#Elevated Work Platform Course

[healthandsafety79]

Elevated Work Platforms and Aerial Lifts

Elevated Work Platform Course is one of the private workplace courses offered by F.A.S.T. Rescue across Canada, recognized by the Ministry of Labour. This program equips workers with a comprehensive understanding of elevated work platforms (EWPs) through both theoretical and practical training.

Course Content:

Legislation and Regulations: An overview of relevant laws and guidelines.

Types, Limitations, and Hazards: Identification of different EWPs and associated risks.

Setup, Inspections, and Operation: Procedures for setting up, inspecting, and operating EWPs safely.

Emergency Handling: Strategies for managing emergencies effectively.

The practical component will involve hands-on training, allowing students to apply and demonstrate their newly acquired skills.

Province: Ontario

Duration: 8 hours

Certification Validity: 3 years

Class Size: Minimum of 10 participants

[cesltraining]

Join expert-led MEWP training courses near you or onsite! Get your MEWP operator certification fast. Boost job safety with certified training today! The MEWP (Mobile Elevating Work Platform) Operator Training equips workers with essential skills and knowledge for the safe inspection, maintenance, usage, and operation of various MEWPs.

[buildsafecanada]

Ontario Hires 100 Additional Health and Safety Inspectors - BuildSafe - Construction Safety Services In

The Ontario government has hired over 100 new occupational health and safety inspectors to support business inspection campaigns, and help ensure employees, businesses and the public are protected.

#Constructionsafetyaudits

#constructionsafetyservices

#constructionsafetytraining

#constructionsitesafetyaudit

#constructionsitesafetyinspection

#elevatedworkplatformtraining

#fallarrestcourse

#fallarresttraining

#fallarresttrainingnearme

#heightsandsafetytraining

#sitesafetyinspections

#worksiteinspection

#workingatheightscertificate

#workingatheightscourse

#workingatheightsrefreshercourse

#workingatheightsrefreshertoronto

#workingatheightsrefreshertraining

#workingatheightstraining

#workingatheightstrainingkitchener

#workingatheightstrainingnearme

#workingatheightstrainingontario

#workingatheightstrainingottawa

#workingatheightstrainingtoronto

[sweetromanova]

Crisis Management: Part One🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

A/N: three parts coming your way and maybe a few extra if ever actually write something again!

Nothing says ‘serious business’ like a well-timed speech. 

Pepper Potts stood at the front of the briefing room, immaculate in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than your car. Composed, poised, not a hair out of place for a woman, with such a difficult job and an even more difficult husband. With the slightest motion, just one perfectly manicured finger, she tapped the control panel. A hologram flickered to life, bold title blazing across the screen.

THE FUTURE OF HEROISM: STRATEGY & PUBLIC ALIGNMENT INITIATIVE.

You, meanwhile, were mentally rewriting your resume and wondering if your last boss would still be willing to lie for you.

“As SHIELD enters a reorganisation phase…” Pepper began. “It’s important we reinforce public trust. The Avengers Initiative is no longer just about defense, it’s also about presence. Visibility. Hope.”

Tony Stark coughed something that sounded suspiciously like branding.

“We want to reach people where they are.” Pepper continued, undeterred. “Schools. Fundraisers. Streaming platforms. We want to build a bridge between what they see on the battlefield and what they can believe in their everyday lives.”

Steve raised a hand. “This doesn’t involve dancing, does it?”

Silence, then a much quieter. “Not necessarily.”

He groaned. “That’s a yes.”

You tried to blend into the wall but it was too late. Her gaze already landed on you.

“This is our new Public Image Strategist. They’ll be working with each of you individually to build out personal brand campaigns, coordinate appearances, and help… shape the narrative.”

Tony gave a low whistle. Steve looked polite but wary. Clint squinted at you like you might be a new type of training dummy.

And then there was the empty chair.

Seat: Natasha Romanoff. Status: Unaccounted for.

Typical.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The meeting ended with you holding a folder full of schedules, press requests and enough NDAs to gag a lawyer. You managed to corner Pepper near the elevator. “I don’t mean to complain, but you assigned a lot of focus on Nat-“

“Natasha.” She said, crisply. “Yes. She’s the priority. People are more interested in the woman, naturally and she has ZERO presence when it comes to fan or press events.”

“She didn’t even show up to the meeting.”

“She doesn’t need to. You’ll find her.”

You blinked. “Shouldn’t she find me?”

Pepper smiled, the kind that meant you were already ten seconds into a losing battle. “She’s not a ghost. Just... persuasive about her time.”

The elevator doors opened. “And when you do find her.” Pepper added, stepping in. “Be patient. And wear black. She hates color-coordination.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Three hours later, you found Natasha in the gym.

Of course you did. Where else do assassins go to ignore the living?

She was hitting the punching bag like it owed her money. No music. No distractions. Just the thwack of fists and the low hum of tension hanging in the air.

“Natasha Romanoff?” You tried, internally berating yourself over how pathetic you sounded.

No response.

You stepped closer, adjusting your clipboard like it was a bulletproof shield. “I’m-“

“I know who you are.” She didn’t look up.

That was all she said for a solid thirty seconds. Then, still without meeting your eyes, she added. “Turn around and walk out. You’ll get paid either way.”

You paused. “I don’t walk out.”

She finally looked at you. “Do you prefer to be carried?”

“I prefer to do my job.”

Her eyes were cool and calm and terrifyingly amused. “Cute.”

“No, seriously.” You frowned, trying not to backpedal. “I’ve been assigned to help you. And before you tell me you don’t need PR, I’ve read every major article about your past ten years, and frankly? You desperately need PR.”

That got a her attention. 

She stopped hitting the bag so you pressed on. “Look, I know you’re not a fan of this ‘smile for the cameras’ thing. But I’m not asking you to be someone else. I’m asking you to control the version of you the world sees. Because right now, the version they see is… scary.”

She walked past you slowly, grabbed a towel and wiped down her hands.

“You think I’m scary?” She asked, almost curious.

“I think you’ve trained people to be afraid of you. That’s different.” Now she looked at you directly. “I’m not scared of you.”

A faint smirked appeared on her face, like she found your bravery endearing, then she said. “Fine.”

“…Fine?”

“I’ll give you one week. One press appearance. One outfit, one event, one pathetic little video or whatever it is you people do.”

You opened your mouth but she held up a finger.

“But if I hate it, if I get ambushed by reporters, if someone asks me which lipstick I’m wearing while the world is still on fire, you’re done. And I mean done.”

You nodded, slowly. “Fair.”

She leaned in just slightly, the edge of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You really should’ve walked out.”

And then she left you standing in the gym with a clipboard, a heart that’s beating out of your chest and the very distinct sense that your life had just become infinitely harder.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You met her outside the Tower’s west exit at exactly 9:00am the next morning.

She was already there, leaning casually against the railing like she hadn’t just scared a State Department liaison into early retirement the week before. Dressed in what could only be described as ‘civilian casual’ for someone with a kill count, she wore fitted black jeans, ankle boots that had clearly seen both combat and cocktail parties and a leather jacket that managed to make her look more dangerous than full tactical gear. No weapons in sight, but it was Natasha Romanoff. She was the weapon.

“I said one event.” She warned flatly, eyes glued to her phone as her thumb flicked across the screen.

“And this is the one. You replied, lifting your tablet in a vaguely defensive gesture. “Daytime talk show. Live audience, five-minute interview slot. You smile, you answer a few softballs and we pretend you didn’t threaten three journalists in the last six months.”

Her lips quirked, barely. “Only two. The third one tripped.”

You tilted your head. “And landed on your elbow?”

“Gravity’s unpredictable.” She said, with a shrug. “How’d you know about that, anyway?”

“It’s in your file.”

“I have a file?”

You chose not to answer. 

Mostly because you could already feel the weight of her gaze pressing into your back as you turned and started walking. She didn’t follow immediately. She didn’t need to. You felt her assessing you, like she was running mental simulations of how fast she could incapacitate you, how much effort it would take, whether you were worth the paperwork.

You weren’t easily shaken. You’d sat across from CEOs with billion-dollar egos and reporters with blood in their eyes. But Natasha was something else. She didn’t need attention. She didn’t need to talk big. She existed with the unnerving confidence of someone who could take apart your entire day and maybe your spine, without raising her voice.

Still, you walked ahead with purpose, reminding yourself with every step that you were in charge of this assignment. You had the schedule, the briefing notes and the earpiece with a direct line to PR. She just had the ability to kill you with a paperclip.

Balance.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, where you watch the world pass by outside the window. The kind of loaded quiet where you waited and waited and waited to see who’s going to crack first. Probably the Russian assassin. 

She sat across from you in the back of the sleek black SUV, legs crossed, gaze angled toward the window. Not watching anything in particular, just staring out like the city bored her. Like you bored her.

You risked a glance. Her profile was all clean edges and shadowed cheekbones, the kind of stillness that didn’t come naturally. It was trained, learned in silence. Perfected in sniper nests and interrogation rooms. She was beautiful, yes but in the way it was only meant to be observed from a distance.

It said ‘Look. Don’t touch.’

“So…” You said, the word awkward and brittle in the air. “Any topics you want to avoid during the interview?”

Her eyes slid to you, slow and flat. “Do I look like I do small talk?”

“You look like someone who’d rather chew glass than talk about childhood pets.”

That earned a flicker, just the slightest tilt of her head. “You think I had pets?”

You considered her. “I think you probably had to improvise. Like… a stolen lizard. Maybe some kind of Russian forest spider.

She actually laughed. Low, short, like it surprised even her. 

“Stolen lizard.” She said, repeating it like she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or vaguely insulted. “That’s new.”

“I try.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly friendly but it had softened around the edges. Not warm but not actively dangerous.

You marked it as progress, small but it counts. The kind you didn’t take for granted when your travel companion had a kill count higher than you could count on your fingers and a fan club in the intelligence community.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The talk show set was chaos. Controlled chaos technically but only just. Lights blazed overhead, camera rigs swung dangerously close to expensive haircuts and nervous interns sprinted in every direction, clutching clipboards like life rafts. Someone in a headset was shouting about a broken teleprompter. Someone else was crying over coffee spilled on a celebrity dog.

Natasha surveyed it like it was a war zone.

You watched her automatically scan for exits, track movements in reflections, clock every potential threat with surgical precision. You half expected her to start marking civilians and calculating blast radius. 

Leaning slightly closer, you said quietly. “No one here’s going to attack you.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the chaos. “You think that matters?”

You blinked. “You’re not on a mission.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m always on a mission.”

You exhaled slowly and adjusted the lapel of your blazer. “Alright. Well. Mission: Public Relations is go. I’ll be right off-camera if you need extraction.”

She finally looked at you. That assessing stare again. “You’re good at this.” She said.

You raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I just don’t think you’ve had someone like me before.”

You smiled, tight but genuine. “You mean someone who growls at assistants and refuses to wear anything not black?”

“I mean someone who doesn’t care if people like her.”

You held her gaze. “That’s fine. I don’t need you to be liked. I just need you to be understood.”

That made her pause. Her expression didn’t change much but something shifted. A faint narrowing of her eyes. She looked at you like you’d just said something dangerous or useful.

“Careful.” She murmured. “You keep talking like that, I might start believing you.”

And just like that, you were off-balance again. Because you had no idea if that was a threat, a joke or something else entirely.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“Okay, people!” The host swept into the green room in a cloud of aftershave, hairspray and effortless charisma. “Where’s my Widow? Is she here? Am I safe? Do I need to wear kevlar?”

You turned just in time to see Natasha’s expression flatten.

“This is him.” You said under your breath, trying to sound encouraging. “Play nice. He’s basically America’s favourite golden retriever personified.”

The host beamed and extended a hand to Natasha. “You must be the famously terrifying Natasha Romanoff. Wow. You’re even more intimidating in person. This is fun already.”

She stared at his hand like it had insulted her ancestors. 

Then, very slowly, shook it.

He laughed, nervously. “God, I love that. That vibe. So intense. I mean, what an energy. I’m sweating a little. Are you sweating? It’s hot in here, right? I’m sweating.”

“No.” Natasha deadpanned.

Silence.

You coughed into your sleeve to hide a laugh.

The host pressed on, undeterred. “Okay, okay, we’re gonna have a great time. Just a short segment! Little chat, couple light questions, maybe a joke or two. Nothing deep, nothing classified. Sound good?”

Natasha tilted her head. “I don't really do jokes.”

He pointed at her like she’d just made one. “That’s so good. You’re hilarious. This is gonna kill.”

She didn’t blink.

You gave her a subtle nudge toward the stage. “Smile. Or at least don’t stab him, please.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The interview itself went surprisingly well.

There was only one hiccup, if you could call it that, when the host asked about international diplomacy and Natasha, deadpan as ever, replied. “I don’t believe in it. Some people just need to be punched.”

There was a half-second of stunned silence before the host threw his head back laughing. “Oh my god, same!”

The audience roared. Social media exploded in real time. Within minutes, the clip had been turned into a dozen GIFs. X was already calling it ‘iconic’, ‘big mood’ and ‘girlboss energy’.

From your place just off-camera, you watched her deliver the rest of the interview with practiced stillness, the perfect counterbalance to the host’s bouncing enthusiasm.

She was sleek, calm, perfectly collected. Every answer tight and controlled. Every joke or near-joke landing better than it had any right to. You tried not to feel the flush of something dangerously close to admiration. 

Once the cameras cute, she ignored the host’s grateful thanks and his outstretched hand. Instead she walked towards you, expression unreadable.

“Well?” She asked, almost looking for validation.

You crossed your arms. “You survived. No casualties. Minimal PR fallout. The internet is liking you. Against all odds.”

“I still might punch the host later.” She adjusted her jacket. “But for now… not terrible. Also, liking?”

“Liking. We have work to do to make it loving.” You huffed a laugh, more relieved than you’d admit. “But I’ll take ‘not terrible’ as a win.”

She gave you a sidelong glance. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

But the moment lingered, her posture a little looser, the danger less immediate. And for the first time since this assignment started, you wondered if she was letting her guard down or if she just wanted you to think she was.

Either way, you counted it as another mark of progress.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Back in the car, she didn’t sit across from you this time. She sat beside you.

Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed yours every time the car turned, close enough that you were suddenly hyper aware of your own breathing.

For a while, the city passed in silence, all blurring light, traffic hum and the occasional shout from a sidewalk. She said nothing, but you could feel her thinking.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke. “You really think I can be understood?”

Her voice was low like she wasn’t sure she believed in the question, let alone the answer.

You turned toward her, a soft smile on your face. You looked at the flicker behind her eyes that told you the question mattered more than she wanted it to.

“I think you’ve spent so long surviving that you forgot what it feels like to be someone. Not just escape someone.”

You saw it her falter slightly. Not on her face, she was too good for that. But in the way her gaze didn’t shift. In the way her breathing changed, just slightly.

She didn’t respond. Just turned her head back toward the window. “That was deep.” She murmured, making you huff out a laugh.

“Maybe your intense energy is rubbing off on me.” 

“Maybe.” She smirked, letting the silence fill the car again. But this time, she was the one stealing glances, watching your hands twitch on your lap, running up and down paperwork and carving out the outline of your phone like they were itching to pick it up. You kind of were, leaving Tony Stark in charge of a ‘What I Eat In A Day’ was enough to raise your blood pressure.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next day was officially ‘TikTok Bootcamp’.

The Avengers barely understood what that meant but apparently it was mandatory now.

Steve was standing near the set, eyeing the assortment of ring lights, tripods, and questionable props like they might explode. ““I’m sorry, what exactly are we doing?” He asked, dead serious as Bucky moved closer to him, almost using his body as a Shield.

“TikTok.” You said, forcing a smile that might have come off as a grimace. “It’s short-form video. Builds relatability. Everyone’s doing it. You’re Avengers, not relics.”

“I’d count those two super-grandpa’s as relics.” Tony, lounging in his trademark sweatpants and scrolling on his phone, laughed. “It’s basically the new battlefield. Less bullets, more followers. And memes.”

Clint was stretching like he was about to run a marathon. “I’m gonna blow out a knee. Sam owes me twenty bucks if I get more views than him.”

Sam smirked without missing a beat. “Dude, my last dance hit 2.4 million.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she was mentally preparing to file a formal complaint. “I’m not doing this.” She said, flatly and with a hint of finality.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Natasha, we agreed on five public engagement hours this week. This counts.”

“Dancing is not engagement.”

“It’s literally the most viewed content format on the planet.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “I don’t care.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Well, I do.”

That got her attention, her eyes sparked up like she’d been offered a challenge that only she could win.

“Look.” You sighed, at the group of adults stood around you. “Here’s the deal. We’re keeping it simple. No dances with more than six moves max. I’ll show, you copy. You don’t have to smile or enjoy it. Just follow.”

She gave you a slow once-over. “Is this painful for you?

“What?”

“Giving orders and not being obeyed.”

You grit your teeth. “No, what’s painful is organising this entire thing and having you stand there like a gothic gargoyle of sabotage.”

Clint wheezed from the couch. “Did she just call Nat a gargoyle?”

Steve, bless him, tried to intervene. “Hey, maybe we can just-“

“You-” You jabbed a finger at Natasha, ignoring Steve. “-are contractually required to participate.”

“And you-” She leaned in, voice low and wickedly calm “-are way more fun to watch when you’re a little off balance.”

You froze. The smug glint in her eye told you she’d done it on purpose.

Behind you, Tony muttered. “This is what the kids call a slow burn-“

“I got one of those from a chemical in Wakanda ones. I went four days before it blistered.” Bucky nonchalantly added, pointing out a little scar on the side of his elbow as Steve comforted him with a pat on the back. You had one thought running through your head . What the hell is going on right now?

“Ok.” You breathed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Ten minutes later, Natasha sat across from you like she was prepping for a tactical briefing, arms crossed, black hoodie pulled over a tank top, expression blank enough to scare a mirror.

“Okay.” You said, adjusting the camera. “Simple concept. I play you popular TikTok songs. You give your first reaction. Honest but light.”

She said nothing. Just stared at the tablet like it had insulted her ancestors. 

“Can you take that off?”

“My hoodie?”

“Yeah.”

Why?”

“You look less angry with your arms out.”

“You just want to see my arms.” She smirked but beying your order.

“No, I don’t but the fans will. So let’s get this done.”

You hit play on the first song ‘Good Luck Babe’.

Natasha listened with her usual poker face. Then, after a few seconds, she scoffed softly.

���Why does she keep talking about kissing men in bars all the time?” She grimaced. “Also I hate when people call each other ‘babe.’ I’m not a pig, thank you very much. This song is a waste of my time, next!”

You blinked, caught off guard by how blunt she was. “Natasha, can we maybe dial it back a bit?” 

“You wanted my honest reaction.”

“We want snarky, not savage.” You said, half-laughing.

She rolled her eyes. “Snark’s just polite savage.”

You sighed and tapped the tablet. “Okay, next we have ‘Espresso’.”

Fifteen seconds in, Natasha tilted her head. “Is this a real song or a torture device?”

You sighed. “Natasha-"

“Because I’ve interrogated people to better soundtracks. Actually, I’ve been tortured to better music.”

You paused the music. “Let’s maybe try a compliment sandwich, okay? Snark in the middle. Praise on either side.”

She blinked slowly. “That’s a real thing?”

“It’s literally in your media training.”

“I thought that was a threat.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Next one.” Your manicured finger hits play on ‘Break My Soul’.

The beat dropped on a club remix that had racked up millions of views. Natasha raised an unimpressed brow. “Did the producer get electrocuted halfway through?”

You snorted, despite yourself. “Okay. That’s not a compliment but it is kind of funny.”

“I’m adapting.”

You hit pause. “Could you just… say one nice thing? Anything.”

She pretended to think. “They… finished the song.”

“Natasha. It’s literally Beyonce, if you hate on her then even I can’t save you.”

She exhaled, long-suffering. “Fine. She has a great body.”

“I- What?”

“Look at her body.” Natasha’s tone dropped to a mock-serious lecture, eyes narrowing like a professor about to school you.

“Look, she’s strong. No wasted movement, curves where they need to be.” Natasha’s voice dropped just a little, a slow smirk creeping in. “And that ass, it’s basically a weapon.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and embarrassment. “Okay, okay, I get it.” You held up your hands, cheeks heating. “Once again, let’s dial it back!”

Natasha smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

“Next is ‘Obsessed’, it’s a song about her boyfriend’s ex.”

“Weird thing to sing about but ok.” You click play and Olivia Rodrigo comes to life, Natasha listening intently.

“Ok… the song is garbage-“

“Natasha!”

“But I’m kind of impressed. Her recon would be very good, she’d be a decent agent with some training.”

“I’m sorry, what-“

“She has good instincts.” She shrugs, repeating herself. “Next.”

“Ok last one, we have Billie Eilish.” You click play on ‘Birds of a Feather’ and watch something in her face change for the first time.

She’s quiet for a long moment, like she’s analysing the lyrics. “I like this, it reminds me of Yelena.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” She confirms. “Can we have another one?”

“Sure. You want to pick?” You hand her the phone and watch her scroll for a second before she clicks on ‘Lunch’.

It just hits the chorus when Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

“Oh.” She said, deliberately slow. “’I could eat that girl for lunch.’” 

You blinked, suddenly aware of the way she was looking at you. “As she-“

Your throat went dry. “Okay, maybe stop quoting now.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? I’m really thinking about the lyrics.”

“I need to keep this PG.” You excuse, heat crept up your neck.

Natasha’s smirk deepened.  “I like this one too.”

“You’re impossible.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

An hour later, the videos are mostly edited and the first lot have been launched into the black hole that they call the internet. The team are gathered around, scrolling through their phones and reacting to the avalanche of thirst tweets and comments.

Tony was the first to burst out laughing. “Oh man, check this out ‘I’d let Steve split me in half like a pistachio!’ That’s hilarious.”

Clint snorted. “Someone said they want to use ‘Natasha’s thighs as earmuffs’.”

“It could be arranged.” Natasha shrugs, smirking as she looks to you out of the corner of her eye.

“What is girl boss and why do I have it?” Wanda questions, clearly enjoying making new internet friends.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Listen to this! ‘I don’t know who’s thirstier, the internet or Nat herself’.”

“I’m not thirsty. What-“

“It means hor-“

“Ok, that’s enough for one day.” You interrupt with anxious smile, getting up to collect your things. Natasha’s gaze sharpened slightly but she didn’t say more.

Tony swiped to another comment. “Oh, here. ’Is it just me or is the tension here chef’s kiss?’ On Nat’s video. You two are getting shipped already.”

“Shipped?”

“Where are they going?”

“Why are they kissing a chef?”

“I don’t like boats.”

You laughed at their comments, brushing it off but the colour in your cheeks showed Natasha there was something more. “Tony, what is shipped?”

“Listen guys, maybe it’s time to put the phones down, yeah?” You attempt but Tony has other ideas.

“Urban dictionary says to ship, ‘meaning that you either want them to become an item, kiss or enter into a romantic/sexual relationship or all of the above’.”

“Oh.”

“The internet loves to match-make…” You try to ease the tension as the rooms falls silent.

“Well I did call it a slow burn.”

“I still don’t understand what that is.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You half smile to Steve. “Seriously, stop with the comments. My team will be going through it, deleting hate comments so please don’t reply to any of those.”

“Who’d hate on us?” Sam scoffs, at the same time as Clint says.

“‘Sam’s the only Avenger, who needs a step stool to hang with Steve and Bucky’.” The room dissolves into light laughter and you felt a little less flustered. But you can still feel Natasha’s eyes on you, watching you cautiously from her place on the couch.

“For the third and final time, I’m leaving.” You declare. “Remember no replies to hate comments. That means you Sam-“

“They’re saying I’m 5ft 4!”

“It will be deleted when you refresh the page, my team is good.” You assure. “Get some rest guys.”

The team bid you goodnight, lowering their phones for only a second as you leave the room before bringing them back up, to doom scroll the endless reactions. Just as the elevator doors close, you hear Bucky’s confused tone.

“What’s a bussy?”

[fellominaarcher]

don't gotta be in love — stripper!Karina x g!p fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Beneath the heat lies a soft toxicity neither of them can shake—a game of control, temptation, and unspoken feelings they both pretend not to crave.

⤷ prev | next | main m.list

⤷ content warning: sexual content (MINORS DNI), usage of alcohol and possibly drugs, probably will be long, more heavy themes.

A space bathed in red, blue, and green—colors bleeding into one another like temptation incarnate. Half-naked girls swayed on polished platforms, their movements hypnotic under the low haze of neon. Higher-class strippers graced elevated stages, commanding the poles like deities, gliding and spinning with the elegance of practiced sin. The bass throbbed in Y/N’s chest, a relentless thump that matched her heartbeat, dulled only by the alcohol she’d been nursing.

Hellfire Club.

The club that wore decadence like perfume.

The club that had Karina.

And there she was—Y/N.

Back in the den of temptation she told herself she wouldn’t crawl back to. But of course she did. She always did.

Back again.

Her gaze swept the room, but it was vacant in a way only an obsession could cause. She didn’t care for the others. Not the writhing bodies. Not the flirtatious giggles or the overdone perfumes clinging to their skins. Her mind was elsewhere, fixed on one thing, one woman.

Karina.

Co-owner. High-tier stripper. The first and only one Y/N ever truly wanted. The first woman who fucked her brains out and then left her bed like she'd never been there to begin with. The same woman who spat words dipped in venom while between her legs still slick with Y/N’s cum.

It had only been a few days since that night. Karina had shown up uninvited, draped in a long coat and armed with a mouth full of lies and lingerie stitched from devilry and Y/N had welcomed her like an idiot dog wagging its tail. That night had ended as it always did—with bodies tangled, breaths stolen, and bitter remarks left bleeding on silk sheets. Y/N let her go again, didn’t even try to stop her.

Because this was the only way she got close to her. As a customer. As a nobody.

Now seated in a lavish corner booth with gold accents and crushed velvet, Y/N watched the girls move like shadows made flesh. She nursed her drink, glass after glass, until numbers blurred. Eight? Ten? Twelve? She couldn’t remember. The taste of whiskey numbed her tongue, but her mind remained stubbornly focused, dangerously lucid despite the spin in her head.

One of the drinks, she was sure, had been tampered with. A small, low-dose cocktail of something meant to loosen her grip. Not enough to knock her out, but just enough to blur reality at the edges. She could still drive, probably. But that wasn’t what she came for. She didn’t come for logic.

She came for Karina.

Only Karina.

And yet… Karina hadn’t made an appearance. Not even a passing glance on stage. Not even that smirk that gutted her like a hooked fish. So she kept drinking, kept bobbing her head absentmindedly to the music, kept buying drinks for girls whose names she didn’t care to remember. Girls who came for money, for fake promises she delivered like a priest handing out communion.

They're drawn to the designer suit and the thick wallet. Stupid promises that smelt of paychecks and pearls.

Swarovski. Chanel. “I’ll take you home.” “I’ll buy you that necklace,” “You’ll never work again,” “Come home with me tonight.”

Lies. All of them.

Because none of them were Karina.

Until someone else approached.

A woman. A different kind of beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, smooth skin, an effortless power in the way she carried herself. She had that glimmer about her—expensive lingerie, smooth legs, perfect smile. The type who didn’t dance on the floor. One of the elites. She leaned down to meet Y/N’s gaze, her voice velvet smooth as she whispered just beside her ear.

“You look lonely.”

Her lips grazed Y/N’s jaw after the sentence, soft, deliberate.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her glass was suddenly heavier than before.

“There’s somewhere quieter than this… hellhole,” the woman continued, the word rolling off her tongue like a secret. “Let me take you there. I can fix it, Y/N.”

Y/N blinked. Slowly. The mention of her name jolted something in her drunken haze. Her gaze sharpened, if only for a second. “How do you know my—”

But the woman smiled, a curl of knowing mischief. She tugged lightly at Y/N’s collar. And Y/N, like a moth, followed.

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She let herself be guided away, letting this mystery woman lead her up into a part of the club she rarely had access to.

The private chambers.

Only a few times, though. Those times were with Karina.

Minutes later, they were side by side on a velvet chaise, surrounded by silence and ambient light. Her tie loosened, shirt slightly unbuttoned. Her skin wasn’t sweating anymore; the haze in her head had begun to lift, thanks to the cold glass of water placed in her hand.

“I’m the other owner,” the woman finally said, reclining into the plush couch. “You’ve never seen me because I was overseas for the past two months.” Her lips curled into a smirk. “But you can call me Winter.”

Y/N studied her, brow raised. “Winter, huh?”

Winter crossed one leg over the other, her dress inching up her thigh. “Mm. Not very fitting, is it?” she teased, eyes gleaming. “I tend to run hot.”

Y/N chuckled, her voice low and dry. “You run nosy. Knowing my name and all.”

Winter leaned in again, her lips hovering close. “I’ve read your file,” she whispered, fingertips brushing Y/N’s chest. “You’ve spent more on Karina than anyone else in the club combined. That makes you interesting.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat tightening. “Is that why you lured me in here? Business talk?”

“No,” Winter said simply. “Curiosity.”

Y/N chuckled lowly, taking a slow sip. “Is it that obvious?”

Winter tilted her head. “That you may or may not have an affinity for my business partner? She's known for her... emotional unavailability. You must really like getting hurt.”

“Maybe I like the burn,” Y/N shot back, gaze narrowing with a lazy smirk.

“Mm.” Winter shifted closer, their knees touching now. “Or maybe you’re just dumb.”

Y/N didn’t deny it. Her eyes lingered on Winter’s lips. “You didn’t bring me here to talk about Karina, did you?”

Winter is very pretty, easily passed as her type of woman to tangle with it but maybe Y/N was really desperate and halfway drunk.

“Maybe you're not as dumb as I thought you were, a pretty face and she wears good quality fabric as her suit,” she spoke, her voice was half teasing and her volume was low.

As if to tempt Y/N to break and the owners of Hellfire Club did have a bit of negative streak in them, don't they?

Winter smiled, it was playful, but there was a hunger lurking behind her eyes. She leaned in, her lips grazing Y/N’s in a teasing touch. A single peck. Then one at the corner of her mouth. Then her jawline.

Her hands pressed gently to Y/N’s chest, not pushing her away, but pulling herself closer.

Y/N responded slowly, pressing two soft kisses back to Winter’s mouth before gripping her neck with one hand—gently, possessively. Her thumb traced just beneath her jaw as she deepened the kiss.

She kissed her for real this time. Slow. Languid. Tasting. Feeling. Letting herself lean into it even though her head was still somewhere between wanting Karina and wanting to forget Karina.

Winter let out a soft moan against her lips, climbing onto Y/N’s lap, straddling her with graceful confidence. Her hands clutched the collar of Y/N’s shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. Y/N, in turn, slipped her hand under Winter’s dress, her palm flat on the soft skin of her thigh, moving up-

Winter broke the kiss, barely, and whispered against her lips, “You kiss like you’re still thinking about her.”

Y/N’s eyes darkened. “And you talk like you care.”

Winter smiled. “I don’t.”

And then they kissed again, rougher this time. More hands. Less restraint. Clothes loosening. Breath hitching.

But it wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something darker. Something hollow trying to be filled.

Winter broke the kiss first, gasping softly, her lips red and swollen. Her fingers curled into Y/N’s shirt like claws, trembling with lust and impatience. She wanted to rip it off, wanted to touch every inch of that body, feel that cock pressing into her, teasing her entrance without even being inside. Her clit ached with anticipation, her cunt twitching with the need to be filled.

Their breaths came out ragged, heated and uneven. The air between them was practically crackling. The temperature in the room spiked; heartbeats pounded like drums, fast and a tad heavy.

“You’re so fucking lucky, Y/N,” Winter whispered, her voice low and seductive, laced with something wicked. Her palm slid to the back of Y/N’s neck, nails grazing lightly. “I don’t usually bring customers to my chamber. I don’t let them touch me like this. Let alone fuck me on sight.”

She leaned in and kissed Y/N again. It was slow, messy, tongue licking into her mouth like she wanted to taste every regret she was about to cause.

It was long. Drawn out. Addictive.

They took their time. There was no rush, just the burn of anticipation, the slow unraveling of restraint. Hands roamed like they had every right, like they were both claiming territory. Y/N’s lips trailed down Winter’s throat, suckling, biting softly, then soothing the skin with her tongue. Winter let out a breathy moan, tilting her head back and grinding her hips down into Y/N’s lap.

They weren’t fully naked, not yet. But their clothes were disheveled, half-undone, falling away piece by piece like a countdown. Buttons popped. A bra strap slipped. A belt was loosened, hanging off the loop. They wanted to get there, to the core of it all.

But they didn’t want to rush what was blooming in the tension, the maddening pleasure of teasing, of knowing what was coming but refusing to give it just yet.

Winter straddled Y/N, rolling her hips down slowly, letting the friction of Y/N’s bulge make her whimper.

Y/N’s hands slid under Winter’s dress, up her thighs, gripping her ass and pulling her forward again, harder this time. She whispered something against Winter’s neck, it was dirty, low, possessive.

“Want you dripping. I want to bend you over this couch and watch you beg for it.”

Winter bit her lip, pressing her forehead against Y/N’s. “You’re close,” she breathed. “So close to getting everything you want. Keep going.”

Y/N didn’t need encouragement. She kissed her again, hungrily, then trailed her lips down to Winter’s collarbone, her hands now palming her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress. She wanted to ruin her. Wanted Winter’s legs thrown over her shoulders while she made her scream into the silk cushions of this goddamn throne room.

It was carnal. Beautiful. Consensual destruction.

Until the door slammed open.

The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Both women jolted. Winter cursed under her breath and immediately shoved Y/N off her lap, breathless and annoyed. The mood snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Standing in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes burning, was Karina.

Karina.

Wearing black leather pants and a cropped blazer with nothing but lace underneath. Her eyes were locked onto Winter, expression unreadable but vibrating with rage.

Winter groaned and rolled her eyes. “Well, fuck… night’s ruined.” She adjusted her dress with lazy irritation, the fabric barely covering her thighs.

Y/N stood up too, buttoning her shirt clumsily, tucking it back into her pants as if that would erase the heat still radiating off her. Her head was spinning. She was still a little high, on alcohol, on lust, on Winter’s lips but Karina’s sudden entrance cut through it all.

Y/N turned to face her. “Karina…”

She said it like a prayer. Like an answered one.

But Karina didn’t look at her. Not once. Her eyes never left Winter, cold and sharp like she could gut her with just a glare.

“Get out,” she barked. Her voice cracked like a whip. “Y/N, get out of here. Now.”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The leash around her neck was invisible, but she felt it pull. She obeyed, slipping past Karina, heart pounding, jaw clenched.

Behind her, a glass shattered.

Winter screamed and hurled the empty drinking glass at the wall behind Karina, the sound splitting the tension in two.

Neither woman flinched.

It was a silent war between them. One that didn’t need words.

Karina didn’t know why she barged in. Why she had yanked Y/N out of someone else’s hands like she had the right. Why her chest felt like it was splitting open.

But in that moment, it felt right.

It felt like saving Y/N from a fire she had no business walking into even though Karina had set the match.

And neither of them knew…

──────────────────────

Karina followed Y/N out of Winter’s chamber, her heels clicking against the marble floor of the hallway as the music dimmed behind them. The air outside hit different. It was quieter, cooler, and painfully real. Y/N stumbled slightly as she stepped into the semi-deserted parking lot, gripping the lapel of her blazer tightly, like it might anchor her sanity after what just happened.

Karina watched from a few steps behind, gaze sharp but unreadable. Y/N wasn’t sure what to say, how to face her, not after being caught in the middle of something that felt like cheating even if they weren’t anything. Not officially. Not on paper. Not even emotionally, right?

She told herself there was nothing to feel guilty about. Karina had made herself clear that night, weeks ago in Y/N's penthouse—“You’re a customer. Nothing more.” Harsh, unforgettable, and branded into Y/N's memory. So maybe she’d just been in her head. Maybe the late-night texts, the mind-melting sex, the stolen looks across the club, all of that meant nothing. Just business, just bodies. She had to believe that.

But Karina barged into Winter’s chamber tonight like she owned Y/N’s body. Like she had every right to rip her out of someone else’s arms.

The vice president leaned against her black sedan, leather seats still warm from the sun, but the cold night air was creeping in. The bass from inside the club thumped faintly through the concrete, and the silence between them stretched too long, too loud. Karina was still standing behind her, silent, and it reminded Y/N of the time she’d smashed a whiskey glass into Juyeon’s head. That same energy. That same burning, irrational, territorial rage.

Y/N didn’t turn around yet. Her voice was low. Steady. “What was that?”

Silence.

“Not the time, Y/N,” Karina replied, her tone clipped, but her voice softer than it had been inside.

Y/N finally turned, eyes sharp and laced with something darker. “What was that?” she repeated, firmer now.

Karina stood still, arms folded, her face unreadable under the parking lot lights. Her lips parted, then closed again. She hated being cornered. But Y/N wasn’t backing down.

“I don’t know,” Karina admitted finally, her voice dry. “I have no excuses for that.”

She paused. A slow breath, eyes not leaving Y/N’s. “Don’t be flattered, Y/N. Like I told you that night, I’m not attached. But you are. Or you’re on your way to being. And I don’t like that.”

The sting landed, but it wasn’t fatal. Y/N raised a brow. “Huh?” That’s all she gave. She wanted Karina to keep talking. To dig her own grave deeper.

Karina rolled her eyes, shifting her weight as the wind tugged at her sheer blouse. “I almost had you blacklisted from the club.”

Y/N blinked. “Seriously?”

“I need the money,” Karina added with a shrug, trying to mask the weight of the statement under apathy. “So I didn’t.”

Y/N dropped her eyes to the asphalt, exhaled, then glanced up again. Karina was hugging herself now, visibly cold, though she refused to ask for warmth.

Y/N sucked her teeth, jaw tightening. “Get off work, Karina. I’ll drive you home. Like I do sometimes.”

The reminder hung between them was quiet but heavy. A shared history neither of them wanted to name.

Karina didn’t move at first. She just stared at Y/N, like weighing the pros and cons of sliding into her car again, into that familiar leather passenger seat where things always got blurry. But finally, she nodded once and followed.

Inside the car, warmth returned. They didn’t talk much at first, just let the silence breathe. The city blurred by in streaks of gold and red. Then, slowly, Karina muttered something about a customer who left her a bad tip, and Y/N countered with a snarky joke about expensive cocktails and cheap men. The tension thinned, but it didn’t disappear.

Y/N’s fingers drummed the steering wheel. “So… the blacklist thing. Would you actually do that?”

Karina didn’t answer right away. “Does it matter?” she asked, not looking at her.

“It does to me,” Y/N said, eyes flicking to her. “I need to know if you were threatening me with something real or just being dramatic.”

Karina bit her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe a little of both.”

A beat.

Y/N smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You’re such a bitch.”

“And you still want me,” Karina replied, barely above a whisper.

Y/N pulled into Karina's building’s underground parking lot and parked. She didn’t kill the engine right away.

“I do want you,” Y/N confessed, her voice lower now, more intimate. “But not in the way you think. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend. I’m not asking you to catch feelings.”

Karina turned to her slowly.

“We don’t gotta be in love to kiss,” Y/N said. “We don’t have to fall apart every time we see each other naked. We can just… be. You can be mine for a night when you need it. When the mood’s right.”

Karina looked at her with unreadable eyes, the tension shifting in the air again—thick, warm, dangerously familiar.

“And,” Y/N added with a lazy grin, “Dont blacklist me, though. I really like that cocktail at Hellfire. What’s it called again? Wet Pussy?”

Karina snorted despite herself, lips curling. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who tips well.”

Karina leaned back in her seat, letting her head rest against the headrest. Her expression softened, but her guard was still halfway up.

Y/N reached over and brushed her knuckles along Karina’s arm, slow and deliberate. “Walk me up.” Karina asked Y/N, looking into her eyes and the tension was thinning.

Y/N didn’t answer, but the silence wasn’t a no.

And that was enough.

──────────────────────

main m.list | prev | next

[kaleidoscopewritings19]

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Title: Relaxation

Warning(s): SMUT, MDNI, 18+. P in V, etc. wrap it before you tap it.

Character(s): Bruce Wayne, Female x Reader, and Alfred Pennyworth *takes place around the time of the Dark Knight*

Authors Note: this is a sloppier smut. It was one of my very first times writing smut, and I never posted it. But I’m cleaning out my drafts and didn’t want to delete it. Not proofread; I skimmed through it. Enjoy!

My work is not to be translated, or posted on any other platform. ©️

The cool air nipped at your skin as you stepped outside of the shower onto the marble floor. You quickly patted the ends of your hair with the black towels embroidered with the name Wayne.

With another towel, you wrapped it around your body, and quickly went into the big open room. Bruce had been living in a pent house due to Wayne Manor catching fire; the two of you had been dating for half a year, and you found yourself staying with him more and more.

The big windows made you feel vulnerable, but Bruce had reassured you that no one could see in. Alfred opened the bedroom door, “I brought you some coffee Miss Y/N— oh, my, I apologize for the intrusion— I didn’t meant to… I should’ve knocked.”

He averted his gaze, and you chuckled. “Alfred, thank you for the coffee. If you don’t mind, would you set it on the table by the door?” You asked and he quickly turned on his heel and sat the tray down before slamming the door.

When you looked at the clock on the night stand, you ran to the dresser and pulled out a pair of your nursing scrubs. You were a nurse at Gotham General Hospital. You were aware it was strange for a billionaire to be dating a nurse. Especially for a playboy like Bruce Wayne. He was always surrounded by models, but when he met you, he chose you over a plethora of supermodels.

By the time you had gotten your coffee drank, and your hair done, you realized Bruce never even came home last night. With a sigh, you walked out into the main living area and Alfred was filling a thermos full of coffee.

“Is that for him?” You questioned and Alfred gave you a sheepish smile. “Would you mind telling him we need to talk? Tonight? He missed dinner with my family, and then he didn’t come home last night.” You said as you picked up your bag. “I’m worried, Alfred.”

Alfred handed you your cellphone, “Don’t be, Miss Y/N. He chose you. He loves you. He just had to work late; that is all.”

You looked into Alfred’s eyes, and you nodded your head. “Okay. Okay. But still, tell him I’d like to see him. Please.” You said before leaving for the hospital.

Of course you were worried. Bruce was notorious for not being a one woman man. Where there was one, there always had to be more. What made you any different than his past relationships?

—————

After working a long 12 hour shift, all you wanted to do was soak in a hot bath. Your feet were sore and your back was stiff; at this point, you could fall asleep just about anywhere.

You leaned against the wall in the elevator and watched as the numbers slowly climbed. When the elevator dinged, the doors opened leading into the penthouse. The lights were dimmed, and you sat your purse down on the counter. “Bruce? Alfred?” You called out and Bruce emerged from the bedroom with two glasses of wine in his hands.

“Look who decided to come home.” He said with a smile, and you gave him a smirk. “I could say the same thing about you, Mr. Wayne.”

He caught on to your semi-hostility. Bruce approached you slowly and he sat the two glasses down on the counter before trapping you between his arms. “I worked late. I’m sorry, baby. Let me make it up to you.” He whispered in your ear as he dragged his lips down your jaw line.

Your body shivered against his touch, “At least let me take a bath first, Wayne.” You said and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’ve already drawn you one.” He mumbled against your lips.

He picked up your hand and led you into the bedroom and then to the master bathroom. You kicked off your shoes and picked them up and put them in the corner of the bathroom.

You started to pull down your hair, but Bruce moved your hands away from your head. “Let me help you. I want to help you relax.” He whispered as he looked at your reflection in the mirror.

His fingers gently started to unbraid your hair, and you felt relief all throughout your scalp. A sigh of relief escaped your lips, and he pushed your hair to your shoulder, exposing your neck. Bruce’s lips danced around the soft skin, and you leaned your head back on to his shoulder.

Bruce’s hands traced down your arms to the end of your shirt, and slowly pulled it up your torso. When it was fully removed, he tossed it to the floor, and then he helped you out of your sports bra. He groaned at the sight of your bare breasts and placed a kiss on the back of your neck.

Then he kissed down your back, and then pulled down your pants and panties agonizingly slow. No matter how many times you and Bruce had done this, the thought of him judging your body crept into your mind.

He stood up and pulled you over to the bathtub that was already filled with hot water. Slowly, you stepped into the tub, allowing the lower part of your body time to adjust to the temperature. Bruce’s hands traced around your hips as he kissed you softly.

You bit Bruce’s bottom lip, and he pulled you closer to his lips by the back of your neck. A soft moan escaped past your lips, and reverberated against his, making him smile.

“I’ll let you get washed up. After your bath, we can go watch a movie, yeah?” He said pressing another kiss to your lips. When he pulled away from you, you grabbed his hand and pulled him back to you.

Bruce was shocked by your bold move, and you pressed a bruising kiss to his lips. “I want you to stay with me.” You said and he pulled his shirt off, and then his pants. It wasn’t long before he climbed into the large tub with you.

When he had sat down, he pulled you down to him and began pressing kisses all over your neck. Bruce massaged your breasts in his hands, and you couldn’t help but to straddle Bruce’s lap.

You could feel how hard he was, and the hot water that rested against your skin made everything more steamy. His hand splayed across your bare back, and without hesitation, you reached down into the water and led him to your entrance.

Bruce stared up at you in complete awe, “You’re so sexy, Y/N.” He said as his wet hand pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Slowly, you sunk down onto him, feeling yourself stretch around him.

A groan left Bruce’s lips as you cautiously moved up, then down his shaft, adjusting to his length. His wet palm traced from your shoulder to your neck, and found its place on your cheek.

You stared into his eyes— those hazel eyes made you weak in the knees. Sometimes they were mostly green, but when he was like this- relaxed, or his expression darkened, the brown would take over in his eyes.

Bruce’s thumb ran across your bottom lip, dragging the soft flesh down ever so slightly. You pressed a kiss to his thumb, and stilled yourself on his length.

He rested inside you, and he pulled you closer to him so he could kiss you. His lips worked slowly against yours, and his tongue slipped past your lips once or twice. Bruce always savored these moments with you; he never wanted to stop.

If he could make one wish, it would be for him to never leave the bedroom that had you in it. Bruce’s hands went under the soapy water and gripped your hips. You moaned against his touch, and he slowly started controlling your body, moving you up, then down, up, then down again until the thrusts got sloppier.

Water splashed out of the bathtub, a mess that the two of you would worry about later. When you tried to pull away from his lips, his fingers would spread across your wet hair and bring you back down to him.

“Please, don’t stop.” You whispered between his kisses, and his right hand went to your breast and gently pinched your nipple, eliciting another moan from your lips.

“I’m about to—”

“Me too.” He said cutting you off. The thrusts were so much stronger, and faster together. Your knees were starting to get sore, but the thrill and the ecstasy that flooded through your veins made you ignore the soreness.

You couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped past your lips, and Bruce didn’t pull out. Both of you were out of breath, and your face fell against his wet, toned chest. His fingers combed through your hair, as he slowly lifted you up from off of him.

He knew your body was limp, and he smiled at the thought of him having this effect on you. The water had finally come to a rest, and Bruce got out of the bathtub and changed out the water.

You were content— the soreness from work was long gone, but the soreness Bruce had caused remained. The two of you had climbed back into the tub and Bruce insisted on helping you wash your hair and body.

He pressed kisses all along your shoulders and neck, as his fingers gently massaged your scalp. When the two of you had finished washing up, you dried your hair and Bruce was already lying in bed.

“Maybe I should just call in…” you said as you climbed into the big king sized bed. Bruce smiled as he turned to face you, “I hope you don’t mind, but I called you in sick for tomorrow.” He sheepishly smiled and you couldn’t help but to smile back.

His button up shirt and a black pair of panties were the only things you were wearing. You pressed a kiss to his lips when a crackle of thunder, and a sharp flash of lightning filled the room.

You jumped at the sound, and the power had completely gone out. Bruce looked out the big windows that were behind the bed, “The power should kick on soon.” As he finished his sentence, the sound of fast, heavy rain pattered against the windows aggressively.

The sounds of thunderstorms were different when you were in a pent house. Something you still weren’t use to. Bruce laid back down next to you, and you cuddled up into his chest. You could feel his fingers move from your bare thigh, up to your chest.

You hid your face against his cheek, and his hand went back down between your legs. First his fingers traced against the fabric of the panties, and when he wasn’t hearing the sound he wanted to hear, he started removing your panties.

Excitement washed over your body again, and you began shimmying them off. Bruce’s fingers expertly slid between your folds, and he couldn’t help but to slide a finger inside of you.

Your face stayed against his cheek, your breathing was uneasy. “You’re already so wet for me. Again.” He whispered, and you pressed a kiss to his cheek as he inserted a second finger.

“I love feeling how tight you are.” He said, and then he added a third finger. A gasp passed your lips and your hand went down between your legs to massage the soft bundle of nerves.

The sounds that were coming from your body, were euphoric. Bruce slowly pulled his fingers out of you, and your legs were already shaking at the loss of fullness.

He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting you. “You taste so good, baby doll.” He mumbled into your ear.

Your hand brushed against Bruce, and he was hard. The slight feeling of your hand made him jolt forward, and you started to unbutton your shirt.

The lighting was the only thing giving you light every few moments. You weren’t unbuttoning the shirt fast enough for his liking, so he ripped it off of you, buttons scattering every which way.

Bruce was on you once the shirt was discarded to the floor. His hands traced everywhere, and his lips sucked and nipped at your skin— bruises would be there in the morning.

He sat up and stroked his cock, “You’re so sexy, Y/N.” Bruce teased your folds with the tip of his cock; you could already feel the warm pre-cum rub against your bare heat.

Slowly, he pushed the tip into you, and then fully sheathed himself inside of you. “Oh fuck, Bruce.” You moaned and he moved inside you, giving you time to adjust.

Bruce began thrusting into you with a rhythmic pattern. Sweat was already beading at your forehead, as he put your legs over his shoulder.

Bruce wanted to get as deep inside you as possible. Because that’s when you made the sweetest sounds; sure enough, like a melody, your moans filled the entire room.

This encouraged him to move faster. The sounds of his skin slapping against yours sounded like something from a porno. He flipped you over to your knees, and you knew this position well. Eagerly, you arched your back, and he slid back into you.

Another loud moan came from your mouth, and the sound of skin against skin progressively got louder. Bruce smacked your ass making you moan; he loved nothing more than to hear your moan.

“You’re taking me so well, Princess.” He said as his movements got sloppier with every thrust. You could knew he was about to finish, and luckily, you were about to too.

With one final thrust, you came all over his cock, and he finished deep inside you. Innately, Bruce continued thrusting, “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

Your entire body was on sensory overload, and you were shaking. When Bruce pulled out of you, you fell against the mattress, and rolled over. He laid down right next to you and pulled you against his sweaty body.

All that could be heard was yours and his heavy breathing, the low, deep rumble of the thunder, and the pitter pattering of the rain. You cuddled into his side, tracing the scars on his chest with your finger tips.

“Thank you for calling me in tomorrow. I don’t think I can walk.” You said and Bruce chuckled.

“I don’t know what came over me. Seeing you come home like that, I don’t know but you’re so beautiful.” He said as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad you’re mine.” He said and you pressed another slow kiss to his lips.

“Show me again how I’m yours.” You teased and Bruce smiled. It was going to be a long night and day off.

—————

Thank you for reading! Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated! This one was little sloppy, but this was one of my first smuts I drafted and didn’t want to post, but I don’t want to delete it. I’m cleaning out my drafts, so we’ll see what else I find to post. ❤️🫣

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ “Do I Look Like Him?”

Damian Wayne vs. the ghost of Bruce.

(Inspired by Like Him — Tyler, the Creator)

© fromrory — All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given. Featuring: Nightwing, Red Robin, Red Hood (brief mention) Batman & reader.

It’s 2:41 a.m. in the Batcave.

Damian’s staring at the reinforced glass display that holds his father’s first cape and cowl.

It’s not the one Bruce wears now—sleeker, newer, fitted for tech and terror. No, this one’s older. Heavier. The color is faded at the shoulders, threadbare along the seams. It’s the one from the early years. The one his father bled in.

The one Damian has never seen him wear in person.

He doesn’t know why he came down here.

He’s supposed to be asleep. Or meditating. Or sparring with his girlfriend. Something productive. Something he can control.

Instead—

He’s staring at a cape behind glass like it might blink back at him.

A phantom. A fossil. A symbol.

Behind him, the elevator door hisses open. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch.

Of course it’s Grayson.

Damian can tell by the way the silence softens. Dick has this way of entering a room like a song you forgot you loved. No boots slamming like Jason. No awkward throat-clearing like Tim. Just presence. Quiet, whole, warm.

“You okay?” Dick asks, stepping close but not too close.

Damian’s arms are crossed. Rigid.

“I am simply… observing.”

Dick follows his gaze to the case. He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

Then—

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens. “What thing?”

“The… ‘I’m not thinking about my father but I am very clearly thinking about my father’ thing.”

Damian scowls. “Tt. I am not—”

“—Making that face he makes when he’s brooding?” Dick finishes, smiling gently. “You are.”

That stops him.

Because he knows it’s true.

He’s heard it before.

“Your eyes do that narrowing thing like him.” “You cross your arms the exact same way.” “God, even your silence sounds like him sometimes.”

His beloved had said it once, not unkindly, just surprised:

“You furrow your brow like Bruce. I didn’t notice before,it's cute.”

He hadn’t answered.

Because what was there to say?

The words are crawling up his throat now. Ugly. Undignified.

He doesn’t look at Dick. Just keeps his eyes on the cowl. The ghost in the glass.

“Do I look like him?”

Dick pauses.

“Sometimes,” he says softly.

Damian’s voice is low. Tight. “Do I sound like him?”

“No.”

He turns, frowning.

Dick shrugs. “You sound like you. You’re just… him-adjacent.”

Damian shakes his head. “She said I make expressions like him. That I brood. That I vanish. That I don’t say what I mean until it’s too late.”

He hears it now—his own voice.

Low. Cold. Clinical.

Like Bruce.

He looks at his own hands. Gloved. Scarred.

“Am I him?” he asks, quieter. “Am I turning into him?”

Dick doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t tease.

He just sits on the edge of the platform, letting his legs dangle like he used to do when he was Robin. He leans back on his palms, eyes searching the cave ceiling like he’s reading something etched there.

Then, simply—

“I used to want to be him. When I was your age.”

Damian blinks.

“You did?”

“Oh, yeah. Black cape, gravel voice, tragic backstory? It was the blueprint, man.” He grins. “But then… I realized something.”

Damian waits.

“He’s not the goal, Dames. He’s just… a man. A very messed up, emotionally constipated man who tried his best with what he had.”

Dick turns toward him now.

“And you’re not him. You’re better. You’re you. You’re loud where he’s quiet. Bright where he’s shadow. You get angry out loud. You smile for real. You even kiss your girlfriend in public.” He winks.

Damian blushes.

“I saw the hand kiss,” Dick adds.

“Stop observing my relationship,” Damian mutters, ears pink.

“I can’t, it’s like watching a scowly baby deer fall in love.”

They sit in silence a moment.

Then:

“I don’t… miss him,” Damian says. “Not in the way people mean. I didn’t grow up wishing for him.”

Dick nods. He knows what this is. He’s been this.

“I had my mother. I had trainers. A mission. Purpose. I didn’t need him.” Damian’s voice wavers. “But now… now I’m in a world where I’m supposed to.”

“Supposed to what?”

“Supposed to care. About a man who shows up at 2 a.m. to patch bullet wounds and disappears before dawn. Who trains me like a soldier but sometimes forgets my birthday. Who says he’s proud with his eyes but never his mouth.”

His fists clench.

“I don’t even know what I want from him.”

Dick is quiet for a long time.

Then—

“You don’t have to want anything,” he says. “You don’t have to chase him. You don’t owe him the shape of your heart.”

Damian breathes, unsteady.

“…But what if I’m him anyway?” he asks. “What if he’s in me? The way I stand. The way I love. The way I hurt people without meaning to.”

Dick smiles, sad and soft.

“Then forgive yourself like you would forgive him.”

Behind them, the elevator dings again.

She appears. Barefoot. Hoodie too big. Her curls frizzed with sleep.

She rubs her eyes. “You weren’t in your room,” she mumbles. “Thought maybe the League kidnapped you again.”

Damian doesn’t speak. Just walks over. Lets her tug his sleeve. Rest her head against his shoulder.

He leans into it.

Slow. Quiet.

Like a boy, not a legacy.

Later, when everyone else is asleep, he scribbles something in a notebook.

Not a report. Not a list.

A question.

“𝐼𝑓 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟���𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤… 𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼’𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡?”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

But he breathes easier.

Even if the ghost in the glass never leaves.

He knows now—

He can walk past it.

And build something of his own.

Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing (if you want to be added,comment down below!)

[multific]

A Handsome Stranger

Dimitri Kraminoff x Reader

Summary: You meet with a handsome stranger in a bar where he sings. 

It was a new place for you.

You have never been to such a bar before. It was sophisticated.

You heard rumours that this place belongs to the mafia.

You worried that might come up and haunt you.

But all your worries disappeared when your eyes locked with the singer.

A young man with the voice of an angel. He was able to copy anyone's voice and sing. It was truly mesmerising.

But it wasn't just his voice that captured your attention and captivated you.

He was also absolutely handsome.

His beautiful blonde hair, curly, his eyes so beautiful and you felt like they looked right through you and into your soul.

He was watching you, you could tell he was.

So, naturally, you got up and left.

Running away.

You didn't want to lull yourself into beliefs you knew were not true. To fantasize of a man who would never want anything from you. 

You knew better than to allow yourself to dream and get hurt.

But you couldn't forget him.

You would ask yourself, "But did you go back?"

Of course, you did.

You went back to the bar and sat at the furthest table from the stage.

But his eyes still found you.

And this time, you couldn't get away.

Like a predator with its prey, he walked over to you, maintaining his eye contact, it felt so intense.

Take your breath away.

Before you knew it, he was sitting across from you asking for your name and for a new drink to be brought to you.

You felt like you couldn't breathe.

---

You got into the elevator, and let out a long sigh.

Your back hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt and you were beyond tired.

Work was demanding.

You opened the door to your apartment and let out a long sigh.

You noticed the pair of shoes by the door.

"Dimi?" you called into the apartment.

"Kitchen." his reply came as you took off your shoes and jacket. 

"Oh." you turned the corner and entered the kitchen, it smelled heavenly in there. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking some spaghetti with that cheese sauce you like so much."

"How did you know this is exactly what I wanted?" you walked over to him as he opened his arms and kissed your cheek.

"Go shower and change. I will be done by the time you are ready."

"You are perfect." you gave him one kiss on the cheek.

After your shower, you change into something comfortable. 

Just as he promised, food was ready by the time you got out of the shower.

"This is so good," you said as you bit into your pasta.

"You work too hard. I told you, you don't have to work, I have enough money." Dimitri said and you looked at him.

You had this conversation many times, one even ended with a fight.

"I know," you said with a sigh. "But I still want to work. This week was rough, but I will survive. And it was all worth it to come home and have you cook for me." you smiled at him and he smiled back.

After dinner, you two sat down and decided to watch a movie.

You cuddled into him as his arm held you close occasionally placing a small kiss on your head.

You loved these moments when it was only the two of you.

Not his father or brother.

Just you two.

A/N: Testing the waters with this one. The above picture is not mine! Credit goes to the owner. There will be more to come! Hope you enjoyed it!

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @mel-vaz

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[ones-g]

Tense?

Dom!Caitlyn Kiramman x F!Reader.

Warning: Sex Public!, sex toy!, Curses.A bit soft at first!

Summary: Your girlfriend is stressed out from her exhausting job as an executive in the eye of the nation. You decide to handle the situation by surprising her in her office. A little break never hurts anyone, right?

—Uh no... Jayce listen I have plans today, leave the package at the front door okay?... Ok bye!— Your voice sounded hurried, somewhat calm and without ups and downs when answering a recent call from your childhood friend (it was already your habit to roll your eyes when hearing his voice).

The reason for your way of rushing things was simple, Caitlyn, your girlfriend, had spent days in her office looking for some useful trace to find and corner the most wanted criminal in the nation. Nothing made her leave her office. At first you gave her space, but the days passed, being incommunicado was overwhelming, of course you knew how important her work was, but you also knew how important her mental health and needs.

So you took your car and determinedly began to drive to where she was, her office and unit. It was clear that it was going to be a surprise, Cait rarely allowed you to visit her at her workplace, it was not to hide something from you (like a deception or something) she just thought that that place was not the best to see each other, there were tense situations, the atmosphere was heavy and believe, she hates criminals who dared to speak to you or make rude comments towards you while they were waiting to be thrown into the dungeons.

For those reasons and others you decided to keep your visit a secret, you had access to her office even if she wasn't there, you are HER woman, she made that clear in a thousand ways (yes, imagine that). You bit your lip as you looked down, seeing again the clothes you chose for the occasion. A simple and perfect black office skirt with a silk shirt (a gift from Caitlyn), a pair of black and formal high platform heels. But beneath this disguise of "decent and attentive girlfriend" was the true intention. Your new lingerie covered your intimate parts and Caitlyn adored them. Since she was absent, she couldn't properly enjoy how that detailed lingerie looked on your body. ¡Dammit! You wanted so much to see her expression when she saw you in the outfit.

After an eternity you finally arrived at the district parking lot. A couple of guards recognized you and immediately bowed their heads in greeting, maintaining respect. You sighed, somewhat nervous and super anxious. The doors opened for you, the secretary looked at you with a smile, she looked so tired. You murmured a cordial greeting and walked to the elevators, being alone you decided to apply more lipstick on your lips, touch up your hair in front of the elevator mirror and unbutton only two buttons on your shirt.

—Perfect...— You whispered looking from head to toe, the elevator door opened revealing the floor where the Kiramman heiress' office was located.

In front of his office, you hesitated whether to knock or just walk by as if nothing had happened. Of course, you opted for the second option.

—Get out— Your girlfriend's intimidating‐hoarse voice exploded in your ears. Caitlyn didn't even lift her head to see who it was, she just "subtly" asked him to go away.

—Are you kicking me out without even saying hello? - You responded, closing the office door, leaning your back against it while still smiling at the taller woman.

Her head snapped up as she recognized your voice, her hand resting on the top of her head slamming down on her desk. Caitlyn opened her mouth but didn't say a word, though the smile growing on her face at the sight of you couldn't be ignored. "What are you doing here..?." She whispered, getting up from her large chair and walking towards you in disbelief.

—You know, I came to see how you were doing—you answered, looking around her office, the papers scattered all over the place, the dust and the little light that filtered through the closed curtains left signs that the place had not been tidy since Caitlyn decided to stay.

The blue haired girl raised an eyebrow, her uniform shirt was rolled up to her elbow, her hair was parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail, her tired and almost dead eyes due to the black bags hanging from them were impossible to miss. —Is it wrong that I think you're hot when I see you like this?— you asked placing your arms on her shoulders, Caitlyn instead held your waist, laughing at what was said.

—I'm so glad you're here... sorry for not spending time with you— She apologized, resting her forehead against yours, feeling the warmth of her body again was something that made you happy, you didn't want to separate from her.

—You don't have to apologize for anything— you replied, giving her a kiss on the tip of her nose. —Did you miss me? — you asked, looking her straight in the eyes, with a certain mischievous glint in them.

—I think about you every day—She whispered with his face buried in his lover's neck, inhaling her fresh and addictive scent. —I think about what you do when you wake up alone in our bed... I think about wanting to hug you and never let go, I think about kissing you as soon as you open your eyes... I miss being present in the house so much, darling— She whispered with a hint of guilt in his voice.

—Maybe you should stop talking and kiss me more...—

—Maybe you should sit on my lap and be quiet...— She murmured, his thumb tracing the shape of your lip, adoring it. "Maybe" You grimaced, your already dilated pupils exposing the level of lust you had at this moment. Caitlyn smiled arrogantly.

—Huh... it's new ? I remember breaking the old one— She recalled running his hand along the strap of your provocative bra, his eyes fixed on your breasts.

"Don't even think about breaking it," you threatened. Caitlyn stepped back with her hands in the air. —I'm not promising anything—

She rolled his eyes and moved closer again. "If I have to rip your panties off to silence your moans I will do it without hesitation..." She whispered against your ear, his hot breath making your skin crawl. —Let me spoil each other, okay baby?—

Caitlyn smirks as she feels your body trembling under her touch, your moans muffled by her hand over your mouth. She loves seeing you like this - helpless and desperate for her.

"Shhh, keep it down," she whispers sternly, even as her fingers continue their relentless assault on your sensitive folds. "We wouldn't want anyone to hear what a needy little slut you are for me, would we?"

Her words drip with condescension and you feel a shameful thrill run through you at being put in your place like this. Caitlyn is in complete control and you are utterly at her mercy.

She leans in close, her breath hot against your ear as she murmurs, "You're mine. My pretty little fucktoy to use however I want. And right now, I want to make you cum so hard you forget your own name."

To punctuate her point, Caitlyn curls her fingers just right, hitting that special spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hips buck involuntarily as you let out a strangled gasp, barely stifled by her palm.

She chuckles darkly, clearly reveling in your predicament. "That's it, take it like a good girl. Cum for me"

Her commanding tone brooks no argument. With a keening whimper, your body obeys, clenching tight around Caitlyn's fingers as an intense orgasm crashes over you. She works you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you collapse back against the desk, boneless and spent.

Caitlyn slowly withdraws her hand, bringing her slick fingers to her lips to lick them clean with a satisfied hum. "Mmm, you taste divine. I could do this all day..."

Caitlyn takes a moment to admire the sight before her - you sprawled out on her desk, chest heaving and skin flushed with post-orgasmic bliss. A wicked grin spreads across her face as she leans down to whisper in your ear.

"But we're not done yet, sweetheart. That was just the warm-up."

Caitlyn hums approvingly at the sight of your glistening folds, already swollen and sensitive from your recent climax. She runs a finger teasingly along your slit, collecting the slick arousal there before bringing it to her mouth to taste.

"Fuck...," she purrs, eyes dark with lust. "I could eat this pretty pussy all day and never get tired of it."

True to her word, Caitlyn settles between your legs, pushing your thighs further apart to give herself better access. She starts slow, lapping at your entrance with long, broad strokes of her tongue before focusing her attention on your clit.

The feeling is almost too much, your nerves still raw from your previous orgasm. You squirm and whimper under her ministrations, your hands fisting in her hair.

Caitlyn just chuckles against your skin, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you. She redoubles her efforts, alternating between broad strokes and targeted flicks, determined to work you up into a frenzy once more.

You can feel another orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly as Caitlyn drives you closer and closer to the edge. Just when you think you can't take any more, she pulls back, leaving you aching and empty.

She grins up at you, her lips and chin glistening with your juices. "Not yet, baby. We have all afternoon and I plan to make the most of it."

"Look at you," she murmurs huskily, "So desperate for me, so needy. I love seeing you like this. Completely at my mercy."

"I'm going to fuck you now, baby. Nice and slow, until you're begging me for release. And then I'm going to do it all over again."

She turns to one of her drawers, finding a damn vibrator

Caitlyn returns with the vibrator, switching it on to a low hum. She trails it teasingly along your inner thigh, the buzzing sensation making your skin tingle and jump.

"Spread your legs for me, baby," she commands, her voice low and rough with desire. You comply eagerly, opening yourself up to her completely.

She rewards you by dragging the tip of the toy along your slick folds, circling your clit before plunging it deep inside you. Your back arches off the desk at the sudden intrusion, a choked moan escaping your lips.

Caitlyn sets a slow, deliberate pace, withdrawing the vibrator almost completely before thrusting it back in. Each stroke brushes against that sensitive spot inside you, stoking the fire building in your core.

Her free hand comes up to play with your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples between her fingers. The dual stimulation is almost too much to bear, pushing you closer to the edge with every passing second.

Just as you're about to tumble over, Caitlyn cruelly pulls the vibrator out, leaving you empty and aching. She flips the switch to a higher setting and presses it firmly against your clit, the intense vibrations making you see stars.

"Look at you, so desperate for me. So hungry for my touch." She grinds the toy against you, her other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

Her words are your undoing. With a sharp cry, your orgasm crashes over you, your vision whiting out as ecstasy consumes you. Caitlyn works you through it, the vibrator never stilling until the last aftershock passes.

Finally, she turns the toy off and sets it aside, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on her tongue, the flavor heady and intoxicating.

Caitlyn pulls back from the kiss, her eyes dark and hooded with desire. She takes a moment to admire the sight before her - you sprawled out on her desk, chest heaving and skin flushed with post-orgasmic bliss.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful when you come for me," she murmurs, trailing her fingers lightly over your trembling body. "I could watch you fall apart over and over again."

She sits back in her chair, spreading her legs wide in clear invitation. —Come here beautiful... use that little mouth—

[mariacallous]

The internet—it seemed like such a good idea at the time. Under conditions of informational poverty, our ancestors had no choice but to operate on a need-to-know basis. The absence of pertinent, reliable, and commonly held facts was at first a matter of mere logistics—the stable storage and orderly transfer of knowledge was costly and troublesome, and entropy was free—but, over time, the techniques of civilization afforded us better control over the collection and transmission of data. Vast triage structures evolved to determine who got to learn what, when: medieval guilds, say, or network news reports. These systems were supposed to function in everybody’s best interests. We were finite brutes of fragile competence, and none of us could confront the abyss of unmitigated complexity alone. Beyond a certain point, however, we couldn’t help but perceive these increasingly centralized arrangements as insulting, and even conspiratorial. We were grownups, and, as such, we could be trusted to handle an unadulterated marketplace of ideas. The logic of the internet was simple: first, fire all of the managers; then, sort things out for ourselves. In the time since, one of the few unambiguously good things to have emerged from this experiment is an entire genre of attempts to explain why it mostly hasn’t worked out.

This effort—the attempt to hash out what went so wrong—had something of a rocky start. After 2016, many liberals were inclined to diagnose the pathologies of the internet as a problem of supply. Some people have bad ideas and beliefs. These are bad either because they are false (“climate change is a myth,” “vaccines cause autism”) or because they are pernicious (“we should have a C.E.O. as a monarch,” “foreigners are criminals”). These ideas propagate because the internet provides bad actors with a platform to distribute them. This story was appealing, both because it was simple and because it made the situation seem tractable. The solution was to limit the presence of these bad actors, to cut off the supply at the source. One obvious flaw in this argument is that “misinformation” was only ever going to be a way to describe ideas you didn’t like. It was a childish fantasy to think that a neutral arbiter might be summoned into being, or that we would all defer to its judgments as a matter of course.

The major weakness of this account was that it tended to sidestep the question of demand. Even if many liberals agreed in private that those who believed untrue and harmful things were fundamentally stupid or harmful people, they correctly perceived that this was a gauche thing to say out loud. Instead, they attributed the embrace of such beliefs to “manipulation,” an ill-defined concept that is usually deployed as a euphemism for sorcery. These low-information people were vulnerable to such sorcery because they lacked “media literacy.” What they needed, in other words, was therapeutic treatment with more and better facts. All of this taken together amounted to an incoherent theory of information. On the one hand, facts were neutral things that spoke for themselves. On the other, random pieces of informational flotsam were elevated to the status of genuine facts only once they were vetted by credentialled people with special access to the truth.

There was, however, an alternative theory. The internet was not primarily a channel for the transmission of information in the form of evidence. It was better described as a channel for the transmission of culture in the form of memes. Users didn’t field a lot of facts and then assemble them into a world view; they fielded a world view and used it as a context for evaluating facts. The adoption of a world view had less to do with rational thought than it did with desire. It was about what sort of person you wanted to be. Were you a sophisticated person who followed the science? Or were you a skeptical person who saw through the veneer of establishment gentility?

This perspective has come to be associated with Peter Thiel, who introduced a generation of conservative-leaning acolytes to the work of the French theorist René Girard. This story has been told to hermeneutic exhaustion, but the key insight that Thiel drew from Girard was that people—or most people, at any rate—didn’t really have their own desires. They wanted things because other people wanted those things. This created conditions of communal coherence (everybody wanting the same thing) and good fellowship, which were simultaneously conditions of communal competition (everybody wanting the same thing) and ill will. When the accumulated aggression of these rivalries became intolerable, the community would select a scapegoat for ritual sacrifice—not the sort of person we were but the one we definitely were not. On the right, this manifested itself as various forms of xenophobia and a wholesale mistrust of institutional figures; on the left, as much of what came to be called cancel culture and its censorious milieu. Both were attempts to police the boundaries of us—to identify, in other words, those within our circle of trust and those outside of it.

The upshot of all of this was not that people had abandoned first principles, as liberals came to argue in many tiresome books about the “post-truth” era, or that they had abandoned tradition, as conservatives came to argue in many tiresome books about decadence. It was simply that, when people who once functioned on a need-to-know basis were all of a sudden forced to adjudicate all of the information all of the time, the default heuristic was just to throw in one’s lot with the generally like-minded. People who didn’t really know anything about immunity noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against vaccines, and the low-cost option was to just run with it; people who didn’t really know anything about virology noticed that the constellation of views associated with their peers had lined up against the lab-leak hypothesis, and they, too, took the path of least resistance. This is not to say that all beliefs are equally valid. It is simply to observe that most of us have better things to do than deal with unremitting complexity. It’s perfectly reasonable, as a first approximation of thinking, to conserve our time and energy by just picking a side and being done with it.

Liberals were skittish about this orientation because it replaced our hopes for democracy with resignation in the face of competing protection rackets. But what they really didn’t like was that their bluff had been called. Their preferred solution to informational complexity—that certain ideas and the people associated with them were Bad and Wrong and needed to be banished from the public sphere—wasn’t much better. The urge to “deplatform” made liberals seem weak, insofar as it implied less than total confidence in their ability to prevail on the merits. The conservative account was all about allegiance and power, but at least it didn’t really pretend otherwise. They were frank about their tribalism.

Recent discourse attending to a “vibe shift” has tended to emphasize a renewed acceptance, even in erstwhile liberal circles, of obnoxious or retrograde cultural attitudes—the removal of taboos, say, on certain slurs. Another way to look at the vibe shift is as a more fundamental shift to “vibes” as the unit of political analysis—an acknowledgment, on the part of liberals, that their initial response to an informational crisis had been inadequate and hypocritical. The vibe shift has been criticized as a soft-headed preference for mystical interpretation in place of empirical inquiry. But a vibe is just a technique of compression. A near-infinite variety of inputs is reduced to a single bit of output: YES or NO, FOR or AGAINST. It had been close, but the vibe shift was just the concession that AGAINST had prevailed.

One side effect of the vibe shift is that the media establishment has started to accept that there is, in fact, such a thing as a Silicon Valley intellectual—not the glib, blustery dudes who post every thought that enters their brains but people who prefer to post at length and on the margins. Nadia Asparouhova is an independent writer and researcher; she has held positions at GitHub and Substack, although she’s always been something of a professional stranger—at one company, her formal job title was just “Nadia.” Her first book, “Working in Public,” was an ethnographic study of open-source software engineering. The field was inflected with standard-issue techno-utopian notions of anarchically productive self-organization, but she found little evidence to support such naïve optimism. For the most part, open-source projects weren’t evenly distributed across teams of volunteers; they were managed by at most a few individuals, who spent the bulk of their waking hours in abject thrall to a user-complaint queue. Technology did not naturally lead to the proliferation of professional, creative, or ideological variety. Tools designed for workplace synchronization, she found at one of her tech jobs, became enforcement mechanisms for a recognizable form of narrow political progressivism. In the wake of one faux pas—when her Slack response to an active-shooter warning elicited a rebuke from a member of the “social impact team,” who reminded her that neighborhood disorder was the result of “more hardships than any of us will ever understand”—she decided to err on the side of keeping her opinions to herself.

Asparouhova found that she wasn’t the only one who felt disillusioned by the condition of these once promising public forums. She gradually retreated from the broadest public spaces of the internet, as part of a larger pattern of migration to private group chats—“a dark network of scattered outposts, where no one wants to be seen or heard or noticed, so that they might be able to talk to their friends in peace.” Before long, a loose collection of internet theorists took on the private-messaging channel as an object of investigation. In 2019, Yancey Strickler, one of the founders of Kickstarter, published an essay called “The Dark Forest Theory of the Internet.” The title was an allusion to Cixin Liu’s “Three-Body Problem,” which explains the Fermi paradox, or the apparent emptiness of the universe, as a strategic preference to remain invisible to predatory species. The writer Venkatesh Rao and the designer Maggie Appleton later expanded on the idea of the “cozyweb.” These texts took a fairly uncontroversial observation—that people were hotheaded dickheads on the public internet, and much more gracious, agreeable, and forgiving in more circumscribed settings—as a further sign that something was wrong with a prevailing assumption about the competitive marketplace of information. Maybe the winning ideas were not the best ideas but simply the most transmissible ones? Their faith in memetic culture had been shaken. It wasn’t selecting for quality but for ease of assimilation into preëxisting blocs.

In the fall of 2021, Asparouhova realized that this inchoate line of thought had been anticipated by a cult novel called “There Is No Antimemetics Division.” The book is brilliant, singular, and profoundly strange. Originally serialized, between 2008 and 2020, under the pseudonym qntm (pronounced “quantum,” and subsequently revealed to be a British writer and software developer named Sam Hughes), as part of a sprawling, collaborative online writing project called the SCP Foundation Wiki, “There Is No Antimemetics Division” is part Lovecraftian horror, part clinical science fiction, and part media studies. (This fall, an overhauled version will be published, for the first time, as a print volume.) Its plot can be summarized about as well as a penguin might be given driving directions to the moon, but here goes: it’s a time-looping thriller about a team of researchers trying to save the world from an extra-dimensional “memeplex” that takes the intermittent form of skyscraper-sized arthropods that can only be vanquished by being forgotten (kinda). The over-all concept is to literalize the idea of a meme—to imagine self-replicating cultural objects as quirky and/or fearsome supernatural monsters—and conjure a world in which some of them must be isolated and studied in secure containment facilities for the sake of humanity. What captured Asparouhova’s attention was the book’s introduction of something called a “self-keeping secret” or “antimeme.” If memes were by definition hard to forget and highly transmissible, antimemes were hard to remember and resistant to multiplication. If memes had done a lot of damage, maybe antimemes could be cultivated as the remedy.

This is the animating contrast of Asparouhova’s new book, “Antimemetics: Why Some Ideas Resist Spreading,” published with Yancey Strickler’s Dark Forest Collective. She has devoted her attention, as she puts it in the introduction, to the behavior of “ideas that resist being remembered, comprehended, or engaged with, despite their significance.” She is interested in ideas that cost something. Her initial examples are a little bizarre and slightly misleading: Why do we still observe daylight-saving time when nobody likes it? Why don’t people wash their hands when they know they should? (A clearer and more salient reference might be to the newly memetic “abundance agenda,” which remains essentially antimemetic in substance, insofar as it attempts to replace procedural fetishism and rhetorical grandstanding with the hard, unglamorous, possibly boring work of applying ourselves to basic problems of physical infrastructure.) What she’s ultimately after is a much bigger set of questions: Why can’t we manage to solve these big, obvious collective-action problems? Why, in other words, can’t we have nice things? As she puts it, “Our inability to make progress on consequential topics can be at least partly explained by the underlying antimemetic qualities that they share—meaning that it is strangely difficult to keep the idea top of mind.” These antimemes are crowded out by the electric trivia of online signalling: “As memes dominate our lives, we’ve fully embraced our role as carriers, reorienting our behavior and identities towards emulating the most powerful—and often the most primal and base—models of desire. Taken to the extreme, this could be seen as a horrifying loss of human capacity to build and create in new and surprising ways.”

There are plenty of different frames Asparouhova might have chosen for an investigation into how the structure of a given channel of communication affects the kind, quality, and velocity of information it can carry, but she has settled on the cool-sounding if cumbersome notion of “antimemetics” for a reason. The decision alludes to her conflicted relationship to a clutch of attitudes that are often coded as right-wing. Like many Silicon Valley intellectuals, she thinks that figures like the voguish neoreactionary Curtis Yarvin—whose more objectionable statements she explicitly rejects—and Peter Thiel had long demonstrated a better grasp of online behavior than liberals did. Thiel’s invocation of Girardian scapegoating anticipated the rise of “cancel culture” as a structural phenomenon, and Yarvin was early to point out that the antidote to dysregulated public squares were “smaller, high-context spaces.” If she accepts their descriptive analysis of how the open internet deteriorated into a tribal struggle over public “mindshare,” she rejects their prescriptive complicity with the breast-beating warlords of the new primitivism. Memetic behavior may have got us here, she writes, “but as we search for a way to survive, it is a second, hidden set of behaviors—antimemetic ones—that will show us how to move forward.”

Asparouhova’s basic intuition is that both of the prevailing theories of information on the internet (either that it had to be sanitized and controlled or that it was simply natural for it to remain perennially downstream of charisma) have been wrong. It was foolish to hope that the radical and anarchic expansion of the public sphere—“adding more voices to a room”—would prove out our talent for collective reasoning. But neither do we have to resign ourselves to total context collapse and perpetual memetic warfare. She does not think that all communication can be reduced to a power struggle, she is not ready to give up on democratic values or civilization tout court, and she considers herself one of many “refugees fleeing memetic contagion.” These refugees have labored to build an informational and communicative infrastructure that isn’t so overwhelming, one that can be bootstrapped in private or semi-private spaces where a level of trust and good will is taken for granted, and conflict can be productive and encouraging instead of destructive and terrifying. As she puts it, “If the memetic city is characterized by bright, flashy Times Square, the antimemetic city is more like a city of encampments, strewn across an interminable desert. While some camps are bigger and more storied—think long-established internet forums, private social clubs, or Discords—its primary social unit is the group chat, which makes it easy to instantly throw up four walls around any conversation online.”

The book “Antimemetics” is gestural and shaggy, which makes it a generative and fun read. The central concept is not always clear or systematic, but that seems to come with the antimemetic territory. At times, Asparouhova suggests that antimemes are specific proposals, like the importance of extended parental leave, in perennial lack of a lasting constituency to sustain them. Elsewhere, antimemetic ideas represent the sacred reminder that we are frail and uncertain creatures deserving of grace. This is quite explicitly a pandemic-inflected project, and she often returns to the notion that antimemes have “long symptomatic periods” and are “highly resistant to spread”—if one manages to “escape its original context” and spreads to networks with high “immunity,” it can be prematurely destroyed by the antibodies of “pushback.” The concept can thus seem like a fancy way to say “nuanced,” or like a synonym for “challenging” or “hard-won.” There are places where she implies that antimemes are definitionally good—as in, a name for elusive ideas we should want to propagate—and places where she argues instead that they are morally neutral. Sometimes antimemes are processes—like bureaucracy—and sometimes they seem more like concrete goals. What makes this conceptual muddle appealing, rather than a source of irritation or confusion, is that she’s quite clearly working all this out as she goes along. The book never feels like a vector for the reproduction of some prefabricated case. It has the texture of thought, or of a group chat.

As is perhaps inevitable in even the best internet-theory books, Asparouhova’s antidote ultimately entails the cultivation of the ability to decide what matters and choose to pay attention to it. She recognizes, to her credit, that such injunctions are often corny invitations to flower-smelling self-indulgence; her icon of patience and stamina in the face of obdurate complexity happens to be Robert Moses, which makes for an odd, if refreshing, contrast with the bog-standard tract about the value of attention. More important than one’s individual attention, she continues, is one’s concentrated participation in the subtler kind of informational triage that high-context communities can perform, but she doesn’t think it’s sufficient to give up and tend only these walled communal gardens. The point is not flight or bunker construction. She envisions a recursive architecture where people experiment with ideas among intimates before they launch them at scale, a process that might in turn transform the marketplace of ideas from a gladiatorial arena to something more like a handcraft bazaar: “Group chats are a place to build trust with likeminded people, who eventually amplify each others’ ideas in public settings. Memetic and antimemetic cities depend on each other: the stronger memes become, the more we need private spaces to refine them.”

She grants that this sounds like a lot of effort. It’s an invitation to re-create an entire information-processing civilization from the ground up. But if the easy way had worked—if all you had to do was get rid of the institutional gatekeepers and give everyone a voice, or if all you had to do was remind people that the institutional gatekeepers were right in the first place—we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Antimemetics” arrives at an opportune moment for two reasons. The first is that private group chats have matured in precisely the way she predicted. “Somewhere out there, your favorite celebrities and politicians and executives are tapping away on their keyboards in a Signal or Telegram or Whatsapp chat, planning campaigns and revolutions and corporate takeovers,” she writes. A few weeks ago, Ben Smith of Semafor provided ample corroboration, reporting that the venture-capitalist Marc Andreessen turns to group chats for the coordinated dissemination of “samizdat”—the opinionated venture capitalist, according to one source, apparently “spends half his life on 100 of these at the same time.” As the Substack economist Noah Smith put it, “Group chats are now where everything important and interesting happens.” Not all of Asparouhova’s predictions were quite right, though: “No journalist has access to the most influential group chats,” she asserts, a statement rendered hilariously inaccurate by the events of the last two months. None of these examples seems quite like the models of high-minded exchange Asparouhova described on the basis of her own experience, but their apparent pervasiveness underlines the consensus that the public internet exists only for the purposes of yelling into the void—or for the putatively spontaneous expansion of support for campaigns that were coördinated in darkness.

The other thing that’s rendered the book particularly timely has been the development of something like a moral self-audit among Silicon Valley intellectuals, Asparouhova among them, who have come to wonder if their own heterodoxy over the past decade has had politically disastrous consequences. In a miniature drama published online titled “Twilight of the Edgelords,” the writer Scott Alexander, of the widely read blog Astral Codex Ten, has one of his characters declare that “all of our good ideas, the things the smug misinformation expert would have tried to get us cancelled for, have gotten perverted in the most depressing and horrifying way possible.” The character outlines a series of examples: “We wanted to be able to hold a job without reciting DEI shibboleths or filling in multiple-choice exams about how white people cause earthquakes. Instead we got a thousand scientific studies cancelled because they used the string ‘trans-’ in a sentence on transmembrane proteins.” Alexander has more or less done what Asparouhova would have recommended: supervise the rigorous exchange of controversial ideas in a high-context, semi-private setting, and hope that they in turn improve the quality of the public discourse. What Alexander seems to be lamenting is the way the variegated output of his community was, in the end, somehow reduced to FOR or AGAINST, and the possibility that he inadvertently helped tip the scales.

Given the revelations in Ben Smith’s reporting—and his argument that Andreessen’s group chats were “the single most important place in which a stunning realignment toward Donald Trump was shaped and negotiated, and an alliance between Silicon Valley and the new right formed”—Alexander’s honorable exercise in self-criticism seems more like a superfluous bit of self-flagellation. From Asparouhova’s perspective, the lesson we should draw is not that bad ideas should in fact be suppressed but that good ideas require the trussing of sturdy, credible institutions—structures that might withstand the countervailing urge to raze everything to the ground.

For all of its fun-house absurdity, qntm’s “There Is No Antimemetics Division” seems legible enough on this point. Humanity, in the novel, has lived under the recurrent threat of catastrophically destructive memes—dark, self-fulfilling premonitions of scarcity, zero-sum competition, fear, mistrust, inegalitarianism. These emotions and attitudes, which circulate with little friction, turn us into zombies. The zombie warlord is an interdimensional memeplex called SCP-3125. The book’s hero understands that her enemy has no ultimate goal or content beyond the demonstration of its own power, and in turn the worship of power as such: “SCP-3125 is, in large part, the lie that SCP-3125 is inevitable, and indestructible. But it is a lie.” The antidote to this lie is the deliberate commemoration of all of the things that slip our minds—antimemes such as “an individual life is a fleeting thing” and “strangers are fellow-sufferers” and “love thy neighbor.” In the universe of the novel, these opposing forces—of what is too easy to remember and what is too easy to forget—have been locked in a cycle of destruction and rebirth for untold thousands of years. For the most part, it has taken an eternal return of civilizational ruin to prompt our ability to recall the difficult wisdom of the antimeme. The march of technology insures that every new go-round leaves us even more desolate than the last one. This time, Asparouhova proposes, we might try not to wait until it’s too late.

[unwashedunsatisfiedmeowmeow]

fanboy!Noah x idol!MC

"My personal hater" visual novel AU in which Noah is your most loyal fan.

(art by me)

So imagine that you're a popular idol who got famous not so long ago. You've been working towards this goal of yours for quite a time before you were finally aknowleged by the masses. You're very grateful for that and now you're using this popularity by working even harder! You make music after music after clip after clip and so on...

Eventually you grow tired. It was a matter of time when this will happen and deep down you knew that will happen sooner or later... But it appeared in such a problematic time. Live concerts, shooting music videos for your released songs as well as recording new songs to keep the fans "well fed"... To say that you were fucked in the ass by work (metaphorically) would be an underestimation at this point.

Despite having a big crew of professionals from different fields managing a lot of the tasks for you - it's still not enough to make you breathe out with ease. You're always on the verge of crashing out and running away for good. Things have gotten so bad that you start to regret becoming an idol - the only dream job you once thought was right for you.

One day you go back home as usual from a long day of work. You enter an elevator with a person in it without even looking at who it was. You didn't give a fuck at this point. And of course you looked like a mess. Not that cheerful and cute bbg you pretend to be for your hungry fans.

It was plain oversized clothes, medical mask, greasy hair and a tired look you had. You were spacing out and ready to sleep in that damn elevator as usual.

What an irony that the guy who was obviously your fan - wasn't noticed by you. But he on the other hand - recognized you right away, even if you didn't look your best. However instead of talking to you, Noah just stood there dumbfounded. His idol, the one he supported from the very start was in the same elevator as him!!!

"HOLY SHIT!!! FUCK, IS IT REALLY MC?! OH MY GOOOODDD!!!"

He is legit your first fan ever. He supported you with evverything he could support you with. Words of encouragement, binge listening to all your songs on repeat. He was even creating new accounts for that reason alone, so the platform you're releasing your songs in will promote them to other people. He also donated you fat coins whenever you decided to stream and to talk to your fans. Noah was the first one to buy all of your merch and wearing it (if it was possible).

Basically he was and still is your one and only true fan. He doesn't mind being called a simp by his friends and close ones either. After all, your music saved his life when he was really depressed and was planning on committing suicide. You will always be his cute little angel whether you like it or not.

Back to the elevator scene though:

Noah's breath hitched and he couldn't look away from you. For the first time in his life he saw you in real life! AND IT WAS ALONE IN THE ELEVATOR WITH HIM! Not in the fan meeting like he thought it would happen too?!

"It has to be fate. We're meant for each other! I knew we will meet sooner or later MC~"

Although he was itching to just tap your shoulder, feeling a little bit of your body and ask for an autograph with selfie, but he behaved himself. Why? Because Noah knows where you live now. It would be wasteful, to throw the chance of pretending to meet you naturally just for these temporary things.

He will save these requests of his for later, when you will be deep into the relationship with him.

Thanks for reading my AU drabble of Noah fanboy! Bye!

[yzashaven]

FEATURING ! shouki no kami/archon!scara x fem!reader

CONTENTS ! there's a short fighting scene, robot fucking, grinding, implied worshipping, mating press, masturbating in front of him, degradation and praise <3, choking, breeding, scara fingers appreciation!! (think that's all :3)

NOTE ! a gift for my bestie @yukiitaooo ‼️ just pretend that the joururi workshop is in inazuma btw for the sake of making this plot work 😭 and do read the synopsis since it's a bit messy. special thanks to yukii for proofreading this for me btw <3

SYNOPSIS— reader is a shrine maiden and scara's lover. she wanted to see his god form aka the vessel/robot and test her skills along with her newly obtained powers by sparring with him. she uses a sword/katana and has an electro vision given by scaramouche.

—♡

"are you sure about this?"

scaramouche asked with a sigh as he was carrying you in his arms, walking towards the joururi workshop, where the shouki no kami was situated within. you nod and lean into his chest, feeling the wind blow gently against the both of you. after some time, you reached what seemed like a small entrance cave which led to the gigantic destination in which in the distance you could see the small elevator-like platform that led up high. he held your hand as you walked along the long and wide corridors, guards and people around kneeling in their stead upon seeing their god, their archon, scaramouche—as per his set rules upon the nation. but you? he gave you permission to be the only exception in this rule of his, walking close beside him as you could sense the jealous wandering eyes of those around. how could a "mere" shrine maiden be worthy enough to walk alongside the god himself? people ask themselves in silence before the two of you finally reached the elevator that led to the main area.

he had already made the much needed arrangements to make sure everyone was unable to enter the area where the enormous robot was in. this was your first time seeing it with your own eyes, in all honesty. and of course, as soon as the main doors opened, your eyes widen for a split second. seeing that it was way larger than you had anticipated, looks like this was gonna be a rough fight. "don't be so nervous now..." he says in a low whisper, walking along the path leading to the machine. "...i'll be gentle with you." the subtle suggestive comment made heat rush to your cheeks into a faint blush to which he darkly chuckles to upon taking a glance behind his back at your direction. "i suggest that you prepare yourself for what's to come, my dearest." as scaramouche said those words with you following behind him, the doors suddenly shut hard from behind you, causing your body to jump in shock. he chuckles, back turned to you, before extending his hand out in front of him to channel some sort of elemental energy from his palm. you watch from a short distance as the shouki no kami slowly moves a few movements, scaramouche shuts his eyes before finally teleporting within the central control area of the robot. the atmosphere changes to one filled with tension as he maneuvers with the various mechanisms of the machine with ease as he lets out a seemingly psychotic laugh.

"bow before me, worm!" his voice had changed, echoing through the room loudly. with widened eyes, you summon out your weapon as you see him urging you to get closer.

"come forth! i won't hurt you... much." he whispers, voice in an alluring tone. you click your tongue as you witness how his cockiness is creeping up him again like always. you laugh shortly before sprinting towards him and skillfully dealing a few hits here and there with your katana, to which he just lets out a sigh, "you're doing practically nothing, mortal!" to your side you could see the arm of the vessel making its way to hit you, fortunately, you dodge it with ease. it's coming back but thankfully you have good reaction time and dodge that attack as well before landing multiple hits against him, using your electro vision as an extra source of power.

"oh? not bad~" he coos sarcastically as his right hand hits on the side of the platform hard, causing it to shake along with causing you to lose your balance almost instantly. you look over to where the sudden shaking of the ground from and see the large mechanical hand. your eyes for some reason glue themselves to the fingers of the vessel, thinking about how he could be moving then from inside. maybe the robot follows his own movements? 'but why does it look so attractive...?' you thought for a few seconds, 'his fingers really are just so... perfect though—' you then regain your composure and stop daydreaming upon getting hit by the reality that you were still sparring with him. looking up above you to see his other hand making its' way to crush you, you immediately raise your blade in an attempt to block the attack. the vessel's fingers were right on top of you, a faint blush spreads across your cheeks as your imagination went wild with sudden desires about him once again. success seemed to be on your side for now as you see scaramouche retreat his hand away but instead hits the platform again. you feel the ground below you slowly shatter until you felt nothingness underneath your feet along with your blade being lost from your grip.

a yelp was ripped from your throat as you braced yourself for the fall that looked as if it would be the last thing you'd experience in teyvat. with eyes shut, feeling the wind against your body as you fell from who knows how many feet high, you really thought this was your last day.

not until you feel your clothes getting caught in something. with a sigh of relief, you open your eyes and see that the shouki no kami was holding you between his thumb and index finger at the back of your clothes, "i've got you." he starts dangling you in front of his eyes as if you were some sort of set of keys that he was inspecting up close. "you look so vulnerable like this, so tiny." you whimper at his words as he toyed with you, "think that's enough for today." he declared, claiming his victory. suddenly, he placed his other hand below you before letting go of your body. when you dropped it didn't hurt but it seems that you had hit your clit somewhere on his palm, the unexpected contact made you moan out of nowhere. it wasn't that loud, it wasn't quiet either; but for sure he heard it. unbeknownst to you, he was already smirking from inside the control area, cock already hard within his pants just from watching your vulnerable body in front of him not too long ago.

as you try to pick yourself up and sit upright, you hear scaramouche laugh from behind. "was that a moan i heard? you fucking slut." the blush on your cheeks reddened even more as you felt a part of your dignity being stripped away, did you really-actually-legitimately just moan from that? "no, i-it wasn't...!" you defensively say while mustering up the courage to face him despite what you both know just happened. you can feel his sharp gaze and smirk at you through the metal, as if he was looking at an ever so helpless prey. well you kind of were the said prey in this situation. although you couldn't help but to feel aroused being on his hand knowing how bad you fantasized about it not too long ago. he brings his hand closer to his face to get a better look at you before speaking, "i'll have you know that i can feel your wetness on this hand. how perverted, lusting over me in the midst of a sparring session?" he teasingly coos at you. "now then, i'm sure you know what i'd like of you? go on..."

"touch yourself in front of me, in front of your god. i'm giving you permission to give in to your desires, take your chances."

hesitating to follow his orders, you look up at him with wide eyes of disbelief. but a part of you was convinced that you should just give in already. you want him, don't you? slowly spreading your legs in front of him as your fingers begin to trail down to a rather sensitive area, you feel yourself through the thin fabric of your panties, fingers delicately rubbing slow circles on your clit. "undress." he sternly says, to which you comply immediately. breathing heavily as you discard your clothes piece after piece, throwing them somewhere near. meanwhile, scaramouche was already palming his hard-on as his gaze was focused only on your form, taking in the sweet sight of you revealing your arousal once again to him as you continue to touch yourself as per his command.

he looks down at you from up inside the vessel, watching with interest as you pleasure yourself right then and there in front of him on the palm of the robot, your fingers rubbing at your clit at a faster pace. "do you really have no shame?" he asks before chuckling darkly, you close your eyes as to focus on getting yourself to cum quicker, but then you feel something large and cold against your entrance forcing your thighs to part. your eyes hurry to open and you see a finger from his other hand in between your thighs, "don't get shy now~" scaramouche says in a manner that seemed humiliating, as if he was mocking you, "grind on my finger, whore. you know you want to."

you couldn't help but whine at his words and the sudden temperature change between your legs. he noticed how you weren't doing what he had just ordered and decided to take control instead. he lets out a long sigh before slowly moving his finger back and forth, having his fingertip rub against your soaked folds, careful not to accidentally apply any sort of pressure that could possibly hurt you in any way—giving attention to the obvious power and size difference of your body and the shouki no kami. the sensation has you moaning out loud, voice echoing as if it were bouncing off the walls repeatedly. soon enough, you find yourself doing the work now, grinding against the metal until it was practically coated in your essence as one of your hands cup your breasts to knead it gently whilst the other rubs at your clit at a steady pace.

not long after, you feel your orgasm approaching already, breaths uneven as you continuously let out moans of his name all the while your body shakes slightly. but as you bucked your hips for friction—you notice how you felt nothing instead, your movements come to a stop as you look at him with pleading eyes. scaramouche lets out a small laugh as he saw your immediate reaction, he had moved his hand away from you completely. "oh, you fucking whore." he says with an intoxicating tone, "if you're gonna ruin this vessel, then..." you try to ignore his words as you focused on getting yourself to climax instead. your eyes closed shut as you start to desperately touch yourself a bit more aggressively than before. unfortunately for you, it didn't really seem to work. well, not until you felt something suddenly fill you up completely, your eyes opening at the intrusion. you gasp as you finally feel his cock buried inside your warmth, along with his thumb replacing the spot occupied by your own fingers that were on your clit as he pinched the bud gently, causing you to let out a moan.

"...i'm gonna ruin you as well."

scaramouche's voice was laced with intoxication as he spoke to you in a whisper. he then began to pound into you roughly, with long, deep, strong thrusts that hit all the right areas with ease as you screamed for him with each snap of his hips against yours. picking up the pace soon after, he began fucking you fast and rough, just the way you like. grunts and groans occasionally left his agape lips as he held your thighs apart. "you love it, right? you love how helpless and submissive you become underneath me~" he says before pulling you closer to him and repositioning you into a mating press, having you folded in half and entirely at his mercy before he started to pound into you once again—reaching even deeper parts of your cunt as he rubs circles on your swollen clit. "fuck, i'm gonna breed you sooo good. you want me to fill you up, don't you?~"

you nod frantically in response, being unable to construct proper words as the overwhelming pleasure takes over you completely. "so close... ah~ scara~!" you cry out as he continues to thrust into you relentlessly, hitting your g-spot over and over again until you were a sobbing, moaning, shaking mess below him. "that's it~" he coos, "come on, cum for me. you are a good girl after all, aren't you? cum for your god." his words bring you to the edge as you cum hard, a pornographic moan escaping from your lips as drool began to drip from the corners of it. "s-scara—" "my lord." he cuts you off, correcting your words before he started thrusting into you again, knowing damn well how sensitive you felt, having practically no time to recover from your previous orgasm. "my lord-aah~! right there...!" you mewl out as he hit another perfect angle that drove you crazy, "tell me..." his hand suddenly went to your neck, fingers wrapping around the soft flesh tightly—not tight enough to the point that you couldn't breathe, but tight enough to make your head spin as his eyes pierced through yours with desire filled in them.

"how does it feel getting fucked by a god like me? having this much power and control over both your body and your mind."

"s-so good... hngh~ ah~!" your vision slowly get blurry as you feel yourself getting weaker by the minute. you feel his cock twitch against your walls, signalling how close he is as well. "you feel so good around me, fuck~" the grip he had on your neck tightens slightly as he groans deeply, "beg me to cum inside you." scaramouche sternly says, "beg your god for his seed~" he grins mischievously as he watches the tears that had formed in your eyes slowly drip down your flushed cheeks. "c-cum inside me, my lord—ahh~! master... m-my god~" you choke out as you feel another amazing climax about to erupt from you, "please~!" your voice cracks a bit as you said those words. not long after, he snaps his hips against yours one final time, making sure to be balls deep as he shoots ropes of his thick and warm cum deep inside your pussy, which had definitely reached your womb as well. "oh, fuck~" he moans lowly as he gently pulled out of you, gaze falling towards your cunt as he keenly observed how your mixed fluids drip out to pool below you, all over the shouki no kami's hand.

you try and relax your body, closing your eyes and just letting yourself lay there tiredly, while scaramouche watches your chest rise and fall as you pant heavily after the intense session. normally, he'd let you rest but that doesn't seem to be what he wants right now. you whimper and look at him with teary, half lidded eyes as he suddenly pulls you towards him once again, pushing his cock back inside, along with pushing the cum back and reaching further down your pussy.

"one load won't be enough to breed you, darling~"

[undersugarnights]

Pins and Needles

✦ MDNI — 18+ Only ✦

✧ pairing: firefighter!ashton x reader

✧ summary: you’re completely over ashton irwin. your life has moved on, and so have you. there is nothing that would ever change your mind about it—not even when he magically shows up to rescue you from a broken elevator. it’s all pins and needles, babe.

✧ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f! receiving), choking, hair pulling, mirror sex, rough ashton, slightly intoxicated sex, mentions of cheating, slight descriptions of a building collapse, hurt + comfort

✧ word count: 24k (monster blurb ik)

✧ title: pins and needles — by Nessa Barrett

✧ author’s note: the story behind this is actually quite funny. i had the song pins and needles by nessa barrett stuck in my head all day, and as i rewatched 9-1-1 i had the idea for this one-shot. this is definitely a beast, but god i am so proud of it. this started off as an idea for a small luke blurb, but @souperbloom has been corrupting me with ashton, and i can’t even blame them. also, did i mention this is a collab with them? AHHH they’ve quickly become one of my favorite people to work with, and her writing is just BEAUTIFUL!!! anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did, and you should all watch 9-1-1 and stream pins and needles if you haven’t already!!!

also, thank you ashton for those extra superbloom era pics. i got violently wet. ANYWAY ENJOY.

Copyright © 2025 undersugarnights. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The sharp click of your heels echoed through the hallway, each step amplifying the urgency of your pace. You were running late—frustratingly, maddeningly late—as you powered forward, trying to make up for lost time.

Your breath came quick and shallow, each inhale a reminder of the meeting looming ahead. The sketches p tightly against your chest felt heavier with every step, the thought of presenting them making your skin break out in a cold sweat.

Whether it was the weight of the presentation or the caffeine from your third cup of coffee that sent jitters through your body, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was both. Either way, your nerves were on edge, a storm threatening to break inside you.

You let out an annoyed huff, wincing as your new heels pinched at your feet with every step. Damn these shoes. They made you look polished and professional, but they were far from comfortable—and definitely not broken in.

Finally, you reached the elevators, skidding to a stop and allowing yourself a moment to breathe. The faint sting in your feet and the hammering of your heart reminded you to steady yourself. They’re not going to laugh me out of a job… right?

Your hand trembled slightly as you pressed the elevator button, the quiet ding of the arrival chime feeling louder than it should. Watching the numbers tick down, you took a shaky breath, trying to gather your thoughts. The anticipation tightened your chest. It’s going to be fine. It has to be.

When the elevator finally came to a halt at your floor, you didn’t hesitate to step through the eerily empty space. Nervous energy coursed through you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from going over your presentation for the millionth time in your head.

As the elevator door slid shut behind you, you pulled out your phone, scrolling mindlessly to distract yourself. You quickly answered a few messages from Diego, who wished you luck and confirmed you were still on for tonight’s date.

He was the first guy you’d worked up the courage to see—albeit casually. You weren’t exactly in the right headspace to open your heart again, and the thought of letting someone in still felt daunting. Sighing, you pocketed your phone and tilted your chin up, watching as the numbers on the elevator panel continued to rise.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of screeching metal broke through the silence. Before you could process what was happening, the elevator lurched violently, and you were falling. It wasn’t far—only a few floors—but your mind went into overdrive as you instinctively dropped to the ground, covering your head and bracing for impact.

But it didn’t come. The elevator jolted to a stop with a bone-rattling force, and the lights flickered off completely, plunging you into darkness. Your heart hammered in your chest as you lay there, disoriented and trembling. Slowly, you felt along the floor for your phone, your fingers shaking as you finally found it.

You didn’t hesitate to open it, though every nerve in your body screamed at you to stay perfectly still, afraid any movement might trigger another fall. Swallowing hard, you hovered your fingers over the keypad, finally typing the three digits you never thought you’d need.

The line picked up almost immediately.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a calm woman’s voice asked, the faint sound of typing accompanying her words. You could hear a faint accent in her words— maybe Australian?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to speak through the panic constricting your chest. “Hi, uh, I think the elevator I’m in just fell a few floors—and now I’m stuck.”

“I understand,” the dispatcher said smoothly, her tone steady. “What’s your name?”

Your grip on the phone tightened as you shut your eyes. “Y/N.”

“Got it. Are you hurt, Y/N?”

“No,” you said shakily, “I don’t think so. Just… shaken up.”

The faint sound of rapid typing filled the other end of the line as you fought to focus on her voice rather than the silence around you.

“Okay, you’re doing great. Can I get your location?”

Your mind scrambled to recall the address, your body trembling with a mix of fear and adrenaline. Stammering, you recited the address, silently praying you didn’t get it wrong in your panicked state.

“Alright, I’ve got it,” she said reassuringly. “Now, can you tell me approximately what floor you’re on? Are there any indicators?”

You glanced toward the panel where the floor numbers usually lit up, but it was useless. The screen was dark, just like the rest of the elevator.

“I have no idea,” you admitted, frustration and fear lacing your voice. “I got on at the seventh floor, and it was around the fifteenth when the elevator… dropped.”

More typing came through the line before the dispatcher spoke again. “Understood. Help is on the way. Please stay still, try not to move too much, and keep the line open until they get to you. Can you do that?”

“Yes—yes, thank you,” you gasped, a rush of relief making your head spin as you slumped against the floor. The cool metal pressed against your back as you tried to regulate your breathing.

“Ma’am, are you still with me?” the dispatcher prompted gently, her voice cutting through your haze.

You blinked, jolting out of your trance. “Yes, I’m here,” you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice.

“Is there anyone else in the elevator with you?”

“No,” you replied, glancing around the empty space. “It’s just me.”

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity as you sank further into despair. The dispatcher on the other end of the line did her best to keep you calm, her steady voice a fragile lifeline in the oppressive silence. Of course this would happen to you—especially today, when you had such an important meeting.

Your gaze drifted to your scattered sketches and plans, lying just a few inches away on the elevator floor. At least they were still intact. Maybe, just maybe, if luck was on your side, you’d still have a chance to present your idea.

The dispatcher checked in periodically, asking how you were holding up. You wished you could unload everything onto her—every fear, every frustration, every ounce of emotional baggage that threatened to drown you. But you held back, knowing how frantic and borderline desperate that would sound.

Before you could spiral any further into your thoughts, a muffled voice broke through the suffocating silence, followed by the faint clatter of tools.

“Ma’am, this is the Los Angeles Fire Department. Are you okay?” a man’s voice called from above, it sounded almost familiar.

Relief flooded through you, almost overwhelming in its intensity. You scrambled to respond, your voice trembling. “Yes! I’m okay,” you managed. “Please, just hurry!”

“Hang on tight,” the firefighter said reassuringly. “We’ll have you out in just a moment.”

For the first time since the elevator had stopped, hope blossomed in your chest, fragile but bright. Help was finally here.

The sounds above you grew louder, they were unnerving enough to set your nerves on edge yet again. You could hear voices coordinating, tools working against the metal. It was slightly overwhelming.

You remained frozen on the floor, clutching your sketches tightly to your chest and trying to regulate your breathing. Every muscle in your body felt tense, your grip on your phone firm as if it were the only tether keeping you grounded.

The dispatcher’s voice broke through your thoughts again, calm and steady. “They’re doing their best to get you out, Y/N. Just hang tight and stay as still as you can, okay?”

You huffed quietly, biting back a sarcastic retort. Liz had been nothing but kind and supportive; she didn’t deserve your misplaced frustration. “I’m trying,” you said through gritted teeth, your voice softer but strained.

The elevator shuddered violently, and your breath caught in your throat. “What the hell was that?” you exclaimed, panic spiking again.

“They’re securing the elevator,” Liz reassured, her voice soothing. “It’s normal, I promise. You’re in good hands.”

Your chest rose and fell in rapid breaths as you closed your eyes briefly. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice shaky. “What’s your name?”

There was a pause on the other end before the dispatcher gave a surprised laugh. “Oh, I’m Liz, honey.”

“Thank you for staying on the line, Liz,” you murmured, trying to focus on her voice instead of the fear clawing at you. “I probably sound so dumb right now—”

“Not at all,” Liz interrupted, her tone firm but kind. “It’s perfectly normal to be scared. This is a terrifying situation, and you’re allowed to feel that way.”

Before you could respond, a faint beam of light broke through a crack above you, and you instinctively squinted as the sudden brightness filled the confined space. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed as firefighters pried open the emergency hatch.

“Oh, thank God,” you breathed, a nervous laugh escaping as relief flooded through you.

The firefighter’s voice, now much clearer, called down to you. “Ma’am, we’re here. Are you okay?”

You froze as the familiar voice registered. Your head tilted up slowly, your heart skipping a beat. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you recognized the face peering down at you—the warm brown eyes, the tattooed forearms.

“Calum?” you whispered in disbelief, your voice barely audible.

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice, and his lips curled into a surprised smile. “Oh, hey, Y/N!” he said brightly, as if running into an old friend at a coffee shop instead of in the middle of a rescue. “Fancy seeing you here. You okay?”

Before you could respond, a sinking realization hit you. Calum was never alone—not back in college, not ever. Wherever Calum went, he followed.

But no, it couldn’t be. There was no way.

And just like that, your worst fear materialized as another figure popped up beside Calum, peering through the hatch. Hazel-green eyes met yours, familiar and devastatingly beautiful— the eyes you had dreamed about for half a decade.

“Good God,” Ashton said with a laugh, his grin infuriatingly charming. “If you really wanted to see me that badly, you didn’t have to call 9-1-1.”

Calum shot a look at his best friend, his brows furrowed in mild annoyance. “She doesn’t control who gets sent on calls, Ash. Maybe ease up?”

“She really doesn’t,” Liz interjected from the other end of the line, startling you. You hadn’t realized she could hear everything being said. “Sorry if I’ve put you in an awkward situation, Y/N, but these are good guys. You’re in safe hands. I’ll let you go now.”

You tore your gaze away from Ashton’s infuriatingly familiar green eyes, your frustration bubbling over. “Actually,” you muttered, “is it too late to send another team? Because, honestly, plunging to my death in this elevator sounds kind of appealing right about now.”

Liz laughed, clearly unfazed by your sarcasm. “Definitely too late for that. It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” you grumbled, biting the inside of your cheek as the call disconnected, leaving you alone with your rescuers.

Ashton’s grin widened, his confidence as aggravating as ever. You couldn’t help but notice how much he had changed since the last time you’d seen him—over a year ago. His once sandy blond hair was now jet black, styled effortlessly to frame his face. He’d filled out considerably, his uniform clinging to his broad shoulders and toned arms.

Of course, the universe had to serve this moment to you on a silver platter. As if being trapped in an elevator wasn’t humiliating enough, now you had to contend with him.

Calum rolled his eyes, clapping Ashton on the shoulder as yet another head peeked into the hatch. This one belonged to someone unfamiliar—blonde hair, big brown eyes, and a face that looked significantly younger than the others. “What’s going on here?” the newcomer asked.

Ashton groaned, his tone dripping with irritation. “Mind your business, Probie.”

“Mate, get it together and help her out,” Calum interjected, shaking his head. Turning to you, he added, “I promise he’s not always like this on the job.”

You tightened your jaw, your patience already wearing thin. “No, I’m sure he is,” you snapped, pocketing your phone and grabbing your sketches.

“Alright, Y/N,” Ashton sighed, clearly trying to temper his frustration. “I’m here now. Let me get you out of there, and then you can yell at me all you want.”

Anger flickered in your chest as your gaze locked with Ashton’s. The man standing above you bore no trace of the love you once felt for him—no spark, no butterflies. Just pure, unfiltered irritation.

Calum leaned over, lowering a harness through the hatch. His voice was calm and professional, a sharp contrast to Ashton’s flippancy. “Slip this around your waist. Make sure it’s secure, and we’ll pull you up nice and easy.”

You nodded wordlessly, avoiding Ashton’s penetrating gaze as you secured the harness snugly around your waist.

“I’m good,” you called, looking up to meet Calum’s eyes.

He nodded, his tone steady and reassuring. “Great. We’ll get you out in just a second.”

Ashton leaned over the edge, his smirk softening into something resembling concern. “Are you okay down there, Bambi?”

You froze, your frown deepening. “Don’t call me that.”

Ashton let out a slow exhale, glancing briefly at Calum. “Sorry,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Old habits die hard? You could’ve laughed if the situation weren’t so precarious. It had been over a year since you stormed out of Ashton’s apartment, tears streaming down your face, your heart splintered in ways you didn’t think were possible. Whatever love you had for him was long gone.

Choosing to ignore his comment, you focused on Calum’s steady movements.

“Y/N, are you good?” Ashton pressed, his tone sharp and impatient.

Your patience snapped. “Oh, now you care how I’m doing? That’s some interesting character development, Irwin.”

Calum winced, visibly uncomfortable as he turned back to the two of you. “Here we go again…”

He had been there by Ashton’s side for every single one of your tries at a relationship with him. Calum had been there every time it inevitably crashed and burned.

“Don’t ‘here we go again’ me,” Ashton snapped, his nostrils flaring as he glared at Calum. “Can we just get her out of here now?”

Calum’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to do, but maybe focus on actually doing your job instead of running your mouth.”

“Making sure she’s alright is part of my job,” Ashton shot back, his tone biting.

“No, Michael and Luke are supposed to handle that,” Calum retorted, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You’re supposed to help me lift her.”

In any other situation, their bickering would’ve been amusing, but the creaks and groans of the unstable elevator made you far too anxious to appreciate the comedy of the moment.

“Can you two lovebirds please focus?” you snapped, crossing your arms as you glared up at them.

Calum had the decency to look sheepish, but Ashton simply stared at you, his gaze intense and unwavering. The weight of it made your skin prickle, as if his very presence was an inconvenience you couldn’t escape.

Ashton let out a long breath through his nose. “Probie, help me out,” he barked, motioning for the younger guy to assist him.

The kid—too pretty to be working such a dangerous job—looked just as confused as you felt but stepped forward nonetheless.

Finally, you felt the rope begin to lift you out of the elevator. The ascent was slow and steady, yet you clung to the harness with white-knuckled determination.

“Hey,” Ashton called, his tone suddenly commanding. “Look at me.”

Against your better judgment, you did. His hazel eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the chaos of the situation melted away. His voice softened, steady and reassuring. “You’re doing so good, Y/N.”

The words struck a nerve, too reminiscent of moments you’d rather forget. You bit your lip and broke his gaze, willing the heat rising to your face to subside.

Finally, with one last pull, you were hoisted out of the elevator and back onto solid ground. Relief washed over you as you took a shaky step forward, only to realize the entire floor had gathered to watch.

As applause broke out around you, mortification set in.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Calum gave you a soft, reassuring smile as he steadied you. His warmth was a stark contrast to Ashton’s fiery energy, and it always left you wondering how the two managed to remain so close.

“You doing okay, Y/N?” he asked gently, his voice calm but tinged with exhaustion. Whether it was from the rescue itself or the constant wrangling with Ashton, you couldn’t quite tell.

“I think so,” you replied, brushing off your skirt and taking a shaky breath.

Calum nodded, his tone taking on a more professional edge. “I’d like to have you checked out by the paramedics, if that’s alright. Just to be sure there’s nothing hidden under the adrenaline.”

You gave a small nod, letting him guide you away from the crowd of onlookers that had formed. Ashton was nowhere in sight—likely cleaning up the gear or bossing around the “probie” you’d seen earlier.

The paramedics were waiting for you just outside the commotion. One of them stepped forward, his kind smile instantly putting you at ease.

“Hi, I’m Luke,” he said, his grin wide and warm, his voice tinged with a similar accent as the dispatcher who took your call. His tall frame loomed a little, but his bleach blond curls and sparkling blue eyes softened the effect. He turned slightly, gesturing to his partner. “And that’s Michael. Mind if we check you out real quick?”

You glanced at Michael, who was quieter but no less striking. His blond hair fell messily over his forehead, and his green eyes studied you with careful precision.

“Sure,” you said, nodding, though your gaze flicked back to Calum. He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping away, his reassuring presence lingering as you turned to face the paramedics.

You sat quietly as they worked around you, their movements seamless and efficient. Luke took your blood pressure while Michael prepared a light to check your pupils. Despite the strange tension in the air, their coordinated rhythm was oddly comforting—like watching a well-practiced dance.

Luke had just finished shining the light in your eyes when someone cleared their throat behind you. Michael turned first, heading toward the source of the noise, but you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Of course, Ashton stood a few feet away, shifting his weight awkwardly. He glanced at Luke and Michael with a sheepish smile. “Do you guys mind if I talk to—”

“I’m feeling quite faint, actually,” you interrupted loudly, catching Luke and Michael’s worried gazes before turning back to Ashton. “I think I should go to the hospital.”

Ashton sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Bambi, please,” he muttered, the nickname grating on your nerves. “You don’t have to try and run away from me, you know?”

Michael raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. “What did we miss?”

Luke looked equally perplexed, exchanging a silent question with his partner before shrugging.

You crossed your arms, leveling Ashton with a glare. “Is there a form I can sign that gets me the hell away from this guy?”

Luke hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the tension. “Uh… well, leaving against medical advice is an option. You sign, and we’re off the hook for anything. You’re free to, uh… run.”

Michael snorted, leaning casually against the wall. “Or, you know, restraining order. That works too.”

Ashton shot Michael a sharp glare, his jaw tightening. “That’s not funny.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, the sound cutting through the tense air. Watching Ashton squirm for once was a welcome change; in your relationship, he’d always held the upper hand.

“Alright,” Luke said, his serious tone cracking into a grin. “Make that against Ashton advice.”

Michael chuckled, his mischievous grin widening. “Yeah mate, now is not the time to pick up girls. You’re on the clock, not the cock.”

For a second, the room was silent. Then Luke and Michael burst into laughter, both doubling over as their shoulders shook. You couldn’t suppress your own snicker at Michael’s remark. Despite everything, their lightheartedness made you feel oddly at ease.

“Exactly,” you nodded in agreement. “So hop off mine.”

Your words only prompted another round of laughter from Michael and Luke. Ashton, however, was not amused. He crossed his arms, his expression equal parts annoyed and desperate. “Could you two please stop siding with her?”

Luke rolled his eyes dramatically. “Mate, you’re working, and it’s obvious she’s not interested in you.”

Michael nodded, smirking slightly. “Exactly. She’s not that into you, Ashton.”

You caught Ashton’s gaze then, his hazel eyes softening as they met yours. For a moment, his usual cocky demeanor fell away, replaced by a quiet vulnerability that caught you off guard.

But you weren’t ready to give him the satisfaction of winning this round. Turning back to Luke, who was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, you raised an eyebrow. “Am I cleared or what?”

Luke sobered quickly, exchanging a glance with Michael. “I mean… yeah, mostly. But there’s a couple more things I’d like to check.”

Ashton stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

Michael and Luke both froze, exchanging a look of disbelief.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly, surprising even yourself. “He can do it.”

Ashton puffed out his chest slightly, clearly relieved. “See? She doesn’t mind. Besides, we’re all EMT-trained. She’ll be fine.”

Luke shot you a sympathetic glance before stepping aside, muttering under his breath, “Better him than me.”

Michael shook his head with a teasing grin. “Don’t back down so easily, Hemmings,” he said, turning to Ashton. “You can take over on one condition: you tell us what the story is.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing back at Ashton with a playful, expectant look. “Yeah, Ashton. What’s the story here?” you echoed, blinking at him with faux innocence.

Ashton clenched his jaw, visibly irritated but resigned. With a heavy sigh, he muttered, “That’s my ex. Y/N. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

The humor you’d been feeling vanished instantly. You had half-expected Ashton to brush the situation off or leave everyone guessing. But the casual, almost smug way he admitted it hit you like a sucker punch.

You clenched your jaw. “Don’t call me that,” you muttered angrily. “I’ve never met you.”

Ashton sighed, looking at you with a defeated look in his eyes. “Seriously Y/N? You’re gonna act like this?”

Michael let out a low whistle, clearly taken aback. “Yeah, nope. Not touching that one,” he said, shaking his head. He nudged Luke, motioning for him to leave.

Luke hesitated, shooting you a quick, apologetic glance before following Michael out of the room. And just like that, for the first time in over a year, you were alone with Ashton.

He stepped closer, his eyes lingering on the door his teammates had just walked through. “Appreciate that,” he muttered, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Now this will be the hot topic for the rest of the shift.”

You met his gaze, crossing your arms. “Serves you right, don’t you think?” you replied, your tone laced with sarcasm. A smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “You know, after everything.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a sly grin as he grabbed a flashlight to replicate Luke’s earlier tests. “After everything, hmm?” he repeated, his voice smooth. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

You let out an exhausted sigh, leaning away slightly as he moved closer. “What do you want, Ashton?” you asked softly, your adrenaline draining and leaving behind nothing but weariness.

He paused for a moment, his expression softening. “I don’t want anything,” he said evenly. “Just saying… it’s been a while. You look good. Happy.”

There was a sadness in his eyes that only seemed to fuel your simmering anger. You scoffed, shoving him away with more force than necessary. “I am happy,” you snapped, your voice sharp. “That’s what happens when I get over a leech.”

Ashton barked out a laugh, the sound disbelieving. “A leech?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Damn, alright. Wow.”

You spun on your heel to face him fully, your glare sharp enough to cut. “I could say so many things to you right now, Ashton Irwin, but I’m choosing peace.”

Ashton cocked his head to the side, his hand resting casually on his hip as he stared at you with an unimpressed expression. “Peace?” he echoed, his tone both mocking and curious.

“Yes,” you nodded firmly. “I’m over you, and wasting my breath on insults isn’t really my thing anymore.”

“You’re really over me, aren’t you?” he asked, a small, amused smile creeping onto his face.

You struggled to keep your composure, but you met his gaze without faltering. “Yes, completely,” you said, your voice steady. “It’s all pins and needles here, babe. You’re dead to me.”

Ashton raised his eyebrows, clearly entertained. “Dead is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“My feelings for you are dead.”

“Great,” Ashton said with an infuriatingly charming smile. “So let me take you out—catch up a bit. It’s been a long time; we’re overdue, don’t you think?”

You laughed, disbelief shaking through your tone. “Are you serious right now?” You turned to him fully, eyes narrowed. “You want to catch up?”

He blinked, completely unaffected by your reaction. “Well, you’re over me, right? We can have a simple outing as two mature adults. You’re doing great, and I’d love to hear all about it.”

You opened your mouth to shut him down, but a sly thought bloomed in the back of your mind. What if you did go out with him? Just a casual outing, nothing more. It would be the perfect opportunity to show him firsthand how much better your life was without him. Let him see for himself how unimportant he had become.

You pressed your tongue against your cheek, letting the idea take root as you weighed your options. After a moment, you let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” you said coolly.

Ashton’s grin widened, but you didn’t miss the flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Fine?”

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug. “Let’s catch up.”

He smirked, clearly pleased, but you were already imagining the look on his face when he realized just how much you’d thrived.

“Perfect,” he nodded, backing away. “I’m halfway through a shift, but I’ll text you as soon as I’m off?”

You shrugged. “Might have to unblock your number first.”

Ashton smiled, a true, wide smile. His dimples flashed, and you could catch a glimpse of his infuriatingly adorable bunny teeth. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

—

The first week of college was already off to a rough start.

Not only had you been late to every single one of your classes due to your inability to navigate the campus, but the past few days had been drowned in a perpetual cloud of pouring rain.

You were on your way to an Intro to Philosophy class, after having sourced the massive textbook and spent twenty five dollars on express shipping to get it to your dorm on time, your pockets were empty and your soul was crushed when you realized just how goddamn heavy it felt when sitting in your backpack.

Your roommate wasn’t a peach, either. She was kind of standoffish, mean in a way that seemed so effortless as she berated you with passive aggression every time you’d forgotten to turn off a light or drop a dish into the sink.

All of these things combined left you frazzled, and once again, late, trudging through the rain in lightweight Converse that allowed the water from puddles to seep through and wet your socks.

You grumble to yourself as you adjust your bookbag on your shoulder, attempting to dodge the raindrops that splashed down like hail and occasionally got in your eyes. It was even harder to focus on the sidewalk as the sky got darker— you’d wished they’d turn the street lamps on a little earlier when it came to shitty weather.

Or, you wished you’d remembered to put your contacts in.

The walk from your dorm to the Social Sciences building seemed like an eternity. Puddles grew larger, the wind was getting stronger. You could only see the silhouettes of the other students walking past you, which felt as eerie as all hell. There was absolutely no way you were getting to this class on time. Especially not before stopping to collect yourself.

You eventually did stop, landing beside a lamppost before you let too much water fill up your shoes. Leaning against cold, wet metal, you tug at the straps of your bookbag. The entire bag tightens against you, reminiscent of strapping a cinder block to your shoulders, and making your newfound stress headache worsen tenfold.

In the midst of your adjustments, you glance across the way to the opposing side of the street. All of the squinting and toppling back and forth due to the sheer weight of your belongings must’ve had you looking like a madwoman.

Beneath the other streetlamp stood two figures; you could hardly make them out due to the bucketing rainfall— but they seemed to be lingering around with an umbrella. Something you desperately wished you had right now.

You were always told that approaching strangers was the best way to go about making friends in college. The theory of being in a new place with people who share the common goal of earning their degree was like a magnet for new interpersonal relationships.

It seemed morbid to think about friendships in this way, but with an already shitty roommate, the beating heart of rainclouds and the horrid feeling of soaking wet socks, you were starting to think that asking to walk alongside the only people for miles with an umbrella may be your best bet.

After steadying yourself and working up the courage to do the strangest thing you’ve done all week, you set off to cross the street. Puddles were becoming more and more plentiful with each step you took. It took everything to avoid them all, and you regretted wearing such slippery shoes to trudge to class in the rain.

“Hey!”

You call out into the dark air, the two figures whipping their heads in sync to face your now embodied voice.

As you walk, you wave your arm, trying to shield yourself from the bullets that nature called raindrops. But having the two figures’ attention made any and all semblances of words disappear from your mind. They just watched you, halting their own interaction.

“Hey! Hi, I’m sorry to—”

Right as you take one more step to join them onto their side of the street, your ankle is suddenly immersed in water. A pothole, disguised as a shallow puddle, engulfs your entire foot.

Your arms wave to catch yourself, but to no avail. It isn’t long before you’re falling face first towards the concrete, and the hand you attempted to steady yourself with is completely drenched in rain water.

“Oh, shit.”

“Holy fuck, are you okay?!”

Concerned exclamations and courtesies were expected— you’d just fallen flat on your forehead. But what you didn’t expect, nor wanted, to hear after your blundering trip was laughter.

“That was fuckin’ gnarly,” you hear a deep voice get higher, as laughter fills the air and clouds over the embarrassed shade of red dawning your face.

Shaking yourself off, you attempt to stand up, still being pelted by rainfall as the two strangers before you squatted down to your level and attempted to help you up.

You see a hand reach out to you, and you take it in a daze, getting back to your feet with minimal injury from your fall. Your knees were definitely a little banged up, with a new hole ripped into the front of your jeans that stung when you straightened your legs.

“I’m— oh, dear God,” you chuckle wryly, still attempting to hide the humiliation, “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Your knees. Are they scraped? Are you bleeding? Do you need a bandaid?”

When you eventually look up to face the concerned voice of a stranger, you’re met with dark brown eyes and a mop of soggy brown curls.

Behind his shoulder stood another guy, his energy a bit less frantic as he continued to just— laugh.

“No, no. Not bleeding, I don’t think. I just wanted to uh, ask if I could walk under your umbrella. Guess the campus potholes had other plans.”

Before you could muster up another sentence, the kid who helped you up extended his free hand once more, “I’m Calum. And I am— so sorry we had to meet this way.” Calum’s face pinches in second-hand embarrassment as you nod to him wearily. His handshake was firm, his fingers trembling a bit as he held you tightly.

“Y/N,” you reply sheepishly, “And your friend?”

The friend in question was still doubled over, getting an absolute kick out of the fact that you’d just busted your ass in the rain. But that high pitched laughter and sturdy white smile made up for the annoyance you suddenly felt.

“Holy shit— oh my God,” he wheezes between faltering chuckles, “I’m Ashton. And unfortunately, that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life.”

In an attempt to ease the awkwardness, you laugh along, now uncomfortable in your wet, tattered jeans and palms covered in gravel.

“Ashton, fuckin’— seriously? Stop laughing! It’s not funny!” Calum tries his hand at defending you, but it seemed as though Ashton had his mind made up. As if he were replaying the incident in his own little world, his laughter strikes up like a match once again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s just— you should’ve seen the way you fell. It was like the ground disappeared from under your feet! Just one step and woosh, you were gone.”

“Well, to be fair— it did disappear. I uh, stepped into a pothole.”

“Oh my God, I think that makes it better.”

You grumble at the thought of being Ashton’s laughing stock of the day, self consciously wiping your palms off on your sweatshirt and now looking visibly uncomfortable. You could see Calum out of the corner of your eye, wearily glancing between you, Ashton, and his watch.

“I hate to leave so quickly, but I’ve got class in about three minutes.”

“No no, it’s fine—”

“It was lovely to meet you, and I’m sorry to leave you with this demon,” Calum smiles warmly, adjusting the two textbooks in his arms, “Ashton, be nice.”

Before you could even spare him a parting word, Calum is rushing off towards campus. It starts as a slow jog, morphing into a full fledged run.

Calum also took the umbrella.

“How can I make it up to you?”

Ashton’s voice from behind you snaps you out of your spaceout; he’s still standing where he was before, his hands dug into the pockets of his jeans as his long, shaggy brown hair starts to get wet from the still falling rain.

“Fall. Face first,” you murmur, pointing out, “into that puddle right there.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as thunder crackles in the distance. “Don’t think so. How about instead of that, we get out of this rain and I grab you some ‘sorry that you busting your ass was the highlight of my year’ apology ice cream? My treat.”

“Oh boy, ice cream in the cold. Sounds like a riot.”

“I appreciate your sarcasm,” his lip twitches up into a smile, as he extends his arm for you to hold onto, “But ice cream is good during any weather. And you know it, too.”

The sheer switch in Ashton’s demeanor, from absolutely dogging on you to being a gentleman, gave you what seemed to be whiplash. His eyes switched from mockery to sincerity in a matter of seconds, as he waited for you to latch onto his elbow.

“My clothes are wet,” you comment awkwardly, shaking out your sleeve.

“Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t want you to fall. Plus, I don’t think I have enough air in my lungs to spare laughing like that again.”

After battling with yourself for a moment, stalling the amount of time spent in the now rolling storm, you take Ashton’s arm. He chuckles when you hold onto him, still seeming like he was coming down from laughing.

“So, where were you headed before the accident?” Ashton motions to you with a tilt of his head while you walk with him down the sidewalk.

“Well, I was headed to class. But honestly I’ve been so stressed this week that I think I deserve to miss this one.”

“You’re saying that was a stress-induced blunder back there? Jeez, wouldn’t want to be you right now.”

As much as you wanted to be annoyed with your new friend’s constant jabs, the bigger part of you knew how funny the entire situation was. A puff of air leaves your lips, Ashton’s giggle fit starts up once more.

“No, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.” Ashton says, a lot more sincerely than you expected.

“I agree with you. I don’t think I deserved to be ankle deep in a pothole either.”

He shakes his head, using his arm to guide you to the start of the crosswalk and press the button, “No, I meant— you don’t deserve me being such an asshole about it. If I were you, I’d probably be so pissed and embarrassed that I’d drop out.”

You scoff at Ashton’s words, taking a lead once the red light turns to green, “Dramatic much? I’m sure within my four years of college I’ll embarrass myself like that at least ten more times.”

“A bold statement for the first week,” Ashton chuckles, as he now has now passed you and you’re attempting to keep up with his slender, jean-clad legs, “We should make a bet.”

“A bet?”

Your eyes narrow with challenge, your deeply-rooted competitive nature coming to a front. You glance at Ashton as you reach the opposing side of the sidewalk, stopping right in front of the ice cream shop.

“Mhm. I bet you’ll embarrass yourself less than ten times before our four years are up.”

“That’s awfully generous, Ashton,” you scrunch your nose, finally able to study his features shielded from the rain, “But unfortunately, you’ve only just gotten a taste of how badly I can embarrass myself.”

“Isn’t that the fun part of a bet, though? To prove someone wrong?”

The smile that dawned Ashton’s cheeks was playful, the corners of his mouth curved up into a point and highlighting the slightly outgrown stubble gracing his jaw. You’ll admit it now, he was attractive. The long shaggy hair added a bit of that indie rockstar vibe to him that you always favored in a guy. His eyes were a bit too green for your liking, burning holes into your face as you let the silence hang in midair after his question.

“You’re right. I do love proving people wrong. Especially if it’s the guy who laughed so hard at me that he almost passed out.”

Ashton shakes his head, his gaze lingering for a moment too long before he’s holding open the door of the ice cream shop, “I’d let you prove me wrong any day.”

Soaking wet and now a little less uncomfortable, you walk into the ice cream shop. The bell rings as you enter, and the inside is quiet, as expected. Who but you, and a stranger you met twenty minutes ago, would be getting ice cream on a cold, rainy day?

The attendee greets you warmly, as if she’d been waiting to speak to someone all day, “Hey guys! What can I get for you?”

Ashton steps back, gesturing with his head for you to order first. You smile inward, having known what you wanted since he asked you here.

“Can I get two scoops of cotton candy in a waffle cone with rainbow sprinkles?”

The cashier nods, tapping your order onto the screen and immediately rushing to put it together for you, all while you can hear Ashton snickering quietly behind you.

You whip your head around, squinting at him, “What? What’s so funny?”

“You’ve got quite a sweet tooth, don’t you?”

“First you make fun of me for busting my shit, now you ridicule my ice cream order? What’s your fuckin’ deal?”

As Ashton opens his mouth to reply, the cashier hands you your ice cream. You take it from her with a grateful smile, mumbling ‘thank you’ before spinning back around to lock eyes with him. But now, he’s taking out his wallet, and leaving your question unanswered as he tells the cashier ‘that’ll be all’.

Ashton brushes past you, glancing down at you over his shoulder as he hands the girl his debit card.

“You’re not getting anything?”

Your question comes off more as a whine, which left you feeling more embarrassed than you were earlier.

“Nah.”

Ashton pays, and you continue to eat your ice cream with a sour face, eyeing him scornfully as the two of you sit down at a small metal table in the corner.

“Why didn’t you get any ice cream?” you ask, the thought of only you enjoying ice cream twisting your heart strings in a very strange way. Ashton just shrugs, pulling himself closer to the table so that he could fold his arms and get a better look at your soggy features.

“I’m lactose intolerant. But you should’ve seen how your face lit up at the mention of ‘apology ice cream’. How could I turn down those big doe eyes, all soaked from the rain?”

You scoff, a mix between taking offense and a sliver of laughter, “You’re lactose intolerant and your first thought was ice cream? Do you have a death wish?”

“Why do you think I didn’t get anything? Just because dairy is hell for my insides doesn’t mean I have to rob you of the joy from eating an ice cream cone.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t shit yourself from laughing earlier, jeez.” You’re back to your playful tongue, taking your time in licking off all the sprinkles.

“That’s not how it works like, at all,” Ashton puffs, leaning back into his chair and crossing his eyes, “The ice cream was a lucky guess. For all I knew, you could’ve been severely allergic to dairy and smacked me for even offering.”

“Now why would I smack you for offering? That’d be silly.”

You could tell now where Ashton’s eyes fell; directly onto your tongue. Each time you jutted it out to eat your ice cream, his gaze wandered. Almost like he was hypnotized.

“Dunno. People these days. They’re weird.”

Stewing in his seat, Ashton clears his throat. But you continue on eating, playing your little unspoken game of catching his viridian eyes each time they linger off to where they don’t belong. Suddenly, you sit up, and he flinches as if he’d been caught.

“So, that bet. Are we still on? Because I think I’ll embarrass myself those aforementioned ‘ten times’ within my first semester.”

After collecting himself slightly, and bringing his mind back down to earth, his lip twitches up into a smile, “Well, that would mean we’d have to keep in touch. Y’know, so you can update me every time you walk into the wrong classroom or take a nosedive into concrete.”

“Is this you asking for my number?” you smile, halfway through a bite of your slowly dwindling cotton candy ice cream.

“I suppose so,” he shrugs, the wet t-shirt beneath his jacket moving fluidly against his chest and making it harder for you to concentrate, “Would you mind?”

“Not at all. As long as you don’t mind me considering you as the first friend I’ve made in college.”

Ashton’s smile doubles in size, as he sits up to reach for his phone in his back pocket.

“So it’s settled then. We’ll concede the results of this bet a week before graduation.” Along with his phone, Ashton smacks his black leather wallet onto the table, “Whatever’s in that cash pocket at this very moment is how much money’s on the line. I expect you to hold me to it, and you can expect me to do the same.”

A small smile plays on your face as you reach for his wallet, the obvious choice, and hold it open with one hand. Inside of the cash slot lies a singular twenty dollar bill, a twenty dollar bill that seems to carry a lot more weight to it than only the amount of cash that Ashton has on him at the moment.

“Twenty bucks. Not bad. That’ll come in handy for our next ice cream date.”

“Already planning our next date? She’s efficient, I like it.”

You chuckle heartily, sliding him back his wallet, and grabbing his phone to give him your number, “Consider that a date for after graduation. Cap, gowns, tassels and all. In this very chair, at this very table.”

“Deal.” Ashton agrees.

The two of you shake hands, but when your palms touch, a spark ignites through your forearm. Like a wave of static shock, you remain frozen in time, with a stirring feeling in your gut.

You couldn’t place your finger on what it meant, nor did you really want to. But you had a feeling that this wouldn’t be your last time sitting at this table with Ashton.

“What’re you doing later?” Ashton asks, after you’d exchanged a few giddy glances to one another since giving him your number.

“Standing in front of a hair dryer to get a handle on these stupid wet clothes. How about you?”

“Hm, sounds like a drag. I, however, am going to that karaoke bar on the campus strip with Calum at nine. Cowgirl. You should come along.”

The mention of karaoke freezes your senses. You never had a complete aversion to karaoke, however, the thought of singing at a dive bar in front of Ashton and Calum made you nauseous. You’d just met them— they don’t know you, and you don’t know them. Surely you’d have a good time, but stage fright was always one of the many thorns in your side. You weren’t sure you had the confidence.

“Yeah, I’ll go.”

Damn it.

“You twenty one yet?” Ashton raises his eyebrow, fighting a cheeky smirk that gives you the impression that he already knew your answer.

“In Tennessee, yeah.”

“I see,” he scratches his chin, eyeing you teasingly, “I’ve got a friend who’s twenty three in Arizona, so— I’m pickin’ up what you’re putting down.”

The two of you laugh once more. And the more you share smiles and shied away glances, the more you really get to know about Ashton.

He’s twenty one, having lived in Australia for most of his formative years until moving to the US to get his bachelor’s in communications. Ashton almost didn’t make it to college, you learned, after taking two travel-packed gap years that left him with a lot of knowledge on European culture and even more numbers in his phone. You wanted to keep asking him questions, but by the time you’d really gotten to the meaty bits of his life, your ice cream cone was down to the wrapper it came in.

“I still can’t believe you took, not one, but two gap years. And you still made it here. That’s honestly super impressive.”

Ashton tosses his hand at you, his seat somehow shifted much closer to you than before, “Meh, not that impressive. Parents were on my ass about actually doing something with my life. They shipped me off here with practically nothing. I felt like I got dropped in the middle of the woods with two twigs and a rock.”

“Well, regardless of your wilderness exploration, you seem to have it figured out at least a little now, right?”

You and Ashton were now only an inch apart, your knees occasionally brushing against one another each time Ashton got particularly animated when telling his story. He went on to tell you about his random roommate pairing, and how meeting a friend, Calum, from across the hall basically saved his ass one night during random room checks. He and Calum both moved into school three weeks early, sharing the common ground of being gap-year freshmen, and were currently inseparable. They sought refuge in each other’s dorms due to unfortunate roommate pairings, and became attached at the hip.

“Funny that you met probably the only other Aussie on campus,” you comment, twiddling with the empty cone wrapper on your thumb.

“Mhm. It’s us blokes against the world. But, y’know— I have a feeling that may change after tonight.”

“Really, how do you figure?”

“Even though he was off like a shotgun earlier, I think you’re really gonna dig Cal’s vibe. You guys are really fuckin’ similar. Down to those big ass eyes whenever you're scared or embarrassed.”

You giggle, tilting your head down and subconsciously hiding your eyes beneath your hair. But Ashton isn’t having it. In an unforeseeable turn of events, Ashton’s thumb is there to catch your chin and pull your gaze back up into his.

“Don’t go shy on me now, Bambi,” Ashton hums, his voice the softest it’s been since you met him, “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell ya’ how pretty I think your eyes are.”

“Thank you,” you mumble meekly, your knees suddenly feeling like jello and your cheeks as hot as the surface of the sun.

“I’m serious. I swear, I saw some stars twinkling in there.”

In the heat of the moment, you press your palm against his knee, the one that’s been touching you since he scooted himself closer. You freeze, not knowing what else to do with this moment other than to let it be.

“Are you doing anything else today besides karaoke?” you ask, your heart rate speeding up by the second.

“Not particularly. Why?”

“We should hang out.” You blurt out the words faster than you can actually process them.

Ashton chuckles at your eagerness, “Aren’t we hanging out right now?”

“Oh shut up, you know what I mean.”

The air around your bodies had you feeling like you were floating on a cloud. Ashton’s hand folds on top of yours, supporting the growing weight of anticipation you felt boiling in your chest.

“I can’t read minds, but— you could hang out at my place until Calum gets out of class. I’m supposed to be off doing something studious right now too, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”

“Sure. If I’m gonna miss class, why not do something fun?”

“That’s the spirit. It’s week one of classes and I’ve already got you playin’ hookey.”

You giggle at him, feeling more and more comfortable with his hand in yours as the moments pass, “You’re a bad influence.”

“Trust me, Bambi. I’ll make your life hell.”

After a few more minutes of playful banter that was quickly shaping up to be unabashed flirtation, the two of you set off to Ashton’s dorm. He told you that his roommate wasn’t home; and talked extensively about how his roommate tends to leave the room for days at a time and never tell him where he’s going.

The rain had since subsided, leaving the sidewalks muddied and damp; but Ashton kept you on his arm to prevent you from slipping and falling once again.

“Do you maybe have a shirt I can borrow?” you ask Ashton shyly, as he leads you towards a large steel door and taps his university key card against the lock.

The door creaks open, Ashton holds it for you with an arm above your head, “I’ve got plenty of shirts. I’m sure you’d want pants, too. Those jeans have seen better days.

“Knock it off. My jeans are fine,” you chuckle, sliding past him into the dorm stairway.

“Yeah, okay,” Ashton glances down judgmentally at the wet spots on the knees of your jeans, “I’ll lend you a pair of sweats. No big deal.”

You roll your eyes, a sucker for his sarcasm, as he leads you up a few flights of stairs to his floor. The journey to his door was quiet, and awkward. He’d occasionally poke your shoulder, making jabs at your soaking wet hair. But you just brushed him off— boys are stupid and dumb.

“Well, this is the place,” Ashton sighs, pushing his door open and leading you into the room with a pat at your back.

You take a second to glance around. One side of the room was almost completely barren— not a single poster, picture, or sign of life. Only dark blue bedspread with a single pillow, and an empty desk.

However, the opposite side of the room was decked out to all hell. Music and movie posters on every conceivable area of the wall above the bed. A plaid, black and grey bedspread with a few comfortable looking throw pillows that were clearly picked out by someone with taste. A mason jar filled with drum sticks, broken and intact. You smile to yourself, lucky that you landed the roommate with a personality.

“This is nice. Who taught you how to decorate?”

Ashton scoffs, setting his backpack down on his desk chair, “Myself. Didn’t need to be taught. It’s called having a vision.”

“You get more and more annoying the more I get to know you,” you smile, finding yourself a seat on the floor to rid yourself of your muddied Converse. Ashton paces around the room for a moment, before landing on a drawer and pulling it open. He puts his hands on his hips, and taps his foot.

“Let’s see— are you a Ramones fan? Or more of a ‘Stones girl? What about Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Trying to figure out which shirt I can spare you. It’s likely that I’ll never get it back, so. I wanna see which I’d be most fine parting with.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking yourself that question, then?”

Ashton scratches his head, tucking a lock of his sandy brown hair behind his ear, “Damn. You’re right. You’re pretty good, Bambi.”

“At making obvious decisions?” you raise an eyebrow.

“No, at keeping my head on straight,” Ashton reaches into the drawer, tossing a black T-shirt over his back and letting it whack you in the face, “Rolling Stones it is.”

After removing it from your face, you hold the shirt tightly to your chest. Ashton slams the drawer shut and smiles, spinning around to face you with a pair of grey sweatpants in hand.

“Last chance. Do you want these or no?”

You chew on your bottom lip, glancing around the room for any sign of a bathroom door, or even a closet.

“Do you uh— have a bathroom here that I can change in?”

“It’s communal. All of them are.”

You let out a puff of air, shaking your head and smacking your palm to your forehead, “Right. Dumb question.”

“Nah nah, it’s not dumb. This is an all dudes floor, too. If you wanted to change in here I could just— turn around.”

Blush pink falls across your face, while Ashton does a dumb hand movement and spins around to face the wall.

“I don’t want to get changed in here!” you protest, indignant. “I just met you today. I don’t need you seeing my delicates.”

“I told you I’d turn around,” Ashton shrugs, already spinning back, arms crossed. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you fold his clothes neatly in your lap. You’re fully aware of how dramatic this is getting—but part of you enjoys it. Ashton matches your banter beat for beat, always taking it just a little further.

It’s amusing. It’s entertaining. It’s… hot, if you’re being honest.

You shoot him one last skeptical glance—just to make sure he’s not about to peek—then reluctantly reach for the hem of your soaked shirt and peel it off.

“Y’know,” Ashton pipes up cheerfully, “usually when girls wear my clothes, they at least let me get a peek.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. You yank the shirt up over your chest again like a makeshift shield.

“Well, usually when guys take me out for ice cream, it’s not as an apology for being a dickhead,” you snap.

He laughs, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Hey, I more than made up for that. I’m lactose intolerant and I still did that for you, Bambi. I’m basically a saint if you think about it.”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. You just stand there, holding the shirt against yourself like armor.

None of this is going how you expected.

“Can I turn around now?” Ashton asks, softer this time. The teasing edge has faded. Now he just sounds unsure—cautious, even. Like under all that swagger, he might actually be nervous.

You bite the inside of your cheek, hesitating. Would it really be so bad? What would he do if you just… let him look?

Ashton—annoyingly comforting Ashton—was not what you thought he’d be. Hot and cocky, yeah. But also weirdly sweet. Weirdly attentive.

“Fine,” you say, the word escaping before you can stop it. Your arms fall to your sides, shirt clutched in one hand as you brace yourself.

“Okay, sick—” Ashton spins, grinning wide—until his eyes land on you. His whole expression shifts. You, shirtless. Standing tall despite the nerves.

And just like that, he stops smiling.

Ashton’s grin falls mid-spin, his eyes going comically wide as they take in your state of undress. He stumbles back half a step, like the sight knocked the air out of him. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—completely speechless for the first time all day.

Your heart beats loudly in your chest as you bite your lip, holding the moment for just a second longer before slowly beginning to lift the shirt up.

The air between you turns molasses-thick—warm with tension, humming with something sharp and sweet and unspoken. You know Ashton’s probably seen a hundred girls naked. A guy like him? A revolving door, easy. But the way he looks at you—eyes blown wide, throat bobbing with a hard swallow—feels… like it means something.

“Nice,” he breathes. Then his brain catches up. “Shit. Fuck. I mean—”

He presses a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly like that might somehow reset him. “Jesus, Bambi. You—you’re just—” He exhales hard. “That was… a lot. In a good way. The best way.”

His hand drops and he gestures vaguely in your direction, as if trying to find the words to explain what he’s seeing. “Like, I thought you were hot before, obviously, but now I think I might have to call a priest. Or a therapist. Or both.”

Your cheeks heat, but you smile. The shirt slips over your head, hiding your chest again, but Ashton’s still staring at you like he’s trying to memorize every second of what just happened.

“Yeah?” you grin, feigning nonchalance. “Thank you.”

Ashton blinks. “No, thank you,” he repeats dumbly, almost reverently. “I feel like I should buy you ice cream again after that. Or, like, dinner. And a house. I don’t know. What’s the going rate for a spiritual awakening?”

You roll your eyes with a soft laugh and shoulder past him, flopping down on the bed like this is all completely normal. “You can start by telling me your favorite karaoke songs, so I know what I’m getting myself into.”

Ashton turns, still blinking like he hasn’t quite recovered. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he sits carefully beside you, like getting too close might make you vanish. His cocky confidence has melted away, replaced by something quieter. Awed. A little wrecked.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and breathy. The smile that creeps onto his lips is slower now, almost shy. His dimples deepen, and he glances at you from under thick lashes. “After that, I think I’d do just about anything for you.”

You giggle, chest warm from the switch-up—the complete shift in his energy. He was adorable like this. Dangerous when flirty, but downright endearing when undone.

Then, as if remembering himself, Ashton shoots you a crooked grin. “I hope you like Radiohead, Bambi.”

You groan and flop dramatically onto the pillows. “Please don’t say Creep.”

He laughs, leaning back on his hands. “Too late. I’ve already got my falsetto warmed up.”

—

You took your time unblocking Ashton, convincing yourself it was purely to drive the point home—he meant nothing to you. Still, when his indignant text finally came through about being unblocked, you couldn’t help but smile.

You shut that down immediately. There was absolutely no reason to smile at his texts, not when he’d done nothing to earn it. You knew better than anyone how dangerous it was to let yourself soften around Ashton. If you weren’t careful, you’d slip right back into his arms.

Just like you had so many times before.

Part of you expected Ashton to never actually follow through on the plans to catch up. In truth, you sort of hoped he wouldn’t. Being in his proximity wasn’t ideal, not when your track record with him involved losing all sense the moment his hands lingered on yours for even a second too long.

But this time would be different—you swore it. You were over Ashton. The fiery feelings he used to stir up had been reduced to nothing but numbness.

You had Diego now. He was stable, reliable, and had a normal job. He wasn’t going to destroy every part of you the way Ashton had.

Ashton was always one to surprise you. When he texted asking if you wanted to meet him at the bar you two used to frequent during your college days, you could only gape at your phone.

Meet me at Cowgirl tonight?

You considered blocking him again, pretending you hadn’t run into him at all. Of course, he’d choose that place—the one you’d been too afraid to return to after your last encounter with him.

But you knew you had to go. If you ghosted him after he suggested such a significant place, it would confirm that he still had a hold on you. You sighed, begrudgingly typing out your confirmation, silently praying the night would pass without incident.

A flicker of guilt surfaced as your mind wandered to Diego. You had canceled your date after the elevator ordeal, still too shaken to do anything but stew over Ashton’s sudden reappearance in your life.

You reminded yourself that you and Diego weren’t exclusive. There was no need to feel guilty about this outing—Ashton meant nothing to you anymore. He’d dug his own grave, and you hadn’t even shed a tear over it.

Still, as the evening approached, an uneasy knot formed in your stomach. Getting ready felt like a battle in itself. You didn’t want to overdo it, but the confidence boost makeup gave you was undeniable. If you looked good, you’d feel in control—and you needed every ounce of control tonight.

Besides, would it really hurt to rub in just how much you were glowing without him?

The drive to the bar was surprisingly smooth. LA traffic, unreliable as always, decided to work in your favor for once. But when you pulled into the parking lot, the fear hit you like a brick.

You stayed frozen in the driver’s seat, anxiously chewing on your lip as you debated whether to go inside or turn back. Before you could make a decision, a sharp knock on your window startled you.

Ashton grinned at you through the glass, his smile wide and obnoxious as he waved like he hadn’t just scared the life out of you.

Suppressing an annoyed sigh, you rolled down the window.

Ashton leaned casually against the car door, his green eyes glinting with mischief. “Hope I didn’t interrupt your pep talk,” he teased. “Or maybe I’m glad I did—you looked like you were contemplating jumping off a bridge.”

“Now I am,” you grumbled, glaring at him.

He chuckled, completely unfazed. Dressed in simple black jeans, he looked deceptively casual—until your eyes caught on the bright red mesh sweater he wore. The sheer fabric exposed his tattoos and pale skin beneath, and you felt your cheeks heat despite yourself.

“Well, aren’t you dressed like a slut,” you retorted, brushing him away so you could open the car door.

As you climbed out, Ashton’s grin widened. “Not very woke of you, Bambi,” he quipped, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

A stray black curl fell across his forehead, and you had to stop yourself from brushing it away. Instead, you shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, determined not to let him get under your skin.

“What did I tell you about calling me that?” You snapped, not waiting for him to catch up as you began to walk towards the bar.

Ashton, with his infuriatingly long legs, didn’t take long to reach you. “Sorry, I forget you’re in your heartless era,” he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “My apologies, Y/N.”

You spared him a sideways glance, your eyes catching on the bright sliver of the chains that decorated his neck. Apparently you hadn’t been the only one to want to dress your best for such an occasion, because Ashton looked good.

But that didn’t matter to you, not anymore. No amount of beauty would ever rekindle the feelings that you had laid to rest so long ago. That part of your heart had gone ice cold, breaking off and dying in a corner of your brain that you never choose to revisit.

The bar looked just the same it always had, familiar in every way. The music blared and for a bit you almost felt as if you had traveled back in time— a doe eyed freshman who had feelings too intense for an unpredictable frat boy.

You could feel Ashton’s gaze glued to you, and it made your skin prickle with sweat. “What?” you snapped coming to a stop before an empty table.

“Nothin’, just didn’t realize we decided to match,” he slid into one of the stools effortlessly, eyeing your red leather jacket as he tapped his fingers absentmindedly.

You begrudgingly took the seat before him.

It was loud and crowded, and you briefly questioned what it was that had you so enamored with this place in the first place. The answer was simple, and he was sitting right in front of you.

“Oh don’t even,” you huffed, looking over at the bar and reading through your drink options. “You were never the type to dress like this before.”

Ashton put down his own menu, staring at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you saying that I look good?”

You raised your gaze, leveling him with an unimpressed glance. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Irwin,” you warned.

Ashton’s grin was wide and he leaned closer. “I used to put a lot of things in your mouth, Bambi.”

Your eyes widened comically as the words Ashton had said registered fully. “Nope,” you shook your head, standing up from the table. “I am too sober for your stupid jokes.”

Ashton followed you, sliding off of his seat. “Let’s fix that then.”

He was standing too close, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of mint from the gum he’d been chewing since he found you in the parking lot. You considered telling him to back off, but the effort felt pointless.

Instead, you let him follow as you wove your way through the crowded bar, bodies pressing in from every direction. The air was thick with sweat, spilled drinks, and memories you wished you’d left behind.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Tyler, the bartender, grinned as the two of you approached the counter. “Ash and Y/N, been a while since we’ve seen you two here.”

Ashton returned the smile, casual as ever. “Good to see you, mate.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music. “Good to see you.” You avoided Tyler’s knowing gaze, already regretting your decision to come here. Because you and Ashton had frequented this bar so often throughout the course of your relationship, you were known by some of the staff. Still, you couldn’t deny the slight hope you had when walking in that no one who knew your history had been working.

“What can I get y’all?” Tyler asked, his grin widening as he winked in your direction before turning to Ashton.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Ashton beat you to it. “We’ll have the regular,” he said without missing a beat.

Your head snapped toward him, stunned. The regular? Your so-called regular was a ridiculous, oversized Sex on the Beach, meant for two and always consumed as part of some dumb competition to see who could drink it faster. It was a relic of your shared history, and the audacity of Ashton assuming you’d want to relive it left you speechless.

He didn’t even look at you, his focus still on Tyler as if nothing about this was unusual. You stared at him, your irritation bubbling up, but you swallowed it back. If Ashton didn’t matter to you anymore, then why should this?

“You’re not gonna kill me for that?” he asked suddenly, leaning against the bar with a smirk. His green eyes sparkled with mischief, daring you to react.

You met his gaze head-on, your chin tilting up defiantly. “I told you, I don’t care anymore.”

Ashton nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he glanced around the room. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, his voice low enough that you had to lean in slightly to catch it. “It’s all pins and needles, ain’t it?”

“Yup,” you said brightly, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel absolutely nothing for you.”

Ashton nodded, completely unfazed. “So, if you’re so over me,” he drawled, his eyes trailing Tyler as he prepared your drink, “you seeing someone?”

Bingo. The long bragging train was coming, and Ashton was about to be flattened under it.

“Yeah, guess so,” you replied casually, leaning an elbow on the bar. “Been here and there, you know? Dipping my toes in the dating pool—making sure none of them have girlfriends.”

Ashton let out a low whistle, leaning closer with that infuriating smirk. “If you’re so over me,” he whispered, his voice teasingly low, “why do you still sound so bitter about that?”

You leaned back, putting space between you. “Because I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of one of your girls storming in here to beat me up,” you said evenly, your tone cool and detached. “Tell me, how’s Eve?”

Ashton’s tongue pressed against his cheek, and for the first time, the cracks in his confidence began to show. “Don’t know,” he shrugged, slipping his mask of indifference back into place. “Haven’t known for about a year and a half.”

“Bummer,” you sighed dramatically, clicking your tongue. “She was as good as you’ll ever do.”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Enough about that. What have you been up to in the past year? Or year and a half, to be exact.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, deliberating what to share. “Well, I finally finished my architecture degree,” you said matter-of-factly. “Started freelancing, I was about to pitch designs for a new gym some company wants to build when the elevator decided to shit itself.”

Ashton let out another low whistle, his expression softening slightly. “Sounds real fancy,” he said, nodding. “But then again, you’ve never been anything close to ordinary. You’re doing great for yourself, Bambi.”

That damn nickname. Despite telling him countless times to drop it, it clung to you like a stubborn burr. You reminded yourself—again—that it didn’t matter. You were over him.

“Here ya go,” Tyler interrupted cheerfully, sliding the comically oversized cocktail across the counter. “Hope to see you two on stage later.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Ashton replied with a wink. “Gimme a few to let the alcohol kick in.”

Tyler chuckled before turning to the next customer, leaving you alone with Ashton once more.

“Karaoke, huh?” you asked, taking a tentative sip of the drink. It was stronger than you remembered, and you silently prayed you wouldn’t end up completely wasted.

Ashton shrugged. “Just to get him off my back,” he admitted. “We don’t actually have to do it.”

“Yeah, empty promises,” you said dryly, a humorless chuckle escaping. “You always were good at those.”

“You sure love your jabs, Y/N,” he sighed, taking a sip of the oversized cocktail. “Doesn’t exactly scream pins and needles to me, if I do say so myself.”

You rolled your eyes, waving him off. “Oh, please. Just because I don’t have any positive feelings for you doesn’t mean I don’t have negative ones.”

“Right…” Ashton said with a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Enough about me,” you said, turning the conversation toward him. “You’re a firefighter now? All that college for what?”

Ashton pursed his lips, swirling the straw in the drink. “College was never for me,” he confessed. “I stuck it out mostly for you and Calum. After you left, there wasn’t much reason to stay.”

“Calum dropped out too, huh?” you asked, raising a brow.

“Sure did,” Ashton sighed. “But honestly, it was the right call for both of us. We’ve been with the 304 for about a year now.”

You narrowed your eyes, piecing together the timeline. “Wait, so when did you drop out?”

Ashton took another long sip before answering. “After we broke up. Before Eve.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and your mouth parted slightly in surprise. The last time you’d seen Ashton, he hadn’t mentioned anything about firefighting school—but then again, his education status had been the least important truth he had neglected to tell you.

“Damn,” was all you could manage, before wrapping your lips around the straw and sucking down as much alcohol as you could handle.

Silence settled between you as you continued sipping your drink. Ashton’s eyes stayed fixed on the stage, where a much drunker duo was butchering You Shook Me All Night Long. Despite their terrible performance, Ashton looked oddly enthralled, resting his chin on his palm as he watched them sway and slur their way through the song.

He must have felt your gaze because he turned his head toward you. You quickly looked away, pretending you’d been staring at anything—anything—other than him. Thankfully, he didn’t call you out on it.

“We used to be pretty good at karaoke,” Ashton mused, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t you think?”

You focused on the stage, watching the performers lose themselves in the music. They might not have been good, but they were clearly having fun.

“Guess we made a decent duo,” you admitted with a quiet chuckle. “But there’s no way I’m doing that again.”

Ashton pouted, gently nudging your shoulder. “C’mon, you should go up there,” he urged. “Wow us all with that voice of yours. It’ll be fun.”

You bit your lip, trying to will his compliment away like it didn’t mean anything. But deep down, you knew the truth—you’d never have the courage to go up there alone. The only reason you’d ever done it before was because Ashton had been right there beside you.

And he’d sung to you.

Taking a deep breath, you turned back to the raven-haired man. “That’s not happening,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Not in a million years.”

Ashton threw his head back dramatically. “Aw, come on,” he groaned, slapping the table for effect. His grin stretched wide, mischievous like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ll bet you ten bucks and the rest of tonight’s drinks that you won’t go up there and sing karaoke.”

You laughed nervously, shaking your head again. “Ten bucks is nothing. But then again, imagine the things I could get you to do for five.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow, his smile so wide and contagious that you couldn’t even be mad at the butterflies it gave you. “You callin’ me easy, Bambi?”

You scrunched your nose, resting your head against your fist. “If the shoe fits,” you hummed, taking a long sip of the drink. You glanced down and realized it was almost gone.

Ashton nodded, his grin never fading. “Touché. But come on—get up there, sing a breakup song. Prove to me how over me you are.”

You froze, locking eyes with him for what felt like the millionth time that night. His eyes sparkled with excitement and challenge—he knew he’d struck a nerve.

“Or,” you said, leaning closer, “you could keep your ten bucks and your dick in your pants, and go up there with me.”

Ashton shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Nope. This is all part of your healing process. Go on, Y/N. Sing your little heart out.”

You knew he was testing your resolve. Ashton always loved making you squirm, and the idea of singing in front of all those people was nauseating. Your hands gripped the bar table tightly.

“I hate this,” you grumbled. “Singing alone feels like standing naked on display for everyone to see.”

Ashton waved you off. “First of all,” he said with mock seriousness, “the saying is about imagining other people in their underwear, not you being naked. And second, you naked is quite a sight to behold.”

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him. “Enough of that, Irwin. You’ve never seen me naked. In fact, we’ve never even had sex.”

Ashton tilted his head, studying you with an amused expression. “Again with the ‘never happened,’” he said, laughing softly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bambi. But seriously, just get up there. Wow the crowd. Maybe you’ll catch someone else’s attention.”

You bit the corner of your lip, torn between anxiety and stubbornness. Against your better judgment, you nodded. “Fine,” you muttered, pushing yourself off the bar and heading toward the stage where the previous performers were just stepping off.

The alcohol in your system didn’t help nearly as much as you’d hoped. Ashton trailed behind you, weaving through the crowd until he reached the DJ booth. You were hunched over the song catalogue, flipping through the pages and willing your stomach to stop churning.

“Made your decision?” Ashton asked, leaning in to peer over your shoulder. His breath was warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your eyes landing on Before He Cheats. If Ashton wanted to play this game, fine. You’d play too. Turning to face him, you were startled to find his face just inches from yours. “Seems I have,” you replied coolly.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned over and whispered your choice to the DJ. When he nodded in confirmation and handed you the microphone, you risked one last nervous glance at Ashton before heading for the stage.

At first, no one seemed to notice you as you stepped onto the platform. But as the music queued up and the DJ gave you a small thumbs-up, a ripple of curiosity spread through the crowd.

Your heart sank when you felt their gazes fall on you. Tyler, standing at the bar, looked stunned to see you up there alone. But as soon as he caught on, he let out an enthusiastic cheer, clapping loudly enough to make others follow suit.

The screen lit up with the first line of lyrics, but your throat closed up. Your mouth refused to move.

A wave of confusion washed over the room as people began to murmur, and you could feel your chest tightening. Your stomach churned with regret—why the hell had you agreed to this?

Your vision blurred with the sting of tears, and the microphone trembled in your hand. Everything in you screamed to run, but your feet felt cemented to the stage. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours, your body rigid with embarrassment.

And then the music shifted.

The original melody was replaced by a familiar rhythm of drums and bass. Your breath hitched as you turned to see Ashton climbing onto the stage, microphone in hand, a wide grin on his face.

He draped an arm over your shoulders, leaning in close enough for only you to hear. “One last duet for old times’ sake?” he asked softly, his voice warm and steady.

You nodded, still too stunned to speak.

Ashton brought the mic to his lips, his eyes locking with yours. Then he began to sing, his voice low and deliberate, the opening line of Creep spilling into the room.

“When you were here before…

Couldn’t look you in the eye…”

The crowd remained silent, entranced, as the two of you commanded the room.

“You’re just like an angel, your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather in a beautiful world

I wish I was special, you’re so fucking special.”

Ashton’s grin widened as his arm slid from your shoulders, taking your clammy hand in his. His eyes held a flicker of worry, but the reassuring smile he offered steadied your nerves.

He sang effortlessly, not once glancing at the lyrics on the screen. Of course, he didn’t need to. You stood there, transfixed, as his voice filled the space, the memory of your first date in this very bar crashing over you like a tidal wave. Creep had been your song that night, and somehow, Ashton had chosen it again to save you.

As he finished the chorus, you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Without hesitation, you joined him for the second verse.

“I don’t care if it hurts, I wanna have control

I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul.”

Ashton grinned, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze before he joined in.

“I want you to notice when I’m not around,

You’re so fucking special, I wish I was special.”

Your anxiety dissolved, replaced by a surge of confidence. The giddy realization that every eye in the bar was on the two of you filled your chest, but it didn’t feel daunting anymore. Your voices blended seamlessly, filling the room with a hauntingly beautiful harmony.

You never let go of Ashton’s hand, even as the song swelled into the bridge. Both of you grinned, moving in time with the music. Ashton’s hair clung slightly to his damp forehead under the bar lights, and for a fleeting moment, he looked otherworldly, as if he belonged to the stage and nowhere else.

Your heart thudded in your chest, each beat growing heavier as Ashton nailed every note with ease. While you knew you were a decent singer, his voice—rich and achingly sincere—was in a league of its own.

And then he stepped closer.

His hand released yours to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as his gaze bore into yours. The intensity in his eyes was staggering, igniting a fire in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

“Whatever makes you happy, whatever you want

You’re so fucking special, I wish I was special.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to brush away the weight of the moment, but Ashton’s voice wrapped around those words like a confession. Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to push through, shakily joining him for the final lines.

“But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo

What the hell am I doin’ here?

I don’t belong here.

I don’t belong here.”

The song faded, leaving an electric hum in the air. Ashton’s hand lingered on your cheek for a beat too long, his expression unreadable. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, but you barely registered it. All you could feel was the way Ashton’s touch burned against your skin and the unspoken words lingering in the space between you.

The loudest cheer in the bar came from Tyler, but you barely noticed. Ashton’s hand left your cheek as he stepped back, as if suddenly remembering this wasn’t the past, and you weren’t the girl who would have followed him anywhere anymore.

You climbed off the stage, laughing with Ashton despite the sudden intensity you’d shared moments earlier.

“I’ll take another round of drinks on you tonight,” Ashton teased as the two of you slid into seats at the bar.

“I sang!” you protested, laughter bubbling up. “We both sang, so no one has to pay.”

Ashton shook his head, grinning smugly. “Nope, that’s not how the deal worked. I bet you wouldn’t go up there alone, and you didn’t. So, I win.”

You rolled your eyes, groaning. “I hate you so much right now.”

“All I’m hearin’ is that I got your ass,” he chuckled, nudging you with his elbow.

“You wish you could get my ass.”

His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna bet?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You pushed him away with a laugh, forcing yourself to ignore the shiver that ran through you. “You’re impossible.”

“C’mon, I saved you up there,” he said, his own laugh slipping through. “I don’t even get a thank you?”

Before you could respond, a thought struck you. “Oh my God, I drove here,” you blurted, panic rising. “How the hell am I supposed to get home now? We’re both drunk.”

Ashton hopped off his stool, catching your arm to steady you. “Relax, Bambi,” he said smoothly. “I’ll get us an Uber, then tomorrow I’ll take you back here so you can grab your car.”

You bit your lip, glancing up at him. His easy smile was infuriatingly contagious, the kind of smile that could disarm anyone. “Do you mind if we leave now?”

Ashton shook his head, a rogue curl falling across his face. Without thinking, you reached up and brushed it aside. For a second, you swore he froze under your touch, but you were too lightheaded—too elated—to care.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said softly, taking your hand as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air.

You stood on the curb, giggling at nothing, your fingers still intertwined as you waited for the Uber. Once inside the car, you turned to him. “So… who’s getting dropped off first? I don’t even know where you live.”

Ashton shrugged casually. “Figured we’d both head back to my place. You can take the bed, I’ll crash on the couch, and I’ll bring you back here in the morning.”

The idea of staying with Ashton sent a wave of heat down your spine, but you nodded anyway. The ride to his apartment was quiet, though his hand never let go of yours.

When the car pulled up, Ashton helped you out, thanking the driver before closing the door behind you. As you walked toward his building, the air between you felt heavier, thick with unspoken tension.

Your gaze dropped to his hand, still wrapped around yours, warm and steady. Something about the weight of it felt familiar—inviting.

Ashton’s eyes were on you, his gaze tracking the length of your legs and lingering on the curve of your neck throughout the elevator ride. The hunger in his expression was painfully familiar, sending an electric tension coursing through the air between you.

“Thanks for tonight,” you whispered, breaking the silence as Ashton fumbled with his keys outside his door.

He froze for a moment, then turned his head to give you a small, soft smile. “Anytime,” he said quietly, pushing the door open.

He stepped inside first, but you lingered in the hallway, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he’d hear it. Curling your fingers into fists, you shoved them deep into the pockets of your jacket, trying to steady yourself.

Noticing your absence, Ashton turned back, his brows furrowing. “You alright?” His voice was low, almost tentative.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as emotions threatened to spill over. “This… this can’t happen again,” you said, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. Your voice shook, but you forced the words out anyway. “The hanging out, all of it. I’m glad you’re doing great, and I am too, but I’m over you, Ashton. I want to stay over you.”

His face remained blank, no emotion slipping through his cool exterior. Instead of replying, he turned sharply and walked inside.

You hesitated before stepping over the threshold, the weight of the moment sinking into you. Pressing yourself against the wall near the door, you tried to steady your breathing. Ashton was only a few feet away, leaning against one of the dining chairs.

The space was small, a simple studio with minimal decoration. It looked like a place he barely cared about—except for the electric drum kit in the corner, positioned by the window. That felt unmistakably him.

“I know,” Ashton finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, sharp and deliberate. “You love to remind me. All these goddamn pins and needles.” He took a slow step closer, his hands still in his pockets.

“But are you sure?” His tone turned colder as his eyes locked onto yours, searching for cracks in your resolve. He stopped just inches from you, one hand coming up to press against the wall beside your head, his body leaning closer.

His proximity made it hard to breathe. “I’m sure,” you managed to whisper, though even you weren’t convinced by your trembling voice.

Ashton’s free hand dropped to your waist, his fingers brushing lightly against the waistband of your skirt. He didn’t break eye contact as his hand trailed deliberately, moving down your side. When he reached the hem, his touch lingered, setting your skin alight.

Your resolve crumbled with every touch, the tension between you growing unbearable.

His fingers trailed higher, slipping beneath the fabric of your skirt, and you felt the warmth of his hand against your bare skin. Your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch even as your mind screamed for restraint.

“Ashton, this isn't a good idea,” you whispered, but the tremble in your voice betrayed your hesitation. You made no move to push him away, your breathing uneven as his hand lingered, the anticipation sending shivers down your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and full of restraint, though his actions spoke otherwise. His fingers grazed the edge of your underwear, his touch feather-light but enough to make your breath hitch.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out even though they felt hollow. “I don't have feelings for you,” you said, but your voice wavered, lacking conviction. You couldn't even convince yourself.

A small, humorless chuckle escaped Ashton's lips as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Then why are you shaking?” he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline.

Your heart pounded as his fingers teased along your folds through the thin fabric of your underwear. A soft gasp escaped you, and you felt him smirk against your neck. “You're already so wet for me,” he murmured, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

“Ashton—” You started, but the words were cut off by a moan as he slipped his hand beneath your underwear, his fingers sliding through your slick heat. The sensation sent a jolt through you, your back arching involuntarily as he found your clit, circling it with maddening precision.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as your legs threatened to give out. “I shouldn't be doing this,” you whispered, but your body betrayed you, pressing into his touch as he slipped a finger inside you

“You're not doing anything, Bambi,” Ashton murmured into your ear, his voice a low, teasing growl. He slid another finger inside you, the stretch pulling a breathy moan from your lips. “I am.”

You shook your head weakly, your voice trembling. “But—”

Before you could finish, Ashton withdrew his hand, leaving you empty and aching. Your eyes flew open to meet his piercing jade-green gaze, and your breath caught as you watched him raise his slick fingers to his lips, cleaning any trace of you from them deliberately.

The sight alone made you whimper, your knees threatening to buckle. Ashton smirked, the gleam in his eyes dangerous. “Still convinced you feel nothing?” he challenged, his voice dripping with smugness. “Still telling yourself I never made you scream my name before?”

You clenched your fists at your sides, shaking your head as though that would drown out the memories threatening to overwhelm you. “Ashton, stop—” you pleaded, but your trembling legs and flushed skin betrayed your words.

His red sweater clung to him in just the right way, highlighting the curve of his shoulders and the tattoos that inked his forearms. Even with your eyes closed, you could picture him perfectly—the smooth expanse of his skin, the strength in his frame, and the way his gaze alone could make you fall apart.

Ashton leaned in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Tell me again how over me you are,” he demanded. “Tell me you don't miss how my cock made you feel. Tell me, Y/N.”

Your eyes fluttered open, locking with his, the truth written all over your face. The intensity in his gaze burned through every excuse you'd clung to, every lie you'd told yourself. Even now, the ghost of his touch lingered, your body betraying every word you wanted to say.

There was no getting over Ashton Irwin.

“I miss you,” you gasped, the confession slipping out before you could stop it.

In one swift motion, your hand found the back of his neck, pulling him down to you.

His lips collided with yours, the hunger and urgency behind them unmistakable. They moved against yours with practiced ease, igniting a fire in your chest. His hands found your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you closer, erasing any space between you.

A whimper escaped your lips when Ashton's teeth grazed your bottom lip, sending a shiver down your spine. The two of you stumbled across the apartment, the kiss never faltering. Your tongue traced the outline of his lips before delving deeper, tasting him fully, as his hands guided you blindly.

The back of your knees hit the armrest of the sofa, halting your movements. Ashton didn't hesitate; his hands gently but firmly pushed you down onto the cushions. You fell onto your back, your breathing uneven as you propped yourself up on your elbows, your gaze locked with his.

His smirk was devilish, his eyes dark with desire. Ashton leaned over you, his frame towering yet familiar, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the bare skin of your thighs. Every touch sent sparks skittering across your skin, and all you could do was watch him, entirely at his mercy.

“God, I missed having you like this,” Ashton groaned, his fingertips trailing up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher until it bunched at your waist. The distant hum of the city filtered in through the window, a sharp contrast to the heavy, uneven breathing that filled the small apartment.

His calloused palms roamed every inch of your exposed skin, lingering just enough to make your body tremble beneath his touch.

His fingers brushed over the waistband of your underwear, teasing. “Let me see that pretty pussy,” he rasped, his voice low and rough, before pulling the fabric down your legs and discarding it without a second thought. “You don't even know how many nights I thought about stretching you out, fucking my hand and wishing it was as tight as you.”

“Ashton,” you panted, your hands gripping his biceps as he hovered over you. A stray curl fell over his forehead, dangling above you along with the glint of the silver chains around his neck. He wasn't in any rush—his deliberate movements drawing shaky gasps from your lips as he let his hands linger just above your heat, his touch tantalizingly close but never enough.

He dipped his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that sent a wave of heat coursing through you. His fingers finally found your clit, rubbing delicious circles, his touch so familiar and precise it sent a jolt of pleasure down your spine.

“I was so fucking mad when you started talking about dating,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and strained as he replaced two fingers with his thumb, sliding them inside you. The stretch made you whimper, your head falling back. “But then I remembered—no one knows you like I do. Ain't that right, Bambi? I've mapped every inch of your body, made you come so many times in one night you couldn't even lift your head afterward.”

His fingers picked up speed, curling into a perfect rhythm that had your thighs trembling. Sweat pooled at your collarbone, and your hips moved instinctively, matching the pace he set as the pleasure built steadily.

“You're so fucking needy for me, Y/N,” he growled, his eyes dark as they locked on yours. “Tell me—do you ever lie to yourself? Pretend it's not my mouth you think about when you get off?”

Your head fell back against the wall as a breathless cry escaped your lips. “N-no,” you moaned, your voice trembling. “I can't forget it. Can't forget you.”

Ashton smirked, his free hand roaming your body as his lips trailed lower, biting at the sensitive skin of your thighs hard enough to make you yelp. The sharp sting only heightened the ache building deep in your core.

“You're such a bad liar, Bambi,” he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. “You think I didn't notice you tonight? The way you froze when I said you were doing a good job in the elevator? You've never forgotten, and neither have I.”

Finally, he settled between your legs, tossing one over his shoulder as his eyes drank in the sight of you. His thumb left your clit, and the sudden loss made you whine in frustration.

“Look at you,” Ashton rasped, his voice dripping with lust. “Taking my fingers so well. But fuck, I need more—I need my mouth on you, your clit between my lips, your legs shaking around my head.”

Your hand shot down instinctively, tangling in his curls. The dark glint in his eyes and the cocky smirk that followed sent a fresh wave of heat through you just before he finally lowered himself.

The moment his plush lips wrapped around your sensitive bud, a moan ripped from your throat, your body arching as pure pleasure coursed through you. His mouth moved in perfect tandem with his fingers, the combination pushing you dangerously close to the edge.

The teasing, the tension, and the fact that no one had touched you like this since Ashton— all of it built to an unbearable crescendo. You felt yourself slipping, your resolve unraveling as his name fell from your lips until it didn’t even sound like a name anymore, just a chorus of pleasured moans.

His tongue moved over you with languid precision, every flick and swirl reminding you that Ashton hadn't forgotten a single thing about your body. He was attuned to you in a way that felt almost unfair—like getting you off was second nature to him.

Your back arched off the sofa, your stomach tightening with every second his mouth worked its magic. The heat of his tongue and the rhythmic motion of his fingers were almost too much, the sensations blending into an overwhelming wave of pleasure. His eyes fluttered shut, his expression one of pure bliss as he savored you, utterly lost in the moment.

“I'm so close,” you whined, your heel digging into his back, urging him on. Your grip on his hair tightened, shadows dancing in your vision as the tension in your body coiled impossibly tight. Each flick of his tongue pulled another breathless whimper from your lips, leaving you teetering on the edge.

And then he wrapped his lips around your clit one final time, sucking gently but with just enough pressure to send you spiraling. The coil in your stomach snapped, and a tidal wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your body shook violently, your thighs instinctively clamping around Ashton's head as the ecstasy consumed you.

He didn't stop. Even as your moans turned into overstimulated whines and your legs trembled uncontrollably, Ashton stayed buried between your thighs, his tongue and fingers working you through every aftershock. You looked down at him, your chest heaving, and saw the way he was utterly lost in you, his grip on your hips tightening as if he couldn't bear to let go.

“Baby—” The word slipped from your lips before you could stop it, soft and breathless, laced with a vulnerability you hadn't meant to reveal.

Ashton froze, his body going rigid at the sound of the endearment. His fingers stilled, and for a fleeting moment, you were certain you'd said too much. But when his eyes met yours, there was no anger, no hesitation—just a new kind of fire burning behind them.

He didn't say a word. Instead, he rose from between your legs, his movements deliberate, and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You didn't protest; you couldn't. Your body was boneless in his hold, your mind too hazy to form a coherent thought.

All you could do was cling to him as he carried you, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat steady and grounding in the haze of the moment.

“I'm not done with you yet,” Ashton muttered, his voice low and gravelly, thick with need. His words sent a shiver through you as he carried you to his bedroom, the mirror doors of his closet catching your eye just before he laid you on the bed.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip before coaxing it open and slipping inside. Instinctively, you began to suck gently, your lashes fluttering shut as his other hand swept the hair from your face.

When he pulled his finger away, his gaze was dark and hungry, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Slowly, almost torturously, Ashton slipped your jacket from your shoulders, his eyes devouring every inch of newly exposed skin. You let him, your body pliant beneath his touch.

“You think you can forget how I make you feel?” he growled, his voice rough in your ear as he climbed onto the bed behind you. His hands gripped your jaw firmly, tilting your head until your eyes met your reflection in the mirror. “You're gonna fucking watch while I ruin you. Gonna make you look at yourself while I make you come so hard you cry.”

To emphasize his point, Ashton tugged your top over your head, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck as he unclasped your bra.

His grip on your jaw remained firm, holding you in place, while his free hand moved languidly down your torso, tracing over the soft swell of your breasts.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice tinged with reverence as he pressed his hips against your back, letting you feel the full weight of his arousal. “You're fucking beautiful. You think I could ever forget this? Forget you?”

You whimpered, frustrated by the fact that he was still fully clothed. It was almost as if Ashton could read your mind. He released you briefly, stripping off his mesh sweater and letting it fall to the floor. With one hand, he unbuttoned your skirt, sliding it down your legs, leaving you completely bare.

Ashton's hands found your body again immediately, one moving to your chest to knead your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple before pinching it between his fingers. “My pretty, perfect girl,” he whispered, his voice softer now, laced with awe. “You're built like a fucking wet dream. You've always been the most exquisite thing l've ever tasted, ever felt.”

Your head lolled back against his chest, your body melting into his touch, but Ashton wasn't about to let you drift away. His hand slid up to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes flutter open and meet his in the mirror.

“I said you have to watch,” he murmured, his lips grazing your ear. His grip tightened just slightly, grounding you, ensuring your gaze stayed locked on your reflection—on the way your body responded to him like it was made for his touch.

Slowly, Ashton bent you over, and your palms pressed into the mattress for support. His hands roamed across your back and down to your ass, squeezing and caressing before one slipped between your legs, sliding into your wet heat. You gasped, a moan tumbling from your lips as you fought the urge to close your eyes in bliss.

“That's right,” he purred, his voice thick and smooth as honey, withdrawing his hand before reaching for the button of his jeans. “Stay just like that for me, babygirl.”

Your breath hitched as you watched him undress in the mirror, his movements deliberate, teasing. When Ashton slid his jeans and boxers down, his erection sprang free, hard and heavy against his stomach.

The sight of him sent a wave of heat through your body, and when his eyes met yours in the reflection, they gleamed with mischief and hunger.

You watched as he wrapped a hand around his length, pumping slowly, his thumb brushing over the head. His voice was a low growl as he stepped closer. “Jesus Christ, you're still dripping,” he groaned, stroking himself faster. “God, Bambi, if I could keep you on your hands and knees like this for the rest of my life, I would.”

“Ashton, I need you,” you managed, your voice hoarse and trembling. Every nerve in your body seemed to pulse with anticipation, your walls clenching around nothing as you ached for him to finally claim you.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he teased the tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it slowly across your slick heat. Your fingers fisted the bedsheets, your body trembling as you felt him poised at your entrance.

“God, you're so pretty,” he muttered, his voice laced with reverence and lust. “Prettiest fucking pussy l've ever seen. So eager for me, aren't you? Not so sure about forgetting me now, huh?”

The head of his cock slipped in slowly, and you yelped at the intensity of the sensation. Ashton's grip on your waist tightened, his eyes squeezing shut as he began to push in deeper, sinking into you inch by inch.

The sting was minimal, your body already primed and ready from his earlier teasing. Still, Ashton let out a guttural hiss as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he held himself there for a moment, savoring the way you clenched around him.

You moaned, your head falling forward, but Ashton wasn't having it. His hand traveled up your back before tangling in your hair, tugging your head up so your gaze was locked on the mirror. “You gonna come for me again, aren't you, Bambi?“

His hips began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, but even the measured pace had your body trembling. Your walls fluttered around him, drawing out a low groan from his throat.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent. “So tight, so perfect—just for me.”

You licked your dry lips, nodding as his grip in your hair tightened, grounding you. His pace picked up, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed in the room, each thrust making your body quake. You couldn't tear your eyes away from your reflection, watching your breasts bounce with each movement, your brows furrowed in ecstasy.

Every thrust sent stars dancing in your vision, your body so sensitive from earlier that every motion brought you closer to the edge. Ashton's chest glistened with sweat, and his grip on your hips tightened, using the leverage to pull you against him. His thrusts were harder now, deeper, each one forcing loud, desperate whimpers from your lips.

It didn't take long before he found that spot deep inside you, the one he never failed to hit. “Does that feel good, Bambi?” he groaned, his pace relentless. “Still think you could ever forget this?”

“No,” you gasped, your nails digging into the sheets. “No, baby, I can't—I'll never forget how your cock feels inside me.”

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice rough and breathless. One of his hands snaked between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with perfect pressure. The sensation overwhelmed you, and your arms gave out, your body collapsing onto the bed. Your cheek pressed against the mattress as you continued to watch, your reflection a picture of pure, unrestrained pleasure.

The edge was so close now, the coil in your stomach tightening with every thrust, every flick of his fingers. Your moans grew louder, the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped.

Your body convulsed as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your cries filling the room. In the mirror, you caught a glimpse of yourself—your mouth falling open, your eyes narrowing, and your brows furrowing as pure ecstasy consumed you.

As your orgasm subsided, Ashton pulled out, his movements gentle as he guided your trembling body to lie flat on your back. He positioned himself above you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other lined himself up with your entrance. His gaze was intense, his voice low and rasping as he said, “I need to see you when I come.”

He slipped back into you effortlessly, the stretch familiar but no less intoxicating. His nose grazed your cheek as he began to move again, his thrusts slow at first but quickly turning messy and desperate. You wrapped your arms around him, your nails biting into his back as you held him close, the sound of his labored breathing fanning against your ear.

“Fill me up, baby,” you urged, your voice trembling. “Don't let me forget what it feels like to be dripping wirh you.”

Ashton groaned deeply at your words, his teeth grazing your neck before he bit down lightly, his thrusts growing erratic. “You're so perfect,” he murmured into your skin, his voice raw with emotion. “You're everything.”

It didn't take long for him to reach his peak, his hips stuttering as he pushed deep into you, spilling inside with a strangled moan.

Your nails dug deeper into his back, grounding him as he gave a few final, shallow thrusts before his movements stilled. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathless, your bodies entwined.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Ashton remained buried inside you, your ragged breaths the only sound in the room. When he finally lifted his head, his gaze had softened, all traces of lust replaced by a quiet admiration that made your heart stutter.

“Hi,” you whispered, biting your lip, your cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, his voice tender as he pulled out of you and rolled onto his side. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soft, soothing motion. Neither of you spoke; it felt as though words couldn't quite capture the weight of the moment.

The night hadn't unfolded the way you had imagined, but somehow, it felt right.

As if sensing the thoughts brewing in your mind, Ashton leaned in and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, a crooked grin tugged at his lips. “We better clean up,” he said, his tone light and teasing.

You nodded silently, unable to resist smiling back at him. Whatever questions or doubts lingered could wait—everything else could wait. Not when Ashton was looking at you like that.

For now, it was just the two of you.

—

You were overcome with panic before you even opened your eyes. The steady pressure of Ashton’s arm draped lazily across your body was the first thing you registered, pulling you from restless sleep into an even harsher reality. A slight jolt ran through you as the weight of your actions crashed over you.

Ashton’s room looked starkly different in the soft morning light, the cluttered chaos of last night now clear and inescapable. His soft breathing brushed against the nape of your neck, and it made you shiver—not from the cold but from the flood of memories that followed. You had been drunk, sure, but not drunk enough to excuse what had happened.

The truth was unavoidable: you weren’t over Ashton. Not even close. For the better part of a year, you’d lied to yourself, pretended you were fine, moved on—or at least convinced yourself you had. But as his familiar scent surrounded you, the ache in your chest reminded you how far from the truth that was.

You didn’t dare move, paralyzed by the thought of waking him and having to meet his piercing green eyes. You could still picture them from last night, looking at you in that way they always used to. It was too much. You couldn’t stay.

Carefully, holding your breath, you began sliding out from under his arm. The bed creaked slightly as you shifted your weight, but Ashton didn’t stir. He had always been a heavy sleeper—especially when alcohol and sex were involved.

The chill of the air hit your bare skin as you slipped free of the bed. Goosebumps rippled along your arms as you crouched down, hurriedly gathering your scattered clothes. Your jeans, your shirt,—everything but your underwear.

You froze as Ashton mumbled something in his sleep, his body shifting slightly under the covers. Your heart pounded as you watched him, every second stretching out painfully. After a moment, he stilled again, his breathing slow and steady.

Biting your lip, you tiptoed into the living room, pulling on your clothes as quickly and quietly as you could. Your jacket was slung over the back of the couch, and you grabbed it with trembling hands, reaching instinctively into the pocket for your phone.

Dead.

Of course, your phone would be dead. Charging it hadn’t even crossed your mind last night, and now the blank screen mocked you, showing a dim reflection of your disheveled hair and pale face.

You exhaled sharply, trying to steel yourself. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. You slid your boots on, your fingers fumbling with the laces as you avoided looking back toward Ashton’s room. The shame burned in your chest, and every second you stayed felt like a punishment.

Without another glance, you opened the door and slipped out into the hallway, shutting it quietly behind you.

You hadn’t expected this—walking the walk of shame from the apartment of the one person you’d sworn to everyone, including yourself, that you didn’t care about anymore. And yet here you were.

Although your head spun and your throat ached with unshed tears of frustration, you refused to let them fall as you stepped out of the building. Your jaw tightened, and you forced yourself to focus on the task at hand: finding the nearest coffee shop and begging someone to let you use a charger long enough to call for a ride home.

As you trudged down the street, the original plan came flooding back. Ashton was supposed to take you back to the bar to pick up the car you’d left behind. It was a plan that had made sense last night, when things between you were simpler—or at least less devastating.

Everything felt like it was crumbling around you now. Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each beat amplified by the dull throb in your head. It was only a few blocks to the nearest Starbucks, but by the time you arrived, your anger had simmered into exhaustion, and your clothes clung to your skin from the heat.

Thankfully, borrowing a charger wasn’t much of an issue. The barista barely glanced at you as they handed one over, and you ordered a small breakfast to settle the uneasy churning in your stomach while you waited for your phone to charge.

Still, you couldn’t relax. Your eyes stayed glued to the door, half-expecting Ashton to walk in at any moment. A part of you wished he would, even if you wouldn’t admit it. But he didn’t. And you didn’t let yourself dwell on the disappointment creeping into your chest.

By the time your phone had enough charge, you’d numbly arranged for a ride back to the bar. The drive passed in near silence, your body heavy with exhaustion. When you finally arrived, you thanked the driver halfheartedly and stepped out.

Your gaze swept the parking lot as you walked toward your car, instinctively searching for any sign of Ashton. But he wasn’t there. Of course, he wasn’t. You ignored the pang of disappointment that hit you and quickly climbed into your car.

The second you shut the door, the tears came. At first, it was just a few that escaped despite your best efforts to hold them back. But by the time you crossed the threshold of your apartment, the dam broke completely.

You collapsed onto the floor, burying your face in your hands as sobs tore through you. The ache in your chest was unbearable, and your cries echoed through the quiet space, raw and unrelenting.

A small, curious head peeked out from behind the sofa. Your cat, the one you’d adopted with Ashton by your side, cautiously approached. She studied you with those wide, knowing eyes before padding over and hopping into your lap as if to offer comfort.

“Hey there, Dani,” you croaked, your voice hoarse as you extended a hand toward her. She purred softly, curling up against you without hesitation, her warmth soothing your trembling frame.

As you stroked her fur, a bittersweet memory flashed in your mind—Ashton, grinning ear to ear as he insisted on her name.

“Dani Cattyfornia is hilarious,” he’d argued, his eyes sparkling in that way they always did when he was up to something. “Plus, it’s a fire song for a very spicy kitty.”

“We are not naming my cat after a Red Hot Chili Peppers song!” you’d exclaimed, appalled at his suggestion. But both of you had known, even then, that the decision was already made. Dani Cattyfornia it was.

The memory stung now, bittersweet in its clarity. You clutched Dani closer, the tears you’d fought so hard to suppress spilling over once again. Part of you wondered if she could smell Ashton on you. You hadn’t realized how much you missed the way Ashton’s eyes sparkled when he teased you, or how his laughter could make the world feel lighter.

Your phone buzzed beside you, Ashton’s name lighting up the screen. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut, triggering another wave of tears. Without even thinking, you grabbed the phone and silenced the call, dragging yourself toward the bathroom.

The hiss of the shower filled the space as you stripped off your clothes and stepped under the stream. Hot water cascaded over you, soaking your hair and washing away the tears, though it did little to ease the ache in your chest.

Sitting on the tiled floor, you let yourself be consumed by the memories you’d tried so hard to bury. Every hug, every kiss, every whispered “I love you.” They flooded your mind, vivid and inescapable. But for every moment of joy, there was a counterweight: broken promises, forgotten commitments, and feelings left unspoken.

The most vivid memory of all was the last time you’d seen Ashton before everything fell apart. It was during one of your attempts to patch things up, to see if there was anything left between you worth salvaging.

You’d been cautious then, agreeing to take things slow, but Ashton had seemed distant, dodging your questions and skirting around his emotions. At the time, you’d chalked it up to nerves. Neither of you knew what to expect from trying again.

That night, he’d invited you to his apartment with the promise of making dinner—an offer that had surprised you, given Ashton’s well-documented lack of culinary skills. You’d laughed it off, but when you arrived, any doubts about his intentions melted away in a flurry of kisses and wandering hands.

It was intoxicating, the way he touched you that night. His hands were tentative yet desperate, as if relearning every inch of you. Your laughter had quickly turned to soft gasps, and before you knew it, the sun had set, and dinner plans had long been forgotten.

The “fancy dinner” had been replaced by him ordering takeout pizza, which you had to convince Ashton to get because he was still dead set on cooking. He eventually relented, he always did when it came to you. You could still picture him, standing between your legs as you sat on the counter in nothing but his t-shirt, holding up two empty glasses of wine and a lopsided grin on his face.

“I’ll make the presentation worth it,” he’d joked, pouring you another glass of wine. “I’ll doll it up real fancy so you’ll forgive the fact that it looks like absolute dog shit.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you without hesitation. Taking a sip of your wine, you leveled Ashton with a playful glare. “This has to be the least fancy dinner I’ve ever had.”

Ashton rolled his eyes, his grin wide as he ran his calloused hands along your bare thighs. “Okay, but you’ve gotta admit,” he said, leaning closer, “sometimes it’s not even about the food.” He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, his smile soft against yours. “It’s about the company.”

“Well,” you snickered, swirling the wine in your glass, “it’s definitely about the wine… and maybe other things.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Other things, huh? Feeling up for a smoke?”

You smirked, leaning forward to kiss him slowly. “Oh yes. And I know how you get when you’re high,” you teased, your voice dipping. “Can’t seem to pry you from between my legs…”

Ashton laughed softly, pulling back and shaking his head. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll go get the stuff.”

As he turned, you didn’t hesitate to swat at his backside. He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder, but the playful smirk tugging at his lips didn’t waver.

You were still perched on the counter, swinging your legs and sipping your wine, when a knock came at the door. Assuming it was the pizza Ashton had ordered earlier, you didn’t think twice about your appearance—bare legs, his oversized shirt—as you padded toward the door.

With a carefree smile, you swung it open.

Your smile faltered instantly.

Standing on the other side was a woman, striking in her beauty, with dark hair that curled around her shoulders and wide, glassy eyes that immediately welled with tears.

The two of you froze, locked in a moment that felt like it stretched into eternity. Her gaze swept over you, lingering on your bare legs and the shirt that hung loosely around your frame. Slowly, her expression twisted, heartbreak and fury colliding in her tear-streaked face.

“Are you serious?” she choked out, her voice trembling as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“I—what?” you stammered, completely caught off guard, your brain scrambling to make sense of the situation.

Her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line, her shoulders shaking as she let out a bitter laugh. “I’m Eve,” she said sharply, her voice cracking. “I’m Ashton’s girlfriend.”

It was like the ground fell out from under you. Your stomach churned as the pieces clicked into place.

He had been so dodgy, so hesitant. And now, it all made sense.

You were his side piece.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, stumbling back a step. “I’m so sorry—I swear I didn’t know—”

Eve’s tear-filled gaze cut into you, but she didn’t look angry with you—just devastated. Her voice softened, trembling under the weight of her emotions. “You didn’t know, did you?”

Before you could respond, Ashton’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Bambi, found the stuff—”

He froze in place the second he saw her, the color draining from his face. His eyes darted between you and Eve, his panic written all over his features.

“Eve?” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She let out a hollow laugh, swiping at her tears. “Yeah, Ashton. Eve. Remember me? Your girlfriend?” Her voice cracked, her pain unmistakable.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Ashton opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

The rest of the night was a blur of screaming, crying, and running away. Ashton had tried to explain, but you couldn’t listen. You promised yourself you would never listen to him again.

Now, a week after waking up in Ashton’s bed, the same feelings from that night lingered—anger, confusion, and an ache you couldn’t shake. You had avoided his texts and calls like the plague, and eventually, he stopped trying.

You sat alone in your apartment, replaying every moment in an endless loop, the pain still raw. No matter how much you wanted to hate him, a part of you still missed him—and that was the most painful part of all.

Every day, your mind wavered between the night you discovered Eve and the night you had spent tangled in Ashton’s arms. The memories were a cruel contrast, leaving you hollow, drained, and exhausted from carrying the weight of your emotions.

You barely noticed the news broadcast about a small residential building collapse, half-asleep on the couch with Dani curled beside you. The world outside felt distant, like you were moving through it in slow motion.

The entire week had been a blur of sleepless nights, haunted by memories of a time when you and Ashton had been happy. You went through your daily routine like a ghost, trying to convince yourself you were fine when you felt anything but.

It wasn’t until the phone call that everything shifted.

Still half-asleep, you idly scratched Dani behind her ears, a random show playing in the background. For the first time, the ache in your chest felt manageable, like you might finally be able to breathe again. You knew forgetting Ashton would take effort, but you were determined to start over—no matter how much it hurt.

Then your phone lit up with an unknown number.

At first, you ignored it, dismissing it as another scam call. But when a voicemail notification appeared, curiosity got the better of you.

You played the message, your blood running cold as a calm voice began speaking.

“Hi, this is Dr. Theresa Bray calling from St. Matthew’s Hospital. I hope this is the number for Y/N Y/L/N. You’ve been listed as Ashton Irwin’s emergency contact, and I’m calling to let you know he’s currently in surgery—”

Your breath hitched, the phone slipping from your grasp as your mind struggled to process the words. Ashton. Surgery. Emergency contact.

The room spun as you tried to process the voicemail. Your heart raced, and your thoughts blurred, but one thing was clear—you needed to get to Ashton.

You shot up from the couch, fumbling to find your shoes and keys while the voicemail continued to echo in your mind. “…he’s currently in surgery due to injuries sustained in a building collapse earlier today. We’re asking you to come in and discuss his condition.”

The words repeated like a broken record, colliding with the image of the news broadcast you’d seen earlier. Ashton must have been responding to a call at that building, and somehow, he’d gotten hurt.

The weight of the situation settled on your shoulders like a storm cloud. Anger and worry fought for dominance inside you. You weren’t supposed to care anymore—not after everything—but the fire coursing through your veins told a different story.

Grabbing the first jacket you could find, you moved toward the door in a daze. Dani meowed softly from her spot on the couch, her curious eyes tracking your every movement.

“Daddy’s hurt,” you mumbled without thinking, your voice shaky. “I just… I have to make sure he’s okay. Don’t wait up for me.”

Dani’s blank stare felt oddly comforting, as if she understood. You allowed yourself to imagine that she remembered Ashton, how she used to follow him around as loyally as you had.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Your mind cycled through worst-case scenarios, each one more unbearable than the last. You told yourself it was just an obligation, that you were his emergency contact and nothing more. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t that simple.

When you finally arrived, the sterile smell of the hospital hit you like a wave. You made a beeline for the front desk, ignoring the noise and bustle around you.

“I’m here for Ashton Irwin. I’m his emergency contact,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

The nurse behind the desk gave you a sympathetic look. “He’s still in surgery, but we’ll notify you as soon as he’s out.”

You nodded, biting your lip as you stepped away. Before you could settle into one of the cold, plastic chairs in the waiting area, a familiar voice called your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned quickly to see Calum walking toward you. He was still in his firefighter gear—his T-shirt and gear pants smudged with dirt and soot, his face battered and weary.

Relief flooded through you, and you closed the distance between you, throwing your arms around his torso. Calum immediately hugged you back, his strong arms wrapping around you protectively, one hand cupping the back of your head.

“What happened? Is he okay?” you asked, your voice breaking as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

Calum sighed, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and worry. “We were at the scene, doing everything we could to get people out,” he began. “Ashton… he went back in to save a kid. The floor gave out beneath him.”

Your heart sank, and tears stung your eyes. “Oh my God,” you whispered, clutching Calum’s arm. “Why would he—”

“He’s a stubborn idiot,” Calum said softly, though there was no anger in his voice. Just a deep, aching concern. “But that’s who he is. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Your eyes brimmed with tears as you scanned the waiting room, taking in the familiar faces of Michael and Luke seated in the corner. Both of them looked just as anxious as you felt, their worry etched into every line of their faces.

Calum’s hands tightened gently on your shoulders, grounding you. “He’ll be alright, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the tension. “Ashton’s a fighter. Once he knows you’re here, he’ll claw his way back to you. I know he will.”

Your lip trembled as you dropped your head against Calum’s chest. “He doesn’t even know I’m here,” you mumbled, your voice cracking. “Why would he? I haven’t spoken to him in a week.”

Calum pulled back slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. “Why do you think you’re his emergency contact?”

Your brow furrowed as you shook your head. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “Maybe he forgot to change it?”

Calum gave you a knowing look, his voice firm but kind. “He put you down because he knows you, Y/N,” he said slowly, his words deliberate. “He knows you’d drop everything if you heard he was hurt, no matter how mad you are at him. He put you down because you’re the one incentive he needs to fight like hell to stay alive.”

The weight of his words settled over you, leaving you breathless. Your mind swirled with memories of Ashton—the way he smiled at you, the warmth of his laughter, the quiet nights when it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.

The waiting room buzzed with quiet murmurs as the minutes dragged on. You sat with Calum, Luke, Michael, and the rest of Ashton’s team, all of them waiting for news. Their captain moved between the group, offering reassurances that did little to ease the heavy tension.

When the doctor finally emerged, everyone in the room stood at once, but her gaze immediately sought you and Calum. She approached, her expression calm but professional.

“Y/N?” she asked, her tone measured.

Your grip on Calum’s arm tightened instinctively. “Is he alright?” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor—Dr. Bray, you assumed—gave a small, reassuring smile. “He’s out of surgery. Ashton sustained multiple injuries, including several broken bones, but he’s stable. He’s going to be okay.”

The relief that swept over you was overwhelming. You gasped, tears spilling freely as you turned to Calum, wrapping your arms around him in an unsteady hug.

When you finally pulled away, you wiped at your face, your voice trembling as you asked, “Can I see him?”

Dr. Bray nodded. “He’s still asleep from the anesthesia, but yes, you can see him. Just keep in mind he’s going to need plenty of rest.”

You nodded quickly, barely processing her words as she motioned for you to follow her. Calum gave your hand one last squeeze before letting you go, his silent support a comforting presence as you prepared to face Ashton.

You followed the nurse numbly to Ashton’s room, your heart pounding as you stepped inside. The sight of him hit you like a wave—pale and fragile against the stark white of the hospital bed, his black hair in disarray with sandy roots peeking through. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with the steady beeping of the heart monitor, but the bruises and cuts that lined his face made your stomach twist.

Without a second thought, you sank into the chair by his bedside, your hand reaching for his. His fingers were cold and limp, but you held on tightly. “You know,” you whispered, your voice shaky but laced with an attempt at humor, “you didn’t have to get the floor to fall out from under you just to get me to see you.”

The silence was heavy, Ashton unmoving, but you didn’t let it stop you. You stayed by his side for hours, your voice filling the quiet as you talked about anything and everything that came to mind.

Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in, and your eyes fluttered shut as you rested your head on the edge of the bed. Just as sleep was about to claim you, you felt it—a faint squeeze of your hand.

Your head shot up, your heart leaping in your chest. Ashton’s hazel-green eyes, tired but unmistakably vibrant, blinked up at you. A weak, familiar smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey, Bambi,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but warm. “Was scared I’d never see you again.”

A choked sob escaped you as you reached out, gently brushing his messy hair away from his face. “Hey, you,” you murmured, your voice trembling as tears spilled over. “Look at us—always doing the absolute most to get each other’s attention.”

His smile widened slightly, though it was laced with exhaustion. “At least this isn’t as embarrassing as you falling on your ass that one time,” he teased weakly.

You let out a watery laugh, wiping your tears quickly. “Yeah,” you said, your voice lighter for a moment. “At least there’s that.”

The room fell into a quiet lull as Ashton’s gaze wandered to the cast on his leg and the bandages covering his arms. His expression grew somber. “Guess I won’t be going back to work anytime soon,” he muttered, his voice tinged with regret.

“It’ll go by fast,” you said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve always been one resilient motherf—fighter.”

But your attempt at humor didn’t lift his spirits. His brow furrowed, and he looked down at your joined hands. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past year and a half,” he said quietly, his tone more serious than you expected. “About my mistakes. And how most of them were with you.”

You swallowed hard, your heart tightening in your chest. “Ashton, we don’t have to do this now—”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “But we do,” he insisted, his voice soft but firm. He shifted slightly, wincing at the movement, and you shot up to help, but he waved you off. “I need to say this, Y/N. I owe you an apology.”

His words lingered in the air, heavy with unfiltered emotion, leaving you speechless.

“You really don’t have to do this now,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but Ashton wasn’t deterred.

“I don’t know if you’ll still be here tomorrow,” he said softly, his tone laced with vulnerability. “Or the day after that. So, yes, I need to do this now.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “I love you. From the moment you looked at me with those big doe eyes of yours, I’ve loved you. I’ve always been a stupid kid, and my love for you wasn’t safe from my stupidity.”

Your breath caught in your throat, his words striking something deep within you.

“I hurt you,” Ashton continued, his voice cracking. “Time and time again, and you still took me back. But then you left—and you seemed so sure of your decision that I tried to convince myself there was nothing left in my heart for you. Pins and needles, as you used to say.”

A sad smile ghosted his lips, and for a moment, you were both transported back to a time when those words meant something lighter.

“Anyway,” he said with a bitter laugh, “I threw myself at the first girl I could. That just happened to be Eve. For a while, everything seemed fine. But then you came over for my Cal’s birthday party, and everything I’d built crumbled. All my resolve—gone, just like that. I wanted you, Bambi. I only wanted you. And I knew, deep down, that no matter who it was, if you showed up at my wedding, I would’ve run away with you in a heartbeat.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his confession unraveled.

“So I was selfish,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared of losing you again, so I didn’t break things off with Eve when I should have, I kept her as a backup plan. I fucked up. I knew it then, and I know it now. I’m so fucking sorry, Bambi. For everything.”

He finally fell silent, his breathing labored but steady, his gaze fixed on you, searching for some kind of absolution.

“You made me an accomplice to adultery,” you whispered, the weight of your words finally matching the emotions you’d held inside since that night. “You made me hurt another girl—a sweet, completely innocent girl who didn’t deserve it.”

Ashton’s gaze dropped to his hands, shame clouding his expression. “I know,” he admitted softly. “I’ve tried to reach out to her, to apologize, but she never gave me the chance. Not like you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, a flicker of guilt surfacing. “About that,” you sighed. “I didn’t agree to see you because I wanted to forgive you. I wanted to rub it in your face that I was fine without you.”

His small smile faltered, replaced by a look of quiet resignation. “Oh,” he murmured, his brows lifting slightly. “I guess that’s fair.”

You exhaled slowly, your voice softer now. “How do I know you’ve really changed?” you asked, tracing idle patterns on the hospital sheets.

Ashton took a deep breath, sitting up just slightly. “I could tell you about how being a firefighter has taught me to be less selfish,” he began. “How it’s forced me to confront my issues and given me a healthy outlet for all my restless energy. But honestly, that won’t mean much to you, will it?”

You frowned, glancing up at him. “No, because I don’t really know that Ashton, and I probably won’t for a while,” you pointed out gently, careful not to hit a nerve. “You’re going to need time to heal. How do I know you won’t just go back to who you used to be?”

Ashton pressed his lips into a thin line, his hazel-green eyes locking onto yours. Without a word, he nodded toward the small space next to him on the bed. “C’mere,” he muttered, shifting as much as his injuries allowed to make room for you.

Your brows lifted in surprise, but when Ashton pouted slightly, you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Carefully, you climbed onto the bed, lowering yourself beside him and resting your head against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat filled your ears, strong and steady beneath you.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your hair. “You won’t. And I guess that’s the hardest part.”

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze for a beat. “I don’t want to be in a relationship with you right now,” you muttered, your voice steady but kind.

You felt him tense beneath you, but you pushed forward before he could say anything. “You don’t need the mess of our love on top of everything else you’re dealing with,” you explained. “But you do need someone to help you. Recovery is going to be long and hard.”

His eyes searched yours, a flicker of hope lighting them. “What are you saying?” he asked hesitantly.

You licked your lips, trying to gather your thoughts. “For now, I’m going to help you heal,” you said firmly. “Make sure you get back to being that firefighter who has his life together. And maybe, just maybe, when you’ve really proven to yourself that you’ve changed, I’ll think about giving us another shot.”

Ashton stared at you, disbelief etched across his face. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” you nodded, a small smile creeping onto your face. “Plus, I think Dani misses her dad.”

Ashton’s eyes softened at the mention of your cat. “My sweet Dani Cattyfornia,” he murmured with a blissful sigh. “That really is the most ridiculous name, isn’t it?”

You smiled, shrugging slightly. “It’s a fire song,” you said softly. “A fitting name for a spicy kitty—even though she’s way more mellow now.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, but it was quickly replaced by a serious tone as his forehead gently pressed against yours. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“Maybe not,” you replied honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we won’t know that unless you try. Everyone deserves a second chance. And a third. And a fourth. And a fifth—”

Ashton cut you off with a quiet laugh, his smile breaking through his sadness. “Alright, alright, I get it,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But thank you, Bambi. I swear, I won’t waste this chance.”

You hummed softly, your fingers tracing the heart tattoo on the side of his wrist. The thought of giving him another shot terrified you, but not as much as the idea of losing him completely.

As the room settled into a comforting silence, the truth became clear.

The only pins and needles you felt now were from your arm falling asleep, uncomfortably squished between the two of you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

if you’re still here, i love you. thank you for reading this monster of one shot, and thank you again to soup for being such an awesome writing partner. as always, thank you for reading pookies <3

watch 9-1-1.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

hi hi ^ ^ would it be alright if you could write Infected mistaking fleshcousin for reader and getting confused when they just respond with incoherent nonsense before realizing like "oh wait this isn't them" (bonus points if reader goes back into the elevator during their 'conversation') -💥

As the elevator doors opened once again, every occupant was booted out and had no choice but to enter the next floor:

WALL OF.

The concept of an obby with a looming threat from behind to motivate players sounded fun on paper, but in execution there was no guarantee that even a single person will be able to clear it without a scratch..

Or even make it to the other side alive.

They certainly had their work cut out for them, as the rapidly approaching wall of fire didn't allow them to think of anything else---nothing except their survival.

You were no stranger to this floor, having beaten it once or twice in the past. It was a brutal but challenging way to keep your parkour skills in tiptop shape--you're just grateful it's not Gregoriah's emporium or Mach's HALL OF (a terrible if not worse version of this incinerator obby).

Infected, who showed up on the elevator a few floors ago, was a little bummed out that he couldn't participate, pouting as he watched all the players prepare to run for their lives. The flames looked awesome and so did the rotating platforms!

He could totally clear it if only that stupid red barrier stopped him from exiting.

Of course, he had no idea what lied beyond the spinning platforms and tall ladders, and based on the survivors' reactions....it was probably better that he stayed curious.

As he waited, he looked to his right and was stunned to see...

You?

Yep, sure enough..you were here somehow.

A lot of things tend to go over the skater's head, including the fact that the "you" he was staring at wasn't actually you.

"0h! Y0u're still her3?" He tilted his head, before a grin overtook his face. "I th0ught that cr4zy chick kick3d 0ut everyb0dy...but hey! I get t0 chill with y0u! Th4'ts 4wes0me! I bet y0u get tir3d 0f this fl00r, yea?"

"Floors, doors, and smores. Friends miss the elevator drop." You responded, looking awfully dizzy and barely able to keep your head up. "Down to the boiling pot of fire. Burn burn bright!" Then you pointed to the incinerator wall that was now halfway across the area, admiring the flames.

Infected just blinked, unable to make sense of whatever the hell you just said.

"Dude, why are y0u talking cr4zy? L0L." He shook his head, laughing a little, although he stopped to sneeze. Most people would complain that he "infected" them, and he'd just shrug it off or glare. But you didn't mind so much, as you were the only one who hung around with him.

That's just proof he wasn't really sick. Everyone else was just being mean for no reason.

"Ar3 y0u sick? Y0u sh0uld g3t that ch3ck3d 0ut."

"Sick plagues fleeting worlds. Check outs at the market." You muttered, gazing listlessly at the man in pink, who continued to giggle at the nonsense you were speaking.

"Br4h, y0u're acting s0000 r4ndom right now. Even I c4n't k33p up with-"

"Grey cat tart miss you."

At that moment, Infected fell silent.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like laughing anymore.

You knew better than anyone that his missing cat was a rather..sensitive subject, and something he only shared with three people: Lampert, Unpleasant (reluctantly), and you. Of course, other elevator occupants have given him cats they found on various floors, ranging from angry red to calico to...sentient cardboard.

But none of them were his.

None of them were Poptart.

"....if he d0es, why h4sn't he c0me h0me yet?" He frowned, now feeling a bit downtrodden. "Man, why did y0u hav3 t0 kill my vib3? N0w I'm sad..."

All that he got from you was total silence.

Yeah..

Now he was starting to realize something wasn't quite right about the person standing beside him. He's 99% sure that you knew Poptart's name, so why did you say it like that?

Why not just say his name?

Then...it finally clicked.

"H0ld 0n..am I even t4lking t0-?"

*ding*

Infected looked to see the doors opening once again, and of all the people who were forced to complete WALL OF this time around...only you made it back alive. The real you.

You were sweaty and out of breath, clothes smelling like smoke as you thanked the gods above for the elevator's functional A/C kicking in. You dragged yourself into a corner to open a medkit, trying to get your breathing and heartrate down so you could properly speak,

But all the while you failed to notice your best friend's bug-eyed expression.

"[Y/n]...?"

Blinking, you looked at Infected. "Hey, let me tell you how much that SUCKED." You sprayed a burn on your arm before wrapping gauze around it. "It was totally different from last time! Who told her that having machines shoot snowballs at my ass was a good idea?! You know what it's like to freeze and sweat at the same time?! It's horrible."

"....br4h, that's cr4zy. But I was l0sing my mind in h3r3, 'cuz I th0ught I w4s talking to Y0U all al0ng!" He pointed to your clone, who he now realized was FleshCousin. "N0 w0nder that crazy lady didn't b00t y0u out!"

The creature, who took notice of your tired and battered state, only tilted their head. "Is..friend okay with the freeze and heat advisory?" They uttered, trying to imitate concern.

As you finished patching your arm, you looked up at them and smiled lightly. "I'm okay, Fleshy. Thank you...at least someone asked." You sent a pointed glare at Infected, who seemed baffled.

"I-I wuz g0nna ask, t00!" He huffed. "I just...I was getting mad 'cuz Flesh br0 here started talking ab0ut P0pt4rt..and I th0ught it was y0u. H0w....d0 they kn0w about him..?"

"Beats me. These guys know a lot of things, even Mark's and Wallter's..erm..past." You put the kit away and leaned against the wall, sighing in relief as you heard the elevator's music come on. It was a peaceful jazzy melody, putting you in a slightly better mood than you were a few minutes ago.

"Th3y sure had me f00led." Infected chuckled, shaking his head, although you eyed him strangely. "What?"

"...they've been riding with us for a while, dude."

".....huh? Re4lly???"

"Yeah. How did you not notice there were two of us?"

"Dunn0, this 3levat0r got so cr0wded I forg0t.....L0LZ."

".....of course you did."

[novvabee]

the day you post the next chapter of the marauders band au will be the day i cry happy tears

well let those tears flow baby, new chapter is here!!! some new faces as well 🎸

The Boys in the Band

word count: 3k

cw: swearing like once, really nothing else this one is a filler until the next chapter

You had never heard so many screams in your life. If it weren’t for your earpiece, you probably wouldn’t know what the fuck was going on. You got through your entire performance entirely by sheer adrenaline. 

These past few months had been a whirlwind. You went from performing in dive bars and opening for small artists to opening for the Emmeline Vance, the biggest pop star in the world. She has gone on five sold out world tours, has multiple number one albums, and has1 2 Ollivander Awards, the most prestigious and sought after award in all of the music industry. 

And she hand selected The Pixies to open for her on her UK leg of her newest world tour. You and the girls could not believe your luck, you were getting to play for thousands of screaming fans every week. These fans were of course there to see Emmeline, but the longer you toured with her, the more the fans learned all the words to your songs and were screaming them back at you. Some of the fans in the audience were there solely because The Pixies were there, and that was what amazed you and the girls. 

You had grown your fan base in this short time, and had gotten enough attention to land you in the spot you’re in now. 

“London, you have been absolutely amazing tonight!” you shouted into your pink microphone. You were met with screams and applause, enough to make your chest rumble with the sound. “We have one last song for you, then we can all enjoy some Emmeline!”

You chuckled as the sound grew impossibly louder, the crowd all adorned in bright colors, tassels and sparkles. Your kind of people.

“So, this last song is probably the one you’ll know, even if you don’t know who we are, you have definitely heard this song.” You said into the mic, trying to drown out the noise of the crowd as you made your way center stage. You caught a glimpse of yourself on the screen amplifying your image to the crowd and smiled. This, you could definitely get used to this, the crowd, the stage, the lights, the production of it all. Hell, there was even a VIP section in the front row. You made eye contact with a few actors and actresses that you had idolised for years, high fived a very famous socialite, and saw artists that you had listened to since you were a child scream your lyrics back at you. It was enthralling to say the least.

You placed yourself in the center of the stage where the screen could pick you up perfectly. Lily and Mary to each side of you, Marlene behind and elevated with her drum kit. All of you matching in pretty red dresses, reminiscent of 1950s swimwear. Though you all matched, you were all giving different vibes and made the dresses your own. You were styled in matching platform heels, Lily had a sheer red long sleeved bodysuit under, Mary had fishnets and black heels, and Marlene was of course in her pair of beat up converse and wore her ripped black tights. You all looked individualistic while obviously being a group.

“Although you may know this song, there is a little dance that goes along with it.” you said, screams erupting yet again, some people already understanding which song you were about to do next. “But the thing is, everyone has to do it or the song doesn’t work.” you said with fake sadness. Mary chuckled beside you.

“So, I’m gonna teach you all the dance now! Marlene, could you give us a beat?” you asked. The crowd’s volume was possibly the loudest it had been all night as Marlene started playing the beat of HOT TO GO! “Ok, ok, the dance goes something like this. H-O-T-T-O-G-O,” you said, using your arms to spell out the letters of HOT TO GO! then finished the dance with, “You can take me hot to go.”

You looked out into the crowd and the whole arena was moving. Every single body was doing your silly little dance and you couldn’t help the smile that grew on your face.

“Ok One more time! H-O-T-T-O-G-O, you can take me hot to go!” You instructed. Lily and Mary beside you, both helping show off the dance. Everyone seemed to pick up the dance fairly easily, but you couldn’t help but notice the front row not joining in. There were a few people who notably stood out because they weren’t doing the dance, and though you had a literal arena to focus on, somehow that held your attention. You made out about 10 VIPs in the front not dancing, and within this crowd, you clocked a few familiar faces.

It took you a moment to recognise where you knew these faces from, but you remembered, these were the boys from The Marauders. The one with long black hair was the one looking the most sulky and upset, and this irked you. Sure, you had only met them a few months ago, and you knew the history with James and Lily, well, you sort of knew, but you thought that they would at least support you, not sit VIP and look miserable and jealous while you were performing. You knew there was a little rivalry, both your bands being from the same town and all, but they had just as much, if not more, success than you girls, so why were they seeming so sour. This bothered you, probably more than it should have.

So you skipped your way all the way to the front of the stage.”It’s so weird that VIP thinks they’re way too cool to do this!” You announced to the crowd. You saw the shocked faces on some of the lame VIPs who weren't dancing, so you decided to address them directly. “You’re not fun!” You shouted then turned and skipped back to where your girls were starting the song. And nevermind, that was the loudest that the crowd was all night. You saw Lily double over with laughter, trying her best to keep it together and keep playing. Marlene’s mouth was hanging open and Mary gave you a wink of approval. “Do it or I’m calling you on stage.” you threw over your shoulder as one last jab.

You decided that the rest of the song you were going to perform for the back of house, where you could see that people were dancing and having a good time. 

I could be the one, or your new addiction It's all in my head but I want non-fiction I don't want the world, but I'll take this city

Who can blame a girl? Call me hot, not pretty Baby, do you like this beat? (Na-na-na-na, na) I made it so you'd dance with me (na-na-na-na, na) It's like a hundred 99 degrees (na-na-na-na, na) When you're doing it with me, doing it with me H-O-T-T-O-G-O Snap and clap and touch your toes Raise your hands, now body roll Dance it out, you're hot to go H-O-T-T-O-G-O Snap and clap and touch your toes Raise your hands, now body roll H-O-T-T-O-G-O

This is when the whole crowd erupted in the dance, hands and arms waving in the air everywhere. So many faces smiling back at you, everyone you could see having an amazing time.

H-O-T-T-O-G-O

You can take me hot to go H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go Well, I woke up alone staring at my ceiling I try not to care but it hurts my feelings You don't have to stare, come here, get with it No one's touched me there in a damn hot minute And baby, don't you like this beat? (Na-na, na-na-na) I made it so you'd sleep with me (na-na, na-na-na) It's like a hundred 99 degrees (na-na, na-na-na) When you're doing it with me, doing it with me

H-O-T-T-O-G-O Snap and clap and touch your toes Raise your hands, now body roll Dance it out, you're hot to go H-O-T-T-O-G-O Snap and clap and touch your toes Raise your hands, now body roll H-O-T-T-O-G-O H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go

You walked to the front of the stage again, dancing your way and stopping to look straight to the back of house and make sure they were feeling the love as well. You saw so much glitter and so many colors flashing in the lights of the arena, the crowd looking like a rainbow colored night sky.

What's it take to get your number? What's it take to bring you home? Hurry up, it's time for supper, order up, I'm hot to go What's it take to get your number? Hurry up, it's getting cold Hurry up, it's time for supper, order up, I'm hot to go H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go (oh, yeah) H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go (hot to go) H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go (oh, yeah) H-O-T-T-O-G-O You can take me hot to go Whew, it's hot here, is anyone else hot? Whoo, you coming home with me?

you pointed to Sirius in the crowd, still sulking with his arms crossed in front of his body, his friends, James and Remus, looked at you shocked.

Okay, it's hot, I'll call the cab

The arena erupted yet again with screams and cheers. You took a moment to take it all in and savor the feeling. This is what you want to do for the rest of your life, not just opening, but headlining shows just like this one.

You and the girls gave your final bows and started to exit the stage. You and the girls waved and blew kisses as you made your way into the wings.

Once you were off the stage and fully out of view, you all hugged. The four of you giggling and squealing and jumping up and down like schoolgirls, but you didn’t care, you just played the biggest show of your life. You could feel your future shift at that moment. You knew that big things were on their way, everything you and the girls had worked for was going to come to fruition. 

“What was that about?” Marlene laughed, breaking away from the group hug and looking directly at you.

You smirked and blushed. “Look, it just made me mad, they were just standing there and looking so pissy,” you laughed. “I had to call them out a little.”

“You know who was in VIP?” Mary mused to Marlene. 

Marlene rolled her eyes as she said, “Marauders?”

“The Marauders.” Mary confirmed. 

Marlene chuckled and turned her gaze back to you. “Well then the outburst is validated.”

“I hope they’re not mad.” you admitted. You did feel slightly bad for them, calling them out in front of an entire arena full of people, potential fans of theirs.

“What?” Mary asked. “No, they deserved it. You know they’re jealous that we got this spot instead of them.”

“Well,” Lily interjected, “We all know only one of them is pissy about it. Remus and James wouldn’t care and were probably enjoying the performance just fine. It’s Sirius ‘Bitchy’ Black.” she laughed. This caused you all to giggle.

“Still,” you said, “We should all be like a united front or something, you know. We're all from the same areas, we’re all up and coming. It couldn’t hurt to be friends with them.”

You couldn’t finish the conversation with the girls or hear what they had to say because Emmeline came up to you girls.

“Oh my God! That was amazing, girls!” she praised. She hugged you all individually and stood with you for a moment before she had to go out. “No joke, you have been the best openers I have ever had with me.”

You and the girls smiled and thanked her, your heart was pounding out of your chest. You still couldn’t believe she even knew who you were let alone that you just opened for her.

“Thanks for whipping VIP into shape, they were looking a little boring.” She winked at you. All of you girls giggled with her. The stage techs were giving her a ‘hurry up’ motion, signaling her to take her position on stage. “Anyways, I’ll see you after the show, thank you so much again. Love you girls.” She said in a rush as the house lights went down and the crowd began to roar and chant her name. She was whisked off to get into place.

You girls decided to head to the dressing room to change quickly so you could come back and watch the rest of Emmeline’s show. 

“I can’t wait to see what becomes of your little… outburst.” Marlene said from beside you, nudging you slightly. You stopped just short of your dressing room as you turned to her.

You rolled your eyes in response to her. “It was not an outburst,” you giggled, “and it is not that big of a deal.” you pulled open the door to the dressing room, about to usher the girls in as you heard an unfamiliar voice come from behind you.

“Actually, it can be.” You turned to catch a glimpse at where the voice came from. A small, platinum blonde girl stood just outside your dressing room, leaning on the brick wall of the hallway, not even looking your way, just twiddling with her fingers. She had the most interesting outfit on, ruffles and patterns, strange yet beautiful. She had the craziest glasses sitting atop her head, holding her blonde locks back; reminiscent of an owl's feathers, one eye glass blue and the other pink. Must be designer.

“Sorry?” Mary said from beside you, the whole group turning their attention to the strange blonde girl.

“She said it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. And it absolutely can be.” the blonde said, turning her attention finally to you four, her round eyes so piercing. She couldn’t just be a fan, the security wouldn’t allow her access this far, even with a VIP ticket. Either she is a crazed fan who snuck past security, in that case bravo to her, or she is someone important enough to be allowed back here. 

The four of you only stared back at her, not quite sure what to say.

“Pandora Rosier,” she introduced herself with a smile. Pretty name.

“Wait, you’re a Rosier?” Marlene asked. Pandora smiled and nodded. You three looked to Marlene for an explanation as to who this girl is and how she somehow knows of her. “Mr. Rosier is the manager for a bunch of different artists… a bunch of successful artists. She’s basically industry royalty.”

You all paid more attention to the blonde now, still standing and smiling at you. “I know that you were just being cheeky, that you were having fun on stage…,” She began, her voice airy and light. “But we all know how the media is. Especially when you offend some of the most popular musicians and actors in the game.”

Offend, you didn’t think of it like that at all. “Wait, no. I wasn’t trying to offend anyone, I was just-”

“Having fun?” Pandora cut you off. “Yes, we all know that, but the media loves to take the fun out of everything. Especially when it is young, talented women. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. The Daily Prophet is exceptionally keen on trampling the fun out of everything, making every small thing a scandal.” She explained. You began to feel a sinking feeling in your stomach. Did you actually offend anyone? Would the media actually write about something as small as this? Surely not, but what if…

“And what? If it does cause a scandal, then what?” Lily asked.

“Well, if you were to have a manager, they could be in communication with the media, you know, work with them on things they write about their clients.” Pandora said.

“Wait wait,” Mary interjected, “Are you trying to become… our manager?”

“You don’t have one, right?” Pandora asked, smiling yet again. That perfect, whimsical smile.

“We don’t,” you answered. “But, we’ve done just fine without one so far.” it was true, up until now, you and the girls worked your asses off to be where you are, hell, you booked this job without one.

“Of course you have!” Pandora said enthusiastically. “But think of what you could do with one. Record deals, albums, world tours. I can negotiate all of that for you.”

“But, why do you want to manage us?” Lily asked.

“Because I see something in you. You’re all destined for stardom. I’ve seen you perform, seen the crowds and the feeling that you bring. It’s like magic.” Pandora answered, a gleam in her big shiny eyes. 

“Say we agree, what do you want out of it?” Mary asked. “What’s the deal, you want like 20 percent or something?”

Pandora thought for a moment before saying, “Honestly, this isn’t about the money.” You four looked at each other, slightly bewildered. What was she after then? “I don’t need money really, my father has plenty of that. What I really want is success. What would you think about something like 5 percent.” 

“Pardon?” Marlene said.

“I want to help you get to the top. I want you to see the success you deserve. I have seen many artists in my life and none of them have made me feel like you four do.” the blonde explained. "You are a group of very talented girls, I don’t want to see that talent extinguished as I often have. This industry burns those who have it out, fast and hard. You four have something that I can’t quite put my finger on but… I think that you may be the first of a kind.”

Something about the way she was talking, it just felt genuine and… like she really meant that she wanted you all to succeed. 

“Well Pandora, you are definitely one of the most interesting people I have ever met,” Mary started, “but you seem to really believe in us.”

Marlene smiled and finished for her, “We would definitely love to have someone like you in our corner.” 

Pandora smiled back, that whimsical smile that you knew you would be seeing a lot more often now.

this was so long and not a lot happened but... stay tuned for the next chapter because I am planning something juicy.

Taglist⭐️: @adharalikethestar @mayuwolfstar @ieatboysalive @maraudereestauderelb @bugg06 @slytherinambitious @cadenceisdelulu @champomiel @theenorthstarr @navs-bhat

[odinsblog]

🗣️This is an illegitimate and deeply corrupt Supreme Court

By upending decades of precedent set by the Chevron doctrine, the U.S. Supreme Court has just usurped the authority of Congress by 1) elevating the court’s “expertise” over actual scientific experts in their given fields, and 2) by dictating that congress must write extremely specific laws that cover every exact issue that might ever arise—but of course the rulings of SCOTUS are not held to the same specificity. This is a pro-big-business, deregulation, Libertarian wet dream and make no mistake, it is absolutely a power grab.

It is worth noting that Neil Gorsuch’s mother, Ann Gorsuch, was a Republican EPA administrator who was determined to deregulate and destroy the EPA from the inside. And Chief Justice John Roberts worked under Ronald Reagan, and for decades toiled to ensure that the Voting Rights Act was overturned and gutted.

For added perspective, the 1980 Libertarian Party platform was to abolish the following:

• Department Of Energy (DOE)

• Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)

• Food & Drug Administration (FDA)

• Occupational Health & Safety Administration (OHSA)

• Federal Communications Commission (FCC)

• Federal Trade Commission (FTC)

• National Labor Relations Board (NLRB)

• Federal Bureau Of Investigation (FBI)

• Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)

• Federal Reserve

• Social Security

• Welfare

• Public Schools

• Taxation

This is the deregulation spree of the Lochner Era on steroids.

And legalizing punishing the homeless for the simple act of being homeless? No matter how many occasional “good” decisions this court might accidentally stumble into making, this SCOTUS is anti-democratic and just plain old evil.