would walk through fire for Hannah, and she for him. Their bond was unlike anything I'd ever seen let alone experienced, and I wondered if I'd ever be lucky enough to discover that feeling.

"Ha-ha," Michael said dryly. "Reggie doesn't need me today since we're waiting for a streaming service to get back to us, so I'm free."

Luke nodded. "Same here, the Jared doesn't need me since he's training a new guy. Looks like we'll all have the day together, eh?" He shot me a wink, and I smiled. I'd hoped to be introduced to the area, and what better way to do it then with all of them? It would give me even more time to get to know the guys.

"Why don't we give Scarlett here a tour? She's gotta know about all the good spots," Hannah proposed, and was met with sounds of approval. The only one who didn't reply was Calum, who's eyebrows hung low over his eyes as he ate his breakfast.

"Count me out, I've got some shit to do." No one questioned his vague answer, and I guessed this was routine around here. Calum did what he pleased and no one pushed him. To me it was peculiar, because I'd always been the kind of person to appreciate communication. Clearly I had a lot to learn if I was going to stick around here.

They parted ways to get ready, but I stayed behind to clean up the dishes. Small things like this made me feel better about staying at the house. Calum was last to leave the table, and was watching me with steely eyes as I rinsed out the mugs. Wordlessly, he stood up and stalked over to the sink, halting. I stopped what I was doing and glanced up at him, intimidated when I met his gaze. A beat went by, and then he set his bowl down and promptly left.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

Soon after I'd changed and put on a bit of makeup, glad that my appearance looked slightly more acceptable. I was nervous and excited for the day ahead; seeing a new city was always fun, especially one I'd be living in for a while.

Between the guys they had three cars, the nicest belonging to Ashton which he'd bought after his first promotion. Luke and Michael shared an old station wagon since their jobs were fairly close together, and Calum drove a vintage mustang. I whistled under my breath, wondering how he afforded such a nice car. He climbed in and sped off within seconds, and I watched him disappear from view.

The rest of us piled into the station wagon with Michael behind the wheel and Luke riding shotgun.

"Alright, where to first ladies and gentleman?"

"We gotta show her the music shop," Hannah proposed.

"Oh yeah, it's a real exciting place," Luke joked. "Dusty, too."

We drove off, and Michael lowered the windows. The sky was sunny and blotted with clouds, a small breeze cooling down the warm air. I rested my arm on the window, and leaned out to look at the trees blurring by. Michael drove fast but controlled, and I could feel my heart flutter as we flew down the street.

The music shop was actually pretty cool, and Luke even took us to the back to show us where they stored the vintage and expensive stuff. Guitars, basses, even a dismantled drum kit were hiding in the back room. Michael and Luke were like little boys around all the stuff, itching to play and show us their chops.

"For a while we wanted to start a band," Luke explained, strumming a simple tune on an acoustic guitar. "But life got in the way, I guess. Besides, our parents basically told us we'd amount to nothing, so here we are."

I frowned. "You shouldn't let someone else tell you what you should do." He looked up, smiling sadly.

"Yeah, but when that someone pays for your entire life, it's pretty hard to say no." I nodded, understanding what he meant. Money was the ultimate decider in life, as I knew all too well.

After the music shop we drove by Michael's start-up, which he claimed was the "most legit garage in the whole city." It was quite literally a garage attached to some guy's house, but Michael insisted all the geniuses started out small.

As we continued driving around, I briefly thought about Calum and where he could possibly be, and I even kept an eye out for his mustang. But he was nowhere to be seen, and by lunch the thought of him had completely evaporated from my mind.

Lunch was at Michael's favorite place, which served the best cheese fries I'd ever tasted in my whole life. As I was eating a thought occurred to me.

"Hey, do you guys know any places hiring? I've gotta get a job now that I'm not spending all my time on school." Back at university, I'd thrown all of my energy into schoolwork since my scholarships depended on it. Now though, a job was a necessity.

They were quiet for a minute, thinking. Then Hannah said, "Oh, I think the cafe on fourth street is looking for someone. You have any experience?"

"I worked retail when I was seventeen back home, so I guess not. But I think I'm a quick learner."

"Wanna swing by right now?"

"Nah, I'll go tomorrow. Today's been too fun, I want to keep it going."

We finished lunch, and perused around town for an hour or so more, showing me various shops and places I'd want to know about. When we finally got back home, the driveway was still empty.

"Think you're in the mood for a beat down in Smash, Lukey boy?" Michael goaded, and Luke shoved him good-naturedly.

"Nobody's getting beat down here except you, my friend."

Hannah and I rolled our eyes, but followed them into the living room nonetheless. We wasted the afternoon watching them play video games and arguing over it, until Hannah got so sick of it she begged me to do something else with her.

"How about we organize your closet? I want to go out later, so we've gotta find outfits."

I readily agreed, excited at the prospect of going clubbing. Hannah had been my partner in crime and always made sure to drag me out of my dorm so I had some fun instead of always staying in and studying.

We began to sift through my bags, and after emptying all of them I realized how little I actually owned. Hannah didn't comment; she knew the reality of the situation, and gave me an encouraging smile.

"Don't worry, we'll go shopping once you get that job and fill this closet right up." I knew I wouldn't be wasting my paycheck on party clothes, but I appreciated her idea nonetheless.

"Where are we going tonight?" I asked.

"Where we always go, it's a place Ashton discovered. It's big, so it never feels cramped. They have a killer DJ, which is rare in this town." She pulled out a black skirt and long sleeved black crop top with a lace up back.

I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise. "Kinda dark, no?"

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Trust me, black is the way to go. You look sultry and dark, and with the lights in the club it looks great."

I laughed but accepted the outfit. "Who am I trying to look sultry for?"

Hannah put her hands on her hips. "Scarlett, you're hot, you're single, and you've got nothing better to do. Get yourself some."

I flushed, embarrassed at her confidence in me. I'd never been the outgoing type of girl to go after guys I liked. I'd been pursued only a few times, mostly by guys I found repulsive. I'd had two boyfriends my whole life, one in high school who had no idea how to kiss with tongue, and one in the beginning of college who left me alone at a party where I knew no one and got thrown up on by a drunk guy. Needless to say, I wasn't crazy about either of them.

Hannah left to get changed herself, and I sighed as I looked at the outfit on the bed. You might as well let loose, I told myself. Hannah was right; you have nothing better to do.

I pulled the skirt on and tied up the crop top flipping my hair over my shoulder as I combed through the reddish brown locks with my fingers. Frowning in the mirror, I swiped some eyeliner on and curled my lashes, sticking out my bottom lip in a pout. Hannah was right; I looked dark, but sultry was still up in the air.

Realizing I had no idea what shoes to wear, I went downstairs and saw Michael and Luke waiting to leave in the living room. They both had dark jeans and leather jackets on, looking like hot bikers. Luke whistled as I walked by, blue eyes tracking me.

"Looking good, Scarlett."

I blushed and thanked him before running into Hannah, who actually had boots in her hand. They were the black knee high kind, and I snorted at her insistence of keeping to a black theme.

"Wear these, I'm going with heels tonight." She looked hot herself; her black skirt was leather, and her shirt was off the shoulder and very low cut. A wave of appreciation for her washed over me; I could always count on Hannah to make me feel good about myself.

We were all ready, and the sky was dark with only a few stars dotting the black canvas. Michael had ordered a cab, and it was waiting for us as we descended the driveway.

As Hannah and I slid across the back seat, the driver glanced in the rear-view mirror.

"And how are you ladies doing tonight?" he asked suggestively, making my face redden.

"Seriously, dude?" Luke said, glaring at the guy from the passenger seat. "Just drive the car and don't say anything, please. Or do you not want to get paid?"

He met my eyes in the mirror, and I hoped my expression showed my gratitude. I knew I could rely on Luke to defend me if I needed it, and that was a comforting thought.

"Ashton and Calum are already there," Hannah told us, and I was slightly surprised to hear that Calum was coming. He'd blown off the day with us, but I guess he couldn't turn down a night out.

When we arrived, I saw how big the club is and my jaw dropped. I could hear the hammering music from outside, and watched as bodies waded in and out of the door. Hannah stuck close by my side, with Michael and Luke leading the way. I smiled nervously at the bouncer, who met my eyes with a blank expression.

Bright lights danced across bodies glowing with sweat, and a crowded dance floor pulsed with the heartbeats of dozens of people. Girls hung onto guys, guys held onto girls. Tables were piled high with empty glasses and bottles, and everyone's eyes were dull with a buzz.

I couldn't help but smile, and Hannah grabbed my hand as she led us through the throng of people. My body itched to join them and dance, the music almost as intoxicating as the alcohol at the bar.

We found our way to the back, where Ashton and Calum were at the bar drinking. Ashton spotted Hannah and grabbed her for a big kiss, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle and grip his bicep. Calum emptied his glass and turned to greet Michael and Luke. His dark eyes raked down my body, face barely illuminated by the roving lights. He looked good; black jeans and boots, his staple apparently. But today he had a leather jacket hugging his broad shoulders, and the glint of rings showed on his fingers. He looked like a shadow ready to melt into the background.

"How was your tour?" he asked, leaning back on his forearms against the tabletop. I couldn't tell if his question was genuine or mocking, so I decided to answer honestly.

"It was great, I think I'm really gonna like it here."

He didn't react to my response, instead motioned to the bartender to get him another drink.

"You good here?" Hannah yelled over the music. "I'm gonna go off with Ashton for a bit, but I'll be back to dance with you later, okay?" I nodded, and the two of them soon dissolved in the crowd. Michael and Luke recognized someone, and went over to talk. I was fine with being alone, and took a seat at the bar.

The bartender had a kind smile and bright eyes. "What can I get you?"

I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. I don't know, what's good?"

Someone scoffed next to me, and I glanced over at Calum. I hadn't realized he was still here, and suddenly regretted my juvenile question.

"Get her a juice box or something, Joe," he said, knocking back his second glass of dark liquid. He was probably already drunk, but I knew he'd be mean even if he was sober.

Feeling like I had to prove something, I straightened up and said firmly, "I'll take a tequila."

Calum didn't react, much to my disappointment. I wasn't a crazy drinker, but I could handle my alcohol. I actually quite liked getting drunk; the buzz made me happy and loopy, and everything was funny when I was drunk.

Joe poured me the drink, and I inhaled deeply before taking a sip. It burned as it slid down my throat, but I didn't wince. Calum's empty glass was refilled, and he lifted it in mock cheers.

"Where were you today?" I asked, voice getting slightly drowned out by the music. Calum scowled at my question.

"Why?"

Shrugging, I replied, "I don't know, you missed a fun day."

He took a big gulp of his drink. "Why do you care?"

I blinked, deciding to be candid. "I don't, I was just trying to be nice." My answer must have surprised him, because he actually shifted to face me.

"What makes you think I want you to be nice to me?" His freezing stare sent chills down my spine, and I took another swig for some liquid courage.

"Generally speaking people are supposed to be nice to one another, but I can see how you wouldn't understand that concept." With that, I finished my drink and flipped my hair behind my shoulders.

"See you later, Calum," I said before striding off onto the dance floor to find Scarlett. I spotted her dancing with Ashton, and she gave me a big drunken hug before jumping around with delight.

As my hips began to sway and I danced along to the music, I could feel the heat of someone's stare on me, but it only made me dance harder.

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cetaceans-pls · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Bane (DCU) Additional Tags: Reconciliation, Developing Relationship, Dom/Sub Undertones, Bruce Wayne Is Trying His Best, The rest of the family play a very small role, Slow Burn Summary:

Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.

Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after Bruce and Jason had been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost impossible.

But after a year of improved communication, rooftop tacos, and the foiling of a terrorist attack, they find a new normal for taking care of each other.

I have written over 30k words for this gd fandom since the day @setsailslash got me hooked and every day the mania just grows deeper.

Or,

That time I scrapped smut 300 words in because I thought if I did that how would you know they love the hell out of each other and haha here’s 10k of the concept of Third Thursdays instead: An Odyssey

Read on Tumblr:

Change is a hard thing for people to grasp, even when they’re billionaire vigilantes and reanimated pseudo-criminals.

Going from parent and child to zombie-son-left-unavenged and shitty-father-figure was rough, and trying to find even ground after they had both been so fundamentally changed by Jason’s death had been almost unovercomeable.

Acknowledging the differences is key, though. Where it had been obvious to Jason that Bruce’s problem was that he couldn’t accept that Jason’s different from before, it had taken him a lot longer to figure out that he was still holding Bruce to the standards he’d held when Batman was more like a god than a distressed man desperately doing his best.

In retrospect, he reckons that death’s actually an infectious disease. Jason got the blunt end of a crowbar and his rose-tinted glasses ripped right off his face, and Bruce came away only slightly more lightly with yet another heaping of trauma, and a chronic condition wherein every day he wishes he could kill the Joker while absolutely knowing that he won’t. It’s self-enforced suffering; the Bat is ruled not by absolutes but by ‘should’s and ‘shouldn’t’s, because ‘can’ and ‘can’t’s are too thin a line for him.

It’s been a fistful of years since Jason’s gone full-time on this Red Hood the crime lord thing, and Gotham’s calmer than she’s ever been; if he wants to have the streets crime-freeish, he just tells his underlings to work less.

Heading a criminal empire provides a much better work-life balance than being Robin, and don’t that hit like a bullet to the head?

(Hahaha.)

It’s been a fistful of years since he woke up, and Jason thinks it’s about time that he have a sit-down with Bruce, because they really fuckin’ need to talk about change and loss.

So he orchestrates a casual heist on a quiet night, and sits at the rooftop of the Natural History Museum with a hunk of meteorite that’s ever-so-lightly laced with Kryptonite, and waits.

It’s frigid as fuck for late April, but to be a Gothamite you sure do have to earn it, and ‘it’ sometimes means sleet down the back of your neck in the middle of the night while you’re trying to meet a man. The helmet’s keeping his head dry and muggy as always, but Lord god he might need to come up with an on-brand scarf design to protect the gap between nape and jacket if the weather keeps being Like This.

Jason’s halfway through troubleshooting the concept of a leather scarf when heavy boots land dramatically on the top of the building, the quiet hiss of a grapple line disengaging in the background.

That’s a thing, too. Bruce generally errs on the side of being Creepy and Looming and a shadow creature of eldritch horror to get people to fear the Batman, but he’s all big loud moves when he’s with Jason, all shout-y and hand gesture-y and frowny. The mystique of him in full-on Bat mode disappears when Bruce strides towards him briskly like an agitated goose coming in for an attack, while his cape just drags on the floor instead of obscuring his fundamental humanity.

Bruce had made more of an effort to keep up the persona back before, tried harder to seem significantly less mortal with the cowl on. Now he’s just all human all the time around him, and Jason sees that Bruce is always bleeding out, only sometimes literally.

“Hey, B,” he calls out, though his helmet probably glows like a beacon to where he’s sat on the water tank.

“Red Hood,” Bruce growls out, too professional to use real names, but too worked-up to not be angry. “Why are you stealing Kryptonite? If this is a plot against Superman, I have no choice but to-”

Ain’t that a joke and a half. “No choice but to do what, B? For the guy calling all the shots all the time, you’re talking some pretty amazing shit.”

At that Bruce doesn’t snap back, turning this way and that instead to do a sweep of the roof before he seems satisfied. “Hood, if this is a plea for attention-”

“Ding ding ding,” Jason says as he unlocks his helmet and takes it off, groaning a little when the light drizzle hits his overheated scalp. “Got half of it in one. I’m not pleading for your attention, B, but I am going to get it. We’re going to talk.”

It’s a new technique, just for today. Usually, any interaction between them turns into a clash; somebody lashes out and the other hits back, and fifteen minutes later either somebody’s bloody or they’ve stormed dramatically off the side of a building.

Today, Jason’s going to pull a Batman ( Thou shalt not steal (the tyres off the Batmobile), Thou shalt not kill (the Joker) ) and put down lines in the sand, make this a lawful argument instead of a raging one.

Getting pissed on by freezing April showers, Jason’s feeling unusually benevolent. It makes him want to laugh, a little, that Bruce has the time and the luxury to be angry with him on a rooftop right now because that’s what Jason wanted to do tonight.

It seems to work, though. Bruce is quiet for the longest time, before he comes closer, clearly wary. “So talk.”

“Much as though I love looking down on you, old man, calm yourself down and just come sit with me. You know as well as me that this place’s in a blindspot, so get up here already.”

Another line, another non-request. Jason expects that he’s going to have to wear Bruce down with this, but instead there’s the quiet boom! of the grapple going off, and in six and a half seconds flat, he’s got a seatmate.

Facing the same way, they have as good of a view as you can get of Gotham; the museum’s on a hill close to the bay, and from here you can make out the city lights and the barest outlines of buildings through the mist and rain. Even the looming hills that cocoon the city and contribute hugely to the awful weather and spectacular air pollution are visible, if you squint.

Absently, Jason notes that this is the longest they’ve gone in a while without either of them shouting, even if Bruce is radiating enough tension to heat up a house.

“So,” Jason starts them off, because he should expect no help from the dumbass next to him, “you know that I, like, died, right, B?”

The sharp intake of breath is like a reflex at this point; if Jason ever wants to get a punch in all he needs to do is look Bruce in the eye and remind him of Jason’s death and bam ! An opening right there.

That’s not the point tonight, though. Not quite.

He keeps going before Bruce can interrupt. “I know you know I did, B. I know you blame yourself for it, and you blame me for being angry you didn’t kill Joker, and then you go back to blaming yourself for not actually killing the fucker anyways. You’re all twisted up inside, and you probably always have been, and I guess the thing is I kinda only noticed that recently.”

So recently, he realised it mid-conversation. Wow.

“If you only wanted me to come so that you can berate me, Hood, I have better things to do,” Bruce says, terse and hideously impersonal.

Jesus, he’s bleeding out right now.

Jason nudges him in the side, but mostly just bruises his elbow on kevlar and leather. “It’s not about that. If I was berating you, I would be real fucking clear about it. I just need you to get through your thick skull, that the boy you took in and did your best to kinda take care of, he died and you mourned him and you’re still mourning him, and that’s fine .” It isn’t, not really, because Jason wants Bruce to mourn him , but that’s just a whole ‘nother kettle of fucking fish, really. “He died, and I came ‘round in his place, and we’re not the same people. Death really changes a man, you know, and I’m not your son anymore. I made my peace with that.” Sort of. -ish. Enough to function, enough to know they need this conversation.

He turns to look at Bruce, right at the eery white lenses. “The question is,” he says with a heaviness he doesn’t usually like to show, “have you?”

Lenses can’t blink, obviously, but Jason’s looked at and thought about this man long enough and often enough that he knows what’s going on even when Bruce’s face is obscured.

It’s a stare-off that Bruce somehow loses. He looks away, jaw still clenched tight. Jason can see the muscles twitching there, can almost hear the grinding. If he closes his eyes he can even imagine the little purple case and the clear night guard that Bruce has on the counter in his bathroom.

He wonders if the case is still covered in the stickers that first Dick, and then he himself had covered it in. He wonders if the tradition continued with the newer Robins, and if the guard and the case is still there, or if Bruce in his unwinding madness had just, god, laser-cut his teeth so that they wouldn’t touch or something.

Bruce’s answer is a long time coming, but it does come, eventually. “No,” Bruce tells him like it’s truth taken through torture. “No, I haven’t.”

(It is, truth taken through torture).

Any admission of weakness was well beyond anything Jason expected, and while his first inclination is to take that given inch and make it a vicious mile, to mock the absolute hell out of Bruce, he doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself scooting over closer, close enough that their shoulders are touching. Bruce flinches, and Jason ignores the tell of discomfort.

“That’s all right,” Jason tells him, mostly meaning it. “He died for me too, you know. So at least this time, B, you got a mourning buddy.”

They sit in silence for a long, long time, until Batman’s communicator goes off and the spell’s broken. Bruce doesn’t say anything after the transmission’s fed right into his ear, just leaps off the water tank and lands on cat-quiet feet on the roof.

It’s as clear a sign as anything that their potential bonding’s come to an end, and Jason’s resigned to going back to his ratty apartment and rage-eating some cold pizza.

Instead of leaping right into action, though, Bruce turns and looks up at him. He holds up his hand, and it’s the stupid chunk of greenish rock. Jason rolls his eyes, but can’t help breaking into a grin. How a man so big and imposing got around to having such sticky fingers is pretty impressive.

“Thank you, Jason.”

It’s the first time tonight Bruce has actually called him by his name, and it’s such a wholesale fucking miracle that Jason is actually left speechless as Batman smirks, turns on his heel so that his cape snaps out dramatically, and disappears.

They meet up semi-often, after that. Jason sent out a company-wide memo; every third Thursday, everybody just stay the fuck at home. Anybody found breaking the order gets to have some personal one-on-one time with Jason and his favourite toy for the week, and about two months after that first meeting, Gotham’s taken to scheduling their outdoor celebrations and festivities to take advantage of the periodic significant decrease in shit like gun violence and kidnappings.

Jason’s got no complaints; it means that whatever rooftop they end up on, they get a view of lanterns and glossy food-trucks, loud music booming up to the rafters even though it’s the middle of the workweek. There’s a taquería-on-wheels that usually sets up shop on the corner of King and 18th, and Jason’s made it his mission in life to make a pilgrimage to it every haloed Thursday to get half a dozen pulled pork tacos. He does it partly because they literally are the best tacos he’s ever had in his life, and also partly because if it’s the matriarch María José at the cashier she will inevitably pinch his cheeks, call him handsome, and give him a glass of rice milk on the house so’s that he can grow some more.

Three months into this, whatever the hell this is, and a whole two tacos regularly go to Bruce, despite the fact that Bruce always comes by with food from whichever truck he buys out that night, a takeaway bag for them and the rest sent to the charitable organisation du jour .

Jason feels a weird sense of satisfaction in providing , though, so he always says he’ll bring home whatever Bruce’s brought to eat later, and instead has them share his tacos and drink and whatever corner store trash takes his fancy on the day. Trying to get Bruce to just go with the damned flow is a lot like trying to socialise the world’s most paranoid cat, and the first time that comparison occurred to him Jason had laughed to himself because he thought it was hilarious.

It came in a little later that cats that are paranoid and wary of people usually have a damn good reason for being so, and if that ain’t just the world’s most relatable shit….

The meeting after that realisation Jason had splurged on two horchatas as well as some churros, and when María José had asked if it was for a date, he had said of course not, ma’am, I’ve still got my eye on you , but in his head he thought Jesus, maybe .

By the fifth time they meet for what amounts to late-night snacks and aching chats, Jason notices and works very hard not to mention that Bruce has foregone the heavily-armoured suit that he usually wears on patrol, and is instead in the Batsuit Lite™, the version he would keep in his office for quick costume changes but couldn’t take a bullet half so well.

The actual Gotham Bat is literally lowering his guard around him, and Jason feels so goddamned all-powerful that he almost wants to send out another memo to say that all crime is all cancelled now, thanks, just so that dinner and drinks with a Bruce who is slowly but surely coming to terms with Jason being his own man can happen more often.

It never sat quite right with him to be provided for, he learns over the course of these dinners. Call it the result of a rough upbringing, call it a trick of the mind, but Jason’s never felt so settled in his skin as when Bruce is sat with him on a night that Jason finagled to be calm enough for the Bat to get time off, eating food that Jason bought for him, dressed as casually as the Bat can because Jason was there to guarantee his safety.

He never really knew what to do with the lavish life Bruce gave to him, before.

He’s beginning to think he has an idea about what he wants to give to Bruce, now.

There’s nothing unusually worldly about Jason’s porn preferences. It’s a secret he’ll take to his second grave, but he has a paid subscription to one of those tasteful for-women pornsites because some nights he and his right hand just want to watch people be kinda sweet to one another, you know? He’s surveyed the length and breadth of what the Internet can offer, doesn’t have any use for the ones where people aren’t having a good time, likes actual orgasms both behind and in front of the screen, and has a good grasp of the kinks that make him tick.

It’s not even sexual, this thing with Bruce. Sortof. It’s literally not sexual to sometimes go as backup with Bruce on cases so wretched they would make even Dick blanch and get queasy, or to share intel he got through nefarious means, or to avoid a kill shot when he can go around after and put the fear of the Red Hood into a perp and a bullet into their kneecap instead. It’s intimacy, yeah, to pick up a phone that rings at 4 o’clock in the morning whenever the usual cocktail of screaming horrors in Bruce’s head becomes literally unbearable and he just needs to hear that Jason’s alive still, tonight.

It’s a sign that he can be there to support Bruce, when he went with the man to his grave next to the Waynes, to just say hello and thank you and goodbye.

It’s not sexual, but close to a year into this, they’re both better off and better people. It started small and it grew big, and Jason just wants to give Bruce even more, make him take it, and more importantly, make him enjoy it.

They’re perched on some gargoyles for old times’ sake tonight, and far, far beneath their feet thousands of Gothamites are out on the streets. Jason’s lost track of the number of new celebrations that have cropped up, timed to meet the regular lull in crime, but tonight’s thing has lots of live bands, and lots of people dancing in the streets, swigging beer from plastic cups as they loosen their ties and kick off their heels and gently groove their way to train stations.

Loud block parties in the city centre on a Thursday are so on-brand for Gotham; it inconveniences absolutely everyone, but also if anyone tried to make them stop they would be mobbed. On any given day there’s no telling if Jason loves the people here or wants to beat them into the ground.

The same can be said about Bruce, as though there’s anything more through-and-through Gotham than the Bat and the man. The night’s been pretty chill, a little on the quiet side, but Jason thinks he’s about to change that. He’s going to draw another line between them tonight, but this one he wants Bruce to actually cross.

Plus, who would’ve known? Unwind the Bat enough and Bruce ends up being pretty decent company. He had a deep well of deeply entertaining bitchiness that was usually smothered under the facade of superheroism, he listened to hostage demands and a casual recap of the latest episode of Love Is Blind with the same amount of near-angry focus, and had a powerful implicit bias for anyone he cared about. Jason’s still in that category, somehow, and that was another group lesson; Jason’s a different man but actually, at the same time, maybe not.

God, identity politics are a riot when you throw adoption and death into the mix.

Nevertheless, Jason’s at the end of his tether. Getting laid’s not got the same kick to it, and sometimes mid-fuck he’s thinking about checking to see if tangerines are in season because if he scores a tempting enough bag of fruit the gauntlets come the fuck off to facilitate the peeling of the skin.

It’s the surest sign possible that this madness has sunk right down into his literal bones; Jason’s speaking from experience, and Bruce drives people all sorts of crazy even at the best of times, so he’s probably been screwed since that day on the water tank when Bruce said “Thank you, Jason”.

And now he’s really just going to say to his former-father-figure some version of not only do I seriously want to fuck you, I want to hold you by the neck to make you be good for me, and then I’ll praise you for just how damn good you can be . Lately it’s starting to feel like the highest calling he’s ever gotten, to make Bruce submit and then aggressively reward him for it.

He waits until they’ve worked their way to the bottom of the tray of nachos, after he’s handed a pack of wet wipes over so Bruce can fastidiously clean his gloves off of neon-orange cheese sauce. Not only is he now the kind of man to go around with wet wipes in his pocket, they’re even the fancy biodegradable ones because B had tutted at him the last time he suggested just tossing a regular one on some shitty roof somewhere.

They’ve probably got a maximum of ten minutes or so before Bruce will get up and go perch on a stoop somewhere he can keep an eye on crime and Gothamites having a genuinely good night out, and Jason knows that that isn’t time he can or wants to intrude on, so if he wants to confess, he’s going to need to do it soon.

“B, you know how we’ve been getting along well, lately?” Innocuous, a softball, good start, Jay.

Bruce tenses a little, but he’s not ramrod straight and his lenses are still down as he turns to look at Jason with a piercing look. “What’s this about?”

“You know how months and months ago, I said we needed to talk ‘bout me, and I was right? Well. I’m bringing it up because I think we need to talk about me again.”

Instantly Bruce is on red alert, feet curled under him till he’s wound up like a fight on spring-loaded legs, and he’s looking around with the night-vision lenses up. “What’s wrong, Red Hood?” he asks, ready to leap into the middle of whatever it is that’s got Jason all agitated.

That’s not what he was aiming for, having Bruce get his back up, even if it’s in a show of needless sweet overprotectiveness. Actively winging it at this point, Jason reaches over and holds the approximate nape of Bruce’s neck, even if all his hand meets is vacu-formed reinforced kevlar. It’s what Bruce used to do when he was trying to calm one of them down, and the theory is that the thought of it transmits even if it’s not skin to skin. “Calm down, B, it’s alright. I’m alright. I just want to lay out some things on the table, okay, and I need to know what you think about them.”

Bruce doesn’t smack his hand off, even though he’s clearly disgruntled as he settles down a little, loosening his fists. “When have you ever wanted my opinion on anything?” It comes off harsh, but there’s no point getting angry over a statement of fact, is there?

It’s a fair question, after all. “All the time, B,” Jason says, honest as he can manage. “Sometimes, sure, it’s so that I know exactly what not to do. But c’mon, give me some credit. This whole reconciliation thing is working because I needed you to know what goes on under the Red Hood, and along the way I figured, hey, why not try and understand you under all those layers of trauma and self-loathing and machismo too, you know?”

The sound Bruce makes sounds like a growl, but everything does with a modulator. Jason knows enough to know a snort of amusement when he hears one. “Yes, that is me, an extremely manly man. Spit it out already, Hood. What do you need me to hear?”

“Hey, c’mon, you’re telling me you didn’t used to make us run around in sequined shorts and pixie boots ‘cos you wanted to look scary and macho by comparison?”

The lenses disappear, because Bruce is so dramatic sometimes, and he wanted to properly convey his aghast. “Robin chose the entire outfit by himself. My initial designs were based on my suit, and he refused all of them. He didn’t even want full-length sequined pants. When you came along, I just went with his choices. It’s beyond the scope of my abilities to understand the fashion preferences of youths.” Bruce glares at him. “And you didn’t complain about it once.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and tries not to feel giddy about Bruce relaxing into his touch, how close together they’ve gotten as they talk absolute shit. “One, you should have known by then that his fashion choices literally only make sense to him. Two, I wasn’t gonna turn down free clothes. Three, on God, please tell me that you still have sparkly leggings kicking around in the Cave, because Nightwing’s really due a makeover.”

If they had glossy green beads that clattered loudly with movement, Jason could die happy for the first time.

“Stop getting distracted,” Bruce says mildly. “Nightwing is always welcome to my facilities if he wants to update his costume, and PennyOne dreams of one day being asked for input. Jaybird,” Bruce grabs hold of Jason’s arm, squeezes gently. “Do you need help?”

God, he can’t stop the slightly manic laughter from bursting right through him. “It’s more of a B thing than a Bat thing, okay? And you can tell me yes, and you can tell me no, and they’re both okay. Third Thursday Tacos are gonna keep happening, bimonthly visits home are gonna keep happening, but there’s this thing that, uh.” Fuck, words are hard. He should have just texted instead, but Jason can already see his unbearable desire to drop an eggplant into a DM to make light of a weird, heavy situation, so.

Just shut up and say it already. “There’s something that I want from and for you. You’re probably going to take it badly, which is fine, but I need you to take it seriously. Okay?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just nods, rubbing his thumb against Jason’s arm.

“I love you,” Jason just goes for it, starts with the most fundamental of truths. “I want to smash you to pieces sometimes but I also literally, actually love you, in a whole bunch of really, really confusing ways. The thing is that one of those ways has me wanting to take you to bed, B, make you submit so you can be good for me and I can be good to you. So what I’m asking is, do I have your permission to try and get you to where I want you to be, B?”

The initial reaction will probably go one of two ways; complete stillness as Bruce digests the information and tries to parse his way through it, or a burst of action, probably a dramatic escape into the dark like Dracula’s the maiden who’s feeling a bit shy.

What Jason gets is neither; what he gets is Bruce’s mouth moving before his brain has come fully online, defensive and reactionary. “Jason! You can’t be serious-”

He’s not having any of that. With the hand on the back of Bruce’s neck he shakes the man a little, breaking him off. “I am, B.” He takes a breath, takes a chance, presses their foreheads together, human(?) skin to lead-lined cowl. “You can say yes and you can say no, hell, you can even say fuck off, but you cannot tell me what I do and don’t want. Christ, if you learned anything about me this past year, please let it be that I’m not a child, and you don’t get to dictate shit to me.”

They stay locked in a staring contest for what felt like ages, even as the boisterous sounds of a brass section going absolutely ham for 9 PM on a Thursday floats up on drafts to them. When the break happens, it’s not with Bruce forcibly jerking away and screaming at him, as Jason mostly expected.

Bruce pulls away lightly, like he’s testing the hold Jason has on him, like he’s testing Jason.

Jason lets him go immediately, of fucking course. He doesn’t even register that Bruce might be looking for a reaction; barring crime or injury, he’s not going to keep anyone where they don't want to be. Hell, part of being an Outlaw was the absolute unwillingness to be held down.

Plus, Bruce’s consent was the most important thing here. Jason figures that between the trauma and the jumble of unhealthy coping mechanisms that make up the man who’s thrown himself at the cancer of Gotham for decades, Bruce probably doesn’t get to make decisions just out of easy, selfish desires very often.

That’s why lunches and dinners would continue no matter Bruce’s answer, that’s why Third Thursdays were going to keep being a thing. Jason doesn’t want this to be a noose around Bruce’s neck, an obligation, a duty he needs to step up to for Jason.

He lets go, because he wants Bruce to want him more than he wants Bruce to listen to him.

They’re at a standoff, but not really. Jason keeps his hands up and visible, leans out of Bruce’s space, doesn’t talk or plead or cajole, just sits on his spiky gargoyle and stares at Bruce.

(God, even the concept of giving Bruce the option to say no satisfies that odd little kink inside of him.)

“I’m going to go,” Bruce says at long last, getting to his feet with a bit of a wobble, like he’s drunk, or like he recently got propositioned by a former-son at the end of an ambiguous dinner date. “On patrol. I’m sure you have things to do, Red Hood.”

Ah, back to full-on codenames it is, huh. This has still gone about a thousand times better than Jason’s most feverish and optimistic projections, though, so he doesn’t take it to heart. He doesn’t get up, gives Bruce the high ground as he smiles lazily up at him. “Oh, you know me. Ain’t no party like a Red Hood party. You gonna be okay on patrol?”

Bruce nods, head jerking like a marionette handled by a very bad intern. “Take care of yourself,” he says, then pauses. Grits his teeth, takes a breath. And then, with barely-there hesitation, “I’ll see you next Third Thursday.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but it definitely is. Jason just salutes sloppily instead of needling Bruce further on the meaning behind the hesitation. “‘Course, old man. Whatever you want.” And just to hammer his point further, “Whatever you choose.”

He sees it land like a body blow, and sees Bruce recover from it twice as quick. A brusque nod, and Bruce disappears into the streets below, a slab of black blocking the citizens from view.

Now left without an audience, Jason topples onto his back, and lets out an explosive sigh.

So.

That wasn’t a no, was it?

He screams at the sky, and a flock of roosting pigeons take off in a startled hurry.

God fucking bless Third Thursdays, holy shit.

Their next couple of Third Thursdays are stilted, but Jason’s willing to put in the effort because while it absolutely sucks to keep going like his confession never happened, he knows how Bruce’s jumbled-up brain works. If they haven’t sat down to have a wholly shitty conversation on how they’re father-and-son, Jason’s just confused, it’s some sort of transference of affection, and he should be finding a nice young someone his own age, then it means that Bruce is still processing. Bruce, after all, prefers to have clear lines drawn between himself and others, for maximum ease in warding off distraction and danger.

If Bruce was completely disinterested, the talk would have come in hard and swift, and there probably would’ve been a lot of screaming. Instead Bruce keeps showing up to TT., if in slightly heavier armour than usual, and Jason can see that he’s more aware of Jason, in full-on observation mode even as he talks about his latest case or any breakthroughs in figuring out who in the hell keeps stealing the good coffee beans from the Watchtower.

It’s progress that’s likely only possible because of how hard they’ve both tried to be better to each other over the past year, and Jason’s pretty sure at this point that when the rejection comes, as long as B’s happy to keep accepting stuff from Jason, they’re going to be alright.

It’s a pretty nice dream.

Things feel rough and uncertain but good on the whole, until it all goes to shit when it’s another Third Thursday and Bruce doesn’t show up on the rooftop of the Opera House. Crime never sleeps, even if it tends to take a nap at Jason’s demand, but B’s conscientious enough to usually text if something came up and he couldn’t come. Once while abducted by Harley and Pam for their weird bi-annual bitchfest, hopped up on Ivy pollen that she swore was a fantastic muscle relaxant and giving Harley his fifteenth bi-annual lecture on how she was far, far too good for Joker, he had even sent a selfie of them all sprawled on a banquette in an abandoned building somewhere with a sad emoji in explanation.

Today, there’s nothing to mark his absence except for his actual absence. Jason sits on edge of the roof and ignores the prickle of unease on the back of his neck. B is a whole adult who’s been roaming these streets doing what he can for literal decades; yes, it’s entirely unlike him to leave someone hanging, yes, it’s the first time he’s gone missing without sending word, yes, something about this stinks, but he could just be running a little late.

God, it’s amazing how optimism can get you at the most inopportune times.

Jason finally cracks, gets his helmet back on to ring the Manor to check in just in case , when the emergency alert trill nearly bursts his eardrum. It’s ingrained into every single person who’s ever worked with the Bat; Jason remembers as a kid seeing Commissioner Gordon startle so hard he dropped coffee on himself when somebody’s phone had gone off with a vaguely similar pitch.

It incites a Pavlovian response; Jason’s already up and running to gain altitude for a better sightline before the alert winds down, and he’s pulling himself up by an angel’s wings by the time Alfred’s voice comes on.

“Good evening, all,” Alfred says, polite even as he sounds incredibly strained. “We have a mass casualty situation. Bane appears to have taken advantage of Third Thursdays, and is in the process of blocking off Cathedral Square; we have reason to believe he intends to set all the revelers there on fire, so I would appreciate any support in evacuating people. Batman has gone after Bane himself, and I have lost contact.” He then rattles off the roads that have been blocked and how best to maneuver around them to get people out, but Jason’s already off and running.

Red alerts aren’t a fun time to be a crimefighter, but there’s a sense of solidarity in knowing that he’s not the only one leaping across rooftops to get to it. For all that Bruce tends to irritatingly emphasise how much he prefers working alone, the network he’s inadvertently set up of people who both love him and would go too far for him is a solid one. He can almost imagine the convergence; Dick coming up from the south, Damian probably rushing in from the Manor to the north, Tim legging it from the east because it stylistically fits with Jason bolting towards the square from the west.

That’s not even counting the girls. Christ, nights like these you couldn’t look up without seeing a terrifying phantasm flying across the sky.

Jason comes up to the main thoroughfare leading to the square first; it’s barely a ten-minute parkour sprint from the Opera House, after all, and he’s still falling when he shoots down a handful of Bane’s goons who have set up a barricade blocking people from leaving.

His timing’s gorgeous; they haven’t lit anyone on fire yet, and while a lot of the civilians are screaming at him and the downed men, that core of Gotham steel shines on through as women in neat dresses and men in business slacks slosh through a bit of blood to help him tear down concrete blocks to make enough space for them to wriggle through. Some sort of concert had been planned for Cathedral Square, and there’s enough panicked people that a few dozen climbing out quietly wouldn’t rouse much attention.

Urgh, a massive shiny red full-face helmet is pretty eye-catching for this, but with this many people around Jason can’t exactly take it off and hope to blend into the crowd as he goes hunting. He snags an absolutely loathsome fedora off the top of a loathsome-looking man, and rams it onto his helmet. Jason hopes no one will be around to take a picture of this indignity, but as long as he slouches, he’s not an obvious target from afar, and this is as good as it’s going to get for now.

A wave of whispers emanate from his makeshift exit, everyone letting the person next to them know before they disappear away, and it’s deeply inefficient as a manner of escape but Jason’s got to hold back from large-scale destruction until he can figure out how Bane planned to set all these people on fire. No point saving everyone close to this exit and having everyone else die because he tripped a trigger.

Look at him, he’s so goddamn tactical.

As he stoops and slouches and slinks in the shadows to get to the next inlet that he can crack open enough to let people escape, people seem to understand what he’s there for, and some even seem eager to contribute to his disguise.

He drew the line at a young woman whispering to him that she had some foundation in her bag and it could stick to anything, honest to God, do you want me to make your disguise more flesh-toned, Mister Red Hood?

He did accept her very pretty scarf that is much nicer than a douchey fedora. Some incomprehensible out-of-towner handed him earmuffs, even though the last time it snowed in Gotham was last week and the locals were already starting to move into summerwear, but it’s the thought that counts. He takes out three more goons close to a tiny side-alley that would lead out to a main street, has someone donate a wig right off of their heads, and when he takes out the mini-squadron protecting the back of the Gotham Central Library and its massive double-doors, he gets an oversized wooly cardigan and what looks like a faux-fur stole draped over him without his permission.

Jason can’t look at himself, of course, but he suspects at this point he probably wouldn’t be mistaken for the Red Hood until somebody was literally maybe four inches away from him. Through it all, though, he still doesn’t see where Bane’s secreted the equipment for mass murder. Hell, even the barricades weren’t difficult to disassemble enough to let people sneak out. He can imagine batty figures high up on the roofs of all the august buildings that butt up to the square running life-saving errands, but Alfred’s regular updates make it clear that everyone’s drawing a blank as to where the weapons actually are. Priority is on getting everyone out without causing enough of a stir that the bulk of Bane’s men up by the stage notice something and start opening fire, but everything feels a couple of inches off centre, and Jason can’t help the feeling of wrongness.

“Hey, PennyOne. What’s the update on B?”

Here Alfred’s smooth delivery of information stutters a little. “Still no contact from him, I’m afraid. Does anyone have eyes on Batman?”

Nobody does, and nobody can see Bane either. Given that Bane on his best day is a spine-snapping motherfucker, Jason’s not exactly happy with current events. Holding the wig tightly to his head, Jason abandons the plan of liberating the next passageway along, and heads straight towards the stage. Staging a large-scale attack is the best way to get Batman to come after you quickly, and if you’re dramatic enough, he’ll get there before he waits for back-up, because not even years of suffering have taught Bruce that he’s not solely responsible for every miserable thing that happens in Gotham.

Do it on a Third Thursday, and if you’ve been watching closely you might know that the Bat’ll come for you with less kit than usual. You might not catch him unawares because a soft British voice is always in his head, but you might find him significantly more vulnerable than literally any other night.

Jason tries not to scream, because he’s already dressed like a walking sartorial nightmare who’s a solid 5’11 even hunched over, and he doesn’t need to contribute further to anybody’s trauma. That’s one of the things that B always used to harp on; don’t get into a routine, don’t become predictable, never allow yourself to get comfortable while on duty.

All Jason had wanted was to make things a little easier, a little more pleasant for Bruce, and this is how karma decides to show him up. After all these years, how is he still surprised that fate is a whole-ass bitch? God literal damn.

All wrapped up in 8 different people’s outfits and a strong sense of self-loathing, Jason draws to a halt close to the stagefront, and surveys the henchmen there. A litle over a dozen or so, armed to the teeth because Bane has an aesthetic that he keeps close to, and all wearing that bored-and-disengaged haze in their eyes. It’s not a definite thing, but it sure would imply that Bane’s not asked them to do anything more intense than appear menacing and keep people in the square. That’s another strike against the big-time arson theory, but Jason takes note of how more than half of them are clustered around the backstage tent. Something important is clearly being kept there, and Bane’s got a less clear cut MO than most of the rogues’ gallery. Jason’s first thought is that it must be munitions, because Bane sure does love him some straight-up physical violence, but when Alfred’s voice starts to stutter and fade in and out, things connect together like the final jigsaw piece finally saw the light.

There’s a signal jammer, it’s got to be some sort of powerful signal jammer, and if Alfred can’t trace Bruce’s location or get in touch with him, then Bruce must be close by. Jason surreptitiously looks around for a Bat or a Bird that could double up with him to storm the tents, but maybe they’re too civic-minded to abandon the cause of evacuating civilians, because Jason’s reading the pattern and whirls of people movement and can’t spot anyone sneaking towards the front.

It makes sense to get people out of the way first before lunging into the heart of a battle: less collateral, it’ll just be bad men versus bat men (and women). Jason’s really only here because he believes in the average Gothamite’s ability to worm their way out of trouble given a little helping hand, and something about Bruce’s absence sits so badly with him that it’s unbearable.

The thought, when it finally hits, smashes into him like a bat to the back of the head. No clear signs of weapons to be used on a huge number of people, elite guards that don’t look too interested in guarding, no alarm being raised that dozens of henchmen have been felled at various checkpoints, comms jammer.

Jesus. Bane wants them to wear themselves out spiriting away innocents, be unable to communicate and coordinate, and have all of them herd themselves closer to whatever the hell else he’s got stored in the white tent. Minimum civilian casualty, but it’s a surefire way to take a sizable chunk of the vigilante community out in one night.

In a high panic, it’s not a terrible plan; all of their training always, always puts priority on saving the vulnerable, and with all hands on deck a full-frontal assault would favour the team that has more experience working together in creative and terrifying ways. It’s also enormously flawed, because while Dick might be the type to vault off a cornice and tuck-and-roll into a perfect landing on stage to demand a fair fight, there are also enough sufficiently suspicious bastards in their little pack that someone will inexplicably go off on their own and inadvertently execute a pincer attack.

No, if you want everyone to come together quickly and mindlessly, you’d need more motivation than a dozen gunmen. Hostages are a good idea, but even Red Robin can disarm someone with breathtaking accuracy given one batarang and about a hundred paces, so that’s also not guaranteed.

No, no, if you really want all of them to converge at the speed of instinct, you take a hostage, and the hostage just has to be B-

Oh, man. Oh man, oh man, he’s going to need to put down Bane, he swears he will, after this.

Jason’s first thought is to do away with the subterfuge and just go in all guns a-blazing, tear the tent to pieces to find Bruce and whatever Bane’s plan is all in one go. Jason’s read on the situation isn’t 100% guaranteed to be right, but the pieces all fit, and among the things you pick up during an apprenticeship with the world’s greatest detective is the skill to believe your hindbrain when it makes connections too smart for the rest of you.

He could take out 4 men easily from where he is; he probably wouldn’t be found out until he breaks cover to take out the other two patrolling on stage, and then it’ll be open-season with the rest of the men hovering by the white tent. He could take them, Jason’s pretty sure. He wants to take them, is the thing.

A thought is the only thing that stays his hand; it’s the memory of Bruce’s gentle grip on his arm, the night of his confession. It’s the serious face and the serious voice asking him, “Do you need help?”

Right now, Jason wants to say no, he doesn’t, he’s more than able to tackle this alone. It’s even the Batman-y thing to do, to take everything on by himself, but….

Ah, fuck. It’s the Batman thing to do, but Jason’s going to end up being a hypocritical son of a bitch if he’s angling to get Bruce to open up and accept that he should listen to other people sometimes when he refuses to do it himself. Jason feels a headache coming on; Bruce had taken on a heavy, weird confession about feelings and desires that even Jason hasn’t figured out the extent of.

Jason can at least take his head out of his ass, back down from a one-man Rambo show, and do this right.

It takes an effort of will to pivot on his heel and sneak back further afield until he’s free of the jammer and can communicate what he’s found out and what he’s inferred; Jason spends the entirety of their planning phase feeling a little irritated that Bruce has somehow made Jason actually cooperative and team-spirited without ever saying a word about it.

The bastard better appreciate the lengths Jason is willing to go to just to keep him safe, fuck.

It comes to a head with a flaccid little whump . Under the combined forces of the assembled and very angry Bat family, Bane’s operation is taken out at the knees. Tim and Babs jam the jammer, Cass and Damian handle the armed guards near the front, Steph and Dick demolish the biggest barricades to let the remaining crowd of thousands leg it to safety, and Jason bumrushes the tent because they’d all come to a quick consensus that if Bane’s pulled any sort of back-breaking bullshit, the definition of ‘unnecessary force’ is going to get a bit hazy for everyone involved so long as 1. Bruce never finds out, and 2. Jason tries to stop before actual death. The rest of the group will be along as soon as they’ve done their part, but Jason gets to lead the charge.

He rolls in with most of his costume still intact, because Tim and Dick have already taken a combined 300 pictures of him in his full Gotham Look and he has become unable to feel shame. Instead of a bitter fight to the almost-death, though, he finds Bruce lying on an operating table, and Bane crumpled in a heap on the floor, desiccated and unconscious.

“Uhm.” This isn’t exactly what he’d signed up for.

The sound of his confusion rouses a response from Bruce, a slight clench and unclenching of his fists. Jason’s by his side in seconds, feet slipping and sliding a little in the leaking Venom. He nudges Bane a little further away from the metal table with his foot, and feels proud of himself for not breaking a nose under his heel instead.

Priorities, priorities. He looks down at Bruce’s prone form, and breathes a little easier to see the cowl still intact. Bruce’s eyes are open, but they’re hazy and unfocused. Jason checks his pulse, and ignores the little signs of numerous brutalities that Bruce has endured just from tonight in the Batsuit Lite ™, fuck, it isn’t even the Batsuit Mild ™ that has been the go-to armour the past few Third Thursdays.

“You with us, big guy? The rest of the gang’s going to roll in in a sec,” Jason tells B with forced levity, even as his hands start assessing the damage and addressing the myriad tiny cuts and bruises before he moves on to the more serious hurts.

Bruce blinks like it takes all his energy, and then smiles. “Glad. Came with….. gang,” he forces out through a bruised throat.

“All your harping about togetherness finally got through to me, I guess.” Jason pulls off his scarf and breaks a donated pair of sunglasses to fashion mini-splints for two fingers on Bruce’s left hand. He can’t do anything about the wrist right now except for basic compression, and he is not going to think about how the actual patrol suit could have prevented a lot of this damage. “Mind telling me how you took down Mister Big Bad over here? To be honest, I was looking forward to mounting a hell of a cool rescue.”

“Cool enough.” The noise Bruce makes is half a laugh and half a wheeze from injured ribs. “Bane wanted to lure…. All of you. Kill in front of me.” A deep, shaky breath. “Nicked pipe with batarang….. Mid-gloat.” A derisive snort. “Not even…..titanium-plated.”

It’s beneath Bruce to say dumbass, but the implication is pretty damn clear. Jason just laughs. “Don’t give him any ideas, B.” He’s stabilised Bruce to the best of his abilities, and decides that he’d rather Bruce get some medical attention as quickly as he can manage it. He pulls Bruce to sit up, and gives him time for the motion blur to settle. “I know you’re drugged up, but is it anything to be worried about?”

He’s greeted with the littlest shake of the head. “Just standard HS-342. Excuse me.” With surprising speed for a man so thoroughly out of it, Bruce leans over the other side of the table and throws up. When he sits back up, he seems more present. “It isn’t Bane’s usual style to try poisons, and this suit’s filter isn’t the best, so he took me by surprise when I cornered him here.” Bruce rubs at his mouth with a bloodied hand, and he makes everything look about 200 times worse.

Jason’s offering a wet wipe before his brain even digests the sight; Bruce just accepts it without comment, now looking down at the unconscious Bane. “Lucky he was in the mood for a long and slow torture session; think he was too excited at the prospect of catching all of you and gloating about it to kill me when he had he chance. Had more aerosolised paralytics prepped for all of you, too.” Bruce nods his head at massive gas canisters tucked into the corner of the tent, all with skulls and crossbones on them. They’re pretty hard to see, on account of being hidden behind crates that held enough firepower to down the average sovereign nation, wow.

“Taking you hostage was pretty bright, but it’s kinda amazing how no one’s figured out that it’s always a crapshoot for me, the demon spawn, and Black Bat with all this drug stuff.” Even if they had just barged in, even if Bruce hadn’t worked his way out of this mostly himself, it might not have gone totally tits-up then, which is good to know.

They don’t talk about the concept of how torture counts as good luck, because Bruce isn’t exactly wrong, is he? “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

More from force of will than any actual motor control, Bruce heaves himself onto his feet and stays standing. “The weapons and gas-”

“Clean-up team’s on the way in. PennyOne was very explicit about getting you back to base ASAP, B, and it’s way more than I’m paid to question our highest power.” Jason tucks an arm around Bruce’s waist, and pulls Bruce’s arm over his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” Bruce says, sounding a little awed. “Yes, I think you do.”

Jason sees neither hide nor hair of Bruce until the next Third Thursday, but word on the street is that Alfred’s wrath and Dick pulling double-shifts meant that Bruce got some enforced time-off; a whole two weeks of downtime, wonder of wonders. He had texted to say that he had some business going on and would need to take a rain check on dinner, but it’s mostly to stop Bruce from showing up all battered and bruised.

Jason has actually been busy, though. Having an assault mounted on a Third Thursday’s a pretty grievous insult, and goes against the entire point of having it, so Jason’s been doing some housekeeping. A better shift rotation of patrolling criminals that keep a cap on how much evil can manifest on this off day, a shakedown of a couple of crime families that had helped Bane smuggle his weapons and his mercs in, a bit of a rampage in Crime Alley that reminded the people that the Red Hood’s not the sort to be ignored. He intensely injures a large number of people who really deserve it, but he keeps everyone alive because it’s supposed to be recovery time for Batman.

He does still come by the Opera House with his usual order from the taquería, because his circadian cycle is three weeks long and he had subconsciously worked to have the night free the way he’s done consciously for well over a year now. Besides, missing this would have María José worry, and she’s had plenty to worry about after the brush with Bane’s terrorism the last TT. Jason’s sat on the lip of the massive, ostentatious golden dome, enjoying the breeze in his hair when a shadow alights in his periphery.

It’s a strange thing, but all of them have a different texture to the darkness they shroud themselves in. It’s all to do with costume material and gait and build and posture, some indeterminable mixture of all these things, but with enough time of figuring out who’s who just from a patch of not-quite-pitch-black, it becomes as bright and loud a signature as them just shouting their names.

Bruce’s shadows fall around him like a hedge growing over a statue; a mix of organic and not, and the quick terror that manifests when they fall away and all of a sudden it’s just a not-quite-man that’s all sharp edges and shades of darkness.

Jeeze. B gets roughed around a little bit, and Jason’s gone all dramatic in his head. He doesn’t betray his thoughts, just leans back to scowl as dramatically as he can muster. “Could’ve sworn I said not to come, B. Bane’s magic gas did a number on your reading comprehension too?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything in response, just plods over with a paper bag in hand. “Here,” he says, dropping it on Jason’s lap before taking a seat next to him, posture still tense. “I was on my way to pick up Korean fried chicken from a truck close by the library when we caught wind of Bane’s plans, and I ended up missing our prior engagement.”

The bag smells like it’s filled with something divine, and Jason’s diving in and already breaking into a sweat from the expectation of tongue-turning spiciness. He loves fried chicken in all their incarnations, but KFC hits something different, oh. Jason’s downed two wings and half a drumstick before situational awareness comes back in. “On the list of things you’ve done wrong by me, B, not getting me food because you were too busy thwarting a terrorist attack’s pretty low down.”

Bruce just shrugs. “It’s a pretty long list.”

“It’s gotten shorter.”

That gains him a look of curiosity, tinged with doubt. Jason licks his fingers, and realises this is the first time he’s actually eaten something Bruce’s brought for him. There’s probably something there to unpack, but that can wait until after he’s had his fill. He doesn’t say anything else, just waits for the inevitable question.

“How?”

Jason just shrugs, and pushes his tacos over. “I got to know you as an actual person, I guess. You make enough mistakes all by yourself, and I figured that I didn’t need to be angry with you about things that I know you didn’t mean.” Like missing a dinner date to save a city, like coming when he’s supposed to stay away, like looking ready for a fight with Jason over an absence of snacks.

Like Bruce letting the Joker live didn’t mean that he didn’t love Jason in his wholehearted, visceral way. The justice system isn’t built to handle people like Joker; Jason’s come to accept that neither is Bruce, and that’s a fact that he can either take in and accept, or not.

When push comes to shove, it’s no harder than accepting a bag of chicken.

They subside into silence; Bruce is the only human being Jason has ever met who could eat a hard-shell taco while making almost zero sound, and it’s easily the most unacceptable thing about him.

The music coming from down below is a little muted; it’ll probably take another couple of weeks before the stress of Bane’s hot nonsense cools down enough for Gothamites to go back to their wild ways, so tonight all they get is the tinny screech of some fiddles that are occasionally drowned out by one determined elderly woman on an accordion.

“Jason,” Bruce says, and that means it’s time to be serious because they’re still in their suits. Jason has a premonition of what this talk’s going to be about, and settles himself into a state of casual resignation.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, emphasising God knows what. “The…. thing, you previously brought up. Regarding your feelings.”

“Yep, I remember, thanks for bringing it up in the most awkward way possible.”

There’s a squeak of leather as Bruce clenches his fist, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the squidge of a sauce-laden bit of lettuce squishing out. “I’m doing my best.” He sounds calm, even if he doesn’t look it. “Taking you to bed is out of the question, right now. But if there’s a, a better dynamic we could have because parent and child isn’t quite right, well.”

Bruce is clearly biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s a new tic, holy shit.

Determination sets in, and he turns to look Jason full in the face because neither the Bat nor the man have ever been cowards. “You have been so good to me, Jason,” he says with aching softness. “I think I want to try to be good for you.”

Jesus Lord Christ. Jason drops a chicken bone onto his lap in his haste to grapple for Bruce, to get a sticky handhold on the back of the cowl, to press their foreheads together. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, he must’ve died again without noticing and this time instead of seeing an al-Ghul on the other side, it’s just hopeless, unbearable Bruce.

He doesn’t let his thought process come out his mouth, doesn’t press in for a kiss that’s unasked for, but he does close his eyes and take in a deep, shuddering breath.

“We’ll figure it out, B.”

Bruce’s lips tip into a lopsided smile. “Thank you, Jason,” he murmurs right back, and.

Jason’s a goddamned goner.

A/N: Tumblr always swallows up italics which I viciously over use but I do NOT have the emotional capacity to trawl through this fic once again bc I’m more dead than I am alive atm. GOD I think I’ve found my one true calling: domsub stuff but with 4x more faffing about and 0% sex is my writing sweetspot quarantine rlly be out here making you Real Eyes

#brujay #bruce wayne #jason todd #batman #red hood #i've been up since 4 trying to meet a deadline #and this was after staying up till 2 to post this monstrosity #i'm so on e #whale writing

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