You might have answered this already in which case im sorry but whats the meaning behind your username? And also, can you tell what has made you like loki this much (your loving loki journey, if you will)? Id like to know since your account stands out in a good way! I love it! :)
This started out as a suggestion blog and all the other ones were *positive word*loki and I thought ‘okay but what if... not.’
If memory serves true my ‘loving Loki journey’ started with him popping up in Ms Marvel (2014) Issue #12, and if you haven’t read it, you’re missing out because
It’s not the most interesting origin story and there were loads of other factors but that was my Patient Zero encounter with the character I believe :)
Thank you for asking, and I’m really glad you like the blog!
Jason, taken off guard because he was just talking about Pokémon: Uh…
Damian: Mother is a very powerful and respectable woman. I don’t understand why Father would have left her.
Jason, trying to decide whether or not to be serious or say the funny answer: Well, you see, Bruce hates women.
Damian, eyes widening: What do you mean?
Jason: He’s just kinda disgusted by the idea of pregnancy and women’s bodies in general. He probably got pregnancy vibes from Talia and thought, shit, I gotta get out of here.
Damian, slightly sad: But Mother and Grandfather said Father doesn’t know I exist. Does this mean he does, and he hasn’t tried to visit?
Jason, realizing he might’ve fucked up: No! No, Bruce was so distraught over the idea of a woman being pregnant that he blocked the whole thing out of his mind. He has no clue you exist, buddy.
Damian: Oh, okay. What were you saying about Charizard?
—
A few years later when Damian joins the Batfamily and is meeting Stephanie for the first time
Damian: How often do you work with Father?
Steph: Oh, you know, as much as anyone else. For a few months, I was Robin, so I got to know him pretty well.
Damian, shocked: You were Robin?
Steph: Yeah? Why’s that so surprising?
Damian: I didn’t think Father would let people like you be Robin.
Steph, sharing a look with Dick and Tim: What’s that supposed to mean?
Damian: A woman.
Steph, narrowing her eyes: Excuse me?
Dick: Damian!
Tim: Women are capable of just as much as men are, Damian.
Damian: Of course I know that. I specifically said I didn’t think Father would want a woman as Robin.
Dick: Why?
Damian: Because of his disgust with women. I was going to discuss it with him soon.
Tim, choking slightly: His what?
Steph, laughing: Sorry, Bruce is disgusted with who?
Dick, trying to stay serious: What did Bruce do that makes you think he hates women?
Damian: He left Mother.
Dick: He had his duties as Batman to get back to, and he and Talia were just different. Their values didn’t align. He didn’t leave because she was a woman or anything like that.
Tim, also laughing now: Wait, wait, wait, you think B left Talia because he hates women? You’re saying he’s gay?
Damian, thoughtfully: I didn’t consider that angle before. Perhaps. But he could simply be misogynistic as well.
Dick: His sexuality is besides the point! He didn’t leave Talia because she’s a woman.
Damian: No, I suppose not. It was because he hates women’s bodies and especially pregnancy. He felt Talia was pregnant, and was so disgusted that he left and blocked it all from his mind.
Dick, Tim, and Steph: WHAT?
Damian, nodding: Yes, I was very concerned when I learned that, too. Now you see my confusion as to why he would let Stephanie become Robin.
Dick: No, Damian, Bruce isn’t misogynistic.
Tim, still laughing: Well, we don’t actually know—
Dick: Shut up, Tim. Damian, who told you those things about Bruce?
Damian: Jason.
Steph: Yeah, that checks out.
Dick: JASON, GET IN HERE.
Jason, entering the room: Yo, you needed me?
Dick: Why did you tell Damian that Bruce hates women and pregnancy?
Jason, squinting: I did wha—OH.
Dick: Yeah, oh.
Jason, looking at Damian: Shit, you remember that?
Damian: Of course. Almost everything I learned about Father was from you during my time at the League. I remember all of it.
Jason: Let’s maybe keep the rest of what I said to ourselves, okay, bud?
Steph, raising an eyebrow: What else did you tell Damian about Bruce?
Jason: Nothing important.
Dick: I feel like this could be very important.
Jason: Nah, it’s fine.
Damian: Does this mean Father doesn’t hate women?
Tim: No, B respects all genders.
Steph: And especially women.
Jason, ruffling Damian’s hair: Sorry, Dami, what I said about B was a lie.
Damian: Oh, what a relief.
Steph: Maybe you should still talk to Bruce about how he treats women, though. You know, just in case Jason was right.
Jason, high-fiving Steph: She’s right. You definitely should. Record it so that we can see his reaction. It’ll help us know how bad of a problem this is.
Dick, shaking his head: What is wrong with you guys?
Damian, seriously: I’ll do that. We can’t be too careful in making sure Father is respectful. Especially to you, Stephanie.
Steph: Aw, the kid likes me.
Damian: You are an acceptable ally.
—
Part two where Damian talks to Bruce can be found here
synopsis: oops! you really shouldn't be too surprised at those two little lines on a pregnancy test after hooking up with your hot hockey player fake boyfriend. all you'd really wanted was to make your best friend jealous, not get stuck with a baby! will you find out it's not really an accident after all? or will everything go just as your new boyfriend planned?
pairing: yandere!hockey player x f!reader x best friend
wc: 4.1k (part two to best friends and fake boyfriends)
content: angst and smut, BABY TRAPPING, dual pov, reader is a lover girl (who also gets off on men competing over her), mentions of contemplating abortion, pining, oblivious best friend who regrets his decision, our leading yandere is OBSESSED, condom tampering, stalking, panty thievery, gaslighting, intense jealousy, kissing, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected piv sex, missionary, slightly possessive sex
PREVIEW BELOW
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Yeah, no, saying it out loud to your reflection in the mirror didn’t make it sound any less ridiculous. And staring down at the four positive tests scattered across your tiny bathroom counter, convinced that they were all watching you back, judging you for being a stupid college student who had gotten knocked up by a man you barely knew.
The boyfriend you'd spent the past few weeks avoiding and keeping at arms length had somehow managed to put a baby in you from the singular time you had sex.
Part of you was tempted to just find the nearest clinic and scrub all the evidence it even happened.
Break up with him over a text message and maybe even transfer schools, find some place where no one knows you and just start from scratch.
No friends. No boyfriends.
Just assignments and exams so you could focus on a future where your stomach wouldn’t be starting to swell in four months.
Except, when your hand drifted to it now, settled softly over your skin as you tried to picture what paths you could take, you couldn’t quite decide if that was what you really wanted to do instead of what you were supposed to do.
Maybe you should talk to him.
Tell the potential father-to-be that he was, you know, maybe going to be a dad.
He probably wouldn’t want it.
Toss a few hundred dollar bills at you and say he hadn’t signed up for that.
Perhaps that was what you needed to hear. Someone to be blunt and brutal, remind you that neither of you were exactly equipped to be raising a child in college.
What the hell else would you do?
Sit on the sidelines at his games sporting a huge baby bump?
He had plenty of other shit to worry about. Practices and games and exams that would make it hard for him to even get a part time job. Sure, he had already been making way more time for you than you ever expected, but you knew better than to think that just because he bought you lunch and buried his dick in you once, that he’d stay for an accidental baby.
You didn’t want to be the reason he felt like his life was ruined.
Shit.
How were you even going to say it?
He’d been texting you a lot since that dumb party, casually checking in and calling you his girlfriend like he was making a point. Truthfully, though, you’d felt kind of off about the whole thing now that you knew that he didn’t actually have another one before. He made it sound like it was supposed to be romantic.
Mentioning that he’d liked you from the first time you met.
Shrugging his scheme off as a way to finally make you see that your best friend didn’t deserve so much as a slice of your attention.
Who, by the way, had not stopped blowing up your phone either, protesting his innocence and swearing up-and-down that he had no clue what that ‘dickhead’ was trying to tell you, but he'd never slept with any of his exes. Which, yeah, you knew now, considering they apparently didn't exist, but you were dumbstruck on what to say to him when your friendship appeared damned to fall apart anyway. He called him an obsessive, callous prick who only wanted to claim you.
And you still hadn’t decided if that was the terrible thing he obviously thought it was.
FULL FIC ON PATREON HERE (also features a wide assortment of other oneshots/series!)
What about a fic where Dick has been given the okay by Bruce to reveal his identity to the yj team in season 1, but he decides to have fun with it. He just starts dropping little hints that should have them all connecting the dots, and he enjoys watching them try to piece all the clues together.
“I won’t be available for training on Tuesdays and Thursdays the next few months,” he says one afternoon.
“Why not?” one of his teammates asks.
“That’s when I have baseball games after school. Tuesdays are away games, so I don’t get home until late. Also I have practice Monday, Wednesday, and some Fridays, so I’ll probably be late those days if B lets me come here afterwards.”
“You…play a sport?”
“Yeah, I even made Varsity!”
That was hint number one. He thought it was fairly easy to figure out who he was after that; he’s the only freshman on the Gotham Academy Varsity Baseball team. Artemis never puts two and two together.
Hint number two he thought was a lot more obvious, but no one took the bait. He also thought it was pretty generous, seeing as it became two hints for the price of one.
“I have to leave by 5:30 tonight. Agent A is starting to get annoyed when I’m late for dinner.”
“Who’s Agent A?”
“The butler, if you want to be technical about it,” he says with a shrug.
“…You have a butler?”
“Technically, B has a butler. I don’t employ him. Because I’m 13.”
“…Right. And you live with Batman?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“What about your parents?”
“They died when I was little.” If he says it nonchalantly enough, he can pretend it doesn’t still hurt to say. He also steadfastly ignores Conner’s muttered Is he not still little? How tall is he? “I’ve lived with B ever since.”
“Did he kidnap you?”
“No!” Dick huffs. “He adopted me! Jeez!”
Now he’s annoyed, and he decides to go home early. They still don’t figure it out, and that annoys him even more.
The third hint may as well be his secret identity handed to them on a silver platter.
“I can’t come to the movie marathon on Saturday,” he grumbles, dragging his feet. “B is making me go to some stupid gala thing.”
“A gala?” Someone asks.
“Like for rich people?” Someone else scoffs.
“Yeah, it’s some charity thing,” he mumbles. He doesn’t want to go. Vicki Vale has been extra annoying lately, and he doesn’t want to have to avoid her questions all night. He doesn’t know who Bruce’s latest paramour is, and he certainly wouldn’t be blabbing about it to her gossip rag tabloids in the first place. “I think it’s gonna be on TV or something.”
They don’t watch the broadcast. Which is a shame, because they may have figured it out if they’d seen the interview of Bruce and Dick together.
The next one he does just to screw with them.
“Can you believe B is making me take tennis lessons?” he scoffs, stomping into the room. “It’s gonna be so lame!”
“Where are you taking tennis lesson in Gotham?” Artemis snorts.
“The Bristol Country Club,” he tells her, falling back into a chair and putting his feet on the coffee table.
Artemis’ eyes nearly bug out of her head.
“Do you have to pay extra to get tennis lessons at a country club?” M’gann asks.
“I think it’s included in the membership or something, I dunno,” he says, waving a hand.
“Batman goes to a country club?”
“Yeah, we go for dinner there like once a week. The steak is pretty good.”
“You and Batman get dinner at a country club? Weekly?”
“If we can, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “B likes the golf course there.”
When they still don’t figure it out even after Dick Grayson posts on social media about going to the Bristol Country Club to play golf with Bruce Wayne the very next day, he finally gives up on them.
“You guys are so thick,” he says, sounding so offended as he stands in front of them with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. “I gave you so many hints! So many!”
They all can’t stop staring at him. Mostly because he’s not wearing his mask. Or his sunglasses.
Dick Grayson is standing before the team, supremely disappointed in them.
“B finally gives me the go ahead to tell you my secret ID, and then he makes a bet with me about how long it would take you guys to find out for yourselves! And I believed in you! And now I have to do the dishes and take out the trash and clean up after Ace without complaining about any of it for a month!”
“Who’s Ace?”
“Our dog!“
“Don’t you have a butler to do all that?”
“He’s not a servant,” he says, now even more offended. “I still have chores. I’m not a total spoiled brat, jeez. But I usually at least get to bitch about it! And now I can’t for a whole month, you guys suck!”
“…do you not have a dishwasher in your giant mansion?”
“It’s a manor,” he corrects. And then his voice gets a little shrieky as he whines, “And it still sucks having to load and unload the dishwasher! Do you know how nitpicky they BOTH are about how dishes have to go in a dishwasher? It’s like the world’s worst game of Tetris! Shit!”
“And you don’t get to whine about it at all for the next month,” Bruce teases him, poking his head around the corner. “Pleasure doing business, chum.”
Dick snaps his head towards him, only to turn back and glare at his friends.
“I could have gotten out of tennis lessons instead, you absolutely shitheads. Ugh!” Then he stomps off.
After he’s left, Conner turns to the others and says, “I thought he was fucking with us about the tennis lessons.”
summary: when your friend bails on your girls' night, you convince adrian to drink with you instead. you don't know what to expect, but definitely not what happens
pairing: adrian chase x coworker!reader
word count: 3,4k
warnings: vulgar language, smut (mdni); oral (f!receiving), vaginal fingering, praise, cum-eating
When you read the text from your friend, you could not suppress the disgruntled sound tearing from your throat, making at least two tables look your way, like 'how dare you make a weird noise while we're having family dinner', and you narrow your eyes and snap: "Eat your fucking zoodles."
"Yeah, we're closing in like half an hour, knuckle-dick!" You look over your shoulder as Adrian passes by, matching your aggression towards the customers.
You were fairly new at Fennel Fields, though you had waited tables at more places than you cared to count in the last couple of years. It was as thankless a job as any, but it was way more fun a workplace with a coworker like Adrian Chase.
The others called him a weirdo - and well, you could not take that from him - and said he was definitely missing a couple of screws, but you found that he was fun to be around. He did not possess a whole lot of social grace, not unlike yourself, and he often said unhinged things, which made you laugh. In the beginning, you thought he was just fucking around and finding out, like you did, but you were slowly starting to realize he was, in fact, very odd.
You followed him into the kitchens in the back, deciding to audibly whine about your disappointments because you knew he was inconceivably shitty at catching non-verbal clues. "My friend just bailed on our girls' night. "
"Why? Is she angry with you or something?" he asked incredulously.
You scoffed. "What? No, she got sick."
Adrian huffed, craning his neck and making a grimace. "I mean, to be fair, I'd probably get like a smidge annoyed too if you like coughed on me and I got sick right after or some shit."
Clueless as to how he got to that scenario, you could do nothing but gawk, trying to figure out if he was actually being serious. For a moment, he just watched you, seemingly expecting you to respond as in any other situation.
Your brows furrowed. "What? Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Your friend," Adrian said matter-of-factly, looking rather puzzled.
You shook your head, realizing this was going absolutely nowhere. "Fucking hell," you muttered in disbelief and joined him by the washing stand. "Anyway... what're you doing tonight?"
Adrian froze for a second, his frame rigid and jaw taut, as if you had just caught him doing something he should absolutely not be doing.
"Uhh... stuff," he responded awkwardly and used his bicep to push his glasses further up his nose.
You snorted, crinkling your nose in confusion, and began rinsing a stack of dishes. "Damn, really? Couldn't think of a just slightly more calculated lie?"
His eyes widened in response as he began to babble. "I'm not lying! No, no, I—I can't, I mean, like, I gotta uh—I have something to do. Tonight. After this."
"What? You gotta hurry home and jerk off or something?"
"What—no! I didn't—I—who said that? Dave? I'll fucking kill him. I don't even, like, do stuff like that!" he rambled defensively.
Snorting, you threw him a look, grabbed the plate he had stopped washing, and started doing it yourself. "You don't jerk off?" You barked out a laugh as the cogwheels in his head visibly malfunctioned. "Dude, come on!" you whined, stomping the ground like a displeased child. "I've been looking forward to getting shit-faced all day—don't let me drink all by myself. You can do 'stuff' another time."
The ambiguous moral compass thrusting him into the masked vigilante every night was being tested—he did really like you; you tolerated him a lot more than anyone else, laughed at his jokes (even when he did not mean to be funny), you were brutally honest - which quite frankly made his existence a whole lot easier - and he thought you were ridiculously hot.
"Okay, I'll get shit-faced with you."
An hour later, you were sitting in a booth in a bar down the street, strategically chosen to be close to your apartment in case Adrian turned out to be a shitty drinking partner.
Despite his initial hesitation, he was visibly exhilarated to spend time with you, going on and on with the oddest kind of questions as if your favorite color would somehow determine your entire personality. You had subconsciously assumed he did not have too many friends, and honestly; the recurring vague anecdotes he shared of his nameless 'top three best friends' did not convince you otherwise, so you assumed his zeal was the result of someone showing interest for once.
He was adamantly trying to convince you that teal should be your favorite color, a Google .png displaying a palette of various shades on his phone, eyes glistening with oppressed excitement, brows raised above the frame of his undeniably dorky glasses, expectantly watching you as his lips were pouting around the straw floating in the drink you had convinced him to try, and all you could do was laugh hysterically. It might be the rush of the first drink tickling through your veins, but you decided then that he was probably the unintentionally funniest dude you had ever met.
"Jesus Christ—a'ight, whatever, Chase," you grinned, shaking your head and leaning back in your seat before taking another sip.
Feeling the conversation had come to an end, Adrian slumped back, mimicking your behavior as he watched you scan the bar. You had conveniently seated yourself so that you had a perfect view of the place, eyeing every other customer like a predator choosing its prey. You were being subtle, of course, but to anyone paying enough attention, you assumed you looked exactly like a lecherous construction worker leering and cat-calling every other unsuspecting passerby. At least you were not being audibly offensive to anyone in the bar, but then again, it did not look like a place where a lot of handsome guys would spend their boys' night.
"Who are we looking for?" Adrian was, of course, attentive to your lurking demeanor.
Sighing, you leaned forward on your elbows, perching your chin against the palm of your hand. "No one," you shrugged, taking another sip.
Adrian frowned before his eyes shot open, the thought occurring in such a comical way that a light bulb might as well have been lit overhead. "Oh! Are we looking at hotties?"
Surprised by how quickly he caught on, your eyes widened, and you nearly choked on your drink at his blatant disregard for the people within earshot. "Shut the fuck up, Adrian!" you hissed lowly, kicking his shin under the table.
Wincing, he instinctively retracted his legs further away from yours. "Fuck! You kicked me!"
Rolling your eyes, you leaned closer, whispering through a giggle. "Well, don't be fucking obvious."
"Well, maybe if you don't want me to react to getting fucking maimed, maybe you should warn—ohh..." he realized. "I didn't realize our girls' night would be eye-fucking dudes—I mean, I guess that one over there's kind of hot."
Following his gaze and painfully indiscreet pointing, you grimaced. "No fucking way I'm gonna ride a dude wearing a Hot Wheels Monster Trucks Live 2024 merch t-shirt." Leaning back, you narrowed your eyes at Adrian. "Unless, of course, you were thinking you and him?"
He made a 'pfft' sound and waved dismissively, matching your nonchalant posture. "Oh God, no. Totally ew, I'd never fuck a guy with a buzz-cut—looks like a Soviet Union deserter, am I right?" he laughed obnoxiously loud, excitedly nodding as if encouraging you to laugh along.
Honestly, it was difficult not to laugh at his behavior. Once you caught your breath and the heat in your face subsided, you groaned as if in excruciating pain. "Shit, I'm literally so desperate to get laid I might actually booty call my ex and he's a fucking dickhead."
Then Adrian shrugged like he was not about to say the most out of pocket thing yet: "I can fuck you."
This time you did actually choke on your drink.
Eyes widening, your face flushed red as you coughed uncontrollably. Adrian hurriedly scurried to his feet, saying something about doing the Heimlich maneuver, to which you vehemently shook your head. Still sporting a worried expression, he sat back down as you tried to regain your breath.
"The fuck did you just say?!" you snapped, face contorted as you tried to figure out how the fuck to respond to that kind of offer.
And he was just sitting there, brows raised and expression seemingly confused, like he had in fact just offered something friends regularly did, eyes unsure with an insecurity that suggested you had reacted harshly in response to his wildly inappropriate suggestion. "Or like eat you out, if you want."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"I've been told like, a lot of things, but I've learned to accept myself for who I am," he nods proudly.
All you could really do at this point was just blink at him, jaw slack, mouth agape, wondering if he was fucking with you or truly possessed zero situational awareness. As he waited expectantly with a kind of puppy-eyed expression, you concluded the latter was the more realistic of the two.
"Fucking hell, you can't just say shit like that, dude." You sighed heavily, feeling like he had literally sucked the energy out of you. The realization seemed to settle as his face fell, lips forming an 'o' like he mentally had to step back from reality to compute. "You know, to begin with, I thought you just had a sick sense of humor, but you literally don't even realize the fucked up things you're saying, do you? Don't you—I don't know... feel some things are better left unsaid?"
"I don't really like feel like other people do."
Frowning, you crossed your arms. "Okay, I know you're shit at reading faces and generally just the room, but like that's usually fun—but, dude, saying shit like that is gonna get you in trouble sometime."
"Huh," was all that left him before he mutedly mouthed the words like he had to taste them to comprehend what you were saying.
It felt fair to assume he had some kind of diagnoses in his backpack, but it somehow made you feel uncomfortable to explicitly inquire despite him evidently not grasping the notion of boundaries. "You..." you started awkwardly, struggling to find the words. "You really don't—like there's no like voice in your head or like any indicators that suggest to you maybe it's okay to shut the fuck up?"
"No," he admitted bluntly, though a feeling suddenly stirred and he felt compelled to share it the following second. "I mean, I guess my dick got a little hard when you mentioned riding the Hot Wheels, but really that's on you for putting that in my head."
"Fucking hell, Chase."
Suddenly, he shot forward in his seat. "Also, when you call me by my last name—" he held out his arm, an excited expression twisting his face. "Goosebumps!"
You shushed him and pressed your face into your palms, rubbing your temple soothingly. The people in the booth behind you had quietened, and you really could not blame them for being curious as to what the fuck was going on. Frankly, you were not quite sure either.
A shiver tingled down your spine as the image of Adrian's cock invaded your mind—did he get hard just imagining you having sex? You had never thought of fucking him, but now you could not help but picture it, wondering how he would be. He was way too awkward to make you believe it would be a smooth act, probably a lot of stumbling and bumping heads, but you would be lying if you said he was not a little handsome. Granted, dorky in every way, but his frame was tall and lean, broad chest and nice shoulders to carry himself with, and you cursed at yourself as you wondered what he might look like under his clothes.
Groaning at your own thought process, you shifted uncomfortably, moving your eyes back out to the customers in the bar. No one to drool over.
You should probably just leave—it seemed tonight was not the night for you to get lucky. Unless...
Your eyes moved back to Adrian—no.
Bad idea.
Right?
He was just sitting there with expectant eyes, a big goofy-ass smile, arm still out like he was waiting for you to feel his goosebumps.
"Dude, put it away. I'm not gonna touch your fucking arm," you deadpanned.
But you ended up doing a whole lot more. You were embarrassed to admit that it did not even take another drink before deciding Adrian was an option.
So after finding out that he was dead serious about wanting to have sex with you, you took him back to your apartment, thinking, 'what's the worst that could happen?'
Despite his generally odd behavior and your limited knowledge of him outside of work, you felt relatively safe inviting him into your home. Even if doing so turned out to be regrettable the second you stepped inside, you figured you would not have any qualms getting rid of him—he was way too complaisant to do otherwise if you simply told him to leave.
Adrian did not hesitate to tell you how hot he thought you were, to which you could only really mutter 'uh-huh' while leading him inside. You had never fucked a guy who was so outspoken, and you really could not help but wonder if that was good or bad. You figured everything from getting laid to throwing him out would be a lot easier with someone as blunt as him, no hidden motives or suppressed feelings not allowed to see the light of day, but as you realized what you were doing, a pang of guilt settled in your chest.
Turning to him, you exhaled a slightly ragged breath as he took in his surroundings, seemingly enchanted to find out how you lived. "Am I taking advantage of you?" you wondered aloud.
Adrian seemed to think for a moment before shrugging. "I don't mind."
He said it was his casual attitude that turned you off, his ‘use me’ vibe ruined by how obviously eager he was to fuck.
"You've done this before, right?" you hesitated awkwardly, brows furrowing, taken aback by his blatancy.
"Done what?" he quipped curiously.
You could not stop the amused snort escaping you. "A one-night stand."
"Oh! Duh—only like a shit ton of times," he laughed.
Your eyebrow heaved. "Just one-night stands?" you teased, leaning back against your kitchen counter.
Unsurprisingly, he failed to catch the jest and responded a bit too honestly. "Well, yeah—chicks think I'm a lot," he nodded proudly.
"I bet," you grimaced, doubting he had interpreted their feelings correctly. Pushing off the counter, you moved for the fridge. "You want anything to drink?"
"No," Adrian responded and moved into the kitchen, leaving only a few feet between you. "Can I eat you out? I wanna taste your pussy."
Your eyes widened, though you could not help but chuckle. "Christ, Chase—right to it then?"
He nodded enthusiastically, his ears turning red in the dim lighting. "Please."
Regarding how his cheeks pinkened and Adam's apple bounced in his throat, you realized he was probably as nervous as he was excited. You could not deny that he was handsome in that incredibly dorky way, but you seriously doubted he got a whole lot of skin-on-skin action. You surmised girls would often flee at the first opening when he said some weird.
"Fuck it—yeah, c'mon," you shrugged and turned on your heel, heading for your bedroom.
Adrian followed closely behind you, reminding you of an obedient little puppy, practically lost without you, always awaiting your next command. You chuckled to yourself as it occurred to you that that was pretty much exactly what he was, clueless as to how to act when not being ordered around.
It turned you on to think he would enjoy being used like that, like a little boy toy here for your pleasure.
Surprisingly, he did not wait for further instruction—you had given him the 'go', so once in your bedroom, Adrian did not hesitate to strip you out of your jeans, pulling them down with a rough tug along with your panties.
He did not even notice your stupefied expression before diving between your legs, hungry tongue darting out to lick a long flat stripe through your folds. Humming, your friend was pleased to find your slick juices easily coating his eager muscle, the internal ego stroke praising him from the back of his mind.
The wanton moan that left you was cut off by another swipe of his tongue, the sensation pleasuring you while simultaneously punching the air out of your lungs. "Ha—holy shit, Adrian!"
A low hum reverberated through your folds, making your hole clench around nothing and clit pulse with anticipation—you tried to convince yourself it was more the thought of getting laid after so long that made you wet and eager, because how in the world could a dork as big as Adrian fucking Chase have you dripping so easily?
Biting down on your lip, you closed your eyes and let your head fall back, focusing on the sensation throbbing between your legs.
His large, clammy hands palmed against your thighs, massaging the flesh in tandem with his tongue dipping into your pussy.
"Fuck, you taste so sweet, like candy," he mused against you, words muffled but unstoppable like he needed to say it aloud. "I have dreamt of this so many fucking times, like—you have no idea. You've dreamt of me, too?"
Your scoff contorted into a gasp as his lips wrapped around your clit, glasses bumping further down the bridge of his nose. "N-no," you muttered honestly.
He hummed against you, suckling the pulsating bundle of nerves before continuing to nonchalantly speak like it was pillow talk. "That's okay. You will," he grinned to himself, and the vibrations made you inhale sharply.
You back arched against the mattress, and your hands combed through his hair, tightening as you forced his mouth to work on you. "Shut up, Adrian."
Thankfully, he did and diverted his focus to the task at hand. A breathy moan fell from your lips as his heavenly tongue hungrily fucked your hole, the groans escaping him spurring you on, making you grind your hips against his mouth. His expertise surprised you, definitely not having expected him, of all men, to be skillful with his mouth, but as he licked into your needy cave, there was no denying the pleasure he offered.
The coil in your belly tightened as he worked you closer, plump lips moving to circle your hooded pearl as his tongue deftly flicked against it.
"Oh! Oh—my God—you... Use your fingers."
Adrian obeyed dutifully, inserting two digits without hesitation, easily sliding them inside your welcoming cunt, and another lewd moan clawed its way out from your throat.
"Holy fuck, that's good," you praised his efforts, gasping as he scissored against your walls.
Over your echoing moans, you could hear the obscene squelches of your slick. Adrian seemed insatiable as he drank the sounds down, focused on slurping everything you granted him like he was afraid you might shove him off at any moment.
Your legs began to tremble as you neared your orgasm. Adrian felt your velvety walls tighten around his fingers, and he manhandled your thighs over his shoulders, tactically positioning himself impossibly closer to not let a drop go to waste.
"Don't stop, don't stop, don't sto—f-fuck!" you cried out, fingers carded into his curls and tightening as you came into his mouth.
Adrian moaned at the taste, devotedly lapping up your creamy slick like a drink promising eternal life. His fingers continued curling against your spongy walls, prolonging the wave of ecstasy until you writhed from overstimulation.
Breathing raggedly, he reluctantly let you go, allowing you to catch your breath, though his ridiculously large hands remained on your thighs.
When you finally looked down, you could not help but chuckle breathlessly at the sight of his fogged glasses and sparkling chin as he looked up expectantly, the layer of raw lust still lingering in his irises—messy eater, you thought.
Yeah, this was probably going to be a regular occurrence.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Violet Graves (Original Character)
Summary:
Lando Norris has a very reasonable theory: Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend, Violet, is probably going to murder him.
Evidence includes the black clothes, the braids, the lace parasol, the unsettling hobbies, and the snake named Belladonna.
Oscar insists she’s just shy.
Lando remains unconvinced.
Warnings and Notes: Lando is an unreliable narrator in this 😂 Also, I have plans tomorrow, so I have no clue when I could upload it, hence why you get it now.
Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and entertains all of my ideas 😂
Reason 8: Violet’s unsettling hobbies
Violet had hobbies.
This should have been good.
Healthy, even.
People were supposed to have hobbies. Lando had hobbies. Golf. Streaming. Annoying Oscar. Accidentally agreeing to Quadrant ideas that later became his problem. Perfectly normal things.
Violet’s hobbies were not normal.
Violet pressed flowers.
That sounded normal at first.
Sweet, even.
Until Lando found out that half the flowers she pressed were poisonous.
“Vi likes botany,” Oscar said, like this was supposed to be comforting.
“She pressed foxglove in a book.”
“It’s pretty.”
“It can stop your heart.”
“So can your driving sometimes.”
“That was unnecessary.”
Violet also embroidered.
Again, normal in theory.
Except she embroidered tiny skulls onto tote bags, black flowers onto handkerchiefs, and once, horrifyingly, a tiny anatomically correct heart onto the sleeve of one of Oscar’s hoodies.
Oscar loved it.
Of course Oscar loved it.
Oscar walked into the McLaren garage wearing it like Violet had stitched his name into the stars.
Lando pointed at the sleeve. “Is that a heart?”
Oscar looked down. “Yeah.”
“Like a Valentine heart?”
“No.”
“No,” Lando said slowly, staring at the little red embroidered organ. “Of course not.”
“Vi made it.”
“I gathered.”
“She said it suited me.”
Lando stared at him.
Oscar stared back.
“Mate,” Lando said, “your girlfriend embroidered an organ on your clothes and said it suited you.”
Oscar’s face softened. “Yeah.”
Lando turned away. “You’re beyond help.”
Then there was the taxidermy.
Not real taxidermy, Violet insisted.
Ethical taxidermy.
Which, according to her, meant she only collected things that had already died naturally.
According to Lando, that did not make it better.
It made it sound like she had terms and conditions.
He found this out at Oscar’s apartment.
Obviously.
Because Oscar’s apartment had slowly become less Oscar’s apartment and more Violet’s tasteful little gothic nature museum.
There were pressed flowers in frames.
Antique books.
Black candles.
A tiny cabinet full of bones.
Bones.
Lando had stopped in front of it and gone completely still.
Oscar, carrying drinks from the kitchen, said, “Don’t be weird.”
Lando pointed. “There are bones in your living room.”
“They’re Vi’s.”
“That does not help.”
“They’re cleaned.”
“Again. Not helping.”
Violet appeared beside them silently, because of course she did, and looked at the cabinet.
“They’re mostly from owl pellets,” she said softly.
Lando stared at her.
Violet looked back.
Oscar took a sip of water like this was a normal evening.
“Owl pellets,” Lando repeated.
Violet nodded. “Owls can’t digest bones and fur properly, so they regurgitate them.”
There was a pause.
Lando slowly turned to Oscar.
Oscar looked at him.
“Your girlfriend collects owl vomit bones.”
Violet’s eyes widened.
Oscar closed his eyes.
“I clean them first,” Violet said quickly.
“Oh,” Lando said. “Brilliant. That fixes everything.”
Violet’s mouth twitched.
Lando pointed at her. “Don’t laugh. This is deeply concerning.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re doing it silently.”
“She does that,” Oscar said fondly.
“Stop being fond about owl vomit bones!”
Violet laughed then. A real little laugh.
Oscar looked delighted.
Lando looked at the cabinet again and decided there were some battles he would simply never win.
And then there were the books.
The books were a separate category of concern.
Violet’s books had titles like:
Victorian Mourning Rituals.
Poisonous Plants of Europe.
The Social History of Death.
Witchcraft, Women, and Medicine.
Funerary Jewellery and Memory.
Oscar said she liked history.
Lando said there were better historical periods to enjoy.
“Has she considered the Romans?” Lando asked once.
Oscar looked up. “They killed a lot of people.”
“Fine. The Renaissance.”
“Also a lot of death.”
“The moon landing.”
Oscar stared at him. “That’s not a period.”
“It has less embalming.”
Violet, sitting beside Oscar with a cup of tea, whispered, “Not necessarily.”
Lando went cold.
Oscar started laughing.
“No,” Lando said immediately. “No. I don’t want to know. Keep your moon embalming facts to yourself.”
Violet smiled into her tea.
That was the other problem with her hobbies.
They gave her facts.
Terrible facts. Unsettling facts. Facts nobody had asked for.
You could say something innocent, like, “I hate the smell of almonds,” and Violet would softly explain that bitter almonds were historically associated with cyanide.
You could mention wedding rings, and Violet would tell you about mourning jewellery made from human hair.
You could say, “That flower is pretty,” and Violet would say, “It can cause paralysis.”
Always gently. Always politely. Like she was offering someone a biscuit.
Lando began to fear educational conversations.
One afternoon, he found her sitting in hospitality with a small embroidery hoop, carefully stitching something black and delicate onto fabric.
Lando approached with caution.
“What are you making?”
Violet looked up. “A moth.”
Lando relaxed slightly. “Oh. That’s nice.”
“A death’s-head hawkmoth.”
Lando stopped relaxing.
Oscar, without looking up, said, “Don’t start.”
“It has death in the name.”
“It’s a moth.”
“It has a skull on its back.”
“It didn’t choose that.”
Violet looked down at the embroidery. “I think it’s beautiful.”
Lando opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because she said it softly, with such genuine affection, and suddenly the whole thing became annoying again.
Because yes, it was unsettling.
But Violet did not like these things because they were creepy.
Not really.
She liked fragile things. Forgotten things. Misunderstood things. Things people looked at once and decided were ugly or frightening or morbid before they bothered to understand them.
Poisonous flowers.
Snakes.
Moths.
Old mourning jewellery.
Tiny bones cleaned carefully and placed in glass jars.
Oscar.
Actually, that one made sense.
Lando looked at Oscar, who was sitting beside Violet, entirely comfortable in the middle of her gothic little ecosystem.
Oscar had one hand resting near hers on the table. Not touching, exactly. Just close enough that Violet could hook her little finger around his whenever she wanted.
She did.
Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckle.
***
Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed
Reason 9 was the most disturbing reason of all.
Oscar was brainwashed.
There was no other explanation.
Lando had considered the evidence carefully, as any reasonable person would.
Oscar Piastri, who reacted to most things with the emotional intensity of a printer loading paper, had become soft.
Not generally.
Not in public.
Not with Lando, obviously, because Lando was apparently not worthy of gentleness despite being charming, funny, and essential to team morale.
But with Violet?
Oscar was gone.
Completely.
Tragically.
Embarrassingly gone.
He smiled at his phone.
He saved her the quiet seat in every room.
He carried her black tote bag without complaint, even though it had a tiny embroidered skull on it and made him look like an unwilling assistant in a gothic bakery.
He knew exactly how she liked her tea.
He could tell, from one tiny glance, when she was overwhelmed.
He listened when she whispered.
He leaned down so she didn’t have to speak louder.
He did not even blink when Belladonna was mentioned at the dinner table, which Lando thought was a very clear sign that Oscar’s survival instincts had been tampered with.
“He’s under her spell,” Lando told Max Fewtrell very seriously.
Max, who had unfortunately met Violet and decided she was “nice, actually,” did not look concerned enough.
“Maybe he just loves her.”
Lando stared at him.
“That’s what I said.”
“No,” Max said. “You said brainwashed.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“It is when she owns a snake named Belladonna.”
Max considered that. “Fair.”
Exactly.
Exactly.
But then the situation got worse.
Because Lando found the ring.
Not on purpose.
That was important.
He was not snooping.
He was not.
Oscar had asked him to grab a charger from his backpack. Those were the words Oscar had used. Can you grab my charger? It’s in the front pocket.
A normal request.
A teammate request.
A request that did not, in any reasonable world, suggest that Lando Norris would end up holding evidence of Oscar Piastri’s complete and irreversible emotional destruction.
The backpack was in Oscar’s driver room.
The charger was not in the front pocket.
Which was typical Oscar, because for someone who acted like a very organised spreadsheet, he was terrible at knowing where his own things were.
Lando opened the side pocket.
Nothing.
He opened the bigger pocket.
Still no charger.
He opened the smaller zipped pocket inside the bigger pocket, because at this point he was committed and also slightly annoyed.
There was no charger.
There was, however, a small velvet box.
Black velvet.
Of course.
Lando froze.
“No,” he whispered.
The box sat there innocently.
Too innocently.
Lando looked at the door.
Then back at the box.
He was not snooping.
He was investigating.
There was a difference.
Also, Oscar had put it in a backpack pocket and then sent Lando into the backpack unsupervised, which was practically entrapment.
Lando picked up the box.
It was heavy in his palm.
Not very heavy. Just heavy enough to feel ominous.
Like a cursed object.
Like something Violet would own.
“Oh no,” Lando whispered.
He opened it.
Then immediately shut it again.
Then opened it again, because his brain needed confirmation that it had not invented what it had just seen.
Inside was a ring.
An antique ring.
Not a normal shiny modern ring from a jewellery shop with clean lighting and champagne and sales assistants who said things like timeless elegance.
No.
This ring looked like it had a history.
A backstory.
A potential haunting.
It was Victorian-looking, all delicate gold scrollwork and tiny old-fashioned details, with little pale stones around the outside like stars caught in metal. But in the centre, where Lando assumed something normal was supposed to be — a diamond, a sapphire, maybe some romantic pastel thing — there was a black diamond.
A black diamond.
Deep and glossy and dark, catching the light like a secret.
Lando stared at it.
Then he stared harder.
Then, very calmly, he said, “Oscar Piastri, what the actual fuck.”
Behind him, Oscar said, “That is not the charger.”
Lando screamed.
Not a controlled exhale.
A scream.
The box nearly left his hand.
Oscar crossed the room in three long steps and caught Lando’s wrist before the ring could become a very expensive tragedy.
“Careful,” Oscar said sharply.
Lando clutched the box to his chest. “You appeared silently.”
“I walked in.”
“You and Violet are becoming one person and I hate it.”
Oscar’s eyes dropped to the box.
His face changed.
Not much.
But enough.
He reached out.
Lando held the box away from him.
“No.”
Oscar blinked. “Lando.”
“No. Explain yourself.”
“It’s a ring.”
“It’s a Victorian death ring.”
“It is not a death ring.”
“It has a black diamond in the middle.”
Oscar’s ears went slightly pink.
Oh.
Oh, Lando hated that.
“I changed the centre stone,” Oscar said.
Lando stared.
“You changed the centre stone.”
“Yes.”
“To a black diamond.”
“Yes.”
“On an antique Victorian ring.”
Oscar nodded.
Lando inhaled slowly.
“Right,” he said. “Right. Of course. Obviously. Why would you propose with something normal when you could give Wednesday Addams a ring that looks like it was pried from the hand of a tragic widow?”
Oscar’s expression went flat, but his ears were still pink.
“Vi will like it.”
That was the problem.
She would.
Violet would like it.
Violet would probably look at this alarming little piece of jewellery with its old gold and its black diamond heart and its faint air of moonlit inheritance drama, and she would go completely soft.
Worse, she would probably cry.
Silently.
Into Oscar’s shoulder.
And Oscar would look at her like he had personally been entrusted with the last fragile thing in the world.
Lando suddenly felt ill.
“You’re proposing,” he said.
Oscar was quiet.
Then, very simply, “Yeah.”
Lando looked at him.
Oscar Piastri, standing in his driver room in McLaren kit, looking infuriatingly calm except for the pink at the tips of his ears and the way his eyes kept flicking back to the ring box like he needed to make sure it was still there.
“You’re proposing,” Lando repeated.
“Yes.”
“To Violet.”
Oscar gave him a look. “Yes, Lando.”
“With this.”
“Yes.”
“A Victorian ring.”
“Yes.”
“With a black diamond.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “You’ve covered the important details.”
Lando sank down onto the little sofa.
He still held the ring box.
Oscar did not take it from him immediately, which meant he was either very trusting or very stupid.
Possibly both.
“You are brainwashed,” Lando said faintly.
Oscar sighed. “I am not brainwashed.”
“You bought an antique gothic proposal ring for your girlfriend who owns a snake named Belladonna.”
“I didn’t buy it because of the snake.”
“That is not the defence you think it is.”
Oscar sat down beside him.
Carefully, he took the ring box from Lando’s hand.
Lando let him, mostly because Oscar was looking at the ring in a way that made jokes feel slightly more difficult.
Annoyingly.
“It was originally an old mine cut diamond,” Oscar said, quieter now.
Lando blinked. “You know ring facts?”
Oscar ignored that. “It was pretty, but it didn’t feel like her.”
“Right, because it wasn’t ominous enough.”
Oscar gave him a sideways look.
Lando shut up.
For once.
Oscar opened the box again.
The black diamond caught the light.
“It’s old,” Oscar said. “Not perfect. The setting’s a bit unusual. The jeweller said some people wouldn’t like that because it’s not symmetrical enough.”
Lando looked at him.
Oscar’s thumb rested against the edge of the box.
“But Violet likes things with history,” he continued. “And she likes things that other people think are strange before they bother looking properly.”
Oh.
No.
Lando hated this.
He hated Oscar’s soft voice. He hated the stupid ring. He hated that it suited Violet. He hated that Oscar had clearly thought about this for longer than he had ever thought about anything Lando said to him.
“I thought about getting something modern,” Oscar said. “Something easy. But she wouldn’t want easy.”
Lando swallowed.
“She’d want haunted,” he said, because he needed to say something.
Oscar’s mouth curved.
“Probably.”
“And the black diamond?”
Oscar’s eyes stayed on the ring.
“She likes black,” he said.
“Yes, Oscar, we’ve all noticed.”
“And she doesn’t like being looked at too directly. Big bright diamonds felt wrong.”
Lando went quiet.
Oscar turned the box slightly, making the stone flash darkly under the light.
“This felt like her,” he said. “Soft around the edges. Strong in the middle.”
(Oh, come on. Come on.)
That was illegal.
Oscar was not allowed to say things like that.
Oscar was supposed to be emotionally constipated and deadpan and slightly annoying. He was not supposed to sit there holding an antique Victorian engagement ring with a black diamond and say things like soft around the edges, strong in the middle about his terrifying gothic girlfriend.
Lando rubbed both hands over his face.
“You are so gone,” he said.
Oscar did not deny it.
That was worse.
He simply looked at the ring for another second, then closed the box.
“I know.”
Lando froze.
Oscar did not look at him.
His ears were pink again.
Lando stared.
“You know?”
Oscar shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.”
“You admit it?”
“I’m not brainwashed.”
“But you’re in love.”
Oscar was silent.
Then, very softly, “Yeah.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
No, this was becoming sincere.
Lando did not do well with sincere. He could mock. He could tease. He could turn anything into a joke and then pretend the joke had not revealed something deeply emotional. But Oscar saying yeah like that, quiet and certain and not even embarrassed enough to hide from it properly, was a problem.
A serious one.
Lando looked away first.
Obviously.
He had to preserve himself.
“Disgusting,” he muttered.
Oscar huffed a laugh.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Oscar said.
Lando turned back to him, offended. “Do I look like someone who would ruin your proposal?”
Oscar just looked at him.
“That is hurtful.”
“You told three people when I changed shampoo.”
“It smelled different.”
“Lando.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Lando said. “Obviously.”
Oscar studied him for a second.
Then nodded.
Lando sat back, unsettled.
The ring sat between them in its black velvet box like a tiny gothic bomb.
“When?” Lando asked.
Oscar hesitated.
“Soon.”
“Soon?”
“After the triple-header. She hates big scenes, so not anywhere public. Not at a race. Not around cameras.”
Lando nodded slowly.
That made sense.
Violet would probably dissolve into the floor if Oscar proposed in front of people.
Or summon fog.
Either.
“I thought at home,” Oscar said. “After dinner. Just us.”
“Just you, Violet, and the snake named after poison.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Belladonna will be in her enclosure.”
“That’s not the same as not being present.”
“She’s family.”
Lando pointed at him. “That remains concerning.”
Oscar smiled down at the ring box.
Idiot.
Complete idiot.
Brainwashed idiot.
And the worst part was that Lando could see it now.
Not the proposal exactly, because that felt private in a way even his imagination hesitated to intrude upon.
But the shape of it.
Violet in Oscar’s apartment, probably wearing black, probably barefoot, probably with her braids loose or half undone after a long day. Oscar making tea because Oscar always made tea when Violet seemed nervous. The quiet of it. The softness of it. Oscar, who could barely perform romance for a camera to save his life, kneeling down in their living room with an antique ring that looked like it belonged in one of Violet’s gothic novels.
Violet would go still.
Completely still.
Then her eyes would fill.
Then she would say his name in that tiny voice, like she could not believe someone had chosen her so precisely.
And Oscar would say something low and simple and devastating, because apparently he had that ability when it came to her.
Something like, It was always going to be you.
Lando groaned.
Oscar looked at him. “What?”
“I just imagined it.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“Then stop.”
“I can’t. It’s in my head now. You’re going to propose with a haunted ring and she’s going to cry and you’re going to look at her like that.”
Oscar frowned. “Like what?”
“Like she’s the softest thing in the world even when she’s reading about corpse flowers.”
Oscar looked down at the box.
His face softened.
“That,” Lando said, pointing. “Exactly that. Stop it.”
Oscar did not stop it.
Obviously.
Because he was useless.
Then, because apparently the universe had decided Lando had not suffered enough, the door opened.
Violet appeared.
Silently.
Of course.
Both Oscar and Lando jolted.
Oscar snapped the ring box shut so fast the little click sounded like a gunshot.
Violet stopped in the doorway.
She was wearing black, obviously. A long black skirt, black cardigan, black boots. Her braids were tied with little ribbons, and she held her skull tote bag against her side.
Her eyes moved from Oscar to Lando.
Then to Oscar’s hand.
Then back up.
“Is everything okay?” she asked softly.
Lando’s soul left his body.
Oscar, somehow, remained calm.
“Yes,” he said.
Lando nodded too quickly. “Yep. Normal. Very normal. We were just talking about chargers.”
Violet blinked.
Oscar slowly turned his head toward him.
Lando smiled.
Badly.
“Chargers,” Violet repeated.
“Yes,” Lando said. “Phone chargers. Electrical. Very modern. Not Victorian at all.”
Oscar closed his eyes.
Violet’s brows drew together.
Lando wanted to throw himself into the harbour.
Oscar stood, sliding the box into his pocket with a smoothness that frankly suggested he had been practicing hiding evidence from his terrifying girlfriend.
“Lando couldn’t find my charger,” Oscar said.
That, at least, was technically true.
Violet looked at Lando.
Lando looked at Violet.
For once, she did not look like a murder suspect.
She looked suspicious.
Which was fair.
Because Lando was acting like a man who had just been caught holding an engagement ring with a black diamond in a driver's room.
Which he had.
Violet tilted her head.
Lando panicked.
“I’m going to go,” he said.
Oscar said, “Good.”
Rude.
Violet stepped slightly aside to let him pass.
As Lando moved by her, she said softly, “Bye, Lando.”
He stopped.
Looked at her.
Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Skull tote bag. Probably a book about death in there somewhere. Probably vegan snacks. Probably the emotional centre of Oscar’s entire universe.
Still suspicious.
Objectively.
But not dangerous.
Not to Oscar.
And maybe not to Lando either.
“Bye, Violet,” he said.
Then, because he had no self-preservation and possibly never had, he added, “Nice ribbons.”
Violet’s eyes widened.
Her hand lifted to one braid.
“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks went pink.
Oscar looked at Lando.
Not smug.
Not annoyed.
Grateful.
Again.
Absolutely unbearable.
Lando pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Oscar’s mouth curved. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“Occasionally I do that.”
Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “You two deserve each other.”
Oscar looked at Violet.
Violet looked at Oscar.
And there it was again.
That stupid, quiet, obvious love.
Lando left before it could become worse.
But after that, Reason 9 changed.
Because yes, Oscar was brainwashed.
Or in love.
Whatever.
But Violet was not exactly escaping unharmed either.
Violet, who barely spoke to anyone else, spoke to Oscar like words were something she had been saving just for him.
Violet, who moved silently through rooms like a ghost trying not to disturb the living, always drifted toward Oscar.
Violet, who hid behind her sleeves and her braids and sometimes, absurdly, her black lace parasol, looked at Oscar like he was the safest place in the world.
And Oscar was planning to propose to her with a ring that understood her.
That was the part that kept bothering Lando.
Not because it was weird.
Although it was weird.
The black diamond was insane.
The antique Victorian setting was insane.
The fact that Belladonna would probably witness the proposal from her enclosure like a tiny scaly chaperone was insane.
But the ring was not random.
Oscar had looked at Violet — really looked at her — and chosen something strange and old and dark and delicate, because anything else would have been wrong.
That was harder to make fun of.
Lando still tried.
Obviously.
But it was harder.
One evening, after a long day at the track, Lando found them in the quiet corner of McLaren hospitality.
Oscar was sitting on one of the sofas, hoodie sleeves pushed up, phone abandoned beside him. Violet was tucked into his side, black skirt folded neatly over her knees, one braid falling across Oscar’s shoulder like it had decided to live there.
She was reading.
Oscar was not.
Oscar was just sitting there, perfectly still, one hand resting loosely over Violet’s, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes over her knuckles.
Lando stopped in the doorway.
Neither of them noticed him.
That was unusual, because Violet noticed everything.
But her head was slightly bowed, her face softer than Lando had ever seen it, and Oscar was looking at her like the rest of the world had gone quiet for once.
Violet turned a page.
Oscar looked down. “Good?”
She nodded.
Then, after a moment, she tilted the book slightly so he could see the paragraph.
Oscar read it.
His eyebrows drew together. “That’s grim, Vi.”
Violet’s mouth twitched. “You say that about all my books.”
“Because all your books are grim.”
“They’re interesting.”
“They’re grim and interesting.”
She leaned a little more into him. “You still listen.”
Oscar’s face softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Violet looked up at him.
And there it was.
The thing Lando had been trying very hard not to look at directly.
Love.
Not creepy gothic brainwashing.
Not snake-related enchantment.
Not whatever parasol-based spell Lando had originally suspected.
Just love.
Quiet and obvious and deeply inconvenient.
Violet looked at Oscar like he had found her in a world too loud for her and decided to lower his voice instead of asking her to be different.
Oscar looked at Violet like she had handed him all her sharp, strange, shadowy pieces and he had found every single one worth holding.
It was disgusting.
It was beautiful.
Lando hated it.
Mostly because he suddenly felt like an idiot.
A charming idiot, but still.
He cleared his throat.
Oscar looked up first.
His face immediately flattened into its usual public setting, which was rude because Lando had just witnessed softness and now Oscar was trying to pretend he was furniture again.
Violet looked up too.
For once, Lando did not feel like she was assessing his organs.
She looked nervous.
Not ominous.
Just nervous.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Lando looked at her.
Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Book probably about death. Snake owner. Parasol enthusiast. Silent walker. Vegan gummy bear refuser.
Still suspicious.
Objectively.
But not dangerous.
Not to Oscar.
Maybe not to Lando either.
“Hi,” Lando said.
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Why are you standing there like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve had a thought.”
“I have thoughts.”
“Occasionally.”
Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.
Lando pointed at her. “See? That. You’re getting meaner.”
Her eyes widened.
Oscar smiled. “She is.”
“I’m not,” Violet whispered.
“You are,” Lando said. “Quietly. It’s very unsettling.”
Her mouth twitched.
Then, to Lando’s complete horror, she looked almost pleased.
Oscar looked at her like he wanted to wrap her in a blanket and give her the moon.
Lando groaned. “Oh, for god’s sake.”
“What?” Oscar asked.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Sitting there all brainwashed.”
Oscar blinked. “Brainwashed.”
“By love.”
Violet went very still.
Oscar’s ears went pink.
Excellent.
Finally.
A reaction.
Lando folded his arms. “Don’t deny it.”
Oscar looked away.
Which was Oscar for screaming.
Violet looked down at her book, cheeks turning pink beneath the black curtain of her braids.
Lando stared between them.
“Oh my god,” he said. “You’re both useless.”
Oscar muttered, “Shut up.”
“No. I won’t. I’ve been living in fear for months.”
“Of Violet?”
“Yes.”
Violet looked up, stricken. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
And there it was again.
That softness.
That awful, earnest little voice.
Lando immediately felt like a monster.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, not like— I mean, yes, technically, but not in a bad way.”
Oscar stared at him. “How is that not in a bad way?”
“Because it was funny.”
“To whom?”
“To me, mostly.”
Violet blinked.
Then, very quietly, “I thought you didn’t like me.”
Oh.
Lando froze.
Oscar’s expression shifted.
Not angry.
Exactly.
But protective.
Very protective.
Lando swallowed.
“No,” he said. “No, I like you.”
Violet looked surprised.
Painfully surprised.
Which made Lando want to walk into the sea.
“I do,” he said, because apparently this was happening now. “You’re just… terrifying.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
Oscar closed his eyes.
Lando rushed on. “But in a good way. Mostly. Like a small, polite ghost. With baking skills. And alarming books.”
Violet stared at him.
Then her mouth twitched.
“You think I’m a ghost?”
“A polite one.”
She looked down, smiling now. “That’s nice.”
“It was not meant to be nice.”
“It still is.”
Oscar opened his eyes and looked at Lando with the most unbearable expression he had ever worn.
Grateful.
Lando could handle smug Oscar. He could handle sarcastic Oscar. He could handle blank Oscar, annoyed Oscar, and emotionally unavailable Oscar.
He could not handle grateful Oscar.
Absolutely not.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Lando said immediately.
Oscar’s mouth curved. “Like what?”
“Like I’ve done something good.”
“You have.”
“Stop.”
Violet looked between them, still pink, still smiling a little.
Then she reached for Oscar’s hand.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Her fingers slipped around his.
Oscar turned his hand immediately and held on.
Like it was instinct.
Like breathing.
Lando watched them.
And suddenly the whole evidence board in his head rearranged itself.
The black clothes were not mourning clothes. They were armour.
The braids were not sinister. They were comfort.
The parasol was not a funeral accessory. It was something to hold when the world was too bright.
The silence was not judgement. It was shyness.
Belladonna was not foreshadowing. She was a rescued snake with a strong name.
The unsettling hobbies were not murder preparation. They were Violet loving strange, fragile, misunderstood things because maybe she knew what that felt like.
And Oscar?
Oscar was not brainwashed.
Oscar was in love.
Completely.
Stupidly.
Quietly.
Hopelessly in love.
And Violet loved him too.
That was obvious now.
In the way she looked for him first in every room.
In the way she relaxed when his hand touched her back.
In the way she saved her best sentences for him.
In the way she trusted him to understand the words she did not say out loud.
In the way Oscar’s whole world seemed to narrow down to making sure Violet never had to become louder than she wanted to be.
Lando hated how romantic that was.
He hated it so much he had to sit down.
Oscar watched him warily. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”
“You two,” Lando said. “You’re in love.”
Oscar stared.
Violet turned scarlet.
Lando pointed at them. “Disgusting.”
Oscar looked down at their joined hands.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah.”
Violet looked at him.
Oscar looked back.
For one second, neither of them seemed to remember Lando existed.
Their hands stayed tangled together.
Violet’s eyes were wide and soft.
Oscar’s face was open in a way Lando almost never saw.
Then Violet whispered, “Yeah?”
Oscar’s thumb moved over her knuckles.
“Yeah.”
Oh.
Oh, that was private.
Lando stood up so fast the sofa squeaked.
“Right,” he said loudly. “I’m leaving before you start being emotionally sincere at each other.”
Oscar did not look away from Violet. “Bye, Lando.”
“Unbelievable. Months of concern for your safety and this is the thanks I get.”
Violet looked at him then.
She was still blushing, but she smiled.
A real smile.
Small, shy, and entirely un-haunting.
“Bye, Lando.”
He paused.
Then sighed.
“Bye, Violet.”
He made it three steps before turning back.
“For the record,” he said, “if you ever do murder him, I will still tell Netflix I saw the signs.”
Violet’s smile widened.
Oscar groaned.
“I won’t,” Violet said softly.
Lando narrowed his eyes.
Then she added, “Probably.”
Oscar dropped his head.
Lando pointed at her. “See? This is why the list exists.”
But he was smiling when he said it.
And Violet was smiling too.
Oscar looked between them like he could not decide whether to be annoyed or happy.
He settled, unfortunately, on happy.
Lando left before it got worse.
That night, he opened the evidence file one last time.
Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed.
He stared at it.
Then deleted brainwashed and rewrote it.
Reason 9: Oscar was in love.
Supporting evidence:
One, Oscar smiled at Violet like an idiot.
Two, Oscar understood Violet’s silence better than most people understood full speeches.
Three, Oscar carried her skull tote bag in public without complaint.
Four, Oscar considered Belladonna part of the family, which remained concerning.
Five, Oscar looked at Violet like she was the softest thing in the world, even when she was reading about Victorian funerals.
Six, Violet looked at Oscar like he made the world less frightening.
Seven, Violet loved him too.
Lando stopped typing.
Then added the final footnote.
Additional note: Maybe I am going to survive after all.
He considered that.
Then added:
Further note: Still do not eat any unlabelled brownies without checking if they are vegan or cursed.
And finally:
Further further note: Violet is not going to murder me.
PT TWO OF THAT TWST BOYS W AN OSHI REQUEST. MAYBE OF THEM INTERACTING W READER OR SMTH, IDK, YOU COOK UP SMTH. SAME PEOPLE.
【❝Part Of Your World pt. 2❞】
【Synopsis: In which the twst boys find themselves face-to-face with their favorite character — that being you — when you end up in their world】
【Featuring: Ruggie Bucchi, Leona Kingscholar, Idia Shroud, and Malleus Draconia】
【Tags: gn reader, reader is implied to be mc/yuu, isekai ig, can be read as platonic or romantic ig, mostly crack, some fluff ig, possible typos/spelling errors, uhhhh I think that’s it, please let me know if I missed any tags】
【a/n: yooooo part two :3 idk if it’s because I’ve been in a bit of a writing slump, but I’ve seriously been struggling to like anything I’ve written in the last few days tbh :( like, objectively there’s nothing wrong with this, but I still don’t love it yk? Anyway, I hope you like it pookie :3 I promised I’d get this out for you and here it it lol <3333333】
I mean, you've gone on plenty of interdimensional escapades in your comic runs, but he never expected that you'd somehow end up here in Twisted Wonderland of all places. You're a literal hero — well, anti-hero if we're being technical here — and you're right here in front of Ruggie talking and shooting the shit with him like he's an old friend or something. He's certainly not complaining, of course, but she still can't believe all this is real.
You and Ruggie are as thick as thieves — quite literally too. You've got the whole Robin Hood thing going on. You know, the give-to-the-rich-and-steal-from-the-poor shtick. Somehow, this manifests in you giving your spoils to your pal Ruggie, who is more than eager to accept just about anything you have to offer. Well, almost anything.
You see, you have a rather bad habit of picking up things that you probably shouldn't — you know, priceless heirlooms and the like. Ruggie has literally no clue how you manage to smuggle all this stuff away without getting caught, and he doesn't know if he should be impressed with or concerned by your skills.
If something's not securely bolted down, then there's a very good chance that you'll just take it and put it in your pocket. Some may call it stealing. Others would call it kleptomania. You simply like to call it borrowing.
"How did you get that thing?!"
"I found it."
"Where? How? Why?"
"It was just lying around, and I thought I'd give it a nice, loving home."
"WHAT NEED DO I HAVE FOR A DESIGNER PURSE??"
"I dunno. Send it home to your granny. I'm sure she'll be appreciative of the gift, unlike a certain someone."
"I AM NOT SENDING IT TO MY GRANNY, YOU LITERALLY STOLE IT!!"
"I borrowed it."
"THEN YOU'LL HAVE NO PROBLEM RETURNING IT TO IT'S RIGHTFUL OWNER!!"
"Ehh, it's alright. I'm sure Vil won't miss it. He probably has, like, a million of those things."
…
"Vil? Did you say Vil?"
"Uh, yeah. Why?"
"We're screwed. We're totally screwed. I'm never gonna graduate now. I'm gonna rot in jail and leave my poor granny all alone."
"Oh, c'mon, it's not that serious. I'm sure Vil won't press charges if we return it."
"YOU BETTER HOPE SO OR I'M TESTIFYING AGAINST YOU IN COURT!"
"Wow, okay. I see how it is, you snitch."
"YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT I'M A SNITCH! I'M NOT GOING TO JAIL BECAUSE YOU DECIDED TO STEAL FROM THE WRONG PERSON!"
Leona is playing hard to get.
Well, not really. It would be more apt to say that he's playing mysterious and aloof. Leona can't just let himself vie for your attention like a needy little kitten, so he pretends to be wholly uninterested in your merger existence when that couldn't be further from the truth.
If you were any other herbivore, he wouldn't let you occupy so much time and space in his thoughts, but you're not. You're not even the main character in the book you're from, yet you are to Leona. One would think he'd be happy to have you here in Twisted Wonderland, and, in a sense, he is, but your presence causes him more stress than it does elation.
As nonchalant as Leona likes to pretend to be, he's quite… concerned about you. You can't really blame the guy, can you? You're from a completely different world — one that's a piece of fictional media here in Twisted Wonderland — and that, obviously, isn't something that anyone would easily adjust to. So, Leona finds himself… lingering.
He goes out of his way to come to class — not to actually learn anything, of course, but to make sure that no one's giving you a hard time and you're adjusting alright. Leona very well could just have someone else — probably Ruggie — handle this stakeout mission of his, but if you want a job done right, then you have to do it yourself. So, Leona does it himself.
Unfortunately, he did not anticipate being paired with you for a group project in Crewel's alchemy class, which he isn't sure he should consider a blessing or a curse — probably the latter.
"Are you going to let me help, Leona?"
"Nah, I got it. Just let me handle it — don't want you to accidentally blow us up."
"I am not that bad at alchemy."
"Side you aren't. Just last week I watched you turn yourself purple trying to get iron to morph into stone — didn't even know someone could mess up that badly."
"Well, excuse me. Forgive me for not being familiar with the ins and outs of alchemy. If you've forgotten, I'm not from this world and, therefore, unfamiliar with your magical and alchemical practices."
"And that's exactly why I'm taking the lead here. We don't want you to turn purple again, now do we?"
"Fine, but can you at least let me do something other than stand here and hand you ingredients?"
"Hm, I'll think about it. Now, can you hand me the powdered gold?"
Poor Idia has absolutely no idea how to act around you.
To be fair, he doesn't really know how to act around anyone, but you're a special case. I mean, it's not every day that you get the once in a lifetime opportunity to interact with one of your favorite fictional characters in real life, so cut Idia some slack, alright?
Unfortunately, Idia is much more content to just watch you from afar through his tablet instead of, you know, talking to you like a normal person. His social stats can definitely use some work, and the last thing he wants to do is choose the wrong dialogue option while talking to you! Idia can't just go back, reload a save, and try again either, so he'll just cut his losses and admire you from the comfort of his room where he can't mess anything up.
Luckily, a certain robot boy isn't going to let that happen!
Being the sweet summer child he is, Ortho decides to make it his mission to get you and his big brother to become close! Idia is in desperate need of some face-to-face social interaction with real, living, breathing people and you just so happen to be a real, living, breathing person! What luck!
Ortho is fully aware of how much Idia likes you and wants nothing more than for you to like his brother too, so he devises a plan to get the two of you together in the same space at the same time, which is, admittedly, much more difficult than it sounds. Thankfully, after a lot of persuading on Ortho's end, his plan manages to unfold successfully!
…
"Sooo, Ortho tells me you're something of an inventor. What sort of things have you created?"
"O-oh, you know, this and that."
"This and that?"
"Yeah… t-this and that. I just make whatever comes to mind really."
"Well, that is truly impressive! I could not imagine creating something simply on a whim. You must be as talented as Ortho claims you to be. Consider me impressed, Idia."
"W-well I could… show you some of my inventions if you're interested. I don't show them off to just anyone, but I guess I can make an exception for you."
"That sounds wonderful! It's an honor to be given such a privilege. I'm beyond excited to see what your brilliant mind has created!"
"Heh, prepare to have your socks knocked off! I've actually got something new I'm working on and you'll be the first to see it. C'mon, you're gonna love this!"
Malleus has been trying his best to contain his excitement ever since your arrival.
In his defense, he is quite a big fan of yours. While 'A Song of Light and Shadow' is older than the vast majority of Malleus' peers at NRC, he is refined enough to appreciate the literary masterpiece that you call your home. Well, your former home. For the time being, Twisted Wonderland shall be your home-away-from home and Malleus shall be your accommodating host.
No one at NRC could have ever expected the Prince of Briar Valley to attach himself so quickly to some magicless human from another world, yet here we are. It's rather hilarious for the student body to watch Malleus trail after you like a lost puppy, but neither he nor you pay much attention to their watching eyes.
In truth, you are beyond happy to have found a companion to lean on in such uncertain times. Malleus has been nothing but kind and understanding since your arrival — traits that you find yourself appreciating now more than ever. He can be a bit… cryptic at times, but you've gotten used to his teasing with time.
For Malleus' part, he's very good about not bringing up what he knows about your world. He's read 'A Song of Light and Shadow' a million times over, so he knows the story of both you and your world incredibly well, which he fears might scare you off if he were to reveal the true depth of his knowledge. So, Malleus pretends to be entirely in the dark and lets you freely share whatever information you decide to grace him with.
"You see, in my world there is indeed magic, but those that use it are typically persecuted and deemed heretics."
"Ah, I see. Does it bother you, being in a world where magic is used freely?"
"I am merely… unused to it. I find it fascinating, in truth, but it's difficult to adjust from one extreme to another, if that makes sense."
"It does. I find it valiant that you would be so… open-minded despite the status quo of your world. There are many in your predicament that wouldn't be so accepting."
"Well, I am nothing if not accepting. Despite everything, I do truly find magic to be incredibly fascinating. It's a shame that I am unable to use any myself, but I do enjoy watching others excel at what I cannot."
"I see. Perhaps you might allow me to show you the full extent of what this world's magic has to offer."
"Of course! Who better to do such a thing than you. I've been told you're one of the most powerful mages in this world, so I'm interested to see if those rumors are true."
"Well, allow me to sate your curiosity and prove that these so-called rumors indeed are true in nature."
Summary: Y/n and Langdon try to get some rest in the same on-call room but get a little distracted.
Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Smut if you squint
Author's Note: Based on this request. Sort of a prequel to The Hospital Gossip Mill. Let me know your thoughts and feedback!!
Two loud knocks was all it took and Langdon was wide awake.
Already in a shitty mood having to pull a double today, all he wanted was some peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask? To get just a little bit of sleep in before having to go through another eight hours in the pit.
Looking down at his watch, he groaned. By now he would’ve been at home, probably getting ready for dinner plans with Y/n. But instead, he was here. At the hospital. Where he has been since 8AM. All because of that nasty bug going around. Already short-staffed, it was one sick call after the next this past week. From doctors, to nurses, to admins - everyone was catching it. One of the few left standing, Langdon took one for the team, staying back to cover Dr. Ellis on the night shift.
Throwing his legs over the stiff, sorry excuse for a bed the hospital furnished the on-call rooms with, Langdon walked up to the door grumbling to himself. This better be an emergency otherwise someone was about to get ripped a new one. He wrote it clearly on the whiteboard outside:
DON'T KNOCK, CALL IF URGENT
Can people not read? Brows furrowed tightly, Langdon yanked the door open wide, raring and ready to unleash the string of profanities on the tip of his tongue until he saw who was in front of him. Y/n.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she teased, walking straight past him before he could even get a word out.
Sticking his head out scanning the halls, he was relieved to see they were empty. No one at work had a clue they were dating and they intended to keep it that way.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home by now?” he asked trying not to sound too annoyed as he locked the door behind him.
Yeah, she should have been. The last surgery on her schedule today was a simple hernia repair. It wouldn’t have taken more than an hour. But the patient’s stubborn mother decided to ignore the explicit directions not to feed her 24-year-old man-child any food while he waited for an OR to open up. Now the 20 minute wait for an OR turned into a 6 hour wait for the casserole to digest.
“I don’t know how she snuck that Tupperware past the nurses,” Y/n snorted, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Looks like we’re both in for a long night.”
Leaning into her touch despite himself, Langdon’s eyes closed instinctively. The feeling of her thumb agaisnt that sensitive spot on the nape of his neck transported him back to the night before. How her fingers brushed against that exact spot, how they worked down his back, the welcomed burn of her nails as they scratched against his skin, the sound of her gasps in his ear as he-
Snap out of it, he told himself. Now was not the time for dirty thoughts about what they did last night. What he needed was to go lay down, not get worked up. Clearing his throat and his mind, he focused on the present.
“The on-call rooms full up there?”
She nodded. They always were. About to slum it on one of the sofas in the surgical staff lounge, she remembered one of the last texts he sent her:
ED lounge is empty and lonely.
Wish you were here
Well, here she was. Wish granted. Sure, it was risky sneaking onto the ED floor. If someone saw her that would’ve been the start of a new rumor for sure. It would’ve spread around the hospital faster than that bug everyone was sick with. But he said it himself, no one was around. And with their dinner plans obviously canceled, this way they can squeeze in more time together. Even if it was spent just napping.
“You don’t mind, right?” she pouted, looking up at him, willing him to forgive her for waking him up like she had. Batting her lashes, her thumb brushing that spot on his neck that had him like putty in her hands.
He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that he minded. It was that he was concerned about getting some actual sleep. He wanted to get at least an hour in before having to go back onto the floor. But two of them, confined in a tiny room with basically nothing but a bed, getting sleep was low on the list of things they could get up to in here.
What was he supposed to do? Kick her out? Tell her no? He couldn’t. Even when he really wanted to, even when it was the right thing to do, even when she got on his damn nerves - like just now, blatantly ignoring the sign he wrote on the door - he could never say no to her.
They managed to fit on the small bed slotting into one another like puzzle pieces. It was a tight fit considering these beds were made for one, but neither of them minded. The sheets were scratchy and the pillow paper thin, but with her back against him, his arm draped over her, it was actually kind of cozy.
After promising no funny business, the room was silent save for the AC burring and their steady breaths.
Finally dozing off, Langdon suddenly tensed, feeling Y/n shuffle in his arms. Her hips backed into him. It was only slightly but it was right against the one part of his body he had no control over. Assuming it was a one-off, he shuffled himself back a little to create some needed distance between them. But she did it again, just moments after.
Here we go, he groaned to himself. Just what he was afraid of. They were supposed to be sleeping with each other. Not sleeping with each other.
He wasn’t going to react. Nope. He wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of a reaction, of knowing the effect she had on him.
Summoning his will power, he fought against his body’s natural, primal response to her body moving against his. It wasn’t easy. Not only did she consume his physical senses, but she consumed his mind as well. Every thought was of her. Memories of her pretty face contorted in pleasure, her bare skin meeting his, her smart mouth stuffed full of him, all glued to the forefront of his mind.
He forced himself to think about that gross bleeder he cauterized this morning and that biker in South 2 with his leg bent out of shape waiting for Ortho, but it did nothing. How could it when with each passing second her movements became more brazen and shameless. Each roll of her hips grating on his self control.
“Y/n, stop,” he warned.
“Stop what?” she mumbled, playing innocent. But there was nothing innocent about what she was doing, the way she grinned her ass into him. It was deliberate and debilitating.
“You promised,” he scolded. But there was no conviction in his voice. Or in the way he gripped her hips, a vain attempt to stop her before they went too far, before he couldn’t hold himself back.
“I can’t help myself,” she whispered in a whine. Her hand moved behind her, palming him over his scrubs. Pleased at how hard he had gotten already, she chuckled. “Seems like neither can you.”
Whatever was left of his fragile resolve crumbled under her touch. His body had betrayed him totally. Fuck it, he thought. He was only human after all. Once again unable to say no, he surrendered to her whim for the second time that night. Placing feather light kisses on her neck, he indulged himself in the feeling of her hand stroking him slowly, sensually. Up and down, up and down. It was just enough pressure to offer relief but not enough to satisfy.
“Y/n,” he said again. This time less like a warning and more like a plea. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Good thing I’m a doctor,” she smirked.
“Smartass,” he murmured against her skin.
No longer fighting his own need for her, his fingers dipped under her scrub pants. Her gasp was quiet and small, but unmistakable as his warm fingers pressed against the growing damp spot on her lacy panties. Feeling just how wet she was already, he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck whispering against her skin.
“This what you wanted, huh?”
Reveling in the sensation of his five o’clock shadow grazing against her skin, of his fingers sliding her panties to the side and slipping between her slick folds, she could only hum in agreement.
That wasn’t good enough. No, he wanted to hear her say it.
“Use your words, baby,” he demanded, his middle finger teasing her entrance.
Oh, she loved it when he got like this. All controlling and assertive. The tension in her core tightened. She pulsed against his finger in anticipation. About to speak up, to tell him this was exactly what she wanted, a loud beeping and buzzing beat her to it.
“Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed louder than he should have. Throwing his head back on the pillow in exasperation, he couldn’t believe his luck. Of course his phone would be going off at this exact moment.
The sound of Y/n’s laughter filled the room as he answered it. A finger held up to his lips, urgently gesturing her to quiet down. Not just because they could pick it up on the other end, but the way she was laughing they could probably hear her through the walls out in the hallway. Hand taped over her mouth she muffled her laughter as best she could, but this was just too good. A call right as they’re about to really get things started, right when he finally gave in? It wasn’t fair at all, but it was damn funny.
Langdon was not nearly as amused by all this as she was. Not amused at all actually. The look he gave her as pointed as a knife’s tip. She knew just how to dull that sharpness though. Running a soothing hand up his back, fingers gently massaging the back of his neck, ensuring to touch that sensitive spot again.
The only thing Langdon found more upsetting than getting called back down to the floor early was how easily he folded for her. He was wrapped around her finger, and even worse, she knew it. Dragging a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away his fatigue and frustrations, he let out a deep sigh rising from the bed. They needed an extra set of hands down there, and as shitty as he felt, the patients down there felt a whole lot shittier.
In the middle of adjusting his scrub pants, trying to conceal the hard-on that hadn’t gone down yet, he paused, confused as to why Y/n was getting out of the bed too. It wasn’t common practice to use other departments’ on-call rooms, but there weren’t any rules forbidding it. “You can stay y’know.”
“I know, but I should go back up anyway. Make sure my patient’s mom isn’t feeding him any more casserole,” she said, only-half joking. “Besides, I’m all strung up after that. No way I’m falling asleep now.”
He shook his head, a smile creeping on his face as he watched her fix her own clothes. She was nothing but trouble, but she was all his trouble. As she turned towards the door, he grabbed her arm whipping her back around and into him. Face to face, chest to chest, he leaned in taking her by surprise for a change. The kiss was hot and hurried, leaving them both wanting for more.
“Meet you back here after that hernia repair?” he suggested breathlessly.
Y/n nodded excitedly, “Definitely.”
High off each other, the pair stepped out into the hallway without so much as a second thought. In hindsight they should’ve checked to make sure no one was around, or maybe not walked out at the exact same time. For two people trying to keep their relationship a secret, it was a quite careless thing to do. But it was what they did. And now they had to convince Perlah, who was out in the hallway brows raised in surprise, that there was a totally normal explanation to what she just saw.
“I was just looking for an empty on-call room,” Y/n said, beginning to explain the situation to Perlah. The way she worded it made sense. The on-call rooms up in surgery were full, so she ended up here only to find Langdon already inside the room.
But Perlah did the math in her head and it wasn’t adding up. If Y/n came down to crash in an open room, and Langdon was using the room but is heading back to the ER now, why wasn’t Y/n staying in the room then?
“If he’s leaving, why are you leaving?” she questioned Y/n skeptically.
“Well I just got a call to check on my patient,” y/n answered back smoothly. Not a total lie but definitely not the whole truth.
“Yeah she got the call exactly the same time I got called back,” Langdon added trying to really sell the idea this was all just some big coincidence and nothing more.
Perlah eyed them both suspiciously, not completely sold on the BS they were throwing at her. But like Langdon, she was working a double too, and didn’t have any extra energy to waste. So, she ignored her inner tsismosa urging her to keep digging for details, and let it slide this time. She left them in the hall, heading into the storage closet across the on-call room, grabbing whatever it was she came down here for in the first place.
Langdon and Y/n exchanged uneasy looks. Worry settling in the pit of their stomachs. Was this it? Had they been caught?
“Do you think she bought it,” Langdon mouthed, barely above a whisper.
Y/n could only shrug and pray that she did. “Let’s hope so.”
