#and first thing that's going to hit different

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 7

Ah shit, here we go again. (peak reference tbh)

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, alcohol problems mentioned, Stockholm Syndrome developing, lots of condoms, cursing, arguments, mentions of murder, mentions of killing animals and children, the boys lowk being horrible people

Things have been going surprisingly well.

Like, unrealistically well. Your fever’s gone. That’s one miracle. You’re walking around again. Your sarcasm’s returned.

You’re loosening up.

It’s almost… nice?

They’re not making it easy, though. Abby can’t stop picking you up. Romance sings when you walk into the room. Baby gives you exactly one scowl per hour but with less venom and more confused affection. Mystery’s become a piece of furniture in your room. And Jinu keeps acting like he’s not completely smitten.

They’ve got it bad.

And it shows.

They hover. But in a way that makes you want to hit them with a throw pillow, not a restraining order. So, in all fairness, you’re not exactly angry when you wake up this morning and find three of them arguing in the kitchen over who’s the hottest.

The air smells like coffee and Abby’s banana protein pancakes, and your voice actually doesn’t crack when you ask Baby to pass the syrup. You’re… okay. Not free, not safe, but okay.

Until.

Until.

“Well, I told Rumi to fuck off first.”

The room goes silent.

Your brain stalls. You blink. “Sorry… who?”

Jinu stiffens.

“…Huh?”

“Rumi?” you repeat, slower. Colder. “As in… my Rumi?”

Abby immediately freezes. Romance swears under his breath and stares at the wall like it’ll dig him out of this. Baby is quiet, which somehow makes it worse. Mystery’s mouth is open.

Jinu opens his mouth. Closes it. Sighs. “Fuck.”

Until now—until this—you had every reason to believe the girls didn’t know where you were. That they’d given up, maybe. That your absence had gone unnoticed in the flurry of schedules and stage rehearsals and demon hunting.

But no.

They’ve been interacting with the boys. You suppose fighting.

Actively.

And no one told you.

“How long?” Your voice is flat.

They all freeze.

Jinu finally breaks. “A few weeks.”

A few. Weeks.

Romance, trying to lighten the mood like a fucking idiot, adds, “I mean technically they jumped us first, so—”

“Shut up.”

He does.

Because you’re not laughing. Not being cute. Not brushing it off like you always do when they steal your things, or open your bedroom door without knocking, or try to get you to sit on their lap while watching horror movies. This is different.

They’re laughing. Boasting about it. Jinu and Abby had the audacity to walk in here days ago, asking how you were feeling while your team was out there bleeding because of them.

You’re making them wait. Letting the silence rot between all of you. Letting them sit in it.

And they do.

The five of them—each one known for being chaos incarnate, flirtatious, cocky, lethal—are silent. Not because they’re guilty (they are), or sorry (they are not), but because they feel it now. That shift in you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jinu is the one standing closest. You can feel him inch back like his body’s trying to shrink out of frame. Like maybe if he’s less visible, the guilt’ll shrink with him. “We didn’t want to upset you.” he says, voice as steady as he can manage.

You lift your head. Look him dead in the eye. “Oh, so instead you lied.”

He opens his mouth—then closes it. Good choice.

“Was that your idea?” you ask, tone surgical. “Or was it a group effort?”

“I mean…” Abby starts, voice lighter than it should be, huge arms crossed over huge chest. “It wasn’t—technically lying.”

“So when you came back days ago, covered in bruises, and said it was ‘just rehearsals,’ that was a lie.”

Romance opens his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, Romance.”

He shuts the fuck up.

“When you said you’d ‘be back in a few hours’ but didn’t come back until morning, that was a lie. When you brought me a new hoodie and said it was because you saw it and thought of me, but really it was to distract me from the blood on your knuckles, that was a lie too.”

Baby is looking at the fridge like he’s contemplating shoving his head inside it.

Abby’s chewing the inside of his cheek.

Romance looks genuinely sick for once.

Mystery just watches. Still, like he’s not trying to defend himself. Like he already knows what he did.

Romance dares to take a step forward. Maybe to hold you. Maybe to beg. But your body stiffens so instantly he backs off again. “Babe, they came in throwing blades, what were we supposed to do? Give them a kiss and a gift basket?”

You stare at him. Flat. Blank. Silent.

It’s so quiet you can hear Abby scratch the back of his neck. You don’t even look at him, but he speaks anyway, trying for gentle. “Babe… we didn’t tell you because it was—”

“Because you knew I’d lose my shit?”

No one responds.

“Because you knew I would lose my mind if I found out you were throwing punches at my team—”

“Not your team anymore.” Baby mutters.

You whip toward him, eyes narrowed. “Say that again.”

He meets your gaze. He’s leaning back in his chair, leg crossed, arms folded, cold as ever.

“You heard me.” he says. “You’re not with them. You’re here.”

“We’re not bad guys.” Abby cuts in quickly—too quickly—rising to your level, towering above you, his palms open, pleading. “Look at you—you’re not hurt, are you?”

“Emotionally?” you snap. “No, just mildly traumatized and gaslit.”

“You’re not a prisoner anymore.” Jinu finally says. “You’ve had food. Freedom to walk around. We never hurt you—”

“Except for the fucking torture, right?”

Dead silence.

Even they can’t argue that one.

“Tell me,” you say, stepping forward, “how the fuck did you expect this to go? You think if you kissed me enough I’d roll over and forget I had a life before this? You think if you played nice long enough, I’d pick you?” You pause. “Is that it? You want me to choose you?”

Romance’s eyes dart to Jinu. Then away.

You stare at them all.

Baby breaks the silence. “You’re still here.”

You glare at him. “Not by choice.”

“Still here.” he repeats, like he’s already won the argument.

“You think I won’t leave the second I can?” You want to scream. You want to sob. You want to run.

“We already told you.” Jinu says, voice lower now. “They came to us.”

You nod once. “And you fought back.”

“Of course we did.” Abby, crossing his arms. “They attacked us.”

“Oh, really?” you say. “That’s your logic?”

Romance leans on the counter. “C’mon, babe. You know how they are.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“They’re not saints.” he says. “They came at us. You think we’re just gonna sit there and—”

“YES!” Your voice snaps. No longer calm. No longer soft. “I think you should’ve sat there and let them take me back! I think you should’ve not kidnapped me in the first place, and then you wouldn’t be stuck choosing between torturing my friends and cooking me fucking breakfast!”

Baby mutters, “fuck” under his breath and looks away.

Abby groans, his tone picking up that boyish frustration. “They weren’t gonna listen! They weren’t gonna negotiate!”

“Because they don’t negotiate with kidnappers!”

“We didn’t hurt them.” Jinu tries again.

“Oh, well gold star.” you sneer, standing up. “You didn’t kill them? Wow. You must feel so fucking noble.”

Romance steps in. Too smooth. Too confident. “I think you’re being dramatic.” he says.

And he grabs your wrists.

You gasp, not because it hurts, but because he twirls you. Like a fucking dance move.

One minute, you’re fuming. The next, you’re spinning, half a step, palm on his, like this is a prom. And it’s infuriating how good he is at it.

“See?” he purrs. “Still got chemistry.”

You slap him. It lands before he’s even finished the sentence. A full, stinging crack across his cheek.

Baby actually smiled at that.

Romance licks his split lip. Tastes blood. Smiles.

“Hot.” he says quietly.

You want to scream.

“I think you’re children.” You swallow, look away, back at them. “I think you’re selfish, violent, obsessed with things you don’t understand. I think you use your trauma as a crutch and call it charm. And it’s not. It’s just… pathetic. And you’re all so used to each other,” you continue, breath trembling. “so proud of how loyal you are. How tragic. But the second I showed up, you turned into these desperate, groveling, love-sick animals who’d rather claw each other’s throats out than admit that none of you even know what love is. You’re pathetic. All of you.”

They all shift in place. Romance folds his arms across his chest and drops his gaze. Baby looks away entirely. Mystery is looking at the floor. Abby shifts, frowning, about to interrupt—but you lift a finger. He stays silent. Jinu is the only one looking at you.

“You think your trauma makes you special? That your pain gives you permission? It doesn’t. All it’s done is make you selfish. Scared little boys with sharp teeth. And you hide behind charm or sex appeal or that stupid, smug god complex—” you jab a finger at Romance, who smirks half a second before his face falls again “—because it’s easier than admitting you’re all lonely. You’re selfish. You’re cruel. You don’t even understand why I’m angry, and that’s the worst part. I think you all genuinely believe you’re doing the right thing. And I think that’s the scariest fucking part.”

None of them speak.

“I think you’re so used to taking what you want and surviving that you don’t even stop to consider the damage. That maybe the world doesn’t revolve around your trauma. That maybe you’re not the only ones who lost something.”

You glance at Jinu.

“You’re kind. But you’re spineless when it counts. You’re just a liar that makes everyone else feel better about being cruel. You’re selfish.”

Jinu looks down. His fingers twitch at his sides.

Your eyes fall to Abby next.

“You cover your obsession with jokes and muscle, but all I see is someone who’s used to getting attention and can’t stand it when it’s not handed to him.”

Abby laughs—just once. No humor. Not a sound he meant to make.

Then Romance.

“You’re not charming. You’re not sexy. You’re a lonely kid with a voice like honey and the emotional intelligence of a dead plant. You use people. You seduce people, then call it love when they don’t run away.”

His jaw ticks. But he doesn’t interrupt.

Baby stands back, arms folded.

“I don’t even know what you want. You act like you’re too cool to care but I’ve seen you. You’re a fucking wreck under that little attitude. Maybe stop pretending.”

Nothing. Not a blink.

“And Mystery,” you say, turning slightly to look at him at least. “I don’t care how sweet you are to me. If you really cared, you’d help me leave.”

You take one step back toward the hall. Then another.

“I just want to go home.”

Romance—fucking Romance—mutters, too softly, too desperate: “…Babe?”

But you don’t look back. You don’t answer. You just wave him off like a mosquito. You disappear down the hall and slam your door shut.

They stand in the kitchen like kicked dogs.

Baby runs a hand down his face. Jinu leans on the counter, hands bracing himself like he might throw up. Abby’s arms fall to his sides, broad shoulders slumping like someone deflated him. Mystery, true to himself, doesn’t do much.

Romance exhales, loud and shaken. “…Well. That went amazing.”

And then Abby mutters, completely deadpan and casual, “You got a boner.”

Romance doesn’t even look at him. “I know, bro.” (AN: imagine his face like :c)

“From the slap?”

Romance shrugs. “From the whole thing. I dunno. She was really mean. That’s kinda my thing.”

The silence that follows is… horrible.

“…she’s right.” Mystery mutters.

Romance rubbing his jaw where your hand landed. Abby chewing his thumb knuckle. Jinu still frozen, calculating every mistake. Baby with his head tilted back.

So yeah.

It was going well.

You’d laughed with them. You’d eaten at the table instead of the floor. You’d let Abby put his hands all over you. You’d let Romance kiss your cheek, let Jinu tuck you in, let Mystery sit at the foot of your bed. Baby had even tolerated you breathing the same air as him without an eye-roll.

It was progress. Weird progress.

You were softening.

And so were they.

But this? This moment? This was inevitable. The guilt. The resentment. The slow, creeping rot beneath the bandage. You were never going to just be okay with it. Not forever. Not really. It was always going to slip. One of them was always going to say something they shouldn’t. And you were always going to reach your limit.

And now here it is.

Later that night, they’ve all scattered. Romance is lying on the floor of the living room with his hands on his face like he just got dumped. Abby sits in one of the chairs, arm over his eyes, breathing deep, Mystery next to him because he likes company. Baby’s sprawled upside-down on the couch like gravity doesn’t apply to him, throwing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it over and over again. He looks bored. He’s not. His stomach’s been in knots for hours. Jinu’s in his room, laptop closed for once.

They’re not talking.

Because what’s there to say?

You’re right. You’re so right. And they all know it.

But knowing it doesn’t mean they’ll do anything about it.

Because they’re still—god, they’re still so fucking selfish.

They could do something, too. That’s the fucked up part.

Jinu could open your door, fall to his knees, and tell you that he’s sorry. That he knows he ruined you a little. That he doesn’t even deserve to say your name, let alone be gentle to you like he’s been doing.

Abby could throw you over his shoulder and take you to the edge of the city and ask, not demand, ask you—do you want to go? And let you go if you said yes. Even if it would break him in half.

Romance could look you in the eye and say I love you. Not in the smirking, purring way he’s used since the beginning, but in the kind of way that hurts. The kind that’s too vulnerable. Too real. He could say it. He could give up the act.

Baby could—fuck, he could apologize. That alone would do damage.

Mystery could sneak into your room and just sit with you, like before, and you’d probably forgive him more than anyone.

But none of them do.

They do nothing.

Because doing something would mean doing the right thing.

And they are so, so far from ready to stop being selfish.

Because even now, even after all that… they still want to keep you.

They could do something about this. They could unlock your door and say the thing that matters. They could fall on their knees, tell you everything you deserve to hear. Tell you they’re sorry. That they’ll let you go.

They could.

They won’t.

Because even now, the thought of you walking out that door guts them more than your hatred ever could. Even knowing they’re the reason, they still want to keep you here. Keep you angry. Keep you close.

They’ll lie to themselves about it in a hundred ways. Tell themselves it’s for your safety. For love. That the world’s worse than them. But deep down, all five of them know, they’re still bad people. They could knock on your door, say sorry, say please, throw themselves at your feet, weep into your lap, tell you that they’ll never touch the girls again, never lay a finger on anything sacred to you. Romance could kneel. Jinu could kiss you all over. Baby could beg, he’s done it before. Abby could hand you his whole spine. Mystery would lie at the foot of your bed and growl at anyone who came near.

They could do all of that.

But they don’t.

They’ve all done things.

Horrific, catastrophic things.

Jinu is horrible. He’s betrayed people. Chosen wrong. Killed for convenience. Selfish. So so so selfish. Abby used to enjoy it. The fight. The torture. He was the one they’d send in when subtlety failed. There are people whose last word was his name. And not screamed lovingly. Romance has laughed during murder. Whispered to people while choking the life out of them. He thinks affection makes up for his sins, but all it does is soften the guilt enough that he keeps doing the same thing. Mystery’s killed children. That’s not metaphor. That’s not subtext. It’s the kind of thing he doesn’t speak about, because if he did, none of them could ever look at him the same. Baby might be the worst of them all. Because Baby liked watching. He liked watching Gwi-Ma do his damage. He stood still through most of it, eyes wide and curious, taking notes. It took you for him to start feeling things again.

So no. They weren’t ever good. And they won’t be.

It was going so well. But they are the villains of this story. And the five of them? They know it. They just… don’t care enough to stop.

Jinu knows he should set you free. Let you walk. Tell you everything you deserve to hear, all of it, raw and bleeding.

But he won’t.

Because he wants to be forgiven without changing.

And that makes him worse than all the rest.

Abby? He’s lying face-down on the living room rug now, shirt off, arms out like he’s been slain in battle.

He just can’t bring himself to be a better man.

Not when he already knows how to be a monster so well.

They took you. And instead of giving you back, they held tighter. They justified it a hundred different ways.

“She’s safer here.”

“She’ll understand later.”

“We’re not that bad.”

Bullshit.

He knows exactly who they are.

He’s ripped creatures in half and smiled through it. Done things with his bare hands that would make your stomach turn. And if you really knew him, the real Abby, the one who isn’t grinning and picking you up and ruffling your hair, you’d never touch him again. Never let him touch you again.

And still, he wouldn’t take any of it back.

Romance still has his cheek red. Lip split. Half-hard in his sweatpants because his body doesn’t know how to separate humiliation from desire anymore. You slapped him, and all it did was make his chest burn hotter.

Then he thinks about the first time he saw you cry, tied to a chair, trembling while Baby pressed cold steel to your neck.

His stomach turns.

He’s disgusting. He knows that.

He wants you to want him so badly he’s willing to bend the world around you until you have to stay.

You hit him.

You really hit him.

He smiles a little. Then drops it.

He wants you so fucking badly it makes his bones hurt. And he knows, knows, that he could walk into your room right now, fall to his knees, and beg.

And you’d hate him more.

Because Romance? Romance never stopped being a whore for pain. His own. Yours. Anyone’s.

He’s disgusting.

And he doesn’t stop being disgusting. That’s the problem. He likes how fucked up he is.

Baby is a ghost in his own life. He remembers choosing to kill someone because he didn’t like the way they looked at him. He’s not sorry. Not really. But he’s sad. And that’s a different kind of damnation.

You make his chest hurt. You make his hands twitch. He wants to hold your wrist. Just your wrist. Feel your pulse. Remember you’re real.

But then he thinks about what you’d say if you knew who he really was. If you knew how many people he’s reduced to ash and didn’t blink.

You wouldn’t even let him touch your sleeve.

So he won’t try. If he doesn’t care, it can’t hurt. Right?

He wants you too, of course. Of fucking course. But he’d rather implode in silence than admit it. He’d rather cut out his own tongue than beg. That’s how Baby works.

He’s the most dangerous one. Because you’ll never know how far down he’s buried the truth.

Mystery lies curled into Abby’s side, face buried in a black pillow.

He remembers begging. He remembers whimpering in a voice too small for someone like him. He remembers clawing at a cell wall until his nails came off.

You make him feel safe.

But also weak.

They could change. Let you go. Apologize. Mean it. But they won’t. Because they’re still demons. Still bad. Still selfish. Still fucked up beyond repair.

So yes.

They could fix this.

But they won’t.

Don’t even mind this shit time skip to the middle of the night. You didn’t want to come out of your room. Really, you didn’t. But your stomach? A traitor. So here you are, barefoot and furious in the oversized hoodie someone (probably Jinu) gave you, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with passive aggressive grace.

Footsteps.

He’s standing there. You can feel him. And you know it’s him. Jinu.

You catch the glow of faint lavender patterning beneath the collar of his sleep shirt. Pulsing against the skin of his neck, running like divine ink down his collarbones and disappearing under cotton.

The bastard is glowing.

Eye contact.

You grip the spoon tighter.

“…accident.” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t respond. Just keep stirring the sauce. Still angry. Still hungry.

“Can I help with someth—”

WHACK.

You slap on his hand with the wooden spoon. He pauses. Laughs under his breath. “Right. Fair.”

He inches closer again.

WHACK.

This time, the spoon hits the back of his arm. Harder. Sharper. Still not even your best.

Jinu winces, grinning now. “You’ve got good aim.”

You go for his back again, and he takes it like a champ. You’re honestly giving it your all now. Not holding back. You shouldn’t.

You’re mad. You’re so mad you could scream, but you won’t. Because screaming means you still care. And right now? The only satisfaction you’re going to get is from beating this man with a fucking utensil.

You go for his arm. Then his chest. Then his back, chasing him in a slow circle around the island. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to. The wooden spoon speaks.

And the most infuriating part? He lets you.

Jinu laughs under his breath—quiet, chesty. Like it’s a relief to be punished. Like this, all of this, is sweeter than any kiss you could’ve given.

He takes another hit. And another. You go for his chest this time. He lets you. You’d probably keep going, if he didn’t lean forward with a casual, devastating smile and murmur, “Those are really cute panties.”

Your hand freezes mid-swing.

You blink.

“Hey, hey, compliment! I was being polite!” he says, laughing, even as you swing again—and this time he catches your wrist. His grip is gentle. Not stopping you out of strength, though you both know he could. But stopping you like he’s catching falling leaves.

“I deserved all of that.” he says, eyes flicking over your face.

You rip your hand back, step away, turn your back to him. Stir the sauce harder. More chili oil. Fuck it. Let it burn.

“I hate you.” you mutter.

“I know.” he says.

You throw a noodle at him. It sticks to his chest. The glowing lines pulse softly.

He peels it off like it’s gold.

Even when you’re pissed—especially when you’re pissed—you still look so goddamn perfect.

And he’d let you kill him. Spoon and all.

If it meant he could stay near you just a little longer.

And yeah, okay, maybe your underwear does have tiny strawberries on it and a stupid little bow and fuck you were just trying to be comfortable—

You swing the spoon again.

He lets you hit his chest. Twice. And starts laughing.

He watches you ladle soup into a bowl. Doesn’t touch anything, just stays standing there, unreasonably tall. He’s too nice, and it pisses you off.

“I know what you’re doing.” you mutter finally.

He raises a brow. “And what’s that?”

“Trying to be the nice one. Good cop. Gentleman. Makes you feel better about keeping me here, right?”

“No.” he says quietly. “It doesn’t.”

You shove the pot back on the stove with a little more force than necessary. You don’t spare him another glance.

You’re already halfway out the kitchen before he moves.

“Wait—hey. Can we just… can we talk?” he tries.

You keep walking.

“Come on, just—talk to me.” he tries again. “Y/N. Please.”

You keep walking.

“Wait—fuck, just—can you stop for a second?”

You don’t. But you slow. That’s all he gets.

Jinu jogs a few steps to catch up, barefoot on the cold wood floors. He steps in front of you, blocking the hallway, still glowing faintly violet in the low light, his demon marks curling up his throat.

“I know you’re pissed—”

“Understatement of the year.”

He winces. “Okay. You’re furious. Look, yeah. I fucked up. We fucked up. But it’s complicated—”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away. “do not hit me with the ‘it’s complicated’ speech—”

“—You were a threat to us when this started—”

“Nice.”

“—But now you’re not.”

“Oh, so I’m just a cute little hostage now, got it.”

He groans, exasperated, like he’s the one who’s suffering. “You’re twisting everything I say.”

“You’re saying stupid things.”

“And you’re acting like we’re the enemy.”

“You are.”

“Look, I didn’t lie, exactly—”

You raise your brows.

“I didn’t lie.” he insists, though he did. They made up lies after lies when coming home. Technically he’s also lying now. “We just didn’t tell you. It’s… it’s different. You’re important. And we didn’t know what the girls would do if they thought we had you. And yeah—okay—they do know now. But we’ve been handling it.”

You just stare at him.

He tries again. “We didn’t want you to panic—”

“Oh, so I’m stupid now.”

“No!” he blurts out, way too fast. “No, no no no, that’s not what I meant, I meant—fuck—you’re not stupid—you’re terrifying when you’re mad actually—”

You roll your eyes, stepping past him.

He follows. “And okay! Yes! We’ve been fighting the girls. But only when we had to, alright? They’ve been coming for us.” Jinu, baby, your mission is to kill them.

You stop. Turn slowly. Your expression is brutal. Beautiful.

“I didn’t kill them.” he says, voice lower now. Softer. “Not any of them. I could’ve. I didn’t. None of us did. Not even Mystery, and that’s saying something.”

“You kept me here.” you murmur.

He swallows. “I know.”

“You knew they knew where I was.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t let them come for me.”

“I didn’t let anything happen. I protected you. I’ve protected you every night. Do you know how many times I’ve kept Abby from opening that front door with a fucking rocket launcher?!”

You scoff. Turn again. Keep walking.

“I made mistakes.” he says to your back, following you, earnest in that awful, boyish way, like honesty could be an apology if he says it with enough pout. “But I didn’t do this to hurt you.”

“No.” you say without turning. “You did it because you don’t give a fuck about them.”

He doesn’t deny it. Because it’s true. He doesn’t give a fuck about the HUNTR/X girls. Doesn’t give a fuck about your old life, your found family, the blood and blades.

He only gives a fuck about you.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“I know.”

“I hate what you’ve done.”

“I know.”

You wait. For him to walk away. For him to give up. For him to say something that’ll prove he’s as evil as you tell yourself he is. But Jinu doesn’t.

You don’t look back when you leave Jinu in the hallway. You don’t slam your door, too dramatic. Too loud. No, you close it slow. Quiet.

And you are pissed. God, you are so fucking pissed. You’re pissed at them. At the lies. At the way you’re starting to forget what freedom felt like. At how you’ve somehow become a thing to be kept, not a person to be trusted.

And now, lying across the entire width of your oversized, silky bed…

…is your baby.

Well. Jinu’s baby. But what’s his is yours now.

Derpy lifts his head immediately. The size of a damn refrigerator.

“Hi, my beautiful boy.” you croon, already climbing into the bed to scratch behind his ears. He lets out a guttural mrrowwwl that shakes the bedframe.

“My handsome, handsome man.” you whisper as you press your face into his thick neck fur. “The love of my life. There’s my beautiful, perfect man.”

The moment you sit on the bed, he’s there, head butting into your shoulder, curling his huge body around yours like a fortress. You lean into him with a soft, exhausted sigh.

“There we go.” you coo, brushing your fingers through his mane. “My sweet boy. My pretty baby. Love of my fucking life.”

He rumbles, a sound between a purr and a growl, low and content, as you press a kiss to the side of his face and nuzzle into the fur at his neck.

“Best man I’ve ever known.” you murmur.

Another rumble. He flops onto his side, spine against your thighs, a big warm weight that makes everything else disappear. You curl around him, fingers sifting through thick fur, your voice soft and petty and dripping with sugar.

“You’re the only man I’ll ever love. My love. My beautiful baby boy.”

You fucking love this thing.

“You’re the best boy.” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “The best boy in the whole world. They’re all bitches. You’re my real soulmate.”

Another tail thump. He noses into your shoulder, exhaling warm air. You swear this fucking thing knows everything. Feels everything.

You press a kiss to his face, fingers threading into the thick fur at his neck.

“Sweet dreams, baby boy.”

All this while Romance is lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head, one leg propped up.

When your voice hits his ears, his breath catches. He can hear you, super senses, obv.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lies there, staring up, jaw tight.

The love of my life.

He almost laughs. Almost. But it’s not funny.

Baby is in his chair. Not bed. Feet tucked under him. A tray of untouched snacks next to him.

My love. My beautiful baby boy.

He’s going to kill himself in three two one GO!!

Abby is half asleep in bed, hugging Jinu’s bird to his chest like a therapy pillow. The bird does NOT want to be there but Abby’s warm so whatever. It’s fine.

Best man I’ve ever known.

He pulls the blanket over his face. Just for a second. To hide the way his mouth twists. Then tugs it back down because he doesn’t want poor Sussie to fucking die there.

Mystery sits on his bed. Shirtless, but not for the attention. Just because he runs hot and has no sense of shame. And because he’s a boy and boys can do that and I’m so jealous. He has his legs drawn up. Knees to his chest.

You’re the best boy—a little smooch sound as you kiss Derpy—The best boy in the whole world.

He just listens.

He doesn’t know how to compete with a damn cat. But he would kill for you to talk to him like that. To kiss him the way you kiss that fur.

Jinu went back to his room. He hears you talk to his cat like it’s your firstborn, kiss it like it’s your reason to keep going. Hear the love in your voice, the softness that used to be for people, before they twisted it out of you.

He hears it.

And it fucks him uuuuup.

He smiles. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes closing, breath catching.

Lucky bastard of a cat.

Gwi-Ma licks at their minds. Lays between the folds of memory. He whispers. He watches. And when the silence gets too quiet, he shows them things.

And his boys?

His precious little murder sons?

He never leaves them alone.

They’re vulnerable.

Which makes this so much more fun.

Half an hour later, Jinu’s in the shower, water scalding. Hands pressed against the tile, head bowed, steam billowing like it could burn the guilt off his skin if he just stands still long enough. That’s when he hears Gwi-Ma’s voice,

“You did this.”

Jinu freezes.

“You could’ve told her. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you liked it. You liked having something she didn’t. Liked having her trapped.”

His jaw tightens. He breathes deep. Tries to shake it off.

“You’re just like them. Worse, maybe. They want her. You keep her.”

His breath stutters. A drip of water slithers down his spine.

“She hates you. You know that, don’t you?”

Jinu sighs. Rolls his eyes.

“You make a very pretty mistake, Jinu.”

Next is Romance. His room is dim. Red lights. Velvet curtains. Mirrors. Too much cologne in the air, like he’s hiding in it.

He’s sprawled on his bed, one arm over his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

“She doesn’t want you. She never did. She thinks you’re pathetic. Clingy. Disgusting. You talk too much. No one laughs because you’re funny. They laugh because they know you’re afraid.”

Romance exhales.

“Afraid of what you are without a joke. Afraid she’ll see the rot underneath that pretty mouth.”

Then, the image of a woman with her neck twisted, body limp. Romance did that. Back, way back, years ago.

He didn’t mean to.

He didn’t mean to.

He puts a hand over his eyes, but the image stays. Carved into the backs of his lids.

“Tell her that story next time she calls you unbearable.”

Then Baby. His room is chaos. He’s awake. Always awake. He has to be. Because when he sleeps, Gwi-Ma waits. But even when he’s awake, sometimes—

“Tick, tick, tick. You’re wasting time.”

Baby stops on his phone.

“She’ll never forgive you.“

Bro?? Shut up, dude.

“Why do you think they call you Baby? Because they’re waiting for you to grow up and disappear.”

Abby is chewing on his cheek in his room, but doesn’t cry. Didn’t even cry when his brother died. Didn’t cry when he watched his soul get swallowed.

But tonight? Tonight Gwi-Ma brings back the screams. And the worst part? He liked it. He remembers the rush. The high. The way the sound made him feel like a god.

“She’ll never forgive that.” the demon hums. “Not even if you lie. Not even if you bleed. She’ll know what you did.”

Abby runs a hand through his hair.

“She thinks you’re stupid. Big, pretty idiot. All abs and no spine. She laughs at you, you know.”

Mystery is picking the nail polish off his nails, the picture of rivers of blood in his head. The girl who tried to kiss him once, dead before she hit the ground. The small dog that barked at him for too long, snapped. The countless limbs he’s torn off things no one ever named.

And then, your voice.

“Monster.”

“Rabid.”

“I could never love you.”

Yeaaaaah, Gwi-Ma’s not a nice guy. But he likes you.

You’re a pretty little human, in his head. Fair, is the word he uses, but not in the justice sense. You’re kind. Smart. Funny. The dream human really. You amuse him endlessly.

Not that he’s met you yet. No. That would ruin the game. That would tip the balance. Not until the boys are dangling off the edge. Raw. Exposed. Not until they’ve given everything for you and you’ve spit it back into their hands.

And you’re funny.

Yes, he laughs. Demon overlords laugh, didn’t you know?

And right now, as he watches Mystery walking toward your door? He laughs and listens.

Mystery stares at the door for a long time. He’s one of the only ones who knocks. Only Jinu and Mystery ever knock. The rest barge in.

But not him.

No.

Mystery always knocks.

From inside, your voice cuts through the wood. Muffled. Cold. “Go away.”

He doesn’t. He opens the door instead. Slowly. Steps in.

“I said go away.”

He stands in the doorway. Stares at the floor.

“I won’t ask again.” you add.

He lifts his head. “Okay.”

But he still doesn’t leave. He steps in. Quiet. He stands near the dresser, not quite in your space, but not giving you peace either.

Silence.

You finally look at him. Tired. Angry. But not as angry. Because it’s Mystery. And he doesn’t lie to you. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t charm. He just is.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice rough with sleep and disdain.

He shrugs.

“You’re not sleeping in here.” you say flatly.

“I’ll stay on the floor.”

“You won’t.”

Another pause.

“I like it here.”

You blink. “What?”

He’s still not looking at you. Just the floor.

“…Then go lay down. On the floor.”

His chest lifts. A single breath. No joy. Just relief. He moves silent. Takes the blanket you keep folded near the chair. Lays out beside the bed. Not touching. Not close.

You roll onto your side, facing away. But your voice, soft, comes a moment later: “You’re still a bastard.”

“I know.”

“…But thank you for knocking.”

He doesn’t reply. Silence, completely.

Then, you ask, “What’s up with you?”

It takes him a second to realize you’re talking to him. “Nothing.”

You sigh.

God, he’s… sweet.

Not nice in the polished, obvious way Jinu is. Not in the performative, “look at me being tender” way Romance pretends. Mystery’s kindness is raw. No other word can describe it.

You hate that Mystery, the one who bites people, the one who fights like he wants to break his own ribs doing it, the one who doesn’t speak unless it’s to warn or protect or curse, is the one you feel safest with. You hate that you’re curling into your sheets right now and not kicking him out. You hate that you just handed him a spare pillow without thinking. You hate that you’re starting to feel… Comfortable.

Your voice is small, muffled in fur. “You’re weird.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “You’re warm.” he says softly. A beat. Then, “Good smell.”

You snort. “That’s not flirting, Mystery.”

“Wasn’t trying.”

You shift, curling on your side.

Then silence. Like, twenty minutes of rock hard silence. You’re not falling asleep, for some reason, so you speak again

“…You asleep?”

You ask it like a joke. Dry. Barely a whisper.

Mystery doesn’t turn his head, but you hear the faintest hum in response. He breathes in. The sound shaky. Like he’s trying to hold a thought together. “…You hate me?”

It’s so quiet. Not pitiful. Not self-loathing. Just curious. Bare and open and fucking gutting.

“No.” you say finally, and your voice is softer than it should be. “I don’t hate you. But I’m angry. And I’m still not okay.”

He nods.

You’re angry. You’re hurt. You’re homesick in a way that’s too heavy to name, and the fact that the only person in this entire fuck who makes you feel slightly okay is the quietest, most unsettling one of the bunch? That makes you madder than anything else.

“I’m not talking to you anymore.” you mutter into the pillow.

No response.

“Even if you’re nice.” you add, voice muffled.

Still nothing.

You wait a few beats. Almost long enough to fall asleep. Then: “You’re still annoying.”

A pause.

Then the softest breath of sound. Almost like a laugh. Almost. But not enough for you to call it one and get mad about it. He’s smart like that.

You kick your foot once under the blankets, just to release the heat building in your chest. Derpy beside you stretches, tail flicking against your leg like a shhh.

You glance down at him. You whisper to Derpy because he’s safe and he doesn’t ask anything of you. “Don’t let him crawl into bed. If he does, maul him.”

A deep, satisfied huff answers you.

You smile into your pillow. Just a little. You fall asleep fast after that.

Now, a few hours later, it’s 5:43 AM. Everyone’s asleep. You should be, too. But no. Your refrigerator-sized tiger had a nightmare (you think—he thumped his tail hard enough to knock over a lamp), and now you’re awake. Fully. Aggravatingly. Unforgivably awake.

So you do what any hostage on the edge of a psychological breakdown would do.

You go to make tea.

You stepped over Mystery. Now you tiptoe into the kitchen. Early. Quiet.

The sun hasn’t even fully risen.

Perfect.

You want five minutes. Just five fucking minutes to be a human person and sip tea in silence.

“Baby. Love of my life!”

Romance.

You turn around. “…You have toothpaste on your neck.”

He swipes at it immediately. “No, I don’t—wait, seriously?”

You don’t respond. Maybe if you don’t make eye contact, he’ll vanish.

That’s when Abby walks in. Shirtless. Of course. Dripping sweat. Probably from working out at four in the morning like a psychopath. He’s holding a protein shake the size of your head and doing that thing where he flexes accidentally-on-purpose every time he reaches for something.

Romance slaps his bicep. “Daaaamn, buddy.”

“Can’t help it.” Abby says, flashing a grin.

You turn around. Instantly regret it.

Because now Baby is leaning in the doorway. Hoodie up. Mismatched socks. Holding a banana like it personally offended him. Eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t slept.

He looks at you.

Rolls his eyes.

Takes a bite.

You narrow your eyes. “Did I do something to you in a past life?”

He shrugs, chewing.

Romance sighs. “God, the tension in here is delicious. Can we get some music going?”

“Absolutely not.” you say.

“That’s not a no.” Romance says.

You turn your back to them again.

Romance rests his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “So… how’d you sleep, sweetheart? Alone?”

You pause. Turn slowly. Level him with a look. Then: “No. I slept with something feral, dangerous, probably cursed.”

“Ohoho?” he perks up.

“Yeah.” you lick your spoon. “Your mom.”

But he’s already sidling up behind you like he’s going to wrap his arms around your waist. You hold up a butter knife. He backs up, hands raised. “Respectfully. Respectfully.”

You flip him off without looking.

Baby snorts. You glance over.

He’s flipping you off too.

You squint. “You’re just a hater.”

He shrugs like obviously.

Abby takes a swig of his shake and flexes again. This time, harder.

Romance slaps his bicep again. “Ooooh! Man! What the hell are you made of? You been growing?”

Abby flexes harder. “I mean, a little.“

Romance sidles closer again, brushing your elbow.

“Still mad at us, bunny?” he murmurs, eyes too soft.

You don’t answer. Because yes. You’re mad. Still. Infinitely. Rage. You haven’t forgotten the lies, the fighting, the kidnapping, the part where your only real joy right now is a bird and a giant magical tiger who doesn’t talk or flirt or flex near tea kettles.

You don’t answer him. Just sip your tea.

Romance watches you do it. “Do you want sugar, baby?”

“No.”

Romance puts his chin in his hand, grin lazy. “Soooooo. Hypothetically. If you had to choose between the charming bad boy with incredible bone structure—” points at himself “—or the athletic, dependable golden retriever type—” thumbs at Abby “—who’s your bias, baby?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Okay, damn. Which answer is that?”

“That’s a what the fuck are you doing here and how did you get past auditions.” you say calmly, sipping your tea.

Romance is snorting. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

You shrug. “Figure it out, Fifth Harmony.”

Abby throws his hands up. “That’s not even the same—”

Without a word, Baby walks straight past you. Goes to the corner cabinet, the one that absolutely does not contain cereal. And opens it.

He pulls out a bottle.

Not some cutesy fruit liquor. Not a fun little mimosa situation. No. A full, dark, evil-looking bottle that probably tastes like ass but like… good ass. Could be whiskey. Could be some magic. Knowing Baby? It’s probably both.

He unscrews the cap with one hand.

Takes a long drink.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t breathe.

You blink.

He keeps going.

You stare harder. Bro just chugs. Not even a flinch. Not even a wince.

Insane.

You just sit there, quietly drinking your little tea, watching as Baby shrugs, takes another sip, and slides the bottle toward the middle of the counter without even looking at either of them.

Romance raises his brows, then grabs the bottle. “Shit, if we’re drinking, we’re drinking.”

He takes a sip.

Makes a face.

“Okay, yeah, fuck me.”

Abby catches it next, sniffing the top. “This is either gonna ruin my morning or make me invincible.”

Romance is making a face. “That’s the spirit, biceps.”

Abby drinks. Immediately coughs. Puts up his arm to wipe his mouth, pretending he’s not dying.

“You good?” you ask dryly.

He slams the bottle down. “Absolutely.”

Romance grins and slaps him on the back. “You took that like a little bitch.”

Abby coughs into his arm. “It’s burning my lungs.”

“Your lungs are soft now.”

“Your mom’s soft.”

“Oh, we’re doing moms again? What are we, twelve?”

“Yeah, and I fucked yours.”

They pass the bottle back and forth, each pulling faces worse than the last. Meanwhile, Baby’s just sitting, drinking slowly, like this is nothing new.

You’re quiet, but you watch him.

Romance is back in his chair, kicks his feet up, lifts the bottle and grins over at you. “Want a sip? Might make us more tolerable.”

You take a long, long look at him. Then at Abby. Then at Baby. And snort. “Not even if you poured it over pancakes.”

The bottle is almost empty and Baby still looks like he’s prepping for his kindergarten class photo. Lips pink. Angelic face, really,

Aaaaand yeah, he probably has an alcohol problem. And yeah, it’s probably from whatever the hell he’s not talking about. And yeah, none of you are gonna fix it over fucking breakfast.

Abby grins. Then turns to you, flexing his arm. “Feel this.”

You stare at him.

He flexes again.

“Go on.” he says, patting his own bicep.

You sigh, reach over, and squeeze his bicep with the same energy as checking if bread is stale.

“Holy shit.” you mutter, so so so sarcastic.

Abby grins. “Knew it.”

Romance takes the bottle again, throws his arm around your shoulder like he belongs there. “You wanna feel mine?”

“I’d rather eat glass.”

“Aw, come on, sweetheart.” he purrs, grabbing your hand and placing it on his ass.

You yank your hand back instantly. You glance over at Baby. He glances back.

“…What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” you say.

Romance hands him the bottle again with a “you good?”

Baby shrugs, downs another mouthful.

Abby winces. “That much this early?”

Baby: “Fuck off.”

Romance fans himself. “Honestly? A little turned on.”

Abby’s still flexing. This time, both arms. You’re not sure if he even realizes anymore. Romance is poking him now, laughing.

They’re yelling, laughing, throwing insults and flexing in between. A sock hits the wall at one point. You think it was Baby’s. No one reacts.

Romance is giggling with his entire chest, smacking Abby’s ass. “Yessss, KING! I want to see that form, baby!”

Abby grunts. “You’re gonna see these fists if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

Abby grabs Baby by the ankle. Baby doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. Then Abby hauls him up, over his shoulder, fireman-style, with zero effort. Baby has his arms folded, expression blank, while Abby mutters “one… two… fuck yeah, three—” under his breath and Romance counts reps while drinking straight from the bottle.

You raise your brows.

Jinu enters, wrapped in a robe, hair a mess, expression done. “Why are you all screaming at six in the morning?”

“Jinuuuu.” Romance sings. “Good morning, handsome. You’re glowing.”

Jinu ignores him.

Abby perks up too, still holding Baby. “Yo, man. Looking good.”

Romance wiggles his brows. “You come here to scold us or spank us, daddy?”

Jinu closes his eyes. Inhales slowly. His hair is sticking up in the back. His voice is sleepy and hoarse. His robe is gaping slightly at the chest.

Which is, unfortunately, noticeable.

Then his eyes shift. To you. To the bottle on the counter.

He’s already at your side. Hand on your arm. Soothing. Caressing.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, so soft you nearly laugh. “Did they make you drink? Did they pressure you?”

Romance holds up both hands. “Hey hey hey—she didn’t touch the bottle! I offered!”

Jinu gently covers your ears like you’re five years old.

“Baby.” Jinu hisses, “Put the bottle down.”

Baby takes a long sip, staring at him dead in the eyes.

Jinu’s jaw clenches. His hand never leaves your arm. “Why is it always you three when shit starts? Do you know what happened the last time she had alcohol?!”

“She spit in your mouth.” Abby says.

“She SPIT IN MY MOUTH.”

Romance nods. “That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.”

They do not understand humans.

At all.

You’ve figured it out by now.

They think you’re fragile. Breakable. Like one wrong step and your heart will just stop working. One sneeze, one too-strong hug, one bad slice of bread and you’ll be dead. Gone.

“Did you drink any?” Jinu asks, fingers brushing over your arm, eyes scanning you.

“I’m fine.” you murmur, already irritated.

Romance pipes up, already mid-laugh. “We shared it—”

Jinu cuts him off with a look that could kill a man in the womb. Then he grabs the bottle from the counter, hands it to Abby, and growls: “Put that shit away before I break it over your head.”

Abby blinks. “Damn, okay.”

“Metal.” Baby mumbles, taking it from Abby and sipping again.

“Insane.” Jinu hisses, brushing your hair out of your face gently. “Are you okay?”

You shrug him off. “I’m not your fucking responsibility.”

“Go back to bed.” he says.

Abby drops Baby, mostly because Baby is now biting his shoulder, but not without a smug pat to his ass. Baby lands on his feet, glares at all of them, and brings the bottle to his lips again.

“No.” Jinu growls.

Baby pauses. Looks Jinu dead in the eye. “Fuck you.”

Then drinks.

“Jesus.” you mutter. “Could you all just—die, or something?”

Jinu sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Come on. Let me walk you back to your room.”

You shrug him off. You just… slip your arm out of his reach.

Romance climbs to his feet, wheezing, face flushed. “Okay—okay—hold on, me next—Abby, throw me—”

You stand, turning away, not looking back. You don’t owe them your voice today. Not after what they did. Not after the lies. Not after the war they started behind your back.

Romance visibly stumbles. Literally. His knees buckle. Hands slap the counter. “Oh my—okay—hello—hello—“ all this because he caught a glimpse of your ass.

Back in your room, you step over Mystery without a word. Your ankle bumps his side. He stirs.

“Move.” you mutter.

He blinks up at you. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even complain. He rises to his feet.

“Hey, baby.” you whisper to the tiger, crawling into the bed, laying half over him.

He rumbles. The deep, echoing purr vibrating under your ribcage.

“Love of my life.” you say, petting his massive cheek. “Handsomest man in the world.” You turn your head just enough to glare at Mystery. “Go.” you say firmly. “I’m tired. Of all of you.”

He nods. Slowly. Almost ashamed. “Sorry.”

You keep stroking the tiger’s fur. Burying your face into his shoulder. Letting the fur soak up the headache behind your eyes.

“So beautiful.” you murmur, kissing the tiger’s shoulder. “My sweet boy.”

The tiger makes a pleased rumble, tail flicking contentedly.

After that, the boys left. They always do, and almost everyday, you’re alone. I mean you have Derpy and Sussie but c’mon, that is not the same as having human company. Wanted human company.

You miss your girls. God, you miss them so bad it aches. You wonder what they’re doing. If they’re planning. If they think you’re dead. If they think you switched sides. You press your forehead to your knees as you lay in bed. Try not to cry. Fail.

You hate the boys.

You hate them.

You hate the way they took you, the way they manipulate, the way they joke, the way they flirt. The way they walk.

But you also…god fucking damn it.

You love them. A little.

You love the way Jinu always speaks softly to you, even when he’s just done being an asshole to the others. You love the way Baby pretends not to care but was immediately there when you screamed about the spider which you’re still scared of because holy shit it was HUGE. You love how Romance checks your room “by accident” just to see if you’re breathing. You love the way Mystery growls at anyone who touches you, even his own people. You love how Abby looks and how that personality matches his looks for some reason.

Stockholm Syndrome, they’d call it.

Fuck no. No.

You want to hate them. But you’re so fucking tired.

You’ve just been around them too much. That’s it, yeah, that’s it.

THUD.

Something slams into your door. Hard.

You freeze.

Another sound. This time less thud and more oh fuck I just tripped over my own feet.

“—fuckin’ move—dude, I got it—no you don’t, you’ve got claws out again—stop, STOP—I’M FINE—”

You grab the bedside lamp and nearly hurl it.

Then, the door opens. And there’s Abby. And behind him? Mystery.

But the real kicker?

The flowers.

This is a bouquet. And it’s gorgeous. Elegant. Vibrant. The kind of bouquet a guy tries for. The kind someone asks for help to pick out because he cares.

And Abby’s the one holding them.

“Hey babe.” Abby says.

Mystery nudges him with his elbow, expression stone-flat but intentional.

“Oh—right. Yeah. We got you these.”

Abby holds the flowers out.

His arm is kind of trembling.

“We thought you’d, like… girls like flowers, right?” he mutters, voice too low and too soft to be coming from Abby. “So. Yeah.”

You blink.

Behind him, Mystery steps into the doorway, one hand shoved in his pocket and he just nods.

You stare.

Abby clears his throat.

“We, uh… we passed this stall on the way back from—doesn’t matter. We saw ‘em and…” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly seventeen. “You’re always mad. Which, like, hot. But also maybe we thought this’d… help.”

You just blink at him.

“Fuck, I knew this was stupid.” he mutters, glancing at Mystery. “Told you we should’ve just brought food.”

Mystery shrugs.

“They’re nice.” you mutter, a little confused.

“…Nice.” Abby nods. Then, mutters, “Fucking expensive too.”

You blink. Your lips part, but no words come out. You stare at them.

“I—I don’t know what the fuck they mean. I didn’t look at the flower language thing, okay? They just looked cool. Red means… passion, or something. I think. Or murder. Either way, felt on-brand.”

You slowly reach out. Take them. The bouquet is heavy in your hands. Warm. Alive. You look down at it. Then back up at them.

Abby’s trying so hard not to look nervous. His jaw’s tight. His fingers twitch. Like he’s waiting for you to throw them in his face. Or cry. Or scream.

Mystery just watches. Like he always does.

“…They’re beautiful.” you whisper.

Both boys blink.

You pet the petals softly, then glance up. “I love them.”

“Yeah?” Abby asks, exhaling. “Course you do. I mean. Babe like you? You deserve nice things.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling. A little.

He nudges Mystery. “Told you. Boom. Nailed it. Fucking flower genius.”

“…They’re really pretty.” you murmur. Flowers do feel nice.

Abby swallows. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Nods like a fucking idiot. “…Yeah. You are too.”

You look up at him. Sharp. Deadpan.

He winces. “I meant the flowers. I mean—fuck—I meant—”

Mystery elbows Abby in the side.

Abby exhales hard, shakes his head. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Still wanted you to have ‘em.”

You look at the flowers again.

You feel horrible. Heavy. Mismatched. Twisted in the chest. But this feels nice.

Abby leans back a little, stretching an arm over his head. Shirt rides up. Abs. Obscene ones. Glowing faintly from demon marks. Veins like river maps on his biceps. Pure fucking genetics.

“Could’ve died.” he says with a deep, theatrical sigh. “Still had time to think about you. Bring you shit. That’s gotta earn me a tiny bit of forgiveness.”

You don’t respond.

He flexes subtly. Chest tightening under the shirt, arms folded to make his shoulders pop. His jaw is flexing too, a jock move, the kind that screams yeah, I do push-ups for breakfast, you should sit on my face sometime, it’s fine.

Mystery pets the tiger. Glances at Abby. Abby meets his eyes and gives him a look like, back me up, bro. Mystery blinks. Then, very slowly, turns back to the cat and keeps petting it like this has nothing to do with him.

Abby shifts position, flexing just enough to make every muscle in his arm do a magic trick.

You do not look.

You do not look.

You look.

Fuck.

“Anyway.” Abby says, voice too casual to be truly casual. “We were thinking.”

“No one asked you to.”

“Cool, but we were anyway.”

“I don’t care.”

“Thought maybe tomorrow,” he says. “we could get you out.”

You raise your brows.

“To the rooftop for a walk. Kinda romantic.”

You stare at him. Then at Mystery. Who is absolutely not backing him up, still gently stroking the tiger’s chin like he’s trying to win custody.

“You want to take me out on a date.”

“‘Date’ is a strong word.” Abby says. Remembers girls like honest and vulnerable guys. Also remembers that girls like tough guys. Slaps himself in his head. “….Yes I do.”

“What are you doing?”

He shrugs, flexing again. On purpose. “Being nice.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

Mystery lets out a quiet sound. You think it’s a laugh. Or maybe he just breathed weird.

Abby keeps talking. “You’ve had a rough day. I get that. I don’t blame you for being pissy.”

You give him a long, cold look.

“C’mon, babe. You know you want—”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Need anything?” he asks, ignoring what you just said, casually flexing as he scratches the back of his neck. Like you don’t see right through it. “Water? Blanket?”

“Out.”

“C’mon, babe, don’t be like that. I brought you flowers. And I look like this.” He gestures at his entire existence. Then, grumbling, frustrated, he reaches back. Grabs Mystery by the collar. Mystery just lets it happen. As he’s dragged out, his hand rises in a casual wave. You’re not sure if it’s goodbye or an apology.

Abby mutters the whole way down the hall: “Fucking ungrateful. I’m being NICE. I BROUGHT FLOWERS. What the fuck else do girls want, man? Should I bleed? Should I paint a fucking mural—”

The door closes.

Finally.

Silence.

Then a muffled voice through the wall:

“Was that too much?”

Mystery: “Yes.”

“…But she looked—”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Shit.”

Your tiger nosedives back into your lap like nothing happened. His tail curls possessively around your waist.

You kiss the top of his head.

The flowers sit in your hand. They’re lovely. And you’re tired. Tired of the ache in your chest. Tired of feeling torn between two worlds, between memory and this fucked up reality where even your emotions go up and down.

Abby lets go of Mystery’s shirt with a huff and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t speak. Mystery doesn’t either. Until—

“Didn’t pet the cat long enough.”

Abby glares sideways at him. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

Mystery shrugs.

“And I was nice, too.” Abby continues. “Like not even a dick about it. Fuckin’ rooftop date idea? Gold. That’s ideal boyfriend material.”

“Mm.”

“Did it work?” comes Romance’s voice, smoooooooth, already halfway to drunk. He’s standing in the doorway of his room in a silk robe that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide the toned frame beneath it, bare chest out, legs long, posture lazy. A glass of wine in one hand, a tub of ice cream in the other. The robe is crimson, of course. Of fucking course it is. There’s a slit up the thigh. He’s not wearing pants. Just boxers. And confidence.

Abby scowls. “Do I look like it worked?”

“She told us to fuck off.” Mystery mutters.

Romance whistles low. But he is proud of Mystery for talking.

Romance snorts so hard he almost drops the ice cream. “God, you suck at this.”

Abby growls and rips his shirt clean in half.

Romance pauses mid-spoon. “…See, that’s your problem. You keep doing that. Like—do you have a shirt allergy? What the fuck?”

“I was stressed!”

Mystery silently reaches over, plucks a petal out of Abby’s hair, and hands it to Romance. Romance takes it.

The three of them walk into Romance’s room. It’s brutal. Silk sheets. Mood lighting. A full-length mirror directly across from the bed (of course). The mattress is too big. There’s at least five different brands of lube on the bedside table and two unopened boxes of condoms—

Abby immediately starts poking around. Opens the nightstand. Pulls out a handful of condoms.

“Help yourself, why don’t you.” Romance drawls as Abby grabs a strip of condoms from the stash. “Actually, take more. I have the twelve-pack somewhere in the drawer under the incense.”

“You got the good kind now?” Abby asks, actually checking expiration dates.

“Mm. Thin as regret.”

Abby pockets them.

Romance sits down on his bed and crosses his legs, wraps himself tighter in his robe, and spoons ice cream into his mouth.

Abby sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, scowling. “I just… I thought flowers were supposed to do something.”

“They are.” Romance says, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “They say, ‘Hey. I’m trying.’ And you were. It’s a good move.”

“Next time I’ll let Mystery hand them over.”

Mystery: “No thank you.”

Abby throws his hands up. “He doesn’t even talk. Why is he so likable?!”

Mystery hums softly and reaches for Romance’s spoon, steals a bite of ice cream without a word.

“…Hey.” Romance says mildly. “That’s mine.”

Mystery shrugs. Drops down into a beanbag.

“Alright, let’s talk about it. What’d you do? What’d you say? Give me details.”

Abby rubs his face. “I walked in. Said some smooth shit. Flexed a little. Told her I’d take her out.”

“And?”

“Didn’t work.”

Romance nods solemnly, wine glass swirling. “She’s building a wall to protect her vulnerability. You’re not the problem.”

Delusional fuck.

Abby squints. “Can you say that with less wine in your mouth?”

Romance leans back, robe falling wider open. “She’s not saying no. She’s saying not like this. Fuck, I’m brilliant.”

Abby groans, pulling a pillow over his face. “We are NEVER doing the flower idea again.”

“Oh, but we are.” Romance says smoothly. “It was sweet. Girls like that.”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does.” Romance corrects, “She just hates you.”

Mystery nods solemnly. “True.”

“We all came up with the flowers thing together.” Abby mutters, face buried in a pillow.

Romance smirks. “Yeah. And I said ‘wait until she’s calm.’”

“I panicked!”

Mystery’s hand goes up. “I didn’t vote.”

“She’s homesick. She’s furious. You can’t flirt that away. You can’t push her into love. You have to earn her trust. Carefully. No more manipulation. No more lies. Just be there. And not like—‘oh I’m here to flirt and make you giggle’. No. Just be present. Let her be mad. Let her be soft. Let her breathe.”

The room is quiet for a moment.

Abby blinks. “Did you just therapy us?”

Romance raises a brow. “Are you gonna cry?”

“Fuck you.” Abby mutters. “I might.”

Mystery, flat: “He’s right.”

Romance gestures toward the discarded ice cream box. “You wanna win her over, you start with consistency. Show up. Don’t push. Be soft. Be useful. Maybe shut up a little.… she’ll come around.”

Abby doesn’t respond.

Mystery exhales through his nose.

Romance dips his spoon again, stares at the melting in his cup. “You gotta mean it. You gotta… slow it down.”

Abby finally looks up. “Since when do you know anything about slowing down?”

Romance smirks, raising his glass. “Since I met her.”

Abby’s stretched out on the edge of the bed. Condoms still in his pocket, head thrown back. Mystery is curled up in the oversized bean bag with his legs half out, hoodie pulled up over his nose.

Romance finishes the last of his wine, sighs, and sets the glass down. “Alright.”

He stands, letting his robe slide off.

Okay okay don’t panic he’s wearing boxers.

He reaches for a tiny glass jar of body oil from the shelf and pops the lid.

Abby doesn’t even blink. Just throws an arm over his eyes. “If you oil your ass in front of me again—”

“It’s self-care.” Romance says serenely, rubbing the oil into his chest with slow, luxurious strokes.

“You wax your legs.” Abby adds.

Romance hums. “And they’re smooth.”

There’s a brief pause as Romance reaches behind his shoulder, getting into the hard-to-reach places. “So. Anyone else wanna slap Baby in the face lately, or is it just me?”

“Been acting like a bitch.” Abby mutters.

Romance doesn’t pause. “Thank you. He’s been using my face mask again.”

“That kid needs to be thrown into a lake.” Abby says.

“With a brick.” Mystery adds. “He spit in my coffee.”

Romance gasps again, absolutely horrified. “On purpose?!”

Mystery nods.

“That son of a bitch. I tried to pet him on the head yesterday,” Romance adds with a sigh, massaging oil into his biceps now. “and he said, quote, ‘Touch me again and I’ll piss in your expensive shampoo.’”

Mystery actually snorts. Real laughter. A miracle.

Romance points his oil-slicked finger at him triumphantly. “HA! Let’s talk shit some more. Mystery, your turn. Who are you beefing with lately?”

Mystery shrugs. “Jinu.”

“Wait, for real?” Abby perks up.

“Yeah. He’s been weird.”

“He used to be fun.” Romance says, hand now trailing oil absently down to his ribs. “Like genuinely fun. Mean. Threw hands in bars. The whole package. Now he’s just…” Romance gestures with the bottle. “Mr. Responsible. Mr. I’m the Leader. Mr. Don’t torture the hostage again, guys, she’s traumatized.” He mocks the voice. Mockingly well.

Abby snorts. “He gave me a full lecture the other day.”

“He washed your mouth out with soap last month.”

“I said ONE curse word on camera! He used to drink, he used to throw shit, he used to yell dumb stuff like the rest of us. Now he’s just like—” he thinks. He can’t think of anything. He sighs and gives up.

Mystery shrugs. “He’s coping.”

Romance smirks. “He’s been coping since 1837.”

“Dude hasn’t smiled in six months.” Abby mutters. “Unless Y/N’s around.”

Romance exhales through his nose. “I get it, though.”

“Yeah.” Abby sighs. “Same.”

Mystery gives the world’s most disinterested nod. “Mm.”

Romance breaks the silence first. “Still—”

“Still.” Abby echoes.

“He needs to get laid,” Romance finishes.

“BADLY.” Abby agrees.

Mystery mumbles, “He took my knife.”

“WHICH one?” Abby turns.

Mystery shrugs. “The little one.”

Romance gasps. “Your baby knife?!”

Mystery nods. So sad.

“So anyway,” Romance says between strokes. “I don’t care if Baby’s the youngest, I swear if he slams one more cabinet door—”

“I’m breaking his legs.” Abby finishes, not even looking up.

Mystery, adds flatly: “He eats my leftovers.”

“He labeled it and Baby still ate it,” Romance says with a scandalized gasp, massaging oil into his neck now. “And then gaslit him. Like, oh my god, what pizza? I didn’t see your name on it? It was in the shape of an M, you ass!”

“He said the M stood for ‘mine.’” Mystery mutters.

“I hate him.” Abby says.

Romance rubs oil into his thighs. “He’s so evil. Cute evil. A tiny little dictator.”

“He called me old yesterday.” Abby mutters.

Mystery shrugs. “He called me a virgin. Then blew smoke in my face.”

Romance pauses, hand halfway down his thigh. “Aw. Baby…”

Abby shakes his head. “That’s fucked up.”

“It was mint.” Mystery says quietly. “It hurt.”

Romance walks over and pats his head, glistening and unbothered. “We’re gonna bully him so hard.”

Abby cracks his neck. “Honestly? Deserves it. He’s been acting like his trauma is the only trauma that matters.”

“Oh, here we go.” Romance mutters, grabbing his wine again, pouring more into the glass. “Get it out, king.”

“I’m serious! It’s always, ‘I was too young,’ or, ‘They ruined my life,’ or, ‘I don’t dream anymore’ like okay, cool, join the fucking club! My family’s dead and my soul is owned, we’re all going through it!”

“Big facts.” Romance agrees, raising his glass. “Anyways, you guys staying?”

Abby groans. “I should sleep. Gotta wake up and remind Baby he’s the worst person alive.”

“Healthy.” Romance nods. “What about you?”

Mystery, in the bean bag, is half-asleep already. Hoodie pulled up, arms crossed. “I have a bed.” he mumbles.

Romance shrugs. “Then go lay in it, mon chéri.”

With a low grunt, Abby hauls himself up off the bed. “Alright, I’m out. Thanks for the therapy, and the oil show.”

“You’re welcome.” Romance says brightly.

Mystery stands next too, slow and silent, brushing invisible lint off his hoodie like he wasn’t just shit talking Baby a three minutes ago.

Just as they turn to leave, two foil-wrapped objects slap against their chests.

Romance, now leaning against the closet doorframe in nothing but those obnoxiously expensive boxers, is holding the third strip of condoms in his teeth like a war prize.

“Take backups.” he mumbles around the foil. “And don’t say I never gave you boys anything.”

Abby laughs, a sharp bark of it. Slaps Romance on the back hard enough to echo. “Legend.”

Mystery doesn’t react at all. Just catches his set one-handed and pockets them without breaking eye contact. Unfazed. Respect tbh.

Romance watches them go with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Then the list’s wide open.” Abby shoots back, walking out into the hall.

Mystery just waves.

Romance blows a kiss and shuts the door with a snap.

He sighs once more, dramatically of course, then walks back to the mirror, adjusts his boxers slightly, and whispers to his own reflection:

“…I am so fucking hot.”

And with that, the two slide out into the hallway. They walk in sync, not fast, not loud. It’s late. Quiet. Not because they’re tense, but because they’re sneaking. Or at least, trying not to wake anyone up. Namely: you.

Then they pass your door.

Abby doesn’t even stop, just lifts the strip of condoms in the air like a flag and waves it a little in front of the closed door, one brow raised.

“Goodnight, babe.” he whispers, quiet, cheeky, wicked.

Mystery side-eyes him. But he doesn’t stop him.

Neither of them say a word. Not even a laugh. They’re silent, out of respect for the sleeping hostage in the next room. Real gentlemen shit.

And just like that, they move on.

Let’s be honest.

They’re idiots. Like, actual idiots.

Let’s take a moment. Let’s just… talk about it. Just… talk. Because it’s so stupid. The entire situation is so fucking stupid.

They’re… so selfish.

That’s the core of it, really.

They want you. Not because you’re useful now, they know they’re not getting what they needed. They just… fell into this.

You hate them. You do. You hate them for what they’ve done. For not telling you the girls know about you. For lying. For fighting the girls.

You hate them.

But god, some nights…

Some nights, when everything’s quiet, you think you might love them, too.

Just a little.

And it’s so fucking tragic.

But they still plan to kill the girls.

That’s the plan. That’s the goal.

It’s why they took you in the first place. And they haven’t changed it. They haven’t really considered what happens after. They don’t know how they’ll keep you. How they’ll live with themselves. How they’ll explain. How they’ll survive the wreckage when it crashes around them.

Because they aren’t thinking about you.

They’re thinking about themselves.

How they feel. What they want. What you mean to them.

It’s so fucking selfish.

They should’ve done better. They could’ve. They still could.

But they don’t.

Because it’s easier to keep you in a cage than it is to confront what they’ve done and ask for your trust like real people.

They want you to love them back—but they won’t let you leave.

They want you to feel safe—but they won’t stop hunting your friends.

They want your heart—but only on their terms.

They want, they want, they want.

Are you hearing this? Fucking hilarious.

BUT JINU.

LOVE OF MY FUCKING LIFE JINU. WAS. NOT. FUCKING. CAPABLE. OF LETTING YOU GO.

He’s selfish.

They all are.

Demons.

No matter how many flowers they bring, or how many dumb jokes they make, or how quiet Mystery gets when you cry, they are selfish. Ruined. Fucked by centuries of pain they never unpacked. Boys who were hurt and became hurting machines. Hurt people hurt people.

And it’s not fair.

What happens after they win? Are you supposed to just forgive them? Are they gonna hand you a smoothie and say, “Cool, now we’re dating, right?” Put a ring on your finger while the blood’s still drying on the walls?

They don’t think that far. They never did.

Because they’re selfish.

Because they were boys before they were demons, and boys grow into men only when they learn to look at someone else’s pain and not walk away from it.

And they haven’t done that yet.

They’re pussies.

But they’re learning. I guess.

The AMOUUUUNT of memes I got from y’all thank you SOOOO much, y’all are hilarious I can’t (also if u send them in, tell me if you want credit or not!! Also feel free to take credit for these)💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[neellscapsule]

a robin leaves the nest — another is born

summary | your wedding passes more than okay. it's a shame your eldest and your husband can't stop arguing, even more that your youngest wants to follow into their steps.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader, platonic jason todd x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, so so so sweet at first. then we have fights between dick and bruce, literally dick leaving the house, and much much more :D.

word count | 5.6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 11. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinasoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie @owihitmyhead @mosseetrees @c4xcocoa @qardasngan @radicalcannoliqueen @jeshomie @cutie232 @ravenqueen27 @thy-crimson-king @thewiselionessss @fernomenal @chiizuluvr @natalia42069 @invinciblewaffles @changyumi3 @mbioooo0000

EVERYTHING WAS DIFFERENT THAT DAY. 

The skirt of your dress fanned out in a wide, breathless sweep of silk and soft shimmer, like someone had sewn moonlight and Kansas starlight into the fabric. The long train trailed behind you in an echo of lace, each panel delicately embroidered with a pattern that looked, to your eye alone, like cornflower fields back home. 

A compromise — no, a celebration — of both lives you had lived. The clean Gothic lines of Gotham’s architecture inspired the bodice, structured and sculptural, while the soft overlay that shimmered around your shoulders was reminiscent of your mother’s shawls, always worn on Sundays.

Even the veil had been altered twice — first by Selina, then by Martha. Now it hung like spun sugar from the little comb at the back of your hair, trailing just long enough to dust the ground behind your heel.

You were going to marry Bruce Wayne. And not just in theory, not in hushed Gotham rumors or gala whisperings. This was happening. Today.

You didn’t think you’d feel calm. But you were.

You thought you’d feel trapped. But you didn’t.

Instead, you felt like your heart had finally, quietly, come to a stop — not in the way of fear or failure — but like a bird finding its perch. Like it could rest now. Like it was home.

A soft knock tapped against the doorframe. You turned — and there he was.

Clark.

Not Superman. Not the world’s protector. Just Clark Kent, your older brother. His tie was a little crooked and his hands were fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt, but when he looked at you, his eyes filled so suddenly with emotion that it hit you square in the ribs.

He didn’t speak for a second. Just looked. His lips parted slightly.

“Wow,” he finally breathed. “You… look like something out of a storybook.”

You gave him a crooked grin, standing up straighter from where you'd been leaning against the armrest of the loveseat.

“I was aiming for something a little more real than a fairytale.”

“Real,” Clark echoed, stepping closer. “I’ve seen a lot of things, kiddo. Aliens, gods, other timelines… but you in that dress? That might take the cake.”

You laughed softly. “Clark.”

But he wasn’t joking. His smile was wobbling. You saw it before he blinked. And then came the sniffle. One, small, defeated sound.

“Aw, Clark…” you sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing his eyes with the back of his wrist like it was nothing. “I told myself I wouldn’t do this. Lois even gave me one of those little pep talks — you know the ones — told me not to cry before you did. That it would ruin your makeup. Which I now realize is a sexist thing to say because it’s totally fine for you to cry. If you want to. Are you crying?”

You shook your head with a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Okay,” he said, voice cracking. “Good. Great. I’ll just cry for both of us, then.”

You stepped into his arms before he could say anything else, wrapping yourself against the solid warmth of him. Clark hugged you like he meant it, like he was saying goodbye and hello and I’m proud of you all at once.

“I don’t think I ever told you how proud I am of you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No — I did. I do. You’re the strongest person I know. You always have been. You held this family together when I couldn’t. You believed in the good when all I saw was fear. You… You never turned away from who you are. Even here. In Gotham. Even with him.”

You felt it then, rising under your ribs, the cresting wave of your own heart. You hadn’t expected to cry before the ceremony. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But here you were, chest tightening, throat closing, tears rising.

“I’m always gonna be your sister, you know,” you whispered. “Even if my name changes.”

“I know,” he murmured back. “But he better treat you right.”

“He does.”

“He better never forget who he married.”

You pulled back to meet his eyes. “He won’t. I make sure of that.”

Clark nodded. Cleared his throat. Looked away for a second and then looked back, lips tugging upward in a smile that almost broke you.

“I love you, sis.”

“I love you more, Clarkie.”

“You’re going to be so happy, Y/N,” he whispered. “I know you are. He loves you. You know that, right?”

You nodded, a lump in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

“And you love him?”

“Yes,” you said, steady. “So much.”

You were still in his arms when the voice came down the hallway, light but unmistakable.

“There are my beautiful children!”

You both looked up.

Martha Kent stood at the entrance of the room in a seafoam green dress, her hands folded together at her waist and her face beaming with all the light of a Smallville morning. Her silver hair was pinned half-up with a little brooch you recognized — a sunflower carved from amber glass. One of the old ones. The sentimental ones.

She looked like everything right in the world. She was everything right in the world.

Clark smiled first. “Ma—”

“Don’t start, honey, or I’m going to cry, and then you’ll cry, and then I’ll have to re-powder my nose and scold the photographer.”

You laughed, wiping your cheek with the edge of your wrist. “Too late for that, mama.”

Martha reached out, cupping your face in her hands the same way she had when you were five and scraped your knee, or twelve and had your first heartbreak, or twenty-one and told her that Bruce Wayne was the only one who would ever have your heart.

“You look like a dream,” she said softly. “Your father’s going to need a chair. Maybe two. Look at you. My baby girl.”

“I didn’t think you’d call me that again.”

“You’ll always be my baby,” she said softly. “Even when you’re fifty and grumpy and Bruce is losing his hair—”

“Hey,” Clark cut in. “Leave the man’s hairline alone.”

Martha chuckled. “I’m just saying. He’s got a strong jaw, but the temples are starting to go.”

The room where the ceremony was held had been converted from the conservatory’s west wing. A makeshift altar stood beneath an arch of white climbing roses. There were rows and rows of seats. Gotham’s elite, yes — shining and stiff — but also old friends, farmers, heroes in disguise, and more than a few people from both the Daily Planet and the Watchtower.

Even the villains stayed away that day.

Not a whisper from Penguin. Not a move from Joker. Ivy sent flowers. Selina raised a brow but said nothing when she read the note.

Bruce swore it was because of how beautiful you looked.

You walked through Wayne Manor’s grand hall on your father’s arm. Jonathan Kent had been the first man that you had ever trusted, who had stepped up the second your feet hit Kansas soil, and when he offered you his elbow that afternoon — dressed in his best suit, with hands still callused from fencework — you felt nothing but home.

Your soon-to-be husband was already at the altar when you turned the corner, dressed in black and white, his shoulders strong and his face clean-shaven, mouth barely parted when he saw you. But his eyes — oh, his eyes.

They went glassy before you even stepped down the aisle.

Not from fear. Not from nerves. But something purer. Something you’d only seen a few times before. The moment Dick ran to him after his first night on patrol. The morning Jason brought you both burnt pancakes with syrup smudged on his nose. The first time you said I love you and really, truly meant it.

And the moment they locked on you — properly — they never strayed.

You could’ve walked the whole stretch blind. You barely noticed the crowd, the music, the clicking of photographers behind Alfred’s tactful guidance. You only saw Bruce.

He didn’t smile, not at first. Just breathed. One slow inhale. One aching exhale. And then — the smallest smile, curved so faintly at the corners, the kind that only came when he was overwhelmed. Not like Batman. Not even like Bruce Wayne.

Just him.

Just yours.

Your dress whispered across the floor as you approached, veil catching light. And when you reached him — finally, finally — he took your hands in his without hesitation, lacing your fingers together in front of the priest.

His palms were shaking. So were yours.

The officiant began.

You barely heard the opening words. Something about love being patient, something about the strength of union in a world full of fear and fragility. But your eyes stayed on Bruce, and his on yours. When you glanced at Clark, he was already wiping a cheek while little Jon cleaned the other.

Dick waved with a grin far too wide for someone in formalwear. Jason... Jason looked weirdly pale, but his hands were stuffed in the pockets of his tiny suit jacket and he was trying not to cry, which made you nearly lose it.

“You both come before us today, not only in celebration of your love,” Father Callahan said, “but in witness to what it means to build something strong. Something honest. Something that can last.”

You don’t remember every word he said after that. You were too busy watching Bruce.

He didn’t blink. Not once while you stood there. Not when Father Callahan read from the book of vows. Not when the choir hummed gently behind you. Not when a warm breeze picked up, and your skirt rippled like a memory across the floor.

“Bruce,” the Father said softly. “You may speak your vows.”

He cleared his throat, cleaning a rebel tear that had escaped his eye. You smiled a bit, tenderly.

“When I was a boy, I thought love was something I had buried with my parents. I thought the world I inherited was cold, violent, and that I didn’t belong to anything but the night. I built walls so high, I forgot what it was to feel the sun.”

He paused. Swallowed. Looking right at you. 

“But then you came—bright as Kansas fields in July. The first time I saw you laugh, it was like hearing music in a house I thought would always be silent. I didn’t know then that you would become home. I only knew I wanted to hear that sound again. You held your ground with me, even when I was silent or sharp. You never asked me to be someone else—only to let you in.”

He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Just looked at you like you were some truth he had never deserved but somehow still reached.

“You brought joy into a world I had resigned to sorrow,” he said. “You brought peace to a man who never knew how to stop pushing back. You remind me, every day, that life is not only survival—but love. Stubborn, ridiculous, infuriating love. You have given me a home I thought I would never deserve. A family I never thought I would have. And I vow to spend the rest of my life giving you the quiet, the safety, and the love you’ve given me every day since we met. I vow to choose you — even on the hard days. Especially on the hard days.”

Some tears escaped you as well, but you didn't bother cleaning them, merely pouting to hold in sobs you didn't even know were going to come.

When the Father turned to you—“Miss, your vows”—your heart pounded with a rhythm older than your own. You swallowed hard.

“When I was little, I used to dream of weddings. The dress, the kiss, the music. I used to imagine the perfect day, the perfect person. But none of those dreams—none—ever looked like this. I fell in love with you slowly, then all at once — the way you carry pain and still choose gentleness, the way you held Richard when he called you Dad for the first time and you blinked away tears like you hadn’t cried in years. The way you looked at Jason like he was already yours before he even knew what that meant.”

You looked at him, fingers brushing, ignoring the rest of the world. From where you stood, you could hear Barry sniffing, held by Hal.

“You taught me that love isn’t something you find — it’s something you build. Brick by brick. Scar by scar. Word by word. So I vow to keep building with you. I vow to hold your hand when the nights are long and kiss your forehead when the mornings come too fast. I vow to stand beside you — not behind you, not ahead of you — always beside you.”

The officiant didn’t even pretend not to sniffle. “The rings?”

Dick stepped forward, holding a small velvet box. Jason followed, stiff as a board, holding Bruce’s. He hadn’t said a word all day—but now, as he held out the box to you with both hands, he whispered, “You look nice, Ma.”

It shattered you.

Bruce’s hand brushed yours. You exchanged rings slowly, carefully, every motion imbued with centuries of weight. The final words came like rainfall:

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”

And Bruce didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and kissed you like the world had ended and been born again in that very breath. A hand to your cheek. A tremble in his touch. A sigh against your skin that said finally.

You were home. And you were his.

When you pulled back, he cupped your cheek and whispered, “Hi, wife.”

You blinked slow and smiled. “Hi, husband.”

And then you laughed. You both laughed.

Even if those vows were your favourite thing, your wedding at Smallville was your favourite. Merely your family, the League, the Young Justice, and your closest cat friend. Selina had shred tears, as shocking as it may seem, and had kissed your cheeks as a promise to always stand with you.

It was late summer, the fields just starting to bronze, corn swaying in slow rhythm like an old hymn, and the old Kent barn painted fresh by Pa’s hand weeks in advance, just because he “couldn’t have a ceremony with peeling paint.” The backyard had been cleared out over days of gentle labor. Kara helped hang lights along the roofline and loop garlands over the white fencing. Clark had done the heavy lifting, though Lois had limited him to only three tasks per day.

There was a handmade archway set just beyond the farmhouse porch, built from salvaged barn wood and trailing with wildflowers Clark and Martha had gathered from the edges of the fields. 

The old oak tree to the left still had the swing your Pa had built for you when you were much younger. Its ropes were new now — Dick had replaced them without being asked, his own quiet gift. Jason helped him test its strength by jumping off of it repeatedly, landing on his back in the hay and laughing hard every time. No one had stopped him.

You wore a simpler dress this time.

Still beautiful, but less grand. The skirt was a lighter cotton blend, still floor-length, but with delicate embroidery only visible up close — sun motifs and wind-carved wheat, stitched by Ma’s hands in cream thread against the fabric. The bodice was sleeveless, the neckline soft and curved. Your hair was half-up, twisted with tiny wildflowers Kara had picked that morning, and you were barefoot. Ma had insisted. “Nobody wears heels in my soil,” she’d muttered, tugging them right off your feet.

You’d seen Bruce before the ceremony, but not in full.

You’d passed each other in the kitchen, both pretending to need a glass of water, both stealing a glance before being herded away by eager hands — Dick, Lois, Jon tugging at your skirt. He had only looked at you once before the wedding started, as you stepped out of the house. Just once. And it was enough to make you blush all the way down to your ribs.

You stepped out to the sound of laughter and cicadas, the gentle shuffle of chairs as everyone turned to look. Ma stood at the top of the porch, one hand to her heart. Clark was beside her, his arm around her shoulders, nodding toward you with a smile so proud it made your breath catch.

And there was Bruce.

Waiting under the archway, hands folded, suit sleeves rolled just slightly. His hair was messy. His shoes were scuffed from walking through the dirt path earlier that morning. And his expression was open in a way few ever got to see — raw and awed and utterly unguarded.

Alfred stood between you both. Holding the book. Already crying.

“Right, then,” he said softly, blinking rapidly as you approached. “If I fall apart before we begin, do feel free to carry on without me.”

You smiled through tears and took Bruce’s hand.

Alfred cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today, not because the law demands it, and not because legacy expects it — but because love, at its best, deserves to be witnessed.”

The breeze stirred gently behind him. The old windmill in the east field creaked softly.

“Y/N Kent,” Alfred said, voice thick, “has brought light into a life too long spent in shadow. She has taught my boy to laugh again. To hope. She has mended in him what no armor ever could. And in return, Bruce Wayne has offered not only love, but loyalty — the kind of love that fights, that endures, that chooses.”

Bruce's fingers tightened in yours.

“And for that, I would marry you two a thousand times over.” Alfred blinked, looking up to keep the tears in his eyes. 

Your husband leaned in, eyes full, and kissed you gently before the man even gave permission.

You heard Kara laugh behind you, and someone clapping prematurely.

“Ah — quite right,” Alfred sniffled, wiping his face with a handkerchief that had already failed him twice. “By the unquestionable power vested in me by Martha Kent, local justice of the peace, and frankly by sheer stubborn love, I now pronounce you—well. Still married. But now blessed. In full.”

There was no organ music. Just wind and birds and the sudden, overwhelming cheer of everyone you loved rising to their feet. You turned into Bruce’s arms, and he lifted you slightly off the ground without even meaning to.

Behind you, Jon let out a triumphant, “They did it!” and then promptly demanded pie.

It was already late when you pulled into the manor’s driveway.

Not late late—sunlight still crept in through the high tree line, soft and thinning with the first hints of spring—but it had been a long day. Office hours bled into school pick-ups, meetings dragged, and Gotham traffic did its usual trick of stretching fifteen-minute routes into forty-five. But Jason had been talkative the whole ride home, voice lilting through stories of algebra and cafeteria drama and the new book he found in the library that had “a guy in it that reminds me of Bruce but, like, if Bruce talked way too much.”

You had laughed. Genuinely. Which was already a small miracle after a day like this.

Jason had been waiting for you by the school gates when you arrived, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, backpack slung too low. He greeted you like he always did—like you were the one person who made the world slow down. His eyes lit up. He jogged the last few steps. And he handed you a folded piece of paper: a quiz, marked 85, with a circled note from his teacher: “Much improved!”

You praised him immediately, ruffled his hair, kissed his cheek at the red light even though he pretended to grimace. “Okay, ma, enough,” he groaned, grinning into his shoulder.

And now, just as the tires rolled over the gravel at the edge of the drive, the quiet was—off.

You heard them.

Muffled at first. Low voices cutting through the stone and windows, sharp even from outside. The kind of tone you didn’t need powers to detect. That tone. Tension. Not the usual disagreement in Bruce’s firm, clipped voice or Dick’s occasional sighs. This was new. Heated.

“…you never listen—”

“—that’s not what this is about, and you know it—”

Jason froze. “Are they—”

“They’re arguing,” you said, already reaching for the keys. “Again.”

He looked down. His lips pressed thin.

They’d been like this for a while now—Bruce and Dick. Not every day. But more than usual. More than you liked. Something between them had been grinding, quietly at first, then louder. Responsibilities. Expectations. Independence. College. Mission choices. Bruce’s silence. Dick’s growing sharpness. Neither of them were wrong, and both of them were. But every conversation lately had turned brittle.

You didn’t want Jason caught in it.

You reached across and touched his shoulder gently. “Why don’t you head to the garden, sweetheart? Get the seeds started for me.”

He blinked once, caught between question and relief. “You sure?”

You smiled softly. “Start without me. I’ll be there soon, sweetie.”

He hesitated—he always did when things inside got loud—but he nodded. Leaned over. Kissed your cheek quickly like it was a reflex he didn’t question.

“Okay, ma.”

You watched him jog around the side of the house, down the gravel path and into the greenhouse, backpack bouncing against his spine.

Then you walked. You moved through the front hall quietly, your heels catching against the tile, your jacket still folded over one arm. From the grand staircase, you heard the volume of voices rise—a strained, gravelled snap from Bruce, followed by a sharper bark from Dick.

And then—

The door opened violently.

Dick emerged, angry and stiff in the shoulders, his duffel bag already half-zipped. His jaw was set, mouth hard. He moved fast, like if he slowed down, he might say something worse. The second he saw you, he paused—but only for a heartbeat.

His eyes met yours, and then dropped away again, like even looking at you might unravel him. His steps picked back up. You started to speak—

“Dick—”

He didn’t answer. He took the stairs too fast, boots thudding like thunder, and slammed his bedroom door with a crack that echoed.

You stood still.

The silence after it settled like dust.

You turned slowly. Your palm found the doorframe of the study and pushed it open gently. Bruce stood by the fireplace.

He was still in his slacks and dress shirt from the day, sleeves rolled up, tie discarded somewhere on the desk behind him. His shoulders were tight. His face drawn. One hand was braced against the mantle, the other rubbing over his mouth like he’d already been through too many words to know what to do with them anymore.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in and closed the door softly behind you.

He didn’t turn.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice even. Gentle, but not soft.

A beat.

Then—“He’s leaving.”

You stared at the back of his head. His voice was hoarse. Measured. Like it hurt to say it out loud.

“What?” you said, stepping forward. “What do you mean he’s leaving?”

He turned to face you then, slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. His jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, like there were too many things to explain and no words left.

“He said he’s moving into the dorms,” Bruce said, voice low. “Said it’s just a decision he’s been meaning to make.”

You blinked. “No. He was supposed to stay through the semester. That was the plan.”

“I know.”

Your eyes narrowed. “So what changed?”

Bruce let out a breath that sounded like something too heavy to carry. He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to. You could see it in the lines on his face, in the subtle collapse in his posture, in the stiffness of his hands.

You shook your head softly. Then turned, already moving.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To talk to our son.”

You knocked before entering Dick’s room.

There was a beat of silence, and then a sharp, frustrated voice: “What?”

You didn’t respond. Just opened the door.

Dick was hunched over his suitcase, arms moving fast, folding shirts like they were weapons and jamming them into the bag with an urgency that spoke more of emotion than schedule.

You stood there for a moment, arms crossed loosely, one eyebrow raised. “Going somewhere?”

He didn’t look up. “I’m not running away.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

He zipped the side compartment a little too hard. “I’m just moving into the dorms. Like a normal eighteen-year-old. Like someone who’s going to college.”

“Right,” you said evenly. “Because you’ve always been just a normal eighteen-year-old.”

He finally looked at you. And when he did, the mask slipped a little.

“Don’t start,” he muttered. “I’ve had enough of it from him.”

You stayed quiet.

Dick sighed hard and rubbed at his eyes. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you said, walking over and sitting on the edge of his bed. “But I still heard it. So apologize accepted.”

You reached the bed in a few steps, sat on the edge near the bag, and watched him avoid your gaze while he kept packing.

“Wanna tell me what this is really about?”

He scoffed under his breath. “What isn’t it about.”

“Try me.”

He sat on the bed beside you. The suitcase lay half-packed, half-forgotten. He sighed.

“I can’t breathe in this house anymore. Every move I make turns into a debate. Every choice I want to make turns into a lecture. Bruce thinks I’m being reckless,” he said quietly. “He thinks I’m too emotional, too green. That I need more time under his wing.”

“And what do you think?”

He hesitated. “I think I’m starting to suffocate in his shadow,” he admitted. “I think I need to know if I’m capable of standing on my own. I love him. But I can’t… I can’t always be Robin. Not if I’m ever gonna be me.”

You studied him then. Your first boy. Your loud, fierce, brilliant boy with too much heart and nowhere to put it.

“You know you’re not just Robin, right?” you said gently. “You never were.”

He nodded. “But he sees me that way. Still. After everything. And I just… I need some space.”

Silence settled for a long moment. You reached over and touched his hand.

“Then take it,” you said softly. “You’re allowed to want space. You’re allowed to be angry. What you are not allowed is to leave this house angry. Cut all of us out. That's not the way.”

He looked at you then with a kind of raw relief that made your chest ache.

You smiled at him. “You know we’ll always be your home, right?”

“I know,” he whispered.

“And that includes your brother. Jason’s gonna miss you. I'm gonna miss you. Alfred and your father as well.”

“I’ll still come around.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He leaned forward, and you pulled him into a hug. He was taller than you now. Bigger. But in your arms, he still felt like the kid you found on the manor roof with scraped knees and a stubborn heart.

When he pulled away, his eyes were red.

You didn’t stop him from packing. You helped him fold the last few shirts, tucked a bag of cookies into the side pocket like you used to for school trips. He kissed your cheek before leaving. Held you longer than he needed to.

Bruce didn’t come out to the driveway when the car pulled up. He was still in the study, now leaning against the desk with one hand pressed over his eyes.

You stepped in slowly. He didn’t look at you.

“He’s gone,” you said.

He nodded once. Didn’t speak.

“I think he needs this,” you added. “He needs to know who he is outside of you.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched.

“That doesn’t make it hurt less,” he said.

You crossed the room. Slipped your arms around his waist. Rested your forehead to his shoulder.

“No,” you murmured. “But it means he might come back stronger.”

Bruce’s hands found your back. He exhaled hard. And for a while, the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other and the echo of the boy who had grown up faster than either of you were ready for.

Though Batman wasn’t sidekick-less for long. A Robin quickly stepped out.

You didn’t expect it to happen so soon. You thought maybe Bruce would take a break. Rest. Recalibrate. Spend his nights at the manor for a change. You thought maybe, after Dick left, Bruce might finally slow down enough to admit he missed his son, that he was grieving the shift—even if Dick hadn’t vanished, even if there were still phone calls and mission updates and the occasional grumpy visit for dinner. Something had changed. A chapter had closed. And for a while, Bruce moved quieter through the house because of it.

But if you knew anything about Bruce Wayne, it was this: stillness was never his resting state. Stillness made him restless. And he wasn’t the only one.

Jason started following him almost immediately.

At first it was subtle. Questions at breakfast. Shadowing him in the training room. Commenting on patrol routes, offering strategies over scrambled eggs. He was careful at first, cautious even, but you recognized the spark in his eyes. That flicker of interest. That undercurrent of longing.

And then one night you came down to the Batcave to bring Bruce some tea—because he’d been down there for hours, and you didn’t want his stubbornness to turn into dehydration—and you saw your fourteen-year-old son perched on the edge of the computer desk in full training gear, arms crossed, eyes alight.

“No,” you said instinctively, setting the mug down harder than necessary.

Jason sat up straighter. “Wait, wait, hear me out—”

“No.”

“Mom—”

“Jason Peter Todd, no.”

Bruce looked up from the other side of the console with a very faint raise of his brow, which only served to make you glare harder at both of them.

Jason sighed, threw his head back, and groaned.

“It’s not like I haven’t trained for this! You and Bruce have been teaching me for years already!”

“Yes,” you said flatly, “for self-defense, for discipline, not for swinging off rooftops and getting shot at.”

Jason leaned forward. “You let Dick—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you said, pointing at him. “Do not bring your brother into this.”

He opened his mouth again.

You raised a hand. “Jason, I am not doing this in the middle of the cave while your father makes tea from a server vent and lets you negotiate your way into a trauma suit.”

Bruce very wisely didn’t comment.

You turned to leave. Jason followed. All the way up the stairs. Through the hallway. Into the kitchen.

“Ma, come on,” he said. “I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna get myself hurt. I’m not like that.”

“You’re fourteen,” you said, tugging a pot from the cabinet. “Fourteen-year-olds are like that. That’s the point.”

“I’m fast,” he argued, hopping up on the counter. “I’m stronger than most adults. I know how to get out of cuffs, I can disarm someone twice my size, I already beat Bruce’s grappling record—”

You turned to stare at him.

He blinked. “I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud, was I?”

“No.”

He bit his lip. 

“…Sorry.”

The real conversation happened days later.

You were in the greenhouse, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, dirt smudged across your cheekbone from a distracted itch. The sun had just started setting behind the city skyline in the distance, catching the glass of the greenhouse in soft, gold light. You were elbow-deep in new tomato roots when you heard the door creak.

Jason walked in barefoot.

Always barefoot out here, even when you warned him about the concrete. He moved gently now, not like he was sneaking—just like he knew he needed your attention before he spoke.

You glanced over. 

“Hi, sweetheart.”

He hesitated by the basil planter. “I’m not trying to be like Dick.”

That stopped you.

You looked up slowly, brushing a bit of soil from your palm with a cloth. Jason’s eyes were soft. Honest. Too old for his age.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” he said. “Or, like, compete. I just… I want this.”

You sighed. “Jay.”

He crossed his arms tightly, like he needed the pressure to keep steady.

“I feel good when I’m training,” he said. “I feel focused. Like I know what to do. When I put the suit on, it’s not just about danger, it’s about making things better. For people like me.”

He swallowed.

“For the kid I used to be.”

You looked at him long.

There it was. The real thing. Not the bravado, not the arguments, not the clever one-liners he’d started practicing in mirrors like they were part of the uniform. This was your son, and he was standing in the middle of the basil with hope in his hands.

You wiped your fingers on the towel and stood. “Are you doing this because you want to? Or because you think Bruce needs you to?”

He didn’t blink. “Both.”

You stepped closer. “You know I’ll always protect you first.”

“I know.”

“You know it’s not easy.”

“I know.”

“You know it might… change things. Change you.”

He nodded.

You searched his face for a long moment. The soft curve of his cheek, still round in places. The sharp line of his jaw that had only started to form this year. His eyes, lit with something that felt like calling.

Finally, you said, “Alright.”

He didn’t move. Then—

“Wait. Really?”

You nodded.

“But under three conditions.”

He perked up like a puppy.

You raised your fingers. “One: Alfred makes your suit.”

“Deal!”

“Two: No patrols on school nights.”

“. . . Fine.”

“Three: If I ever say stop—ever—you stop. No questions asked.”

He sobered instantly. Straightened. “I promise.”

You nodded once, and then you opened your arms. Jason barreled into them with a force that made you stumble back into the planter.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“I swear to God, Jason, if you get shot, I’ll ground you for a decade.”

“I won’t!”

You sighed into his hair. “You’re my heart walking around in body armor. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never.”

He was exhausting, brilliant, and yours.

And sometimes you’d walk into the cave in the dead of night, just to check—because you couldn’t help it, because part of you never stopped worrying—and you’d find him asleep on the chair, one arm over his face, cape tangled around his legs, a sandwich half-eaten on a plate beside him.

You’d cover him with a blanket. Run your fingers through his hair. Whisper things he didn’t always hear. And thank the sky above Smallville that he was still here.

Still yours.

Still home.

[eddiesxangel]

Temptations | Johnny Storm

You’re Ben’s little sister and needed a place to crash after graduation. He only asks of one thing in return. Don’t fall for Johnny

Cw: 18+ fic, fantastic four first steps universe AU. Fem!Grimm!reader x Johnny!Strom. No spoilers, fluff, smut, oral, unprotected sex bc idk when in the 60’s this is and condoms weren’t really a thing yet… it’s not going to be accurate don’t come for me, I’m new to the marvel universe lol 4.5k words

You never liked asking for help. You always figured if you needed something, you’d earn it. But graduation hit harder than you expected.

Celebratory toasts with your professors, a rolled-up diploma in your hand…and nowhere to go.

Your lease vanished with your flaky roommate, and your new internship didn’t start for another month. So you called the only man you trusted to have your back no matter what.

So here you are; The Baxter Building. Where not only your brother lived, but the rest of the Fantastic Four.

You get out of the yellow cab with your suitcases, a coffee cup, a bit of resentment, and not enough sleep. The doorman tipped his hat at you like you were royalty. This was so much different than campus living.

You rode the elevator alone up to the private floors, heart thudding like you were sixteen again, visiting Ben for the first time after he’d changed. You hadn’t been here in years. But you liked Sue and Reed. You must thank them for their kind offer. Especially because they have the baby now. Johnny on the other hand…

When the doors opened, Johnny Storm was the first person you saw. Shirtless. Of course.

He blinked. “Hello?”

You had met once, but you were a kid still.

“Hi.” You cautiously stepped out.

He looked back over his shoulder at no one then back to you. Clearly confused why a stranger— no, a beautiful woman with suitcases is standing in his living room.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice was deep and sultry.

His smouldering gaze was more than you had accounted for.

“Is Benny around?” You ask, ignoring him. Ben had already warned you about Johnny.

“Depends on who’s asking, beautiful.”

You tell him your first name, but he still doesn’t clue in.

“Well, Sugar, a sweet thing like you is far too out of Ben’s league.

You wrinkle your nose in disgust, because, ew.

If right on Que your big brother Ben greets you with a rocky smile. “Baby Sissy, welcome home!!”

“Baby? Sissy?” Johnny was bewildered; their was nothing childish about you.

No you were all grown, all woman. Johnny can’t help but take you in.

“You… live here now?” Johnny, still so shirtless, trying to put the pieces together.

You raised an eyebrow. “Temporarily. You live here permanently?”

Johnny leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, his biceps flex in the process. “I grace this building with my presence, Sugar. There’s a difference.” His charm is all consuming, but you are so above him. You know his reputation.

“Try not to combust near my stuff.” you muttered, brushing past him.

Ben met you with a grin and a bear hug that nearly cracked your ribs. “You look good, Sissy. Got tgat post grad glint in your eye.”

“You look like you lost a fight with a sidewalk,” you said, trying to reach the top of his head, he laughed.

Ben set you up in one of the guest suites—clean, private, with a view of the skyline. It was temporary, but it felt… safe.

You unpacked, setting up your nicknaks to make it feel more like home. You showered. You put on your records. You try and make the room yours. The bed was comfortable and you had a pretty decent nights sleep.

~~~~~

It was odd being in other people’s space. You were unsure if you should just help yourself to breakfast and Ben wasn’t up yet. It was you, and the robot, Herbie.

You were still apprehensive about Herbie. This new technology was so foreign and, honestly you couldn’t understand a thing he said.

“Ummm hello.” You stand awkwardly in the kitchen as the little robot mumbles something you don’t quite grasp.

“I’m just going to, ummm. Is it okay if I get some cereal and milk?”

Before you could move to the fridge yourself the little guy was already to work. He got the milk, three different boxes of cereal and your bowl and spoon all at the table.

“Thank you.” You smile and he mumbles something else you don’t understand but it looked like he was, smiling back.

“Maybe I could get use to this?” You mumble under your breath.

“I’d say I could definitely get use to this”

You jump at the sudden sound of Johnny's voice.

“Sorry, sugar. Didn’t mean to scare you.

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Can’t. You’re too sweet.” He pulls out a chair and sits directly beside you. A bit too close for comfort.

As if to prove him wrong you roll your eyes and reach for your favourite box.

“Great choice, excellent selection of you ask me” he smirks again. Like he knows something you don’t.

A look of confusion crosses your face until you see a picture of Johnny on the box. Quickly you put it down, like you would catch cooties off of it. Begrudgingly you go for the more healthy option.

You hear Johnny laugh, and grabs his cereal box off the table, shoves a hand in and starts eating it dry.

Not to self, don’t eat from that box. Ever.

“So sugar, what’s the big plan?”

“Plan?”

“You’re done school so what’s the plan?”

“Oh, I start interning at Stark Industries in about a month. So I’m crashing here until then.”

“Beauty and the brains.”

With that, he earns another eyeroll.

“So I only get you for a month? hmmm, I think I can work with that.”

“I’m not going to be another nautch on your belt, Johnny. So get over it.”

“A challenge, I like it” he speaks with a mouth full of cereal.

This was then man woman faun over?

Thankfully your saviour, Ben, entered the kitchen and pulled Johnny to the other side of the table and took his spot beside you.

“Okay, rude. We were having a conversation.”

“You can continue your conversation from that side of the table”

You giggle and Johnny swears his heart lit from within. You were going to be trouble. And he liked it.

~~~~~

It didn’t take long to notice Johnny kept… hovering.

He was always in the hallway when you stepped out. Always around the corner with some bad pick up line or an offer to make coffee. You only took ilium up on the coffee once, it was bad and surprisingly cold.

He was always looking at you like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kiss you or set the building on fire because you wouldn’t.

One night, a week after you moved in, you found him outside your door, barefoot, shirtless again, holding two crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

You raised a brow. “What, is this a 3 a.m. emergency?”

“I thought maybe you needed a drink. Big week. You know… post-graduation crash. Existential dread. Boring stuff.” He cleared his throat.

You didn’t invite him in. You just leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, in your shirt babydoll nighty.

“You know Ben would crush your skull if he saw you out here like this.”

He gave a slow, lazy smile. “So don’t tell him.”

You stared him down. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t flirt. Not this time. Just stood there with whiskey and warmth and a stupid kind of hope in his eyes.

You took the glass from his hand—but not without an eye roll.

The night was quiet, save for the hum of city lights through the tall glass windows. It was almost three in the morning. The Baxter Building was asleep…or so you thought.

You and Johnny sat cross-legged on the floor of your temporary room, backs against the edge of the bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between you. The record player was still softly spinning, faint static whispering from the speakers was low in order to not to wake the others.

Johnny’s lounging beside you, “Did you always have that little freckle under your eye?” he asks, brushing his pinky on your upper cheek.

You scoff, cheeks burning. “You've been staring at me that long, flame boy?”

He shrugs, and suddenly the silence grows heavy. Not awkward. Heavy with everything unsaid.

“Can’t help myself.” His tone was genuine.

His gaze was memorizing. You couldn’t stop watching him, watch you.

You hate to admit it but he was so handsome. Maybe it was the whiskey but there was no denying there was an unbridled attraction between the two of you right now, and it wasn’t all physical.

It was the way he listened when you talked about the pressure, about always having to prove yourself, about growing up in Ben’s shadow but never resenting it. Not really. Just always wanting to be worthy of the pedestal you’d put him on.

It was the way he was being so genuine about the pressures he feels being the Johnny Storm. He wasn’t vapid or arrogant, like you originally thought. There were layers behind that book cover. He was smart. So much smarter than he leads on. You don’t see why he hid that away behind his playboy ficaude.

“You know,” he said, voice hushed, “I never thought I’d say this out loud, but… you scare the hell outta me.”

You gave a half-smile. “Good.” You play with them hem of your nighty.

“No,” he chuckled. “I mean it.”

You give him a pointed look to continue with the compliments.

“You…. You’re different than any women I’ve met. I have hundreds of women flinging themselves at me.” You can help but scoff, but he chooses to ignore it and continues. “ I’m not use to the chase. I’m not use to not getting something I want. And Sugar I always get what I want.”

“Johnny. You do not want me, I’m just something shiny and new you’re not allowed to touch.”

“No. You’re smart. You don’t take any crap. You walk into a room like you belong in it—and if you don’t, you make it yours anyway.”

You turned to look at him—and again, he wasn’t cocky. He was earnest. Soft around the edges. The fire was still there, but it wasn’t for show.

Then his hand brushed yours.

And you didn’t move it...

“I’m not supposed to like you,” you whisper.

He leans closer. “You think I don’t know that? Your brother would turn me into a pile of rubble.”

You take another swig. The whiskey burns, but not as bad as his eyes on you.

“You’re trouble, Storm,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says. “But you’re still here.” Johnny’s gaze lowered down to your plump lips. Still shiny from the whisky, begging to be kissed.

And just like that, you're leaning in, fingers grazing the side of his face; you feel the rough stubble as you caress his jaw. His lips look so soft…You tell yourself it’s the whiskey, the moonlight, the music, the moment.

You did not dare move. It was one of those moments that hung in the air, electric. Charged. The space between your faces was shrinking, heartbeats syncing, eyes closing. It’s the kind of closeness that says you are going to kiss, it’s going to happen, maybe not tonight, but soon.

That’s when the door creaked open.

And Ben’s voice rumbled into the room like thunder.

“The hell’s goin’ on here?” His voice booms in the dead silent of the night.

You and Johnny jerked apart like teenagers caught under the covers. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding in your chest, you can hear the blood pouring through your ears.

Johnny stood slowly, hands up, far away from you.

Ben filled the doorway—massive, stone-skinned, and radiating the kind of rage you could feel in your bones. His eyes darted to the whiskey bottle and glasses on the floor, to the record player still softly playing, to your surprised eye and Johnny’s guilty stance, back to you in your short chiffon nighty...

“I asked a question,” Ben said, voice low, dangerous. He always had a short fuse. And an ever shorter one when it came to his family. Especially his baby sister.

You stepped forward, lifting your chin. “Nothing happened.” Your tone was sharp.

Johnny opened his mouth to add something and immediately thought better of it.

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m an idiot?”

“No,” you said firmly. “I think you’re my brother, and I’m an adult who can make my own choices on who I befriend.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. You could see the worry behind his eyes. Even in this new form, his stone features could never hid the expression behind his eyes.

Anger. Worry. That deep, unmistakable protectiveness—The only kind of protectiveness a big brother could possess. The kind that got him into countless brawls.

But beneath it? Pride. The smallest flicker of it. Because you didn’t flinch. You didn’t lie. You didn’t act like some helpless girl who needed defending. Not anymore. You were grown, a woman. He needed to accept that.

Still, his gaze shifted back to Johnny, dark as a storm cloud.

“I swear to God, if you so much as touch her—”

“I haven’t,” Johnny said quickly. Then added, quieter, “Not yet.”

“Johnny!” You scold.

Ben took a step forward, “you asking for a clobbering time, flame boy?”

“Oh, now he says it!?”

“Johnny” you warn. “Ben,” you said sharply, hand on his chest “you know me. I can take care of myself.”

He stared at you for a long second. Then he exhaled one heavy breath and muttered, “Damn right you can. Don’t forget those self defence moves I taught you.”

And then he walked out, mumbling something about needing a drink and “flamebrain better sleep with one eye open.”

You and Johnny stood there in stunned silence.

Then he whispered, “That went… better than expected?”

You stared at him.

“You should go. It’s late. I need to sleep.” You stood by the door, hand on the knob.

“Yea… sure I’ll just” he points.

“Good night, sweet dreams” you nod curtly.

“Oh dreams of sweet sugar they will because I’ll be dreaming of this little nighty, alllll night.” He flicks up the hem and your babydoll nightgown, brushing your thigh in the process. His skin was so hot, you could still feel the heat of his finger lingering on your skin, even if it was only a brief graze.

It sent your mind reeling, how would it feel to have him consume your body if a slight touch was that electric?

He made you so flustered you didn’t know what to do. You shut the door without another word. It was that damn whisky. Loosening your judgement

~~~~~~

Hours later, the building shakes, their synchronized watching all go off. The Fantastic Four are called away.

You watch them leave, pacing as the door closes behind Ben.

“We’ll be back soon, sissy. Do not leave this building. Not for anything,” he warns.

“Keep an eye on her Herb!” He asked the robot to baby sit you like you’re still ten years old.

But it’s been house and they’ve been gone too long.

Far too long.

You're pacing, staring at the TV, pleading to hear any kind of update. Nothing.

Panic claws at your chest like a feral beast. You imagine every worst-case scenario. You curse yourself for now having to worry about someone other than Ben. You let your guard down last night.

When they finally waltz back through the door, the sun has already set.

Your your legs almost give out in relief. Reed and Sue immediately go to baby Franklin.

Ben’s covered in ash, a bit chipped but alive. You run into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

“Benny—” you gasp. “I thought— I didn’t know—” tears threaten to fall.

“I’m okay, kid,” he grunts, holding you tight. “We’re all okay.”

Your heart’s still thundering, hands shaking as you slowly pull away from your brother.

Your eyes immediately find Johnny.

He’s breathing heavy, his cheeks is battered and swollen, his lip is bleeding, but he’s smiling. At you.

You don’t think. You just move.

You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms wrap around your waist, warm and familiar like he’s been waiting.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” your voice cracks.

“Not that easy to get rid of, Sugar,” he says softly.

You pull back, eyes locked on him. He looks rough, singed, and beautiful. He kisses your cheek gently, trying to get any blood or ash on you.

From across the room, Ben stares. Frowns.

“If you hurt her, I’ll drop a fucking building on your head. Got it.”

Johnny’s eyes widen. Did Ben really just give him his blessing?

“Benny?”

“I swear to god if I hear any funny business , I’ll throw you out the window.”

Johnny doesn't let you or Ben answer as he whisks you away to the privacy of his bedroom.

“I shouldn’t admit this but that uniform…” you trail off and you take him in.

“Like what you see, Sugar?”

You dumbly nod. Is this what you've come to? Seeing a man in uniform and suddenly your legs feel like jello and you can’t form words.

You want to yell at him for making you so worried, but you also want to take care of him, patch up his wounds, help him feel better.

He saved the world once again, he was remarkable—selfless.

He took a step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. Slowly you reach up and lightly graze his swollen cheek. He winced in pain, and you quickly removed your fingers.

“Sorry,”

“It’s okay, Sugar. Just a little bruise. I’ve seen worse”

“Why does that not surprise me.”

“Were you really worried about me?” He leans in.

“Johnny” your voice was so quiet he almost missed it.

You close the gap, the kiss is needy—desperate. You put all of your worry and anxiety behind the kiss. You need to show him how much he means to you.

He slips his big hands around your waist, pulling you in. You feel the heat radiating off him beneath the fabric of his suit.

The electricity between the two of you radiated at each touch. His body was pressed up against you, his suit was suffocating him as you felt his cock grow. You urged him to take off the suit, it was awkward and clumsy but eventually he stood before you, baring all.

“Like what you see, Sugar?” He smirked knowingly.

“Get over here and show me what else that cocky mouth can do”

“Yes ma’am. He gently guided you down onto the bed, his strong arms holding him over you, you open your legs for him, urging him closer.

“Not fair, you’re still dressed.”

He leans in kissing your exposed neck. And his hand brushes up under your shirt. You weren’t sure if it was the heat rating off of him or the heat between the two of you, but your skin was on fire. His touch was searing.

“You’ll have to work for it, Storm.”

You let him undress you, peeling your clothes off like you’re a delicate petal; like he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Fuck you’re beautiful” his gaze was searing.

“Enough looking, more fucking.” You pull him down by the back on the neck, kissing him once again he tastes like blood, ash and pure lust.

His hand roamed your bare skin, until his hands find where you wanted him the most. His lips grazed lower down your neck towards your chest as his fingers worked themselves into you.

He was making your head spin, he was too good at this. You didn’t want to dwell on why he was so good at this. A moan slips your parted lips as his mouth lands on your perked nipple.

“Let me hear you Sugar, tell me how good you feel, tell Johnny.”

“Please, don’t stop.” You run your fingers through his hair. His eyes ablaze as he scans your body as he continues to work his fingers in you.

“Wouldn’t dream of it”

“Oh! Johnny” you cry out as he lays a kiss on your clit.

Never had anyone kissed you down there before and it made your head spin.

“Do you want me to keep going, my little Ember?”

“Yes” you sigh.

His lips felt other worldly, and once his tongue brushed through your folds he had sent you both to another dimension. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t think. Everything was Johnny and how he was making you feel. Never had you felt like this before.

“I knew you would taste so sweet, sugar”

“Johnny!” You scold. His filthy words shock you as your orgasm ripples through you.

Johnny chuckles at your innocence, and kisses his way back up your body. Every kiss and nip made your skin burn with need.

All you wanted was more. He was the light to your dimming flame.

“Johnny.” You beg.

You burned for him, every molecule craved him.

“I got you sweetheart. Johnny's got you.”

He guides himself into you with ease. His cock is so thick, the stretch is something you’d not ever experienced. No one could compare. All other men, ruined from this moment forward.

“Oh” you catch his eyes starting to glow as they roll back into his head.

Your tight warm cunt was more than he could ever imagine; like you were made for him. With each thrust his body threatened to flair up. He can’t hold his control around you.

“Let go Johnny, I know you won’t hurt me”

He won’t—will never. These past two weeks he’s never been so entranced, bewitched, totally hypnotized by a woman.

He let go, his thrusts were deep, so so deep. Deeper than you’ve ever experienced. It was like two souls were set ablaze. Joining, connecting as one. Johnny's hair was ablaze when you opened your eyes, the flame was hot but it didn’t burn you as he leaned in and took your mouth with his.

Whatever dude that was lite between the two of you seemed like it would never burn out. This connection was strong, as cosmic encounter bond you would never cease to forget.

“You’re close, Sugar, I can feel you griping on me. So. Damn. Tight.”

“Please, Johnny, it feels so good.” You weep.

Johnny didn’t hold back any longer. He set the room ablaze in a roar of white hot flames. They surrounded the both of you as his thrusts became more intricate.

His lit fingers lace through yours. His eyes no longer blue but the most beautiful ember.

“Johnny” you gasp, your body ablaze as the second most intense feeling rushes over you. A rush of adrenaline, warmth and energy flowed through your veins. Nothing had ever ever felt so intense, so powerful, he made you feel like you were floating.

Johnny quickly pulled out before he could release himself inside of you. You watch as his warmth covers your stomach.

Johnny flames fizzle out as soon and his orgasm is over. The room went back to only being lit by the light of the moon.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He quickly examines you and you can’t help but giggle.

“Far from it, Flame boy.” You reach for him, wanting to be held in his arms.

He shifts beside you, his body still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but his arm tightens around your waist like he doesn’t plan to let go. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the thump-thump of his heart against your skin.

“I was so scared I’d lose you,” you whisper, words almost lost in the hum of the city outside the window.

He pauses—just for a second—then you feel the slow curl of his grin.

“Baby Grimm, scared for little ol’ me?” he teases.

You lift your head just enough to glare at him and give his chest a light smack. “Johnny Storm! I’m trying to be sincere here.”

He winces dramatically, hand flying to the spot you hit. “Oof. Right in the ego.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

“Sorry, Sugar,” he says softer this time, voice dropping. “I just… I can’t believe it. Being here. In your arms. I—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

Because you know him.

Johnny Storm talks too much when he’s nervous. When he’s feeling something real. And the second he feels anything bigger than charm or lust, he panics. You weren’t sure what was scarier—him getting hurt out in the field, or you falling for someone who swore he wasn’t the settling type.

But when he kisses you back, slow and aching, all you feel is heat—not just from his body but from whatever this thing between you two is becoming.

When the kiss breaks, you whisper against his lips, “Don’t make me care about you like this.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

You sigh. “Ben’s going to kill us.”

Johnny chuckles. “Yeah, well... worth it.”

And in that quiet moment—wrapped in his arms, his fingers brushing lazy circles against your back, you finally admit it to yourself.

You are in so much trouble.

He smells like smoke and aftershave and something uniquely Johnny—like danger with a side of sugar. You stay curled against his chest, fingers slipping beneath the edge of his shirt, tracing the rise and fall of his ribs just to reassure yourself he’s real. That he’s here.

“Don’t do that again,” you murmur.

“What? Save the city?” he teases, even though his voice is softer now, almost reverent.

“No. Vanish. Disappear without a word. I was climbing the damn walls.”

He shifts, cradling your face in his hand now, his thumb brushing your cheek like you’re made of glass. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, you did. A lot.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate that he hears it.

Johnny’s smile fades. He tilts your chin, and the usual cocky sparkle in his eyes gives way to something more honest. “I’m sorry. Really. If I’d had a way to call you. If I had know you’d wanted me to—”

“You didn’t. I know,” you breathe, squeezing your eyes shut. He was busy, saving the world.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and thick with everything you’ve been holding in. He presses a kiss to your temple like he can smooth it all away.

“I’ve never had anyone worry like that before,” he says quietly. “Not really. Reed worries if I burn the curtains again. Sue gives me that mom face when I mouth off in interviews. Ben threatens to throw me into traffic about once a week…”

You chuckle wetly. “That’s just his love language.”

Johnny nods, eyes locked on yours. “But you… You looked at me like I mattered. Like I was worth losing sleep over. That’s new for me, Sugar.”

“Don’t read too much into it,” you say, biting your lip to hide how much the words meant.

But Johnny’s hand slides around the back of your neck, drawing you closer. “I’m not trying to be that guy, y’know? The one who screws things up. But with you…” His voice breaks a little. “I want to try. I want to deserve this.”

“But I’m suppose to leave im a couple weeks.”

“I’m willing to do anything, Suagr.”

You close the distance, kissing him again, slower this time. Like you’re answering a question neither of you know how to ask out loud. His hands roam your back, grounding you. You feel the beat of his heart quicken against your chest, matching your own.

When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours again, both of you breathless.

“Ben is gonna throw a fit,” you whisper.

“Oh, he’s going to throw me off the balcony,” Johnny grins, brushing your hair from your face. “But I’ll take every punch if it means I get to hold you like this.”

You smirk. “You’re a damn fool, Johnny Storm.”

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing yours.

And this time, when you kiss him, you don’t stop. Not because you’re scared. Not because he’s a fire you’ve been warned to avoid.

But because maybe… just maybe… you were always meant to burn a little.

Tags: @hauntedfawnn @american-idiot-jpg @hellfire--cult

[deansbeer]

ִ ⋆ ⸜ 🪚𓂃 𓈒ㅤ՞ 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒 .. !!

eighteen plus …♥︎ minors do not interact.

[ dean winchester && fem!reader ]

synopsis! dean can’t seem to keep his hands off you for five seconds, even when sam’s calling about food.

caution! intense makeout session, clingy + possessive behavior, hickeys [implied], suggestive, slightly rough kissing, hair pulling, touch-starved behavior, strong language, dean being a needy & desperate bastard for physical contact.

notes! so this started as me thinking about how clingy yearner!dean would get during makeout sessions!! this man has ZERO patience when it comes to physical affection and the way he’d probably melt the second someone kisses him back??? the way he’d get all grabby and desperate??? yeah.. we all need that energy in our lives ✋🏼 and a dean winchester. sigh.

word count! 990.

the motel room smells like stale cigarettes and pine cleaner, but you barely notice anymore. it’s been three weeks of crappy motels, endless highways, and dean slowly driving you insane in the best and worst ways possible.

sam left for food twenty minutes ago — some chinese place he found in the yellow pages and because dean had been complaining about wanting some. the second the impala’s engine died, dean was on you like he’d been holding his breath underwater.

“fuckin’ finally,” he mutters against your mouth, and you can feel him smile when you gasp. “been wantin’ to do this all damn day.”

that’s the thing about dean, the guy’s always wanting. always touching, always crowding into your space like he’ll die if there’s more than an inch between you. at first it was overwhelming. now? now you crave it like a drug.

his hands are everywhere at once, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. he kisses like he fights — all intensity and barely controlled violence, like he’s trying to prove something to you. you stopped trying to figure him out weeks ago.

“dean, baby,” you breathe when he lets you up for air, but he’s already moving to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“mm?” his voice is rough, distracted. “what, baby?”

“nothing, just—” you lose your train of thought when he sucks at that spot below your ear. “oh fuck.”

he grins against your skin, smug bastard. “that’s what i thought.”

he’s backing you up until your knees hit the bed, and honestly? typical dean. all action, no patience. but there’s something different tonight, something frantic in the way he’s touching you. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through your clothes.

“you’re gonna suffocate me,” you laugh breathlessly when he follows you down onto the mattress, not giving you even a second of space.

“good,” he says, completely serious. “means you can’t go anywhere.”

and there it is! that possessive streak that should probably worry you more than it does. dean doesn’t do anything halfway, you’ve learned. when he hunts, he’s mad obsessive. when he drinks, he goes hard. and when he wants someone... well, you’re learning exactly what that means.

his weight pins you to the questionable motel bedspread, solid and warm and overwhelming. one hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek with surprising gentleness even as his mouth moves against yours like he’s starving. the contrast is so perfectly dean it makes you dizzy.

“missed you today,” he mumbles between kisses, which is ridiculous because you’ve been in the car together for eight hours straight. but that’s dean for you — clingy in ways he’d die before admitting to anyone else. sam rolls his eyes about it constantly, how dean can’t go five minutes without touching you, even if it’s just his hand on your knee while he drives.

you try to respond but he swallows your words, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes thinking impossible. his free hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he’s counting them. everything about dean is tactile, physical. he experiences the world through touch and taste and right now all of that focus is on you.

the kiss turns messy, desperate. dean makes these little sounds that almost sound like whimpers and vibrate through your chest. his stubble burns against your skin but you don’t care, probably won’t care tomorrow when you’re trying to cover the evidence with makeup.

“shit,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to breathe. his lips are swollen, spit-slick, and the sight makes your stomach flip. “you taste like that stupid fruit gum.”

“you taste like cheap beer and beef jerky,” you shoot back.

“breakfast of champions, sweetheart.” but he’s already diving back in, like the thirty seconds of conversation was thirty seconds too long.

his phone starts buzzing in his jean pockets he ignores it, of course.

“dean—”

“nope.” he kisses you harder, like he can shut you up through sheer determination.

but it keeps ringing. and ringing.

“that’s probably sam,” you manage between kisses.

“sammy can wait.” his hand’s in your hair now, tugging just enough to make you gasp. “i’m busy.”

the phone stops. then immediately starts again.

“oh my fucking god,” dean growls, but doesn’t move. just shifts his attention to your jaw, your throat, that spot where your neck meets your shoulder that always makes you melt.

“dean, seriously, what if—”

“hello?” he answers the phone without pulling away, lips still pressed to your collarbone. you can hear sam’s voice, slightly garbled and annoyed.

“i’m at the chinese place, dean! what did you guys want? you said lo mein but they have like fifteen different kinds-”

“i don’t care,” dean says, voice rough. “just get whatever.”

“dude, you literally complained for twenty minutes about wanting something specific-“

“sam.” dean finally pulls back enough to glare at the phone. “get. whatever. bye.”

he hangs up, tosses the phone somewhere on the bed, and looks back at you with dark eyes. “now, where were we, hm?”

“you’re a terrible person,” you tell him, but you’re already pulling him back down.

“mhm, you love it though.” he grins against your mouth, cocky and certain. his hand slides back under your shirt, mapping out skin he’s already memorized a dozen times over. “i can’t keep my hands off o’you.”

“you’re so clingy tonight,” you tease, even as you arch into his touch.

“so what if i am?” no shame, no hesitation. just dean winchester staking his claim like always. “got a problem with that?”

his phone buzzes. probably sam again.

“he’s gonna be so pissed when he gets back,” you laugh.

“let him.” dean’s already kissing you again, deep and demanding and absolutely determined to make you forget about everything except him. “i’ve got more important things to worry about.”

and when he kisses you like that like you’re oxygen and he’s drowning it’s pretty hard to argue with his priorities.

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (11)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Simon had been through enough shit in his life that most things didn’t shake him anymore. He’d seen bodies torn apart, teammates blown to pieces, friends bleed out in his arms while he just sat there pressing his hands down harder and harder, like pressure alone could fix a gut wound.

He’d walked into buildings full of smoke and screams and blood and came out with his pulse steady, his eyes dry, and his mind already moving to the next objective. Fear had stopped being something he acknowledged a long time ago. Maybe somewhere between the fifth or sixth time death brushed shoulders with him and didn’t bother looking back.

But this…This was different.

Because no amount of blood in the field, no amount of bodies, no mission gone sideways or ambush or bullet tearing through skin had ever prepared him for the way his own fucking chest caved in at the sight of you on the floor, bleeding out faster than he could process what the hell had just happened.

And it was stupid because he knew what a gunshot looked like. He knew what it meant. He knew how much time you had. But for a few seconds, he forgot every protocol, forgot every training, forgot everything he ever learned about trauma response, and just… stared.

Because the second you hit the ground, it stopped being a mission. It stopped being war. It stopped being survival.

It became personal.

And it wasn’t even the pain in his shoulder that registered; he’d been shot, sure, blood still soaking into the side of his shirt, and yet it was like none of it mattered, none of it even touched him. It was the sound of your body collapsing. The way your eyes fluttered and couldn’t focus. The way your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, and then it did, a choked inhale, a twitch of your fingers, and he felt it, that pain. But not in the wound, nor in the bone or the muscle or the nerve.

In his chest. Right there in his fucking chest.

Because your eyes, the ones he avoided looking at for so long, the ones that burned every time you challenged him, the ones that didn’t flinch when he barked at you during training, didn’t blink when he insulted you, didn’t soften even when he tried to make you walk away. Your eyes were fading now.

And for the first time in years, he was scared.

Not of dying, not of pain, but of losing you.

He’d always told himself it was easier to hate you. That keeping his distance was the only option. You were reckless and too loud. Too stubborn, intense, and too good. He told himself that, let himself believe it.

Every time you laughed with the others, every time you made a joke that got under his skin, every time you did something risky on the field and didn’t even look back to see if he was watching, even though he always was, he reminded himself why he needed to keep the wall up.

Because he felt things he wasn’t supposed to feel. Things that scared the shit out of him.

You weren’t just some new recruit. You weren’t just another soldier. You weren’t just some rookie tagging along. You had this fire in you, something that refused to dim even when the world around you both tried so hard to snuff it out, and somehow, that fire kept him going. Every time he thought about walking away. Every time he thought maybe this was the mission that would kill him. Every time he questioned if there was anything left in the world worth protecting. You showed up. Lit up every dark corner of his life without even realizing it.

And he hated you for it. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But now, as your blood seeped into the floor and your eyes fluttered shut and that fire dimmed right there in front of him, the truth slammed into him with more force than any bullet ever could.

He didn’t hate you. He loved you. And he might’ve just lost you.

Help came fast.

Not fast enough, though, but like angels sent from heaven or whatever poetic thing people said when they were desperate for a miracle, Price and the others stormed in just minutes later. Simon barely heard the gunfire, barely registered the movement, the voices, the sounds of boots on the floor, the way someone shouted “clear” down the hallway. His whole world had narrowed to you.

Price was yelling something, Soap too, and Gaz was already crossing the room.

But Simon couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move.

He was still kneeling on the floor, blood soaking into his trousers, hands shaking as they hovered uselessly over your chest, not sure where to press, not sure if he should move you or stay still. His shoulder burned, his arms felt weak, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your lips were parted like you were struggling for air, the way your lashes barely fluttered, the way the blood wouldn’t fucking stop.

Gaz was the one who finally knelt beside him, didn’t say anything, just looked at Simon and then looked at you, and something in his face changed. He went still for a second, and then he moved, lifting your body as if you were made of glass and whispering something under his breath that Simon didn’t catch.

And Simon followed. He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t speak, didn’t ask where they were taking you. He just got up, his legs unsteady, hands coated in red, eyes locked on your face as if he were to look away, even for a second, you’d disappear.

Soap grabbed his arm to steady him at one point, but he shook him off. Price said his name, but he didn’t answer.

He followed Gaz like a shadow, one hand still pressed over the makeshift bandage clutched to your side, too afraid to let go. Every time your head lolled or your lips parted or your hand twitched, his heart seized in his chest again.

The hallways blurred. The walls meant nothing. Everything outside the shell of your body and the blood didn’t exist.

He didn’t remember getting into the car, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting inside, and you were in his lap. Someone had wrapped a towel around your torso, someone else shoved med packs into his hands and barked at him to press down hard and keep pressure, Ghost, keep fucking pressure, but none of that registered.

All he could see was your face.

Your eyelids were heavy, skin pale. You weren’t talking, you weren’t even blinking. And Simon... he couldn’t handle it.

Couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t feel his own wound, even as his shirt stuck wet and warm to his skin. He was soaked through with pain and panic and it still didn’t even touch what he felt seeing you like that.

He pressed down harder on your side, whispering things he wasn’t even sure you could hear.

“Stay with me.” “Just hang on.” “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He didn’t beg, but everything in him was screaming, broken screams that never made it past his throat. He just kept pressing down, kept his eyes on your mouth, your lashes, the twitch of your fingers when the car hit a bump.

And then someone else opened the door.

Voices. Shouts. Medical terms. Orders. And Price again.

And then hands reached for you, but Simon didn’t let go. Even as they tried to lift you from his lap, he kept holding on.

“Ghost,” someone said. “You need to let go now.”

He didn’t move. Just stared down at your face like he could memorize it in case—

No. Not in case. You were going to make it.

You had to.

But he still couldn’t let go. Not until someone reached in gently, one hand on his back, the other under your legs, and finally pulled you from his grip. He didn’t fight it. He just sat there with empty hands and blood everywhere, eyes stuck on the way your head lolled against the medic’s chest.

They ran with you. He didn’t move.

Didn’t even feel the pain in his leg or the heat in his shoulder or the wetness of his palms. All he could feel was the sudden loss of you. Like a fucking limb had been torn from his body, like something vital had been pulled from his chest.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

Simon Riley didn’t feel like a soldier. He felt like a man. A man who might’ve just lost the only thing that ever made him feel alive again...

Someone finally dragged him away.

He didn’t remember who. Maybe it was one of the medics who looked at him with wide eyes and blood-stained hands and urgency he didn’t think he deserved. But they took him down some corridor that smelled like bleach, into a small room with too-bright lights.

He sat there on the edge of the table while someone peeled his shirt away from the bullet wound on his shoulder. They asked him questions, tried to get him to speak, tried to get him to lie back and breathe and flinch when they poured antiseptic into the hole. He barely noticed any of it. He let them work and didn’t say a word.

It was just something he had to get through. A checkpoint before he could return to the only thing that mattered.

He didn’t even wait for them to finish everything. He stood up before they were done wrapping the bandage, grabbed a shirt someone brought him, and walked out without looking back. He could still feel his pulse thudding down into his fingertips, could still smell the blood on his hands even though they’d been scrubbed clean. But the pain was still on the other side of the compound, behind a set of doors, beyond the medical wing, where they were trying to keep you alive.

He didn’t care if they told him to rest. Didn’t care if his shoulder split back open.

He made it back to the hallway, to the room where they’d taken you, and sat down just to the right of the door, near enough that if anyone came out and said something, he’d hear it.

And he waited.

Minutes passed, and he didn’t move. He just sat there with blood under his fingernails and every muscle in his body clenched like he could keep you alive through sheer force of will.

That’s when he heard boots.

Price stopped in front of him, his arms crossed, looking down at Simon like he was weighing what to say.

“He’s still alive,” Price said finally, voice low. “They’ve got him. Took him to one of the secure rooms.”

Simon’s eyes didn’t move. His jaw twitched once. “Mark.”

Price nodded. “Yeah.”

“Take me to him.”

“Simon—”

“Take me. Now.”

Price exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re shot.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Simon stood. His legs ached, his shoulder burned, and his whole body screamed to collapse, but none of that touched his voice.

“I’ll rest,” he said flatly, “when I kill him.”

And Price saw it. He saw the fury in his eyes, and didn’t argue after that.

He just turned and started walking, and Simon followed.

Simon pushed open the door without hesitation and stepped inside. Mark was sitting there, tied to the chair, his face bruised but his eyes sharp enough to make Simon’s blood boil. There was no fear in Mark’s gaze, only cold, like he knew exactly how much trouble he was in and didn’t care.

Simon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching him, trying to hold back the anger that was coiling tighter with every second.

Finally, Mark broke the silence with a smirk on his face. “You think I’m gonna tell you anything? Not a single damn thing is coming out of me.” His voice was harsh. “You killed my wife. That’s one thing you’ll pay for. And trust me, yours is next.”

Simon stepped closer, eyes locked on him. His voice dropped, low and sharp. “Don’t mention my wife ever again.”

That was the last thread snapping. Simon didn’t hesitate. His fist shot forward, connecting hard with Mark’s jaw. The sound was sickening, a mix of bone and flesh that echoed off the walls. Mark barely flinched, just chuckled through the pain like it was some kind of game.

Simon hit him again, each punch fueled by every secret and every lie, every brutal moment he and you had endured. Mark laughed again, a low, bitter sound, not even trying to defend himself.

Then the door opened, and Soap came in, his voice cutting through the tension. “Simon, the doctors just called.”

Simon’s fist hung mid-air for a moment. His breath caught, muscles tightening and loosening all at once. Mark’s laughter faded as Simon turned toward the doorway, the fight draining out of him, replaced by worry or fear. Whatever it was, it crushed everything else.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[moondustbaby]

Start to Finish

blue collar!Rafe x wife!Reader

cw: labor and birth references

summary: A look at how Rafe reacts during your first and second labors—and how much he’s grown as a partner through both.

⸻

The first time you went into labor, Rafe nearly dropped a wrench on his foot.

He’d been out on a job site—sweaty, covered in drywall dust, phone tucked behind his ear—when you called and said, voice high and tight, “I think it’s happening.”

“What? Right now?”

“Like… yes. My water broke in the kitchen. I’m standing in it.”

“Fuck. I mean—okay. Okay. Stay there. No—sit. Sit down, baby, please don’t fall. I’m coming. I’m on my way.”

He showed up at the house ten minutes later, breaking a handful of speed laws and running every stop sign in your neighborhood. He was still in his boots. Still in his work shirt. And when he saw you gripping the edge of the kitchen table, your face scrunched in pain, he paled so fast you thought he might pass out.

You remember the look in his eyes—panic edged with helplessness. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Didn’t know what to say. Just hovered like a satellite, orbiting you in frantic circles until you finally snapped, “Rafe, I need you to breathe.”

He had nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Breathing. I can do that.”

The drive to the hospital was chaos. He missed the turn twice. Parked crooked. Nearly tripped over his own feet running around the car to help you out. And once inside, when they took you into triage and he had to wait for ten minutes, he nearly ripped the vending machine door off its hinges because it ate his dollar.

But once you were admitted—once things settled into a rhythm—he got quieter. More focused. His hand never left yours. Not for a second.

He wiped your forehead with a cool cloth. He whispered things into your hair—words you barely remembered but would never forget how they felt. And when you screamed through the final pushes, he told you, “You’re doing perfect. That’s it, mama. You’re fucking incredible.”

You were shaking when Jace finally arrived, tiny and red and wailing, and you didn’t even notice the tears rolling down Rafe’s cheeks until he whispered, “That’s our boy… you did it, baby. You did it.”

He didn’t even care that he was still in his boots.

⸻

Two years later, it’s different.

You go into labor with Mia on a warm summer morning. Jace is already at your mom’s—planned ahead, just in case—and when the first contraction hits, you know.

You walk into the bedroom and say, calm as ever, “Hey, it’s time.”

Rafe looks up from where he’s making the bed, his expression alert but not alarmed. “Yeah?”

You nod once. “They’re about six minutes apart.”

He’s beside you in two seconds, pressing a hand to your belly, kissing your forehead. “Okay, baby. Let’s do this.”

He’s already packed the hospital bag. It’s in the truck. Your charger is in his back pocket. He’s wearing the shirt you love on him—soft, navy blue, stretched a little around the chest. And when he helps you into the passenger seat, it’s with a calm, confident hand.

“No rush,” he tells you, even as he drives just fast enough to beat a red light. “You just breathe, pretty girl. We’ve done this before.”

And you have.

But it still feels new—still hurts, still aches, still makes your whole body curl with nerves and tension.

In the delivery room, you’re already 6cm dilated. The nurses smile like they remember you from last time.

“Looks like it’s baby day,” one of them says cheerfully. “She’s coming fast.”

Rafe sits beside your bed, one hand on your thigh, the other tangled with yours. He smells like cedarwood deodorant and clean laundry. You love him even more now than you did three years ago—and you didn’t think that was possible.

“Want the epidural again?” he asks quietly, brushing your hair back.

You nod, jaw clenched. “Yeah. I think so.”

“You got it. I’ll let ‘em know.”

He’s up and talking to the nurse before you can blink. And when he comes back, crouching beside you again, his palm rests warm and steady on your knee.

“You’re doing so good, mama.”

You cry a little, more out of emotion than pain, and he notices.

“Hey,” he says, kissing the back of your hand. “You’re not alone, alright? I’m right here.”

You feel it in every breath. Every gentle press of his hand against your belly. Every whispered, “That’s it,” and “You’re safe, baby.”

⸻

When Mia finally arrives, it’s quieter than it was with Jace. A softer, slower moment. You’re not panicking this time—you’re tired but trusting. You let your body do what it knows.

And Rafe… he’s steady as ever. Tears in his eyes, a hand pressed to his mouth when he hears Mia’s cry for the first time.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “She’s here.”

You look at him. “She’s really here.”

He laughs, a breathy, choked-up sound. “And she’s perfect.”

Later, in the recovery room, he holds her while you rest. Sways side to side in the corner chair, whispering to her in that gravelly voice only she can hear.

“Your mama’s the strongest woman I know,” he tells her. “You’re lucky to have her.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his voice. Wake up to him curled beside you on the narrow hospital bed, Mia sleeping on his chest.

And when he opens his eyes and smiles at you, it’s like the world finally exhales.

“I’ve done this before,” he murmurs, “but I never stop bein’ in awe of you.”

a/n: i’ve gotten a handful of requests to see how rafe is during wife!reader’s labors, and i loved the idea of showing how blue collar!rafe evolves from a panicked, overwhelmed first-time dad during jace’s birth to a calm, confident partner during mia’s. he’s steady, emotional, and so so proud of his wife every step of the way. thank you to everyone who requested this! 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@lolabunnyworldss @superlegend216 @bonjourjiminie @rafesbabygirlx @raineshua @wolfcin04 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @angelofcigs @maybankslover @bluesundaylover

[lanccelot]

the thing about lancelot is that he IS first and foremost merlin's knight. he's mr. "your secret's safe with me." mr. "oh merlin you need to get to the cup of life? awesome i'm coming with you." mr. "i made a vow to gwen to keep arthur safe but merlin got hit by the dorocha so i am immediately going to abandon both the mission and my vow in order to look after him for however long he needs me. obviously" and it's really funny because nobody expects it from him. the difference between him and gwaine (also merlin's knight) is that he's quiet about it so nobody ever fucking suspects him. if arthur ever gave him an order he'd be like yeah sure alright and do it BUT if merlin pulled him aside to ask him if he would go against the order to cover for him saving the day (as usual) lancelot would be like "Say No More <3" and kronk wrong lever arthur into a pit on purpose. and then he would throw himself into the pit as well like "oh my god sire i am SO SORRY </333 i must've pulled the wrong lever or the rigging was messed up or something </333333 please my lord you have my utmost apologies and you can execute me for my foolishness if you want :((((" and arthur would take one look at his sad little face and be like No lancelot it's not your fault.....You are The Best knight i have and i trust you Completely....that lever must've been Tampered with...with Sorcery.... and merlin saves the day in the background and then he and lancelot go out drinking that night to celebrate

[wolfofcelestia]

How I think the boys would eat xiao long bao

The Chinese soup dumpling notorious for burning tongues

This was supposed to be a tag where I dunked on Sylus but I'm making it into a full post because I have Ideas™️

Zayne

You'd think he'd be the sensible one and bite the side of it to let the boiling hot soup out of the dumpling, but no. He considers that blasphemy. If he wanted soup separate from his dumplings, he would've ordered two different dishes.

You'd think he'd at least wait for the dumpling to cool down, but no. Zayne doesn't have the patience to wait when he's on a time crunch. And after a while of eating these while in medschool, it became a habit and he just never bothers to pretend to wait when he eats XLB with other people

Those dumplings go from steaming hot, to the dipping sauce, and right into his mouth. Zayne doesn't even flinch when the scalding soup gushes out of the dumping. Why? Because he eats them with his evol assisting him

Nothing's gonna scald my man when he can control the temperature of his food. He's experimented with this many times and quickly found the optimal temperature for flavour and comfort that he can chill the soup to 0.000001 seconds before it hits his tongue

Anyone watching him eat XLB without knowing about his evol would be staring at him in horror and disbelief

Sylus and Xavier

Both of these boys would not be familiar with XLB before you ordered them for the table. You could warn them beforehand or you could be a menace and not give them any warning, but either way, these two would forget your instructions the moment the waiter brings them to the table and the scent of them makes them even hungrier

And what would they do? They'd put those steaming hot dumplings right into their mouths, no prep, and proceed to look like they just got shot once they bite down and scalding hot soup fills their mouths

Maybe they'd act like everything's fine and try to put on a brave front, but they would definitely be dying inside

You'd see Sylus's evol manifest around his mouth almost instantly after he gets over the shock of it. It would take him a few seconds to heal his tongue so he can taste food again

"You really are the only one who can catch me off-guard like that. Very clever, kitten."

"I told you five seconds ago to be careful!"

Rafayel

I feel like he can tolerate the heat a lot more than he lets on, but he'd be making a show of how hot it is. He'd let it cool down like a normal person at first but after dipping it into the sauce and biting into it, he'd be huffing and puffing, and breathing like a dragon to try and cool down the dumpling that's currently in his mouth

Maybe he'd ask you to heal his tongue afterwards

Caleb

The only one who eats XLB like a normal person. Man's experienced with all things food so he knows how to not be a fool with food

He'd dip it in sauce and bite a hole in the side of the dumpling, and let the soup and the sauce mix together on his spoon before downing it when it cools down

He'd be the one to tell you to be careful and not just pop it into your mouth like Zayne does. He'd remind you of this every single time, mostly because it's one of the few things he can use Zayne as a bad example of

"Don't come crying to me when you burn your tongue because you got impat— ...You just burned your tongue, didn't you? Here, drink some tea. I'll cool the rest of the dumplings down for you."

[soft4changbin]

For the cameras

Bang Chan x idol!reader

Summary: You’re Chan’s longtime friend and a rising solo artist. After a dating scandal threatens his clean image, his company suggests a “relationship” with you to calm fans. You agree reluctantly… but Chan’s protectiveness starts to feel less fake every day.

Word count: 1,031

It starts with a knock on your door at 2 a.m.

You open it to find Bang Chan standing there — hoodie over his messy curls, expression tight. He’s holding his phone in one hand, a tabloid article glowing in the other.

“They’re saying I’m dating some influencer,” he says. “Someone I’ve met twice. My label wants to fix it with a public relationship.”

You blink at him. “With who?”

He hesitates. “You.”

You and Chan have been best friends since trainee days. You’ve seen each other at your worst — after brutal evaluations, messy breakups, insomnia-fueled meltdowns. You’ve never crossed that line.

So when his company suggests that the two of you fake a relationship for the public, you laugh.

And then you realize they’re serious.

“They think if we post a photo holding hands or something, it’ll kill the rumor,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “I told them I’d only do it if you were okay with it.”

You should say no.

But the look in his eyes — tired, frustrated, quietly pleading — stops you.

“…Fine,” you sigh. “But we set rules.”

He smiles for the first time all night. “Of course.”

The first photo goes up a day later.

Chan’s hand on your waist. Your head resting on his shoulder. A simple caption: “Late night walks hit different 💬”

You’re both acting, but the comments go feral.

“WAIT WHAT—”

“Is this real???”

“I KNEW IT, THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER IN THAT VLIVE—”

“I’m gonna cry I ship them so hard”

You reply to one with a cheeky “😉” and throw your phone across the couch.

“This is insane,” you mutter.

Across from you, Chan’s scrolling through the responses too. “They’re eating it up.”

He looks over, then smiles softly. “We’re pretty convincing, huh?”

Your heart skips. You ignore it.

Two weeks in, the lines start to blur.

You go out for bubble tea and he reaches for your hand without thinking. You sit beside him on the couch and he rests his head on your shoulder. You film a TikTok that’s way too flirty and suddenly it’s trending with “#chanynslowburn.”

Your fans are obsessed.

You’re… confused.

Because it doesn’t feel fake anymore.

Not when Chan looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Not when he tucks your hair behind your ear during a livestream and your cheeks go red. Not when he says, voice low and careful, “You looked really beautiful today.”

You start wondering what it would feel like if he meant it.

The turning point comes during a fansign.

You’re seated next to him on the panel. Someone asks how long you’ve been dating.

He glances at you.

You’re supposed to say “a few weeks.” That’s the story.

But he doesn’t say that.

Chan smiles — soft and fond — and says, “Feels like forever.”

Your breath catches. He turns back to the fan like it’s nothing.

But your fingers tremble under the table.

Later that night, you find him sitting on the studio floor, back against the couch, headphones abandoned beside him.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

You sit next to him. Close. Too close.

“No. You didn’t.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then he says it. Quiet, like it hurts. “I think I started faking it… and then I stopped.”

You don’t breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” he continues, voice low. “But I don’t think I was ever pretending when it came to you.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

You look at him — this boy who’s known every version of you, who’s seen you cry over failed auditions and scream with laughter at 3 a.m., who holds your hand like it’s something precious even when no one’s watching.

You whisper, “Then stop pretending.”

And he does.

His lips find yours in a kiss that tastes like all the things you never said.

And everything you’re about to.

[galactic-magick]

I'm Staying: Jinu x Reader

Summary: What if the Saja Boys lived in the modern world for a while before their debut? AKA, Jinu falls for a human and desperately tries to hide his true demon identity. This gets significantly harder for him when he’s down bad and horny.

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: SMUT!! Hand jobs, blow jobs, fingering, P in V, all that jazz.

Author’s Notes: I haven’t written smut in a hot minute but K-Pop Demon Hunters changed my brain chemistry so here I am lol. I liked the idea of demons struggling to keep their disguise up when they’re horny so that’s how we got here. Enjoy!

Tags: @supremeleaderoofpoof

He’s always holding back from you.

You’ve been dating for over six months at this point, and he’s still barely touched you. You’ve never pressured him, of course, but it feels as if he wants to touch you, he just won’t.

Something about Jinu has always felt off, and you’ve known there was something different about him since you met him. Honestly, that’s what drew you to him in the first place. He acts like a fish out of water, yet he’s found out everything about you so easily. He reads you like an open book, knows your fears and insecurities like the back of his hand. But at the same time, he’s incredibly old fashioned and treats you like he could break you. He holds your hands very loosely, kisses and holds you gently, and never takes off either of your clothes.

You appreciate that he’s a gentleman, but you’re getting unbelievably horny.

He’s with his friends right now, at least that’s what he told you about an hour ago. He’s been working on songs and choreography with them, hoping to debut as a new boy-band called the “Saja Boys” soon. He let you sit in on a rehearsal once, and they’re quite talented. Mesmerizing, even. You’re sure they’ll be a hit, and you’ll be their biggest fan. It feels a bit strange to be dating the leading man of a boy band, but you trust Jinu enough to guide you through things if he does become famous.

You’ve been doom-scrolling for an embarrassingly long time now, when you get a text from him saying he’s done and he’ll head over to your place. You smile and sigh, typing back:

“Good, I need you 😘”

Not two seconds later, you hear a knock at the door.

Jinu’s rehearsal spot is over ten minutes away, and you’re not expecting anyone else. Who could that be? Maybe a package delivery you forgot you ordered?

You get up from the couch and look through the peephole. To your shock, it is Jinu.

You open the door, and you swear you can see a light purple haze of smoke surrounding him, but when you blink it’s gone. He’s looking at you with eyes wide, his hands immediately moving to caress your face.

“How did you get here so fas-”

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asks, voice laced with deep concern. He looks you up and down, as if checking for injuries.

“Jinu, I’m fine.” you assure him, taking the opportunity to grab his caring hands in yours. “But what the hell, did you teleport here or something?”

“I—you said you need me. I thought…”

“Oh Jinu...” you giggle a bit. Poor thing, you should’ve known he might interpret your flirting as a cry for help. “I’m not hurt. I meant like, I need you.”

A million emotions race across his face, until he finally settles on a laugh as well.

He needs you too. Terribly, in fact. But he was never going to be the first to say it.

Jinu never meant to fall for you in the first place, really. He wanted to spend some time in the modern human world for a while before debuting the Saja Boys, that’s all. He hasn’t experienced the world outside of the demon realm in 400 years, so he knew he’d need to study the current state of humanity for a while before enacting his plan. He needed to know what people struggle with now, what sins they stumble into the easiest, the best ways to manipulate them. His research was going great, until he found himself stealing a human’s heart instead of their soul.

He never thought love would be something he could have, but now he has you, and he’d really like to keep you. If you knew he was a demon, you’d surely be afraid and run for your life. So he loves you, but from a safe distance. He hides his patterns, hides the flares in his eyes, hides his powers.

Well, until today.

He shouldn’t have been so careless. He shouldn’t have teleported to you when you knew how far away he was. There’s no way he’ll be able to explain that.

And now here you are, looking irresistibly beautiful, telling him you need him.

And he just might risk it all for that cute face asking so nicely.

“You need me, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” you nod, pulling him in and closing the door. “I need you in any way you’re willing to give me. Please, Jinu.”

“I know, sweet girl. I’ll give you everything,” his grip slides up and down your arms. “I just—I need to tell you something first.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t care, okay?” you step even closer. “Is it about experience? I don’t care if you’ve never done it before. Is that why you’re so nervous to touch me?”

“No! I mean, that’s only part of it. I also don’t want to hurt you. I’m afraid I’ll lose control.”

“Jinu, we’ll use safe words and everything, don’t worry. We’ll go slow.”

“I don’t want to go slow.”

Does he have some yellow in his eyes?

He closes them before you can get a better look, crashing his lips to yours with a newfound hunger, drinking up all your shared desire. You’re against the wall now, surrounded by his limbs. His hands can’t seem to decide where to find a home, touching you everywhere, just like you’ve been wanting.

“Mmm. So all I needed to do was say I need you to get this side of you?” you don’t bother stifling your sighs, his kisses sending shivers down your spine. He’s never touched you like this.

“I—“

He doesn’t finish his thought, unable to part from your lips for long enough. He’s completely intoxicated by you, finally allowing himself the taste he’s been starving for.

But unfortunately, arousal is a death sentence for his disguise.

You’re not crazy when you saw his eyes flash yellow, and you’re certainly not crazy when you feel a sharpness emerge from Jinu’s nails running down your back. His grip slides under your thighs and he picks you up to bring you to your bed, his strength making it so easy it feels a bit unnatural.

Jinu notices when your eyes lock on the purple peeking out from under his shirt, worried this is the beginning of the end. Maybe you’ll believe the lie that they’re tattoos.

But then his patterns start glowing, pulsing to his heartbeat. His eyes are locked on your gaze, wishing you’d say something instead of staring.

“Jinu…” you lift up a hand and pull back his shirt collar a bit, revealing more of the purple marks. “Is this what you were going to tell me?”

“Y-Yes,” he says, gently brushing your hand away. He tries to get his disguise back under control, turning his eyes back to brown and fading his patterns for a few seconds before they come back with full force. He groans, wishing it didn’t take so much effort to mask his true form. Even his skin is tinting back to its usual mauve hue. And no, the throbbing erection in his pants isn’t helping his focus either.

“I’m not…I’m not human,” he says, breathing heavily. “Well, I used to be. But not anymore.”

“What are you, an alien or something? I don’t mind.”

“No, not an alien. I’m a demon. I sold my soul and now I’m forever cursed to be like this.”

He finally lets his guard completely down, revealing his true form to you. Eyes like fire, sharp teeth, long fingers, and purple patterns covering him head to toe.

“Whoa,” is all you can utter at first, admiring him in his authentic glory.

You sit up and take his hands, running your fingers over his and then tracing his patterns up his arms. He shivers at the touch, gaze watching your every move as you explore him.

“A demon, huh?” you chuckle, mesmerized by the new vision before you. “You’re way hotter than what I thought a demon would look like.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Why would I be scared?” you look straight into his yellow eyes now. “I have a lot of questions, sure, but right now I just really want you to fuck me.”

“You...you still want me to?” he asks, his voice slightly shaken and echoing. “I’ve never...What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t,” you fall back on the bed and pull him down to you. “Please, Jinu.”

He feels your tug on the hem of shirt, silently pleading to see him. He’s terrified of showing the visual reminders of his shame, terrified that once he feels you, he’ll never be able to stop.

He gives you a slight nod, grimacing a bit as you pull off his shirt. You trace your fingers down his chest, flashing a content smile.

“You’re beautiful, Jinu.” you say. “So pretty.”

You push him gently down on the bed, crawling on top of him. You interlace your hands and lean down to kiss his face, then down his neck and shoulders. You won’t stop until you’ve shown every bit of him the love he’s deflected far too long.

He moans your name, changing his grip to your wrists and pushing you away slightly.

“You should know what you’re getting yourself into. You don’t know what I’ve done, I really don’t deserve affection like this.”

“Jinu.” you sigh. “I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done. Let me give you this. Please?”

His eyes widen at your insistence, and he’d be a fool to resist.

“I—“

“Let me make you feel good, okay?” you wait for him to nod again. “Scoot down a bit.”

He does as he’s told, and you kneel down at the edge of the bed, helping him shuffle out of his jeans. You hesitate before pulling down his boxers as well, looking up at him.

“So, is there anything I should know about demon dick?”

“N-No,” he chuckles, face flushing a deeper shade of purple. “Just, um...a little bigger than when I was human, I think. I don’t really remember.”

“How long ago were you human again?”

“About 400 years—“

“400 years?!” you exclaim. “Holy shit, Jinu. You have a lot of explaining to do after this.”

“I tried to tell you—“

“Shhh,” you wave a finger at him, effectively shutting him up. “Not yet. Let me blow you first, okay?”

He raises his hands in surrender with a grin, finding your directness quite adorable.He stiffens a bit when you take his last layer off, but your smile takes away his nerves instantly.

The patterns really are everywhere, you can now confirm. And they’re glowing for you.

You spit a couple times in your hand, then gently stroke his shaft up and down. The last bit of softness hardens in your grip, and Jinu lets out the most guttural groan. After a few more strokes, you guide him to your mouth, slowly replacing your fingers with your lips. Your tongue runs under and swirls around him, and soon enough Jinu gets the rhythm. He syncs up his soft thrusts with your mouth, gripping the sheets with his talon-like fingertips. You really don’t care if he gets holes in them when he’s making such angelic noises.

“I don’t…” he moans. “I don’t think I can go much longer…”

“Let it go, love.”

With a few more pulses to your throat and a soft massage to his balls with your fingers, he finally releases, falling back on the mattress in ecstasy. You swallow and crawl back onto him, kissing him with his own taste on your lips. It doesn’t take long for him to return your heat again, kissing you back with a newfound ferocity.

He was about to find out just how far his demon stamina could go tonight.

After a few more drawn-out kisses, he tugs on your shirt, begging you to show yourself as well. You do so gladly, letting him take everything off piece by piece. His hands explore your body just as you explored his, lingering as long as he can on each part of you.

He flips you over, cradling you in his arms as he leaves gentle love bites on your skin. Your back arches into him, but he presses your further into the mattress. He let’s all the passion he’s been holding in go loose and wild, love pouring out of his soulless heart.

“Mmm, Jinu,” you giggle. “This is what I needed.”

“I’m sorry I waited so long to give it to you,” he frowns, brushing a hand over your hair and running a thumb across your cheek.

His feathery touches move down your face and down your torso, until he’s teasing your pussy with delectable intent.

“Tell me if I do anything wrong, okay?” he says, waiting for your review of his attempts to please you.

“Jinu, you’re doing great,” you assure him, guiding his fingers a bit. “Just touch right there.”

He follows your lead, swirling circles where you told him to. When you’re ready, he warms you up more with his fingers, until you’re begging him again to fuck you.

You help him align himself properly, and he pushes into you slowly, kissing your jaw as he loses himself in you. Feeling your clenched around him and holding you in his arms is a feeling he hopes to relive over and over again, your warmth and softness a perfect compliment to his sharp edges. You’re refreshingly perfect, a clarity he’s sought but never thought he’d find or deserve. He wants to repay all the love and patience you’ve shown him tenfold, every day until you push him away.

He whispers “I love you’s” as many times as he needs to until you approach your release, hands and fingers never leaving your most sensitive spots. He kisses you as you come down from your high, squeezing you tight into him the moment he pulls out.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he says, your breath slowing in the crook of his neck as he kisses the top of your head. “Just promise me you’ll stay.”

“I’m staying, Jinu.” your fingers return to his patterns, tracing them like an intricate maze.

“I’m staying.”

[digitialwonderland]

Okay, and what if college!reader applied for a dorm room late and now they were supposed to live in the dorms with the foreign exchange students?

Going into another year of college was hard enough, but showing up late and being given whatever spare dorm room was available just added onto your anxiety. You had never been good with deadlines, really. You had grown up with a penchant for running behind. But this almost felt like a new low.

You were given the last room available, one in the Foreign Exchange student dorms. It was a nice building, for that you were grateful. But an air of the unknown hung over the circumstances. The students who lived in the building together had been dorm mates for many years. You were going to be a black sheep.

Luckily though, Professor Price, the manager of the exchange program, gave you the courtesy of a verbal roll call as he guided you towards the building.

“Simon and Kyle are both brits,” he explained, his kind voice carved out by its own English accent. “But Simon’s from Manchester, so his accent is a bit thicker. Johnny is Scottish, he’s a kind-hearted bloke, but a bit rambunctious.” You both turned around the corner and slowly began to approach the front door of the dorms. “König’s Austrian, nice lad, bit off putting though. With how big he is and all. Kim, or as his buddies call him, Horangi, is Korean.” A small smile curled over his face, “I think you’ll find that him and Kyle are the most approachable of the group. Them and Alejandro, who transferred over from Mexico just last year.”

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t intimidated,” you admitted, smiling nervously to yourself as you approached the door.

A low, comforting chuckle rolled from him as he reached for the door handle. “Don’t worry too much about it, doll. I have a feeling you’ll fit in just fine.” With a gentle push, he opened the door, leaving you the space to go in.

With your boxes heavy in your hands, you took the first few steps into the dorm lobby. Almost immediately you were hit with the overwhelming noise.

Alejandro: “Vete a la mierda, idiota escocés.”

Johnny: “English please! I don’t speak fucking Spanish, Vargas!”

Alejandro: “Fuck you! You can barely speak English yourself!”

Two of the men were yelling in a small kitchen, damn near nose to nose. One of them, the Scot, had either side of his head shaved, leaving a proud stripe down the center. Johnny, you imagined. Which meant that the other one, with tan skin and angry gold eyes, was Alejandro. At a small table, two men sat. A muscular blonde with a mug perched in his hand. Simon, you think. He was sipping on his tea with a look in his eyes that screams murder spree. The other was much friendlier looking, with dark skin that reflected a slightly golden hue on his high cheekbones. That must have been Kyle. On the couch there are two others, one who is preoccupied with a book. Kim. And another, who is the only one who seemed to notice you and Price in the doorway, giving you a very German stare.

The fight in the kitchen was growing more heated, the longer you lingered the more details you started to notice. Cooking supplies were scattered over the counter top. Tortillas sat on a plate in one area, surrounded by different spices and herbs. The oven seemed a congregation of plates and pans. Meat simmered with a variety of veggies in one and beans cooked in another.

Alejandro: “You are the one who asked me to cook! I cook how my family has taught me to. I’m not making you shitty, americanized tacos.”

Johnny: “All I’m asking is that you change one little thing!”

Alejandro: “I am not changing a family recipe so that you won’t get a belly ache!”

Professor Price stepped out from behind you, clearing his throat and instantly sending the room into a heavy silence. “Boys, this is your new roomy. Be nice.”

Well how’s that for introductions?

Okay and maybe I just wanted all my favorite men in the same room. What are you going to do? Get mad?

[jadore-f1]

HARD LAUNCHED| LN4 |Chapter 4

Synopsis ♡ A series of coincidences lead the world to thinking that you’re dating Lando Norris

Genre ♡ SMAU, Lando x Fem!reader, enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, may be slightly suggestive in future chapters

Notes ♡ MDNI (no smut but I am a +18 blog), my first smau!

writing out a vlog was so challenging… never again. This fic is taking on a mind of its own. I had no irl timeline planned originally but now i guess we’re in the 2025 season 🤣

Face Claim ♡ Kianna Naomi (any other pics are for outfits and general vibes) all credit to pintrest for photos

INTRO – VLOG START

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “Saturday 7:45 AM”

"Good morning, you guys... it’s 7:45 and I’m trying to convince myself to get out of bed. I thought it would be cute to take you guys throughout the day with me!”

—

GETTING READY

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “7:51 AM”

[CAMERA: Bathroom mirror, brushing teeth, quick shots of skincare, hair tied back]

"Okay, so first things first! My morning routine. Just little skincare, and throwing on my running clothes. Today’s going to be packed, so I gotta get moving."

—

MORNING RUN

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “8:15 AM”

[CAMERA: POV of running, feet hitting pavement, nature shots]

"I always try to start the day with some kind of movement. Running clears my head and gives my mind like a blank canvas to work with for the day. Plus, I ran track in middle school so I like to keep my stamina up."

—

BACK HOME

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “8:55 AM”

[CAMERA: At desk, sipping water, typing on laptop, answering a phone call]

"After I get back, I shower and then it’s straight into emails and a couple of work calls. Between opening the studio and planning/shooting brand content, mornings are the only real ‘admin’ time I get."

“This is also around the time my bestie decides to start her day.”

[CAMERA: pans to best friend- still half asleep in kitchen starting coffee pot]

“Say good morning to the people (F/N)!”

“How do you have this much energy right now.”

—

BREAKFAST

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “9:30 AM”

[CAMERA: Kitchen, making a smoothie bowl, cutting fruit, plating neatly]

"Eating early in the morning makes me nauseous more often than not so I like to keep it light but still full of energy. I made a quick smoothie bowl today. Nothing fancy, just something to keep me going until lunch. Side note- Have y'all seen those dry yogurt bowls? I’ve never had one but the texture creeps me out. Also, how cute does this look?!"

—

HEADING TO STUDIO

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “10:00 AM”

[CAMERA: In the car, driving, entering the dance studio with keys]

"Studio time! This is honestly my second home. I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember. It took a lot of work and trust for the owner to let me start opening, but I eventually proved myself capable. I usually open up around 10, check on everything, and start prepping for the morning yoga class."

—

YOGA CLASS + CLEANING

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “11:00 AM”

[CAMERA: Soft lighting, yoga class clips, mats laid out, cleaning mirrors after class]

"Our yoga crew is the sweetest. I want to do puppy yoga but my boss said no. After class, I always make time to reset the space. Clean the floors, mirrors, props. I like everything to feel fresh for the dance classes."

“My personal goal is to start teaching my own Floor-work slash heels class sometime this year. We just don’t have the time slot for it currently.”

—

LUNCH BREAK

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “12:30 PM”

[CAMERA: Sitting on studio couch]

"Lunch today is super simple, just a wrap and some fruit. I’ve got about 30 minutes before the tiny dancers come in, so I’m just taking a sec to breathe."

—

CHILDREN’S CLASS

ON-SCREEN TEXT: “1:00 PM”

[CAMERA: Fast-paced clips of kids stretching, dancing, laughing, dancing games]

"The beginner kids class is always the highlight of my day. They’re full of energy, and sometimes chaos but it’s definitely the good kind."

—

HOME + Q&A

[CAMERA: Back at home, changing into different outfit, setting up camera/tripod]

"I’m back home and now it’s time for our Q&A! Earlier this week I asked you guys to send me some of your burning questions and wow did you guys deliver.”

“I made a list of the ones asked the most so let’s just dive right in!”

Okay but… are you actually dating Lando Norris?

“This was by FAR the most asked question! So I’m officially setting the record straight, No we’re not dating. It was just some weird coincidences blown way out of proportion. I honestly thought about burning that cursed jersey but I paid way too much money for it at a charity shop so now it’s just a souvenir for the weirdest moment in my life.”

How long have you been a dancer?

“Since I could stand on my own two feet! I started off with ballet like everyone does but once I started to come into my own, I moved more towards hip-hop and eventually found ‘Heels Classes’ and fell in love.”

What was it like seeing your name in those gossip columns?

“Shocking to say the least. I literally told my best friend that it felt like I was in some poorly written fanfiction haha!”

Did anyone reach out to you after the rumors started?

“Yes everything was cleared up and there is no bad blood on either side!”

What’s it like being an American in England? I want to move there once I graduate.

“This is a bit of an odd question for me specifically because it’s not like I waited until I was 18 and just moved across the globe alone. My family moved here from the States when I was around 14 or so for my dads job. Obviously I hated it back then and was a very angsty teen about it but now looking back I definitely think I got the best of both worlds in a way.”

Do you feel pressure to post or not post certain things now?

“Absolutely not! I know some of my dance covers are kind of more on the risqué side but I'm an adult and I would hope most of my target audience is the same! You’re responsible for the content you see so if you don’t like it? Block me!”

Did you know about Formula 1 before all of this?

“Haha- I actually didn’t! I knew of Lewis Hamilton because duh everyone knows Lewis Hamilton but I had no clue what F1 was or how big it was. I did watch the latest race though just to see what the hype was about and I can say that I am a little intrigued.”

“Wouldn’t that be so wild though, this whole experience happened and I actually turned into a F1 fan.”

How did you deal with the hate you got from the scandal?

“Not very well I can tell you that much. Umm it was all very sudden you know? One minute I'm just posting and living life as usual and then the next I’m getting the most vitriol messages in my inbox.

It was extremely hard to like rationalize that these people didn’t know me, yet could just look at me and say the most vile things imaginable. It put me in a very dark place mentally for a while.

So yeah the only thing I could do was step away from my socials for a minute and surround myself with my support system. I definitely wouldn’t wish that type of hate on anyone.”

“All that being said, I would just like to take a moment to say be kind to others— especially online! You never know what anyone is going through and just because you say something behind a screen doesn’t mean it can’t have real life repercussions. Let’s all work on being a more positive community and spreading kindness always!”

OUTRO

"And that’s a wrap on today! Thanks for spending the day with me. It was a busy one, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Make sure to like, subscribe, and drop a comment if you want to see a full behind-the-scenes of a class!"

“Thanks for watching!”

—

Uh-oh 🙈 What could possibly go wrong! Thanks for reading i’ll see yall next chapter! 💋

taglist- @ivegotparticulartaste @stupendouspersonsandwich @boggiesho @vict-oryy @freyathehuntress @lemon-stvrrr @scentedrosa @madelyn2000 @strawberrylov-er @camxmx @jaemdonut @imvunia @ln4-cl16-world @lost-library-of-violets @hopeless--romamtic @basicchelsea @jaydensluv

[avanzinii]

only for you - MANON BANNERMAN

synopsis: you only agreed to joining a streamer dating show for some fun and clout. what you didn’t expect was to match with manon bannerman. and you definitely didn’t expect to fall for her first.

003. matched

half written - wc 1.4k

being a dropout college student turned streamer means doing things you would’ve laughed at before. agreeing to be on a live dating show just for a baja blast is exactly one of those things.

now you’re sitting in front of a big desktop computer screen, waiting for it to go live.

ping. ping.

a message from the host, lara: “going live in five, everyone!”

you take a deep breath. inhale. exhale.

you glance one last time over the list of streamers attending.

manon bannerman.

something about her struck you the second you saw her photo.

it was unexplainable. your heart races at the thought of talking where she can hear you—let alone talking directly to her.

click. live.

the livestream focuses on lara raj as she introduces the concept of the show. “thank you for tuning in to lara’s lovecast!” she pauses to glance offscreen at her script.

“can i get each of our contestants to introduce themselves? your name and something you look for in a partner.”

there are ten of you in total, not including lara. ideally, everyone will match with someone, but preferences differ.

beomgyu starts after a brief silence. “okay, hi guys,” he laughs, “i’m beomgyu, and i want someone…”

as he finishes, your attention drifts somewhere else. or, to someone else.

there she is.

beautiful as ever, manon in high definition. that feeling you had the first time returns. every glance you sneak at her feels more intense.

you don’t know this girl—nothing but the fact that you’re in complete adoration.

“next?” lara prompts, the camera brightening on your face. you snap back to reality.

“hi, my name is y/n, and i’m looking for someone who’s…” you trail off. what do you want?

you’re not sure. kind? funny? hard-working? you just want someone to love you.

“who’s loving,” you finish.

the chat immediately notices your stumble.

user a: y/n looks so nervous aw

user b: acting like we didn’t all see them stuttering mhmm ik what u are

you laugh it off, letting the next person go. you try to collect yourself while the stream isn’t focused on you.

brush off your shirt, adjust your hair, and take a quiet, deep breath again.

“and lastly?” lara smiles.

“my name is manon,” you look up quickly. she’s smiling gently at the camera. not too much. gentle. her teeth bright, her eyes even brighter.

“i guess, um,” she laughs, nervousness clear in her voice, “just a sweet person.”

your lips curl without you even realizing.

“amazing! we just hit 25,000 viewers, thank you all for coming!” lara switches to a wide shot including everyone’s faces.

“our first round is called chat’s choice. chat, you get to ask questions, and each contestant will answer. after, each streamer will text me who they’re vibing with right now. makes sense?”

the chat explodes with excitement.

“seems like the first one is for you, ryujin,” lara chuckles. “name drop your ex.”

you burst out laughing, slamming the mute button so you can hide off camera.

“okay, before i say anything, i swear we’re not like—,” she scratches her neck, “fucking on the low or anything, but minjeong.”

“oh?” lara snorts.

user c: hello?? since when was ryujeong a thing

user d: now why would she say allat if they weren’t… baby nobody was gonna think that 💀

“winter, is this true?” one streamer asks.

“well, obviously,” she rubs her temples.

“someone’s asking y/n,” you gulp. you’re fine with questions, but exposing your exes in front of 25,000 people? not so much.

“what’s your type, like exactly?”

you break before speaking. “i don’t really have a physical type,” you taper off.

user f: be so fr 😭

user g: what does ur ex look like then

you can’t hold in your laugh. nervous laughing is key for you.

“i like brown eyes, brown hair maybe, and a pretty smile,” to avoid saying more, you end it there.

you didn’t mean to describe manon—she really is just your type.

user h: crazy that manon is all that!

user i: manon looking at her like she knows damn well

“i see,” lara says, struggling to keep composure.

questions continue—from jiung being asked to “do splits on it” to more normal ones about dream dates.

“okay, need you all to let me know who you’re fucking with right now,” the host says.

she doesn’t reveal who everyone picked, just smiles and moves on.

“alright guys, this round is called match or pass. chat will randomly pair you all up, and you have 10 seconds to choose match or pass. no matter your choice, you’ll have a chance to switch later.”

honestly, you’d be fine with anyone except your brother. some people ship you two without realizing you’re siblings.

a soundboard dings. “ryujin and megan! pass.”

you look up to see ryujin typing rapidly. ping.

user thankryu: i want the host sorry

“we’ll talk after,” lara winks.

beomgyu fake gags instinctively.

the sound dings again. “winter and jiung! match!”

“what the fuck?” beomgyu cackles. “winter aren’t you literally a girl kisser, god damn it?”

user imwinter: money knows no bounds… 🤑

“manon and y/n!” you freeze.

maybe it’s the question last round, or how you’ve been eyeing her the whole time, but the viewers know. they know you’re into her.

lights flash everywhere. too many to count.

the timer clicks down. 4. 3. 2. you click your button, submitting your answer. all you can hope is she’ll give you a chance. a fake chance, even.

it doesn’t have to be real. you just want to entertain the idea she could want you back.

“manon and y/n…” lara begins.

the air tightens. your breathing feels louder. was it always that noisy? your stomach knots, tied and twisted.

“match!”

your gaze drifts upward. she’s looking right at you. you can tell.

her face isn’t nervous now. it’s certain. maybe playful. her lips curl into the smallest smirk before she giggles like she’s not trying to drive you crazy.

before you can catch your breath, lara moves on.

“thank you all for sticking with us this far. there’s 40,000 of you now! and to our contestants, if you haven’t matched yet, this is your last chance,” she breathes. god, that’s what you need right now.

“this round is called shoot your shot. if you’re feeling someone, be bold and tell them. then, send me your final match.”

there’s no way you’re flirting live with almost 50,000 watching.

a baja blast isn’t nearly enough to get you to do that.

you can’t focus—everything is fuzzy and loud. you keep your face normal for the camera, but inside your ribs feel like they’re closing in.

“yeah, i’ll go,” the voice strikes you. it’s hers—manon’s.

“i’m not one to sugarcoat things so i’ll just say this,” she glances down then back up.

please, can the world take it easy on you for two seconds?

“i’m picking y/n, i think you’re hot—just saying.”

your heart skips, actually missing beats.

your face burns. your eyes blink. your mouth cracks open like your soul left you.

for a second, you forget you’re live.

“the weather, am i right?” you mutter.

user j: ain’t no way y/n just said ts

user k: biggest fumble im crying

user l: okay but they’re cute tho

you hear ryujin hit mute just after breaking into laughter. your eyes are insanely dilated now. you’re completely short-circuiting.

“um,” lara tries to keep it together, “okay, next person.”

what the fuck just happened.

list | prev | next

a/n first written chapter…feeling nervous

taglist is open! (20/50)

@notheroverthinker @liancacoltrane1 @wtafits @wwwlpgs @academiq @fruityg0rl @meganwrld @kianthegirlkisser @urwavvy @kimmeiy @fattyvico @rdfgfv @dahyunsrealgf @pizzachicken @bunnaursstuff @tribute-409 @keilyskei @runm3over @linnnsworld @yvesolace

[flqwerjo]

❀ ┊𝐏𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐳

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘ᵎᵎ Jakehoon as your boyfriends (that are also each others boyfriend)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄/𝐂𝐖 ─── headcanons , fluff , poly relationship , short work 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ─── 0.7k

𝐅𝐋𝐐𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 ─── poly work debut yay <3 i tried to write a little despite being sick

ᰔ 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 ᵎᵎ

ᰔ You're never bored with them as your boyfriends , they love to keep you busy while also keeping themselves busy unless you want some time for yourself. They're always happy to go outside or just chill at home , cuddling with you in bed.

ᰔ Whenever the three of you are bantering playfully , Jake or Sunghoon will hit you with the "You do know he was lowkey my boyfriend before he was yours, right" as a Joke (maybe it wasn't a joke) as they used to have simple bromance before becoming each others boyfriends as well.

ᰔ Arguments happen rarely between the three of you although , not for good reasons. Jake and Sunghoon tend to avoid the issues. While Jake is the one who mostly lashes out in the heat of the moment , Sunghoon keeps everything to himself before he can't keep it in anymore. But once he releases that — it's like a jar breaking with his words cutting like shards of glass. So , arguments happen rarely but when they do happen — they're big ones.

ᰔ Back to the Arguments , the communication is there , don't get me wrong — but they're also just people. Let's say an Argument happens : Jake tends to lock himself in his room to cool off while Sunghoon just spaces out and self reflects on what he said or what he had done. Sunghoon is also the first one who always confronts one of you while crying because he just feels so sorry and is overwhelmed by his own emotions. It always ends with the three of you talking it out and finding better ways to work things out which ends with falling asleep in each others arms.

ᰔ There is something Jake and Sunghoon love to do to tease you — that being , kissing slowly while looking at you. They know you feel left out and part of them does feel bad about it — but the joy they get out of teasing you is way more fun. They always do this whenever you get snappy with them or give them the cold shoulder — they'll show you what you're missing out on if you were to keep the act up.

ᰔ It's endearing how they both go out of their way to get any kind of validation from you. While Jake openly comments about what he did , saying things like "I cooked really good today" or "I did a good job cooking" to get you to praise him — Sunghoon would just show you what he did while mumbling shyly to himself that he did that. Jake isn't shy about wanting to be praised by you , Sunghoon on the other hand tries to deny it but the cute little smile on his face speaks differently.

ᰔ Chores with them are heaven , mostly because of Sunghoon. Sunghoon is a clean freak and likes to keep his things clean and organized — that also counts for the apartment the three of you live in. It's never messy and if it is , those are rare occasions. Sunghoon just tends to accidentally misplace your or Jake's things , thinking he put them in the right spot. He was just trying his best :(

ᰔ Jake loves loves loooooooooves to be affectionate with the two of you so he always wants to sleep in one big bed — he was the reason the three of you have big beds . Yes , big beds , plural. You guys have seperate rooms since you agreed on having your own spaces for some 'me time'. There's always one person sleeping alone since always sleeping together can get chaotic sometimes. Jake is the only one who never slept alone since the three of you got together. If it's not the three of you sleeping in one bed because one of you wanted to sleep alone — Jake is either in Sunghoon's bed or in yours. At this point , he doesn't even know how to sleep alone anymore because he's gotten so used to not being alone.

ᰔ Sometimes , when you come home later than them — you'll find them cuddling on the couch , Jake having falling asleep while waiting for you with his cheek squished against Sunghoon's tummy while the younger male ran his finger's through Jake's hair. You can never stop yourself from snapping a pic or two of them.

𓍯  𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 🌷͙֒  @hollyoongs @ilyevxn @kazamuras @sourkiki @jun2ki

[aryacoulson]

SMUTTY SEQUEL

Enjoy Yourself Part 2- Game On (Robby’s Turn)

contains- masturbation, cloned labia sex toy, age gap (mid to late 20s/early 50s), sex tape part deux, uh..technically come eating?

Y’all. I almost died writing this one. I had to put myself in timeout. Like the last one, kinda long so the good stuff is under the cut.

Not getting an immediate response to his Enjoy Yourself text doesn’t bother Robby. Not a first, at least. But when two hours go by with nothing, the doubt starts to creep in.

Maybe he pushed too far, too fast. Maybe you weren’t into as much as drunk you thought you might be- after all, the old boyfriend never actually followed through with your ask. Maybe…maybe you weren’t actually as in to him as it seemed.

Robby was roughly yanking the covers back, prepared to at least be comfortable while he spiraled, when his phone buzzed three times in quick succession and he swears he feels his heart stop.

>>70 Days and counting

>>Enjoy yourself

>>video file

She was going to be the death of him.

69 Days and Counting >> Considering the picture I woke up to, I assume you enjoyed the video? <<You’re a menace. << Almost caused a cardiac event

>>Good thing I’m a doctor

53 Days and Counting

He could feel Dana staring at him, head tilted slightly to the side and eyes slightly squinted, like he was one of those old magic eye pictures from the 90s. God he was getting old. “How’ve you been lately, Cap? You seem different…looser. Not wound quite so tight.”

Yeah, daily hits of orgasm hormones will do that to a man. He was thankful your videos weren’t actually on tape, they’d be worn out by now. “That would be the side effects of actually getting some decent sleep.”

Dana just hummed back at him. “Listen, I know you don’t particularly care to acknowledge your birthday, but Jesse, Donnie and Princess were hoping you’d join beers in the park tonight, since you’re off tomorrow.”

Robby peered at her over his glasses, catching sight of the three nurses doing a piss poor job of pretending they weren’t watching and waiting for his answer. He quickly made up his mind when you joined them, raising your eyebrow in question. “What the hell, why not?”

End of shift saw a decent sized group gathering in the park, even Jack had come, throwing a badly wrapped gift at him. You’d think someone with his skills would be better at it.

Your voice drew Robby’s attention, “Here, I know you’re probably going to want to get into it right away, but you can’t open it until at least midnight.”Oh ho, he did not trust that tone or the look in eyes.

“Midnight?” “What’d you get him to prompt that!?”

You just rolled your eyes at Princess’ tone before answering both her and Robby, “Because it’s not your birthday until midnight, and it’s a book”

He didn’t know what was in the box you handed but it was not a fucking book.

“A book?”

“Yeah, the one he was talking about the other day. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”

That got Jack’s attention, “Michael Joseph Robinavitch, tell me you aren’t thinking about getting a donor cycle, man. Find a safer midlife crisis.”

Robby just snorted, looking at you. Or maybe a more dangerous one.

52 Days and Counting- 12:01 AM

Robby answered his buzzing phone as he fought with the tape on the box. “That eager for me to open this boo- Jesus fucking Christ sweetheart, are you trying to kill me!?” You just giggled on the other end. “Happy Birthday, Michael. Have fun.” You hung up, leaving Robby gaping at the note you had written.

So apparently, you can make clones of labias, too. And it comes with a cock sleeve. 💋

It took twenty seconds of staring dumbly at the contents of the box before he bolted down the hall. He didn’t have a tripod but he had plenty of books, they’d have to do. Let’s see how she likes it.

He managed to get the phone angled and balanced right on his nightstand with minimal trial and error, and finally gave the toy more than just a cursory look. You’d opted for the hot pink silicone instead of a more natural colored one, and running his fingers across the replica of your pussy made his breath pick up and his already tight boxer briefs to tighten further. He quickly reached for the lube, glad that it was water based, adding an ample amount into the attached cock sleeve. He wanted you dripping.

Robby dropped his hand to his lap, giving himself a quick squeeze as he brought the toy to his face, licking from bottom to top, letting out a rumbling groan. He swore he could smell the faintest hint of your cunt on the silicone, even if all he could taste was the near flavorlessness of the lube and he wanted.

He lost himself in it, slurping and licking and moaning, soaking the toy and his beard in his salvia, for long minutes. He pulled back, heaving, and reached for his boxers, barely getting them half way down his thighs before he gave up.

Shifting closer to the edge of the bed, Robby reached down, sliding the hot pink lips of your pussy up and down his cock, wetting himself with his own spit. He braced the shaft of the toy between his thighs, and teasing himself, rocked his hips back and forth, gliding through slickness that had leaked out.

Back and forth, back and forth in little micro thrusts, he dropped his head back, bracing himself with one hand on the bed behind him. Releasing a soft groan, he used a thumb to gently apply pressure, pushing his cock deeper between your lips.

“God, baby, you feel so good. Absolutely soaked for me.” “You like that, huh? Want some more?”

He started thrusting faster, pushing down harder, lost in his fantasy when the toy slipped, too slick from lube and an obscene amount of precum. The head of his cock slid across the plastic edge of the toy and he let out a truly pathetic whimper, coming hard all over the toy and his thighs.

Gasping and twitching, he collapsed backward on the bed, dropping the toy next to him. After a minute that felt far too short, he stiffened slightly, remembering that you had sent a second video, just days after the first.

Making direct, intense eye contact with the camera, he brought the toy back to his mouth. And licked, and sucked, until he’d cleaned every drop of his come from your cunt, a smug smirk just barely visible at the corner of his mouth.

<<52 days and counting

<<Game on, sweetheart

<<video file

okay, so editing actually resulted in this being a smidge shorter since I removed some stuff that didn’t quite flow right. BUT!!! That means there’s technically going to be 4 parts cause I’m putting those in a smutty countdown interlude thing. At some point.

this fucking thing is eating my brain

page dividers by @rori-is-writing

for @spookypeachpitt13

[baguettenjoyer]

Matchmaker Caine

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Funny…Trust

Summary:

The Moon watches the cast enjoy a camping adventure, and everything is just right.

———————————————————————————

It was almost too peaceful.

No zombies or deranged doctors or snakes. Just birdsong—real-sounding—and the scent of pine needles under her shoes.  The same forest from the scavenger hunt. Pomni stepped carefully over a root and looked up just in time to see a mossy log get flipped over.

“Red-backed salamander,” Zooble muttered, practically vibrating with excitement. “Textbook pattern. Nice.”

Pomni blinked. “Are we… sure this isn’t a horror game?”

Zooble didn’t even look up. “If it is, it’s my kind of horror game.”

A little farther away, Ragatha dove off a short ledge into the lake with an elegant splash and a “wheee,” soaking Kinger by accident. He didn’t seem to notice—he was too busy gleefully chasing a monarch butterfly with his arms outstretched.

Somewhere near the shore, Gangle sat cross-legged with her sketchpad balanced on her knees, the corners of her mouth tugging up. And even farther beyond, Caine was following Zooble with an expression halfway between baffled scientist and proud dad. He nearly got smacked in the face with a flying toad, shouting: “ZOOBLE, LOOK AT THIS TOAD! WHAT KIND IS IT?”

Pomni’s eyes trailed upward. The Moon hung low in the afternoon sky, not speaking—just watching. Softly. As she always did. 

She barely noticed how her fingers had laced with Jax’s until he gave them a squeeze.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

Pomni startled and tugged her hand away with a mock scowl. “No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.” He bumped his shoulder into hers, snickering.

“I was just… breathing. Like a normal person.”

“Nah. This was different. Less ‘please let the ground swallow me,’ more ‘wow, life is tolerable.’”

She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “You talk too much.”

He grinned. “You’re obsessed with me, Pommy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m so handsome, aren’t I? Ya can’t resist.”

Pomni snorted. “Well...you’re not wrong.”

He blushed like he didn’t expect that answer.

They walked a little further, feet crunching through leaves. Red sunlight streamed through the branches above as afternoon began to fade. Pomni squinted into it, caught off guard by how warm everything felt—inside her and around her. She glanced at Jax again, took in the floppy ears, the dopey grin, the way his eyes shimmered.

“You really do look like a cute little bunny right now,” she teased.

He gasped like she’d slapped him.

“Take it back,” he said.

“I won’t.”

“Oh, you—” And then—he swept her up bridal style, his smirk wide and ridiculous and infuriatingly adorable.

“JAX—!” she shrieked, clutching his overalls as her feet left the ground. Her heart began to pound. 

“Don’t worry, Pommy,” he said in a mock-heroic voice, “I’ll protect you from the scary, uh—sticks. Twigs. Whatever.”

Pomni kicked her feet helplessly. “You are such a menace.”

He looked down at her then, not laughing anymore.

And it hit her how close they were. His arms holding her like it was nothing, like he’d always meant to. The way his face softened in the sunlight. She stared up at him, heart thudding in her ears. She wasn’t going to get used to this, was she? 

“Hey…” she said quietly. “Did you ever…do this kind of thing with someone else? Before?”

Jax blinked. Then he looked away. 

“No,” he said.

Pomni tilted her head.

“I mean it,” he added quickly. “I’ve never—none of this. Not the fake dating thing. Not the real…thing. You’re my first.”

“Oh,” she said.

He flushed, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I know, it’s kinda pathetic—”

“No,” Pomni said, firmer than she expected. “It’s not.”

They stopped near a curved tree branch that jutted low like a natural seat. He set her down on it gently, but she slipped a little, flailing. “A little warning next time—!”

“Whoops.” Jax caught her again, hands steady at her waist, his face close. “Guess I’m just too heroic.”

She laughed nervously, heart racing again.

He looked at her for a moment, then leaned in. Slowly.

This kiss was nothing like the others. Not quick or flirty or heated. It was soft and careful. A hand brushing her cheek. The press of his lips light and trembling, like he wanted her to feel it in her bones.

It reminded her of the barn. 

Pomni kissed him back, slower still, her fingers curling around the hems of his overalls.

Trust.

It was the only word she could think of. That’s what it felt like.

She pulled back slightly, eyes still half-lidded. “That was…”

From behind the trees came a very audible “Awww!”

They both turned in unison to see Gangle peeking from behind a rock, Zooble leaning on her shoulder, eyes actually grinning, and Kinger bouncing in place.

“We weren’t spying,” Zooble lied flatly.

“You guys are the cutest ,” Ragatha called from the water.

Jax covered his face with both hands and groaned into them. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Pomni just laughed, bright and loud and unapologetically happy.

Happy. 

——

He wasn’t used to this much peace. It felt fake. Suspicious. Like a setup. But when he kicked a stick and it didn’t explode into spiders or worse, he had to admit…it might’ve actually been real.

The forest was still. Not silent— there were the usual insect chirps and Kinger chasing after a butterfly—but still in that weird, thoughtful way. The way people got quiet when someone was crying. Or in love. Or both, which honestly was kind of his brand now.

He dragged a few dry branches into a pile and crouched to break one in half. Crack. Crack. Soft, satisfying. No traps. Just wood.

“Need a hand?”

He flinched.

Ragatha stepped out from the trees, smiling in that calm, suburban mom kind of way. No pity in it. No tension. Just… neutral. Almost warm.

“…You following me?” he said, not unkindly.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t wander into the lake,” she replied, bending to help collect kindling. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re just grabbing random sticks.”

“That was intentional.”

“Sure it was.”

They worked in silence for a minute. The good kind. Like maybe she didn’t hate him anymore.

She broke the silence. “You make her happy, you know.”

Jax blinked. “Who?”

She gave him a flat look. “…Gangle.”

He snorted.

“She likes you,” Ragatha continued, still gathering twigs. “Pomni. You make her smile. That’s not easy for her.” Then, softer, “It’s not easy for a lot of us.”

Jax watched her. Waited for the follow-up threat. The lecture. The guilt trip.

But she just stood, arms full of wood, and looked at him with a tired, honest little smile.

“Keep it that way.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Nodded.

That was it.

No scolding. No drama. No hard-earned resentment cracking through. Just…trust.

It made his throat feel weird. Like something was sitting there, trying to crawl its way up. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“…Cool.”

They headed back to camp. Ragatha set the twigs into the firepit, letting him finish the setup on his own.

He knelt by the pit and started arranging the sticks. His mind was fuzzy.

“Need help, my boy?”

He turned. Kinger stood with a bundle of branches too, looking determined and very proud of himself.

“…Sure,” Jax said, shifting to make space.

Kinger handed him the bundle with a little wheeze and collapsed onto a log.

“You’ve grown, you know,” he muttered. “In ways I didn’t think were possible.”

Jax blinked. “From a stick to a taller stick?”

Kinger smiled with his eyes. “Exactly.”

The compliment landed with a thud right in his chest.

He turned back to the firewood before he could embarrass himself. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

He heard the shuffling of someone else behind him and turned, half expecting Ragatha again.

It was Gangle.

She clutched her sketchpad to her chest, eyes darting away when he looked at her. “Hey, Jax. I just wanted to say I’m happy for you. Both of you. It’s nice. You…you’re different, but it’s a good different.”

Jax stared at her.

Gangle? Proud of him?

He didn’t know what to do with that.

“…Thanks,” he said again, a little hoarse.

She nodded and wandered off, mumbling about needing to finish shading the lake.

Jax sat back on his heels.

People were proud of him. They liked him.

They liked… this version of him. The one who wasn’t pushing them away. The one who held Pomni’s hand and didn’t make a joke about it. The one who built fires and didn’t blow them up for fun.

His hands curled in his lap.

He didn’t know how to carry that.

And still… part of him didn’t want to let it go.

——

Pomni sat on a sun-warmed rock by the lake, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. The sky above was pinkish-orange. So realistic.

The Moon hovered just behind her, silent and soft in the glow.

“It feels real now, doesn’t it?” Pomni asked.

The Moon tilted in a nod.

Pomni breathed in, then out. The lake smelled like summer and fake pine. “I mean, I know it’s not real-real. But something about…this. The quiet. The fact that he’s not being annoying on purpose. That I don’t want to disappear anymore.”

She squinted at her reflection in the water.

“I think I’m allowed to want this.”

The Moon floated a little closer, her presence steady like gravity.

Pomni glanced over at the campfire, where Jax was curled up in a heap of blankets and smug satisfaction. His head rested on a pillow.

She grinned despite herself.

“He’s going to pretend he hates cuddling later,” she muttered. “Watch.”

The Moon didn’t reply. Just pulsed softly with light.

Pomni left the rock to join Jax in the warmth.

POP

Caine materialized nearby, all top hat and curiosity. He said nothing at first, just drifted toward the Moon’s side and joined her in staring across the clearing.

Pomni and Jax by the fire.

Zooble showing Gangle how to roast something that was definitely not a marshmallow.

Ragatha trying to hang a towel between two trees like it was a laundry line.

Kinger lying on his back, counting the fireflies.

It was a good snapshot of…something.

Caine tilted his head. “WHAT IS LOVE SUPPOSED TO MEAN, EXACTLY?” 

The question was came out of nowhere. Like he wasn’t sure he should be asking it out loud.

The Moon answered.

“It’s what happens when you don’t want to be alone anymore,” she said. “And someone sees the worst in you, and stays anyway.”

Caine stared at the Moon, slightly stunned. “GOLLY, I DON’T REMEMBER CODING YOU TO BE SO ARTICULATE.”

The Moon’s smile grew.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

And Caine—he didn’t glitch, didn’t laugh.

But he did blush.

Just a little.

——

The fire crackled low as Pomni rested by Jax, who leaned into her shoulder like he hadn’t spent the last hour pretending he wasn’t clingy.

His ears twitched when she smiled at him.

She nudged him lightly. “You’re hogging both pillows.”

“They’re soft,” he replied.

Pomni rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. He looked comfortable. They all did.

Across the fire, Ragatha sat curled on a log, drinking hot chocolate. Zooble and Gangle were lying back on the grass, side by side, making up constellations. Kinger stared at the fire intensely. 

Pomni tilted her head back and stared up.

Above them, the Moon lingered, low and bright.

And floating beside her was Caine. The two of them seemed frozen in conversation, silhouettes against the dimming digital stars. Not moving. Just…being.

Pomni squinted. “Hey. Does anyone else kinda see chemistry up there?”

Zooble propped themself up on one elbow. “What, between the floating orb and the boss?”

“I dunno,” Pomni said. “I mean, look at them. They’re adorable.”

Gangle sat up. “They do look close…”

“They’ve been hovering near each other all day,” Ragatha added. “That’s more attention than Caine gives anyone .”

Zooble snorted. “Honestly? If they got together, maybe Caine would stop tormenting us with his stupid adventures.”

“I CAN HEAR YOU,” Caine called from above.

Jax sat up, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Hey! When are you two gonna kiss already? It’s getting boring down here!”

The entire group broke into laughter—even Gangle’s chuckle was genuine.

Up in the sky, the Moon pulsed brighter. Caine stared at her in absolute confusion.

She was definitely blushing.

——

The zipper on the tent rasped shut, sealing them in together.

Jax lay already curled up on one side. The firelight outside flickered faintly through the tent, casting lazy shadows that swayed with every breeze. It was warm enough not to need much, but cozy enough that Pomni found herself crawling closer without thinking.

He shifted when he saw her.

“You good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Just…full day.”

Jax sighed and patted the spot beside him. “C’mere.”

Her heart skipped, but her body listened before she could overthink it. She ducked into the space he made, settling beside him. His arms didn’t close around her right away but he stayed close. So close she could feel his breath on her hat, the warmth of his chest rising and falling steady.

“I used to hate the circus,” she murmured, after a while. 

He didn’t answer at first. Just listened.

“I don’t hate it right now, though,” she added, quieter.

At that, Jax turned to face her more fully. “Yeah?”

Pomni met his eyes in the dark. “It’s…it’s different with you.”

The tent smelled like grass and smoke and him. Her voice sounded small but safe inside it. He reached over, brushing a hand against her wrist like he wasn’t sure she’d let him hold it.

“You’re different with me too,” he said, softly.

Pomni let her fingers slip between his.

They lay like that for a while, saying nothing. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was soft, like moss. Safe. And slowly, his hand trailed up to her elbow, her shoulder, until he was tucking her into his arms like she was supposed to fit into him.

“You remember that stupid zombie hospital game?” she asked, voice muffled against his chest.

He let out a breathy laugh. “You mean the one where I got bit and you panicked?”

“You carried me through a hallway of zombies, Jax.”

“Details.”

“I didn’t forget that.”

His thumb brushed her spine.

“I didn’t forget you carrying me through the cornfield,” he said, more quietly now. “Even when I was drunk and useless and scared out of my mind. You didn’t leave me behind.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

“I don’t know if I ever thought I would, ” he said, and she could feel the raw truth of it. “Before you.”

Pomni blinked slowly. Her head lifted from his chest, just enough to see his face in the filtered moonlight.

“I was really scared,” she admitted. “That night in the barn. When you kissed me. I thought it was still part of the act at first.”

“It wasn’t.”

And suddenly they weren’t just looking at each other anymore. His hand cupped her cheek with aching care, and her lips parted with the weight of wanting. He kissed her like he was trying to remember how. Like every time was a first time. Like he’d only just realized she’d let him.

She melted into it, hand on his chest, the other wrapping behind his neck. His breath stuttered as he deepened it, slower now, steadier. His lips moved over hers with such gentle hunger, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, like he needed it to live. His hands held her as though she was made of glass.

“Pomni,” he whispered between kisses, voice cracking at the edges. “Pomni…”

She shuddered every time.

She pressed her forehead to his, blinking tears she hadn’t realized were there.

“I love you,” she breathed, scared but certain.

He froze for only a second—but only that. Then his arms were around her fully, crushing and tender, like he wanted to pull her into his chest and keep her there forever.

“I love you too,” he said into her shoulder, and he sounded stunned. Shaken. Like no one had ever let him say it out loud before. “God, I love you.”

He kissed her again—on her lips, her cheek, the edge of her jaw, her shoulder. Hungry, grateful, trembling kisses. He couldn’t seem to stop saying her name. Couldn’t seem to stop touching her like she might disappear if he let go.

He wanted her so bad. So effing bad. 

She didn’t pull away.

Not even when they were just holding each other in the quiet again, faces pressed together, breathing soft and slow.

“I think I wanna stay like this forever,” he whispered eventually.

“Then stay,” she said, and she meant it.

———————————————————————————

i think everyone deserves to be happy

More about this fanfic:

Jax/Pomni (platonic), Jax/Pomni (romantic), Ragatha/Pomni (one-sided crush), Ragatha/Pomni (platonic), Caine/Zooble (platonic), Caine/Moon (romantic), Jax/Kinger (son-father relationship), Gangle/Jax (platonic), Kinger/Queenie (romantic), fake dating trope, jealous Ragatha, protective Jax, soft Jax, Jax is bad at feelings, slow burn, wholesome, fluff, light angst, digital death, panic attack, Jax has a phobia of corn, intoxication, good vibes, character development Matchmaker Caine Masterpost

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