#THIS IS GETTING A LITTLE.......... REAL.........

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Death of Wei Wuxian.

(Thank you to everyone who participated in the poll!)

[indigo--montoya]

[id: a tag reading "this is dming" end id]

knight who is constantly searching for a good and noble king to serve but cannot fucking find one for the life of him so he has to become the good and noble king himself.

and now all these other knights are coming around like "please let me serve you" and like obviously hes going to let them serve him thats the point of being a good and noble king but its also. very annoying. one of you become the good and noble king for once lets trade

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[luna-azzurra]

Reminders for fanfic writers who think it “doesn’t count”

✦ Your writing counts. like, a lot. If someone felt something because of what you wrote, then it matters. That scene you almost didn’t post? Yeah. Believe me, someone out there bookmarked it for a reason.

✦ Writing existing characters doesn’t make it “less than.” You’re building arcs, crafting dialogue, emotion, pacing. You’re studying character psychology like a scientist. That’s not “just fanfic,” that’s storytelling.

✦ “but it’s just fanfic” ...no. STOP, it’s craft. It’s understanding tone. It’s hitting emotional beats. It’s layering theme and backstory and prose into something people feel. You’re doing the work, you just don’t get graded on it. (Which, honestly is a blessing.)

✦ Writing fanfic means you love stories enough to live inside them. You care, deeply. You care enough to reimagine, to explore, to add something of yourself to a world you didn’t create and somehow still make it feel brand new.

✦ Someone out there rereads your fic like it’s their favorite book. Maybe they’ve saved a line to their notes app,or they quote it to a friend. Maybe they just think about it when they’re having a bad day. That little fic you almost deleted, it’s comfort now.

✦ Your comments section is real. Every “I needed this” and “this made me cry in a good way��� is proof, you don’t need a book deal to matter. You don’t need a publisher to have an impact, because you already do.

FANFIC IS WRITING! Fanfic is yours.

You’re not “just” anything. You’re a writer, own it. Be proud of that.

[redrage71890]

Backing Voice (Yan! KPDH x Fem! MC) Part 1

Synopsis: The end of their tour is just around the corner, one more show. Too bad some demons decide to ruin their party.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn (?), Yandere (?)

CW: None

Prologue, Part 1, Part 2

A/N: I’m desperately trying to push these out while the hype is real.

————————————————————

”La, la, la, la, la, la, la~”

”La, La, La, La, La, La, Laa~~”

”LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LAAA~~~”

Locked in an airplane bathroom, a slowly rising voice echos about that can barely be heard from the outside. The tone ranging from fierce to soft in seconds between each line of words or sounds from her mouth.

Shocking to think this came from a girl who hasn’t performed in front of an audience since she as a child.

“I’ve always felt like a monster”

”Long before I was bit~”

”Only seen as a monster~ Let’s just say I’m used to it~”

”And I grew tired cause loving had only hurt me bad”

“But loving you is a good problem to have”

”And I’m used to that, but I could get used to this~”

*Knock*

*Knock*

”Hey (Y/N), you gonna join us for our carb load? Don’t worry we have plenty enough for you! If you want to that is. You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.” Zoey asks from the other side with clear excitement yet nervousness in her tone.

Only in recent times has (Y/N) grew comfortable enough to eat with the girls. For the first few days of meeting each other, she didn’t exactly talk that much. Or even made eye contact.

One on one conversations didn’t last very long in some cases, devolving into awkward silence usually with Rumi and Mira. Zoey on the other hand tended to continue her fun topics of discussion and even unintentionally rant about little things that have ticked her off or grabbed her interest.

Ended up dragging (Y/N) into watching all her turtle videos at one point. And to think (Y/N) ended up watching the entirety without a break along with Zoey.

That’s when the girls figured out something.

Just when they thought (Y/N) wasn’t listening or even uninterested in their talks, she always took everything in.

Simply listening to what they say with small gestures and hums that indicate her awareness.

Overtime, they met eyes as one talks.

And the next, she was beginning to speak and respond.

Though even at the beginnings they noticed her slight tremor and shivering as one would approach and or initiated conversations.

But time has passed.

Progress was made.

The social barrier was breaking down steadily.

And their unknowing hunger for that softness and comfort grew

“U-Um, sure. I’ll be out in a second.”

”(Gasp) Really?! Okay! I’ll tell the girls!”

Hearing Zoey speed off made (Y/N) chuckle at the cartoonish footsteps and visual in her head. (She looked like sanic)

Before she unlocked the door, she took one final look in the mirror. Something she did often enough to become habit. It wasn’t the kind of admiring like being in awe of yourself or even picking out flaws in your appearance or self.

No.

Her eyes always just stared ahead.

No blinking.

No words.

No thoughts.

All besides one…

Despite everything in the world…

It’s still you.

Turning her head away and unlocking the door. She was met again with the prestigious white walls and cushioned seats of the plane, with the compartments of materials for the plane attendants to use and serve for them in their areas.

Just outside at a small table filled to the brim with carb heavy foods scattered about. The three hunters already decked out in their performance attires and faces of makeup, eagerly awaiting to bring joy to their fans.

She didn’t exactly match the dress code.

Just a simple yet sophisticated attire of black and purple with hints of gold about. A purple buttoned cropped top, black flared pants with the ends a shire grey with patterned webs, expected black boots, a black and gold blazer jacket and a black tie loosely done.

Complimenting her further with dangling gold earrings with thin tassels. Hanging from her waist is a small lavender blue charm with two flower stones of the centre with loose strands of material. A small thin string of a mix of gold and silver instruments strung about, ranging from an electric and acoustic guitar, to a violin and piano.

Despite the similar golds and charms on their attires, hers felt out of place.

Their faces lighting up upon meeting her own (f/c) and gold rimmed eyes.

“(Y/N)! We were just about to start! Come huddle with us!” Zoey eagerly pulls the usually anxious girl along with them, placing herself between the maknae and their dancer.

“Okay, this is our biggest show yet.”

“The most songs.”

“The most notes.”

”The most moves.”

”Which means the most carb loading.”

”For the fans!”

Hastily grabbing a couple of kimbap for herself, seeing as the three stuffs whatever they grab on the table. (Y/N) felt a bit envious that they eat and talk so comfortably with each other with food splattering out at time. Preferring to savour her food and not choke out of pure embarrassment.

Not that the girls would ever judge.

But that did allow her to send the plane attendants apologetic smiles and bows, for they have to clean up the mess.

’Apologies, I know how you feel.’

Though that didn’t stop the lady attendant to back away from them.

”Okay, time for our pre-game ramyeon!”

“Here you go (N/N), hope you don’t mind this flavour.” Mira hands her a ramyeon cup with her face and flavour on it. Feeling grateful for not being left out again she sends the tall girl a thankful thumbs up and smile.

”Happy fans, happy Honmoon!”

“Wait, there’s no water in these.”

As Rumi was asking the attendant for water, her ringtone began to go off. Seeing the caller ID she hastily answered.

“Hi, Bobby!”

"Yeah, hi! Um, what are you doing?"

"About to eat our pre-show ramyeon."

"Pre-show? What about the show-show?"

Finishing off her kimbap with a nervous gulp, (Y/N) smacked her own face out of pure shame.

'I should've known!'

Considering her position in HUNTR/X set by her mother and Celine, they pulled some strings and made her part of staff as strange mix of a producer, co-writer and manager along with Bobby. Difference was that she lived with them and had a hand in their music.

When it comes to music, she's the one to go to.

Whether it be making samples and demos, to finalising a few songs in their instrumentals and fixing up little details.

But for demons?

Its a different story...

As the girls were talking to Bobby (and greeting the fans that stole his phone for a few seconds), (Y/N) just stared at the staff with them. Looking closer now, it was obvious they were demons.

I mean...

Pouring coffee in a plant, randomly observing a spoon like it was an art piece and not to mention spinning hotteok like a wheel instead of eating it? Need she say more?

The girls seemed to fully realise what was up as they disappointedly glared at them. Groaning about not finishing their food.

"I didn't even get to finish my ramyeon!"

"Why do they always interrupt our snacking?"

"(Garbled) They will face my wrath!"

"(Whispered) Zoey, make sure not to choke, please."

Rumi confronted the demons with a board expression, obviously pointing out their strange behaviours and spotting patterns along their arms. Stepping on ones foot fully revealed their colourful and abnormal real forms.

"Oh, you got the patterns. Now you gotta die."

Taking a step behind the girls to let them deal with the demons verbally, (Y/N) took all of their cups and skidded past everyone making sure to avoid the confrontation.

"Not our fans."

"When you mess with our fans..."

"We need to make it hurt."

"Ugh, you came at a bad time"

"But you just crossed the line"

"You wanna get wild?"

"Okay, I'll show you wild!"

Twirling around and holding down the demons while beating them hand-to-hand, unphased as they begun to sing their song. Heating up the kettle and passing it to Mira to further beat down a demon into a seat.

The large demons shadow towered over (Y/N), planning to strike the fourth down without hesitation. But her (f/c) and gold eyes saw it him first. Ducking underneath his arm and quickly pouring the hot water in her and Mira's cups before throwing the kettle and the hamburger flavoured cup for Zoey.

Beating down the leaping demons while pouring for herself and Rumi with no sweat.

Manoeuvring through the thrown around demons with her cup in hand, (Y/N) avoided the touch of any demon.

Its not like she could do much anyway.

Though before digging into to their ramyeon, they had something to finish off.

"Knocking you out like a lullaby~"

"Hear that sound ringing in your mind~"

Threads of blues and whites swerve around each of the girls, forming into unique shined weapons in hand. Daggers for Zoey, a spear for Mira and a sword of Rumi.

But the threads around (Y/N) came around and formed into a glowing blue and purple parasol. Emitting rays of light that make the demons freeze when touched.

"Better sit down for the show"

"'Cause I'm gonna show you how it's done, done, done"

Slicing and dicing the demons that dare to come their way. Eagerness writhing on their faces as they slice down the demons. All the while, (Y/N) hums and adlibs through the song. Each line and twist of the parasol emitted a ray of light.

Glancing around at the girls, adoration and fun filled their expressions. Moving like lightning speed and the highlighting colours of their blades faster than usual and bodies consumed by calmness and beauty.

"Run, run, we run the town"

"Whole world playin' our sound"

"Turnin' up, it's goin' down"

"Huntrix show this, how it's done, done, done"

Interrupting their little beating, the aircraft shook as the lights flickered off. Quickly making sure their ramyeon wasn't ruined and in hand, they looked outside to see flying pieces of the plane with the demons on them.

"Yeah, this plane's trashed."

Slurping up their noodles and downing the soup with a sigh of relief-with no hesitation, the four of them dropped out of the plane at lighting speed. (Parasol still in hand but closed)

”Won either way, we're one in a million“

“We killin', we bring it, you want it? Okay”

Catching up with the escaped demons, landing on them as they fixed up some makeup and appearances. Pulling out of her pocket gulped down a pill of sorts with a bottle of water she somehow managed to down while falling.

“Heels, nails, blade, mascara”

“Fit check for my napalm era”

“Need to beat my face, make it cute and savage”

“Mirror, mirror on my phone, who's the baddest? (Us, hello?)“

Approaching closer to the stadium, the three hunters rocket towards the centre stage in glowing blue light. (Y/N) diverges from their path and opens her parasol, encasing her body with a mix of blue and lavender petals. Finding herself backstage with many stage crew members and staff running about.

A spare microphone lazily placed on a spare speaker, she takes it away and runs to the sound guys by the controls.

“It’s showtime! Run it from 1:57 but make sure to keep the backing track. We need blue lights pointing in from the back of the roof top the stage coming from the sky.”

Nodding along with her instructions as they swiftly get to work. One worker handing her three other microphones as she runs towards the edge of the stage.

Spotting the three demons in the centre and the large shadows of the girls in the smoke screen,

”Knocking you out Iike a lullaby”

”Hear that sound ringing in your mind”

”Better sit down for the show”

”Cause I’m gonna show you (I’m gonna show you~)”

”(I’m gonna show you~) How it’s done-done-done”

Striking down the demons (Y/N) hastily threw the mics to the girls that they caught effortlessly. Mira even smirking at her as they continue their song.

”I don’t talk, but I bite, full of venom (Uh)”

”Spittin’ facts, you know that’s”

”Okay, like, I know I ramble”

”But when shootin’ my words, I go Rambo”

”Took blood, sweat, and tears, to look natural (Uh)”

”That’s how its done-done-done”

Hiding behind near the supposed makeup room, (Y/N) tightly holds the mic and listeners carefully to the backing track and counts the time until its just her and Rumi.

“Hear our voice unwavering”

”Til our song defeats the night”

”Makin’ fear afraid to breathe”

”Til the dark meets the light~ (how its done-done-done)”

Pushing her vocals to its highest as she meets with Rumi’s high note. Continuing to belt and echo the chorus through towards the end.

“HUNTR/X don’t miss, how its done-done-done~”

‘One down, many others to go…’

————————————————————

Edit: WHERE R U PEOPLE COMING FRKM? Genuinely curious, but thank you so much for loving this idea I had! Also first time trying a tag list

Tags: @kitsune-05, @the-bookish-artist, @apelepikozume, @shoopershtar, @ravvilicious, @valeriele3, @vikc, @lasa27, @chipster-321, @greensunflowerjuna

[akeaaan]

Change 2

Jinu X fem. reader

part1

word count: 4.7k

a/n: I bless you guys with this, idk why I made it like this and shit but yeah here the last part yall

Synopsis: ╰┈➤You were once a feared demon of the underworld—until you turned your back on that life. Branded a traitor, you escaped to the human world and lived quietly in the shadows, blending in among mortals for years. Peace became your new normal. Routine. Safe. That is, until fate stepped in. A single encounter with Jinu—the sharp-eyed, silver-tongued leader of the rising idol group Saja Boys—shattered your calm existence.

〃✦ ┆ You vaulted over the railing of your penthouse bedroom, landing with a soft thud on the floor below. Sliding the glass door open, you walked in with a tired groan and shook your head, muttering under your breath.

“Why the hell did I do that…” you sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples. “Stupid. So stupid.”

Sealing your father’s voice—the ancient, terrifying weight of Gwi Ma’s presence—into Jinu’s head temporarily? That wasn’t just reckless. That was borderline suicidal.

A low, rumbling growl snapped you out of your spiral.

Your gaze shifted toward the bed, where a massive figure had claimed your mattress.

Not a dog.

A wolf.

No—a demon wolf.

It lay there like it owned the place, sprawled across your bed with limbs stretched out in every direction, completely unbothered by your mental crisis. Its fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight slipping through the windows, black with streaks of silver like ink in motion. Its tail gave a lazy flick.

The demon yawned, glancing at you with glowing amber eyes before settling back down.

You raised an eyebrow. “You're real comfortable, huh?”

In response, the wolf purred—a deep, vibrating sound—and rubbed its fur deeper into your mattress. You plopped down at the edge of the bed with a tired grunt. The wolf shifted without protest, curling around and laying its massive head on your lap.

You stared down at it for a long moment. The gentle rise and fall of its breathing didn’t match the chaos in your mind.

Because really, what the hell had you done?

You sealed Gwi Ma’s voice inside Jinu.

Temporarly

Jinu. Of all people.

Why him?

Was it pity? Guilt?

Or was it something uglier—some selfish instinct to push the curse onto someone who could carry it without tearing your world apart?

You couldn’t even explain it to yourself.

And now, it was done.

The seal was in place. Gwi Ma’s voice echoed in Jinu’s mind, long gone for now. And you could only hope he was strong enough to handle it.

You sighed, hand absentmindedly brushing through the wolf’s thick fur.

Even if you tried to avoid it, your paths were bound to cross again. You were both idols, standing on stages under the same spotlights, your names whispered in the same circles.

Destiny had its own sense of humor.

“Maybe the Huntrix will just finish the job,” you muttered dryly. “Save us both the trouble.”

The wolf let out a sleepy snort.

You weren’t even sure if that was agreement—or mockery.

You stood in front of the mirror in your waiting room, hands braced on the vanity as you tried to calm the racing of your heart. The makeup lights made your skin glow, but your eyes—your eyes told a different story. Focused. Fierce. A little scared.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, held it, then exhaled slowly.

Tonight wasn’t just another comeback. This was the comeback.

Your outfit shimmered under the warm lights—custom, sharp, stage-ready. The mic was clipped to your ear, in-ear monitors already tucked in. Everything was set. This was your newest single’s first live performance on Mnet, and the world was watching.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Y/N, you're up in five!” called a staff member through the door.

You swallowed hard and forced a reply. “Y-yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Their footsteps faded. Silence returned. You looked back at your reflection and gave yourself a small nod.

You’ve worked too hard to get here. Too many sleepless nights. Too many sacrifices. This stage is yours. Nothing and no one’s going to take it away.

With that thought, you turned and grabbed the door handle.

But the second you opened it, your body froze.

Your breath hitched.

“What the heck are you doing here?” you blurted, eyes narrowing.

“Jinu…”

He stood leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed over his chest, wearing his idol outfit, but there was no mistaking him. Same intense eyes. Same aura that never really let you breathe when he was close.

“We need to talk,” Jinu said calmly, voice low but serious.

You blinked, shaking your head. “Now? Really? I’m about to go on stage.”

You moved past him quickly, boots echoing against the linoleum floor as you headed for the backstage corridor. But of course, you heard him behind you. His quiet, deliberate footsteps.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you snapped, not even glancing back.

“I think there is,” he replied, but his tone wasn’t biting. It was... tired. Hesitant.

You kept walking.

But then you felt it—his hand wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. You stopped in your tracks. You feel the demon patterns on both of your arms starting to form.

“Y/N,” he said, and this time when you looked back, you saw it—whatever he’d been holding in. The regret. The urgency. The softness he only ever showed you behind closed doors.

You didn’t speak.

Not yet.

But you didn’t pull away either.

“I don’t want to work with him anymore,” Jinu said finally. “With Gwi Ma.”

You blinked. 

He looked straight at you.

“You can help. You’re his daughter.”

You stiffened instantly. The hallway felt colder.

“Don’t say that out loud,” you snapped, stepping forward, eyes darting. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off.

“You are,” he said. “You don’t work under him. You were never branded. Never bound like the rest of us. You're the only one who can talk to him without a blade at your throat.”

Your mouth opened—but you didn’t know what to say.

The truth was… he wasn’t wrong.

You hated it. You hated that your blood had ties to a name like Gwi Ma’s. You hated that even after cutting every tie, leaving the underworld, his rule, everything behind, people like Jinu still found you. Still needed something from you that only he could give.

But beneath the tension, the unspoken history, and all the things you left unsaid... You and Jinu shared one undeniable truth— Freedom.

You both craved it. From the shadows. From the blood-soaked contracts. From the underworld that shaped you and broke you in the same breath.

You weren’t just performers. You were survivors. Bound by the same cursed fate that ran deeper than fame, deeper than music. You both wanted out.

Jinu’s grip on your wrist loosened slightly, like he didn’t want to force you—like he hoped you’d choose him on your own.

And you did.

You closed your eyes, the weight of everything catching up to you for just a second. 

“…Fine.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Tired. Resigned. But resolute.

You opened your eyes, lifting your gaze to meet his. Jinu’s expression had softened, the usual cool edge in his stare melting into something vulnerable. Something real.

“I’ll help you,” you said quietly.

His hand didn’t let go—but it didn’t tighten either. It just stayed. Solid. Grounding. A silent thank you.

The stage was calling, but now… so was the war you swore you'd never fight again

Your legs dangled over the balcony railing, swaying slightly above a dizzying drop—hundreds of feet from the ground. One wrong movement and it would be over in an instant. But the danger didn’t faze you. Not tonight.

The city glowed beneath you—alive, unaware. Neon signs blinked in rhythm with traffic. A breeze rustled your hair, cool against your skin.

“You’re a terrible sneaker, you know that?” you said casually, not even turning your head.

A low chuckle answered you before a soft thud followed. You glanced sideways to see Jinu, landing on your balcony with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“What gave it away?” he asked, brows raised as he pulled back his hood.

You turned your eyes back to the skyline. “I can feel your energy. It always gives you away.”

A dim glow started to pulse along your arm—faint, curling demon marks slowly forming like ink soaking through your skin. You studied them with no urgency, just resignation.

Jinu leaned beside you on the railing, hands in his pockets. He didn’t interrupt the silence.

“My father…” you began, voice low, “is the worst man alive.”

That caught Jinu’s attention. He turned slightly toward you, waiting.

You gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m his favorite daughter. Funny, right? The one he loved most… is the one who betrayed him.”

Jinu didn’t speak, but his silence felt like encouragement. You continued.

“I don’t even know how I survived all these years.” He tilted his head. “Then how did you?” he asked softly.

You finally looked at him, eyes tired but calm. “I fed,” you said bluntly. “On corrupted souls. I hunted them myself, quietly. It was the only way I knew how to live without becoming what he wanted.”

Jinu's expression darkened, but he remained quiet.

“When I was a child,” you continued, “he started sending me here… slipping me through cracks between realms like I was nothing. Just a spy. A pawn.” You exhaled sharply. “He didn’t care how small I was. He just wanted information. Souls. Obedience.”

Your hands clenched the railing. “But every time I crossed over… I felt something. Peace. Even if it was brief.”

You smiled faintly, eyes softening with the memory.

“A young couple found me once. Took me in. They thought I was just a lost child.” You paused, your voice nearly breaking. “They were kind. They raised me. Loved me. And when my father found out—he forced me to take their souls.”

Jinu finally looked at you fully. You didn’t meet his eyes.

“That was the moment I knew,” you whispered, “it was all wrong. Everything. I ran. I hid. I started using my power in secret—helping the Hunters. Sealing the honmoon. Destroying demons that slipped through.”

“…And killing your own kind,” Jinu finished for you, voice steady.

You nodded.

“I killed them because they were hurting innocents. Because they didn’t care who they destroyed. But I’m no hero either… I’ve taken souls too, even after I swore I wouldn’t.”

Your voice cracked as you added, “I know this world isn’t perfect. It’s full of pain and selfishness. But it’s still better than the never-ending torment of the underworld.”

Jinu didn’t speak right away. The wind rustled your hair again. Then he said, barely above a whisper:

"Sounds to me like you saved yourself."

You blinked slowly, letting his words sink in like a knife dulled by time but still sharp enough to hit where it hurts.

Then, quieter, gentler—his voice barely above a breath:

“And maybe… there’s still more worth saving.”

Your gaze met his, locked—daring, vulnerable, charged with something you didn’t want to name.

"You..." you whispered.

In a swift motion, you leapt from the railing, boots landing soundlessly against the cold rooftop tiles. Jinu pushed himself off the opposite side, standing tall as he faced you—chest rising with every slow inhale.

Then, it began.

Your patterns awakened first—slowly crawling up your arms like living ink, pulsing with familiar power, before consuming you entirely. Your eyes burned with a fierce, glowing violet hue. This was the real you. The form you didn’t show just anyone.

Your demon form stood bare before him.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. His lips parted. He couldn’t look away. Something primal stirred in him as he lowered his gaze—his own markings responding instinctively. They crawled across his skin like heat rising beneath the surface, until his yellow eyes locked with yours—burning to match.

You stepped toward him, silent, slow, dangerous. Your hand rose, fingertips barely grazing his jaw before your palms gently cupped his face—like you’d done the last time you were alone. Back when everything was simpler... or maybe just easier to ignore.

Jinu didn’t move. He stood there, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes. You leaned in slightly, almost ready to speak the chant pulsing at the back of your throat.

But his voice stopped you.

“You never noticed me…” he murmured, barely audible—like a secret spilling from a locked place in his chest.

You froze, the words anchoring you in place.

“What?” you breathed.

He smiled faintly. Not out of happiness—out of resignation.

“I kept seeing you with Gwi Ma… I wanted to talk to you, I did. But I always got cold feet.” His laugh was soft, bitter. “Back then, I was barely holding it together. Newly turned, still figuring out how to control the patterns. But you...”

His voice trailed as the memory pulled him back. His gaze softened.

“You stood there, with your head high, commanding the space like you were born for it. Gwi Ma gave you orders, and you didn’t even flinch. You looked untouchable.”

You remembered that moment. The spy meetings. The night before everything shifted.

Jinu’s voice broke the silence again, quiet and aching:

“Ever since that day…” his voice was low, smoky, just above a whisper. “I couldn’t stop watching you.”

Jinu stepped forward—slow, deliberate. The kind of step that didn’t just close distance, it claimed it. His golden eyes flickered under the moonlight like burning embers behind smoke, catching every unsteady breath you took.

“And then you disappeared,” he murmured, now just inches away.

His words ghosted over your lips, and though he hadn't touched you yet, you could taste him in the air—warm, wild, and aching with something unsaid.

“Without a word,” he added, almost accusing. But his tone was soft. Hurt, maybe. Or worse—longing.

You couldn’t answer. Not really. Not with how your chest tightened. Not with how his presence filled the air like a storm.

“Until now.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how much he still affected you. How he always had. Since the first time he saw you—really saw you—backstage during Play Games With Us.

He told himself you just looked like her. Just a random idol with a familiar face. But when your paths crossed… when your shoulders brushed and he felt that undeniable pattern in his soul unlock—he knew.

It was you.

The girl he never had the courage to speak to in the demon world.

The one who haunted him across dimensions.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, deafening in your ears. It was too loud. Too fast. And somehow, Jinu heard it anyway.

“I see it now…” he whispered, his hand rising slowly to cup your cheek. His touch was impossibly gentle. No trace of the coldness your kind were known for. Just warmth—steady, real.

“The real you.”

You didn’t dare speak. The moment was too fragile, like it would shatter if you so much as breathed wrong.

Only the tension. The breath you both held. The weight of everything unsaid.

The ghost of hands that had hovered close but never touched.

Lips that once looked but never dared.

Not until now.

When his lips pressed against yours, your eyes widened. It was slow. Searching. Testing a boundary he’d waited years to cross.

You didn’t pull away.

You melted.

Your eyes closed.

Your lips parted—inviting him in without knowing why. Needing him like oxygen.

His hand moved to your hip, firm and possessive, pulling you against him as he deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, and the kiss turned hungry, urgent, electric.

And all you could think was:

Finally.

Your heels hit the floor with each backward step, heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown everything else out—except him.

Jinu followed without hesitation, lips crashing into yours, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like the space between you two offended him.

Your back hit the cool glass of the sliding door. The contact made you gasp into his mouth, your hand still cupping his cheek while your other reached behind blindly, fingers fumbling until the door slid open. You stepped backward again, drawing him in, and he didn’t even pause—just kicked the door shut behind you.

The room was colder than expected, but neither of you noticed.

Not really.

Jinu broke the kiss, panting, his forehead leaning against yours as he stared at you—eyes blown wide, dark with something primal.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed, but it wasn’t just admiration. It was a whimper. A confession. A breaking point.

Then he kissed you again—messier, harder, almost frantic. Desperate hands pulled you forward as he guided you to the edge of the bed, gripping your hips to keep you from falling too fast.

You shivered, but not from the cold.

He laid you down with care that contrasted the hunger in his touch. One hand slipped under your shirt, palm splaying over your stomach, fingers dragging up—slow and teasing—until they reached the curve of your chest. The other hand slid down, rougher now, grabbing your thigh and lifting it up, anchoring you to him.

You wrapped your leg around his waist instinctively, pulling him in, grinding into the pressure.

He groaned low in his throat, redirecting the kiss—his lips trailed from your mouth to your chin, along your jaw, then lower. His mouth attacked your neck—biting, sucking, leaving a trail of heat and bruises and sin. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your hips arched into him.

You turned your head to the side, offering more, wanting more.

And he took it. Eagerly.

His lips found the spot behind your ear and when his tongue flicked against the skin, you nearly lost it. His knees shifted between your thighs and when one of them brushed there—through the fabric, right against your already wet slit—

You moaned.

You tried to stop it. Bit your lip. But it slipped out, raw and breathy and broken.

Jinu froze for just a second—just long enough to hear it, feel it—and when he looked back down at you, eyes dark and wild and locked on yours, it was clear.

He wanted to ruin you.

And God—you were going to let him.

Jinu’s hand slid slowly up your thigh, fingers trailing fire beneath your skin. He brushed against the edge of your shorts, and his smirk deepened the moment he felt it—the telltale dampness soaked through the fabric.

“Mm,” he hummed lowly, eyes locked on yours. “You’re already wet for me.”

The way he said it, voice all gravel and dark delight, made your breath catch. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down where his fingers teased, hovering but never touching where you needed him most. Your lips parted—maybe to protest, maybe to pretend you weren’t so shamelessly worked up already.

But you couldn’t lie. Not to him.

Not when your body betrayed you so easily.

Jinu's eyes gleamed. "No need to hide it, baby."

He gripped the waistband of your shorts and underwear, tugging them down in one slow, deliberate motion. You lifted your hips for him, heart pounding, heat pooling low in your belly. He peeled the fabric away, baring you completely, and let it drop to the floor with a quiet thud.

You turned your head, shame rising despite the arousal surging through you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now—dangerous in another way.

His hand left your waist, slipped under your shirt and up to your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. “Didn’t I say all eyes on me?” His thumb brushed over your lips, slow and intimate, like he owned every inch of you already.

You met his gaze.

His smile was pure sin. “That’s my good girl…”

You clenched around nothing, heat flooding you all over again from just those three words.

Jinu dropped to his knees between your thighs like he belonged there. He slid one of your legs over his shoulder, positioning you exactly how he wanted, spreading you open like a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap.

He looked down at you, then back up—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“I want you to watch,” he said, voice like velvet and vice. “Don’t look away. Just keep your eyes on me… while I make this pretty pussy forget how to breathe.” 

He didn’t hesitate—not even for a second.

Jinu dropped to his knees like he was born to worship you there, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he dove in without mercy. His long, eager tongue plunged deep into your soaked cunt, and you nearly lost your balance right then and there.

The obscene sound of him slurping at your core filled the room, his mouth messy with your slick as he groaned into you like a man starved.

“Mmf…, you taste like heaven,” he muttered between licks, his voice thick with hunger.

He didn’t stop—he devoured you. Tongue flicking wildly against your swollen cunt, then sucking on it like it owed him something. Your legs shook as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth right where you needed him.

“Jinu—ah—don’t stop, fuck—”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he kissed every part of your slit like it was sacred. His gaze flicked up, dark and locked on yours, and it only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

Then—just when you thought you couldn’t take more—you felt it.

A sudden stretch inside. His fingers.

Two of them, sliding into your dripping hole with ease, curling upward with wicked precision as he pumped them in and out, his mouth never once leaving your clit.

The combination made you choke on a gasp.

“Oh my god—”

His growl sent a hot vibration through your core, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, breath hot against you, “All for me, huh?”

Your stomach clenched.

That knot—tight and burning—started building fast. Too fast.

He sucked your clit hard, fingers driving deeper, faster, and your body gave in with a cry. The knot snapped.

You came undone on his face with a moan so raw, it echoed around the room. Your body trembled as the waves hit, one after another, and he didn’t let up—didn’t stop—until you were shaking, until your thighs were twitching around his head.

And when you finally looked down at him…

He was smiling.

Lips glistening, tongue darting out to lick up your release, shamelessly savoring it.

Then slowly—deliberately—he slid his fingers out of you and held them up between you both, watching you.

And without breaking eye contact, he brought those fingers to his lips and sucked them clean.

“Tastes like fucking addiction,” Jinu growled against your lips, his voice a low, sinful drawl that sent heat straight between your legs.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, then leaned in again—claiming your mouth in a kiss that was messy and hungry. You gasped as you tasted yourself on him, the tang of your arousal still wet on his tongue as he licked deep into your mouth, slow and deliberate. His tongue curled behind your teeth, exploring like he owned every inch of you—and he did. Tonight, he fucking did.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your lungs desperate for air. You let your head fall back against the pillow, dragging yourself up the headboard, legs still spread and trembling slightly.

Jinu just smirked at the sight—your wrecked expression, flushed skin, the way your chest rose and fell like you were trying to keep it together.

“You okay?” he asked, low and husky, with just a flicker of concern under all that cocky heat.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah…”

“Good.” His voice dropped another octave as he reached down and peeled his hoodie off in one slow motion, tossing it to the floor without a care. It left him in nothing but those black pants, the fabric hugging his hips in the most unfair way.

Your eyes dropped immediately. Down the hard line of his torso—past the chiseled abs, the demon marks curling over his skin like some kind of dark prophecy etched into his flesh. Down to the sharp cut of his hips, the V-line so defined it made your mouth go dry.

And then there it was—his cock, thick and hard and pressing against the fabric.

He caught you staring, and that smug, lazy smirk spread across his face.

“I knew I’m hot,” he said, already unbuckling his pants with one hand, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet room.

“You’ve been looking like you want to fuck me all night, baby.”

And honestly?

You did.

you tossed your own shirt leaving you on your bra and nothing else. once jinu took off his pants he went back kissing your neck sucking on it giving marks, his cock pressed against your bare cunt, one of his hand moved its way on your back

clicked 

His fingers made quick work of your bra, the clasp undone like second nature. He didn’t even hesitate—he just pressed himself closer, his lips catching your gasp as your bra was flung somewhere into the shadows of the dim bedroom.

You felt him roll his hips against you, and your breath hitched. You could feel him—hard, needy, pressed right where you were pulsing for friction. A desperate sound escaped your throat, something between a moan and a plea.

Jinu’s breath was hot against your neck, but his voice? Low, strained, laced with restraint he was barely holding on to.

“Can I?” he asked, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching—burning with both desire and something softer. Need.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. It was more than consent. It was surrender.

He slid his boxers down, and his cock pressed right against your entrance—hot, heavy, and aching. When he pushed in slowly, the stretch burned in the best way, making your legs tremble.

“A-ah—” you hissed through clenched teeth, your back arching slightly.

Jinu let out a rough groan, fingers flexing around your waist as he buried himself deeper. You could feel how he shook with the effort of holding still, breathing ragged. He reached up, brushing your hair gently from your damp forehead, voice soft—soothing.

“Hey… I got you, yeah? You’re doing so good for me already.”

When he was fully seated inside you, he didn’t move. He waited—only moving when you gave a shaky nod of approval.

Then he started.

At first it was slow. Tender. Every thrust deliberate, like he was savoring every second inside you. You whimpered, your body adjusting around him, pain melting into something slick and molten.

Then his rhythm shifted—slowly, gradually—until his hips snapped into yours with growing force. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, messy and obscene, your moans rising in pitch with every stroke.

He grunted as he braced himself against the headboard, hand digging into the wood for leverage. The pace was rough now—cock, relentless—and then with a sharp snap, the headboard cracked beneath his grip.

But neither of you cared.

Not when you were moaning his name like a prayer, not when his voice dropped to a low growl in your ear:

“Damm—you feel so fucking good. So tight—like you’re made for me.”

He slammed back into you, chasing deeper. “Say it. Say you want it.”

Your voice broke, breathless and wrecked, “I—want it —Jinu, please, don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

He didn’t slow down—not even when the bedframe gave a harsh crack beneath you. His pace only grew rougher, more punishing, as if chasing something deep inside you. Each thrust dragged a broken sound from your throat, and the knot in your belly twisted tighter, sharper.

“Fuck.. you’re so tight,” Jinu hissed between clenched teeth, his voice guttural as he felt you start to clamp down on him. “You’re about to—aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form anything but a moan that pitched higher with every slam of his hips. Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red marks that made him groan—not from pain, but pride.

“Just like that,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Fucking take it.”

And you did. You took all of him—deeper, harder—until your body couldn’t take anymore. You shattered around him, crying out his name, spine arching off the mattress as your orgasm crashed into you.

That was all it took.

He cursed under his breath as his rhythm faltered—then stilled—burying himself to the hilt as heat flooded inside you. You felt it, that warm pulse of cum, and the way he trembled slightly above you as he rode the high with you.

Both of you were gasping, the room thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and something heavier. Jinu leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, still inside you.

Neither of you moved. Not yet.

“I can’t hear him anymore,” he murmured against your lips—eyes fluttering shut, voice almost... relieved.

You closed your eyes too, pulling him even closer. His skin was warm against yours, heartbeat steady, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. There were no more walls. No more distance. Just the quiet rhythm of breath and the lingering fire of everything unspoken now laid bare between you.

You stayed like that for a while—bodies tangled, souls unwinding.

Jinu opened his eyes first.

He looked at you—really looked at you. And this time, there was nothing but love swimming in his gaze. Relief. Longing. The kind that had waited too long and held on too tight.

He exhaled softly, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

“…The bed broke,” he murmured, almost like he just realized it.

You blinked slowly, and then let out a breathy laugh. “It’s the demon strength,” you whispered back, voice tired but laced with affection.

He smiled—lazy, genuine, and rare.

“Guess I owe you a new frame.”

You rested your forehead against his. “Guess you do.”

Neither of you moved to get up. The world outside could wait a little longer.

For once… there was no hunt. No stage. No pressure.

Just you, and Jinu, and the quiet in between.

a/n: ITS SO BADDD OMGGG STOPPP it's my first time writing full-on smut yall don't judge :( also idk how to end it so here your food Jinu was a bit ooc during the smexy scene lol

taglist: @miffysoo @akariis4snowball @zhentheraven @nisarelle @aise-30 @pjs-gf-foreal @22carolina08 @violetraccoon-4

[cosycryptid]

Something Real

One movie, one confrontation, and one shared bucket of popcorn makes Eddie start to realise that maybe he never really knew Steve at all—and maybe, just maybe, he wants to. Also on AO3 [Here]

Eddie Munson has been waiting for weeks for this movie to come out.

It’s a low-budget horror flick with a cult following and a killer soundtrack. None of Eddie’s friends were available or particularly interested in going, but that’s fine, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’s got his overpriced popcorn, a drink the size of his head, and a seat smack in the middle of the theatre. Perfect.

Or it is up until Steve Harrington walks in.

Eddie notices him immediately. It’s hard not to. He’s got that hair, that walk, the tiny moles on his face that make him look soft and a great body. The subject of Eddie’s most hopeless, pathetic high school crush. And of course, he’s not alone. There’s a girl on his arm, pretty in a polished, too perfect kind of way.

He watches, curious despite himself. Steve’s always been a bit of an enigma. Eddie’s heard the stories. King Steve. Heartbreaker. Every bit the stereotypical leader of the jocks, treating women like objects and everyone else like loyal subjects for him to look down on.

But what Eddie sees now doesn’t match up with those stories at all.

Steve opens the door for the girl with a soft, “After you,” and she brushes past him without a word. When she stumbles on the stairs, he catches her gently by the elbow, murmurs an apology for touching her without warning, and offers his arm for balance the rest of the way.

Eddie blinks. Huh.

They settle into their seats two rows down and directly in front of Eddie.

Of course they do.

The movie doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, not even trailers yet, but Eddie’s already more interested in the Steve Harrington Show than whatever’s going to be on screen. He feels like he’s getting a sneak peek behind the scenes into Steve’s world and it’s nothing like he imagined.

They sit. She shivers under the AC, and Steve immediately shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her. Then he offers to switch seats so she’s not directly under the vent.

Surprisingly, Steve’s the perfect gentleman. He asks about her day, offers her popcorn, and laughs at a joke that leans more mean than funny—though Eddie catches the subtle flicker of discomfort in his posture when she’s not looking.

He compliments her hair and outfit, asks what kind of music she’s into, and even admits to liking '70s rock. It’s something Eddie never expected to hear from him but can’t help respecting. It’s the kind of detail that makes Eddie pause, realizing with a jolt that they might have a few songs in common. And that’s unexpectedly disarming.

Steve even double-checks if she’s sure she’s okay with horror movies, offering to see something else if she’s not.

“Why? Are you scared?” she teases.

“Terrified,” Steve replies with a grin. “But I figured if I screamed, you’d protect me.”

Eddie nearly chokes on a kernel of popcorn.

That was smooth. Like, actually smooth. It wasn’t cocky or rehearsed. It was playful and self-aware. The line showed Steve didn’t take himself too seriously, a refreshing contrast to the image-obsessed popular kids Eddie had grown up resenting. He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to solve a tricky riff. That line might’ve even worked on him. He’s always been a sucker for someone who knows how to be a little silly without losing sincerity.

“Huh,” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts in his seat, suddenly more invested in this pre-show than the actual movie he’s paid to see.

But then the girl leans in, voice low and suggestive. “I didn’t expect you to take me on a date like this. When I said we should watch a movie, I thought we’d grab one from the rental store and watch it at your place. Or, you know… somewhere more private.”

She walks her fingers up his chest in a way that makes Eddie want to gag.

Eddie rolls his eyes. Here we go.

He braces for the shift; the moment Steve drops the nice guy act and becomes the player everyone says he is. The moment he starts acting like the stereotypical meathead jock who only cares about getting girls into bed and out again before they get too attached. God forbid a straight guy have actual emotions or care about someone beyond the surface.

But it doesn’t come.

“Oh,” Steve says, shoulders going stiff. He takes hold of her hand and moves it away from his chest but holds onto it gently. “I thought we could spend some time together. Get to know each other. This is just our first date, after all, right?”

“I guess.” The girl shrugs. “I just thought you were supposed to be into showing girls a good time. I’ve heard the rumors.”

Steve laughs, but it’s nervous. Hollow. His eyes flick toward the fire exit like he’s considering a tactical retreat.

“Yeah, uh… you don’t need to worry about that,” he says. “I was kind of a mess in junior year. I’ve learned a lot since then. Hookups were fun, sure, but they never really felt good after. I’d rather have something real now.”

“Hmm,” she says, unimpressed and takes her hand back, turning back to the screen.

Eddie frowns. Something about her tone grates on him. Dismissive. Like Steve just offered her a piece of himself and she tossed it aside without looking.

He shifts again, but this time it’s not out of amusement. His smirk is gone, replaced by a furrowed brow and a faint scowl. He watches Steve fumble through the conversation, trying to be honest and vulnerable and getting nothing but attitude in return.

And it bugs him. More than it should.

Maybe it’s because he’s seen too many guys like Steve get away with being jerks. But here’s Steve, trying to be better, trying to be real, and this girl’s treating him like he’s a joke.

Eddie knows what that feels like. To be misunderstood. To have people assume the worst of you based on old stories and high school gossip. And it sits right on his last nerve to watch it happen to someone else.

The conversation shifts.

Not in a dramatic way. There are no raised voices, no sudden outbursts, just a slow, steady unraveling. It’s like watching a thread being pulled loose from a sweater.

The girl starts interrupting Steve. Not just once, but over and over. She talks over him, cuts him off mid-sentence, contradicts him just to do it. When he mentions liking a certain band, she scoffs and says they’re overrated. When he shares a memory about a summer job, she calls it boring.

Eddie watches it all unfold like a car crash in slow motion.

Steve doesn’t snap. Doesn’t even push back. He just absorbs the impact of it. Smiles tightly. Tries to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. He’s patient, too patient. Like he’s used to this and he’s trying not to make a scene.

Eddie’s scowl deepens.

He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much. Maybe it’s because he expected Steve to be the problem. Expected him to be the shallow one. But instead, he’s watching Steve try—really try—to be kind, to connect and make something work. And this girl is steamrolling him like he’s not even there.

It’s uncomfortable. And not in the way Eddie usually enjoys.

The lights dim. A hush falls over the theatre. The trailers are about to start.

And then she speaks again.

“Oh wow, look at that,” she says, pointing down toward one of the lower rows. Her voice is just loud enough to carry. “I bet they think no one can see them because the lights are off.”

Eddie follows her gaze.

Two men. Sitting close. Hands intertwined.

Something drops in his stomach.

“Gross, right?” she laughs, looking at Steve for agreement.

The sound is sharp. Ugly. It cuts through the quiet like a knife.

Eddie freezes.

He doesn’t know those guys. Doesn’t need to. Because he knows that feeling. The one where you let yourself believe, just for a second, that you’re safe. That you can be like the people who are allowed to love their partner openly. That you can feel normal, just for one precious moment.

And then someone like her reminds you of exactly what the world thinks of you.

His jaw clenches. His grip tightens on the armrest. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose and braces himself for the inevitable crushing blow of hearing his straight boy high school crush agree that men who like men are gross.

It doesn’t come.

Eddie cautiously opens his eyes.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. But Eddie sees the way his shoulders have gone rigid, the way his head has dipped slightly, like he’s trying to disappear into the seat. And that’s when Eddie knows.

This isn’t just secondhand embarrassment. Her comment hit him somewhere deep.

The girl leans in again, not picking up on Steve’s body language silently screaming at her to stop, voice low but still audible. “I mean, it’s just weird, right? Why do they have to do that in public? It’s not like anyone wants to see it.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold.

Steve shifts. His hands curl into fists on his knees. Then, quietly but firmly, he says, “Shut up.”

The girl turns, startled. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up,” Steve repeats, louder this time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He watches the girl recoil, stunned, and then scoff like she’s the one who’s been wronged. “What crawled up your ass all of a sudden?”

“They’re just two people who like each other,” Steve says. “They’re trying to enjoy a date. How is that any of your business?”

Eddie’s breath catches.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the back of Steve Harrington’s head like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Steve had said something. Not just something, he had stood up - loud and clear and without hesitation - for two strangers. For people like Eddie. Eddie’s heart is pounding, but not from fear this time. It’s something else. Something warmer. Fiercer.

“Because it’s weird.” The girl doubles down,

“You wouldn’t think it was weird if it was those two people over there who were holding hands.” He gestures toward a man and woman sitting together near the front of the theatre.

“That’s different.”

Steve turns to her fully now, eyes sharp. “How?”

“Because it’s two men. It’s wrong. It’s disgusting,” she says. “I’d say the same if it were two women.”

Steve flinches hard, like he’s been physically hit.

There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Final.

“I’m very close to someone who’s gay. And they’re smarter, kinder, funnier, and better than you’ll ever be,” Steve says, voice low and steady. “This date is over. Don’t bother calling me.” He goes to stand, but the girl shoves him back down and rises from her seat instead.

“You don’t get to walk out on me, I’m walking out on you,” she snaps. “I only came on this stupid date because I was bored, and I thought you’d wanna fool around like you supposedly do with all the other girls anyway. Turns out you’re a disappointment.”

She grabs her purse, mutters something under her breath, and storms out, heels clicking angrily against the floor.

Steve doesn’t watch her go. He just stares straight ahead, jaw tight, hands still clenched on his knees.

Eddie swallows hard.

He wants to say something. ‘Thank you for saying that,’ maybe. Or ‘that was brave’. Or even just ‘hey’. But all he can do is stare, stunned and a little breathless, because Steve Harrington just shattered every expectation Eddie ever had of him. And now Eddie’s sitting here while a laundry detergent commercial plays loudly in the background, heart in his throat, wondering how the hell he ever thought he had this guy figured out.

Steve puts his face in his hands and exhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself down. He seems tired now, defeated. Something about that doesn’t sit right with Eddie after what he just witnessed. It spurs him into action. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He just knows he can’t keep sitting there without saying something.

So, he stands. Walks down the steps. And stops at Steve’s row.

Steve hears the footsteps and looks up, startled. His expression flickers—confusion, then recognition, then something like wariness.

“Hey,” Eddie says, voice low. “Mind if I sit?”

His heart is hammering out a beat that would rival the work of the drummers in his favourite metal bands. He’s still mentally preparing himself for this Steve to disappear and be replaced by the jerk that had existed in his brain for the past few years.

Instead, Steve blinks at him, surprised. “Uh… sure? Eddie, right?”

“That’s what all the legends call me,” Eddie confirms, dropping into the seat beside him. There’s a beat of silence. Then he turns to look at Steve and “You okay?”

Steve lets out a breath, a small smile appearing on his face. “Yeah. I mean, not really. But I will be.”

Eddie nods. He doesn’t push. Just lets the quiet settle for a moment. Then he says, “So that was a lot.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly how I pictured the night going. I assume you heard everything?”

“Yep. She sucked,” Eddie says bluntly.

Steve snorts. “Yeah. She really did.”

Another pause. Eddie shifts, glancing sideways at him. “You didn’t have to say anything,” he says. “But you did.”

Steve shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t feel like a choice.”

“That’s kind of the point, though,” Eddie says. “Most people would’ve just let it slide. Pretended they didn’t hear it. You didn’t.”

Steve’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I’ve let too much slide before. I’m not doing that anymore.”

Eddie studies him. There’s something in Steve’s voice, something tired, but solid. Like a line’s been drawn and he’s not stepping back from it. And Eddie feels that twist in his chest again. That strange, warm ache.

“I meant every word I said,” Steve adds, softer now. “I have a close friend, more like a platonic soulmate really, who’s gay and the best person I know." He looks wounded. “And hearing someone I put enough trust in to consider dating basically call that person gross and disgusting and wrong... I couldn’t just sit here and listen to that crap.” His fists clench. “It’s one thing if it’s me she’s saying those things about but-”

He turns to face Eddie, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he realises the implications of what he said.

And Eddie knows that feeling.

He’s worn that same expression before. In locker rooms. In hallways. In classrooms where someone said something cruel under their breath and everyone else just laughed. But Steve Harrington? King Steve? He’s not supposed to know what that feels like.

Except he does.

Eddie nods slowly. “It’s okay. I figured.” He admits as casually as possible to try and ease Steve’s panic, although he’s still reeling over the events of the past few minutes. “You’re safe with me,” he promises.

Steve’s tense shoulders deflate, and glances at him curiously. “You?”

Eddie meets his eyes. “Yeah. Me.”

There’s no shock in Steve’s face. No judgment. Just a quiet kind of understanding.

“Cool,” Steve says. And he means it.

Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then he grins, crooked and a little shy.

“You know,” he says, “you’re not what I expected.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re kind of a dork from the bits of conversation I overheard before things went bad.”

Steve laughs, and it’s real this time. “Takes one to know one.”

They sit in silence for a moment longer, their eyes lingering on each other, then Steve fully relaxes into his seat and turns to face the screen. “Well, no sense in wasting my ticket,” he says, then he holds his popcorn bucket out to Eddie, who’s only just realised he left his behind. “Wanna share?”

Eddie grins and grabs a handful. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—————————

It’s the most fun Eddie’s had in a while.

Steve leans into his space every now and then, whispering snarky commentary about the characters’ terrible decisions and even worse fashion choices. He especially tears into the asshole jock character, which catches Eddie off guard in the best way.

Eddie starts leaning in too, throwing in his own jabs, and before long, they’re trading quips like they’ve done this a hundred times before. At one point, one of them says something so ridiculous that they both dissolve into laughter. It’s the kind that’s breathless and uncontrollable.

Someone turns around and shushes them, loud and annoyed.

They immediately straighten, whispering apologies like guilty schoolkids. But the second the person turns back around, they catch each other’s eyes and grin, barely holding back another round of hysterics.

Steve nudges Eddie’s shoulder with his own, playful and warm.

Eddie nudges back.

If the small, friendly gesture sends goosebumps up his arms, well—that’s for Eddie to know and nobody else to find out.

Then, near the end of the film, the tension ramps up. The music swells. Eddie’s leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowed, when a sudden jumpscare hits and Steve gasps. Before Eddie can even register what’s happening, a larger, warmer hand grabs his.

Eddie freezes.

Not because he’s scared of the movie—though the jumpscare was decent—but because Steve Harrington is holding his hand.

Tightly.

Warm fingers wrapped around his own, palm pressed flush against his. It’s instinctive, a reflex, but Steve doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it at first.

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He’s not sure if it’s the shock or the fact that his heart is currently trying to beat its way out of his chest, but he’s rooted to the spot.

Then Steve seems to realize what he’s done. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he glances sideways, eyes wide, a little sheepish.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

Eddie turns his head slowly, meets his gaze. Steve’s face is flushed, his expression somewhere between embarrassed and apologetic. Eddie could make a joke. He could laugh it off, tease him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gives Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You can hold on if you want.”

Steve blinks. His eyes search Eddie’s face for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s serious. Then he smiles, small, grateful and a little shy. It warms Eddie to his very core.

He doesn’t let go.

They sit like that for the rest of the movie. Their shoulders brushing, hands clasped between them and fingers intertwined, the flickering light from the screen casting soft shadows across their faces. Eddie doesn’t even remember how the movie ends, but he remembers the way Steve’s thumb brushed lightly over his when the final girl shared a kiss with her love interest.

And he knows, without a doubt, that something’s changed and shifted between them. It’s something small, but at the same time monumental.

As the lights come up, Steve sighs. He gives Eddie’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and standing to stretch. Eddie’s hand falls to his lap, suddenly cold, and he stares at it for a second like it might still remember the shape of Steve’s fingers.

He already misses the warmth. The weight. The quiet reassurance of it.

“Did you drive here?” Steve asks suddenly.

Eddie blinks, caught off guard. He expected this to be the end. He expected they would just awkwardly part ways in silence after this, try to lose each other in the small crowd exiting the theatre and then avoid each other for the most part. Maybe they would share a nod or a half-smile the next time he wandered into Family Video, but that’s all Eddie had hoped for.

He hadn’t hoped for this, for Steve waiting for Eddie to stand too, still looking at him like he wants to keep talking.

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie says. “My van’s out back.”

Steve nods. “Cool. I parked a few rows over. You wanna walk out together?”

Eddie’s heart stutters. He stands slowly, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

They fall into step as they exit the theatre, the buzz of the credits still echoing faintly behind them. The lobby is mostly empty now, just a few stragglers and the hum of vending machines. Outside, the night air is cool and quiet, the parking lot bathed in soft yellow light.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Steve glances over, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “Thanks for sitting with me. I didn’t expect… well, any of this.”

Eddie shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, me neither. But I’m glad I did.”

Steve smiles back, and it’s that same small, shy one from earlier. It makes Eddie feel like he’s standing too close to a bonfire, especially now with the glow of the streetlights illuminating Steve’s features. They reach the edge of the lot where their cars are parked a few rows apart. Eddie slows, not quite ready to say goodbye.

Steve hesitates too. Then, almost nervously, he says, “Hey, uh… are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, slower this time, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Steve’s face lights up, just a little. “There’s a diner a few blocks from here. It’s not fancy, but they’ve got decent fries and terrible coffee.”

“Sounds perfect. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

The pet name's out before Eddie can stop it.

His brain short-circuits the second it leaves his mouth. His eyes go wide, and he immediately wants to rewind time, shove the word back down his throat, and pretend it never happened.

Shit.

He curses himself silently. Nicknames have always slipped out like second nature around his friends, bandmates, even the occasional stranger. But this? This is Steve. And this moment feels different. More fragile. More real.

He risks a glance at Steve, fully expecting confusion, maybe discomfort.

But Steve’s just looking at him with that same soft smile. A little surprised, sure, but not upset. If anything, he looks… pleased?

“Sweetheart, huh?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice.

Eddie lets out a breathy, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a reflex. I swear. I’ve called random people on the street ‘darlin’ and the guy working the counter at the gas station ‘babe’ before now.”

Steve hums, clearly amused. “Didn’t say I minded. But now I’m a little jealous of the guy at the gas station.”

Eddie blinks. “You didn’t? …You are?”

“Nope, not at all. And yeah, I am.” Steve starts walking, hands in his pockets, glancing back over his shoulder with an exaggerated pout. “Thought I might’ve been special for a second there.”

Eddie wants to kiss that look right off his face, but he reels that thought in fast. Steve’s probably just joking. Just sharing friendly banter with a guy he knows won’t hurt him for it. Who is Eddie to deny him that experience or make it awkward by assigning a deeper meaning to it?

“What can I say, Steve?” he shrugs. “The man sometimes gives me discounts on my favourite brand of cigarette. How can you compete with that?”

Steve bites his lip, clearly trying to stifle a smile. Eddie’s eyes lock on his mouth.

“I can think of a few ways,” Steve says, voice low, suggestive and just a little nervous as he sways into Eddie’s space. He gets close, so close Eddie’s stomach swoops.

Then a devilish grin curls at the corner of Steve’s lips.

“Last one to the diner pays.”

“Wha—” Eddie starts, dazed.

But Steve’s already taken off running, his laughter echoing behind him.

“Hey! That’s no fucking fair! You’re rich!” Eddie shouts, already breaking into a sprint.

Steve turns, running backward for a second just to flash him a grin. “Better catch up to me then!”

Eddie cackles, wild and breathless, as he chases after him. He sees the moment Steve realizes he’s gaining fast and the flicker of panic that crosses his face. Steve hadn’t counted on the fact that Eddie Munson has years of experience running from trouble.

Trying to push his legs to work faster turns out to be a fruitless effort for Steve because Eddie manages to catch him around the waist and spin him away from the front door of the diner just as he’s about to reach for the handle. They almost end up sprawled on the ground together from the momentum of it, but Steve manages to grasp Eddie’s forearms and fix their footing as the metalhead leans against his back and laughs uncontrollably.

They stand there for a second, tangled up in each other, catching their breath. Eddie leans into him, still chuckling, and Steve can’t help but laugh too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and giddy.

“You’re fast,” Steve says, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re slow,” Eddie counters, grinning like he’s won the lottery.

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “You tackled me.”

“I redirected you,” Eddie says, mock-offended. “With grace.”

Steve turns in his grip, still holding onto Eddie’s arms, and they’re suddenly face to face. Close. Closer than they’ve been all night. The laughter fades into something quieter, softer.

Eddie’s eyes flick to Steve’s mouth for just a second. Steve notices.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

Then the diner door swings open behind them with a loud ding, and a couple walks out, chatting loudly and breaking the moment. Eddie steps back, clearing his throat. “Guess we should, uh… go inside before they run out of terrible coffee.”

Steve nods, still smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

————————

“So, what you’re telling me is that you’re basically a single parent to six?”

They’re sat in a booth in the back corner, chatting animatedly and occasionally stealing each other’s fries even though they got exactly the same thing. They’d foregone the crappy coffee for milkshakes though, Steve’s strawberry and Eddie’s chocolate.

“Seven if you count Erica, Lucas’ little sister,” Steve corrects him. “But jury’s still out on whether she’s actually a child or whether Lucas is just living with the consequences of feeding a mogwai after midnight.”

“God you are such a nerd,” Eddie laughs, delighted. “’Mogwai’? You didn’t even use the incorrect term - ‘gremlin’ - like most people would. You just went straight in there with ‘mogwai’.”

Steve grins, clearly pleased with himself. “What can I say? I take my pop culture references seriously.”

Eddie leans back in the booth, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re a walking contradiction, Steve. You look like you should be quarterbacking some all-American football team, but you talk like you’ve got the entire catalogue of Family Video memorised.”

Steve sips his milkshake, eyes twinkling. “Maybe I do.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Steve shrugs, all faux-casual. “You’ll have to hang out with me again to find out.”

Eddie’s caught off guard for a second, not by the words, but by the way Steve says them. Like it’s not a joke. Like he means it. Eddie, who’s spent most of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, finds himself hoping just a little that maybe this time it won’t.

He smiles, softer now. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how does King of the jocks and certified lady-killer Steve Harrington become an actually decent and interesting guy with a brood of little lost ducklings?”

Steve leans back in the booth, fingers idly tracing the condensation on his milkshake glass.

“It’s a long story, but I guess I just got tired of pretending I wanted the same things I used to,” he says. “Back in high school, it was all about the image. The parties, the girls, the reputation. I thought that was what I was supposed to want. What everyone expected from me.”

Eddie watches him, the teasing gone from his expression.

“But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t want to keep chasing something that never really made me feel good. I started figuring out that what I actually want is something that feels real. Something that lasts.”

He glances up, meets Eddie’s eyes. There’s something open in his expression. It’s unguarded, but cautious. Eddie’s heart does something strange in his chest, tightens and softens all at once. He reminds himself that shouldn’t be reading into things; Steve might just be getting used to having someone he can talk to about all this.

He nods slowly, voice quiet. “Yeah. I get that.”

They share a soft, secret smile.

“So,” Steve says. “You like metal, right? I don’t think I’ve ever listened to that before. What do you like about it?”

It’s a hard pivot in the topic of conversation, but Eddie allows it. Mostly because the fact that Steve seems to realise how important music is to Eddie and makes a point to ask him about it. Eddie’s eyes light up at the question, and he sits up a little straighter.

“Oh man, where do I even start?” he says, grinning. “Okay, so it’s loud, it’s chaotic. But it’s also honest. It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s raw and messy and emotional, and it doesn’t apologise for any of it.”

Steve watches him, chin propped on one hand, milkshake forgotten for the moment.

Eddie continues, more animated now. “And a lot of the songs are about overcoming adversity. About going through hell and somehow still fighting and persevering. It’s about taking back power when the world is trying to crush you. It makes me feel confident for a change, like I could take on anything. And people complain that it’s just noise but that’s so far from the truth. It takes so much talent and years of dedication and-”

He pauses, his eyes flicking to Steve’s, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “No, I like it. You talk about it like it’s more than just music.”

“It is,” Eddie shrugs, a little sheepish. “It kind of saved my life, y’know? When everything else felt like it was falling apart and I had nowhere I belonged, metal was the one place I could just be and feel accepted. No masks. No pretending.”

Steve’s expression softens. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them, not awkward, just full. Like the air’s thick with things unsaid but understood. Then Steve leans forward, a playful glint in his eye. “So, if I wanted to dip my toe into the world of metal, where would I start? What’s, like, the gateway drug?”

“Really? You want to give up your metal virginity?”

“Didn’t have to put it like that,” Steve says, his face scrunching up in a way that’s far too cute to do anything good for Eddie’s heart.

“Okay, you’re coming over to my trailer as soon as possible and I’m going to play you some songs. I’m already mentally writing a list. This is gonna be so good.” Eddie laughs ecstatically and rubs his hands together deviously. “We’ll make a metalhead out of you yet, Steve.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Steve replies, his expression so open and honest that it gives Eddie pause.

Eddie’s demeanor turns softer. “You don’t have to like it though, y’know. I won’t be offended.”

“I know,” Steve meets his gaze, steady. “I want to understand the things that matter to you.”

Eddie’s caught off guard again. His heart does that weird fluttery thing, and he has to look away before he says something stupid.

“Cool,” he says, voice a little rough. “Yeah. Cool.”

They go back to their fries, the silence between them now warm and companionable. Outside, the neon sign of the diner flickers softly, casting pink and blue shadows across the table.

——————————

The bell chimes above their heads and a nice, middle-aged lady calls out a, “Thank you for coming, be sure to get home safe,” as Eddie holds the door open for Steve and they step back out into the cold night air.

Steve sidles up next to him. “Thank you for getting the door for me, Sweetheart,” he says, teasing.

Eddie groans loudly. “You are not going to let me forget about that, are you?"

“Never,” Steve beams.

They settle into a comfortable silence as they walk. Their shoulders touch once, then again, and neither of them moves away. Their hands are so close that they constantly brush against each other and it’s driving Eddie mad. All he would have to do is reach out a little and he could be holding Steve’s hand again. He isn’t able to summon the courage for that because he’s still not quite sure if Steve feels anything more than a budding sense of friendship toward him.

They walk in step down the quiet street, the night air crisp and laced with the scent of damp pavement and distant woodsmoke. The town is mostly asleep, windows glowing softly in the distance, the occasional car humming by like a lullaby.

Their hands brush again. This time, Steve doesn’t pull away. In fact, he lets his fingers linger just a second longer than before. Eddie’s heart stutters.

He swallows. “Hey, uh… you don’t have to say yes or anything, but would you ever want to come to a show sometime, like one of the local gigs I play or even just hang out while I practice? Hear some live music.”

Steve looks over at him, eyes warm. “I’d love that.”

Eddie blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I want to see you in your element. I bet you look cool as hell on stage.”

Eddie laughs, a little breathless. “I mean, I do, obviously. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

They stop next to Eddie’s van. Neither of them moves to leave just yet.

Steve rocks on his heels. “Thanks for tonight. I had more fun than I probably had in years if I’m being honest.”

Eddie nods, his voice soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a pause. Neither of them moves.

Then Steve clears his throat and pulls one hand free, fishing around in his back pocket. “Before I forget,” He pulls out a pen and the crumpled diner receipt, scribbles something down, and hands it to Eddie. “My number. For whenever you want to hang out or just talk.”

Eddie takes it, fingers brushing Steve’s. He looks down at the messy scrawl of digits, then back up, heart thudding. “Thank you. I’ll definitely call you to set something up soon, and let you know as soon as I know when the next gig’s going to be.”

“Cool, I can’t wait,” Steve smiles.

He hesitates for a second, then steps a little closer, his gaze drifting to Eddie’s lips. “Also, I’ve been thinking about doing this all night.”

Eddie barely has time to process that before Steve leans in and kisses him.

The kiss is soft and tentative at first, like a question asked in a language neither of them is fluent in yet. Steve’s lips brush against Eddie’s with a kind of reverence, like he’s afraid to push too far, too fast. But Eddie’s breath catches, and instinct takes over. He leans in, closing the distance, answering the question with a quiet certainty.

His hands find their way to Steve’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like they’ve always belonged there. Steve’s hands hover for a moment before settling gently on Eddie’s shoulders, grounding them both.

The world fades. The cold night air, the hum of a distant streetlamp, the faint creak of the van’s metal frame, all of it disappears. It’s just them. Just this.

Steve tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and Eddie feels it like a spark down his spine. It’s still gentle, still careful, but there’s something more now. It’s something that says ‘I see you’ and ‘I want this’. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

When they finally part, it’s slow, reluctant. Steve’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Eddie like he’s trying to memorize every detail of his face.

“Was that okay?” Steve asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie blinks, dazed, lips tingling, heart pounding. Then he grins, wide and a little breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, that was more than okay.”

Steve lets out a soft laugh, relief blooming across his face. “Good.”

They linger there, close enough to feel each other’s breath in the space between them. Steve leans in again, slower this time, and kisses him once more. It’s just as soft and just as sure. It’s the kind of kiss that says this isn’t a one-time thing.

“I’ll call you,” Eddie says, still smiling as they hesitantly move away from each other. “God, it might even be as soon as I get home after a kiss like that.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Steve replies, stepping back slowly, like he’s reluctant to go.

Eddie watches him walk away, heart pounding, fingers still curled around the scrap of paper like it’s something precious.

Steve turns back to face him and, he’s smiling, nervous, but genuine. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

Eddie’s frozen for a second, then grins, wide and a little dazed. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

They part ways, both of them feeling a little lighter than before.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Zayne’s non-mc significant other. Red String of Fate AU

Imagine being born with the ability to see the red strings of fate. The ones that tied people together. Lovers, soulmates, the people meant to find each other.

Imagine some were strong. Some were gentle. Some were ugly and sharp. And you... you could cut them. Not to play with people's lives, but to help. You only ever cut the ones that hurt. Obsession, possession and the pain pretending to be love.

Imagine never once had a string pointed at you. Never. Not once.

but Imagine you tried to love anyway. Quiet, careful tries. But each time, they were already tied to someone else. So you let them go. You always let them go. You told yourself it was enough to help others. That not everyone gets a string. That maybe you weren't meant to belong.

Imagine then came Zayne. He didn't have a string at all. Nothing pulling him toward anyone. Not even the hint of one waiting to appear. Just stillness.

Imagine the way he looks at you was like you weren't anything. Like you weren't broken or forgotten. You didn't fall fast. You didn't rush. You built something slow and steady. And for the first time, you wondered if maybe love didn't need fate. Maybe it just needed someone to stay.

Imagine he knew what you could do. What you could see. So one night while you were sitting beside him, your head on his shoulder, he asked gently.

"If I ever get a string and it's not for you. I want you to cut it." You hesitated. Just for a second. "Alright." And he nodded. He trusted you.

Imagine weeks have passed then months. Still no string. Still just the two of you. Happy in the quiet way. The kind of happy that doesn’t shout or shine. It just lives in the little things. His sleepy voice in the morning. Your laughter when he made tea wrong again it was super sweet like what in world-. His hand finding yours under the table. Yours holding on, always. Until tonight.

Imagine you were visiting him at the hospital. The two of you were heading to a restaurant after his shift when you saw him come out. And there you saw it. A faint glow. Scarlet and soft. Spinning from his ring finger like a whisper, like a promise. And it wasn't pointing at you.

Imagine it heads down the hall. Past the sterilized white walls of the hospital. To Room 212.

Imagine you have seen her before. A patient. Someone Zayne has cared for, carefully, gently. A kind girl with a tired laugh and too many paper cranes tucked under her pillow. You never sensed anything romantic. You never even worried. But the string doesn't lie.

and Imagine its there now. Shimmering. Real. And for the first time in your life, your heart aches not just for someone else but for you.

Imagine, strange enough. Your heart didn't drop. It didn't crash. It just stilled. Like everything inside you went quiet at once. And you stood there staring at the string that wasn't yours.

Imagine the way he saw your face change. He stepped closer. His voice softened. As if he was trying to figure out what's wrong.

"What's wrong?" He asked, holding you gently by the arm. "Nothing." You smile at him. He did not buy it. "Did it happen?" He asked. "Do I have a string?"

Imagine the way you looked at him. The man you loved. The man who had been yours. Not because fate said so, but because he chose you. Every day. Again and again. And you said. "No. Not yet."

Imagine you lied. Because if this was fate choosing for him. If this string led him to happiness. You wouldn't take that from him. You loved him too much.

so Imagine you smiled. Let him pull you into his arms. Let him hold you like nothing had changed. You let him, the way he kiss the crown of your head. You savour it.

Imagine you close your eyes. Then you blink. But you could still see the string. Bright. Alive. Stretching toward someone else. And you didn't say a word.

because Imagine, love isn't always holding on. Sometimes, it's letting go quietly. Even when no one sees the breaking. Just loving someone enough to lie, so they never have to feel the weight of goodbye.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: karma's a bitch cuz I literally was about to passout at the local market. I'm so embarrassed. Thou shall not set foot on the market for at least a month XD

: also if you know my reference for this one and the last one. I see you're a people of culture;)

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Five

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker (not now). kissing with conner.

word count |

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13. conner looks 22 as well.

we get to see more of the family interacting: we notice the more yandere's traits they have. timothy "stalker" drake, i'm looking at you.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley @rowan-no-rizzz @hearts4mica @sillyheartmoonnyx @crumbs-and-covers @nininehaaa @ironsaladwitch @c4xcocoa @keyllsbk @welpthisisboring @redkarmakai @yuyuzi-ling @91-kya

previous. next.

The first thing you feel is the cold.

Not the physical kind — no — this is the cold that burrows under your skin, spreads through your chest, weaves like smoke into your bloodstream. It wraps your heart in ice and squeezes until it barely beats.

It starts the same way it always does — with their eyes.

Lifeless. Vacant. Glassy.

You were fourteen the first time you saw them like that.

Your dream drags you back to that night, just as it always does — a loop you can’t seem to break no matter how many years or how many walls you’ve built around it.

Gotham’s alleyways bleed shadows as you run. Sirens wail somewhere far, but not far enough. Your breathing is ragged, frantic. The acrid sting of chemicals still burns your throat.

Crane's toxin hits differently when you're young. The moment it fogged your mask, your lungs screamed, your vision tilted — and then they appeared.

Jason. Alfred. Dick. Tim. Cass. Even Bruce.

Limp bodies, rotting where they stood, faces sunken and gray, eyes milky and unseeing. Your family, dead, decaying, abandoned in the dark — and all of it your fault. Bruce, too. His cowl half-melted, eyes gaping holes, jaw slack with death.

It wasn’t real. You knew it wasn’t real — but logic is weak against fear when it slides like oil down your spine.

You remember screaming their names, clawing at the hallucinations, sobbing against decayed limbs that shouldn’t have been real but felt so real — and then, beyond the rot and bones, his voice:

Jonathan Crane.

Soft. Mocking. Even though you couldn't understand a word of what he was saying. 

He stepped out of the shadows with that stitched mask, needles glinting at his belt, and you snapped.

You were fourteen. Fourteen and trained by the Bat. Fourteen and drowning in terror and rage.

Your fists collided with him before he could react. The world blurred. You were a hurricane — wild and furious — every punch cracking bone beneath that burlap mask. His blood splattered your gloves, your cheeks, your tongue — copper sharp and animalistic.

He stabbed the syringes into your arms, desperate to slow you, but the toxin already drowned your mind. What was a little more poison when your whole world was rotting?

You kept hitting him until his mask split, until he whimpered like a kicked dog, until his teeth glittered red in the moonlight.

You remember that.

The smell of blood and toxin. The sound of your knuckles breaking his jaw. The cold that never left.

You don’t remember stopping. You didn’t stop until Bruce and Dick pulled you off him, you know that.

The following days were a blur of fever dreams and locked doors. You hid in your room. Refused to see them. Couldn’t bear to look at their faces, afraid they’d still be decomposing, still blaming you. Hiding from your own reflection, your own family, unsure if what you saw in the mirror was skin or rot beneath.

You don’t remember much after that. But the fear never left.

You bolt upright in bed, tangled in cream-colored sheets, breath clawing at your lungs, hair plastered to your neck with cold sweat. The bedroom is quiet and far too warm.

Your chest heaves, lungs dragging in shaky gulps of air as your pulse pounds behind your eyes. The silk sheets tangle around your hips, damp with sweat, cool against feverish skin.

The apartment is still. Safe.

You’re not fourteen.

You're in Gotham.

You're not drowning in Scarecrow's nightmare.

It takes a beat to remember. To piece together reality. To let your heartbeat slow under the hum of Gotham’s traffic.

A low breath curls against your spine, warm and steady.

Conner.

You turn your head, heart slowing as you see him sprawled beside you — his arm stretched over the sheets, hand splayed lightly against your stomach.

He’s shirtless. Hair messy. Lips parted in sleep.

There’s a crease between his brows, even unconscious — that stubborn frown he always wears when he’s worried or… dreaming of worse things.

You ease onto your side, clutching the sheet to your chest as your breathing settles. His hand slides gently over your skin, thumb tracing a path along the curve of your waist.

“You alright?” His voice is rough with sleep, low and gentle. His hand twitches faintly, fingers curling like muscle memory.

You blink at him, surprised.

“You’re awake.”

He cracks one eye open, offering a crooked, sleepy smile. “Kinda hard to sleep through your breathing like that, Huntress.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Nightmare,” you admit, voice barely a whisper.

Conner’s expression softens immediately. He props himself onto his elbow, the sheet slipping down his torso. His hand strokes your side, careful and grounding.

“Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate. The memory is heavy, clawing up your throat like bile. But his eyes — steady, concerned — anchor you.

You swallow. “Scarecrow. First time I… got hit with his toxin.”

Conner exhales slowly, thumb stilling on your skin. “Shit.”

He knows. Of course he knows. You told him once, years ago — in pieces, over rooftop beers and sleepless stakeouts.

You exhale, a long, shaky sound. Your free hand drifts across the sheet, curling over his wrist, thumb pressing to the steady thrum of his pulse. It calms you more than you want to admit.

“They… they were all dead,” you whisper. “Rotting. Just… walking corpses. I was alone. Again.”

Conner’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl against your waist. “It wasn’t real.”

You nod. “I know.” You pause, then add softly, “Didn’t feel like that.”

There’s a beat of silence, then his hand cups your cheek, gentle but firm. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“It’s not real,” he says, brushing his forehead against yours, nudging gentle. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re not alone. Not now.”

A pause. You swallow, throat tight.

“Not ever?”

“Never.”

The promise is whispered into your hairline, soft and raw, and you lean into it. His warmth soaks through the chill clinging to your bones, and for the first time since the nightmare woke you, you breathe — steady, deep.

Your hand slides from his wrist to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth.

“You’re obnoxiously good at this,” you murmur, lips quirking faintly.

He grins, sleep-laced and boyish, dark hair mussed wildly. “What? Being charming?”

“Comforting,” you correct, biting back a smile.

“Well…” He tilts his head, grinning crooked. “Stick with me, sweetheart.”

You lean in, lips brushing his, slow and languid — grateful. The kiss is soft, unhurried. He lets you guide it, lets you set the pace. His hand curls at your waist, steady, protective.

Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him closer, and the kiss deepens — all warmth and messy, quiet want. You sigh against his lips, the lingering tension bleeding out, dissolving under his touch.

The fear loosens.

The memory fades.

Only him remains — solid, steady, familiar.

His hand tangles in your hair too, mouth coaxing yours open, deepening the kiss with patient, aching care.

You sigh into him, the sheet forgotten between you, the warmth of his body drawing you in like a lighthouse through fog. Your legs open, a quiet invitation that he quickly takes, positioning with a smooth movement that takes a chuckle out of your chest. 

The kiss lingers — slow, soft, desperate in its tenderness — until the sharp buzz of your phone shatters the quiet.

You groan, fumbling blindly for the device on the nightstand.

“Let it ring,” Conner mumbles against your neck, nipping gently.

You manage a laugh, swiping the screen without looking.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Miss Y/N.” Alfred’s familiar voice filters through, calm and faintly amused. “I trust I’m not interrupting?”

You stiffen, mortified. Conner snickers softly against your shoulder, teeth grazing your collarbone. You flick his ear. 

“No,” you say too quickly, voice cracking. “What’s up?”

“I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. Your favorites — those tartlets you’ve always adored.” There’s a pause, weighted but kind. “I thought perhaps… you’d join me and the rest?”

Your chest tightens. You glance at Conner, his smile gentler now, eyes curious. He lefts another kiss on your collarbone, warmer than before.

You blink, stunned silent for half a beat. The familiar ache coils behind your ribs — bittersweet, raw, impossible to refuse.

“Alfred…”

“No pressure,” he says, gentler now. “But it would mean… quite a lot.”

Your eyes drift to Conner. His brows raise in silent question, his hand still warm at your back.

You exhale softly. Smile, small but real.

“I’ll be there,” you whisper.

“Excellent,” Alfred replies, tenderly. “Take your time, dear.”

The line clicks off.

“Breakfast with the bats,” Conner teases, shifting under the sheets, propping himself up on one elbow, the wickedest little grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “You should probably find a bulletproof vest, but instead of bullets, it should cover your neck.”

You snort despite yourself, tossing the phone back onto the nightstand and burrowing deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket halfway up your face in dread. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, no, it’s hilarious,” he says, and before you can dodge or protest, his hand snakes under the blanket, fingers splaying across your waist as he lunges.

“Conner—”

Too late.

He attacks, pressing a barrage of rapid, sloppy kisses across your jaw, your cheek, your neck — anywhere his mouth can reach, relentless and laughing as he does it.

“Stop—” You squeal, laughing despite the weight of anxiety knotted in your stomach, batting at his shoulders. “Conner, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” he shoots back, lips brushing your collarbone, nose bumping against your throat, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “Serious about distracting you before you spiral.”

“I’m not spiraling,” you lie, breath hitching when his teeth nip playfully at your pulse point.

“You’re thinking too much,” he counters, peppering another trail of warm kisses up your jaw. “I can hear your brain overheating.”

You giggle, shoving weakly at his chest, but he doesn’t budge — just keeps kissing you, soft and obnoxious and entirely unbothered by your half-hearted protests. Your laughter bubbles up, real and bright, smoothing the edges of fear lingering in your ribs.

“Conner—”

“Kiss truce?” he offers, finally slowing, hovering over you with that boyish smile, eyes sparkling with something warmer, heavier. His hand curls gently against your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles over your hipbone.

You sigh, breathless, still laughing faintly as you grab the front of his shirt, tugging him down.

“Fine,” you mutter, lips brushing his, “but only because you’re insufferably charming.”

“Hey,” he grins against your mouth, voice dropping low, teasing, “you’re the one kissing me now, sweetheart.”

And you do —

Kiss him again.

Hard enough to forget, just for a moment, about breakfast. About Gotham.

About all of it.

Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The stones still hum with history, the sprawling estate looming against the gray Gotham skyline like a relic frozen in time. The windows gleam like polished obsidian, sharp and silent. The front doors creak the same way they did when you were seven, sneaking back in after hours spent curled under the rose garden arbor, sketchbook clutched to your chest.

You pause at the front steps, fingers brushing the cool wrought-iron railing, a familiar tightness curling in your ribs.

Everything feels… too heavy. Too loud with memory.

You hated how much you missed this place.

The halls are the same. Portraits hanging like ghosts of the past — old Waynes, stoic and stone-eyed, watching you walk the corridor as if you don’t belong. Maybe you never did.

Laughter down these same halls you were never quite part of. Cold nights on the roof waiting for a father who never noticed you’d fallen asleep waiting. Echoes of piano keys under your hands, playing to the ghosts of people still living.

But the smell…

It wasn’t home — not anymore, not for years — but it still smelled like your childhood. The faint warmth of Alfred’s coffee brewing. The sharp, citrus-clean scent of polished wood. The faintest sweetness of something baking. It’s the same.

Your footsteps echo as you make your way to the dining room, the clock on the wall mocking you — ten minutes late. You could’ve been early. You could’ve walked in like you were supposed to. But your legs dragged, your spine resisted, your heart whispered not yet.

They’re all here. The entire family sat gathered around the sprawling breakfast table, the silverware glinting against fine china, the food — fresh tarts, waffles, berries, all the things you loved — barely touched.

The moment you slip through the threshold, you can feel it. Tension. Anticipation.

Barbara’s seated nearest the head of the table, red hair tied back, elegant as ever. Dick’s beside her, arms folded, blue eyes flicking to you instantly with a grin that’s a little too proud, a little too… relieved.

“Birdie,” Dick’s voice finally cut through the silence, his grin stretching wider as he crossed the room in three strides and crushed you into his chest without waiting for permission.

Your arms hung stiff at your sides.

You let him hug you. Let him press his chin to your hair, rocking you gently like you were something fragile he forgot how to hold. But you didn’t hug him back. Not yet.

“Ten minutes late,” Dick whispered, breath warm against your temple. “You owe me for that.”

Jason’s leaning back in his chair, legs sprawled wide, toying with the edge of a coffee cup like it’s a weapon. His eyes cut toward you as you enter, unreadable, but there’s a softness buried somewhere beneath that sharp jaw.

Cass is beside him, quiet, sharp-eyed, assessing you with that hawk-like stare that never misses anything.

Tim, next, flipping casually through something on his phone — only to stop dead when he sees you. His smile is smaller than the others, but real.

Steph waves from across the table, already chewing on what looks like a muffin, bright as ever. Duke gives you a simple nod, polite but watchful.

And Damian— seated beside the chair left empty for you — his eyes sharpen immediately, like a hawk spotting prey, and before you can even consider another seat, his hand slides to the back of the chair beside him, pulling it out in silent demand.

You hesitate. Only a moment.

But the silence says enough. You walk forward, heels clicking against marble, and lower yourself into the chair— wedged between Tim and Damian, your youngest brother already shifting, moving his own chair closer with a sharp scrape of wood, until there’s no space left. His shoulder brushes yours. You say nothing.

“Nice of you to join us,” Duke teases gently, his grin easy, like this isn’t suffocating.

“Traffic,” you lie smoothly, reaching for a coffee cup.

Alfred appears at your shoulder, refilling it before you even finish the motion. His eyes crinkle faintly. You mouth a thank you.

The talk swirls— casual, loud, overlapping. You barely listen.

Until Bruce’s voice cuts through it. “Where are you staying?”

You pause, fingers curling tighter around your cup. Your lips part to answer.

“She’s at the Royal Resort,” Tim pipes up, glancing down at his phone like the information’s public knowledge.

Your mouth snaps shut. Your head tilts toward him, brows furrowing, irritation bubbling low beneath your ribs.

“How do you—?”

“Credit card trail,” he answers simply, like that explains everything. “Nice place. But you know that.”

Your jaw ticks. Your eyes narrow faintly, and Damian’s quiet scoff beside you draws your attention before you can retort.

“No Wayne should stay in a hotel when the Manor is theirs,” Damian says bluntly, green eyes sharp, arms crossing over his chest. “It’s pathetic.”

You roll your eyes, leaning forward to grab one of the little lemon tarts perched neatly on the silver tray in the center of the table. Before your fingers even brush the plate, a hand beats you to it— Jason.

He grabs one tart, drops it silently onto your plate, eyes lingering on you for a second, unreadable, before turning his attention to the waffle platter, scooping one onto his own plate. Neither of you says anything.

Your jaw tightens. The warmth in your chest clashes with the frustration.

“Thank you,” you mutter, biting the edge off the words as you slice into the tart.

“You should come home,” Bruce says plainly, cutting through the conversation like it’s strategy.

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

“Here we go,” you mutter under your breath.

“Father’s right,” Damian insists, straightening beside you. “The Manor is your home.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you shoot back coolly, finally turning your gaze toward Bruce, challenging. “I’ve been just fine where I am.”

“‘Fine’ is a low standard,” Tim interjects, voice dry, sipping his coffee. “We can do better.”

You glare. He doesn’t flinch.

“It’s not a negotiation,” Bruce says, voice soft but firm — Batman creeping in around the edges. “This is your home. It always has been.”

Your stomach knots. Years of silence. Neglect. Overlooked birthdays, missed recitals, absent gazes during galas when you were practically begging to be seen— it all surges up like bile.

“I don’t—”

“You belong here,” Damian cuts in, sharp, insistent, his chair nearly flush to yours now. His green eyes burn with possessiveness only a child that never learned to share can wield. “With us.”

Your tongue darts across your bottom lip. You hesitate, but the room leaves no space to breathe, no space to speak.

“You’re not serious.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked, that faint clench you’d seen too many times before. “You’re not safe.”

“I’ve been safe for years,” you shot back, the weight of the old argument settling over your shoulders like a threadbare cloak. “Without you.”

“We didn’t know where you were,” Dick added, voice soft, as if that might somehow make it hurt less. “That’s not okay.”

“That’s exactly how I wanted it.”

Damian’s hands tightened into fists on the table, his leg pressed fully against yours now, unmoving, steady, anchoring you in place whether you wanted it or not.

“You’re a Wayne,” Bruce continued, firm, final. “You belong here.”

Your lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Since when?”

Jason’s fingers drummed against the edge of his plate. He didn’t look at you. “Since always.”

You exhaled slowly, dragging your gaze away from them, scanning the familiar walls, the weight of the manor sinking into your ribs like it never left.

The lemon tart tasted exactly like you remembered. Alfred still made them just right. And that’s what made it hurt more.

It was suffocating.

Cass’s gaze pins you, quiet support buried beneath sharp awareness. Barbara watches you softly, expression unreadable. Jason’s jaw tightens faintly, eyes flicking to you, then away. Duke, Steph, Tim— they’re all watching, waiting.

And Bruce—

Bruce’s gaze softens, only a fraction, but it’s there. That quiet, fatherly plea buried beneath years of stubborn, stoic failure.

The tart on your plate mocks you. The Manor hums around you, familiar and suffocating.

There’s no room to say no. Not really.

You sigh, setting your fork down.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes locked on your plate.

You can feel their quiet satisfaction settle over the table, thick as the walls surrounding you. And once again, Wayne Manor swallows you whole.

The table doesn’t fall back into the same rhythm after your reluctant acceptance. No— it thickens, something denser now floating around the plates, in the glances they trade when they think you’re not watching. The way Barbara’s eyes linger on you when she thinks she’s being subtle. The way Duke’s smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes now. The way Tim taps his fork against his plate with that knowing edge, like he’s already planning the security sweeps he’ll make to ensure you’re not booking another hotel behind their backs.

It’s suffocating.

You cut another small bite of the lemon tart, chewing slowly, trying to keep your breathing level. Across from you, Jason is picking apart his waffle, dragging his fork in absentminded circles, occasionally flicking his gaze up toward you, then away like he’s pretending not to watch you this closely.

Like he wasn’t the one who deliberately placed the tart on your plate to begin with. Like he didn’t just decide to slip right back into your habits like he never left.

You hate how familiar this is. You hate how much your chest aches with the weight of it.

You hate that you missed them.

“Alfred,” you call softly, folding your napkin with delicate precision. The butler steps closer almost immediately, as if he never left the edge of the room. “Do I— does my room still…?”

His smile creases warmly. “Your room is precisely as you left it, Miss.”

Your mouth twists. Your room. Not guest room. Not temporarily made up for you. Your room.

Even though you left years ago, and you were never supposed to come back.

You catch Bruce watching you over the rim of his cup, his expression carved in that deep, impenetrable stone that always used to make you second guess what you meant to him.

The silence drags, then Dick leans forward, the weight of his folded arms settling over the table.

“We can help you move your things,” he says, soft, careful, like he’s handling you the way you handle old paintings— afraid you’ll crack with the wrong touch. “I mean, unless you plan to stay in a hotel for the rest of your life.”

You raise a brow at him, fingers smoothing over your napkin, pretending to consider. “Tempting.”

Damian shifts closer — which you didn’t think was possible — until his chair scrapes a few more millimeters forward, his shoulder fully pressing against yours now, steady, grounding.

“I will help my sister. Titus can carry her stuff while I help with the rest.” His brows go back to normal, looking at you with his slight narrowed green eyes. You have always admired just how cute your brother could be: perhaps, with a normal childhood, he could have been a stereotypical Draco Malfoy.

But he's not. He reminds you a bit more of a mix between Malfoy and Harry.

His lips carry a smirk that you have seen in your father. The perfect mix between he and Talia, of course.

You snap your head toward your other young brother, incredulous now that you remember the reply minutes ago. “You’ve been tracking me?”

“Not ‘tracking.’” Tim shrugs, not bothering to look up from his phone. “Monitoring.”

Your jaw ticks. “That’s not any better.”

“It’s more responsible.”

Your breath puffs out in disbelief, fingers tightening around your cup.

“Tim, I could be halfway across the world and you’d still have eyes on me, wouldn’t you?”

He finally glances up, soft, smug smile twisting his mouth. “Could be, but you’re not across the world. You’re here.”

Your stomach knots. You should be angry. You should be furious, even. But you know Tim. He’s always done this. He’s always catalogued everything, everyone. He doesn’t let go. Especially not when it comes to family.

Especially not you.

“I should’ve expected that,” you mutter under your breath, taking another slow sip of coffee.

“You should’ve,” he agrees, not missing a beat.

The tart on your plate is half-finished when Jason's voice cuts through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unexpected.

“What the hell are those?”

The fork stalls halfway to your mouth, lemon curd trembling slightly at the edge of the silver. Your spine stiffens. Your eyes lift, meeting his across the table.

Jason’s gaze isn’t playful now. It’s sharp, narrowed in on you with a familiarity that only older brothers possess, and his hand gestures vaguely to your collarbone — or more specifically, the faint bruising peeking just beneath the open neckline of your sweater. The marks you hadn’t bothered to conceal this morning, half out of carelessness, half because you didn’t think they’d look that close.

A hush falls over the table, the scrape of a chair leg echoing somewhere as everyone turns to look.

You lower your fork. Slowly.

“Sorry, what?” you ask, tone deceptively light.

Jason leans forward, elbow braced on the table, expression unreadable but sharp with suspicion. “Those marks. On your neck. And your wrist—” his eyes flick down, zeroing in on the faint reddish imprint around your wrist bone, peeking from beneath your sleeve, “—what the hell, sis?”

Beside you, Damian’s eyes narrow, gaze flicking from your neck to your wrist, his posture straightening, the edge of his chair scraping closer again, practically caging you in now.

“They’re nothing,” you say flatly, adjusting your sleeve as casually as you can manage.

“Yeah, sure,” Steph chimes in, voice half-muffled by a bite of muffin. “You just tripped over your own charm and face-planted into a set of hickeys?”

Heat burns along your neck, but you force your expression blank, slicing another neat bite of tart onto your fork. “You all need to mind your own business.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Tim mutters under his breath, flipping his coffee stirrer between his fingers. “The girl who used to hack into the GCPD for fun is telling us about boundaries.”

“Tim,” Cass warns softly, her voice calm but carrying weight as always.

But it’s too late— the floodgates are open now.

Dick raises a brow, that annoyingly big-brother grin slipping onto his face as he leans onto his forearms. “So… who’s the lucky idiot?”

“There is no idiot,” you bite back, glaring down at your plate.

“Those marks say otherwise,” Jason deadpans, reaching casually for the coffee pot like he’s not interrogating you in front of the entire damn family. “You look like you got attacked by a particularly enthusiastic vampire.”

Your blush deepens, teeth sinking into your cheek as you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Damian, beside you, shifts slightly, still watching you with hawk-like intensity, green eyes narrowed and calculating.

“You should tell us who it is,” he says, voice deceptively neutral for a thirteen-year-old. “It would be… concerning if someone thought they could handle you like that.”

“‘Handle’?” you repeat, scoffing under your breath, “God, you sound like Father.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpens slightly at the end of the table, coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “If someone’s putting hands on you—”

“They’re not,” you cut in quickly, jabbing your fork at your plate with a little more force than necessary. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own terrible decisions, thanks.”

Steph snickers beside Barbara, who just hides a smile behind her glass.

Jason shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in thought. “Nah. I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t,” you snap, finally tossing your fork onto the plate with a sharp clatter. “Because God forbid I have a life outside of this family circus.”

“You’re family,” Dick reminds you, annoyingly calm. “It’s our job to meddle.”

You groan, fingers pressing to your temples. “You’re all impossible.”

Duke, quiet until now, finally pipes up, smirking faintly over his cup. “You missed us.”

“I missed Alfred,” you correct without missing a beat.

The butler, returning with a fresh pot of coffee, arches a brow, entirely unbothered. “Flattery will not spare you from their interrogation, Miss.”

Jason points at him. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Traitor,” you grumble.

“Don’t deflect,” Damian mutters beside you, voice low. His chair edges closer still— impossibly close now, thigh brushing yours, as his sharp gaze narrows. “I know who it is. You are copulating-”

“Copulating?” You repeat, disgusted. Your siblings share the same expression, looking more alike than ever. “Who taught you that word?”

“Yeah, say 'fuck' like any normal person, Jesus,” Jason grimaced, and then points to you. “You are so not getting out of this.”

“Language, Jason.”

“Well, teach your son some sex ed. I will vomit if he says copulating again.”

“Drop it,” you warn, stabbing a piece of waffle with unnecessary force.

But you can practically hear the gears turning in their collective heads. Barbara’s gaze sharpens from across the table. Cass tilts her head, reading you like an open book, eyes narrowing faintly in quiet realization.

Steph smirks, leaning toward Duke to whisper something conspiratorial under her breath, while Duke just winces, clearly aware that this is about to escalate.

“I swear to god,” Jason mutters, pushing his chair back slightly, eyes still locked on you. “If it’s some trust fund idiot from the gala—”

“It wasn’t,” you cut in coolly, but the room’s already spiraling beyond your control.

“Wait,” Tim says suddenly, frowning, and your stomach drops before the words even leave his mouth. “You disappeared at the gala early.”

You sip your coffee, eyes narrowing. “I’m allowed to leave parties, Timothy.”

Damian shifts beside you, straightening abruptly like the pieces have clicked into place. His eyes burn with that possessive, entirely unearned little-brother rage that could level cities.

“You were with him,” he says simply, like a verdict.

The table pauses.

Jason’s jaw clenches. “With who?”

Tim stills, processing. “Who’s him?”

Cass’s eyes widen a fraction, realization dawning.

Barbara sighs under her breath. “Oh, hell.”

“You were drinking with him at the bar,” Damian continues, voice low, lethal in that thirteen-year-old, miniature-Bruce-Wayne way that makes your skin crawl. “Superboy.”

The room explodes.

“CONNER?!” Jason practically shouts, chair scraping back, hands slapping the table as every sibling conversation devolves into chaos.

“Wait—Conner as in—Superboy?!” Steph’s eyes widen, practically giddy, because of course she’s here for the drama.

Tim’s entire expression freezes, mouth parting in disbelief. “You hooked up with my best friend?!”

“You’ve got the worst taste in men,” Duke says, mostly to himself, grabbing his coffee like it’s the only thing grounding him in this disaster.

Cass doesn’t speak, but her eyes glint with knowing, watching the unravel like a cat observing trapped prey.

“Calm down,” you snap, glaring at Jason and Tim, who both look two seconds away from either passing out or throwing a chair.

“I am calm,” Jason lies, pointing an accusing finger at you. “You, on the other hand, have hickeys from a Kryptonian.”

“Allegedly,” you say dryly, biting into your tart like this isn’t your worst nightmare.

Tim looks visibly ill. “Why would you—he’s—he’s Conner!”

“Your best friend is hot,” you shoot back without mercy, because if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.

Damian scowls, arms crossing so tight you can practically hear his ribs protest. “He’s also an idiot.”

“Better than the parade of emotionally repressed vigilantes in this family,” you mutter, and Steph laughs, covering her mouth with her hand.

Bruce, finally, speaks—voice low, quiet, but commanding enough that the table halts.

“We’re not discussing this at breakfast.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. “Why? We discuss everything else. Including where I sleep, apparently.”

A flash of guilt crosses his expression. He doesn’t argue.

“Are you seeing him?” Tim pushes, wounded pride flaring in his tone.

You shrug, licking lemon curd off your fork with infuriating calm. “That’s between me and Conner.”

Jason groans into his hands. “I need aspirin.”

Damian still simmers beside you, eyes dark, but says nothing, clearly cataloguing ways to poison a Kryptonian.

The chaos simmers, the table still thick with tension, but you ignore it, sipping your coffee with slow, deliberate ease.

“Relax,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to them all. “You’ve got bigger problems than my love life.”

“Not if you bring him around here,” Jason threatens weakly, stabbing his waffle like it insulted him.

You smirk faintly, eyes glinting.

“Guess you’ll have to be on your best behavior then.”

And just like that, the first real sibling fight in years ignites fully—loud, overlapping, messy—like you never left.

And for a second, you almost let yourself enjoy it.

[brights-place]

[KPDH] ．°˖✧ Ｂａｂｙ ˚₊ ⊹ x Reader

Contains: Fluff, Stupid Stuff, and Acts of Affection

A/N: I LOVE BABY I THINK ITS JUST CAUSE I LIKE CHARACTERS WHO ARE ABLE TO RAP

Summary: You love nothing more than pampering your partner despite his deep voice and tough rapper image, he’s got the most precious baby face and golden, doe-like eyes that shine whenever he looks at you. Whether you're gently applying under-eye masks, brushing his bangs out of the way, or softly kissing the corners of his eyes, it’s all about showing love to the boy behind the bars the soft, golden-eyed sweetheart who’s yours.

Somehow, Baby always made looking flawless look effortless. his pout practiced, his smirks camera-ready, and those golden eyes always wide and shimmering like he was made to be adored.

He had the kind of face that didn’t match the deep, cutting voice he rapped with the kind that made people do double takes, wondering how someone so baby-faced could spit bars that left rivals speechless and Baby knew it. He leaned into the contrast, played it up on stage, charmed his fans with fluttery lashes and smug little grins like it was second nature.

But when it was just you and him no cameras, no stylists, no fans or managers poking their heads in with reminders he let himself be softer in a way most wouldn’t believe.

He was lounging on the couch, legs kicked up and head tilted lazily back, letting you sit in his lap while you gently dabbed cooling eye patches beneath his lashes. His skin was already perfectly smooth, of course, but you claimed it was "maintenance." Baby didn’t complain. Not when your fingers were that gentle, or when you tilted his chin to get a better look at him like you were studying a masterpiece.

“Still looking at me like I’m breakable, [Name],” he muttered, voice low and syrupy, a slight rasp catching at the end. “You trying to spoil me again?” “You say that like I haven’t been spoiling you since day one,” you teased, brushing a strand of his hair from his forehead. “I know you're all growl and swagger on stage, but off it? You're basically a spoiled house cat shiny eyes, dramatic naps, attitude for days.”

His lips quirked up, he looked away like he was pretending to be unimpressed, but the way his hand crept up to rest on your waist betrayed him. He liked this. He liked you maybe more than he wanted to admit out loud.

You leaned in a little closer, just enough to whisper, “I like making your eyes shine. That’s all. No big speech.” that made him blink slowly, with a softness he rarely let anyone see.

You always treated him like more than the polished image he gave the world, and it left him unsteady in the best way. Nobody ever stayed long enough to learn the real him impatient, moody, selfish in the way all demons are but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t leave.

He tilted his head again, those doe golden eyes now glossy under the cool patches. “You gonna kiss me now or just keep acting like you’re a dermatologist?” You smirked. “Skincare is love.”

“Ugh, lame,” he groaned but his arms wrapped around your waist anyway, tugging you against him with a little huff. “Fine but if my eyes look extra cute in the next teaser photos, it’s on you.” “Can’t wait for the fans to see you with that glow I gave you.”

“Don’t post it,” he warned quickly, voice dropping a little lower. “Keep it for yourself.” and you understood. The world could have the rapper, the idol, the flirt but you got Baby the bratty, clingy, secretly soft demon who melted under your touch and trusted you with the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else.

۶ৎ ⌗ 𝐊-𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝

[ghouljams]

You make him worse, he knows that.

It's just so hard to fucking care when he presses you up against a wall, your wrists clutched in one meaty hand, locked over your head so he can feel you up over that stupid little dress. God he loves your stupid little dresses.

You know, he wouldn't have done this shit before. Lived real cautious like before he spotted your pretty behind, didn't fuck with other families unless Price ordered him to, didn't chase after little birdies, didn't fuck around in damp allies... Alright maybe he did that last one, but not like this. Not with a remorseless glee at the way your soft pink dress was getting streaked with grime where you were wrinkling it against the brick. He'd buy you another.

"Simon," You pout, almost reprimanding, "my dress."

"Oh I'm gettin' to it, Princess." He hums, voice rough from the night air and the stale cigarette smoke that still clung to the shadows of the punks he'd thrown out of this damp hole.

His hand slides lower, slips under the hem of your dress (fuck this dress) to hook his finger in the elastic waistband of your panties. Those get dragged down your thighs as Ghost crouches. His fingers skate over your ankle, making sure you're stable in those heels as you lift one foot, then the other to step out of the silk garment. He raises the fabric with a smile and presses his lips to the soaked gusset before stuffing the pair in his pocket.

Ghost presses a kiss to your cheek when he stands, hands lingering on the soft skin of your thighs.

"I like it," He says, finally giving you his opinion on your recent purchase, "be safe."

"With you watching me?" You smile, "I always am."

[darkbluekies]

Countryside getaway

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: Silas has decided that the two of you should spend some time together, far away from his world, and you get to experience each other's real sides. No fear, no worries.

Warnings: mentions of crimes, mentions of murder, Silas dirty minded humor, but overall a softer oneshot

Word count: 2.3k

No one knows where you're going. Not even you. He has one hand on the steeringwheel, the other one holds your thigh. 

He's wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos on his arms.

“Keep your eyes on the road, map reader, or we'll never get there”, Silas says, giving you a teasing look.

“You have a GPS”, you mutter and turn your head more comfortably against the pillow.

“My GPS does not have your voice.”

“I don't even know where we're going.”

“You don't have to. Just read the directions.”

“How much further do we have to go? We've been sitting here for hours …”

“I did not know I had brought a child with me. I've planned something romantic and you're just complaining.” He caresses your thigh with his thumb, chuckling. “One more hour, little thing. That good enough for you?”

You groan and hide your face in the pillow and he laughs. He's different like this, when he's not surrounded by his men. When he's not in that space. Here, in his sports car with just the two of you, he's different. Softer. Human. It loosens your walls too.

“So whiny”, he chuckles. “Slept bad?”

“Don't kid”, you mutter and make yourself comfortable against the pillow again.

“Maybe we both need this. I need a break and you need to be able to sleep. Can't do that at home, can you?”

No, you can't. Not when he comes home in the middle of the night, bloody and roughed up. At home, you wake to every little sound with your heart beating in your chest.

“You know”, Silas starts, “its important to do this. To get away. Especially in my industry. Otherwise you get consumed.”

“Will SIC be able to handle things?”

“He has no choice.”

“Are you really okay to go by yourself? You’re recognizable.”

“Darling, they can't do anything. Thankfully, the law is strict and as long as there is no evidence connecting me to something they can't actually take me. They can suspect me, but never catch me. I'm fine.” He smirks, glancing at you. “Why? You're worried?”

You give him a glare and turn your head out the window.

“I'll break that facade down, Y/N”, he smiles and leans back in his seat. “We have four days all to ourselves. And I'll make the most of it.” His smirk deepens. “With no one around … I can take you just however I want to, whenever. And if I'm not wrong, SIC said that the house is remote. You can be as loud as you want.”

You slap his shoulder.

“Ouch, I'm driving here”, he chuckles. “Mind your hands?”

“Focus on your driving then.”

“How can I when you're sitting right here?”

His free hand on your thigh squeezes ever so slightly. You stare at him, contemplating opening the door and throwing yourself out on the highway.

The car has since long ago pulled in on a gravel road with no cars. Red flowers cover the fields around you, and for a second you're sure he has orchestrated it. 

The house is smaller than Silas's house back in the city, less modern. 

“Jump out, little thing”, he says as he unbuckles himself. “We're here.”

You stretch, legs wobbly from hours of sitting down. Silas unlocks the trunk and carries your bags inside. You stand in the middle of the gravel driveway, looking around and listening to the absolute lack of noise.

“Are you coming or what?” Silas asks from the front door. “Don't be slow or I'll carry you too. No gentler than these bags.”

You hurry after him. He smirks.

It's not hard finding the bedroom. A note lay in the bedding. Silas picks it up and scoffs at the familiar handwriting.

“Be nice to the bed, it's old, you break if you pay for it — SIC.”

“That son of a bitch”, Silas chuckles and turns to you, showing the note. “Seems like he read my mind.”

“You are kind of predictable”, you say.

Silas starts to walk towards you, backing you up against the nearest wall, wearing a soft smirk. “Me? Predictable? If I was predictable I wouldn't be a crime organization leader, my dumb little Y/N.”

You shrug. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, you’re good at saying things.” His hand sneaks up to your jaw. “How about you put your poor mouth to other uses for once? I know a pair of lips that would die to meet them.”

His cheesiness makes you scoff out a small smile, enough for him to close the distance. Ever since you’ve forced him to start using lip balm, his mouth is soft when it moves against yours. You sigh out and he swallows the sound in a greedy inhale. He holds you close, one hand on your back, the other on your jaw. 

“Silas, you’ll bruise my lips”, you chuckle and try to turn your head away. 

“Let me”, he breathes and directs you right back to his mouth. 

And he does. He doesn’t half-ass things. He pulls back with proudness in his eyes. 

“Let’s go shopping now.”

“Shopping?”

“We need food. Can’t just live off each other, unfortunately.”

He grabs your hand and leads you back out to the black sports car and you’re once again put on map reader duty to find the nearest grocery store. You can’t remember the last time you’ve actually grocery shopped with him. Normally, he sends out someone to buy things, and if he can’t trust anyone, he sends SIC. Just because Silas can’t be arrested, doesn’t mean he’s a hundred percent safe. 

“Alright”, he mutters and grabs a cart. “Let’s pretend to be a normal couple.”

You can’t help but chuckle and he gives you a quick look. 

“Let’s get this shitshow on the road, let’s go”, he mutters and nods at you to follow. “Don’t start running around or I’ll place you in the cart like a three year old. Okay, what do we need?”

“You need steak”, you joke. 

“Damn right I do, but I get my steak from high quality butchers, I’ll get sick if I get it from a grocery store.”

“Aw, is your little tummy sensitive?” you ask, making sure it sounds more like “wittle”.

“Y/N, I’m warning you.”

His warning isn’t serious. Not now. Not like this. It only maks you smile. 

“Are you going to be a brat all vacation just because you think I won’t do anything?” Silas asks behind you, pushing the cart into your back. “I did tell you we are remote, didn’t I?”

“Don't touch me or I'll scream.”

“Oh, you'll scream alright.”

“Silas!”

He chuckles, eyes softening. “I couldn't help it. You played that into my hands a bit too good to pass up on.”

“You’re so childish. Maybe you should tone it down on the threatening part if you don’t want more people staring at you. You don’t need to give them a reason to recognise you.”

Silas scoffs, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. He enjoys this side of you way too much. He can only enjoy it in situations like this, far away from his world. When you're not scared of him.

“What's the budget?” you ask him.

“What?” 

“The budget? You said to pretend to be a normal couple. Normal couples don't have your credit card.”

Silas groans audibly.

“I'm not compromising my money”, he says. “Stop messing around, grab what you want.”

You handle the actual shopping part while he pushes the cart behind you. People glance at him, if not for recognising him, then for his tattoos, but he pretends to be unaware. 

“Little thing.”

“Hm?”

“Grab those.”

You follow where he nods. Chips. They fall into the cart. So do a lot of other things Silas usually doesn't buy.

“Might as well go for it now that SIC can't bully me”, he shrugs. 

The cashier seems to recognise Silas, but she doesn't say anything. Silas is polite and wishes her a good day, as if he wasn't who she thought he was, before turning to you and grabbing the plastic bags.

Back at the house, he puts everything into the fridge and starts to cook right away. 

“You’re not allowed to help”, he says and taps your forehead. “I want to actually eat tonight.”

“I can cook”, you insist. 

“Yeah. Sure. How about you go and set the table while I handle the knives and the stove?”

“Fine.”

You do as you’re told, searching the drawers for cutlery and plates. He glances at you from time to time and can’t help but smile. Maybe this was what he wanted all along? To play family.

“It’s not often we get to do this”, he says as he plates the food. “Domestic things, I mean. Should enjoy it while we can. Oh, I saw a pool out in the backyard, by the way. I think we should try it out after dinner. I brought alcohol from back home.”

“Drinking and swimming doesn’t sound very safe.”

“Then you’ll just have to rescue me. They didn’t teach you life guard duty in swimming class?”

“Yes, but they didn’t prepare me to drag a man that weighs enough to crush a car.”

“So my workouts are working?” His grin widens as he takes a sip of his water. “Thank you, Y/N.”

Conversation die out for a moment, but Silas won’t let the night pass. 

“So?” he says. “Don’t you have something to say?”

“What?” you ask. 

“We don’t often get to just talk. Spew something out. Anything.”

You think for a moment. You usually have a lot of thoughts, but when put on the spot all seem to vanish. 

“I like the food.”

Silas laughs. Actually laughs. You haven’t hard a genuine, carefree laugh from him in a long time. His back eyes curl into half moons. 

“What?” you ask. “What is it?”

“You can say a million things and that’s what you choose to say?” he says. “That the food is good? I didn’t think I cooked that good food, enough for that to be the only thing you think of.”

“You put me on the spot, I just said the first thing that came to mind!”

“Try again, then.”

“Well … I … could really go for some alcohol right now.”

Silas smiles and rises from his chair. He disappears out of the room and returns with two bottles. One brandy, one red wine.

“Okay, your majesty”, he says. “Which fancies your taste buds?”

“Wine, probably. Fits better with dinner. You'll get brandy, I suspect?”

“You know me well.” He opens both bottles and pours. “I'm responsible for you, so it's my duty to make sure you don't get absolutely decked.”

“I thought I was the one that had to make sure you didn't fall face down in the pool?”

“Yeah, but let's be realistic for a second. I can hold my alcohol … you? Please.”

“Rude.”

“It is not rude if I'm stating facts, you just want to deny your incapable alcohol consumption.”

You take a sip of your wine and glare at him.

Silas jokingly suggests you both skinny dip. You shoot down the idea. He's a predator, taking your whole arm if you foolishly give him a finger. You'd like your body working for your getaway.

You're not sure what prompts him, the alcohol or his childishness, to jump into the pool like a bomb. Water splashes everywhere, both on your dry form and your towels, and he breaks the surface with a wide grin. He pushes his black hair back and swims over to the edge. His tattoos warp under the water.

“I’m wet now”, you say in a ‘matter of fact’ tone. 

He looks up at you, squinting one eye full of water shut. “Yeah? Jump in then.”

You decide to get in slowly, but he has other plans. His hand grips your wrist and pulls you into the pool. You yelp, but never have a second to worry about inhaling water, because he holds you.

“So much drama for nothing”, Silas chuckles and wipes water out of your eyes. "I've got you.”

His tattooed arms half hug you, half cradle you as he sways back and forth in the water.

“Today”, you start, hesitant, “when we were at the grocery store, and people looked at you, and what you said before that … I started to think about something just now.”

“What?” he asks softly.

“What do I do if you're taken? Or killed?”

“That will never happen.”

“But what if it does?”

Silas sighs, arms around you tightening slightly.

“If I ever were to never come back home for whatever reasons”, he started slowly, “then SIC would follow the instructions I’ve told him.”

“What are those?”

“To get you far away from everything and everyone and keep you safe. You'd get a cute little house on the coast where you could live peacefully. You'd have my dog, and how many bodyguards it takes to replace me. SIC would be there too. He’d check up on you.”

“That sounds pretty lonely.”

“What? Are you planning to become the Great Gatsby after I disappear?”

He caresses your face with a wet hand.

“I have money put away for you in case anything happens”, he promises and rolls his eyes. “And I might have made a deal with the devil to get you new papers in case something happens.”

“Who?”

“The parasite I'm unfortunately to call brother.”

“Ares?”

“Don't say his name. Let's drop this now. I don't want to think about it. Especially since it won't happen.”

The entire wine bottle is empty once the two of you get out of the pool and head to bed. Silas wears a dark Grey hoodie and sweatpants, insisting you wear comfy clothes too. He thinks it is better for cuddles. You're wrapped in his hoodie covered arms, face pressed to his chest. You'll be damned if you try to get out of his arms any time before morning hours.

Somehow, you wish this little getaway could last forever. Life would be easier that way. Silas sighs out, unbeknownst thinking the exact same thing. 

[kuidore]

More random ZoeYstery HCs ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re a little codependent but the sprinkles of toxicity are mutual so it cancels out

✧ Mystery never wants to go anywhere if Zoe isn’t going. He goes to social stuff because she goes and he wants to spend time with her.

✧ Zoey will still go to things on her own sometimes, leaving Mystery to hangout at home, but she spends a lot of time on her phone texting him and always leaves earlier than she would have if Mystery was with her

✧ This is entirely her choice, not once has he ever asked her to come home or complained about her going out. She just misses him extra hard sometimes and finds herself getting bored way faster when he isn’t around

✧ If it was up to either of them, they’d be together literally all of the time.

✧ They can’t actually do that, so he just follows her everywhere like a puppy on an invisible leash as much as he can

✧ He can see perfectly fine through his bangs (demon logic) but he still has a habit of running into things as if he couldn’t. Poles, signs, corners, fire hydrants. He’s surprisingly clumsy

✧ that’s because he doesn’t look where he’s going. he stares at Zoey instead

✧ totally worth it to him, especially the times when Zoey would start fawning over the possibility of him being hurt

✧ ‘a girlfriend wants a boyfriend who she can turn her brain off around’ except Mystery is the girlfriend

✧ He’s sorta an airhead, he’s ignorant to a lot of things that humans would think of as common knowledge

✧ Mystery thinks Zoey is the smartest person in the entire world and he says it a lot

✧ he eventually gets comfortable enough to ask her questions not just about herself, and she answers him with lots of details and excited hand gestures

✧ She’s happy he’s curious about humans in general and happier that he was asking her.

✧ In reality he’s still just curious about her and not all humans. No other ones, really. Maybe the rest of Huntrix, barely. he could handle her friends because they were extensions of Zoey.

✧ he was asking about topics he remembered her mention before in conversation.

✧ Zoey forgets what stories she’s told and what conversations she’s had with what people, so it doesn’t really click together that she just happens to know at least a little bit about pretty much about everything he asks

✧ he’s not doing it with manipulative intentions. Dude just genuinely could not care less about anything if he can’t play ‘seven degrees of Zoey Huntrix’ with it

✧ He compliments her multiple times a day, usually just blurting out something he was thinking as opposed to any sort of setup or cute delivery. In his eyes he’s just saying things that are true, but Zoey always giggles and thanks him anyways

✧ His deadpan tone and complete lack of awareness, in Zoey’s eyes, is a cute delivery

✧ Zoey is a crazy good baker. Mystery will hangout in the kitchen with her, sitting down and staying the hell out of her way as she zooms between cupboards

✧ Every so often she stops in front of him, a piece of chocolate or pastry or whatever else she was messing around with pinched between her fingers, and pops it in his mouth for a taste test

✧ He’s never any help when she’s trying to figure something out, but Zoey already knows that. She’s not expecting critique, she just gets all giddy seeing him smile and say it’s yummy when he tastes it

✧ where Jinu never lets Rumi see his demonic eyes, Mystery is exactly the opposite with Zoey

✧ When they’re at home, even after he’s started pinning up his bangs, he only ever has bright amber eyes with cat-like pupils

✧ Mystery has nothing but his demon form in his past, and as much as he didn’t care, sometimes he wondered what Zoey thought. If she ever remembered he was a demon when she was alone and recoiled at the thought of his ‘real’ form

✧ it’s the first question he’s afraid to ask her, so he doesn’t

✧ One day when she’s laying on top of him on their couch and his eyes are closed, she presses her lips to his eyelid, telling him not to open them as she did the same on the other side

✧ He opened them back up and just raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs back at him and tells him he has pretty eyes

✧ she gets a new thing for her ‘what makes Mystery blush?’ list

[sabxynsweet]

Okay, hear me out….

Mattheo and sweetheart in the common room and she falls asleep on his shoulder and Mattheo threatens a bunch of first years or whatever who come in loud to stop them from waking her up.

OR OR OR

sweetheart falls asleep on someone ELSE’s shoulder and Mattheo gets mad and jealous, and purposely wakes her up

sweetheart!reader falls asleep on enzo’s shoulder, mattheo's not having it

both these ideas are so cute i think i'll write both <3 here’s your second idea, thank you for the request lovely ! the opening of this is SO dramatic because these boys really are terrified of mattheo it's so silly

They say that right before you're about to die, your life flashes before you like a montage.

Enzo's experiencing that now, memories coming to him like scenes in a film reel while he's frozen sitting at the dining table of the common room.

If it wasn't bad enough that the two of you were paired up for an assignment for a class that Mattheo wasn't in, it was real bad now because you were fast asleep on his shoulder and he couldn't move.

Theo walks past and stops when he see’s Enzo with a look of pure fear on his face, similar to a deer caught in headlights.

"What's up, Mate." Theo asks, Enzo glances over at him with "help me" eyes, unable to move more than his eyes with you hindering his movements.

"Oh." He laughs, "Mattheo's not going to like that."

"Don't you think I know that." Enzo hisses, glaring at Theo who was still laughing, "Let's hope she wakes up before Mattheo see's."

"Before Mattheo see's what?" Mattheo asks, voice cold and low.

Enzo flinches, making you stir a little but, much to his dismay, you're still fast asleep. Theo simply grins and moves back to watch.

"Listen, she was nodding off, I didn't mean to-" Mattheo ignores him, walking closer. Enzo thinks that today he might die.

Mattheo barely even glances at him, instead, he gently taps on your shoulder.

You stir awake - properly this time - and when your eyes meet his, his eyes soften and his annoyance dissolves into nothing.

"Mattheo?" You mumble, your head lifting off of Enzo's shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief and moves quickly to stand next to Theo.

"Hey." He says, "you fell asleep there."

"Oh." You yawn, "what time is it?"

"5."

"Oh," You say, a little happier now, "it's not too late for a nap right?"

He shakes his head, "no."

You smile, eyes fluttering close again.

"No, baby, you're not sleeping in this position." He snorts.

"Why not." You whine, "M'tired, just let me die."

"You'll hurt your neck."

"You know, it's so totally not my fault that I fell asleep because your common room is so dark."

"I know, Sweetheart."

"Anyone would fall asleep here." You mumble before attempting to sleep again.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"Come on, you can sleep in my dorm."

"Really?" You murmur, one eye peeking open.

He nods.

"Will you wake me up for dinner?" He nods again, you smile.

"You're my favourite alarm clock." You coo jokingly.

He rolls his eyes but he's still smiling, he reaches out his hand and you let him lead you up the stairs. You lean your body weight on him.

"Unbelievable." He just barely hears Enzo mutter from below, "he was ready to murder me and then she wakes up and he's prince fucking charming."

Mattheo rolls his eyes and continues to guide you, careful not to let you fall.

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage @megzz-x

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?” he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[sweetstrawberrysky]

Ranking the LADS from who is most to least likely to playfully smack your ass while walking past you.

Sylus - No explanation needed, the man is shameless, especially if your relationship has long since been established. Yes, he full expects and accepts your revenge of smacking his own butt in return, even if you put more force into your smack than he did for you.

Caleb - It’s more of a “your butt was calling for me in those shorts, it’s not my fault please don’t be mad at me, pipsqueak” type of slap. He is simply unable to refrain if you’re wearing shorts around him. The man just wants to feel your ass and chuckle at your reaction, all the while his ears are turning beet red because he never thought he would get the chance to be this bold with you.

Rafayel - His would be a playful tap. Walking past you, quickly giving you a once over because he wants to remember every inch of you at every chance, then spontaneously deciding to give you a little love tap. Only to immediately regret it when you turn around and start attacking his own butt.

Zayne - It would mainly center around you being a little cheeky or saying something he wasn’t expecting you to say, and he lightly pinches your butt/hip area in retaliation. His is definitely more of a playful scolding, and he loves the slight jolt that wracks your body because of it.

Xavier - Let’s be real, you’re the one smacking his butt in this relationship. If anything, he’s more likely to full on grab your butt just because he wants to. Let’s say you’re simply cuddling and his hands venture just a little bit, enough to simply hold your rear/the top of your thighs. It’s up to you if want to keep cuddling or let things get heated, he’s not complaining either way.