#Come on; step it up!|Shadow Headcanon

[infinityxcycle]

Headcanon: Forces - Rewritten

After Mania, the Phantom Ruby had been considered lost by Eggman. While there had always been the mind to search for it if only because of how useful the power could potentially be, he had never thought much of it. After all, a great mind has many more plans in mind than simply reusing a previous one.

He had lost much more in the whole ordeal than credit is given. An entire base was ultimately brought to ruin, after all. A bunch of projects and planned items got scattered. Eggman was never one to think too far about where his next plan was located, at least, back in the day.

A Mobian-controlling mask was yet another of his many plans that had gotten supposedly ruined when his base had been blown up. It had been his plan to use one of Sonic's friends against him someday, as it seemed to be a soft spot for the hedgehog. Despite the difference in location when the base exploded, it ended up in a similar location to the Phantom Ruby.

As the Ruby is a semi-intelligent, wishing to feed off the emotions of those that are more negative, it latches itself onto the mask, becoming a part of it. Becoming what is essentially a 'horn' on the forehead of the item. Expecting a Mobian to be within the mask, or at least, someday put it on. From there, it waits patiently, knowing it is more a matter of when instead of if.

During the explosion of the base, many towns had been affected within the surrounding area. It had been a large explosion that had many large pieces of metal and other dangerous materials. One of the closer villages that had been affected had been the home of what would eventually become the Jackal Squad. They had even lost some of their family and the debris had set the area aflame. It had been one of a few places that had to be evacuated.

Jacob, or better known as Infinite, had been the one to take the reigns and try to make sure that those he cared about were fed and still had a home of some kind. Unfortunately, it led to them having to do what they had to to make ends meet. Even if it meant doing whatever it took... Including committing crimes simply to get some kind of payout.

By the time they made it to any major towns, they had already been considered infamous enough to not be welcomed. It made it all the more difficult to try and lead a straight life, yet, the Jackal Squad became more and more infamous, even despite their attempts to be kind when they could.

Eventually, thanks to G.U.N, Shadow became aware of the group during one of his many missions. He had been told to do what it took for the mission to be successful. The hedgehog crossed paths with them, and they desperately tried to obtain what they had come there for. While Shadow didn't kill them, he left the majority of them injured to a point where some of them would be unable to do what they did anymore. Jacob had to bring help to be able to get all of them to a safe place, to be able to try and help them.

While he was unable to do anything himself, he found himself wandering, in thought despite his own injuries. He had eventually found himself back at the village that had been brought to ruin so long ago. Questioning why it was them, and why even supposed heroes found themselves not asking the questions that could lead souls like themselves to redemption.

That was when he saw it. The mask with a red and black gem embedded into it. He felt... Drawn to it. As if it was the answer to his woes. He had taken it, though he did not quite put it on right away. If anyone were to know about what it was, it would be Eggman. Initially, he had thought that it seemed special enough that he might get something in return for having found it. That, perhaps... He can save his loved ones any more pain.

However, during this interaction between Eggman and Jacob, the mask had been put onto his face accidentally. The scientist tried to use the control systems that he had installed onto it previously, as with that he would at least have control. The Jackal decided to pretend that these controls worked, however, they did not.

Eggman decided to make this his newest plan to take over the world, as he was aware of how capable the Ruby had been previously. This, along with a number of previous yet artificially created rivals such as Chaos, The Hooligans, The Heavies, The Deadly Six, and more. A whole army consisting of the data of the most dangerous enemies was created to be able to take over the world, along with his usual bots.

Infinite, meanwhile, plotted against Eggman, infused with a mixture of raw rage and the Ruby's influence. Once the biggest threat had been taken care of, Sonic himself, he soon after turned against Eggman. Taking over his plans for himself and planning to become the world's true, much-needed savior.

With so many major foes standing in the way, and Sonic out of commission as far as anyone knew... How will fighting against a whole new enemy go?

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤHER ANGELㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Cassian Cain x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts with stillness.

You didn’t notice him at first—because he didn’t want to be noticed. Cassian doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound. But he watches.

You were kind. Not loud. Not a threat. That’s what first made him pause. People are noise to him, always broadcasting their intent with every heartbeat and twitch. But you? You didn’t broadcast danger. You didn’t make yourself bigger. You were quiet in a way that didn’t mean violence.

So, he lingered.

He’s not supposed to get attached.

Batman said so. Oracle said so. They all said so. Cassian nods when they speak, but he doesn’t follow unless it feels right in his bones.

And you feel right.

He starts following you when he’s off patrol. Silently. No footsteps. He memorizes your routine like it’s a mission. When you laugh, he flinches. When you cry, his hands clench. He doesn’t understand either, but he feels it. He doesn’t know if it’s protectiveness or something else. But it burns.

He watches more than he should.

Through windows. Across rooftops. In your shadow like he belongs there. You never feel unsafe—because he never lets you. Any time danger comes close, it’s gone before you even notice. A man following you home? He disappears. A mugger across the street? Out cold in the alley.

You start to joke with your friends. “It’s like I’ve got a guardian angel.”

Cassian hears that. He feels that. His heart does something strange and awful and warm.

He starts leaving things for you. A lost scarf. A fixed bike chain. A cup of tea from your favorite shop on a cold morning. He watches your eyes light up. You smile. You whisper, “Thank you.”

He mouths it back, even though you can’t see him.

“...Welcome.”

He doesn’t know what to call it.

He doesn’t understand what this is. But every move you make is written on your body, and he reads it like scripture. You’re beautiful, but not in the way people usually mean. You’re good. You’re real. You walk like someone who carries her own pain and doesn’t let it harden her.

Cassian is soft around you in a way he’s never been. He wants to be near. Wants to be allowed to be near. He doesn’t know how to ask.

So he stares.

You catch him one day. Rooftop. Rain. His black suit blending into the night like he’s part of it. But he doesn’t leave. He lets you see him. For the first time. You stare at each other for a long time. You don’t run. You don’t scream. You step forward.

And Cassian... he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. You speak—soft, confused, kind.

“Are you the one watching me?”

He nods. Once. Like a silent prayer.

You should be scared. But you aren’t.

After that, he’s around more.

Not close. Not yet. But close enough that you could talk if you wanted. And you do. You start talking to him, even when he doesn’t answer. You tell him about your day. About your cat. Your classes. Your fears. Your hopes. He listens like it’s sacred.

And slowly... very slowly... he starts to answer. With signs. With the barest movements. A tilt of the head. A hand lifted in answer. One night, he writes something in the dust on your windowsill.

“SAFE?”

You nod.

He taps his chest. Then yours. Then nods.

“Safe.”

Cassian doesn’t sleep. Not really.

But when he does, he dreams of you. Not in a twisted way. Not violent. Just with you. Holding your hand. Sitting beside you. He dreams about what it might be like to speak—to tell you what you mean.

He wants to be close, but he doesn’t understand how. You smell sweet. Like flowers. But he’s scared he’ll ruin that. That the same hands that kill could never touch you without staining you.

He loves you. But he doesn’t know that’s what it is. It feels like need. Like obsession. But tender. Careful.

He’s learning.

Eventually, he touches your hand.

It takes months. Maybe a year. But one day, after you patch up a cut on his arm in silence, he just... touches your hand. Light. Hesitant. And you don’t pull away.

You say, “I missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes are glassy. His lip trembles.

He doesn’t talk. But if he could, he’d scream I miss you even when I’m right here. I want to be near you forever. I want to be your shadow. I want to be enough for you to love me back.

Instead, he leans his forehead against your shoulder.

And you hold him.

Cassian is obsessed.

Not in a way that hurts you. In a way that worships. In a way that learns. He doesn’t know what a boyfriend is. What a partner is. What love is. But he learns for you. Slowly. Clumsily. Lovingly.

Because even though he’s been trained to kill, to move in silence, to never ask for anything—he wants you.

And when you kiss his forehead for the first time?

He cries.

Silent. Still.

But he cries.

It begins, as always, in silence.

He is on your balcony again—half in shadow, half soaked in moonlight. The wind plays with the hem of his black cloak, but his body is still. That same tilt of the head when he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

You never flinch anymore.

You don’t look surprised.

You open the window like it’s the most normal thing in the world and smile.

“Hey, angel,” you whisper.

And God—if he had a heart that worked like anyone else’s, it might stop.

He doesn’t understand why you call him that.

He doesn’t look like an angel. He’s bloodied most nights. His knuckles are bruised, dried cuts line his jaw. His hands, no matter how much he washes them, remember violence. Remember pain.

But when you say it—“angel”—your eyes go soft. Your smile goes tender.

“Mine,” you sometimes say, brushing back a strand of his hair. “My shadow. My angel.”

And he leans into your touch like it’s air, like it’s light, like it’s grace.

He still doesn’t talk. You’ve stopped expecting him to. You’ve learned his silence has weight, has texture. It’s how he tells you things.

Sometimes, he brings gifts. Not flowers or chocolates—he wouldn’t even know where to buy them. No, he brings you buttons. Trinkets. A ribbon from someone who bothered you. A feather from a rare bird. A kitten once, curled in his coat, half-dead. You cried when you held it. He just stared at you the whole time.

The kitten sleeps in your bed now. You named her Moon.

You whispered, “She’s like you. Quiet. Soft when she wants to be. But deadly.”

Cassian tilted his head. Then nodded.

He doesn’t know what school is.

You were talking once—rambling about your day while cleaning his cuts, your voice low and casual.

“Class was boring today,” you said, wiping at the gash on his shoulder. “Professor wouldn't stop talking about stupid wars—like, who cares how Napoleon died?”

You expected the usual blank silence.

Instead, he looked at you. Blinked.

Then lifted one hand. Tilted it side to side. Question.

“What?” you asked, laughing. “You don’t know who Napoleon is?”

He tilted his head again. Shrugged.

“Wait… Do you know what school is?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You stopped everything. Looked him in the eyes. “…do you know how to read?”

He looked down. Then slowly, pulled something from his belt. A folded, dirty slip of paper. It had a single word written in his jagged, childlike handwriting.

SAFE.

Your chest ached. You looked at him and saw not a vigilante, not a ghost in the night, not even a weapon.

You saw a boy.

Someone who’d never been given a childhood.

Someone who knew how to kill but not how to write his name.

You touched his hand, gentle. Like always.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

He blinked. Then nodded. Not once. Not sharp.

Slow. Like the word mattered. Like you mattered.

You start with his palm.

You don’t use pens or paper at first. No pressure. No rules. Just touch.

You trace letters into his skin with your fingertip. His hand twitches every time. He’s not used to gentleness lasting this long.

“This is A,” you whisper, dragging your finger down, then across. “Now B…”

He watches your lips when you speak. Like they hold truth.

Like he can taste knowledge just by watching you.

You guide his hand next. Hold his finger. Drag it across your open palm to form shaky letters.

He frowns when he messes up. You kiss his brow and say, “It’s okay. Try again.”

You’ve never seen him so focused. Not even in a fight.

You make flashcards next.

Simple words. Safe. Home. Name. Yours. Mine.

He stares at “Mine” for a long time.

He taps it. Then points at himself. Then at you. Then signs you with the softest hand against his heart.

Your breath catches.

He mouths something. It’s silent. You can’t hear it. But you know.

Mine.

You don’t correct him.

Your balcony becomes a classroom.

Every night, you sit with your legs crossed, flashcards in hand, and he crouches next to you like a child soaking up your light. You tell him stories—your childhood, your friends, what your teachers are like, how you used to be scared of the dark until now.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, glancing at him. “Because now I have you.”

He doesn’t smile. But he closes his eyes like your words are warmth.

One night, you wake up and find something under your pillow. A folded paper. On it, in shaky writing:

“You = Safe”

“Me = Angel”

“Mine”

You keep it in your diary.

You still haven’t kissed him. You don’t touch him unless he touches you first. You don’t ask him to stay, but you never ask him to leave. He’s not your boyfriend. He wouldn’t understand the word. But you’ve never felt more seen.

He’s learning. And every time he writes something new, he brings it to you like a child bringing a drawing to their favorite person in the world. And every time, you say the same thing:

“Perfect.”

Because to you, he is.

Cassian doesn’t understand the world.

But he understands you.

And that’s all he’s ever needed.

To watch you, to learn you, to protect you like something sacred.

He may never say it aloud.

But every step he takes, every breath he draws near you, every clumsy letter he writes in your palm—

Whispers it.

I am yours.

It happens slowly. Like dusk bleeding into night.

No lightning moment. No dramatic turning point.

Just quiet devotion blooming into something deeper.

Cassian is still silent. Still follows you in the shadows like your personal moon. Still crouches on your balcony, waiting for a look, a touch, a word from you to exist again.

But something’s shifted. You feel it.

Maybe it’s in the way he lingers longer now. Or how he watches your lips not just to learn—but to memorize. Maybe it’s in the way he holds onto every scrap of paper you write on, like holy relics, like prayers.

He started sleeping curled up by your window once. You found him there at 3AM, arm wrapped around the kitten. Shirt torn. Blood dried on his cheek.

You ran to him. He didn’t flinch.

He opened his eyes—and smiled.

Just barely. Just for you.

He starts practicing. Alone.

You don’t know this. He never tells you. But when you sleep, he stays near your fire escape. He stares at the flashcards you gave him, mouthing the letters, the words, again and again. His lips shape your name in the dark—like a secret prayer, like the answer to every question he’s never asked.

You = Safe.

You = Light.

You = Home.

One day, you catch him trying to write a sentence.

You don’t laugh. You don’t mock the messy letters or the misspelled words. You sit down next to him, and smile softly, like you always do.

You help him fix it. Guide his hand, one slow letter at a time.

By the end, it says:

“You are my safe.”

He stares at the page like it’s magic. Like he made something beautiful and didn’t know he could.

Your hands cradle his face. Your thumbs brush his cheeks.

“You’re learning so fast,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”

His breath catches.

He wants to say something.

It rises in his throat like a scream he’s buried for years.

But nothing comes.

Not yet.

It happens on a rainy evening.

You were pacing, talking fast about something that upset you. School stress, maybe. A rude stranger. The weight of being alive that day.

Cassian stood by your window, watching. Silent. Still. But tense.

He didn’t know how to help. He only knew how to fight.

You noticed. You stopped.

“I’m okay,” you said softly, walking up to him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you have to fix it. Just you being here… It helps.”

You reached up, brushing back his hair with your fingers.

“My angel.”

That word again. Yours, not his.

But he wanted it.

He wanted it to be his word, too.

You turned away. He didn’t move.

Then—quietly—barely a whisper:

“…Y/N.”

You froze.

The word was broken. Heavy. Like glass under bare feet.

But it was real.

You turned.

He looked terrified. Like he’d done something wrong.

You smiled. Your eyes filled with tears.

You walked back to him slowly, hands trembling as you reached up and cupped his cheeks.

“Say it again,” you breathed.

His lips parted.

He hesitated.

Then—

“…Y/N.”

And this time, it wasn’t about the word.

It was about you.

You kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. Like a secret between only you and the night.

His hands hovered in the air before settling on your waist. He didn’t press. Didn’t move.

He just held you.

Like that was the miracle.

That night, you taught him a new word.

"Love."

He traced it in your palm again and again.

And when you fell asleep curled in his arms, he whispered it once. Into your hair. Into the quiet.

“…Love.”

He may not understand the world.

But he understands you.

And now—

He’s learning how to say it.

You still don’t know his name.

You never ask.

Not because you’re not curious—

But because you know he doesn’t know how to give it.

He doesn’t know what names are supposed to mean. He wasn’t given one with love. His name was forged in fists, shaped in silence, beaten into bone. It's not a name he wears—it’s a weight.

And yet—

He says your name like it’s sacred.

Like it’s the only sound in the universe he wants in his mouth.

Sometimes whispered into your pillow when you’re not looking.

Sometimes scrawled onto paper over and over again in shaky letters.

You find them.

Little scraps folded in your books, tucked in your drawers:

Just your name.

Written with devotion.

Childlike. Obsessive. Sweet.

You call him angel, still.

Sometimes shadow. Sometimes pretty boy in a half-teasing tone that always makes his ears pink.

One day, you ask him softly, brushing your lips across his cheek:

“…What do I call you?”

He tilts his head. Blinks slowly. Thinks hard. Like the question is in another language.

You try again.

“Do you have a name?”

His brows furrow. He shrinks a little—just a little.

You cup his cheek and whisper, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

But then, one night, wrapped in your sheets, skin pressed to yours, after you taught him how to touch—

He gives it to you.

Not because you asked.

Because he wanted to.

Because for the first time in his life, it felt safe.

“…Cassian.”

Your breath catches.

“Cassian,” you repeat, voice warm. “That’s beautiful.”

He looks away.

“Just like everything else about you.”

And he doesn’t say anything—but his fingers curl around your wrist and his lips press to your neck, and you know he’s trying to say thank you without words.

He doesn’t know how to kiss properly.

The first time he tried to kiss you, he just pressed his forehead to yours, trembling, lost. You smiled, took his face in your hands, and showed him. Patient. Gentle. Lips brushing lips like butterfly wings. Again. And again.

He’s a fast learner.

And he’s hungry.

Not lustful—devoted. Starving to worship. To memorize every sound you make. He touches like you're a secret language he was born to learn.

Teaching him gets intimate.

You write words on his chest with your finger.

Safe. Love. You.

He trembles when your nails drag down his ribs.

You take his hand and guide it along your thigh, your collarbone, whispering body parts like vocabulary.

He mouths them in return—quietly, obediently.

“Shoulder.”

“Neck.”

“Hip.”

“…Y/N.”

“No, Cassian,” you giggle softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That’s me, not a body part.”

He just stares, wide-eyed. Then kisses your shoulder in apology.

He worships you.

It’s in how he kneels between your thighs like you’re holy.

How he tugs your shirt up just to rest his cheek on your stomach.

How he breathes you in. Touches you like you’ll disappear.

He never wants to go further unless you guide him.

You do.

Slowly.

You teach him how to make love like you taught him how to speak—

With your hands. Your eyes. Your patience.

He follows every breath. Every arch. Every sound.

He writes love on your back in kisses.

One night, after, he lays there in silence, watching your fingers trace letters onto his palm again.

He mouths them carefully:

“B-e-l-o-n-g.”

And then, looking straight into your eyes—

He spells the last word:

“T-o Y-o-u.”

And you smile, pulling him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper:

“Yes, Angel. Always.”

�� MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[im-so-normal-iswear]

Hey! Saw your requests are open. If you havent been overwhelmed eith asks I have one for Yandere Shadow if you're interested, if not you're fine!!

What about a Yandere Shadow and Sonic with an S/O who's extremely affectionate and overprotective? BUT, as a twist, They're this way with everyone they care about. They just have a lot of love to give❤️

(Bonus headcanon that Eggman targets them first in fights because his robots literally cant get anywhere near anyone else due to how protective they can be of others. They focus on others so much they forget they might also be targetted)

A/n: idk how long this was in my inbox for

Yandere Shadow/Sonic x Overprotective, Affectionate Reader

Shadow:

Shadow isn't used to the kind of affection you give, not from anyone. He wasnt quite used to affection to mych at all. Not after Maria at least.

You're the type to wrap your arms around people in your life without a second thought, ruffle their hair, or reassure them with kind words whenever they’re feeling down.

At first, he thought this affection was only for him. The way you’d stand beside him in fights, ready to shield him from harm despite your lack of superhuman abilities, left him both confused and, strangely, touched.

But then, Shadow began to notice a pattern.

You weren't just protective of him. You were protective of everyone you cared about. Whether it was Sonic, Tails, Knuckles, or even strangers in trouble, you'd throw yourself into the way to ensure no one got hurt.

Your willingness to put others first was respectable, but it also infuriated Shadow.

Didn’t you realize how reckless it was? Did you think anyone else deserved your warmth and care the way he did?

Shadow tried to reason with himself. He knew your affection was genuine and that your overprotective tendencies came from a place of love.

Still, that jealousy in his chest clawed at him every time he watched you worry and fuss over someone else.

His thoughts turned darker as he began to wonder if maybe he needed to teach you to focus that energy solely on him...

It wasn’t unusual for Eggman to target the people Shadow cared about, but this time, Eggman targeted you first.

Shadow’s blood boiled when he realized why. Your protective nature made you an obstacle to Eggman’s plans, your sheer determination to shield others from harm meant that his robots couldn’t get anywhere near his intended targets. And worse, your focus on others left you vulnerable.

Shadow was livid. Not at you, but at the world. How dare anyone put you in danger?

You were so busy worrying about others that you forgot to worry about yourself. He decided right then and there that he'd do whatever it took to keep you safe, even if that meant keeping you away from everyone else.

In the days that followed, Shadow became even more possessive. He started hovering closer during battles, stepping in before you had the chance to protect someone else. If you tried to shield Sonic or Tails, Shadow would pull you back with a firm grip, glaring at whoever dared to draw your attention.

"You can't keep doing this," he’d say in a stern voice. "You're going to get yourself hurt. Let me handle it."

At home, Shadow became even clingier. He didn't like how much energy you gave to others, so he made it his mission to monopolize your time.

Every moment spent with him was another moment you couldn’t be out there, being with someone else.

Still, he couldn't completely suppress his jealousy. The way you’d light up when hugging someone else made his fists clench.

Your constant reassurances that you had enough love to go around only made him more determined to make you see that he deserved all of it.

"Why do you waste your time on people who can’t protect themselves? They donct deserve what you give them. I'm the one who'll keep you safe, not them"

Sonic:

Sonic's usually not the biggest fan on being the receiving end of affection, but when it comes to you, he loves it. In fact, he thrives on it.

You're always ready with a hug, a playful nudge, or words of encouragement that make his heart race faster than his feet.

At first, he thought you were just that way with him, and he basked in the attention.

But Sonic quickly realized that you didn’t just have love for him. You had love for everyone.

You'd throw yourself in front of Tails to block an incoming attack, fuss over Amy if she got a scratch, or rush to Knuckles aid whenever he bit off more than he could chew.

Your boundless compassion for others left Sonic respecting you even more, but it also left him feeling insecure.

As confident as Sonic was in his abilities, he couldn’t shake the fear that someone else might steal your affection.

He wanted to be the one you turned to, the one you prioritized above all else. But your overprotective tendencies meant that you focused on everyone equally, leaving Sonic craving more of your attention.

Then came the day Eggman decided to target you.

It wasn’t hard to see why. You were a force of nature in your own way, your determination to protect others made you a threat to Eggman’s plans. Sonic’s heart dropped when he realized that Eggman saw you as a liability.

The first time one of Eggman’s robots aimed directly for you, Sonic barely managed to stop the attack in time.

"Hey, what were you thinking?!" he scolded, his voice tinged with panic. "You can't keep throwing yourself in the line of fire like that!"

You brushed off his concerns, he did that stuff all the time, why was it any different?

Sonic wanted to argue, but he couldn't bring himself to. Still, he made a silent vow to protect you, even if it meant protecting you from yourself.

Sonic's jealousy is more subtle than Shadow’s, have to keep up the 'perfect hero' act. He'd crack jokes whenever you doted on someone else, masking his unease with humor. But if someone started to take over your time, Sonic wouldn’t hesitate to intervene, dragging you away with some flimsy excuse.

Despite his possessiveness, Sonic would never stop loving your affectionate nature. It's part of what makes you, you. But he’d do everything in his power to ensure that your love didn’t come at the cost of your safety, even if it meant keeping you closer than you’d like.

[pukefactory]

Omgggg going off of the protection headcannons you had for Salesperson Ena— how’d you think she’d react if the found the reader being attacked after either the reader had wandered off or they had gotten separated somehow?

•☽────✧˖°˖ LIMERENCE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Salesperson Ena Being Overprotective Of You

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ Salesperson Ena isn’t one to panic easily. But when she realizes you’re missing? It’s an immediate full-stop to whatever “business opportunity” she was pitching. Her body goes stiff, her smile falters, and her eyes flicker—searching, calculating. She’s still trying to process the loss of a valuable asset (you), but then the Meanie side starts screaming, “WHERE THE HELL DID THEY GO?!”

☆ At first, she tried to handle it professionally. Maybe you just wandered off to the bathroom or got distracted by something shiny. Logical. Reasonable. But the longer she doesn’t find you, the more that logic crumbles. Meanie starts slamming megaphones against walls and demanding answers from the universe.

☆ If she comes across you being attacked? Oh-ho. Ohhhhhhh. The shift is immediate. “WHO THE HELL DARES?!” Her entire body twitches between control—one second she’s negotiating, the next she’s full-on lunging.

☆ The Salesperson side of her prefers to handle things diplomatically. Maybe the attacker can be convinced to “divest” from this terrible decision. “Say, friend, what’s your price for NOT getting obliterated?” But if they don’t listen? Meanie takes the wheel. And Meanie does not do negotiations.

☆ Her movements are a blur of jerky, inhuman motions, flipping between her two sides in rapid succession. One second, she’s offering a five-step business plan to avoid a “messy termination,” and the next, she’s a jagged, screaming blur of claws and teeth. Her arms stretch and distort, her megaphone crackles, and somewhere in the chaos, there’s a voice screaming, “GO TO HELL, JACKASS!”

☆ Once the threat is removed (read: brutally handled), she snaps back to you. Ena brushes herself off, adjusting her cap, smiling too wide. “Well! That was unexpected! Let’s file that under ‘learning experiences.’”

☆ She looks… wrong. The cracks in her face are deeper, her grin a little too sharp, her movements glitching between elegant and unnervingly erratic. “Worry not! The investment was worth it.” And then, “DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN, OR I’LL BOLT YOU TO MY DAMN SIDE!!!” Not a joke. Not an exaggeration.

☆ After this, you are never left alone again. She is now your personal (and unwilling-to-be-fired) bodyguard. She follows everywhere, making up ridiculous excuses to justify it. “What if a BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY appears?” “What if an ASSASSIN appears?” “What if a BUSINESS ASSASSIN appears?!” You try to tell her you’re fine. She does not believe you.

☆ Every shadow, every figure in the distance—it could be them. Another attacker. Another threat. “What’s your problem, stranger? Are you looking for an opportunity?” She asks, still smiling, still calm. But sometimes, she isn’t as patient. “YOU LOOKING TO DIE?!” Her paranoia is suffocating. But underneath it? There’s something worse.

☆ One night, when things are quiet (somehow), you hear her talking to herself. “GØD watches over fools and entrepreneurs. You are neither.” Her fingers twitch. “I won’t let it happen again.” She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Gotta keep the assets safe, after all.” Meanie then whispers, “I thought I lost you.” And it doesn’t sound like a joke.

[witherby]

DC Series Sublist

The Littlest Wayne: Adopted!Reader AU

Or, the one where Bruce brings home a baby, and your adorable little face wins the heart of your new, big brothers.

Non-linear storytelling! Each section can be read in just about any order!

Color key:

Headcanons || Drabble || Long post

The Masterlist is Here!

Infant!Reader, pre-powers

The Littlest Wayne - Bruce brings you home.

Headcanons - how your brothers play with you.

Flittermouse - where your nickname came from.

Jason's Experience - he's your favorite.

Alfred's Experience - he has a little shadow.

Uh Oh - Alfred taught you the worst first word.

Damian's Experience - he didn't like you at first.

Take your kid to work day - Bruce brings you to Wayne Enterprises.

First Words - the Justice League hears you speak.

Headcanons - you're snatched up at a gala.

Teething - Bruce is your personal chew toy.

Meet the Team - Bruce introduces you to the Justice League.

Drabble - Bruce rants about you to Hal.

Mama - an alternate First Word.

Headcanons - you have a first word for everyone.

Air Jail - you're a menace to Jason.

Headcanons - you come home from school with a back eye.

New Baby Smell - it's a good smell.

Post-Battle Injuries - you ask your family about their wounds.

Scoop - Jason carries you like a football.

Mother Hen (Dick) - Hal takes Dick for fast food before they go home.

Biological Parents - would Bruce let them take you back?

First Steps - you try your hardest to reach Bruce.

Bluey - the bat family interrupts your TV time.

Sickness - how your family would care for you if you become terminally ill.

Traits - Mouse has characteristics and mannerisms their family has adopted from them and vice versa.

Meet the Titans - Do they vibe with a baby?

Meet the Titans 2 - Dick comes to get you after his errands are done.

Cookies: Hal and Bruce try (and fail) to play a game with you

Toddler!Reader becomes a Metahuman

Uncertain Home - your father's rule about no Metas in Gotham scares you.

Uncertain Home, part 2 - Hal lets you know you're still loved, powers and all.

+ the Aftermath

Older!Reader, post-development of powers

Mother Hen - Hal cracks down on the batfamily shenanigans.

Mother's Day - the kids celebrate Hal.

Marriage - Your dad marries your mom.

Makeover - who's willing to put up with a face full of products for you?

Cousin Cyborg - he's your favorite babysitter.

Time Out - you pull Tim into your shadows.

The Robin Mantle - how do they feel when you tell them you don't want it?

Internship - you stumbled into Deathstroke's employment

Sick Bed, part 1 - you've become gravely ill.

Sick Bed, part 2 - you're in the hospital with Damian.

Sick Bed, part 3 - you come home.

Truce Juice - you open a cafe that serves everyone: civilians, heroes, and villains.

Truce Juice: Catering - it's a hit.

Here's a depiction of what Truce Juice looks like.

Fist Bumps - Jason is obviously your favorite, and you're obviously his.

Anger - has Flittermouse ever been angry with their family?

Boiling Point - Mouse yells at the bat family.

Umbrakinesis - How do Mouse's powers work?

Overworked - how does the family react to their Littlest Workaholic?

Stories that feature Kon El's romantic relationship with Flittermouse

Image: depictions of a fashion-forward Mouse.

Piety - you meet Conner during a field trip to the Metropolis Conservatory.

Information Gathering - Clark and Hal ask you about the boy claiming to be Superman.

Carnival - Mouse brings Conner to his first one and he learns to see the appeal.

Grounding and Space - Conner uses your heartbeat to self regulate. Your pocket dimension helps, too, if it's not enough.

Signs of Life - Conner loses your pulse.

Meet the Family - Conner is painfully introduced to the bats.

Meet the Family pt. 2 - Dick and Conner have a conversation in the Batcave.

Superman and Kon - how does the natural-born Kryptonian handle this boy's existence?

Hideaway - you try to steal some private moments with Conner

Imprinting - does Clark know what Kon is doing?

The Talk - if you want to start doing biblical things with Conner, your family has opinions.

Movie Night: you're just trying to have a normal date with your boyfriend.

Lex - what does he think of the relationship?

Old Age - how is your relationship with Conner in later years?

Intimacy - How was your first time with your boyfriend?

Energy - you thrive in the darkness and Conner thrives in the sun.

Acts of Service - what you and your boyfriend do for each other.

Information - Kon knows some things and doesn't know others.

Schooling - how your education is treated vs. Kon's

Date Night - how are they usually planned?

Hypothetical - you lose an eye.

Flirting - how receptive are Mouse and Kon to it?

Children - Mouse and Kon have 3.

AUs of the AU

Or, the ones in which we let some thought experiments take shape outside Flittermouse's main continuity, just for fun.

Check them out Here!

[[ Do NOT repost my stories anywhere without my permission! ]]

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ⏖ ’  simple acts of love from skz

—All the times stray kids said I love you in the little things.

words・6.8k pairings・stray kids x reader genres・fluff, a little crack, established relationships warnings・lots and lots of kisses!! happy tears, drunken re-confessions, silliness, playful living room dancing, minhos a shy baby, he's also a little shit in changbins, erotic painting in hyunjins, hans is a little bit more emotional, silly little proposals, my terrible attempt at writing lyrics, jeongin stalks your goodreads profile and buys your entire TBR list like I don't have at least a thousand tbr books...some of these are silly some of these are sickeningly sweet,

a/n・I wrote these drabbles based on these headcanons, but I did change Minho's because I believed it fit him better!! Also, this has been rotting in my drafts for MONTHS im not super proud of them, but I hope you like them anyways.

ᡣ𐭩 chan + sneaking into your bathroom to trace hearts onto the bathroom mirror.

"This is a suicide mission!" his lungs scream as he slips into your inferno of a bathroom, a heavy cloak of steam hugging him instantly. His respiratory system begs for release, a moist cough rolling up his throat; but like the magnificent boyfriend he is, he shoves those rebellious bodily functions right back down his windpipe.

Was his silly little plan worth the ability to breathe? Yes. Did he also wonder how you even could? Also yes.

The mirror fogs like the surface of an ancient lake, obstructing the image of his mischievous grin. He brings a pointer finger to the glass, drawing all his ardor in the mist—though it only comes out as lopsided hearts.

Your voice floats out from behind the curtain, absentmindedly humming to a silent tune. Shadows of your hands move through your hair, your body refracted onto the thin sheet.

You are so beautiful...

Cupid smacks his jaw shut.

He manages to slip out right as the water sputters off, sliding into the living room by his socks. He face-plants onto the couch, scrambling to sit upright. The loud smack of your towel echoes in his ears as his wide eyes dart to the table, frantically searching for something to occupy his attention. He snatches the first thing he sees, which just happens to be a... candle?

Whatever, no time!

Chan is intently studying the ocean-blue Bath & Body Works label, when you come pattering out, damp hair dribbling water behind you. The moment you step into his line of sight, his heart plummets—that stupid aromatherapy candle nearly tumbling with it.

There you were, in all your drenched glory, your towel wrapped snug against your chest, tears rolling freely down your cheeks. Did you hear that?! Tears!! You were crying?! Why were you crying?!?!

Chan must have embodied the spirit of a kangaroo, because he’s never jumped up faster in his life.

"Why are you crying? You're supposed to be happy!" he yelps, yanking your body into his arms, water seeping into the thin fabric of his tee shirt. His brain becomes the equivalent of the world’s most fucked-up ambrosia when you begin laughing, the curve of your smile pressed into his chest. He blinks—he doesn't know whether to kiss you or call a priest. Maybe he should do both?

Suddenly you pull away, cocooning his cheeks with pruney hands, your bottom lip wobbling as you sob, "I'm so in love with you."

Well, good job—now he's sobbing too.

"I'm in love with you too, baby."

You had drawn hearts on the walls of his soul in the same way he had drawn them in the steam of your mirror. The only difference is, yours would never fade away.

ᡣ𐭩 minho + randomly sending you songs that remind him of you.

Minho wasn't the type to throw his arms around you, pressing kisses to your face with all his overflowing ardor. Instead, in the minuscule overlaps of time between talking on the phone and constructing a perfect dance routine, he'll find himself sitting dazed upon the lounge room couch, mindlessly nodding to a catchy tune. He had left his Spotify on smart shuffle, finding comfort in the idea of a song found without searching, as if it were fate's gentle finger dusting the path to new adventures. He flutters his eyelids shut, ripples of sound washing over his skin.

And I've heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime

And I'm pretty sure that you are that love of mine

'Cause I'm in a field of dandelions

Wishing on everyone that you'd be mine, mine

In a rash flood of emotions, he sends you the song just before Chan steps into view, announcing his dire need to finish choreographing the final steps of their newest single. Begrudgingly, he slips his phone into his back pocket, his earbuds following suit. The only thing that keeps him sane throughout the day is the anticipation that he will go home and see you, and that makes it all worth it.

ᡣ𐭩

May I have this dance?" you declare, extending your arm with feigned seriousness, though the playful smile tugging at your lips betrays you instantly.

“What?” Minho chuckles through furrowed brows, observing the unusual surroundings; candles flicker dim lighting on the walls, throwing shadows on the rose petals you had scattered around your living room, forming an intriguing resemblance to a romantic dance floor. He sets the bags of groceries on the ground. Lee Know is so beyond confused, yet also pleasantly surprised, especially when you waltz over to him, tight red dress hugging all your gorgeous curves.

“You still haven't answered my question,” you sing, playfully twirling into his arms. Your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, tracing mindless circles in his hair. A shiver rolls up his spine as you tilt your face forward, lips so close; his heart flutters like a fragile leaf tumbling down from an autumn tree. He blinks before exhaling—

“Of course, I'll dance with you.”

A delighted squeal erupts from your lips, and you jump away from his arms, heading straight over to your phone to play the song he sent you prior. A warm blush floods his cheeks, painting them a bashful red.

“Did you like it?” His eyes fall away from yours.

“Did I like it?? Of course I liked it!” you squeal, gaping at him like he was the dumbest person on the planet. World War Three rages inside his chest as he fights not to fold like a lawn chair, flopping on the floor like a flustered starfish. Though when your hands rub their way up from his chest to his shoulders, he's surprised he's even upright. Your hips sway to the melody, a warm smile melting away all his defenses; but when you guide his awkward hands to the dip in your hips, it’s game over. He stuffs his face into your neck, littering the sensitive skin with kisses, his brain screaming: distract the enemy!! distract the enemy!!

“Do you know how much I love you?” he mumbles with striking genuineness. Instead of answering his question, you simply twirl yourself around his finger, placing his hand to wrap around the small of your back. He dips you down right as the music swells. It was magical, really—the candlelight twinkling in your peripheral, spills of starlight dancing off the ocean's surface. It was all so perfect—that was until your shoe caught on one of the rose petals, the floor turning slick under your feet. You send yourself tumbling straight to the ground. Minho squeals, grasping at thin air, but then he too also slips, frantically shooting his wrists out so he doesn't crush you.

The music cuts through the deafening silence as petals weave their way into your hair. You roll your lips into your teeth, glancing over to an eerily still Minho, staring at the ceiling like a spooked tabby. As if he could feel your eyes, his gaze finds yours, and only then does he burst out into roaring laughter, which prompts you to also join the fun.

“Are you sure you're the main dancer?” you tease through breathy giggles. He gasps, smacking a dramatic hand over his chest.

“I’ll have you know you fell first.”

And I've heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime

And I'm pretty sure that you are that love of mine

'Cause I'm in a field of dandelions

Wishing on everyone that you'd be mine, mine

In that moment, as the light hits you just right, he swears he finds the universe in your eyes. Your skin is showered in candlelight, head tilted back—joy flickers on your tongue as honey drips from your teeth. His heart pounds against his ribs, flowers sprouting in his lungs. To the world, he was an aloof grump with smooth moves and an impressive affinity for cats; but to you, with you, he was so much more.

Mid-snort, he captures your cheek, pressing his lips to yours. In a single gesture, he is pouring all the words he wished to say—

though to you, it tasted a little bit like—

If he had to blow a wish on every dandelion in the universe just to keep you, he would; and only through your lips would he find the power to keep breathing.

ᡣ𐭩 changbin + gushing about you while drunk

The balmy patio is sticky with soju-infused groans, most of the boys slumped in their respective seats, throwing back exasperated swigs of their drinks as they desperately try to drown out Changbin’s relentless rambles.

The two semicircle outdoor couches form a full circle around an unlit bonfire pit. On one of the couches sits a completely unfazed Felix, taking small sips of his soju between chuckles; an extremely annoyed Seungmin, glaring daggers at Changbin; and I.N, who doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything except, well, sleeping—body slumped against the armrest. Hyunjin is sandwiched between Chan and Changbin on the other couch: Chan, who wishes he never even brought up the idea to buy beer in the first place, and Changbin, who is currently slumped over a very irked Hyunjin’s lap. Han is somewhere in the house, probably giggling at his own swirling reflection.

Hyunjin digs his fingers into the roots of his locks, fighting every urge not to yank the tufts straight out.

“N-no, but Jinnie, you don’t u-understand—she’s so pretty,” Changbin slurs, stuffing his face into his friend’s hoodie, which makes Hyunjin frown and swat him away.

“That’s it! I’m calling Y/N!” Seungmin announces, jumping up from his seat. Chan grabs his sleeve, yanking him straight back down, much to Seungmin’s dismay. he sinks into the polyester in a puddle of disgruntled grumbles.

"Or we could record him," Minho calls out from the shadows of the back entryway, only ever appearing when he needed more beer or more entertainment. And right now, it was dinner and a show. Minho simply shrugs as if his evil plan wouldn’t ruin his best friend's bad-boy reputation. "Send it to Y/N later," he mumbles to himself, the devil tilting his cheek up. Nobody seems to hear him, so he slyly pulls his phone from his pocket and presses record.

"No, no, no! You can't call Y/N. She’ll know I love her!" Changbin gasps in horror, stumbling to grab the phantom phone that apparently appears on Hyunjin’s lap with the way he paws at his jeans. Hyunjin takes a nice, long swig of his soju.

"You know you and Y/N have been together for over four years, right?" Felix chuckles, finding the whole ordeal pure comedic relief.

"No, you don’t understand. She’ll know I love her... lover," Changbin’s words slur into an incoherent shake of his head. Minho's evil cackles float out from the concealment of the doorway, and Chan perks up.

"Minho, what are you doing?!" Minho slams his phone against his thigh. What the hell?? Does Chan have Spidey senses or something??

"Nothing!" he yelps, sounding super convincing. Chan narrows his eyes toward the darkness where Minho is supposedly lurking, sporting an eerily perfect rendition of a frustrated father. That is, until Changbin begins a very off-tune version of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” rolling over on Hyunjin’s lap to tap his fingers up his arm and eventually landing on Hyunjin’s nose with a giggle. When Hyunjin almost bites his finger off, Chan finally diverts his attention. Minho thanks God for the shadows—how else would he have gotten away with recording all of that?

“I’m about two seconds away from bringing you back to Y/N,” Hyunjin sighs, his lips pressed into a tight line as he glares at the man whose eyes just burst with light at the thought of seeing you. Chan smacks Hyunjin on the back sympathetically, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Why me, Lord? Why me?" Chan sings his woes under his breath but just loud enough for the camera to pick up—and for Minho to giggle.

"Y/N, I miss Y/N. Can I go home to Y/N, please?" Changbin hiccups, slumping his head onto Hyunjin’s shoulder. Hyunjin’s eye twitches. "I wanna tell the pretty girl I love her."

Felix emerges from his silence with a fit of laughter, nearly spilling his beer all over the floor. "Weren't you just saying you didn’t want to tell her you loved her?"

Changbin whips his gaze forward, his eyes hardening into a very foggy glare. "Well, now I want to tell the pretty girl I love her," he states matter-of-factly, his eyes fluttering a bit, betraying just how drunk he is.

Felix’s amusement is transparent as he raises his beer in Changbin’s direction. "Somebody needs to bring him to Y/N and let him re-confess his undying love for her."

Seungmin has never jumped up so fast in his life; he’s mid-volunteer when Chan grabs the cuff of his sleeve again and yanks him right back on his ass. Seungmin collapses onto the couch, ready to spit a disrespectful insult at his elder, but he folds like a lawn chair when Chan shoots him that look.

"Seungmin, you are far too drunk to take him home, while I," he looks to the sky with regret, "am very regretfully sober." Chan sounds like he’s going through the five stages of grief in one sentence.

"Okay, buddy, I’m taking you home," Chan grunts, clapping the drunken boy on the back. Changbin beams like he just heard there was a cure for cancer.

"Hell yeah!" He jumps up, only to stumble slightly, the patio swimming in his vision as he catches himself on Hyunjin’s forehead. When he finally, barely stabilizes himself, he throws his hands up. "See y’all bitches later! I—” he dramatically points to his chest in pride, “—am going to see my girl," he declares and marches straight out the door. Chan is mid-goodbye hug turned introspection with Felix, wondering what he’s doing with his life, when he hears a loud shatter in the hallway. Chan falls out of Felix’s arms immediately, his stride turned sprint. 

"Son of a bitch, Changbin, that was my favorite vase!"

ᡣ𐭩

“Go ahead, tell the pretty girl how much you love her,” you tease, playfully mimicking kissy faces while simultaneously poking Changbin’s crumpled form, his boiling cheeks sandwiched between his knees.

Why did Minho have to send you that video? But most of all, why did he have to send it while Changbin was still hungover? All this humiliation can’t be good for his headache.

Changbin groans, falling back on the bed to pull a pillow over his scorching face. The fact that the whole mattress hasn’t burst into flames is truly beyond him. Giggles pour from your lips, even as they settle atop his stomach, leaving kisses all the way up his torso. You can hear his flustered pants from down here.

“Okay, that’s enough bullying for one day,” you say, straddling his waist to snake your arms around his waist, pressing your chests flush together. Your teeth graze his shoulder, softly biting the flesh. “Come on, baby, take the pillow off your face.” You press your smile against his shirt before resting your chin on his chest.

He peeks out from under the pillow, tugging it down just enough to reveal his eyes, still reluctant to fully reveal himself. You bat your lashes at him, pouting ever so slightly. He folds—like a damn lawn chair, at this point, he’s practically collapsing in on himself with how much he’s folded. His face melts into a grin as he finally pulls the pillow down.

He so regrets that.

Your face lights up with laughter as you take in his beet-red cheeks, your eyes disappearing into crinkled slits. “I’m sorry, I just... I just can’t,” you cackle, doubling over in heaves.

“I hate you,” Changbin shouts, flustered, smacking you square in the side of the head with the pillow. It does nothing to quell your amusement; in fact, it only makes it worse.

“That’s not what you said last night,” you snort, falling off him as you kick your feet against the sheets.

Despite his urge to tie a millstone around his ankle and jump off the face of the earth, he can’t help but smile, caught in an unusual state of awe. Your mouth is boxy, laughter filling the air like strands of warm honey.

“Apparently, you think about me a lot,” you snicker, still rolling around. his smile only spreads wider.

If only you knew how much he thought of you.

ᡣ𐭩 hyunjin + painting perfectly captured portraits of you

“Hold still for me, baby,” Hyunjin whispers, his voice low and intimate, as he lightly drags his brush down the length of your arm, adding the final touches to your portrait. His gaze traces your bare body, memorizing every inch until even the freckle on the upper left side of your waist is drawn onto the inside of his eyelids. The valley of your breasts trembles with each labored breath, your muscles tightening against the couch where you lay.

“I’m really trying, Jinnie, but it hurts,” you whine, fighting to keep your head steady. Your boyfriend lets out a breathy laugh, savoring one final glance at your naked form. With careful precision, he drags the sharpest part of his brush down your thigh, finishing the entire painting with his favorite peice of you.

“Done,” Hyunjin murmurs, settling back into his chair with a satisfied smile, admiring the art he’s just created. Usually when he painted, there was always something he hated about his work—whether it's the proportions or the colors were slightly out of harmony—it was never good enough. but when he paints you, there's never an issue; for he could capture you with children's finger paints, and you'd still find a way to look utterly breathtaking.

“Let me see,” you squeal, jumping up from the uncomfortable spot you’d claimed on his couch. A faint blush appears on his face as he turns the easel around, unraveling his heart before you. And oh, when he does—you collapse into his arms, all your strength diffused into a shuddering gasp. He had dipped his brush into your soul, and with every meticulous stroke, he gathered the very essence of your heart. It was almost unreal how perfect he made you appear to be—your moles speckled across your skin in gold, dusted like stars; your stretch marks adorned in silver, shining like slips of light.

How are you not sobbing right now??

“Is it okay?” he asks, bashfully wrapping his arms around your naked waist, completely unfazed by your current state of undress.

“Hyunjin, this is more than okay,” you sniffle, voice crackling with emotion. You turn to meet his gaze, only for his palms cradle your cheeks with a touch so tender, it's barely there. One second, you’re breathing; the next, you’re transcending, existing only between his lips.

By the time you come up for air, the world around you has changed. He’s on top of you now, his hands resting on either side of your head, thoughts long forgotten. He moves closer, allowing whisps of his hair to tickle the sensitive flesh of your neck; for his lips to settle upong the delicate curve of your collarbone. He doesn’t stop—he doesn’t stop until the sun kisses your skin, until the sky is filled with the very stars he painted upon your skin.

Only in love and art are you eternal and in hyunjin, with hyunjin, you are both. 

ᡣ𐭩 han + hiding messages into every song he produces

"In every lifetime," a heartfelt promise whispered between shuttering breaths. Han's lips parted, your tongue savoring his astonished gasp. "What did you say?" quickly transformed into "Did you mean it?" when you had tenderly threaded your fingers into his hair, the pad of your thumb settling just under his jaw. Your needy hands had fogged his head, but he never forgot it.

"In every lifetime," you had uttered many moons later, nestled underneath the stretch of midnight sky. The universe had stilled, all of time and space screeching to a deafening halt. You unraveled the scrolls of his soul, and with the eternal vow of "I do," swore forever. So, he, for however long he may live, intends to hold you to that promise.

From: Hannie 🐿 Do not by any means play my new song!!!

From: Hannie 🐿 Im serious!!

From: Hannie 🐿 Promise me Y/N!!!

You giggle at his earnestness, clicking the notification to message him back.

From: My Wife ❤ I won't I promise!

From: My Wife ❤ Scouts honor 🫡

You admired Han's dedication to his craft, but what you admired most was his need to share every single part of it with you.

"You didn't listen to the song, did you?" Han calls out from the foyer, slamming the front door behind him. He urgently throws off his shoes, his heavy footsteps following him all the way up the stairs. Your mirth bubbles up behind a bitten grin, lip firmly tucked between your teeth.

"No!" you shout back, feigning indifference; though when he swings your bedroom door open, you’re overcome with breathy giggles—his hair is tossed around at all angles, puffed cheeks pink and gasping.

Now that was the man you fell in love with.

"Somebody's eager," you tease, chucking your phone somewhere on the bed. His eyes are oddly fearful when you lift yourself up from the comforter, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. His chest heaves, breath labored and shaky; flighty fingers find the knot of his tie, yanking it loose. You reel your head back. Since when does he wear a tie? You flick your gaze down his figure. Since when does he wear suits?? Your confusion only festers as he lets out an anxious chuckle, wringing his hands like wet rags.

"You have no idea." You didn’t know—didn’t know what he was about to risk. His heart was clay in your hands, and with the delicacy of a butterfly's wing, you pressed your fingerprints into his skin. For now, through touch alone, his soul will find you in every lifetime; but first, he must promise you himself in this one, and that appeared to be an impossible feat.

It's now or never, he tells himself.

So, with an arduous breath, he steadies his quivering hands just long enough to slip his phone out of his back pocket. Was it just him, or is it suddenly really hot in here? He swipes to YouTube. Why was it getting so hard to breathe?? He presses play. His heart somersaults its way down to his stomach when the opening melody echoes from the speakers. Your brows lift, lips pursing in your signature concentrated quirk. His mouth forms around a smile, breathing getting marginally easier, but that peace is short-lived as the chorus begins—only then does he feel the symptoms of real fear.

In every lifetime, his warm voice melts from the speaker.

A falling star just shot from space and hit you directly in the chest, rendering you utterly speechless; even as your gaze finds his glassy eyes, you just can’t believe it.

In every lifetime you swore.

It’s just too perfect.

So, for as long as I may live, I wanna be yours.

He’s just too perfect.

In every lifetime I'll dip my knee down.

There’s no way.

And yet he sinks to one knee, slipping a velvet box from the confines of his pocket. Your hands make purchase around your mouth, stifling a wet cry.

In every lifetime I'll ask to be yours.

"Y/N L/N, will you marry me?"

You drop to your knees, tears tracing cordate-shaped rivulets down your cheeks. "Yes, Han, I'll marry you! I'll marry you!"

Your lips swear forever as they land on his, and that promise echoes far into lifetime number twelve.

ᡣ𐭩 felix + giving you gum wrapper hearts

Lee Felix was stupid in love, heavy on the stupid, figuring he was about to start World War Three to get that gum wrapper out of Seungmin’s hand.

“Please,” Felix begs, drawing out the "e" in an obnoxious whine.

Felix has been professing his love for you through gum wrapper hearts for about as long as he’s been chewing gum, so he is going to be damned if he lets one gum wrapper gets away without meeting his fingers first. Seungmin’s eyes harden into an frustrated glare, about two seconds away from punching a pizza-sized hole in his best friend’s face.

“You know, the more that you beg me for this wrapper, the more I don’t want to give it to you,” he deadpans, voice flat with irritation. Felix throws his head back in an ear-splitting groan.

“Whyyy not??”

“Oh my gosh, Seungmin, just give him the damn wrapper,” Chan interjects, exasperated.

“Yeah, listen to Chan. Give Felix the wrapper,” Felix teases, laying his chin on his hand, fluttering his lashes with a shit-eating grin. Seungmin clenches his jaw, crumpling up the foil—much to poor Lixie’s dismay.

“Did you see that, Chan?! Seungmin crumpled my wrapper!” Seungmin squeezes it harder. “Look! Do you see that, Chan?! Seungmin is bullying me!” Chan sighs, digging a knuckle into his eye. He is about five seconds away from sticking both grown toddlers in time out.

“Seungmin, for the sake of my sanity, give Felix the damn gum wrapper.” The fact that he actually had to tell two full-fledged adults that was truly beyond him, yet here he was.

“It’s the principle of it, old man—” As soon as the words leave his lips, Seungmin wants to stuff them right back in. Chan grits his teeth, steam practically whistling from his ears.

Oh, crap.

“You little—” Chan dives for Seungmin, to which he squeals, ducking from his elder’s hand, gearing up to smack him square in the forehead. In the clamber of movements, he ends up dropping the beloved wrapper. Felix lets out a squeal of excitement, lunging for the foil. When the crumpled aluminum sits in his hands, he has never felt so rewarded in his entire life, smiling like he just won a million bucks.

Almost out of muscle memory, he begins smoothing it out, folding up all the right corners. He beams, stuffing the little token into his pocket, fingers itching to give it to you later.

“Thanks, Seungmin,” Felix smirks, taking a proud sip of his drink. Seungmin manages to stick his tongue out while trapped in a headlock.

“You suck,” he wheezes, throwing weak slaps onto Chan's bicep. Felix giggles, his phone buzzing against his jeans. Felix quite literally drops everything to pick it up, his heart singing the same song as your special ringtone.

From: My world 💙 Look, baby, isn’t it so beautiful? I took the pic while I was on my way to work. I actually swerved off the road to take the picture, haha. Just wanted to share it with you. Love you, baby!! [Image.png]

When he clicks the image, his phone is flooded with the most breathtaking view. The sky is stained like melting ice cream, cotton candy colors that burst around your hair, though that isn’t what Felix is looking at—he is looking at you. The moment he looks into your lopsided smile, Cupid shoots him all over again.

From: My star-light 🌟 Wow.

From: My star-light 🌟 No words.

From: My star-light 🌟 I didn’t know my girlfriend could look so stunning.

From: My star-light 🌟 Oh, wait, there was a sunset back there somewhere.

From: My star-light 🌟 Yeah, that was pretty too.

From: My star-light 🌟 Are we still on for tonight?? I miss youuu.

From: My world 💙 Oh my gosh, Lix, you’re making me blush, haha.

Seungmin chokes somewhere in the background. Felix doesn’t notice. Felix is submerged in the silky ocean of rose-colored love.

From: My world 💙 Of course we are!!

From: My world 💙 I miss you too, baby!!

From: My world 💙 Literally can’t wait to see you.

Felix is mid-text when his friends suddenly turn bright red, clambering to untangle themselves from the mess of limbs they got themselves stuck in. Felix doesn’t realize the reason Chan is suddenly fixing his hair or Seungmin is unruffling his shirt is because two of the most stunning women just walked past them. Felix was too focused on making time move faster.

ᡣ𐭩

Felix has never been to space, though he can accurately say that he has tasted the sky.

He sips the stars off your lips, every shared breath an inhale of the galaxy. Felix knows that somewhere, someplace time exists, but not here, not now, not with the blades of grass lacing through his hair; not when he’s pressing your chest flush against his, rolling around on the ground until the night sky is kissing the earth in his vision. Your laughs are buried in his neck when he gets too dizzy to continue, littering kisses on the sensitive flesh there. You pull away for only a moment, brushing a rogue strand of hair off his brow. You smile, dipping to press a soft peck to the tip of his nose.

The two of you had crept into this darkened backyard hours ago; you proposing a date under the stars only to share them between your lips instead. You have been locked in this position for lifetimes, and Felix has no plan to stop.

His palms lift to graze your cheeks before sealing your mouths together again. His soft laugh puffs against the seam of your lips, his smile curving against your own. “God, I am so in love with you.”

He was; he so, so, so was.

He was so in love with you, he had almost forgotten about his gift. Key word: almost.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he gasps, chasing your warmth when he pulls away, sitting up.

“What?” you playfully whine, biting back a grin, settling your hips against his thighs. He chuckles, poking a finger into his pocket, fishing out the gum wrapper heart.

“I know it’s not perfect,” he whispers, cupping something in his palm, “but I hope you still like it.” He rolls his fingers out bashfully, offering you the crinkled silver heart. He bites his lip, a faint blush falling over the apples of his cheeks. The little gift was by no means perfect; it was ripped, wrinkled, and just a little lopsided. Yet you can’t help the fondness that explodes in your chest. Still cradling the heart with care, you throw your arms around his neck, tackling him to the ground. Your chest flush against his, he grunts when you land upon the earth, smacking slobbery kisses all over his face. You don’t stop, not until he is flipping you over, now attacking you with equally wet kisses. Your giggles live in the balmy summer air.

To you, he was the sun; but to him, you were the universe 

ᡣ𐭩 seungmin + buying you a bouquet every time the old ones wilt

October 11th, 2020.

That was the last time your apartment smelled like something other than florals. That was also the first time Seungmin had ever bought you flowers—a simple gift for your one-year anniversary that spiraled into a four-year tradition. You don’t ever talk about it, and he certainly denies it, when you thank him for how the wilting tulips magically evolved into beautiful daylilies. You find it endearing, the faint blush that falls over his cheeks when he tries to convince you that it wasn’t him.

Now that you think about it, your white roses did seem to have a little bit of brown on them yesterday.

Mid-wipe of the bathroom counter, you rush down the stairs, almost sliding into the kitchen in your socks. Without fail, there they were: bright red tulips, replacing the withering roses that had been in the vase earlier. A spreading grin pulls at your lips as you check the stove clock, quickly connecting the dots.

You had been cleaning the bathroom most of the evening, your earbuds blocking the world out. He had probably heard you humming from upstairs, choosing the perfect time to sneak in through the door. You squeal, sprinting up the stairs to throw open your bedroom door. You expect to find him lounging on the bed, but instead, you find him below it, cradling a square object in his hands. His head whips around, panic falling over his features. He slams the lid shut before fumbling to shove it right back under the bed, much to your dismay.

“Hey, what?” You yelp, diving for the box. Seungmin blocks you, accidentally knocking it out of his hands, unfurling its contents all over the floor.

It looks like a garden just threw up in your bedroom.

Hundreds, thousands of differently shaped petals are scattered on your floor, tufts of colorful memories spread out like a silky scroll. First, you freeze. Then, you gasp; your muscles thawing like a flower unfurling in the snow. It hits you slowly, blossoming in your chest and spilling from your eyes—Seungmin hasn’t been throwing away the flowers he bought you. He’s been collecting them.

You didn’t realize you were crying—not until you spoke—“Seungmin, what is this?”—then you heard it, your voice withering and wet. When you finally go to meet his gaze, he can’t seem to look at you, tilting his head down in shame.

“W-Well I-I’ve just…” he begins, trailing off with a rub of his burning neck. “Fuck, this is going to sound so stupid,” he flushes, staring down at the single yellow petal that fluttered onto his folded thighs. Suddenly, Seungmin feels your thumb brushing over his knuckles, and something shoots through his skin, something that straightens his spine and evens his breathing.

“I-I’ve um…” This was harder than he thought it would be. “Been collecting them for a while now, I wanted to keep them for when we get married. Wanted to scatter them down the aisle…”

His voice gets smaller with every word, sinking into himself as though that will make the gravity of the sentence less exposed, less raw. For a second, as silence stretches between you, Seungmin feels so stupid, embarrassment painting his cheeks red. You must think he’s such a fool, must think he’s crazy for ever believing he could marry you—his thoughts stop the moment your lips meet his, palms pressed firmly against his cheeks.

“I love you,” you whisper in between breaths, kissing him until it feels like you can’t kiss anymore; until he falls back upon the feathery bed made of magnolias and memories; until, with a star-lit sigh, he pulls away, untucking the red of a dried rose tangled above your brow. Even surrounded by God's most beautiful creations, he can’t bring his gaze to fall from yours, your eyes and all the mesmerizing sparkles they hold.

Seungmin couldn’t trace the exact moment he fell in love with you. Rather, it bloomed slowly over time, a feeling that took root; wrapping around the slabs of his ribs.

With you, he grew, and all of a sudden, with every breath he inhales, he finds you fluttering in his chest. At first, it terrified him. Though, now he knows—some gardens never die.

ᡣ𐭩 jeongin + stalking your goodreads profile to annotate your favorite books

“So, you’re a stalker, huh?” you muse, brushing your palm over Jeongin’s shoulder, which was clearly not a good idea, cause no sooner do you make contact is he jumping twenty feet out of his skin. You throw your hands up when he swivels around, ripping off his headphones like they were going to materialize into a baseball bat.

“Crap, y/n, you scared the hell out of me,” Jeongin pants, a relieved smile pulling on his cheeks; grateful that the intruder was indeed his girlfriend and not a 6-foot-tall man in a scream mask. For a second, he wonders if you’re possessed, a lopsided smirk playing on your lips while you tweak out, kind of laughing, kind of nodding, kind of looking like you need an exorcism. Then it hits him. Hits him like a 200-pound dump truck, rendering him breathless once more. He puts Flash to shame by how fast he slams his laptop shut, scrunching his face in cringe. The laugh you let out is devastating, a full-belly guffaw that makes you double over, stumbling straight into his arms.

For a second, when the lamplight hits you just right, Jeongin has to stop.

His breath catches in his throat, taking all of you in. There you were, with your hair falling in messy tangles, your eyelids slightly smudged in black, your smile boxy and sun-bright, you were perfect, and you were sitting on his lap. If you didn’t start talking, he would have stared at you for hours—probably would have started drooling as well.

“So, this is how you’ve known all my favorite books, huh?” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck. It takes him a hot second to gather himself, heart fluttering at the newfound proximity.

He stuffs his head into your neck, the heat of his cheeks burning into your skin. “Yeah…is that weird?”

“Is it weird?? Yang Jeongin, I’m pretty sure you just inadvertently proposed to me,” you reply, your tone light-hearted though you're dead serious.

“What?” He chuckles with a shy smile, leaning back.

“Yeah, I mean, you stalk your girlfriend’s Goodreads profile to read and annotate her TBR list. That is a proposal. I don’t make the rules.”

“Is that so?” he smirks, inching forward, your noses brushing together.

“Yeah,” you whisper, hot breath fanning across his lips, you lean in, finally sealing your mouths shut. Jeongin groans, your thumb swiping the nape of his neck. His heart pounds with a thousand different translations of 'I love you'.

“How many?”

He hums, slamming back down to earth, still a little bit dizzy.

“How many books have you bought?”

That sobers him up.

His eyes widen slightly before he bashfully chuckles, awkwardly scratching his ear. “Oh, uh…not that many.”

“Can I see them?” He’s two seconds from saying no, until you brush your lips against his cheeks, then his forehead, then the sides of his eyes, before, finally, he is tasting your grin instead, “Please?”

Well, how can he say no now?

He fiddles with the bottom of your shirt, biting his lip before sighing and pointing under his bed. “They’re all under there.”

You squeal, clambering off him to dive at the foot of his bed, sticking your hands into the dusty abyss below. It doesn’t take you but five seconds to find the box, though it takes you 5 minutes to actually pull the damn thing out, feeling more like a dead body than dead trees.

However, when you flip open the lid, the struggle is all worth it. Your jaw drops. Jeongin’s stomach flips upside down.

"Yang Jeongin, there’s no way..." You peer at him through dewy lashes, there had to be at least fifty books in this container. "You were planning on giving me all of these?"

"Well, yeah. Just...when I had enough time to annotate them."

"You've already given me like 10. How have you found enough time to read them?"

"I read them every night before I go to bed."

"And annotate them?"

He clears his throat, a faint blush falling over his cheeks like rose petals. "Yes."

"Where did you get the money for all this? These books have to have been like a thousand dollars."

"My check had just come in, and I knew how much you liked to read... I just wanted to do something nice for you. Why is this starting to feel kind of like an interrogation? Are you mad? Is this, like, really weird?" Jeongin can feel his eyes widen, anxiously shifting in place.

“One more question,” you step forward, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger. He shutters when you make contact, gaze fluttering down. Jeongin expects you to laugh, maybe demand that he takes them back, or the worst of them all tell him he’s too obsessed. What he doesn’t expect you to do is drag him forward, and smash your lips together.

“How are you so perfect?” you exhale, puffing onto his lips like a breath of his own. He was going to show you how, he was going to show you how all night long.

ᡣ𐭩

If you thought he was perfect then you definitely think he is perfect now.

The sun slips through the curtains, dyeing your sweaty skin in gold; your mouth is nuzzled into his neck, lashes tickling his skin every time you shift. He draws phantom circles over your naked waist, savoring this moment, soaking your body in until he can remember the feel of your form through memory alone. You stir, feeling his heartbeat pick up.

It must have been a dream that urged you to say it, because somewhere, on the edge of sleep, you murmur, “What’s your favorite story?”

He didn’t have to think about the answer, not when he had thought about it a million times before. Without hesitation, Jeongin whispers, “Ours.”

(I rushed tf out of some of these I'm sorry)

[iniquitousyearning]

theodore nott. | you’re mine tonight

summary: theodore nott is always willing to be used by you. if you’re going to use somebody, just let it be him.

word count: 800

tags: headcanons that once again turned into this. i try to keep things short, apparently im physically incapable🥹 nothing crazy here other then implied fwb, slight angst, reader heartbreak kinda cuz cormac sux, theo being good with words as always, make out session at the end

Theodore Nott, who watches as you and your situationship, Cormac, argue every single day.

Theodore Nott who sees you cry constantly as a result of these arguments, tonight no unorthodox exception as you come storming back into the Slytherin common room with tears streaming down your cheeks, kicking off your heels and throwing yourself down next to him on a secluded corner couch.

Your eyes, brimming with anguish and pleading for solace, lock onto his, a look he knows all too damn well.

Theodore Nott, who doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to pry, who already knows exactly why you’re here, sitting next to him, when you could be literally anywhere else. He reads the story in your tear-streaked cheeks and your trembling hands. It’s a scene he’s witnessed so many times he’s lost count.

Theodore Nott, who merely closes his book, runs a hand through his tousled hair, and rests the other on your knee. PDA is off the table since you don’t want Cormac to find out—even though he’s been sneaking off with more girls than you have fingers on both hands—so Theo simply looks at you with those steady, knowing eyes and whispers, “your dorm or mine?”

You swallow, grateful gaze shifting toward the door. It’s always so fucking easy with Theo.

“Always yours,” you murmur, rising to your feet and picking up your discarded heels. Without waiting for his response, you start toward his dorm, certain he’s right behind you. He always is.

Theodore Nott, who shuts the door and locks it behind you as the two of you enter. The lights are dim, the shadows of the Black Lake ripple against the walls, and moonlight flickers throughout the room. Theodore Nott, who notices the look on your face well before you do, who can already sense the words that are about to slip past your teeth.

Theo knows well enough by now that you only come to him when you’re hurt, and you never feel good about it until he reassures you it’s okay. He sees it in the subtle shift of your gaze, the furrow of your brow, the tremble of your lips—a silent plea for forgiveness he’s already long granted you.

“I’m sorry, Theo…”

Theodore Nott, who understands you just need someone to hold you right now. Someone who will look at you with warmth, with desire, with need, someone who will give you all of himself in this moment. A shoulder to cry on, bedsheets to lie on.

“It’s okay, bella, don’t apologize…”

Theodore Nott who steps closer, his hands stern yet gentle as they cup your cheeks, drawing your gaze to his. Reverent blue eyes glisten like two oceans, drowning you in their warmth. Theodore Nott who brushes the damp from your cheeks with his thumbs before leaning down, grazing his lips over yours, feather-light.

“I’ve said it about a million times, you know I’ve already told you—“

Theodore Nott, who interrupts his own sentence by pressing his lips to yours, inhaling a sharp breath as your salty sweetness ignites in his mouth. Tears mingle with your cherry lip gloss, his hands sliding back into your hair, and he’s lost and then found again—as though you’re the only beacon in a world shrouded in darkness, the answer to all his unspoken questions.

Theodore Nott, who needs this, who wants this just as much, if not more, than you do.

“—if you’re gonna’ use somebody…use me…”

Theodore Nott who practically growls those words into your mouth as fervour takes over, as hunger roars harder and stronger with each passing second. One hand grips your hair, holding your lips to his while the other falls to your blouse, slender fingers undoing the buttons with a speed that leaves you breathless.

“…I’m so fucking willing to be somebody you need…”

His fingers deftly slip the last button free, his hand sliding beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of your skin. The touch sends shivers through you, your body responding to his every move. His lips trail down your jaw, pressing hot kisses along your neck, making you gasp. Theodore's grip on your hair tightens just enough to tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to his eager mouth.

The room seems to shrink around you, the flickering moonlight casting shadows that dance across the walls, mirroring the wild rhythm of your hearts. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark and intense.

"You drive me insane…how much I fucking want you drives me insane," he admits, his breath hitching. "Every time I see you with him…every time I see what he does to you…it kills me…”

Theodore Nott whose words are like gasoline to an open flame, igniting a fierce need within you, scorching while simultaneously taming the desire to be desired. Theodore Nott who groans as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to close any distance between you as he shifts you around and begins backing you up toward his bed.

"Show me, Theo," you whisper. "Show me how much you want me."

With a growl, Theodore crashes his lips back to yours, the kiss searing and urgent. He moves with you effortlessly, guiding you towards the bed, never breaking the contact. As you fall back onto the soft sheets, his body follows, covering you completely. His hands roam over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, each touch more intoxicating than the last.

"You're mine tonight," it’s a promise. Not a question. "No one else's. Just mine."

pretty divider made by: @saradika-graphics

[the-halloween-jack]

Tether ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: When a battered Jason stumbles into an alley and finds unexpected refuge in a stranger’s kindness, it sparks a fracture in the walls he’s built to survive. Trust was never a luxury he could afford, but as survival blurs into something more, Jason is forced to confront the most dangerous risk of all, love.

Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns.

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and scars. Hurt with comfort.

Masterlist

Notes: A couple of weeks ago, I posted a pair of headcanons, 'when he realised he loved you' and 'when he admitted he loved you'. A few people were interested in an extension of Jason's parts, and this is the result. So, if some moments sound familiar, that is why. It follows Jason as he meets, gets to know, and, eventually, falls in love with the reader.

Words: 5,992k

The air was thick with the acrid scent of oil and looming rain. The Gotham sky threatened a storm, as it always did, the kind that lurked but never quite arrived, it pressed down upon her shoulders; she huddled against it. Y/N did not intend to be outside long. It was just the rubbish, nothing more than a trip down two flights of stairs to the alley behind her apartment, a chore too mundane to warrant much forethought. But that is when she saw him.

At first, Y/N was not sure what she was looking at. Just a shadow, too still, too broken at the base of the brick wall. Then it moved, a sharp, pained shift, and the outline resolved itself into something unmistakably human. 

He was bleeding. Not in the way of scrapes and gashes; this was deeper, darker. New wounds layered atop old scars. She froze, bin bag clutched within her grasp, knuckles white. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He did not look at her. He was watching the mouth of the alley, just past the corner, breath coming fast and shallow. Voices echoed from somewhere beyond. Sharp. Searching.

‘Where the fuck did he go?’

‘Check the rooftops. Check the damn dumpsters. He couldn’t have gone far.’

His eyes flicked up, just barely, only enough to register her. His shoulders fell slack, ever so slightly. She was not a threat. Just a girl.

Jason Todd had been in more confrontations than anyone should survive. He had bled in them, broken in them, died in one. There was a pattern to this kind of moment, the hush before pain returned, the liminal space where adrenaline gave way to his collapse. He had learned to expect nothing from strangers. No mercy. No help. Just the turning away of eyes and the closure of doors. So when she stepped forward instead of flinching, when her voice did not falter or fill with fear, something within him stalled.

‘My place is just there,’ she said, nodding toward the fire escape tucked beside the alley’s edge. 

‘You can’t stay here. They’ll find you.’

He did not react, nor move; he simply watched her.

‘You need to get off the street,’ she added, lower now. ‘You won’t make it five minutes if they come back this way.’

Still, he hesitated. His whole body was coiled with his refusal. She could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers hovered near his belt, ready to draw, to run, to die fighting. She dropped her gaze, it fell to rest on his boots.

‘I’m not trying to trap you,’ she said, voice quieter now, nothing more than a whisper. ‘I’m trying to help.’

That was the part he could not understand, would not let himself believe. Why would anyone help him? Especially like this, so suddenly, without demand, without recognition. She did not know who he was, not really. If she did, would she have still reached for him?

Another voice rang out nearby. Closer this time.

She stepped forward and reached for his arm without thinking. He flinched, not from pain, but reflex. The kind born of being mishandled too many times. But he did not pull away. She guided him to his feet, shocked by how heavily he leaned once upright, how much weight he was carrying in silence.

And he followed.

All the while, Jason could not make sense of it. A thousand voices in his head, Bruce’s warnings, Alfred’s caution, his own brutal sense of realism, all shouted at him to resist, to stay low, to get out. But this woman, this stranger, offered him nothing but quiet resolve. And something in him, something tired and long frayed, gave in.

Her apartment was small, neat, yet well-lived-in. Warm lights, blankets strewn unceremoniously over the couch, a kettle still warm upon the stove. He stood in the centre of her living room, stiff and vigilant, akin to a stray dog unsure if the hand reaching for it would offer food or a harsh blow.

He should not have come. He knew this was a mistake. He did not belong in spaces like this. Every breath of its domestic warmth grated against the sharp edges of his being, reminded him of everything he had lost and all he had ruined. And yet he stayed, frozen beneath the soft lighting, the aromatic scent of bergamot and quiet calm surrounding him like a haze.

‘You need a hospital,’ she muttered, though her tone already bore traces of defeat; she knew this sentiment would be futile.

He turned immediately, preparing to leave.

‘Or not,’ she amended quickly, voice grim, and stepped into his path. ‘You’re not going back out there like this. At least sit down.’

He halted. Only because the pain had lanced through his ribs like a warning. He hated this, the helplessness, the imbalance. But she did not look upon him as a burden, but simply as someone who needed help.

Reluctantly, he eased himself onto the edge of her worn armchair, its leather creaking beneath him. His mask remained on, armour still clinging to him; blood was now beginning to seep through the layers. He shifted his weight, conscious of ruining her chair.

She returned with a first aid kit, unassuming, but well-stocked. He did not stop her when she knelt beside him, did not flinch when she pulled back the material of his jacket and placed it aside, though his hands twitched at every passing sound beyond the apartment. When she reached for his armour, the woman hesitated, not wanting to overstep, though Jason understood and quickly pulled it back in parts, revealing only what was necessary.  

She did not ask questions. Not the ones he had expected when he followed her here. She was not probing for his name or what he had done to deserve this, what had happened for him to pursue it. She just worked, focused and calm. Her touch was gentle, but not tentative. She bore a steadiness he had not expected, not from someone who should have recoiled, who should have been scared.

Jason found himself watching her, not with suspicion, but with something near disbelief. Why? Why was she doing this? Did she think she was helping some misguided hero? Did she see something redeemable within the blood and ruin of him?

Did she not care who he was? Did she not care about what he does?

These thoughts gnawed at him more than anything else. It bothered him that this kindness may not be the fallacy of a skewed perception, but rather a simple resolve to help, despite everything he was.

When she finished, she offered him water. He took it, fingers brushing hers. It grounded him more than he cared to admit.

‘There’s a spare bed in the study,’ she said. ‘You can rest there tonight.’

He did not answer. But he followed again as she walked away, grabbing his clothes that lay discarded on her floor. Something about her voice, soft, steady and undemanding, made resistance feel pointless.

Then she opened a door. It was a small room, books lined the shelves, and a narrow bed was tucked into the corner, with clean sheets and a folded quilt.

‘There’s a lock,’ she said, gesturing to the inside of the door. ‘If you need it. You can take your mask off. I won't be able to open it from the outside.’

He looked at her then. Truly looked. Not for weakness. Not for a motive. But for the truth. And what he saw left him stunned, not simply because it was unfamiliar, but because it was real. There was no pity within her unrelenting gaze. No awe. Just, quiet offering.

He did not say thank you. He could not. Jason could feel the words billow on the edge of his tongue; he yearned for her to understand his gratitude, and though he could not utter them, she nodded as though she had heard them anyway. His relief was palpable. 

Then he stepped inside as she hovered in the doorway. For the first time, he spoke up,

‘What’s your name?’ He wanted his voice to come across as gentle, but there was a gruffness he could not quite quell. She did not seem fazed by it.

‘Y/N.’ She murmured, and when it became clear to her that this conversation would not expand beyond this simple query, she closed the door.

He remained there for a moment longer, staring where she had just been, before shifting the latch of the lock. Jason peeled back the remaining layers of his ensemble until he was left in nothing but his boxers. It was not ideal, but he could not bear the notion of crawling beneath her covers in his grimy, blood-uncrusted getup. The bed was small yet inviting, his frame hardly fit, though he could not recall the last time he had been this comfortable. He was not sure if it was the sleeping arrangement or the soft snores of the girl across the hall that acted as a reminder of someone who had been so unusually kind. Regardless of the catalyst, he fell into a quick slumber as a foreign warmth bloomed within his chest.

By morning, the door was open.

Not just unlocked, but wide and unoccupied. The bed was made, the quilt folded precisely. The only trace of him was a faint indentation left upon the pillow; if she had not known better, if she had not just thrown away his bloodied gauze, she could easily believe he was never there. 

She stood in the doorway for a prolonged moment, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. The quiet lingered around her, louder now, and she caught herself wondering if he would ever come to fill it once more.

Jason should have known better.

The notion built upon him slowly, like bruises forming beneath his skin, invisible at first, until the ache settled and colour bloomed. The morning he slipped from her apartment, he had told himself it was nothing more than a fleeting refuge. He left nothing behind. He would not burden her with the aftermath of last night’s choices. But it was not until he had cleared the block, boots light, breath even, body stitched back into shape, that the thought hit him like a bat to the ribs.

He led them to her.

Not intentionally. Never that. But reckless all the same. The alley had been a haven born of desperation, not strategy. He had not known where he was going, he only knew that he had needed to get away. And when she opened that door to him, he walked through it without so much as a second thought. Without calculating the risks.

And now the calculation was catching up with him. This kind samaritan was in danger because of him.

He returned that night. However, Jason did not allow himself to venture too close. He perched three rooftops down, crouched low in the shadows, eyes locked on the slow hum of the street outside her building. The fire escape remained still. Lights flickered softly inside.

She was fine.

But that did not soothe him.

He stayed longer than he meant to. Hours passed. Long enough that the shadows stretched and yawned, long enough that his body reminded him it had not properly healed. Still, he waited. Not for her. Not really. That is what he told himself, at the very least. He was not watching her. He would never do that. He never allowed his gaze to touch her window. He was not here for her.

He was here for them.

The ones who had chased him. The ones still searching. If they had half the sense he wielded, they would retrace his escape route. They would check for kindness. They would look for open doors and cracked windows and people foolish enough to help. He hated how plausible it was.

And so he came back again the next night.

And the one after.

It became routine, though he refused to admit that to himself. This was a stakeout. A surveillance effort. He was not lingering. He was not tethered. He certainly was not attached.

But even in the silence, even with his gaze anchored on the street, he could sense her behind that wall; he pictured her reading in that chair, sipping from the chipped mug he could envision near the sink. She did not know he was out here. She could not. He would never be that careless.

Yet, somehow, it still felt like he was trespassing, even though he had not so much as looked at her in all this time. That strange warmth she had offered him, freely, like it had cost her nothing, haunted him more than pain ever had.

He told himself he would stop. Every night, he told himself it would be the last. 

He was so very close to relenting when he laid eyes on her for the first time since that night, she was not in the hazy warmth of the apartment, but under the jarring clarity of daylight. Mid-morning. A street corner in Park Row. She had a velvet bag slung over her shoulder, a paperback in one hand and half a pastry in the other. Casual and effortless.

He nearly walked past her.

Jason knew he should have.

But the moment he registered her, truly saw her, without the fog of blood loss and alleyway silence, something happened. Something ridiculous. His stomach flipped. Not in fear, but... something worse. Something more dangerous. Something soft. A breathless kind of jolt that made his chest feel too tight.

Butterflies.

He scoffed aloud at the word.

Ridiculous. Juvenile. Weak.

But they were there, fluttering behind his bruises, beating against ribs that had withstood so much worse. And the worst part? He did not hate the sensation.

Though he certainly did not trust it.

She did not recognise him. How could she? They were meeting in a new context. She stood before a different version of him. No mask, no blood, no warning in his eyes. Just a hoodie, dark jeans, hair still mussed from too little sleep. He looked... normal. That was the trick of it. That was the danger.

He could speak to her now, and it would not be an invasion. This was not some rooftop vigil. It was not surveillance steeped in adrenaline and exhaustion. This was his chance.

A chance he should not take. Though Jason felt the butterflies once more and spoke anyway.

‘Hey,’ he uttered, too rough, the word catching against a throat unused to casual conversation.

She turned. Eyed him.

No recognition.

‘Sorry, this is probably strange,’ he added quickly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as though that could hide the nervous itch crawling under his skin. ‘You just looked like you could use a second cup of coffee. Or company. Or both.’

She blinked. Then, a slow, small smile.

‘Is that your way of asking me out?’

He froze. Not because she was wrong. But because she was direct. Unflinching. Just as she had been before. Could it really be that easy?

He laughed. A low, surprised sound that felt foreign against his tongue.

‘Yeah. I guess it is.’

She studied him for a breath longer, then nodded, easy as anything.

‘Alright. But I’ll take a tea.’

He wanted to ask her name again. Wanted to tell her his.

But instead, he fell into step beside her, quiet, casual. Just another face on the street, a casual trip to a café. He felt a blush creep onto his skin, and he turned away from her, fidgeting hands buried deep in his pockets.

It was not love at first sight. Jason did not believe in things like that, not anymore.

If anything, it was suspicion at the first conversation. Interest at second. Uncertainty for the next dozen or so. She had no idea who he was, and he preferred it that way. There was a freedom in this anonymity, in being seen without history clawing at his heels. She did not look at him like she was waiting for something to fall apart. She did not glance at his hands like she expected them to be bloodied. She saw him for who he truly was, it felt like the rarest thing of all.

And so he kept showing up.

Cafés became a habit. A tether. Once a week, then twice. Never planned, always on a whim, or so they liked to pretend. They visited bookstores and late-night markets. Together, they would walk past the same food trucks where Y/N would consistently order the wrong thing as though it were a rule, never complaining. Though she would smile sheepishly when Jason offered his much more appetising selection. 

Y/N would ask him about books. Music. The kinds of questions he had not been asked in years. He did not always answer. Sometimes he just watched her talk, let the cadence of her voice steady the parts of him that threatened to fray.

She had looked different in the daylight.

Less shadowed. Still sharp, still grounded, but without the weight of the tension that had hung between them that night. She had laughed once, and the sound had startled him. It was unguarded. Open. He had not heard anything that unafraid directed at him for a long time.

He had to stop himself from reaching for it.

Jason tried to keep it casual, whatever this was. Whatever they were circling. He made sure never to cross certain lines. He would not stay too long. He would not text first. He would not touch her unless she touched him. There was an instance where she had brushed her fingers over his knuckles on the edge of a café table, he had stared down at the spot as though it had caught fire.

She did not comment. Just went back to sipping her tea, Earl Grey. He could smell the bergamot wafting from it, as he had in her apartment that first night. 

He could not define when it changed. When the space between them stopped feeling like distance and started feeling like an invitation. Maybe it was the first time she made him laugh, not a small chuckle, not one of those scoffs of disbelief, but a genuine, gut-twisting kind of laugh that left him breathless. She had just looked at him with raised brows, like she was not sure whether to be proud or concerned.

Maybe it was the night she found him again, bleeding, no more than that first time. A busted lip, bruised jaw; he had already changed into his regular clothes and considered turning around. He should not allow her to see him like this. But before he could bring himself to move, she opened the door and ushered him inside without question. 

Did not so much as blink. Just helped him again, only her touch was familiar and welcome now. Still careful, still steady.

And when she looked at him, saw past the blood and the scowl and the silence, she reached up and brushed his hair back from his face, her thumb resting at the corner of his temple. Nothing more. How could she accept him so willingly, without question? How could she not demand the catalyst of his newly mangled face and bloodied knuckles?

Jason had kissed her then. He had not planned it. It was simple instinct, or rather an impulse, or some failing of his exhausted restraint. But she did not flinch. Did not push away. She just leaned in, met him halfway, soft and certain.

After that, there was no use pretending.

It was not some grand explosion, not as books had made him believe. There were no bold declarations, no breathless confessions. Jason did not see romance the way others did. He did not show up with flowers. He did not call just to say he missed her. He barely knew how to say what he felt, let alone trust that it would not crumble in his grasp.

But she understood him in a language he had not known he was speaking. When he disappeared for three days and came back with split knuckles and a haunted look, she did not demand an explanation. Just held his gaze for a moment too long and set a cup of tea on the table beside him.

He would never deserve her. He knew that. This concept was stitched into every part of his being, the sense of ruin, of fracture, of being too far gone to love or be loved back. But she never asked him to deserve her. She just asked him to show up. And over time, he did. More than he thought he could.

Eventually, she saw through him.

Not all at once. But in pieces. The subtle way he scanned every room before they entered it. The half-second delay before he ever turned his back. The scars he never explained, the exhaustion he carried within his shoulders.

He realised he could not lose her, the very thought of it left him asphyxiated, left him gasping and sputtering for air. It terrified him more than anything ever had. It was worse than the crowbar, worse than the vestige of the green glow left shimmering behind closed eyelids. He remembers how he had met her, how she had helped him so unflinchingly, how he had been bewildered by her lack of fear. And he realised this actuality left him horror-struck. What if she helped someone in this manner once more? What if they were not so kind? 

This is how he justified his need to remain in her orbit: that his vigilance was the only way to keep her safe from all lingering dangers, but even as the words circled his mind, a deep, gnawing doubt took root. Was he truly only here to protect her? Jason knew better, a heinous selfishness had been sown, and he stayed because he could not bear the notion of parting with her. Could he ever atone for how these mistakes had already placed her in harm’s way? The weight of that guilt threatened to crush him, but he could not walk away now; he was in too deep.

It happened with a shift of fabric. A flash of his skin. A scar.

They were in her kitchen. She had been making him breakfast. Jason, barefoot and groggy, was pretending not to enjoy the way she fussed over the frying pans. He had reached for something on the top shelf, muttering under his breath about her terrible organisational choices. Y/N had laughed and leant against the counter, trying not to watch the way the muscles in his back shifted beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

Then the hem lifted.

Just a little. A second, maybe less. But time had a strange way of stretching in moments like this, in moments that mattered.

The scar was thin and brutal, a memory carved into his flesh. Indented above the waistband of his jeans, angled on his side. She remembered it too well. The jagged line. The way this shiny white mark had gleamed underneath blood-soaked skin, beneath dour body armour…

Her breath caught.

She did not mean to gasp. It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough.

Jason froze.

Then, akin to a fiend caught suspended within a spotlight, his hand dropped from the shelf and yanked the shirt down with quiet, desperate precision. He met her gaze.

But it was too late.

She had seen it. And more than that, she recognised it; he could discern familiarity as it flooded her perception. 

He moved toward her, slow and measured, but stopped over a metre short. He already knew what was written across her face, he had no choice but to meet it head-on.

Their eyes locked, though neither of them shifted.

Silence bloomed between them, vast, tense and electric. Though not empty. It was full of all the acts and secrets he had not disclosed to her. Visions of the alleyway, of blood and heavy breaths, the weight of him leaning against her to stay upright, and her hands pressing gauze against the cuts that circled that familiar scar.

‘You remember.’ He spoke quietly.

It was not framed as a question, it was a statement, an observation. 

She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. ‘That night,’ she whispered. ‘The one in the alley.’

He nodded once. Just once. Nothing theatrical. Nothing dramatic. But it felt like the earth beneath them had shifted.

Red Hood.

It all slotted into place, the bruises, the silence, the way he would flinch ever so slightly when she would reach for a part of him he did not want seen. She had known he carried secrets. Had made peace with the fact that some parts of him were locked behind years of pain and choices she might never fully comprehend.

But this… this was different.

‘You should’ve told me,’ she murmured, not out of anger, but the truth felt heavy against her tongue. Like it had waited too long to be spoken aloud.

Jason’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching in his cheek. ‘I didn’t want to lose this.’ He motioned around them, motioned towards her.

‘This?’ she echoed, almost hollow.

He looked upon her as though she were deserving of reverence, as though he could scarcely believe she was his to hold, yet, even now, his manner was crumpled with wretched trepidation. Jason awaited her outburst, anticipating the command to leave; he could not bear the weight of her silence.

‘You. This place. The quiet. The version of me that you know.’ He added. 

She stared at him, truly stared, and realised something terrifying: she had known. Maybe not consciously, not in the way of facts, names and alter-egos, but within her bones. In the way he moved. The way he disappeared. In the weight he bore like a shroud, constricting him with every breath.

And she had loved him anyway.

The hood, the violence, the vigilante beneath her kitchen light, none of it overwrote the man who made her tea when she could not sleep. The man who listened to her gush about books and could recall her favourite lines. Who kissed her like she was something he did not think he deserved, and treated her like she was the only real thing in a world full of spectres; Y/N was sure this was what he told himself. 

Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again.

‘You didn’t have to be someone else to be wanted, I hope you know that.’

He closed his eyes, and she watched as something in him fractured, not like breaking glass, but like old tension unravelling; she could see his apprehension flow out from beneath his skin.

‘I know,’ he said, barely above a whisper. ‘But I didn’t know how to be him… and still be this.’

She stepped forward. One pace. Two. Slow. Careful. As if approaching something transient.

Jason flinched, not quite pulling away, not quite reaching out. A lifetime of rejection was hardwired into his muscle memory. Though he caught himself before he could move away, standing rigid as she closed the space between them.

Her hand found his, warm and steady. He looked down at their entwined fingers. Jason could not believe that something so simple could feel so profound.

‘You’re simply you, boyfriend by day and regrettably, vigilante by night. Knowing this won’t change how I think of you,’ she affirmed. Then she tilted her head, thoughtful, and spoke once more.

‘Though… it may just heighten my anxiety levels. Knowing you’re out there.’

And for the first time since that fateful night in the alley, Jason let himself believe that maybe this could work. 

Jason felt it before he understood it, like the first rays of sun on his back after a winter that had lasted far too long. A warmth he had not asked for. Had not expected. It crept into his system uninvited, compelling and unfamiliar, thawing places he had long since numbed for survival.

It struck him suddenly, not like a realisation, but like a tempest. He thought he had not wanted it. He did not trust it. But it was there all the same, pressing against his ribs, blooming beneath his skin.

Love.

It was not loud. It was not cinematic. It was not even convenient. It arrived in the middle of a quiet evening, while she was brushing her teeth, half-asleep, one of his old shirts covering her frame, bare legs beneath the hem, humming something tuneless under her breath. A song he did not recognise.

The bathroom door was ajar. Lamp light filtered in behind her, soft and pale, painting the air gold. She was swaying gently where she stood, oblivious to the weight of his stare. And Jason, standing there in the threshold, rooted to the spot, watched her like she was something too precious for this world. As though she might flicker and vanish if he exhaled too harshly.

And in that moment, watching her in that domestic stillness, he could believe, even just for a breath, that the world was not a place of carnage. That outside the window, it was not broken. That pain was not inevitable. That this could last.

But the thought brought with it a sharp, biting panic.

It was in this moment that he knew he loved her.

His body tensed, his mind retreating into old reflexes. Not to run, not literally. He could never leave her. But something within him tried to pull away, to armour up, to prepare for the moment when this would inevitably be ripped from him.

Because that is what always happened. Moments like this, soft, perfect, undeserved, were fleeting in his world. They were the eye of the storm, not the end of it.

He did not deserve this. And even if he did, the world had a cruel way of taking beautiful things and turning them to ash.

She caught his reflection in the mirror, stilled, and turned toward him. Her eyes met his. Sleepy, soft, utterly unguarded. A small smear of toothpaste clung to the corner of her lip, and yet she looked at him like she could see through him. Not with fear or judgment, just mild concern and a gentle curiosity.

‘You okay?’ she asked, voice thick with sleep, amused by the way he loomed in the doorway like he had stumbled into a scene too fragile to touch.

It disarmed him. Utterly.

Jason swallowed hard. After everything he had seen, everything he had survived, the Lazarus Pit, the alleys, the gunfire and betrayal, he was not sure he had ever been less okay. And yet, standing there in her bathroom doorway, heart thundering like he had just survived a firefight, all he could do was step forward.

He did not speak, not at first. He just reached for her and kissed her temple, soft and fleeting, like the moment itself. It was not meant to answer her question. It was not meant to fix the chaos unravelling inside his chest. It was just the only thing he could offer that was not ruin.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Just tired.’

But it was a lie.

He was not tired, he was reeling.

That night, he did not sleep. Not because he was unable, but because he would not. He lay in her bed, curled beside her, her breath slow and even against his collarbone. One of her arms was draped across his ribs, anchoring him with a kind of warmth he did not dare disturb.

He memorised it. Every part of her.

The cadence of her breath. The shape that her hand made against his chest. The way she murmured in her sleep. He memorised her like a man convinced the morning would seize her from his grasp. Like this was all a dream and he would wake back in Gotham’s dirt-streaked alleys, alone, masked, and untouched by her grace.

But she was real.

And for now, it was enough.

Y/N was stitching him up again, hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, his skin cold under her touch. She sat cross-legged before him, knees meeting his.

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ Y/N murmured. It was not the first time she had said this, and it would certainly not be the last. Her sorrow clung to her like a second skin; he would never stop hurting himself and, by extension, hurting her. Her fingers twitched, and she forced them steady. 

Jason did not answer her. What would he tell her? Definitely, not the truth; she would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that she cared; he could not resist the temptation. It was how they had met, it was why he had allowed himself to grow close to her. Jason did not believe she could love a man like him, but when he felt her gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn.  

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned her face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’  

And then, something unspooled. It was akin to a thread that had been pulled taut for too long, it snapped under the tension. Jason sighed.  

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you…’ He looked into her eyes, gaze piercing, willing her to see the truth of it.  

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. 

‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere she did not grace; the very notion made him ill.  

She stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work. He was not looking for a response, only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But she gave him one anyway.  

‘I love you, too.’ She had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching her lips, he might have missed it. His breath caught, not in fear, but in awe, as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.  

Her words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin, like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.  

He spoke up again, softer this time, ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave her one of his rare smiles, and her heart jolted.  

She silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing her head against his shoulder. After a short while, she shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment. He felt that same electricity once more, humming under her touch. 

Her hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message she was trying to convey, what she was trying to have him understand.  

Once again, Jason did not sleep at night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

We saw small glimpses of domestic Jason here. Why is it everything I want in life? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @aidansloth

[monicfever]

Hmmm hello, could you maybe do - in headcanon style - how it was for the daredevil people fall in love with reader?

Btw I'm loving your blog <3

falling in love 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he falls in love through sound first. it’s your laugh. that’s what stays with him.

the way your laugh catches in your throat like you’re surprised by your own joy. sometimes soft and tired, sometimes wild and unexpected. he memorizes the rhythm of it before he even realizes he’s falling.

he tries not to get used to you. tells himself it’s dangerous. comfort is a trap. but then you show up with coffee just how he likes it, or rest your head on his shoulder without a word, and suddenly he wants to forget how to be alone. that scares him more than anything.

your voice becomes something like home. in the courtroom, on the street, through a half-open window — he hears you. even when you’re not talking to him, he listens. it calms the part of him that’s always spinning too fast. he hears the shift in your tone before you know you’re upset. he leans closer before you ask.

he notices the silence when you’re not around. it’s not just quiet — it’s peaceful. there’s a difference ever since he’d met you. the silence doesn’t press on his chest. it makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t realize how loud his world is until you’re in it, softening the edges.

he feels selfish for wanting you. you’re light. steady. you remind him of everything good he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. he keeps his distance sometimes, disappears without warning. comes back with a quiet apology and a bruise he won’t talk about.

he listens more than he speaks. you talk about your day, about something you read, about nothing. he listens. not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. your voice makes things feel less heavy.

he notices how you move through the world. you make sounds other people don’t notice. the way your fingertips brush surfaces absentmindedly, how your keys jingle in your pocket, your breathing when you’re focused.

he starts turning toward you without thinking. even before you speak, even in a crowd. it’s instinct. you come into a room and his body just shifts. like a flower tilting toward the sun. he doesn't fight it anymore. he doesn't even notice he’s doing it until foggy calls him out with a smirk.

your presence is a texture. warm skin. soft fabrics. the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air hours after you leave. your touch is electric in the quietest way — never overwhelming, always grounding.

he never expected to fall in love like this. not with the city screaming. not with his past dragging behind him like a shadow. but you showed up, and you didn’t flinch at the broken pieces. you made space for him. slowly, without pressure.

he keeps finding traces of you on him. a stray thread from your scarf clinging to his coat. the faint scent of your perfume on his pillow. the echo of your laughter in his head when he’s perched on some rooftop, bleeding and tired and aching for the next time he gets to sit next to you in silence.

he doesn’t say it right away.

he’s scared of love. of needing someone. of you realizing what he really is. but one night, when your fingers graze his and he doesn’t pull away, you smile like you know. and maybe you do.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he feels like he’s stepping on dangerous ground. every time you smile at him, or when you simply sit next to him, he’s aware of the space between you, the space he always tries to keep. it’s an instinct to stay distant, to protect you from getting too close. he’s been through too much, seen too many people get hurt because they were too close to him. the last thing he wants is to drag you into his mess.

he keeps you at arm’s length, but he notices everything. frank doesn’t let you get too close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see you. he notices the way you adjust your coat when it’s cold, the small sighs you let slip when you’re tired, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something that matters to you. it eats at him. he’s terrified of what it means.

keeps the tough guy act, but you’re starting to crack it. when you’re with him he doesn’t let his guard down easily. he keeps a distance, still in control. but then, there are moments — like when you ask him if he’s okay, even after he’s been gruff with you. he won’t admit it, of course, but he’s slowly realizing how much he wants to be something other than broken for you. he can’t be weak, not with you. but in the same breath, he doesn’t want to lose what you’ve given him.

frank’s instinct is always to shield you. it’s not just about protecting you from the world, he’s trying to protect you from him. every time danger crosses your path, he’s there, stepping in front of you, keeping you behind him, telling you to stay out of it. deep down, it’s not just about the danger. it’s about the fact that if you get hurt he won’t be able to live with himself.

he’s strict with you, but it comes from a place of care. won’t let you make reckless decisions, won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and he’s relentless about it. you can tell he’s trying to keep things together, keeping his rules in place like armour. he’s afraid to get too comfortable.

he’s never been good at letting people in, and with you, he doesn’t know how to act. there’s this undercurrent of fear that runs through him every time you seem to trust him, every time you get close. the fear that eventually, he’ll destroy whatever peace you’ve given him. he knows the darkness in him is dangerous. it’s only a matter of time before it pulls him away from you.

he’s strict with himself too. frank has learned how to control everything — his emotions, his impulses, his need for connection. with you, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. when you touch him, even accidentally, or when your eyes soften, it’s like a fuse is lit inside him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. he pulls back, hard, and tries to convince himself it’s just a moment. a brief thing. but it doesn’t feel brief.

he’s scared of what you could be to him. he’s used to being alone, to being the one who walks through the darkness without anyone beside him. you’ve brought light into his life without even knowing it, and that’s the part he can’t quite figure out. you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. it makes him feel like he could lose everything. he doesn’t know how to hold onto something so fragile, so pure. but god, he wants to.

he falls in love with your silence. it’s not the kind of silence that feels heavy, or suffocating. it’s the kind that comes after a long day, when you’re sitting beside him with nothing to say, and you’re perfectly content.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but you’re his calm. there’s something about you, something steady. when he’s with you, the world outside quiets. the chaos in his mind, the ghosts of everything he’s lost — somehow, with you, he can breathe. he doesn’t trust it at first. he’s not used to feeling safe.

he’s drawn to the way you move. there’s a grace to it, the way you carry yourself, like you’ve seen enough to know what’s worth paying attention to. he never misses when you come into a room.

your kindness is a weight he didn’t know he could bear. frank is used to people needing something from him. demanding things. but you? you don’t want anything but his time. it feels like too much at first. he pulls away, convinces himself it’s easier this way. but when you reach out, when your hand brushes against his, he starts realizing he doesn’t want to let go.

you are his soft spot, even if he doesn’t show it. he has layers of armor built up — physical, emotional, mental — but you slip past them without trying. you don’t force him to talk about the things that haunt him, but you’re always there when he needs to. it’s not that you fix anything, it’s that you stay.

he notices the little things. how you laugh when you’re nervous. the way you drink your coffee, always just a little too hot but never waiting for it to cool. the way you curl up with a book, lost in the world for hours, and he sits in the background, thinking he’ll never understand how something so small can make him feel so at peace.

he wants to be the one to keep you safe. it’s a selfish thought, but when he’s with you, he can’t help but feel like he wants to be the one to shield you from the world, from the violence he’s known, from the things he can’t erase.

he finally admits it, not with words, but in the way he holds you. one night, when the world’s still and you’re lying beside him, he doesn’t pull away. he lets you rest against him, his hand on your back, your breath steady against his chest. it’s a quiet thing, but it’s his way of telling you: you’re the one I need. somehow, in the silence, you understand.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

it happens quietly with foggy, so natural he doesn’t even notice it at first. he starts saving little inside jokes in his head to tell you later, ordering your food just the way you like it without thinking twice, feeling your name sit a little heavier on his tongue when he says it.

he realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his worst jokes — the kind even he knows is awful — and it makes his chest hurt in that sweet, aching way. it’s not fireworks, it’s a heartbeat skipping a step. it’s the way he looks at you and feels like he’s finally home.

he loves the way you listen. really listen. like his words matter. he’s used to being the sidekick, the comic relief - - with you, he feels seen, whole. he loves your messes, your sleepy voice, your texts that don’t always make sense. he saves photos of the sky when it reminds him of you. he notices the way you carry yourself, the way your hands move when you’re talking, the curl of your smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

he gets nervous around you sometimes, still —rambles more, tugs at his sleeves, rehearses what he wants to say and still forgets half of it. he wonders if you notice how often he looks at you when you’re not looking. he loves that you make him believe in good things. soft mornings. safe places. things that last.

he’s the kind of guy who buys two toothbrushes when he’s out just in case you forget yours, who always puts the fluffiest towel on top of the stack because he knows you like the soft ones best. he remembers the weirdest little things you’ve ever mentioned in passing, your childhood cereal, the movie you always watched when you were sick — and they just start showing up in your shared space like magic.

saturday mornings become your thing. he makes pancakes too thick and always burns the first one, but he gets this proud little look when he flips one perfectly, like it’s a win worth celebrating. you sit on the counter in his shirt, coffee in hand, and he bumps your knee with his hip like you’ve been doing this forever.

his place starts to feel like your place. there’s a mug you always use, your book left open on the couch, a hoodie that mysteriously became yours (he lets you steal it without saying anything, but he absolutely notices). foggy loves slow things with you. grocery store dates. late-night reruns of shows you’ve both seen a hundred times. trying new recipes and failing spectacularly, then ordering takeout and laughing until your cheeks hurt.

he talks about you like you’re already part of his future. “we should go there next fall,” or “you’d love this,” like there’s no version of his life where you’re not in it. he doesn’t say it to impress you — it just slips out easy, like breathing.

he loves you in the kind of way that feels like sunday light through old windows, like warmth that lingers, like home. falling for you, for him, feels like putting the final piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been building. when it clicks into place all he can think is oh.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen falls in love like she’s afraid of it. like it’s a secret she’s not ready to tell herself. it starts in the small moments — your hand brushing hers, the way you say her name, how you always seem to know when she needs someone to just stay.

she realizes she’s in love late one night when you're both sitting on the floor, eating takeout straight from the containers. you say something kind without thinking, something that hits a little too deep, and she just stops. looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t believe you exist in the same world as her.

loving you scares her because it feels too good, too safe, and safe hasn’t always been something she trusted. but you never rush her. never demand more than she can give. she loves how you talk about your passions, how your eyes light up when you care. she listens so carefully, so fully, like she’s collecting every version of you in her mind and holding them all close.

you make her laugh in a way that feels like sunlight after too many cloudy days. she catches herself smiling at texts from you, rereading them when the world feels too heavy. she starts leaving little things at your place. a book she thinks you’d like. her scarf draped over a chair. she never means to — it just happens, like her heart choosing to stay before she even realizes it.

she brings you coffee just the way you like it and always pretends it was “on the way” even if she went out of her way to get it. she’s not good at grand gestures but she’s incredible at the small things — remembering your schedule, checking in on hard days, knowing exactly what to say when the world feels like too much.

she always wants to share things with you. a bite of her food, a song she found, a line from a book that made her pause. she’s constantly turning to you with soft eyes like, can i give this piece of my world to you? will you hold it with me?

there’s always a softness to her when she’s around you, like she can finally exhale. she leans into you on the couch with her head on your shoulder, listens to you ramble about your day, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your arm.

when she finally tells you, it’s not dramatic. no music swelling in the background. just her, a little nervous, looking at you like she’s been waiting her whole life to find someone she could trust with her whole heart.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

it hits her like a knife to the gut. deeper. she doesn’t realize she’s in love until she catches herself watching you sleep, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, and she feels scared. not because she doesn’t want it, but because she does. because you make her feel soft in ways she swore she buried.

she falls in love the same way she fights — intense, precise. but she stays in love in quiet, careful ways. brushing your hair out of your eyes, leaving notes where only you’ll find them, guarding your safety with devotion.

she remembers the exact moment she knew. it wasn’t dramatic. it was a bad day. she came home bleeding, aching, angry — and you just held her. no questions, no judgment, just steady arms and a warm voice. and she realized she could collapse into you and still survive.

she loves how you look at her like you see her. not the weapon, not the chaos. just her. the girl who once dreamed of softer things, the woman still learning how to want them again. she’s not always good with words, but her actions scream i love you. she keeps your favourite snacks in her apartment, buys you things and pretends they’re “for fun” even though they’re always exactly what you needed. she’d burn the world for you, but she also sharpens her knives a little more carefully if she knows you’ll be waiting at home.

she brings you with her to the edge of her world. into the dark corners, the chaos, the shadows she never lets anyone else see. not because she wants to scare you, but because she trusts you to love her anyway. she tells you stories late at night, low, words carefully chosen. not all of them are beautiful. some are ugly, violent, sad. but she tells you because you’re the only one she thinks might understand. or at least try to.

she calls you darling when she’s teasing, but your name — your real name — always leaves her lips like something holy.

you ground her. not by caging her—never that. but by letting her fly and knowing she has somewhere to land. someone who won’t flinch when the world turns sharp.

loving you doesn’t make her weaker. it makes her braver. she finally has something worth surviving for, something worth coming back to.

you make her laugh in a way no one else can. real, unguarded laughter, head thrown back, hand gripping your thigh like she doesn’t want to fall. like you’re her gravity. she sleeps best with her hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest rising beneath her ear. no one touches her like you do, like she’s something worth holding, not just something sharp and dangerous.

when she kisses you it’s deliberate. she pulls you in like she’s starving, like you're a secret she’s been dying to keep. sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always real.

she’s still learning how to stay. but with you, it’s getting easier. loving you doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finding it. like maybe this, you, were the only thing she ever really wanted to protect.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he loves you like a loaded gun loves a steady hand. like you’re the only thing keeping him from spinning out. there’s worship in his gaze when he looks at you, like you hung the stars just for him, like you're the one true thing in a world that never made sense.

he knows he’s in love when you touch his face for the first time. gentle. unafraid. he holds so much violence in his bones, but your fingers? your fingers make him feel human, like maybe he’s more than what he’s done.

he doesn’t know how to be casual about you. everything is everything with dex. he memorizes the way you speak, the things you love, the clothes you wear. he keeps mementos without even realizing it — your receipts, your notes, the smallest scrap of your existence. not in a creepy way (mostly). his version of domestic love is quiet but obsessive. he notices what soap you use and buys it in bulk. he learns your schedule so he can cook your favourite dinner on the nights you always come home tired.

knows your schedule by heart. not because you told him but because he watched. memorized the way your day flows, where you go, the train you take, how long it takes you to get home. he needs to feel close, even when you're far.

he goes still when you’re not around. like the world presses pause until he hears your key in the door, your voice calling his name. he’s not himself without you. it’s like you carry the part of him that makes him human. when you're in the room, no one else exists. his eyes never leave you. even if you’re across the bar, even if he’s mid-conversation, his body always tilts toward you, like instinct, like a weapon waiting for your call.

gets needy when you’re distant. emotionally, physically, even just distracted. he’ll try to play it cool but ends up pressed against you like a shadow, murmuring things like you still like me, right? and i'm good for you, aren’t i? like he needs you to say it over and over just to keep breathing.

he remembers everything. the first thing you ever wore around him. the way you said his name that one time with your voice half-broken from laughing. the exact moment he realized he'd burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.

stalks your socials when you’re apart for too long, even if you’ve only been gone a few hours. he zooms in on blurry selfies like they hold clues to how you're feeling. he rereads old texts.

he has trouble saying i love you. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he feels it too much. like the words might break open something inside him. when he does say it, it’s always a whisper, like a secret — murmured into your hair, your collarbone, your heartbeat.

he doesn't like people getting too close to you. even friends, especially strangers. he doesn’t cause scenes, but the way he stands too close, stares too long, it’s a warning. he’s jealous in ways he tries to hide. you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, and his eyes flash before he looks away, jaw clenched. he never blames you. he just doesn’t know how to share. he’s never had anything worth keeping before.

he adores your voice. your laugh. the way you say his name like it means safety and not danger. he starts to crave it — like a lifeline, a tether. you ground him. you save him. over and over again. he’s terrified you’ll see the worst in him; the cracks, the blood, the past. the first time you tell him, i’m not afraid of you, he breaks. not loudly — just this soft, shaky exhale, like you just handed him forgiveness.

if you ever tried to leave him he’d break. and then he’d follow. quietly, obsessively. not to hurt you, because he can’t let go. not of you. not of the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s not a monster.

ben doesn’t fall in love gently. he falls like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. it kind of is.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

billy falls for you in a way that feels wrong to him. he’s not used to needing anyone, not used to wanting someone in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing control. he tells himself you’re just another distraction, that this is a temporary thing, but every second with you proves him wrong.

he’s clingy in the most subtle way. not in the overt, obvious way. no, he keeps it under wraps at first. doesn’t want to seem too needy, but he texts you way more than you think he would, checks in at the weirdest hours, and always notices when you're upset. tries to act like it's no big deal but his heart races when you don’t reply immediately.

deep down he knows how much he wants your approval. your affection, your attention. but admitting that to himself would feel like weakness, and weakness is something billy russo has never allowed himself. so he hides it, but the truth slips out in small, desperate ways— like when he pulls you a little too close, hands gripping you a little too tight.

he gets so caught up in wanting to be perfect for you that he ignores the fact that his attachment to you is slowly consuming him. if you don’t love him back the way he needs, if you don’t give him what he craves, validation, it’s like his whole world starts to fall apart. he needs to be the one who matters to you, needs to know you see him. he craves the moment you make him feel like he’s worthy. but then, the other side of him: the side that’s broken, that knows attachments make you weak, that tries to distance himself because he doesn’t want you to see how much you’ve broken through his walls. when things get too close, too vulnerable, he pulls back. cold. distant.

he loves you with precision. he makes it look effortless, but it’s calculated. strategic. flowers when you’re stressed, your favourite wine waiting at home, gifts that are too perfect to be casual. he studies you, and you don’t even realize it until later — how much of you he’s already claimed.

he keeps tabs on you. not in a sweet checking in kind of way, more like he needs to know where you are at all times. your location's on, your building's watched. not in an invasion sort of way, just in the im making sure no one breaks in while i’m not there way.

there’s this constant struggle in his head. one part of him wants to be the perfect version of himself for you, the kind of man you can depend on, who can take care of you in ways he never thought possible. the other part of him knows that needing you like this, being dependent on you for his sense of self-worth, is his undoing.

his place starts looking like yours fast. your clothes in his closet, your skincare in the bathroom, your playlist on repeat. you don’t even remember when you started leaving things there, he just started keeping them.

he doesn't say i love you like it’s fragile. he says it like it’s a warning. like, you don’t get it. i’d kill for you. i’d ruin myself for you. i’d go back to every violent part of myself if it meant keeping you safe.

and god help anyone who tries to come between you. he’ll be smiling, charming, polite. and then he’ll be gone. and so will they.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

when she first realizes she’s in love with you, it’s all business at first. you were someone she could rely on, someone who made sense in the chaos of her life. at first, she thinks it’s just an attachment. something comfortable, someone to trust in a world of lies. but then, one night, she catches herself staring at you a little too long, her chest tightening for reasons she can’t explain. this is more than just trust. this is something else.

she doesn’t do relationships the traditional way. she never has. she’s used to keeping a distance, staying professional, protecting her heart from everyone who might use it against her. but with you, there’s something different. you slip through her walls without even trying. she hates how easily you do it. and she loves you more for it.

she’s tough on you, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she does. she believes in pushing you past your comfort zone, in making you face your weaknesses. it’s her way of showing you that she cares. by holding you accountable, by expecting you to rise to the occasion. when you slack off, when you let things slide, she’ll be the first one to call you out. her voice is firm, but it’s never cruel — just a no-nonsense tone that says, you’re better than this.

dinah’s version of love isn’t always soft. when you mess up, when you get lost in your own head, she doesn’t sugarcoat it. she doesn’t tiptoe around your feelings — she’ll challenge you. "what’s going on with you?" she’ll ask, not out of judgment, but because she knows you can do better. she doesn’t want to hear excuses, just results.

she’s not afraid to push your buttons. when you want to give up, when things get too hard, she won’t let you back down. she’ll make you face the tough stuff, sometimes in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. but it’s her way of making sure you don’t settle for less than you’re capable of. when you rise to the challenge, meet her expectations, she’ll be there, quietly proud, like she knew you could do it all along. she has high expectations, not just for herself, but for you too. if you ever doubt your own abilities, she’s the first to remind you what you’re capable of if you put in the work. she’ll test your limits, make you prove yourself, because she wants you to be the best version of yourself. sometimes you’ll resent it. sometimes it’ll feel like she’s being hard on you for no reason. but deep down you know she’s pushing you because she cares.

dinah’s love is protective, intense, and unyielding. she won’t show it in sweet, gentle ways. she’s not going to buy you flowers or write you poems, but when you need her, she’ll drop everything, no questions asked. she’ll shield you from harm with the same precision she takes down threats, and in those moments, you see how much you truly mean to her.

she’s not good at vulnerability — not with anyone, but especially not with you. it’s hard for her to let you see how much she needs you. she shows you she loves you through actions: a firm grip on your hand when she’s scared; a quiet, almost invisible smile when you’re together; pulling you close when things get rough, even if she doesn’t admit why. the words are harder for her.

when she’s in love, she’s all in, but with the weight of fear in her chest. she’s terrified of losing you. that would break her in a way she doesn’t think she could recover from. so she clings to you in ways you might not even notice, always checking on you, always making sure you’re safe, making sure nothing could hurt you.

she’s a fighter, and she loves the way you stand by her, not just through the victories, but through the losses. you’re the person who makes her feel like she’s doing something right, even when everything else is wrong. when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s exhausted, when the walls come down just enough for you to see the cracks, she’ll let you hold her. she’ll let you be the one who takes care of her.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

it’s more like a discovery than a realization. muse doesn’t exactly fall in love the way most people do; his emotions are tangled with his delusions and obsessions. he sees you and suddenly you’re the canvas for all his thoughts, his desires, and his fixations. it’s almost as though he becomes consumed with the idea of you, idealizing you in a way that is all-encompassing. for muse, love is about capturing someone, about making you the center of his world.

his love is possessive and suffocating. he doesn’t see you as a person with your own autonomy; he sees you as something to be owned. when you’re with him, he’ll be obsessively attentive, needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with.

you’ll start to notice that he manipulates every situation to keep you close to him. muse is intelligent, charming, and deeply persuasive when he wants to be. he knows how to make you feel special, how to convince you that you’re the only one who truly understands him; because, after all, you’re his masterpiece. he might start doing little things to charm you or draw you in, but as soon as you’re hooked, he’ll tighten the grip.

when he’s affectionate it’s intense. he doesn’t understand boundaries — he’ll be all over you, physically and mentally. he’ll touch you obsessively, but in ways that are still strange and uncomfortable, because he sees every part of you as something to be explored. his kisses are deep, hungry, as if he’s trying to possess you, and when he’s not physically with you, his thoughts will haunt you. expect him to watch you, follow you, and find ways to be where you are, no matter what it takes.

if you try to break free, if you even hint at being done with him, his obsession will turn dangerous. he doesn’t understand rejection in a healthy way. To him, it’s an affront to his creativity, his passion — you are his masterpiece, and no one walks away from a piece of art. he’ll find ways to draw you back in, perhaps through threats or manipulation. he’ll never let go willingly.

he won’t give up on you easily. if you ever try to move on or set boundaries he will find ways to blur the lines. can turn into a creeper — lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. his love feels suffocating, and he believes that the only way to truly love someone is by completely enveloping them, controlling every aspect of their life. he might not understand why you’d want space or independence, and to him, that only reinforces his belief that he’s the only one who can give you what you truly need.

he’s incredibly manipulative. if you ever show any resistance, muse will use guilt, charm, and emotional manipulation to make you feel like you’re the problem. he might try to gaslight you into believing that you’re the one who’s making things difficult, that he’s just trying to love you in his own way. he’s dangerous when he feels threatened. If someone else gets too close to you, or if he feels like he’s losing control over you, he’ll react with violence or threats. he’s not afraid to hurt people (or you) to maintain his control over you. this could mean anything from threatening your friends or family to going to extreme lengths to make sure no one takes you away from him.

he’ll be highly critical — almost like he’s sculpting you into something that fits his vision of what you should be. it’s not malicious in his mind; it’s about improving you, making you into someone who can be worthy of his love.

he loves your vulnerability, and he’ll try to uncover every layer of you to feel like he knows you, better than anyone else. this might manifest in seemingly innocent questions or constant probing of your past and emotions, but for him, it’s a way to build a deeper connection — an almost predatory sense of closeness that makes him feel like he has a claim on you. the more he knows, the more he can control, and that gives him a sense of artistic satisfaction.

his love might feel like being in a gilded cage; beautiful, but suffocating.

★ a / n : p.s. im glad you love it. <3

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[piinkgore]

overwatch headcanons: how they say "I love you" with Ramattra, Reaper, Reinhardt, Cassidy and Hanzo

a bit angsty and some curse words ahead, but still sfw. don’t blame me, I enjoy the suffering and since you're still reading I bet you also do

also silly little juno was SMASHED by writer’s block again, please help sending a headcanon request, but read rules first

Ramattra

doesn’t say it at all, actually

he was shaped for violence, hands carefully constructed to murder

the sentience came with grief, sorrow, rage… but love? this big fella doesn’t even love himself, to begin with

it’s hard for him to cope with affection, to learn the aspects of it, mostly the very subtle nuances of reciprocation

but it’s you, and since you came along, this foreign feeling haunts him 

and when you say “I love you” first… he’s so silent you’re scared you’ve broken him with this three words alone

“How is it possible for you to love a being as myself?”

he feels the urge to say something back, but simply can’t vocalize the words he’s dying to say

you know he’s overwhelmed already, his pride contrasting his feelings, so you don’t push him too far: Ramattra shows you enough

but your words echoes in his systems for days

in one of these, he’s with you as he always do before you fall asleep, and the words just came out

“I may not have a heart, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be mine: it would be yours. It always has been.”

it’s not an explicit I love you

no, it’s much better

Reaper

you know what happens between you two must stay secretive

it’s… casual, if you can name it such

I mean, he comes to you every damn night, and most of them aren’t for sex, but for company 

and the cuddles, of course

you see him past the scars, the shadows… what lies beneath it as the ghost of a man 

and you love him nonetheless

despite all the danger that comes along with him being one of Talon’s counselors and a declared enemy to Overwatch

until one night, when he doesn’t show up and never let you know why

and this one night turns into tons

you’re broken, to say at least

he avoids you, not even a single stolen glance through briefings, no more missions together

you don’t know where you manage to find the courage to confront him, but somehow you do, so you’re cornering Reaper himself and demanding an answer 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

well, of course: you were dumb enough to get to attached

but he steps closer, so surprisingly close you can hear a shallow breath muffled by his mask

the shadows engulf you both before you can blink, and his ghostly touch stops just inches away from your cheek

“I’ve risked too much so far… but not you, not anymore”

you know what he means, you just wish you didn’t

he departs with a last glance over his shoulder, to never look back again 

if he wasn’t who he was, maybe things would be different

yet if things weren’t the same, you two wouldn’t even met

in the end, you’re left to grief in the graveyard he paths on his way away from you

Reinhardt

he’s a hero and will always be

but that doesn’t mean Reinhardt is invincible

that’s why you’re laying by his side, taking extra care to not accidentally touch the bandages covering his torso

you’re little injured from the last mission, a few scratches maybe

thanks to him, who jumped right into the moment to keep your head glued to your neck

per usual, he would be flourishing the battle tales and his epic acts, his thunderous laugh echoing through the HQ, but now?

the sadness contorting his face breaks your heart 

he stares down at you, one calloused thumb tracing under the thin line of the stitches on your cheekbone

“I’ve let them hurt you”

oh… so that’s it

“If I was a second late… I hate to even think of what could've happened”

he groans, retreating his hand and looking away 

if he could ever be more dearing, you would’ve exploded 

you cup his face and make Reinhardt look at you once again, reassuring him you’re here, safe and sound, thanks to him 

it takes a bit of convincing, but soon enough you hear one of his deep chuckles resonating in his chest and know that you’ll be just fine

“I will always be there to protect you, liebling, no matter what it takes. For I could never live in a world where there is no you by my side.”

Cassidy

he’s always flirting and teasing, so you would assume it’s all a joke

despite him throwing his arm over your shoulder and resting his head on yours every goddamn time he has a chance

and if you’re quiet and close enough, you can hear his fast heartbeats pulsing

maybe… he’s just affectionate, yeah

not that you see Cole like that with anyone else, but

you could never take him seriously, because he can never be serious for once

it’s always a wink here, a smooth darlin’ there

yet he never makes a move on you that gives you the clarity you need

so it’s it, an eternal what if

until one days he comes from a mission, all dirty and hurt

you’re surprised to see he came straightforward to you, still trying to catch his breath while holding to his injured side

but before you can drop any question, Cole smashes his lips against yours

and it feels holy 

he keeps you close when you break the kiss, trying to remind yourself how to breath

his breath is so warm against your face, and that familiar scent of smoke makes your knees weak

“I fucking meant everything I’ve ever said, doll”

for the way he just kissed you, you’re now sure he does 

Hanzo

Hanzo isn’t one to speak about his feelings openly

you’re actually surprised you’re now tiptoeing around some sort of serious relationship

at least, you think it’s serious since you barely leave each other’s side

it’s extremely hard for him to be vocal about his affection, though

sometimes, he would still flinch when you touch him out of blue

but he loves to run his fingers along your hair, your face…

your body is his to worship

and there’s this lazy morning, where he’s kissing your knuckles and embracing your waist…

you just feel you could melt right here, into him

until something cold circles your finger and your eyes snap open

a ring

a FUCKING ring

you stare at him in pure disbelief, eyes so wide they must pop out by any second

Hanzo shows the most loving smile you had ever seen, kissing your ring finger

that now has an actual engagement ring 

“Being with you everyday is still too little time. I wish nothing but foreverness with you”

[fanged-fanfics]

Heyy! If you have any spare time, I was wondering if I could request some Macaque x GN Reader headcanons about the crush stage? Like would he start acting differently, etc, etc.

☆ Once Hidden, Twice Shy — Macaque x GN Reader Crushing HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Macaque didn't realize that he had feelings for you until he was already deep into it. He'd felt little flickers of feelings here and there, but kept himself in stubborn denial for months

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The realization was sudden, almost random, but once it hit he couldn't find it in himself to ignore it anymore. You filled his mind at any given time, and he always found himself wondering about you

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You slowly began noticing behavior shifts in the shadow simian. He was less prone to snarking at you, and if anything he became defensive if he thought you were being talked down to

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He'd give you little trinkets here and there as gifts, or do favors for you if he thought you needed the help. It baffled you as well as the Monkey Crew to see Macaque put in extra effort to keep you safe

ᯓᡣ𐭩 If anyone he didn't trust so much as stepped up to you, Macaque would come to your defense, standing in between and intimidating off whoever it was. It was cheesy, yes, and definitely cliché... but it was also interesting behavior coming from someone who claimed to only think of himself

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It only grew from there. He'd check in on you after missions, look you over for injuries, scold anyone who was too hard on you, the list kept growing. You obviously began suspecting something well into this stage, but Macaque was as elusive as ever

ᯓᡣ𐭩 As always, the six-eared monkey tended to dance around the subject, subverting the conversation or brushing it off at any opportunity. But the way he'd look at you with almost a sense of awe, and seem almost hesitant when asking you to a hangout definitely wasn't 'nothing'

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Even still, you decided to be patient. Macaque was someone who processed such big information slowly, and he was working through his own feelings by your side. Even if you realized it LONG before he did, all you could do is patiently accept his little trinkets and invitations. He'd get there soon, but for now, an awkward half-handhold would have to do

[honeyhaeya]

since i write wonwoo fanfics frequently, i often wonder how it would be if wonwoo falls for someone, or what he likes in a woman, or what he actually is when he's in love or smth. i'm not wonwoo to know what and how, but here's what i think. wonwoo has that reserved yet witty charm, doesn’t he? It makes wondering how he’d be in love so intriguing. 😌 if we take inspiration from what we know about him and combine it with a touch of creative freedom, here’s how he might be when he falls for someone: it's a headcanon so don't hate me if i'm wrong. anyways, please enjoy, cuties. wonwoo x f!reader (should be gn, but i think f!reader one is easier sns).

wonwoo's headcanon when he falls for someone (you)

jeon wonwoo x gn!reader

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ tags / genre: wonwoo x reader, seventeen fanfiction, slow burn romance, comfort / emotional intimacy, supportive wonwoo, quiet love, slice of life, fluff, soft romance, gradual love, reader insert ੈ✩‧₊˚ warnings: n/a ੈ✩‧₊˚ wc: 3200 ੈ♡ a/n: i went with gender neutral because why not. and this may be considered as a fanfiction because it just is. headcanon, drabbles? yes. i make drabbles when i feel like drinking or when i'm tipsy, because it just helps. guess what, i proofread it after i get all sobered up :) enjoy this fantasy i wrote :> (ilovehimsobadthatikeepwriting.seriously,he'sjustsoperfect) - i'll make one for every member :] ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : To You (Seventeen) ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

ੈ♡˚ ༘ wonwoo's headcanon when he falls for someone

when wonwoo falls for someone, he’s not the type to loudly declare his feelings or make grand gestures. instead, he expresses his affection through small, meaningful actions that might go unnoticed at first. his love is subtle, often woven into quiet moments where his intentions are more felt than spoken.

he'd be the kind of person who’s always there for you, especially when you need support. whether it’s offering you his jacket when it’s cold or getting you your favorite snack just because he noticed you were craving it—those little gestures speak volumes. wonwoo is someone who pays attention to the small details, and he loves showing his care in ways that don’t require attention from others.

in conversations, he might become more engaging when you're around. he’ll tease you lightly, showing his witty side, and might even playfully challenge you, just to see you react. it’s his way of getting closer without making things too intense or overwhelming. his sarcastic remarks are softened when it’s you, and he enjoys seeing your reactions to his dry humor. but when he’s truly comfortable and feels secure in his affection, you'll notice he becomes more open—he’ll share things that are usually just reserved for himself.

wonwoo’s shy and introverted nature means that when he’s in love, he might struggle to open up at first, but he finds ways to let you in. you’ll see it in how his gaze softens when he looks at you, how his words become carefully chosen, and how he might seek out opportunities to spend time with you, even if it’s just quietly sitting next to each other.

and when he’s jealous or insecure, it’s not overt. he’ll remain composed, but you’ll catch the slight change in his demeanor—the way he’ll glance at you a bit longer than usual, or the way his quietness speaks volumes. it’s not about controlling or demanding your attention, but he can’t help but feel possessive in a quiet, understated way.

the most vulnerable moment for wonwoo comes when he finally admits how he feels, not with grand declarations, but with a soft, sincere confession when you least expect it. it’s simple but deeply heartfelt, because for someone like him, being open about his feelings is a huge step. when he finally takes that leap, you know it’s real.

it was late, the dim light of the living room casting soft shadows on the walls. wonwoo sat on the couch, his fingers lightly tracing the spine of the book he’d been pretending to read for the past hour. his thoughts weren’t on the story—his mind kept drifting back to the person sitting beside him.

you, as usual, had that carefree smile on your face, lost in whatever you were doing on your phone. you were scrolling through social media, laughing at a meme you'd just sent him, and despite the banter, he couldn't shake off the pull in his chest when his gaze lingered on you. it wasn’t the first time he felt this way, but tonight, it seemed like his emotions were bubbling up just a bit more than usual.

you caught his stare, and your playful grin only deepened. "something on my face?" you teased, nudging his arm.

"no," wonwoo replied, his voice quieter than usual. he wasn’t great with words, especially when he was thinking too much. but there was something about you—something about the way you made him feel calm and at ease, even in moments like this, where his thoughts threatened to spill over.

there were many times he'd been asked about his type, and most would expect him to talk about looks, or about how someone had to be this or that. but truthfully? wonwoo never had a clear answer. maybe it was because his feelings were always slow, building in subtle ways, the way a river quietly carves through stone over time. he liked how you listened when he spoke, how your laughter felt like the quietest music in a world too loud.

he cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "you're... distracting," he said, the words coming out softer than he intended. his cheeks flushed lightly at the admission, but you didn’t comment on it. instead, you raised an eyebrow, a teasing look on your face.

"am i now? how am i distracting?" your eyes were bright, playful, but there was something else in your expression—something that made him feel like you could see right through him.

"i—" he stopped himself, unsure of how to finish the sentence without sounding ridiculous. you tilted your head slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

"wonwoo," you said quietly, setting your phone down, the playful mood suddenly gone. "you’re acting weird."

he blinked, heart hammering. you had always been straightforward, and that made him nervous in ways he hadn’t expected. but your gaze wasn’t accusatory; it was curious, like you were waiting for him to speak his truth.

"i think... i think i like you," he said finally, his words falling into the space between you two. he didn’t look at you right away, his hands fidgeting with the book again as if somehow it could give him the comfort he needed.

there was a long silence, and for a moment, wonwoo thought he might’ve said something wrong, or maybe that you didn’t feel the same. but then you moved closer, your hand gently resting on his.

"i like you too," you said, your voice soft, but the sincerity in it wrapped around his heart like warmth.

he looked up, surprised, though he had hoped for it. there was no teasing in your tone now—just truth. you weren’t playing around. you weren’t afraid of showing your feelings, and it made his chest tighten with something he couldn’t quite name.

for a moment, he just sat there, processing. then, slowly, almost hesitantly, wonwoo reached for your hand, squeezing it lightly. "good," he whispered, voice barely audible. "i didn’t want to mess this up."

you smiled, squeezing back. "you won’t."

and in that quiet moment, when everything else faded away, wonwoo realized that sometimes, love wasn’t about big gestures or dramatic confessions. it was about finding someone who understood you, even in your quietest moments, and making space for each other, one small gesture at a time.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ kisses and cuddles with wonwoo

wonwoo isn’t the type to rush into physical affection, but once he’s comfortable with someone, he’ll be subtle in his approach. the first step would likely be a lot of close moments: sitting together in silence, just enjoying each other's company. the intimacy between you two is built on this steady foundation of trust.

one evening, after a long day, you two end up sitting on the couch again, both of you lost in whatever show or movie is playing in the background. wonwoo, as usual, is silent but somehow present—his hand resting just barely near yours. the tension is subtle at first, but it's there. the closeness feels safe, like you’re both cocooned in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

then, the first touch happens almost by accident. maybe it’s when you shift on the couch, and your arm brushes against his. he doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do you. the brief touch lingers for a moment, just enough to make the air feel a little warmer. neither of you says anything, but the connection is there.

as you two continue watching, you notice him glancing over at you from the corner of his eye. his lips are pursed in that familiar contemplative way, but his gaze softens when it lands on you.

you can feel the anticipation building as his hand inches closer to yours again, just waiting for a response. when your fingers brush against his, it's like the world pauses for a second. his heart beats faster in his chest, but he doesn't let it show—his eyes remain calm, his expression composed. yet, there’s something in his posture that betrays the tension in his shoulders, how badly he wants this but doesn’t want to rush it.

he finally takes your hand, fingers gently weaving through yours. there’s no need for words—everything is said in that simple gesture, the quiet understanding between you two that this is the start of something more.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ the first kiss the first kiss comes unexpectedly, but in a way that feels right. maybe you're both standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner together, and you accidentally bump into him while reaching for the same ingredient. there’s a moment of awkwardness—your hand brushing against his chest, and both of you pausing to look at each other.

he doesn’t shy away, but there’s that slight hesitation. it’s not that he’s unsure—it’s more that he’s being careful, considering everything that comes with this moment. his eyes lock onto yours, and you see that flicker of vulnerability in them.

then, with a soft breath, he leans in. it’s slow—he takes his time, moving closer with careful precision. his lips press against yours in a gentle, almost hesitant kiss at first, as if testing the waters. his lips are soft, and the kiss feels warm, calm, comforting. he doesn’t rush; instead, he savors the moment, lingering with you in the quiet intimacy of it all.

as you both pull away, wonwoo doesn’t say anything at first. he simply smiles faintly, his eyes soft with a kind of tenderness that’s rare for him to show. there’s a quiet understanding between you two: this is real, and it’s something to be treasured.

ੈ♡˚ ༘ cuddles with wonwoo when it comes to cuddling, wonwoo would prefer something subtle and relaxed. it wouldn’t be the type of cuddling where you’re all over each other right away. instead, he might start with small touches—his arm casually draping over your shoulders as you sit together, or his hand gently resting on your knee. his warmth and presence are what make it feel like an embrace, even if there’s no immediate closeness.

if he’s had a long day, you might find him leaning into you for comfort, his head resting lightly on your shoulder. at first, the cuddles would be a little awkward, as wonwoo isn’t used to letting his guard down in such a vulnerable way. but once he gets comfortable, he’ll pull you in a little closer, his arm wrapping around you protectively. the closeness will feel like a safe haven for him—like a place where he doesn’t need to speak, but he can feel secure in the quiet connection you share.

as time goes on, he might be more open to cuddling while you’re watching tv or simply laying together. he’d prefer it to be natural—nothing forced. maybe one evening, as you both relax in bed, he’ll pull you to his chest, his arms surrounding you. his body language will show that he’s comfortable and feels safe, his fingers gently stroking your hair or back as he hums softly. his breathing will slow, his heart will steady, and you’ll feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

the first time he lets his guard down completely in your arms, you’ll know. his body language will soften, and you’ll feel him relax into you, the tension that often keeps him stiff and reserved melting away. in that moment, you’ll know that this—this is what wonwoo needs most: quiet, shared moments of tenderness.

┊ ➶ ｡✩‧₊˚ bonus wonwoo's apartment door clicked open, the familiar scent of your perfume filling the air as soon as he stepped inside. he had barely taken a breath after a long day of practice before he noticed you sitting on the couch. it was late, and the apartment was quiet, but there was something so soothing about seeing you here—waiting for him.

you didn’t say anything at first. you just looked up at him, eyes soft and knowing. you could see the exhaustion in his face, the way his shoulders sagged, like the weight of the entire day had been pressing on him. but you didn’t need to ask how he was doing. the moment he locked eyes with you, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, like he couldn’t help it.

"hey," he murmured, slipping off his shoes and making his way over to the couch. "you’re still awake?"

"of course," you replied, teasing a little, but the concern in your voice was evident. "i thought you might need some company."

he sank onto the couch beside you, his body leaning heavily against the cushions. the tension in his frame was almost palpable. without thinking, he stretched out his legs, his head falling back against the headrest, completely drained. but there was a softness in his eyes when he glanced over at you, that familiar comfort settling over him.

you didn’t ask him anything about practice—he hated talking about it when he was tired. instead, you simply reached for him, your fingers brushing gently against his. he didn’t pull away, but his eyes flickered toward you, almost surprised.

"you don’t need to do anything," you said quietly, your voice gentle as you squeezed his hand, "just relax. i’ll be here."

and that was all he needed to hear. wonwoo’s eyes closed, and he let out a long sigh, his body finally starting to unwind in the peaceful quiet of your presence.

for a moment, the two of you sat in silence, and you just let him take his time. he needed it—his head resting against the couch, his hand still holding yours loosely, as if you were the anchor that kept him grounded. it wasn’t long before he shifted closer to you, moving in small increments like he was testing the waters.

you felt him shift again, this time his shoulder brushing against yours. his movements were subtle, almost hesitant, but there was something so endearing about it—like he was giving you the chance to decide, even though he had clearly already made up his mind.

you leaned in just a bit, your hand moving to rest on his chest, and he responded instinctively, his arm wrapping around you. the motion felt natural, familiar, as if the two of you had been doing this for years.

the first kiss came softly—slow, lingering. wonwoo’s lips were warm against yours, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. he wasn’t rushing, and neither were you. it was just the two of you, caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the exhaustion of the day melting away as he kissed you again, this time a little deeper.

his hands were gentle, his fingers grazing your waist as he pulled you closer, his lips parting slightly as he deepened the kiss. there was no force behind it, no urgency—just the need to be close, to feel each other after the long day apart. wonwoo kissed like he was taking his time, savoring each moment as though it could slip away at any second.

and you... you matched his pace. your own hands tangled in his shirt, the softness of his body pressed against yours, grounding you. the kiss was slow but heated, full of a quiet hunger, like he had been wanting this all day but wasn’t sure how to get it.

it wasn’t just a kiss anymore. it was a way for him to release everything he’d been holding in—his exhaustion, his frustrations, his quiet longing. he wasn’t just seeking comfort. he was seeking connection. and, with you, he found it.

after a moment, he pulled away, his forehead resting gently against yours, both of you still catching your breath. his eyes fluttered open, and there was something in them—vulnerable and soft, a stark contrast to his usual cool demeanor.

"stay with me," he whispered, voice hoarse. "i just... need you close."

and, of course, you didn’t need to say anything. you simply nodded, your hand brushing his cheek before you leaned in for another kiss—this one a little more eager, a little more urgent. his lips responded immediately, deepening the kiss until it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.

the night would come with small moments

⊹˚. what exactly are you to wonwoo?

to wonwoo, you might be that one person—the one who feels like a safe harbor even through all the chaos of his busy, demanding life. you might be more than just a friend or a casual connection; you're his comfort, his source of peace, and the person who understands him without needing him to explain everything.

⊹˚. how wonwoo falls for you

it’s subtle, gradual, and wrapped up in the quiet moments that define your relationship. for wonwoo, his feelings wouldn’t ignite all at once. instead, they’d grow quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day he realizes just how much he’s fallen in love with you.

wonwoo, the quiet one, might never explicitly declare his feelings in such words. instead, his actions speak louder than anything. the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, the way his hand seeks yours when you’re together, the way he makes sure you’re comfortable, even in the smallest ways.

if he does eventually confess, it’ll probably be in his own understated, sincere way, where words don’t need to be loud to express the depth of his feelings.

example: late one evening, as you’re about to leave, he surprises you by pulling you back for a quick kiss—no preamble, just a gentle, unexpected moment. and when you pull away, he whispers, “i guess this is me admitting i’m kind of... into you.”

in wonwoo’s case, it’s a slow burn—nothing rushed, just a deepening connection that sneaks up on both of you. you’re not just someone he likes. you’re the person he starts imagining a future with, not because he can’t be without you, but because you’ve become a part of his peace.

(ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡ when wonwoo is in love he becomes even more of a rock for his partner. he’s the kind of person who’s always there when things get tough, but not in an overbearing way. he just quietly supports you, offering a sense of calm and security. you might not always realize it, but his love is a constant comfort, whether it’s through a reassuring smile, a soft touch, or a shared silence.

like when you go through a stressful day, you come home to find him already there with a cup of tea, just sitting quietly next to you. he doesn’t need to ask, "what’s wrong?" he just knows that your silence says enough, and his presence alone provides the peace you need.

wonwoo doesn’t need to constantly express his love verbally. instead, it’s in the touch of his hand on your back when you're walking together, or the way he watches you when you’re talking. his love is quiet but constant—he’s there when you need him, not just physically, but emotionally. he’d never be the type to have a "grand love declaration," but when he looks at you, you’d know.

maybe his fingers find yours casually when you’re sitting together, not even necessarily for anything romantic, but because he’s used to having you near him. his hand just naturally gravitates to yours, as if it's where it’s always meant to be.

ੈ♡ a/n: you want to know what i think? wonwoo is the type of person who makes efforts so effortlessly but manages to do a perfect job for his love. he might not be the guy who would be attached almost too immediately and takes things slow. these are just headcanons of what i know about him, lmk if i missed anything :)) thankyou for reading ily :>

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤALIEN GIRLㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Qu Reader Part 1

☆⁠ HEADCANON : He Was Just Living His Life When Put Of Nowhere An Alien Girl Cling To His Arms And Start Following Him Around...

☆⁠ NOTES : Qu is an alien species from the book All Tomorrows. You can learn more about her here. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Mark didn’t see you coming. One second, he was standing in the middle of a battlefield, panting, body aching from the fight, hands still slick with blood that wasn’t his. The next second, there you were, stepping out of the shadows like some ethereal creature, all glowing skin and impossibly long hair that cascaded over your body, shielding you like a silk curtain.

Mark thought you were scared. You looked fragile, standing there barefoot, naked yet somehow untouched by the carnage around you. He was about to ask if you were okay when you moved—graceful, slow, head tilting to the side like a curious cat.

Then, your soft fingers brushed his blood-streaked face.

You murmured something—words he couldn’t understand, a language that sounded like whispers and echoes in his ears. And then, with all the trust of a child, you leaned against his chest, pressing your face into him like he was some kind of anchor in this violent world.

Mark froze.

What the hell was happening?

And then, you clung to his arm like a koala, looking up at him with wide, fascinated eyes.

Mark had no idea what to do with you, but you weren’t giving him a choice.

You refused to let go, practically draping yourself over his arm as he stumbled his way back home. His mom nearly had a heart attack when she saw you—her reaction a mix of "Oh my god, why is there a naked girl in my house?" and "Mark, what the hell did you do?"

"Mom, I swear I don’t know what’s happening!"

You, meanwhile, just looked around the house like it was the most interesting thing in the universe. You poked at the couch, stared at the TV, then climbed onto the kitchen counter and perched there like a bird, blinking at them.

Debbie sighed, rubbing her temples.

"Mark. Explain."

He couldn’t. But after a lot of fumbling (and covering your body with his hoodie, which you hated because it felt weird), he managed to get out the basics—he had no clue who you were, where you came from, or why you were so attached to him.

You just sat there, listening, then suddenly spoke in that broken, childlike way of yours:

"You... kill. I like."

Debbie paled.

Mark choked.

"Oh my god—Mom, she doesn’t mean it like that!"

Living with you was... an experience.

For starters, you didn’t understand clothes. You hated them. Every time Mark turned around, you’d somehow gotten rid of his hoodie again, leaving you naked and unbothered.

"You need to wear something," he groaned, shoving his oversized T-shirt over your head.

You frowned, tugging at the fabric like it personally offended you.

"Feel bad. Skin... not like."

"Yeah, well, people don’t just walk around naked!"

"Why?"

"Because—it’s—!" He groaned. "Because it’s not normal!"

"...I am not human."

He blinked. Well, yeah, you had a point.

Then there was the affection.

You had zero concept of personal space.

You liked to lick him. For some godforsaken reason, you’d decided licking was a perfectly acceptable form of communication.

"STOP THAT!"

"Tastes... good."

"You don’t just—!" He wiped his face, groaning.

You also bit him. Soft little nibbles on his arm, his shoulder, his ear, like you were testing how breakable he was.

"You are... soft. Not strong."

"Gee, thanks."

And sitting? You didn’t just sit near him. No, you sat on him. On his lap, on his back, wherever you felt like. He had to physically pry you off sometimes.

And the worst part? You had no idea how attractive you were.

You were practically a walking wet dream—long, silky hair, an impossibly perfect body, and this innocent way of touching him that was definitely not innocent.

And you had no clue. None.

Amber took one look at you and decided she hated you.

And well... you hated her too.

The first time Amber put a hand on his arm, you straight-up tried to kill her.

“YOU CAN’T JUST KILL HER!”

"She touch." Your eerie, beautiful face was dead serious. "She want take. I no let."

Mark wanted to die.

"She’s my girlfriend!" he hissed.

Mark had to sit you down and explain what a girlfriend was.

You did not like it.

"Girlfriend? You Mark female?"

"Well, yeah."

You squinted. Stared at her. "…You weak."

“EXCUSE ME!?”

You nodded, completely serious. "Not strong. Not fast. Not smart. No fly. No fight. Not pretty. You ugly."

Amber shot Mark a glare. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU BRING HOME?!"

Mark dragged you away before you could start a fight.

You pouted. "She not good. She touch you."

"That’s what girlfriends do!"

"...You are mine."

Mark choked.

"No, I—No, I’m not!"

You blinked at him, looking utterly confused. "You are not... mine?"

"NO."

"...Why?"

Oh god, he needed a drink.

You’re Scary Sometimes

For all your innocence, you were still a Qu. A god-like being that viewed others as nothing more than ants.

And sometimes, it showed.

It started small.

A man touched his shoulder. Grabbed it.

Mark barely had time to register it before you lifted your hand, eyes dark and unblinking—

And the guy screamed.

His body convulsed. Twisted. His fingers elongated, skin peeling away as new, foreign muscle formed underneath. His eyes bulged, then split, spreading across his forehead like something from a horror movie.

By the time it was over, the man was not a man anymore.

He collapsed, shaking, his new limbs twitching in confusion.

Mark’s stomach dropped. "What the fuck?!"

You blinked at him, tilting your head like a confused child. "...Touch you."

"THAT DOESN’T MEAN YOU TURN HIM INTO A—A—WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT IS!"

Your lips wobbled. You pouted, shoulders hunching like a scolded puppy.

Mark groaned, running a hand down his face. "Oh my God. You can’t do that to people just because they touch me."

"But... mine."

Mark felt his brain short-circuit. "...What?"

You curled up, pressing your face into his chest. "You... mate. Mine."

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Or the other time Mark found you kneeling over a man in an alley.

His body was trembling, eyes wide with horror, and you were just staring down at him, hand on his forehead, eyes blank.

"What are you doing?" Mark shouted.

You turned to him slowly. "I... fix."

"...Fix what?"

"He was... bad. I change him."

The man sobbed.

Mark dragged you away before he could find out what the hell you meant by "change."

Mark didn’t realize how much he cared about you until Amber dumped him.

He was crushed, sitting on his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like absolute shit.

Then you climbed into his lap.

He barely had time to react before your soft lips pressed against his.

He stiffened. "Wh—?"

You kissed him again, warm and slow, like you were tasting something new.

"You are sad," you whispered. "In movie, this... makes better."

He swallowed. "It’s not that simple."

You tilted your head. "I like you."

His heart stopped.

"...You do?"

You nodded, wrapping yourself around him like a living blanket.

"You are mine?"

This time, he didn’t say no.

Mark sat there, your warmth pressed against him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You looked up at him with those unreadable, almost otherworldly eyes—eyes that had seen things he couldn't even begin to imagine.

He should have pulled away. He should have.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against yours. "You don’t really understand what love is, do you?"

You blinked, tilting your head in that way you always did when you were thinking. "...No."

"Then why do you like me?"

You hummed, considering, then slowly pressed a hand to his chest. "You... interesting. I watch. You fight. You... strong."

That made him snort. "You literally see me as a pet project, huh?"

You nodded. Dead serious.

He laughed. It wasn’t bitter this time, wasn’t weighed down with heartbreak. Somehow, you always had this way of distracting him, of making the world feel like something less heavy.

And then, as if you hadn’t just kissed him and staked your claim, you curled up against him, burying your face in his neck.

Mark stiffened.

"...You’re really affectionate, huh?"

You hummed. "Like... touch. Warm."

Oh, he was so screwed.

Mark thought living with you was weird before.

Now? Now it was a full-on disaster.

Because before, you were just a weird, beautiful alien girl who clung to him and had no concept of personal space. But now, you thought you were his.

Which meant you took full advantage.

You never let him sleep alone anymore. It didn’t matter where he was—his bed, the couch, even the floor—you would find him and drape yourself over him like a human-sized cat.

Clothes? Still a big no. You refused to wear anything besides his shirt. Which meant Mark spent half his time panicking whenever his mom walked into the room.

You licked him. Still. All the time. He’d be eating? Lick. Talking? Lick. Taking off his shirt after training? Lick.

"STOP THAT!"

"Taste... good."

"I AM NOT FOOD!"

But the worst part?

You still had no idea what was appropriate or not.

Like the time you walked into the shower.

Mark had never screamed so loudly in his life.

You just blinked at him, completely unbothered, and sat on the edge of the tub, staring at him with zero shame.

"You... hide body?"

"YES, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!"

"...Why?"

"BECAUSE IT’S WEIRD TO BE NAKED TOGETHER!"

You stared at him like he was speaking nonsense. "We are always naked together."

His soul left his body.

"...Get out."

"No."

"GET OUT!"

Mark was pretty sure nothing in his life had been more frustrating than trying to explain dating to you.

"It’s... you know, it’s when two people like each other and decide to be together."

You nodded, fascinated. "And then... kill?"

"...No. No killing."

You frowned, disappointed.

He sighed. "It’s about love."

You blinked. "What love?"

He opened his mouth, then froze.

Holy shit, how was he supposed to define love?

"Uh... it’s... it’s when you care about someone more than anyone else," he tried, scratching the back of his head. "You want them to be happy. You want to be with them. You feel safe with them."

You considered, tilting your head. "I feel that with you."

Mark’s breath caught.

You said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just... obvious.

"...You do?"

You nodded, then climbed into his lap, straddling him. "So... we date?"

His brain short-circuited.

"N-No! That’s not how—!" He groaned, face burning. "You don’t just sit on someone’s lap and say that!"

You pouted. "Why not?"

"Because—it’s—!"

He gave up. There was no winning with you.

Cecil already didn’t trust you.

And then you had to go and prove why.

Mark was at GDA headquarters when Cecil’s men dragged in a criminal. A guy who’d murdered at least thirty people.

You watched him. Quiet, blank, calculating.

Then, before anyone could stop you, you walked up to him, pressed a hand to his forehead—

And changed him.

Right in front of everyone.

Mark watched it happen. Watched the man’s entire personality shift, his eyes go blank for a second before filling with something new.

When you stepped back, he fell to his knees, sobbing.

"I... I’m sorry," the man whispered, voice shaking. "I don’t—I don’t want to hurt anyone—"

Mark stared at you, horrified. "What did you do?"

You blinked. "Fix."

Cecil looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

"She rewired his fucking brain," he hissed.

Mark turned to you. "You—you can’t just do that!"

"Why?"

"BECAUSE IT’S NOT—" He stopped. Struggled. "Because it’s not right!"

You just tilted your head, like a child being scolded.

He groaned.

Mark didn’t realize when it happened.

Maybe it was the way you always curled up against him, completely at ease.

Maybe it was the way you protected him without hesitation, despite seeing him as weak.

Maybe it was the way you said his name—not like you were calling him, but like you were claiming him.

Or maybe it was the way you looked at him.

Like he was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

And when he finally kissed you—really kissed you—you made the softest noise, melting into him, fingers tangling in his hair.

"You are... mine?" you whispered against his lips.

He exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I’m yours."

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[dyingswanpavlova]

Step-Father!Salesman Headcanons

Step-Father!Salesman is never really all too far away. It doesn't matter if he's right there behind you, glancing down at your uni work over your shoulder, creating a trace of goosebumps with the way his hot breath fans over your neck, or if you feel his presence somewhere close-by, not quite daring to look up. You know he's there, watching you. Always.

Step-Father!Salesman doesn't need to take a second glance at you to tell when you're lying to him. Excuses spill over your lips in such a rush and yet he doesn't even need that much of a proof. He can see it in your eyes. The way you avoid looking up at his dark, calculating gaze. He knows. And one day, you'll get punised for it.

Step-Father!Salesman has this infuriating smirk on his lips, the one that never once reaches his eyes. He doesn't pretend to express any mirth - his smirk is there to taunt you, mock you. Control you. Just like everything else he does. He doesn't even need to pretend not to notice you staring at his lips, whenever they're pulled into that irritating smile, rather than his usual scowl. You're just glaring at him, that's what you keep telling yourself. But you can't hide the way his gaze on you makes heat pool in your lower belly. Not forever. And certainly not from him.

Step-Father!Salesman will not comment the way you kiss your boyfriend goodbye in front of the house, before you make your way back inside. Of course you feel his gaze, threatening to consume you, through the window, even in the darkness. And you feel it. The tension in him, the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his smile is just a little tighter than usual. But it's not his place to do something about it, right? You're just his step-daughter.

Step-Father!Salesman who lingers in the shadows of the hallway, every time you make your way from the bathroom back to your room. Clad in only a damp towel and the shimmer of your lotion, you tiptoe your way back, firmly pretending not to notice the looming presence in the corner. But the flush on your skin and the quick rise and fall of your chest gives you away.

Step-Father!Salesman loves to watch you sleep. The way your lips are parted with soft breaths, the way your lashes tickle against your cheeks. The way your chest heaves just a tad bit too quick for you to truly be asleep. He can't keep himself from smirking. Such a bad girl, trying to make her step-father believe she's not there, listening. Feeling. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet. But soon.

Okay, I got a fic coming up for this, thanks to the lovely @koigguki, I just don't know when yet.

So, @koigguki , @andifiwereyourlittlegirl This is for you.✨️🥀

Forever Tag: @kpopsmutty69 🤍

Divider by @saradika-graphics

[vxlentinescookies]

ohmygosh is it possible you could write something for past!shadow milk cookie x (fem) reader?

perhaps there's a moment where the reader returns to his spire/kingdom after visiting her family that lives afar, but she comes back to him all wounded after being robbed from some bandits?

i just want to see this guy being absolutely distraught over not knowing this happened to us, but we reassure him with gentle touches, kisses, and comforting words 😭💖

→ ❛The Old Days: A robbery❜

→ Pairing ; Shadow Milk Cookie x Fem!Reader → Quote ; ❛❛You’re my all and everything, you know that, right?❜❜ → Genre ; Headcanons → A/N ; Here you go!

It was a normal day like always, it just seemed to be one of those days where things had come right and would pass right as they do, but…

“(y/n)! Beloved!” A voice would call out to you as you arrived at the Spire of Knowledge, your steps becoming hurried more and more as you approach it before kneeling by the side of your beloved, Shadow Milk Cookie.

“Milkie, what happened?” You ask him with worry as you rush to his side, before he’d speak again, between heavy breaths. “You look hurt…”

“I was robbed—Some bandits came and tried to rob us!” He’d say, clearly distraught as you sighed and helped him up “My sweetheart…”

“Come, lets get you all patched up, ok?” You say, softly, looking at him with a sweet gaze before lifting him up towards the stairs of the spire.

Being robbed was something Shadow Milk couldnt have thought of… happening in his life!

Yet here we are, moments after the events with you bringing him up with a warm smile and a cozy air.

Rising into your shared bedroom, you make sure everything is secure before allowing him to rest into the bed before you’d climb to his side, smiling.

And you’d whisper sweet nothings, gentle smiles and words and sweet whispers, things to keep him calm…

“Breathe, angel, breathe with me…” You’d say at one point, once in bed as you held his hands in yours with a warm smile “Feel free to lean on me…”

And he’d do so, leaning into your chest, feeling the soft heartbeat of your heart, it was everything he needed to feel calm already, despite being so distraught before, your scent and self calmed him instantly always.

“Oh sweetheart, what I would do without you…” He’d say, setting his face on your breast with a soft smile as his hair tickled your skin “You’re my all and everything, you know that, right?”

“Of course… Of course I know…”

But you know dreams are dreams, still, you cling to it like your life depended on it.

Your hands would caress his hair, softly, and your eyes would gaze over him as he cuddled to you, holding you close.

He was still distraught, that much wasnt a lie, he was still aching over what was stolen and lost.

But with you by his side… How could he ever feel lost…?

… Right, how could a jester like him ever feel lost…

[dior-luxury]

Can I please get some headcanon fluff of Riddle or Lilia with a gn reader who’s struggling to catch up on schoolwork due to anxiety? Thanks a bunch! X

-Cinderella

You Struggling With Schoolwork

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . angst/comfort - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Anxiety/Mental health struggles . Mentions of academic stress and burnout . Crying/Emotional distress . Discussion of perfectionism/Pressure to perform

Note: Sorry for the late posts this week guys... hope this makes up for it! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

Riddle Rosehearts

The sharp knock at your door is almost perfectly timed—precise, firm, and unmistakably Riddle’s.

“May I come in?” he calls gently, and the concern in his voice isn’t lost on you. You hesitate, glancing down at the pile of textbooks spread across your desk, your untouched assignments, and your trembling hands. You hadn’t responded to his messages all day, and that alone was enough to make him worry.

You manage a weak, “Yeah,” and the door creaks open.

Riddle steps inside, carrying a small tray with tea, a scone, and a crisp napkin folded just so. He places it on your desk without a word, his eyes taking in the disarray—open books with frantic notes, red-inked grades, your frayed expression.

“You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent of emotion—hurt, but also immense care.

You try to speak, to explain how it’s not just the workload but the weight of trying to meet expectations—his, the professors’, even your own—and how every assignment feels like a mountain when your brain is caught in a storm.

But before the words can tumble out, Riddle crouches in front of you, gently taking your hands in his.

“I should have seen the signs,” he says, more to himself than to you. “The skipped meals, the messages getting shorter… I let myself think you were just busy. But you’re overwhelmed.”

Tears sting your eyes at his understanding, and his thumbs softly brush over your knuckles.

“I know how crushing the rules and expectations can be,” he continues. “I lived my life by them for so long, thinking perfection was the only path to being worthy.”

He meets your eyes then, and there’s a fierce protectiveness there.

“You don’t have to be perfect. Not for me. Not for anyone. If something feels too heavy, I will help you carry it. You are not alone in this.”

He insists on sitting with you for the rest of the evening—not to force you to study, but to gently organize your notes, help you build a realistic plan, and most of all, just be there. Between sips of tea and quiet affirmations, he reminds you over and over again:

“You are doing enough. You are enough.”

And somehow, with him by your side, the pressure eases. Just a little. But enough to breathe.

Lilia Vanrouge

You’re in the library long past sundown, curled up at one of the far corners where no one usually wanders. Your notes are scattered, pages stained with the occasional smudge from your tears. The shadows feel safer than facing how behind you’ve fallen. Anxiety clings like cobwebs—thin, invisible, suffocating.

“Now what do we have here?” comes a light, melodic voice that doesn’t match the gravity of your thoughts.

Lilia floats down from a high shelf—literally—having apparently spotted you while playfully stalking between bookcases. His boots make no sound as he lands, but his eyes—bright, ancient, knowing—lock onto your face with immediate concern.

“Oh, little one,” he murmurs, his teasing tone falling away.

You try to sit up, to hide the panic in your expression, but he’s already crouched beside you, his gloved hand reaching to tuck your hair gently behind your ear.

“I can smell the storm on you,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t sound strange. Not from Lilia. “All tangled thoughts and racing heartbeat.”

You finally break, sobbing softly into your arms. You didn’t want to burden him—you thought you could manage it on your own. But Lilia just holds you, humming a low lullaby in a language you don’t know but feel deep in your bones. Time seems to warp around him. There’s no pressure to speak, no expectation to explain.

After a long silence, he says, “You mortals put such pressure on yourselves. Deadlines, ranks, marks on parchment. But none of those things define you. You, my darling, are not a test score.”

You lift your head, blinking at him. “But I’m falling behind. Everyone else is—”

He puts a finger to your lips. “Shhh.” His smile returns, soft and mysterious. “Let me teach you a trick. I’ve lived long enough to know that life is not a race. It’s a dance. Some steps are fast, some are slow, and sometimes... you sit the song out and rest.”

Then he conjures up a little magic—a glowing, dancing orb that spins your study materials into neat stacks and gently highlights your upcoming assignments. “We’ll break it down together,” he promises. “A bit today, a bit tomorrow. And a whole lot of sweets in between.”

Lilia, despite his playful persona, becomes your anchor. He checks in with daily surprise visits, sneaking in enchanted snacks and encouraging notes hidden in your books. He doesn't coddle, but he doesn’t let you spiral, either. He believes in you with an ageless patience, never rushing your healing or growth.

“Even the strongest minds need rest,” he’ll say, kissing your temple. “And the kindest hearts, like yours, deserve a gentle pace.”