Stories

Is it personal?

Y/N has a rule: never con someone you can't walk away from. He breaks it somewhere around the third drink, in a bar in Oceanside, when he picks the wrong mark at the wrong table. He doesn't know that yet. He finds out when Andrew Cody sits down across from him the next morning and looks at him the way people look at things they've already decided about. Pope doesn't turn him in. He doesn't have a clean reason for that. Y/N doesn't ask for one, because Y/N is smart enough to know when he's already lost the advantage and charming enough to make it look like he hasn't. The problem is that charm doesn't work on Pope. Pope watches it happen in real time — the smile, the redirect, the careful calibration of exactly how much warmth to turn on — and waits for it to finish like he has somewhere to be. Y/N has never met anyone his face didn't work on. It's deeply inconvenient. What follows is not a love story. Not immediately. It's two people circling each other in a city that doesn't ask questions, one of them used to blood on his hands and trying to remember what clean feels like, the other allergic to staying in one place long enough to get attached. Y/N keeps his hands clean. Pope finds that he would like to keep it that way. That's where the trouble starts. Older man/younger reader. Slow burn. Explicit content. Violence. Canon-typical darkness with lighter undertones.

AngstAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceEmotional Hurt/ComfortAge DifferenceSex Is Fun

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It's never over

Grace survives. Faith survives. The families burn. What nobody accounts for is Y/N — the third MacCaullay sibling, dragged into the nightmare alongside their sisters and killed in the chaos at the bottom of that hole, Titus Danforth's body cold beside them. But Mr. Le Bail's contracts don't care about who's breathing. At dawn, two corpses lie with their hands resting against the Head of the Table's ring — and the ancient bylaws of the council don't leave room for interpretation. The ring passed. The contract bound. By every rule Mr. Le Bail ever wrote, Y/N and Titus are the new heads of the council. And they are, technically, married. Although there's no council anymore. Y/N wakes up with dirt in their lungs and a dead man's husband on their left, a fraction of an explanation by The Lawyer "your souls are bounded to one another, no metter how many times you two kill eachother you will always crawl out back together, Thank Mr. Le Bail for your honeymoon gift."

Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceFix-It of SortsDead PeopleEnemies to LoversCultsLeadershipAccidental MarriagePost-Canon

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Yes, Chef

When a scathing viral review threatens to undo everything Grant Reilly has built at North & Vine, his business partner makes a unilateral decision: bring in outside help. Enter Y/N — talented, ambitious, and exactly the kind of disruption Grant doesn't want in his kitchen. Their first meeting sets the tone. Y/N shows up soaked from a summer rainstorm, gets pulled into the walk-in cooler for a pointed conversation about hierarchy, and somehow still manages to surprise him. Grant tells himself it's just friction. The adjustment period. It doesn't mean anything. Except then they find a rhythm. Then there's a pasta dish, and a moment that neither of them can take back, and Grant walks home along the river trying to convince himself he did the right thing by pulling away. He's the head chef. Y/N is his sous chef. There are rules for a reason. The rules get harder to follow when a kitchen bet ends with a habanero pepper, a viral video, and a late-night text conversation that takes a turn neither of them planned for. Grant handles it with all the grace of a thumbs-up reaction and two weeks of painful avoidance. Y/N starts dating other people. Grant watches and says nothing. Then the Globe article drops, the team goes out to celebrate, and Y/N walks into the bar fresh off a terrible date — and everything Grant has been holding at arm's length comes to a head over a late-night grilled cheese in an empty kitchen. He's been careful for so long. He's not sure he remembers why. *Older man/younger reader. MDom. Explicit content.*

Age DifferenceSlow BurnSexual TensionPower Dynamics

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Till the Wheels fall off

Everyone in the locker room has a bet going. Not on whether Y/N and Rhea Ripley are going to get divorced — they've been saying that since they were eighteen years old and dumb enough to sign a marriage certificate on what was, objectively, a dare that got out of hand. The bet is on how many times Y/N is going to scream "I want a divorce" before the next pay-per-view. Current record: six. In one afternoon. Over a parking spot. Y/N doesn't need an introduction. If you've watched wrestling in the last several years, you know the name. You know the entrance. You know the way seventy thousand people lose their minds the second that music hits. What the cameras don't always catch — what the highlight reels leave out — is that after the pyro dies down and the crowd goes home, Y/N goes back to a hotel room and immediately starts an argument with their wife about something completely unhinged. Last week it was about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. The week before, Y/N threw a pillow at Rhea's head because she breathed too loudly during a movie. Rhea threw it back. Then they knocked over a lamp. Then they were fine, more than fine, the kind of fine that makes the walls thin and the neighbors uncomfortable. This is, more or less, their entire marriage. They met when Y/N was fifteen and Rhea was seventeen, two kids in different cities who kept ending up at the same indie shows, staring each other down across locker rooms and pretending they weren't doing exactly that. They were unbearable to be around separately. Together they were a natural disaster with good ring gear. They got married too young, too fast, too certain. Fought too hard. Said too much. There were nights — more than one, more than a handful — where it genuinely almost came apart. Where I want a divorce stopped being a running joke and started being something heavier, something that sat in the room long after the shouting was done. They survived those nights. Barely, sometimes. Not gracefully, ever.

AngstEstablished RelationshipRomanceFluff and AngstCuteHumorPlot What Plot/Porn Without PlotEnemy Lovers

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