#How To Learn Front End Development

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[swifttrinitychronicle]

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[musicat9]

thinking about my octopath ocs and. man. how did amarynn end up going from the extremely loose base concept of 'a thief character who doesn't have as terrible of experiences with the fellow thieves from their past as either of the canon thieves' to this. liar girl who is defined by her bonds with others. who trusts almost no one but would literally die for those she does trust. girl who exists to protect. would do anything to save those she cares about (and/or desperately denies caring about) because she cannot stand to imagine what existing without them would be like. not just a knife in the dark but a shield in broad daylight. a knife in the dark so she still has people to shield in broad daylight. to the point where half her chapters revolve around protecting/saving people and the main plot mcguffin in her story is literally a shield. which she steals from a friend but still goes back to protect that same friend herself anyway. she may have lied her way into it but she's still the one with the tournament arc, signed on as a support fighter to aid and protect her chosen companion. loyal con artist indeed

[pepprs]

halfway thru my first drivers ed session. idk if i can do this aftually lol

[fakecrfan]

I know most people on here don't like to go to the gym because you're all gay nerds. I like to go to the gym. For the purpose of understanding this post please try to imagine that you, too, enjoy going to the gym so that you can empathize with my point here.

Anyway, so imagine you are going to the gym. You're pumped about the concept of getting some muscle on you. Plus, the gym has this "lift weights every day!" challenge with a feasible plan to slowly and safely increase the amount of weight you can lift by the end of the month. Cool!

So anyway you go there, and you're having a good time. But then you notice something. Some people are coming in with these guys in shirts that say LIFT FOR HIRE. You're curious, and you notice over time that some people are actually paying these guys to come in and do the lifting challenge for them.

"Huh," you say to your mega hot, muscled gym buddy. "That's so weird. What's in it for the people paying these guys?"

"Dunno," says your friend, mid bicep curl.

"Um, actually!" says the gym owner. "Some people are disabled, so the only way they can lift weights it to pay LIFT FOR HIRE, inc."

"But wait," you say. "They still aren't lifting the weights though? Paying someone else to lift for you doesn't mean you've lifted the weights."

The gym owner gasps. "How could you SAY that?"

"Because... it's true?" you say. "Uh, if you pay guys to lift your weights, that's probably really good for the guys you are paying. But it's not going to develop your ability to lift at all. Your muscles aren't going to grow, you're just going to lose money and get no results."

"That's ABLEIST," they say. "How DARE you! Some people are LITERALLY paralyzed, did you think of that?"

"Well, yeah, some people are, and that means definitionally they can't lift weights," you explain. "And paying someone else doesn't change that. Maybe if they wanted to like, move something in their house it would make total sense to hire these guys! But if you hire them to do your workout you get nothing, because the purpose of a workout is personal development. I'm not morally condemning people who do it, but it seems like a waste of money when this event is, again, about improving one's personal abilities."

"This is absolutely DISGUSTING, CLASSIST rhetoric!" the gym owner roars, and then turns to one of the LIFT FOR HIRE guys, "Pay no attention this disgusting person, dear sponsor, we support your business and we totally want you to keep funding our gym!"

"Sponsor?" says your hot muscled friend who was way too busy actually doing their workout and getting gains to engage in dumb discourse. "Oh, now it makes sense."

"Shut up, you don't understand our love!" says the gym owner, before sloppily making out with a LIFT FOR HIRE guy in front of you.

Anyway, that's what learning about the whole AI nanowrimo controversy was like for me.

[booasaur]

Something really amazing happened in France, and I think it'd help us in the US to learn about it. Forgive the long read, but I think this is genuinely great both because of what happened and how.

So as some of you might have seen, in a decision historians will debate for years (mostly to figure out just WTF he was thinking, even though he is alive right now and can be asked), the French president, Emmanuel Macron, currently in power and THREE YEARS before the scheduled election, seeing the far right rise in popularity decided to dissolve the assembly and hold snap elections.

577 seats were up for grabs. Remember that number. Since half of that is 288.5, 289 seats are needed for a majority.

The first round happened last week and boy, was it bad. The far right made HUGE gains. It won or was in first place in so many races. And Macron's party ended up third!

Overall, this is how things ended up after the first round:

Far right bloc: 33%

Left bloc: 28%

Macron's centrist party: 20%

Conservatives: 7%

The way the French system works is that if a candidate gets over 50% of the vote, they win outright, and some of the far right did manage that. But, many races went to a runoff.

Immediate projections after were that the far right bloc might win anywhere from 240 to 310 seats, a catastrophe.

A shameful swing to the far right leading to the first time they'll be in power since the 1940s? Yes, but maybe not??

This is where things get interesting.

Unusually, a lot of these runoffs are 3-way, instead of a simpler 2-way choice. And in pretty much every case, that helps the far right.

So on June 30th, the night of the first round, this is how things went down:

Immediately, the left parties put out the call: anywhere they were third, they withdrew and their voters would go over to whoever was running against the far right candidate. Their goal: form a "republican front" to block the far right. The far right cannot get 289 seats.

Macron's bloc was not so...motivated. Different people put out different instructions: in some places, if they were third, they should drop out, but only to help the center left, not far left, in other places, see how far you are, only then drop out, that kind of thing.

The conservative party simply said they won't drop out and won't give their voters instruction either way in races they're not involved in.

Late night developments:

More people in Macron's party are now beginning to realize the situation and starting to coalesce around whichever candidate can beat the far right one. Prime Minister Gabriel Attal, from Macron's party, says clearly the priority is to block the far right. BUT, some Macron spokespeople on TV say they'll form a coalition only with the center left and conservatives, splitting the left bloc if needed. Some individual Macronists still saying they won't drop out, even if there's no hope of winning.

Lol.

So, now July 1st:

Only half so far. In one race, where the sister of Marine Le Pen (the far right leader and the face of their movement) was leading, the third place Macronist refused to bow out.

Excellent quote from another Macronist:

Perhaps realizing the same thing, that Macronist in the race against the Le Pen sister now drops out.

In some places, third place Macronists are dropping out DESPITE Macron bewilderingly telling them NOT to?

Halfway through the day:

Of the 311 3-way or 4-way runoffs, the number is down to 135 because of these candidates dropping out: 121 Left, 56 Macronists, 1 conservative.

Oh, there was this, in case people had any doubts about how terrible the far right are:

And to show the selflessness of the left:

July 2:

The deadline to decide if they want to stay in a runoff is today.

A dozen new third place Macronists who said they'd stay in have now dropped out. One got a call from both the PM Attal AND Macron to drop out, signalling the dawning understanding of the importance of this moment.

Even some conservative party members are now backing the left candidate who faces the far right.

A Macronist who had 30.55% of the vote in the first round and came in third to the far right's 33.11% and left's 32.73% and who would have been tempted to stay has dropped out.

The deadline to stay in or not has now passed.

Look at these far right shenanigans!

Macron still being a freaking loser:

July 3rd:

In the end, of the 311 3- or 4-way run offs, only 91 left. Some polls come out that have the far right getting between 190 to 220 seats.

July 4th:

New polls say the balance of the voting itself isn't transferring between the left and center and predictions have risen for the far right, now predicted to get between 210 and 250 seats.

July 5th:

New polls again, left voters now predicted to do better transferring vote to the centrists, decreasing the far right projections again.

However, scandalous reporting emerges: while Attal was trying to fend off the far right, Macron was not only NOT taking the far right seriously, he was undermining efforts to defeat them. His team shrugged off the first round results and celebrated a BIRTHDAY as the results were still coming in?

July 6th:

A few runoffs happened yesterday, nothing much unexpected, some left and center wins.

July 7th:

The day of reckoning. At this point, the expectations are that the far right won't come close to that 289 number but could still easily have the most seats.

GUYS.

It's over and the left are in the lead!

A LOT of cases where a leftist or centrist was 2nd in the first round and now won.

Amazing:

SO many lessons to take from this.

First, you have to vote! You have to. You can't do anything without voting. The freaking French, who'll protest for anything, are showing up to vote. If you're trying to achieve any kind of result and it's not going to happen by January 2025, you have to vote now.

But just as importantly, the left and center (and even conservative) parties made very key decisions. They were all lucky that Attal, who Macron chose, saw the big picture, bigger than indeed Macron could. A stupid selfish centrist leader could have still ruined everything if it were up to him.

TL;DR: After a disastrous first round in the national French elections where the far right was on the cusp of taking power, the left and center formed a strong coalition and through the power of voting and unity, overcame the far right AND their selfish centrist president to win.

[suksatoru]

smile for the camera! — ft. k. bakugo x fem!reader

katsuki bakugo is tricked into smiling during an interview when they bring up your name!

you didn't notice it at first, but katsuki bakugo developed smile lines after meeting you.

he didn't smile much as a kid. most of his baby pictures consisted of him either crying, screaming, or making some sort of vulgar gesture at the camera. it only got worse as he entered his teen years. his temper calmed down a bit, sure. but the chances of catching katsuki bakugo smiling were as rare as catching lightening in a bottle.

the paparazzi were well aware of the famous dynamight barely having any pictures of him smiling out on the internet—there were three singular photos out there that consisted of him with a somewhat pleased expression on his face, and the only reason he looked that way was because you were in frame right beside him.

it seemed to be a well known fact that getting bakugo to smile was nearly impossible—but the current interviewer sitting in front of bakugo was determined.

"great explosion murder god dynamight—or, well, just dynamight sir—what would you say is your favorite part about being a hero?"

katsuki stops himself from rolling his eyes, already anticipating the rest of the interview's questions as he answers flatly

"the glory. the strength. and kicking ass—make that the first thing, actually."

"okay! now, i'd like to ask you a few more things..." the young woman chirps up, and katsuki sighs and tells her to continue. the next dozens of questions were just as he'd predicted—stuff like asking who his biggest inspiration was, what kind of merch his team would be putting out in the upcoming months, and what he thought his weaknesses were.

"—and i don't have weakness. i'm fucking perfect, ask anybody. now, are we done here?" he snaps, rolling his shoulders as he moves to stand up, eyes flitting towards the exit with nothing but disinterest

he'd spent an entire hour answering these stupid questions when he could've been out fighting villains, finishing up his paperwork, literally anything else would be more time fulfilling than answering baseless questions like these ones.

the interviewer's eyes widen when katsuki stands up from his seat, stretching his arms above his head with a grunt before she quickly interrupts him

"what about your wife!"

"....eh?"

"your wife!" she says, quickly collecting herself

"could you tell us about her? it seems like many of your fans are interested in learning more regarding you two! you have a very private relationship, so it's only natural for people to be curious!"

katsuki blinks, absorbing her words. slowly, his feet—once pointed towards the exit—shift ever so slightly towards the woman

"well...what do you want to know?"

and that's how katsuki found himself sitting in the same seat another hour later. except this time, he had the dorkiest grin ever plastered on his face.

"oh i knew i wanted to marry her the first time she yelled at me—she was pretty feisty back in our ua days. still is, but now all the insults she throws my way usually have the word babe or honey added at the end. she has a clever mouth, i'm warnin' ya—you don't wanna get into an argument with her."

the interviewer laughs, and katsuki decides he might come back to this station another time if they asked. he's... well, simply put, having fun.

he leaves after another forty minutes, only because his manager literally dragged him out of the room—he had a meeting to attend and then his patrol—but he left waving at the camera crew and in a far more better mood than he'd arrived in.

katsuki spends the rest of the day getting through all of his hero duties, the interview slowly being pushed to the back of his mind as he focuses on finishing all his work and coming home to you.

it's nearly nine pm when he opens the door to your shared apartment—groaning about how tired he was and how you better not be asleep—when he hears your padded feet running towards the main entryway to greet him

"you're home!"

he offers you a slanted grin, opening his arms for a hug

"missed ya today," he mutters, pressing a kiss onto your scalp as you peer up at him with a grin—looking a little too happy.

"what're ya cheesing so hard about?"

you hum, tapping the back of his thigh with a knowing grin

"your ma called. guess what she told me?"

katsuki groans, shrugging off his gauntlets and boots before tugging you towards the couch in the living room, flopping onto it while mumbling under his breath and pulling you towards his chest

"you two devils were probably gosspin' about me, that old hag better not have sent you any pictures or i swear—"

"she told me to turn on the tv and head to channel seven."

katsuki pauses, staring at you with furrowed brows. well, it couldn't have been him on channel seven, right? he didn't have any crazy villains to deal with for once, so it wouldn't make sense for him to be on one of the main channels today.

"what..."

he smacks his forehead with an embarrassed groan when you pull out your phone and show him your recording of his interview. you're practically bouncing on the couch beside him with glee as you shove the screen in his face

"you're smiling! they made it the cover of their video, too—gosh you look so cute when you smile! and you're talking about me!"

katsuki huffs, but watches you play back the video with a cheesy grin on your face. your round eyes are illuminated by the screen, and you re-watch the video with your lips parted in awe

"you got the real thing right in front of you but you'd rather watch that...i see how it is." he grumbles, something similar to a pout forming on his face when you still don't acknowledge him—too busy watching his video as you bring the phone closer to your face

"i'm going to screenshot your smiling face in this video and make it my profile picture on insta—"

he snatches the phone out of your hand, powering it off before tossing it aside and wrapping his strong arms around your waist in an iron grip

"i'll make that one of you snoring and drooling all over my chest my profile picture if you even think about it."

"i'm pretty sure half the comments on that video literally have your smiling face as their profile picture."

"...well that's a lot of people i'm gonna have to sue."

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

little comforts with the lads li’s

(a self-indulgent imagining of them with a neurodivergent MC)

✨ xavier & overstimulation

(not the sex kind, sorry. but probably that too) Xavier completely understands when you get overwhelmed by existing. he gets the same feeling sometimes. you develop a code for it eventually, a combination of eye contact and eyebrow-raising that signals to the other person that you need out, whether from a Hunter’s Association party or a grocery store with way too many people. back at home, you’ve created a haven together- eye masks and soft blankets for him, headphones and fidgets for you, whatever makes you feel peaceful and calmed. the ceiling lamp is absolutely not allowed- Xavier drapes the walls with soft spheres of light or swirls a firefly-glow of sparks along the bed in a warm canopy.

🎨 rafayel & hyperfixations/jumping hobbies

you might as well consider collecting hobbies a hobby in itself. crochet needles and yarn, jigsaw puzzles, a wood burning setup, a console and video games- whatever brings you joy, Rafayel is enthusiastically behind it. he doesn’t judge you for wanting to learn a new art style out of the blue- he’ll sign up for a pottery class with you and buy you pounds of clay. he loves your passion and enthusiasm and matches it with his own. he loves being creative with you, in whatever form it happens to take that day. plus, with the amount he spends on paint and canvas, he’s not about to judge you for getting boxes of new supplies for something. he’s hyping you up every time! even if it isn’t an interest he shares, he’s happy you’re happy.

🩺 zayne & health anxiety/ocd

no matter how many times you ask for it, Zayne is happy to give you reassurance. yes, that chicken was cooked all the way. you have a weird flutter in your chest? of course he'll listen to your heart. he listens to every symptom, every worry with unfailing patience. after all, he wants to be your protector, your safest place- this is just one way to be that for you. he never makes you feel irrational for your fears, just steadily helps you face them each and every time. he doesn't judge your compulsions, but he offers his expertise whenever you ask- he lets you take your temperature ten times a day but also explains the normal range and when to actually worry.

💭 sylus & overthinking

okay hear me out, this goes both ways: he helps ground you when you’re overthinking negatively but also supports you when you’re being enthusiastic about literally anything. he’s all in- if you have a favorite tv show he’s watching every episode and reading every analysis of it so you can discuss. he’s fully invested in your office drama, your gossip, your made-up stories about the bird family that lives outside your apartment window. but he also soothes you when you spiral into worry or fear. he happily goes through what-if scenarios with you, most of them ending in him spectacularly defeating anything that could ever threaten you. he makes it clear over and over again that you’re completely safe with him, physically and emotionally.

❤️‍🩹 caleb & insecurity

his life mission to make you feel adored. he makes a point of worshipping every part of you, especially anything you consider a "flaw". nothing is too much or too little- you're perfect exactly as you are. if he overhears you complaining about your thick thighs on a call with Tara, he's going to be buried in them later that night, pressing kisses to every inch. he loves working out and training with you. if you want to get healthier he's gladly cooking fresh ingredients into nutritious meals and helping you build up a fun fitness routine- but if there's even a hint of it being because you don't like the way you look in the mirror? he's going to benchpress twice your body weight in front of you just to prove he can. or better yet, he flings you over his shoulder easily and brings you to the bedroom to "work on your confidence".

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Not My Business

Danny Fenton develops a unique set of skills throughout his life. He knew how to disarm a bomb when he was seven, thanks to his Dad making minebombs in the front yard as a ghost defense. (They only covered humans in ecto-goo, but it was the same concept of not wanting to have it explode on him)

He knew how to fight with a bo-staff only because he had to fight off the meals his parents brought back to life with a broom. He knew how to balance a checkbook, file tax forms, and properly build credit by the time he was ten, thanks to the years his parents ran a business at the kitchen table.

His sister taught him how to charm rude customers with a smile, how to lie without flinching, and how to complete all his assignments on time, despite having only a few hours to do so. She spent a lot of time volunteering, often dragging him along, which allowed Danny to build up his resume with both soft and hard skills he likely would never have thought there was a name for.

Problem-solving, teamwork, communication, time management, adaptability, data analysis, cybersecurity, data entry, and copywriting were the skills that Jazz focused on the most. She all but beat them into his head.

Along with cooking, sewing, basic plumbing, basic mechanics, and budgeting. Jazz was the one who looked for practical abilities.

That left time for his mom and dad to teach him things like forging, combat training, reprogramming everyday objects into weaponry, defending his position before a board for grant money, turning everyday household liquids into knock-out gas, and how to talk his way out of traffic tickets.

Not to mention everything he learn as Phantom.

Danny knew how to verify jewels and gold due to the years spent in the ghost zone fighting off pirates and treasure hunters. Phantom's reputation made him a target for many ghosts who wanted to add his rarity to their collections.

How to command a room, then a town, and finally an army. Diplomatic missions increased in number as he began meeting with the leaders of various sectors within the Ghost Zones.

Really, Danny didn't make a whole lot of sense, if anyone bothered to ask him how he came to this set of skills. The thing was, unlike the rest of his family, Danny was far too reserved to show them off. He edged the line of shyness from a young age, which sometimes bled into reclusive tendencies.

He didn't get anxious from social interactions; he just didn't feel like seeking them out. Sam and Tucker felt a similar way, as they were always willing to talk to a stranger, but they tried to branch out of their safe little bubble to make friends rather than acquaintances. Then the summer between sophomore and junior year happened.

Sam, Danny, and Tucker left tenth grade as plain losers only to arrive in junior with a splash.

The trio noticed that people were staring at them more intensely than they had been before. That they were used to, what they weren't used to was that the stares were not mocking or dismissive.

It was odd, but it didn't click on why that was until winter break, and more specifically, Star's Holiday party.

Ever since the fourth grade, Star hosted the biggest party of their generation. Her parents owned the local fun center, which featured indoor kart racing, laser tag, arcade games, paintball, and virtual reality pods. Everyone tripped over themselves to be given an invitation as she offered a full day and night of free entertainment at the center.

It always ended with wild stories of teenage fun that Danny always wanted to see in person, rather than hearing about in the hallways the next day. Not that everyone in their grade went. The invitation list was super selective (Star's parents did lose a lot of profit for letting their daughter do that)

You either received an invitation from the party girl herself, or you were asked to be a plus one, which was just as much of an honor as it was a symbol of social status among the teenage population of Amity Park.

The trio was never invited, which is why they were already making their way to the student parking lot when Star stood in the courtyard, holding up the scarred envelopes. Inside them was the bracelet that one had to scan at the door of her center to let people in. It was how her father ensured only the agreed-upon guests stayed at that number.

In the middle of making plans for hot chocolate at Sam's favorite poetry slam cafe, Star had run at Tucker's car, practically falling over to knock on his window. Danny had never been so confused in his life as his friend rolled down his window to arch a brow at the girl.

She stuttered her way through a pathetic request for fashion advice that Tucker easily answered in two sentences. Sam snickered as Star seemed unsure what to do with Tucker's lack of interest in her or her popularity.

Ever since Tucker started focusing more on his self-confidence and joined the fashion community, he hadn't been so girl-crazy nor as desperate to get one's attention.

Just as Danny reminded Tucker that other cars were waiting for them to clear the road, Star had pushed three envelopes into the driver's hand and run off with a red face.

Tucker stared at the envelopes in his hands with a wild look that both Sam and Danny shared. They slowly kicked their brains back into gear when an angry honk from the car behind them sounded, and they ended up silently driving the cafe, still in a daze.

Jazz laughed herself silly when they rang her up to ask if she thought it was a trick (Sam was sure they were going to be Carrie-ed), a mistake (Danny insisted Star had gone to the wrong car, but due to the tinting, didn't realize until it was too late). Or a genuine invitation (Tcuker had always been the most optimistic of the three).

"Haven't you three ever wondered why Spectra used emotion-based ectoplasm for her appearance?" She giggled, "It makes people hot. And you guys literally spend all summer in the Ghost Zone during your internships, feeling human emotions while being exposed to natural ectoplasm. You three came back looking good."

That was a shock.

The summer apprenticeships had been a compromise between Sam and her parents. They were growing tired of her not growing out of her "phase" and were threatening to send her to a military camp to straighten her out.

Thankfully, Jazz had stepped in, brilliantly changing their minds into allowing the college student to match Sam up with a well-known friend as a mentor. She even threw Danny and Tucker into her "program" to further show that it was just what Sam needed to stop her from being a troubled teen.

Since only Maddie and Jack knew about Phantom, it took some effort among all of them to create fake websites and legitimate-looking summer programs before Sam, Tucker, and Danny arrived in the Ghost Zone in different vehicles to spend their summers. It helped that Ghostwriter owed them a favor, and he brought the programs to life.

Danny was learning medical practices of various species with Frostbite. Sam was with Princess Dorathea, learning how to govern and manage a large estate. Tucker had taken Wulf up on his offer to join him through the Ghost Zone's wildness, allowing Tucker to experience life off-screen and learn more about animals.

Jazz had said she placed them out of their comfort zones, but with trusted ghosts that could help them build well-rounded characters. At first, it wasn't for them, but the trio found themselves falling in love with their activities.

By the time they came back, they had many stories and exceptional skills to share with their parents. Sam's parents weren't happy she was still a goth, but they did appreciate her newfound determination to connect with them and her interest in running companies like the family business.

Tucker's parents were amazed by the muscles he gained and how he started to limit his screen time. He still loves his tech, but now he was branching out into fashion, helping out around the house, and appreciating animals and nature like never before.

Maddie and Jack watched as Danny grew more empathic while becoming more sure of what to do in stressful situations. Confidence that their son desperately needed had been gifted to him over the summer. He no longer lowered his eyes or slouched, even if his awkwardness lingered a bit.

That apparently made them hot? Yes, it did.

At Star's party, even though the three kept to themselves, laughing and hanging out as normal, people were constantly attempting to talk to them or simply flushing whenever they made eye contact. Danny, Sam, and Tucker all agreed that they no longer wanted to be popular.

They stay firmly behind unbreakable walls even as the party skyrocketed them to the same level of popularity as the A-listers (they refused to join the club). The three were more excited to return to their summer internships the following summer.

By the time graduation rolled around, Danny, Sam, and Tucker had been voted the most attractive and the most likely to succeed. They were a new type of untouchable royalty walking the halls of Casper High.

It came as no surprise that their resumes and internships got them offers from various colleges, not to mention their looks. Jazz, by that point, was still working on her degree at Gotham U, so the three chose to go there.

Danny was studying to become a doctor, Sam was in business, and Tucker chose computer sciences. They had moved into a house that Sam's parents bought for them, allowing Jazz to move out of the dorms into the spare room. Things were going great for a while, living in the big city and being adults on their own for the first time.

Then Danny applied for an internship at Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital in the administrative area- Sam convinced him it would be a good way to get a foot in the door when he applied to medical school. He needed someone to write him rec letters.- And one night, when he was working late on data entry, he happened to see Batman's maskless fall out of a portal produced by a trenchcoat man.

The trenchcoat man carried Batman to the abandoned operating room that had been left behind when they remodeled the place and converted it into offices, followed by the rest of the Bats. Their faces were covered entirely, but it did not hide their worry as they rushed to catch up with the pair.

A woman wearing scrubs pushed through the portal and the group of masked heroes, barking out orders to prepare the room.

There was a magic spell wrapped around the group that typically would have made them invisible, and erase their importance in the mind of whoever looked at them, as if they were from a forgotten dream. Still, Danny's ecto contamination made him immune to the spell, so he witnessed the whole thing.

Huh. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Neat.

Danny figured it wasn't his business and turned back to his two monitors to finish the Excel spreadsheet he was working on. He later left after saving his work, ignoring the fact that he now knew why the operating room had been left untouched, despite having all that technology on standby.

He would get home, mention it over a plate of reheated pizza, while Tucker would be working on an essay due at midnight. His best friend would shrug, claiming his own ectoplasim had made him immune to Poison Ivy's plants- they were shockingly similar to some of the plants Wulf and he encountered in the Ghost Zone- and had seen Red Robin's face after the man had been sprayed in the face and some of the powder lingered on his mask.

Apparently, Tucker's midnight essay writing had given him a familiar, dazed college look of exhaustion. Still, since he wasn't freaking out at the man eating plants, Red Robin had thought him too gone on whatever Posion Ivy how dosed the crowd of hostages with, to worry about his bare face. He had merely moved Tucker somewhere safe, stabbed him in the thigh with a needle, which had been rude according to Tucker, and run off to fight Ivy.

Red Robin was Tim Drake. Neat.

The two changed the subject to a TV show, but eventually Tucker had to focus on his essay, and they fell silent.

The following morning, Sam reported that she, too, had figured out a Gotham Hero's identity by accident. Her ectoplasim contamination had made her an attractive goth, who was approached by a blushing Damian Wayne to ask her to model her alternative style for his art club.

At the offer of a bit of pocket change, Sam had agreed to follow the art club president to a park where a group of teenagers were setting up canvases and easels. They asked her to sit on the park fountain for a few hours while they tried to capture her likeness in charcoal.

During the session, she noticed a change in Damian's movement as he grew more relaxed and his old habits began to shine through. Princess Dorathea had taught her the dangers of the court and how to notice little changes in body language that could keep her safe.

She thought it was odd that Damian moved like an assassin, reaching for a small knife in the same way he wielded his charcoal. It made sense later when she was rescued by Robin on her walk home from a would-be mugging and noticed the same little habits.

Robin was Damian Wayne. Neat.

If three of the many Bats were Waynes or connected to the famous family, it only logically makes sense that the rest were all Waynes too. Double neat.

The only one who was sincerely shocked by this reveal was Jazz, who had not even a hint of suspicion that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"This is huge!" Jazz gasps, "Don't you guys realize how crazy this is!?"

"I mean, sure," Tucker slowly responded, sharing a confused glance with Sam and Danny. "But it's not really our business, is it? It's not like Danny is in the hero scene anymore."

"Well, yes but come on it's Batman!"

"I don't think Batman even cares about us, much less his Bruce persona. As someone from the bottom of the first class, trust me, the top of the first class doesn't even notice us taking up space. " Sam laughs, shaking her head. Danny hesitates to mention that Bruce Wayne has stopped by his office multiple times to bring coffee for all his coworkers, but figures the man must do that for all his employees.

Miles and miles away in Wayne Manor, Bruce narrows his eyes at the three screens displaying three newly graduated teens covered in paranormal residue. It's possible that they were all haunted and just didn't know it, which was a common thing, according to the Justice League Dark.

After some digging into their background, he found that companies, summer camps, and internships had all been fabricated by an incredible hacker who provided an oddly convincing cover-up for the various skills the trio possessed. Again, the Justice League Dark also stated that it was common, as that was a tactic the Otherworlders frequently used on humans to leech onto them.

Like a gas station in the middle of nowhere that was there and then it wasn't a few days later.

The three weren't experiencing any negative emotions, which meant whatever was haunting them would soon pass, and it wasn't necessary to intervene. Zatanna promised Bruce that everything was fine.

He had some doubts.

So far, the three have been doing everyday things that first-year college students typically do, and yet, Bruce's children have reported seeing the three often in their civilian lives.

Foley worked out at the same gym Dick did and was often at the ramen shop Jason just helped one of his friends open. Manson began spending time at Cass's favorite café and attended Duke's poetry nights as an observer. Fenton, the male one, was literally working a few floors below Tim.

A coincidence?

Or was it something nefarious at play?

Bruce decided to wait and see what happens.

[katsukilvr]

SUPPORT DEPARMENT!READER x KATSUKI BAKUGOU ༄ cw for the story: angst, situationship, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits, bakugo is a bitch and needs a hug, so does reader, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, cussing. A/N: this chapter is mainly exposition, sorry! i will get into their dynamic in the next part <3 enjoy!

just like everyone else, you grew up fantasizing to be a hero one day. you watched all might all day and night on tv, admired local heroes in front of you, even joined a couple forums online that were all about heroes.

you dreamed of being one, of going to UA, working alongside teens across the country that have the same goals and aspirations as you was intoxicating to think about.

soon enough, your quirk developed, you had your dads quirk, you could take away heat from the air around you and channel it into the tips of your fingers. it wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t big, but you felt like if you trained hard enough, you could make it to the hero course.

your parents had split when you were young, and you were on good terms with both of them so the summer you had developed your quirk, you visited your dad for 2 months.

he was a mechanic, and he lived out in the outskirts of the city, and he was very.. rugged.

you learned quickly that slacking off was not allowed at your dads house. you weren’t allowed to sleep in, you had to wake up before the sun and help him work on cars but soon you got a taste for it. you had grown a love for cars, engineering, welding, etc.

by the end of summer, you were getting up on your own, enjoying seeing the sunrise as you guys went to the junkyard, coming out covered in grime and sweat, grabbing scraps for your new love of inventions.

of course you still were aspiring to be a hero, but you also really loved inventing new things, so you didn’t know what path to choose and your quirk was perfect for welding.

so you talked to the counselor at your middle school, wondering what career paths you could choose that would involve both saving lives and heroes and engineering.

“have you heard of the support department?”

support department?

you searched it up online,

“Students in this department focus on developing support equipment that help heroes out on the battlefield. With a workspace stocked to the brim with all sorts of special tools, the department provides an unmatched creative environment.”

you smiled at what your screen displayed.

it was perfect, so your new dream was to enroll into UA, join the support department, and open your own agency that’d help heroes build the equipment of their dreams that help them fight crime.

so that’s what you studied. you were in your first year of junior school (7th grade) when you realized this, so the next two summers you went back to your dad’s to work on cars and inventions, but during the school year, you trained. you trained really fucking hard. you did not play about getting into UA and chasing your dreams. if you only lived once, you were gonna live it right.

so you changed your schedule, mirroring the one you had during summer. you’d wake up every morning, go to the nearest junk yard which was a mile away from your house. you brought your wagon, and lugged scrap after scrap into it, dragging it back home.

your mom had made your own personal workshop in the basement, knowing how much it was your passion. you’d spend hours on hours down there, and not to toot your own horn but you were insane at engineering. if you could think it, you could build it.

your creativity was through the roof, you started taking commissions and fixing up cars by yourself, earning a bit of money to buy yourself an at home gym to train even more.

before you knew it, it was time for ‘entrance exams’, except for you, for support department students, you had to submit an invention, an original piece that was unique to you, easy to use, but difficult to make.

you spent months on your invention, your admissions essay, and your recommendations. you were overachieving, but you didn’t care.

when you got the letter in the mail, your heart thumped and thumped, your hands started to shake, barely seeing where the letter was sent from, all you could see was the UA stamp.

“mom! mom! it’s the letter!” you called out, setting it on the dining table as you saw your mom excitedly rush out of the bathroom, half her hair in hair rollers. she knew how hard you worked and she was proud of you if you got in or not.

“what are you doing? open it up!” she said, smiling ear to ear. you could swear she was more excited than you.

you picked up the letter, opening up the envelope and taking it out when a little button looking thing dropped out. you furrowed your brows, moving to pick it up before a hologram flickered on. you and your mom were both stunned, taking a step back before getting met with the face of all might, your childhood hero and inspiration, welcoming you to UA, and to their support department.

once the words reached your ears, you and your mom jumped around, hugging each other, beaming from ear to ear. you got in! you were gonna be the best of the best, and you weren’t going to let anyone get in your way.

you then read the letter in the envelope. you got a full ride scholarship off your inventions and recommendations alone. you felt like you could cry, and you did. happy tears streamed down your face. all this hard work? absolutely worth it, and you weren’t gonna slack off just because you got in.

further down the letter, it said they were going to be enforcing dorms earlier than usual. something about teaching future heroes about responsibility before becoming an adult, blah blah blah.. all you could think about was how you got in all by yourself, you won, and getting into UA will go amazing on your resumes and help you open your own support agency in the future.

this was your first step to your dream.

in the months before moving into the school, you obviously kept up your practice, but allowed yourself to relax a bit, you no longer had the anxiety and weight on your shoulders of trying to enroll, so instead of 5AM, you woke up at 7AM instead. you let yourself hang out with friends more, go out more, and spend some of that cash that had piled up through commissions and a job that you had taken up at a local coffee shop as a barista when you thought you had to pay for UA on your own. doing this, you learned about the world outside of your basement or the junkyard, and grew an appreciation for clothes and shopping.

the day to move in crept closer and closer, you started packing your clothes, using 2 suitcases. i mean you were gonna be there for a year, and obviously you were gonna visit home, but you didn’t wanna travel back and forth for clothes. you packed up everything you could, and used moving trucks to deliver furniture once the day did roll around.

walking up to the dorm building was scary. a chill ran down your spine as you stared at the huge building that was shaped like a U. it was smaller than the school, obviously, but still big. general, hero, support, and management students were all mixed into 2 buildings. the school didn’t want to separate students, it saved money and was under the guise that it’d help you make friends with whoever, despite was class you got into.

what they didn’t state was the hidden hierarchy inside the buildings. after a month, you soon learned that some hero students looked down at the rest, most general students looked down at support department students, and management was a weird mix of egotistical assholes and shy people who knew that they were in the ‘lowest’ class. lowest meaning easiest to get into, which wasn’t really true. you felt like you could’ve easily gotten into the general course, but whatever. you didn’t care about that.

back to the dorms, other people were passing you by when someone bumped into your shoulder. it was a tall guy, muscular, and weird blonde spiky hair.

“watch it, extra.” the stranger growled at you.

you were taken aback, annoyed at the audacity. “you bumped into me, weirdo.” you scoff, rolling your eyes.

you thought this was a well-mannered school, guess not. you brushed it off though, lugging your suitcases into the building. you were met with a big common area, there was even a small kitchen with a cafeteria. you smiled, it was modern, fancy, nothing like anything you’ve seen before.

you rolled into the elevator, going to the second highest level, where your dorm was.

you were nervous. still. you didn’t know who you would meet, if you would make friends, if people would like you.. but all you needed to focus on was unpacking.

ding.

the elevator doors opened, and you walked out, strolling down the long hallway until you got to the end. your room was at the very end, it had more open windows, letting a LOT of natural light in. you knew you had to get curtains though, since the windows were so big. you walked in and gasped. your very own living space. obviously you’d have to decorate and make it home, but all in due time.

you walked in, closing the door behind you, looking at your view. you could see the city from here, which wasn’t a huge drive, 10 minutes, 20 maybe if the traffic is bad, which it usually is.

on your other window was pure forest, you could see beautiful mountains. it was stunning, breath-taking view.

you put on some calm music and unpacked, humming to yourself and you hung your clothes, folded pants, ironed your uniforms, and placed your usual tools and books you brought in the shelves and drawers that the school had provided.

you were exhausted by the end of the day, you watched the sunset dip under the mountains and you closed the curtains you had installed earlier as you changed and got into bed and slept for a couple hours before waking up in the middle of the night.

thump. thump. thump.

were those.. drums? music? who the hell was playing such a loud instrument so late at night?

you needed your sleep. you could not be tired on your first day so you got up and out of your dorm, stepping down the hallway a bit. the noise was coming from your neighbor. seriously? am i gonna have to deal with this for 3 years? you thought as you knocked politely on their door.

no answer.

you knocked louder.

no answer, and you could hear their music getting louder, almost as if they were trying to tune out the knocking.

you started to bang on their door before you heard the music stop and angry stomps to the door before it swung open.

a handsome face met you, but it was tainted with a scowl, a disgusted and annoyed look.

wait a minute.. you recognized that ugly hair. it was the same dude that bumped into you earlier. a flicker of recognition flashed on your face before you furrowed your brows.

“the hell do you want?” he growled down at you.

“mind turning down your music? to 0, maybe?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at his audacity (again.).

“mind getting some earplugs, bitch?”

you gasped, shocked a bit.

“some people are trying to get their beauty sleep.”

“yeah, you look like you really need it.” he chuckled in your face, his eyes roaming your disheveled form.

you groaned, “if anyone needs it, it’s you.”

“yeah? well go fuck yourself.” he said before slamming the door in your face. you groaned harder, shuffling back to your room and slamming the door shut as well. you got into bed, trying to cover your ears with pillows to block out the obnoxious drums from next door.

you eventually willed yourself to go to sleep.

maybe tomorrow will be better?

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Another Clone Danny x batfam au, Danny was also full dead before he's shoved into a clone body, but it's not really relevant in this part.

[Pt2: here]

Danny isn't a hundred percent sure how he got here. Last thing he remembered was running away from the GIW and his parents. They got a lucky shot on him, and he was losing ectoplasum fast. He's pretty sure he was about to fully End. He remembers being mildly amused over his parents' inventions killing him twice, before it all goes dark.

He woke up as a baby. A clone baby by the looks of his environment, an underground lab(?). His creator(?) is staring at him as if he's a miracle, and given the fancy sci-fi screen thingy (a tablet? Or ipad? He's not sure how he knows these terms) in front of the cloning tank say "attempt 99", he probably is this guy's miracle.

Danny doesn't see anyone else around, and this guy, a teenager about Jazz's age (?), seems happy on a personal level to see Danny wiggling in the tank. So it's not likely he was forced to do this. Whatever this is..

"I did it...? Holy shit! I did it!" The teen cheers before freezing, "I'm a parent now.. I did not think this through... welp, I'm a parent now."

The guy checks his vitals before draining the tank. Danny is handled as if he's the most precious, yet breakable thing in the world to this kid.

"Hello, I'm Tim, your dad, I guess." The kid, Tim, introduces himself, and Danny giggles at him because if Danny was a normal baby, he'd have no idea what he was saying. "You're the clone of my dead best friend. He was half kryptonian. I promise to do my best to help you learn your powers and culture. I'll break into Clark's ice fortress if I have to to do it."

Danny has no idea what any of that means, but Tim seems determined, so Danny isn't too worried. He's more worried about the power thing. Are they going to be completely different from his old ones? Does he still have access to his ghost powers?

His little baby body can't handle his big emotions, and he starts crying. Tim panics, checking for mess, before realizing he doesn't have baby supplies. He clearly didn't think his cloning attempt would work with how unprepared he is. And that's valid if Danny really is his 99th attempt.

Tim bundles Danny up and rushes them to the nearest store that has baby supplies. Danny is clothed and fed promptly and given a wolf plushy. Danny isn't sure about the wolf thing, but the stuffie does sooth his baby instincts, so he rolls with it.

"Alright, baby. I... I didn't think of a name for you. I originally was trying to make a clone closer to Kon's age and figured they could name themselves, like Kon did." Tim sighs, slightly rocking Danny in his arms. "Man, I must seem insane talking to a baby. A baby I made because I couldn't deal with one more person in my life being dead or gone."

Danny notes the interesting wording.

"Okay. Can you understand me at all? I forgot to adjust the knowledge download to a year old's level, but that doesn't mean your baby brain absorbed any of the info."

Ooooh, that explains why he knows things that didn't exist where he's from.

Danny blows spit bubbles and attempts to nod. It's a bit hard, his baby muscles not developed enough for the action. Tim understands, though.

"Okay, okay." Tim looking both scared and relieved. "How about you pat me once for yes and twice for no? At least for now. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Danny lightly smacks a hand to Tim's face. They both giggle over it.

"Alright, so I'm going to list off names, and you can tell me yes or no, okay?" One pat. "Okay, let's see."

Danny wonders if he can get a new name that can still let him have Danny as a nickname.

"Jasper" No

"Darin" No

"Dugu" No??

"Presh?" No! Tim? Where are you getting these names??

"Ratan" No

"Cicil" No

"Matthew" No

"Theo?" No

"Alihan" No

"Atiya" Nope

"Tesher" No

"Senai" No

"Uuum... Habwat?" No

"Geoffrey" No

"Amari?" Nope

"Jordan" ... huh, technically could get Danny from that, but still. No.

"Riley?" No

"Drew?" Nope

"Nova" Oooo so tempting, but no

"Esteban" Nope

"Izar" No

"Aedan?" You know what, good enough. That's Danny's new name.

Tim looks misty eyed when Danny finally agrees to a name.

"Alright, welcome to the world, Aedan Drake." Danny blows bubbles at him. "We'll visit adding Kent and getting you a proper kryptonian name when you can actually speak and understand what those names mean. Kon's human name was Conner Kent, and his kryptonian name was Kon-El. It translates to abomination of the house of El. He was a clone of Kal-El and wasn't treated well for it. I won't let the Els treat you as they treated him."

Tim looks pissed on his friend's behalf and cradles Danny protectively.

"The Els don't matter anyways. You will always be a Drake. And Drakes protect what they claim with viciousness." He kisses Danny's forehead. He then moves to the fanciest computer Danny has ever seen, and with the hand not supporting Danny's body, starts designing what appears to be a bulletproof and stabproof baby carrier. "I should have waited til after I finish hunting for clues to get Bruce, he's my adoptive father, out of the timestream. My siblings think I'm crazy, which creating a clone isn't helping my case over, but I know he's alive. I found evidence, just not enough to prove it to them."

Danny starts nodding off. Tim's ramblings are soothing and his hold gentle, Danny's tiny baby body doesn't stand a chance at staying awake. He's sad he's missing out on all the dad lore because of it.

Once the carrier is ready, Tim starts going out and taking Danny with him. Danny is actually pretty safe on these outings. The carrier is bulletproof, stabproof, has tinted bulletproof glass so Danny can get sun without people seeing him, it's temperature controlled, well ventilated, and has plenty of cushion. Seriously, Danny is sure the whole thing is like 60 pounds with him in it, but Tim gives zero fucks. He's determined to keep Danny safe.

It's super touching. And Danny swears to one day return the favour. The day is closer than he thinks when a creepy old fucker crawls out of the woodworks. Danny hates him instantly. Tim explaining the creep's relation to Tim's family doesn't change Danny's mind. In fact, it probably makes his opinion on this Ra's Al Gul even worse. And once he sees how that pedo looks at his sweet new dad, he plans to be an absolute menace.

[swifttrinitychronicle]

Best Web Development Course in Phagwara

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[on-the-clear-blue]

Danny, staring up at Tim, who currently Robin: okay...so this isn't what it looks like.

Tim, giving dead pan glare: so you arnt breaking into Drake Manor?

Danny, shoulders dropping: okay yeah it's totally what it looks like...but not because you think!

Tim, sighing slightly: so you arnt homeless and thought that since Timothy Drake was recently adopted by Bruce Wanye, and both of his parents are dead you can just move in and live here?

Danny, blinking owlishly: I mean, yeah? I mean, not homeless, and I didn't even know that dude got adopted, like good for him, hope that he is safe and shiz, sucks that he parents died and all but not here to squat dude.

Tim, raising a single eyebrow: then why pray tell are you here?

Danny, kicking at the ground a bit: so like...ugh, so I might be um like...a...fudge what's the word...ah! Psychopomp? Like I am a dude that helps like people's ghosts pass and like keeps em happy.

Tim, squinting behind his mask: the only person that died here is Jack Drake and I assure you, his soul would not be happy going to where he deserves to be.

Danny, holding up his hands: wow lot of misplaced aggression there boy wonder...no I ain't here for him, like him and his wife did like...so much tomb raiding they would make the Victorians jelly. I am here cus they stole some dudes shit and he wants it back...like yesterday.

Tim, tilting his head: so you are here to steal an artifact.

Danny, popping the P sound: Yup, something about some guys clay tablet, he liked keeping his hate mail for some reason, said this one was about how he shorted some dudes iron? Or was it copper... my Mesopotamian isn't the best.

Tim, eyes widening, because he knows *exactly* which tablet he is talking about: Oh...yeah no bro, you seem chill but I really can't let you have that so why don't you just like...walk away and I won't be forced to do something kay?

Danny, frowning: Sames dude, up until that .y guy cus like...I *really* wasn't asking...

Tim, sighing as he extends his bo staff: Try and just like, not hold a grude yeah? Don't need a new villain...

Danny, pulling out an ecto gun and turning it on: I don't know man...I feel like we have good banter.

(They fight, Tim is still training so he is a bit sloppy, and Danny isn't shooting to kill, so it's more of them playing cat and mouse throughout Drake Manor, it ends with Danny stealing the tablet but having to leave the ecto gun, which gets broken when he escapes)

Tim, panting as he watches Danny flee: Fuck...is this what B feels after fighting Catwoman?

---

Bruce, rubbing his temples as Tim explains why he was late for training: You tried to apprehend an unknown, with a weapon of an unknown source and power...in the home of your secret identity?

Tim, looking properly chastised: God...yes that happened...he wasn't that bad honestly...was pretty witty.

Bruce developing a twitch in his eye: No.

Tim: No? No what.

Bruce, glaring hard at his adopted son: No falling in love with a villain.

Tim, looking scandalized now: Oh? What is this? Hypocrisy thy name is Bruce Wayne!

Bruce's glare turns into a batglare: Ten laps around the cave and fifty bo staff katas...no villains!

---

Danny becomes Tim's rogue, but not really, most of their battles are more each other showing off their new gear/moves they learned.

Danny also is only using tech that his parents made and he upgraded since he really doesn't want to go ghost in front of *Robin*, who is totally not his crush, and the only reason why he won't is because batman would 100% be on his ass.

Danny, pulling a massive creep stick with a nail driven through it out of seemingly nowhere: The new and approved Creep Stick! This time with nail to add tetnus damage!

Tim, watching as 'The Inventor' escapes once more: I hate seeing him leave but by God do I love watching him go...Damn should have turned on the camera just so I can see it again.

Barbara chiming in: Keep the main line PG Robin.

Batman, through coms: Hn...we shall be having words when we get back to the cave

Tim, sipping a soup that The Occultist made: "So like...why were you even here?

---

When the Titans tower incident occurs, Tim could only watch in awe as the Inventor, not only comes in from the ceiling with a literal metal chair, and then continues to beat up the guy with a bad Robin cosplay.

Danny, panting as he holds up the chair again: Back I say! Back! My blorbo!

Jason, seething as he actually hisses at this random teen that appeared out of nowhere, scurrying away while cradling his broken arm: You shall rue the day! Jason Todd was here bitches!

Tim, staring up at Danny, face a bloody mess and an adoring look in his eyes: omg he stalks me, this is must what the other guys felt when I did it!

They don't really start dating, it's much more Danny breaking into Tim's house and just not leaving.

Tim, watching as his "arch enemy" is sprawled across his couch, bucket of ice cream in one hand, spoon in another, phone balanced between his ear and shoulder, pants and socks tossed haphazardly across the living room and just chilling in his boxers: Now wait a damn minute.

Danny, pausing while looking up from his ice cream (which is actually Tim's, since the boy is rich and buys the good shit), pointing his spoon accusatorily at Tim: Your fucking late Mister! Drag race started half an hour ago and we agreed to watch it together!

Tim, blushing under the Robin mask: Sorry case got good and- wait wait wait, when did we agree to watch drag race together?

Danny, rolling his eyes: when I made breakfast this morning? I even gave you extra strong coffee for your solem swearing that you would be here.

Tim, thinking back to earlier: I just...remember a bright white orb giving me a mug and a plate of food...

Danny, scoffing: this is why I need to drug you to get to sleep more often. Now take off your gear and get over here, they about to choose who shall sashay away!

Tim, nodding slowly: Hope it is that one queen from last episode, that lio sink didn't have any- wait! Ugh you keep distracting me! When did you fucking move in? I don't even know your name!

Danny with a spoon just an inch away from his mouth: Jazz? Yeah I uhh...I gotta call you back...(clicks hang up on his phone) Your joking right? For the shits and gigs?

Tim, shaking his head slowly: No shits, not a single gig my dude, 100% honest.

Danny, who had just arrived this morning since his parents are renovating because Fenton HQ is a glaring OSHA violation, but also who's middle names are "commit to the bit" and "Gaslight GateKeep Girl boss" : Babe we have been dating for like, *months*...d-do ou really not remember?

Tim, existential crisis made manifest: Oh no...I have been mind wiped.

Danny, astounded that worked: Baby I am so sorry...

They "date" for like a week before Danny starts feeling bad that he tricked Tim (who he finally got to see maskless, he had to stop his heart to not show any outward reaction to that, cus like hell he is cute) and wants to come clean but he honestly never had seen Tim more happy nor more healthy.

Danny, sitting across Bruce at the Manor: S-So um...like yeah we um...met at a science convention? My um...my parents were show casing stuff and like...we met there?

Bruce, eyes narrowing because that sounded like a lie: Hn.

Dick, happy that Tim finally felt comfortable to bring his "boyfriend" to dinner: B stop glaring! Your going to scare off Timmy's Bf! God you weren't this bad when I brought over Roy that one time.

Bruce doesn't stop glaring, and it's making Danny even more nervous: Um I uh...need to use the bathroom one sec...

Tim moves to guide him but Alfred waves him to sit down: You really must eat Master Timothy, I did make your favorite today. I shall guide Mister Fenton to the lavatory.

Alfred does indeed lead Danny from the dining room, but the second they are far enough the old butler suddenly has a shotgun in hand, skin suddenly a pale blue and objects around the parlor turning green and floating: While they do try and see the best in others, I do not Phantom, now I must ask you to kindly leave and never contact Master Timothy every again. I shall not let my charge fall for such as the likes of you.

Danny blinking at how he was addressed, a sudden ghostly blue mist escaping his mouth: Oh shit.

They have a ghost fight, all while comically popping in and out of the dining room, making excuses for whyvthe other is gone.

It ends when Tim, finally fed up with why his boyfriend is taking so long opens the door only to see him duking it out with Alfred, fully gone ghost and was loosing.

Such leads to confessions of lies, real feeling and why Alfred has been able to be a spry 60 even though he fought in WWI and it is very much the mid 2010s.

(Danny and Tim do end up together, this time with no lies about a mind wipe, and get Kon and Bart to join their polycule later on)

[rulerofstars]

autumn whispers

oneshot: in the space between being a public hero and a private man, between the chaos of saving the world and the peace of your shared sanctuary, lies the most profound truth—that even after facing the darkness of the void, bucky barnes still finds his way home to you.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: fluff, fluff... more fluff. thunderbolts. bucky barnes. 1.9k words.

The warm studio lights beamed down on the polished hardwood floor of the talk show set. Outside, autumn leaves danced in the crisp October air, but inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation as the audience quieted down. A montage of explosive battle footage played on the large screen behind the host's desk: scenes of the Thunderbolts fighting side by side against the latest world-ending threat.

"And we're back with our very special guest tonight," the host, Marissa, announced with practiced enthusiasm as the camera panned to her and her guest. "The man who went from war hero, to villain, to hero again, to congressman, and now back to saving the world—Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!"

The audience erupted into applause as the camera focused on Bucky. You couldn't help but lean closer to your television screen, heart fluttering despite yourself. There he was, Bucky Barnes, looking almost unfairly handsome in a navy blue button-down that brought out the steel blue of his eyes. His brown hair, now grown out to just below his chin, was tucked behind his ears with a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead.

He smiled politely, the expression warm but reserved in that way only Bucky could manage. The past decade had smoothed some of the harder edges from his face, but the slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was in the spotlight, remained.

"Thank you for having me, Marissa," he replied, his voice carrying that gentle gravel that always sent shivers down your spine.

"So, Congressman Barnes, or should I call you Sergeant Barnes again?" Marissa asked with a flirtatious edge to her voice, leaning slightly toward him.

"James is fine," he answered with a small, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"James," she echoed, clearly delighted. "After three years representing New York's 14th district in Congress, many were surprised when you answered the call to rejoin the Avengers for this latest crisis. Tell us about that decision."

Bucky shifted in his seat, his vibranium hand, now sleekly designed with Wakandan tech that allowed it to appear almost indistinguishable from his right except for a subtle metallic sheen, rested comfortably on his knee.

"Well, when you've been fighting as long as I have, you learn that duty comes in many forms," he started, his voice thoughtful. "For the past few years, I thought my duty was best served in Congress, fighting for veterans' rights and rehabilitation programs for enhanced individuals. But when the call came that the Thunderbolts needed backup..." He paused, a shadow of something deeper crossing his features. "Some battles need to be fought on different fronts."

You smiled at the television, remembering the late-night conversations that had preceded his decision. The worry in his eyes, the way he'd held you close as if trying to memorize the feel of you in his arms before leaving.

"And what a battle it was!" Marissa exclaimed. "The footage we've seen is just incredible. Working alongside the Thunderbolts again after your own time on the team—how did that feel?"

Bucky's expression softened slightly. "Like coming home, in some ways. That team—we've been through a lot together. There's a trust that develops when you've fought side by side with people who've also known what it's like to seek redemption."

"Speaking of coming home," Marissa segued smoothly, her tone shifting to something more personal as she leaned even closer, "one thing our viewers are dying to know, is there someone special waiting for you when you return from saving the world? The Internet has been abuzz with speculation about Congressman Barnes' love life."

The camera zoomed in slightly on Bucky's face, catching the nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes. You held your breath, knowing what was coming.

"No comment on that front," he replied diplomatically. "I prefer to keep my personal life private."

Marissa wasn't deterred. "So you're saying you're single and available?" she pressed, her smile widening.

A flash of amusement crossed Bucky's face, there and gone in an instant that most viewers would miss. But you knew that look, he was thinking of you.

"I'm saying that some parts of life are sacred enough to keep away from the spotlight," he countered gently but firmly. "I learned that lesson the hard way over many decades."

"Fair enough," Marissa conceded, though she looked slightly disappointed. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of viewers who'll be happy to hear there might still be a chance with the heroic congressman."

Bucky gave a noncommittal smile as the conversation shifted to policies he had championed in Congress and how his perspective as both a veteran and an enhanced individual had shaped his legislative priorities.

You switched off the television with a fond shake of your head. He'd handled that perfectly, as always. The agreement you'd both come to early in your relationship, to keep your love life completely separate from his public persona had served you well. No reporters camped outside your door, no intrusive questions about your past, no scrutiny of every aspect of your relationship.

Just the two of you, living your quiet life together between his more public responsibilities.

You glanced at the clock, he'd be home soon. The interview had been pre-recorded three days ago, before he'd returned from Washington. With a smile, you headed to the kitchen to finish preparing his favorite autumn meal.

The door clicked open quietly just as you were pulling the apple cider from the stove. The familiar sound of Bucky's footsteps—always lighter than you'd expect from a man his size—made your heart leap.

"Something smells amazing," his voice called from the entryway.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway of your small but cozy kitchen, jacket already hung by the door, boots removed. His hair was slightly tousled from the autumn wind, cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The sight of him, not Congressman Barnes, not the Winter Soldier, not even Avenger Bucky, but just your Bucky—made warmth spread through your chest.

"Welcome home," you said, setting down the pot and crossing the room to him. "Just in time. I saw your interview."

His arms encircled your waist as he pulled you against his chest, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply as if drawing strength from your scent. "Yeah? How'd I do?"

"Mmm, very diplomatic," you murmured as his lips found the sensitive spot below your ear. "Marissa was really trying her best, wasn't she?"

Bucky chuckled against your skin, the sound reverberating through you. "Didn't even notice," he mumbled. "Was too busy thinking about coming home to you."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, reaching up to tuck a strand of that soft brown hair behind his ear. His eyes, those incredible blue-gray eyes that had seen nearly a century of history—looked at you with such tenderness it made your breath catch.

"Missed you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that intimate tone reserved only for you.

"It was only three days this time," you reminded him with a smile, though you'd felt every hour of his absence.

"Three days too many," he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Congress, Avengers, interviews... none of it compares to this. To you. To us."

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, still amazed after all this time that this man—this complicated, beautiful, heroic man—had chosen a quiet life with you when he could have had anything or anyone.

"I made something special for you," you said, gesturing toward the kitchen where delicious aromas wafted through the apartment.

His eyes lit up with simple pleasure. "You spoil me, doll."

"You deserve to be spoiled," you replied easily. "Now go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

He stole a quick kiss before heading to the bathroom, and you returned to the stove with a smile playing on your lips. The routine was familiar, comforting, a pocket of normalcy carved out of extraordinary circumstances.

The small dining table in your apartment was already set, candles waiting to be lit. Outside your window, the trees on your quiet Brooklyn street displayed their autumn finery, reds, golds, and oranges creating a fiery tapestry against the darkening evening sky. You'd chosen this apartment together three years ago, when Bucky had first run for Congress, close enough to his district office but far enough from the heart of the city to give you both room to breathe.

Bucky returned, changed into a soft henley and comfortable pants, his hair damp and combed back from his face. The scent of his cologne, subtle notes of cedar and bergamot—filled your senses as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, helping you bring the food to the table, lighting the candles, pouring the cider into the ceramic mugs you'd bought together at a craft fair last autumn. As he passed behind you, his hand brushed against the small of your back, a gentle touch that sent pleasant shivers up your spine.

"So," you began as you settled into your seats, Bucky choosing to sit close beside you rather than across the table. He casually rested his hand on your thigh, thumb making small, gentle circles against the fabric of your pants. The warmth of his touch radiated through you as you leaned slightly into him. "How did the debriefing go? The real one, not the TV-friendly version."

Bucky took a bite of the food, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation before answering. His face was so close to yours that you could feel the gentle warmth of his breath, inhale the intoxicating blend of his natural musk and subtle cologne. "Better than expected. Bob says hi, by the way. Wants to know when we're coming over for dinner."

"Tell him anytime he's willing to cook," you teased.

Bucky smiled, a genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Will do." He took another bite, then added more softly, "It felt good, being back in the field. Different than Congress. More immediate. In Congress, you fight for change that might take years to see. Out there, you know right away if you've made a difference."

You nodded, understanding the complex relationship he had with his dual roles. "You make a difference either way, Buck. Different battles, like you said in the interview."

"Speaking of the interview," he said, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, "sorry about the 'single' implication. You know how it goes."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Please. I knew what I was signing up for." You took a sip of cider, the warm spices dancing on your tongue. "Besides, I kind of enjoy being your best-kept secret, Congressman Barnes."

His expression softened as he turned to face you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to cup your cheek. The candlelight caught the subtle gleam of his vibranium fingers against your skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He tasted of cider and something uniquely him, a taste that never failed to make your heart race. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"Not a secret," he corrected gently. "Just private. There's a difference."

"I know," you assured him. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

The decision to keep your relationship out of the public eye had been mutual from the beginning. After everything Bucky had been through, decades of having his choices taken away, years of fighting to reclaim his identity—privacy had become sacred to him. And you, having seen the media circus that surrounded other Avengers' relationships, had readily agreed.

It wasn't hiding; it was preserving something precious.

After dinner, you moved to the small living room, settling onto the worn but comfortable couch that faced the electric fireplace. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the windows. Bucky pulled the handmade quilt, a gift from Wanda, over both of you as you curled against his side.

"Want to watch something?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

Bucky shook his head, his arm tightening around you. "Just want to be here. With you. No screens, no cameras, no reporters. Just us."

You nestled closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your cheek. His vibranium arm, always slightly cooler than his flesh one, curved protectively around your waist.

"Tell me something good that happened while I was gone," he murmured into your hair.

This was another ritual, finding moments of simple joy to share with each other, a practice that had helped Bucky learn to recognize the good in his life after decades of darkness.

"Mrs. Kapoor from downstairs brought up some homemade samosas yesterday," you told him. "Said they were a thank you for helping her grandson with his history project. I saved you some—they're in the fridge."

"She makes the best samosas in Brooklyn," Bucky said appreciatively. "What else?"

"The maple tree in the park has turned completely red now. It happened almost overnight. And I finished that book you recommended, the one about the lighthouse keeper. You were right, the ending was worth the slow middle."

He smiled against your temple. "I've been reading books long enough to know a good payoff when I see one coming."

"Your turn," you prompted, looking up at him. "Something good from your trip."

Bucky was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm. "There was this kid at the hospital we visited after the battle. Couldn't have been more than eight. Lost his arm in an accident last year." His voice softened. "He showed me his prosthetic—nothing fancy, but he'd decorated it with Avengers stickers. Had Steve's Captain America mask right at the top."

Your heart squeezed. "Bucky..."

"I showed him some of the basic maintenance I do on mine," he continued. "Simple stuff, things his parents could help with. But the way he looked at me, doll..." Bucky shook his head slightly. "Like having one arm didn't make him less. Like it made him special. Connected to something bigger."

You reached for his metal hand, bringing it to your lips and kissing the palm gently. "You changed how he sees himself."

"Maybe," Bucky acknowledged. "That's worth all the congressional hearings and PR interviews combined."

The rain grew heavier outside, drumming a soothing rhythm on the roof. The warm glow from the fireplace cast dancing shadows across Bucky's face, highlighting the contours you'd memorized with your fingertips on countless nights like this one.

"You know," you said thoughtfully, "if Marissa knew what she was missing: quiet nights, pot roast, and rainstorms—she might have tried even harder to get that dating confirmation."

Bucky laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not a chance. This isn't for sharing." His expression grew more serious as he gazed down at you. "Sometimes I think about how different my life could have been. All those years as the Winter Soldier, then the fighting, the pardons, the political career... None of it prepared me for this."

"For what?" you asked softly.

"For how it would feel to come home to someone who knows all of me—every part, every history, every name I've ever had—and loves me anyway." His voice dropped to a whisper. "For how simple and yet impossible it seemed that I could have this kind of peace."

You shifted to face him fully, cupping his face between your hands. "James Buchanan Barnes, are you getting sentimental on me?"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Might be. Happens every autumn. Something about the changing leaves makes a century-old man reflective."

"Well, this century-old man better save some of that reflection for tomorrow," you teased. "We promised to help Yori rake his yard, remember?"

Bucky groaned dramatically. "Why did I agree to that? I was just in a battle to save the world."

"Because he promised to make us sushi afterward," you reminded him. "And because you're a good friend, even when you pretend to be grumpy about it."

He sighed in mock resignation, then suddenly moved, pulling you into his lap in one fluid motion that reminded you of the superhuman strength he usually kept carefully controlled. "Fine. But that means we should make the most of tonight."

Your breath caught as his hands settled on your waist, warm and secure. "Any specific ideas, Congressman?"

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer. "Several. None of which I'll be sharing on national television."

As his lips found yours, gentle at first and then with growing intensity, you smiled against his mouth. Outside, the autumn storm continued, leaves swirling in the wind, the world rushing by with all its complexities and dangers. It was an ordinary moment. And yet, as you padded across the room to join him underneath the sheets, accepting every kiss, every touch, every bit of his being— you knew this was everything neither of you had dared to dream possible.

Congressman, Avenger, Thunderbolt, Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, the world knew him by many names. But in the gentle warmth of a Brooklyn sunset, he was simply yours, and you were his, and that was the greatest truth of all.

[solar-wing]

⚣ Jason: The Rebel 🏍️

⚣🏍️ A/N → @swimmingpainterhandsfreak Jason's installment of the High School AU Courting series. One day, I will learn how to keep a fic under 10k words... today isn't it though. Conner's up next and both his and Dick's are linked at the end. Enjoy! WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI | Omegaverse | Courting Rituals | High School AU | Alpha Jason Todd | Omega Male Reader | Angst | Fluff | Humor | No one is a vigilante | Dick and Jason are not brothers | Jason is the stereotypical bad boy | Minor Character Death | Smut | Explicit Language | jealousy & Possessiveness | Oral Sex | Fingering | Dirty Talk | Rough Sex | Breeding Kink | Creampie |

⚣🏍️ Summary → Jason's always been misunderstood, except by one person. Someone who's always stuck by him and defended him even when others were against him. Now, he plans to make sure he's always by his side. How though?

⚣🏍️ Words → 38.9K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! ❤️

⚣ ENJOY 🏍️

Jason Todd? Everyone knows who Jason Todd is.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a damn Greek statue sculpted for war, he had the kind of physique that made gym rats jealous and made people think twice before testing him. His thick arms and solid chest stretched against whatever shirt he threw on, the fabric clinging to the kind of muscle that wasn’t just for show. Defined abs, powerful legs, and prominent veins running down his forearms made it clear: Jason Todd wasn't just strong—he was dangerous.

Wherever he went, people whispered, stared, or stepped aside, as if Gotham Collegiate Academy’s resident bad boy carried an aura that warned against getting too close. Some saw him as dangerous, untouchable, a walking storm wrapped in dark clothes and bad decisions. Others were drawn to him, intoxicated by the thrill of someone so effortlessly rebellious, untamed, and unpredictable.

He wasn’t just some brooding delinquent, though. Jason Todd had the kind of presence that made authority figures nervous and classmates curious. He was the guy who rolled up to school on a motorcycle, smirking at the rules he planned to ignore. The guy who didn't care about popularity but still managed to be one of the most talked-about names in the halls.

Everything about him screamed “don’t mess with me”, and yet—people did.

They stared. They whispered. They speculated. Because Jason Todd didn’t just look like trouble—he was trouble.

“How does a delinquent like him manage to get into one of the most prestigious schools in all of Gotham?”

“Well, obviously, he’s well connected. I mean, look who his friends are. If I were friends with the sons of two billionaires, I’d take advantage of those relationships too.”

Many—students and faculty alike—had their own speculations and theories about how someone like Jason was able to go to a school like Gotham Collegiate Academy. It wasn’t exactly classified information about where he came from or who his dad was.

BREAKING NEWS: NOTORIOUS LOCAL FIGURE ARRESTED IN CITYWIDE CRIME RING INVESTIGATION

“In a shocking turn of events, authorities have arrested Willis Todd, a well-known automotive shop owner with alleged ties to multiple criminal organizations, in connection to the recent string of high-profile robberies and thefts plaguing the city.

Law enforcement sources confirm that Todd, long rumored to have underworld connections, was taken into custody earlier today as part of an ongoing, large-scale investigation into organized crime operations. Authorities believe his business may have served as a front for illicit activities, potentially linking him to a wider criminal network operating across the city.

Details of the arrest are still unfolding, but officials describe this as a major breakthrough in the effort to dismantle one of the most elusive theft rings in recent history. More updates to come as this developing story continues.”

As one might imagine, Jason didn’t have the best home life.

Willis Todd had done the best he could with the scraps life had thrown at him. He’d fought, clawed, and hustled to carve out something—anything—that resembled stability for his son. If you had asked him, years ago, what kind of life he dreamed of for them, he’d never in a million years have said this.

Not handcuffs. Not mugshots. Not his son watching him get dragged away.

He swallowed hard, the weight of failure settling deep in his chest as he turned to face the boy he’d tried so damn hard to protect.

“Son... I’ve gotta go away for a while.”

His voice was rough, strained—like it hurt to say the words out loud. Maybe because it did.

Jason was only eight years old when his dad went to prison, left in the care of the only other family he’d ever known outside of his father and his deceased stepmother.

His birth mother? A blank face in a picture he’d never seen.

His dad never spoke about her. Never reminisced. Never even slipped up and said her name. If she was a ghost, she wasn’t haunting him—because ghosts left behind something. A memory. A whisper. A trace. She left nothing.

So, the only mother he had ever known was Catherine Todd, and even she had been taken from him too soon. Cancer, illness, something bad—he didn’t know what exactly. He only knew that one day, she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. Jason was five. Too young to understand, old enough to remember.

Life could be a lot of things, but for Jason? Kind wasn’t one of them.

His classmates wouldn’t understand that. Their biggest problems were petty fights, weekend plans, or the wrong shade of a designer bag. They called it “struggles.” Jason called it a luxury.

Because none of them knew what it was like to wonder if dinner would be stale bread or expired cereal with water.

None of them knew—and he was sure they never would—just how long it took for cereal to actually expire.

Maybe that’s why their nasty little words never got under his skin. Because how could someone like that hurt him? Someone who lost their mind over a scratch on their brand-new sports car? A missed vacation? A bad hair day?

They didn’t know strife. They didn’t know struggle.

Everything had been spoon-fed to them since birth. And yet, they had the nerve to look down on him.

They whispered about him in hallways, convinced he had cheated his way into Gotham Collegiate Academy—because clearly, someone like him couldn’t have earned it. Clearly, it had to be his best friends’ rich parents pulling the strings.

Jason laughed at that.

Because if they only knew the truth—that one of the few things Willis Todd got right was making sure his kid was damn smart—they’d choke on their silver spoons.

With no money for tutors or fancy lessons, what else was there for the youngest Todd to do?

Fix cars with his old man. Read every damn book the public library had.

And he did.

And yet, none of them would ever know it. Jason didn’t even really care to prove it, because there were only a few—a very small few—who mattered to him, especially one in particular.

So, while Jason Todd might have had the reputation of a reckless  who lived for trouble, the reality was different. He wasn’t aimless or cruel, nor was he the heartless rebel everyone assumed. Beneath the grit, the sharp edges, and the infamous scowl, there was someone intelligent, fiercely loyal, protective, and—though he’d rather chew glass than admit it—capable of being soft in the right company.

Despite coming from a family that had its fair share of struggles, Jason never played the victim. He worked for everything he had, even if past methods weren’t always… legal. He didn’t need peer validation, didn’t need approval from teachers or his peers. He had his real ones, and that was enough.

People made up their own stories about him.

Some called him a troublemaker—the kind you don’t want to owe, don’t want to cross, don’t want staring at you from across the hall with that sharp, unreadable expression. Teachers watched him closely, expecting him to lash out, to skip class, to prove their assumptions right. Parents warned their kids to steer clear, because a boy like Jason Todd? He had “bad news” written all over him.

Some called him a lost cause—whispered about how he didn’t belong at GCA, how he’d end up like his father, how one day, he’d stop showing up and no one would be surprised. The rich kids sneered, convinced he was some charity case riding on the coattails of his wealthy best friends, too stupid, too rough around the edges to have gotten in on his own.

And then there were the ones who just… wanted him.

Because trouble is intoxicating when it looks like Jason Todd.

Some wanted to know him—not the stories, not the reputation, but him. They wanted to understand what made him tick, what secrets he kept behind that dark, unreadable gaze. They wanted to be the one person he let in, the exception to his indifference.

And others? Many more than most would assume—just wanted him.

Because Jason Todd wasn’t just dangerous—he was gorgeous. All broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and muscle wrapped up in leather and bad decisions. His voice? Low, rough, like the distant rumble of his motorcycle on an empty road. His presence? Unshakable. People didn’t just see him—they felt him, like a pulse in the air, something you couldn’t ignore even if you tried.

And maybe that was the most frustrating thing of all.

Because no matter what story they made up about him—whether they feared him, pitied him, or wanted to pull him into the nearest empty bathroom stall and make a mistake—they all had one thing in common.

They couldn’t stop looking.

But one thing was clear: Jason Todd didn’t do relationships.

Which is why Gotham’s most prestigious high school was absolutely losing its collective mind over the rumor that he was seeing someone.

The only question was, who?

"Are you blind? It’s obviously Y/N," Sasha scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"OMG, yes! You’d have to be stupid not to see it. Those two have been orbiting each other since, like, birth," Manny gushed, practically bouncing in his seat. "They’re so cute together. I can definitely see Jason being a simp for him."

Kevin let out a low chuckle, spinning a football between his hands. "What is it with you omegas romanticizing some sappy, soft alpha?" he said, shaking his head. "You all act like an Alpha’s job is to whisper sweet nothings and play house. News flash—real alphas don’t do that shit."

He leaned back, smirking. "And Jason? No way in hell he’d be some love-sick puppy over an omega. He’s got everything an alpha needs to keep Y/N hooked—strength, presence, dominance, and the right kind of equipment to have him walking sideways. But then, only another real alpha like myself would recognize that."

Kevin threw a pointed look across the table. "Not like some of these soft-ass, house-trained alphas prancing around GCA—like his two little ballerina buddies, Dick and Conner." His smirk deepened. "They’re practically omegas themselves. No wonder they get along so well with you all."

A chorus of groans and eye rolls followed, earning Kevin a round of unimpressed looks from the group.

"Jesus Christ, Kevin." Sasha groaned, smacking him on the shoulder.

"What?" Kevin grinned, "Can’t say I’m not speaking truth."

"Oh yeah? Then I’m sure you won’t mind saying that to your football captain’s face, right?" Manny drawled, arching a brow in challenge.

Kevin’s cocky smirk faltered for half a second before he scoffed, shifting in his seat. "Pfft, I mean—come on, it’s just jokes. No need to get all serious about it. Besides, not like Conner would care anyway." He waved a hand dismissively, suddenly very interested in the football in his hands.

The table erupted into laughter.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." Manny grinned, shaking his head. “Anyways, Jason might have that tough guy look, but it’s clear he’s got a soft spot. And that soft spot is Y/N. Because wherever Y/N is…”

Sasha suddenly perked up, her eyes locking with Manny’s as they both grinned

“...he ain’t never too far away.” They both finished together, laughing obnoxiously while slapping and hugging each other like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Clearly, some inside joke the two other boys at the table were not in on.

And while usually, he’d find the silly antics of his two friends amusing, Ethan, who had been mostly quiet up until now, suddenly scoffed, arms crossed as he leaned back in his seat. "Sure, Jason’s big enough to scare off anyone dumb enough to try something—but is that really enough? Y/N doesn’t need a guard dog. He needs someone who actually listens, someone who won’t just punch his way through every problem."

That earned him a few raised eyebrows.

"Oh?" Sasha smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "Do go on, Ethan. Tell us why Jason, our six-foot-plus human guard dog, isn’t good enough for sweet little Y/N."

Ethan rolled his eyes. "You know exactly what I mean. Jason’s… Jason. He’s reckless, doesn’t think before he acts, and he’s emotionally closed off. Sure, he can fight off anyone who looks at Y/N the wrong way, but that’s not what makes a good alpha. Y/N needs someone who actually listens, who knows how to handle emotions—not just punch his way through every problem."

The table went silent for half a second before Sasha let out a low whistle.

"Wow. That was a very heartfelt, totally unbiased take. Definitely nothing personal there."

Manny smirked, nudging Ethan’s arm. "Yeah, man. Sounds almost like… oh, I don’t know… someone who’s still salty over a 7th-grade crush on their lab partner."

Ethan’s face twisted into an immediate scowl. "Oh my god,  would you let that go? That was years ago."

"And yet," Manny grinned, "here you are, still pressed."

Kevin snorted. "And, dude, no offense, but Jason would break you in half. You may not be a direct threat being a Beta and all, but that dude’s got possessive written all over him. He barely leaves Y/N’s side.”

Suddenly, Manny and Sasha looked at each other again, “Wherever Y/N is…he ain’t never too far away.” The two recited together before bursting out into another fit of shits and giggles.

Ethan’s brow twitched as he shoved Kevin’s football off the table in retaliation.

"Whatever. Y’all are insufferable."

Jason Todd had always been a fixture in Y/N’s life, like a constant shadow, a familiar presence, something woven so deeply into his world that he couldn’t remember a time before him.

Their parents—specifically Y/N’s omega dad, his Papa, and Jason’s father—were old friends from high school. The kind of “old friends” that always made Y/N’s alpha dad narrow his eyes whenever the topic came up. Suspiciously long silences, pointed looks, a change of subject. 

"You and Willis were just friends, huh?" he’d ask, cutting into his steak with a little too much force.

Jason’s dad, leaning back in his chair with a lazy smirk, would take a slow sip of his beer before answering.

"Depends on what you mean by ‘just friends,’" Willis would say, all too pleased with himself.

Jason and Y/N never really understood why until they were older, when Y/N’s Papa would sometimes mutter about “old flames” and his Dad would immediately puff his chest out and skirt them away to their room to have a long serious “talk” that always ended with a bunch of noises and creaking.

Ignorance is bliss.

But whatever the nature of their parents’ past, one thing was clear: Jason and Y/N were inevitable.

Back when they were kids, Jason had been different. Lighter. Freer. Not as hardened by the world, not as reserved or closed-off as he was now. He was the kid who would laugh the loudest, drag Y/N along on every adventure, challenge Dick to races, and teach Conner the best hiding spots in the house. Their little group had been inseparable, but even among them, Jason and Y/N had always been the closest.

"C’mon, Y/N, hurry up!" Jason would yell, grabbing his tiny wrist and pulling him along toward his dad’s auto shop, the library, or some hidden corner of the house where they could plot their next grand adventure.

The two were inseparable, always up to something, always together, always getting into trouble with Dick and Conner.

Jason wasn’t as tough then, but his protectiveness over Y/N? That was always there.

"You’re not gonna cry, are you?" Jason would say, puffing out his chest whenever some bigger kid tried to push Y/N around. "‘Cause you don’t gotta. I’ll handle it."

And handle it he did. The amount of times Y/N’s Papa had to scold Jason for throwing hands on the playground was more than anyone could count.

But one of Jason’s favorite things—something he’d never admit out loud—was when Y/N listened to him read.

They’d sit on the floor of his dad’s auto shop, grease-stained books spread between them, Jason flipping through whatever novel he had gotten lost in that week.

"Do the voices," Y/N would insist, eyes wide with expectation.

Jason would groan, but he’d do it anyway—grumbling about how "annoying" Y/N was while still giving the best damn dramatic reading of a fantasy novel Gotham had ever seen.

And the motorcycle Jason rode today?

That was theirs.

"One day," Y/N had grinned, wiping grease from his hands as Jason tightened a bolt, "this is gonna be our ride. We’ll take it anywhere we want."

"Yeah?" Jason smirked, eyes bright with excitement. "Where to first?"

"Everywhere."

That had been a promise.

One Jason intended to keep.

Then everything changed.

Jason was eight years old when his dad was arrested. He had sat on the couch, legs swinging, watching the news in confusion as his father’s mugshot flashed across the screen.

The words didn’t make sense at first. "Criminal organizations." "Underworld connections." "Large-scale theft ring."

But then, he heard it.

"Willis Todd has been arrested."

And suddenly, everything made sense.

"Son..." His dad’s voice was rough, strained—like it hurt to say the words out loud.

Jason didn’t want to look at him.

"I’ve gotta go away for a while."

The words echoed in Jason’s head long after his father was dragged away in handcuffs. He didn’t cry. He just… stared.

And Y/N was there. Right beside him. Holding his hand.

That night, Jason packed a bag and moved in with Y/N’s family.

Y/N was thrilled. His Papa was more than willing. His father? Not so much.

"Are we really doing this?" Y/N’s Dad had muttered to his husband.

"He has nowhere else to go," his Papa had said simply, already making Jason a plate of food.

Jason pretended not to hear the hesitation, but he saw it. Felt it. He saw the way Y/N’s Dad watched him, waiting for the moment he’d "turn out like his father."

It wasn’t a secret that Y/N’s dad wasn’t exactly fond of Willis Todd. His suspicion extended to Jason, not because of who he was but because of who he might become. 

But he never did.

But Jason never did. And over the years, he grew on the man.

Maybe it was because Jason treated Y/N like the most important thing in the world. Maybe it was because, despite his rough edges, Jason never disrespected his authority. Maybe it was because Y/N’s dad saw the way Jason looked at his son, like he’d tear the world apart to keep him safe.

Either way, he softened.

So much so that by the time Jason was a teenager, the man who had once been his biggest skeptic had become his biggest supporter.

Which was why the man was also the first to set rules.

It was after Jason and Y/N presented—alpha and omega—that the rules slammed down like a damn gavel in court.

"No more sleepovers."

"No being alone in each other’s rooms with the doors closed."

"No unsupervised nights out."

Y/N hated it. "Dad, we’re not even dating."

"Not yet," his father had muttered.

Jason, for all his rebellious nature, didn’t argue. He understood better than Y/N did. Their dynamic had changed. Their instincts had shifted. And if anyone knew what kind of effect Y/N had on him, it was Jason himself.

So he didn’t fight the rules. He followed them—begrudgingly, but still.

At least, until he moved back home.

When Jason’s dad got out of prison, he went back home. He had no choice.

But the years that followed would be a lesson in cruelty—a slow, grinding proof that rock bottom is just a myth, and that no matter how deep you think you’ve fallen, there’s always further to go.

Jason’s knuckles ached.

His breathing was shallow, ragged, his heart hammering in his chest as he stood in the middle of the kitchen, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Across from him, Willis Todd glared, nostrils flared, muscles tensed, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a second round.

The house smelled like anger. Like hot-blooded rage barely contained beneath thinly veiled restraint.

The table was half-shoved against the wall, the chair Jason had knocked over laying in splintered pieces on the tile.

Willis wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, eyeing Jason with something between frustration and reluctant respect.

"That all you got, boy?" he muttered, voice thick with warning.

Jason breathed heavily, chest rising and falling, his body taut with the kind of tension that had nowhere to go.

"You back to working for them, huh?" Jason spat, his voice low, seething. "You back to being some errand boy for the assholes that got you locked up in the first place?"

Willis’s eyes darkened.

"Watch your mouth, Jason."

But Jason didn’t want to watch his mouth. He wanted to spit fire, to hurl every bit of frustration, of disappointment, of betrayal onto the man who had ruined his life and was too damn selfish to realize it.

"You think I’m stupid?" Jason snapped. "Think I don’t see the extra cash? The new parts you’re suddenly able to afford for the shop?" His teeth clenched. "How long till you get caught this time? Huh? Another five years? Another ten? And what—then I’m supposed to just sit back and watch while they drag your ass off again?"

Willis’s expression twisted, his hands slamming down on the counter.

"That’s not your got-damn business, Jason!"

Jason’s laugh was sharp, humorless.

"Not my business? Not my—" He let out a breath, shaking his head, eyes wild. "I was the one sitting in that courtroom. I was the one watching Mom cry herself to sleep every night while you were inside. I was the one visiting you behind fucking plexiglass."

Willis’s jaw tightened.

Jason’s voice cracked, his breath shuddering. "Did you think I wouldn’t find out? For two seconds, did you consider that your son is a lot older now and can tell when his dad is up to some shady ass shit?”

A pause.

"I’m not a kid anymore, Dad."

Willis exhaled through his nose, his head shaking, fingers flexing at his sides.

"Then stop acting like one."

Jason snapped.

Before he even thought about it, his body had already moved, shoving his father back against the counter.

Willis was older, stronger, broader, but Jason was faster, fueled by something raw, something relentless. He saw the way his father’s shoulders tensed, not from fear but from instinct, from years of being someone people didn’t shove around without consequence.

For a split second, Jason thought Willis was gonna hit him back.

And maybe some twisted part of him wanted him to.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Willis’s hands gripped Jason’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, his voice dangerously low.

"You think you’re grown, huh?" His father’s breath was hot against Jason’s face, his grip tightening. "Think you can take me just ‘cause you got a little muscle now?"

Jason’s chest heaved, his eyes burning, his throat tight.

"I don’t wanna take you," Jason muttered, voice thick with something he refused to name. "I just want you to be better."

The words hit harder than any punch could have.

Because for the first time, his father’s expression changed.

The anger didn’t fade. But beneath it, beneath the frustration, there was something else.

Something that looked a hell of a lot like guilt.

Willis let go. Turned away.

Jason didn’t stay to see whatever expression crossed his father’s face next.

Because his legs were already moving, his body already acting on instinct, carrying him out the door, down the street, toward the only place that felt like home anymore.

Between his father’s absence, the taunts from classmates, and the weight of his own anger, Jason had never felt more like he was constantly on the verge of burning out. He hated visiting his dad in prison, hated seeing him in orange, hated the way their time together always ended with an alarm and a guard telling him to leave.

But, through it all, Y/N was there.

Every visit. Every fight. Every time Jason came home angry, every time he didn’t want to talk, every time he needed a way out.

"Window’s open."

Jason barely remembered the run to Y/N’s house. By the time his phone vibrated with the text signaling his green light to go in, all he knew was that his breath was ragged, his hands were shaking, and his body felt too tight, too wound up, too full of something that had nowhere to go.

His muscles burned, his blood ran hot, and the storm inside him—the one that started the second his father spat those words at him—was still raging, still clawing at the edges of his restraint, still begging for a way out.

He didn’t waste a second. Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Just moved.

He scaled the tree like he had a hundred times before, the cold night air biting at his skin before he swung himself through the window with a practiced ease that should’ve been concerning.

And then—fuck.

The scent hit him first.

Warmth. Comfort. Y/N.

His room was dimly lit, golden hues stretching over the sheets, the books stacked on the nightstand, the sweatshirt Y/N had probably stolen from him days ago. But Jason barely registered any of that because his scent was everywhere—strong, thick, filling Jason’s lungs, wrapping around his senses like a noose.

Lavender and something sweeter, something uniquely Y/N, something Jason had spent years pretending didn’t make his pulse quicken and his instincts snarl.

And before he could even breathe properly, something solid, warm, and impossibly soft crashed into his chest.

Jason cleared his throat, shaking off whatever the hell that slip-up was, before huffing out an "Oof—" as Y/N burrowed against his chest, his body warm and pliant from sleep.

Jason staggered back, only barely catching himself as Y/N practically melted against him, bare skin brushing against fabric, his body all heat, all curves, all sleepy weight pressing into Jason like he belonged there.

And fuck, Jason was not ready for this.

"Are you okay?" Y/N mumbled, voice thick with concern but also soft, wrecked drowsiness, like he had been waiting for Jason even in his sleep.

His cheek pressed against the fabric of Jason’s hoodie, right over his chest, right over his got-damn heartbeat that was now slamming hard enough to break through ribs.

Jason sucked in a slow, measured breath, his grip on Y/N’s hips too tight, too desperate, his fingers twitching where they clutched the soft skin beneath his shirt.

He needed to answer. Needed to move, needed to do something other than feel.

But Y/N was in his arms, open and pliant, warm and vulnerable, pressing into him like he didn’t know what he was doing to Jason’s self-control.

And Jason was too wound up, too exhausted, too fucking weak to fight it.

His instincts screamed.

To pull him closer. To nuzzle against his throat, breathe him in properly, let that scent flood his system until it drowned out everything else.

His jaw locked tight—breath hissing between his teeth, his entire body coiled in restraint so fierce it made his bones ache.

He wasn’t okay.

Not even remotely.

But Y/N was here. In his arms. Holding him, grounding him, filling his senses with something so sweet, so intoxicating, it almost made the pain go away.

Almost.

Jason’s fingers curled tighter into Y/N’s shirt. He exhaled, low and rough.

"Yeah."

A beat.

His grip tightened.

"I am now."

Y/N gave a small tug at his hoodie.

"Come on. Bed."

Jason hesitated.

He wasn’t sure he could handle this.

But he let himself be pulled anyway.

The moment they hit the mattress, Y/N curled into his side like it was second nature, like this was where he belonged. One arm slung carelessly across Jason’s stomach, his leg hooking over his like he had every right to drape himself over an alpha twice his size.

Jason wasn’t two seconds from unraveling.

He already had.

His throat burned, his hands still half-clenched into fists, his mind still spinning with too many thoughts he didn’t know how to put into words.

And then—soft fingers.

Threading through his hair. Scraping lightly against his scalp.

Jason let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling in time with Y/N’s.

"I hate him," Jason muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

"No, you don’t."

Jason swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the fabric of Y/N’s hoodie. "I want to."

A pause.

Y/N shifted, pressing his ear against Jason’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

"You don’t have to figure it out right now."

Jason let out a breath, his fingers unclenching as he lifted a hand to rest against Y/N’s back.

"You’re so damn small," Jason muttered, voice still rough, but softer now, the fight draining out of him.

Y/N huffed. "And yet, I’m taking up more space in this bed than you."

“Well, yes…because you’re a bed, sheet, and blanket hogger.”

Y/N lifted his head to turn an arched brow towards the alpha, “Don’t push it, Todd.”

Jason exhaled a short laugh, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He wasn’t okay.

Not even close.

But right now? With Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, with the scent of lavender and warmth pressing into his chest, with the sound of Y/N’s even breathing grounding him—

He could pretend he was.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Y/N was his anchor. The one thing in his life that didn’t feel like it would get ripped away. But Jason knew better than anyone—nothing lasted forever.

And deep down, he feared the day or even just the possibility of a day when Y/N might decide he was done dealing with him and would leave him behind, just like everyone else important to him.

But, as deep as that fear gnawed at him, the chance of it happening was slim to none as Y/N would constantly go out of his way to reassure Jason, without even saying it that he wasn’t going anywhere.

That didn’t mean there weren’t outside forces that would try to take the omega from him either. As they grew older, Jason would settle with the belief that life, the universe, Baba Yaga, or whatever mystical force out there had a bone to pick with him, and him only, as it seemed intent on trying to take the one source of his happiness away from him.

Then again, he is a teenager and thus has the dramatic capabilities of a thousand Broadway actors so there’s that.

But, as they grew older, and approached young adulthood, it became clear that Jason wasn’t the only one who wanted to have and keep Y/N in their lives forever, as more than just friends. He really should have seen it coming.

Y/N had always been the type to draw people in, all warmth and easy smiles, the kind of omega that had alphas tripping over themselves just to get a second glance. It had always been like that—even before they hit their secondary gender presentations, even before Jason really understood what it meant to want someone like this.

And for a long time, it hadn’t mattered.

Because Jason had always been there first.

Until the other alphas stopped just looking and started acting like they had a chance. It started to feel like he was one wrong move away from snapping, because for months—months—he’d been forced to watch, to endure the constant, infuriating reminders that he wasn’t the only one who wanted Y/N. And he’d been dealing with this shit for months now.

Or maybe longer. Maybe it had been years of this slow, creeping realization clawing at the edges of his mind, waiting for him to stop being such a dumbass and just accept it already.

Because everyone else already knew.

Dick had given him the look months ago, arms crossed, smirk way too fucking smug.

"Dude. You’re gone for him."

Conner had just snorted. "Oh, he’s been gone. We’re just waiting for him to catch up."

Even Y/N’s omega dad, who had always been nothing but warm and understanding toward Jason, had just patted his shoulder one night and sighed, knowingly.

"You poor thing."

Like Jason was some lovesick bastard everyone could see drowning except him.

And maybe he had been.

Because suddenly, everything felt different.

The way Y/N would lean against him without thinking, tuck himself into Jason’s space like he belonged there. The way his scent had stopped just being familiar and started being fucking intoxicating.

And worse—the way Jason’s instincts responded to it.

Like some primal, animalistic part of him had already decided—this is mine.

Like he was just waiting for Y/N to catch up.

But the worst part? The part that had Jason on edge, restless, constantly biting back frustration?

Y/N had no fucking clue.

None.

Didn’t notice the way people looked at him. Didn’t realize when alphas got too close, let their hands linger, smiled too long. Didn’t see the way Jason was this close to wrecking someone every got-damn time it happened.

And that?

That was gonna be a fucking problem.

Jason already had the reputation of a rebel, a problem, a walking time bomb just waiting to go off. A future delinquent, just like his old man.

And if things kept going the way they were going, he wouldn’t just live up to that reputation—he’d shatter it. Hell, at this rate, he’d outdo his father in record time.

Thankfully, Y/N, in all his infinite wisdom, had suggested Jason find an outlet for his anger, something to keep him from self-destructing.

"Maybe you just need something physical to work all that aggression out," Y/N had mused one night, casually twirling his pencil between his fingers as they lay on their stomachs doing homework.

Jason had immediately short-circuited.

His body froze, his breath caught, and suddenly, he was thinking about things that had absolutely nothing to do with exercise.

And Y/N—oblivious, innocent, completely unaware of what he’d just done to Jason’s brain—kept talking.

"You know, like boxing, maybe wrestling? Even just running?"

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to shove the very unhelpful mental images away while also squeezing his front against the floor, thinking maybe if he suffocated it, his hard-on would go away.

Logic is key.

But, Y/N had obviously meant actual physical activity.

Not what Jason’s instincts immediately jumped to.

Which, in hindsight, was stupid, considering Jason was no stranger to the gym.

People didn’t just stop and stare at him because of his reputation, or because he was at a school they thought he didn’t belong in.

No—they stared because Jason Todd was built like a fucking problem.

Broad shoulders, a strong, sculpted chest, thick arms that flexed under the weight of whatever he was lifting.

A physique that made it painfully clear that Jason wasn’t just strong—he was the kind of strong that made people nervous.

And Y/N?

He wasn’t nervous.

He just smiled at him, completely unaware that Jason was barely keeping himself together. Then again, it always felt like he was keeping himself together.

Whether it was him standing in some random house on a Friday night, at some stupid house party he didn’t want to be at. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching Y/N laugh at something—head tilted back, eyes shining, fucking beautiful.

And then, some wannabe alpha sat too close, got too comfortable.

Jason watched as the guy brushed his hand along Y/N’s wrist, leaned in like he had the right, like he thought he had a shot.

Jason’s jaw locked.

Every muscle in his body coiled tight.

He smelled it before anything else—that faint hint of something territorial, a challenge.

Like the bastard had the nerve to think he could even compete.

Jason’s vision went red.

The next thing he knew, he was moving.

Didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Just stepped forward, slid into the space between Y/N and the asshole, and let the weight of his presence do the talking.

The guy barely had time to register the shift before Jason was staring him down, slow, deliberate.

"Problem?" Jason asked, voice low, rough, dangerous.

The alpha froze, throat bobbing. "Uh—no. No problem, man."

"Yeah? Then move."

He did.

And Y/N?

Didn’t even notice.

Just turned to Jason with that same easy smile, like the alpha hadn’t just sent some dickhead running with a single look.

"You good?" Y/N asked, like Jason hadn’t just come within inches of wrecking someone for daring to touch him.

Jason gritted his teeth while subtly grabbing Y/N’s wrists, rubbing his fingers over it. "Peachy."

Or the night after another fight with his dad—yelling, slamming doors, Jason’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached, the rage still simmering beneath his skin like a lit fuse.

And somehow, like instinct, like fate, like the only goddamn place his body knew to go when everything else burned around him, Jason found himself in Y/N’s bed again.

The window had still been slightly open from where he’d climbed through, letting in a chill that should’ve cooled the room.

But Jason didn’t feel the cold.

All he felt was heat. Actually…

It felt like he was fighting for his goddamn life.

First, it was the scent—thick, saturating the air, clinging to him, sinking into his lungs. He barely made it through the window without feeling like he was about to be consumed whole by it.

That familiar sweetness, that pulsating warmth—overpowering whatever fucking candle Y/N had burning, drowning out everything else, until Jason felt like he was sinking.

Jason sucked in a slow, sharp breath because—fuck.

It was everywhere.

The scent. The heat. The subtle press of something soft and pliant nestled against his thigh, just beneath the sheets.

Jason went rigid.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

His instincts once again had snarled, a sharp, territorial need coiling deep in his gut, flooding his veins like an intoxicant he couldn’t shake off.

Because it wasn’t just warmth pressing against him—it was need.

It was the soft, feverish h eat between Y/N’s thighs, the part of him Jason had no business being hyperaware of, but couldn’t ignore if he tried.

And fuck, why was it so warm?

Jason’s breath came out rough, uneven, his fingers twitching where they gripped the back of Y/N’s hoodie like a lifeline.

He needed to focus.

On anything else.

But Y/N was breathing slow and steady against his chest, his scent thick, heavy, so got-damn sweet it was practically drugging Jason on the spot.

The omega was practically folded around Jason, wrapped up against him like a second skin, like he was meant to be there. His arms draped lazily across Jason’s stomach, his body tucking into his side, his leg hooking over Jason’s like it had every damn right to be there.

Jason clenched his jaw, shifting slightly, trying—failing—not to notice the slick heat pressed up against his hip, the way every slight movement had it rubbing against him in a way that was making his own situation dangerously uncomfortable.

Fuck.

The frustration, the exhaustion, the leftover anger from the fight with his dad—it all tangled with something deeper, something baser, something Jason knew damn well he shouldn’t be feeling right now.

Not when his cock was already straining against the fabric of his sweats, throbbing, aching, caught between desperate restraint and something far more primal.

Not when every primal, alpha-driven instinct in his body was howling at him to roll over, press Y/N into the mattress, and rut into that soft, needy heat until it was dripping with him—until it was stretched, swollen, stuffed full with his claim.

Not when his instincts demanded he take, ruin, own—mark every inch of that trembling body, make sure Y/N never smelled like anything but him again.

Not when the thought of knotting him, filling him, locking them together in something permanent, something carnal, something undeniably his made Jason’s entire body ache with the kind of need that bordered on pain.

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

How the fuck was Y/N sleeping through this?

How did he not feel what he was doing to the alpha? Not sense his utmost distress and peril at the situation he was in? 

Jason squeezed his eyes shut.

This is why sleepovers got banned.

Holy shit, this is exactly why sleepovers got banned.

And the worst part?

Jason was starting to wonder if those rules had been for both of them.

Or if they’d been for him.

Because this? This was torture.

A slow, burning kind of agony, caught between the instinctual need to take and the desperate need to stay right here, safe, wrapped in Y/N’s warmth, without ruining everything.

And fuck, he didn’t know which one was worse.

Y/N was the only thing that could steady him and wreck him in the same breath. The one person who could pull him back from the edge, quiet the chaos in his head— but also the one who could drive him out of his fucking mind without even trying.

He wasn’t sure how the hell he survived the night.

But the next morning, as he watched Y/N stretch, shirt rising to expose a sliver of bare skin, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep—

Jason knew.

He wasn’t gonna survive much longer.

So, that Monday night, Jason Todd did the one thing no other alpha had the balls to do.

He went to Y/N’s father.

Because Jason was done waiting.

And if he was gonna do this, he was gonna do it right.

The front door he was very familiar with but often never used felt heavier than usual.

Jason stood there for a solid ten minutes, hands clenched into fists, running through every possible outcome of this conversation like it was a goddamn battle plan.

He’d been in rooms with Gotham’s worst before when visiting his dad. He had thrown hands with grown-ass alphas and men twice his size. He had taken beatings, dealt with cops, lived through shit most people wouldn’t believe.

But this?

This was a new level of terrifying.

Before he could bitch out, the door swung open, and Jason suddenly found himself face to face with Y/N’s father—broad, unimpressed, and already raising an eyebrow.

"Jason."

Jason swallowed, forcing himself to meet the man’s stare head-on.

"I wanna court your son."

Better to just rip off the band-aid than keep beating around the bush…or not? He didn’t know—he was fucking nervous.

Silence.

The longest fucking ten seconds of Jason’s life.

Y/N’s dad just stared, unreadable as ever, before tilting his head slightly.

"That so?"

Jason nodded, standing his ground even as his heart tried to punch its way out of his ribcage.

Another long pause.

Then, the man exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before calling out—

"Babe, I owe you twenty bucks!"

Jason blinked. What?

A second later, Y/N’s other Papa appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel, looking annoyingly smug.

"Told you he’d get there before graduation," he said, waving a hand in Jason’s general direction.

Y/N’s father grumbled under his breath, reaching into his wallet. "Damn kid had me convinced he was gonna be dense about it forever."

Jason stood there, completely thrown. "You… bet on this?"

Y/N’s Papa smirked, leisurely counting the cash from his husband before finally locking eyes with Jason.

"Took you long enough."

Jason’s brain short-circuited. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or deeply offended.

Then, with the kind of knowing smirk that Jason was all too familiar with from his son and that made his own stomach twist, Y/N’s Papa added,

"But just so we're clear—if you're officially courting my son, I can’t keep pretending not to notice your little late-night ‘visits’ through the window anymore."

Jason felt the heat rush to his face as his heart nearly slammed out of his chest.

Shit. One can imagine the very interesting and tense conversation that happened afterward as they waited for Y/N to come home, especially from the Omega’s father, who also was not overtly happy at the mention of the late-night visits.

That same night, when Y/N returned home and spotted the familiar motorcycle parked in his driveway, a warm flicker of anticipation bloomed in his chest.

Jason was here.

But that warmth was doused immediately when his eyes landed on him.

Jason Todd—the same Jason who could stare down a room full of people without flinching, who never backed down from a fight, who laughed in the face of authority—was sitting on his porch, hunched over, elbows braced on his knees, hands clenched into fists.

And he looked… nervous.

Not angry. Not frustrated. Nervous.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Jason could be furious, and it wouldn’t shake him. He could be bleeding, and Y/N would roll up his sleeves and handle it. But this? This was new.

His hands felt clammy as he climbed the steps, heart hammering, because Jason looking like this—like his mind was at war with itself, like he was fighting something bigger than his usual battles—meant something serious.

And serious, when it came to Jason, could mean a lot of things.

Y/N swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Jay?"

Jason’s head snapped up immediately, like he hadn’t even heard him approach, like he had been too caught up in his own storm to notice the outside world.

And the second those piercing blue eyes locked onto him, something in Jason’s entire body just—unclenched.

Like he had been holding his breath this entire time and only now, now, that Y/N was standing in front of him, could he actually breathe.

Y/N stepped closer. "What’s wrong?"

Jason let out a slow, uneven exhale, then shook his head, like he was still trying to get himself together.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Nothin’s wrong." His voice was rough, but softer than usual, like there was more sitting behind those words. More that he wasn’t saying yet.

Y/N narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

Jason huffed out a small, barely-there laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, maybe not nothin’… but it’s not bad." He shifted, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

And that? That made Y/N even more nervous.

Jason never hesitated.

"Okay…not gonna lie, you’re kind of freaking me out here. What’s going on, Jason?"

Jason let out a long, suffering sigh, leveling Y/N with a flat stare—the kind that usually made people nervous.

But Y/N wasn’t people.

And the omega knew that look for what it really was.

Pouting.

Jason Todd—Gotham Collegiate’s most infamous bad boy, the alpha who had everyone either terrified or thirsting—was pouting.

All because Y/N had called him Jason instead of his usual nicknames.

Y/N barely had time to register it before Jason’s brow twitched, his voice dropping into a low, grumbling mutter.

"You know I hate it when you call me that."

Y/N arched a brow. "It’s your name."

Jason’s scowl deepened, arms crossing over his broad chest, making him look even more like an overgrown, sulky teenager. "Yeah, well… it doesn’t sound right when it’s coming from you."

And Y/N knew exactly what he meant.

Jason had never been just Jason to him.

He had always been Jay. Or, more notably—Jaybirdie—among other names to come.

The nickname was one of those things neither of them really remembered starting, only that, according to their parents, Jason had been obsessed with birds as a kid—specifically robins.

"I don’t know what it was," Y/N’s Papa had laughed once, recounting the memory. "But Jason had a phase where he was convinced he was a damn bird. Would run around flapping his arms, chirping, climbing everything in sight—"

"—still climbs everything in sight," Y/N’s dad had grumbled.

Y/N had beamed at a then nine-year-old Jason, eyes twinkling with mischief. "You’re like a little jaybird!"

And just like that—Jaybird and subsequently ‘Jaybirdie’ was born.

It was a name that had followed them through childhood, whispered between giggles under blanket forts, shouted across the playground when Jason was daring Y/N to keep up with his reckless stunts, scribbled into the margins of school notebooks when passing notes in class.

It was his name—a name no one else called him.

Because Jason had never let anyone else call him that.

Not even Dick, who had tried once in middle school only to be met with the most unimpressed, deadpan stare imaginable.

"Try that again, Grayson, and I swear to god—"

But when Y/N said it?

Jason melted. Not that he’d ever admit it.

After that, it became law—no one but Y/N called him Jaybirdie. And Y/N should ever call Jason anything but, or one of the other plentiful nicknames he’d had for him.

"Jason—"

…

Call the cops because the law’s been broken.

Jason, looking entirely done with this conversation, exhaled sharply and muttered—

"Whatever, just—here."

As if deciding something in real-time, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out.

Jason glanced at him, clearly catching his reaction, because his lips twitched, a shadow of his usual cocky smirk ghosting across his face. "Relax, sweetheart. Not that kinda box."

Y/N did not relax.

Because Jason still looked serious. And Jason only looked serious when things mattered.

Slowly, he opened the box, revealing a simple yet striking silver ring inside. Simple, unpolished, but solid. Sturdy.

Familiar.

Y/N’s stomach flipped because—holy shit.

It was made from one of Jason’s old bike chains.

The same damn chain Y/N had broken last year when he’d taken Jason’s motorcycle for a joyride and crashed it into a very unfortunate mailbox.

Y/N had come out with only a few scrapes, but Jason was still pissed. Not because of the bike.

Because Y/N had gotten hurt from it, even if it was in a small manner.

And now, here he was, giving him a ring made from that same damn bike.

Y/N almost teared up.

Almost.

Jason exhaled, rubbing a thumb over the metal before looking back up at Y/N, something raw flickering behind his eyes. "It’s for you."

Y/N’s voice felt stuck in his throat. "Jason, I—"

But Jason wasn’t done.

He stood up, stepping closer, pulling something else from beside him—a motorcycle helmet.

Sleek. Sturdy. And unmistakably red. A match to his own.

And somehow—everything made sense.

Jason exhaled slowly, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Then, voice low, he said, "The ring's from the old chain. Figured it was fitting, since you can’t seem to keep your hands off my damn bike."

Y/N stomach did a flip at that, as he tried to hold in his nervous laugh. He just wouldn’t let that go. 

Jason smirked, but it softened almost instantly. He tapped the helmet.

"This is the real thing, though."

His voice dipped lower, softer.

"The helmet’s so you can always be with me. Whenever you wanna be."

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Because the motorcycle wasn’t just Jason’s.

It was theirs.

It was years of sneaking out, of riding under Gotham’s neon lights, of Jason showing him how to shift gears, of Y/N pressing his cheek against Jason’s back as the wind roared around them.

Y/N’s chest ached.

He knew what Jason was really saying.

Jason Todd didn’t share things. He didn’t give pieces of himself away to just anyone. But here he was, offering Y/N something that meant more than words ever could.

It was a delcaration, a silent I choose you, a this is forever if you want it to be.

Y/N’s throat tightened. "Jason…"

Jason held his gaze, shoulders tense, eyes unreadable. "Say somethin’, sweetheart."

Y/N didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He just moved.

One second, he was standing still. The next, he was grabbing Jason by the collar of his jacket and yanking him down into a kiss so deep, so desperate, so all-consuming, it stole the breath straight from his lungs.

Jason made a sound—low, surprised—but he recovered fast.

Really fast.

Because suddenly, strong hands were gripping Y/N’s waist, yanking him flush against a firm, solid chest, and—fuck.

Jason kissed like he fought—with everything he had.

Heat. Teeth. Desperation. Like he had been waiting for this, needing this, for a long, long time.

And Y/N?

Y/N was gone.

The feeling of Jason’s hands on him, the way his lips moved, the low, near-growl in his throat—it was enough to send a shiver down his spine.

The motorcycle helmet hit the porch with a soft thud, forgotten.

Jason was the first to pull back, just barely, his breath ragged, forehead still pressed against Y/N’s.

He huffed out a small, breathless laugh, voice a little rough but undeniably fond. "So… I’m guessin’ that’s a yes?"

Y/N, still dazed, still completely wrecked, somehow still managed to find his smart mouth.

“Technically, you never asked me a question.” His lips curled, teasing, knowing exactly what he was doing. “But, if I’m assuming correctly, then…” He tilted his head, smiling. “It’s a maybe.”

Now it was Jason’s turn to freeze. His expression shifted—lips parting slightly, brows twitching downward.

A full-body offense.

"A maybe?"

A full-grown alpha, pouting, arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist like a clingy damn koala. Jason nuzzled into his throat, breath hot against his skin, muttering, grumbling, sulking.

"Unbelievable."

Y/N bit back a laugh, hands sliding over broad shoulders.

"I mean, I dunno, Jaybirdie, you didn’t exactly—"

Jason bit him.

Not hard, just enough to make Y/N squeak—just enough to shut him up. Childish…but effective.

Jason pulled back, scowling, still clinging, and—fuck, he was adorable.

"Try that again," Jason grumbled, low, almost grumpy. "Because I swear to god, Y/N—if you leave me hanging with a maybe after all that—"

Y/N was laughing now, warm and breathless, hugging him back.

"Okay, okay," he hummed, fingers tangling in Jason’s hair, voice soft with something more real.

He pressed a kiss to Jason’s jaw, right over the spot he had just nipped.

"It’s a yes, dummy."

Jason huffed, but Y/N could feel his grin.

"Good."

And then—because Jason Todd was a menace—

He kissed him again.

Obviously, the school was buzzing with gossip the next day when Jason pulled up to the front entrance with Y/N perched on the back of his motorcycle, both donning their matching helmets like a damn statement piece.

But that? That wasn’t what had people stopping mid-step.

No, the real show—the thing that had the entire hallway vibrating with whispers—was the silver ring glinting on Y/N’s hand.

A ring that, at that exact moment, was enclosed in Jason Todd’s much larger one as he strode down the hall, cutting a direct path through the crowd without a single glance at anyone else.

Jason didn’t need to look.

He could already feel the stares.

And the thing about Jason Todd?

He thrived off that shit.

Shoulders squared, chin lifted, his entire presence radiated smug, alpha satisfaction as he led Y/N to his locker like he was escorting a prize only he had the right to claim. And judging by the bitching expressions of half the alphas in the building? He wasn’t wrong.

Jason’s chest puffed up just a little more, an unmistakable fuck you energy rolling off him as he caught sight of the bitter stares from guys who had never stood a chance in the first place.

Because, let’s be real—Y/N was never theirs.

And now?

Now, he never would be.

Jason squeezed Y/N’s hand, fingers tightening possessively around his while unconsciously playing with the ring on the Omega’s finger as they stopped at his locker. Then, finally, he flicked his eyes up, gaze lazily sweeping over the crowd of sulking, jealous bastards.

And fuck—it felt good.

Conner and Dick found them shortly after, spotting Jason still keeping Y/N tucked against his side like some overgrown, territorial wolfdog. But, to their credit, Jason wasn’t actively growling at them, which—by his standards—was basically rolling out a red carpet of acceptance.

The pair of alphas shared a look, an entire conversation passing between them as they took in the absolute sight in front of them.

Their two closest friends.

Finally. Together.

It was about damn time.

Dick, naturally, was the first to speak up.

Hands on his hips, grinning like a damn idiot, he let out a dramatic sigh. "Wow. So it only took you, what—your entire life to finally make a move?"

Jason’s eye twitched.

Conner snorted, crossing his arms as he tilted his head in fake contemplation. "I dunno, Dick. I think we might be giving him too much credit. Could’ve easily taken another five years at the rate he was going."

Jason scowled, shoulders tensing like he was about two seconds away from decking them both.

Y/N, however, was cracking up, pressing his face into Jason’s shoulder as he tried (and failed) to contain his laughter.

Jason turned that glare on him next. "Don’t encourage them."

Dick smirked. "Oh, no, no. Let him laugh, Jay. This is a monumental occasion." He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes mockingly emotional. "My little Jason—courting like a real alpha. Who would’ve thought?"

Jason clicked his tongue, face deadpan. "I will throw you down a flight of stairs."

Conner chuckled. "Relax, dude. We’re happy for you."

Dick grinned, slinging an arm around Jason’s shoulder in the worst decision of his life. "Yeah, bro. Really. We love this for you."

Jason immediately shoved him off. "Don’t touch me."

Y/N, still shaking with laughter, squeezed Jason’s hand, leaning up to peck his cheek. "They’re just messing with you, Jay."

Jason huffed, but Y/N could feel the tension leaving his body.

Conner smirked. "Seriously, man. Took you long enough, but… you did good."

Dick winked at Y/N. "And you must be so proud of him. Your big, bad alpha finally figured out how to ask you out. What an achievement."

Jason bristled. "Okay, I’m leaving."

Y/N just laughed harder.

“Oh, my FUCK! They’re so CUTE together!”

Manny screeched, nearly vibrating out of his skin as he watched Jason Todd—grumpy, brooding, anti-social Jason Todd—casually holding Y/N’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Down the hall, standing at their usual locker hangout spot, he, Ethan, Sasha, and Kara were practically witnessing a historical event.

Ethan, rubbing his ear with a pained expression, groaned. “Manny, volume please.”

Manny waved him off. “Oh, hush you with your sensitive ass ears. You are not about to tell me that this isn’t the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

Sasha gushed, practically vibrating with excitement. “I know! I heard from Caitlyn earlier that the ring Y/N’s wearing isn’t just some random accessory—Jason made it himself. Like, actually put it together with his own hands.”

Manny gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been struck. “Fanfiction could never…”

Unless?

…

Pfff, yeah right.

Kara crossed her arms, smirking. “Oh yeah, we totally suffered watching Jason Todd be a dramatic, lovesick idiot all this time.”

Manny nodded violently. “Exactly! And now LOOK AT THEM! They’re literally giving black cat/golden retriever energy. Ugh…my fucking dream. Oh, to be Y/N? Think I could find a witch to cast a spell to switch our bodies?”

Ethan, long-suffering, just sighed. “Manny, you seriously need to—”

“OH, SHIT! LOOK! LOOK! Jason’s GLARING at anyone who stares too long! MY GOD, HE’S FERAL! THIS IS BETTER THAN TELEVISION.”

Sasha actually cackled. “How long are you guys betting before he physically body-checks someone for looking at Y/N too hard.”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “I give it until lunch.”

Ethan, frowning at the sore sight, but not wanting to be left out hummed thoughtfully. “I say by next period.”

Manny, grinning like a madman, slammed a twenty on the table. “Bitch, I say ten minutes.

Kara grinned, shaking her head. “Y’all are terrible.”

Just a note: Manny won the bet.

After dropping Y/N off at his class, Jason leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching like he always did. Dick and Conner flanked him, still snickering and talking shit, their teasing only getting worse now that Y/N was out of earshot.

Jason, as annoyed as he was, just rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. He let them talk. Let them have their fun.

Because his focus was elsewhere.

And then—it happened.

One of Conner’s teammates—some over-bronzed, protein-powdered, roid-raging benchwarmer from Kevin’s crew—made the worst decision of his life.

The guy, a walking case of bad judgment and even worse acne, had been eyeing Y/N for weeks.

Just another alpha in the long line of idiots convinced he had a shot. Another poor bastard with a plan.

He was in the same class as Y/N. Had probably been waiting for the perfect moment to make his move—to ask him to the upcoming dance, maybe try his luck.

But the problem?

Jason got to Y/N first.

And Pimple Roid Rage?

He wasn’t handling it well.

Jason wasn’t oblivious—he’d clocked the guy’s pathetic pining a long time ago.

Always hovering near Y/N in class, standing just a little too close. Always watching him, lingering, waiting for a chance. Always shooting Jason dirty looks across the cafeteria, like some scorned, lovesick puppy who just realized his favorite toy was already claimed.

As mentioned before, one of the main reasons Y/N’s father had warmed up to Jason long before the idea of them becoming a couple was ever on the table was the younger Alpha’s unyielding protectiveness over his son.

Even back then, Jason had been watching out for Y/N, stepping in when necessary, making it very clear that no one—no one—was going to mess with him and get away with it.

So while Y/N’s father wasn’t exactly thrilled about the chaos after getting a call from the school’s principal, he also wasn’t disappointed, either.

Not even close.

If anything, it only reinforced his decision to grant Jason his blessing to court his son.

And, well…

The idea of having Jason Todd as a future son-in-law was starting to sound more appealing by the day.

So much so, in fact, that he may or may not have casually floated the idea of a wedding planner to his husband later that evening—

But…what even happened?

Well…

Long story short, Pimple Face decided to shoot his shot anyway, convinced that a little direct confrontation would somehow tip the odds in his favor.

And sure, Y/N was seated at his desk, but that didn’t stop the dumbass from getting bold—too bold.

One second, the guy was smirking, fingers daring to slip under Y/N’s chin, tilting his head up like he had any right to touch him.

The next?

The next moment, he suddenly was no longer in the classroom. Then, he was airborne. And, finally, in the blink of an eye, he was slammed against the lockers in the hallway—hard enough to leave a dent.

The entire hall went silent.

The air crackled with Jason’s fury, his teeth bared, shoulders squared, and one massive hand fisting the guy’s collar so tight his feet barely touched the ground.

"You must be out of your fucking mind." Jason’s voice was low, dangerously calm in the way that promised imminent destruction.

The guy gasped, struggling against Jason’s grip, panic flooding his expression.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move—except for his other hand, which slammed right beside the guy’s head, denting another locker on impact.

"Go on. Say something. Give me a reason not to make you regret waking up today."

Y/N, still processing, barely had a chance to breathe before Jason turned his dark, burning gaze on him.

"You okay?" The question was simple, but the way he said it—deep, thick with possession, with a silent tell me yes before I put him through the wall—made heat bloom in Y/N’s stomach.

Y/N swallowed, heart racing, breath shaky.

Not because of the alpha currently reaching zen with the metal lockers, fuck him. No, Y/N was currently trying to calm his racing heart because Jason was pissed.

And it was hot as hell.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to Jason’s chest—not to push him away, but to remind him he was there.

"Jay," he murmured.

Jason’s eyes flickered, still locked on Y/N, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter stone.

Y/N licked his lips.

"I’m fine."

Jason inhaled sharply. Then, after a beat, he turned back to the alpha, who was still choked up with fear at the menacing and disgusted look thrown at him.

“Touch him again and you’ll be lucky if any doctor is able to fix your hands,” He whispered, before letting go—shoving the guy aside like he was nothing.

The poor bastard stumbled, barely catching himself, before bolting down the hall like his ass was on fire. Within five minutes, the entire school was buzzing like a swarm of bees, whispers spreading like wildfire.

And in the middle of it all?

A very smug Manny, lounging at his own locker, grinning ear to ear as his phone pinged repeatedly—each notification another $20 from his very salty friends reluctantly paying up.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” he typed into the group chat, attaching a meme for maximum gloating.

Jason didn’t get suspended like he usually would’ve for a stunt like that, but the principal did still give him detention along with the other alpha for essentially sexually harassing Y/N. Y/N’s parents along with Willis both made it clear that if Jason was getting punished, so should the football player who put his hands where they didn’t belong in the first place.

Jason was merely defending him.

And the principal was smart enough to put them in separate classrooms for the duration of their punishment. More so for the benchwarmer’s protection, which didn’t help his ego.

Conner—who of course witnessed the whole thing firsthand—promised Jason he’d make the Alpha pay for it double at practice after the whole ordeal. And detention wasn’t too bad.

Ms. Ridges was the one monitoring, which basically meant Jason had free rein to do whatever the hell he wanted since she barely paid attention to anything other than her crossword puzzles.

So, naturally, Jason spent his time doing the most important thing possible—

Texting his omega.

Jason: this is 100% your fault

Jason: u need to stop being hot

Y/N: wow. tragic. truly.

Y/N: but i simply cannot do that. would be a crime to rob the world of… well, me.

Y/N: besides, I wasn’t the one who practically tackled Richie and left some poor kid’s locker looking like a car crash scene…

Jason:

Y/N: RUDE

This was their relationship and Jason’s courting almost in a nutshell.

Honestly? It was like watching two people who were already married—except they were still seniors in high school.

Jason had never made a big deal about courting the way other alphas did—at least, in his mind he didn’t. To him, it was just stuff he’d do anyway—whether they were friends, dating, married, or even enemies.

And who doesn’t love a good enemies-to-lovers trope?

If anyone brought it up, Jason would just roll his eyes, shrug, and mutter some bullshit about “formalities” and “making sure his dad’s happy.”

And by dad, he meant both of their dads.

Willis Todd was surprisingly traditional about this kind of thing—had even placed his own money on the bet with Y/N’s parents for when Jason would eventually propose. But more than that, he had made sure Jason did things right and respectfully.

He even helped make Y/N’s ring.

Y/N only figured that part out much later, which, in hindsight, made the gift all the more special.

And while Jason acted like the whole courting thing wasn’t a big deal…

Y/N knew the truth.

Because even though Jason’s version of courting wasn’t flashy like the rich preppy kids at their school, he damn sure took it seriously.

And, unlike half the wannabe alphas in their class, Jason prided himself on proving—every single day—that he was the best and only alpha fit for Y/N.

It was practically his day job. Just… without the pay rate.

Or salary.

Or health benefits.

Or a 401K.

Or a retirement plan.

...Actually, the retirement part might be included.

The point was, Jason didn’t need extravagant gifts or public displays of devotion. And not just because he couldn’t afford them.

He cared about the smaller things.

The thoughtful things.

The practical things.

It was Jason instructing Y/N to pop his hood, while making his way to the front of his car with that sexy, dominanting walk. Y/N had casually mentioned his engine making a weird noise while they were cuddling on the couch, and within 20 minutes, Jason went home to grab his toolkit and was back at the L/N’s residence working on the Omega’s car.

Apparently, Y/N was long overdue for an oil change. It’s not his fault he didn’t know though…he’s just a baby.

That night, Y/N’s Dad called Willis Todd to tell him what a hell of a son he was raising.

Which, considering the tense history between them? That was a big fucking deal.

It was also Jason volunteering to carry every single grocery bag inside after tagging along with Y/N and his Papa to run errands.

Y/N had barely gotten a single bag in his hands before Jason was already grabbing—snatching everything away from him while giving the omega an offended scowl and a look in his eyes that told him to just stand there and look handsome.

"Was Dad like this when he was courting you?"

His Papa, sipping his lemonade, didn’t even hesitate.

“Yep. Still haven’t carried a bag to this day.” And that’s on waiting for the right one.

But it wasn’t just groceries.

It was his bookbag, his schoolbooks, even a single notebook.

Because, according to Jason—

"Why should you carry it when I’m right here?"

It was Jason always walking Y/N home, opening the door for him, bringing him food, making sure he had medicine when he was sick.

And if anyone ever questioned it?

Jason would just glare, deadpan, and say—

“What, you think I’m gonna let someone else do it?”

Because no.

Jason Todd would not, in fact, let anyone else do it.

Hell would have snow days before that happened.

And Y/N would just smile, shake his head, and let him have his way.

He wasn’t the poetic type. He wasn’t going to write love letters or give corny, dramatic speeches.

But his actions?

They screamed devotion louder than words ever could.

Like when Y/N mentioned offhandedly that he liked a specific brand of snacks—and the next day, Jason was pulling them out of his book bag for him during lunch.

Or when Y/N shivered in class once—and Jason somehow had a hoodie waiting for him within minutes, placed over his shoulders like it was nothing. Or when Y/N sighed, exhausted, after a long day, and Jason just pulled him into his lap without a word, carding his fingers through his hair until he dozed off.

And Y/N would tease him about it.

“Jay, you’re basically already my boyfriend. What’s the courting even for?”

Jason would just grunt.

“Formality.”

Because Jason was damn sure he was going to earn Y/N’s parents' approval. And if he didn’t?

Well. That wouldn’t change a damn thing about what he was doing. But, it was nice to do it without having to hide or be sneaky.

Unless we were talking about his late-night visits—which only stopped for about a week. Then, Y/N texted him one night and…well, the picture is already clear.

He’d already been busted for the late-night visits, and while he was hesitant to outright defy his parents’ orders, he was—unfortunately, or rather very fortunately— far too weak to resist the sight of his Omega lounging around in nothing but a thin tank top and those damn sleep shorts that clung just a little too high on his thighs and rode up every time he shifted.

And it wasn’t always just about sneaking in to see Y/N—sometimes, Jason just needed an escape. A break from his own house. A place that actually felt like home.

So, while his parents weren’t exactly thrilled about it, they also weren’t too hard on him. That being said—Y/N’s dad was still strict. And very clear about his boundaries.

“You put a baby in my son… I put a bullet in your ass.”

He was half joking, half serious.

(…Mostly serious.)

But it didn’t do much to deter them. They were teenagers, after all. And now, with the shift in their relationship, those late-night sleepovers? Things had taken a very quick turn.

Y/N could feel it every time—the way Jason’s breathing deepened, the way his grip tightened just a little more than usual, the way his mouth brushed over the back of Y/N’s neck, slow, teasing, while he held him firmly from behind.

And then—his voice.

Low. Rough.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

Y/N shivered. And, if he was being honest?

He was definitely at fault.

Ever since that one night—that one time and then every time after that Jason had slept over and had to fight every primal instinct not to pin Y/N down and rut into him—it was like walking on a tightrope every time he got into that bed.

Because Y/N?

Y/N was also a menace just like his boyfriend.

Always cuddling too close, rubbing against him, stretching in ways that made Jason’s self-control damn near non-existent.

And tonight? Tonight was no different.

Except this time?

Jason nearly gave in. He was seconds away from losing his fucking mind.

Y/N was already pinned beneath him, flushed and trembling, thighs slick and spread, making a fucking mess on the sheets. Jason had no business being this goddamn hard, this close to breaking, but Y/N wasn’t making it easy.

He should’ve rolled off, thrown himself in a cold shower, done literally anything other than what he was doing right now. But, no…what was he doing instead?

He was grinding against the omega, slowly, teasingly, letting Y/N feel every inch of his cock straining through his sweats, letting him ache for it, letting him need. Jason grinned against Y/N’s skin, slow and mean, fingers teasing along the slicked-up skin of his thighs, his ribs, his chest, taking his sweet, vengeful time.

Jason shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this.

Shouldn’t be grinding against Y/N, shouldn’t be letting his cock drag against slicked-up skin, shouldn’t be letting himself feel exactly how ready Y/N was for him.

Because fuck, he could feel everything.

Even through the thin fabric of his sweats, Jason could trace the heat of Y/N’s rim, could feel just how soaked he was, the slick dampening his own clothes—warm, wet, and so fucking inviting that Jason nearly lost it right then and there.

And then Y/N had to fucking whine. Loud.

Jason’s body reacted before his brain could catch up. His hand was over Y/N’s mouth in an instant, pressing firm, shutting him up.

Y/N went still immediately, wide-eyed, pupils blown, body locked in place like instinct had taken over. Jason exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. His fingers curled around Y/N’s jaw, tilting his head back, holding him still, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“Do that shit again, and I’ll gag you next time.”

A high, muffled noise left Y/N’s throat, his thighs squeezing together, and Jason groaned, eyes dark, heated, fucking dangerous.

“Got-damn it.” Jason buried his face in Y/N’s throat, inhaling deep, his grip tightening, his cock throbbing painfully against his sweats. “You don’t even fucking realize what you do to me, do you?”

Y/N whimpered against his palm, his body trembling, soaking the sheets with slick, and Jason felt every second of it.

Every twitch. Every shiver. Every desperate attempt to move, to grind up, to find friction.

Jason let out a rough, breathless chuckle, voice dripping with authority.

“You wanna be loud? Huh?” His tone was mocking, taunting, sharp with amusement. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Let’s wake the whole fuckin’ house up. Let’s have your dad walk in here and see just how much of a desperate little mess you are for me.”

Y/N’s whole body fucking seized, a strangled whimper muffled against Jason’s hand, hips twitching upon instinct.

Jason grinned, sharp and knowing. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

He ground his hips down again, slower this time, deliberate, letting Y/N feel every inch of him pressing up against where he needed it most.

And then—

The scent shifted and Jason froze.

Something sweet. Something new.

His eyes snapped down to Y/N’s heaving, sweat-slicked chest, and fuck.

Y/N’s nipples were wet, a thin, milky fluid pearling at the tips, trickling down the curve of his ribs. Jason’s entire fucking brain short-circuited. Because he did that. He fucking did that.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, pure fucking alpha pride flooding his system, primal instincts howling that he’d driven Y/N so far into arousal that his body couldn’t help but respond.

Y/N, half-dazed, still gasping, followed Jason’s heated gaze, blinking in confusion before—

His face went red.

“Oh my god—”

Jason grinned, slow and predatory, fingers sliding over Y/N’s nipple, smearing the warm fluid with his thumb, rolling it between his fingers.

“Would you look at that?” His voice was mocking, taunting, dripping with satisfaction. “And here I thought you weren’t desperate enough to soak the sheets for me, but now you’re fuckin’ leaking too?”

Y/N let out the most pitiful noise Jason had ever heard, body tensing, thighs clenching around his waist.

Jason groaned, his cock throbbing painfully, because fuck, this was it. This was the second highest form of omega submission, second only to being knotted.

This was his. His omega. His body, responding to him and only him.

Jason didn’t even realize he’d moved until his lips were wrapped around Y/N’s nipple, tongue flicking slow and teasing, collecting every drop.

The second it hit his tongue—

Jason fucking groaned.

Because holy shit.

Sweet. So fucking sweet.

It was warm and rich, like the deepest honey, but better, smoother, more intoxicating, rolling over Jason’s tongue like fucking liquid gold. Jason sucked harder, letting more of it coat his tongue, letting the taste sink into his bloodstream, burning him up from the inside out.

Y/N let out a wrecked, broken sob, body shuddering, back arching up into Jason’s mouth.

Jason growled against his chest, his free hand sliding down, gripping Y/N’s hip, locking him in place.

Mine.

His instincts screamed it, his body demanded it, and for one wild, dangerous second—

Jason nearly fucking snapped. Because he needed more.

He needed to bury himself deep, make Y/N take it, knot him right here, fuck him until his body couldn’t do anything but take Jason’s seed—

Jason ripped himself away, panting hard, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"You’re lucky I’m not fucking you full right now. You’d be a fucking mess by morning."

Y/N whimpered, squirming, but Jason held him still, keeping his body pinned and pliant.

"Bet you’d like that, huh?" Jason murmured, dragging his tongue over the other nipple, groaning low at the taste. "Bet you’d love for me to fill you up, knot you right here, make you fucking take it."

Y/N shuddered, another helpless whine escaping, his body flushed all over.

Jason just grinned against his chest, loving how wrecked Y/N looked. His beautiful, leaking, slick-dripping omega.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” Jason murmured, voice thick with amusement, dangerous in its slowness, “this is only fair.”

Y/N, half-gone, dazed and twitching, barely managed a breathy, “What—?”

Jason chuckled, dragging his fingertips through the thin, pearly streaks of fluid still trickling from Y/N’s nipples, spreading it, letting Y/N feel how messy he was, how exposed.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” Jason taunted, his grip tightening around Y/N’s thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. “Let me remind you, baby. You remember all those nights I slept in your bed? How you’d roll over and press that hot, needy mess against me?”

Y/N whimpered, cheeks burning, body tensing beneath him. The Alpha’s smirk widened.

“Yeah. Now you remember.”

His fingers dipped lower, sliding just close enough to tease, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

“You don’t know how many nights I woke up hard as a fucking rock because you couldn’t keep still,” Jason muttered, grinding his hips just enough to make Y/N feel exactly what that frustration built up to. “You’d rub all over me, make those little noises in your sleep, and I had to fucking sit there, suffering, pretending like I wasn’t about two seconds from flipping you onto your back and making you take it.”

Y/N let out the softest, most pitiful sound, thighs clenching, hips twitching involuntarily.

Jason groaned, pressing a teasing kiss to Y/N’s jaw, smug as hell. “And now look at you,” he crooned, mocking, mean, eating up every second of Y/N’s helpless little squirms.

“Dripping. Leaking. Practically begging for me.”

Y/N hid his face in Jason’s shoulder, shaking. Jason just chuckled darkly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Jason murmured against his ear, his tone sickly sweet, full of smug satisfaction. “Can’t handle what you started?”

Y/N whined again, thighs clenching around Jason’s waist, slick dripping down between them. Jason felt it. Smelled it.

And fuck, he wanted to ruin him.

To press Y/N down, spread him wide, fuck him so deep he’d still feel it tomorrow. His instincts were screaming at him—breed, claim, mark, take.

It would be so easy. So fucking easy.

But Jason?

Jason was in control. He had to be.

Even as he felt his self-restraint slipping, even as his body was aching to give in, even as his mouth watered at the scent of slick soaking into the mattress—

Jason forced himself to stop.

He ripped his hand away from Y/N’s mouth, dragging his thumb across swollen lips, smirking when Y/N tried to chase it.

“That’s what I thought,” Jason murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

Y/N let out a desperate, broken whimper, thighs still twitching, body still aching for more.

Jason smirked.

"Be patient, sweetheart."

Because when Jason finally knotted him?

Y/N wouldn’t be walking for a week. But, it seemed the omega was willing to try his luck tonight, as Jason felt fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats, just barely brushing him—

Jason growled. A low, guttural warning.

“Stop.”

Jason’s grip tightened. His body locked up, every inch of him wired too tight, too hot, too close to breaking. He exhaled slowly, his breath hot against Y/N’s throat, trying to get himself under control.

“…Behave,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked, pressing a grounding kiss to Y/N’s shoulder.

Y/N barely managed a nod.

“Good boy. Not yet,” Jason exhaled through his nose, gripping Y/N’s chin, forcing his dazed gaze back up to him. His lips curled, but it wasn’t teasing—it was fond. “I want you,” Jason’s voice dropped, rough and thick with heat, his thumb brushing over Y/N’s bottom lip, lingering. “But not yet. Not like this. I’m not gonna—” He swallowed, voice softer now. “I wanna do this right. You deserve that.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into his shoulders, pulling him closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. Soft at first. Then hotter, needier, tongue flicking against his pulse point just to hear Jason’s breath stutter. And Jason—big, bad Jason Todd—fucking melted. His weight fully pressed down, his grip tightened, and suddenly—Y/N was flipped onto his stomach.

Jason’s breath was hot against his ear, his body grounding and deliberate as his hand slid between Y/N’s thighs, spreading them wider. His fingertips brushed against slick, damp shorts and Jason groaned, half in frustration, half in approval. “Oh fuck, baby. You’re driving me insane.”

Y/N whimpered, hips trembling, thighs slick and shaking, pressing against Jason’s hand like he couldn’t help himself. Jason smirked, voice thick with amusement. “Be patient.” Then, slowly, he sank his teeth into Y/N’s shoulder—hard enough to bruise, but not break skin. Y/N gasped, back arching, thighs clenching around Jason’s wrist.

Jason groaned, satisfied, his free hand sliding up Y/N’s stomach, palm pressed firm against his ribs, holding him in place.

Jason was really trying to behave himself.

Really.

But another look at Y/N—flushed, dazed, lips swollen from his teeth, completely pliant beneath him—and Jason lost his patience.

A low, wrecked growl rumbled in his chest, his body moving before his brain could stop him. His hands shot down, fingers hooking into the waistband of Y/N’s shorts and underwear, yanking them down in one sharp motion.

The next second—his own sweats and boxers were shoved down, his cock finally free, thick and flushed and aching—

And then—

Bare skin. Heat.

The moment Jason slotted their bodies together, the moment he felt the slicked-up warmth of Y/N’s entrance pressing right up against his cock, he nearly fucking lost it. A deep, animalistic groan tore from his throat, his hips rolling forward instinctively, grinding into the wet heat, the tip catching just barely against the soft, sensitive rim.

Y/N gasped, back arching, thighs trembling, and Jason’s restraint shattered. Because fuck, he could feel everything.

Every soft, wet, aching inch of Y/N’s body ready to take him. His cock throbbed painfully, the tip leaking against slicked-up skin, every muscle in his body tight, coiled, on the verge of snapping again.

He could just—

Just a little more—

Just one good push forward—

He could feel every inch of Y/N’s slicked-up entrance, could feel the wet heat pressing right against his cock, the way his body trembled, opened up, begged to be taken. But it wasn’t just that.

It was Y/N’s reaction.

The way he whimpered, the way he squirmed, the way he fought to get Jason inside. Y/N was clinging to him, arms wrapped around Jason’s shoulders, legs locked tight around his waist, hips rolling, grinding up, trying so fucking hard to pull Jason in.

“J-Jason—” his voice cracked, high-pitched, needy, fucking wrecked.

Jason growled, locking Y/N’s hips in place, holding him down, refusing to let him move.

Y/N whined. Loud. Desperate. Pitiful.

His fingers dug into Jason’s biceps, his nails scratching down his back, clinging, yanking, trying to push him deeper. Jason could feel the tremors rolling through him, could hear the whimpering little sobs, the broken, pleading moans, the way his omega was fighting to be claimed.

Jason smirked against his throat, mocking, cruel.

“That bad, sweetheart?”

Y/N nodded frantically, writhing beneath him, hips rolling up again, chasing the friction.

Jason tightened his grip, forcing Y/N down, refusing to let him have what he wanted.

“No—please—” Y/N was barely coherent, panting, gasping, eyes unfocused, lost in the need.

Jason chuckled, voice low, taunting, dripping with amusement.

“You think crying’s gonna change my mind?”

Y/N’s body convulsed and a wrecked sob tore from his throat. And it was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever heard.

So much so that he gave in—for just one second.

His hips rolled forward, letting the tip of his cock slide against Y/N’s entrance, pressing just barely against the slicked-up rim, letting Y/N feel just how fucking close he was to having it.

Y/N let out the most broken, shattered moan Jason had ever heard, full-body trembling, clinging to Jason like he’d die if he pulled away.

Jason groaned, lips pressing against Y/N’s ear, voice thick with restraint, rough with frustration.

“You want my dick that bad, sweetheart? Hm?”

Jason stopped. A sharp, wrecked inhale. A visible shudder. Then Jason’s voice—low, teasing, still full of hunger.

“Too bad.”

Y/N let out a full-body shudder, a sob of frustration, trembling beneath him.

Jason ripped his lower end away, forcing his hips back, shaking, panting, his cock still aching, flushed, dripping against his stomach.

Y/N whimpered at the loss, still shaking, still needy, still desperate. Jason smirked, but it was wrecked, his voice low, teasing, but tinged with frustration.

“You almost got me, sweetheart,” he murmured, grinding one last time before finally pulling away completely.

Y/N whimpered again, a helpless, wrecked sound that nearly undid him. Jason chuckled darkly, pressing his forehead against Y/N’s.

“Tell me who you belong to.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, lips parting, a full-body shiver rolling through him. Jason’s fingers tightened around his jaw, tilting his face up.

“Say it.” Jason’s voice dropped, slow and dangerous, thick with possession.

Y/N swallowed. “…You.”

Jason grinned, sharp and predatory.

“Damn right.”

And then, with a final bite to Y/N’s bottom lip, Jason separated them. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to pull away, even as his cock throbbed between his legs, demanding to raid the fertile and lush sanctuary between the omega’s assailable thighs.

It really needed to be studied how he could go from damn near feral to soft in the blink of an eye.

One minute, he had Y/N pinned beneath him and then on top of him, breath hot against his skin, whispering filth into his ear—praising, promising, taunting.

The next?

He was cleaning the omega up himself, taking his time, hands slow and careful, his body still wired too fucking tight to even think about calming down. He was wiping him down gently, a warm, damp rag sliding slowly over sweat-slicked skin.

Once satisfied, Jason pulled out a fresh pair of underwear and shorts from the Omega’s drawer for him, turning around to give him privacy while he fixed himself up. His body ached, hard and unsatisfied, his dick pressing painfully against the waistband of his trousers, wanting nothing more than to penetrate, fuck, knot, breed.

He gritted his teeth, willing it away, finally tugging his own sweats back up before climbing into bed. He grabbed Y/N’s wrist and tugged him down. And instead of pulling Y/N against his chest like usual—Jason laid directly on top of him.

Y/N huffed. “Jay—”

Jason just grumbled, burying his face against Y/N’s chest, wrapping his arms around him like a goddamn teddy bear.

“Shut up…this is where I live now,” Jason muttered, voice muffled.

Y/N snorted.

Jason’s weight was solid and warm, his grip strong, but the way he nuzzled into Y/N’s skin was so soft that it was almost unfair. Slowly, Y/N lifted a hand, threading his fingers through Jason’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Jason groaned in satisfaction, shifting closer, tucking his arms tighter around Y/N’s waist. Y/N smiled sleepily. “…Clingy.”

Jason scoffed, but it wasn’t nearly as gruff as it should’ve been.

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t let go. Not even a little.

If anything? He held tighter.

Because Jason Todd was many things.

A menace. A rebel. A walking disaster.

But when it came to Y/N?

Yeah…he was clingy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Jason murmured against his skin.

→ This story concludes on AO3:

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

🏈 | Conner: The Jock | 🏈 • 😉 | Dick: The Popular Kid | 😉

[musingsofheaven]

TALKING BODY.

summary: Everyone expects you to get it. Because you are smart enough to get into this program and smart enough to stay. The overachiever. The one who never needs help. The people who expect don’t need to review because you know it. And they’re not wrong. You’re not dumb and never have been. So why does anatomy make you feel like you are? And what's worse could happen if you start tutoring and leave your lip gloss at his place?

pairings: student physical therapist / tutor!art donaldson x student physical therapist!reader

warnings: 9.5k words. mature themes. masturbation. sexual fantasy. use of personal item (lip gloss). anatomical touching. unspoken power imbalance. edging. read responsibly.

note: hello! this fic is based on a request I received. i know anon didn’t really give specifics and just said “tutor,” so i built it from there, and my mind immediately jumped with what if they’re both student pt? well, i ended up relating it a lot to the program i’m currently in. i might’ve made it a little personal especially about the implication of pressure and the burnout. T_T thank you for reading! <3

If you want something, you have to burn for it. That's what everyone said. There’s no easy path to get that degree that will help your future. But right now? You feel so stupid ever since you entered college. But you’re not even stupid. That’s the thing. You know you’re smart before you even apply to this university. You know you’ll get accepted, that’s how confident you are. And you have this mantra that you just have to study very well and it will work out very well for you.

Of course, you study. You munch it. You eat it. It’s your soul. Who are you without your academic achievements, right? Because you can’t even celebrate your achievements when it’s probably just one of those normal days where you get something but it will feel like an obligation to your eyes. And you are even doing good in your classes. Professors love you. Students envy you. “Did you review?” someone will always ask you, but someone will interrupt the conversation and say, “She doesn’t need it! She has this big brain that can answer everything.”

Love the confidence because maybe you can answer everything. Almost. But you are good with Human Growth and Development. It’s easy. You can study the whole semester in a short time if you have the whole lesson in your hands, but sadly, you don’t, so you have to sit through the whole class. The professor made all of the students from your block list learn all ten principles, and you listed them all in front without blinking, and you did it fast. But not hurried, they still managed to understand what you were saying.

You even correct your professor mid-lecture when she's talking about neonatal reflexes and she makes you recite and explain them to the whole class. When one of your classmates complained about something in the lecture, you offered help and did it like breathing. And don’t get started with Physiotherapy because you love it as hell. You really enjoyed reading through the patient management model, along with the SOAP notes you need to do. The functional outcome becomes your best friend because you like seeing the case your professor gave you and you make many outcomes that can possibly happen.

And one of your favorites is Psychiatry. You already knew the basics before they taught it. Like Maslow’s hierarchy and you turned in your assigned work too quickly after the professor handed it to the class. You know stress because that’s what you’ve been feeling ever since you started college. You could recite the definition given from the book when your professor asks about psychosomatic medicine. When your professor has a final paper and tells the whole class to just pick any topic from the whole semester? You are unstoppable because you made a whole paper about the whole semester too, not just any topic, and made your professor say, quote, “I’m a little concerned but very impressed.”

This is your pre-med and you don’t slack. You have many study techniques, like Pomodoro or anything that works at the moment. You have sticky notes all over your dorm. It’s full of different colors on the walls. You even have a big ass whiteboard inside. There’s a written “YOU ARE NOT FAILING” on the wall with three exclamation marks. You record lessons while you’re reading them so you can listen to them while brushing your teeth or doing something that can’t make you read, so you will just listen. Your friends say you’re intense; you say you’re surviving. You need to survive everything so you endured not attending social events just for you to review something.

But… there’s this one course. This one course that makes you want to jump. Human Anatomy. This evil one. This is a different beast. It’s not that you are a dumb person. It’s also not because you don’t get it. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s making you crazy. Batshit crazy type. Too many bones, ligaments, fascia, and insertions. Of course, you can point out the easy ones like the iliac crest and gluteus medius, but when it gets harder or the ones sound like a tongue twister, your brain melts.

And the worst part this semester? The muscles. When you study it, you also need to know about OINA which means Origin, Insertion, Nerve, Action. You made flashcards about it using pink colored cards, calligraphy, and glitter pens. You made your own mnemonics to remember everything. It also gets to the point where you have to draw labels on your body. Your must have is having 3D model apps, and let your study app guilt you every time you make a mistake.

But nothing is permanent. It worked until it didn’t. Until everything starts getting into you. Especially when this course has pre and post-lecture quizzes, and there are major long quizzes that have fifty or seventy items you need to take (for prelims, midterms, and finals) before the examination week. It humbled you when you just got scores below 20. Don’t get started with the exam week. It has a hundred-item written exam. There’s the lab exam where you have to label it all.

The worst of them all? The fucking moving exam. Yes. That one. The one with stations but has multiple items. One minute to answer the 5-10 questions before you move into another when the bell rings and you can’t even go back because everyone around you is moving. You once mismatched the muscles and spelled a muscle wrong three times. Ending? You just write sorry on your sheet before you hand it to the professor. It's just sad that you blew up every one of them after studying like there’s a gun in your head. And every time your paper got handed to you, your professor looked at you with pity, as if there’s nothing more you can do. You just smile every time you get it, though, even in your mind, you want to get out of the world.

You just cried when people left and wipe your nose with your sweater sleeves while you can still what your best friend said that maybe you are more of a psychiatry person, but that shit doesn’t feel like a compliment. All of the words from that day keep coming back to your mind like an echo as you sniff, and your breath catches in your throat. Like when your prof suggested earlier to try a study group, but you just nod and didn’t say that they’ve been leaving you out and avoiding you. She also assigned you a study partner because she thinks it will be helpful to your case. It’s Art Donaldson. Yes, that Art Donaldson.

The sporty guy. The one who’s playing tennis. Of course, you know him. Everybody does. Student player and in a health-aligned program? That made the girls wet with the idea. You’ve seen him once in the training room when you walked past it, and he’s wearing a tight shirt that shows off his arms. He’s your batchmate, actually. Well, in the same block, you almost share all the classes together, besides the extra course you want to take. People don’t nknow it, but this physical therapy degree he’s chasing is more likely a fallback in case tennis doesn’t work out well. He already has sponsorships and could just do tennis, but he’s also studying to prevent injury and to know well about his body. You are the opposite because you are studying to go to med school.

The worst part is he’s really a nice guy. Not the performative type of men are nice. Not the fake nice. He’s really nice. He’s soft spoken and shy. People love this personality. You notice how pink his ears get when he talks too much in class discussions. The first time you talk to him about muscles, he already recited the oina about it like an automatic button and he just laughed at your reaction. Now you see him once a week, besides the time you see him from the class lectures, of course, because he’s your tutor and you both review in his dorm. He lets you sit on the floor with the flashcards placed like tarot cards, and tries not to cry over the part you are learning about.

You think this is just tutoring, but Art is not even sure if it is. It all started before the professor offered to be your tutor. Maybe it was that time when you were leaning over the sink, and he managed to smell the scent of your perfume, and he forgot that he was supposed to walk and not stop close to you. Or maybe it’s in some seminar the department forced your whole block to attend and you have this unimpressed expression and say something like, “Oh my god, shut up,” and he laughed too hard.

You don’t even see him. You’re not looking at his direction like other girls do. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe not. And you’ve talked to him, but it’s just nothing because it’s always about academic stuff. It’s always about, “What was that nerve again?” and “Do you have the slide from last lesson?” before you look away. To your eyes it’s nothing. Maybe you treat him as someone who’s smart too, especially if he gets the course you don’t like more than you do. Maybe he doesn’t care if you treat him like a walking answer key like others treat you, but he doesn’t really mind it. He just wants to be something. To matter.

How can he not want you when you’re pretty, smart, and talented? You always have your own orbit where you shine and have own lights over your head that make you bright. But he knows you are hiding behind being smart, flashcards, mnemonics, slides, or whatever you do to not show the cracks. Except for him. You don’t know it, but he saw it. He saw you once in the empty lecture hall where you have many textbooks open around you and your head buried in one of them, and your mascara is a mess, your lip gloss that's always on your lips is faded, it’s like you don’t expect to break down that night. So, when did the professor ask him to help you with this course? He said yes faster than a flash because he will grab that chance, and he’s losing his mind over the idea of being your tutor. It’s also okay for him when you show up late at his door today.

Your bag almost slides off your shoulder, and your thumb hooks under the strap, gloss perfect, tank top riding up like it shifted on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it. He lets you inside like his space belongs to you by default. When both of you settled inside, he stayed at his desk and sat there like he had never learned how to relax, with his hoodie casually tossed over the chair. His tortora book is wide open on his thigh, while you’re settling your things in his place. The only things necessary are a book, notes, and pens.

He even let you sit in his bed with your things resting beside you. The moment you start reading is the moment you start complaining to him like this is not helping. You can’t do this today. But he will just shrug it off and stare at you with his eyes rolling. He let you have your moment first. Complain, skim the book, highlighting everything while he talks to you gently, not trying to be a bad tutor to you. He lets you do your own thing in the first fifteen minutes until you groan and say, “This is so much.”

This will be cuter if he’s not your tutor. He can just watch you complain all you want and still be cute, but this is not that moment, so he shrugs off what he’s thinking by chuckling softly and nodding at you. “We don’t have to study all of it in one go.” Which makes sense because both of you will be overworked if you study it all. And as much as he likes to teach you, he’s not as insane like you are in terms of studying, which can go on for hours and hours. “You’re gonna need to go really slow. I don’t get why there are two muscles with one name.”

He quickly looks at you when you say that, and he just sighs, “It’s technically the psoas and the iliacus, but-” You wave your hand to dismiss him. It’s not like you don’t know that two muscles with the same name came from the anterior fascial compartment of the thigh and muscles of the posterior abdominal wall, because you do know it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t hate that idea. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wish they’d give a girl a break.” No smile was found on your face when you said that, but it still sounds funny because he tucks a smile behind his teeth. “Want to walk through it on the diagram?” he asks you before nodding at the chart taped on his wall.

Teeth quickly find the bottom lip when the suggestion set is placed, and it’s not a bad thing, especially if it’s a good chart. It just doesn’t work for you. Eyes flickering back at him, you notice how flushed his neck is, how his chest his getting broader while he softly speaks, and how his hands touch the mattress before he sits down in front of you. Tilting your head, and your voice honey sweet, you say, “…Could I just use you? Like a dummy? A chart?” A smile finds your lips and you feel nervous before you add, “I swear I just learn better with… visuals.”

The words made his breath freeze. He thinks the words stop when you said that you want to use him as a dummy. Words are catching in his throat and he wants to choke. But he sighs and nods, “Yeah. Sure.” Giggles are found in the room when he agrees and you have this bright smile when you settle close to his knees. You feel the air change, but not uncomfortable in your skin. “Okay, thank you,” you murmur, brushing your hair back, “take your shirt off?”

His mouth opens but nothing is coming out other than a choke of surprise he has. Fingers found their way to the hem before pulling the shirt over his head, and he hoped he wasn’t making it weird. Look casual. Look. Casual. When he takes off his shirt, your eyes can’t help but look down at his body. Shit. So this is what tennis will do to you. Muscles are good. Muscles are heaven. You don’t even hate it anymore because your eyes can’t help to track the stretch of his biceps, the tense line of his stomach, the shirt falling as he leans back, chest naked.

You don’t even realize how he’s gripping the mattress tightly because your mouth almost waters at the sight, and you might pray to all the Gods that exist in this world, just not take this view away from you. Also, thank god Art is such a nervous wreck, he didn’t even notice you are staring. When you scoot over, your fingertips immediately hover at the waistband of his sweats. “So…” your voice almost got cut out from you but you just bit your cheek before speaking again, “iliacus is here, right?”

Hand comfortably settled in his body before fingers started to move and slid down to the curve of his hip. The skin of your hand brushes the soft skin above his waistband. Your touch is gentle, it’s like you are scared to touch him even. But that small touch made him tighten his muscles, and it sparked under his skin. His thigh jumps subtly, and his breath just dies down on his throat. “Wait, no… too medial?” you point out that you might be wrong, “Am I poking your guts?” He swallows his saliva before he speaks, and it gets rough, “Almost right. A little more lateral.”

He nods repeatedly for seconds before your fingers move and his palm glides down, and he can feel your hand hot across his abs. It tightens under your touch but you barely notice it does. “There?” He nods, breath catching. His sweat starts to pool at his forehead before he says, “That’s it. Iliacus. Merges with the psoas.” Hum escapes your mouth when he confirms the position is there while you’re being oblivious to the way he grips the mattress.

Your hand didn't stay in one place like it's some sort of traveler. It’s firmer and you kinda enjoy mapping his body like you are studying him, Art, not the lesson you have to remember in order to pass that course. It drifts even lower, actually. The soft material of his sweats finds your palm when it grazes towards the inside of his thigh near the crease of his groin. “Pectineus?” you ask, still unsure. “Or it’s gracilis?” His throat clears, shaking his head to the second muscle you mentioned, “N-no- you’re right. Pectineus.” He didn’t even mean to stutter, but help him, God, your hand is so close where he wants you right now.

Sometimes you are just stupid, despite being smart in academics, and can’t pick up what’s happening. It applies right now when your hand presses a little harder where your hand is placed before your eyes meet his. “You’re tense,” you comment, just telling how his thigh feels. “Are you flexing?” The air gets thicker as he feels his throat bob. He tries to look away, but you are so close and looking at him, so he just let out a quiet laugh. Nervous and embarrassed, “Trying not to.”

Knee brushes against his when you move closer, your thumb traces the curve of his glute, and drags it towards the seam of his leg like you really have to do that. “This is the obturator internus,” you say softly, but not really confident with your words considering you don’t like what you are studying. “Through the lesser sciatic foramen, right?” He hums at what you said as he feels his breath leave him. “Yeah. External rotation.” A grin forms on your lips along with a chuckle. “God, I’m so smart.”

Art's jaw tightens and his body is betraying him. Blood thrumming every time you touch him. He’s so fucked. So fucked. He feels the drag of your hand behind him, across his waist, and settles at the base of his spine. “Quadratus lumborum… or too low?” His hand hovers at your wrist before guiding it, “A little higher.” Your hand settles there for a moment while he’s doing all his best to hold his breath and not just pin you down on his bed.

After long enough to touch, your hand moves in a slow, kneading sweep, gliding down his thigh. “Sartorius,” you say, voice softer. “Longest muscle in the body.” A quiet giggle, but your hand moves carefully, palming his thigh from hip to knee, squeezing gently. “Sexy muscle,” you tease, not noticing how his grip on the mattress tightens. “Hip flexion, knee flexion, lateral rotation,” he mutters, shaking. “Show off muscle.”

From there, you lift up your hand up and put and rest it on his shoulder. Your thumb presses it there, rolling the muscle slightly. “Deltoid,” you say, “Obvious.” Thumb keeps flickering and brushing on the skin, and you notice him exhaling sharply, breath tearing out. “There are three parts to it, though. You’re on lateral,” he breathes out before his eye looks at your hand resting on his deltoid- or shoulder rather. But your hand has its own life, so he let it slide down to wrap his upper arm. “Biceps brachii,” you murmur, squeezing softly. His muscles are flexing. He has good biceps, and they’re thick too. “All this? Just muscle?” A thumb drags along the vein. “It has two heads,” he says, voice wrecked.

Giggles escape your lips and nods as your fingers skim up again but now settle on his throat, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is sternocleidomastoid,” you whisper, guiding him to turn his head. His throat moves, Adam’s apple jumping, the moment shifting from endurance to surrender. “Two origins,” he murmurs just to add another information, ragged. “Inserts at the mastoid.”

A smile curves on your lips as you fold your legs beneath you like nothing happened, glowing with soft pride. “Did I pass?” you tease. Art stares, mouth parted, ears heating, hands gripping his thighs so hard the tendons shake. He looks like he might be sick, or come, or cry, or all three. No answer comes, because you didn’t pass. You mess him in the head.

Art quickly leaves the bed when you finish playing dummy on his body and he walks so fast to the kitchen to get something. There’s a dent on his bed from where he stands, shape still warm and fresh. He’s thinking so hard not to think about how you almost sit on his lap just to check a muscle on his body. His hand is shaking while he’s opening the refrigerator to get a juice bottle so he can give it to you, but he’s holding it like it might explode.

The room smells of clean detergent and boy, and the scent drifts around you while you yawn, stretching your arms above your head, shirt sliding up, socks mismatched and peeking. Nothing in you cares to fix your clothes, not when comfort and carelessness go hand in hand, not when the soft sprawl of your body says you trust him enough to let yourself sink into his space.

You hear the fridge close as the sheet rustles when you kick your feet, humming under your breath, calling out without calling him over. “These sheets are so soft,” you say to the ceiling, casually and lazily. “I’d fail every class if I had these.” He almost drops the bottle, chest pulling tight at the thought of you here too often, close enough to fuck him up entirely.

Pillow creases line your cheek as you grin. “This smells like you,” you tease, giggling softly like it’s nothing, and Art swallows hard, forcing himself not to drop to his knees just to keep you here longer. He moves to you, steps stiff, eyes dragging over the flash of your stomach, your tank top riding higher with every stretch, your shorts creeping up your thighs. “You gonna give it to me,” you tease, sleepy smile glinting, “or just stand there like I’m part of a gallery?”

That shook him up to go back to reality. He clears his throat, handing over the bottle with both hands like it’s fragile, breath stuck somewhere in the space between you. The cold plastic brushes your fingers, the cup is already opened for you, and you just have to drink it up. “Mmm,” you sigh, licking gloss from your lips, “I was about to start eating your notes.” His laugh is thin, strangled. “Wouldn’t be your weirdest study technique.”

“Exactly,” you beam, a spark in your eye. Juice slides down your throat while the silence between you thickens, and your head tilts. “So, continue? Still my turn, or yours?” Art sits down, closer than he’s ever dared, like the air itself has weight, like the world shrinks between you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “my turn.” Knees fold under you, soft thighs pressing together, eyes bright as you watch him, unaware of the small shifts that undo him every second.

His hand is gentle when it finds its way towards you. The room feels quiet and the tension is burning you both alive and it’s breathing between your inhale and his. “This is where gracilis lies. Remember moments ago when you mistakenly pectineus as gracilis?” he murmurs, hand finding your inner thigh, not indecent, not innocent, pressing warmth into soft skin and also showing you where it really is since you mentioned it earlier. “It adducts the thigh in and helps bend the knee. It’s also long and sensitive.”

You blink, then smile. “Sensitive,” you repeat, legs shifting unconsciously, shorts pulling higher. Of course he notices, it's almost like he memorizes every twitch of your thigh as he slides his hand higher, thumb at your pelvis, fingers almost shaking. “Here- uh, this muscle…” The voice comes out more ragged while his thumb is still pressing into your body and your breath becomes still. “Adductor brevis. It’s… it helps with hip adduction, moving your leg inward. You’d, uh, use it walking, pivoting, even just… standing steady.” He hates how his voice sounds and how flushed and nervous he is. “Feel that?” he asks, and you nod, small.

“Wait- show me again?” And with that, he presses his hand deeper, it’s like his palm is molding to the shape of your thigh while he feels every twitch under his touch. But there’s a pause between the two of you, a little heavy, and he just moves his hand because setting it there for too long would mean something else. From there, he slides up his hand up to the nape of your neck. Fingers tracing under your skull, just settling there. “Levator scapulae,” he whispered, breath brushing in the shell of your ear. “You tilt your head when you think.” You nod without realizing, your neck open and almost offering to him.

Your eyes are traveling when he moves his hands around your body to show which part of the muscle he’s pressing to and your heart is surely beating so fast that you might want to end this week's session quickly. And his fingers are on the move again. His hand drifts from the back of your neck to slide down over your shoulder. His hand feels warm when it brushes along the neckline of your tank before slipping beneath, but he rested his hand on your neckline first before doing that just to see if you will be comfortable to continue.

It feels like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you give him a nod. When you do, his shoulder drops from relief and his hand slips under your tank top. His hand is warm against the ribs, while his thumb is caressing softly like he’s getting you comfortable with the feeling. “Pectoralis minor,” he says, voice low, like he’s reminding himself to continue and breathe like a normal person. “It’s placed right here, under the big chest muscle.”

You shrug and blink, trying to track, brows pinching. But… yeah. If it’s about anatomy, you are always confused so you ask, “Which one’s the big one again?” You kinda feel genuinely lost right now which makes you a little anxious because you don’t want to look dumb. There’s a quiet laugh that slips out of him. It’s breathless, and shaky. “The… major,” he says, “that’s the one you can see. This one’s under it, helps pull the shoulder blades down.” And you just nod and hum while he explains like a puppy. “Oh.” You look down, but his hand is in the way, and your eyes go back up to his face. “That’s… a lot.”

Hum escapes from his lips before he breathes out an “It’s okay,” from his mouth. You feel his thumb rub a small circle over your skin, comforting without thinking. “You’ll get it. Just think… breathing, shoulder movement. That’s enough for now.” His hand stops for a moment and it lingers before you hear him clear his throat. He looks away for seconds and just the blink of an eye, it’s already back to you. “So,” he stated, voice soft. “Uh, I’ll move my hand to the back now, yeah?”

You nod at his head up and his hand starts to move from your chest to your back. Fingertips touch your spine and it's a soft trail that causes your breath to hitch. He swallows and his throat bobs before he speaks again, “You can find multifidus here,” he teaches you. His fingers gently tracing lightly along your back, “it’s smaller and tiny compared to other muscles, but it helps you stand straight. It’s still a big help because it keeps your spine stable.”

There’s a silence after that and his fingers just hover there while looking at you. It’s like he’s checking you to see if you follow what he’s telling you. “Hmm.. to make it simple, you can think of it like it’s the spine’s little helpers because they keep you upright when you bend or twist.” His thumb presses more on the area to show you how it works. “You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. A small hum leaves your lips as your back arches into his touch without meaning to. “Tiny stabilizers,” you echo, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I could count them,” quieter still, like he’s speaking to himself. His hand stills just under your waistband, featherlight.

“So the next is gluteus minimus,” he says, voice careful. “This one is hard to isolate,” he explains first, not even touching anything yet and his hand is not on your body right now. “What does it do?” you ask, trying to sound casual but really? You want to pass out now because you’ve been feeling hot since that stupid dummy idea of yours happened. There’s a shaky breath he lets out before he states, “Well. It, uh, helps abduct your hip- moving your leg to the side. Keep your pelvis level when you walk.” He adds, “It’s actually important even if it's small.”

“Is it… Okay, if we keep going?” he nervously asks while he looks at you, and after he said that, the silence is too loud while he waits for your answer. You swallow, and your hand clutches on the soft material of his bed and tries to calm down the feelings in your chest and stomach. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice quiet but there is certainty to your answer. “I trust you.” After you said that, his hand latches on to your hip and it slips underneath your waistband. You could feel his fingertips grazing the crest of your hip, but now directly and touching your skin. “Here,” he whispers. “This is it.” You blink once, twice, or thrice before you can catch your breath. You don’t even realize your hip- body is leaning towards his hand.

And like what he’s doing the whole time his turn started, his hand doesn’t linger long because staying will make things awkward. So he pulls his hand away, and he smiles at you, even though his hand is trembling, and he doesn’t even want to leave. To control himself, he sits straight, but his eyes are still glued to you with want, and he’s in limbo, thinking about being just your tutor or doing something more… He lifts his hand, hesitates, and tucks your hair behind your ear with a trembling hand.

Fingers brush against the side of your neck and stop just right at your collarbone before he finds your pulse point. “Scalenes,” he pointed to the muscle he’s touching while you can’t even recover from the action he made. How can he tuck your hair and proceed quickly to the next muscle? “They help you breathe,” he explains and there’s silence again because he’s about to get bold with this, “They also help you tilt your head, like when you look at me like that.”

Lips parted from his words and breath stuck in the throat, eyes meeting his, and your cheeks are burning. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but he quickly shakes it off from his mind, and his throat bobbing as he swallows. His voice is thin when it comes out, “That’s, um…” His eyes look at your body from up to down before he goes back to your face. “That’s all for today.” Words hang like uncertainty, but it needs to be done, or else he might do something more than teach you anatomy.

“You’re breathing faster,” he says anyway, almost to himself. You chuckle and lick your lips before you try to control it. “Am I?” you tease him, and your voice is soft. It almost sounds like you are shy. Art pulls away from you and sits closer to the edge instead of in front of you. You stretch your arm and your tank top shifts up when you do that. Your skin flushes, thighs opening just enough and you are unaware of the effect you are having on him. A breathless giggle, “Thanks for today’s session,” slips out like none of it mattered, like your body isn’t mapped in his hands. You didn’t even notice how your strap slipped off your shoulder when you stretched and it will be an unforgettable sight to him.

One of his secrets today is that when you stretch, he gets a glimpse of your nipples beneath your thin cotton, which is unintentional, and your top has a padded bra, so… it’s killing him right now because of what he saw. Art doesn’t look, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor, pretending not to notice so you don’t have to feel shy. And he’s letting you right now fix your lip gloss while you hum and toss all the notes and things you pulled out in your bag like you are finally concluding this session over. You tug down your top and fix your strap after you close your bag, and your shorts roll back into place, a quiet sigh your only commentary. “Thanks again!” chirps from your lips, casual lightness in your step as you leave, gloss forgotten on his bed and you don’t even realize you didn’t put it back in your bag. Then you’re gone, and Art remains, kneeling, head bowed, lungs finally allowed to exhale, your shape still carved into the room.

For a moment, he stays in the same place when you're already gone but your perfume is still there. There's still a dent in his sheet from the shape and weight of your body from sitting too long in his bed. Like a damn fool he is, still catching all things happening like it didn't happen in front of him because he's too stunned. The air is heavy, and still, like the room is waiting for him to acknowledge what happened. It's almost like he can even feel your soft body against his palms or he might be getting crazy at this point.

And on the corner of his bed, there's your forgotten lip gloss. He notices it too quickly when he turns his head to the side and it's sitting on the nightstand. It's pink and looks soft. It’s the kind of pink that’s just enough to make your lips not look pale. The cap is silver and shiny, it catches the soft light of his room and it’s expensive, he thinks. There's a Dior logo so it must be expensive, right? When he picks it up, it looks small in his palm and the it's not really light and kinda feels heavy, maybe because of the tube or because it's still not halfway gone.

He actually almost texts or calls you to tell you that you left it in his place. Almost hid it inside his drawer. Almost opened it and brought it to his nose to smell the gloss like some sick freak. But instead, he just put it back in the nightstand beside his phone. He tells himself that he's just going to give it personally and keep it safe, but the truth is he doesn't really want to give it back to you.

Slowly, he settled comfortably again in his bed, back pressing against the headboard and just leaning. Sweat pooling in his forehead, jaw clenched, hands still trembling a little in his lap, and still not over by the feeling of your soft skin and flesh. Could still feel your thigh twitching, your breath against his hand when he's touching your neck, and when you trust him to touch you and don't move away from him. His whole body is burning, and body throbbing, cock been hard for long- maybe since you touched him to his thigh.

He didn't even realize he was still shirtless because you asked him to take it off earlier. Your voice echoes in his head like he's having some hallucinations and his abs tightening each breath with his cock twitching painfully inside his sweats. Words from earlier just keep repeating and hearing them, especially the “I trust you” and “Did I pass?” while his hands were still warm from touching your skin. Frustration filled his body he could just cry, come, or scream. He's not even picky and could be anything from the three, but all he does is whisper, “Fuck.”

Gaze remains in his hands while just sitting there and he might pass out if he doesn't do something soon. He's so… pent up, but even touching himself while thinking about you feels like crossing the line, even though you'll never find out about it. But he's also so worked up right now… and the guilt just shatters away when his hand starts palming himself through the fabric. It's slow, hesitant, and unsure if he's even allowed to feel it. The first few movements his hand made sent shivers down his spine and made him tip his head back against the wall. Lower lip bitten between his teeth when he moves his hips up and grind into his palm like a fucking teenager that needs to cum for the first time. He repeats it again and the drag of fabric is good because of the friction. His cock twitches, and he swears, jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.

Your laugh stuck in his mind. It’s teasing, and sweet. Leaning in closer than you need to, fingers skimming his abs, and asking, “Is this the pectineus, or am I just touching your dick?” You never said that, he knows. It’s also not how you will say it. But it is now. His hips jerk up helplessly, groaning at the sick, sharp pleasure, every part of him wired to want, to take, to keep this feeling that’s you and only you. He strokes himself through the fabric, sucking in air that doesn’t feel like air with vision blurring with the tension building under his skin.

He could finish like this, quick, dirty, fists the sheets, and gets it over with, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He edges himself, lets the pleasure fester, building tension with slow, sick care, palming, grinding, squeezing until he’s leaking down his thigh, sweats are soaked, and he doesn't care because he’s liking the mess, wanting to drown in it, and wanting to suffer for it. Maybe this is his own way to guilt himself because he touched himself. After all, you don’t even do anything at all. You don’t know this lingering feeling he has. You don’t know that even you just smile, talk, and look at him? He’s going to be a wreck.

Can’t even stop hearing right now how your voice works in that tone- sweet, innocent, oblivious like you don’t really know what you are doing at all. And with that he felt his cock twitch when he stroked himself harder. His chest is starting to sweat- his whole body is even sweating because he’s keeping himself on edge until he’s having a hard time with his breathing, his vision is glassy because of the tears, and his teeth are biting on his tongue to stop himself from moaning pathetically. He’s dizzy, legs shaking, locked in a holding pattern between control and collapse, when his eyes flick back to your lip gloss. It’s still there, cap closed, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

Hand reaches for it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s breakable. Like it’s a treasure. Like he found it and decided it would be one of his most beloved things he owned because he can treat it like proof that you were really here. That you’ve been inside his space and are comfortable. His fingers wrap around the tubed gloss carefully and his throat catches his breath. It’s warm in the room. Expensive and glittery, stupidly soft pink. But holding it does something to him. Splits him open, quiet and humiliating. Shameful that he’s the kind of guy who got fucked up by merely having your lipgloss left his dorm. Like he’s always been the kind of guy… sick and freak.

He uncaps it with trembling fingers. The scent hits him fast- sweet and fruity. It smells like berries. He close his eyes when his cock twitched hard again. There’s also an idea in his little fucked up mind and he’s fighting himself not to do it. But… it won. He opens his eyes, while his hand brings the applicator up close to his mouth until the applicator touches his lips. Swipes it across his bottom lip. Then his top. Then again, thick and shiny, shameful, smeared like a kiss he’s trying to fake. His mouth tingles, lips pressed together as he breathes through his nose, eyelids fluttering at the taste and it makes him feel insane.

But that’s not enough. Not even close. He pulls out his cock from his sweat using his free hand. Giving it a few strokes before he lets it go. Eyes glaze down to his open hand and he drags the wand down across his palm, painting a wet streak from heel to finger, then another, and another until it’s enough. The stickiness clings to his skin, glossy, pink, and so wrong. He caps it again gently using one hand, like he didn’t just use it for something unspeakable, and sets it back on the nightstand. Then he spits into his palm, letting it mix there. It’s warm, humiliating, and slicking the gloss down until it’s perfect.

His hand wraps that hand around his cock and he starts stroking it. It’s slow at first, and he’s feeling the drag of slick over aching heat: obscene and hot, so stupidly close to real he could cry. The contrast is too much- sticky, wet, hot, like a simulation of your mouth. His head tips back as a moan breaks, loud, cracked, desperate, hips jerking, body flexing. The friction is obscene, the sounds alone making him feel deranged. Throat raw and keep bobbing down inside the sick feeling because it feels like you. Almost. Or that’s what he likes to think. He’s fucking into his fist now, messy and fast, thighs trembling.

His other hand moves to his mouth without thinking, thumb smearing across his bottom lip like he’s trying to feel your mouth there. Like he’s imagining you are kissing him because he has your gloss on his mouth and he feels it tingling, and he doesn’t care. He wants to feel kissed. He wants to pretend. And he does. Because suddenly, it’s not just gloss on his hand he’s imagining- it’s you. Your mouth, glossy and warm, stretched around the head of his cock while you blink up at him, all eyelashes and no idea what you’re doing to him.

What makes things worse is that you probably don’t know what you are doing. Maybe it’s just in his head you are this… studious and he has never ever seen you with someone. Dating or hearing about you hooking up with someone else. In his mind, you’d be humming something, maybe, or you’d be giggling like you’re not sure you’re doing it right. Hand loose around the base, glossy lips working messily over the tip. Sticky and pink smearing down his cock like you’re sucking an ice pop, glitter in your spit, sparkle on his skin, that stupid gloss painting him in your mouth.

He groans loudly because he can feel it like it’s real, like you’re there. Cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched, and still wearing the sweet lotion clinging to his sheets. Warm smear of gloss drags down his cock. It’s wet and sweet. Lips pressing to the vein like it’s something to taste, to learn, not even teasing, just curious. He almost can hear your soft little whines while his hand smearing the sticky pink gloss as he thrust up and fucking his hand. That’s when it slips out, cracked and hoarse: “Yeah,” breath catching, hips stuttering, “like that, baby…”

His hips continue to move up into his fist, another moan- louder, like he’s not alone, like he’s too deep in the fantasy to come back. “You gonna lick it off too?” he said out loud like you are really here with his eyes shut. “You gonna swallow for me? Yeah? Gonna let me fuck your throat, pretty girl?” His hand moves faster, spit and gloss mixing like the sickest fantasy of having your mouth. His thighs are trembling with his stomach tight, and every part of him is clenching to hold the moment.

There’s the edge to drag it out, and to make it last because if he opens his eyes you’ll be gone from this little fantasy of his with your voice in his head whispering with a soft and perfect voice: “Wait… am I doing it right?” That’s the trigger. That’s the red buzzer that was pressed. He comes like it’s his first time doing that. It’s loud and gut-deep. Legs shaking and his cock twitching as his cum paints his stomach, thighs, and his palm.

Free hand flying back to his mouth like he’s choking on the sound, but the moan rips out of him anyway. It’s high, broken, and full of your name. Then it’s quiet, breathless, and shame-drenched. He’s still throbbing with how badly he wants you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he just breathes. Wrecked and still half-naked, chest flushed, abs sticky with come. Not so long after, he quickly wipes himself off with the shirt he was wearing earlier, and he throws the shirt on the floor as if it offends him.

Must be going crazy because he can still your laugh in his room and the shitty part is your gloss still shining on his mouth. He can’t stop thinking of the way your thighs almost cradle him when you are going through his body to check which muscles you are touching. He stares at the ceiling, breath catching, heartbeat slowing, remembering how you had to feel how he was shaking when you touched his thigh, the way he swallowed when you leaned in. You weren’t dumb. You knew. And you still kept going.

“Could I just use you? Like a dummy or something?” God. You said that as if it’s the best idea in the world. His cock twitches again, and he groans, rolling onto his side, arm flopping over his eyes like it will block out from thinking about what happened. You wanted to use him. You chose him over diagrams and other visuals, said it helped, smiled like he made it easier, like you felt safe, or comfortable, or- shit. He swallows, brain foggy, stupid, and desperate.

Fuck, you have to like him, right? At least a little. Who does that with someone they don’t feel at least a little attracted to? You said thank you like you meant it, touched his chest with that soft smile, looked up at him like- like- goddamn. A beat passes, then another. The ceiling doesn’t answer. The silence creeps in slowly, sick, suffocating, and it all feels different. Too quiet. Too much. You touched him like it meant nothing, he thinks.

When he came to his senses with eyes blinking up like he just did a murder he just realized it was wrong while sitting up, and chest sticking where it wasn’t wiped thoroughly. His face grimaces at the same time his shame hits, which feels hot and itchy in his bones. A hand rakes through damp hair, his breath shallow, and his chest tight. Of course, you didn’t like him. You're just being nice, trying to study, trying to pass the quiz you both have to take next week. God. He fucked up, again. Got in his head, thought too much, made it weird.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and thumbs through his contacts. Not you, though. Can’t text you. Would say something too much, and you’d know. So he texted Patrick instead.

Art: You free to hit rn?

He waited for a few minutes and then:

Patrick: Yeah. You good?

Art: Just need to clear my head.

Patrick didn't reply after that, which probably means he's on his way now while Art is lying back on his stomach and head pressed against the pillows. Screaming one more time. Second. Third, before he looks at his nightstand again where your gloss is standing. This pink and sticky and innocent, staring back at him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, guilt tightening in his stomach. He feels he used you, or used the idea of you, the version in his head that laughs like you’re already his. So fucking gone.

By the time Patrick shows up, the sun's dipped low against the blinds. The room still carries that faint scent of cum and your glass. The guy walks inside like this is his own fucking dorm and drop his tennis bay so loud. “Jesus Christ,” comes out of him, “what the fuck happened in here?” He could give him the real answer. Or make something up. Or just smiles at him but there's no answer. Head down, eyes nowhere. While Patrick is already snooping, picking up everything he sees like a crime scene.

It's like he already knows what happened with the tangled sheets, messed up shirt on the floor. And then the nightstand. Patrick sees it. Steps closer and he’s too stunned by the sight. “…No fucking way.” He picks it up like he's grocery shopping, holding it between two fingers. “Bro. Did she leave this here on purpose, or are you just keeping her shit like a stalker?” Patrick looks at the pink gloss and goes back to him. It’s the same gloss you always reapplied before leaning over the notes like it helped you focus.

Art heard Patrick open the cap and sniff the scene before saying, “Smells like a fucking strawberry jam.” He presses his knuckles to his lips while he's ignoring Patrick's comments, like maybe he can force himself to stop thinking about it. Because he knows what Patrick doesn’t. Knows it wasn’t forgotten. You dropped it there mid-study, barely noticing, even though you should, since this lip gloss is something you always use. You didn’t even kiss him, and still, it feels like the most intimate thing in the room. Patrick scoffs, drops it back, and lets it roll into place beside the lamp. “You need a hobby,” Patrick says. “Or a blowjob. Or both.”

A long, low exhale through the nose. A laugh that will sound too much like a cry while Patrick waits for a punchline. “You good?” he asks, and this time, it’s real. He just gives him a quick nod, before standing and putting his shirt and sneakers on. “Let’s go,” he said since his tennis bags are already full of what they need for this quick hit. And god, when they got into the court, the feeling stayed. There's still the burning inside his system.

It's not because of the fucking color. Or how pink it is. How fruity the smell. Or not the shape or the size of the tube is. Maybe it's more like he's going crazy about the lingering touch that happened earlier really meant nothing at all. And it's fucking everything up. His movements on the court feels shitty. Each step he made was late. It’s like he doesn't have a sense of reaction. Or the serves are mid or maybe not him at all.

Patrick quickly clocks it, grinning like he’s watching from a television show. “Bro,” he said after a missed backhand, “are you playing on two hours of sleep, or are you showing how much of a loser you are?” No answer. His sweat wipes down his face, salt stinging, pulling the memory closer. Your laugh, your hands on his waist, the glow of where you touched him still hot under the skin. The ball bounces once, twice, too hard. “She touched my fucking sartorius,” slips out, hoarse.

“The what?” Patrick’s racket lowers. “Muscle in the thigh. Long one goes diagonally. She… she followed it with her finger like she was tracing a line only she could see.” Art sees Patrick look at him like he's insane then bursts out laughing. “You’re unwell,” he says. “Actually sick in the head.” It earned him a glare from Art with that comment he did.

His next serve is tossed, missed. Racket dangling, and eyes gone far-off. “She kept doing it,” voice raw and frustrated, “naming muscles, pressing on pressure points, said she needed visuals. She sat between my knees and touched every inch my body like it was a fucking test review.”

A low whistle. “You gonna cry or jerk off mid-set?” And there's this quiet, and honest confession: “Need to fuck her. Need to get her out of my system.” His hands dropped to the side before his free hand ran to his sweaty hair. Silence. Then laughter, sharp, incredulous. “That bad, huh?”

Art’s jaw flexes, grip shifting on the racket like it’s your wrist, or your throat. “She touched my iliacus,” slipping out, “just inside my waistband, looked up at me, asked if she was pressing on my kidney.” He starts pacing around while he's thinking about it, remembering the feeling too. How tense he was. How warm your touch is. Patrick chokes, wheezing. “What the fuck?”

Eyes close. “I couldn’t breathe. Hard the entire time. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. I don’t know. It was worse,” he adds before his eyes snap back to Patrick who looks like he needs a good laugh and he's giving him one. “Jesus.” Patrick nearly drops his racket from laughing. “You’re in love with a girl who doesn’t even know she’s edging you. That’s fucking tragic.”

He didn't laugh in return. Eyes on the court, ready to scream or collapse or call you to finish what you started. “Can still feel her lip gloss on my mouth.” Patrick shakes his head. “You need to get hit by a bus.”

Art nodded like he had just heard a very good idea and was ready to do it. “Or a concussion.” Patrick throws a new ball over. “Or a rebound. Come on. Play like you’re not actively being haunted by her hands.” And there's a clean hit, but the ball lands wide. He cursed under his breath, racket lowering, sweat dripping down his spine. This isn’t getting out of his system anytime soon. Not when the system is entirely yours now.

He slump onto the bench, wrist draped over a knee, shirt clinging, chest can't calm the fuck down. It’s deeper than the match, like something lodged under the ribs, like he spent the last hour trying to outrun the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Patrick tosses a water bottle with a lazy grin. “You play like someone who came into his own bed and never recovered.” He didn't respond because what Patrick just said is true.

“You know you were grunting louder than usual, right?” Patrick leans on his racket, smirking. “Thought you pulled that long muscle she touched. What was it? Sartorius?” His snap up, flat, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs before he gave him the finger to say fuck you.

There's a smirk on Patrick's mouth and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever is happening with Art. “Just saying, if her little med school routine gets you that distracted, what’s gonna happen when she actually wants something from you? You gonna fold again? Or bust in your shorts and text me again for a hit?”

“Patrick,” he groans. It's almost like a kid having a tantrum over something they didn't get, like candy or something. He's acting like that right now, keeps complaining but doesn't do anything about it. The grin doesn’t leave. “You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.” No argument there and just a swipe of the hem of his shirt across the face. Both hands are dragging through hair. Breathing like he has a mind map of you, on your knees, asking if you could use him, calling it studying, touching him like it meant nothing.

Then his phone buzzes.

“Hey, sorry if I left my gloss at yours?? :(”

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⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

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