#I just live to see him take his next breath

[sparrows4bats]

Jon Kent is a giant overprotective puppy when he falls in love with Damian.

Jon Kent adores Damian Wayne, has since he was a child. They fought, but Jon always admired the strength and intelligence of his hero partner.

That admiration turned to love when they got older.

Jon grew up, and Damian left Robin to pursue heroics in civilian life, but that didn't stop them from being friends. Jon still searches out Damians heartbeat every day and flew to him whenever Jon needs to talk.

Jon doesn't know when Damian becomes his anchor, but one day, it's like he is the centre of his universe. Damian has his own gravity, and Jon does not care to fly away from it. He had inadvertently made him a cornerstone of his entire world.

He only realised what that truly meant when he saw Damian get caught up in a bomb blast.

Damian hadn't been patrolling or even a hero at the time. He was in the hospital paediatric wing working when a joker goon had arrived gun in hand, declaring that the children had only 30 minutes to live if the Batman didn't arrive.

Damian had taken down the gun man in seconds. Much to the shock and awe of his co-workers and patients. They didn't have much time to think about Dr Wayne's incredible defence skills before he ordered them to evacuate.

Damian hit the silent alarm, called his father on the emergency line, and started moving as many of his young patients as possible out of the building.

The thing was, the gunman had either lied or been lied to as 20 minutes later, it goes off.

Damian screams for Superman as he sheilds a little boy with his body. Jon arrives moments later.

The bomb goes off, and Jon has just enough time to stand between Damian and the blast.

The heat is intense, and the hospital shudders beneath them, but the boy and Damian survive.

Jon lifts them out of the rubble. The boy cries while Damian comforts him, whispering soothing words while he holds him. Jon watches with his heart in his throat.

They find the boys' parents later and receive sobbing gratitudes as their child refuses to let go of Damian for a few minutes. Damian begins triage on whoever needs it, but luckily, the building was almost entirely cleared before the catastrophe.

When the GCPD and Batman arrive, Damian and Jon take the opportunity to catch their breath.

Jon can't help but tug Damian into his arms and sigh in relief. The other man doesn't protest. he just leans on him.

That was close, close in a way that it can never be again. If Jon had been even a moment late, Damian wouldn't be here. His heartbeat would have gone silent. Jon can't bear even the thought of it.

Damian feels so perfect in his arms that Jon never wants to let go. Damian looks up at him and asks to be released.

Jon stares at him as he steps out of his hold and has an epiphany. Damian Wayne is gorgeous.

He has always been beautiful, but here in scrubs, covered in soot and debris with his hair a mess, he is everything Jon has ever wanted.

Jon leans in and runs his his thumb over his face. Damian leans into the touch like a kitten.

"I love you. Marry me?"

Damian opens his pretty green eyes wide and gapes at him.

"What? That's - Um"

Jon starts to panic. He didn't mean to say that. It just sort of slipped out, but he can't take it back. It's true. Jon wants to marry this incredible man one day, even if his massive mouth may have ruined his chances.

Damian must see it on his face, but he takes a deep breath. "I....I love you too." Jon feels his heart soar.

"But I want to at least go to dinner before marriage, Hayseed!"

"Absolutely! When?!"

"We could go to a diner now?"Jon is lifting them off before Damian finishes the sentence. Damian groans even as he smiles.

The date goes really well. They get pie! Damian kisses him, goodbye! Jon floats with his giddiness. (He also crashes into a goose on his flight home, but the goose is fine, so he doesn't need to mention it to anyone ever!)

The next date goes even better, and the next and the next. They see each other every day for weeks. Jon has never been happier.

Conner has to get him down from the ceiling twice after Damian invites him to visit the kids at the hospital, and he gets a front row seat to how much they love his boyfriend.

The first time they spent the night together, Jon is useless to anyone for the next two days. He can't focus! And all he wants is to be back in bed with his boyfriend!

When Jon stops a robbery at a jewellery store, he spots a beautiful emerald and diamond ring and thinks of how good it would look on Damian. He buys it at a discount from the grateful owner. Who smiles indulgently as the hero gushes about his partner for twenty minutes. (Even the thief agrees that the ring will be perfect!)

He proposes to Damian in front of the kids in the paediatric department, much to the kids and Damians co-workers' delight. Many of them draw the two getting married, and the hospital is plastered in their art for weeks.

Jon can't wait for when he and Damian have their own kids. Damian blushes bright red when he tells him but agrees to start looking into their options.

Jon and Damian decide to elope because Damian does not want to deal with his family all in the same room together. Jon happily agrees because that means he can marry Damian faster!

The officiant looks very touched but very tired by the end of their vows.

The next time Damian is in danger, it's during an invasion. Batman calls Damian in for field medicine and extra combat support, Jon is up in the sky with his father working on bringing their ships down when he hears his husband shout in pain.

He doesn't wait or explain before he goes to him, Superman calls his name, but Jon ignores him.

Damian is on his feet but clutching at his bleeding side. Jon uses heat vision and decimates anyone near them.

"I had that habibi!" Damian says through gritted teeth.

"What you have is a critical injury, darling!"

"Who here has an MD?"

"Who here has x ray vision?"

Once the aliens are dealt with Jon takes Damian to be stitched up.

Their familes find them bickering in the medbay.

"Well, how will I take care of the babies if you're so reckless?!

"I'm fine, love! Look, it's all okay. I promise, and the babies aren't even here yet!."

"I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you so much"

Damian sighs and kisses him gently. And that's the moment both of their families walk through the door.

"You're pregnant?!" A very distressed Dick Grayson screams.

Jon chokes, and Damian glares, "No. That's not physically possible. "

Clark clears his throat, "So when did this?" he indicates to the two on bed. "Happen, exactly?"

Damian pales dramatically, and Jon realises that that thing he forgot to tell his dad a few weeks ago is that he got married.

"So, funny story, we eloped a few weeks ago...hahaha." Jon tries to defuse the tension. It doesn't work.

Damian holds up their joined hands to show off their rings.

The room goes deathly silent as Nightwing faints.

They spend the rest of the night being interrogated. (Jon kinda wants to revisit the idea of Damian being pregnant because surely someone has the technology!)

Their familes hold a vow renewal ceremony they all attend. It is as chaotic as Damian feared it to be, and while Damian does not get pregnant, Talia does let them use the articial womb she used to grow Damian to help them have their twins.

[linoxpudding]

Routine Chaos- Yang Jeongin

summary: a glimpse into the daily life of the yang household

pairing: yang jeongin x fem!reader

genre: fluff, humor, married with kids

word count: 661 words

a/n: back again with more dad!skz content, enjoyy ♡

Dad!SKZ Masterlist

-

The Kids: Eldest Son (Sungheon - 7 years old), Youngest Son (Jaeheon - 5 years old)

~°~

You were enjoying a peaceful morning sitting on the couch in the living room with coffee in hand, scrolling through your phone when a loud crash from the kitchen shattered the silence.

Raising two energetic boys meant living in a constant state of chaos. Noise was the background music of your life, ranging from stomping feet, sudden screams, suspicious giggles, and the occasional crash that made your soul momentarily leave your body. At some point, you stopped wondering if something would go wrong and instead started timing how long the quiet would last before the next disaster. So when you heard the crash from the kitchen, you didn’t panic.

You just sighed, because of course something had exploded again.

From the laundry room, Jeongin called out, "I’m not dealing with it!"

You groaned, setting your coffee down. "You’re their father!"

"You’re their mother!"

Before you could argue, tiny footsteps thundered down the hallway.

"YOU IDIOT!" You heard your eldest son, Sungheon, groan.

"NOT MY FAULT." Jaeheon, your youngest son, said defensively.

Both the boys skidded into the living room, and their faces showed pure panic.

You stood up from the couch and crossed your arms. "What did you do?"

Sungheon immediately pointed at his brother. "Jaeheon did it!"

Jaehoon gasped, deeply betrayed. "YOU TOLD ME TO DO IT!"

"Because I thought you wouldn’t actually do it!"

Jeongin finally appeared, looking completely done with life. His usual soft, sweet demeanour was gone—his eye was twitching, and he was rubbing his temples like he had a migraine.

"Who—" He took a deep breath. "Who put my shoe in the microwave?"

You blinked. "I’m sorry, what?"

You bolted into the kitchen and were met with the scent of burnt rubber and destruction. Jeongin turned the microwave door toward you. Inside, one of his sneakers sat tragically melted.

Sungheon and Jaehoon stepped into the kitchen behind you, their faces painted with guilt. When you turned to face them, they froze, exchanging a nervous glance before instinctively taking a step back.

"You microwaved Appa's shoe?" you asked, completely bewildered.

Sungheon bit his lip. "Technically… it was Jaeheon."

"I WAS MAKING IT WARM!" Jaehoon blurted out. "SO APPA’S FEET WOULDN’T GET COLD!"

Jeongin stared at them, his soul leaving his body. "Why… would you think microwaving a shoe was the solution?"

Jaehoon hesitated. "...The logic made sense in my head."

Jeongin dragged a hand down his face. "I can’t with you two."

Sungheon snorted. "Told you it was a bad idea."

Jaeheon immediately turned on him. "YOU TOLD ME TO DO IT!"

"Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it!"

"YOU DOUBLE-DOG DARED ME! I HAD TO!"

Jeongin turned to you, pleading. "You gave birth to these demons. Fix it."

You barely held in your laughter. "I gave birth to them, but they definitely inherited your stupidity."

"HEY!"

"It’s true."

He sighed and turned towards the boys then pointed toward the hallway. "Go to your rooms. Now."

The boys scampered away, still bickering under their breath.

Jeongin groaned. "I need a refund on these kids."

You chuckled. “Too late.”

You stepped behind Jeongin and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head against his back.

Jeongin sighed dramatically, looking at his melted shoe. "This is why I want daughters."

You gasped and turned him gently by the waist so you could see his face. You squinted at him. “No, Yang. I’m not getting pregnant again.”

He tilted his head, pouting in that ridiculous way he knew might sway you. “Please? Just one? A quiet one?”

“Shut up.”

“But—”

You silenced him with a kiss, gentle and lingering, until he melted just a little more into your arms. He sighed into your lips, finally letting go of the last bit of his microwave induced trauma.

“I still want a daughter,” he mumbled against your mouth.

You pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll buy you a goldfish and give it a pretty name.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

-------------

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[keithyp00]

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Pretty Little Baby ♡୧‿︵‿︵

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, romance, emotional vulnerability, mentions of PTSD, minor language, soft!Bucky, pining and tension, kissing, implied intimacy, fluff, 1950s music, scars, body image

Song Inspiration: Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis

Word Count: 2.4K

Author Note: Hello! Sorry this one is out so late... This is another Connie Francis fic (because her songs work for him so well <3) that I'm pretty proud of. This note is to tell you guys that I don't think I bombed my AP exam this morning so that's good! AND that my post for tomorrow will be delayed to Friday night because of my PROM! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Pretty little baby / you say that maybe you'll be thinkin' of me / and try to love me / Pretty little baby / I'm hoping that you do~

~~~~~

Bucky Barnes wasn't supposed to fall in love. Not again. Not here.

The sunlight pooled through the tiny cafe window just enough to trace gold over the soft curve of your cheek. You sat tucked in the small booth located behind the counter- specifically for workers- like a secret waiting to be discovered, the vintage radio located next to you crooning out a low, crackling tune- something old. Something he vaguely remembered the melody of.

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

Your fingers tapped along the rim of your coffee cup, mimicking the tempo. You didn't see him at first. You never did. Not really. Not in the way others did- with their reverence, their suspicion, their fear. No, you had this gentle way of looking at him like he wasn't a ghost. Like he wasn't a man made of nightmares. You saw through the steel and the silence.

You saw him.

He'd been coming here for three months now. Tuesdays and Fridays. You always worked the morning shift, tucked in your apron and a smile so warm it melted his resolve. Bucky told himself the coffee was the reason he kept returning. Told himself the old songs reminded him of simpler times. Told himself it wasn't you.

But it was always you.

Today, you looked different. A little sad. Your smile not quite reaching your eyes.

"Hey, soldier," you greeted softly when he finally stepped forward to the counter, voice like a balm.

"Hey, doll," he murmured, almost under his breath. The nickname slipped out sometimes, like his body remembered the rhythm of a past life even when he didn't mean to.

Your lips twitched a little higher. You always liked when he called you that.

"Coffee?" You asked, already reaching for his usual.

"Yeah." He hesitated. "And... maybe a slice of that apple pie?"

You blinked. "Trying something new?"

Bucky shrugged, pretending it didn't take everything in him to break routine. "Thought I'd live a little."'

You gave him a playful salute. "That's the spirit."

As you turned to plate the dessert, Bucky glanced toward the radio. The song still played.

"Pretty little baby / You said maybe..."

It tugged at something in his chest. A memory, maybe. A fragment. He remembered holding someone close on a night like this. A whisper of perfume, the hem of a dress, the way music softened all the edges. But that wasn't this life. That wasn't now.

This was now. And you were here.

"Something wrong?" He asked when you set down his plate with slightly trembling fingers.

You smiled- small, too practiced. "Just... tired."

"Liar," he replied gently.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. Startled. Then they softened.

"My roommate's moving out," you confessed. "And I can't afford the place on my own. I guess I'm worried I'll have to leave the neighborhood. Find a new job. Start over."

HIs fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"You thinking about leaving?" He asked carefully.

You nodded. "Unless something changes."

Bucky set his fork down.

Something about the idea of you being gone made his heart lurch in his chest. He didn't want to admit how often he built his week around these visits. How often he remembered the sound of your laugh hours after hearing it. How he had memorized the smell of this cafe because it smelled like you.

"You shouldn't have to start over," he stated.

Your smile faltered. "Sometimes, you don't get a choice."

He knew that better than anyone.

There was a beat of silence. Just the soft voice of Connie Francis filling in the cracks between you.

Bucky cleared his throat. "You like this kind of music?"

Your eyes seemed to light up- really light up- and for a second, the weight on your shoulders vanished.

"I love it," you smiled. "My grandmother used to play these old records. Connie, Doris, Patsy. She used to say romance was simpler back then."

He smiled, something wistful curing in his chest. "Yeah, I remember."

You blinked. "You remember?"

He hesitated, caught. And then slowly, he let the words fall. "I was born in 1917."

The world stilled. You stared. Then stared a little longer. His coffee cooling beside the both of you.

You didn't ask. Not about the arm. Not about the Winter Soldier. Not even about Steve.

Instead, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his flesh one.

"That must be a lot to carry," you said.

And somehow- somehow- that was worse than pity. It was kindness. It made something in his chest ache.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

You didn't leave. Somehow, a friend of a friend needed a roommate- really just someone to help pay half the rent for a place they rarely ever stayed in. You moved three blocks away instead of thirty minutes. You still worked at the cafe. Bucky still came by.

Sometimes he came just to sit with you during your break. Sometimes you played cards behind the counter. Sometimes he helped you change the records on slow afternoons, humming low and quiet.

Once, he brought you a tiny potted plant with a tag that just said "for the sunshine behind the counter."

You nearly cried.

You started listening to more old songs. Started humming them around him. Started smiling wider every time he walked in. You didn't know when you fell in love with him. You just knew that one day, Bucky Barnes was no longer a customer. He was a presence. A comfort.

A heartbeat. And you were his. But neither of you said it. Not until the night it all came undone.

~~~~~

It was raining.

Bucky didn't show up for his usual Tuesday coffee. Then Friday. Then the next Tuesday.

You didn't have his number. You didn't know where he lived. You were just a girl behind a counter who somehow memorized the man behind all the pain.

When he showed up again, he looked wrecked.

Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tight. Hair damp from the storm outside. He didn't say hello. Didn't order coffee.

Just stared at you like he didn't believe you were real.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You frowned. "Where were you?"

"I... I couldn't come," he whispered. "I couldn't see you. I couldn't look at you and pretend I'm not broken."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to pretend," you said quietly.

He stepped closer. "I dreamt I hurt you," he confessed, voice breaking. "My mind... sometimes I can't control what I see. What I feel. I thought if I stayed away, I could protect you. But it just- hurt more."

You were shaking now. "Bucky..."

"I'm not what you think I am," he said. "I'm not a good man. I've done things that haunt me. I'm not fixed. I'm not even whole. I didn't want to let you close because I knew- I knew I'd start to hope. And hope is dangerous."

Tears welled in your eyes.

"Don't you get it?" You whispered. "I don't need perfect. I need you."

Silence.

Then his voice- ragged.

"You deserve someone better."

"Maybe," you replied. "But I want you."

That cracked something in him. Broke him open.

And suddenly, he was holding you like a lifeline, forehead pressed to yours, rain in his hair, in his lashes, on his lips. He was trembling- an earthquake in a man's body. And then he kissed you.

Soft. Desperate. Real.

Like he's been waiting a hundred years just to find someone who didn't flinch.

~~~~~

"Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop / meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight / pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

The record played again a week later.

You danced in your kitchen barefoot while Bucky cooked behind you. He was clumsy with a spatula but careful with your heart. His metal arm wrapped around your waist as you spun into him, laughter spilling between you.

"I like this one," he murmured into your hair.

"I know," you smiled, eyes twinkling. "You always hum it."

Bucky kissed your temple.

"Pretty little baby," he whispered, echoing the lyrics. And this time, when you looked at him... You didn't see the Winter Soldier.

You saw James Buchanan Barnes.

And he was yours.

~~~~~

The first time you saw him shirtless, it wasn't intentional.

You'd only meant to bring him coffee.

It was barely past nine on a Sunday morning- quiet, sleepy light pouring through your bedroom window, another morning where your roommate was in a city thousands of miles away for work- and you padded down the hallway with two mugs in hand and nothing but one of Bucky's old Henley's falling past your thighs. You hadn't expected him to be out of bed already. You hadn't expected to find him standing in your bathroom, door ajar, wiping steam off the mirror as sunlight caught every scar on his back.

The coffee nearly slipped from your fingers.

He turned at the sound of your breath catching, eyes wide, chest bare, metal arm glinting sliver-blue in the light. He looked like a statue- carved from war and grief, tall and scarred and too beautiful to be real.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching for a towel.

You swallowed. "Don't- don't cover up-"

HIs hand paused. Towel clenched at his side. His shoulders tensed as if waiting for you to flinch. For you to turn away. For you to look at him and see a monster.

But you didn't.

You just stepped closer. Set the mugs on the counter. Reached up with trembling fingers to touch the edge of one older scar that curled itself across his ribs.

"Does it still hurt?" You asked.

His throat bobbed. "Not always."

You leaned in. Pressing a kiss just beside it.

Then another.

And another.

You traced the map of his wounds like a poem written specifically for you. He stood still, breathing shallowly, as your lips moved over the place where flesh met metal, where skin had broken and grown over again. His eyes fluttered shut. His hand trembled when it came to rest on your waist.

"Pretty little baby," you whispered, half a breath, the song still echoing somewhere in your heart. "I want all of you."

And he kissed you- raw and real and aching.

Like he couldn't believe he was allowed.

~~~~~

Later, when your head lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes over his sternum, he spoke.

"I used to think I wasn't allowed to want anything," he murmured. "After everything I did... I thought wanting happiness was selfish. I thought being touched would always feel like control. But with you-"

His voice broke.

"With you, I feel human again."

Tears pricked your eyes. You turned your face into his skin and breathed him in.

"Then stay human with me," you whispered.

He did.

He stayed.

~~~~~

Time passed in quiet, golden pieces.

You slowly moved out of your apartment and into his. You left a toothbrush beside his. He left a dog-eared version of The Hobbit on your nightstand and insisted it was better than the movie.

You started watching black-and-white films together on an old projector screen you borrowed from a friend. He fell asleep on your lap during Roman Holiday. You took a picture- his face soft, peaceful, your fingers tangled in his hair- and set it as your lock screen. He pretended to grumble about it.

But he smiled every time he saw it.

You learned that he liked lemon in his tea. That he still had nightmares, but fewer of them now. That he hummed Connie Francis songs without realizing it, especially when he cooked. That he never quite believed he was lovable- but was trying, every day, to let you show him otherwise.

~~~~~

Then came the letter.

It was from the VA. A mandatory psych review. Another round of red tape. Another cold reminder that no matter how far he came, the world still saw him as dangerous first and human second.

You found him sitting on the edge of your bed, jaw clenched, paper crumpled in one fist.

"Hey," you said gently.

He didn't look at you.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I don't want to sit in some room and explain why I flinch at loud noises or why I check the door five times before sleeping. I don't want to be studied."

Your heart ached.

You sat beside him. Laced your fingers through his.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation for surviving," you stated. "But if you go... do it for you. Not them."

He exhaled slowly. Then nodded.

"I want to be better," he said. "For you."

You cupped his face, made him look at you.

"You're already enough," you whispered.

~~~~~

Spring came slowly.

The cafe bloomed with lavender outside the windows. You reopened the patio seating. He brought you flowers on your lunch break- daisies, once. Then violets. Then roses.

"You're spoiling me," you teased, cradling the bouquet.

He smirked. "You deserve it."

You kissed him on your break. In front of the window. In front of half the neighborhood.

He didn't care who saw.

For the first time in nearly a century, James Buchanan Barnes didn't hide.

~~~~~

But healing wasn't linear.

Some nights, he still woke up gasping.

Some days, he paced the apartment for hours before he could settle.

Once, he got quiet for a week after seeing his reflection in a store window and not recognizing himself. You didn't push. You just stayed close. Made tea. Held him when he let you.

"I don't know why you stay," he said one night, voice rough.

You pressed your forehead to his.

"Because I love you."

He didn't speak. But his arms wrapped around you tighter than ever.

And you knew.

He loved you, too.

~~~~~

One summer night, as fireflies blinked outside the open balcony and the radio hummed in the background, he pulled you into a dance in the living room. Bare feet on cool wood. Fingers on his collar. Chin tucked into his neck.

You swayed. Slowly. Softly.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"What are you thinking?" You whispered.

HIs blue eyes shimmered.

"That I want this," he said. "I want you. Forever, if you'll have me."

You laughed. A breathless, tearful sound.

"I've been yours since you walked into my cafe three months late and asked for a coffee with way too much sugar."

He groaned. "I said I was trying something new!"

You laughed and kissed him again.

"I love you," you smiled.

He closed his eyes.

"I love you more than I ever thought I could," he breathed. "And that terrifies me."

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Then let's be scared together."

[67bottles-of-milk]

Not Just Roommates

Finally, Jason lets you meet his family.

~5k words

Part 1

For weeks following Jason and Dick’s conversation, his family tried to convince Jason to let them meet you. They each had their own tactic.

—

Bruce tried invitations to family events and galas.

“You know, it would be really nice if you brought this girlfriend of yours to dinner this-” 

“Nice try old man. Not happening, you really think I’m gonna bring her here just so you can interrogate her? Absolutely not.” Jason didn’t even look up from his bike in the cave. Bruce was dejected at the harsh rejection before perking up, ready for another suggestion. “No, she’s not coming to the gala next week either. Don’t expect me to be there either; it’s date night.” He was quickly cut off with even more rejection. 

“Come on, Jaylad, why not? We just want to meet her, make sure she’ll treat you right,” Bruce tried to reason. That definitely caught Jason’s attention properly. 

“Look, Bruce, I’m twenty two years old and Red Hood. Tell me honestly, and to my face, that you think I would willingly stay with someone who doesn’t treat me right?” Jason’s voice was entirely flat, if a bit condescending. 

“Alright but at least introduce me before you decide to get married to her.”

—

Dick tried to invite himself to Jason’s through various scenarios.

“Hey, Little Wing. Mind if I swing by this weekend? I’d love to spend some quality bonding time together but I know the manor is a mess at the minute with all the preparations for the gala.” Dick had just landed on the roof next to his brother. Seeing Bruce’s direct attempts failing, he decided to take a more sly approach, disguising it as just coming over once or twice to spend time with him and hopefully, at some point be there at the same time you were. If the two of you even lived together. If it didn’t work, he would at least still be able to spend some time with Jason which was always a win in his books. 

“Sure.” Jason’s response made Dick absolutely light up with anticipation. Maybe he actually had a shot at being able to meet you. “ If you can figure out where I live.” Immediately, his hopes were dashed. The entire family had put in quite a bit of effort into finding out where Jason lived but so far, they couldn’t find a single trace of him. Not even a name on any leases or deeds to any place of residence in the entire city, likely under a fake name.

For a while, Bruce was worried Jason was just living somewhere on the street but that was put to rest from some defensive and highly indignant yelling from Jason about how he has an entire apartment that is clean and tidy and that he sleeps in every single night– well, morning. 

—

Tim just avoided going through Jason and decided to figure out who you were all on his own. 

It wasn’t like Jason would give him an answer anyway, might as well skip the trouble and go straight to internet sleuthing. Unfortunately, all he had so far was Jason’s phone number with no social media attached to it aside from an empty instagram profile that wasn’t following anyone and was only followed by family and Jason’s teammates.

He tried Damian’s to see if he followed anyone out of the ordinary. No luck there either. Damian only followed a handful of people. If only Tim had your name, he could do so much more. Although, he supposes, if he had your name then the entire family could have a much easier time meeting you. 

—

“I hate my family sometimes,” Jason sighed, laying beside you as you sat in bed. He pushed his face into your waist and curled into a ball as well as he could. Your hand rubbed his back, resting on the back of his neck after a moment. 

“What have they done this time?” 

“Won’t leave me the fuck alone. God, why can’t they just mind their own business?” You breathed a laugh at his whiny tone. 

“Well, maybe they’re just happy for you? I mean, come on, when was the last time you had a partner?” You teased, pushing his face away from you to look at him properly. 

“I don’t know. Didn’t really have the time for anything when I came back. All anger and revenge y’know? Not much time for love and care like I have with you.” He ended the sentence with a kiss on your hand. 

“Well aren’t you just a sweet talker? I love you, Jay.” 

“I love you more, sweetheart.” 

—

You and Damian were sitting on the sofa, so engrossed in your conversation and entirely ignoring the movie in the background. Meanwhile, Jason was pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He was chewing his thumbnail as he went around in circles in his head debating with himself whether it was a good idea or not. 

“Jaylove? Can you put the kettle on please?” He stopped and looked up at you, leaning over the sofa with a soft smile on your face. He felt his cheeks warm at the sight of you. You were absolutely gorgeous, the love of his life. He nodded resolutely, turning to fill the kettle up before turning to the bedroom. 

“I’ll be back in a minute, it’s cold as hell.” It was not. In all honesty, it was actually pretty cosy but he could get away with wearing a jumper for a bit. He watched as you got up behind him, mugs in hand to replenish drinks for all three of you. Jason took the chance to message Damian while you weren’t sitting directly next to the kid. Not that you would read his messages but he wasn’t risking it.

I’m doing it. Scram.

Actually can you record it? Wanna keep the memory.

If I must.

You’re far too sentimental.

With everything sorted, Jason pulled his jumper over his head and felt around in his pockets. Good, it was still there. As he made his way out to the kitchen where you were, he spotted Damian leaning over the back of the sofa, much like you were just moments ago except now with his phone in hand, clearly in sight with the camera pointing at you making hot chocolate. Real subtle. Thankfully you were too lost in your own world to notice.

“Hey sweetheart,” Jason spoke softly, spinning you by the waist. “Got a question for you.” 

“I’ve got an answer for you.” You put your hand over his where it rests on your hip before he pulled away again, both hands in his pockets. Jason pulled them back out again, just a moment later only to bend down to the floor on one knee. 

“You are my soulmate. The love of my life. My everything. I know we’re young and I know we talked about waiting until after we graduated but I want you now and forever and I don’t think I could wait to ask you any longer.” His words were heavy with nothing but adoration as he looked you in the eyes. “Will you marry me?” Immediately, you dropped to the floor with him and dragged him into a tight hug. It was short lived as you immediately pulled back, kissing every inch of his face.

“You know damn well I will. Absolutely I’ll marry you, Jason Todd.” His joy overwhelmed him completely, his eyes shining and crinkling in the corners, his smile stretching as far as it could. He took your hand, sliding a simple ring on your finger as the gemstone in the middle reflected the kitchen light. A bright laugh bubbled up as Jason lifted you in the air to spin around, kissing you deeply the moment your feet touched the floor once again. 

“Can we return to the movie now?” Damian piped up from his position in the living room, done recording and already in the process of sending the video to Alfred.

—

The next day, everyone had made it for the monthly family dinner, even Steph and Babs were in attendance. Jason was last in, running late as a result of the rush hour traffic. Nothing he could do when he had classes to attend still. Alfred was the first to greet him as he made his way to his seat at the table. 

“Congratulations on the excellent news, Master Jason.” It was just one sentence offered as the butler returned to the kitchen to finish bringing dishes to the table. A momentary pause rang through the room as everyone turned to look in curiosity. What news would Jason have that would be excellent?

“What’s new with you then?” Dick poked, hoping he wouldn’t be immediately brushed off. He was not very lucky.

“Nothing really, just finally managed to get something done I’ve been meaning to for a while now. Nothing that concerns you.” He was more focused on getting food on his plate. Despite not wanting to directly fuel his family’s incessant need to be in his business all the time, he was still excited to show off. And so, he was very deliberate in using his left hand to reach across the table for each platter. With a family full of detectives, it was not long before at least one of them caught on.

“Jason.” It was Bruce that caught it first, afterall he was really the only person sitting to the left of him. “Is that a ring on your hand?” It was a calculatingly calm tone. One that was almost perfect in hiding Bruce’s emotions.

“Yeah.” He didn’t want you to be the only one wearing a ring. Sure, it wasn’t the most traditional thing for him to be wearing a ring himself but he wanted everyone to know that he was a committed and taken man, even if you weren’t his wife just yet. 

“ Please do not tell me you got married and didn’t invite or even tell any of us.” Bruce had dropped the calmness and replaced it with tired exasperation.

“Of course not.” Jason spoke with faux offence. “Damian was there.” Dick slammed his hands on the table and stood up with such speed his chair would’ve fallen if not for Cass catching it as it tipped backwards. 

“Are you kidding me!? You got married and I wasn’t even invited? How could you, Little Wing, I thought we were brothers?” Dick was tearing up, the hurt evident in his voice as he sank back into his chair defeated. 

“Worry not Grayson, he has yet to marry, they are merely betrothed.” Damian spoke up. “They agreed that they would not get married until the two have achieved their degrees.” Without even thinking, he added more fuel to the fire. 

“Wait a minute, degrees? The two? Jason, you’re getting a degree?” Tim jumped into the conversation now, entirely baffled at the concept of Jason pursuing higher education. 

“Uh, yeah? I’m in my final year dude, been studying literature for a solid two years now. What do you think I’ve been doing all day?” Jason asked, acting as if he hasn’t kept almost every aspect of his life to himself since he came back. 

“To be honest? I assumed you were just sleeping all day.” Tim shrugged.

“I thought you were working a part time job somewhere.” Dick chimed in.

“I was under the impression you were continuing operations as Red Hood during the day with the other Outlaws.” Bruce’s conception was the most accurate considering he did still hang out with Roy some weekends.

“Well, you’re all wrong. I’ve been going to Gotham University to study literature. Don’t know if I’ll do anything with my degree since, y’know, but it’s always there for me to fall back on anyhow.” 

“So, now that you’re engaged, will we be meeting this fiancee of yours any time before the wedding?” Bruce pushed. 

“Maybe.” 

—

Maybe came just over two weeks later. 

Jason was out for the day, helping Roy with a case he was struggling with and so it was just you at home. Well, for the morning anyway; Damian had said he would be over in the afternoon to watch the next movie in the series. (How this boy had made it so far in life and had seen neither The Hobbit nor The Lord of the Rings was beyond you but you were rectifying that and so The Battle of the Five Armies was on the watchlist for this evening.) 

Taking a long look in the cupboards and through the fridge, you sighed and pulled your shoes and coat on. Grocery shopping was long overdue. Now that you had used the last of the milk in your coffee this morning, you took it as a sign that it was time for the bi-weekly shop. 

As you wandered around your usual grocery store, you turned a corner to be met with a familiar scowl. 

“Damian? This is an excellent coincidence, I was just about to call and see if you wanted any particular snacks for movie night tonight.” You smiled as you approached further only to come face to face with an older man you vaguely recognised. “Ah. Hello.” 

“Damian, you know this woman?” Dick asked, turning to look at the young man in question. Damian sighed with annoyance. 

“Todd will be most displeased. Grayson, this is Todd’s betrothed.” He then turned to you with an equally stern look on his face. “I would like that toffee popcorn you bought last time. It was pleasant.” Dick turned to look at you with utter surprise and unadulterated glee.

“Oh my God, you’re the fiancee!! It is so lovely to meet you finally, Little Wing has been so insistent on keeping us from meeting you. Besides Dami, here of course but they’ve got their own weird connection that I’m not even sure where it came from.” 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Richard.” You offered a smile. He grimaced at his own name. 

“Please, just Dick is fine.” He insisted, almost desperate. 

“Sure, Dick. Anyway, it has been lovely to meet you but I have shopping to bring home. Damian, I’ll see you later?” He nodded and waved goodbye as you headed for the tills to pay. 

—

Jason didn’t come home until the credits of the movie rolled and Damian was slouched over, snoring quietly. 

“Hey Love, how was your day?” Jason stooped over the backrest of the sofa to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Pretty alright, got some washing done, went grocery shopping. You will never guess who I came across today though.” You smiled, pushing off the sofa and gathering empty bowls and cups to take to the kitchen. 

“Who? Charlotte?” He guessed, settling a blanket over Damian and turning off the TV. 

“Better. Dick. Ran into him and Dami in the shop. Stopped to say hi and get acquainted. I mean, gotta meet the in-laws at some point, right?” You shrugged, stacking the dishes in the sink to be done at a later time. At least when Damian was awake and wouldn’t be disturbed by the rushing water. A muffled groan came from Jason as he slumped onto the sofa with his head in his hands. 

“Great. Just great. Now they’re not going to leave us alone. This is just what I needed.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it would be an issue. I mean, it was bound to happen eventually and it’s not like he’s Black Mask out to get you.” Jason sighed and reached for you to pull close.

“It’s not that. I just wanted to keep you to myself for a little longer. They can be really overbearing and they love nothing more than to be all up in my business as though it were their own. I hate it a lot. I just don’t want them to come and ruin the peace I have here with you.” You rubbed his hand before pressing a kiss to his knuckles as reassurance. 

“They don’t have to know where we live. I am more than okay with meeting them at the manor or even in a restaurant somewhere. It doesn’t have to be all in. them getting to know me doesn’t have to mean them getting to know every single aspect of our lives.” You tried to comfort Jason, convince him that meeting his family will not be the end all be all of your peaceful life together. 

“Yeah but I know that as soon as they have even something to go off of, they’re going to do their shitty detective work and find out as much as they can. Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if either Tim or Bruce ran a background check on you the moment they learned your name.” He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’ll think about it. I know they’ll have to meet you eventually, especially since we’re going to be getting married and then you will literally be part of the family. I just… I need some time to consider.” 

And so later that evening, once Damian had returned home, Jason surprised you by having a shower and coming back to the bedroom dressed in– not his usual nighttime outfit of leather and kevlar, but instead cotton and polyester. He was sporting the Hello Kitty pyjama pants you had gotten him as a joke one day. It wasn’t often Jason joined you so early in bed but tonight, he seemed to be having the night off. 

Wordlessly, you shifted to sit more upright and opened your arms in invitation. He crawled over the bed and settled his head on your chest and curled the rest of his body around you. Soothing circles were rubbed into his back as he closed his eyes in thought.

“You really want to meet my family?” Jason shifted to rest his chin on you and look directly into your eyes. You pushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. 

“Jaylove, you know I love you. I will not marry you before meeting your family and I refuse to meet them at our wedding. So yes, I really want to meet your family. I can tell, despite all your grumblings about them, that they’re important to you. So I would love to come to the next family dinner and finally have a meal made by Alfred that hasn’t been microwaved in tupperware.” He sighed and went back to pressing as much of his face against you as possible. 

“I love you more. Alright, next family dinner I’ll bring you along. Unluckily for you, that’s this Friday.” 

—

Friday rolled around and the manor was as it usually was for family dinner: loud, chaotic, and full of bickering and teasing. Most of all, it was warm and everyone was honestly just there to have a good time. Even when there are grudges being held and long term disagreements that have yet to be settled, everyone calls a truce for the monthly Friday night dinner. It was Alfred’s rule and no one wanted to cross Alfred. There were no exceptions. 

Naturally, Jason had only informed Alfred of your company for the night since he would need to set an extra place at the table. Not even Damian knew because he hadn’t been over since movie night for you to tell him and Jason certainly wouldn’t. So when Jason walked in with a woman holding his hand? Silence. 

“Oh my God. She’s way too pretty for you.” Steph was the first to snap out of it and was immediately on her feet, snatching your hand from Jason and holding both close to her chest as she leaned close to your face. Her face lit up with a mischief that Jason dreaded to see. “So what’s he like at home? His room here is always so messy with books and clothes like everywhere. He’s barely ever here nowadays so I don’t even know how he keeps it so messy.” 

“Honestly? I don’t mind the mess, it’s not like he’s dirty anyway. Jay’s got like the cleanest hygiene habits of anyone I know for the most part. My favourite evenings are definitely our self care spa nights.” You giggled behind your hand, leaning in as though you were telling her a secret.

“Wait, you guys have spa nights? That’s so cute. And it honestly makes so much sense now. No wonder his skin is practically porcelain despite wearing his goddamn helmet all the time!” You now shot her a confused look, head tilting in question.

“Helmet? What helmet?” Stephanie panicked as she looked to the other family, each also showing varying degrees of distress. So you didn’t know? They would have to be careful.

“Uh, well, his… his motorcycle helmet! Yeah, his motorcycle helmet. I mean, he rides around on his bike everywhere, it’s practically his kid y’know?” 

Jason was sat confused, there was no way you didn’t realise she meant his Red Hood helmet, right? As you came to sit next to him, you gave him a saccharine smile. “I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle, Jay! I guess even after being in a relationship for over two years, there are still things to learn about each other.” Oh. You were going to mess with his family. This is why he was going to marry you. 

“So, it’s nice to finally meet the woman my son has decided to commit his life to. Bruce Wayne, a pleasure to meet you.” Bruce nodded politely with an even expression, cutting into the conversation so dinner could finally begin.

“It’s lovely to be able to meet Jaylove’s family, he’s told me so much about you all. I mean, Tim! It’s so impressive that you’re running a company while still attending school. I bet you definitely sleep well at night.” The boy in question shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of his prominent eyebags and the red bull he’d poured into his glass for the meal. The fact he had barely slept more than ten consecutive minutes in the past few days also flashed to his forethoughts. 

“Yeah. Definitely eight hours every night.” He awkwardly shifted in his seat. 

“Of course, I’ve heard about you Dick and all the hard work you do as a police officer over in Bludhaven. Truly an admirable line of work.” Dick sat up straighter now that he had been directly included in the conversation. Finally, someone around that wouldn’t admonish him and berate him for his day job. 

“Thank you, it can be tough sometimes, especially considering the high level of crime around but growing up here in Gotham, it really isn’t much different working over there. Y’know? Besides, I have help.” You nodded along solemnly, a serious expression on his face as he talked about the struggles of his line of work. 

“Indeed. Incredibly honorable and very inspiring to see someone willing to follow protocols and the correct way to do things. Unlike those good for nothing ‘vigilantes’ that run around Gotham at night.” At that, everyone stiffened up and shot disbelieving glances across the table. The only ones seemingly unaffected were Jason, Damian, and Bruce. Jason was muffling his laugh with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, Damian was pretending he couldn’t hear anything as he pet Titus under the table. Bruce, commendably, didn’t even so much as twitch as he looked on thoughtfully. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate?” It wasn’t often Bruce got to hear the honest and unfiltered opinions of Gotham citizens on his family’s nighttime operations. Sure, there were forums where people would discuss them but oftentimes, they were exaggerated or just trolls looking for entertainment by spouting hate. 

“Of course. I mean, there’s no way I would ever let my kids go out at night in kevlar speedos to beat people up. Granted, the robin costumes have gotten better over the years, the first two really should’ve had a bit more common sense. No. Actually, Batman really should’ve been more responsible. He’s the one who trained them to go out there in the first place, he couldn’t at least educate them on wearing safe and proper clothes on the job? Like, come on dude, so not a safe working environment.” That earned a few giggles around the table. 

“Is your grief with them just their costumes?” Barbara asked. Your answer came a brief moment later. 

“Honestly? Yeah, I think so. I mean, there have been some good choices made lately. The current Robin’s newest outfit is definitely my favourite. Red Robin’s cowl moment? Atrocious. Bowling ball. But like, straight into the gutter, you wouldn’t even hit a single pin. Definitely nothing to complain about with Spoiler though. The eggplant? I love it, and the transition from the full face cover to the half mask? It’s honestly everything.” Steph clapped from her seat, nodding fervently. 

“See? I’m not the only one that thinks I- she looks good in it. Can’t believe everyone keeps saying she should pick a different colour that isn’t as obvious to see. Like c’mon.” You pointed over at her with a grin. 

“NO SEE SHE GETS IT. Like, Red Hood? Dude that thing is fucking chrome, in the streetlights, I swear he’d be reflecting like one of those rainbow prisms. Like calm it down. Could never argue with a man whose thighs are the size of my head though.” You nodded and sat back in your chair. From the side of you, Jason looked at you incredulously. 

“How dare you. For one, you fucking love that helmet, I don’t want a word out of you on that front. Second, you and I know damn well my thighs are bigger than your head and you would absolutely argue with me. And you do. Just yesterday you were arguing with me when I said we should have peonies on the tables at our wedding because they’re your favourite but you said no because they would be out of season since you want a fall wedding.” He huffed and sat back in his chair. 

“Yeah well, I don’t want a fake flower bouquet. It’s just not the same.” Dick held up his hands as he processed the words Jason had said just a few moments ago. 

“Woah, wait a second. Can we backtrack just a second? You know he’s Red Hood?” You raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Well, yeah? This man cannot keep a secret from me to save his life. Proposing was the one thing he’s ever managed to surprise me with, like, ever.” You shrugged, like it was no big deal to know that your fiance was Gotham’s most infamous crime lord and one of the few people actively on the Justice League’s wanted list. “Also, back to the topic of suits, Dick, can you please tell me what possessed you to wear the Discowing suit? That in and of itself was probably the turning point for at least one Gotham rogue.” You went back giving him the side eye with your lips pursed and an eyebrow raised. 

“How dare you, that was the pinnacle of fashion at the time and I will not stand for this slander!” His chair fell from under him as he stood up, slamming his hands on the table. A sharp cough from the doorway caught everyone’s attention. 

“Master Richard, I think you will find you have just, in fact, stood for ‘this slander’ so if you would please return to your seat, that would be most obliged. And if we could refrain from slamming the table, thank you.” Alfred spared no more words as he turned and went back to wherever he had come from in the first place. Everyone was silent at the table for a moment before everyone broke out into raucous laughter at Dick’s expense as he sat with his head on the table. Even Bruce stifled a laugh behind his palm. 

—

The dinner, from that point on, had gone without incident. Jason was so happy to see you get along well with his family. Even if he didn’t get along with them all of the time, and they had more than their fair share of disagreements, they were still his family and he (not that he’d ever admit, even to himself) loved them as such. 

He didn’t realise how nervous he’d been until you were back home, getting ready for bed. You were sat in bed, watching as Jason pulled on his socks while getting ready to go out for the night. Without warning, you launched yourself at his back, tangling your arms around his neck and grappling your legs around his waist. Taken off guard, he let himself be dragged backwards onto the bed as you smothered the top of his head and forehead with kisses. 

“I love you so much. Thank you for letting me meet your family.” Jason breathed out and pressed kisses into your forearms resting over his shoulders. 

“I love you more, might as well meet them before they start causing problems about it. Now, sweetheart, as much as I love you and I love this, I have to get going. Big bad guys to catch and all.” You relented your hold and pulled his face in for one last kiss before the boots and helmet went on.

“Alright, but I’d better be meeting Roy soon.” You pointed at him and blew another kiss to where he stood by the window, hands braced on the frame with one foot already halfway out. 

“Whatever you want.”

[mistressofthemanor]

masterofthemanor

"Oh..." He breathed in suprisement, trailing off as he'd given her a quick, apologetic look as it occurred to him that she hadn't heard them and was clueless about the fact that he'd be staying at their daughter's home for a couple of days. "I've agreed to spend the weekend with Celeste and Ariadnè- weeks ago *adds quickly, but calmly, not wanting her to think that he was making plans of such longevity over her head* and... well... let's just say it'd slipped my mind. I would've told you earlier that I'd be leaving tomorrow morning, had I been aware of the date... I should be back on Sunday... in the afternoon" He explained, feeling a bit ashamed for his forgetfulness, however, her radiating happines uplifted him enough not to lose his pleasant mood at once. "Right?" He asked back, grinning as his brows shot up when she'd claimed it was generous of him to invite her, unable to keep himself from making that comment, despite knowing that she'd continue her monologue. "Well... You know me... and its not a big deal" He murmured, playing into the shamelessness she'd pointed out and accused him of, shrugging before he grabbed the container and began shaking it. "Yes?" He asked back immediately when she said yes, glancing up at her and beaming as he pointed the tip of the canister at his pancake and pushed the button, covering the pancake in a thick, towering layer of whipped cream in no time, chuckling as she peeved him for taking getting an invitation for granted. "A criterion? Ah... Of course there is..." He sighed, pretending to be disappointed by that, shaking his head. "Look, Cissa... Colour coordination is fine, but if it's matching outfits- I'm sorry, but in that case, I'll have to revoke my invitation" He joked with the outfits, but remembering that colour coordination was actually something they used to do it the past to a certain extent when it came to them attending events had filled him with warmth. "Umm, would you like some?" He asked swiftly as if to not break the flow of the conversation, already aiming the can on her pancake, waiting for her to either approve or decline it.

It was crazy. Narcissa knew about the weekend plans because she had overheard it all but now that he was explaining them, she realized she would all alone that weekend. In the manor. By herself. And that thought did not sound wonderful. But she gave a soft smile, not wanting Lucius to think that she was going to be sad or lonely because then he would feel bad about going, maybe even cancel and Narcissa wanted him to have a good time with the girls. Spending time with them would be good for all involved. Maybe this time alone would give her the time to readjust to the manor and living there. Narcissa leaned back slightly in her chair, watching him with a subtle mix of amusement and quiet affection. Her fingers rested delicately at the edge of her plate, tapping once, lightly, as she raised an eyebrow at his exaggerated tower of whipped cream. "Good heavens, Lucius," she murmured, her tone dry but teasing, "I can barely see the pancake under that. I see your taste for excess hasn't diminished." She paused, considering his offer with a small tilt of her head, then gave a graceful nod. "Yes, but please show some restraint—I'd rather not spend the next half-hour excavating my breakfast from beneath a mountain." Her eyes narrowed slightly, amusement dancing behind their carefully controlled expression as he lightly sprayed a neat swirl onto her plate. "And as for the matching outfits," she continued smoothly, a smile tugging at her lips despite her effort to remain stern, "don't flatter yourself. While coordination is always pleasing, I'll refrain from forcing you to do that this time, although I insist you abandon any thoughts of that grey coat." She reached for her fork again, slicing carefully into the pancakes, though her gaze remained fixed warmly on him. "My request was that we sit together on the second row. That way when the lights grow dim and everyone is looking at the girls on the stage, I might can get away with holding your hand in public," she smirked, playing light but her words were serious. "As for your weekend with Celeste and Ariadnè," she said more softly, her tone gentle and sincere now, "I think it's a wonderful idea. Go, enjoy the weekend. It will do you all some good." She paused, allowing a more reflective silence to settle briefly between them. "Besides," she added lightly, though the faint vulnerability in her voice was unmistakable, "I'll still be here when you return." She looked up, meeting his eyes meaningfully, and let her words linger just long enough for him to feel their weight before offering him a calm, reassuring smile.

Bones of Contention

[rueclfer]

for the 6k job fair event ‼️

piercer!sero with coworker!reader who is getting a new piercing by him and reader has the BIGGEST crush on him

AAMMEEEENNNNNNNNNN oh yeah you get it. yoooouuuu absolutely get itttt

piercer!sero // job fair

event m.list

“stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.

you held your breath as sero inches in with your chin resting in between his gloved thumb and index finger, turning your head side to side and making sure his marking on your lip was properly aligned.

you bite back the instinct to suck in your bottom lip out of nerves as he inspects it. your hands have been unusually sweaty since the moment you’ve stepped in the studio, and you know your job. you’re good at your job. piercing and jewelry had been all that you’ve lived and breathed for the past few years, but at this moment, your mind went static.

“looking at you like what?” you squeak out.

“like you’re not a client,” he chuckles.

“i don’t know how to tell you this, hanta,” his eyes flicker up to meet yours, “but i work here.”

he scoffs and rolls his eyes, taking a step back to change out his gloves, “you know what i mean. keep your eyes on whatever’s behind me like everyone else.”

“what? a little eye contact makes you nervous?”

the corners of his mouth quirk up into a lopsided smile.

“something like that.”

you remind yourself to breathe once he holds the needle up to your bottom lip. you remind yourself that you’ve done this piercing a hundred times and that you know exactly what to expect.

there wasn’t a second in this swift motion when the needle came up through your lip where your eyes left sero. he was well aware of that.

“god,” he mutters, quickly pulling the needle through with the jewelry, “not even a fucking flinch, you badass.”

your stomach twists. in what world would a compliment do more damage to you than a needle going through your lip?

“what can i say? i’m a pro.” you let out a shaky chuckle as he meets the sore area with a q-tip.

“and i know i don’t need to give you the rundown on aftercare,” he peels the black gloves off his hands before tossing them in the bin, “but don’t go around kissing anyone until that’s healed alright?”

“bummer, i was really excited to see what kind of damage i can do to someone’s teeth with this.” you roll your eyes.

a knock came from behind the curtain. you both turn your heads to see a mass of purple hair peek through, throwing up a peace sign towards your way.

“your 12 o'clock is here. filling out the paperwork, but heads up anyways,” hitoshi says, leaving as quickly as he came in.

“that’s my cue then.” you awkwardly fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “i’ll see you this weekend then? think that’s when we work together next.”

“yeah this saturday.” he gestures for you to take the lead out the private room, “but keep me updated on the healing. maybe if it’s feeling good we can test your curiosities.”

reflexively, you turn around and land a punch on his arm as your face flares with heat.

“what's wrong with you?” you hissed with wide eyes.

“not in front of the clients, babe.” he grins, unphase by your reaction, “or else they’re gonna start thinking it’s okay to attack the piercer.”

“you’re gonna try and kiss all your clients or something?" you cock an eyebrow, the tips of your ears burning.

sero pauses for a moment and wets his lips before speaking again.

“maybe just one.”

[lilmarshie]

The Bed We Shared

Sharing one bed with Bob Reynolds | Bob Reynolds x Reader | some suggestive content but nothing nsfw | 18+

“You can go ahead and take the bed in the other room I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, y/n.” Bob stated after the rest of the Thunderbolts mentioned that there’s not enough bedrooms at the place they were staying at while on their most recent mission. The only other options were the last queen size bed in one of the smaller bedrooms and the pullout couch in the living room. You sighed and rolled your eyes because you knew exactly what the rest of the group was planning.

They wanted you and Bob to have to share a bed. You were sure of that. Especially since they knew that you were too nice to have Bob sleep on the couch.

“That’s alright, Bob. C’mon, we’ll share the bed in the other room. I don’t want you having to sleep on an uncomfortable couch the entire night.” Bob stared at you in disbelief that you would ask him of all people to sleep in the other room with you. He had a huge crush on you and this was a dream come true for him.

You knew that you were both exhausted so you grabbed a ton of blankets, some extra pillows, and heaped them all up on the bed. Bob followed in behind you both excited to be sharing a bed with you and a bit worried because he didn’t want to mess anything up.

“I’m going to go change into my pajamas and get ready for bed. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” You said, before grabbing your pajamas and your small toiletry bag and making your way into the bathroom. Bob stood there for a few minutes before starting to get dressed for bed as well. His mind was racing a mile a minute and his palms were sweaty.

“I don’t want to mess this up. Please help me to not mess this up.” He whispered quietly to himself like a mantra. Bob made his way over to one of the sides of the bed and climbed in under the covers. You made your way back into the room shortly after, looking gorgeous in a cute pair of pajamas.

Bob’s eyes wandered over yours slowly as you turned around and bent over to put your toiletry bag away. His face was flushed and he tried so hard to not stare but he couldn’t help himself. You looked so sexy in your cute pajamas and your hair all messy. Bob didn’t know what to do with himself. He was getting all hot and sweaty underneath the sheets.

You made your way back over to the bed and climbed in onto your side. “You okay? You look a little under the weather. Are you doing alright?” You asked Bob, noticing his panicked expression and flushed skin. “I-I’m fine! I’m fine.” Bob stammered, as he turned to face you, your head resting on the pillow next to him. You chuckled softly and ran your fingers through his hair, causing shivers to roll down his body. “It’s okay, you’ll be alright. I’m here for you, Bob.” You whispered, trying to soothe him but all it was doing was making it worse. Now Bob could smell the toothpaste that you used, as well as, the light spritz of perfume that you used. It was intoxicating and he needed more of it. But he couldn’t…he wouldn’t…not here…not now while you were on a mission with the rest of the team in rooms on either sides of you.

You turned back over and laid down on your side of the bed again. You were staring at Bob, admiring his features, and the way that he stared back at you almost…hurt…it was like he wanted to do something but couldn’t. And it pained you to see him like that. “I have something to confess to you, y/n…” Bob said, slowly almost measuring out in his mind exactly what he wanted to say.

“Yes?” You said, softly your voice quiet and patient but your heart was racing in quiet anticipation. “I am in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I was just too shy to say anything or act on my feelings. But now…being here with you like this and so close to you…I needed to say something.” Bob breathed out, his voice husky and deeper than usual. It was incredibly sexy to hear him like this, and it did something to you.

“I love you too, Bob. I’ve been wanting and dreaming about this for a few months now. Ever since I met you I’ve been dreaming of this day.” You reached over to Bob, and tucked a strand of hair behind his ears. Cautiously, you leaned in and looked deeply into his eyes for a moment. Then, you slowly brought your lips to his in a gentle but passionate kiss.

Bob’s hands flew around your body and he pulled you on top of him, a moan escaping his lips. “You’re so beautiful…so pretty, y/n.” He whispered into your ear, as his hands travelled down your body. His fingers explored the plushness of your thighs, the curves of your back, and they danced over every bit of your exposed skin.

Bob’s lips caught yours again as he pressed his body deeper to yours. He didn’t want to rush anything especially with the rest of the Thunderbolts in the rooms next to yours. So he was content with this for now but he would show you every bit of his love for you when you were truly alone.

“So pretty…so pretty…love you, y/n.” Bob’s voice was a soothing anchor that held you close to him, your hands wrapped around him and his body warm against yours. Your lips traveled up and down his chest, teasing him in a way before making your way back up to his lips and neck.

There was a noise that sounded like a cough and a little louder than usual cough that startled the two of you. “I think they caught onto us.” You breathed out, your heart racing and your chest rising and falling slowly. Bob nodded but turned to lay back down next to you, his hands never leaving your sides.

“We’ll have all the alone time we need when we’re back at the tower. Don’t you worry, love. I’ll make sure of it.” Bob winked, and kissed you once more before wrapping his arms around your waist. You reached up to turn out the light and finally headed to sleep for the night.

You would definitely hear about this in the morning. But as long as you had, Bob by your side, nothing else mattered. You could get used to this bed sharing with Bob.

[buckyys-babydoll]

Hunting Shadows

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Summary: Darkness. Nothing but darkness. Hunted by his deepest thoughts he has to fight his way through the Void.

Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS! shy!Bob, Thunderbolt!Reader, Best Friends to lovers, insecurities, love confession, hurt/comfort, found family, fluff

Wordcount: 2.735 Words

Authors Note: Beta’d by @elixirfromthestars. Also thanks to @thevillainswhore for the support! Divider made by me.

Darkness.

Another room filled with nothing but darkness. He’s not sure what comes next. Darkness? Or another memory? Another thought that usually haunts him in the darkest nights? He doesn’t know, he can’t know.

The void. A place to face your fears. To face your past. With no escape unless you break through them. But how can you, when every room, every corner, rips open wounds that never really healed?

Faced by nothing but another room with shadows, he steps in. His eyes are trying to see through the dark. Shadows. Big. Scary. Looming over him, ready to grab and pull him further into the coldness.

A shaky breath leaves his lips. It doesn’t remind him of anything. But he knows that room. He knows it like he would live in it.

But he doesn’t. He never did. He never will.

Because that room only exists in his imagination — in his nightmares.

Another shaky breath, his eyes scan through the room. There's something missing; the window is wide open, but the monster, Void, isn’t there.

Of course, it isn’t. Not when it’s doing what it can do best. Hunt people, fill their dreams with fear.

Bob walks another step into the room, there has to be a way to break that room, too. But how? He needs to find the void — needs to find himself to break through this room.

“There you are,” a voice echoes through the room. Bob flinches, turning to find the source of the voice, but everything looks the same — dark. “You think you’re so strong. But you’re alone. Who’s gonna help you? No one!”

He shivers. He’s alone. He feels the cold creeping through his body, crawling up his back.

“I-I’m not alone…” he whispers, shaking his head. “I’m not alone anymore.”

“You’re not? Of course. You’re not,” the Void laughs. Dark. Cold. Just like the things he has to offer in these rooms of the past, and fear. “But where are they? Where is she when you need her?”

Bob shakes his head once more. His hands are clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white as he looks around once more.

Until his eyes finally settle on the small white sparkle in the orbs of the Void. In the corner of the room, able to see everything.

Bob swallows thickly. One punch and he’s in the next room. Does he want it? No. He doesn’t know if it’s worse or better.

The current room is dark and cold. The Void — his insecurities and fears — are there. But is it really better than his parents fighting? Is it better than hearing his dad lashing out, being violent because a mother tried to protect her child from a man who’s talking with his fists instead of words?

“You d-don’t…” Bob trails off as he takes a step closer. He has to. He has to break through the void. Even through the parts he hates, the parts that break him. “You don’t scare me anymore!”

The Void laughs, the white sparkle in his dark eyes focused on Bob as he sets the first punch into the shadow. A sound of something breaking is audible in the room before Bob is pushed into the next room.

And fuck. Maybe he prefers the darkness. Because the room he’s standing in now is worse. It’s everything he always tries to push away, though he doesn’t allow himself.

Buried so deep in his mind. And you’re in front of him, loud and clear.

“You think you’re worth anything?” Your voice, so harsh, echoes through the room. Your eyes are so cold, your expression filled with an amount of hatred Bob has never seen before.

He isn’t worth anything. He never was.

But hearing it from you. From the person who always believed in him. The only person who kept him up when he wanted to fall.

His heart shattered. Bob could almost hear it like glass breaking. It hurt, more than he wants to admit — it was just the Void, but it felt so real — just too real for Bob.

“N-no?” His other self answers the question you just asked. Though it wasn’t a question, not really. “B-But I-i thought you liked me?”

“Like you?” You laugh at him. Bob takes a step backward, his back colliding with the wall behind him as he watches himself and you interact with one another.

This situation, it never happened. You’re too sweet, too lovely to be like that.

But his mind? His mind is telling him all the dark things. He’s not enough. You only feel pity. And deep down, he believes it.

“How could someone like me like someone like you?” You ask, sounding angry and still somehow amused. His other self shrugs slightly, and almost not visible, but you catch it.

Of course, you do. You're always paying attention to everything. And why should it be any different in the Void?

Why should it, when it makes the situation even more painful for him?

“Try again. No one likes you. You’re not even a real man, you’re just a pathetic boy who wants to be more than he is,” you laugh.

“B-but I-i lo-ove you,” he mumbles, a tear falling down his cheek as he watches you intensely. Your expression so distant, so different to your usually soft and loving side.

“Y-you w-what?” You mock him while laughing loudly. It’s loud, too loud. That’s not you, that’s not even close to your sweet laugh to him. “Pathetic. No one’s going to love you!” You say with a cold grin before you walk away. And Bob — both of him — look after you, until the scene starts from the start.

He watches it. Over and over again. His heart is shattered into tiny little pieces. Every time he watches it, it feels worse. But Bob can’t break through it, he can’t move from the spot he’s standing — almost like his feet are glued to the ground.

“Bob! Finally!” Your voice comes from behind you. Your voice. Soft. Loving. Exactly what he’s used to when you talk to him.

And as he turns around to look at you, his eyes widen. What are you doing here – in the darkness of his nightmares?

“Love?” He asks softly, blinking as he looks you up and down. He takes in the soft smile on your lips, the soft swinging of your hips he loves so much when you walk closer to him. “W-what are you doing here?”

“We can only break through the void when we do it together, Bob,” you say. Your voice is so different to the one he heard for the past couple of minutes. He looks at you, up and down, taking in every little detail — so delicate, so you. The one he knows, not the one he sees in his nightmares because of his fear.

“B-But—“ Bob interrupts himself the moment the whole scene in front of you starts again. He notices your head turning to the two people — you and him.

Your eyes widen the moment you hear yourself saying these words. Words you would never think of, at least not around Bob. Not of Bob.

“W-What the—“

“T-That’s,” he points with his finger toward the scene. “I-is… it’s. That’s nothing.”

What was that? It wasn’t his past, because that situation never happened between you and him. The void doesn’t show the future either. So, the only thing it could show is something that’s buried deep down in his thoughts — fear.

“Do you think I-i would ever talk to you like that?” You whisper, your mouth dropping open the moment he confesses his love. Your head whips toward him, eyes widened and a shocked expression on your face. “You’re in love with me?”

“N-no!” He shouts, shaking his head violently before nodding. “Yes. But I-I would never. I don’t think you would ever talk to me like that. But… if I.. would I– I thought you could would I confess my love.”

You shake your head, taking a deep breath. You want to answer. You want to tell him what you feel. But you can’t do it in the void. Not in the rooms of darkness, of fear.

“We have to break through the room, Bob,” you say, taking his hand in yours. You interlace your fingers, noticing the redness growing on his cheeks as he watches your movements intensely. “Come on.”

He nods, following you. Not sure what you’re looking for, you walk back and forth through the room, eyes scanning all the little corners and places you could find a way out of the Void. Nothing.

“W-what about… you?” He asks, pointing at your figure.

You follow his view, noticing the change in your expression. The exact face that brought you from one room in the void to the other.

“So… you wanna punch me?” You laugh softly. Bob shakes his head with widened eyes.

How could you even suggest that? He could never lay his hands on you! Never!

“N-no– but maybe you can do it? I don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbles. “Not even when you’re so mean.”

You chuckle once more, pulling Bob with you toward the two figures who look like you before you finally reach yourself. You lift your arm, balling your hand into a fist before you set a punch directly against your chin.

The Void you’s head is thrown back by the force, a groan leaving its lips as the whole room shatters into small pieces and leads you into the next room – the last room of the void.

Bucky, Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are all standing there, looking at the two of you. Bob's hand is still tightly wrapped around yours, he’s standing slightly behind you with a soft smile on his lips as he waves at the others.

“Hi,” he whispers. Quiet, shy.

The others nod, Yelena is the first to raise an eyebrow, while the others are already busy trying to find a way to break through the room.

“Uhuuuu?” She smirks, hitting your shoulder with hers playfully. “Thought you would never—“

“Lena!” You growl softly, glaring at her.

Then you pull Bob with you toward the others. Bucky and Alexei punch and rip stuff, the whole room filled with shattered blankets and pillows. Broken wood. A half-destroyed, standing bed. And a door — still completely intact.

“There’s a door,” Bob mutters, getting everyone’s attention.

They all look up from whatever they are about to break and look at Bob, then toward the door.

“Guys! There’s a door!” Alexei shouts before he runs toward the door and pushes it open.

Behind it, there is the Void. A dark shadow with a glistening small white part in the dark of his eyes.

You can feel Bob shuddering behind you, his breath hitching as he faces himself. The dark side of him. Buried and hidden deep down in the soft man you know.

“Hey,” you mutter, turning around to face him. You bring your hand up to his cheek, your thumb tracing along his jaw softly.

Bob leans into your touch, inhaling deeply. His eyes close for a moment as he takes a shaky breath. Face your fear. Face it. Fight it. And you will be free.

“It doesn’t define you. The darkness can’t do anything,” you mumble as you feel his lips pressing softly against your palm. “You’re not alone anymore. You got —“

“THE THUNDERBOLTS!” Alexei shouts and holds the door open for the others.

“We can’t call us that,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head as he walks into the room where the Void is.

You chuckle softly, waiting for the others to get into a heated argument once again. But before they can, Bob lets go of your hand and walks into the room, passing the others before he stands in front of the Void.

Facing himself. The shadows of his past. The depth of his thoughts.

“There you are,” the Void laughs. He looks down at Bob, and even though he doesn’t have a face, he looks almost like he’s amused. “Bringing your friends. Friends. You mean nothing to them.”

Bob flinches, trying to stand his ground in front of the dark side. He shouldn’t listen to it. It’s not the truth, and he knows. He hopes, at least.

A loud yelp comes from Yelena when metal slings around her frame, pinning her next to Alexei to the wall. John is thrown against the wall, a piece of metal stuck to his shoulder, while Ava and Bucky get pinned to shelves as well.

Only you. From you, he didn’t hear a word.

Bob doesn’t take his eyes off the Void. He can’t. Not even if he tried.

“So, now it’s only your girl. Standing all brave there. But she doesn’t help you, does she?” The Void speaks, dark and low. He hums when Bob's expression gets more anxious before his eyes narrow in anger.

“You can’t break me. You can’t break me. YOU. CANT. BREAK. ME!” He repeats, over and over again.

“Oh. I already did. You have no one. You’re nothing. They don’t care about you. They never will,” the shadow whispers.

A coldness washes over Bob, followed by a shiver. His eyes fill with tears, but he blinks them away.

No more tears of hurt. No more pain. Only anger.

He’s filled with so much anger. The Void, the shadows took so much from him. Tried to make him believe he is nothing, but he knows he’s worth more than nothing. He knows he deserves better.

You showed him. You all — the Thunderbolts — showed him.

Bob lifts his hand, wrapping it around the Voids neck before he throws him down. Throwing himself on top of the shadow, he starts punching it. Over and over again.

His hand turns black, swallowed by the shadows. But he’s better. He’s not weak. Not anymore. Not ever again.

“I’m better than you!” Punch. “I’m not afraid anymore.” Punch.

In the background, he hears your voice. Hears you calling for him to stop, but he can’t. All the anger boils over, the feeling of relief washing over him with every punch he sets.

“Bob! Stop! That’s what he wants,” Yelena shouts. But he doesn’t. Not when he can prove that he’s strong — that he’s better!

Cracking sounds echo through the room as one after another tries to fight against the restraints. Yelena is the first to run to him, then you.

You both grab hold of him. Arms tightly wrapped around him as you pull him away. But he’s stronger. So much stronger.

“Please, bub. Please, let go,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against the side of his face. “I love you, too. Please.”

And suddenly, he does. He loosens his grip, his punches stop, and when the others gather around you two, you all pull him off the Void.

“I love you, too, Bob,” you whisper, kissing his cheek as you lie together on the ground.

All panting and groaning, but no one lets go of the group hug. It’s what everyone needs — after the past. After the Void. It’s what keeps you all grounded at the moment.

“Maybe we should think about a family name, though,” John jokes, causing you all to laugh softly.

Found family. Yes. That’s what the Thunderbolts are.

“Avengerzzzzz!” Alexei suggests, causing Bucky and John to groan in frustration.

Both of them might have a past, and maybe they hated one another. They still argue a lot, but when it comes to names Alexei suggests, they always have the same opinion. No!

Bob turns his head toward you, one of his arms curling around your waist as he leans his forehead against yours. He takes a shaky breath, his eyes closed.

“You do? You really do?”

“More than anything,” you mumble.

“Okay! Let’s get up. Here has to be an exit, I’m not ready to watch porn just yet!” John announces, pulling back.

You laugh, glaring playfully at him, while Yelena makes another joke about John and porn. But you don’t listen, your focus is on the man you love — on Bob.

“You’re not alone anymore. You got us,” you whisper before you break the distance between the two of you and press your lips softly against his.

Bob's breath hitches, but he immediately kisses you back. A bit clumsy. A bit shy. But full of love and adoration.

First time writing for Bob! If you have any ideas/requests, let me know!

@armystay89 @rogersbarber

[hedwig221b]

Hey wiggly hed, perchance does anyone know of fics where Stiles has sleeping issues? Such as insomnia because we know he does but I'd also love more with him sleepwalking, talking, and just fics where Derek is like struggling to or having to make a point to take precautions so his baby doesn't walk right out the door or he has full on conversations with a babbling asleep Stiles because of course Stiles doesn't even shut up in his sleep.

Hellooo! Tried to feature a few fics for every trope, here's what I got

Say Something

That first time Stiles decided it was probably wise to let sleeping werewolves lie.

Step into the daylight (and let it go) by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)

Stiles is a grad student with serious insomnia. So when he sees a stranger in need of help, he thinks it’ll be a good way to alleviate the boredom. How the hell was he supposed to know that the weird guy with the baseball cap was a famous actor (and a fucking werewolf)? He just keeps running into the guy. Coincidence? Stiles thinks not.

Yes To Heaven

Stiles ruined him. The damage was irreparable. He didn’t want the food that wasn’t made by Stiles or shared with him; the water tasted stale; the clothes were asphyxiating and scratchy; the air was wrong, wrong without Stiles’ scent in it. Fuck, what was wrong with him? How could that pretty little thing change him so much? He had an iron grip on his control before, being in tandem with his instincts, but within weeks, all of it was gone. As soon as he thought of Stiles, though, of his scent, his moans, and the little wrinkle on his forehead as he orgasmed, his mind settled. What was life before Stiles? Everything was somewhere far, far away, forgotten, bleak, and meaningless. Derek thought he knew what light was as he looked at the microscopic dots of the stars above. Then Stiles came into his life and showed him the sun.

falling for the weirdo by wazzzup

Basically, I felt that Stiles' ADHD was used as a source for jokes and I wanted a fanfic that was a more accurate representation of a neurodivergent person. (written by someone with ADHD as well as a few other disorders) Story: Derek stays with Stiles when the alpha pack is in town to protect the pack human, but also because he thinks Stiles is lying to them about something cause the teen acts super distant around them. Stiles is freaking out because he's going to be living with Derek and be around the man all the time and can't mask his 'weird' behaviors and many disorders that he's managed to keep secret from the pack.

Little Devil Inside by sarahhhelpme

Even now, the Nogitsune feels like a part of him. It left behind something dark and twisted and angry. He is not the same person he was before.

One Hundred Miles an Hour in Reverse by suburbanmotel

Stiles understands that leaving is hard. He understands because Stiles always understands. Leaving is hard, got it. Check. But late at night, alone in the dark in the quiet with the shadows, alone with his thoughts and his shallow, slightly panicked breathing, he also understands that it’s always harder for the people left behind. -- Five years after everything, after everyone is gone, Stiles remains, because someone has to, right? He’s become good at staying, at being ok with staying, because he’s good at what he does and so many people need him here. So, he’s stayed and he does what he’s always done best: he figures things out. He figures things out and he makes lists, lists of spells, lists of magical herbs, lists of people who have left. He also makes lists about himself. Stiles is: the fixer, the writer, the librarian, the keeper of words and memories in Beacon Hills. He’s a healer, a helper and he remembers. He remembers everything.

Sleeping Next To You Is Like Magic by LadyDrace

Stiles and Derek meet the summer before senior year. Stiles can't sleep, Derek helps with that, and there's a lot less cuddling and a lot more emotional crises than you'd think. Or: Stiles' feelings happen so much, and learning how to deal with them takes him a little while. Good thing Derek is happy to wait.

Cosomination by zoemathemata

For Fictional Force/Hoktauri who prompted “pining! Derek/oblivious! Stiles, graduation day” Cosominate - To sleep together in the same bed or similar space. Five Times Derek and Stiles Sleep Together - 4 platonic bed shares and one not-platonic bed share! Features Pining! Derek, Oblivious!Stiles and a very tense moment where Sheriff Stilinski has been hurt! But it all turns out okay.

I won't sleep if you won't sleep by dragon_temeraire

After the nogitsune, Stiles is unable to sleep. To help, he has a spell cast on him that will link him with Derek.

The Taste You Leave Behind in My Mouth by monopolizeme

Derek looks over at Stiles, who hasn't moved from the bottom step. He’s watching Derek and Scott, shadows wane and ugly beneath dull eyes that no longer shine as they used to when looking at Derek - out of irritation or goading or open honesty - and Derek doesn't quite know what to do. Because he almost expected Stiles to be the one up here on the wooden porch with him, maybe punching at his arm and grinning because although they hadn't really spoken about what they were, Derek thought, he thought that out of everyone in Beacon Hills, that Stiles would be the one to show any emotion at having him back.

My, What Big Shoulders You Have (The Better to Help You Carry the Weight) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

"Talia was just telling me an interesting story,” his dad informed him. Stiles didn’t have the nerve to glance over at him, because he knew no matter how much he argued, the proof was all there. The wolves had found him, Parrish had picked him up on the side of the road, he had a fucking picture on his phone. He was screwed. No point in arguing, all it’d do is piss his father off even more. “You don’t say,” Stiles offered slowly. “What uh—you know, I like stories. Is it a uh, good one?” “It seems to be a matter of opinion,” Talia said with another kind smile. “I hear you had quite the night last night.” Okay, time to cut his losses. He was already fucked, all he could do was apologize and hope she didn’t press for him to get fined and arrested. Given he was her husband’s friend’s son, he had high hopes. “I’m really sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “It was stupid and-and irresponsible and just—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed into your territory. I should’ve known better, I do know better! It was a complete lapse in judgement and I am just—I am so sorry.”

between the click of the light and the start of the dream by thepsychicclam

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void. It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

The Price we Pay by Gia279

Twelve years after inadvertently stopping Kate Argent from burning the Hale pack alive, Stiles is sleepwalking again, dragged unwillingly to witness horrible accidents, floods, house fires, and other disasters. He wakes, confused and blindfolded, at the incidents with power rising sharp and exhilarating in his chest, and he doesn't know how to stop it. Is he the one causing these horrible things or is he just there to witness them? Derek has been curious about the magic that saved him and his pack for years, and when Stiles's powers manifest again, he's determined to figure it out. With the whole of Beacon Hills being thrown into chaos and Stiles, apparently, just on the edge of that chaos, Derek finds himself being drawn to fix it all and keep Stiles out of the danger that keeps calling to him.

Between Sleeping and Awake by bloodwrites

Derek witnesses Stiles talking in his sleep, and it gives him the impetus to act on thoughts he's been having for months.

you need to hear it in Latin? by fairydustedtheory

Stiles talks in his sleep and Derek needs to know what he's saying.

[masterlist link]

[firewasabeast]

So He Waits

a little tommy/bucktommy (sort of) fic. tags: implied child abuse, a terrorist attack, blood/injury, mourning/grief, Buck and Tommy are still broken up, Tommy is reaching out. Read below or on ao3.

Tommy is eight when he moves to a new city with his parents in the middle of the school year. He’s anxious on his first day. He’s been going to the same school all his life. But this one is bigger, and scarier, and kids look at him funny.

After he’s introduced by his teacher, he takes a seat, pulls out his math book, and listens as the teacher starts the lesson.

He ignores the snickering happening behind him. Pretends he doesn’t hear the whispers.

He’s known kids can be cruel since kindergarten. He tripped and fell on his first day, his chin bled, and kids called him Trip from that day on.

But he’s Tommy here, and that’s exciting! The kids might be whispering about him now but, once they get to know him, they’ll like him.

That’s what his mom told him anyway.

When it’s time for recess, he follows behind the rest of the class. He thinks about heading for the swings, but when he sees a group of boys running toward the field with baseballs and bats, he smiles and runs to catch up.

“What are you doing?” one of the boys, he thinks his name is Matthew, asks.

“I know how to play!” Tommy exclaims. “I love baseball!”

Matthew looks back at the other boys. Tommy spots a few of them roll their eyes.

“We’ve already got enough players,” Matthew says. “You can just go and sit over there. We’ll tell you if we need you.” He uses his bat to point to an old, rotting tree stump at the edge of the field.

Tommy licks his lips, then hides his disappointment behind a smile. “Okay,” he says. “Just let me know when you need me!”

He walks over to the stump and sits down.

The splinters poke through his pants, right into his skin.

He doesn’t move though. They might need him soon!

So he waits.

*

Tommy is fourteen when his dad pulls up to the house in his truck, a beat up Honda Accord in tow. It looks like a piece of junk.

Scrap metal at best.

But Charles Kinard smiles wide, gives Tommy a smack on the shoulder, and tells him, “We’re gonna put this thing back together, piece by piece.”

“R- Really?” Tommy asks. He’s been wanting to learn about cars for a couple years now. He’s been excited about starting auto shop class next semester. He’d always hoped his dad would teach him; Charles had been a mechanic since he left the marines. But the interest to teach had never been there before.

Maybe, Tommy thought, maybe that was changing.

The car sits untouched for two weeks.

Tommy’s been doing research though. He went to the library and checked out books. Even rented a VHS tape called Auto Mechanics 101. He’s pretty sure he’s watched it ten times over the last few days.

Another week goes by.

He comes home from a friend's house to see the Accord being towed away. His dad is standing just outside the garage, counting cash.

“What… What’s going on?” Tommy asks.

“I just made three hundred dollars, that’s what going on, Tomboy.”

Tommy can smell the booze, strong on his breath. It seems to seep through his pores more and more each day.

“I thought we were gonna fix it?”

Charles scoffs. “I can’t let something like that just sit here, you idiot! I’m the only one working in this damn house! We needed the money, I got the money!”

Tommy knows there’s no point in talking about it right now. It’s not worth the pain.

He walks into the house, goes straight to his room, and scoots his dresser in front of the door.

Just a precaution, in case his dad decides to drink more tonight.

He takes a look at his calendar. Counts the days.

It’s a little under two months until auto shop class starts. Then he’ll learn everything he’s been wanting to know.

So he waits.

*

Tommy is twenty-one and he’s pretty sure he’s not going to make it to twenty-two.

He decided to fly in the army because he loved the freedom of being in the sky.

He didn’t think about the fact that he couldn’t live in the sky.

He’s asleep, on base in Iraq, when there’s an explosion so loud he goes deaf before the world starts to cave in on him and he falls unconscious.

He’s not sure where he is when he wakes up. Doesn’t remember what happened either.

Was he in California?

Did he get in a car accident?

Was there an earthquake?

There’s a grumbling sound beside him. He blinks a few times, wipes the dust from his eyes, looks over to see Warrant Officer Daniels a few feet away from him, eyes wide as he gasps for breath.

It takes Tommy a few more seconds for his brain to come back online. When it does, he flips over onto his belly and starts to crawl closer to Daniels. That's when he sees that his legs are gone. Sees that blood is gushing out of his body.

“Dan-” he coughs, his throat feels like sandpaper. “Daniels. D... Daniels, hey-”

Daniels takes his last breath before Tommy’s able to get out another word.

There’s noises, yelling. In the distance he hears the sound of a language he doesn’t understand.

He takes a radio from Daniels�� lifeless body and keeps crawling.

He ignores the way his leg burns. The way he can feel something thick and wet soaking his socks.

He doesn’t know how, but he makes it through the rubble and outside.

He keeps going and going until he reaches a bunker, a good distance from the base.

His hands are shaking when he turns the radio on.

“Colonel Franks, do you copy?”

There’s a few seconds of silence, then, “Kinard? That you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Your barracks took a direct hit. Where the hell are you?”

Tommy takes in a short, stunted breath. It hurts like hell.

He gives the colonel his position.

“You hurt?”

Tommy looks own at his leg. Notices for the first time that the bone is popping through his skin. He’s pretty sure some ribs are broken too. “Ye- Yes, Sir.”

“You stay put, you hear me. We-” there’s static, briefly, "-et to you as soon as we can. Until then, keep quiet. Radio silence.”

Tommy sits there, thinks about Daniels, tries not to take a breath.

He listens to the screams in the distance, hands clench into fists with each new explosion.

But there’s nothing he can do.

So he waits.

*

Tommy is thirty-four when he decides to blow up his entire life.

He’s just transferred stations, a change he knew he needed for a long time, and he thought that would be enough.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because changing stations doesn’t change who you are.

And what Tommy is, is very, very, gay.

He’s waiting for his fiancée of two years at their favorite restaurant, going over the conversation he’s about to have as soon as she gets there.

“Abby, I need to tell you something. I know I’ve been stalling, since we got engaged. And you- you’ve been so patient with me. Thank you for that. I know you didn’t want a long engagement from the start, and I keep making excuses, but there’s… there’s a reason. Not another woman! It- No, it’s not that. It’s… I- Abby, I’m gay.”

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he nearly jumps out of his chair. He pulls out and stares at the message.

Sorry, running a little late. Work was crazy. Sally gave me a few bridal magazines though and I thought we could look through them during dinner. Start making plans, you know? Be there soon! Love you!

Tommy takes a deep breath, swallows down the bile in his throat.

He takes the opportunity to order himself a second beer.

Goes over the speech again, omits some unnecessary parts that are only there to waste time.

When Abby arrives she’s a ball of excited energy, flipping her hair and pulling the magazines out of her purse to set them on the table.

And he’s ready to do it, ready to tell her the truth, but he also knows what's going to happen as soon as it’s his turn to speak.

So he waits.

*

Tommy is halfway to forty-two when Captain Nash dies.

It hits him harder than he thought it would.

Miraculously, he doesn’t get in any trouble for stealing another helicopter.

But, after the funeral, he does take two weeks off.

He doesn’t trust himself in the sky.

He doesn’t trust himself on the ground either.

He sends Buck a text that doesn’t get a response.

He sends another.

He tries for a phone call instead.

Nobody picks up.

He doesn’t stop trying, not for awhile at least. He’s not sure if it’s more for Evan or for himself.

But when it gets to the point that seven texts have gone unanswered, and four phone calls have gone straight to voicemail, well, he’s not sure what else to do.

He leaves a message.

“Evan, I- I don’t want to keep bothering you. I know this has been hard and I… I feel like I’m just making it worse by calling and texting. I want you to know I’m here for you though. I know what it’s like t- to need people and I-”

“I need you,” he wants to say. He doesn’t.

“I just want you to know that I’m here. I won’t keep bothering you. I… Yeah, I get the hint. But I’m here. Whenever you need me, Evan, I’m here.”

He hangs up the phone and drops it down on the couch beside him.

He closes his eyes, the image of Buck collapsing on the ground still fresh in his mind.

A tear falls down his face, then another. He needs someone to talk to.

He doesn’t have anyone else to call.

So he waits.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16

-------------------------------------------

TW: cussing, early seasons Daryl, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies) , firearms, Shane is creepy, mentions of hunting, mentions of dealing with hunted animals.

Part 7

Dead Weight - Part 8

The world is bone-white and brittle.

Snow crusts the edges of the broken asphalt road, turning brown with slush and dried blood. The trees are bare and skeletal, their branches reaching like claws toward a sky the color of dirty wool.

You’ve been walking for hours. Every step cracks ice or crunches through frozen leaves.

You’re wrapped in a coat two sizes too big, sleeves flopping past your hands. There’s only one blanket for every three people. Lori got hers first. No one argues —not that you would have before either.

Not when you see the bump poking out from her shirt, Lori needs this she is pregnant after all.

When Glen quietly offers you half his protein bar, you shake your head.

“I’m alright,” you say, voice soft and steady. “She’s the one carrying a baby. She needs it more.”

You don’t see Daryl watching you from just up the trail.

His expression is unreadable—but his eyes flick down to your coat, the way your shoulders tremble despite the layers. He notices how your lips are starting to dry from the cold.

He says nothing.

The next shelter is a sagging two-story colonial at the edge of a pine grove. The front door hangs askew on its hinges. There’s no glass in the windows. Snow has drifted in across the living room floor.

Rick calls the group to search in pairs. Daryl disappears upstairs without a word, crossbow slung over his back like a second spine. You end up in the kitchen, poking through ruined drawers.

The pantry is stripped. You find a can of peaches, a broken flashlight, and a cracked bowl.

You exhale quietly and sit down on an overturned crate, rubbing your hands together for warmth.

“Not hungry anyway,” you murmur to yourself.

Upstairs, Daryl hears that.

He pauses by a bedroom doorway, jaw tightening.

He’s still fuming—not at you, but at everything. At the cold. At the emptiness. At the unfairness of who eats first and who gets left shivering.

But mostly, if he’s honest, he’s angry because you aren’t angry.

You should be.

You should be yelling at Lori, or at Rick, or taking that protein bar—but you’re not.

You’re being good.

Selfless.

Sweet.

And for some reason, it pisses him off.

You’re hauling a half-frozen crate out of the root cellar when he appears behind you like a shadow. You jump, your breath catching.

“Shit,” you whisper, “you scared me.”

“Ain’t my fault you can’t hear nothin’,” he mutters, brushing past.

He snatches the crate out of your hands and sets it down with a thud like you’re made of glass.

“What are you doin’ liftin’ this? Gonna throw out your damn back.”

You blink at him, surprised. “I was just trying to help.”

"Help by not getting in the way.”

There it is—that growl of his. That sandpaper tone he uses like a wall. But his hands are on his hips, not his crossbow.

He’s standing between you and the icy draft creeping down the stairs. Without realizing it, he’s shielding you.

“You cold?” he barks, eyes flicking down your form.

You hesitate. “I’m fine.”

He makes a noise between a scoff and a curse and reaches into his vest. His gloves, fingerless—still faintly warm from his own hands—are shoved toward you.

“Here. Take 'em.”

You glance at them, then up at him.

“Won’t you need it?”

His jaw ticks.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

Your fingers brush his when you take the gloves.

He jerks his hand back like he’s been burned.

The group sets up in the living room, huddled around a weak fire made from broken furniture. You’re curled in your coat, you’ve got the can of peaches beside you, unopened.

Daryl sits across the room, crossbow in his lap, watching you from beneath the brim of his hair.

He watches you offer the peaches to Carl before taking a single bite yourself.

He watches you laugh softly at something Carol says, he watches you not complain, when you have every right to.

The house creaks under the weight of cold, the wind howls low through broken shutters. Inside, the fire’s died down to a dull orange flicker.

Everyone’s sprawled across the living room—wrapped in coats, curled up on floorboards softened only by dust and thin blankets. Rick’s against the far wall, rifle nearby. Glen and Maggie are a tangle of limbs in one corner. Lori has Carl tucked close.

You’re by the cold hearth, curled on your side, your coat drawn tight—but your shoulders tremble with visible shivers.

Daryl notices.

He’s not even trying to. He’s seated upright against the wall, crossbow across his lap like a guard dog at rest. His eyes are half-lidded, but when the firelight hits your face and he sees the faint tremble in your jaw—his entire posture shifts.

A twitch in his fingers.

A flick of his eyes.

The poncho he’s had slung over one shoulder since camp—a patchwork thing of earth-tones and fraying edges—sits bunched beside him.

He stares at it.

He mutters under his breath. Something about “stupid Woman not speakin’ up” and “freezin’ like a damn idiot.” But then he slowly stands, knees cracking softly. Crossbow left behind. Silent steps. Barely audible over the creak of the floorboards.

You’re still asleep. Shivering.

He hovers.

You look even smaller like this—half-lost in the coat, hair falling messily around your face, one hand tucked under your cheek.

There’s a crack in your lip and your fingers are raw from cold. But your expression is calm—like you trust this broken world to leave you alone just long enough for rest.

Daryl scowls. Not at you. At himself.

He kneels. Haphazard and ungraceful, like his body doesn’t quite know how to move gently. The poncho unfurls in his hands.

He hesitates.

And then, with unspoken care, he drapes it over you, adjusting it near your shoulders, tucking the edge against your cheek to stop the draft. He pulls it down just enough to keep you covered but not wake you.

He stares a second too long.

His hand twitches—almost like he might brush your hair from your face.

“Dumb Woman,” he mutters under his breath, getting to his feet.

“Sweet, you mean.”

He freezes.

Carol stands in the shadows, arms crossed. She’s leaned against the archway between the lounge and kitchen, her expression full of warmth. No judgment. No teasing. Just the quiet patience of someone who sees what others don’t say out loud.

Daryl huffs and looks away.

“Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” she says softly. “But she’ll be warmer now.”

He mutters something incoherent and stalks back to his corner of the room, reclaiming his seat like it offended him. The fire spits. He crosses his arms before begining to chew on his thumbnail.

The pale gray of dawn barely seeps through the broken slats of the abandoned house’s boarded-up windows. Cold clings to the floor like a second skin, biting at exposed fingers and faces. Most of the group still sleeps in hunched silence, the rhythmic sound of breath and the occasional creak of someone shifting beneath thin blankets the only noise.

A soft rustle breaks that stillness.

You flinch slightly as something nudges your shoulder—calloused fingers, not rough but not quite gentle either.

“Hey,” Daryl’s voice rasps low. Gravelly. Mornings always make him sound like he’s been smoking nails.

“Up. ‘Fore they start hoggin’ all the fire.”

You blink groggily, pushing your hair back. “Is everything okay?”

“M'Alright.” He stands, already crouched near the fireplace, fiddling with kindling he must’ve scavenged earlier.

He tosses a look over his shoulder. “Figured you might want somethin’ warm ‘fore everyone else gets their fill.”

Then you see it.

A squirrel. Lanky, limp, and freshly dead—a hint of blood near the head where an arrow did its work. Daryl has already slit it open with his hunting knife, peeling back the fur with swift, practiced efficiency. His hands are stained but steady.

You sit cross-legged nearby, trying to hide the instinctive crinkle of your nose.

He doesn’t miss it.

“What?” he mutters, not looking at you. His voice is rough and only a little mocking. “Too raw for your pretty little stomach?”

“I—I didn’t say anything.”

He pauses, glancing up with that familiar squint of his, head tilted slightly, knife poised mid-slice.

“Didn’t have to,” he says, but there’s no venom behind it. More like... amused observation. He flicks the squirrel’s guts aside into a rusted pot with a soft squelch.

“Bet yer the type to order salads in restaurants, huh?”

You blink. “Sometimes.”

“Figures.”

He returns to working the carcass with quick, precise movements—knife dragging along sinew with a wet sound. But then he speaks again, quieter this time.

“Ain’t gotta watch if it bothers you. Just figured… y’know. You looked cold. Hungry.”

That quiet sentence lands heavier than it should. Daryl has never offered kindness this easily.

You realize he must’ve gone out hunting before sunrise—for the group.

You inch a little closer despite yourself. “Doesn’t bother me. Just… never seen anyone skin something before.”

He finally glances up again, squinting against the light breaking over the windows. His brow softens a touch.

"M'sorry.”

The fire catches, and he shifts to cook the meat on a piece of old mesh wire. He stays crouched the whole time—knees wide, forearms resting across them, crossbow set beside him. His movements are sharp but measured, shoulders always tight, always ready.

When the squirrel starts to sizzle, he tears off a piece and holds it out on the end of his knife.

You hesitate, then take it between two fingers. It’s greasy, gamey, and not entirely pleasant—but the warmth makes your stomach ache with longing.

You chew slowly.

Daryl watches.

And for the first time in your interactions—he doesn’t seem angry. Or suspicious. Just… watchful.

“Ain’t bad, huh?” he mutters, leaning back slightly.

“Told ya. Folks always think squirrel’s all nasty. Ain’t if you cook it right.”

You look at him, eyes soft. “Thank you, Daryl.”

That catches him off guard. He shifts his weight, scratches the back of his neck.

“Don’t make a thing of it,” he grunts. “Just food.”

But then he rips off another chunk and holds it out again.

“S'warm. Eat up.”

The fire pops softly between you as the last bones of the squirrel blacken in the coals.

The cold presses in through the broken seams of the house—each gust of wind rattling the warped windowpanes like ghostly fingers.

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, both for warmth and perhaps courage.

He’s sitting cross-legged near the hearth, boots scuffed, a few squirrel hairs still stuck to the blade he wipes clean on his pant leg.

You watch the way he moves—quick and practiced, like someone who’s been fending for himself a long, long time.

And then, too softly to sound like a challenge

“Could you teach me to shoot?”

Daryl doesn’t look up right away. He flicks his eyes your way, squinting through his fringe like he’s trying to decide if you’re serious.

“You?” he mutters, tone half-amused, half-dismissive. “Reckon you’d jab yourself before you hit anythin’.”

Your lips tighten—not because he’s wrong, but because the tone bites. Still, you hold your ground.

“Teach... Not insult.”

A pause. Daryl stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why your asking him.

“Just… don’t be like Shane was, okay?”

And that—that’s where it changes.

He freezes.

A shadow crosses his face, and his expression shutters, mouth twisting like he’s been slapped.

The way he stares at you now is different. Not angry—not exactly—but something darker.

Defensive.

Hurt.

And the worst part is, he tries to hide it with attitude.

“Tch. Think m'like 'im?” he barks, louder than you expected.

You blink, startled by the sudden snap in his voice. “No—I didn’t mean—”

“Y'sayin’ I’m some handsy asshole who don’t listen?” he interrupts, rising to his feet in one fluid, restless motion.

He paces a few steps away, voice low but sharp like a rusted blade.

“That what you think I am?”

Your heart starts to pound, not from fear—but from the rawness in his tone. You realize, too late, that you touched something deep.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly.

“It’s just—he made me uncomfortable. Back at the farm. You told him to back off, remember?”

He does remember. You know he does. You can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, his jaw grinds. But he’s not ready to let go of the wound you’ve just opened.

“Y’know what people like you see when they look at me?” he snaps, still not facing you. “Trash. Redneck. Backwoods freak with a weapon.”

The words are acidic.

Self-loathing.

And they fall too easy from his lips, like he’s heard them before—from himself, from others.

Maybe even from Merle.

“Ain’t never laid a hand on no one that didn’t come at me first. Ain’t ever forced nothin’ either. But one word—one—and suddenly I’m the same kinda bastard as him?”

His voice cracks at the end, and he stops pacing, running a hand through his hair, half-snarling under his breath.

You rise slowly, keeping your voice gentle—measured.

“I didn’t mean to compare you. I trust you, Daryl. That’s why I asked you to teach me. Not anyone else.”

Silence.

The kind that hurts.

Then, he glances back. Eyes shadowed. Lips pressed in a hard line. Something flickers there—uncertainty, maybe regret.

He stalks toward his crossbow, scoops it up, and tosses a glance toward the back door.

“C’mon. Ain’t got all day.”

The wind bites at your cheeks as you step carefully over frost-bitten leaves, your boots crunching just loud enough to make you flinch each time.

A thin veil of fog clings to the forest floor, curling like smoke around tree roots and brittle branches. The house behind you creaks with the wind—your makeshift practice spot for the morning. Sunlight filters in through the overgrown trees, which form the forest around what was once a home.

Daryl walks a few paces ahead, crossbow over his shoulder, the tail of his poncho fluttering behind him like a ragged flag. He doesn’t speak at first—but there’s something different in his gait.

He’s keeping your pace, not striding too far ahead. Every so often, he glances back with a furrowed brow like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t bailed.

"Alright,” he grunts, finally stopping and dropping a small bag to the ground. “Ain’t no targets, we use what we got.”

He nods toward a rusted can perched on a stump and draws out a small pistol, offering it butt-first.

“Safety’s on. You hold it like this,” he says, miming the grip in the air beside you—but keeping his distance, just like he promised.

You mirror him carefully, hands trembling just a little, not from cold. He watches, hawk-like, and when you get it wrong—your elbows too tight, grip too high—he doesn’t move to fix it.

"Don’t strangle the damn thing. You ain’t tryin’ to choke it out, just guide it.” He growls

It’s rough. But it’s honest. And it makes you chuckle—just a little.

You raise the gun again, correcting your grip.

“S'Better,” he mutters.

Just as you steady your aim, a low groan rasps through the trees. Both your heads snap to the sound.

A walker.

One.

Then another two.

Shambling, slow, but too close.

You step back instinctively, heart already pounding as your breath catches. Daryl raises his crossbow in a flash, but he doesn’t shoot.

“You got it?” he asks, voice flat. Testing you.

You stare. The nearest walker is maybe ten feet away, its jaw slack, face half gone.

A woman once.

Your fingers twitch around the gun.

"Ain’t gonna wait forever,” Daryl growls. But his eyes are locked on you—not the walker. On you.

With a shaking breath, you raise the gun again. Hands slippery. You don’t even aim well, just squeeze the trigger and—

Bang.

The shot cracks through the air. The walker stumbles, but it’s the second shot—reflexive, panicked—that drops it.

The third walker is already on you.

You don’t think—you stab. Your knife, shinny and new, plunges up into its chin and lodges through soft bone and grey matter. It collapses against you.

Heavy. Wet. Real.

The smell hits you first—burnt gunpowder and rot.

The weight of what you've done hits second.

You start to shake.

You're kneeling on the cold, uneven earth, your knees soaking through with old leaf rot and snowmelt. The forest is still again—too still. The walkers are gone. The sounds of groaning and shuffling, the adrenaline-filled thump of your pulse in your ears, have been replaced by a silence so deep it feels like your own breath doesn’t belong in it.

The walker’s body lies just feet from you—slumped, collapsed, still. The blade still juts from its skull at a crooked angle, the handle vibrating faintly with the last twitches of undeath leaving the corpse.

Her face is half gone. One eye hangs low in its socket, milky and unseeing. Her skin—what remains of it—is mottled and grey-green, tight in some places, peeling in others like wet parchment.

Tufts of stringy hair cling to her scalp, but they’re no longer a color that belongs to the living. There’s a necklace still tangled around her throat, half buried in dried gore—a cheap pendant, shaped like a dolphin. It shimmers faintly in the sun.

She was someone once.

And you ended her.

Your mouth goes dry.

Your vision swims.

You blink once.

Twice.

You fall backward and land hard on your rear in the dirt, the breath rushing out of you with a tiny gasp. The pistol dangles limply from your fingers. You stare down at your hands, at the drying blood that cakes your knuckles, smears your sleeves.

The tears come without warning.

“I—” your voice trembles, throat closing. “I killed her…”

Daryl’s boots crunch as he steps closer, cautious. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“S'already gone,” he mutters finally, voice low, gravelly.

But you barely hear him.

Because it hits you all at once.

She could have been someone’s friend. Someone's daughter. Someone waiting to be rescued. You imagine your own friends faces—soft smile, tired eyes—and for a terrible second, it is her. The walker. You shake your head as if to erase the image, but it stays, burned behind your eyes.

Your stomach lurches. You curl forward, both arms around your middle like that might hold in the sob clawing its way up your throat.

“They're all dead.”

Your voice is just a whisper, but it’s full.

"My family. My home. My friends. My whole country…”

You knew that, logically, but you’d buried the weight of it under layers of distraction—of helping, of surviving, of trying to find new footing in this strange land with these stranger people.

But that walker made it real.

There’s no plane to take you home.

No family waiting.

No future to return to.

The scream that rises in your chest doesn’t escape—only a keening sob that tears through your demeanor and rips you raw.

You double over into your hands, crying now with full, shaking shoulders, tears and blood mingling.

You don’t care how you look. You don’t care who hears.

You are alone.

And you are a killer.

Daryl watches from a few feet away. His jaw clenches tight. He shifts his weight from one boot to the other like he’s resisting the urge to move—to do something—but has no idea what that is.

He glances over his shoulder—maybe checking for more walkers, maybe for witnesses—but then he turns back to you. His fingers twitch again by his side, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how.

You flinch when he shifts closer, and he freezes.

“Hey,” he says, low and rough. Not unkind. “Ain’t gonna touch ya, alright? Ain’t Shane.”

That makes you sob harder.

“They’re gone, Daryl,” you whisper. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye"

You look up. His eyes are stormy and unsteady, like he’s not used to being looked at—really looked at. But something in his expression cracks open, just a sliver, and you see it.

He understands.

Without a word, he reaches behind his neck and pulls his poncho off in one swift motion. Gently, deliberately, he drapes it around your shoulders. It smells like smoke and pine and old leather. Him.

He settles beside you—not touching, not crowding—but close enough to offer warmth.

[mrsgarciatorres]

all the way || mickey garcia

a/n: i’m watching *look both ways* and his character (gabe) is so HELLO??? like??? im crying… (yes this is a pregnancy fic)

your eyes lock into the stick that was in your hands. two lines. mickey won’t even be back in 2 months, how are you going to do this alone? you breathe in and you breathe out very slowly and grab your phone. this would have to be dealt with a phone call, you didn’t wanna scare mickey when he came home just to see your big belly.

your fingers shakily press each number on the dial screen, putting in your boyfriend’s number and then pressing call. you’re expecting it not to be picked up, so you already have a message sent out to him saying 𝘸𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬.

you pressed the green call button ay the bottom, your hands slightly shaking as you bring it up to your ear. it rings four times, and the line finally went off. “hey it’s mickey.., or fanboy. i’m either on duty or somewhere busy, please leave a message after the beep.” the line went dead with a long beeping noise, and your mouth opened up. “hi mickey, it’s me. please let me know when you get the chance to talk to me. it’s urgent, like… life or death urgent, i guess? anyways.. just let me know.” you and the call, and you look up to the ceiling. “what am i gonna do?” you whisper to yourself, closing your eyes.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

it was 20:30 when mickey got done with his 500 push ups, being the second to last done. his chest went up and down, sweat all over him. “that was easy as making cake,” he chuckled out. hang-man took his sweet time this round, and laughed from the floor.

“okay man.” he stood up from his spot, “i know i can do 500 push ups but the middle really does get to you.” jake ended. “what i meant was that i can’t make cake, hang-man. i always burn it.” jake understood the meaning now. “yeah, well… let’s hit the showers. man you smell,” he laughed, the back of his hand slapping mickey in the chest lightly. “says you,” mickey spoke back.

the two men walk their way towards the showers, talking about the day they had and how far it is until both of them could go home with their loved ones. “how is theodora by the way? she walking now?” mickey asked, asking about jake’s daughter. “oh man she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. yeah she’s walking and it’s a nightmare to be honest. one minute she’s there, and the next thing you know she’s trying to go upstairs by herself.” jake laughed.

“talking about babies makes me want to have one, but honestly? i feel like i leave too much to actually see them grow up. what if i miss the child birth as well? miss everything?” mickey questioned, his head spinning in circles with every thought about leaving his future ‘what if’ kid. “oh yeah that’s the down side of working in the military, leaving your wife and kid to defend themselves and grow up with out you. it breaks my heart every time i’m called back to station.. which now it’s nothing since i have them both in miramar now.” jake shrugged.

mickey hummed. “you thinking about getting your girlfriend pregnant or what?” jake laughed, shoving the shorter man. “no.. no, plus we haven’t really thought so far into our lives. i told her if she were to be with me all the way i’d be gone from time to time, the first time i left she left messages every day or even close to every hour. like yes, i love her man but i can’t be there all the time you know?” he shrugged, taking his clothes off casually and putting them on the wooden bench, hang-man doing the same as well. “yeah i get that. the first chick i was with was texting me 24/7, got my phone confiscated because of that. clingy people just don’t do me, man. i feel like people in the military in general don’t do clingy.” mickey nodded at that.

they’re done with what they’re doing, going to the lockers to get changed into brand new clothing. mickey’s phone is on his bag. as he wraps the white towel around his waist, he grabs it and taps on the screen to load the phone on. “oh shit.” he muttered, as he saw two missed notifications. “what?” hang-man asked, “i just got a man’s worst nightmare text and then voicemail.” mickey gulped, his other free hand going through his wet curls. “which is…” jake moved his hand, signaling to mickey what the message was. “we need to talk,” mickey showed him his phone, and what jake saw he whistled. “good luck man,” hang-man walked out of the locker room, shutting the door on his way out.

mickey walked over to a cold grey metal bench, sitting on it as his tags hung from his chest. he pressed the call back button, as he waited for his lover to pick it up. three beeps went on until the other line could be heard, “hey mickey.” he sucked in a breath, “hey mi alma. what’s up?” he asked, a soft smile planted on his face. “uh.. so you know how.., a month ago before you left we did the big bang and well, you left?” you stuttered. his eyebrows knot together in confusion, wondering why that was important for him to know now.

the door that opened to the locker room could be heard, rooster, bob, payback, rueben, and coyote all came in laughing with whatever was said by them. their eyes immediately landed on mickey, who’s only pair of clothing was covered by a towel with a hand in his phone looking dead on serious. an emotion never seen with their teammate. bob hushed them, quietness was heard again in the locker other than the clanging of opening the lockers and stuff being moved around. “mhm,” could be heard from mickey. “well.. uhm. how— i don’t want to say it but,” you stumble. “mi vida?” he breathed out, waiting for whatever it is you needed to tell him.

“i’m pregnant..” you whisper out, still seeming as tense on the other line to mickey. “what?” he asked in disbelief, “i’m..pregnant, did you hear me?” you whisper, hoping he didn’t hear you and not getting mad. “no.. no i heard you, god i’m sorry mi amor, give me a minute.” he pressed the mute button on the call after you said ‘okay’, as he put the phone down on the bench besides him.

he stared at the floor with wide eyes, thoughts flowing into his head. “but we were safe.” he mumbled. bob was the only one who could clearly hear him since his locker was right near the bench, the others far away on the other side of the room, still trying to eavesdrop into the conversation. bob’s eyes went wide, and he looked back behind him to tell the group to ‘quit it out.’ “i used a.. a condom, she was on the pill. we were safe,” he whispered. “mickey?” a girl’s voice could be heard through the locker room. he unmuted himself, “m here mi chica,” he mumbled. “okay. okay. i have two months left,” he spoke. “wh-when did you find out? how long have you known?” he asked you.

“for three hours. told you as soon as i could.” you answered back. “okay.. okay. when i get back, we’re gonna get through this okay?” mickey told you. “you’re.. not mad?” you asked him, a bit surprised. his face looked offended on the other line, but you couldn’t tell.

“mad? sweetheart, i’m… i’m a bit concerned, scared even. but i’d never be mad about any of this, we cannot control this. it’s.. it’s life.” he breathed. “i wish you were here right now..,” you mumble. “i know, i know me too. but as soon as i’m home, i’m all yours. all the way.” mickey said. “all the way?” you repeated, he hummed. “m sorry my love, i wish i could stay on the phone but i gotta go. i’ll try to check in every chance i get okay?” he told you, you nodded but forgot he couldn’t see it. “okay. call you later?” he hummed. “call you later amor. i love you, bye.” the call ended, and he stared up ahead in disbelief.

the gang behind him stood, all wanting to know what happened. “so like… you gonna spill the secret?” coyote’s voice broke the silence. “dude,” rooster stared at him in shock. “what? we’re all thinking it.” rueben said. “she’s…” mickey’s voice broke them up and had their attention on him in an instant. “she’s..” most of them repeated.

“she’s pregnant.”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

a/n: AHHHH i love this movie sm. i loved that lili reinhart played in it, she was so good! but other than that here’s my take in a pregnant fic, pls lmk if yall need a part two cause this can turn into a tiny series if you want!! i could see it coming into something more. please remember to like and reblog and comment your feelings about it! <3 years

[erindrinkstea]

You're dead to me

Fully Masked! Mark "Invincible" Grayson x F! Reader

TW: Violence, Death, Murder, and Mental Health Themes.

Description:

When Angstrom sent those variants of Invincible through a portal to a wasteland, he accidentally sends Fully Masked! Mark Grayson to a different world.

A world where Mark Grayson dies but you still live.

Main Masterlist | Invincible Masterlist

Note: Don't worry Mark, I love your Mom too.

"We'll just torture you instead. Duh."

"..."

Seeing all these twisted versions of himself made him sick to his stomach. But he understood. He truly did. They didn’t have you. They didn’t have her. And without his mom… without you by his side, he could’ve ended up the exact same way.

That’s why he had done the terrible things in this world. Why he’d committed atrocities he never thought himself capable of. Because he was alone. Because the two people who grounded him—his mom and you—weren’t there.

He didn’t care about the crown.

He didn’t want a throne.

The Viltrum Empire meant nothing to him.

All he wanted was his family.

The only two constants that ever made him feel human. Made him better. Happy.

So when Angstrom came to him and whispered about another world—one where his mom was alive, and you were too—how could he not listen?

But it was a lie. A cruel, soul-crushing lie.

His mom was nowhere to be found. And you… you were dead. Crushed. Torn apart. Just like in that nightmare he could never wake up from. Just blood and broken pieces of the only person he loved.

Tracking down the version of himself responsible was easy. Killing him was even easier.

Painfully so.

"What…?!"

He recoiled, startled as multiple green portals suddenly bloomed in front of them. His jaw clenched as Angstrom's devices flared and sucked each of them into their own vortex.

When he blinked next, he wasn’t in his world anymore.

But he wasn’t with the others either.

Wherever he landed, he doubted this was part of Angstrom’s plan.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

"Sweetheart, are you sure you're going to be okay?"

Today marked three years since Mark Grayson died.

You gave Debbie a soft smile. “I’m fine. Really.”

She had always been so kind to you, even with everything she’d suffered.

“How are you doing? And how’s Oliver?”

It hadn’t been easy—Omni-Man going rogue. Nolan killing his own son. And then, months later, coming back with a baby in his arms, begging for forgiveness.

Debbie hadn’t forgiven him. But she had agreed to raise Oliver. Because the boy had no one else. His mother was gone, and Nolan couldn’t stay.

Debbie had hesitated. But the moment that baby reached out with curious little hands and cooed at her, she melted. He reminded her too much of her own son—the one she lost too soon.

“Oliver’s growing so fast. Just yesterday, I could still carry him. Now he’s already got friends at school.” She sighed, tired but proud.

“Mom! Is that sis?”

Oliver’s voice rang out as he raced into the room. He had started calling you ‘sister’ after all the time you spent caring for him. You never minded.

“Oliver,” you smiled, catching him in a hug as he tackled your waist.

“I CAN FLY!” he announced, eyes wide. “I tripped on the stairs yesterday and floated instead of falling!”

Your breath caught. “Really?” You looked up at Debbie, who nodded with a small smile.

Just like his brother.

You remembered the first time Mark floated instead of falling—he’d looked so proud, so thrilled. That memory felt sacred now.

“That’s amazing,” you told Oliver.

“I know, right?” he grinned, puffing up with pride. So much like Mark.

You swallowed the ache in your chest. God, please don’t let him turn out like Nolan.

“How about you help your mom clean the house with your powers? I’m just going to take a quick walk.”

A lie, of course. You just didn’t want to cry in front of him.

“Okay!” he chirped, bouncing off with Debbie, who caught your eye and gave a subtle nod. She understood.

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

Mark drifted above the unfamiliar skyline.

This wasn’t his world.

It wasn’t the one from before, either. Somewhere new entirely.

Strangely, no one tried to stop him. No heroes. No threats. Just… wide-eyed stares and hushed gasps as he flew overhead.

People weren’t afraid. Just surprised.

He wasn’t a villain here, it seemed. Not yet.

Maybe this version of him had done something right for once.

He stayed in the air, keeping low, keeping quiet. He was tired—sick of the bloodshed, of the failures, of chasing ghosts.

He just wanted to go home.

But this world… something about it felt different. Warmer.

And he had a gut feeling he wasn’t here by accident after all. Maybe it was fate.

He could’ve missed it. Could’ve flown right past, too focused on his goal—too desperate to find a way back home.

But then, in a split second, his eyes caught something. Someone.

A figure.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

“...Darling?” he breathed, voice soft, disbelieving. His body stopped mid-air, frozen. He just hovered there, staring at the figure walking below.

God. It was you.

You were alive.

“Darling,” he whispered again—and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His direction shifted instantly, diving toward the one person he had torn worlds apart for.

You didn’t see him coming. You were too caught up in your grief, still walking slowly down the sidewalk, tears silently streaming down your face.

You were wiping at them, frustrated, exhausted.

"My love?"

That voice.

You froze in place.

Not again. You thought the hallucinations had stopped. Thought you were healing.

But here you were, hearing him again—hearing that voice you would have given anything to hear just one more time.

You didn’t turn around.

You couldn’t handle the disappointment.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered, voice cracking as more tears welled up. “Not today.”

Your hands went back to your face, desperate to rub away the hurt.

“Easy there,” a voice said gently, a presence stepping in. “Stop rubbing so hard. Geez, your eyes are all red. What made my lovely girl cry so much?”

You froze again.

Hands—not yours—brushed against your cheeks, careful and warm. Soft thumbs wiped away your tears like they had all the time in the world.

It felt so real.

Too real.

“You, you idiot,” you hiccupped, unable to hold it in. “It’s your stupid death anniversary. You couldn’t even give me one day of peace.”

Your sobs were broken, helpless.

The man—Mark—blinked at you like that was news.

“So… I’m dead here, huh? he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Makes things a bit easier.”

You cried harder. “You’re not real. And it hurts. It’s not fair.”

“But I am,” he said softly. “I’m real. And so are you.”

His hands were still cupping your face with that same gentle care he always had. His eyes searched yours with aching tenderness.

He looked… different.

Worn. Tired.

Hair a little longer. Shoulders a bit heavier.

But still him. Still your Mark.

The warmth. The love.

That unmistakable feeling that wrapped around you like a blanket in winter.

“You’re dead,” you said again, as if reminding yourself.

He hummed, nonchalant. “Not anymore. You were dead too, remember? But now you’re alive.” A dark glint passed through his eyes. “And I’ll make sure it stays that way. No matter what.”

His voice was calm, certain. Steady in a way that was both comforting and unnerving.

“Now,” he said, lips curling into a half-smile, “how about we go see Mom? It’s going to be one hell of a reunion, don’t you think?”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Was this real?

It had to be.

“Mark…?”

──────⊹⊱☕︎︎⊰⊹──────

[mintyys-blog]

Mark variants with the good old "Who did this to you?" Need I say more (I love your writting, prolly one of the best invincible writters on the app <3)

HEADCANONS | “who did this to you?” with variants

SINISTER MARK

Mark is all quiet rage.

You hadn’t meant for him to find out. That was the first mistake.

The second was assuming he wouldn’t notice the way you winced when he pulled you in for a kiss, fingers brushing against your ribs. You tried to play it off. “I’m just sore. Tripped on set.” A laugh. Too light. Too fake.

But his eyes darkened instantly.

“Take off your shirt,” he said, too calmly. And when you hesitated, he didn’t repeat himself. Just stared, and waited.

You peeled the shirt off slowly, revealing the ugly, blooming bruise along your side. A purpling, angry thing that said you didn’t fall. That someone hit you.

His jaw clenched. His hand came up, just shy of touching it, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because he knew if he touched it, the part of him that barely kept the monster leashed would snap.

“Who did this to you?”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before screaming, before violence.

You tried to explain. “It’s not worth—Mark, really, I handled it—”

But his pupils dilated. Breath shallowed. His body was trembling—restrained fury vibrating in every inch of him.

“You let them live?” His lip curled. “You handled it?”

“Yes. Because I knew you’d—Mark, if you do something, people will die. You’ll get blamed.”

“I’m not going to kill them.” A pause. Then a cruel smirk. “Just… ruin everything they love. Break their bones. Make them beg.”

“Mark—”

His arms wrapped around you, suddenly, tightly. Carefully. As though he might shatter you by accident. And into your ear, low and rough:

“They’re going to wish they died before they ever touched you.”

And with that, he pulled back, placed a kiss just above the bruise, and vanished from the apartment. Whoever hurt you wouldn’t be walking by morning.

MOHAWK MARK

You were just trying to change clothes. The shirt slipped up a little too high, your back to the door, and you didn’t hear him come in—until he growled behind you.

“What the fuck is that?”

You jumped, spun around—too late. His eyes were locked on the long scrape down your lower back, already purpling. Fresh.

“Mark—wait—!”

But he was already in front of you. Fingers gentle on your skin, calloused thumbs brushing around the injury like he was memorizing the damage. His breathing was steady. Too steady.

“That’s not an accident,” he muttered. “That’s a handprint. Who touched you?”

You opened your mouth. Shut it. Guilt weighed heavy on your face.

“I handled it—”

“You keep saying that,” he snapped. “Like you don’t have a Viltrumite emperor ready to level cities for you.”

“I didn’t want you to make a scene.”

“Too late.”

He stepped back, ran a hand over his mohawk, pacing. You could see it in the way his fists curled—he was holding back hard. The fury wasn’t quiet like Sinister’s. It was white-hot and dangerous, barely held under his skin.

He turned, face twisted in something dark and possessive.

“Give me a name.”

“Mark—”

“Give me a name, or I find them myself.” His voice dropped. “You think I won’t recognize their blood on my knuckles?”

Your lip trembled. He paused. Sighed. Crossed the space in two strides and cradled your face.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, nose brushing yours. “No one touches what’s mine. And they’re gonna learn that the hard way.”

But the next day, you heard someone was hospitalized. They didn’t make it. “A man in blue and black showed up out of nowhere. Said nothing. Just smiled.” And you didn’t even have to ask who it was.

OMNI MARK

Mark saw red the moment he smelled it—blood, faint but fresh, tucked under your perfume like an insult. Then he saw the bruise on your cheek, barely forming. Small. Like someone thought they could get away with it.

You tried to deflect with a smile.

“Mark—it’s nothing. I’m fine, really—”

“Who did it.”

The words dropped like a stone. Not a question. A demand.

You hesitated. That was your first mistake.

He stepped closer. His presence filled the room like a thundercloud, his cape brushing the floor as he tilted your chin gently upward—contrasting the thunder behind his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said evenly. “You’re not fine. I can see you.”

You bit your lip, tried to keep it light. “It’s just a guy. I bumped into him, and he—he didn’t like that I didn’t apologize fast enough.”

Mark went quiet.

Dead quiet.

You realized then that it was scarier when he didn’t yell. When he didn’t raise his voice. Because that meant the decision had already been made.

“You think you’re safe with me gone?” he murmured. “You think I won’t hear about it? Smell the fear on you? The blood? That I won’t do something?”

He exhaled slowly. “You forget. I’m not a man, Y/N. I’m a god among insects.”

“Mark—please, don’t—”

“I won’t kill him,” he said smoothly. “That would be too quick. Too kind.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ll make sure he wakes up every day praying he was dead. And I’ll do it all without breaking a sweat.”

You opened your mouth to stop him, but he leaned down and kissed your temple.

“This?” he said softly, brushing a thumb over your bruise. “This is never happening again. Not while I draw breath.”

He vanished in a sonic boom. And when he returned, his hands were clean. His smile was faint.

But the next morning, the man who hurt you was found tied to the side of a building with every bone in his hand shattered, a note stapled to his shirt:

“Touched what wasn’t yours.” You didn’t have to read it to know who it was from.

PRISONER MARK

You came home shaken. Mark knew before you even opened your mouth.

You tried to hide the swelling bruise forming on your arm, tried to laugh it off like you always did when you didn’t want to burden him. But he saw it. He always saw it. And the moment he did, that fragile calm he fought so hard to build around you cracked.

“Who?”

His voice was quiet. Low. Controlled. But his eyes… his eyes were already red.

You hesitated. His lip curled.

“Who did this to you, Y/N?”

You whispered the name. A friend, you said. Someone who lost his temper. Someone who “didn’t mean to grab you that hard.”

That was all he needed.

He was already moving.

“Mark—please—!” You tried to grab his arm.

He didn’t even look back. “You don’t touch my girl and walk away.”

The door slammed hard enough to make the walls shake.

And when he found the man—it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t justice. It was execution.

Bones cracked. Screams were swallowed by the night. Mark broke him slowly, methodically, with no more emotion than if he were snapping the neck of a rat. But what was emotional was what came after.

When he returned to you, blood still spattered on his knuckles, his expression was soft.

You flinched instinctively—something small and quick. His face crumbled.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, arms around your hips, forehead pressed against your belly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You stroked his hair, breathing through the pounding in your chest.

“You didn’t flinch because of me, did you?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No.”

That’s when he looked up—eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, still red-rimmed from fury, but now dulled by something sadder. Deeper.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’d never hurt you. You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel human.”

Then he kissed your bruise—gently, reverently. Like an apology. Like a promise. And curled up with you for the rest of the night, humming something soft against your skin, guarding you with a beast’s loyalty and a broken man’s tenderness.

[cupidsworstcrime]

[...fauxcest (brother/sister) , (the illusion of) non/dubcon , catfishing as foreplay]

step brother!johnny x f!reader

smut , obviously

the words "inbred" & "incestuous" used in a kink sense but not in a literal way , consenting & non-blood-related adults being unhinged little freaks

AN: they were not raised together, despite somethings johnny says , thats just him being on some absolute FREAK shit

He tells himself it's harmless.

A fake account. A few messages. Maybe a picture or two. You’re a tease anyway—you always have been, even if you don’t mean to be. Walking around the house in those soft little shorts, brushing past him in the hallway with your sleepy voice and your stupid pet names. Johnny. J. Big bro.

You’re not his sister. Not really. Just a few years of living together and suddenly everyone thinks he’s supposed to be your guardian angel or some shit. Nah. Not when you look at him like that. Not when you curl your legs up on the sofa and sigh his name like it means something.

The first time you sent a picture—half-joking, half-daring—he had to bite down on his fist to keep from groaning. Almost came in his fucking joggers. And when he messaged back from his burner, pretending to be some online boyfriend of yours?

You didn’t hesitate.

He jerks off to you every night now. In the garage. In the shower. Face down in his mattress, biting the pillow, moaning into the sheets like some pathetic bastard. He can’t stop. Can’t look at you without imagining your cunt wrapped around his cock, your throat filled with his name.

You're so good for him. So eager. So trusting.

And so fucking stupid. God, you’re stupid, aren’t you? You think you’re safe in this house. That "Johnny" would never. That your step-brother's just some dumb soldier with a big mouth and a soft spot for you. You don’t see the way his hands shake when you bend over. You don’t see how he stalks your bedroom door some nights like a wolf.

You don’t know.

You can’t know.

Because if you did—if you even guessed—you’d stop. And he’d go mad.

So he keeps the lie alive. Keeps messaging you while you sit in the same house. Asks for more. Coaxes it out with filth. Tells you what he wants to do and laughs when you send it like a gift.

Tonight you sent him a video. Slow fingers. Wet sounds. Whispering the name of someone you don’t even know. Someone who doesn’t exist.

And Johnny came in his hand so hard he nearly blacked out.

He’s in his bed now. Phone open. Staring at the freeze-frame of you spread open for him, lip caught in your teeth.

He types:

"Wish I could taste you. I’d ruin you for anyone else."

Sends it. Watches the little "Seen" icon appear.

Then you type back.

"I should invite you over next time J deploys... <3"

His blood freezes. Every molecule in his body goes silent.

He stares at the screen like it’s cursed. Like it’s bleeding. Like it just cracked open and called him out.

His cock twitches. Almost types: Just come to my room.

No. No no no no—he closes the app. Paces. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. You can’t know. You can’t. You’d hate him. You’d scream. You’d run.

Unless—

He sinks into the bed.

And starts getting hard all over again.

It starts with a dare.

“No bra today. Bet it’d make it easier to take pics for me, sweetheart.”

He’s already sweating when he types it. Heart thudding like a drum. He adds a little emoji to soften it—just in case. Just in case you hesitate. Just in case the guilt dares to wake up in him again.

But you don’t hesitate.

You send a photo from the kitchen. From his kitchen. Arm pressed across your chest, nipples barely covered, shirt so thin it’s basically see-through in the morning sun.

“Like this?”

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. Just fumbles his joggers down in the hallway, cock hard and aching, jerking himself raw while staring at the screen like it’s a shrine. Like you’re a shrine.

He tells himself he’s doing you a favor. Teaching you how to be sexy. Making you feel wanted. That someone should.

But he’s not that clean. Not that noble.

He’s a fucking freak, and he knows it.

So he keeps going.

“Tiny shorts. No panties. Need to know you're a good girl for me.”

“Sit on the couch like before, love. Snap a pic while someone’s around.”

“Touch yourself in the hallway. Just a little. Think about me.”

You do it all.

And it breaks him.

Because sometimes you do it even before he asks. Wearing those little cotton things that ride up your ass, leaning over the counter like you don’t know he’s watching from the doorway, chest braless, thighs soft and spread on the leather cushions.

He can smell you on the sofa.

And the worst part? He swears you're getting bolder.

Once, you dropped your phone in front of him and bent down without thinking. He saw everything. No panties. Just skin and a little string of slick, catching the light. He nearly groaned out loud. Had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled.

You smiled at him after. Sweet. Innocent.

He had to go jerk off in the garage like a fucking feral animal, fist pounding against the wall after he came, panting your name like a curse.

He’s not sleeping anymore. Just watching. Wanting. Messaging you from the other side of the wall.

He dares you to go further. Pushes it. Tests you.

“Rub your thighs together at dinner.”

“Don’t close your door when you change.”

“Sit on John's bed when he's not home.”

He can’t tell if you’re playing dumb or playing along.

And part of him doesn’t want to know.

Because if you’re doing it for him—if you know it’s him, and you’re still teasing him like this—then that means you’re just as fucked up as he is.

And that?

That makes it so much worse.

So much better.

It was supposed to be a normal night.

Dinner. Dishes. You laughing at something on your phone, his messages, the ones he sent to ruin you. The ones you think belong to some random guy you met online, the one you've been showing your tits to for weeks like it’s a normal thing.

But tonight?

Tonight you walk into the living room in those tiny shorts—the ones. The ones he told you to wear when you're "feeling needy." No bra. Hair messy. And no shame. None.

You bend over the couch, reaching for something on the floor. Phone in one hand. Face down. Casual. Oblivious.

And he sees it.

The curve of your back. The way the shorts ride up—completely split you open. You didn’t even pretend to wear underwear. Your cunt is right there. Soft, glistening. Inviting.

His throat goes dry. His cock’s already stiff in his jeans. Blood roars in his ears. He takes a step forward before he even thinks.

And then he sees it.

Your phone screen. Camera on. Recording.

You’re recording yourself—facedown on his couch, ass arched up, cunt peeking out beneath those shorts—and you’re doing it for him. For your “online boyfriend.”

For him.

As if your fucking step-brother cant fucking smell the sin leaking out of you.

"His" name leaves your lips, the one on that stupid fucking account, whispered low for the camera. "Hope you like the view..."

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he breaks.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Just the burn in his chest. The ache in his cock. The rage and the desire crashing together in a single molten scream behind his teeth.

Your body jerks as he grabs the phone from your hand, slamming it onto the coffee table. You whip your head around, eyes wide—but not scared. Never scared.

You’re smiling.

“Johnny,” you breathe, sweet as sin. “You finally gonna stop pretending?”

He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hips with both hands and pushes your back down, until your chest is pressed to the cushion and your ass is tipped up just the way he likes.

He palms your cheeks, spreads you open, and growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt glistening for him.

“Fuckin’ little minx,” he hisses, voice shredded. “You knew. You’ve known this whole time.”

You nod. Gasp. Wiggle your hips. “Wanted to see how long you’d last…”

He bites your shoulder. Not gently.

“You think this is a game?” he snarls into your skin. “You’ve been walking ‘round my house—my fuckin’ house—like this, for me? For my cock?”

You nod again. “Who else would I do it for?”

That’s when he loses it.

One hand pins your wrists to the small of your back. The other rips your shorts down, so fast the seams pop. You’re bare in seconds, cunt dripping, back arched, breath hitching.

And Johnny?

Johnny is feral.

“This what you wanted, baby?” he breathes, grinding his hard-on against your ass. “Wanted big brother to fuck the brat outta you?”

Your moan answers for you.

He kisses your spine like a man dying of thirst. Bites your hips. Tells you you’re his now—always were.

And as he finally pushes inside, sinking into you with a guttural moan, one thought tears through him louder than the rest:

She knew. She let me. And she still wants more.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, hilting inside you with a sharp snap of his hips, “tightest fuckin’ cunt I’ve ever had—‘course my little sis would be the one to ruin me.”

Your breath hitches. He feels it.

The way your walls flutter around him, all soft and soaked, like you like hearing it.

You do.

You do, don’t you?

“Ohh, you fuckin’ freak,” he grits, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back just enough to hear you pant. “You like it when I call you that? Like bein’ bent over the couch by your big brother?”

You moan something that might be “yes” or “more”—doesn’t matter. He’s gone.

“Actin’ all sweet ‘n innocent ‘round me. Callin’ me Johnny like you don’t spend every night spreadin’ your legs for me behind a screen. Like you don’t love this sick fuckin’ game.”

He thrusts hard—cruel and deep—and your whole body jerks. Couch cushions shift beneath you, muffling your whines. He keeps your wrists pinned behind your back, your ass tipped perfectly for him, so he can watch your hole suck him in again and again.

“You liked knowing I was watchin’, didn’t you?” he growls. “When you wore those fuckin’ shorts—no panties, tits bouncin’—you knew it was me. You wanted to tease big brother ‘til he lost his fuckin’ mind.”

He leans down, voice a snarl in your ear.

“Well, congrats, baby. You broke me.”

His free hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight little circles just to hear the way you whimper. You clamp down around him like you’re gonna cum soon.

“That’s it, fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, half-lost in his own filth. “Take big brother’s cock. So proud of my little slut—makin’ me come in my hand every night. Leavin’ your scent on my fuckin’ pillows. I should’ve known you knew.”

Your legs start to shake.

“Oh, you gonna cum?” he taunts, hips slapping into your soaked thighs. “Gonna cum on your brother’s cock like a dirty little inbred whore?”

You sob out a yes.

He grabs your throat, pulls you up so your back arches, so he can whisper filth straight into your ear:

“Cum for me, little sis. Cream on big brother’s cock so I know you’re mine.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking and gasping, cunt pulsing around him like you were made for this.

And Johnny?

Johnny’s not far behind.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he growls as his hips slam forward, burying himself to the root, balls tight, cock twitching. “Fill you up right here on the fuckin’ couch—where anyone could walk in, where Mum used to make us sit for family photos—fuck—”

He groans low and ragged as he spills inside you, hot and filthy, hand clamped over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud.

After, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t let you up.

Just lays there over you, breathing hard, chest heaving against your back, cock still twitching inside.

“You’re never gettin’ away from me now,” he murmurs, voice thick with sweat and come and obsession. “Not after this.”

Not after you made big brother your personal ruin.

You're still face down on the couch, twitching under him, his cum leaking down your thighs.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

His fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move again—slow at first, then harder, meaner. His cock’s still thick, still buried deep inside you, and now it’s soaked in slick and his own mess.

And he leans in, whispering filth right into your ear.

“You ain’t even my real sister,” he mutters, kissing the side of your throat like it’s a confession, “but fuck if I don’t wanna pretend you are.”

Your breath catches.

“You like it when I say that, yeah?” His hips grind against your ass, cock hitting the deepest spots. “Like hearin’ your big brother call you a fuckin’ incestuous little whore?”

You moan. You hate that you moan.

But God, it ruins you.

“You’re not even blood,” he growls, voice shaking, “but I think about it all the fuckin’ time. Pretend you are. Pretend I watched you grow up, used to sneak into your room just to see what kinda panties my little sis wore—used to jerk off with your name in my mouth.”

You whimper under him, thighs trembling again.

“Dirty little thing,” he hisses, hand wrapping around your throat. “Would it be worse if you were mine? If we had the same mum and da? Same blood? Still wouldn’t stop me. I’d still fuck you just like this.”

He pulls back just to watch—watch the way your body stretches around him, how you drip for him. How you’d let him do anything.

“I’d still bend you over the couch. Still ruin you. Still fill your womb every night like it’s my fuckin’ right. Like you were born for me.”

His breath is hot against your back. His thrusts start to shudder—harder, deeper, sloppier.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say you’re my little sister. Say you like it.”

Your voice is shaking, raw, almost crying—but not from pain.

“I’m your little sister, Johnny,” you whisper.

His hand tightens on your throat.

“Say you need your big brother’s cock.”

You sob it—needy, wrecked. “Need it—need my brother to fuck me—always have—”

That’s all it takes.

He cums again, burying himself so deep you swear you feel him in your gut. Hot, filthy, possessive. And he doesn’t pull out. He won’t.

Even if you’re not blood, even if it’s pretend—he’ll keep fucking you like you are. Keep whispering filth into your ears until you forget what’s real.

Because it’s his fantasy now.

And you’re never getting out of it.

[222col]

p-panty thief roman godfrey?? i honestly can't pick between fairy!reader or bimbo!reader but i wanna pick fairy!reader lol bc there's no fics on her yet. i think roman actually steals a girl's panties in the show?? i love him sm. im rambling. stay hydrated!! tysm!!!

fairy!reader x roman godfrey

summary: roman knows he can get away with anything and everything, including breaking into your house to steal your panties

cw .ᐟ nsfw, pervy roman

꒰ notes ꒱ he does!! my lil creep <3 thank u for the req bb!!!!

should have never told him where you lived, not that he couldn’t have found it without the information direct from your mouth.

roman’s worst trait? knowing he can get away with absolutely anything. his surname alone got him out of anything, and if that didn’t work a wad of cash always would. barely needed to use his ‘creepy eye thing’ these days.

especially not with you. you let roman get away with murder. mainly because you were too fuckin’ stupid to ever pay enough attention to what he was actually doing.

you could have been home when he climbed through the window and not even questioned it.

but he knew you wouldn’t be. he waited until you were out, probably shopping somewhere. ‘cause what else do girls do?

silly girl didn’t even lock her windows. it’s almost like you wanted him to break in. the room smelt like vanilla, probably from the candle you left burning. roman blows it out on his way around the space— see, he’s looking out for you.

he can’t stop himself from lifting up your pillow, bringing the silk fabric up to his nose. and oh, what’s this? what little picture are you hiding underneath? aw. it’s a picture of him. you’re just as much of a creep as he is.

he doesn’t care to put things back where he finds them, roman knows you’d never notice anyway. you’ll be too busy trying on all the clothes you bought when you get home to realise.

roman starts rooting through your drawers, feeling through every frilly top, every tiny skirt. and oh— jackpot.

a drawer full of lace, cotton, little bows, the lot. he’d pay an unlimited amount of money to see you in these with his own eyes. but with that picture under your pillow, looks like he’s not too far off that happening.

now, he could take a pair panties from the drawer. but, that’s not exciting as taking a pair from your laundry. a pair from the drawer he could get anywhere, walk into any department store and walk out with a pair of clean panties.

no— not good enough. roman wants a pair that have you on them.

and as if they were waiting for him, there the perfect pair sits. placed perfectly on the top of your pile of dirty laundry. evil smirk on his face as he grabs them.

he should leave, pocket the panties and appreciate them at home. but his jeans are already tight and you’re still not home, so…

roman perches on the edge of your bed, buttons quickly undone as he frees himself from the confines of the denim.

his hand is quickly wrapping around the length, the lace fabric brought up to his nose. roman breathes in the scent of you, eyes rolling back as he does.

pumping himself quickly, the smell of you overloading his senses. god, he’d fuckin’ kill to taste you.

roman brings the fabric down to his lap, wrapping the soft lace around the base of him. the feeling so foreign, but it’s you— the idea alone has roman leaking, the precum dripping onto the fabric.

he can barely bite back the groans that threaten to escape him, as he watches himself mix in with the remains of you. the fabric is brought back up to his nose, eyes rolling back at your scent.

he can’t control how quickly he finishes, spilling out over your perfect silk sheets. aiming for the pillow he aimlessly threw back down onto your bed, revelling in the idea you’ll be sleeping next to his fluid. silly girl won’t even notice the stain.

the panties on his nose are quickly shoved into his jeans pockets before he zips up the fly. pillow thrown back over to the side you sleep on, standing up as he walks back toward the window.

“what ya doin’ here, romey?”

oh shit.

he spins on his heels, meeting your eyes, and oh— he was right. arms full of shopping bags. his mouth opens to attempt an explanation, but he doesn’t need to.

“you wanna see the clothes i bought?” god, you’re too fucking trusting for your own good.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

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