"Seriously, man, Thanks for letting me crash here." You say for the tenth time that night, earning a piece of popcorn to the face and a scowl from gaz.
"I told you it's fine." He speaks around a handful of popcorn, only half-focused on the movie playing "what happened, though? You an' soap having a spat already."
"It's...it's not that." That tightness you've been fighting off all week returns, and you have to blink up at the ceiling to stop from crying. "It's uhm...it's a bit more serious. I've been looking for a new apartment."
That has kyle pausing the movie, fully turning to stare at your makeshift bed on the couch, "what? What the hell? Why? Are you okay?"
"It's uh– I don't—" you purse your lips together. It never gets easier admitting this, though you've always talked to Kyle about your struggles "I don't think soaps okay with me being trans."
Silence. Heavy anf oppressive while gaz takes it in. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral. "What makes you think that, man?"
"He gets...weird, about it, yknow?" You wave a hand ambiguously, as if that at all explains it "gets cagey if I do my shots in the kitchen even though it has the best lighting."
You begin to tick off on your fingers, "he stays in his room all day if I decide not to wear a shirt in the blazing heat. Hasn't brought a bird home in weeks, probably embarrassed of me. He even makes a big deal about my fucking boxers, staring at them like they'll attack! Even though he wears briefs around the place all the time!"
At the end of your tirade, gaz lets out a long, suffering sigh. He scrubs a hand over his face, "soap...is a fucking dimwit."
"...what?"
Gaz looks at you, seems to mentally debate something before sitting up properly. "Soap doesn't hate you, he has a godsdamned crush on you."
"....what!?" You almost want to laugh.
"Yeah. He never fuckin' shuts up about it, just ask ghost or price." Gaz snorts, seemingly over his initial apprehension "he probably acts weird because he's trying to he respectful and not pop a boner every other minute you're around."
Oh.
Oh shit.
"I uh....I need to go. Talk to him." Your face is burning, grabbing your stuff hurriedly "thanks for the advice!"
"Use protection!!" Gaz calls down the hall, a cackle at your idiocy the last thing you hear.
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content warnings: 18+, teacher x student, blowjob, pre-transition hyunju, face fucking, slight choking, facial
word count: 1.4k
The lecture hall was eerily quiet as the last of your classmates filed out, their chatter fading into the hallway. You stayed behind, clutching your bag strap tightly, watching as Professor Hyunju erased the board with calm, methodical strokes. The squeak of the chalk against the surface was still fresh in your ears, the sound mixing with the rapid beat of your heart.
You’d known this conversation was coming. Her sharp eyes had been following you all semester, and not just in the way that professors check in on their struggling students. There was something in her gaze—something that made your stomach flip, even as you avoided eye contact. You couldn’t decide if it was intimidation, curiosity, or something darker that kept your nerves on edge every time she called your name in class.
“Wait here,” she had said earlier, her tone even but leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a request.
Now, you stood awkwardly by the door, your feet refusing to move any closer. She hadn’t said much else, letting the silence grow heavy as she finished erasing the board and organized her papers into a neat stack. The tension was suffocating, the space between you filled with all the words you were too afraid to say.
Finally, she turned to face you, leaning casually against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her sharp, fitted blazer and pencil skirt made her look more like a corporate CEO than a college professor. Her presence was commanding, the kind that drew your eyes even when you didn’t want to look.
“Close the door,” she said simply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.
You hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, the click of the door shutting making you flinch. When you turned back to her, her gaze was fixed on you—steady, unwavering, and entirely unreadable.
“You know why you’re here,” she said, her tone calm but tinged with disappointment.
You swallowed hard, nodding. “I’m failing.”
“Failing doesn’t begin to cover it,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re barely scraping by, and if this keeps up, you won’t pass my class—or this semester.”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, even though you already knew the truth. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“I… I’m trying,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you?” she asked, her sharp tone cutting through your feeble excuse. “Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it.”
You flinched, your gaze dropping to the floor. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been trying, but between juggling other classes, working part-time, and dealing with the weight of everything else in your life, something had to give. Unfortunately, it had been this class—and she wasn’t letting you forget it.
Her heels clicked softly as she stepped closer, the sound echoing in the empty room. You froze as the scent of her faint perfume wafted toward you, a subtle mix of floral and spice that made your head spin.
“You’re capable of so much more,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “But you’re not putting in the effort. That’s not just disappointing—it’s unacceptable.”
The way she said it, her words laced with both criticism and something almost… personal, made your throat tighten. You hated how small you felt under her gaze, like you were back in high school, getting scolded by a teacher. But this wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t just any teacher.
Hyunju had a presence that couldn’t be ignored, a charisma that made her stand out even in a room full of people. It was more than her looks—though you’d be lying if you said her sharp features, immaculate style, and piercing eyes didn’t make your chest tighten every time you saw her. It was the way she carried herself, the quiet confidence that demanded respect and made you want to prove yourself to her, even if you weren’t sure why.
And now, standing here alone with her, that presence was overwhelming. It pressed against you, making the room feel smaller, making it impossible to think straight.
“Do you want to fix this?” she asked, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
You nodded quickly, desperate to end the suffocating silence. “Yes. I do. I’ll do better, I promise.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile, but it wasn’t comforting. If anything, it made your heart race for all the wrong reasons. She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving yours, and you felt your knees weaken under the weight of her attention.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’d hate to think you were wasting my time.”
Her words lingered, heavy with something unspoken, as the air between you grew charged. You couldn’t look away from her, even as every instinct screamed at you to run. This wasn’t just a lecture anymore—it was something far more dangerous.
She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. The scent of her perfume—something subtle but intoxicating—filled the air, and you suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“You don’t take yourself seriously,” she continued, her voice dropping to a softer, almost teasing tone. “And that makes me wonder… should I take you seriously?”
Your eyes snapped up to meet hers, your heart racing at the implication in her words. There was something in her gaze now, something darker, something… playful.
“I-I’m trying,” you stammered, your words faltering under her piercing stare.
“Are you?” she asked, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for someone to put you in your place.”
Her words hung in the air, charged and heavy, and you felt your knees weaken. She took another step forward, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from her.
“Do you want me to put you in your place?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes boring into yours.
Your breath hitched, and before you could think, you nodded.
That was all she needed. Her hand shot out, gripping your chin firmly but not painfully, tilting your face up to hers. “Good,” she murmured, her breath ghosting over your lips. “Then pay attention.”
Her lips crashed against yours, and for a moment, the world stopped. Her kiss was fierce, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. You melted against her, your bag slipping from your shoulder as your hands found her waist.
She didn’t pull away, deepening the kiss instead, her other hand threading through your hair and tugging just enough to make you gasp. The sound seemed to please her because she smirked against your lips before pulling back, her eyes blazing with satisfaction.
“You do want your grades to improve, yes?”, she daunted, her gaze never leaving yours.
“Yes professor,” you mumbled, eyes staring up into her own.
Wordlessly, she pulled up her skirt and slid down her panties to reveal her aching cock. You marveled at the sight before she gently pushed you onto your knees.
With a look of understanding, you took her length in your hands, slowly pumping it up and down before giving kitty licks to the angry red tip.
You slowly wrapped your lips around the head, before trying to take her whole. Your hand fondled over the parts that your mouth couldn’t reach, while your other hand went to the hem of your waistband, sliding through your boxers to reach your leaking cunt.
As you took her deeper in your throat, you rubbed circles over your clit frantically, trying to bring a release to you both.
When you finally managed to swallow her whole, she let out a breathy moan before grabbing you hair and moving your head back and forth herself.
“Breathe through your nose m’love, that’s it…”she cooed, gazing lovingly at your watering eyes.
Soon, she felt herself at the brink of a climax, so she released the grip on your hair, only for her to come undone all over your face, strings of pearly white essence sticking to you. Your ministrations over your clit had worked, making you arch your back as you came with a loud groan, staining your boxers.
The professor gently but firmly held your chin, forcing you to face her.
“Maybe now you’ll start listening,” she teased, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You’ll do better, won’t you?”
You nodded breathlessly, the words catching in your throat.
“Good,” she said, stepping back but not before trailing her fingers along your jawline. “Because if you don’t, we’ll have to do this again. And next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Soap waking up after multiple surgeries and days in a coma thanks to that bullet in his head to find Ghost sitting next to his bed. There's apparently a lot of the past few years he can't remember, but having the other man sit there with no mask in sight and tender look in his eyes can only mean good thing, right?
Then you walk in. Soft, androgynous, a ring at our finger, carrying a young child and already round with another.
And Johnny... well, Johnny can't help but feel disgusted. Him, with a woman? Never. The only reason he could have married and have children with you is if his crazy religious family managed to force him.
He doesn't want to have to deal with that right now. Not with his injury and how hopeful he had gotten at the sight of Simon.
He hadn't realized how much it showed on his face. Not until he suddenly flinched at the feeling of danger. Simon was angry. Angrier than the Scott at ever seen him. Angrier then he thought possible. Johnny knew if he said anything right now, Simon would finish what Makarov had started.
"Don't you dare look at our husband like that. Especially when he stopped taking his hormones, delayed his surgery, and sacrificed his body to give us a second child like you wanted."
And Johnny couldn't help but sit there, completely confused. Husband? Second child he wanted?? Our???
──── Casual Dominance ┆-`♡´- / CRAZY ASS GIRLS GANG
﹙‧₊˚♡ pairings: tiffany valentine x reader, jordan li x reader, nancy downs x reader, jennifer check x reader, victoria neuman x reader, ginger fitzgerald x reader, patricia (split) x reader, apple (forbidden fruit) x reader
﹙‧₊˚♡ content: gender!neutral reader, race!neutral reader, toxic/yandere behavior — YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!
﹙‧₊˚♡ summary: the girls are who they are. and when they're with you who they are likes to be in charge.
Tiffany Valentine —
⌞ You get the impression that when Tiffany looks at you all she sees is an emaciated puppy curled up in a rain-soaked cardboard box. Food is always being handed to you. Meals are never skipped. You find granola bars tucked away in the glove-box of your car. Bags of trail-mix miraculously appear in whatever bag you leave the house with. Homemade cookies are a constant feature of your lunchboxes. Tiffany's love is stored in a note on the kitchen counter smeared with a purple lipstick kiss: Hi, dollface, I'm out on the town doing you know what ;) but your dinner is in the fridge. XOXO! ⌝
⌞ Will not start her car until she hears the click of your seatbelt. If the two of you are talking when you get in the car she reaches across and buckles it for you so you can focus on getting your next thought out. ⌝
Jordan Li —
⌞ Is always looking out for you. Jordan doesn't trust so much as 10% of the student population at Godolkin. Whenever they aren't busy they trail after you like you're paying them to be your bodyguard. It's what comes naturally to them. The easiest way for them to show they care without having to open their mouth and say the words. "I've got you." is safer to say than I love you. ⌝
⌞ Carries your bags for you. Any bags. All bags. If your hands are full they won't be for long. Sometimes you just hold things in your arms in the hopes it makes Jordan sense something has gone terribly wrong and come running. You're starting to think they have you bugged because the amount of times this actually seems to summon them is scary. ⌝
Nancy Downs —
⌞ She's not much of a hand-holder but when you're in a crowd her hand gravitates to your lower back or hip, cinching you in close and shooting people nasty looks — or curses, she's unfortunately not above doling out curses — if they bump into you. ⌝
⌞ If Nancy notices your shoe is untied she rolls her eyes but drops to one knee, smacking your calf until you prop your shoe onto her thigh so she can tie it for you. She stands back up with, "You're such a ditz." She can only be so sweet. A girl has to maintain her reputation. ⌝
Jennifer Check —
⌞ Picks out your outfits. She has superb taste, and yes, she thinks it's better than yours. It's far easier to go along with whatever outfit Jennifer laid out for you the night before than to try to go rogue (express a sense of autonomy as a grown adult). The only reward waiting for you down that road is an argument. "Oh, so you think I dress like shit?" No winning that one. Besides, she enjoys subtle couple outfits. Not one-for-one matching sets but looks that are complimentary when you're standing side by side. It makes her feel close to you… and it's like putting a collar around your neck: Property of Jennifer Check. Don't touch! ⌝
Victoria Neuman —
⌞ Speaks for you in situations that she knows you have trouble navigating. Why wouldn't she? Communication is part of her job as politician. It comes easy to her. ⌝
⌞ Even before you were dating she would pull out the chair closest to her during anything a silent but unsubtle demand for you to always be within reach. She never wastes the distance either. When you were just friends she'd smack your arm during a bout of laughter or touch your hand to get your attention during conversations with multiple people. Now, her hand often falls beneath tables to grip your thigh or knee. It grounds her to be touching you. You're practically a stress ball that she hauls around to state dinners so she doesn't kill everyone within eyesight. ⌝
⌞ Walks on the part of the sidewalk closest to the street. Just a small precaution. People drive crazy and she's invincible. You aren't. She'd rather have a blown cover than see you get hurt, or worse — lose you. Paranoid? A little. But she's seen too much to be any different. ⌝
Ginger Fitzgerald —
⌞ When you're sitting down sometimes she likes to just stand next to your chair and place her hand on the back of your neck. This is absolutely a wolf thing. If you could heal as fast as she can she'd be keener on sinking her teeth into the side of your neck to give herself the sense of security that you're hers and you know it and revel in the reality of that to the same extent she does. But you can't heal that fast so — hand on the back of your neck. ⌝
⌞ If you're talking and someone cuts you off Ginger interrupts the other person with a tone so evil it could curdle milk, "Fuck me. Are you deaf or just stupid? They weren't done talking." You appreciate the sentiment. However, this has turned many perfectly normal social interactions in to cold wars. ⌝
Patricia (Split) —
⌞ Pats her lap when she wants you to sit down. No words. You're a perfectly intelligent creature capable of interpreting what she wants, and what Patricia always wants is for you be within arms reach. Feeling you go limp when she coaxes you to lean into her totally is one of life's most darling pleasures. ⌝
⌞ Clucks her tongue when she catches you neglecting a proper sleep schedule. "Sleep deprivation has an accumulative effect, ducky. Must we hasten the inevitable decline of the body?" At first she merely sweeps you away to bed, assuming the trouble starts and ends with the inability to move to the appropriate area at the appropriate time. Then comes setting a time limit on the various activities you like to do instead of sleeping like reading or scrolling through your phone. She isn't above wearing you out to the point of exhaustion, either. If all the above fails she'll begin giving you a cup of chamomile tea every night. The tea is drugged. Drastic circumstances require drastic measures, and your health is no laughing matter. ⌝
Apple (Forbidden Fruits) —
⌞ Maintains eye contact during your conversations at all costs. How else will you know she's being an active listener if your eyes aren't locked together, huh? If she could be pupil to pupil and eyelash to eyelash without freaking you out she would. She doesn't let you drift either. If you duck your head Apple ducks hers too. When you look away she tucks her fingers under your chin — anything to keep you trapped in her orbit. ⌝
⌞ Keeps your life on a tight schedule (and leash). You'll start having trouble remembering things for yourself because Apple is always doing it for you. Doctor's appointments, shifts at work, assignment due dates — let her take on all that mental load. Isn't it easier? Don't you feel taken care of? "You were never any good at organization anyway, babes." ⌝
A/N: Don't mind me I'm experimenting with formatting. It's been awhile since we did the ladies, so long — in fact — that I have thrown in a new one. How are we liking the first glimpse of Apple?
if you enjoyed this drabble consider reblogging or leaving a reply. if you really dug it, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo
a big thank you to my current subscribers: audrey, @bisexual-horror-fan, bella, cupcake, @3d-wifey, dev, goat, goth trash, hannah, jazz, juju, kai, kas, kali, kelsey, mari, nukusei, rocky, skwiggy, sy, and @u1tra-vi0lent, viv. without amazing readers like you, i wouldn’t still be up and kicking on this blog!
divider credits: @strangergraphics and @uzmacchiato
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What if the Batfam doesn’t care about one of their youngest?
Content you’ll see here: neglected!reader, trans!reader, yandere!batfam, mentions of death, mentions of prostitution, mentions of child prostitution
English it’s not my first language, so please be patient
It all started when you were born, well not like that but you had always been with your father, Bruce Wayne, not by choice because your mother left you without fighting back
I mean, you don’t mind, growing on luxury and being the daughter of an eccentric billionaire was enough to make every kid at the kindergarten jealous, except they didn’t know
Your name wasn’t Wayne, you kept your mother’s last name and doesn’t matter how much you ask for it
They tell you it will change once you are old enough to be presented to the public.
But the life at the manor is great, Dick is a good big brother even if he isn’t around that much and Jason? Much better! You’re much younger than him but he is the best
Probably because he always wanted a younger sister, or maybe you two just connected instantly.
None of it mattered when he was gone, when your father came with only his cold body everything felt worse
Dick stopped coming to see you, your father stopped paying attention to you and Alfred couldn’t contain his tears when he saw you.
— You know I was supposed to be the next Robin, right? — You told the replacement in front of you, looking down from the stairs
You and him were almost the same age, you were just 2 years younger than him but still, you couldn’t find yourself bonding with him
— Really? You? — He had a smile on his face, mocking the way your heart fell to your knees
He wasn’t taking you seriously, of course, the brilliant kid doesn’t think anyone could be better than him
— Big brother Dick gave me his blessing and brother Jason promised to gave me his suit once he returned from his trip to find his mother — except he didn’t
Of course, you hate Tim because of it, Jason died leaving the mantle available and still you didn’t took it because that was his legacy, no one could be Robin after him but Tim dared to took it
— You’re taking everything from us and I hope you feel how mad we are — “We” a way to tell him Jason wouldn’t be happy about being forgotten like this.
Of course your relationship was the worst, by this time he separated you completely from your father and Alfred, don’t make me talk about Dick
Everyone loved him, how couldn’t they? He was the thing they needed when everything was off, they don’t know nothing
And the worst part came, your little head peaking to see downstairs were Bruce was fixing his collar, a gala, he always goes alone but now there is a small demon besides him putting on some fancy shoes
Why does he can be in a gala? And why does he can be presented as his ward? You’re his child, you deserve it more than everyone
This is because you are a girl, right? Your father is so afraid you won’t be able to protect yourself because you are a girl, you don’t even want to be a girl, you didn’t have a choice and if you did you would absolutely ask to be a boy
What stops you from being a boy? I mean, you just need to have short hair and like cars and stuff, you don’t need to fake that last part
You do like things a boy would like, you and Jason used to share favorite things so you are technically a boy, right? But not to Bruce’s eyes, god you doubt he has ever seen your face since Jason passed away
What a sad way to say it, you’re sure Bruce doesn’t love you, not when he’s on the news laughing to a reporter about how Tim is the best kid he could ask for
— Miss (Y/N), don’t worry, you’ll be by their side soon — Alfred always said that
Always, because it wasn’t the first time you saw Bruce taking Tim to official events without even thinking about bringing you
Every time, his sweet and irritable giggle goes into your head making you want to tear your hair off or if you are lucky enough, damage your ears so you wouldn’t hear anymore
Why? Why him? You can be better than him, you have good grades, you do everything he could ask for and even better
Why? Why doesn’t he want you? You are a boy too! That excuse doesn’t work when you are trying your best to be the boy he will want! What do you need for him to love you back?
Oh god how is it going into your head, god how you want to just cry and lay on his arms like nothing happened
Then it came, the first time you called yourself a boy in front of Bruce, it wasn’t even a big deal just a simple word that made his whole face to change
Confused and.. disgusted.
that’s not what Bruce wants, he wants a girl right? You are a girl to his eyes, okay! You can do that, he prefers boys but he wants you to be a girl, you will do everything for him to love you the same way he did
And to not see that face again.
Because he loved you when you were a girl, how dumb you are to think he will like a girl who acts like a boy, that’s disgusting and he has too many boys on his life of course he needs a girl!
He used to call you princess, so that’s why! He’s too tired, you misunderstood his real needs
And still
Why does your name sound like an insult? Why he has to be so rude? Why does he-
— Father, when I’m debuting on the galas? — You asked, your hands grabbing the ends of the dress you had to wear for him to see a beautiful little girl
One who could be at the galas, one who will be worthy enough to be called his child
— Y/N, is best if you don’t attend to one —
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why does his voice sound too dead? Doesn’t he want you anymore? Why he doesn’t look at your eyes? He has to look at you! You put on this stupid dress so he could get you are worthy of him! He needs to look at your eyes!
You need him to look at you.
You don’t know when, but you ran away from the manor and even if you want to, no one will ever look for you.
Fourteen years old, 2:35 am at Gotham, a few things no one wouldn’t ask for it to happen together but they were, your legs moving on your own until you found some light.
A whole street filled with woman on mini dresses, some of them with not even that but they all looked.. weird
— Oh? Who you might be, sweetheart? — you looked up to a woman, her lipstick was smudged and her voice sounds too deep for being from a woman
Except, she isn’t? He? They? How are you supposed to call it?
— I see those eyes, I’m a she — oh, that makes sense? You hope it does, your hands starts fidgeting with the hems of your dress and she looks at it
She lets outs a whistled making you blush, there wasn’t any words on it but she said everything with it
— I don’t like it… — you mumbled, she raised an eyebrow kneeling to be at your eye level
You kept looking down, she tilted her head trying to see your face again but you were too shy to say anything about it
— Is it.. just a woman’s thing? — she made a sound, not understanding what you meant
Do you have to say it out loud? God you don’t want to
— Can I… be a boy? — you asked, she opens her eyes just a little noticing what you meant
She chuckled, her hand covering the way her lips curved on a smile and you feel like an idiot
— Of course, honey, you can be whatever your heart feels like — her hands moved to her thighs, ah, kneeling in a short dress and heels must be hard
Why does she do it? What is she doing here?
— What is your name, sweet boy? — boy
Boy, boy, boy, the tittle makes your lips moved in a smile imitating the way she smiled at you like this was a funny joke but it isn’t
She is looking at your eyes, the way they melt at the simple “boy” word
— I- uhm, Timothy — you rushed to say, she thought about it humming a little trying to feel how it sounds in her tongue
Why did you choose that? Are you going to be called Timothy the rest of your life? Maybe then Bruce would love you
Wait
What would be his reaction? You aren’t his sweet girl anymore, oh god if he hated you before he is going to do it more, you will be a disgrace for the entire bloodline
How could you do that to him? You’re such a bad-
— What about (Reader)? Timothy doesn’t fit you well, hun — (Reader) huh? It does sound like your old name but better
Is better than Timothy, you love it and she knows by the way your eyes are filled with excitement
— Hi (Reader), I’m Dana — She offered you her hand, you took it in a heartbeat shaking it with all your strength
Everything felt right just by that.
Something Jason does as the crime lord he is, he takes the responsibility to protect sexual workers when he has the time for it, if he doesn’t he will ask someone else to do it, but that’s just a thing he does out of pure courtesy knowing the type of clients they get.
Ever since he’s been revived he does this, every Friday he lays on his stomach, a gun pointing to the nearest pleasure street and when nothing happens he can go to another one
This time, the first one is the T special street, usually this kind of girls are ready to fight back any rude client and their boss is one of the best he has ever seen so he doesn’t usually watch over them, but tonight something made him want to keep an eye on them.
He looked around, there are boys who are new and he can’t understand how women can look for something on the streets, if the clients are women, of course, men are men, they can’t be put on a normal bag
— That looks young — he used his binoculars to see a small figure with a hat
Probably fourteen or fifteen, he is sure the owner of this street doesn’t let children sell their bodies, maybe just assist the adults who are too tired to do something and it’s only if they really need the money.
By the way their hat covers their face he can’t see if it is a boy or a girl but he can see how they are talking to one of the best girls
Still, he needs to watch them more than before, if a kid is there it means they’ll attract some weirdo’s attention.
Suddenly, the laugh of this kid went too loud he could hear it from the roof
So similar to.. no, it can’t be, you are on the manor
The last time he checked you were there, being happy but the voice is too similar, no, it’s your voice, only god knows how much he has it memorized by now
He tried to focus, to see any hint that it really is you and then you laughed moving your head back
Your smile
It’s you, but how? He knows you aren’t selling your body, I mean, you can easily ask Bruce for money then, why?
No matter what it is, you took a decision and even if he can’t understand it, he will make sure you don’t find some weirdo wanting to take you away from him.
He took out his phone typing something and sending one of his people to the other pleasure streets, for now on, Jason put himself comfy because this is going to be a long night
He can’t be angry about it, his baby sister is out on Gotham doing gods know what and his duty is to protect you
Even if you don’t know he is alive, he will compensate every day he’s been out of your life.
Still, he will investigate what is his dear sister doing there.
Tbh, this story is weird to understand and I get it if you have question bc, shit I though about it while drawing for my notebook cover
I love how this is supposed to go and I hope you do too so I can write more of it! Reader is supposed to be a trans masc but if you feel like being a trans fem don’t feel ashamed about changing it!
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Coming home to find his girlfriend crying, Charles finds out something important about you that may or may not change things.
𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: Hurt/comfort
𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1k
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: Coming out, female terminology used at first (reader referred to as Charles' girlfriend and Leo's maman)
It's been too long since Charles has seen you, away for races while your work demanded you stay home, unable to bring you with him as he wanted. It's torture, whenever he can't have you with him, the weeks seeming even longer than they truly are.
So to say that he's excited as he walks through the door is an understatement. It's surprising when he doesn't see you on the couch as soon as he walks in. You're usually waiting there for him to come home, up and bounding over to him before he has even one foot in the door.
Nearly stumbling over Leo, Charles kneels down to pet him, knowing if he doesn't show Leo any attention the dog won't leave him alone until he does.
“Hello, bebé,” Charles coos softly, scratching underneath Leo's chin. “Where's your maman, hmm?”
You probably just slept in or something, no real reason for him to worry. Once Charles is done paying Leo his attention he stands up to walk away, ignoring the sharp whines that come from behind him as he heads down the hallway.
Peeking into your shared bedroom, Charles’ smile falters when he sees you curled up in bed. You’re wearing one of his hoodies, hood pulled up so your features aren’t even visible, shoulders wracking with silent sobs.
“Cherí?” Charles asks softly, approaching you slowly to sit on the edge of the bed at your side, his hand coming up to rest gently on your shoulder. “What happened?”
“Nothing, Charles.” You sigh softly, tilting your head to hide your face in the duvet. Charles frowns at that, you rarely ever call him by his name, usually using fond pet names.
“You can't expect me to believe that,” He responds with a gentle, disbelieving laugh. “Bebé, you're miserable. I come home to find you like this and you say nothing’s wrong?”
That just sends you into another fit of tears, twisting to hide your face further, protesting quietly when Charles grabs your shoulders, gently guiding you to sit up next to him. Allowing you to lean heavily against his side, Charles guides you to tuck your face into the crook of his neck, knowing it’ll make you feel more comfortable. Less vulnerable.
Charles feels his heart drop into the pit of his stomach when he hears you quietly mumble “I think we need to break up.”
Stunned into silence, Charles parts his lips but nothing comes out. He hadn’t been expecting that. Things were going so well between the two of you, why would you ever want that?
“Bebé—”
“I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore, Charles.”
There’s nothing Charles can say to that, his own eyes welling up with tears as he looks down at you. Maybe things weren’t going as well as he thought they were. How long have you been feeling like this? How long has gone by and he hasn’t even noticed anything was wrong?
“I mean—” You cut yourself off quickly, pressing your lips together tightly, throat bobbing with the effort it takes to contain your tears. “I just—I want to be your boyfriend, Charles.”
Oh.
Oh.
Reaching up to grasp your chin, Charles guides your face away from his neck, gently tilting your head back so he can look you in the eyes.
“I’m sorry—” You begin to apologize, but Charles cuts you off with the gentle press of his lips to yours. It’s barely even a kiss, moreso a brush of lips.
“Don’t apologize, mon beau,” Charles murmurs, pulling away just enough to look you in your eyes once more. “I should be apologizing. I should have noticed you were hurting.”
You look gorgeous like this, Charles realizes. Like yourself, more than you ever have. Like a weight has been lifted, and you’re able to breathe for the first time in forever.
“I want you to be my boyfriend too.”
Your eyes begin to well up with tears again, but Charles can tell they’re not the same kind of tears as before. Not misery, but instead hope. Disbelief.
“Charles—”
“You’re it for me, cherì,” Charles cuts you off once more, hand gently caressing your cheek. “I might not have liked men before, but I like you. Man or woman, I love you. I want you to be mine for the rest of our lives. You. Not the girl you were, but the man you are.”
Leave it to Charles to know exactly what to say. You don’t think you’ve ever cried so much in your life. This isn’t how you expected your coming out to go. You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t acceptance.
“I love you too, Cha’.” You whisper in return, wiping tears off of your face with the sleeve of your stolen hoodie. The grin on Charles’ face seems to be brighter than the sun.
“Does this mean I get to take you shopping?”
Uncontrollable laughter spills over your lips at that, causing you to lean even heavier against Charles. He’s always complained about how much you like to dress down, how you never get new clothes, hating shopping for any reason.
When you nod your head in agreement, you’re not sure you’ve seen Charles any happier.
“I can ask maman when she’d be free to cut your hair—if that’s something you’d want of course.”
“Will she…” Even as you trail off, Charles knows what you’re asking.
“She loves you, no matter what. And if she, or anyone else, wants to say anything. Well, I won’t stand for it.”
“Thanks, Cha’.” You respond with a wobbly smile, Charles answering with a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Now,” He mumbles against your hair. “What am I to call you?”
“...Y/N?”
“Perfect,” He hums as he pulls back, looking down at you with fond eyes, smoothing stray strands of hair out of your face. “Beautiful name for my beautiful boy.”
A/N: you invite nanami kento to dinner and your anxiety commits several crimes. hrm hrm... hello... i have an offering for you all... based on a request for a trans!reader x nanami that i got like a bagillion years ago... also this scenario is legit based on what happened when a friend came out to me (i was trying to be supportive okay). not my usual style im rysty so gimme a minute to get back into it.
You have killed curses stronger than God.
You have filed paperwork that would make a lesser man weep openly.
You have survived three separate IKEA trips without screaming.
And yet.
You are currently losing a psychological knife fight to your own brain because Nanami is sitting on your couch, petting your cat, and you haven’t told him you’re trans in the way that matters to you.
Which is insane, by the way. Objectively. Clinically. Borderline embarrassing.
Because you are openly trans. You pass obscenely well. Your voice is deep, your shoulders are broad, your beard comes in evenly (thank you, hormones, light of your life), and your chest—
Well.
Your chest is gone. Flat. Scarred in that neat, surgical, clean way that makes you feel like a Renaissance statue some days. Other days it makes you feel like a poorly stapled IKEA box. Depends on the lighting.
And Nanami has never been weird.
Not once.
He’s polite to your trans friends. He uses the right names, the right pronouns, zero hesitation. No awkward pauses. No “I’m just trying to understand” bullshit. No podcast opinions. He once corrected someone else with the most mild, devastating tone you’ve ever heard. Like he was adjusting a crooked painting.
So why are you spiralling?
Because anxiety is a bitch, that’s why.
What if he’s secretly one of those people who’s fine with trans folks in theory but gets weird when it’s personal?
What if he’s one of those guys who thinks being trans is “interesting” in a way that makes your skin crawl?
What if he cares about what’s in your pants?
What if he doesn’t?
What if he cares TOO MUCH?
What if he stares at your scars like they’re a crime scene?
What if he outs you to someone by accident?
What if he doesn’t mean to be cruel but still is?
Your brain is doing parkour. Olympic-level mental gymnastics. Simone Biles would be proud.
So naturally, you invite him over for dinner.
A calm, normal response.
*-*
Nanami arrives exactly on time, because of course he does. Literally, the instant the clock ticked 7pm, there was a sharp knock at your door.
Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest relaxation without committing to it. He brings wine. Expensive wine. The kind you have to Google to pronounce.
“You didn’t need to bring anything,” you say, because that’s what people say, even though you absolutely did want him to bring something and would have been offended if he hadn’t.
“It’s polite,” he replies, already toeing his shoes off at the door like he’s been here before. Which he has. Repeatedly. In increasingly flirtatious contexts.
Chairman Meow immediately attempts murder. As is tradition.
“CHAIRMAN,” you snap as your cat launches himself at Nanami’s ankle with the fury of a disgruntled landlord.
Nanami doesn’t even flinch. He just looks down.
“…Why is he always like this?”
“Well,” you say. “He yearns for blood.”
“Understandable.”
And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—Nanami bends down and scratches Chairman Meow behind the ears. Your cat melts instantly, purring like a very, very furry lawnmower, traitorous little bastard.
You cook. Nanami offers to help. You say no. He insists. You compromise by letting him chop vegetables while you hover like a paranoid ghost.
Dinner is good.
Too good.
The conversation flows easily—work, stupid curse incidents, that one bakery Nanami likes that closes too early because the owner “values work-life balance” like a monster.
You laugh. Nanami smiles. The tension does not leave your body.
You are vibrating.
In a: "holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit" way.
Not in a "there's a vibrating egg up my ass" way.
Nanami notices.
“You’re quiet,” he says eventually, setting his fork down. Not accusatory. Just observant. Always observant.
You swallow. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” Too fast. “No. God, no. It’s not you. It’s—”
You trail off.
Here it is. This is the moment. Say it. Be normal. Use your words like an adult human man.
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out. Well like a weird quiet: aeuuuugghhhhhhh.
Ah yes, eloquence.
Nanami waits. Patient. Unmoving. Like a statue carved from mild concern.
You exhale. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Ah. The dreaded sentence.
Nanami stiffens just a little. You catch it. Of course you do. He’s thinking you’re ending things. Or confessing something insane like being secretly married. Or asking him to move in. Or asking him to give you his left testicle.
“All right,” he says carefully. “I’m listening.”
You stare at the table. Your hands twist together.
“So. Uh. This is kind of awkward.”
Nanami nods. “Often a warning sign.”
“Hey!”
“I’m joking.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. Okay. Good. Humor still online.
You try again. “I just—before things go any further, I wanted you to know… something about me.”
Nanami’s expression softens, but you can see the mental gymnastics he's doing: ?married? has a child?? allergic to cotton blend suits???thinks Gojo is mature???
“You can take your time.”
You inhale. Exhale. You've done this a thousand times before. C'mon. Fuck it.
“I’m trans.”
Silence.
Nanami blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then his brows knit together—not in disgust. Not in anger. In processing.
“…Thank you for telling me,” he says slowly. “Is there anything specific you’d like me to know?”
You blink. That was… easier than expected?
You open and close your mouth. Like a very dumb (but sexy) fish.
Nanami tilts his head. “May I ask… are you considering changing your name?”
You freeze.
“…What.”
“Or your pronouns,” he continues, earnest, completely serious. “If so, I want to make sure I use the correct ones. I can also speak with Shoko, if you’d like medical resources. Or—”
“Kento,” you interrupt, brain screeching. “Why would I change my name?”
He frowns. Just a bit. “Well, if you’re… transitioning.”
Oh.
Oh no.
“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself.
Nanami continues, warming to the subject. “And if you’d like support with presentation, I know that can be overwhelming. Shopping, for example. I’m not an expert, but I could accompany you, maybe even makeup? Or we start slowly. Or we could ask—”
“You think I’m what,” you croak.
He pauses. Looks at you more closely.
“…You’re not… well this must be the beginning of your transition no?” He gestures to your-very-obviously-manly-man body, "You are aiming to be a woman, no?"
There it is.
The beat.
The realization slams into you like a freight train.
“Oh my GOD,” you burst out laughing.
It’s not delicate laughter. It’s not dignified. It’s the kind of laughter that bends you forward in your chair, makes your eyes water, steals your breath like a criminal.
Laughing is an understatement, it's more like the ugliest cackle you could muster.
Nanami looks alarmed.
“Did I say something offensive?”
“No—no—fuck—Kento—” you gasp, trying to breathe. “I’m—oh my god, I’m so sorry—”
He stands. Fully. Panic activated. “I didn’t mean to assume—”
“I’m like... already done,” you wheeze. “I already transitioned. Female to male. ”
Silence.
Nanami stares at you.
Then: “…Oh.”
The room is dead quiet for half a second.
Then he sits back down, pressing his fingers to his temples.
“I see,” he says, very calmly. Too calmly. “So you thought I might react poorly to something I already know.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU KNEW,” you protest without realizing what he said, then it dawns on you: “I mean, wait how—I didn’t know you knew that—”
“You’re a man,” Nanami says. “That is what I knew.”
You grin. Wide. Relieved. Giddy. You almost preen.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
He exhales. Long and slow. “…I spent the last three minutes planning how to support you through womanhood.”
“That’s incredibly sweet.”
“I was considering color palettes.”
You lose it again.
Nanami watches you with something fond in his eyes now. Amused. Warm. Entirely unbothered.
“…For the record,” he adds, “your transness is none of my business unless you want it to be. And what’s in your pants is also none of my concern unless invited for it to be.”
You swallow.
“Oh,” he continues thoughtfully, “and fetishization is abhorrent.”
You laugh, soft this time. “Yeah. Figured.”
Nanami meets your gaze. Steady. Certain.
“I like you,” he says simply. “All of you. The rest is just context.”
Chairman Meow jumps onto the table, knocking over a napkin, then jumps back down to chase said napkin.
You think—yeah. This is going to be something good.
*-*
Dessert was inevitable.
You are, tragically, a sweet tooth with legs.
Nanami learns this when you stand up after dinner, point at the kitchen, and say, with the confidence of a man who owns three kinds of sugar at all times:
“I made tiramisu.”
Nanami blinks. “You made tiramisu.”
“Yes.”
“From scratch.”
“Yes.”
“…You continue to surprise me.”
You grin. Victory.
You plate it nicely because you are trying to impress him, even if your brain is still cooling down from the earlier Misunderstanding Incident™. Espresso-soaked ladyfingers, cocoa dusted like sin, mascarpone so rich it should pay taxes.
Nanami takes a bite.
He closes his eyes.
You preen. “Yeah?”
“…I would commit tax fraud for this,” he says calmly.
Chairman Meow, offended he was not offered any, flicks his tail with murderous intent.
Dessert turns into tea. Tea turns into sitting closer on the couch than strictly necessary. Nanami’s jacket is now folded neatly on the armrest like he lives here. Outside, the city hums low and sleepy. You glance at the clock.
“…It’s late,” you say, casual. Too casual.
Nanami follows your gaze. “The metro’s still running.”
“Yeah.”
“But,” he adds, not moving, “I don’t particularly want to leave.”
Your heart does a little summersault and lands wrong.
“Good,” you say. “Because I didn’t invite you over just to kick you out.”
He smiles at that. Small. Private.
Chairman Meow hops between you, immediately ruining the vibe by stepping directly on Nanami’s thigh and kneading like he’s working out centuries of trauma.
Nanami stiffens. “He’s… very affectionate today.”
“He’s asserting dominance.”
“Over me.”
“Yes.”
Chairman Meow then leaps down and makes a beeline for Nanami’s shoes.
“No—CHAIRMAN—” you groan.
Too late.
Your cat has seized one pristine, thrifted leather shoe and is gone. Sprinting down the hallway like he just robbed a bank.
Nanami watches, stunned.
You grumble: “…Were those shoes expensive?”
“No,” he says quickly. “But they were vintage.”
You sigh. “Of course.”
Somewhere between chasing your cat and laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the tension breaks. You end up back on the couch, breathless, Nanami’s shoulder warm against yours.
There’s a lull.
A quiet moment.
Nanami clears his throat. “May I ask something?”
“Uh oh.”
“It’s not uh oh,” he says mildly. “It’s medical.”
“Oh. That’s worse.”
He ignores you. “Your top surgery. How was recovery?”
You blink. Then—surprisingly—relax.
“Long. Sore. Very boring. I watched an ungodly amount of bad TV.”
“And the scars?” he asks, careful. Respectful. Technical. Like he’s asking about a healed fracture.
You gesture vaguely at your chest. “Massage, silicone sheets, sunscreen. Honestly they healed great.”
“I'm sure they did,” he says, then pauses.
You look at him.
“…Sorry,” he adds quickly. “That was observational.”
You laugh.
His gaze flicks back to yours. Something shifts.
Slowly. Gently.
The air thickens.
You lean in first. Just a little. Enough to test it.
Nanami meets you halfway.
The kiss is soft at first—curious, warm, careful like he’s cataloging you. Then it deepens. His hand finds your waist. Yours fists in his shirt.
Chairman Meow returns, dragging the shoe like a trophy.
You do not stop kissing.
Nanami breaks away just long enough to mutter, “Your cat is rude.”
“I warned you.”
The shoe is abandoned. The cat sprints laps around the coffee table, possessed by the spirit of chaos.
You don’t care.
Your button-up comes off without ceremony. One moment it’s there, the next it’s somewhere on the floor, probably under the table.
Nanami stops.
Not abruptly. Not alarmed.
He just… looks.
His eyes trace the lines of your scars with something reverent. Soft. Happy. Like he’s seeing something equally beautiful, important and yours.
You swallow. “…You okay?”
He nods. “Very.”
His thumb brushes your skin, light as a question. “May I?”
You exhale. “Yeah.”
His touch is warm. Sure. Grounding.
“I like them,” he says quietly.
You laugh, breathless. “You would.”
“Of course I would.”
You straddle him without thinking. Grinding down, slow and deliberate, because fuck it. His hands grip your hips, firm.
Chairman Meow screams and sprints again, shoe in mouth, like the world is ending.
Nanami groans. “He’s watching.”
“He’ll look away, he's a holy child.”
You kiss him again, harder now. Hungrier. The night presses close around you, sugar still on your tongue, scars warm under his hands.
Everything is right.
Everything is yours.
And somewhere in the background, Chairman Meow commits yet another felony.
*-*
And good lord.
You barely make it to the bedroom.
Like. Barely.
There is kissing and stumbling and a chair nearly dies. Someone—YOU—knocks into the doorframe and Nanami goes, very calmly, “Careful,” while actively dragging you closer by the waistband like that is not mixed messaging. Well okay, it's not.
Clothes begin to vanish.
Not removed. Vanish. Socks? Gone. Shirt? Dead. Dignity? Executed on sight. Everything goes POOF.
You end up in the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and breath and heat, the city lights bleeding in through the curtains like witnesses.
Nanami sits on the edge of the bed and you—
You stop.
Because oh.
Oh.
This man.
First of all: he is ripped. Not gym-bro loud about it, but dense. Solid. The kind of muscle that looks earned through labor and rage and paperwork. His shoulders are broad enough to ruin lives. His chest is dusted with hair, darker down the center—
The happy trail.
You whimper. Audibly.
Nanami raises a brow. “Problem?”
“Yes,” you croak. “YOU.”
Then there’s the boxers.
Dark blue. Soft cotton. Snug in a way that should be illegal. And printed with the tiniest little cats.
Cats.
You laugh hysterically. “You have CAT BOXERS?”
“They were practical,” he says, deadpan.
“They are ruining me.”
And then—oh. Oh no. Because they are straining. And that is not a little something. That is a situation. A capital-S Situation. His cock is straining against the blue boxers, and maybe the lighting is helping (soft, golden ambience because you're not a monster), but holy shit it looks... uh.... present.
Your mouth waters.
Your brain leaves your body.
Like actually, pops open the top of your head like a submarine hatch, and climbs out. With lil legs and everything.
You launch yourself at him like a horny heat-seeking missile.
Nanami grunts as you push him back onto the bed, hands everywhere, mouth everywhere, marking him. Because yes, absolutely, you are that person. You kiss along his jaw, his neck, bite—
He hisses. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, IMMENSELY.”
You grind down, slow and deliberate, slipping your hands into his boxers... and oh ,the weight and heat of him... and he groans- GROANS like a WHORE-- his hands gripping your thighs like he might die without the leverage.
“You’re… very enthusiastic,” he manages.
“You wore cat boxers,” you huff against his lips. “This is on you.”
You strip down to boxers too, body on full display, and Nanami looks at you like—
Like hunger.
Like pride.
Like you are his.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, low.
You shiver.
Things get filthy. Quickly. Deliciously.
Nanami is attentive. Thoughtful.
His cock? God tier.
When you finally are able to witness the greatness that is Nanami's phallic situation... Well... You understand why ancient civilizations worshipped gods.
His cock is glorious, larger at the base, with neat hair, a bit of a curve to the left, tip pink and leaking.
You are VERY tempted to cackle and rub your hands together like some cartoon villain.
And sex with this man is... such an experience. First of all, he makes sure to PROPERLY eat you out (you saw Chairman's ancestors), he checks in without killing the mood. Calls you his good boy like it’s natural. Like it’s always been true. He does not flinch, does not hesitate, does not treat your body like a question mark.
He treats it like home.
And LORD.
You do not survive quietly.
Not when his cock stretches you oh so deliciously, not when his teeth graze your skin like he's asking politely, not when his hips slot perfectly against yours.
You leave marks. Teeth and nails and lips. By the end, Nanami is flushed, hair mussed, back arching, making noises he absolutely does not make in polite society.
At some point Chairman Meow screams outside the door and then—mercifully—leaves you alone.
The night is… thorough.
By the time you pass out, sweaty and boneless, Nanami has one arm around you and the other dangling off the bed like he’s been defeated by pleasure.
*-*
Morning comes soft.
Golden.
You wake up feeling complete. Like a cat in a sunbeam after eating an entire can of tuna and committing zero crimes.
Your body aches in the best way. You stretch and immediately regret it.
Nanami groans beside you. “…I should have stretched.”
You snort. “You did GREAT, grandpa.”
“My back,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his spine. “Is staging a coup.”
You roll onto him, kiss his jaw. “Worth it?”
He smiles, slow and satisfied. “Extremely.”
Breakfast happens in underwear. Pancakes—thick, fluffy, stupid. Chairman Meow hops onto the counter and licks Nanami’s hair.
Nanami freezes.
“…Is this acceptance?”
“Yes,” you say solemnly. “You are chosen.”
Later, Nanami watches you from across the table, syrup on his lip, something soft in his eyes.
“…Would you want this to happen again?” he asks.
You laugh. “Kento. Every night.”
He exhales. Smiles wider. “I’ll need to invest in stretching.”
Chairman Meow purrs.
Life is good.
A/N: cough cough i'm alive i swear, god i feel rusty as hell. i've been playing a lottt of zelda botw, its been very fun. i hope y'all are well and that y'all enjoy this, hope that everyone is live laugh loving.
