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Have you ever wondered which pairing from Hashihime of the Old Book Town would be your parents? Well now you can find out! With over eight r
Wanna find out which pairing from hashihime would be your parents if you were transmigrated into the game? Find out now!!
Btw, I put a lot of work into this. I'd be interested in seeing everyone's results if you don't mind sharing it. Also feel free to send the link to anyone.
yandere mobile game concept where you have to check on the game and interact with the character every 1 hour or so, or else it'll spam your phone with notification of the character begging and threatening for you to come back.
Also functions as like an app/website blocker that blocks ur games out of jealousy.
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Summary: After a near miss on a dispatch, Robert finds you in the locker room before a shower.
A/N: This is specifically dedicated to the people who keep asking why I edged them with the last fic ending. This I also completely unrelated to his other two fics, plus reader is mentioned to have taken over the mantle as Track Star for Chase.
CW: Injury - Blood - Fluff - Childhood friends - Speedster reader - Hero reader - Gay sex - Anal - Top Robert - Bottom reader - Semi-public - Shower sex - FEMALES DNI - MINORS DNI
Words: 5.2k
Track Star—it was a prominent name Robert hadn't heard in years, perhaps not since he was a kid. He immediately recalled the man who bore the mantle: Robert Robertson II’s youngest and most visible partner in the Brave Brigade—the man Robert knew simply as Chase. Chase had saved him in his youth; he was the hero who was always there when Robert needed him. But the last thing Robert had heard about the original Track Star was that he had retired, unable to keep pushing himself when his powers caused him to age so rapidly.
So, when Blazer called him into her office to meet the newest Z-team member, a hero by the name of Track Star, Robert honestly expected to see Chase sitting there in his old, familiar suit—maybe as some kind of morbid joke.
He certainly wasn't expecting to see you. Even with your back turned to him, even with the new, updated version of Chase's old suit meant just for you, Robert recognized the familiar cadence and tone of your voice as you spoke quietly to Blazer. The boy Robert grew up alongside, the one who was practically attached to Chase's hip when the two of you were kids, was now occupying the plush visitor’s chair in front of Blazer's massive desk.
You.
The air rushed out of Robert's lungs in a silent gasp. He wasn't even aware you had any kind of powers, let alone the particular skillset required to take over the rigorous mantle of Track Star. His mind instantly flashed back over every conversation, every sleepover, searching for a clue, a hint, a moment you might have let slip that you were anything more than just Chase’s constant tag-along. There was nothing.
Seeing you there after all those years, it was like every silly, clumsy, sun-drenched childhood memory of you came rushing back. The years had been kind; you looked older, more mature, yet you still had that same bright, boyish smile that Robert always loved and always found confusingly infectious. Perhaps you were still the same at your core: clumsy, reckless, defiant in all the right ways, hard-headed, and stubbornly loyal. Maybe that's why you had the mantle; perhaps Chase knew everything you stood for was precisely what a true hero should be.
“You look better,” you murmured, finally turning and fixing those familiar eyes on him. “A little too skinny, though.”
You reached a hand out, offering a casual shake, but Robert dismissed the gesture entirely, ignoring your startled, “Hey!” and pulling you into a fierce, desperate hug.
It was like Blazer wasn't even there. The office, the team's yelling, the critical analysis of everyone—it all faded into background static when you hugged him back. Robert's hands tightened on the back of your suit, bunching the high-tech fabric between his fingers as he felt the solid reality of your presence.
He didn't even get a word out before you pulled back with a sharp, swift motion, a finger jabbing into his chest.
“I thought you were dead, you idiot!” you huffed, a storm of frustration crossing your features. “Nobody—not even Chase—told me you finally woke up!” You grumbled, staring at him, clearly angry and relieved all at once.
Robert looked confused for a moment; he hadn't seen you since you had abruptly left town when you were both nineteen. Then it clicked. You must have been the 'old friend' Blazer mentioned who had come to see him when he was in the darkest part of his long coma. A warm smile touched his lips, softening the impact of your anger. “I missed you too,” he said simply.
Having you on the team from then on felt like a breath of fresh air. You were easy to get along with, you worked well with everyone, and you didn't seem like you had anything to prove just because of who you were or who you were trying to live up to. Having you around seemed to brighten Robert's mood immediately, perhaps because it brought up old feelings he had let settle deep down once you left: the lingering glances, the easy, shared laughter, the way you let simple, unnecessary touches linger. Robert loved all of it, and he hated to admit that he did.
Robert rubbed at his face, staring at his computer screen. Every Z-team member's icon was lit up, all except yours, aside from the occasional laugh slipping past your lips. It was a quiet day, which meant there was hardly a need to dispatch any of you to a call that didn't require a particular skillset. So, for the last twenty minutes or more, Robert was the subject of relentless teasing, courtesy of Flambae, and eventually everyone else except you and Waterboy had joined in.
“You’re all so very funny,” Robert grumbled, flatly. “Can we go five minutes without the character assassination?” His voice was void of emotion; he was clearly tired and over the whole charade.
Your icon lit up, and the comms instantly went quiet, everyone waiting for the newcomer.
“Prefer compliments, pretty boy?” you hummed, teasingly.
Robert's face flushed—just hearing you say that was enough to send his heart pounding—until Flambae’s obnoxious laughter broke the spell.
“Don’t tell me you find him attractive,” Flambae scoffed.
A few silent seconds passed. The truth was, you absolutely did, and always had.
“What’s the matter, Chad?” you purred. “Sad Waterboy won’t give you the time of day?”
That got everyone laughing, including Robert, who was just glad the target wasn't him anymore.
“Okay, that's enough, people,” Robert sighed. “Let's focus on the board.”
Before anyone could comment, a piercing alert tone cut through the comms. Robert instantly silenced the team.
“Alright, this is an E-10 on the waterfront. Structural collapse. Mass casualties, but the immediate threat is an active gas main rupture. Nobody gets close before it's contained. We need someone who can evacuate a large perimeter and isolate the rupture point—fast.” He rubbed his brow, his gaze locked on your icon. “Track Star, you’re the only one who can handle the time crunch.”
The hazard rating was flashing red. The danger was evident. Robert’s finger hovered over the dispatch button, but he sent it anyway.
“Keep up,” you said, sending a wide, confident wink directly into the camera that Robert was watching from his desk at the SDN.
The way you stood—exactly how an Olympic runner would before the piercing shot of the starting gun went off—showed your focus. The speed at which you had taken off was instantaneous, leaving a small crack in the concrete beneath you.
It was different seeing it from that angle, different than when he'd send you on any other dispatch without checking the cameras. Trying to keep up with you through various camera angles felt impossible; all he caught was a fleeting glimpse of the kinetic trail you left behind, or the rattled environment you'd just passed.
“Be careful, damn it,” Robert whispered, finally catching you on the monitor as you slowed down near the collapsed structure.
Robert watched, hunched over his keyboard, fingers hovering near the buttons. The camera feed you had slowed down near was grainy and shaking from the residual impact of your entry. He saw you move—not just fast, but precise—a blur of motion as you worked. Every second he watched was a year taken off his life.
Behind him, Chase’s familiar, calm voice cut through the background comm chatter.
“Deep breaths, Rob. He’s got this. You need to stop holding your breath, man.” Chase moved beside him, settling one hand gently on Robert’s shoulder while the other held a perpetually smiling corgi, Beef, tucked under his arm.
Robert didn't respond, his attention glued to the screen.
“You look like you’re about to crack the desk, Robbie,” Chase murmured. “It’s a gas leak.”
“It’s a structural collapse and a gas leak,” Robert corrected sharply, though he kept his voice low and his eyes fixed forward. “And he’s inside the perimeter, doing the job nobody else can touch. I'm watching.”
Just as you reached the main rupture point—a deafening CRUMP rocked the audio feed. A wall of fire instantly consumed the frame, and a wave of displaced air hit the camera, sending the image scrambling into static and snow. The camera feed went dark.
“Track Star! Track Star, report!” Robert shouted into the mic, his voice cracking, slamming his free hand down on the console. The professional calm he tried to maintain shattered instantly.
A second of agonizing silence stretched into two, three.
Chase’s grip tightened on Robert's shoulder. "Robbie, you need to call the perimeter teams. Get your head straight."
“No,” Robert ground out, eyes wide, fixed on the black screen. “I need him to answer me. Track Star, respond! Tell me you’re okay!”
“Control, we have an emergency. Explosion confirmed at E-10. Track Star is down.” The voice was a peripheral team member reporting in.
Robert’s breath hitched, the blood draining from his face. He ignored the report, continuing to bark into the mic. “You hear that? Answer me! If you’re hurt, you tell me right now!”
Chase leaned in, lowering Beef to the floor where the corgi whined softly. “Robbie, stop. You’re compromising the channel. He can’t talk right now.”
"He contained the main rupture right before the ignition, but the secondary blast radius caught him," the peripheral comms continued. "He’s staggering out now, covered in soot, suit's torn up. Looks like he beat the main fire but caught shrapnel."
Robert finally lowered the mic, shaking uncontrollably, his gaze still fixed on the static. His voice was a raw whisper.
"He's hurt. I sent him into that. He's hurt."
"He's moving, Rob," Chase said firmly, pulling Robert’s hands away from the console and squeezing them hard. "He did his job. He's walking it off. I’ll meet the transport. You stay here and manage the cleanup. You need to keep the team running, remember? He'll be in Medbay soon."
Robert could only nod once, numbly. The silence from you was a scream in his ears.
It felt like ages before Robert heard anything about you, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. You hadn't gone to the Medbay as instructed when you returned; you had taken off directly toward the locker rooms.
“I have a feeling he’ll only listen to you,” Chase mumbled, already taking over communication duties for the Z-team.
Robert didn't waste time. He burst out of the room, beelining for the locker rooms and completely dismissing anyone who asked where he was heading in such a hurry.
The locker rooms were empty, save for you sitting in the farthest corner by an opened locker. Your suit lay in a crumpled heap next to your discarded boxers. Robert could see the bruises from where he stood, the scrapes and cuts oozing fresh blood.
“I told them I was okay,” you hummed, not looking up. “They never listen.” You felt the familiar buzz beneath your skin as your cells began to repair themselves.
Robert stopped a few feet away, his fists clenched. “What happened out there?” It wasn't a question; it was a low, demanding sound, thick with panic.
You slowly stood, groaning as a healing cut across your back pulled tight. “Wasn’t fast enough,” you murmured, finally turning to face him. “That the answer you wanted?”
Robert wanted to look away, desperate to shield his eyes, but his gaze was locked on you. He mapped the bruises, the new cuts that agonizingly and slowly closed, and the stark contrast of the already healed parts of you that looked too old—specifically, the pale, round scar on your shoulder, like a bullet wound.
He shook his head, turning to face the cold tile wall. “Don’t do that,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just scared.”
You took a painful step toward him, the sound of your bare foot on the tile echoing the tension. “Yeah? Well, you think I wasn’t?”
Robert kept his back to the wall, his shoulders slumped. “I know you were,” he murmured. “But you wear a comm. You have a voice. Just a word, just a simple acknowledgment that you were alive. That’s all I needed.”
You let out a harsh, short breath, the sound of frustration and pain combined. “My comm shattered. I was busy trying to outrun a fireball! What did you expect me to do, send you a selfie?”
Robert flinched at the sharpness in your tone. He finally turned back, his face drawn and pale. He deliberately didn't look at the cuts, the bruises, or the rapidly fading evidence of the blast. He looked only at your eyes—those familiar, stubborn eyes that held both fear and defiance.
He closed the distance between you in two quiet steps. He reached out a trembling hand, not to your injured side, but to the smooth, unmarred skin of your opposite shoulder, the one without the ancient scar. His fingers settled there, barely applying pressure, the simple, grounding touch a stark contrast to the violence of the explosion.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he whispered, the admission sounding enormous and definitive in the empty room. “Don’t ever pull that silence again.”
You didn't pull away. In fact, you leaned almost imperceptibly into his touch, the hard lines of your body softening slightly. “Can’t promise that. You know how it is.”
“Then I’ll be here to clean up the mess every single time,” Robert insisted, his gaze dropping briefly to the pale, old scar on your other shoulder, the one that never went away.
Robert cleared his throat, taking a step back, his hands falling to his sides, watching as you sat back down on the bench. Your hands instinctively folded into your lap, covering your exposed cock.
You gestured to the spot beside you, sighing as Robert took a seat. It was silent between the two of you, Robert's eyes focused on the way your body was silently knitting itself back together.
“Cool, huh?” You chuckled, following his gaze. “That’s the main reason I ever agreed to take over for Chase, honestly.”
Robert leaned slightly closer. “What do you mean?” he whispered, confusion mixing with awe.
You gave a small shrug, then winced as a remaining bruise on your ribs faded to a yellowish-green. “Everyone thinks I’m just a speedster. A little faster than the original, maybe. But my power isn’t just speed; it’s acceleration. I can accelerate my molecular structure.”
You paused, looking at Robert to gauge his comprehension. “That means I can accelerate everything my body does. When I run, I’m accelerating myself through space. When I get hurt…” You tapped a finger on a cut that was now only a thin, silver line. “I can accelerate my healing factor. I can force my cells to replicate and repair damage exponentially faster than a normal person.”
Robert was mesmerized, watching the last patches of blood dry and peel away. “But that sounds… exhausting.”
“It is,” you confirmed. “I burn through calories faster than anyone you’ve ever met. I’m running a marathon just sitting here, repairing a few gashes. I have to eat constantly. It’s why Chase retired; he just aged faster. I burn faster. It’s a trade-off.”
“But it still leaves scars?” Robert questioned, eyes drifting to the raised, ancient mark on your shoulder.
“Depends entirely on the wound,” you said simply. “Some things, you just can’t outrun.”
“That scar,” Robert whispered, his eyes still fixed on the raised, pale mark on your shoulder. “What didn’t you outrun?”
You turned fully to face him, straddling the bench with your hands still loosely folded in your lap. “A gun,” you shrugged, the casualness of the statement at odds with the severity of the wound. “Young. Stupid. Inexperienced.”
Without another word, you stood and walked toward the opened locker once more, pulling out a fresh towel.
“There’s room for two, if you want to join me,” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a small, knowing smile before heading toward the showers.
Robert watched you walk away, his face bright red at the suggestion, but even more so at the effortless simplicity with which you offered it. You’d been back in his life for only a few months, he could have just gotten you killed on that dispatch, and now you were completely naked having a conversation with him like it was normal before inviting him into the shower. How was he supposed to say no to the man he had been head over heels for since the two of you were kids?
He stood, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt before tearing it open and tossing the button-up beside your discarded suit and boxers. His shoes and socks followed, his pants joining the pile seconds later. His fingers hooked under the waistband of his boxers, and without a second thought, they joined the rest of his and your clothes. Robert grabbed a towel from his locker, not even bothering to wrap it around his waist as he walked in the same direction you had.
He paused just inside the entrance, the air immediately thicker with steam and the scent of damp tile.
“You said there was room for two?” he hummed, his voice sounding low and slightly rougher than intended, hanging his towel beside yours.
Your hand stopped on the shower handle. Your head turned slowly to face Robert, who was leaning a few feet from you against the slick tile wall, fully exposed.
“For you,” you replied, your voice dropping to a breathy murmur, “there’s always room.”
You turned the shower knob, sighing loudly as hot water poured out from the showerhead. You leaned your head against the wall, letting the intense heat run down your skin and tense muscles, eyes closing in pure bliss.
“Just going to stand there and stare?” you whispered, eyes still shut, the question laced with a playful challenge.
You heard Robert's feet against the wet floor as water pooled and eventually circled down the drain. “Hard to look away,” he admitted, his voice close.
Robert’s eyes finally trailed down your body, from the familiar warmth of your closed eyes to your slumped shoulders, the curve of your back, before lingering on the curve of your bare ass as water cascaded down your skin. Every line, every shadow, was perfect, made more sacred by the knowledge that just moments ago, this body was nearly destroyed.
You opened your eyes, turning your head slightly to look at Robert. You noted the fine scars that crisscrossed his torso—bruises that seemed persistent and almost permanent from the Mecha Man incident—his prominent V-line, and light pubic hair before you met his eyes again. He was closer now, barely a few feet away.
Robert hadn't really noticed the size difference before; you were taller even when hunched over, lean in the way most runners are, but also tightly muscled—that was expected.
You fully straightened, your hand reaching out and closing around his wrist, pulling him gently but firmly under the heavy stream of water with you.
“Come on,” you smiled, watching the hot water immediately soak his hair, running down his face and shoulders. “Before it loses its heat.”
Robert let out a sharp gasp, half from the sudden change in temperature, half from the sudden press of your skin against his. The heat was overwhelming, but it was exactly what his anxiety-fraught body needed. He finally released the breath he seemed to have been holding since the explosion.
“Better?” you murmured, your eyes searching his.
“So much,” Robert replied, unable to deny the immediate relief that washed over him.
The proximity of your body to Robert's—the heat of your skin, the steam, the falling water—had his heart pounding hard against his ribs. His eyes dropped briefly from yours to your lips, then back up, a question held only in his gaze. His hands came up, cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that defied the chaos of the day, and he pulled your face down, lips brushing against his.
“Please, can I?” Robert mumbled, his voice a tight coil of need.
You let out a shaky breath that was instantly absorbed by the steam. “God, yes.”
His lips settled on yours—soft, hesitant, a careful exploration after years of unspoken feeling. Then, the kiss deepened, no longer uncertain but passionate, driven by the immediate, overwhelming relief of finding safety in each other. The hot water continued to cascade around you, washing away the soot and the panic.
Robert’s hands moved from your cheeks, slipping back to tangle in the short, wet hair at the nape of your neck, before traveling down to settle securely on your shoulders. You responded by tilting your head, opening the angle, inviting him further in. The taste of you was clean and sharp, a perfect counterpoint to the soft press of your mouth.
When Robert finally broke the kiss, he pressed his forehead against yours, the exhaustion and relief settling deep in his frame.
“Touch me,” Robert breathed against your lips, the word barely a sound over the drumming water. “Please.”
Your hands finally gave in to the request. They moved from their hesitant hover at his waist, resting instead on his hips, pulling him closer until your bodies touched completely, chest to chest, hip to hip. A shuddering breath left your body as your cock brushed against Robert’s—a shock of heat that had nothing to do with the shower.
You suddenly pushed Robert back against the cool tile wall, swallowing the surprised gasp that came from him. Robert pulled away just enough to break the kiss, a smile playing on his lips as you desperately chased his mouth.
“I thought I was the desperate one,” Robert whispered, his chest heaving, as he pushed back against you, reversing the pressure until you were the one pinned, your wet back hitting the wall.
His hands found your hips, pulling your lower half closer to his body as you stood beneath the scalding water. You let out a shaky breath as your cock brushed against Robert’s once more, throbbing against the inside of your own thigh.
Robert’s lips ghosted over your jawline, peppering kisses across the tense line of it and down the hollow of your neck.
He kissed your chest, trailing back up the hollow of your neck, across your collarbone, and eventually stopping at the scarred shoulder. He left long, lingering kisses on the raised tissue before gently sucking at the skin. You let out low, involuntary whimpers, your cock twitching violently at the intense sensation of Robert’s focused lips on your body. Your hand came up to tangle in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder for leverage.
Robert trailed kisses back up your neck, stopping at the corner of your lips, before capturing them in a long, heated kiss that finally silenced the steady rhythm of the water.
One of Robert’s hands slipped behind your back, gripping the soft, slick flesh of your bare ass. You let out a sharp, surprised gasp, and your hips involuntarily bucked against Robert’s as he pulled away from the kiss, his eyes searching yours.
“Are you okay with this?” Robert whispered, his voice low and serious, eyes locked on your half-lidded, glazed ones.
You nodded quickly, your hand slipping from his hair to rest on his shoulder. “More than okay,” you murmured, your face flushed and hot. “Please.”
His hand slipped lower, the heat of his palm against your wet skin a searing contrast to the cool tile. His finger circled the tight ring of muscle as he watched your face for any sign of discomfort, tracking your reaction. The way your cock twitched, your erection flush against his own throbbing cock and your stomach, the way your skin prickled when he finally pushed his finger into you. He worked it slowly, patiently, pumping it in and out.
Robert's lips found your chest, kissing and sucking at your skin, leaving behind hot, damp marks. You let out a low, shaky moan, your head rolling back against your wet shoulder as you gripped his forearm.
“Robert,” you pleaded, the sound swallowed by the rush of water.
He slipped a second finger in, curling them upward against a sensitive spot before pumping them in and out at a steady, teasing pace. He then spread them in a slow scissoring motion, working to stretch you, before adding a third and final finger. The internal pressure was intense, but the heat of Robert’s mouth on your neck and the water streaming down your back made the pain a welcome anchor.
Robert pulled his fingers out, the sound muffled by the falling water. Both hands now rested against your hips as he took a short step back, looking at the marks he’d left on your chest and the steady leak of pre-cum beading at the tip of your fully erect cock.
“Turn around for me,” he whispered.
You obeyed, turning your back to him, letting Robert bend you slightly before pressing your face and chest flat against the slick, cool tile wall. One of his hands found your hip, holding you steady, while the other traced slowly up and down your spine, before he pressed his lips against your wet shoulder.
You felt the slick, hot tip of his cock against your hole, teasing the entrance before he pushed in. Slowly. You gasped and clenched tightly around him, your hand immediately coming back to grab his wrist.
“Just relax into it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, knowing that your body was fighting the intrusion even as it craved it.
You let out a shaky breath, consciously forcing your body to relax as his cock slid fully into you, his hips meeting yours. You let out a choked moan, the sound finally stolen by the noise of the shower. Your body shuddered, finally settling as his cock pulsed deep inside you.
He waited, letting you adjust to the new pressure, kissing the back of your neck. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
“Don’t,” you managed to gasp, the word tight and desperate, your fingers digging into his forearm. “Just… move.”
Robert began to move—slowly at first, then gaining a steady, relentless rhythm.
Robert's cock brushed against your insides with every methodical thrust, the head pushing against your prostate as he slid deeper.
“Fuck,” your breath came out shaky, your hands flat against the cold tile wall, trying to ground yourself against the intense sensation.
Robert’s hand reached around, grabbing your chin and turning your head toward him, lips brushing against one another. His mouth met yours, the kiss sloppy and urgent as he continued his steady, deep thrust in and out of you.
You pulled away from the kiss just slightly, a moan caught in your throat as the tip of Robert's cock perfectly brushed against your prostate with each deep plunge.
“Right there,” you choked out, the words almost lost in the spray of the water.
Robert let out a shaky breath as he pulled out, a sudden, sharp loss of pressure. He grabbed your wrist and, without breaking eye contact, turned you around to face him, your chest pressing into his. “Hold onto me,” Robert breathed, his eyes dark with immediate need.
You let out a surprised gasp when he swiftly lifted you, your legs locking automatically around his waist, and your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as your back hit the wall. His lips crashed onto yours in a savage, possessive kiss as he thrust inside you again, the depth of the penetration hitting your prostate perfectly as his hips met yours once more.
Locked around Robert, pressed against the cool, tiled wall while the hot water streamed over your shoulders, the sensation was overwhelming. Robert's arms were tight beneath your thighs, holding you securely as he found a new, quicker rhythm.
“God, you’re so tight,” Robert groaned into your mouth, his jaw tense. He tilted his hips slightly, finding the precise angle that made your vision tunnel with pleasure.
Your hands gripped the back of his neck, nails digging lightly into his wet skin as you tried to pull him closer, trying to consume the last inch of distance between you. You could feel the rigid length of his cock pushing relentlessly against your prostate with every upward surge.
“Don’t stop,” you gasped, the words thin and ragged. “Robert, please—”
The plea broke his focus. Robert let out a desperate, guttural sound and buried his face in the sensitive curve of your neck, his thrusts accelerating instantly—fast, deep, and without hesitation, driving you hard against the wall.
You could feel your control slipping away, the intense sensation spreading like fire through your core. You cried out his name, the sound lost against the rushing water.
With a final, shattering thrust, Robert seized your hips, pulling you flush against him as he let out a choked cry, his body shuddering violently. He came deep inside you, the hot surge of his release flooding you instantly, followed by your own fierce, overwhelming climax. Your body seized, your muscles spasming as you came against his stomach, slicking your joined bodies with sweat, cum and water.
Robert didn't pull out. He simply leaned his forehead against your collarbone, breathing heavily, letting the spent moment wash over both of you under the falling water. The tension that had been coiled between you for years, that had threatened to snap when you almost died earlier, finally dissolved into profound, breathless exhaustion.
The words hung in the warm, steamy air—I love you, always have—before the immediate, practical need to clean up took over. The rest of the washing was slow and quiet, punctuated by tender touches and whispered reassurances.
Eventually, Robert turned off the stream, the sudden silence feeling profound after the relentless rush of water. You both dried off quickly, the towels doing little to erase the flushed warmth of your and Robert's skin.
Back in the empty locker room, Robert leaned against the cold metal, watching you with undisguised affection. He was dressed quickly in his crisp SDN uniform—a stark contrast to the bruises and passion beneath. He looked every bit the lovesick puppy as he watched you pull on a comfortable pair of heather gray joggers and a worn, soft t-shirt.
You grabbed your ruined suit from the floor, stuffing the high-tech fabric—now streaked with soot and torn by shrapnel—into your duffel bag.
“Let me take you home,” Robert offered, stepping forward, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Please. I don’t want you out of my sight right now.”
You smiled, cinching the drawstring on your bag, the teasing glint back in your eyes. “Only if you promise to stay.”
“Room for two in your bed, then?” Robert countered, returning the smile easily, the question already answered in his eyes.
You bumped your shoulder against his chest playfully. “Always.”
You picked up your bag, and Robert picked up his own. As you walked out of the echoing silence of the locker room and back into the still-busy hallways of the SDN, the world felt simultaneously more dangerous, because of the close call, and infinitely safer, because of the promise just made.
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my high school english teacher would often critique our literature analysis work by pointing out: "you're treating these characters like they're real people. They're not. They're characters". And it took me a long time to understand what he meant by that. Because I always thought "isn't that the point? That writers want to write characters to be so three dimensional that they act and feel like real people?" but that's not it.
Characters are tools a writer uses in service of a story. Of course characters can be written with depth to the point they feel real to us, but they exist in service of their narrative. Something real people aren't beholden to at all. When discussing characters, I think it's easy to accidentally see these characters as "real people" and not extensions of the author's beliefs. Tools for a narrative. Means of storytelling.
Robert doesn’t remember when things had become so escalated with his best friend, however, now sitting together in the privacy of his room, he can’t help but want more.
Pre-Mecha Man death, super hero!reader, OOC(?), cursing, no beta we die like mecha-man, frottage, no description for reader used other than “boyish grin”, GN!Reader, Friends to more trope, 1.6k words, my grammar is terrible
You know, most people were fairly quick to realize when someone was crushing on them, keyword being most. Robert was one of those exceptions, too much of—well everything else, for him to realize the lingering stares, or even subtle gestures, that hinted his long time best friend was growing tired of such a title.
Many nights he spent sitting in his room, rummaging through his tools as he fixed the Mecha-Man suit, binge watching a random show he came across as Beef sat contently beside him. This night was no different—well, actually you were here, so that made it slightly different, better, he guesses.
“Whatcha working on?” A beaming voice comes from Robert’s left, it startles him enough to rattle his screwdriver in Mecha-Man’s mother board. Within a second Robert snaps his head to you intending to glare at you, instead he’s met with your eyes mere inches from his, gleaming innocently.
That shocks him once more, for a different reason, his heart lurching between his ribs as his cheeks redden, he prays the shadow of his hood hides it well enough.
“Ugh. Do you always have to be so close?” He deflects, sarcasm laces his voice as he rolls his eyes, he looks back at his suit.
“Uh, yes, I do actually, I am trying to observe your… tinkering,” you say with a slight pause, pursing your lips as you try to come up with a valid reason to be so close, hesitating for a moment before resting your chin on his shoulder.
Robert merely hums in turn, sagging his shoulder where you rested, thinking nothing of the touch. “I am working on Mecha’s chest. All the beating's taken.. it’s not long before the circuits start—“
A soft gasp leaves his lips when his hood is slightly pulled back, revealing his face to the bright fluorescent light of his overhead flashlight, wide eyes blink at you. Brown eyes making him seem like a deer in headlights, though he quickly gains his composure again.
“…what now?” He quirks an eyebrow in curiosity, wondering what was so special about today specifically that was making you a nuisance. You pass him back that signature boyish smile you always give him when you were on the verge of trouble but not quite causing any, it causes a slight lump in his throat as he narrows his eyes.
You looked much better like this than he had initially thought, so close to him that he could see every imperfection that made you so breathtaking, it was unfair really. Robert sometimes wonders why you hadn’t become some hotshot model, instead you’re with him, watching carefully as his eyes flicker between all your features, unsure of what to focus on. In your hero suit he had the deniability that, no, you were not attractive, it was simply your sheer power or gentleness that warmed his heart. Now though, he didn’t have that.
Robert’s eyes snap to your lips when they part, unconsciously he realizes you're about to talk, it still doesn’t stop him from wishing you might kiss him. “I wanted to see your face, it’s not often we see each other out of our hero masks.”
Fuck.
Somewhere between the silence and odd static of a show neither of them were paying attention to, he assumes you must have also come to the same conclusion, that this was a rarity treated so casually, and it was starting to get under his skin. If this lasted any longer he might try to get the new world record for breaking a bed frame with someone, but he wasn’t that desperate, maybe. Regardless of his… less than pure thoughts he couldn’t help but feel his chest swell, slowly he exhales the breath, trying not to choke.
“Nothing special about my face,” he wants to add unlike yours, he quickly decides to get rid of that thought. He rips his eyes off you with difficulty, looking down as he places his screwdriver on a rag, oil painting it like a blank canvas, wiping his hands on another one.
You tilt your head, and you breathe it incidentally causes him to feel it on his neck, he suppresses a shudder. “Aw. I like your face though.”
Robert’s breath hitches at that, his cheeks tinting a deeper red. His lips thin and he keeps his gaze averted, he thinks that it’s just the tiredness getting to him, such a silly compliment shouldn’t have had his heart two seconds from popping. It’s clear that he has no more comments to offer as his silence fills the air, placing his tool back with more gentleness than usual. You let his silence spur you on slightly, bringing a hand to his cheek and carefully maneuvering his face to… well face yours.
His lip part as if to say something but nothing comes out, he decides to just stare at you instead, going from your lips to your eyes. You grinning at him, and Robert vaguely thinks this is what prey must feel like when caught. Especially with— holy shit, you’re leaning closer.
He’s too stunned to do much as he feels your lips press onto his, a hand coming up to your shoulder on reflex. When he finally does finally realize what’s happening you’re near pulling away, quickly his hands grab your shoulder and shirt respectively, shifting before roughly pulling you back into him. Softly, Robert moans when he feels your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, parting them for you. You take enough advantage of the situation to slide your tongue in his mouth, lapping at his teeth and walls, mapping it out.
The only thing that breaks you two out of your long awaited make out session is when you both hear Beef snort in his sleep, both of you breaking apart to look at the dog. Robert smiles awkwardly at that, looking bear shyly as he sees the string of saliva, one that had previously connected your mouths together, break.
Pressing a light kiss to the corner of your mouth as a tease Robert’s hand begins to brush against your chest, on the border of practically groping, though with that smirk on his face you knew he’d probably deny it. “Wanna keep going in a different room?”
With a dazed look you nod, scrambling up along with Robert, you hardly make it a second with your hands off of him, stumbling as you both make it to the bathroom, Robert grumbling something about your patience beforehand.
Despite all of the fumbling you two manage to make it into the room. A groan leaving Robert’s lips as you slam him against the door, taking the opportunity you smash your lips against his, more of a mix of teeth clinking and spit swapping.
“Fuck, that hurts.” He huffs, complaining into your mouth despite the heat that pools in his stomach. “I still have bruises ass, be careful.”
You simply chuckle in Robert's mouth, it’s a noise that just gets him more hot, squeezing his legs together to relieve the ache in his crotch. It was a move you were quick to notice grinding your down on Robert, it makes his body twitch as he pulls away from the kiss, his head banging on his door as he throws it back, not seeming to notice the pain of it. He’s quick to follow in your lead, pushing his own crotch onto yours, his mind reeling at the feeling of rough fabric getting rubbed harshly against his sensitive cock.
With his neck on display you don’t miss the opportunity to lean in and start nipping at it, marking his skin with licks and bites, you're sure even his highest collared shirt would be unable to hide the marks. A particular bite under his ear causes him to jolt and with a raspy moan he arches into you, your hands grabbing his hips and coaxing his body to stay in such a position. Needing to ground himself he grabs onto one of your forearms, blunt nails dragging down them as his other hand tightly clamps down on the door knob.
Sounds of gurgles and choked out whimpers fall from his cherry red lips, glistening with his spit as he licks them subconsciously. A rough grind has his breath coming out in a wheeze, his knees buckling as he tries the resistance cumming in his pants prematurely.
“Someone looks like they’re enjoying themselves,” you can’t help but tease, Robert’s eyes snap to you as he glares, though it comes off weak with his pupils blown so wide in need.
Tilting his head down and bumping his forehead with yours as he speaks, “No, I'm actually having such a shitty time rubbing my clothed dick on yours,” his voice sarcastic.
You merely roll your eyes as a response, already used to Robert’s less than nice comments, too busy focusing on the knot forming tight in your stomach, and with the way he was twitching you assumed he was in a similar position. Which, you were right, without as much of a warning other than a loud whine Robert cums in his pants, a dark patch forming on his crotch, his hips stuttering as he prolongs his blinding high.
By the time he’s out of the daze of his high he is aware of his tongue peaking out of his mouth, huffing like he ran a marathon, his mind slowly clicking as he figures you finished as well with the way there’s a wet patch on your pants too. When his eyes land on yours he blushes from the smirk you have on your face, closing his eyes as he fights his body’s reaction to get hard for a second time, swallowing nothing nervously.
“Round two while we shower?” You question out of the blue, clearly smug with yourself as you feel Robert’s hand clench on your forearm in poorly restrained desperation.
“Pervert.”
That wasn’t a no.
—
I tried to get this done as quick as i could before the new episodes come out tomorrow, so it’s really rushed and shitty, especially since it’s my first fanfic in years. </3 Hope yall still enjoy, maybe you’ll see more of me… if I decide to continue posting here.
are we still friends? can we be friends? (yan! toxic ex! dick grayson x gn! reader)
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist !
imagining toxic ex! dick with you, who's so tired of his overbearing behavior, his constant coddling, how despite you always telling that it's alright to let go of his obvious picture-perfect front to you, he's still always putting up walls, trying to maintain an image of perfection. how even if the cracks in his facade is so obviously palpable, despite his crooked smile, his tired gaze after every damning patrol, he'd always present himself as no less perfect to you because to him, you wouldn't love him if he wasn't your ideal man, right?
but you don't want to live your life off the basis of a mirage. you want something raw, you want a life where both sides aren't afraid to show the good, the bad, the ugly. but with dick, he'd never show the last two. and you don't know why, even as you try to pry it out of him, he's still always reassuring you that it's none of your worried to worry over him. when it's always him who should spoil you. while you just sit back, relax, embrace the love he oh-so willingly throws your way.
even if you do not want that.
and sometimes, being with dick, feels like pretending. feels like a taut thread of pressure to reciprocate his efforts almost, always, snapping in two.
the longer your relationship goes, the lesser the kisses, the cuddles, even the late night dates where he confesses his genuine affection for you a thousand times— feel genuine. even if it is for dick. it just doesn't with you.
so you took an ultimatum, decided your compatibility with one another was just never existing.
you'd think breaking up with him would induce tears, maybe some screaming, begging, a lot of 'why's?', plenty of 'no's', but there was nothing but an understanding smile, a meek, but agreeable:
"i'll crash by my friend's tonight. don't worry 'bout the apartment, alright? it's yours."
(i'm yours.)
his facade still wouldn't let up, he's still the perfect, understanding, ex-boyfriend— yet he still lets you go so easily.
— except it's under the guise of just being friends with you.
after that, it was silence. peace, the freedom of being an individual once more. and who knows? maybe dick also felt suffocated, maybe that's why he agreed so quickly without any of the rebuttal you'd expected. but he just left, one and done, with a teethy "goodbye!" at the door, leaving you alone, all by yourself to recapitulate whatever just happened—
so maybe he's as free as a bird as you are.
you think he's fine with that arrangement, you think he'll move on just as quickly as your relationship moves too quickly. you return to your job the next day, as usual, living your usual, civilian life. you do so for the next few weeks, not entirely happy, but content.
no more were the feelings of suffocation and overthinking. after all, it was hard to date a hero when that means signing up for the rest of your life worrying if they'll come back home in one piece.
(the only hectic part of your life that felt empty was greeting him goodbye as he exits through your window at midnight for another day of patrol, then waiting for him to jump inside your window afterwards at every morning, watching him expertly navigate past your potted plants in agile movements, but it's still not enough to miss him entirely).
otherwise, life was back to the usual.
you don't block him, nor erase his contacts or any of his past messages; still feeling the semblance of fleeting affection for him despite all the doubts you felt before.
one day, though, you decided to take another route. maybe freshen your mind, go for something new, then you suddenly pass by him on your way to work, in the same park where you first encountered him.
and somehow, it feels like the air clinging on to your body felt heavier when your gazes met. he still smiles at you. like he had never been broken up with. maybe it does pain you, a bit, to see him thriving and pretending like your relationship never took a turn for the end, but it's probably your ego speaking, wanting to still matter for even just the slightest bit— yet you knew that if you were in dick's shoes, you'd probably despise yourself instead.
so you take it in yourself to bury those thoughts in the back of your mind.
as bright as those diamond seas could be, you don't acknowledge the way his eyes don't crinkle, the dimness in his gaze, how his lips felt painfully arched, or how his shaky fingers are aching to clench on the spine of your back; wanting to mould his body with yours forever the moment he heard your proposal to break things off those weeks ago.
you think he's fine, he says it will be fine and he's happy with the arrangement that you two can still be as close as friends. you're unaware of the times he's forced himself to not spam your messages with desperate notions to return back to him, or with thousands of calls just to hear you breath through the phone. or how all he could do nowadays was lay in his bed, tears absentmindedly running down his chattering teeth, as he lays on his side, sniffing your sweaters that he's stolen from your hamper just so he wouldn't forget your scent, just so he could feel your sweat touching his burning skin.
he wants to hear your sweet voice in his vicinity once more. but he doesn't because he doesn't want to distress his sweetheart. he doesn't because that'll just break the already shattered facade of perfect he tried to carefully maintain for you.
— he greets you at the park, as teethy as his pearly whites could get.
"hey, long time no see, (name)!"
"hey."
he hates how you don't look at him with the same adoration your eyes once hold as you greet him. only dismissive, wanting to get on with the conversation as quickly as possible so you could. but he's still grateful, either way.
he misses your voice. he made sure to time the opportunity, the moment he knows you'd take another route today. he's memorized every crevice of your mind. how you think, how you reply. there was barely an element of surprise when it comes to you except for when you've broken up with him.
"so... how are you doing?" he blows raspberries, hoping you don't see how his eyes are latched on your neck, your skin, your body, memorizing every little curve and remembering every little imperfection it had past those clothes.
you're far too busy checking the time to notice, but you reply after a momentary silence.
"i'm doing fine..." he knows you are, it breaks his heart to know you're— "actually better, even," (without him, he notes), "how about you, dick? how are you faring with life, hm?"
"..."
he hopes you don't hear the way his breath hitches when your eyes finally greets his. he hopes you don't see the goosebumps littering his skin, or how it's like everything around him is floating. because your gaze, as neutral as it can be, was still electrifying enough to render him falling in love with you over and over again.
"ah- i-i'm doing fine, too..." he takes a second to reply.
"... uhm, yeah! that's great to hear, dick..." it's awkward. two exes conversing like everything is normal but... it's better than silent treatment, or angry texts in the middle of the night— you also don't want to overthink things through, you still have a shift today, after all. so...
"uhh, sorry to cut things short, dickie," you scratch your head, looking at him with a lopsided smile. you don't notice his eyes diluting at the nickname, nor do you take it as seriously as he does — because have you forgotten how you always called him that name, chirped it so frequently when you were together? — when he blinks off the sudden surprise and returns to his usual posture.
"so... yeah, as much as catching up sounds good, i still kind of... y'know, have things to do right now. so, uh, buh-bye!"
you don't wait for his response, finally cutting off the tension when you jog past him and pat his shoulder for good measure. you don't even look back, focused on what your asshole of a manager would do today, focused on your paycheck, focused on anything but the way your ex's hands just cradle his shoulder like some divine being has touched it.
"mhm... bye-bye." he says all by himself, breath airy. you're already at a distance, so you couldn't possibly hear nor witness him planted in the middle of the park in the early morning. and as much as he wants to savor the moment with you far longer, he couldn't possibly have you bear witness to his revelation.
fine.
that's what he told you.
but his fingers are shivering, aching to grip on the warm skin that greeted his jacket. searing so deep he could feel it melt through the fabric.
he's not fine.
he never was.
because even if he could still see you daily, without you knowing, even if he could still watch you from afar as nightwing, as dick grayson, as your so-called friend—
friends never once fucking woke up next to each other, feeling each others' bare skin, chest to chest, pulse beating in near sync. friends don't push each other's hair to the side just to be able to properly gaze at each other's faces in sheer, unadulterated affection. friends don't softly graze each others' skin in some park's bench. they don't slowly leave trails of kiss pressed deeply on their necks.
friends don't do the shit you two once did together.
friends don't know what their bodies feel like slotted next to each other like a perfect piece.
ever since that day, dick has taken a different method and greets you every morning when you pass by him on your way to your workplace. bright as ever, shining as ever. the usual dick you'd known and once loved.
then after a few days, he eventually became cozy enough to sling an arm over your shoulders as you two walk the same paved paths, he grins at you heartily and disguises his rotten affection for you. you're used to his antics, told yourself you'd just tolerate his affection because even before you two became inseparable halves, he's always been a sucker for physical contact.
he asks you how you're doing like a broken record, like it's routine. he ignores how you push the tightening lock of his arms over your shoulders, he wishes you don't notice the way his head snatches a whiff of your shampoo that he misses so much.
like it's routine, but it's not.
like he's fine with the way you slowly, but surely, try to diverge paths with him, but he's not.
then, after some nagging, like you two never once set boundaries from one another, he's taken an experimental turn, decided to dip in the waters of risk, and asked if he could hang out in your apartment sometime.
"like friends do!"
except, during his self-proclaimed sleepovers, dick would be so overbearingly insistent that yes, friends still do sleep in the same bed. yes, friends still fucking leave kisses on their companion's forehead after dinner, friends still know what the taste of each other's saliva, and sweat, and they know each others' bodily scents even after they've broken up.
after all, you've created a bond far deeper with him than you ever had with any other person. you didn't even choose to sever it, you gave him the choice, the decision that he'd be the one to choose if he still wants to see you (and of course he fucking does, he wants to not only see you everyday, he wants to feel you. your skin, your hair, your lips, your every being).
and being just friends is better than pretending you never were at all.
never were friends, never became lovers.
so, despite the same overbearing affection creeping into your spine once more; you just allow yourself to be consumed by the hunger in his sheer mouth when he suddenly kisses you under the sheets you both once laid in together, closing your eyes, ignoring his desperate moans, the fingers tangled in your hair just so he could press your heads deeper with one another.
eventually, this became routine.
even as you try to force yourself to move on, ignore the countless nights your body slots perfectly in his arms, head pressed against his chest, snoozing peacefully, even more-so than when you were alone— you try dating apps right in front of him, ask him a favor if he could choose your next outfit for a double date. he requests, that as your bestie he should come too.
"'cause strangers are dangerous, babe! don't want my best friend to be hurt by them." as hypocritical as he sounds — because the man in front of you was an even greater danger than any of the men and women you've once had flings with — you still surrender to his requests, because he chirps so sweetly, so convincingly that you don't have a single fight left in your backbone to argue with dick.
except friends do also definitely tell your other dates off once he's alone in the same room as them though, right? dick as your beloved and caring friend definitely doesn't brag about how he's the only guy your family approved of, how he knows all your niche interests, that he's the only person who's capable enough of protecting you because no other partner can amount to the sunshine boy which is dick grayson.
that (his dull, empty eyes and inauthentic smile) is enough to scare any of your dates off. hacking into your phone, secretly deleting your accounts or having it banned is enough to set you off with enough frustration to give up on dating— but hey! why need those useless scum when you have the bestest friend you could ever ask for with you, right?
... you could never ask for any better if it isn't dick.
behind his charming facade, he's the worst ex you could ever have. because he still acts like he's your boyfriend. after some time together, he returns to his daily routine of packing your work lunches and picking you up after your shifts (he chooses his sleekest car, to scare off any potential person interested in you in the office you work at.
and you can't even fight back 'cause it's just him being a good friend. it's just him being capable enough to care for you and he's doing it out of choice as your friend and not out of obligation as your (ex) boyfriend. he does it out of the goodness of his heart.
he does it because he's dick grayson.
and dick grayson is a god-sent. the best around, the idol every person looks up to, the hero every young team aspires to be. dick grayson is the perfect, ideal man. if you don't want him as a boyfriend, then you'll need him as a best friend.
isn't he so good to you? isn't he such a great friend even? your closest one?
(can't you just fucking take him back in your arms? can't you fucking see how much he miss it when you hadn't set up those damn boundaries and when he could freely just, pick you up and pepper kisses all over your face?—)
can't you see just how perfect he is for you?
how everyone else you meet is only a piece of him that never compares.
he's the whole thing, the real deal.
dick is yours.
he promised to be yours the moment he asked you out—
so why won't you take him back?
isn't he the man you're supposed to look at when you have a problem, the only person you need when you had a random thought, a random need only he can satiate? he's dick grayson for fuck's sake!
the moment he feels great about himself, because of you, because of you, because you lift him up, his spirits so high up that he feels tethered to reality being close to you— suddenly your bond becomes looser, suddenly you want to let him go and he doesn't know what to do than find ways to keep you closer still.
but—
but fine.
you still wanted him. you chose to still be friends with him. that was enough for dick at least. labels don't matter if he could, he would still do the same things boyfriends do with their loved ones. even if he's not, even if he's just your friend for now.
that was enough for now, just being your friend.
... enough to keep you close, enough to feel your skin, enough to hold your hand and guide you back to be his.
a/n: for my sweetie-pie: @bloodhungryneera (i love you, thank you for everything <3) and @rockin-robyn; this post was originally meant as one of my bday gifts for her. this was absolutely insane. i told myself i'll just repost this from discord but i decided to refurbish it even further because i can't stand short concepts.
and guys, i miss posting, i miss you all, but times have been rough on me. so please, i encourage comments, interactions, maybe even short messages in my inbox, because all my old anonymous messages have been all hate, hate, hate. and it's discouraged me from posting despite me wanting to. i don't want unwarranted criticism, i just want to have fun and nobody's forcing anyone to read my works. for those who do, and for those who take the time to comment: thank you. you all don't know how much it means for me to reread all the old comments from old posts. interaction means everything to me. more of it = more content <3
Not to dictate how people write, but I need people to know that
YANDERE IS NOT JUST BEING JEALOUS!!!
I've been reading a lot of fanfiction and original works tagged with yandere, but all the character does is feel a little bad or get a little jealous when seeing the one they like with someone else, maybe do a little rough sex as a revenge at the end of the day. But please understand that Yandere is not another more cooler term for normal jealousy.
It does involve jealousy, but it cranks it up all the way to 100000x in a way that is destructive in nature, both to the yandere character and to their loved ones. It made them sick, love sick. It clouds their mind, it made them obsessive, violent, make them do irrational things people normally won't do.
Here are some good definitions i found on the wiki and a dictionary.
Obviously Yandere character manifests their feeling in different ways, some are willing to kill and torture the people around them for their loved ones. Others are more subtle, they manipulate the people around them, so that their loved ones could only depend on them. Making them believe that other people really are untrustworthy. And if their loved ones refuse to believe them, they may be willing to go as far as to hurt or incapacitate their loved ones, telling themself that it is necessary for their safety.
Something along the lines of, "The world is a dangerous place. Theyre all trying to hurt you, please believe that im just trying to protect you. Ive seen the way they look at you, eyes filled with ill intent. All ive done is for your best interest. Dont worry, I'll take care of everything" yadda yadda
Some of you may think that this is a little to extreme and edgy, but listen, Yandere IS supposed to be extreme and somewhat edgy. It always has.
Im not stopping people from writing jealous characters, i love both with all my heart. But please dont tag it as yandere. Just tag it properly as jealous, its two different things. It really helps people trying to find/filter what they want and dont want.
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Catboy! boyfriend who demands you to slap his lower back or he will violently attack you. Yes... Smack that stuff back... Mn...
"Harder."
"Dude I am quite literally slapping as hard as I can-"
"HARDER."
Yeah he gets stiff real easily and only you can relieve him from his ailments. What? He just likes getting hit? Don't be a silly human, he's not that type of cat...
Did I mention that he gets jealous easily? Yeah he gets real fucking jealous man, don't even play with him rn. He WILL actually throw a tantrum if you show affection to anything other than him.
"See? Cutting nails isn't so bad."
Right now you've got a plush kitty in your lap, pretending to clip its nails as your cat boy stares at you. You hum softly, eyes lighting up as your boyfriend seems to be listening...
"Muah."
Until he violently attacks the cat plush that HE wanted. His nails are extended, teeth bared at the soft cotton as he smacks that shit out of your hands.
"Woah woah hey!"
"Why did you kiss it. WHY."
"I was just trying to show you what would happen if you let me cut your nails!"
He immediately pins you to the bed, nuzzling his cheek against the crook of your neck as his tail stands on end. His ears flick at every little movement, nails digging into your skin and leaving indents that will most definitely hurt when you get in the shower later.
"Hey chill! I won't kiss it anymore! Okay? Now just calm down!"
"No."
He lays on top of you, eyes glaring right into your soul before he hisses at your face. Damn boy! What did you even do to him???
"Um, do you want some treats?"
You watch as your boyfriend continues to stare at you, lips turned down in a scowl before he lets out a low growl. Your throat bobs at the sound, sweat beading on your forehead before he looks away, cheeks all puffed out.
"You know you don't have to stay on top of me... Right?"
He shoots you a glare, nails digging into your skin as a sharp hiss leaves your lips. He quickly releases his grip on you, looking anywhere but you before he huffs again.
"You're so weird. Do you hate that you love me?"
A soft chuckle leaves your lips, eyes softening at him before you give into your fate. Well your catboy will do whatever he wants, you guess. If he wants to loaf on you and make your body numb as hell, who are you to stop him?
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