satoru stared at you, from shokos bed. Shoko and you were roommates allowing satoru to just gawk at you from across the bed, because god you were so beautiful. The only reason he insisted on helping Shoko was just so he could stare at you, he wasn’t able to stare at you during class as you would sit in the very back, while satoru sat in the front making sure to get good notes incase you ever asked to borrow his notes.
Which you never asked, he even began begging Shoko to try to get her to give him your number, Shoko was gonna say no as she already knew if she did he wouldn’t even text first.
Satoru watched as you and Shoko left the dorm to quickly grab sanitary or whatever, he wasn’t paying attention. He immediately got up and went into your laundry basket and pushed his nose against your dirty panties, his eyes rolling back at the scent of the sweetness and sweat combined.
He went into your drawer to grab one clean lace pantie and quickly stuffed them into his backpack pocket that he never opens. After you and Shoko came back, Satoru quickly apologises to Shoko and left.
Satoru had a flush look on his face, as he imagined what’d he do later this night to your panties. You not even knowing that he just stole your panties, turned him on so much he could feel himself throbbing and leaking pre cum. Satoru quickly made it to his dorm and immediately dropped everything, he was glad he didn’t have a roommate.
Satoru opened his backpack to grab the panties before throwing his sweater and shirt off as he quickly sat on his bed leaning against the pillow as he held one of your dirty panties. He knew he should feel ashamed for doing this, but the excitement of doing this without your knowledge made him even harder. He put the panties on his face as he sniffed, feeling his cock twitch against his sweatpants.
Satoru reached his hand down pulling his sweatpants down a bit as he pushed his hips up and palmed himself through his underwear, feeling his cock twitch against his hand as he groaned and closed his eyes, trying to pretend it was you touching his cock and not himself.
He imagines you catching him, would you be shocked? Would you join him? Satoru pulled his underwear down, as his cock sprung out in the cold air, curving to the side dripping with pre cum. Satoru opened one eye just to stare at his cock, still trying to think what your reaction would be. God he hoped you would join, tell him you want him too and he isn’t a creep for stealing your underwear and jerking off to it.
Satoru grabbed his cock, going up and down in a slow motion making sure to spread the pre cum all over his cock as lube. He wonders how you’ll look on your knees, do you have a gag reflex? Are you a virgin? Satoru closed his eyes again as he groaned as moved the motion of his hand faster and faster. Satoru was a moaning mess with his face all flushed, his glasses becoming foggy making it difficult to even see anything. He pumped for a few more times before cuming and wiping the cum against your stolen panties. Promising he would return the stolen panties as he knew he wouldn’t. Satoru fixed his glasses as he looked in the mirror, cum was on his stomach, face, nipples and even on his hair.
Satoru took a shower and hid your panties in his drawer. Grabbing his phone as he stared at his lock screen with a message from an unknown number saying
“Hi! It’s {+}, I was wondering if you could help me with something?”
Satoru smiled at the message, heart eyes forming behind those glasses as you’ve finally noticed him.
GUYS IM SORRY FOR NOT POSTING MUCJ BUT I MADE THIS IN 30 MINUTES, DEF NOT GRAMMAR PROOF. I’ve evolved too👀😳✌️
Credits to artists ofc but I don’t know who do it unfortunately
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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summary: after getting married very young you and lando get divorced after seven years of marriage. still flirtatiously communicating on social media, fans bring up cute moments that have you and lando rethinking your decision.
social media + texts
( i tried to do my best with the culture aspect of this, but pleaseee tell me if something is inaccurate or offensive. i do different readers as my best effort to be inclusive especially for those who don't get represented as much. hope you enjoy this! )
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞
liked my 4,792,693, others
yourusername: divorced, but still wifey material 💋🔓
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landonorris: oh and of course you’re wearing my favorite saree on you 🙄
^yourusername: last time you’ll be seeing me in it!!
^landonorris: i think i’ll miss seeing it on the ground more than seeing it on
^yourusername: ohhh take a hike norris 😒
user: MOTHER IS SERVING
user: the divorced glow is real and in full effect
user: oh I'm sick
user: never wanted this day to come
user: i didn't know think they were actually being serious with this
user: my world is collapsing as I'm typing this
^user: what are these weird drops of liquid pouring out of my eyes right now....what is this feeling
^user: no same. normally I'm not one to ever be parasocial or idolize celeb relationship but these two were so pefect. i think it's because they were together before land was even in f1
^user: THAT MAKES THIS EVEN WORSE
user: ok i know I'm supposed to be sad but she looks incredible
^yourusername: thank you!
𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬
landonorris: back on the market boyssss 🍾🏝️
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yourusername: this is NOT tuff lil bro
^landonorris: it’s not for you
^yourusername: ohhh soo true you’re righttt i forgot. apparently you’re for the boys 🏳️🌈
^landonorris: NO NO IM NOT. THAT’S NOT WHY WE GOT A FREAKING DIVORCE 😭
user: landoooo take this down 😡
^yourursername: agreed!
user: he looks happy but i can tell he’s sad
user: are you like an expert on lando norris expressions and body language or what….?
^user: yes i am. he’s hurting
^user: oh ok! uhmm my bad then 😇
user: y/n we know you commented that. give it up
user: how and WHY are they so jolly about this
𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩
formulaonegossip: it’s official! after a year of publicly discussing their journey with seperating, y/n and lando are now legally and completely divorced.
the first talks of ending their marriage began last year when they did an interview together addressing their relationship, casually announcing they were working on filing for divorce. now, the two have made posts both declaring they got it finalized. though they are done, the two seemed to be in high spirits and said it was a mutual decision they both wanted.
different from our normal announcements…..and while we don’t know the complete reason for the separation, we wish the two a happy life now apart! 🎉🤍
———————————————————————————
yourusername: thank you doing your duty and reporting this very important matter 😇
^user: omg damn was it THAT bad?? 😭
user: i looked at their post and they were really waiting for this day it seems
^user: soooo unserious
^user: can’t tell if they hate each other or are still in love
user: she’s soooo beautiful holy
user: incredibly sad day for the unemployed 💔
^user: AND the employed. I DID call out of work because of this
user: we all knew this was coming but it doesn't hurt any less
user: genuinely what is the reason for this
user: DONT BREAK SOMETHING THATS FIXED
^user: mama i don't think that's how it goes but. get the vision
^user: no i get it.
^user: trust this is the worst decision of their lives
𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐥𝐮𝐟𝟏
deluluf1: new unseen pics from y/n and landos wedding seven years ago just dropped! i can’t believe they were only 18 here, we need them back. 🥺
i truly have a feeling they will find their way back to each other somehow. ITS NEVER OVER TIL ITS OVER
——————————————————————————
user: hopefully this will lure them back to each other 🙏🏽
user: can they please stop playing around and get back together
^user: yeah like jokes over guys!
yourusername: girl HOW tf did you get these 😭
^deluluf1: sorry, a magician never reveals her secrets!
landonorris: i see where the delulu part comes from
^deluluf1: for your information this is called gut instincts and manifestation sir
user: UGH THEY WERE SOO CUTE
^user: they were literally perfect for each other
^user: i just want to talk to the person who let them go through with this. just a talk 😅😅😅
𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐬
paddockdivas: MOM AND DAD COME BACK NOW
———————————————————————————
user: esty witch please do your magic that i paid you for
^user: omg ours need to come together and undo this damn divorce
^yourusername: AHAHA WHAT? ESTY WITCH?
^user: girl desperate times call for desperate measures
user: I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE
user: having withdrawls ☹️
user: ughhhh someone hand me a cigarette
landonorris: honestly we might have to run it back
user: OH HELLO? DID ANYONE ELSE SEE LANDOS COMMENT
^user ITS GONE WHAT DID HE SAY WHAT WAS IT
^paddockdivas: HE SAID “honestly we might to run it back” SOMEONE HELP ME
user: these two were the best couple in the world
^user: what happened?
^user : girl we’re never gonna know atp
user: mourning the best outfits in the paddock 💔
user: she truly was the best wag ever
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞
yourusername: 26 is for being single and hot
———————————————————————————
landonorris: hmmmmmhhh 😒
^yourusername: get OUT of my comments
^user: “divorced” btw
user: *duke dennis voice* NO. ITS. NOTTTTTT
user: they could never make me hate you, even though what you was doing wasn’t tasteful 💔
user: girl you’re glowinggg
user: try not to cry because you want lando and y/n back challenge!
^user: so level impossible :)
user: was going to ask if lando can fight but forgot i don’t need to anymore
^landonorris: OH BUT I CAN
user: LORD I GOT SOME THINGS I NEED TO SAYYYY
user: MY WIFE YALL
^user do NOT let lando hear you say that 😭
user: and the crowd…..lost their clothes 😱
^user: i could sense her aura from scrolls away
user: doing an entire essay on why she’s the greatest wag in history. i hope i get 100
^landonorris: if you don’t i’ll email your teacher
^yourusername: now lando really. no tea no shade to anyone but i hope you get an A!! 💕
user: the baddest of all time
user: face card is LETHALL HOLY
𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬
landonorris: happy birthday to the ex wife of all ex wives ( she made me post AND write this )
——————————————————————————
yourusername: erm no the hell i didn’t. when he basically admits you’re the best>>>>
landonorris: in words of drake “best i ever had”
^yourusername: i’m the only one you’ve ever had 🙄
user: BRING HER BACKKKK
user: she's soooo pretty it hurts
user: crying, screaming, throwing up, sliding down the wall, rocking back and forth, wailing til i lose my voice, pulling my hair out, banging my fist on the ground
^landonorris: hello? are you ok
^user: no. and it's because of you
user: the greatest devastation of my life
^user: mourning them like they're my husband who died at war
user: boy we know you chose that caption yourself
user: he’s so bad at hiding he still loves her
^user: no they’re BOTHHHH shamelessly flirting
user: my mother
^landonorris: she’s no one’s mother ( yet )
^y/nnorris: KNOCK. IT. OFF
user: bro said “ex wife” and made it a joke like they haven’t spent the past 10 years together
^user: he’s so obviously in pain
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞
yourusername: big 26 for this weirdo. i hope you know i still have that stupid ass coat. don’t get too drunk tonight 🙅🏽♀️🥂
———————————————————————————
landonorris: REALLY? I POSTED NICE ONES OF YOU
^yourusername: THESE ARE NICE WDYM? it’s not my fault i’m photogenic, also i literally posted DOUBLE than what you did
^landonorris: whatever. guess i’ll accept it
user: these really show how long they’ve been together
^user: they truly grew up in love 🥺
user: i need them back together now. it's not even funny, and it never has been
user: Y/N AND LANDO QUIT THESE GAMES
user: if you can hear us please save us
user: wtf is he doing in that golf picture
^yourusername: he does it literally EVERYTIME he goes golfing, says it's the "only" way he can get the correct angle.
user: how come we've never seen ANY of these
^user: she's his wife....
^user: WAS. SHE WAS HIS WIFE. nvm it's too painful i'm living the delusion word with you. but yeah they've been together for 10 years, i'm sure she has many many more
user: the differences in their post, omg so cute. they are so perfect for each other
^user: she really got to see a different side of him
^user: i know she misses him bad
^user: oh they both are absolutely regretting their decision. i think their posts and comments show that very clearly
𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬
landonorris: horrible race and horrible result today. on lap 10 i crashed was not able to finish the race. this is not the way i hoped for this day to go and it’s been unfortunate the way things are playing out
honestly ready for the season to be over
———————————————————————————
user: err lando i don’t think you can say that….
user: the divorce regret is showing
user: no y/n in the paddock = no good races
user: biggest lost of the year ( this isn’t about racing )
^user: yeah him and y/n divorcing was truly the worst thing that could’ve happened to him
user: YOU MISS YOUR WIFE JUST ADMIT IT
^user: pls omg. he needs to put us and himself out of misery and go win her back
user: no comment from our queen 💔
user: damn, it’s really over guys
user: so is now appropriate to ask if HE’s the one who's okay?
^user: lowkey no but you did anyways so 🙃
user: dude you have two races left pls pull through
user: there’s no racing career without y/n
user: he knows it doesn’t have to be this way right? like baby you’re the one who got divorced but still flirt with her and you both posted each other. GET AFTER THAT
^landonorris: read me for filth geez
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐚
chaoticpittea: today marks the day of what would’ve and SHOULD’VE been y/n and lando’s 11 year anniversary. i can’t take this anymore
——————————————————————————
user: oh stop this madness
user: you WILL begin to cough in 2 days
user: WHATWASTHEREASON? what was the reason
user: this fandom is a prison omg
user: don’t do this to me
user: hi so posting this was actually optional btw 😇
^user: i can’t breathe
user: dude. not this right now please
user: oh they were in LOVE LOVEE
user: i’m a child of their divorce they don’t know about
user: WE WERE ROOTING FOR YOU WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU
user: “WHY? WHY DID YOU THROW IT ALL AWAY”
user: 10 years and for what
user: crying because she’s been with him since before he even got into f1
user: the interview of his rookie year where he reveals he’s married still gets my every single time
𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞
yourusername: called the city of love for a reason 💐
——————————————————————————
user: mama what is this cryptic caption
^landonorris: you’ll find out soon
yourusername: landooooo go somewhere else 😤
user: the dress. the hair. the makeup. everything really
^user: how many words in devoured
^user: ATEEEE
user: i’m surpressing a crazy ass scream bro
user: so so fine and for WHATTT
user: how the hell is she single bro
^user: probably not for long
^user: hi lando i know it’s you on your burner
landonorris: uhm no, i say things with my chest 😒
user: if I say what i’m thinking i’ll be banned
user: HOTTEST WOMAN ALIVE
user: so no one is gonna mention how BOTH lando and y/n are in paris? at. the. same. time.
^user: I SAW THAT
^user: please let this be what i think it means
landonorris has post a story!
𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬
georgerussell: i knew your happiness about the divorce was too good to be true
^landonorris: yeah gotta be honest I don’t know why we went through with it in the first place
alexalbon: yay now you can stop sulking
^landonorris: i’ve not been sulking….
alexalbon: yeah ok. me when i’m in a delusional state
user: ARE YOU IN PARIS??
user: her face card is actually insane
user: i knew this day would come
landonorris: so you’re saying you’re a psychic, will i win wdc this year??
^user: no.
landonorris: ok i don’t like this game anymore 😕
yourusername has posted a story!
𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬
landonorris: this is a very bold post my love
^yourusername: omg says you 😒
carlossainz: i am going to unfollow you, i do not want my eyes burning when instagram is supposed to be fun
yourusername: sorryyyy carlito 💔
carlossainz: maybe i’ll let it slide because i know how much you two love and miss each other ;)
user: MOM AND DAD BACK TOGETHER??
user: girl. how could you let this go to begin with
user: thank you for the new lockscreen 😇
yourusername: my pleasure!
𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬
landonorris: i was being serious when i said we might have to run it back.
as you know y/n and i got divorced a few months ago, and though we thought it was the right decision at the time we QUICKLY realized it wasn’t. this girl has been by my side through every race in my f1 career and the years way before that. she is truly my number one fan and her not being there actually made me want to quit the altogether ( don’t let mclaren, legal or my pr team see this )
but truly she is the most importantly and valuable thing and person in my life and to call this woman my wife for the past seven years has been an honor and something i clearly took for granted. as of now we are dating but JUST KNOW the divorce papers are being ripped up as i’m typing this
i love you y/n. here’s to loving each other for eleven years and manymanymanymanymanymany more 😊
——————————————————————————
user: WARRRRR ISSSSS OVERRRR
user: CURRENTLY KISSING THE GROUND
user: lando thank you for not being stupid anymore
^user i was about to punch him
user: literally like holy you know you still love her
user: Y/NLANDO DEFENDER TIL I DIE
^user: they’re truly a couple worth fighting for
user: ascending with happiness
user: perfect timing! living will be easy again
user: wait the way his post matches her aesthetic and her post matches his. that’s my endgame right there
^user: awww stop i just noticed that too
user: they just make sense together
^user: i’m so happy they’re back together because i truly couldn’t imagine them with anyone else
^user: it would be on sight if lando ever brought someone else in the paddock
𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞
yourusername: lando lando lando. after knowing you for fifteen years, being together for ten and married for seven i know you’re the only person for me
we stupidly let our love go thinking we had gotten married to young and maybe needed other people. but we couldn’t even last a few months apart, and in that time we actually never lost communication. so though we were and still are legally separated, our hearts are still bound to each other and i will never be able to be without you ever again
he is the best decision i’ve ever made and after seeing all the fanpages and edits ( i’ve seen every single one ) we realized we threw ten years away for nothing
so twenty six is not for being single but i am still hot! as of right now we’re just dating, but JUST KNOW a wedding post will be here in the future
i love you lando, and it’ll truly be forever
———————————————————————————
user: oh thank GOODNESS. OMGGGG
^user: i was going crazy
user: don’t ever do that again
user: WOO! it was all just a joke guys!!! 😅
user: yay i can be insufferable about you two again
user: i’ll be sending you my therapy
yourusername: and i’ll be sending it to lando 😊
user: I KNEW IT WASN’T GOING TO LAST
^user: in the words of beyonce, FIND YOUR WAY BACK
^user: we lured them back in love!!
deluluf1: i told you my manifest would work
^yourusername: and it did, thank you sweetheart <3
^landonorris: ok but you’re still delusional
^deluluf1: bro duh! hence the name 🙄
user: yeah these two belting together
^user: both of them saying “just know” is so cute
𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 + 𝐲/𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬
landonorris + y/nnorris: since you guys keep bringing up our wedding we had to take some new photos
we were overdue for another wedding anyways. we’re happy to be married again and we’re NEVER DOING THAT DIVORCE TOMFOOLERY AGAIN!!!
——————————————————————————
user: y/n be honest how many looks did you have
^y/nnorris: truly i think it’s too many to count. all i know is diva lando had the same amount as me
user: so he’s….not…..gay….? 😖
landonorris: I NEVER WAS.
user: i don’t like that tone mr
landonorris: omg fine. happy now 💅🏽
user: THIS IS EVERYTHING AND MORE
user: my royal weddingggg
alexalbon: the concept of you getting divorced just to get back together 🖐🏽🧑🏽🦲
landonorris: OK ENOUGH
y/nnorris: thank you mr eynthia erivo!
lewishamilton: the way you’ve been divorced, married and REMARRIED all before me is insane
^landonorris: AND i’m 14 years younger than you 😇
^y/nnorris: lando norris stop it. you’ll find your person lewis, thank you for attending the wedding!
carlossainz: ugh you two are so dramatic ( very happy )
^y/nnorris: love you carlito 🤍
oscarpiastri: glad you to made it back to each other, it was the most beautiful wedding i’ve ever been too
^y/norris: thank you oscar, you looked great!
^landonorris: not too much now 😒
f1: the cameras are ready for your paddock fits again
mclaren: you’re married again YAY! now lock in 😡
user: CAN I GET A THANK YOU THANK YOUUUU
^user: BEST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE
user: AY AY AY! i know this wedding was crazyyy af
user: hmmm it’s giving “fall in love again and again”
｡𖦹°‧ your dupatta gets stuck to his watch || r.sukuna x f!desi!reader
a/n: typical bollywood meet cute because sukuna and desi reader have been taking up a large part of my time lately. also not proof read 😔
- listen to 'tujh mein rabh dikhta hein' specifically the part from 1:06 for max immersive experience 😛
wc: 1.2k
The plan was to go straight home after the function. No detours. No side quests. Just go home, free yourself from the confines of your stupidly heavy lehenga. Rip off the earrings that had your ears feeling as though they were about to fall off. Wipe off the makeup that you’re pretty sure is melting off your face. And marinate in your pyjamas whilst bingeing your comfort show.
But when you drive past the bright glowing lights of Taco Bell, you couldn’t seem to resist. The sign wasn’t just illuminating, it was beckoning. Calling your name in the form of baja blasts and crispy chicken burritos. It was practically luring you in!
So now, you’re parked up outside at 1:27am, lehenga skirt bunched up in one hand, phone balanced in the other as you stumble out of your car, dignity hanging on by a thread. You make sure to slam the car door with a little more force than necessary, wincing with every step you take towards the entrance, in heels that felt like a great choice at the beginning of the night but were now beginning to feel as though they had been designed by Satan himself.
The air is cool against your skin, a dramatic gust of wind rushing through the near empty car park. Your skirt sways. Your jewellery chimes. Your hair is blowing behind you in what seems to be… slow motion? You could have sworn you heard music playing softly in the background too - the theatrical score of violins and flutes. Whatever, it was probably your imagination.
After what seemed like an eternity, you make it to the door. You reach out to open it and then…
Tug.
The speed with which you freeze is truly astonishing. You swear under your breath, closing your eyes and inhaling sharply. Turning your head back slowly, your mind is reeling with every late night horror scenario it can possibly conjure up. Were you about to get kidnapped?
The embroidered edge of your dupatta has somehow wound itself around a watch.
A very expensive looking watch.
Attached to a very large (attractive) hand.
Attached to-
Your eyes trail upwards until you’re met with a too tall, too handsome stranger who seems to be just as frozen in place as you. His eyes are sharp, enough to make your heart skip a beat even though there’s a flicker of amusement in them as he stares down at you.
The music in your head seems to be getting louder.
He looks down to where your dupatta has betrayed you, raising a brow in question.
You clear your throat, finally taking your gaze away from his face and following his own to glare at his watch instead.
“You’re attached to me.” That’s all you can manage right now unfortunately. But apparently, that’s more than enough for him. His lip twitches in what you assume is a smile.
“I noticed.” No apology, no sense of urgency. No sign of him moving to help. Almost like this was a regular occurence. Or almost like he didn’t mind being stuck to you.
You, on the other hand, roll your eyes and let out a light scoff, fingers moving deftly to untangle yourself from him. The embroidery only seems to be getting tighter around the clasp.
Brows furrowing in concentration, you shuffle closer with a mumble, bangles chiming as your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, “Don’t move.”
“Why?”
“Because if this rips, I will cry. And I will blame you for it.” And then, quieter, almost like you were speaking to yourself. “This probably cost more than your stupid watch anyway.”
He just snorts, quickly bringing his other fist up to cover his mouth when you glare up at him with pure venom.
Letting out a frustrated huff you, somehow, end up closer to him with every poor attempt you make at untangling yourself from him. Ironic.
That’s exactly when he chooses to move. He lifts his wrist, the movement so subtle you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t well… stuck to his watch. The thread tightens. And you stumble forward right into him with a surprised gasp. Your palms are flat on his chest, steadying yourself as you blink up at him. Half vexed, half flustered.
For a moment, neither of you move. Your heart is beating far too hard against your chest and you’re praying he can’t feel it. Everything suddenly feels too much. The warmth of his chest under your palms. The steady rise and fall of it as he breathes. The way he’s looking down at you, bottom lip trapped in between his teeth.
The way he’s so close.
Too close.
His heavy stare falters briefly, only to flick down to your lips before slowly trailing back up your face to your eyes. You can see his Adam's apple moving as he swallows. You’re pretty sure your heart has forgotten how to beat at a normal rate.
And then you remember how to speak, making a feeble attempt at covering your flustered state.
“You did that on purpose! I told you not to move.”
A smile spreads across his face at this, slow and teasing. “You were taking too long. Struggling?”
The absolute audacity of this man.
You open your mouth, ready for some choice words to fly out but you’re quickly interrupted when he lifts his wrist up higher, bringing his other hand up to work at the fabric around his watch.
You freeze yet again, hair brushing his chest as you look at the way his fingers move. Quick. And yet ever so careful.
Before you can even let out another breath, your dupatta has been freed, hanging loose over your shoulder once again. You step back almost immediately, clearing your throat and inspecting the fabric, letting out a relieved sigh when you notice there’s no damage.
His hands are now crossed over his chest, watching you with a smirk, although his eyes seem to be softer. “What, no thank you?”
Your head snaps back up to him, eyes narrowing as you scoff, mirroring his stance. “Thank you? For almost tearing apart my designer lehenga? Keep dreaming.”
“Oh trust me. I will.” His smirk widens, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his head tilts, shamelessly looking you up and down. He hums before extending his hand out to you, the same one his watch was on. “Ryomen Sukuna.”
Unimpressed, you sigh, offering your name as you reluctantly take his hand, refusing to acknowledge the strange flutter in your stomach. Your nonchalant expression is wiped off though, when he bends down, simultaneously bringing your hand up to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. You’re quick to snatch your hand back, looking everywhere but at the infuriatingly smug look on his face.
“You should learn to keep your distance.” You school your expression into one of indifference, pushing the door open to finally get your beloved Taco Bell.
He runs his tongue along his teeth, following you inside. “You should stop coming so close then. Princess.”
You only walk faster towards the counter, the heat creeping onto your face becoming too much to ignore, much like the weight of his gaze on you.
And you don't know how much longer you can ignore it. Because, something tells you this won’t be the last time your paths will cross.
ᯓ★ notes from star: excuse the rushed ending i finished writing this in a lecture 😃. comments and reblogs appreciated as always!! mwah mwah <3
Hiii I love ur work i was wondering if you could do ass class with a reader who's like really sweet and also like really into fashion like cutesy /lolita ect!! Thank you have a good dayyy!!!
coquette aesthetic instagram !
warnings: none
pairing: multiple characters x fem! reader
a/n: i decided to make it an instagram SMAU since it would be easier to show the aesthetic !! and i deffffinitely let my desi show hehe so here's to all my desi assclass enjoyers!
all rights go to @semisutopia on tumblr. please don't copy or plagiarise my work. that's really lame of you.
a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ This might just be my most requested series besides the Yan!ATG fic. I was this close to abandoning it, but y’all refused to let me and now I’m on a roll again! There should be at least two more chapters before my motivation dips again, so keep the energy coming. And as always, don’t forget to Comment, Reblog and Like (☆≧▽^)
Comment to be added to taglist
Pt. I | Pt. II | Pt. IV | Pt. V
Jason found a rare, familiar solace in the ritual of maintenance. After the grit and grim reality of his nocturnal duties—whether as a vengeful vigilante or a strategic crimelord—true moments of peace were fleeting. The garage of his old friend’s repair shop had become a sanctuary. When he wasn’t patrolling Gotham's rain-slicked rooftops or navigating the fraught politics of its underworld, he came here, letting the scent of grease and gasoline clear his head.
There was a profound, uncomplicated satisfaction in laying hands on machinery, in feeling an engine respond to his adjustments with a purr or a roar. It was a realm of clean problems, where issues could be solved with the right tool, a precise oil change or the decisive smack of a wrench. Here, he was in control—a stark contrast to the tangled, human complexities that otherwise defined his life, problems no toolkit could ever seem to fix.
He was deep in the rhythm of it, sleeves rolled up and focus narrowed to the motorcycle before him, when a voice cut through his concentration.
“Sorry to bother you but do you know where Jonah is?”
Jason looked up, wiping his hands on a rag. The man in the doorway was unfamiliar—around his own age, perhaps a few years older, with a relaxed posture and mid-length hair and a tan complexion that suggested origins far from Gotham’s perpetual gloom. But it wasn’t the man who fully captured Jason’s attention.
It was the machine beside him.
An absolutely stunning Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R, custom-painted in a deep, iridescent purple that seemed to swallow the workshop’s feeble light. The bike was a masterpiece of aggression and elegance. Jason felt an immediate, almost electric connection to it. His eyes, usually sharp with suspicion or guarded coolness, lit with genuine, unguarded appreciation.
“It’s his day off,” Jason said, straightening up. His curiosity, piqued by both the man and the machine, got the better of his customary reserve. “And you are?”
“Name’s Krish,” the man replied, easing the magnificent bike forward. “I wanted to drop her off for repairs. Jonah mentioned you’d be around if he wasn’t.” A casual, trusting gesture accompanied his words. “Mind taking a look?”
Jason gave a noncommittal shrug and pushed himself up from the creeper seat, the well-worn leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. He ambled over to the bike, his earlier focused intensity shifting into a more appraising, professional curiosity. Jonah knew him too well—knew that a machine of this caliber was an irresistible lure, a puzzle and a pleasure rolled into one. Still, a flicker of caution cut through his appreciation. Trust was a brittle currency in Gotham and Jonah giving out his name, even casually, pinged on Jason’s internal radar. That name could be a thread and threads had a way of unraveling back to places best left in the dark.
He pushed the thought aside for now, circling the Kawasaki. Up close, its condition was even more impressive. The custom paint was flawless, the chrome gleamed and the engine, even cold, spoke of meticulous care. A quick visual inspection suggested it needed little more than routine maintenance—maybe a fluid change, a chain adjustment. It was less a project and more a privilege to handle.
“You don’t look like you’re from Gotham,” Jason remarked, his voice casual as he ran a thumb along the edge of the pristine fairing. Krish let out a warm, easy laugh. “Oh, god, no. I’m based out of New York these days, but my work has me on the road more often than not. A bit of a nomad, really.”
“That business sent you to Gotham?” Jason cocked an eyebrow, his tone lightly skeptical. Few legitimate enterprises required a voluntary stop in his city.
“No, this trip is personal,” Krish clarified, his expression softening. He placed a hand on the bike’s fuel tank, a gesture that was both possessive and tender. “I’m just here to drop this baby off. She’s been sitting in my garage for too long and it’s time I let her go.” A sigh, wistful and genuine, escaped him.
Jason straightened up, crossing his arms. He couldn’t mask his bewilderment. “I don’t get it. Why part with something you’ve clearly put this much of yourself into?”
Krish’s smile turned a touch melancholy. “Let’s just say I got one of those requests you just can’t refuse, y’know?”
A knowing, slightly crooked smirk played on Jason’s lips. His time on both sides of the law had schooled him in the many meanings of an ‘offer you can’t refuse.’ “Good money,” he ventured, his tone laced with implication, “or someone special?”
“The latter,” Krish confirmed, his eyes holding a glint of private happiness. Then, as if shaking off a reverie, he clapped his hands together lightly. “Oh, that reminds me—do you sell helmets here?”
Jason tilted his head toward the far wall, where rows of helmets were mounted in a spectrum of colors and designs, from sleek full-face models to vintage open-face classics. “Take your pick,” he said, gesturing with his chin. “Just don’t go for the cheap stuff. A head’s worth more than that.”
Krish walked over to the display wall, his gaze traveling appreciatively over the orderly rows of helmets. He didn’t just look; he studied them, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of a matte black shell then the sleek racing stripes of another. “Do you have anything on the… cutesy side?” he asked after a moment, turning back to Jason with a playful, almost conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Something in pastels? Or… maybe, anything with a bit of glitter?”
Jason couldn’t suppress a rough chuckle—a rare sound in the oil-scented gloom of the shop. “Pastel and glitter in Gotham?” he mused, wiping his hands again on a rag. “That’s one way to make a statement. Might be the brightest thing in a five-block radius.” He scanned the wall, his eyes landing on a particular helmet tucked slightly to the side, almost as a novelty item. It was a vibrant pink number adorned with a cluster of cheerful Sanrio characters. With a half-smirk, he unhooked it and held it out toward Krish. “This cute enough for you?” he asked, the question dripping with friendly sarcasm.
To his surprise, Krish didn’t laugh it off. Instead, he took the helmet, his expression shifting to one of serious contemplation. He turned it over in his hands, examining the weight, the interior padding, the quality of the visor mechanism, ignoring the flamboyant decals. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully, as if he were visualizing it in a context Jason couldn’t see.
“You know what?” Krish said finally, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “This fits. I’ll take it.”
Jason’s other eyebrow joined the first in a look of pure, unvarnished disbelief. “Wait, what? Seriously? You’re picking this?” His gesture encompassed the garish pink helmet as if it were a radioactive artifact. His tone clearly questioned not just the aesthetic choice, but the man’s entire sense of judgment.
Krish’s grin only widened, infused with a strange delight. “Oh, trust me,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.”
Her. The word hung in the air, and Jason’s mental image shifted. This wasn’t some generic gift; it was for a specific person. He gave a mental shrug, the judgment fading into pragmatic acceptance. Ultimately, what did he care? If this guy wanted to buy a ridiculous helmet for his significant other, that was his business. And Jason had to grudgingly admit that beneath the eye-searing design, Krish had instinctively chosen one of the most durable, high-spec models on the wall—a helmet that prioritized safety and quality construction over everything else. The man might have eccentric taste but he wasn’t a fool.
“Your money, your head,” Jason conceded with a final, dismissive shake of his head, already moving to ring up the sale. “Or, I guess, her head.”
Jason finished the minor tune-up, accepted the cash with a nod and watched as Krish prepared to depart. The transaction was complete, but the stranger lingered for a moment by the door, the soft Gotham dusk framing him from behind. Though the more Jason talked to him, the more he felt like he knew the man. Not the way that you’ve met them before but the type you’ve seen before, somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Hey,” Krish began, turning back with a look of casual consideration. “You’re around the shop often, right? Since I won’t be in the city, I’d feel better knowing there’s someone trustworthy I could reach out to for any bike troubles down the line. You seem like a solid guy.”
Jason leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. The request was simple, but in his world, connections were liabilities. “Jonah’s usually here,” he stated, his tone carefully neutral. “But honestly, for a… lady,” he said, subtly referencing the helmet’s intended recipient, “I wouldn’t recommend this part of town for a roadside rescue. It’s not exactly welcoming.”
He moved to the chipped shop counter, rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a slightly grease-stained business card. With a pen snatched from behind his ear, he scribbled down one of his many untraceable, burner-like numbers—a line that routed through several buffers before it ever reached him. It was a concession, small and controlled.
“Here,” he said, sliding the card across the counter. “If there’s an issue, call this number. I’ll make sure someone reliable gets sent to help.”
Krish took the card, tucking it securely into an inner pocket with a grateful nod. He swung a leg over the magnificent Kawasaki, its custom paint job seeming to drink in the shop’s fluorescent light. In a move that perfectly captured his contrasting sensibilities, he carefully secured the pink Sanrio helmet to the rear seat with a bungee net. Then, he pulled on his own helmet—a sleek, professional piece in matte black and dark blue that perfectly matching his bike’s stunning color scheme. The engine purred to life with a deep, respectful growl.
“Thanks, Zack,” Krish called out over the muted rumble, giving a casual two-finger salute from his temple. “You’re a real one.”
Jason blinked. The name landed like a misplaced gear. Zack? Jonah’s latest hire who mostly handled invoices and coffee runs. “I’m not—” he started, the correction automatic.
But Krish was already gone. The bike leaned into a smooth turn and disappeared into the gathering evening, the sound of its engine fading into the city’s perpetual hum.
Silence reclaimed the shop. Jason stood there for a long moment, the ghost of a wry, relieved smile touching his lips. The misunderstanding wasn’t just amusing; it was a relief. It meant Jonah hadn’t given his name away after all. His identity, fractured and precarious as it was, remained tucked behind the anonymous walls of the repair shop, shielded by a simple case of mistaken identity. He was just a mechanic to Krish. For now, in this small space, that was all he needed to be.
“Y/N.”
The voice was a lilting, melodic chime, cutting through the fog of deep sleep. Y/N jerked awake with a soft gasp, the world swimming into focus—the familiar wood grain of her desk, the warm glow of her study lamp and the screen of her laptop where Vani’s amused face peered out at her.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m up,” Y/N mumbled, pushing herself upright and rubbing the lingering stiffness from her eyes. A faint line from the edge of a textbook was imprinted on her cheek. “What time is it?” She’d been deep into her latest project, a intricate digital design that had consumed the evening, before sheer exhaustion had finally pulled her under right there at her workstation.
Vani and Y/N had a pact, an unbreakable ritual born of mutual necessity and comfort. Their video call was a near-permanent fixture, a shared digital space that bridged the distance between their rooms. For Y/N, it was the perfect alternative to braving the trip to the library; she could burrow in her favorite blanket fort and still be ‘at school.’ For Vani, it was a failsafe against procrastination—a friendly, watchful presence that kept them both vaguely accountable. It was less about constant conversation and more about the quiet, comforting hum of another soul being present.
“It’s time,” Vani said, her voice dropping into a stage whisper, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, “to get up and look out your window. There’s a gift waiting for you.”
Y/N’s brow furrowed in sleepy confusion. A gift? At this hour? Pushing her chair back, she padded over to the window that overlooked the quiet, tree-lined street below. The scene was mostly shadows and the soft pools of streetlight. But then her eyes locked onto a silhouette leaning casually against a parked sports bike—a silhouette whose posture, whose very outline, was etched into her memory. Her breath hitched.
For a second, she was frozen, a statue of disbelief. Then, movement. She scrambled, snatching up the worn outdoor slippers by her door and bolted from her room. The journey down the stairs was a barely controlled stumble—she nearly tripped over her own feet three times, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fumbled with the heavy main entrance door before finally wrenching it open.
Then she was flying. Across the small front yard, through the gate she didn’t bother to close properly, a direct line to the figure who was now turning toward the sound of her frantic footsteps. She launched herself at him with the full, unrestrained force of her momentum, wrapping her arms around his torso in a tackle-hug that knocked a soft “Oof” of air from his lungs.
“Krishu!” Her voice was muffled, pressed into the familiar leather of his jacket. “What are you doing here?”
He staggered back a step, laughing as he regained his balance and returned the hug just as fiercely. “What can I say?” he murmured into her hair, his voice warm with affection. “I missed my chotu too much.” nickname used for someone tiny/small
At the old, teasing nickname, Y/N finally leaned back just enough to swat his chest. “Stop calling me that!” she protested, but the effect was ruined by the beaming smile she couldn’t suppress. The smile then wavered, giving way to a playful pout. “And do you even realize mujhe aapki kitni yaad aati thi? No calls, no texts… it’s like you forgot all about me!” she complained, the Hindi slipping out in her earnest, half-exasperated scolding. how much I missed you
Krish held up his hands in a gesture of playful surrender, his grin unrepentant. “Accha, accha, maaf kardo, meri ma,” he said as a smooth counterpoint to hers. “I was hiking in the Atacama in Chile. Trust me, the network there is basically non-existent. You’d have had better luck sending a message by carrier pigeon.” He gave her hair another affectionate ruffle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But see? I’m here now. And I come bearing actual gifts, not just my charming presence.” alright, alright forgive me mom
"Gift? What gift?" Y/N asked, pulling back from the hug to look at him, her eyes still wide with sleepy surprise and lingering disbelief at his sudden appearance.
Krish just gave her a mysterious, lopsided smile and held up a single finger—wait for it. He stepped back, creating a little space between them and pulled out his phone. With a few swift taps, he dialed a number and put it on speaker. It rang only once before Vani’s voice, now laced with triumphant glee, crackled through.
“Is she there? Did she faint? Do I need to call an ambulance?” Vani’s rapid-fire questions spilled out.
Without a word, Krish handed the phone to Y/N, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Vanshita,” he announced to the air, as if presenting a formal witness. “Explanations, please.”
Y/N took the phone, pressing it to her ear, her gaze darting between Krish’s expectant face and the stunning motorcycle gleaming under the streetlight. “Vani di,” she said, her voice a mixture of confusion and dawning suspicion. “What is all this about? What’s going on?”
“Okay, listen,” Vani began, her tone shifting to one of conspiratorial delight. “Our dear Krishna here was committing a cardinal sin. He was letting that absolutely gorgeous Kawasaki just… rot in his garage. A tragedy, right? And we were talking and I may have mentioned that I knew someone—someone brilliant, someone who’s been working herself to the bone, someone who could really, really use a spectacular win in her life right about now.”
Y/N’s breath caught. Her eyes flew to the bike, then to the keys Krish was now dangling from his finger, the metal catching the light. “No,” she whispered, the word more a puff of air than sound. It was a denial of the impossible, a rejection of a happiness too large to accept all at once.
“Yes,” two voices chorused in perfect unison—one from the phone in her hand, rich with sisterly satisfaction and the other, warm and steady, from the man in front of her.
Krish stepped forward, the keys swinging gently. He offered them to her, his expression softening as he saw the sheen of tears instantly welling up in her eyes. The moment her lower lip began to tremble, he was there. He gently cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the first treacherous tears before they could fall.
“Rote nahi,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a soft, pleading command. “Rona nahi, Y/N. Mai bol raha hoon, rona nahi.” His words were a frantic, loving mantra. “If you start crying, I swear I’ll put it right back on the trailer. I’ll take it back to New York. Don’t make me do that!” Don't cry, Do not cry, I'm telling you, don't cry.
From the phone, still clutched in Y/N’s hand, Vani’s dry commentary floated out. “Stellar way to console a person, Krish. Truly top-tier emotional support.”
“Oh, shut up, Vani!” Krish retorted, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s watery ones, a flicker of panic in his own. “You know how I get around crying people! Women in particular! I’m not equipped to deal with this!”
The comical desperation in his voice, the tender way he was holding her face and the absurdity of the situation finally broke the tension. A wobbly laugh bubbled up through Y/N’s sniffles, the threatened downpour of emotion receding into a glitter of unshed joy in her eyes.
“Aur haan,” Krish continued, his tone shifting from playful to purposeful. He reached into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, his fingers emerging not just with the gleaming key fob, but also with a slightly worn business card. He pressed both into Y/N’s palm, folding her fingers over them with a firm, meaningful squeeze. “This is important. The card is for a repair shop in the city—a place I trust completely. The owner, Jonah, is a good man.” and yes
He flipped the card over, tapping a finger on a series of numbers handwritten in a quick, utilitarian scrawl. “And this,” he emphasized, “is the direct number for one of the employees there. His name’s Zack. If anything at all feels off with the bike or if you just need a second opinion, you call him. Tell him you know me. He’ll make sure you get the help you need.” He paused, ensuring he had her full attention. “I’ve already spoken to Jonah. He’s expecting you. He’s the kind of guy who knows everyone and he’s going to help you navigate getting your full license sorted out. No shortcuts on the paperwork but he’ll make the process smooth.”
Before she could fully process the practical flood of information, Krish turned back to the bike. From a secure net strapped to the rear seat, he carefully extracted the final piece of the gift. It was the helmet—the gloriously, unabashedly pink Sanrio helmet he’d chosen with such specific intent. A soft laugh escaped him as he presented it.
“And this,” he said, his voice softening, “is non-negotiable.” Gently, he placed the helmet onto her head, his fingers deftly fastening the strap under her chin, checking the fit with a practiced tug. The world outside muted slightly, filtered through the visor. “Never. Without. A helmet. Samjhi?” His eyes, visible through her visor, were uncharacteristically serious, all traces of his earlier panic gone, replaced by a bedrock of protective concern. “Not for a two-minute ride around the block. Not ever. This is the rule.” got it?
Y/N nodded enthusiastically, the movement making the cheerful characters on the helmet bob slightly. The promise was easy to make, fueled by a lifetime of conditioning. Her father had been a devoted motorcycle enthusiast, his passion filling their garage with the scent of engine oil and the low rumble of classic engines. Y/N had grown up not just around bikes, but on them, learning to balance on a cousin’s tiny dirt bike long before she’d learned long division.
Her mother had always disapproved, citing safety and unladylike conduct, but her father’s world of freedom and wind had been too magnetic. He’d taken her on countless rides, her small hands gripping his jacket as the world blurred into a stream of joyous sensation and that love had been irrevocably imprinted on her soul.
Knowing Krish had only poured accelerant on that spark. He was the only person in her life whose bikes were faster, whose stories of open roads were more thrilling and who never once dismissed her fascination as a phase. He was always happy to indulge her, explaining mechanics, letting her sit on his machines, and now… this. This was more than indulgence; it was an investment, a passing of the torch wrapped in glittering pink plastic.
From the phone, still loosely held in her hand, Vani’s voice cut through the moment, warm with approval. “See? I told you he’d come through with the full safety lecture.”
Krish shot a mock-glare toward the phone. "I'm hanging up on you now, Vanshita. My emotional support duties here are done." He reached over and ended the call, plunging them into a sudden, significant quiet, broken only by the distant city sounds.
The reality of the moment, so joyous just seconds before, began to settle with a sobering weight. Krish’s smile lingered, but it had softened around the edges, tinged with a melancholy that Y/N felt echo in her own chest. “I should get going, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, pitched for just the two of them in the dim evening light.
The words landed with a dull thud. So soon? “Why?” she protested, the plea slipping out before she could temper it with reason. “You just got here. At least… at least come up for some chai. I’ll make it the way you like it.” The offer was automatic, a thread of normalcy she desperately wanted to cling to, even as she knew it was futile. She understood the mechanics of their lives all too well. Krish’s work was a demanding, globe-hopping entity and her own academic pursuits were a vortex of deadlines and projects.
Their worlds orbited on different axes and the gravitational pull that had once kept them close was straining under the distance. Growing apart felt less like a possibility and more like an inevitable, slow-motion drift she was powerless to stop. As a child, Krish and Vani had been her constants. She had sworn silent oaths to never let them go, but adulthood, she was learning, was a series of gentle, necessary goodbyes.
“You know I can’t, yaar,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. The regret in his voice was a tangible thing. “I have a flight to Taipei first thing tomorrow. Clients waiting, deadlines breathing down my neck.” He shrugged, attempting a casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. In their deep, familiar brown, Y/N could see a mirror of her own reluctance—a sadness that this stolen hour was all they could manage. dude
“I understand,” Y/N nodded slowly, the words tasting like ash. There was no point in arguing with logistics, with the tyranny of schedules and responsibilities. Together, in silence now, they carefully wheeled the magnificent Kawasaki into the designated parking area of her apartment building, the quiet rumble of its tires on concrete feeling like a final, solemn ceremony.
A soft beep from his phone broke the stillness. Krish glanced at the screen, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly. “The cab’s here,” he announced, not looking up, his focus on the glowing rectangle as if it could shield him from the goodbye. “I should go.”
But before the distance could formalize, before he could take that first step away, Y/N moved. She crossed the short space between them and threw her arms around him in another tight embrace, this one devoid of the earlier giddy force, filled instead with a clinging, wordless plea. She buried her face in his jacket, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and distant places, fiercely holding back the hot press of tears.
The impact made him let out a soft, grunting laugh. “Arrey, what is with you and body-slamming me tonight?” he chuckled, the sound warm and strained as he brought his arms around her, one hand coming up to pat the top of her head, right over where the pink helmet had been. “Trying to give me internal injuries as a parting gift?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled into the fabric, her voice thick. He didn’t reply, simply holding her, his own cheek resting against her hair, savoring the quiet, precious moment of connection, memorizing the feel of it.
Finally, as the cab’s headlights swept across the street, he gently loosened his hold. Pulling back just enough to see her face, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb briefly grazing her skin. “Alright,” he sighed, the playful mask gone again. Then, a flicker of his old self returned, a last attempt to leave her with a smile. “So… duty-free run. Do you want anything from Taipei? Skincare? Those weird flavoured Kit-Kats you’re obsessed with? A decorative sword? Name it.”
She pulled back, sniffling once but managing a wobbly smile. "Just for you to comeback safe and sound. And maybe a postcard. A really ugly one."
"That's my girl," he said, his own smile finally reaching his eyes again, if only for a second. "Ugly postcards are my specialty." He tapped the side of her head gently. "Remember. Card. Jonah. License. In that order."
He gave her one last, long look, as if etching the scene—her standing next to the beautiful, impossible bike, the ridiculous pink helmet now clutched in her hands—into his memory. Then, with a final, decisive nod, he turned and walked towards the waiting cab, its engine idling with impatient warmth.
Y/N stood rooted to the spot, watching as he slid into the back seat. He didn't look back as the car pulled away from the curb, its taillights shrinking into two red pinpricks before dissolving into the river of Gotham's night traffic. The sudden silence felt immense, a vacuum left in the wake of his vibrant energy.
Her gaze drifted from the empty street to the motorcycle beside her. It wasn't just a machine; it was a promise, a tether. He couldn't stay, but he'd left a part of himself behind—a roaring, purple and black fragment of his world, now parked in hers. The cool metal of the key bit into her palm, a tangible anchor.
If the weekend's surprise had felt like a burst of radiant, impossible color, Monday morning was a harsh, high-contrast black and white photograph. Y/N L/N’s reality snapped back with a vengeance and it was currently embodied by her boss, Timothy Drake Wayne, who was in a mood so foul it seemed to warp the very air of the office. The cause was a mystery—a crappy client meeting, a traffic jam, a critical email from god-knows-where but the effect was painfully clear: Y/N was his designated pressure valve.
While the other junior associates were across the office, clustered around senior architects’ screens, eagerly observing the early-stage digital reconstruction of a property recently damaged in one of the Red Hood’s more explosive disputes— allegedly a result of his latest face-offs with one of the rogues, leaving Y/N was anchored to the small pantry. Her primary architectural contribution for the morning was achieving the perfect steep time for a cup of chai, Tim’s third in two hours.
“Hmmm,” she mused under her breath, stirring a generous spoonful of her precious, personally blended chai mix—a cardamom-and-ginger concoction Tim had once tasted and now felt aristocratically entitled to—into a pot of simmering water. “Should I spit in it or is this finally the day for rat poison?”
“Poison, definitely,” a cheerful, unfamiliar voice agreed directly behind her.
Y/N jumped, nearly sending the pot clattering into the sink. She whirled around, her prepared glare dissolving into stunned silence.
Leaning against the pantry doorway was a man who seemed genetically engineered to disrupt the monotony of a Monday. He had a relaxed, athletic grace with mid-length hair that looked artfully tousled rather than unkempt. But it was his eyes that halted her—a vast, brilliant blue, the kind you saw in travel posters for tropical skies. They were nothing like Tim’s icy, assessing glare; these were open, warm, and currently crinkled with amused apology.
He was dressed simply in a well-fitted blue shirt and dark trousers, but the clothes hung on him with such easy perfection they might as well have been a tailored suit. He looked like if Hrithik Roshan and Brad Pitt had decided to collaborate on a greek god of a love child. Ghoorna band kar, she mentally scolded herself, tearing her gaze away from his smile. Stop staring.
“Sorry about that,” the masterpiece said, straightening up and taking a step forward. His voice was as pleasant as the rest of him, friendly and laced with that same easy charm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Dick.”
A new, entirely different reaction bloomed across Y/N’s face. The awe, the shock of his appearance, was momentarily vaporized by a wave of profound, cosmic pity. Dick. Of course. It was a universal law, apparently. The universe had to nerf the devastatingly handsome ones. Why did all the unfairly attractive white men come saddled with the most godawful, conversation-stalling names? Josh? Chad? Tim? Dick? It was like a built-in humility feature.
She managed to school her features into something resembling professional neutrality, though a spark of her earlier mischief remained in her eyes. “Right,” she said, her voice dry. “Of course you are. Can I help you… Dick? Or are you just here to advocate for workplace toxicity?” She gestured vaguely with the spoon still in her hand.
“I was, uh—just here to grab myself a…” His sentence trailed off as his gaze swept the small pantry, landing on a nearly empty snack rack. He snagged a lone, slightly stale-looking oatmeal cookie from a crumpled cellophane packet. “This. Yeah.”
The move was so transparently improvised that Y/N had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She gave a noncommittal shrug and turned her attention back to the simmering pot, the rich, spicy aroma of cardamom and ginger beginning to fill the small space.
Instead of leaving, however, Dick moved. He casually sidled up to the counter next to her, closing the distance with a natural ease that made the cramped pantry feel even more intimate. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was warm and conspiratorial. “So,” he murmured, as if they were old allies planning a coup. “Who are we poisoning and why again? I need the full briefing if I’m going to be an accessory.”
The proximity, the low timber of his voice, the playful glint in those impossibly blue eyes—it was a concerted assault on her composure. Y/N leaned back instinctively, creating a few crucial inches of space. A faint, unwelcome blush heated her cheeks. She was accustomed to handsome men, sure. She worked for Tim, whose sharp, aristocratic features were a study in cold perfection and she’d grown up with Krish, whose roguish charm was its own brand of compelling. But in both cases, their personalities—one icy and demanding, the other mischievous and overbearing—had instantly neutralized any superficial appeal. This was different. This was a handsome man who was also… genuinely, disarmingly nice. It was an unfamiliar and slightly overwhelming combination.
“Take a guess, would you?” she finally managed, her tone drier than the cookie in his hand. Seeking a small, petty revenge, she deliberately scooped an extra spoonful of sugar into Tim’s tea, knowing full well he preferred it bitter. The petty act, witnessed by this charming stranger, felt both childish and satisfying.
“A name does come to mind,” Dick mused, nodding thoughtfully as he watched her stir the sugary revenge. He took a bite of his cookie, his expression one of sympathetic contemplation.
That tiny hint of solidarity was all the invitation she needed. The dam of her professional frustration, already weakened by the morning’s tedium, gave way. “He’s the worst,” she hissed, keeping her voice low but letting the venom flow. “He acts like I’m his personal errand girl, not a junior architect… intern. And on top of the actual mountain of work, there’s just this… sheer avalanche of bullshit he dumps on me. I get it, he’s a control freak and I’m his assistant, but there’s a line! Somewhere! A very clear, bright line that he joyfully pole-vaults over every single day!” She punctuated her rant by clanging the spoon a little too hard against the rim of the mug. “And then there’s his stupid, smug face. God, I could just—” She made a brief, violent wringing motion with her hands.
Dick didn’t just smile or offer a polite nod. He let out a loud, hearty, unreserved laugh—the kind that filled the small pantry and seemed to bounce off the tiles. It was a sound of pure, unfiltered amusement.
Y/N immediately cut off, her furious momentum halted. She glared at him, the blush returning full-force, this time from indignation. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. “It’s just… you seem to have some very strong feelings for him. Passionate. Visceral, even.” He took another bite of the cookie, looking thoroughly entertained.
“Against,” Y/N corrected with a sharp huff, giving the simmering pot a final, aggressive stir. “Very, very much against.” As if on cue to prove her point, her phone buzzed on the countertop with the specific, dreaded tone she’d assigned to one contact. She glanced down, and her expression hardened into a mask of pure, simmering fury.
Mendhak:
Make an extra cup. I have a guest coming.
The sheer, casual audacity of it—the assumption, the lack of a ‘please,’ the fact he was texting her from approximately thirty feet away—sent a fresh wave of irritation through her. She could practically feel her molars grinding together.
Dick, who had politely averted his gaze from her phone but couldn’t miss the storm cloud that settled over her features, offered what was probably meant to be a mitigating observation. “I mean,” he ventured, his tone still light but shifting slightly towards diplomacy, “you have to cut the guy a little slack. He’s only nineteen and he’s basically the acting CEO of a billion-dollar empire. That’s got to do… something to your personality. Puts a certain kind of pressure on a person.”
Y/N slammed the spoon down on the counter with a definitive clack. She turned to face him, the last vestiges of her earlier flustered blush gone, replaced by the fiery righteousness of the perpetually put-upon. “That,” she declared, jabbing a finger in the general direction of Tim’s office, “might explain the ego, the impossible standards, maybe even the permanently smug expression he wears. What it does not explain, or excuse, is his pathological refusal to use the perfectly functional, top-of-the-line espresso machine in his own private cabin!”
She gestured wildly toward the pantry’s sad, drip-style coffee maker, as if presenting Exhibit A. “He bought it! He had it installed! It makes coffee that probably costs more per cup than my hourly wage! But no. Instead, he demands I make this,” she pointed at the pot of chai, “from a personal recipe. And he doesn’t ask. He commands. ‘Make an extra cup.’ Not ‘Could you?’ Not ‘When you have a moment.’ It’s a text order, like I’m a drone in his personal beverage air force.”
Dick’s lips twitched, his earlier full laugh now tempered into a smile of genuine, shared commiseration. “Well, I should probably get going,” he said, his tone light. “But truly, I wish you all the best in your… ongoing campaigns.” He gave her a final, friendly nod that felt like a genuine salute before turning and slipping out of the pantry, leaving behind the faint, clean scent of his cologne and a palpable void of charm.
Y/N deflated slightly, the brief spark of camaraderie extinguished. She stared at the empty doorway. Why couldn’t her professional life be filled with people like that? People who laughed easily, who whispered about poison with a twinkle in their eye instead of just doling it out in passive-aggressive memos. Her mind, seeking distraction, began to categorize him. What department was he with? Finance? No, he lacked the predatory sharpness, the hollow sheen of a finance bro. Sales, then. It had to be sales. Companies always hired the incredibly attractive for client-facing roles—a classic tactic, weaponizing charm and good bone structure for persuasion. The theory satisfied her, neatly filing Dick away as a pleasant, transient anomaly from a different, more glamorous sector of the corporate machine.
With a resigned sigh, she turned back to her duty. She prepared a second cup, then carefully reheated the first, knowing from bitter experience that Tim Drake considered anything less than scalding to be an personal affront. Arranging both mugs on a tray with mechanical precision, she carried the loaded peace offering down the hall to his office.
She knocked softly, the careful tap-tap-tap of someone balancing hot liquids and their own simmering resentment. A muted “Come in” filtered through the door.
Pushing it open, she stepped into the sleek, minimalist space—and froze.
There, perched casually on the edge of Tim’s immaculate desk, one leg swinging slightly, was Dick Grayson. He was in the middle of a story, gesturing animatedly, a bright grin on his face. And Tim—her Tim, the Mendhak, the source of her morning misery—was leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t just listening; he was relaxed, his arms crossed, wearing an expression of open, unguarded amusement. It was a face she’d never seen him wear in her presence.
The scene was so dissonant, so utterly wrong, that the tray in her hands gave a dangerous wobble.
“Oh, Y/N, perfect timing,” Tim said, his voice still carrying traces of that unfamiliar warmth. He gestured casually between them. “I have someone to introduce you to. This is Dick Grayson.” He paused, and a smirk touched his lips—a real one, not the cold, calculated kind she was used to. “My brother.”
The words landed not as an introduction, but as a physical blow. Brother. The air left her lungs. The carefully maintained tray tilted; china clinked a frantic, perilous alarm before she managed to steady it through sheer, white-knuckled will. The feeling that surged through her wasn’t just shock. It was a hot, humiliating wave of betrayal. She’d just unloaded her professional grievances, painted her boss as a petty tyrant, to the tyrant’s own brother. He’d stood there, nodding along, sympathizing, laughing.
Somehow, her body moved on autopilot. She set the tray down on the corner of the desk with a soft, definitive clink. Every movement was measured, robotic. She turned to Dick and manufactured a smile. It was a polite, professional, utterly hollow stretch of her lips that didn’t touch the storm in her eyes. “Nice to meet you, sir,” she said, her voice unnaturally even. A vein pulsed dangerously at her temple.
Dick’s reaction was immediate. All the easy charm had evaporated. His eyes had gone wide, his easy posture stiffening. He looked at her not with amusement or sympathy but with deep, genuine concern—and a flicker of something that looked like alarm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, to explain but no sound came out.
Y/N didn’t give him the chance. She pivoted back to Tim, her spine straight as a ruler. Her face was a mask of impeccable neutrality, but her tone was so carefully, chillingly devoid of inflection it was more scathing than any shout. “Sir, I need to confirm the details for your four o’clock conference call with the Tokyo investors. I’ll be at my desk if you require anything further.” Not a question. A statement.
Without waiting for a dismissal, she turned on her heel and walked out, closing the door behind her with a soft, precise click that echoed in the sudden, stunned silence she left in her wake.
Work ended early, a small, unexpected mercy and Y/N refused to let the lingering shadow of the Wayne brothers—one a micromanaging prodigy, the other a charming, duplicitous enabler—taint what came next. The solution to all her misery, she decided, was waiting for her in the parking garage.
It was finally time to take her baby for a spin.
A part of her, the sentimental part nurtured by years of shared adventures, wished Krish were here for this inaugural ride. His whoop of approval, his inevitable critique of her posture, the shared ritual of it—it would have felt more complete. But his life was a series of departures and hers was learning to be a series of arrivals in his absence. Besides, she reasoned, she had practicalities to attend to. The food rations ran dangerously low and the nearby supermarket was only a fifteen minute ride away. Surely a quick, careful trip for essentials, license still pending, wouldn’t hurt. It was a test drive with a purpose, not a joyride. That’s what she told herself.
In her apartment, she strapped on the cheerfully bright Sanrio helmet. The pastel and cartoon characters were a stark, almost absurd contrast to the Kawasaki’s purple and cobalt severity, a touch of childish whimsy against a machine of pure, adult power. But Krish had chosen it and that connection made it precious. She loved the dichotomy. Securing the strap under her chin, she felt a familiar, comforting enclosure.
Downstairs, the bike waited. She swung a leg over, settling into the seat that felt like it had been molded for her. Her thumb found the ignition. The engine didn’t just start; it awoke with a deep, throaty purr that vibrated up through the frame and into her bones. It was a feeling that transcended mechanics—it was a conversation, a potential energy humming under her control. She let it idle for a moment, soaking in the sensation, then gave the throttle a gentle, experimental twist. The responsive growl that answered was electric.
The sound transported her instantly to her memory back years, across an ocean, to the heat-hazed tarmac of the Delhi expressway, tucked behind Krish on his old Triumph, the wind screaming past her helmet as they chased the horizon. To the feeling of limitless asphalt ahead and the wild, weightless freedom of speed. Y/N could almost hear Vani’s frantic calls afterward. She’d always been their unwilling accomplice, left to craft elaborate lies for her parents, put in what she called “morally precarious situations.” She’d swear, every time, that she was done, finished, never covering for them again. And yet every time, she’d be bribed back into compliance with a packet of imported cigarettes and a plate of steaming, spicy momos from their favorite roadside stall. The memory drew a small smile from Y/N.
With that warmth in her chest, she eased the bike out of the parking spot and into the dusky Gotham evening. The trip to the small Indian supermarket was a short, cautious navigation of side streets, every stop and start a new lesson in the bike’s sensitive controls. She pulled into a spot right out front, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt loud.
Pushing open the shop’s door triggered a familiar, welcoming chime. The air inside was thick with the comforting scents of sandalwood incense, fresh herbs, and spices. And there, emerging from behind a stack of ghee tins emerged a man who could only be described as a giant, Sikh golden retriever. Baldeep Singh was built like a wrestler, with a beard that rivaled a king’s and eyes that perpetually crinkled with good humor. He looked, she always thought, like if the chirpy innkeeper from Frozen.
“Satsriakal, Paaji!” Y/N called out, her earlier troubles melting away in the warmth of the place. “Sabh changa?” Hello sir (used informly for an older brother figure), everything good?
His face split into a beam so wide it seemed to generate its own wattage, brightening the entire aisle of lentils and dried beans. “Y/N!” he boomed, his voice a baritone of pure delight that vibrated in the air, making the nearby jars of pickles and spices hum in sympathetic resonance. He lumbered out from behind the counter, wiping hands on the apron stretched over his broad chest. Before she could utter another word, he closed the distance and delivered a welcoming thump to her back that rattled her teeth and nearly sent her stumbling into a display of pappads.
“Wah! Look at you, breathing our air again!” he laughed, his eyes twinkling. The hefty slap was just Balpreet Singh’s version of a handshake—a little overwhelming but brimming with uncomplicated affection. Having spent decades at his family’s dhaba in Delhi before transplanting his family and his hospitality to Gotham, he treated Y/N with the proprietary warmth of a hometown elder. In his eyes, her Delhi roots earned her the coveted ‘local’s discount,’ a currency far more valuable than dollars.
“I’m just here for the essentials,” Y/N said, catching her breath and pulling up a list on her phone. “Half kilo of arhar daal, maybe some rice… and a few of those minute-made curry packets for the week.” Balpreet’s magnificent smile instantly inverted into a formidable frown. His bushy eyebrows drew together like two caterpillars in a conference.
“Aunty is well, I hope?”
“The missus is in radiant health, waheguru ki kripa se,” he declared, waving a dismissive hand. “Which is precisely why she would box my ears if she learned I let you walk out of here with those… those emergency rations.” He said the words with the distaste of a master chef presented with a microwave dinner. “Growing young people, working hard with their brains, need proper fuel! Real food! Not powder in a packet.” by the grace of waheguru
Y/N offered a sheepish, pragmatic smile. “The internship stipend hasn’t hit my account yet, Paaji. The budget is… austerity-level this week.”
It was as if she had casually insulted his ancestors, his culinary lineage and the sacred cow all at once. Balpreet’s expression shifted from disapproval to profound personal offense. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height.
“Bas cha kar putter! No more of this talk,” he commanded, his voice softening even as his resolve hardened. “You come with me.” Enough kid
He snatched a basket from a stack and began a purposeful march down the aisles, a general on a war campaign. Y/N trailed behind, a smile tugging at her lips, knowing resistance was futile. Into the basket went a fresh bundle of coriander, plump tomatoes, a bag of onions, a bottle of his house-blended garam masala that smelled like heaven, and a container of ghee he insisted was medicinal.
“My own Arshpreet,” he said as he selected a bag of the finest basmati rice, “is off at Berkeley, becoming a big-shot engineer. Her mother, my Roop, she calls her every night and her first question is always, ‘Beta, what did you eat?’ We cannot be there to put a plate in front of her, so we worry.” He placed the rice in the basket with a gentle pat. “But you… you are here, in my shop. If I cannot ensure my own daughter is fed like a sher, I can at least make sure someone else’s child, far from home, does not eat like a… a sparrow.” He glanced back at her, his eyes crinkling with a warmth that melted any remaining protest. lion
“With all due respect,” Y/N said, her voice thick with a mixture of gratitude and gentle scolding. “You are going to run a thriving business straight into the ground because of me. I’m a liability to your profit margins.”
He let out a hearty laugh that shook his broad shoulders. “Profit? Pah! This is not profit. This is seva. And what is a business for, if not to take care of its own?” He stopped at the counter and began ringing up the items at speeds that defied logic, his thick fingers flying over the ancient cash register. The total he named was a fraction of the actual cost, a number so symbolic it was practically a fairy tale. selfless service (one of the core principles of Sikhism)
He bagged the groceries with practiced efficiency, tucking in a small container of homemade ginger candy “for digestion.” Y/N paid the token amount, the transaction feeling less like commerce and more like accepting a blessing. As she hefted the bags and turned to leave, a violent, cacophonous crash shattered the quiet evening from the street outside. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass was unmistakable.
Balpreet’s head snapped up. “Oye! What is this now?”
“Paaji, you lock the door,” Y/N said, her voice tight. Her heart leapt into her throat, a single, terrifying thought eclipsing all else: her bike. She dropped the bags just outside the doorway and bolted outside, the shop’s bell jangling a frantic alarm behind her.
Relief, swift and dizzying, washed over her first. The Kawasaki stood untouched, gleaming under the streetlight, a solitary island of beauty amidst the sudden chaos. The destruction came from the narrow, trash-strewn alley that ran alongside the spice shop. From its shadows came the grunts of impact, the sickening thud of fists on flesh, and the clatter of a metal dumpster being slammed into.
Against every screaming instinct of self-preservation, she found herself moving toward the noise. She clicked her helmet’s visor down, the simple action feeling like donning a thin layer of armor, and crept closer to the alley’s mouth, pressing herself against the rough brick wall to peer around the corner.
The scene was a blur of violent motion under the sickly, intermittent glow of a Gotham streetlight that flickered as if gasping its last breath. A group of men, hulking shapes in the gloom, were swarming a single figure. It was impossible to make out details—except one. A flash of streetlight caught on a familiar, stark shape: the unmistakable, domed curve of a red helmet.
Red Hood.
The recognition was instant, a fact filed away from news clips and hushed, fearful conversations. Before the thought could fully form, one of the attackers was hurled backward as if from a cannon. He sailed past Y/N’s hiding place, missing her by feet and crashed onto the asphalt with a nauseating crunch of bone and a pained groan. She flinched back, scooting deeper into the shadow of a stone pillar, her breathing shallow behind the helmet.
As the fight ebbed and flowed, she watched with dawning horror. Red Hood was a cyclone of brutal efficiency but he was moving wrong. There was a hitch in his step, a favoring of one side. A dark, wet stain was spreading across his leather jacket. He’s hurt. And he was severely outnumbered. He’d beat several down, but they were like roaches—stunned, then slowly, shakily rising again.
The man who had landed near her was one of them. He pushed himself up, swaying, his face a mask of rage and pain. His hand dipped into his jacket and emerged clutching a pistol. He raised it, the barrel wavering as he tried to steady it, aiming directly at Red Hood’s back. The vigilante, locked in combat with two others, was completely exposed.
Logic was a clear, cold voice in her head: Stay hidden. Get on your bike. Go home. This is not your fight. This is Gotham.
But another voice, louder, born of a childhood watching her father and Krish tinker with engines and talk about fixing what’s broken, screamed back. These people fight every day to keep the city from swallowing itself whole. And you’re just going to watch?
Her eyes scanned the ground. There, beside a fractured piece of curb, lay a half-brick, discarded and ordinary. Without another thought, her fingers closed around its rough, gritty surface. It felt heavy. Final.
A prayer her father used to mutter before tackling a stubborn engine block surfaced from her memory. “Jai Mata Di,” she whispered, the words a quiet breath against her visor.
Then she stepped out, just enough to get a clear angle. With a grunt of effort that was part fear, part fury, she hurled the brick.
It sailed through the dank alley air in a short, brutal arc. It didn’t whistle; it was too clumsy for that. It just thudded against the back of the gunman’s skull with a sound like a rotten melon hitting concrete. His arms flew out, the pistol clattering away into the darkness. He stood frozen for a surreal second, then his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the filthy ground, out cold.
Silence, sudden and profound, descended for one heartbeat. Then all remaining eyes in the alley—the dazed thugs and the slowly turning, bloodied red helmet—swung toward the alley’s mouth, toward the figure in the absurdly cheerful pink helmet, standing with empty hands and a racing heart.
Civilians, in Jason Todd’s extensive and brutal experience, followed a simple rule: see the Red Hood, run the other way. Their fear was rational, a survival instinct he often relied upon to keep them out of the crossfire. Direct intervention was rare, and almost always stupid. Not that he was ungrateful, in a distant, abstract way, but a panicking civilian usually became a liability, a hostage, or a stain on the pavement—three outcomes that just made his night more complicated.
So when the figure in the pink helmet spoke, his first reaction was a surge of pure, exasperated irritation.
“Uh, Mr. Red Hood. Hello, I—uh—” Her voice was muffled by the helmet, young and tight with adrenaline. She gestured vaguely toward the unconscious gunman. “I just wanna say… thank you for your service? And uh… yeah.”
Service. The word almost made him bark a laugh, if every breath didn’t feel like a knife in his ribs. He’d just shattered a man’s knee cap and likely broken another’s orbital bone. This wasn’t a community outreach program.
“Go,” he growled, the voice modulator in his helmet layering the single syllable with metallic menace. It wasn’t a suggestion.
She nodded, the cheerful Sanrio characters on her helmet bobbing rapidly. “Yeah. Totally. Great idea. I’m just gonna… go.” She let out a high, awkward laugh that was pure nerves, turned on her heel and began speed-walking back toward the mouth of the alley.
Good. Smart. Finally.
Jason turned his attention back to the remaining thugs. Two were still down, but one was staggering upright and the sounds of shouting and converging footsteps echoed from the far end of the alley. Backup. His comms were fried, his bike was three blocks away and currently on fire—courtesy of an earlier, separate disagreement and the deep gash in his side was leaking through the Kevlar weave. The tactical assessment was grim: he needed to disengage and he needed to do it now.
He took a limping step backward, putting weight on his bad leg sent a white-hot spike of pain up his spine. One of the thugs, seeing his vulnerability, let out a ragged yell and charged. Jason pivoted, channeling the pain into the movement and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the bricks. The man dropped like a sack of cement, but the exertion cost him. He swayed, the world tilting for a dangerous second.
“Um, Mr. Red Hood?”
He stiffened. That voice again. He turned his head, the red lenses of his helmet fixing on the pink-helmeted woman who had, inexplicably, returned. She was standing just outside the alley now, one hand on the seat of a motorcycle he hadn’t registered before—a custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja that glowed like a jewel under the streetlight. Of course.
Why didn’t she leave? Can’t she see the ‘Welcome to a Bloodbath’ sign flashing over this alley? The thoughts were a furious, internal roar. Was she pathologically kind, suicidally naive or just spectacularly dumb?
“Do you… need a lift?” she asked, the question so absurd it seemed to hang in the smoke-tinged air.
He stared at her. A lift. From a civilian. On a iridescent purple sports bike. It was the kind of scenario that belonged in a particularly deranged cartoon. He opened his mouth to tell her to get the hell out for the second and final time.
But then a bullet whined off the dumpster beside him, showering sparks. The shouts were closer. The math, however insulting, was simple: pride and protocol versus not bleeding out in a garbage-filled alley where his body would likely be looted before the Bats even got the alert.
The choice was humiliating. It was also the only one he had.
Slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain and the sheer ignominy of it, he gave a single, curt nod.
He began limping toward her, each step a study in agony and stubborn will. The woman didn’t freeze or flinch. She sprinted the few feet to the front of the spice shop, snatched up two heavy-looking grocery bags that had been abandoned there and was back at the bike in seconds.
“Please hold these,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady as she thrust the heavy grocery bags backward toward him without looking.
Jason stared at the woven handles dangling in the space between them. The absurdity of the situation reached a new, crystalline peak. “Are you serious?” The modulator couldn’t fully mask the sheer, flabbergasted disbelief in his tone.
She tilted her head just enough for him to see the serious, determined set of her jaw beneath the helmet’s edge. “Want that lift or not?”
A groan, part pain, part profound existential frustration, rumbled in his chest. With his free arm—the one not currently applying pressure to the weeping wound on his side—he snatched the bags. They were deceptively heavy, pulling at his shoulder. “Lady, you feeding a family of seven or what?” he grunted, the mundane question feeling surreal amidst the scent of his own blood and alley filth.
She didn’t grace him with a response. Instead, she shifted forward, making what little space existed on the seat. Unfortunately, one of the few design flaws of a Kawasaki Ninja—a machine built for speed, not for passenger comfort—was its complete lack of second-passenger real estate. He was pressed flush against her back, his thighs bracketing hers, the contact unavoidable and intensely personal for two strangers. Almost immediately, he felt her stiffen. A damp, cold patch on the back of her shirt, right between her shoulder blades, was growing steadily cooler against his leather-clad chest. Blood. His blood. She’d definitely felt it.
He heard her take a sharp, bracing breath, as if steeling herself against the sensory violation. You just had to play hero, huh? Her own brain was probably screaming the same thing his was.
Then, she didn’t just ease the bike forward. She floored the accelerator.
The Kawasaki leapt forward like a startled panther, the sudden G-force slamming him hard into her back. A pained hiss escaped him as the impact jolted his injuries and he felt her own shudder at the full, wet press of his wound against her spine. The sensation was unmistakable now—a sticky, chilling dampness seeping through fabric. The ‘ick’ was almost a tangible wave coming off of her but she didn’t slow down.
What followed wasn’t a direct route. It was an evasive maneuver worthy of someone who’d watched one too many chase scenes or who possessed a surprisingly sharp instinct for survival. She wove through narrower side streets, took sudden, sharp turns down one-way alleys going the wrong way, and circled blocks in dizzying patterns. Her head was on a constant swivel, checking mirrors and glancing over her shoulder, not at him but past him, scanning for tails. She was running interference and she was doing a damn competent job of it.
Finally, after a circuitous journey that left even his seasoned sense of direction slightly scrambled, she slowed and guided the bike into the deep, shadowed mouth of an alley behind a nondescript café called ‘Sip and Savour.’ The engine’s roar dropped to a low, uneasy purr as she killed the ignition. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the sound of their breathing—hers slightly ragged, his deliberately controlled through the pain.
She sat perfectly still for a moment, listening, watching the alley’s entrance. Then, seemingly satisfied they were clean, she let her shoulders slump a fraction. The makeshift rescue mission, it seemed, had reached its temporary terminus.
“The GCPD headquarters is about three blocks that way,” she said, her voice muffled but practical as she pointed with a gloved hand down the main street. “There's a public hospital two blocks east of that. And if you take a right out of the alley, there's a bus stop where the next one leaves in...” She lifted her wrist, checking a sleek, sporty watch. “...five minutes. Should get you wherever you need to go.”
Red Hood had been a statue of silent, pained intensity for the entire ride. As soon as the bike stilled, he moved. He swung his good leg over with a grunt, dismounting with a stiffness that spoke of serious injury. The grocery bags, which he’d clutched like bizarre, life-preserving totems, were unceremoniously dumped onto the grimy asphalt of the alley.
He didn't offer thanks. Instead, his hand went to a back pocket of his tactical pants. He pulled out a small, damp billfold and extracted two crumpled hundred-dollar bills. Without a word, he placed them neatly on the seat of her bike, right where he’d been sitting.
“For your troubles,” his modulated voice grated out. A bloodied finger, its leather glove stained dark, pointed vaguely at the center of her back. “And the shirt.”
Y/N twisted, trying to crane her neck to see the damage. Thankfully, she’d worn black. In the low light, the stain was invisible but the damp, chilling patch against her skin told the whole story. A shudder she couldn’t suppress ran through her. “There’s no need for—” she began, turning back to face him, ready to refuse the money.
But the space where he had been standing was empty.
He was just… gone. Vanished into the deep shadows of the alley as if he’d never been there at all. No sound of footsteps, no rustle of fabric. One second he was a solid, bleeding reality; the next, he was a ghost. A classic Bat trick, she thought, a mix of irritation and awe curling in her gut. She’d heard the stories but seeing the unnerving precision of the disappearance firsthand was something else.
Alone now, she looked at the two bills on her seat, then at the abandoned grocery bags on the ground. With a sigh, she picked up the money—it was soaked at the edges with a concerning coppery dampness and stuffed it into her own pocket before retrieving her groceries.
Three blocks away, perched on a rusted fire escape landing in a pool of darkness even deeper than its surroundings, Jason Todd pressed a freshly packed wad of gauze against his side. The world had a fuzzy, tilting quality, a combination of concussion and significant blood loss that made thinking in straight lines a chore.
But it was in that muddled, pain-hazed state that the puzzle pieces finally clicked together.
The woman’s voice, the way she held herself, the absurdly cheerful helmet… and the bike. The bike. The custom-painted Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R with the cobalt and purple. He’d seen it before, just days ago. It had been wheeled into the shop by a tan, traveling man who’d asked for Jonah. The man who’d bought the ridiculous pink helmet for his… whoever.
‘When you see her, you’ll get exactly what I’m talking about.’
The stranger’s words from the repair shop echoed in his memory. He’d said it with a knowing grin, handing over cash for that pink shell.
A low, pained chuckle escaped Jason, the sound rough and humorless even to his own ears. He shook his head, the movement making the world swim. The universe had a truly deranged sense of humour.
He looked down at the blood seeping through the fresh gauze, then back in the direction of the alley where the bike’s purr had now faded into silence.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to the empty night, the modulator off, his own voice raw. “It does fit.”
╰ ┈➤ A/n: Sorry to keep you waiting, but I hope you enjoyed it! With this chapter, all three Batboys have officially made their entry. Let’s see where the story goes from here. Also I tried to make the translations as accurate as possible but please do correct me if i made any mistakes. And credits to @swamiiyasssss for the biker Y/N idea.
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Pairing: David Corenswet!Clark Kent x Desi/South Asian!Reader
Status: one-shot
Word count: ~5.2k
Genre: angst, romance, fluff, secret relationship, Desi!reader but anyone can read it, lying, miscommunication, smut (I tried).
Summary: You and Clark have been dating in secret, hidden from Daily Planet gossip and your strict Desi parents who would never approve of a love marriage, especially not with someone like him. When the pressure finally breaks and your family arranges for you to meet another man, you lie to Clark and go. What you didn’t expect? For Jimmy to spot you and send Clark a photo.
A/N: My first ever fanfic 🙈. Any feedback is appreciated 🙏
My masterlist
It’s a quiet kind of love.
The kind that doesn’t ask for attention. The kind that lives between shared coffees and almost-touching hands in the Daily Planet break room. The kind that thrives in whispers behind closed doors and lingers in the way he looks at you like he already knows he’d walk into fire if you asked.
It’s the kind of love you don’t talk about.
Not to your coworkers.
Not to your friends.
And especially not to your parents.
Your mother would call it foolish.
Your father would go silent.
Your aunties would shake their heads and say, Love marriages never last. They don’t know your soul, beta. They don’t know your blood.
But Clark does.
He knows how you take your chai, not too sweet, strong, with fresh ginger.
He knows which earrings make you feel powerful.
He knows how you curl inward when you’re tired, and how your voice goes breathy when you say his name in the dark.
He knows you better than anyone ever has.
And you love him like it’s the only truth that ever mattered.
——
“Come here,” he murmurs that night in his apartment, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “Let me hold you.”
You climb into his lap on the couch, legs folding easily around his hips, and bury your face in his shoulder. He smells like laundry soap and cologne and safety.
“I wish we didn’t have to hide,” you whisper.
His arms tighten around you. “Me too.”
“It’s not you,” you say quickly, pulling back so he can see the worry in your face. “You have to know that. I just… they won’t understand. Not right away. Maybe not ever.”
“I don’t care about them,” he says, thumb brushing under your eye. “I just care about you.”
You give him a sad smile. “They’re part of me.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours. “I just wish you didn’t have to carry this weight alone.”
You kiss him before you cry. It’s easier that way.
And when he carries you to bed, slow and sweet, saying your name like it’s a promise, you let yourself believe, just for tonight that love might be enough.
——
The call comes the next morning.
“Just meet him. One dinner. You’re not committing. You’re just looking.”
Your mother’s voice is too calm. That’s always when it’s most dangerous.
You’ve been avoiding this conversation for months. You’re at the “ripe age,” according to your family, where women should already be settled. Married. Cooking for a husband. Having children. Not… sneaking around with a man your parents don’t know and certainly wouldn’t approve of if they did.
And the man she wants you to meet? You barely remember his name.
He’s someone’s nephew, an engineer, “clean record, no drama,” from a “good family.”
He’s not Clark.
You agree to go.
Not because you want to.
Because you think: I’ll meet him, shut it down, and finally tell them about Clark.
You need to control the narrative before it controls you.
When Clark asks what your plans are that evening, you force a smile and say, “Just dinner with some friends. I haven’t seen them in a while.”
He leans over and kisses your temple.
“Take pictures. I miss you when you’re not around.”
You laugh. “You’ll survive a few hours, Kent.”
But your voice shakes just a little. And you don’t meet his eyes when you leave.
——
You take a cab to the restaurant.
You’re early, intentionally. You don’t want him to see you like this.
In the women’s bathroom, you unzip your bag, pull out the ironed maroon three-piece suit your mother insisted you wear. The matching dupatta. The bangles. The heels you hate. You swap out your jeans and hoodie, fold them tight, shove them in your bag.
When you look in the mirror, you almost flinch.
You don’t look like you.
You look like someone who’s trying too hard to be what her parents need. A version of yourself that has nothing to do with love.
You shouldn’t have worn the damn suit.
You tell yourself it’s not for him. You just didn’t want your mother to say, “You looked sloppy, no wonder he wasn’t interested.”
But now, sitting across from him at a restaurant full of strangers, wearing basic black suit, you feel like a fraud. Every word is a lie.
He’s nice, of course. Successful. Rich. The kind of man your mother would adore.
But he’s not Clark.
He doesn’t tilt his head when he listens to you.
He doesn’t ask how your stories are going.
He doesn’t look at you like you hung the moon.
You smile politely, declining dessert.
You’ll tell your mom later. You tried. He’s not the one. And maybe, just maybe… you’ll finally tell her about the man who is.
——
Across the restaurant, Jimmy Olsen nearly drops his phone.
He’d come in for takeout. Was halfway through texting Lois a meme about Perry yelling again when he saw you.
You.
Looking fancy.
At dinner.
With a man who isn’t Clark.
He freezes. Takes a second look. Watches your body language. Watches the man’s.
And then, like a reflex, he opens his messages to Clark.
Jimmy’s message doesn’t come with words first. Just a photo.
A candid shot from across the restaurant —You, in a maroon three-piece suit, gold embroidery catching the light.
Your bangles catching on the edge of the menu.A man sits across from you, posture perfect, smiling politely.
Then the text follows:
“You said she was out with friends?”
“Just saw her at here. This didn’t look friendly.”
No reply.
Just “Delivered.”
And then the typing bubbles.
“Thanks.”
Then nothing else.
Jimmy exhales slowly. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows Clark Kent.
And Clark’s heart is too big not to break when it comes to you.
You’re humming when you enter your apartment around 9:45, back in your soft hoodie and sneakers.
You freeze the moment you see him.
Clark stands in front of the window, arms crossed. His expression unreadable. The lights are off, save for the hallway lamp.
You try to keep your voice steady. “Hey… I thought you already went home.”
He doesn’t say anything as he turns slowly
You stop cold.
And you know immediately.
His expression isn’t angry. It isn’t cold. It’s worse.
It’s quietly broken.
“I thought you were with your friends,” he says softly.
You feel the blood drain from your face.
“I—” you start, heart pounding. “I was…”
“No.” His voice drops. “You weren’t.”
Your throat tightens. “Clark, I—”
“Jimmy saw you.”
The air leaves your lungs.
You take a step forward instinctively, but Clark doesn’t move. His arms are crossed, and he looks like someone who’s trying not to let his heart bleed all over the floor.
“You looked beautiful,” he says, and your chest caves in at the sound of it. “That outfit… you never wore something like that around me. You saved it for someone else.”
“No,” you whisper, horrified. “I didn’t—Clark, I didn’t dress for him—”
“But you went for him, didn’t you?” His voice is soft but sharp now, like shattered glass. “You sat there with him. Had dinner with him. Lied to me about where you were.”
You step closer, voice trembling. “I was going to tell you—”
“When?” he snaps, louder now. “After the second date? After your mom started planning a wedding?”
Your breath catches.
Clark’s eyes are glassy, but he doesn’t blink. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to find out from Jimmy? To realize the person I trust most in this world lied to me?”
You press a hand to your chest, breath uneven. “It was just one dinner. Just one. I didn’t want to go. I said yes to shut my mom up. I wasn’t going to do anything. I was going to reject him.”
“But you still went.”
The silence burns.
“You didn’t even trust me enough to tell me,” he says quietly. “You didn’t trust us.”
“It’s not that,” you whisper. “It’s not.”
Clark’s jaw tightens. “Then what was it?”
You falter. Because you don’t know how to explain it, the weight of years of expectations, the pressure to please, the fear of disappointing people you love. The shame they make you feel for wanting more than what they think you deserve.
“I was scared,” you whisper.
Clark exhales like he’s been punched. “Of me?”
“Of losing everything. You don’t get it, Clark. I’ve been trained since I was thirteen to believe that love isn’t something you find, it’s something you’re given permission to have. That it has to be filtered through caste and class and language and family. You think this world makes it easy for a girl like me to choose a man like you?”
“I never asked you to choose,” he says, but there’s pain in his voice. “I just asked you not to hide me.”
You look down. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t know how to tell you I was going. You mean too much to me.”
He laughs bitterly. “That’s a hell of a way to show it.”
You reach out, voice breaking. “Clark—”
He steps back.
You freeze.
“I should go,” he says tightly.
“No,” you breathe, heart stuttering. “Please, don’t.”
You move toward him. He tries to pull away. You grab his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve—God, Clark, I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to tell you that I was too scared of losing both sides of my life.”
“I was never going to make you choose,” he says, softer now, eyes gleaming. “I would’ve fought for you. I am fighting for you.”
You shake your head. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“But I want to,” he snaps, and then he’s pulling you into him, mouth crashing down on yours like a storm.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a reckoning.
His mouth finds yours like it’s punishing and forgiving you at once.
You gasp against him, fingers curling into his shirt, the world tilting under your feet. His hands are on your waist, gripping like he doesn’t trust you not to disappear again. His teeth graze your lower lip. His tongue presses past in a kiss that’s too deep, too much, and still somehow not enough.
You don’t even know if it’s anger or grief or hunger driving this.But it doesn’t matter.
You need him.
You need him to remind you what’s real.
You need to feel something that isn’t guilt.
“Clark—” you gasp, breaking away only slightly.
“No,” he growls into your neck, voice husky and dark, “You don’t get to say my name like that after what you did.”
You tremble at the edge in his voice. You’ve never heard it like that—never heard him so wrecked by you. And you hate yourself for loving how it sounds.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he breathes, lifting you with one arm and setting you on the edge of the kitchen counter.
“I am,” you say instantly, breathless, eyes wide. “I am, I swear—”
He kisses you again. Harder. His hands sliding under your top, dragging the fabric up impatiently. You lift your arms, let him strip you bare. His gaze drops to your body like it physically hurts him to look and not touch.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice fraying.
Then his mouth is on you,your throat, your collarbone, down your chest, biting, sucking, worshipping like he’s trying to mark you so no one else can ever claim you again.
Your fingers find his belt. Fumble.
He doesn’t stop you, he watches you undo his jeans with dark eyes, his lips kiss-bruised and wet.
“I should hate you right now,” he whispers. “But I can’t. I’ve been losing my mind since Jimmy texted me. Imagining you with someone else. Laughing with him. Touching him. Wearing that for him.”
“I didn’t even look at him,” you whisper. “I couldn’t. All I could think about was you.”
His breath shudders out. “Say that again.”
“All I want is you.”
That breaks him.
He yanks your underwear down, pushing his jeans low enough to free himself, and you both gasp at the contact, hot and bare, skin on skin. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pulling him in like you need to be filled, like being close to him is the only way you’ll breathe again.
“Clark—please—”
“God, I should make you wait,” he grits, guiding himself to your entrance, teasing the edge but not giving in. “Make you beg.”
You whimper. “I am begging—”
Then he thrusts into you with a growl.
You both cry out, him in raw relief, you in the stretch, the way he fills you like he’s claiming every inch of what was already his.
Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your head falls back. You’re incoherent. You don’t even know what you’re saying. his name, apologies, promises, broken half-sentences between moans.
He moves like a man unraveling, hard, fast, deep. His forehead rests against yours as he drives into you again and again.
“You lied to me,” he whispers between thrusts. “You broke me.”
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t do it again. Don’t ever do that again.”
“Never. I swear.”
His thrusts slow, deeper now. More deliberate. The anger softens into something else, something messier. You cling to him, arms trembling, lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, his throat.
You’re both shaking.
You come first, sharp, breathy, almost a sob, body clenching around him as you cry out his name like it’s the only truth you’ve ever known.
Clark follows, seconds later, hips jerking, voice catching in your ear. You feel him spill inside you, still murmuring, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
——
You don’t know how long you stay there, collapsed against him on the counter, your fingers in his hair, your forehead pressed to his chest.
Eventually, he lifts you gently, carries you to bed like you weigh nothing.
He’s already cleaned you up by the time you fully drift back into awareness.
Clark lies beside you, his hand stroking your spine slowly under the blanket, his body curved around yours like a shield. He’s quiet now.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
He exhales. “I don’t know.”
You shift, facing him. He looks exhausted. Heart-wrecked. Still… beautiful.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I was going to tell them about you. After tonight. I thought maybe if I just met him and told them it didn’t work, then I could finally say I already had someone. Someone I loved.”
Clark’s eyes soften. “Then why lie to me?”
“Because if I told you, you’d look at me the way you did earlier.”
He closes his eyes.
“I panicked. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I was ashamed, okay?” Your voice wobbles. “Ashamed that I wasn’t brave enough to stand up for you yet. Because I love you so much it scares me. And I hate myself for making you doubt it, even for a second.”
Clark doesn’t speak for a long moment.
Then: “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
You blink.
“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “For your family. For the right time. For all of it. I just need you to be honest with me. I can take anything but lies.”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Okay. I promise. No more lies.”
He brushes them away with a thumb.
“Next time you go to a restaurant with some guy,” he murmurs, “take me. I clean up nice.”
You snort, laughing wetly. “You do more than that.”
His lips twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He tugs you in again. Kisses you slow. Long. Forgiving.
And when you fall asleep in his arms, you’re not thinking about what your mother will say. Or your father. Or the boy you rejected over dinner.
Two years of arguing, cultural clashes, and unbearable tension as Bucky Barnes’ Desi roommate.....a fiery political science student on a student visa who hates the Avengers and worships Nehru with roses. Until one humid night when all that frustration explodes into slow, filthy, intimate sex. Bucky’s dirty mouth, gentle hands, and overwhelming hunger finally claim you.
Enemies to lovers. Roommates AU. Cultural differences. Pure smut with feelings.
Warnings: Explicit smut, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, age gap, mild angst.
You have been Bucky Barnes’ roommate for over two years in the converted Brooklyn loft, but everything began with a single phone call from the landlord.
“Hey Barnes, I’ve got someone perfect for the second room. Cute college girl, Indian, really pretty. Quiet, keeps to herself. She’s on an educational visa, so she’s serious about not rocking the boat. Pays rent on time, no parties. You okay with a female roommate?”
Bucky had sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “As long as she doesn’t touch my weapons and doesn’t mind my weird hours.”
He had not expected you.
You arrived on a warm afternoon carrying suitcases, a pressure cooker, and fairy lights. Your short sky-blue kurti skimmed your hips, paired with baggy jeans and white sneakers. A fresh red bindi sat on your forehead, thin gold bangles chimed on your wrists, and glitter eyeshadow caught the light every time you blinked. But what truly stopped Bucky in his tracks were the jhumkas.....delicate, bell-shaped earrings that swayed and tinkled softly with every step you took. They looked beautiful on you. He liked them instantly, though he had no name for them then.
He towered over your shorter frame as he helped carry the heavier suitcase upstairs. You thanked him politely, voice calm despite the nerves of settling into a new country on just a student visa. First impression: you were really pretty. The kind of pretty that unsettled him immediately.....bright, focused eyes with that glitter shimmer, the gentle sway of those bell earrings, and a quiet confidence that made the apartment feel different the second you walked in.
“Ground rules?” he asked once everything was inside.
You set your things down. “I cook with strong spices. I study late. No loud parties. I’m here on a student visa, so I keep things low-key and stable. You?”
“I come and go at odd hours. Stay out of the locked cabinet.”
That night you made the apartment yours. Bucky walked past your open door and stopped. You had hung a framed portrait of Jawaharlal Nehru on the wall and placed a fresh red rose at its base, lighting a small diya in front.
He stared, genuinely weirded out. “What… is that?”
You turned, jhumkas swaying. “Jawaharlal Nehru. India’s first Prime Minister. I admire him deeply.....his vision for secularism, science, and democracy after independence.”
Bucky blinked. “You hang pictures of politicians… and give them flowers?”
You smiled patiently and tried to explain. He never fully understood the obsession, no matter how many times you spoke about anti-colonial history or the non-aligned movement. He found the portrait and the daily or weekly rose strange, almost ceremonial. He never liked it, but he was never racist about it. It was simply alien to him..... another reminder of how far apart your worlds were. Sometimes he would mutter “flower guy again” under his breath when incense drifted into the hallway, but he never asked you to take it down.
The differences kept stacking up.
Mornings: you rose early and filled the kitchen with the rich aroma of chai.....cardamom, ginger, cloves. Bucky drank black coffee that smelled bitter and burnt to you. You played soft fusion playlists while typing essays. He preferred silence or scratchy 1940s jazz records. You lined your sneakers neatly by the door. His combat boots landed wherever he collapsed after missions.
Food was another battlefield. You cooked dals, sabzis, and rotis with layers of spices. The first time you offered him aloo paratha, he took one polite bite, eyes watering slightly, then later ate plain toast at 2 a.m. He never complained rudely. He just found it different.
Every single day, without fail, Bucky’s eyes would drift to your jhumkas. The way they caught the light and made that soft bell sound when you reached for a book or turned your head. A few weeks in, he quietly Googled “Indian bell earrings.” Jhumkas. The name stuck in his mind. He never told you, but he kept noticing them.....especially during arguments when they swayed with your passionate gestures.
Your politics clashed hardest. You wrote fiercely about imperialism, military overreach, and unchecked power. With no U.S. citizenship and only a student visa, you were acutely aware of how systems could crush outsiders. Bucky embodied much of what you critiqued.
One night after a news report on an Avengers operation with civilian casualties, you could not stay silent. “They call it collateral damage. I call it the same old arrogance of power.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You write essays from safety. You have no idea what we face out there.”
Yet every month, on the first, you both sat at the kitchen table to handle bills and rent like reluctant adults who needed the apartment to function.
“Electricity is up again,” you said one evening, sliding the bill across. Your short green kurti rode up slightly as you leaned forward, glitter eyeshadow sparkling under the light, jhumkas tinkling.
Bucky scanned it, metal fingers tapping. “I’ll cover the extra. Tuition okay?”
You nodded, pushing your rent share toward him. “Paid. Thanks for carrying my groceries last week when I had back-to-back lectures.”
He grunted. “You looked exhausted.”
Small helps became routine, despite the tension. When you fell sick during finals.....feverish on the couch.....Bucky returned from a mission, warmed canned soup, left painkillers, and a silent note about drinking water.
When he came back limping and bleeding, you made him sit. Your shorter frame had to reach up, bangles and jhumkas chiming softly as you cleaned the wound with careful hands, quietly lecturing him about unnecessary risks. He let you, eyes watching your concentrated face.
Two years of this......clashes, reluctant domesticity, stolen glances at your jhumkas, arguments that left the air electric.
The tension that had simmered between you for over two years finally shattered on a humid Thursday night.
You were at the kitchen counter past midnight, your red kurti clinging to your damp skin from the heat, baggy jeans pushed low on your hips. Glitter eyeshadow still sparkled on your lids, your jhumkas swayed gently with every movement, and your bangles lay scattered beside your laptop as you typed. Bucky stormed in, duffel bag thudding to the floor, dried blood on his knuckles and raw need burning in his eyes.
“Still up fighting the good fight against me?” he asked, voice low and rough.
“Someone has to,” you replied, turning to face him. Your jhumkas tinkled softly.
That was all it took.
“You drive me fucking insane, doll,” he growled, closing the distance. His flesh hand cupped the back of your neck and he pulled you into a deep, hungry kiss.
The kiss began slow and reverent, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin as his tongue traced your lower lip before slipping inside. You moaned into his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt, bangles chiming as heat flooded your body. He lifted you onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, his hands warm and steady on your waist.
He pulled back, forehead resting against yours. “You sure? Tell me if it’s too much at any point.”
“I want this, Bucky. I want you.”
He carried you to his bedroom and laid you down with aching tenderness under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Piece by piece he undressed you, worshipping every inch he revealed. When your bra fell away, he groaned and leaned down, sucking one nipple into the wet heat of his mouth. Pleasure shot straight to your core as his tongue swirled and flicked, sending sparks racing across your skin. He lavished the same slow, sinful attention on the other until both peaks were tight, aching, and glistening.
He slid your jeans and panties down your legs, leaving you bare except for your jewelry. Bucky stripped quickly, his thick, heavy cock curving up against his stomach, already leaking. He settled between your thighs, hooking your legs over his shoulders.
“Been dying to taste this pretty pussy,” he murmured, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.
The first slow drag of his tongue through your soaked folds made your back arch sharply. Intense, liquid pleasure bloomed deep in your belly as he licked broad, sensual strokes, savoring every drop of your arousal with filthy, wet sounds. “Fuck, you taste so sweet… so fucking good,” he groaned against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat.
He took his time, exploring every fold, teasing your entrance before focusing on your swollen clit. When he sucked it gently between his lips, sharp pleasure spiked through you, making your hips twitch. Two thick fingers pressed inside you slowly, stretching you open with a delicious burn that quickly melted into pure bliss as he curled them against that perfect spot.
“Oh god, Bucky—” you gasped, pleasure coiling tighter with every stroke of his fingers and flick of his tongue. Your bangles clattered as you gripped his hair, hips rolling against his face. He hummed in approval, eating you out with slow, devoted hunger, licking and sucking until your thighs trembled and your breathing turned ragged.
The orgasm built gradually, a deep, powerful wave rising inside you. When it finally broke, ecstasy crashed over you in shuddering pulses. Your walls clenched hard around his fingers, a broken moan tearing from your throat as intense pleasure flooded every nerve, leaving you gasping and trembling. He licked you through every aftershock, gentle yet greedy, drawing out the sensations until you were oversensitive and whimpering.
He rose, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deeply so you could taste yourself. “Still okay?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yes… I need you inside me. Please.”
Bucky rubbed the thick head of his cock along your slick folds, teasing your clit until you were squirming with fresh need. He pressed inside slowly, inch by thick inch, watching your face the entire time. The stretch was exquisite..... a full, burning pleasure that made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. When he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, you felt so perfectly full that fresh sparks of pleasure radiated through your core.
“Fuck… you feel incredible,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me how it feels, doll.”
“So deep… so good,” you moaned, legs wrapping around his waist. Every tiny shift of his hips sent ripples of pleasure through you.
He began to move in slow, rolling thrusts, grinding his pelvis against your clit on every stroke. The intimate rhythm let you feel every thick inch sliding in and out, stroking every sensitive spot inside you. Pleasure built steadily, warm and molten, spreading from your core outward until your entire body tingled. Your jhumkas chimed softly with each deep rock of his hips.
“Look at me,” he breathed, eyes dark. “This tight little pussy is taking me so well… been dreaming about fucking you slow and deep like this for years.”
He kept checking in between thrusts, voice husky with restraint. “Too much? Need me to slow down?”
“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. The steady grind against your clit combined with his deep, sensual strokes was pushing you higher. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, hot and insistent.
Your second orgasm built beautifully, slow and powerful. Bucky maintained the same loving rhythm, kissing you through it, swallowing your moans as the wave finally crested. Ecstasy exploded through you, your walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around his thick cock. Intense pleasure pulsed deep inside, making your toes curl and your back arch as you cried out his name, trembling in his arms.
He pulled out carefully and guided you onto your side, spooning behind you. Lifting your top leg, he slid back inside from behind, even deeper in this position. His chest pressed flush to your back, lips at your ear, one hand gently holding your thigh while the other reached around to rub slow, perfect circles on your clit.
“Still good?” he whispered hotly. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”
“So deep… hitting everything,” you gasped, pushing back against him. The new angle made every thrust drag across that sensitive spot inside you, sending sharp bursts of pleasure shooting up your spine. Combined with his fingers on your clit, the sensations were overwhelming in the best way. Your jhumkas brushed his chest as he rocked into you slowly, grinding deep, kissing your neck and the sensitive skin behind your ear.
“Love how wet you get for me. This greedy pussy feels so perfect squeezing my cock,” he groaned, rubbing your clit faster. Pleasure spiraled higher, sharper, until your third orgasm rushed over you without warning. You moaned loudly, body shaking as powerful waves of ecstasy crashed through you, your walls pulsing hard around him again and again.
Bucky’s control finally frayed. “Gonna come inside you… you want that?”
“Yes—please, Bucky. Fill me.”
His thrusts grew slightly faster but remained careful and deep. With a low, guttural moan he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you. The feeling of him spilling into you triggered lingering aftershocks of pleasure, warm and satisfying, as he ground gently through his release.
For long minutes he stayed buried inside you, softening slowly, arms wrapped tight around your body. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, and your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.
“You okay?” he asked tenderly. “Wasn’t too much?”
“I’m perfect,” you murmured, turning to kiss him, still glowing with pleasure and full of his warmth.
He cleaned you gently, then pulled you into his arms again, your jhumkas resting against his chest. The clashes and differences would still be there tomorrow, but tonight, wrapped in each other with pleasure still humming through your veins, everything felt undeniably right.
Not rlly a full fanfic ngl.. perverted satoru, mentions of jerking off and stealing readers panties without consent in past. Perverted reader!!!!!!!!!! Def not proof read
Satoru became bold with his new discovering of stealing your clothes and jerking off to it.
One night, after he tried helping Shoko with her homework instead of gawking at you as you weren’t here because you went out with your friends. Shoko left before satoru not even caring as the nerd grabbed his scattered work off the floor as she left as soon as possible. She had a date with a woman, this gave satoru the perfect opportunity to grab more of your panties to jerk off to.
He went through your laundry a grabbing a dirty pair and stood up as his gazed landed on your bed. It’s not like you were coming home right? He knew this was probably the most disgusting and disturbing act he will ever do in his life. But he’s so desperate to feel you and anything will help.
He moved to sit on your bed, leaning back again your pillows as he pushed the panties against his nose. Sniffing deeply as he groaned as he took his cock out
Moving his hand up and down his hard cock to that familiar rhythm. Satoru closed his eyes trying to imagine your soft delicate hands on his cock.
He failed to hear the door open, and you just staring at him in shock.
This nerd on your bed, having your panties on his face as jerking off and half pre cum on your sheets?
Satoru opened his eyes and basically let out a feminine scream. Scrambling to pull his pants on under your gaze muttering apologies
“who told you to stop, keep going”
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Satoru whined as he held your hips, as you kept movng on his cock. He couldn’t believe you’d ride him especially after finding out he was jerking off to you.
Your arms wrapped around his neck as you hid your face in his neck. You clenched around him as he gripped your hips even harder, you just knew you were gonna have bruises the next day.
As soon as you clenched around his cock, he moved his hips up a bit. And immediately flopped you down on your back as he pushed your legs up to your chest, and continued fucking you.
Your eyes rolled back as satoru pushed a hand over your mouth to silence your moans as he heard people talking by your dorm. He kept moving faster and faster as he apologises for covering your mouth with his hand, and how good you feel.
“You feel so good- mghhhh, your so tight”
“I thought you’d hate me when you found out what I did”
“Your so beautiful, I can’t believe your having sex with me”
Satoru gave a few more sloppy thrusts before cumming inside and flopping down on you as he mumbles how happy he is as you close your eyes.
