#the method probably involves doing close ups-

[luckyartdrawer]

Hello good sir, I am sure you have well intentions! :)

I wanted to do some lighting practice for fun and now I have this sly devil. I'm pretty proud of how he turned out and how fast I was able to make this! :3

Welp. Now I kinda wanna turn him into a character. we'll see if I ever do, hehe :P

[weaselle]

it was too much i had to make my own post

line cook here. ACCURATE

if you don't get the hate, here's what you don't understand.

it takes up to 2 hours to close down the kitchen.

The last 60-90 minutes before closing time you do almost no cooking because the restaurant doesn't have many people in it and you've already cooked most of their diners.

So if someone walks in during, like, the last hour, the cook is in the middle of an industrial deep clean of the kitchen.

(these numbers can vary quite a bit from place to place but i have worked several restaurants with these actual times and the concept remains the same)

Say the place closes at 10. If you wait til the restaurant is already closed to start all your cleaning duties, you'll be there until at least midnight.

More than that your boss knows that on an average night you can start your clean up as soon as the last rush ends and get out of there around 10:45, even 10:15 on a slow night if you get lucky. That means there are plenty of restaurants where if you do take until midnight the manager is going to come up to you at some point that week and ask you what went wrong that night, and you'd better have an answer.

So this example restaurant closes at 10 pm. The dinner rush ends around 8:30, and shortly after that the cook is going to start getting every single dish possible over to the dishwasher because the dishwasher always gets hit hard and late, and the machine runs for 2 full minutes and only holds so many dishes, so the way that works out is if you wait an extra 30 minutes to give the dishwasher all your stuff it can mean adding like 60 minutes to the end of his shift. And you're gonna KEEP finding shit to send to the dishpit right up until you leave probably.

all these little square and rectangle containers in this cold table have to be pulled out and changed over into new containers, replaced by new full ones, or in some cases filled from larger containers in the back, which can result in even more empty containers to send to the dishwasher.

while it's all pulled apart to do this, you have to clean up all the spilled food and sauce and juices and stuff from the joints and ledges and shelves and drip trays

Once you get your line changed over in this way, and fully stocked, anytime someone orders something that makes use of a bunch of that stuff, you have to restock and re-clean it some. It might already be covered in plastic. Some of it might already be stuck in the back to make room to take apart your cutting board counter to clean. To cook a dish isn't TOO much of a problem at this point, but you're really hoping for zero orders because you still have so much other cleaning to do.

Meanwhile the salad bar and appetizer section and server station and everybody are all doing the same thing. Even the bartenders are stocking olives and lemons and sending back whisks and stir spoons and shakers and empty 4quart storage containers that used to hold the back-up lemons and olives and things. Every section is dumping their must-be-cleaneds to the dishpit as fast as possible because early and fast is the only thing they can do to to help that dishpit not absolutely drown into overtime.

The poor dishwasher is always the last to clock out, soaking wet and exhausted.

Around this time you probably scrub the flat top, which has turned black from cooked on grease and is still about 500 degrees. Line cooks are divided in opinion on water-based or oil based cleaning methods for this, but they all involve scrubbing with (usually) a brick of pumice stone using every ounce of your strength while you try not to burn yourself

you scrub it from fully blackened to gleaming silver and now if somebody orders something that needs the flat top to cook, you can either fuck up your cleaning job or fake it in a couple frying pans and pass that tiny fuck you down to your dishwasher (who usually understands, especially if you help them take the garbage out or clean your own floor drain later)

If there's deep fried stuff on the menu then the fryers have to be cleaned out, which includes straining the oil out into enormous and super-heavy pots full of oil so hot that if you spill on yourself then it's probably a hospital visit and if you slip and fall face first into it it'll be the last thing you ever do.

Then you gotta scrub out the fryer. Like you gotta take the (hot) screen out and reach your arm down into the weird rounded pipes and curved areas (so hot, burn you if you brush against them hot) and scrub off whatever is down there

Depending on your kitchen you might have to do up to four of these. Then you'll have to pour the (dangerously hot) oil back in

oh, and if you didn't dry the pipes and get ALL the water out of the trap and tank?

water reacts with hot oil in a sort of mentos and coke way that can send a tidal wave of oil past the open flame of the pilot light ...HUGE dangerous mess and/or burn down the kitchen if the oil lights up.

Unless! If the oil has been used too hard and needs to be changed, it's time to carry those open topped super heavy pots full of will-kill-you-hot oil and dump them in the barrel outside by the dumpsters so you can put room temp fresh oil in the fryers. whew!

The clean up is not just some light wiping down that can be easily interrupted, is what i'm saying.

You might have to do some kind of walk-in duty (moving around 50lb cases of lettuce and 50lb bags of onions to get to the stacks of five gallon buckets full of salad dressings and sauces to move so you can reach the giant metal pots and bus tubs full of prep and get it all organized and make sure it's all labeled and i have to stop now i'm having flashbacks)

THE POINT IS

by 15 or however many minutes to close, the line cook is doing an intense deep clean and probably has the whole stove taken apart to detail.

For some industrial stoves this means lifting off large cast iron plates that weigh like 20 lbs each and are still quite hot. Whatever metal burners are on there, you gotta take off and clean, you can see here the lines that indicate the large thick cast iron rectangles that sit on top of the burners to allow heavy pots to rest on. Those five (each has one front burner hole and one back burner hole, see?) have to be lifted off and cleaned with soap and a wire brush usually, and then the underneath area also has to be cleaned because a lot of shit falls through the burner holes on a busy night.

if you didn't do it when you did the flat top you have to do the grease trap (which can be like a full five minutes and is always disgusting).. You gotta clean out all the little gas jets in each burner with a wire or something so the burners all flame evenly, and sometimes you have to remove some of the natural gas piping that connects the burners to access where you have to clean.

you gotta clean out the bottom of the oven and the wire racks, and, oh gods, you gotta take down the filter vents from the hood fans above the stove.

See all the lined parts along the top of the wall?

those are hood vents, and as they pull air up they also pull a lot of grease and they have to be taken down and cleaned, then you gotta climb up there and scrub where they go before you put them back...

And then there's the mopping and floor drains and...

Anyway, that's what the line cook is doing when you walk in fifteen minutes before closing and order something that needs to be cooked on that stove. They are doing an entire industrial cleaning of a professional kitchen.

In some restaurants maybe one or two of these jobs will be every other night or even only twice a week, but in many, possibly most kitchens, ALL of these things happen EVERY night. You don't want to leave any food mess that might attract insects or rodents for one thing, so a really good kitchen is as close to brand new as you can get it every night.

IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ORDER SOMETHING ANYWAY, HERE IS WHAT TO DO

open with an apology and ask the server to go ask what the cook would prefer you to order.

Any good server will already know what the cook is hoping for and what will make their line cook go into the walk in and scream. If it's significantly less than an hour to close and they say some variant of "oh anything is fine" they are either telling the lie their boss wants them to say, or they actually do not know what their line cook wants, and you can either use human connection and a conspiratorial just-between-us tone to get them to drop the customer-is-always-right act, or get them to actually go ask the cook.

It might be as specific as "the lasagna is easiest on the kitchen" or it might be a simple guideline like "nothing that requires the flat top" or "any of the sautés are easy" but a good line cook will probably have a system for if they have to make a couple of the most popular items after they start their close, so the answer is likely to include something most people like and you should be good to order that.

but for the love of all that's holy, please only do so at great need. Leave that last 30-60 minutes to the truly desperate and the crew's duties.

[kiapet2]

Having more thoughts on Eridian worldbuilding, this time about families.

While I love and greatly enjoy all the adorable fics, art and headcanons about Rocky, Adrian and Grace forming a little family unit together... I strongly doubt that Eridians have any real concept of the nuclear family.

The thing is that nuclear families (family units consisting of a married couple and any kids they have) are a relatively modern and largely Western invention; for most of human history and in most parts of the world households have been larger and involved extended family members, tending more towards clans than individual units.

Notably, this is also more common in more collectivist societies- and Eridians are supposed to be even more collectivist in nature than humans are.

Eridians make major decisions by joining together in large groups that form a single consciousness.

They need to watch each other sleep on an irregular timeline, which would be wildly impractical with two people who aren't stuck on a tiny spaceship together, and instead have jobs and obligations outside the home.

They traditionally stored food from hunting in large communal piles.

In the movie Rocky has a family crest that he uses to introduce himself, indicating a major focus on family/clan as a part of identity.

James Ortiz's headcanon about arranged marriage also fits, since those usually happen in societies that view marriage as a union between families, rather than between individuals.

All of this points to Eridians living together in large groups joined by kinship, and potentially friendship as well. They have many adults in the home that all support the family, watch each other sleep, and come together to make important decisions. And this family identity is an important part of how they see themselves and their purpose in the world.

And then there's the issue of Eridian reproduction.

When you put together that Eridians lay five eggs at a time, that they live for centuries, and that egg laying is easier than giving birth, you're looking at one Eridian mating pair having up to five kids at minimum, and dozens at maximum. Maybe in the past it evened out due to child mortality, but assuming they've largely solved that with modernity it's a recipe for massive, unsustainable population growth.

I've seen several fan explanations for this, but for me the simplest is that Eridians just don't put as much emphasis on individual couples having children as humans do. Each family generation is probably quite large, but only a couple kids in that generation will choose to have children of their own, and then those children will be raised by the family, It-Takes-a-Village style.

It's similar to how it was an evolutionary benefit for human families to have single, gay and elderly members: including childless adults increases chances of survival for the children the family does have. And quintuplets have gotta be a lot for one couple to handle, even with Eridian multi-tasking abilities.

If I can get even more out there, considering the collectivist nature of Eridians and the relatively detached method of laying eggs vs. childbirth/nursing, it's entirely possible that Eridians don't actually put that much stock in who a child's biological parents are. There are human societies that historically reckoned kinship similarly, referring to some or all aunts/uncles as parents, and cousins as siblings.

All of which is to say that again, large and tight-knit extended families are very likely the default for most Eridians.

And oh boy, the implications this has for the story!

Imagine Ryland "No close family, no friends, not even a dog" Grace, arriving at Erid to discover that he has not only been adopted by Rocky's mate but by his entire, massive family as well.

Imagine Rocky's relatives, many of whom are likely also engineers, working to maintain Grace's dome. Because that's what you do for family, and any family of Rocky's is one of theirs.

Imagine Rocky and Adrian having a clutch and Grace getting ready to be an uncle only to discover he is 100% considered a parent too.

Imagine this lonely, isolated person having a huge support system for the rest of his life.

It's wonderful, and I'd love to see it explored more.

[itsameaera]

i love reading your fics so much sjdndyeueh can I request jade, jamil and rook with a s/o who's scared of bugs? :]

【❝Creepy Crawlies❞】

【Synopsis: In which your fear of bugs causes a great deal of shenanigans on the part of your boyfriend】

【Featuring: Jade Leech, Jamil Viper, and Rook Hunt】

【Tags: Gn reader, established relationship, TW for bugs (obviously), mostly crack, some fluff ig, Jade being Jade, Rook being Rook, Jamil crashing out, possible typos/spelling errors, please let me know if I missed any tags】

【Word count: Jade (303) Jamil (289) Rook (289) Total (0.8k)】

【a/n: awww ty for the kind words anon, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long for this! I myself wouldn’t say I have a fear of bugs in general, but i do have a fear of spiders in particular — they just have too many eyes and too many legs for my liking lol! Anyway, I don’t have too much to say this time around, so I hope you enjoy! :3】

⋆˙⟡⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡⋆˙⟡⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡⋆˙⟡⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡⋆˙⟡⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡⋆˙⟡⋆.˚ ⊹₊⟡⋆

‧₊˚ ┊ You seriously made a big mistake telling this freak about your fear of bugs

‧₊˚ ┊ I mean, he's not going to torture you with this very valuable information, but he will tease you for his own amusement

‧₊˚ ┊ Jade won't ever try to scare you using real bugs — he's not that cruel — but fake plastic ones are fair game (he bought a bunch of them from Sam's store with nothing but nefarious intentions in mind lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ He likes to just hide the fake bugs and see how long it takes for you to find and subsequently freak out about them (your reactions never get old lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ The worst prank of this nature was when he hid a plastic cockroach in some food he made for you, which, in hindsight, probably went too far (you very rightfully didn't trust any food he made for you for some time after that incident)

‧₊˚ ┊ When it comes to real bugs, Jade changes his tune

‧₊˚ ┊ If a real bug, says spider or something, ever rears its ugly head, then he's quick to take care of it for you

‧₊˚ ┊ Sometimes he just squishes them, other times he'll use the cup and paper method to relocate them, but he'll never let them get too close to you (he won't even go as far as to pick them up and try to approach you with it, since he doesn't want the cause you any actual distress)

‧₊˚ ┊ Despite everything, Jade is relatively reasonable when it comes to you, so if his pranks go too far, tell him, and he'll get rid of every plastic bug in his possession — your comfort matters more to him than some brief amusement, and he would be a fool to lose you all together simply for a few laughs (he may be an asshole, but he's your asshole lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ Yall are both cooked fr

‧₊˚ ┊ The two of you are united in your ardent hatred for bugs, and you know there's no stronger relationship than one built on mutual hatred lol (a couple that hates together, stays together lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ It's hard to tell who's fear of bugs is worse between you and Jamil — not that it's a competition bc it's obviously not — because both of you absolutely crash the fuck out in the presence of a bug

‧₊˚ ┊ I'm taking screaming, crying, throwing up — not literally, but you know what I mean (there will definitely be screaming and crying tho)

‧₊˚ ┊ Jamil never tries to be your knight in shining armor whenever a bug is involved, so please do not look to him for any sort of protection bc it's everyone for themselves lol

‧₊˚ ┊ That being said, he has absolutely no problem throwing whatever's within reach whenever a bug is around (you would think he has good aim from being in the basketball club, but he usually ends up missing the bug completely, which he always blames on his nerves and the stress of the situation lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ A more successful way of taking care of a bug is to launch magic at it, which Jamil has done quite frequently (any damage sustained in these efforts are worth it so long as that bug is no longer able to crawl about and inflict any more emotional and mental pain on you lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ Jamil's love for you is even stronger than his hatred for bugs, which is probably the most romantic thing you'll ever hear from him (jk, he can be pretty romantic when he wants to be, but sometimes it's like pulling teeth to get him to be all soft and sappy)

‧₊˚ ┊ This mf can never be normal about anything bruh

‧₊˚ ┊ To Rook, there is beauty to be found in bugs and in your fearful reactions to them

‧₊˚ ┊ Unlike Jade, he doesn't find any amusement in your fear, but he does find himself amazed by its beauty (he's such a freak)

‧₊˚ ┊ There's just something about the look of horror on your face and the high pitch of your startled screams that makes this hunter's heart skip a beat

‧₊˚ ┊ Of course, Rook will swoop in and take care of whatever bug is bothering you — typically in a non-lethal fashion, since he wants to preserve the creature's beauty (you have no idea how he finds those multi-legged creepy little demons to be beautiful, and you're not going to ask either)

‧₊˚ ┊ Once the bug is subdued, he's right by your side — after washing his hands if he picked the bug up — to comfort you and assure you that the problem has been dealt with (he, admittedly, finds it incredibly cute when you're all flustered and panicking like this)

‧₊˚ ┊ Rook is, obviously, very protective of you, so he's very quick to act when he notices a bug in your vicinity (one could say he has Spidey Senses lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ He moves very quickly and is very subtle, so you often won't even notice him carefully getting rid of any bugs that dare to threaten your peace (he's literally saved you from hundreds without you even realizing — not all heroes wear capes lol)

‧₊˚ ┊ Although Rook finds your fear of bugs to be a great shame — he wishes you could see the beauty in them as he does — he understands that they aren't to everyone's taste as is fully committed to keeping them far, far away from you

[saintnoctis]

REQUESTS OPEN YIPPEEEE!!! can I please ask for some dark stalker/kidnapper tim drake? maybe m! reader is a vigilante in gotham, but not like the bats - he uses methods they dont approve of, and because tim befriended him (hes also more then a little obsessed) he tries to give the reader more chances, tries to believe he'll change – but he doesnt, so tim has to kidnap him and reform reader himself. feel free to play around with this idea as much as you want, all I request is some filthy, nasty smut if thats okay <3

‘𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊

tim drake x m!reader

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐒 ! ── male reader who’s a gotham vigilante that kills criminals and operates outside the batfam’s moral code. tim “befriends” you and becomes increasingly obsessive, trying to convince him to change, leading to a toxic relationship that ends with tim kidnapping you.

Tim starts noticing the pattern before anyone else could.

Not the bodies that continue to line up every night. Gotham is always like that.

It’s the consistent precision that catches his attention.

Every victim is connected somehow–drug runners, traffickers, men with sealed records and missing witnesses. People who should have gone to prison years ago but walked free because somebody bought the judge, threatened a witness, or buried the evidence so deep that even Batman couldn’t reach it.

Then they’d end up dead anyway.

That’s what led him to you.

No theatrics. No creepy messages written with blood from your victims. Just proficient scenes and terrified rumors spreading through the Narrows about a vigilante who doesn’t leave unnecessary survivors behind.

The others call you reckless. 

Jason even slightly admires you.

Bruce calls you dangerous and a threat.

Meanwhile, Tim calls you at three in the morning while you’re stitching a knife wound closed in your apartment bathroom.

“You killed Falcone’s accountant?”

You pause, thread hanging from your fingers. “You don’t sound very upset.”

“I should be.”

“But?”

Silence hums through the phone speaker.

You can almost picture him sitting at his computer in his bedroom, eyes shadowed by monitor light, fingers moving relentlessly against the keyboard while he tries to decide whether he’s interrogating you or checking if you’re still alive.

Finally, he sighs. “But he sold out witnesses to Blackgate inmates.”

“Mhm. Sounds like a motive, huh?”

“That sounds like murder.”

You tie the stitch off with your teeth. “You called me instead of your dad.”

Another silence.

“I just… wanted to hear your side first.”

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Tim starts covering for you before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He reroutes their usual patrol routes. Deletes camera footage before Bruce can review it. “Accidentally,” misfiles reports involving your sightings.

At first, he tells himself he’s buying time.

You’re violent, probably unstable—but not beyond saving. That’s exactly what he believes. That’s what he needs to believe. 

Because when the two of you meet face-to-face, you never truly act like the monster Gotham paints you as.

You sit on rooftops beside him with your knees pulled up and your mask halfway off while rain drips from the edge of the building. You steal tea from gas stations and complain about how bitter it tastes—then give the rest to him. Sometimes you even laugh at his stupid jokes so hard you nearly fall backward off ledges.

Tim memorizes every expression you make.

The squinting of your eyes. The crinkle of your nose.  The twitch of your lips. Every scar across your skin like jagged splotches of paint.

It gets bad when he starts wanting your attention all the time.

A text from you can ruin his concentration for hours.

A complement sticks in his head for days.

One night, you show up bruised and stumbling into his room through the window without warning.

Tim nearly drops the mug in his hand.

“You look awful,” he blurts.

You grin tiredly. “Missed you too.”

The city lights blur gold behind you. Blood darkens your sleeve steadily, dripping onto the ground like the rain outside. 

Tim moves forward and grabs your wrist and drags you further inside.

“You need stitches.”

“Hey, no, I’ve had worse.”

‘That’s not comforting at all.”

You laugh under your breath while he shoves supplies onto the bed with more force than necessary.

“You always this bossy?”

“With you? Yeah.”

You sit still while he cleans the wound. That alone feels strange. You usually fight everyone tooth and nail whenever they try to help. But not him.

Tim’s fingers brush your ribs while wrapping the bandage, and something sharp twists low in his stomach when you don’t pull away like expected.

“You know Bruce is getting closer to finding your safehouses," he says quietly.

“Mhhh, I know.”

“You should leave Gotham for a while.”

Your eyes lift up to his. “You want me gone?”

“No—god no.” 

His face heats up immediately after.

The corners of your mouth pulls upward slightly and Tim suddenly hates how easy it is for you to affect him.

“You.. kill people,” he says, harsher now, trying to regain control. “You can’t keep doing this forever.”

“Yet you keep protecting me anyway.”

His hands stop moving.

“You noticed that,” he mutters, as if it was supposed to be a secret for himself.

“It’a not hard to notice these things about you, Tim.”

That should scare someone as private as him.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Bruce eventually finds out and confronts him.

“You’re compromised.”

Tim clenches his jaw. “I’m handling it.”

“You’re emotionally involved with him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Tim snaps.

Silence for a few moments. 

Then Bruce’s expression hardens and it makes him feel fifteen again.

“He’s manipulating you.”

Tim looks away first.

Because maybe Bruce is right..

Maybe he is compromised.

He knows you’re dangerous. Knows you’ve crossed lines the rest of them never would. Knows there’s constantly blood under your fingernails that will never wash out. But every time Tim tries imagining Gotham without you in it, the thought feels wrong enough to make his chest ache. So, so wrong.

He keeps making excuses to protect you. He can't stop it. Even if you should be locked up in prison.

But a few days later? You don’t give him an opportunity to even try covering it up.

Not publicly at least.

To the others, he sounds like he’s snapping back into reality when your name comes up—logical and detached. 

Like before you happened.

“He’s escalating.”

“He’s unstable.”

“He doesn’t listen to reason.”

All.. technically true.

But privately, something colder settles into his chest because he finally understands that you were listening the entire time, since the beginning.

You just never cared.

So the church sat abandoned in Crime Alley for almost a decade.

Everybody knew gangs used it for meetings. Weapon trades. Drug storage. Trafficking safehouse. The kind of place cops ignored because stepping inside meant getting shot before backup arrived.

Bruce—well, as Batman—had been building a case against everyone in there for months.

Now here we are.

You burnt the entire building down with everyone still inside.

Tim arrives with the others just in time to watch fire claw through the collapsed roof and burst into even larger flames.

Smoke pours into the night sky in thick black waves.

Law enforcement scream at civilians to stay back.

Jason looks particularly grim as he grew up Catholic. This, despite being turned into a place of crime, feels like an insult to something that once guided his life.

Dick is simply horrified and Bruce doesn’t say anything.

Damian scoffs, even glances at Tim as if this was his fault.

Tim stares at the heat shimmering off the ruins and already knows it couldn’t have been anyone else but you because this is exactly the kind of message you send.

His comms crackle suddenly.

“Red Robin,” Barbara says sharply. “I found him on traffic cams three blocks east.”

“Don’t engage alone,” Bruce orders immediately.

“Understood.” Tim lies without hesitation.

—

He finds you on a rooftop overlooking the burning church.

You’re sitting on the ledge with one knee raised, watching the flames grow taller and the smoke curling like hands in the cold. Like it was simply background noise. Like corpses weren’t burning in there.

Your gloves are blackened with soot and there’s blood on your jaw that doesn’t belong to you.

“You killed all of them!”

You glance over calmly, and with no shame, “Yeah.”

For some reason, that makes the anger burn hotter in his chest. “There were fourteen people inside.”

“And?”

Tim steps closer. “There could’ve been hostages.”

“There weren’t.”

“You didn’t know that!”

“I checked.”

“You promised me! You promised that you’d stop doing this..”

“I promised to try.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You knew that when I said it.”

Your words hit harder than they should because he did know. Deep down, he always knew.

Every conversation. Every rooftop argument. Every moment you let him patch your wounds while nodding silently through his lectures about mercy and restraint.

You were just humoring him, weren’t you?

Below, part of the church roof collapses inward with a shower of sparks.

You barely glance at it. 

“They trafficked children, Tim. You expect me to feel bad?”

“I expect you to act human!”

Your eyes snap toward him with a sharp glare. “And what exactly counts as human in Gotham anymore?”

You slowly stand from the ledge and Tim instinctively shifts his stance.

“That’s new,” you murmur.

“What is?”

“You’re preparing for me to attack you.”

The observation embarrasses him immediately because it’s true.

A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about standing within an arm’s reach of you. Now he’s measuring distance automatically. Watching your hands too.

Not that he thinks you’ll hurt him but because he’s finally accepting you absolutely could.

Then you laugh under your breath, almost… disappointed. 

 “That look doesn’t suit you, Tim.”

“You killed fourteen people.”

“And they deserved worse.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

“That doesn’t make you judge, jury, or executioner!” His voice echoes across the rooftop.

And for the first time all night—or maybe, ever—you look genuinely annoyed with him.

“And what does your way accomplish, huh? They go to Arkham? Blackgate? Then they bribe someone and walk free six months later?” You step closer. “How many victims get hurt while you people wait for the system to magically start working?”

Tim hates that Gotham proves your arguments right often enough to rot beneath his skin. But there’s still a line. There has to be.

“You think this fixes things? You think burning people alive makes the city safer?”

“If it’s necessary, yes.”

The immediate certainty in your voice chills him more than if you’d shouted. No hesitation or conflict at all. 

You believe in this completely.

And suddenly Tim understands something awful.

You are never going to stop.

Not for Batman, Gotham, or the police when they eventually catch you. And not for him.

The realization hollows him out completely.

You must notice something change in his expression because your irritation fades.

“Tim?”

He looks away and—

“You should go,” he says flatly.

“You’re just upset, huh?”

“No kidding.”

“You know why I do this.”

“I know you enjoy it.”

Your face hardens again, “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

You step toward him slowly. “You think I’m a monster now.”

Tim wants to say no immediately. He almost does say it, but the word reaches the back of his throat and dies there. 

Your eyes search his face carefully, and whatever you find there makes your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.

“You were different with me,” Tim says finally, quieter now. “I thought.. maybe there was still a line you wouldn’t cross.”

“There is.”

“Oh, really?”

“They were traffickers! What don’t you get?”

“You keep changing the rules each time.”

“No. You keep expecting me to become somebody else.”

It’s true.

Tim spent months trying to carve softer edges into someone built like a weapon. And some part of him resents you for failing at becoming the person he wanted.

You exhale slowly and glance toward the large flames consuming the fallen church one last time.

“I’m not one of you.”

The worst part is that he doesn’t want you to be. Not completely. Even now, standing here covered in smoke and blood and gasoline, there’s still something in him desperately trying to separate you from the monsters he hunts every night.

But he can’t anymore.

“You should leave before Batman gets here,” he finally manages to say.

“You plan on turning me in?”

Tim closes his eyes briefly.

God.

A month ago, that question would’ve been impossible.

Now he doesn’t even know the answer.

“...I don’t know.”

You look uncertain but end up saying, “Okay.”

You move past him toward the edge of the rooftop and he doesn’t stop you.

Right before jumping, you glance back once–rain beads against your lashes and cheeks.

“You’re still going to cover for me tonight.”

It wasn’t a question. It was certainty.

And it hurts Tim’s heart even more because he knows you’re right.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The next few weeks feel hollow.

Empty in a way Tim can’t explain without sounding insane.

You stop contacting him completely after the church rooftop.

No surprise visits bleeding onto his furniture. No sarcastic texts through burner phones at two in the morning.

Nothing.

Tim tells himself that’s a good thing, which it should be a good thing. But the problem is that Gotham starts feeling unbearably dull without you in it directly.

And Tim hates how quickly he notices the absence.

So he still tracks your activity.

It becomes routine after patrol.

Sit at the Batcomputer. Pull up police scanners. Search crime reports. Cross-reference explosions, disappearances, and gang executions with areas your informants usually frequent.

Every few nights, something pops up.

A drug house found abandoned with six dead inside.

“GCPD officers responding to anonymous tips discovered six deceased individuals inside an abandoned apartment building in The Narrows late Tuesday night. Authorities believe the location was being used as a distribution hub for illegal narcotics. Investigators have not released a cause of death, and no suspects have been identified at this time.”

An illegal weapons shipment intercepted and destroyed.

“A large shipment of illegal firearms was destroyed early Friday morning after an explosion rocked an industrial warehouse in Gotham’s East End. According to police sources, the weapons were believed to be part of a trafficking operation linked to organized crime. No arrests have been made, though authorities continue to investigate the circumstances surrounding the blast.”

Two traffickers pulled from Gotham Harbor with broken necks.

“The bodies of two men were recovered from Gotham Harbor Wednesday morning after dock workers alerted authorities. Medical examiners confirmed both victims suffered fatal neck injuries prior to entering the water. Police have not publicly identified the deceased but stated both men were subjects of multiple ongoing criminal investigations.”

A Falcone safehouse burned to the ground.

“A four-story property allegedly connected to the Falcone crime organization was reduced to rubble following a late-night fire in Bristol Township. Fire crews battled the blaze for nearly three hours before bringing it under control. Officials have not determined the cause, though investigators have described the circumstances as ‘highly suspicious.’”

Tim watches security footage frame by frame whenever he can get it.

Most clips only catch shadows of you. A hood disappearing over rooftops. A blurred silhouette moving through smoke.

Once, there’s a still image clear enough to see your jawline beneath your mask for half a second.

Tim stares at it for almost ten minutes.

He doesn’t even realize Jason walked into the cave until a hand smacks the back of his chair.

“You’re doing it again.”

Tim closes the image immediately. “Doing what?”

“Getting weird.” Jason leans over the console, unimpressed. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours this week.”

“I’m working.”

“No, you’re brooding.” Jason squints at him. “Which is Bruce’s thing. You’re usually more annoying.”

Tim flips him off without heat.

Jason snorts, but the amusement fades after a second.

“Seriously, though. What’s up with you lately?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Tim ignores him and pulls another file onto the screen.

Three dead gang members with chemical burns.

“GCPD is investigating the deaths of three suspected gang affiliates discovered inside a warehouse in Burnham District early Sunday morning. According to preliminary reports, all three victims suffered severe chemical burns, though officials have not disclosed the substance involved. Authorities have yet to identify any suspects and are examining possible links to recent organized crime activity throughout the city.”

It's obviously your work. Yet his stomach twists unpleasantly anyways.

Jason notices the report.

“Oh.” Understanding flashes across his face. “It’s about him.”

He watches him carefully now, expression sharpening in a way that makes Tim instantly defensive. “You’re still hung up on that guy?”

“He’s.. a problem.”

“That’s not what I asked. But for what it’s worth, I kinda get it.”

Tim blinks once. That wasn’t the response he expected.

“People like him make sense at first.” His gaze drifts toward the cave floor. “You think they’re saying what everyone else is too afraid to admit.”

“And then?”

“And then they keep going.”

Quiet settles between them. The cave hums softly with computer noise and distant dripping water.

Tim rubs tiredly at his eyes.

Jason glances sideways at him.

“You look awful, y’know that?”

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously. You’re slower too.”

Tim immediately stiffens. “I’m not.”

“You missed three attacks during training yesterday.”

He knows exactly what Jason means.

Sparring with Cass.

A rare opening in her defense.

A hit Tim normally could’ve countered.

Except his mind had drifted for half a second toward a news report Barbara mentioned earlier—an entire gun operation dismantled somewhere in the East End.

Tim had wondered if it was you.

That single distraction cost him getting slammed flat onto the mat.

Jason watches realization cross his face and grimaces slightly.

“…Damn,” he mutters. “You got it bad.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re losing sleep over a homicidal vigilante.”

Tim pushes back from the computer abruptly. “I said shut up.”

Jason raises both hands immediately.

But he still looks concerned as Tim walks off.

—

Dick emotionally corners him four nights later.

“You skipped family dinner again.”

Tim keeps typing without looking up. “Busy.”

“You’ve been busy every night for two weeks.”

“I patrol Gotham, Dick. That tends to happen.”

Dick leans against the console beside him anyway.

“You miss him.”

Tim’s fingers stop over the keyboard.

Dick sighs softly at the reaction. “Tim…”

“He’s killing people.”

“Obviously.”

Tim finally looks at him then, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then why is everyone acting like I’m insane for being affected by it?”

Dick’s expression shifts slightly. Not exactly judgmental--just tired. “Because you’re grieving someone who’s still alive.”

Dick sits beside him quietly. “You wanted him to choose differently,” he says after a moment.

“I thought he would.”

“And now?”

Tim stares at the surveillance footage playing silently across the monitor. A warehouse explosion downtown. Two survivors crawling from debris.

“…Now I think I just wanted to matter enough for him to try.”

Dick goes quiet after that.

There’s nothing comforting to say.

—

The worst moments happen late at night.

Usually around three or four in the morning.

The cave empties out by then. Bruce upstairs. Alfred asleep. Gotham temporarily quieter between disasters.

Tim stays alone at the Batcomputer with cold coffee beside his elbow and police chatter murmuring through speakers.

That’s when he starts checking your old messages. Not intentionally at first, just absentmindedly. Then it's a habit.

Tiny things stick under his skin now.

A blurry photo you once sent of a stray cat.

A voice message where you laughed after he got hit in the face during patrol.

Tim rereads them enough that he nearly memorizes timestamps.

It feels pathetic.

Worse, it feels obsessive in a way he recognizes immediately because he’s spent years profiling dangerous people. He knows unhealthy attachment when he sees it.

The problem is that understanding it doesn’t make it stop.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

One night, Barbara walks into the cave quietly while he’s replaying security footage from your latest crime scene. “You’re monitoring him again.”

“He blew up a weapons convoy.”

Barbara crosses her arms. “That’s not what I meant. Even better, that's not what anyone is asking of you.”

Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “I’m keeping track of a violent vigilante. That’s literally our job.”

“Tim. You haven’t been acting like yourself lately,” she says carefully. “You zone out during patrols. You’re exhausted all the time. Bruce said you nearly fell asleep during surveillance yesterday.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” She sighed, “Did he mean that much to you?”

Tim wants to deny it but the truth sits too heavy in his chest now. So instead, after several long seconds, he just says:

“I liked who I was when he was around.”

Barbara’s expression changes immediately into something sadder because she understands exactly what he means.

Around you, everything felt more alive.

And now every night feels gray by comparison.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Tim plans it three days in advance.

That alone should probably tell him this is a terrible idea.

He tracks your movement patterns carefully, pretending it’s tactical analysis instead of fixation.

Safehouses. Informants. Patrol routes. The areas you still seem protective over despite everything else.

You’ve gotten harder to follow lately. Like you finally realized they know too much about you.

Tim wonders if that’s because of him.

The thought leaves something sour in his stomach.

—

“Red Robin, status?” Bruce’s voice crackles through the comm.

Tim crouches on a rooftop overlooking Robinson Park, eyes fixed on the distant street below where a familiar figure moves between alley shadows. You.

His chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.

“Perimeter clear,” he answers.

Beside him, Dick grapples toward the next building. “We’re heading east. You coming?”

Tim’s gaze never leaves you. “Need to check something first.”

Bruce responds immediately. “Negative. Stick with—”

Static cuts through the comm suddenly.

Tim muted the channel himself.

For a second, guilt punches through him hard enough to make him hesitate. Then you glance upward briefly, hood shadowing your face, and the hesitation dies instantly.

Tim moves.

—

By the time Tim lands across from you in the alley, you’re already turning slightly, posture alert beneath your jacket.

Your eyes narrow. “Thought you were avoiding me.”

Rainwater drips from fire escapes overhead, tapping softly against concrete between you both.

There’s a healing cut crossing your mouth. Bruises along your throat. A slight stiffness in your left arm that suggests another injury you haven’t treated properly.

“You’ve been killing people.”

You shrug lightly. “Gotham’s still standing.”

The familiar frustration flickers through him, but he crushes it down quickly. Tonight can’t become another argument. You’ll leave.

And Tim can’t handle you leaving again.

He steps closer slowly. “I’m not here to fight.”

That gets your attention. Your expression shifts carefully, suspicion threading through it now. “No?”

Tim shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said you enjoy it.”

He continues before he can rethink any of this.

“That rooftop… I was angry.” His throat feels tight suddenly. “And I know I pushed you harder than I should’ve.”

You stare at him in silence.

Lower your guard. Just enough.

“I know why you do what you do,” he says quietly. “I still don’t agree with it, but…” He exhales shakily.

“I miss talking to you.”

He sees the slight change around your eyes.

God, you missed him too.

The realization nearly ruins his focus.

Your shoulders ease. “That’s probably the most honest thing you’ve said in weeks,” you murmur.

Tim steps closer again—close enough to touch. And it hurts because even after everything, you still trust him a little.

“You really scared me that night,” he admits softly.

“I know.”

Another step closer.

Your guard lowers further.

Tim sees the exact moment you decide he isn’t a threat.

And then—

One hand violently yanks your jacket forward while the other drives a taser hard against the side of your neck.

Electricity cracks sharply through the alley.

Your body jerks in shock, but you’re stronger than most people. Faster too. You react almost instantly despite the hit, grabbing his wrist hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes snap wide with betrayal.

Tim nearly falters right there.

Then you start reaching for the knife hidden beneath your jacket. Panic slams through him so he swings before thinking.

The metal handle of the taser slams hard against your temple. A sickening sound echoes against the alley walls and you stagger immediately.

Tim’s stomach drops.

Too hard.

Way too hard.

Your grip loosens from his wrist as your balance gives out completely. For one awful second, you look confused more than angry. Then your knees buckle.

Tim catches you before your head slams against the pavement.

Silence floods the alley afterward except for his breathing.

“Oh.. oh my god,” he whispers.

Blood runs slowly down the side of your face. Your body hangs limp in his arms. Tim stares at you in horror.

He didn’t mean—

No, no, that’s a lie.

He did mean to knock you out.

Just not like that.

Not hard enough to leave you unconscious this fast. Not hard enough that blood is already slipping between his fingers.

His pulse pounds violently.

You’re breathing.

Tim checks three times, even as his hands shake.

Some distant part of his brain screams that this is insane. That Bruce would lose his mind if he saw this. That Dick was right. Barbara too.

You trusted him for one second and he used it against you.

The guilt should stop him here.

Instead, Tim carefully adjusts your unconscious weight against his chest and activates the grapple line with his free hand.

Because beneath the horror, beneath the panic and shame and nausea—

There’s still overwhelming relief.

He found you again.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

Consciousness returns slowly.

Your head throbs immediately. The second you start waking up, a deep, nauseating ache pulsing behind your eyes and through the entirety of your skull hard enough to make your stomach twist. For a few seconds, you stay still, breathing shallowly against the soft surface beneath you.

Dim lighting somewhere nearby.

Then memory falls back into place.

Your eyes snap open.

Pain flashes instantly through the side of your head as you jerk upright on instinct—the movement sending pain flashing across your shoulders. You stop short when something tight pulls sharply against your arms and torso.

Rope.

A lot of it.

For a second, you just stay there, disoriented, pulse pounding heavily in your ears while your vision adjusts to the room.

Safehouse.

The furniture’s too expensive not to be the bats.

You’re sitting against the corner of a large couch, arms pinned behind your back, bound tightly from wrists to upper torso in intricate patterns that press firmly across your chest and ribs before knotting down your spine. Another length winds securely around your thighs and calves, all the way to your ankles, forcing your legs together against the couch cushions.

These weren't sloppy restraints.

These were careful. Completely deliberate.

Recognition slowly settles in.

Shibari.

You flex experimentally against the restraints once and nothing budges.

The rope has enough give to avoid cutting circulation, but not enough to create leverage.

"...fuck," you rasp.

Movement comes from a nearby corner.

Tim looks up from the armchair so fast it's almost jarring. Relief morphs across his face. "You're awake."

You try pushing yourself off the couch—as if you're in any position to—only for dizziness to burn into you hard enough that you suck in a sharp breath, causing Tim to stand immediately.

"Easy.."

"Easy? You hit me with a crowbar."

"It wasn't a crowbar."

"Oh, wow. That makes it so much better."

Despite yourself, your gaze flicks around the room automatically.

Minimal furniture. Reinforced windows. Medical supplies scattered across the kitchen counter beside empty mugs and glass. Two laptops open nearby with surveillance footage frozen across the screens.

One camera points directly toward you from the corner ceiling.

Tim notices where you're looking. "It's not recording constantly."

You stare at him flatly. "That's your defense?"

His lips purse tightly.

You notice now, how awful he looks. Wrinkled, probably dirty clothes. Messy hair. Eyes bloodshot. Bruising dark beneath them like he genuinely hasn't rested since dragging you here.

"You.. were out for almost two days," he says quietly.

“You hit me that hard?”

“I didn’t mean to. You had a concussion," he swallows nervously.

"So you tied me up."

"You kept trying to move and.. well, fight me while unconscious."

"Hm."

Your skull still aches every time you move too quickly. There’s probably a nasty bruise hidden in your hair judging by the tenderness alone.

Tim seems to notice and he immediately moves towards the kitchen counter before returning with water and painkillers.

You eye him suspiciously when he kneels Infront of the couch.

"They're not drugged."

"You tased me, cracked my skull open, then kidnapped me. Forgive me if trust feels difficult right now."

He suddenly looks ashamed.

Good. He should be!

Still, after a moment, you open your mouth enough for him to give you the pills carefully.

The intimacy of it feels strange. Humiliating, almost. Especially restrained like this.

Tim's fingers brush your jaw accidentally while passing the glass, and both of you go still for half a second. Then he pulls away quickly.

Silence stretches for a long moment.

“You’re not getting out.”

You look back at him flatly. “You say that like I haven’t escaped worse.”

Tim leans forward slightly, hands resting on his knees now. “Look. You scared the hell out of me and.. I needed you somewhere I could watch easily.”

"And this somehow counts as helping?" You laugh once under your breath despite yourself.

His jaw tightens. "You're clearly not stable. You've been killing more people than usual."

"Well, the last guys were selling guns to Black Mask."

"That doesn't matter!" The sudden sharpness in his voice echoes through the room and you blink.

"You don't get it. Every time I tracked you lately, it got worse." His eyes lift towards yours again. "You stopped caring about collateral. You stopped covering your tracks. Half the crimes looked borderline suicidal."

Tim laughs under his breath, exhausted and humorless.

"You know what the worst part is?" he mutters. "I still checked if you were alive every night."

Something uncomfortable twists low in your chest so you look away.

The ropes shift softly against your skin as you settle back against the couch cushions.

“…Untie me,” you say eventually.

“No. I told you, you’re not leaving.”

You look back at him sharply. “You hit me hard enough to hospitalize someone.”

“I know.”

“You can’t keep me here forever.”

His eyes hold yours and silence is infinitely more unsettling than words would’ve been.

You shift again against the ropes, testing the give one more time even though you already know the answer. The bindings stay firm around your chest and wrists, holding you tightly against the couch cushions.

“I’m serious, Tim. Take this shit off.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the ropes before returning to your face carefully, like he’s gauging your mood.

“No.” He sighs.

You stare at him. “No?”

“We’ve already been over the fact you’re unstable.”

“That doesn’t justify you kidnapping me.”

“Neither do your excuses for killing people.”

“That doesn’t answer the question, Tim.”

“No, but it answers why you’re staying restrained.”

Frustration flashes hot through your chest instantly. “You have serious issues.”

You yank harder against the bindings without thinking. Rope tightens across your ribs sharply enough to force a hiss from between your teeth.

Tim’s expression changes immediately. “Hey—Stop doing that.”

“Get the hell away from me.”

He ignores that completely.

The couch dips beside you as he sits down carefully, close enough that warmth presses against your side.

His hand settles instinctively against your thigh before he seems fully aware he’s doing it, fingers rubbing slowly over the muscle like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

The touch sends immediate alarm through your system. You jerk sharply against the ropes again. “Don’t touch me.”

Tim pulls his hand back instantly.

Something guilty flickers across his face, but it disappears just as quickly beneath stubbornness. “You’re shaking.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s already been disproven.”

“You need to relax.”

“Relax?” Your voice rises slightly. “You lied to me. Pretended to apologize. Then knocked me unconscious and tied me up like some psycho—”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said untie me!”

“No!”

Tim’s exhausted, yes. Guilty too. But he genuinely believes keeping you restrained is the correct choice. It sparks something nervous and ugly beneath your ribs so you cover it immediately with anger.

“What, you think this fixes things? You think tying me up makes you different from the people we fight?”

“That’s not fair..”

“No? Then what is this?” You pull against the rope crossing your torso. “Because it sure as hell isn’t concern anymore.”

“You planned this,” you say quietly now.

He doesn’t answer.

Your pulse starts climbing harder. “You tracked me for weeks.”

Tim exhales sharply through his nose. “You make it sound really insane when you say it like that.”

“It is insane.”

“I know this is insane.” His voice lowers immediately afterward. “But I couldn’t just.. keep waiting for a phone call from you. I needed you back!”

“You don’t own me nor are we anything. So stop acting like it.”

“You disappear for weeks at a time. You nearly die constantly. Half the city wants your head.” His eyes lock onto yours intensely. “What exactly was I supposed to do?”

“Not this!”

The answer comes instantly and Tim goes quiet again after that. Neither of you do or say anything for several moments. Then Tim’s gaze drops briefly toward the ropes around your torso.

“…I tied them carefully,” he says quietly.

You blink once, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”

“They aren’t cutting circulation.” His voice stays low, oddly focused. “I checked every few hours while you were unconscious.”

“You watched me sleep tied up on a couch for two days,” you say flatly.

Tim winces slightly.

You sigh. “So, was all that missing me bullshit fake?”

His expression changes into hurt immediately. “No, no—“

“Right.”

“I meant it.”

“Sure you did.”

“You think this was easy for me?”

You stare at him incredulously.

Instead of at your face and answering like a normal man, his eyes slowly—almost hesitant—flick up and down. To the bindings. The rope crossing your chest and waist. Your wrists restrained behind your back. Your legs secured tightly enough that moving is awkward and unbalanced.

“You like this,” you accuse suddenly.

Tim freezes, letting out a bewildered squeak.

“You think tying me up fixes whatever’s wrong in your head, huh?” you continue, voice rising slightly now that nerves are fully bleeding into anger. “You couldn’t control me before, so now you’re restraining me in some fucked up safehouse—”

“That’s not what this is!”

“Yes it is. You’re obsessed with me!”

“You—you think I don’t know that!?” Tim’s hand is gone from your thigh now, but the warmth of it still lingers through the fabric of your pants in a way that’s deeply unhelpful.

You shift against the couch again, trying to sit differently, trying to relieve some of the pressure from the rope binding your hips and thighs together.

The movement drags the ropes tighter across your waist and between your legs. A sharp breath catches in your throat before you can stop it.

Tim notices instantly.

His eyes flick downward again.

You try shifting again, this time more to hide yourself than escape, but the bindings make every movement controlled and limited. Your knees stay partially bent from the rope securing your calves, leaving you frustratingly aware of every point of contact against the couch cushions.

“Don’t,” you bark immediately.

Tim’s gaze lifts back to your face and heat flashes up your neck instantly. Oh, this is humiliating.

You turn more sharply against the couch armrest, trying to angle yourself away from him. The rope circling your hips prevents most of it.

“…You’re kidding,” he says quietly.

“Shut up.”

Your answer was too quick. Too defensive.

Tim stares at you openly now, disbelief slowly mixing with something far more complicated. “You’re seriously—”

“I said shut up.”

Panic is beginning to creep underneath your ribs.

This is bad.

Very bad.

You’ve spent months chasing each other across rooftops. Fighting. Arguing. Bleeding beside each other. And now you’re tied up in shibari by the same guy who kidnapped you after fake-apologizing—

And your body decided this was somehow exciting.

Something is clearly wrong with you.

Tim runs a hand slowly over his face. “You were yelling at me thirty seconds ago.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Not just mad apparently.”

“Stop looking at me.”

“I’m trying to process this.”

“There’s nothing to process.” You shift instinctively against the ropes again out of sheer frustration. The bindings press irritatingly against sensitive nerves, causing you to let out a small, very accidental gasp.

Tim hears it and his eyes widen slightly.

Yours narrow in immediate warning.

"And you said I enjoyed this." His gaze drifts briefly again before he catches himself and looks toward the wall which makes everything worse because now you know he’s actively trying not to ogle.

“You tied me up like this,” you accuse immediately, desperate to redirect the situation. “What did you think was gonna happen?”

“I wasn’t thinking about—that.”

“Bullshit.”

“I wasn’t!” Tim’s face is visibly warm now, ears slightly red beneath the dark hair falling across his forehead. “This was supposed to keep you restrained. Not— not whatever this is.”

“You researched bondage!"

“I used effective knots!”

“Okay, well—joke’s over! Let me out of this bullshit!”

The second the words leave your mouth, Tim’s mouth twitches. Barely restrained amusement. “…I’m trying really hard not to laugh.”

“There is nothing funny about this.”

“You’re tied to a couch while trying not to get hard…er.”

“Timothy.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

Then, after a beat—

“…No, I’m not actually sorry.”

You glare at him, but it lacks any real bite now. Mostly because your pulse is pounding too hard to maintain the same level of hostility.

Tim shifts closer.

“What are you doing?” you ask immediately.

Tim’s eyes flick to your mouth.

Then back up.

“Is this one of your psychoanalysis things?”

Tim studies you for another long second before lifting one hand slowly toward your face. His fingers brush lightly along your jaw near the bruise he left there.

“No, it’s not. I really am sorry,” he murmurs.

Your shoulders tense slightly when his thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re making this weird. Untie me before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

“Before I do something stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Little late for that.” Tim shifts even closer.

“Hey—”

He doesn’t answer, just pauses before finally leaning in. The kiss starts softer than you expect. Tentative. Like he’s still half-convinced you’ll run away (even if you’re in no position to).

Instead, your breath catches embarrassingly against his mouth. And that tiny reaction seems to snap the last thread of restraint in him.

Tim kisses you harder, one hand sliding against your jaw while the other braces beside your hip against the couch cushion.

Your stomach flips violently.

You make a quiet sound against his mouth—half protest, half something else entirely—and Tim exhales sharply like the noise nearly wrecked him. “You’re impossible,” he mutters softly against your lips

“And you’re a kidnapper,” you whisper back immediately.

“Still got you hard.” Tim kisses you again, more confident now, more controlling.

Your hands being restrained only makes the whole thing worse.

Or better, unfortunately.

A soft, frustrated whine slips from your throat when he tilts your head slightly to deepen the kiss, and the second the sound reaches him, Tim freezes briefly.

“No,” you mumble against his mouth, trying to turn your face away out of pure embarrassment. “Don’t say anything.”

“You’re shy right now,” he says quietly, sounding genuinely stunned.

“I am not.”

To be continued…

© 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐬 — do not copy my work.

a/n: you have to admit the song i linked to the title lowk fits m!reader perfectly + Catholic Jason, how i love you. you may also be wondering how you’re tied up, which if you can imagine, is these 3 combined (but obviously on a more masculine body):

p.s. should m!reader have a big dick?

[bitbugbites]

virginity headcanons !

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

how some of the RE men would take your virginity !

characters:

╰┈➤ albert wesker ╰┈➤ carlos oliveira ╰┈➤ chris redfield ╰┈➤ ethan winters ╰┈➤ leon s. kennedy (re2r, re4r, re6 & re9)

gender, cw, & tags:

╰┈➤ gn! reader ╰┈➤ nsfw, fluff ╰┈➤ loss of virginity, foreplay, and, well, anything generically sex-related

a/n: to everyone reading this, i hope you have/had a good day today! <3

albert wesker (any rendition)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

No, it wouldn't be important to Wesker if you were in a relationship or not first. He doesn't come off as the type of guy to believe the notion that first times are sacred.

Who initiates?

Probably you. I can't see him being too pushy/eager to have sex, as he seems like he would have a fairly tame-to-low sex drive, tbh.

Although, that doesn't mean he's against it or other displays of affection. He's just not horny 24/7 (for some reason, despite all of the smut that i've written, i am utterly and completely intimidated by the word "horny." this word is my achilles heel. i fear that i will never escape it's incredible power to make me want to fall to the floor and sob at its horrific-ness. however, today, i have powered through it for you, with only a few tears and trembles involved).

What kind of foreplay?

I feel like his go-to foreplay in this situation would be kissing and fingering, honestly. Very basic foreplay, nothing too insane.

He'd probably keep eye contact with you the entire time he fingered you, too.

How long does it last?

The entire ordeal, from foreplay to finishing, would probably last less than 30 mins. I feel like he'd be skilled at both foreplay and penetration itself, and would get straight to the point.

I also feel like he would try to be a little nicer and more sweet during your first as compared to any other time. Just as a courtesy thing.

I doubt he would drag things out/tease you too much for your first time, unless you wanted him to.

Is it good?

Yeah, it'd be good sex. Although, if you're a romantic, it might be a little disappointing if you have an idealized "first time" in mind.

Overall? Probably a 7/10. Somewhere between average to pretty decent sex.

carlos oliveira (re3r)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

If he knows you're a virgin? Yeah. If he doesn't know? Nope!

Tbh, I feel like he would forget to ask, and would just automatically assume you've done-the-deed before. Although, he'd probably figure out at some point building up to penetration, in which case, he'd most likely pull back and offer to get to know you better first.

Who initiates?

Could go either way. I can see him respecting that first times are important, and thus not bringing it up until you mention it or get overly touchy. However, he likely would try to gently tip-toe around the topic -- he'd make a lot of jokes about it, get a little touchy, put himself out there more by dressing or smelling nice -- all to gauge where you're at or to put the idea in your head.

What kind of foreplay?

Anything. Everything. Whatever you want -- getting oral, being fingered, sucking him off or fingering him (if you're into that) -- he'd do it.

HOWEVER. There would be some limits -- I don't think he'd do anything too crazy. He would try to keep it fairly vanilla for your first time. He'd tell you that he'd be willing to do whatever in the future (WITHIN BOUNDS...), but your first time should be like a 'trial period' or something like that.

How long does it last?

I feel like out of every other character on this list, sex with Carlos would take the longest. And most of it would probably be foreplay.

I'd also bet that he'd be able to last a good amount of time during penetration as well. He knows his limits, and if he starts getting close, he'll change positions or use some other method to prolong intercourse.

Is it good?

YES. I feel like if you like passionate, whirlwind-like displays of affection, then Carlos would be the best one for you out of all the other characters on this list. He knows what he's doing, and he knows where to touch in order to make you feel good.

Overall? Around an 8 or 9/10. He would not fail to sweep you off your feet.

chris redfield (re8)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

For RE8 Chris? No, probably not. If you want to go, he's ready -- relationship or not.

Who initiates?

In a lot of scenarios, most likely Chris. I see it being a very, "Are you ready yet? How about now?" kind of thing (dude's ready to get it ON).

What kind of foreplay?

He'd probably prefer having you give him oral. If you wanted something too, though, he'd be willing to do it -- fingering, oral, etc.

Not too into kissing -- he'd rather make eye contact with you while playing with you or touching you in general.

I don't think he'd make a big deal out of it if you wanted to do kinkier stuff for your first time. He'd likely go along with it, thinking that since it's your first time, and you asked, it'd be fine (he'd also probably be impressed that you wanted to ramp it up, lol).

How long does it last?

An average amount of time. Not too long, not too short.

Same goes for how long he lasts during penetration. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would try to hold his orgasm back, so when it comes, it comes. Although, again, it wouldn't be quick, either.

Is it good?

Yeah, it's not bad. If you're looking for someone to be a little more rough with you for your first time, then Chris is your guy.

Overall, it's a solid 6 or 7/10. Very average sex -- and if you do it again in the future, it's going to be fairly the same. Little to no difference whether it's your first time or...I don't know, billionth? :p

ethan winters (re7, re8)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

Yep -- partially because Ethan views first times as special, but also because he isn't the type to sleep around. He'd require a relationship first for both your and his sake.

Who initiates?

Ethan, and it's planned. I doubt he'd spring it on you, either -- the two of you would talk it out first, plan a date beforehand, and then after the date...well, you know (yes, I would like to preorder one sex please!)

What kind of foreplay?

Very romantic, sensual foreplay. Kissing, soft touching, etc.

I feel like he'd be open to the basics -- oral for either person (although he'd ensure you it's about you and he doesn't need it), fingering, etc.

How long does it last?

Anywhere from a normal amount of time to slightly more than what's to be expected. I feel like he would really take his time with foreplay, as well as go slow during penetration.

Is it good?

Yes! If you're a romantic at heart, Ethan's going to give you the best first time -- he's going to make sure he does everything right.

Overall, probably an 8 or 9/10. This dude's got it DOWN for deflowering mfs.

leon s. kennedy (re2r)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

...maybe. I'm gonna say yeah, just because I feel like he'd be a virgin at this point of time too, LOL. He seems like he'd value romantics and wouldn't really sleep around outside of a relationship unless he had very strong feelings for you.

Who initiates?

If you're in a relationship and it's been a decent amount of time since you started dating, probably him. He'd ask you about it and then...yeah.

However, if you're not in a relationship (and he likes you a lot), or you just recently started dating, it'll have to be you who initiates. He's a little reserved, so in either of these scenarios, he won't be the one to ask first.

What kind of foreplay?

Lots of kissing, gentle touching, neck kissing.

Would be fine with oral and fingering on either sides. Out of all the options, though, his preferred pick would be going down on you. Not just for you, but also because he seems like the kind of guy who gets off by seeing his partner get off.

How long does it last?

...oh brother. Anywhere from short to long.

Long because it'd probably take the two of you a while to figure out wtf you were both doing...

...and short because that man probably is not going to last long penetration-wise (LMAO, im so sorry).

He'd offer to go another round to make up for it, though??? Dw, one way or another, he'd make sure you still got off.

Is it good?

...it would GET good. But at the beginning? It's gonna be awkward and clumsy (don't worry, he's a fast learner -- in fact, it likely wouldn't take long in your relationship for him to get the hang of it).

Overall...I'm going to have to give the man a 6/10. I'M SO SORRY. He gets an A for effort, but buddy 'ol pal, that man is not gonna know how to wield the friend in his pants right off the bat !!!

leon s. kennedy (re4r)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

Still, most likely, yes. Less for his sake, more for yours. He's older now, and probably no longer a virgin, but you are. He's still a romantic at heart, and wouldn't want you to have anything less than special for your first time.

I'm also going to add that, despite him no longer being a virgin, he still doesn't really sleep around outside of relationships much. So, that's an added reason.

Who initiates?

Probably you. I think he would be hesitant initiating since he's experienced, and you're not. He wouldn't want to pressure you in anyway, or turn it into a "ticking clock" kind of thing. He's ready when you're ready!

I'm ngl, I think he'd also be a goddamn yearning mess while waiting. He'd want you SO bad, constantly having to hide his lingering gazes and hard-ons (and he wouldn't be very good at keeping it on the dl, either, LOL).

What kind of foreplay?

Again, lots of kissing, gentle touching, and neck kissing.

Wouldn't let you give him oral the first time. He's going down on you instead, and any attempts at pleasuring him are quickly denied with gentle redirection (picture him, like, softly grabbing your hands and placing kisses on the inside of your wrists. "Not for your first time. Let me do it instead, okay?").

How long does it last?

The perfect amount of time. Not too short, not too long. Just right.

He could go on for a while now that he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't want to overwhelm you for your first time. So, he does what he needs, and checks all boxes (no pun intended, LOL).

Is it good?

HELL yes. Unless, maybe, you're the kind of person who is more dominant, or mainly gets off from seeing your partner's pleasure. But even then, from all the patient waiting and yearning he's done leading to this moment, I don't think you'd be left with no crumbs, if you get what I'm sayin...

Overall, this is like, an 8/10. Big improvement from before.

leon s. kennedy (re6 - re9)

Do you need to be in a relationship first?

If he knows that you're a virgin? 100%, without a doubt, yes. Considering his age, and that you're probably a lot younger than him, he wouldn't feel right sleeping with you without being in a relationship first.

Now if he doesn't know...then nah. He'd be fine sleeping with you outside of a relationship (although, because of the age gap, I think he might feel a little guilty or insecure about his age...)

Who initiates?

Either person, but most likely you. In the case that it's you, I don't think he'd put up much of a fight. Like his re4r counterpart, I think he'd be a yearning mess, wishing he could be with you, but too scared to make a move. Except this time, it's because he's insecure about how old he is and how young you are.

If it's him...well, he probably couldn't hold back anymore. Maybe there was an inciting event, where you had to share the same bed, or he was scared he would lose you...either way, if he initiates, it means he's at his limit...

What kind of foreplay?

Well, if things came about naturally, then probably the very gentle, soft kind. Feathery kisses, whispering caresses, tender grabbing. Lazy and lasting oral. Slow and deep fingering.

If things came about suddenly...then it's going to be the fervent and passionate kind. I'm talking breathless kissing, light or heavy biting, oral and fingering that leaves you seeing STARS...all of that and more (good luck trying to MOVE in the morning!)

How long does it last?

Naturally? The perfect amount of time, like his re4r counterpart.

Suddenly? Then quickly. He's just not in the right headspace to be aware of how to pace himself. He is FERAL for you, and needs you now.

Is it good?

Either way, YES. Without a doubt, this man knows what he's doing by now.

9/10, and dare I say it, maybe even 10/10 (re6 & re9 Leon FUCKSSS!)

quick links:

find me on other sites !

╰┈➤ ao3 // c.ai // j.ai

...or my old re account !

╰┈➤ @bitbugbites-re

© 2021 - 2026 bitbugbites & other affiliated accounts. stealing my work will result in me spontaneously combusting. please don't make me spontaneously combust.

[julepod]

so willing, feeling ⋆˚࿔

holland march x fem!reader

♪ inside my love | minnie riperton

› summary: you've been hooking up with holland march off and on for the better part of two years now. one night, he needs a little more from you than the usual routine.

› tags/warnings: smut (minors DNI!), no use of y/n, reader has female anatomy, PIV sex, oral fem receiving, pet names, soft!dom holland, condescending praise and some very light degradation, pull and pray method, really just shameless smut, reader talks so much shit on him but likes him so much, fuck buddies with crushes they won't admit to, smoking

› wc: 4.2k

› masterlist

ᯓ★

The first time, you could probably play it off as a heat of a moment sort of thing.

Adrenaline gets you going. You can't help it, so why fight it? Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots earlier. You'd gotten into a skirmish with some guys that were looking for the same perp as you, March, and Healy, getting out by the skin of your teeth.

Healy had been furious with March for almost getting everyone killed, and insisted on calling it quits. The passenger door of March's car slammed shut behind Healy as he stormed back to his apartment, and then March had met your gaze in the rearview mirror, an odd look in his eyes.

"I need a drink," he'd said, and it sounded more like an invitation than a statement.

"Okay," you'd said. You got out of the car and slid into where Healy had been sitting moments before, and March drove the both of you home, the Los Angeles night coasting by.

And that had been that.

You try not to make a habit out of it. Both running with the "Nice Guys" and sleeping with Holland March. You like to work alone, and March is too much of a mess for you. He drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney, with no intention of slowing down, and it affects his work. Sometimes you worry he'll get himself killed, but he always comes out mostly unscathed. Besides, it's not any of your business.

Sometimes your paths will cross, hunting the same person or chasing the same lead. This city is big, but it's not that big. And, without fail, you and Holland March fall into bed together every time you run into each other. You're pretty sure Healy knows, but he never mentions it in front of you, which you're thankful for. It's already embarrassing enough.

You don't have a similar excuse for the second, third, or fourth time. And so on. You have to be somewhere close to twenty now, after the last two years, and pushing forward steadily.

"Hey, you."

You glance up from where you'd been digging around in your purse for your keys. March is in front of you, leaning against your car. His suit is a dark green, a white tie—or is it beige? You can't tell in this lighting—sits snug against his throat. One hand is shoved in his pocket, the other ashes a cigarette onto the asphalt. He looks so obnoxiously smug that you consider slapping it off of him.

"Why are you here?" You look around the empty parking lot with no small amount of suspicion.

You'd been working a case tonight, talking up some patrons of a bar your client's missing brother went to sometimes, but came up frustratingly empty handed. You haven't seen March or Healy in a couple months, not since June, at least, and you have no idea what his business could possibly be, tracking you down like this.

Well… you have some ideas.

"I'm a detective, baby," he says, making a vague gesture with the hand holding his cigarette. "It's my job."

"You're washed up," you say, but you're smiling. "And don't call me that."

"I know you like it," he says, and now he's smiling, too. "Seriously, what are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing involving you. Move."

He pushes himself off of where he was resting against the driver side door with a dramatic flourish. You unlock your front door and he opens it for you, allowing you to get in but stopping you from closing the door, a hand wrapped around the frame.

"Woah, woah, woah," he says. He places the cigarette back in his mouth, smoke curling around his face, and you pause where you were about to jam your keys in the ignition. "Where are you goin'?"

"I'm going home, March," you say, unimpressed.

"Without me?"

You wrinkle your nose. "Why would you come with me?"

You know why. You know exactly why. And March knows you know, too, because his grin widens, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Can't a guy just wanna see a girl he misses?"

"Not if it's you," you say, "and not if it's me."

"That's too bad, baby, 'cause it is me, and it is you."

You roll your eyes. "I hate you."

"Can I get in?"

"Fine."

March lets out a triumphant whoop and skirts around the hood of your car. You lean over to unlock the passenger door from the inside to let him in, and before you know it he's buckling himself in beside you and you're driving back to your apartment.

He's the same as he always is, moronic and charming and irritatingly handsome. He messes with your stereo and turns the music up, rolls down your window to flick his cigarette out and thumps his hand against the door in time with the beat of whatever's playing. You think if you got into a fatal car crash you wouldn't be too upset about it, but a part of you knows you can't say no to him even if you try your hardest.

This is the first time either of you have seen each other outside of work bringing you together. You wonder what made him want to seek you out—if he'd been thinking about it, or if it was a spontaneous itch he wanted to scratch. You also wonder how he found you, and how he got to you without his car. Stupid bastard.

The ride to your place is short, less than ten minutes, and the moment you've closed your front door behind you, March is on you.

His hands are everywhere, at your waist, your back, sliding down to squeeze your ass, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you in to press your mouths together. You want to tease him for being so desperate, but you're just as bad.

You kick your heels off without breaking away, grabbing him by the tie to keep him close. His mouth is warm and wet, tongue sliding against yours with familiar ease. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and mint, and you wonder for a moment if he brushed his teeth before coming to see you.

You both stumble backward in the vague direction of your room. March fumbles with the zipper on the back of your dress, managing to tug it down so it loosens around your chest, the straps slipping down your shoulders. You get him to slide his suit jacket off, and it falls to the floor, forgotten.

"Been wantin' this so bad, baby," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed you so much."

"Missed you, too," you breathe against him, and the noise he makes at your words is worth the admission, even if you know he'll never let it go.

Despite having semi-regular sex and your obvious interest in him, March is always chasing your praise. Any compliment, encouragement, any notion of flattery, whether it be sexual or work-related, has him eating out of the palm of your hand. It's a bit pathetic, but you like it that way.

March wants to be good for you, and who are you to deny him?

He pushes your door open and walks you backward until your legs hit the bed. You sit, pulling him down into another kiss, teeth clacking painfully with the force of it. You thread your fingers in his hair and your other hand smooths over his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle of his back through his dress shirt. When you pull away, he gives a small sound of protest, his mouth chasing yours.

"March," you say, and you're nauseated at how wrecked you sound, scratchy and needy.

"'M sorry," he mumbles, and you know he has no clue what he's apologizing for. He mouths at your neck, moving down to nip at your collarbones, leaving bruises for you to deal with tomorrow.

You don't respond, instead opting to flatten your hand over his shoulder, pushing him down gently.

You regret any time you thought, or told him to his face, that March is an idiot. Right now, he's a very, very smart man. He kneels on the floor, positioned between your legs, and looks up at you with big, glassy eyes. His irises are slivers, pupils blown wide with want, and a thrill crawls down your spine, landing right in your core.

"This what you wanted, hm?" he asks, his words slightly muffled by your skin as he peppers kisses along the inside of your knee.

"Yes," you say, swallowing hard.

He doesn't waste any time shoving the material of your dress up above your waist, exposing your underwear and the damp patch over your center that tells him exactly how much you want him. His mouth trails from your inner thighs to hovering over where you need him most, and he waits.

"March," you complain. You dig the heel of your foot into his back to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.

"Holland," he says. His breath is warm against you and you're aching, aching so badly for something, anything. His mouth or his hands or his cock—you don't care. And he's not giving it to you.

"What?" you ask, and it comes out as more of an impatient growl than an actual question.

"C'mon, sweetheart." An unhurried kiss is pressed to the space just above your clit. For a man that could hardly wait to touch you earlier, he sure seems to be perfectly happy taking his sweet time when it comes to devouring your cunt. "You know what I want."

"Are you fucking with me?" March hasn't once given you any indication that he cares what you call him. Before, if you'd told him you wanted a dog, he would have gotten on his knees and barked. Now, you're not so sure.

"I wish I was," he says wistfully. He yanks your panties to one side before you can respond, a thumb swiping through your embarrassingly wet folds. You shudder and let out a small, shaky exhale, your hips jolting.

"Okay," you say, your voice pitched a bit higher than normal. You gasp as he repeats the motion, this time letting his thumb settle over your clit. Maybe you should be disappointed in yourself for folding so easily, but your desire is a pulsing thing, and you'd do anything to soothe it. "Okay, fuck. Holland, please."

He smiles, victorious, and pulls back slightly in order to tug your panties completely off. "Since you asked so nicely."

He rewards you immediately, lapping at you with poorly contained groans and hums. You fist his hair, thighs tightening around his head. Your head lolls back, a low, throaty moan ripped from you as you feel two of his thick fingers slip inside you with little resistance.

He alternates between licking and suckling your clit as he pumps his fingers, obscene squelching sounds filling your bedroom, his eyelids drooping in self-satisfied pleasure. You think if he went at it long enough he could come just like this, untouched. His free hand digs into the soft skin of your hip, keeping you close even as you writhe underneath him. The scrape of his facial hair against your inner thighs is a pleasant sting, grounding you in the moment.

"Holland," you pant, unable to stop yourself from grinding against his face. "Fuck, yes, that's so—feels so good."

He moans into your cunt, the vibrations sending heat rippling through you, your chest, down to your toes that curl involuntarily. He works you toward the edge with a patience that could be considered cruel. You come with a choked sob, the world dissolving into a white-hot wave of bliss. March lifts his mouth from your clit, the bottom half of his face glistening with your arousal, but he doesn't stop pressing his fingers into you, curling with every plunge until you really are about to cry, dazed and overstimulated.

Your hand shoots down to clamp around his wrist, pausing his motions, and he finally relents. He pulls away, leaving you to clench helplessly around nothing, and holds his sleek digits in front of your mouth. Your lips part and he pushes them inside. You suck eagerly, head spinning, and keep your eyes fixed on his as a loud breath escapes him.

"So pretty, sweetheart," he says, a note of condescension coloring his tone. "Do you like that? You like how you taste?"

Your approving whimper is muffled around his fingers. He takes pity on you, drawing them out, smearing your own saliva over your lips and chin. He sits back on his knees, fumbling to get his tie off and unbutton his shirt. He throws them both on the floor and stands. You find his belt and start unbuckling it for him, hands trembling with impatience. He tugs roughly on your dress so your breasts spill out, then helps you out of it completely, sliding the fabric down your legs.

He kicks his pants off, nearly tripping in his haste to get his boxers to follow, which has you smiling despite the tense, electric atmosphere. As soon as he's steady on his feet, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock. He's so hard that it must hurt, and he's heavy, hot in your hand, precum smeared on the head. You give a few slow, velvety pulls, giving a pleased hum when March's knees nearly buckle under your touch.

"No, baby," he says, and it's his turn, now, his big hand coming to cover yours, making you pause. "Not tonight. C'mon, I wanna fuck you. Let me fuck you, please…"

How romantic. Your brow pinches, and he laughs softly, a bit sheepish, as if reading your mind. He slides from your fingers to encircle your wrist, pulling it away from his erection. He crowds in on you, his free hand pressing against the small of your back, guiding you to lie down on the bed and slotting between your legs once more.

You watch with wide eyes as he grabs your other hand, pinning both your wrists above your head. He rests a bit of weight on them, pressing into the mattress. If you tried to escape, he would be strong enough to force you to stay put. The thought sends goosebumps prickling over your skin, the hair on your arms rising and the back of your neck tingling in anticipation. March would never do something like that, you know in your heart, but the idea that he's even capable of it sends a new flush of arousal cutting through your post-orgasm haze.

Keeping hold of your wrists, his free hand snakes between your bodies. He fists his cock, stroking a few times before dragging the head over your entrance, collecting the slickness gathered there. His head drops, chin tucked to his chest, as if unable to look away from the lewd sight.

"You're so wet," he says reverently, more to himself than anything. "All for me, huh, honey?"

You nod, trying to lift your hips up, hoping his cock would catch and he'd slip inside, or at the very least grind against your clit, but he shakes his head.

"Let me hear you say it," he says.

"March," you grumble, face reddening.

You glance away, prepared to argue, when he releases his hold on himself, delivering a light slap to your pussy. You yelp, jerking in surprise at the sensation. Your eyes snap back to his face and you have a brief moment of clarity in which you wonder what the actual fuck this guy's problem is. The last two years have been full of secretive hook ups, quickies, entirely vanilla sex (though still thoroughly enjoyable), so something must have put him in an exceptionally punishing mood to be acting like this.

Not that you're complaining, if you're honest.

"Holland," he corrects.

"I'm sorry," you plead. "Holland, I'm sorry. Just, please…"

Another slap. Your words break off into a feeble moan. You arch your back, wrists straining against the death grip he keeps you in.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp out, feeling as though the air has been punched from your lungs. Your brain is starting to feel fuzzy, overwhelmed with both verbal and physical stimulation, you can hear it in your voice, the way your words slur together. "It's for you. It's only you, Holland."

Content that you've learned your lesson, Holland lets go of your hands. They fly to touch him as though with a mind of their own, one squeezing his forearm and the other sliding over the muscle of his abdomen, nails ghosting over his skin. He leans down, nipping at the shell of your ear.

"What a smart girl," he coos. He pinches one of your nipples, rolling it between forefinger and thumb until you're crying out, then switches to give the other a similar treatment. "So smart, and beautiful, but you're such a slut, too. Isn't that right?"

You nod. It's like you're floating, somewhere halfway between heaven and earth, in a way that only Holland can make you feel. He knows it—can see the euphoria written on your face—because as you look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, he's wearing a proud smile.

"I know, sweetheart," he says, mockingly sympathetic. "I know. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need."

He enters you in one smooth thrust, your breath faltering at the sudden intrusion, the sudden fullness. He curses, hissing through his teeth, and when you glance up, you see his eyes screwed shut, reveling in the feeling of you around him. He gives you a moment's reprieve before he slides almost all the way out, driving back into you with a sharp snap of his hips. You claw at his back in an effort to keep him as near as possible. The heat of his chest against yours is comforting, in a way. He feels more real like this, as the head of his cock drags deliciously against your walls, and you think you could stay in this moment forever.

Holland scoops your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders and folding you into a mating press. He braces himself on his hands, caging you under him. He sets a harsh, incessant pace, both of your moans rising in volume at the new, deeper angle.

He whimpers your name into your neck and bites down, firm enough to make you shudder but gentle enough not to break the delicate skin. You clench mindlessly around him, keening a string of words that hardly passes for English. He lifts his head and a droplet of sweat rolls from his hairline down his nose, landing on your mouth. Your tongue glides over your lower lip without thinking, and you're only allowed to relish in the tang of salt for a moment before he's kissing you again.

He stays like that, noses brushing, hips slamming against yours and groaning into your mouth. Every thrust caresses your cervix, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids. You mewl, powerless, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

You're lucky that Holland is feeling generous tonight.

"Holland," you babble. "Fuck—oh, my god, Holland, yes. Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm so close, I'm so close—"

"Yeah," he rasps, "I know, honey, I've got you. Come for me."

Your orgasm is startling in its intensity, your spine tightening with tension and releasing with pleasure as you convulse. Your walls spasm, squeezing Holland as he moans in response. You're gripping his back so hard you're certain you've drawn blood, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He fucks you through it, unrelenting even as his pace stutters, strokes becoming erratic while he chases his own climax. It feels good, you think, to be used like this. To be used by him. He pulls out at the very last second with a whine, spurts of come coating your stomach and breasts, hot on your skin. When he's ran himself dry, he tilts his head down and leaves absent-minded kisses on your mouth, then your cheeks and your throat. His cock, already beginning to soften, rests on your pubic mound, and he grinds against you once, then twice, as if to savor the feeling.

You don't know how long you linger there, pressed together and breathing heavily. Holland's back is slick with sweat as you run your fingers up and down the ridge of his spine, exhaustion already beginning to lull you from consciousness.

Eventually he pulls himself off of you, leaving you utterly boneless. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he yanks his boxers back on, then the sound of him rummaging around in the closet. He returns to bed quickly, familiar with where you keep your things, a big sleep shirt and a clean towel in hand.

"Hey, baby," he says, settling beside you once more. You don't even have the energy to tell him to stop calling you that. He cleans you off with tender, reluctant swipes, like he would rather keep you like this, painted in his come as evidence that he had you, at least for a little while.

When he's finished, he tosses the towel away and hands you the shirt. You put it on, running a hand through your hair. It won't fix anything; Holland has affectionately told you before that you get "sex hair" (he claims to be the one that invented this term), but it calms that small, bashful worry in you, so you do it anyway.

It's a wordless exchange, one you're both acquainted with by now—the way he rolls you onto your side, curling up behind you and pulling the sheets over you both. His chest presses against your back, breath tickling your neck, slinging an arm around your waist. He flattens his palm against your stomach as if to bring you closer despite the entire length of your bodies touching, and a warm, fluttering feeling blooms in your chest.

You know, in about ten minutes, Holland will kiss your shoulder and get out of bed. He'll gather his things, say a quick goodbye, and be on his way like someone lit a fire under his ass. You try to stay awake in order to be there when he goes, struggling against the sleep that threatens to overcome you, but you are so, so tired.

It doesn't take long for you to fall asleep in the warmth of his arms, childishly wondering if tonight was so different simply because he's finally planning to stay.

When you open your eyes, the other side of the bed is cold.

Morning light paints your room in stripes, bleeding through the slats of your blinds. You shift, your body sore and protestant, and wipe the bleariness from your vision. Holland must have left without waking you, leaving you to sleep through the night.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, chiding yourself. Did you really expect him to stay? You're being ridiculous. You and Holland have an arrangement, and it works because neither of you ask for more. You occasionally team up for cases and have casual sex. You're hardly even friends.

But… you do want to ask for more, don't you? And you think you have for a while now. Even then, maybe last night had been a mistake. It's more than likely you had misinterpreted the way he was acting—like you might disappear if he went too long without touching you, like he needed you to breathe, to live—and you're reading too much into things. The only way this will end is with you hurting your own feelings.

You sit up, coming to the unfortunate conclusion that you should probably end things between you and Holland, or at least start going out of your way to avoid him and hope he gets the hint, when something catches your eye on your nightstand.

Propped against the lamp, stark white against the dark wood, is his business card. You pick it up and frown, wondering what the hell you're supposed to do with it. You know Holland's number, have for a while now from working together. Why the hell would he leave it here for you?

You can't chalk it up to the card slipping from his pocket. For one, it was laid out far too neatly to be an accident and secondly, you'd think you'd find something like this on the floor, rather than your nightstand. You run your thumb over the illustration of Holland's face, the big block letters spelling out "THE NICE GUYS AGENCY" and mill it over in your head.

He wants you to call him.

The realization hits you hard, the cold, apprehensive knot that had been building in your stomach melting into an elated heat that pinkens the tips of your ears.

"What a coward," you murmur, turning the card over in your hand. He took the easy way out, using plausible deniability in case you either didn't pick up on his message or rejected it entirely. It's smart, in a stupid way.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, and reach for the phone.

ᯓ★

› A/N: here it is, as promised!!! soso thankful to @pixiebuggz and @qoemchu for being the coolest betas and hyping me up to post this because i was NERVOUS! i honestly intended for it to be pretty vanilla because it's my first time really writing smut but the heart wants what it wants, which is... whatever this is, i guess. i think i'm going to make a post so people can ask to be tagged in all of my rygos posts, because sometimes when y'all ask i'm not sure if you mean just for direct address or for my other writing, too. so it will be nice to be able to differentiate. as always if you feel i missed a warning or tagged smth incorrectly please correct me!

[green-sunshine]

Can you do a NSFW A-Z for wsh, please?

A to Z —Will Smith.

Summary: NSFW alphabet with Will.

Warnings: YES. +18. Smut, MDNI, explicit sexual content, etc.

A - aftercare (what is it like after sex?)

He’s pretty clingy after sex, he stays close to you, his body still pressed against yours, caressing you gently. He probably won’t say much, he’s exhausted and simply prefers to feel you close to him while he keeps you there, under his calm control.

B - body part (favorite part of your body and his)

On you, he loves your breasts. Especially because he knows you dislike them, Will loves them and thinks they’re perfect just the way they are. His favorite part of himself might be his eyes, because he can look at you and see you as the goddess you are to him.

C - cum (anything about coming)

I think he’s a little scared of coming inside you, so he usually uses a condom. He makes sure no accidents happen and also takes care of you, since he understands that birth control methods have side effects.

D - dirty secret (some dirty secret).

Sometimes, he dreams of sharing you with someone else. Will isn’t jealous and would like to try someone else in the relationship, as long as you agree and it’s someone you know very well and trust not to ruin your relationship. Specifically, Macklin.

E - experience (experience in sex)

He has some experience, the basics. But he’s definitely willing to learn with you and from you and he’s pretty open to trying everything.

F - favorite position

Because of his obsession with your breasts, Will loves it when you ride him. Whether lying down or sitting up, if you’re on top and his face is buried in your breasts, it’s heaven for him.

G - goofy (how serious is he during sex?)

He’s not as serious as he looks. He’s pretty playful, he likes to say random things to you and make you laugh, even when you’re at the climax.

H - hair (how does he take care of his private parts?)

He’s not a very hairy guy but he takes care of himself. He likes to keep what little he has clean and shaved, it’s more of a habit and a preference. About you, he doesn't matter to him, you are free to choose what you prefer and what makes you feel comfortable.

I - intimacy (what is it like during sex?)

He’s really affectionate. He likes to touch you, your hair, your back or your waist. He loves feeling the sensation of your warm skin trembling beneath his fingers and showing you that he’s there, attentive to you.

J - jack off (masturbation, how often do you masturbate?)

He does it about once or twice a week at most, especially if you’re away, when he’s stressed or when you’re on your period. But he's not someone who needs it often.

K - kink (fetishes during sex)

Will likes to dominate a little, take control and be the one giving orders. Especially because he knows you also enjoy it when he’s rough and dirty.

L - location (places to have sex)

The bedroom is and will always be the best place to fuck you. He doesn’t want interruptions, he doesn’t want awkward moments, he doesn’t want a mess. Even if he limits himself to just one place, that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck you wherever he wants inside it. He can do it on the bed, on a chair, on the desk, on your dresser, against your door or wall.

M - motivation (what excites him?)

When you walk out with wet hair after your shower, dripping onto your pajamas and your nipples show through from the friction. He can’t help but want to devour you right there.

N - No (What wouldn’t I do with you?)

He wouldn’t want to degrade you or engage in any kind of masochistic practice that involves treating you badly. He also doesn’t like it when you stay silent and don’t say you don’t feel like it. For him, consent is important, even if Will is very desperate. He would never use you for his own pleasure if you weren’t enjoying it.

O - oral (how does he like to give/receive?)

Will is more into giving than receiving. He wants to make you feel good whenever he can, especially knowing that sometimes women don't get as much pleasure from intercourse.

P - pace (how does he like to do it?)

He’s slow at first, he likes it to be calm while it lasts. But when he’s close to climax, he becomes wilder, more erratic and desperate.

Q - quickie (does he like quick sex?)

He doesn’t say no to spontaneity but he knows that with you, it’s best to make it last. So he prefers to take his time and do it properly.

R - risk (would he take risks? which ones?)

He doesn’t like them at all, he wouldn't like to be interrupted or worse have someone catch you in the act. He prefers your privacy and intimacy.

S - stamina (how long does it last during sex?)

It can last quite a while but it’s usually no more than 1 or 2 rounds, not because he can’t handle it but because he prefers to do it right the first time.

T - toy (use toys)

They pique his curiosity, so I think he might use them sometime. Especially if it’s more pleasurable for you.

U - unfair (how much does he like to tease you?)

He teases you constantly, with looks, with touches, with whispers in your ear that you can’t ignore. He's very playful, even if he doesn't mean to be.

V - volume (how loud is it during sex?)

It’s a bit loud and he’s not shy about showing how much fun he’s having.

W - wild card (short random story)

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in your towel, your hair still damp and your skin hot. You look for your underwear in the dresser and quickly put it on, standing in front of the mirror. You think about choosing a short floral dress or a loose linen shirt and pants, while you consider it, you put on earrings that match the occasion and gently brush your hair.

When you turn to head toward your closet, you see Will on the bed, your boyfriend is watching the game intently but as soon as he sees you nearby, his gaze shifts away from the screen.

He sits up, smiling with that mix of mischief and tenderness you know so well. You give him a soft smile as your hands search the hangers for the floral dress you’d decided to wear, while you hear footsteps behind you.

You hear footsteps behind you and when you turn around, Will is coming toward you. His body presses you against the closet doors as you hold the dress in your hands.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, kissing your bare shoulder.

His hands dart to your stomach, caressing your warm skin. You jump slightly at the feel of his cold touch on your body and hug him around the shoulders. He continues to trace your stomach, waist and shoulders, sending shivers down your spine. You smile, running your fingers through his wavy hair as he looks up at you with puppy-dog eyes.

“And stand your sister up? Are you crazy?” you ask with a giggle, kissing his nose.

Will pouts sweetly but his sweetness doesn’t match his actions because, when you least expect it, his hands squeeze your butt tightly, making you gasp.

You try to stay firm, reminding him that you have to leave, that Grace is waiting for you.

“Will…” you warn as his kisses move to your neck.

Bad timing to be alone in your underwear, because your body immediately responds to his caresses and you’re already regretting having made plans with your sister-in-law this afternoon for your girls’ night out.

But he ignores you and quickly steals a kiss, taking your mouth as if he wants to convince you with the urgency of his gesture. You can’t refuse your boyfriend’s kisses, especially when he’s in the mood.

“It’ll just be a moment” he whispers, in that voice that disarms you, between wet kisses.

You shake your head, it won’t be a moment. And you hate to admit it but you don’t want to leave right now, you need to finish this. You need Will.

You break the kiss, gasping as his hands cup your clothed breasts, his lips trailing down your chest until they reach the hollow of your breasts. A moan escapes your lips when he bites the skin of one of your breasts.

"Grace is waiting for me... We can't, Will"

You shake your head, repeating that dinner is important, that you can't be late. Yet his lips find you again and resistance becomes a lost game, a battle between responsibility and desire.

X - x-ray (how big is it and how?)

It’s average. It’s thin and veiny but when it’s aroused, it can look terrifying. Although Will knows it’s not just a matter of size but of how it makes you feel every second.

Y - yearning (how long can desire last?)

He can’t hold out for long, he’s pretty horny, especially if he has you with him. Will prefers to have you every day if he can.

Z - zzz (how is his sleep after sex?)

After making sure he’s given you the affection you need, he’ll fall asleep hugging you between your breasts. He loves the soft feel and the scent of your skin, so he’ll hold you all night long.