𓉸 monic.

PUNISHER　／　DAREDEVIL　 ͜ ◞

﹅ FRANK CASTLE.

not yours, still yours.

⭑ frank’s bleeding and pretending it’s nothing, until she shows up at his door, all worry and warmth, tending to wounds he’d never let anyone else touch.

frank as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the guy who brings a gun to a romantic dinner

﹅ BILLY RUSSO.

almost professional.

⭑ russo is obsessed with the one thing in his office that won’t fall in line, his razor-sharp, unflinchingly composed assistant.

billy as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the male manipulator final boss

sfw alphabet.

⭑ headcanons.

﹅ DAVID LIEBERMAN / MICRO.

sandwich rivalry.

⭑ a sandwich war in the kitchen spirals into laughter, mayo-streaked cheeks, and tomato battle wounds. in the wreckage of bread and laughter, he rediscovers what it feels like to be here, with you.

﹅ MATT MURDOCK.

sound and vision.

⭑ on a quiet rooftop, matt lies beside his girl as she traces constellations with her voice, painting the stars he can’t see.

the weight of watching.

⭑ something bitter coils in his chest, tightening with every glance she gives to someone else.

matt as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the human glow-up of i have unresolved issues

﹅ FOGGY NELSON.

foggy as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the only man who can make a spreadsheet look sexy

﹅ BEN POINDEXTER.

the art of being seen.

⭑ dex orchestrates the perfect accidental coffee shop meet-cute with the girl he’s been watching for months, every glance, every breath, every detail planned. she thinks it’s fate. he knows it is.

mine before you knew it.

⭑ dex has been watching you long before you ever noticed him. when someone flirts with you at a party he decides it’s time to make himself known. you don’t remember inviting him in, but he’s already in your house, and he doesn’t plan on leaving.

orbiting you quietly.

⭑ working side by side, dex moves through every task with devotion, chasing the warmth of your praise like it’s sunlight.

stay.

⭑ you’re about to head to an event when dex physically blocks the doorway, leaning on the frame trying to coax you back into bed.

while you were gone.

⭑ what was meant to be a quick trip stretches into hours, and when you finally return home you find your boyfriend unraveling, panic and shame spilling out as he’s convinced your absence means you’re slipping away from him.

hands that keep the night at bay.

⭑ dex helps out his girlfriend during sleep paralysis.

fuzzy. —- NSFW. 18+ ONLY.

⭑ dex spirals into a breakdown over a betrayal, but you ground him by keeping him inside you.

dex as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons for dating the guy whose mood swings could qualify as a natural disaster.

dex with a mentally ill partner.

⭑ includes : depression ,, anxiety ,, anger issues ,, bipolar ,, bpd ,, ocd ,, psychopathic ,, did ,, adhd.

dex with an autistic partner.

⭑ dex x autistic!reader.

dex x attachment issues!reader.

⭑ dex x attachment issues!reader.

biting his fingers.

⭑ drabble + mini headcanons.

﹅ HEADCANONS.

you distance yourself, you betray them, holding their face, yandere x yandere, they fall in love, wearing their blood, you’re critically hurt, they’re inured/they’re sick, you have bad cramps, hypersexual!reader, you self harm,

FANTASTIC FOUR.　 ͜ ◞

﹅ JOHNNY STORM.

johnny as your boyfriend.

⭑ third wheeling with johnny storm and a mirror

AVENGERS.　 ͜ ◞

﹅ BUCKY BARNES.

the first touch.

⭑ you’re both trying to act normal after a mission, but a small accidental touch ignites something neither of you can ignore.

SHIPS.　 ͜ ◞

﹅ WORK IN PROGRESS.

the nickname thing.

⭑ ben poindexter x billy russo.

sucker for pain.

⭑ ben poindexter x billy russo.

©️ monicfever 2025

IT WAS ALMOST FUNNY.

if you stepped back far enough, if you tilted your head and squinted and pretended your life wasn’t a series of increasingly humiliating requests from the richest man in the city. a gala. a couples-only gala. a room full of diamonds and cameras and people whose entire personalities were tax breaks and polite cruelty. and you, standing at the edge of wayne manor’s marble staircase, wearing something bruce had called “formal enough to blend in,” which really meant please don’t embarrass the mission or the family name or, god forbid, the photographers.

you could’ve handled all of that. you could handle tuxedos and champagne and pretending not to notice reporters scanning wrist tattoos to figure out which tabloid headline you’d most comfortably fit into. you could even handle the idea of smiling for three hours straight.

but you could not handle him.

the knowledge sat in your stomach, because somewhere in this house, damian wayne was getting ready too. bruce had said it so casually, like pairing knives kept in separate drawers. you’ll need to attend as a couple to maintain cover. the host only allows registered partners. a sentence that ruined an entire evening.

you’d tried to argue. then you tried to glare. then you tried disbelief. but bruce had that look, the one that meant: it’s not negotiable, i have already decided, and you would be doing me a tremendous favor if you stopped speaking.

so now you were here. at the landing. waiting. you weren’t nervous, you kept telling yourself that. it wasn’t nerves, it was dread. a growing dread that settled in your shoulders, your jaw, the back of your throat. dread of an entire evening where you would have to pretend to love someone you could hardly stand to look at without remembering every argument, every comment, every moment he made you feel like an inconvenience. you hated him. truly. honestly. thoroughly.

not the petty kind of hate, not the cartoonish rivalry people joked about, the kind built from too many missions where he dismissed your plans, too many nights where he acted like your presence was an irritation he tolerated purely because the bat-family hierarchy forced him to. damian wayne was the kind of person who made silence feel like an insult. the kind of person who exhaled in your direction and it somehow felt like a critique. the kind of person whose posture alone said: i’m better than you and i’m tired of having to demonstrate it.

and now you were supposed to hold his hand.

you sighed, long, frustrated, and leaned back against the railing. you looked up at the ceiling because it was easier than imagining the night ahead. the gala would smell like perfume worth more than your car. the guests would laugh in that brittle way rich people did, all air and no warmth. there would be live music, something slow, something elegant, something entirely unhelpful when you had to let damian put his hand on your waist without instinctively stepping away. the thought alone made your pulse tighten.

a couple. a believable one. bruce had said it with the authority of someone who’d never had to fake affection with a person who radiated irritation like a furnace. the manor was alive with preparation, you weren’t the only one getting ready, but somehow you felt uniquely doomed. because soon you would hear his footsteps too. and then you’d have to look at him. and he would look at you. and neither of you would say what you were really thinking, because what you were really thinking was: why did it have to be you?

your chest tightened with the weight of it all. the awful, inescapable reality that tonight, you and damian wayne were going to share a spotlight, a cover story, and—worst of all—an arm. it made your skin prickle. made you straighten even though no one was there yet to judge you. then footsteps. measured. even. too precise to belong to anyone who wasn’t trained to walk like every floorboard was an enemy.

you didn’t lift your head right away, part denial, part self-preservation, but the footsteps didn’t pass. they stopped at the top of the stairs, and the hush of the manor thickened around the pause. you looked up and there he was. damian wayne stood on the upper landing like he owned gravity, like the staircase bowed beneath him out of respect. dark suit tailored sharp enough it could’ve cut glass, tie perfectly aligned, posture aristocratic in the worst, most infuriating way. he looked like a painting someone had spent too much time perfecting, clean, polished, irritatingly flawless.

hate flared automatic, instinctive, because how dare he show up looking like that. how dare he make it look effortless. how dare he be the one person in gotham who could wear a scowl like it was another accessory and somehow make it work. your eyes flicked down before you could stop yourself. color. your outfit and his—

they matched. unintentionally. perfectly.

oh, of course. of course the universe would coordinate you two like some sick joke. of course you would be forced into aesthetic harmony with the one person who made your teeth grind. damian’s gaze slid over you coolly, assessing in that way he always did like he was cataloguing weaknesses. he didn’t look surprised at the matching colors, but his jaw flexed just slightly, annoyance, maybe. or embarrassment. hard to tell with him; all his emotions looked like different breeds of contempt. “you’re late,” you muttered, purely to have the first strike.

damian descended the stairs with the same energy someone might use to approach a crime scene. “no,” he corrected sharply, “you’re impatient.”

you glared. he didn’t even bother to hide his disdain. up close, it was worse. his hair was neat, not a strand out of place. his expression was the usual cocktail of irritation and superiority. and yet—god help you—he looked unfairly good. which only deepened your resentment. because damian wayne was pretty. irritatingly, obnoxiously pretty. the kind of pretty that wasn’t soft, wasn’t approachable. beauty as a weapon. beauty that dared you to look too long.

he reached the bottom stair, stopped in front of you, and crossed his arms as if the sight of you physically inconvenienced him. “i assume you’re capable of pretending to be presentable for a few hours.”

“i assume you’re capable of pretending to be tolerable.”

his nostrils flared, barely. he had tells, small ones, but you knew them. the micro-expressions. the subtle shifts. the way his eyebrow twitched when he wanted to roll his eyes but considered it beneath him. you both stood there a moment longer, staring, silently confirming your shared misery.

then, because the evening clearly wasn’t done humiliating you, damian’s gaze flicked down your outfit again, lingering just a second too long. “…we match,” you pointed out, trying a more tame approach though unable to stop the bitterness.

“unfortunate.” he said, immediately.

“for who?”

“me.”

your jaw dropped. “you motherf—”

“children,” a voice cut in. bruce appeared behind you both, entirely ignoring the warfare crackling in the air. “you look convincing enough,” he said, already turning toward the door. “let’s move.”

you and damian exchanged one last poisonous glare. matching. coordinated. resentful. and now trapped together for the entire night.

the air outside the manor was cold enough to make your skin tighten, but not cold enough to numb the awareness of damian walking too close behind you, like even his footsteps were criticizing you. the car waited at the curb, sleek, silent, expensive. bruce’s version of subtlety. you moved toward it with the grim resolve of someone approaching an execution. damian, of course, walked like the asphalt welcomed him.

alfred held the door open. neither of you moved. damian arched a brow. “are you incapable of entering a vehicle without supervision?”

you didn’t even breathe before snapping, “i’m waiting for you to get in so i don’t have to sit near you longer than required.”

alfred sighed quietly from a universe of patience you would never achieve. “children.” he mumbled.

damian slid in first because he hated being predictable, hated giving you the satisfaction of winning whatever silent contest this was. you followed immediately, maybe a touch too fast, maybe because you refused to give him space to think you were intimidated. you sat. he stiffened.

you hadn’t even touched him, not even close, but apparently your existence offended his personal atmosphere. “you’re sitting too close.”

you stared at him. “we’re literally on opposite sides of the seat.”

“your coat is touching mine.”

you inhaled slowly. “god forbid.”

the car started moving. bruce and alfred had the good sense to not engage from the front. the silence was thick, hostile, buzzing with all the unsaid variations of i hate you more. a streetlight passed, lighting damian’s face in flashes, angles, shadows, that aristocratic disdain baked into his bone structure. he wasn’t even looking at you. or maybe he was, in those tiny stolen half-glances he thought you didn’t notice.

you noticed. it annoyed you more. you crossed your arms, shifting deliberately just enough for your sleeve to brush his again. he tensed like you’d stabbed him.

“stop that.”

“stop what?”

“encroaching.”

“i’m breathing.”

“loudly.”

you snapped, “do you want me to stop existing?”

“that would be optimal.”

your teeth clenched. “you’re annoying.”

“you’re irritating.”

“you’re rude.”

“you’re fragile.”

“fragile? i could break your nose.”

“try.”

bruce cleared his throat from the front. “no breaking noses on the way to the gala.”

you slouched back, seething. damian sat perfectly straight, as if he refused to let the leather crease under him. another streetlight. another flicker over his face. this one caught his eyes, green, infuriatingly pretty in a way that made you want to look away purely out of spite. you didn’t. maybe that’s why —-

“what are you staring at?” he snapped, turning so fast it startled you.

“your stupid face,” you shot back. “is that a crime?”

“yes.”

“well then arrest me, detective.”

his lip curled, an honest-to-god snarl, like you’d personally insulted the entire legacy of the bat-family with one sentence. “do not tempt me.” he hissed.

the car rolled to a smooth stop. the kind of stop that said brakes cost more than three months of your rent. before either of you could escape, bruce turned in his seat, expression the exact blend of weary and authoritative that made it clear this conversation had already happened too many times. “both of you,” he spoke in that controlled voice that could quiet a boardroom or a battlefield, “remember why you’re here.”

you crossed your arms. damian crossed his. bruce sighed. “you need to act like you’re in love.”

you grimaced. “define ‘act.’”

damian muttered, “define ‘love.’”

bruce pinched the bridge of his nose like your combined presence was aging him in real time. “there are cameras. donors. press. we need access to the restricted mezzanine. the only way in is through the couples-only corridor. you will hold hands. you will smile. you will not attempt homicide.”

you snapped, “i haven’t attempted homicide.”

“today,” damian said.

“shut up.”

“you shut up.”

bruce inhaled the deep inhale of a man regretting every decision that led him to fatherhood. “out.” he ordered, before either of you could respond.

damian exited first, boots hitting the pavement with unnecessary precision, posture immaculate. you followed, trying not to trip on the hem of your outfit, trying not to care that the gala looked like a cathedral for rich people, gold light spilling across marble, fountains glittering like they were personally mocking you. bruce leaned across the car door one last time. “and remember—physical affection.”

you glared. damian glared harder. but then he extended his arm. an obligation. a punishment. a necessary evil. his jaw was set in iron, eyes flicking away from you like offering this was beneath him somehow. you hated that taking it felt like stepping off a cliff.

you slid your hand around his forearm and noticed how solid he was. how warm. how effortlessly his muscles tightened under your fingers, like he’d rather punch something than be touched. damian sucked in a tiny breath, so soft a normal person wouldn’t have caught it. “get your hand placement correct.” he criticized.

“this is correct.”

“it is not.”

“you would know?”

“i would.”

you plastered on a smile as the first flash went off. to anyone watching, you looked… radiant. elegant. the perfect couple. but under your breath?

“move slower,” he hissed.

“stop dragging me.”

“your heel almost struck my foot.”

“maybe if your feet weren’t everywhere—”

“perhaps if you learned coordination—”

you raised your fake-sweet smile higher as a dozen cameras caught the moment. “i swear,” you murmured through clenched teeth, “the second this mission ends—”

“you will what?” damian murmured back, voice like warm poison. “continue embarrassing yourself in public?”

you almost tripped from sheer rage. he caught you reflexively, automatically, like his body betrayed him before his mouth could. one strong hand at your waist, fingers firm, steadying you. you froze—only for a heartbeat—then he released you so fast you wondered if he’d been burned. “watch your step,” he tsked, face angled away.

“i’m fine,” you snapped.

“you nearly fell.”

“i didn’t.”

“you would have.”

“but i didn’t.”

“because i prevented it.”

the snarl sat between you like a third presence as you and damian moved toward the entrance, still linked at the arm, still smiling like well-trained liars, still whispering barbs under your breath like normal couples whisper endearments. security at the front doors was all polished chrome and velvet-rope choreography. two attendants in immaculate black checked names off sleek tablets, scanning each guest with the bored precision of people who vetted gotham’s elite every night of the week. one look at damian’s face and they straightened, posture snapping to attention. names were checked, badges scanned, and you were ushered inside.

inside was a different universe. the kind of rich that didn’t feel real. ceilings high enough to have their own weather system, chandeliers dripping glass like frozen rain, the air warm with perfume and champagne and old money pretending it wasn’t rotting beneath the polish. couples swirled around the marble floor like they weren’t real people but curated exhibits: couture gowns brushing against tailored suits, diamonds blinking under the light like tiny judgmental eyes. you swallowed.

it was stupid, because you’d done missions in places way worse than this. dangerous, tense, dark. you’d been shot at. chased. nearly blown up. you survived all of that. but walking into a room full of perfect people in perfect outfits on the arm of a boy you hated more than death? yeah. that did something strange in your chest. tightened it. made it harder to pull breath all the way down. it felt like stepping into a spotlight you hadn’t agreed to.

bruce’s voice crackled in your comm in that way that somehow made you more anxious. “remember your roles. you’re here as a couple. affectionate. united. play the part.”

you could feel damian tense beside you the second bruce said affectionate. he didn’t look at you, but his jaw flexed like the word physically injured him. another voice clicked into your comm—jason, amused as hell. “and, for the record, i came tonight just to watch you two try not to choke each other. carry on.”

damian rolled his eyes so hard you felt the motion through his arm. the crowd parted around you both, the way it always did for a wayne, and that only made the feeling in your chest worse. spotlight. eyes. pressure. you could survive a fistfight in an alley, but this? all this glass and silk and expectation? it was too much.

damian noticed before you realized he was even looking at you. “what’s wrong with you now?” he muttered, irritated, like your anxiety was personally inconveniencing him.

“nothing.“

he made a scoffing noise. “you’re breathing like a cornered animal.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re lying,” he said, blunt as always. “badly, i might add.”

you opened your mouth to snap back, but the room tilted for a second, just a little. not physically, not enough to stumble, but enough to make your stomach drop. damian’s hand tightened on you. not enough for anyone watching to notice. barely enough for you to notice. but he steadied you. just one second of contact, and then he dropped it like the moment never existed. “if you pass out, you’ll embarrass us both,” he muttered. “come on.”

he guided you, so subtly it almost wasn’t guiding at all, toward the long table near the left wall where servers were handing out champagne flutes on silver trays. he didn’t touch you again, but he walked closer.. not in the practiced, public way bruce trained into him, but in more instinctive way, protective without admitting it.

you grabbed a glass mostly so you’d have something to hold. damian refused one, of course, because he was damian. instead he stood beside you with that perfect posture, pretending he wasn’t watching you out of the corner of his eye, pretending he wasn’t cataloguing your every breath. “pull yourself together,” he murmured, voice low enough only you could hear. “this isn’t a battlefield.”

“feels like one,” you muttered.

“then act like a soldier,” he snapped softly. “not a frightened child.”

you glared at him. he glared back. and of course, of course, the universe waited until that exact, simmering second to send trouble your way.

“damian wayne?”

you didn’t have to turn to know the tone. that too-pleased mixture of recognition and opportunity. you felt damian’s spine stiffen beside you, barely, but enough. a man in his fifties approached, all polished cufflinks and too-white teeth, the kind of guy who talked like he already owned the conversation. “i thought that was you,” he said, clapping a hand onto damian’s shoulder like he’d earned the right. “how’s your father? still keeping himself buried in work?”

damian’s expression froze into that particular blade-smooth neutrality he used when he was deciding whether or not to be annoyed. “my father manages his responsibilities adequately. as do i.”

the man laughed like damian had told a joke instead of a factual statement. “that’s good to hear. wayne enterprises has been doing remarkable things lately—i keep telling my partners, ‘that family will run gotham one day.’”

you took a small, careful step sideways, just enough distance to breathe, just enough space to let damian deal with the man on his own. the man noticed immediately. he tsked, amused. “oh, teenagers. never want to stand still. is this one with you?”

his eyes swept you head to toe, slow enough to feel it, quick enough to pretend it wasn’t happening. you felt the heat crawl up your neck, not from flattery but from the oily weight of being scanned. evaluated. filed away as something damian wayne brought with him.

you braced for him to deny it, he loathed you, after all, and this was the perfect chance to say no, unfortunately they’re just here.

“you’re a lucky young man, damian.” a wink.

your stomach dropped. damian didn’t even blink. damian didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking your way. “i am aware.”

then, before the man could smirk or comment or let his gaze crawl across you again, damian’s hand shot out and wrapped around your waist. he tugged you back into place at his side with a precision that felt practiced. your hip bumped his. your ribs brushed his arm. your palm instinctively caught his chest to steady yourself. he pulled you close enough that anyone watching would assume you were inseparable. “excuse us,” damian said, tone flat but unmistakably final. “we’re expected elsewhere.”

the man blinked, startled at being dismissed so cleanly. “o-oh, of course. enjoy the gala.”

damian didn’t bother with a goodbye. he marched you away, hand still locked around your waist like he didn’t trust you not to drift, like the room was full of eyes and he hated every single one of them landing on you. only after you were several long strides away did he release you, quickly, like the touch had burned him. he wiped his palm against the leg of his suit jacket like touching you dirtied his hands.

“what was that?” you demanded.

“removing us from an inappropriate interaction.”

“inappropriate?” you scoffed. “he was just talking.”

“he was not.” his tone dropped sharper. “his eyes were—” he cut himself off. “it was… irritating.”

you waited. he didn’t elaborate. of course he didn’t. damian wayne would rather choke on a diamond cufflink than admit anything resembling human emotion. “whatever,” you muttered, because looking at him too long made your chest feel weird. “let’s just… do the mission.”

“finally,” he snapped. “something intelligent out of your mouth.”

you elbowed him. hard. he grunted—barely—but you took the victory.

the next hour was a blur of wealth and warmth that felt designed to smother you. everywhere you looked: couples draped in gold light and champagne laughter. matching suits, intertwined fingers, shared secrets exchanged over hors d’oeuvres that cost more than your rent. elegant masks of affection and ease. you and damian fit in like an alarm in a cathedral. still, you navigated it with the mutual hatred of two people who would rather be anywhere else than by each other’s side.

the host was your target? mysterious, charitable, and allegedly very illegally laundering money. the goal was to identify where she kept the ledger, extract it, and leave before anyone got suspicious. simple. painful. made worse by damian’s condescending whisper-commentary as you weaved through crowds.

“you’re walking too quickly.”

“your posture is atrocious.”

“if you bump into one more person, i’ll retract my earlier statement about your intelligence.”

“can you shut up?” you hissed. “for five seconds?”

“i could,” he said without pausing. “i simply choose not to.”

you snatched a champagne flute off a tray. the bubbles snapped against your tongue, warm and sweet. damian eyed it like you’d just ingested poison. “alcohol impairs judgment.”

“that’s the point.”

“you can’t afford further impairment tonight.”

you were this close to throwing the drink in his face.

but then you felt it again. that small press of his hand against your lower back when the crowd grew tighter. gentle pressure. guiding. making sure you didn’t get swept away. you hated how natural it started to be. somehow, despite the barbs, the bickering, the mutual resentment, your bodies kept aligning. his arm brushed yours. your shoulder knocked his. every time a passerby stepped too close, his hand found you again.

and you were drinking enough champagne to stop questioning it.

meanwhile, damian refused even a sip. his gaze remained razor-sharp over the rim of the ballroom, taking mental inventory of guards and exits and suspicious expressions. you nudged him with your elbow when you caught him staring at you again, eyes narrowed in that unreadable damian way. “stop looking at me like that.”

“i’m monitoring your bloodstream for further idiocy.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re on your second drink.”

“that’s basically nothing.”

“focus.”

and you do. sort of. just not on damian. not on his disapproval, or the way his gaze carves into the side of your face like he’s already predicting the myriad ways you’re about to disappoint him. your eyes drift to a man at the bar. the host. the one you need to distract. tall, polished, polished too much, an air of arrogance in the way he tilts his head as he surveys the room. his keys. you need them to get into the room you’re supposed to be here for. your mission is clear.

perfect.

you slide off your seat.

“where are you going?” damian’s voice comes already suspicious.

“just watch,” you murmur without looking back.

his breath makes a small, irritated sound, and then there’s jason’s voice crackling through with a smug, “oh this is gonna be good.” you ignore both.

the bar is lit with warm gold that makes everything seem richer. the host is just turning when you angle yourself into him, deliberately, letting your shoulder collide with his arm. “oh—i’m so sorry,” you say immediately, hands out as if to steady him. your fingers brush his forearm, then his wrist, warm skin through expensive fabric. harmless. polite. human.

he startles, then smiles, one of those smiles people use when they enjoy being apologized to. “no harm done.”

“still,” you insist, letting embarrassment color your tone just a little. “let me at least get you a replacement.” you glance at the glass in his hand—mostly empty—but you gesture to the bartender anyway. “same drink?”

he blinks, charmed by the combination of clumsiness and courtesy. “you don’t have to—”

“i insist.” your hand grazes his again as you signal for the bartender. you make sure the touch is quick, fleeting, innocent. he doesn’t notice the moment your other hand dips, feather-light, toward his belt, two fingers sliding under the edge of his jacket. the keys aren’t hidden well; he’s too comfortable, too unguarded, too busy enjoying the attention of a stranger who seems flustered and well-mannered. your fingertips catch the ring.

you lift, slow, controlled, masking the motion with the way you shift your clutch against your hip. the bartender drops his fresh drink onto a napkin. the host thanks you with a soft, charming grin. he doesn’t notice a thing.

you smile back, warm, a perfect mask. “enjoy your evening.”

you step away, slipping the keys into the inside lining of your clutch as you turn, your pulse a sharp heartbeat in your throat. damian is watching from across the room. you cross the distance like nothing happened. like you’re just returning from a casual conversation. his eyes track your every movement, sharp, dark, dissecting. his arms stay crossed, jaw set, posture rigid with something that looks far too close to tension for someone as controlled as him. the moment you reach him, you lift the clutch just slightly, enough for him to see the metallic glint inside. his nostrils flare.

“subtle,” he mutters.

“you’re welcome,” you say.

“that’s not what i said.”

“it’s what you meant.”

he doesn’t reply, but the way his gaze flicks over you, fast, assessing, relieved though he’d rather set himself on fire than admit that part, tells you everything you need to know. you did well. you know that however much he pretends not to care, he cares enough to be aware.

“let’s go,” he says finally, clipped, a single breath of air that somehow carries authority over your own pulse. you follow, shoes tapping softly against marble floors. the gala’s music and chatter recede behind you, replaced by the tension of mission-focus, the way the air seems sharper here, less forgiving. he halts at a door, crouching slightly, tools appearing like extensions of his own hands, and your breath catches because you’re so used to seeing him calm, and now he’s dismantling a lock as though it’s child’s play. you slide against the wall, pressed just out of sight, still aware, still vigilant. you watch shadows, listen for footsteps, your heart hammering in sync with the quietest shift of his weight.

“you’re standing too close,” damian snaps without looking up, cutting through your racing thoughts.

“i’m guarding,” you whisper back, smirking just a little, because even with his intensity you can’t help teasing.

“you’re fidgeting,” he mutters, still crouched. you roll your eyes, trying not to bounce on your heels, trying not to betray how much adrenaline is coursing through you at once.

“i am not,” you whisper, almost to yourself, though you’re sure he heard.

“yes, you are.”

the lock clicks. finally. a soft click that makes the hairs on your arms rise. damian’s movements become even more deliberate as he slips inside. you stand at the corner, arms folded, mind racing. if anyone appears, you’ll be ready. you hear the scrape of his fingers along the inside edge of the door, the shuffle of papers, the inhale he takes when something aligns with his expectations. you try to keep your breathing even, try not to think about how he’s alone in there, how close he is to the object of your mission.

minutes stretch. the hall is empty, soft music somewhere down the corridor, muted conversations drifting faintly through closed doors. you adjust your stance, heels aching slightly, your hands tapping lightly against your thighs, every tiny noise amplified because you’re hyperaware.

the quiet stretches like taffy, thick and tense, until a figure appears at the far end of the hall. the host. the one whose drink you’d just paid for, the one whose keys now rested securely in your pocket, who now looks at you with the kind of recognition that makes your stomach knot. suddenly you feel every inch of yourself exposed, the tiny flush crawling up your neck and across your cheeks.

“i… wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he says, voice smooth but cautious, eyes scanning you with just enough curiosity to unsettle you. the words hang between you like a suspended weight, a reminder that one wrong move could undo everything. you swallow, adjusting the angle of your stance, heel pressing lightly into the marble floor, heart hammering audibly in your ears. you know damian is in the room behind you, but right now, he’s invisible to this man. every second you hesitate, the risk grows.

“oh, i just stepped away for a moment,” you say, voice casual, even as your pulse spikes. you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, one hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “needed some air.”

his eyebrows lift just enough to make you aware of his sharp gaze. “air?” he repeats, not unkind, but pointed. “and what brings you so far from the others?”

your mind scrambles, searching for a plausible excuse that won’t sound rehearsed. “i… just wanted to see the view from here,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the ornate hallway, though the view is nothing more than polished floors and gilded moldings. you hope the gesture seems natural, casual, as if you were nothing more than a curious guest, harmless and alone.

he tilts his head, studying you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “curious, are you?” he says, more intimate, as though testing you, measuring your composure.

you swallow hard, forcing a laugh that comes out too soft. “maybe a little,” you murmur, letting your shoulders relax slightly, though your stomach tightens in a knot of nerves. you can almost feel damian’s presence through the door, a phantom reassurance, but he’s still inaccessible. the host’s gaze flickers downward briefly, and you take the opportunity to subtly shift, edging just enough to obscure the door from view without making it obvious.

“it’s unusual to see someone so… independent at a gala like this,” his eyes drift momentarily over your outfit, noting the elegance of your dress, the way it catches the light, and you force yourself to remember why you’re here: keys, access, surveillance.

“i guess i like to wander,” you reply, letting the words tumble out with a mix of casual confidence and a touch of playful exaggeration. “makes the night feel longer. more interesting.” your lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, the kind that has kept people talking about you for decades in social circles you’ll never belong to.

he leans closer, curiosity mingling with amusement, and your stomach flips. “interesting,” he repeats. “and what, pray tell, are you looking for?”

you shrug delicately, letting your hand drift across his arm as if by accident, a touch feather-light, and your heart stutters. “oh, i don’t know. just… distractions, i suppose. a conversation… someone to pass the time.” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes with a glance that is casual, charged with an undertone of mischief.

the host’s hand closes around your wrist, not harsh, but insistent, confident in that rich‑man way that assumes the world will always move when he pulls. “come on,” he insists, friendly on the surface but threaded with suspicion. “you shouldn’t be back here. guests aren’t allowed—”

“i was just—”

“no, really,” he cuts you off, already steering you down the hallway, his palm sliding to the inside of your elbow like he’s guiding you back to safety instead of corralling you away from the scene of the crime. “let’s get you back to the party. wouldn’t want anyone wandering where they shouldn’t.”

your pulse spikes. damian is still in the room. the door is behind you, tucked just around the corner. if this man takes you ten feet farther, he’ll have line‑of‑sight. he’ll see the lock. the cracked keypad. the mission will explode in your hands. you try to think—lie, stall, flirt, anything—but he’s strong, deceptively so, and determined.

“really,” you say, pulling lightly against his grip, “there’s no need—”

he doesn’t slow. doesn’t stop. his suspicion thickens like fog. “funny,” he says lightly, “most people don’t wander off from a gala unless they’re—” his eyes flick to yours, prying— “up to something.”

your heart slams against your ribs. you’re running out of time. his voice drops. “so why don’t you tell me exactly—”

“excuse me.”

it comes from behind you. the host stops walking. you both turn. damian materializes from the corner, expression flat and unamused. one hand lifts, and his fingers close around the host’s arm, the one touching you, and shove it off with a single, efficient motion. not violent, but unmistakably possessive.

the host stumbles half a step, startled. “hey—”

damian doesn’t look at him. his eyes are on you first, assessing you in one sweep, your clothes, your stance, the flush on your face, the tension in your shoulders. then, like he’s been searching for you the entire night, he says with crisp annoyance: “there you are.”

the tone is perfect. irritated. clipped. just this side of scolding. an older brother. an overworked partner. a man dragged through a gala by someone who can’t stay in one place. absolutely nothing to suggest: i was breaking into a restricted room and almost got caught because of you.

the host blinks, thrown. “you were… looking for them?”

damian finally turns his gaze on him, the kind of stare that makes people question their own confidence. “yes,” he says simply. “my plus‑one tends to wander.”

you almost choke.

the host’s suspicion wavers. he glances between the two of you, recalibrating, reassessing. “they were back here alone,” he says, defensive, “and this area isn’t open to guests, so I thought—”

“and I appreciate your concern,” damian says smoothly, though his eyes flash with something that is not appreciation at all, “but I’ll take it from here.”

he steps closer. not touching you, but close enough that it’s clear you are with him. the host hesitates, still unsettled. he opens his mouth. “but I —”

damian’s head tilts the smallest degree. dangerous. “is there a problem?”

it’s not a question. it’s a dare.

the host swallows. “no. no problem, mr wayne. send your father my best.” he backs up a step. another.

you feel damian watching him until he’s out of sight. only then does he exhale, the kind of breath someone only releases once the danger is officially over. without looking at you, he murmurs, “don’t wander.”

you turn toward him, adrenaline still burning under your skin. “i just saved your ass,” you whisper, incredulous. “you’re welcome for the extra time, by the way.”

he gives the smallest snort, annoyance or acknowledgement, impossible to tell. “you didn’t save me,” he says.

“damian.”

he glances at you, jaw tight, eyes sharp. you can see the truth in them even if he’d rather die than admit it, he came out because he heard voices. because he heard your voice. because he didn’t hesitate. you cross your arms.

“did you get it?”

“of course i got it.” he tilts his chin toward the darkened door. “let’s go before you start another catastrophe.”

you glare, but your heart is still racing too fast to produce anything clever. instead you follow him back down the hall, the two of you slipping into the warm glow of the gala lights like nothing happened. then, because you’re still “acting,” because everyone is watching, because you both have roles to play, damian stops just before you merge into the crowd and holds out his arm again.

you stare at it. then at him. “seriously?”

“we’re returning to the public space,” he mutters. “don’t make this more unbearable.”

you loop your arm through his anyway, because you have to. because appearances matter. because the mission isn’t over. but you can’t ignore the way your body eases the moment you’re close to him again, the switch from alone and exposed to watched over, even if he insists it’s strategic. he walks you back into the swirl of people, posture flawless, expression ice-sculpted. to anyone else, you look perfect together, coordinated, elegant, synced.

you lean in slightly, voice soft so only he hears. “thanks… for stepping in.”

his jaw tightens. “i wasn’t stepping in for you,” he says, clipped. “i was correcting a vulnerability in the mission.”

you raise a brow. “right. because grabbing him like that was purely tactical.”

“yes.” he lies.

but the controlled way he guides you through the crowd so you don’t trip on anyone’s heels, the slight lean of his body toward yours when someone bumps too close— those aren’t tactical. those are instinct.

and instinct doesn’t lie as well as damian does.

so you straighten your posture, tuck your hand into his elbow, plaster on the perfect smile, the one that says this is love, we’re a couple, look at us, even though you’re both thinking entirely opposite things. the mission is done, the object secured, the room searched, and now the gala stretches ahead of you. you head straight for the drinks, the tang of champagne mixing with the soft scent of damian’s cologne lingering just behind you. he follows, silent but present, arms folded, expression carved from stone. every now and then his gaze flicks over you, judgment wrapped in the most infuriatingly attractive package. you hate how much that makes your stomach flutter.

“you’re drinking again?” he asks, voice clipped, as though the word alcohol itself is an offense.

“it’s a gala,” you reply, tilting the glass just enough to catch the light in the bubbles. “you’re supposed to enjoy yourself.”

“i do not have to enjoy myself,” he mutters, eyes flicking from your lips to your hand to your posture. “and your consumption is… excessive.”

“excessive?” you laugh, tipping your head back and letting a sparkle of mischief creep into your tone. “i’m having fun, you should try it sometime.”

he tsk’s, short, sharp, disapproving, but he doesn’t leave. he drifts a little closer, subtle enough that no one would notice, deliberate enough that you do. he tightens his jaw, nostrils flaring slightly, and you grin, because of course he’s judging you, but of course he can’t take his eyes off you. you take another sip, warmth blooming through your chest, tongue loosening. you lean into the game, bickering back and forth, carrying just enough charm to convince anyone watching that you’re perfectly in love. “you know,” you hum, “you’re really annoying.”

“i am never annoying,” he snaps, but his eyes betray a flicker of something else, something like awareness. he’s watching you, looking out for you, making sure nothing happens.

“sure,” you snort, “keep telling yourself that while judging how many drinks i’ve had.”

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. his presence alone is enough. he follows when you drift to the middle of the room, keeps just enough distance to maintain authority, just enough closeness to… keep you from wandering off, probably.

the music changes, upbeat and bouncy, and your grin spreads. “come on,” you tug lightly at his elbow. “dance. make it believable.”

he freezes. “i do not dance,” he says flatly, chin raised, eyes scanning the room for witnesses, for excuses, for anything to avoid your pull.

“oh, come on,” you whine, rolling your eyes, dragging him gently into the space cleared for couples. “it’s easy, just follow me.”

“i do not follow,” he adds, but he steps closer.

you start moving to the beat, laughter spilling into the air, and eventually, as the tempo slows, your body hesitates. slow dance. the kind of slow dance that makes your stomach twist in ways that are entirely inconvenient. he stiffens, chest rigid, hands awkward at his sides, like he’s calculating exactly how to occupy the same space as you without conceding softness. “relax,” you murmur, leaning slightly against him. he doesn’t respond, just shifts his weight, letting you adjust your hand over his shoulder. you’re pressed lightly, just enough to feel him tense.

you look up at him, tipsy enough to care less about the mission, more about the ridiculous intimacy forced on both of you. his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t step away, and you can’t help but think he’s spectacular even when he’s infuriating. you grin against his chest, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “you’re ridiculously stiff,” you say, voice teasing, the alcohol loosening your tongue. “i mean, are you even capable of moving fluidly, or is this all just… controlled suffering?”

his lips press into a thin line. “of course i can dance,” he says, voice clipped, but there’s a faint edge of irritation betraying that he’s actually… offended.

“really?” you tease, smirking, letting a strand of hair fall into your eyes. “because if this is dancing, i’ve been doing it wrong my entire life.”

he tsk’s. “stand still for a moment and observe.”

you raise a brow, lips twitching, and he doesn’t wait for permission. one hand slides to your waist, the other finds the small of your back, posture perfect, shoulders squared. and then, like the world tilted, he moves. and he doesn’t just move. he glides. every step is precise, measured, elegant, fluid in a way that is infuriatingly flawless. the music doesn’t dictate him; he dictates it. he spins you once, twice, careful, controlled, and you stumble slightly against his hold, tipsy enough to laugh and flush at your own misstep.

“i… what?” you murmur, leaning into him more than you should. your hands rest lightly on his chest, and your pulse races from a cocktail of alcohol and—damian.

he doesn’t break his composure, but you feel the heat in the back of his neck, the subtle clench of his jaw as he adjusts your arm for the next turn. then, without warning, he dips you, and the world tilts. your heart skips. you’re supposed to hate him. you do. you hate that he’s infuriating, arrogant, controlling, impossible, perfect. you hate that you can’t look away. “damian—” you manage, a flustered giggle caught between tipsy disbelief and actual admiration.

“stay focused.”

you can’t. everything he does suddenly makes you forget everything you were supposed to be feeling. mission, pretense, hatred—it all dissolves under the sway of his hold, the perfection of the dip, the infuriating elegance of him. you hate him. you really do.

and yet you can’t stop staring.

no amount of hatred prepared you for what it felt like to be the only thing damian wayne was looking at in a room full of people he couldn’t stand.

you pull back abruptly, heart hammering, face hot, and step out of his hold like he’s a fire you’re suddenly afraid to touch. the alcohol has made your thoughts slosh around in ways that make you both dizzy and furious at yourself. you glare up at him. “come on. let’s go,” you offer, trying to sound indifferent, trying to sound in control.

damian blinks, just for a moment, and there’s a flicker in his eyes, surprise, maybe irritation, maybe something else, but he doesn’t argue. he just tilts his head, expression unreadable, and watches as you step back, refusing to linger, refusing to let him see the way your chest still pounds from the dip, from the closeness, from him.

you mutter under your breath, cheeks burning, “stupid… drunk… why am i even—” and stop yourself. no, you can’t give him that. you can’t let him see the effect he’s had on you. you stalk toward the exit with purposeful, clumsy confidence, ignoring the blur of people, the glittering lights, the music that still hums in your skull. damian follows, silent, but the presence behind you is almost suffocating. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for your arm, doesn’t correct you. he just shadows your steps, letting you think you’ve escaped.

your stomach twists, a mix of embarrassment and irritation, because you know. you know he’s there. you know he’s watching. you know you’re flushed and tipsy and completely unraveled. and damian wayne, for all his stoicism, all his arrogance, all his carefully constructed walls, has done nothing but watch.

you push through the manor doors still half‑floating, half‑stumbling, the night air clinging to your skin, your pulse too warm and your head too light. the lights overhead feel too bright, the floors too loud under your steps, every sound echoing in your bones. damian walks beside you but not with you, the two of you move in parallel lines, close enough to look coordinated, far enough apart that no one would mistake it for affection.

the second you enter the main hall, bruce is there, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that uniquely batman way that makes you feel nine years old and guilty even when you did nothing wrong. tim is slouched on the couch pretending not to stare, and dick looks between you and damian like he’s waiting for an explosion. you straighten instinctively, even though the room is spinning just slightly, even though your lipstick is smudged and your shoes are dangling from your fingers, even though you can feel damian’s energy beside you, tense, irritated, disapproving, but unmistakably alert to your unsteadiness.

“mission?” bruce asks.

damian steps forward before you can open your mouth. “successful,” he says, as if the entire evening hadn’t been a hurricane of chaos he had to constantly navigate—mostly because of you.

you force the room into focus. “we got the intel,” you add, a beat too late, your voice a touch slurry despite your effort to hide it. “everything went… fine.”

bruce’s eyes flick between you both. he notices. of course he notices. but he only nods once. “debrief tomorrow. get some rest.”

that’s it. no lecture. no interrogation. just dismissal. maybe he knows you’re too drunk to argue; maybe he trusts damian kept everything under control; maybe he simply doesn’t want to deal with whatever tension is simmering between you.

you mutter a “goodnight” and turn away before anyone can comment on your state. damian says nothing. not to bruce, not to his brothers, not to you. just stands there like a monolith while you gather what’s left of your dignity and make your way toward your room.

the corridor feels longer tonight. your fingers trail the wall for balance. your thoughts scatter and reform and scatter again. you don’t look back at damian. you don’t say goodnight. you don’t say thank you. you don’t acknowledge the fact that he subtly positioned himself behind you as you walked, just close enough to catch you if you tripped, just far enough to pretend it was coincidence.

the moment your bedroom door closes behind you, the weight of the evening slams into you fully. you lean against the door, exhaling shakily, feeling your pulse in your fingertips. alone now. finally. no more acting. no more pretending to be in love with someone you can barely stand. no more dancing or dipping or stupid fluttering in your stomach that you blame entirely on champagne.

just you, your spinning head, and the soft thud of your heartbeat reminding you you’re still drunk, still warm, still unsettled by the memory of damian’s hands on your waist. you stumble toward the dresser, the floor tilting in waves beneath your feet. your fingers fumble with the zipper of your dress, and you almost lose balance, one hand pressed to your forehead as if that could steady the world. you keep your eyes closed for most of it, trying not to see the world spinning, trying to keep from being aware of everything all at once. your hair falls loose, and you tug at the straps of your undergarments with fumbling clumsiness, muttering under your breath because the simplest motions feel monumental.

the silk of the dress slips to the floor in a crumpled heap. you sink onto the edge of your bed after changing into more comfortable clothes, breathing hard, dizzy, laughing softly at yourself because you look ridiculous and yet you can’t muster the energy to care.

there’s a knock. a single, sharp knock that freezes the blood in your veins. your eyes snap open, still blurry, and you see the door. damian. the thought is so jarring you almost drop the half-removed shoe you’re holding. damian has never come to your room. never.

“i… need to speak with you.”

you blink, swaying on the edge of the bed, the room tilting slightly as your stomach clenches. “what are you doing here?” your voice is wobbling, not just from drunkenness but because this—this—is alien.

“i misplaced something. it… might be in your room.” his tone is measured, but there’s a tightness in the way he says it. a slight flush in his cheeks you can’t quite place. “i will leave immediately if… you prefer.”

you stare at the door for a long second, mind spinning. his presence fills the doorway like it belongs there, though rationally, it shouldn’t. every instinct tells you to bolt, to barricade yourself, to laugh and tell him to get out, but some unnameable part of you—the part that’s always been aware of him, always noticed, always flustered—pauses. “you… lost something?” your words come out breathy, like you’re trying to buy time for your brain to catch up.

“yes.” he doesn’t elaborate. he never elaborates. but the way he’s standing there, like he is willing to stand in your space just to do this, whatever it is, sends a thrum through your chest.

you frown and roll onto your side, pulling the blanket around yourself a little tighter, trying to convince yourself this is mundane, that he’ll leave, that it’s fine. “okay… fine. but… make it quick.” your voice is small, unsure, yet there’s that flicker of curiosity you cannot hide.

he nods once, briskly, stepping in just far enough that the door doesn’t close behind him. “i will.”

you don’t look up, letting your phone cast pale light across your face. the glow warms your cheeks, but it does nothing to steady the spin in your head. every blink is a tiny wobble, every movement feels exaggerated, drawn out, like the world has softened at the edges and you’re suspended in it, half-floating, half-grounded, unsure where the alcohol ends and the confusion begins. “why did you… wish to leave so suddenly?” damian’s voice slices through the haze. the sound of his words makes your stomach flutter, a mixture of dread and warmth that you aren’t used to feeling for him.

you huff, one hand grazing across the phone screen without looking, “wasn’t feeling it.” your voice is uneven, heavy with the buzz of too much drink and too little patience for pretending.

“hm. you could have… told me.” his tone is restrained, just sharp enough to remind you of the walls he keeps around himself. the emphasis is on the could, not the should.

you press your cheek into the blankets, dragging your fingers across your phone screen, pretending distraction is comfort. “didn’t think it mattered.”

he tsk’s softly, a sound that would be cutting if it weren’t so carefully restrained. “it does.”

you roll your eyes at the ceiling, and a small, tipsy smirk pulls at your lips. “oh? since when do you care about anything besides looking superior?”

damian freezes. “i don’t care.”

“oh, right. of course. mr. indestructible, mr. unbothered. you don’t care about anything ever, do you?” your voice drips with the habitual bite you’ve perfected over months of this… mess of a relationship, the verbal fencing that’s become your default. you can’t help it. it’s easier than admitting any part of this—him—affects you at all.

damian stiffens, one hand flexing at his side like he’s debating whether to grab something or leave it alone. his chest rises and falls, almost imperceptible to anyone else but to you, because you’ve spent enough time parsing him, measuring every twitch, every inflection, every micro-moment that gives away more than he intends. you lean a little back against your headboard, crossed arms. “you’re thinking something,” you observe, voice teasing, almost cruel. it’s instinct now, your default. you know how to get under his skin, and maybe, at least a little, it comforts you to have the upper hand.

for a long moment, damian says nothing. he had started with a purpose, a reason to be here, something unspoken he wanted to say, maybe even meant to say, but you, you always do this, poke, prod, taunt, make it impossible to follow through.

you hate it. hate that little crack, the hesitation. it’s infuriating. you’re used to hating him, used to keeping your heart and your reactions at bay, keeping everything measured and contained. “i—” he starts, and then he stops. you see the conflict in his gaze, the way his lips twitch as if he’s reconsidering, erasing, retreating. he had come here to say something, maybe to assert control, maybe to give some measure of care he refuses to admit, and now he doesn’t. he can’t. or won’t. you can’t tell which, and it’s maddening.

the air between you is tight with everything neither of you can—or will—say. you feel it press against your chest, make your stomach twist, and you grit your teeth in frustration, the alcohol fuzz making it impossible to sort what’s irritation, what’s admiration, what’s… something else entirely.

finally, without another word, he turns. one step after another, each pulling away the tension and leaving it behind, a bitter ghost in the room. the door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left with the memory of his conflicted glance, and the familiar ache of hating him in the only way you know how: completely, utterly, maddeningly.

you exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead, trying to chase away the swirl of heat, alcohol, and frustration. you hate it, hate him, hate that you can’t hate the way it made your chest clench and your stomach twist.

he leaving like that doesn’t make it easier. it makes it worse. much, much worse.

started 11.2.2025. finished 11.19.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Every text he sends is punctuated, capitalized, and structured like he’s writing an email to a foreign dignitary. No abbreviations. No emojis. No filler. If he uses a contraction, it’s deliberate. The result is that you’re constantly overanalyzing tone, “Alright.” could mean anything from “Understood” to “I’m annoyed you even asked.”

Never sends double texts. If you don’t respond, that’s your problem. He’ll wait indefinitely, or show up in person.

His tone is impossible to read. He doesn’t soften messages with humor or warmth. Even genuine care sounds formal:

“You haven’t eaten.”

“Drink water.”

“You are avoiding sleep again.”

Text length varies by emotional distance. If he’s irritated, his messages shrink to single words. If he’s calm or secretly invested, they get longer, measured, a full paragraph of explanation.

Never sends “good morning” or “good night.” But if you do, he’ll respond with “You too.” or “Good night. Lock your door.”

He doesn’t text first often. He prefers in-person conversations where tone and context are clear. Most texts from him are practical, logistics, updates, reminders. Emotional messages only appear when he’s physically away or can’t say something aloud.

He hates group chats. He’ll mute them instantly and only check when pinged directly. When he finally scrolls up, he’ll reply to a single message from two hours ago with something like, “That is incorrect.” and nothing else.

Has zero texting etiquette by modern standards. Leaves you on read. Doesn’t react to messages. Rarely acknowledges memes.

Never abbreviates. No “idk,” no “brb,” no “u.” You once got, “I will be there shortly; traffic is worse than anticipated.”

Unpredictable about time. Sometimes he replies in under a minute. Other times it’s a 9-hour gap.

He reacts poorly to ambiguity. A “maybe” or “idk” from you earns an immediate: “Then decide.” He doesn’t like vagueness, it reads to him like disinterest or evasion.

He sometimes drafts long texts and deletes them. You’ll never see them, but the next thing you get is a single pared-down sentence like, “Never mind. It’s fine.”

Will text you your name, just your name with a period, then vanish for hours. No context. No follow-up. You’ll cycle through panic — did you upset him? is he hurt? — until he reappears six hours later like nothing happened.

Uses “…” constantly. Sometimes that’s all he’ll send. You can practically see the raised brow through the screen. It’s his universal signal for “What am I reading?” or “Are you serious right now?” or occasionally “I’m questioning every decision that led me here.”

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

══════════════════════

started 11.12.2025. finished 11.12.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

𝓐 = affection (how do they show affection? how affectionate are they?)

not the kind of man who spills out sweet words, he shows love by having you, by making sure the world knows you belong somewhere, and that somewhere is him. he touches constantly, a hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd, his thumb brushing your jaw when you talk, a palm at your thigh under the table. he’s generous, too. money, gifts, luxuries he frames as nothing but convenience. he likes knowing you’re draped in the things he’s chosen. jewels, clothes, cars, dinners that cost too much, billy’s brand of care is built from excess, from making sure you never have to want.

𝓑 = best friend (what are they like as a best friend? how would a friendship with them start?)

a handful in the most infuriatingly magnetic way. the type who never shuts up, always got something slick to say, always toeing that line between charming and unbearable. he teases you constantly, flirts for sport, makes jokes at your expense, and somehow gets away with things no one else could because that smirk of his makes it impossible to stay mad. friendship with him probably starts with banter, he pokes, you push back, and before you know it he’s showing up in your life like he’s always belonged there. the kind of friend who drags you into expensive places “just to look,” buys your drink before you can argue, and talks through movies even though he swears he’s paying attention.

𝓒 = cuddles (do they enjoy cuddling? what are they like during cuddles, and how long can they stand it?)

likes it way more than he’ll ever admit. he’ll act like it’s no big deal, like he’s just getting comfortable, but he’s always the one who pulls you in first. he likes having you close. it calms him down in a way he can’t put into words. he’s not fidgety or restless; he can stay there for hours if you let him. he’s protective about it too, if you move away he’ll make some dry comment and his arm will find its way around you again. if you’re within reach he has to be touching you somehow. it’s a need he doesn’t bother disguising once he’s got you close.

𝓓 = domestic (how do they handle chores, cooking, cleaning, and everyday living?)

makes domestic life look effortless, like he just happens to know how to do everything. cooking, cleaning, fixing things around the house, it’s all casual, almost second nature. he never makes a show of it but he’s always the one doing it before you can even think to ask. he likes the control it gives him. if he’s cooking, he’ll wave you off when you try to help, telling you to “sit, relax,” while he handles it. if something breaks, he’s already calling a guy. it’s not just about being capable, it’s about being needed. he likes knowing you rely on him for the small things. he builds himself into your routines piece by piece until you can’t tell where yours ends and his begins.

𝓔 = ending (if they had to break up, how would they handle it emotionally and practically?)

if billy had to break up with someone, he’d do it clean. no drawn-out explanations, no raised voice, no tears. just that calm, practiced tone that makes it feel like he’s done this a hundred times before (because he probably has). he’s noncommittal by nature; endings don’t rattle him. it’s just another door closing. he’d do it in person though. not out of respect, he wants to read your reaction, wants to know how much you’ll miss him. he won’t say much beyond “it’s not working” or “you deserve something else.” emotionally, he compartmentalizes fast. maybe there’s a flicker of something later when he sees your toothbrush still by the sink or a photo he forgot to delete, but he won’t let it show. practically? he’s efficient. your things get boxed up neatly, no drama. his place looks the same by the next day. he’ll move on fast because he refuses to sit in it. endings don’t undo him, they just confirm what he already believes: nothing lasts, and he’s better off not pretending it does.

𝓕 = family (do they want a family? kids?)

hell no, he’s not the “family man” type, not even close. the idea of having kids feels like a trap to him: too permanent, too heavy, too real. he’s selfish with his time, his space, his freedom, and especially with your attention. he’d hate the thought of having to share you with anyone, even your own kids. he’d get jealous, not in a joking way either, like, genuinely resentful that something else gets more of you than he does. he doesn’t want that kind of responsibility; he doesn’t want to be needed like that, it’s too much pressure. he’s the kind of man who thrives in the moment, not in the long-term picture. ironically, he’s great with kids when he has to be. not because he’s trying, he just treats them like people. he’ll talk to them the same way he talks to adults, which makes them like him more. next thing you know he’s arguing with a six-year-old about who’s stronger, or bribing them with twenty bucks to take his side in something stupid. he’ll never want kids, but damn if he doesn’t end up being the one they all run to anyway.

𝓖 = gentle (how soft are they physically and emotionally? how careful are they with people’s feelings?)

soft when it suits him. when he wants something from you, or when he’s reeling you back in after pushing too far, his voice drops, his touch gets light, his smile turns careful. he knows exactly how to make “gentle” feel like a luxury, like something he’s gifting you, but it’s not real softness; it’s control. he’s good at reading people, especially you, and he knows where the weak spots are. if he wants to hurt you, he’ll hit dead center without hesitation. he’ll say the one thing he knows will repeat in your head for weeks, because he’s that precise.

𝓗 = hugs (do they like hugs? how do they hug, and how often do they give them?)

gives hugs the way he gives everything else, instinctively, like it’s second nature. he’s not sentimental about them or the type to crave constant touch, but he knows how to do it right, something he’s learned looks and feels like comfort. he’s used to giving hugs that mean nothing, but when it’s you, they start to mean something anyway. he doesn’t really notice when that shift happens. if you’re upset, he won’t ask questions; he’ll just tug you in without saying a word until you breathe normally again. he’s not the type to need hugs, but he gets used to the way you do, and eventually he finds himself giving them just because he can.

𝓘 = i love you (how soon and how often do they say it? do they mean it seriously or casually?)

love isn’t something he says; it’s something he avoids, sidesteps, dodges with a joke or a kiss or a smirk that changes the subject before you even realize he’s done it. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it, he doesn’t trust it. to him, saying i love you is handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they won’t pull the trigger. he feels it early, much earlier than he’ll admit, but he doesn’t let it leave his chest. he tells himself it’s just habit, comfort, proximity, anything but that. it takes him months, sometimes years, and even then the first time it slips out, it’s accidental. probably late, maybe half-drunk. he won’t make eye contact; he’ll just say it into your skin like he hopes you won’t hear. the second he realizes you did hear, he tenses, regret flickering behind his eyes, because now it’s real, and real things scare him. he doesn’t say it often after that, either. he’ll say it only when he’s certain you won’t use it against him, when he’s drunk or tired or looking at you in a way that makes him feel too human. sometimes, when you say it first, he won’t say it back, just hums, kisses the side of your face, like yeah, i know. for him, i love you is never casual. it’s rare. it means he’s stopped running, at least for a moment.

𝓙 = jealousy (how easily do they get jealous? how do they act when jealous?)

not the type to get jealous easily, he knows he looks good, he knows he’s charming, and he knows that anyone would be lucky to have his attention. that ego carries him far… until something hits the wrong nerve. he’ll play it off at first, using sarcasm and dry remarks. “he’s funny, huh?” said with that too-smooth grin and a raised brow, like he’s daring you to say yes. he pretends it’s nothing, but his hands tighten a little when they’re on you, a little more possessive, a little hungrier. he won’t start fights or demand explanations; he’ll just start reminding you who you belong to in all the ways that don’t need words. expensive dinners, new jewelry, clothes he picks himself (“you’d look good in this for me”). he gets touchier too, fingers on your throat, his palm at your hip, his lips on yours. every gesture turns into a way of reestablishing territory. and god, when he’s jealous, he’s bitchy. not angry, not sulking, just snide, dismissive, the kind of attitude that makes you roll your eyes because you both know what it’s about. he’ll get sarcastic, dramatic, complain about anything and everything. he’ll make sure you feel it until you pull him close again and remind him he’s still the only one. he just doesn’t want to lose what’s finally his.

𝓚 = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss and be kissed?)

exactly what you’d expect, confident, practiced, and dangerously good. he’s had more than enough experience to know what he’s doing, and it shows. every kiss feels like he’s reading your reactions in real time and adjusting to get exactly what he wants from you. he’s not rushed about it either; he kisses like a man who knows he has all the time in the world and that you’ll give it to him. he likes control, so he always leads. a hand on your jaw, at the back of your neck, fingers in your hair; he guides the pace, the angle, the depth. his kisses are designed to leave you a little dazed after. he loves kissing your lips, obviously, that’s his favorite, where he can feel you melt under him, but he’s obsessed with your neck. he loves leaving marks there, making sure people see them and know you’re his. he’s smug about it, because of course he is. he’ll smirk when you notice them later in the mirror. he doesn’t really care where you kiss him as long as it’s genuine, but he’s got a soft spot for when you kiss his jaw or his cheek, unguarded spots that make him feel wanted rather than worshipped. not that he’ll ever admit it. for a second he forgets to keep up that perfect composure.

𝓛 = lying (how good are they at lying? do they lie to you, and how can you tell?)

come on, that’s his brand. he’s terrifyingly good at it, lying is second nature, practically muscle memory at this point. it’s not even a conscious thing anymore; it rolls off his tongue laced with that charm that makes you believe him. he’s built his entire life off of it, the perfect performance of sincerity and warmth, a smile that sells trust even as he’s holding the knife behind his back. he knows how to make people believe what he wants them to, and you’ll never catch him. girl, he had homeland security fooled. he’s too good at reading people, too fast at adapting, too calm under pressure. he could tell you the sky’s green and by the time he’s done explaining it, you’d be squinting at the clouds like maybe it was. that’s the danger of billy russo, he lies with steady eye contact and a voice that feels like truth. you start to question yourself before you ever question him. does he lie to you? sometimes. not always to hurt you, sometimes it’s to protect the image he wants you to have of him, or because he doesn’t want you to see what’s underneath all that polish. he compartmentalizes. keeps parts of himself walled off and calls it “protecting you,” when really it’s protecting him. if you ever think you’ve caught him in a lie, he’ll talk circles around it until you’re doubting your own memory, laughing softly, brushing it off with a hand on your jaw and a, “you really think i’d lie to you?”

𝓜 = mornings (what are they like when they wake up? slow, chirpy, groggy, or chaotic?)

mornings with him are slow, lazy, and warm. the kind that blur somewhere between half-asleep affection and the start of the day. he’s groggy when he first stirs, always reluctant to get up, and his first instinct is to pull you closer, bury his face in your neck, breathe you in like you’re the only thing worth waking up for. he’s not talkative yet, the morning almost always starts with touch, his hands roaming, his mouth finding your skin, the kind of half-conscious need that turns into a quickie before you’ve even opened your eyes. afterward, he slips back into routine mode. showers, skincare, coffee, breakfast. he’ll make breakfast for both of you sometimes, move around the kitchen in that smooth, unhurried way of his, shirt half-buttoned, wristwatch gleaming, coffee steaming on the counter.

𝓝 = nights (how do they spend their evenings with you? bedtime routines, night talks, night habits?)

he hates sleeping alone, so you’ll almost always end up in his bed no matter how the day went. the nights start with him winding down with a drink, jazz or old soul music in the background, city lights spilling through the window, his shirt half unbuttoned as he scrolls through emails or finishes a call he didn’t want to take. he’ll pull you against him on the couch while pretending to watch a movie, hand resting on your thigh, thumb tracing circles against your skin. if it’s been a long day, he’s quiet, not withdrawn, just contained. sex happens everyday. afterward, he’s surprisingly gentle. he’ll clean up, get back into bed, maybe read something or go over tomorrow’s schedule while you’re curled up beside him. by the time the lights go out he’s warm and heavy beside you, always keeping his arms wrapped around you. he sleeps lightly.

𝓞 = openness (how much do they reveal about themselves? do they open up quickly or in pieces?)

tells you stories like he’s dropping breadcrumbs, just enough to keep you following, never enough to show you where they lead. openness, for him, is a strategy, not sincerity. he’ll share pieces of himself when it benefits him, something about his childhood, a detail about a scar, a confession that sounds sad but is perfectly timed to make you feel closer to him. he knows how to play vulnerability, every word shaped to make you trust him more, love him harder, forgive him faster. the real truth, his ugliest thoughts, his guilt, the cold machinery behind the charm, he’ll never give that away. not because he doesn’t want to, because he can’t. he’s spent too long curating himself into an image that works, that wins, so even when he loves you there’s always a part of him just out of reach. he’ll convince you he’s being honest, and maybe he even believes it in the moment, but billy russo only ever shows what he wants to be seen.

𝓟 = patience (how easily do they get irritated or upset? how do they show it?)

he’s got that unnerving kind of patience, he can sit through hours of bullshit with a smooth, unreadable face, smiling like he’s in control of every variable in the room (and usually, he is). it’s one of the things that makes him so good at what he does, he knows that losing his temper is losing leverage, and he doesn’t hand over control that easily. but irritation shows in the small fractures. his voice gets clipped, he stops joking, his movements go sharp, the way he shuts a door, adjusts his cufflinks, or exhales through his nose instead of speaking. if he’s dealing with someone he doesn’t respect he’ll toy with them, push buttons just to watch them crack first. it’s almost a game to him, turning his irritation into a weapon. with people he actually cares about, though, it’s different. he won’t lash out, but the air shifts. he goes cold. his words lose warmth, replaced by that commanding tone that doesn’t invite argument. “fine,” “whatever,” “we’ll talk later” — and mean none of it. still, it takes a lot to get him there. he’s learned how to bide his time, how to wait for the perfect moment to strike or let something pass entirely if it’s not worth the energy. once he’s genuinely pissed the patience evaporates. orders replace charm, control replaces composure, and everyone around him knows instantly that he’s done pretending.

𝓠 = quirks (unique habits, little oddities, or distinctive mannerisms that make them them?)

checks his reflection in anything, windows, silverware, car mirrors, not even out of vanity (though that’s part of it), but because he needs to know how he’s being seen as looking good at all times. weirdly neat about his surroundings but messy about his own comfort, will fold his suit jacket perfectly over a chair but leave his tie half undone for hours.

𝓡 = remembering (how well do they recall details about you? what’s their favorite memory of you?)

his memory works in flashes, he remembers the details that hit him. he won’t recall every text you sent or every fact exactly, but he can recall a very good amount. he cherishes the in-between moments just as much as the extravagant ones. like that time you both wanted burgers at 2 a.m., and half the diners were closed, so he drove across town just so you two could be “normal” for one night. he also remembers the luxurious nights, a fancy dinner, a trip, an event where everything went perfect.

𝓢 = security (how protective are they of you physically, emotionally, or socially?)

very protective. you’re his, and that fact alone rewires the way he moves through the world. his first instinct is always to assess, to calculate risk: where you’re standing, who’s looking, whether the person talking to you is worth letting live. he always takes the side closest to the door, always carries a weapon even at dinner, always has someone watching from a distance if he can’t. he doesn’t ask before putting security in place; he just does it. background checks, shadow detail, a car waiting at every exit, things you don’t notice until you realize you’re never really alone, making sure no one gets near what’s his unless he allows it. emotionally if someone hurts you, he doesn’t comfort first, he dismantles. he’ll tell you exactly why that person wasn’t worth your time, why trusting people is a mistake, why you should’ve listened to him. he frames it as care, but it’s also about tightening the circle, making sure your faith belongs to him alone.

𝓣 = trust (how easily do they trust others? do they test loyalty or just believe instantly?)

trust just isn’t in his vocabulary. it’s not something he ever gives. he’s learned that people always want something, money, status, favor, and he’s spent too long being the one who gives it to ever believe anyone could want him for free. so no, he doesn’t trust. not you, not his friends (if he even calls them that), not the mirror staring back at him some mornings. he plays the part, acts open, confident, even disarmingly sincere, but it’s all surface. underneath, everything’s calculation: what do they want, what can they take, how soon will they turn. he’s too smart, too paranoid, too scarred to ever hand anyone the blade willingly. even if you get close, really close, he still keeps one part locked away, the last unburned piece of himself. trust means vulnerability, and vulnerability gets you killed or used, so he keeps the upper hand. always.

𝓤 = unflattering habits (what are some bad habits, annoying traits, or pet peeves they have?)

impossibly aware of how he looks and wields it to his benefit, every look, every interaction, every casual lean is designed to get a reaction. he accidentally flirts with other people sometimes half because it’s instinct, half because he enjoys the chase, and you’ll spend an unhealthy amount of your relationship fending off other bitches attention. he lies effortlessly and he doesn’t feel guilt for it. his ego is colossal, he believes he’s the smartest, most charming, most desirable person in any room. the narcissism isn’t just surface-deep either, it colors how he interacts with everyone, including you, and sometimes it bleeds into the relationship in ways that are exhausting. sometimes you wonder if the person you love is real or just the version of him that exists to captivate you.

𝓥 = vanity (how concerned are they with their appearance, style, or image?)

image is everything. it’s not just how he looks, it’s who he is. he built his entire life, career, reputation on appearance, the suit, the smile, the handshake, the thousand-dollar watch that catches the light just right. he knows the effect he has, the impression of a well-cut jacket, the way people’s eyes linger when he walks into a room. he’s vain, mirror-obsessed, methodical, calculated. he wakes up early to shave, moisturize, style his hair just so. every detail is perfected. his scent is always expensive, the kind of smell that lingers on your pillow after he leaves. he’d rather die than be caught in something wrinkled. it’s deeper than just ego, it’s survival. the right image gets him in doors, earns him trust, keeps people underestimating what’s underneath. he knows how to shift it too, rugged and casual when he wants to seem approachable, tailored and untouchable when he wants power. when it comes to you he notices everything. if your hair’s out of place, he fixes it. if you wear something new, he comments before you can even ask.

𝓦 = weird (quirky behaviors or odd little things they do that make them unique?)

if someone asks him something he doesn’t actually know, he’ll invent a story on the spot, telling it with full confidence and insane, convincing detail, you almost believe him even when it’s obviously nonsense. he’ll add little touches, gestures, facial expressions, like he’s performing it just for you. and then there’s his bathroom routine — oh god, the routine. it’s like a full-on ritual: imported serums lined up perfectly, creams layered in a specific order, a mirror that lights just right, scented oils, warm towels, double cleanses, masks that take twenty minutes, lotions applied with exacting precision.

𝓧 = xtra (fun fact? something unique or specific about them)

effortless party-boy charm, the kind of guy who can down half a bottle and still act like he’s in control. has a really high liquor tolerance. alcohol is part of his day, a glass of whiskey after work, something stronger when he’s restless, champagne when he’s showing off. he tells himself it’s just to unwind, but the truth is he hates the stillness that comes when he’s sober too long. early on in your relationship he’s out a lot, expensive bars, private rooms, clubbing. but over time, it slows. you become his favorite distraction, his new way to come down. even then, there’s always a drink within reach, something amber and burning. when he’s drunk he’s looser, sloppier, easier to read. he’ll laugh more, touch you more, say things he’d normally hide.

𝓨 = youthfulness (how playful, spontaneous, or silly are they? do they keep a youthful energy?)

youthful energy that never really goes away, no matter how polished or put-together he tries to act. he loves to mess with people, push buttons, make jokes that walk the line between funny and infuriating. he’s spontaneous to his core. if he gets an idea, he’ll act on it, no overthinking, no hesitation. he’ll decide on a whim to take you out somewhere, drag you into something stupidly fun, or just stir up trouble for his own amusement. even when he’s being serious that youthful streak is always there in the way he smiles, the glint in his eyes when he’s getting away with something. he might not be a kid anymore, but he’ll always have that energy, that restless, cocky spark that makes him feel alive.

𝓩 = zzz (sleep patterns, how do they sleep, do they snore or toss and turn?)

sleeps like someone who’s made peace with every part of himself, which is ironic because he hasn’t. but somehow, when he’s out, it’s like all that tension just drains from him. he’s perfectly still, barely moves, doesn’t snore, doesn’t drool, just lies there like he was sculpted into the mattress. his breathing is even, slow, controlled, and he looks infuriatingly perfect while he does it. his hair falls just right, jaw unclenched, lashes resting against his cheekbones like something out of a dream. there’s this strange calm about him in sleep, no walls up, no mask, no performance, like all the weight he carries during the day slips off for a few hours. sometimes he’ll shift once or twice in the night, but never enough to wake you. if you’re beside him his arm automatically finds you. light sleeper.

started 10.27.2025. finished 11.10.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

IT WAS A SLOW AFTERNOON at Fennel Fields, slow enough that Adrian had wiped down the same table three times just to watch the sheen of it dull again. The air smelled like espresso and fryer oil, he could hear the hum of the soda machine even over the buzz of the lights. (He wondered if sound could rot your brain. Probably. Everything else did.)

Leaning the mop against the counter, he scanned the café. Two college kids sharing earbuds. One guy writing like he wanted to stab through the notebook. And then —- there. The sketchbook person. Same corner booth every time, always hunched over the page like they were hiding secrets in graphite. He liked watching them work, even though he knew it was weird to admit that. It wasn’t like he was obsessed or anything. Just… interested. Academically. Artistically. Whatever.

Sometimes they’d look up, chewing the pencil, eyes flicking around the room for something to draw, and once or twice, he could’ve sworn they landed on him. He’d freeze mid-wipe, rag suspended, trying to look natural, which usually made him look the exact opposite. Eye contact is supposed to be normal, right? Normal people do that. Just hold it. Don’t smile too wide. Don’t smile like you’re thinking about anything violent.

He missed Peacemaker. Peacemaker would’ve laughed at this, Adrian, pretending to do work when he was actually tracking the orbit of one person. He could almost hear the teasing: “Bro, you’re staring.”

Yeah, maybe he was. But it was better than thinking about other things. Like how quiet the town got when he wasn’t killing anyone.

He started wiping again, trying to look busy while sneaking another glance toward the corner. Sometimes he imagined what they were drawing. Birds, maybe. People drew birds a lot. Did you know pigeons can recognize themselves in mirrors? That’s rare. Only smart creatures do that. Like dolphins. And Peacemaker. Probably.

He went back to the counter, tossed the rag in the sink, and stared at the coffee machine like it was an enemy. The hiss of steam, the dripping filter, it all sounded vaguely threatening. Wouldn’t take much to turn that thing into a weapon. Steam burns are horrible. Skin just melts right off. He’d seen it once—no, don’t think about that. Normal people don’t think about that while wiping down espresso machines.

The door chimed again. Some guy came in with a Bluetooth headset, sunglasses indoors, one of those people who talked like the world was a background character in his story. He snapped his fingers at Adrian, literally snapped. “Hey, can we get this cleaned up? Kinda gross.”

Adrian looked down. A single crumb on the table. One crumb. He inhaled sharply, felt that familiar itch start behind his ribs, the one that whispered it’d be so easy. One quick shove, maybe a mop handle across the throat, maybe just—

He forced a smile instead, baring teeth. “Of course!” His voice came out a little too bright. He wiped the table so hard the rag squeaked. The guy didn’t even look up from his phone. (He could end him in four seconds. Less, even. Elbow to the nose, knee to the gut, mop through the eye. But then who’d clean the table?)

Adrian stepped back and exhaled. He was trying. Really. No more killing unless it mattered. Unless it was for justice. But what counted as justice, really? The line was blurry these days.

Maybe that guy wasn’t just a rude customer. Maybe this was how it started. Nobody ever wakes up and says, “Today, I’m going to become a monster.” It’s little things. The arrogance. The snapping fingers. The way he said “we” when he meant “you.” Maybe tomorrow, he cuts someone off in traffic. Doesn’t even feel bad. Next week, he’s bribing a parking officer. Six months later, he’s running a crypto scheme from his basement, fake charity, real money. By Christmas, he’s laundering funds through an orphanage, because bad guys love irony. Then, when the cops finally catch him, he pleads out and blames “the system.”

Adrian paused mid-wipe. Yeah. You see? It’s always the ones who use Bluetooth. That’s where it starts. Bluetooth is the gateway drug to evil.

Next thing you know, they’re buying those little standing desks, talking about “optimization,” pretending they invented waking up early. That’s stage two. Stage three is networking events. Nobody ever comes back from that. He leaned on the rag, nodding slightly to himself, as if confirming a very serious internal report. They start smiling too much too, those fake, toothy smiles that don’t touch the eyes. And then they get promoted for “leadership qualities.”

He could almost see it now—Bluetooth Guy, five years from now, running some corporation that sells “ethically sourced” printer ink but secretly funds offshore drilling. A whole team of underpaid interns sending out company emails about sustainability while he’s at a golf resort dumping plastic straws directly into the ocean.

They always start small. One Bluetooth headset. One rude tone. One “Can you wipe this faster?” And before you know it—boom. Global corruption. Dead orphans. Dolphins choking on branded lanyards.

He was mid-theory when he realized his hand had been wiping with the kind of force that probably registered on the Richter scale. The rag squealed. The counter shivered. He blinked, startled, the thought of dolphins and lanyards evaporating into a more immediate problem: he’d just polished a man’s dignity off the table.

“Uh—dude?” The Bluetooth guy’s voice, clipped and irritated, broke him from the trance fully. “I think you got it. That’s—thanks. Chill.” He set his phone down with a little dignified huff, sunglasses pulled just a hair lower so his peripheral vision could monitor both the door and his reflection. He sounded like a man who’d been inconvenienced by cleanliness.

Adrian straightened too fast, posture snapping the way it did when he was pretending to be a functioning adult. “Oh,” he said, loud and cheerful in a way that always sounded a step away from hysteria. “Yes. Right.” He grinned because grinning filled awkward pauses, and because grins looked less like threats.

(No moral catastrophes. For now. But keep an eye on the Bluetooth guy. He’s a slippery type. Probably tailors his villainy to seasonal trends.)

The Bluetooth guy harrumphed and planted himself at the bar. Adrian nodded, and, with his mop like a scepter, shuffled away toward the stack of to-go cups. He was doing “busy” again, the safe ritual: restock lids, count napkins, reorganize all the condiments and sugars.

He stole one more look to the corner booth—just one—which is how the habit started. The sketchbook person was gone.

Gone, but not entirely.

Something small and square sat where they’d been. He looked left, then right. No witnesses. The Bluetooth man was still monologuing into his headset about “profit margins” like a villain in his opening act. Good. Perfect.

Adrian approached the booth like a detective in a noir movie (minus the hat, plus a mop). He stood there, stared down at it. Plain cover, spiral binding, one corner frayed from use. Classic artist setup. He liked that!

He lifted the sketchbook from the table. It was warm, like it had only just been closed. His heart did something inconvenient in his chest, a kind of skip he’d normally associate with live combat or Peacemaker saying something nice. He checked the front for a name tag, a doodle, anything. Nothing. Anonymous, mysterious.

He turned it over in his hands, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He really shouldn’t. There were rules about this kind of thing—boundaries, privacy, whatever—but he couldn’t remember the exact moral argument for not doing it. Probably something about respect or trust, but that sounded like something Peacemaker would say right before doing the opposite.

Besides, what if it was important? What if it was like, evidence? Or a map? Or a coded confession from some serial killer disguised as a freelance illustrator? He couldn’t just not check.

It’s practically a civic duty.

So, naturally, he opened it.

The first few pages were harmless, little doodles of coffee cups, a napkin dispenser, a croissant, a koala, a pair of scissors. A few random faces, customers maybe, none of whom he recognized. They were good, though. Way better than anything he could do.

He flipped another page. And another. The sketches started to feel more alive, like the artist had been watching and memorizing everything.

And then—oh.

He blinked.

Wait… is that—no. No way.

But it was. Him. Adrian Chase. He flipped another page, same thing. Him laughing at something someone said. Him frowning at the register. Him cleaning the espresso machine, apparently with “focus” because wow, there was way too much shading detail in his forearms.

His stomach tightened.

Okay… okay, this is—huh. Weird. Weird, right? People don’t just draw other people like this unless—unless they know something.

He flipped another page. There were at least six, maybe seven sketches. All him. Different angles. Different days, maybe.

Wait, do they know?

He looked over his shoulder instinctively, scanning the café like someone might pop out and yell “Gotcha, Vigilante!”

Nothing. Just the sound of the espresso machine and the clink of the ceiling vent struggling against the November air. He turned back to the sketchbook. Okay, hold on. Why me?

He flipped another page. Then another. And another.

It was all him. Not Vigilante, but him. In the apron, pouring milk, tapping the register, zoning out mid-shift. Just… him doing ordinary, painfully normal things.

He sat down slowly, flipping through again, his thumb smudging the corner of a page. The pencil lines were confident. Every drawing looked like you’d really seen him, not just glanced and guessed. He exhaled through his nose, unsure whether to feel flattered or violated. The sketches didn’t feel mocking. They felt like whoever made them actually liked looking at him.

That sounds narcissistic. But still. You don’t draw someone this many times unless you—yeah. You like them. Or they have a really weird face.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking around again just in case you were hiding behind a column or something, watching his reaction. You must’ve spent hours watching. How did he not notice?

He sat there for a beat, frozen in indecision, the sketchbook still open in his lap. His brain was short-circuiting between this is invasive and this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, which was a weird combination of feelings to hold simultaneously.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Okay, think. WWPD.

What Would Peacemaker Do?

Well, Peacemaker would definitely be flattered. Probably say something like “Yeah, of course someone would draw me. Look at me, I’m hot and emotionally complex.” And then he’d hang it on his fridge next to a photo of a decapitated Nazi.

So, yeah. Flattered. That was the move.

Adrian nodded decisively to himself. Flattered it is.

He started grinning uncontrollably, like he’d just found out someone wrote a love song about him but he wasn’t supposed to know yet. The smile kept creeping up no matter how hard he tried to smooth it down.

That’s when his coworker, Sandra, the one who always smelled like sanitizer and disapproval, pushed through the back door with a stack of cups. “Chase, what the hell are you doing sitting down? You on break?”

He jolted upright so fast he nearly dropped the sketchbook. “No! No, I was just .. verifying a surface.”

“Verifying a—what?”

He scrambled for an excuse, brain firing off random words like fireworks. “I’m just really happy right now,” he blurted. “It’s personal good news.”

Sandra narrowed her eyes. “What kind of good news?”

“Oh, uh…” He floundered, then landed on something terrible. “My neighbor’s bird died.”

She blinked. “…What?”

“Yeah! It used to coo really loudly at, like, four in the morning right outside my window, and I couldn’t sleep for months, but now it’s dead so—y’know.” He shrugged, smiling like someone who’d just received an award for community service. “Silence is a blessing.”

Sandra stared at him for a long second. “…You’re a very weird man, Chase.”

“Thanks,” he said, sincerely.

She shook her head and muttered something about needing therapy before heading to the counter. Adrian watched her go, grin fading into something softer as he glanced back at the sketchbook.

Yeah. Definitely flattered.

Adrian tucked the sketchbook beneath his arm like it was contraband and grabbed the rag again, forcing himself to look normal. Normal: average human who does not stare at drawings of himself and smile like a maniac. He wiped down the counter, straightened a few chairs, rearranged a stack of menus that didn’t need rearranging.

A few minutes passed. Just long enough for him to start replaying every page in his head, wondering why you’d draw him, not Vigilante, but Adrian. The dumb guy who messed up orders and once spilled an entire latte on a cop.

He was still thinking about that when the front door burst open, chimes rattling violently against the glass.

You.

Flushed, out of breath, eyes wide like you’d sprinted the whole way. You skidded a little on the tile before steadying yourself, scanning the tables like a searchlight. His heart did the inconvenient thing again, skipped, caught, crashed.

“Uh—hey,” said Sandra from behind the counter, startled. “You okay?”

“Did—” you started, voice tight. “Did anyone find a sketchbook? I—I think I left it here earlier—like, a brown one, spiral bound, a few stickers on the cover—”

Adrian froze mid-wipe, hand still on the rag.

Oh. Oh.

He’d imagined this moment in, like, three different possible timelines in the last ten minutes: one where you never came back (sad, tragic, he’d have to track you down vigilante-style), one where you came back calm and collected (boring, less cinematic), and this one —- where you came rushing in like the building was on fire, panic written across your face.

He swallowed, staring over at you from across the café. You looked… really upset. Like, really upset. The kind of upset that made him instantly guilty, even though technically he hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet.

He could feel the sketchbook pressing against his side under his arm. Okay. Be cool. Be casual. He waited for Sandra to shrug and say no one had seen it, and when she did, he stepped forward, hesitating for a beat before holding it out.

“This yours?” he asked.

You turned, relief flooding your face so fast it actually hurt to watch. You reached for it instantly, mumbling a thank you, your voice still a little shaky—until your eyes actually registered who was holding it out to you.

The relief drained from your face in real time, replaced by something like dawning horror, like you’d just realized the fire you’d been running toward was, in fact, your own mortification.

Adrian blinked, hand still outstretched, the sketchbook hovering awkwardly between you. He’d been preparing for this, sort of, but not for that look.

“Oh,” you managed, voice cracking a little. “You—uh—you found it.”

He should say something. Something normal. Something that makes it sound like he didn’t look through it and you shouldn’t feel embarrassed. Like “no problem” or “you left it on table six.”Instead, what came out was:

“Yeah.” He nodded, overly fast. “I, uh… didn’t look through it. Except for, like, the first seventy pages.”

You went still.

He grimaced immediately. “Okay, that sounded weird. I’m sorry, that came out weird.”

A slow, creeping awareness settled over both of you. He could see the realization sinking in on your end, that he’d looked. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your throat worked like you wanted to explain, but there was no good way to explain that.

He rubbed the back of his neck, heat crawling up behind his ears. “They’re, uh. Good,” he said finally. “Like… really good. You captured my essence. My—uh—coffee-wiping technique.”

You blinked at him, somewhere between horrified and confused. “You looked through it?”

He opened his mouth to lie, to backtrack, he really did, but instead what came out was: “I thought it might contain clues to a larger conspiracy.”

There was a pause so long it could’ve been a full commercial break.

He fumbled for a recovery, words tripping over themselves. “But then I realized it was just—me. Which, honestly? Might be the nicest conspiracy I’ve ever been part of.” Adrian nodded to himself, like that was a solid save. It wasn’t. But he’d committed now, and once you start a monologue, you can’t just stop in the middle. That’s how cult leaders win.

WWPD. What Would Peacemaker Do.

He pictured it immediately, Peacemaker standing there, helmet glinting, muscles flexing for no reason, probably signing the sketchbook. Yeah. Peacemaker would definitely be flattered. Probably do a whole photo op.

“So, yeah, I’m flattered,” he said aloud, nodding again. “Actually—wait, do you want an autograph? I could sign one of the pages! Make it official. ‘To my number one fan, from Vi—uh, Adrian.’” He caught himself, eyes widening slightly. “Adrian. Totally normal guy.” He laughed, but it came out nervous and way too loud.

You were still staring at him, speechless, which he misread as awe instead of shock.

They’re definitely impressed. Maybe this is what having fans feels like.

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Do you think I should get a professional headshot? For when people start asking? ‘Cause now that I have one fan, statistically, more will come. It’s exponential. Like rabbit reproduction, but less illegal.”

started 10.31.2025. finished 11.9.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

JASON AS YOUR BOYFRIEND… is reckless with everything but careful with you. not in a sentimental way, but he notices the small things.

he’s snarky all the time, but it’s also his version of affection with you. if you spill coffee on yourself, he’ll joke, “well, at least it’s not blood,” while grabbing a towel and cleaning you up himself. if you trip, he’ll mock your “clumsiness” while brushing dirt off your jeans and muttering, “you’re lucky i’m here to save you every damn day.”

sarcastic as hell. everything’s a joke until it’s not. he’ll tease you relentlessly, but he’s also the first to throw hands if someone else does it. he can call you an idiot, but god forbid someone else does.

will drag you into stupid adventures, late-night motorcycle rides, sneaking onto rooftops to watch the city, impromptu training sessions in abandoned warehouses, but he makes sure you’re always safe. he teaches you to throw a punch, to defend yourself, how to break a lock, he never lets you walk into anything unprepared.

arguments with him are intense. he gets defensive fast, especially if he thinks you’re accusing him of something. he’ll say something harsh, regret it the second it’s out, and then need space before he can apologize properly.

if you’re sick he’ll pretend not to care, but five minutes later he’s showing up with soup and a thermometer, muttering about “not wanting to catch your germs.”

dates with him aren’t really “dates.” he’s not the type to make dinner reservations or pick a movie ahead of time. it’s more like: “you hungry?” and then the two of you end up at some hole-in-the-wall diner at midnight, eating fries out of the same basket while he tells you about something insane that happened on patrol. he doesn’t care where you go, he just likes when you tag along without asking too many questions.

he’ll disappear sometimes. no warning, no text, just gone for a day or two. you’ll try not to take it personally, he always comes back, but the silence can still hurt. when he returns it’s like nothing happened. he won’t elaborate and gets agitated if you push for too much.

stubborn af. when he’s pissed he’ll dig in his heels and argue just to win. sometimes he’ll walk out mid-fight, slamming the door because he knows he’s about to say something he’ll regret. he won’t say sorry unless it’s forced or everyone is calling him out for being a jerk.

he’s got walls. high ones. you’ll feel them even when you’re together, the distance in his actions, like he’s halfway out the door in his head. if you ask what’s wrong he’ll shrug it off, mutter something like “it’s nothing.” he doesn’t like being read. doesn’t like feeling seen.

gets easily frustrated; by himself, by the world, by you, by the bats, by things he can’t fix. sometimes that spills out. sometimes, he hurts your feelings without realizing it. he’ll get short, dismissive, angry, too caught up in his own head.

eats like a teenager. fast food, instant ramen, gas-station coffee. you try to cook something real and he hovers, poking at the pan, pretending to help until you hand him something to grate or stir.

definitely the type to say “aw, you gonna cry?”

he’s not the most attentive boyfriend. he’s so used to looking over his shoulder that he forgets to look beside him. you’ll tell him something, and he’ll hum distractedly, halfway through loading a gun or cleaning his jacket. then, three days later, he’ll bring it up out of nowhere. “you said you wanted that book, right? saw it in the shop.” he heard you, just on a delay.

he’s taller than you, always, no matter how tall you are or what shoes you wear. every inch of the height difference is a tool for teasing. hides things where only he can reach them. keys, your favorite mug, that thing you need in the morning, he swears he doesn’t know how it got there, his voice teasing, as if daring you to call him out. and you do, because he loves that. loves how you have to lean on him, beg him, make him bend to your little needs.

sometimes he can be selfish. he’ll expect you to be there when he needs you, even if he wasn’t there when you needed him. he doesn’t realize it’s unfair. if you call him out he won’t argue, just look guilty for a second and mutter, “yeah, you’re right.”

doesn’t know how to do normal couple things. dates, anniversaries — they make him awkward. but when he tries, he tries. he’ll plan something simple: late-night drive, takeout, a quiet rooftop. he’ll light a candle and act like it’s no big deal. you’ll catch him watching you though, that tiny, proud smile like yeah, I did good.

not good at the I love yous. they come out rough, sometimes in the middle of unrelated sentences. “don’t go out there without your vest, alright? love you.” or “if something happens, you know I—” and he won’t finish the sentence, because you already do.

he’s avoidant without meaning to be. when something’s wrong he disappears. sometimes literally, sometimes emotionally. he’ll sit beside you but feel a hundred miles away. you’ll ask if he’s okay, and he’ll just grunt, “yeah.” that’s all. he’ll stare at the floor, fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, stay silent until you stop pressing.

doesn’t like being touched when he’s tense. if you reach for him during an argument, he’ll pull back. he doesn’t want to be comforted mid-conflict, it makes him feel cornered. when it’s over and you give him space, that’s when he comes back.

hides his exhaustion under sarcasm. if you ever ask him how he’s holding up, he’ll smirk and say something like, “livin’ the dream, sweetheart.” but you’ll see the tension in his shoulders, the way his voice gets rougher when he’s tired. he doesn’t sleep much. when he does crash, it’s deep, sprawled across your bed, still in his jeans, gun on the nightstand.

not big on PDA. he doesn’t like eyes on him or the idea of being seen soft.

keeps parts of his life compartmentalized. you don’t always know where he goes or who he’s with. he’s protective of the parts of him that are darker, uglier. if you ask, he’ll say, “work stuff. don’t worry about it.” and that’ll be that. you’ll want to pry, but you know better. he’s not the type you can push for more out of, he’ll just shut down.

his version of affection is practical. he won’t say “you look beautiful.” he’ll say, “you eat yet?” or “wear a jacket, it’s cold.”

doesn’t like being pitied. if you ever look at him with too much softness, that are you okay? kind of face, he shuts down. he hates feeling like someone’s seeing him as broken or fragile. you’ll have to learn the balance, care without coddling, love without fixing.

shows up at your place after fights with bruce. it’s usually late, you’ll hear the knock and open the door to find him with that look. he won’t say what happened, but you’ll know. he’ll throw himself onto your couch, kick off his boots, and mutter, “old man’s an idiot.” if you press, he’ll roll his eyes and tell you bruce’s latest lecture, about killing, about control, about how jason’s “better than this.” he’ll mock it word for word, pacing as he talks, until eventually he runs out of anger and just sits there in silence.

he’s a bad influence. he’ll take you on his bike at midnight without a helmet. he’ll teach you how to pick locks “just in case.” he’ll joke about stealing from some corporate sleaze like it’s not a felony. he’ll get a little thrill out of watching you cross that line, a bit of rebellion, a bit of danger. he loves seeing that spark in your eyes.

protective to a fault. the kind of protective that borders on paranoia. if someone stares at you too long, he’ll step closer. if someone flirts, he’ll insert himself into the conversation. he’s not subtle about it either, he likes people knowing not to mess with you. if you tell him it’s too much, he’ll back off… for a while. then the next time someone makes you uncomfortable, it’s way worse.

he doesn’t know how to do “normal.” dates, small talk, meet-the-family, all of that makes him fidgety. he’s used to crime scenes and stakeouts, not brunch and hand-holding. if you take him somewhere quiet and normal, he looks almost out of place, scanning exits, watching people, always alert.

good with your siblings or younger family. kids like him, probably because he doesn’t talk down to them. he’s sarcastic, funny, and cool in their eyes. they’ll hang off him, ask about his bike, and he’ll pretend to complain but secretly loves it.

you have to fight for him. jason will act like he’s fine alone. he’ll tell you to leave, say you’d be safer without him, hint that you deserve someone better. half of it is pride, half of it is him trying to protect you from what he thinks he is. he’ll keep pushing to test you. if you fight for him, show up, call him out, refuse the easy exit, he notices.

he uses anger to hide fear. his first response to vulnerability is to sharpen his voice, push you away, get aggressive.

watches bad movies with you just to make fun of them. he’ll talk over the dialogue, mimic the characters, point out continuity errors. you threaten to kick him out every time, but the truth is you like hearing him.

believes absence is protection. jason really thinks distance = safety. he believes his enemies could use you as leverage, or that being with him makes you a target. he’ll try to run scenarios, measure risk, tell you it’s easier if you don’t know where he goes. you arguing that you choose to be with him despite the risk pisses him off and terrifies him in equal measure. he isn’t trying to be noble; he’s trying to avoid the guilt he assumes will come if something happens to you because of him.

sometimes he’ll cancel last minute, say he’s busy, and then you’ll see his bike parked outside a dive bar. he’s not cheating, he’s avoiding. emotions make him itch, and the minute something feels too close, he finds a reason to vanish.

teases you until you snap and then he grins like that’s what he wanted. he’ll say something a little too mean, that half-smile tugging at his mouth when you glare at him. it’s his way of pulling you and getting you to engage with him. sometimes you’ll catch him watching you afterward, that smug expression softening for half a second before he looks away again.

calls you names, half-joking, half-affection. “smartass,” “brat,” “trouble.”

argues like it’s a sport. you’ll trade jabs that sound like fights to anyone else, but it’s just how you two communicate. sarcasm is his love language, the constant back-and-forth. sometimes it crosses a line and he realizes it too late.

doesn’t talk about you to people, he guards you. you’ll never hear him brag, never see him post about you. his life’s too complicated for that. if someone says your name wrong, or even jokes about you in passing, he’s instantly on edge. “watch it.” flat voice, no smile.

makes fun of your fears, then shields you from them anyway. you’ll say you hate thunderstorms, and he’ll smirk, “what, scared of a little rain?” but later, when the sky cracks open, he’s suddenly beside you, acting like he just happened to be there. pretends it’s nothing when he leaves the light on and wraps an arm around you.

doesn’t do insecurity. he expects you to be just as fearless. wear what you want, flounce around if you want. the second some guy dares to stare, jason is already there, fists ready to throw them down without a thought.

night rides are your thing. he’ll text you out of nowhere: “you up?” it’s already past midnight. before you can answer, you hear his bike outside. he drives like traffic laws are a suggestion.

emotionally unavailable in theory, not practice. he’ll tell you not to rely on him, that he’s “bad news,” but then he’ll pick you up when your car dies at 3 a.m. or sit outside your door until you open it after a fight. his actions can betray his words.

he doesn’t believe in perfect relationships. you’ll fight. you’ll both say things you shouldn’t. he’s not the kind to sugarcoat or pretend to be something he isn’t. he’ll never call himself a good boyfriend, he doesn’t see himself that way.

everyone comes to you when he’s spiraling. whether he’s pissed at bruce, got into a fight, or disappeared for days, you’re the one they reach out to.

doesn’t like being told what to do, even by you. he’ll listen to you argue your point, then do the opposite out of pure spite. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, he just doesn’t trust anyone’s judgment but his own. it’s infuriating. and then, when you’re right, he won’t say it out loud, but he’ll do something for you like an apology in disguise.

will pick fights just to feel something. sometimes it’s because he’s angry, sometimes it’s because he’s restless, sometimes it’s because he doesn’t know how to sit in peace without breaking it. he’ll provoke you when he’s in certain moods.

never says when he’s coming over. he just shows up. sometimes late, sometimes half-beat up, sometimes in a decent mood, you never really know. you’ll hear his motorcycle outside, and that’s your only warning. he’ll let himself in, grab a beer, throw himself on your couch like it’s his.

when he’s in a good mood he’s genuinely funny as hell. like, the kind of humor that makes you laugh until you can’t breathe. he’s witty, dry, quick, half the time you don’t know where the joke is going.

doesn’t like people in his space, except you. he’s territorial about his place, but somehow you’re the only one who gets to stay over. he’ll let you fall asleep on his bed while he’s cleaning his guns or patching himself up. the kind of domestic peace he’d never admit he wants.

won’t do social stuff. you invite him to group hangouts or dinners, and he’ll find a reason not to go. “too many people,” “don’t like crowds,” “don’t want to babysit strangers.”

takes you to the weirdest spots in gotham. not restaurants or date places, abandoned rooftops, half-burned warehouses, a diner that only serves breakfast food after midnight.

the two of you can’t run errands without something going wrong. you’ll go to pick up groceries and somehow it ends in him almost fighting a guy in the parking lot for cutting the line. you’ve learned to just grab his arm, mutter “not today,” and pull him toward the car. he’ll complain all the way home, then carry every bag inside to “make up for it.”

he’s terrible at serious affection. if you pamper him in praise, emotions, affection; or give him anything heartfelt he instantly scoffs, “don’t get weird on me.”

you two definitely have matching scars from something stupid. a rooftop chase, a bad landing, a firework, a glass bottle. he likes that you’ve got one too.

an absolute menace with your phone. he’ll grab it just to annoy you, scroll through your playlists, make fun of your taste, rename your contacts to stupid things like “annoying brat #1.” he doesn’t actually read your messages but he loves watching you try to get it back.

leaves his gear scattered around your place. a gun magazine under the couch, gloves on the counter, the smell of gun oil clinging to your laundry.

he swears he can cook, but his version of breakfast is half a box of cereal, coffee so strong it could strip paint, and a couple slices of blackened bread. he leans on the counter like he’s proud of it — “what, you don’t like it crispy?” — and you eat it anyway because he’s watching.

he hates photos. he always covers his face or flips you off in them if he can’t convince you not to take them, but he secretly saves the good ones you send later.

hates being psychoanalyzed. you try to ask what’s wrong, why he’s been quiet, if something’s eating at him, and he shuts down instantly. he doesn’t like being treated like a project, or like you can fix him. and if you do get close to figuring him out, he’ll twist it into an argument just to deflect. you have to learn that some people just don’t want to talk about their feelings.

he makes you laugh at the worst times. you’ll be in the middle of a serious talk or meeting and he’ll crack a deadpan joke just to cut the tension, or make a face at you while you’re trying to give an important speech.

believes people don’t ever really change. he’ll listen when you talk about growth, therapy, healing — but you’ll notice he won’t say much.

you’re always second to the mission. he doesn’t know how not to be red hood anymore. you’ll be mid-conversation, mid-argument, mid-anything, and the phone buzzes, intel, a lead, a call from one of his contacts, and suddenly he’s gone. you tell yourself not to take it personally, but some nights you wonder if you’re dating a person or a cause.

you can’t ask him to quit. you’ve thought about it, how much easier things would be if he could just stop. but the truth is, he’d hate you for it. you’d be asking him to cut out the part of himself that feels alive. so you don’t. you let him go, every time, even when it scares you sick.

sometimes you wish he’d lie. just once, say, i’m done with it. but jason doesn’t lie. he’s brutally honest, sometimes to the point of cruelty. “this is who i am,” he’ll say, when you bring it up.

sleeps like chaos. sheets tangled, arms and legs sprawling, blankets stolen. he snores loud, abrupt, half-dead breath, and at first it’s maddening. he kicks and twists like he’s trying to fight some dream, and you wake up with the blankets gone.

the kind of boyfriend who will casually suggest hopping a fence into a construction site or sneaking into a closed club or walking through the underground city tunnels just because it’s there. you roll your eyes, but there’s a spark in his eyes you can’t resist. “come on,” he says, “live a little.” and against all better judgment, you do.

loves minor crimes, little adrenaline highs that don’t get him killed. hotwiring a car, racing, graffiti, dodging cops for fun. you know he won’t let anything happen to you.

he’s always in trouble, always running from something, cops, gangsters, his past, the bats, the night itself, and you’ve learned to just roll with it.

jumps into fights he doesn’t need to be in, bloodying his fists or face just to prove he’s untouchable, and you sit there, heart in your throat, thinking you should stop him but knowing there’s no stopping jason todd.

self-destructive in ways you can see and ways you can’t. he pushes his body too far, drinks too much, fights too long, disappears without a word when something goes wrong.

jason todd who refuses to be told what to do, no matter who’s saying it. he hates rules. hates them. he hates schedules, lists, curfews, authority, anything that feels like someone is trying to cage him. if you try to tell him to slow down, take it easy, or “be careful,” he rolls his eyes and does exactly the opposite. he thrives on chaos, on rebellion, and part of that is proving he doesn’t have to answer to anyone, even you.

he’s messy. clothes everywhere, dirty dishes piled in the sink, half-empty soda cans, cigarette butts, and energy drink bottles littering every flat surface. he doesn’t care. cleaning is for people who care about appearances. if he has to do it, it’s grudging, done in ten minutes, and muttering under his breath.

mornings are rough. he’ll flop on the couch and stay there until he absolutely has to move. he hates routines, hates schedules, hates the expectation that he’ll act responsible. coffee? he’ll drink it from a cold mug he left out overnight. breakfast? if you make it, he’ll eat it.

talks badly about his family to you when he needs to vent, running down bruce for being uptight, damian for being an insufferable brat, tim for “being tim,” and grayson for having it all together. sometimes you even catch him looking at you, needing validation that you’re on his side.

naps everywhere: on the couch, on the floor, in the middle of a movie, sprawled across your bed. sometimes he drools.

teases you physically. leaning down just to hold the top of your head away when you try to kiss him, or swatting your hand away playfully. he’s just not the most physically touchy and therefore his natural instinct isn’t to accept it, and that’s okay.

sneaks into your kitchen at 2 a.m., grabs the cereal you were saving for yourself, and eats it. then he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you fume, knowing full well you’re going to chase him for the last bite.

drags you along on bad decisions just for fun: speeding through empty streets on his bike, cutting through alleyways instead of taking the main road, or sneaking into a movie without tickets.

rough with you, but only when it’s playful. pinching your side, nudging you into a wall during argument-turned-tease, light shoves and pushing each other around. roughhousing is definitely one of his love languages in general and if you’re okay with him messing around with you that would be perfect.

tosses snacks into the air and catches them in his mouth.

rough compliments when you try something new: “not bad.” “huh.” and you know he’s secretly impressed.

steals bites off your plate when you’re not looking, grinning like a little kid caught in the act.

insists on calling shotgun anytime anyone else is in the car with you guys, kicking his legs up on the dashboard, making jokes at other drivers, and giving sarcastic commentary about everyone you pass.

constantly challenges you: “bet you can’t reach that,” “i dare you to do this,” “you wouldn’t last a day in my world.”

jason todd who, after all the chaos, finally just exists next to you. somehow, against all logic, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be: with him.

started 9.11.2025. finished 11.8.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

EVE TESCHMACHER . . . drapes affection around you like a scarf you can’t shrug off. she’s not subtle. she’s loud with her love, the hello kiss, the gasp when you walk in, the selfie posted within minutes of being together. she leaves half-empty coffee mugs in your place because she stayed late “just one more minute”, and plasters sticky notes on your side of the mirror with reminders like “don’t forget i love you”.

has no concept of personal space. eve doesn’t sit next to you; she sits on you. whether it’s a couch, a chair, or even a countertop while you’re cooking, she’s pressed against you somehow, head on your shoulder, fingers trailing your sleeve, knee bumping yours. she’ll absent-mindedly play with your hair while you’re watching something, trace your collarbone with her nails, or slide her cold hands under your shirt because she wants skin contact.

forgets herself when she’s with you. if you like something, suddenly she likes it too. “i’ve always wanted to try that!” when you mention something completely new. she laughs when you laugh, looks where you look. sometimes she’ll look at you and say, “you make me feel smart.”

texts you constantly. she’ll send twenty messages in a row that are just:

“hey”

“what are you doing”

“i miss you”

“want to get lunch?”

—- even though she saw you an hour ago. if you take too long to respond she gets fidgety. when you finally answer she floods you with emojis and hearts.

shamelessly touchy in public spaces. hand-holding is non-negotiable. if someone looks at you for too long, she slides her hand up to your chest or loops both arms around your waist, territorial in the sweetest, silliest way.

she hates being apart. if you say you need a night to yourself, she’ll nod and smile — and then show up anyway “because I was just in the neighborhood.” she’ll claim she only wanted to drop something off, but her makeup’s done and she’s holding a bag of takeout for two. she sits on your couch, kicks off her heels, and curls up next to you. she’ll apologize later for crashing your space, but she’ll do it again next week.

clingy even in sleep. falls asleep tangled in you. one leg over your waist, hand gripping your shirt, her face tucked against your throat. if you move she murmurs and tightens her hold like you’re a dream she refuses to lose. in the mornings, sometimes she wakes up first on purpose just to look at you.

calls you constantly. it doesn’t matter what time it is, if something crosses her mind, she’s hitting call before thinking twice. you’ll answer in the middle of a meeting, and she’s like, “you have to hear what happened at the store—” completely unaware that you sound busy. even when you tell her you can’t talk, she goes, “okay, real quick!” and keeps going. she’ll tell entire stories, ramble through every detail, giggle to herself, and take as long as she wants to explain.

follows you from room to room. you could be brushing your teeth, folding laundry, answering an email, and eve’s there, sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, talking about nothing. she wants to be near you, even if you’re quiet or distracted.

doesn’t like when you leave first. if you stand up before she does, she grabs your wrist automatically. she’ll look up at you and say, “where are you going?” even if you just said where. when you say you’ll be right back, she nods, but you can tell she’s counting the minutes. when you come home she’s waiting by the door every time, pretending she wasn’t.

never really gets mad at you. even if you snap at her or tell her you’re too busy, she forgets five minutes later. she’ll text something like, “still love you 💞” and move on. she’s not pretending, she really does let things go that easily. she doesn’t have the capacity to hold grudges; her brain just skips to the next thought, and usually that thought is you.

doesn’t understand the concept of space. if you tell her you’re having a “me day,” she shows up anyway with coffee and says, “well, now it’s a us day.” she’ll stretch out on your couch like she belongs there, watching you work, trying to make conversation even when you’re clearly focused. she thinks spending time with you is automatically a good thing, no matter what you’re doing.

doesn’t realize when she’s being too much. she’ll talk through your movie, touch your hair while you’re focused, or sit too close when you’re hot because she doesn’t think you’d really mind.

wants to hang out every weekend. if you tell her you’re busy saturday, she pouts, “what about sunday?” and if you’re busy then too, she says, “okay… well, next weekend, right?” she hates when you make plans with anyone else. might throw a tantrum if you try.

floods your phone with selfies. not just one or two, dozens. one in the morning, one when she’s getting coffee, one when she changes outfits, one when she’s bored. every time it’s “which one’s your favorite?” or “you like this one?” she needs you to pick, to compliment her. she’ll do little poses she thinks you like, pouty faces, big smiles, hair flipped to the side. if you don’t answer fast enough she sends another one, “this one’s better, right?” sometimes she’ll send you photos of her outfit to get your opinion.

over-explains everything she does, because she wants you to approve. if she goes somewhere, she tells you the whole story, why, how, who was there, what she wore, what she ordered. she wants you to like her choices.

doesn’t pick up hints that you’re annoyed. you could sigh, answer short, even say “eve, i’m busy,” and she’ll just smile through the phone, “oh, okay, i’ll be quick!” and then talk for ten more minutes. she doesn’t notice the tone, she only hears your voice, which to her means you’re listening. she gets so wrapped up in telling you about her day that she forgets time exists.

wants to be wherever you are. if you’re going out, she’s already asking, “can i come?” she loves tagging along, even if she has no reason to be there. you could be running errands, and she’ll say, “i’ll keep you company!”

doesn’t like when you’re distracted. if you’re on your phone too long she’ll start talking louder, asking random questions to pull your attention back. she’ll lean against you, peek at what you’re doing, and go, “what’s that? who’s that?” half out of curiosity, half out of wanting to be part of whatever has your focus. she can’t stand being ignored.

tells you every random thought she has. she’ll call to say she saw a dog that looked like it could talk. she’ll text, “what’s your favorite color again?” even though she’s asked five times before. her mind is a running commentary, and she wants to share every bit of it with you. if you don’t respond fast enough she fills the silence with another story.

brings little things to remind you of her. she’ll “forget” her lip gloss in your car, leave a hair clip on your counter, a sweatshirt draped on your chair. she wants traces of herself around you.

inserts herself into your world like she’s always been there. you introduce her to your family once, and suddenly she’s calling your mom “mom.” she’s hugging your siblings like she’s known them since birth, bringing them gifts, asking what snacks they like. she’s so confident about it, just decides she belongs. if your family has a group chat, somehow she’s in it. she sends good morning messages with too many emojis and asks your dad how work was.

loves being around your family too much. she helps your mom cook dinner, laughs too loud at your dad’s jokes, helps your little sister with her hair, buys your little brother video games, bakes with your grandparents. she takes pictures with everyone and posts captions like “family dinner 🩷” as if she’s already a daughter-in-law.

does the same with your friends. you bring her to one group hangout, and that’s it. she’s a permanent member. she follows all of them on social media, comments on their posts, sends memes to the group chat, and says things like, “we should do brunch!” about people she’s known for two days. she doesn’t mean to intrude; she just assumes that because she loves you, she should love everyone around you, too. she’ll pout if you try to go somewhere without her, like, “why can’t i come? i like your friends!”

emotionally transparent. you always know what she’s feeling, she wears it right on her face. when she’s happy, she glows; when she’s sad, she pouts like a child. she doesn’t play games or hide when she’s jealous or hurt. if she feels left out, she’ll tug your sleeve and whine, “you forgot about me.”

she’s so clingy that she doesn’t even realize it’s clingy. she genuinely believes that couples are supposed to do everything together. errands, appointments, grocery runs, even scrolling through your phones, if she’s not with you, she feels wrong. she thinks space is something other people need, not you two. she’d sit with you through your work meetings if she could.

you know what she had for breakfast, how her coworker looked at her funny, what shoes she almost wore, what song was playing in the elevator. she shares everything because she wants you to feel like you were there too. she says “i wish you were here” at least twenty times a day.

gets whiny when you’re distant. if you’re quieter than usual, she gets this sulky frown. she’ll tug on your sleeve or lean in your face “are you mad at meee? :(” she’ll keep glancing at you until you reassure her, and then her whole mood shifts. she lights up again instantly.

talks about “us” constantly. it’s never “you” or “me.” it’s always “we should go there,” “we should do this,” “we’d look so cute doing that.” she doesn’t see herself as separate from you anymore. she keeps little lists of things for “us” — movies to watch, restaurants to try, vacation spots she wants to see with you.

makes your world smaller without trying to. you start realizing you don’t hang out with friends as much, not because she told you not to, but because she’s always there. she fills every free minute with plans, calls, texts, affection. it’s not controlling, it’s consuming. she loves big and it takes up space.

needs your full attention when you text. she replies instantly, like, instantly. you send a message and she’s already typing back, and if you don’t answer within a few minutes, she gets upset. she needs the back-and-forth rhythm. you can’t be doing anything when you’re texting her besides text her.

wants you to interact with everything she posts. if she posts a selfie or story and you don’t comment, she’ll absolutely notice. doesn’t get angry, just disappointed in a childish way, “why didn’t you like it? do you not like how i look?” she expects you to be her biggest fan, because she’s definitely yours. if you repost her photo she’ll replay your story a hundred times just to see her username on it.

loves matching things. outfits, phone cases, mugs, wallpapers, if it’s something you both can have, she’s all for it. she’ll show up wearing the same color as you on purpose and beam. she thinks it’s the cutest thing ever when people notice. she’ll even change her instagram bio to something that matches yours without asking.

constantly trying to “help.” she’ll offer to clean, organize, cook, run errands, anything. she wants to be part of your routine, even the boring parts. half the time she makes things more complicated, but she’s so proud of herself that you can’t say anything.

believes love fixes everything. if you’re stressed or upset, she immediately starts showering you with affection, hugs, kisses, sweet words, convinced it’ll make you feel better.

wants to fall asleep on call every single night. if you can’t be together in person, she needs your voice to fall asleep to. she’ll beg for a “sleep call,” even when she knows you’re exhausted.

overshares without meaning to. when she runs into your friends, coworkers, or family while she’s not with you, she immediately acts like she’s been part of their world forever. she’ll tell your mom about the “big life plans” you two haven’t actually discussed yet, or mention that she’s been “thinking about getting a place near you guys.” because she’s so sure of your future together that she forgets it isn’t official. eve genuinely believes she’s already family, and gets confused when people laugh or look surprised.

lives for pictures together. if you go out, she’ll stop mid-walk to say, “wait, we need a picture!” takes dozens until she finds one she loves, and then immediately posts it with a caption full of hearts and emojis. she doesn’t care if you look tired or caught off guard, she thinks every moment deserves to be documented. she’ll scroll through them later, staring at your face like it’s art, sighing about how cute you two look together.

makes herself at home instantly. at your place, she’ll kick off her shoes, change into one of your shirts, and start tidying or reorganizing like she’s lived there forever. she feels comfortable around you. she’ll hum to herself while folding laundry or cooking breakfast, acting like you’ve been together for years.

takes compliments so seriously. you tell her she looks pretty, and she’ll replay it in her head for days. she’ll ask, “really?” with a huge grin, as if she’s hearing it for the first time every time.

very delusional about your future. in that overly optimistic, movie-romance kind of way. she talks like she already knows you’ll get married someday, move in together, grow old. she genuinely can’t imagine it any other way. she believes in the fairytale too much to think about it ending.

shows up unannounced constantly. she thinks surprises are romantic, so she just appears. at your apartment, your office, wherever you might be. she’ll show up with coffee or pastries, smiling like, “i was in the neighborhood!” (she wasn’t.) she has no sense of boundaries, to her, love means always being close. if you look tired or overwhelmed, she misreads it as you needing her even more.

needs your opinion before she does anything. she won’t buy clothes, get her nails done, or post a photo without running it by you. “do you think this looks cute?” “which one?” she values your validation so much she’s almost paralyzed without it.

tries to sync your schedules. if you say you wake up at 7, suddenly she’s waking up at 7 too. if you go to the gym in the evening, she starts tagging along. wants you both to go to bed at the same time so you’re not awake without her.

keeps little countdowns for things that involve you. the next time she’s seeing you, your birthday, anniversaries, random dates only she remembers. her phone calendar is full of reminders with hearts and exclamation marks. she’ll text you “only three days!!!” like it’s a national holiday.

her pet names are one of a kind. no one else in the world has them because she invented them. she’ll twist your name into something ridiculous and over-the-top: if your name’s “ben,” you’re suddenly benny-bear, bensy-boo, or my benana.

always looks for your reaction when she’s talking. even in a group, she’s scanning your face mid-sentence — did you smile? did you find that funny? she wants to be impressive to you.

doesn’t know how to let go first. when you hug goodbye, she waits for you to ease out of it, and even then she lingers. one last squeeze, one last kiss, one last thing. her goodbyes are never clean. they’re always hesitant, pouty, whiny, “call me when you get home?” even if you’re just going a few blocks away.

started 10.29.2025. finished 11.08.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

HOMELANDER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves loudly, but never selflessly. every gesture feels cinematic, like he’s performing the idea of love instead of feeling it. your sadness, your fears, your off days? he edits those out, pretends they don’t exist. to him, love isn’t about knowing you. it’s about having you.

he treats a partner as part of his brand. every outing, every photo, every word said in public has to reflect well on him. if his partner doesn’t fit the narrative, if they dress “wrong,” speak out of turn, or appear upset, he’ll frame it as a betrayal of his image.

uses language as a weapon, keeping conversations on his terms. he interrupts, reframes, or talks over you until you start self-censoring.

any warmth or attention is transactional. when you agree, praise, or validate him, he rewards you with charm or physical closeness. when you resist, he withdraws or humiliates you.

insists on you standing slightly behind him in every photo. if a camera catches you too far forward, he’ll “jokingly” pull you back by the waist, all smiles for the lenses.

conversations with him aren’t really conversations. they’re performances. he talks, and you listen. every story circles back to him, how he saved someone, how the world would fall apart without him. if you try to add something he’ll nod absently, then steer it back. you stop realizing when you stopped being part of the dialogue.

subtly discourages outside contact, mocking friends, implying others are jealous or untrustworthy. this isn’t overt confinement, but social control, the fewer perspectives you hear, the more the world revolves around him.

when you’re quiet too long he notices, not because he’s worried, but because it’s inconvenient. “what’s with the face?” he’ll ask, annoyed, like your silence is a personal insult. if you tell him you’re upset he’ll sigh and say something like “you’re being dramatic again.” if you tell him why, he’ll shrug it off. “you should be happy. you’ve got me.” and he means it. he truly believes that should be enough.

will show up to your place unannounced at 2 A.M., not because he misses you, but because he’s restless and needs someone to admire him. he’ll pace around your living room in full suit talking about himself.

reminds you constantly that everyone wants him, fans, colleagues, the public, implying that staying with him is a privilege. this keeps you second-guessing your worth and less likely to challenge him.

loves hearing you compliment him. if you don’t, he’ll find ways to bring himself up until you do.

gifts from him are never really for you. a framed photo of the two of you, but it’s the one where he looks perfect and you’re mid-blink. a necklace shaped like his logo. tickets to an event where he’s the headliner. “you’re gonna love this,” he says, handing you a glossy invitation to another gala, another red carpet where you’ll stand beside him and smile while the cameras flash.

if he hurts you emotionally, he reframes it as a misunderstanding or something you provoked. “you know how you get” or “i’m only this upset because i care” — classic gaslighting tactics that keep you doubting your reality.

behind closed doors he drops the warmth entirely. the second he’s irritated, “You know how many people would kill to be in your spot?”

when he’s in a good mood, though, he’s intoxicating, takes you flying over the city just because he likes watching your hair whip around. you scream from the cold and he laughs like it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

he doesn’t apologize. ever. if he crosses a line, he’ll smirk, kiss your forehead, and say, “You’re so sensitive.”

self-justification. in his own mind, he’s not “abusive.” he’s protecting, guiding, loving. his ego depends on seeing himself as righteous, which makes genuine accountability impossible.

at home, he tries to play domestic. sits on the couch in full uniform, cape draped behind him like a throne. he’ll call you over to watch something on the news but it’s always him on the screen. interviews, rescues, photo ops. he wants you beside him while he watches himself. he glances sideways to make sure you’re smiling too.

you can tell when he’s irritated before he says anything. the air changes. his jaw ticks, and he stops pretending to listen. asks a question he already knows the answer to, just to catch you off guard. “you think you’re smarter than me?”

he never asks how your day was. he assumes it was fine because his was, and that should be enough. if you try to tell him something, something you’re proud of, or even something small, he’ll smile halfway through and interrupt with, “that’s great. reminds me of this one time when i—” and then it’s gone. your story swallowed by his.

he doesn’t listen, he hears what he wants. the praise, the awe, the approval. anything else just rolls off him. if you disagree with him, you see the shift in his smile. “what was that?” he’ll say, still calm, still smiling, but it’s the kind of calm that makes your stomach twist. you end up backpedaling, saying something like “no, i just meant—” and he cuts in, voice sharper now: “you meant i’m right. right?” and you nod, because what else can you do.

when it’s your birthday, he throws a show. expensive, loud, perfect for pictures. speeches where he says your name a few times but mostly talks about how lucky he is. gifts that have his face on them, a new photo shoot, a perfume campaign, his latest commercial. you smile and say thank you, and he beams like he’s done something incredible. the next morning, when he asks if you had fun, it’s not because he cares about your answer, it’s because he wants to hear you say “you’re amazing.”

he loves hearing you say that. that he’s amazing. that you’re lucky. that no one else compares. he’ll fish for it, “you saw the ratings this week, right?” or “they couldn’t even handle me up there.” and you’ve learned what he wants. you give it to him before he has to ask. “you were incredible.” “no one else could do what you do.” the words feel empty after a while, but they’re peace offerings in a place where peace depends on his mood.

at interviews he answers questions directed at you. later he tells you it’s better that way, because “people tune in for him, not the plus one.”

he doesn’t love you. not the way people mean it. he adores you. needs you to look at him like he’s the sun because he is, and if you ever forget that, he’ll remind you.

hates when anyone looks at you too long. hates when your name trends more than his. if your publicity spikes he’ll find a way to pull it back down, jokes at your expense, humiliation wrapped in charm. “just teasing,” he’ll say to the cameras, while his hand digs into your waist like a warning.

makes you feel like the air shifts when he walks in the room. like you have to brace yourself because you never really know what version of him you’re getting.

when you’re quiet, he takes it as an insult. when you talk too much, he takes it as defiance. he says he wants honesty, but only the kind that flatters him. only the kind that keeps him certain he’s loved.

the worst part is how gentle he can be after he gets angry with you. the way he’ll touch your cheek and say, “hey, don’t look like that,” like you’re the one being unreasonable. like you made him raise his voice.

you start apologizing for things that aren’t your fault. for things that never even happened. it’s easier that way — to stay ahead of the storm.

when you pull away from his touch even slightly he notices. he gives a look that makes you feel small, he doesn’t need to threaten. you fix yourself before he says a word.

he talks about other people like they’re beneath him. heroes, fans, everyone. you’re the only one who sees the “real him.” until one day you realize there’s no difference. the version of him he shows you is just another mask, perfectly tailored to what he knows you need.

talks like he’s narrating the world for you. like you’re lucky to hear what he really thinks. every conversation turns into a sermon about how everyone else is weak, ungrateful, pathetic. he’ll gesture toward people on tv, politicians, other supes, anyone in reach, and list every flaw they have. you start to realize he’s catalogued everyone’s smallest imperfections, how they breathe, how they smile, what their voices do when they’re scared.

sometimes it’s mesmerizing. he sounds so sure of himself, so certain that he’s the only one who truly sees things clearly. he talks about the people like they’re insects crawling around a light bulb he’s holding. you almost believe it with the way his voice wraps around the words.

makes choices as if he’s already checked with you and gotten approval. he’ll say “you’ll love it” instead of “do you want this?” and “i’ve decided” instead of “what do you think?” there’s no pause between thought and action, just the assumption that he’s right, that you should be grateful to be following his lead.

when he’s alone the performance doesn’t stop. he still needs an audience, even if it’s just his reflection. you hear him talk to himself sometimes, perfecting the lines he’ll say later, practicing how to smile when he doesn’t feel like it. there’s a mirror in every room for a reason.

everything revolves around him by default. if you’re going somewhere together, it’s wherever he wants to go. you’ll suggest a restaurant, and he’ll say, “eh, that’s cute, but I know a better one,” like it’s a favor he’s doing you. his schedule always takes priority; if you’re busy, he’ll act mildly insulted that you think your plans matter more than whatever he has going on that day. in his mind the world’s hierarchy just is that way, and he’s on top.

it’s exhausting to be near him. like standing too close to the sun — the light’s dazzling, but everything around it burns a little.

image management. he decides what photos go on your socials, what outfits “fit the brand,” what comments you should like. if a fan page tags you, he wants to approve the caption first.

he needs constant confirmation that you’re watching him, listening to him, impressed by him. if you glance at your phone during one of his stories, he’ll pause mid-sentence and say, “you done?” with that little half-smile that isn’t really a smile.

if you get recognized somewhere, he might play it off like he’s proud (ASSUMING he’s in a good mood): “look at you, getting noticed now.” but later you’ll catch the way he checks the comments under your posts. when you’re praised for something that has nothing to do with him, he’ll throw in: “guess I’m rubbing off on you.” everything good that happens to you becomes, somehow, about him.

telling him about your week feels like tossing words into a canyon. he’ll nod, say “uh-huh,” then pivot to something like, “that reminds me—today when I was on set…” if you keep talking, you’ll see that flicker of boredom in his eyes, that tight smile that says you’re taking too long. he can’t connect to anything that isn’t centered on himself.

he’ll give these speeches that sound like rehearsed interviews even in casual moments. he talks about himself like he’s a concept, not a man. “people don’t understand what it takes to be me,” he’ll say, like he’s explaining physics. you could be sitting in silence on the couch, and he’ll break it just to narrate his own importance.

when he plans something it’s extravagant and public. not because he’s romantic, but because he likes being seen as romantic. five-star restaurant, cameras catching him holding the door for you, that performative chivalry. he loves the compliments—“you’re so lucky,” “he’s such a gentleman.”

he likes you best when you’re quiet, smiling, listening, an appreciative audience. that’s the version that fits neatly beside him, the one that proves how admirable he is. if you challenge him, he acts amused, but you can feel the temperature drop. disagreement doesn’t compute; he treats it like bad PR. he might find your rebellion entertaining for a bit but eventually it becomes more of an annoyance than anything.

genuinely believes he’s the perfect partner. he truly thinks your life is better because he’s in it. any problems you might have? he assumes they’re minor, easily fixed by his presence, by his status, by him.

you’ve stopped expecting genuine advice. when you do come to him with a problem, his reaction is always surface-level, unless it’s about someone criticizing him. then suddenly he’s focused, asking who said what, how loudly, if anyone else heard. the only time he fully pays attention is when his reputation is involved.

talks badly about everyone. he’ll start venting about how much weight A-Train gained since last Tuesday, how “Queen Maeve’s got a superiority complex,” or how “that guy on the news has the charisma of a sponge.” sometimes it’s so cruel it sticks with you, the way he picks apart someone’s face, their posture, the way they breathe when they talk. it’s hard not to start noticing those same flaws in yourself.

being around him makes you insecure by default.

never asks what you want to eat. orders for you, always the thing that pairs well with his meal or the one that looks “camera-ready” if you’re out somewhere public. “you like steak, right?” he’ll say, not waiting for your answer.

remembers every tiny insecurity you’ve ever mentioned. not to comfort you, to have it stored. a weapon, a reminder, a way to keep you small. if you ever disagree with him he’ll say something that hits right where it hurts. “don’t get sensitive, i’m just being honest.”

he makes it clear that anything you enjoy or achieve is secondary to him. he frames your accomplishments in relation to him, reminding you that no one should be more interesting, more impressive, more visible than he is. you start to internalize it. your joy becomes muted, your excitement cautious, your confidence filtered through his ego. everything about your life must reinforce his superiority.

if you ever try to leave early from an event or turn down an invite, he acts wounded. “people expect us together,” he says, like you’re ruining a national image instead of just needing rest. he loves being seen with you, not because it’s you, but because you make him look stable, human, wanted. he’ll kiss you in front of cameras, hand heavy on your back, and whisper “smile.” after, he won’t even mention the event. like it didn’t exist once the lights went off.

later he’ll brush your hair behind your ear and say, “you were amazing out there.” it sounds like praise, and maybe it is. but what he really means is thanks for making me look good.

he doesn’t like you having people who can talk sense into you. so he keeps you close, always. tells you that other people don’t really get what it’s like being with him, that they’d “never understand what we have.” he says we like it’s a fortress, but it’s just a wall he’s built around you.

likes knowing everything. you start by giving him your schedule, then your passwords, and it feels harmless until he’s scrolling through your messages while you’re brushing your teeth. if you ask why, “you’ve got nothing to hide, right?” and you hate that he’s right, you don’t. but it still feels like he’s peeling the skin off your privacy, strip by strip.

more prone to getting mad around you and directing his anger at you. what’s the worst that could happen? he knows you’re not going to leave him, and there’s nothing you can do about it except shut your mouth and hope eventually he calms down.

he uses guilt. pulls you back every time you start to float away. if you ever spend a night without him, he reminds you who waited for you, who “puts up with all your moods.”

you start thanking him for tolerating you.

the worst part is how normal it becomes. how you start anticipating what will make him proud, what will keep him calm, what will stop that look in his eyes. it stops feeling like fear; it starts feeling like love’s price.

buys you things you never asked for, expensive, impractical things that look fancy. you say you love it, because what else are you supposed to say? later, when you try to bring up something he did that hurt you, he’ll glance toward the gift and go, “you really think i’d do that to you? after everything i give you?” and you end up apologizing again, staring at the diamond he picked out.

loves to watch you apologize. there’s this curve at his mouth when you start saying sorry, like it’s confirmation that everything’s still in his control.

he wants you to depend on him for everything. tells you he doesn’t trust anyone else to look after you properly. and maybe at first it feels safe, someone finally taking care of you. but then you realize you don’t make any choices anymore. he does. where you go. what you wear. who you see. what you’re thinking. what youll do. who you are.

slowly, it starts to feel like everything you do is under his scrutiny. hobbies, quirks, even your sense of humor, all up for review. he tells you why certain interests make you look foolish. “that podcast? boring. why waste your time?” he’ll say, tone light, but the implication is clear: you’ll drop it, because he’s convinced you it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t, not when he’s watching.

if you start a habit he doesn’t like he makes you self-conscious about it until you stop. maybe it’s your obsession with a tv show, your love for a certain type of music, or how you dress. “you really gonna wear that?” he’ll say, voice casual, but the stare makes you feel tiny. you find yourself changing pieces of yourself you didn’t even think were noticeable, trimming the edges of your personality, because the alternative is tension, irritation, his judgment.

he hates when you’re too excited about something, anything that doesn’t involve him. if you start talking about a work achievement, a friend’s success, or a passion project, he’ll interrupt, redirect, or belittle it. it’s a quiet erosion of your confidence, the way he convinces you that nothing is important unless he says it is.

you start measuring yourself in relation to him, wondering if your interests are frivolous, if your personality is acceptable, if you’re enough for him.

he picks apart traits he doesn’t like in private too. maybe you’re stubborn, opinionated, or sarcastic. he’ll dissect it piece by piece. he doesn’t demand you stop being yourself outright, not immediately. he nudges, pries, points out flaws in your personality with surgical precision until you start modifying yourself unconsciously.

every time you change something to please him, he gives you enough praise to make it feel like progress, like he’s rewarding you for becoming the version of yourself he prefers.

critical of how you express yourself emotionally. too happy? he calls it shallow. too sad? he calls it dramatic. too independent? he calls it distant. he wants your emotions to be convenient for him, filtered through his needs. you start learning what’s safe to express and what will set him off. if you misstep, he doesn’t explode in public, he waits until you’re alone.

but he can be so sweet too. he’ll lift you into the sky just to watch the city glow beneath you, wrap his arms around you while the wind pulls at your hair. your stomach does somersaults, and for a moment you feel like you’re the only one in the world. he’ll smile at you, and it feels like only you get to see this side of him. but it’s always on his terms, any interruption, a call, a glance from someone else, and the spell breaks instantly. your moment of feeling special is tethered to him staying unbothered.

he’ll take you traveling. he’ll fuss over the details, from the flowers on the table to the music playing in the background, and you feel seen. he’ll talk about you to the staff like you’re the only person who matters. you feel important. adored. chosen. but really, the whole setup is staged, every soft gesture is framed for someone else to see, even if it’s just cameras that follow him everywhere. it’s about making the world see him as the perfect boyfriend, and you are the prop that proves it.

knows exactly which words make you lean in, which touches make you melt, and he’ll use them when he wants to. a brush of your hair back, a hand on your waist, a whisper that’s meant just for you, he times it perfectly. you feel like you’re his only focus. and for a moment, you are. until you notice he’s scanning the room, or smirking at a camera, or letting the team see just how devoted he is.

he’ll let you think you’re discovering private sides of him. it feels like intimacy, like trust. but really, he’s deciding how much to show, testing your reactions, measuring your loyalty, seeing if you’re hooked enough to stay. he’s generous, but on his own terms, and it always comes with the unspoken rule: you belong to him. you belong to his story.

by default, everyone is afraid of you. they know you’re homelander’s, and that’s enough. nobody touches you, nobody speaks too long, nobody looks at you wrong. you feel it everywhere you go, all the eyes skimming you over, the cautious distance people keep. you don’t even need to say anything, just being seen with him makes people tiptoe. it’s suffocating, sometimes, how everyone treats you like you’re fragile, like you’re a trophy that could shatter under the wrong glance, and you know it’s all because of him.

he only makes time for you when it’s convenient for him. if he’s busy with the public, the media, the vought board, or just “being homelander,” you wait. and when he finally comes to you, it’s like a gift he’s bestowing, not a choice he’s making for love. if you text, call, or try to see him when he isn’t free, you get annoyance. he doesn’t see your need, your excitement, your longing, he sees an inconvenience, a reminder that someone wants something from him. and yet, when he does have time, when he decides you’re allowed to have him, he’s brilliant. attentive, larger than life, the center of your world for that day.

makes you question yourself until you stop trying to have opinions.“You really think that’s smart?” or “You sure you wanna go with that?” in a tone that drips superiority. over time you start hesitating before you speak, thinking through how he might react. you hear his voice in your head when you’re alone, what he’d say, how he’d disapprove, and eventually, it’s easier to just wait for his opinion before forming your own. that’s how he likes it.

he makes you feel like leaving isn’t even an option. not because he threatens you directly (though he’ll do that too), he doesn’t have to. he’ll remind you how dangerous the world is, how many people hate him, how easily you could “get caught in the crossfire.” you start believing that he’s the only one who can protect you, even though deep down you know he’s the reason you need protecting.

he wants you to be hyper-aware of every word and reaction, so that your anxiety keeps you small and compliant.

rewrites your reality until his version feels like the truth. when you catch him lying or doing something cruel, he’ll act offended that you even noticed. he’s so good at it that you start wondering if maybe you are overreacting, if maybe you imagined things. that’s his favorite kind of control, when you start defending him against your own better judgment.

he doesn’t need to cage you if he can convince you there’s no cage at all.

keeps you close enough to control, distant enough to keep you chasing. homelander never lets you settle into comfort. when you think things are good, he changes. pulls back, goes cold, acts bored. you’ll panic, trying to win back his attention. he decides when you’re starved and when you’re fed.

isolates you so efficiently you almost don’t notice it happening. at first it’s subtle, just comments like “they don’t really get you, do they?” or “you don’t need anyone else, you’ve got me.” he makes it sound like he’s defending you from the world. over time, it becomes expectation. friends fade out, calls go unanswered. when you realize it’s quiet — too quiet — he frames it like it’s your choice. you stopped talking to them, didn’t you? you said they didn’t understand.

doesn’t have to yell to make you afraid. he doesn’t even need to say anything. he knows you’ll fill the silence with apologies, explanations, anything to diffuse whatever’s building behind his eyes. anything to stop him from getting mad.

unpredictable on purpose. you can never tell if he’s going to laugh something off or take offense. one day, a teasing comment makes him smirk; the next the same thing makes him freeze. it keeps you off balance, guessing, adapting, trying to read him before he reacts. if you never know where the line is, you’ll never risk crossing it.

knows exactly when to remind you what he is. sometimes it’s just the sound of his boots as he lands behind you; sometimes it’s the sonic crack in the sky as he takes off after an argument.“remember what I can do.” he’ll threaten you. you already do. that’s what keeps you in orbit, the truth that you are never on equal ground.

loves the effect he has on people. he’ll walk into a room and see how everyone stiffens, even you. he likes it. it confirms what he already believes: that everyone is beneath him.

everyone in the city treats you as part of his myth. cameras, reporters, supe fans. even when you want to disappear for a while, the world won’t let you. he’s on every screen, every billboard. “we’re perfect,” he says for the cameras, and it becomes true to everyone but you.

verbally abusive, often belittling and humiliating you in front of others to make you feel small and insignificant. would use his charisma and charm to draw you in, only to push you away when he feels threatened or challenged.

physically, homelander is strong and intimidating, using his size and strength to control you both sexually and physically. he might force you to engage in activities that make you uncomfortable, often pushing boundaries and testing your limits.

would constantly test your loyalty, putting you in situations where you have to choose between him and your own morals. if you fail these tests, he would become enraged, lashing out with physical violence or emotional abuse. he would use your fear of him to keep you in line, threatening to hurt yourself or someone you love if you disobey him.

homelander would never truly love or respect you. he sees you as an object to be possessed, a trophy to flaunt to the world. he would use you for his own gain, discarding you when he's finished with you.

“quality time” on his schedule. he’ll call at odd hours, expecting you to drop everything because now he wants company. you’ve stopped making concrete plans with anyone else because you never know when he’ll appear, milkshake in hand, pretending it’s spontaneous when it’s really another thing on his list.

constant comparison. treats every small act as a competition. who’s more admired, who’s busier, who’s stronger. he needs to win even the casual compliments.

when someone pays you attention, even harmlessly, you feel the air change before he says a word. he doesn’t get jealous because he loves you; he’s jealous because someone else saw something that he thinks only he should own.

one day he’s cold. dismissive. says something cutting that sticks with you long after he’s gone. you replay it, try to figure out what you did wrong. and then the next morning he walks in all sunshine, grinning, talking about a trip he’s planning, asking if you want to go. no apology, no mention of last night. just the assumption that you’ve moved on, because he has.

you learn that this is just how it goes with him. a bad day doesn’t end in closure, it ends when he decides it’s over. he keeps the tempo so fast you barely have time to be hurt before he’s already rewriting the mood. and every time he does, you feel yourself giving in a little more, because arguing means losing the version of him that smiles.

you would be afraid to leave him, fearing the consequences of his wrath if you dared to defy him. you would constantly walk on eggshells, trying to anticipate his moods and needs, all while knowing that he will never truly love or respect you. the relationship would be toxic and destructive, leaving you emotionally and mentally exhausted, but you would stay because you're afraid of what he might do if you ever tried to leave.

you're scared to leave him, scared of what he might do, scared of what you might lose, or who he might hurt. there’s no hiding from him, no escaping, or fairy tale ending. so you stay, trapped, loving him and hating him all at the same time.

★ a / n : 6 ….. 7 ?!!?

started 11.6.2025. finished 11.7.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

The basement always smelled the same, bleach, solder, gun oil, the copper tang of blood that never left the grout. It was 2:37 a.m. by the cheap clock bolted crooked above the workbench, and you’d been hunched over the monitor for—what, four hours? five? Time in this place folded in on itself.

You rubbed at your eyes, screen burn bleeding into the dark. You wondered, quietly, guiltily, what the point even was. Take one supe down, three more sprouted in its place, shiny as propaganda. The world didn’t shift; it shrugged.

(You hated thinking like that. It made you sound like Butcher.)

The cursor blinked at you like it knew. Mocking. The sound of the old computer was loud enough to fill the silence, old fans whining under the weight of too many surveillance feeds and encrypted Vought server breaches that didn’t lead anywhere useful. You’d cracked half of one, something about a new “PR rehabilitation campaign” for A-Train, and then lost the thread somewhere between the caffeine crash and the ache in your neck.

There were empty coffee cups scattered like casualties across the table. A protein bar wrapper curled against the leg of the chair, crinkling each time you shifted your foot. The lamp buzzed, flickering every few minutes like it was giving up too.

Hughie had told you to go home hours ago. “Seriously, your eyes are doing that thing again,” he’d said, hovering awkwardly at the top of the stairs, backpack slung like it might pull him out of here if he leaned far enough. “You’re starting to sound like Butcher. That’s—uh—not a compliment.” He’d laughed, then grimaced when you didn’t. You’d waved him off, promised you’d shut down in “ten minutes.” That was at least four hours ago.

Butcher’s version of concern was sharper. “You’re an overworked cunt, that’s what you are,” he’d barked earlier that day, shoving a stack of files toward you with his usual charm. “Take a fuckin’ nap before yer brain leaks out yer ears.” Then he’d muttered something about “soft-hearted idiots,” and left you there like a parent storming out mid-argument.

There was comfort in the work, you guessed. It was something you could measure. Something that stayed still when everything else didn’t. The rest of it, the moral lines, the politics, the blood that always came later, it all blurred.

Reaching for the cup beside you, you found it empty, and stared at it like the universe had wronged you. The betrayal felt personal, which was stupid, but that’s where you were at mentally, arguing with a mug because the caffeine had finally run dry. You slumped back in the chair, eyes gritty, stomach hollow.

You told yourself you were done after this next data dump. You’d said that six dumps ago. Every file was the same, corruption hidden behind corporate optimism, blood wrapped in branding. “Heroes,” your ass. You thought about that press conference last week, the one where The Deep had cried about “accountability.” Hughie had shown you the clip on his phone, laughing, saying it was pathetic. But you hadn’t laughed. You’d just watched the screen and thought about the things people were willing to forgive if the apology was shiny enough.

You rubbed your thumb over the chipped edge of the mug. It was one Frenchie had painted himself, a peace sign on one side, a tiny mushroom cloud on the other. Said it was for balance. That was him, always finding poetry in contradiction.

The creak overhead grew louder, footsteps, quick and uneven, followed by the metallic clatter of the trapdoor latch. Then a voice, half a whisper, half a yawn.

“Mon ange, why are you still awake?”

Frenchie descended the stairs two at a time, the soles of his sneakers scuffing against the concrete. He looked like chaos incarnate, oversized jacket hanging off his shoulders like it used to belong to someone bigger. Layers, always too many layers, dark jeans, jacket, a shirt with a fading graphic that might’ve been a band logo once. He moved like the world had never told him to slow down, hands talking faster than his mouth, eyes darting to everything at once. A gold chain caught the light when he shifted, flashing warm against the olive of his throat.

You blinked up from the monitor, brain half in the code and half in the quiet, and managed something like a shrug. “Working,” you said, the word scraping its way out. “What are you doing here?”

He grinned, but it was the tired kind, the kind that meant he knew he shouldn’t be smiling at all. “Eh, I told M.M. I would finish the modification for the launcher tonight.“ He gestured vaguely toward the workbench in the corner, where pieces of dismantled tech lay in chaos. “But then I… how do you say…” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word. “procrastinated.”

You gave him a look over your shoulder. “So you came back in the middle of the night to do it?”

He raised his eyebrows in mock offense. “Non, I came back because I am a professional. And because… well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I smoked a little. Time slipped away from me.”

Yeah. That tracked. He smelled like weed and cold night air, like the alley behind the pawn shop you were under and the chemical bite of whatever project he’d abandoned halfway through. His eyes were glossy, the edges of his grin softened by something looser than sleep. He looked like freedom, the reckless kind, the kind that never waited for permission.

You leaned back in your chair, half-smiling despite yourself. “You’re high.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Me? I am insulted.” Then, after a beat, with a grin: “Only a little.”

You shook your head, eyes dragging over the glow of your monitor again. “You could’ve finished that thing tomorrow. You don’t have to keep showing up like the lab elf at 3 a.m.”

“But then I would not get to see you looking like death, eh?” His voice was teasing, but gentle underneath. He drifted closer, scanning the mess of blueprints and empty mugs around you. “You work too much.”

“Wow,” you muttered, pretending to type. “Thanks.”

He laughed under his breath. “You have been down here too long. The world upstairs still exists, you know.”

You arched an eyebrow at him, half a smirk tugging through your exhaustion. “I’m not the one who just smoked and immediately thought to come work.” It came out dry, but not unkind. Just tired. You let the words hang there, waiting for him to grin, and sure enough, Frenchie’s mouth curved, slow and wolfish.

“Ah, but that is different,” he said, wagging a finger, the accent curling around his words. “For me, it is inspiration. It helps with the creativity. Opens the mind, lets the ideas crawl out from where they hide. You see?” He sets a wrench he had picked up down, stepped back from the bench, and gestured with both hands like a magician revealing his latest trick. “Come. You will see what I mean.”

You exhaled through your nose, already half-smiling despite the weight behind your eyes. “Frenchie—”

“Come, come,” he interrupted, waving you over with a grin that felt stitched from mischief and sincerity both. “You can take a break from staring into the computer abyss. Two minutes, that is all I ask.”

You hesitated, then pushed yourself up from the chair, the motion slow, reluctant, like your body wasn’t entirely convinced you could still move for something other than work. He met you halfway, still buzzing with whatever cocktail of adrenaline and THC and other miscellaneous substances kept him upright at this hour.

The launcher sat on the worktable, a Frankenstein’s monster of Vought tech and Frenchie’s imagination: compact, ugly, beautiful in its purpose. You recognized parts of a supe-grade tranquilizer gun spliced with a destabilized sonic shell, something he’d probably scavenged from one of Butcher’s “souvenir” raids.

“You’ve been working on this since last week,” you observed, tracing the mess of soldered wires, the faint scorch marks around the barrel.

“Oui.” He leaned beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “But now, it sings.”

“That thing ‘sings’? It’s a weapon, not a guitar.”

“Ah, mais non,” he countered, smiling, eyes half-lidded but alive. “Everything sings, if you build it with enough love. Even something meant to destroy.”

You looked at him then, really looked, the old scars climbing up his skin like faded ghosts, the restless fire that never seemed to leave him alone. You’d seen that look before, after a mission went bad, after he’d nearly blown himself up making something to keep you all alive. The line between creation and self-destruction was razor-thin with him; sometimes you weren’t sure which side he stood on.

(And wasn’t that the story for all of you? Butcher with his vendetta, Hughie with his guilt — all of you pretending that vengeance could pass for purpose.)

He twisted a small valve on the side of the launcher, the device letting out a soft hiss. The smell of ozone filled the air, electric and faintly sweet. “See? Better. She breathes now.”

You leaned closer out of habit, peering at the mechanism. “That’s… actually kind of impressive.”

“Kind of?” His hand found the small of your back, guiding you closer to the table. “No, no. It is completely impressive. The difference between life and death, she is in the details. I know this.”

You tried not to smile. “You also once glued a suppressor on backward.”

“Eh, that was artistic license.”

You shook your head, rubbing at your temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache soften under the sound of his laughter. Maybe he was right, maybe you had been down here too long, hunched over keys and numbers, trying to solve a war through code. Maybe this was the real work, standing beside someone who refused to let the darkness swallow everything whole.

Frenchie nudged the launcher toward you as if it were a living thing that needed approval. “Place your hands there.” he instructed, voice sticky-sweet with the cloak of his high, eyes bright and too direct. “Help me finish.”

You told yourself you were tired; you told yourself you had numbers to parse and a dozen damned files to close. But your fingers moved anyway, reaching for the band of cables Frenchie held out, the same way they always moved when the team needed an extra pair of hands. He handed you a spool of solder like he was giving you a blunt instrument and a confessional. “You know how to do this, yes?” he asked, half-teasing, half-insecure, as if he needed permission to let you touch the thing he’d poured himself into.

“I used to hate electronics,” you said, fingers already warm from the iron, “until Hughie made me solder him back together after he electrocuted himself trying to—” you didn’t finish because the memory of Hughie swearing and blinking like a bug was too soft to be cruel. It belonged to a different kind of moment, one with less guilt and fewer governments.

Frenchie hummed, pleased with the memory. “Petit Hughie is a fragile hero. Like porcelain man.” He squared the component, held it steady with a practiced hand so your solder could pool and form a seam. “Careful.” His breath warmed the corner of your cheek; his thumb brushed your wrist in passing. The iron kissed the metal; the solder bloomed like a tiny, obedient river. You watched the bead form, how it took the heat and turned dull and firm, how something unstable became whole in a blink if you kept the flame steady. You thought of how that might translate to people, how many seams in ordinary lives could be mended if someone bothered to hold the thing steady while the heat did its work.

Frenchie talked while you worked, half monologue, half poem: stories of nights at the Clarkson Avenue lot when the Haitian Kings had laughed too loud, when they’d taught him to weld, when he’d eaten fried plantain out of a paper bag and sworn they’d taste like home. The launcher began to look less like jury-rig and more like a tool with a temperament: dial set to pulse, not long-wave; damping plate cross-braced with braided cable; a crude but elegant trigger that would, if the plan held, do more than make noise. You adjusted a screw Frenchie had over-tightened; he made a face and admitted, sheepish, “Too excited.” That made you laugh properly for the first time in five hours.

You tightened the final clamp. Frenchie handed you a rag; you wiped your hands on it, leaving little black streaks on your palms like trophies. He tapped the barrel lightly. “She will sing, mon ange. She will sing.”

Then, predictably, he sparked up a joint like it was a metronome, two hours without it was apparently a crime against Frenchie’s nervous system, and the room filled with a fragrant smear of smoke. He rolled the ember between his fingers, inhaled deep and slow, then exhaled.

“C’est la muse,” he pronounced, jazzing the word with a flourish. “Inspiration requires lubrication.” He offered you the joint in a showman’s bow that was half flirtation, half apology for the smell. You declined with a tired little shake of the head, you’d had enough chemical company for one night, but you didn’t mind the cloud.

Frenchie dug through his pocket for the safety goggles, they were old, lenses scratched with the history of every near-miss he’d ever had. He pushed them toward you with a grin that split his face. “For safety,” he said. “We cannot be sexy and blinded at same time.”

You laughed and accepted the goggles. He put on his own, oversized and slightly askew, then did a dramatic thumbs-up as if the entire world depended on that single gesture. “Okay,” Frenchie said, voice turning businesslike (which for him was a curious mix—part craftsman, part poet, part small-time arsonist with a conscience). He flicked a tiny dial; the launcher hummed with the stir of a beast waking. He counted under his breath in that soft, mumbling French of his, “Un. Deux. Trois.” He glanced at you, eyebrows raised, the “do you trust me?” question folded under the cadence. You gave the most tired, honest nod you had in hours.

Frenchie grinned, half triumphant, half child, and pointed the barrel into the center of the room, away from the workbench, away from the monitors you loved and feared in equal measure. “We will do it small,” he said. “Like a whisper.”

He flicked the switch.

The sound that came out was not a roar. It was a thing that moved through the room like wind through reeds, a frequency that left the air standing on edge. Papers danced; stray screws jumped off the bench like nervous insects; a pen rolled across the table and leapt to the floor. The cheap clock above the workbench juddered and then slowed, its hand trembling like a heartbeat slowed by narcotic, until finally it stuttered and stopped in the middle of its tick like it was confused by the echo.

A paint can on a shelf rattled open and a smear of blue, bright, accidental, beautiful, spattered across the cement like someone had thrown a sky at the floor. The monitor speakers hiccuped and spat a thin line of static that looked for all the world like a cartoon ghost trying to whistle. A stack of files collapsed in a paper avalanche. For a second the basement looked as if a small hurricane had moved through.

Frenchie whooped. It was a high, feral sound that made you grin despite the mild terror. He clapped his hands once, glee splattering across his face like paint. “She sings!” He danced a little jig between the overturned coffee cups and the fallen files, and the joint shook in his hand, embers glowing.

You, by contrast, sat very still, mouth a small O, goggles fogging slightly with your breath. The clock on the wall ticked one slow, indignant tick and then, perhaps in solidarity with you, died utterly.

He leaned in close, eyes bright and wet with triumph. “Perfect. Perfect.” he said. “We will blame Hughie.”

You laughed, a real, ragged laugh that loosened something in your chest, because of course he would blame Hughie, because of course Butcher would rant, and because Frenchie, even stoned and ridiculous, had a way of making ruin feel like rehearsal for something beautiful.

Frenchie’s excitement was the kind that filled every inch of the air; wild, buoyant, infectious. He was still talking to the launcher like it was a beloved pet, gesturing at it with the joint clutched between two fingers. “You see? She listens to me. She listens because I treat her with respect,” he declared, tapping the metal like it had a heartbeat.

You shook your head. “I should get back to work,” you acknowledged, glancing toward your monitor. Frenchie caught the glance, the instinctive retreat into exhaustion. “Non, non, non,” he interrupted, wagging a finger. “The world can wait. You cannot code revolutions on an empty stomach.” He was already moving, the kind of person who never really stopped once he started. “I am starving. Are you starving? You must be starving.”

“I’m fine,” you tried, but it came out soft and unconvincing.

“Nonsense,” he said, waving the protest away as if it were cigarette smoke. “We will eat. Something with grease, maybe cheese. Oui, cheese solves many problems.”

Frenchie had insisted, of course he had, that the night was young, that genius required fuel, and that you’d been indoors so long your skin was starting to look “like one of those little mushrooms that grow in the dark.”

So now you were here.

A half-dead diner on Clarkson, fluorescent and flickering, pretending to be open twenty-four hours because no one told the lights they were lying. The vinyl booths stuck to your skin, smelling of syrup and bleach. A ceiling fan turned with the slow rhythm of someone counting down their last shift. Outside, the city breathed its usual poison, neon haze, cigarette steam, and a siren wailing so far away it already sounded tired.

You sat opposite Frenchie in a booth too small for his restless energy. He’d slung his jacket onto the seat beside him, chain glinting against the collar of his shirt. He was a little damp from the drizzle outside, his eyes still glossy, a shade too red for this hour. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here. Or maybe everywhere at once.

The waitress poured coffee without asking, the kind that tasted like exhaustion, and you took it anyway because it was hot.

You both ordered without much thought, something fried and over-salted, the kind of meal that coated your arteries and made you question life choices halfway through. Frenchie, with his elbows on the table and eyes still glassy from the smoke, looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re going to regret that,” you commented on his order, stirring your coffee with the tiny metal spoon, watching the ripple fade into the dark surface.

“Mon ange, I regret everything I eat in America. That is not the point.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound foreign in your own throat. When the food came, he tore into it with childlike delight, half the fries gone before the plate even touched the table. He started talking again, mouth half full, hands alive with motion. Something about his last job before he met Butcher, some mad story involving a Latvian arms dealer, a briefcase of diamonds, and an ostrich. You barely followed it, but it didn’t matter. Because he was alive. You were alive.

“You’re telling me the arms dealer had a pet ostrich just hanging out in the room?”

Frenchie held up a fry like it was evidence. “Not just any ostrich. This one wore a gold chain. Much better dresser than the dealer, if I may say so.”

You smiled in disbelief. “Right, because fashion sense is what really matters when you’re trafficking weapons.”

“Exactly! It’s the little details that show taste. If I ever become a criminal again—”

“If?”

He ignored you, waving his fry. “—I will have a pet flamingo. He will smoke clove cigarettes and judge everyone.”

You nearly spat out your coffee. “A judgmental flamingo. That’s exactly what this team needs.”

“Don’t mock him. He has feelings.”

You tried to hold a straight face and failed. “You’re insane.”

“Oui,” he said, with that infuriating little shrug that was half pride, half confession.

You glanced at him again, his hands still restless even when he wasn’t talking, like something in him was always building, breaking, rebuilding. “You ever miss it?” you asked. “The part before all this? Before the hiding and the running and… Vought?”

He looked at you for a long time, the grin fading but not gone. “Miss it? No. I miss who I was before I knew better. That’s not the same thing.”

You nodded, though something in your chest tightened. “Yeah. I get that.”

For a moment, Frenchie had nothing to say. He looked out the window like he was debating his next move. “They ruin everything, these supes. Not just cities, not just lives—” he tapped his temple lightly “—they ruin the idea that anyone else can matter. They make gods out of accidents.”

You swallowed. “And we clean up the mess.”

“Oui.” He looked at you again, softer now. “But maybe that is what makes us… human. We are the ones still trying to fix what they break.”

You didn’t know what to say. You just sat there in that cheap booth, half-empty plates between you, the neon sign outside flickering red and blue across his face. He smiled again, smaller this time. “Also, I fix rockets. That helps.”

“Yeah,” you said, pushing his fries toward him. “You fix a lot of things.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything right away. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“What, fixing stuff?”

“Mm. No. Caring about broken things.” He shook his head. “Most people don’t. They throw it away, find a new one. Cleaner. Easier. You and I—we stay until it’s working again.”

You let out a huff of humorous air, staring down at the scratched tabletop. “Yeah, well. Maybe I just don’t know when to quit.”

“Or maybe you know that quitting is boring,” he countered, leaning forward now, elbows on the table. His eyes were sharp, but warm, too warm. “There is honor in being stubborn, mon ange. Especially when the world tells you to stop.”

The word mon ange hit different this time. Maybe it was the way he said it, quieter, less playful, like he didn’t even realize it had come out. Your pulse skipped, but you tried to hide it behind a sip of coffee that had long gone cold.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly. “You’re just—” You gestured vaguely. “You’re very French.”

He grinned. “Ah, yes. My greatest crime.”

“Second greatest,” you said before you could stop yourself. “First is your fashion sense.”

He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “My fashion sense is revolutionary!”

“It’s chaotic.”

“It is artistic chaos,” he corrected, flicking his hand dramatically. “You Americans—”

“Oh, here we go.”

“—you have no appreciation for expression! You wear your souls in beige.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You wore two jackets to dinner.”

“It was cold,” he said, unconvincingly. “And also, they both had excellent pockets.”

He was ridiculous. Infuriating. And god, you didn’t want to stop talking.

The laughter lingered, sinking into something softer the longer the night went on. You caught yourself watching him, the easy way he existed, how everything about him was motion and warmth. He was all contradiction: sharp edges and open palms, danger and gentleness bound together in a way that shouldn’t work but did. He tilted his head. “You are thinking too loudly,” he called you out.

You blinked. “What?”

“I can hear it. You are in here—” he tapped his temple “—building something again. Always working, even when you sit still.”

You smiled. “Maybe I just like fixing things too.”

He nodded, almost to himself. “Then we are the same kind of broken.” The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy enough to mean something. The world outside went on, but in that booth, it felt like everything had slowed down. “Next time, you pick the restaurant. Somewhere with better coffee.”

“Deal,” you said, but your voice was quieter now, steadier.

He stood first, tossing a few crumpled bills on the table, and when he looked back at you, the grin was back. “Come on. Before I decide to order dessert and regret everything I eat in America twice.”

You followed him out into the night, the door jingling shut behind you, and it hit you, somewhere between the smell of rain on concrete and the sound of his laughter, that maybe you already liked him more than you should.

The street had that strange, in-between stillness of too-late hours, when the city wasn’t asleep, just waiting for morning. The rain had eased into a mist, silvering the pavement, and the air smelled like wet roads and sugar from somewhere nearby. Frenchie shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, humming some old song under his breath. You didn’t recognize it, but it fit, the kind of melody that only exists at 4 a.m. He kicked at a stray bottle cap and sent it skittering down the sidewalk. “You know,” he started, glancing over, “you could smile more. The world will not end if you do.”

You rolled your eyes. Does anyone actually like being told that? “You’d find a way to make it my fault if it did.”

“Of course,” he said without missing a beat. “I would say, they smiled, and boom—apocalypse.”

You laughed, soft and tired. The sound carried, brushing against the empty street. Then you saw it, the flicker of pale blue light across the fog. A run-down arcade wedged between a pawn shop and a nail salon, half the bulbs in the sign burnt out so it just read AR ADE.

Frenchie followed your gaze and stopped. “Ah, mon dieu,” he said reverently. “A temple of wasted youth.”

“It’s probably closed.”

“It is never closed for destiny,” he said, already striding toward it, yanking the door handle like a man who refused to be told no. It gave with a rusty creak, the little bell above it jingling weakly. Inside, the air was thick with dust and old electricity. Frenchie’s eyes lit up immediately, glossy from smoke and nostalgia.

“Look at this,” he said, touching the claw machine like it was sacred. Inside, an army of plush toys stared out with soulless eyes. “It calls to me.”

“You’re high.”

“I am inspired.”

You shook your head, but your lips twitched anyway. After purchasing some tokens he fed a few coins into the slot, the joystick moving as he maneuvered the claw toward a stuffed bear with beady black eyes. The claw dropped, wobbled, and somehow—miraculously—caught. When it thunked down the chute, he gasped like he’d just defused a bomb. “Regarde! Victory!”

You covered your mouth, laughing harder than you had in days. “That’s horrifying,” you said as he held it up.

“She is beautiful,” he defended, smoothing its matted fur. “I will name her Butcher, because she terrifies me.”

You shook your head, wiping tears from your eyes, and turned away partly to hide the stupid warmth in your chest, because why did that feel like the funniest, softest thing you’d heard all week? Why did he make you laugh when nothing else had been able to pry you open lately? Why did you care? Why was he so goddamn funny?

You drifted toward another machine, the glow pulling you like gravity. It was an old prize crane with peeling stickers, its theme a mash-up of old cartoon characters and plushes. Tucked in the corner, half-buried under a stuffed dinosaur and a Pikachu, was a plush that looked exactly like something Frenchie would lose his mind over, some bizarre little gremlin thing with giant eyes, a stitched scowl, and a tiny plastic knife in its felt hand. A “Killer Critter,” the tag said.

Of course he’d love the one holding a weapon.

You fed coins into the slot. The claw shuddered to life with a sad whine. The first attempt missed completely, grabbing uselessly at air before scraping down the glass. You felt your cheeks heat, why were you even doing this? Why did it matter? Why did you want this stupid gremlin for him so badly?

(Because he looked at you tonight like the world hadn’t beaten you down yet. Because he makes ruin feel bearable. Because you want to give him something.)

Because . . . because.

You tried again.

The claw lowered, wobbling like it was drunk, closed around the gremlin’s oversized head—and held. You didn’t breathe as it lifted, swayed, and dropped the plush through the chute with a soft thunk. You froze for a second, staring at it, as if the tiny stitched knife might come alive and congratulate you. Then you picked it up and turned toward Frenchie, extending it out to him.

He was already watching.

He must’ve seen you win it, his hands stilled mid-gesture, grin softening into something that lived in the space between surprise and tenderness. His eyes flicked from the plush to your face, and all that chaotic, relentless energy of his paused. Just… paused. “For me?” he asked, voice small in a way you’d never heard from him.

You shrugged, trying to play it off, trying to keep your heartbeat from leaping out of your chest. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I thought you’d like it. He’s armed. Seemed your type.”

Frenchie pressed a hand over his heart as if physically wounded. “Mon ange… he has a knife. He is perfection.”

You laughed, and he stepped forward, taking the plush from your hands like it was something precious. His fingers brushed yours, warm, paint-stained, smelling faintly of smoke, and for once he didn’t crack a joke or toss out a flirt or deflect with chaos. For once, he didn’t say anything. Not a word, not a quip, not a half-mumbled line in French. He just stood there, plush clutched between his hands, his expression softening in real time, as if he was feeling the warmth instead of outrunning it for once.

It was strange seeing him like that.

Quiet. Still.

His eyes flicked down to where your fingers had brushed, then back up to your face, and you could almost see the gears start to spin, not the ones that built bombs or launchers or improvised rocket systems, but the ones that processed feelings, and god, those were always harder to engineer.

He blinked once, twice. “You are… very close to me,” he said finally, a little dazed, like someone noticing the weather for the first time.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one holding my hand, Frenchie.”

He looked down, as if he needed visual confirmation, and when he realized he was, in fact, still holding onto your fingers, he let go too quickly. He cleared his throat, straightened his jacket, tried to pretend that didn’t happen. “Ah. Yes. I was protecting you. From the plush. He looked violent.” He laughed once, but it didn’t sound like his usual laugh. This one stayed small, caught somewhere in his throat.

For a guy who could disarm a bomb in twelve seconds flat, he suddenly looked completely out of his depth.

You turned back toward the next row of machines, coins clinking in your hand. Neon light flickered against your skin, pink, blue, pink again, and he watched you like he’d never really looked before. He followed you to the basketball hoop game rolling his shoulders, loosening his wrists. “You are going to lose,” he said, tone cocky.

You shot first. Swish.

He blinked. “Okay. Beginner’s luck.”

“Sure,” you said, grinning.

He missed the next three in a row. Blamed the rim. Blamed the angle. Blamed America. (“The hoops are smaller here, I swear.”) When you laughed he looked at you like he’d just accidentally set off fireworks in his chest.

By the time you’d won — decisively — he was standing too close, shoulder brushing yours as you both watched the score blink red on the screen. His voice dropped a little. “You are dangerous when you are focused like this.”

You looked up at him. “Dangerous?”

He nodded, eyes steady. “Oui. You make me forget I am supposed to be winning.”

The air between you charged. He stepped back, shook it off, and grabbed another token. “Now,” he said quickly, like he had to move or the feeling might swallow him whole. “I will destroy you at air hockey.”

You followed him to the air hockey table, and Frenchie rolled up his sleeves like he was preparing for combat. The puck dropped, and he was relentless. Every shot you took, he countered with lightning precision, the disk ricocheting between your paddles in a blur of light and sound. You laughed through it, cursed him once under your breath when he scored again, and he just grinned wider.

By the time the game ended, the score wasn’t even close. He leaned on the edge of the table, breathing fast, triumphant. “See?” he said, voice rough from laughing. “You cannot win everything. Sometimes you must let me be impressive.”

“Let you?” you scoffed, grabbing your jacket. “You played like your life depended on it.”

He shrugged, tilting his head, eyes warm and a little too steady on you. “Maybe it did.”

You froze for half a second before he broke the moment with a wink, flicking the puck across the table toward you. The lights of the arcade had softened by then, the once-bright chaos settling into something quieter. A few kids ran past with tickets spilling from their pockets; the machines clicked through their idle loops, half asleep. Outside, the sky had shifted, deep violet bleeding into orange, the last thread of sunlight stretching over the lot.

You both lingered there longer than you meant to, standing side by side beneath the flicker of a “GAME OVER” sign. He looked out at the street like he was trying to memorize it, like this tiny, nothing-night had turned into something worth keeping.

When he finally spoke, it was softer than you’d ever heard him. “You should probably sleep,” he said. “Before you start seeing double and accuse me of cheating again.”

You smiled. “You did cheat.”

“Oui,” he admitted easily, his grin returning, “but beautifully.”

He walked you to your car, hands tucked into his jacket, shoulders relaxed but eyes still restless, still glancing your way like he didn’t quite trust this new, warm thing in his chest not to spill out.

“See?” he said. “The world did not end.”

Not yet, you thought. Not tonight.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just watched you, the kind of look that seemed to pull every thought you had straight out of your head. Slowly, he reached up, brushing his fingers against your cheek. His thumb hesitated there, the barest touch, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between you. It wasn’t even about what might happen next, it was the pause. The quiet, unspoken something that had been building since the diner, since the laughter and the tokens and the plush. It felt bigger than the night, and smaller too, like something you shouldn’t look at too directly, or it might vanish.

You could feel your own pulse in your throat, that dull ache of being too tired to think, too wired to rest. The kind of tired where everything honest slips out, the kind where you stop pretending you’re fine, or detached, or that this person standing in front of you doesn’t make the world feel less heavy for a minute.

Frenchie let out a small, shaky laugh. “You are very bad for my sleep schedule,” he joked, voice half gone, but still laced with that humor he used like armor.

You smiled. “You started it.”

He tilted his head at that, eyes bright and soft all at once. For a moment, he looked like he might say something — something stupid, or brave, or both — but instead, he just nodded a little, fingers tracing down before dropping away.

“Then,” he paused, “maybe I should finish it.” He took a slow step back, eyes catching the last smear of sunlight. “Bonne nuit, mon ange.”

When you drove off, he was still standing there under the glow of the arcade sign, half-smiling like someone who’d just realized he might be in trouble.

You sat in the car for a while after you got home, fingers still tingling where he’d touched you. The street was half-lit, washed in the kind of shade that made everything look like memory instead of moment. You stared through the windshield at the slow sweep of dawn climbing over the skyline, and it hit you like a punch, that instinct, that ache in your chest that wasn’t fear or lust or adrenaline, but something heavier. Something close to care. You didn’t know when it started. Maybe when he called you mon ange with a grin that didn’t mean it, or when he’d actually gone quiet, like maybe he did.

You hated that feeling, the need to protect. Because it was the same thing that got people killed. It was the same thing that made Butcher the way he was. And for the first time, you got it.

It wasn’t just hate that fueled him, it was grief. Love, in its ugliest form. The world was full of monsters in capes tearing holes in everything good, and it made people like you reach for whatever scraps were left, a moment of warmth, a joke, a person whose laugh made the noise fade out for five seconds. You wanted to guard that. Keep it safe. Keep him safe.

But the truth stung as you thought it. That kind of wanting, that kind of care, it always came with blood on its heels.

You didn’t want to be like Butcher.

But maybe you understood him more than you wanted to.

started 11.5.2025. finished 11.5.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

THE　BOYS　 ͜ ◞

﹅ HOMELANDER.

tear you apart.

⭑ homelander takes a particular interest in a vought employee, dragging them around while deciding if they’re special, or just another disappointment.

homelander as your boyfriend.

⭑ headcanons.

﹅ FRENCHIE.

we don’t sleep much anymore.

⭑ it’s late when frenchie finds you still working. what starts as fixing up a weapon together turns into an unexpected night out, two tired people chasing a little peace in the city that never really sleeps.

GEN V　 ͜ ◞

﹅ CATE DUNLAP.

you sound so sure of me. —- WIP

⭑ you’ve been struggling with gaps in your memory lately, and your girlfriend has been trying to help you remember the pieces you keep losing.

﹅ SAM RIORDAN.

the universe is loud when you’re gone (and you might be the one who truly gets me).

⭑ after cate’s injury leaves him hallucinating across campus, sam spirals and ends up wrecking your dorm. you find him and use your empathic regulation powers to help steady him.

i’ll forget how to be.

⭑ after a long day of classes and keeping vought off your back, you come back to your dorm exhausted, too quiet for sam’s comfort, and he takes your silence harder than you mean him to.

You weren’t sure what part of the day finally broke you.

Maybe it was the TA’s “just checking in :)” smile that felt like an X‑ray. Maybe it was the way your professor said “some of us seem distracted lately” and looked too long in your direction. Maybe it was the four assignments blinking red on your portal like dying sirens.

Or the fact that you’d reached the point of asking yourself seriously, “If I disappeared for 48 hours, would anyone care enough to notice before Vought did?”

Whatever it was, by the time you slid your key into your dorm lock, you felt like your bones were made of chalk and someone had already erased half of you.

The hallway light flickered once and settled into a steady glow, like it had noticed your exhaustion and tried, halfheartedly, to be kind. You dropped your bag onto the floor and it hit with a hollow thud.

The day had been long and brittle, each hour stacked like bricks you weren’t strong enough to carry. Lectures that should have been straightforward had turned into marathons of focus and pretense. Your fingers ached from gripping pens too tightly. Your ears rang from the constant buzz of conversation, from the chairs scraping the floors, all the little noises that somehow formed a wall of pressure around your head.

Of course, since your mind had been occupied, frayed from deadlines and professors who spoke in riddles and students who acted like breathing loudly was a competitive sport, so occupied, in fact, that it slipped your mind entirely that you had a 5’11 supe boyfriend waiting for you in your dorm. The kind of thought that should never slip, but apparently exhaustion outranked survival instinct tonight.

Because the second your bag hit the floor, a dull, defeated thud, there was movement. A blur of socked feet and stolen cotton, white wool skidding on the hardwood as he slid into the common room like gravity was more of a suggestion for him than a rule.

Sam. In your hoodie. Hood up. And those stupid socks. Your socks. The ones with tiny embroidered stars on the sides.

He skidded to a stop right in front of you, like he’d practiced the entrance (he had. He absolutely had), chest rising with the adrenaline of hearing you come home. There was something endearingly feral about him, like he wasn’t sure whether to pounce, smile, or apologize for existing. Puppy energy, but if someone had raised the puppy in a government lab and fed it trauma for breakfast.

“Hi,” he blurted, voice soft like he was testing how loud he was allowed to be. Like volume itself was a privilege.

He stood too straight, too still, waiting for a cue. For your expression. For permission to be here, even though technically this was his safest place, and you were the one who had dragged him into the world and promised you’d help him hold it together.

You blinked at him slowly, the mental equivalent of buffering, body sinking back into the door. Bone-tired. Melted-candle tired. And here he was, shining, vibrating with eagerness because you had returned.

You managed a small breath that maybe resembled a greeting if someone squinted.

He took it as one. Of course he did. His shoulders loosened. His mouth tugged upward awkwardly. Only slightly, but for him, it was practically a grin.

Sam had spent his entire life learning that appearances meant survival, not yours, but his, and he was still relearning that here, in your tiny dorm room that smelled like homework and cheap laundry detergent, he didn’t need to perform.

But he still checked your face like he was afraid he’d misread the air. Like you might vanish if he assumed too much comfort. “You’re home,” he said, like narrating it would make it truer, safer.

And despite the ache in your skull, you nodded, because you were. Somehow. You made it. And he was here, bright-eyed and strangely gentle, waiting for you like you were the thing holding the universe together. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m home.”

His shoulders dropped another notch, relief loosening him, like those words anchored him to the ground, this ground, your ground, not the one Vought built for him. And then he rocked forward just a little on his heels and asked, hopeful:

“Hungry? I … found cereal.”

The box was on the counter behind him. Upside down. Half spilled. Of course.

It would’ve been so easy to be annoyed, you were exhausted, soul wrung out and hung to dry, but instead you stared at him, at the pathetic pile of Lucky Charms carnage and Sam standing there in your socks. And it almost hurt how earnest he looked, like he’d battled the cereal and the cereal had won, and he wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t going to come back for round two.

He really had been alone here all day.

Pacing. Investigating. Touching everything like the world needed cataloging from scratch. You’d probably find your hairbrush in the freezer or your textbooks rearranged. The thought tugged something warm and tired in your chest. Cute. Tragic. Puppy lost in a human world, tail still tucked sometimes.

You exhaled, resigned, a soft sigh that felt like it carried all the quizzes, fake smiles, and caffeine crashes of the day. Then you dropped to a crouch in the kitchen and started sweeping cereal into your palm, because adulthood was apparently…this.

Crumbs and survival.

Behind you, sock-sliding continued in soft scrapes. Of course he followed. He always followed, orbit forged by fear and want and habit, like if he left your side someone might lock him in a room again and forget the door existed.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, like the concept of cleaning might be classified information.

“Preventing ants.” you muttered.

“…you have ants?”

“No.”

“…did I bring ants?”

You glanced back at him, brows knit, hoodie sleeves swallowed to his fists, and there it was again: this blend of heartbreak and amusement so strong it bent your ribs.

“No, Sam,” you said softly. “You didn’t summon an army of ants with cereal.”

He nodded slowly like this was a genuine relief. Then, he let the thought cook in his head before deciding to take a crack at humor, mostly the desire to see you smile. “…I could, though. If I had to.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you blinked.

“Great,” you murmured, sweeping marshmallow dust into a napkin. “I’ll put ‘controls insects’ on your resume.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile he tried to hide because he still didn’t totally understand what expressions were allowed. But then he was just…there again. Hovering. Close enough you felt body heat press the air. Watching you clean his mess, before crouching down to meet your level.

“You’re tired.” he said simply. Not a question. A truth he could hear in your pulse, probably. Small frown forming like tiredness was something he could fight for you if he just found the right punch.

“I’m fine.” you lied.

He looked at you, unsure of what to do.

You finished sweeping the countertop, dumped crumbs, put the box upright, away, and when you stood, he rose too, perfectly synced, like he had been waiting for the cue. Always waiting for cues.

He hovered closer, voice unsure but trying: “I, um. Looked at your books today.”

“That’s fine.”

“And…your drawers.”

“Less fine.”

“And I found a— toy?— I don’t think it’s for training motor skills, but—”

“Sam.”

He blinked. Innocent. Terrifying. Endlessly literal.

“…I didn’t break it.”

“Thank you.”

Silence settled for a second, the soft kind, the kind that acknowledged how tired you were, how hard this was for both of you, how he was trying in his own way and you were trying too.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have the energy to. You just pushed gently off the counter and moved toward the bathroom, legs heavy, brain humming with static instead of thoughts. Sam fell into step behind you immediately, too close and not close enough. His socks slid on the floor again when he tried to match your tired pace, and he caught himself on the doorframe like the world tilted unexpectedly beneath him.

You didn’t look at him, not because you didn’t want to, but because if you met his eyes right now, you might unravel, and you didn’t have the strength to hold anything right now, even yourself.

You flicked on the bathroom light. It felt too bright, like it cut the day open again when you were trying to stitch it closed. Sam hovered in the doorway, like a shadow trying to pretend it didn’t belong to you. He shifted his weight. Hands tucked into your hoodie sleeves, fingers curled in the fabric like he was holding on to something small and precious.

“Do I… stay out here?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You let the cool bathroom counter hold your palms for a breath. You weren’t angry. Not even close. You were simply just tired, and you wanted a nap.

“Yeah,” you answered. “Just—give me a minute.”

Sam nodded immediately. Like obedience meant safety. Like waiting outside the bathroom door was some kind of test he had to pass.

You turned the faucet on and splashed cold water across your face like you were trying to rinse the whole day off your skin. Your reflection stared back at you, eyes tired, posture slumped, that ache of being overstimulated and tired and emotionally out of bandwidth. And there he was. Sam in the doorway, leaning just enough into the frame that it didn’t count as entering, like a wild animal observing the border of a new territory.

He was quiet at first. Trying to be good. Trying to be small. Trying not to take up space in a world that had only ever crushed him when he did.

“I saw a squirrel today,” he tried, like this was the kind of thing humans reported as breaking news. “On the window ledge.”

You scrubbed at your face, tired. “Mhm.”

“I also watched a video you left open on your laptop about these two guys playing some weird . . . game.”

You pressed your towel against your eyes harder than necessary. “Mm-hmm.”

“I tried hot sauce. Your red one. The one with the skeleton on it. It —- ”

“Sam.”

It came out sharper than you meant.

His mouth snapped shut immediately. Shoulders drew in, hands slid back inside your sleeves like retreating animals. You exhaled. Long. Exhausted. Not him-angry, world-angry, life-angry, everything-heavy angry.

“I just… need quiet,” you said, softer now, because you saw the way his eyes flickered like you’d taken light away from him. “Just for a little.”

“Oh.”

Tiny.

Like you’d deflated him with a pin.

He stepped back one small, uncertain pace, still wanting nothing more than to sit where you could see him because visibility equaled safety. Then, out of instinct more than consciousness, he leaned his head slightly to peek in again,

And you shut the door.

Not a slam. Just a tired, heavy click. The kind that said: not now. The kind that wasn’t personal, but could still bruise someone who didn’t know the world well enough to sort harmless from hurt.

On the other side, his footsteps didn’t walk away. Just a little shift as he sat down right there on the floor, back to the wood, because leaving you felt wrong and waiting felt right. For a second it was silent. Then softly, almost shy, almost hopeful:

“. . how long is a little again?”

The steam had faded from your skin by the time you opened the bathroom door, hair damp, face soft from warmth and exhaustion. But Sam wasn’t there.

No big hoodie puddle on the floor. No anxious knees pulled to his chest. No vibrating presence waiting for you like a kid left alone in a grocery store aisle too long.

Just .. empty hallway.

The quiet that washed over you was thick, luxurious for one second, like your brain could finally unclench without his eyes on you, without the constant emotional monitoring you’d been doing all week. And then guilt crawled up your spine immediately after.

You stepped out scanning the space, dorm lights low, shadows pooled in corners. Sam was on the couch. Not lounging, not curled, not sprawled like he usually got when he tried to mimic what he thought “normal relaxing” looked like. He was sitting perfectly upright, stiff as stone, hoodie sleeves bunched in his fists. Eyes staring forward at nothing.

The air had changed, the nervous buzzing replaced by something brittle and tense. A crack of panic running under it like an electrical hum. You could almost hear the thoughts:

Did I do something wrong?

Did they get tired of me?

Am I too loud? Too much? Too broken?

Is the world supposed to feel this confusing? Is it okay that I still don’t get it? Are you going to leave because of that?

He didn’t look up when you crossed the room. Didn’t lean into you. Didn’t talk. You sank onto the couch beside him, muscles finally melting into the cushion. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. Sam sat rigid, staring at the far wall, jaw tensed, throat tight, shoulders locked.

He wasn’t ignoring you. He was bracing.

One wrong word and you could feel how it would go, an emotional detonation, that wild edge in him rattling the bars of a cage that didn’t exist anymore.

You didn’t speak yet. You just sat there, exhausted, guilty, a little grateful for the quiet, and hating yourself for that tiny sliver of relief.

Minutes (or maybe seconds — time got slippery when your brain felt scraped out) ticked by. Sam didn’t move. He didn’t blink much either. Dissociation looked strange on someone who could snap steel with his fingers; it hollowed him out, made him small in a way power never protected against.

His eyes were unfocused, not dreamy, not spaced in a soft way, but gone, staring past the wall like he was slipping somewhere your hands couldn’t reach. He sat very still, like if he breathed too loud he’d be punished. Like he was waiting for… something. Permission, reprimand, abandonment. Hard to tell. Somehow that was worse than noise.

Your throat felt tight. Guilt always found the softest spot. “…Sam?” you tried, voice low, careful.

No reaction.

You shifted slightly toward him, knee brushing the cushion near his leg. His gaze didn’t flicker. Not once. He looked like a kid who’d wandered too far and suddenly remembered monsters existed. You cleared your throat. Tried to sound normal, casual, something that didn’t echo with I’m sorry I needed a minute to breathe away from you.

“Did you, uh…” You rubbed at your temple. God, your brain felt like wet laundry. “Did you like the hot sauce?”

A beat.

Two.

Very slowly, his eyes moved, just enough to prove he hadn’t turned to stone. He didn’t look at you. Just toward. “…It burned.” A tiny second passed before he added: “I thought it was supposed to be good.”

“It can burn and still be good,” you hummed.

His jaw flexed, confused and frustrated by the concept. “Feels like a stupid rule.” The words hung there, and then he shut down again, in an I am silently offended and stewing about it way.

Sam Riordan, world’s strongest pout.

He didn’t say anything, which somehow made his mood louder. It was the kind of silence that make you feel like someone was crossing their arms on the inside. A mutiny of one. He looked away from you, jaw working, expression pinched in that weird childlike-but-not way he got when emotions tripped him up.

He wasn’t angry at you.

He was angry at hot sauce, at rules, at space, at distance, at confusing social expectations, at having to learn new things every second of every day and still getting blindsided by stuff like spicy can be enjoyable, what the hell.

So he sat there, stiff, a supe built like a weapon wearing your hoodie and sulking like someone stole his crayons. Finally, you nudged him gently with your knee. “Are you pouting?” you asked softly.

“No.”

Immediate. Defensive. A single syllable dipped in wounded pride.

You raised a brow. “You kind of are.”

He glared, but only from the side, like full eye contact would be admitting defeat. Then he huffed, a tiny exhale through his nose that wanted to be dramatic but mostly sounded like a tired bunny being inconvenienced. His voice came out muttered, grudging: “…It is a stupid rule.”

You sighed, warmth sneaking into your exhaustion despite everything. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Some rules are.”

His pout remained on principle, but it softened, deflating like a balloon slowly leaking air. “You like rules like that?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Stuff that… hurts. But you do it anyway. On purpose.”

You weren’t sure if he meant spice or school or life. Probably all of the above.

“I think sometimes you put up with uncomfortable things because they lead to good things.”

He frowned deeper. “Feels like a scam.”

You snorted weakly. “It kind of is.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even soften. His brow pulled in again, that small, fracturing crease you’d learned meant I don’t understand and I don’t know if it’s my fault.

He stared forward, not at you, at nothing. Like if he looked at you directly, he’d see confirmation of the fear gnawing under his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do with tired. He doesn’t know where to put himself when you’re quiet.

The emotional math on his face was painfully visible: tired + quiet + less attention = danger? rejection? punishment? abandonment?

He swallowed, throat tight, like he could choke on uncertainty. God, he really didn’t know where he belonged yet.

“Did I… do something bad?”

Barely a whisper. More breath than voice. It punched right through your chest. That stupid, soft, fragile place in him, the one that came out when he wasn’t being sarcastic or weird or trying too hard, the part that still thought any silence meant abandonment.

You slid a hand across the couch cushion toward him. “No,” you assured. “I’m just tired. School was… a lot today.”

He stared at your hand like it might bite him, or vanish if he touched it wrong. Then, hesitant, he scooted closer, like he didn’t trust the floor not to drop him if he moved too fast, and rested his knee against yours. He was still tense. Still wound up in that knot he lived inside. You could practically feel thoughts crowding behind his eyes, clawing for order.

So you did what worked for both of you: you exhaled, leaned back into the cushions, and tugged gently at his sleeve. A tired, silent come here, nothing fancy.

He folded in toward you like gravity figured you belonged together and was correcting a mistake. His head lowered until it hovered near your stomach, waiting for permission without asking. You nudged him the rest of the way. He eased down, cheek pressing to your thigh, curls brushing your top.

He didn’t just lie there, he gave in, in that way he only ever did with you. His forehead tucked a little deeper, nose brushing the seam of your clothes like he was burying himself in proof you were real. His arms slid around your waist from the side, not tight enough to trap you, but tight enough that it felt like if he let go, something terrible might unspool inside him.

You felt it, that desperate, quiet thank God that lived under his skin whenever he touched you. He pressed closer, torso angled toward you like his whole body was trying to crawl into the soft space you held for him. And there was this… weight to him, not physical, but emotional. Like he’d been holding every thought and feeling in a fist all day, knuckles white, and now he let it all collapse into you. Every worry, every question, every bit of restlessness poured out in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. You breathed again, slower, deeper, because suddenly you could.

Because despite the exhaustion, the world got quieter with him right there, clinging like your presence was oxygen and he’d been holding his breath since noon. His breath warmed your stomach through your clothes. He shifted once, tiny and hesitant, just to get closer, cheek pressing firmer into your thigh, nose nudging you like he needed the reassurance of contact, more contact, just you. You shifted down the couch, guiding him with a gentle tug. He followed, obedient in that soft, unthinking way affection makes animals and boys alike. He climbed up, curling along your side like he’d done it a thousand times even though this life was new to him.

Pulling a throw blanket over you both, the fleece was the kind that somehow trapped the world outside. His weight settled against you, and for a moment, neither of you were the overwhelmed student or the confused superhuman. You were just two exhausted people who needed quiet, and found it in each other.

His hand, without thinking, slipped under your top just enough to rest against your waist, like he was afraid you might dissolve if he didn’t feel skin. “Warm,” he mumbled into your collarbone, voice already thick with sleep.

“Human body,” you muttered back. “Basic science.”

He hummed, unconvinced, curling closer like he didn’t trust biology but did trust you.

“…I’m still thinking about the hot sauce.”

Your eyes cracked open. “…Sam.”

“I think it burned a hole in my soul.”

“That’s called ‘spicy.’”

“No.”

You snorted, too tired to laugh properly, and drifted with him, tangled, warm, safe, and mildly concerned your boyfriend might start a war with Sriracha someday.

started 11.2.2025. finished 11.5.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

He sat at the head of the table because of course he did. Where else would he be? A god doesn’t take side seats unless he’s playing at humility, and today, with the fluorescent lights droning and a parade of interns trying not to sweat through their cheap shirts, he didn’t feel like playing.

Leather chair beneath, crisp suit on skin, boots polished so sharply they could blind someone (and what a loss that would be — another set of eyes not blessed to witness perfection). The air conditioning hummed a gentle praise-hymn; the building breathed around him. Even the vents worked harder when he was present. Everything did.

Across the long, obscene table, a thing of custom oak and smug expense, Ashley shuffled notes. Her hair was a little too shiny. Trying too hard, as always. There was that faint greasy sheen near the scalp, stress sweat, desperation oil. She masked it with perfume that stung the nose if one wasn’t careful. A citrusy, synthetic attempt at optimism.

Unfortunate really. She was decaying faster than she realized.

And the others — oh, the others. They fidgeted in their padded chairs like toddlers forced to sit through church. Someone had gained weight. Obvious. Suit buttons strained, thread protesting. Someone else had acne hidden under makeup, cakey, settling in pores; the human face trying so hard to pretend it wasn’t human.

What a privilege, really, to sit before perfection and try to mimic it.

Voices droned. Words like brand synergy and patriotic engagement pipeline. They actually seemed proud of these sounds. They filled the room with them, thinking language could ever matter here. That numbers and projections and public sentiment graphs could shape the world when the only thing that truly shaped it sat at the head of the table.

Power didn’t live in bullet points.

Power was the bullet point.

They yammered about quarterly crises, protests here, a supe misconduct rumor there, competitors in foreign markets trying to replicate the formula. They had no idea the true problem wasn’t any external force. It was them. Their fragility, their meat nature, their constant sweating and swallowing and breathing.

How exhausting it was, tolerating lesser beings.

They loved those little buzzwords. Chewed them like cud. He wondered if they tasted like anything to them, or if they simply mouthed syllables to feel useful.

(Useful to him, of course. What other utility could there be?)

Ashley laughed at something she pretended was funny; her pen clicked two times, rapid and nervous. Someone else shifted their notes. Red, white, blue branding charts spread across glossy printouts. So busy. So dutiful. So desperately, pathetically human. They needed him. Every single one of them. They breathed because he tolerated the oxygen being shared. They existed in his orbit like particles of dust caught in a sunbeam.

Another executive tapped a pen, an arrhythmic little tick-tick-tick. Another cleared his throat, mucus, damp, earthly, and tried not to meet the gaze at the head of the table. Eyes always slid away eventually. Humans had instincts, at least.

Poor things. They were built to kneel; evolution simply hadn’t given them the courage to admit it.

Ashley adjusted her blazer and offered a chart, her voice bright and thin. “We’re seeing an uptick in midwestern approval, especially among younger demos. Very, um — very positive feedback on the patriotic direction.”

Patriotic direction. His direction. Their entire brand fed from his pulse.

A polite nod was given in return. They nearly vibrated with relief, shoulders loosening, hearts slowing. One man actually exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Pathetic. Endearing. Dog-like. Give a bone, command loyalty. Take it away, and watch them shrivel. A woman across the table blinked too rapidly, contacts irritating her. Cheap. Couldn’t spring for the premium kind? Disgraceful. He could laser her optic nerves clean and fix it forever, but they never asked him for miracles. They begged instead for approvals, sign-offs, direction. They wanted him to nod so they could live another day feeling useful.

Useful to him.

What other definition of useful existed?

Someone mentioned crisis control in Chicago. Something about messaging adjustments. Words, words, words. Throwable, ignorable, flammable. A god had to sit through this. A god had to pretend.

He leaned back, slow enough to imply ease, powerful shoulders relaxing in a way people imitate in gym mirrors but never achieve. Their eyes darted, watching for cues, desperate to match his mood, terrified to misread a single breath. The air felt thick with boredom, with the stink of ambition and insecurity. With hunger too, the hunger that came when greatness was forced to sit among livestock too long. He wondered — if he screamed right now, would their bones rattle? Would their spines snap?

A gentle inhale. The room inhaled with him. A slight exhale. They followed.

Perfect.

Ashley smiled at him tightly. “Everything’s looking very strong for Q3.”

Was it? If he said yes, it would be. If he said no, they would tear apart their own plans like terrified rodents gnawing at traps. Reality bent where his voice pointed.

He let his lips soften into that practiced almost-smile. “Excellent work,” he murmured.

Gasps nearly happened but were disguised as relieved chuckles. He knew. Maybe on some level they all knew, they sat inches from extinction and mistook it for company. How lucky they were to serve. How tragic they thought they were leading.

A spreadsheet appeared on the screen. It might as well have been a gravestone.

God, boredom.

He could burn cities, peel the sky open like wet paper, yet here he was listening to Todd-from-Brand-Synergy talk about engagement decline in Midwest female 18–45 demographic. Todd had a rash creeping up his neck again. Stress eczema. Weak genes. Predictable.

Ashley sat stiff, vibrating nerves hidden under a blazer that didn’t fit right. She tried to project authority, but everything about her screamed please don’t look at me too long, I might dissolve. He wished she’d moisturize. For everyone’s sake.

Slide nine. Ten. Eleven.

The sentences blurred into white noise: synergy outreach narrative brand reinforcement compensation value realignment—

Like listening to a sewer pipe try to form sentences.

A tiny part of him wondered if this was what people called Hell. Eternal punishment. But no, Hell implied a greater force inflicting suffering. Here, he chose attendance. Which made this worse somehow. Made them worse for existing in his air.

His fingers drummed on the armrest. Every tap felt like a suppressed explosion. He pushed his tongue into his cheek and watched. Observed. Dissected. Kara from PR shifted, her chair squeaking. She’d gained maybe six pounds since last week. Human bodies always fighting themselves. Pathetic little sacks of needs.

Someone mispronounced “analytics.”

Someone else laughed like they were auditioning for laughter.

It was offensive, the whole thing, being forced to witness mediocrity in motion. Like watching ants act like CEOs of the dirt. His mind drifted. Slipped. How many bones in this room? How quickly could they crack? Would the drywall absorb the sound or would it echo?

A name was said. A question was asked.

“Thoughts?”

They stared. Expectant. Hopeful. A congregation awaiting scripture. He smiled, the polite kind. “Looks great,” he seethed. Which meant I could eat each of you alive and you’d thank me while I chewed.

Relieved laughter again. Always relief around him , not joy, not admiration. Dead-eyed nodding. Someone wrote “H. approves!!!” on a notepad like they’d just carved commandments into stone.

He nearly yawned.

Then, the door clicked. And there you were.

Coffee trays balanced in your arms, sleeves pushed up, expression fixed in that unruffled neutrality that somehow didn’t reek of desperation or fear or ambition rotting under perfume. Two months here and still no sour scent of panic on you. Strange. Unsettling. Fascinating.

And oh. There it was. A flicker in his chest. A spark under ash. Hunger of a different flavor. You scanned the room like you weren’t stepping into a lion’s jaw. Set cups down, unfazed by the scramble of executives practically drooling for caffeine salvation. Your face might as well have said I’m not impressed by your apocalypse, thanks.

His boredom cracked. Just enough for light to get in. Your eyes met his for half a second, casual, like you didn’t know what he was. Or worse… like you knew and didn’t care.

He sat up straighter.

He watched you leave the tray, move, exist. Finally, something, someone.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t flinch. You just handed him his cup like he was… people. His mouth twitched. Dangerous, what you didn’t realize you were doing. He wondered who’d notice first —- when the god in the room finally had a reason to stay awake.

Observation wasn’t a hobby. It was instinct. Dominion disguised as curiosity. And you, quiet little anomaly that you were, had been disrupting that instinct for weeks now.

Two months, precisely. Fifty-eight days. Three interactions. (Four if you counted the time you bumped into him in the hallway and fumbled for an apology.)

Steady. Dutiful. A worker bee who didn’t realize the queen drone had become… fascinated. You made eye contact without trying to leash him with it. You followed orders without scrambling to impress. Obedience without worship. Awareness without panic. A pet, but one who hadn’t been collared yet.

He lifted the cup you gave him, inhaled steam as if warmth alone earned loyalty. People thought power came from being obeyed. They were wrong. Power was being chosen. Even unintentionally. You turned to leave. He didn’t let you.

“Actually,” he said, voice dipped in that sugared tone that pretended kindness and promised nothing of it, “why don’t you stay.”

Every head snapped your way.

You paused, a flicker of instinct across your face. Fight-flight-freeze. He savored the freeze, the way your breath stalled. You stepped back inside.

He gestured to an empty seat near him. Not a request, a radius of command. The meeting drones blinked, confused, confused again, then terrified as they realized they should pretend this was normal. Everyone suddenly discovered something deeply interesting on their notepads.

He leaned back, casual.

A king feigning boredom while placing a new piece on the board.

“So,” he purred, eyes cutting to a bland proposal slide full of numbers and slogans. “What do you think about this direction?”

Silence. Air tightened. A couple execs swallowed so loudly it was almost comedic.

Your mouth opened slowly, like your body was filing legal paperwork with your brain before speaking. “I think…” Tiny breath. “…it feels disconnected from the demographic you’re saying you’re trying to reach.”

A crack in the room’s oxygen.

Someone actually choked.

His gaze sharpened. “Disconnected,” he echoed, tasting the word. Dangerous if spoken by anyone else. He leaned in, elbows lazy on the armrests, eyes lit with something too present. “Whys that? Tell me.”

You blinked, because he never asked people for rationale. He demanded, he dictated. He didn’t fish for thought. “They’re… trying too hard,” you managed, eyes forward. “It comes off pandering.”

Honesty. Bare. Unpolished. No trembling attempt to flatter power. His chest loosened around a laugh that didn’t come out; too earnest for the room, too real for witnesses. Instead, he hummed. Approving. Possessive. He turned his gaze to the executives, predatory, like he’d just learned a secret and found everyone else unworthy of it. “You hear that?” A blade-thin smile. “Pandering. Doesn’t look good on us.”

Murmurs. Nods. Frantic scribbling of notes they wouldn’t dare misinterpret. Then his eyes slid back to you. Calm. Hungry. Amused by your pulse betraying you under your pretty composure. “And what do you think does look good?”

You swallowed. He heard it.

Tiny bravery squared your shoulders. “Authenticity,” you said.

That word hit him like a hand to the throat, not choking, more like claiming a pulse that shouldn’t belong to you but somehow does. Authenticity. As if you thought he could be real. As if you believed there was something real to be. Nobody spoke. Nobody blinked. He smiled.

You looked away first, respectful, not submissive, and he loved that distinction so much it almost hurt. He could feel it, that thin awareness you wore on your face around him. Fear and respect. A perfect mix.

He hummed. “You can go.”

Not suggestion. Command. You moved, the precise velocity of someone who understood gravity. He didn’t watch you leave. He felt you leave.

The meeting ended eventually, noise returning like color after a blackout, but none of it mattered. When he stood, the room rose with him.

Hallway. Glass. His reflection slicing itself into clean fragments as he walked. The floor lights bowed under every step. Thoughts drifted, lazy and critical: A-Train — slowing again. Puffed cheeks, sprinting on excuses. Fastest man alive, he scoffed internally, if we clock disappointment as speed.

The Deep — an aquarium pet pretending to be a man. Greasy devotion. A waste of space.

Black Noir — dependable, sure. But silence could only shine next to noise. And he was the noise. Noir was just… absence.

Maeve — brittle beneath all that armor. Sad behind the eyes, all martyr, no redemption. A statue with a drinking problem.

Starlight — hypocrisy wrapped in freckles and moral speeches.

Humanity’s chosen heroes.

Chosen by who? Cattle choosing their own shepherd. Adorable. They worshipped weakness. They expected greatness. They deserved extinction.

Footsteps approached behind him, too fast, too eager, the patter of a dog scrambling for attention. The sigh built in his chest before the voice even arrived.

“Sir! Homelander, sorry— sorry to interrupt.”

Of course you are. Yet here you are.

A junior PR analyst, badge swinging, breath already nervous. Sweat collecting along the hairline, cheap shampoo, citrus trying to hide the stress stink. Eyes too wide. Pupils frantic. He could hear the heartbeat fluttering, stupid little bird trapped in ribs.

“Uh— Ashley asked me to tell you. A-Train’s numbers… dipped another three percent. Engagement’s down across Midwest markets. Brand sentiment reports say he’s, um— losing audience trust. And they think it might be smarter to… consider a lineup refresh. You know. Bring in some new blood.”

There it was.

Refresh. New blood. The audacity. Replaceable? In his house? Talking about his team like furniture to be rearranged without his hand guiding it. Without his permission.

His mouth smiled; his eyes did not. “Is that so.”

The kid nodded too fast. Terrified eagerness to please. Pathetic.

A-Train failing was no surprise. He’d seen it in the tight uniform, seams biting too hard into flesh that hadn’t been there a month ago. In the wheeze hidden under a laugh. In the way cameras lingered less, bored of the fading toy. Heroes age like fruit.

But the insult wasn’t that A-Train was weak. The insult was someone else observing it first. Someone delivering news to him as if he needed informing. As if his awareness required supplementation. As if gods read memos.

His gaze slid to the trembling man. He leaned in just enough, the way predators lean toward trembling rabbits. “So,” he murmured, tone dipped in sugar and venom, “you thought I needed an errand boy to explain my own team to me?”

Color drained from the analyst’s face. Words crumbled on his tongue. “I— I wasn’t— I mean, Ashley said—”

“Mm.” A soft sound, dismissive as a swat to a fly. “Ashley says many things. Doesn’t mean they’re worth repeating. Or hearing.”

Silence. The kid swallowed. Loud. Ugly. Homelander inhaled slowly. The boy smelled like cafeteria coffee and fear. Fear always sharpened the air nicely.

“You know,” he continued, voice smooth, “it’s funny. People assume information is… helpful. But sometimes?” He tilted his head.“Information is just noise. And I don’t like noise.”

The kid nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”

“Run along,” Homelander said. “And next time— think. Before speaking. Not all news needs to travel upward.”

He didn’t move as the analyst stammered a thank-you and fled, shoes squeaking on polished floors. Didn’t watch him leave, listening was better. The trembling breath, the trip in his steps, the retreat. Anger curled still in his ribs, a low, metallic taste. A-Train. Replacement. Opinions whispered like they mattered. How quickly mortals forget who holds the sky up for them.

His reflection in the glass caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The fracture in calm. He hated that they could do that, tug him even an inch off his throne. Ridiculous. They were insects.

He was patience. Power. Perfection.

And yet something ugly simmered. A urge to rip the wings off anything that dared fly near his reign.

He moved.

Not walked, cut through space, the building bending around his stride as though the hallways re-ordered themselves to avoid the pressure in his chest. Anger like a hum behind the teeth. Not heat, heat was human. This was cleaner, colder. He needed to leave. Or break someone. Or both.

They think they can discuss my team. They think they can evaluate me by extension. Refresh the lineup. New blood. As if my blood isn’t enough to baptize them all.

He passed a staffer, she plastered herself to the wall like a roach caught under kitchen lights. Good instinct. Late, but good. A ceiling vent whined. Someone laughed too loudly two halls away. Someone’s pen scratched against paper in a rhythm that dared to exist, dared to annoy. Everything grated. Everything sounded like daring. He could leave. Go outside. Remind the city how small it was beneath him.

He turned the corner —- and froze. You.

Clipboard balanced on one arm, sleeves rolled, a lanyard slightly askew. Human. Mundane. Thoughtfully incompetent posture as you tried to juggle paperwork and a coffee you clearly didn’t want to spill on yourself.

You didn’t see him yet. Which was better; anticipation was a flavor all its own. He slowed his pace, perfectly engineered casual, like a panther remembering how to pretend to be furniture.

He adjusted his route one degree left. Pure coincidence, and yet fate bent with it. You turned at the same moment.

“Oh—! Sorry, didn’t see you there.” A smile, polite, slightly nervous, but not the desperate, bowel-loose terror everyone else offered. A respectful flinch. He let the silence breathe. Not because he needed words, he never needed them, but because watching you fill the quiet was delicious. “Uh… long meeting?” you tried.

The audacity of the understatement flickered across his face in a nearly-smile. “Mmm,” he hummed, tone gentle and deeply false, “meetings are… endless.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was studying an artifact only he could decipher. “You always rushing around, sweetheart?”

A blink. You weren’t sure if it was a joke.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep the place running,” you said lightly. “God forbid Vought collapses without me color-coding the printers.”

There it was.

A flick of humor. Unsanctioned levity in his kingdom, risky and yet you delivered it like a gift instead of a rebellion. A laugh curled low in his throat, not loud, just a warm, lethal purr. “If the company relies on you that much,” he said, stepping just half a foot closer, “we should make sure you stick around.”

Your pulse spiked — he heard it. Lovely. Not panic, awareness. The right kind of fear. The smart kind. He watched you a beat longer than polite, a predator sampling atmosphere: your breath held a fraction too long, your spine straightening instinctively, the way prey stands still hoping the lion admires posture over flavor. Cute. Very cute.

“Walk with me.”

Not a request. His hand ghosted by your elbow, not touching, but the implication pressed anyway, a heat hovering at the edge of contact that said move or burn. You obeyed.

The halls stretched as he carved a path, pace clipped, shoulders squared like a general disgusted with his own army. You passed floors quieted by his presence, cameras whirring, employees suddenly busy, glances darting down at tablets that weren’t even on. A Vought exec opened his mouth to greet him, thought better of it, and shrank back into the marble.

Homelander didn’t lead you anywhere in particular; he was orbiting fury, walking for the sake of peeling it off his skin. And you, oddly, were leash, witness. “They’re useless,” he began. “Every. Single. One.” He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. You were expected to absorb, align, agree.

The sun does not check if a flower keeps up — it simply scorches.

“All sitting in there thinking they matter. Thinking their little… votes and opinions and meetings make them relevant.” He scoffed.

You murmured something neutral and safe. Something like, “That must be frustrating.”

He stopped walking.

You barely avoided colliding with him. His gaze slid down to you, pupils dilated, something volatile flickering behind the blue. Disappointment? Amusement? Threat? Hard to tell where one ended and the other began with him. “Frustrating?” he repeated. “This is incompetence. Treasonous stupidity dressed up as teamwork. They think they get to lead me. Me.” The laugh he gave was too light. “But you know that. Don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for your answer, because the only correct answer was the one he’d already scripted for you. He resumed walking; you followed like momentum belonged to him alone. “Do you think we need new blood?” he asked casually. “Fresh faces? Younger talent?”

A test.

You offered something diplomatic. Careful. Something like, “Whatever you believe best for the team, I—”

He cut you a look. “Of course whatever I believe is best.” He tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an ant farm, curiosity laced with the urge to shake. “But see, come on,” he coaxed, sweet poison in tone, “you must have an opinion. You’re observant. You… watch.” The implication curled around your throat. You did watch. Everyone watched. Watching was survival.

You tried again. “I think… certain members have grown complacent. And complacency is dangerous around someone like you.”

There. Flattery woven into fear. His smile sharpened, pleased.

“That’s right. Complacency kills. Complacency… dies.” He hummed, almost delighted. “And I don’t tolerate dead weight.” His gaze dipped to you again, lingering longer than necessary, as if cataloguing whether you counted as dead weight or useful worship. “You’re smart,” he murmured, and the words weren’t praise so much as a collar slipped around your neck. “Sharp. I like that. You should talk more in meetings.”

A hint of threat in the suggestion, as though talking incorrectly would be punishable, but silence would be worse. “People need to hear voices that aren’t completely moronic,” he added. He stopped in a corridor you had no clearance for, hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted upward like he was accepting worship from unseen cameras.

You hesitated. That thin sliver of sanity still clinging to procedure tapped your shoulder. “Sir—” your voice stayed soft and careful. “I’m not technically supposed to be over here.”

He turned his head toward you, like someone bothered by a fly that dared, dared, to land on gold. Brows lifted, offended on your behalf. “You’re with me.” His smile sharpened with something carnivorous. “There is no ‘not supposed to’ when you’re with me.”

That was the end of that discussion. He pivoted and kept walking, you followed because survival had a sound, and it was his footsteps. “They think,” he began, tone sliding into a simmer, “that because they have meetings and memos and… little charts…” His nose curled like the word had a smell. “They get to decide.” A incredulous laugh. “It’s my team. My face. My legacy.” He gestured loosely, a king tired of peasants fumbling his empire. “They exist because I let them. And now suddenly they think they’re… what? equals? Partners?“ He scoffed as though the notion alone committed treason. “They’re lucky to stand in the same building. Lucky to breathe air I’m in.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “They should be thanking me every morning for letting them keep their jobs. Their families. Their… goddamn spines.”

Every few steps he glanced at you, not checking if you followed, but confirming that you witnessed. That you saw. That someone properly appreciated the weight of a god unfairly burdened by mortals. “No new direction without me,” he muttered. “No changes. No votes.” His voice dropped, dangerous velvet. “I make the decisions. I decide who stays. Who matters. Who gets to stand next to me when the world remembers greatness.”

You murmured something in agreement, the exact wording didn’t matter. What mattered was tone: submission dressed as admiration. The only currency that ever bought time near him.

He moved again, and you moved because gravity didn’t argue with the sun. Through the lobby, through security that pretended not to see, out into the open breeze where the city exhaled beneath Vought’s glass crown. You thought you were done. You weren’t.

A hand touched your elbow. “Come on,” he said. Not a request. A fact. And then the air thinned and snapped and you were on the roof, wind knifing through your clothes, the city stretching out in obedient sprawl below. The door behind you was locked, heavy, irrelevant, he didn’t need doors.

Here, above everything, he always looked… truer. You stayed near the gravel, because instinct whispered that standing too close to the edge with him was risky. He didn’t face you at first. He just stood there, breathing like the world belonged to his lungs. And then touch. His knuckles brushed your sleeve, almost curious. As if verifying you hadn’t evaporated when he blinked.“You’re quiet,” he studied. “I like that. You don’t—” little huff of contempt “—clutter the air.”

His hand drifted down your arm, idle, testing texture. Friendly, for someone who confused affection with possession. Not quite a caress, more like he was feeling the edge of a knife, fascinated by what it could do. “I like you, you know.” A whisper, but heavy. Like he’d dropped gold bars at your feet and expected worship in return. The hand on your arm stilled, not gripping, but one shift away from it. The message clear: you will stay.

Wind tugged at your clothes. You could feel the height, the nothingness behind you, the drop so total it hummed in bones. Alone on a rooftop with a super who didn’t understand no, who didn’t need to hear no to take offense, who might not even recognize the concept.

He wasn’t threatening you.

He didn’t need to.

“You understand power.”

Your heartbeat betrayed you, spiking, sharp, and his smile deepened, pleased, as if fear was applause. Down below, the world roared and lived and screamed in car horns and humanity. Up here, it was just you.

And him.

A man who didn’t need to threaten to be terrifying, because his affection felt more dangerous than any anger.

You swallowed, made your voice something soft and grateful and harmless. “Thank you, sir,” you said, careful, without sounding like you were trying too hard. “I’m glad. I just… try to do my job.”

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth — approval. A deity entertained by your humility.

You glanced at the door. Wrong instinct; the rooftop suddenly felt like a stage and you’d almost stepped off script. “I should probably get home soon, though,” you added, gentle, like you were asking permission. “Long day.”

He didn’t look at you at first. Why look at something that can’t leave? He traced the skyline with his gaze like it existed to decorate him, then breathed in, slow. “Nah,” he said lightly. A dismissal of your life’s logistics. “I’ll take you home.”

Your stomach dropped. You kept your face still, polite, grateful. Terror now found itself inside your bones where he couldn’t see it. “That’s — very generous,” you murmured. Not hesitation. Not refusal. Just… breath.

He turned then, and the feeling of being seen by something that never had to check consequences settled behind your ribs. “You don’t want me to?” A question only in punctuation.

Your spine locked. “Of course I— I mean, I’d be honored. I just didn’t want to impose.”

He scoffed. “You can’t impose on me.”

And that was the end of that.

His hand found your back. “You ever gone flying?” he asked suddenly, tone bright in that eerie boyish way sociopaths mimic excitement.

You forced a laugh. Light. Accepting. Like this was normal, like this was a story you’d tell your friends if you had any left after an encounter like this. “No,” you said, smiling through the horror of inevitability. “Can’t say I have.”

He lifted his chin, delighted. “Well. We’ll fix that.”

Before you could breathe his arm slid around you, confident, not seeking consent because oxygen doesn’t ask permission to fill lungs. A warm strength bracketed your ribs, pulling you against him like you were only safe pressed to his gravity. The world dropped beneath your feet. His fingers tightened — reassurance or warning, you couldn’t tell.

“You trust me,” he said.

Not a question. Not a command. A definition. Because if you didn’t, you would anyway — fear was just faith with better instincts.

The rooftop blurred. Wind rose. You clung to stillness inside your head because panic felt like something he’d enjoy too much. And above the city, held in a grip that didn’t know limits, you realized: It wasn’t that he had no boundaries. It was that being near him meant you didn’t get to have any.

“Good.”

And then the world tilted, and you lifted off the edge, because gravity bowed to him… and you were learning you were expected to as well.

The city shrank beneath you in shivering grids of light, highways like veins, windows like watchful little eyes. Cold bit at your skin, wind clawed at your lungs; you didn’t dare shiver in his hold, didn’t dare remind him you were breakable. He flew like someone who believed space itself deferred to him. No hesitation. No fear. Just ascending, slicing the sky as if the atmosphere had been created solely to cradle him.

He landed somewhere high, higher than even Vought’s ego. Not open to the public, not even finished. Plastic sheeting fluttered like peeled skin in the wind. He set you down gently, as though kindness was another form of power he rationed. Then stepped back and waited. For awe.

“This place isn’t even on the maps yet,” he said, pleased with himself. “Top secret. They’ll pretend it’s for some new donor hub or whatever marketing drivel makes them sleep at night.”

A pause. He glanced at you, reading your heartbeat more than your face. He expected admiration like oxygen. Required it. The city was beautiful, but only because he wanted you to think so.

“It’s incredible,” you acknowledged, voice modulated perfectly between reverence and breathlessness. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

His smile sharpened, not joy, validation. Of course you hadn’t. Of course only he could give you this.

He walked along the edge, hands behind his back, like a king inspecting his balcony. The cape fluttered triumphant. He didn’t look to see if you were following, he simply assumed you would. A glance once or twice to confirm his assumption was correct. “People don’t appreciate perspective,” he said, sounding almost irritated. “They stay down there. Crammed in their little boxes. Crying. Complaining. Pretending their lives matter.”

A scoff. The wind carried it like an insult to the whole city.

“You put something this high above them, and they call it elitist. Dangerous. Arrogant.” He turned to you. Eyes lit with a gleam that could be admiration or prelude to annihilation. “But when I stand here? It becomes divine. They don’t even understand why.”

You nodded, heart tight against your ribs.

“You see it, don’t you?” His tone sharpened, hungry for agreement. “How small they are. How… insignificant.”

Your throat fought not to lock.

“I… yes. I see it.”

A satisfied breath. The world could have fallen for how content he suddenly looked. He moved again, closer this time, shoulder brushing yours, casual only on his end. You were alone with the most adored man on Earth, and if he decided gravity didn’t get a vote tonight, neither did you.

He wasn’t touching you, but every inch of his presence pressed in like a hand around your throat, gentle only because violence would ruin the moment for him. His gaze slid over your face, your neck, down the line of your shoulders, like he was discovering hunger rather than feeling it.

No one ever tells you that being chosen by a god feels a lot like being hunted.

You kept breathing, nothing sharp or disrespectful enough to startle a predator. His eyes narrowed slightly, amused by your composure. Or by how obviously it cost you. He tilted his head, studying you as if imagining you carved in marble under his foot or in gold at his side, undecided which was more flattering for him.

Eventually, he exhaled, a pleased, almost lazy breath, and the moment broke. “Alright,” he murmured, as if dismissing court. “Let’s get you home.” It sounded like a favor.

You tried one last time, a soft, hopeful attempt at normal human boundary, “ I can just grab a cab, sir.”

His gaze flicked down to you. That tiny, baffled smirk. Like you’d suggested the sun ask permission to rise. “You don’t need a cab,” he replied. “You have me.”

There it was, not threat, not menace. Worse. Certainty. A god convinced the universe agreed with him.

So you gave your address. You hated how your voice dipped, how small the numbers tasted leaving your tongue. But he just nodded like it was a privilege to bestow, not something pried from your nerves.

And then the air dropped out from under you, carried again, his arm secure around you, controlled grip at your waist. He didn’t talk much this time. Just the occasional hum, self-content, like he’d solved something. Or claimed something. Something that was you-adjacent.

Landing outside your building, he didn’t release you immediately. He set you down slowly, golden streetlight pooled across his shoulders. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, it didn’t need to. It rested there like a weapon lying casually on a table. “See?” he boasted. “You’re safe with me.”

Safe. The word pressed wrong in your bones. Protection or possession — unclear, and he didn’t care to differentiate.

His gaze wandered over your face again, studying, collecting reactions he liked, discarding ones he didn’t. A curator choosing which version of you he preferred to display.

Then, as abruptly as he’d scooped you out of the sky, he eased his hand away. No farewell touch, no dramatic exit line. Just release. Like a leash slipping from a hand, not because the walker is done, but because they know the dog will still come back. “Get some rest,” he commanded in silk clothing.

You turned toward your building entrance, held together by politeness and survival instinct. Your keys shook slightly in your hand, only enough that you noticed. Hopefully not enough that he did.

But then — of course he did. He saw everything. Especially in you. Halfway through your door, you risked a glance back.

He was still there.

Hovering inches above the pavement now, as if gravity bored him and he’d decided to only pretend to respect it for your benefit. Cape stirring in the evening breeze, city lights gilding the edges of his suit. A perfect god framed by very human streetlamps, looking at your front steps like he’d carved them into the world himself.

And he was smiling.

Not the public smile, not the one that sold patriotism and purity and protection on glossy banners and cereal boxes. This one was private. Like he’d discovered something rare. Like he’d pocketed it. Like you had finally given him something real and it thrilled him.

You slipped inside and shut the door softly, gentle as if noise might offend him through the wood. Through the narrow glass, you glimpsed him one last time, still floating, still staring at your building, as though memorizing each brick, each window, each potential vantage point.

A god who believed he’d earned worship.

started 10.29.2025. finished 11.02.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

If anyone tried to stop him, he was going to break their face. Not because he wanted to. Not because he liked it (except maybe he did sometimes, but he hated that, hated knowing it). But because Cate was lying in a room full of machines and none of them could fix the part of her that mattered. The part that made the world quiet.

And he couldn’t sit still when the world was this loud.

They said stable. They said resting. They said a lot of things and none of them included the word awake.

He paced the hallway, his fingers flexed at his sides, nails a fraction away from digging into palms, from breaking skin. He couldn’t tell if he wanted the pain or just wanted something real to prove he wasn’t dreaming on top of a nightmare.

Cate always knew how to pull him back. Press a hand to his cheek. Whisper calm into the bones of his skull. Lie, maybe, but soft lies, ones that made breathing stop hurting. He hated her for that. He needed her for that. He didn’t know the difference anymore.

He inhaled. Too sharp. It scraped. The air here tasted like antiseptic and electricity and someone else’s panic. Not his. No, his burned from the inside out, slow and hot and stupid, like he swallowed gasoline.

They took her.

The thought lashed through him, sudden and senseless, because no one took her, she was right there behind the glass and tubes, but it still felt like someone took her. Like someone cut out the one steady thread he’d been clinging to and expected him not to unravel.

His head hummed. No — rattled. Shook. Too many wires in there and every one of them sparking. He didn’t just want her awake. He didn’t want her safe. He wanted her functional.

He wanted the quiet back.

Not the absence of sound so much as the absence of the chaos inside his skull, the chatter that dressed every moment in its own bad commentary, the tiny nags that turned ordinary things into accusations. He wanted the hush Cate could make, the skill she had for folding the noise down and away. He wanted her to press her palm to his forehead and tell the television in his head to change the channel.

Instead he was in the quad, sun doing that mean thing where it looks kind and feels sharp, sitting on a blanket that would probably get grass stains and thinking, absurdly, that eating a sandwich outside made you a normal person. A person who could be trusted in public. A person who could not be suspected of being dangerous.

It wasn’t until the sandwich started talking that he admitted, reluctantly, that maybe he did actually need Cate.

He blinked at it once. Twice. Bread. Tuna. Lettuce. Mayo he didn’t even like, because he’d grabbed whatever was closest from the communal fridge like someone who didn’t have several layers of psychological hazard tape wrapped around his brain. Totally normal sandwich.

When it spat out its contents at him, that was the moment the little dam inside him snapped and he thought, oh. Right. We’re doing this again.

He stood up fast enough to send his bottle of water rolling across the grass. Someone glanced over. He ignored them. He ignored the sandwich too, which had started singing, some deranged version of a lullaby that felt like it was dragging nails down the back of his skull.

He paced. Sharp little back-and-forth lines cutting through the green lawn, headphone cord tangling in his pocket, breath pushing out in short bursts like he’d forgotten how to breathe. A group of students laughed near the fountain, and the sound started to seem more and more distant.

He whispered under his breath, too fast, too low, too desperate to pass for casual. “No, I’m not talking to you. I don’t need — I don’t— she’s fine, I’m fine—”

Someone walking past gave him a wide berth, like he was a live wire. Fair.

He kept moving. Couldn’t stop. Still talking to no one. Or everyone. Or — whatever was crowding in behind his eyes. A squirrel paused on a bench and stared at him with unsettling intelligence, like it knew every one of his sins and found them pedestrian. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket until stars flared.

He did not want to need her.

He especially did not want to need her because she was in a bed somewhere being called stable which was code for not dead yet but don’t ask too many questions. And relying on someone was weakness. Reliance meant fragility. Meant vulnerability. Meant—

A lamppost flickered and became cartoonishly alive, “You break things, you know!”

“I know.”

That was new. He wasn’t usually agreeing with the hallucinations. Was that a sign of progress? Decline? Did it matter?

He walked. Or he thought he did. His legs were moving at least, long, restless strides cutting through the quad and into the shade of the academic buildings, where the air felt colder.

Concrete underfoot.

Birds.

Voices.

Laughter that sounded like scraping metal.

He rubbed at the back of his neck, nails digging crescent moons into skin. Couldn’t feel it. Could feel everything else. The quad was behind him now, sunlight sliding off his shoulders as though the day rejected him the same way people did. “Normal” stayed in the grass with the sandwich. Normal never followed him home. A breeze passed and each blade of grass shivered like it was whispering behind his back.

Freak freak freak—

“Say it again,” he muttered under his breath. “Say it again and see what happens.” A student crossing the courtyard looked at him and quickly looked away. He didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t look at himself either.

The voices started, considerate at first like they didn’t want to scare him. Then louder. Closer. Familiar.

“You never could hack it out here, Sam.”

Luke.

Except not Luke. Luke didn’t sound like disappointment curdling milk. Luke didn’t hiss.

Sam’s hands curled into fists. “Shut up.”

He passed the glass doors of the science building and caught his own reflection which began to speak to him. “You don’t fool anybody.” He flinched, stumbled back as though pushed. Hallway lights buzzed overhead, too white, too hot, like interrogation lamps.

And there, at the far end of the hall, a puppet leaned against a locker. “Where’s Cate, Sammy? Thought she could fix you?”

His breath hitched. His throat tightened so fast it hurt. “Don’t call me that.”

More puppets blinked into existence, peeking out of open classroom doors, hanging upside-down from the ceiling tiles, perched on drinking fountains with button eyes too shiny. One sat crumpled by the fire extinguisher, head tilted, tongue sewn down, as if even the hallucinations were tired of hearing him talk.

“She saved you,” one giggled in a child’s voice. “And look what you let happen to her.”

“She—” his voice cracked, thin as the fluorescent hum, “she saved herself.”

A lie.

Or maybe the truth.

They tangled in his head until he couldn’t tell one from the other anymore.

He didn’t realize he’d started walking faster until he was practically jogging, sneakers slapping the tile too loud, breath too loud, heartbeat too loud. He reached the stairwell door and slammed into it with both hands like he was trying to stop the building from falling on him. “She’s not like you. She’s not—you don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to—”

“You’re poison,” a voice breathed against his ear, warm, intimate, almost loving. Cate’s voice. Perfectly mimicked by whatever part of him wanted him dead the most. “You kill everything good.”

His knees nearly buckled. He pressed his forehead to the metal door, palms flat, trying to feel the cold. Trying to stay here. Trying to stay anywhere but inside his head.

“I’m trying,” he choked out, voice splintering. “I am trying. I am—”

A puppet slid into the stairwell window, pressing felt hands to the glass to mockingly touch Sam’s as it whispered,

“Try harder.”

Something inside him twisted, sharp and hot and rising like bile. He shoved the door open and stumbled into the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time, like if he moved fast enough he could outrun his own skull. Luke’s voice followed him down the concrete steps, soft, wistful, cruel,

“You were better locked up.”

And Sam laughed, a short, manic sound that scraped the back of his throat, because maybe he was right.

It didn’t build slowly. It just hit, like stepping through a doorway he didn’t notice he’d opened. One second: campus. The next: a world with seams showing. He was moving too fast, the swing of his arms sharp enough that a passing freshman flinched out of his way. He didn’t notice. Didn’t feel the shove of wind or the sun anymore.

Calm down. (But how do you calm down when your brain has teeth?)

Someone laughed. A real laugh?

“They’re watching you.” A puppet in a letterman jacket whispered from atop a trash can. “They know you break.”

He jerked his head like shaking water out of his ears. “Don’t— don’t start that.”

Another voice, high, sweet, dripped down from a tree branch. A cheerleader puppet dangled upside-down, pom-poms stained a sticky dark red. “Cate would have stopped it~”

His stomach flipped violently. Instinct, panic, grief. He picked up speed, half-run, half-limp, like he could outrun neurons firing in the wrong order. Every sound stabbed. Talking. Metal chair scraping pavement. A phone ringing. A crow cawing.

Cawing turned into a puppet voice mid-sound: “Saaaaaam~”

He slapped the side of his head, just enough to try to reset the audio. Didn’t help.

He did it again, harder. “Stop it. Stop it. Shut up.”

A student nearby startled; he heard it, vaguely, like through a tunnel. Someone said “Jesus, is he okay?”

Then suddenly everything was cheap set foam. Props. Puppets. Campus tables turned to cardboard. The sky a painted backdrop. A faculty member puppet waddled by, blood trickling cartoon-bright from button eyes. “Institutional support!” it chirped. “Report your feelings to student wellness!”

His fingers dug into his scalp, tugging at his hair, nails scraping until his skin stung. Trying to pull the noise out. Trying to hurt just enough to feel present. “STOP TALKING!”

“You’ll hurt someone,” one puppet hissed.

“You already did!!” another sang.

“They should have left you underground.”

He slammed his head against the brick once, twice. Enough to remind himself there was a skull. A border. A body. It didn’t work. “I want to be good.”

Cartoon confetti rained from nowhere, mean confetti, like it bit on contact. Puppets clapped. One exploded into plush organs and giggled while it did.

“Then why aren’t you?”

His vision swam. His knees dipped. He gasped, hand on wall, nails scraping mortar. Students — real ones? — skirted away, confused, scared. He couldn’t tell which faces had seams.

If she didn’t wake up … if she never touched him again and made the noise drop out … He didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know who he’d be.

He only knew he’d burn the world down before he let it swallow him whole.

A puppet hanging from a bulletin board turned its yarn head. “Hero check! Failed. Try crying harder!” confetti gun blast to the face. He didn’t run so much as collapse forward in motion, legs carrying him out of instinct more than choice. Through the lobby. Up a flight of stairs. The hall stretched, too long, then too short, jerking like a bad camera cut.

His hand hit the door. It wasn’t his. Didn’t matter. Vought would fix it. Vought always fixed it.

(Would they?)

They’d paint him smiling, golden boy glow, tragic past, healing journey. He didn’t care right now. He shoved the door open so hard it banged the wall and cracked plaster.

Inside: quiet. A bed, two desks, posters, the boring, beautiful mundanity of people who didn’t have puppets peeling out of the drywall. He slammed it shut, like the hallway voices might have hands. The room should have been safe. But sound crawled anyway, whispers behind vents, laughter under the mattress, the hum of a desk lamp like a mosquito burrowing into his thoughts.

Something tore, inside or outside, didn’t matter. He began tearing through the room like it had insulted him personally. Drawer ripped out, thud, pens skittering like beetles. Chair kicked, wood splinter biting calf. He grabbed the mattress and flipped it, a grunt punched out of him. Sheets snarled around his legs. Breath harsh, cracked knuckle bleeding down his wrist again.

He smashed a mug, ceramic crunch skittering like bones across a tile grave. Shadows twisted into puppet silhouettes. They tittered, delighted. “Stop watching me!” he roared, throat raw, spittle shining on his lip. “I’m not— I’m not—”

Good? Safe? Real?

He punched the desk until something in his hand popped. Not enough, desperate for sensation that proved a boundary existed somewhere. He turned to the wall. Pressed his forehead to it, panting, shaking, small sounds breaking loose in his throat like sobs choked before they could form. “Please,” he whispered to nothing and everyone. “Shut up. Just… stop.”

Then the doorknob rattled. Click. Door swung open.

You stood there, framed in fluorescent light and disaster. Eyes flicking from him, wild-eyed, fists red, breathing like a kicked dog, to the ruin around him.

Silence.

“Either this is avant-garde performance art,” you said, very flat, “or you really hated my roommate’s new desk.”

His vision jerked, focus snapping between you and the wall breathing behind you and the confetti melting into the rug. Sam bared his teeth without meaning to, something animal and cracked. “Don’t come in here.”

He didn’t even know what he was warning you about. Himself. The world. The puppet perched on your shoulder whispering look at him break.

Your brow knit, like you were trying to see the invisible thing he was reacting to, and then — flat, unimpressed: “…okay, yeah. This is definitely not R.A.-approved behavior.” You took in the overturned mattress. The broken mug. The bruising rage still vibrating off him. Then you nodded very sagely. “You… spontaneously lost a fight with interior décor?”

Somehow your tone threw him harder than any hallucination.

“I said stay back!”

His voice cracked on it, like even he heard the fear in it. You raised your hands in exaggerated surrender. “I mean yeah, I was planning to walk straight into the bleeding guy mid-breakdown, thanks for stopping me. Truly. Close call.”

Sam’s brain tried to process that. It tripped over itself.

Were you being sarcastic?

His brain spun the question in circles. Sarcasm. Mocking. Or normal people joking. Or knives hidden under tone. He couldn’t tell — he never could — so the thought looped and frayed and—

Words useless. Always useless. Cate did the talking for him, really. Or she did the silencing. Same thing, right?

Your expression shifted mid-thought, recognition lighting across your features like a bulb warming. You squinted, then pointed at him with incredulous disbelief. “Aren’t you Sam Riordan?”

He froze. Recognition meant expectation. Expectation meant surveillance. Cameras. Eyes. Puppets. Headlines.

You watched all of that happen, the spark, the spiral, the crash, in two heartbeats. And something in you softened, posture lowering a fraction. Not afraid, but careful. Handling volatile chemicals. Or, you know… a six-foot superhuman hallucinating reality like a scratched DVD.

“Right,” you said quietly. Your voice changed. Smooth, level, the kind of tone nurses used, or people kneeling beside a cornered animal trying not to startle it.

And Sam realized, in a distant, delayed way, he was the animal in this analogy.

He paced anyway. Sharp turns. Fingers flexing like claws he didn’t choose. Jaw tight, breath ragged, heart punching ribs. He growled at something over your shoulder. “Stop talking— I said STOP—”

You didn’t flinch. That made it worse. Everyone flinched. Everyone ran. Everyone knew.

But you just breathed. Centered in the debris like you’d been born in crisis and never forgot how to walk around it. Sam kept muttering, fragments, apologies, threats, prayers. Didn’t know which was which. His head wouldn’t hold still.

Then something shifted. He didn’t see it. Didn’t hear it. It was… pressure. Like the room inhaled and held the breath. Not a hand. Not a force. A weather change. His heartbeat stuttered, confused. The puppets flickered. Sound dropped, muffled, like someone wrapped reality in a blanket.

No. No, no, no—

Calm crawled into his bones.

Warm. Heavy. Quiet.

Too quiet.

He jerked, muscles sparking, fight-or-flight with nowhere to sprint. Adrenaline demanded chaos. Panic demanded noise. Fear demanded he RUN or BREAK something or DO ANYTHING to keep the world from swallowing him.

But the world… softened.

His breath slowed without permission. Chest loosening, shoulders unhooking from his ears. “What—” His voice cracked. Embarrassing. Young.“What did— I don’t—” He blinked like a drunk surfacing from a nightmare underwater. The puppets? Gone. Or fuzzy. Like they knew they weren’t welcome.

He could hear himself breathe.

Just himself.

When was the last time the inside of his head wasn’t a war zone? Relief hit him so fast it hurt.

Which meant he hated it.

Instinct curled in his gut, the only shield he’d ever trusted. Don’t trust this. Don’t get used to this. Don’t let it in. His knees sagged a fraction, a glitch in posture, like his body forgot how to hold itself upright without panic as scaffolding. He stared at you. Wild. Suspicious.

Terrified.

Relieved so brutally it felt like breaking.

“What… did you do,” he accused. Awe edged with fear, like touching fire and not getting burned.

You shrugged lightly, hands still relaxed at your sides. “Call it… emotional first aid.”

His eyes narrowed, trying to parse the joke. Trying to decide if you were real. If this was a trick. If the silence would suddenly scream again.

You didn’t push closer. Didn’t crowd him. Just stood there, steady in the quiet you’d poured into the room. “Feels weird, right?” you murmured. “The not-wanting-to-implode thing?”

Sam swallowed. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have language for peace anymore.

You moved. Not frantically, deliberately, like if you did anything too quick he’d bolt or go feral or crack the wall in half. Which, honestly, he looked capable of. You stooped, picked up a hoodie you’d left on the floor, flung it vaguely toward a chair. “So,” you said lightly, like you weren’t shaking inside from being in a room with what was essentially a nervous nuclear warhead, “I’m just gonna… pretend I had ‘cleaning’ on my to-do list today.”

Sam blinked, slow, heavy-lidded. He hadn’t sat yet. He hovered near the door like a cat that wasn’t sure if it wanted to be inside or burning the house down. You thumbed at the messy desk, sweeping stray pens into a cup. “Feel free to sit. Or stand ominously.”

He didn’t laugh. But something in his shoulders loosened, like he recognized the joke but didn’t know where to put it inside himself.

You pointed at a truly heinous ceramic frog your roommate had made in Intro to Ceramics, mottled green, bulging eyes, teeth for some reason. A demon amphibian. “Also? Kinda rude you didn’t break that earlier. If you’re gonna go full mental spiral, at least take out the frog of nightmares. I have suffered.”

He finally moved, and sat on the edge of your bed. Stiff posture, hands braced on his knees like he was afraid he’d float off or fall apart. His breathing evened out a fraction. He was watching you. And not in the glossy-poster “Golden Boy” way you’d seen on sponsored feeds, not marketing gaze. Hunting gaze. Or maybe listening gaze. Like he was trying to memorize every second without understanding why.

You tossed another shirt into a pile. “We don’t have to talk about… whatever that was. We can pretend you just really, really hate my furniture.”

He looked… heavy. Melting. Like someone had poured warm molasses into his bones. “What’re you doing to me,” he murmured. Not accusing this time. More… dazed. Wondering. His voice distant, like someone waking from anesthesia.

You froze mid-fold of a sock. Then shrugged. “It’s just my powers making you feel more calm than you really are.”

He squinted, trying to focus on a thought that slid out from under him every time he reached for it. “Feels… nice,” he mumbled. “Like… warm. In my head.”

You lifted your brows. “Pretty sure that’s called relaxing. You should try it recreationally.”

He leaned back against your headboard. His brain looked like it had put itself in low-power mode. And he just stared at you, like he’d never encountered safety before and wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch it.

And Sam drifted.

If drifting could be desperate.

His eyelids sank halfway, lashes low like gravity finally noticed him. A slow breath. Then another. Muscles unwound by degrees, suspicious at first, then surrendering like someone loosening fist after fist they forgot they’d been clenching. He felt—

God, he didn’t even have a word that wasn’t catecatecate ghosting through his skull like a phantom limb.

But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t empty.

This was … presence. Weight without pain. Awareness without punishment. Not a switch flipped. Not a mind wiped clean. Just… room. Space inside his own skull he hadn’t seen in years. He could breathe in it. The world didn’t shatter. The floor didn’t tilt. Nothing in his blood screamed. It should’ve alarmed him. It didn’t.

It thrilled him. (It terrified him.)

He watched you move around the room, casually, like gravity lived in your pockets and followed your steps. Folding clothes, muttering at a stack of papers, brushing crumbs off your desk. Mundane choreography. No pity. No demand. No “Sam, focus.” No “Sam, breathe.” Just existing. Letting him exist too.

He sank further into the pillow, breath dipping into some low, sweet frequency he didn’t know he could hold. He felt syrupy, not slow from fear or restraint or sedation, but soft in a way that felt earned. Deserved?

(No. Don’t think that. Don’t get greedy.)

(But god it felt good.)

His fingers curled loosely on the blanket. He could feel his pulse in his wrists. Steady. Steady.

Oh.

Oh, he liked this.

His jaw loosened. The constant internal alarm, the one shrieking you are a problem / you are dangerous / you are failing every second you breathe, slipped to a low murmur. Then a whisper. Then nothing at all.

Silence.

True silence.

He nearly choked on it.

He’d forgotten peace could be audible.

He stared at you, pupils darkened, a little wild with the revelation. There was hunger behind it, not violent; starved. Like a stray realizing the hand offering food wasn’t pulling away.

His throat opened to speak and closed on the words. Words weren’t built for this. His world had language for violence, doubt, control, obedience. Not this warm, stupid softness spreading under his ribs like sunlight. He would’ve agreed to anything if it meant not losing this.

He’d chased numbness for so long — this was worse. Better. Dangerous. Alive.

If you stood up and walked away, he thought dimly, he’d follow.

He’d have to.

started 11.1.2025. finished 11.2.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

𝓐 = affection (how do they show affection? how affectionate are they?)

dex shows affection by orbiting you like he physically can’t stay away. he is there, all the time. he learns you. everything. the way you breathe when you’re falling asleep, the sound of your footsteps in the hall, the way your voice shifts when you’re lying. he’ll do little things for you constantly, fix the crooked picture frame, refill your drink before you notice it’s empty, adjust the thermostat because he knows what temperature you like. affection for him is proximity; being near you, knowing you’re safe, knowing you still look at him like he’s something good. he touches more than he talks, hand on your back guiding you through a crowd, thumb brushing your jaw when you’re focused, fingertips tracing patterns against your thigh while you read. when you’re gone, he’s restless, like he can’t breathe right until you’re near again. you become his center point, the anchor he builds his whole day around. he doesn’t just love you, he fixates, studies, protects. it’s not about gestures or words for him, it’s about being needed, about making himself essential, so even your smallest routines start to revolve around him too.

𝓑 = best friend (what are they like as a best friend? how would a friendship with them start?)

as a best friend, dex latches on in a way that’s both flattering and a little unsettling. at first, he’s quiet, watching you more than talking, learning how you move, what makes you laugh, what irritates you. and once he decides you’re someone worth orbiting, you become his blueprint. everything you do filters through him; he starts mirroring you without realizing it, your phrases, your gestures, the way you carry yourself. if you love a certain song, it’s suddenly on his playlist. if you hate a food, he won’t touch it again. his sense of self gets tangled with yours because, to him, being close means becoming what you love. you become his compass, his moral anchor, and his idea of normal. when you’re gone he flounders, like he doesn’t know how to exist right without you there to reflect off of. it starts innocently, wanting to impress you, to be good enough, but it grows into something more consuming. he starts basing his worth on your approval. your moods dictate his, your praise lights him up, your disapproval wrecks him.

𝓒 = cuddles (do they enjoy cuddling? what are they like during cuddles, and how long can they stand it?)

at first, cuddling feels foreign to dex. his body will stay stiff against yours, locked like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. but the longer it lasts, the more it unravels him. the warmth, the closeness, the sound of your breathing, it hits him somewhere deep, somewhere he didn’t know was starving. soon it becomes a need. he starts craving your touch. if you don’t reach for him, he’ll hover close enough that you have to, brushing his knee against yours, resting a hand near your thigh, anything that makes you close that distance first. when you do hold him, he melts instantly, all that built-up tension dissolving as he buries his face against your neck or your chest. he likes when you hold him tight, grounding, like you mean it. if you pull away too soon he notices, his mind immediately spinning: did i do something wrong? are they mad?

𝓓 = domestic (how do they handle chores, cooking, cleaning, and everyday living?)

routine keeps him sane. he needs things ordered, each object in its exact place, each surface spotless enough to catch the light. there’s comfort in repetition, in folding shirts the same way every time, in scrubbing a dish until the sound of it squeaks. he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right, not because he thinks you’re careless, but because the smallest difference, one misplaced fork, one crooked frame, throws him off balance. he’ll redo things after you’ve done them, smoothing wrinkles, straightening lines. cooking is the same ritual: measured movements, careful precision, like it’s the only thing that keeps his hands steady. he moves through domestic life with an intensity most people reserve for work, it’s the only way he knows how to keep the chaos out of his head.

𝓔 = ending (if they had to break up, how would they handle it emotionally and practically?)

he wouldn’t do it lightly. endings are catastrophic in his mind, every word, look, and small movement is dissected afterward until it burns in his memory. if he’s pushed to the edge, if the sense of betrayal or fear becomes too much, he might lash out in anger first. but once reality sinks in, he’d spiral into obsessive guilt, replaying every interaction, every misstep, wondering how he could have fixed it. practically, he’d either vanish without a proper goodbye, leaving you with the sudden weight of his absence, or he’d stay until you both cried it through, incapable of leaving without witnessing the fallout of his actions. the aftermath would linger, he’d check on you from afar, still wanting to know you’re safe, still entangled in your life even if he can’t admit it.

𝓕 = family (do they want a family? kids?)

his idea of family is intense. if there were a child, he’d hover constantly, learning every routine, habit, preference, anxious about doing everything perfectly yet determined to be there for every moment. he’d be protective to the point of tense over-management, watching interactions, checking safety obsessively, and struggling to give space. he’d worry constantly, sometimes overthink minor things, but he’d also be deeply attentive, noticing small moods, changes in behavior, wanting to understand and respond. if parenthood wasn’t part of the plan he’d accept it, no matter what there’s always a longing for total devotion from you that sees you as his world. in either scenario, he’s capable of care. he wants you to be happy, and is willing to settle for either.

𝓖 = gentle (how soft are they physically and emotionally? how careful are they with people’s feelings?)

he’s not gentle by nature, he’s controlled. he knows exactly how much pressure to use, how to land a hit, how to make pain look like an accident. that same control is what makes his gentleness with you so startling. he handles you like you’re breakable, like one wrong touch might undo everything he’s built around you. his voice softens in a way it never does for anyone else, movements slowing down as if he’s forcing his whole body to remember this is you. with other people, he’s indifferent at best, cruel at worst; he can manipulate, exploit, even smile while someone’s falling apart if it gets him what he wants. but with you, never. every touch is measured. he’s the kind of gentle that feels like worship, you’re the only person he believes deserves softness.

𝓗 = hugs (do they like hugs? how do they hug, and how often do they give them?)

he’s always looking for a reason to wrap you up. even if it’s just passing by in the kitchen or sitting on the couch, he’ll pull you close, arms tight around you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. there’s weight behind his hugs, a protective intensity that makes you feel anchored. he’s constantly aware of your reactions, adjusting the pressure if he thinks he’s too tight or holding just enough to remind you he’s there. he’ll linger, resting his head on yours or against your shoulder, and sometimes he doesn’t even let go when you try to step away, watching to make sure you’re okay. he craves the closeness as much as he wants to give it, and if he notices you’re tense or upset, he’ll hug you tighter, until he’s convinced you feel safe.

𝓘 = i love you (how soon and how often do they say it? do they mean it seriously or casually?)

he doesn’t say it right away, he doesn’t even let himself think it for a long time. it’s too big, too final, too exposing. but once it slips past his defenses, once he realizes that everything he does, every thought he has, every breath he takes somehow circles back to you, there’s no putting it away again. when he finally says i love you, it’s not casual, its like a confession he’s been holding in for years. after that, he can’t stop. the words come out, muttered into your hair, your neck, against your fingers when he’s holding your hand, for himself as much as for you. when you say it back, his whole body stills. he listens like it’s proof you’re still his, that you still mean it, that he’s not imagining this whole thing.

𝓙 = jealousy (how easily do they get jealous? how do they act when jealous?)

it doesn’t take much; a glance that lasts too long, a name that comes up one too many times, a laugh that isn’t meant for him. he’ll go quiet first, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight enough to ache. the anger isn’t just at the other person, it’s at the idea of sharing you, of someone else getting to see even a fraction of what he sees. it festers, and depending on how deep it digs, he can get dangerous with it, manipulative, obsessive, cutting people out of your orbit before you even realize he’s doing it. if it ever reaches the point where he thinks someone’s a real threat, his restraint frays completely, and that’s when it turns dark, the quickest and easiest solution turning to murder. he’ll want reassurance. he’ll need you to touch him, to tell him it’s fine, that he’s the only one.

𝓚 = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss and be kissed?)

his kisses start out restrained, careful, testing, like he’s afraid he’ll do it wrong, but it doesn’t take long for him to get addicted to the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth. he kisses like someone who’s waited his whole life to be allowed this close. his favorite place to kiss is your neck, not just because of the sensitivity there, but because it’s where he can see what he’s done, the bruises and red marks that say mine without words. he never admits how much that satisfies him, but you can feel it in the way he pulls back just to look at them. he loves when you hold his face and pepper kisses all over his skin. when you start pressing light, rapid-fire kisses over his face, his nose, his eyelids, his temple, his mouth, he shuts down in the best way: eyes fluttering closed, breath stuttering like his brain can’t handle that much affection at once. he ends up clutching you tighter, overwhelmed, his mouth still chasing yours like he can’t bear for it to stop.

𝓛 = lying (how good are they at lying? do they lie to you, and how can you tell?)

exceptional at lying but he hates doing it to you. his tells are microscopic, invisible to anyone else: the way his jaw tightens, the delay before he answers, how he’ll deflect with a question to steer you off course. most of the time, his lies aren’t meant to deceive you maliciously, they’re protective, desperate, spun out of fear that you’ll see too much of what’s wrong in him and leave. “i’m fine,” he’ll say, voice too even, when you can tell he hasn’t slept, or that he’s spiraling again. sometimes he’ll omit things rather than outright lie, like the details of a bad night or what he did when someone crossed a line with you. if you call him out he’ll crumble quick, eyes flickering down, shoulders tightening, that almost childlike panic surfacing because the thought of you not trusting him terrifies him.

𝓜 = mornings (what are they like when they wake up? slow, chirpy, groggy, or chaotic?)

mornings with him are ritualistic, measured down to the second. he wakes before the alarm, always does, and breathes in deep like he’s steadying himself for the day. the bed barely creases when he slips out, movements so precise it’s like he’s trying not to disturb the air itself. the shower runs for exactly the same number of minutes, the coffee brewed to the same strength, breakfast plated just right. and then there’s you, the only variable he allows. he always circles back, leans down to press a kiss to your temple or your lips, depending on how awake you are. same time, same softness, every day. if you ever broke his routine, pulled him back into bed, made him late, he’d grumble and act thrown off, but secretly, he’d spend the whole day a little dazed, a little high on the fact that you could undo his precision that easily.

𝓝 = nights (how do they spend their evenings with you? bedtime routines, night talks, night habits?)

he doesn’t like deviation, not from himself, not from you. the lights dim at the same time, the shower runs at the same temperature, the sheets are always pulled tight before you climb in. he brushes his teeth when you do, folds his clothes in the same order, waits for you to crawl into bed before settling beside you. if you forget or get distracted, he doesn’t scold, just gently steers you back. once you’re both in bed, everything slows. his arm draped around you, thumb tracing the same small pattern on your hip until you drift. he can’t fall asleep until you do; he listens for the shift in your breathing, that soft exhale that means you’re gone. only then does he let go enough to rest, because his night isn’t over until yours is.

𝓞 = openness (how much do they reveal about themselves? do they open up quickly or in pieces?)

he doesn’t open up easily because so much of what’s inside him feels messy, shameful, and unlovable. when he does start talking about himself, it happens in pieces. a casual story about his childhood that sounds rehearsed, a passing mention of a scar that he instantly regrets saying out loud. he’ll dodge direct questions, joke his way out, change the subject to you instead, he’d always rather know everything about you. but once you’ve earned his trust, once he starts believing you won’t flinch at the uglier parts, he’ll unravel more. when you don’t push and just listen that’s when he lets himself say the darker things.

𝓟 = patience (how easily do they get irritated or upset? how do they show it?)

his patience is paper-thin, and most of the time he doesn’t even realize how close he is to snapping until he already has. it’s not always anger, sometimes it’s that twitchy, restless agitation that builds behind his ribs and makes him pace or pick at his skin or grind his teeth. he tries to keep control, but small frustrations stack fast in his head until it feels unbearable. if something throws off his routine, if people don’t listen, if you pull away when he needs you close, it unravels him. he’ll go silent for a while, trying to regulate, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. he’s trying to be patient, he just hasn’t quite learned how to exist without the world constantly pressing on his nerves. there will be moments when his anger controls his actions.

𝓠 = quirks (unique habits, little oddities, or distinctive mannerisms that make them them?)

he lines things up obsessively: pens, utensils, your shoes by the door. everything has to be at a precise angle, like the world only makes sense if it’s symmetrical. sometimes, he’ll go quiet mid-conversation just to stare at you, tracking your micro-expressions, the twitch of your mouth, the way your eyes move. he mimics your gestures without realizing, the way you cross your arms, the tilt of your head, your favorite phrases. once, you caught him stirring his coffee the exact way you do, and he blinked, confused, like he didn’t even know he’d learned it.

𝓡 = remembering (how well do they recall details about you? what’s their favorite memory of you?)

he remembers everything, down to the smallest, most impossible details. once he learns something about you, it stays permanently. every piece of you lives in his head. you don’t have to remind him of anything; he’s already memorized it, catalogued it, replayed it a hundred times over. his memory is selective that way, he forgets whole days if they don’t have you in them, but he could quote what you said on the first night you met word for word. his favorite memory, the one that replays the loudest, is the first time you told him you loved him. he didn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. he still replays it when he’s alone, the exact pitch of your voice, the warmth that spread through him like he was finally allowed to exist for something good.

𝓢 = security (how protective are they of you physically, emotionally, or socially?)

extremely possessive. every sound, glance, and stranger becomes a potential threat the second you’re in the room. it’s not even conscious; his body reacts before his mind catches up. if someone raises their voice near you, he’s stepping in. if someone looks at you too long, he’s pulling you behind him. he doesn’t trust the world to treat you right, so he takes it upon himself to do it for you, screens your messages, insists on walking you everywhere, memorizes the layout of every place you go together so he knows the exits. emotionally, it’s worse. the idea of you being hurt or doubting yourself makes him physically sick, and he’ll do anything to pull you back to him, even if that means isolating you from whatever (or whoever) made you feel that way. in his mind the only place you’re truly safe is in his arms, and he’ll destroy anything that tries to prove him wrong.

𝓣 = trust (how easily do they trust others? do they test loyalty or just believe instantly?)

trust doesn’t come easy with him. everyone starts as a potential threat. but once you break through that wall, once he decides you’re safe, it’s over, he gives you everything. he won’t question you, won’t double-check, won’t listen when others warn him. you become the one fixed point in his world, and he’ll believe whatever comes from your mouth. it’s not that he’s naïve, it’s that he needs to believe in you. testing loyalty doesn’t even cross his mind once he’s attached; he’s all in, no halfway. when he trusts, he does it so completely that betrayal doesn’t just hurt him, it breaks him apart.

𝓤 = unflattering habits (what are some bad habits, annoying traits, or pet peeves they have?)

he’s impossible to shake. the kind of clingy that doesn’t even register as wrong to him, he needs to be near you. if you pull away, even for something small like closing a door between you or saying you’re tired, he spirals instantly. his mind fills in the blanks with rejection, with loss, with you deciding he’s not enough. he’ll linger outside the room, hover, ask if he did something wrong in that wounded tone that’s half guilt trip, half plea. every time you want an inch of space, he takes it like a mile-wide rejection. privacy doesn’t really exist with him, he checks in constantly, hovers over your shoulder, insists on helping with things you don’t need help with because being needed helps him. it’s suffocating, the way he turns care into control, love into dependency. he just wants to keep you close, to make sure you never have to want anyone else, because the thought of you doing anything without him twists something in his chest that he doesn’t know how to live with.

𝓥 = vanity (how concerned are they with their appearance, style, or image?)

he never used to care much about appearances, but somewhere along the way it started to matter. you started to matter. now he notices the things you seem to like, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jaw freshly shaved, the specific cologne that clings when you hug him. he starts trying without admitting that he is: struggling to pick a shirt, fixing his hair, changing his aftershave because you mentioned liking something with cedar once. he checks his reflection more than he used to and runs a hand through his hair before seeing you. he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks, he just needs you to look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

𝓦 = weird (quirky behaviors or odd little things they do that make them unique?)

out of nowhere he’ll make an animal sound in the middle of talking or sitting with you. it’s just him noticing something about your mood and deciding, without thinking, that a dumb noise might break the tension. then he sits there, deadpan, watching to see if you react. it’s the kind of thing that makes you laugh in spite of yourself, because it’s absurd and random and completely unselfconscious, this is how he connects.

𝓧 = xtra (fun fact? something unique or specific about them)

he collects things without realizing he’s doing it, objects that remind him of you. a bottle cap from a drink you shared, a movie stub, the corner of a receipt with your handwriting. he keeps them organized, tucked into drawers or lined neatly on his nightstand. sometimes he doesn’t even remember taking them until he finds one later and gets stuck staring at it.

𝓨 = youthfulness (how playful, spontaneous, or silly are they? do they keep a youthful energy?)

he’s not naturally playful, his seriousness and intensity show, but when it’s just the two of you he can let himself be silly. corny jokes, exaggerated expressions, teasing only you, small, deliberate ways to make you laugh. he doesn’t seek attention or fun elsewhere, but he’ll create little pockets of joy for just the two of you, like he’s crafting a world where only you exist and he can afford to be softer and lighter just for you.

𝓩 = zzz (sleep patterns—how do they sleep, what’s their routine, and do they snore or toss and turn?)

sleep doesn’t come easy to him. his brain doesn’t shut off, replaying every conversation until exhaustion forces him under. even then, it’s light and fitful. he doesn’t snore, but he does twitch sometimes, small jerks that tell you he’s trapped in half-dreams, half-memory. when you’re there, it’s different. he falls asleep faster, his breathing syncing with yours. he needs you close, a hand against your stomach or his forehead tucked to your shoulder, always touching. the nights he wakes up from nightmares, he’ll pull you closer, burying his face against your skin until he steadies again. he’s strict about routine, same bedtime, same order of things, because he needs that control. without you he just lies awake, fingers tracing the dent your body left in the sheets, counting the seconds until morning.

★ a / n : easy post today while i figure out what to work on next … I MISSED Y’ALL TOOOO thank you for the love 🫰🫰

started 10.18.2025. finished 10.18.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025