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solar-wing · 6 months ago

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

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

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

⚣❤️‍🔥 Word Count → 14.5K

REBLOGS and replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY ❤️‍🔥

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

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

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

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

Not that Jason’s methods were exactly…practical.

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

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I—uh—well, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red Hood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OOP—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N on the other hand…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl—seriously, don’t do it.

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

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

…

Hold up.

…

Nah…unless?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason: Did you eat yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did that mean?

Well...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope. Not happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can the church get an amen?

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

And oh, did Y/N protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?” Y/N asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is someone dead or currently dying?”

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

“No, but–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then came the follow-up.

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

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

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

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

Because was he actually lying?

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

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

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

Because, honestly… were they even wrong?

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

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

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

And then, like clockwork, came the switch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later that night, Jason made his move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just ask that bitch, Xavion…

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

1K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 27 days ago

Text

May I Have This Dance?

PAIRING: Colonel!Caleb x Noble!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You and Caleb share a dance or two. Turns out all it takes is a glance, a brief touch and a dance for a heart to set ablaze.

WORD COUNT: 2k

NOTES: kinda Regency au, but don't expect historical accuracy. Also this art is heavenly, I'm still screaming. Credits to the artist.

He wasn’t meant to be looking.

Not at you.

The ballroom shimmered in candlelight, golden chandeliers catching on crystal and ambition. Laughter spilled from polished lips, titles clinked louder than the glasses, and powdered wigs bobbed like decorum-bound ghosts.

And yet—amid all the pageantry and politics, Caleb’s world stilled the moment you entered.

You. In that infernal, exquisite gown. As though the moonlight had slipped in through the high windows and shaped itself into your silhouette.

You weren't looking at him. You were curtsying to a Marquess, smiling politely as he asked for your hand in the next dance. You played your part well—dutiful daughter of the Duke, sought-after gem of the season, the one they whispered about in admiration and envy alike.

And Caleb, decorated soldier, sworn protector of the state, a man who had faced down cannon fire and bloodied fields without blinking—he faltered.

God help him.

He didn’t know your name yet, but he suddenly understood why men had once razed cities and crumbled kingdoms for a glimpse of beauty.

Why emperors had traded empires for a sight.

Your laughter floated across the room like a melody meant only for those who deserved joy. Caleb, with his gloved hands and iron discipline, felt undeserving and utterly ruined in the same breath.

You turned, then. Just slightly. Your eyes brushed over the crowd—and for a second, just a second, caught his.

And that was it.

Caleb knew, with the quiet devastation of certainty, that he would never recover.

Not from this.

—

It begins with the soft snap of your fan.

The terrace is nearly empty, save for one couple whispering by the balustrade and the persistent hum of crickets beneath the hedgerow. Caleb had intended to seek a moment’s quiet—remove himself from the suffocating splendor of the ballroom and the parade of powdered peacocks vying for his attention. But there you stood, half-silhouetted by moonlight, dressed in ivory and dignity.

He was meant to keep his distance.

After all, your name had been spoken in every drawing room from Mayfair to the halls of court—your father a Duke, your hand practically promised to a Viscount with impeccable bloodlines and the personality of a doorknob.

But then fate, cruel conspirator that it was, placed you on the terrace at the same time as him.

The night air was cooler than expected. The laughter and waltzes muffled by the doors, replaced by the hush of rustling ivy and your quiet sigh.

He didn’t plan to approach. Truly.

Instead, he watched you from the shadows for a moment too long, the wind tugging a curl from your coiffure. You did not shiver, though the night had teeth. You stood like a sovereign—still, composed, untouchable.

“You stare,” you said without turning. Your voice was even, unbothered. “Are soldiers always so brazen?”

Caleb smirked before he could stop himself. “Only when outnumbered.”

You glanced at him then. A fleeting look over your shoulder, a flick of lashes that didn’t quite hide the way your mouth twitched in amusement.

“And what odds do you calculate here, Colonel?” you asked, finally facing him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you intend to charge?”

His gaze lingered on you longer than was proper. “Not without permission, my lady. I was trained better than that.”

You tilted your head, amused now. “Was it battlefield training or ballroom etiquette that taught you to answer impertinence with charm?”

“Both. But I’ve found charm wounds more deeply.”

You laughed. It was soft, surprised. As if you hadn’t expected him to meet you toe-to-toe. Most men probably didn’t. He could see it in the way you watched him now—not with admiration, but calculation. You were measuring him. And he’d never wanted more desperately to be deemed worthy.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said, stepping closer to the balustrade. The breeze caught your gown like it favored you too. “I assumed you’d be larger. Louder.”

“I’ve been told I’m more dangerous when quiet.”

“That sounds like something a man says before doing something reckless.”

Caleb gave a half-bow. “Only when it’s worth the risk.”

You turned to him fully now, one brow elegantly raised. “And tell me, Colonel. Am I worth the risk?”

His chest tightened. You were joking. Perhaps. Or testing him. But the truth came unbidden.

“You are the risk,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Every man here is playing at war with perfumed smiles and family names. But you—” He caught himself. Inhaled slowly. “You’re something else entirely.”

A flicker crossed your expression—surprise?—but it was gone in an instant. Replaced by something sharper.

“You assume too much,” you said, tone cooling, as though trying to reinstate distance.

“And yet, here I am. Assuming. Still breathing.” He leaned one hand against the stone rail, close enough to catch the citrus-sweet edge of your perfume. “Still hoping.”

That startled you.

Hope.

He saw it in the way your hand faltered, just slightly, against your gown. You masked it well, but Caleb had seen men try to hide pain, panic, desire. And he knew exactly when a fortress cracked.

“Do all your conquests begin with flattery?” you asked coolly.

“No,” he replied. “Most of them begin with orders and end in blood.

You inhaled through your nose, slow and deliberate. “Then I pity your enemies.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “So do I.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

The music drifted faintly from inside—something lilting and romantic. It clashed with the tension snapping in the air between you, sharp as drawn steel.

He should leave. He should bow, offer some glib farewell, and return to his post near the doors like the good little soldier the nobility expected him to be. But he couldn’t.

Instead, Caleb took a half-step closer, and this time, you didn’t move away.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “For the staring. I wasn’t prepared.”

You blinked. “Prepared for what?”

He looked you dead in the eyes, not bothering to soften the truth. “You.”

You said nothing.

And that silence—your stillness, the slow tightening of your jaw, the way your fan stopped tapping against your palm—it said everything.

He would ruin himself for you.

And you would let him, if only it were not your ruin, too.

—

He never asked for a second chance to sin.

And yet—there you were.

Lit by chandeliers and candlelight, laughing quietly at some duke’s wife, pearls at your throat and a challenge in your eyes. You moved like grace invented itself just to wear your skin.

Caleb had never believed in divine punishment until he saw you smile at someone else.

So he moved. Quickly. Cleanly. Before someone else got there first.

“I believe it’s my turn,” he said, voice low.

You looked up at him—chin tilted, gaze glinting with mischief and mercury.

“Oh?” you murmured. “Is that an order, Colonel?”

He offered his hand, just barely steady.

“A request,” he said. “But I don’t ask twice.”

You paused. A breath. A blink. Then you placed your hand in his.

“How impertinent,” you said coolly.

But you let him lead you onto the floor.

—

The first dance was him relearning how to breathe.

You didn’t just move—you floated, flickered, flared. A thousand silent arrows aimed at his composure. Every turn brought you closer. Every brush of your gloved hand over his fingers felt like a spark he wasn’t allowed to want.

“You’re staring again,” you said, without looking at him.

“I am,” he admitted.

Bold. Stupid. Honest.

You turned your face toward him—slightly. Not all the way. Your lashes didn’t flutter, didn’t lower. You held his gaze like it was a weapon.

“How many poor girls have you undone with eyes like that?”

“None,” he murmured, “because none of them were you.”

Your laugh was low and incredulous. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m a soldier. Shame doesn’t survive war.”

That made you laugh—quiet, almost warm. “I hope that wasn’t meant to frighten me.”

“No,” he said, and it came out softer than he meant it to. “Just a warning.”

“For what?”

He looked down. Your hand. His. The impossible closeness.

“For how badly I already want to ask for the next dance.”

—

The second dance was a declaration.

You didn’t resist when he stepped in again, despite the usual ritual of switching partners. You simply lifted your chin slightly—as if daring him to keep going.

Caleb obliged.

He pulled you closer. Not improper. Not quite. But enough that he could feel the tension in your spine, the subtle flex of your fingers in his palm. And yet your expression remained infuriatingly unreadable.

The tempo picked up; the waltz spun wider, grander. But Caleb never took his eyes off you. Not when your hand shifted in his. Not when you glanced away, then back—startled, perhaps, by how intently he looked.

And he let himself look, alright. At your eyes. At the slope of your neck. Then lower—your lips, parted slightly as you exhaled.

He looked up again before you caught him. Or maybe you already had.

“Should I be concerned, Colonel?” you asked, voice velvet and silk. “You’re watching me like I’m about to vanish.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. “The first time something rare slipped through my fingers.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You’re fond of theatrics.”

“Only when I mean every word.”

That made your eyes narrow. Pleased? Annoyed? Both?

“Are you always like this?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Focused. Intense. Unnerving.”

He leaned in, barely. Just enough for your breath to catch.

“Only with you.”

There it was—your pause. A ripple. The smallest fracture in your poise.

Then you recovered.

“Flattery,” you said, tone sharp as cut crystal, “is beneath you.”

“No,” he said. “It’s the only thing I know how to offer you that won’t cost me my soul.”

He said it too fast. Too raw.

Your gaze flickered.

To his eyes.

Then his mouth.

Then back.

And still—you danced.

—

The third dance wasn’t announced. He simply kept you.

The music changed again—partners shifted. Some lord brushed past, murmuring your name, offering his hand. Another gentleman made his way toward you—some baron’s son with ambitions and hair like sugar frosting. But when Caleb felt you begin to release his hand, he held tighter.

You turned slightly, amused. “Colonel?”

“They can’t have this one.”

“I’m fairly certain they can,” you said, glancing at the crowd. “It’s a ball, not a battlefield.”

He stepped closer. Just enough for his voice to drop lower, a whisper barely for you.

“It’s always been a battlefield with you.”

This time, he pulled you closer. Barely within the limits of propriety. His hand pressed just slightly firmer against your back. You didn’t protest. But your gaze lifted, eyes steady, sharp as ever.

“You’re making a scene.”

“I’m making a memory,” he replied.

Your lips parted. He looked again. Couldn't help it.

Eyes. Lips. Eyes.

“I should be furious,” you said.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You’re arrogant.”

“You’re breathtaking.”

You stilled. The music surged. Somewhere behind you, people danced and laughed and plotted futures that would never be as bold as this moment.

“I don’t dance more than twice,” you said, softly now.

“Then let this be your rebellion,” Caleb whispered.

He stepped again into the center of the floor with you on his arm, ignoring the protocol, ignoring the whispers, ignoring everything except the thunder in his own ribs and the feel of your hand still in his.

“I can’t decide,” you said at last, “whether you’re fearless or foolish.”

“Perhaps both,” he replied. “Perhaps that’s what it takes.”

“To do what?” you asked.

“To be worthy of you.”

By the time the music slowed, everything else had vanished. The chandeliers. The crowd. The scandalized whispers.

There was only the music.

And you.

He came to a halt. Slowly. Like it hurt.

You didn’t move either.

The silence between you pulsed like a wound.

Then, Caleb took your hand—reverently, carefully—as if it were made of starlight.

And bowed.

When he brought it to his lips, it was not for show.

He kissed the back of your glove once.

Then stayed.

Longer than courtesy allowed.

Longer than was safe.

Long enough to feel your pulse stutter under his mouth.

And when he looked up again—

Your mask had slipped.

Just a little.

Just enough.

TAGLIST: @datfangirl

#meliora writes #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x you #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb #xia yizhou x you #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x reader

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petalbcrnes · 12 days ago

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❀﹒﹒⇅﹒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎��𝐈𝐎𝐍 ╱ with JASON TODD & DICK GRAYSON ㄨ BLACK WIDOW ! READER ꩜ .ᐟ ⠀⠀ hcs & drabbles. ⠀·⠀ ୭

　　﹕ (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈) ┈ #directory #rules . ♡ ﹒ this ask made me rethink the whole ‘reqs closed but suggestions open’ deal i gave going on rn. i cannot physically write everything req i get in my inbox,,, so i just take suggestions— no pressure to write it like a request.

❛ ꜝ ┈ ✺ cw ﹒ violence and abuse described in this work— it doesn’t take a big part of it though. a bit of angst because i cannot control myself.

𓏲𓏲⠀⠀.. ⠀Your reputation precedes you—former Black Widow, perfectly trained killer, someone who understands that justice isn’t always clean or merciful. But Gotham’s protectors seem determined to complicate things. You find yourself in unfamiliar territory— a certain vigilante has wormed his way into your heart. ✶

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ︶︶

The warehouse explosion lit up Crime Alley like the Fourth of July, and Jason couldn’t help but grin as you dropped down beside him from seemingly nowhere, not even slightly singed despite having been inside thirty seconds ago.

“Show off,” he muttered, but there was admiration in his voice.

“Says the man who literally just drove his motorcycle through a second-story window.” You checked your weapons with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from a lifetime of survival. “Find what we needed?”

“Financial records, shipping manifests, and enough evidence to put half of Falcone’s operation away.” Jason held up a hard drive. “Plus whatever you did in there should send a nice message to the rest.”

You shrugged, the movement elegant even in tactical gear. “The message needed to be loud.”

“No arguments here.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in your eyes. “Bruce is gonna have an aneurysm when he finds out about tonight.”

“Good. Maybe it’ll keep him busy enough to stop lecturing us about ‘excessive force.’” Your fingers found the edge of his jacket, tugging him closer. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my methods when I saved your ass in there.”

Jason’s laugh was rough around the edges. “Pretty, I never mind your methods. Just wish you’d give me a heads up. I like to watch.”

Your smile was dangerous and entirely too appealing. “Next time, I’ll put on a show.”

Jason absolutely gets your approach to justice and rarely questions your methods— if anything, he thinks you’re more efficient than the Bat-family’s usual “catch and release” program.

Will definitely team up with you on missions and enjoys the hell out of it, especially since you don’t try to hold him back from doing what needs to be done.

Gets incredibly protective when other people criticize your past or your methods, even though he knows you can handle yourself— old habits from his own experience being judged.

Loves sparring with you because you’re one of the few people who can actually challenge him, and there’s something thrilling about fighting someone who’s genuinely dangerous.

Sometimes you’ll find him reading up on Red Room techniques or Widow operations, not to judge but to better understand what made you who you are.

Has absolutely gotten into arguments with Dick and Bruce about your relationship. It’s a delicate situation. While Bruce and Dick understand you would never hurt Jason on purpose, they do worry how the methods you two choose will affect not only Jason— you as well.

There’s a twisted kind of understanding between you and Jason. I think in the end Bruce only wants the two of you to be able to find peace and not feel trapped by the blood you two have spilled.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　

. 　 ✺ 　 ⁺ 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍 ︶︶

The Blüdhaven rooftop was slick with rain as you materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Dick didn’t even flinch— he’d learned to sense your presence weeks ago, though he still couldn’t figure out how you moved so quietly in those boots.

“You’re late,” he said, not turning around.

“I’m exactly on time. You’re just early because you’re nervous.” You stepped beside him, close enough that he could smell gunpowder and vanilla perfume. “The target’s already handled.”

“Handled how?” Dick’s voice carried that careful neutrality he used when he was trying not to lecture you.

You tilted your head. “Does it matter? The trafficking ring is shut down, the girls are safe, and the world has three fewer monsters in it.”

Dick closed his eyes briefly. “We talked about this—”

“No, you talked. I listened.” Your gloved fingers traced along his jaw, gentle despite the calluses from trigger guards and knife hilts. “I know you want to save everyone, even the ones who don’t deserve it. It’s what makes you beautiful, Dick Grayson. But some people can only be stopped one way.”

He caught your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And what does that make you?”

Your smile was sharp as broken glass. “Practical.”

Dick tries so hard to be the moral compass in the relationship, constantly walking the line between accepting who you are and hoping he can influence you toward less lethal methods. (He’s like “I can fix them” and just makes it even worse). It’s not as if he doesn’t want to see this side of you. He does. He just wants to help you navigate the pain jt took to get here.

He’s genuinely fascinated by your skills and will ask you to teach him your stealth techniques, though he draws the line at the more assassination-focused training.

Gets genuinely distressed when you disappear for days on missions, not because he doesn’t trust your abilities, but because he worries about what those missions might be doing to your body and mind.

Has definitely tried to introduce you to everyone else as a “reformed” anti-hero, which backfired spectacularly when you made a casual comment about eliminating witnesses. He learned not to sugar-coat you and your methods after that. Better to accept them head on.

Loves the way you move— there’s something almost hypnotic about your grace in combat that he finds beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

Will patch up your wounds without question, but always with that worried crease between his brows that you’ve learned means he’s planning another “conversation” about your methods and how you cannot keep putting yourself in so much danger.

Sometimes catches you staring at him like you’re memorizing his face, and it breaks his heart a little because he knows it means you’re always prepared to run.

Has started leaving his window unlocked specifically for you, even though you’ve never actually needed to use the window.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　

﹒ ♪ ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

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hyuniemyunie · 4 months ago

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Beneath the Masks

obey me boys x gn!reader

sfw

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(ФωФ): reverse comfort.

is the fandom dead cuz😭😭😭 I MISS THESE BOYS SO MUCHHHH UGHHH. whos ur fav cuz i cant choose between mammon and asmo..(its mammon)

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･

The Weight of the Crown

The House of Lamentation was unnervingly still.

Normally, Lucifer’s presence was a constant force—measured footsteps in the hall, the quiet rustle of papers in his study, the occasional exasperated sigh whenever Mammon did something idiotic (again). But tonight, the silence felt heavy, pressing down on the walls like a storm waiting to break.

You found him at his desk, as expected, but something was wrong.

His usually pristine posture was absent—he was hunched over, elbows on the desk, head resting in one hand. The other gripped a glass of Demonus, but he hadn’t even taken a sip. His brows were furrowed, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The candlelight flickered against the sharp angles of his face, making the tired lines around his eyes more pronounced.

Lucifer was rarely unguarded. Even in moments of quiet, he held himself like a statue carved from obsidian—elegant, untouchable. But right now?

Right now, he looked tired.

"Lucifer."

He didn’t react immediately, only inhaling sharply through his nose before straightening, his usual mask slipping back into place as if it had never cracked.

"You should be in bed." His voice was smooth, steady. But there was something strained beneath it.

"So should you." You stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. He tensed—just for a second—before exhaling and leaning ever so slightly into your touch.

"There’s still work to be done."

"Lucifer." Your fingers brushed against the back of his neck, gentle. "You say that every night."

His silence spoke louder than any excuse.

Carefully, you reached down and took the glass from his hand, setting it aside. He didn’t resist, just watched you with those sharp crimson eyes, searching.

"What happened?" you asked softly.

He sighed, tilting his head back slightly. The shadows under his eyes were deeper than usual.

"Diavolo has entrusted me with another task. A delicate one. And my brothers…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "…continue to be themselves."

You almost smiled. Almost. But the weariness in his voice was enough to keep your expression soft.

"You don’t have to do everything alone, you know."

"Yes, I do." His answer was immediate.

"No, you don’t," you countered, shifting to kneel beside his chair so you could look up at him properly.

Lucifer’s gaze flickered.

"Who else will?"

That was the heart of it, wasn’t it?

For thousands of years, Lucifer had been the protector. The eldest. The one who took the fall, who bore the punishment, who carried every burden so his brothers wouldn’t have to. It was ingrained into him, a duty written into his very bones.

But even the strongest pillars cracked under too much weight.

"You don’t trust anyone else to help." Your voice was gentle, not accusing, just understanding.

Lucifer sighed again, closing his eyes. "It is not a matter of trust. It is simply reality."

You hesitated before reaching out, taking his hand in yours. His fingers were tense, cold from exhaustion, but he didn’t pull away.

"Then let me be part of that reality."

His eyes opened, startled. You squeezed his hand.

"You carry so much, Lucifer. Too much. You hold up the Devildom, the House of Lamentation, your brothers. But who holds you?"

Lucifer didn’t answer. He just stared at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"Let me be that person," you whispered. "Even just for tonight."

Something in him broke.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in some grand display of emotion. But in the way his shoulders slumped just a little, in the way his fingers slowly curled around yours, gripping you like a lifeline.

"You are too good to me," he murmured.

"You deserve it," you countered.

Lucifer exhaled, a slow release of tension, and for once, he let you guide him. You tugged him gently up from his chair, leading him away from his desk. He hesitated, casting one last glance at his unfinished work, but ultimately followed as you pulled him toward his bed.

He sat at the edge, and you stood between his knees, running your fingers through his hair. He melted under your touch, leaning into it without resistance.

"Close your eyes," you murmured.

Lucifer obeyed.

For a long moment, you just stood there, combing your fingers through his dark locks, letting the weight of the day slip away from him. His breathing steadied, and the tension in his body slowly eased.

"Stay," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

"Always."

And that night, for once, Lucifer let himself rest.

Golden, Even in the Dark

The first sign that something was wrong was the eerie silence.

Mammon wasn’t yelling about some new scheme. He wasn’t bragging about his latest purchase or complaining about his brothers. He wasn’t even trying to drag you into some get-rich-quick plan.

He was quiet.

Too quiet.

When you found him in his room, he was sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed with his knees pulled up, staring at the wall. His D.D.D. lay forgotten beside him, the screen dim. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be seen.

This wasn’t his normal sulking after losing a bet or getting scolded by Lucifer. This was different.

"Mammon?"

He flinched slightly at your voice but didn’t look up.

You didn’t wait for an invitation. Instead, you sat beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. He stiffened for a second before sighing, running a hand down his face.

"You shouldn’t be here," he muttered. "Ain’t exactly good company right now."

You bumped your shoulder against his. "Too bad. I like your company."

Mammon let out a humorless laugh.

"Yeah? Well, you’re probably the only one."

That was what made your stomach twist. The way he said it—flat, resigned, like he truly believed it.

You stayed quiet, giving him space to talk.

It took him a moment, but eventually, he sighed again, running a hand through his messy white hair.

"I just... I dunno." His voice was quieter than usual. "Some days, it just feels like—like everyone’s right about me."

Your chest tightened.

"What do you mean?"

He scoffed. "C’mon, ya know what I mean. I screw up all the time. I owe Grimm to half of the Devildom. I mess up every job I get. No one takes me seriously, and maybe they shouldn’t."

His hands clenched into fists.

"I get called a scumbag so much it’s startin’ to sound like my damn name."

You reached out, gently prying one of his fists open to hold his hand. His fingers twitched but didn’t pull away.

"Mammon." Your voice was soft but firm. "You are not a scumbag."

He let out another bitter laugh. "Ya don’t gotta say that just ‘cause you’re my partner."

"I’m not just saying it. I mean it." You squeezed his hand. "You mess up sometimes. So what? That doesn’t make you bad. That makes you human. Well… demon. But you know what I mean."

His lips twitched, just barely, before he sighed again, rubbing at his eyes like he was trying to wipe away thoughts he didn’t want to have.

"It’s just…" His voice wavered. "Sometimes, I think—what if I really ain’t good for nothin’? What if they’re all right?"

That was it. That was the thought eating away at him.

Without thinking, you moved, shifting so you were right in front of him. He blinked at you, startled, as you took his face in your hands.

"Mammon. Look at me."

He hesitated but obeyed, his eyes flickering with something vulnerable.

"You are not worthless. Not even close. Do you know what I see when I look at you?"

His throat bobbed. "…A greedy idiot?"

You flicked his forehead lightly. "No, dummy." You gave him a soft smile. "I see someone who cares. Who loves his family even when they’re mean to him. Who protects the people he loves even when he’s scared. I see the Mammon who makes me laugh when I feel awful. The Mammon who gave me his jacket when I was cold, even though he pretended it was ‘just ‘cause I looked pathetic.’"

His ears went red. "Oi—!"

"I see the Mammon who would give me the last bite of his favorite food if I asked."

"Tch, yeah, ‘cause you steal it from my plate."

"And yet, you never stop me."

Mammon grumbled something under his breath, but his shoulders relaxed a little. His fingers squeezed yours back.

"You’re a lot of things, Mammon. Stubborn. Loud. Sometimes reckless. But you are not worthless. And I don’t ever want to hear you say that again, got it?"

His eyes searched yours like he wanted to believe you, but something was still holding him back.

So, you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his.

"I love you," you whispered. "You. Not some perfect version of you. Just you. The greedy, dramatic, ridiculous, caring, golden-hearted dude that I fell for."

Mammon sucked in a sharp breath.

And then, to your surprise, he collapsed against you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he buried his face in your shoulder. You felt the way his breathing hitched, the way his fingers clutched at your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

You hugged him just as tightly.

"You really mean that?" His voice was so quiet it nearly broke your heart.

"With everything I’ve got."

He didn’t respond right away. But after a moment, you felt him nod against your shoulder.

"…Okay."

It wasn’t a grand declaration, but you knew what it meant.

So you just held him, letting the silence settle, warm and comfortable.

Eventually, you felt him shift, mumbling into your hair, "You… You ain’t gonna let go yet, right?"

You smiled, squeezing him tighter.

"Not a chance."

Glitches in the System

Something was wrong.

You knew it the second you stepped into Leviathan’s room. The usual comforting glow of his multiple screens flickered erratically, casting strange shadows across the mess of figurines, manga stacks, and game cases scattered around. But the most unsettling thing?

Levi was silent.

No muttering about some new event in Mythic Devildom, no complaints about normies ruining a franchise, no excited rambling about an upcoming gacha banner. Just… silence.

Your stomach twisted.

He was at his desk, hunched over with his back to you, but he wasn’t playing anything. His keyboard was untouched. His headphones hung around his neck, blinking like they’d been disconnected mid-game.

"Levi?"

He tensed, fingers curling into his sleeves. "Go away."

Your heart sank.

"Not happening." You stepped closer, hesitating only slightly before reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched.

"I said—!" He spun around, eyes burning with frustration—until they landed on you. His glare faltered, flickering into something more uncertain.

You took that as a win and pulled over a chair, sitting beside him.

"Want to tell me what happened?"

Levi scoffed, dropping his gaze. "Tch. Like you care."

Your chest ached.

"I do care, Levi. That’s why I’m here."

He hugged himself, pulling his hoodie sleeves over his hands, a defensive habit you knew all too well.

"It's stupid," he muttered.

"If it’s making you feel like this, it’s not stupid."

He inhaled sharply but still wouldn't look at you.

"…I lost," he finally said.

You blinked. "Lost?"

"Yeah." His voice was bitter. "I was in this tournament—one of the biggest ones for my game. I practiced for weeks. I barely slept, barely did anything else, and I still—" He cut himself off, gripping his arms tighter. "I lost. And everyone saw. Everyone in the chat was laughing, calling me a failure, saying I was all talk. And maybe they’re right."

Your heart broke.

"Levi."

"No—!" He shot up suddenly, knocking his chair back. He started pacing, his movements frantic. "They are right! I am a failure! I call myself a pro gamer, but what kind of pro gamer loses like that?! It wasn’t even close! I embarrassed myself in front of thousands of people! I—I—" His voice cracked.

Then, suddenly, he stopped, shoulders shaking. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

You realized with a jolt—he wasn’t just upset. He was panicking.

You moved without thinking, stepping right in front of him.

"Levi, look at me."

He shook his head violently.

"Levi."

Nothing. He was spiraling, lost in his own thoughts, drowning. You hesitated only a moment before cupping his face gently, forcing him to focus on you.

His wide eyes locked onto yours, pupils blown out in distress. His breathing was ragged, his whole body trembling.

"Breathe with me," you murmured. "Okay? In—" You inhaled deeply, exaggerating it. "—and out."

His breath hitched, but he followed, shaky and uneven.

"Again," you urged.

Another breath. This one a little steadier.

And another.

Slowly, the tension drained from his body. His fists loosened, his breathing evened out.

And then—he collapsed against you.

You barely had time to react before his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a desperate, shaking hug. His face buried itself in your shoulder, and you felt a dampness against your shirt.

"I—I tried so hard," he whispered, voice raw. "And I still wasn’t good enough."

You held him tighter. "Levi, you are more than a game. More than a tournament. Losing doesn’t make you a failure."

His grip tightened. "Then why does it feel like it?"

You exhaled softly, running your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp the way you knew soothed him.

"Because you care. Because you put everything into the things you love. That’s not a weakness, Levi—that’s passion."

He shuddered against you.

"But they—everyone in the chat—"

"They don’t matter. They’re just voices in the void. I’m real. Your brothers are real. And we all love you no matter what."

He let out a broken noise, gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

You held him through it, letting him feel everything he needed to feel.

Minutes passed. Eventually, his breathing steadied, and his hands wrapped loosely around your wrist—a quiet, instinctual gesture of comfort.

"You’re really not gonna leave, huh?" His voice was hoarse but teasing.

You smiled against his hair. "Not a chance, Leviathan."

He sniffled. "Tch. Normie."

But his arms never let go.

Tears in the Pages

The library was quiet, as it usually was in the late hours. But tonight, there was a noticeable absence of the usual rustling of pages, the low murmurs of Satan reading, lost in a novel or some new research.

Instead, there was just silence, thick and heavy.

You found him curled in the corner of the library, a worn book resting untouched in his lap. The soft glow of the candlelight flickered against his pale skin, but his usual sharp gaze was nowhere to be found. His eyes were staring blankly at the floor, distant, lost in a sea of thoughts that you could almost feel pressing down on him.

"Satan?"

His head lifted slowly, and you saw the faint traces of exhaustion and something deeper—something you hadn’t seen in a while. Vulnerability.

"I didn't hear you come in." His voice was softer than usual, quieter, almost subdued.

You hesitated for a moment before walking over and sitting beside him. The familiar scent of old books and the warmth of the fire were comforting, but the coldness in his posture was anything but.

"Satan, what’s going on?"

His eyes flickered, briefly meeting yours, before he turned away again, like he couldn’t bear to hold your gaze. "It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it."

You knew that tone. It was the same one he used when he didn’t want to be a burden, when he wanted to keep whatever was bothering him locked away. But Satan was many things—sharp, confident, clever—but the one thing he wasn’t good at was hiding his true feelings from you.

"It’s not nothing," you said gently, your hand reaching out to rest on his.

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t speak either.

"You can’t keep it all inside," you continued. "Whatever it is, I want to help."

Satan’s fingers twitched beneath yours, and for a long moment, he stayed silent, as though he was debating whether or not to speak. His chest rose and fell with a deep, almost imperceptible sigh.

"I’ve been...thinking about something." He finally spoke, his voice strained. "Something from a long time ago. Something I thought I had dealt with."

You leaned in slightly, concern creasing your brow. "What is it, Satan?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pressing together in a thin line, before he spoke again, his words quiet, almost fragile.

"The truth about my origins. The things that… were done to me before I became who I am."

You blinked, taken aback. Satan rarely spoke about his past, about the early years of his existence, before he was the commanding and intellectual demon you knew so well. It was always a sensitive topic, one he tried to avoid, but now it was spilling out, the weight of it too much for him to carry alone.

You placed your hand gently on his shoulder, offering silent support. "You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but I’m here for you."

He let out a bitter laugh, though it held no mirth. "It’s not about being ready. It’s just that…" He hesitated, his voice almost breaking. "I’ve spent so much time focusing on proving myself. On showing that I’m not what they made me, but…" His voice trailed off, and you could feel the tension radiating from him.

"But what, Satan?"

He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "But I’m still afraid. Afraid that, despite everything I’ve done, I’ll always be... that thing."

You didn’t hesitate. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. His body stiffened at first, as if he wasn’t sure how to react, but then, slowly, he relaxed, melting into your warmth.

"You are not that thing," you whispered firmly, your voice strong, unwavering. "You’re Satan. The demon who’s fought so hard for everything he has, for the person he is. None of that changes, not because of your past. Not because of anything."

He buried his face into your shoulder, his grip tightening around you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt the weight of his walls coming down.

"But what if I’m not good enough?" His voice was muffled against you, raw with emotion. "What if I’ve ruined everything by trying to be something I’m not?"

You pulled back just enough to cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, to see the sincerity in your eyes.

"You’re more than enough," you said, your voice steady, full of conviction. "You’ve always been enough."

Satan’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, the two of you were locked in that quiet space—where only truth mattered. Slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I’ve always been afraid of being a disappointment. To you, to my brothers, to myself."

You kissed his forehead softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. "You could never be a disappointment. You’re perfect to me, just as you are."

For a long while, neither of you moved. Satan was still, his body language soft and open, and you could feel the way the heaviness in his chest had lightened just a little.

And for the first time in a long while, you both allowed yourselves to just be.

"Stay with me?" he asked, his voice quieter now, less burdened.

"Always," you replied, pulling him close once more, never wanting him to feel alone again.

A Night of Roses and Reassurance

The House of Lamentation was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that felt wrong, like something was missing. You didn’t even have to check your phone to know—Asmo hadn't messaged you all day. No excited texts about the latest Majolish trends, no voice notes gushing about his new skincare routine, not even a single selfie.

Something was wrong.

You found him curled up in his room, hidden beneath a sea of silk sheets, his usual scent of roses and vanilla barely noticeable under the weight of something bitter. He didn't look up when you entered, which was an immediate red flag. Asmo always acknowledged you, always made a show of greeting you, even if he was in the middle of a dramatic episode about a chipped nail.

But not this time.

You approached slowly, sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress dipped, and Asmo stirred just enough to peek at you with tired, dull eyes. His makeup was smudged—something he’d never allow in normal circumstances.

"Hey, sweetheart," you said gently, brushing a strand of soft champagne-colored hair from his face. "Rough day?"

Asmo let out a heavy sigh, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. His lips trembled slightly before he spoke.

"It was awful."

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took his hand, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his palm, waiting for him to continue.

"Everyone was so… so mean today." His voice wobbled, and your heart clenched. "I know people call me shallow, but today it felt different. I overheard some demons talking about me—saying I was nothing but an airheaded flirt, that I don't really matter beyond being pretty. Like I'm some… disposable accessory."

His fingers tightened around yours as he whispered, "I know I shouldn't care what lesser demons think, but I do. And I hate that I do."

You didn't hesitate.

"Asmo," you murmured, shifting closer, your free hand cradling his cheek. He leaned into the warmth, his eyes squeezing shut like he wanted to block out the world.

"Listen to me. You are not shallow. You are not just ‘pretty.’ You are the most radiant, kind, loving person I’ve ever met. You make people feel seen. You make me feel seen. And anyone who reduces you to just your looks is too blind to recognize the heart behind them."

Asmo let out a shaky breath, his lower lip quivering.

"But what if they're right? What if I am just—"

"They're not." Your voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Do you think I love you because of your looks?"

His eyes fluttered open, glistening with unshed tears.

"...I mean, it helps," he tried to joke, but his voice cracked. You huffed out a small laugh before cupping both of his cheeks, thumbs stroking his skin.

"I love you because you're you, Asmo. Because you're the one who remembers how I take my tea. Because you send me cute messages just to make me smile. Because you give the best hugs, even when you're the one who needs them."

His breath hitched.

"Because you care so much it hurts. Because you have so much love in your heart, you don’t even know what to do with it. And because I—" you leaned in, pressing your forehead against his, "—would be lost without you."

A single tear slipped down his cheek. You wiped it away before he could, and that was all it took for the dam to break.

Asmo let out a choked sob and threw his arms around you, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him together. You held him just as tightly, rubbing his back as his body trembled against yours.

"I hate feeling like this," he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.

"I know, baby," you whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair. "But you're allowed to feel like this. You don't always have to be perfect."

He let out a wet laugh. "That’s funny coming from you, my little perfectionist."

You snorted, giving his side a playful squeeze. "Says the demon who takes an hour to pick a lip gloss."

"Excuse you, that’s a crucial life decision." His voice was still thick with emotion, but a little bit of his usual spark was returning. You smiled.

"How about this? We do a little self-care night. Just us. No outside world, no mean demons, just cozy blankets, snacks, and pampering. You can rant all you want, and I'll be here to listen. Sound good?"

Asmo sniffled, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "You really mean it?"

You booped his nose. "Of course, silly. I’d do anything for you."

He let out a watery giggle before pouting dramatically. "Ugh, you're too sweet. It's so unfair. How am I supposed to stay miserable when you're this cute?"

You grinned. "That's the point."

Asmo exhaled deeply, his body finally relaxing. "Okay, okay, you win. But only if we do facemasks. And you let me paint your nails."

"Deal."

And as you pulled him into another warm embrace, feeling his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, you knew—no matter how bad his day had been, he would always have you to make it better.

The Weight of the World

Beelzebub had always been a rock—unshakable, steadfast, and incredibly reliable. But tonight, something was different.

You found him in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge, staring at the vast array of food with a look of emptiness in his eyes. It wasn’t like him to be lost in thought like this, especially when food was involved.

“Beel?”

He didn’t respond right away, his hand still resting on the fridge door. He was so still, you could almost believe he wasn’t even breathing.

You stepped closer, quietly, making your way around the kitchen island to where he stood.

“Beel, talk to me.”

He let out a long sigh, closing the fridge door gently and leaning against it, his broad shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t been sleeping much, or maybe he had been sleeping too much, trying to escape whatever was weighing on his mind.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, but even you could tell that was far from the truth.

You didn’t let him hide this time. Gently, you reached out and placed a hand on his arm, your touch warm and grounding. “Beel, I can tell something’s wrong.”

His lips parted, but no words came out at first. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar nervous habit of his.

“I don’t know why I’m feeling this way,” he confessed, his voice heavy. “I’ve been so tired, and no matter how much I eat or how much I rest, it’s like there’s something missing. Like I can’t shake it off. It’s...”

He trailed off, his words stuck in his throat. You could see the turmoil in his eyes.

You stepped closer, closing the space between you, and took his hands in yours. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it by yourself. I’m here for you.”

For a long moment, he just stood there, his grip tight on your hands as though he were afraid to let go. Then, finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve been so focused on making sure everyone else is okay... but I haven’t been okay. And it feels like I’m failing.”

You blinked, surprised. “Failing? Beel, you’re one of the strongest people I know. You’re always there for your brothers, always looking out for them. You don’t fail.”

Beel’s shoulders slumped further, and he shook his head slowly. “It’s not just them... it’s me. I... I feel like I’m always just... eating to fill something up. It’s like I’m stuck in a loop. I don’t know how to stop, and I don’t know what else to do.”

You could feel the weight of his words sink into you, the pain of struggling with something so deeply personal and self-destructive. You took a deep breath, squeezing his hands.

“Beel, you don’t need to do this alone. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he finally let go of your hands to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His chest was warm, but his grip was shaky, as if he needed this more than anything right now.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

You hugged him back, tightening your hold. “You won’t hurt me, Beel. You never could. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here with you, okay? Whatever you need, I’m here to help.”

He stayed like that for a long time, his face buried in your shoulder, his body heavy against you. But little by little, you felt his tension start to ease. The weight he’d been carrying slowly seemed to lift, just by being here with you.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Beel murmured quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little tired, but there was a softness there now, a sense of relief.

“You’ll never have to find out,” you replied with a gentle smile, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “We’ll get through this together. One step at a time.”

Beel gave a small, thankful smile before pulling you back into his arms. This time, there was no tension, just a quiet comfort in knowing you were there for each other.

And as the night wore on, you stayed by his side, letting him rest, letting him be, while you both found the strength to face whatever came next—together.

Whispers in the Dark

The lights in the attic were dim, only the moonlight filtering through the small window to cast soft shadows across the room. You had been looking for Belphegor for a while now, knowing he’d been unusually quiet. Normally, he'd be lounging around or teasing his brothers, but tonight, the silence was unnerving.

Finally, you found him curled up on the couch, his head resting against a pile of pillows. His eyes were closed, but there was something about his stillness that made you uneasy. Normally, he was playful, sleepy, maybe a little too sarcastic, but tonight, he was just... absent.

You stepped closer, your voice quiet but gentle. "Belphie?"

He didn’t stir, not immediately, but you could see his shoulders shift slightly, as though he was aware of your presence but didn’t want to face you.

You sat down next to him, your gaze soft, watching him closely. It wasn’t like him to shut himself off like this.

"You’ve been quiet." Your voice was a little hesitant, knowing how he sometimes liked to keep to himself when he was upset. "What’s going on?"

Belphegor finally opened his eyes, slowly blinking at the ceiling, as though he didn’t have the energy to move. "It’s nothing."

You knew that wasn’t true. Belphie had a tendency to keep his feelings locked away, but you also knew that he didn’t want to talk about things he couldn’t fix. You reached out and gently placed your hand on his, resting against his side, silently offering your presence.

"It’s not nothing," you said softly, watching the way he stiffened for just a moment before his hand relaxed against yours.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to carry the weight of his frustration. "I’ve been... feeling like I’m not good enough. Like I don’t belong. I thought maybe, if I stayed away, it would pass, but it’s not going away. It’s just..." He trailed off, his words barely a whisper. "I don’t know what to do."

Belphie never liked feeling like he was a burden, and the weight of those emotions was evident in his voice. He didn’t need to say it, but you could hear how much he was struggling, how isolated he felt in the midst of everything.

You leaned in closer, your voice gentle but firm. "Belphie, listen to me. You don’t have to carry everything alone. You’re not a burden, and you do belong. You’re a part of this family, and you’re important to me."

He shifted, his gaze meeting yours, and you could see the conflict in his eyes—the part of him that wanted to believe you but the other part that still felt unworthy.

"I just don’t feel like I can do anything right," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "I’ve been so... tired of everything. It’s like I’m stuck, and no matter how much I sleep, I’m still exhausted, still empty."

You brushed your thumb across the back of his hand, your touch soothing, trying to ground him. "You don’t have to do everything by yourself, Belphie. It’s okay to feel this way. You’re allowed to have bad days, to feel lost sometimes. But you don’t have to stay there."

He turned his head toward you, his eyes softening as he studied your face. Slowly, he lifted his hand to your cheek, his fingers gently brushing against your skin. "I hate feeling like this," he admitted, his voice quiet but vulnerable. "But... I’m glad you’re here."

You smiled softly, moving closer until you were right next to him. You pulled him into a gentle hug, wrapping your arms around him, offering the comfort he didn’t know how to ask for.

"I’ll always be here, Belphie. You don’t ever have to face this alone," you whispered into his hair, your heart swelling with the desire to make him feel safe. "I’ll help you carry it, okay?"

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. But you felt his grip tighten around you, his body slowly relaxing in your embrace.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I don’t deserve you..."

"Yes, you do," you whispered back, holding him a little tighter. "You deserve all the love in the world, Belphie. And I’m going to make sure you always feel that."

Slowly, the tension in his body began to ease. He rested his head against you, his breathing steadying as he allowed himself a rare moment of peace.

And for that moment, the world outside felt far away. It was just you and him, holding each other close in the quiet, letting the weight of everything else drift away.

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the-silver-peahen-residence · 2 years ago

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To Jujutsu High students, how would you feel and do if Taz got bullied? This question also applies to Jinx's fraction or anyone that Taz befriends.

"Ha!?! Who the hell is bullying my baby sister!?" Yuji said ready to hunt someone down but Megumi calms him down with Nobara shaking her head.

"If we found out Taz was getting bullied we would be sure to put a stop to it. That means finding the bullies and asking them to stop..if not, we will be sure they suffer for it. No one bullies our little sister." Nobara said with arms crossed.

"Bullying is not the right way to solve or do anything but it would leave to some serious trouble for the other." Megumi said next.

"I mean come on! bullying is not cool and the face that Yuji would have really gone crazy finding out. He, Megumi, or me spare bullies because it's stupid and wrong. So yeah, you better believe we would be furious if someone did that."

"They have a point. We won't be nice if someone bullies the poor thing. Taz is a little sister to many of us." Maki said with Miwa agreeing as well.

~~~As for the others~~~

"W..w..who would wanna bully Taz!? S..she didn't do anything wrong!!!" Timmy said clearly upset but he wouldn't like it. "I..If someone bullied her then I wanna be sure to stop them. No one bullies my friend!" he said upset that his aura was showing that Ping calms him down.

'H..He's right though. No one should bully her because Taz is really nice. I..I wouldn't like that if someone bullied her. It's not right.' Ping mutters in her mind worried while Timmy calms down but he did deeply care about her so he sighed.

"Lets just say the bully won't have a good time that's for sure. No one bullies Taz like that." Jinx said crackling her knuckles with the other girls agreeing. Yeah, they wouldn't let that slide. "Any bully wanna try bullying her, their dead!" she warns.

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myfictionaldreams · 18 days ago

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If this isn’t specific enough if not pls just ignore this!! But i saw you were back and it made me so excited because I’ve missed you’re writing so much (it’s literally top notch) and you inspired me to start ACoTaR and OMFG I’m obsessed with the bay boys and was wondering how you think they’d be around there human soulmate like casual dominance to the max one of them would have to be with you at all times I feel like they’d be like “no baby let me do it” when ever you wanna do anything forget it if your hurt yourself while they’re not around they’ll be so upset

⁀➷ Nightborn Protectors // BatBoys (Acotar) x F!Reader

Summary: Your life was beginning to perfectly fall into place, especially when you're mated to three powerful Illyrians who would burn the world just to keep you safe. At first, their constant protection feels like overkill… until you realise that sometimes, being shielded is exactly what you need.

Requested by: My love, I absolutely loved this request. Thank you for sending it! I also fucking love that you have started acotar, it's the best right?!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, fluff, angst, teasing, alpha-batboys (showing off), possessive, protective, body worship, wrist injury, minor attack/threats, healing, threesome, oral (m receiving), rough sex, multiple orgasms

Words: 5.1k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The atmosphere was alive with soft, golden morning light spilling across the balcony, where the wind hushed through the curtains of The River House. The scent of coffee and something sweet wafted through the halls, mingling with the faint leather and metal scent that always clung to the males of the Night Court.

You were curled on the plush velvet chaise in the reading nook, sunlight catching the curl of your lashes, as you tried (for the third time) to lift a stack of books to reorganise the shelves. It had been your idea and project, something you’d been obsessively thinking about for weeks, but finally, you had the motivation to follow through with your plans.

What you hadn’t taken into account was the books themselves. The books were anxiety, heavy as stone, and you were barely halfway through the first shield before you heard the familiar, clipped thud of boots behind you.

Cassia, shirtless and smug, wings stretching behind him with a lazy ripple, leaned on the archway. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”

With a glance over your shoulder, you share a grin with your mate, pretending innocence. “Reorganising, obviously.”

Cassian’s brow arched. “Not with those little human arms, you’re not.”

“Cass-”

He was already across the room in three strides, plucking the books out of your arms like they weighed nothing. Casually, he tossed them gently onto a nearby table, turned you around, and lifted you into his arms like it was second nature.

Your mates were always like this. Teasing you, wanting to show their strength, their power. Using the excuse that you were human would sound condescending if it were anyone else, but it never was when it came from your mates. It was all to show off and treat you like their queen.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist. “I can do it myself!”

He smirked, “No, baby. Let me.”

Your bond with him shimmered like glitter in your chest, golden and sparking fire. His own glow pulsed in return, possessive, amused, and warm.

“You’re going to throw your back out again,” he teased, nose brushing yours.

“I did not throw my back out; you’re being dramatic, again.”

“You almost did.”

You rolled your eyes and rested your head against his chest. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, comforting, familiar. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Cassian chuckled and carried you into the training room, the floor below, where Azriel was already sharpening his blades.

The dark swirls of his shadows twisted toward you the moment you entered the room, skimming coolly against your skin like they missed you.

“Human pack mule today?” Azriel asked with his hidden sense of humour. He wasn’t even looking at you, assuming his little shadows whispered your current situation into his ear.

“She insists on lifting things, brother,” Cassian said solemnly, as if you had personally offended him. “As if she's not made of spun sugar and soft sighs.”

You stuck your tongue out at him whilst tugging on the low ponytail he had at the nape of his neck.

Azriels’ hazel eyes finally lifted to meet yours. “You smell like sunlight.” His shadows coiled tighter, floating across the edge of his wings. “And mischief.”

“Guilty,” you say, tilting your head back to stare at him.

Azriel finally lowers the weapons, steps forward, and takes your hand from Cass’s shoulder, brushing his lips over your knuckles. His touch is always ice cold due to the scars on his fingers, but it is needed, given how warm your body feels.

“Next time, call me. Or the shadows. Or anything other than lifting ancient books.”

Cassian's arms tightened as he growled, “You told her she could lift them?”

Azriel raised an elegant brow, staring into the eyes of his best friend without a hint of fear. “I said she shouldn’t. She didn’t listen.”

Your mouth opens to retort, but Rrhysand appears in the doorway, his wings present, casting shadows across the floor. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and his signature smirk that could end empires.

“I bring offerings,” he announces, “ to my hardworking, book-hoarding mate and the two territorial bats who can’t go five minutes without fussing.”

“Rhys,” you sigh, delighted as he floats both mugs toward you with a flick of his fingers, showing off.

But when you reached out to take one, he suddenly reappeared by your side, his hand catching your wrist midair.

“Ah-ah.” Stepping closer, Rhys’s lips brush against your cheek. “No lifting. Didn’t Casian explain the new rule?”

“You’re being utterly ridiculous, High Lord. Anyway, I like carrying things. I’m not made of glass, you know.”

Rhys leans in, kissing your temple with care. “No. But you’re ours. And that’s more fragile than glass.”

The bond between you tugged tightly, a warm violet flame wrapping around your ribs, his presence sliding through your soul like silk and starlight.

You melted into him, resting your forehead against his whilst remaining in Cassian’s arms.

“I like it when you’re bossy,” you whispered.

He straightened his posture, nose brushing yours, “Careful. I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Cassian groans, “She does like it, I can smell her arousal every time you use that voice.”

“I do not-”

“Oh, you do.” Az’s shadows tangled around your legs, their version of a teasing nudge. “But we like it, too.”

You tried to stay grumpy. You really did.

But the three of them surrounded you, Rhys with his silk, Azriel with his shadows, Cassian with his grounding touch, and you felt like you were wrapped in the safest kind of armour.

Even if you could lift your own damn books, you let them fuss. You let them carry a coffee and smirk at each other like they’d won some ancient war over who could out-alpha the others.

Because you knew the hardships they’d endure in life and how much they deserved to be loved, if they wanted to show their love and caution to their human mate by fussing, you would damn well let them.

Mor, ever the nosy friend, peeks her head in later, seeing Cassian massaging your feet while Azriel lifts your drink to your lips, and Rhys is reading a book out loud. She nearly falls over laughing.

“I told you,” she snorted over her shoulder as Amren appeared. “You’ve spoiled her too much. She's going to forget how to walk.”

“Please,” Amren replies dryly. “She’ll weaponise it.”

You just grunt at them, completely content among your Illyrian mates.

Later that afternoon, you found yourself nestled into a lounger on the balcony nursing a glass of piced wine with Mor and Amren flanking either side of you in their own chairs.

It had become a bit of a tradition, these slow, late afternoons spent watching the Illyrian males orbit around you. Cassian was sparring with Azriel in the courtyard below, shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles rippling as they moved with a grace that made even Mor whistle low under her breath.

“You know,” she said, sipping her wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen those three so obsessed with something before. You have them wrapped around your little finger.”

Biting your lip, you tuck your knees up under you. “They like doing things for me.”

Amren scoffed. “Like? Darling, they fall over themselves trying to impress you. You ask Rhys to pass the salt, and he makes it levitate into your hand with a bow. You so much as look at Cassian’s swift, and he’s offering to teach you ten new forms. Azriel won’t even let you open doors.”

Mor giggles. “I saw him growl at a poor steward who dared to open one for her once.”

“Growled?” you echo, not bothering to hide your grin.

“Growled,” Amren confirmed. “Those boys turn into beasts when it comes to you. And all because he thought someone else might take care of you before he could, it’s ridiculous.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and your heart beat harder, not just with affection but something deeper. That sacred bond between you and them thrummed in your chest like a second pulse, and in moments like this, when your friends teased you and the boys played at war below, it hit you just how rare and precious this life was.

Even for a human, so much more fragile and mortal compared to your friends and family. Yet they loved you like you were carved from stars.

Mor leans across the arm of the chair. " Do you want to test how far we can push them?”

Amren tries to hide her smirk around the rim of her drink. “Oh, please say yes. It’s boring around here without a little chaos.”

“Push them how?”

Mor grins wider, happy that you’re willing to entertain her idea. “Act helpless—just a little. Drop something. Pretend to shiver. Watch what happens.”

You laugh, head tilting back, “You’re evil, my friend.”

“We’re bored. Entertain us.”

With the glint of mischief lighting your spine, you rose from your chair and went to the balcony rail, where the boys were still mid-spar. You lean forward, ever so slightly over the railing and-

“Careful, sweetheart.”

Cassian’s voice booms across the courtyard, wings flaring wide like he’s a second away from flying towards you.

You blink innocently at him. “What?”

“That rail doesn’t look safe, and your centre of gravity is too sweet to be trusted.” He’s given up just watching and flies towards you, landing beside you, scooping you back from the edge and wrapping his arms around you from behind.”Don’t dangle. Illyrian air drafts are unpredictable.”

From below, Azriels gave you a knowing look and winked.

Cassian didn’t notice or say a word about how Mor was cackling behind you.

“This is going to be fun!” she exclaims.

Later, back inside, the teasing continued. You pretend not to be able to open a jar. Rhys appears instantly, eyes darkening with amusement, saying. “Here, darling. Let your High Lord mate assist.”

You sigh dramatically, leaning against the table whilst fluttering your lashes.

Azriel straightened every picture frame you touched, fixed your shoelaces, and insisted on tucking a blanket around your legs as you sat reading.

“They're obsessed,” Mor whispers gleefully, holding your outstretched arm. “Completely gone for you.”

Your gaze turns to the three males, quiet and alert, watching you from different angles.

Your heart ached for a moment because of how much you loved them. They adored you, and you worshipped them.

You hadn’t meant to go alone. You weren’t trying to prove anything, either. You just wanted to get a bottle of that rose-petal wine Rhys liked. A simple errand. One small task.

You slipped out before the boys returned from a meeting at a local Illyrian camp. Mor was busy with court business, and Amren was muttering about some ancient artefact in the study. It was supposed to be a dinner treat: a quick trip down the winding streets of Velaris to the little merchant outside Rita’s.

Only the sun was setting, and Rita’s was loud. The crowds and music thrummed against your bones. The customers spilt out over the cobbled street, the laughter bubbling in the twilight air.

You had to pass close to the edge of the building to avoid the commotion, and that's when you felt it.

A hand on your arm. Too tight. Too rough and very much unwanted as you’re tugged into the slip of alleyway between Rita’s and the merchant, away from most prying eyes.

You turn abruptly, blinking up into the face of a tall, tanned Illyrian male with scarred cheeks and cruel eyes, stinking of alcohol and grinning in a way that unsettles your stomach.

“Well, well,” he slurred, breath sharp and bitter. “Didn’t think they made little playthings like you anymore.”

You swallowed to try to coat the dryness in your throat, ignoring how your stomach flipped. Tugging on your arm, you kept your voice steady and firm. “Let go.”

He didn’t. “Come on now. A little thing like you shouldn’t be out here alone. Not safe for humans, is it?”

The words he was spewing would have had you laughing at any other time. Velaris was one of the safest places for you to be, especially in Rita’s, which was a safe space for you and your friends many times. This relates to you being human, but the fact that you were mates with three members of the inner circle, let alone the High Lord himself, shows that you were loved by the people living in Velaris and treated with respect.

Respect that this male wasn’t giving you, as he’d flown in from a camp nearby.

“I’m not interested, so let me go,” you say, trying to stay calm and muster the energy that Rhysand would give.

The male’s grin widens threateningly, “But I am.”

His hand moved to your waist, where it should not have been. And as you jerked away, his fingers closed around your wrist, hard, snapping a shock of pain up your arm. You cried out, gasping in pain.

Over the pain, warmth sparked to life in your chest from the bond as your pain and fear flowed through to your mates.

But they were already there, flying like black lightning strikes.

Cassian lands first, like a storm slamming into the stone, with enough force that cracks form beneath his knee. One moment, the Illyrian was sneering down at you, and the next, he was gone, hurled backwards with a thunderous crack as Cassian punched him in the centre of his face.

“You put your hands on her?” His voice was a snark. “You touched my mate?”

Azriel appeared next, shadows writhing like angry serpents. He stood beside you, instantly shielding you with one arm around your shoulders, scanning your face, body, and wrist. His voice was deadly.

“You hurt her.”

“She’s just-”

“You hurt her.”

Azriel drew Truth-Teller from his thigh sheath, the blade’s silver edge catching the light from Rita’s window.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was your mate-”

“She didn’t need to”, Rhysand demanded from the sky, descending like a god of night. Wings stretched, face cold. Power was rolling off of him in waves, ripping through the stones beneath your feet as the bleeding male dropped to his knees, begging to the cauldron.

“She is ours,” Rhys said, quiet and terrible. “And you laid your hands on her.”

The male tried to scramble away. Rhys didn’t let him. He waved his hand, and the Illyrian's body lifted off the ground, magic wrapping around him like iron chains. He choked as he floated midair, suspended like an insect as his eyes suddenly glazed over. Rhys was in his mind.

Cassian’s voice was a low growl. “You want him dead?”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows had already started pulling tighter around the male’s throat, like they also were trying to protect your honour.

“Not here,” Rhys said with a cold smile as he delved through the male's mind, finding every secret, every weakness this Illyrian had. “Take him to the dungeons. I want to look him in the eye when I decide how to end him.”

Azriel and Cassian flanked the still man, taking an arm each before disappearing into the skies.

Rhysand finally turned to you, “Let me see your wrist.”

You hesitated. The pain was duller now, but it was still there, blooming just beneath the skin and travelling the length of your forearm.

He took your hand so gently that it almost made you cry.

A cool shimmer of his magic curled around your wrist, settling into the bone and muscle, warming until the pain and ache completely faded.

“You healed it,” you said, obviously, confounded, as you wiggled your fingers, bending your wrist with ease.

“I’ll always heal you,” he promises, looking down at you with his brows furrowed with lingering anger. “But Cauldon, help anyone who ever gives me reason to do so.”

Rhys lifts your palm to his mouth, kissing it gently and resting it against his cheek, closing his eyes and having a moment. “We should’ve been with you.”

“I thought it was just a quick errand, I didn’t need you to go to the shop, Rhysand.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked beneath your palm as you ran your thumb across his cheekbone. “It doesn’t matter. From now on, you don’t go alone. Not even to the end of the street.”

The fierce pulse of the bond tugged in the centre of your chest. You could feel it, their guilt, their rage and their love. It wrapped around you like a blanket too heavy to shake off.

Not that you’d want to. You let it cocoon you.

Back at the River House, everything felt softer. Slower.

Rhysand had refused to let you walk home. One arm supporting your back and the other beneath your knees as he carried you in his arms, flying the two of you home.

Azriel and Cassian hadn’t returned, but you could feel their reassurance through the bond.

Rhys had settled you onto the sofa in the sitting room, wrapping you in Azriel’s favourite cashmere blanket, before pouring tea. His magic still hummed faintly against your skin, reminding you how close you’d come to worse.

The front door slammed open, and you immediately knew it wasn’t your mates storming in.

“I heard,” Mor snapped, striding like a golden storm in heels and fury. “Tell me that fucked is dead.”

Amren followed, her eyes glowing silver. “Or give me what’s left. I want to play Rhysand.”

You blinked up at them, blowing on the tea in your hands, “I’m okay. Rhys healed me, stand down, ladies.”

Your attempt at trying to jest was swiftly brushed aside as Mor dropped to her knees before you, eyes flicking over every inch before resting on your wrist, like she could see Rhys’ magical imprint on your skin. “Your wrist?”

“Better, truly,” you reassured softly, lowering the mug onto the table to the side of the sofa, rotating your wrist to show it was fine.

Amren cross her arms. “Better doesn’t mean he shouldn’t choke on his own spine.”

“She’s safe now,” Rhys spoke calmly but with authority, stepping behind the couch to rest a hand on your shoulder. “Cassian and Azriel are locking him in the lower levels.”

“I’ll join them,” Amren said, already turning.

Mor kisses your cheek, her voice tight with barely contained wrath. “I’ll bring wine. Then we’re going to carve that bastard’s name out of the records like he never existed.”

You gave them a small smile, touched despite the violence threaded through their words. “Thank you.”

“You’re ours as well, you know,” Amren’s voice floats from the doorway. “And no one touches what’s ours.”

As they swept out, you released a long, deep breath that you hadn’t realised you had been holding as Rhys moved to sit beside you, his hand brushing your thigh over the blanket.

“How are you feeling, darling?”

“Fine, I just wanted to go and get you a little surprise with your favourite wine, I didn’t mean to be reckless.”

Rhys’s hand slid to cup your cheek, tilting your face towards him as you gaze into his violet eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He did.”

“I know. I just hate that you had to come save me again.”

A new voice, low and gravelly, came from the doorway.

“We live to save you.”

Cassian, with Azriel over his shoulder. Both were standing there, framed by the fae lights on the walls, wings tucked in tight, and the fighting leathers still dusted from the dungeons. There was blood on Cassian’s knuckles.

When your eyes met his, the tension in his body broke. You rose from the couch, blanket slipping from your lap. He crossed the room in two strides and caught you in a crushing hug, burying his face in your neck.

“I’m okay,” you reassure, threading your fingers into his hair and holding him tightly. Azriel steps up to your back, needing to touch you to ensure you’re okay. Reaching back, you cup the back of his head. “Because of you.”

You look at them, your Illyrian mates. Something deep shifted in your heart. A need. A purpose. They fought for you every day. Now it was your turn to worship them.

Turning in Cassian’s arms, he cuddled his jaw. His eyes widened just slightly, startled by the change in your soft and intent expression.

“Let me take care of you now.”

Those hazel eyes widen, “What?”

“I want to show you what you are to me. To all of you.”

Rhys’s breath hitched. Azriel went still, and Cassian’s gaze darkened. “You sure?”

You nod slowly. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”

The door clicked shut behind Cassian as you stood in the middle of the bedroom, bare feet on the plush rugs, wrapping in only one of Rhysand’s robes.

Closing your eyes for a single moment, concentrating on the humming in your chest, like a second heartbeat, the bond gave a comforting tug toward your mates.

They were close by. Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel. Three of the most powerful males in all of Prythian. Lethal, strong and right now, watching you like they were the lucky ones. But you were and needed to prove how much they meant to you.

“I want to worship you. All of you. You’re mine, and I need you to feel that, after everything you’ve been doing for me, always done for me, protecting and caring, I need to do this for you.”

Rhysand’s smile just falters, but it is noticeable to you. Azriel’s shadows stilled. Cassian’s jaw flexed as he stepped closer.

“You’ve had a rough night,” Rhy said, voice like midnight smoke, trying to sound reassuring. “We should be the ones-”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him. “Tonight is mine. You give me everything. You are everything to me. Let me show you.”

Then you dropped to your knees in front of them, removing the robe until you were bare before them.

Their silence was thunderous. Cassian’s cock visibly hardened, straining against his leathers. Azriel’s breath hitched, his wings expanding slightly. Rhysand’s eyes went nearly black.

“Fuck,” Cassian muttered lowly, taking a step forward. “You trying to kill us?”

You smile in response, leaning on your knees and reaching for him. Hands slow as you unbuckle his uniform, reaching inside to free his cock. He was thick, flushed and heavy in your palm. You licked a long, slow stripe up the length of him, eyes locked on his.

“Cassian,” you speak against his length, using your hand to move up and down the shaft in firm tugs. “You are the shield. The reason I can breathe easily. You’d burn the world to keep me safe, I just wish I could protect you the same. I love your strength, but it’s your heart that undoes me. So let me undo you.”

He groans, hips twitching as you take him as deep as your body will accept, tongue swirling around the head before bobbing lower. Your lips stretched wide, spit slicking your chin as you gagged around him, throat tightening, loving the weight of him against your tongue.

“So perfect,” you whispered against the tip of him. “Big, beautiful, yours. I love how you taste. Long how you feel in my mouth, Cass.”

“Fucking hell, Sweetheart,” he growled. “Your mouth’s made for this- mine.”

His hands fisted at his sides, the strain obvious as his hair falls into his eyes that are still staring at only you.

“I want you to come,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Come for me, Cassian, give it to me.”

With a curse, a steady hand resting on the back of your head, he spilt hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed every drop of his salty goodness, moaning as you did so. As he eases out of your both, you kiss his hipbone, praising him through it, licking him clean until he nearly trembles from the stimulation.

Cassian steps back, brushing his fingers through his hair until it’s out of his eyes and collapses back into the armchair by the roaring fire.

Azriel. He’s watching and waiting on the edge of the bed, his eyes fierce with emotions that he rarely verbalises, not that he’d need to, you can sense, feel how he feels. You crawl to him, ignoring the ache in your knees. Slower this time, your fingers run over his powerful thighs, palming his cock through his pants, feeling it throb in response.

“Az. I see all of you. I feel you. And I love every scar, every shadow, every silent part of you. Protecting us even without being physically there.”

He swallows, and you marvel at the sight of his beautifully tanned throat bobbing at the effort. A single finger runs from your temple, over your cheeks and to your chin, tipping it up whilst wiping some saliva from your time with Cassian.

“I need you.” his voice is rough and low, and your core tightens as the huskiness builds. In moments like this, his tough exterior shatters, becoming raw with his emotions.

You freed him and gasped softly- Cassian was thick, but Azriel had length, already leaking and pulsing in your hand. You licked the tip, catching the precum quickly, moaning at the taste, salty like Cassian but somehow having a unique taste. Sldiing him into your mouth as far as you could, tears burning your eyes as he fills your throat.

Azriel’s hands were firm as he brushed over the back of your head in reassuring strokes of his fingers.

“Don’t hold back, Az, use my mouth, I can take it.”

A shudder runs through him. “Please. Fuck-please,” he grunts out, head tipping back so you can admire more of his beautiful throat as he begins to thrust up into your mouth.

You worked him faster, worshipfully, loving how he lost control. You weren’t able to take much into your mouth without gagging so used your hand to stroke the rest of his cock.

When he came, it was with a breathtaking moan, shadows curling tight around your shoulders like an embrace, encouraging your actions as you swallowed every drop until he was slumping back onto the bed.

Rhysand was ready for you, where he was leaning against the wall, watching as you cared for his best friends. His cock was already out, his leathers resting mid-thigh as it had been obvious he’d been touching himself with the way his cock gleamed with the spread precum.

You’d intended to give him a similar treatment, but the High Lord was impatient as he moved towards you, tugging gently on your wrist as he sat further up the bed, resting against the headboard.

“You are my heart, Rhysand. My mind. My breath. Everything I am exists because you let me free.”

“The stars, the sky- I’d tear the world apart for you. I can’t-I need to be inside you,” Rhys rasped, helping you to climb into his lap, thighs straddling his waist, arms around your waist.

You guided him in slowly, gasping at the stretch. Rhys groaned, burying his face in your neck as you sank inch by inch, until he was fulyl seated inside your cunt. It was perfect, he was perfect.

“You feel like fucking heaven. So wet, so fucking tight. So mine.”

You rocked against him, arms around his shoulders, nails digging in as you moaned his name.

“You are mine and I am yours.”

Hearing your possessive words had his hips thrusting hard into you, his cock throbbing and balls tightening and from the moan you were sure he was already close.

“Not yet, let me just–”

Your hips continued to ease up and down, knocking the tip of his cock against that perfect spot, pushing your hips just slightly forward so that you could add pressure to your clit against his abdomen.

You kissed him then, tongues tangling together, so filthy and slow. Rhys whimpers into your mouth.

Then Cassian and Azriel were back, climbing onto the bed on either side of you, as naked as you were, watching as you rode their High Lord.

“Please come inside of me, Rhys,” you beg, cupping his cheeks so that you could stare into his eyes. You could tell he was still trying to hold back, but you didn’t want to wait; you needed to feel him fill you up.

“Shit-Fuck!” When he came, he sobbed your name, the bed trembling in time with his body.

You collapsed against his chest, breathing hard, pussy tightening and throbbing as his cum seeped out of you.

Cassian was behind you instantly, dragging you back onto your hands and knees.

“My turn, again,” he growled as you push your hips back.

He slammed into you. You screamed, back arching, and Rhys caught your hand and laced your fingers together as your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the welcome intrusion.

Azriel kissed your shoulder, your throat, your mouth, drinking down your pathetic whimpers.

Cassian fucked you like he owned you. A man without restraint, and every thrust of his hips was possessive.

“Tell me you’re mine, say it, sweetheart.”

“Yours, always yours,” you cry.

Rhys watched, stroking himself slowly as his cock thickened once more. Azriel leans down, whispering into your ear, “Open your mouth.”

You obey happily, and he fed you his cock again as Cassian drilled into you from behind. Your body shook with the force of it. Chin covered in spit and precum, your cunt soaked with arousal and cum.

You’d nearly stopped breathing when you came, vision darkening for a second as your entire body tensed, cunt pulsing in waves.

Rhys doesn’t miss a beat and flips you onto your back, Azriel pulling your thighs wide apart as Rhys slides back into your soaked, fluttering cunt.

“Gotta keep you full,” Rhys promises. “You’ll never forget who you belong to.”

You’d not even noticed through your pleasure that Cassian had come with you, but he was there, holding your hands like Rhys had been. Azriel straddled your chest, not resting his weight on you but just so he could lean over your head, gentle hands cupping yoru cheeks as he fucks your mouth again.

You let them take everything. Your moans echoed, mixed with theirs. Hands touching every inch of you, entirely owned by them. You came over and over until you were barely conscious, too blissed out to even move your body anymore with how good you felt.

Then things slowed, the touches lightened until everyone had found their peaks.

When it was over, they cradled you between them like something sacred: Cassian holding your trembling legs, Azriel wrapped around your side, and Rhys with his hand over his chest.

“I love you,” you say barely loud enough for them to hear, but they do.

“We can feel it here,” Rhys responds, tapping his hand to the centre of his chest.

“Sleep, love”, Azriel instructs, tightening his hold on you.

“You gave us everything. Now it’s our turn to take care of you, always.”

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