#mostly from kill bill

[firealder2005]

I honestly don’t post about any sports all that often. But this Super Bowl compelled me to write this.

Now, right out the gate I will tell you I am a KC Chiefs fan. I was born one. I am a third-generation fan, going back to my grandpa who picked them at 19 when they were a godawful team and barely televised through my mom’s childhood, because only the good teams were televised then — so if they could watch them, it was to watch them get POUNDED.

I got to watch them win a Super Bowl after a 50 year drought. It was an exhilarating feeling, especially since I was constantly picked on at school by a classmate because of my team (he would go out of his way to harass me whenever his team — Ravens, btw — beat the Chiefs. And he was blissfully quiet the whole day after).

I got to see them win another one two years ago, in the affectionately nicknamed Kelce Bowl because of the Kelce brothers playing against each other. That was a fun year.

And another one after that.

Am I all that cut up about them losing this year?

No. I am not. Because I know it’s just a game. The dudebros need to chill out fr.

But I also know that this year…it wasn’t quite just a game, either. There’s other forces at play.

I honestly had no idea that some of the major Chiefs players supported trump until today. Just before I started writing this, in fact. I didn’t know trump wanted them to win either.

There was a bad taste in my mouth when I found that out.

I don’t consider myself to be a fanatic fan. But I am a proud fan. Someone once called me a bandwagon and I got offended.

But. But.

I am not a fan of this. Of the support and cozying up to of fascism, racism, queerphobia, you name it. It boggles my mind too because there are Black players on the Chiefs, there are Black players who CARRY the NFL’s legacy on their backs, and to support the trump administration is to take away their support.

You know what I am a fan of?

The political message of Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show.

I have never listened to any of Kendrick’s discography. I’ve never really been all that into hip hop or rap (my whiteness is showing I know).

Honestly, while I was watching, a lot of what was going on flew over my head. And I also had a hard time hearing the lyrics 🫣 again, not used to this genre of music 😅

But that’s what I thank tumblr for. Tumblr always has a way of bringing the unknown into the spotlight, and expanding my own knowledge on it.

I am very much not knowledgeable on the Black history surrounding Kendrick’s performance. But looking back, with a fresh set of eyes, what I do know and have put in effort to learn starts to be clear.

And I think it was genius. I think Kendrick Lamar’s performance is what saved this Super Bowl for me because I am vastly disappointed in my team right now, and still would have been even if they won.

I do not begrudge the Eagles their win. After all, this was a rematch 😜 Only fair you have your time to shine.

But in all seriousness, I think I prefer a loss to a win simply because I would not be able to enjoy that win knowing what I do now.

Besides. if it comes with the bonus of trump’s night being ruined? having to live with spending TAXPAYER MONEY (my money!!) to go and watch the game only to leave halfway through because Kendrick called him out? good. I can handle the sidelong taunts about the Chiefs and their bad decisions. I am mature enough to see that.

I am mature enough to see that an Eagles win, packed with Kendrick Lamar ripping the right a new one, is a win for us all — Chiefs fans included.

The next four years will be tough. But with such a spectacular performance? The trans flag? The Palestine and Sudan flag? Everything?

I think we have what we need to keep fighting. Kendrick, Chappell Roan, Lady Gaga, all of these artists lending their voices to support those who will be grievously impacted by what comes next is so important, especially at events like the Grammies and the Super Bowl. It shows that people care.

It shows that we can always care.

It’s just a game, yeah. But now it’s so much more.

[moe-broey]

GIRL......................... suspension of disbelief I know but.

Obviously you can pick out a BUNCH of the dragons as that Is an ongoing trope (dragons aging differently than humans, so they can look younger than they "actually are") (also while I did try to avoid including them to make them more comparable to Nino, I think Flayn can fit in either category for the purposes of The Context -- esp cause her dragon blood is meant to be secret)

Not only do we have Heroes skewing younger (a lot fitting into another trope of What If There Was A Baby Sister) we also have Baby Banner. Where the whole point is they are baby.

LIKE....... maybe I'm speaking way too soon and maybe the whole point IS this will backfire LMFAO, but it IS absurd to be presented with her art (which, def still looks youthful!) and having her say yeah I can pass as a kidnapped child. Which COULD be true! But also what do you mean no one is going to know you're a part of the Heroes. Why is no one fighting her on this. Not even including the dragons there are like a handful of Heroes who fit into her exact vibe. Some even MORE baby than her.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

the way this is just lighting up the board hitting the Winston (Billions) points. the way it's from a survey about autistic experiences with perceived dehumanization.

[thebibliosphere]

It astounds me that you can post something deeply personal and traumatic about almost dying at the hands of a chiropractor and sustaining lifelong damage that negatively impacts your daily life to a debilitating degree, and people will still send irate messages like, “well I can’t afford a doctor so what am I supposed to do? Just not let chiropractors crack my neck?!”

And it’s like worstie, whether you can afford a doctor or not won’t fucking matter if the chiropractor fucks up your entire life because if what happened to me happens to you, you’re fucked and if you want to live you’ll end up paying much much more than what seeing a physical therapist would have cost you in the first place.

My PT is mostly covered by insurance these days. But without it the bill is $300.

The damage the chiropractor has cost me? Well it was 6 grand for the first emergency MRI which my insurance didn’t cover, several grand in doctors appointments to be told I’m fucked for the rest of my life and basically just thousands of dollars a month in rehab that I honestly can’t afford to keep me from killing myself from the pain while plunging myself and my husband into further insurmountable medical debt because he refuses to let me go.

So you tell me. Do you want to eat the cost of that initial physical therapy appointment now so you can learn to properly manage your neck pain without letting someone crack it? Or do you want to wait and end up like me. Because I guarantee you, it’s a waiting game. Chiros only have to fuck up once.

Once is enough.

[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 | ☀️

[giulliadella]

Bill Cipher's anatomy UPDATE!

Alex Hirsch is going to kill me one day.

So, for those who don't know, I'm the weirdo who did speculative biology of Bill Cipher, mostly as a fun exercise. I'm a biologist after all.

And now, on the stream, Alex Hirsch brought me the unused Bill's anatomy drawing from his book. I lost my mind:

So, now, I can tell you what my spec bio got right and what I got wrong and I can expand on the anatomy a bit!

Btw, this is going to have a NSFW part. I am VERY serious about that. Also, warning for anatomy drawings I guess.

WHAT I GOT CORRECT:

Bill Cipher is an invertebrate! He has a hydroskeleton, which he calls "arm juice", not bones. SUCK ARM JUICE YOU PERSON WHO SENT ME THAT ASK, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

And he's also segmented, although he has more segments than I saw. This isn't unusual, internal structures often keep the segmentation that external structures lost. I was very correct about his exoskeleton splitting in the middle to form a front and back plate and that his limbs protrude through the gap.

His skin is black! It's funny how many people needed to tell me that he's wearing gloves. No he's not!

I accidentally got right that he has a liver. I thought "this dumbass eats and drinks so much shit, if he didn't have a liver he'd be dead by now" and I was right. Considering the size of his liver, I was also right about him being a carnivore (or mostly carnivore). Carnivores have large livers because livers are used to process proteins and for uric acid cycle. Since carnivores consume lots of protein, they need a large liver.

His stomach is in the center! I didn't explain on my previous post why I placed it there, but it actually makes a lot of sense. The center of an equilateral triangle is its "mass center", so if an animal looks like a triangle, it would make a lot of sense that its stomach would be there, so that the extra mass from the meal wouldn't tilt its balance.

I also got right that his intestines are in his lowest segment and his brain in the topmost.

WHAT I GOT WRONG:

The entire reproductive system. It's MUCH freakier than expected!

Bill has ears! They are on the sides of his head. They aren't really ears, just tympanal membranes. They are located where Brett is trying his darndest XD

The hat is probably not a part of Bill's body. He used it as storage for extra organs during Weirdmageddon, Holy Moses on a Motorbike! However, if it IS a part of his body, then it could be used as fat storage.

He has 20 lashes. I would have never guessed. They could still be used to sample scent, a lot of animals have scent sampling tentacles.

His feet! He probably has velcro-like structure on them, like geckos. This could mean that Bill could glue himself to walls and walk on them if he wanted to. Little insect motherfucker.

He has a singular anus! And it's between his legs. Do with that information what you want.

AAAAND UPDATES!

I can finally show you Bill's entire digestive system! I couldn't do that in my original post, since I couldn't figure out what would go after the small intestine. Alex Hirsch has cleared that up for me and also, I think Bill uses some form of Malpighian tubules-like structures for urine excretion.

And, now... The reproductive system. AKA, the fun zone and creative juices.

NSFW!

Bill Cipher is a fucking freak, but maybe that isn't entirely his fault. It's in the genes of Euclydeans as species. (His love for BDSM isn't though. "He's got it all figured out", as Ford said.)

So, in case you don't know what a vagina dentata is, it was like an occult belief that women can grow teeth out of their vaginas. Bill Cipher's genitals look like a fucking vagina dentata. So that's why he thinks that teeth are hot - they grow out of his reproductive system.

Now, those aren't really teeth. They look like sharp-edged fleshy protrusions that Euclydeans probably use to tighten the grip during mating. It could probably be used for stimulation as well. That's why Bill doesn't like his sides being touched - the genitals are inside, but rubbing them feels violating.

Euclydeans are most likely one of those species who use pain to sexually stimulate their partners. It's not that uncommon on Earth either (don't look up reptile hemipenes, especially not turtles) and for creatures that are covered in smooth exoskeleton, some piercing action would be highly beneficial for transferring seminal fluid.

This also gives us the option of Bill Cipher being a biological female, who has a vagina with those weird teeth-like protrusions. However, it is entirely possible that males also have similar genitals. Bill calls his thing that's dripping "creative juice", so maybe it is seminal fluid? In either case, it's very freaky, but it fits him so well.

This also means that male Euclydeans most likely don't have a real copulatory organ, or, maybe, they do, but the female has to "bite it off" during mating to absorb the sperm. If they don't have the copulatory organ, they do it like birds, with just pumping, but unlike birds, they hold onto each other's thing with flesh teeth.

I am going to hell for making this art, but you are going with me for seeing it:

It also occurred to me that, since I believe Euclydeans use their bricks to produce sound... they would probably be loud. Fanfic authors, you know what to do.

@mitsu-the-witch you requested this, now live with it. I am going to burn my degree.

[starseongs]

one of my friends said “maybe he likes ateez” so now i’m like fuck maybe that Is it!! maybe their siren voices have lured him in and bc i can’t stop fucking playing their music he WONT LEAVE😖

please i am just trying to watch ateez videos can this guy leave me alone for one night 😭

[thevedicarchives]

Crows and their connection to Ketu and Ketu dominants ☋ 

In my long, long ongoing period of astrology observation so far, is something that keeps re-occuring day by day that i wanted to share with fellow observants of this crazy world.

Ever wondered why certain actors in films or series are quite often under the guidance of a fellow crow/raven? Mostly serving as 'the eyes or compass' to the persona itself? Or maybe why you have a great interest (or even daily companionship) from these magnificent creatures? Do please keep reading!

Before i even knew about vedic astrology and thus this amazing link between ketu and crows, i always had these beasts follow me arround my neighbourhood, even appearing right in front of me in moments where i felt unsafe. As if they knew and wanted to guard me or something. I even had a tattoo done years ago that said 'raven' in my native language and carried a big raven skull ring on my middle finger.

When i started to learn and delve deep into the vedic world, i not only discovered that i was (ofc) heavily ketu dominant, but also about the beautifull Hindu goddess or 'Mahāvidyā' that rules over Ketu ; our beloved granny 'Dhumavati'.

As you can see, this widow goddess is (almost) always portrayed sitting on a chariotee under the guidance of crows. Sometimes the crows are even portrayed as the ones pulling the chariot or Dhumavati is shown riding them as horses. She stands for all things Ketu-like, think cosmic forces, destruction of illusions, supernatural powers, divine ancient knowledge, salvation or "moksha", cremation grounds, the void that's left after desolation and destruction of the universe, spirits, death, and so on...

Now me being the horror fan that i am, i ofcourse started to see patterns between crows being used in scary movies or series, and certain actors being accompanied by said crows. One thing led to the other, and alot of birth chart investigations later, i can confidently say there IS a connection.

As followed, i'll sum up the actors who are obviously portrayed with crows/ravens in a movie/show with their respective birth chart placement that makes them all heavy Ketuvian :

-Bill Skarsgård - playing Eric in The Crow, who is literally being resurrected by crows and granted healing abillities to take revenge on the ones who killed both him and his girlfriend : Ketu conjunct Sun.

Ian Somerhalder - Damon Salvatore using his crow to spy on Elena : Has Mula (Ketu ruled Nakshatra) Mars in his 1st house.

-Britne Oldford playing blind Fei in The Umbrella Academy, who uses her crows to see and attack others. Highly possible Ashwini (Ketu ruled Nakshatra) moon. Birth time not confirmed.

-Angelina Jolie as Maleficent, using her crow boy Diaval as her spy and loyal companion : has Ketu conjunct her Sun.

-Tippi Hedren in The Birds, posing with a raven : has Mula ascendant (Birth time confirmed).

Now coming back to my own personal experience with crows, they still follow me arround everywhere i go. I recon moments where they will literally show me the way when google maps fails me. Whenever i get lost somewhere there is a crow flying in the air in a certain direction that i can just follow to find my way back. I am not making this up.

I've always seen them as my spirit guides, long before i knew about astrology or mythology in general. They are by far one of the most magnificent animals to be flying arround this earth.

As time and knowledge goes on, i"ll probably add more names and planetary aspects to this piece of text. For now i just wanted to share what i already know and stand behind, as well as giving my major preach to these beautiful birds and the Hindu Mythology.

For the ones who know : Do you have heavy Ketu influence in your chart? And do you have special connections with crows/ravens in your life? Do they keep popping up wherever you go or maybe you even have a tattoo or favorite art piece related to them? I'm so curious to hear about others and how they experience this!

[boredgrace23]

I talked about Scout and Demoman's characters. Here's one for Sniper who goes through way too much crap in the comics that barely anyone acknowledges.

I know people depict Scout as the scrappy kid among the crew, but Sniper shockingly fits the bill. And I don't mean scrappy as in throws punches, scrappy as in is resilient and persistent despite the odds against him.

In the game, aka ‘the Gravel Wars,’ he’s introduced as a standoffish asshole who wants nothing to do with the team. He pretty much insults everyone when you’re playing as him in the voice lines, from teammates to the enemy team, and he is in no way a professional.

And even WHEN he’s not on the battlefield, in Expiration Date, he’s off to the side and doing his own thing. Except for when Spy recruits him and Demoman to duet for that fake date.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get along with the team; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t bother with them at all. In fact, the only real person we mostly see him truly getting along with (before the comics) is Scout. We rarely see him having any patience for the other mercs until the second to last comic.

He’s more or less just refusing to get along with them for a reason we don’t know about. Aka, the scene where he drugs both Demoman and Miss Pauling.

While we can assume it’s from being bullied in his childhood, we can also assume it’s because he thought it was his old/ex team to have killed his family, and that’s INCLUDING Scout. He assumes the worst in everyone, and even if he ""likes"" the team, he also understands that they're just hired arms.

If there’s one thing everyone can agree with about Sniper’s character, it’s that he’s both incredibly intelligent and incredibly wary.

I mean, he’s gotta be if he’s the one watching everyone’s back. It's just ironic how everyone trusts him to watch their back, but he can't ever trust anyone to watch his.

For good reason too, let’s not overlook that when Sniper gets shot, no one’s looking out for him, and he just... dies in Demoman’s arms.

No one really cared when his biological parents abandoned him again. Miss Pauling didn’t really offer much besides a simple sorry, Spy was too caught up in his own dilemma about parents abandoning their kids, and Medic was just happy to see them all again. But what’s REALLY tragic about that whole thing, is that of all people to hold Sniper as he’s dying, it was Demoman. The one person who would truly understand his grievances.

And as he’s in heaven having that conversation with his dad, even when Sniper’s relationship with his dad was shaky at best, he still wanted his approval. He doesn’t have daddy issues, he just got into arguments with him about his career, and even in the end, his dad only wanted what was best for him. They both knew that.

It was just unfortunate that both he and his dad died so Sniper could finally receive approval and understanding.

Then, finally, after getting that approval, he’s actually working with the team and being patient with Spy, the one person who he openly despises. Spy actually had his back and saved him, something that he didn't have before.

He helps the team, settles down by a lot, and is just overall in a much happier place.

In fact, when they go to save Soldier, he's got their backs even years later, and they very much have his after Spy proved that to him.

To conclude Sniper's wonderfully sweet arc: during the dinner scene in the finale, we see him and Demoman share a drink.

And I think that’s bloody beautiful.

[unethicalpeacemonger]

Hello everyone, have a Gerard fanart while I talk about the current situation here in Indonesia

Press down here, please read all the way through if you can

Hello, I am A, I'm Indonesian. I apologize for my terrible grammar. I will be using initials due to future safety concerns.

Right now Indonesia is going through a massive change under the reign of our new president and his vice, and I can't say its a good thing. Our elected president, initial P. S. is an alleged human rights offender due to his participation in the kidnapping of several activists back in 1997 and 1998 during Indonesia's "New Order", under president Soeharto and a known Zionist. Meanwhile his vice, G. R. Is the son of our previous reigning president, a pro AI leader and generally seems to be underqualified to be a vice president.

It has been a little bit over 100 days of P. S. and G. R.'s reign over Indonesia and country has been in shambles. During their campaign, they promised the people a free nutritious lunch program that won them a massive following of supporters. However, the program turned out not as expected with the food being barely nutritious and even bad at times. But these are not only the problem Indonesia has been facing these past few months.

Some of these problems are; the government cutting education funds, countless of mis-use of AI in spaces it shouldn't (AI-art, AI competitions), even things like the shooting of a highschool student by an armed police officer, and silencing any form of art that criticized the governmental corruption. All happened in the span of more or less 100 days under the reign of our newly elected president.

However, the country reached a new low in the past 2 days. The parliament recently discussed a new bill that contained a revision to military personnel, letting them take part in socio-politics departement. The discussion was done closed, in a fancy hotel and not in the official government office. And just yesterday, they approved this bill.

If you're unfamiliar with this, Indonesia's military system had this exact system back in The New Order, under Soeharto's dictator reign. And according to history, this has done greater harm than good, increasing the probability of violence by the cops and military, silenced journalists, kidnapping and murder of activists, and ultimately, according to Indonesian history, a riot that killed several college students from Trisakti University.

Yesterday, several riots were planned, mostly by college students in Jakarta and they were met with violence by military personnel keeping track of them (mostly beatings). This alone has proved the escalated risk of violence by military personnel.

Please spread this as far as you can. And if you can, please do your own research because I am also not invincible to misinformation and/or propagandas. I'd like for people outside of my country know what is happening to us incase something greater than us happens.

[aimasup]

Is your cat bill gonna be put down

Susan: "the pound tried to put him down before :D so he got them"

Stan and Ford: ah, understood.

Before officially setting sail, the Stans thought maybe they could bring Bill onto the boat, just to get him acclimated

First their new engine became rusted junk overnight. Then their sails got torn out in the water. Then the walls started bleeding. So this wasn't sustainable

Right that moment, Wendy called. Turns out she heard of the creature from Dipper and was like oh free cat fr? sweet

She visited them for more info. When she had to go back to college for a new semester, she took him with her. He's been running rampant there ever since

Bill has tried to kill her before. Like the Mystery Twins and the Grunkles, she's pretty good at surviving attempted murder. Though she's more annoyed than anything else at it.

She is a major procrastinator when it comes to assignments. It's her curse

Wendy is actually taking her studies seriously now because she's the first Corduroy to go to college, and she's mostly left her rebellious teen days behind. She does care about this opportunity!

That doesn't mean she doesn't appreciate a good dose of domestic terrorism.

Bill's hauntings only spice up the students' lives <3 improvise adapt overcome

The trees are blinking and chanting? Class is cancelled yippee. Wildlife is acting hostile? The drunk partygoers were already pissing them off way before Bill arrived. School equipment getting mouldy or broken - they were already pretty bad before. No one really noticed that one.

And Bill has no specific attachment to anyone there so no more dead body 'gifts'

No one is even able to confirm that Wendy is the one who brought this plague upon their land. In the very least they can't get that information out of her or anyone who knows her 🤭

He does favours for Wendy, provided she do something for him in turn. They've communicated this wordlessly through nods and glances and expressions.

Bill's just a guy she knows at this point, they don't live together, she's not directly responsible for his food and bed situation, he's a campus cat now

Students are spending money on fresh meat to feed Bill by hand. Wendy informed them that he likes Bolognese sauce

There's shrines to Bill in corners of the school praying to him for good grades

The college had no choice but to make him the new mascot, after multiple linked cases of violent mascot costume maulings and reports of nightmares over several weeks

Staff took down the shrines once and bad things happened. So the Bill shrines went back up

All in good fun of course (?)

Now that Bill has a whole campus worth of humans who both fear and adore him, speaking of him in rumour and giving him offerings, he's...chilled out??

He only bites people gently. He purrs and flirts and crashes lectures. He raises his hackles and hisses at empty spaces regularly.

In other words he behaves almost like a regular cat of average intellect.

Nobody has died yet, that's all we need to hear 👍

He is going to outlive this school and Wendy tolerates him

[madsgotmadagain]

Writing Love letters:Yandere! Marko x Reader

Summary: You, a hopeless romantic, start to receive anonymous love letters in your mailbox. How sweet!It becomes less sweet, however, when your secret admirer starts to admire you a little too closely. And creepily. And may or may not be human but hey whose to say-

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: Stalking, feeling watched/paranoia, yandere behavior, blood, forced blood drinking/forced vampire turning, death of nameless characters, being held/pinned down, Marko cuts himself to feed you blood, mean Marko (he loses his temper, sort of apologizes?), cops being useless and snarky

If you catch any i may have not mentioned or tagged properly, let me know and I'll add them! I think this is mostly it though

Other important tags: Yandere/obsessive Marko, Italian Marko (uses of Italian pet names), reader uses she/her pronouns but body is not mentioned, oneshot, 8.3k words, this work is cross published on Ao3!!

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You thought the first couple letters were sweet, really. If anything, the first few were just the tiniest bit. They showed up in your mailbox one day alongside the other bills and ads shoved in there by your mailman. You figured whoever was sending them wasn't using the postal service, however. The letters were anonymous, no name or return address or even a stamp on the back. Just “mi amore” written on the back of the envelope, and a wax seal keeping it shut.

You didn't see them all until you got home from work that night though. Waking up late left now time to collect your mail before you scrambled off to work. It was all too perfect for him, though.

"A wax seal. How fancy,” You thought when you saw it. Flipping the letter back and forth before you walked back into your home with the rest of your mail. Tossing it all except for the letter onto the coffee table, flopping down onto your sofa. Despite the exhaustion from work that day, this little envelope was sparking your interest. Thus, feeling the all consuming weight of curiosity, you carefully lift up the seal and take out the paper inside. Feeling the toothy grip of sketchbook paper on your fingertips as you pull it out, starting to read.

.……..……..……..……..……..……..……..……......................

“Mi Amore,”

“Seeing you working on the boardwalk has become the highlight of my nights. Passing by you fills me with emotions I haven't touched in a long time. Seeing your smile as you deal with whatever customer is talking to you, even when they don't deserve it- Dio mio, what I would give to get you to smile at me. A real, genuine smile in my direction. I would actually die right then and there.”

“I'm writing to tell you I love you. You have become my sun, the light of my life, my purpose - Mio Sole, I am helpless to my heart. Impossibly attracted to you, struggling to hold myself back from trying to sweep you off your feet and take you right then and there. I need an outlet. So I thought, hey, letters.”

“I need you to know how crazy I am about you. Even if you don't know me right away, or don't feel the same right now, you should know. I would kill for you. I would die for you. And right now, I live for you, my love.”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

“... Oh, wow,” is all you can think to say. Your face flushing red, a small smile on your lips. You couldn't believe what you were reading. Sure, you had gotten a love note or two in school, but it was always the typical, ‘Do you like me yes-no-box’ note. Never had you ever received anything like this. A confession of pure, unfiltered admiration. It was so fantastical, a plot plucked straight out of a cheesy rom-com, or some modern day period film. And for a single, hopeless romantic, it was an absolute dream come true.

You had no idea what this would bring. You had no idea that, as you sat on your sofa, giddily re-reading your letter, making sure you hadn't misread anything, someone was outside your windows. Smiling to himself as he watches you, greenish-grey eyes bore into you, past your body, staring at your soul.

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And so, as time went on, you got more letters. Each as romantic and lovingly crafted as the next. You even got to learn more about your secret admirer; for example, he was a bit of an artist. Small doodles scrawled into the margins of the pages, little hearts and doodles of whatever he was talking about scattered around the poetic lines of devotion. Once he even stuck in a whole separate paper in the envelope; a portrait of you.

“I tried to draw you last night,” He explained at the end of his writing. “It came out alright, I think - better than I thought it would. You can only do so much when your only references are memories. Still, one day, I'll get to see you up close, and I'll find a moment to sit you down and draw you as well as I know I could.”

He told you small stories about him and his friends, who you learned he lived with, though details beyond that were obscured from you. You had no clue where they all lived, just the assumption that it had to be here, somewhere in Santa Carla.

He admitted at one point that he started telling them all about you. “I want them to like you too,” he had written. “Not in the same way, of course, but I want them to like you. And for you to like them. I don't know what I'd do if I introduced you all and you wouldn't get along. You're all way too important for me to give any of you up.”

You also learned that he wasn't one of your coworkers. Given you only really went on the boardwalk for work, you thought maybe your secret admirer worked alongside you. But after asking around, nobody had any idea what you were talking about, not letting out even the tiniest slip that could hint they were lying.

For the time being, you decided to just let it be. Reveling in the affectionate lines and messages thrown your way. Basking in the possibility of a blooming romance, positively smitten for someone you hadn't even met before.

But then things started to get a bit… strange.

The letters kept coming, yes, with their wax seals and poetic declarations of love. But alongside them, other sorts of lines were written. Small phrases or comments that made you read again, their context causing slight confusion or concern.

“I saw you dealing with some creep last night,” He wrote once. The words starting to indent themselves into the paper, signs that the author was getting heavy handed. “It took everything in me to not go in there and deal with him myself right at that moment. Make sure he never looked at or talked to you like that ever again.”

You remembered the guy he was talking about. Just another punk from a gang prowling the boardwalk, looking to start up trouble. Trouble just so happened to mean bothering you at work, trying (and failing) to flirt, looking at your body like you were a slab of meat. It was definitely uncomfortable, but you managed to deal with him fine enough until he and his gang left the store. Praying he'd move on and you'd never have to see him again.

And that's just what happened, miraculously. The punk never came back into the store. Hell, none of them did. After that night, it was as if they never existed.

You couldn't help but think about the letter when you walked past his missing poster. A part of you suspected if your anonymous admirer had anything to do with it - but you quickly brushed it off, chuckling to yourself.

No, it couldn't be, you insisted to yourself. People went missing all the time in Santa Carla, it was nothing new. The guy probably just got into some stuff he shouldn't have and shit went bad. Still, the idea amused you whenever you'd think it at the time. Your secret letter writer, a guardian angel, batting away creepy boardwalk men so you didn't have to deal with them.

If only you knew your guardian angel had fists and fangs coated in blood that night. Laughing violently as the punk’s screams muffled into choking on his own blood, then started to stop. Watching with glee as the life faded from his eyes, while the rest of his gang picked off the others. Really, he would've kept him around longer if he had more time. Make him really scream, break a few extra bones, rip off just a bit more skin- But the rest of the boys were already finishing up, and this guy wasn't going to last much longer anyways. Thus, he sunk in his fangs, sucking the delinquent of every drop of blood.

Dinner had never tasted so sweet.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Yeah, no, this was definitely getting weird. Like, really weird.

The letters frequency slowed a bit; you went from a letter a day to one every few days. You wouldn't really think about it too much if that was it. Unfortunately, it wasn't.You felt like you were being watched. Particularly, at night, though it didn't matter where. You'd feel eyes on you at work, walking to your car, driving back home - even your house wasn't free from the creeping feeling that you weren't as alone as you thought you were.

You tried to brush it off. Justify it as you just being too alert after that creepy conversation with the punk. But still, that was weeks ago, and you were still feeling eyes blasting into you everywhere you went. It felt like as soon as the sun went down, the eyes were back. Night was no longer just a time of day for you; it meant constantly being on edge, waiting for something - or someone, even - to take an opportunity to try something.

The letters weren't helping either. Small bits that made you tilt your head had evolved past just being peculiar. Now, the words on the page were just plain creepy, and definitely not helping your anxieties.

He talked about things you hadn't mentioned to anyone. Intimate details about yourself and your life you intentionally kept under wraps. Writing about your friends outside of work, about the places you drive past on your way home (you tried a new route the other day, the letters started mentioning the new shops and streets you drove past).

The letters you once saw as a comfort, a distraction from long nights at work, we're now furthering your fears. What started as a cute little way to work up the courage to talk to you morphed into what felt like stalking you.But it wasn't until this incident that you were positive that something was very, very wrong.

..……………………………………………………………………….

"Mi Amore,”

“I really missed seeing you at work yesterday.”

(You had called off sick the last few nights. Your fears got the better of you, so you told your boss you couldn't make it. She was disgruntled, but she took it, so you had been keeping yourself at home for a bit.)

“Walking by the place and not seeing you just- felt wrong. Hopefully by the time you're reading this, you're back to work and I'm seeing you normally again. Not that you not going to work is stopping me much."

"Regardless, just rest up, amore. You're going to need it once you're back in the swing of things. In the meantime, I'll just settle for having to take the ride out. But I do have to admit, you look really cute like this - wearing those baggy shirts and pants, your hair all messy and tangled, all sleepy all the time. Eventually I'll get to wake up beside you and see you all disheveled like that. Everyday. Forever. It'll be perfect.”

“Get some rest, amore,”

“Forever yours,

Tuo ammiratore”

..……………………………………………………………………….

You reread the last paragraph about ten times, confused and a bit anxious. You hadn't gone out in your pajamas since elementary school. Especially not to the boardwalk of all places. Where you worked, where people you worked with or god forbid your boss could see you? Absolutely not.

He shouldn't be able to describe your pajamas.

You tried to calm down a bit, think through this logically. He probably just assumed, right? I mean, plenty of people wear baggy clothes to bed - you weren't special for doing that. Especially considering right now, everyone you knew thought you were sick.

Still, the feeling of being observed still hangs in the air, definitely not helping your nerves. Trying to calm down, you walk over to the window, figuring some fresh air would calm your nerves. Maybe you knew you really just wanted to check for something. To be positive everything was fine and you were thinking too hard about a few dumb lines in a somewhat strange letter.

But it wasn't. You open your curtains, then your windows. Taking a breath, tired, half lidded eyes look over your yard. Moving them across the land, into the woods that surrounded your home.

That's when you see it.

It's only there for a few moments. You saw it, blinked, and it was gone. But it was there. Even but for a fleeting second, it was there.

A figure stood in your yard. A human figure, a person was in your yard, standing in the trees. Despite being covered in shadows, the pale moonlight managed to barely illuminate their face. Just enough for you to catch the knowing smirk on their lips and the dangerous glint in their eyes, which almost seemed to glow a sickly yellow.

Your heart stops, your skin paling as you quickly slam your windows shut. Running around your house, doing the same to the rest of them. Then drawing all the curtains. Then checking your locks.

That was the nail in the coffin for you. You called your boss again, asked to switch off the night shift. Again, she was annoyed, but she said she'd look into it. You may not get your full paycheck, though, since you were running out of sick days. You told her that was fine, and you'd be there once you got your new hours. You hung up.

Once you checked to see whoever was there wasn't there anymore, you calmed down a little. Enough to realize all this started happening after you started getting the love letters. That everything was getting creepier and creepier alongside them.

Thus, you stopped picking them up. At first, you wouldn't even touch them, letting the papers all pile up in your mailbox. But then they increased in frequency again, and it turns out letting mail build up wasn't practical when you still had bills and other letters coming in. So instead, you just threw them out as soon as you got them. Got all your mail, leafed through to find the important stuff, then tossed everything else in your garbage bin.

If you weren't reciprocal, he'd lose interest. That was the thought running through your head as you tossed envelope after envelope in the trash. That's what you thought when after a few weeks, the letters stopped coming.

If only you knew what you were doing.

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Marko was fucking pissed.

That's all he could feel as he wrote yet another letter; anger coursing through his veins. His grip on the pen so strong it felt as though it could snap in half at any moment. Considering the residue of dried ink on his fingers, it wouldn't be the first time tonight.

When you first saw him, he wasn't that upset. Easing you into his stranger ways of showing love was definitely the hardest part of his plan to get you to be with him. It made sense that you were a little freaked out. He just never thought you'd be this reactive.

You weren't at the boardwalk anymore. He and the other boys would walk past it on their way to cause havoc, and you weren't there. At first, he assumed you were sick. He sent his condolences for that. Went to make sure you were alright from a distance.

But days turned to two weeks, and you still weren't back. Eventually, Marko got up the courage to go inside and ask for you. And the cashier at the front desk (your work friend, he recognized), told him you weren't doing night shifts anymore. That you asked to be switched to the normal 9 - 5. Much to his confusion and slight betrayal.

Weren't doing night shifts? You asked to be changed? Excuse me? He thought he made it clear he wanted to see you at work. To you, he only got to see you in person at work.

He wrote to you about it. Vented his frustrations in the decision. Basically demanded you write something back this time, an explanation. Stuck it in your mailbox, along with several other letters you hadn't gotten yet (still faking sick, he guessed. You little liar.). And he waited. He waited a while. He waited until he got bored, cracked, and wrote another letter. Chuckling to himself as he drove to your place. God, look at you; cracking open his stubbornness with your own, baiting him into apologizing. God, he was whipped.

Then, he decided to hang back a moment after delivering your new letter; poke around a bit, see if anything interesting was happening around your home. It was night anyways, you were probably asleep. You wouldn't catch him. He had taken ‘poking around’ to mean, that night at least, you mean opening up your trash bin to see if you had thrown out anything neat. His usual smirk disappeared right off his face when he saw dozens of unopened letters staring back at him from the top of the bin.

You weren't replying because you were playing sick. You didn't know he wanted a response. Because you hadn't been reading his recent letters. You were throwing them away.

To say Marko was mad would be an understatement. He was livid. Fuming when he came back to the cave, quickly making his way to find a pen and paper. These past few weeks, he assumed you were just playing sick, but no. You were intentionally tossing all of his efforts and affections into the trash. You weren't even bothering to read them! You saw who sent it, and didn't even give him the light of day. After everything he said, everything he did for you, this was the thanks he got? The nerve! The fucking nerve you had!

“God damn…” he muttered, scribbling out the last few words before rewriting them. Not noticing the presence behind him until a hand is on his shoulder.

"Whatcha up to bud?” Paul's voice rings out throughout the cave, snapping Marko out of his rage-filled writing. Groaning, still upset, he turns to look at the other vampire.

"Writing to her,”

“Again?” Paul asks. Sitting down next to the curly-haired blond, tilting his head a little. “Didn't you, like, just get back from sticking one in her mail?”

“Took it back,” He huffed, looking back down at the envelope beside him. Then to the paper in front of him, glaring down at the words. “Changed my mind about some stuff. Got something else to say to her now.”

“Oh,” Paul starts. Sensing the tension in the air, he pulls out a cigarette, an offering. Marko's gloved hand pushes it away, shaking his head. “... did something happen? Your kinda-”

“I'm fine,” The shorter blond huffs. Finally setting down the pen as he reads over his paragraph, once, then twice. Satisfied, he stands up.

"You wanna come help me out with something?” He asks, back to smirking. Sensing the slight improvement in Marko's mood at the thought of this ‘something’, Paul nods. Watching Marko's smirk grow.

“Great, I'll go get David and Dwayne. Start up your bike. It'll be fun.”

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You woke at the sound of rumbling in the distance, confused and a bit grumpy. Glancing at the alarm on your nightstand, you concluded it was about two in the morning, which only added to your annoyance. What the hell is making that noise at two am?

It was bikers, you concluded. The sounds of revving and engines and wheels on the ground hinting at what was happening. Probably just some drunk bikers, going for a joyride too close to your house. Groaning, you just turn on your side, shove your pillow over your ears, and try to go back to bed.

But then the noises got closer. Then closer. Until the screeching of wheels and bike engines were ringing in your ears, and behind all of it, you could make out the howls of laughter from whoever was driving.

Your heart starts to race as you listen. What was happening? Why were these random bikers right outside of your house? You locked the doors before you went to bed, right?

A crash interrupts your anxious thinking; The shattering of glass. Followed by more hollering. Your blood runs cold.

Panic racing in your bones, you freeze. Listening with slight relief as you hear the engines and laughter fade into the distance. Unsure of what exactly just happened to you.

Cautiously, you move again. Rushing out of your room, making your way to where you heard the crash; the living room. Stopping, shivering when you see what was in there.

One of the large, main windows had shattered. Millions of tiny glass pieces litter across your carpet, and in the middle of it all, was a brick.A brick with paper tied around it.

You can feel yourself shake as you grab the brick. Pulling the string loose, you set the brick down on your coffee table, holding the paper in your hands as you make your way to the couch. Starting to read.

..……………………………………………………………………….

“Ok, that's it. I'm getting sick of your shit, (Y/n).”

The mention of your real name makes your stomach churn. Before this, he had always called you by a nickname, some term of endearment; mi amore, mio Sole, the whole shebang. The sudden use of your name is startling. Alongside the change in tone from the last time you had read from him.

“It was kinda cute at first. Seeing you all nervous, all jumpy - I liked seeing you squirm.”

“What isn't cute is ignoring me. Don't even deny it. I saw your trash.”

… shit.

“After everything we went through - everything I do for you - you think you can toss all my letters away? Like they all meant nothing to you? Like I meant nothing to you? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You don't get to do that. You don't get to just walk away and pretend nothings been because I came on a little too strong and freaked you out a bit. I've been very clear about my intentions with you from the very start of all this; you're mine. I'm not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

“I'd do anything for you. You know that. I would die for you, I've lived my life every night for the last months thinking about you. Hell, I fucking killed for you! And you wanna back out now? No way in hell.”

“Obviously, we need to figure this out. Now. I'm done waiting for you to ‘be ready’. We tried playing this your way. Now, it's my turn.”“If you have plans tomorrow night, cancel them. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk about this.”

“ - Marko”

..……………………………………………………………………….

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. You're screwed. Your actually fucking screwed. You have a crazy stalker who knows where you live, he's pissed at you, and he ‘wants to talk’.You're dead. You're actually, legitimately dead. He's going to come find you at home tomorrow, and he's going to kill you.You stare at the floor once you're done. The glass is still scattered across it. It's a miracle you haven't gotten cut yet.

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"What do you mean there's nothing you can do?!” You say, glaring at the officer across from you. The man sighs, taking another sip of his coffee as he looks you over.

“ma'am, for the last time, we don't exactly have a lot of evidence to go off of-”

“What more evidence do you need?! My window got smashed in! With this brick! The guy's name is on the note attached to it, for fucks sake!”

The cop just scoffs again, watching you slowly inch closer and closer to snapping. You had come to the station once you got off work, the safety of the sun calming your nerves enough to leave home. Assuming you'd just have to tell them what happened, fill out some paperwork, and the cops would catch your stalker so you could sleep easy.

Unfortunately, you forgot that the Santa Carla police force is utterly incompetent. You've been here for hours, and literally nothing has changed.

“Ma'am, we already looked for Markos in your system, we looked the paper and the brick you brought in,” the cop starts, his own voice indicating he was also on his last nerve. “And we've got nothing. Nobody named Marko, and the only prints on anything of that stuff was yours. There is literally nothing we can do with any of this information except maybe question you.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that I shattered my own windows right now?!” You hiss out. Regretting it when the officer starts to glare back at you. Picking up a pen from his desk.

"Of course not. But I am telling you that unless it happens again, or you have more evidence, we have nothing to go off of. And as you can see,” He grunts, gesturing to the mountain of papers next to him. “We're a bit busy right now. Dealing with missing persons. Real threats to people. So I think you should see your way out so we can get back to work, Ma'am.”

And that was that. You stormed out of the police station, cursing the justice system as you made your way to your car. Unsure what to do.It was ten o'clock at night. You were tired. But the idea of going home was absolutely the question. He would be waiting for you there. That was absolutely not safe. But neither was staying here, a sitting duck if he discovered where you went. If he was serious about seeing you (as you assumed by his writing), this was the one of the most obvious places to look. So, you drove out of the parking lot, unsure where exactly you would go.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Finally clocking out of work, the officer made his way to his car, cursing the name of the woman he was forced to speak with earlier. Sighing with relief once he was inside. Goddamn, that took way too long.

"God, women..” he groaned, leaning back in his seat. If that damn girl could just take no for an answer, he could be at home right now. Eating his microwave dinner, watching TV, going to sleep. That's all he wanted, but no. Good lord, did he regret his career choices. He signed up to solve crimes, but instead he was stuck leafing through inevitable cold cases and listening to random people complain about pranks.

As freaked out as she seemed, he doubted it was a real emergency. Just some punks she pissed off screwing with her, he decided. It would all blow over, just like every other crime in Santa Carla did.

Unfortunately for him, the officer never made it home to his microwave dinner. He never even started his drive home. Just as he took his keys to the ignition, the roof of his car was ripped off. The cop himself was lifted into the air, the sounds of screaming rippling through the empty parking lot.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

You don't know why you came here. You just drove wherever your instincts told you, and they took you here, to where it technically all started. Maybe it was the fact that the boardwalk was always crowded, the proximity to people a strange comfort.

Regardless, you're still not calm. The boardwalk was practically an all-night funfair, and it would eventually close. You didn't really know where you'd go after that; maybe you'd drive to a friend's house and ask if you could spend the night. Finally admit what you've been dealing with, get some actual help.

Sighing, you walk around, gazing into the windows of the various shops. The wood underneath you creaking as it always has, as it always will, forever. Carnival music floats around you, followed by laughter and then screaming.

Looking up, you find your legs have carried you over to the roller coaster. Watching the carts speed across the tracks, some people throwing their hands up, howling with joy. Others grip the steel handlebars until their knuckles turn white, eyes shut tight, maybe even trembling a little. Eventually, after enough staring, you find yourself walking into the line. Deciding to try and get your mind off of the letters and stalkers. Trying to ignore the paranoia haunting you.

Only to find that, once you reach the front, you need another person to even get on the damn thing. Apparently, going on carnival rides required friends now. Sighing, you roll your eyes, deciding to just go drown your anxieties in five dollar hot dogs and cotton candy, when a hand lightly grabs your shoulder.

“I'll ride with her. I'm alone too, anyways,” a voice pipes up next to you. Turning your head, your breath hitches at the sight of him.

He had curly blond hair, a small ponytail on the back of his head, not really serving any functional purpose. Greyish-green eyes and a smirk that would have anyone swooning, his manner relaxed. Hell, even his jacket had your attention; patches and pins and buttons and even fishing lures adorned the coat, eye candy for anyone who looked.

By god, he was gorgeous. Practically a living statue, like he was sculpted by pygmalion himself. Your cheeks flush, and you can hear your heart in your ears as he tightens his grip, looking at you before he lightly pushes you ahead. Before you know it, you're sitting next to him. Buckling up and gripping the bar designed to keep you in place.

“So, you come here often?” He asks, looking at you. Still smirking, giving his full undivided attention.

“Uh, yeah, kinda,” you manage to croak out. Trying to keep your cool, to not humiliate yourself in front of the hottest guy you've ever seen. “I work here.”

“You do?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks at you, still smirking. A voice rings over the speaker system, reminding people to fasten their belts and not be stupid on the ride as it starts to move.

Smiling, you nod. Brushing hair out of your face as you look ahead of yourself. Watching as the mechanics of the ride pull the carts up a hill.

“Yeah. At this little tourist shop by the carousel.”

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I've seen you in there a couple times,” He says. Still giving you that knowing smirk, sending a shiver up your spine. It was strange, almost familiar. Like you've seen that same face before. Before you can question things too much, he goes on. “Me and my friends are kinda over there a lot. Caught a couple glances at you in there sometimes.”

That lets you relax a little bit. He's familiar because you've probably subconsciously caught glimpses of him every now and again. Much less weird.

The ride keeps pushing up the hill. You can feel your cheeks burn as you listen, feeling a little silly. “Ah, that makes sense. You recognized me from just a couple quick looks?”

"How could I just forget the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen?” He asks, making you burst out in laughter. He seizes the opportunity to wrap his arm around your shoulder, making your face somehow turn more pink. God, this guy, what was he doing to you? You were almost hypnotized by his charms, every move you'd brush off as cheesy and cliché feeling perfect in the moment. Every touch you'd be weirded out by a stranger doing not feeling creepy or perverted. Rather, it felt right, like his arm belonged on your shoulder. Strange, but for once, a good strange. And after the night's you've been having, you needed a good strange.

“Seriously, though,” he keeps going. Rubbing your shoulder a little, his other hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know this seems sudden, but I feel like I just have to get to know such a pretty face. Let me get you a hot dog or something after this, yeah?”

Again, you're chuckling. God, this man was turning you into a giggling schoolgirl. It was so unlike you. “Already? I don't even know your name.”

He scoffs a little, looking into your eyes. “Sure you do, (Y/n). You just gotta think a little, don't you?”

His words make you pause, looking at him. Still smiling, though a bit confused now. Did you give him your name? You can't remember, your memory under the high of a hot boy flirting with you. “What?”

You watch as he throws his head back and chuckles, the noise coming out a bit more wild than the last few times. He looks back at you, but this time, it's different. The way he looks at you sends an all too familiar shudder down your spine. One you've gotten used to feeling when the sun went down; the feeling of being watched from the shadows. Except it's not hidden in the darkness anymore.

"God, you're really gonna be stupid tonight? Or are you just that Oblivious? It's Marko.”

“What?” The words slip past your lips again. The air grows more tense as your eyes go wide. Realization hitting you like a freight truck.

The ride stalls its movement as it reaches the peak of the tracks. You're high above the rest of the boardwalk, dangling on the edge of the drop. Marko just laughs again, each time he does it becoming more and more unhinged as he just smiles at you. Pulling you in a little closer.

“Hi Amore.”

The cart dives over the hill. You scream.

Marko just cackles, joining you with all too familiar cackling as the ride speeds on. You keep screaming in terror, watching him as you try to get as far from him as possible. Leaning onto your side of the cart, only for the speeding, winding turns to whip you both around into each other. As the wind blows against your face, your eyes water. You're not sure if it's from the ride or the fear in your body.

By the time it's over, your entire body is trembling. Marko just chuckles, re-wrapping his arm around you as he practically drags you out of the cart. “Aw, what's the problem, babe? Not a fan of roller coasters? You're shaking like a leaf…”

You don't reply, both because you already screamed your voice horse, and you're terrified of what he'll do to you if you do. He just keeps smirking as he helps you off. Ten minutes ago, his smirk was making you giggle and blush like a madman. Now, it was tainted. A brutal reminder that you just flirted with and rode next to your stalker, the guy who had been tormenting you for months before all this.

Before you can truly process what's happening, he re-wraps his arm around you, walking you away from the coaster. Rubbing your tense flesh, he keeps talking, almost as if he was taunting you.

“You're such a quiet thing, aren't you, Amore? Well, that's fine, I guess. Better for the moment, I think, anyways. Don't scream, don't try anything. I'm not gonna hurt you, you're fine. I'm just gonna take you home now, alright? We're just going home.”

His voice rings in your ear, whispering. You think he's trying to imitate comfort, but it just fills you with more dread. Holding you tight against him as you walk across the boardwalk. Back over to the carousel, across from your store, to the bike racks. He lets go for a moment, and you debate running. But he's already revving the bike, looking at you expectantly. “Get on, babe.”

It's not a request, and it's not an order. It feels closer to a threat. ‘Get on my bike or so help me god, i will hunt your ass down’. The expectant look in his eyes exemplifies this. Thus, slightly intimidated, you get on the bike. Begrudgingly bringing shaky hands to wrap around his bare waist, not wanting to touch him, but almost not wanting to fall off.

"I drove my car here,” you finally mumble. The only protest you've let out at this point, and you're starting to question why you've only just started. Was he somehow fucking with your brain? Maybe you were just too scared, too complacent. Marko just chuckles again. Taking a moment to rev his bike up loader, the motors screaming in your ears before he replies.

“You won't need a car where you're going, babe. Now hold on tight, don't fall off. I don't want to see your pretty little brains splattered on the ground.”

And as he starts to speed off into the night, you take his advice. Not wanting to have reckless driving on the fault of your stalker be the cause of your death.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

All things considered, this place was nice. The cave served as a much needed break after racing around the boardwalk. And the woods. And almost over a cliff. A part of you thinks he did that last bit on purpose, scaring you into grabbing onto him tighter as he cackled. Made you feel even more helpless as he took your hand and led you into what looked like, and what Marko mentioned to be, an abandoned hotel lobby.

You ended up on this stuffed couch in the middle of it all. Old and worn, yet simultaneously one of the comfiest surfaces you've ever sat on. Under different circumstances, this would've been the most comfortable you've felt in a while.

Unfortunately, you're only here because of him. And he's right there, next to you, staring at you with those piercing green eyes. You managed to keep some distance, leaning over the right arm of the couch while he leaned back on the left. After a moment, you feel a tapping on your shoulder, and glancing over, he's behind you. That damn smirk still plastered on his face.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asks, breaking the silence that had fallen over you both once you were in the cave. A Chinese takeout box in his hands, holding it out to you.

Cautiously, you peer into the box, half expecting another cheap scare tactic, like for the thing to be full of worms and maggots. But no, it's just rice. Plain, unseasoned, white rice and a spoon. He chuckles as he watches you, like he's finding your apprehension to take food from your stalker amusing. “Aw, don't gimme that face. It's not like its poison or anything, babe. Just some rice. Here, look,”

When he speaks, he lifts the spoon and brings it to his mouth. Eating a bite before holding the box back out to you, sticking the spoon back in. “Only rice, amore. Leftovers from the other night, it's perfectly fine. C'mon, eat. Have some dinner. You know you should.”

Slowly, you wrap your hands around the box, taking it. Sticking the spoon deeper into the box before getting some rice on it, putting it in your mouth. A small wave of relief washes over you when it doesn't taste like anything was wrong with it. It doesn't last long, still feeling his eyes on you, and then he starts talking again. To your pleasure, he stands up.

"Thirsty?” He asks, walking off somewhere. His voice continues, a subtle reminder he's still too close for you to make a run for it. Sounds of things clinking together intertwining with his words. “I'd imagine if you're hungry, you're probably thirsty. Luckily for us, we never seem to have a shortage of drinks around here.”

He comes back a minute later, two glasses in hand. Handing one to you as he sits back down next to you.

Once again, you into your cup. The liquid was red and thick, almost syrupy. The longer you looked at it, the more uneasy you felt. Something about this all was just… so wrong. You got taken to an unfamiliar location, alone, with the guy who's been stalking you for probably months now, and you're sitting around having dinner with him. Like some sort of fucked up date night.

"Um, I'm fine…” You mumble. Thinking about every opportunity he had to do something to your glass.

Again, he just chuckles as he looks at you. “Geez, you're somehow both the most and least trusting person on the planet, babe.”

“Considering your current track record, I think I have a good reason to not exactly trust you right now.” You say, scoffing a little. Staring at your reflection in the cup, cringing a little. God, you looked more stressed than you had first thought. One look at your face and somebody could instantly tell something was amiss.

Too bad there was nobody around to look at you. Nobody but him.

“Okay, I guess,” he shrugs, sighing a little, leaning back into the plushness of the couch. “But seriously, it's fine. I have no reason to hurt you now. Trust me, if I wanted to, I would have already. You're here, and you're mine. So stop stressing and just take a sip already.” Once he speaks, he drinks, shutting his eyes as he swallows. A satisfied smile on his lips as he does so.

Looking between your cup and him, you sigh. Cautiously, you lift the cup to your lips, taking a sip of the mystery liquid.

The realization and regret sinks in almost instantly when the drink hits your taste buds.

Your eyes shoot open as you cough the drink back into your cup. Choking and sputtering as you drop the glass, watching the dense red liquid sink into the carpet. Marko's hands move to your shoulders, rubbing, looking at you. “Woah! Hey, hey, you good? What's wrong? Does it not taste good?”

“... what is this?” You ask, looking back at him. He blinks, staring at you, then shrugs.

“Uh, wine? Some random bottle I found back there with the others. Why?”

You shake your head, leaning out of his touch. He's pretty good, for a liar. There's no way he didn't know. The taste of it is too distinct, that tangy metallic taste on your lips- you shudder at the thought. “I know what blood tastes like, you freak.”

The words hiss their way out of your mouth before you can think. And by the way his confusion falls into dark realization, you're right. A deep chuckle rings through the room, and he grips your shoulders a little tighter. “Well, guess you can be smart when you actually think, huh? Damn, guess we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way-”

He's interrupted by your elbow shoving into his guts. As he groans, his hands loosening, you take the opportunity to stand up. Running back, away from him, towards the entrance of the cave. Your brain on auto-pilot, only thinking about easy ways to get away from him, from this total creep who just tried to get you to drink blood.

However, just as you get to the stop of the steep entrance out, a pair of hands grab onto your waist. Making you slip, pulling you back down into the fray. Ending up with you on the ground, and Marko overtop of you, sitting on your hips to keep you there. He's different now, though.

The grey-green eyes are replaced with yellowing orange ones, with dark circles around them. His nails grew longer, now closer to claws than normal, human hands. And when he smirks, seeing you below him, you notice something in his mouth. Fangs. Among his teeth are now sharp, pointed fangs.

The very same eyes and teeth you saw all those nights ago, staring at you from the trees.

“Oh, you must be feeling real fucking clever now, huh?” He asks, head tilting before he laughs. His voice is more gravely, almost like he's hissing out each word, and his laughter sounds closer to howling, like a wild animal. “Too bad you're too slow. But don't worry, amore. I'll fix all of that right here, right now…”

You try to get up. You really do. Yelling and flailing around your limbs. He just grabs your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head, laughing harder. Your kicking is rendered useless with how he sits on top of you. The same terrified, helpless feeling from the roller coaster returning.

You watch as he shrugs his free arm out of his jacket. The fabric falling off his shoulder, laying against his back as he raises his free arm. “C'mon, quit moving. I'm doing this for you, babe. For us.” He says, staring into your eyes, that damn smirk coming back. It's terrifying how quickly he can switch up, from being livid one moment and all cocky and smug the next. “I love you. I've loved you since the moment I first saw you. And unfortunately, my patience for your shit has run very, very thin.”

As he speaks, he brings his wrist to his teeth. And you're left to watch in horror as he sinks his fangs into his own flesh, ripping a gash into his flesh. Licking his lips as he pulls away, the red liquid already beading at the opening.

“I need you, Amore. I need you like I need the air I breathe. The night I live in,” Looking at you, he tightens his grip. The smirk widening into something more sinister. “The blood I drink. And soon, the blood you'll drink, too. Now open up.”

The moment you process those words, the fight all comes rushing back. You scream, thrashing your head around, desperately trying to buck him off and wiggle away. He just groans and curses under his breath, gripping you harder, shifting his weight on you to get closer to your face. Before anything else, it's clear this interaction is just annoying to him. Like your refusal and protests to him trying to shove blood down your throat is nothing but a minor inconvenience, a bug he has to squish, a chore he has to finish before he can leave the house.

“Goddammit, (Y/n), don't- Stop fucking squirming and just let me-” He says, his voice laced with venom as he continues to try, shoving his open wound towards your face. You keep avoiding it, eyes shut tightly as tears well in them. Scorning yourself for ever leaving the house tonight, for not burning the letters, for even opening the first one he ever sent you-

“- Gotcha!” Marko smiles wickedly as he thrusts his wrist into your open, screaming mouth. The blood is coming out faster, thanks to the gravity of your head on the floor. For a second, you think of bite him. Only to end up with a steadier stream hitting the back of your throat due to the pressure, making you gag. Tears flow down your cheeks as the warm, metallic taste flows into your mouth. A sick feeling forms in your stomach. You want to throw up. Needing to get this syrupy shit out of your mouth, out of your body.

He stays like that for a few minutes, mumbling and smiling to himself. “Yeah, there you go, there's my girl… It's much better from the source, right? You don't want that nasty bottled stuff, sitting out for weeks… Don't worry, from now on, if you want a drink, you can just come to me and we'll get you some…”

Eventually, he pulls his wrist from your mouth. A few moments later, he gets off of you, instantly pulling you to his side. Hugging you, holding you as you both sat on the floor. Tears run down your face, the screaming having turned to soft sobs. He wipes your face, much softer than before. It somehow is just as scary, but you think you'd grow used to that.

“Aw, c'mon, babe, don't cry, you're alright. Look, I'm sorry I got a little mean back there, I just - I got frustrated,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Like that will make any of what just happened any better. “...This is just something I had to do. I had to make sure you can really be all mine forever, okay? Can't have mio sole getting old and dying on me, right?” He chuckles, rubbing your shoulder while he hugs you.

You don't respond. He sighs, moving to stand. Picking you up with him, cradling you in his arms as walks deeper into the cave. “... You're just tired, you need to get some rest. Your poor body's gonna be put through the ringer pretty soon… Don't worry too much, babe. You'll like being a vampire.”

“Vampire?” You mumble, staring ahead as he brings you to a curtain. Pulling it away to reveal a mattress coated in blankets and pillows. Setting you down in one corner of it, chuckling a little.

“Yeah, babe, vampires. Wasn't kidding around drinking blood. And soon, you'll be, too,” he says, pulling a blanket overtop of you. You shiver at his words. Again, he just laughs a little. “Don't think about it too much right now. We can deal with it tomorrow. Just get some rest, love. You're gonna need it.”

And with that, he presses a final kiss to your head. Watching as your eyes grow heavy, your body tired and loopy. The rush of everything catching up to you, all you can think to do is pass out on the cushiness of the bed. Sure, whatever. You'll deal with all this in the morning.

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And Woo! There it is! Its done!

Thank you everyone who waited patiently after I announced this fic and read to the end! Sorry it took kind of long, i kept getting stuck and getting busy and overestimated how fast I could work 😭

Overall im pretty happy with this! Somehow dispite being a oneshot its the longest thing I ever wrote? Ive spent so long on it, I cant help but to not hate it. Sorta just happy I didnt give up halfway through lol

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!! have a good day/night! :3

[void-hoodie]

This au is a bit of a stretch (currently I call it 'the replacement' AU)

Translation

Blue one "aww, poor babies"

Red one "where did you come from?"

Bit of Explanation 👇

In this au, it's somewhat of a reversal?, Ford after finding the book of Bill and the constant threats from the computer in his old room, he thinks of another way to permanently get rid of Bill forever, by getting rid of him before he becomes a threat.

(Some was inspired by another au on twitter but I can't remember their @ but in their au dipper and ford took and raised Bill. here in my au, he's dead)

Ford learning about the time travel from the twins and using the absence of time baby he fakes a time anomaly and trick some time travel to come to their time.

It worked, and he took their time tape measure and went back to the time when Bill started seeing the stars. He killed him.

But that soon proved to be a huge mistake, because due to time baby's absences to organize time holes, the fabric of time tries to do it itself, for example, by replacing something in the place of what's missing.

So now, with the fabric of time gone haywire, it took the twins and put them in the place of where (evil) Bill was supposed to be not in baby bill place.

So, in other words, his parents, who had already taken his place in this time, had the twins sent to them.

They're very caring towards the strange looking young twins mostly because they're so much like their silly Billy. They're not stable by any means, being a grieving parents and all, but they're significantly more calmer now that the twins are in their care....for now

[hermiones-amortentia]

Does the Weasley bashing stem from their horrible portrayal in movies or there's another reason behind it aka good ol' classism?

Arthur is seen as this aloof, dumb, airhead guy who only talks about rubber ducks. When he is one of the prominent members of the order of the phoenix, exclusively fights death Eaters, is reasonably intelligent and has strong moral compass. Meanwhile Lucius is seen as this badass intelligent suave powerful guy who loses to a couple of 15 yos in the department of mysteries fight.

Molly treats harry as her own son. She risks her life and his family to keep harry safe. She actively fights against deatheaters. She literally never takes a single penny from Harry. But she is seen as this overbearing toxic boy mom who apparently steals from Harry's vault, uses love potion on Harry and Hermione and plots with dumbledore to pimp her daughter. Meanwhile Narcissa the racist, classist, bigoted woman who was gleefully watching an 18 yo girl getting crucioed in her own house by her mad sister is seen as this aristocrat, progressive muggleborn lover wholesome mom who only wants her son to be safe.

Both Narcissa and Molly are housewives. I see numerous people complaining how it's out of character for Molly to kill Bellatrix in a duel when she is an active member of the order for years. While the same people do not give a f that Narcissa lied to the most powerful occlumence in the world. No one says it's out of character.

Don't get me started on Percy and his redemption. Percy came back to his senses, apologized, fought in the battle of Hogwarts. One of the best redemptions after kreacher's. Yet I see no one's salivating over it since people claim to love redemption so much. Yet the fangirling over Regulus Black's futile attempt to get the locket after his slave was harmed by voldemort or Draco Malfoy being the bare minimum king not killing dumbledore face to face are seen as peak redemption.

Also while we are on this topic, Percy got more OWLs than Hermione. He is extremely academic and bright. Why does no one say Percy is Hermione's 'intellectual equal' when so called 'hermione fans' are all about finding her intellectual equal?

Ron. Oh dear ol Ron. Where to start? Boy gets 7 OWLs with mostly Es, is a chess prodigy, can mimic a language that is almost impossible for anyone to copy, is praised by a qualified auror for his combative skills, can conjure slugs with a nonverbal spell in second year, is witty, sarcastic yet he is 'dumb' and 'stupid'. Meanwhile the guy whose father openly says that if his marks don't improve he would have to become a thief or a plunderer and who takes an entire year to fix the vanishing cabinet is seen this smartest wizard in his year. Hermione's true intellectual equal. Ron who gloats about his wife's success and intellect and is her biggest cheerleader is seen as 'he would hold her back and would resent her success' meanwhile the guy who verbally emotionally as well as physically abused her for being a muggleborn, for being smart, is seen as this progressive feminist icon.

Also there's this notion that Ron would want a wife similar to his mother and would prefer a house wife when Ron's one of the biggest insecurities is his mom doesn't love him and he is Expendable. He would keep his wife barefeet pregnant like his mom when his wife became the minister of magic. Meanwhile the progressive feminist icon's wife is a house wife. Not that there's anything wrong in being a house wife. I am just pointing out the irony.

Ginny hate is a combination of both classism and mysogyny. She dated 2 guys before Harry so she is a wh***. Meanwhile Hermione who dated 2 guys before Ron is pure virgin mary.

Bill while not as much bashed as the others is still accused of stealing from Harry's vault, love potioning Fleur and helping dumbles to execute his plan.

Fred George and Charlie get the least amount of hate because

1. They didn't come in the way of people's non canon ships.

2. They are not as relevant as the other Weasleys. So it's easy to ignore them.

The amount of classism and aporophobia Weasleys face is insane.

[bigfatbimbo]

Silly request but imagine helping Bill "groom" his triangle self. Gently wipe him with a cloth. Carefully dip it in the little space between the bricks, can't leave that zone unclean! Alternatively, a classic soapy bubble bath. Silly straws included, what the hell, he's probably drinking the bath water and listing the chemical ingredients back at you while you gently rub him clean. Fun times

The Bug Collector

1.1k words,, Bill Cipher x reader

a/n — Procrastination killed my soul during this, I think it turned out okay, though! Sorry for typos, your girl is tired.

warnings — SFW, post!weirdmaggedon, as ‘fluffy’ as you can get with Bill cipher, he is his own warning, kinda toxic relationships, fluff and bill being pathetic

summary — Reader assists a recently fallen Bill Cipher in self care, despite his general all-mighty asshole-ness.

The exoskeleton of a bug was practical, a water-tight barrier most commonly known for muscle attachments, and its use to shelter and protect the insects gushy insides from its harsh environment. 

The exoskeleton of a triangle was for mostly for aesthetics, as the underneath was far more horrifying than anything in the harsh environment around it. Or so the triangle claims.

You dipped a soapy sponge into the bucket in front of you, as bill propped his feet up on the bathtub. 

“You conquer worlds and destroy planets, but yeah, why not draw the line at cleaning yourself.”

“Please, what better way to make use out of my new human pet— partner, than this?” He corrected loudly and purposefully. Then looking to the side, he mumbled, “And besides, kid, you have no idea how hard it is to clean between the bricks. Euck— So many blind spots.”

The first part was a throwaway reminder that he had far more power than you in this dynamic, something you’d picked up on Bill casually doing in his time with you. 

Being roommates with a butt-hurt demon, given the ending of weirdmaggedon, allowed you the privilege of being more cautious than previous humans were with Bill. For example, you’ve taken to keeping track of his repeated habits and patterns. 

On of which, just so happened to be reminding you how small you were compared to him. 

You jabbed the sponge in-between on of the bricks, “Ow!” He narrowed his eye at you, “Watch it, pal. I’m starting to think you’ve never cleaned a triangle before.”

“I’d hate to give that impression.” You softened your hold on him, “Delicate work, I always say.”

And it was delicate work. After his defeat, he’d been roughed up a surprising bit, powers even weakened. 

Weakened.

“Not too delicate,” he shot you glance. Guess he’d heard that thought process. 

Although, most days he’d seemed to be in a thought process of his own. Weird.

You cleared your throat, “How often does this even need to be done?”

He blinked, “Well, let’s see. Once every—“ he waved his hand around “—few hundred years. Very high maintenance, do not recommend it.”

High maintenance, yeah. At this point, Bill had taken to talking about some other topic, you hadn’t been really listening, something about intergalactic food joints.

Every once and a while he’d bring up something that happened with one of his ‘henchmaniacs’ before getting slightly irritated at the lack of presence in his life now, and changing the subject. 

Bill was interesting to study, you couldn’t lie. His eyelashes curled away from each other, like the mangled legs of a recently dead spider. His hands were very present when he talked, like most people of business. His body flicked side to side slightly at certain moments. 

You became more gentle naturally, taking care of every crevice, and for some reason Bill becomes gradually quieter.

“Something wrong?” You asked, not stopping.

Bill blinked, “Eh, been a minute since i’ve had a human servant. Maybe, I was thinking of other things you can help with!”

You sigh, “Yeah, because i’m your servant. As if.” In your mind, your thinking do the fact he was your roommate, in your house, eating your food. 

“Hey, don’t get all butt-hurt. You’re all ants to me, buddy, nothing to be ashamed of!” His eye flicked back and forth between you and the room.

Then you stop scrubbing, “Bill, I might as well be your landlord.” You know he can read your thoughts, so you make a point to justify yourself. Already weakened from his failed apocalypse, anything other than vague respect for you would land him homeless. Most likely, his response to this would be killing you, but there’s only so much he can do afterwards. 

He’d have a place to stay, but with no electricity or heating, and in his damaged physical form he actively does need those things. And trying to get a new human would be a hassle, and unlike you, no guarantee they’d let him stay there without calling the authorities.

“Yeesh,” Bill remarks, “Buzzkill… You are still a bug compared to me, though—“

You drop the sponge in the bucket, “I think you’re done.”

He looks taken aback when you pull away, “What? Come on, over the bug comment? Jeez, buddy—“

“No I mean you’re actually done,” you gesture to his body, now shining and slick with soap suds. “I got everything, there’s nothing else to do.”

You go to turn around before you feel a small hand grabbing for the back of your shirt. 

“Wait, wait!” He breathes, eye flicking from side to side, “… You have to dry me off first.”

He looked slightly panicked, like if you stopped taking care of him now, you’d leave and never come back. Your thought process earlier couldn’t have helped. 

The way he scurried and gasped for you was reminiscent of panicked earwig and a rock is lifted up. The comparison should have grossed you out, but it kinda just made you feel a little bad.

If he was paying attention to your thoughts, he didn’t show it. This would have usually given you the impression he’d wanted you to be thinking the way you were, but he seemed a little wrapped up in his own head. 

“Come on, kid. Don’t tell me you’re gonna kick me out because I asked you to dry me off. One last thing and then you don’t even have to talk to me the rest of the night! Sounds like a good deal, right?” 

His slightly desperate looking sales pitch was met with a sigh, you picked up a dry towel and began to pat the soap suds off of him. His body slowly breathed in, making it look like he was sighing, but no noise came out.

You wondered then if he was actually touch-starved, but cut your thoughts there because this time he had nothing better to do then pay attention to what you were thinking. 

“Ouch, i’m not that desperate, pal.” But he was.

His exoskeleton was dry, but you didn’t stop patting him down. His eyelid shut slowly, and the spider-legs on them curled into each other once more. 

The exoskeleton of a bug was practical, but one of a triangle seemed to simply be for aesthetics. 

However, on some rare occasions, it possesses the same desire for love as human bodies. Only, when very desperate, of course. 

[anarchistmemecollective]

From the Bristol, UK, IWW Chapter:

“Uprisings in Bristol UK have been continuing since Sunday against the new Police and Crime Bill which would restrict peoples right to peacefully protest and would give 10 yeah prison sentences for people causing damage to statues (the usual sentence for rape in the UK is only 5 years).

The bill also includes many restrictions on traveler communities in the UK who throughout the covid lockdown have faced violence and illegal evictions. This Bill would institutionalise this violence and illegalise the lifestyle of a marginalised and regularly persecuted minority group.

This comes in a time when people are still mourning the death of Sarah Everard who was attacked and murdered by an off duty Met police officer while walking home. Women held vigils around the country for Sarah and some of these were broken up by the police and attendees arrested (by male police colleagues of the officer charged with the murder).

Here in Bristol the Black Lives Matter movement is also very strong and many people feel that the Police and Crime Bill is a response to the people of Bristol pulling down of a statue to Edward Colston, a slave trader who funded many of the cities major institutions.

Locally these struggles have intersected in the #KillTheBill movement and peaceful protests have repeatedly been attacked by the police, causing a revolt on Sunday where Bristolians lay siege to the police station and set several cop vehicles on fire.

Last night, an explicitly peaceful protest was again attacked by police and a number of people arrested and beaten with shield and batons, charged with horses and dogs. Travelers had come to hold space in a public park where they could make their voices heard but they were attacked in the night by the cops, arrested, beaten and their dwellings and property destroyed without consideration that some had nowhere else to go. Several protestors were hospitalised and many more suffered minor injuries.

When young people lay down in the streets shouting that it was a 'peaceful demonstration' the cops charged in, again beating people and arresting anyone who wasn't able to flee. This took place in the middle of a residential area where many of these folks actually live.

For several nights the streets of Bristol have become a physical and metaphorical battleground that may determine the rights and freedoms for all people living in the UK.

Kill The Bill has no official organisers and actions have been mostly autonomous and spontaneous, this includes a march of 5,000 people in support of the protests on Sunday.

Members of Bristol IWW have continually done what we can to support these protests, including providing first aid for protestors who have been injured by the police. While we know some on the British left may question why we have offered our support to this autonomous street movement rather than appealing to the parliamentary system and its antiquated processes. Some even question why we would take part in events that have seen the destruction of police equipotent and self defense used against the cops. We be believe our position to be clear and consistent as members of a revolutionary working class union.

"There can be no peace so long as hunger and want are found among millions of the working people and the few, who make up the employing class, have all the good things of life.

Between these two classes a struggle must go on until the workers of the world organise as a class, take possession of the means of production, abolish the wage system, and live in harmony with the Earth.””