#light of truth tee

[badcolonyclothing]

[elytrafemme]

every single fictional character i like should split and have mood swings like me. "ohhhhh but it's not canotical" "ohh they have good control over their emotions and stable views on the world" i don't fucking care. i see cq in his fake desert i see klavier's control dialogue i see dahlia and her serial murders and komaeda and the gun literally fuck with me right now. we need to stop being cowards about our fictional character headcanons i think everyone should kill people always because i can't

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

LINGER

rafe cameron x fem!reader

SUMMARY: a sweet, introverted bartender and obx’s very own troubled golden boy share an unspoken connection—until jealousy, misunderstandings, and unspoken feelings finally push them to confront the truth.

based on this ask !! i hope you enjoy anon, and i hope it’s what you asked for :)

WARNINGS: brief angst, cursing, alcohol consumption, topper being annoying, jealous!rafe, jj being flirty with reader😝, “love” confessions, rafe not feeling good enough, mutual pining, but a cute fluffy end !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 3.8k (i got REALLY carried away !!)

THIRD PERSON +

The hum of conversation filled the bar on Figure 8, mingling with the low beats of a classic rock playlist. It was a quieter night than usual, with only a handful of regulars clustered at tables and the occasional newcomer drifting in. Y/N stood behind the bar, wiping down the polished surface even though it hardly needed cleaning. She wasn't one to sit idle, and, truth be told, she was grateful for something to do.

The nights when Rafe Cameron came in made it nearly impossible for her to relax.

He was seated at the far end of the bar now, nursing a drink he didn't seem all that interested in. His sharp jawline caught the low light, the curve of his lips tugged into what might have been a smirk—or perhaps he was just lost in thought. Either way, Y/N found it difficult not to glance at him every few minutes, only to whip her gaze away whenever his blue eyes threatened to meet hers.

She knew his routine well by now. Rafe always came in alone, usually later in the evening when the crowd had thinned out. He was polite—surprisingly so—but there was something about him that felt dangerous, like a storm rolling in just beyond the horizon. The other bartenders whispered about him when he wasn't around, but Y/N didn't pay much attention to the gossip. She only knew what she saw: a man who lingered a little too long, who seemed to light up when she stumbled through small talk, who always tipped well even though she was sure she got his drink orders wrong half the time.

Tonight, as she fiddled nervously with the sleeves of her long sleeve tee, she could feel his eyes on her. She braced herself, stealing one more calming breath before walking toward his side of the bar.

"Need a refill, Rafe?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the music.

Rafe looked up, his expression softening the moment he saw her. "Yeah," he said, pushing his glass forward. "Same thing as before, please."

Y/N nodded quickly and reached for the bottle of bourbon, her hands trembling slightly as she poured. She could feel his gaze burning into her, the weight of his attention making her heart pound in her chest.

"Long night?" he asked suddenly, his voice smooth but laced with something almost boyish.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, nearly sloshing the liquor over the rim of his glass. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sort of."

"You're always working so hard," he remarked, leaning forward just a fraction. "Not sure I've ever seen you take a break."

Her cheeks burned as she scrambled to wipe up a stray droplet of bourbon with the edge of her towel. "It's not so bad," she said quickly. "I don't mind staying busy."

"You're good at it," he said, and there was an odd sincerity in his voice that made her stomach twist. "The bartending, I mean. You've got this... thing. Like, you make people feel comfortable."

Y/N froze for a moment, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren't something she received often, and especially not from someone like Rafe Cameron. She fumbled with the garnish tray, pulling out a cherry and dropping it into his glass with shaking fingers.

"Thanks," she murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He smiled then—a real, crooked smile that softened the edges of his typically hard demeanor. "I mean it," he said, taking the drink from her. His fingers brushed hers, just barely, but the contact sent a shiver down her spine. "You're easy to talk to, even when you're... y'know, kind of shy."

She blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or apologise. Instead, she ducked her head, the warm feeling in her cheeks creeping up to her ears. "I, uh... I'm not great at talking. Sorry."

"Don't be," he said, his voice low and warm. "It's cute."

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a second, she was sure she'd imagined the way he looked at her—like she was something worth noticing. But before she could respond, the sound of someone calling her name from the other end of the bar jolted her back to reality. She muttered a quick excuse and darted away, her heart racing as she busied herself with another customer.

Rafe watched her go, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He hated how his chest tightened whenever she was near, how he felt like a nervous wreck every time she so much as glanced in his direction. She was sweet, kind-hearted, and far too good for someone like him.

And yet, he couldn't stop himself from lingering.

An hour later, the bar had grown busier, and Y/N found herself working harder to avoid Rafe's gaze. She didn't notice the arrival of Topper Thornton until his voice boomed across the room, drawing Rafe's attention.

Rafe liked watching her. She was different from anyone else he knew—a little clumsy, a little shy, but always kind. Too kind, he thought, for someone like him. She didn't belong to the same cutthroat world of backstabbing and manipulation that he did. She was sunshine, soft and untouchable, and every time he caught himself staring too long, he felt like a thief.

He didn't deserve her.

"Yo, Rafe!" Topper's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and grating. Rafe turned to see his best friend approaching with a blonde girl in tow. She was pretty in a polished, effortless way—designer dress, manicured nails, a confident smile that screamed old money.

"This is Whitney," Topper announced, nudging Rafe's shoulder. "Told her you've been a free agent too long."

Rafe forced a tight smile, shaking Whitney's hand. She was pretty, sure. She had that typical Kook look, all high cheekbones and cold elegance. But she didn't spark anything in him. Not like Y/N did.

"Hi," Whitney said, her voice lilting with practiced charm.

"Hey," Rafe replied, stealing a glance back at the bar.

Y/N had seen it all—the introduction, the way Whitney tilted her head flirtatiously, the way Topper patted Rafe on the back like he'd just scored a win. Her heart sank, and she turned her attention to cleaning the counter with exaggerated focus, hoping to block out the scene playing out before her.

It was stupid to feel this way. She and Rafe weren't anything, not really. He was just a customer, and she was the awkward bartender who could barely string a sentence together around him. But seeing him with someone else, someone who seemed to fit so effortlessly into his world, made her chest tighten painfully.

When Rafe returned to the bar for another drink, Y/N kept her head down. Her usual nervous warmth was replaced by a cold efficiency as she mixed his order.

"Here," she said curtly, sliding the glass across the counter without looking up.

Rafe frowned. "You okay?"

"Fine."

He hesitated, searching her face for something—anything—that would explain the sudden change in her demeanor. But she didn't give him the chance to linger this time, quickly turning away to serve another customer.

Rafe's stomach twisted. She was shutting him out, and he didn't know why. Was it Whitney? Did she think he liked her? He didn't, not in the way he liked Y/N. But how could he explain that without sounding like an idiot? What was he even thinking? They weren't even together.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of frustration and longing. Whitney clung to Rafe's arm, laughing at his half-hearted jokes and batting her lashes at him, but he barely noticed. His focus was on Y/N—on the way she avoided his gaze, the stiffness in her shoulders, the forced politeness in her voice whenever he ordered another drink.

She hated him now. He was sure of it.

"Rafe, are you even listening?" Whitney's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Yeah," he lied, forcing a tight smile.

But he wasn't. His mind was with Y/N, replaying every moment of the night, searching for the moment he'd ruined everything.

—

The crisp night air nipped at Y/N's skin as she stepped out of the bar, her breath curling in wispy clouds before vanishing into the dark. The quiet of the island after hours was always a comfort, the distant crash of waves on the shore a reminder of home. But tonight, no amount of serene surroundings could quiet the ache twisting in her chest.

She tightened her coat around her as she walked to her car, her mind replaying the evening in an endless loop. It wasn't the first time she'd seen Rafe Cameron in the bar. She'd grown used to his presence, even come to anticipate it with a nervous sort of excitement. But tonight was different. Tonight, he hadn't been alone.

Y/N hated the way her stomach had dropped at the sight of the blonde girl—Whitney, as she'd overheard Topper call her—clinging to Rafe's arm, her perfectly manicured nails resting on his bicep like she had every right to be there. The girl was beautiful, confident, and poised in a way Y/N knew she could never be. She was everything a Kook girl was supposed to be, and everything Y/N wasn't.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she drove home, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the pavement doing little to soothe her. She felt ridiculous, stupid even, for letting herself feel this way. Rafe wasn't hers, and he never would be. He was just a guy who came into the bar, a customer she barely knew beyond the surface. But that wasn't entirely true, was it?

The way he lingered at the bar, the way he seemed to soften when he talked to her, the way he looked at her like she was someone worth noticing—it had all felt so real. She couldn't help but replay every stolen glance, every hesitant smile, every compliment he'd offered in his quiet, almost bashful way.

But now, all of that felt like a cruel joke. Maybe she'd imagined it, read too much into his kindness because she wanted to believe it was something more. Maybe he'd been looking at her out of boredom, not interest. Maybe he had never thought about her at all.

Her throat tightened, and she blinked hard against the sting of tears. She hated how vulnerable she felt, how easily her emotions betrayed her. She had always prided herself on being independent, on not needing anyone's validation. But Rafe Cameron had slipped past her defenses, and now she was paying the price for letting him linger in her thoughts and feelings.

By the time she reached her small, cozy house, the weight in her chest had settled into a dull ache. She dropped her keys on the counter and sank onto the couch, her thoughts still swirling like a storm. Her parents had always supported her decision to work, even though she could have easily coasted on their wealth like so many other Kooks. She liked earning her own way, proving to herself and the world that she was more than just another privileged kid on Figure 8.

But tonight, she felt small and insignificant, like the world was reminding her that she didn't belong in Rafe Cameron's orbit. He was a hurricane, magnetic and destructive, and she was just a quiet breeze, unnoticed and easily forgotten.

And yet, she couldn't stop thinking about him.

—

The door to Rafe's house closed with a heavy thud, and he let out a long, exhausted sigh as he leaned against it. The evening had been a disaster, but it wasn't because of Whitney. In fact, he could hardly remember a single thing she'd said. His mind had been elsewhere all night, fixated on the one thing he couldn't stop thinking about: Y/N.

He pushed off the door and made his way to the kitchen, the silence of the house pressing in around him. His family was used to him coming and going at odd hours, and tonight he was grateful for the solitude. Pouring himself a glass of water, he leaned against the counter, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

Y/N had been different tonight, and it had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. She'd barely looked at him, her usual shy, awkward charm replaced by a cold formality that felt like a punch to the gut. He replayed the moment over and over, searching for the exact second he must have done something to upset her.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realised it wasn't just her behavior that had unsettled him—it was how much it had affected him.

He liked her. He really, truly liked her. It was a quiet, consuming sort of affection that had taken him by surprise. At first, it had been easy to dismiss—the way his chest tightened when she smiled, the way his heart raced whenever their fingers brushed. But now, after months of stolen moments and lingering glances, he couldn't deny it anymore.

He thought about the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the way her voice softened when she spoke to him, the way her cheeks flushed whenever he managed to fluster her. She was kind in a way that felt rare, genuine in a way that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't beyond redemption.

But tonight, all of that had felt out of reach.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Whitney had been a mistake—a distraction Topper had pushed on him that he never should have agreed to. She'd been all wrong from the start, her shallow questions and empty compliments grating on his nerves. She didn't care about him; she cared about the idea of him, the money and status he represented.

But Y/N... Y/N had never treated him like that. She didn't care about his family name or his bank account. She didn't try to impress him or play games. She was just herself, awkward and sweet and so genuine it made his chest ache.

And now, he might have ruined everything.

The thought made his stomach churn. He didn't know how to fix it, didn't even know where to start. All he knew was that he couldn't bear the thought of her looking at him the way she had tonight—like he was a stranger, someone unworthy of her time.

Rafe set the empty glass down on the counter and scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn't used to feeling this way, vulnerable and uncertain. But Y/N had a way of unraveling him, of making him question everything he thought he knew about himself.

He didn't deserve her, not really. But he couldn't stop himself from wanting her anyway.

As he climbed the stairs to his room, his thoughts were filled with her—her shy smiles, her quiet laughter, the way she made him feel like maybe he could be something more than the mess he'd become. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew one thing for sure: Y/N had changed him, and there was no going back.

—

Four days. Four endless, suffocating days.

Rafe Cameron had returned to the bar every single night since that dreadful evening, but each time, there was no sign of Y/N. It didn't sit right with him. The place didn't feel the same without her. She wasn't just another bartender—she was the lifeblood of the space, her sweet, slightly awkward energy drawing customers like moths to a flame.

But now, the warmth was gone. Without her behind the counter, it was just another dimly lit establishment, all noise and no soul.

By the fourth night, his restlessness was unbearable. He stepped into the bar, his sharp eyes immediately scanning the room. This time, she was there. Relief flooded him so quickly it was almost dizzying.

And then he saw who she was talking to.

Y/N was behind the bar, giggling softly as she leaned in closer to none other than JJ Maybank. Her hair slipped forward as she laughed, and she quickly brushed it out of her face, a move Rafe had seen her do countless times. It always left him breathless.

But this time, the sight filled him with a searing, unfamiliar rage.

What the hell was Maybank doing here? This was Kook territory, not The Cut. And worse, what was he doing talking to Y/N like that? The way JJ was leaning against the bar, all easy charm and flirtation, made Rafe's blood boil. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached as he watched JJ flash her one of his trademark smirks.

Rafe's fists tightened at his sides as he stalked over.

The second Y/N noticed him, her expression changed. The soft laughter disappeared, replaced by something guarded and uncertain. The shift stung more than he wanted to admit, but he wasn't here to dwell on it. His eyes flicked to JJ, narrowing with disdain.

"Well, if it isn't JJ Maybank," Rafe drawled, his voice dripping with contempt. "Didn't think you'd ever cross the bridge willingly."

JJ turned, unfazed, and smirked. "What can I say? The service here's worth it." He shot Y/N a wink, which only made Rafe's temper flare.

"Sure it is," Rafe muttered darkly, his gaze never leaving JJ. The air between them crackled with tension, but eventually, JJ shrugged and pushed off the bar.

"I'll catch you later, Y/N," JJ said casually before heading toward the group of Pogues gathered in the corner.

Rafe watched him go, his shoulders rigid with suppressed anger. When he finally turned back to Y/N, her expression was unreadable.

"Something I can get you, Cameron?" she asked coolly, her usual warmth noticeably absent.

Rafe hesitated for a moment before leaning on the bar. "Whiskey, neat—Please."

As she poured his drink, he couldn't stop himself from blurting out, "What was he even doing here?"

Y/N glanced up briefly, her expression neutral. "JJ's been here before. He's not exactly banned from Kookland, you know."

Rafe scoffed but didn't press the matter further. The silence between them was suffocating, and it took everything in him to break it.

"How's it been?" he asked, his voice softer now. "I uh, haven't seen ya' around."

She gave him a quick, noncommittal shrug. "Been busy."

The coldness in her tone stung, but Rafe couldn't let it go. He needed to understand what had changed.

"Look," he began, his voice low, "I feel like maybe I upset you the other night. Was it... Was it the girl?"

Y/N froze for a split second before resuming her task, but Rafe didn't miss the way her jaw tightened.

"How was your date, by the way?" she asked, her tone deceptively light.

"It wasn't a date," Rafe said quickly, his words tumbling over each other.

Y/N let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head as she turned to face him. "Rafe, come on. It very clearly was. She was practically glued to your side."

"It wasn't," he insisted, his voice firm. "Topper set it up. I didn't even want to go, and I haven't spoken to her since." He hesitated, his blue eyes meeting hers. "She's not really my type."

Something in his tone gave Y/N pause, but she was too hurt to let it show. "Right," she said flatly.

Before she could say more, Rafe's next question caught her off guard. "Are you seeing JJ?"

Her brows furrowed as she stared at him. "What?"

"Are you seeing him?" he repeated, his voice tense.

"No," she said slowly, setting her hands on the counter. "But he did ask me on a date."

The words hit Rafe like a punch to the gut, and before he could think better of it, he blurted out, "Don't go."

Y/N's eyes widened, and she crossed her arms. "Why not?"

Rafe faltered, the confidence he'd managed to muster evaporating under her sharp gaze. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.

"Exactly," she said bitterly, turning away to busy herself with a drink. "That's what I thought."

"Wait," Rafe said suddenly, his voice rough with desperation. "It's not— I..." He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. "I like you, okay?"

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw.

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Rafe looked down, unable to meet her gaze. "I've been nervous to tell you because... because you're too good for me. You're sweet and kind, and I'm—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I'm not. I've got a lot of darkness, Y/N. I don't want to drag you into it or hurt you."

His voice cracked slightly, and he finally looked up, his blue eyes filled with vulnerability. "I don't want to break you."

For a moment, Y/N didn't say anything, the weight of his confession sinking in. Then, slowly, she stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. "You're not going to break me, Rafe."

His brows furrowed as he searched her face for any sign of hesitation, but all he found was quiet resolve.

"I can see the heart in you," she continued, her gaze steady. "You're different when you're around me, and I know it's real. You don't have to be scared of that."

Rafe's shoulders sagged slightly, relief washing over him like a wave.

"And for the record," she added with a small smile, "I'm not interested in JJ. He's been trying to win me over for a while now, but... it was never going to happen."

Rafe let out a shaky breath, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Good," he muttered, his voice low.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her confidence returning. "Do you have something to ask me, Rafe Cameron?" she teased, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

Rafe blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before shaking his head with a quiet laugh. He met her gaze, his expression softening. "Will you go out with me?"

Y/N's smile widened as she nodded. "Yeah. I will."

The tension between them melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding that felt both new and inevitable. For the first time in days, Rafe felt like he could breathe again, and Y/N couldn't stop the warmth blooming in her chest.

As the bar buzzed around them, they stood in their own little world, the first fragile threads of something real beginning to weave between them.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

i hope you enjoyed this anon !! i had sm fun writing this and thought it was a super sweet plot/concept so thank you for trusting me with it <3

still working my way through requests whilst also working on my little drew starkey mini series (sports car) so please be patient w me my loves :) but also still request any ideas you have ofc !!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which people assume what they don’t know

The sun clung to the edges of the day, dripping gold down the walls of the Malibu rental like it was trying to stay just a little longer. The pool glistened, untouched for now, calm and glassy. Paige had already posted the photo by the time you emerged from the kitchen with a coconut clutched in one hand, its pink straw slightly tilted, a wedge of lime sliding slowly toward the rim. You hadn’t known she’d taken it—not really. She’d been sprawled out on the lounger in her oversized Wings tee and basketball shorts, halfway between sunbathing and napping. But apparently, sometime in the last hour, she’d raised her phone just high enough to snap a picture with you in the background, just enough distance between you and the camera to look untouchable.

You were leaning against the pool ledge in that shot, sunglasses on, mouth parted, face tilted toward the light. Hair slightly damp. Black bikini top tied at the shoulders. There was nothing overt about it. No posing, no filter, no carefully arched spine or coy glance over the shoulder. You were just… there. Radiant in a way that didn’t ask for attention but collected it anyway.

Paige posted it like it was nothing. Just another off-day in California. Just her and her girlfriend doing what they always did between travel and games and press, soaking in a moment, clinging to ordinary. It wasn’t ordinary to them.

The comments came fast, and then they came cruel.

“She def got an OF link in bio ” “LMAO who’s the pornstar Paige is dating?” “No hate but she kinda looks like she sells fit teas and takes thirst traps for rent.” “Tell her to turn around next time.” “I’ve definitely seen her before… ” “She’s TOO hot to be just a random. Link please??”

You hadn’t even noticed until later that night. Paige had fallen asleep early, curled into your side, the soft ache of an afternoon swim having tugged her eyelids closed while you were reading. Her breathing was slow. Her hand, always searching for contact even in sleep, had found the hem of your shirt and slipped beneath it. A grounding kind of possessiveness.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A third time. A string of notifications from apps you never really used. Mentions. DMs. Tagged stories. Twitter threads. Reddit screenshots. Someone had slowed down your laugh in a video from Paige’s story and compared it to a clip from a cam site. You weren’t on the site. But the internet didn’t seem to care. They weren’t really looking for truth. They were looking for confirmation of their assumptions.

You scrolled in silence for a long time. Paige stirred once, shifted, buried her face in your neck. She didn’t wake up.

You could’ve posted something right then. A denial. A correction. A humble brag, even. You could’ve flexed your Ivy League diploma, dropped your patents, posted that photo with the Vice President from the clean energy summit last spring. But what would’ve been the point? The people guessing didn’t care if it was true. They didn’t want your story. They wanted a fantasy they could poke holes in.

And some part of you—a small, sharp part that you’d buried under silk and discipline—liked that they didn’t know. Liked that they couldn’t imagine you as anything other than beautiful and blank. Let them misunderstand you. Let them spin circles around a silhouette they’d never catch up to. You’d always lived behind the curtain anyway. It was better this way. Quieter.

You turned your phone over and slid it off the bed.

Across your chest, Paige exhaled and whispered something unintelligible in her sleep. Her body folded into yours like a promise.

You’d tell her in the morning. Or maybe not. Maybe you’d wait until it got worse. You knew it would. Everything did once the world decided it wanted to know you.

It hadn’t always been this way. There was a time when people saw you for who you were. Or at least tried to.

You met Paige two years ago, and she hadn’t recognized you.

It was a Nike-sponsored thing in New York. Athletes, influencers, vague celebrities all crammed into a downtown loft with too much light and not enough air. You’d almost backed out. You were in town for a conference and had been dragged there by a friend who swore the food would be worth it. It wasn’t.

Paige was in a corner by the exposed brick wall, picking at a piece of flatbread and looking vaguely traumatized by the DJ’s remix of an already overplayed song. You hadn’t watched much college basketball. You were barely on social media. You just saw a girl who looked like she needed a rescue.

You handed her a glass of sparkling water, mostly because it gave you something to do with your hands. She blinked at you, surprised. “Thanks,” she said. Her voice was lower than you expected. Steady.

You nodded and almost left. But then she tilted her head, gave you that soft, unreadable look she does—the one like she’s trying to memorize something without letting anyone else know—and said, “Are you famous?”

You’d laughed. “No. Just rich.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she grinned. “Fair.”

It was the first time in three years someone had asked without already knowing. 

And maybe that’s why you stayed.

Maybe that’s why, even now, with your name face and your body dissected by people who’d never spell your last name right, you still hadn’t said a word. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

Waiting to see if Paige would stand still in the storm.

Or if she’d hold your hand through it.

It didn’t take long for the narrative to spiral. By the end of the week, there were entire TikTok accounts dedicated to you—slideshows of blurry screenshots, slowed-down clips from Wings games where someone thought they spotted you in the background, Discord servers full of internet detectives trying to piece together your identity. They mapped the stitching on your handbag. Claimed to trace your earrings to a custom jeweler in Paris. One video, with over three million views, confidently declared, “This girl is either the daughter of a Saudi billionaire or has an OnlyFans that pulls six figures a month.”

There was something both absurd and tragic about it. They needed you to fit into a box. And when they couldn’t, they just made one up.

You’d never been a mystery in your own life. Your name—on paper—was public record. Your companies were incorporated. Your board seats were listed. But you didn’t give interviews. You never posed for features. The only time your face had made the news was in a blurred corner of a shareholder event, and even then, they’d cropped you out. You’d built your world on silence and clean lines. And now, the messiness of fame was seeping in through cracks you didn’t even know you’d left open.

Paige didn’t say much. At first, she joked about it—sent you TikToks with increasingly deranged theories and typed out her laughter in all caps with too many crying emojis. “You’re trending,” she texted once during practice, attaching a screenshot of someone calling you “a glorified sugar baby.” You responded with a meme. It was easier that way.

But beneath the jokes, there was a tightness around her eyes. You caught it when she thought you weren’t looking. You heard it in the edge of her voice when she read the word “gold digger” out loud in an article that speculated whether you were funding your lifestyle through her rookie contract.

The internet didn’t care that you lived in the penthouse. They didn’t care that the Cartier watch on your wrist had been a graduation gift from a board you chaired. They just saw her—soft spoken, loved, powerful—and you, sharp and stunning in a way that felt too curated to be accidental.

Too good to be normal. Too good to be real.

The team found it hilarious.

In the Wings locker room, Arike passed around a meme of you with the caption, “This Paige’s girlfriend. She could be at brunch. But she stealing yo fans instead.” DiJonai snorted so hard she almost choked on a protein bar. Azzi, visiting from Connecticut, just said, “Honestly? It tracks.”

Paige laughed too, but not all the way. She glanced at her phone, at the muted home screen photo of the two of you standing barefoot in your kitchen, tangled in flour and sunlight, and said, “They really don’t get her at all.”

None of them did. Not really. They knew you as “that girl Paige is always texting.” A couple of them had met you once or twice. But they didn’t know how still you got in the mornings, how you drank your coffee half cold because you got distracted reading policy reports. They didn’t know about your lists—handwritten, always—where you tracked every dollar donated to rural solar initiatives. They didn’t know about the callouses on your hands from old tools you refused to stop using, or the way you cried silently when a start up you mentored went under.

They didn’t know you the way Paige did.

And Paige didn’t need you to prove anything. Not to them. Not to the internet.

But still, one night, after a game, after another flood of tweets dissecting the slope of your back in a paparazzi shot, she sat across from you on the couch and said, “You know you don’t have to let them say that shit.”

You looked up from your laptop. “It’s just noise.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Until it’s not.”

Her eyes were tired. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She looked like she wanted to fight someone. It made your chest ache.

You closed the screen. “I don’t want to feed it.”

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice low. “Babe… I can take it. I’m used to it. But you? This isn’t your world.”

You reached for her hand. “It’s not about what I can take. It’s about what I want to give.” You paused. “I didn’t get here by explaining myself to people who doubted me. I won’t start now.”

Her grip tightened. She nodded. But the worry didn’t leave her face.

You could feel the shift coming, though. It was in the air, in the way people started poking around your past with more urgency. They were looking for the gotcha moment. The damning evidence. The link that didn’t exist. But all they found were more questions. Why weren’t you tagged in anything? Why was your name redacted in a legal filing about corporate IP? Why did no one in Paige’s circle ever post about you?

You’d built your life like a fortress.

And they hated you for it.

Because you were beautiful. Because you were private. Because you were Paige Bueckers’ girlfriend and still somehow out of reach.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t play the game—they started turning.

From curiosity to contempt. From fantasy to fury. You could feel it building. The silence before a storm. The moment before the curtain falls. It wasn’t fear that held you back from speaking. It was restraint. You weren’t hiding. You were waiting.

It started with a phone call you didn’t take.

Your assistant left three voicemails before 8:00 a.m. She knew you didn’t do mornings—your mind didn’t settle into full clarity until after a shower and a single espresso in the glass mug Paige had accidentally chipped last fall and that you still refused to replace. The fourth time your phone buzzed, Paige groaned against your shoulder and reached blindly across the comforter.

“Do you want me to throw it out the window,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

You cracked one eye open. “Is that… my phone or yours?”

“Most likely your assistant.”

You chuckled and pulled her closer, breath catching in the familiar groove between her neck and shoulder. “Just five more minutes.”

Paige huffed but didn't argue. She liked mornings like this—slow, folded into you, safe.

She liked pretending the world outside your penthouse didn’t exist.

It did.

It existed in screaming headlines. In news channels across climate startups and clean tech newsletters and the inboxes of business analysts who woke to the same notification… Forbes has dropped its latest cover story.

The image hit the internet at 8:15 a.m. EST.

“Meet the Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy. How Y/N Built a Global Empire by 23.”

It didn’t feel real at first.

The cover photo had been taken two months earlier, in the garden of a rewilded property you helped convert in Santa Barbara. You were seated in a low white chair, legs crossed, wearing a structured navy suit and no jewelry. No expression, either—just a small, knowing half-smile. Like you were letting the world peek into something it wouldn’t fully understand.

Your phone rang again.

This time, Paige grabbed it. Still bleary-eyed, she flipped it over, squinting at the name. “It’s Cassie. Again.”

You groaned and sat up, rubbing your face. “Tell her I’m not dead.”

“She says you’re trending.”

You paused. “From the bikini photo?”

“No,” she said, her tone shifting.

When she turned the screen toward you, everything inside you stilled.

It was you.

Front and center. In serif font, bold and breathless. The Youngest Female Billionaire in Renewable Energy.

Paige’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t tell me it was this big.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“A thing?” she repeated, staring at the article. “This is everything. This is… you’re a billionaire! This is empire shit.”

You didn’t speak. The air felt too heavy. She scrolled down, scanning.

“They’re saying you developed some framework that’s being adopted in six countries.” Her voice lifted. “That you hold thirteen patents. That you were on the White House task force for clean grid expansion.” She looked up. “You’ve been to the White House?”

You gave a weak shrug. “Not since the oompa loompa moved in.”

Paige didn’t laugh. Not yet. She blinked down at the screen like it might vanish. “You’re a genius.”

You reached for her hand. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel small next to it.”

She jerked her gaze toward you, wounded. “You think I’d feel small? Babe. You could build a fucking satellite and I’d still be the proudest person in the room.” You swallowed hard. She looked down again, quiet for a beat. “You didn’t hide this because of me. You hid it for me, didn’t you?”

You nodded.

“I didn’t want them to twist it. I didn’t want to make you the ‘arm candy’ of someone they didn’t understand.”

Paige exhaled. “Too late.”

A notification buzzed at the top of the screen. @/PaigeBueckers has been tagged in 4,137 new tweets.

She unlocked her phone and opened Twitter. She stared for a few seconds. Then, slowly, she typed.

Y’all thought.

She attached the Forbes cover. Hit send. And the internet erupted. It was seismic. Humbling. Violent in its speed.

People who had once speculated that you “sold feet pics for rent” were now frantically deleting tweets. Threads unspooled where former critics tried to backpedal. Comments flooded in beneath Paige’s post.

“I called a literal billionaire a clout-chaser. I need to lie down.” “She was quiet because she didn’t need the spotlight. I’m sick.” “We bullied the love of Paige Bueckers’ life for being beautiful and mysterious. And she was running global infrastructure reform.” “Imagine having THAT face, THAT body, and ALSO solving the energy crisis???”

It didn’t stop there.

Old clips surfaced—grainy videos from years ago, now reframed through a new lens. A low-quality YouTube video from a 2021 TEDx talk in Cambridge. A photograph of you shaking hands with a prime minister. A blurry shot of you walking behind the Secretary of Energy. Suddenly, all the pieces snapped into place. You weren’t hiding. You were just busy. Quiet. Precise. Impossible to pin down because you’d always been moving.

The article confirmed everything.

You had founded tech company at 19. Closed a $70 million deal before turning 21. Your algorithm was already being implemented in low income neighborhoods across the nation. You’d been offered a buyout for $300 million and declined. You lived modestly for someone of your wealth, the article said. You were photographed in vintage boots and off the rack cashmere. You drove a ten year old electric car. You once donated an entire bonus to funding indigenous land repatriation.

And yet—you were the same girl who slept with one leg flung over Paige’s hip. Who burnt toast more often than not. Who still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet.

You were you. The world was just catching up.

The day you finally spoke, it wasn’t planned.

You hadn’t scheduled an interview. You hadn’t approved a press release. You hadn’t dressed for it, or set your lighting, or even thought about what to say. The camera on your laptop was still tilted slightly upward from a late-night strategy call the night before. You didn’t fix it.

You made a TikTok account, stared at your own reflection for five long seconds, and hit “Go Live.” You didn’t announce it. And yet, the view count ticked into the thousands in seconds.

At first, you said nothing.

Just sat there, hoodie pulled over your head, hair messy, eyes dark with exhaustion. You looked nothing like the girl from the Forbes cover. No makeup, no smirk, no steel in your spine.

Just you. A deep breath. Then, slowly, you spoke.

“Hi.”

Another pause.

“I didn’t plan to say anything. I thought the article would be enough. But maybe it wasn’t.”

You blinked down, mouth tightening. “I know what people said about me. I read it. I read all of it, even when I said I didn’t. And I get it. I do.”

You looked up, gaze steady.

“I don’t look how you expect a billionaire to look. Or a founder. Or a policy advisor. I look like someone who posts thirst traps and takes private jets to brunch. I look like the girl you only date for the photos. I get that.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it got quieter.

“And I know why people said what they said about Paige. About us. Because for most of my life, I’ve been taught that I have to earn the right to be loved. That my worth had to be written in numbers, in accolades. And Paige…”

You exhaled slowly, lips trembling just for a second.

“She never asked for any of it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“She didn’t fall in love with my résumé. She didn’t care about the articles, the patents, the board seats. She just… loved that I loved her. That I didn’t flinch when she was quiet. That I was the same with her whether we were in a stadium or on the couch.”

A long silence.

“I didn’t post her. Not because I was hiding her. Because I was protecting her. I’ve watched what fame does to people. To love. People twist it. Makes it transactional. And I didn’t want that for us.”

Your mouth twitched into something like a smile.

“I didn’t correct the rumors because—truthfully—I didn’t care what strangers thought of me. I built my life in rooms you don’t get into by chasing validation. I let people misunderstand me for a living.”

You leaned closer, voice almost a whisper now.

“But Paige? She saw me. Before all this. Before the noise. And she’s the first person who didn’t need a spreadsheet to believe I was worth something.”

Your eyes glassed over.

“So if you think I’m just hot, or just lucky, or just riding someone else’s fame—fine. But don’t call her naïve for loving me. Don’t make her defend something that’s never needed proof.”

You sat there for a moment longer.

Still. Bare.

“I owed her my silence. But I owe myself this voice.”

And with that, you ended the live.

You closed your laptop. You sat on the floor, curled knees to chest, breathing like something inside you had cracked open. Not broken—just unlatched. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t let yourself be in years.

You didn’t hear the front door open. Didn’t hear Paige set down her keys. What you did feel—almost immediately—was the weight of her presence, the shift in air as she stepped into the room and dropped to her knees in front of you.

“I saw it,” she said, voice thick. “All of it.”

You didn’t look at her right away. Couldn’t. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she cut in. Her hand found yours, held it tightly. “You told the truth.”

You nodded. Swallowed. “I didn’t want you to have to carry any of it.”

She smiled then. Shaky, but real.

“I’d carry all of it. Twice over. For you.”

You let out a breath that felt like it’d been stuck in your lungs for months. Then, finally, you met her eyes.

“I love you,” you said. Not like a confession. Like a fact.

She nodded, eyes glossy.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

And then she kissed you—not for the camera, not for a crowd, not for the world that had spent so long trying to define you.

Just for you. For the girl who brought her water when she didn’t ask. For the girl who built the world in silence. For the girl who chose love over legacy—and found both anyway.

The night of the gala, the air smelled like fresh roses and new money.

You weren’t supposed to go. Not really. The invite had come weeks ago—courtesy of a foundation you’d quietly helped fund—and you’d tucked it under a book on your nightstand, meaning to decline. You didn’t do galas. You didn’t do red carpets. You didn’t wear name tags or step into press walls where your face would be frozen in someone else’s narrative.

But Paige found the envelope. She lifted it up one evening while folding laundry and asked, “Are we going to this?”

You blinked. “You want to?”

“I want to stand next to you,” she said simply.

So you let her pick your outfit.

The gown was black. Simple but devastating. Silk. Clean lines. No jewelry but a thin silver ring Paige had slipped onto your finger one morning while you were brushing your teeth. You’d looked up in the mirror and caught her watching you. “Don’t make it a thing,” she said then. “It’s not that kind of ring.”

But you both knew it was.

She wore a tailored navy tux. No tie. Her curls were loose, her eyes steady, her smile a quiet weapon. She held your hand the moment you stepped out of the car. Not for show. Not for cameras. Just because she could.

Flashbulbs didn’t change the way her fingers laced with yours.

Inside, the gala shimmered with polished names and strategic conversations. CEOs made the rounds. Senators smiled too wide. Champagne sparkled in flutes held by people who didn’t care about clean energy unless there was a tax incentive.

You didn’t smile much. You didn’t need to.

Paige did enough of it for both of you.

She kept you anchored, tethered to something real while everyone else spun around each other like planets in search of gravity.

You weren’t nervous about your speech.

But when the foundation director introduced you, you caught Paige’s eye from across the ballroom—and the rest of the room blurred.

You didn’t talk about the Forbes list. Or the money. Or the attention. You talked about power grids in rural communities. About the cost of energy poverty. About the little girl in Nebraska who wrote you a letter last year thanking you for the solar heater your company installed in her school.

You talked about infrastructure.

But you meant love.

And when your voice cracked at the end, it wasn’t nerves. It was her.

Later, when the room had thinned and the cameras had stopped clicking, Paige pressed her forehead to yours under a string of overhead lights and said, “I’ve never been so proud of someone in my life.”

You blinked against her shoulder. “I just want to go home.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

In the car, she reached for your hand again. Turned it over. Studied the line of your palm like she was still learning it, still memorizing something she never wanted to forget.

“You think they’ll leave you alone now?” she asked.

You leaned your head against the window. “I don’t care.”

She nodded. “Good.” Another beat. Then she added, “You know, you kind of do look like someone with an OnlyFans.”

You turned to glare at her. “Are you serious.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “The people weren’t wrong, babe. Just... misinformed.”

You shoved her shoulder. “I should’ve let them keep thinking I was a trust fund bimbo.”

She shrugged. “Nah. Let them Google.”

You got home late.

She pulled you out of the car, her arms winding around your waist the moment the front door closed. Shoes kicked off. Jacket slipped from her shoulders. She kissed you like the world didn’t deserve you—because it didn’t.

In the bedroom, her fingers traced the outline of the ring she gave you. Her voice was soft against your mouth.

“You’re mine, you know.”

You nodded, kissing her again.

“So are you.”

The next morning, a photo made the rounds.

You, on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, as you look out onto the city. Paige behind you, arms around your waist, pressing a kiss into your shoulder. A quiet moment. Unstaged. Someone at the gala had caught it by accident, framed in the open doorway as you slipped away from the ballroom.

It went viral.

But this time, there were no conspiracy theories. No bitterness. Just awe.

The caption was simple.

She never needed to be seen. But now that she is, we can’t look away.

[solar-wing]

⚣ Puppy Love: Sweet and Romantic, but also somehow Murderous ❤️‍🔥

⚣❤️‍🔥 A/N → something I started writing while finishing up Shadowing Nightwing. Is this what I imagine my relationship to be like with Jason on a regular basis...absolutely. Absolutely. Am I somewhat delusional and living in a fantasy world? Also, absolutely, but also, mind your fucking business. anyways...! This was inspired from multiple posts and authors, who I have tagged and hyperlinked. @allllium @maj-b-s Thank you for feeding my obsession—ahem—my therapist will be sending you a bill. tee hee... WARNINGS: 18 + MDNI | College Male Reader | Fluff & Humor | Minor Violence (Implied) | Swearing/Crude Language | Smut | Breathplay | Possessiveness/Jealousy | Everyone wants Y/N's man |

⚣❤️‍🔥 Summary → Meet Jason and Y/N: Gotham’s answer to the ultimate “relationship goals”—if your relationship goals involve an overly protective vigilante with a slight obsession for tearing apart his boyfriend’s scandalous wardrobe (and sometimes his coworkers). Their love story? Equal parts intense, adorable, and absolutely chaotic. Jason’s the growling, brooding protector who’d burn the world for Y/N, while Y/N is the sunshine with just enough sass to keep him in check… well, sometimes.

⚣❤️‍🔥 Word Count → 14.5K

REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY ❤️‍🔥

If you asked anyone, they might hesitate to admit it outright, but the truth was hard to ignore: people envied Jason and Y/N’s relationship—and who could blame them? From the day those two started dating, they’d been like high-school sweethearts stuck in the honeymoon phase, but with ten times the intensity and none of the restraint. Not to sound bitter or envious—it was just a fact.

They were a painfully adorable couple. Jason was the doting, protective lover, almost to a fault. Sure, it’s a bit of a cliché, but he didn’t exactly help himself with the stark difference in how he treated others versus Y/N. Around everyone else, Jason looked permanently grouchy, as though every conversation he endured was a test of patience he barely passed. His eye-rolls, heavy sighs, and palpable disinterest didn’t go unnoticed; in fact, he made it pretty clear he couldn’t wait to walk away from anyone who wasn’t Y/N.

But the moment Y/N entered the room? Suddenly, Jason had nothing more important in the world. It was almost comical to watch this towering vigilante hang onto every word Y/N said like an overly attached puppy. Actually, that was the perfect way to describe their dynamic: Jason was a huge, lethal teddy bear with a soft spot, and Y/N was the unassuming boyfriend who had no clue how much sway he held over this giant who’d kill for him without hesitation.

Honestly, the best way to describe Y/N was as Jason’s polar opposite. He was social—well, social enough—and that sometimes got on his boyfriend’s nerves, who would’ve preferred to keep Y/N all to himself. It was partly jealousy, partly a possessive urge to monopolize his lover’s attention, but mostly it was Jason’s instinct to shield him from a world that had never been kind to the vigilante. Jason had been hardened by a lifetime of darkness, and he’d go to ridiculous lengths to keep Y/N’s light from dimming.

Not that Jason’s methods were exactly…practical.

“Jason, I get that you want to protect me, but you can’t shield me from everything,” Y/N said, finally sitting his boyfriend down for a much-needed conversation after yet another of Jason’s over-the-top protective stunts. “The only way you could do that would be to wrap me in bubble wrap and lock me away in a cave or something.”

“Trust me, I’ve considered it,” Jason muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Y/N blinked, raising a brow.

“Nothing.”

Despite Y/N’s more social nature, he was everything Jason felt he was missing in life. He was the humor, the hope, the optimism Jason rarely allowed himself. And sure, his optimism came with a sprinkle of sarcasm when he was annoyed, but Jason loved that too. In fact, he was so taken by Y/N that it was nearly an obsession—though, to be fair, obsession was kind of expected from someone like him.

Would a therapist call it codependency or maybe some kind of unhealthy dynamic? Probably. But good luck telling Jason that. He’d likely see it as a personal attack—and let’s just say that if you value your life, you might want to avoid bringing it up. You’ve been warned.

But back to the point: Y/N and Jason’s relationship quickly became the kind that made even Y/N’s friends—most of whom were floundering in the love department—wonder just how he’d managed to snag such a devoted and caring guy. It especially made Jason feel appreciated, loved, and genuinely important to someone the way Y/N would never miss a chance to gush about his vigilante boyfriend to anyone willing to listen, and though he’d never admit it out loud, he secretly loved every second of it.

Though, do exercise a bit (lot) of caution, because once the topic turns to Jason, everyone’s in for a long haul—Y/N could and would talk anyone’s ear off that was willing to listen about how amazing his boyfriend is. Just as Jason was obsessed with Y/N, Y/N was equally smitten with Jason, and honestly? Jason wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Alright, Y/N, spill it! I need every detail about how you landed this guy. Don’t hold out on me—give me the exact prayer, word-for-word, quickly!”

“I—uh—well, I—”

“Come on, Y/N! My pen is drying up, and I’m not getting any younger!” His friend slapped a notepad and pen down in front of him, staring him down like he was about to write out a love spell straight from a witch’s spellbook.

“Girl, I don’t even know. The guy just kinda showed up in my life one day and never left,” Y/N shrugged, half-joking, though it was pretty much the truth.

It had all been by chance—well, kind of. If you could call Jason keeping an eye on Y/N “chance.” In reality, he’d been sort of… lurking, for good reasons (or at least reasons he’d justified to himself). It started one night when Y/N was finishing up his work-study shift at Gotham University. Now, calling an Uber would’ve been the smart, safe choice, especially in a city like Gotham. But he lived just 15 minutes away, and spending money on a five-minute ride? Please. He had a budget to consider.

That was before he found himself cornered in a dark alley by three oversized thugs who smelled like the embodiment of an ashtray mixed with cheap beer, a scent so thick it made his eyes water. The kind of men Gotham bred like weeds—rough, desperate, dangerous. Y/N barely had time to process the situation before one of them shoved him against a cold, brick wall, a knife pressing against his throat. His backpack was snatched and dumped unceremoniously onto the wet alley floor, its contents spilling out for their inspection.

His mind raced, paralyzed with fear and regret. He could practically hear his parents' voices reminding him to be cautious, to make smart choices, to avoid walking alone at night in places like this. Irony stung almost as much as the cold steel against his neck—the “responsible” choice would have been to spend that $15 on an Uber, not gamble his safety for a free walk. 

And was the money he’d save really worth risking his life for? Probably not. But hey, that was Gotham for you—always teaching life lessons the hard way. He braced himself, feeling the icy dread of not knowing if he’d make it out alive. Stories like these didn’t usually end well on the news in this city.

But fate, or something like it, had other plans.

Out of nowhere, a low, gravelly voice sliced through the night. “I’d drop the knife if I were you.”

Y/N didn’t dare turn his head, but he felt the tension shift as the thugs looked up, startled. Standing at the mouth of the alley was a figure who seemed to materialize from the shadows—a tall, broad man clad in black and deep red, with a sleeveless hoodie that revealed muscular arms wrapped in red bandages. A mask and hood concealed majority of his face, glowing red eyes staring down the thugs with an intensity that froze them in place. Strapped across his back were two long katanas, and a utility belt around his waist held holsters that almost certainly contained a pair of guns, adding to his already intimidating presence.

Red Hood.

Y/N had heard of him, of course. Gotham’s resident anti-hero, rumored to have a thing for…creative violence. The vigilante’s imposing size was enough to make anyone feel small; he towered over Y/N, his form carved out of muscle and something darker, something hardened. Even the thugs looked ready to wet themselves, and Y/N could feel the goosebumps rise on his skin as he finally dared to look up.

In less time than it took him to blink, Red Hood had closed the distance, dispatching the thugs with an efficiency that would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so, well, terrifying. Knives clattered to the ground, grunts and thuds filled the air, and Y/N just stood there, frozen like a deer in headlights, half expecting to wake up from a weird stress-induced nightmare.

But this was very real, as proven when Red Hood finally turned to him, and Y/N felt his breath hitch. Up close, the vigilante was even more intimidating—a wall of muscle wrapped in dark red and black, those red eyes glowing with an intensity that made Y/N’s knees wobble. There was no denying it; the guy was terrifying. Yet, for some reason, there was a weird, traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispering, He’s kind of hot, though.

“You alright?” The voice was rough, like gravel scraping across metal, but there was an undertone of concern. Red Hood’s gaze softened just a fraction, almost imperceptible, yet Y/N caught it.

“I—I think so,” he managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes were wide, and he forced himself not to flinch as Red Hood stepped even closer, the hulking vigilante now looming over him. Up close, he could see the muscles tense beneath the suit, the power radiating off him like heat.

Red Hood’s head tilted slightly, as if assessing him, and Y/N swore he felt like he was being scanned. Which, honestly, was fair. He was some college kid wearing a sweatshirt that said “Gotham U” in block letters, and this guy looked like he wrestled criminals for fun. But instead of feeling like prey, he felt this strange pull, like something was drawing him toward the vigilante. It was probably just adrenaline… or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Red Hood gave a grunt, a sound that could have meant anything from “good to hear” to “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, punk.” But then he leaned down, his helmet casting an ominous shadow over Y/N’s face. “Next time, take the Uber.”

Y/N blinked, the absurdity of the situation hitting him all at once. “Noted,” he replied, deadpan, because honestly, what else could he say?

He should have been scared—terrified, even. But instead, he found himself lingering on every detail: the way Red Hood’s chest rose and fell, the glint of his weapons, the sense of barely restrained danger that rolled off him in waves. And underneath all of that, a strange, quiet thrill that he didn’t quite understand.

Satisfied, Red Hood gave him one last look before he started to turn away, blending back into the shadows. But in a flash of impulsiveness, Y/N called out, “Wait!”

Red Hood stopped, glancing over his shoulder, clearly not used to random civilians asking for an encore. Y/N hesitated, realizing how ridiculous he must have sounded, but the words were already out there, so he figured he might as well keep going.

“Uh… thanks. For, you know, saving me. And also for the life advice,” he added, his voice dripping with awkward humor.

There was a pause—a long, silent pause where Y/N briefly wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake. But then, to his surprise, he thought he saw the faintest tilt of amusement in the way Red Hood shifted his stance. Was that… a chuckle? No, probably not. But he’d like to think so.

Red Hood nodded—a subtle acknowledgment—before disappearing into the night, leaving Y/N alone in the alley with nothing but his scattered belongings and a heart that felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. As he knelt down to gather his things, he couldn’t help but survey the carnage of his soggy notebooks and papers, along with his now-broken laptop and tangled, half-shattered headphones.

He let out a sigh, shaking his head as he picked up a notebook that was more mush than paper. “Well, this is fine,” he muttered, trying to keep his spirits up. “Just a little water damage. Adds character, right?”

Then he spotted his laptop, the screen shattered and a piece of it barely hanging on by a hinge. He laughed, a bitter chuckle that held more disbelief than humor. “Guess it’s one way to force an upgrade,” he murmured, stuffing it back in his backpack like a defeated soldier gathering his gear after a lost battle.

And the headphones? Well, they’d been cheap anyway, held together by more wishful thinking than actual quality. “You were too good for this world,” he whispered dramatically, dropping them into the bag with a resigned sigh.

Despite the state of his belongings, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just survived something surreal, something that would haunt his dreams and maybe even—dare he say it?—excite him a little.

Unbeknownst to him, from the shadows a few blocks away, Jason eyed him from his hiding spot, a curiosity nagging at him, as if he’d found something worth watching over. He could see Y/N still crouched on the grimy ground, gathering his belongings—soggy notebooks, torn papers, a laptop with a shattered screen. He’d felt a pang of guilt as he watched, a flicker of sympathy mingling with a less-than-pleasant feeling of familiarity knowing all too well what it was like to lose the few things you relied on—to feel like the world had kicked you when you were down.

And while he’d never admit it, maybe a part of him liked that the kid seemed more amused than scared. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone didn’t scream when they saw Red Hood.

Of course, now that they were dating, Y/N was not surprised by the vigilante’s actions after their encounter when he’d come out of his apartment a week later to find a large box sitting on his doorstep with a plain label reading simply, “For You.” 

Inside was an assortment of brand-new school supplies including pristine notebooks in varying colors, a handful of smooth, high-quality pens and highlighters, and even a sleek, expensive laptop that he definitely could not afford on a student budget. Nestled beside it was a pair of high-quality Bluetooth headphones—the kind he’d ogled online but never dreamed of buying. And to top it all off, there was a sturdy, stylish bag to carry everything in.

And while most other people would’ve been slightly concerned at the fact that a random vigilante just happened to know their address after only one meeting where they didn’t even give their name, Y/N on the other hand, was processing the contents of the box with a mix of gratitude, amusement, and a new crush.

And so, their love story began, marked by Jason’s continued (and slightly overprotective) habit of rescuing Y/N from Gotham’s mean streets—even if the college student didn’t always realize he needed saving. Hence the “stalking” mentioned earlier.

Of course, was it technically stalking if it was done out of love and devotion for some random stranger you’d developed a massive crush on but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to talk to directly? Well… yes. Experts would say it’s still stalking. But hey, if those experts ever found themselves in a tight spot, Jason would be conveniently “unavailable” to save them.

Naturally, Y/N couldn’t exactly share the full story of his and Jason’s introduction. For one, his friends would roast him to the ends of the earth for being dumb enough to walk home alone in Gotham at night. He could practically hear their voices now: “Really, Y/N? Alone? At night? In Gotham? Do you not value your own life?” And frankly, he wasn’t about to give them that much material.

Oh, and there was also the tiny detail of Red Hood’s whole secret vigilante identity thing.

So, he went with a slightly edited version of the story, painting Jason as a “helpful stranger” who just happened to show up when Y/N “got lost” and had his bag stolen. And when his friends inevitably asked about the shiny new gear—a nearly $500 bag, top-of-the-line laptop, high-quality headphones, the works—he explained it all as a result of some extra scholarship money and financial aid he’d “saved up.” Sure, splurging on luxury tech and accessories might seem a tad unrealistic, but he’d throw in a line about a “really good sale” and call it a day.

Because as much as Jason’s habit of going overboard with gifts could be a little, well, extra, Y/N wasn’t about to complain. The man was thoughtful in a way few would ever believe, though his affection tended to be wrapped in thick layers of leather, weaponry, and a no-nonsense glare.

Jason loved hard, though he wasn’t quick to show it to just anyone. The guy kept his feelings locked up tighter than a Gotham vault, hardened by a lifetime of broken trust and betrayal. He wasn’t exactly the “wear your heart on your sleeve” type. But every so often, with the right person, he’d crack that tough exterior. And Y/N? Somehow, he’d slipped right through, without even trying.

And okay, could Jason be a little intense? Sure (absolutely). But when a vigilante with a borderline obsessive streak decides he cares about you, well… let’s just say things are bound to get a little out of hand. That’s just the price of having Gotham’s resident anti-hero as your personal guard dog.

Not that Y/N thinks of him quite like that, but it’s kind of funny, considering Jason really does act like a lovesick puppy when it’s just the two of them, his tough exterior melting away—it gave the energy of a Golden Retriever, maybe, or a Siberian Husky with an attitude problem. But the moment anyone else entered the room, his whole vibe transformed. If Y/N was his safe haven, the rest of the world was an enemy camp. He’d switch from doting boyfriend to a blend of German Shepherd, Rottweiler, and Doberman with the attitude and aggressiveness of a Chihuahua on an espresso shot. It was a little terrifying for others but to Y/N? It was just… Jason.

Part of what made their dynamic so unique was how Jason let himself be vulnerable around Y/N, something few people ever got to see. Y/N was his safe space, the person he could trust to see the parts of him he usually kept hidden—the softness, the care, the insecurities he guarded as fiercely as he guarded Gotham’s streets.

Funny enough, Y/N quickly discovered just a few months into dating that Jason’s love language was, without a doubt, physical touch. Why was that funny—and possibly the most ironic thing he’d ever experienced? Because when they first started dating, Jason avoided touch like it was the plague.

It took Y/N a while to notice it, but once he did, it was painfully obvious. Jason had this way of keeping just enough distance, as if he’d drawn a line no one was allowed to cross. At first, Y/N thought it was just Jason’s natural intensity, but over time, he began to see the pattern. Jason was hyper-aware of any physical contact—quick to dodge, tense when someone brushed against him accidentally, even flinching at touches he saw coming. It was like he’d trained himself to see any sort of physical contact as a potential threat.

And it made sense, really, considering Jason’s past and the double life he led—something Y/N only found out about a few months after they started dating. Jason’s body told a story all on its own, each scar and faded bruise marking a chapter of battles fought and enemies conquered. The scars weren’t just skin-deep; they were reminders of a life filled with danger, betrayal, and loss. And Y/N began to understand why Jason had always kept his distance, why he seemed wary of even the gentlest touch. To Jason, vulnerability had always come with a price.

Also, talking about his family was a rare event, and when he did, there was a hesitance, a guarded tone. Y/N knew bits and pieces—enough to understand that while Jason loved his family, there were wounds there too, emotional scars that ran just as deep as the ones on his body. He avoided talking about them, save for the occasional mention of Alfred, the family’s butler. Alfred was the exception, the one person Jason spoke of with nothing but respect and a rare softness. In time, Y/N came to love and appreciate Alfred just as much, seeing how deeply he’d cared for Jason when others hadn’t.

But even with Alfred, Jason’s life had taught him that letting people in, letting people close, meant risking pain. So he’d built walls, high and impenetrable, where touch was a luxury and distance was safety. Yet again, somehow, Y/N had slipped through those walls. Slowly, patiently, he’d helped Jason find comfort in a gentle touch, a warm embrace, and the knowledge that here, with him, there was no danger. Just love.

At first, it was subtle—the occasional shoulder touch, the brief brush of his hand, like Jason was testing the waters. But as he grew more comfortable, his affection started to show in quiet, gentle ways: a hand resting at the small of Y/N’s back, an arm draped protectively around his shoulders, or the way he’d pull Y/N close, as if his presence alone could shield him from the world. Sure, his protectiveness sometimes bordered on overbearing, but Y/N didn’t mind one bit. He’d come to cherish those moments, knowing that each touch, each fierce little act of devotion, was Jason’s own way of saying, I love you.

And before Y/N even realized it, Jason had practically become his shadow, glued to his side like some overly affectionate—albeit slightly brooding—puppy. It was like a switch had flipped, and suddenly, Jason couldn’t go a full five minutes without reaching out to touch him, craving the comfort and reassurance of Y/N’s presence. Jason was always there, one way or another: a hand resting on his neck, fingers tracing along his arm, a warm weight on his thigh, or just… hovering in his orbit like a bodyguard who happened to look at him like he was the best thing in Gotham.

Rarely did a moment pass when they weren’t connected in some physical way. More often than not, Jason would find any excuse to pull Y/N into a full-on cuddle, whether they were on the couch or in bed, as if he was storing up warmth like a battery. And his favorite spot? Laying his head on Y/N’s chest, listening to his heartbeat with his eyes closed, completely at peace as Y/N’s hands ran gently through his hair. For Jason, it was the ultimate comfort, a reminder that he was loved and safe—a rare feeling in his life.

It was endearing, really. Jason might’ve been Gotham’s big bad vigilante, but to Y/N, he was a full-grown man with the energy of a giant, needy puppy, demanding his attention with that silent, intense stare of his. And honestly? Y/N wouldn’t have it any other way.

Of course, Y/N would be lying if he said he didn’t get a kick out of the way Jason would pout and glare at him whenever he stopped rubbing his head or, heaven forbid, dared to refuse his touch. Imagine this six-foot-plus tower of muscle—a guy who could make dudes on steroids look like scrawny sidekicks—staring down his boyfriend with an actual pout because he wasn’t getting his cuddle fix. It was a sight that never failed to make Y/N laugh (not that he’d do it out loud; he valued his life, after all).

Jason could—and would—throw his ire at just about anyone else, often for the smallest of reasons. Anyone not named Y/N was fair game for his mood swings, his infamous scowl, and even the occasional growl. But with Y/N? Well, let’s just say he was spared from the wrath of Gotham’s most intimidating vigilante… unless he denied Jason cuddles or the sacred privilege of his bodily embrace. That, apparently, was the one line Y/N couldn’t cross.

The “punishment” usually lasted, at most, ten minutes. Jason would start by sulking, grumbling under his breath like a child denied dessert, and shooting Y/N the kind of glare usually reserved for Gotham’s worst criminals. Y/N, of course, would hold out as long as he could, but eventually, one of two things would happen. Either he’d cave, sighing as he finally opened his arms to let Jason claim his cuddle rights, listening as Jason mumbled dramatically about how he “should never be denied cuddles” because it was his god-given right, or—if Y/N took too long—Jason would take matters into his own hands.

And by that, it meant Jason would simply scoop him up, plop himself down, and drape his entire, solid weight on top of Y/N like some overgrown cat claiming it's human. There was no escape—Jason’s big arms wrapped around him like an anaconda, pulling him close until Y/N was completely enveloped, pinned down with zero chance of getting away.

Y/N didn’t mind, though. Quite the opposite, actually—it was hot. Sue him.

"Y/N, don’t take this the wrong way but… is your man single?” one of his coworkers asked, giving him a sly grin.

OOP—

GIRL. For your own sake—and for the sake of anyone within a mile radius—tread carefully. That man is as jealous and territorial as his possessive ass vigilante boyfriend, who’s on a level that’s practically legendary. No, seriously; Jason’s jealousy was on a scale that was insane.

Case in point: family game night. Tim had everyone playing this game where you had to come up with a word for each category starting with a randomly chosen letter. Simple enough, right? Well, when “J” was the letter of the round, let’s just say Y/N’s answers weren’t exactly… satisfying to a certain overprotective vigilante.

“Y/N,” Jason hissed, narrowing his eyes, “you’ve got two seconds to explain to me who the hell Jackson is.”

“I had to think of something!” Y/N replied, holding up his hands defensively.

Jason crossed his arms, staring him down. “And what does my name start with, hmm?”

“I—okay, listen, I panicked! I was thinking about Percy Jackson!”

Jason didn’t see it as jealousy—he was just protective, okay? But if his definition of protective happened to mean glaring down anyone who so much as glanced at Y/N, then so be it.

Y/N on the other hand…

Funny enough, Jason actually started complaining because every time he and Y/N went out together, people would give him looks, like they thought Y/N was in mortal danger. And okay, Jason got it—he wasn’t exactly small, or subtle. With his build, his perpetual scowl, and the way he seemed ready to throw down at any given moment, he could understand slightly why people would think the way they’d think. Shit, he’d do the same. But still.

When it got to the point of the cops getting called because the neighbors heard loud noises, grunts, and what they thought were sounds of pain and struggle after seeing a large and intimidating man drag Y/N into his apartment—when, in reality, they were just doing the dirty tango against the kitchen wall—it gets a bit annoying.

But that wasn’t even the real issue Jason had been complaining about. No, what had actually gotten under his skin was how everyone always assumed he was the threat, when in reality, it was Y/N they should’ve been worried about. People just didn’t see it, but Y/N had a dangerous side all his own. Just ask the kid who was dumb enough to try and pull a fast one on Jason by touching and caressing him in public when Y/N had stepped away for a moment.

The moment the college student came back… well, let’s just say things got ugly. Legally, however, Jason couldn’t speak about it. Not because he didn’t want to—oh, he’d love to relive the whole glorious scene—but because Y/N had made him, and his brothers, sign an NDA afterward. Yep, Dick, Tim, Damian, and Jason had to put pen to paper, bound to secrecy about The Incident.

Y/N had handled it with a level of ruthless efficiency that left the whole Bat family in awe. He’d dealt with that poor, clueless kid in a way that was so subtly devastating that even Bruce raised an eyebrow when he found out. Although, truth be told, Bruce wasn’t exactly shocked; he just hadn’t expected someone as sweet as Y/N to be quite so… resourceful.

After that, the whole family understood that, sure, Jason might look like the scary one—but when it came to those he loved, especially when it involved Jason, Y/N was a force to be reckoned with.

Y/N glanced back at his coworker with a slightly distant look before letting out a laugh, shaking his head. “Girl, don’t play.”

Girl—seriously, don’t do it.

Thankfully, she chose common sense and life at that moment, laughing along with him. “You know I’m just kidding! But seriously, where did you find him? The things I’d do just to get a man who looks at me with even half the love as he does with you.”

It was in Y/N’s honest opinion that Jason had to be an angel or some divine gift sent to him from the heavens above. Or God, the Universe, Santa Claus, took mercy on him knowing that kind of unserious trouble he could get himself into. Seriously, it was like his life was written by some dude who strove to put him in the most unthinkable scenarios ever thought of by man.

…

Hold up.

…

Nah…unless?

“But seriously, where do you even find a man like that? ‘Cause the ones out here? Girl, they’re giving ‘bare minimum’ and vibes. God really needs to start restocking the good ones.”

“Where did I find him?” Y/N repeated, smirking as he wiped down the counter. “I don’t know. One day he just showed up, brooding and scary-looking, and now he refuses to leave.”

His coworker rolled her eyes, leaning closer like she was trying to decode some deep secret. “You’re dodging the question. Men like that don’t just show up. Spill the tea.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head. “Honestly? If I told you the real story, you wouldn’t believe me.”

And wasn’t that the truth? If he started explaining how Gotham’s most terrifying vigilante had saved him from a mugging, delivered new school supplies like some twisted fairy godmother, and then proceeded to burrow into his life like an oversized, territorial puppy, she’d probably think he was delusional. Or worse, that he was into some bizarre fanfiction-level nonsense. Which, fair.

Before Y/N could add anything else, his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen and couldn’t stop the small smile that crept across his face.

Jason: Did you eat yet?

Y/N sighed, typing back a quick Yes, Dad, even though it was a blatant lie. He didn’t need Jason going full hover-boyfriend just because he skipped breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later, though, Jason strolled into the shop like he owned the place, a brown paper bag in hand. Y/N barely had time to react before Jason plopped the bag on the counter, his expression hovering between annoyed and smug.

“Didn’t I just tell you I ate?” Y/N asked, arching an eyebrow.

Jason crossed his arms, his biceps straining his jacket in a way that made his coworker openly gape. “And I didn’t believe you. So here.” He gestured at the bag like it was some great offering, clearly unbothered by the audience they had. “You’re not skipping meals.”

Y/N sighed, opening the bag to find his favorite sandwich neatly packed alongside a container of fruit and—of course—a bottle of water. His coworker, meanwhile, was staring like she was witnessing a rom-com play out in real life.

“You know,” she whispered as Jason stepped back to lean casually against the counter, his watchful gaze flicking between Y/N and the shop’s door, “if you don’t marry this man, I will.”

Y/N snorted, shoving a grape in his mouth. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

In all honesty, Y/N knew the kind of love Jason offered wasn’t for the faint of heart. As previously mentioned, when that man loved, he loved hard—like all-in, no-holds-barred, borderline territorial levels of hard. And he wasn’t just protective—oh no, he was possessive with a capital P when it came to the things he cared about.

What did that mean?

Well...

Considering the kind of life Jason had lived—where the things he loved or that brought him joy were often ripped away in the most brutal, gut-wrenching ways imaginable—it wasn’t exactly a shocker. Jason had become fiercely devoted to guarding what was his, with a vigilance that often toed the line between endearing and slightly terrifying.

It was like an aggressive dog who decided one day that a random shoe was its favorite thing in the world. The kind of resource-guarding where even looking at the shoe too long earned you a deep, guttural growl of warning. Ignore the warning? Well, congratulations, you just donated a finger—or maybe two—to the cause.

If it’s not clear by now, Y/N was the shoe, and Jason was the dog. And when it came to Y/N, anything—or anyone—that so much as hinted at upsetting him, threatening him, or even mildly inconveniencing him would quickly find themselves on the wrong end of Jason’s wrath. It wasn’t a matter of if there’d be hell to pay, but how much. Spoiler: it was always a lot.

So, picture this: Y/N comes home after a long day of morning classes and an equally draining evening shift. On the surface, he looks fine. Totally normal. But what no one knows is that he spent the last twenty minutes sitting in his car, quietly sobbing into a handful of fast-food napkins.

He knew better than to bring those emotions into the apartment, though. Because while most boyfriends would give you a hug and let you vent, Jason would go full vigilante mode. If he even sensed that someone had made Y/N upset, it wouldn’t just be hell to pay—it’d be Gotham-wide carnage. And Y/N, being the thoughtful boyfriend he was, liked to minimize unnecessary casualties.

Armed with tissues, eyedrops, and a firm I’m fine, just tired mantra, Y/N stepped through the door, hoping to slide under Jason’s radar.

Nope. Not happening.

The moment Jason saw him, his expression shifted. Y/N had no clue what gave him away—was it the puffiness? His voice? The way he stood?—but Jason immediately clocked something.

“What’s wrong?” Jason asked, his voice calm, but laced with that dangerous edge that said he was already running through a mental list of suspects who might need a "visit."

Y/N froze, debating his options. He knew better than to lie. Jason would sniff it out in seconds. But he also knew that the moment he opened his mouth, Jason wouldn’t rest until he figured out who—or what—was responsible.

And honestly? That was the kind of energy Y/N both feared and loved about him.

“I just had a stressful day at work, Jason. I’ll be fine,” Y/N said, sidestepping as he tried to make his way past the towering vigilante and towards the bathroom.

But trying to get past Jason when he was in that mode? Easier said than done. It was like trying to walk through a solid brick wall—one that was armed, brooding, and ridiculously muscled. Jason was locked into full protective-boyfriend mode, which meant Y/N wasn’t going anywhere until Jason had the name, address, and probably the social security number of the person who dared to upset him.

Why he needed the social security number? Well, Bruce did teach him to be thorough when handling "cases." And in Jason’s mind, this was no different.

In one smooth move, Jason’s arm shot out, stopping Y/N’s attempt to breeze past him. With two quick steps, Y/N found himself backed against the wall—well, Jason’s chest first, and then the wall behind him. Jason leaned in, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible, his dark, piercing gaze locking onto Y/N’s like a laser. That intense look he gave—the one that said I have no problem keeping you right here until I get answers—made Y/N’s knees weak.

Not that he minded. Let’s be real: Jason’s body, his sheer presence, had always been Y/N’s favorite place to decompress, even if it came with the added pressure of being metaphorically (and sometimes literally) pinned to the hot seat. And honestly? Who could complain about being wrapped up in the arms of a man like Jason. If you wouldn’t feel the same, take your judgment elsewhere.

Jason tilted his head, his voice low and commanding as he leaned in closer. “Talk to me, baby. What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Y/N muttered, looking away, though his traitorous heart betrayed him by picking up speed. He could feel Jason’s gaze on him, heavy and unwavering. “Just a bad day.”

“That’s not nothing,” Jason replied firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His arm caged Y/N in further, his body so close that Y/N could feel the heat radiating off him. “Bad days don’t make you cry in your car before coming home.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. Damn it. How does he always know?

Jason leaned even closer, his lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he whispered, “I’ll ask again. Who made you cry?”

That commanding tone, combined with Jason’s overwhelming presence, had Y/N’s walls crumbling faster than he’d like to admit. “Jason, it’s nothing you need to get involved in. It’s my boss—he’s just been... making things harder than they need to be,” he said, his voice faltering as he tried to downplay the situation.

Jason’s jaw ticked, and his free hand gently cupped Y/N’s chin, tilting his head back so their eyes met. “Details. Now.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before the frustration, hurt, and exhaustion bubbled over. “He’s cutting my hours—again. And I need those hours, Jason. For rent, for groceries, for school. I’ve tried talking to him, emailing HR, even bringing in a neutral third party, but nothing changes. And today…” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Today, he reduced my schedule to the point where I’ll barely be able to afford ramen next week. And then he called me into his office to give me some bullshit ‘coaching moment’ that was really just him tearing me down in front of everyone.”

Jason’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as Y/N’s words sank in. “What did he say?” His tone was dangerously calm, the kind of calm that meant bad things were about to happen to someone.

Y/N shook his head, his voice breaking as he tried to get the words out. “I—I don’t want to repeat it. It was nasty, Jason. Just nasty.”

Jason’s grip softened immediately, his hand moving to the back of Y/N’s neck as he pulled him into his chest. “Baby, come here,” he murmured, his voice gentler now. Y/N didn’t resist, letting himself melt into Jason’s arms as the tears he’d been holding back all day finally spilled over.

Jason held him tightly, his strong arms a fortress of safety and comfort as he whispered, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it out.”

They stayed like that for a while, Jason eventually guiding Y/N to the couch so they could sit down. He pulled Y/N into his lap, holding him as if to shield him from the world. Y/N buried his face in Jason’s chest, the warmth and strength of his boyfriend grounding him as Jason’s hand gently stroked his back.

After a while, Y/N’s voice broke the silence. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash, Jason. Please.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “I promise.”

The next day, Y/N found himself questioning that promise when Jason showed up at his workplace. The vigilante didn’t cause a scene—he didn’t need to. A quiet, private “conversation” with Y/N’s manager in the backroom was all it took. Whatever Jason said, it worked. By the time he left, Y/N’s hours had mysteriously been restored, and his manager couldn’t look him in the eye without stammering.

When Y/N confronted him later, Jason just smirked, pulling him into a kiss. “I didn’t do anything rash,” he said innocently. “I just... clarified some things.”

And honestly? Y/N didn’t even want to know what “clarified” meant.

It was that incident—the one where Jason paid a visit to Y/N’s workplace—when Y/N’s coworkers finally met the infamous boyfriend they’d only ever heard about in passing. Well, passing might’ve been an understatement, considering Y/N used any and every opportunity to talk about his man. At first, the constant mentions of “Jason this” and “Jason that” had been met with teasing eyerolls and mock groans. But after seeing Jason in action, shutting down their tyrant of a manager with one calm but devastating conversation, everyone got it. Completely.

Jason and Y/N quickly became what the group lovingly referred to as the “template” for relationship goals. Y/N didn’t mind the label; he liked that people saw the best parts of their dynamic. What they didn’t see—or couldn’t fully grasp—was the effort and balance behind it all. Jason wasn’t just the tall, brooding vigilante who swooped in to save the day, and Y/N wasn’t just the sweet, supportive boyfriend standing in his shadow. Their relationship was a partnership in every sense of the word, built on mutual protection and care for one another.

It was that incident—the one where Jason paid a visit to Y/N’s workplace—when Y/N’s coworkers finally met the infamous boyfriend they’d only ever heard about in passing. Well, passing might’ve been an understatement, considering Y/N used any and every opportunity to talk about his man. At first, the constant mentions of “Jason this” and “Jason that” had been met with teasing eyerolls and mock groans. But after seeing Jason in action, shutting down their tyrant of a manager with one calm but devastating conversation, everyone got it. Completely.

Jason and Y/N quickly became what the group lovingly referred to as the “template” for relationship goals. Y/N didn’t mind the label; he liked that people saw the best parts of their dynamic. What they didn’t see—or couldn’t fully grasp—was the effort and balance behind it all. Jason wasn’t just the tall, brooding vigilante who swooped in to save the day, and Y/N wasn’t just the sweet, supportive boyfriend standing in his shadow. Their relationship was a partnership in every sense of the word, built on mutual protection and care for one another.

“Y/N, how much is your rent for this place? It’s really nice, and I’m looking for something closer to campus,” his friend asked one day during a study session at his and Jason’s apartment. A few of their classmates had joined, and the group was sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by open textbooks, laptops, and half-empty mugs and cups.

Y/N was about to answer—he really was—but then paused, his face twisting into a look of genuine confusion as he stared off into the distance, like he was searching the recesses of his brain for an answer that just wasn’t there. “Uh… I think $1,100? Maybe? Don’t quote me on that, though. I’m not 100% sure.”

His friends all exchanged baffled looks. “Wait, what do you mean you’re not sure?” one of them asked, narrowing their eyes. “How do you not know your own rent?”

“I do! I just… forgot,” Y/N said with a shrug, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Now they were all staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Y/N, literally what the fuck? How do you just forget how much you pay in rent? Who forgets that?”

“I don’t know, okay? I knew it when I signed the lease, but every time I try to pay it at the beginning of the month, Jason’s already paid it. Sometimes months in advance! And, I don’t know, after a while, it just stopped being something I thought about.” Y/N gestured vaguely, as if this explanation somehow made perfect sense.

That didn’t stop the dumbfounded stares—or the flicker of envy in more than a few pairs of eyes.

“Wait, wait, wait.” One of his friends held up a hand. “So your boyfriend just pays your rent for you every month—without even asking—and you just… let him?”

Y/N snorted, sitting back on the couch. “First of all, rude. It’s not like I just let him. Trust me, if you were in my shoes, you’d understand that trying to stop Jason from taking care of me is like… I don’t know, trying to explain to someone in a MAGA hat what a cult is and that they’re in one. You’re not winning that battle.”

Can the church get an amen?

Y/N wasn’t lying—not even a little—when he said that trying to stop Jason from taking care of him was an exercise in futility. If anyone dared to tell Jason he was “doing too much” for his boyfriend, congratulations, they’d now joined the prestigious ranks of those “experts” Jason would gladly let fend for themselves in a crisis. When it came to Y/N, Jason handled it all: physically, emotionally, financially—you name it, he was on it like white on rice. And no amount of protesting from Y/N could change that.

And oh, did Y/N protest.

“Jason, did you pay my rent again?” Y/N asked, stepping into the apartment with his wallet still in hand and a clearly exasperated look on his face. He’d just come back from the leasing office, only to find out his balance was already cleared with a sex month advance payment. Again.

His frustration hit a slight pause, though, as he spotted Jason lounging shirtless on the couch—pause for an aroused deep breath—engrossed in what appeared to be an intense game of Mario Kart on his Nintendo Switch. A book Jason had been reading earlier was tossed haphazardly to the side, forgotten in the heat of the Rainbow Road battle.

Jason didn’t even glance up as he responded, “Yeah, I did. Why?” His thumbs moved quickly over the buttons, his face set in that annoyingly sexy, hyper-focused expression that made Y/N momentarily forget why he was upset in the first place.

“Why?” Y/N snapped, pulling himself out of that temporary daze. “Because I told you not to! That’s why!” He stormed over, planting himself squarely in front of the couch, arms crossed and glare locked on his boyfriend. “Jason, we’ve talked about this. I can handle my own rent.”

Jason sighed, finally pausing his game. He leaned back against the couch with an air of deliberate calm, setting the joy-con controllers aside. “I know you can,” he said, his voice smooth and measured in a way that made Y/N’s resolve falter. Jason’s eyes flicked up to meet his, dark and steady, pinning Y/N in place. “But here’s the thing, babe—you don’t have to.”

“That’s not the point,” Y/N shot back, his voice wavering slightly as Jason stretched lazily, his arms going behind his head in a way that made the muscles in his chest and shoulders flex. Unfair. He was doing this on purpose.

“Isn’t it, though?” Jason’s lips curved into a slow, smug smirk. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Y/N’s breath hitched as the intensity of his gaze locked onto him. “Taking care of you isn’t optional for me. It’s my job. Whether it’s paying the rent, making sure you eat, or keeping your gorgeous ass out of trouble, that’s mine to handle.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned as he tried to maintain his glare, but it was a losing battle. “Jason,” he said firmly, though the quiver in his voice betrayed him, “you can’t just decide these things without asking me.”

Jason tilted his head, studying him in a way that felt equal parts tender and possessive. “Sure I can,” he said smoothly, reaching out to hook his fingers lightly around Y/N’s wrist, tugging him forward until he was standing between Jason’s knees. “You can handle yourself—I know that. But you don’t need to. Not when I’m here.”

Y/N opened his mouth to protest, but Jason tugged him down into his lap, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close. His free hand slid to the back of Y/N’s neck, his thumb brushing against the skin there in a way that made Y/N’s heart race.

“Tell me,” Jason murmured, his voice low and commanding, “why should I let you stress over something I can fix? Hmm?”

Y/N bit his lip, trying to muster the strength to argue, but Jason’s tone, his touch, the sheer weight of his presence—it all left him scrambling for words. He hated how easily Jason could reduce him to this flustered mess, and he really hated how much he secretly loved it.

“You’re impossible,” he finally muttered, dropping his head against Jason’s shoulder, his voice soft and defeated.

“And you love me for it,” Jason murmured against his ear, his smirk practically audible.

Y/N groaned but didn’t pull away, his fingers curling against Jason’s chest. “This conversation isn’t over,” he mumbled, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say,” Jason replied, leaning back with Y/N still in his lap, his grip firm and unyielding. He reached for his Switch with his free hand, resuming his game like he hadn’t just completely derailed the argument and walked away victorious.

And as much as Y/N wanted to be mad, he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. Damn it. He really did love him for it. The student didn’t need to say how much he appreciated the weight of Jason’s steady presence; Jason didn’t need to hear it to know. And while Y/N would keep fighting to hold his own ground, there was a part of him—an unspoken, undeniable part—that found comfort in letting Jason hold the world at bay for him.

Their domestic life was a careful dance of their unspoken dynamic, with Jason ensuring their world was secure and steady, while Y/N kept their home—and Jason—centered and whole. Their roles played out naturally, shaped by who they were as individuals. Jason made sure the outside world couldn’t touch Y/N, taking care of the big things, the dangerous things that he’d never let his boyfriend come within a mile of. His presence was a shield, and his devotion ran so deep that sometimes it felt like he’d lay the world at Y/N’s feet if it meant seeing him happy.

Y/N swears there was one time he cracked a joke about wanting to live out his “soft boi” aesthetic—because, obviously, the ‘i’ made it edgier—and Jason, without missing a beat, ran with it without ever looking back.

But Y/N? He was the one who kept their world turning smoothly, the quiet, grounding presence that made sure Jason had a place to fall apart when life became too much. Whether it was stocking the kitchen with Jason’s favorite snacks or simply sitting with him on the couch after a rough patrol, Y/N created the kind of space Jason didn’t even realize he needed—safe, steady, and entirely his.

That balance extended to the little things too. Jason liked to cook when he had the time, his meals always hearty, protein-packed “fuel” designed to keep them going. Y/N, on the other hand, was the one who brought warmth to the table, sneaking in something sweet or comforting—even if it meant slipping vegetables into Jason’s plate, much to his dramatic protests.

“Because it’s pesto,” Y/N replied innocently, grinning as he leaned against the counter. “Don’t act like you’re too good for spinach.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath—something about how spinach was a lie—but ate every bite, proving once again that Y/N knew exactly how to play him.

And then there were the quieter moments—the ones that reminded them both why they worked so well together. Nights spent curled up on the couch, Jason sprawled out with his head resting in Y/N’s lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns along Y/N’s thigh. Y/N would run his fingers through Jason’s hair, the simple, soothing gesture melting away the tension that Jason carried like a second skin. Sometimes they’d talk—about Jason’s patrols, Y/N’s classes, or random nonsense that didn’t matter. Other times, they simply existed together, the quiet hum of their apartment a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the world outside.

But even Y/N, the softer half of their partnership, had his limits when it came to anyone crossing a line with Jason. Like the time a journalist ambushed Jason at a charity event, spouting thinly veiled accusations about his past. Jason had been moments away from snapping, his fists clenching at his sides, when Y/N calmly stepped in.

“If you don’t have something constructive to say,” Y/N said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “then I suggest you find someone else to bother.”

The journalist, thrown off by Y/N’s tone—gentle but edged like a blade—backed off almost immediately. Jason hadn’t said a word about it afterward, but later that night, when they were home, he’d kissed Y/N’s temple and murmured a quiet, “Thank you.”

Y/N was never afraid to step in for Jason when he needed him to, even if Jason wouldn’t—or couldn’t—outwardly ask for it. And the fact that Jason didn’t have to ask made it all the more meaningful for the vigilante. Y/N always seemed to know when to intervene, especially in moments when Jason couldn’t advocate for himself—particularly when it came to Bruce.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Jason had come home late that night, his steps heavy, his shoulders slumped in a way that told Y/N everything he needed to know before Jason even said a word. Gotham’s chaos could wear Jason down, but this kind of defeated air? That was Bruce’s handiwork.

Y/N didn’t push right away. He let Jason slip into the apartment, kick off his boots, and collapse onto the couch without a word. Jason sat there, his hands hanging limply between his knees, staring blankly at the floor like he was stuck in some internal tug-of-war. Y/N sat beside him, his hand lightly brushing Jason’s shoulder before resting on his thigh—a grounding touch.

“What happened?” Y/N asked softly.

Jason’s jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s Bruce,” he said after a long pause, his voice raw. “We were handling this case—a trafficking ring. I had it handled, Y/N. I had it. But he pulled the plug on the whole thing because it didn’t fit his goddamn code.” His fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “There were kids involved, and he still chose the ‘moral high ground’ over what needed to be done. And then—” Jason’s voice broke, and he shook his head, his frustration giving way to something more fragile. “He looked at me like I was the problem. Like I was… too much again. Like I’m always too much.”

Y/N’s heart clenched as he took in the words, the quiet ache that laced Jason’s tone. It wasn’t just the case or Bruce’s stubbornness that hurt him—it was the way Bruce always seemed to find a way to make Jason feel like he’d never be enough, no matter what he did.

Y/N leaned in, his hand sliding up to the back of Jason’s neck, fingers gently massaging the tension there. “You’re not too much, Jay,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Not for me. Not for anyone who actually knows you.”

Jason didn’t respond, but the way he leaned into Y/N’s touch, his head bowing slightly, said more than words ever could.

An hour later, when a knock came at the door, Y/N didn’t need to guess who it was. He stood, sighing as Jason stayed where he was on the couch, visibly tensing at the sound. Y/N opened the door to find Bruce standing there, in some more casual wear (if you could ever call Bruce’s “old money” aesthetic casual), his expression as unreadable as ever.

“Y/N,” Bruce greeted, his tone clipped. “I need to speak with Jason.”

Y/N didn’t move, his hand braced casually against the doorframe. “No, you don’t.”

Bruce blinked, clearly unused to being told no—and even less accustomed to hearing it so decisively. “It’s important.”

“Is someone dead or currently dying?”

The blunt, and sarcastic tone of his words, while it didn’t visually throw the billionaire off, Y/N could see Bruce was surprised by his tone. He didn’t know how, but he clocked the shift in his demeanor. Maybe he was picking up some skills from his boyfriend after all.

“No, but–”

“Then, it can wait,” Y/N said, his tone edge with a finality that left no room for question or pushback.  “He just came home, and I don’t think he needs you piling on more stress right now. Whatever you’ve got to say can wait.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This isn’t about stress. It’s about his actions tonight. He—”

“—did what he thought was right,” Y/N interrupted, his voice sharpening just slightly. “And from what he told me, he was right. You’re the one who undermined him and made him feel like he was a problem.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but Y/N stepped out into the hallway, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “Look, Mr. Wayne, I get that you care about him in your own… specific way. But if you want to keep him in your life, maybe stop treating him like he’s the black sheep who’ll never measure up to your perfect little code. Because right now? You’re the only one who can make him feel like this, and that’s not the kind of impact someone who ‘cares’ should have.”

Bruce’s face didn’t betray much, but Y/N caught the faint flicker of something—guilt, maybe—in his eyes. Still, he didn’t budge. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“No,” Y/N said calmly, stepping back into the apartment and beginning to close the door. “But it is for tonight. Goodnight, Mr. Wayne.”

With that, he shut the door, turning back to see Jason watching him from the couch, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Did you really just tell Bruce Wayne to go home?” Jason asked, his lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smirk or shake his head.

“Damn right I did,” Y/N replied, crossing his arms with a small, satisfied huff. “And I’d do it again.”

Jason let out a low chuckle, his hand brushing through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”

“Please,” Y/N shot back with a roll of his eyes. “You act like it’s a big deal. Someone had to say it, and we both know you weren’t going to.” He paused, watching Jason closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And speaking of things you aren’t doing…”

Jason raised an eyebrow, his interest visibly piqued. “Oh? Do tell.”

Y/N leaned forward, tapping Jason’s knee with mock seriousness. “First, you’re going to get off this couch, because moping is not a good look for you. Then, you’re going to help me put away the laundry because I’ve been doing it all day while you were out being Mr. Broody Vigilante. And after that? You’re going to make us both something to eat, because I’m starving and I’m not lifting a finger tonight. You’ve got work to do, big guy.”

Jason blinked, his lips parting slightly in surprise before his expression shifted into something darker, sharper. He cocked his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really?” he drawled, his tone low and deliberate as he sat up straighter. “That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, but he held his ground, leveling Jason with his best faux-bossy glare. “That’s exactly how it’s gonna be. So, get moving, Todd.”

Jason was on his feet before Y/N could blink, towering over him with that quiet, commanding energy that always sent a thrill down his spine. He didn’t say a word at first, just leaned down slightly, his eyes locked on Y/N’s like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You think you’re in charge now?” Jason asked softly, his voice deceptively calm. His hand brushed against Y/N’s jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of his cheek with deliberate slowness. “That’s cute.”

Y/N swallowed hard, refusing to back down even as Jason’s presence enveloped him. “Not cute,” he retorted, his voice wavering just slightly. “Efficient.”

Jason’s smirk widened, and in one swift motion, he scooped Y/N up from the couch, earning a startled yelp that quickly turned into laughter. “Efficient, huh?” Jason murmured, his lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he carried him toward the bedroom. “Let’s see how efficient you are at following orders, then. Because we both know who calls the shots here, don’t we?”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, his breath hitching as Jason pinned him with that intense, unrelenting gaze. “Jason…” he started, but his boyfriend was already laying him down on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore.

“You wanted me to focus on something else,” Jason murmured, leaning over him, his hands braced on either side of Y/N’s head. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve got my full attention now.”

And just like that, Y/N’s carefully constructed plan to distract Jason had backfired spectacularly—not that he was complaining. If there was one thing Jason was good at, it was reminding him exactly who was in charge.

“Alright, Y/N. Truth or Dare,” his best friend asked, a mischievous glint in his eye as the group sat around in a circle during their weekly de-stresser game night. Of course, their version of game night had taken a more explicit turn—totally par for the course with this group.

“Um… truth,” Y/N said hesitantly, already sensing trouble.

“Oh, perfect,” Seth said, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. “Alright, Mr. L/N, the time has come for you to reveal your truth. Are you a bossy power bottom or a slutty, submissive one?”

The room erupted into a mix of laughter and gasps, with a couple of dramatic “oh my God” reactions thrown in for good measure. Y/N’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to form words. Before he could even start to defend himself, someone else chimed in.

“Bro, seriously? What kind of question is that?”

Y/N immediately felt a wave of relief wash over him. “Thank you—finally, someone gets it—”

But then came the follow-up.

“We all know there’s not a dominant bone in his body. If anything, it’s giving brat who likes to be put in his place.”

The room fell silent for half a beat before laughter exploded all around him, punctuated by a few dramatic “damn”s and someone nearly choking on their drink.

Y/N blinked, his brain short-circuiting as the betrayal sank in. “Excuse me?!” he finally managed, his voice high-pitched and offended as he pointed an accusing finger at the culprit.

“I dare you to try and tell me I’m lying,” His friend challenged him with a raised eyebrow. And when Y/N couldn’t formulate a defense for himself, his friend nodded his head knowingly, “Exactly as I thought.”

Because was he actually lying?

“I dare you to tell me I’m wrong,” his friend challenged, one eyebrow arched and a smug smirk tugging at their lips.

Y/N opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out—just the faintest stutter of indignation as his brain scrambled for a defense that simply didn’t exist.

His friend nodded knowingly, leaning back with a triumphant grin. “Exactly what I thought.”

Because, honestly… were they even wrong?

Frankly, if you looked at their relationship as a whole, was it really that surprising?

Jason, in a nutshell, was all rough edges and a protective streak that could rival Fort Knox, but with a kind of intimacy that Y/N never saw coming. It was whiplash in the best way possible. One minute, he was Gotham’s most intimidating vigilante, and the next, he was softly murmuring sweet nothings while holding Y/N like he was the most fragile, precious thing on the planet. Y/N had once joked that Jason was like a human light switch—rough and dominant one moment, soft and needy the next. Now? It was just something he accepted… and secretly loved.

Because the roughness Jason brought into their bed was never just about dominance—it was about claiming. There were nights when Jason would grip Y/N’s hips like he was staking his territory, growling low in his ear as he worked Y/N’s body to the point of trembling. If Jason was feeling particularly territorial—or, as Y/N liked to put it, “possessive alpha wolf mode”—restraints were almost a guarantee. Y/N would be left tied up, squirming and gasping as Jason moved with a kind of intensity that left no room for doubt about who was in control.

And then, like clockwork, came the switch.

Imagine this: a six-foot-something mass of pure muscle and testosterone, who’d just spent the last hour absolutely wrecking Y/N—legs shaking, throat raw from moans that could probably be heard two apartments over—suddenly curling up beside him like the world’s biggest teddy bear. Jason would go from rough, grunting dominance, a man on a mission to leave Y/N marked and molded for days, to nuzzling into Y/N’s neck with soft kisses and quietly demanding to be held like he was the one who’d been put through the wringer.

It was absurd. Completely and utterly absurd. And Y/N? He let it happen every single time. No wonder Jason was so spoiled in their relationship.

What else was he supposed to do when Jason left him in a post-fuck haze so blissed out he couldn’t even remember what year it was? By the time Jason would return from cleaning him up, soft praise slipping from his lips as he gently wiped Y/N down, the fight had already left him. And honestly? Who was Y/N kidding—he didn’t want to fight it. Not when Jason would tuck him against his broad chest like they hadn’t just committed sins the mattress might never recover from.

But here was the kicker: for all the dominance Jason brought into their dynamic, Y/N knew the man craved the quiet moments afterward just as much—if not more. Those moments when Y/N’s hands would slide up into Jason’s hair, gently massaging his scalp, or trace over the faded scars on his chest like they were the most fascinating pieces of art. Jason wouldn’t say much—he didn’t need to. The way he sighed into Y/N’s touch, letting himself completely relax, said everything.

It was a ridiculous dance of give and take: Jason would obliterate Y/N’s body with enough intensity to leave him rethinking all his life choices, only to turn into the world’s biggest cuddle bug immediately after, soaking up every ounce of affection Y/N could give him. And as much as Y/N liked to complain about the whiplash, the truth was that he wouldn’t change a single thing about it.

Because as much as Jason loved being the one in control, Y/N had him wrapped around his finger the moment his fingers slid into Jason’s hair, soothing away the world like only he could. It was a balance only they understood, and it worked in ways no one else could ever pull off.

But it wasn’t just in the bedroom where Jason’s attention shined. Y/N would often catch Jason’s gaze lingering at the most random moments, his blue-green eyes shamelessly raking over him like he was a five-course meal and Jason hadn’t eaten in weeks. Whether it was Y/N lounging around in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, running errands in shorts that rode up just a little too high, or even bundled up in the most unflattering hoodie he owned, Jason’s carnal desire never wavered. If anything, it intensified as their relationship deepened.

Jason didn’t even bother hiding it anymore. Y/N had long stopped being surprised by the firm smack on his ass whenever Jason walked by, followed by the satisfied grin his boyfriend would flash as if to say, Mine.

“Jason!” Y/N would shriek every time, a startled jump or yelp accompanying his protests. But the man never looked the least bit guilty. If anything, he’d double down, grabbing a handful and muttering something along the lines of, “Couldn’t help it,” or, “You’re teasing me.”

The truth? Jason had rules—categories, if you will—when it came to Y/N’s wardrobe. There were outfits Y/N could wear in public, outfits strictly for lounging at home, and then there were the "home only" outfits. And no, "home only" didn’t mean cute loungewear. It was a polite way of saying, for Jason’s eyes only.

“Babe, you’re not wearing that outside,” Jason had said once, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway as Y/N attempted to leave for the gym.

“It’s just a pair of shorts!” Y/N protested, gesturing down at the admittedly form-fitting gym wear that showcased his thighs just a little too well.

“Exactly,” Jason replied, his eyes narrowing. “Those are home shorts. You’re not walking into a gym full of thirsty people in that.”

“Jason, you’re being ridiculous,” Y/N huffed, crossing his arms.

“Maybe,” Jason said with a shrug, stepping forward to wrap his arms around Y/N’s waist. He leaned in, lips brushing against Y/N’s ear as he added in a low voice, “But that doesn’t change anything, now go change..”

And that was that. Jason had an uncanny ability to make his tone very rigid and unyielding, leaving no room for argument which would have Y/N’s protests dying on his lips every time.

Then, there were the outfits Y/N didn’t even get to leave the house in—because they didn’t survive Jason. It had become a running joke between them, the sheer number of shirts, pants, and underwear Jason had destroyed in fits of possessive frustration. If something hugged Y/N’s figure a little too well, Jason didn’t bother holding back. Many an innocent shirt had been ripped clean down the middle, casualties of Jason giving in to his urges.

“Do you have any idea how much you cost me in clothes?” Y/N had grumbled once as Jason stood over him, shirtless and smirking like the devil himself.

Jason had only shrugged, pulling Y/N into his lap. “Then stop wearing stuff that teases me,” he murmured, his lips trailing along Y/N’s neck. “Or don’t. Gives me an excuse to buy you more.”

And buy he did. But let’s be real—certain clothes never lasted long in their relationship. Case in point? The time Y/N ordered a pair of shorts he’d been eyeing for weeks, fully aware that Jason would raise an eyebrow so high it’d disappear into his hairline. Still, in a moment of fuck it impulse, Y/N clicked "add to cart," setting the stage for the chaos to follow.

When the package arrived, Y/N pushed the door open with a huff, struggling to balance the various bags and boxes in his arms as he shuffled into the apartment. “Jason, can you help me?” he called, his voice slightly muffled as he tried not to drop anything.

Jason, sprawled on the couch and scrolling through his phone, glanced up. His eyebrows rose at the sight of his boyfriend buried beneath a mountain of shopping bags. “More clothes?” he asked, standing up and strolling over with a teasing smirk.

“Yes, more clothes,” Y/N shot back, setting his haul down on the kitchen counter. “You know, since someone has a habit of destroying half my wardrobe.”

Jason shrugged, entirely unbothered. “What can I say? Some of them deserved it.”

Rolling his eyes, Y/N began unpacking his bags, pulling out folded shirts, joggers, and a few items that were more… adventurous. As Jason retreated back to the couch, Y/N grabbed one of his new purchases and headed to the bathroom to try it on.

A few minutes later, Y/N emerged, ready to test the waters. He stepped into the living room, his expression smug as he strolled in wearing a pair of black shorts that barely qualified as clothing. The sheer mesh fabric, paired with slits running up the sides, left little—if anything—to the imagination.

Jason glanced up, and his relaxed posture evaporated. His gaze sharpened, his smirk vanishing as his eyes darkened with a possessive glint. “Those,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “are not leaving this apartment.”

Y/N paused, glancing at Jason’s expression before looking down to examine the shorts. “What? These? Oh, come on, they’re gym shorts,” he said, smoothing the fabric over his thighs. “I can’t wait to test them out during leg day.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, his gaze locked on Y/N like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re not wearing those to the gym.”

“Jason, don’t start,” Y/N said, stepping closer to the couch—his first mistake. Paired with the loose, cropped tank he was wearing, the look was downright scandalous. He twirled around playfully, flashing a cheeky grin. “See? They’re nice. Functional.”

Jason didn’t reply. He just sat there, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as Y/N paraded around, pushing the limits. The tension between them was palpable, thickening with every second that Jason didn’t speak. And when Y/N cocked a hip and teased, “What? Don’t like them?”—that was the final straw.

Jason moved so fast Y/N barely registered it. In one fluid motion, he reached out, grabbing the shorts by one of the side slits and yanking hard. The fabric tore with a sharp rip, leaving Y/N stumbling forward with a gasp.

“Jason!” Y/N yelped, his voice equal parts indignation and shock. But before he could gather himself, Jason leaned back on the couch, effortlessly pulling Y/N into his lap. His hands gripped Y/N’s waist, holding him firmly in place as his legs were spread across Jason’s thighs.

“These,” Jason growled, his hands sliding down to Y/N’s exposed skin, “are home-only shorts. Got it?”

Y/N squirmed, pressing his hands against Jason’s chest in a weak attempt to push away. “Jason, you can’t just—”

Another sharp rip interrupted him as Jason’s rough fingers tore at the other slit, leaving the shorts hanging on by mere threads. Y/N gasped, heat rushing to his face as Jason’s hands roamed possessively, smoothing over his bare thighs with deliberate, firm strokes.

“What did I say?” Jason questioned, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down Y/N’s spine. “These are for my eyes only.”

Y/N’s protests dissolved into breathy whines as Jason’s hands tightened around his waist, pulling him closer. A sharp smack landed on Y/N’s rear, drawing a startled yelp, followed by another that left him gripping Jason’s shoulders for balance.

“Stop squirming,” Jason ordered, his tone firm and commanding as he leaned in, his face inches from Y/N’s. His dark gaze pinned Y/N in place as one hand slid to the back of his neck. “You know how this works, sweetheart. You push, I push back.”

Y/N bit his lip, his glare faltering under Jason’s intense stare. At some point, the defiance melted into submission, and their lips collided in a heated, desperate kiss. Jason’s hands never left Y/N’s body, gripping, claiming, and asserting dominance with every touch.

Before Y/N knew it, he was on his knees, Jason standing over him with his pants tugged low enough to reveal just how demanding he was. Y/N didn’t fight it—instead, he leaned into Jason’s command, eager to please the man who had thoroughly dismantled every ounce of his bravado.

By the end of it, Y/N was back on Jason’s lap, legs spread on either side as his body trembled with it being moved roughly up and down on the vigilante’s manhood, his own throbbing hardness rubbing against his boyfriend’s abs as Jason held him close. The only piece of clothing left between them were the shredded remains of the mesh shorts clinging to Y/N’s hips—barely.

Of course, Jason had to replace them with not one, but three new pairs after the fact. But he made it very clear they’d all meet the same fate if Y/N ever dared to wear them outside the apartment.

Did Y/N listen? Absolutely not. Because, let’s be real—he loved pissing Jason off. And honestly? Maybe the whole “brat who likes to be put in his place” thing wasn’t so far off after all.

And, of course, Jason wasn’t the only one who knew how to push buttons. He had his own arsenal of outfits that drove Y/N wild, and he wielded them with precision. Whether it was his compression gear that clung to his chest and arms in ways that made Y/N’s mouth go dry, or his Red Hood attire that practically screamed dominance, Jason loved to see the effect his clothing—or lack thereof—had on Y/N.

“You’re staring,” Jason had teased once, pulling his hoodie over his compression top in the middle of the gym.

Y/N, flustered and blatantly ogling, had tried to recover with a weak, “No, I wasn’t.”

Jason had chuckled, leaning in just enough to murmur, “You were. And I liked it.”

But the real chaos came in the bedroom. Jason, ever the tease, would sometimes refuse to take off his compression shirt or Red Hood pants during sex, fully aware of the primal side it brought out in Y/N.

“Stop, don’t take it off,” Y/N had panted once, his fingers gripping the slick, tight material as Jason tried to pull it over his head. “Leave it on.”

Jason had smirked, leaning down to kiss Y/N’s neck as he growled, “Anything you want, sweetheart.” He knew exactly what he was doing, letting Y/N’s hands wander over the material, the added friction driving him crazy in the best way.

Jason loved pulling that raw, uninhibited side out of Y/N. It was a side only he got to see, and he relished every second of it. Because while Jason loved being the one in control, he also loved seeing Y/N completely undone, lost in the moment with him.

It was, perhaps, a side effect of Jason’s deeply ingrained dominant nature—his unrelenting need to maintain a sense of control over his surroundings and the people within them. Did that mean he saw Y/N as something to control? Absolutely not. But Jason would be the first to admit that the urge to assert himself surfaced now and then. Fortunately, he had found a way to channel it into something far more productive, releasing it in moments of intimacy where it was not only welcomed but eagerly reciprocated.

And those moments of intimacy? They weren’t confined to the bedroom. Jason’s possessiveness bled into every aspect of their lives, a steady undercurrent to the way he loved. His need for control stemmed from a life filled with chaos, and Y/N understood that better than anyone. Whether it was the firm weight of Jason’s hand resting on the back of his neck during a particularly heated moment, or the low, growling reminders of exactly who Y/N belonged to, Jason’s message was always clear: he didn’t just love Y/N—he claimed him, body and soul.

Jason didn’t say much when Y/N walked into their apartment wearing the oversized hoodie. It was one of Jason’s, slightly frayed at the cuffs and just loose enough to drown Y/N’s smaller frame. The sight alone had Jason's lips twitching upward, his ego swelling with unspoken pride. There was something about Y/N wearing his clothes, especially in public, that hit Jason in a way he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t just the visual—it was the claim it represented, the quiet acknowledgment that Y/N was his, and he didn’t even need to say it out loud for the world to know.

“Isn’t this your hoodie?” Y/N asked casually, dropping his bag onto the floor as he walked past Jason toward the kitchen. He sounded innocent, completely unaware of the fire he’d just stoked. “I borrowed it to wear on campus today. It’s so comfy.”

Jason didn’t respond right away, his gaze trailing after Y/N like a predator tracking its prey. He could see how the fabric clung to Y/N’s shoulders and chest, the way the hem barely grazed the tops of his thighs. It was maddening. He let out a slow, measured breath, leaning back into the couch. “Yeah, sweetheart. It’s mine,” Jason finally said, his voice low but even.

Y/N hummed a little as he rummaged through the fridge. “Well, don’t expect to see it for a while. I’m keeping it.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, his fingers tapping against the armrest of the couch. You’re keeping it, huh? The possessive part of his brain whispered promises of retribution, even as he outwardly played it cool. He waited, biding his time.

Later that night, Jason made his move.

Y/N barely had a chance to react before he found himself pinned beneath Jason on the mattress, the hoodie in question already shoved halfway up his torso. Jason’s massive frame hovered over him, his green-blue eyes blazing with a mix of heat and unrestrained hunger.

“You wore my hoodie,” Jason murmured, his voice husky and low, each word dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“Yeah,” Y/N managed to reply, his voice breathless as Jason’s hands slid beneath the fabric, rough palms grazing over his bare skin. “I… I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jason smirked, leaning down until his lips brushed against Y/N’s ear. “I don’t mind, sweetheart,” he whispered. “In fact, I like it. But you should’ve known what that would do to me.”

Before Y/N could respond, Jason’s lips captured his in a searing kiss, stealing the air from his lungs. The hoodie bunched awkwardly around Y/N’s chest as Jason adjusted their positions, one hand pinning Y/N’s wrists above his head while the other roamed freely, kneading his thighs and gripping his waist.

Jason moved slowly at first, rocking his hips in a deliberate rhythm that had Y/N arching up into him. The friction of the hoodie’s fabric against their heated skin was intoxicating, Jason’s voice dropping into a growl as he murmured filthy words into Y/N’s ear.

“You wore this out in public,” Jason said, his voice dark and possessive as his hand slid up to gently grip Y/N’s throat. “Let everyone see you in my clothes. Do you know what that does to me? Huh? Knowing they all saw you like this, wearing something that smells like me?”

Y/N whimpered, his eyes glassy as he gazed up at Jason. His thighs trembled where they were pressed against Jason’s hips, every sharp thrust pulling more desperate sounds from his lips.

Jason tightened his grip slightly, just enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through Y/N without ever crossing the line. “Next time,” Jason growled, his pace rough and demanding now, “ask me first. Or better yet, let me put it on you myself. Because when you wear this, it’s not just a hoodie—it’s a mark. A reminder to everyone who you belong to.”

Y/N’s head lolled back against the pillow, his hands twisting beneath Jason’s unyielding grip. His voice was barely above a whisper as he replied, “Yours, Jason. I’m yours.”

That was all Jason needed. He buried himself deeper, his hand slipping from Y/N’s throat to cup his jaw as he captured his lips again. By the time they were both spent, the hoodie had become an even bigger mess—damp with sweat and stretched beyond repair. Jason lay beside Y/N, his chest rising and falling as he dragged a hand over the faint marks he’d left on Y/N’s neck.

“You’re not wearing this hoodie out again,” Jason murmured, his tone soft now, though no less firm.

Y/N let out a sleepy laugh, snuggling closer to Jason’s side. “Good thing you’ve got plenty more for me to borrow.”

Jason chuckled, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s temple. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Y/N smirked, his eyes fluttering shut. “Not a chance.”

Jason let out a soft laugh, wrapping his arms around Y/N and pulling him closer. Because for all his possessiveness, all his need to dominate and claim, it was moments like this—holding Y/N close, feeling the steady beat of his heart—that reminded him what all of it was really for. Y/N couldn’t help but smile to, because no matter how overwhelming Jason’s love could be, it was also the safest place Y/N had ever known.

Yeah, their love really was like no other. Y/N could absolutely understand why people envied and praised their relationship—it was intense, chaotic, and tender all at once, the kind of connection that made rom-coms look bland by comparison. If he were in their shoes, he’d probably be gushing about it too. Hell, he already did, and he was living it.

But honestly? The next person who came up to him with the audacity to ask if Jason was single was about to catch hands. Y/N normally wasn’t the jealous one in their relationship as it’s been made clear—normally—but there were limits. And some people clearly didn’t know what those limits were.

Just ask that bitch, Xavion…

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[pittsick]

DEAN WINCHESTER WHEN HE... JERKS OFF.

Dean doesn’t make a habit of jerking off every day — not because he doesn’t want to, but because life on the road doesn’t always leave space for indulgence. Between monster hunts, motel walls thin as paper, and Sam always somewhere too close, he’s learned restraint. But when he does give in to it, it’s intense, lazy, and always personal.

He’s not the type to rush. Dean touches himself like a man who knows exactly what he likes — because he does. He’s had enough years, enough experience, to know his own body down to the last twitch. He likes to take his time with it when he can. The lights low. A beer half-finished on the nightstand. Classic rock humming low in the background, or the echo of a motel’s busted AC unit masking the quiet groans he doesn’t mean to let slip.

He’s visual. Always has been. Maybe it’s a woman he met at a dive bar, maybe it’s someone he can’t have, or maybe—when he’s alone and no one’s asking questions—it’s you. Your voice, your mouth, your thighs, the sound you’d make if he just—

Yeah. That gets him.

Dean starts slow. A palm dragging over the bulge in his jeans. Sometimes through denim until the friction’s too much and he’s muttering curses, popping the button open like he’s starved. He’ll tilt his head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as he wraps a rough hand around himself, thumb smearing over the head. His mouth goes slack, breath heavy, jaw flexing as his rhythm builds.

There’s no performance in it. Dean doesn’t care about looking pretty. His hips shift, his abs flex, and when he moans, it’s quiet but raw. He groans your name sometimes — not even realizing it. Sometimes loud, like he’s imagining you beneath him, his hand not his own, your skin hot and tight around him.

And if he’s feeling really desperate? He’ll spit in his palm, grit his teeth, and fuck up into it like he’s chasing the memory of someone he shouldn’t miss. His eyes stay half-lidded, staring up at the ceiling, until they roll back the second he loses control. He curses when he comes, one hand over his mouth or gripping the sheets. It’s messy. Real. He never lasts long when he’s thinking of you.

Afterward, he’s quiet. Not ashamed — never that — but thoughtful. He’ll clean himself up with the nearest ragged tee or motel towel, then lie back and breathe for a while. Maybe he’ll light up a cigarette, if he’s really in his head about it. Maybe he’ll knock back the rest of his drink. Maybe, if you’re in the next room, he’ll glance at the door like he’s wondering what it’d feel like if you walked in, caught him red-handed, and decided to help him finish next time.

Because the truth is… Dean jerks off like a man who’s always half hoping you are watching.

[raddixie]

In a world where certain powers are branded as curses, those who bear them are quietly erased from public life—sent to an isolated institution disguised as a prestigious “private school.” There, they’re taught to suppress their abilities. To be safe. Palatable. Normal.

But behind the sterile courtyards and ever-watching eyes, something festers. The halls echo with stories no one dares to repeat. And some students… simply disappear. No one talks about them. No one asks. Staff gets colder, and the rules get stricter.

You are one of the cursed—harboring a truth even the institution doesn’t understand. As the cracks begin to show, you’ll uncover secrets buried beneath concrete and silence. But the deeper you dig, the more you risk losing yourself—to the power inside you, and to the place that wants to bury you with the rest.

Because here, being cursed isn’t the worst thing you can be. Being noticed is.

“They say it’s harmless, and I let them believe it. But if they ever saw what it costs me to stay this quiet… they wouldn’t just scream. They’d disappear.” — MC

Genre: Dark Academia, horror, mystery, supernatural, thriller.(+18)

Demo Release : To Be Announced

Now there's an official discord server :

Customize your main character’s gender, appearance, personality, and sexuality.

Your choices will shape the MC’s purpose, morality, and ultimate ending.

Rebel against the system—or conform to survive.

Romance, befriend, or antagonize one of six uniquely powerful individuals.

Hadrian – 20 (He/Him)

Power: Can temporarily raise the dead, though they only obey him while reanimated.

Personality: Calm, burdened, protective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Ash-brown, slightly wavy hair kept medium-length. Deep forest-green eyes. Pale skin with dark under-eyes and pronounced eye bags. 6'3

Style: Minimalist and somber—black turtlenecks, layered coats, heavy boots. Wears a silver ring on a chain from someone important.

Mannerisms:– Stands still while others move, like he's observing. Rarely speaks. Avoids eye contact when emotional. His hands are always cold.

Quote:

"You shouldn’t follow me into the dark. Not everyone comes back from it… and I won’t be able to pull you out."

—

Fenric – 22 (He/Him)

Power: Sees others’ fates and can alter them—at the cost of self physical harm.

Personality: Brave, impulsive, stubborn, self-sacrificing.

Appearance: Jet-black, slightly messy short hair. Piercing icy-blue eyes that shimmer when his power activates. Deep tan skin with cool undertones. 5'11".

Style: Urban-street layers—hoodies, worn sneakers, bandages. He wears a thread bracelet, knotting it each time he changes a fate.

Mannerisms: Winces at visions. Bites his cheek when frustrated. Uses sarcasm to mask pain. Frequently checks the time.

Quote:

"I already saw how this ends. But hey—just for you, I’m willing to rewrite it… no matter the cost."

—

Elias – 19 (He/Him)

Power: Feeds on strong emotions—leaving others drained.

Personality: Charismatic, sarcastic, intense; a wild card.

Appearance: Thick, tousled chestnut-brown hair. Hypnotic amber-gold eyes. Warm caramel skin with sun-kissed undertones. 6'1".

Style: Ripped jeans, vintage tees, layered jewelry. Smells of smoke and sandalwood. Has tattoos that seem to subtly shift in certain light.

Mannerisms: Smirks constantly. Leans close when emotions are high. Always fiddling with a lighter or coin.

Quote:

"Careful, darling. Feel too much around me, and you’ll be left emptier than you knew you could be."

—

Lira – 21 (She/Her)

Power: Sees the future in her dreams.

Personality: Quiet, introspective, emotionally distant.

Appearance: Long, straight silvery-white hair, usually worn loose. Pale lavender eyes that glow faintly in sunlight. Porcelain skin with cool undertones. 5'5".

Style: Ethereal—flowing skirts, high-collared blouses, shawls. Often barefoot indoors. Wears a crystal pendant for protection.

Mannerisms: Blinks slowly while thinking. Hums to herself. Sometimes pauses mid-sentence when experiencing a vision.

Quote:

"I dreamed of you before we met. You were smiling… but the world around you was falling apart."

—

Nova – 24 (She/Her)

Power: Can twist or erase memories

Personality: Loyal, stubborn, protective, combative when provoked.

Appearance: Dark auburn hair tied back in a practical ponytail. Sharp hazel eyes flecked with gold. Deep brown skin with warm undertones. 5'9".

Style: Tactical streetwear—cropped jackets, combat boots, hidden pockets. Wears a utility belt at all times.

Mannerisms: Crosses her arms when thinking. Instinctively positions herself between others and danger. Rests her hand near her hip, ready to act.

Quote:

"I’ll protect what matters—even if that means taking something from your mind you weren’t ready to lose."

—

Selen – 20 (She/Her)

Power: Controls and manipulates emotions.

Personality: Calculating, cunning, deeply wounded by past rejection.

Appearance: Blonde hair, sleek and shoulder-length. Cold gray eyes. Smooth, cool beige skin. 5'7".

Style: Dark elegance— loves makeup, bold lipstick, sleek eyeshadows. Wears an intoxicating perfume. Can't go anywhere without her phone.

Mannerisms: Smiles when angry. Tilts her head while reading people. Uses touch strategically—to comfort or unnerve.

Quote:

"Don’t flatter yourself—I don’t need powers to make you feel something. I just know exactly which part of you to break."

Content Warning:

False Grace explores dark and mature themes, including emotional manipulation, trauma, mental health struggles, death, institutional abuse, gaslighting, and body autonomy.

May include references to:

Psychological distress

Violence and blood

Graphic depictions of death and corpses

Emotional and memory manipulation

Themes of disappearance, isolation, and loss of identity

Sexual content (optional)

Player discretion is advised.

—

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

This is my first original interactive fiction—and honestly, my first original work ever. (I also don't know how to English cause....yeah..) I used to write fanfics (but we don’t talk about that…), so diving into something this big has been both terrifying and thrilling.

False Grace is still very much a work-in-progress. I’m learning as I go—coding, design, pacing, everything—but this project means the world to me. It’s my biggest undertaking so far… and probably my angstiest, too.

I’m nervous to share it, but also so excited to share it with the rest of you (hopefully soon)

@interact-if

[eurydiceauxenferswrites]

How They Fall Asleep With You- Avengers Domestic/Retirement AUs 

Just sleep, you perverts, lol. I’ll happily update with any character y’all want upon request (while I use MCU gifs, I’m happy to also include non MCU Marvel characters). This is pure wish fulfillment for me; not sharing a bed with my favorite characters, having a normal and functional sleep schedule.

Steve Rogers: Regardless of when you typically sleep, Steve will be ready and in bed by 9 o’clock sharp. If you’re a later sleeper he’ll stay up reading the news until you’re ready to head to bed, no matter how late. He prefers to stay on his back, with his hands folded on his stomach.

It takes you a bit to realize this, but his adaptability isn’t just because he loves you; Steve doesn’t actually sleep more than a few hours a night. He stays awake, staring at the ceiling for hours, just thinking. He tells you not to worry about it, because his enhanced body doesn’t actually doesn’t need all that much sleep, but you know it’s a half truth. So you do what you can to help rest a little easier, cuddling, back rubs, warm milk, whatever helps. He really does appreciate the effort you put in to make him feel loved and, frankly, to feel human again.

Also sorry for those hoping to see our dear Captain in his boxers but he wears long underwear to bed, force of habit, you don’t want to catch your death of cold whilst sleeping after all!

Bucky Barnes: You know that feeling you get when you oversleep and then you absolutely cannot fall asleep again the next night, like your sleep bar is overfull? Yeah that’s Bucky all the time. So he just doesn’t sleep with you, he helps you get ready for bed, kisses you good night, and then leaves the bedroom to do… whatever it is he does at night (he never leaves the house, though, he’s quite a homebody). If you’re a light sleeper you’re often woken up by sounds of video games, or talking, or the smell of cooking. One time you even woke up to a fire alarm because he was making grilled cheese at 3 in the morning.

When Bucky does finally sleep, he’ll crash out wherever he’s sitting, so you’ve found him snoozing on the couch, on the stairs, face first in a bowl of cereal, you name it. You usually give him a kiss, gently slip a pillow under his head, and let him get the his well deserved rest. He doesn’t have any pajamas, just some comfy boxers and ratty old t-shirts.

Natasha Romanov: You thought it was kismet how well your sleep schedules matched. You went to bed at the same time every night and woke up at the same time every morning. Just another reason why you two were such a great couple.

Until the first time you woke up in the middle of the night and realized Natasha was gone, entirely gone, not only from the bed but from the house. That’s when you found out that, actually, Natasha doesn’t have a normal sleep cycle. No don’t get me wrong, unlike our super soldier boys she does get her 8 hours, but she has a polyphasic sleep cycle, its part of her red room training. She only sleeps for 15 minutes at a time at most split intermittently throughout the day. So no, she wasn’t lying when she said she goes to sleep and wakes up with you, she just left out the parts in between. When she’s not in bed with you, she goes jogging, runs errands or hangs out with her other nocturnal friend Bucky Barnes.

Nat is the second most likely Avenger to wear lingerie to bed, silky lacy clingy slips are her go to. She knows how much you love to see her in it, she gets a kick out of watching you flush as she slips under the covers with you. But it absolutely melts her heart that you find her just as beautiful with messy hair and an oversized tee, that you love every aspect of her, not just the polished mask she’s so used to wearing.

Tony Stark: He is very particular about his bedroom specifications (projecting my Sensory Processing Disorder let’s goooooo). The temperature has to be precisely room temp, the AC humming just so, the sheets a the sheets a 45% cotton 55% rayon blend, and the night light at 3260K (within a 10K range), or else he cannot sleep a wink. And even then his sleep schedule is a complete disaster because he when he’s diving into a project he lacks the self control to go to stop his work and go to bed (mood).  He never wakes up at the same time either, sometimes he’s bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5:30 AM, sometimes he’s snoozing until noon.

He talks in his sleep, lol can’t shut up even when unconscious, his muttering range from sweet (“…hey…love you so much, you know? love you…”) to sad (“…no no please just a little more time… I can’t save them…”) to just random (“the pickle is covered in sparkles! inedible, you go to space jail”). 

He’s not entirely selfish though, he shares his toys. Has kitted out your bedroom to be state of the art, you both have an adjustable mattress, an automated light system, even a dumbwaiter for breakfast in bed. Anything you need, gorgeous, just say the word. 

Absolutely wears lingerie to bed, the hottest and most impractical he can find. If the paparazzi plan on invading his privacy again, he’s promised to give them a show they’ll never forget. 

Clint Barton: Clint’s sleep has also been majorly affected by his career, but unlike his partner Nat he still sleeps a normal 8 hours at a time. Clint has cultivated the ability to fall asleep anywhere he needs to. He often dozes on the couch next to you while watching tv. As long as he can feel you next to him, as long as he knows you’re safe, he feels safe too. 

When Clint takes off his hearing aid, he’s a very heavy sleeper, almost impossible to wake up. He’s also a very still sleeper, hardly ever moves around, he does snore however. If that bothers you, feel free to flip him to his side, I promise it won’t disturb his beauty sleep at all. He does have pyjama set, unlike some of his teammates he’s a civilized man.

Thor Odinson: Has the classic rich kid sleep schedule; stays up late, sleeps in until brunch. If you’re the sort who prefers an early bedtime, he’ll do his best to not disturb you when he crawls into bed; although, if you’re a light sleeper, you’ll probably notice his clumsy attempts at stealth. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Thor is definitely a mix of pros and cons. The cons: he snores like thunder and he’s a major space hog. The pros: he sleeps entirely nude. He’s also a cuddler and surprisingly soft for such a muscular man. He likes to slip his arm under your head to support it and pull you close while you sleep (although if you’re the sort that prefers their space while sleeping, YMMV on whether this is a perk or not). Also, if you have insomnia of any kind, he’ll stay up as late as you need helping you fall asleep, whispering Asgardian folktales, or even making it rain just so for the perfect white noise. 

Bruce Banner: Bruce has transformed during nightmares before, so he’s honestly somewhat scared of sleeping in the same bed as you, the last thing he wants is to hurt you. If you insist, he’ll try though (“alright, it’s your funeral”). So far, things have been going well; the worst that’s happened is you’ve been accidentally pushed out of bed once or twice, or woken up by oversized grumbling, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying that one day Hulk will hit you in his sleep (accidentally, of course, Hulk is as soft for you as Banner is). Always puts up a pillow wall when he sleeps. Sometimes suffers from insomnia, takes a lot of melatonin gummies. If you have insomnia, he’ll give you the driest densest scientific literature he can find (well, dry to you, to him its fascinating, but he accepts your lack of interest in advances in the modeling of molecular orbital theory for actinides using machine learning programs or whatever dishwater dull nuclear physics he’s reading about this week). Sleeps with nothing on but a pair of super stretchy pants in case of Hulk emergency. Almost always sleeps in the fetal position.

Sam Wilson: Once again winning the Most Adult award, Sam works hard to make sure he has a consistent sleep schedule because he understands how important it is. He’s usually in bed by 8:30-9 and spends an hour or so reading with a nightlight and maybe a cup of tea until he feels sleepy. He’s not especially picky about his sleeping spaces, with one exception; he expects you to respect the sanctity of quiet time. That means no talking, no running around, no tv, maybe some music if he’s feeing crazy. Cuddling is always welcome, of course, as long as he can still read with you curled up in his arms. If you don’t behave he’s happy to banish you to the foldout couch. It’s nothing personal but it’s important to him that he has a chance to decompress at the end of the day and he knows how to set good boundaries. 

Sam wakes up pretty early, around 6, so he can get a morning jog in and get ready for his day. He’ll always cook for you in the morning  and he’ll even make you breakfast in bed if he has the time. Sam wears pajama pants but typically goes shirtless at night. Likes to sleep on his side, facing you, so you’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning.

Loki: Not the easiest person to sleep with. He’s very picky, not in specific details like Tony, more that he expects a certain standard of luxury, a bedroom fancy enough for a prince. He’s also a very selfish bedmate, since he’s not used to sharing his space. He’s a pillow hog and blanket thief and also like, ice cold so if you run hot then that’s great for you but if not, good luck lol). Still, he does like sleeping with you, he’s a clingy sort, so maybe take the L and indulge him once in a while. Goes to bed as late as he pleases and considers waking up before 10 to be “early” in classic royal fashion. 

Has a giant sized plushie he squeezes while sleeping (Ah yes. You, your boyfriend, and his 4 foot tall Jeff the Landshark). Wears the most dramatic slinky old timey night robe ever, it has the tendency to start slipping off ;). 

Frank Castle: Frank had been nocturnal for a long time. He’d get restless sleep in the day, in the back of his van or in a safe house, usually in a sleeping bag and a pile of laundry, and of course without changing or brushing his teeth. 

Since moving in with you, he’s tried to clean up his act. He gets in bed and wakes up around the same time as you (assuming you have a somewhat regular sleep schedule, if not he’s in at 10ish and up at 6:30ish), he has pajamas you bought together and always takes a shower right before bed, he’s slowly being re-domesticated. Frank always makes the bed after you’ve both woken up, force of habit from his military training. His alarm clock is set at the lowest level but he still jumps out of bed like somebody’s crashed a cymbal next to his ear, his vigilante past has left him pretty high strung. He’s also plagued by nightmares, of the death of his family, of the horrors he’s seen, of you suffering the same fate. He twists around and whimpers in his sleep, the best way to stop them is to cuddle, nothing helps him sleep like being the big spoon, feeling you safely tucked inside his arms. 

[sophiewritesworld]

Chained - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size female Reader Warning: MDNI 18+, porn with a tiny plot Summary: Eddie and you finally get to try the handcuffs after he joked about them and you just gave him the green light.

The air in Eddie's trailer hums with the low crackle of a Metallica cassette spinning in his ancient stereo, the kind of background noise that makes everything feel a little more electric. You're sprawled on his bed, the patchwork quilt soft under your curves, your oversized Iron Maiden tee riding up just enough to show a sliver of your plush hips.. Eddie's across the room, rummaging through a drawer with that chaotic energy he never quite shakes, his dark curls bouncing as he mutters to himself.

"Swear I put 'em in here," he says, tossing a couple of D&D manuals onto the floor. "Not like I'm cuffing people every day, y'know?"

You laugh, propping yourself on your elbows, the motion making your body shift in a way that catches his eye. He pauses, ringed fingers frozen mid-search, and gives you that lopsided grin that still sends your heart into a tailspin. "What?" you ask, arching a brow.

"Nothin'," he drawls, but his gaze lingers on the way your shirt clings to your chest, your softness a contrast to the sharp edges of his world. "Just... you look good on my bed. Real good."

Heat creeps up your neck, but you play it cool, kicking a leg out to nudge his thigh as he finally pulls a par of silver handcuffs from a drawer. They dangle from his finger, glinting in the dim light of the lava lamp on his nightstand. "Found 'em," he announces, like he's just unearthed treasure. "You still wanna try this, sweetheart?"

You nod, your stomach fluttering with a mix of nerves and excitement. You and Eddie have been together long enough to explore each other’s bodies with confidence—his calloused hands worshipping every curve, every roll, every inch of you—but this is new. The idea came up a week ago, half-joking over pizza, when he’d teased about “locking you up” for stealing his last slice. The heat in his eyes when you’d said, “Maybe I’d let you,” had planted the seed.

Now, here you are, watching him twirl the cuffs like they’re an extension of his stage persona—confident, a little cocky, but with that undercurrent of care that makes you trust him completely. He kneels on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and crawls toward you, his ripped jeans scraping against the quilt. “Ground rules,” he says, voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that does things to you. “You say stop, we stop. You say slow, we slow. You say ‘Eddie, you’re a genius,’ I’ll probably agree.”

You snort, but your pulse quickens as he straddles your thighs, careful not to press too hard. His hands find your wrists, thumbs brushing over your pulse points. “You’re sure?” he asks again, softer now, his brown eyes searching yours.

“I trust you,” you murmur, and it’s the truth. Eddie’s never made you feel anything less than adored, his affection a steady anchor in a world that hasn’t always been kind to your body. He leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re breathless, your fingers curling into his hair.

When he pulls back, he’s got that mischievous glint in his eye. “Arms up, princess,” he says, and you obey, stretching your arms toward the headboard. The metal of the cuffs is cool against your skin as he clicks one around your wrist, then loops the chain through a slat in the headboard before securing the other. The click echoes in the quiet, and you tug lightly, testing the restraint. It’s firm but not tight, leaving you just enough give to squirm.

Eddie sits back on his heels, admiring his work. “Well, damn,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you.” His hands skim down your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. “All mine, huh?”

Your breath hitches as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, and the promise in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Eddie’s hands are everywhere but where you want them, and it’s driving you wild. He’s still straddling you, his weight a comforting pressure, but he’s taking his sweet time, savoring the way you’re laid out beneath him, wrists bound and body open. The handcuffs rattle softly as you shift, the sensation of being restrained amplifying every touch, every glance.

He starts at your neck, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath warm and teasing. “You smell so good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at your skin. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up to expose your stomach, and he pauses, eyes darkening with that reverent look he gets when he sees you bare. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, and it’s not just a line—Eddie means it, every word a balm to any lingering insecurities.

His fingers trace patterns over your belly, dipping into the soft give of your flesh, and you squirm, the cuffs clinking as you tug against them. “Eddie,” you whine, half-laughing, half-desperate. “You’re teasing.”

“Am I?” he asks, all mock innocence, but the smirk on his face gives him away. He leans down, kissing a slow path across your collarbone, then lower, his curls tickling your skin as he nuzzles the tops of your breasts. Your bra is still on, a lacy number you picked just for tonight, and he groans softly as he cups you through it, thumbs brushing over the fabric. “This is torture for me too, y’know,” he says, voice rough. “Wanna touch every inch of you at once.”

“Then do it,” you challenge, arching your back to press yourself closer. He chuckles, low and wicked, and finally tugs your bra down, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry gaze. His mouth is on you in seconds, kissing, licking, worshipping, and the sensation is overwhelming, your hands straining against the cuffs as you try to touch him.

“Can’t,” you gasp, the metal biting gently into your wrists. “Eddie, I wanna—”

“Shh,” he soothes, looking up at you with those big, soulful eyes. “Let me take care of you.” His hands roam lower, skimming the waistband of your leggings, and he hooks his fingers into them, tugging slowly. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart,” he says, and you do, letting him peel the fabric down, leaving you in just your panties.

He pauses again, sitting back to take you in, and the way he looks at you—like you’re a work of art, like you’re everything—makes your chest ache. “You’re perfect,” he says, almost to himself, and then he’s moving again, hands gliding up your thighs, squeezing the softness there. He spreads your legs gently, settling between them, and your breath catches as he kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate.

“Eddie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. He looks up, grinning, and there’s something almost feral in his expression, tempered by the tenderness in his touch.

“Patience,” he says, but his own voice is strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. He kisses higher, closer, and you’re trembling, the cuffs a constant reminder that you’re at his mercy—and loving every second of it. His hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your softness as he kisses you through your panties, the thin fabric a maddening barrier. You’re panting now, your body arching toward him, the handcuffs rattling as you pull against them, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer.

"Eddie, please," you beg, and the sound of your voice- needy, raw- sees to snap something in him. He growls softly, a sound that vibrates through you, and hooks his fingers into your panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits you, and you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as he finally, finally gives you what you want.

He’s relentless, his tongue and lips working you with a skill that makes your head spin, each movement precise yet hungry. Your thighs tremble, and he holds them steady, his rings cool against your skin. The cuffs keep your hands pinned, and the helplessness only heightens the sensation, every nerve ending alight as he pushes you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled but fervent, and the vibration sends a jolt through your body. You’re moaning now, loud and unashamed, and he loves it, you can tell—his eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and wild, and the connection is electric.

You’re close, so close, and he knows it, slowing just enough to draw it out, to make you feel every second. “Eddie,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the sound pushing you right to the brink. When you finally shatter, it’s like a wave crashing over you, your body shaking, the cuffs clanking as you writhe against them. He doesn’t stop, not until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless beneath him.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch he can reach, and when he reaches your face, he’s grinning, his lips glistening. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, still catching your breath, and he kisses you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on him. It’s intimate, overwhelming, and you tug at the cuffs again, wanting to wrap your arms around him. “Let me out,” you murmur against his lips. “Wanna touch you.”

“Not yet,” he says, smirking. “I’m not done with you.” He shifts, pulling off his shirt, and you drink in the sight of him—lean muscle, scattered tattoos, the faint scars from his past. He’s beautiful, and he’s yours. His jeans are next, and when he’s down to his boxers, he settles over you, the weight of him grounding you even as your heart races.

He kisses you again, hands roaming, and you feel him, hard and ready against your thigh. “You want this?” he asks, voice low, and you nod, desperate for him. He reaches for the nightstand, grabbing a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on, his movements quick but careful.

When he pushes into you, it’s slow, deliberate, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and the cuffs make it all the more intense, your body completely open to him. He moves, steady at first, then faster, his lips never far from yours, whispering praise and filth in equal measure.

Eddie’s pace is relentless now, each thrust driving you higher, your body arching to meet him despite the cuffs holding you in place. The headboard creaks, the handcuffs rattle, and the trailer is filled with the sounds of you—moans, gasps, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. His hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly to hit just the right angle, and you cry out, the pleasure almost too much. “Look at you,” he pants, his voice rough with need. “So fucking beautiful.” His curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are locked on yours, intense and adoring. You feel worshipped, cherished, and the way he moves, the way he fills you, makes you feel like the only thing that matters in his world.

You’re climbing again, the coil in your belly tightening, and he senses it, leaning down to kiss you, his tongue mirroring the rhythm of his hips. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and it’s a command wrapped in a plea. You do, your body seizing as the orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first, your vision blurring as you clench around him.

He groans, his rhythm faltering, and you know he’s close. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he gasps, and with a few more thrusts, he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he buries himself deep. For a moment, you’re both still, breathing hard, connected in every way that matters.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you, and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You’re incredible,” he says, voice soft now, and you smile, still dazed. He reaches up, fumbling with the cuffs, and finally frees your wrists, rubbing them gently where the metal left faint marks.

“You okay?” he asks, inspecting your skin, and you nod, pulling him down for a kiss. Your arms are sore but you don’t care, wrapping them around him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Better than okay,” you say, and he grins, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest.

The Metallica tape has long since stopped, leaving just the hum of the trailer and the sound of your breathing. Eddie’s hands trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel safe, loved, utterly content. “So,” he says after a while, his voice playful again. “Handcuffs. Yay or nay?”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “Yay. But next time, you’re wearing them.”

His eyes light up, that mischievous spark back in full force. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, pulling you closer. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - c. two

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄.

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 →

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: One TMZ headline later, and the internet is in a full-blown meltdown. You should’ve known that sneaking out of Ellie Williams’ hotel at sunrise was a disaster waiting to happen. Now the whole world thinks you and Ellie are dating, and there’s only one way out—lean into the chaos. A fake relationship was never part of the plan, but if anyone can pull it of, it’s the two of you… right? 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 6,8k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: unserious and chaotic as HELL lmao, fake dating, mostly dialogue, memes and brainrot stuff, LOTS of cursing, pet names, fluff if you squint, use of y/n, modern au, smoking weed, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N’s MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥

Los Angeles, CA – Buckle up, internet, because today’s tea is so hot it might spontaneously combust. Early this morning, global pop sensation y/n was spotted making a very interesting exit from The Four Seasons—an exit that screamed, “I made some choices, and I’ll be dealing with the consequences (happily) later.”

Let’s paint the picture: baggy jeans (very much not hers), an oversized tee (suspiciously familiar), last-night heels, and, most importantly, the kind of walk that suggests she just lived through an... experience.🔥

VIDEO ATTACHED: y/n stepping out of The Four Seasons with the posture of someone who just discovered new life-altering truths about herself.

And now, the cherry on top? The hotel in question just happens to be the same one where rock’s reigning heartbreaker and The Fireflies' frontwoman, Ellie Williams, has been staying during the band's sold-out tour.

Yeah. Let THAT sink in.

THE NIGHT BEFORE: PURE CHAOS

Last night, the musicians were first spotted together at a private club in West Hollywood, and the energy? Dangerous. We’re talking intense eye contact, whispered words, and a proximity that had no business being that close. 👀

Sources inside the club (who, let’s be real, were probably staring way too hard) claim the two were “all over each other the entire night.” And then, like clockwork—both gone. Together.😏

PICTURE ATTACHED: y/n and Ellie at the bar, drinks in hand, leaning in so close they might as well be sharing oxygen.

Fast-forward a few hours, and one of them is leaving a luxury hotel in borrowed clothes, while the other is nowhere to be seen. Hm...

THE INTERNET: INSTANTLY UNHINGED

It’s not every day that the two of the most famous artists on the planet accidentally break the internet with a single walk of shame. It took exactly 0.2 seconds for Twitter—sorry, X—to collectively lose its mind. #YNxEllie shot to the top of the trending list faster than lighting, and the reactions? Pure, unfiltered, internet gold.

Some fans are calling it the rock-pop crossover event of the decade. Others are in full denial, muttering “it’s just a one-time thing” like a prayer (lol, sure). And then there’s the fanfic writers, who are already on their second chapter about this very moment.

Meanwhile, our two leads? Radio. Silence.

No wry Instagram stories. No cryptic tweets. No emergency PR statements. Just Ellie, cool as ever, casually liking a meme about getting your clothes stolen from “the girl you spent all night ruining.” 😭🙃

SO, WHAT HAPPENS NOW?

We wait. Impatiently.

Is this just an iconic but questionable decision? Will y/n post a cryptic thirst trap in retaliation? Will Ellie respond with an even more cryptic Instagram story? Or are we witnessing the birth of music’s next power couple?

One thing’s for sure—this is a story we’ll be watching very closely.

Stay tuned. 😏🔥

What do YOU think? Drop your theories in the comments below! ⬇️🔥

────────────

❤️ 10M — 💬 287,54k

@: this isn’t just a hookup. this is the lesbians Super Bowl. 

@: tears in my eyes. full body worship. standing ovulation. whatever it’s called.

@: “mysterious walk of shame” NAH SHE CLOCKED IN, DID OVERTIME, AND LEFT WITH A RAISE 💀

@: not her texting the driver like “can’t feel my legs send help” 😭 icon.

@: someone check on the poor girl ellie this wasn’t a leave her paralyzed challenge

@: THE SECOND PIC. YALL. THEY LOOK SO GODDAMN FINE I’M CHEWING DRYWALL AND DRINKING THE DUST 😩

@: i need them to either hard launch or drop a sex tape at this point because my soul is restless

@: this is the most lesbian thing I’ve ever seen and I was THERE for korrasami and caitvi.

@: i just KNOW Ellie’s strap game goes absolutely feral and that walk was all the proof I needed #cravethat #scientificallyproven

@: pop mother got her back blown OUT

@: #elliehititrawandnowshestrending

@: they are either deeply in love or just HORRENDOUS at sneaky links. either way, I win.

@: tmz trynna act like we don’t instantly recognize Ellie’s entire wardrobe on her lmao

@: she defo picked those on purpose and you can't convince me otherwiseeee

@: the way we all clocked those clothes immediately like homegirl has worn that same fit 67 times this year and counting

@: Ellie dresses like a divorced dad at Home Depot but somehow y/n wearing her clothes is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen

@: one-night thing my ass. drop the collab album. drop the wedding invites. drop the baby name.

@: I have no idea what's going on but I support them!

The studio is cold. Too cold.

You lean against the massive soundboard, eyes heavy with exhaustion as the producer fine-tunes the levels on your latest track. The bass hums through the speakers, deep and rhythmic.

You got home, showered, and walked into the studio like nothing happened. Like you weren’t still replaying everything in your head—the heat of her hands, the weight of her body, the way she— Nope. Not going there.

The only thing keeping you upright is sheer force of will and the coffee clutched in your hands, now lukewarm but still packing enough caffeine to keep your legs from betraying you in front of the expensive equipment.

But something feels off.

Nobody is looking at you.

Nobody is saying anything.

The thing is, your team is never quiet. They talk about everything—schedules, brand deals, what the fuck you’re eating for lunch—but today? Nothing. Just silence.

Not a single offhand comment. No teasing about the all-nighter you clearly pulled. Not even a glance in your direction.

Your producer is laser-focused on the track, nodding along like it holds the meaning of life. Your sound editor keeps his eyes glued to the screen, like looking anywhere else might kill him. And your assistant—sweet, terrible liar that she is—won’t stop sneaking glances at her phone, then at you, then at her phone again, like she’s watching a train wreck in real time and trying to figure out when to break the news that you’re the train.

Slowly, you set your coffee down, reach for your own phone, and unlock it, already feeling the creeping dread claw up your spine.

The second your screen lights up, it’s over. Notifications flood in. X. Instagram. Texts. Group chats blowing up like a damn stock market crash. Millions of mentions. Your name trending in bold, blaring letters.

And then you see it.

TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N'S MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥

You suck in a breath—a sharp, audible gasp that cuts through the eerie silence.

Your assistant makes a tiny, distressed sound. Your producer visibly flinches, finally daring to glance at you. Your sound editor—wise, blessedly silent—just pauses the track.

Your fingers move faster than your brain, scrolling in blind panic. Pictures. Too many fucking pictures.

The first one is a grainy, low-lit shot of you and Ellie at the bar—bodies too close, drinks in hand, faces inches apart. The kind of tension that crackles even through a shitty phone camera. The next? A ruthless side-by-side comparison of Ellie’s Instagram post from last week. Same shirt. Same jeans. The exact ones you walked out wearing.

And then—because the universe is a cruel, twisted place—the final nail in the coffin.

A video.

Of you.

Sneaking out of her hotel.

You hit play, and instantly regret every life choice that led you there. Because why the fuck were you walking like that?!

Not just suspicious. Not just guilty. But the kind of unsteady, post-life-changing-experience walk that has the entire internet foaming at the mouth, legs barely cooperating like you just left the scene of a particularly intense crime.

Your soul exits your body, ascends to the ceiling, and refuses to come back down.

Your phone starts ringing. And you already know who it is. For a brief, fleeting moment, you consider launching the damn thing across the room.

Because of course it’s Rachel.

Your manager and professional-life mastermind. The woman who negotiates your million-dollar deals before breakfast. And, apparently, the bane of your existence right now.

You push through the studio doors without explaining a damn thing, the cool air outside hitting your face like a slap. Your head is pounding, fingers digging into your temples like you can physically massage the embarrassment out of your skull.

Your phone still vibrates in your hand. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before answering. The second you do, her voice explodes through the speaker.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You flinch, yanking the phone away from your ear like it might physically protect you. It doesn’t. She’s still yelling, still fully spiraling, and honestly? She has every right to. Because you’re trending. Hard.

And not for your music.

“Before you say anything—”

“ARE YOU SEEING THIS? My phone has been BLOWING UP since 6 AM. Do you understand what you’ve done?!”

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably. Here we fucking go.

“Rachel, I’m so fucking sorry, I never meant for that to happen I didn’t know there were paparazzi outside the hotel! I—”

“THIS IS PERFECT.”

“—know I fucked up”

You pause mid-spiral. Blink. “...Wait, what?”

“You heard me! This is GOLD. This is EVERYTHING. Your fans are losing their minds, the internet is eating this up, and you know what that means?”

“…That I need to delete my existence?”

“That this is going to take both of your careers to the next level.”

Your head is spinning. “Whoa—slow down. The fuck you mean?”

Rachel lets out an exaggerated sigh, like she’s explaining shapes to a toddler. “You need to be interesting. She needs damage control. You both need the press for the upcoming albums. This relationship is everything you need.”

“Relationship?” You nearly choke. “Rachel, we just hooked up. It was a one-time thing, nothing else.”

“Oh... just a one-time thing?”

“Yes!”

“Okay.”

She says it so casually you instantly know she’s about to ruin your life.

“Then fake it.”

“WHAT?”

Your soul leaves your body. Again.

“A fake relationship!” She repeats, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world.

“Oh my god. No. NO. That’s—that’s fucking stupid!"

“Oh, come on, girl.” Rachel groans. “You would be shocked to know how many celebrity couples are fake. Like, 90% of them, and people still eat that shit up like it’s their job. It’s the most effective PR stunt in the history of PR stunts.”

“I don't care! Even if it’s fake, I don’t wanna be in a relationship with her!”

Rachel, clearly unimpressed “Be so fucking for real right now.”

“Listen” she continues, slipping into full Hollywood mastermind mode. “It’s the perfect rockstar-popstar trope that people are gonna LOVE. Some staged dates, some Instagram stories, show up to a few award shows together, write some songs about her for the album—blah, blah, blah. Then, when you both get what you want, you drop a statement about breaking up on good terms because of ‘busy schedules’ or ‘long distance’ or whatever. Boom. Done. Headlines. History.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand down your face, but you can already feel her words getting to you.

“Okay…that does sound kinda iconic...”

You hear her scream.

“BUT” You snap. “I seriously doubt she’s gonna be on board.”

“She has to be. That girl needs to clean up her image immediately. If she wants to keep her career afloat, she needs to say yes." Rachel doesn’t miss a beat. "Honestly, it even benefits her more than it benefits you.”

You press the phone tighter against your ear, your free hand rubbing over your face over and over again as if that’ll somehow erase this chaos unfolding in real-time.

But honestly?

What could go wrong?

So you exhale sharply again.

“Fine, fine. We’ll… debate it.”

“PERFECT! Tell me how it goes!”

There’s a short pause, just long enough for you to think—maybe—this conversation is about to take a serious turn.

And then—

“…So, how was she in bed?”

You nearly drop your phone. “RACHEL.”

“What?! It’s a valid question! I mean, I saw the walk.” A beat. Then, way too smugly “People are even making edits of your limp.”

Okay.

This is officially the worst day of your life.

“We are NOT doing this.”

“Oh, we are ABSOLUTELY doing this.”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. There's no escaping this.

“Was it life-changing or life-threatening? Did she break your back or fix your scoliosis?” 

You stare up at the sky, silently begging for divine intervention. None comes. So, with the weight of someone who has lost everything, you exhale.

“…she made me see fucking Jesus.”

Silence. A beat.

Rachel screams so loud you nearly throw your phone at the window.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT.”

“HANGING UP NOW.”

“NO WAIT!—DID SHE—”

“BYE.”

You slam the End Call button so fast it’s a miracle your screen doesn’t crack.

Blissful, beautiful silence.

For exactly three seconds.

Buzz.

Rachel: COME BACK WE ARE NOT DONE.

Buzz.

Rachel: do I schedule a chiropractor or a priest? 😭

You turn your phone off. Permanently.

It was late, the kind of night where the city hummed low in the background, neon signs bleeding color into the streets.

And Ellie Williams was trying to have a normal band practice.

Trying.

But it was pretty fucking hard when Jesse and Dina were staring at her like she’d just announced she was quitting music to become a full-time televangelist.

She adjusted the strap of her guitar, already irritated. “Can you guys, I don’t know, say something instead of fucking looking at me like that?”

“Oh, we’re just waiting...” Jesse said as he leaned against the drum set, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and grinning like the absolute menace he was.

Dina, perched on an amp, smirked. “Yeah. Just giving you a chance to come clean before we bring out the receipts.”

Ellie scoffed, trying to play it cool. “What receipts?”

Dina wiggled her phone in the air, smirk widening. “Seems like you’ve been very busy, rockstar.”

She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “The fuck are you both talking about!?”

Jesse and Dina exchanged the look. The kind that made Ellie’s patience thin by the second.

Jesse sighed dramatically, putting out his cigarette on the plato like he was about to drop the biggest bombshell of the century. “Alright, since you’re playing dumb—”

He pulled out his phone with the enthusiasm of a man whose sole purpose in life was witnessing Ellie’s downfall. 

“Lemme just read the best part real quick—” And clearing his throat like he was about to give a Shakespearean performance:

“‘Global superstar y/n was spotted leaving Ellie Williams’s hotel early this morning after a rumored all-night rendezvous. Fans immediately noticed the pop star's unusually relaxed wardrobe choice—’”

Dina whistled. “‘—baggy jeans and an oversized tee, both belonging to a certain someone who was seen wearing them just last week—’”

Jesse shook his head, flipping his phone around. “Nah, this is crazy. This is some Oscar-worthy shit.”

Ellie groaned the second she saw the TMZ photo—you stepping out of the hotel in her clothes. And then there was her, leaving an hour later, hoodie up like it could shield her from literally everyone, rubbing the back of her neck like some dumbass who just realized they fucked up in a romcom.

She looked guilty as hell.

He zoomed in on her face, laughing. “Yo, you look like you just realized you caught feelings.”

Dina snorted, scrolling through her phone. “Oh, they are EATING this shit up. Listen to this” —dramatic inhale— “‘They are either deeply in love or just horrendous at sneaky links. Either way, I win.’”

Jesse howled. “‘Someone check on the poor girl—Ellie, this wasn’t a ‘leave her paralyzed’ challenge.’”

Ellie groaned. “You guys—”

“OH MY GOD.” Dina gasped. “SOMEONE JUST MADE A SIDE-BY-SIDE.”

Jesse leaned in. “Caption?”

“‘WHAT IN THE SCISSOR OLYMPICS. GOLD MEDAL PERFORMANCE.”

He collapsed against the drum set, howling even harder. “Nah, this is crazy. You really let her walk outta there like that?! You KNEW what you did. You knew EXACTLY what you were doing.”

Ellie covered her face with her hands. “I hate it here.”

Jesse was thriving, nearly bouncing on his feet like a kid on Christmas morning. “Dude. You bagged y/n. Like, THE Y/N. Pop princess herself. That fine-ass woman writes songs so good they make people crash their cars.”

Dina nodded solemnly. “I crashed twice to ‘Stay.’”

Ellie shot her a look. “First of all, you shouldn’t have a license.” Then at Jesse “Second, can you fucking NOT? We just hooked up. That’s it.”

He just snorted. “Yeah? Tell that to the 40 million people who liked the tweets about it.”

Ellie groaned so loud it could’ve been mistaken for a death rattle. “This is so fucking bad.”

Jesse ignored her, grinning like an absolute menace. “Like, do you even understand the cultural impact of what you’ve done? This is like—” He gestured wildly. “—punk rock meets Billboard Hot 100 hookup of the century!”

Dina smirked. “And judging by the way she was walking? You bodied that shit.”

Ellie scowled. “She was wearing heels all night!”

Dina arched a brow. “So were you gonna say that, or are you just making that up now?”

Ellie opened her mouth. Closed it. Dragged a hand down her face.

Jesse cackled. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She was this close to walking out.

Then, like a gift from hell, her phone started buzzing.

Your name flashed across the screen. Gasps.

Ellie panicked, immediately shoving it in her pocket.

Dina’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—DECLINE Y/N?! Are you fucking STUPID?!”

Jesse shook his head, dead serious. “No, no. Let her cook. Maybe she’s playing hard to get.”

Ellie groaned, yanking her jacket off the chair and making her way to the door. “Practice over. I hope both of you trip over a flight of stairs and eat shit all the way down.”

“Aw, so sweet of you!” Dina beamed. “We’re gonna start picking baby names as soon as you leave.”

Ellie didn’t even look back—just flipped them off on her way out like a parting gift.

The door slammed shut loudly.

A beat of silence.

Then, muffled through the wall—

“AND JESSE STOP SAYING LET HER COOK THE MEME DIED MONTHS AGO.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP NO IT DIDN’T!”

Ellie had barely stepped out of the studio, muttering “Fucking kill me” before calling you back. As soon as you answered, she was quick to be the first one to talk.

“Before you say anything—this is not my fault.”

Your voice came through immediately. 

“Ellie.”

Tone flat. Dead serious.

She hesitated. “…Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Ellie stopped dead in her tracks. Like, full-body malfunction.

Her entire fucking life flashed before her eyes. Marriage. A house. A tiny baby wrapped in a flannel onesie. Joel crying at the babyshower. Dina and Jesse as the weirdly invested godparents.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh, fuck off!”

You howled with laughter. “Not even a little panic? All I got was a one-second existential crisis?”

“Dude. Biology exists.”

Though, if she was being honest, you had her for a solid half-second. She could already hear Joel clearing his throat, preparing for his father-of-the-bride speech, could already see Jesse and Dina clicking through a PowerPoint titled "Ellie Williams: Accidentally Domesticated—A case study."

You scoffed “See, this is why you’re no fun.”

“This is why you're deranged.”

“You love it.”

“No. You need therapy.”

“I have therapy. On Thursdays. Shoutout to Linda.”

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did you actually need something, or was this just a drive-by psychological attack?”

“Oh, you know. Just the minor issue that the entire fucking internet thinks we’re dating?”

Ellie groaned, unlocking her car with a beep. “Technically, we could just ignore it—”

“Ellie.”

“…Yeah, yeah. What’s the damage?”

“Well” you started, voice syrupy sweet, “Not only do I look like I did the world’s sluttiest walk of shame, but people also figured out those were your clothes. And, fun fact! They say you dress like a divorced dad from Home Depot.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“No, I don’t think you understand the severity of it.” Your voice got increasingly dramatic. “People have shipping spreadsheets. They have theories. Someone made a Google doc analyzing our astrology compatibility. Ellie, we are trending #1 WORLDWIDE.”

Ellie ran a hand down her face. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Someone said—direct quote— that this is ‘the lesbian's Super Bowl.' ”

She paused. “That one might be true tho.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit.”

Ellie grinned, leaning back. “Alright, so what’s the move? Damage control?”

A pause. 

“Well…” you said, voice a little too careful, “my manager thinks we should… lean into it.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Another pause.

Then, your voice, even softer now. “Can we… talk in person?”

Ellie immediately clocked the hesitation. “Why do I feel like I’m 'bout to get scammed?”

“You’re not! I just… I’d rather explain in person.”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “…Fine. Where?”

“My place.”

Ellie frowned. “Why yours?”

“Because there’s paparazzi crammed outside the Four Seasons, dumbass.”

…Fair.

She exhaled. “…Yeah. Alright.”

“Cool. I’ll send you the address.”

A beat. Then—

“…Wait” Ellie muttered. “How the fuck did you get my number?”

Silence.

“…Contacts.”

Ellie’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean? Who—”

“Doesn’t matter.” you cut in, then cleared your throat. “Anyway. Can you, uh… give me my dress back? It was custom.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“…Ellie.”

“It might still be on the floor.”

A sharp inhale. “You little shit.”

Ellie smirked as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“On my way, pop star.”

Ellie had barely knocked twice before the door swung open.

And there you were.

Standing in the dim light of your penthouse, arms crossed, drowning in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Your hair was slightly messy, like you’d been curled up somewhere before she got here, and your skin glowed just right under the soft, golden hue of your apartment lights.

“Hey”

“Hey”

She exhaled, stepping inside as you shut the door behind her. She barely had time to take in the space before she realized—this was money.

The penthouse stretched wide, the kind of design meant to make people feel small. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, headlights cutting through the night far below. The furniture was sleek, modern—gray couches, glass tables, designer pieces that looked both expensive and comfortable. A grand piano sat near the window, it's lid closed and a guitar leaning against it, used enough to make Ellie smirk.

But it was the small things that caught her eye. A candle burning low on the counter. A glass of wine next to a notebook cracked open on the coffee table, filled with lyrics. Scribbled, messy. Some lines scratched out, others rewritten in the margins.

“Jesus” she muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Could’ve warned me I was walking into a fucking palace.”

“Says the millionaire.”

Her eyes flicked to you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching like you were amused by her reaction.

She huffed.

“So.”

“So.”

The silence stretched, just a little too thick. A weight neither of you wanted to touch.

Then, finally, you exhaled.

“My manager thinks we should fake date.”

Ellie snorted “Yeah, no shit.”

“She says it’ll be good for both of us.”

She hummed, sauntering over to the couch before sinking into it like she owned the place. Her legs spread wide, hands rubbing over her jeans, shoulders sinking into the cushions. She looked up at you, unreadable.

“And? You wanna do it?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”  Your fingers tapped against the counter, your teeth dragged over your bottom lip. You looked… conflicted. “It’s just—ugh. The thought of staging something like this is so gross.”

You exhaled, tilting your head back. “Pretending to be into you in public? It just feels—”

A beat.

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated.

And there it was. The shift.

“Pretending?” she repeated slowly.

You scowled. “You know what I mean.”

Ellie tilted her head, gaze flicking downward—brief, barely there—before dragging right back up like she knew exactly what she was doing. 

“Do I?”

Your skin flushed, irritation prickling down your spine. She was too comfortable—slouched on your couch like it was hers, fingers drumming against her knee, wearing that look. That lazy, lopsided smirk that made your stomach clench and your heart do backflips.

You muttered. "Cut the bullshit."

Ellie watched you, green eyes sharp, the corner of her mouth curling like she already knew what you were thinking—like she could see straight through you. And maybe she could.

That was the problem.

Because this wasn’t just some business deal, some harmless PR stunt. 

This was Ellie fucking Williams. 

A menace. A woman who flirted like it was her second nature. Who carried herself with the kind of reckless confidence that made people love her and hate her in the same breath. She was sharp, fast-mouthed, and annoyingly charming when she wanted to be. She kissed like she had something to prove and fucked like she knew she was amazing at it. 

She was the kind that didn’t just leave bruises—that left marks.

And now, you are supposed to pretend to be hers. In public. In pictures. In interviews. She’d make it look effortless, like every lingering touch and stolen glance meant everything.

Meanwhile, you’d have to grit your teeth and pretend she wasn’t already under your skin—pretend you don’t know exactly how this will end.

Ellie’s voice pulled you back.

“We can set rules.”

You blinked, exhaling sharply. “Rules?”

She nodded, resting her elbows on her knees. “Yeah. Lines we don’t cross. Shit we don’t do. Make it easier.”

You considered that. It did make sense. Setting boundaries meant this wouldn’t spiral into a complete disaster—just a controlled one.

“…Fine.”

Ellie grinned, tilting her head. “Great. Rule number one—no catching feelings.”

You scoffed, pushing off the counter and taking a sip of your wine. “Oh, trust me, Williams, that was never a problem.”

What a goddamn lie.

Ellie chuckled, dragging a hand over her jaw before settling back into the couch. She watched you a second too long, eyes flicking over you like she was deciding whether to call you on your bullshit. That fucking grin still lingered—lazy, amused. 

She was enjoying this.

You exhaled slowly, setting your wine glass down with a quiet clink. “I got my own rules.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.”

You leveled her with a look. “No strings attached.”

Ellie blinked, then snorted. “Starting off strong.”

“I’m serious,” you said, arms crossing. “No getting weird about anything. We do what we have to do in public, but behind closed doors, it’s our business. No jealousy, no possessiveness.”

Ellie tilted her head, her smirk growing. “So basically, we can do whatever we want?”

You hesitated.

A fraction of a second too long.

Then nodded. “Yeah.”

There was a shift in the air. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. Ellie’s eyes dragged over you—slow, measured, her expression unreadable.

“…Can we still fuck, though?”

Your face didn’t waver, but your stomach clenched, a tiny, unwelcome knot forming deep in your gut.

“Yeah. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

The words landed firm, like a line drawn in the sand, but even as you said them, they felt a little off. Like something rehearsed, something you were trying a little too hard to believe.

Ellie let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. “Jesus, babe. You’re ruthless.”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Not even a little.” She stretched out, arms draping over the back of the couch, looking maddeningly at ease. “Just didn’t expect you to be the one setting that rule.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, because deep down, you weren’t sure what would piss you off more—her calling you out on your bullshit, or the fact that she might actually be right.

Ellie hummed. “Fine. No strings attached. What else?”

You rubbed your temple, thinking. “Public stuff needs to be controlled. If we’re going to be seen together, it needs to be intentional.”

Ellie nodded. “So, no sneaky paparazzi pics of us at, like, McDonald’s?”

“Exactly.”

“There goes my dream of getting papped in the drive-thru with you.”

You ignored that. “Next—if one of us wants out, we end it. No bullshit.”

Ellie’s smirk softened slightly. “Fair enough.”

The mood had shifted—just a fraction. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a warning sign, but at least your shoulders didn’t feel as tight anymore.

You reached for your wine again. “We also need a reason.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

“For why we’re suddenly together,” you clarified.

She considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Easy. We met through mutual friends, started talking, made it official recently.”

You nodded. “Good. Vague, but believable.”

Then Ellie grinned. “So when’s our anniversary?”

“I’m breaking up with you already.”

Ellie threw her head back, laughing. “Damn. Cold as hell.”

You just smirked, watching the wine swirl in your glass, but the humor faded when Ellie leaned forward slightly, her gaze a little sharper now.

“So, just to recap,” she said, voice steady. “No feelings. No jealousy. We can fuck, but it doesn't mean anything. And if one of us wants out, we’re out.”

“…Yeah.” You swallowed, the weight of it settling between you both. “...Are you actually okay with this?”

Ellie leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand over her jaw.

Was she?

She’d done PR stunts before—appearances, interviews, the occasional fake chemistry for cameras. But a fake relationship? That was a different level of commitment. A different level of risk.

At the same time… she wasn’t exactly in a position to say no. She needed something to get the media off her ass. Headlines about bar fights, reckless behavior, and being a bad influence were piling up like a rap sheet. A carefully controlled narrative—a shiny, clean distraction—might be the only thing that kept her from burning out entirely.

But then…

She looked at you.

Drop-dead gorgeous. Smart as hell. Sharp tongue. A little mean in a way that made people want to prove themselves.

And yeah, sure—this was fake. But Ellie wasn’t fucking stupid. Fake or not, this was the kind of shit that got under her skin, settled in deep and refused to leave.

She’d made plenty of bad decisions before, walked into things knowing exactly how they would end, knowing they’d chew her up and spit her out. That was the thing about trouble. It never felt like trouble in the moment. It started as a game, as a deal, as something simple—until one day, it wasn’t. Until it had its teeth in her, until she was in too deep to pretend she didn’t care.

And this?

This had all the makings of that kind of mistake.

But she still exhaled, still ran a hand through her hair, still met your eyes without hesitation.

“Yeah” She sighed “I’m in.”

“Alright,” you murmured, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a slow sip. Then, with a smirk just shy of reckless—

“This is officially the worst decision of our lives.”

Ellie leaned back like she had all the time in the world, legs spreading wider, her grin all sharp edges. “What you mean? This is already the most stable relationship I’ve ever had.”

You scoffed, reaching for your wine again. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

Ellie shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, babe. The bar is in hell.”

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled, then took another long drink. “God help me.”

After a few minutes, Ellie reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled blunt, twirling it lazily between her fingers. She glanced up at you, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

“You smoke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Ellie shrugged, biting the tip of the blunt. “What? It’s part of the rockstar lifestyle.”

You scoffed. “And I’m the popstar, so technically, I should be saying no.”

Ellie pulled out a lighter, flicking it open with a metallic click. “Live a little.”

You exhaled. “Fine. But if TMZ catches me high, I’m blaming you.”

Ellie grinned, bringing the lighter to the tip of the blunt, the paper curling as it burned. She took a slow, practiced drag, holding it deep in her lungs before exhaling smoothly, the smoke swirling toward the ceiling. Then she passed it to you.

You hesitated for a half-second before bringing it to your lips, inhaling. The burn was familiar, settling in your chest before you exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the dimly lit room.

Already, the tension from earlier—the ridiculous fake-dating rules, the push and pull of whatever this was—started to fade into something looser, easier.

Ellie watched you, her smirk deepening. “Damn. You’re not new to this.”

You took another hit before passing it back, lips quirking. “Told you. I just have a better PR team than you.”

Ellie chuckled, shaking her head as she took another drag.

Somehow, the conversation had spiraled.

You were both slumped against the couch, trading the last remnants of the blunt back and forth, locked in a heated debate over whether or not you’d survive a zombie apocalypse.

Ellie scoffed, waving a lazy hand. “C’mon, you wouldn’t last a week.”

“Excuse me?” You sat up, pointing at her. “I would absolutely outlive you.”

“You literally have, like, five personal assistants. You don’t even carry your own bags.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, amused. “Alright. How would you kill a zombie?”

You blinked. “...Guns?”

Ellie groaned, shaking her head like you had just personally offended her. 

“What?!”

“You’d run out of ammo in, like, a week.”

You crossed your arms. “Okay, smartass. What’s your genius survival plan?”

“Baseball bat. Blunt force trauma. Reusable, no reload time.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s so gross.”

Ellie shrugged. “Yeah? So is dying.”

You huffed, sinking back into the couch. “I’m sure that if I were in a zombie apocalypse, I’d be the immune one.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, flicking the blunt towards the ashtray. “Oh, shut up. I'd be the immune one. And the main character.”

You huffed, dramatically flopping back against the couch, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. Ellie grinned, stretching her arms behind her head.

“All that contract negotiation made me hungry.”

You snorted, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. “You literally agreed to everything in under five minutes.”

“Exactly,” Ellie sighed. “Exhausting.”

She pulled out her phone, scrolling. “What’s the most unserious meal we could possibly order right now?”

You barely had to think. “Taco Bell.”

Ellie’s face lit up. “God, I fucking love you.”

You shot her a dry look.

“Platonically. Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes, watching as she tapped aggressively on the app. “What do you want?”

“Crunchwrap Supreme, two Doritos Locos Tacos, and a Baja Blast.”

Ellie blinked. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I take my Taco Bell order very seriously.”

Ellie hummed approvingly. “Respect.” She added your order to the already absurd amount of food in her cart and checked out.

By the time the Taco Bell arrived, you were both fully slumped into the couch, heavy-limbed and loose from the high. Ellie tossed the bag onto the coffee table with zero grace, nearly knocking over your very expensive candle.

“Jesus, be careful” you muttered, steadying it.

Ellie unwrapped her burrito with a crinkle of foil, smirking. “What, scared I’ll ruin your rich-person aesthetic?”

You leaned back, exhaling. “Yeah, actually. I have a brand to uphold.”

Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she took a bite. The two of you ate in a comfortable lull, the only sounds coming from the low hum of music playing from your speaker and the occasional rustle of food wrappers.

In that moment, you felt something you hadn’t felt with anyone in a long time—at ease. Because being with her was effortless.

No need to pose, fake a smile, or worry if your hair was in place. You could just exist. And there was something dangerously comfortable about that, something weirdly domestic. Like slipping into a rhythm you hadn’t even realized you’d been craving.

Ellie spoke suddenly, pulling you back, like the thought had just slipped out before she could decide if it was worth saying.

“So, why’d you start doing music?”

The question landed between you like a weight, unexpected and heavy.

You paused, mid-bite, blinking at her. She wasn’t even looking at you—just lazily pulling apart her quesadilla, like she hadn’t just cracked open something raw and unplanned.

You swallowed, shifting slightly. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“It’s the only thing I was ever really good at.”

That got her attention. Her fingers stilled against the tortilla, her eyes flicking up—steady, unreadable.

With a quiet sigh, you set your food down. “I mean, growing up, I sucked at everything else. School, sports, whatever—I just never stuck with anything. But music?” You tilted your head, feeling the thought click into place. “That made sense. I liked how it made people feel. You write something, and suddenly, some stranger out there feels understood in a way they didn’t before. Like, for three minutes, they’re not alone.”

Ellie’s chewing slowed, her gaze lingering. “Yeah.” Her voice had dropped, more thoughtful. “That’s kinda the whole point, huh?”

You hummed, watching her. “…What about you?”

She hesitated, then leaned back into the couch, stretching like she was trying to shake something off. “Not that different, honestly.” One arm draped over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the cushion. “Joel was always into music. Taught me how to play guitar when I was a kid, and it just kinda stuck ever since.”

Your head tilted slightly. “Joel Miller? That’s your dad, right?”

A nod. “Yeah. He’s—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “—intense. But in a good way, mostly. He gives a shit. Probably more than I deserve.”

Your brows knitted together. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Ellie let out a quiet chuckle, but it was dry, almost automatic. “Nah. Just being honest.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest feel tight.

You thought about pushing, about pressing your thumb against that tiny crack she’d let slip, but something told you she’d just deflect, maybe make some stupid joke to steer the conversation away.

So, instead, you sighed dramatically, letting the moment pass. “I think I’m too high for all this deep shit.”

Ellie huffed out a laugh. “Same.”

You grinned, swirling your drink. “Okay, new topic—what’s your favorite song?”

Ellie tilted her head, thinking. “Dunno. How’s that one song of yours go? That’s that me espresso?”

The room went still.

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A deep, soul-crushing betrayal settled in your chest, a wound so profound it might never heal. Your breath caught, fingers gripping your shirt like she had physically stabbed you.

Ellie, still chewing, barely spared you a glance. “What?”

Your hands trembled. “That’s Espresso.”

Your voice dropped an octave. Near-feral.

“BY. SABRINA. CARPENTER.”

Ellie paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. “Wait… that’s not your song?”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

Ellie shrugged, unbothered. “I mean, y’all sound kinda similar.”

You shot up so fast from the couch it screeched against the floor. “I HOPE YOUR AMP SHORT-CIRCUITS MID-SOLO.”

Ellie’s laughter rang through the room, loud and unbothered. “Jesus. Touch some grass.”

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

The second was the godawful dryness in your mouth, the kind that only came from bad decisions the night before and even worse hydration choices.

Squinting against the morning light, you shifted slightly, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Your head ached, limbs heavy, the air still thick with the scent of weed.

And then, as you turned your head—

Ellie.

Dead asleep beside you.

Face buried in the couch, hair a disaster, breathing slow and steady. One arm thrown over your waist like it belonged there, her entire body half-pressed against yours, radiating warmth. Her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing just enough of the tattoos trailing down her back to make your already-dysfunctional brain short-circuit.

It should be illegal to look that good while sleeping.

You swallowed hard, painfully aware of the way her fingers twitched slightly against your stomach. Desperate for a distraction, you forced your gaze to the rest of the room.

The coffee table was an absolute crime scene—wrappers, crumpled napkins, open sauce packets, empty Baja Blast cups, and one lonely, half-eaten quesadilla clinging to life.

You groaned softly, rubbing your face, before muscle memory had you reaching for your phone.

And that’s when the real nightmare started.

Rachel (25 Missed Calls, 17 Texts).

Your stomach immediately twisted into knots.

Dreading whatever mess you’d apparently caused, you clicked the messages.

Rachel: WAKE UP Rachel: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP Rachel: CHECK TWITTER RIGHT NOW.

A cold dread crawled up your spine.

With the kind of slow, creeping horror usually reserved for slasher films, you opened Twitter.

And there it was.

Trending.

#y/nandEllie

#HARDLAUNCHOFTHECENTURY

Your entire body locked up.

“What the fuck?” you croaked, voice barely functioning.

Next to you, Ellie shifted, groaning as her arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in just a fraction before she mumbled into the cushion, voice thick with sleep, “Why’re you talking?”

You didn’t even process the fact that she was literally holding you because you were too busy trying not to pass out.

Instagram. You need to check instagram.

And then you saw it.

Your most recent story.

A photo of Ellie.

Sitting on the couch, head tilted down, scrolling on her phone. Messy hair, tattoos on full display, one leg tucked up like she owned the place. In front of her? The entire ungodly Taco Bell order. Wrappers, bags, napkins—absolute devastation.

And the caption, in bold, unhinged letters:

she eats like a mf frat boy but somehow still looks hot. life is unfair.

One hundred million people have already seen it.

“FUCK!”

Ellie shifted again, her fingers skimming your stomach as she let out a sleepy groan. “Dude” she mumbled. “What now?”

You turned to her, shoving the phone directly in her face, voice pure horror.

“You let me post this?!”

She blinked at the screen. Then blinked again. And then, as if the universe hadn’t already humiliated you enough, she started grinning.

It was slow at first, creeping across her face, her shoulders starting to shake—before she full-on lost it. Ellie fucking cackled. Like, sleep-rough, chest-shaking, burying-her-face-in-the-couch dying.

You smacked her arm. “THIS IS FUCKING SERIOUS!”

She barely lifted her head, still grinning like an absolute menace.

“We smoked another blunt, got drunk, and thought it would be funny.” She stretched lazily and patted your thigh, voice rough with amusement. “So, I guess we’re official now.”

You smacked her again.

← 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 | 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @tittielover-420 @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @kaykeryyy @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @jujueilish @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ I HAD SO MUCH FUN W THIS ONE LMAOOO. I went so full out with brainrot memes i realized how much i need to touch some grass. I did like 30 proofreads, but there might still be a few grammar mistakes here and there—sorry in advance, english isn't my first language and I will be happy to receive constructive criticism!.

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on the permanent taglist for this series!

see ya'll soon, stay tuned ;)

[littlegochu]

Omg when are we getting part 3 of fwb??? I’m hookedddd

"just friends" part 3 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

Leon’s apartment smells like tequila and vanilla candles and way too many people trying to make a goodbye feel fun.

I should’ve worn something boring. Something forgettable. Instead, I’m in a black dress that hugs in all the right places and a lip stain that says I don’t give a fuck even though I do. My hair’s up. My earrings sparkle. My stomach’s a little nauseous.

Because I know he’s here.

I know before I even see him. I can feel it.

The heat crawling up my neck. The buzz in my ribs. The memory of his hand gripping my waist like I was something worth breaking.

Mira opens the door for me, holding a half-empty red cup and smiling like she knows too much.

“You look hot,” she says, dragging me inside.

“I’m fine,” I reply.

She gives me a look. “I said hot, not emotionally stable.”

Touché.

The room is loud. Music thumping low. Fairy lights tangled above the windows like someone tried. The couch is full. Theo’s yelling something at Jimin about beer pong. Leon’s in the kitchen doing shots with two people I’ve never seen before.

And Jungkook?

Yeah. He’s here.

Sitting on the arm of the couch in black jeans and a dark tee, one silver ring on his finger, hair pushed back, jawline sharp enough to kill. He’s got a red cup in one hand and the expression of someone who doesn’t care about anything — but I know better.

His eyes flick to me once.

Just once.

Then back to the wall like I didn’t just walk in with bare shoulders and a nervous system ready to self-destruct.

Okay. Fine.

It’s fine.

I follow Mira to the kitchen, ignoring the twist in my stomach. We take shots with Jimin, who hugs me like it hasn’t been five days since graduation, and Theo tells me I smell good, which is nice until he adds, “Like a sexy fruit roll-up.”

I laugh too hard. Jungkook doesn’t.

Because yes — he heard it. Of course he did.

And now Theo won’t shut up.

He keeps finding ways to touch my arm, complimenting my earrings, making some joke about how we should go to Bali this summer even though I barely know his last name. Mira’s watching the whole thing like it’s her favorite drama. Jungkook? He hasn’t moved. Just sits on the couch, one arm slung across the back, drink half-finished, jaw tight. Still not looking at me.

But I feel it. The shift. The way he’s listening even when he’s not facing me.

Mira raises her brows once, silently, from across the kitchen island. I shrug.

What?

I’m not doing anything.

I am, though. I’m leaning into Theo’s space a little too much. Smiling a little too easy. Talking louder than I need to.

Because maybe if I flirt with someone else, I’ll stop feeling like I’m choking every time Jungkook breathes near me.

Spoiler: it doesn’t work.

And Mira knows it.

She claps her hands and announces we’re doing a game. Something stupid. Cards or charades or truth or drink, depending on how fast people are getting tipsy.

Everyone groans but gathers. Mira starts pointing. Pairing people up like she’s running a dating show.

“You and you. Jimin and Liv. Theo, sorry, you’re with Leon.”

Then she looks at me.

And then at him.

“Y/N and Jungkook.”

I freeze.

Jungkook doesn’t react. Not even a blink. Just lifts his drink again and downs what’s left.

I sit next to him.

The couch cushions shift. Our knees brush.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Mira deals out cards like she’s innocent.

I want to kill her.

-

The game moves fast — dumb dares, harmless truths. People laughing too loud, drinks sloshing, Leon doing a cartwheel in the hallway for no reason. Mira keeps throwing me glances across the circle, eyes bright with something too knowing. Jungkook’s thigh is still pressed against mine, and he hasn’t moved an inch. It’s like sitting next to a statue made of heat and tension.

Then it’s my turn.

“Truth or drink?” Mira asks, already smiling.

I narrow my eyes. “Truth.”

She tilts her head. “Who in this room would you hook up with, if you had to pick someone tonight?”

Groans and oooohs ripple through the room.

My cheeks flush instantly. Jungkook is right beside me, still and unreadable.

I lift my cup. Take a long sip. “Pass.”

Theo howls. “That means it’s someone here, though.” Theo laughs, leaning forward with way too much interest, like he already thinks it’s him. Like me not answering is some kind of coy invitation. His knee bumps mine again and I don’t think it’s an accident this time. Mira raises her brows at me from across the circle, her smirk saying: oh, you’ve really done it now.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word.

But he sets his empty cup on the floor and leans back against the couch like he’s already bored.

The game moves on. I laugh when I’m supposed to, sip my drink when I can’t think of anything clever, and try to ignore the way Theo keeps glancing at me like we’ve just shared something. We didn’t. But Jungkook hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t even looked at me. I pretend my heart isn’t still thudding like it’s trying to get out.

Later, I sneak away to the kitchen. Just to breathe.

I grab a glass of water, focus on the hum of the fridge, the scrape of a chair leg in the other room.

Then I feel him.

He walks in without a word.

Stands a few feet away. Arms crossed. Staring at the counter like I’m not there.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“You’re real friendly tonight.”

It’s not a question. It’s not playful.

Just cold.

I turn around slowly, glass still in hand. “It’s a party.”

He tilts his head, eyes dragging down then up like he’s taking stock of everything and finding it unimportant.

“Guess so.”

He walks out.

And leaves me standing there, throat tight, drink untouched, like I’m the one who wanted something more.

I don’t go back to the game.

I find Mira, hug her goodnight, slip out the door without saying a word to anyone else.

My phone buzzes halfway down the stairs.

[Jungkook]: You done with him yet?

I don’t answer.

I just keep walking.

-

The rooftop of Leon's dorm is colder than I expected.

It smells like the city — smoke, exhaust, summer sweat — and something faintly sweet from someone’s open balcony down the block. I lean on the railing, phone still in my hand, trying to breathe like a normal person. In. Out. Repeat.

I don’t know why I came up here. Just needed a second. Needed to not feel his voice in my head.

"You’re real friendly tonight."

Why did he say that? Why did it sound like he cared? Or worse — like he didn’t want to?

The wind brushes the back of my legs. My skin feels hot and cold all at once. I stare out at the streetlights, watching cars move like I’m not spiraling. Like I don’t want to throw my phone off this rooftop.

Because what even is this now? School’s over. We were supposed to be stress relief. A bad habit. Something to laugh about later.

But now it’s just… lingering.

Are we supposed to keep fucking? What happens when we don’t have finals or deadlines or shared buildings as an excuse? Are we still going to pretend like it’s casual?

I exhale slowly. Finally type out a reply.

[Me]: you done being weird yet?

I don’t hit send.

My thumb hovers over it.

And just as I’m about to press it, the groupchat lights up.

[UNI YEAR 4 – LET’S GOOO 🧨]: bro who is this girl w jung 😭😭

There’s a video. Blurry. But clear enough.

Jungkook. Sitting on the same couch from tonight. A girl beside him — new dress, long hair, laughing. She leans in. He says something low. She laughs harder. Her hand lands on his thigh.

I scoff.

Of course.

My stomach drops — not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to remind me I’m an idiot.

I delete the draft. Tuck my phone in my bag. Walk down the stairs without looking back.

And I don’t text him back.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!

part 4 here

[muniimyg]

*ੈ εつ‧₊˚° ♡ ༘ ctrl+alt+delete // jjk ༘ ♡ °˚₊‧ εつ ੈ*

19 // next // series m.list

note: oh wHAT DO YOU KNOW ABT MEET CUTES??? huashjdkfasjf.... ignore my mistakes ,, i am sick ! goodnight pretty pussy kimi friends <3

//

friday night. 

jimin’s voice rings through the chaos of the small, but somehow always too crowded, apartment. it’s filled with people yet jimin’s squeaky yapping is the loudest thing in jungkook’s ear.

“stop freaking out!” jimin cries, dodging around taehyung, who’s already got a hand to his forehead like he’s holding back a migraine. “bro, you look fine.”

“but what if this is the wrong shirt?” jungkook whines, his brows knit together, tugging at the hem of the plain black tee he’s been second-guessing for the last hour and a half.

taehyung groans, dramatic as ever. “what if i hit you right now?”

“what if you go kill yourself—”

before jungkook can finish, the sound of liquid splashing against fabric cuts him off. the liquor spreads fast and drips down his shirt.

jungkook takes a deep breath in.

“oops,” jimin says, not even trying to hide the grin as his tequila splatters all over jungkook’s chest. “now you have to change. you’re welcome.”

“you—!” jungkook starts, eyes narrowing like he’s about to lunge.

“do it,” taehyung interrupts, his grin lazy, sharp, and mean in a way that only jungkook’s closest friends can manage. “before ___ walks in and sees you covered in alcohol. how’s that for a first impression, mr. perfect?”

jungkook shoots both of them a glare, muttering curses under his breath as he storms off toward his room, the familiar bubble of frustration fizzing in his chest.

god. 

tonight, out of all nights; he’s spiraling. really—because how could they not see how serious this all is? 

you’re coming over. 

you. 

st4rg1rlyni3. 

… and since this is your first time meeting… he has to get it right. he has to at least look good. presentable. maybe even… handsome.

once jungkook reaches his room, he pulls open his closet door with more force than necessary. the shirts hang neatly—too neatly—because he reorganized them this morning, just in case you’d... what? wander in here and look inside his closet?

he groans at himself, grabbing the first thing that doesn’t make him want to scream, a striped blue button-up he swore he wouldn’t wear tonight.

as he shrugs the shirt over his shoulders, he’s halfway through tugging it down—arms trapped in the fabric, mid-struggle—when his door creaks open.

his heart stalls. freezes, really, like his whole body is buffering.

because it’s you.

you’re standing there, hand still on the doorknob, looking as though you hadn’t expected to walk in on this exact moment—but you’re also clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

“oh.” your voice comes out light, amused. you glance down at your phone for a second before back up at him, a brow raising. “taehyung said the bathroom was—hmmm. okay. i get it.”

jungkook is acutely aware of every awkward detail: his hair sticking up from all his stressed-out fidgeting, the half-buttoned shirt that’s probably wrinkled by now, the way his mouth is hanging slightly open because he still hasn’t figured out what to say.

“um...” it’s the best he can manage, voice a little cracked.

your smile grows, softening the edges of the moment. 

“nice shirt.”

he stares at you, feels his cheeks flush a little hotter. because of course you’d show up looking this good, all easy confidence and effortless charm, while he’s here feeling like a walking disaster. your hair is curled in such an effortless way that truly scratches his brain. you’re wearing a baby pink dress that tugs your curves perfectly. 

truth be told, he was just talking shit about the colour pink. 

seeing it on you? 

yeah. it’s his favourite colour now too—

that’s when jungkook realizes he’s been silent for a minute too long. you’re looking at him like you’re waiting for a response.

“thanks,” he finally blurts, so fast it sounds like one word. then he clears his throat, scrambling to add, “just—uh, just picked it.”

your gaze lingers on him, a smile tipping into something dangerously close to teasing. 

“what’s… with the awkwardness? am i prettier than you expected?”

his breath hitches, and you swear you catch the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. but jungkook recovers quickly, his lips curling into a crooked grin.

“the issue was never if you were pretty. you are pretty. there’s no denying that,” he admits, his voice steady yet soft. “it’s your attitude.”

your brow arches, feigning offense. 

“what attitude? i just got here.”

“that one,” he says, gesturing vaguely as if you radiate something he can’t quite put into words.

you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “oh, so we’re acting like we didn’t just celebrate seven days of talking with cake? like you aren’t completely obsessed with me—”

“okay, miss disliker.”

“mr. vlog dedicator.”

“weren’t you mad at me a few days ago for muting when i peed?”

“yeah. i can admit to that. if i made peeing videos, you’d watch them, right? can you admit to that?”

jungkook bites down on his bottom lip, a nervous habit you’ve started to notice, and inhales sharply through his nose. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and for a moment, his gaze drops to the floor like he’s trying to gather himself.

the air stills.

“sorry,” he finally breathes, his voice low and almost unsure. “seeing you in person… god, i don’t know how to act right now. i’m sorry, baby.”

his words settle over you, warm and sweet, sinking into the spaces you didn’t know were waiting to be filled. your stomach tightens, flipping over itself, and you’re suddenly too aware of the way his voice dips when he calls you baby.

jungkook finishes buttoning up his shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly on the last button, and then he extends his hand toward you. 

“nice to meet you—”

but before he can finish, you reach out, wrapping your arms around his neck instead.

his entire body tenses for a split second, caught off guard before he melts into the embrace. his arms come around you, pulling you close, holding you tight.

you rest your chin on his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. his cologne—something woodsy with just a hint of spice—wraps around you, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment.

why does this feel so right?

your hands flex against his back, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips. it’s overwhelming—how natural this feels, how easy it is to lean into him like this.

he exhales against your hair, his breath warm and steady now, and you can feel the tension draining from his body. you pull back slightly, your arms still looped around his neck, and meet his gaze. there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or hesitation—but it’s quickly swallowed by a softness that tugs at your chest.

his hands slide down to rest on your waist, grounding you in place. “hi.”

you blink, your stomach flipping again as his words settle in. he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the room, and it’s almost too much to bear.

“hi.”

“i’m really nervous, to be honest. jimin and tae have been eating up my anxiety and i’m… i’ve embrassed myself in front of you already so what the hell?” he says, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly. “you’ve been in my head. and now… now you’re here, and i don’t know what to do with myself.”

you smile softly, trying to keep things light despite the way your heart is racing. 

“excited much?”

he laughs, the sound warm and a little breathless. “only a little.”

you don’t know who moves first, but somehow, you find yourself leaning in, his forehead pressing gently against yours. his eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, the world outside fades into nothingness.

“you smell nice,” he murmurs, his lips so close to yours that you can feel the ghost of his breath.

“so do you.”

he chuckles, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “this feels too perfect,” he whispers, almost like he’s afraid saying it out loud will break the spell.

your stomach flips again, and you’re suddenly so aware of everything—his hands on your waist, the warmth radiating off his body, the way his lips hover just a breath away from yours.

“then don’t ruin it,” you tease, your smile growing.

he grins, leaning back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, you’re both caught in the weight of everything unsaid.

“not a chance,” he says, his voice steady now. 

you believe him.

the night feels like a dream. 

not the kind you forget the second you wake up, but the kind you spend the rest of the day reliving, hoping to hold onto every detail.

jungkook’s mind is filled with you.

every time he looks at you, touches you, or hears you—he can’t help but feel like his heart is beating outside of his chest. it’s so strange and love has never felt this way—so intense and real… so fast. 

you’re witty in a way that makes his chest ache, sharp without being mean, playful but never overbearing. he can’t remember the last time someone teased him, really teased him, without making him feel small. you make it fun—safe, even.

and god, you’re beautiful. 

not in the way he thought before, through screens and pictures, but in a way that’s... more. the kind of beauty that makes him feel like he should thank someone—maybe you, maybe the universe—for the chance to be here, breathing the same air as you.

he notices the way hobi smirks when he catches jungkook staring at you too long. the way taehyung elbows him whenever you laugh at one of his dumb jokes. the way jimin whispers “she likes you, idiot” every time you brush past him, your shoulder grazing his.

it’s obvious. 

to everyone. 

and apparently, to you too, because you’ve joined in. 

you’re teasing him just as much as his friends, your words sharp and deliberate in a way that keeps him on his toes. it’s almost unbearable, the way you make him feel like a little kid with a crush, heart pounding and cheeks burning every time you look his way.

and then, in the middle of it all, he snaps. 

not in a bad way, but in the way you’d snap a rubber band to bring yourself back to reality. he steps closer, his hand finding your waist, his fingers curling just slightly.

“can i show you something?”

your brows lift, curiosity flickering across your face. you nod. 

“sure.”

jungkook leads you to his room, the chaos of the party fading behind you. his fingers brush yours as he walks ahead, close enough to touch but not quite. it’s deliberate, like he’s trying to keep his cool but failing miserably.

once you're in his room, he gestures towards his balcony.

you two step out and it's this set up of a cozy and quiet escape. there are string lights wrapped around the railing, a single blanket draped over the chair, and the view—god, the view is stunning.

the city stretches out like it’s alive, blinking lights and faint noises making it feel infinite.

“i fought for this room,” jungkook brags, leaning against the doorframe. “tae wanted it, but i beat him in an arm wrestling match.”

you laugh softly, stepping out onto the balcony.

“it’s worth the fight.”

“it is.”

he doesn’t mean the room, though.

you settle into the blanket he hands you, the conversation flowing into something softer, deeper.

“it's been a few hours already but... it’s still so weird seeing you in person,” he admits, his voice quieter now, like he’s letting himself be vulnerable. “i feel like... i’ve known you my entire life. it feels...”

“different?” you offer, your gaze steady on him.

he nods, his lips curving into a small smile. “in a good way."

“in a good way." you echo.

with that, you two settle in to each others presence. looking out at the view and laughing at each others lame jokes. for two sociable people, you two sure love your space from everyone... perhaps, it's because you're with the one.

as the conversation drifts, eventually, jungkook asks, “so... the anon thing. have you figured out who it is yet?”

you shrug, pulling the blanket tighter around you.

“no, not really. hobi told me to take it slow. to focus on myself for now.”

“what does that mean for... you know.” his voice drops, suddenly shy. “your content.”

another shrug.

“i’m not sure. i don’t know if i want to keep going, but... i don’t think i have any other options.”

he frowns, leaning forward. “what do you mean by that?”

you hesitate, your fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. “i don’t really know what i am these days, to be honest with you.”

that's the plain truth.

you haven't really admitted it to anyone... honestly? hardly to yourself... but for some reason, it just came out. for a moment you think; maybe this is dangerous. trusting someone so fast and feeling how natural it is to say the hard things...

then, there’s a beat of silence before he speaks.

“that’s okay.” jungkook voice is steady, sure. “not knowing is okay. being you is enough.”

you blink, startled by the simplicity of his words.

they hit harder than you expected, settling somewhere deep. it’s strange, feeling so understood by someone you’ve only just met.

the moment is broken by the buzz of jungkook’s phone. he checks it, lips quirking into a smile.

“jimin says everyone went to the pool.”

he stands, holding out a hand. “come on.”

jungkook leads you to the rooftop pool. 

the rooftop is alive with soft laughter and the sound of water splashing, but all of it fades when you step out hand-in-hand with jungkook.

every set of eyes shifts to where your fingers are intertwined, lingering just a second too long before darting to his face, then back to yours. you feel your cheeks heat up, suddenly shy… but you two don’t let go. instead, you hold his hand even tighter. 

instinctively, you move slightly behind him, but jungkook isn’t having it.

he pulls you forward gently, his hand sliding to your waist, keeping you anchored there. 

for fucks sake… the prettiest girl at the party is with him. why would he hide this? why wouldn’t he boast?

“do you guys swim often?” you ask, trying to deflect from the weight of their teasing stares.

jungkook shrugs, playing it cool. “only when i wanna vlog and get your attention.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “right… because you just hate it when people only like you for your body?”

he nods, lips twitching into a grin. “exactly. oh, you so get me—”

“hate to break it to you,” taehyung interrupts, draping an arm around jungkook’s neck, “but posting thirst traps isn’t exactly original content.”

“what does that make me?” you quip, arching a brow.

taehyung shrugs, also playing it cool. “jungkook said he’d beat me up if I ever click your links.”

you snort, covering your mouth to hide your laugh.

“oh, come on,” taehyung continues, pulling at the hem of jungkook’s shirt, threatening to lift it. “jungkooookieee… go for a swim and do the whole romantic wet hair look. she’ll love it.”

“shut up—”

“no, seriously! right, ___?” taehyung calls over his shoulder, his grin mischievous. “you’ll love it, right?”

before you can answer, jimin comes barreling in, teaming up with taehyung to ambush jungkook. they shove him into the pool, their laughter echoing as jungkook resurfaces, glaring at them.

you step to the edge, watching as the three of them wrestle and splash around in the water. hobi appears beside you, crossing his arms with a knowing smile.

“this is gonna get worse before it gets better,” he teases, nudging you lightly.

you kneel by the pool, your gaze following jungkook as he swims to where you’re crouched. his wet hair clings to his forehead, and there’s a boyish charm in the way he grins up at you.

he’s breathtaking like this. 

wet hair curling just enough to look messy, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw, catching faint glimmers of the rooftop lights. his shirt clings to him, fabric plastered to every dip and ridge of his body, leaving nothing to the imagination—not that it matters. you’ve spent enough time watching him online to know every detail by heart, but this is different. 

you swallow hard, a little lightheaded. 

“help me up,” he says, holding his hand out.

“no.”

his grin falters. “what? why not—”

“you’re gonna pull me in.”

“no, i won’t.”

“yes, you are.”

“how do you know?”

“i know you.”

jungkook tilts his head, his grin returning as he leans his arms on the pool edge. “oh? you think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

you smirk. “don’t i?”

“you don’t,” he challenges, wiggling his fingers. “come on. trust me.”

against your better judgment, you give him your hand. the second his fingers close around yours, you know you’ve made a mistake.

“jungkook, don’t—”

but it’s too late. 

he tugs you in, and the cold water shocks you, stealing the air from your lungs. you bob to the surface, pushing your hair out of your face, only to see him laughing like a kid who just got away with a prank.

you splash him. “you’re the worst!”

“am i?” he teases, swimming closer.

you’re still laughing when he scoops you up under the water, holding you bridal style. he hums, grinning down at you. “saved you.”

“you pulled me in.”

“okay, fine. i pulled you in.”

“you give in easily.” you tease, splashing water to his face. jungkook squints, taking the splash. before you can say anything else, he defends himself with a few words that make your stomach turn again. 

“how am i supposed to argue with a pretty girl like you?”

back in his room, jungkook has a hoodie and a pair of sweats laid out for you. he’s drying off with a towel when you step out of his bathroom, his clothes hanging loose on you.

he pauses mid-motion, the towel draped over his shoulder as his eyes take you in. “you look better in my clothes than i do,” he teases, his voice dipping just slightly.

“gross.”

he grins, leaning against the dresser. “i’m serious. i might have to start hiding my hoodies.”

“please. you’d hand them over without a fight.”

“not true.”

you roll your eyes, stepping closer. without a word, you take the towel from his shoulder and start drying his hair. he freezes for a moment, caught off guard, before leaning into your touch.

your fingers work through his damp hair, your eyes inadvertently drifting to his lips. the air between you feels heavier now, thick with something unsaid. jungkook tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes.

he leans in—so close, you can feel his breath on your skin—and then stops himself, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space.

“i... i’m gonna wait,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“for?”

jungkook exhales, dragging a hand through his half-dry hair, the strands falling back into a soft, messy tangle that makes your stomach flip. the towel around his neck shifts as he fidgets with it, like it’s the only thing grounding him right now. 

“i don’t know,” he murmurs, voice quiet, like the words aren’t fully formed yet. “i want to show you i’m patient. i want to show you that i’m a good man. i am... so...” his eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze for a beat too long, raw and unguarded. “let’s go? i’ll drive you home and hold your hand the entire way.”

you tilt your head, biting back a smile. 

“you’re really not going to kiss me right now?”

his lips twitch into a soft laugh, dimples pressing into his cheeks as his shoulders relax.

“i just want you to know that you’re perfect for me,” he says, his tone so sincere it makes your breath catch. “i want to be perfect for you... and it’s hard when i’m losing my patience. if i kiss you right now…” he hesitates, his voice dipping lower, “i won’t stop.”

you lean forward, close enough to catch the faintest scent of his cologne mingling with chlorine. 

“okay, i get it. you wanna be a good boy. fine by me…” you whisper, your lips brushing the air between you. “you’re right. maybe you shouldn’t kiss me tonight—as a matter of fact—don’t.”

his brows lift, the corner of his mouth curving into a grin that feels dangerously addictive. 

“really?”

“yeah.” your smile widens as you lean just a little closer, your nose nearly grazing his. “i like making people wait.”

his grin deepens, the heat in his gaze undeniable. 

“yeah?”

“yeah. i like it because it usually leads to begging.”

and then, before he can respond, you close the distance—not to his lips, but to his cheek, pressing the softest kiss there. when you pull back, jungkook's stunned expression is almost too satisfying. 

almost.

[zombaebitez]

You Get Me So High

ellie williams x reader

synopsis: ellie goes on the balcony to light up, but you have another idea.

zom’s note: okay maybe this kinda sucks, but i randomly thought of this at like 2am.

word count: abt 1.8k

warnings: only nsfw content (don’t like, then don’t read!), top!reader, bottom!ellie, eating out (e!receiving), fingering (e!receiving), intoxicated (ellie is high, reader is not).

“Babe, I’ll be on the balcony,” you hear Ellie yell from the shared bedroom. You were currently getting a snack from the kitchen, having the late night munchies. Turning around, you see Ellie walking through the living area to the sliding door to the balcony of the apartment. “Mmm okay,” you mumbled, returning to the hunt for a snack. The only reason she’d be stepping outside this late was to smoke, you knew that.

After rummaging around through the pantry, you grabbed a bag of chips, and opened them, before turning to look at Ellie’s darkened figure outside being lightened by a soft warm glow, tell tale sign of her joint being lit with a lighter. You stuffed a handful of chips in your mouth as you eyed her figure for a while, munching in thought.

You were contemplating joining her on the balcony, you weren’t as much of a smoker as she was, but you did occasionally; you never cared if Ellie smoked around you or not, but she remained adamant about not smoking inside the apartment. Didn’t wanna make it a habit. But as you watched her, an idea popped into your head. You set your half eaten bag of chips onto the counter, dusting your hands off, deciding you wanted to join your girlfriend. It was a little chilly out, and you were only wearing some sleep shorts and a tee, so you quickly went to grab one of Ellie’s zipups, her’s just felt... better!

You were now sliding the door open, seeing the obvious smoke dancing around where Ellie was leaning on the rail. The only sign of her acknowledgment of you stepping next to her was a quick glance, and a wave of her hand (trying to fan some of the smoke away). “Ellie, baby it’s fine,” you say quietly, “Just wanted to get some air with you.” A half truth.

She hummed softly, bumping her hip with yours. The joint between her fingers emits a constant dance of smoke, following her movements as she takes another drag, holding, then exhaling. It was a comfortable silence, it always is with her. You turn your attention to the side of her face, her hair was a slight mess, slightly falling in front of her eyes. Gently you reach over, tucking some of the hair behind her ear, smoothing out her bangs. She hid a smile, turning her face away from you for a mere moment, then looked at you for the second time since you joined her.

Her green eyes always pulled you in, ‘so pretty’ you thought. She blinked before smiling again, a slight blush creeping up. “God you’re such a sap, babe.” You furrowed your eyebrows, before realizing, “Shit, I said that outloud?” This time she giggled, “Yeah, always thinking about me, huh?” She takes another inhale of her joint, her question being rhetorical, but you softly said, “Always baby.”

Ellie mumbled out a ‘god’, obviously trying not to seem too flustered by your calm, sickly sweet demeanor. Maybe the high was starting to get to her… no it definitely was. Ellie always seemed a bit more relaxed, easier for you to get away with certain things. Maybe it was a little fucked to admit, but you love when Ellie gets high, she’s so pliable when she is.

Shifting closer to her, you laid a hand on the small of her back, slowly moving it over to squeeze her waist. She swayed a little, not knowing whether to support her weight onto the rail some more, or lean into your touch. You glanced at the joint she held, before making a sort of impromptu decision to pluck the joint from between her fingers. She followed your movements, with slight confusion.

“What’re you doin’?” She asked, but didn’t make a move to get the joint back, she didn’t have the will to. You ignored her question, taking a deep inhale of the joint. She watched you, or it seemed like she was. The high clearly making its way through the girl, she seemed slightly like molasses as time went by. A little too calm, a little too heavy. You took one more hit, before stubbing the joint out, and throwing it on the ground, it was practically out anyway.

Ellie just watched you, clearly enamored by your presence, but not fully here with you at this moment. You didn’t trust her with walking on her own, and honestly you didn’t want her to; so, you gently pulled her closer by the hand on her waist, and slowly moved her back inside, sliding the door closed with your foot, and to the living room couch. She whined as you sat her down, immediately sinking into the plushness of it, closing her eyes.

Fuck, she was so cute, like ‘so cute you wanna fuck her up cute’, in the best way possible. You knew she’d either wanna knock out, or cuddle and not leave your side… then knock out within 30 minutes, but you had other plans. Getting on your knees in front of her, you gently pushed her knees apart so you could have room between them. She hummed, peeking at you with half lidded eyes, mumbling something.

“What’s that, Els?” You rub her knee gently, leaning your head on it. “Wan’ you up here w’ me,” her words were a little drawn out, voice quiet. You shushed her, pressing a small kiss to the side of her knee, ‘wanna take care of you, Els.” She merely hummed, no motivation to move as she closed her eyes again, allowing you to have your way. That was all the confirmation you needed.

You took this moment to let your eyes wander, she was wearing a loose long sleeve top, with some sweats that hung low on her thin frame because they weren't tied. You could see the band of her boxers peeking over her sweats, and fuck the more you stared at her, the more you wanted her. She was just so effortlessly hot, maybe you had a problem (or both).

Grabbing the hem of her sweats, you tugged. It took a little effort to get those and her boxers off as she didn’t really help much, other than spreading her legs back once you tossed them on the ground next to you. You decided to leave her shirt alone, it’ll take too much work, and you knew Ellie could care less about the shirt.

Her syrupy head is now filled with just letting you do what you want with her, and needing you closer. She weakly grabbed at your arm, as you settled again. “What is it, baby?” She merely whined out a ‘please’. You sat up to lean over her slouched body, running your hands up her thighs, and under her shirt as you did so. You knew she was slowly losing her patience with you, the high making her feel too heavy as time went by, she felt buzzy, that buzz soon settling deep elsewhere as she watched you.

Having a little sympathy, you moved forward to place a few kisses on her jaw and neck, leaving a mark with some, she wrapped her legs around you, desperately trying to grind her already messy cunt onto your stomach. She was really worked up, and just needed some form of friction already. You let her do that for a little bit, moving your kisses up to her pretty lips, already bitten swollen from her trying to control her noises. You roughly pushed her hips down into the couch, gently pushing your tongue to circle around Ellie’s when her whines started to turn into quick pants, ending with a deep kiss to shut her up.

Her exhale was shaky, feeling a little dizzy from the lack of air she didn’t realize she was missing. “Babe, need you so bad,” she started begging, a little incoherent, but she was. Poor thing, so desperate, so needy, just how you wanted her. You needed her just as bad, the urge to have your face buried between her legs triumphing wanting to fuck with her some more. You unwrap her legs from around your waist, spreading them wide, before sinking down on your knees again. She sighed softly, leaning her head into the side of the plush back of the couch, ready to get what she needed.

She was wet. Like soaked, you didn’t realize the extent earlier. “Fuck… Els, didn’t realize you needed it this bad.” She mumbled a ‘yeah’ in what you assume to be an agreement. You couldn’t wait anymore, you dipped down to place your tongue flat on her clit, circling it, and wrapped your arms around the back of her thighs so she could rest her legs on your shoulders in one movement. Ellie immediately cried out, a sound between a whine and a moan, as you continued the action.

The poor girl was shaking, tangling a hand into your hair as she pressed you closer. A slew of, ‘fuck’, ‘harder please’, and ‘right there’ kept coming, like she couldn’t shut up. As your mouth focused on your girlfriend’s clit, you teased a finger around her entrance, causing a sharp inhale from her. She grinded slightly trying to get you to press a finger in, and enjoyed the pathetic attempts for a bit, before thrusting two inside without warning.

That made her tense, her softer whines steadily turning into louder moans and pleas as you fucked her like a person starved. She couldn’t stop that fuzzy feeling from clouding her mind, and the one sinking deep into her gut. Everything was too good, a little overwhelming. But to you, everything was just right, you wanted her so bad, craved her even.

The room was filled with Ellie’s moans, and the sloppy sounds of your fingers pounding into her. It was fucking heaven at this point, you could get lost between her legs whenever. You curled and pressed your fingers up, as you focused more on her clit, making her body tremble, she was close, really close. You could feel it in the way her thighs tightened around your head, and the obvious spasm around your fingers. She started babbling about god knows what, her whining falling on deaf ears. And then there it was, pressing her legs further up, and a few moments later she came.

You kept at it between her legs for a little longer, her moans turning into quiet pants as you lazily fucked her through the come down. Letting that fuzzy feeling dully work its way through her body, and a deep satisfaction bloom. You slowed your actions to a stop, gently kissed at her inner thighs, feeling them tremble as you did. Then gently, you removed them from around you, as to not make the ache that's soon to set in worse.

You leaned back up to place a few kisses onto her lips, smiling when she did. That made you happy, seeing her all content and fucked out. Brushing her hair back behind her ear once more, you couldn’t help but murmur an ‘I love you’, to which she responded ‘love you more, babe’ with a yawn. Stretching your arms above your head, you groaned, ready to get off the hard floor, and clean up your girlfriend. You knew she’d wanna return the favor come morning, so your main focus was her. And she was about to pass out either way, that high about to knock her out. You loved it.

[wcnderlnds]

the heart wants what it wants | choi su-bong (thanos)

・❥・ summary: he hates himself but you kinda, sorta love him. ・❥・word count: 1.3k ・❥・warnings: usual squid game stuff, swearing. ・❥・ authors note: as if i was gonna leave my boy thanos out of valentines fics. here's something a lil fluffy while still (hopefully) in character for him.

“What’re you sitting there looking like someone just pissed in your cereal for? And don’t try and tell me it’s because of that last game or whatever because I know that’s bullshit.”

Thanos’ voice pierced through your ears as he sat down beside you on the steel stairs between the bunks. His arms rested on his knees, hands dangling between his open legs as he looked at you expectantly. That was Thanos down to a tee – he needed to know everything immediately, patience wasn’t his strong suit. It frustrated him when he didn’t get answers. You had known this man for far too long to know the signs. The way he was clenching his jaw, his fingers tapping against his leg. 

“...I don’t want to tell you because you’ll laugh at me,” you mumbled, head resting on your arms that were crossed over your pulled up knees.

“Come on, spit it out,” he waved his hand, dismissing your worries. “I probably will laugh but since when did that shit bother you?”

He was right. You never cared before so why now? Well, you knew why. Being trapped in this place with him had resurfaced something you had thought you’d got rid of a long time ago. When you had first met Su-bong, you had the world’s biggest crush on him but he had turned you down, telling you that you should just be friends so… that’s what you were. Now, eight years on and that all consuming crush was back. You were trapped in a life or death game with him, he’d been protecting you and making sure that no harm fell on you. His hand grabbed yours at any opportunity like he just had to be touching you to make sure you were still here. You had never seen so much panic in his eyes than the moment you had almost fell in Red Light, Green Light. Luckily, he had managed to grab your arm to stop you from meeting your end. Su-bong wasn’t someone that wore his heart on his sleeve but when he cared, he cared. That was one thing you were certain of; he cared about you. There were ways he showed it without saying it. Like now, he had come to sit with you, asking you what was going on even if it was in his own annoying way. He had to act like he didn’t care otherwise it would consume him, his anxiety would sky rocket. That was why he was popping those colourful little pills. They may make him act insane but inside they calmed him, made him think clearer so he could protect you.

“Fine,” you sighed. “...it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m just sad I’m stuck in here and not enjoying some chocolate covered strawberries fed to me by some super hot person. Happy now?”

Thanos couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, nudging you with his shoulder. “That’s why you’re feeling sorry for yourself?” He narrowed his eyes, examining you before he decided you weren’t telling him the full truth. A quick shuffle and he was sitting right beside you, his leg touching yours. His arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you into his side. It was unusually soft for him but he had these moments with you sometimes. The only person who wouldn’t judge him was you, that was something he knew for certain. “You ain’t tellin’ me the whole story so I’m gonna need you to get that pretty mouth of yours talking more before I go get Nam-su to come glare at you with those beady little eyes of his.”

“You know his name is Nam-gyu, right?” You rested your head on his shoulder, nervously wringing your hands together. Thanos noticed almost immediately, placing a hand on them to stop you. “Remember when we first met? When… uh, when I had a crush on you and your turned me down?”

“Yeah, how could I forget?”

“Well, I might be feeling that way again.”

At those words, he froze up. His body tense, panic flashing across his eyes. Yeah, you shouldn’t have said anything. He would only close himself off now and that was the last thing you needed right now. He had been your whole support system here. The silence between you was almost deafening until he finally spoke. “...you shouldn’t.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Wish it was that easy, Su-bong.”

“You wanna know why I turned you down all those years ago?” He had pulled away from you slightly, both his hands now resting on your shoulders as he made you look at him. “Because you fuckin’ deserve better than me. I’m a mess. I’ve always been a mess. I’m no good, especially not for you. Someone like you? You deserve the fuckin’ world and I can’t give you that. I wish I could but I can’t. You need someone who can treat you like the princess you are but, baby, that man ain’t me.”

If it wasn’t anyone else, they wouldn’t have caught the waver in his voice, the way he was looking at you as if pleading for you to listen to him. He meant every word he said but you didn’t. You knew he often got lost in his self loathing thoughts, thinking that he was scum of the Earth but he wasn’t. He was just a lost boy, someone had never had someone care about him like you.

“I don’t care, Su-bong. My heart knows what it wants and it wants you. It isn’t going to stop. It’s been eight years and it’s always felt this way. You are everything to me, you always have been. I wish you could see in yourself what I see in you,” your hand cupped his cheek, the gesture so soft he almost nuzzled into your palm but refrained. “Sure, you’re not perfect but neither am I. I’ll respect whatever you want but… just know that my heart belongs to you.”

His eyebrows scrunched together as if he was in deep thought, one of his hands playing with the chain of the necklace that hung around his neck. His cross; the one that contained his drugs. It looked like he was in an internal conflict with himself before, finally, he pulled the necklace over his head and onto you. You felt your heart pounding as his fingers skimmed across your chest, making sure the cross laid properly. “You’re a damn pain in my ass, you know that? But… I’ve been into you the day we met, just thought you deserved more than I can give you. So, this is my promise to you to show you that I trust you, that maybe I’ll try and be the person you deserve some day. Ain’t never let anyone wear this other than me, by the way.”

The gesture meant more to you than you could even put into words, your heart hammering against your chest as he tapped the cross. You smiled up at him, hand resting over his. “The highest honour, huh?” You couldn’t help but tease to at least ease some of the tension. “It means a lot… and Su-bong? I believe in you.”

You heard the small, breathy laugh that came from his lips as he looked at the ground trying to hide it. That meant more to him than you would know. Finally, he looked back up at you, his arm back around your shoulder to pull you back into his side. “We get out of this shithole and I’ll feed you all the damn chocolate strawberries you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

As you rested your head on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on yours, you knew that once you got out of here things were definitely going to change but it gave you something to look forward to. His promise the one thing that would get you through these deathly games.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @justsisse @djarindroid @angelofbooksworld @taivantaylor @sherlocke3d @basquiat-top @urmomsg1rlfreind @belladonna-303 @seunghyunwifey @infinetlyforgotten

[sowerpatch]

unfold [chapter one - begin]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE* Chapter Summary: Paige doesn’t drink. Not really. But the night after the championship slips away, she walks into a club looking for something that won’t ask questions. Azzi doesn’t offer comfort. She offers calm. Measured glances. The unapologetic truth. They meet in the hush between grief and curiosity, in low light and unchartered thoughts.

Paige returns. Azzi lets her. What passes between them isn’t loud. It isn’t defined. But it holds. And in the quiet that follows, something begins to shift.

Word count: 4,000

The locker room felt like a tomb. 

A quiet, sterile hush filled the space, broken only by the soft scrape of cleats against tile and the muffled hiss of water from the showers. The air was thick with the bitter weight unique to losing—stale adrenaline, drying sweat, and the sharp sting of something that had slipped just out of reach. 

Paige sat still in front of her open locker, arms braced on her thighs, hands clasped together as if in prayer. But she wasn’t praying. Her elbows ached. Her lungs felt bruised. She stared ahead, past the row of cubbies, past her teammates exchanging solemn words, past the championship banner on the wall that would remain untouched for yet another year. 

LA Sparks – 78  Minnesota Lynx – 83 

Five points. Just five unbearable points. 

They had exceeded expectations, especially after a rough start to the season. Paige had carried the team through injuries and long road trips, holding them together when it mattered most. This was supposed to be her moment. 

But her sixth foul came with just over two minutes left in the fourth quarter—a defensive reach she never should have tried. That single mistake disqualified her from the game when they needed her most. She was forced to sit on the sidelines, gnawing at her fingernails while watching the dream unravel in slow motion. 

At the postgame press conference, she had said all the right things. She congratulated the Lynx. She thanked her teammates. She spoke of learning experiences and trusting the process. But it was mostly noise. What she didn’t say was that she couldn’t even look herself in the mirror without wanting to scream. 

She didn’t want to go home. 

Didn’t want to sit in silence with her failure wrapped around her like a second skin. 

- 

The taxi driver dropped her off at a place she didn’t recognize. 

Vault 35 was carved into the base of the Hollywood Hills like an urban myth. It had no sign, no valet, just a matte black steel door hidden behind a hedge and a narrow stone path that seemed to lead nowhere. It was the kind of place where people paid to be forgotten, at least for a few hours. 

Paige stepped out of the car slowly, her body stiff from the numbness of emotions, from the silence, from the weight of it all. She wore a black bomber jacket, zipped halfway over a plain white tee. Dark joggers cinched at her waist and a beat-up pair of Air Force 1s completed the look. She didn’t resemble a rising basketball star or a second-year WNBA finalist. She just looked tired. Maybe that was the point. 

The bouncer at the door looked like someone who had tackled people for a living. He gave her a quick once-over, his gaze not suspicious but familiar. He nodded and stepped aside without checking her name or asking questions. 

Inside felt like another world. 

The lighting was low and warm, glowing from hidden corners and recessed strips along the black marble bar. Velvet booths lined the room, half-concealed in shadow. The music—jazzy, hypnotic, and downtempo—throbbed softly beneath a murmur of conversation. No phones were out. No selfies. Just quiet murmurs, slow drinks, and the palpable ache of people trying to outrun something. 

Paige went straight to the bar. 

She didn’t know why she had come. Something about the driver’s tone when he said "Vault" had stuck with her. Maybe it was the look he gave her in the mirror—the kind of look only someone who had carried that kind of weight would understand. He hadn’t finished the sentence. Just said, "I got you." 

The bar stretched along the far wall like a river of obsidian and gold, gleaming under the low light. Behind it stood a woman Paige hadn’t expected. 

She didn’t demand attention; she held it—steadily, quietly, with intent. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, natural bun, its soft edges framing her face with gentle ease. She wore a black button-down dress shirt tucked into dark tailored slacks, her sleeves rolled precisely to the forearms. Her skin, warm and radiant, caught the golden glow of the lights—not because of makeup or shimmer, but because of the kind of calm stillness that comes from being deeply grounded in your own skin. 

She moved with a serene precision, setting down glassware gently, wiping down polished surfaces with quiet efficiency. She didn’t appear rushed. She didn’t perform. She simply existed in the space like it was hers to keep balanced. 

Then the woman looked at her. 

And for the first time since the final buzzer, Paige felt alive. 

"What can I get you?" the woman asked, her voice smooth and rich. 

Paige hesitated. Her fingers curled against the bar’s edge. 

"I don’t usually drink," she murmured. "But tonight feels like it earned one." 

The woman didn’t respond right away. Her gaze moved slowly over Paige’s face, reading the space between the words. There was no hint of recognition in the celebrity sense. Just a quiet curiosity. 

"Rough night?" 

Paige gave a tired half-laugh. "That’s one way to put it." 

"I caught the game," the woman said, her tone neutral. 

"Oh, yeah?" Paige lifted an eyebrow. 

The woman leaned back against the counter, her hands still. "I thought the Sparks had it in the third. Defense was tight. Rotations looked clean. You were making space for shooters they didn’t capitalize on." 

The words hit harder than expected. They weren’t flattery. They weren’t criticism. Just truth. 

"You watched that closely?" 

"I played," she said simply. "A long time ago. I notice things." 

A quiet moment passed. 

"I fouled out," Paige said, softer now. "With two minutes left. Had to sit and watch the collapse." 

The woman didn’t wince or offer the usual empty comfort. 

"That call on the reach? Borderline." 

Paige blinked. "You think so?" 

"Refs let more go on the other end." 

Paige exhaled, the tension loosening in her chest. "Thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve been gaslighting myself over that." 

The woman gave a small shrug. "Sometimes the game just doesn’t swing your way." 

That was it. No follow-up. No comfort. No awkward relatability. 

It should have felt hollow. Dismissive, even. But it didn’t. It felt honest. Like she had seen it before. Like she understood that some losses didn’t need to be unpacked. They just needed room to breathe. 

"I don’t want to hear about growth or silver linings," Paige muttered. "I just don’t want to feel like shit." 

The woman nodded slowly, then turned away, gliding along the bar to another customer. Someone louder. Someone waiting. 

Paige sat back, not realizing she’d been leaning in. She watched the woman work, her profile composed and unreadable. Every movement was practiced. Efficient. Rehearsed until seamless. 

Maybe nothing about tonight had touched her. 

Paige looked down at her drink. The ice had started to melt. Rings of condensation spread beneath her fingers. 

She hadn’t expected a quick heart-to-heart. She hadn’t expected anything, really. But the woman hadn’t offered pity or pep talks. 

Just a drink and a truth. It was disarming. She wasn’t used to silence that didn’t try to fix her. 

- 

Three nights passed before she went back to Vault 35. 

She told herself it was because she couldn’t sleep. That the condo was too quiet. That ESPN was replaying the championship highlights on loop, dragging the wound back open each time her face appeared on-screen. That her name kept surfacing in tweets she didn’t want to read, her mentions brimming with strangers who either praised her too much or blamed her too hard. That her agent’s texts had grown increasingly insistent—media sit-downs, interview offers, the promise of redemption through spin. 

But it wasn’t any of that. 

What drove her back across the city, long after midnight, was the silence. 

Not the silence of her apartment, heavy with expectation. The silence that followed Azzi’s words. That rare, steady quiet where nothing was demanded of her. No sympathy. No apology. Just a glance, a drink, and a truth she hadn’t been able to stop replaying since. 

This time, she didn’t head straight to the bar. She walked in slowly, letting the hush of Vault 35 settle around her shoulders like a worn blanket. The music still pulsed low and warm, and the shadows still clung to the booths like whispered secrets. She slipped into one near the back, her hands folding neatly on the polished wood table, and watched. 

She wasn’t watching like a fan. Not like someone who needed anything. She watched like someone who was still trying to finish a thought she didn’t have the language for. 

Azzi moved behind the bar with the same grounded ease. Her posture was upright, her rhythm unbroken. Same black shirt. Same tight bun. Same air of quiet command. If she noticed Paige enter, she gave no indication. No flicker. No break. 

Paige observed her mix drinks without checking labels. Watched the way customers leaned in toward her, eager for a connection they rarely received. Azzi offered only what was needed—an arched brow, a tilt of the chin, a curve of her mouth that almost resembled a smile but never lasted long enough to linger. 

Eventually, Paige stood. She didn’t choose the same stool. She didn’t make a show of returning. She just walked over, brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the bar, and stood there. 

Azzi glanced up. Recognition passed through her eyes like a spark catching low light. 

“Back for another Gold Rush?” she asked, already reaching for a glass. 

Her voice hadn’t changed. It was still quiet and composed, warm in its restraint. 

Paige’s lips lifted. “Back for the silence.” 

That made Azzi pause. Her hands kept moving, but her gaze held. 

“Not many people come looking for that,” Azzi said. 

Paige gave a small shrug. “I’m not most people.” 

Azzi’s mouth curved, just slightly. “No. You’re not.” 

She poured something different this time. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t light. It was a drink with depth—something that rested on the tongue with weight, like memory. 

The quiet between them had shifted. No longer uncertain. Just full. 

Paige watched her work. 

She had always watched her. 

Even that first night, through the fog of disappointment and unspoken anger, she had felt it—that tether of attention. Azzi didn’t chase connection. Didn’t fill space just to prove she belonged in it. And because of that, people couldn’t stop looking. 

She set the glass down between them. No garnish. No flourish. Just the drink. It wasn’t meant to impress. It was meant to be tasted. 

Paige took a sip. It was dark, quiet, a little bitter. It lingered. 

“You always been like this?” she asked. “Measured. Composed.” 

Azzi folded a bar towel with clinical precision. “You say that like it’s rare.” 

“It is.” 

Azzi thought for a moment. “Then yes. I learned not to open the door unless I knew what was waiting on the other side.” 

Paige leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the bar. “You think I’m dangerous?” 

“No,” Azzi said, her voice lower now. “I think you’re looking for something and pretending you’re not.” 

That pulled something out of Paige — not a smile, but the ghost of one. She didn’t refute it. Couldn’t, really. 

“You know,” she said after a pause, “I’ve done a hundred interviews in the last two weeks. Said the right things. Brushed it off. Talked about growth. All of it carefully worded, prepackaged. But none of that felt real.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt. 

“And then I walked in here, and you looked at me like I didn’t need to explain myself to be understood. Like you already knew.” 

Azzi’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I just didn’t ask for the performance.” 

Paige let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. 

“Most people do.” 

“That’s their problem,” Azzi replied. 

Paige studied her for a moment, the set of her jaw, the stillness in her eyes. “You’re not easy to figure out.” 

“Is that the goal?” 

Paige’s lips curved slightly. “Maybe not. But I’d like to keep trying.” 

Azzi didn’t smile — not fully. But her eyes held something that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of warmth, maybe. Curiosity, returned. 

“I’m off in an hour.” 

It wasn’t said with expectation. Just the simple truth of what came next. 

Paige nodded, voice steady. “I’ll wait.” 

Azzi held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned away, moving down the bar to close out tabs and reset the space. Paige stayed where she was, her half-empty glass in front of her, pulse quieter than it had been when she walked in. 

Something had shifted. 

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to name it. 

- 

The walk was wordless. 

Not the kind of silence that demanded filling. The kind that expanded between two people who had already said more than enough without speaking. The streets just off Sunset had emptied by the time they stepped outside. A soft breeze moved through the palms, carrying with it the faint smell of night-blooming jasmine and exhaust. Paige walked beside her, a few steps behind at first, then beside, her shoulders brushing close but not quite touching. 

Azzi’s curls were loose now, no longer tightly braided, framing her face in soft, natural coils that caught the glow of passing streetlights. Her black polo was layered beneath a light gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing the quiet confidence in the way she carried herself. She looked relaxed, deliberate, like the night belonged to her. Beside her, Paige walked in dark jeans and a slate crewneck. Her hands were tucked into her pockets, her shoulders finally easing into the quiet rhythm of their steps. 

They didn’t speak until the flicker of a red neon sign appeared ahead, cutting through the dark like a heartbeat against glass. 

The diner was almost empty. 

No music played inside. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clang of a dish being stacked in the back. They didn’t wait to be seated. Paige slid into a booth near the window, and Azzi followed without hesitation. 

A waitress appeared without introduction, dropped two glasses of water on the table with a faint clink, and disappeared again. 

Azzi ordered tea. Paige ordered coffee she wouldn’t drink. 

For a while, they just sat. 

Not in the absence of words, but in the fullness of quiet. 

There was a tension beneath Paige’s skin she hadn’t realized she was still carrying. She could feel it in the slope of her shoulders, in the restless tap of her thumb against the rim of her mug. The silence here was different than Vault’s. Less curated. Less sacred. But it was real. Lived-in. Familiar. And when Paige finally spoke, her voice came out lower than expected, like it had been waiting for a reason to be used. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “The loss. That last quarter. It keeps playing back like maybe if I watch it enough times, it’ll change.” 

Azzi didn’t look surprised. She didn’t soften. She just listened. 

“I tell myself to move on. To let it go. But it keeps showing up in every quiet moment like it has something else to say.” 

Azzi’s tea sat untouched between her hands. 

“You’ve been holding it in,” she said, not unkindly. “It shows.” 

Paige huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. I thought if I didn’t talk about it, it would get smaller. That silence would shrink it.” 

Azzi looked up then. Her expression was calm. Certain. 

“It doesn’t shrink,” she said. “It waits.” 

Paige stared down at her coffee, at the way the cream curled at the surface. Her voice was quiet, almost raw. 

“I’m tired.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt. 

“Not physically. Not even emotionally. It’s like… I’m tired of pretending I’m not still in it. That I’m already on the other side.” 

Azzi nodded once. “That kind of tired settles in your bones.” 

And Paige believed her. 

Not because Azzi spoke like she had the answers. But because she didn’t. She didn’t offer solutions or bright sides. She didn’t try to fix the shape of what hurt. 

She just stayed. 

Paige studied her, the clean line of her jaw, the way she held her cup like it gave her something to do with her steadiness. And for the first time since the championship, Paige felt like maybe she didn’t need to get over it. Not yet. Maybe it was okay to still be in the middle of the ache. 

“It’s strange,” she said. “I feel more like myself right now—in this booth, in this diner with you—than I have in days.” 

Azzi didn’t smile. But something softened at the corners of her eyes. 

“You ever think,” she said, “that it’s easier to be seen by someone who doesn’t need anything from you?” 

Paige’s chest tightened. 

Yes. That was it. That was exactly it. 

Azzi hadn’t asked for Paige Bueckers the athlete, the public figure, the face of a franchise. She hadn’t asked for anything. 

And in return, Paige found herself wanting to give her something real. 

“I don’t know what this is,” she said honestly, “but it feels like something I want to come back to.” 

Azzi acknowledged the confession with a nod. 

The check arrived without being asked for. Azzi reached for it first. Paige started to protest, but Azzi gently placed a hand on her wrist. 

“I’ve got it.” 

“I can—” 

“I know. But this one’s mine.” 

Her touch was light. Grounding. Brief. 

They stepped out into the night, cooler now, as if the city had finally exhaled. The streets were hushed. Not empty, but slow, like even the asphalt needed rest. 

At the corner, they paused. 

Azzi didn’t offer her number. Paige didn’t ask. 

They just looked at each other for a long, steady moment, both knowing something had shifted, neither needing to name it. 

- 

Vault 35 hadn’t changed. 

The golden hush still curved around the room like a whisper too elegant to disturb. The bar stretched out like a vein of obsidian, anchored in polished brass, while the velvet booths still held shadows like they’d been designed to keep secrets safe. Everything looked the same. But for Paige, it no longer felt like a place to hide. 

It felt like a threshold. 

She didn’t go to the bar. 

She didn’t order. Didn’t scan the menu. Didn’t make small talk with the bartender who had taken Azzi’s place during the early shift. She just sat at a quiet table tucked into the corner, her coat still zipped halfway up, her hands resting loosely on a glass of water she hadn’t touched. Around her, Vault breathed. Glasses clinked in lazy rhythm. Laughter unspooled in low threads. Someone took a picture with the flash off, pretending not to. But Paige stayed still. 

She was waiting. 

And eventually, Azzi moved behind the bar like she always had—fluid, deliberate, without waste. There was no hesitation in her steps, no urgency in her pace. The night unfolded around her, and she moved through it with the kind of quiet control that didn’t need to prove itself. Paige watched her stir, pour, nod, move on. A study in contained warmth. Present, but never performing. 

Each interaction was just long enough to matter, never long enough to linger. She gave people exactly what they needed and nothing more. And Paige, without realizing, found herself lingering anyway. On her movements. On the intentionality in her hands. On the way her voice—low, unhurried—could cut through the room without ever needing to rise. 

The shift slowed. Lights dipped in the corners. Staff began to thin. Someone stacked cocktail napkins into neat squares at the end of the bar. And Paige remained in her booth, finishing her water without hurry, her posture easy but alert. 

Azzi found her. 

She came over without ceremony, a university jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled back down. There was something unguarded in her expression now, the first hint of the night’s weight settling in—not fatigue exactly, more like release. She slid into the seat across from Paige like it was a rhythm they’d already rehearsed. 

“You didn’t drink,” she said, her voice neutral but tuned to detail. 

Paige met her eyes. “Didn’t come here for that.” 

Azzi considered her, then rested her forearms on the table. “No one waits through a four-hour shift just for the ambiance.” 

“No,” Paige said. “I waited for you.” 

Azzi didn’t flinch. Her gaze didn’t sharpen. She just absorbed the words like someone who had heard plenty of lines and knew how to tell the difference. 

“You didn’t have to wait.” 

“I know,” Paige replied. “But I don’t have your number and asking for a way to reach you felt like skipping ahead.” 

Azzi studied her, one brow lifting slightly. “So waiting here was… what? Earning your place?” 

Paige shook her head once, slow and sure. “It wasn’t about earning. It was about showing up and meaning it.” 

For the first time that night, Azzi smiled — subtle, but genuine. It didn’t flash. It unfolded, slowly, like something that had been waiting for permission. 

“Well,” she said. “You showed up alright.” 

They drove with the windows cracked. The streets were mostly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that made everything feel cinematic. Azzi sat in the passenger seat, her jacket tucked across her lap, braid loose from the long shift, eyes soft from the kind of tired that didn’t beg to be fixed. Paige kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gear shift, stealing glances at her whenever they hit a red light. 

Chick-fil-A was half-lit, like the staff had already started mentally closing. But the drive-thru was open, and no one gave them a second look as they ordered 2 dozens of nuggets, fries, and two milkshakes. Paige insisted on paying. Azzi insisted on stealing the last fry. 

They parked in an empty lot a few blocks away, the kind used for weekend markets or nothing at all. The overhead lamps buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the dash. They ate in comfortable silence, passing sauce packets between them like currency. 

When the wrappers were torn and the shakes were half-gone, Paige leaned back in her seat, one knee tucked up loosely. 

“You’re hard to pin down,” she said. “Not in the mysterious bartender way. In the way that makes you feel like the room keeps changing around you, but you’re always steady.” 

Azzi took a long sip of her milkshake. “And you’re used to people making themselves easy.” 

“I’m used to people asking for my attention and then not knowing what to do with it.” 

Azzi didn’t blink. “You give it carefully.” 

Paige looked at her, the shape of her in the quiet. 

“Speaking of giving…” Her voice was light, not nervous. “What are the chances you’ll give me your number?” 

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She turned toward her, slow and unhurried, studying Paige like she was flipping a page she didn’t want to skim. 

Her look didn’t say yes. It didn’t say no either. It said: you’re asking for more than a number. 

“I don’t give it out lightly,” Azzi said. 

“I didn’t think you would,” Paige said. “But I'm still taking my chances.” 

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. Then, without breaking eye contact, extended her hand. 

“Phone.” 

Paige didn’t hesitate. She placed it in Azzi’s palm, the moment humming with something unspoken and sharp. 

Azzi typed. Added her name. First name only. No emoji. No last name. Just presence and four letters. Then passed it back, her fingers brushing lightly against Paige’s. 

Paige glanced at the screen, then up. “This looks boring in my contacts.” 

Azzi smirked, just barely. “Asking for an emoji and a nickname is skipping ahead. This one, you have to earn it.” 

 “I can work with that.” 

[carbonfiction]

Bitter days and bitten lips

Summary: Thinking about sharing a cold winters day in origins! Logan's cabin. (Or the lovers are loving each other sickeningly)

Can't lie i was cold and lonely when this came to be. Do with that what you will chat. once again fluff is NOT the strong suit so, go easy.. i promise smut will resume again soon :p

Warnings?: just overwhelming fluff. Reader bakes goods. reader makes a joke about him landing on his ass, Cuddles, kisses and general lovey dovey couple stuff.. Plus a teeeny moment of self doubt.

(Spoiler: Logan really likes kisses in this one..)

Masterlist Words: 1.2k (got carried away writing about boyfriend Logan.. sorry chat :/)

Thinking about the kind of days when frost gleams across the mountains. Rocks and trees covered in a dusting of snow. every step accompanied by a resounding crunch, ground slightly slippery with ice.

The kind of days when your breath puffs out as vapor and even a coat, hat and gloves don't ward off the chill.

However, inside that little cabin hidden far atop the hill, life is cosy. The fire steadily warming with a soft crackle; the little wooden pile slowly dwindling. Fingers and toes toasty warm instead of iced cold.

You adorn one of logans flannel button ups with some panties and comfortable knee highs, while logan lives in some sweats and one of his white tee's.

There's a radio playing low on the dinner table, some old music crackling through soft static serenading your actions in the kitchen. Freshly baked good filling the counters; a combination of scents wafting deliciously through the air. Bread, various pastries, and logans favorite pie all sitting cooling whilst you carefully place your cleaned bowls and utensils back in their respective places.

Meanwhile logan lounges comfortably on the couch, body sunk into the soft cushions, a book held in his grasp that he's only half paying attention to. Soft hazel gaze often flicking from the page to peek at you.

The sight, you clad in his shirt and those thigh highs he loves, wrapped up in an apron and doing something so domestic; so.. At home doing what you love in a shared space, brings a twinge of warmth to his chest. He loves you, more than he can ever express, but by god does he hope you know it.

After turning his attention back to the book, its not long before he hears the gentle sigh that releases from your chest. Fingers beginning to tug the aprons bow apart; the soft rub of fabric sounding out as you lift it off to hang on the hook. the soft click of the pantry door following, before your feet start to pad over.

You round the couch and attempt to sit by his feet silently, but logan looks up immediately, a love drunk grin lighting up his face.

"Hey darlin c'mere.." he pats the space next to him as he shifts around, book forgotten in the wake of you.

You shuffle closer, trying to tuck in besides him until he quite literally tugs your body to his. Like you weigh nothing in the world he lays back, placing you comfortably atop of his broad chest, the fire flickering in his eyes as he gazes at you.

"there we go" he murmurs quietly, a teasing edge to his voice as you squirm to wrap your arms around the bulk of him beneath you. "Snuggle on in.."

By the time your comfortable your chin sitting in the middle of his chest, legs limp between his as you rest on your front. "There's my girl" he smiles, bringing up a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear. "finished keepin' us nice and fed for the winter huh?"

A smirk falls across his face as he teases, growing as your hand slaps softly at his shoulder making him laugh slightly. Faux shock filling your expression.

"I can stop and make you trek into town for goods instead if you'd like.." you grumble, trying (and failing) to hide your own sly smirk as your fingers draw circles on his pectoral.

"much prefer eatin' what my girl makes, y'know that." logan says, words falling from him so honestly that it makes you grin shyly.

And, in truth, You do, you know he is being honest wholeheartedly. From the way he clears his plates at meal time; often coming back for seconds. To the way he's damn near begged for your food for lunch when he's down working at the yard (a simple sandwich, nothing special really, apart from how he swears its his favorite thing on earth; apart from you of course) he never fails to remind you of his enjoyment.. But what's love without a little fun?

"Mhm, sure." you agree, eyes rolling playfully from under your lashes as you poke at his chest curiously. "Is it my cookin' or the threat of slippin' on your ass down the mountain that makes you say that?"

Logan's silent for a moment as he thinks, making a show of it. Then he dares a quiet hum, hands squeezing your sides jovially.

"Might be a little of both.." he smiles, teeth showing as you gasp dramatically making him really laugh. The deep rumble of his chuckle shaking your body atop of him as you pull on a grumpy little pout.

"Nah, sweetheart seriously" he grunts after a moment, sitting up a little to pull you in even closer, your head resting nearer his neck now as his voice drops in honesty. "you take care of us.. Me.. So well. More than i deserve. Cant thank you enough"

Your heart stutters in your chest, playful expression softening as you look at him. The man you have the best time calling yours, who loves so unconditionally it could bring you to tears.

"Hush" you murmur, hand moving from his chest up to place a finger gently on his lips. "None' a that, i could say the same about you.. deserve the world Logan Howlett"

"I dunno about th-" he goes to grumble, cheeks growing warm with the slightest dusty pink hue. self doubt still creeps up his spine, even as you cut him off by pressing your finger harder against him, smooshing his lips slightly.

"I said Hush.." you all but growl seriously, nipping softly at his Adams apple. "Or do i have to kiss you more to make you believe me?

Ah.. Kisses, or more specifically, your kisses. His achilles heel from the very first day your lips pressed to his. Gentle and sweet, the taste of you overwhelming his senses.

He's certain if he could choose his death, his choice would be to go by your lips.

There's a moment he relishes the feel of you, of the love you press tight to his skin. Across his collarbone, up his neck and even the scruff covered expanse of his sharp jaw.

"...suppose" he breathes shallow, shakily, as a quiet almost whine follows his words. "Kisses could work.."

You hum absentmindedly, trailing up from his jaw to softly peck at his face. cheeks, then forehead and back down the bridge of his nose. Your breath a gentle puff over his skin.

By the time you reach his lips again logan is pliant under your touch. His lashes fluttering gently against his cheeks as his hands grip tight on your waist.

which is why the soft nip of your teeth tugging at his lip draws a little surprised purr from his chest, his heart hammering quickly. The careful pain soothed by the swipe of your tongue before you kiss him properly once again.

"Believe me yet?" you whisper quietly pulling back, thumb rubbing gently over his chin.

"Might-" he pants, beginning to squirm ever so slightly beneath you. "Might need some more.. For convincing.."

You grin at Logan, wasting no time to press your lips back home against his. You'd be happy to kiss him all night if it would make him believe you.

So, you do.

Because nothing else matters but the warmth you feel at home with him; the very warmth that outweighs the bitter chill outside.