#had a backup show planned and everything

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 17

Damn, how did this get to a part 17????

Here's the promised WIP Wednesday (on a Thursday)!

I had a lot of fun writing this part. The words just flowed so easily.

If you didn't notice, I now have the first arc posted on AO3. It covers the first three parts I've shared here along with some extras that I never did.

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

Part 1, Previous

Word Count: 1.9k

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By the time morning had rolled around, Tim had also signed them up for a 7:30 AM and a 6 PM TV interview. Hopefully they could do enough damage control to mitigate the worst of Walker’s bad PR, whatever that turned out to be.

Tim nudged everyone awake at 5 AM. Conner and Cassie got up the easiest.

“Morning, Rob,” Conner said through a yawn. “Time to prepare for our interview?”

“Yep. We’ll be going in uniform since this is an interview for the Young Justice.”

“Great,” said Cassie. “We’ll be ready.”

Tim went to Danny next. “Hey, Danny.” The boy didn’t move, so Tim shook his shoulder slightly.

“Wha…?” Danny blinked his eyes open. “Wha’s goin on?”

“Me and the others are going to our interviews. We’ll be back in a few hours, kay?”

Danny just blinked at him and Tim laughed fondly.

“I’ll leave a note.”

Tim skipped breakfast on their way out, though Bart offered him some breakfast bars.

“It’s too late to be up,” Tim yawned.

Conner laughed as he hugged Tim and wrapped him in his TTK. They rose several feet into the air. “You should not have pulled that all-nighter.”

“How else was I supposed to be awake in time?”

Tim could feel the way Conner shook his head. “Just tell me where to go. I’ll get us there.”

Tim pointed to an area in town. “It’s over that way.”

Bart grinned. “I’ll meet you three there!”

“We won’t be long,” said Cassie.

With the benefit of flying, they were at the radio station within fifteen minutes. Sometimes being friends with metas made life so much easier.

As soon as they entered, a team of people greeted them.

“You were actually serious!” exclaimed a tall, white man. “Thought for sure it was a joke when I got your email last night. I’m Steve and I’ll be your interviewer this morning.”

Tim shook his hand. “Good morning, Steve. Robin at your service, and these are Superboy, Wonder Girl, and Impulse.”

Then they had to be introduced to all the producers, sound engineers, and assistants. If it hadn’t been for his parents’ gala training, Tim was certain he would’ve forgotten all the names instantly.

The employees knew how to do their jobs, however, and despite everyone wanting to meet the heroes, in less than twenty minutes, they were set up in the recording studio.

“So,” said Steve. “I just want to make sure I get this right. You, Robin, have been friends with Phantom for a while now and wanted to tell our listeners the truth about him. That he’s actually a hero and not a menace.”

“That’s right, Steve. I knew him before… Well, he’s a ghost. You know what before implies. He was there for me when I first became Robin. Now I want to be there for him when he’s dealing with similar struggles.”

“That’s not what any of the experts believe.”

Conner snorted. “The so-called experts in this town want to completely destroy any and all ghosts. Don’t think they’re unbiased.”

Bart nodded. “Yeah. We may not have known Phantom as long as Robin, here. But he’s a good guy. Helped us out when we got stranded here.”

“Stranded, eh? Mind if I ask you more about that on air?”

Tim laughed. “You can ask whatever you like. But I can’t guarantee we’ll answer everything. Secret missions and all that, you understand.”

Steve sighed theatrically. “It was worth a shot. Now, we’ll be going live in about five minutes and we’ll have three segments of eight minutes separated by two minute ad breaks. For a total of thirty minutes in the studio. Anything in particular you want me to ask?”

Tim pulled a sheet of paper out of his utility belt. “I wrote some down, if you don’t mind. They should be engaging and broad enough to please your audience and personal curiosity.”

“I won’t ask only from this list, you understand,” said Steve as he took it.

“Of course not. The first three are ones I do request that you ask, however. Beyond those, they’re just suggestions.”

Steve skimmed the list and nodded. “I can work with this.”

Beyond the window, the sound technician made a signal.

“All right, everyone. That’s the one minute mark. Let me introduce you before you say anything, capiche?”

Tim gave a thumbs up and the others added their assent.

The “on air” light turned on and Steve spoke in a voice much more performative than the one he’d been using. “Good Morning, Amity Park! This is Steve Boyce here to help you bring in the day. How are you early birds doing? Have I got a treat for you today! So last night I got absolutely no sleep because at nine thirty, shortly after our newly implemented curfew, I got a surprise email. From no other than the heroes who helped us out the other night when we were attacked! That’s right! The one and only Robin from Gotham emailed my and asked to come on my small, local show. So he and the Teen Titans are here with me. Let’s give them a warm Amity welcome, what do you say?”

Cassie laughed. “Thanks for that introduction, Steve. I’m Wonder Girl and I’d like to clarify one point. The former Teen Titans have kept the name Titans even if they’re no longer Teens. So we’ve decided to go by a new name.”

Bart nodded. “Yep. We’re the Young Justice now.”

Steve laughed. “Looks like I’ve already put my foot in it. Let me correct myself, let’s give the Young Justice a warm Amity welcome.”

Tim put on the happy gala voice his parents had drilled into him. “Not at all! It’s a new change and we’ve never really operated out here before. Even back home in San Francisco or Gotham we get called the Teen Titans more often than not. We’re just on a crusade to get the name change to stick.”

“Well I’m sure all of my listeners will be sure to get it right going forward. Now, let’s get down to business. We’re all thrilled that you were around to help us out the other night, but what brought you to Amity to begin with? Mayor Montez has publicly stated he never even had a chance to reach out for help before you were on the scene.”

“That was all Robin’s doing,” said Conner. “He’s friends with Phantom, you know.”

“Yep,” agreed Tim. “We were in the area when our transport broke down. Impulse figured out where we were and I knew of Amity due to my friendship with Phantom. Since we weren’t on a time limit, we decided to pop into town for a visit. Imagine our surprise when our very first evening here, we experienced a ghost invasion!”

Cassie laughed. “Oh, come on, Rob. With our lives, it really wasn’t that surprising.”

“Yeah,” said Bart. “We’ve totally had weirder things happen to us.”

Steve leaned forward and pitched his tone lower as if conspiring with them. “Well, I’ll definitely be asking for some of the details on what those might’ve been later. But first, I have to ask. Robin, how did you meet Phantom? He’s that ghost in the black-and-white jumpsuit, right? As far as I know, he’s only ever been seen in Amity. And you’ve certainly never been here before.”

Tim took a breath, this was the moment. “Yep, that’s him. And, well, it may be strange, but I knew him before he was ever Phantom.”

“Before he was Phantom? Do you mean…” Steve let his voice trail off.

Tim let out a low sigh and closed his eyes. He really had to sell this. “Yeah.” He made sure his voice was rough. “Yeah. I knew him before he died. He was one of my best friends growing up and we’ve known each other for years.”

Conner put a hand on his shoulder. “Rob…”

When even Steve needed a second to figure out how to reply, Tim figured he did a good enough job. “So you know him when he was alive,” Steve said. “Who was he? Where did he live?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” said Tim. “He was young when he died and his family don’t need people harassing them. They’ve been through a lot. And I know Phantom’s reputation isn’t the best.”

Steve let out another put-upon sigh. “And there you go being reasonable when all I want is the hot gossip. Fine, no questions about who Phantom was. I’m sure you were thrilled when you found out he came back as a ghost, though.”

Tim laughed and was glad Steve was able to change the mood of the interview so quickly without him doing anything. “Oh absolutely. I near about had a heart attack when he called me up out of the blue to say he was a ghost now! This was my first opportunity to visit him since, you know.”

Conner nudged him. “So he brought us along for the ride.”

Steve hummed. “So for the rest of you, this is your first time meeting Phantom?”

“Yep,” said Bart. “I like him. He’s cool.”

“So, Impulse, you think he’s trying to help us. Because it seems like whenever he shows up, things get broken and we have to spend days or weeks and tens of thousands on repairs.”

“Robin knows more about it than I do,” said Bart, “but I guess what let Phantom cross back over to Earth is allowing other ghosts to cross back over. Phantom just wants to spend more time with his living family and friends. The others ghosts…”

“They want more than that,” finished Tim. “Phantom’s explained it to me a bit. They all have something driving them that can only be fulfilled on Earth. And they don’t care what they have to do to satisfy that drive. So Phantom steps in to try and prevent them from causing too much damage or hurting anyone. Then he forces them back to the dimension they come from.”

“In fact,” added Cassie. “We spent all night talking with Phantom and we got his side of the story on several of his fights since he first came to Amity. We’ve written it all up and submitted them to the local paper, so look in the OpEds over the next few days if you want to know the truth.”

“Oh, well now you’ve definitely got me intrigued! I think I will. Anything you'd be willing to share with us now?”

“Do you remember how a month or two ago, a giant robot was seen in Amity?” asked Tim.

“Not something I’m likely to forget!”

Tim laughed. “I’m sure! Well, what you don’t know is that he crossed over to Earth from the Ghost Zone about three or four days before you ever saw him. Phantom kept him from gaining a physical body for days before Technus was able to get past him.”

“Really? So you’re saying that without Phantom, we would’ve been dealing with that robot for a lot longer?”

“Yep.”

Steve asked several more questions about Phantom. Some serious: How does he plan to decrease property damage going forward? We’re coaching him on how to move a fight and deescalate conflict. And some light hearted: So I heard he’s a dog person? Oh, absolutely. A ghost dog adopted him a few weeks ago.

Then the questions turned more personal as he moved on from Phantom and asked about their lives and exploits. And before they knew it, the interview was over.

“Thanks for reaching out,” Steve said as soon as they left the recording studio. “You are by far the biggest guests I’ve ever had on.”

“Thanks for agreeing to have us on so last minute,” said Tim.

“How could I possibly say no?”

-----

Next

Hope you enjoyed the interview! I probably won't go into detail for the TV one since it'd just be rehashing the same information.

I no longer do tag lists, but I do have a Subscription Post if you want to be notified of updates.

[namelessprince]

oh my god you know fnc nat 20 kiss??? apparently the INTENDED SOLUTION for 'perform an act of love' was a) put on a show and pretend to propose, or b) save whoever fell into the water

[skipppppy]

I love how despite not being a bender, Sokka is the biggest embodiment of everything the Water Tribe values in the show, both good and bad.

Change. Sokka who humbled himself when the Kyoshi warriors proved him wrong and took their teachings to heart. Sokka who always had a plan, a few hundred backup plans, and could still get out of a sticky situation on the fly. Sokka whose friends became bored and aimless without his quick wit and initiative.

Kindness. Sokka who went to save Aang before Katara even had to ask him to. Sokka who saw the humanity in an old man from the fire nation. Sokka who gave Jet a second chance despite being the first one to be suspicious of him. Sokka who showed Zuko to his room and held no resentment against him. Sokka who shielded Toph from falling debris with his body.

Ingenuity. Sokka who invented airships and submarines. Sokka who took down the drill. Sokka who broke into a Fire Nation prison rig and out of the highest security prison in the country. Sokka who levelled Ozai’s entire sky fleet in one tactical manoeuvre.

Love. Sokka who couldn’t remember his mother’s face but carries the grief of her death so deeply that he protects every woman he meets with the same unhealthy hypervigilance. Sokka who instinctually jumps to defend his sister despite their constant bickering.

Community. Sokka who gave up his childhood to become the sole protector of his village and dedicated his time to training the younger boys in combat. Sokka who learned to let go of his hypervigilance and put his trust in the people he’a afraid of losing so they can protect him like he protects them. Sokka who stood alone guarding the gates of his home as Zuko’s ship towered over them.

[starksweasley]

free fall

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: you and clark get into a fight, and then the city explodes.

wc: 2.5k+

The slam of the door is deafening. Not because of the sound, but because of what it means. You don’t even flinch. Just march across the room, jaw set, fists clenched so tight your nails dig crescent moons into your palms. You don’t want to see his face right now. Not when you know it’ll be full of that infuriatingly particular mix of fury and worry that he’s so good at disguising as concern.

“You could’ve died,” Clark mutters quietly. 

You exhale through your nose, sharp and hot. “We’re doing this already?”

“You walked into a weapons drop, alone,” he bites out, voice rising like a slow tide. “You had no protection, no plan, and no backup.”

“I had my plan,” you snap, spinning to face him. “It just didn’t involve checking in with my overbearing alien bodyguard first.”

He flinches. Just slightly. But it’s enough.

“Don’t,” he warns. His voice is so low you’re surprised your ears process the decibel. 

Your laugh is dry. “What? You don’t like being talked down to? Imagine how I felt when you showed up halfway through and practically ripped the comm out of my ear in front of everyone like I’m some stupid kid who can’t tie her own shoes.”

“You were going to get killed.”

“I was doing my job.” Your voice cracks, but you don’t let it stop you. “I was doing what I’m good at. What you know I’m good at. But you don’t care about that, do you? You just care that I didn’t stay in the safe little box you always want me in. I can’t spend my whole life waiting for you, Clark!”

His gaze is calm as he stares at you but you don’t miss the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not true. Don’t twist this.”

“Oh, I’m twisting things?” you spit. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell sounds like you think I’m too weak to be trusted with anything real.”

“I didn’t say that,” he growls, stepping closer.

“You didn’t have to,” you exclaim. “You don’t ever have to. You swoop in, rip the roof off, throw some trucks across the parking lot, and suddenly it’s your operation. Your city. Your rules.”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“And I never asked you to!”

That stops him. His face falters for half a second, and he blinks like you just struck him with your ring-clad hand.

“I didn’t ask for a superhero boyfriend,” you thunder on, voice shaking now, unable to stop yourself. “I asked for you. And maybe I was an idiot for thinking I could have both.”

His chest rises and falls fast, and his voice comes out quiet and hard. “Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and act like I’m some stranger in a cape. You know me.”

“Do I?” you whisper. “Because lately, it feels like all I see is Superman. Not Clark. Not the man I fell in love with. Just the guy who shows up after the explosions and tells me I should’ve waited for him.”

He’s silent for too long. His mouth opens, then closes. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft. Broken, almost.

“I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

It takes everything in you not to smooth your hands over his chest and soothe that ache in his tone that twists your stomach into knots, but your throat is tight and you take a step back. Your eyes begin to burn and you look down, unwilling to let him see.

“That’s not love, Clark. That’s fear.”

His brow furrows. “No, it’s not—it’s—”

“Yes, it is. You want to love someone who stays behind. Who stays safe. Who doesn’t scare you.”

“Of course you scare me!” he retorts, arms flailing. “Because you’re the one thing in this world I can’t live without. And I can’t make sure you’re okay. Not all the time. I don’t—I don't know how to live with that.”

You open your mouth to answer. To hurl something sharp and hurtful back at him because you’re angry and exhausted and you don’t know what else to do, but you don’t get the chance.

Because everything shakes.

The floor ripples beneath your feet. A massive rumble splits the air like the earth is groaning. You both freeze. 

Then comes the blast. A thunderous, bone-rattling sound from blocks away, light flashing through the apartment window like a silent scream.

Clark turns instinctively, eyes already glowing faintly with panic and focus. He’s halfway to the window before you the words tumble through your lips. 

“Don’t you dare leave right now.”

He stops in his tracks.

You’re standing there, arms crossed tightly over your chest, shoulders trembling. You know you’re being irrational. You know he has a duty to fulfill and you would never usually stand between him and his job. But your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and the edges of your vision blur with frustration and adrenaline. 

“Don’t you leave in the middle of this,” you say, each word weighted. “Don’t fly away from this like it doesn’t matter.”

He turns, slowly, and his face—god, his face.

You’ve seen him wear pain before. Seen it when he lost people, seen it when the world turned to ash in his hands. But this time it’s different because you know you’re the reason he looks like that. 

His brows are drawn tight, a deep crease forming between them. His mouth is slightly open, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. His eyes are so full of agony you wish your ego would melt away just so you could apologize and kiss his face until they light up again. 

He doesn’t want to leave. Of course he doesn't. You can see it in every inch of him. 

“Please,” you plead, even though you know it’s futile. 

“I don’t want to,” he whispers. “You have to believe me—I don’t want to. I want to stay and fix this. I want to take it all back.”

Your breath catches.

“But I can’t.” Clark’s voice shakes. “People are in danger. If I don’t go, they die.”

You stay silent, blinking fast and shaking your head. He steps forward, just enough to cup your cheek in one hand. His palm is warm, trembling.

“I swear to you,” he says, eyes locked on yours, desperate, “I’ll come back. I’ll come home.”

You close your eyes.

By the time you open them again, he’s gone. Your heart lurches so violently you actually stumble back a step.

The space he just vacated is still vibrating with the gust of his departure, curtains whipping like they’re trying to follow him, like they know how badly you want to. You move on instinct, half numb and half breathless, dragging your feet toward the window.

Your apartment’s on the thirty-second floor. It gives you a perfect view of the city—and of the nightmare unfolding within it.

A fireball licks at the sky just a few blocks down, the explosion now a thick pillar of smoke and ash curling into the air like a monster’s shadow. Windows are shattered. Rubble covers the streets. People are running, screaming—some limping, some carrying others, some not moving at all. A gaping wound has torn itself into the heart of the city.

Your hand flies to your mouth in shock. 

And there he is.

A blue-and-red blur streaks through the sky like a bullet of mercy, and your chest caves in at the sight of him. Superman. Clark. Your Clark.

He’s scooping people from rooftops, using his heat vision to weld a collapsing structure into temporary stability, shielding a group of civilians with his own body as an ambulance drives through the chaos. He looks like a god.

But you know that face. You know the pinch in his brow, the tremble in his jaw when he’s scared out of his mind but has to act like he isn’t. You can feel it in your bones: he’s holding on by a thread.

And you’re still up here.

You’re moving before you’ve fully processed it. You throw on the first shoes you find, tear open the stairwell door, and sprint downward two steps at a time. No time for the elevator. No time for hesitation.

By the time you burst into the street, the world is smoke and screams.

You don’t know where to start. 

There’s a woman with a deep gash in her leg leaning against a crumpled bus. You rush to her, toss her arm over your shoulder, and guide her over broken glass toward a triage area forming near a still-standing corner store. You grab bandages from a supply crate and press them to bleeding skin. You haul debris off a man’s chest with a stranger whose name you never ask. You press a hand to a child’s hair as she sobs in your lap. You hand out water bottles. Every time you look up, you search for blue and red. And every time, there he is—lifting, flying, catching, saving. 

And then you spot him. A boy. Eight years old, maybe. Trapped halfway up a twisted steel staircase, the only way up to him a makeshift scaffold of what used to be part of a fire escape. The steel beam leading up to him is bent and definitely unstable. Your feet are sprinting towards him before your brain even has a chance to catch up. 

You climb fast, heart in your throat. The beam groans wearily beneath you as you inch out, crawling on hands and knees.

The boy is whimpering, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest. “I can’t move,” he sobs. “I’m stuck—”

“You’re okay,” you breathe, trying to sound soothing despite the fact that the metal beneath your palms just shifted. “Hey, look at me. What’s your name?”

“J-Jordan.”

“Okay, Jordan. I’m gonna get you down, alright, sweetie? We’re gonna do this together. Hold my shoulders and don’t let go.”

You lift him up, slide him carefully behind you, and begin to scoot backward, inch by inch.

The beam wobbles.

Shit.

You shove the kid toward the edge, where someone’s waiting to catch him. “Take him!” you yell, and they do, pulling him off just in time.

But you’re not so lucky.

The beam snaps, and suddenly you’re falling. A scream violently rips out of your throat as the world turns sideways and the wind rushes past your ears. You flail. Panic claws at your chest, your limbs, your lungs.

And then—

Arms.

Strong, unshakable arms wrap around you like a vice mid-air, halting your fall with an aggressive jolt. You crash into something solid. No, someone. You know that chest. That heat. That scent of ozone and something impossibly Clark.

He sets you down in the middle of the street gently—almost too gently for how hard your body’s shaking. But when your legs stumble, he’s already gripping your waist, steadying you, holding on like he might lose you again if he doesn’t.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice is frantic. Rough. He’s running his big hands over your arms, down your ribs, checking for breaks or blood or anything that might explain why you just fell from the goddamn sky.

“I couldn’t just sit there,” you rasp.

He freezes. Hands still on your waist. His eyes are so wild and so blue you feel like you’re drowning on dry land. 

And then he kisses you.

It’s sudden. Desperate. Messy.

His lips crash into yours like an aftershock, all teeth and heat and breathless fear. His hands frame your face now, thumbs trembling where they press against your jaw.

“Please,” he gasps against your mouth like a man starved. “Please just don’t get hurt. I can’t—I need you to be okay. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to sleep. Clark  hesitates for one more beat, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize the moment, then disappears back into the chaos with a gust of wind and a rush of air.

You exhale, chest heaving, and then jump right back in.

You help the EMTs. You tear cloth into bandages. You cradle heads, squeeze hands, speak softly to people bleeding and terrified. You give them what you can.

When the smoke finally begins to clear, you lean against a battered light pole, wiping sweat and grime from your face.

You feel him before you see him. The gust of wind. The heat at your back. The familiar crackle of power in the air. You turn.

Clark is already landing in front of you.

He says nothing. Just wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight against him. Then he shoots into the sky with you in his arms.

He doesn’t speak again until you’re back in the apartment.

He sets you down like you’re made of something clear and breakable, but you don’t even make it more than two steps. He’s already reaching for you, already sinking onto the couch and pulling you into his lap, holding you so tightly against his chest you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart under your palm.

Your knees fall on either side of his thighs. His arms wrap around your back, slipping under your shirt, one hand weaving up into your hair.

He kisses you again. But this one is slow. Careful. Mouth moving against yours like a prayer. Like an apology. Like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into your skin through his lips. You swear you feel him sigh into you. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he finally pulls away.

You’re out of focus as you blink up at him. 

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Clark murmurs. “I was scared. I got scared and I didn’t know how to handle it. And I took it out on you.”

“Clark…”

“I was wrong to be upset at you for being you. For being brave. For trying to help people.” He rests his forehead against yours. Your lips curve into half a smile when his curls brush your skin. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you? Watching you out there—I didn’t know my heart could break and swell at the same time.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry too. For what I said. I was angry, and it came out ugly. I know you were just trying to protect me.”

His hand moves down to your cheek. “Next time, I’ll try protecting you without treating you like something to hide away.”

Your smile grows gentler. “And I’ll try to remember that loving you means sometimes watching you fly away.”

Clark kisses your forehead. It tingles where his lips meet your skin. “You are the bravest person I know.”

“And you,” you murmur, curling deeper into his chest, “are the softest tank I’ve ever met.”

He huffs a laugh against your hair and your butterflies erupt in your gut at the sound. His arms tighten around you and you feel like you can barely breathe, but you don’t fight his hold. You stay like that, curled together on the couch in the dim light of a quiet apartment.

Outside, the city is still flashing with sirens and scattered lights. But you don’t look.

You stay where you are. With him. 

[d1onysusw1n3]

REBEL GIRL - Jason Todd X Reader

•Best friends with Tim Drake since childhood, she practically lives at Wayne Manor—fixing gear, trading jokes, sharing a bed (platonically, of course). But it’s Jason Todd who sets her blood on fire. Brooding, dangerous, and annoyingly irresistible, he sees right through her chaos and bruises. One stolen kiss turns into something deeper, something hotter—and now, sneaking around feels too good to stop. Even if it risks everything.

You and Tim Drake had been best friends since elementary school — the kind of bond that formed in lunch lines and science fairs, built up over years of inside jokes, late-night texting marathons, and shared trauma over pop quizzes and crime-fighting tech. Now, you were practically part of the furniture at Wayne Manor. Alfred had a mug with your name on it. You had a toothbrush in one of the guest bathrooms. Hell, Damian even tolerated you.

You and Tim were inseparable. If one of you was around, the other was close by — huddled over a new prototype in the cave, binge-watching the worst reality TV imaginable (“Love Prison: Arctic Edition” was a recent low), or playing co-op games until your eyes ached and the sun came up.

Where Tim was the calm, rational, methodical one — a human chessboard with backup plans for his backup plans — you were… well, not. You were impulsive, loud, chaotic, full of adrenaline-fueled ideas and no patience to wait and see how they’d turn out. Tim was your anchor; you were his hurricane.

Like when you decided at 2:17 a.m. that your hair desperately needed to be cosmic purple. You’d already yanked open the box dye when your phone buzzed.

“Wait. Stop. That’ll fry your hair. I’m on my way.”

He showed up with actual salon-grade stuff, deep conditioner, and gloves, still half in his Red Robin suit. Muttering about split ends and peroxide damage like a grumpy hairstylist with a utility belt.

Or the time you snuck out for a rock concert in some dimly lit garage that definitely violated five fire codes. You were halfway to the subway when Tim called you.

“Alfred’s waiting out front. I told your mom you’re sleeping over. Let’s not get murdered tonight, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes but climbed in the back of the sleek black sedan anyway. Tim always had your back — even when he wasn’t thrilled about what you were doing.

Sure, the security and thoughtfulness were nice. But sometimes? Sometimes you wanted to be stupid and reckless and messy. Life felt more real when it was a little out of control.

Still. No matter how close you and Tim were — no matter how many years you’d known each other, how many sleepovers you’d shared, how many secrets you’d kept — there was one thing you’d never, ever say out loud.

You had a thing for his older brother.

Jason Todd.

Now listen, it wasn’t what it looked like. You weren’t some cliché, drooling over the guy just because he had a motorcycle and a scowl. You’d never been that kind of girl — the ones who giggled over “dangerous bad boys” like it was a phase in a YA novel. Honestly, the whole aesthetic usually made you roll your eyes.

But Jason? He wasn’t pretending.

The danger wasn’t some rebel phase or leather-jacket cosplay. He didn’t brood for attention — he did it because he was dangerous. There was something real about him. Something sharp and bruised and honest. And you wanted to understand it.

Him.

Every jagged edge. Every complicated layer. Every warning sign.

You’d turned eighteen a few months ago. Grown-up enough to vote, enlist, pay taxes — and finally not get treated like a little kid every time you walked through the manor doors. Jason was around twenty now, a couple years older. Enough of a gap to make it slightly forbidden, a little scandalous — but not enough to be a problem.

At least, not unless someone found out.

You hadn’t said a word. Not to Tim. Not to anyone. But that crush? The one that started small — when you caught him laughing at one of your dumb jokes when he thought no one was looking — yeah. It was growing.

And it wasn’t going away.

-

-

Tim had invited you to his place for his birthday — nothing crazy, just the usual. Cake, chaos, and the ever-growing circus that was the Wayne family.

You’d finally turned eighteen a few months ago, so this year felt a little different. Most of his siblings were going to be there — Dick would probably bring some godforsaken fruit tray no one would eat, Damian would scowl at you from across the room like always, and if Jason actually showed up? Well… you were not thinking about that part. Not right now.

You packed a bag like usual, tossing in a toothbrush, charger, oversized hoodie, and a few random gadgets you’d promised Tim. You always slept over. — you and Tim shared a bed like siblings, like two puzzle pieces that had just always fit together. There’d been nights you cried yourself to sleep with your back to him, and mornings he’d woken up clinging to your hoodie like it anchored him to this world. It was what it was — solid, safe, constant.

Home wasn’t like that.

You’d grown up in Crime Alley — Gotham’s sewage drain where everything bad eventually ended up. The stench was inescapable. A mixture of piss, grease, burnt-out rubber, and something moldy no one ever identified. You were used to the shouting, the occasional gunshot, the broken glass like glitter on the sidewalks. You weren’t scared of it anymore.

Right now, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, cutting up an old pair of jeans with a rusted fabric blade. You were distressing the thighs and sewing on a few more patches — a safety pin smiley face, a faded anarchy symbol, some random band logo whose name had peeled off years ago. Everything you owned had been spiked or stitched or painted over in Sharpie. Your Converse were duct-taped at the soles and studded with nails. Your backpack had chains and spray paint all over it, like a mobile protest sign.

You loved punk — not just the look, but the heart of it. The rebellion, the rawness, the refusal to lie down and play nice. It felt like armor.

Even if your parents hated it.

Your mom was a ghost on her feet — working back-to-back shifts at the hospital, barely home, barely breathing. She wasn’t cruel. Just exhausted. The kind of burnt-out that turns into silence.

And your stepfather?

Well. He wasn’t silent.

Whenever he was pissed — which was often — he’d come looking for you like a bloodhound. You were a lightning rod for his rage, the freak in eyeliner and ripped jeans he didn’t understand. You’d taken hits. You’d taken worse. But you gave it back now.

Still, stress was stress. Even when you wore it like a badge.

You had black-tinted glasses over your red eyes, the scent of smoke still clinging to your sleeves. You didn’t even pretend anymore — of course you smoked. You and Tim did sometimes, mostly in secret, hidden behind the Manor or out a fire escape. You weren’t exactly trying to become a burnout, but there were nights where being numb felt better than feeling anything at all.

You were spinning in your chair now, rocking your head to the sound of the Sex Pistols blaring from your busted speaker.

“God save the queen!” you belted, legs kicking out as your chair rolled toward the desk. You propped your filthy Converse up on the edge, grinning as you pretended to shred an invisible guitar.

The upload bar on your screen blinked complete. You dropped your feet with a thunk and leaned forward. You were finishing up some modifications for Tim — heat-resistant upgrades for his suit after he came home soaked and freezing two weeks ago. Gotham’s weather didn’t give a damn that he was out saving lives.

You were also working on another project. One that had nothing to do with Tim.

Jason’s helmet sat on your desk, matte red and heavy, already partially opened where you’d unscrewed the plate. You’d been upgrading the HUD interface — improved infrared range, new voice modulation chip, and a tiny emergency data spike hidden behind the earplate. You’d tried it on earlier.

It had felt powerful. Like a secret.

Like you’d touched part of him.

“There’s no future! No future! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” you shouted along, voice hoarse as you slid the new chip into place, locking it with a precise flick of your wrist.

Your room was chaos — a sanctuary of clutter and creativity. Posters layered over one another like scales, old punk flyers and zine pages overlapping vinyl sleeves and cracked CDs. Red and purple string lights looped across the walls, casting shadows that danced over your tech — scrap-built processors, half-wired EMPs, a soldering iron resting on top of an old Sega Genesis.

Most of it came from the junkyard. You dove into dumpsters like it was a sport, scavenging for forgotten tech with a gleam in your eye and grease on your knuckles. In your mind, you weren’t stealing — you were resurrecting. Reusing. Recycling in the best way possible.

You were halfway through triple-checking the helmet’s backup battery when the banging started.

“TURN THAT FUCKING MUSIC DOWN!”

Your stepfather’s voice was muffled but sharp, slamming against your door like a threat. You didn’t even flinch. You rolled your eyes and turned the knob on the speaker up three notches.

Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Also yes.

“NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” the song shouted on even louder than before.

You stuffed the helmet into your bag along with Tim’s gear, careful not to crush anything. You clicked off your system, zipped everything up, and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.

Your stepfather was passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, an open beer can leaking into the carpet. You didn’t even look at him twice.

“Grody,” you muttered under your breath, stepping over a pizza box and an ashtray. You didn’t lock the door behind you. Part of you wished someone would come in and drag that sack of shit off into the night. Let the alley have him.

Your face still throbbed a little — the bruise on your jaw was starting to turn yellow around the edges, and the cut under your eye was a dark slash of purple-red. Tim had seen it before. He always knew. You told him it wasn’t his problem. That it didn’t concern him.

He never agreed.

Didn’t stop you from swinging back, though. The bastard was missing a front tooth now — your personal trophy. You’d knocked it clean out with a lead pipe when he got too close. The memory still made you smile.

But the smile didn’t last long. Not when you thought about Tim’s reaction.

He was going to freak out. Last time your face was clean. This time? Not so much.

You unlocked your bike — the shitty, rusted fixie you’d patched together from six different frames. The chain always squeaked. The tires were uneven. But she got you where you needed to go.

The ride to Wayne Manor was familiar, even in the dark. Gotham passed you in a blur of streetlights and graffiti, neon signs flickering above alley mouths. You reached the gate, punched in the code, and pedaled up the winding driveway lined with trees older than your entire neighborhood.

You didn’t even hesitate at the steps.

You dropped the bike with a clatter, tossed your bag over your shoulder, and let yourself in through the front door without knocking.

It was practically home anyway.

“Yo, loser! I’m here!” you yelled as soon as you stepped inside Wayne Manor, your voice echoing off the high ceilings and polished marble like you were performing at Carnegie Hall.

You paused, lifting your chin slightly.

Good acoustics, you thought with a smirk, tugging your backpack higher on your shoulder.

Footsteps thundered on the grand staircase above, and then Tim appeared — practically flying down the steps with frantic energy, his hair ruffled and his eyes already filled with exasperation. His socked feet skidded slightly on the polished floors as he rushed to meet you like a mom late to pick up her kid from soccer practice.

“Did you bike here at dawn?!” he half-shrieked, already scanning you head to toe for signs of frostbite or another bad decision.

“Relax, Mom,” you teased, rolling your eyes as you let your bag drop onto the foyer floor. “I’m here, and I’m alive. Isn’t that what matters?” You held your arms out dramatically like you were Jesus returning from the desert.

Tim just sighed, long and drawn out like he was already regretting inviting you. “You’re hopeless.”

“You love it,” you grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek before sauntering toward the kitchen like you owned the place.

But Tim wasn’t letting you go that easy.

He reached out, catching your wrist gently but firmly. You turned back to him, brows raised, only for his fingers to tilt your chin slightly up — exposing the healing bruise on your jaw and the dull red-and-purple under your eye. He slid your black glasses off your face, eyes narrowing as he got a better look.

You yanked them back and shoved them on. “Dude,” you muttered, voice guarded.

“He’s doing it again,” Tim said tightly, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked beneath his skin.

“Yeah,” you said with a careless shrug. “Don’t worry about it, Bat Boy, I’ve got it under control.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” His voice dropped low, controlled, but barely. The way his fists curled told you he was itching to call Bruce or — worse — go down there himself.

“How long are you gonna let him do this to you?” he asked, voice rough and quiet.

Before you could answer, the air shifted — a low thump from the stairs.

You turned your head slightly to see Jason Todd descending the staircase, boots heavy on the steps, hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket that matched his permanent scowl. His presence filled the room like smoke — slow, confident, and hard to ignore.

You leaned in to Tim quickly. “We’ll talk later, okay?” you whispered under your breath.

Tim gave you a reluctant nod, worry still etched across his face.

Jason smirked as he reached the bottom, his eyes flicking between you two before settling on his younger brother with that classic brand of older sibling mockery.

“Hey there, Replacement.”

You bit your lip to hold in a laugh. Tim flipped him off behind your back.

Jason’s eyes landed on you then, and the look he gave you made your stomach flip. It wasn’t just the smirk, or the sharp green eyes that cut into you like glass — it was the way he said your name:

“Y/N.” Smooth, confident, sinful.

Your name rolled off his tongue like it was his favorite curse word. And god, you wanted to hear it again. Maybe in the dark. Maybe up against a wall.

“What’s up, Jay?” you said, keeping it cool as you reached into your backpack. You tossed him his helmet, the one you’d been upgrading.

“Cool,” Jason said, catching it effortlessly. He held it up in acknowledgment, flashing you a lopsided grin before turning and strolling off down the hallway, his boots echoing behind him.

You forced yourself to breathe.

“Do you have my new suit?” Tim asked, face lighting up with barely contained excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh boy,” you grinned, recovering quickly. “You’re in for a surprise.”

⸻

You were in the Batcave now, seated at the main terminal as glowing monitors flickered around you. The cool, dim air buzzed with the hum of electricity and the faint smell of engine grease. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out a run-through of every upgrade you’d installed in Tim’s new suit: heat dampeners, new kinetic sensors, water-wicking lining, and a deployable cloak for gliding.

Tim geeked out beside you, practically vibrating as he scrolled through the specs.

Jason was nearby — off to the side, no shirt, working on one of his motorcycles with a wrench in hand. Grease smeared his forearms, and his silver chain glinted in the cave’s low light as it swung from his neck. Every muscle on his back flexed and shifted with each turn of the bolt.

You really tried not to stare.

But it was impossible. He was just… there. Unapologetically built, all rough edges and cool indifference. The streak of white in his otherwise black hair made him look even more unreal — like something out of a dream with a violent past.

You didn’t notice you were gawking until Jason caught you. He looked up and locked eyes with you — then winked.

Your brain short-circuited.

You snapped your gaze back to the screen, cheeks blazing red. You typed furiously just to hide your face, praying Tim didn’t—

“Dude,” Tim said, leaning slightly toward you. “You good?”

“Peachy,” you said, voice a bit too high.

Tim didn’t press it. He just stood up and stretched.

“I’m gonna go clean my room. It looks like a bomb went off. I’ll be back in a sec?” He held his fist out.

You bumped it without looking away from the monitor. “Yeah. See you in a sec.”

You were typing new commands into the Batcomputer when you felt someone behind you. The air changed. The warmth of a body leaning just a little too close. A shadow fell over your screen.

Then a voice — low, rough, and far too close to your ear.

“Cool. How do you build this stuff again?”

Your hands froze mid-keystroke.

You turned slowly, and there he was — Jason — bent over you, chain swaying gently as it brushed your shoulder, warm breath ghosting along your cheek. His chest was inches from your back, his face close enough to kiss. You swore you could smell his cologne — something smoky and leather-sweet.

Your mouth was dry. Your brain screamed at you to play it cool.

“I, uh—” you cleared your throat. “I dive through the junkyard. The one next to that shitty gas station in Crime Alley? Yeah, I just find the parts I need and… get to work.”

Jason gave a low whistle, impressed. “Damn. Scrap-built genius.”

You shrugged, cocky now. “Gotta make do.”

He glanced down, eyes narrowing as he studied your face.

His voice turned serious.

“Holy shit. Who fucked you up?” he asked, nodding toward the bruises on your face and the split in your lip.

You laughed it off, leaning back a little in your chair. “You should see the other guy. Missing a tooth and crying blood.”

Jason didn’t laugh.

Because he’d heard it earlier — your whispered argument with Tim in the foyer. He knew. Knew your stepfather had laid hands on you again. Knew exactly how dangerous that made him in Jason’s eyes.

But instead of calling it out, instead of making you flinch with pity, he looked at you like you were made of steel and fire.

“Badass,” Jason said finally, locking eyes with you. “For real.”

You didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

For a long, suspended moment, it was just the two of you — locked in each other’s gaze in the low hum of the Batcave. The flicker of the monitor screens cast soft blue light across Jason’s face, shadowing the sharp line of his jaw and catching in his pale eyes. The warm press of his body hovering behind you still lingered on your skin.

In the deep silence of Gotham’s most secure cave…

You forgot how to breathe.

Then, suddenly—

“Master Bruce demands your presence. Both of you.”

Alfred’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

You jumped, quite literally — heart lurching like it tried to crawl out of your chest. It was like your soul left your body and slammed back in on impact.

“Jesus, Alfred!” you wheezed, hand flying to your chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

The butler stood coolly at the top of the platform stairs, back straight, gaze calm — but you could feel the judgment radiating off him. The way his eyes flicked between you and Jason?

You’d never felt so thoroughly casted in your life. Like his stare could read your entire internet search history and your unspoken Jason Todd fantasies in 0.3 seconds.

Jason raised a brow at Alfred’s look but didn’t comment. He just muttered, “Tch,” under his breath and turned to head upstairs — still in all his shirtless, broad-shouldered, casually devastating glory.

You had to look away or combust.

“Right! On my way,” you said quickly, snapping yourself back into motion. You spun around in your chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as you finished inputting the last line of code. With a quick keystroke, you activated Tim’s suit, the screen lighting up in confirmation.

The Batcave hummed. Task complete.

⸻

The rest of the day blurred into chaotic fun — and miraculously, nothing exploded. No villains crashed the party, no citywide emergencies, no rooftop trauma bonding. Just… actual celebration.

Tim’s birthday? A genuine success.

You now lounged on the living room couch, one of several pizza boxes balancing on the edge of the coffee table, the room dimly lit and cozy. The rain outside beat a steady rhythm against the high windows, and inside, the glow from the TV illuminated the lazy chaos of the manor’s den.

Tim sat beside you, hunched forward, fingers furiously mashing buttons on the controller in his hands. You were curled into the corner of the couch with your legs draped over his lap, comfortably smug.

“You’re a fucking cheater!” Tim grumbled, eyes wide in disbelief as you once again absolutely annihilated him in Mortal Kombat.

“What can I say?” you shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. “Get better, punk.”

On screen, Rain was finishing his gruesome fatality move on Sub-Zero, and you mimed a little victory dance, flipping your middle fingers up at the sky.

The sliding door creaked open and you glanced up to see Jason walk in. Your smirk almost faltered.

Unfortunately, he’d put on a black t-shirt. And grey joggers. Which somehow made things worse.

Tim scoffed dramatically and shoved your legs off his lap like you’d committed a war crime. “I’m done playing with a cheater anyway.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his arm. “Whatever, you big baby.”

Jason, like a man who took opportunities when they were handed to him, casually dropped into the space next to you — not too close, but enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.

He stretched an arm over the back of the couch. You tried not to notice. You failed.

“Let me get a round in,” he said, taking Tim’s controller like he owned the place. Which, arguably, he kind of did.

You raised a brow, your smile turning competitive. “Step right up to get your ass kicked, Todd.”

Jason leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something low and cocky.

“Oh, I doubt it, princess.”

Your heart stuttered.

You bit your lip at the nickname, hoping the scream that erupted in your soul didn’t show on your face. Princess? From him? Oh, you were going to need oxygen and possibly a priest.

You cleared your throat and focused hard on the character select screen. You were dying to win.

And you did.

Jason stared at the screen with a deadpan expression as your character landed the final blow — another brutal fatality that made Tim shout gleefully from the sidelines.

Jason narrowed his eyes at you, jaw ticking. “You’re so cheating.”

“Finally, something we agree on,” Tim chimed in, arms crossed.

You laughed, kicking your feet up onto the table. “Just say y’all are ass and got beat by a superior gamer.”

Jason gave you a side-eye that could’ve curdled milk. You grinned wider.

“Whatever,” Tim groaned, stretching his arms overhead before standing. “I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t corrupt my controller with your loser energy while I’m gone.”

“No promises!” you called after him as he ascended the stairs.

You glanced at Jason.

He was still sitting beside you, long legs stretched out, controller loose in his hands. His expression was neutral — almost unreadable — but there was a spark of challenge in his eyes.

And you felt it. That same tension from earlier, simmering just under the surface.

Only now, there was no Alfred. No Tim.

Just you and him… and a long, rainy night.

“You seem to be a tech nerd,” Jason said, breaking the comfortable silence between you. His voice had a teasing lilt, that boyish smugness he wore like armor. “You know how to put together a bike?”

He had that small, crooked smirk on his lips — the kind that, under the right light, made him look effortlessly charming. It was a rare look when he wasn’t brooding or pissed off at the world. But tonight, he was… soft around the edges.

You leaned back a little, stretching your legs out along the couch, feeling his gaze follow you. “Of course I do,” you said casually. “My father taught me before he died. Some things stuck.”

Your voice dipped slightly at the end — not sad, just honest.

“But I’d be rusty,” you added with a shrug, brushing your fingers through your hair like you were shaking off old memories.

Jason nodded, something subtle shifting in his eyes. It was respect, you thought. A quiet kind. Then that signature glint of mischief returned.

“So…” he said slowly, letting the word hang between you like bait. He tilted his head a bit, studying you with curiosity and maybe something more. “You and Tim?”

He pursed his lips after the question, suppressing a smirk. Testing you.

You let out a laugh, the kind that came from your chest, unbothered and amused. You shook your head and grinned. “Hell no. That’s my best friend ‘til I die — that’s all we’ll ever be.”

You smiled softer then, thinking of Tim with a kind of fondness that came from a thousand shared late nights, caffeine-fueled coding sessions, and childhood trauma bonding. “He’s like my little brother.”

Jason watched you with a quiet smile, the tension in his shoulders easing.

He liked your answer. You could tell.

“So how ‘bout you, Todd?” you asked, turning the question around with a little smirk. “Any lucky ladies in your life?”

You leaned in slightly, propping your elbow on the back of the couch and resting your chin in your palm, studying him with playful intent. You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw tensed, how he subtly turned his body toward you.

His presence was magnetic.

Jason glanced away for a moment, a short breath escaping through his nose like a laugh. Then he looked back at you — direct, deliberate. “Nah,” he murmured, voice dropping.

You felt it, that shift in the air. Like the weight of the room was pulled toward him.

His eyes dropped to your lips — not a flicker, not a passing glance, but a slow drag. He looked at them, then met your eyes again. It wasn’t a mistake. He wanted you to notice.

“I’m too complicated to settle down with,” he said, voice low, almost a murmur. There was something in it — not self-pity, not arrogance, but a raw truth he didn’t often share. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone in that type of danger.”

The words hung there between you, heavier than you expected. And still… your gaze didn’t falter.

“Every problem has a solution,” you said softly, your voice both teasing and honest. Your pulse was thudding now. You couldn’t look away.

Jason’s eyes darkened just slightly — not with anger, but with something unspoken and molten and dangerously sincere.

“Yeah…” he whispered, and the word trembled across the space between you.

He leaned in.

Your heart stilled. The moment slowed — the distance between your faces vanishing with every breath.

He rested his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. His lips hovered a breath away from yours — so close they almost touched. You could feel the warmth of him, the soft exhale from his mouth. The anticipation was electric, and your lungs had forgotten their job.

“Maybe you’re my solution.”

It was barely a whisper.

Then he kissed you.

And you didn’t hold back.

You kissed him hard — like you’d been waiting too long for this. Like you were both tired of dancing around it.

Jason brought a hand up to cup your jaw, his touch rough and tender all at once. His fingers curled behind your ear, thumb tracing the curve beneath your chin. He deepened the kiss, slow but intense, like he needed you to feel every second of it.

The kiss deepened with every passing second — slow at first, then growing hotter, more desperate, like a match finally caught flame. Jason’s hands found your waist, tugging you closer with a firm grip that made your breath hitch.

You shifted, crawling into his lap without a word, straddling him easily as your knees bracketed his thighs. The warmth of his body met yours in a rush. Your arms looped around his shoulders, fingers sliding into the thick, dark strands of his hair — tugging, twisting gently as you kissed him harder. He groaned low in his throat, the sound sending a pulse between your legs that made your stomach flip.

His hands moved with purpose now, rough palms gliding over the curve of your waist before settling on the soft plump of your hips. His fingers curled, holding tight like he was trying to ground himself. The pads of his thumbs pressed just under the hem of your shirt, brushing bare skin.

You rocked your hips against him instinctively — slow, deliberate, your breath catching when you felt him harden beneath you. The friction made Jason grunt, sharp and throaty, his jaw clenching.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth.

His hands flexed, digging into your sides as he suddenly reached up and tangled his fingers in your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled your head back, baring your throat to him. A gasp left your lips at the sudden motion — not from pain, but from how easily he took control.

Jason didn’t waste a second.

He leaned in, his mouth hot and hungry against the underside of your jaw. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down your neck, slow and possessive, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you tremble. He lingered there — along your pulse point, then lower — as his hand in your hair kept your head tilted back for him, completely exposed.

You felt like you were burning alive — every nerve on fire, every inch of your body aware of him. The couch, the room, the world — all of it blurred around the edges. Nothing mattered but his mouth on your skin and the low, satisfied growl that rumbled in his chest when you rolled your hips again.

You were caught in it — heat and hunger and something far more dangerous.

And Jason?

He looked like a man who had just been handed everything he wanted — and planned to take it slow, so he could savor every second

“F-Fuck, Jason…” you breathed out, voice barely above a whisper, but thick with need. Your brow was furrowed, eyes half-lidded as pleasure pulsed through every inch of your body. His mouth was still warm on your neck, his hands locked tight around your hips like he didn’t want to let go.

Jason froze for half a second — the way you said his name, raw and shaky, made something dark flicker behind his green eyes. He looked up at you like you were a lit fuse and he was all too happy to explode.

“Say my name like that again, princess,” he growled low, voice rough with restraint. “And I won’t be able to stop.”

There was nothing cocky in the way he said it — it was a warning. A plea. The barely controlled hunger in his voice was all-consuming. You could feel how much he wanted you — the way his fingers flexed on your hips, the way his chest rose and fell faster with every second, how tight his jaw was clenched to hold himself back.

And maybe you were about to say it again. Maybe you wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t stop.

“Fuck.” Jason groans out. You continue grinding down on his bulge, both chasing your orgasms.

“Princess s-slow down.” Jason groans trying not to be loud in the middle of the living room. He knew how risky this was. Being caught humping his little brothers eighteen year old best friend wasn’t really on his bucket list.

“Can’t gonna cum.” You moan out as your body finally lets go. You squeal as your body convulses on his lap, the strong orgasm hit you like a giant wave, burning white and hot down your spine.

Jason groans in your ear as he reaches his own orgasm. Slowly continuing to grind your hips down on him, Riding out his organs in pure bliss unbothered by who catches him anymore.

then — the faint but unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing echoed down the hall.

Your eyes widened, and in a blur of limbs and whispered curses, you scrambled off Jason’s lap, nearly tripping over your own feet as you dove back into your corner of the couch. You grabbed a throw pillow, clutching it to your chest to hide your pounding heart and flaming face. Jason stayed frozen for a second longer, like his body hadn’t caught up to the panic yet.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he shifted forward, adjusting the front of his sweatpants with a swift, almost irritated motion. His fingers raked through his hair as he cleared his throat, trying to look casual — like he hadn’t just been seconds away from devouring you whole.

Your cheeks burned as you avoided looking at him, your chest still heaving as you tried to slow your racing heartbeat.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs.

You both sat still, barely breathing — two guilty teenagers caught on the edge of something you couldn’t take back.

The door to the hallway opened, and Tim’s voice rang out behind you:

“Hey, did I miss anything?”

You blinked. Swallowed.

Jason leaned back, arm draped across the back of the couch like he’d been lounging the whole time.

“Not a damn thing,” he said smoothly, voice steady.

But when you dared to glance sideways at him, his eyes met yours — and the heat in them hadn’t gone anywhere.

Tim came casually waltzing back down the stairs, blissfully unaware of the storm he’d just missed by seconds. He flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic huff, grabbing a nearby pillow and wedging it behind his back like it was just any other lazy afternoon.

“We should watch the new Spider-Man movie,” he said brightly, reaching for the remote on the coffee table and tossing you a grin, completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had just shifted on its axis.

“Sounds good to me,” you replied, voice a little too soft. Your lips still tingled, your breath still hadn’t quite evened out, and you could feel the blush burning hot under your cheeks. But you forced the smile, forced the normalcy — because if Tim noticed anything off, you’d never hear the end of it.

You heard Jason stand before you saw him. The slight creak of the couch. The sudden tension in the air.

“I’mma head out,” Jason mumbled, his voice low and gruff. “Have fun.”

He didn’t look at you, not directly — but his eyes flicked your way for the briefest second, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And then, just like that, he turned and bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, his footsteps disappearing into the upper hallway like a vanishing spell.

You sat frozen in place.

Only when he was fully gone did you reach up, fingers ghosting across your lips. They still felt warm, still felt slightly swollen from the kiss. You touched them like they weren’t yours — like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would make it real. Or maybe it would prove it didn’t happen.

You would’ve never seen that coming. Not in a million years.

Jason Todd — Jason Fucking Todd — had kissed you. And for one wild moment, you kissed him right back.

You sat back against the couch in a daze, watching Tim flip through movie titles on the screen with carefree ease.

He had no idea.

And you weren’t sure what the hell you were going to do about it.

[batsandbirdbrains]

I want a fic where the rest of the yj team just vastly underestimates Robin

The one where the team doesn’t respect Robin’s seniority

Because he’s younger than all of them, because he’s a thirteen year old kid, because he often makes jokes and laughs and manages to have fun when they’re training, the rest of the team just doesn’t take him seriously. And Dick tries not to let it get to him, and even Bruce tells him that they’re being ridiculous and to not let them get to him. But he’s a kid, of course it’s going to get to him. No matter how hard he tries to let it roll off his back, he can’t help but get upset at all the little jabs about his age or his immaturity or his lack of super powers (that last one really peeves him, especially because he’s more experienced than all of them and he doesn’t need powers to be a hero, otherwise he wouldn’t have lasted this long).

But then something happens on a mission, and after the entire team has basically talked shit about him right to his face and insinuated that he’s useless and the team doesn’t need him.

Which was a huge mistake on their part, because what they didn’t realize was that the group of villains they were trying to sneak up on were Gotham rogues. And they don’t like anyone messing with their favorite little bird.

So Robin sticks back, deciding he’s not going to help them if they’re so adamant about not needing him, about him being useless because he doesn’t have powers. Fuck them. Let them figure this all out on their own.

And he has to smother his laughter, pulling the edges of his cape up to cover his mouth. Because they get the absolute shit kicked out of themselves, and they’re tied up and dangling from support beams of the warehouse they’re in. He may or may not be taking pictures to use as blackmail. And to rub in their faces once they’re back at Mount Justice.

Because Catwoman is scolding them. Finger wagging and everything. Telling them off for being mean to Robin.

She’d brought Poison Ivy as backup while trying to make a deal with Penguin, who was also going over a new plan with Riddler, and Bane had heard about them all meeting up and decided to drop by, and all of them were just pissed to hear these whiney little kiddies playing at hero talk shit about their bird. No one’s allowed to mess with the bird except for them. So they perhaps all silently decide to put on a little show for the kiddies.

So they perhaps then let Robin beat them all. Except Robin’s actually clever enough that they don’t have to even really hold back, because their bird is really that good.

He gets Penguin and Riddler tied up in record time, Bane laughs before fleeing, and then Catwoman and Poison Ivy promise to check in on Robin once he’s out on patrol with Batman before they escape.

Idk I just want the team to underestimate Robin then get their shit rocked by Gotham villains who don’t like people messing with their little birdie.

[cece693]

So I just read a fic on Tumblr about reader acalling their lover 'bro', 'dude', etc. and I thought it was hilarious. Like it's something so harmless but your lover sees it like betrayal. I couldn't think of a person who would allow such a thing, but then comes in Joe Goldberg :)

You’re My Bro—Wait, What?

pairing: joe goldberg x male reader tags: 'bro' zoned, power bottom Joe, no explicit smut but mentions of it, reader is amused, Joe is not, casual turned into relationship, Joe monologuing

You’re starting to think Joe might be just a little too possessive—but hey, that’s half the fun, right? The two of you are standing at a crowded bar, shoulders touching as you each cradle a drink, when one of your friends strides over. You see Joe tense the moment they look between you and him, curiosity shining in their eyes. “So are you guys—?”

“Buddies,” you blurt, before you can think of something more diplomatic. Joe’s entire posture goes rigid as a steel rod. You can practically hear him grinding his teeth.

(Joe's inner monologue): You have got to be kidding me. First, “friend.” Then, “buddy.” Now, “bro.” Every time he does this, it feels like I’m being listed on some discount website: ‘And here’s my pal Joe, 50% off while supplies last!’ Doesn’t he realize he’s basically advertising that he’s still on the market? Am I a placeholder until some new fling shows up? Because I am definitely not a placeholder.

You finish the interaction with your friend, laugh awkwardly, and they move off to join the crowd. You turn to Joe, but he’s already looking at you with that borderline laser-focused stare. “Hey, buddy,” you try, testing your luck with a playful grin. Joe’s brow twitches, and you mentally kick yourself—buddy is basically the forbidden word at this point.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s doing it on purpose…right? He must be doing it on purpose. Is he oblivious, or am I supposed to interpret this as some twisted come-on?

“Not now,” he says under his breath. “We’re going somewhere quieter.” He practically grabs you by the wrist, weaving through the bar crowd, until you’re both in a dimly lit corridor near the bathrooms. The incessant clacking of pool balls and muffled Top 40 hits fade behind the hum of neon beer signs.

You watch Joe pace in a tight circle, raking his fingers through his hair. It’s endearing and simultaneously a bit intense—like he’s one step away from either kissing you or strangling you. (In Joe’s defense, that’s basically his resting expression.) “Okay,” you begin, leaning back against the wall, “what was that about?”

He whirls on you, eyes narrowed. “You keep calling me your buddy. Or your pal. Or your bro. I’m not some backup plan you keep on the sidelines until you find a better guy to binge-watch Netflix with.”

You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Dude, it’s just—”

(Joe's inner monologue): Oh, now I’m ‘dude?’ Fantastic. Might as well just write ‘NOT AVAILABLE FOR COMMITMENT’ on my forehead.

“It’s not just anything,” he hisses, crossing his arms. “I’m pretty sure after everything we’ve done—” He lowers his voice, leaning in. “After letting you do literally every position we saw in that questionable YouTube video—maybe you could stop calling me bro.”

You open your mouth, realize no words are coming, then awkwardly clear your throat. “Alright, maybe I have been a little casual about this, but that’s only because we’ve never had the talk. I didn’t think you’d want me shouting from the rooftops about how we’re—”

Joe cuts you off, stepping closer. “And maybe I don’t want a rooftop announcement. But I do expect more respect than a frat-house label.”

(Joe's inner monologue): Just say it. Just say you want me. No big speech, no elaborate plan—just an acknowledgement that I matter. That’s not too much to ask… right?

“Fine,” you admit, swallowing your pride. “You matter. I’m not looking for anyone else. I’m not hooking up with random guys. But, Joe, you gotta give me a little grace. I’m not great at labeling…this.” You gesture between the two of you.

Joe exhales loudly. “Right. Labeling is apparently your kryptonite. Noted. Just...can we skip this weird in-between? Because every time you say ‘bro,’ it sounds like you’re flipping the sign on the door from exclusive to vacancy.”

You sigh, stepping in closer, placing a hand on Joe’s waist. “Dude—I mean—Joe, you’re not replaceable.” You soften your voice. “I’m not looking to replace you. I’m not looking for anything new. I’m good right here.”

He stares back at you, arms still crossed, but his gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. Before you know it, the tension in that cramped hallway flips from charged anger to charged…something else. Joe’s eyes flash with a challenge, and you swear he’s daring you to make a move. You lean in and give him a slow kiss, feeling him momentarily stiffen before melting against you. It’s kind of funny—he’s so prickly about your label issues, but the second your lips meet, he’s turning to jelly. Well, controlling jelly.

He tugs on the front of your shirt, yanking you closer so your hips align with his. You groan against his mouth, the adrenaline from the argument still spiking through your veins. “Still want to argue?” you tease, pulling back.

Joe’s cheeks flush, but his gaze is steady. “Oh, I can argue and get what I want,” he mutters.

There’s a momentary scramble of limbs, heated looks, and the two of you decide that maybe the corridor behind the bathrooms isn’t the best place for what’s about to happen. Next thing you know, you’re ducking into the single-occupancy restroom—fortunately not locked. You twist the lock shut behind you while Joe promptly shoves you against the sink, eyes blazing.

(Joe's inner monologue): We’ve done this in decent places: my apartment, his place, that weird bookstore corner once (don’t get me started). But a bar bathroom, mid-argument? Maybe it’s not the classiest setting, but I need him to understand: I might be the one on my back, but I’m the one running this show.

He’s on you again—biting kisses, needy hands. Every swipe of his tongue is laced with frustration, wanting to prove a point. The comedic reality that you’re in a dingy bathroom, complete with flickering fluorescent light and a questionably stained sink, is not lost on either of you. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Joe’s breath is already ragged when he spins around, shoving you onto the closed toilet lid. He straddles you, controlling the angle despite being underneath—or, technically, on top—of you. You blink up at him, a little stunned by how quickly he’s taken charge.

(Joe's inner monologue): He might be bigger, physically stronger, but I’ve never had trouble taking the reins. Because if I don’t, he’ll probably just keep calling me ‘pal’ until the day we die.

His lips brush your ear. “You’re gonna remember who I am after tonight,” he murmurs, voice husky. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ Unless you’re aiming for round two of this discussion.”

There’s definitely some comedic irony that you were just seconds away from strangling each other verbally, and now Joe’s tugging you into a feverish, borderline out-of-breath makeout. He’s got that gift of making every single movement deliberate—grinding down just enough, leaning back just enough, whispering exactly what he wants.

A short while later—between the occasional slam on the wall from someone in the hallway telling you to hurry up—Joe’s making sure you fully understand your position. He’s the bottom, but he’s the one guiding the pace, telling you exactly how he wants it, and you, well…you’re happy to give it to him.

(Joe's inner monologue): He’s going to call me something else from now on. Not ‘bro.’ Not ‘buddy.’ Something that actually says I’m important. Because the truth is, there’s no one else like me. He’ll see that. By the time we’re done, he’ll more than see it—he’ll feel it.

Eventually, you both emerge, hair mussed, lips swollen, clothes hastily adjusted. The rest of the bar patrons give you a mix of amused and annoyed looks—apparently, you were in there a while.

Joe clears his throat, straightening his jacket with that almost comical air of dignity (as if he didn’t just thoroughly test the structural integrity of the bathroom sink). You wrap an arm around his waist, pulling him close. He doesn’t protest—although he narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he’s waiting for you to casually toss out the dreaded word again.

“So…” you start, leaning in so only he can hear you. “No more ‘bro’ or ‘buddy.’ I get it, loud and clear. Boyfriend good enough?”

His lips part. You’d swear you see relief flash across his face, but he masks it quickly with mild annoyance. “That’ll do for now,” he grumbles, but his hand slides into yours, interlocking fingers. The contact is firm—possessive, even.

You grin, guiding him back toward the bar for that second drink (which you both probably need after the fiasco in the bathroom). He glances up at you, expression softening.

(Joe's inner monologue): ‘Boyfriend’…that’s what I wanted to hear. Maybe it’s not a rooftop shout, but it’s a start. And if he even thinks about calling me ‘dude’ again, well…I’m not opposed to repeating that whole argument just for the fun of making up.

He notices you smiling to yourself. With a mock glare, Joe warns, “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m on to you.”

You chuckle and press a quick kiss to his temple. “Relax, boyfriend. I’m just thinking about how this’ll be one hell of a story to tell…well, maybe not the bathroom part.”

[ch0llies]

FOREVER NOW | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

You and Chris have been tied together by an invisible string ever since you met at 10. As you grew older, Chris became your safe place. He was always there, unknowingly shaping himself into the person you’d eventually fall in love with. By the time you were 18, you had become each other’s first everything- first kiss, first love, first promise that neither of you could ever belong to anyone else the way you belonged to each other. And now, standing in the bathroom with ten pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, that promise felt heavier than ever.

story warnings: fluff, smut, creampie, heavy breeding kink, pregnancy, established relationship, etc… if any of these topics upset you… don’t read!

word count: 6k

a/n: thank you so much for 1k followers!! i love you all so much!!

The rain taps gently against the window. Your shared apartment is dimly lit, warm, filled with the faint trace of Chris’s cologne- the kind of smell that feels like home, like safety.

Chris is beside you on the couch, one arm draped lazily over your legs, his other hand scrolling absentmindedly through his phone. The TV plays some old movie in the background, half-forgotten.

Your fingers trace small circles on his forearm, the soft fabric of his hoodie warmed by his skin. He hums in contentment, shifting just enough to glance at you.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” he asks, voice soft, familiar.

You smile, but your mind is elsewhere, caught in the years before this moment. Because this love didn’t start here.

It started long before.

FIFTH GRADE.

You met Chris at ten years old, standing awkwardly in the doorway of your parents’ friend’s house.

“This is Chris,” your mom said, nudging you forward.

He had messy brown hair, an oversized hoodie, and a smile that made you think he probably got in trouble at school a lot.

He gave you a shy nod. “Hi.”

You stared for a moment, then mumbled, “Hi.”

The adults left you alone, and somehow, within an hour, you were arguing over who could beat who in Bedwars. By the time your parents came back, you were already thick as thieves, plotting some grand scheme to get extra dessert at dinner.

From that day on you couldn’t remember a memory that he wasn’t in.

EIGHTH GRADE

You learned that heartbreak could come before high school.

There was a boy- your first real crush. He was charming, sweet, made you feel special. Until, suddenly, he didn’t.

You found out from a friend that he had been texting someone else the entire time. That everything he said to you, he said to her too.

Chris found you at the park that night, sitting on the swings, kicking at the dirt, trying not to cry.

He sat next to you without a word. Just there. Present. Until you were ready.

“I really liked him,” you admitted eventually, voice small.

Chris scoffed. “Yeah, well, he’s an idiot.”

You sniffled, glancing at him. “You think?”

Chris nodded firmly. “Obviously. He had you and still wanted someone else? That’s just stupid.”

Something about the way he said it, so certain, made your heart feel just a little lighter.

You didn’t know it then, but that was the first time Chris made you feel like you were worth more than the people who hurt you.

It wouldn’t be the last.

JUNIOR YEAR.

Prom was supposed to be perfect.

Instead, your date cheated. Chris’s date bailed.

And somehow, you ended up at prom together- dressed up, but ditching the actual dance for a late-night drive, fast food in hand, sitting on the hood of his car in the school parking lot.

“You think we’re cursed?” you joked, pulling a fry from the bag.

Chris smirked, leaning back on his palms. “Or maybe we just keep picking the wrong people.”

You glanced at him then- at the way the Boston lights reflected in his eyes, at the way he always showed up when no one else did.

For a moment, you almost said something. Almost realized something.

But instead, you just smiled. “Guess we’re each other’s backup plan now, huh?”

Chris had looked down at his feet and let out an almost sad sounding chuckle, “Guess so.”

But he didn’t feel like a backup plan.

Not even then.

SENIOR YEAR.

It wasn’t sudden.

It wasn’t a grand, dramatic moment where everything clicked into place.

It was gradual. Like the slow rising of the sun, creeping into your life until one day, you realized- he had always been the light.

Chris had always been there. Through every heartbreak, through every bad decision, through every night spent crying over people who didn’t deserve you.

And then one day, you just knew.

It was late, past midnight, the two of you lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, laughing about something dumb, something unimportant. And then the laughter faded, and suddenly, the air felt different.

Chris was looking at you. Really looking at you.

And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

Your heartbeat quickened. You swallowed.

“Chris.”

He shifted, his fingers barely brushing against yours between the sheets. “Yeah?”

You took a breath.

“I- I think it’s always been you.”

Silence.

His breath hitched, but his fingers curled around yours, holding tight.

“I-” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “God, I was scared to say it first.”

Your chest ached, but for the first time, it wasn’t painful. It was full.

You smiled, biting your lip. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes soft, full of something you had been searching for in everyone else but only ever found in him.

And then he kissed you.

And everything made sense.

Back in the apartment, Chris shifts beside you, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Just remembering.”

He hums. “Good memories?”

“The best.”

Chris tilts his head, studying you. “Wanna share?”

You turn to face him, meeting the gaze of the boy who had always been there, who had never let you go.

The rain outside is still steady and you let your head rest against his chest again, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Safe. Home.

“You ever think about soulmates?” you ask, voice quiet but certain.

Chris smirks, locking his phone and setting it aside. “Yeah.”

You lift a brow, tilting your head to look up at him. “Oh really? Always been me?”

He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to your forehead before leaning back against the couch. “Yes, my love. Always been you.”

Your heart swells. Even after all these years, hearing it still makes something in your chest ache in the best way.

Chris shifts, pulling you even closer, wrapping his arms around you completely, tucking your head under his chin. You sigh against his hoodie, breathing him in, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh.

For a while, you just exist like that- wrapped up in each other, listening to the rain, the outside world feeling so far away.

Then Chris hums. “What do you wanna do for dinner?”

You tilt your head, thinking. “What about some PF Chang’s?”

His face lights up. “That sounds incredible.”

You grin, watching as he grabs his phone and pulls up DoorDash, immediately placing the order without hesitation. Because it’s the city, and neither of you want to go out in the rain when food can be delivered straight to your door.

When the food arrives, you both sit on the couch, containers spread out on the coffee table. You grab a pair of chopsticks, but Chris, like always, opts for a fork, shooting you a smug look like he’s superior for it.

“You’re so uncultured,” you tease, grabbing a dumpling.

Chris snorts. “I just don’t like fighting for my food.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it- just warmth, just love.

As you eat, the conversation shifts to your future, like it always does.

“What about baby names?” Chris muses, stealing a bite of your lo mein like it’s his. “What do you like?”

You smirk. “You planning on knocking me up tonight or something?”

Chris smirks. “Definitely planning on fuckin’ you but, getting you pregnant? We’ll see.”

You shrug nonchalantly, picking up a garlic noodle with your chopstick. “I still want you to cum inside me tonight regardless.”

He chokes on his food, coughing as he glares at you. “Jesus, give me a warning before you say stuff like that. I’m gonna get hard.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder. “I’m serious, though. You ever think about it? Baby names, becoming parents, getting me pregnant…?

Chris swallows, setting his container down before shifting to look at you fully. His expression softens, thoughtful. “Yeah,” he admits. “I have.”

You raise a brow. “And?”

He smirks. “You first.”

You sigh dramatically, leaning back into the couch, pretending to think. “I like the name Owen for a boy,” you say eventually. “And maybe Elliot for a girl. Her nickname would be Ellie”

Chris nods. “Owen? That’s my middle name. But Ellie is really cute. I like that.”

“Yeah, goof. It would be named after you, handsome. But what about you?”

He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand as he blushes softly. “I’ve always liked the name Weston for a boy,” he says, glancing at you. “And for a girl… maybe Aria.”

You smile. “Aria is cute.”

Chris nudges you. “So, our kid’s name is either Owen, Ellie, Weston, or Aria. Got it.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart swells anyway. “I can’t imagine having a kid anytime soon.”

Chris grins, pulling you onto his lap effortlessly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “No rush,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair.

“Okay, more future talk,” he says after a moment. “Houses. Where do we end up?”

You hum. “Do you wanna stay in Boston?”

Chris tilts his head. “I like Boston, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere quieter. Maybe something coastal? A place where we can sit on the porch and watch the sunrise. What about my family's cape house?”

You smile. “That sounds perfect.”

Chris grins, tapping his fingers lightly against your back. “Can you imagine being as a full time suburban dad?”

You snicker. “Hard to imagine you giving up city life and inheriting Matt’s minivan to truck our kids around.”

Chris groans. “Please never let me get that goddamn minivan.”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Deal.”

The remnants of dinner are still scattered across the coffee table- half-empty takeout containers, crumpled napkins, chopsticks resting haphazardly in cartons, four empty pepsi cans. Chris groans, stretching his arms before nudging you with his knee.

“You ready to clean this up?” he asks, though he doesn’t look like he wants to move any more than you do.

You sigh dramatically, leaning back against the couch. “Or… we could just leave it here and deal with it in the morning.”

Chris snorts. “No way. You hate waking up to a mess.”

You grumble, knowing he’s right. “Fine. But you’re taking out the trash.”

“Deal.”

The two of you move in sync, cleaning up without much thought- him stacking the containers, you wiping down the table. Domesticity has always been easy with Chris, effortless in a way that feels like breathing. It’s not something you ever have to think about; it just is.

Once the apartment is back in order, you stretch, letting out a soft yawn.

Chris grins, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin against your shoulder. “Bed?”

“Yes.”

You slip into the bathroom while Chris grabs water for both of you. The space is warm, the soft yellow glow of the vanity lights reflecting off the marble. You change into one of your favorite comfy outfits- an oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the thin strap of your lace bralette underneath, paired with soft gray Calvin Klein boyshorts that hug your hips just right.

The fabric of the sweatshirt nearly swallows you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs, the sleeves hanging just past your wrists. It smells like detergent, a little like Chris, a little like the home you’ve built together.

By the time you start brushing your teeth, Chris enters, setting the water bottles on the counter before glancing at you in the mirror.

His eyes darken immediately, lips parting slightly as he takes you in- the way the sweatshirt slips off your shoulder, the way your shorts sit snug on your curves.

“You trying to kill me, baby?” he mutters, voice thick.

You smirk around your toothbrush. “I just put on something comfortable.”

Chris shakes his head, stepping closer behind you, his hands skimming the edge of the sweatshirt before resting low on your hips. “Yeah? This is comfortable?”

You nod, watching his gaze flick between your reflection and the way his hands trace slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

You fumble your phone, and it slips from the counter, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

You sigh through your toothbrush, bending over to grab it.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp inhale. The softest curse under Chris’s breath.

“Fuck, baby.”

Before you can straighten, his hands slide over your hips, firm but reverent. One palm presses against the small of your back, the other smoothing over your ass, fingers flexing as if he can’t help himself.

You swallow hard, heat creeping up your spine as you grip the sink for balance.

Chris leans in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You still up for that promise, baby?” His voice is low, gravelly, dripping with want.

Your breath hitches. “What promise?” you ask, playing coy.

Chris chuckles, dark and knowing, his fingers pressing a little more insistently into your skin. “The one where you let me cum inside you.”

Your heart pounds, the weight of his words sending a shiver down your spine. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and the heat in his eyes makes your knees weak.

Chris smirks, running his hands up your sides before spinning you to face him fully. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweatshirt, gripping your waist as he pulls you closer.

“You still want that?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours.

Your answer is immediate.

“Yes.”

Chris’s smirk deepens, satisfaction flickering in his darkened gaze. His grip tightens just enough to make you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he wants to leave his mark there.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, teasing, as he drags his hands over your hips, his thumbs tracing lazy circles. “You want me to fill you up, make sure you feel me long after, huh?”

You swallow, pulse hammering against your ribs. There’s no hesitation when you nod, your breath hitching as his lips graze yours- featherlight, just enough to tease.

Chris hums, his hands sliding lower, squeezing your ass before lifting you onto the counter with ease. His body slots between your legs, firm and unyielding. He keeps you there, locked in place, his forehead resting against yours.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice rough with want.

Your fingers tangle in his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, your legs tightening around his waist.

“I want it, Chris,” you whisper, lips barely brushing his. “I want you to cum inside me.”

A sharp inhale from him, and then his mouth crashes onto yours, all heat and hunger. His fingers slide under your sweatshirt again, this time with purpose, exploring, claiming.

“Shit, baby,” he groans against your lips, his hands pushing higher, tugging at your clothes.

He doesn’t waste another second. His hands slip beneath your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the counter with effortless strength. Your arms loop around his neck instinctively, your breath coming in short, heated bursts as he carries you through the dimly lit apartment.

The air between you is thick, charged, every step he takes toward the bedroom making your anticipation coil tighter. His lips find your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat as he nudges the bedroom door open with his foot.

By the time he lays you down on the bed, your body is already burning for him. Chris hovers over you, his hands planted on either side of your head, his darkened blue eyes devouring every inch of you.

“Been wanting to do this all night,” he murmurs, fingers dipping under the hem of your sweatshirt again, this time pushing it up with agonizing slowness. “Take my time with you.”

Your stomach tightens as he peels the fabric over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His gaze drinks you in, lingering on your bare skin, the way your chest rises and falls beneath him.

“Ma,” he breathes, his hands already roaming again, thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You reach for his hoodie, fingers curling around the hem as you tug. “Then take this off,” you whisper, your voice breathless, needy.

Chris smirks but obliges, pulling it over his head and letting it drop to the floor. His toned chest and arms are bare now, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows over the ridges of his muscles.

Your hands roam over his skin, tracing along his collarbones and his happy trail. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breathing heavy as he slides his hands down your body, toying with the waistband of your shorts.

“These too,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire, as he hooks his fingers into them, dragging them down your legs inch by inch. The sensation sends a shiver through you, every inch of your exposed skin burning under his touch.

Once your shorts are gone, Chris kneels at the edge of the bed, his hands smoothing over your thighs as he leans down, pressing slow, lingering kisses to your soft and wet cunt. His lips trail higher towards your clit, teasing, making your breath hitch.

Then, just when you think you might combust, he pulls back, standing to his full height.

Your eyes lock onto his as he unbuttons his jeans, dragging the zipper down slowly. He doesn’t look away- not as he pushes them past his hips, not as they fall to the floor, leaving him in just his boxers, the evidence of his desire straining against the fabric.

“Your turn,” you whisper, eyes flicking to the last piece of clothing between you.

Chris smirks, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down.

Chris lets his boxers drop to the floor, kicking them aside before crawling back over you, his body warm and solid against yours. His hands find your thighs, spreading them wider as he settles between them, his weight pressing into you in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Yeahhhh,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. “You’re so fucking perfect. Every single inch of you.” His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing you all over again, tracing over your curves, his thumbs brushing against your hip bones.

You shudder under his touch, gripping onto his shoulders, needing something to anchor you. Chris smirks against your skin, his lips pressing sloppy kisses over your collarbone, then lower, taking his time.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” he whispers, his breath hot against your peaked nipples. “Never get tired of touching you, tasting you… fucking filling you up.”

Your breath stutters, heat pooling low in your stomach at his words. His hands slide down, gripping your hips firmly, fingers pressing possessively into your skin.

“You love that, don’t you?” he murmurs, tilting his head to watch your reaction. “Love knowing I wanna fill you up every time. Keep you like this-” he grinds his hips against you, slow and deliberate, making you gasp. “So full of me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and Chris groans, rolling his hips again, teasing you, making your body arch into his.

“Say it,” he demands, his voice rough, edged with need. “Tell me you want it, baby.”

Your head tilts back against the pillows, a whimper slipping from your lips. “I want it, Chris,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Want you to fill me up.”

Chris growls low in his throat, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips ghosting over yours. “Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs. “You know that? The way you say it… the way you look at me like that. I swear, I could spend every fucking day buried inside you and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body tightening in anticipation. His fingers trail down, teasing, testing your patience.

“You ready for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick, teasing as his eyes flick up to meet yours. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “I need you, Chris.”

Chris groans, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to line himself up, swiping his cock a few times through your built up arousal. His gaze locks onto yours, intense, unwavering.

“Then take it,” he murmurs. “Take all of me.”

Chris doesn’t hold back. He pushes in slowly at first, savoring the way your body reacts to him, how you gasp and clutch at his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist. His jaw clenches as he watches you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with need.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours. “You feel so good, baby. Always so fucking perfect for me.”

Your breath stutters, your nails dragging down his back as he sinks deeper, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, a slow burn that makes your head spin, and Chris eats up every little sound you make, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. He leans back just enough to watch your expression, his hands roaming over your tits and cupping them, mapping every inch of you. “You take me so fucking well. Every time.”

Your head tilts back, a moan slipping from your lips as he rolls his hips, setting a slow, deep rhythm. Chris groans at the feeling, his fingers pressing into your skin like he never wants to let go.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, kissing along your jaw, down to your throat. “Let me in- let me fill you up just the way you need.”

His pace quickens just a little, his control hanging by a thread as he watches you come undone beneath him. Every thrust pushes him deeper, making you gasp, your body arching into his.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer. “So fucking tight, so warm- like you were made for me.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your lips parting in a desperate gasp as he hits the perfect spot inside you. Chris feels it, sees the way your body responds, and it makes something primal snap inside him.

“That’s the spot, huh?” he murmurs, a smirk playing at his lips even as his own breath is ragged. “Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna let me fill you up like you need?”

“Chris,” you whimper, your body tightening around him, heat coiling low in your stomach.

“Say it,” he growls, his thrusts getting rougher, more desperate. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me to cum inside you.”

Your back arches, pleasure crashing over you in waves as your orgasm hits and you squeeze him impossibly tight. “I need it- I need you to fill me up, Chris. So bad.”

He groans, his grip on you tightening as he thrusts harder, deeper, chasing his release. “F- fuck, baby, I’m gonna- ” His breath shudders, his movements getting sloppier as he buries himself as deep as he can, his body tensing.

A guttural moan tears from his lips as he spills inside you, holding you tight, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His breathing is heavy, his body trembling slightly from the intensity of it, and he presses lazy kisses against your skin as he comes down.

“Shit,” he breathes, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you flush against him. “I swear, I’ll never get tired of this. Never get tired of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, running your fingers through his hair, still coming down from your own high.

Chris doesn’t move for a moment, still catching his breath, his body heavy and warm against yours. But then, as if something clicks in his mind, he shifts, gripping your hips with both hands.

Without warning, he pushes your hips up, angling them just enough to keep every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the sudden movement, your body still sensitive, your legs trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

“Chris- fuck.” you murmur, a dazed little laugh slipping from your lips, “what are you doing?”

His fingers press into your skin, his grip firm, possessive. His darkened blue eyes flick down to where you’re still connected, then back up to your face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Making sure it stays,” he murmurs, voice rough, teasing but laced with something deeper, something almost primal.

Your breath catches. “I thought you didn’t want me to get pregnant.”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing kisses along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips lingering, his hands still keeping your hips in place.

“I never said that,” he finally murmurs, his voice husky, “maybe I like the idea more than I let on.”

Your heart stutters. Heat blooms in your chest, pooling low in your stomach again despite how spent you already are. Chris tilts his head, watching your reaction closely, his smirk deepening as he sees the way his words affect you.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” he teases, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “You’re the one who begged me to cum inside you.”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you actually wanted-”

Chris cuts you off with a slow roll of his hips, just enough to remind you he’s still inside you, still keeping everything right where he wants it. You gasp, your fingers gripping his arms.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he murmurs. “You know how fucking good it feels. How right it feels.” His lips graze your ear. “Tell me you don’t love it.”

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering. “I do,” you whisper.

Chris smirks against your skin, his hands tightening on your hips. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “And who knows… maybe one day, I won’t just be filling you up for fun. Maybe one of these days I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

Your stomach flips, your whole body flushing at his words. Chris just chuckles, his expression dark and full of satisfaction as he kisses you again- slow, deep, claiming.

“But for now,” he murmurs, letting his weight settle over you again, his hands still holding you in place, “we’ll just make sure it sticks.”

Chris finally releases his hold on your hips, letting you relax into the mattress, though he doesn’t pull away just yet. He presses a few lingering kisses against your shoulder, his hands smoothing over your sides as he breathes you in.

“You good?” he murmurs, his voice warm and tender now, the teasing edge from before softened.

You nod, still catching your breath, your body pleasantly sore in the best way. “Yeah… just feel like I can’t move.”

Chris chuckles, rolling off of you but staying close. “Guess I did my job right, then.” He smirks, but before you can throw a pillow at him, he leans in, brushing his lips over your forehead. “C’mon, let’s get cleaned up.”

He helps you up, keeping an arm wrapped around your waist as you both make your way to the bathroom. He’s gentle as he runs a warm washcloth over your skin, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your shoulders, wherever he can reach. It’s such a contrast from the heat of earlier, but it makes your heart swell all the same.

Once you’re both cleaned up, you slip on one of Chris’s hoodies- something oversized and soft- and climb into bed. Chris follows, pulling you close, his arms wrapped securely around you as he buries his face in your hair.

“Love you,” he mumbles sleepily, his lips brushing against your temple.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Love you too, Chris.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

You groan, dropping your forehead against the kitchen counter as another wave of nausea rolls through you. “Ugh, I feel awful.”

Chris looks up from where he’s leaning against the fridge, brows furrowing with concern. “Still feeling sick, baby?”

You nod, rubbing your stomach with a frown. “Yeah… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep feeling nauseous at the most random times. And I swear, I smelled coffee earlier, and it made me want to throw up.”

Chris winces, stepping closer and rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. “I’m so sorry, baby. Can I do anything?”

You shake your head, sighing. “I don’t even know what would help. It’s just been happening out of nowhere.”

Chris presses a kiss to the side of your head, his touch warm and comforting. “Maybe you just ate something bad? Or you’re stressed?”

“Maybe,” you mumble, but you’re not entirely convinced. “Are you sure the chicken last night was fully cooked?”

“I check it twice. It was.” Chris gives you a sympathetic look. “Tell you what- I’ll make you some tea, and then we can just chill on the couch, yeah? I’ll rub your back, we can watch whatever dumb reality show you wanna put on.”

That makes you smile a little, and you nod. “Okay. That sounds nice. Thank you baby.”

Chris grins, pressing another kiss to your forehead before heading to the kettle. “Anything for my girl.”

ONE WEEK LATER

You groan as you lean over the bathroom sink, splashing cold water on your face in a desperate attempt to shake off the lingering nausea. It’s been happening every morning now- like clockwork. And as much as you’d been hoping it was just a stomach bug or something that would pass, it wasn’t going anywhere.

“Baby?” Chris’s voice is groggy, laced with sleep as he steps into the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. “You okay?”

You let out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “Same as yesterday. And the day before that.”

Chris frowns, stepping closer, his hands settling on your waist as he looks you over. His touch is warm and grounding, but when his thumbs brush against your sides, you wince subconsciously.

Chris notices immediately, his brows drawing together. “Hey… why’d you flinch?”

You shake your head, still trying to wake up fully. “I didn’t-” But then his hands slide up a little higher, skimming under your hoodie, and the moment his thumbs brush against the curve of your breasts, you jolt.

Chris’s eyes widen. “Whoa. Okay. That was a reaction.”

You frown, stepping back slightly, your arms crossing over your chest. “They’ve just been… weirdly sensitive lately.”

Chris tilts his head, his gaze flicking down before his lips curl into the smallest smirk. “Not to mention…” His hands return to your sides, his touch slow, almost hesitant. “Baby, I swear to God, they look bigger. Like huge. It makes me so horny.”

You scoff. “Chris!”

“I’m serious!” He gives you a pointed look, stepping back just enough to take you in. “They’re… I don’t know, plumper? And you’ve been nauseous for over a week. You’re throwing up every morning. You don’t think…?”

You blink at him, brows furrowing. “Think what?”

Chris’s expression shifts- something between excitement and pure realization flickering across his face. He licks his lips, searching your eyes, almost as if he’s waiting for you to catch up.

“Baby,” he says slowly, carefully, “you don’t think you could be… pregnant?”

The words hang between you, heavy and thick in the quiet morning air. Your stomach twists- but not from nausea this time.

Your lips part slightly, a small laugh slipping out- almost disbelieving. “Chris, there’s no way…” But then, as you say it, the last few weeks flash through your mind. The exhaustion. The cravings. The nausea. The sensitivity. The way you haven’t used a condom with him in months and he hasn’t been pulling out.

Chris watches you closely, his smirk fading into something softer, more serious. His hands settle on your hips again, thumbs rubbing slow circles. “Baby,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, “when’s the last time you had your period?”

Your stomach drops. Your mind races as you try to remember, but the more you think about it, the more your chest tightens. You should’ve had it by now. You always keep track. But with everything going on, you hadn’t even noticed.

Chris sees the realization hit you. His hands tighten just slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. “Shit,” you whisper.

Chris lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah. Shit.”

You look up at him, heart pounding, eyes wide. “Chris… what if I am?”

He’s silent for a moment. Just looking at you. And then, slowly, his lips curl into a grin.

“Guess we should find out.”

Chris doesn’t waste a second. The moment the realization fully settles between you, he’s already moving. He grabs his phone and wallet off the nightstand, shoving his feet into the closest pair of sneakers.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your forehead before darting toward the front door.

You blink, still in shock. “Wait- Chris, where are you-”

But he’s already gone.

You stand there for a moment, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. This has to be a joke, right? There’s no way this is actually happening. But as you place a hand over your stomach, the reality starts creeping in.

A few minutes later, you hear the front door swing open again, followed by the unmistakable crinkle of plastic bags.

“Alright, baby, let’s do this!” Chris’s voice is practically beaming as he jogs back into the bedroom, his arms full of pregnancy tests. You stare in disbelief as he drops multiple boxes onto the bed, some falling onto the floor in the process.

“Chris,” you say slowly, eyes widening. “What the fuck is this?”

“Options,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I got every brand they had. Digital ones, line ones, ones that apparently have smiley faces-” He pauses, flipping a box over before tossing it onto the pile. “I didn’t know there were this many kinds, honestly, but we’re covering all bases.”

You shake your head, staring at the sheer amount of tests in front of you. “Ten tests, Chris?”

“At least ten,” he corrects, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “Why are you so happy about this?”

Chris hesitates for half a second before letting out a short laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Honestly? I don’t know. I just… am.”

You search his face, expecting to see panic or nerves, but all you find is pure excitement- like he wants this. Like the idea of you possibly carrying his baby is something he’s already embracing.

Your stomach twists, but not in a bad way. It’s terrifying and overwhelming, but with the way he’s looking at you, it also feels… oddly okay.

Chris claps his hands together, bringing you back to reality. “Alright, let’s go. Go pee on some sticks.”

You snort despite yourself. “Some?”

“All of them,” he corrects, already scooping up the tests into his arms. “We need solid confirmation, baby. I need a goddamn unanimous decision from these things.”

Shaking your head, you exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair before turning toward the bathroom. “This is insane.”

Chris follows right behind you, grinning. “This is science.”

You roll your eyes, but as you close the bathroom door behind you, Chris leans against the sink, watching you with nothing but warmth in his gaze.

“Whatever happens,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, “we’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Your chest tightens, and you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

“Wait! Let me see what they say first. Don’t pee on anything!” Chris rips open one of the boxes with the same energy he probably had during his high school finals. He pulls out the instructions, unfolds them with an exaggerated flourish, and clears his throat.

“Alright,” he announces, squinting at the paper. “Step one: Remove the test from the wrapper.”

You snatch a test from one of the open boxes and rip it open with ease. “Done.”

Chris nods approvingly, scanning the next step. “Step two: Hold the absorbent tip in your urine stream for five seconds. Or dip it in a cup of urine for twenty seconds.”

You give him a flat look. “Absorbent tip?”

“Hey, I’m just reading what it says,” Chris says, holding up his hands in defense. He glances down again, then smirks. “Oh- this part’s important: Make sure you don’t pee on the result window. We need a clear reading, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks for the groundbreaking information, Chris.”

“Just looking out for accuracy.”

You shake your head, but your heart is thudding in your chest. This is actually happening.

Chris notices your hesitation and softens slightly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

Chris nods, setting the instructions down on the counter before placing his hands on your hips. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “No matter what happens, we’re in this together. Got it?”

You nod, exhaling against his chest. “Got it.”

He smiles, giving you a small squeeze before stepping back. “Alright, go do your thing. I’ll be right here, being incredibly supportive and not at all annoying.”

You snort. “Mhm.”

Chris gasps dramatically. “Wow. So much doubt for the man who just spent a ridiculous amount of money on pregnancy tests for you.”

Shaking your head, you grab the cup from the counter- because there’s no way you’re risking peeing on your own hand in the middle of a life-altering moment- and step toward the toilet. “Okay, turnaround now.”

Chris throws his hands up. “I literally fucked this baby into you?!”

“We don’t know if there’s a baby yet!” You roll your eyes but do what needs to be done, filling the cup and carefully dipping the first test. Then another. And another. You cycle through each one, following the ridiculous variety of instructions. Five seconds for one. Twenty seconds for another. One where you had to cap it immediately and lay it on a flat surface.

Chris stands by the counter, eyes wide as he watches you line up ten tests in a perfect row.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “That’s a lot of science happening at once.”

You let out a breath, setting the last test down. “Now what?”

Chris grabs one of the boxes, scanning the fine print. “Now we wait.”

You swallow hard, wiping your hands on a towel before gripping the edge of the sink. “How long?”

Chris squints at the instructions. “Three minutes.”

Three minutes.

Three minutes to find out if your whole world is about to change.

Chris must sense your nerves because he steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his lips brushing your jaw. “I can set a timer. Or we can just stare at them aggressively until something happens.”

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning back against him. “Okay… let’s do it.”

Chris’s phone is already in his hand before you even say anything. He holds it up, pressing record with a grin.

“For our future kid,” he says, his voice full of barely contained excitement.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “You don’t even know if it’s positive yet.”

Chris smirks, shaking his head. “I have a feeling, baby.”

Your stomach twists as you reach for the first test. Your fingers tremble slightly, and you can feel Chris’s anticipation radiating off of him. With a deep breath, you flip it over.

Two lines.

Positive.

Your heart stops.

Chris lets out a sharp inhale, but before either of you can fully process it, you reach for the second test.

Positive.

The third.

Positive.

Every. Single. One.

Chris stares at them for half a second before a wide grin spreads across his face. “Holy shit.” His phone lowers slightly as he turns to look at you, his eyes shining. “Baby- holy shit!”

Before you can react, he grabs you, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You gasp, gripping his shoulders as a laugh bubbles out of you, your nerves momentarily forgotten.

“Chris!” You giggle, clinging to him as he twirls you.

“I knew it,” he exclaims, setting you down just enough to crash his lips against yours. The kiss is heated, desperate, but full of so much love that your chest tightens.

Then, before you even realize it, tears start slipping down your cheeks. You pull back slightly, your hand flying to your stomach as a sob escapes you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Our baby is in my stomach.”

Chris freezes, his hands still gripping your waist. He stares at you like he’s just now fully comprehending it, like the reality of it all is truly sinking in. His lips part slightly, his breath hitching.

“Our baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it- so full of awe, of love- makes your heart ache.

But then, almost instantly, his entire demeanor shifts. His grip tightens, his eyes darting around the room like his brain is moving a mile a minute.

“Shit. I need to tell my mom. And my dad. And my brothers.” He steps back, running a hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “What about your family? Should we call them first? And the apartment- fuck, we need to start looking at places with an extra room. Or at least be ready for when she grows up- ”

You blink. “She?”

Chris stops, looking at you dead serious. “I don’t know, baby, I just know. I have this gut feeling that my new babygirl is growing inside you right now.”

Your heart clenches at the sheer certainty in his voice.

But then he’s spiraling again. “Oh God, we don’t have anything for a baby. I need to research cribs- what’s the safest crib? And strollers- shit, what’s a good stroller brand? I don’t know anything about strollers! And- fuck, baby, we’re twenty-one. I haven’t even married you yet!”

He turns to you, panic written all over his face now, and for the first time ever, you’re the calm one.

You step forward, reaching for his hands, squeezing them tightly. “Chris, baby, breathe.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, but he listens, taking a deep inhale as his eyes lock onto yours.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, pressing his hands against your stomach. “The way you reacted tells me all I need to know. You’re gonna be an amazing father.”

Chris swallows hard, his panic giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. His fingers flex against your stomach, like he’s already trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside you.

“You think so?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You smile, cupping his face. “I know so.”

Chris exhales shakily, closing his eyes for a moment before leaning forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you too.”

And in that moment, standing there in the tiny bathroom with ten positive pregnancy tests lined up on the counter, everything feels exactly as it should be.

MASTERLIST

tags: @bernardsbendystraws @mattsobvimyfav @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

[bananayuyu]

Come to Mine

Pairing: idol!Yunho x backup dancer!reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 6.3k

Summary: You didn't plan for it to be this way. You just couldn't help being attracted to each other.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetration, safe sex (condom woo), it's very sweet and clumsy

A/n: This was such self indulgence, I hope you enjoy if you read <3 I can't believe the comeback is tonight! I hope everyone is having a good day <33 (sorry for any typos, I didn't feel like editing today)

Read it on ao3

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

You couldn't believe your eyes when you received the email.

Congratulations, you've been selected as one of the dancers for Ateez's upcoming comeback. Rehearsals start next Monday, August 2nd. Please look out for our next message, which will contain the full schedule with dates and locations. We look forward to working with you!

You'd worked with several other Kpop groups over the last few years. You'd actually made it as a dancer, much to the surprise of your family. You'd like to say you were surprised too, but in truth you weren't. You had felt it in your bones that this is what you were meant to do and would be doing, ever since you first watched a Girl's Generation MV on your shitty middle school laptop.

Working with Ateez felt like the absolute pinnacle. You were only several years in, but you knew from hearing the chatter, from watching their performances, that backup dancing for them was a true honor, and a challenge. You'd gone to the audition with an open mind, not riding on the fact that you'd be selected. They told you all they wanted twelve girls total, a smaller number than you'd expected. And most of the girls you went with were more experienced, or had major connections within the industry, so it really was a shock to you that you were selected. It made your whole body buzz, your confidence skyrocketing. If they believed you could hang with the best of the best, you'd do everything you could to prove them right.

Sitting on the hardwood floor at the end of your first rehearsal, it all just felt right. The group was working together so well already; most of these girls you'd danced with before, and you realized looking around that if you'd ever had the chance to select a dance team yourself, you would have made almost the same selections they did. Everyone was a dance nerd, a true artist, focused, dedicated. Everyone took good care of themselves, was smart, driven, and so hardworking. You all spoke amongst yourselves after rehearsal, anticipating your first rehearsal with the boys, wondering what they'd really be like in person. You'd all followed them closely for years, and were all big fans. You couldn't not be, given just how talented they were, just how dedicated to their craft, the same way you were. But you all vowed to be as respectful as possible, and keep the giggling and ogling to yourselves when the time came.

It was comeback season for them, their schedules incredibly full. The next album was almost entirely finished already though, and you had no doubt they were already beginning work on songs that would make future albums too. It was still six months until the comeback you'd be performing in, the time feeling indescribably far away. Many of the other girls, like you, still had smaller projects to work on in the meantime. This was the beginning of a long journey, one that would begin slowly. It was high pressure, you could feel it. You needed your absolute best to show here, for the sake of your career.

You'd never have guessed how it would feel finally meeting them all.

Sweaty and exhausted, they all came in after their final music show performance. They'd been up since the early hours of the morning to film, and now it was closer to midday. You'd slept in, spending the morning stretching and readying your body for this important rehearsal. In hindsight you hadn't needed to, the first day with the members being more of a meeting, followed by an attempt to brainstorm what formations would be possible with the twenty of you. Then you each had to introduce yourselves, going down the line of twelve, each repeating your names and where you were from.

After saying your name, after bowing, your eyes caught on Yunho's. And in that moment you knew it was all over.

All you could think was, 'fuck, I don't need this.' Truly, you didn't. There was too much else to focus on. Life had been hectic for so many reasons, but now you were just trying to focus on being present, there for your friends and family, focused on your work. You'd been single for almost two years now, and it had been the best time of your life. The time with your friends had been beautiful, fulfilling, peaceful. The success you'd had with dancing had been all you could have dreamed of. But you knew in that moment that something was about to change, something you doubted you could put any stop to. It felt written in the stars, like it was meant to happen. It had to. You could tell.

He'd noticed you right away. You were the shortest of the girls selected; they'd skewed more towards choosing taller girls, so that the height differences wouldn't be too severe. You weren't tiny, but still he'd noticed right away that you were shorter than everyone else. Your big glasses, your messy wavy hair, your baggy sweat pants. You stood out amongst the rest of the girls, but not because you were flashy. You were almost too relaxed in your appearance. He loved it instantly. And he could tell it affected you when he looked your way, your eyes darting fast to the floor when he pierced you with his gaze.

He watched you intently over the next few rehearsals, seeing immediately how talented you were. You picked up everything with such ease; but you weren't cocky, weren't throwing it in anyone's face. You helped other girls when they needed it, and you spoke up when an instruction wasn't clear, helping the main choreographer realize their mistake. You were quiet, mostly, except when you needed to be loud. You seemed so put together, almost boringly so. Some of the other girls were chaotic, which made the boys or other dancers gossip. But as Yunho listened to it all he realized none of them really mentioned you. From the outside in you seemed unassuming, and he knew people thought the same thing about him. So he knew that just like him, there was something more under the surface. Something juicier, freakier, stranger. Every time he looked you right in the eyes, the few times you'd let him, he could see it written in your pupils. And the way you always looked way, like you'd just had the wind knocked out of you, made him think he was probably right.

It really didn't help that he was such a good dancer, so confident and technically gifted, with a certain quality to his movement that you could not put into words. You became mesmerized from the first moment you saw it in person. You'd been impressed with his dancing abilities for a while, but seeing it in person in front of you, seeing his massive tall body move with a level of control that should not have been possible, had you completely entranced. You couldn't help the giddiness you felt when heading to work, the excited texts sent to your best friend. Your crush was forming fast, threatening to inflate inside of you and make you float away. He was all you could think about when you laid in bed at night, awaiting the next time you'd get to be in his presence, and say the few words you did to each other.

Then one day, it changed.

"Y/n, could I go over the middle section with you?"

His voice came from behind you, as you carefully retied your shoes during a break in rehearsal.

"With me?" you asked, turning around to find him standing behind you.

"Yeah, I've been watching everyone in the mirror and you seem to know that section best. I missed that rehearsal where we first learned it, so I think I'm missing the timing a bit." He reached out a hand to help you up, and you took it automatically, the touch between you sending adrenaline through your heart and making you shiver.

"I think you've been doing it just fine. What part is confusing?" you asked.

"I'm wondering when the arms come up, when we're turning around. Is it on one, or the and of one?"

"It's on the and. Here, do you want to do it slowly together?" You couldn't believe the words were tumbling out of your mouth, so naturally from your years of helping assist dance classes at your high school.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Yunho replied, getting in position beside you. You began counting slowly, you both dancing crudely through the counts, reaching the confusing section with hesitation. "See, one and," you threw your arms up, spinning around and turning your back to the mirror, your hands coming out beside you. "They're not back down until the and of 2."

"Ah, that makes sense. So they're delayed compared to the shifting of our feet there," he said, and you nodded in agreement, watching him step through the moves himself, flawlessly.

"Yeah, that's perfect," you smiled at him.

"Thank you, that was really helpful. I'm worried I'm messing things up cause I missed that rehearsal," he smiled back, arms locked behind his back. It looked like he was nervous, to you, which endeared you even more to him.

"Your dancing looks perfect to me," you said, standing still and awkward, your nervousness also showing.

You both stood staring at each other, and this time you didn't flick your eyes away. It all felt like things were clicking into place, and any feeling you had to resist this little thing was all gone. Not that there really was much to begin with. But you were nervous at first, so unsure of his interest. You couldn't bring yourself to assume that someone like him would want to be friends with someone like you. You had to wait for the confirmation from him.

Easy conversation followed the next few rehearsals. Talking about the choreography was always an easy in, and Yunho took to using it as much as he pleased. He complimented your dance skills more than you thought he should, because you worried the other dancers would find it strange or have something to say about it. But no one said a word to you. You felt this thing happening, the two of you magnets pulled together, but it seemed like no one around you had any clue. It was normal enough for him to want to talk to a dancer about the routine, and so what if in those conversations things turned more personal, more jokey, more flirtatious. He complimented your glasses early on, you remember that, and it stuck with you for weeks. You couldn't get it out of your head, the way his head tilted to the side when he said it. His tone of voice, the look in his eye.

Then there was the rehearsal in the gymnasium. You were all sectioned off, the main focus of the day being how the background sets for the MV would fit around the group of you dancing. The director was there, talking with all of ateez and the head choreographer, as they all stood around on the floor. The rest of you were told to wait in the stands, as they set the exact measurements of the set pieces, needing you all on stand-by at a moments notice. It was times like this you realized just how big the budget they had was; they were paying you all to be here today, even though most of the day you spent just sitting there, your fellow dancer sitting next to you almost falling asleep on your shoulder three separate times.

He saw you as soon as you came in, your hair up in a messy bun, your hoodie swallowing you. Your socks didn't match, your shoe laces partially untied. You pushed your glasses up your nose as you stepped inside, nearly bumping into the girl in front of you. Unassuming. Clumsy. For some reason, everything he wanted.

He craned his neck to watch you sit down, waving when you finally looked in his direction. You waved back, the sleeve of your hoodie pulled over your hand. He stood amongst his members, wishing he could somehow say something to you. Everyone was discussing the slight differences in the placement of something, but he'd stopped listening as soon as he saw you enter, so he really wasn't sure what it was. He reached for his phone, wanting to shoot you off a quick text. But then he remembered, the managers had taken them today so the boys would be focused. Also, he still didn't have your number. He knew he needed to remedy that problem as quickly as he could.

You zoned out for a moment, everyone around you buried deep in their phones as soon as they realized they'd be stuck in the bleachers for a bit. But it didn't take long for your gaze to sweep back down, settling on the person you couldn't keep your mind off of. You were met with a surprise, holding a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing.

Yunho was holding up a piece of paper in your direction, the word HI written in big bold letters. You weren't even sure where he got the paper from, much less the marker, but god did it make your heart constrict. How fucking adorable, how totally and completely cheesy. You were like Taylor Swift and her crush in 'You Belong With Me,' holding out written signs to each other and reading them through the window. Well, you could have been, if you had any paper of your own. You smiled, his action absolutely heartwarming, but you couldn't help feeling terribly disappointed that you couldn't reciprocate the gesture. That was until you remembered the back of your hoodie had the word HELLO written across it, right above the smiling sunflower. You held your hand out to him, beckoning him to wait a moment, as you turned and lifted up the hood to make sure he could see the white letters, that you hoped contrasted enough against the blue fabric that he could see them from so far away.

You turned to find him smiling, his shoulders jumping for a moment like he was laughing. It was just far enough away that you couldn't hear well, so you had no idea if he really was. The moment passed, and your heart was beating remarkably fast, but yet again it seemed like no one around you noticed. You blinked around, looking over your shoulder at your fellow dancers. Right then it hit you, that maybe you shouldn't be so openly doing this, whatever this was. You'd been warned time and time again that being involved with an idol was bad news, that plenty of dancers had done it and payed the price. One of your favorite fellow dancers had dated an idol, and you'd heard her horror story before over drinks one night. You knew people had complicated feelings on the subject.

But you also knew your own feelings weren't so complicated, at least when it came to him. Finally you all were beckoned down to the floor, the sets put in place. You all danced in front of them, the director trying out his camera movements, asking you to repeat certain sections so he could try different angles, see how the composition would look with so many bodies in the shot. You'd said hello to each other when you came down, but quickly you had to get to work, everyone's focus held on your dancing. It wasn't until you all wrapped up for the day that he said anything else.

"Hey, I've been meaning to get your number so we can text if we need to, like today," he said. Your stomach dropped; you couldn't believe the words you were hearing. Was he really asking for your number, here in front of everyone?

"Yeah, that would be great," you smiled, waiting for him to pull out his phone and hand it to you.

"My manager has my phone, do you have yours?" he asked.

"Uh, it's up in stands with the rest of my stuff. I'll have to go grab it," you responded, smiling apologetically.

"Yeah, no worries-"

"Everyone we need to clear out, we're supposed to be gone in five minutes! Let's get going!" the lead choreographer cut him off, calling out to the whole room.

"Yunho, I've got your bag, and the car is out front, we need to leave now," his manager came running up, placing a hand on his shoulder. You didn't know where he was headed, but it was probably another rehearsal, or interview, or photoshoot. One of the thousands of things they all had scheduled every week.

In the chaos you scrambled up the stairs, grabbing your stuff before dashing out the door, not wanting to get in trouble. Yunho waved to you from the car, it pulling away as soon as you exited the building and started your walk to the subway station. It had all happened so fast, and you hoped he didn't think that you'd forgotten. His question stuck in your mind over the next three days, until you had rehearsal again. And that time you walked in with your phone already open, pulled up to a new contact entry. You didn't even greet him that day; you just placed your phone in his hands, and looked up at him with big eyes. He blinked a moment, but it wasn't hard for him to know what you were asking. He put in his number, handing the phone back to you, and you sent off your first text of many.

🌸: hello :)

You waited that night after rehearsal, meeting up with your best friend for dinner. You could just feel it again, you knew he'd say something, if you had just a little patience.

🐶: I hope rehearsal didn't kill you today. They really didn't give you guys any breaks :(

Immediately you squealed, shoving your phone into your friend's face.

"How cute, he's so concerned for you," she laughed, poking your cheek.

"I can't believe he already texted," you sighed, grabbing another bite.

"He obviously likes you," she said, making your mind spin.

"Don't say that, you're getting my hopes up," you replied, shaking your head.

"Why else would he ask for your number?" she asked.

"To talk to me about work stuff, dance stuff, I don't know?" you replied.

"Did he ask for anyone else's number?" she asked.

"I don't know, he could have," you said, raising your shoulders.

"I doubt it," she smiled. "Look at you, you've caught yourself an idol. Better be careful, my girl," she joked, finishing off her drink.

"I wonder if this is a bad idea," you pondered, staring off into space and letting your mind wander.

"Don't overthink it. How often do you come across people you like? If he likes you too, you should go for it. You don't have any reason to hold yourself back from this. I mean, be careful of course. I don't want any death threats coming your way," she chuckled, reaching over the table and grabbing your hand. "Connecting with another person is a special thing, and it sounds like you two really have. Don't under sell that."

You left the restaurant and wandered home, a warm feeling in your chest. Hugging your friend goodbye you thanked her, so grateful to have someone you know you can tell anything to. As soon as you made it home, you pulled out your phone and responded to him.

🌸: It was fine, I just got very sweaty. my hair was a frizzy mess 🐶: you still looked so pretty 🌸: you are very sweet to me 🌸: why is that 🐶: I like you, that's why 🌸: you like me? 🐶: I want to see you outside of work 🌸: I want that too

Your breath caught in your throat. It was everything you could have hoped to hear and more.

🌸: how can we do that tho 🐶: we'll find a way 🌸: you could come to my place. it's very small. I live alone

He could have guessed that was the case. You never mentioned having roommates, or parents, or anyone else you lived with in the brief conversations you'd had.

🐶: can I come this Saturday? 🌸: okay :) 🐶: are you sure? 🌸: be here at 7 🐶: will do

You had two days of filming for a different group's music video, a huge group dance with nearly fifty dancers. You be finishing it up Saturday morning, and hoped that things ran on time. You wanted to have the time to get yourself ready, take a shower, pick out your clothes. Even though you'd just be at home, surely just lounging around. You wanted to wear your favorite sweats, and the black tank top you had that sat perfectly over your figure. You two wouldn't be going on dinner dates out, or to the bar for drinks, or to the cafe or farmer's market or any other place where Yunho could be spotted. He didn't have to explain that to you; you'd worked in this industry long enough to understand. He'd have to do everything he could to avoid being seen entering your building. If this did become a romance, it would be one conducted in the privacy of bedrooms, apartments, hotels. You couldn't walk out on the street holding hands, or even just walk down the street side by side. But then you reminded yourself of the if. You still didn't know what he wanted, exactly. You'd still never been in the same room just the two of you. The nerves gnawed at you as you showered, as you carefully set out the clothes you would wear as you dried your hair. You'd wear no bra with your tank top, you decided, and you'd wear your favorite bikini cut black underwear. You didn't like lacy thongs, you didn't like most women's clothing period. But you wanted to feel sexy when he arrived, wanted it to be clear to him what you were after.

🐶: I'm heading out now, I should be there in 17 minutes, according to google maps 🌸: see you soon :)

Your adrenaline surged, your body sweating despite the cool temperature of your tiny apartment. You scrambled around, cleaning every surface one time over again, making sure your dirty clothes were tucked away in your closet and not strewn about anywhere. You gave yourself a final look in the mirror, your glasses looking comically huge on your face. Your hair was a mess, but it always was. You'd never learned how to properly take care of your waves. The black tank top looked as good as you'd hoped though, so you shrugged. It was good enough.

You'd only sat on your couch for about thirty seconds when the doorbell rang, and you physically jumped. Opening your door you found him in a loose button up shirt, casual baggy pants, a baseball cap covering his nut brown hair, and a mask.

"Hi, come in," you said, your heart beating faster than it did even during your most difficult dance numbers.

"Thank you," he said, stepping inside, his jacket held over his arm. He pulled off his mask, folding it and shoving it in his pocket.

"Would you like some water?" you asked, awkwardly. You didn't know what to say, the two of you standing feet apart in your tiny living room.

"Sure, that'd be great," he said, looking around, taking everything in.

"You can sit on my couch, or on the floor, if you'd like. Sorry there aren't more options, my apartment is tiny," you said as you filled his glass. You decided to fill one for yourself, realizing now that you'd completely forgotten to eat dinner or drink any water this afternoon because of your nerves.

"It's perfect. I really like it," he said, sitting himself down cross legged on the floor, on the small rug that surrounded your coffee table. It was the only table you had here, the one you always ate your meals at. "Is this the rug you always lay on at night?" he asked as you came and set his water in front of him.

"Oh, no, that one's in my room," you smiled, sitting opposite him on your couch, cross legged too.

"I was gonna say, this is pretty small for laying on," he laughed.

"My other one is small too, I guess," you laugh in response.

"Can I see it?" His eyes have a mischievous glint to them as they meet yours.

"Sure," you say, smirking back at him. You're trying to put on a confident front, because you swear you keep seeing his eyes trail down your body hungrily, but as soon as you start walking towards your room your legs are shaky. Yunho reaches out and grabs your shoulder from behind, steadying you for a moment.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, just tired. Filming ran long this morning, we had to go over this one section like fifty times. I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow," you say.

"Do you have a foam roller? It's helps me a lot when my legs are cramping up on me," he says, as you open your bedroom door, revealing the tiny room to him. It only has room for your full bed, your dresser shoved into your closet.

"I should really get one," you say, turning to face him. "There's the rug," you smile, watching intently to see his reaction.

"That's the one you lay on every night?" he asks. You nod your head, chuckling. "That's even smaller than the one out there," he laughs, pointing in the direction of your living room.

"I wonder if you'd even fit," you laugh, looking down at the small strip of floor that isn't taken up by your bed frame.

"Let me try," he says, kicking off his shoes and setting them on your shoe rack outside your door. He crouches down, settling himself on his side, his legs bent up to make it possible for him to fit.

"Wow, so comfortable," he quips, sarcastically.

"It is if you're my size," you pout, looking down at him with your arms crossed.

"You really lay here every night before bed?" he asks.

"It's my favorite spot in the world," you nod.

"You think we could both fit?" he asks, pulling off his hat and tossing it on your bed, holding out an arm to you.

"Maybe..." you trail off, stepping over towards him, carefully setting yourself down in front of him. You're on you side too, your face maybe a foot from his, your back shoved up against your closet door. You stare into each other's eyes, still not having touched, the whole scene potentially still friendly and innocent.

A yawn hits you, a wave of exhaustion washing over your whole body. You really should have remembered to eat a good meal before this.

"Tired?" Yunho asks, you his eyes not leaving yours.

"I guess so. Sorry for yawning," you say.

"Am I boring you?" he jokes.

"No, not at all," you shake your head, smiling back at him. And then you both just stare, a good minute passing, your heart racing and racing in your chest, your body aching for something, anything.

"Can I kiss you now?" he asks, but still doesn't move. So you do instead, pulling yourself closer to him, your legs entangling as your lips finally meet, the first moments of the kiss awkward and stilted in that way it always is with a new person. But soon enough you've found each other's rhythm; you can tell he likes sucking on your bottom lip, and likes it when you open your mouth and let out those breathy moans, allowing him to dive his tongue inside, feeling over the plush softness of your tongue. It's heated so quickly, your arms desperately grabbing at each other, a sexual excitement awakened in you in a way it hadn't been in so many years. You got lost in it; you couldn't have even remembered your own name in that moment, because all you knew was his mouth and his hands, his tongue on your neck, the way your clit felt rubbing hard against his thigh, your climax reaching you so fast you don't even realize it until your hands are cramping up. They do that when you're too stimulated, when your whole nervous system has too much input and can't process it all. He senses a change in you, pulling back to see you holding your hands, trying desperately to calm the spasming muscles.

"What's wrong?" he asks, gently holding your hands in his own.

"It just happens sometimes, when I come," you whisper into the cool air of your bedroom. "My hands lock up like this." You start to giggle, a blush creeping over your face at the look he's giving you.

"You came?"

"Yeah, I know, I'm insanely sensitive," you laugh, still rubbing at your hands.

"Fuck," he groans, shaking his head back and forth, and you laugh again at how affected he is. "Are your hands going to be okay?"

"Yeah, just give them a moment. They'll be fine," you say, putting your face up to his again, your lips connecting and fire shooting through you once again.

Before you know it he's on top of you, kissing you hard, his hands snaking underneath your top to feel over your hard nipples, grabbing hungrily at your body. "Can I taste you?" he whispers through ragged breaths, and you nod into him, whispering yes on his lips. He moves down, pulling at the waistband of your sweatpants, and you lips your hips to help him. When he grabs at your panties he drags them off slowly, shoving them in the pocket of his jeans, moving his mouth down your thighs and licking up to your core. He swipes his tongue up your slit slowly, giving firm pressure to his movement, making you moan and arch your back in response, your knees falling wide and hitting the wall and bed you're caged between. Yunho hums at the taste of you, the heady sweetness better than he could have even imagined, his tongue swiping again and again up your entire slit, taking in as much of you as he can.

"Fuck you taste good," he whispers, before attaching his lips to your clit, sucking gently and making you squirm, your knees jumping up to cage in his head. Then he's adding a finger, and then another, slowly pumping them into you while he keeps sucking on your sensitive bud, ripping another orgasm out of you in seconds. He keeps touching you through your after shocks, making your moans high pitched and sharp as you feel overstimulated, but then as he keeps going you slip back into pleasure, and another orgasm builds faster than the first.

"Fuck, fuck," you scream, your hand in his hair, snaking through and grabbing hard onto it. It makes Yunho moan, the vibrations radiating through your core and sending you over the edge once again, your pussy fluttering around his fingers. This time you push him up, your body wracked from coming so hard and fast.

"You can come multiple times," he states, his lips and chin glistening from your slick. You just nod coyly, breathing hard, trying to regain your sanity as he moves on top of you again, kissing you hard. You moan at the taste of yourself, and at the way he's smothering you so entirely. "You like how you taste?" he asks, smiling into you as you nod your head yes, your lips not able to leave each other for more than a few seconds.

"Can I fuck you?" he asks into your ear, his low voice shuddering through you.

"Please," you whisper, grabbing at his pants to help push them down, laughing as he tries to stand and bumps his head on the door handle to your closet.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, holding his head for a moment, scrambling still to pull of his pants and finally get to what he's wanted all night. "You're making me so desperate that I'm hurting myself," he jokes, slipping a condom over himself with finesse, finally collapsing back onto you, rubbing his hard dick up and down your slit, attaching his lips to yours once again. Slowly he pushes in, testing the waters, watching your face as he stretches you out. He's loving your reaction, the way that just him putting his cock in you is making you so overwhelmed with feelings and pleasure.

"You're so big," you cry into his shoulder, grasping onto him for dear life.

"I know," he chuckles, his face in your hair, taking in the scent of you.

"Shut up," you giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, holding back a moan from ripping out of you. He's just barely bottomed out, holding tight onto your hips to anchor himself.

"You okay?" he whispers, placing gentle kisses on your forehead temple, keeping himself still until you give him the okay. You nod against him, your face still buried in his shoulder, holding him to you.

"Please move Yunho," you beg, your body needing more from him now, even if the stretch is hurting. He slowly pulls himself out, pushing back in with care, the wet sounds loud and embarrassing. You're so wet it's starting to drip down your leg, and he slides in so easily, even though you're tight against him.

"Does that feel good?" he asks you, setting a slow pace, watching your body intently. You babble and nod against him, and he picks his pace up, hitting something so deep inside of you that it makes you head fly back against the ground again. Thankfully your rug is there on the floor, but it isn't the thickest, and the actions till hurts.

"Ow," you mutter, your eyebrows scrunching up in pain.

"Careful, careful," he coos, grabbing the back of your head in his large palm, slowing his movements. "Why are we on the floor when your bed is right there?"

You chuckle, blinking up at him with blown pupils, your walls still clenching hard around him.

"Let's move up there," he smiles, slowly pulling out of you, standing gingerly and helping you up carefully, too. You pull at his shirt, unbuttoning some of his buttons, making him pull if off over his head. He's completely revealed to you now, and he grabs at your top too, pulling it over your head and throwing it over the side of the bed.

"Your head okay?" he asks, moving on top of you again, cradling it in his hand.

"Yeah, it's okay," you laugh, staring up at him. "How's yours?"

"It's fine," he chuckles, kissing you deeply and grabbing at you, unable to stop himself. "You're driving me crazy," he whispers, and in a moment he's sheathed himself inside of you again, resting your head against your pillows as he starts fucking you hard, his mouth on yours as your tongues swirl around each other's mouths. He's hitting that spot inside you again, over and over sending waves of pleasure through your abdomen. You feel like you're being split open, like your entire body is filled by him, by everything he's meaning to you. The care, the attention, the perfect angle of his hips as they snap against yours, has your mind floating on a cloud of pure joy. God, it's never felt this good, and you don't want it to stop, don't ever want this feeling to end. You know you're stuck now, you're addicted, you've had one taste of him and you'll never want anyone else.

"Yunho," you whine against his lips, as you feel another orgasm building.

"Fuck, don't say my name like that, you're gonna make me come," he groans, lifting his head up to deepen his angle even further, fucking you even harder. "Are you close?" he asks, and you whimper in response, moaning high pitched and holding tight onto his biceps. "You're so fucking perfect," he says, his upper body falling down on top of yours again, as he holds you close. You come, the warmth and safety his body is giving you making you release, every part of your being comforted by the man above you.

"Yes, fuck that feels good," he groans into your ear, feeling the way you're squeezing so hard down onto him, your moans like screams again, stroking his ego in such an addicting way. "I'm never gonna get enough of you," he groans, finally releasing his load, his orgasm washing over him hard as his hips stutter, his face scrunching up in pleasure as he finally comes. He collapses on top of you, holding you close as you both come down from your highs, your breaths hard and fast and totally in sync.

"You're amazing," he mumbles, stroking a hand through your hair.

"No, you're amazing," you giggle, your head floaty and calm in your post orgasmic state. You poke his side, giggling into him when his body jumps.

"Don't you dare do that right now," he grumbles, tickling you back and twice as hard, making you shriek and laugh beneath him.

You stay cuddled up all night, not able to sleep cause you keep kissing, Yunho's large warm body making you feel safe in a way you didn't know you were missing.

"I should have taken these off before I fucked you," he laughs as he pulls off your glasses, placing them gingerly on your side table.

"Eh, it's okay," you laugh, snuggling into him closer. "They're always on, I'm used to it. I keep them on even when I dance most of the time, which is weird."

"I noticed," he said. "They're so fucking cute."

"You really like them?"

"Y/n, you're fucking perfect. Every thing about you."

[alchemistc]

get by (with a little help from my friends)

Eddie's "Hey man." gets completely ignored when he answers the phone, which isn't entirely unusual, considering the man on the other end.

"I need you to talk me off a ledge."

Tommy sounds like he's gone three rounds already, and that's entirely possible. At this point, he's got the same steps as Buck does any time he feels like flying off the handle: phone a friend, and then another friend, and then talk to Buck about it. Eddie always likes it best when they just fucking talk to each other, but he can see the wisdom in asking for advice first. They're both reactive fucks who love each other way too much to be rational face to face, sometimes.

"Am I qualified to give advice on this subject, or is this gonna be another Spare Key Fiasco?"

Tommy chuffs from the other end of the phone. He still hates that Eddie had had a front row seat to that freakout.

"It wasn't a spare, Eddie, I had it specifically made for -."

"Yeah, that's my bad, dude, stop taking every opportunity to change the subject. What's up, man?"

There's a noise Eddie recognizes vaguely as the breathing exercises Buck had been explaining to him a few months ago. They both use them - Buck to prevent the leap to anger and defensiveness, Tommy to prevent... whatever his reactive habits are. The pair of them have been surprisingly light on details, since they got back together. Well. Surprising that Buck hasn't word vomited all of Tommy's idiosyncrasies, at some point.

It's going on a year since he's seen Tommy in person, but he can picture the exact curmudgeonly expression he's probably pulling right now. "I bought a ring, last week."

Only about a month behind Buck. They're getting better about the whole pacing thing. Eddie's been sworn to secrecy, so this is gonna be a fucking minefield to navigate.

"That's great, man. When are you gonna ask him?" Buck has a spreadsheet already. Two, actually, if you're counting the Worst Case Scenario tab Eddie'd caught a peek at when Buck shared his screen instead of ending the video call they'd been on.

That's going in the speech whether Buck likes it or not.

"You remember that ledge I was talking about?"

Of course. Of course that's what he's worried about. Of course Eddie's been dialed in to either talk him down or throw out a rope and wrangle his ass off a cliff side.

Man's stolen helicopters, evaded military and FBI and earned medals for his reckless bravery, and yet the idea of settling down with a man he loves more than the entire world and flying is rattling him enough to need backup.

"Who was your first call?"

Tommy's huff is fairly telling. Sal, then. Eddie's only met him once and he wasn't his biggest fan, but Buck loves the guy. Says sitting between the two old friends is better than watching a UFC match. He's got weird priorities, Buck does.

("They're so mean, Eddie, you'd think they were mortal enemies, but Deluca, like, gets Tommy. Do you think he'll help me with the contingency plan?")

From what Eddie can remember, they'd only reconnected about six months ago, but they'd fallen back into their aggressively combative friendship easily, according to Buck. Eddie's of the opinion that Tommy reached out to Sal Deluca specifically to combat Buck's intense positivity when he finally cottoned on to the fact that Buck considered himself a permanent fixture in Tommy's life.

"Sal told me to woman up. And swap the ring out for a leash."

Yeah. Eddie's not sold on Sal Deluca. Considering they're most likely gonna have to plan some sort of joint bachelor party across state lines sometime over the course of the next year, Eddie's going to have to woman up himself.

"Not to make everything even worse than Deluca, but what the hell are you hoping I can help with? My only proposal came about three days after the pee stick showed two lines."

Tommy blows out a breath. Not the breathing exercises, this time. Eddie can almost see the hand he's dragging down his face, nose folding and bouncing back when the hand gets to his mouth and hangs there, for a moment. "I've proposed before," he murmurs.

Well. There that is. Eddie had definitely forgotten about that little hiccup.

"I mean, it's not like you're gonna propose, sit on it for a few years, and then decide you actually don't like dick, right?"

"Your support is overwhelming," he deadpans, and the line goes quiet. For about forty seconds, Eddie stares at the time on the call tic up and up. "But no, that's not the issue."

"No offense, buddy, but I have no idea what the issue is. He's gonna say yes. It's gonna be great. He'll cry for like an hour and then for a few weeks he'll tell every random stranger he meets that his fiance is a pilot for the LAFD." If Tommy swears him to secrecy, too, he's gonna have to get creative. See if he can coordinate a joint proposal without either one of them cottoning on.

"You ever been gun shy before?" Tommy asks, in that roundabout way he has of trying to explain the thoughts inside his own head.

He tried. He failed. He hurt someone. He doesn't want to do it again.

"Yeah, but like - besides the fact that you're attracted to and in love with Buck, they're...very different people." He'd only met Abby once. Hadn't particularly cared for her, on account of the whole leaving his best friend in limbo for months, and the Making His Best Friend Act More Out Of Pocket Than Usual At A Scene.

"Both with amazing hair, though," Tommy jokes, and then groans. "I'm going to gouge my eyeballs out with a teaspoon."

"Yeah, don't do that. You think Evan Buckley's going to decipher that as 'Lets get hitched'?"

"I resent the idea that you think that I'd use those words."

"Apologies. You gonna quote a movie he's never seen?"

"It's easy to recycle when he thinks they're all my witty rejoinders."

"He knows when you're quoting something. Tommy, your whole body vibrates, and you get this deranged smile. You are many things, my friend, but subtle is not one of them."

Christ, Tommy has a type. Drawn to whatever asshole can slice him to the bone while keeping up with his brand of sardonic banter. Eddie doesn't enjoy the new knowledge that he's basically the Buck-adjacent version of Deluca.

How the hell had he ended up with the human equivalent of a socially anxious Great Dane?

There's an easy solution here. Is it a violation of the bro code to tell Tommy to just sit on it? Carry the ring around everywhere and wait til the time is right? That's not a hint, is it?

"You're trying to distract me," Tommy observes. "What do you know?"

"I know that despite the fact that the two of you could fill Michigan Stadium with your insecurities and diametrically opposed capital I issues, this is gonna work itself out in a really good way."

"Eddie."

"Tommy."

"He already bought the ring, didn't he?" There's his typical bemused sigh whenever Buck does something that he, personally, finds adorably annoying. Annoyingly adorable. Something. Eddie doesn't know; he still doesn't quite get them. They work, and that's all that really matters, at the end of the day.

Sometimes they work because Eddie, Maddie, and Sal Deluca, for some reason, can offer the right support and the right advice at the right time.

"For legal and personal reasons I'm invoking my right to remain silent."

"Are the personal reasons to do with wanting your ankles intact?"

"I might take a vow of silence, actually."

Tommy's quiet for a long, long time. Long enough that Eddie has to check and make sure the asshole hasn't hung up on him.

"Is his plan going to cause any permanent damage to county property? We've both got priors." Stealing government property, evading police and military, technically domestic terrorism. All wiped from their records because they both have main character syndrome, so exactly zero actual prior offenses.

"I don't recall saying anything about a plan."

"That vow sure has legs to stand on," Tommy muses, and Eddie has to fight the urge to blow a raspberry.

"You can ask one yes or no question that I retain the right to not answer. If it'll help you walk yourself back off that ledge."

Tommy takes long enough forming the question that Eddie gets through three of the syllabuses Chris' school is requiring him to confirm he's read. He hates this damn school, but Chris loves it.

"Should I start carrying the ring with me everywhere, or can I assume Evan will at least make it clear we have plans, when he decides he's ready?"

That's not a yes or no question.

"That's not a yes or no question."

"Should the ring be on my person at all times, yes or no?" Eddie can't tell if he's throwing the bitchy tone in for a laugh, or because he's actually annoyed. For all Eddie knows, he could still be a little prickly about the fact that he's having to seek out the competition for advice on his love life. Buck says they're over that, but sometimes Eddie's not sure.

Sometimes Buck still encourages him to lean into it a bit because apparently "The sex is mind-blowingly hot, Eddie."

"You'll probably be fine without it at work," Eddie hedges.

"Probably is not a yes or a no."

"I never told you how I was gonna answer."

Eddie hates that he knows Buck's gonna get laid tonight on the back of Tommy's frustration with Eddie.

"So. How's that cliff looking, from over there?"

Tommy's put-upon sigh is edging on overkill. "What cliff? It's plains and valleys from here."

Eddie's well aware that Tommy can dig himself trenches a mile deep just to have a ledge to jump from. He has a good feeling about this, though.

"Let him romance you, for once, dude."

That shouldn't be such a polarizing statement, for the man who's been desperate to be loved almost as much as Evan Buckley himself, but Tommy has a nasty fucking habit of shooting himself in the foot whenever Buck makes it a point to take care of Tommy back.

Tommy groans. "None of this makes it to the speech."

"Yeah, it's absolutely going in the speech, man."

[cinnamonlouu]

Where the line is

A continuation of “in his quiet”

Smoke (elijah) x black!reader

Synopsis: after that night Elijah’s words stuck with her so she wonders how far she can go and see what he does.

It started with something small.

She came home later than usual, her phone dead.

No call. No text.

The doorman let her in with an apologetic smile. “Mr. Moore is in the kitchen.”

Marie smiled, shook the chill from her shoulders, and took the elevator up. When she stepped into the condo, she found Elijah in the kitchen.Plain white tee, dinner still warm on the stove.

He didn’t ask where she’d been.

Didn’t raise his voice.

Just looked her over once, poured her a glass of wine, and set a plate in front of her.

“Eat.”

She didn’t speak.

He didn’t either.

But when she slid into bed later that night and curled against him, his arm wrapped around her waist like a lock.

Not too tight.

Just enough to let her know this was not something he wanted her to do again.

⸻

A week later, she didn’t answer when he called.

Twice.

She saw the name on the screen. She was out shopping, loud music in the background, joking with Camryn about shoes that cost more than her rent.

She waited until she was back in her car to call him back.

“Hey, sorry, I was with Cam—”

“Learn how to use your phone or you won’t have one at all.”

She paused. “What?”

“Elijah—”

“You wanna keep this light?” His voice was calm. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Later that night, she found her phone face down on her nightstand, screen cracked. Elijah handed her a new one at dinner.

“Yours was glitchin’.”

The new one had all her contacts. Same background. Same apps.

She didn’t ask how he transferred everything. She didn’t have to.

⸻

Then came the party.

Not a test. Not at first.

Just a friend’s rooftop birthday — Marie showed up alone. Elijah had a meeting downtown, said he’d come later if it ran short.

He didn’t.

So Marie danced.

Just a song or two, nothing wild. She laughed, held a drink in one hand,and laughed her night away.

It was a man she didn’t know well. Brandon “Damn, you glowing. Ya man better be treating you right.”

She smiled. “He is.”

“You sure? Ain’t here, is he?”

Marie tilted her head. “He doesn’t have to be everywhere.”

Brandon chuckled. “You right. But if you ever need a backup plan—”

“I don’t” she turned her body walking away

her phone buzzed.

1 new message from: Elijah 🥰

“Come home.”

She froze.

She hadn’t told him where the party was.

⸻

Making her way in the penthouse, she walked into the kitchen and found him cooking.

“Who told you where I was?”

Elijah didn’t look up.

“The dress would’ve looked better in white,” he said, sliding the pasta onto her plate.

Marie blinked. “That wasn’t my question”

“I’m always where you are.”

⸻

The last time?

It was on purpose.

She caught attitude. Over shoes “I wanted these in red bottoms elijah” she snarled “store closed you’ll get it when they open” he responded taking his watch off, putting it back in his collection in the walk in closet.

“How did you even forget, red bottoms are not everyday shoes like these that’s why I like to do shit my fucking self.

You turned around to him right there staring down at you.

“I don’t know what soft ass nigga you been dating?” he said. “Men who let you talk to them any kind of way and roll your eyes like a child, not over here fix it before I fix it for you.”

“And you’re my father now?”

“No.” His voice dropped lower. “But I’m the only man in your life and it’s gon stay that way for a long time.”

Marie swallowed.

Hard.

Because it wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, with that look in his eyes like he already had the outcome in hand. Like her rebellion was cute, but not real.

She pushed past him, sat on the edge of the bed, towel clutched tighter.

“Fine,” she muttered.

But he wasn’t done.

He sat beside her, hands resting loosely on his knees.

“You get one warning,” he said. “You catch an attitude with me again, I’ll remind you who you belong to.”

Her breath caught.

She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he didn’t own her, that she wasn’t some little girl who needed disciplining — but part of her liked the way he said it.

Liked the weight of it.

Liked knowing there was someone who wouldn’t bend.

She shifted. Didn’t meet his gaze.

“You forget sometimes,” he said, voice quiet now. “How I handle you with care. But don’t confuse what I do for you for weakness.”

Marie looked at him, finally.

Her eyes weren’t angry. Just vulnerable. Like she wasn’t sure if she’d crossed a line.

He saw it.

“Fix your attitude and go get dressed Marie ”

She nodded walking into the closet.

—————

“Feet up.”

She obeyed.

And when she tucked her legs under his arm, leaned into his shoulder, he finally spoke again.

“You keep testing me ‘cause you wanna know where the line is. But there ain’t one. Not with you.”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek.

Then her neck.

Then her mouth.

“Take your panties,” he said, calm as ever. “Before I tear em.”

Marie didn’t argue.

Didn’t roll her eyes.

Because deep down, she knew something she hadn’t wanted to admit:

She needed a man like Elijah.

Not because he was rich. Or protective. Or because he made her feel wanted.

When she caught a attitude.

He stopped her.

Put her back where she belonged, safe, seen, and his.

[kxsagi]

“𝐥𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐚”

a/n: the lyrics are heartbreaking, but this song is beautiful 

the rain in madrid had a cruel way of echoing loneliness. the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how many umbrellas you carried or how many layers you wore. and tonight, it fell hard, the sound of it muffled by the thick glass of the apartment you shared with sae itoshi. or used to. 

your luggage sat quietly by the door, just like you had, for the last two hours. sitting. waiting. hoping. not because you expected him to beg you to stay, but because… part of you still clung to the lie you both had been pretending to live in. 

la mentira. the lie. 

the lie that love alone could fix everything. that your love could fix him. 

sae always made silence feel louder. you remembered how in the early days, he’d pull you into his arms after long practices, say nothing, and yet you’d feel everything – warmth, presence, maybe even love. but over time, that silence stopped speaking. it just... lingered. and eventually, it became where your words went to die. 

"you’re leaving just like that?" his voice finally cuts through the fog of your thoughts. 

you turn your head, slow and tired. “just like that?” you echo, like the phrase itself is a joke. “i’ve been telling you i’m not happy, sae. for months.” 

he’s still in his tracksuit, rain-damp hair clinging to his forehead, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. as if this moment is just a pause between training and sleep. like it’s not the end. 

he doesn’t look angry. he never really does. sae itoshi had mastered the art of indifference long before you met him. but there’s something in his gaze tonight that’s almost… confused. like he can’t understand how someone who loved him could leave him. 

"so you’re really going to throw all of this away?" 

“all of what, sae?” your voice cracks, but your eyes stay dry, maybe because you've already cried enough in secret. “you haven’t looked at me in weeks. you haven’t touched me like you care. you don’t talk to me unless i talk to you first. i’m just… here. like a shadow in your perfect little routine.” 

he says nothing. 

"you know how many nights i waited for you to come home? just to ask you how your day was? even if i already saw it on TV?" your hands clench. "you know how many times i stayed quiet because i didn’t want to stress you out before a match?" 

still, nothing. except the smallest flicker in his eyes. guilt, maybe. or regret. but you’ve learned not to gamble on those emotions with him anymore. 

“and i told myself, 'he loves me, he just doesn't show it the same.' i lied to myself, sae.” 

he shifts his weight, but doesn’t speak. not even now. 

“i gave you everything. i didn’t want your money. i didn’t want your fame. i just wanted you. and you made me feel like that was asking too much.” 

the weight of your words fills the space like a storm. 

you expect him to say something. to give you anything to hold onto. even a cruel reason to hate him would be better than this numb silence. but he just stands there, eyes cast slightly down, mouth in a hard line. 

you shake your head. “this isn’t love, sae. not anymore. maybe it never was.” 

when you turn back toward the door, he says it. low. strained. 

“i do love you.” 

your heart stalls. 

"then why didn’t you ever show it?" 

he opens his mouth. closes it. and that's your answer, isn’t it? because love without action is still a lie. 

you reach for the handle. 

“you’ll regret this,” he says. not a threat. not even a plea. just a statement. like he already knows he will. 

you pause. not to turn back. but to breathe. to survive the ache in your chest. 

“maybe,” you whisper. “but i already regret staying this long.” 

the door opens, and you step into the rain – no umbrella, no backup plan, no more lies. just you and your own damn freedom. 

and for once, the cold feels honest. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Wrapped Around Your Finger

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.1k

Warnings: angst, fighting, kind of fluff at the end?

Summary: You and Spencer make it a rule not to bring your work home with you, but you can't help it when he blatantly ignores you on a case. You're pissed at him, and you decide to show him just how long you can stay pissed at him.

Square Filled: "I'm fine." for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

The worst part of being in a relationship with someone you work with is that sometimes, you bring your work home with you. You and Spencer try not to let your work affect your personal life, but you can’t let this one go. Everyone from the office felt the tension between you two before you left, and during the car ride, you prepared what you were going to say to him as soon as you walked through the front door.

“So, you’re just ignoring me now?” Spencer asks and follows you inside.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Spencer. Why do I even tell you things if you’re not even going to fucking listen to me?”

“What you suggested was wrong, and had I listened to you, someone else would have gotten hurt.”

“No,” you whip around to face him, “I told you how to get the unsub and where he was going to be. I told you he was going to be armed so I suggested bringing in the SWAT team as backup. What did you do? You and Derek enter the house alone and disregard everything I told you.”

“Had I gone in with the SWAT team, the unsub would have seen them and started shooting. Morgan and I were able to trap him by sneaking up on him. I can’t very well do that with a whole team behind me.” He sets his bag down on the counter and rubs his face tiredly. “Besides, I don’t know why you’re bugging about this. Everything worked out.”

“You don’t get it,” you scoff. “It’s not about how we got the unsub. It’s about the fact that you didn't even consider what I had to say. You went ahead and did it on your own. If that’s how you want to do things, then fine. I won’t help you ever again.”

You grab a water bottle from the fridge and make your way to the stairs.

“You’re overreacting about this.”

“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

With that, you leave your husband at the bottom of the stairs alone. He rolls his eyes and decides to let you have this night. Tomorrow, he’s going to make you see that your plan wouldn’t have worked.

In the morning, you’re already at work by the time he gets up. Normally, sleep is a cleanser for you. If you go to bed angry, you’re usually calmed down by the morning. However, he can see you’re going to milk this as long as you can. That’s fine. If you want to play games, he’ll play it your way.

Spencer walks into the office and sees you at your desk. You know he’s here because the chatter gets quiet. Your coworkers are curious to see how this is going to play out. Derek and Emily think Spencer is going to stay strong and stand his ground while JJ and Rossi think he’s going to fold because you have this man wrapped around your finger even if you don’t see it.

Spencer walks past him but you don’t look at him or even acknowledge his presence. He waits for you to say something. When you don’t, he gets a little annoyed with you.

“Really? You’re giving me the silent treatment?” You don’t give him a response. “Okay, fine. I’ll play your games.”

You grab some files and make your way to Penelope’s office without a look back at him. She swirls her chair around to greet you, a big smile on her face.

“What are you smiling about?”

“You’ve come to the right person.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“I heard you and Spencer are fighting.”

“I’m fine. There’s no fighting because there’s nothing to talk about. He doesn’t see me as an equal and doesn't want to consider what I have to say. What is there to talk about?” you shrug and hand her some files to work with.

“So, you’re not going to be an adult and have an adult conversation?”

“No,” you wink and leave her office.

The only way you’re going to talk to Spencer is if it’s about work. He thought you were going to give in and apologize after the first day, but you’ve been this way all week. You’re at work before he gets up, you don’t greet him anymore, and you still sleep in the guest room. By the end of the week, you realize you were wrong about how to handle the unsub. Spencer’s plan was the right one. He knew how the unsub was going to behave and made a plan based on that while you based your plan on how to subdue him easily.

The last thing you’re going to do is tell him he’s right.

Now, it’s a game of how long you can do this to him before he breaks. Everyone, including Spencer, knows he’ll be the first one to break even if he doesn’t want to admit it. You’re very good at getting your way, and this is no different. Spencer can tell the shift in energy from you being genuinely pissed at him to doing it on purpose. He knows you too well to know that you’re only doing this to be petty.

He told himself to not go without speaking to or kissing you, but it’s proving to be a lot harder. His love language is touch and he’s craving yours. He hasn’t kissed you in over a week and he’s getting desperate. Like admitting-he-was-wrong desperate.

You have Friday off since you requested it off a month ago, but Spencer was called into work for a few hours to help with something. You’re sitting on the couch reading a book when he walks in. He debates on speaking to you knowing full well you won’t speak to him back. How long can you go like this? You’ll have to speak to him at some point.

He sighs and walks out of the front door to get to work, and you watch him go to the car. He gets in the front seat and starts the car, but he doesn’t drive off. He grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white. You wonder what he’s thinking. He looks behind him as if he is going to reverse but gets out of the car instead. He storms back into the house, and you immediately pretend like you were reading this whole time. 

Spencer walks over to you, grips your hair tightly but not tight enough to hurt, tips your head back, and kisses you. The book falls from your hand as you kiss him back. This kiss holds a week’s worth of sexual tension. When he gets back from work, you know he’s going to take you to the bedroom for the rest of the day. He slides his tongue into your mouth and massages yours, leaving you wanting more.

When he feels you leaning into him, he pulls away with a smirk. Without saying a word, he leaves the house and this time, he actually leaves the driveway. People say he’s wrapped around your finger when really, you’re wrapped around his.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[gayestsimp]

DadZawa! (Batdad Aizawa reader)

How it all started.

This will be kinda another series, but ask and request relating to this is completely fine! And some can be apart of the story! No word count, laziness lol

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In this world, eighty percentage of the population had a superpower known as a quirk. Each of these people typically had unique powers, some having the ability to shoot lasers from any part of their bodies, transform into large lizards or a permanent transformation into a being made of rocks. One of those people were (Name). He had a quirk call ‘Erasure’ and as long as he kept his eyes open and on someone, they wouldn’t be able to use their own quirks- well except for mutant type quirks.

When (Name) was four, he met a six year old boy named Bruce Wayne. Both quickly becoming friends and close. Bruce was a kind and friendly person, and he didn’t seem to care about what quirk anyone had, he didn’t even have one. But instead of crying or hating that, he was fine with it- loved it even, always blabbering on how he could be like his mom and dad- neither having quirks- and still do amazing things, such as charities, and work through their company. It made (Name) happy that his best friend wants to do his best to help others even without a quirk.

Though suddenly, two years go by, and Bruce was now eight, and one night, his entire life changes, his parents being shot in front of him in an alleyway- once (Name) was made aware of what happened? Well the young boy bawled his own eyes out. He had met Thomas and Martha Wayne quite a bit in those two years- having his own birthdays with his friends, including Bruce, so the billionaire’s parents alway arrived- and he spent a couple sleepovers in Bruce’s manor- so he grew to see them a second set of parents. His own mother and father took the boy to the Manor, growing concerned for the young male as well, hoping the two best friends can stick together and help one another. They would be greeted by Alfred, all three going inside as (Name) made his way to Bruce’s room, leaving the adults to talk amongst themselves. Then he would finally see Bruce after slowly opening the boy’s door, seeing him weeping, slowly (Name) approached Bruce, looking at the older boy and sitting next to him on his bed, slowly hugging the older boy- causing Bruce to jolt for a second, eyes widening as quickly hugged back- allowing them both to cry at the passing of the Wayne’s Patriarch and Matriarch. (Name) would spend the night with Bruce, both eventually becoming exhausted and falling asleep on the bed.

Over the next couple years, just before Bruce turned fourteen, (Name) would spend a lot more time around the manor, helping his friend out with his grief as best he could, both even training a little- as (Name) planned to enter one of the greatest hero schools. Yuuei, or as as it sounds- U.A. Which was once only in Japan, before the school was transferred to the USA after more quirks started appearing the States than over Japan. The boy only had to wait three years, but he would soon be entering the entrance exam as soon as he could… though he knows the possibility that his quirk and skills may not let him pass the exam- he may have some issues, so he also planned to apply for the General Ed as backup course- he could always use the sports festival to show his talent off and enter the Hero course- if he passes it that is.

And soon enough, Bruce was fourteen and (Name) was twelve- with Bruce planning on leaving and explore the world, to gain as much skill and knowledge as he could, in order to “Protect this city and help it.” As he put it- or how (Name) remembers Bruce saying it- the boy had been practicing with his quirk a lot lately, causing bags to appear under his eyes and a little slower in processing everything with a change to his sleep schedule. But over the next ten years, both boys started to yearn for one another… at first they were confused- they both thought they just missed one another, but than a year passed- and that feeling didn’t disappear, with both eventually concluding that they were in love with one another- or at least crushing on each other. (Name) would often visit and sleep at the manor, helping Alfred and keeping the butler company- as they both awaited for Bruce’s return, and Alfred has even been teaching (Name) all sorts of skill from the butler’s older times in service, such as his combat medic training, hand to hand combat and quite a few other important skills, even cooking. On the third year that Bruce was gone, (Name) became fifteen and took the exam, both of the hero course entrance exam and than the general education exam. Than he had to wait for his letter of acceptance into either course or a complete rejection. It caused the teen some stress to wait, his parents having to comfort him. Than his letter arrived- and after opening it? He was actually happy. He was accepted for the hero course, just scraping up enough points to be accepted, immediately rushing to his parents to show them, and than calling up Alfred and telling him the news as well.

Than he had his first days in the hero course at U.A and it was fine- (Name) was truly more introverted than most, often preferring the quiet- it didn’t help that he was now constantly tired due to his quirk. But he did make a group of friend. Hizashi Yamada, Nemuri Kayama and Oboro Shirakumo. They were all loud and acted dumb at times- well Hizashi and Oboro mostly- but (Name) loved them all. They were friends and his new extended family in a way… though he won’t admit that.

And after his third year, (Name) finally graduated and was now a full blown hero, becoming the pro hero, Eraser Head- becoming an underground hero, to better use his quirk by keeping it more secretive and deploying the various stealth skills and combat skills that Alfred had taught him. And than, a few more years would pass until (Name) was twenty two, and finally Bruce would return when he was twenty four. Both friends reuniting finally, tears were shed, and spilt all over as the two finally reconnected after ten years. Though those tears weren’t many from either male.

Now they both say in the living room, talking as (Name) was drinking coffee, effectively his lifeline now, but there was an odd tension in the air- the cause of it was their unspoken feelings for one another. Soon enough it would be brought up. Both quickly realising the other felt the same, and so- they started dating. And they would continue to say like that for a while, though two years after they started to date, a vigilante would start appearing on the streets of Gotham, in a bat themed costume, with many people starting to call him ‘Batman’ and (Name) would quickly find out who he was- his boyfriend, Bruce , having eventually telling him- revealing his plans to help Gotham as best he could. They both knew that it would be difficult for a quirkless individual to become a hero, and Bruce didn’t want to go through all of that to just be a hero, and he can’t face any issues for using a quirk… but it was still illegal. But (Name) knowing Bruce and the hood he wants to do, and their relationship… he would have to turn a blind eye… the assistance in the dark would also be helpful. So they both just continued on, with (Name) often helping cover up Bruce’s presence in the area and allow the Bat to escape. Than another year passed, (Name) was now twenty five and Bruce was twenty seven. With the older man taking his boyfriend out on a date to a nice restaurant- something that the underground hero wasn’t entirely fond of, preferring a minimalist lifestyle himself, but still went to since Bruce wanted to treat him tonight, and for a good reason, as around half an hour in, Bruce would end up getting into one knee and asking for (Name) to marry him. (Name) said yes. (Name) had also started to take up a teaching role in U.A, alongside his friends to teach the next generation of Heroes, wanting to ensure they had what it would take, if they could handle life or death situations like himself and Bruce. Than (Name) was twenty seven, and his now husband had returned home with a twelve year old boy- his name was Dick Grayson, leaving (Name) to softly sigh and drink his coffee. “My at home problem child, huh?” Was all he asked before introducing himself to the boy. His son. His problem child.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

From birth - Tom Riddle(son of voldy edition) x Reader - Part 1 of 2

Summary; you'd been promised since birth, the both of you-to each other. marriage, children, the works, all before you were even born; you were set to marry the dark lords son. Tom. Both of you arent quite sure how to do it, any of it, but...you'll make it work.

First time writing Tom as voldys son les goooo

=

It was set in stone, a marriage between you and the dark lords son, it had been written since birth-an agreement between Voldemort and the Selwyn family, their only daughter signed away to marry the dark lords eldest son when they were both of age, being only a few months apart.

Voldemort wouldn’t stand for anyone but a pureblood being his son’s wife or mother to his heirs, and while Voldemort planned for his reign to last forever, it didn’t hurt to have backups.

And so, in the fall of 1997, you were in the Malfoy manor, getting dressed in the silky fabric of your wedding dress, a veil placed over your head, the train reaching several feet back.

The dress was beautiful, one you’d picked out, if just to have something under your control, to make this day just a bit better. You took a long, deep breath, clenching your hands, looking at your pearl-painted nails and the engagement ring on your finger-a copy of the gaunt family ring, of which the dark lord had remade just for this.

Not that anyone but Voldemort knew that, the real ring-or so Voldemort believed-was still hidden in the gaunt shack.

“it’s time (y/n),” your mother said from behind you, her voice quiet. Your father stood at your other side, behind the house elves helping you get ready, he was quiet, face cold but full of turmoil within his eyes. Years ago he’d made the deal with the dark lord to marry off his then-unborn daughter to the dark lord's then-unborn son, but back then; he thought the world would be different, that everything would be different.

Now it felt like he was sending off his baby girl to a death sentence.

“Okay,” you murmured, stepping off the pedestal into your elegant heels-fabric wrapping around your ankles and calves for support, taking your fathers arm as he stepped to your side. The precession was quiet, like you were walking to death instead of a new life.

You made it to the grand doors that led out into the Malfoy’s grand garden, the aisle leading to the gazebo in the middle of it all, black stone covered in dark vines and shimmering faint light-death eaters lined each side of the aisle, and at the end, the dark lord, his snake-like eyes gleaming with satisfaction as his oldest son stood to his left, Tom; who looked undeniable handsome in his dark formal robes, shimmers of green and silver catching the faint light.

Your father took a deep breath, your mother clutched your hand, and they walked you down the aisle, towards your fate. Tom’s eyes caught yours and they imperceptibly softened, not noticeable by anyone who didn’t know how to read his micro-emotions.

You reached the end of the aisle, handed off to Tom-stepping up the black stone steps of the gazebo, your other hand taken by Tom. Voldemort smirked, his red eyes gleaming as your parents took their spot behind you, Bellatrix and Mattheo-Tom’s mother and younger brother-stood behind Tom.

Voldemort stepped back to allow the officiant into place, the older wizard dressed in dark robes and holding a black shimmering braided rope, which he lifted up in view of the death eaters. “we gather here today to sanctify the union between the son of our lord, and the daughter of the Selwyn family. Long may they flourish and their heirs reign strong.” The officiant said, lowering the rope as the death eaters muttered in unison.

With your hands intertwined with Tom’s, the officiant bound the rope around your hands, over, around, and over again, the dark rope shimmering. “Do you, lord Tom, take lady (y/n) to be your bride?” The officiant said and Tom answered, calm and calculated-showing no emotion.

“I do,” he said, much to the satisfaction of his father, whose smirk grew creepier as the ceremony went on. The officiant turned to you. “Do you, lady (y/n), take lord Tom to be your husband?” he asked and you swallowed, eyes locked onto the rope bound around yours and Tom’s hands.

“I do,” you murmured, and Voldemort stepped forward, waving his wand with a silent incantation, golden threads swirling down from our left arms to our hands, glowing once and disappearing, bonded together, till death did we part.

you looked up at Tom, he stared at your intertwined hands, ever so slightly squeezing yours. you squeezed back.

You grabbed the end pieces of the rope and pulled-creating a knot and you held it between you. “you may now kiss the bride,” the officiant said and Tom looked up at you, there was a long moment before he leaned forward and you closed your eyes, feeling his lips against yours-it was chaste, a business exchange.

You both pulled away and Tom led you back down the aisle as death eaters applauded, Voldemort looking smug; all too satisfied.

Tom led you back into Malfoy Manor, and up the stairs, to his room. The door clicked shut silently and you both stood in his room-quiet…unsure. “You look beautiful,” Tom said softly, looking at you, his lips lightly pursed. you sighed, looking down at your dress, you did like it, you just wished the wedding had been more…real.

“Thank you, you look handsome,” You murmured back, Tom nodded in thanks, ever so slightly shuffling on his feet. “They have another dress for me, a black one, to…symbolize,” You said, and Tom’s ears flushed-understanding the implication.

“I’d rather that happen later.” Tom said, uncomfortable and you couldn’t help but agree, your parents had given you the vacation manor up in Scotland, where you’d go with Tom for the honeymoon after the reception. “agreed,” you said stiffly, but either way, you would have to change into the black dress-if only to appease the dark lord.

As such, it was already hung up on the closet door of Tom’s room. You walked over to it, and Tom admired it, it was nice as well-fit for the situation. Just as you were about to change, he spoke up. “wait,” Tom said, walking closer to you, holding up the knot that had been made during the ceremony. “if…if were going to do this, lets do it right,” he said, encouraging you to take one end of the rope again and you did, a bit confused but curious.

The knot was held between you and Tom took a slow breath, and he let his emotions show-nervous, his fingers tapping against the black rope. “…” he goes quiet again. “you have no clue what to say, do you?” you murmur, humor growing in your voice as Tom looks up to glare at you, its lightly playful, the emotions he shows reminding you while he apparently was the carbon copy of his father, he wasn’t him.

He was Tom, the nerdy Slytherin boy you grew up beside at Hogwarts who cared way too much about potions and old books and hated carrots but loved Brussels sprouts.

And now, your husband…

“ill start,” you murmured softly, holding the rope with him and he nodded, staring at you. “while this was forced upon us, we don’t have to resign ourselves to a meaningless marriage. I wish to try, to make this the best we can, despite our circumstances,” you said softly, looking up at Tom and his gaze had softened in agreement. “I will stand by you, as a friend and confidant, and whatever children we have-they’ll be more than means to an end, they’ll be ours.”

Tom stared at you, as if waiting for you to say more but he realized that was the end of your ‘vows’ and cleared his throat. “I was expecting this day since I was a child, when my aunt told me I was betrothed to a daughter from one of my fathers followers. I grew up resenting someone I didn’t know, and when we finally met at school, I still did.” A memory flashed in your mind from nearly 17 years ago, when you met Tom and he gave you the meanest glare an 11-year-old could. Back then, you had no clue why but as you grew and understood the meaning of betrothal, you understood why he glared.

“I learned to get over my bitterness at you, it wasn’t your fault, so I saw you as you are, just someone forced into this marriage our parents arranged. I saw you in your dress and i…I realized this might not be so bad.” Tom squeezed your hand, his gaze lowered to your intertwined hands. “I’ve grown up with you, and while I haven’t known you as I should’ve, I will know you. ill stand by you, protect you from harm, protect whatever children we have from harm, and be your friend above else, even if we never grow past friendship.”

Tom said and you both tightened the knot on the rope, solidifying the marriage in your own way. You smiled, and Tom stepped close, raising his hand to caress your cheek, glancing at your lips-looking for permission. You nodded, and you both leaned in, joining in a softer kiss, a promise to make the most of it, no matter what happened.

-

You and Tom joined the reception, your hand around Tom’s arm as you walked down the staircase into the ballroom of Malfoy manor. Tom wore the same fancy dress robes from the ceremony while you’d changed into a black dress, it was flowy and wrapped around your torso like a twisting flower, the skirt bouncing softly with each flared step down the stairs.

Voldemort looked pleased, assuming you’d ‘consummated’ the marriage as that’s what the dress was supposed to represent, you losing your innocence and becoming apart of the dark lords plans. You squeezed your hand around Tom’s arm and he tightened his elbow, he couldn’t hold your hand right now, but he’d try to show that he was with you in what ways he could.

The reception started, it felt quiet for you and Tom, but for death eaters, it was a celebration; all drinking, laughing, eating-masks scattered about on tables, several too drunk and taking about you in such a way that made tension rise and Tom very much allowed to take his wand and cast a few curses; all under the guise of protecting ‘what was his’ against such fowl language.

Hours later, your feet hurt and the two of you were utterly exhausted, stepping into the floo of Malfoy manor and transported to the Selwyn vacation manor, it was dark, and freshly cleaned for the honeymoon-but neither of you cared. Tom cut off the floo connection as you kicked off your heels and let down your hair-taking off jewelry and leaving it on a random table near the living room.

You scratched your head with both hands, tiredly looking up the stairs that led to the bedrooms. You knew the master suite was decorated for your honeymoon night, but you didn’t want to face that right now, preferring to head straight to your childhood room that you’d spent every summer for every year of your life.

Tom followed you up the steps, his shoes in his right hand as his formal outer robes hung off his arm in his left, yawning as you took a right at the top of the stairs, finding the large double doors of the master bedroom. Indeed, the room had been decorated for a honeymoon night, including lube and fertility potions.

Tom made a face, his ears turning pink. You stepped in, finding your sleepwear already in the dresser and grabbing it, leaving the master bedroom. Tom watched, not exactly sure what was going on but he stepped into the master bedroom, finding his clothes and taking a shower, drying his hair as he walked through the manor, looking for where you’d gone off to. He found you in your room, already showered and changed, hair leaving trails of water down your face and neck.

He swallowed a bit, he’d already admitted it earlier in your…vows, but he did find you attractive, since 5th year actually; back then he berated himself for even thinking about you that way but now…you were his wife-he was supposed to be attracted to you.

“What now?” he asked, his voice quiet, a bit raspy. You looked at him, combing your fingers through your hair, shrugging a bit.

“I dunno, your father expects us to…start making heirs right away, but I’m exhausted,” you murmured and Tom couldn’t help but hum in agreement, making his way to your side, sitting next to you on the end of the bed.

“I’ve never had sex,” He admitted and you choked on your spit; now you knew why he just admitted that but damn if it didn’t throw you through a loop. “me neither,” you said after you finished choking. He laughed a bit, glad you were in the same boat, then you both went quiet-unsure how to go forward, unsure of what to do…at all.

“So,” he murmured, looking at you as you looked at him at the same time, hands pressed between your thighs. “what now?”

You let out a soft breath, looking at your bed, no romantic decorations, plain sheets you chose for it two years back, and fluffy pillows. “lets just…go to bed, we can think about the more personal stuff later,” you murmured, drying your hair with a spell and crawling onto the bed, Tom sat at the edge for a moment longer before nodding, standing to go find a room to sleep in but you grabbed his hand. “c’mon,” you murmured, tugging him towards your bed.

He hesitated, then crawled in beside you, sliding under the covers. It was awkward at first, the two of you laying stiffly in the thankfully large bed, you both had room to stretch out, but still close enough to feel body heat.

Exhaustion took you both before overwhelming awkwardness could and when morning came-you were tangled together, your back against Tom’s chest as he held you tight, face smooshed against your pillow, lips against your head, breathing softly.

It was comfortable, easy, good. You looked at the clock, still early. You turned over, wrapping an arm around Tom, falling back asleep as his grip tightened further around you.

-end of part 1-

this was suppooosed to be a oneshot but i got work tomorrow and really didnt wanna wait on this any longer, so there will be more to this! with smut included, hopefully.

@serenamultifandom

also @anawritez-posts cuz this was inspired by your Tom x reader death eater wedding 🥰

[elliesbabygirl]

PROLOGUE: SUBMARINE

SYNOPSIS: Midterms were crushing you—and so was she. Maybe she was the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time. Either way, none of it mattered when she was next to you.

WARNINGS: 18+, alcohol + drug use, cheating, swearing, mentions of tattoos + body mods (piercings), arguments, blood, partying, pining, sexual tension, eventual smut. slow burn with fluff and angst.

SUBMARINE; MASTERLIST

“Ellie, just stop!” you snapped, voice sharp and cracking at the edges.

Your chest heaved, your hand white-knuckled around the doorframe. You were done. Drained, past the point of biting your tongue and hoping she’d figure it out on her own.

Ellie froze.

She stood in the hallway, rain still clinging to her hoodie, a crumpled paper bag of peach rings in one hand, and a wilting bouquet of lilies in the other. They looked pitiful in her grip. She looked worse—hair a mess, eyes rimmed red, like she hadn’t slept in days.

Like regret had finally caught up to her.

But it was too late.

I can’t keep doing this,” you said, each word like a slap across her face. “You show up with candy and flowers like that’s going to fix the way you cheated on me. Like I’m some backup plan you can crawl back to when the guilt starts eating you alive.”

Ellie’s eyes flicked down to her busted-up Converse, soaked and scuffed from the rain. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again—trying to force out another apology, but nothing came.

The look in her eyes wasn’t just guilt, it was panic.

It was the realization that maybe this time, she had actually wrecked something for good.

The apartment door hung halfway open between you, like a wound that hadn’t decided whether to scab over or bleed out.

Maybe both.

“I waited for you,” you said, quieter now, colder.

“I waited like an idiot. I defended you to everyone. I told them you were just ‘figuring things out.’ But what kind of person comes back only when it’s convenient?”

The words hit her hard.

She swallowed it all, but her silence said enough—this wasn’t a misunderstanding.

This was who she was.

Who she is.

“I’m tired of being an afterthought, of being something you run to when everything else burns down.” You took a shaky breath, voice cracking on the last line.

“This? Showing up here with some half-assed peace offering? It’s just another reminder that I mean nothing to you, and I can’t keep breaking myself to believe otherwise.”

Ellie’s face twisted, raw and wrecked.

Like she wanted to scream.

Like she wanted to throw the flowers and the candy and herself off the damn balcony.

But all she did was stand there, blinking fast, shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself small enough to disappear.

She’d tattooed dozens of people with trembling hands, but nothing had ever left her this unsteady.

She had hurt you.

Not with fists, not with lies.

But with absence, silence.

With her carelessness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, finally.

But it was too soft, too late.

Too broken to be anything else but one more weight on your chest.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—that it had once all felt so easy.

cause, what if you hadn’t walked into her tattoo shop that night, back when midterms had fried your brain and the neon WALK-INS WELCOME sign in the window hadn’t felt like a cosmic invitation?

What if you hadn’t asked, awkwardly, if she was free—and what if she hadn’t looked up from her sketchbook with those tired green eyes and said, “Yeah, I got time”?

What if that night had ended there?

No late-night boba after your appointment.

No music passed between random texts.

No 2 a.m. rants about life, or the quiet way she’d trace the inside of your wrist when you laid next to her, like she was sketching a map only she could read.

What if you hadn’t fallen?

What if she hadn’t let you fall.

You could’ve been strangers.

You could’ve walked past her on campus, maybe noticed the sleeve of tattoos creeping down her arm, maybe even remembered her face—but that would’ve been it.

Just another passerby.

You’d never know how she kissed like she had something to prove, or how she pulled away when things got too real.

You’d never learn how she was all fire and retreat—how she lit you up just to leave you in the dark.

If you’d never met her, you wouldn’t be standing here now.

You wouldn’t feel like your ribs were caving in just from looking at her.

You wouldn’t be torn between missing her and hating how much you still did.

But you had met her.

And she had loved you—just not in the way you needed.

So now she just stood there, dripping rain and guilt, saying “sorry” like it could rewind time.

And all you could do was stare back and wonder how something that started with a simple walk-in ended like this—two lovers, on either side of the door, with no idea on how to close the distance.

author's note: hey....how y'all doing...! Welcome to SUBMARINE, Run Your Mouth's older sister😭 this series is from 2024, which I never ended up publishing since I didn't have the confidence to, back then. I've been revising this series for the past few weeks and I think it's tome to let you guys have it. Fair warning, that it's original ending was and WILL end in heartbreak, so no happy ending with ellie... sorry!

Do let me know...If you want to be featured in the taglist..considering I want to publish the first chapter tonight....hopefully😭