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auecho · 2 months

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THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY ೀ kafka & blade ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ‘oh girl, don’t hold back - let it out!’

𝓦ARNINGS ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ fem!reader - threesome - drug use - dubcon [themes] - slowburn - ft. jing yuan - overstimulation - blade has a crush on the reader - cunnilingus - reader is a bit of a pushover - roommate!kafka - ex-stepsister!kafka - sexting - cum eating [?] - creampie - asphyxiation && gagging - praise - grinding - making out - spit - dumbification - kafka is . . kafka - masturbation [f. & m.] - orgasm control - squirting - creampie - mating press - everybody is slightly ooc - not proofread - minors & dark content antis do not interact ! ! !

𝓐UTHOR’S 𝓝OTE ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ hihii first full fic ^3^ n first post ! ! so welcome 2 my acc,, m name is echo n i’m pleased to meet u 🫡 eek ‘m so excited, i’ve been sittin n workin on this idea for a while so i hope u enjoy it ! i listened to kiss land by the weeknd writing this and i think it fits rly well sooo >_o this is dark content so viewer discretion advised ! please don’t read if not ur taste T_T im posting this later than expected m soo sry :c reblogs n feedback very appreciated cuz the guidelines r gna get mi < / 3 ! !

𝓔CHOES ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ kiss land , the weeknd - valentina , daniel caesar - fill the void , the weeknd - sdp interlude , travis scott - the worst guys , childish gambino & chance the rapper .

𝓦ORD 𝓒OUNT ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ 20.7k+

SHE CARRIES A distinct scent with her: cinnamon, champagne…and a twinge of mischief. It flurries in the air and infects your brain like the plague. She had this certain cadence about her: an aura drawn up in a slick figure and even slicker tongue, characterized by a sultry red color. That was Kafka. She's a bombshell, delivering a traumatic shock that you can only hope to forget. You tried to forget — tried to cloud that era of your life to no avail. She kicked down the rock blockade you'd built, welcoming herself into your life again with an impressive amount of effort.

“Elio said she has nowhere to go! She can't stay with him because he moved into a one-bedroom after the divorce! She's about to be couch-hopping at 22 — it’s sad!!” your mother whined. Her emphasis lay on certain words, pathetic tones emanating from the manipulation of her words. You're weak, standing hunched with a backbone made of cotton candy. “But, mom—” “And she begged Elio not to bother us—bother you—but he did it anyway because we’re always family. Family needs each other, family depends on one another.”

She'd pestered a yes out of you, and since the syllable passed through your lips, you've been counting your blessings.

After all, Kafka was an all-devouring curse: blessings were her kryptonite.

Exactly one week later, you bit your nails anxiously and breathed deeply so much so that you got lightheaded. It's been years, she may have changed, you comforted yourself. Your mind worked on its splintering tooth and nail to soothe your wild imagination. Kafka was always going to be Kafka — it was just a matter of whether she developed or if she enabled perversion.

When she engulfed you in a hug you almost passed out smelling her again. Hearing her was another thing, seeing her was even worse. Smelling her — that warm, spicy scent that burns but entices was the pinch to reality you needed. In the flesh, Kafka stood. In all of her menacing glory - ready to flip your world upside down.

“Missed you, little mouse. Ugh, how’ve you been?” you fought the urge to shiver. The nickname and her ever-tickling tone — God, you weren't prepared.

“Good,” is all you muttered. ‘Way better before.’ you wanted to add.

“Mmm, good, I'm glad. I got nervous when Mom said my baby moved out all alone.”

My baby. You could really just…die. She was just as charismatic as before. Possibly even more, given her blatant maturity. You would think it was a play on your age, but truly it was endearment from her: her form of caring for you.

“Who would've thought we’d be living together again? We’re gonna have so much fun!” In the giggle that slipped from her throat, lies mischief. She picks up a box out of the trunk, turning on her heels with the biggest, most Kafka smile ever. She was always…unique in her definitions of fun. One could only imagine the roller coaster you were riding.

When you make your way to your apartment, you just breathe. Breathing is the only thing that can stabilize you. The jumble of nerves that bounce around inside of you relaxes at your exhales. You're not shaking anymore, or feeling your skin heat and clam up, making it easy to lead Kafka into her room.

“Oh, wow. All this space, all alone? You've really grown up, little mouse.” She compliments with a sigh. The box in her hands now sits on the ground. You flush, dusting your hands on your shirt, “Oh, thanks. Mom helps from time to time.” Even though you would much rather have your independence.

She looks around at the space, the room occupied by nothing except a naked bed and an empty dresser. It's an awkward 30-second silence before she breaks it, “Thank you, again. You're really saving my ass,”

And again, you're wrapped in Kafka’s arms, forced to awkwardly pat her back and stare at the wall across from you as if it were to save you. “No problem…again,”

The hug you share births goosebumps on your skin. Her hands glide across the small of your back, nimble fingers dancing lightly across the surface. The tickle is the least of your worries — the blooms of heat that surge in her wake are what blows your eyes wide open. Kafka’s hugs are tight and warm. Almost comforting if it wasn't for the way she ghosted her lips over your ear just right, making you tense. You hate it because it's something you've grown used to. You like it a lot more than you probably should, actively leaning into her touch after a few seconds.

“We should probably get the rest of your boxes…” You mutter. Kafka sighs, pulling off of you slowly. It's almost as if she's savoring the feeling of you in her hands. “I’ll get them. I shouldn't inconvenience you more—”

“—It’s fine. I don't mind helping,” She laughs and squishes your cheeks between her fingers, “You're too cute.” booping your nose for emphasis.

And she couldn't stop saying it. It almost felt condescending the way “You're so cute,” fell from her lips every time you did something. Your out-of-breath huffs or triumphant sighs elicited the remark again and again as you hauled her luggage up to your apartment. You gave up by the last box and stretched out on her floor, and Kafka only laughs harder as she begins to unpack.

“Do you want me to help you?” You groggily breathe out. Moving is exhausting, and you're not even the one moving.

Tucking the sleeves of the shirt as she folds, Kafka shakes her head no with a chuckle. “You can help me by showering. I'll finish up and order some food, ‘kay? Consider it my thanks.”

“But you've already thanked me—” “—And I'm doing it again.” She cuts you off. Your eyes meet and she cracks a smile, “C’mon, up you go. The longer you take, the longer you have to wait to sleep.”

Kafka is someone impossible to argue with. You swipe your tongue over your teeth to fight off a smile…but her gaze is warm. It makes you nervous in the weirdest way, and your lips stretch wide. Defeatedly, you nod, “If you say so.”

ೀ

The sun retired for the night and in an hour, you'd showered, dressed, met Kafka in the living room, caught up with a shot or two slipped in the mix, and dug into the XL pizza she ordered. It was your favorite toppings—you were shocked, to say the least, that she remembered.

“Enough about me,” She grabs hold of the conversation, placing her plate down on the coffee table—and you hide the cringing your face defaults to with a crooked smile and nod. “What about you? How was finishing high school? Starting university? Is Mom still…Mom?”

You awkwardly giggle, placing the plate in your lap. “The answer to the last question is yes. She's never changing, I fear.”

“But…I've been good, really. I keep saying it but it's true; grades are good, friends are good, and Mom is as good as she could get—” more laughter, “—but, yeah. I'm not traveling like you, Kafka. I barely leave my apartment unless it's to go to class. I'm stable, and I'm good. Nothing to tell.”

Kafka eyes you critically as if she's trying to read you. There's nothing to find because as you said, there's nothing to tell. You've always been the stickler goody-two-shoes type: abiding by rules and expectations and never deviating from your white-picket-lined path. It wasn't perfect, and never always good, but it was enough. Enough that you could say with your whole chest that you're okay with being boring…because, well—it’s all you've really known.

She walked into your life as your sister at eleven and walked right back out at fifteen. In four years, you'd been enlightened to a dark side of the world, but you were always too timid. Kafka was a playful cat, ready to paw at her sheepish little mouse until you played back.

Back then, you were too young, and under the palm of your mother to enter rebellion. Now, you're free…somewhat. Kafka was determined to help you spread your wings. She was going to plant the seed in your ear and let it sprout: “It’s your world,” She says. “isn't it about time you live? The way you want to? You're a big girl now — you deserve a story to tell.”

She can tell by the widening of your eyes that the conversation is bordering on too much. “Uhh, I don't know. I'm happy right now—”

“Happiness is temporary. Memories are forever.”

And while she makes a good point…what exactly would you do? How?

Her head tilts and her eyebrow lifts tentatively. She wants to ask how far are you willing to go, but the conversation is far too premature. “It all depends on you, little mouse,” is what she settles on instead. “I’ll be ready to lend a helping hand when you need me.”

The conversation takes a thoughtful pause. Your head seems to fill with thoughts and returning to her now chilled pizza, Kafka pats herself on the back. You're going to spread your wings and flourish, and she prides herself on giving you the route. It's only a matter of time, she thinks. A matter of time before the real fun emerges.

“Oh, by the way,” she interrupts the silence, “do you mind if I have a few friends over tomorrow? They wanna throw me a housewarming party.”

“Um, no, it's fine. My study group is coming over tomorrow after my classes so try maybe before? Or after that—we won't take long.” You miss the deviousness in her smirk.

With a final bite of her pizza, she nods. “Of course.”

ೀ

Jing Yuan is so charming.

He flashes you a Cheshire smile and you find yourself stumbling over your sentences. You palm your face, embarrassed, and let out a shy giggle. His deep chuckle follows and you almost don't want to look at him again.

Fu Xuan kisses her teeth and rolls her eyes. “Lay off the flirting, would you? Can't leave you two alone for a second...”

She joins the pair of you at the end of the courtyard, golden eyes narrowing. There's an awkwardness that creeps up, and you smile nervously while Jing Yuan scratches his neck. He displays a coy smirk that you avoid looking at — opting to rock on your heels and check in the distance for Yukong.

You and Jing Yuan are classmates; friends, even, if he were to agree with that sentiment. Though your crowds don't particularly mix, you find some comfort in one another. Albeit, most of your time is spent tutoring him. It's nice, nonetheless.

You're not opposed to liking him—in fact, you're smitten with him—but you doubt the feeling is mutual. He's Jing Yuan and you're…you.

His question reaches your ears, breaching your train of thought: “Is Yukong still joining us?”

The way he turns to you makes you shy, and you shrug in place of your words. “Umm, ‘dunno. She said so, but something must’ve come up.”

“Well, in any case, let’s just head to yours. She has the address.” Fu Xuan replies exasperatedly. Jing Yuan shrugs, “If that’s okay with you?”

You perk up at his kindness, and Fu Xuan groans, rolling her eyes. “Uh, yeah! Sure!” With your eyes glued to Jing Yuan’s pleased smile, you miss how Fu Xuan mocks you.

“Can we go now?!”

The three of you quickly commute back to your apartment. It's a nice fifteen-minute walk—even nicer when Jing Yuan let you talk his ear off the entire way. Fu Xuan was paces ahead of the two of you, grumbling under her breath about how she should've said no and cursing to Yukong for leaving her with you.

You've been studying together for a while, but you've never brought them over. Your sessions usually take place at the campus library or the local cafe, so to say you're a bit nervous is an understatement.

Not only have they never been over, but you have Kafka. She’s a wildcard and you can only pray that she's on her best behavior.

Your key spins in the hole and you push the door open. Over your shoulder, you mutter, “I think my…sister’s home so she might come and say hi.”

You hope that's the most that she’ll do.

Upon entry, there's a potent, herbal smell floating around the air. It's slightly smoky, and your throat tightens up. You turn around at your guests and cringe at their upturned noses and scrutinizing gazes. “Uhh…”

“Wait right here…um…” you murmur. You don't wait for their responses before speeding toward Kafka’s room.

The stench is stronger in the hallway and her music is even louder. The bass jumps through the floorboards and you doubt she’ll even hear your knocks — but you do it anyway. Knock knock knock.

No response.

You bounce on your heels nervously, peeking out and seeing Jing Yuan and Fu Xuan talking awkwardly by the door. Your nerves overcome you and you hurriedly knock again. “Kafka! I need to talk to you — Kafka!!”

You keep knocking on the door until the music stops and the door swings open. A cloud of smoke hits you immediately and you fall into a coughing fit, waving the smoke out of your face. “Good God…”

“Oh—my bad!” She laughs at you, turning over her shoulder to her friends and sharing the amusement. Her heavy-lidded eyes fall back onto you, and she leans on the door for support. “What do you need, little mouse?”

“Um…” you look over her shoulder and see her guests in her room. A silver-haired girl rests on her bed and types away on her phone, and a black-haired guy sits on the floor - his low eyes on you as he breathes out a cloud of smoke. You didn't know what to expect but you aren't surprised. You're more…uncomfortable. “Um, yeah — my study group is over and it smells like…yeah.”

Her eyes widen and she slaps a hand over her mouth. “That's right now?! Oh, I'm sorry—Silvie and Bladie came over early and I didn't know you’d be back so soon.”

Silvie and Bladie…interesting names.

You nod to her response. “…Yeah…I don't mind you…smoking or whatever but please open a window? It's very strong and it travels and I don't want the landlord to throw a fit.”

“Yeah, of course. Bladie!” She calls out over her shoulder. The guy—Bladie—doesn’t respond, but only perks up. “Crack open the window, yeah?”

And he just…complies. You're almost amazed at how he just listened and pushed the glass open, the cool evening breeze drafting into the bedroom instantly.

Kafka turns around as though it is normal. “There we go,” She giggles.

“Thanks.” You mutter, nodding your head. She winks at you as she shuts the door. You hear her shutting down a remark made by…Silvie and a barrage of laughter.

You make your way to the door where, thankfully, Jing Yuan and Fu Xuan still stand.

“Everything alright?” Jing Yuan asked. He immediately turns to face you, and suddenly your good mood sparks back up. You nod, “Mhm. She has a few friends over too but…I’m sure it won't be too bad.”

You welcome them in, all piling into your living room and crowding around the dining table.

Jing Yuan pulls his laptop out of his bag and sets it on the table. “I did awful on the last test…” he informs, presumably going back to the gradebook. “55%…”

Fu Xuan bursts into laughter. “No wonder you need both of us to help you study! Good lord!!”

You ignore her teasing and pull out your books. “What do you need help with?”

She's quick to cut him off, “Clearly everything if that grade is anything to go by…!”

“Xuan, stop!!”

Her laughter continues, and Jing Yuan waves her off. “The musings of a jealous nobody don't affect me,” and now it's your turn to laugh. “I'm here to get help so I don't mind going through everything. If you're okay with that, of course.”

“It’s fine, yeah—I’m fine with that! Um, let me just get my…” You trail off, sifting through your bundles of papers in your folders. You try to ignore the burn his gaze lays on your skin. He props his head on his fist as he leans on your table and God, does it make you feel special.

Fu Xuan bites back at his remark, “I'm not jealous and I'm definitely not a nobody! Watch your mouth, Jing Yuan!!”

And now it's your turn to internally curse Yukong.

“Here we go!” You pull out the review packets you made yourself — something you pride yourself on. You lay them on the table for him, eliciting a difference in reactions from your guests.

Fu Xuan sees the packets and rolls her eyes, “Only you would make your own review packets.”

And Jing Yuan instead muses at the sight, “No—it’s cool. Resourceful. I like that.”

And I like you, you want to say. You decide to keep that to yourself and only smile in response to play coy.

“This one is from the first couple of lessons, these two were for the quizzes, and the rest are for a few lessons in between.” You inform, pointing at each packet. “I also have some flashcards and some annotations; let me find them…”

“Look, all you need to do is read the textbooks. All the information is in there.” Fu Xuan argues, taking one of your packets for herself and flipping through it. “Do you read, Jing Yuan?”

“I read, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, so do I — but that doesn't help everyone, Xuan.” You snatch the packet out of her hand, laying it on the table. “But whatever. Do you think this will help you?”

Jing Yuan nods, gratefully. He takes a packet for himself, flipping through it. “You mind showing me how you use them?”

And with a flustered smile, you nod, immediately scooting closer to direct him.

You show Yuan your method: using his notebook to write down what he remembers, going back and adding things he didn't remember, and working out everything in between with what's in the packet. Your mother taught you the method during your eighth-grade year after your grades slipped and since then, you've sworn by it.

Fu Xuan uses this time to tease and ridicule him, occasionally aiding with her…aggressive technique whenever he stumbles over a particular concept.

You share some laughs and rambles along the way, and you’re given a side of Jing Yuan you never thought you’d get. He's surprisingly easy to talk to, and you don't know if he's actually that funny or if you're just that into him — but either way, you enjoy it. He makes your cheeks hot and your smile wider.

He’s always been your campus crush — but he’s everybody’s. You're not special but the way he's looking at you makes you feel as such. You hope that maybe he’ll ask you to tutor him again and maybe it’ll just be the two of you. Without Fu Xuan’s teasing and complaints.

After about an hour, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s focused and his attentiveness leaves you and Fu Xuan the time to talk.

You drown out her complaints about the sorority not allowing her in to focus on the presence of Kafka’s friend in your kitchen. She stands on her tippy-toes to rummage through your cabinets, groaning and slamming her palms on the countertop. “Uhh…do you need something?”

The girl turns around, “Food! Where the hell are all of your snacks?!”

“Um…” You don't get to respond. She stomps into your living room, shoving her hand into the bag of pretzels Fu Xuan brought. “Excuse me!!!”

She shoves the handful in her mouth, crunching obnoxiously. “Those are so fucking dry…” She complains, turning back into your kitchen and rummaging through your fridge.

Your last Kombucha is taken, popped open, and gulped down right before your eyes. You were going to drink that.

With an unabashed burp, the girl sets the bottle down and turns to you. “Hey, little mouse!”

“That's not my name—”

“Can you order some food, please? I feel like I'm being fucking punished.” And she continues to ramble, “Was I a bad girl? Do bad girls not get to eat?” And she falls into a fit of laughter.

You're uncomfortable. You know Fu Xuan and Jing Yuan must be too. This is just awkward, and embarrassing on your behalf.

“Can you get some pizza? Ooh, no, better yet, chili oil beef stew. Do they deliver that?” No. The answer is no. “Hold on, I’ll get the money.”

She scurries back into Kafka’s room with a heavy slam of the door. The three of you turn to each other, and you nervously laugh. How embarrassing.

“Is that your sister?” Jing Yuan asks. Oh God, he probably feels so uncomfortable.

“No! That's her friend…sorry about that.”

“She needs to pay me for a new bag of pretzels! I don't know where her hands have been and I'm definitely not eating that.” Fu Xuan huffs, crossing her arms and crumpling up the bag. You laugh at how she lightens the mood, but turn your gaze to Jing Yuan who's now focused back on his work. Great. You blew it.

Out comes Kafka’s friend, stomping toward you and shoving some bills into your chest. “Here you go! Keep the change,”

You don't want her change. But you don't protest — instead, you call up Delicacy Pavillion. “Hi, can I place an order?”

ೀ

The walk back to your apartment from Delicacy Pavillion feels like a walk of shame. You're even more ashamed because Jing Yuan decided to tag along and Fu Xuan decided to take her cue and leave. Now you're alone. With him. In the middle of the evening. Picking up delicious food for your ex-step-sister and her friends.

He offered to walk with you—“I don't mind. Besides, what kind of guy would I be if I let a pretty girl like you go out all by yourself?” You're not strong enough to deny his flattery, and so here you are.

Now that Xuan is gone, you don't know what to talk to him about. Or how to talk to him. You opt to keep your mum, humming a song you’d heard in passing lowly to yourself. Five minutes away and this day will finally be over.

“Are you and your sister close?” He breaks the silence.

You turn to him, “Ah, well — she’s not really my sister. Our parents were married for a while but they divorced now. A while ago, actually. We aren't close but…yeah.”

“Interesting…” He comments. “Yeah…”

“I don't mean interesting in a bad way—I’m interested…in you.”

Oh.

“You're interested…in me?” Your heart is practically jumping out of your chest. You can't hide the flattered smile that curls your lips.

He chuckles, stuffing his hands in his pockets and throwing his head back. “Ha, yeah. Of course — how couldn't I be? You're sweet, very smart…” He turns to look at you. Your eyes lock, “…very cute, too.”

It's like he wants you dead.

You immediately avert your gaze, nudging him in the side. “You're just messing with me.”

“If that's what you believe.” He shrugs, a playful grin resting on his face.

Now you don't know what to believe. But you're going to choose to believe that he means it.

“I'm interested in you too.” You sweetly proclaim, unable to wipe the big grin off of your face. His cheeks flush a pretty rose color, and his smile turns coy. The quiet you two fall into is much more comfortable and much lighter, and now you wish that your time with him won't end.

The pair of you make it to your apartment building, and when you stand in the elevator, you avoid his gaze. He watches you through the reflection of the elevator doors, and his smirk grows as he watches you try not to look at him.

He takes a step closer to you and when his hand swings your fingers brush and you almost drop the bag full of food. He knows how to make you flustered and how to make you smiley.

“Cute,” He mutters. He's not the only one who thinks that.

Jing Yuan does the gentlemanly thing and walks you to your door. As soon as you fish your keys out of your pocket, he pulls you into a hug. His arms are big and muscular and so warm — you immediately hug him back and wrap your arms around his waist.

“See you,” He says, rubbing the small of your back. You timidly respond, “See you.”

The smile on your face is prominent even as he walks away. Even as you walk into your apartment, coming face to face with a ruckus you never thought you’d have the displeasure of walking into.

Kafka and her guy friend are planted on the couch, the strong smoke smell clearly following them into the living room. And the girl…she lay on the floor still swiping away — but as soon as you closed the door behind you, she hopped up. “Yes—fucking finally!”

She bolts over to you and steals the bag out of your hand, “Thank fuck!! I'm so damn hungry!!!”

Kafka gets up, her guy friend immediately following. She smiles at you, coming to wrap you in a hug. “Ohhh, thank you, babe.” And she plants a firm kiss on your cheek. You feel the stain of her lipgloss on your skin, and cringe at it, only nodding and smiling as if to say “You're welcome.”

“I’m going to shower and go to bed…so uh, can you keep it down some?” You say, walking in the direction of the bathroom.

They barely hear you and focus on digging into their food. With a defeated sigh, you stalk away.

And with your back turned, the strict gaze on your disappearing frame is missed.

He’ll see you again, though.

ೀ

“I want you to formally meet my friends,” Not even a greeting as you entered the door. A hi, hello, or how was your day? would have been nice.

“Hello to you too, Kafka.” You quip, taking off your shoes and stretching your aching toes.

“Hi, little mouse,” she sarcastically chirps. She places her drink on the coffee table and you try to ignore the lack of a coaster - instead bracing yourself for the embrace she pulls you in. “Mm, you seem tense; your day went okay?”

You nod. Not quite, is the answer you hold on your tongue, swallowing it down and hiding a grimace beneath your smile.

Jing Yuan hadn't spoken to you all day. He didn't even look at you — his attention was focused on Tingyun. Pretty, brown-haired Tingyun with the charming smile and warmest aura…she’s now your competition, and from what you saw today, she’s leagues ahead of you. Hanging off of his arm like it's her lifeline and encapsulating his gaze in the palm of her hand. You almost stormed out of the lecture when her hands brushed his cheeks, her thumb swiping over his beauty mark.

He's just trying to make you jealous. That thought was supposed to comfort you but it made you even more upset. As soon as your professor shut his mouth you were out of there, leaving dust in your wake as you sped toward the library.

You needed to decompress and distract yourself. You were buried in a book when a touch you remembered too well landed on your shoulder. “I was looking for you.” He says.

Looking for me my ass, you think. But the sentiment warms you, nonetheless, and a smile pulls across your lips. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” The tone of his voice makes you want to rip the hair off of your scalp. He's so sweetly condescending, so sultry and you can just get lost in his melody. He's like Kafka that way—wait. Nevermind…

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?” The suddenness of his question has you jostled, and the substance of the question has you flustered. Jing Yuan wants to take you out???

You're mad at him, though. He can just take Tingyun for all you ca—“Of course—er, I mean, sure. Why not?”

Fuck.

He chuckles at your stumbling, burying his hands in his pockets. His forearms scream at you as they clearly come into your line of sight — the image to be cherished and forever forefronted in your memory. Why is every part of him so attractive? “Great. I’ll text you later.”

And he squeezes your shoulder as he walks in the opposite direction. Fucking hell.

You're just pissed off. At yourself, at Tingyun, at Jing Yuan — you hate that he made you giddy and excited and you couldn't stop smiling to yourself even as you walked home alone.

He asked you, not Tingyun. Surely, if he wanted her, he’d be taking her out tomorrow, not you.

“So, tomorrow at…5? Is that cool?”

What? “Huh? Sorry,”

Kafka sighs, “I want you to meet my friends. It’ll be like…totally chill and just cool so don't freak out and think some type of formal meet-the-parents shit.”

“Is tomorrow at 5 good for you?” You’d be wrong if you said no. Kafka is trying. “Yeah, um, I guess,”

“Yay! This wasn't my idea, by the way — they want to meet you,” They do? “Really?”

She walks back over to the couch and plops down, downing a gulp of her pink Monster Energy. “Mhm. Silver wants to know how we could ever be sisters, and Bladie…” She takes a pause, having a short laugh to herself, “Let’s just say he’s taken a liking to you.”

You're confused by her statement but you don't press further. You're not sure you want to know.

“Um…I’m going out tomorrow, so,” “We won’t keep you long,” She shrugs.

Your subtly doesn’t work well—you mean to decline the offer. “Okay then,”

You begin to awkwardly walk to your bedroom, Kafka’s voice following you down the hall. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“I’m good.” You answer back. As good as you could be.

┄┄

With the nth layer of lip gloss slathered across your lips, you break into a smile at your reflection.

You’re pretty.

All dolled up: not a single fly-away or stray, cheek-housed eyelash, flawless base, and a perfectly ironed outfit describe your appearance. You spent the better half of your afternoon in the bathroom shaving, plucking, exfoliating, and giggling to yourself about your date with Jing Yuan.

You’ve never looked better. You don't think you’ve smiled this much in your life.

“You look so pretty, babe!” Yukong chimes. Her eyes gleam over the pixelated image on your phone. “So, what type of date is it? …It is a date, right?”

“Well, he didn't say it was a date—but he asked to take me out. What does that mean if not a date?” It's all semantics. Date schmate; at the end of the day it's you and him together. Alone. “He didn't…discuss the details. All I know is that he’s coming at 5:30 to get me.”

Interesting…

“It’s kinda…sexy. Like ooh, surprise me.” You add, giggling.

Right…

“If you say so…” Yukong sighs out. You laugh, missing the sarcasm thick in her tone.

“Well, anyway, I should get going.” You check the time: the digital numbers read 5:05. You're early, but, hey— better safe than sorry. “Call you later, love you!”

Yukong smiles and throws up a peace sign and ends the Facetime.

The hefty laughter from the other side of your door bulldozes through your silence, reminding you. Damn it.

Another small smile in the mirror and you get up from your vanity. You grab your clutch and walk out and into an atmosphere of laughter and…blueberries?

You wave the scent out of your face, and as if it were perfectly timed, the chatter died down and heads turned to you. Your hand fell to your side and you immediately made eye contact with her.

“Ohh, little mouse!!!” Kafka squeals, dragging out the nickname sing-songily. She skips to you, a hand nudging your shoulder. “Look at you!! Look at her guys!” She turns to her friends, grinning wide.

The pair raise their heads, faces morphing in opposite ways of one another in response. The silver-haired girl takes a brief puff from her seemingly blueberry-scented e-cigarette, “Woww, would you look at that?”

She turns to the guy beside her with an escaping smile, “You clean up nice, little mouse.” She compliments.

You cringe at the nickname leaving her lips, nodding. “Thanks…”

“What do you think, Bladie?” Kafka calls out, one arm pulling you close to her and the other swiping down in a showcasing movement. He perks up instantly and looks completely uncomfortable. He avoids looking into your eyes at all costs.

You feel bad. You tuck your clutch under your arm and raise your hands in defense, “No, no, it's okay. Kafka…you shouldn't…”

“Nope—it’s only right I tease you like this,” She rebuts. Her grin shortens to a smirk and her hand squeezes your arm, pulling you closer. “Mom’s not here; somebody’s gotta be the one to nag,”

It's a good thing your mother is not here. You moved out to get away from her. You only awkwardly laugh in response, shooting an awkwardly apologetic face toward Bladie.

“Uh…pretty,” He comments. “You look nice.”

It's only now that you realize you haven't heard his voice yet. And, woah. Wow.

“U-um, thank you. Ha…” You stumble out, growing flustered at your stuttering.

Kafka laughs, sending a look towards him that you miss. “Anyway,” she diverts, “these are my two companions: Silver and Blade.” She points at the pair respectively and they each emote.

“The two most important people in my life. After you, of course,” She informs, fingers nipping at the fat of your cheek teasingly. “What about Elio?”

She shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Him too,” and she and Silver burst into laughter.

Kafka introduces you to them after the laughter dies down, making sure to include “My little sister,”

“Ex-step-sister-now-roommate,” you correct. Silver chortles at your sass and Kafka sends you a narrowed stare. “You're right. My favorite ex-step-sister-now-roommate: my little mouse,”

“Wait, you mean to tell me you have other ex-step-sisters-now-roommates?” Silver jokes, laughing at her own joke. She slaps Blade on his arm to urge him to laugh along — to which he maintains his rigid posture and awkwardly avoids the scene.

Kafka walks the pair of you into the room, toward the couch opposite Silver and Blade. You sense an immediate switch; almost as if you’d changed realities. The air was suffocating in a way you couldn't understand. It was something deeper than awkwardness, something less juvenile than embarrassment. It was palpable: it hurt to swallow when you gulped nervously.

Silver blows another cloud of smoke toward your face, and when the fog dissipates you're met with the mischief on her face, “Sooo,” she drags, “what do you do for a living? This is a nice apartment you got,”

Small talk. You can do small talk. “Um, thanks! I mostly do tutoring and babysitting. But sometimes my mom helps out.”

Her face crinkles up in confusion. “Tutoring pays for all this???”

You laugh, “You’d be surprised at how much people are willing to pay for good grades. I mainly work with middle schoolers who aren't doing too well and their parents are so desperate. They’ll pay just about anything.” You slightly exaggerate the circumstances of your job. There's only one kid you tutor regularly and you've already begun discounting him because of his relation to Jing Yuan. It's a good thing Kafka moved in — the rent was beginning to look a bit dangerous.

“Ohh, interesting. What a hustler,” Silver jokes. Kafka laughs right alongside her, nudging your side with her elbow. “Fitting right in with us.”

The group bursts into a fit of laughter — even Blade spits out a few chuckles — and all you can do is awkwardly laugh along. You feel like a sore thumb: dolled up in your pretty blue outfit while your roommate and her friends are dressed in sweats and assortments of band tees. They laugh at a joke you don't quite understand and share glances that speak an entirely different language from you.

You want the time to speed up. You're waiting for Jing Yuan to save you from this awkward tension like the knight in shining armor he is and whisk you off to the date he planned.

Getting out of here would be so nice. You won't have to hear them poke and prod and tease and you wouldn't be scared to look left. Blade’s gaze is so intense. Goosebumps have risen on your skin from the sheer atmosphere it induces — is he doing this on purpose? He has to be. Kafka must have put him up to it.

It eases you to think that she’s just being herself: her playful, mischievous, dangerous self. In a week she’ll get bored, they’ll stop messing with you, and they’ll find something else to do. That's the way it's always been with Kafka and it helps you to relax.

But it's his stare. The way his eyes shyly rake you up and down again and again. He drinks in the sight of you and doesn't react — he’s committing you to memory and every time he takes a reprieve, his eyes thirst for more and wander right back to you. Kafka notices it. Silver notices it. You notice it. Everybody but Blade can see the way he looks at you: as though he could eat you whole.

He watches your face light up when your phone buzzes and you pull it out of your clutch. Thank the heavens; it’s Jing Yuan.

‘be there in 10. ;)’ He texts. ‘okayyyy <3 see you!’ You text back. Too flirty? Too excited? Oh, God. He hearts your message and your smile grows wider.

Blade wants to say how he wants to be the one to make you smile like that, but it's too early for that. He’ll opt for admiring you, instead, thinking to himself about how pretty you look grinning so wide and how pretty you probably look with his c—

Knock knock knock. That was fast.

You nearly jump off of the couch to answer the door, skirt flaring in the air as you skip to the door. Kafka watches with amusement thick on her face. You're so cute, a guy like Jing Yuan doesn't deserve you.

The door swings open and there he stands. His hair is pushed into a high ponytail and he’s clad in a simple outfit—but God, does he make it look good. “Hey there, pretty girl.”

His greeting awakens butterflies in your stomach. “Hi…” You reply shyly. He smiles at your nervousness and holds his hand out for you to grab, “You ready to go?” You nod almost immediately.

Before Kafka can open her mouth and trap the two of you there, you announce your departure and leave with a wave, slamming the door behind you. The group all share looks, and her smile can't help but get wider. “She’s so cute,”

“Wouldn't you agree, Blade?” Silver teases. Growing embarrassed, he lowers his head. “Oh my God!” She laughs, hitting the couch cushion. “You totally wanna fuck her!”

Blade doesn't respond. Silver turns to Kafka mouth wide, eyes blown, “He wants to fuck your sister, Kaf!” Don't we all?

Kafka sits in between her two friends, placing a warm hand on Blade’s shoulder. He immediately relaxes but keeps his gaze tied to the ground. “It’s okay, Bladie,”

“It happens to the best of us.”

┄┄

“I’m not going to lie,” Jing Yuan breaks the silence, “I didn't have a clue on what to plan. I just knew I wanted to see you again.”

His flattery is out of this world. He has you feeling so special, so wanted—you turn to look at him and just stare in disbelief. The Jing Yuan is driving you in his nice-ass BMW to a date that he asked you out on. Lucky girl syndrome is so real. “It’s okay, I’m not picky.”

“I like that.” He laughs out. “I like you.” His right hand abandons the steering wheel, traveling to your exposed thigh. His touch is light, tempting. He’s testing the waters, and only does he let his hand rest wholly on your thigh when your breath hitches but you don't stop him. He spares you a glance, a smirk drawn on his face when you briefly lock eyes.

“I think you said that before,” You lighten the mood. Your words sound breathless, clambering out of your throat nervously. “Oh, have I?” His hand creeps upward, now sheathing itself beneath your skirt. His fingers tap on your thighs — he’s teasing, waiting for a reaction.

You hum in response, now gluing your eyes to the dashboard because if you look down, you're going to explode.

“Guess I really have to let you know, then.”

“Guess so,” You respond. His hand only lies on your leg, not traveling any further. He pulls into the parking lot of the movie theater. Not your idea of the perfect first date, but maybe he has more planned.

You get out, immediately locking hands and walking side by side into the theater. He opens the door for you, leads you to the ticket stand, and the hold on your hand never falters. He uses it to pull you closer, letting his arm drape around your waist and his fingers tap along your skin. He’s setting you ablaze, burning you with every gesture he does.

You don't even care about the movie—Sky-Faring Commission 8, you think—you’re too focused on Jing Yuan. He drapes you in his jacket and wraps his arm around your shoulder when you get seated. He whispers a joke to you about the previews and laughs into your hair to not disturb others around you. And when the movie gets to a particularly boring part, he finds himself leaning on your shoulder.

His lips are featherlight as he ghosts over your skin. You act as though you don't feel it — gluing your eyes to the movie screen. You couldn't care less about the melodramatic climax on the screen. It didn't matter to you, it didn't register in your mind as important. He was so close, breathing in your sweet perfume and brushing his lips against your skin when he smiled. Oh God, you subconsciously lean towards him, letting out a sigh when puckered lips connect with your neck.

He places another kiss, and then another - readjusting his position to lead a trail upwards. The kisses grow larger distances as he eagerly travels to your lips. His hand reaches over and grabs the side of your face. You couldn't turn to look at him on your own: filled with too much anxiety and nerves to bear the connection.

Your eyes lock - a desire in his juxtaposing with the shyness in yours. He needed you, leaning in swiftly and collecting a kiss.

His tongue abrasively weaves its way into your mouth, sloppily licking around and tangling with yours. He was so powerful: overwhelming and all-consuming. You could only sit there weakly, trying your best to keep up with him.

Yuan is no dummy. He can tell you're not all into it. You sit rigidly and lack any eagerness to kiss him back.

“You nervous?” He whispers against your lips. His hand on your face slips down to your waist with a comforting squeeze in tow. You crack a smile nervously, “Never done this before. Well, like, in this way…”

He's quick to recover from the twinge of annoyance that surges within him. “‘Ts okay. I got you,”

He leans in, hand slipping to your thigh. It's almost cinematic — the movie flickers in deep reds and blacks as an action sequence plays and your silhouettes form on the wall behind you. He's so close, so tempting that you can't help but take in his words. “I’ll take care of you.” He says. And you fall for it.

And he kisses you even slower, more sultry. There's an enthusiastic flame in his kiss — he just wants you to give it up. Let him take you, let him have you. It's not like you don't want it.

As he kisses go deeper, hungrier with teeth sinking into your lip and lips sucking around your tongue, his hand slinks up your skirt. He plays with the band of your panties, feeling the soft material. His fingers roll and entangle in the fabric, feeling the slight jolt of your hips when his touch caresses your skin.

He shoves his tongue down your throat to keep you silent, pushing his hand further onward and cupping your cunt.

Your thighs immediately crush around his wrist. He’s trapped in your heat, feeling the throb of your clit against him. He bites your bottom lip with a smile as he presses his palm flat against you. The applied pressure to your clit has the bud stiffening.

God, you want him. You want him so bad.

You have to stop yourself from moaning and squirming. You’ll literally die if you get caught.

“I want you so bad, baby,” he whispers, pulling away. He kisses your jawline and rubs his hand against your pussy. The feeling is beyond mutual, you think. You can't do this, though. Not here.

You hum in response to him, fearing that any other response may be too loud. Feeling a premature knot gnarl in your stomach makes you panic and grab his arm. You can't cum yet—and definitely not here.

“Too much?” He laughs against your lips. He tries to sink his arm deeper between your thighs and your hips run away. “‘M sorry. How about we get outta here?

Locking eyes with him has you shyly saying yes. You don't have sex on the first date—Jing Yuan or not.

But your body seems to crave him. To want him and in this circumstance, you can be able to bend your rules. “Okay,”

You quickly exit the theater hand in hand with an unimportant amount of time left in the movie. There was a strange feeling swarming in your gut: akin to a thrill with a tickle of unsureness. You chalk it up to butterflies. It's just nervousness because the dream you've held onto ever since you first laid eyes on him is coming to fruition. You've always wanted Jing Yuan. You always wanted to be his.

He drives the car shortly to the parking lot of a shut-down arcade, parking his car and immediately clambering to the backseat with you. It was like he couldn't wait - like he was going to die without you. It's hot.

His hands immediately grab your hips and his lips overtake yours. He slowly lays you against the leather seats, wasting no time. He's making quick and agile movements: hands slipping under your shirt and cupping your breasts and lips wrapping around nips of skin.

You gasp, arching your back into him. “You're so sexy,” He moans, fondling you messily, needily.

“T-thank you…” You stutter out.

He kisses down to the neckline of your shirt, pushing the fabric up and going under to kiss around your chest. His lips replace his hands, the latter rehoming on your thighs and pushing your skirt up. His lips attach and suck around the top of your boob as his hands pry your legs apart, fingers dancing up toward your core.

You moan out softly. His tongue swipes across your flesh and his middle finger walks through your slit. “You’re so wet,” he comments, pressing your clit down with intense pressure.

A weak whimper dances from your lips and he laughs contently.

He continues to rub your clit while kissing your skin, turning your flames up so high that your body burns to the touch. A sticky sound resonates off of the interior of the car, sloshing grossly as your airy moans attempt to compete with it. Your pussy drips, your hole spasming as he teases you further and further.

You never thought you’d be in Jing Yuan’s backseat about to get finger fucked—and as much as you want to, you just - you can't.

His finger circles your entrance, ever so teasingly and you tense up. You pull away almost immediately, snapping your legs tightly shut and beginning to sit up. “Sorry, I’m sorry,”

Yuan takes a seat opposite from you, brushing his fallen hair out of his face with a huff. He gives you time to adjust your clothes, staring out of the front windshield. He looks…bummed, dissatisfied and you feel terrible. “Trust me, it's not a you thing. I just…I dunno. I'm not comfortable with what I don't know,”

“Nah, it's good. You're good.” He sends you a short smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

And you don't want to worry about it, but you can't not. There's an obvious tent in his pants and a frustration hidden beneath his appearance — you blue-balled him beyond measure and made it awkward. He’s probably never asking you out again.

In an attempt to ease the tension, you offer an alternative: “Wanna get something to eat? My treat.”

Taking a look at you breaks a smile on his face, and he nods. “Why not?”

┄┄

The date could have gone worse.

That's what you tell yourself as you ride the elevator up to your apartment, alone.

He had to go, he told you. “Text me before you go to bed, alright?” And that made you feel better, somewhat. He could have told you to delete his number and never go anywhere with him again, so you count this as a win.

You can't shake the tension, though. It's better than whatever the hell you, Kafka, and her friends had floating around, however, it's just as uncomfortable. The elephant in the room is humongous, but neither of you dare step on its toes. You don't blame him for feeling some type of way, but he shouldn't blame you either, right?

“Welcome back! How was your date?” Kafka questions as you walk in the door. Silver and Blade are still here, the latter on his phone and the former focusing on her strawberry crunch ice cream bar. You wave at Kafka, removing your shoes and remembering you still have Yuan’s jacket. You won't leave it out for it to get dirty with the Three Musketeers running around your apartment.

“It was good,” you reveal softly. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m really tired so I’m just gonna go shower and go to bed.”

Kafka nods, waving you off, “Alright; good night, little mouse!”

You get into your bedroom and don't even think twice. Your clothes are stripped off and strewn across your floor but you make sure to place Yuan’s jacket on your vanity. Your hair goes up and your body wraps in your towel, a quick commute to the bathroom across the hall to wash today off of your body.

Warm water splashes over your skin, soapy clouds run down your body as you scrub. You still feel embarrassed — the scene of you quitting on Yuan replays every time you close your eyes. You're mad at yourself because you know you want him, you always have, and you fumbled your opportunity badly. It's embarrassing for you and him. You fear it's an event you can never forget.

Twenty minutes of pouring the stress and dirt and Jing Yuan down the drain and you're finally ready to sleep. Body clean, pajamas on, makeup off, and skin care on, you climb into bed and immediately grab your phone.

‘just heading to bed c:’ You text. You twiddle your thumbs for half a second before you start typing again: ‘i did enjoy our date today btw…hope u don’t get the wrong impression cause i’d love to go out w u again <3’

That’s good. He knows how you feel, you've said your peace and lifted the weight off of your chest. You turn your phone off and rollover. Off to dreamland you go—

Ding!

Your eyes shoot open. Ding! And now you're rolling back over, grabbing your phone, and squinting at the initial brightness.

‘don’t worry abt it haha’ He texts back. ‘it’s my fault, I should’ve asked’

Your fingers press and heart his message, quick to move to the keyboard and begin typing. But before you finish, another text from him rolls in: ‘i’m glad you enjoyed it. it’d be my honor to take you out again’

You silently cheer, kicking your feet under your duvet. ‘i’ll be holding u to that’

no need already planning our next one

whatre u thinking?

that takes the fun out of it if i tell you dw i won’t make you wait long

He's flirting. You're flirting. Even through text, he has you running in circles looking for a response. What do you say? What do you say?!!

good c; don't wanna wait to see u again

‘me neither’ He starts typing, then stops. Is it over already?

The typing bubble pops up again, and in seconds, his blue message fills your eyes: ‘u mind sending a pic?’

Suspicion doesn't address you—instead a feeling of confusion. Where is this conversation going…?

im in my pajamas lol so not sexy

doesn't have to be, you make something sexy plus the kind of pjs a girl wears tells you all abt her

does it?

mhm

Damn it. You crawl out of bed, turn your lamp on, and step in front of your full-length mirror. A loose-fitting shirt and small house shorts. Nothing extravagant or appealing — just extremely comfortable.

Five attempts at a flattering mirror selfie later, you finally land a picture that satisfies you enough. Immediately to Jing Yuan, it goes, paired with the message ‘what do mine say about me?’

You sit back on your bed, criss–cross applesauce as you wait for his response. Three minutes later he likes your message, ‘says you're cute’

that’s it?

He responds quickly. ‘not sure if you wanna take it there haha’

You're not sure either. ‘try me’

It takes him a minute to start typing again — presumably needing to take the time to make a conscious decision before he embarrasses himself…again.

‘Attachment: 1 Image’ You immediately click on the image, zooming in only to be met with his bulge. Black boxers stretched around a fat tent in his pants with his big hand resting on top of his lap.

His next message comes in seconds later, ‘says you drive me crazy and need me there to make you feel good’

And the next one…‘it's hard for me to control myself lol’

i just get so turned on by you

Oh. He's taking it there.

‘me too’ You have to send the text with your head facing the other direction, nearly jumping out of your skin with the confirmation swoosh sound.

‘i don't usually get that wet btw…’ You inform. It's a bit of a half-truth; you haven't slept with that many people to gauge how wet you can truly get but you're almost positive you've never soiled your panties like you have today.

He hearts your message and immediately starts typing.

oh rly? what abt now? still wet?’

If the way your thighs are pressing together is anything to go by, the answer is a very enthusiastic yes.

yeah want u so bad

You don't sext — you've never done it before and you are awful with your words. You're nervous despite the wave of boldness that's overcoming you. This is escalating fast, bordering territory you've never crossed.

You should've just gone to bed and texted him the following morning. You should have kept it innocent and not pushed him further. You've opened a can of worms and now it's time to reap the consequences. Fuck.

let me see

Double fuck. Maybe triple. Possibly quadruple.

How the hell are you supposed to show him???

You immediately hop up and move your mirror, repositioning it to stand parallel to your bed. Should you turn the light off? Maybe you should.

You jump onto the bed in the darkness, slithering off your shorts slowly, giving yourself time to stop and preserve your dignity. God, you can't believe you're doing this, you think, setting yourself in the most awkward position to show the wet spot painted on your fresh pink panties.

Flash on and legs in the air, the camera shutters three times. If you weren't embarrassed before, you definitely are now.

You send two of the three photos, tossing your phone into your pillows.

The ding is still audible, followed by two more that make your heart jump.

shit you're so hot baby Attachment: 1 Video

A shaky thumb presses play on the video, immediately adjusting the volume when wispy curses spill from the device. The video shows his unclothed abdomen and his hand in his boxers, rubbing his dick slowly.

You watch with peeled eyes how his stomach rises and falls, abs gnarling as he bucks into his own hand. Twelve-second video. It's a twelve-second video and it seemed to last for an hour.

He sends more texts:

wish it was you are you touching yourself?

No.

yeah doesn't feel as good as when u did it, tho

You ignore the way your cunt clenches around the air and your panties grow increasingly uncomfortable with the slick pooling and seeping.

pretend it is me Attachment: 1 Voice Message

Oh fuck. You lay down, bringing the phone to your ear and dancing your fingers across your stomach in hopes of soothing your nerves. This is a lot. This is probably worse than letting him feel you up and almost finger you in his car.

“‘M gonna help you feel good, okay?” He starts the voice message. You nod as if he can see you, and close your eyes to take in the full experience.

“Start rubbing your clit—go slowly, tight circles, okay,” he pauses, presumably to let you complete the action. The quiet is filled with an airy gasp from you, sensitivity extremely prevalent between your legs. You part your folds and hear how sticky it is, and it's even worse when you let your finger slip in between your labia and press your clit. You moan so loudly you have to bite your lip.

With your thighs instinctively closing on your wrist you roll to your side, burying your face in the pillow as you start to do as he says: slow, tight circles around your sensitive bud. You can hear him spit—presumably in his hand—and faint slick sounds in the background. He starts speaking, overpowering the background noise, “Feels good, huh?”

“Keep doing that, okay? Keep going until you're about to cum—” He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath, “—fuuuck, baby. I want to fuck you so bad; bet you sound so pretty when you moan…”

He just turns you on more, leaving you to whimper and further push your face into your pillow, attempting to quiet yourself.

It's been a while since you've had any sexual time — oftentimes too tired or uninterested in tending to your needs even though your body screams at you for a release. You're overly sensitive, clit throbbing angrily and hole spasming thirstily. You need to feel good, to reach nirvana — you needed to let Yuan fuck you and satiate the thirst.

He sounds so good talking to you, moaning for you, working you up to your climax, “Put a finger in, baby. I wanna hear you, too,”

You're just horny at this point. You almost waste no time in recording a voice memo, pushing your middle finger into your cunt with a breathy whine, “Oh, God,”

You start at a slow rhythm, really edging yourself. You huff and whine and whimper all into the speaker, letting him hear every voice crack and deep breath. It feels so good, but it's not enough.

“I wanna be filled,” you manage to say. “‘S not enough…need you, Yuanie.”

Send.

You stop your ministrations as you wait for him to respond, letting yourself come down from the impending climax.

Ding!

fuck

Is all he sends, and then your phone starts ringing. Your reflection in the FaceTime camera has you adjusting your position and putting the phone in a flattering angle, answering the phone with knitted eyebrows and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. What a performer you are.

When the call connects you're met with his dick. His hand traverses the length eagerly, an angry tip leaking milky white down the shaft and glistening as he jerks himself off. You see him behind his big cock: hair disheveled and face red.

“Let me see your pussy,” his voice is gritty, deeper than usual. His tone is almost demanding—you clearly don't have the luxury of being shy at the moment.

You lower the camera slowly, pushing your panties to the side and letting the radiance of your phone screen show the glistening mess to him. “Oh fuck,” he comments, throwing his head back.

“So pretty, so perfect. I bet you're tight as fuck,” You decide to show him: slipping your index finger in first with a sweet moan, then following up with your middle finger after a few pumps.

You're definitely fuller, but it's not enough.

Your cunt squeezes around your fingers tightly, spilling out a waterfall of arousal. Your ministrations are easy with how wet you are: fingers slipping in and out with little to no resistance, just narrowly missing your sweet spot.

It gets harder to hold back your moans—sounds now coming out as broken cries as you bite intensely on your lip. “I wanna cum,” you sniffle.

“Yeah? Cum for me—show me how that pussy creams,” So obscene but so, so incredibly hot.

Your hips buck into your hands and your hold on your phone gets weak. You have to change position: set the device up between your pillows, and put yourself on display

Normally, you would never do something this risky. Maybe it's because of Jing Yuan—or a different potential point of interest just mere feet down the hall—but you feel inclined to jump out of your shell now.

So many years in Kafka’s shadow and even more in your mother's palm. You're grown up now, independent and you want to be taken seriously. It's the least you deserve and the most you want. He's going to take you seriously; he's going to see how badly you want him and the lengths you’ll go to to show up for him.

You've made a big leap in your behavior and you're prepared to deal with the consequences. No more little mouse, you're not a baby anymore.

It's time to take the world in your palm and bask in the mature gleam. You let the spotlight burn your skin as you work yourself to an orgasm, moaning so carelessly you're probably the center of conversation among Kafka and her friends. And you’d be right; partially, anyway.

Kafka having dozed off with Silver ages ago left Blade up alone, amusing himself with an average social media feed and remnants of a joint. He tried to ignore your soft moans coming from down the hall, but hey, he has keen ears.

He knows it's probably that douchebag you went out with making you sound like that and he can't even get mad about it. He's almost thankful — it's not every day you get to hear the melodies of an angel.

Neediness and curiosity reach all-time highs and urge him to do something he's 100 percent going to regret.

Blade takes light-footed steps toward your bedroom, the moans, and whimpers of you getting louder as he approaches the source. You sound so pretty; he can only imagine the way your face is knitted up and how wet you must be.

He hates himself for doing this, but he eavesdrops: letting an ear rest on the wood of your bedroom door and taking in the sounds you spew out.

He wishes he was on the other side of this door making you sound like that. He'd probably make you wake the entire apartment building up—

“I’m about to cum—! Ngh, oh my—” A sharp whine cuts you off. He wonders: do you squirt? Can you? Can he make you? There's no way possible that dickhead can do it.

“Me too—oh, shit, baby.” Comes out muffled to Blade, and his eyes roll immediately. Cornball shit, he thinks.

He hadn't pictured you as the phone-sex kind of girl, but with the way that jackass is egging you on, it's no wonder. You're so much better than this, than that guy and all he wants to do is let you know that. Blade is probably no better, but he can try. He can change for you and do right by you—in every aspect.

Your whimpers grow pitchier and you're puffing out deep breaths. You sound…overstimulated. He can imagine your toes curling and thighs trembling as you fuck yourself, squeezing your eyes shut with swollen lips. Your pussy is probably leaking a river, covering your ass, and staining your (probably) dainty white sheets. What he would give to make you feel good, let alone look at you.

“Yuan—!! I'mcummingImcummingImcumming!!!” You squeal, muffling yourself with a hard slap over your mouth.

Blade doesn't even realize he's begun to palm his cock and roll his hips into his hand. “Oh…” he quietly moans, letting his head fall onto your door.

Shit. He has to leave now, hearing you yelp at the sound and shuffle around. No use trying to hide, so he makes an escape: walking fast out of the front door without a second thought. Great—now he has to drive home with a rock-hard dick.

And you gather yourself. Hanging up the phone with Jing Yuan and walking to your door awkwardly due to the mess between your legs.

Cleaning yourself up in the bathroom and avoiding your reflection in the mirror, you think back to that sound. It was a knock, right?

Kafka and Silver lay on opposite ends of the same couch, curled under your throw blanket which is much too small for them. Blade is nowhere to be found…huh. Weird.

“Hey, Kaf,” you shake your roommate awake over the back of the couch. She moans and rolls over, slowly peeling her sleepy eyes open, “hmm?”

“Were you at my door just now?” The red-head shakes her head no, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and away from Silver.

If it wasn't her…“Where’s Bladie?” She questions, noticing his absence.

You shrug. “He probably left earlier.”

Even half-asleep, Kafka has double the brain you do. You can't see what's right in front of you.

She smiles, shuffling again and closing her eyes. “Alright, then. Good night.”

“Night,”

ೀ

With a week left until spring break, you cherish the time you've spent this last month or so living.

It feels like the first time, in all of your nineteen years of living, that you are living. Your smiles are brighter, your days are happier, and you're living every second to its fullest extent in absolute bliss.

Almost every week you're on a date with Jing Yuan. He's practically your boyfriend, but there's no official label so you keep that thought process to yourself.

Lowkey dates with him that slightly escalate have become your norm. You're still holding off on full-blown sex, and you wish you weren't. It causes some tension every time you restrict him from fucking you - but he tells you he's waiting, he's more than happy to wait. That's more than most men are willing to do and you're happy that you're fortunate to have landed yourself someone like you. Spending the tail end of your dates getting your neck marked up and fingered while you jerk him off is as much scandal as you can handle. Nerves are what's stopping you from going all the way. Definitely not Kafka’s hot friend who you can't stop thinking about.

There's synergy in your apartment now. You're not walking into a room with a tight chest and bated breath, just waiting to see what's waiting for you anymore. It's normal now—all of it. From Silver ransacking your kitchen to an obnoxiously loud-smelling blunt, you're used to it. It's not nearly as bad as you feared when Kafka initially moved in.

You sit in the dining hall with Fu Xuan, listening to her angry rambling about her statistics class. She never backs down, always eager to let a piece of her mind fly whether you like it or not.

“Stupidest fucking class ever. And, like, I shouldn't even be in there in the first place because I am wayyy too smart—”

“Hey guys,” thank God. Yukong shows up and sits next to Xuan, saving you from a monologue about how smart and wonderful she is. You love her, but man does she know how to talk.

“Nice of you to join us,” Xuan says snappily. Yukong pays her attitude no mind, sipping her coffee and turning to you with a knowing look.

She shifts the conversation, “Anyway…I came to let you guys know that there's going to be a party on Friday at the sorority. Tingyun said it’s to celebrate the beginning of spring break.”

You can't even remember the last time you went to a party. The smile growing on your face is too strong to fight. “What time?”

“Umm…I’ll have to check. Probably late though, so…”

This can be your first outing with Jing Yuan. Just the two of you with all eyes on you. Right before spring break as well…it could be your first time together—the thoughts alone make your head spin and a flurry of images swarm.

“Hm. Well, I won't be there.” Xuan states, crossing her arms and looking off elsewhere.

Amused, Yukong questions her why. “‘Cause. I'm gonna be busy with burning this stupid campus down!”

┄┄

hii <3 didn’t see u today so i hope ur feeling alright! also did u hear about the party this friday? r u thinking about going? miss u

You send your trilogy of texts to Jing Yuan, drowning out the conversation Kafka and Silver are having in your living room. “Can you back me up here?!”

Silver looks at you for backup, to which you're dumbfounded. What were they talking about again? “Sorry, what were you saying?” You ask, setting down your phone.

“Ugh!” The gamer groans, falling back onto the couch. “Please tell your sister that a Nintendo DS and a Nintendo Switch are not the same thing!”

“They do the same thing, though!” Kafka defends. “Barely! Kaf, I’m on that thing like, twenty-four-seven and you mean to tell me you think I’m playing Cooking Mama?”

“I don't know what you play. You never let anyone try and join you.”

“Because you all suck! Every single last one of you is dead weight and it makes me look bad.” Kafka scoffs, turning around and looking at you with an exasperated look. You lock eyes and share a similar smile — as much as you claim you and Kafka are total opposites, you get each other in ways not understood.

She turns back around and shuts Silver’s yapping down and at the same time, Blade emerges from the hallway. He looks good. Really good.

His long, dark hair is disheveled and tossed into a low bun, making you gain a newfound appreciation for man buns. His black “wife-beater” tank snugs onto his frame tightly—every ridge and curve of his solid abdomen pressing through the fabric and leaving little to the imagination. Staple gray sweats make you immediately avert your gaze, awkwardly making eye contact with you.

He caught you staring, and you caught him.

As if it were divine intervention, your phone buzzed on the counter behind you and you went straight for it, hiding the flustered look on your face behind your phone. You don't do a good job, though. Kafka notices.

hey baby accidentally slept in this morning but I’m alright heard abt the party but idk if I’m gonna go. not rly feeling it

A frown stretches across your lips as you disappointedly text back.

ohh okay feel better <3

Read.

It's fine—you're fine! You’ll just go with your friends and have a great time and you can see him after break.

You want that to be comforting but your gut tastes the bitter truth. It's not time to have that conversation with yourself so you table it, leaving your phone on the table and joining Blade on the second couch. Kafka and Silver monopolized the other one and you had to fight the urge to wiggle your way between them.

“So, what are we watching?” You make conversation, hiding the shake in your voice by focusing on the TV. Some random show plays, something so stupid you’d never waste your time on this.

“Dunno. Blade picked it.” Silver shrugs, slamming buttons on her Switch.

He turns to you. “Uh, it's the adaptation of the book ‘Verdict’. About Imbibitor Lunae.” He informs shyly. His voice is so gritty and deep—every time you hear it you swear you feel the depth reverberating in your bones.

Blade makes you so nervous. With his intense stare and even more intense aura, he's overwhelming and nerve-wracking. While you've grown to be comfortable with Silver and Kafka, Blade is the only one you walk on eggshells around.

And he feels the same way. He wants to breach the wall and get to know you. He wants to sit on this couch with you with his arms wrapped around your frame and you in his lap and relax. He's so tense around you, so stiff out of pure fear that if he makes the wrong move or says the wrong thing, he’ll scare you off. Blade likes you. And when it comes to girls like you and guys like him, it doesn't take much for things to go wrong.

You like that he reads though. “Ooh, interesting. I’ve never read that book,”

“It's pretty old and short. Most people of our generation haven't heard of it, I bet.”

“Yeah, 'cause you act fifty years old!” Silver sneers, earning a slap on the leg from Kafka. He pays her no mind, instead watching how you laugh at her teasing.

Your eyes get so bright when you smile: full of joy, full of light. It's so cute.

“What episode is this?” You ask him. Clearing his throat, he checks with the remote, “Episode four.”

“Mind catching me up?” Are you doing this on purpose? You’ve got to know what you're doing to him.

Heat drives up his neck and he has to create distance, sitting all the way back on the couch and replying to you with a nod.

You gulp, watching the way his legs naturally spread and how his arms flex. Insanely attractive, almost criminally so.

“So, it’s basically about that guy,” he points at the screen, a graceful-looking man with horns displayed, “called the Sinner—”

“That guy’s a sinner? He looks like an angel,” You comment. You take another look at the screen and Blade fights a smile.

If only you knew.

He continues to break down the lore of Verdict to you, going very in-depth and getting seemingly passionate as he goes on. Kafka scrolls on her phone and takes it in with pride—Blade should thank her. Never in all of her years of friendship with him does she think she's ever heard him talk this much, let alone to someone he’s interested in. It's pure proof of what you do: the best sides of people come out because of you.

You listen to him intently, chiming in with reactions and questions every now and then and completely abandoning the show you're supposed to be learning about. You just like to hear him talk. His rough voice softens up as he continues explaining the story to you and in turn, your body language softens. You can relax and lie on the couch, keeping your eyes on his face as you lean your head down on your wrists.

Details you hadn't noticed before on his face stand out to you — like how clear and supple his milky skin is and how his chapped lips are tinted ever-so-slightly red. You notice how his thick eyebrows wiggle and knit together when he’s thinking, and his awkward, canine-heavy smile when you make a comment. Blade is dorky and surprisingly, a history enthusiast.

He goes from detailing the fabled betrayal of Imbibitor Lunae to the Ambrosial Arbor to everything before, after, and during. From the unusual silence exuding from Kafka and Silver, he realizes just how much he's been talking. Even you have started to drift off, your eyes are heavy as you listen to old Xianzhou tales.

Upon realizing that he’s effectively talked everybody to sleep, he takes the blanket draped on the armchair and covers you, making sure to be as cautious as possible. He doesn't know what he’d do if you woke up and caught him.

As weird as it sounds, he likes seeing you sleep. You look so peaceful like your dreams are full of cotton candy and rainbows. Knowing you, they probably are.

“You’re staring, Bladie.” He turns around to see Kafka, her smirk overtaking her groggy expression. He doesn't even try to refute the claim or defend himself. If there's anyone other than himself that knows him well, it's Kafka. She probably knows him more than he does himself at this point.

“You’re cute, making moves on her and stuff,” He naturally follows her as she makes her way to the kitchen. The blush on his cheeks dusts lightly, and his eyes find comfort in staring at the floor. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” She reaches into the fridge, pulling out the last can of Mung Bean Soda.

She pops the can open and takes a short swig, “so what's your plan?”

Blade shrugs. Kafka sighs, placing the can on the counter. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

ೀ

If Jing Yuan wasn’t going to come to the party tonight, you were going to make him regret it.

You dressed in the shortest, tightest dress you owned: an off-the-shoulder white mini-dress with the prettiest shine to it. You bought it impulsively after your mid-term breakdown freshman year, thinking retail therapy would make you feel better. (It didn't–another breakdown ensued when you realized you just wasted money on shit you didn't need.)

You did your makeup the best you ever have. Perfect highlight, sharp and even eyeliner wings, balanced lip combo—cosmetology school should have been your first choice with this type of beat.

Yukong told you to come at 9; the time on your phone reads 8:58. A little late, but fashionably so.

The jacket Yuan had given you still resides in your room due to your forgetfulness. If you're going to this party, why not make a statement?

You slip on the bomber jacket, the bulkiness of the fit aiding the aesthetics of your outfit. It gave off comfy but cute—“in my boyfriend’s closet” vibes. Surely, Tingyun or whoever the hell else competing with you will take the hint with this. Nobody will have to guess whose jacket it is when there's a white lion embroidered on the right arm. If this isn't a soft launch, you don't know what is.

Grabbing your essentials you walk out to the usual scene in your living room: Kafka, Blade, and Silver seated on different couches engaged in a conversation. Their heads turn to you, and you immediately let your gaze fall to Blade. He almost looks away instantly — too much. You're too much and he knows that it's for that guy. The one who doesn't deserve you but gets to see you cum and receive your attention…unfair.

“Wowww look at you! Little mouse is stealing someone’s man tonight!” Silver whoops, snapping her fingers. You roll your eyes at her, brushing stray strands of hair back.

You walk to the door, “Don’t wait up!!!”

Oh, but they will. Some more than others.

┄┄

Yukong’s sorority house is huge but it feels so small with this many people present. The invitation was extended to the entire campus, presumably, and sure enough, they showed up and showed out.

Pulling up was a nightmare — cars and people backed up for what seemed like miles. Your Uber driver huffed and puffed the entire time trying to find somewhere to let you out, and you could only extend apologetic woes and smiles. Walking up to the house was better, but you suddenly woke up from your dream world and realized that people could see you. They could perceive you and form preconceived notions about you just from how you carried yourself. You became conscious of what the hell you had on—immediately regretting the short dress when you had to squeeze between some randoms smoking on the stairs, your bare thighs rubbing against their bodies. Ugh.

The music was loud, seemingly traveling through the floorboards and it felt incredibly unstable to walk in your heels. You searched for Yukong, spotting your best friend off to the side with Hanya.

“Woaahh, look at you!” She exclaims. You give her a spin and laugh. Through your joy, you miss the way her face crinkles up when she eyes the jacket you sport. “Do you want a drink?”

You nod, “Only like, one or two. I'm trying to stay sober; I want to remember tonight.” You send her a look that means only one thing: you have something planned for tonight. What that thing is…well, Yukong isn't sure she wants to know.

She asks Hanya to fetch you a drink, taking up a conversation with you in her place. “How’s the sister situation?”

You hadn't updated Yukong on the status of things in a while. Should you tell her about Blade?

Wait. Tell her what?

As if there's anything to tell…

“It’s actually good. Surprisingly. I thought I’d be begging my mom to take her by now,” you joke. Hanya returns with a red solo cup, handing it to you. “It’s something tame.”

You're not a fan of the taste of alcohol. You can't understand how people willingly get shitfaced—this shit is nasty. You cringe and shudder at the taste. Whatever juice base is added does not aid the taste one bit.

“Her friends are around often. Like…every day. I wonder if they have jobs but I haven't asked,” Yukong takes a sip of her drink as well.

“Did they help this transformation occur?”

And suddenly, the reality of how you look hits you again. “Ha ha, very funny. I wanted to try something new, something sexy.”

“It worked!!” A random girl replies as she and her friends walk toward the kitchen. The face you give Yukong says I told you so, and she rolls her eyes.

“Let’s dance!” You exclaim, grabbing onto your friend with the sudden shift in the music.

Reluctantly, she follows you to the sea of gyrating bodies. Everybody dancing and talking forms a cocoon of heat—you’re encapsulated the moment you breach the area.

Sip, dance, laugh. Sip, dance, laugh. Sip, dance, laugh. You keep this up for a good twenty minutes, breaking on the couch every now and then. It may be only you and Yukong — and the occasional appearance of Hanya — but you're having fun. Fun like you said you would with or without Yuan—

He’s here???

You spot Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye. He daps partygoers up at the door, making his way through the jumbles of people clearly in search. Of you?

You almost call his name and wave but he walks straight toward Tingyun. His hands slide around her waist instinctively and her arms wrap around his neck tightly. She giggles as he lifts her up, and she gives him her cup when she's put back down. They don't break eye contact the entire time he downs the remainder of her cup, and as soon as he's finished, the cup is replaced with her hand and she's guiding him up the stairs.

Did he think you wouldn't be here? Or did he not give enough of a fuck regardless?

Whatever the case—it hurts. You take the jacket off and toss it to the ground, not realizing the stray tear that streaks down your face.

Tingyun is going to give him something that you couldn't. He’s going to give her something you can't have. You feel slighted like the rug has been torn from beneath your feet and you’re doomed to a fate forever on your ass. You look stupid. So so so stupid, but you have enough dignity to wait until you leave to bawl your eyes out.

Ignoring Yukong calling your name, you walk outside and begin calling yourself an Uber. The early spring chills make you even madder. Fuck this stupid dress, this stupid party, that stupid Jing Yuan—“Hey!!! You didn't hear me calling you?”

Yukong comes following after you, her face concerned as she comes into view. Seeing your tears, her eyebrows furrow, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

A sad laugh escapes your throat and you look up at the sky, attempting to hold back the sudden rush of tears. “Yuan is sleeping with Tingyun,”

Her face is full of indescribable expressions. She has many things she wants to say, but she chooses the safe option. “Huh?! How do you know?”

“His lying ass just showed up and threw himself all over her. Then they went upstairs and you and I both know they aren't up there talking.”

You poor, poor girl. “I shouldn't be sad…what was I thinking? I should've known that he was an asshole.” You should have, but Yukong won't blame you.

The last romantic attention you had was from Dan Heng: your kinda-sorta-ex-boyfriend who took your virginity senior year and broke up with you a month later because you were going to different schools. You crave a change in the way people perceive you. Jing Yuan was the closest thing to a fever dream you had in university, and he turned it into a nightmare. What was supposed to be your rebranding - an age of confidence and maturity was overtaken by his pushiness and exclusivity.

“It doesn't matter, I don't care. I just wanna go home,” You hope Kafka and her friends are on their best behavior tonight. You're not in the mood for any shit.

“Are you sure?” Yukong doesn't know how to comfort you. Anything she has to say will make it worse, she's sure of it.

You nod, wiping the string of tears off of your cheeks. The buzzing of your phone lets you know that your Uber is approaching shortly, so you give Yukong a smile that’s meant to comfort her - but it only worries her. She won't push you because the only way this’ll end is messy if so.

She offers you a comforting smile of her own, pulling you into a soft hug. “Call me later, okay?”

She reluctantly pulls away and heads back into the party, head swiveling over her shoulder to make sure you don't jump in front of a car. You're not going to — if anyone needs to, it's that asshole, Jing Yuan.

Your Uber pulls up and saves the day, the warmth in the car settling goosebumps on your skin from the juxtaposition. “Long night?” The driver asks, peering at you through the mirror.

Is it that obvious?

With a sad smile, you nod, “It's only gonna get longer.” You laugh. Imagining the annoying amount of questions and pep talks Kafka is going to give you when you step through the door irritates you. You lay your head against your seat, and then your phone buzzes.

Flipping the device over, you see three notifications from ‘Yuan <3’. Ugh.

Looking at it is going to make you do or say something you’ll completely regret. You regain composure through a deep breath; placing your phone face down on your lap and watching the world blur through the window.

You're trying not to feel humiliated. There's a burn in your chest because every time you close your eyes, there's a scene of you and him together. You're stupid to think he actually liked you. His longing gazes and lingering touches and sweet words were tactics to get into your pants — and it almost worked. There's a reason your mother treats you like a baby: you are one and can't handle the real world. You hate that you had to come to this conclusion like this, but you're not ready.

Thanking the driver, you pull yourself out of the car, trudging begrudgingly into the building and in the elevator. And you can't stop fucking crying.

Stray tears keep escaping and no matter how many times you wipe them away or vigorously blink, it doesn't stop the flow. Why are your feelings hurt this badly? Why did you like him so much?

These same questions cycle as you open your front door, being hit with the same atmosphere you just escaped.

You’ve got to be kidding me, you think. Of all nights, tonight Kafka decides to throw a damn party???

Not wanting to spend another second in this atmosphere, you weave your way through the partygoers — an exceptional amount of people, given the space of your apartment, if you may add.

Trying to escape to your room gets you caught by your roommate, and your name gets called across the party as a result. She maneuvers her way to you, “What’re you doing back here so early, little mouse? I thought we shouldn't wait up?”

The sadness you wear is so prominent. Your face is dropped and your lips quiver when she asks her questions. You stare at the floor to not let the tears fall. “Hey…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just gonna go to sleep, so can you keep the noise down?” You try to brush her off. Kafka doesn't let you slip away, grabbing your arm and keeping you in place.

The rim of her cup nudges at your chin in place of her hand, forcing you to look up at her. A black headband pushes her plum-colored locks out of her face, straight strands flowing down her back. When she tilts her head pitifully at you, her hair swings to the side, falling over her shoulder and at this moment she looks so approachable. “What’s wrong?” She poses the question again, her tone softer than before.

You almost break down in front of her and she immediately extends her arm around your shoulders, pulling the side of you into her chest. She hands you her cup and you immediately down the liquid with no second thought. Her hand rubs your arm comfortingly and she guides you toward the kitchen, “C’mon, let's talk in here.”

The kitchen is surprisingly unoccupied save for a few hungry stragglers, leaving the two of you to sit on the stools. She refreshes your cup, getting a new one of her own and finishing off another bottle of tequila.

Kafka can tell by looking at you that this upset is caused by heartbreak. No words have to be spoken for her to understand, and now it's her job to take care of you. The way you deserve.

“What’d he do?”

The look on her face is all-knowing. You can't help but break a small smile at her intuitiveness. “I’m sure you can imagine…”

Of course she can. It was clear as day that he wanted only one thing. Everybody but you could see that a mile away.

“How’d you find out?”

“The asshole definitely wasn't trying to hide it.” You state, taking a big sip of your drink and cringing at the bitterness. Yuck. “He told me he wasn't going to come to the party, but I'm there, dancing, and here he comes. With a big wide-ass smile he walks straight to Tingyun and they waste no time in going upstairs.”

You don't normally swear, but you're so irritated that the words just soar from your lips. It’s almost amusing to watch your angry rambling. “Not even accounting for the fact that I was there and somebody could have told me. It was right in my face—right there and it was like I was invisible!!!”

Her eyes travel up and down your body. You're definitely not invisible. Jing Yuan just doesn't know what to do with you.

“He didn't deserve you; I hope you know that.” She comments, sipping her drink slowly. You finish off yours with bigger gulps, immediately hopping off of the stool and searching for a new bottle. Pouring another full cup, you nod, “I do now.”

“And then—he had the audacity to text me!” You sit down, taking off your heels. You're ready to get comfortable and let everything rip. Kafka’s eyes widen, “Oh, really?”

You hum to confirm, picking up your phone and checking the notifications. A few texts from Yukong and Xuan join his messages, but those don't matter. You hand the phone to Kafka, “I didn't even read them. I should block him, right?”

hey baby, i’m at the party wya

just talked to Yukong…can we talk? I wanna explain don’t be like this. at least let me explain?

Double yuck. You absolutely should block him…after this, though.

“He wants to explain himself to you. Classic,” She sneers. You laugh through your sipping, sitting the cup down. “He must take me for an idiot.”

There's a short silence that breaks with you changing the subject. “What’s the occasion?” You question.

She shrugs, placing her cup down. “Just felt like partying.”

Kafka tells a bit of a half-truth. While she did feel like having fun — her idea extends beyond getting sloppy drunk and into territory thus far unexplored. There's one objective she has tonight and it can't be completed unless her two moving pieces are pliable and cooperative. In terms of a checklist, she's halfway there.

Low-lidded eyes narrow at you, as if to tell you her intent wordlessly. You don't pick up what she's putting down, instead feeling heavily nervous under her gaze. “Anyway. Why don't we…”

She trails off, her finger tapping her chin exaggeratedly. “Wanna dance?”

You suck in a breath, holding up your hands. “I think I'm gonna call it a night, actually. It’s kind of late and all that crying made my head hurt…” You laugh. That’s partly true—you just want to escape whatever trap she’s set, if you're being honest. And frankly, after tonight, you have slight trauma from dancing.

“It’ll make you feel better.” She sings, wiggling a finger at you. “Come on; just one dance!”

Your face crinkles. You're not convinced. “Silver’s on the aux, we can ask her to play whatever you want.” She tries to bribe. “No sad-girl depressed shit, though.”

She keeps asking, offering deals and propositions that sound all the more appetizing as she continues. After a series of unabashed begging, you finally agree. “One song,” you sternly declare, hopping off the stool and grabbing ahold of your cup.

Her hands are in the air defensively, a cheshire smile stretching across her lips. “You lead the way,”

You've never partied with Kafka before. Your time spent as step-sisters consisted of you mostly lurking and watching, earning your nickname ‘little mouse’ because you were quiet, swift, and moved at night. You saw her sneak people into the house while your parents slept, throw parties while they were out, smoke in your backyard, and do other wild activities — but she never let you join. Your age was your main roadblock, being deemed too young and too cute to join her and her friends. Dancing with her now, smelling the strong mix of scents in the air and the bass of the music jumping in your bones, you understand why now.

Maybe it's the alcohol or the fact that your heart is broken, but the atmosphere is heavy. There's a lingering feeling that seeps through your pores. It has you dancing with her, letting her hands lie on your waist and your hips sway together.

Your bodies generate a fountain of heat that consumes you. You can't help but just dance: feeling the beat in your very core. Mixed with your surplus of liquid courage, your body sways and gyrates, lighting a flame you won't be able to put out in Kafka. Her smile is wide and her eyes flicker toward the couch, meeting an intense amber gaze.

Blade is entertained…more so intrigued with how you can live freely even after your heart weighs you down. The smile on your face doesn't falter — it only grows and gleams and he can't stop watching you dance.

Should he take Kafka’s place? He wants to take Kafka’s place.

It should be his hands on your waist, his lips on your ears, his words making you laugh—“Ah, I’m exhausted,”

You plop down beside him with an exasperated groan. He almost jumps out of his skin when you appear, and looking up at Kafka who towers over the pair of you, he can tell this is only the beginning. Her smile is warm but all-telling: whatever idea she has brewing in her head is coming to fruition tonight.

“I’ll be back. Take care of her for me, Bladie,” she shoots him a wink. He almost doesn't know what to do. Should he talk to you? Take you to bed?

“Blade?” Your voice is so small, so cute. You're quiet beneath the jumble of sounds crammed in your apartment but he can pick you out amongst the masses. He's never heard you address him before and the way his name leaves your mouth…he’s always going to replay it in his head forever. “…Y-yeah?”

He doesn't stutter but fuck, you make him nervous.

Breathing out airily, you turn your head to him. “…Do you and Kafka date?”

“No.” His answer is straight and immediate. Must be a sore subject…

“Oh…” “Why do you ask?” He knows why you ask. The same reason everybody else does. “Dunno. You guys just seem…close.”

“She’s not my type of girl.”

“Oh?” You perk up, now intrigued. “Then, what is your type of girl?”

You. He picks at his nails and almost avoids your eyes. How does he answer this question without freaking you out? Ah…fuck it.

“…You.” He’s dying on the inside but at least you're drunk—you’re not going to remember this so it won't be that bad. “Really?”

Your tone pitches up as you adjust your position. You lean your head against your hand now, opting to look him in his eyes. His attention feels nice and hearing that somebody insanely attractive wants you. You make him nervous, making him twiddle his fingers, and his cheeks dust rosy. That's a type of flattery that you can't make up.

“Yeah,” he says matter-of-factly. As if it's so obvious that he likes girls like you.

“What about me do you like?”

“Oh, uh, I don't know…” he trails off. He suddenly remembers the solo cup he abandoned earlier in the night and picks it up off the floor. He’s going to need a serious buzz to bear his dirty laundry to the wind. “…everything?” He poses it like a question — as though your reaction would gauge the validity.

Your face was brighter and painted in a flustered manner. “Thank you,” is all you can say without word-vomiting.

“What are you two talking about?” Kafka breaks up your tension, handing you another full cup and weaving her way onto the couch. She takes a seat right behind you, effectively spooning you. She takes a look at Blade over your shoulder, noticing the blush that paints his cheeks and the refusal to look in your direction.

Downing big swigs of your mystery drink, you shake your head. “Oh, nothing…” You sing, giving Blade an obvious reassuring wink that Kafka laughs at. “Guess I should leave you two to it, huh?”

“To what?” You ask coyly. You giggle bubbly, hiding your grin behind your cup. Kafka gives you a look, “I’m interrupting, aren't I? It’s okay to push me away.”

“We didn't do anything yet!!”

“Yet?” Kafka and Blade exchange glances - a series of looks that only mean one thing.

You slap a hand over your mouth, laughing into your palm drunkenly. Your mind is hazy and covered in static. That's not what you meant to say— “Well, I mean…”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, cocking her head to the side. “What do you mean? You playing to run off with Bladie later?”

While that would be great and you aren't completely unopposed…“We were just talking.”

Kafka shrugs, dropping the topic. You’re determined to preserve the privacy of your conversation until the very end. Well, anyway, there are other methods of getting the show on the road.

Her brief time away from the pair of you was spent curating a queue of songs on Silver’s phone — songs she knows you like, songs she knows Blade likes, and songs she knows your inebriated bodies will like. Full of bass, full of sensuality, full of dirty innuendos that get your core filled with butterflies and your head filled with fantasies. She took it upon herself to mix up a concoction strong enough to wipe out a village of Pilgrims and your inhibitions.

From the moment your mother mentioned staying with you, Kafka thought of you. You’re a staple goody-two-shoes, held down to Earth with a strict upbringing and a perfectionist mindset. You were always eager for more, wide eyes watching as she and her friends explored all types of realms unbeknownst to you.

It’s her way of setting you free and paying you back. All those times you covered for her, all those times you took care of her after a long night out, and even now, taking her in when you have no reason to — it’s her way of saying thank you. Giving you the release you’ve been clawing for since she met you; giving you the release you deserve.

Blade is perfect for you. He's the type of guy to send your mother into cardiac arrest but the type of guy to love you right. He's not a man of many words but of many actions — a crafter, a creator, a provider, a carer. What you need is stability, something in scarce supply ever since your parents split up; but you also need someone to fix. That can't be Kafka, it won't be her.

She's going to hand you the tools to set you free, but it's up to you to forge your way out.

This box of safety you guard yourself in is coming down tonight. The burden of finding the perfect, golden guy, being the perfect, golden girl, and living a perfect, golden life is shriveling by the minute, each alcoholic sip you take singeing its weight.

The sultry beat of the next song punches through the atmosphere. The vibe of the party seems to slow down: the chatter lowers itself to background noise, bodies move longingly and languidly, and the lights seem dimmer. Your body feels heavier too, slumping forward on the couch to where your forehead collides with Blade’s knee.

His hands are quick to slip under your arms, helping you sit up straight. Kafka rubs a supportive hand in circles on your back, “You alright, little mouse?”

You look at the man in front of you, his silhouette slowly coming into focus. With his hair freed down his back and toned body dressed in his usual comfortable loungewear, he looks good. So fucking good with the worried look on his face.

“Hey, I got you,” he states.

In a second your strength is replenished and you muster the courage to lean in, stealing a kiss from him. It’s unexpected, sloppy, and tastes a whole hell of a lot like liquor…but, fuck, does it feel good.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands, choosing to remove them from beneath your arms and rehome them on your waist. The initial shock dissipates and his body naturally leads into your kiss, his eyes closing after taking in the image of an amused Kafka.

You whimper into his mouth, eager to climb onto his lap. Your hands roughly tangle in his hair, pulling his face unimaginably closer as if you were trying to consume him whole. The feeling of his slightly chapped lips against your glossed ones is like heaven - even better as he gets to re-slick them with his tongue.

It’s like the world around you doesn't exist anymore. Time could cease to exist and it wouldn't faze you because you have everything you need beneath you. The warmth of another person, the kisses of pure desire, the hands of desperation…it all rests in Blade and he delivers it unto you. It's all that matters right now, all you could ever wish for — forget Jing Yuan, your mother, whatever stressors have been weighing you down. It's insignificant, it doesn't matter, not when Blade sucks your tongue and his hands grab the fat of your ass.

It doesn't take much to escalate the situation with the amount of alcohol and stress in your body. It needs to all come out.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Kafka practically pulls you two apart, holding your hand and hoisting you to your feet. “Let’s get you to bed,”

You grumble like a petulant child, holding your other hand out for Blade to grab. He’s quick to slip your hand into his. “I don't wanna go to bed…”

Leading you through the myriad of people, Kafka laughs, “Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep.”

You giggle at her words, the meaning not fully processing in your hazy head. You miss her innuendos the way you always have, focusing on Blade. His arm wraps around your waist to stabilize you with Kafka’s hand locked in yours. It’s intimate, it’s nice, and though you can't see the heat burn in his skin in this darkness, you can feel it with how close he is to you.

Kafka leads the three of you into your room, flickering your light on and closing the door behind you all. She locks it while you basically drag Blade to your bed.

You're more abrasive when you're drunk: grabbing Blade by the fabric of his shirt into another sloppy kiss. It’s amusing to watch, Kafka’ll give you that. But that's not the image she had in mind.

“Easy tiger,” she purrs, sitting behind you on the bed. You both catch your breaths, looking at each other with small smiles. There's a spark of desire in the room, latching onto any and everything and setting it ablaze. It’s hot and palpable and you need to set it out. “Let’s take our time, yeah?”

It doesn't register what she meant by that until her hands are fondling your chest and her chin rests on your shoulder. “Mmh…” she moans, feeling your nipples harden through your dress, “We’ve been waiting a real long time for this, haven't we, Bladie?”

He finds himself at a loss for words, swallowing thickly and keeping his eyes trained to you. “Yeah…”

“Why don't you come show her, then?” Kafka instructs, fluttering her eyes up to him. He doesn't need much encouragement to catch your bobbing head with his palm, leaning in and taking the lead in your kiss.

Under his behest, the kisses are softer, tamer, but filled with just as much—if not more—fire as before. He takes his time in carefully traversing your mouth with his tongue — completely contrasting from the kisses you gave him previously. You were taking a page from the book of Jing Yuan, using how he kissed you as a guideline for the basis. But that's not what you wanted. What you wanted from the very beginning was for him to take his time: to savor you down to every detail until your lips bruised and swelled, then move on to the rest of your body with passion.

Blade’s kisses were heavy with passion and need - as if he, too, was holding onto a package full of burdens.

As he moves down your jaw and neck, Kafka’s hands travel down to the hem of your dress, slipping under and gripping your bare sides. Her hands are cold and you flinch at the feeling, but it soon feels nice as her hands slide to cup your boobs under your bra. Your head falls back on her shoulder, allowing Blade more access to the expanse of your neck.

Your hips pathetically gyrate against the bed, receiving minimal friction that aids you in no way. It only makes you needier.

Blade pulls away to let Kafka pull your dress over your head, revealing the pretty, matching white set you have on underneath. You so obviously wore this with Jing Yuan in mind, and it irritates Blade that he was ever worthy enough to you to warrant such an ensemble. It was never right, never fair — but he has you now, and he doesn't plan on letting you go.

Kafka takes the initiative and unclips your bra, tossing the undergarment to the floor alongside your dress. You're pushed flat onto the mattress where she takes a moment to remove her crop top, leaning over you in her black lace bra.

She places a chaste kiss on your lips leaving your eyes to widen — watching with blown pupils as she lowers herself to your chest and darts her tongue toward your pebbled nipple. You drawl out a whine, your body curling up in response. She swirls the nub, dragging her teeth lightly on it and leaving you hissing and whimpering. All the while, Blade strips down to his underwear, tossing his long hair to the back and palming the tent in his pants.

You turn your head to your left and spot him, your face cringing in pleasure. You stretch your arms toward him and he complies, letting your hands find the sides of his head and pull him in for another kiss.

An agile hand slithers beneath the thin band of your panties, a slender finger slipping between your labia and running through your folds. You moan out into Blade’s mouth, hips jerking away and legs kicking into the air. “Your sensitive pussy’s all wet…” Kafka observes. She lays her head right below your boob, focusing her attention between your legs.

“‘S making a mess through your panties.” She laughs when you moan out again, her finger traveling down to your entrance and prodding.

“Kafka…” you moan, pulling away from Blade.

“Let’s see how long it takes to make you cum,” it’s so obvious that you're not going to last. Your cunt is soaked and only gets wetter by the minute, and her teasing ministrations have you moaning like a bitch in heat.

She adjusts her position, peeling down your panties and leaving them around your ankles lazily. The draft in your room whistles against your soaked folds - a chill runs up your spine as a result. She spits onto her hand as if it's needed, diving straight toward your clit. The sensitive bud is attacked mercilessly: heavy pressure weighing on it as Kafka draws figure-eights. There's a sticky clicking sound that arises and it makes her smile, taking a look at you and Blade over her shoulder.

You suck on his thumb, his left hand rubbing from your neck to your chest. Your whimpers are contained behind his digit, but your watery eyes say all. “You hear that?” She suddenly speeds up her actions, making your back arch and voice sing out around Blade’s finger.

And like a professional, she slows down, inching her finger back down to your hole. It slips in with ease and she sighs. “Dunno if she’s gonna be able to take you, Bladie,”

She pushes her middle finger in knuckle-deep, twisting her finger as she slithers her ring finger in beside it. Blade’s finger in your mouth does nothing to pacify you any longer - her fingers in your cunt bringing out the sweetest moans they’ve collectively ever heard. “She’s so tight…squeezing around my fingers.”

You writhe around in Blade’s hold and your arms brush over his hard-on every now and then. He winces and hisses, bucking into your touch. He needs to preoccupy himself before he cums in his pants—deciding to aid Kafka. His hand tentatively crawls toward your clit, rougher, thicker fingers pinching your bud. It has you huffing out a wail, balling your fist weakly on his thigh.

They keep up a steady pace in tandem, building up your orgasm with ease. Your body is reactive and receptive to their touch: falling apart when your core gets tight and even hotter.

“C’mon, little mouse…let it out for me,” Kafka encourages. She places sparse kisses against your thighs, the print of her lips faintly left in the color of her lipstick. “I can feel it. You wanna cum so bad,”

“Do it,” she murmurs between kisses, “let it out.”

It’s like your body is under her control. Your orgasm builds and crashes in a matter of seconds. Your hole spasms around her fingers but she never stops scissoring them inside of you, rubbing against your sweet spot and effectively overstimming you. You wail heartily, wrapping your arms around Blade’s arm and stopping him from continuing.

Kafka doesn't stop finger-fucking you until you come down from your high and endlessly whimper. She smears your release all over your pussy, bringing her coated fingers to her mouth.

Exaggeratedly, she sucks your juices off of her fingers, making sure to rock her hips against nothing and moan at the taste. “Mmfh,” and with a pop, she removes her digits from her mouth.

She hovers over you trying to catch your breath, capturing your face in her hand and squeezing your cheeks, forcing your lips to part. She lets her saliva drop from her mouth to yours, backing up with a smile. She stops you from swallowing: “Share,” she says.

You and Blade’s lips meet, smushing and mixing yours and Kafka’s spit. It gets messier, sloppier, and it's completely inefficient due to your awkward position but you comply nonetheless.

When you part, Kafka is making quick work of you and flips you over to your stomach. You yelp and giggle, looking over your shoulder and meeting her wide smile. Her index finger boops your nose and she turns to Blade, presumably signaling for him to get up. He stands up, hands grabbing your ankles and adjusting you perfectly.

Kafka slaps your tailbone softly, using her other hand to brush your hair out of your face. “Ass up,” she instructs, and you listen.

You wiggle your butt in the air with a laugh, laying your head on Kafka’s lap. Her pants are pretty comfortable and you find yourself becoming relaxed — while behind you Blade is pulling his boxers down and freeing his dick.

The last time you had actual sex was months ago…as in the middle to end of your freshman year. It was a forgotten one-night stand you met through a dating app - but he’s no match for Blade.

He presses the tip to your entrance, just teasing. Your heavy eyelids fly up, and you immediately brace yourself. You barely felt him, but he's big. You know it.

“Fuck…” he hisses. He wedges his cock between your folds, feeling your wetness smear against him. You feel his width, his length, his weight—he’s a lot less girthy than what you felt with your hands with Yuan, but he makes up for it in length.

If he keeps dragging his dick between your folds he’s going to cum. He has to physically stop himself, sucking in a deep breath because it's now or nothing.

Pressing the tip in you both gasp — and your sounds only drawl out until he completely bottoms out. He's so deep, and you're so wet. He's so big, and you're so tight. Dribbles of your previous orgasm and endless arousal seep out around him, and he nearly moans at the sight.

Getting a good grip on your ass, he spreads your cheeks, pushing you forward while pulling out. It’s a languid motion, edging you for the heart-stopping drop he imposes when you're filled fully again. Your moans come out with every collision and they're full of air. Your chest is tight and all of your air is flying out of your mouth. He's rendering you breathless, but it's nothing compared to how you're making him feel.

Blade begins to gradually increase his pace to satiate this intense hunger. He fucking needs you.

Now that he has a taste of you, his head is clear and his body is in nirvana. His strokes are precise and sharp. He pistons out of you with control, deep grunts skipping out of his mouth. It’s like your pussy is made for him: squeezing him just right in a tight hug and drooling endlessly.

Splat splat splat! The wet sound echoes from your collisions, battling against the barrage of moans that escape your mouth. “Oh, f-f—” you stutter over the curse, clawing at Kafka’s legs. She coos at you, rubbing your face. “You can take it, you got it. Good girl,”

“C-can’t! ‘M gonna cum!” You sob, burying your face into her leg.

Your body hasn't recovered from your previous orgasm, still reeling and the added pleasure Blade stacks on doesn't help. You feel like you're going to explode, wailing and drooling all over the place as your hips gain a mind of their own, fucking back against Blade and chasing your release.

“Think you can squirt for us?”

Oh, hell yeah. If there's one thing Blade wants to do for you, it's to ruin anybody else for you. He wants a monopoly over your body — he wants you to know him as your main source of Heaven on Earth and if there’s one way to do that…

In three swift movements, you're flipped back onto your back, legs on his shoulders. He slips back in with ease, wasting no time in pounding your cunt. He’s fiercer, more determined: drawn up with furrowed brows and his bottom lip snatched between his teeth, Blade becomes a different person.

There's more need, more fervor, an insatiable feeling that’s driven by your warm pussy around him and the idea of being the first person to make you squirt—the only person to make you squirt.

Kafka wraps her hand around your throat, squeezing the sides, and watches with pure amusement as your eyes grow foggier and your sounds grow choppier. They're just using your body, pushing you to the very limit and it's working so well.

A new fire has been lit under your ass and you feel alive — you're on top of the world and nothing but a grand finale can bring you down.

“G-got tighter…” Blade grunts out. Kafka turns to you, seeing how even though your eyes and mouth spill over, you still manage to curl your lips into a toothy grin. “Think she likes it,”

“You like this, huh? Being choked out while getting fucked silly?” God, yes. You love it—you’re on cloud nine.

In this position, Blade can fuck you deeper. He’s effectively digging you out, the slight left-leaning curve of his cock hitting your g-spot again and again. Quakes rack through your body again; it’s coming.

They both can tell and it's getting sloppy. Blade is holding back from blowing his load deep in you, and Kafka? Well, Kafka’s happy to play the supporting role - now letting go of your neck and wedging her head between you and Blade.

With her ass in the air, Kafka dives into the perfect arch to let her lips wrap around your clit, taking the neglected bud into her warm mouth with a long moan. The vibrations jolt through your body and you nearly scream out, thrashing above them.

It's too much, your body can't handle it. You start to crumble: your stomach gnarling and tears streaming down your face. “IcantIcantIcant—” Your hands frantically try to push Blade away but to no avail.

His grunts grow more animalistic as he puts all of his body weight into his thrusts, slowing down. He goes harder, making your body jostle with each grind of his hips. His face is knitted in pleasure, his porcelain skin damp with sweat and blemished in a crimson brushing. Kafka abusing your puffy clit with her tongue has you and Blade losing your minds, collectively falling apart.

This is it. This is pure, unadulterated bliss.

White hot heat surges through your body as you shake. Your thighs quiver on Blade’s shoulders, and Kafka can feel the stiffness of your clit. She slithers back to her seated position, her eyes never leaving the passion-filled affair occur.

Words you try to form only come out as broken squeaks and even Blade can't hold back any longer, letting out a string of blissed-out curse words as you clamp around him. The orgasm that begins to pour out of you is paired with a force that’s all but pushing him out.

You sob and he moans out — one last thrust breaking the floodgates. A clear stream shoots from between your legs, spurting at his abs. All the while, his orgasm comes over him, filling you with all his heavy balls had been storing.

You can't even move. Your chests heave for big breaths, unable to catch them.

It’s a high you can't come down from — filled with a surplus of electricity, liquor, and desire. You needed that more than anything, you needed him more than anything.

┄┄

A small yawn leaps from your mouth when your eyes begrudgingly open. What time even is it…?

You swing your arm over behind you in search of the device — but you're instead met with flesh. You're suddenly wide awake, sitting straight up only to realize you're completely naked. You turn to your side and there lays Blade, snoring softly into your pillow.

What the hell happened last night…

You jump out of bed, find something stray to throw on and feel an incredible ache between your legs. Clearly, you had quite the night. You can't concisely remember what happened last night and right now is definitely not the time to rehash your decisions.

You're not completely opposed to doing whatever you did with Blade because…well, he's Blade. He's always been attractive to you, and at least he’s willing to treat you like a person.

You're not going to wake him up so you leave him a note: scribbling your number on a random piece of paper and scurrying out of the room.

You need to find your phone and get some air—“Good morning. Took you a while to get up, huh.”

Kafka sits at the bar, stuffing her mouth with a spoonful of cereal. Does she know that you and Blade…

“Oh, yeah. Hey. Good morning…” you awkwardly puff out. Your voice is hoarse and you cringe at the sound, placing your hands on your chest with concern. “I’m gonna go um…get some food,”

“I made some eggs earlier if you want some—” “—I’m good. I could use the air, anyway.”

Kafka shrugs, turning back to her cereal. You rush out of your apartment in a blur, slamming the door and leaving Kafka in a brief silence.

Moments after you left, Blade emerges from the hallway. “Morning sleepy head. How’d you sleep?” She teases.

He nods, rubbing his eye. He takes a seat next to Kafka, holding up a piece of paper between two fingers. “Woke up to this,”

“The hell is that?” Kafka questions, spinning her spoon around in her bowl.

He flips the paper over, “Her number.”

A smile breaks across her face and she slaps his arm playfully. “Look at you!”

Blade fights off a coy smile, twirling the paper between his fingers. He waited so long, so patiently—and it was all worth it. He would do it again and again. All just to make you his.

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satorusplayplace · 10 months

Note

headcanons on gojo satoru as your classmate pls! can be platonic or romantic :D

Gojo Satoru as your classmate!

☆ pairing: teen!gojo satoru x classmate!fem!reader

☆ content warning(s): cussing!

☆ A/N: i added my own little twist! and i’m so sorry if you didn’t want fem :( i’ll rewrite it! just lmk :) i also made the reader around 5’8-5’10 for my tall girlies!! we need more tall!reader inserts 🥲🫶🏼

you were a student at kyoto’s jujutsu high, while the sashisu group came over for some reason unknown to you. you were definitely caught off guard when you were laying in the grass under a shaded tree when two huge men (boys.) covered some of the sunlight beaming through the tree leaves.

“may i help you?” you asked them both and a girl comes up, you noticed it was shoko! shoko was your childhood best friend!

“SHOOOOKOOOOO~~!” you cried. you haven’t seen her in over two years! you hugged the girl and towered over her a bit. the two boys watched in surprise. they were going to ask you for help and just bother you but now that you know their best friend, they definitely needed to bother you.

“y/n! wow! you’ve grown. seriously.” she says to you, looking at the height difference between you two. you smile and laugh because she used to be taller when you two were younger.

“y/n huh… we’re your new classmates. you’re transferring to tokyo’s tech now, a request from the higher ups and yaga.” gojo says to you. you look at him and nod. you already knew you had to transfer, just didn’t know it was this soon…

✰ oh gojo as a classmate is annoying!!

✰ he didn’t care for you at least but after a few months you would hang out with their group. making you apart of the sashisu group.

✰ gojo started to crush on you after you would buy the group gifts often. you remembered his favorite things and after that, he hung around you as much as possible.

✰ “y/n!! you brought me kikufuku!!” he pouts and hugs you.

✰ gojo tended to follow you to your dorm room as well knowing after certain hours, the boys shouldn’t be on the girls side.

✰ “y/n!! mochi!! let meeee innnnnn!!!! PLEASSEEEE!! i wanna hang out with you.” you always let him in because of his whines.

✰ oh it was so obvious with how much he liked you. he teased you in class, in the hallway, on missions, everywhere

✰ he couldn’t help but flirt with you time to time, making suguru and shoko run away from you two. and you ended up falling for his charm.

✰ “y/n!!! you’re like mochi, so sweet…” and he ended up kissing your cheeks.

✰ oh the feeling of embarrassment flushing over you was overpowered by how much you wanted to kiss him.

✰ when you ended up kissing his lips after months of relentless teasing, he was blushing from how unexpected it was.

✰ when you guys got together. it was sooo annoying. he couldn’t help but have his hands everywhere on you. even your face, as much as you adored the man, it was annoying!

✰ when he noticed how touchy he was being, he always pouted and stopped himself from touching you, to the point where he didn’t even touch you at all.

✰ “satoru, i swear to god, if you don’t fucking cuddle me, i will literally break up with you. fucking kiss me already.”

✰ least you say, he was very content that night.

✰ satoru’s the perfect classmate, always helping you. he just wants you to ask him. not anyone else, only him.

✰ he just loves your attention

✰ he loves your height. omg. he doesn’t have to bend down too much. but also it’s perfect because he likes your legs…

✰ do not leave him alone for a long period of time!!! he gets sooooo pouty and whiny.

✰ overall, gojo is a 10/10 classmate and boyfriend. he just wants to marry you already.

#satoru gojo #jjk #fanfic #romance #jujutsu kaisen #x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #fluff #teen!gojo #gojo is so cute!#gojo satoru jjk #gojo is baby #gojo fluff

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vintageshanny · 3 months

Text

Waiting for Love - Part Four

Relax and Enjoy the Ride

Content: Late July 1970, marriage problems, infidelity, smut, some angst, fluff, 18+

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

Catch up here: Waiting for Love series

Elvis heard a soft rapping at the door to his hotel suite and his heart sped up at the irrational thought that maybe Vivien had decided to just quit her job and stay with him. He swung open the door, but to his shock it was Priscilla, holding a small bag in one hand and Lisa Marie’s arm with the other. Lisa was trying to squirm away. “Daddy!” she yelled out when she looked up at him.

“Yisa!” he responded with delight. “C’mere and give Daddy a big ol hug!” He scooped her up and covered her little face with kisses, blowing raspberries on her chubby cheeks.

“Daddy have cake?” Lisa asked with a big grin.

“Of course Daddy has some cake for ya. Ya want chocolate?” Elvis beamed as he led her over to the dining area.

“Elvis, she really doesn’t need that right now,” Priscilla started to say, but Elvis waved her off.

“Let me give my princess some cake.”

“Yeah, mommy, princess need cake,” Lisa smiled at her hero and sweet-provider. Priscilla rolled her eyes.

“Are you alone here?” she asked Elvis casually, glancing around for any evidence to the contrary.

“Of course. I mean, the guys are here, but they’re out pickin’ up dinner. Or lunch. Or whatever meal we’re supposed ta be eatin’ right now,” Elvis said, glancing at the clock. 6pm. “Why? Were you expectin’ someone else?” he asked, starting to grow suspicious and irritated. “Is that why ya showed up unannounced two weeks early?”

Priscilla looked away guiltily. “No,” she murmured. “I just thought it would be nice for Lisa to see you for a few days. And for me, too,” she quickly added. “Then we’ll go back to LA.”

“But you’re comin’ for opening night, right?” Elvis asked, his face looking eager like a puppy dog.

“Yeah, yes, of course,” Priscilla answered, wondering how long they were going to keep up this charade of a happy couple for opening night. Elvis was wondering the same thing. Wondering why he felt he needed her there. Wondering if he’d care to see her at all if Lisa wasn’t with her. Wondering why he felt more irritation than happiness when his own damn wife showed up at his door. He felt trapped in a web of promises, expectations, and pressures that he could not begin to articulate. And now the added complication of Vivien. Of love.

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

“So what happened next?” Roxanne grilled as she and Vivien relaxed on her sofa Friday night. They’d both had busy weeks at work, and it was the first chance they’d had to catch up since Vivien’s whirlwind trip to Las Vegas the weekend before. She sipped her red wine and stared intently as Vivien fidgeted with her bottle of Pepsi.

“Well, he rehearsed for a while, and it was amazing to see. Like my own private concert,” Vivien said, smiling at the memory of that rich soulful voice filling the rehearsal space. “And then later,” she continued, staring down at her red fingernails tapping nervously on the bottle, “we, uh, went up to his room.”

“Oooh, now this is what I wanna hear!” Roxanne leaned in close so she wouldn’t miss a thing. “Was it like a party or just the two of you? Did you see him naked? Did you do the deed?”

“Hold on, hold on, I’ll get to all that. First we just talked for a while. He was asking me what I thought of his rehearsal and then we talked about his movies. Rox, he’s sooo sweet and funny.”

“Yeah, yeah, sweet, funny, charming, now get to the good stuff,” Roxanne teased. “Did you tell him how much we love his tight pants in the movies?”

Vivien blushed as she reached for the bowl of popcorn sitting on the couch between them. “I might have mentioned something about that.”

“You did?” Roxanne squealed. “What did he say?”

“Um, he turned really red actually. It was very cute. Of course, I was blushing too. And that led to me, uh, doing some other things,” Vivien said evasively.

“Other things? C’mon, Vivien, tell me what happened!” Roxanne threw a piece of popcorn at her.

“I’m sorry, I just feel embarrassed saying it all out loud,” Vivien groaned, burying her head in her arms, using the bottle of Pepsi to cool down her burning hot face.

“Oh, Viv, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I always tell you everything, and I’ve been waiting for the day when you’d have something juicy to share. Don’t hold out on me now!”

“Okay, okay,” Vivien breathed out nervously. “This is what happened. He let me take his pants off, and then I…” Vivien made a motion like she was licking a lollipop.

“Oh Viv I’m so proud of you!” Roxanne crowed. “Did you like it? Did he like it? How big was it?” The interrogation continued.

“Oh, I really loved it. The way he moaned when I licked him…I’ll remember that sound for the rest of my life,” Vivien giggled. “I think he liked it, but I don’t know if I was very good at it. I didn’t do it too long before he wanted to do some other things.”

“What things?” Roxanne demanded. “Did you go all the way?”

“No, I wasn’t sure if I was ready, and he said he wanted to take things slowly anyway.”

“Aww, that is a very sweet line,” Roxanne said. “So what did you do instead?”

“Well, he took my dress off so I was just in my underwear, and then he got on top of me and just kind of, you know,” Vivien made a rolling motion with her hips and laughed. “It felt really good, though, especially since his tongue was just all over me. And he must have loved it too because he…finished on me,” Vivien’s voice dropped to a whisper at the end.

“Wait, what? Elvis finished just from humping you through your underwear?” Roxanne sounded shocked.

“Yeah, then he used his fingers to make sure I finished too. He said he had to take care of me.” Vivien beamed at the thought of how considerate he was. She knew from Roxanne that not many guys were like that. “After that he got some towels to clean us off. It’s funny because he seemed almost shy to be naked in front of me after it was over. He was sort of trying to hide behind the towel when he saw me looking at him still.”

“Well yeah, Viv, I don’t think men like to be stared at when their thing is soft,” Roxanne laughed. “When it’s just hanging there like a cute little mushroom.”

Vivien’s brow furrowed at the description. “It didn’t really look like a mushroom. More like a, um, like a caterpillar in a cocoon. A nice thick cocoon,” she added dreamily.

“Are you telling me Elvis is not circumcised?” Roxanne asked with a quizzical expression, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

“Um, I don’t know, I guess not,” Vivien shrugged. Since she hadn’t known what to expect, the thought really hadn’t crossed her mind.

Roxanne wrinkled her nose in mild disgust. “That’s weird, I wonder why not.” Vivien rolled her eyes. Roxanne’s judgments over superficial things were a bit much at times.

“Who cares? I thought it was perfect.” Vivien tried to keep her annoyance under the surface, but it was clearly rising.

‘

“I’m sorry, Viv, I wasn’t meaning to insult him. I know how protective you get when you love someone.” Roxanne reached over and squeezed her hand. Vivien turned to look at her, and her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Vivien shook her head as the tears started rolling down her cheeks.

“I do love him, Rox. I’m scared of how much I feel for him already.” Vivien let Roxanne pull her into a hug as she continued. “I haven’t even told you the worst part yet. I thought he was feeling the same way about me, and then when I left the hotel, I’m almost positive I saw Priscilla arriving.” She sniffled into Roxanne’s shoulder. “It just hit me so hard, y’know? Like I’m falling in love while he has this whole other life with this person.”

Roxanne rubbed her back soothingly. “It’s okay, Viv. You don’t know what she was doing there; it could have been just to bring their daughter by. He told you not to worry about it, right? I’m sure he needs to sort some things out, but I think the only thing you can do at this point is to follow your heart.”

“I’m trying, but it’s so hard. He hasn’t even called me this week.” Vivien let the tears continue to fall while Roxanne rocked her like a baby.

Two hours later, Vivien was walking up the stairs to her apartment, feeling a little better after watching some television with Roxanne. As she reached the landing, Mrs. Quimp popped her head out from next door. “Y’know dearie,” she started in that pleasant yet judgmental way, “If you’re going to have people calling all hours of the night, you might want to invest in one of those machines that answers your phone for you. I’ve been hearin’ it ring for near on an hour now.”

Vivien glanced down at her watch and saw it was 9pm. Hardly “all hours of the night,” she thought as she rolled her eyes. “I’ll be sure to look into that,” she said sweetly as she slipped into her apartment before Mrs. Quimp could offer more helpful advice. She tossed her purse on the counter and grabbed the pale blue phone receiver. “Hello?”

“Baby, w-w-where the hell ya been?” Elvis spluttered out. “I-I-I was ‘bout ta send out a search party for ya.”

“Elvis? I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were calling,” Vivien responded, totally caught off guard by his slight hostility.

Elvis let out a little sigh. “It’s okay honey, I-I was just’ gettin’ worried about ya.” He cleared his throat a little bit. “So, w-w-where were ya? On a hot date?” He said it casually, but his sweet stutter belied his nerves, and Vivien was surprised, and honestly a little flattered, to detect a hint of jealousy in his tone.

“No, of course not, silly,” she laughed. “I was with Roxanne. The only man I want a hot date with is halfway across the country.” Vivien could picture the crooked simile she knew was spreading across his handsome face.

“Is that right? Who ya seein’ in New York, baby?” Elvis let out a loud laugh at his own joke.

“Very funny,” Vivien giggled. “You know it’s you. And I want to see more of you.”

“I think ya seen ‘bout all there is ta see, honey,” Elvis teased.

Vivien blushed at that. “Well, I want to see it all again then. It looked so good the first time.”

“Not disappointed then?” Elvis’ tone was still light and joking, but Vivien thought she detected the tiniest bit of insecurity in his voice. The weird look of disgust on Roxanne’s face flashed through her mind, and she wondered if Elvis had ever seen that look on a woman’s face in his most vulnerable moments. The idea that someone so amazing could also be nervous and insecure somehow both soothed her and broke her heart. She felt determined to make him see the beauty that she saw.

“Disappointed? Oh, no, you looked absolutely perfect. I could stare at you all day,” Vivien murmured, her face growing hot at the thought of it.

“You’re a sweet little weirdo, y’know that?” Elvis laughed, glad she couldn’t see the way she made him blush with her compliments.

“Well, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Vivien teased.

“It sure do, baby. Now when ya gonna come back and see me so we can stare at each other?”

“Oh, um, Joe told me I couldn’t be there once the camera crews arrived,” Vivien explained.

The tension immediately returned to Elvis’ voice. “Baby, don’ ya worry ‘bout him. We already had a conversation, and if he wants ta keep his job, he’ll mind his own goddamn business.” He sighed and continued, “I ain’t mad at ya honey, jus’ don’ worry ‘bout any of that, okay? Remember to jus’ stay in the moment with me. I need ya with me. Everything feels better with you, Vivien. Everything,” he repeated.

Vivien’s heart melted a little bit. “Okay, of course I’ll come. I just didn’t want to be in the way.”

“Honey, ya ain’t in the way if I want ya here, okay? I’ll make the arrangements for next weekend. I can’t wait ta see ya again.”

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

Elvis kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, draped his heavy belt over the chair, and flopped onto the giant bed in his suite. He set his glasses on the nightstand and patted the spot next to him. “C’mere honey, take off your sandals and lay by me. I gotta unwind before dinner.” Vivien obeyed and settled in next to him, leaning her head on the sleeve of his cherry blossom shirt. “You got some cute yittle sooties, honey,” Elvis announced as he nudged one of VIvien’s feet with his own.

“What, my feet?” she asked, trying to figure out what sooties were. She was slowly but surely adding all of Elvis’ special little words to her vocabulary.

“Yeah, I like how your toenails and fingernails match,” he said as he stared at them with a little grin. “You should try pink next time. That would look real nice on ya, baby.”

“Maybe I will,” Vivien smiled. “Your feet are pretty cute, too.”

Elvis laughed. “Oh, ya like how two of my toes are partly connected?”

Vivien kneeled up on the bed to get a better look.

“Aww, look at those cute little toesies!” she cooed, grabbing one of his feet and nibbling at his toes like he was a little boy. Elvis laughed and squirmed, trying to pull his foot away. “Oh, is someone ticklish?” Vivien teased, running her fingertips over the bottom of his foot.

“B-b-baby, st-stop it,” Elvis pleaded, his laughter now completely uncontrolled.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Vivien asked playfully as she moved the tickling up under his pant leg, around his ankle.

“L-lemme show ya,” Elvis gasped out, and he leaned up and pounced on her, rolling them both over so he was laying on top of her. He immediately lunged in for a deep, passionate kiss. Vivien relished the way his marshmallow-soft lips smashed into hers, his tongue prodding its way into her mouth. He pulled back slightly and stared into her eyes. “Ya feel Little Elvis?” Vivien nodded, feeling his arousal growing harder, pressing into her. “You, uh, gonna kiss me there again, honey?” Elvis asked, his face turning a deep crimson.

Vivien nodded again, reaching up to stroke his flushed cheek. “Elvis, I think I’d do anything to make you happy,” she whispered. The way he smiled at that made her feel like he was looking into her very soul.

“You’re such a giving person, Vivien. So am I. There’s somethin’ I’ve really been wantin’ to do for ya.” Elvis shifted gently off of her and reached his hand slowly under her dress, pulling her panties down and removing them completely.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Vivien asked anxiously as Elvis lifted the hem of her dress and started inching down between her legs.

Elvis looked up with that adorable, lopsided, heart-melting grin. “You’re so sweet ta me Vivien, that I jus’ know ya gotta taste sweet too.” Vivien remembered what she had forgotten to ask Roxanne about, but it was too late now. She could feel her body trembling as Elvis pushed her legs further apart. “Shh, ‘s okay honey,” he rubbed her thigh soothingly with his thumb. “You jus’ relax and enjoy the ride.” She grabbed his hair as the waves of pleasure began to overtake her, Elvis’ tongue dancing across every inch of her body.

Tag List: @whositmcwhatsit @lookingforrainbows @arrolyn1114 @thatbanditqueen @missmaywemeetagain @ellie-24 @be-my-ally @from-memphis-with-love @pebbles403 @deniseinmn @everythingelvispresley @little-laamb @annapresley8 @leapresley @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @atleastpleasetelephone @gatheraheart @richardslady121 @helen06dreamer

#Elvis #Elvis fan fic #Elvis fan fiction #Elvis x oc #Elvis smut #waiting for love #i love this man

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bit-dodgy-innit · 2 years

Text

First

Summary: You fell in love first with Marc. It didn’t mean you loved him more than his other alters, but when you notice he’s hesitant to front after your daughter is born, you gently confront about it and assuage him.

Another fic set in THE SHAPE OF YOU verse

Pairing: Marc x afab!reader, background Steven x afab!reader and Jake x afab!reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Rating: M

CW/TW: Mentions of abuse, divorce and pregnancy, domesticity, sexual themes and content, angst, feels, fluff.

A/N: Sometimes you need to write the entire history of a relationship before you actually write the scene between two characters you’ve been thinking of! Tre fun!

I need everyone to know that I adore Layla and May Calamawy sooo much so that every OC I write must be intimidated and jealous of her because she is truly a goddess among us. That being said, I hardcore ship Layla and the Moon Boys in canon, wanted to make sure NO ONE thinks I’m a hater!

You met Marc first, through work of all places. Your company was doing a defense deal, and your superiors thought it prudent to hire a consultant to ensure no party was getting screwed over money or terms-wise. And it would have been, it would have been a perfectly prudent, responsible choice if your first thought upon meeting Marc Spector hadn’t been oh my God, why does the military consultant have such soulful eyes?

The attraction to him was instant. Suddenly you were berating yourself for not doing more with your hair that day, and of course you’d wore your least flattering skirt. The good news was that you were running point on this deal and would have more opportunities to dazzle the American in the coming months with your business acumen and your beauty.

Initially, you two were nothing but friendly professionals. You got along easily, which was imperative since you were liaising with the slow and infuriating bureaucracy of the Ministry of Defense. Marc made the painstaking work and negotiations your company had dispensed you two with tolerable, even enjoyable.

You did start making more of an effort in the office though. It was subtle, you didn’t want Marc to know you were trying, let alone trying for him, but your heart would sink a little every time he politely declined your team’s invite for a post-work pint when you’d gotten up extra early that morning to blow out your hair.

That all changed at a client dinner. Your bosses were attending as well as members of the Ministry of Defense, so Marc had to be there. The chance to interact with the elusive American outside of work was stupidly exciting to you. Even better, you were seated across from him at the table. You were damn good at your job, which meant you could multitask: you charmed the clients, laughing in all the right places during their boring and problematic anecdotes, and got as drunk off the sight of Marc in a suit and tie as you were on the expensive wine your boss ordered.

Up until that night, you had assumed that your interest in Marc was one-sided. Hell, you’d believed it all throughout dinner too. It wasn’t until after the meal, when everyone headed home for the evening, that Marc insisted you split a cab and the irrevocable shift took place.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” you insisted as the taxi Marc hailed pulled over, “I’ve lived in London my entire adult life, I know how to get home in one piece.”

It was true, but the real reason you were protesting had more to do with the wine you’d consumed and the ensuing proximity to Marc than your personal safety. You couldn’t trust yourself not to do something horny and stupid.

“C’mon, it’s no trouble, besides we’re not far from each other. What kind of gentlemen would I be if I let you leave unaccompanied with all the crazy shit out there nowadays?” Marc opened the car door for you.

Your heart soared and your panties flooded. Trying to play it cool, you threw out one last protest as you got into the cab, “That’s not your job Marc, that’s why we have Thor and that white knight guy.”

Marc got in behind you and muttered, “You shouldn’t trust him.”

You weren't sure if he meant the god of thunder or the other vigilante, but frankly, you didn’t care because you were in the backseat with Marc. You couldn’t remember anything else you said after that, you knew that you apparently carried on a whole conversation while the cab ferried you across the Thames, but Marc’s lips so close, the scent of his aftershave, his hand resting on the seat millimeters from yours were the only things you could focus on.

The driver pulled to a stop and recited your address, shattering the warm, heady haze of desire you’d sunken into over the course of the ride.

“That’s me!” you called over the divider.

Marc told the driver to wait, that he’d walk you to your building’s door. Your throat was as dry as sandpaper but somehow you found the saliva to say “Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

You opened your purse. “How much do I–”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Okay well, make sure you expense this then.”

“I’m really not worried about it.”

“Right. Good night, Marc.”

You’d said the words to him, but didn’t move. Those dark, expressive eyes had you pinned in place. After a beat, you decided you’d been imagining ‘a moment’ and began to retreat. That was when Marc, rather Marc’s body almost independent of him, lurched toward you, crashing your lips together.

Needless to say, it was a good kiss. The kind of kiss that makes your toes curl, that feels like you’re getting lost and coming home at the same time.

When you breathlessly broke apart, Marc had sucked any sense out of your brain, leaving nothing to stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth “That was unprofessional.”

It wasn’t a judgment. Nor a condemnation. Just an observation. A statement of fact.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“But I think how much I enjoyed it is even more unprofessional.”

“Fuck,” Marc swore lowly before kissing you again. It was just as good as the first. No flukes here. The next time you both gasped for air, he reeled. “We can’t do this.”

“I know,” you conceded.

“Not while I’m working with you.”

“Okay.” It was all you could manage while your head swam. Then it occurred to you to follow up with, “After?”

“Yeah. After.” Marc nodded. You opened your building door, he jogged back to the taxi, and that was it.

The next morning at the office, you’d concluded that “After” from Marc meant he was letting you down easy. While you felt like you’d arrived at the office altered on a cellular level after acting on your feelings for him, Marc was reserved and distant in your meetings.

You cried on the Tube on the way home and ultimately absolved him. The two of you had been drinking last night, and Marc was a hot American guy in London. He was probably drowning in pussy, why would he wait for a woman who was off-limits for another six weeks? It was your fault for nursing a schoolgirl crush on him as a grown-ass woman.

His refusal to join the crew for drinks after the deal closed felt like the nail in the coffin. Marc didn’t want to pick things up despite his contract with your company being completed. You got absolutely shitfaced that night, so much so that it wasn’t until the next morning that you saw that he’d texted you.

From Marc Spector: now where were we?

You thrashed in your bed in delight, giggled, and then promptly shuffled to the bathroom to vomit.

***

You got dinner, just the two of you this time. Marc revealed that the reason he’d been so evasive had stemmed from the fact he was attracted to you too, but Marc was building his reputation as a consultant and wanted to maintain professionalism. He didn't want to compromise you and your job integrity either. All was forgiven over dinner while you got to know each other better.

You’d never tell Nyla this, but you jumped into bed with Marc sooner than you would with anyone else. It was not a feminist, nor a particularly romantic thing to say, but you considered your fate to be sealed after the first time you and Marc slept together. The way he bounced you on his cock, then maneuvered you onto all fours and pounded you from behind while growling “Yeah baby, work that ass back on this dick” swiftly and effectively ruined you for other men.

You found that dating Mark was like an archaeological dig. The closer you got, the deeper you dug, you unearthed a new revelation about the beautiful, but complex, man who would become your husband and the father of your child.

Revelation One: Marc had been married before. That one wasn’t much of a surprise, given his age and experience in the sack. With a face that handsome, a cock that fat, and ass and thighs that thick, it only made sense that someone would’ve tried to lock Marc down. He didn’t tell you many details about his ex-wife, only that they were married for a few years and that she lived abroad. You were privately pleased that she wasn’t in the British Isles, a childish possessiveness fueling a small pit of jealousy within you.

Revelation Two: Marc had been a mercenary. This didn’t really come as a shock either, you’d witnessed first-hand Marc’s extensive knowledge of the military and the black market, both of which were indispensable as you’d hammered out the deal at work. Perhaps it didn’t bother you as much to know that your boyfriend used to kill for a living when you could see how the vocation still haunted his features when he spoke about it, how earnestly he wanted to repent for his actions. It also helped that it was a nebulous concept to you, you’d never seen him act as the cold-blooded killer he professed he’d been, so it wasn’t quite “real” to you.

Revelation Three: Marc had suffered trauma and abuse. It helped explain Marc’s path to his former dark line of work, not to mention it broke your heart to learn that his own mother had beaten him, a horrendous misdirection of her grief over the death of his younger brother. She had died recently too, which triggered a whole mix of emotions that Marc was working through.

Revelation Four: Marc had Dissociative Identity Disorder as a result of the trauma and abuse. This one took some backup to wrap your mind around, yet it did explain why Marc never went out for drinks after work – Steven, one of his alters, had been TA’ing a class at University College London that met in the evenings as part of his Ph.D during Marc’s contract. It also provided the reason for why Marc had sort of lurched into the first kiss you shared. His second alter Jake had taken control and given Marc the push he felt the other needed.

You did your best to school your features to impassivity when he told you. Marc thought you’d break up with him then and there. You didn’t, but you told him you needed a minute to make sure you could process everything properly. So you reached out to a therapist you’d seen a few years ago after a bout of depression. It took a few sessions and research on your part, yet it wasn’t long until you felt comfortable enough to meet Steven and Jake.

It was weird, meeting Marc’s alters felt like a mix of going on a blind date and meeting your significant other’s family. The apprehension you initially harbored dissipated in the first five minutes you met Steven, however. You fell for his accent, his dorkiness, and the way he looked at you like you were a treasure from one of ancient civilizations he was an expert on. It also didn’t hurt that he would eat your pussy for hours and was obsessed with your tits.

You and Steven went on a few more dates just the two of you, then took a month for you to adjust to being present when he and Marc would switch and be co-conscious before meeting Jake. Your first date with him was at a salsa club, so wildly unlike Marc or Steven, and you had to pick your jaw up from the floor when your boyfriend greeted you with a Spanish term of endearment in a flat cap and leather gloves. Jake was less inhibited than Marc, a double edged sword in that he was quicker to anger and violence, but less guarded about his emotions and affection toward you. Plus, Jake gave you a reason to dust off your high-school Spanish.

It took a few months, but eventually you four settled into a routine and ease with each other. Your relationship was unconventional for sure, but it was also the happiest you’d ever been. You’d believed that you’d gotten through the most stunning revelations from Marc, that you’d hit his metaphorical core, and everything from here on out would be relatively smoothly sailing. You were so confident that you started dropping hints to each of the boys about engagement rings.

Turned out you still had more to learn.

Revelation Five: Marc and both his alters had a stint serving Khonshu, the Egyptian god of the moon. Superheroes and gods and aliens were a part of your life, part of everyone’s after The Snap, but you never thought that the man you slept next to would’ve been so directly involved in it.

“You were white knight guy!?!” you gaped when Marc told you.

“Yeah, Khonshu’s Moon Knight,” he clarified.

As bonkers as this information was, it was similar to when Marc had told you he was divorced or that he’d been a mercenary. While of course you believed him, you had never actually seen Marc’s mysterious ex-wife or watched Marc take down a target, the information had never been made tangible.

It was easy to accept when you learned that your boyfriend was Khonshu’s avatar, because you would never see him in the suit. Apparently, the Egyptian god was kind of an asshole, and the men had renounced their ties to him just before you and Marc began dating. It was why Marc had been so adamantly against an office romance, he was desperate to build a life without violence, outside of Khonshu after years of service to the deity.

Marc had tried to push you away, even revealing some of these facets of himself in an attempt to get you to leave him, but you stayed the course. You patiently held your ground and told Marc, each and every time, that he wasn’t getting rid of you that easily. You received every revelation with a measured countenance, well, until you discovered that Marc’s ex-wife was The Scarlet Scarab. That launched you two into a row for the ages.

“How do I compete with that?!’ you shrieked at him, “I can’t compete with that.”

“I don’t want you to! I want you because you’re you, you’re not like her, you’re—”

“Boring?” you supplied.

Marc’s frown deepened. “No, stop. You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“So what am I to you? Your breather before you go back to her for superhero sex?”

“Ok, first of all I wasn’t a superhero–”

“Marc, you had a special suit, enhanced abilities and fought criminals. That’s a superhero.”

“You’re missing the point,” he argued. “Layla and I are through. She wanted to be a superhero and I’d had enough of Khonshu’s bullshit. I couldn’t do it anymore. She wanted the adventure and I wanted this, what we have. We made a good team when it was stealing artifacts and chasing madmen across the globe but we were shit at all the real stuff - well not that it wasn’t real - the relationship stuff.”

You studied Marc for a long moment. You wanted to keep your jealousy at bay, you really did. So you tried to play it off, scoffing “Ugh, you’re lucky you’re an animal in bed and that Steven’s the only one who will go to that impressionist exhibit with me later this month.”

“You’re being glib, which means you’re not mad?”

“No, I’m sad,” your face crumpled and a sob escaped your throat. You thought you and Marc had made it through the worst of it, the deepest, darkest parts of yourselves, but here you were, fighting over something that Marc had kept from you because you were envious. A nexus of both of your vices. “What are we doing here?”

Marc watched you cry, cold fear sluicing through his veins. He looked to his reflection in hopes that Steven or Jake would tap in, they were better at this stuff, but Steven denied him with a curt shake of his head.

Not a good idea, Steven relayed through the reflection of the microwave in the kitchen, You were married to Layla and well, she fell in love with you first. Don’t abandon her.

“Maybe I should,” Marc muttered.

You looked up from your hands that had been catching your tears, “What?”

“I should leave, I’m not the kind of guy who can do long-term–”

“STOP!” you wailed at him. “No! You don’t get to run away Marc, this is what a relationship is, it’s leaning into the hard times no matter how much they hurt and fucking working through it. I will not let you throw away the last two years of my life and my love for you, and Steven and Jake because of this. I’m angry about Layla so just comfort me God dammit! Or at the very least, call me out for being a jealous bitch.”

Your challenge sent a flare of anger through Marc, “Okay! You are being a jealous bitch! I’ve told you everything, everything about me and this is what you choose to get mad about?! It’s stupid, you should have run for the hills when I told you about the mercenary work, or the DID or fucking Khonshu, but you stayed.”

“Yeah so now give me a reason to,” you fired back. “Why should I believe you won’t go back to your hot, super-powered ex-wife?”

“BECAUSE I DON’T LOVE HER ANYMORE!” He roared. “I love YOU! I have been leaning into the hard shit. I've told you about my mom and my brother, I let you meet Jake and Steven because I want to be with you for the rest of my life! You were the reason I finally renounced Khonshu!!”

Marc collapsed onto one of the breakfast bar stools. You went to him, afraid he’d switch unintentionally or worse, hurt himself. To your surprise, he let you collect him in your arms.

When Marc spoke again, it was much softer, “What you call boring or ‘normal’ is what I’ve wanted ever since Randall died, but didn’t think I deserved it. I didn’t want to be an avatar or a superhero or whatever, I wanted a steady job and a family, but the dishonorable discharge, the D.I.D, the fucking birdgod prevented me from having that, made me believe I couldn’t.’

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his hair. “I don’t want to lose you Marc, I love you so much. I guess…I got scared that I couldn’t measure up. I’m so afraid that you feel like you’re settling for me.”

“Baby, no,” Marc brought his face to yours. “I’m the one with D.I.D. and a fucked up past, you’re settling for me.”

You shook your head, dismissing the notion. “You really want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

“Yeah, if you’ll have me.”

Tears fell from your face again, but this time they were from happiness.

***

The engagement and wedding followed. It was a small ceremony, exactly what you two wanted, that observed the Jewish traditions important to Marc. The honeymoon passed by in a haze of sex and sweat in Greece. With three husbands eager to consummate their marriage, you joked to Steven that you could barely walk after the week you spent in Mykonos. To your horror, he took it literally and you were greeted at the airport in Athens by an attendant with a wheelchair. It was a sweet, albeit a little embarrassing, gesture.

Back home, you worked on getting your parents as comfortable with Marc, Steven, and Jake as you were. Jake started his own business since Steven’s schedule had stabilized now that he was teaching, and Marc had entered a phase of his career where he could pick and choose clients. You all had talked about kids but the concept was firmly filed into the ‘later on’ column of your marital priorities.

Nyla had other plans. Honestly, you shouldn’t have been surprised that you’d conceived on your honeymoon, there were few surfaces on the Greek island you hadn’t fucked on. But even after the missed period and morning sickness, the positive pregnancy test shocked you. You and your husband were as elated as you were terrified.

***

You all still felt as if you were white-knuckling as parents, but Nyla embracing her sleep schedule and improving on latching allowed you and your husband to exhale some.

Your daughter had woken you up extra early this morning. The weather was nice, you were graced by a rare sunny morning in London, so you and Marc decided to take Nyla on a stroll in the park. Leaving the flat with a newborn was a tall order, one that demanded all the strategy and concentration of a military operation, Marc found. You both packed up all the necessities to fit in a single diaper bag while also keeping your daughter entertained.

Your little family made it out of the house in record time. It only took 34 minutes to pack everything to go down the street for a walk in the park.

You pushed Nyla’s stroller while Marc carried the bag. The movement had lulled Nyla back to sleep. You extended the stroller’s visor to shade her, but Marc insisted on having your baby wear the sun hat you’d packed for another layer of protection from the rays bathing Dulwich park in an early summer warmth.

You figured now was the best chance you’d ever have at talking to Marc about his reticence to front around Nyla. The subject had to be broached delicately, sneakily, or else you may not get another opportunity.

His insistence on getting Nyla’s hat gave you the perfect in. “You’re great with her.”

Marc shrugged off the praise as he dug for her hat. So you persisted, “And she loves you so much.”

“Yeah, because I look like Steven,” he groused.

“Hey, that’s not true,” you stopped his search with a hand on his arm. “You have these cute conversations with her, when you lay her back on the top of your thighs. She gets so enthralled when you two ‘talk’. You’re the only one who does that with her.”

Marc poured the ensuing emotion into his search for her hat. “She’s so tiny. Why didn’t the books say anything about how goddamn little she’d be?”

“Well, she was a few weeks early,” you reminded him. “I wanted her to get over 3 and a half kilos, but Nyla didn’t want to wait any longer.”

“Just like her mom,” Marc teased.

“And also much like her mom, she doesn’t want you to avoid her, since you make her feel so loved.”

It wasn’t that falling for Marc first meant you loved him more than his alters, but it did make you slightly more attuned to him. Your life had been made so much richer when Marc allowed Steven and Jake’s presences in your life, and you knew your daughter would only benefit from Marc fully allowing his presence in hers.

Besides you’d heard about the last time Marc had tried to leave things in solely Steven and Jake’s hands, and that had resulted in Steven getting sacked for destroying a bathroom at the British Museum, the two of them getting shot and taking a round trip to the Egyptian underworld, and an evil crocodile lady trying to take over the planet.

Your husband tensed, the tendon in his jaw working before he answered, “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You won’t,” you assured him, stopping the stroller for a moment. “Honey, I wouldn't have married you, let alone had a baby with you, if I thought any of you were capable of hurting me or our child. Believe me.”

“But what’s the point, Steven is such a natural–”

“Yeah, and he’s wonderful. But tell me if I'm wrong, he doesn't hold the memories of your childhood the same way you do. He may have seen them, but he didn't experience first-hand, right?”

Marc stayed silent, but didn’t correct you.

“He doesn’t carry the baggage quite like you do...which is nothing against either of you! And I know me and him have discovered, um…this new kink that we share, but that doesn’t mean I don't want you around. It doesn't mean you’re any less capable as a father than Steven or Jake. She needs all of her dads, Marc.”

Marc’s eyes drifted from yours to the sleeping infant in front of you.

“You each have your special little things you share with Nyla and it’s so beautiful to watch, babe,” Your eyes welled up with tears. Damn hormones, could you get through anything without crying? “I can't tell you how happy it makes me.”

“Baby,” he murmured.

You composed yourself, “All I’m saying is that you can trust yourself with her. And if you ever have a moment when you don’t trust yourself, know that I trust you with Nyla, and I'm her mother. What I say goes.”

“You’re the best mom, you know that right?” Marc questioned. It was your turn to downplay his compliment. “You take such good care of her. I know Nyla will never go through what I did because of you.”

“It’s easy,” you stopped yourself, “Well, it’s not easy, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but loving you and this little girl we made makes me happy to do it. So don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Deal,” Marc agreed.

“Good, because when my dad gets in tomorrow, he’s going to want someone to talk about sports with, and you know the other boys are shit at it,” you quipped.

Marc chuckled as he bent over the front of the stroller to put Nyla’s hat on her little head and tie the strings around her chin while she slept. He couldn’t hide the proud grin that brightened his face when he managed to secure it without waking Nyla.

“See what I mean?” you used his success to drive home his fatherly ability.

Marc returned to your side, draped an arm around you, and pressed a kiss just under your ear. “Thank you, honey.”

“I love you,” you whispered, resuming your walk.

Nyla was the combination of you and your husband, which meant she wasn’t going to let either of you get too cocky. The stroller had only made it another thousand meters before she began fussing, though this time, more hormonally-fueled tears threatened to pour from your eyes when Marc didn’t hesitate to tend to his daughter.

Read the next fic in the series: THE MAGIC TOUCH

A/N: Y’all I thought of this idea and then the dialogue confronting Marc when reader discivers his ex is ~Layla El-Faouly~ started writing itself and then four thousand more words poured out of me. Ooops.

I know I say this every time, but it’s true that everyone’s support and responses get me fired up and inspired to write!!!

Taglist: @twwcs @starfirette @toracainz

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leclsrc · 1 year

Note

i (no, we) need an addition to the carlos sainz luis miguel universe.

Pretty please!!!! love you!!!!!

kind of love – cs55

genre: flufffff. a spin-off (of sorts? it’s not a sequel per se) to this

auds here… love u guys and listening to luis miguel gets me in a Mood. late req i’m sorry i’m sooo busy lately… xxxxx hope u like it! :)

“You never teach me anything in Spanish,” you lament. “It’s always hola or te amo.”

“Are you saying you have no need for te amo?” Carlos asks, rifling through the Madrid keychain rack to look for your name, which he gives up on after a few moments. He spots your narrowed eyes and accused face and laughs, backing off. “Kidding. I didn’t know you were interested in learning it, mi vida.” He turns to search for more novelty souvenirs.

“Of course I am,” you respond, leaning closer and pressing your chin onto his shoulder. It requires a generous tiptoe allowance, but you brave it and waddle around behind him. “It’s your language, is all—I find it beautiful. And you know all your English already!”

“Not all,” he corrects, lifting up a beer bottle shaped magnet. “Do you think Max will like this?”

“Oh, obviously.” You pause, and then laugh at a memory that enters your mind. “Yeah, remember in Canada when you totally botched your order at that brunch place?”

He groans amusedly. “Don’t tease me.”

“It’s cute,” you remind him firmly, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before disengaging from the hug to peruse the shelves yourself. There are a few cute ones, though most of them are a bit too tacky for your taste.

One bunch of them, lying on a discarded sale pile (seeing as though it’s well past February), is Valentine’s Day themed. They all have a variety of names printed on the metal, with red hearts all around them. You rifle through the Miguels, Annas, and Harrys before you luck out and find it collecting dust on the bottom of the basket.

“I found one!” You cry out, jingling the metal.

“Let’s see it,” Carlos says, but he’s elsewhere in the tiny store. You peer behind a shelf to find him rummaging through a half-off CD bin. Strange behavior, considering zero people ever use CDs for music nowadays, but you approach him anyway.

He turns briefly. “Can I see your purchase?”

“Not yet,” you say proudly. “It’s a surprise. What are you doing going through that?”

“Well, I figured since you want to learn Spanish, I’ll be your teacher. Or he will be.” He digs out a dusty CD and you scrunch your nose as you dust off the cover, revealing a Spanish man posing for the camera behind it. Carlos flicks at the printed image, clicking his tongue. “Top hits, Luis Miguel.”

“Okaaay.” You turn it over, read over the list of songs. “I was leaning more towards Shakira being my teacher.”

“Mi vida, you know I’m her biggest fan,” he begins, taking the CD from you and walking you both to the counter, “but this is the good stuff. Trust me, mi amor.”

You both pay for your tiny purchases and enter Carlos’ Golf, where he wastes no time inserting the disc into the player and clicking the console buttons to get the audio just right. You’re content to watch, smiling softly at his excitement which is no doubt more than enough for the both of you. “I assume we’re taking the long way to your house,” you tease, even if you secretly love long car rides with him.

He starts the car and laughs. “For Luis, yes.” He pauses, clears his throat. “And for you, too, princesa.”

“Nice save, baby.” You link hands, and the music starts to flow softly through the car.

And so does the singing. Where Carlos got his golden voice from, you don’t know—he didn’t sing along much to the songs you both love—but something in these songs brings it out, and it causes your heart to swell with fondness. Sure enough, the song’s in full Spanish, with the romantic guitar to match as well.

“What’s this one called?” You ask aloud, gazing at the scapes of Madrid passing you by.

He pauses his passionate belting to answer you. “Sabor a Mi,” he says. “It means… it’s a very nice love song.”

“On the subject of love and Spaniards,” you say, momentarily unlocking your hands; his moves to rest idly over your thigh. You pick out the keychain from your bag and hang it on his rearview mirror. “Like it?”

His eyes flit to them and back to the road quickly, to keep you out of potential danger. He smiles.

“I love it, amor. I only wish it read your name.” He squeezes your thigh, searches for your hand, and lifts it to his lips. While the back of your hand’s pressed to them, he begins singing again and you giggle at the ticklish sensation of it.

The song fades out promptly, and into the next one—still Spanish, still romantic, still Luis Miguel. Carlos shifts in his seat with visible excitement, mumbling somethings in Spanish out of excitement. “One of my favorites, amor! Seriously!” He hums to the lyrics, half-distracted by the road, but eventually settles into singing.

“Si antes de amar… debe tenerse fe,” he pipes, pressing his and your interlocked hands to his chest out of sheer passion. “You must learn this one. It’s called Mucho Corazon. It reminds me very much of you, you know?”

He turns onto a quiet cobblestone road, and uses it as an opportunity to gauge the love of his life’s reaction to Luis Miguel (an important moment, he supposes, in everyone’s lifetime.) And he sees you reading over the booklet of the CD, mouthing along the lyrics as the song goes. He slows his pace, watches the greenery complement how beautiful you look, just here beside him.

Be it in Spanish or English, with rhyme or without, accompanied by idyllic instruments or not, Carlos often finds himself stumped with the love he has for you. Because, simply because really, he hasn’t felt this way and so strongly for anyone else before. To him, you’re everything—you’re the song in the car, the greenery outside, the spring that tints all of Spain. You’re all the nicknames, all the small kind gestures, all of it.

You could disappear right now and he’d park the car and wait, just for you to come back. He knows it’s impossible but he’d do it, he really would. He wants, needs, loves you, all the time. All the time.

It’s strange and beautiful and he realizes now that the best way he can really put it is by singing you a Luis Miguel song. He takes one hand off the wheel to flick at the keychain, and it shines in the sunlight. He smiles to himself and continues singing. He’s sure he dreamt of this once.

—

Life takes Carlos on a path far away from Madrid. It loops him around the world and averts him away from that shabby tourist souvenir shop. He takes money out of his generous paycheck, though, to make sure it never goes bankrupt. Writes checks under an alias because if the tabloids found out, they’d wonder why, and he’d rather not explain.

Life takes you on a path far away from Carlos. It loops you into cities he hasn’t been and won’t plan to visit and averts you from Spain, from their house in the hills. You write emails to his sister sometimes if she writes first, though, to avoid being a stranger. Lie on the subject heading—Doing great in NYC/HK/Seoul/Bali—because if she knew how you really were doing, she’d ask why, and you’d rather not explain.

Life is funny, though. Because even when the connection is gone, nearly everything forgotten, it’s always sending you little love letters.

For some it’s a keychain on the rear view mirror of a brand new Ferrari. For others it’s a Luis Miguel song, nailed perfectly on the karaoke no matter the city.

#anonymous #f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader

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b3achysurfur · 4 months

Note

Feelings about the sbg tv show? :3 like, what do you think will happen with the fandom and stuff like that

I know a lot of people are worried the fandom will change but I don’t think you guys understand how good this could be for us

don’t get me wrong, I’m actually convinced they’re gonna mischaraterize like, everyone in the show. but can you imagine all the fan content we’re gonna get?? there will be so many more people who read the webtoon too.

I understand people being hesitant about getting a bigger fandom, bc it’s true that it’s a gamble. If the show attracts the wrong people than 😕 but that’s not always the case!! what if we get more artists, writers, editors, and theorist ?? (Like I’ve never seen sbg fan made horror art , but if the fandom get larger with a wider scale of different artists, we could actually see it a lot more often! Or like a tbhk editor getting fixated on the webtoon??!! CMON JUST IMAGINE ITTTT)

anyways, getting a new audience would also mean my blog would get new attention again. Which will be really annoying actually BUT I COULD CONVERT MORE PEOPLE INTO LOGAN HATERS!!!!!! I could show them the truth . when the show comes out im gonna spread so much propaganda it’s not even funny

The live action might actually be really good too. Like live actions always scare me because they are usually bad.. but the one piece and pjo live action was SOOO GOOD . Ever since I watched them I’ve had sm hope for other shows as well.

YES THATS ALL I HAVE TO SAY 😋😋

#sbg #school bus graveyard webtoon #school bus graveyard #schoolbus graveyard #sbg (webtoon)#asks

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britcision · 1 year

Text

Hey guys guess what? We’re finally out of the dang gala! However, because we did go back in for the explosion, now the boys don’t get to kiss until chapter 15 at the earliest

This chapter’s a little darker than the rest, we’re getting back into Jason’s death and Tim has finally done a google on Amity Park

Most prominently featured is Jason’s self loathing however, so do prepare yourselves for that after the Mariokart

The link to AO3 is in the first chapter

First chapter:

Last chapter:

——————

Not Over Til The Goth Lady Says Fuck

Well, Brucie Wayne hadn’t died. Gotham escaped annihilation by a sliver. There might still be something of worth left in this dump.

Vlad wandered amongst the guests as they returned to the main hall, wondering idly where those bloody Wayne “children” had all gone.

For all that people were sooo protective of them, no one seemed to care where they were during the actual danger. Typical.

Not that he minded. Vlad would be quite happy not to run into any of them again for quite some time. He had fences to mend first, and no desire to provide more fuel to the fire.

There was some form of commotion off to one side of the hall, yet more yelling, and Vlad let himself drift over. Honestly, the voices were almost familiar…

Although some of the more choice words weren’t. Vlad assumed they were vile exhortations of some sort, especially from the gasps of those around him.

It was actually rather impressive. He thought he had a rather extensive vocabulary of curses, but someone was putting him to shame.

At least his little moving bubble of space was useful as he made his way through the crowds. People who got too close soon realised who he was and pushed their way into the crowds to avoid him.

No jostling for Vladdie today. Maybe it wasn’t the very worst after all.

He was honestly a little surprised to find Samantha and Pamela Manson in full duet. As much as Samantha always wanted to scream herself hoarse at these events, usually she kept a lid on it.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, to realise that Daniel and young Jason were at the center of even this little ball of ire. His jaw dropped.

“I CANNOT believe you?! Why is it ALWAYS like this, EVERY TIME?! I was DEFENDING YOU and you can’t keep your legs shut for a minute at a time!” Samantha bellowed, fists clenched and a glint of tears in her eye.

“You utter HARLOT! Shameless STRUMPET, leading that INNOCENT BOY astray! DISGRACING my poor baby girl, you are WORSE THAN YOUR PARENTS Daniel Fenton!”

Pamela was actually crying, being held by her husband to prevent her from either running to Sam or full on attacking Daniel.

Vlad was going to put his money on attacking. The Manson women had a worrying streak of rage. Although…

Brows furrowing he tuned out the noise for a moment (Pamela had clearly been reading a lot of period romances) and focused on the thread of emotion he’d picked up.

Samantha was… delighted. Vlad might have suspected it was just at the chance to finally scream at a gala, but there were no darker feelings anywhere.

She was having a wonderful time. And Daniel and Jason, for all that they looked contrite, for all that Daniel’s head was slumped, were equally delighted.

Something was going on here, something all three young people had orchestrated. From the content of the yelling and the state of undress…

Vlad’s eyes widened. Daniel was wearing Jason’s tie. Jason’s shirt was missing three buttons.

Well that would certainly put both young men in an excellent mood, but at a gala?!

He was quite sure his cheeks must have blanched at just the thought. He’d noticed they were fond of each other, but so soon?

Perhaps Jason would have to be a son-in-law rather than an actual son. He simply wouldn’t accept the other way round, no matter how much Daniel might resist.

Daniel was perfect… if apparently a little easy. Not disloyal though, which was something of a relief. He’d never have considered Daniel capable, since he was loyal to his friends long past the point of fault.

Even now, he was perfectly happy to be harangued by both Samantha and her mother to allow Sam to make some sort of point.

He was distantly aware of the crowd parting again, but didn’t turn to acknowledge the arrival of… Brucie. He looked a little the worse for wear, likely from the thermos more than the actual rogues.

A thin smear of blood at his hairline betrayed where the thermos had struck, and the faint shadow of an oncoming bruise. He should probably be having someone scan his head, but since it usually appeared to be empty that was probably of little concern.

Well, he wasn’t likely to pay Vlad any mind.

Not with this little display.

Bruce had barely had time to pull Damian aside in the hopes of a debrief before shrieks and yelling once more filled the dining hall.

It couldn’t be Harvey after all, could it? As annoyed as Robin clearly was by the distraction, Bruce had no choice. He headed to the center of the yelling.

No matter how much it made his throbbing head pulse.

It definitely wasn’t Harvey at least. While Two Face probably knew all of the words being yelled, he would never say more than half of them. Not even at his worst.

The thought almost dragged a smile out of him, but a particularly loud curse rang off the marble and set up echoes in his skull. At least one of the voices was almost familiar.

The crowd parted without him having to jostle through it, and he’d never been more grateful to Gotham’s high society. Didn’t quite think about why they might want to help him get to the center of the action.

Damian - no, still Robin until he changed, had disappeared into the crowd at some point, but Bruce forged on anyway. He’d probably gone back to help Red Robin watch over Croc.

For now, he just had to focus on whatever else had gone wrong this evening, finally stepping through into an almost clear patch of floor and what must have been the commotion.

And arrived just in time to see Sam Manson turning from berating Danny and Jason, to point an accusing finger at her mother. Pamela actually shut up in surprise.

“And YOU! This is ALL your fault! If you had just let me be with Valerie this NEVER would have happened! She would NEVER do this to me! I’m NEVER dating another man again!”

Pamela looked like she might faint, her face pale as her daughter’s words sank in.

It didn’t take Gotham’s best detective to work out what must have happened. A quick glance at Danny and Jason showed them both… far more dishevelled than simply making out in the closet would allow.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, clocking the missing buttons, ruffled hair, Jason’s still partially open pants, and his stomach sank.

At a gala. Even in the height of his playboy days, Brucie had never gotten caught at a gala. He had a sudden sympathy for Alfred and resolved to give the man his most sincere apologies.

If Bruce’s heyday was anything like this for the old man, he owed him far more than that. Maybe a fruit basket. A nice new shotgun.

He stepped forward quickly, taking advantage as Sam drew in a breath to try and inject some calm.

“I’m terribly sorry, but what has happened here?”

All eyes turned immediately to him and he spread his hands, gesturing for peace. Pamela rallied at once, pulling free of her husband and shooting Danny an utterly poisonous look.

“Oh I am so sorry Brucie, this is entirely my fault! We should never have brought that awful Fenton boy, he’s been CORRUPTING your poor Jason, taking advantage of him, he’s a dreadful influence!” She fluttered, clearly unsure where to direct her attention.

Behind her mother, Sam snorted loudly.

“It was Jason’s dick in Danny’s ass, MOM, I’m pretty sure he was involved!”

And that seemed to fluster both boys more than any of the previous yelling, Danny’s cheeks burning as he clapped both hands over his mouth. Jason was doing his best not to laugh.

Bruce gave him a Look, because they Would be discussing this later, and wasn’t in the least surprised when Jason just rolled his eyes. Still, there had to be limits.

Danny clearly had a far greater hold over Jason than he’d feared. It was an effort to force himself to remember Danny’s youth.

Bruce had been that age not all that long ago. And, as he’d just realised, probably a lot worse in certain specific ways. Perhaps they were just indiscrete. It didn’t all have to be a devious plot.

He gave Pam his very best soothing smile, taking her hand gently.

“It has been a very dramatic evening already, I’m sure the boys were just over excited. They will go and wash up and then Jason and I will have a quiet. Word.” He layered the last two words with intent.

Honestly, this was perfect. An excuse to get Jason alone, get a report direct from the source. Jason wouldn’t tell the truth, but Bruce knew him well enough to know what the lies he told concealed.

Sam Manson seemed equally derisive of the idea as Jason himself, shooting Bruce a vicious glare that looked eerily like her mother’s.

He almost took a step back. But she didn’t have that thermos anymore.

“Of course Famous Playboy Brucie doesn’t think fucking around with someone else’s partner is a big deal! Where do you think Jason learned it?” She snarked, sending an icy dagger straight into Bruce’s heart.

Had he done that? No, it was just his aching head. And the building wave of exhaustion. Jason knew as well as the others that the playboy thing was a front.

Had Jason ever had good relationship role models though? His parents certainly weren’t, and Bruce himself had definitely never been much of one.

If the closest thing he had was Talia, perhaps that explained why he’d fallen so easily under Danny’s sway…

His mind was wandering. Perhaps he should have one of his boys check him for a concussion.

As if summoned by his thoughts, suddenly Nightwing and Signal were there, pushing through the crowd. Thank all that was good that this was about to be not his problem for a while.

“Alright everyone, calm down, the cops are already on their way, let’s not also give them a murder,” Nightwing declared far too gleefully. It set off… something, but Bruce couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

Maybe taking the chance to head home early was a good idea after all. It wasn’t as though Jason would be courting donors for his own projects today.

No, Jason was courting much worse things, a dark little part of Bruce grumbled, and he fought to squash it down.

Jason was an adult, and whatever choices he made with other consenting adults, no matter how bad said choices were, were his own.

Since when were any of his baby boys old enough to be caught fooling around in closets?

Maybe he also needed to go and sit down.

Not getting to witness the explosion as himself kinda sucked, but Dick could accept getting to be there in costume instead.

It actually gave him an excuse to intervene, and meant he had a reason to try and pull Danny and Jason aside for Signal to get a good look at Danny.

They had hung back for a while, Nightwing not wanting to interrupt Sam’s frankly incredible vocabulary of curses, Signal just… trying desperately to work out what was going on.

Poor guy. Someone should have warned him.

Nightwing specifically probably should have warned him, but hey, too late for that now. Once Bruce had things mostly quieted down, Nightwing figured they should move in to wrap it up.

And sure, Sam was glaring at him again, but the big taser wasn’t actually in her hand yet so he was probably fine. He turned, giving Jason and Danny sweeping looks.

Not laughing got a whole lot harder when he took in the extent of their dishevelment. And the mostly unrepentant look on Jason’s face.

“Look, perhaps we should get these two young men to a bathroom, do some clean up and get you presentable again? And the young lady, wouldn’t you rather discuss this in private?” He offered brightly.

He knew full well Sam would not want to discuss it in private. But it gave her an excellent starting off point for another explosion.

Only helped when Pamela Manson immediately jumped on the idea.

“Oh yes, of course, we can all go and talk about things away from prying eyes,” she trilled, giving her daughter a significant look and not looking at their audience so obviously she might as well have stared.

Sam rallied magnificently, drawing herself up and sucking in a deep breath.

“And WHAT do you think I have to talk about with them?!” She demanded, and Danny took a very quick step back. Right into Jason, who caught him automatically.

Adorable. Nightwing wished he had a camera. The domino’s would had to do, and he took a couple quick snaps before turning back, not wanting to miss the fun.

Pam was now trying to calm her daughter down, like she hadn’t also been screaming invective and slut shaming Danny seven ways to Sunday.

She stepped forwards, hands held out placatingly, and stopped at Sam’s glare.

“Sammykins… I know you’re upset, but…”

“I would definitely like to leave,” Danny stage whispered, deliberately shifting in place.

Nightwing pressed his lips tight together to keep the smile from showing. Whether or not Danny and Jason were actually fucking in the closet, the boy committed to the bit.

“UPSET?!” Sam demanded, stepping closer to her mother now and making her back up.

As much fun as this part of the show was about to be, there was still a lil actual work to be done. Signal had definitely gotten a good look at Danny by now, but might as well get him alone.

Just to be able to prove it wasn’t anyone else in this room. Glancing around, he caught sight of Steph back in the crowd.

At least someone would still be there to enjoy the show.

He debated hauling Danny over his shoulder and carrying him out, but decided against it. Not least because he had no fucking idea where that thermos had gone, and didn’t want to find out.

Instead he clapped Danny on the shoulder, gave Signal a significant nod, and headed for the door.

“Seems like you might need a little protection, and I need to give you a once over anyway after tangling with Croc.” Fuck you Spoiler, he could steal her excuse.

Danny actually laughed at that, turning to head away as Sam gained rapidly in volume.

“Oh Jason gave me an extremely thorough going over, but you’re welcome to look too,” he agreed and Nightwing actually giggled. Just a little.

Flirty little shit. He could feel Pamela Manson trying to develop eye lasers. Danny was the perfect addition to the family.

Covered the giggle up before someone noticed and rushed them both to the nearest door, and down towards the backrooms. Following behind, Signal cleared his throat awkwardly.

“So, uh… do either of you actually need a bathroom?” He still sounded lost, so Jason took pity on him once they had a closed door between themselves and others.

“Nah, we faked it to fuck with Sam’s parents. Danny does need a check for any broken ribs though,” he added.

Danny rolled his eyes, waving a hand in Jason’s direction.

“I’m fine, the big guy just tossed me around a little. I’m not even gonna bruise,” he said casually enough that Nightwing was gonna add like, 50 points to his “worry about New Favourite Guy” meter.

He raised a hand cautiously.

“That might just be the adrenaline. I’ve taken more than a couple rounds with Killer Croc and he can do some pretty nasty damage,” he offered warily.

Danny sighed like he was being asked something completely unreasonable and yanked his shirt up, showing off a skinny pale chest and stomach.

“Look, I’m fine, alright? Maybe if you considered getting good he wouldn’t hurt you either.” And yeah, Danny was a sassy little fuck and Nightwing snickered, but he was still worried.

Sure enough though, there wasn’t a mark on the kid. Not on his chest from being hit by Croc, not on his back from an impact that shattered tiles.

Signal let out a low whistle off to one side, and Nightwing had to wonder what the hell the meta could see. He himself though, he just had to raise his hands and admit defeat.

“Hey, if you say so. I’m just doin’ my job here.”

There was a moment of… something. Jason and Danny didn’t so much as glance at each other, but Dick would swear there was a moment of charge in the air, a bolt of communication.

Shared understanding that they’d done nothing outward to share.

Then Danny’s lips tipped up in a cocky grin and he snickered, looking Nightwing full in the eye.

“Yeah, whatever you say, cop.”

Danny wasn’t gonna mention it. Partially because of the way Jason had looked at him, calculating, sizing him up.

He’d never been looked at like that by someone who wasn’t immediately about to attack him. Even seeing Jason’s aura, no hint of aggression or malice in it, hadn’t helped.

It. He didn’t like it. Not from a friend.

He remembered the fear though, from back in the early days when Wes called him out. The fear of what losing that secret would mean for his friends, his family, the ones he loved.

Back before he knew everyone would roll their eyes and write it off. Back when he thought someone learning his secret was a threat.

Guess all vigilantes had some common experiences.

But hell, it wasn’t like the bats weren’t gonna know who he was by tomorrow morning at the latest. That was fine, so long as it didn’t lead them on to what Jason was.

They’d probably have questions, and if they were super lucky he might even bother to answer some of them. Hell, he might know the answers at all; that wasn’t a given.

But if they were gonna go nosing about in his life, he might as well really underline that he wasn’t just some little puppy that’d roll over and play dead.

He was a strong, independent half ghost who didn’t need no man.

So when Jason heard him sassing Nightwing and his whole aura became a gleeful mix of happy-amazing-get his ass, Danny sent a gentle nudge back.

Mischief-secrets-should I?

Felt Jason hesitate. Didn’t have to look at him to know the calculations he’d be running. Jason knew his family best. Would know how careful they needed to be.

Mischief-glee-fucking do it.

Maybe they were bad influences on each other.

And, well, it was unofficially Bully Dick Day. Danny might have been a little less confident on his identification the other way around, but having just spent a couple hours with the guy?

Yeah, Danny would risk it. The look on Dick’s face was way worth it. His jaw dropped, and while Danny couldn’t see his eyes behind the little domino, that pretty much just made it better.

Dick’s head turned to Jason and Jason sighed, raising his hands.

“He told me he knew on the way into the closet. Fucked if I know how.” So they weren’t just dropping the Ghost King thing. Good to know.

Danny just grinned. He’d seen plenty of Gotham’s message boards and while he’d never cared, he’d heard the theories.

Especially Nightwing’s. Even if the actual poster was a little… fruit loopy. And thought Nightwing was Condiment King’s alter ego.

“The butts match. And I mean, I was just hanging out with you for like an hour. Doing a different voice isn’t really changing much, y’know?” Which was technically all true.

Pretty much every one of the Waynes mysteriously disappearing wasn’t all that subtle either, but he’d point that out when there were more of them around to be ashamed of themselves.

Dick’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he visibly shook himself and closed it. The eye slits on the domino narrowed, and yeah, Danny wasn’t going to resist that one.

“Are you fucking serious? The mask makes faces too? How the hell did you get it to do that?” He asked, rising on tiptoes to wave a hand in front of Dick’s face.

Signal was trying not to laugh, arms folded as he leaned back against the small table.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” He asked like he already knew the answer, checking something off on a list.

This was going better than Danny thought. Good vibes.

Danny shrugged and stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket, grinning.

“Who would believe me? It’s fine, you guys are gonna get like, 30 seconds into googling me and find my old secret identity anyway. I used to go by Phantom,” he added in case it made Dick feel better.

Poor guy was clearly still having a crisis. Maybe they didn’t have their own Wes Weston here and hadn’t been outed before.

He just stared at Danny for a moment longer, then sighed heavily and ran both hands through his hair. Not much point in continuing to pretend, even if no one had said the words “yes you are right.”

It wasn’t like Danny had said the words “you are Dick Grayson”. Plausible deniability all round.

“Just pinky swear you were never a villain,” Dick finally sighed, holding out a hand, pinky extended.

Danny obediently locked pinkies, snickering as he thought about Dan. Technicalities.

“I pinky swear I, specifically, in this timeline, have never been a villain,” he agreed. The overly specific wording didn’t seem to bother anyone.

Maybe fighting yourself from the future was just something all vigilantes had to do. He was pretty sure he’d heard something about the Justice League and time travel before.

Not paid attention to it, but he heard it.

Dick then turned and got Jason in a headlock, noogie-ing him.

“And you have to stop giving the lot of us heart attacks,” he declared, flipping over Jason’s back and away when Jason grabbed for him.

Danny snickered as the tension left the room, Jason clearly considering continuing the chase. Then he just shrugged, dropping down onto one of the two couches and waving to Signal.

“Danny, this is Signal, apparently you’ve almost met before?”

That caught Signal’s attention and he cocked his head, question all over his face. Danny grinned.

“You were the first vigilante I saw in Gotham. Like, 8 months ago, after that thing at the mall where you were teaching the kids to do backflips.”

He saw the moment Signal placed it, nodding and grinning. He held out a hand and Danny shook it.

“Nice to remeet you then, Danny. Jason’s told us nothing at all about you,” he added, grinning over at Jason. Who flipped him off.

“You call yourselves detectives, you’d get bored if I didn’t give you enrichment one way or another,” he refuted and Danny cackled.

“Oh, is that all I am? Enrichment?” He teased and Jason grinned at him.

“Was there another reason you were riding Croc like a rodeo bull?” He asked back. Danny raised his hands, still grinning.

“Yeah, alright. I guess I don’t mind being enrichment for your bored detectives,” he agreed, grinning at the two costumed heroes.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he paused, pulling it out to check it. Tuck had texted.

‘$50 for you two to disappear out a window’

Stifling a snicker, Danny tossed his phone to Jason and returned his attention to the heroes.

“So, was there anything you guys wanted from getting us away, or were you just doing us a solid?” He asked casually. He’d disappear out a window for way less than $50. If Jason was down.

From his snort of laughter, yeah, he was.

Dick gave his phone a slightly suspicious look, then shrugged cheerfully.

“Well, we could also try and find Jay a new shirt before we get back out there if you wanna catch the rest of the show?” He offered.

As tempted as Danny was to ask where the fuck they’d find a new shirt at a party venue… they had shit to do.

Well, they could find shit to do. Same difference.

Jason rolled easily to his feet tossing Danny his phone back. He totally didn’t almost drop it.

“Nah, we’re probably gonna dip. Better for Sam if we mysteriously disappear together and you guys can go catch the show,” he explained with a slight shrug.

Dick’s mouth opened and closed a few more times, then he grinned and shook his head. Obviously a man who knew the finer points of escalating a situation.

“Steph’s recording, if you wanna catch up later?” He offered instead and Jason snickered and nodded.

“Okay. Don’t have my bike today, Danny, so can you sort out transport?” He asked and it took Danny a second to work out what he meant.

He’d come in the Manson’s limo. But Jason didn’t mean a vehicle type of ride.

Eh, why not give the bats something else to wonder about? There was only so long they’d be confused by his more useful powers.

He had to get the good times in while he could.

He kinda missed the old days, sometimes. No one expected a dead hero to have a living alter ego, so he’d flown under the radar with basically no effort.

Alright, the old days had also not included an inquisitive and protective bat clan sniffing around because he was friends with their own dead guy.

Jason had only died a year after him though. Maybe it could have… man, how different would his life had been if he’d known it wasn’t just him and Vlad and Dani at fifteen?

But he might not have been able to help Jason back then. Just the thought of trying to guide someone else while his ice core formed made him flinch.

No thank you, that would have fucking sucked. It was probably for the best that things had happened like this.

If it wasn’t, a certain nosey fucking regent would have pulled his thumb out of his ass and poked Danny in Jason’s direction years ago. He certainly seemed to like the guy enough.

Today though, Danny crossed to the window and slid it open, hopping up to take a seat on the sill. They weren’t too far off the ground here, so it’d be an easy enough slide.

The snow might have been more of a problem, but it wasn’t like he’d be walking for long. It wasn’t deep anyway, just a couple of inches out here.

He dropped carefully down, turned and grinned back through the window.

“Alright Jay, your turn!”

Jason was already there, snickering as he climbed carefully over the sill. Danny could still just about see Dick and Signal around his shoulders, so he figured fuck it.

Held out his arms.

Jason didn’t notice right away, but hesitated the second he did. It was like Danny could see the cogs turning inside his head, a faint rush of pink rising in his cheeks.

Jason really did have the cutest blush. Danny hoped he’d see a lot more of it.

He waggled his eyebrows at Jason, holding his arms out.

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” he prompted cheerfully, and saw the exact moment when Jason figured “fuck it”.

The window being lower worked against them there, Jason still being a good chunk taller than Danny, so the positioning was a little awkward. Finally Jason just sighed, gave Danny a look, and shifted most of his weight out the window.

“If you drop me I’ll kick your ass,” he warned and Danny grinned, stepping closer and slipping his arms in under Jason’s knees and back.

“Wasn’t even thinking it until you said that,” he pointed out and Jason groaned, but let himself drop into Danny’s arms.

Despite hefty temptation, Danny did not drop him. He gave Signal and Dick a cheery nod and walked away, princess carrying a snickering Jason through the snow.

Once they were almost but not quite out of sight, he took off.

“So, where we going?” He asked Jason, who looked a little uncomfortable being carried, but hadn’t stopped snickering yet.

It was probably the whole “not seeming weak” thing again. Or it could be the flying. He and Jason had flown in the Zone, but that wasn’t really the same.

The bigger man hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.

“I could honestly go for something else to eat,” he offered and Danny hummed thoughtfully.

The gala food had been good, but really not up to a half ghost appetite.

“Yeah, I could eat. We should also talk about the whole bomb thing,” he added more reluctantly, not wanting to kill the mood, but… well.

They were still in Gotham. The literal same shit could pop up tomorrow too.

Jason stilled in his arms, his aura suddenly nothing but dread. Danny squeezed him in a little tighter, blanketing him in comfort-acceptance-warmth.

“Doesn’t have to be today,” he said softly, felt something in Jason relax. Felt the pit curl in reluctance-anger-pleading-help.

It made him hold Jason all the closer, holding down the comforting trills his core demanded. No, dropping a startled Jason in mid air would help no one.

But Danny would help them. Both of them. Help the pit fix whatever had been done to all that ectoplasm, and help Jason get his life back.

What was left of it anyway. It was the least he deserved.

Inside the quieter backroom, Nightwing and Signal exchanged looks.

“Did he just…” Signal started and Nightwing sighed, looking as weary as he’d ever seen the older hero.

“It’s been the kind of night where I’m just not gonna ask,” Nightwing said dryly, rolling his shoulders and glancing around the room, “Danny seems to think we’ll work it out eventually.”

Signal shook his head, snickering softly. It wasn’t that he’d really had time to form any expectations from how Jason had described the guy, but Danny…

Yeah, Danny was pretty much exactly what he’d expect so far. An egregious little shit whose sense of humour fit Jason’s perfectly.

He’d have to hurry to get on their side of the inevitable prank war. Shouldn’t be that hard; Narrows and Crime Alley stuck together.

Nightwing leaned in abruptly then, his voice low. Back to serious hero time.

“So, you get more of a read on him alone?” He asked quietly.

Signal paused, brows furrowing under his helmet as he ran back through their minor interactions thus far. He still had the beginning of a headache dancing around from the windows, but…

He’d gotten a pretty good look at just Danny, on the walk from the hall back here and while he was teasing Dick.

Finally he shrugged.

“Honestly? No fuckin’ clue. He barely even registered an aura at all, I don’t think he could be bright enough to flare me out?” Not that it had happened before, but the kid barely glowed.

Most metas at least had enough of an aura to give him some kind of guess about their powers. Colour, shape, the way it moved, it was usually pretty obvious even for the weaker ones.

“So you don’t think he’s particularly powerful?” Nightwing asked, clearly adding it to his own mental notes. Hey, if it meant Duke could skip the paperwork on this run…

He shifted into proper report mode, straightening and turning to face Dick full on, voice lower and more serious. Nightwing obligingly flipped his computer up.

“Either he’s not a dangerous threat from powers alone, or he has serious control over the amount of energy he emits. If you guys hadn’t said anything, I might not even have pegged him as a meta. I did notice something though,” he added with a slight frown.

Nightwing typed a moment longer then glanced up and nodded for him to continue. Signal sucked in a breath.

He didn’t… well, he didn’t like discussing peoples’ auras, outside of a case. It was kinda invasive, especially for people he actually knew in day to day life.

Not least because he didn’t want other people trying to over analyse it. It wasn’t like he got a detailed rundown or list of descriptions; it was just a feeling. A light, a colour.

But this one felt important.

“Jason’s aura. It usually has this… red kinda funk clouding over it. Sometimes it’s thick and murky, and that seems to be when he’s… having a bad day. It’s always kinda red though. But today, it was just… clear. Soft and yellow. Whatever Danny’s doing with the pit, I think it’s working.”

Nightwing’s expression visibly softened, drifting almost all the way back into Dick before he got control again. He nodded, entering the data and then giving Signal a cheeky grin.

“I wouldn’t say you’re fully off the hook for your report, Signal, but if you wanna head out you could probably finish the rest in time for bed,” he teased and Signal rolled his eyes.

And his shoulders a couple times, posture relaxing out of the debriefing stiffness.

“Fuck off. I’m not missing whatever other bullshit you lot are getting up to tonight, fill me in on the way back to the hall.”

He’d be tired tomorrow, but he had too many questions to sleep anyway. They were a full family of nosey bastards - sorry, detectives, and he wasn’t waiting twelve hours for the details.

Not with practically all his siblings visibly sparking off with glee. There was a fuckery afoot, and that was worth a late night.

Nightwing snickered but nodded, tapping his computer closed and heading for the door.

“Short forms of course, but you’ve got the basics,” he agreed, and Signal chuckled, moving to follow.

He’d gotten plenty of pieces over the comms on his way in, but none of them were particularly coherent.

This was already a whole lot more interesting than what he’d been led to expect from a Gotham gala. Hopefully only showing up in costume wouldn’t count as actually attending.

He was still going for that record, Jason’s new boyfriend notwithstanding.

“Oh, and I think Tim’s falling in love.”

Wait.

“What now?”

Bruce was doing his best to keep up with events in the entry hall, but the rapidly rising lump on his head now throbbed with Samantha Manson’s every screamed curse, and he’d let himself be led away.

Someone had found him a chair closer to the back hall, a glass of water, and Stephanie had made her way over with an ice pack and a deeply amused smile.

Probably at the dramatics still ongoing around the closet. She had given him a few tests and declared it a mild concussion, most eyes still firmly fixed on the Mansons.

She wouldn’t smile like that at his pain. Unless she had been the cause. But he would be fine, so he was happy that she wasn’t fussing or worrying over him.

He supposed.

Sam not only had impressive volume, but an extensive vocabulary. Bruce’s attention occasionally faded in and out, making him miss some words, but Steph’s reactions were enough to clue him in.

The young lady had somewhat moved on from what Danny and Jason had actually done now that neither of them were present, and was now roundly denouncing men in general, her parents’ preferences in specific, and the historical trend of mistresses.

Bruce might almost think he was imagining the last one, but it was quite the impassioned rant and Steph at least was definitely following it.

Samantha Manson was a very opinionated young lady, with an extremely firm sense of justice. Maybe she would have been good for Jason he mused morosely, pressing the ice to his head.

And then the hall rang with an ominous silence.

Bruce’s head snapped up, ignoring the immediate twinge of pain, and he looked around sharply for what had captured her attention.

Ah. Nightwing and Signal had returned.

Alone. He perked up a little, hoping this might be his chance to speak with Jason.

Hopes that were immediately dashed when Nightwing caught his eye and minutely shook his head.

What?

Where was Jason? What could possibly have happened to him on the way to get a new shirt?

He couldn’t have some kind of venereal disease already, could he?

The swirling confusion definitely came from his head injury and he took another careful sip of water with Steph’s prompting, unsure of when she’d moved to steady him.

His boys had moved away, closer to the mother daughter drama but before Bruce could try to rise, young Sam saw fit to fill him in on what they’d said. At volume.

“They fucking LEFT?!”

The crowd parted immediately, eyes darting between the Manson heiress and Bruce himself, hungry for some kind of reaction from him.

At least he didn’t have to pretend to look confused. Maybe the head wound was a blessing in disguise.

Nightwing was definitely still enjoying himself far more than he had any right to be. His Dickiebird could always find the bright side in any situation…

Sucking in a breath, he let the Brucie mask fall fully into place, relaxing his facial features.

He may need an MRI when they got back to the cave. Just to check for any internal damage.

Steph leaned helpfully down, blocking him from view from about half the crowd to stage whisper,

“They said Jason and Danny climbed out the window, Brucie,” she said sweetly, and Bruce just about resisted dropping his head to thump into her hand.

That would not make his headache any better.

Of course they climbed out the window. Of course they did.

The gala had been Jason’s idea, hadn’t it? He’d wanted to be reintroduced to society so he could do things under his own name.

In all fairness, Bruce hadn’t checked that the first thing he wanted to do in his own name wasn’t cause a massive scandal. He probably should have.

If Jason thought he’d be avoiding this talk just by skipping out tonight, he had another thing coming. Bruce would rather do it as civilians but he’d hunt Jason down in his mask if he had to.

He’d never been unreasonable when bringing his children to galas; they weren’t dress up dolls to be seen and not heard and oh boy they all knew it. There just had to be some standards.

If Jason wanted to sneak away and have sex at a gala he could at least actually sneak. There were plenty of places to go without the risk of being caught that weren’t the closet just off the main hall.

The back rooms weren’t even that much farther away.

Maybe he’d have to give Jason a talk on appropriate gala behaviour. He hadn’t been to one since he… in a long time, he might not remember.

Maybe he should give Jason a sex talk. Had he given any of them a sex talk? He must have done. Surely.

Dick must know. He’d had plenty of girlfriends. Boyfriends. And… shorter encounters.

What if he hadn’t though.

Maybe he’d have to do it again. To be safe. Maybe Alfred would give them the one he’d given Bruce.

He could feel his thoughts spiralling away out of control.

Sam had reached new levels, possibly prompted by his lack of reaction to the news. Even Bruce had never heard half the words coming out of her now, some of which felt like they crackled in his head.

Just what he needed.

She’d also moved on to roundly denouncing the concept of virginity as a tool to control people with wombs. Selina would have loved having her around the house.

Steph was certainly enjoying herself, now cheering Sam on any time she stopped for breath. That also wasn’t helping his head, but he enjoyed seeing her happy too much to say.

Steph had never really come under his wing the way his other Robins had. She held herself apart, “family friend” more than family for a long time… possibly because of the history between her and Tim.

She hadn’t stood a chance against Dick. He wore people down like a cheerful, gentle waterfall, and once he claimed a sibling it was over.

He’d joke about Dick taking his adoption problem but even he could admit Dick did it better. He was just so good at affection. It came naturally to him.

Bruce was so proud of him. Of all the kids who’d taken up a mask to stand beside him. His babies.

He could feel his throat closing, choking up with tears and hurriedly forced them down. THAT was not going in any of the papers.

Whatever other disaster there was, no one would say he was anything but proud of his baby birds. At least he had the head injury to blame for his maudlin thoughts.

Casting around the room, he clocked someone checking their phone and squinted for the time. Barely past 9pm.

It felt like this gala had been going on for weeks, but there were still hours to go. And he wouldn’t even get the chance to hear Jason’s report tonight, knowing his second son.

Well, he could at least get Steph’s report. Loathe as he was to pull her away when she was having so much fun, he needed someone’s opinion on the Fenton boy that he could trust.

Leaning forward, he touched her wrist gently, letting his expression muzzy further.

“Steph, I think perhaps I need a little space. Could you bring me to one of the back rooms?” He asked softly, gaze flicking meaningfully to hers.

She hesitated a moment, clearly torn between the continuing show and the knowledge she could get at least a little of her report out of the way early.

Finally she sighed and slipped his arm carefully around her shoulders.

“Yeah, come on old man. Let’s get you somewhere quiet,” she agreed, steadying him as he hauled himself to his feet.

They could record part of her report. She wouldn’t even have to write it down later.

At least something good could come out of all this.

Sam was burning with satisfaction as she slipped back into her parents’ rented limo. She’d finally gotten to say every single stupid thing she hated about the galas and a little more besides.

The looks on their faces as she’d torn apart their precious little Jason (who, yeah, she owed a really big favour; that disappearing act was the cherry on the cake)? Wonderful.

When she started in on their homophobic bullshit, the stupid frilly dresses, the way she wasn’t just a present they could wrap how they wanted and ignore who she was?

It felt fucking amazing. Every frustration she’d been holding onto since her teen years, every time they’d shared those “meaningful looks” over her head, every huge sigh, every time they tried to change who she was.

If they wanted a pet they should have got a chihuahua, not had a damn kid.

She’d gotten a round of applause for that one. She hadn’t been expecting any support except for her boys, but having the Waynes on her side had changed a lot.

She’d swear she’d even seen Nightwing clapping along, but he’d stopped before she looked back.

Guess vigilantes couldn’t be seen condoning any of the shit disturbing. Signal had definitely given her a subtle thumbs up though, and a secret high five when she finally let them lead her away to “calm down”.

She’d spent the rest of the evening with the Wayne affiliated girls and Tucker, texting occasionally with Danny and Jason to let them know how the meltdown had gone.

Apparently Tim had some kind of medical thing that had acted up during the attack so Dick had taken him home. Tucker was heartbroken and adorable, but Steph promised to bring his well wishes back to Tim’s bedside.

They kept him distracted anyway by making some videos for Tim to enjoy, both with and without the various Gotham vigilantes as they waited for the cops to finish clearing the goons out.

Sam was a little bummed that Black Bat hadn’t stuck around, but while the gala was big it also wasn’t gonna be the only target in town.

Nightwing did a flip for them anyway, without being asked. He was a dork. Signal was cool though, and he sounded really sincere when he wished Tim well.

They both seemed at least passingly familiar with the Waynes, but it was Gotham. Who wasn’t? Especially with the number of galas that’d bring them into close contact.

Sam hadn’t spent much time with any of them before, mostly because her parents kept her on a very short leash with the rogues around. Not tonight though, she thought with satisfaction.

No, tonight she’d had free reign, especially after their little dust up. Maybe it helped that she still was kind of hanging out with the Waynes’ associates?

She liked Steph and Cass a lot, for sure. Steph was funny in a bold, outrageous way, and while she dressed a little brightly for Sam’s tastes, it was at least a classy purple.

She liked noise and attention and making people laugh when they took a drink to see if she could get it to come out of their nose. Tucker? Easy prey. But she got Sam more than once.

Cass was quieter in every way, but just like Sam had thought it wasn’t because she had nothing to say. She just didn’t need to be noticed.

Steph and Tucker ducked through the hall, recording people saying specific words one word at a time to build Tim a message about what he was missing.

Sam and Cass went around stealing empty glasses until they could write “Get Well Soon Tim” on the floor in front of the bathrooms.

They attracted stares for the entire rest of the evening but not a soul over the age of thirty dared approach. It was the best gala evening Sam’d ever had.

Her favourite part though? That had to be the number of people who were Absolutely Convinced that Danny had to be one of the Robins.

He fit the profile, sure; black hair, blue eyes. Just like more than half the Waynes, and a weirdly large chunk of Gotham in general. He’d jumped in to wrestle Croc.

Imagine if they knew he actually was a vigilante - just not a living one.

She’d actually passed someone passionately explaining that “you never saw him and Red Robin at the same time”, like Red Robin hadn’t been fucking desperately trying to pull Danny off Croc’s back.

That? That they made a video compilation of on Steph’s phone. She was keeping hold of it til they could see Danny in person tomorrow, because no way was she missing his face.

The crowning glory was a lady with a fan earnestly insisting that Danny must be the Red Hood, Noted 6’ Tall Tank Of A Man, while Vlad fucking fumed in the background.

It was wonderful. She was going to play it at Vlad’s next run for mayor. And his birthday. And maybe every time she saw him for the rest of her life.

She’d also seen more than one person meaningfully approaching her parents from the corner of her eye. Among their other shenanigans.

She was fully expecting some form of lecture, maybe some more hysteria from her mother, but honestly? It would hurt them more than Sam to cut her off.

Sam could walk away from the Manson money tomorrow. The greenhouse and nursery might not cover her full rent, but she could move.

Pamela and Jeremy Manson, having to explain why their daughter was never seen with them again? After tonight? Social hell, especially for her mother.

Maybe Pam saw something of that future in the set of Sam’s shoulders, because the drive back to their hotel was almost completely silent, even through Gotham’s slow crawl of traffic.

Didn’t bother Sam. She was perfectly happy to relive some of their more pointed shenanigans, maybe debate asking Danny if they could call him RH whenever Vlad was around.

That’d be fun. Or Hoodie. He wore the damn sweaters enough, Vlad couldn’t prove that wasn’t what they meant.

They’d actually reached the hotel, Jeremy stepping out to deal with the valet when Pamela turned hesitantly to her daughter.

“Sammikins… darling… I know you had an awful evening,” (and how appropriate that her mom had completely missed her having some of the most fun of her life), “and I know you said you wouldn’t date men…”

Sam steeled herself, wondering if another rant might be in order. Her mom clearly noticed, raising a hand in immediate surrender,

“And I fully understand, it’s entirely your choice whether you ever change your mind or not,” she added quickly, and Sam’s shoulders settled somewhat reluctantly.

Pamela gave her a very soft, hopeful sort of smile.

“It’s just. You looked so happy when you were talking with Cassandra. I didn’t know you knew sign at all, so if you wanted to see her again while we’re here…” she wheedled, and something in Sam’s brain shut down.

“What?” She asked, genuinely dumbfounded.

Pamela raised both hands this time, looking actually… kind of contrite. Like she’d actually been listening to Sam’s rants.

Like Sam might have finally gotten through to her.

Like the woman who hadn’t let her bring her girlfriend to a gala was actually immediately moving on to pushing her at another woman.

What. The fuck.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured, darling, I know we got far too pushy when you met Jason, I just. We’ll be in town for another day. And you made a very sweet pair.”

The hope in her face was unmistakeable, and Sam found herself gaping. There were just. Too many questions, all forming up in her head.

She found the words for at least one just as her mother reached for the door, almost ending their moment.

“Wait. You mean you don’t mind that I’m a lesbian?” She asked suspiciously, brows drawing down as she tried to make sense of what was happening.

Pamela gave her a soft smile and gently cupped her cheek.

“Sammy, darling, I know we’ve been… pushing an image on you,” almost the same words Sam had used, and they clearly pained her, “but I would never reject you for who you loved.”

Which made absolutely no fucking sense.

“So why the hell wouldn’t you let me bring Valerie?” Sam demanded weakly, shoulders sagging as confusion warred with the sudden wash of tears threatening to break out.

Acceptance. Her mother was finally accepting her. In the one thing she hadn’t asked for or expected.

Pamela’s face immediately pinched at Val’s name and she huffed, drawing herself up and resettling in her seat like a broody hen.

Not accepting everything, then. No surprise there.

“I don’t mind if you date or marry a woman, darling, but I most certainly do not trust that young Gray woman. The way she cosied up to you and your friends when her father lost his position! Wealth comes with many detractors, Sammy, and sometimes that means people will try to prey on your gentle heart and use you for your money!”

Sam’s jaw dropped as Pamela talked, passion flaring up until Sam had some idea what the others had seen when she got going.

She wanted to beat her head against the window. It was like they’d gotten absolutely fucking nowhere.

“Val isn’t a fucking gold digger, Mom!” She argued with a frustrated groan, tossing her hands into the air.

Pamela sniffed, turning her nose up.

“She is not good enough for my baby girl. Honestly, what does she even do at school?”

“Not fuck strangers in the closet!” Sam snapped back, and Pamela glared at her. Then deflated with a soft sigh.

“I just want what’s best for you, Sammy. If you think it’s Valerie… I suppose I can try. But I will be talking to her,” she added sharply, that Manson family steel shining through again, “just to let her know that I will be watching, and if she hurts you she will have me to deal with!”

The thought of the Red Huntress dealing with her mother almost made Sam laugh. As if the older woman would stand a chance.

But it was a compromise, if not an actual apology. She could work with that.

And, actually, while her mom was apparently in a compromising mood…

“And I can choose my dress for the next gala?” Sam asked quickly, again interrupting her mother’s move for the door.

Pamela hesitated for a long moment, then gave her daughter a wary look.

“So long as there are no spiders…” she said slowly.

“I want that in writing,” Sam warned sharply and Pamela sighed again, then nodded.

“By tomorrow morning, dear,” she agreed.

Sam’s triumphant grin carried her all the way into the elevator, up the stairs, and back to her bedroom where she pulled out her phone to update the group chat.

‘2Goth2Glorious: you guys aren’t going to fucking believe what my mom just said.’

“Huh,” Danny chuckled, glancing at his phone and then dropping it on a table and stepping over the back of Jason’s couch to slide down and sit like a fucking animal.

Already sprawled on the couch, Jason tipped his head back to frown over at him. They were in one of Jason’s less shitty safe houses this time (and Danny’s relief that he didn’t actually live in the first one was hilarious) after raiding a Denny’s.

And a convenience store. And a Batburger. For once Jason really didn’t feel bad about how much he ate; at least he chewed.

He’d swear Danny unhinged his jaw to just inhale an entire double cheeseburger. Maybe that was all Sam meant by “Jawbreaker”…

Jason wasn’t gonna think about that though.

Nope.

They were in a much more comfortable living room now, with actual decent furniture, and Danny was climbing it like a mountain goat. And being cryptic.

The first thing he’d done after walking through the doors was drop their food on the table. The second was drop his pants, kicking them away and throwing the tie and jacket after them.

Jason could sympathise, the monkey suits sucked and he’d abandoned jacket and tie not long after. Not the pants yet. But the sweatpants in the bedroom were calling to him.

“What? He prompted Danny instead, pushing over the second controller. Mariokart. The traditional way the bats kept score.

Easier to track than the number of crimes that didn’t happen. No one else liked his idea of counting heads.

Danny scooped it up and settled in, immediately picking his racer and getting comfy.

Baby Mario. Interesting.

Jason mained Peach, mostly so Dick couldn’t.

“So apparently we read the whole gala thing wrong,” he said casually, just as the countdown to begin the race began, “the Mansons aren’t homophobic.”

Classic distraction techniques. Motherfucker. Jason was so focused on gunning the engine and blasting off the starting line it took him a moment to process the words.

He had to actually glance over at Danny at that, brows furrowed, and missed an item drop.

Doublefucker.

“Fuck off.”

Danny snickered, effortlessly drifting into a turn.

“No shit. They’re trying to set Sam up with Cass,” he added as proof, and Jason snapped his attention back to the game.

He could play this with Damian standing on his shoulders and Steph tickling him, fuck Danny and his conversational bomb dropping.

First time he could say he’d side with the elder Mansons though.

“They were cute,” he offered with a slight shrug, casting back. Sam and Cass hadn’t interacted much, but Sam knowing ASL was a good sign.

No pun intended. He wasn’t Dick.

Danny snickered again and leaned sharply to the left as he skidded around another turn.

“And Sam woulda killed for a chance before Val. She learned sign language to try and talk to her, always said it was because she seemed like the only tolerable person in the room. That’s Sam for “she’s really pretty”,” he added slyly, dropping a red shell in Jason’s path.

Triplefucker. Jason skidded for a double set of items, then burnt a few coins to speed back up.

Digested new information. Both about the elder Mansons and Sam herself. But he didn’t have enough yet.

“So why wouldn’t they let her bring Val?” He asked instead, popping up a pirahna plant as they approached another turn. Not a great item, so he might as well make space.

“They think Val specifically is a gold digger,” Danny actually cackled this time, shaking his head and still not missing a beat.

He was a pretty good player. But they’d see how good he was under pressure later.

For now he snorted most of a laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

“Delightful. Bet Val will love that,” he snickered, hitting another double item. Mushrooms. Fucked again.

“It’s practically a mark of quality,” Danny agreed, grinning broadly, and dropped a row of bananas across the whole path. Dodgy little fucking shit.

Paused, then skimmed half way across the road for another double item box.

“By the way, do you mind if Val knows you’re a halfa?”

Jason, just about to launch a brand new green shell, frowned. They’d definitely been over this.

“I thought you already texted your team’s group chat?” It had been the most efficient way to share info with everyone who needed it.

And they’d shared more information since, mostly planning for the gala tonight. He’d kind of assumed the lot of them already knew.

He’d figured he’d meet Val and Jazz eventually, the same way Danny was probably gonna run into B’s brood again at least one more time.

Probably more now that Dick knew how much he liked puns. But Bludhaven was a ways out of Gotham, so Jason’s sanity might survive.

Danny shrugged, now glancing at Jason from the corner of his eye, and Jason took advantage to nail him with the shell. Fucking deserved it.

“Yeah but Val wasn’t in at the time, new phone- oh you cheating motherfucker!”

“Look me in the eye and say you wouldn’t have done the exact fucking same,” Jason taunted, not taking his eyes off the screen this time.

Fuck the other laps, the only thing that counted was who crossed that final finish line first. They were close, both neck and neck and if Danny had an item worth a damn he’d have used it.

Nor did Jason, but fuck it, who cared?

Just as they reached the final stretch, that dreaded alert popped up.

A blue shell. Whoever got hit, the other would win.

Half the family would have backed off, hit their breaks and let Jason take the hit. Because Jason? Jason never backed off.

He’d race the damn blue shell to the finish line and if he couldn’t beat that he didn’t want the race. And lucky him, he had coins to burn.

Danny hit his boosters right alongside Jason, the two of them careening towards the line. In the corner of his eye Jason could see the blue shell closing in, eating up the map behind them.

Reaching out suddenly, he caught Danny by the face and pushed just as the younger man shoved a foot into his other elbow.

The blue shell hit, explosion spinning both their carts to a stop. Before they could recover, a third cart sped past them, finishing the race.

Danny groaned, dropping his controller as the rest of the players passed them.

“FUCKING baby park!” He swore, and Jason nodded, flicking his controller to finish the race before tossing it down.

Then he turned back to Danny and shrugged. Ultimately he just… didn’t really care. Sam and Tucker had gone over well.

As prickly as he usually was about sharing intimate details with strangers, his death was basically common knowledge. Now, so was his revival.

So what if another stranger from a small town knew he’d fucked that up too? Precedent suggested she wouldn’t give a fuck, and it felt really, really good not having to hide.

“Yeah, I don’t care if Val knows. Do we really wanna add her back to the group chat right after the gold digger thing though?” He’d never met Valerie, even in text, but he knew she could be hot headed.

Half the stories of her trying to kill Danny proved that; it was how Danny survived.

Jason could relate. He’d been too fucking annoying to kill since he first put on a cape.

Well. Almost too annoying.

Danny just shrugged, shaking his head and rolling off the couch to grab his phone again.

“Sam’ll have told her in a private chat. Legal permission to tag her back in, or do you wanna tell her face to face?” He asked, and Jason had to wonder how much he’d talked to the others about it.

Mostly because Danny, thinking something through? He didn’t need to have known the guy this long to know that didn’t happen.

How the fuck did you even tell anyone something like this? He still had no idea how he was going to explain to his family that he was only mostly dead.

Maybe a stranger to practice on would be a good idea, and Val at least had the benefit of context. Knowing what a halfa was had put her one over him until last week.

Yet when he had an easy option, letting the others explain for him, he couldn’t help reaching for it. He didn’t even fucking know what it meant to him yet; how was he supposed to explain to anyone else?

And hey, Danny’s “new halfa just dropped” was elegance and perfection. If only he could just toss that in the family chat and call it good.

He shot Danny a thumbs up, scooping up the controller he’d dropped and tapping back to a new game screen.

“Go for it. You fill her in and I’ll get us a new game?” He offered, part of him resenting the vulnerability. The part that he kind of hated knowing was all his, and not the pit.

It wasn’t like he was even asking for help. He was delegating.

There was nothing fucking wrong with asking for fucking help. He wasn’t fucking alone anymore. He didn’t fucking have to be.

He was allowed to have friends who cared about him, and he was allowed to let them help with the things he didn’t know how to do.

His aura must have been a goddamn mess because Danny didn’t even open the chat, just hopped the back of the couch again and shoved his feet in Jason’s lap.

Soft-calm-understanding-been there.

Jason glared down at socked toes. More than anything else, he fucking hated bringing the mood down. Felt like it was all he did some days.

Socked toes scrunched to wave up at him. It looked so fucking bizarre he had the sudden urge to laugh, despite the mess in his head.

Well, he’d already ruined the fucking mood. It was easier to talk to Danny’s toes rather than look up, habits he’d learned to cope with surging green that was conspicuously absent now.

No pit rage. Just himself, still fucked up, still unable to look someone else in the eye when he was sure he’d see pity reflected back.

“Why do we need to talk about my death?” He asked the socks quietly, hands still curled around a game controller. Knowing the answer couldn’t be good.

“Because the first time you transform, you’re going to look the way you did when you died.” Fucking Danny scrunched his toes in time with his voice like the sock was the one talking.

That did knock a shaky snicker out, and Jason gave the man himself a half hearted glare. But it did suck the seriousness out of the situation.

Cuz yeah, that? That wasn’t a situation he was going to think about right now.

“Well fuck,” seemed to sum it up, and he stared back down at Danny’s feet. Couldn’t bring himself to face the sympathetic smile.

It didn’t help that Danny was the only person in the world who’d understand. Who’d already faced the horror of his own death, and now popped in and out of a ghost form like a cape.

Socked feet patted the top of his thigh.

“Yeah. You’ll be able to change it, and with some practice you can accessorize however you want just by thinking about it. But. Yeah. It’s going to suck,” Danny explained softly, thankfully abandoning the sock talking.

Jason chanced a glance up from the corner of his eye.

“How did…” how did you handle it? The words stuck somewhere below his collarbone, wedged sideways in his throat.

It didn’t seem to matter. Danny was good at hearing the ghosts of words he couldn’t say.

“Well, I transformed the first time the day I died, so it wasn’t like the memory had time to percolate,” Danny explained airily.

Like that was a good and normal sentence to say. Snorting a laugh, well aware that’s what Danny was going for, Jason pinched one of Danny’s toes.

The whole foot jerked back, coiling protectively. Motherfucker was ticklish. Yeah, Jason remembered that from their first wrestling session.

The temptation to knock Danny back to the floor and tickle him breathless was strong. It’d end the conversation, distract them both, get a more cheerful evening back on track.

Hell, they still had to tease Tucker about his massive crush on Tim. They were young, half alive, and had a truly obscene amount of snacks to get through.

They had every reason in the world to have a good night.

Just, y’know, the lingering spectre of Jason’s death between them. He’d never actually spoken about it to anyone, except to rub it in B’s face.

He’d made a joke a little too close once and watched Dick’s face crumple.

Fuck, he didn’t even like thinking about the event itself. Crawling out of his grave, well, he didn’t actually remember that.

Didn’t remember anything until Talia pulled him from a pool of bubbling green. Not the way he remembered what had come before.

Danny’s foot rose to poke gently into his face and Jason reared back, train of thought effectively derailed and he swatted for Danny’s ankle.

“What the fuck, dude?” He asked, giving Danny a mock glare as he knocked the foot away.

Danny was watching him just a little too closely for the casual smile on his face, or the lazy shrug.

“Well, you didn’t listen to your fucking name,” he pointed out, and it was news to Jason that anyone had been saying it. Obviously.

Then Danny sat up and moved closer, leaning in shoulder to shoulder with Jason.

“You don’t have to tell me. But. I’m gonna be with you when it happens, unless you don’t want me to be. And I need to know how bad I need to kick Batman’s ass.”

The last knocked a proper startled laugh out of Jason, but he didn’t move away. It. Helped having Danny close.

Close enough he didn’t have to look at his face. Close enough to feel his admittedly lacking body heat as comfort. Six of one.

“Pretty sure Sam has the brutalizing father figures part on lock already,” he said instead of asking, grin solidifying as he remembered the look on Bruce’s face.

It was never Bruce’s ass he’d wanted kicked. Alright, that was a lie, but it wasn’t Bruce he blamed for his death. That… that had always been on him.

He’d just expected B to save him like he’d done on all Jason’s other fuck ups.

Danny snickered along with him, reaching for Jason’s old controller and settling in.

“I see you still not saying Bruce is Batman,” he said innocently, and Jason fought free of the ghosts in his head.

Might as well kick their king’s ass at Mariokart before wrestling the ghosts of his past.

And if they were sat much closer, much better able to jostle each other, that’d work to his advantage. He had more bulk to use.

“Bruce knows Batman,” he repeated instead, clicking through to choose a map. Danny snickered again.

“Sam thinks Bruce is Batman’s sugar daddy,” he said innocently, just as the countdown ended.

Again.

Jason dropped his controller and lunged for his phone. Fuck the race, THAT was going straight to the family group chat.

Tim threw his domino aside as he stormed into the bat cave, slamming into the chair in front of the batcomputer. His fingers hit the keys before his ass hit the seat, clacking furiously.

Dick and Damian exchanged glances and shrugs, entering more slowly. Duke had skipped the cave altogether, heading straight to bed.

The actual hand off from the gala had gone smoothly. All the goons were in custody, and Croc had gone quietly. Probably because all four of them were still around, but that didn’t matter.

Tim ignored the company. It was still bothering him. He didn’t know what they’d missed when they’d raided the Riddler, and the mystery case hadn’t helped.

He’d gone to look at it when Nightwing and Signal returned to the dining hall; Damian had been right, it needed the building’s power supply.

And Dick had also been right - it was some kind of games cabinet. He’d gotten the touch screen off without setting off any of the traps and powered independently it did indeed produce a riddle.

Tim hadn’t bothered solving it, just gone back into the guts to trace what was supposed to be the threat. It wasn’t like Riddler not to include a backup battery, at least to prevent tampering.

(And alright, Tim had found and removed two, but that didn’t count. They were easy. Easy was how they’d missed something on the raid. Easy was hiding something.)

The fucking case was empty. There were spaces wired to take nearly double the explosives they’d found, and there was nothing in it. It just didn’t make sense.

As far as Damian cared, Tim was just getting up his own ass again. The brat had said as much on their way home, while Tim worked furiously at the tablet.

Tucker Foley had broken it open straight to the OS, all memory and data laid bare, except for one encrypted folder. That was too easy too, but Tim couldn’t fault his work.

It was perfect but for that one folder. Tim could trace back how he’d done it, the hack as clean and easy as one of his own.

And he’d done it with enough spare time to get right through to summer in Stardew Valley. While Tim fretted in the next room searching for the damn tablet.

That meant he’d given up on the folder, or been the one to place it. That was a clue, but if that was the case it wouldn’t help him solve the Riddler mystery.

Sighing to himself, he opened a connection through to Oracle on his comm.

“Hey O. Busy?”

“Not more than most nights,” came the easy reply. As usual, Babs sounded like she was calling from a LAN party, not rewriting the traffic grid.

Unless Bluebird was done already. Could be. Tim hadn’t checked.

“There’s a mystery folder on the Riddler tablet. I think Foley left it, but I don’t have time to break his encryption. Is Batwoman with Nygma?” He asked, running both hands through his hair.

Dick was hovering. Probably worried. He could stuff that in his own ass.

Barbara chuckled, and beside him the tablet screen sprang to life.

“Batwoman dropped him off before your guys came for Croc. He’s very upset, apparently. Sure you don’t want to take another run at the tablet? I hear your flirting has been adorable.”

Tim shot Dick a glare. Dick, entirely unrepentant, gave him worried puppy eyes.

“I have a boyfriend,” Tim grumbled, glancing back at the tablet again. Glaring at his brother was a waste of time when there was a puzzle to solve.

“So don’t marry Foley. Your nerd flirting is still adorable,” Babs shot back immediately. Tim could practically see her hands hovering over her own keyboard, waiting for his go ahead.

Riddler was actually in custody this time. That probably meant the threat was neutralised, at least for now. It also meant Red Robin could pay him a visit.

Red Robin could go check over the hideout. There might be some more answers there too.

His hands stilled on the keys, body tensing. A large hand landed on his shoulder and Dick leaned in.

“Actually, can I put a rush on that? Danny seemed pretty sure we’d learn more about him overnight. This’d explain it,” he added, tapping the tablet screen.

That caught Damian’s attention, the boy leaning back in from the locker room with his eyes narrowed.

“Does it pertain to his meta abilities?” He called, and Tim groaned, shoving both hands through his hair. Dick chuckled softly and gave him a gentle shake.

“Well it definitely has to do with him recognising us in costume, and I’m pretty sure he flew away, so I’m gonna say yes,” Dick agreed, and when the fuck had he been planning to mention that.

Tim’s neck cricked as he snapped his head around.

“He what?!” Danny had left maybe half an hour after the attack, at most. How the fuck had Tim missed so much?

Dick grinned down at him, still without shame, and one day Tim was damn well going to crack that facade. Possibly with his fist.

“You seemed so busy with the case, Red. I didn’t like to bother you.”

Damian materialised at their sides, glowering up at Dick too. It wasn’t all that often that they were on the same side but it wasn’t the kind of thing they could enjoy.

“Richard. He recognised you?” Damian asked sharply, and Dick sighed.

“Well he called me a fucking cop again and said the butts match, so I’m going with yeah. He seemed to think we would find something equally important on him though, and Jason didn’t seem concerned,” he explained a little less cheerfully.

Tim sucked in a deep, calming breath. Closed his eyes. And Damian snapped the question before he reached ten.

“So why do we not simply ask Todd?” The youngest growled, already reaching for his comm.

Dick shrugged.

“Go for it. He’s still with Danny, just pinged the group chat,” he added, raising his civilian phone to wiggle it.

Damian and Tim fell silent, both aware that Jason… well, for one would not react well to demands for information, no matter how much Danny helped with the pit.

And two… wasn’t likely to give them a full Danny download in Danny’s immediate presence. And they couldn’t swing by to ask, even if they did know where they were.

Sighing to himself, Tim pulled his phone out.

“O, if you could take a turn at the tablet hack I’m just gonna… check… Oracle check the group chat.” He pressed his lips together firmly, fighting back laughter.

All three heard Babs’ curious hum, keyboard clacking resuming a little slower than her usual. A one handed job while she checked.

Damian glared from Dick to Tim this time, then went back to the locker room for his own phone. Significant improvement from a year ago, where he’d have grabbed for Tim’s.

Fuck school, socialising him with Superboy the Younger was doing him good.

Tim’s head snapped up again, staring at Dick.

“Does the demon brat know what a sugar daddy is?” He hissed, and Dick’s eyes widened.

“Uh… dibs on not telling him.”

“You are the one he likes!” Tim hissed, Barbara’s snickering a new sudden baseline.

“And I’m keeping it that way,” Dick shot back, dancing away from the table, “you have nothing to lose!”

“Because his grandfather stole my fucking spleen, are you even Damian’s family if he hasn’t tried to stab you at least once?”

“Boys, boys,” Barbara cut in, still snickering, “think of it this way: do you want Jason to tell him?”

Both vigilantes turned back to the phone, where Damian’s icon was showing the distinctive three dots of a message in the making.

Tim glanced at Dick.

“Honestly? Kinda.” Better Jason than either of them, Jason was at least out of the immediate line of fire. And would probably weather Damian’s later vengeance attempts reasonably well.

Damian might have missed the original fireworks but he’d known Jason in the League; the fact that even he was wary of the pit rage said a lot.

But then, Damian had experienced the rage himself too.

Tim was kinda glad Ra’s hadn’t wanted to risk his mind to it. Would have been more glad if the old fucker had just left him alone instead of again, stealing his fucking spleen about it.

Wasn’t much of a surprise that Damian was stabby, honestly. But even he wouldn’t seriously pick a fight with Jason.

Nobody wanted to set off the rage that permanently broke him. Because that was what would happen if he ever did seriously hurt one of them again; Tim could see it.

Jason already thought he was broken. But they’d persuaded him he didn’t have to be. Putting one of them in the hospital, after all of his progress, would only confirm what he already believed.

Tim remembered the sharp, bleeding, fractured edges on the Red Hood he’d first met. He hadn’t seen that man in years.

He never wanted to see him again.

Not when he’d finally met his childhood hero, the Jason Todd he’d followed around with a camera in the night. Not when he finally had a Jason who called him his little brother.

They didn’t talk about it. But he could see it haunting behind Jason’s eyes some nights, a darkness different than when the pit was bad.

The pit’s anger spilled outwards, but Tim had learned to differentiate it from Jason’s. Jason’s anger spilled in, turned on himself. The kind of anger Tim was intimately familiar with.

Tim wouldn’t push. Not something so delicate. But one day, he’d really like some answers.

He’d like some damn answers about Riddler’s plans, Danny’s powers, and Tucker’s encrypted fucking file too though, and those were all a lot more urgent.

And why Killer Croc was in Gotham. And what Two Face wanted with Jason, not Red Hood. And what Killer Croc and Riddler wanted with Two Face.

And why Sam Manson’s grandmother knew Poison Ivy well enough to request a hit. What the hell was happening in Amity Park. If ghosts were actually-seriously-for-real-a-thing.

The speedsters were going to be intolerable if they presented that to the Justice League. Tim would definitely be hacking that footage with popcorn.

Heaving another sigh, he flopped back into the computer chair and just stared at the screens.

Alfred had made him weak. He’d been in bed less than thirty hours ago and his eyes were beginning to itch. But there was way, way too much to do for him to rest.

Scrubbing both hands down his face, he sat up again just as Babs let out a curious little “huh” over comms. That helped revive him.

“What’s up, O?” He asked, glancing back at Dick.

Some time while he was zoning out, the older had changed back into civvies and was leaning against the railing, checking his phone.

He must still have a comm in though, because he looked up too.

Why wasn’t he going back to Bludhaven? Another mystery for Tim’s eternally growing pile, but a minor one.

Babs was chuckling again, and the tablet screen flickered back to life.

“I got your folder open, RR. Very interesting encryption, the big bat isn’t going to be happy.” Babs sounded extremely pleased though.

“What did he use?” Tim asked idly, glancing down at the screen. Stilled. Was dimly aware of Dick moving curiously forward to peek at the tablet too.

There was only one thing in the encrypted folder, or at least one thing Babs wanted him to look at first. A simple text file.

‘To the Oracle. Love your work. Expressing my deepest admiration and eternal devotion. - TooFine’

And then an IP address that Tim couldn’t automatically place to a country. Was Tucker challenging Oracle?

Babs was talking again and Tim quickly refocused, already tapping the IP into the batcomputer.

“Three dates of my latest hacks into Lex Luthor, Vandal Savage, and the Legion of Doom. He even helpfully provided a hint in that Stardew Valley file.”

That caught Tim’s attention. He’d ignored the game, assumed the name was irrelevant.

“What’s the farm called?” He asked quickly, not wanting to scroll into the game to check.

Babs chuckled again, clearly back to work on one of the other problems.

“L85tH1t5. Or “Latest Hits”, for anyone that hasn’t used substitutions in a while. The kid’s good, and he’s been paying attention. The IP address has me in a private server, and it’s locked down with something I’ve never seen before. I think he wants to play a game.”

Tim’s brows furrowed, his attention refocusing on his own screens tracking the IP. It hadn’t even let him in.

“I’m blocked,” he admitted grumpily as Dick let out a low whistle, leaning back against the railing again.

“Must be a private invitation,” Babs teased, then sobered up. “I don’t think this is going to be the easy answers Nightwing’s looking for though. You’ll just have to run a search on Danny Fenton separately.”

Dick moved forward again, probably to lean over his shoulder or steal the keyboard, and Tim swatted him away.

“Wanna loop me in, O? I can get started on the server if you’re busy with the others.”

“Someone’s feeling left out,” Dick snickered, leaning on the back of Tim’s chair instead. Tim flipped him off.

“No need, Red Robin,” Babs replied, her own amusement just as clear as Dick’s. They were the worst. “It’s a quiet night for Gotham, I have time to flex a little.”

“Search Fenton,” Damian demanded, brows drawn down in a glower as he appeared beside the chair. Like that’d get him a big reaction.

Tim flipped him off too on principle, but sullenly pulled up a new window.

He didn’t feel left out. He wasn’t jealous. Tucker had been talking to him for half the gala, they’d had a great time and Tim really did like the guy.

They’d exchanged numbers and everything. He was gonna have to send over a real internship offer too.

Tucker hadn’t even met Babs. He was Tim’s friend.

Tim had a boyfriend. A wonderful boyfriend, whom he loved with all his heart. He wasn’t even lonely.

He just.

Didn’t see why Tucker would invite Oracle to his mysteriously secured server and not Tim.

By the time Bruce returned to the manor (and more importantly, to the cave) Tim was the only one down there.

No matter, Signal, Nightwing, and Robin had all had plenty of time to complete their after action reports. He could peruse those and prepare questions for later.

It was Tim he had wanted to talk to anyway. Whatever Tim had seen about Masters. About Danny Fenton.

Bruce headed over to the batcomputer, noting a cold mug of coffee that Tim somehow hadn’t finished. He’d been in for a while. And looked frustrated, not busy.

The perfect time to divert his attention for a report.

“Tim,” he said in greeting, brows drawing in as Tim turned a hazy glare on him.

He knew the boy had slept more this week than he usually did in a fortnight, but the bags under his eyes had barely lessened. Still, it had never affected his efficiency before.

“Your report on the gala. Particularly Masters and Fenton,” he prodded gently, and Tim groaned loudly, tugging at his hair.

“Honestly Bruce? Vlad’s a shifty son of a bitch that I wouldn’t trust as far as I could comfortably spit a rat, and Danny Fenton’s a fucking mystery. Who knows who we are, by the way.”

That was more than just concerning, and Bruce tensed. If Danny had approached Jason as a way to get to them…

“You’re sure?” He asked almost hopefully; he’d never actually had reason to doubt Tim. Who clearly also remembered that, from his archly raised brow.

“He called Dick out in costume. Hinted he’d done some vigilante work under the name “Phantom”, which I cannot find in any database anywhere, and I can’t find a damn thing about Amity Park from anyone who actually lives there ANYWHERE online.”

Tim spun back to the batcomputer, gesturing angrily at the three biggest screens. Bruce scanned them all, brows furrowing.

Tourist websites. An article about the “most haunted town in America”, clearly the hard earned result of their constant ghost claims, and… social media?

“They don’t have fucking Twitter, Bruce,” Tim growled, tapping through browser window after window. He’d clearly been doing this for a long time.

“No Facebook pages for restaurants, city hall, nothing. Except that Tucker showed me their weather station’s Facebook on his PDA. And that isn’t how fucking Twitter or Facebook WORK.” He slapped the keyboard, and the screen jumped.

Bruce carefully edged the cold coffee mug a little further away, but didn’t interrupt Tim’s rant.

“They don’t have a single server dedicated to one tiny town in Bumfuck, Illinois, to isolate their posts, or the kind of protections that would keep people from one town from connecting to the wider internet. It shouldn’t be possible! Nothing the government has on them even raises a blip but beyond those records, they’re just gone!”

Tim flipped quickly through various different government databases, too quickly for Bruce to do more than scan, but he didn’t need to.

Amity Park existed. There were a few accounts linked, email addresses, websites, that should have gone to city hall. The school board. Local businesses.

Tim clicked viciously on one of the links, and the window immediately blanked.

“Something is seriously fucking wrong with this town, Bruce,” Tim declared, the anger gone as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only a dangerous sobriety in its place, “and we’ve been ignoring them.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his concerns about Danny Fenton slotting neatly into a sudden, much larger concern.

Tim had pulled up the Justice League’s records on Amity Park. There were thousands of requests for help, every single one bearing the same status: Rejected.

Hundreds came from a single day, someone clearly hitting the button over and over and over again in a panic, desperate to get through.

And then nothing. Not a single request for years since. As if the residents had given up.

Bruce nodded to the screen.

“That cluster. I take it you’ve looked?” He asked tersely, slipping straight into Batman. Tim clicked a request at random.

“Not all of them,” he admitted bitterly, “but they’re pretty consistent.”

The panic was clear in the wording too, no attempt at spellchecking or grammar. Tim scrolled through the next few.

Key smashes. Curses, swearing, pleading for help. One phrase stuck out especially clearly to Bruce, repeated over and over.

‘The sky is green. Earth is gone and the sky is green.’

What the hell had happened in Amity Park?

Anger firming his jaw, Batman reached for his Justice League comm.

“I need to speak to John Constantine. Now.”

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Next chapter:

#dp x dc #danny fenton dead and loving it #danny fenton x jason todd #the gala finally fucking ends #sam explodes #no survivors #tim loses his nerd date to being an even bigger nerd in his mask #lad needs some chill #and we can finally get to the plot!

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