#Encryption at rest

[bluntforcefem]

hi. several quastions. ice cream, strawberry and bagel for declan please :]

🍨 [ICE CREAM] How does your OC compose themselves in stressful situations?

movement & humming. the former is pretty self-explanatory—as long as dec can get their energy out by stomping or fidgeting or doing something, at all, they usually manage to keep themself from going entirely off the rails. humming is self-soothing, less effective than singing but widely more applicable in situations where singing is not an option

🍓 [STRAWBERRY] How do they feel about 'cute' things?

HE LOVES CUTE THINGS. guy who collected little porcelain animals for just so fucking long. guy who makes his friends do cute poses with him for pictures and then posts them up all on his wall with heart stickers and such

🥯 [BAGEL] What does/has your OC have/had an unhealthy obsession over? What caused this obsession? How do they deal with it? Do they seek help?

i. hmm. i have like two answers to this in two vaguely different directions and i think i'm going to go with just the one for right now. they're obsessed with their voice and by extension music. it's something they're thinking about almost constantly. how to control how it contorts in ways that inflect right. how to smooth the skip/scratch/static entirely. what songs match what people. what songs match what they mean. what they can fall back on. what their voice sounded like before. what their voice sounded like before. (does it actually sound right now?) you get the picture. caused by the first sacrifice and the subsequent effects to their communication, and helped in part by the fact that they can actually talk in season two, somewhat. they don't really seek help because they kind of don't want any of their friends to know how much it grates at them

[notquitecanon]

Virtual Breadcrumbs || Poly!141 x hacker!reader

Summary: A kinda prologue to Search History, While you're having your menty b back on base, a little bit from the boys' perspective. Specifically Simon. Alexa, play Mastermind by Taylor Swift.  

Part One Next Part

CW: NSFW MDNI 18+ female pronouns , porn, porn, lots of porn allusion, the boys are all handsy with each other, Simon's lowkey manipulating the situation, again irl this is harassment, stalking warning to be safe? mentions of oral and vaginal sex, really just me being nasty from Simon's point of view

It took a long time to gain access to Simon’s inner circle. Simon Riley had a habit of being intense, all or nothing, especially for those he’s decided to care about. His captain and his sergeants were in that inner circle, and he cared deeply, implicitly, about them. Health, safety, happiness, and something Simon was especially attuned to was keeping them sated. A man of action and acts of service. 

Simon was neither a poet nor a psychologist, so he didn’t spend much time or energy putting definitive terms and conditions on whatever relationship the 141 shared. He cared and he was cared for, it was intimate on all levels, and that’s all that mattered to him. 

A bond forged in bombs, bloodshed, and loyalty above all else.  Four soldiers at the top of their game, literally battle-hardened (double entendre completely intended). He was content with his little circle. 

However, he couldn’t fault the boys for missing something a little softer. Something a little sweeter, something a little more pliant. Hell, Simon wouldn’t mind burying his nose in a neck that didn’t smell like sweat, blood, and gunpowder.  

That’s where you came in. Simon’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything. 

He saw how Price’s signature little smile rested on you whenever your explanations turned a little rambling, the look of pride in his eyes when you cracked a hard encryption- he’d called in a favor from Laswell to recruit you after all. How the Captain didn’t scold you when your work outfits were outside the civilian regulations (which was often), not that Price minded the view when you’d drop something and bend over to pick it up in your pretty skirts and heels. 

He saw how Gaz would lean over your shoulder, just a hair too close to be friendly, and watch in a little bit of awe as you worked, how the two of you spoke in code (literally) to each other. He would watch Gaz get a little hot in the face with your flirty little quips over comms, voice a little tight as he returned them. How the sergeant would bring you little pastries or coffees on days they were on base, how prided he seemed when your face lit up, and when you’d unexpectedly touch him- grab his hand or bicep with your pretty painted nails? Simon would notice how Kyle would excuse himself to go do something else, sometimes dragging Soap off with him.

And Johnny. He tried not to show it, the Scot was as loyal as they came. A dog, Simon called him often, a mutt when he was being obnoxious. Simon’d noticed Johnny literally sniffing around you, his head following the lingering scent of perfume and shampoo when you passed. He was touchy with you, passing it off as being friendly, hugging you just a bit too tight to feel the squish of your body against his- a kind of softness Simon, Price, and Gaz just couldn’t replicate. It was a sport for him, to get you to blush or stutter. 

And, fucking hell, the banter. Your voice, slightly crackly through their headsets, leading and chiding them through missions. Something about the distance or facelessness of it made you bold and teasing. Soap would egg you on over comms, sending you both down teasing explicit rabbit holes, until Price would remind both of you that the brass had access to these audio files, and you’d get shy and go quiet, but not for long.  Gaz was fairly smooth with it, not often getting out of hand until you clicked off and he’d adjust his pants and collar mid-op. Something about Price’s authority kept you a bit tamer on him, but sometimes you would slip, and the way you got all shy and apologetic, Price’s chest would puff up a bit, beard twitching with a smirk as he’d ’scold’ you. 

Simon’s men wanted you, bad. But none of them were going to be the first to admit it, none of them wanting to be the first to want more. Their loyalty to each other was their greatest value, but it was holding them back this time. But Simon had a plan, all he had to do was plant the seed. 

__

The 141 had holed up in a grungy safehouse to rest and recoup before moving on to the next portion of this assignment. ‘House’ was a bit generous- there was no central heating and it was little more than a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom, the living room was basically just the foyer with a pull-out couch that took up the entire floorspace when pulled out.  The mission hadn’t gone to shit, but it was proving tedious, and stretching into a longer commitment than they’d planned for. Price was miffed about the time commitment, but it wasn’t anything new, it happened all the time. 

Waiting for transpo from Nik and information that you were working on. Even Simon felt the sting of disappointment when you’d told them you’d need them to quit calling, that the data Price requested from you was proving to be a challenge that needed undivided attention. They were bored. Price and Gaz had slipped off somewhere so the Captain could work out some of his irritation, which in turn got Soap huffy and touchy. 

Which was why the Scot was sitting, spine curled into Simon’s side, laid across the sofa still in full gear, long legs over the side while Simon simply sat up straight ( "s’too fuckin’ cold f’ this shite", he’d muttered after they’d found the wood for the old fashioned wood stove was both wet and molding, "Body heat it is, fucks sake." ), military-issue tablet using the secure network you and Gaz had set up. Too tired to do much of anything, too mission-wired to truly relax, restless and a little homesick.

Simon wasn’t surprised that it only took two rounds of solitaire before the Scot switched to the browser and started to look through the homepage of a porn website he didn’t recognize. They both knew this strategy, get yourself off a few times and your brain releases enough ‘good’ chemicals that you might be able to get some sleep. Johnny did seem uncharacteristically indecisive, getting quickly squirmy and irritated, as he continuously clicked ’next page’ waiting for something to catch his eyes.

A sniper always sees a good shot when it lines itself up, time to plant the seed. 

"Give it ‘ere." Simon gruffed, plucking the tablet out of Johnny’s hands, only smirking at the coarse language Johnny offered in return, though he didn’t attempt to get the tablet back. Waiting curiously and not so patiently for whatever Simon was going to produce, what a good dog.  The lieutenant took a couple minutes to find the right seed to plant, using key phrases that produced the results he was looking for. 

He let Soap peruse his yieldings. The actresses had some things in common, familiar hair and eye colors, familiar because they shared them with you. And the actors doing such filthy things to them? Well, that was the seed (double entendre not intended) Simon was planting, the bone he was throwing to Johnny, all the actors were Scottish.  The sniper knew his shot landed when Soap muttered under his breath, taking the tablet back, hips shifting a bit subconsciously as he scrolled, watching the thumbnails give little snippet previews, "Steamin’ Jesus, Lt…" 

"Seen you sniffin’ around our analyst. Pretty bird." Simon shrugged but his eyes were just as fixed on all the thumbnails, girls that looked vaguely like you in all sorts of positions getting rammed on Johnny’s- sorry, the actor’s cock. He saw the look of (Catholic) guilt on the sergeant’s face, swirling with lust and a pretty flush under his stubble, so Simon swooped in with another seed, motioning to a thumbnail where an actress with the same hair as you was moaning, "Bet our bird'd look better, bet she’d sound better." 

The guilt was gone, the seed planted and flourishing in the Scot’s brain, Johnny’s lips growing into a wicked grin as he settled on a video, not bothering with headphones or squirreling away in the bathroom.  One video turned to three, the two men taking turns chiding and teasing the other, and when his sergeant finally burst, it was your name he called out. 

Yes, his plan was going to work beautifully. 

___

For a quick two-minute search with the sole purpose of quickly getting Soap off, Simon hadn’t been displeased with his results. Neither had Johnny if the spring in his step and uptick in screen time was any indication. The actresses shared features with you, but he was positive there was a closer match out there. And since he couldn’t exactly ask you, their lass in the chair as Soap called you, he turned to their other tech guru and the next part of his plan. Kyle. 

He was a bit more straight-laced than either Simon or Johnny, he’d be harder to convince. Simon didn’t know if he had it in him to debate the morality of purposely seeking out a porn star that was as close as physically possible to you… Or how that might affect the relationship amongst the 141… Ghost wasn’t known for being the moral backbone of the task force, and this wasn’t an issue that could exactly be bullied to be won.  

So, when first met with some resistance even if Garrick’s face was flushed and he was shifting in his seat, ("Simon, that’s… I don’t know what but it’s not right. What if she finds out-") he delegated some orders to Johnny. 

Simon didn’t know what the Sergeants got up to- that’s a lie, he had a pretty good idea, and he expected a repeat performance later- but when they came back, Kyle’s eyes were still a little glazed and his shoes were on the wrong feet. 

"Well?" Simon raised an eyebrow looking up from the rifle he was meticulously cleaning. Johnny was smirking smugly, belt still undone, nudging the other sergeant to remind him to answer their lieutenant. Gaz was nodding wordlessly for a moment, running a hand over his hair, slumping back in front of his military-issue computer, and opening a private browser. 

"Yeah… Yeah, mate, I’m on it." Kyle was practically still panting from whatever Johnny had done to/for him. Simon smirked, going back to his rifle, until after a moment when Kyle’s voice was more level, he added his requirement, "If I find her-" 

He paused, cheeks heating a bit as he reworded himself a bit, "A look-a-like, I mean, I get to taste her first." 

Simon could work with that. 2 down, 1 to go. 

____

Lastly, John Price. Saved him for last for a reason, but he was also the easiest. Simon waited until the assignment was on the up and up again. Summit fever to push through and go home had its claws in all of them. He knew it was a good time because, after the last firefight and subsequent march through the woods to a safe zone, all the boys were too tired to fool with each other... much. Price was sitting against a tree, that ridiculous hat of his resting on his propped-up knee, face illuminated by his cigar and the light of his phone.

Wordlessly, Simon crouched beside the captain and held his hand out expectantly for the phone. Price blew his smoke with a quirked brow but was curious to what the sniper had in mind, placing the device in the waiting gloved hand. 

"What’re you up to, Simon?"  Price inquired suspiciously, lowering his eyes to the light of the screen as it was handed back to him. His blue eyes, older looking than the captain really was, widened for a second before darkening in the low light of the forest, "So this is what the Sergeants’ve been on about, uncanny…" 

Price watched the very short prelude, a woman who looked so much like you, wearing something a little racier than you’d wear to the office but as blood rushed elsewhere, Price found the realism didn’t matter much when if he squinted… it was you stripping off a cardigan and letting some sort of authority figure pop the buttons of your blouse before shoving you under a desk with your pretty painted lips wrapping around his- sorry, the actor’s throbbing cock… 

Seeing the way John’s expression shifted, Simon smirked under his mask, raising back to his full height and returning to where he’d stashed his gear. His plan was almost complete, they were in the final stretch.

___

Simon was watching over Johnny’s shoulder, his hips occasionally rutting through his clothes into the scot’s back, a video that the sniper had chosen. Soap thought it was really funny that it happened to be from your doppelganger's Halloween playlist, but now was just as entranced watching the tall domineering figure clad in all black and mask absolutely ruin you her. The bed was a perk of finally making it to an actual base, with officer’s barracks, waiting for the official expo back to you home.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon groaned, biting Johnny’s shoulder through his mask and the sergeant’s t-shirt, as gloved hands twisted into hair just like yours. It was hard not to insert himself into the fantasy. A knock on the door made him growl, pulling him away from the delicious video and friction that Soap’s weight against him was providing. With more force than really necessary, Simon whipped the door open, only relaxing a little bit when Price was standing there with Gaz, both of them with their strategizing faces on. So, he wasn’t the only one making plans lately.

“See the new video that got posted?” Gaz questioned, looking down to unlock his tablet undoubtedly sharing it over to Johnny’s laptop still playing on Ghost’s bed. Both Lieutenant and Sergeant shook their head no. Johnny clicked on the share notification, releasing a breath that puffed his cheeks and raised his eyebrows as he read the title alone, the video still loading in the base’s less than ideal wifi (the 141’s latest habit undoubtedly eating up most of the bandwidth). 

It was your doppelganger’s stage name accompanied by the words Barrack’s Bunny Gets Gang Banged! 

“Fuckin’ Hell.” Simon repeated, words almost snarling his jeans chafing him as his cock twitched in his still buttoned jeans. 

“We’re having a dinner at mine.” John decided cooly, seemingly unrelated, leaning in the doorframe. His demeanor was its usual casual confidence, but his eyes were dark with the kind of want that spelled disaster for anything that stood between him and his goal. The seeds Simon had planted were growing like invasive weeds, wild and quick, “She’s invited.” 

“How’re we playin’ this?” Simon questioned relinquishing the reins to his captain, he was just as much of a soldier as the rest of them, he took orders well, watching as Gaz joined Johnny at the foot of the bed, both Sergeants watching the video together, hands already starting to wander, gear being unbuckled and unsnapped. Price smirked at the sight, adjusting himself through his camo cargos. 

“Cooly. Don’t wanna spook th’ sweet thing.” He smiled, mostly to himself making himself comfortable on the tiny futon that had been cramped in Simon’s room as an ‘officer’s luxury’. The captain dwarfed it, and patted the limited space beside him for his lieutenant to join him, “We’ll have ‘er eating out of our hands. And then we’ll have her.”

Price said this with the same easy decisiveness as he’d have busting a terrorist cell, but the curl of his lip, how his legs spread to accommodate the growing erection in pants noted the difference for Simon, his captain nodding towards the Sergeant’s watching the video, their breaths already getting heavy. Kyle’s hands fisting the bed's blankets like he might slip away and Johnny’s hips were already rocking a bit. Price’s smirk grew, eyes flicking to Simon before looking back forward, “You’ve been busy, Simon. Never miss anything, do you?” 

It was a mix of praise and teasing that, from his Captain, made Simon’s affirmative grunt a bit lower, something twisting in his gut, like a pet that wanted to be stroked more. Price chuckled deeply, nodding, “Bet that thick head’a yours hasn’t considered why you noticed alluv our infatuations with our little analyst, ‘ave you?” 

Simon didn’t respond, watching how Johnny’s eyes lit up much in the same way they did when he was presented a puzzle (bomb) that caught his interest, how he moved Kyle’s hands aside and rewinded the video, once, twice, three times at something your lookalike did that scratched his brain just right. Mutt, Simon thought, waiting for Price to continue, knowing that the captain couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. He’d expected as much, maybe a vulgar comment or two. He was not expecting a truth bomb that turned him both introspective and horny. 

“Only reason you noticed how much we liked ‘er, cause you’re always watching her. You watch her just as much as y'watch any of us, wonder what that might mean?” Price shrugged, one hand working at his belt buckle before motioning for Gaz to turn the volume. The Captain actually laughed at the look in Simon’s eyes that most would miss before nodding back to the video and the Sergeants, “Now, watch the show."

Fucking hell. 

__

Maybe it was that little bite of introspection or the flight home where they fleshed out every last detail of their plan to get you, the real you. (“Gaz and Johnny’ll do the leg work, play up the charm, and Ghost and I’ll work the opposite angle, strong and silent.”). Maybe it was how eagerly excited Soap was or how Ghost spent his extra time scrolling through your Instagram. Maybe it was the two brief interactions with you upon returning to base- how pretty your eyes were looking up at him through your lashes, how good you smelled, the movement of your skirt as Johnny spun you around, how you got jittery under his slightest touch in the briefing room… 

By the time he found himself on Price’s couch, he was impatient. Knee bouncing, checking his watch, making Gaz track your location. When you’d been sitting out in your car for more than fifteen minutes, he all but growled, snapping at Soap, “Go get ‘er.” 

And when Soap guided you inside, pulling one of those bright smiles out of you with his own jokes, and Gaz was helping you out of your coat like unwrapping a present, your cheeks already flushed all pretty from the Sergeants’ tag team flirting routine… He didn’t think he could wait for Price to put the steaks on the grill, he needed something to sink his teeth into, sooner rather than later. He was sure if he bit the curve of your neck, it’d be a lot like biting into a ripe peach… supple and sweet. Just like you. 

Oh, his plan had worked, the seeds were planted and growing and overtaking every other thought in his mind other than making sure him and his boys were sated at dinner tonight, and you were on the menu. 

____

To quote Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Little Does she know I'm a nasty DAWG."

Y’all are getting this because my writing app deleted what I had done on Search History pt 2. Reminder- the reader is loosely based on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds. The physical description is pretty vague, but lots of skirts and heels and makeup are mentioned, and I might have gotten carried away and implied

Once again: thanks to any and all tags and comments, i collect them and they will be buried in my pyramid when I die. seriously, they inspire me to keep going and I screen shot them to show to my friends :))))

Also so sorry if you got tagged twice im bad at taglists!!

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[penny-anna]

if voyager was like 25% racier they could have had a plot where someone stumbles on a buried holodeck program about having sex with Tom Paris and now everyone is trying to figure out who wants to fuck Tom so badly they made a whole holodeck program about it.

no-one wants to bring it up with Tom himself for obvious reasons. naturally all eyes turn to B'Elanna but she strenuously denies it. initially no-one believes her but on investigation they break the encryption and discover that it looks like Harry made the program.

Harry gets very flustered and insists that someone must have fraudulently used his credentials to make the program. but if that's the case then it was either one of the ship's other senior officers (bcos they're the only people who'd be able to fake Harry's credentials) or someone with very advanced holodeck skills

Seven is briefly considered (she has the technical skills) but is fully exonerated when they realise the program predates her time on the crew.

Seven points out that it could have been the Doctor who also has the relevant skills but the Doctor argues that he wouldn't bcos he has better taste and also if he wanted to make a secret holodeck program he'd cover his tracks better and he's right on all counts. Neelix protests his innocence and everyone's like yeah honestly we never thought it was you Neelix.

the Doctor suggests that maybe they should let the matter rest on the grounds that masturbation is perfectly natural and healthy and whoever's responsible it's their own private business but B'Elanna and Harry are like nooo this is a threat to the harmony of the crew we have to know. also we're nosy. don't you want to help us on this. and the Doctor's like yeah. alright.

B'Elanna and Harry and the Doctor can't find any evidence of fakery which makes it more and more likely that it was a senior officer. they're all eying Janeway and Chakotay and Tuvok trying to guess which one of them secretly wants to fuck Tom Paris.

Janeway seems the most likely prospect as she has technically fucked him before when they were salamanders and also like as far as anyone knows she's been functionally celibate since they got stranded so she's gotta be pretty pent up by now.

but then Tom and Chakotay have some history from their time in the Maquis so there could be something going on there??

Tuvok is the least likely by a mile bcos like he's Tuvok but then it's always the people you least suspect isn't it and last time they found a weird holodeck program it turned out to be Tuvok's so maybe?? maybe??

obviously they aren't about to bring this up with Janeway & co so they're just sitting in command meetings with their 3 most plausible suspects and Tom himself. collectively fucking sweating. unable to concentrate.

after several repetitions of this Janeway's like OK something's distracting you all. fess up so we sort out whatever it is and move on with business. and after a lot of squirming one of them breaks.

& then Tom is like ohh yeah that's my program. and they're like. say what?? and he's like that's my holodeck program I made it. for personal use.

so B'Elanna is like 'why would you make a holosex program about yourself' and he's like because I wanted to know what it was like to fuck me?? is that so wrong. get off my case.

[iydiamartinx]

PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.6k synopsis: They’ve kept their relationship buried beneath professionalism and protocol, but when someone else starts to flirt with you, Batman’s jealousy slips through the cracks—and so does his control.

The Watchtower’s central command room hummed with quiet conversation, the low murmur of the Justice League echoing beneath flickering lights and the soft whir of the holo-display. The briefing was nearing its end, though you barely noticed. You were seated between Wonder Woman and Batman—though “seated” might’ve been too generous a word. Half-slouched in your chair, one boot propped on the edge of the table, fingers absently twirling a knife you’d snuck in just for the habit of it.

Batman was the one leading the meeting today.  The holo-display behind him rotated rapidly through surveillance footage, shifting maps, and streams of encrypted data—all of it moving too fast for the average eye to track. But you weren’t average.

And besides, none of it was news to you. You already knew the plan. You’d helped him write it, not that the rest of the team were aware of that little tidbit.

Which was why you didn’t feel the need to hang on every word as he droned through it again like a stiff-backed schoolteacher.

“Metahuman conflict in Markovia is escalating,” he said, voice low and smooth, as if carved from granite. “We’ll be dispatching teams in rotation.”

Your fingers stilled.

The knife paused mid-spin as he began to list the assigned units. You weren’t paying close attention—until he reached your name.

You blinked. Then slowly sat up, chin coming to rest on your palm as you leaned forward. Your gaze sharpened. You hadn’t been paired with him in the original draft. That… hadn’t been part of the plan.

But he didn’t so much as glance your way.

You leaned forward lazily, elbow propped on the table, chin in your hand. Your voice was a purr of silk and smoke.

“Aww, Batsy,” you drawled, letting the nickname curl like a tease on your tongue. “I knew you couldn’t get enough of me.”

Across the table, Flash blinked twice.

Diana’s brow rose, amused but unsurprised.

Superman coughed—though whether it was to cover a laugh or his disapproval, you couldn’t quite tell.

“You’re a strategic fit for the mission,” he said coolly as he moved to begin typing on the holopad. “Everyone else—meeting dismissed.”

You smirked knowingly.

“Mhm,” you murmured, stretching back in your chair as the rest of the League began to rise. “If that’s what you want to call it, sweetheart.”

You slinked in closer as the others filtered out—Flash already halfway through a joke to Diana, Superman nodding a polite goodbye. You waited for everyone to leave before you dragged a finger across the exposed skin of his jaw, just beneath the edge of the cowl.

“You know,” you said, your voice dropping into a velvet whisper, “if you miss my company that much… you could just ask for it. I’m very good at entertaining.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even turn to look at you.

But you saw it—the subtle tension that rolled across his shoulders, the slight grind of his jaw beneath your touch, the way his gloved hand flexed once before his knuckles cracked sharp in the hush between you.

“Dismissed, Y/N.”

That only made your smile stretch wider.

You straightened with a slow roll of your spine, gave him one last smirk, and turned to leave—your steps unhurried, hips swaying with unapologetic purpose. The door hissed open as you passed through it, but not before tossing a final glance over your shoulder.

Oh, you were going to get it later for that one.

You hadn’t made it twenty feet from the briefing room before a voice slid in beside you.

“Alright, I gotta ask—how the hell did you get away with that?”

You shrugged, your voice light. “He doesn’t scare me.”

Hal Jordan let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “No kidding. You’ve got more nerve than most of the League combined to talk to Spooky like that.”

You offered a slow, sideways smile. “You call him that to his face?”

He grimaced immediately. “God, no. I like having all my teeth where they are.”

A quiet snort escaped you. Hal’s grin widened, clearly encouraged.

“So…” he began, scratching the back of his neck like he was trying to seem more nonchalant than he was. “You, uh… got plans after this?”

Before you could answer, you caught the shift of movement at the edge of your vision. A shadow approaching.

“Lantern,” Batman’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold. “You’re needed in the lower hangar. Now.”

Hal blinked. “What—now? I haven’t even—”

The air turned colder. Something in Batman’s tone left no room for negotiation, and Hal, to his credit, picked up on it fast. He raised his hands in exaggerated surrender and took a few steps back, though not without flashing you a cheeky wink.

“Rain check, sweetheart.”

You didn’t respond, just offered a lazy shrug and watched him walk away.

The door hadn’t even hissed shut behind Hal before Batman was on you.

Two long strides and you were pinned—back against the cool metal wall of the command deck. One gloved hand braced near your head, the other found your waist—firm, grounding, possessive.

Your lips curled. “Someone’s jealous.”

“I’m not—” he began, but the words barely made it past his lips before your fingers found the centre of his chest plate, tracing the outline of the bat symbol.

You tilted your head, brow arching. “Oh? So if you aren’t… maybe I’ll take him up on his offer for drinks.”

His grip on your waist tightened immediately, fingers flexing through the layers of tactical material like he was resisting the urge to give into his baser desires. Instead, he stepped in, close enough that there was no space left between you two. His voice dropped to a low, razor-edged growl.

“Don’t forget who you belong to.”

You arched up into him, your lips just shy of his, gaze dark with challenge. “Maybe I need a reminder.”

His mouth crushed to yours with no hesitation, no warning—just the surge of everything he kept buried under armour and silence. His gloved hand tangled in your hair, the other holding your hip in place like he could anchor you there forever. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. This was your Bruce—letting his iron clad control slip.

You kissed him back with equal force, your hands fisting in his suit, mouth parting for him without hesitation. His body pressed flush to yours, heat radiating through armour you both wore.

You could feel the tremble in his control—the rigid lines of muscle taut beneath his suit. He was a man who was always controlled. Always composed.

Except when it came to you.

A soft sound escaped you when his teeth grazed your lower lip—sharp and possessive, leaving behind a faint sting that only made your blood rush hotter.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath ragged against your cheek.

“Is that enough of a reminder,” he growled, “of who you belong to?”

You smiled, slow and wicked, eyes still half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten and tingling. “If you admit you were being jealous,” you murmured. “You know I was just being polite.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing your ear. “You were teasing.”

A shiver danced down your spine at the sound of his voice—low, frayed, barely clinging to composure. You’d pushed him on purpose. And you were still pushing.

“You know if you keep kissing me like that again while we’re in public,” you whispered, “and we won’t be a secret much longer.”

His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you in until your bodies aligned perfectly—fitting together like puzzle pieces “Then stop giving me a reason.”

You tilted your chin, daring him. “Make me.”

His hand moved, slowly smoothing down the curve of your spine and then he was yanking you back to his lips.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you walked into the hangar bay—Batman as his usual cold and professional self. And you, the picture of casual ease, sauntering in like your normal self. Both of you acting as if nothing had happened.

Except it had.

Your lips were still a little too pink. Your hair, despite a quick fix in the mirror, had that artfully tousled edge no amount of finger-combing could completely smooth out. And the faint shadow beneath your jaw—a whisper of a bruise blooming—that told its own story.

You were halfway to the transport when Hal spotted you.

He was leaning against the side of a ship, mid-conversation with Green Arrow before he suddenly paused. His gaze found you first, sliding over your face with idle interest. But then it lingered and his eyes narrowed as he clocked the mark on your jaw.

Then the lips.

Then the hair.

Then—

His gaze shifted past you to where Batman emerged behind you, the cowl shadowing his expression but not hiding the ice behind his stare. 

They were locked on Hal giving him the infamous bat glare.

Hal stiffened. His attention bounced between the two of you. You gave him a faint, knowing smirk. The tilt of your head that all but dared him to say something.

And he gulped.

“…Right,” he muttered under his breath, already stepping back. “Yeah. No drinks. Got it.”

Batman didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Hal was gone in two seconds, leaving nothing but the echo of retreating boots and a poorly veiled sense of self-preservation in his wake.

You didn’t look at Bruce—not until the ship’s ramp sealed behind you both with the soft hiss of pressurized air, sealing you both inside away from the outside world.

Then, at last, you turned and in amusement—you said, “I think he got the message.”

Batman didn’t respond but a faint smug smirk ghosted at his lips.

[snotgrl-02]

VPNs do not make you more secure

here's how they work!

first of all, most of your internet traffic is already encrypted via TLS (Transport Layer Security). Things that aren't encrypted are usually videogames or less important applications.

a VPN encrypts traffic between your computer and the VPN server you're using.

your Internet Service Provider (ISP) sits in the middle of that transaction.

cue the MS paint diagram

Without a VPN:

With a VPN:

the traffic between your VPN server and the rest of the internet is not encrypted any further.

things that VPNs are good for:

bypassing geo-blocking

bypassing website blocks set up by your ISP

obscuring network traffic from your ISP

things that VPNs are not good for:

browsing the internet without having your activity logged. every company that gives internet service logs the activity, it's half of how they make sure they're not being hacked.

hiding information from the government. VPN providers WILL bend to subpoenas, they WILL turn over logs of your network activity.

cybersecurity. VPNs can't save you once the traffic is between them and the final destination. they don't analyze your traffic to detect and stop hackers, they don't add any encryption where it matters.

VPNs are not a shortcut to security. you cannot pay 15 dollars a month to forgo all responsibility for your own digital privacy. do your research, use a password manager, stay safe.

my friends i hope you find this information useful. you have been sold a lie. remember to show extreme skepticism to youtube sponsorships and journalism websites which sing their praises.

sources: i have a certificate iv in cybersecurity

[voidisverytired]

(based on a fic i'm writing atm)

Jazz Fenton who, after a bad reveal to the parents, starts to search for family that can take care of Danny because it is unsafe for him in Amity Park now. Jazz Fenton who finds the name Kane in her ancestry that then connects her to the name Wayne.

Jazz Fenton who shows up on Bruce Wayne's doorstep with a folder of proof of their relation with pictures; blood tests; family trees; etc. Jazz Fenton who says that Danny is "different" from the other boys and that it is too dangerous at home after their parents found out.

Bruce Wayne who shares this with his kids and they all come to the (logical in this situation) assumption that Danny Fenton is a trans man, proven more when their government files are encrypted and neither Tim nor Barbara can crack them (the Guys In White encrypted them and Tucker, upon finding out about this, further encrypted them just to see if he could (spoiler alert: he could))

Their theory is further proven even MORE when Danny is asked why he's still wearing a shirt while they're swimming in the pool of Wayne Manor (post identity reveal on the Bats' part because otherwise he'd question the scars) and Danny says he has scars on his chest he doesn't like showing (they are vivisection scars from the GIW)

I love the "accidentally assuming someone is trans" trope so much, it's so funny

*Everyone staring at Danny because he took off his shirt after spilling hot cocoa on himself*

Danny: What are you guys... oh. Oh, right, those.

Bruce: Those are... Daniel, are those dissection scars?

Danny, assuming the gig is up: Vivisection scars, actually. Or maybe it could be considered dissection, though I was definitely awake during it. I uh... guess I owe you all an explanation, don't I?

The rest of the batfam doesn't even care about the why or the how. They just want to know who did this to the Danny.

I love them a normal amount, I swear

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Sky fall"

ok yall I did get a little inspired! Lmk how it is! I know its not what some of yall wanted but this is how I wrote it! Everything is coming together now! Sorry if its confusing <3

Tiffany’s footsteps echoed through the abandoned warehouse, each one measured, confident, as she strode deeper into the dimly lit space. The walls, once intimidating in their desolation, now felt like a stage set for her triumph. She was certain of herself, this was it. She had manipulated them all, pulled the strings, and now, with the Batfamily’s most sensitive intel in hand, she was untouchable. They would never see it coming. She had convinced herself that the web she had carefully spun was impenetrable.

But tonight, Tiffany was walking straight into a trap.

She paused at the center of the room, eyes scanning the surroundings with a practiced ease. The flicker of lights overhead seemed almost theatrical, as if signaling the grand performance she was about to claim as her own. Her fingers tightened around the sleek metallic briefcase she held—inside it, the false intel she believed would seal her victory. She had rehearsed every step, anticipated every move. But there was one thing she hadn't accounted for: the Batfamily’s silence.

They were everywhere, but they weren't moving. Not yet. They were waiting.

From his position in the shadows, Tim watched through the Batcave’s live feeds, his eyes cold and calculating as he traced Tiffany’s every move. The family had worked tirelessly to set this up—baiting her with fake intel, feeding her just the right amount of information to guarantee she'd take the bait. She had, without fail, walked right into their hands.

Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Every signal, every encrypted line of data, it had all led to this moment. His chest tightened with the weight of his resolve. This ends now.

He didn't need to say it aloud. They all knew what was at stake. This wasn’t just about protecting Gotham, or the family’s secrets. It was about you. It was about taking back what Tiffany had stolen from you. Your life. Your identity. Your place in this family. Every single person in that room understood that this wasn’t just about a spy. This was personal.

“Now we finish this,” Tim’s voice rang through the comms, calm but with the sharp edge of finality.

The tension in the air was palpable, thick as smoke. Bruce, standing silently with his arms crossed, stared intently at the screen, his jaw set like stone. Dick, ever the optimist, now had no room for jokes. His usual playful nature was gone, replaced by a grim focus. Jason, less patient, was practically vibrating with anger, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His gaze flickered between the screens and the door, his body coiled like a spring, ready to explode.

Damian was the quietest of them all, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched with fierce intent. His mind was only focused on one thing: her.

The trap was set, and now it was time for the family to act.

Suddenly, from the corner of the room, a figure emerged, cloaked in darkness, stepping forward as silently as a shadow. It was Dick, moving with fluid precision as he approached Tiffany from behind. His voice came out low, dangerous. “Thought you had us all fooled, didn’t you, Tiffybear?”

Tiffany froze, her body tensing as she spun toward the sound of the voice. The briefcase slipped from her grip, clattering against the concrete floor as her eyes met Dick’s.

"Dick! Hey! What are you doing here? I thought I said I wanted to be alone." Tiffany asked, her tone clipped and annoyed.

Dick’s voice was almost mocking, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. “You never had a chance. You just didn’t know it yet.”

From all sides, the rest of the Batfamily moved into position, emerging from the shadows, closing in.

Tim’s voice cut through the silence again. “You thought you could replace her, Tiffany. Thought you could take what was hers and make it your own. But you were wrong.”

Tiffany’s eyes darted between them, confusion creeping in as the weight of the situation began to sink in. Her lips curled into a sneer. “What is this? You can’t—”

“We already know,” Jason interrupted, stepping forward, his presence like a storm rolling in. “You’ve been feeding information to our enemies. Stealing. Lying to us. Pretending to be someone you're not. And all for what? To replace her? To become her?” His voice trembled with rage, each word fueled by the months of anger, the betrayal, and the crushing realization that someone he had trusted had been working against him all along.

Tiffany’s composure faltered, her eyes flashing with defiance. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve always been here, helping, supporting—”

“You’re a liar,” Tim spat, stepping forward. His gaze was unwavering, every ounce of anger and frustration channeled into his words. “You stole everything from her. Her identity, her life, her place in this family. And now, you're trying to replace her. No more games.”

Bruce’s voice, low and steady, cut through the tension. “We gave you a chance. We treated you like family. And this is how you repay us?”

Tiffany’s eyes widened as the gravity of the situation hit her all at once. She took a step back, her breathing growing erratic. For the first time since she’d entered the room, doubt crept into her expression. The confidence, the arrogance that had once defined her shattered before their very eyes.

“This ends now,” Bruce said again, his words as cold as steel. He motioned to Dick, who moved to secure Tiffany’s exit, blocking her every attempt to escape.

Damian’s voice, soft but filled with a dangerous edge, broke through the noise. “You think you can erase her? You think you can take her place? You think you can get away with this? Jail will be the least of your problems soon” He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with intense focus.

Tiffany recoiled, as if he had struck her, her eyes flickering between the Batfamily members who had surrounded her. This wasn’t the victory she had imagined. This wasn’t the moment where she was crowned the perfect replacement. This was the moment where her lies crumbled, and she realized how deeply she had miscalculated.

Her hand shot out to grab the briefcase, but before she could move, Jason was already there. His grip was iron-tight as he snatched the case from her. “I think you’ve lost your audience, sweetheart.”

With the briefcase secured, and no escape left, Tiffany turned to face them all, her mask of composure slipping as panic began to seep in. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” she spat, her voice trembling. “I’ve been working with people who can destroy you all. You’ll regret this. You’ll never get away with it.”

“We already have,” Dick said softly. “You’re done.”

The family, united, stood in the silence that followed, their collective presence so overwhelming that Tiffany felt smaller than she ever had. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The Batfamily has finally seen through her. The game was over.

And in that moment, Tiffany realized that she was never in control.

She had never been in control.

They were.

As the family closed in, ready to bring her to justice for the harm she had done, Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard one last time. The Batcave’s monitors flashed again, but this time, it wasn’t encrypted files or hidden surveillance. It was a signal, one that would send Tiffany straight to the authorities, where she would finally face the consequences of her actions.

This was the end of Tiffany’s game.

And the beginning of the Batfamily reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.

Tiffany had underestimated them. She had underestimated the family.

Now, it was time to make her pay.

The jet’s wheels hit the tarmac with a soft hum, the quiet after the hum of engines almost disorienting. You stretched in your seat, flexing your fingers, aware of the long flight that had left your body restless, but you could already feel the change in the air. The tension. The suffocating weight of everything happening around you.

You had promised yourself you wouldn’t get attached again, that you wouldn’t let your walls down. But there was something about Alfred’s letters that made it impossible to resist, something about the quiet, steady affection in his words that still clung to your memories of the Manor. You’d gone through all the motions, pretending like you weren’t angry, pretending like you didn’t resent the family for abandoning you, for believing the lies.

Yet here you were. Looking for closure and chasing love.

As the cabin doors opened a gust of cool Gotham air rushed in. It wasn't refreshing, it was as if the air held something dark and heavy that clung to you. The world outside was still dark, the city a blur of towering lights and shadows stretching across the skyline.

The car ride to the manor was a blur, it was as if your body was on autopilot the whole way. Alfred had sent a car to get you, thankfully the driver didn't insist on small talk.

Your stomach was filled with dread and you thought of asking the driver to take you back to the airport, Ariel and her family wouldn't mind if you came two days earlier than expected. You knew that, but your feet wouldn’t let you. The pull of the manor, even after everything, was undeniable.

The long drive up the winding gravel path to the front gates felt like an eternity. It always had, but this time it felt different. Almost like time was pushing you forward, faster than you were ready to go.

When the doors of the manor finally loomed in front of you, all lit up like a beacon in the night, a deep breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t the same. Not anymore.

The family wasn’t here, at least, not all of them. It was strange, like stepping into a house full of ghosts and memories. You couldn't shake the feeling that things had shifted in ways you couldn’t yet see. But you were about to find out, weren't you?

Alfred was the first to greet you, of course. His warm smile, the familiar twinkle in his eyes, felt like home. He wasn’t perfect, he had his flaws and he also brushed you off for the imposter, but there was no one else who had ever been as constant, as unshakeable in your life.

“It's wonderful to see you. I trust your ride was pleasant?” Alfred asked gently, as he took your luggage from you and wrapped you into a gentle and warm hug. His voice, though calm, held something you couldn’t quite place. It was the way he always spoke when there was trouble brewing underneath the surface.

You bit back the rush of emotion threatening to spill out. The hurt you felt after he just allowed Bruce to exile you. You could feel the eyes of the manor on you, too many memories to process, too many ghosts to acknowledge. "It’s good to see you, Alfred," you said, and even though the words were kind, your stomach twisted with an unfamiliar unease.

Alfred never made you feel this way before, what changed?

He nodded, glancing briefly at the front door. "Master Bruce has been expecting you," he said, and though it sounded almost casual, there was something in the way he said it, something cautious, like a warning wrapped in politeness. "If you'd like, I’ll have your things brought up to your room."

Your heart dropped, Bruce was expecting you? Since when did he stay up late to wait for your arrival? Did Tiffany say something? Did he find you finsta? Your tik tok??

You shook your head, masking your unease and licking your suddenly dry lips. "No, it’s fine. I’ll head straight to the study, it must be important and it won't take long hopefully." You said almost reassuring yourself.

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. It was clear he knew better than to ask more. He simply offered a silent nod, stepping aside to let you enter the familiar grand hall.

Every step echoed as you walked through the long corridor, your shoes clicking on the polished checkered marble floors. The place looked untouched, the same lavish decor, nothing changed so why did it feel different? It felt like a time capsule, but you felt distorted, twisted in ways you didn’t quite understand yet.

And then, when you reached the study, the door was open an invitation, though not warm. Your heart picked up pace as you crossed the threshold.

Bruce sat at the large desk, his posture tense, the shadows of the room stretching long against his features. His eyes lifted from the documents in front of him when you entered, but there was no immediate anger in his eyes or anything hostile; so what did he want if not to scold you?

“You’ve made it. I hope your trip was pleasant.” There was a bite to his words, something you couldn’t place, but his eyes never wavered from yours. You realized then that something had shifted in him too. Something had changed.

"It was good. How've you been? Busy? Your phone fixed yet?" you asked coolly, crossing your arms, eyes narrowing slightly. A jab at him for never answering your calls and texts.

Alfred had mentioned that Bruce was expecting you, but he hadn’t said why.

“You could say that," Bruce responded, leaning back in his chair, his steely gaze never leaving yours. "But now that you’re here, I think we need to have a conversation."

Your false confidence was shaking and you were reduced to a scared child standing in front of her all-powerful father. You couldn't handle being blamed for anything or pushed aside for Tiffany anymore.

You faltered, the tension between you both palpable. "About what exactly? I haven't done anything wrong."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the large monitor beside him, flicking a few buttons. The screen lit up with files, encrypted footage, and images you didn’t recognize at first glance.

You could already feel your pulse racing. This was about to get interesting.

"About Tiffany," Bruce said, and the very mention of her name made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t explain. His eyes never left you as he clicked the first file open. “I think it’s time you knew the truth.”

You felt a sick satisfaction knowing you were right all along, that you figured out what The Batman couldn't.

As you watched the first videos, you couldn't stop yourself from scoffing, this wasn't anything new. You knew Tiffany was a spy, but as the videos continued, your skin began to crawl.

Tiffany walking into your room at night and coming out with arms full of things you thought you lost.

Tiffany following you into the library and reading all the books you read. Imitating everything you did.

What really made bile rise to your throat was the last video, there Tiffany was, in the laundry room sniffing and wearing your dirty clothes.

You stood in front of Bruce, frozen and naesous, waiting for him to speak.

" You knew Tiffany was a spy, you told me of how she treated you, and I brushed you off and called you a liar; for that you have my never ending apology and regret. However, there are things about her that even you didn't know." Said Bruce standing and walking toward you, his eyes were different from how they usually looked. Usually cold and unforgiving, they now held remorse and regret, and if you didn't know better, love.

He gently grabbed your hands and turned you toward him, "I'm sorry. For everything. I am the world's biggest fool for how i've treated you these years."

That was all you wanted to hear for years, those sentences healed the cracks in your heart but your eyes burned with tears and you quickly took a step back; snatching your hands from his calloused ones, "Sorry changes nothing." You bit back, suddenly feeling a rush of anger and hurt that gave you confidence.

Your father sighed and took a step back, "I know." He said looking at you with longing.

You turned your head, acrylics burning and digging into your crossed arms. You couldn't bare to look at him, he looked pathetic when he pulled that face. He looked like you. He looked at you in the same way you looked at him all these years, longing and desperate for love.

"Is that all you wanted to say?" you asked faking nonchalance when in reality you couldn't wait to get in your bed and cry.

Bruce sighed again, "No. I need to explain why we all reacted that way to her and we need to talk about your own special.....abilities."

For the next hour, you sat with Bruce in his study, closer than you've ever been, as he explained who Tiffany truly was and why she was able to fool everyone. Your mind was running a million miles per minute as he spoke, it all made sense now.

Why Tiffany had that effect of the family, why she was so popular at school, why she was there that fateful night when you were bit.

Tiffany was working with an unknown organization, PATIENCE. She was planted into your school years ago to observe you and figure out how to infiltrate the Family. She was able to deceive everyone because she was also bitten by the snake but her body couldn't take the full transformation so her abilities were weaker than yours and mutated. She was able to release pheremones that intoxicated the mind, you weren't affected because you were immune.

She was there that night because she was also on a mission, a mission to kill the snake but it ended up escaping and biting you.

PATIENCE was working with the Joker on a one time partnership, they would give the Joker intel on Batman's plans in exchange for him allowing them to bring drugs through Gothams ports.

The situation was handled now, of course, but it was a miracle you survived the bite.

By the end of the conversation you were exhausted, but had never felt that relieved. Everything made sense now. You looked at Bruce only to find her already staring at you and your eyes watered once again. He had a reason for the Tiffany situation, but what about all those other years?

As you both got up, you to go to your room and sleep, and him to go to the Batcave, Bruce gently pulled you back.

In the middle of the hallway, he brought you into tight hug. He towered over you and buried his face into your hair, muttering apologies almost deleriously; and as you felt hot tears fall onto you, you wrapped your arms around his waist and began to sob into his chest.

"I hate you." you said your voice muffled and cracked,

"I know." He replied, voice soft and tears still falling yet refusing to let you see him cry.

"I don't forgive you. This can't change the past." You said sobbing even more yet leaning into his hard, toned chest.

" I know." He replied again somberly and more composed now.

As you parted ways, you could feel his eyes on you, willing you to look back.

You didn't.

That night you slept like the dead, your chest felt lighter than it had in years. When you woke the next morning, you felt hope for the first time in years. Maybe Bruce could redeem himself, not anytime soon, but someday. He had to work for it first. Prove he changed, buy you a birkin in every color and a house in every country and then you would think about letting go of the past.

As you walked down for breakfast in your linen pants and your ex-boyfriends NYU sweatshirt, all hope you had faded. You were so caught up in Bruce's apology that you forgot about the rest of them. And there at the table in the grand dining room sat Bruce at the head of the table with everyone of your siblings surrounding him, all chatting in hushed whispers and immediately going quiet as you walked into the room and sat in the only unoccupied seat right in the middle.

Bitterness filled your heart as you realized they were probably talking about you.

You were seated next to Damian and Tim with Duke and Jason across from you. As soon as you sat Alfred brought out the food, Cinnamon roll pancakes, your favorite along with all your favorite sides. All the tension left your body as you beamed and dug into the food, eyes rolling back as you tasted heaven.

No one spoke, but Jason smirked fondly, Damian rolled his eyes and Dick beamed, Bruce looked interested and Tim just stared creepily from next to you.

You blushed as you noticed everyones eyes on you, and suddenly your mood was ruined again as Duke caught your eye and chuckled "Some things never change huh? You loved these, remember that time-"

You pushed your plate away from you, grabbing a piece of french and cut him off coldly "No, no I don't." Your feelings were still hurt from his betrayal and he thought you could go back to normal? To before Tiffany?

His face fell and he opened his mouth closed it, simply looking away sadly.

"He hasn't even said anything! Why don't you let him tell the story, we all want to know!" Said Stephanie enthusiaticaly from next to Jason.

Who does she think she is? Why does she assume she's entitled to your happy memories? After everything she's said and done? After everything they all said and did?

Blood rushed to your head, your teeth burned and sharpened and and you couldn't stop the scoff escaping you. "Literally who was talking to you? Mind your own fucking business, I really don't give a shit about what you want. Or any of you really." You say standing up angrily and almost throwing the plate in her face.

The hall went silent as everyone stared at your standing, hostile form. Jason looked entertained, Cassandra was shocked for once, Dick looked frantic and concerned, Barbra's mouth was opening and closing in a fish like manner, Steph looked like you stabbed her, even Tim looked taken aback, and Bruce simply stared at you.

It was Damian that really set you off, he pulled your elbow attempting to sit you back down, "There's no fighting or cursing allowed at the table. Stop whining and sit down and finish your pancakes. This display is pathetic." He said arrogantly rolling his eyes at you in his fancy pajamas and messy hair.

You hadn't help that anger in years. HE was lecturing you about whining and fighting? him? That's rich. You don't know what came over you but you don't regret a thing.

You harshly pulled your elbow out his grip and decked him.

Straight.

In.

The.

Face.

You'd show him what fighting at the table really was. Your punch knocked him out of his chair and you heard something crack and heard everyone gasp, rushing out their chairs while you hissed and grabbed your favorite pancakes and shoved them in his stupid, similar looking, arrogant face. You punched him again for good measure and for fun. You were reaching for the syrup to pour on him when Tim tried to pull you away so you decked his scrawny ass too.

Honestly, the moments after were a blur but somehow you ended up in your room with Jason standing in your doorway hours later with chicken nuggets and a smirk.

taglist:

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake, Sleep-Deprived Overlord Extraordinaire (and the Boy Who Grounds Him)

The thing about Tim Drake is that he’s brilliant. The thing about Tim Drake without sleep is that he’s unhinged.

It always starts subtly. A missed night of sleep here, a triple shift there. His words get sharper, his focus becomes razor-edged, and the bats can practically see the neurons in his brain firing like a thousand fireworks.

Then, somewhere around hour 56 of no sleep, Tim crosses the threshold into full-blown megalomania.

He doesn’t just think he’s smart—he knows it. He’ll drop gems like, “Honestly, Gotham’s infrastructure is appalling. If I really wanted to, I could take over the city in 72 hours, tops,” or “Do you think I could reprogram every Bat-computer in the Cave before Bruce notices? Because I can.”

Which—yeah, okay, the family knows he’s capable of it, but it’s terrifying.

When he’s in this state, Tim walks around with the energy of someone who’s cracked the secrets of the universe and is two steps away from becoming a benevolent dictator. His confidence is unsettling. His hyper-awareness is borderline supernatural.

The bats try. Oh, do they try.

“Tim,” Dick says gently, holding out a cup of chamomile tea and a soft blanket. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit.”

Tim doesn’t even glance at him. “Lying down is for the weak, Dick. Also, you left your phone on the counter. Might wanna grab it before someone texts Kori again.”

Dick freezes. He did leave his phone on the counter, and he can only hope Tim didn't do anything with it (Though his comment definitely says otherwise).

“Tim,” Bruce says, the Big Bat Voice in full swing. “You need to rest.”

Tim smirks, flipping through his tablet. “Rest is for the dead, and I’m not in the mood for ghosts tonight. Also, you forgot to update the encryption on your personal server. Again.”

Even Damian tries, but he gets as far as hurling a batarang at Tim’s leg before Tim dodges it without looking. “Tsk tsk, Damian. You’re getting predictable.”

It’s chaos. It’s exhausting.

Enter Danny Fenton.

Danny’s used to Tim’s shenanigans by now. He’s been around for enough of Tim’s sleep-deprivation arcs to know the signs. The sharp eyes, the slightly-too-bright smile, the way he starts muttering plans for world domination like he’s drafting a grocery list.

Danny lets it slide for a while—Tim in hyper-mode is kind of cute, in a “my boyfriend might accidentally take over the world” way. But then he sees the bags under Tim’s eyes, the way his hands tremble just slightly from over-caffeination, and he knows it’s time to intervene.

Danny doesn’t use tea. He doesn’t try reason. He doesn’t even bother with the blanket method.

Instead, Danny steps into the Cave, tilts his head at Tim, and says, “Honey, can we cuddle?”

Tim freezes.

The bats, who have been subjected to hours of Tim’s unrelenting, untouchable brilliance, watch in shock as their insurmountable sibling folds like a deck of cards.

“I—uh—cuddle?” Tim stammers, blinking like a deer in headlights.

Danny smiles, soft and sweet and just shy of smug. “Yeah, I miss you. Come to bed with me?”

Tim’s resolve crumbles. He’s already pulling off his gauntlets. “Yeah, okay. Just for a bit.”

“A bit,” Danny agrees, but he’s already leading Tim upstairs.

The bats are left standing in the Cave, mouths agape.

Jason’s the first to break the silence. “Did we just get out-maneuvered by Tim’s boyfriend? The guy who hangs out with Harley Quinn for fun?”

Dick snorts. “I mean, are we really surprised? Danny’s been handling Tim better than any of us for years.”

Bruce exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. “As long as Tim’s resting, I don’t care how it happened. Danny’s good for him.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees with a shrug. “Kid’s weird, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. And if he can get Replacement to sleep, I’ll send him a damn fruit basket.”

The bats exchange a rare moment of collective relief.

Upstairs, Danny tucks Tim into bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face as Tim curls into him. He doesn’t care about strategies or what the bats think. All that matters is Tim, finally at peace in his arms.

"Sleep well, genius," Danny murmurs, pressing a kiss to Tim’s forehead. And for the first time in days, Tim does.

[somnoir]

Gotham's newest Crime Lord - part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Wraith wrecked havoc like no other.

He was loved and hated by the masses. Defended by Gotham regardless of what they felt of him. A figure in the underworld that hunted down those who moved to harm one of their kin and executed anyone who laid their hands in the weak—children.

The first explosion had been explained by the scattering papers and the anonymous posts of an organization who went after children with malicious intent. Blatant evidence that had people rallying to the GCPD to demand for justice. It was glorious and horrific—especially once they found out that it was Wraith who tossed the Joker into the harbor.

The Bats, by all means, attempt to find him. Figure him out, at least. But the man was a mystery. It was worse considering the majority of Gotham were eagerly telling the Bats to fuck off whenever they tried to hunt down Wraith. The only thing they ever got out of him was that his second in command—Phantom—was the nicer one between them. If you wanted civil negotiations, try and look for Phantom instead.

As much as they wanted to go directly to Wraith, this was their best shot. Their only shot.

"Had any luck finding Phantom?" Dick's hand rested on Tim's shoulder, trying to support his clearly tired brother. Tim was a little to determined, kinda desperate to find this guy.

"Nothing. Their names are trigger words." Tim clicked his tongue, "It's fucking up the system. Remember Ghostmaker's ghostnet? Any attempts makes you want to shut off your systems because of how encrypted they could get."

"Searching up their names gave the Batcomputer a virus?!" Steph gawked, leaning over Tim and staring at the computer. They could all tell he was wary, trying not to type in certain words to keep the damn tech sage from that mania.

"Wraith and Phantom are either metas with technology altering powers..." Barbara hums, "Or they have someone else doing this. Imagine them having their own version of the calculator... But worse and more annoying."

"So our new crime lord has a hacker... That has given the Batcomputer a virus." Dick slowly said, "And is still operating without us finding out."

"Hood and Robin are out trying to find Phantom." Barbara points to the two dots hurriedly moving through crime alley. "Hopefully they find him."

"Any news on Wraith?"

"His latest stint involved tearing down one of Black Mask's operations. Several bodies were found in the harbor."

"Why the harbor?"

"It's his MO, I think. It's always the harbor where he dumps the bodies."

Tim frowns, "Like it's his trash can.... For bodies."

"Hasn't the harbor always been the body trash can of Gotham?" Steph sighs, before turning away to stare at Cass who was training in the simulators again.

Dick glared at her for the comment but once again looked back to the screen.

"Hopefully they find Phantom soon... before Wraith drops more bodies."

Phantom was the nicer of the two—claimes by many people who told them Wraith was a little on the quieter side. No one truly knew but he was quieter than a lot of them.

Crime Alley was Red Hood's territory, everyone knew that. But apparently, Wraith has been operating in the same area from time to time. Mainly to return kids to the alley (freshly claimed by that flaiming white symbol). But Wraith did so quietly. They checked in from time to time to see if the kids were alright.

To be specific...

Phantom came to visit to see if the children they had returned and claimed were safe. Often coming with resources that he mainly reserved for the kids.

"Found him." Jason muttered, voice distorted through the modulator as he narrowed his eyes at the young man dressed in monochrome colors. His binoculars zeroed on the young man with white (seriously??) boots and gloves. The rest of his outfit was black, with a jacket still in monochrome colors. Jason frowned at the hood that covered his head.

"Let's go, Hood. Nightwing and father wants—"

"Stay out of it, Robin." Hood instantly growled. Jason has never felt so territorial before but this guy was in his territory—doing good, keeping the kids safe, marking them so no one tried going after them. "Phantom is Wraith's lieutenant. We don't need to make an enemy of the nicer one and piss of the one who ordered the explosion."

"I can handle him!"

"You'll piss him off!"

Robin scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you won't? Phantom clearly is fond of children and I am a child—"

"With katanas. You're a murderous child. Wraith and Phantom claim children who are in danger. Not the danger." Jason scoffed, while Damian opted to look utterly smug at the statement.

"Stay here." Jason drops down from the building.

He, unfortunately, didn't account for Phantom pulling out a sword from nowhere and immediately pointing it at Jason. The kids behind the man were quick hide behind him, cowering in fear until the recognition sets in their eyes.

"Wait! That's the Red Hood!" A girl yells, standing between them. Stupid but very brave. "He's one of the good ones!"

Phantom, who wore a mask that covered half his face yet showed his eyes, immediately lowered his sword once the girl was between them.

Jason froze, unable to tear his gaze away from Lazarus eyes—no... That shade of green was much purer than the pits... Phantom narrowed his eyes at Jason, before turning back to the girl. "You go and take care of your little sister, yeah? If your mom forgets to feed you again, tell her I'll give her a visit."

The girl nods, but she whirled around and gave Jason the nastiest glare an 8-year-old could give. "You hurt mr. Phantom and I'll tell Wraith!" She pointed an accusing finger at him, frowning before she gives Phantom a quick hug and makes a run for it with the other kids.

Soon enough, they're left alone... Staring at one another.

"I was wondering when one of you Bats would finally find me." Phantom hums, sliding his hand over the hilt of his sword.

Jason warily watched it disappear from sight. Okay. Possible meta, definitely has powers. "You're a hard man to find, Phantom."

"Not for you, I guess. I come and go into your haunt to check in on the kids every week." Phantom laughs, tilting his head.

Jason could see snow white hair from under the hood, making him shudder as the deathly green eyes are brought back to his attention.

"Every week, huh?" Jason clicked his tongue. "I'll cut to the chase. Your boss's stint—" he swore that Phantom twitched "—pissed of the big Bat. He ain't happy tnag Wraith is bombing up buildings and killing people."

Phantom visibly rolled his eyes, "Too bad then. Wraith's pretty direct when it comes to this shit. Trafficking and pimping kids make him murderous but the fact that those bastards were killing them and selling their organs? He's damn genocidal at this point. Can't say I disagree with that."

Jason... Well... Jason can't argue with that. If he found out that some bastards were doing that to kids, he'd go ballistic too. But Bruce didn't agree with these methods and was rather reproachful about it. But Wraith wasn't going to back down. This wasn't a normal rogue that had felt fear of the Batman and his brood before. To be honest, Jason thinks he's pretty ballsy.

"I don't disagree with that shit either. But Batman ain't going to let him off the hook after that stunt." Jason warned, grunting as he spoke through the modulator. The pits were flaring up again. But not malicious, not murderous. It was curious as it warmed his chest and practically urged him to get closer to Phantom.

"Yes, well... Piece of advice—Wraith is willing to blow up an entire district if it meant keeping others safe. And besides, your rogues know not to mess with him. Not after the Joker." He didn't actually see Phantom's face but he's pretty sure that the bastard was grinning.

"So he really did it."

"If it makes you feel any better, the Joker might as well be cursing him from the afterlife. It was an accident." Phantom shrugged.

An accident, Jason breathed out. Holy fuck, that would have been humiliating for the Joker. His death. An accident. Unintentional and he still died, his body dumped into the harbor.

"Anyways, tell Batsy not to mess with the kids. I know he doesn't, but he let the Joker live, so..." Phantom gave him a thumbs up, "Make sure to not cross pass with Wraith or else you'll end up in the harbor."

Jason gawked, watching as Phantom slipped into the shadows and promptly disappeared. Meta. Definitely a meta.

"Hood, report." Batman's voice rang through the comms.

"Red Hood," he grunts, "Wraith sure as hell doesn't like you, old man. And Phantom might be the nice one but he might as well be as stabby as Robin."

"I agree with Hood. He has wonderful posture, father!" Robin spoke, sounding impressed and smug.

The little shit.

"Technus, stop bullying Oracle." Dan groaned once he caught the ghost tampering with the net... Again.

The crime lord turned towards Danny, who melted out of the shadows again. Technus was blabbering about pesky bats and birds before Dante clocked his younger brother's apprehension. He looked....annoyed and concerned.

"I talked to Red Hood."

"YOU WHAT?!"

"Fun fact! He's a revenant!"

"THE FUCK YOU MEAN THE OTHER CRIME LORD IS A REVENAN?!"

"A very sexy looking one."

He was going to punch Danny. He was going to fucking punch Danny.

(Danny was not punched.)

"He said that Batman's pissy about you blowing up shit." Danny shrugged, shaking his head before floating over to the energy drinks and coffees by Dan's desk. "Good news though! I told him he'd end up in the harbor if he ever tried anything with us."

Dan gawked, "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You want to make the bats our enemies?"

"No! I'm commiting to our crime family bit!"

"We're not a crime family!"

"Tell that to Ellie. She's already got herself a new suit and everything."

Dan threw his hands up in the air, groaning at the insanity that was his younger siblings. Dear ancients, he was praying that Jazz wouldn't find out about the shit they've done in Gotham. She'd give them the worst tongue lashing the world has ever experienced if she did. Thank God she was in Yale right now.

"Ooh! A crime family, you say?" Technus grinned, floating closer to Danny who lounged in Dan's chair. (Get the fuck away from my crime lord throne, Danny! The leather is expensive!)

"That is perfect! The others have decided to migrate here, did you know? It's been quite... Boring back in Amity." Technus snickered.

Fuck. No.

"I bet my trust from Vlad that Johnny, Kitty, and Ember are already on their way." Danny cackled, "That'd be nice. Elle's been itching to steal Johnny's bike again."

"Splendid! We shall wreck havoc upon Gotham and exact justice that the Bats cannot give the people!" And like a supervillain, Danny cackled as he stood on Dan's desk, laughing maniacally.

(Just outside, the Wraith's goons peaked into the room and saw the insanity that was the nice lieutenant's villainy.)

Meanwhile, in the distance, the laughter of Johnny 13 and Kitty rang through the streets of Gotham.

Part 3 | Masterpost

[andorsdoll]

Homecoming ♡ Anakin Skywalker x Reader [♀]

Summary: Anakin comes home from battle wrecked and starving for you. You’re his wife, his anchor, his religion—and he fucks you like it.

Word Count: 1.6k || Warnings: nsfw. p*rn w/out plot?? idgaf!!, reader & anakin are married, the gloves stay on during sex, no foreplay, penetration (p-in-v), unprotected sex/creampie, some praise/dirty talk, aftercare, doting husband! anakin, etc.,

Author's Note: idk how to write smut, it's hard!!!!! (stop.. genuinely no pun intended >w< )

PS- for any of you guys following my multi chaptered anakin fic on ao3, i'm so sorry that i never ended up updating but i promise it is on its way, like i'm (re)writing the first chapter as we speak ok!!

PPS- if i have any james kelly/hayden christensen girlies, i posted a one shot here ;)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . ⁺ .✦.

He doesn’t knock but you hear the sound of boots trecking closer. Your breath catches in your throat the moment the door opens.

Anakin.

Finally.

You stand a little too fast and your knees almost buckle from the way relief crashes into you like a wave.

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since he was pulled to the opposite end of the galaxy, again, with nothing but scrambled comms and a handful of encrypted messages.

He’s sunburnt, his cloak covered in dust. His brow is creased but he looks at you like you’ve just saved his life.

“Hi,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

That alone nearly breaks him.

Anakin crosses the space between you without hesitation, wrapping you in his arms. He buries his face in your neck, letting out an exhale. Like he's been holding his breath the entire time he was gone.

“I thought I’d go insane,” he mumbles. “I thought if I had to wake up one more morning without you next to me—” He pulls back just far enough to kiss you.

And the second your lips touch—it all unravels.

His kisses are desperate, needy, open-mouthed. Like he’s both punishing and apologizing to you for having had to leave.

“I missed you, Ani." you stroke the back of his head, fingers tangling in dusty curls.

It's almost overwhelming now, being in his arms after weeks. You can't even get another sentence out before Anakin's mouth devours the words against your throat.

He bites and licks at the skin there like he needs proof you’re real. Then he lifts you with both arms, one still gloved, possessive and loving on your thighs, walking you backward through the apartment without looking.

When he finally places you onto the bed, he lays you down like he's been waiting forever for this exact moment.

His forehead rests against yours while his hands roam, sliding beneath your top. Thumbs grazing your nipples until you gasp and whimper into his mouth.

“I dreamed about this,” he says. “Every night. I was afraid I'd forget your touch. Afraid I’d forget how it feels to be inside of you.”

You whimper, hips pressing forward instinctively. That alone makes him groan like you’re torturing him.

“I need you,” he says suddenly, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, leaving trails of blooming bruises. “I can’t wait, baby. I need you.” he whines, deprived and desperate.

“Take me,” you plead as you grind against him.

He undresses the both of you like a man possessed. Belt clattering to the floor, robes kicked aside, cock flushed, thick, and leaking at the tip as he shoves his pants down just enough.

He doesn’t waste time teasing, just pushes in deep with a sudden thrust. His head falls into your shoulder as he groans and just stays buried inside you, murmuring your name like it's holy.

Like loving you is the only thing he's ever needed and he's on his knees for it, buried in you like it's salvation.

Your legs are trembling from how full you feel when he says, "You’re clenching like you missed this. Missed me. Is that it, sweet girl?"

You nod against him, breath caught, arms wrapped around his shoulders like you never want to let go.

And then he starts to move.

It's really slow at first, mostly because he's making sure to reach as deep as possible when he rolls his hips forward. Like he wants to fuck your soul, not just your body. “So pretty like this… so wet for me… fuck, baby…”

He laces his fingers with yours, pinning both of your wrists above your head as he moves inside you with aching rhythm, eyes locked to yours.

He drives into you with ruthless precision, your dripping pussy clenching around him. The sounds between your bodies are obscene and wet, your legs shake while your mouth falls open.

Babbling incoherently now, you're barely able to take it. And he absolutely loves it.

Seeing you flushed and undone under him, Anakin moans, slowing his thrusts just long enough to lean down. His gloved fingers cradling your jaw while his eyes drink you in.

“Stars,” he whispers, voice hoarse, almost gone. “Look at you.”

A broken sound escapes your throat again as your head falls back, eyes fluttering. Your body’s too full, too sensitive.

You feel destroyed, wrecked, and you know he can see it. He brushes your cheek and the corner of your lips with his fingertips, gentle in a way that makes your chest ache.

Because even now, even like this, Anakin is still so tender with you. His expression is molten and dark with hunger. Yet, it's so soft and loving, as if he can’t decide whether to ruin you completely or stay like this forever, just watching you fall apart for him.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” he pants, voice ragged. “Gonna fill you up. Will you let me?” He asks. But it's not really a question at this point, more like a promise.

All you can do is moan, arching your hips up to meet him, mouth still parted in gutteral cries. You come hard, clenching around him. He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries as he keeps fucking into you, desperate to reach his own release.

“Say it,” he breathes into you, hoarse and pleading. “Say you’re mine. Say you missed me.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, fingernails dragging down his back. “Always, Anakin. I’m yours, I miss—”

He slams into you, cutting off the words, rhythm starting to falter. You feel it as his thrusts grow uneven and erratic and he's cursing under his breath. His face contorts and he groans through clenched teeth as he finally comes, thick and hot inside of you.

But he doesn’t stop pounding until he’s completely spent, until it’s leaking out around him.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Afterwards, there's a long moment where neither of you move. Just the sound of your breaths echoing throughout the apartment. Shaky, uneven, like you’ve both been through something you barely survived.

His weight eases over you while your legs remain lazily draped around his waist. He’s still inside you, softening slowly. His breath hot and shallow against your throat.

The galaxy feels blurred at the edges, dazed and dreamlike.

Your thighs tremble with every little shift in movement. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you blink up at the ceiling, lips starting to tremble.

It hits you then, he's really home.

Anakin senses it, the shift in your breath, the way your lip starts to wobble. So he lifts himself just enough to look down at you. There's something soft in his gaze—like he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

“Oh, sweet girl…” he whispers before leaning in to kiss your cheek, your eyelids, your nose. Your eyes flutter shut from the sensation and he gingerly brushes your hair back.

His voice is sweet and doting now, “I missed you so much. I don’t think I can leave you ever again.”

You smile. Mostly because you know he has to leave again soon. Of course you do. He’s bound by duty—by the war, the cause, the robes he never fully gets to take off.

But right now, none of that matters.

Not with the way he’s holding you while his come is still warm inside you. Not with his mouth trailing over your collarbone like he’s relearning the shape of you.

He’s here.

And he’s yours.

And that’s enough, for now.

“C-Can’t feel my legs,” you mumble.

He grins.

Actually grins. Boyish, flushed and handsome.

It's then in his smile that a flicker of a memory comes back to you. The first time you ever met him, both of you years younger, standing awkwardly in the Temple courtyard. He’d smiled at you then like this too—cocky, sun-warm, all dimples and promise.

“Good,” he says proudly.

You shove at him half-heartedly, and he chuckles again before slowly, carefully pulling out. You whimper when your hips twitch at the sudden emptiness and soreness. He gently hushes you.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “You’re sensitive. It’s okay. I’ve got you, baby.”

You’re so fucked out you can’t move. So, he moves for you. He kisses your stomach, your thighs, your knees.

Then he disappears from the bed, rummaging around for a moment before returning to clean you up. He runs the damp fabric between your legs with maddening care, cooing every time you flinch or whine.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Still dripping for me.”

“Anakin!” your cheeks flush as you throw your arm over your eyes.

“What?” he says innocently, pressing a kiss to your hip. “Just admiring my beautiful wife. All full and spent and pretty… Do you want me to run you a bath? Or should I tuck you in? Did you eat already?”

Your mouth opens to answer but he’s already climbing back onto the bed, settling behind you, pulling you into his lap. Your legs go limp over his thighs. “Ani, you're not serious—”

“Oh, I’m serious,” he says, voice low and teasing now. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you. Might keep you like this forever.”

You lean into him, humming as your head falls back on his shoulder. “You're ridiculous.”

Anakin places a kiss on the top of your head as he massages your hips slowly. "I'm in love." he responds casually, like it's the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

[aleksatia]

Please Verify Your Lover Before Proceeding

One of the strangest nights of your life. You had a little too much at Tara’s birthday—the drink tasted light, but turned out vicious. Your brain took a vacation through a Deep Space Tunnel, and your body was on full autopilot.

Somehow, you ended up with him, fully convinced it was the right one. But oh, how wrong you were—drunk and blissfully unaware, you’d just mistaken one of your men for another.

Author’s Note: Please don’t take these drabbles too seriously — they’re purely for fun and unhinged emotional relief. I desperately needed a break from the recent angst spiral to be able to return to it with (somewhat) intact mental health 😅 Logic may have been slightly sacrificed along the way, and yes — this is basically an AU.

CW/TW: Impaired consent due to intoxication, Mistaken identity during intimacy, Sexual situations, Mild voyeurism / indirect third-party involvement, Emotional confusion / post-intimacy guilt or shock, Strong language & innuendo, Humor + chaos.

It wasn’t… Caleb?!

You didn’t remember falling asleep—only that the table was sticky, the music was loud, and your messages to Caleb had begun to look more like encrypted runes than words. But you’d been so sure he’d understand. He always did. He was reliable like that.

When arms slid under your body, you didn’t resist. Of course he came.

The world swayed as he carried you, steady and strong. You nuzzled closer to his chest and sighed. Everything smelled clean—sharp, cool, and oddly antiseptic—but you chalked that up to his military instincts. Caleb always smelled like order.

A car. Then motion. And then—blankets. Pillows. The faintest hum of electronics nearby. Hands tucking you in like you were fragile. Like you mattered.

“Stay,” you mumbled, fingers clinging to his sleeve.

He exhaled through his nose. “You need water.”

You frowned. “You never let me just feel things. Always hydration and discipline.”

“That’s hardly a criticism.”

You cracked one eye open, just a sliver. His silhouette hovered near the bed, sharp and still.

“I asked you to stay,” you said again, lips barely moving.

“You also asked me to bring snacks,” he murmured. “And a crowbar.”

You groaned into the pillow. “That sounds like me.”

“You texted me eight times in ten minutes.”

“I thought I texted you once.”

“There were diagrams.”

You made a noise of protest, buried your face deeper in the pillow, then muttered, “Well. I wouldn’t have let anyone else see me like this.”

Silence. A rustle of fabric. Then the cool press of a glass against your hand.

“Drink,” he said softly.

You did. Begrudgingly.

Because of course Caleb would come for you. And of course he’d bring water.

You drifted off with the world tilting gently beneath you, like the bed was floating somewhere through space. The weight of him settled beside you—solid, grounding, exactly where he was supposed to be. You reached out, blindly, and found his hand. Twined your fingers with his and dragged his palm to rest flat against your stomach. He let you. Of course he did. He always did.

Sleep took you again.

You weren’t sure what woke you. The dark still pressed heavy against your closed eyelids. But your body stirred, aware before your mind caught up. His chest was warm against your back. One arm wrapped tight around your waist. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket.

And he was hard.

You shifted—just a little—and felt it. The unmistakable pressure, hot and firm against the curve of your backside. Your breath caught. A single beat passed. Then another. Your pulse quickened.

Desire slid into your veins like heat meeting cold.

You didn’t think. Not in full sentences. Not in anything that might pass for logic. You only felt: the warmth of his skin, the weight of his body, the way his presence lit something low and needy inside you.

You turned, slow and quiet, until your chest met his. Eyes still closed. Your nose brushed his throat. You inhaled deeply, searching for that familiar scent—leather, wind, the faint sharpness of steel.

Your hand found the plane of his abdomen. His skin was warm, smooth, the muscle beneath taut and unyielding. Your fingers followed the line of it lower. Slipping beneath the edge of his waistband. Seeking.

He gasped.

The sound was rough. Strained. Not what you expected.

But it didn’t stop you.

Your hand closed around him. Firm. Intentional. He was already hard, already pulsing with heat, and you stroked once—slow, deliberate.

The moan that tore from his chest startled you. Not because of the sound itself, but because something about it was… off.

Not unfamiliar.

But wrong.

Before you could process it, his hand shot out and caught your wrist—tight, urgent. He didn’t push you away. Not yet. But the question was there, suspended in the air between you, pulsing louder than the beat of your heart.

Still, you didn’t stop.

Your lips found his throat. You bit—softly. Your tongue traced the line of his jaw, then higher, brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m aware of what I’m doing,” you whispered, voice low, slow, thick with sleep and need. “And I’m not nearly as drunk as I was.”

His breath hitched.

You smiled.

“Let me thank you,” you murmured, your fingers flexing slightly, teasing his grip on your wrist. “For taking care of me.”

His fingers trembled against your wrist. The grip loosened—not quite a surrender, but not a refusal either. An uncertain signal. A warning draped in permission.

You ignored it.

You didn’t want hesitation. You wanted heat. Contact. Caleb would’ve already had you on your back by now, reckless and absolute, dragging you under without room to think. 

But this? This felt… cautious. Careful.

Too careful.

You pushed the thought away.

With one fluid movement, you rolled on top of him. Straddled his hips. Your thighs pinned his firmly in place as you shifted, slow and deliberate, letting the friction of his arousal drag against you through too-thin fabric.

He exhaled like you’d knocked the air from his lungs—and then, suddenly, he surged upward.

His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, and his mouth found yours in a kiss that was nothing like Caleb’s.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t dominant. It was hungry and startled, like he was discovering the shape of you for the first time. Like he didn’t know how to kiss you—only that he had to. Urgently. Now.

It should’ve been a clue.

Instead, it turned the fire in your chest into something wilder.

You moaned into his mouth. Your hands fisted in his shirt—no, bare skin now—your nails scraping across his shoulders as you ground your hips down again.

“Caleb…”

He froze.

Every muscle in his body went taut beneath you.

And then—his hands shot up. Not to push. Not to hurt. But to catch your face, firm and deliberate, his palms warm against your cheeks as he held you just far enough away to see you clearly.

“Open your eyes,” he said, voice sharp. Not cruel—but commanding.

Not Caleb’s voice.

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your eyes.

And stared straight into green.

Not warm purple. Not storm-dark, half-lidded with possessive heat. No.

Sharp, clear, unflinching green.

Zayne.

You jerked back like you’d been shocked, your limbs tangling in sheets that weren’t yours, weren’t his.

This was Zayne’s apartment. Zayne’s bed. Zayne’s body.

And you were half-naked, straddling a man who wasn’t the one you’d summoned in your drunken haze.

Your voice cracked. “Oh my god.”

You scrambled back so fast you lost the sheet. There was a heroic attempt to rise with dignity, followed by a valiant battle with the comforter, and then—gravity. Your heel caught on the edge of the blanket and you toppled clean off the bed.

The floor greeted you with a muffled thump. Fortunately, Zayne had expensive taste. The rug was thick, soft, and tragically unjudgmental.

You lay there for a second, face-down, tangled in linen and a full-body mortification spiral.

From above, Zayne’s voice: “Another point in favor of sobriety.”

You groaned into the rug.

“Impaired coordination,” he continued, in a tone that could only be described as clinically disappointed. “Reduced motor skills. Poor spatial awareness.”

You flailed upright with the rage of a woman who wished the carpet would eat her alive. Your face was on fire. Your hair looked like a stormcloud with trust issues.

“You’re not helping,” you hissed.

“I’m educating.”

“Zayne—!”

“Also: tendency toward misidentification of romantic partners. Should I add that to the list?”

You made a strangled noise. A mix between a gasp, a sob, and the dying shriek of someone who had just remembered exactly where her hand had been several minutes ago.

“Are you writing this down?” he added mildly. “I can fetch a datapad.”

“I’m never drinking again,” you muttered, yanking the sheet tighter around yourself like it might smother the memory. Or you. “And if I do, I’m never texting Caleb for help again.”

There was a pause.

“Why would he send you, anyway?”

Zayne tilted his head, expression infuriatingly neutral.

“Possibly,” he said, “because you texted me. Not him.”

Your face went very still. Then very pale.

“Oh God,” you whispered. “I… I didn’t say anything indecent, did I?”

He didn’t answer.

Your stomach dropped.

“…Zayne?”

He looked at the ceiling. “There were words. Phrases. Some suggestive punctuation.”

You let out a dying noise.

“And a photo,” he added blandly.

You buried your face in the sheet. “Please don’t finish that sentence unless you want to resuscitate me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—so dryly you almost missed the humor under it—

“…I’ve already cleared it from my device.”

You made another noise.

Possibly a prayer. Possibly a scream. Possibly both.

You mumbled into your hands, voice muffled and pitiful, “Zayne, I’m so sorry. You should’ve left me there. Let me deal with my drunk disasters alone…”

Without warning, he reached for your wrist and pulled you upright, settling you on the bed beside him with calm, practiced strength.

“Look at me.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t. I’m too embarrassed.”

“That’s your punishment,” he said, voice flat but glinting with something undeniably sharp. “You kissed me. While thinking I was someone else.”

You winced and slowly peeked up at him—only to find no trace of anger. None.

Instead… he looked like he was on the brink of laughing.

Zayne. Laughing.

There was warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth, rare and real. His eyes shimmered with quiet amusement. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him this entertained by anything—let alone by you.

And then—his hand moved.

Gently, his knuckles traced the curve of your cheek. His fingers tucked a rogue strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that stole the breath right from your lungs.

“So,” he said softly, “you and Caleb. It’s serious?”

You closed your eyes, barely whispering, “Zayne… please don’t.”

But his voice was quiet again, low and steady. “You can message me. Or call. Any time. No matter what state you’re in. I mean it.”

You didn’t even realize you’d leaned into him until your shoulder brushed his. Your body betrayed you—drawn toward his warmth, the way his presence steadied everything. Your pulse slowed, and then shifted. It wasn’t beating for Caleb anymore.

It was singing. For him.

“For the record,” you murmured, “what if I… try to seduce you again?”

His voice was a breath against your ear.

“Did I resist the first time?”

You swallowed hard. Then—he whispered:

“Just promise me, next time… you’ll be sure it’s me.”

And you nodded. Because next time, it absolutely would be.

It wasn’t… Rafayel?!

You hadn’t meant to end up in his bed. That much you’d be forced to admit later—probably while he quietly reviewed the sequence of your poor decisions like a disappointed professor grading a very chaotic thesis.

It had all made perfect sense at the time. Tara’s birthday had involved five kinds of glowing drinks, three games with suspiciously flexible rules, and one hot tub that felt like the gateway to another dimension. By the time you stumbled out into the hallway, barefoot, blissed out, and humming a song you didn’t know, your brain had decided it was time to find him.

You’d made it to the door. That counted. The hallway swam slightly, edges soft in the low light. The lock read your fingerprint and clicked open. Inside: dark, warm, quiet. Moonlight spilled faintly across the floor. Familiar outlines slid past as you moved—sofa, shelf, the slight turn toward the bedroom. 

You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. Your body knew the way.

So of course you’d climbed into the bed without thinking. Of course you’d tucked yourself against him and whispered half-intelligible things into his skin. And of course, when strong arms wrapped instinctively around you, you took that as confirmation that yes, this was right. This was where you belonged.

He shifted under you when you kissed the hollow of his throat, but didn’t speak. His breath stilled, then deepened. When your fingers trailed down his chest, finding the edge of the sheet and the warmer skin beneath, he flinched—but still said nothing.

So you kept going.

He tasted like the dark—clean, quiet, unexpectedly warm. The muscles in his stomach twitched as your mouth moved lower. His fingers curled in the sheet. You caught his wrist, guided his hand to your waist, and exhaled against his neck, letting your body press fully to his.

It was quiet for a long moment. Then—his voice, rough, barely above a whisper.

“You’re drunk.”

You hummed an agreement against his collarbone and licked it, slow and deliberate.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. But his hand stayed on your hip.

“We won’t,” you lied.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he pulled you closer.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was a sudden, visceral shift—the kind that made you gasp against his mouth and cling to him harder. His mouth found yours like he’d waited years to taste it. His hands moved over you like he was mapping terrain he hadn’t dared to touch before.

This wasn’t quite the slow-burning, theatrical Rafayel you were used to. He liked to draw things out—playful, teasing, all about the build-up. But this... this was different. Urgent. Focused. Like he’d waited long enough and wasn’t in the mood for his usual games.

It wasn’t a thought, not really. More like a drunk idea dressed up as instinct. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, gathering soft fabric, dragging it upward. He shifted—just enough to help—and the shirt came off in a blur of warmth and motion. You blinked at the bare skin in front of you, something in your brain slurring oh yes, that’ll do, and you pressed your hands to him like the rest of the scene couldn’t continue without contact.

When he pushed you down into the mattress, you welcomed the weight of him. His hands moved with surprising coordination, slipping under the fabric of your dress, tugging it down with quiet urgency. When his mouth found the curve of your jaw, your throat, your shoulder—you arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair, your dress forgotten somewhere near your knees.

He groaned—quiet, desperate—and for a second, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged. His eyes never left your face, even in the dark. Then he drew back just slightly, the moonlight skimming across your skin—and he stilled. His gaze moved over you, unhurried, almost cautious, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. Not quite the hungry, theatrical boldness you’d come to expect. No smirk. No whispered praise. Just silence, and a look that felt... different. 

Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words almost accidental, half-swallowed.

You smiled lazily, fingertips skimming his ribs. 

“I thought you’d be used to me by now,” you said, your words slightly slurred, softened by heat and alcohol. “My body’s not for watching tonight. It’s for enjoying. For doing things.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat—something between restraint and surrender—and kissed you again, harder this time. His body moved against yours in a way that left no doubt: he wanted this. 

He wanted you.

So when your legs wrapped around his waist, he didn’t stop you.

And when your hands slipped down his back, dragging him closer, he moaned into your mouth.

And then—

“God,” you whispered, “I’ve wanted this since I saw your last painting… the way you had me sprawled out, all silk and shadows—like you were already touching me.”

The words hung there for a moment, sticky with heat, stillness, and something just a bit too specific.

Then—he went absolutely still.

Not the intoxicating stillness of desire. The clinical, surgical stillness of a mind calculating disaster in real time.

You blinked up at him, a little dazed, your body still aching from the closeness, the heat of his skin against yours.

"Rafayel?" you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he said, calm and mechanical, "Lights. On."

There was a barely audible click—and then light flooded the room like divine judgment.

You froze.

He was already half-sitting, breathing heavily, shirtless and flushed, his eyes locked on your face with a mix of focus and sheer, silent horror.

And then you saw his face.

Not rose-blue eyes glinting with mischief. Not a lopsided, teasing mouth.

Not Rafayel.

You saw precision-cut cheekbones, sky-blue eyes sharp as scalpels, and a jaw that had never once wobbled mid-sentence with poetic nonsense.

Xavier.

You shrieked. 

Actually shrieked.

You slapped both hands over your bare breasts with a speed that could qualify you for Olympic fencing and scrambled backward in the bed, pulling the sheet up with wild eyes and lungs full of panic.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, suddenly and violently sober. “Oh my—oh my GOD—”

Xavier, to his credit, didn’t move. His breathing was steadying. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white against the mattress.

“I thought—” You stared at him like he’d grown horns. “I thought you were Rafayel!”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “I noticed.”

“I didn’t just crawl into the wrong bed—”

“You broke into the wrong apartment.”

“I kissed your neck!”

You flushed, vividly, because that hadn’t been the only place you'd kissed—just the only one you could admit out loud.

“I was painfully aware.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I was... reassessing reality.”

You buried your face in the sheet with a strangled sound of anguish.

After a moment, you heard him get up—quiet, efficient. Fabric rustled. Then something soft landed next to you.

You peeked out from the sheet.

It was his T-shirt. White, loose, and—dear gods—smelling exactly like him. A mix of clean cotton, green tea, and that cool scent you’d never been able to place, only feel. It was like someone distilled self-control and made it wearable.

You looked up at him. He stood by the bed, wearing only joggers, one brow raised.

“Put it on,” he said calmly. “Before your shame kills us both.”

You yanked the shirt over your head so fast you nearly headbutted yourself in the process. It fell down over your thighs like a dress. You smelled like him. That was worse.

You sat there, radiating nuclear embarrassment.

He watched you for a long moment.

And then, quietly: “You really thought I was him?”

You nodded, mute.

“In the dark. After drinking... whatever that glowing thing was.”

You sighed, covering your face. “I regret ever convincing you to switch to a biometric lock and give me access.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I just regret being the wrong destination.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, not close. Measured. That familiar weight of his presence returned—less physical now, more intellectual. You glanced sideways at him, unsure what you were allowed to say.

“I should go,” you offered weakly.

“No. You’ll trip. Or misidentify someone else. You’re a hazard tonight.”

He sighed. “Stay here. I’ll take the couch.”

“Fair.”

He glanced at the ceiling. “Let’s try not to confuse the doors next time.”

That earned a groan. “I’m never going to live this down.”

“I might require compensation,” he said dryly.

You turned, still hugging your knees. “How do I make it up to you?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Next time,” he said, “you come to the correct bed. On purpose.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying—”

“Fully conscious,” he added. “And able to tell your men apart.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m sober now. That could technically be—”

“No.” His voice was softer now. “Not tonight.”

He reached out, gently touched the crown of your head, and pressed the softest kiss there—quiet, a little too tender. Your heart seized.

“Tonight,” he said, “I’m still trying to process the fact that I don’t leave enough of an impression to be distinguishable in bed.”

You winced. “I mean... in the dark... you did feel a little like him...”

He gave you a look that could have withered a houseplant.

“I’ll stop talking now.”

“Wise.”

Still, he stayed close. He reached for the crumpled blanket and helped you lie back, adjusting the pillows behind you with quiet efficiency. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. He pulled the blanket up over your waist, smoothed it once, and stepped back—not far, just enough to give you space you weren’t sure you wanted.

He turned to leave. You caught his hand.

He froze.

When you spoke, your voice was quiet, stripped of awkwardness.

“If I confused you with someone else... that doesn’t mean I never wanted it to be you.”

His eyes met yours.

“I’ve wanted it to be you,” you went on, “for longer than I like to admit. But you’re so... precise. Reserved. I didn’t want to cross a line. I didn’t want to lose what we do have, whatever it is.”

He was silent.

Then he smiled. Just barely. A corner-curve of the mouth. Trouble in disguise.

He stepped over to his nightstand, tore a page from his notepad, and scribbled something.

You sat up as he folded the note and tucked it beside your pillow.

“Good night,” he said.

“Xavier—what’s this?”

He was already at the door.

“Open it when I leave.”

And then—he was gone. Out of the room, the door closing behind him with soft finality.

You opened the note. In clean, minimal handwriting:

"1x Free Visit. Valid for: the right door. Condition: Full sobriety. —X"

You sank back into his bed, clutching the note to your chest. Your fingers found his pillow—still warm, still carrying the quiet, unmistakable scent of him—and you pulled it close, burying your face in it with a helpless little sigh. Half in love, half in horror.

Somewhere, in the haze between drinks and desire, you’d made a mistake.

But maybe—just maybe—it had been waiting to happen all along.

It wasn’t… Zayne?!

How on earth had you let Tara drag you into a masquerade party?

If only you’d known what was coming.

You’d arrived in your normal clothes, and within minutes, she’d stuffed you into the only spare costume she had left. You’d barely downed your first drink when you caught your reflection in the mirror: an almost indecently short nurse’s dress, thigh-high fishnets, unforgiving heels, and—because humiliation demands layers—two pigtails perched like cherries on a sundae.

Glass after glass drowned out the voice of reason until, eventually, you started having fun. Maybe a little too much fun. Because that’s when the idea formed.

You messaged Zayne.

“Still working?”

He replied almost instantly. “Yes. Another sleepless night. Want to keep me company?”

You smirked, picturing his face when you’d peel off your coat and reveal the gloriously inappropriate disaster you were currently wearing.

“Call me a cab and you’ll get a surprise,” you typed, giggling.

You dropped him the address. The letters on your screen were already beginning to dance, so you tucked your phone into your purse and made a wobbly descent toward the pickup point.

You passed out in the car.

Your legs carried you on autopilot when you arrived. The building seemed darker than usual, quieter. Like a hospital at 3 a.m.—eerily clean and vaguely menacing. You could’ve used a saline IV and a glucose drip, but you soldiered forward, heels clicking ominously against marble floors.

At one point, you had to catch yourself against the wall, nearly toppling over. You burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Someone whistled.

Zayne?

He didn’t usually whistle… but then again, he didn’t usually see you like this. Drunk. Sultry. One wardrobe malfunction away from a lawsuit.

“Doctor,” you slurred, dropping your purse with a dramatic gasp. “I think I need assistance.”

You bent down in the least ergonomic way possible—legs locked, heels steady, dress defying gravity. Your hands fumbled across the floor, patting around blindly while he, poor man, had an unobstructed view of everything that made your outfit barely legal.

“What are you waiting for, Doctor?” you purred. “Put me to bed, stat.”

“Might need an ambulance,” he muttered.

“Tonight, you are my ambulance. My emergency contact. My…” You paused, reaching for a word.

“Grateful audience?” he offered dryly.

“Well, if you’d rather just watch, Doctor. Or are you going to perform a proper exam? I think I twisted my ankle…”

He chuckled.

Zayne—laughing?

You blinked at him, trying to steady the room, but he stepped in, catching you carefully beneath the arms and lifting you upright. Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms and began carrying you toward the bedroom.

You looped your arms around his neck, closed your eyes with a happy sigh, and let yourself melt into the warmth of him.

Once you were laid out on the soft bedspread, you stretched out one leg toward him—gracefully, or so you believed. The stiletto heel pointed at his chest like the barrel of a gun.

 “My ankle, Doctor,” you reminded him.

Obediently, he slipped off the shoe. His strong, confident fingers wrapped around your foot, gently massaging it. It felt so sweet—so good—you tilted your head back, relaxed, and moaned.

He braced your leg against his chest and reached for the other. The second heel hit the floor with a dull thud. He began to knead your other foot, and it awakened something in you that felt anything but patient-like. Your heart pounded loudly beneath your ribs, urging you toward something bolder. Braver.

Your leg began to slowly slide down his torso, inch by inch, until it came to rest precisely where you wanted it—against the hardness that told you he wasn’t as detached as he pretended.

You heard him exhale sharply. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your ankle.

“You need sleep and hydration,” he said, voice low, breathless. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Nooo,” you drawled, pouting. “I’ve been a very, very naughty nurse tonight.”

He paused.

Not just physically—his whole energy shifted, like something inside him pulled tight. His hands were still on your ankles, but they weren’t moving anymore.

“You’re drunk,” he whispered softly. “This isn’t fair to you.”

You blinked, pouting deeper. “Ugh. Your professional ethics are showing.”

His thumbs brushed lightly over the bone of your ankle. “They tend to, when my patient is trying to seduce me.”

You stretched like a cat, deliberately languid, as your calf slid back up his chest. “I may be tipsy, but I’m also extremely committed to bad decisions. And I would absolutely do this sober.”

He didn’t speak.

You tilted your head, arching a brow—at least, you thought you did. It was hard to tell with the ceiling gently rotating overhead. You squinted, trying to make out his face. But the low light, the alcohol, and the sheer gravitational rebellion of the night blurred the lines of his features. He was all shadows and warmth and intent.

“Unless… you’re just not interested?”

That got him.

He surged forward—fast, smooth, a whisper of movement—and braced himself over you, catching your wrists with one hand, his body caging yours without fully touching. His face hovered just above yours, close enough that his breath tickled your lips.

“I’m interested,” he said, voice low and strained. “That’s the problem.”

You grinned.

“I knew it,” you whispered. “Even doctors are weak to naughty nurses.”

Still grinning, you reached up, hooked a finger through the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer. His nose bumped yours. His hair brushed your cheek. His breath hitched.

You crashed your lips against his in a kiss that was all wine and wicked intent. He let out a surprised breath—half gasp, half groan—but his body was already surrendering. Resistance ebbed away with every exhale.

With a burst of surprising strength for someone three cocktails and a questionable decision deep, you pushed him back onto the bed and immediately latched your mouth onto his nipple, biting just enough to make him jolt. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath catching.

Your lips continued their descent, tracing his abs like a cartographer mapping out forbidden territory. The soft trail of your tongue drew out a sound from his chest—low, needy, beautifully vulnerable.

You’d just reached his belt when you purred, mock-innocent:

“Mmm, Dr. Zayne, I think you’ve just entered my private treatment room...”

“Oh, cutie,” came the reply, tinged with amusement, a spark of offense, and a whole lot of lust, “I think you just fell into your own damn trap.”

Your fingers froze mid-buckle.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head gave a small shake.

No. Nope. Not yet.

Because now you knew. You knew exactly whose voice that was.

Still crouched low, you began to slide—gracefully, like a wartime spy—off the bed, dragging half the sheet with you. It took some maneuvering, but you made it to the floor in one piece, curling under the blanket like a small, trembling tent of denial.

“Do you think if you can’t see me, I’ll just disappear?” came Rafayel’s voice, far too amused for anyone who’d just been mistaken for someone else. He shuffled to the edge of the mattress.

You could feel him hovering.

“Say I’m dreaming,” you mumbled from under the blanket, your voice muffled by mortification. “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll pretend I’m asleep and this was all a fever dream.”

“Naaaah,” he replied in a pitch-perfect mockery of your earlier whine. “Up until ten seconds ago, it was a very sweet, very erotic dream. I’m not quite ready to downgrade it to a nightmare just because the starring role was apparently meant for someone else.”

“Raf...” You had no idea what to say. Your head was pounding, your dignity in shreds. “I swear, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Oh really?” he drawled. “Because it looked a lot like a drunk and debauched nurse opening the gates of heaven before kicking me headfirst into hell. Or are you going to tell me calling me by someone else’s name was a charming little accident?”

You peeked your nose out from under the blanket to breathe, and his face was suddenly right there. Way too close. That smug grin said it all: you owed him emotional reparations until the end of time.

“I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, tugging the blanket off your head and grabbing both of your ridiculous pigtails in one hand, pulling you closer. “I gathered that much. What I don’t know is how often you pull stunts like this with your good doctor.”

“What? No!” You struggled slightly, trying to pull back, but he tugged again, tilting your head up with a wicked glint. “There’s nothing serious going on! A girl has needs, okay?”

Rafayel tilted his head. “Sweetheart, I saw those needs up close and in high definition.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Etched forever in my memory. Like a museum piece. ‘The Lustful Nurse: A Study in Confused Devotion.’”

You groaned and tried to bury your face in the sheet again. He didn’t let you.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said, catching your chin and forcing you to meet his eyes. “You wanted a doctor. I stepped in. Professionally. Valiantly. Heroically, some might say.”

“Heroically?” you snorted. “You didn’t even stop me!”

“I did, cutie. I said something about hydration. And moral boundaries. But then your foot was—how do I put this—communicating with certain regions of my anatomy, and I lost the thread.”

You sputtered a laugh before you could stop yourself. His grin widened, full of wolfish charm and barely-concealed affection.

“I’m just saying,” he continued breezily, “next time you feel overwhelmed by your... medical urgencies, I’d prefer you direct all prescriptions and referrals to me directly.” He leaned in slightly. “I happen to think I played the role of attending physician beautifully.”

You tilted your head. “Does that mean… you’ll forgive me?”

He pretended to ponder. “Hm. That depends. Will the cure involve exactly the moment where we left off?”

You blinked.

“With the nurse on top, making some very compelling arguments with her mouth?”

Your cheeks flushed. “Only if the nurse is sober.”

“Oh, definitely sober,” he agreed. “I want her full faculties engaged when she begs next time.”

You rolled your eyes. “And what if next time, she shows up in horns and a succubus tail instead?”

His eyes gleamed. “Darling, that is your default setting.”

Before you could retaliate, he grabbed the sheet and wrapped you up like a particularly offended caterpillar, tucking the ends with unnecessary flair.

“Hey!” you squeaked, now entirely cocooned.

“There,” he said, with deep satisfaction, flopping you gently onto the mattress like a tragic little gnome. “A very dramatic gurney roll. Perfect hospital protocol.”

He leaned over and pressed a surprisingly soft kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat.

“Rest now, Nurse Chaos,” he murmured. “Your doctor will go brew you something for the hangover of the century.”

And with a final wink, he vanished toward the kitchen—barefoot, shirtless, and infuriatingly smug.

You sighed into the pillow, flushed and cocooned, and groaned: “I am never drinking again.”

From the kitchen, his voice rang out cheerfully: “Liar.”

It wasn’t… Xavier?!

You were so drunk you didn’t remember ordering a car. But apparently, you had. Your phone—bless its barely functioning GPS—had autopiloted to the first name on your address list. And that felt… correct.

The car ride was a blur. The city swayed too much. You told the driver about the ocean at some point. He didn’t respond.

When you stumbled out in front of the building, something felt off. The lights were dimmer than usual. The entryway looked taller. Moodier. But you were too focused on the door—because for some reason, it refused to open.

You glared at the scanner, then at your hand, as if your fingerprint had betrayed you.

Eventually, after a prolonged and increasingly hostile battle, the lock beeped. You triumphed with a muttered, “Told you.”

The elevator was missing.

Replaced by a flickering light and an echo.

You turned. Someone stood by the stairwell.

No. Two someones. Identical silhouettes in matching black. Both leaning against the wall like shadows in waiting.

“Hi,” you said carefully.

Both of them smiled. It was disconcerting.

You blinked. “Are you... the neighbor?”

One of them nodded. The other tilted his head in sync.

You decided that meant yes.

“I’m looking for the elevator,” you whispered, as if sharing a classified secret.

“Out of order,” one said.

“Stairs only tonight,” the other added, perfectly in time.

You squinted. “…Okay.”

The stairwell was infinite. You lost a shoe on the third landing, your dignity on the fifth. Your left heel gave up entirely and got left behind somewhere between realms. You told it you’d come back for it.

Eventually, floors blurred into memory. The hall looked darker than it should’ve. You walked along the wall like it owed you support.

And then—him again. Them.

Same neighbor(s). Same smirks. Still somehow here.

You blinked. “Didn’t I pass you?”

“Not yet,” one said, cheerful.

“Still on track,” said the other.

You frowned. “Where’s… he?” You didn’t say the name. You didn’t need to. Your brain filled it in: Xavier. Of course.

One of them pointed to a door. The other followed the gesture like a synchronized swimmer.

You nodded gratefully, only swaying a little. “Thanks, Mr. Neighbors.”

The door surrendered instantly—possibly out of self-preservation. You stepped inside with a victorious little “Hah,” completely and utterly confident…

…that you were finally at his home.

You were, quite literally, trapped in your own dress.

One arm was hooked behind your neck, the other somewhere near your lower back, and the fabric had bunched halfway over your face like a smug, pastel-colored straitjacket. Your shoulder popped audibly as you twisted in what you were reasonably certain would qualify as a Cirque du Soleil audition gone wrong.

Somewhere in the room, a crow cawed.

You flinched. “Shhh. Bird,” you hissed at it. “Don’t judge me.”

You staggered blindly toward the edge of the bed, hands fumbling forward until they landed on what you assumed—hoped—was Xavier. The solid warmth under your palms shifted slightly. And then—

A sound. Not a protest. Not quite a groan.

Something… different.

“Babe,” you slurred affectionately, still muffled by the offending dress, “help me. I’m being strangled by haute couture.”

The air around you shifted. A dip in the mattress. The brush of hands—warm, steady—finding the zipper and carefully easing it down your spine.

Strange. He always had cool hands.

“Curious,” he murmured, voice low and amused.

“Right?” you replied brightly, stepping out of the uncooperative fabric as he pulled it down. “Also, before you say anything—I don’t know how I got here. I couldn’t find my door. And I was thinking about us and… I figured, you wouldn’t mind if we kept things casual. No pressure.”

“No objections,” he said easily.

The dress pooled on the floor. His hands paused at your hips, waiting.

You didn’t move. Your legs weren’t really cooperating anymore.

You sighed and flopped backward onto the bed—unexpectedly plush. Softer than usual. Your brain tried to inform you that his mattress wasn’t this springy. You silenced it with a groan.

“You just gonna sit there?” you muttered, eyes half-shut.

“I don’t think you realize—”

You didn’t let him finish. You grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside you. Somewhere in the corner, the crow cawed again.

You winced. “Ugh, it’s back. Rude.”

Something flickered uneasily in your chest, like a memory trying to surface. Something wasn’t quite right.

But nothing had been right since the third round of absinthe.

“He’s warning you,” he whispered, so low it barely reached your skin. “You’re drunk. Not thinking clearly. You should leave.”

But his voice didn’t move away. His hand didn’t loosen. His mouth stayed close—too close.

You exhaled shakily. “Shut up and kiss me,” you muttered. “You can give me the lecture tomorrow.”

He hesitated for half a second.

Then: “If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned, his voice suddenly hoarse. Deeper than usual. Rougher.

Maybe he had a cold. Poor thing.

“And does it look like I want you to stop?”

You opened your eyes just enough to reach for him. Your fingers slid into his blonde hair—soft, thick, impossibly light. Almost glowing in the dark. You tugged gently, guiding him down to you.

He hovered above you, braced on his arms, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Then—his mouth dipped.

He didn’t kiss you right away.

Instead, he ran his tongue slowly along the curve of your lips.

You gasped, mouth parting instinctively, and he kissed you—deep, searching, intense. Different.

You moaned softly, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close. His body felt broader, heavier. Or maybe you were just very, very small tonight. You couldn’t tell.

And you didn’t care.

“Here,” you whispered, breathless, guiding his mouth to your shoulder.

He obeyed. His fingers brushed the strap of your bra aside with reverent slowness, and his lips descended—warm, deliberate—on your skin. A rush of goosebumps chased the touch, spreading outward in every direction.

Yes. You were exactly where you wanted to be. And his mouth was following that same map.

Both your hands tangled in his hair, urging him downward. Your pulse was a drumbeat under your skin, and your hips rose instinctively when his lips traced down your sternum, lower, over your stomach, kissing every inch like he was memorizing it.

You were burning.

“More,” you gasped, arching beneath him. “Please… lower. There…”

He paused.

“As much as I want to—”

“Please,” you interrupted, too desperate to care. “While I’m still brave enough.”

Something in your voice must have undone him, because he stopped resisting. Slowly—agonizingly—he eased your underwear down your legs. His hands were steady. Careful. But everything in him was tight with restraint.

He kissed the inside of your thigh. Then—closer.

Your back arched violently when you felt him—tongue, lips, heat—all of him focused on one singular purpose. His movements were slow at first, cautious, like he was still asking permission with every breath. And when you answered in moans, he got bolder. Greedier. More confident with every cry that escaped your lips.

Your legs locked around his shoulders. The world narrowed to the rhythm he built between your thighs. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your head thrown back, mouth open in broken sounds.

You couldn’t hold it. You were close. Right there.

And then—

“Please, Xavier—don’t stop—”

He froze. A beat of silence. Then—

“Kitten,” came the voice. Low. Dangerous. Almost purring. “I can almost understand how you failed to notice where you were. But mistaking me for another man…” A pause. “That’s nearly a mortal insult.”

From the corner of the room, the raven cawed again.

Your blood turned to ice.

Eyes wide, you finally—finally—looked down.

Not blue. Glowing red. Smoldering. Amused.

Everything slid into place with a sickening click.

“Sy—Sylus?!”

He licked his still wet lips, slowly, like he’d just finished dessert and wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Disappointed?”

You squeaked. Instinct took over—you clamped your legs tighter around his neck in pure panic, your thighs locking like a wrestler’s hold.

“What the hell are you doing in Xavier’s apartment?! With your damn bird?! Were you following me?!”

“Sweetie,” he drawled, voice vibrating between your legs, “I’d like to remind you that you broke into my house, seduced an innocent man—” he paused, smirking, “—and are currently attempting to murder him with your divine thighs.”

You released him so fast he nearly fell backwards.

He caught himself with a laugh, rolling onto his side with the elegance of a man who’d never in his life been embarrassed.

You scrambled toward the headboard, dragging the sheet with you, curling in on yourself like your bones were trying to retreat into your body.

He propped himself up on one elbow. “God, you’re adorable when you’re horrified.”

“I’m traumatized!”

“You say that,” he mused, glancing meaningfully at your flushed cheeks and the way you were still breathing hard, “but your body tells a very different story.”

“You—! I called you Xavier!”

“I noticed,” he said, mock-wounded. “Took me a whole half-second to recover.”

“You could’ve stopped me!”

“I tried. Several times. You were extremely persuasive.”

Sheer horror twisted your face. “If you really wanted to stop me—!”

“I didn’t,” he said plainly.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Then:

“You took advantage of my condition!”

“Kitten,” he sighed, tone maddeningly patient, “it never crossed my mind that you were disconnected from reality and didn’t know who you were seducing. Shall I throw myself out the window in penitence? Or would a dueling pistol be more poetic?”

“You’d survive the bullet,” you muttered darkly. “I’d have to try a guillotine.”

His lips twitched. Despite yourself, yours did too.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And then he delivered the killing blow: “I’m happy to pay for your therapy bills for the rest of your life. If you’ve been… emotionally scarred.”

You snorted.

“No. I… I think I’m okay.” You hesitated. “Sylus.”

“Yes, kitten?”

“We’re adults. I hope no lasting wounds were inflicted.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Only to my ego. But I shall take this trauma to the grave. Shall I drive you back to your… actual lover?”

You flinched. “Xavier’s just a friend,” you said slowly. “Well… a friend with benefits. Sort of.”

You swallowed.

“But with you… it was different. I didn’t realize how different until…”

Your voice dipped.

“Until I couldn’t stop wanting more.”

For once, Sylus didn’t grin right away. His eyes darkened, and the smirk curled slower this time—deeper. Sharper.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he murmured. “Just don’t make the same mistake twice.”

You blinked. “The drinking, or… you?”

He chuckled. “Kitten, we already crossed that line. Might be time to consider someone a little more... stable than your friend with occasional benefits.”

You snorted. “I’d rather start with dinner.”

He stood, stretching lazily, reaching for his shirt. “Dinner after dessert? Bold move.”

You watched him check his watch. The smug bastard.

With a sigh, you pulled the sheet tighter. “The dessert was good. But the waiter cleared the plate too fast.”

His eyes gleamed as he looked back at you. “Then next time, sweetie, the waiter will bring the whole damn menu.”

He stepped closer, then paused, amused. “Now get dressed. I’ll take you home—unless, of course, you’d prefer to linger in the restaurant.”

You gave him a flat look. “Turn around.”

He laughed. That low, rich laugh that made your pulse misbehave. And then he moved—close enough to feel the heat from his body. Two fingers caught your chin—his thumb and forefinger gentle but sure—and he tilted your face up just enough to press the softest, briefest kiss to your lips.

“I adore you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You good with the dress on your own?”

You nodded dumbly. He stepped back, already halfway to the door. “Good. Be quick.”

You blinked. “Wait—you’re leaving? Just now?”

He flashed a grin over his shoulder, hand on the doorframe. “Don’t worry. Next time, kitten—I’ll cancel everything.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

You stared at the door. Still half-wrapped in a sheet. Still burning.

Gods help you. You were in so much trouble.

It wasn’t… Sylus?!

You’d somehow made it home on your own, though the details were fuzzy at best. All you really remembered was that your heels had developed a personal vendetta against straight lines, repeatedly dragging you leftward, and at least twice you nearly embraced a lamppost like a long-lost lover.

You’d spent an impressive amount of time talking to a stray cat outside your building. He meowed, you answered—telling him, in great detail, that Sylus was probably going to hold your drunken calls and voice messages over your head for at least the next decade. Especially if you kept making them during business meetings.

You and Sylus were in that strange stage of something that wasn’t nothing, but also wasn’t something. There was intimacy. Oh, there was intimacy. But no promises. No forward motion. Just a precarious dance between magnetic pull and emotional inertia.

The memory of him made your stomach twist. You’d almost called him again, just to say you couldn’t make it up the stairs. That he should come carry you, arms and all, straight into bed and wrap you up in his sinfully warm embrace.

So when you saw the leather jacket draped over the arm of your couch, you didn’t question it.

Of course he’d come.

Of course he’d let himself in.

And of course he’d decided to take a shower. You could hear the water running in the bathroom, steady and confident, like it belonged to him.

You methodically stripped down to your underwear, fully intending to throw on your robe, only to remember that said robe had likely fallen victim to last week’s laundry crisis.

Doesn’t matter.

Waiting for him to come out felt like a personal attack. You simply didn’t have that kind of patience. Besides, something about the heat, the scent of soap and steam, was pulling you in like gravity.

You cracked the bathroom door open.

The air hit you like a sauna—thick with steam, saturated with warmth. Light filtered dimly through the haze, barely illuminating the tiled space beyond. Inside the glass enclosure, the outline of a naked male figure shimmered like a mirage. He stood with his back to you, a thick lather sliding down from his hair, tracing the lines of his shoulders and spine.

You grinned.

With a quick shrug, you let the last of your clothes fall, and stepped inside the shower, the heat swallowing you whole. Silently, deliberately, you slipped your arms around him from behind.

He jolted.

You responded by digging your nails gently into the firm ridges of his abs, resting your forehead against the damp heat of his back.

“Shhh. Don’t say anything, okay?” you murmured, your voice hoarse. “My head’s already splitting. Just… help me get clean.”

For a moment, he was motionless—utterly still, like your touch had turned him to stone. You could feel the rapid thrum of his heart under your fingertips, every inch of him wound tight. And then, wordlessly, he shifted to the side, letting the stream of hot water hit your skin.

You closed your eyes and tilted your face up into it. Water filled your ears, muffling the world, like slipping under the surface of a dream.

“This is a terrible, terrible idea,” he muttered at last—but you felt him reach for the bottle of shower gel.

“Right now it’s a medical emergency,” you mumbled back. “You wouldn’t leave a helpless girl in need, would you?”

Your hand trailed down his chest again, teasing—until he caught it, firm but careful, and turned you gently so your back was to him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to soap your shoulders and arms with the soft rhythm of the loofah. Tender. Meticulous. Each motion measured like a vow he wasn’t sure he should make.

It was starting to feel less like a shower and more like a very specific kind of torture.

When he reached your hands, he took them one at a time—cradling each palm, massaging your fingers slowly, purposefully, working the thick, fragrant lather between them like it was the most important task he’d ever undertaken. Then the other hand. Same care. Same unbearable, aching slowness.

When the loofah returned to your back, he traced long, deliberate lines over your skin. Gentle swirls. Careful strokes. Avoiding—so infuriatingly precisely—anywhere remotely intimate.

Your blood turned to molten heat.

He hesitated. You didn’t.

You caught his wrists, tugging them forward, down and then up—guiding his palms over your belly, then higher, until you pressed them firmly against your breasts. You felt the slight tremor in his arms, the sharp inhale against your neck. That surprised you. Sylus was never hesitant. Not once. But maybe… maybe he was punishing you, making you work for it after your little drunk-dial escapades?

You leaned back into his chest, into his touch, giving him space—permission.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Pressed right against you, nestled between your cheeks, unmistakably eager.

You moaned, slow and approving, your spine arching just slightly, sliding your soapy skin against his torso. A tease. A promise. A challenge.

His grip tightened.

Resisting.

Why? Was he mad?

But you knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Don’t stop now,” you purred, voice dipped in syrup. “My legs need your attention too.”

He exhaled against your neck, ragged and low, like a knight realizing the battle was already lost. “You’re not yourself,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t…”

“Then leave,” you murmured, swaying your hips back against him. “Unless you’re too polite to walk out mid-procedure.”

He didn’t leave.

He moved.

More soap. More silence.

Then a shift.

He sank to a crouch, one hand slipping down your thigh, the other gently lifting your foot. Water cascaded down your body as he lathered your calf with careful strokes, like he was preparing you for worship, not hygiene.

You reached out blindly for the wall, chest rising and falling with ragged, expectant breaths.

There was something so devastatingly intimate about it. So unassuming and utterly charged. Like your skin had become a live wire and his hands knew exactly where to touch, and more dangerously—where not to.

Your entire body buzzed with the aching need for him to forget his restraint.

To finally, finally stop pretending he didn’t want this just as badly as you.

Smirking to yourself, you reached—decisively—for the bottle of intimate wash, squeezed it into his waiting hand like it was a silent command.

For a few long seconds, he just stood there, his palm full of scented foam, unmoving. Until you parted your legs just a little wider in wordless invitation.

And then—you felt him.

There. Exactly where your body pulsed with need. Exactly where you’d needed him all along.

His fingers slid between your folds, gentle at first, exploring with maddening patience. Soft, slow strokes that made your knees weak. That dragged needy moans from your throat, one after another.

It felt different.

Unfamiliar.

Too… unfamiliar.

“Sylus,” you whimpered, your voice ragged, “you’re killing me tonight with this patience…”

And then—

He froze.

The heat disappeared, the contact broken. A faint chill rushed down your spine, goosebumps blooming across your skin.

You blinked, suddenly, sharply aware of a single terrifying thought:

Sylus had told you he’d be out of town. Work trip. He mentioned it during one of your calls, half-distracted, but clear. 

So how was he here?

How was he in your shower?

Your stomach dropped.

You turned. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if giving your brain time to come up with any explanation, any excuse, any miracle.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you looked up into a face that was very, very much not the man you thought you’d been grinding against in your own shower.

Oh gods.

Oh hell.

This wasn’t Sylus. This was someone else entirely.

And in that moment, standing there stark naked, soaked to the bone, legs still parted like an offering—you wanted nothing more than to melt into the steam and swirl straight down the drain.

Preferably with the rest of your dignity.

“Pip-squeak,” he said slowly, clearly, planting his hands on either side of your head against the wall. There was nowhere to run.

“Tell me you didn’t expect the leader of Onychinus in your shower tonight.”

You bit your lip. Your chest was still rising too fast, your brain pulsing against your skull, and the thick steam made it hard to breathe. You tried the fainting strategy—gracefully sliding down the tiles like a wilting Victorian heroine.

It did not work.

Caleb caught you halfway down with a sigh and set you firmly back upright, unimpressed by your performance.

It was then that you realized—fully, painfully—that you were completely naked. You crossed your arms. Then your legs. And very carefully avoided his eyes.

Unfortunately, that meant your gaze landed squarely on—

Yep. Still hard. Still very hard.

Caleb followed your line of sight, made a vague sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and turned away. In one fluid motion, he wrapped a towel around his hips and tossed you a second one without looking.

You caught it. Barely. And wrapped yourself up like a guilty burrito.

Now that your brain was clawing its way out of the absinthe swamp, you couldn’t for the life of you explain how you’d managed to confuse two very different men. But to be fair…

They did seem equally capable of awakening some deeply primal needs in you.

You groaned. “This is humiliating.”

Caleb glanced over his shoulder, towel still knotted dangerously low around his hips. “For you. I’m traumatized. I have decades of cold showers ahead of me now.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re traumatized? I groped my best friend and begged him to shampoo my sins away!”

“I did shampoo you,” he said flatly. “I’m considerate like that.”

“Caleb.”

“What.”

You hesitated. “You’re… not gonna make this worse, are you?”

He arched a brow. “Define worse.”

You gave him a long, warning look.

He held up both hands. “Fine. I won’t mention the moaning. Or the way you pinned me to the glass like a woman possessed.”

You whimpered into your hands. “Please stop talking.”

“Done,” he nodded solemnly. “We’ll bury it. Deep, deep in the vault. Like national security secrets.”

A pause.

“Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “you’d prefer a repeat performance. Next time with scented candles and less identity confusion?”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Caleb... are you flirting with me right now?”

“I was naked and obedient in your shower. I think the flirting ship has sailed.”

You laughed. Helplessly. Warmth bloomed in your chest where panic had been just moments ago.

Then he stepped closer, voice dropping low, quiet:

“All righty, Pip-squeak. You’re still swaying. Get some water. Get in bed. And if you ever confuse me with that white-haired bastard again, I will take it personally.”

Your smile widened. “So you forgive me?”

He reached out, knuckled a stray wet strand of hair from your cheek. His touch lingered.

“If the cure,” he murmured, “is what almost happened five minutes ago—then yeah. You’re fully pardoned. But next time?”

You leaned into his hand.

“Next time, I won’t be stopping you,” he said softly.

And just like that, your pulse forgot how to behave.

[ghstyles]

Inevitable | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 7.9k

Summary: Harry is struggling to differentiate between a partnership and an ownership

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the quiet bubbling of sauce on the stove. Y/N stood barefoot in the tiny kitchen of her apartment, stirring the pot of pasta while humming something off-key. The place was small, barely enough room for two people to move around without bumping into each other, but somehow, Harry didn’t mind.

He leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching her with a strange kind of focus. Not calculating. Not suspicious. Just…curious. Like he was still trying to figure out how she made this feel normal.

“How much longer?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with a smile.

He checked his watch even though he already knew. “Two more minutes.”

She gave an approving nod and went back to stirring. “You’re weirdly good at timing stuff.”

Harry smirked. “Occupational habit.”

She didn’t ask what occupation. She never did, not directly. That was one of the things he liked about her. She didn’t force pieces out of him before he was ready to give them.

There was something different about nights like this. No weapons. No bodyguards. No phones buzzing with encrypted messages. Just her in a loose T-shirt and shorts, hair tied up, hands stained faintly red from the sauce she’d insisted on making from scratch.

He stepped behind her, resting a hand lightly on her waist as he peered over her shoulder into the pot. “You sure this isn’t going to poison me?”

She elbowed him gently. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use marinara.”

His laugh was low, real, and surprised even him a little. It echoed off her narrow kitchen walls, like something unfamiliar trying to find its place.

She turned, looked up at him with those bright, honest eyes, and smiled.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his cheek before padding away.

Harry stayed where he was, hand still hovering in the air from where she’d touched him. He stared at the empty space she left behind, the quiet warmth still clinging to his skin before taking over the stirring.

This was different.

And for once, he wasn’t sure if that scared him or made him want more.

His thoughts were interrupted by her screams 

Harry's entire body tensed at the sound, instinct taking over before conscious thought. In one fluid motion, he dropped the wooden spoon, pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans, and was moving toward the bathroom.

The door was unlocked, although he'd have kicked it down if it wasn't, and he pushed it open with his shoulder, weapon raised and ready. His eyes scanned for threats, body positioned to shield Y/N from whatever danger had caused her to scream.

"What is it?" His voice, deadly calm, yet the one that made grown men tremble. His eyes continued sweeping the small bathroom, looking for an intruder, a threat, anything that would explain her terror.

The bathroom appeared empty except for Y/N. Nothing seemed out of place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry. But Harry knew better than most that danger could hide in plain sight.

"Angel, talk to me. What happened?" His grip on the gun didn't loosen, his body remaining between her and the door, ready to eliminate whatever had frightened her.

“Harry!” She says, clutching the back of hs shirt, “there’s a huge spider over there” she points to under the sink

Harry's entire demeanor shifts in an instant. The lethal tension in his body doesn't quite leave, but his expression changes to one of disbelief. He stares at Y/N for a beat, then looks toward the sink where she's pointing.

There is indeed a spider there. Not particularly large by his standards, but clearly enough to terrify her.

He slowly lowers his gun, tucking it back into his waistband with deliberate movements. When he turns to face her, his expression is a dangerous mixture of relief and irritation.

“A spider.” His voice is flat. “You screamed like someone was murdering you...because of a fucking spider?”

Y/N lifts her chin, acting a lot calmer than she felt. “It jumped, Harry. It had intent.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. The adrenaline is still pumping through his system, his body primed for violence that isn’t necessary.

“Christ, Y/N. I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tensing. “Don’t scream like that unless someone’s trying to hurt you. I nearly shot first and asked questions later.”

Her expression softens, guilt flickering behind her eyes. “Sorry...I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just…spiders. They’re unpredictable.”

Despite his harsh words, he turns back toward the sink, grabbing a piece of toilet paper. “Where is the little bastard? Under here?”

He crouches down, muttering under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking spiders causing more problems than the Italians.”

Y/N stands a safe distance back, arms crossed. “For the record, I would’ve handled it myself if it wasn’t plotting my assassination.”

“Assasination” he scoffs under his breath

She pouts, “don’t make fun of me. I could have died” she says dramatically.

Harry glances over his shoulder at Y/N's dramatic pose, one eyebrow raised as he reaches under the sink.

"Died? From this?" He emerges with the tiny spider trapped in the tissue, holding it up for her to see. "This little thing? It's smaller than my fucking thumbnail."

Y/N's eyes widen at the sight of the spider, even safely contained in tissue. She takes another step back.

"It was huge from where I was standing! And it moved so fast. Don't bring it closer to me, Harry!"

Harry's lips twitch, fighting back what might almost be a smile. He stands, purposely taking a step toward her with the tissue-wrapped spider.

"What's wrong, angel? Thought you were dying a minute ago. Want to say goodbye to your would-be killer?"

"Harry Styles, I swear to God—" Y/N backs up until she hits the wall, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "If you come any closer with that thing, you're…sleeping on the couch for a week!" 

Seriously? They didn't even live together. But that was all her fear filled brain could conjure. 

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that doesn't match the surprisingly playful glint in his eyes. He moves to the toilet and flushes the spider away.

"Empty threats, princess. We both know you can't sleep without me." He washes his hands thoroughly before turning back to her, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. "Besides, my couch costs more than most people's cars. Wouldn't exactly be a punishment."

Y/N rolls her eyes, her heartbeat finally returning to normal now that the spider is gone.

"My hero," she says sarcastically. "Saving me from the terrifying arachnid menace."

Harry pushes off from the sink, closing the distance between them in two strides. He places one hand on the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in.

"Next time you scream like that, it better be because you're in real danger..." his voice drops lower as he leans in "...or because I'm making you come so hard you can't help yourself."

“Harry!” She says, shoving him back. Her cheeks flush. “I’m pretty sure our dinner is burning”

He doesn't budge when she shoves him, solid as a wall. His eyes darken at the sight of her flushed cheeks, clearly enjoying her reaction. He leans in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

"Let it burn," he murmurs, lips brushing against her skin. "I'm suddenly in the mood for something else."

The scent of something scorching finally registers, and Y/N ducks under his arm, escaping his cage.

"The pasta, Harry!" She hurries toward the kitchen, her bare feet padding quickly across the floor.

Harry follows at a more leisurely pace, watching her rush to save their dinner with amused interest. By the time he reaches the kitchen, Y/N is already turning off the burner, waving away the smoke rising from the pot.

"Shit," she mutters, looking at the blackened bottom of the sauce. "It's ruined."

Harry leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, observing her disappointment with a mixture of amusement and something softer he'd never admit to feeling.

"I told you to let it burn," he says, voice low and teasing. "But now we have no dinner and I'm still hungry."

He pushes off from the doorframe, stalking toward her with predatory grace.

"We could order in," Y/N suggests, still fanning at the smoke, not noticing his approach until he's right behind her.

"Or," Harry says, strong hands settling on her hips, spinning her to face him, "I could just eat you instead."

Before she can protest, he lifts her easily, setting her on the counter beside the ruined dinner, positioning himself between her legs.

"What do you say, angel? Still worried about the fucking pasta?"

Y/N blinks at him, her fingers clutching the edge of the countertop tightly. Two months into their relationship, she still wasn't fully accustomed to Harry’s intensity. She’d been confident, teasing, self-assured, even a little cocky.when they first met, holding her ground against his sharp gaze and sharper words. But being with him, really with him, and catching glimpses of the ruthless man beneath the gentle hands and teasing smiles…it made her pulse race and stomach tighten with nervous anticipation.

Not nervous in a bad way. Never in a bad way.

Maybe, she realized, it wasn’t just seeing the real him that unsettled her. Maybe it was that, the longer she spent with him, the more her own mask slipped. The confident front she’d worn to impress him at the beginning was gradually replaced with something softer, something more genuine. Vulnerable. Real.

She swallowed softly, meeting his dark gaze through lowered lashes. "I was really looking forward to it," she admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry studies her face, reading her nervousness with practiced ease. Something in his expression shifts, not softening exactly, but recalibrating. His hands remain on her hips, but his grip loosens slightly.

"You really wanted the pasta that badly?" he asks, his voice dropping its seductive edge, replaced with genuine curiosity. "Why?"

Y/N looks down, fingers still gripping the counter edge.

"I just..." she hesitates, looking almost embarrassed. "I wanted to make you dinner. A real dinner. I thought it would be nice."

Harry's thumb traces small circles on her hip, a rare gesture of reassurance. His other hand moves to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You were cooking for me," he states rather than asks, his expression unreadable.

Y/N nods, looking vulnerable in a way that would make Harry want to destroy anyone else who showed such weakness. But with her, it stirs something different.

"No one's cooked for me since..." he stops, jaw tightening as if catching himself revealing too much. "It doesn't matter."

He steps back, creating space between them, and runs a hand through his hair.

"Get your coat," he says abruptly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"What? Why?" Y/N asks, confused by the sudden shift.

"Because I'm taking you out." Harry reaches for his keys on the counter. "If my girl wants dinner, she gets dinner."

My girl. 

The words echo softly in his own mind, startling him with their sincerity. They feel foreign yet oddly comforting, slipping naturally past his defenses and settling deep into his chest. He’s never been possessive like this before. Protective, yes, territorial even, but never with this quiet, intimate kind of claim. Calling her his made his chest tighten, emotion stirring inside him that he wasn't entirely ready to acknowledge.

But the feeling was there, undeniable and real.

He helps her down from the counter, his touch gentler than most would believe him capable of.

"But Harry, it's late and—"

"There's a place across town. Owner owes me." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "They'll open for us."

The unspoken truth hangs in the air.  Harry could get anything he wanted in this city with a single phone call, that doors would open and people would scramble to please him out of fear or debt or both.

"Get your coat," he repeats, softer this time. "I want to watch you eat something that isn't fucking burnt."

“And whose fault is it that it’s burnt?” She smiles, pecking his cheek before making her way to her room to change really quickly

Harry watches her walk away, his eyes tracking her movements with possessive attention. When she's out of sight, he pulls out his phone, making a brief call. His voice shifts to something colder, more commanding than what he uses with Y/N.

"Thomas. I need the restaurant open in twenty. Just one table." He pauses, listening. "I don't give a fuck what time it is. Make it happen."

He ends the call just as Y/N returns, now wearing a simple dress that hugs her curves. Harry's eyes darken appreciatively as he takes her in.

"That was quick," he comments, reaching for her coat before she can grab it herself. He holds it open for her to slip into. It was a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture from a man who had ordered three hits last week.

"I didn't want to keep you waiting," Y/N replies, sliding her arms into the coat sleeves. "You get grumpy when you're hungry."

"I get grumpy when I don't get what I want," he corrects her, his hands lingering on her shoulders after adjusting her coat. "And right now, I want to feed you."

He guides her toward the door with a hand on the small of her back, grabbing his car keys.

"You know," Y/N says as they step into the hallway, "normal boyfriends just order pizza when dinner gets ruined."

Harry locks the door behind them, his expression amused.

"When have I ever given you the impression that I'm normal?" He leads her toward the elevator, his hand never leaving her back. "Besides, last one kept staring at you," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "That's why we don't order pizza anymore."

Y/N's eyes widen slightly. "Harry...what did you do to that delivery boy?"

The elevator doors close, and Harry's reflection smirks in the mirrored wall.

"Nothing permanent," is all he says, pressing the button for the lobby level. "Just made sure he found a new route."

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The restaurant is empty except for them, just as Harry demanded. The lighting is dim, the atmosphere intimate, with a single table set in the center of the room. The owner himself has been serving them, his hands trembling slightly whenever Harry's gaze falls on him.

Harry is cutting into his steak when he notices Y/N's attention fixed on her phone under the table, her brow furrowed in concentration. He pauses mid-cut, watching her for a moment before reaching across and plucking the device from her hands in one swift movement.

"What's so fucking important that—" He stops, looking at the screen, his expression shifting from annoyance to disbelief as he reads aloud: "'Fatal spider bites per year in the United States.'"

Y/N reaches for her phone, cheeks flushing. "Give it back!"

Harry holds it just out of her reach, scrolling through the search results with his thumb, his lips twitching dangerously.

"Seven deaths," he reads, looking up at her with barely contained amusement. "Seven people out of three hundred and thirty million. You're literally more likely to be killed by a fucking cow."

He slides the phone back across the table, watching as she snatches it up defensively.

"I was just checking," she mutters, putting the phone away in her purse.

"Checking if your dramatic performance in the bathroom was justified?" Harry takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving her face. "It wasn't, by the way."

Y/N narrows her eyes at him. "You don't know what that spider was thinking. It could have been venomous."

"Angel," Harry leans forward, lowering his voice despite them being alone, "I've seen men with guns try to kill me with less conviction than you had about that spider."

The owner approaches nervously to refill their wine glasses. Harry barely acknowledges him with a glance, but it's enough to send the man scurrying away again.

"If you're so worried about dying," Harry continues once they're alone, cutting another piece of his steak, "you should reconsider who you're having dinner with. That spider's got nothing on me."

Y/N takes a bite of her pasta, properly cooked this time, and points her fork at him. "At least you warn me before you bite."

Harry's expression darkens with heat, a slow smile spreading across his face that makes the owner, watching from across the room, visibly shudder.

"Is that a request, sweetheart?"

“No!” She says quickly, flush creeping up her neck. “Just an observation. And…behave. We’re in public”

Harry's gaze travels from her flushed neck back to her eyes, lingering deliberately on her lips in between. The predatory smile doesn't fade.

"Public?" He gestures around the empty restaurant with his knife. "Do you see anyone else here? Thomas cleared out his entire staff except for himself, and he knows better than to look our way unless I call him over."

As if on cue, the owner's eyes dart away when Y/N glances in his direction. The man busies himself polishing already clean glasses behind the bar, clearly trying to become invisible.

Harry sets down his knife and reaches across the table, his fingers capturing her wrist. His thumb strokes over her pulse point, feeling it quicken under his touch.

"I could bend you over this table right now," he says, voice low and matter-of-fact, "and no one would say a fucking word about it."

Y/N tries to pull her hand away, but his grip tightens just enough to hold her in place.

"Harry!" she hisses, looking mortified. "That's—you can't just—"

"Can't I?" His thumb continues its maddening circles on her wrist. "This entire block belongs to me, angel. I can do whatever I want."

He releases her wrist suddenly, picking up his utensils again as if nothing happened.

"But I won't," he adds, cutting another piece of steak. "Not because we're in public, but because I'd rather take my time with you later."

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding: "Besides, you haven't finished your pasta. And after all the drama about cooking dinner, it would be a shame to waste this one too."

Y/N stares at him, caught between relief, embarrassment, and something darker she doesn't want to examine too closely. The thrill that runs through her at his words.

"You're impossible," she finally says, picking up her fork again.

"No," Harry corrects, pointing his knife at her. "I'm inevitable, sweetheart. There's a difference."

He signals for more wine, and Thomas appears instantly at their table, pouring with shaking hands.

“Thank you” Y/N looks over to Thomas and offers a warm smile that hopefully balances out Harry’s whole intimidation act. 

Thomas freezes mid-pour, clearly startled by Y/N's kindness. His eyes flick nervously to Harry, as if seeking permission to acknowledge her directly. When Harry doesn't immediately object, the owner manages a trembling smile in return.

"Y-you're welcome, miss," he says quietly, his accent thickening with anxiety. "Is everything to your liking?"

Before Y/N can answer, Harry's hand shoots out, gripping Thomas's wrist with enough force to make the man wince. The wine bottle tilts dangerously, a drop spilling onto the white tablecloth.

"You're here to serve, not chat," Harry says, his voice deceptively soft but carrying an unmistakable edge. "Pour the wine and fuck off."

Thomas nods frantically, finishing the pour with trembling hands before backing away. Y/N waits until he's out of earshot before turning to Harry with a disapproving look.

"That was unnecessary," she says, folding her napkin in her lap. "He was just being polite."

Harry takes a slow sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"He was staring at you."

"He was not," Y/N protests. "And even if he was, that's no reason to terrify the poor man. He's just doing his job."

Harry sets down his glass, his expression unchanged but something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

"His job is to serve food and keep his eyes on the fucking floor. Not to smile at what's mine."

Y/N's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.

"I am not a 'what,' Harry. I'm a person. And you don't own me."

The restaurant seems to grow quieter, if that's possible. Harry goes still in that particular way that makes even his most hardened men nervous. The calm before a storm.

"Don't I?" he asks softly, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me, angel, whose car do you drive every day? Whose credit card is tucked in your purse right now? Whose clothes do you wear when you fall asleep?"

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again, her jaw tightening.

"That doesn't mean you own me," she finally says, her voice quieter but no less determined. "It means you take care of me. There's a difference."

Something shifts in Harry's expression. The barest hint of surprise, quickly masked. He studies her for a long moment before his lips curve into a small, dangerous smile.

"Taking care of what's mine," he corrects, picking up his fork again. "But we can call it whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart."

He glances toward Thomas, who's trying to disappear into the shadows of the bar.

"Eat your pasta before it gets cold. Again."

“No,” she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I won’t.”

She leans back in her chair, tension radiating off her in waves, eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. Her expression is guarded, a subtle tremor running beneath the strength she’s trying hard to project. It’s obvious she’s upset, hurt even, and she isn’t making any effort to hide it from him.

Harry's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. The restaurant seems to drop several degrees in temperature as he slowly sets it down, the metal clinking against fine china with deliberate precision. He watches her closely, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. He isn't accustomed to this kind of open resistance from her, not like this. Usually playful, usually teasing, their arguments until now have been surface-level, nothing deeper. But this, this silent challenge, this quiet anger, is new. It pushes at boundaries neither of them have fully tested yet, pulling them both into unfamiliar territory.

His face is unnervingly calm, but his eyes have gone cold. Its the same expression his men have learned to fear. He studies Y/N like she's a puzzle he can't quite figure out, or perhaps a problem requiring elimination.

"No?" he repeats, the single word carrying weight far beyond its simplicity.

Across the restaurant, Thomas has gone completely still, like prey sensing a predator. Even the soft classical music playing in the background seems to fade.

Harry leans forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that usually precedes violence.

"Let me be very clear about something, Y/N. No one says no to me. Not my men, not my enemies, and certainly not the woman warming my bed."

Y/N swallows but doesn't back down, though her crossed arms now look more protective than defiant.

"Well, I just did," she says, her voice impressively steady despite the fear flickering in her eyes. "I won't eat while you're treating me like a possession instead of a partner. And I won't sit here while you terrorize innocent people just because you can."

Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching. For several long seconds, he says nothing, the silence stretching taut between them.

When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously soft. "Two months with me, and suddenly you think you know how this works?"

He reaches for his whiskey, taking a deliberate sip before continuing.

"You walked into my world with your eyes wide open, angel. You knew exactly who I was. What I am." His gaze is unflinching. "Did you think I'd change? Become soft because you spread your legs for me?"

The cruel words hang in the air. Y/N flinches as if struck, tears welling in her eyes. She pushes her chair back, standing abruptly.

"Take me home," she says, voice thick with unshed tears. "Now."

Harry remains seated, looking up at her with an expression that gives nothing away.

"Sit down."

"No," she repeats, more firmly this time despite the tremor in her voice. "Either take me home or I'll call a cab."

Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes. A glimpse of the violence that's always simmering beneath the surface.

"You walk out that door without me, sweetheart, and you better keep walking. All the way out of my city."

It's not just a threat–It's a promise.

They stare each other down for a charged, unbearable moment, silence crackling between them like an impending storm. Y/N lifts her chin, gathering every bit of courage she has left.

“I won't let you speak to me this way," she says, voice shaking yet fierce, breaking the silence like glass shattering. "I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done for me.”

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, forcing back tears born from hurt and fury. When she drops her hands, there’s resolve in her expression, her gaze unsteady but determined, as she turns sharply on her heel, walking away from him and toward the door without looking back.

Harry watches her walk away, his expression carved from stone. For a moment, it seems as though he'll let her go. That whatever had built between them over the past three months will end here, in this empty restaurant with her retreating back.

Thomas, still frozen by the bar, doesn't dare breathe as Harry slowly rises from his chair. The movement is deliberate, predatory. He tosses his napkin onto the table and follows Y/N, his pace unhurried but purposeful.

He catches her just as her hand reaches for the door, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm. Not painful, but firm enough to stop her.

"Look at me," he demands, his voice low.

Y/N keeps her face turned away, tears still threatening to spill despite her efforts to contain them.

Harry's other hand comes up to grip her chin, turning her face toward him with surprising gentleness considering the storm in his eyes.

"I said, look at me."

She meets his gaze then, defiant despite her tears. For a long moment, they stare at each other, a battle of wills where they both know he could overpower her physically, but somehow, she's managing to challenge him anyway.

Something shifts in Harry's expression, not exactly softening, but recalibrating. His thumb brushes across her cheek, catching a tear before it can fall.

"You're the only person alive who could walk away from me like that," he says quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he can't quite name. "The only one I'd follow."

He releases her chin but keeps his hold on her arm, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I don't know how to be what you want," he admits, the words clearly costing him. "This—" he gestures between them "—isn't something I've done before."

Y/N swallows, her anger still evident but mingled with something else now.

"I'm not asking you to change who you are, Harry. I'm asking you to respect who I am."

Harry's jaw tightens, his eyes searching her face as if looking for weakness, for deception. He finds neither.

"My car" he finally says, but his tone has changed—it's still commanding, but lacks the earlier cruelty. "We'll finish this conversation at home."

He leads her to the door they originally came through, his hand moving to the small of her back. A possessive gesture, but one that feels more protective than controlling now.

As they pass Thomas, Harry pauses, his voice carrying clearly in the silent restaurant.

"The bill's been settled. If I hear a single word about tonight from anyone, I'll burn this place to the ground with you in it."

It's a reminder to Y/N as much as to Thomas that while he might bend for her, Harry Styles remains exactly who he's always been.

Harry still holds the car door open for her, the silence between them heavy and oppressive. She climbs in without meeting his gaze, her movements sharp and guarded. Settling into the seat, she crosses her arms tightly across her chest and turns slightly away, angling her body toward the window as if placing an invisible barrier between them.

Harry closes the door gently, too gently for the violence still simmering under his carefully maintained composure, and walks around the car, sliding into the driver's seat without a word. The tension in the small space feels suffocating, thick enough to choke on. 

The sleek black Audi cuts through the night, its engine a low, powerful growl that matches the tension inside. Harry drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his knuckles white with tension. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but his awareness of Y/N is palpable.

The silence between them is heavy, charged with unspoken words and the aftermath of their first real confrontation. Street lights flash across Harry's face in rhythmic intervals, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline, clenched tight with restraint.

After several minutes of suffocating silence, Harry speaks, his voice low but controlled.

"You know what I do," he says, not a question but a statement of fact. "You know who I am. What did you expect?"

Y/N continues staring out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. For a moment, it seems she might not answer.

"I expected to be treated with respect," she finally says, her voice quiet but firm. "Not like another one of your possessions."

Harry's grip on the wheel tightens, his knuckles going even whiter.

"Respect," he repeats, as if testing the word. "The men who respect me do so because they fear me. Is that what you want, Y/N? To fear me?"

He takes a sharp turn, the car's tires squealing slightly on the asphalt. When Y/N still doesn't look at him, something in his composure fractures.

"Answer me," he demands, the command in his voice impossible to ignore.

Y/N finally turns to face him, her eyes still reddened from earlier tears but her gaze steady.

"No, I don't want to fear you. And I don't. But that doesn't mean I'll let you treat me like you treated Thomas tonight. Or like you own me because you pay for things."

Harry's jaw works as he processes her words. They stop at a red light, and he turns to look at her fully, his green eyes intense in the dim car interior.

"Then what do you want from me?" There's genuine confusion beneath the frustration in his voice—a man who understands power and control suddenly faced with something he can't dominate or buy.

The light turns green, forcing him to return his attention to the road.

Y/N uncrosses her arms, her posture softening slightly.

"I want a relationship, Harry. Not a transaction. Not ownership. A partnership."

Harry scoffs, though there's less heat in it than before.

"Partnership," he mutters, shaking his head slightly. "I don't have partners, sweetheart. I have subordinates."

"Then what am I to you?" Y/N challenges, turning more fully toward him now. "Just another subordinate who happens to share your bed?"

The question hangs between them as Harry pulls up to her apartment building, parking with practiced precision. He turns off the engine but makes no move to exit the car, his hands still gripping the wheel as if it might ground him.

"You're..." he begins, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words. Such a rare occurrence for a man who commands with such certainty. "You're different."

It's not the answer she wanted, but it might be the most honest one he's capable of giving right now.

Y/N turns to face him fully now, her eyes shimmering with hurt in the dim light of the car. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she's developed whenever she's upset.

"Then what the fuck was that back there?" she asks, her voice cracking slightly. "If I'm so different, why would you say that to me? About...about 'spreading my legs' for you?"

"That hurt, Harry. More than I thought you could hurt me," she admits quietly, vulnerability evident in every line of her body. "Is that really all I am to you? Just another conquest who happens to last longer than a night?"

The words hang between them, her usual wit and sarcasm stripped away, leaving only the raw hurt of a girl who's fallen for someone far more dangerous and complex than she ever anticipated.

Harry stares straight ahead through the windshield, his profile sharp and unreadable in the shadows. The muscle in his jaw works as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. For a man who makes decisions that end lives without hesitation, he seems suddenly uncertain.

When he finally turns to look at her, a glimpse of vulnerability so brief it might have been imagined flickers across his face.

"I said it to hurt you," he admits, his voice low and rough. "Because you challenged me. In front of someone who works for me."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration.

"No one does that. Ever." His eyes hold hers, intense and searching. "But you did. And I..." he hesitates, as if the words physically pain him "...I reacted badly."

It's not quite an apology as Harry Styles doesn't apologize, but it's as close as he's likely to come.

Y/N blinks rapidly, her throat tightening painfully around a fresh wave of tears. "I wasn't trying to challenge you, Harry. I just wanted you to treat me like a human being. Like someone who actually matters to you."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness, tracing the path her tears had taken earlier.

"You're not a conquest, Y/N." His thumb brushes over her lower lip, his eyes following the movement. "If that's all you were, you wouldn't be here now. You'd be a memory. A pleasant one, maybe, but nothing more."

She exhales shakily, looking down as fresh tears cling to her eyelashes. "Then don't treat me like I'm disposable. I can't...I can't feel this much for someone who makes me feel worthless in the next breath."

His hand slides to cup the back of her neck, applying the slightest pressure, not forcing, but guiding her closer.

"I know. The truth is," he continues, voice dropping lower, "I don't know what the fuck you are to me. I just know I want you in my bed every night. I want to hear you laugh at your own stupid jokes. I want to kill anyone who makes you cry."

His gaze intensifies, something dangerous and possessive flaring in his eyes.

"Including myself, apparently," he adds with a mirthless laugh. "Which is a fucking problem I never anticipated."

He leans closer, their faces now inches apart.

"So no, you're not just someone who 'spreads her legs' for me. You're..." he searches for words that don't come easily to a man like him "...you're the exception to every rule I've ever had."

His hand tightens slightly on her neck, his next words almost a warning:

"And that scares the shit out of me."

She sniffles, “and what rules were those?” She whispers, not pulling back, which to Harry was a good sign. 

Harry's eyes search hers, something vulnerable and almost uncertain flickering behind his usual intensity. His thumb traces small circles against the nape of her neck, a soothing gesture that seems instinctive rather than calculated.

"Never let anyone close enough to become a weakness," he says, his voice a low rumble between them. "Never care about anyone more than you care about power. Never apologize."

His lips quirk in a humorless smile.

"Never follow anyone who walks away from you. Never explain yourself." His fingers tangle gently in her hair. "Never let someone see the parts of you that aren't...useful."

He draws a breath, his chest rising and falling with it. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, more honest than she's ever heard it.

"I've built everything I have on those rules. Every bit of power, every ounce of respect. And then you walked into my life with those soft eyes and that mouth that doesn't know when to stay shut..."

His forehead touches hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"And suddenly, I'm breaking every one of them."

Y/N lets out a shaky breath, her fingers hesitantly finding their way to his wrist, holding onto him like he's something delicate. Something precious she doesn't want to damage further. "Maybe you don't need those rules anymore," she whispers softly, her voice fragile but filled with quiet conviction. "Maybe some things are stronger than control."

His hand slides from her neck to cup her cheek, his touch gentler than a man with blood on his hands should be capable of.

"I don't know how to do this, Y/N," he admits, the confession clearly costing him. "I know how to own things. I know how to control people. I don't know how to..."

He struggles with the word, as if it's foreign to his tongue.

"...care for someone without trying to possess them."

Her eyes soften, tears welling again but not from hurt, not this time.

His eyes lock with hers, intense and searching.

"But I'm trying. For you, I'm fucking trying."

It's as close to a declaration as a man like Harry Styles can make. It’s an admission of vulnerability that would get him killed in his world if anyone else heard it.

She brings a hand to his face, cupping his jaw, “and I understand that, but trying doesn’t involve purposefully trying to hurt me. I need you to understand that”

Harry goes still under her touch, his eyes darkening with a mixture of desire for her gentle contact and discomfort at being confronted with his own behavior. He doesn't pull away, though, allowing her hand to remain on his face.

"I understand that," he says after a moment, his voice low and controlled. "I just don't like it."

He turns his face slightly, his lips brushing against her palm in a gesture that's almost tender.

"When I'm challenged, I eliminate the threat. It's instinct." His eyes find hers again, intense and unwavering. "But you're not a threat to be eliminated. You're..."

He struggles again, a man whose vocabulary has plenty of words for violence but few for tenderness.

"You matter," he finally says simply. "And I don't want to hurt you. Even when you piss me off. Even when you challenge me in front of others."

His hand covers hers on his face, pressing it more firmly against his skin as if anchoring himself.

"I can't promise I'll never say something cruel again," he tells her honestly. "I am who I am, Y/N. But I can promise to try not to hurt you deliberately. Not like tonight."

He leans in, his forehead touching hers again, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper.

"Just don't walk away from me like that again. I don't know how to handle it." The admission costs him, she can tell by the tension in his jaw. "And I can't guarantee what I'll do if you try."

"I need you to understand that," he echoes her words back to her, his grip tightening slightly on her hand.

She nods, “I do. But I also can’t promise that I won’t walk away again if you repeat what happened tonight. Got it? I won’t let you speak to me like that again” She says, not backing down, looking into his eyes and hoping he could meet her halfway.

Harry holds her gaze, a battle of wills playing out in the confined space of the car. The silence stretches between them, tense with possibility. Finally, his lips curve into something not quite a smile but more an acknowledgment of her courage.

"You've got more balls than half my crew," he says, a reluctant admiration in his tone. "Standing your ground with me like this."

His thumb traces her lower lip, his eyes following the movement.

"Fine. I won't speak to you like that again." The concession comes with a condition, his voice hardening slightly. "But you need to understand something too, angel. In public, especially around my men or anyone connected to my business, you can't challenge me openly. Not if you want to stay in my world."

He shifts closer, his presence filling the car with controlled intensity.

"It's not just about my pride. It's about survival. If they see weakness in me, if they think you can control me..." he doesn't finish the thought, doesn't need to.

Y/N considers his words, understanding dawning in her eyes. She hadn't fully considered the implications of her actions within his dangerous world.

"I understand that," she says finally. "I won't undermine you in front of your men. But that restaurant was empty except for Thomas, and you were being cruel to him for no reason."

Harry's expression darkens slightly.

"Thomas isn't just some innocent restaurant owner. He launders money for me. He's in my debt up to his eyeballs." His jaw tightens. "And he was looking at you like he was starving and you were a fucking meal."

"He was not," Y/N protests, though with less conviction now. "He was just being nice."

"Men like that aren't 'nice' to women who look like you without wanting something," Harry says flatly. "Especially not women they know belong to me."

Y/N bristles slightly at his choice of words.

"I don't 'belong' to you, Harry," she reminds him, but her tone is gentler than before. "That's the whole point of this conversation."

Harry's eyes flash with something dangerous, but he controls it, his hand sliding to cup the back of her neck again.

"You're mine," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "That doesn't change. What changes is how I treat what's mine."

He pulls her closer, his lips a breath away from hers.

"I'll try to be...better. For you. But don't expect me to become someone I'm not." His eyes hold hers, intense and unwavering. "I'm still the same man who puts bullets in people who cross me. The same man who built an empire on blood and fear. That doesn't change just because I care about you."

Y/N swallows, the reality of who and what he is hanging between them.

"I don't want you to be someone else," she says softly. "I just want you to be your best self with me."

Harry's expression shifts, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face before it's gone.

"I'll try," he promises, the words simple but meaning more coming from him than flowery declarations would from another man. "Now come home with me."

It's both a command and a request—the most balance he can offer between who he is and who she needs him to be.

She smiles, “Did you just call my ‘shitty apartment’ home?”

Harry's lips twitch, the tension between them breaking slightly at her teasing. His hand slides from her neck to her cheek, thumb brushing across her lower lip.

"I said 'come home with me,' not 'let's go to your home,'" he corrects, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that always makes her pulse quicken. "Your shitty apartment is where you keep your textbooks and that ridiculous collection of stuffed animals."

He leans closer, his breath warm against her ear.

"Home is where I fuck you until you forget every reason you were mad at me," he murmurs, his hand sliding to her thigh, fingers tracing slow patterns over the fabric of her dress. "My bed. My place."

Y/N shivers slightly at his touch, but manages to maintain her composure, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Bold of you to assume I want you anywhere near me tonight after what you said," she challenges, though there's less heat in it now, more of their usual banter returning.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes darkening with desire and something more possessive.

"You're still mad," he acknowledges, his hand not moving from her thigh. "That's fair. But we both know anger looks good on you, angel. Makes your eyes shine, your cheeks flush..."

His fingers inch higher on her thigh, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Makes you wet too," he adds, voice dropping lower. "Doesn't it?"

Y/N flushes, torn between desire and the lingering hurt from earlier.

"You can't just say something awful and then expect sex to fix it," she says, though her body betrays her with a slight shift toward his touch.

Harry's expression grows more serious, his hand stilling on her thigh.

"I don't expect sex to fix it," he says, surprising her with his honesty. "I expect time to fix it. But I want you in my bed tonight, even if all we do is sleep."

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers again in that oddly intimate gesture.

"I sleep better with you there," he admits quietly, the confession clearly difficult for him. "And I've got an important meeting tomorrow. Need a clear head."

It's as close as he'll come to saying he needs her, not just wants her, but needs her presence.

Y/N studies his face, seeing the sincerity beneath the desire.

"Fine," she relents with a small smile. "But only because your sheets are nicer than mine."

Harry's answering smile is slow and knowing.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, angel." He starts the car again, his hand remaining on her thigh as he pulls away from the curb. "Or not sleep, depending on how forgiving you're feeling by the time we get there."

Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @harrydeary

[idunnodudeijustwokeup]

I only want the fab 5 (+ Kori later on) when they are absolutely insane about each other. The most ride and die you will ever find.

They will never hesitate to square up again anyone who says anything bad about their team mates (and best friends (and lovers)), consistently checking in with each other even (and especially) when they are not meant/ supposed to.

I want them so fucking codependent but also completely unaware bc what do you mean you don’t constantly update your friend group everytime anything happens. What do you mean you don’t just break into your best friends house and sleep in their bed with them when you feel sad. What do you mean you keep secrets from your friends. What do you mean you don’t join your friends when they shower so you can continue your conversation. What do you mean you don’t know where every single scare on your best friend comes from. What do you mean you don’t call their dad a stupid motherfucker to his face. What do you mean you don’t know everything about your best friends.

I want them to have so many inside jokes that they are basically speaking a different language. I want them to share clothes and makeup and accessories to the point where nobody really remembers who owned what first. ( I want everyone to wear the other people’s merch always)

I want them to speak about their siblings like they are shared between the five of them. I want Tim to ask Donna a question when he is too embarrassed to ask Dick, and Cassie to ask Dick when she doesn’t want Donna to know, etc.

I want the mentors to be the other people’s aunt and uncles. ( I want the mentors and adults in their life to have a group chat where they try and help each other keep track of what their kids are doing bc gods know they won’t just tell them, so whenever they have a sleepover or a mission in one persons city, they let’s the rest of the mentors know. I also want the mentors to constantly send ‘baby’ photos and videos of their ‘kids’ in the group chat)

I want the dating history within the group to be so fucking confusing that you need a collage level lecture to understand it from the outside.

I want all of them to be married to other titans, but nobody really remembers who is married to who, especially since most of them are married to multiple people. ( a mix of Vegas weddings, undercover missions that took a turn, space rituals and traditions they got court up in, bets that were won and lost, and very intense dnd campaigns)

I want their private group chat to have more encryptions and protections than pentagon and the batcomputer put together. I want the GC to be filled with Drunken voice notes, homemade memes, pictures that should never see the light of day, secrets and jokes that would get them into soooo much trouble.

I want them to bring one or two titans along to family and work events. I want people to bet on which of the friends will go with Roy vs who will go as Dicks date to the fancy Galas, bc you can bet your ass they will be there as arm candy on their arms. (Having your friends at the Gala is the only thing that makes going to these Galas bearable). I want them to sneak out every time and go to a random fast food restaurant.

I want their fighting styles to be so engrained in each other that it is impossible to figure out who thought who what, and which of them was the first person to introduce this move into the equation.

I want outsiders to look at them and be confused if one of the OG titans are standing alone without one of the other titans. Do you see the vision?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Premature Internet Activists

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me TOMORROW (Feb 14) in BOSTON for FREE at BOSKONE , and SATURDAY (Feb 15) for a virtual event with YANIS VAROUFAKIS. More tour dates here.

"Premature antifacist" was a sarcastic term used by leftists caught up in the Red Scare to describe themselves, as they came under ideological suspicion for having traveled to Spain to fight against Franco's fascists before the US entered WWII and declared war against the business-friendly, anticommunist fascist Axis powers of Italy, Spain, and, of course, Germany:

https://www.google.com/books/edition/In_Denial/fBSbKS1FlegC?hl=en&gbpv=1&bsq=%22premature+anti-fascist%22&pg=PA277&printsec=frontcover

The joke was that opposing fascism made you an enemy of America – unless you did so after the rest of America had woken up to the existential threat of a global fascist takeover. What's more, if you were a "premature antifascist," you got no credit for fighting fascism early on. Quite the contrary: fighting fascism before the rest of the US caught up with you didn't make you prescient – it made you a pariah.

I've been thinking a lot about premature antifascism these days, as literal fascists use the internet to coordinate a global authoritarian takeover that represents an existential threat to a habitable planet and human thriving. In light of that, it's hard to argue that the internet is politically irrelevant, and that fights over the regulation, governance, and structure of the internet are somehow unserious.

And yet, it wasn't very long ago that tech policy was widely derided as a frivolous pursuit, and that tech organizing was dismissed as "slacktivism":

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/10/04/small-change-malcolm-gladwell

Elevating concerns about the internet's destiny to the level of human rights struggle was delusional, a glorified argument about the rules for forums where sad nerds argued about Star Trek. If you worried that Napster-era copyright battles would make it easy to remove online content by claiming that it infringed copyright, you were just carrying water for music pirates. If you thought that legalizing and universalizing encryption technology would safeguard human rights, you were a fool who had no idea that real human rights battles involved confronting Bull Connor in the streets, not suing the NSA in a federal courtroom.

And now here we are. Congress has failed to update consumer privacy law since 1988 (when they banned video store clerks from blabbing about your VHS rentals). Mass surveillance enables everything from ransomware, pig butchering and identity theft to state surveillance of "domestic enemies," from trans people to immigrants. What's more, the commercial and state surveillance apparatus are, in fact, as single institution: states protect corporations from privacy law so that corporations can create and maintain population-scale nonconsensual dossiers on all the intimate facts of our lives, which governments raid at will, treating them as an off-the-books surveillance dragnet:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

Our speech forums have been captured by billionaires who censor anti-oligarchic political speech, and who spy on dissident users in order to aid in political repression. Bogus copyright claims are used to remove or suppress disfavorable news reports of elite rapists, thieves, war criminals and murderers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/27/nuke-first/#ask-questions-never

You'd be hard pressed to find someone who'd describe the fights over tech governance in 2025 as frivolous or disconnected from "real politics"

This is where the premature antifascist stuff comes in. An emerging revisionist history of internet activism would have you believe that the first generation of tech liberation activists weren't fighting for a free, open internet – we were just shilling for tech companies. The P2P wars weren't about speech, privacy and decentralization – they were just a way to help the tech sector fight the entertainment industry. DRM fights weren't about preserving your right to repair, to privacy, and to accessibility – they were just about making it easy to upload movies to Kazaa. Fighting for universal access to encryption wasn't about defending everyday people from corporate and state surveillance – it was just a way to help terrorists and child abusers stay out of sight of cops.

Of course, now these fights are all about real things. Now we need to worry about centralization, interoperability, lock-in, surveillance, speech, and repair. But the people – like me – who've been fighting over this stuff for a quarter-century? We've gone from "unserious fools who mistook tech battles for human rights fights" to "useful idiots for tech companies" in an eyeblink.

"Premature Internet Activists," in other words.

This isn't merely ironic or frustrating – it's dangerous. Approaching tech activism without a historical foundation can lead people badly astray. For example, many modern tech critics think that Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (which makes internet users liable for illegal speech acts, while immunizing entities that host that speech) is a "giveaway to Big Tech" and want to see it abolished.

Boy is this dangerous. CDA 230 is necessary for anyone who wants to offer a place for people to meet and discuss anything. Without CDA 230, no one could safely host a Mastodon server, or set up the long-elusive federated Bluesky servers. Hell, you couldn't even host a group-chat or message board:

https://www.techdirt.com/2020/06/23/hello-youve-been-referred-here-because-youre-wrong-about-section-230-communications-decency-act/

Getting rid of CDA 230 won't get rid of Facebook or make it clean up its act. It will just make it impossible for anyone to offer an alternative to Facebook, permanently enshrining Zuck's dominance over our digital future. That's why Mark Zuckerberg wants to kill Section 230:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/zuckerberg-calls-changes-techs-section-230-protections-rcna486

Defending policies that make it easier to host speech isn't the same thing as defending tech companies' profits, though these do sometimes overlap. When tech platforms have their users' back – even for self-serving reasons – they create legal precedents and strong norms that protect everyone. Like when Apple stood up to the FBI on refusing to break its encryption:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple%E2%80%93FBI_encryption_dispute

If Apple had caved on that one, it would be far harder for, say, Signal to stand up to demands that it weaken its privacy guarantees. I'm no fan of Apple, and I would never mistake Tim Cook – who owes his CEOhood to his role in moving Apple production to Chinese sweatshops that are so brutal they had to install suicide nets – for a human rights defender. But I cheered on Apple in its fight against the FBI, and I will cheer them again, if they stand up to the UK government's demand to break their encryption:

https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c20g288yldko

This doesn't make me a shill for Apple. I don't care if Apple makes or loses another dime. I care about Apple's users and their privacy. That's why I criticize Apple when they compromise their users' privacy for profit:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

The same goes for fights over scraping. I hate AI companies as much as anyone, but boy is it a mistake to support calls to ban scraping in the name of fighting AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

It's scraping that lets us track paid political disinformation on Facebook (Facebook isn't going to tell us about it):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/05/comprehensive-sex-ed/#quis-custodiet-ipsos-zuck

And it's scraping that let us rescue all the CDC and NIH data that Musk's broccoli-hair brownshirts deleted on behalf of DOGE:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/how-to-access-important-health-info-thats-been-scrubbed-from-the-cdc-site/

It's such a huge mistake to assume that anything corporations want is bad for the internet. There are many times when commercial interests dovetail with online human rights. That's not a defense of capitalism, it's a critique of capitalism that acknowledges that profits do sometimes coincide with the public interest, an argument that Marx and Engels devote Chapter One of The Communist Manifesto to:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

In the early 1990s, Al Gore led the "National Information Infrastructure" hearings, better known as the "Information Superhighway" hearings. Gore's objective was to transfer control over the internet from the military to civilian institutions. It's true that these institutions were largely (but not exclusively) commercial entities seeking to make a buck on the internet. It's also true that much of that transfer could have been to public institutions rather than private hands.

But I've lately – and repeatedly – heard this moment described (by my fellow leftists) as the "privatization" of the internet. This is strictly true, but it's even more true to say that it was the demilitarization of the internet. In other words, corporations didn't take over functions performed by, say, the FCC – they took over from the Pentagon. Leftists have no business pining for the days when the internet was controlled by the Department of Defense.

Caring about the technological dimension of human rights 30 years ago – or hell, 40 years ago – doesn't make you a corporate stooge who wanted to launch a thousand investment bubbles. It makes you someone who understood, from the start, that digital rights are human rights, that cyberspace would inevitably evert into meatspace, and that the rules, norms and infrastructure we built for the net would someday be as consequential as any other political decision.

I'm proud to be a Premature Internet Activist. I just celebrated my 23rd year with the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and yesterday, we sued Elon Musk and DOGE:

https://www.eff.org/press/releases/eff-sues-opm-doge-and-musk-endangering-privacy-millions

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/13/digital-rights/#are-human-rights

Image: Felix Winkelnkemper (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Acoustic_Coupler.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[nerdygirlramblings]

Off to See the Wizard (2)

previous | next

tw: canon-typical violence

Your introduction didn't cause pandemonium, per se, but your effect on the rest of the team was immediate. Soap sat straight up, his eyes alight like a kid who'd been set loose in a toy store. Kyle's whole demeanor unwound, his smile softening, his eyes going glassy, as if all the tension holding him together was suddenly released. Simon tried to make himself smaller, take up less space, maybe disappear into the cushions of the couch he was on. It was clear they didn't know you were coming, and they seemed as excited - well, all but Simon, who seemed terrified - about it as you were.

Things settled down quickly after that as Price reminded everyone this arrangement was for the sake of their next mission. That took some joy out of the introduction, but the electric thrum of excitement was there. You were finally in the same place as your boys.

Your first full day is rather boring. You are only a little startled to hear voices in the hall at 4:30 but then realize the guys are simply getting ready for their morning training. You also slightly regret picking the room next to the bathroom, despite how helpful it will be when you need to shower while the others are around.

You spend your morning setting up your mobile command center with the tech you brought. You arrange the monitors to match your usual setup, pulling up the background files and current mission data across your screens. You send an encrypted message to Laswell updating her on your status. You know she wants someone she trusts here, and encrypting the email is probably overkill, but you didn't get to where you are by assuming anything about safety. You'd been a black-hat hacker before Laswell scooped you up, so you know it's possible.

When you left, she told you you'd have the same decision-making abilities in the field as she does. You've never had that much power, and you want to show Laswell her trust is justified, so your message is a concern about transports and what you'd like to do instead. You want to get her take on it before simply changing things. In your mind, roping her in on these kinds of decisions now means she'll be less likely to challenge any decisions you make when the boys are in the field.

The highlight of your first day is the knock that comes around 1:00, startling you a bit, just as you're realizing skipping breakfast after such an interrupted schedule the previous day was not a smart idea. The only person you know who knows you're here is John, so you quickly open your door, smile already in place. But you're pleasantly surprised to see Kyle instead.

"Hey doll, Cap said you should come eat." He leans against the doorframe, smiling gently at you. "Looks like you're all set."

"Got everything but the curtain," you reply cheekily.

He grins in response. "We may call ya' Oz, but you're so much better than the man behind the curtain."

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and duck your head. You aren't behind a screen anymore; you're going to need to be more aware of your reactions to the boys if you don't want them reading you like an open book. "You said something about food," you murmur, shuffling paperwork around on your desk.

"Yea. The Captain was hopin' you'd join us," Kyle replies.

You glance up at him in the doorway. "Do I have a choice?" you ask cheekily. You need to eat, but you can't let them think you're so easily commanded. It sets a bad precedent and is at odds with what they know of you from previous missions.

Kyle's smile slides into a smirk. "He did say I might need to convince you."

You aren't sure what he might try to do to convince you, and your mind immediately jumps to some inappropriate fantasies. You're so flustered you quickly stammer, "No, you don't need to do that." You minimize your open programs, leaving a blank desktop, despite the fact you're the only person with access to this office. You turn to Kyle moments later. "I'm ready."

Kyle steps fully into the hallway, gesturing you to lead the way. You pull the door closed behind you, checking to make sure it locks. "You do remember I got the ten cent tour yesterday and don't really know where much of anything is, right?"

Kyle puts a gentle hand on your lower back, in the same way John did last night, unconsciously. He leads you through base, and you watch other groups of soldiers notice you for the first time. Some openly stare while others watch you on their perifery.

You're not sure what they think of you or if they even know who you are, but you don't like their prying eyes. Kyle doesn't seem to like it either, wrapping his arm more possessively around your waist as he guides you to the mess.

Walking through the door, it's easy to find the rest of the 141. For one thing, Simon is massive. Even seated he's nearly a head taller than most of the other people in the mess. For another, you know of their reputation, but the soldiers here have seen it first-hand and keep a wide berth in the mess. You don't know if the distance is out of fear or respect, but it means your boys have a table to themselves near the back of the room.

John and Simon are facing the door, eyes constantly scanning the room. You don't know if this is how they always are, or if they're looking for Kyle and you. You catch John's eye before turning to the food line, but Kyle steers you towards the others. As you approach, he calls out, "Look who I found? An' she's here without any coercion!" Simon looks at you and away again quickly, what is going on with him? Soap turns around, grin stretching across his face.

"Oz, mah girl, finally get ta see yer pretty face! Where've'ye been heedin'?" He pats the space next to him.

You slip onto the bench. "I've been in my office, Soap. Setting things up so I can support you while you're gone." He seems to deflate a little at the reminder that they'll be leaving soon, leaving you. You try not to read into it.

You turn and look at John, who's now across from you, and Kyle, who took the spot on your other side. You don't fail to notice that though your back is to the room, the two most imposing members of the 141 have their eyes on everything in the room, and you're flanked on either side by some of the youngest ever members of such an elite task force. Consciously or not, they've made sure you're well protected.

"So what do you recommend I get?" you ask, glancing around only to realize no one has anything to eat yet. "Wait, did you all eat already?"

John chuckles. "Nah, Oz. We were tryin-a be polite and wait for ya. 'Sides, Laswell said you'd likely skip meals, so I figured eatin' with ya would make sure yer fed." He stands, as does Kyle and Soap. "Now you sit tight with Ghost while we grab some scoff."

You watch as the others get up, leaving you with a Simon who looks anywhere but at you. You notice he has a plain black balaclava on, and he'd been wearing one yesterday too. You wonder if anyone on base knows what he looks like. You don't know what to say as you sit there in awkward silence. This is so different from your usual dynamic with Simon, it makes you uncomfortable.

Minutes tick slowly by, and you look over at John chatting with some other soldiers, Kyle and Soap with a few trays between them. Across from you, Ghost is still silent. And you finally snap.

"Simon?" You try to keep the hurt from your voice as he finally drags his eyes to yours. "Did I do something wrong or offend you somehow?"

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

an: I'm trying to get Soap's accent, and it's hard because it's all in the vowel sounds, which have to be spelled out. Forgive me any glaring issues.

Taglist: @blackhawkfanatic

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter nine

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: the night deepens with no clear end in sight, but rest begins to return—in sips of tea, shared silences, and jack’s quiet vigilance. outside, the storm wanes—but inside, the promise holds: you are not facing this alone.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.9k

Dusk slides beneath the blackout blinds almost without you noticing; the storm’s bruised light simply fades from gray to charcoal until the room seems caught between two midnights—outside and in.

Your body is a sandbag, every limb sodden with the lingering weight of the panic surge. You try, twice, to lever yourself upright. Each time the mattress tugs you back with a kind of exhausted gravity. When Jack steps in and asks, “Soup or toast?” you manage only a small shake of your head before sinking into the pillow again. He studies you for a beat, reading the stubborn hollows under your eyes, and simply says, “Okay,” the syllables gentle as turning down a lamp.

He doesn’t press. Instead he drags the cedar trunk away from the closet door and wheels his desk chair into the bedroom, parking it just inside the doorway. He flips the hallway switch so a low golden spill cuts the dark but leaves no glare, a tacit promise that this door—this lifeline—will stay open. Whatever work he means to do he sets up there: laptop balanced on his knees, field notebook open, glasses perched low on his nose.

Out in the living room the TV murmurs to itself—some late‑night documentary about coastal weather patterns. The rise‑and‑fall cadence is soothing, a grown‑up lullaby that threads through the hall and curls around your heartbeat. From the doorway Jack taps keys of his laptop, the soft plastic clicks punctuated by the occasional scratch of pen on paper. Every fifteen minutes or so he drifts closer, resets a fallen quilt edge, or presses the back of his fingers to your forehead as though checking for fever. He never switches on the overhead; the room stays dim, nested inside the quieter dark of the storm‑washed city.

Hours roll the way night shifts always do—long stretches of hush broken by brief flurries of action. Only here, the action is the subtle ritual of care: Jack swapping the cooling mug of tea for fresh, silencing the buzzing phone on the dresser, forwarding a new text from Ramirez to his encrypted drive and then slipping your device gently back within reach. You pretend to sleep for some of it, but his occasional touch and the faint creak of the chair when he shifts, keep you tethered to waking. 

Near what would be 02:00 on your usual ward clock, you finally speak. “You’re missing your shift.”

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” He doesn’t look up from the screen, but the certainty in his voice anchors you deeper than any blanket.

The rain softens to a distant hiss, the late‑night documentary dissolving into an overly cheerful infomercial for ceramic pans. Jack rises to stretch, and in the lamp’s amber spill you notice how fatigue drapes him—new grooves bracketing his mouth, shoulders rounded from hours of sentry stillness. He catches you looking and offers a lopsided smile—unguarded, quietly proud, like watching over you is muscle memory. Adjusting the lamp a notch lower, he settles on the mattress edge, his “good” knee drawing up beside your hip.

“Try a sip,” he murmurs, offering a glass of water. You push upright—shaky, willing—and drink. It tastes of rainfall and mercy. When you pass the glass back, your hand drops to his knee, almost of its own accord—the one that ends in composite and titanium beneath sweats. 

“You taking anything for dull days?” you ask quietly, eyes on his. Rain always makes old wounds throb; surgical steel and phantom circuitry are no exception.

He starts to wave you off, but you keep your hand there—steady, certain. “Seriously. If it aches, take it off. Don’t mind me. Your house.” 

The words land and something gentle flickers across his face—relief, maybe, or the recognition that the instinct to protect flows both ways. He exhales, tugging a corner of the comforter higher around your shoulders before easing back to unclip the prosthesis. The quiet click of release echoes like a shared oath: safe enough, together enough, to let armor rest. He props the limb against the nightstand, then shifts closer, settling cross‑legged so his thigh presses alongside yours, natural and warm.

“Better,” he admits under his breath.

Neither of you mentions the untouched soup cooling in the kitchen. Neither of you needs to. Tonight surviving together is its own nutrition. You lie back, lulled by the soft drone of late‑night television, and watch Jack return to his station in the doorway—silent sentinel framed by gentle lamp glow. His silhouette stays there for the rest of the storm‑dark hours, a living parenthesis around your fragile rest, and you let your eyes close to the rhythm of his typing, the measured click‑click that says the world may still hold danger, but nothing will cross this threshold without meeting him first.

. . .

The early-morning drizzle beads on the window, turning the guest-room light to soft silver when your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. You prop it against a stack of dog-eared journals and hit accept. Your eldest sister’s face appears—worried furrow in her brow, apron looped over one shoulder, the familiar bustle of her kitchen blurred in the background.

“Needed to see you with my own eyes,” she says, scanning your features the way she used to check scraped knees—looking for bruises no one else can see. “Mom’s pacing holes in the rug, Dad’s on Google Maps trying to figure out Pittsburgh traffic, and I’m…” She blows out a breath. “I’m missing my little sis.”

“I’m okay,” you promise, tugging the collar of Jack’s oversized Henley higher as if it were proof. “Shaken, not shattered. Hydrated, semi-fed.”

Before she can reply or question the unfamiliar background, your niece barrels into view holding a papier-mâché volcano streaked in fluorescent orange. “Rate my eruption!”

You can’t help but smile—genuine, unforced. “Solid eight, maybe nine once the lava’s dry. Tilt the cone a hair left or you’ll have overflow on the baking sheet.”

She gasps like you’ve handed her a Nobel, then scampers off to make adjustments. Your sister’s smile lingers, but her eyes stay intent. “Security officers, hidden cameras, panic attacks—when did your life turn into a thriller?”

“About the time my clipboard started moving on its own,” you admit, rubbing a thumb over the phone case. “Police are on it. Admin’s doubling security. I’m…living in one-hour windows.”

She nods, the worry line easing a millimeter. “Whatever you need—money, a plane ticket, a place to disappear—you say the word.”

“Thanks. Right now I need…normal voices. Yours. Kiddo’s volcano critiques.”

As if summoned, your niece pops back into frame, cone expertly tilted. “Better?”

“Perfect containment,” you declare. “Text me a video of the grand eruption.”

She salutes, then vanishes, leaving your sister chuckling. The two of you fall into lighter talk—Mom’s new obsession with indoor herb gardens, the neighbor’s dog who keeps stealing mail—until a comfortable hush settles. You realize the knots in your shoulders have loosened; the room feels less like a bunker, more like a spare bedroom suffused with family warmth.

“Call again later,” your sister says, voice soft. “We love you, trouble magnet.”

“Love you more.” You blow a kiss toward the camera before the screen goes dark.

Meanwhile, Jack has stationed himself in the living room, knees jiggling as he tunes the old police scanner perched beside the couch. The storm’s finally dwindled to dripping eaves, but the scanner spits bursts of static and unit codes that keep him keyed up. 

The altered routine itches under his skin; normally, by this hour, he’d be elbow‑deep triaging in the ER. Instead he toggles frequencies, listening for any dispatch that might whisper your stalker’s name, jaw working each time the speaker crackles with nothing useful.

When the apartment buzzer wheezes, Jack jolts upright, half expecting trouble. He strides to the door, keeping his footfalls light and soundless as he wipes damp palms on his well‑worn sweats, and then peers through the peephole and exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Robby’s lean silhouette stands in the stairwell, black scrub, jacket half‑zipped, hair a storm‑tossed mess—but the tired grin is unmistakable. He’s soaked to the elbows and juggling three tote bags like an overloaded pack mule.

Jack immediately unlatches the door. “You look like a drowned Saint Bernard.”

“Good to see you too, brother.” Robby shoulders past the threshold, tracking rain, then kicks the door shut. He drops the first bag—canvas, Margot’s handwriting scrawled on a post-it barely holding onto front: Clean clothes + comfort stuff—and digs in a second tote.

“Supply run. Courtesy the ER night zoo.”

Inside are snacks that would make dietitians riot: four kinds of protein bars, two family‑size trail‑mix bags, a rainbow of energy drinks, and a battered zip‑lock bulging with sticky‑note squares. Each pad sports Sharpie messages: ELLIS—Tell the stalker I double‑dog dare, FIN—return of the Bento God soon pls, SHEN—喝茶, rest, and a graffiti of tiny cartoon lungs labeled BREATH ON.

It’s mostly for you, but the small details also speak of intention warmly directed to him. Jack’s chest tightens; he sets the haul on the island. “They shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up,” Robby says, gentle. “We don’t suck at family.”

The third tote is smaller. Robby passes it over with care. “From Ramirez. Extra camera printouts, new badge list. He said you’d want your own copies.”

Jack tucks it aside, mental note to scan everything. He pours tea into two mugs. Steam rises between them like a truce line.

Robby shucks his wet jacket and plops on the stool. “So. Give me the vitals. How’s she holding?”

Jack nudges a mug over, leans on the counter. “Took the worst panic strike I’ve seen her have. Closet lockdown, deep pressure, then crash‑sleep. She’s showered, speaking with family now. Wants to go back tomorrow.”

Robby blows on the cup of tea Jack had been quick to offer him, studying him over the rim. “You look like hammered scrap, man.”

He shrugs, then shakes his head. “I’m just pissed. Whoever’s doing this was inside close enough for that photo.”

“PD tightening entry logs. Gloria went nuclear on Security—badge audits, visitor escorts, the works.” Robby fishes a foil‑wrapped cookie from the tote and slides it over. “Ellis put out an unofficial bounty: whoever cracks the creep buys sushi for the pit. Price keeps climbing—Fin’s up to a hundred.”

Jack lets a laugh out through his nose. “Tell Ellis if she storms a staff meeting dual‑wielding laryngoscopes, I want video.”

“She’s rehearsing.”

They sip in companionable quiet. Outside, the drizzle ticks down gutters like beads on a drum. Robby stares into mug steam, voice dropping. “I hate you’re not on shift. Feels like the ER’s missing a major organ.”

Jack exhales, gaze drifting to the hall where the bedroom door stands ajar. “Feels like I left one here.”

Robby’s grin softens. “Yeah. We’ve—uh—noticed.”

Jack’s ears heat, but he doesn’t deny it. He sets palms on the island, steadying himself. “She’s in my bed—my actual bed—sleeping like safety’s a thing again. If I step out, even for rounds, and she wakes… I can’t risk that.”

“Then we keep running the pit,” Robby says simply. “You keep running point on her. That’s the mission.”

He raises his mug in salute. Jack taps his to it. Ceramic clinks.

Outside the storm finally drains itself empty; in the hush, the two friends share tea, shoulder the weight of an unseen war, and map silent vows to keep its front line right here—behind open bedroom doors and the rustle of sticky notes promising the whole hospital has her back.

divider credit