Requests can be as fluffy/comforting as you wish, or as angsty/depressing as you wish. I will also happily write headcanons (Like my Arcane headcanon series) - just give me a rough idea of what you'd like the overall theme to be!
However, please do not request anything smut related (I know I have a smut, but I rather not write another one). I also DO NOT write anything NONCON IN DETAIL (Implied or mentioned is allowed).
I also like to write in fandoms where things are possible, for example a reader with abilities or of a different species, is possible in the fandoms like Arcane, Supernatural etc. However, it is impossible in fandoms like The Walking Dead and Criminal Minds. So requesters, please stick to what is possible.
Reminder: Hello all! I am really sorry but I only write for the fandom I have provided in my Masterlist ONESHOTS (Arcane, Overwatch, Resident Evil, Marvel etc). Any requests that are any other, won't be done - I will however keep them, for whenever I decide to begin doing that fandom, but until then I will not be writing it.
The wind moved through the endless corridors of the Dreaming with a kind of sentience, carrying with it a subtle mix of scents. There was the faint tang of ozone, sharp and electric, like a storm lingering just beyond the edge of thought, and beneath that, the sweet, steady calm of jasmine. There was something else as well, something harder to name, something that spoke of sunlight refracting through glass, of shadows stretching long across quiet rooms where someone had just been dreaming. That scent was yours. It always was.
Dream noticed it before he saw you.
His senses, honed over uncountable millennia of rule, were attuned to disturbances so small that even other Endless would not have marked them. A shift in the air. A tremor in the fabric of the Dreaming. A warmth where there should have been only cool starlight. You moved through his realm with the same inevitability as the tides pulling at the moon, with a certainty that did not demand attention yet commanded it all the same.
He turned toward the source, the familiar weight of his cloak brushing the dream-silk floor in soft, soundless swishes. The fabric drank in the light, or perhaps it shaped it, dark as a starless sky yet threaded with faint, distant glimmers, like constellations half-remembered by sleeping minds. His eyes, black as obsidian and just as reflective, softened immediately when they found you.
You stood there, radiant and composed, your presence a quiet disruption in a realm built of shadow and thought. You were not fragile. You had never been. There was power in the way you held yourself, in the stillness of your shoulders, in the way your aura shimmered faintly around you, neither aggressive nor restrained. It marked you as divine without spectacle, a goddess who did not need to announce herself. A goddess among mortals, yes, but also something more. Something bound here, to him, by promises spoken before stars learned how to burn.
“You have lingered too long in the waking world, my love” Dream said at last. His voice was low, even, carefully controlled. Relief threaded through it, tightly wound, as though he had not permitted himself to feel it until this moment. Beneath that relief was something sharper, something almost protective. “I feared that you would be lost to them. That their endless needs would claim more of you than you could afford to give.”
You did not bristle at his words. You never did. Instead, you met his gaze steadily, your expression soft but unyielding.
“I was needed,” you replied. Your voice carried authority without cruelty, certainty without arrogance. The words settled into the Dreaming like sunlight spilling into a darkened hall. Your eyes glowed faintly, molten gold warmed by something gentler beneath it, like dawn filtered through thin cloud. “Humans are fragile, Dream. Their fears grow teeth when left unattended. Their nightmares do not remain contained the way yours do. They leak. They bleed into waking thought, into violence, into despair.”
You took a step closer, not touching him yet, but closing the distance all the same.
“I could not leave them unchecked,” you continued. “And you could not intervene directly. Not in their hearts. Not in the choices they make while awake. That has never been your role.”
Dream’s expression did not change, but his hands tightened slightly at his sides. He felt the truth of your words settle into him, heavy and unavoidable. He had shaped dreams for centuries beyond count. He had guided, punished, comforted, and withdrawn. But waking hearts were not his domain, and never had been. That had always been where you walked alone.
He studied you carefully, as though committing the moment to memory. The way your hair caught the strange, directionless light of the Dreaming. The fine lines of your face that spoke not of age but of endurance. Of centuries spent listening to prayers no one else heard. Of standing beside humanity even when they did not know you were there.
For all his mastery over this realm, for all the dreams and nightmares that bent beneath his will, Dream had never known devotion like yours. Not from mortals. Not from gods. Not from his own siblings. Until you.
“And yet,” he said quietly, stepping closer. His shadow stretched ahead of him, reaching for you like a living thing. “Even after all that, you returned.”
His hand lifted, hovering near yours. The motion was hesitant, restrained, as though even after eternity together, he still feared overstepping some fragile boundary.
“Even after seeing what you must see,” he went on, “after carrying what you must carry, you returned to me.”
You smiled then. It was not hurried. It was not uncertain. It was the smile of someone who had made their choice long ago and never regretted it. Tender, yes, but commanding all the same.
“Always,” you said. “Even the strongest gods must find rest somewhere.” Your gaze softened as it traced his face. “Even you need a companion. You bear the world of dreams. Do you truly believe that weight leaves you untouched?”
His eyes darkened, but not with anger. It was the deepening of a storm cloud, heavy and quiet, filled with unspent rain.
“Do you believe I have not felt it?” he asked softly. “I shape the Dreaming. I contain it. I hold the fears and hopes of all who sleep beneath the sky. I have borne it for ages beyond numbering.” He hesitated, then allowed his gaze to flick briefly to the glow of your aura. “And yet… with you here, the burden eases. Not because it is gone, but because it is shared.”
You closed the final distance between you. Your fingers brushed his, just barely, but the contact sent a subtle ripple through the air, through the walls, through the fabric of the Dreaming itself. It was not a violent surge. It was quieter than that. More intimate.
You rested your head against his chest, fitting there as though the space had always been made for you. Beneath your cheek, you felt the impossible heartbeat of the Dreaming, slow and endless, echoing through him. It was steady. Familiar. It recognized you.
“Then let me share it,” you murmured. “Your watchfulness. Your silence. Your loneliness.” Your hand curled lightly against his chest. “We are not separate. Not in dreams. Not in waking. Not in the moments between, when the world sleeps and no one believes they are being watched.”
The Dreaming responded to your closeness. Corridors shifted and softened. Distant stars dimmed and brightened as if breathing. The air grew warmer, fuller, heavy with memory. Time did not move here as mortals understood it, but something unfolded all the same, slow and inevitable.
“I feared,” Dream said at last, his voice so quiet it barely disturbed the air, “that even you might one day leave me.”
You felt the truth of that confession settle into your bones.
“You are bound to all that breathes and suffers,” he continued. “How could you choose to remain with me, when the world calls you away again and again?”
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze fully. Your eyes burned softly, gold threaded with fire, eternity held steady by resolve.
“I am bound,” you said. “Bound to their fragility. Bound to their hope. Bound to the quiet moments when they believe no one is listening.”
Your hand tightened around his.
“But I am bound to you as well. You are my rest. My storm. My sanctuary. Even gods must choose where they place their hearts. I chose you long before this realm learned my name.”
Dream’s breath hitched, just slightly. He reached for you then, finally, his hand closing over yours. It was warm and cold all at once, the paradox of him, the paradox of eternity given form. The moment your fingers fully intertwined, the Dreaming exhaled. Shadows curled away. Light softened. The realm itself seemed to acknowledge the bond you shared.
“There is no one else,” he said, his voice rough with emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel, let alone voice. “No one who has remained in the spaces between dreams. You are more than my wife. You are my tether. You remind me that I am not alone.”
You pressed your forehead to his, smiling gently.
“And you remind me,” you replied, “that I am allowed to rest. To stop listening for a moment. To be held without obligation.”
The Dreaming bent around you, reverent and still. Light and shadow and scent wove together, enclosing the two of you in a moment that belonged to no one else. Eternity waited. Duty paused.
“Stay,” Dream said quietly. It was not a command. It was not an expectation. It was a plea spoken by a being who had ruled forever and yet still feared loss. “Stay with me.”
“I will,” you whispered. “I always have. I always will. When the world calls me away, I return. When the last dream fades, I will still be here. I am yours, Dream, as you are mine.”
The Dreaming sighed, corridors stretching and curling, brightening in places that had known only shadow. Two cosmic beings stood together at the heart of it, choosing one another again, not despite their duties, but alongside them.
And for a moment that would echo through every dream yet to be dreamed, infinity remembered what love felt like.
hi..can you PLEASR make a claggor x reader fanfic in which we are a botanist and claggor randomly comes across us and asks us for more advice on how to take care of plants (and potentially to know even more information about them??) dont know im practically saying whayever is on my mind atm..I LOVE YOUR FICS SO MUCH!!!!!!
The first time Claggor stumbled across you, the Zaun sun was low, slanting pale light through the grimy glass panes of a tucked-away greenhouse in a quiet courtyard. You were crouched low on the damp soil, mud speckling the cuffs of your gloves and smudging your knees, tracing a tiny tendril of a creeping vine as if it were a fragile, living thread of some ancient tapestry. Each time you gently adjusted a leaf or loosened a stubborn root, you whispered softly, as though speaking were as vital as water itself.
“Easy now… don’t you dare dry out,” you murmured, brushing your fingers along the stem of a delicate blue-leafed creeper. “Yes… there we go… you like the sun just so, don’t you?”
Your journal lay open beside you, the spine creased from overuse, pages brimming with sketches so detailed they almost seemed to breathe. Leaves curled on the paper with a lifelike curl, petals shaded with meticulous care, roots twisting down into drawn soil as though they could grow right off the page. Marginal notes jotted in your neat handwriting described everything from soil composition to subtle changes in the plants’ coloration that only someone who truly watched them day by day would notice.
From the doorway, Claggor leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Mud-spattered boots scuffed the worn floor, but he didn’t move closer right away. He just watched, curiosity softening the usually gruff edges of his expression.
“You… talk to them?” he asked finally, voice rough but edged with wonder.
You blinked, cheeks warming. “Only when they listen,” you replied lightly, closing the journal with a soft thud and patting the page as though it were another plant. “They respond to care, to consistency, to attention. Sometimes… more than people do.”
For a moment, the greenhouse was quiet, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the faint hum of Zaun outside. Then, you stepped forward slightly, offering him a small, tentative smile. “I’m Y/N,” you said, your voice soft, almost a whisper.
Claggor’s gaze flicked up from the journal to meet yours. His usual guarded expression softened, a hint of curiosity and amusement flickering across his face. “Claggor,” he replied, voice rough but low, carrying that casual charm you weren’t quite ready for.
His eyes drifted back to the page you had shut, lingering on the spidery handwriting, the delicate sketches of leaves, roots, and buds. He exhaled slowly, clearly impressed. “You… you really notice everything, huh?”
You shrugged, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “I have to. Every detail matters if you want them to thrive. It’s not just drawing… it’s understanding.”
He leaned casually against the doorway, still studying you with that same soft, curious gaze. “Guess I didn’t expect someone else in Zaun to… care this much about… leaves.” He paused, smirking slightly. “Or to actually talk to them.”
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Most people don’t. But they’re alive. They deserve attention… just like anyone else.”
“Mind if I… see more?” he asked, a trace of hesitant hope in his voice. “I’ve got a few… plants back home that don’t seem to survive no matter what I do. Thought maybe… you could help.”
Your chest warmed at the simplicity and honesty of his request. You had expected curiosity, sure, but not this… unguarded need.
“Sure,” you said, gesturing to the bench beside you. “But only if you promise to take notes.”
Claggor laughed, a low, rough sound that seemed out of place amid the quiet of the greenhouse. “Notes… I might just… remember,” he muttered, settling himself on the bench as if it were second nature, though you noticed the way he shifted uneasily.
“Try,” you teased gently, flipping the journal open to a page covered in delicate lines depicting the life cycle of a rare flowering vine, its petals curling and unfurling in shades of violet and gold.
“Alright… patience,” he muttered, leaning closer, his elbows resting on his knees. “Patience… got it. That’s like… watering, right?”
“Part of it,” you said, tilting your head to study his expression. “It’s not just watering. It’s knowing when to hold back, when to give a little extra. Watching for the signs. See this?” You tapped a line on the sketch showing tiny veins on a leaf. “This vine droops slightly before it needs water. Not every plant tells you in the same way. You have to… pay attention. Feel it.”
Claggor frowned, leaning in to trace the delicate lines with a fingertip, almost reverently. “Feel it, huh? Like… like it’s alive or something?”
“It is alive,” you said softly, brushing a stray tendril from the vine and murmuring, “Grow… just a little more… yes… just like that.” You glanced up at him. “You can’t rush it. You can’t force it. Not with plants, not with anything that matters.”
He smirked slightly, though the corners of his eyes softened. “Sounds… complicated.”
“It’s worth it,” you said, meeting his gaze. “When something thrives because of your care… you notice. And it notices you back.”
He shifted, a little awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “So… you know all this… because you like them?” he asked softly, almost as if saying it out loud was dangerous.
“I do,” you admitted, voice low. “And I like knowing things. About them… about how to help them grow. Makes me… feel useful.”
Claggor’s expression softened, the usual hardness of his face giving way to something more open. “I think… I might like that too,” he muttered, more to himself than you.
A small smile tugged at your lips, heart fluttering in rhythm with the rustling leaves around you. “Well… I could show you more,” you said, hesitant, fingers brushing the edge of your journal as if inviting him into your world.
Claggor tilted his head, leaning back slightly. “Show me… everything?” His grin was sheepish, almost vulnerable. “I mean… I don’t even know where to start. I might… mess things up.”
“You won’t,” you assured him softly, your hands returning to the vine, coaxing it upright. “I’ll be right here. And even if you do mess up… well, that’s part of learning.”
He chuckled, leaning in closer to watch you work, as if every movement you made was something worth memorizing. “Alright… alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “I’m… I’m listening. Teach me. Every… little thing.”
Days stretched into weeks, and the greenhouse became your shared sanctuary. It was quiet here, away from the hum of Zaun’s streets, away from the oil and smoke and machinery. The sunlight poured through the grimy panes in warm, slanted streaks, and the scent of earth and blossoms settled into your bones. Claggor came not just to ask how to water or prune, but to understand.
“See this one?” you said one afternoon, kneeling beside a small cluster of flowering vines, your fingers brushing the tips of the leaves. “The way the leaves curl inward in the afternoon… it’s not just tiredness. It’s thirsty. It’s asking for attention.”
Claggor leaned over, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing with concentration. “So, if I… don’t notice it? What happens?”
“You let it suffer,” you said lightly, but not unkindly. “Some plants can recover, but the ones that can’t… well, that’s why paying attention matters.”
He frowned, tilting his head. “It really does feels like people sometimes.”
You smiled softly, nodding. “Exactly. Just like people. Every plant, every person… has a rhythm. You have to listen. Observe. Adjust. As I keep saying”
You brus dirt from your gloves and murmuring to a struggling vine, “Come on… just a little more sun, my sweetling… that’s it… yes… you can stretch now… there we go…”
He flinched a little at your whispered tone, but then leaned closer, mimicking your movements. “Alright… don’t die on me now… you hear?” he muttered, voice rough but careful. “There… grow.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You sound like you’re scolding a pet.”
“I guess I am,” he said, shrugging with a sheepish grin. “But… they listen better than some people I know.”
“You’re improving,” you teased, tapping a sketch in your open journal. “Look, see this page? This is how this vine grows over a month. You notice the tiny curl at the edge? That’s the first sign it’s ready for more water. Not all plants show it so clearly. You have to… feel it. Like this.”
You leaned down, brushing your fingers along a leaf and whispering encouragement, and he copied you hesitantly, awkwardly leaning closer than necessary. “Grow… just a little more… yes… exactly like that.”
Claggor chuckled, shaking his head. “I sound ridiculous, don’t I?”
“Not at all,” you said softly, looking up at him. “You’re… careful. That’s more than most people do. It counts for a lot.”
He seemed to consider that for a moment, then let out a low hum. “I guess I like… noticing things, too. Even the small stuff. Feels… good, in a way.”
“It does,” you agreed. “It’s why I do this.” You paused, brushing a stray tendril from his sleeve as he reached for a pot.
Claggor blinked at your hand, then met your gaze, and for a heartbeat, the greenhouse felt impossibly warm. “I… I didn’t think I’d… care this much about plants.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re paying attention for the first time,” you said softly, returning to coax a stubborn vine upright. “It’s not just about watering and sunlight… it’s about noticing the little things. And listening.”
He leaned back slightly, scratching the back of his neck, clearly unsure where to look. “You… talk to them like they’re alive. Do you… ever talk like that to people?”
You paused, glancing at him. “Sometimes… I wish more people were like them. Honest. Vulnerable. Growing, even if slowly.”
Claggor’s expression softened, the edges of his usual roughness giving way to something unguarded. “I… I guess I like being around someone who notices… all the details. Who cares enough to… pay attention.”
Your heart fluttered, and you felt your fingers brush against a leaf so gently it was almost a caress. “Then you’re welcome to learn more with me. There’s plenty to notice.”
He nodded, eyes following your movements. “I want to. I mean… I really want to.”
And so, slowly, Claggor began to mirror your rhythm. He whispered to the plants, awkward and earnest:
“Alright… don’t droop now… stay strong.”
“Careful with that leaf,” you said, watching him, “Don’t tear it.”
He froze, glanced at you, then murmured, “Noted. I’ll be careful.”
More time passed, and the greenhouse had begun to feel like a world apart, a quiet haven hidden among the grime and bustle of Zaun. You noticed how Claggor’s presence had become a constant, a steady rhythm in your days. He would linger by the doorway, leaning against the frame with his usual casual posture, but his eyes betrayed a careful attentiveness, following every movement of your hands as you coaxed leaves and stems into life.
You often caught him stealing glances at your journal, fingers hovering over the pages, tracing sketches with tentative curiosity.
“So that’s how it works… hmm…” he murmured one afternoon, leaning over your shoulder just enough to see the delicate lines of a vine’s growth pattern.
The sound of his voice made your stomach flutter. You looked up at him and found yourself smiling quietly, marvelling at the way curiosity softened his features, how his usual rough, impatient demeanor seemed to melt into something quieter, more open.
“Careful, you might smudge the graphite,” you said softly, your hand brushing his as you reached for the journal. His gaze met yours, a flicker of something shy, almost hesitant, passing through his dark eyes.
He smiled, the kind of small, private smile that made your chest ache with warmth. “I’ll try not to,” he replied, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
Sometimes, when he adjusted a pot or leaned closer to inspect a plant, his hand would brush yours. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet electric. You would freeze for a moment, feeling a thrill at the simple connection, and he would glance at you with a subtle, almost guilty grin, as if unsure whether you noticed.
“Sorry,” he muttered once, moving his hand back and leaning against the bench instead, but there was no real apology in his tone. His eyes held a spark of amusement, and you realized he enjoyed the closeness as much as you did.
Other times, a shoulder would press lightly against yours as he leaned over to see a delicate bloom, or he would crouch beside you, knees brushing against yours as he followed your instructions on pruning.
The touches were so subtle, so careful, that they felt like a language all their own, unspoken yet meaningful. Each small gesture, each unintentional brush of skin, made your heart beat faster, made your thoughts scatter in ways you hadn’t expected.
It wasn’t just the plants that flourished under your care. Slowly, secretly, Claggor’s presence began to take root in your heart, like a seedling finding purchase in rich soil. You found yourself noticing the small things about him: the way he furrowed his brow when concentrating, the faint crease of a smile when he successfully nurtured a stubborn vine, the way his dark eyes softened when he caught you whispering encouragement to a delicate sprout.
You began to leave small notes in the journal for him, simple reminders or little observations. One day you wrote,
“This one likes a little more sun around noon,”
And later found him tracing the line with a finger, nodding thoughtfully.
“Noted,” he whispered, almost to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Evenings became the most intimate time, when the sun slanted low through the glass, and the greenhouse was bathed in a soft golden light. You would crouch beside a stubborn root or a delicate stem, whispering encouragements in that quiet, gentle tone reserved for the plants.
Claggor would watch, sometimes kneeling beside you, hands hovering uncertainly over a pot before he copied your movements, his voice low and careful, almost reverent.
“Just a little more… stretch… yes, that’s it,” he murmured one evening, and you looked up at him, catching the faint glow of satisfaction in his expression as he watched a vine slowly uncurl.
“Good,” you said softly, brushing a leaf aside and meeting his gaze. “You remembered how it responds. That’s progress. They notice when you listen.”
He blinked at you, then grinned, a small, shy, almost boyish expression that made your chest flutter.
“I… I think I’m starting to get it. Maybe…” He paused, looking at the vines, then back at you. “Maybe it’s not just the plants I’m… paying attention to.”
Your heart skipped, and you found yourself smiling, trying not to blush.
“Careful what you say,” you teased lightly, returning your focus to a curling tendril, but your fingers lingered on it, brushing it almost absentmindedly, the contact barely there but electric.
Claggor laughed softly, leaning back against the bench with that easy, relaxed posture that belied the careful attention he was giving you. “I’m not used to… noticing things. Not like this. It feels… nice. Right.”
“It does,” you admitted softly, your voice just above a whisper, meant more for him than for the plants. You watched him watching you, the quiet fascination mirrored in his eyes, the slow ease of his breathing, and something in you shifted, gentle but unstoppable.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the greenhouse in long, golden streaks, you crouched to untangle a particularly stubborn root. Claggor lingered nearby, watching with that curious, soft gaze you had come to expect. You murmured softly, not to the plant this time, but perhaps to him:
“Grow well, little vine… grow well.”
He caught your words, and something in his chest tightened. His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, eyes flicking to yours, and for the first time you felt certain that he understood. Somehow, deep inside, he felt the same way you did: that there was something alive, fragile, patient, and growing between you, something that required care, attention, and a little bit of courage.
He stepped closer, just enough that your shoulders brushed, and for a moment, the greenhouse was filled only with the quiet rustle of leaves and the unspoken understanding that passed between you.
And in that golden, warm light, you realized that this bond, the one nurtured by whispered encouragements, quiet observation, and gentle touch, was no less real than the plants thriving around you.
It had roots now. Deep, steadfast, and growing every day, in ways neither of you could yet name.
Hi sorry to bother you but may I please request a arcane men x fem werewolf reader hc like they’re in a relationship with the reader and they found out that she’s a werewolf. It’s up to you if you want this I respect your decision if you don’t want to I understand again sorry to bother you.
The lab was unusually quiet tonight. The usual hum of machinery, the faint crackle of electricity, and the rhythmic clinking of metal were all present, but each sound seemed muted, as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. Jayce sat hunched over his workbench, a pencil hovering over a fresh sheet of paper, sketching the intricate mechanisms of a new hextech prototype. Every line he drew was precise, methodical, yet his mind kept drifting, adrift in thoughts of Y/N.
She had been different lately. Not in the subtle ways he noticed when they first met, when brilliance and charm masked nervousness or mischief, but in ways that gnawed at the edges of his intuition. She would glance toward corners of the room as if sensing something he could not, her movements jittery yet controlled, like a predator sizing up its prey. Her laugh, usually so warm and effortless, sometimes cut short, like it could not quite reach her eyes.
Jayce tried to tell himself it was nothing.
She was brilliant, stubborn, fiercely independent, and fiercely protective of herself.
He knew better than to pry when she was not ready. But tonight, there was a tension in the air, a pulse, a kind of electricity not born from his machines.
A low growl suddenly echoed from the corridor beyond the lab. It was faint, almost indistinct, but it vibrated through the floorboards, through his chest. Jayce’s pen slipped from his fingers.
“Y/N?” His voice cracked, unsteady, betraying the fear he did not want to acknowledge.
There was a pause. Silence stretched, pregnant and heavy, before the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against stone reached him. Jayce’s stomach twisted, and he jumped to his feet, heart hammering.
Every instinct screamed at him to run, to call for help, yet another, far more dangerous instinct, demanded he follow. He approached the side entrance to the workshop, every step careful, deliberate.
Moonlight spilled through the tall, narrow windows, casting long, silver beams that danced across the floor. And there she was. Or rather, something that looked like her.
Y/N stood there, frozen mid-step. She was both terrifying and mesmerizing. Her hair had grown wild, cascading in tangled waves that shimmered silver in the moonlight. Her eyes glowed a golden, unnatural hue, pupils elongated, sharp and predatory. Muscles bunched beneath her clothes like coiled springs, ready to strike, and faintly, through the shadows of the workshop, he could see claws pressing against the fabric of her sleeves. Fangs peeked from between her lips, glinting dangerously in the soft light.
She was beautiful. And utterly alien.
Jayce’s chest tightened, a mixture of awe, fear, and a protective, all-consuming love.
“Jayce… I-” she started, her voice strained, trembling, but still human.
He stepped forward slowly, hands open, heart hammering like a drum. “Y/N… what… what are you?”
The growl that escaped her throat then was low, guttural, a sound that no human voice could replicate. Her body shifted slightly, muscles rippling as if testing the air, the weight of her transformation pressing down like gravity. Jayce froze. He realized then that she could not speak, not like this.
She let out a long, shuddering breath, retracting her claws slightly, her shoulders sagging as if she had been holding the weight of the world on them. Her golden eyes were wide, almost fearful, yet there was a glimmer of relief.
“I… did not want you to find out like this,” she whispered, in fragments that her human voice barely carried. Her words were swallowed in the growl that escaped involuntarily. “I’m… a werewolf.”
Jayce blinked, trying to process. “A… werewolf? You mean… the full…?”
She gave a hesitant, almost imperceptible nod. Her movements were fluid, powerful, predatory even in their stillness, yet something in her posture conveyed vulnerability. “Full moon… I… I can’t control it,” she managed to croak, a single word almost lost beneath another low growl. “I… I’ve kept it hidden. I did not want you in danger.”
Jayce’s mind raced. Danger. Secrecy. The risk she had taken just to be near him, even in her uncontrollable form. A thousand thoughts collided at once, but they were drowned out by one undeniable truth, love. The fierce, relentless, all-consuming kind that made his chest ache.
He stepped closer, moving slowly, cautiously, each step measured. His hands trembled slightly, but he lifted them anyway, brushing a strand of her wild, silver-tipped hair from her face. Her golden eyes met his, pupils flicking like lightning across a stormy sky, searching for any sign of fear in him.
“You’re still you,” he whispered. His voice was steady, certain, filled with conviction. “All of this… does not change that. You’re still the woman I love. The rest is just this.” He gestured faintly at her claws, the fangs, the wild shimmer of her hair. “It is part of you. And I love you, all of you.”
Her eyes shimmered, glinting with emotion, relief, fear, hope, and something that almost looked like longing. She pressed her forehead against his chest instinctively, leaning into him, as if grounding herself in his warmth.
“You’re not… scared?” she finally asked, human voice barely audible over the low growl threatening to slip again.
Jayce chuckled softly, the tension breaking slightly, though his eyes never left hers. “Terrified,” he admitted, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips, “but terrified in a good way. I’ve faced experiments that could blow up half of Piltover. I think I can handle a little moonlight.”
A laugh, shaky, trembling, human once more, escaped her. Jayce stepped even closer, letting his hands rest gently on her shoulders. The metallic tang of the lab, the faint ozone of his hextech prototypes, and the wild scent of her transformation mingled into something intoxicating. His chest pressed lightly against hers, and he could feel her shiver.
“Just… promise me,” Jayce murmured, his voice so quiet it might have been mistaken for the wind, “don’t hide it. Not from me.”
“I promise,” Y/N said, voice firm, warm, and unwavering.
Jayce leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, feeling the soft brush of her untamed hair against his lips. “No matter what form you take, Y/N… you’re mine.”
Her golden eyes softened, the wild edge dulling slightly as relief flooded her expression. She pressed closer, almost instinctively curling into him, and Jayce wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though he could shield her from the world.
The moonlight streamed through the lab’s tall windows, bathing them both in silver. Shadows stretched across the floor, long and wavering, but inside that glow, Y/N realized she no longer needed to hide. She no longer had to fear judgment, secrecy, or rejection. Because even in her wildest, most uncontrollable form, love could break through, could see past the fangs, the fur, the golden eyes, and recognize her soul.
Jayce held her a little tighter. “We’ll face this together,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “All of it. You, me… whatever comes.”
And under the quiet hum of hextech machinery, with the moonlight reflecting in her golden eyes, Y/N let herself believe it. Finally, she did not have to hide anymore.
𝚅𝚒𝚔𝚝𝚘𝚛
The gala was suffocating. Velvet curtains hung in heavy folds, brushing the marble floor like silent sentinels, while glittering chandeliers threw fractured light across the polished surfaces, making every golden goblet and crystal decanter sparkle as if they were imbued with a life of their own. The hum of polite laughter, the soft clink of silverware against china, the muted rustle of silk and taffeta, Viktor found it almost unbearable. He stood rigid near a marble column, cane resting lightly under his hand, knuckles brushing the intricate metalwork at its top. Every muscle in him screamed that he would rather be anywhere else, anywhere but mingling under false civility. And yet, here he was, because Y/N had insisted.
He scanned the crowd with a practiced detachment, eyes flicking over the painted smiles and polite nods, his thoughts elsewhere. He expected to find Y/N near the refreshment tables, delicately lifting a champagne flute with a perfect, unassuming grace, but she was gone.
He noticed her absence before he heard it, the faint scrape of heels against the polished floor that stopped abruptly, as if the sound itself had been startled. His brow furrowed, catching sight of a crimson gown, long and flowing, abandoned near the far balcony, the hem grazing the stone like a ribbon left behind. The air around it carried something unfamiliar, a faint metallic tang, sharp, almost coppery. Viktor’s mind sharpened.
“Y/N?” he called softly, the word curling around his Czech accent like a careful question, almost a caress. The echoes of his voice bounced off the walls, swallowed by the gala’s glittering chaos beyond. No reply.
He felt a pull in his chest, instinct more compelling than decorum. With deliberate steps, cane tapping against the polished marble in a steady rhythm, he made his way toward the quieter corridors of the gala’s upper floors. The sounds of laughter and music faded behind him, leaving only the hush of his own careful breathing. These halls seemed forgotten by the party altogether, as though they existed in another plane, ornate, silent, and waiting.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy oak door caught his eye. Slightly ajar. From within came a faint, irregular rustling, a sound that did not belong to any human. Viktor paused, grip tightening on his cane, chest tightening in anticipation.
He pushed it open.
The sight that greeted him made his pulse stutter.
Y/N crouched in the centre of the room, not human, not quite. Her hair, wild and dark, fanned around her head like a storm-cloud halo, catching the light of the chandelier above. Golden eyes glowed, fierce and predatory, reflecting the sharp angles of her surroundings with a strange, almost ethereal intelligence. Fur had claimed her skin, sleek and dark, stretching over muscles that flexed beneath in fluid, terrifying elegance. Her jaw was elongated, fangs catching the chandelier’s light as she growled low, a deep vibration that seemed to resonate in Viktor’s chest, in his bones.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, yet he could not.
Then she moved.
Like lightning.
Y/N leapt at him, weight and ferocity combined, landing atop him with a thud that sent his cane skittering against the marble. Her claws traced lightly over his coat, grazing it with a feral delicacy, fangs snapping mere inches from his face. She rolled against him, growling again, the sound vibrating in his ears, raw and untamed. Viktor felt his mind reel, not with fear, but with a shocking, thrilling awareness of just how powerful she was, how beautiful in her savagery.
“V-Viktor…” she murmured suddenly, her voice trembling, breaking through the growls. Even in this monstrous form, he could hear the familiar cadence of her humanity, the vulnerability beneath the predatory exterior.
He stayed still, forcing himself to take measured breaths, even as adrenaline coursed through him. His hand, steady despite the rapid thrum of his pulse, reached up and brushed against her cheek. Fur gave way to warmth beneath his fingers, the soft pulse of life beneath that untamed exterior. Viktor’s lips parted, and he whispered, “You… you are… a-” His words faltered as he realized what he had never thought he would say aloud. “A werewolf.”
"“I… I didn’t want you to know like this,” she admitted, voice trembling. “Not like this, not… uncontrolled. I never…"
Her ears flattened, tail flicking with uncertainty, eyes wide, searching his face for the reaction she feared. Viktor, however, remained calm, his mind alive with fascination. He was an observer by nature, a man of logic and meticulous thought, but even he could not predict the awe that spread through him at the sight before him.
“You… didn’t tell me,” he said softly, “And you didn’t need to. But now… I see you. Entirely.”
Y/N’s growl softened, a low rumble that vibrated against him, transforming gradually into something warmer. She shifted slightly, enough to let him brush a hand through the fur along her jaw, feeling the taut strength of her muscles beneath his fingers. Even as her claws brushed his coat lightly, there was no fear in him, only a fierce, protective admiration, the thrill of knowing the truth about the woman he loved in all her forms.
“You… are extraordinary,” he murmured, voice husky. The words carried a weight, a confession he hadn’t realized he was holding back. “And fierce. And… terrifying. And I… I am utterly fascinated. And I… I want to understand every part of you. The part you show the world, and the part you keep hidden.”
Her golden eyes softened, and for the first time, Viktor saw the fear in them melt away, replaced with trust, a dangerous, fragile, intoxicating trust. “I… I was so afraid, Viktor. Afraid you’d… leave. Afraid you’d see me differently.”
“Leave?” Viktor shook his head slowly, small, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “lásko, I would follow you into this form, into any form, and not merely because I am fascinated, but because… because I love you.” His voice dropped, huskier now, carrying a rare warmth that cut through the tension. “Do you understand? I love you, not despite what you are, but because of it. All of it.”
Viktor exhaled slowly, grounding himself even as his heart raced. “Come,” he said softly, voice now carrying authority and warmth in equal measure. “Let us understand one another completely. There is much to learn, and perhaps, much to protect.”
Y/N pressed her forehead to his, claws retracting just slightly, letting the tension of the moment dissolve into something intimate, feral, and breathtakingly human at the same time. And Viktor allowed himself to marvel, to wonder, to love without restraint.
𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛
Vander had always been observant, though life in Zaun often demanded more immediate attention than small oddities. Still, he couldn’t ignore the pattern he had noticed over the years. Every autumn, around the same time, Y/N would vanish for several nights. She always told him she was “staying at a friend’s place,” but there was a flicker in her eyes, an unspoken tension, that made him uneasy. Vander trusted Y/N with his life and his heart, yet there was something about those absences that gnawed at him, a sense of danger he could not name.
The kids, Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor, loved Y/N like a mother. They followed her around the workshop, the streets, and even the bar when she came over, laughing at her teasing or quietly confiding secrets she always seemed to understand. Vander had seen the bond she shared with them grow stronger every day, yet tonight, as he scrubbed the bar top and watched the smoke rising from the chimneys, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that whatever Y/N was doing during those nights was not ordinary, and it was not safe.
=
The following night, Vander had gone to check a shipment coming in from the outskirts of Zaun, leaving the kids to run a small errand. The streets were unusually empty, the faint hum of Zaun’s machinery masking the occasional scuffle in the alleyways. Vi led the group, arms folded, as Powder clutched her satchel nervously. Mylo and Claggor trailed behind, whispering to each other about some minor adventure.
Suddenly, a shout cut through the quiet. “Hey! Stop right there!” Two rough-handed men lunged from the shadows, grabbing Mylo and Claggor with practiced ease. Their faces were hidden under soot-stained hoods, and they sneered as they tried to drag the younger children into the darkness.
“Let go of them!” Vi screamed, swinging her fists wildly, while Powder froze, a high-pitched shriek escaping her throat. The bandits circled, weapons glinting under the dim lantern light, their sneers confident.
Before anyone could react further, a low, guttural growl reverberated through the alley. The bandits paused, uneasy, scanning the shadows. From the darkness emerged a massive figure, muscles rippling beneath dark, bristling fur. Eyes glowed molten gold, fangs bared, and claws scraped the cobblestones with a sound that made the air itself seem to vibrate.
Without hesitation, the creature lunged, striking with precision and power that sent the bandits stumbling backward. A blur of movement, a swipe here, a growl there, and the attackers quickly realized they were outmatched. Panic replaced their bravado. “Get it off us! Get it off us!” they shouted, scrambling toward the streets, leaving their stolen catch behind.
When the dust settled, the monstrous figure stood in the alley, chest heaving, fur ruffled, eyes glowing fiercely. Then it turned its gaze toward the children. Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor froze, their previous terror now mingled with awe and fear. Slowly, the creature took a tentative step forward.
The kids instinctively backed away, their hands clutching at each other’s arms. The figure’s posture softened slightly, but there was a sadness in its eyes, an almost human whimper that seemed to tremble in the night air. It lowered its head, shoulders slumping in visible sorrow, then sank to its knees on the cold cobblestones. A low, plaintive sound escaped it, half growl, half whimper.
Powder, trembling but curious, took a small step forward, drawn to the figure despite her fear. Her gaze swept over the fur, the claws, the enormous frame, and then, something clicked. The golden eyes softened under the moonlight, revealing the familiar hue she knew so well. Her breath caught, and a name escaped her lips in disbelief.
“Mama?”
The figure tilted its head, ears flicking, and then with a shiver, the monstrous form began to shrink, fur receding, claws retracting, until Y/N knelt before them, human again but dishevelled, sweat glistening on her forehead, and clothes torn at the edges from the struggle. She looked at the children, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and whispered, her voice breaking, “I didn’t want anyone to see this… I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Before anyone could stop her, Powder ran forward and threw her arms around Y/N, holding on tight. Y/N’s shoulders sagged with relief as she returned the embrace, burying her face against Powder’s hair.
Vi and the others watched for a moment, wide-eyed, before slowly approaching, unsure but reassured by Powder’s lead. The fear in the alley began to fade, replaced by a quiet understanding.
Moments later, Vander arrived, breathless from rushing through the streets. He froze in the doorway of the alley, heart hammering as realization dawned: Y/N, the woman he loved and trusted with his life, was a werewolf. Yet seeing her kneel there, exhausted and gentle, surrounded by the children who clung to her tightly, any fear or anger melted into relief and awe.
“I… I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Y/N said softly, brushing her hair from her face. Her voice trembled, fragile yet tender. “It’s, hard to control sometimes. That’s why I go away every year. I didn’t want to put anyone in danger.”
Powder pressed herself against Y/N’s chest, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, eyes wide but unwavering. “You saved us. You’re still mama,” she whispered.
Vi was the next to move forward, wrapping her strong arms around Y/N’s shoulders, resting her cheek against her hair. Mylo and Claggor clung to Y/N’s legs, hugging her knees as if anchoring themselves to her presence. The four children held her like a lifeline, their small bodies radiating trust, love, and relief.
Vander stepped closer, his own hands gripping hers, warm and steady. “Y/N… I don’t care what you are. You’re part of this family. That doesn’t change,” he said firmly, his voice low but full of affection and reassurance.
Y/N’s eyes filled with tears at the overwhelming love surrounding her. She let herself sink into the embrace, resting her forehead against Vander’s chest while the children’s arms held her tight, safe, and unafraid. The tension melted away entirely, replaced with the quiet certainty that here, among them, she was home.
𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚌𝚘
Y/N had found him in the dim light of his office, hunched over papers and maps, eyes sharp, fingers tracing lines and notes as though the city itself depended on it. The faint hum of Zaun outside barely reached them, muffled through the heavy walls.
“What have you been busy with lately?” Y/N asked, her voice soft, curiosity lacing each word. She stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes held that gentle warmth that always made Silco pause, that quiet insistence on seeing him even when he tried to hide.
Silco did not look up. He simply folded his hands together over the desk and let a slow sigh escape, almost imperceptibly. “It is… important,” he said, his tone careful. He kept his thoughts locked away, the hunt for the creature prowling Zaun too sensitive to speak of, too dangerous even to hint at.
Y/N frowned slightly, but she did not press further. Instead, she reached out, brushing her hand over his. “Important,” she repeated, teasing lightly, “or just more secrets you think I can’t handle?”
Silco finally allowed himself a small smile, the kind that reached his eyes in that rare, private way she always adored. “A little of both,” he said, finally looking up at her.
She leaned closer, her lips finding his in a gentle kiss. It was soft, lingering, a balm to the weight he carried every day. When they parted, Y/N smiled up at him, eyes glimmering with warmth. “I should be heading home,” she said, her voice soft, almost hesitant. “Don’t work too hard, alright?”
“I will manage,” Silco replied smoothly, though his thoughts were already elsewhere, back to the whispers of a beast that had been troubling the undercity.
=
The rumors had started weeks ago. Tales of a monstrous creature moving through Zaun, faster than the fastest stray, stronger than any ordinary man, and intelligent enough to evade capture. Silco had dismissed the stories at first. Zaun thrived on exaggeration, and the citizens loved a good scare. But the reports kept coming, their consistency undeniable. And with each story, the vision in his mind became clearer. A weapon like that could change everything. A creature like that, trained and controlled… it could solidify his grip on Zaun in ways ordinary men never could.
He did not sleep well for nights, imagining the creature in every dark alley, every shadowed corner. He organized teams, trained men, sent them out quietly, carefully, to hunt it without drawing attention. Every report he received made his pulse quicken, but none confirmed the creature’s capture, until tonight.
=
Silco stepped into the dimly lit holding cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind him. The air smelled of damp stone and fear, a mixture of sweat, rust, and something wild, untamed. His eyes immediately fell on the figure chained to the walls. The creature, bulky, muscular, every movement taut with strength, struggled violently against its restraints.
The chains rattled sharply with each thrash, the sound echoing harshly off the stone walls. Its fangs gleamed behind the jagged muzzle, the edges digging slightly into the flesh of its snout as it shook its head in defiance.
Silco’s breath caught, his expression unreadable, eyes narrowing as he studied the beast. It was not just strength that radiated from it; there was intelligence, cunning, awareness. Every motion carried a purpose, every gaze sharp and calculating, held in check only by the iron and leather that bound it.
“Where… where did you find it?” Silco’s voice was low, cold, but controlled, each word carrying that subtle edge that made his men stiffen in place.
One of them hesitated, glancing nervously at the creature before meeting Silco’s gaze. “Your… your home, sir,” he finally admitted, voice trembling slightly. “Y/N… her clothes… shredded… everywhere.”
Silco froze. The words hit him like a hammer. My home? His chest tightened, his pulse racing. The image of Y/N flooded his mind, the way she smiled at him in quiet moments, how she leaned on him when they spoke about plans for Zaun, the warmth in her eyes, her soft laughter. And now… could it be…?
The chains rattled violently again, jerking him back from his spiralling thoughts. The sharp metallic clangs echoed through the cell, a sound that seemed to scrape against his nerves. The beast’s eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, intelligent, aware, and disturbingly familiar. Every motion was wild, animalistic, but there was something in the way it moved, a thread of recognition, something that gnawed at the edge of his mind.
Suddenly, the image of shredded clothes, the thought of Y/N lying somewhere, hurt, helpless, gone, hit him like a physical blow. His stomach churned violently, his chest tightened, and his breaths came in short, sharp gasps. A cold, suffocating fear gnawed at him, twisting into raw, furious despair.
“She’s… she’s gone,” he whispered under his breath, voice trembling with disbelief. “She’s dead…”
Then the reality slammed into him like a hammer: the beast before him, the snarling, fanged, impossible creature, must have done this. It had taken her. It had killed her. Devoured her. His mind filled with horrid images of her broken, lifeless, and the bloodlust of the creature that now mocked him with every snarl.
“YOU MONSTER!” he bellowed, his voice raw, echoing against the stone walls, shaking with grief and rage. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!”
The beast froze for a heartbeat, then thrashed harder against the chains, the metal biting into its flesh. Silco’s hands shook, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The anger that flared from his grief was pure, unfiltered, every ounce of his panic turning into violent fury.
“YOU TOOK HER FROM ME! YOU ATE HER!” he roared, voice cracking with desperation and sorrow.
His finger hovered over the trigger as he raised the gun, the cold metal pressing into his palm like a cruel weight.
The chains rattled violently as the beast thrashed again, snarling and straining, and for a brief, terrifying moment, the world narrowed to a single, unbearable truth. There was no city. No plans. No future. Only him, and the certainty that Y/N—the woman who had been the center of his world—had been destroyed, consumed by the thing now snarling in her place.
Then a sound cut through the chaos.
A low, broken noise slipped past the muzzle, strained and barely audible, but undeniably human.
“Sil…co…”
The gun slipped from his fingers.
It hit the stone floor with a sharp metallic clatter, echoing through the cell like a gunshot of its own.
Silco froze, breath tearing from his lungs as if he had been struck. Time seemed to stall, stretching thin and fragile. The chains rattled again, but he barely heard them. All he could hear was her voice. Hoarse. Weak. Familiar.
His eyes snapped back to the creature’s face. The glowing gaze locked onto his, and in that instant, the monster vanished. Beneath the fur, the fangs, the wildness, he saw her. Fear. Recognition. His Y/N.
“Y/N…” he breathed, the name breaking from him like a confession. His chest seized, disbelief crashing into overwhelming relief so hard it almost brought him to his knees.
He moved without thinking.
“Get those chains off her,” he snapped, voice sharp and commanding, panic threading through every word. “Now. All of them.”
The men hesitated, glancing between the beast and Silco, but the look on his face ended any doubt.
“I said now,” he barked, stepping closer, hands already reaching toward the restraints. “Carefully.”
His anger had vanished in an instant, replaced by something fierce and trembling. Protectiveness. Guilt. Fear. He had nearly killed her. Nearly lost her by his own hand.
Silco’s hands shook as he reached toward her, his voice dropping, softer than anyone in that room had ever heard it.
Silco’s hands shook as he reached toward her, his voice dropping, softer than anyone in that room had ever heard it.
“I’m here, love,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as his fingers traced the ropes and chains holding her in place. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”
A low, trembling breath escaped her, and she shifted slightly. Her eyes, glimmering with both human warmth and the feral glow of her beast, met his.
“I… I should have told you,” she said, voice hoarse. “About… about what I am… what this is…”
Silco froze for a heartbeat, every fibre of him tightening. “Y/N-” he began, but she cut him off with a weak, almost guilty shake of her head.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” she admitted, “I thought… I could handle it on my own. I didn’t want you dragged into… this. Into me.”
Silco’s jaw clenched, a mixture of fury and relief coursing through him. He pressed a hand gently to her shoulder, trying to anchor her, to ground both of them in reality. “Do you have any idea what I just thought?” he asked, voice rough. “Do you know how close I came to… to—”
“I know,” she whispered, cutting him off again, her eyes brimming with fear and shame. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I wanted to tell you, I really did. I just… I was scared.”
“You don’t have to face it alone,” he said, his voice low, trembling with emotion. “Not ever again. I’m here. Always. You’ll never have to hide from me, Y/N. Not after this.”
A shudder ran through her, a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and the release of pent-up tension. Her head lowered slightly, resting against his chest. The metallic taste of the muzzle and the sting of the restraints still lingered, but in that moment, the storm of Zaun and the terror of what had happened faded to nothing more than the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
“I… I should have trusted you,” she murmured again, her voice quiet but filled with raw emotion. “I thought… I thought I was protecting you, but…”
Silco tightened his hold gently, letting her words fade into the silence between them. He didn’t reply immediately. There was no need. His presence, his touch, and the gentle strength of his hands unravelling her chains said everything he couldn’t put into words.
Finally, he whispered, almost to himself: “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters. You’re here, Y/N.”
Hi! Can I request headcanons for the Saja Boys? (Separately) about them having a girlfriend who is a member of a J-pop band. The band's outfits are inspired by sweet lolita fashion. What would they think about the cute outfits she wear? Full of ruffles, lace, bows, pastel colors, etc.
The dressing room smelled faintly of perfume and starch. You were fussing with the layers of your outfit, adjusting the lace and the bows, smoothing the frills that made up your sweet lolita costume. Today’s concept for your J-Pop band was… “a sugar-coated fantasy,” and your bandmates were already bustling around you, fixing skirts, pins, and hair accessories.
Jinu had insisted on coming with you today. Normally he teased your outfits behind closed doors, but he was curious, and admittedly a little nervous, about this look. He had been waiting quietly by the door, arms crossed, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, his gaze flicking between you and your reflection.
When you finally stepped in front of the full-length mirror, holding your parasol daintily and spinning once so the skirt flared perfectly, he made a low whistle. “Wow.”
You blinked at him. “Wow? That’s it?”
He stepped closer, eyes scanning every detail, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “No, I mean wow. You… you look ridiculous. Ridiculous in the best way possible.” He leaned down slightly, brushing a stray curl from your cheek, his voice softening. “But also… insanely cute.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the pink that crept across your cheeks. “Cute? Jinu, we’re supposed to be idols, not walking cupcakes.”
“And that’s exactly why it works,” he countered, tugging gently at the lace at your wrist. “You make it… effortless. Like you were born to wear frills and bows.”
Your hands went to your skirt as you twirled slowly, feeling the layers of lace and ribbons swish around you. “I feel… like a doll,” you admitted, “or one of those characters in the show we used to binge-watch.”
Jinu chuckled, his dark eyes warm as he took your hands in his. “And I’m the luckiest person alive to be with a doll like this. Honestly, you could wear a trash bag and I’d still think you look amazing, but this… this is something else.”
You laughed, lightly punching his arm. “Flattery will get you everywhere, huh?”
“Everywhere,” he confirmed, tugging you into a gentle hug from the side. He rested his chin on your shoulder, looking down at you with that lazy, infuriating grin he always wore when he was completely smitten. “You’re going to melt the entire audience, you know that, right? And not just because of the outfit. Because it’s you.”
Your heart skipped a beat, and you had to duck your head to hide the smile threatening to break across your face. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.
“And yet… here I am,” he said softly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. “Watching you be the cutest idol in the room. I can’t help it.”
You glanced at the mirror again, seeing yourself in layers of lace and ruffles, and then at him, the boy who somehow made even this over-the-top fashion feel normal, even intimate. “I guess… I don’t hate it,” you admitted.
Jinu grinned, lifting your chin with one finger. “Don’t just not hate it. Own it. You’re perfect in it. And, honestly, I can’t wait to see everyone else’s jaws drop when you perform.”
You leaned into his side, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re too much sometimes.”
“But not too much for you,” he said, tightening his hold. “Never too much for you.”
And for a moment, surrounded by frills, bows, and pastel colours, you realized that being ridiculous and sweet in this outfit didn’t matter, because with Jinu at your side, even the wildest, most sugar-coated look felt like home.
𝙰𝙱𝙱𝚈 𝚂𝙰𝙹𝙰
You’re sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when Abby appears in the doorway with that infuriating smirk that always makes your heart skip.
“Hey,” he says casually, arms crossed. “So… your J-Pop group dropped the new photos.”
You glance up, raising an eyebrow. “You looked?”
“Of course I looked,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m your boyfriend. It’s my duty… and, apparently, my punishment.”
You laugh softly, tilting your head. “Punishment? Really?”
“Yes,” he says, his tone mock-serious as he gestures at your phone. “Punishment to see you in… whatever that is.”
You giggle and swivel the phone around to show him. The screen is full of bright, pastel colors, frills, bows, lace, and petticoats. Your J-Pop bandmates are posed in synchronized perfection, each outfit a swirl of cotton candy pinks, baby blues, and soft creams. Your own ensemble is complete with a delicate lace headpiece, knee-high socks with ribbon ties, and shoes that look like they were stolen from a fairytale.
Abby freezes mid-step. His dark eyes widen slightly, scanning the outfit. You can see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw tightens as he tries to reconcile the image with the girl he knows.
“You… look…” he starts, then stops, then shakes his head as if words have failed him entirely. “You look… like a cupcake. A very, very intimidating cupcake.”
You laugh, delighted, leaning back on the couch. “A cupcake? That’s… new. I’ll take it.”
He crosses the room and plops down beside you, still trying to get his brain to catch up to his eyes. “I mean, it’s… adorable, okay? Ridiculously cute. But it’s also… you. And that makes it confusing.” He tilts his head, dark hair falling over his forehead. “I’m supposed to be scared of you, but instead I’m… I don’t know, charmed? And slightly jealous that everyone else gets to see you like this.”
You reach over and poke his chest, grinning. “Jealous? Of a bunch of Japanese fans seeing me in pastel frills?”
“Yes!” he blurts, immediately regretting how loud and flustered he sounded. He buries his face in his hands for a second before peeking through his fingers at you. “I mean… you look amazing. But it’s also ridiculous, okay? Ridiculously amazing.”
You giggle and slide closer, draping an arm over his shoulder. “So you like it?”
He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but his smirk betrays him. “Yeah… but don’t let it go to your head. You’re still dating me. I still get to tease you about it.”
“Deal,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder. “But don’t think I’m taking the frilly outfits off the table.”
Abby groans dramatically, but you can feel him relax against you. “Of course not,” he admits softly, fingers brushing along your arm. “You could wear frills, armour, whatever… I’d still be stuck with you. Lucky me.”
You glance at the screen one more time, smiling. “Lucky you, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, smirking again, voice low and warm. “Very, very lucky.”
And as you lean back together, Abby’s initial shock fades into something softer, pride, amusement, and a little heat at how ridiculously adorable you look in lace, ribbons, and pastel perfection.
𝙼𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚈 𝚂𝙰𝙹𝙰
You step off the tour bus, adjusting the layers of lace and ribbon on your outfit. The sweet lolita-inspired costume is more elaborate than usual: pastel pinks and creams, a flared skirt with layers of petticoats, ribbons cascading down your hair, and those adorable ankle socks with polished shoes that squeak slightly on the pavement.
Your bandmates chatter excitedly, fussing with their own outfits, but you can’t stop yourself from fidgeting with the oversized bow on your head.
Then, you see him. Mystery, standing by the curb, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His dark eyes sweep over you, taking in the frills, the puffed sleeves, the ridiculous, but undeniably cute, ensemble.
“Wow,” he finally says, voice low, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You… you actually look like you’re trying to hypnotize me.”
You blink, cheeks flushing under the pastel layers. “Hypnotize you? Mystery, it’s just a costume…”
“Just a costume?” He steps closer, tilting his head, eyes sharp and piercing, but there’s a glint of amusement hidden in them. “Y/N, you’re standing there looking like a marshmallow with attitude. It’s… distracting. Dangerous, even.”
You giggle, stepping forward, careful not to trip over the layers of your skirt. “Distracting, huh? I didn’t think lace and ribbons could be a threat.”
Mystery smirks, running a hand through his hair, clearly fighting back a grin. “Not lace and ribbons… you. You in lace and ribbons. I can’t tell if I want to pinch your cheeks or challenge you to a duel for being cuter than everyone else combined.”
You laugh, spinning slightly to show him the full outfit. “Is it really that shocking?”
He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Shocking? Maybe. Adorable? Absolutely. But dangerous? Yeah. You look too… good. Like if someone else sees you, they’ll kidnap you or something.”
You bite your lip, smirking, and take his hand, tugging him closer. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep me safe, won’t you?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at your face, expression softening slightly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl, but with a warmth beneath it. “I’ll keep you safe. And maybe steal a ribbon or two while I’m at it.”
You laugh, resting your forehead against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you,” he says, arms tightening around you, “look ridiculous… in the best possible way.”
Even with the crowd of bandmates, photographers, and fans around, the two of you linger there, a world apart. Mystery may act cool, he may joke and tease endlessly, but seeing you like this, in sweet, pastel layers of lace and ribbons, he can’t help but feel a little heart-stuck.
He leans down, brushing his lips against your temple. “Next time… I get to pick the costume. Just so you know.”
You chuckle, nuzzling against him. “I don’t think you could make me look this cute.”
“Challenge accepted,” he mutters, smirking as he wraps an arm tighter around your waist. “But for now… I’ll just admire.”
And in that moment, surrounded by pastel skirts and the chaos of your bandmates, Mystery realizes—no outfit, no amount of lace or ribbons, could ever make him stop wanting you.
𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝙹𝙰
The morning sun filtered through the studio windows, painting the room in soft gold. You were half-hidden behind the dressing screen, trying to tug at the layers of lace and ribbons without completely destroying the delicate structure of your outfit. Today was your first live performance in the band’s new Sweet Lolita-inspired concept, and the team had gone all in. Puffy skirts, pastel colours, ribbons, frills that practically screamed, “Look at me, I’m a human cupcake!”
“Need help?” a familiar, teasing voice came from the doorway.
You peeked over the top of the screen to find Romance leaning casually against the frame, dark eyes sparkling, one eyebrow arched like he already knew the answer.
“I, maybe?” you admitted, turning a little to show him your half-adjusted sleeves and the tulle layers clinging awkwardly to your knees. “It’s… a lot.”
He chuckled, taking a careful step closer. “A lot is one way to put it. You look…” His voice dropped slightly, eyes scanning you from head to toe, “…like the most adorable demon I’ve ever met.”
You froze. “Adorable… demon?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning, tilting his head. “It’s like… you’re trying to be all sweet and perfect in those frills, and somehow it just makes me want to protect you. And maybe kiss you a lot. And maybe pinch your cheeks. And also… fight anyone who makes fun of you. Basically, this outfit is dangerous.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Dangerous? I’m in pastel pink and lace, Romance. I’m harmless.”
He shook his head, stepping closer until he was just a few inches away. “Nope. Not harmless. You have this… I don’t know, this… aura. Cute enough to melt everyone, but I know that inside, you’re chaos in a corset. I can see it in your eyes.”
You twirled slowly in place, the skirt flaring perfectly, ribbons swishing. “Chaos in a corset? That’s… accurate, I guess.”
Romance reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I love it,” he murmured. “I love you in it. I love you always, but right now… wow. This is next-level.”
You blushed, tugging the hem of your skirt nervously. “It’s kind of embarrassing. The fans are going to love it, but I feel like I’m a doll or… I don’t know…”
“Exactly,” he said, eyes darkening with playful intensity. “A living doll, my girlfriend, and the cutest, fiercest one at that. Everyone else can have their stage presence, but you? You’re untouchable.”
You laughed, a little breathless, feeling the warmth of his presence behind you. “Untouchable, huh? Careful. I might start thinking I’m royalty.”
Romance smirked, slipping an arm around your waist and holding you close. “Then I’ll be your loyal knight. And I’ll tell everyone at the studio that my girlfriend is the prettiest, strongest, most chaotic lolita in J-Pop history.”
You leaned back into him, hiding your grin against his chest. “You really do have a way with words.”
“And you,” he murmured, chin resting on your shoulder, “really do have a way of making me fall in love… in every outfit, every stage, every ribbon and frill. Even when you’re a puffy skirt-wearing cupcake.”
You shook your head, laughing softly, heart fluttering. “I think I like this outfit now. Only because you look at me like that.”
Romance kissed the top of your head, smirk softening into warmth. “Good. Because when you walk out on that stage tonight, I’m not letting anyone forget who owns my heart. Sweet Lolita or not, you’re mine.”
You spun once more, letting the layers of pastel pink and cream swirl around you. “Mine, huh? That’s the best part of this outfit then.”
He grinned, tugging you into a quick, protective hug. “The best part of everything is you.”
𝙱𝙰𝙱𝚈 𝚂𝙰𝙹𝙰
You’re backstage, adjusting the skirt of your outfit for the fifth time, trying not to trip over the layers of lace and ribbons. Today’s performance with your J-Pop band is special, the concept is “sweet lolita,” frilly skirts, pastel colours, oversized bows, and those little puffed sleeves that make you feel like a doll.
Baby leans casually against the dressing room doorway, arms crossed, watching you fuss over your outfit with a small, amused smile. His usual mischievous energy is toned down, replaced by something softer, more curious.
“You look…” he starts, his dark eyes flicking up and down your outfit. “…different.”
You pause, frowning slightly, one hand on your waist. “Different how? Do you mean good different or… bad different?”
He grins faintly, stepping closer. “Good different.” His voice drops a little, just for you, and there’s a warmth there that makes your stomach do a little flip. “I mean, you look… cute. Really cute.”
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “Cute?” You hear the tiny squeak of lace from your corset as you move. “I’m supposed to be performing, not… cute.”
Baby shrugs, his expression deceptively casual. “Who says cute can’t be powerful? You’re still… you. Just… wrapped in pink fluff.”
You can’t help but laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Pink fluff, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in slightly, voice low. “And honestly… I can’t stop staring.” His eyes meet yours, dark and teasing, but there’s also that little glint of pride, like he’s watching the person he cares about shine in a way only he gets to notice.
You sigh dramatically, spinning a little to show him the layers of your dress. “So… you approve of my new lolita persona?”
“I don’t just approve,” he says, stepping closer, closing the gap between you. “I’m obsessed.”
Your laugh is light, nervous, and a little shy. He reaches out, fingers brushing the ribbons on your sleeve. “You’re performing today, yeah? But after… I get to see this side of you without the stage lights.”
You bite your lip, heart thudding. “You mean… just for you?”
“Exactly,” he murmurs, eyes softening. “Just for me, and maybe a little for the audience too.”
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks as he leans in closer, gaze lingering on your face, but there’s no rush, no pressure, just that quiet, steady warmth that only Baby can give.
“And…” he adds, smirking now, “don’t let the ribbons fool you. You’re still the fiercest person I know, even if you’re dressed like a pastel doll.”
You laugh again, shaking your head, feeling a mix of nerves and affection. “I guess I can live with that… for you.”
He reaches out, gently tugging one of the ribbons, making you stumble just a little. “Good. Because I plan on staring at you all day like this.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face is uncontainable. Even in all that lace and fluff, Baby still sees you, the Y/N he loves, and that’s all that matters.
Can I request for the Saja Boys and Reader being their manager. All I can imagine is Reader reeling the boys in with harnesses, doing a head count at an airport as if it was like a school trip, OHH they’re on a tv show and all the other idol groups have to hunt down the most attractive managers and the Saja boys are like “It’s on sight.”
You had barely finished clipping the last harness onto Jinu when he started squirming violently, twisting and wriggling like a cat that had been caught in a too-small box. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief and mock outrage as he looked up at you, pouting in a way that would have been endearing if it weren’t so infuriating.
"Hey! This isn’t a prison, Y/N!” he huffed, tugging at the straps as if sheer effort might undo your careful work.
You could feel his muscles straining under the fabric, flexing and shifting with every movement, but the harness held fast, snug and secure without being uncomfortable.
“Prison?” you said, crouching slightly so your eyes were level with his. “This is a safety precaution. If you value your limbs or the shoes I just spent three hours cleaning, you will stay put.” You tugged the strap gently but firmly, pulling him back when he inched toward the door.
Jinu groaned dramatically, letting his shoulders slump, but the spark of rebellion in his eyes was still bright. “Humiliating,” he muttered under his breath, then louder, “This is humiliating! For a demon!” He jabbed a finger at himself, voice theatrical. “We are not some mortal children to be restrained with straps!”
You raised an eyebrow, crouching a little closer. “Oh, I know exactly what you are,” you said, your voice low, teasing. “And that’s exactly why I cannot let you run off like some chaotic little spirit, Jinu. You’re powerful, yes. But you’re also reckless, and I am your manager—not to mention, the only one who knows what you really are. So yes, harness. Deal with it.”
Jinu’s lips pressed into a pout, and he gave you the kind of look that could melt steel. “This is unfair,” he said, voice whining. “I am a demon! I could rip through this entire hallway if I wanted!”
“And I know,” you replied, standing up to your full height, “which is why you aren’t going to.” You reached out and tugged him back gently but firmly when he tried to lunge toward the stairs. He yelped but didn’t resist—well, not fully.
Before you could even glance at the others, Mystery had already dashed halfway down the hallway, legs moving like they were powered by rockets.
“Mystery! Stop!” you shouted, sprinting after him. His energy practically shook the floorboards, his grin wild and untamed. You lunged, clamping onto the harness, and yanked him back.
He toppled to the floor with a yelp, glaring up at you with mock betrayal. “I was just… feeling the wind!” he protested, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt.
“You were trying to run into the stairs again,” you said, tugging him upright. “You are not ‘feeling the wind,’ Mystery. You are a demon in a harness, and the harness is the law.”
“Law?!” he shrieked. “Since when do mortals tell demons what to do?!”
“You’re lucky I’m the kind of mortal who knows exactly what you are,” you countered. “Otherwise, I’d be running for my life right now instead of wrangling you like a child.”
Meanwhile, Abby had planted himself in the middle of the room, arms crossed and chin lifted, radiating utter disdain.
“Honestly, I don’t need this,” He said, voice dripping with drama. “I am responsible… mostly.” He shifted from foot to foot, the harness straps glinting under the overhead lights as she scowled at you.
“Mostly isn’t enough,” you said, grabbing the strap across his chest and securing it with a practiced flick of your wrist. “Mostly doesn’t stop you from breaking a lamp or—” you glanced at Mystery, who was now dangling from the harness slightly, “—from stealing Jinu’s hair gel again.”
He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Fine,” she muttered, but you could tell she was plotting revenge for later.
Baby, crouched quietly on the floor, seemed perfectly content with the whole harness ordeal. He poked at it gently, tilting his head, examining every buckle and strap with curious precision. “It’s… soft,” he said thoughtfully, a small smile tugging at his lips. “And shiny.” He tugged at one strap experimentally, then looked up at you. “It’s fine, I guess. I don’t mind.”
“It’s fine because it keeps you safe,” you said gently, crouching down next to him. “I have to be careful with you, Baby. You’re… unpredictable in ways no one else understands.” He nodded solemnly, then bounced to his feet, not to run away but to test how the harness moved with him. You tugged gently on the strap just to make sure he stayed close. “Good. That’s all I ask,” you said with a small smile.
Romance, on the other hand, was dramatic as ever. He flounced beside you, exaggerating every step and tilting his head like he was on a stage, every gesture meant to convey indignation.
“This is insulting,” he declared, hands on his hips, his voice full of theatrical outrage. Every slight tug you made to keep him from wandering sent him into another fit, tossing his hair back and shooting you a glare that could melt hearts and test patience at the same time.
“Insulting?” you asked, frowning mock-seriously. “You’re a demon in a harness. You’re being restrained for your own good. That’s not insulting. That’s management.”
By the time you were done, all five of them were clipped in, harnesses snug but comfortable. Each one was whining, pouting, or glaring at you in their own unique way. Mystery was bouncing on his toes, ready to bolt the moment you blinked. Jinu leaned forward, scheming his next escape. Abby’s foot tapped impatiently as he huffed. Baby was content, fiddling with his straps and testing how much he could move. Romance had crossed his arms, clearly planning a vendetta for the indignity.
You couldn’t help but let a small smile tug at your lips. Despite the chaos, there was something endearing about the way they all glared at you in unison, like five little demons disguised as perfect K-pop idols. Keeping them contained, keeping them close, made you feel… needed. Important. Powerful, not in a domineering way, but in a protective, deeply personal way.
“You know,” Jinu muttered, his voice low but full of mock solemnity as you marched them down the street, tugging him back mid-stride when he lunged for a food stand selling fried chicken, “this is humiliating. For a demon."
“I call it preventing disaster,” you replied, smirking and pulling him back gently. His dark eyes met yours, and you could swear there was a tiny glint of grudging admiration hidden in the glare.
Mystery let out a high-pitched squeak of protest, angling himself toward the park across the street. “You can’t do this! Harness tyranny! We will escape!”
“You can run in rehearsal,” you said firmly, tugging him back, “not in real life. And yes, I know exactly what you are, but knowing doesn’t mean I let you endanger everyone around you.”
Abby rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about unfair treatment but staying put, knowing better than to push his luck. Baby hummed happily to himself, clearly fascinated by the way the harness moved when he shifted. Romance tilted his head, giving you a look that said, without words, try all you want, but I’m not giving up that easily.
And somehow, walking five K-pop demons down the street, harnessed, whining, scheming, and testing your patience at every turn, was exhausting and exhilarating all at once. You had no idea what awaited you around the next corner, but one thing was certain: with these five chaos incarnate strapped to you like little mischievous shadows, your life would never be boring.
AIRPORT CHAOS
You march through Incheon International like a field trip teacher on the brink of collapse, keeping a wary eye on all five boys. Jinu is leaning slightly forward, scanning the crowd like he’s plotting his next escape. Mystery is bouncing on his toes, clearly calculating how fast he could vanish without you noticing. Abby is walking stiffly, one foot tapping impatiently, already imagining how he could spin this humiliation into a story later. Baby is calmly strolling along, perfectly aware of every detail around him, probably the only one who doesn’t need constant supervision. And Romance is… well, Romance has vanished.
“One… two… three… wait!” you call out, your voice rising above the general murmur of the airport. You spin around, and sure enough, Romance is gone. Not walking, not standing, completely gone. Your eyes scan the crowd frantically. “Did you just disappear behind the coffee cart?”
A sheepish little grin peeks out from behind a latte machine. Romance leans casually against the counter, as if he belongs there, hands tucked into his pockets. “Technically,” he says smoothly, “I’m still in line.”
You clench your jaw. “Line up. Now. I am not negotiating with demons disguised as men who think disappearing is cute.”
Four… five… your voice booms again, counting heads as you try to make sure no one else has vanished. “Abby, stop flirting with the security guard and line up! This is not your audition for charming strangers in airports!”
Abby grins up at you, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “She’s a fan of us, Y/N. I’m just spreading the love.”
“Spreading chaos, maybe,” you snap. “But right now, you are spreading nothing except my patience too thin. March forward!”
Jinu huffs beside you, running a hand through his hair and pouting in the most infuriatingly adorable way imaginable. “This is humiliating! We are demons! Powerful demons! And yet here we are, being herded like children on a school trip!”
“Yes, you’re humiliating,” you reply dryly. “Humiliating if you try to run off, yes, and it’s for your own good. Consider it… demon containment through management.”
Abby mutters something under his breath about unfair treatment, but he’s staying put, mostly because you’re glaring at him and he knows better than to argue right now. Baby walks calmly beside you, hands in his pockets, clearly unconcerned by your exasperation. Mystery keeps bouncing, occasionally stopping to wave at fans who spot them, making it painfully clear that your job just got ten times harder.
The airport crowd is staring now. People are taking photos, whispering to each other, pointing at the “idol manager leading her field trip.” You don’t care. Jinu is muttering about how he’s going to write a scathing song about this later, Mystery is pretending to stumble just so you’ll catch him, and Romance is smirking at the attention, clearly enjoying himself a little too much.
Finally, Baby holds up his boarding pass like a trophy. “Present and accounted for, Y/N!” he announces proudly.
You slump onto the nearest bench, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. The boys are gathered around you, whispering to each other, plotting, laughing, and shooting you occasional mischievous glances. Jinu leans back against your shoulder dramatically. “This is demeaning,” he says softly, “for a demon.”
“And yet you’re alive and unscathed,” you reply, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes humility is part of survival, Jinu. Sometimes it’s part of being managed by me.”
Romance flops onto the bench next to you, still grinning at the crowd of onlookers snapping pictures. “You make this sound so heroic, Y/N. Marching five grown men through an airport, corralling chaos like it’s a chore.”
“Heroic?” you snort. “I call it controlled chaos, and it is exhausting"
Mystery nudges you playfully, pretending to trip, while Abby raises an eyebrow, already plotting his next act of rebellion. Baby hums quietly to himself, content and calm, like none of this is particularly exciting at all.
You take a deep breath and look at all five of them. Somehow, despite the public stares, the constant testing of boundaries, and the fact that they’re unruly little demons in human form, there’s a warmth that swells in your chest. They are chaotic, mischievous, infuriating, and completely yours to manage. And somehow, even on the verge of collapse, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE HUNT
It is supposed to be a harmless variety challenge.
The host is still smiling when he announces it, voice booming cheerfully across the studio. “Today’s mission is simple. Each group must find and tag the most attractive manager in the building. First team to bring them back to the main stage wins.”
You barely look up from the clipboard in your hands. You are too busy double checking prop placements, headset pressed to one ear, already bracing yourself for disaster. Variety shows and the Saja Boys never mix quietly.
The camera cuts to Jinu first.
He blinks once. Slowly. Then his lips curl into something sharp and knowing as he looks directly into the lens.
“Simple,” he says calmly.
The producers laugh nervously.
The countdown begins.
Other idol groups scatter immediately, sprinting across the studio with exaggerated enthusiasm. Shouts echo. Managers scream. Someone trips over a cable. The chaos is loud, frantic, messy.
The Saja Boys do not run.
They move together, close, deliberate, like predators who already know where their target is.
Mystery cracks his knuckles as he walks. “She’s near props. Left side of the studio.”
Abby tilts his head, listening, eyes half lidded. “Headset. Clipboard. Slightly stressed breathing.”
Romance smiles to himself. “Already sounds perfect.”
Baby hums cheerfully, skipping once before catching himself. “Should we surprise her or just grab her?”
Jinu says nothing. He just starts walking faster.
You are crouched near a rolling rack of costumes, distracted, pointing at a misplaced microphone pack while talking into your headset.
“No, it goes on the second table, not backstage. Yes, I am sure. Please do not make me come over there.”
You sense movement behind you but assume it is a camera operator.
Then hands wrap around your waist.
You yelp and spin, words tumbling out instinctively. “Boys, I swear if you are about to ruin this take I am going to—”
Romance is already there, one arm firm around you, the other braced casually on the rack behind your head like he planned this exact angle.
“Found you,” he says smoothly, smiling straight into the camera.
Before you can react, Mystery swoops in from the side and lifts you clean off the floor, like you weigh nothing. He laughs as you gasp, clipboard slipping from your fingers.
“Don’t fight it, Y/N,” he says brightly. “You’re ours.”
The world tilts slightly as he adjusts his grip. You clutch his shoulder on instinct, half laughing, half mortified as the studio erupts.
Cameras swarm instantly.
Other idols freeze mid sprint, staring.
One manager actually points at you. Another covers her mouth. Somewhere off screen, someone yells, “That’s not fair!”
Abby steps in close, arms folded, blocking any escape route with his body alone. He looks down at you, eyes glinting with smug satisfaction. “Mission accomplished in under a minute,” he says. “Record time.”
Baby pops into frame beside him, flashing a proud thumbs up at the camera. “We practiced.”
“You absolutely did not,” you say, laughing now despite yourself, face warm. “Put me down, Mystery, I still have a job.”
Mystery pretends to consider it, bouncing you once just to be annoying. “But the challenge says bring the manager back.”
Jinu finally steps forward, close enough now that you can see the way his expression softens when his eyes land on you. He reaches out, steadying you with one hand on your arm, grounding the chaos.
“She’s smiling,” he notes calmly. “That counts as consent.”
“You are all impossible,” you say, grinning openly now as the cameras zoom in. “I cannot believe this is my life.”
Romance leans closer, voice low, playful. “You love it.”
You sigh, defeated, laughter bubbling out of you as Mystery finally lowers you back to the floor. The boys close in around you instinctively, a loose circle that feels protective rather than possessive, even as the studio buzzes with excitement.
The host jogs over, barely holding back laughter. “Well,” he says, clapping once. “I think we have a winner.”
Cheers erupt.
You straighten your jacket, pick up your fallen clipboard, and shoot the boys a look that is equal parts warning and affection.
“This is coming out of your rehearsal time,” you say firmly.
They all smile.
Worth it.
SNACK RAID
It is 2 a.m., which means the apartment should be silent.
It is not.
Instead, there are whispers. Low, urgent, conspiratorial whispers that immediately tell you something is being stolen, eaten, or broken. You lie in bed for three seconds, staring at the ceiling, willing it to stop. Of course, it does not.
A clatter comes from the kitchen, metal rattling against metal. The fridge door creaks open slowly, almost ceremoniously. A hiss escapes someone, angry, impatient, urgent.
“You’re being loud.”
“I am not being loud. The fridge is loud,” comes the whispered defense.
You groan, shoving the blanket off yourself, hair tangling over your face, and pad down the hallway in socks. The floor is cool underfoot. The kitchen light is on, cutting across the living room like a spotlight over a crime scene.
When you step into the doorway, your jaw drops.
Every single cupboard is open. The fridge door is wide, spilling cold light over five very guilty-looking men crouched like raccoons caught mid-raid.
Baby is standing on a chair, peering reverently into the top shelf of a cupboard. His expression is thoughtful, as if he is performing a delicate experiment, not raiding the kitchen in the middle of the night. Mystery’s head is fully inside the fridge, muttering to himself like he is negotiating with the food. Abby is rifling through a drawer, inspecting snack wrappers like evidence in a crime drama. Romance leans casually against the counter, one arm folded, something hidden behind his back suspiciously. And Jinu is crouched on the floor, a box of cookies open in front of him, crumbs already forming a trail.
“You brought cookies?” Baby whispers, voice low and conspiratorial, as if this is some kind of classified operation rather than your own kitchen.
You blink once. Slowly. “Why are you all acting like burglars in your own apartment?”
Five heads snap toward you in unison. There is a long beat of silence. Then Jinu straightens up, completely unashamed, lifting the cookie box with a flourish.
“Emergency situation,” he declares.
Mystery finally pulls his head out of the fridge. “We were starving,” he insists, voice muffled from the cold.
“You had dinner,” you say, tone exhausted but firm.
Romance finally reveals what he has been hiding: a half-eaten chocolate bar, clutched delicately as though it were a priceless artifact. “That was hours ago,” he shrugs innocently, crumbs dusting his fingers.
You groan and step fully into the kitchen, arms crossing over your chest, surveying the chaos. A cereal box lies on the floor, spilling flakes like confetti. Cookie crumbs coat the counter. The fridge light hums. The cabinets, still open, echo like empty mouths.
Baby hops down from his chair and scuttles over to you, holding up a cookie packet like he has discovered treasure. “We found the good cookies,” he announces proudly.
“I know,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I bought them. That’s why they’re in the cupboard.”
Jinu immediately dives back into the box, opening it wider. “Okay, rules. Five per person,” he says, adopting a solemn tone as if this were a UN negotiation rather than a midnight raid.
You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Yes,” he continues seriously. “Five per person. No exceptions.”
He shoves one in his mouth before you can react. Then he pauses, frowning, pretending to count the remaining cookies. “Wait… four left? Did I miscount?”
“Jinu,” you warn, voice tight but amused.
Too late.
Romance leans past you like liquid shadow and plucks a cookie straight from your hand, biting into it with a satisfied grin. Crumbs fall onto the counter, but he doesn’t care.
Mystery narrows his eyes at you like you personally betrayed him. “Why does he get one and I don’t?”
“You all get them if you stop acting like gremlins,” you say.
Abby reaches in and snatches a cookie, muttering under his breath, “Unfair distribution,” but still taking it.
Suddenly Baby lunges for the box. Mystery blocks him. Romance grabs another. Jinu laughs and dodges backward like this is a game designed solely to ruin your patience.
In less than five seconds, the kitchen has descended into full-scale chaos. Someone bumps into you. Someone else trips over the chair. The cookie box tips, spilling contents across the floor like a glittering, chocolatey avalanche.
You gasp, then laugh until your stomach hurts. You end up sliding down against the cabinets, sitting on the kitchen floor, knees pulled up, hair falling messily around your face, as five grown men scramble around you, grabbing cookies, bumping into each other, whispering heated accusations in hushed tones.
“Those were mine.”
“You already had two.”
“Sharing is caring.”
“You licked that one!”
“This one touched the floor!”
Baby scuttles past you like an excited kitten, clutching a cookie to his chest. Mystery crouches nearby, guarding his own stash with exaggerated care. Romance flops down beside you, casual and relaxed, eating as though none of this is strange. Abby leans against the counter, pretending to be above it all while still chewing thoughtfully.
Jinu drops down in front of you, sitting cross-legged, crumbs on his lips, his grin soft and fond.
“Y/N,” he says softly, eyes bright. “You’re the best manager ever.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “And you’re all impossible children.”
He grins wider, crumbs clinging stubbornly to the corner of his mouth.
The kitchen is a disaster. Time is unreasonable. Your sleep schedule is officially ruined.
But as you look around at them, safe, full, sprawled across the apartment you all share, laughing and whispering conspiratorially, the warmth in your chest is impossible to ignore.
Impossible children.
Your impossible children.
COSTUME CHAOS
It is concept photoshoot day. You step into the studio, clipboard in hand, expecting controlled chaos, maybe a few wardrobe malfunctions, and definitely Jinu sulking over lighting angles. What you do not expect is the full display of unrestrained, glitter-coated demon energy awaiting you.
The moment you step around the corner, you stop short.
Every single one of the Saja Boys is in full demon-themed regalia. Fake wings of varying sizes sprout from their backs, glitter glinting under the harsh studio lights. Jinu’s fangs glint when he snarls at an imaginary camera. Mystery’s fake horns curl in a way that somehow looks elegant and threatening at the same time. Romance is practically glowing in sequined red, wings extended wide, glitter dust falling with every exaggerated spin. Baby… well, Baby is grinning ear to ear, his wings slightly crooked but his horns perfectly straight, radiating the sort of quiet menace that makes you double-check your clipboard. Abby is lounging on a prop throne, cape dramatically flaring, looking at you like he’s already king of the underworld.
You blink. Once. Twice. Slowly.
“Y/N! You gotta see this!” Romance calls, spinning in place, wings flaring like he’s a bird caught in a wind tunnel. He grins, every tooth perfectly gleaming. “Aren’t I terrifying?”
You clamp the clipboard shut, muttering under your breath. “Not helping.”
Mystery is crouched in the corner, one clawed hand delicately touching the floor, staring up at the camera with a pout. “I look… misunderstood,” he says, voice low. “The camera will never capture me. It will fail to understand my true darkness.”
“You all look ridiculous,” you say, lifting an eyebrow, scanning the ensemble. Sequins, wings, glitter, fake fangs, painted eyes… the chaos of colours alone makes your head spin. You pause. Then you add, reluctantly, “…but also… adorable.”
The boys beam instantly, the way children do when they get even a scrap of praise. Baby hops slightly in place, tipping forward so his crooked wings wiggle. Jinu lets out a dramatic sigh, pretending to pout, but the corners of his eyes are laughing. Romance flings his arms wide, glitter flying everywhere. Mystery scowls but his shoulders are relaxed, secretly basking in the attention. Abby flops onto the throne, smirking, clearly satisfied with your acknowledgement.
You glance down at your clipboard. Notes for the photoshoot. Angles. Poses. But then you pause. Slowly, you ask the question that’s been nagging you since you walked in:
“Why the demon outfits?” you murmur, lowering your voice, almost to yourself. “You’re already… demons. Do you want everyone else to know?”
Jinu spins slowly on his heels, one hand fluttering toward his glittered chest. “Perhaps,” he says softly, voice smooth and deliberate. “We are… letting the world catch a glimpse. A hint. A warning.”
Romance flutters forward dramatically, “Or maybe,” he teases, “we just like to see how ridiculous humans think we are.”
Mystery crosses his arms, still glaring at the camera but slightly contemplative. “The true darkness is subtle,” he says. “But glitter is… persuasive.”
Baby tilts his head, frowning, “I don’t mind being seen. It’s fun.” His tone is calm, deceptively innocent, but you can feel the subtle hum of supernatural energy vibrating in him.
Abby lazily stretches one arm over the throne, smirking. “Or maybe we like chaos. Confusion. Adorable chaos.”
You groan, lowering your clipboard, trying to contain a laugh. Somehow, you are managing five grown demons in full theatrical glory, glitter everywhere, fangs gleaming. You straighten your notes, scribbling furiously, hoping to pretend you’re taking this seriously.
“Fine,” you mutter. “You all look ridiculous, yes. But if anyone asks… you are cute. And terrifying, maybe. Just don’t ruin the photoshoot.”
They all freeze for a heartbeat, nodding in unison.
Then Romance spins again, scattering glitter across the floor. Jinu pouts and flips his fangs at the camera. Mystery sulks dramatically, Abby lounges imperiously, Baby tilts his head, grinning.
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “I am going to be exhausted after this.”
But despite the chaos, the glitter, the fake wings and horns, the absurdity, you can’t help but smile. They are utterly ridiculous, completely uncontainable, and somehow, when they are like this, flashing their true nature just a little under the guise of costumes, you feel… needed. You feel in charge. You feel alive.
The camera flashes.
The Saja Boys beam.
And you know, for a split second, that no one else could handle this chaos the way you do.
RAINY DAY RESCUE
You forgot umbrellas, of course. How could you not? The sky had darkened in the afternoon, clouds heavy and gray, and now rain was pouring down in thick, relentless sheets. The kind of rain that soaks through jackets in seconds and turns streets into slick, shiny rivers.
“Y/N! Come inside before you melt!” Baby yells, voice high and frantic over the pounding of the rain. He’s bouncing on the curb, jacket flapping, looking half amused and half panicked that you might actually collapse into a puddle.
Before you can protest, a flurry of movement surrounds you. Romance charges from your left, arms outstretched, grabbing your elbows to drag you toward the building. Mystery rushes in from the right, hands cupped under your armpits as if preparing to lift you. Abby sprints forward, flinging his coat over your shoulders like a makeshift shield, eyes fixed on you with the intensity of someone defending a priceless treasure. Jinu comes from behind, grinning in that infuriatingly smug way, one hand on your back, the other snatching your coat collar to keep you steady.
Within seconds, they’ve scooped you up like you weigh nothing, five grown men somehow managing to carry you in unison, dodging puddles and slipping on the slick pavement. You squeal, laughter spilling out uncontrollably, because there’s literally nothing you can do except hang on and trust that they won’t drop you.
“I swear I don’t know how I ended up here!” you yell over the pounding rain, hair plastered to your face, coat soaked through, water dripping from your sleeves onto theirs. Your clipboard, which you had been holding for some unknown reason, dangles uselessly from one hand, swaying like a defeated flag.
Romance leans close, nudging your shoulder, voice teasing. “You do this every day. You manage us, Y/N. It comes with perks.”
“I call them chaos perks,” you snap back between laughs, water rolling down your nose.
Jinu leans forward, one hand brushing water from your hair while the other steadies your arm. “Chaos perks are the best perks. Admit it.”
“Maybe,” you say, still giggling, “if you didn’t look like five soaked maniacs trying to drag me into oblivion.” You squirm slightly in their grip, but they shift instinctively to keep you balanced, moving like a single chaotic organism.
Baby hops ahead, pointing toward the building like a tiny general. “Almost there! Shelter ahead! Move faster!”
Abby throws his arms up, sighing dramatically. “You all know how to ruin a perfectly normal rain, right? This is art. Pure chaos art!”
Mystery grins, brushing his hand lightly against your back, careful not to slip. “Art that involves screaming, splashing, and slipping in puddles,” he mutters.
Rain drums around you, splashing onto their shoes and coats, soaking the hems of their pants. Your hair clings to your cheeks, water trickling down your neck. Bodies bump against each other with each step, arms tangling, coats sticking together. People on the sidewalks stare, some laughing, some clearly unsure whether to intervene. From the outside, it must look completely insane. From the inside, it is exhilarating, absurd, and oddly comforting.
Finally, they set you down on the building’s steps, panting, laughing, soaked through. Water drips from your hair and coat, running down onto the concrete. The five of them look like bedraggled warriors who’ve just survived a battlefield, chests heaving, hair plastered, jackets sticking to their skin.
You brush water from your face and sigh, half exasperated, half tender. “I should be mad,” you mutter, voice breathless. “I should be furious. But…” You shake your head, laughing again, water flying off your sleeves, “…this is somehow perfect.”
Jinu steps forward, hands shoved into his pockets, grin sly and infuriating. “See? Chaos perks. You survived. You’re alive. And, honestly, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch in a smile. “No. Not for anything. Chaos perks it is.”
Romance nudges you gently with his shoulder. “We did say you manage us. You knew the risks.”
“Yeah,” you say, looking around at the five soaked, ridiculous, impossible demons you live with and manage, “and somehow, I love every second of it.”
Baby hops up onto the steps beside you, shaking out his hood so water sprays everywhere. “Mission accomplished! Shelter secured!”
Abby flops dramatically onto the bottom step, glancing at you with a mock bow. “All in a night’s work for the Saja Boys.”
Mystery leans close, still dripping, and murmurs with a grin, “And you, Y/N, have survived it all. Consider yourself blessed.”
You wipe water from your eyes, glance at all five of them, and sigh, half exasperated, half fond. “Impossible. All of you are impossible.”
“And,” Jinu says, voice soft but amused, “perfectly ours.”
You shake your head, laughing again, letting them usher you inside as the rain continues to pour down, turning the city streets into slick, chaotic mirrors of your apartment life.
Hi! I was wondering if i could request a platonic buggy the clown x daughter! Reader? Like maybe headcannons of how buggy would react to meeting his daughter who he didn't realize he had and she ends up being a part of the straw hat crew? I'd imagine that reader is sassy and stubborn, especially towards buggy. but despite that (and despite however buggy feels) his crew try to encourage him to get to connect with reader?
Not the sharp, fresh bite of it either, but the heavy, lingering kind that clung to the air and settled in the back of the throat, a reminder of chaos that had only just passed. Charred palm trees leaned at crooked angles along the shoreline, their once-lush fronds blackened and curling as thin tendrils of smoke drifted lazily upward, dissolving into the humid sky.
The sea lapped gently against the sand, waves rolling in with almost insulting calm, as if the island itself had already forgotten the cannon fire, the shouting, the explosions. Broken crates bobbed in the shallows, some smashed completely apart, others barely afloat, spilling gold coins, silks, and half-ruined supplies into the water. Treasure glittered briefly beneath the sun before sinking out of sight.
Five minutes had passed since the last cannon fired.
Which meant Buggy was already bored.
He lounged atop his makeshift throne with practiced arrogance—a pile of reinforced crates stacked just carefully enough to resemble something resembling royalty, or at least Buggy’s version of it. One boot was propped lazily on a treasure chest stamped with a stolen insignia, the other tapping faintly against the wood as he reclined. Gold coins glinted everywhere: scattered at his feet, tangled in the fringe of his coat, one somehow stuck to his sleeve by sweat and sheer audacity.
His red nose gleamed proudly in the sunlight.
Buggy the Clown threw his head back and cackled, loud and theatrical, the sound carrying easily across the beach. His arms flew apart mid-gesture, hands separating dramatically as he launched into yet another retelling of the “battle,” each version growing more exaggerated than the last.
“And THEN,” he roared, hands floating high above his shoulders as if framing an invisible explosion, “I told them, you picked the wrong time to mess with CAPTAIN BUGGY the GENIUS JESTER!”
The crew erupted instantly, as if pulled by invisible strings.
“CAPTAIN BUGGY!” “ALL HAIL THE GREAT BUGGY!” “WHAT A STRATEGIST!” “TRULY A MASTER OF WAR!”
Buggy smirked, basking in the praise, chest puffing out as he drank it in. He waved one hand dismissively, already gearing up to add another dramatic flourish, another impossible feat of bravery to the story,
“CAPTAIN!”
The shout sliced cleanly through the noise.
Buggy’s laughter cut off mid-cackle.
A lookout came scrambling down the rigging in a rush of tangled limbs, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hit the deck. His face was pale beneath a sheen of sweat, eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror.
“It’s, it’s the Straw Hats!”
The words landed like a cannonball.
The beach went dead silent.
The cheering stopped. The crew froze. Even the waves seemed quieter.
Buggy’s grin vanished.
For half a second, he simply stared.
Then, with a shrill yelp, he shot to his feet so fast his torso detached from his legs, floating awkwardly in the air before snapping back together with a sharp crack.
“THE STRAW HATS?!” he screeched, voice pitching dangerously high as panic clawed its way in. “THOSE LITTLE— I told you idiots to keep watch!”
“I-I did!” the lookout stammered, hands shaking. “They weren’t there before! They just, showed up!”
“They’re not attacking!” he rushed to add, words tumbling over themselves. “They’re… already on the island. Just outside the old ruins. They’ve set up camp.”
Buggy blinked.
“And,” the lookout continued hesitantly, clearly wishing he were anywhere else, “there’s someone with them. Someone new.”
Buggy’s eyes narrowed, a chill creeping down his spine despite the heat.
“New?” he echoed, voice dropping dangerously low. “The Straw Hat doesn’t just add people unless they're not normal.”
He glanced toward the tree line, toward the ruins half-hidden beyond the palms, unease prickling beneath his usual bravado.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
And for once, Buggy the Clown couldn’t laugh it off.
The Straw Hats were stationed in a clearing near the island’s old stone ruins.
Cracked pillars rose unevenly from the earth, their surfaces weathered smooth by centuries of wind and rain, vines crawling up their sides like patient fingers. Moss clung stubbornly to the stone, softening sharp edges, as if trying to reclaim what history had abandoned. Just beyond the tree line, the Thousand Sunny rested in shallow water, sails furled, flags fluttering lazily in the sea breeze.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made instincts itch.
Luffy sat atop a fallen column, legs dangling as he tore noisily into a slab of meat, grease slicking his fingers. Zoro leaned against a thick tree trunk nearby, arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert, one eye cracked open just enough to watch the perimeter. Nami crouched a few steps away, counting berries into neat piles with sharp focus.
Sanji hovered near the campfire, cigarette dangling from his lips as he adjusted something in a pan. “Oi, don’t wander too far,” he called absentmindedly, already half-focused on his cooking.
Robin sat on a broken slab of stone with her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, eyes calm but observant as they swept the ruins.
Chopper peeked out from behind a pillar, ears twitching. “It’s really quiet,” he murmured. “That’s kind of scary…”
And you?
You stood at the very edge of the clearing, close enough to the ruins that the stone’s ancient chill still clung faintly to the air around you.
Your arms were crossed loosely, not defensive yet. Your weight rested comfortably on one hip, posture easy, unbothered. The breeze tugged at the hem of your coat and toyed with loose strands of your hair, lifting them into the sunlight where they gleamed vividly.
Blue.
Bright. Unmistakable.
It caught the light like a banner, bold and unapologetic.
You were half-listening to the Straw Hats behind you. Luffy’s laughter carried easily, loud and careless. Usopp was mid-story again, hands flailing. Sanji hovered nearby with food you hadn’t asked for but were definitely about to take anyway. Chopper giggled at something Robin murmured quietly at his side.
For once, you were relaxed.
Your eyes wandered toward the far end of the island, not with tension or suspicion, but idle curiosity. The ruins stretched behind you in quiet defiance, cracked pillars tangled in vines, moss creeping along ancient stone as if trying to bury the past under green patience. Smoke from earlier cannon fire still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with salt and sea.
You breathed it in.
Content.
On the far shore, Buggy shoved through his crew with uncharacteristic urgency, heart slamming so violently it felt like it might rip free from his chest. He tore a spyglass from a stunned pirate’s hands and raised it, fingers trembling despite his effort to steady them.
Buggy brought the lens to his eye.
And he froze.
There was Straw Hat, just as obnoxiously loud and alive as ever, laughter echoing across the island. Luffy. Zoro. Nami. The cook. The reindeer. Robin.
Buggy barely registered them.
Because standing near the edge of the ruins, relaxed and clearly enjoying yourself, was you.
His grip tightened until his knuckles ached. He did not let himself blink. His gaze traced over you slowly, reverently, like a man afraid that the slightest movement might shatter the image.
He did not look at your hair this time.
He looked at your face.
At the slope of your nose, so painfully familiar it made his chest seize. At the shape of your mouth, curved with mild amusement as you listened to something behind you. At your eyes, bright and sharp, carrying that same stubborn spark he had once loved and argued with beneath open skies so many years ago.
It was not déjà vu.
It was memory.
Too clear. Too cruel.
For a heartbeat, the noise of the island faded away. The waves dulled. The murmur of crews vanished. Even the creak of wood seemed to disappear. He was somewhere else entirely. A different shore. A younger version of himself. Laughter carried on salt air. Fingers brushing, then lacing together briefly before parting. Promises never spoken aloud, because pirates did not make promises they could not keep.
You shifted your weight slightly, arms still crossed, posture defensive without even realizing it.
The exact same stance she used to take when she was bracing for an argument.
Buggy’s throat went dry.
“It’s not possible,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re too…”
Too young. Too real. Too much like her.
His eyes flicked, unwillingly, to your hair then. Blue. Bright. Impossible to ignore. Loud as a declaration.
His colon.
His curse.
His blood.
The truth slammed into place with sickening certainty.
The hair was his.
But the face belonged to the woman he had loved once, fiercely and foolishly, back when the sea felt endless and the future had not yet learned how to take things from him.
Buggy sucked in a shaky breath, fingers trembling around the spyglass.
Cabaji leaned closer, brow furrowed. “Captain…?”
“That’s not…” Buggy lowered the spyglass, shaking it violently as if it were faulty, then raised it again. His breathing came shallow and fast. “She looks like… no. No. That’s impossible.”
The wind shifted.
On the other side of the island, you turned your head slightly as Luffy said something loud and stupid beside you. Your eyes rolled with clear annoyance, a faint flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Buggy’s heart slammed violently against his ribs.
“Captain?” Mohji asked carefully. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Buggy lowered the spyglass again. This time, his hands failed him completely.
It slipped from his fingers and hit the sand with a dull, hollow clatter.
“That’s my kid.”
The world stopped.
“…Your what,” Cabaji said faintly.
Mohji turned slowly, eyes wide. “Captain…?”
Buggy did not answer.
He did not breathe.
He just stared across the island, eyes locked on you like looking away would shatter whatever fragile truth had just clawed its way to the surface.
On the other side of the ruins, Luffy suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth.
“HEY BUGGY!”
The shout echoed across stone and trees.
You flinched slightly and followed Luffy’s gaze, eyes narrowing as you scanned the opposite shore. You spotted Buggy instantly, standing rigid and unblinking, staring straight at you like you were the only thing left in the world.
“…That clown’s staring,” you muttered. “Does he always look like he’s about to have a heart attack?”
Sanji squinted, cigarette tilting in his mouth. “Oi. He kinda does.”
Buggy heard none of it. Because you shifted your stance just enough. And suddenly, there was no denying it.
Buggy launched himself forward.
His body split apart mid-motion, arms flying ahead of him, legs sprinting separately, torso spinning wildly as panic and desperation drove him straight across the clearing.
“KINDA?” you snapped, whipping your head toward him before turning your glare back on the clown rapidly snapping himself together in front of you. “What do you want, Bozo?”
Buggy skidded to a stop, chest heaving. His hands trembled as he pointed at you, eyes scanning your face desperately, like he was trying to memorize it before it disappeared.
Buggy stared at you like the world had finally decided to play the cruellest joke imaginable, and he was the punchline.
“What’s your name,” he repeated, more softly this time, like saying it louder might shatter something fragile.
You straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring, spine stiffening as suspicion flashed sharp and bright across your features. You’d learned long ago that questions from pirates were rarely harmless.
“…Uh,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “why?”
Buggy’s throat worked. His mouth opened, closed. For a terrifying second, he looked less like the bombastic Emperor-wannabe clown pirate and more like a man standing on the edge of a cliff with no idea how deep the fall was.
“…Your mother,” he croaked at last, voice cracking despite himself. “What was her name?”
The air shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic, no gust of wind, no sudden noise, but everyone felt it. The Straw Hats went still in a way that spoke of experience. This wasn’t a fight. This was something worse.
Your expression hardened instantly. Whatever openness had lingered vanished, replaced by something sharp and defensive, snapping into place like armour.
Walls slammed down behind your eyes.
“…Why,” you said slowly, dangerously calm, “do you think you get to ask that?”
Buggy swallowed hard. His hands trembled faintly at his sides; he curled his fingers into fists to hide it.
“Because,” he said quietly, stripping away every ounce of bravado, “I knew her. A long time ago.”
You stared at him.
Really stared.
Your gaze dragged over him, his ridiculous makeup, the red nose, the coat, the ego stretched too large to fit his own skin. Confusion flickered behind your anger, warring with something else. Recognition, maybe. Or the dread of recognition.
Then you laughed.
It was sharp. Brittle. Entirely humourless.
“Oh, you knew her?” you scoffed, bitterness slicing every word. “Congratulations. Want a medal? A parade? Maybe a gold star for effort?”
Nami tensed beside Luffy, hand drifting closer to her staff. Zoro straightened where he leaned, one eye cracking open. Sanji’s jaw tightened, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Robin watched you closely, unreadable but intent.
Buggy flinched at your tone like it physically struck him.
“Captain,” Cabaji hissed urgently from behind him, leaning close, “say something good. Something reassuring. Now would be-”
Buggy didn’t hear him.
His eyes were locked on you, wide and shining, as if he were afraid that if he blinked you might disappear.
“You look just like her,” he said suddenly.
Your laugh cut off mid-breath.
Buggy took a shaky step closer, voice trembling but insistent, as if saying it out loud might anchor him.
“The eyes,” he continued. “The face. That look you get when you’re pissed off, like you’re daring the world to try you.” A weak huff of disbelief escaped him. “If it weren’t for the hair=”
His gaze flicked to your blue hair, vivid even in the smoky light.
“-I’d swear I was lookin’ at her.”
Your breath hitched.
Just slightly. Barely noticeable.
But Buggy saw it.
“What…?” you said, the word catching in your throat.
Buggy met your eyes fully now. No jokes. No shouting. No act.
“Your eyes and face,” he said quietly, almost reverently, “Same as your mothers. But your hair-"
His voice softened, breaking.
“You got from me.”
The world tilted.
Not metaphorically. It tilted. Like your feet weren’t quite sure the ground would keep holding you.
Your mind raced, memories slamming into one another with no regard for order. Stories without names. Questions you stopped asking because the answers never came. A woman who worked herself to the bone and smiled anyway. Who never spoke about him, not with hatred, not with love. Just silence. Tired smiles. A hand smoothing your hair and changing the subject.
Your gaze dropped, fingers curling reflexively at your sides as your heart began to pound so hard it hurt. Each beat echoed in your ears, loud and uneven, like it was trying to warn you. Your breath came shallow, chest tight, as if the air itself had grown heavier.
Then your head snapped back up.
Your eyes locked onto Buggy’s face, searching it frantically, desperately, as though if you looked long enough you might find the lie. The exaggeration. The punchline. Anything that proved this was just another ridiculous clown pirate trick.
“…No,” you whispered, the word barely audible. Your throat burned. “That’s not-”
You couldn’t finish.
Because the realization didn’t come crashing down all at once.
It crept.
Slow. Merciless.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunder, no sharp gasp, no sudden clarity.
It settled.
Heavy. Suffocating. Undeniable.
It pressed into your chest until breathing felt like work.
Your mind started stitching things together against your will. The timing. The years that never quite added up. Your hair, a colour no one in your hometown ever shared. The way your mother used to fall quiet whenever pirates were mentioned, eyes drifting to the horizon as if the sea itself had taken something precious from her and refused to give it back.
You remembered her brushing your hair when you were small, fingers lingering just a moment too long, expression unreadable. Remembered how she’d always said, Some people aren’t meant to stay, and never explained who she meant.
Your gaze trembled as it stayed fixed on Buggy.
“…You’re-” your voice cracked, betraying you, and you swallowed hard, forcing the words through the tight knot in your throat. “You’re him.”
Not a question.
A statement.
Buggy nodded once.
Just once.
No laughter. No bluster. No exaggerated outrage or denial to hide behind.
Only truth.
It hit harder than any shout ever could.
Your jaw tightened, muscles aching as you clenched it shut, trying to hold yourself together.
“Oh.”
The word fell flat and small between you, completely inadequate for the weight it carried.
Silence swallowed the clearing.
No one spoke. No one moved. Even the Straw Hats seemed frozen in place, instinctively understanding they were witnessing something that couldn’t be interrupted.
The waves along the shore rolled in more softly, as if the sea itself had gone still, holding its breath alongside you.
And for the first time since you’d set foot on the ocean, you felt it clearly.
The pull.
Not toward adventure.
But toward the man standing in front of you, staring back with wide, terrified eyes, your past, your blood, and a truth neither of you could ever outrun again.
=
The tension did not vanish all at once.
It loosened.
Slowly. Carefully. Like a knot worked free by hands that did not quite trust it yet.
Luffy, predictably, was the first to break the stillness.
“So,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together like the last half hour had not been emotionally devastating for everyone involved, “since nobody’s fighting right now, that means food, right?”
Sanji lit a cigarette with a practiced flick, exhaling through his nose as he surveyed the strange, uneasy truce forming in the clearing. Straw Hats. Buggy’s crew. Burnt stone. Lingering smoke.
“Tch. Figures,” he muttered, already rolling up his sleeves. “Guess I’m cooking for a small army.”
Buggy’s crew shifted uncertainly at first, eyes darting between their captain and the Straw Hats as if waiting for the punchline that never came. But no one drew a weapon. No one shouted orders. Instead, crates were dragged together into makeshift tables. Barrels were rolled closer. Someone struck a match. Lanterns were hung from broken pillars, their warm glow slowly pushing the shadows back.
A nervous laugh bubbled up somewhere.
Then another.
Before long, the clearing filled with movement instead of tension.
Sanji took over a flat stretch of stone near the ruins like a general claiming a battlefield, flames roaring beneath massive pans. The scent of food cut through the salt and smoke almost immediately. Meat sizzled loudly. Vegetables hit hot oil with sharp, satisfying hisses. Spices bloomed in the air, rich and mouth-watering, wrapping around everyone like a promise.
The Straw Hats relaxed into it easily. Luffy hovered far too close to the food, already demanding seconds before the first plate was even done. Chopper darted between pirates with wide-eyed curiosity, marvelling at Buggy’s crew like they were exotic wildlife. Usopp, of course, was loudly recounting a version of events that somehow involved him personally defeating three ships and an army of elite soldiers.
Even Buggy’s crew began to laugh, tension bleeding out of them piece by piece.
You did not join them.
You stood off to the side, just beyond the reach of the firelight, arms crossed again. This time it was not casual. It was armour.
Buggy lingered several steps away, close enough to feel your presence, far enough that it felt like a line neither of you quite knew how to cross. The space between you was heavy, packed tight with years that had never been spoken aloud.
Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice was cool, sharp, carrying a note of accusation beneath the casual tone. “So,” you said, eyes fixed on the fire and the crews moving about it, “is this the part where you pretend you didn’t vanish for two decades?”
Buggy flinched as though you had struck him. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, red nose catching the lantern light. “I didn’t know,” he said quickly, then paused. Took a deep breath. Slowed himself deliberately. “I swear it. If I had known about you… I would have stayed.”
You finally turned your gaze to him, eyes narrow and searching. Your jaw tightened ever so slightly, lips pressing together like you were looking for the lie. “That’s convenient,” you said flatly.
“I mean it,” Buggy said, voice rough, cracking under the weight of honesty. “I’m a lot of things, kid, but I don’t abandon my own.”
Your laugh cut sharply across the space between you. “Funny. Could’ve fooled me.”
Buggy’s shoulders slumped slightly, the faintest sign of defeat showing in the line of his posture. “Your mother never told me,” he admitted quietly.
“Of course she didn’t,” you shot back. “You left.”
The word landed in the night like a stone dropped into calm water. It stayed there, heavy, unmoving. Buggy winced. “I didn’t leave her because I wanted to,” he said quietly, his voice low, almost strangled. “I was a pirate. Still am. Back then… staying felt like lying to both of us.”
You scoffed, bitter, sharp. “So instead you just disappeared. Never once came back to see her."
He did not argue. Did not try to justify it. He only studied you, really studied you, without the distance of a spyglass. The way your shoulders squared, the way your arms pressed against your chest, the tension coiled beneath your sarcasm, ready for impact.
The sounds of life went on around you. Laughter burst from the fire where Luffy stuffed his mouth full of food. Lanterns swayed gently, casting golden light over the crews. Even the crackle of the fire felt distant, muffled by the weight between you two.
Buggy hesitated, swallowing. Then he asked quietly, “How’s… how’s is your mother? I'm surprised she would have let you out of her sigh”
The question hit like a stone.
You froze. Your gaze dropped to the sand. The sarcasm that had been your shield vanished instantly. Your shoulders stiffened.
Buggy noticed immediately. “Kid?” he said carefully, voice soft.
You did not answer.
His chest ached at your silence. “What happened?” he asked, still careful.
“…A sickness,” you said at last, voice low, barely above the crackle of the fire. “It spread through our town. Fast. Took a lot of people.”
Buggy’s stomach twisted.
“She tried,” you said, voice quieter now, unfocused. “She really did. But there wasn’t enough medicine. Or doctors. Or money.” You swallowed hard, fighting the catch in your throat. “She didn’t make it.”
Buggy closed his eyes, letting a slow, broken exhale escape him. For once, there was no joke, no laughter, no theatrics. Only the weight of regret. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You shrugged, but it was stiff, forced. “After that, there wasn’t anyone left. I got sent to an orphanage.”
Buggy’s fists clenched, white-knuckled at his sides.
“I didn’t stay long,” you continued. “It didn’t feel right. So I left. I ran. Hid on ships. Slept in cargo holds. Worked for meals. Stole what I had to. Wandered from port to port, nights staring at the sea, wondering why it always took and never gave back.”
His eyes locked on yours, and for the first time in years, he felt powerless. “You were just a kid,” he said, voice low.
You shrugged again, almost bitterly. “I managed.”
You spoke softly then, “And then… I ran into the Straw Hats. They didn’t ask questions. They just… let me stay.”
Buggy felt something sharpen inside his chest. Pain. Anguish. But also, faintly, hope. “…They took care of you,” he said.
You nodded once. Your gaze shifted to the firelight, then back at him, sharp and unyielding. “I should’ve had someone there.”
Buggy’s voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I should’ve been there.”
You looked at him squarely, eyes hard but not cruel. “Yeah. You should’ve been.”
He swallowed. He did not argue. He did not promise. He only nodded, acknowledging the truth, and the silence stretched between you.
Then Sanji’s voice rang out over the clearing. “The food is ready!”
The crews surged forward eagerly. Plates and bowls were passed, laughter rising, voices overlapping. Warmth spilled outward, filling the clearing with something ordinary and good.
Buggy glanced toward the fire, then back at you. “You hungry?” he asked, voice low but hopeful.
You rolled your eyes but the edge of your lips twitched. “Obviously.”
A small, careful smile broke across his face, careful and real. “Then come eat,” he said. “We can argue more later.”
You hesitated, arms still crossed, but slowly stepped forward toward the warmth, toward the fire and the bustle of two crews united in food and laughter.
Buggy followed a step behind, heart hammering painfully, knowing this was not forgiveness. Not yet. But it was something.
And for the first time in years, Buggy the Clown felt that he might finally be staying in one place long enough to try, truly, to earn it.
hello I hope you're doing well! seeing you writing again and having your requests open made me so excited, I love your works! I was wondering if I could please request a fem reader x Viktor where reader is self conscious about her lack of kissing experience (she's only kissed Viktor but he's been with others in the past) and he shows her she has nothing to worry about (a smidgen of spice maybe if you're comfortable?). if any other Arcane characters inspire you with this prompt that would be lovely too of course! thank you! <3
The lab was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy and safe all at once. The low hum of machinery filled the background, accompanied by the distant echoes of the city outside, the faint wail of a tram, the occasional clatter of footsteps on metal streets, and the soft murmur of voices far below. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed nervously, eyes glued to Jayce as he adjusted some tiny components on the latest invention sprawled across the workbench. His brow was furrowed in concentration, hands steady despite the delicate work, and for a moment you just watched him, mesmerized by the way the lamplight caught the edges of his features.
He didn’t notice your gaze at first, lost in his world of wires, metal, and glowing runes. But then he glanced over his shoulder, and your heart caught. He caught the way your eyes flickered down to the floor, then back up to him, and a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips.
“Y/N?” he said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a warm ribbon wrapping around you. He wiped his hands carefully on a rag, then stepped closer, concern evident in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
You bit your lip, twisting the hem of your sleeve in your fingers, feeling suddenly very small under his gaze. “It’s… silly,” you murmured, your words almost swallowed by the hum of the lab. “I just… I don’t know. I’ve only, well, I’ve only ever kissed you.” Your cheeks flamed with heat as you spoke, and you swallowed hard before continuing. “And… I know you’ve been with other people before me. I just… I don’t want you to think I’m… inexperienced, or that I’m not… enough, or-”
Jayce set down the tiny screwdriver he’d been using and finally turned fully toward you, his expression softening immediately. He reached out, taking your hands gently in his, thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles. The touch alone made your chest tighten. His eyes, warm and steady, locked onto yours, and you felt your nerves start to melt just a little under that gaze.
“Oh love,” he said softly, each syllable deliberate, measured, like he was making sure every word reached you. “That doesn’t matter. Not to me. You don’t need experience to be… perfect in my eyes. Every kiss we share is ours, and only ours.”
You looked down at your hands, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. The truth in his voice was impossible to ignore, but the little voice of doubt in your mind was still hard to silence.
Jayce stepped closer, his presence enveloping you in warmth. He tilted your chin gently with his fingers, making your eyes meet his again. “Do you want me to show you?” he whispered, leaning just a little closer, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin. “Show you that there’s nothing to worry about?”
You nodded almost imperceptibly, barely daring to breathe. Your heart was pounding, but there was a thrill in that nervousness, a fluttering hope you couldn’t quite name.
He smiled, and it was like the world shrank around the two of you, the hum of machines fading into nothing. That smile, the soft curve of his lips, the glint in his eye, made you feel like you were the only person alive in the city. Jayce leaned in, his hands cupping your face with tender precision, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks. His lips met yours in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and utterly tender. There was no rush, no shadow of comparison to anyone else, just the two of you, exploring the closeness you shared.
Your initial nervousness melted as you felt the gentleness of his touch, the careful way he guided you, like he was showing you a secret you’d been too shy to discover. Every movement was patient, considerate, and filled with a warmth that made your heart ache in the best way.
When he pulled back slightly, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath came in slow, warm whispers against your skin. “See?” he murmured, the teasing glint in his eye softening the seriousness of his words. “You’re amazing at this.”
“I… I was so worried,” you admitted softly, voice trembling with both nerves and relief.
“Worried?” he said with a gentle chuckle, pressing another kiss to your temple, lingering there in a way that made your knees feel weak. “Y/N, you’re the only one I want to kiss, the only one I care about. Nobody else matters.”
Your chest swelled with emotion, and for the first time, a little of your self-consciousness began to melt away. Here he was, looking at you like you were everything in the world, showing you in every careful gesture that there was no comparison, no past to fear, no inadequacy to worry about.
He leaned in again, brushing his lips lightly against yours, slower this time, letting you feel the steady rhythm of his breath, the gentle warmth of him. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer just enough to feel the press of his chest against yours. You could feel the careful control in his movements, the way he guided the kiss without forcing, without expectation, letting you set the pace.
You let your hands find their way to his shoulders, tracing the lines of his jacket, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your fingertips. He smiled into the kiss, that same soft, reassuring smile, as if he could feel the tension leaving you. Each time your lips met, he made sure you felt it was okay, that it was yours, that it was perfect.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, holding you there. “Nothing to worry about. Ever,” he whispered, and you believed him without a single doubt. The world outside, the distant city noises, the hum of the machines, it all faded away, leaving only the quiet intimacy between the two of you.
You couldn’t help but smile, leaning into him, letting your nervousness dissolve completely. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice soft, but full of feeling.
“For what?” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“For showing me… for being patient with me. For making me feel… enough.”
Jayce’s smile deepened, and he pressed one last lingering kiss to your lips, slow, warm, and full of all the care he had for you. “Y/N,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion, “you’ve always been more than enough. And you always will be.”
And in that quiet lab, with the city stretched out in lights and shadows beyond the windows, it felt like nothing else existed but the two of you, safe, small, perfect, and entirely yours.
𝚅𝚒𝚔𝚝𝚘𝚛
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the city below. Streetlights spilled gold through the curtains, dust motes floating in the soft glow. You sat on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to your chest, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your sweater. The room smelled faintly of Viktor’s cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the laboratory that always seemed to linger, even when you were in the comfort of your own home.
Viktor leaned against the doorway, cane in hand, watching you with that familiar mix of curiosity and gentle patience. The soft tap of the cane against the floor echoed lightly in the quiet room.
"Y/N," he said, his Czech accent soft but deliberate, "why do you look like you have just seen a ghost?"
You chewed your lower lip, eyes darting away. Your heart felt like it had caught in your throat. "I… I do not know if I am… ready," you whispered, the words fragile and almost lost in the space between you.
Viktor’s brow furrowed as he took a slow step toward you, the cane tapping rhythmically against the hardwood floor. His green eyes searched yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "Ready for…?" His tone was teasing, but there was an undeniable earnestness beneath it, a weight of care that made your stomach twist in anticipation.
"Ready… for… you," you admitted, voice trembling. "I have… I have never kissed anyone but you. I have never… done anything. I am inexperienced. And you… you have been with other people. I…" You trailed off, unsure how to explain the whirlpool of fear and desire inside you.
Viktor crossed the room, cane sliding lightly against the floor as he lowered himself onto the couch beside you. The scent of him surrounded you, warm, heady, impossible to ignore. He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"Ah," he murmured, voice low and intimate, "my sweet, brilliant Y/N. You worry too much."
Your cheeks flamed under his gaze, and he chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated in your chest like low heat. The warmth of him next to you made your pulse flutter and your fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater.
"You have nothing to fear," he continued, leaning closer, his lips just inches from yours. You could feel his breath mingling with yours, a heady mixture of cologne, desire, and something uniquely Viktor. "I have known others, yes. But I have only ever wanted this, Y/N. Only ever you."
His hand trailed down your arm, lingering at your hand, fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was deliberate, commanding, yet soft, grounding you in a way that made your nerves melt.
You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. "I… I just do not want to disappoint you."
Viktor’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, gentle yet firm. His voice dipped lower, a growl threading through the soft accent. "Disappoint me? Do you know how foolish that sounds? Y/N, every moment with you, every touch, every kiss, it is mine to savour. And I will teach you, no, I will show you, that there is nothing to fear with me."
A shiver ran down your spine, and you leaned slightly closer, craving the warmth of him. His presence was overwhelming in the most delicious way. Viktor shifted, the cane sliding lightly as he moved, and leaned even closer, lips hovering near yours. "Close your eyes," he whispered, voice soft and intimate, and you obeyed, trembling.
When your eyes shut, his lips ghosted over yours. The first kiss was gentle, exploratory, deliberate. Warmth and heat pooled through you in a way that made your knees weak. Viktor’s hand slid to your waist, drawing you flush against him, and he whispered, "See? Nothing to fear."
You shivered again as his lips trailed lower along your jaw, teasing the hollow of your neck, coaxing shivers from your spine. Your fingers threaded into the lapels of his jacket, holding him close. "I… I want more," you breathed, and his low chuckle pressed against your skin like velvet fire.
"Good," he murmured, his Czech accent thickening in a way that made your pulse spike. "Because you will have it, everything with me."
His hand moved lower, sliding over your thigh through the soft fabric, pressing against the heat that had been building between you. He shifted, his body enveloping yours, the heat radiating from him making you ache. The kiss deepened, teeth and tongues teasing and claiming, deliberate yet hungry. Every movement was patient, every brush of his lips a lesson in trust and desire.
You could feel yourself melting against him, your nerves dissolving into sensation. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, lips brushing yours in soft, lingering touches. His breath was ragged, eyes glimmering with intensity and something softer, possessive, unmistakable.
"See? You are perfect," he murmured, thumb brushing over your lips. "Only ever mine, only ever wanted by me."
Your body hummed with the memory of his kisses, every nerve alight. The heat in your core made your chest rise and fall unevenly, and the thought of your inexperience mattered less and less. Viktor had made it clear that your lack of history was irrelevant because your desire, your trust, your reactions, were more than enough for him.
He pressed another feather-light kiss to your temple, voice low and teasing. "Now, let us explore more, hm?"
You leaned into him, body and soul, knowing the night would stretch long, the apartment transformed into your own private world. Every kiss, every brush of skin, every deliberate, careful touch from Viktor was a lesson in trust, in surrender, in the intimacy only two people who truly cared for each other could share. And with him, you understood that the past, the experience, none of it mattered. You were enough. You were his.
𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛
The last of Zaun’s neon glow filtered weakly down the narrow drop, casting jagged lines of green and orange across the damp, grimy walls. You followed Vander through the quiet streets, your hand brushing against his, feeling the familiar warmth and strength that always seemed to anchor you in the chaos of the city. The hum of machinery and the distant clatter of vats and pipes faded behind you as the bar door swung shut, the soft creak echoing in the stillness. The smell of old wood, dust, and faint liquor hit you immediately.
“Relax, Y/N,” Vander murmured, his voice low and comforting. His hand slipped into yours, thumb brushing against your knuckles with a familiarity that made your chest tighten. You felt the heat of him even through the thin fabric of your sleeve, and a pang of insecurity tugged at your heart.
“You don’t… have to, you know,” you said softly, keeping your gaze lowered, ears tinged pink. Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake. “I… I’ve barely… I mean… I’ve only ever kissed you.”
Vander paused for a heartbeat, just enough that your nerves screamed, and then a small, knowing smile curved his lips. “Only me?” he asked, voice low, a chuckle threading through it. “Well, that’s all that matters.”
You felt your cheeks heat even more. “I know… but you… you’ve been with others in the past… and I just…” Your words faltered as you swallowed. “I don’t want you to think I’m inexperienced or… or… not enough.”
Vander stepped closer, closing the space between you. His hand rose to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his, thumb brushing along your jaw with deliberate, tender care. “Love, look at me,” he murmured. You met his eyes, those stormy, steady eyes that had seen Zaun at its worst and yet softened completely for you. “Experience doesn’t mean anything here. None of it matters when it comes to you. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted, the only one I need.”
A shiver ran through you at the intimacy of his words and the warmth of his hand. Vander leaned in slightly, just enough that your breaths mingled. His proximity made your pulse hammer, yet there was a safety in him that made your knees weak. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m yours, and I don’t need anyone else.”
Your lips parted slightly, anticipation mixing with nerves. Vander’s grin softened, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Come on,” he whispered, tilting his head slightly. “Let’s get somewhere a little more private.”
The two of you moved toward the back of the bar, weaving between stacks of crates and the lingering smell of old spirits. The chatter and clinking glasses of the few remaining patrons faded as Vander led you to the pantry. The narrow door opened with a soft creak, revealing a cramped, dimly lit space lined with shelves of jars, sacks, and bottles. The scent of flour and dried herbs filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of liquor and metal from the bar.
Vander guided you inside, the door clicking shut behind you. The small room amplified the intimacy between you. His hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against him. You gasped softly as his lips brushed the sensitive skin of your neck before tilting your head to capture yours in a slow, deliberate kiss.
The kiss started tender, exploratory, but an undercurrent of fire ran through it, sending heat pooling in your chest. Vander’s hands moved with a mixture of reverence and possessiveness, sliding into your hair, cupping your face, drawing you impossibly closer. His thumb brushed your cheek with gentle reassurance as he whispered against your lips, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Every kiss, every touch… it’s just us. You’re perfect at this.”
You wrapped your hands around his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his shirt. The warmth of his body pressed against yours made the cramped pantry feel impossibly safe, yet the proximity and closeness sent your pulse racing. Vander’s lips trailed down your jaw, nipping softly, teasing, and your knees threatened to give out under the intensity.
“You’re the only one who matters right now, Y/N,” he murmured, voice husky and low, lips brushing yours again. “You don’t need to compare yourself to anyone else. You’ve already got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently as a shiver ran down your spine. Vander pulled you even closer, pressing his forehead against yours, the intensity of his gaze burning into yours. “See?” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “You’re natural. You don’t need experience. All you need is to be here with me.”
The small space held nothing but the warmth of your bodies, the scent of the pantry, and the sound of your mingled breaths. Every touch, every whisper, every kiss from Vander grounded you, making all your insecurities dissolve.
And in that hidden corner of Zaun, away from the hum of the city, the glow of neon, and the chaos of the world outside, you believed him completely. With Vander, there was nothing else, just his hands, his steady presence, and the quiet, burning promise of more to come.
𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚌𝚘
The office was dim, lit only by the golden glow of the lamp on Silco’s desk. It cast long shadows across the walls, stretching like fingers that curled protectively around the room, sealing it off from the rest of the world. The faint hum of Zaun filtered in through the thick glass windows, distant, muted, irrelevant. In here, there was only him. Only you.
Silco leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed but alert, one arm draped over the armrest as his sharp eye followed your every movement. There was something predatory in the way he watched you, not cruel, not threatening, but intent. Like you were something precious he had already claimed, something he took pleasure in observing.
“Come here,” he murmured.
His voice was low, smooth, threaded with quiet authority. It curled around your spine and tugged, even as your feet remained rooted to the floor. Your fingers twitched at your sides. You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of your own body, of how close you were, of how small the space felt when he looked at you like that.
You hesitated, nerves coiling tight in your stomach.
Silco’s mouth curved, just slightly. Amused. Patient.
Then his hand reached out.
It was steady when it closed around your wrist, warm, firm, unmistakably real. His thumb brushed your pulse, deliberate, as if he could feel how fast your heart was racing beneath your skin.
“Don’t make me wait,” he said, tone teasing, though there was something softer beneath it. Something indulgent.
You stepped forward, breath shallow, the distance between you collapsing far too quickly. Before you could overthink it, before the doubts could catch up to you, he pulled you closer, and in one smooth motion, lifted you onto his lap.
You gasped.
One arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against him, his grip confident and unyielding. The other settled at your hip, fingers splayed as if to remind you exactly where you were meant to be. Heat radiated from him in waves, seeping through fabric and skin alike. The scent of him, tobacco, oil, something sharp and intoxicating, flooded your senses, making your head spin.
You shifted instinctively, your thighs pressing against his, and his hold tightened just a fraction in response.
“Easy,” he murmured, close now, too close. His breath brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
His hands moved with a deliberate slowness, tracing your sides, thumbs pressing into your waist as he drew you closer still, until there was no space left to doubt what this was. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, the quiet strength in the way he held you.
“You know,” he whispered, tilting your chin upward with two fingers, forcing your eyes to meet his, “you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I… I-” Your voice faltered, thin and unsteady, the words tangling in your throat.
“Shh.” He cut you off gently.
His lips brushed your temple first, barely there, a promise more than a kiss. Then another, just beneath it. His mouth traced a slow path down the side of your face, along your jaw, to your neck. Feather-light kisses bloomed along your skin, lingering just long enough to make you ache before he moved on.
A shiver ran through you, unbidden.
His lips were confident, sure of exactly where to touch, how long to stay. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, arching slightly toward him, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
Silco noticed.
A low hum sounded in his chest as his mouth finally found yours.
The kiss was unhurried, controlled. His fingers slid into your hair, threading through it, guiding the angle of your head with quiet precision. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t overwhelm. He let the kiss deepen naturally, coaxing rather than taking, until your breath caught and your lips parted without you even realizing it.
Every movement was intentional. Every touch spoke of experience, but also care. It made you feel exposed in the best way, held steady at the same time.
Then the weight of it all hit you.
You pulled back suddenly, breath shaky, forehead dropping to his chest. The warmth there was grounding, but your heart was pounding too hard to ignore.
“Silco…” you whispered.
His hands stilled instantly, grip loosening just enough to give you space without letting go.
“I… I’ve only ever kissed you,” you admitted, words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ve never… done this with anyone else. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, or if I’m doing it wrong, or—” You swallowed, voice quieter now. “You’ve been with others. I haven’t.”
For a moment, there was only the soft crackle of the lamp and the distant city beyond the glass.
Then Silco’s thumb brushed your cheek.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
You lifted your eyes.
The sharp, dangerous glint you knew so well was still there, but softened now, tempered by something intimate, something meant only for you. His expression wasn’t amused. It wasn’t dismissive.
It was earnest.
“You don’t need to know anything else,” he told you, leaning forward until your noses nearly brushed. “There is no comparison. No standard you’re meant to meet.”
His lips claimed yours again, slower this time, deeper. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth. “And that’s enough.”
Heat bloomed low in your body, pooling between your legs as your chest pressed against his. The kiss turned more intense, still controlled, but edged with hunger now. He teased, drew it out, letting you feel every second of it. When your movements hesitated, his hands guided you, subtle and steady, showing you where to lean, how to melt into him.
Every fear you’d carried began to unravel.
“I’ve been with others,” he admitted quietly, mouth brushing your ear, voice dropping to a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “But nothing has ever mattered like this.”
His hands roamed your back, fingers pressing firmly now, grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re learning,” he continued, lips grazing your jaw. “And you’re doing beautifully.”
Your knees bent instinctively, sliding around his waist, drawing him closer. He let out a slow breath at the movement, one hand settling at your lower back to hold you there, solid and unwavering.
His mouth traced down your jawline, nipping lightly, deliberate. “Feel that?” he whispered. “That reaction? That’s all you.”
A soft moan slipped from you before you could stop it.
Silco’s hold tightened immediately, his body shifting beneath yours, the movement subtle but unmistakable. The air grew heavier, thick with heat and intent. The lamplight caught the flush spreading across your skin as he kissed you again and again, each one reinforcing the same truth, there was nothing to fear here. Nothing to measure yourself against.
Experience meant nothing.
Desire did.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured at last, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, his forehead resting against yours. “Never doubt that.”
His hands anchored you firmly in place, grounding, possessive, certain.
“You’re mine,” he said quietly. “And I am all yours.”
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms in the quiet of his office, every insecurity finally fell away. There was no past to compete with. No imagined standard to reach.
Only the fire between you, slow-burning, undeniable, consuming everything else.
𝚂𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚔𝚊
You had your arms tucked tightly around yourself, sitting cross-legged on the edge of yours and Sevika's shared bed, shoulders slightly hunched as if you could fold yourself smaller by sheer will. The mattress dipped faintly beneath your weight, worn but warm, the faint scent of smoke, oil, and Sevika herself lingering in the air. A single lamp cast a low amber glow across the room, shadows stretching lazily along the walls.
You could hear Sevika moving behind you. Not her usual heavy, purposeful strides. These were slower. Careful. Like she was thinking about every step before she took it.
“I… I don’t know if I,” your voice faltered before the thought could finish forming. You stared down at your hands, fingers twisting together, knuckles pale. “I don’t know if I’m… doing this right.”
Silence followed. Not the sharp, uncomfortable kind. The kind that pressed in, waiting.
You glanced over your shoulder, heart pounding. “I’ve never… done much,” you added quietly. “Kissing, I mean.”
Sevika stopped.
She leaned against the doorframe, one shoulder braced against the metal, arms crossed loosely over her chest. An eyebrow lifted, lips quirking into something that looked like a smirk at first, half disbelief, half amusement, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was something else there instead. Something softer. Something thoughtful.
“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, voice low and even, “you’ve never kissed anyone before me?”
Heat rushed to your face. You nodded once, small and quick, as if acknowledging it too strongly might make it worse. “I mean… I kissed you. But that’s it. That’s all I’ve ever,” you cut yourself off, breath hitching. “And you’ve… you know. You’ve been with people before.”
Sevika pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in a few long strides. She sat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed, the contact sending a jolt straight through your chest. You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.
She reached up, fingers rough and warm, and gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. The touch was feather-light, shockingly so, like she was afraid of startling you.
“Y/N,” she said, softer than you’d ever heard her say your name, “if anyone’s worried here, it’s not me.”
You swallowed hard. “I just…” Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it. “I don’t want to disappoint you. You know what you’re doing. I don’t. I don’t want to feel… inexperienced. Or awkward. Or…”
Sevika’s hand shifted, two fingers slipping under your chin. She tilted your face up with deliberate gentleness until you were looking at her. Really looking.
Her eyes searched yours, sharp edges dulled by something achingly sincere.
“Disappoint me?” she echoed, disbelief threading through the words. A quiet breath left her nose, almost a huff of a laugh. “You think kissing me is some kind of test?”
Her thumb brushed along your jaw, slow and grounding. “You’re doing fine. More than fine.”
You hesitated, then whispered, “But you’ve been with others. You know what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Her expression shifted then, the smirk fading entirely. “I know what empty feels like,” she said. “I know what doesn’t matter.”
She leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching. You could feel the warmth of her breath, smell the faint smoke clinging to her jacket.
“You,” she said quietly, “are the one I want. Not comparisons. Not history. You. Right here. Right now.”
Your breath caught, chest tightening as something warm and fragile unfurled inside you.
Sevika didn’t rush. She gave you time. Let you lean in first.
When your lips met hers, it was tentative, a soft brush, barely there. She responded immediately, easing into it, lips warm and patient. No urgency. No pressure. Just reassurance.
Her hand slid to your waist, steady and protective, anchoring you as the kiss deepened just enough to make your knees weak. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t demanding.
It was careful.
When she pulled back, it was only by a breath, her forehead resting against yours.
“I’ve only kissed you,” you murmured, vulnerability spilling out before you could stop it.
“I know,” Sevika replied, thumb brushing over your cheek, slow and reverent. “And that’s more than enough. More than I ever expected to have.”
A shaky laugh escaped you, relief bubbling up as you leaned into her chest. She wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, holding you close, solid and warm.
“You’re… soft,” you said, half incredulous, half smiling.
She scoffed quietly, but she pressed a kiss into your hair anyway. “Don’t get used to it,” she muttered. Then softened. “Only for you.”
You stayed like that for a long moment, breathing in sync, the city humming beyond the walls.
And somehow, all the nerves faded. All the doubt. All the fear of not knowing enough.
You fit there, in her arms, against her heartbeat, and for the first time, it felt like nothing else mattered but this quiet, imperfect, unexpectedly gentle kind of love.
Hi, could you do angst with Sonar, Prism and Invisigal where reader got hurt and was put into a coma due to someone from their past having beef with them and wanting revenge? There is comfort though because reader wakes up 5 days later. Thank you, hope you have a good day
One minute, you were leaning against the cold brick wall of the alley, rain-slick pavement reflecting neon light, laughing softly into your comms. The night had been almost quiet, too quiet, but you’d let your guard slip just enough to enjoy it.
“You know,” you said, smiling to yourself, “it’s echolocation, Victor. One word. Not ‘echo-location’ like you’re reading off a bad PowerPoint slide. You sound personally offended by the concept.”
There was a brief pause. Then his voice came through your comms, warm and indignant. “I am not offended. I simply refuse to let scientific terminology be butchered in my presence. Words matter.”
You laughed softly. “You correct people like it’s a moral failing.”
“Because it is,” he shot back, clearly grinning now. “Next you’ll start calling it sonar like it’s some bargain-bin gadget and not a highly refined biological system.”
You never heard the rest.
Pain detonated through you without warning.
It was sudden, overwhelming, white-hot and blinding, like your body had been struck by lightning. The sound of your skull cracking against concrete echoed in your ears as you stumbled forward, vision exploding into stars.
The alley shifted violently around you.
A figure stepped out of the shadows behind you, movements sharp and practiced. Their face was twisted with something raw and ugly—recognition, hatred, something that made your stomach drop even as you struggled to stay upright.
No.
Not them.
“You thought you could just move on?” they sneered, voice low and venomous. “After everything you did?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out before the first hit landed.
It drove the air straight out of your lungs.
You doubled over with a strangled gasp, ribs screaming as pain bloomed deep and sharp. Before you could recover, before you could even raise your hands properly, they grabbed you by the collar and slammed you into the brick wall behind you.
Hard.
Your head snapped back. Something split open at your temple, warm liquid running down your face. Your vision blurred instantly, the world tilting sickeningly as your knees buckled.
“Stop-” you tried to say, but the word dissolved into a broken breath.
They didn’t listen.
The second blow caught you across the jaw. The crack rang through your skull, teeth clicking painfully together as your body was thrown sideways. You hit the ground on your shoulder, a sharp snap of pain tearing through your arm as you cried out despite yourself.
Your comms crackled to life, your distress triggering the open channel.
Victor’s voice came through immediately, sharp and terrified. “Y/N? Y/N, what’s going on? Talk to me!”
You tried.
God, you tried.
Your fingers fumbled uselessly at the ground, slick with rain and blood. You forced your mouth to move, but all that came out was a wet, broken sound. Your chest burned as you struggled to breathe, each inhale shallow and painful.
“Victor-” you rasped, barely audible.
The attacker laughed.
A sound full of satisfaction.
“Oh, calling for backup now?” they mocked. “Too late.”
The next kick caught you square in the ribs.
You screamed.
White-hot agony exploded through your side, stealing what little breath you had left. You curled instinctively, hands coming up to protect yourself, but it didn’t matter. Another blow followed, then another, boots slamming into your stomach, your back, your legs.
Your world reduced to pain.
Your head struck the pavement again, hard enough that everything rang. The alley lights smeared into long, nauseating streaks. You tasted blood, thick and metallic, pooling in your mouth as you choked on it.
Somewhere, far away, sirens began to wail.
The attacker froze.
They took one last look at you, crumpled, shaking, barely conscious, and spat on the ground beside you.
“Should’ve stayed buried,” they muttered.
Then footsteps. Fast. Retreating.
Gone.
You were left alone in the alley, rain mixing with blood, your body trembling uncontrollably. You couldn’t feel your fingers anymore. Couldn’t tell where one pain ended and another began. Your vision dimmed, tunnelling inward as darkness crept in at the edges.
Victor’s voice was still in your ear, frantic now, breaking. “Y/N, I’m close. I’m almost there. Stay with me, okay? Please, just stay with me.”
You wanted to answer.
You wanted to tell him you were scared.
Your eyes fluttered, heavy and uncooperative. The cold seeped into your bones as your breathing grew shallow and uneven. The world felt distant, like you were already drifting away from it.
Heavy wings beat the air above you suddenly, violent, desperate.
Victor landed hard in the alley, boots splashing through puddles as he spun, senses flaring. His eyes scanned the shadows wildly, feral and searching.
Too late.
“No-no, no, no-” he whispered when he saw you.
You were sprawled on the ground, blood smeared across your face, body twisted at an unnatural angle. One arm lay limp at your side. Your chest rose and fell weakly, unevenly.
He was at your side in an instant.
“Hey. Hey, I’ve got you,” he said, voice shaking as his hands hovered before finally cradling your face. His gloves came away red. “Look at me. Please, look at me.”
Your eyes barely opened.
You couldn’t focus on him. Couldn’t even really feel his touch anymore, just the vague sense of warmth, of familiarity.
Victor’s breath hitched as he leaned closer, forehead pressed gently to yours despite the blood, despite the rain.
“Stay with me,” he begged, voice breaking completely now. “Please. You don’t get to leave. Not like this.”
Your lips moved.
No sound came out.
The sirens grew louder.
Your vision faded to black.
The last thing you felt was Victor’s hands, gentle despite the panic, desperate despite the fear, holding you together as the world slipped away.
Then,
Nothing.
=
Machines hummed softly, a constant mechanical lullaby that never stopped, never faltered. The monitor beside your bed blinked in steady green rhythms, numbers rising and falling with a precision Victor came to recognize without ever really understanding. He memorized the cadence anyway, the soft beep… beep… beep—as if committing it to memory could somehow anchor you here.
He sat in the chair beside your bed every day.
Every night.
The chair was uncomfortable, the vinyl cracked and cold, but he refused to trade it for anything else. Sometimes he slouched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at your chest just to make sure it was still rising. Sometimes he leaned back, head tipped against the wall, eyes half-closed but never truly sleeping.
When exhaustion finally dragged him under, it was never for long.
More often than not, he slept with his head resting against the edge of the mattress, one hand wrapped carefully around yours. His grip was light, reverent—like he was afraid any pressure at all might hurt you, might pull you farther away. Every so often his fingers twitched, tightening just enough to reassure himself you were still there.
As if letting go might make you disappear.
Five days.
Five days measured in IV bag changes and nurse shifts. Five days counted in cups of stale hospital coffee and uneaten vending-machine snacks. Five days of staring at the same ceiling tiles, the same curtains, the same faint crack in the paint above the door.
Five days of replaying the attack in his head on an endless loop.
The sound your body made when it hit the pavement. The way your breathing had stuttered and faltered. The horrible, helpless knowledge that he hadn’t been fast enough.
The sounds haunted him the most.
Skin on skin. Bone on concrete. Pain dragged from your throat in broken, desperate noises he could still hear when the comms went quiet.
Five days of wishing he’d arrived seconds sooner.
Five days of hating the past for daring to reach forward and take you with it.
He talked to you constantly.
At first it was just updates, like you were awake and listening. Mission briefings he didn’t bother filing. Who was on rotation. Which calls had gone badly, which ones had gone quiet. He told you the nurses’ names once he learned them, narrated everything like grounding himself in routine might keep him from unraveling.
Then it softened.
He told you about stupid things. About how the vending machine downstairs kept eating his money and how he was convinced it was sentient and specifically hated him. About a call that went sideways because someone misread a map. About Malevola stealing his seat in the break room.
He told you about you.
About the way you laughed when you were exhausted—too loud, too honest. About how you always pretended not to like when he fussed over you, rolling your eyes even as you leaned into his space, shoulder brushing his arm. About how you never let him correct your vocabulary anymore, just did it wrong on purpose to see him react.
“I know you can hear me,” he murmured one evening, voice low, rough with fatigue. His thumb brushed slow, careful circles over your knuckles. “You always hated being talked at. So I’ll stop if you want. Just, just give me a sign.”
The only answer was the steady rhythm of the monitor.
“I swear,” he muttered another night, leaning closer, his voice barely above a whisper, “when you wake up, I’m never letting you out of my sight again. Ever. I don’t care what the handbook says.”
A shaky exhale.
“And yeah, I know you’re gonna complain. Tell me I’m being dramatic. I’m prepared for that. I’ll even let you win the argument.”
His voice cracked despite his best effort to keep it steady.
“You don’t get to leave like this,” he whispered, forehead lowering until it rested gently against the edge of the bed. “Not after everything. Not after… us.”
Sometimes, when the room grew too quiet and the fear pressed in too close, he shifted. His forehead rested against your arm, his breathing shallow and even, listening.
Always listening.
Your heartbeat. The machines. The air.
The nurses pretended not to notice. Or maybe they did and just chose not to say anything. One of them draped a blanket over his shoulders once without waking him.
Victor hadn’t slept properly in days.
Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His muscles ached from staying still too long, from tension he never released. He forgot to eat unless someone reminded him. Forgot the time. Forgot everything except you.
But he refused to leave.
Not for food. Not for rest. Not even when they suggested he go home. And until you woke up,
He wasn’t going anywhere.
=
The first thing you noticed was warmth.
Not the sharp, sterile heat of hospital lights or blankets, but something living, steady and close, radiating into you like an anchor. It wrapped around your awareness before your thoughts did, pulling you gently toward the surface.
The second thing was weight.
Light, careful, unmistakably familiar.
Something rested against your arm, solid and warm, rising and falling with slow, even breaths. You could feel the faint vibration of it through the thin fabric of your hospital gown, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone.
Your eyes fluttered open.
The world came into focus in fragments—blurred ceiling tiles, pale curtains, a monitor blinking steadily beside the bed. Your head throbbed dully, pain blooming behind your eyes like a warning rather than a scream. The air smelled like antiseptic, clean and sharp… and beneath it, something else.
Something familiar.
Your gaze drifted down.
Victor was slumped beside the bed, half folded into the chair, one hand wrapped gently around yours. His fingers were warm, calloused in a way you recognized instantly, thumb resting against your knuckles as if it had never left. His other arm was tucked close to his chest, where soft, dark fur crept up beneath his collar, catching the light.
His head, tilted forward, chin almost resting on his chest, was unmistakably bat-like. Fine fur framed his face, ears relaxed and low, wings nowhere in sight. He looked… exhausted. Vulnerable. Real.
“Victor?” you croaked.
Your voice came out rough, scraped raw, barely more than a breath.
He startled violently.
His head snapped up, ears twitching, eyes widening in disbelief. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as he jerked upright, nearly toppling over in his haste.
“What-?” His voice cracked. “Y/N?”
You blinked at him slowly, the effort heavier than it should’ve been. He looked worse up close, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes, clothes wrinkled and rumpled like he’d slept in them for days. His fur was dull with exhaustion, chest rising too fast now as he stared at you like you might vanish if he blinked.
“Hey,” you murmured weakly, lips twitching despite the ache in your face. “Why do you look like you fought a bird and lost?”
For a split second, he laughed.
Then his breath hitched, and everything in him collapsed.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, hands lifting and hovering uselessly over you, fingers trembling like he didn’t trust himself to touch you. “You’re awake. You’re-you’re actually awake.”
His voice broke on the last word.
You squeezed his hand, slow and clumsy, using what little strength you had left. His fingers tightened immediately, grounding, real.
“Been…” you swallowed, throat burning, “…napping.”
A sound tore out of him, half laugh, half sob. He leaned forward, careful despite his desperation, pressing his forehead gently against yours. The fur there was soft, warm, familiar. His breath trembled against your skin.
His hands gripped the fabric of your gown at your shoulders like an anchor, knuckles white, as if holding on was the only thing keeping him upright.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, voice low and shaking. “Don’t ever do that again. Ever.”
You managed a faint smile, eyes heavy but warm. “Wasn’t… planning on it.”
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing visibly, then nodded like he needed to convince himself you were really there. Slowly, so slowly, he climbed onto the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the wires or IVs. His movements were controlled, protective, all instinct.
One arm wrapped around your shoulders, warm and solid. His chest pressed lightly against your side, fur brushing your cheek. The other hand laced firmly with yours, fingers intertwining like he never intended to let go again.
His heart was racing.
You could feel it beneath the fur, fast, alive, impossibly reassuring.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, lowering his head until his cheek rested against your hair. His voice was soft now, steady despite everything. “I’ve got you. And I’m not going anywhere. Ever. You hear me?”
You shifted closer, exhaustion pulling at you but comfort holding you up. You listened to his breathing slow, felt his grip steady, felt the truth of his words settle around you like a shield.
Safe.
For the first time since the attack, since the pain and fear and darkness,
You felt it.
And this time, you didn’t drift away.
𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 '𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖'
The patrol was supposed to be easy.
Low-risk zone. Quiet streets. One of those routes Dispatch handed out when they wanted to keep heroes busy without actually needing them. The city was calm, streetlights humming softly, the pavement still warm from the day’s sun.
Alice floated a few feet above the ground, boots glowing faintly as light shimmered around her like a living spotlight. She spun lazily in the air, letting herself drift backward just enough to look at you upside down.
“You know,” she said with a dramatic sigh, “I didn’t become a hero to patrol empty streets. I became a hero for chaos. Explosions. Applause. Maybe a slow-motion walk away from a burning building.”
You snorted, adjusting your grip on your comm. “You get applause every time you enter a room. Isn’t that enough ego fuel for one night?”
She gasped, clutching her chest. “Wow. Betrayal. From my own partner.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
She righted herself and floated ahead again, light casting soft rainbows against the brick walls of the alley you were passing through. The place was narrow, shadows stretching long and thin between dumpsters and fire escapes.
It was too quiet, maybe, but you had learned not to trust instincts when you were tired.
Alice glanced over her shoulder again. “Hey, when this is over, I’m borrowing snacks from HQ. You want something?”
“You mean stealing?”
She grinned. “I mean confiscating for emotional damages.”
You laughed. “Then I want-”
The gunshot split the night.
It was sharp, deafening, wrong. A sound that did not belong in a quiet patrol or a joking conversation.
You did not even register the first hit.
The second came faster, brutal and precise.
Pain tore through your side like fire, white-hot and immediate, stealing the breath straight from your lungs. The world lurched violently as your legs gave out beneath you, balance gone before your mind could catch up.
“Y/N!”
Your name ripped from Alice’s throat in pure panic.
You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your chest as the alley tilted and spun. The cold pavement burned against your palms, blood already soaking through your suit, warmth spreading in a way that felt terrifyingly wrong.
Prism screamed.
Not dramatic. Not playful.
Terrified.
She whirled around, light flaring violently around her as instinct took over. The alley exploded in blinding brilliance, shadows evaporating under the sudden surge.
At the far end stood a figure, gun still raised, frozen just long enough for recognition to hit you even through the haze.
Someone you knew.
Someone from before Dispatch. Before hero work. Back when you were on the other side of the law.
“You thought I forgot?” the voice snarled, raw with old resentment. “Thought you could just disappear?”
Your vision blurred, pulse pounding in your ears.
Another gunshot rang out.
This time, Alice reacted instantly.
A wall of solid light snapped into existence between you and the shooter. The bullet hit it and dissolved into a spray of sparks that fizzled uselessly against the glow.
“Oh no,” Alice said, her voice suddenly cold. Dangerous. “You don’t get to do this.”
She dropped to her knees beside you in an instant, hands shaking as glowing palms pressed to your wound. Warm light spilled through her fingers, desperate and uncontrolled as she tried to stem the bleeding.
“Stay with me,” she begged, tears already streaking down her face. “Hey, look at me. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
You tried to respond, but the words would not come. The edges of your vision were darkening, the world pulling inward.
Alice’s jaw clenched.
She looked up.
The attacker turned to run.
Big mistake.
Light detonated from Alice’s body in a blinding surge. Not a beam. Not a flash. An overwhelming wave of pure radiance. The alley vanished under it. The shooter screamed, dropping the gun as they stumbled, hands clawing at their eyes.
“You aren't going anywhere,” Alice shouted, her voice echoing with power.
The light intensified, merciless and absolute, until the figure collapsed to the ground, blinded, sobbing, helpless.
Only then did Alice turn back to you.
She was shaking now, fear crashing in once the threat was gone. She pressed her forehead to yours, light dimming as she focused every ounce of herself on keeping you here.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered over and over, her voice breaking. “I’ve got you. You’re not leaving me, okay? Not like this. Not today.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone shouted into a comm. The alley felt too bright, too loud, too far away.
The last thing you felt was warmth. Gentle. Golden. Wrapping around you like arms pulling you close.
Then everything went dark.
=
The hospital room never really got dark.
Even at night, soft light filtered in from the hallway, spilling through the narrow window in the door. Machines hummed constantly, a low, steady sound that Alice had come to associate with breathing. With survival. With hope she was afraid to name.
Monitors blinked in soft, rhythmic patterns, green lines rising and falling with each breath you took. Five days passed like that, measured in heartbeats that were not hers and shallow breaths that depended on machines and careful monitoring.
Alice barely left the room.
She slept in the chair beside your bed when exhaustion finally dragged her under, curled awkwardly with her knees tucked up and her head tipped against the mattress. She was no longer in her hero costume, but she was not careless either. She wore simple clothes instead, clean and comfortable, chosen with intention. A soft shirt. Faded jeans. Things that felt real.
Every morning, no matter how little she slept, she washed her face. Brushed her hair. Fixed herself just enough. No dramatic makeup, no stage-ready glow, just her natural look, polished and familiar. As if she were preparing for you to open your eyes at any moment.
She wanted the first thing you saw to be her at her best.
Not flawless. Not dazzling.
Just there.
But her glow was dimmer than usual. Muted. Like someone had turned down the sun and forgotten to turn it back up.
Dispatch tried.
They offered rotations so she could rest. Time off, gently insisted. Therapy sessions framed as mandatory check-ins. Food delivered to the room because she forgot to eat.
She refused all of it.
If she left, even for a moment, something might happen. She was not willing to risk that.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said quietly on the third day, hands folded in front of him. “Vitals are good. No internal bleeding. But the coma… there’s no way to know when they’ll wake up.”
Alice nodded like she understood. Like the words were not cutting something open in her chest.
She waited until the door closed before the light in the room flickered violently and she pressed her face into her hands, shoulders shaking as silent sobs wracked her body.
Later, when she had pulled herself together, she took your hand again.
She never let go for long.
Her thumb traced slow, repetitive circles over your knuckles, grounding herself in the warmth of your skin. Proof that you were still here. That you had not slipped away while she blinked.
“Hey,” she murmured softly, leaning closer to your bed. “It’s me. I know you can hear me. I mean, I don’t know, but I’m pretending you can because it feels worse if I don’t.”
She smiled weakly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.
“Dispatch is a mess without you,” she continued, voice quiet but steady. “Roberto tried to reorganize the schedule yesterday and somehow set three teams to the same patrol zone. Colm keeps asking when you’re coming back because apparently you owe him twenty credits.”
Her thumb paused, then resumed its slow path.
“I told them you’d yell at them yourself when you wake up.”
She swallowed.
“They caught the guy,” she said after a moment. “Or what’s left of his eyesight. He’s alive. Barely. They say he won’t see properly again. I don’t feel bad about it. I think maybe I should, but I don’t. He hurt you.”
Her light flickered faintly, casting soft color across the walls.
“You warned me,” she admitted. “About your past. About people you left behind. I told you it didn’t matter, that you were different now. And you are. You’re so good it hurts sometimes. I just… I didn’t think it would come back like this.”
Her voice cracked.
“I should’ve been watching your back”
She leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against the side of the bed.
“I’m supposed to protect people,” she whispered. “That’s my whole thing. Light. Hope. Being the bright one in the room. And you’re lying here because I wasn’t fast enough.”
For a long time, she just sat there, breathing in time with the machines, counting each rise and fall of your chest.
Then she started talking again.
She told you about the weather. About the way the city looked from the hospital roof at sunrise. About the nurse who kept sneaking her extra coffee because she refused to sleep. About how quiet it felt without you teasing her for being dramatic.
“I miss you,” she said softly. “I miss you rolling your eyes when I talk too much. I miss you pretending not to care when I float too close just to annoy you. I even miss you correcting my patrol reports.”
Her fingers tightened around yours.
“You don’t get to leave me,” she said, more firmly now. “Not after everything. Not after how hard you fought to be better. You deserve this life. You deserve peace.”
She brushed her lips gently against your knuckles, the light around her dim and warm.
“So wake up,” she murmured. “Yell at me. Tell me I’m being stupid. I don’t care how. Just… come back to me.”
The machines hummed on.
The room stayed quiet.
Until it didn’t.
=
Your eyes fluttered open, the ceiling swimming into focus slowly, painfully. White tiles blurred together before settling into something solid. The steady beep of a monitor cut through the haze, rhythmic and reassuring, pulling you into the present. Your throat felt dry, raw, like you had been screaming without sound.
“…Ali?”
Your voice came out broken and hoarse, barely more than a breath.
Her head snapped up instantly, so fast the chair scraped softly against the floor. For a split second she just stared at you, frozen in place, like she was afraid the moment would shatter if she moved.
“What?” she whispered.
Then light surged from her without warning, spilling into the room in a soft, radiant glow that painted the walls in gold and pink. She gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
“Y/N?”
You blinked against the brightness, your eyes stinging. “Hey,” you managed, the word rough and uneven.
That was all it took.
She laughed, the sound fractured and breathless, halfway to a sob. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she stood too fast, then dropped back into the chair again, knees nearly giving out beneath her. Her hands hovered over you, shaking, like she was afraid that touching you might make you disappear again.
“Oh my god,” she said softly, then louder, then again like she needed to hear it out loud. “Oh my god. You’re awake. You’re actually awake. How are you? Are you hurting anywhere?”
You squeezed her hand weakly, fingers trembling with the effort. “Been better,” you murmured.
She let out a watery laugh that dissolved into another quiet sob. She leaned forward carefully, resting her forehead against yours, her breathing uneven as she tried to pull herself back together.
“Do you have any idea,” she whispered, voice breaking, “how close I was to starting a personal vendetta against the universe?”
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at your lips. “Sounds on brand.”
That did it.
She laughed again, softer this time, and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, then another to your forehead. The light around her dimmed, warming instead of flaring, like the glow of early morning rather than a spotlight.
“You scared me,” she said quietly, the words finally landing now that the relief was real. Her thumb brushed over your hand again, grounding herself. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I’ll try not to get shot,” you murmured.
She sniffed, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Not funny,” she said, though the small smile betraying her told a different story.
She adjusted the blanket around you with careful, practiced hands, smoothing the fabric like she had done it a hundred times already. She stayed close, closer than necessary, her shoulder pressed lightly against the bed, refusing to put any distance between you.
“I’m here,” Alice said softly. “I’ve been here. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
Her fingers tightened around yours just a little, protective, steady.
And for the first time since the patrol, the light in the room felt warm instead of blinding. Calm instead of chaotic. Alive in the quiet, ordinary way that meant you had made it back.
𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚢 '𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕'
The tip had sounded deceptively simple, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, reportedly a gang’s temporary hideout. The message had come in through Dispatch, coded and urgent, suggesting something big was about to happen, a shipment of illegal tech moving through their territory. Your instincts immediately screamed caution. Heroes rarely walked into "simple" situations like this. Ambushes were an occupational hazard, but the wording of the tip felt almost too convenient.
"Invisigal, you really sure about this?" you asked, voice low, scanning the cracked asphalt and rusted fencing surrounding the warehouse. Your hand hovered near your weapon, eyes flicking over shadows that didn’t quite belong. "Something feels off."
Courtney adjusted her gloves, the leather creaking softly. Her eyes swept the perimeter, moving from broken windows to piles of discarded crates. “I don’t like the vibe either,” she admitted. “But if Dispatch says there’s movement here, we check it. We can’t just ignore a gang’s operations.” Her voice was calm, almost casual, but you could see the tightness in her jaw, the unease that mirrored your own.
You let out a slow breath and nodded, shoulders rolling back, chest straightening. “Right. Heroes don’t hesitate. Let’s just stay sharp.”
Courtney smirked briefly. “You and your hero code. Honestly, sometimes I think you enjoy putting yourself in danger.”
“You act like you’ve never done the same,” you shot back, a small grin tugging at your lips. The tension eased slightly between you. Former villain and hero, now unlikely partners. Strange, and somehow comforting.
You stepped inside, the air instantly thick with dust, oil, and the faint tang of rust. Shadows pooled in the corners, dark and unreadable, twisting across graffiti-scarred walls. Every creak of the old floorboards beneath your boots made your senses spike, every echo a possible footstep of a hidden enemy. The warehouse was cavernous, its ceiling lost in darkness, dotted with broken skylights through which pale moonlight fell in fractured beams.
At first, it seemed almost too easy. A few gang members were scattered near the main storage area, rifles swinging uncertainly as they scrambled for cover. Courtney melted into the shadows, a silent predator, striking from angles that left you momentarily dizzy. She disarmed one man with a flick of her wrist, then disappeared before anyone could register the strike, reappearing behind another, rendering him unconscious with a precise, non-lethal jab.
“Nice,” you muttered under your breath, ducking a flying crate. “You’ve gotten faster.”
Courtney gave a small nod, still invisible for the moment. “Practice makes perfect. You should see me when I’m actually trying.” She reappeared beside you, landing lightly on her feet. “Now, you focus on the guy in the middle. I’ve got the rest.”
You kept moving, your own movements deliberate and fluid, training and instinct kicking in. You were fast, but the fight required more than speed. It required focus, control, the kind that came from years of being a hero. Then you saw him.
At the far end of the warehouse, near a rusted chain-link gate, the shadows shifted and parted. A figure stepped forward, tall, confident, a smirk curling across his face. Recognition hit you like a punch to the gut. The man’s eyes glinted in the dim light. He was someone you had put away months ago, someone who had caused untold chaos, someone who had sworn revenge.
“You,” you whispered, breath catching in your throat, frozen for a fraction of a second.
The villain chuckled. “Fancy seeing you here. Thought you could lock me away forever, huh? Guess you underestimated me.”
“I should have known you’d find your way back into trouble,” you muttered, fists tightening. “This ends tonight.”
The world narrows to the two of you. The distant clatter of fighting fades into the background. Your hands clench, adrenaline surging. This is personal. This is the reckoning.
You lunge, fists and powers clashing in a blur of motion. Every strike is met with equal force, every dodge anticipated. Your focus sharpens to a laser, every instinct screaming as you fight someone who knows you, who knows exactly how to push your limits.
Outside, Courtney is in full control, her invisibility allowing her to dart between gang members, taking them down silently and efficiently. She respects you more than ever, your heroism, courage, and unwavering morality clear in every movement. Former villain and hero, now side by side, each saving the other in different ways.
“Thought you’d have me figured out by now, hero?” the villain taunts, slamming a metal beam against the floor. Sparks fly. “Guess not.”
“Not a chance,” you shoot back, ducking under a swing and countering with a surge of power that sends him sprawling into a stack of crates. The smell of dust, scorched timber, and burning insulation fills your lungs.
But he recovers quickly, reaching into a coat pocket and pulling out a small, cylindrical device. Your chest tightens as your eyes flick to it.
“If I’m going down, you’re going down with me,” he snarls, eyes locking onto yours.
You freeze, adrenaline spiking. You know you need to jump, to clear yourself, but before you can fully move, the button is pressed.
Outside, Courtney has just finished taking down the last of the gang. One of them, cornered and beaten, lets out a nervous chuckle.
“What are you laughing at, huh?” she barks, grabbing him by the collar, voice sharp and shaking.
He only laughs, a hollow, mocking sound that cuts through the chaos. “You can’t save them,” he sneers.
Cold dread coils in Courtney’s chest. Her eyes dart to the warehouse. “No… no, no, no,” she mutters under her breath. Something is horribly wrong.
“Y/N!” she screams, sprinting toward the building, muscles burning, lungs straining. A sickening roar shakes the warehouse as flames burst outward in a searing inferno.
A massive shockwave slams into her chest, throwing her backward. Dust, heat, and debris fill your lungs, tearing at your throat. She hits the ground hard, coughing violently, her vision blurred by smoke.
Shaking herself upright, she blinks through the haze. And then she sees you.
Through the raging fire, you move with staggering determination. Smoke curls around you like a cloak, flames reflecting in your eyes, but you are still standing, still moving forward. And behind you, the villain, limp and bound, dragged along by your iron grip.
You glance at her briefly, nodding through the pain and heat, still steady, still hero. But then your legs falter. Sharp pain shoots through you, flames singe your skin, and exhaustion claws at your lungs like a living thing.
Courtney reaches for you, but before she can take another step, your knees buckle. With a soft groan, you collapse, the bound villain tumbling to the ground beside you. The fire roars around you, smoke thick, heat searing, but your hand lifts slightly, brushing her arm in a silent reassurance.
Courtney drops to her knees beside you, heart pounding. “Hey… stay with me,” she pleads, voice cracking. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Your eyelids flutter, a faint, tired smile brushing your lips before the weight of the inferno, pain, and exhaustion pulls you under.
The world goes silent for a heartbeat. Then the chaos, the fire, and the smoke swallow everything.
=
Five days. Five agonizing, endless days where Courtney has barely left your side, her hands trembling, her heart refusing to accept the worst. The hospital room is quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors that track every faint heartbeat, every shallow breath. The faint antiseptic scent mingles with the subtle floral notes of the bouquet she brought, but even flowers feel hollow in a room like this.
You lie motionless, bandages wrapped carefully around your arm, the burns from the warehouse inferno still raw beneath. Your face is pale, streaked with soot and sweat from when the paramedics pulled you from the wreckage. Courtney hovers near the bed, brushing stray strands of hair from your forehead, holding your hand as though her touch alone could anchor you back to the world.
“Wake up,” she whispers, voice hoarse from shouting into the void that has answered her with silence. “Come on, you can’t leave me here like this. You’re stubborn. You always fight, so fight now. I need you to fight. You have to.”
Her fingers trace the curve of your bandaged arm absently, lingering over the burns. She wants to touch, to soothe, to take some of the pain onto herself, but all she can do is sit there, helpless, praying.
Courtney keeps returning in her thoughts to the warehouse, to the explosion, to the way you moved through the flames to drag the villain out, still alive, still conscious, still trying to save someone who had just tried to kill you. “Why did you even save him?” she asks, voice rough, not angry but bewildered, choking on the words. “After everything, after what he did, why? Why not just let him burn?”
Her fingers tighten around yours, and you feel it, faint and insistent, like an anchor pulling you back. She imagines the fire, the heat searing against your skin, the villain laughing while you fight to pull them free. “I don’t… I don’t understand how you can think like that,” she whispers, tears pricking at her eyes. “You were burning. You could’ve been gone. And you still…” Her throat catches. “You still saved him.”
Your eyelids twitch faintly, a shiver running through your fingers as if you want to respond, but you cannot yet. Courtney leans closer, voice breaking. “You idiot. You could’ve died. You could’ve left me… And for him? For him? You don’t even know if he… if he even deserved it.”
Courtney presses her forehead to your arm, feeling the faint warmth beneath the bandages. “And now you’re lying here, burned, broken, and I can’t do a thing for you except talk to you like this. Do you hear me? I can’t do a thing. Not a damn thing. And it’s driving me insane.”
Her eyes scan the monitors again, every faint beep stabbing at her chest like a physical pain. “Five days,” she whispers, voice raw. “Five days I’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes. Five days of not knowing if you’d make it. And now I… I just need to know you’re still in there.”
Her hand drifts up to your face, brushing a smear of soot from your temple, lingering as though her touch could anchor you back to the world. “I can’t,” she breaks off, voice faltering. “I can’t lose you. Not you. Not after everything. You’re my… my stupid, heroic, reckless, impossible friend. And I can’t-”
Tears slip freely down her cheeks as she clutches your hand again. “Come back to me. Please. Please come back.”
Then she leans back slightly, breathing shallow, whispering again, half to herself, half to you. “You always have to be the hero, don’t you? Always saving everyone. Even the people who don’t deserve it. Even the people who tried to kill you. Why? Why do you do this?”
Her voice drops to a trembling murmur. “You’re supposed to be the one I get to worry about, not the one who dies in my arms while I can’t do a damn thing.”
The room falls quiet except for the soft, mechanical beeping. Courtney stays there, hand in hand with you, murmuring questions, confessions, and promises over and over, unwilling to leave your side, unwilling to let go.
=
The first signs are almost imperceptible. A flutter of your eyelids, a shallow inhale, a tiny groan that barely reaches the edges of consciousness. The sterile hum of the hospital room surrounds you, the beeping of the monitors slow and steady, the faint smell of antiseptic heavy in your nose. You can feel the bandages around your arm, the burns aching beneath them, but everything else, the heat of the blankets, the dull pressure of the sheets against your skin, feels oddly grounding.
Somewhere in the quiet, the door opens. Footsteps. Courtney. You hear her before you see her, her boots clicking against the linoleum in the hallway, a murmur of her voice carrying through the partially open door. She had stepped out for a brief moment, maybe to speak to a nurse, maybe to grab a bottle of water. The sound of her presence is enough to anchor you, enough to make the edges of the darkness blur.
“Y/N?” she whispers from the doorway, her voice tight, fragile, holding a mix of disbelief and hope. The moment she sees the tiniest twitch of your fingers, her eyes widen, and she drops everything to rush to your side.
Her hands wrap around yours immediately, fingers trembling as she presses them against her cheeks. “You’re, oh my god, you’re awake!” Her voice cracks, breaking somewhere between relief, panic, and joy. You can feel her tears warm through her grip, and a sob threatens to escape as she leans closer.
You croak out a word, your throat dry, your voice hoarse, but it carries everything you’ve been wanting to say and more. “Courtney…”
She presses her forehead to yours, closing her eyes for a moment as though she needs to anchor herself to your reality, to the fact that you are here, breathing, alive. “Oh, you scared me so much. Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me? Don’t you even think about it.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, over the thin hospital bandages, lingering there like she can transfer some of her relief into you.
“I… I’m okay,” you murmur, voice weak but steadying, your lips curling into a tired, small smile. “Thanks to you… for being here.”
Her tears fall freely now, sliding down her cheeks as she leans closer, her lips brushing the top of your bandaged hand. “Always,” she whispers. “I promised I wouldn’t leave. And I never will. Not again. You’re not doing this alone, not ever.”
She pulls back slightly, searching your eyes, the way she always does when she needs to make sure you’re really there, really alive. “I don’t even know what I’d do if I lost you. You’re… you’re impossible. Stubborn, reckless, heroic, and entirely infuriating. But you’re mine. You have to understand that. You’re mine to worry about. And I will worry. Forever. If that’s what it takes to keep you here.”
You manage a small laugh, hoarse but genuine, and it gives her something to cling to, something to breathe in. “I guess someone has to keep you in line, right?” you rasp, your voice barely above a whisper.
Her lips curve into a soft, exhausted smile. “And I guess that someone is me. Always,” she says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment longer than usual, letting the warmth and relief seep into both of you.
The world outside the hospital room still hums with danger, still breathes chaos, still carries the echoes of the warehouse and everything that followed. But here, in this small bubble of quiet light, of soft beeping and the warmth of someone who refuses to let go, nothing else matters.
You are awake, you are alive, and Courtney is here.
It had been a year and a half since that night under the stars. Since those whispered promises and shared dreams of a white‑picket‑fence future, full of chaos and love and little nuggets running barefoot through a blooming yard. You had both held onto that vision, a life outside the endless fight against the Upside Down, through every nightmare and every close escape. It was your anchor, a lighthouse that refused to be extinguished, no matter how dark the world became.
But right now, as you and the rest of the team climbed the skeletal lattice of the WSQK radio tower in the Upside Down, that future felt impossibly distant. The top platform rose above you like a ghostly scaffold suspended in a world gone wrong, rusted metal and grated flooring hundreds of feet above an alien, nightmarish landscape. Every heartbeat sent tremors through you, every groan of twisted steel underfoot reminded you that this was no ordinary climb. It was the final push against something far darker than anything Hawkins had seen before.
The Abyss, the scorched world beyond the Upside Down, was collapsing toward you, its fleshy, blackened ceiling moving forward, scraping against the tip of the tower. That misalignment was what made this so much more dangerous, it meant the very platform you were standing on could be crushed, twisted, or torn away at any second.
You gulped down a breath as dust and goo dripped from above. Each step higher felt heavier than the last, and when you finally reached the top platform, your legs shook so hard you feared they’d betray you.
Steve was already there. His shirt clung to him with sweat and his eyes stay locked on the approaching Abyss. His presence, even now, made your heart hammer, that perfect, maddening mix of courage and reckless devotion you’d fallen for long ago. Even here, hundreds of feet up, surrounded by cosmic horror, he believed. It was that belief that once lit your own flickering hope.
“Almost… there!” Dustin shouted, his voice tight with fear and determination.
Steve turned to you, giving a small nod. “Stay close,” he yelled over the wind and distant rumbling, voice firm but thin. “We’ve got this.”
You tightened your grip on the railings, your breaths coming in short bursts. A massive tremor shuddered through the tower. The metal groaned and the grated platform vibrating violently as the Abyss groaned and scraped, itself against the spindly structure. Rocks pounded down like hail, each hit giving a brutal reminder of how thin the line between life and death had become.
Then someone screamed, “Move!”
Before you could react, Steve’s firm voice cut through the chaos.
“GET DOWN!”
His hands pushed you and Dustin aside without hesitation, reflexes fuelled by protective instinct. His voice was sharp and unthinking.
Always the hero, always throwing himself into danger time and time again to save others.
You crashed onto the platform, heart in your throat and eyes wide with terror. Dustin lays beside you, breath ragged, but anything seemed less terrifying than what you saw next.
Steve had stumbled backward. The railing already broken and he fell off the side, his fingers gripping onto the platform. He struggles to lift himself up.
“Steve!!!” you screamed, a raw, guttural cry, torn from somewhere deep in your soul.
Before you knew it, Robin had wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, holding you tight. Her voice cracked with panic.
“No! it’s not safe! We can’t!” she shouted, her own voice cracking with panic.
You struggled against her hold, but your eyes never left him. Steve’s gaze the found yours.
Even through the terror, the chaos, the collapsing tower, he looked at you with that same warmth you’d seen a thousand times before, that unwavering love that had been your anchor through every nightmare. That memory, of him under the stars, whispering future dreams of weddings, laughter, children running through a sunny yard behind a white picket fence, surged through you with fresh, unbearable longing.
The future had been alive and bright. It was real once. And now, in this impossible moment, it felt achingly fragile.
Another tremor ran through the tower, metal groaning like it might tear itself apart. And then, in a heartbeat, a massive chunk of debris, jagged, cruel, unforgiving, hurtled toward him.
For a long, frozen instant, time stretched and warped. The wind roared, the tower shuddered beneath him, and all you could hear was your own heart trying to tear itself out of your chest.
In those final seconds, it was said that a person sees their life flash before their eyes. And Steve, suspended over the void, did exactly that.
The last five minutes of his life weren’t spent fearing the Abyss or the collapse of the world, no.
He lived a thousand lifetimes in that heartbeat.
He saw you laughing at him under the stars, heard the chaos of your future children, running through a yard drenched in golden sunlight. He pictured that white picket fence, the kitchen full of laughter and burnt pancakes.
He felt the warmth of your hand in his, the life he had promised himself and you, all the moments that would now remain forever just beyond his reach.
And then he looked up at you.
Even dangling in that impossible position, his eyes found yours. They were full of love, fear, and the same reckless hope that had carried you both through everything. You saw it all in them, every dream you had shared, every promise he had made under the stars, and every life he was never going to get to live.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice breaking but resolute, carrying through the chaos like a fragile beacon. It wasn’t just the words. It was everything behind them, the life he imagined, the children, the chaos, the ordinary, beautiful moments that were now slipping from his grasp.
For a heartbeat, it was like he was promising the stars themselves.
And then gravity won.
He slipped.
Your scream tore through the tumultuous night. “STEVE!!!”
Robin’s arms wrapped around you, holding you tight as your hands clawed at her, at the air, at the world itself. Dustin was frozen, pale, wide-eyed, helpless. You couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop seeing him, the man who had promised you everything, whose last thoughts had been of a life he would never get to live.
Even as the platform groaned, even as the Abyss clawed and twisted, even as your chest broke in a thousand ways, you clung to that one impossible thing: the promise he had made.
He had said when, not if.
And in your heart, beneath the terror, the chaos, and the despair, that vow lived on. The life he had seen, the family he had dreamed of, the white picket fence and the laughter of children, all of it, was yours to carry, his love immortal in memory, in hope, and in the life you would continue to fight for.
You shot up in bed, heart hammering, trembling, tears still streaking your cheeks. The early morning light seeped weakly through the blinds, casting long, pale stripes across your room. The world outside was gray and quiet, still steeped in the fragile haze of dawn, but nothing outside mattered. Nothing could reach the storm roaring in your chest. Your breaths came fast and shallow, memories of the tower, of Steve, of the impossible fall, flashing behind your eyelids like a reel you couldn’t pause.
For a long moment, you just sat there, letting the quiet settle around you like a fragile cocoon. Then, finally, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cold floor. Each step toward the kitchen felt impossibly heavy, the memory of him, that last look, that final promise, pressing against your chest with all the weight of a lifetime.
You flicked the light on. The harsh glare cut through the lingering darkness and dust motes danced in the air, catching just enough light to sparkle faintly. You poured a tall glass of water, hands still trembling, and took a long, grounding sip. The cold liquid slid down your throat and, for a moment, you let it carry you back to the present. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and,
There he was.
Dustin. Sitting at the dining room table like it was the most normal thing in the world, plate of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs before him. A fork in hand, syrup smudged slightly at the corner of his mouth. Somehow, completely normal, impossibly mundane, and yet completely impossible in this moment of raw, lingering panic.
You blinked, your throat tight, and just stared. Not startled. Not afraid. Just… confused.
“Dustin?” you said finally, voice low and rough from waking, still shaking slightly. “Why are you sitting in my house at this hour?”
He looked up at you, eyes wide, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Uh… hey! Just thought I’d come by early and help you get everything ready for the day. Looks like you're going to be busy for the whole day.”
You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head, and then, hands on your hips, adopted a playfully stern tone. “But shouldn’t you be at college right now? You better not be going AWOL on me, mister.”
Dustin shook his head vigorously, almost bouncing in place. “Nope! Totally responsible. I took some time off, and came down to surprise you.”
You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I thought once you went off to college, I wouldn’t have to babysit you anymore,” you teased, the corner of your mouth tugging into a fond smile.
Dustin grinned, shrugging dramatically. “Yeah, well… some habits die hard,” he said, leaning back in his chair with that mischievous glint in his eyes.
You shook your head, exhaling a laugh, letting yourself relax a little as you turned back to the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of morning starting to ease the lingering weight of the nightmare.
Dustin took another bite, humming happily, clearly enjoying the stolen calm. You turned toward the stove, slipping into the flow of breakfast preparation. Eggs cracked, bacon sizzling, coffee brewing, the smell filled the kitchen, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.
Dustin lingered for a moment longer at the table, spooning a pancake bite into his mouth, then stood with a stretch. “I'll be right back” he said casually.
“Mm-hmm,” you muttered over your shoulder, rolling your eyes playfully. You know exactly where he is going off to.
He laughed and disappeared into the backyard, leaving you alone with the comforting sounds of cooking. You hummed softly, letting yourself relax as you stirred the eggs. The nightmare still hovered at the edges of your mind, but the mundane rhythm of the morning was grounding.
Then,
A loud noise of surprise cut through the kitchen. You just roll your eyes, as you hear footsteps approaching the kitchen again. Dustin came walking in still laughing, and right behind him…
Steve.
Dustin was doubled over, clutching his stomach, laughter spilling out of him in loud, uncontrollable bursts. “Man! You should have seen his face, Y/N! He nearly—no, I’m serious—he almost crapped his pants!”
Steve, still half-asleep and dishevelled from just waking, shook his head, glaring at Dustin with mock annoyance. “Yeah, well… when you expect to wake up next to your wife,” he said, voice thick with sleep, “only to see your creepy little face staring at you like that? It tends to be… a little startling.” He rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief at Dustin’s antics.
Dustin’s laughter continued, muffled by his hands as he wiped at tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “C’mon, Steve! Admit it! That was priceless! I thought you were going to launch yourself off the bed!”
Steve narrowed his eyes at him, though the edge of a smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. Laugh it up, Henderson. Just remember who’s getting the first slice of cake later.” he said, voice mock-threatening.
“Quiet down, you two,” you said, waving a hand in mock sternness, still giggling despite the lingering adrenaline and sleep in your chest. “Or you’re going to wake the others.”
Steve’s grin faltered for the briefest moment at your tone, like he was momentarily caught off guard by your sudden authority. Then it softened, shifting into that familiar, warm, utterly disarming smile that he only ever gave you, the one that made your chest tighten and your heart skip despite everything else in the world.
Dustin, sitting at the table, laughed behind him, sliding into a chair like nothing catastrophic had ever happened. Then, with impeccable comedic timing, he let out a long, exaggerated “Prrrfffft-uhhh!” — a pretend gag noise, his hands flying to his mouth as though Steve’s presence alone was physically overwhelming. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.
Steve, oblivious to Dustin’s theatrics for the moment, tilted his head toward you, eyes soft, tracing the curve of your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there, really safe, really here after all the chaos. For a second, it was like nothing else existed: the tower, the Abyss, the nightmares, all of it melted away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of your kitchen, early morning light spilling over both of you.
Then he took a deliberate step toward you, slow enough to savour the moment, but fast enough that your pulse began to hammer in anticipation. His hand reached for yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours, grounding both of you in reality and relief. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the familiar smell of his shampoo, sweat, and just… Steve.
Before you could even process it, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight you could feel every beat of his chest against yours. Your arms came up naturally, looping around his neck as you buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the smell of him, letting the tension of months, nightmares, and the last impossible year finally release.
Then he tipped his head down and kissed you, a big, soft, utterly consuming kiss that pressed every ounce of relief, love, and gratitude into you. His lips lingered, gentle but insistent, and you felt your knees go weak, but Steve held you steady, grounding you completely.
Behind him, Dustin groaned loudly, mock-retching into his hands, throwing his head back in exaggerated horror. “Ohhhhhh, gross! Too much love in one morning!” he shouted, laughter undercutting every fake gag. “I can’t even—ugh! You two! I’m gonna—!”
You pulled back slightly from Steve, still in his arms, laughing breathlessly. “Dustin! Quit it, or I swear—”
Steve chuckled into your hair, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. “Ignore him,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “he can’t handle love this strong.”
You shook your head, smirking, letting your hands stay pressed against his chest. “Love this strong? You’re the one who makes me feel like a complete idiot every single day.”
He grinned, leaning down to pepper your cheeks with little kisses, each one soft and teasing, making you laugh despite yourself. Dustin, meanwhile, continued his dramatic gagging noises from the table, hands waving, pretending to crawl under the chair for safety.
“Seriously!” Dustin shouted between fake retches. “I’m traumatized! Too much PDA before 8 a.m.! Someone call the CDC!”
You snorted, shaking your head, and finally stepped back enough to meet Steve’s eyes, his hands still holding yours. “You’re ridiculous,” you said softly, letting your fingers intertwine tightly with his.
“And you love it,” he replied, voice playful but tinged with that serious undertone that made your heart catch.
Dustin groaned again, flopping over dramatically onto the table. “Ugh… I’m gonna need therapy for this. Both of you.”
You laughed, finally letting yourself breathe fully, letting the warmth of Steve’s arms and the ridiculousness of the morning wash over you.
Steve finally pulled back slightly from your embrace, still holding your hands, and shot a pointed glance at Dustin. “Okay, seriously,” he said, voice half-teasing, half-concerned. “Why are you actually here? You weren’t supposed to get time off, and last I checked, college doesn’t just let you skip classes for… pancakes.”
Dustin shrugged, leaning casually against the table, trying to look nonchalant while a small, guilty smile tugged at his lips. “Well… there was no way I was going to miss-"
Before he could even finish the sentence, a sudden burst of energy thundered down the stairs. Footsteps pounded, quick and impatient, the kind only a very determined child could produce. Then a high-pitched, thrilled voice rang out, cutting him off completely.
“Uncle Dusty!”
And before either of you could react, the 3 year old girl leapt into his arms, arms wrapping tightly around his neck, legs kicking excitedly in the air. Dustin’s face immediately lit up, eyes wide and laughing, lifting her effortlessly even as he stumbled slightly from the sudden weight.
“Woah, there's the birthday girl! Katie. Oh my God, hey, hey, hey! Careful!” Dustin exclaimed, laughing, holding her securely. “Whoa, someone’s excited!”
Steve’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at you, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. You, meanwhile, leaned against the counter, letting out a soft laugh, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. Even with the recent nightmare lingering in the edges of your mind, seeing this, the pure, uncontainable joy on Dustin’s face and the gleeful energy of his niece, was grounding.
“Uncle Dusty!” Katie squealed again, hugging him as tightly as she could, her little face buried in his shoulder. “I missed you so much!”
Dustin grinned, pretending to stagger under her enthusiasm, letting out a dramatic, playful groan. “Missed me, huh? Well, of course you did! I am your favorite uncle, after all.” He spun slightly, exaggerating the motion as if the sheer weight of her affection might tip him over.
Steve leaned casually against the counter, arms folded, smirking with that trademark Harrington edge of amused judgment. “So what, you came early just to help set up for her birthday?” he asked, voice teasing. “Man, you’re really trying to cement ‘favourite uncle’ in her head, huh? Playing dirty to make sure I don’t even stand a chance, even though I'm her dad.”
Dustin looked up, mock-offended, one eyebrow raising. “Hey! You’re not in the running, Harrington. Not even close.” He gave the girl in his arms a wink. “See? Uncle Dusty always wins. It’s science.”
She giggled, wrapping her arms around him even tighter. “Uncle Dusty always wins!”
Steve shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Alright, alright, I see how it is. You’ve got the magic touch, huh?” He glanced over at you, catching your eye, that warm, soft smile meant just for you. The kind of smile that made your heart flutter and your chest ache in the most familiar, comforting way.
Katie giggled, hugging Dustin tighter. “I missed breakfast too! Can we eat now?”
Dustin laughed, bouncing her gently. “Yeah, yeah, let’s eat. But you’ve got to promise not to shove your pancakes all over your Uncle Dusty, alright?”
You set down three plates on the dining room table: one in front of Katie, another on the empty chair across from her, and a third next to it. The sweet aroma of sizzling pancakes and crispy bacon filled the air, mingling with the faint morning sunlight spilling through the window.
“Here we go,” you said, sliding Katie’s plate toward her. “Don’t start shoving them into anyone yet.” You smirked, giving her a gentle warning glance.
Dustin bounced her slightly in his arms, making her giggle. “No promises,” he said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. “But I’ll try.”
Steve had disappeared briefly, presumably to check on something upstairs. When he returned, he wasn’t alone. Behind him trailed two little figures, both around 5 years old, identical in every mischievous detail: a mop of dark brown hair, wide, curious eyes, and the same stubborn, charming grin that their father always wore. Your sons, twins, came barrelling into the kitchen, their energy filling the room like a small storm.
“Hi, Uncle Dustin!” they chorused, practically bouncing onto the chairs you had set for them.
Dustin’s eyes went wide, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Whoa! Look at you two! Double trouble, huh?” He held out his arms for a high-five, which Eddie and Robbie returned enthusiastically before immediately digging into the pancakes on their plates without a second thought. “Man, you two have gotten so big… and both looking just like your dad.” He turned to you with an exaggerated, mock-frown. “I’m so sorry.”
Steve, standing nearby, crossed his arms and shot Dustin a slow, deliberate look of mock hurt, lips pressing together in dramatic indignation. “Oh, really, Henderson? Really?” he said, shaking his head like Dustin had personally wounded his very soul. “Comparing my boys to… me? And you’re sorry?”
Dustin raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning even wider. “Hey! I’m just saying it like it is! Handsome little Harringtons all around!”
You chuckled, shaking your head at the two of them, while Eddie and Robbie were already enthusiastically diving back into their pancakes, oblivious to the playful adult theatrics happening beside them.
“Like father, like sons,” you said, sliding into your chair next to Katie. “Go easy on the syrup, okay? Don’t flood the table before breakfast’s even started.”
Dustin glanced from the boys to Katie, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, I’m ready. I’ve handled worse chaos before.” He picked up his fork with exaggerated caution, pretending like he was bracing for impact.
Eddie and Robbie jabbed at their pancakes with unrestrained enthusiasm, syrup soon dripping onto the edges of their plates and a little onto the table. Katie squealed in delight, copying their actions with glee, while Dustin shook his head, pretending to gag. “Oh no! Pancake apocalypse! Someone save me!”
You laughed, reaching over to wipe a small smear of syrup from Eddie’s cheek. “This is going to be a long morning,” you said, glancing fondly at Steve and Dustin, who were already teasing the kids back and forth, each trying to outdo the other in playful antics.
=
By the time the kids had demolished most of their pancakes, Dustin had fully assumed his role as chaos coordinator, herding Eddie, Robbie, and Katie toward the backyard.
The morning sun poured over the white picket fence surrounding your home, brushing the big, green lawn with a soft golden glow. The grass was freshly mowed, though speckled with a few dandelions that the kids immediately decided were “important obstacles” in the game Dustin had invented on the spot.
A sturdy old oak tree stood in the corner of the yard, a single black tire hanging from a thick branch, swaying gently in the breeze. It had been a favourite play spot for Eddie and Robbie since they were toddlers, and even now they scrambled up and down with a combination of daring and giggles.
“Catch it, Eddie! No, Robbie! Watch out for Katie!” Dustin called, spinning the frisbee like a tiny professional sports announcer as the kids squealed, weaving through the lawn. Katie shrieked in delight as she lunged for the frisbee, only for Dustin to scoop her up in a playful tackle. “Whoa, careful!” he shouted, laughing so hard he nearly tripped over Eddie, who had taken off running with the frisbee now.
=
Meanwhile, inside the house, the smell of cinnamon rolls mingled with freshly brewed coffee and the faint scent of fruit from the colourful platters you had arranged. The kitchen was a whirlwind of organized chaos, napkins stacked neatly beside plates, sandwiches lined up with precision, and little decorations tucked into corners to add a festive feel. Sunlight streamed through the large bay windows, casting warm, dappled patterns on the polished hardwood floors. The living room looked like it had been touched by magic: balloons in bright primary colours bobbed near the ceiling, streamers fluttered slightly from the ceiling fans, and the kids’ toys were scattered with the perfect kind of mess that only made a house feel lived in.
Steve leaned against the counter, wiping down the last of the berry-stained plates. His shirt was already a little stained, but his smile never faltered, flicking toward you with that look that always made your chest tighten. “You think I should set the juice over there?” he asked, nodding toward the dining table.
“Yeah, and don’t forget the ice,” you replied, rifling through your notebook.
Today had been meticulously planned, guest arrival times, games for the kids, who would help with what, even little details like which sandwiches would be kid-friendly and which drinks went to adults.
“Robin should be here at eleven, Jonathan and Nancy together around eleven thirty. Lucas and Max maybe at eleven forty-five, and then Mike, El, and Will will probably come as a group shortly after noon. Hopper and Joyce should be here a little later, around twelve, maybe. Think I have everything covered?”
Steve smirked, leaning closer. “Balloons now. The kids are running wild out there, and if we wait, you’ll be wrestling the streamers off the kids’ heads by the time everyone gets here.”
You laughed, shaking your head and jotting a note on the list. “You’re probably right. I’ll tackle the balloons now, and you finish the drinks and plates.”
From the backyard, the sounds of chaos and joy were a constant backdrop. Dustin’s voice rose above the excited shrieks of the children. “Team! Keep your eyes on the frisbee! Uncle Dusty believes in you!” Eddie and Robbie sprinted in opposite directions, giggling uncontrollably, while Katie chased them, arms flailing in sheer delight. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves of the oak tree, making the tire swing lazily, a perfect impromptu target for the kids to jump toward. Dustin dove theatrically onto the grass, letting out exaggerated groans whenever he “almost” got tackled by one of the kids, who squealed in triumph every time.
=
A moment later, your front door opened, and the first guest arrived. Robin stepped in, carrying a bag in one hand, and a small box in the other. She paused at the doorway, taking in the chaos of syrup-sticky hands, streamers fluttering from the ceiling, and the organized mess that somehow made everything feel alive.
“Wow,” she said, laughing softly. “You really went all out.”
“Robin!” you called back with a grin, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Perfect timing, breakfast is done, but chaos is still on the menu. And you brought presents!”
Robin laughed, stepping inside and setting the bouquet and gift carefully on the counter. “And the cake,” she added, revealing a small, perfectly frosted creation tucked securely under a dome. “I figured it would be better to arrive now rather than risk anyone drooling on it.”
The kids, already bouncing with energy from pancakes and morning excitement, squealed at the sight of Robin. Katie, spotting her immediately, ran forward with little arms outstretched.
Robin was already at the kitchen table, having carefully set down Katie’s birthday present on the dining room table and the cake on the kitchen counter. She dropped to her knees, opening her arms wide, and Katie barreled into her, wrapping herself around Robin in a tight, squealing hug.
“Oh, my favourite and only niece” Robin laughed, hugging her back just as tightly, her curls tumbling over Katie’s shoulders. “Happy birthday, baby girl! I missed you so much!
Katie giggled, burying her face against Robin’s shoulder. “I missed you too!” she squealed, kicking her tiny legs in delight.
=
A few minutes later, Jonathan and Nancy arrived together, stepping through the front door with careful grace. Jonathan carried a tray of pastries, flaky croissants, chocolate twists, and tiny cinnamon buns, while Nancy balanced a small stack of brightly wrapped presents for Katie. The soft morning light spilled across the hallway, catching the little sparkles on the gift wrap.
Jonathan gave a shy, slightly nervous smile, adjusting his grip on the tray as he carefully navigated around a dangling streamer that swayed gently from the ceiling. “Don’t want to mess up the decorations,” he murmured quietly, glancing toward the living room where the kids’ laughter echoed.
Nancy, ever playful, made a little dramatic duck under one of the low-hanging balloons, then laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Happy birthday, Katie!” she said warmly, holding out a gift wrapped in bright paper patterned with little stars. Her eyes softened as she looked down at the little girl who ran toward her, curls bouncing and eyes shining with excitement.
The twins, Eddie and Robbie, who had been engrossed in their frisbee antics a moment ago, paused mid-spin to peek curiously at the newcomers. Their attention wavered between the tray of pastries and the small pile of presents now waiting for Katie. A mischievous grin spread across Robbie’s face, while Eddie gave a quiet, impressed whistle.
Katie squealed with delight, her tiny hands reaching eagerly for the packages. Jonathan knelt slightly to be closer to her level, careful not to spill the pastries, while Nancy crouched beside him, smiling broadly as Katie hugged the gift to her chest. The warm, chaotic energy of the morning, laughter, squeals, the smell of breakfast and pastries mingling with the scent of fresh grass from the open windows, made the house feel alive in a way that made your chest swell with quiet happiness.
=
Shortly after, Lucas and Max pulled up in Lucas’ car, tires crunching over the gravel driveway. The twins pressed their faces against the backseat windows, waving so vigorously that you could hear their excited shouts before the car even came to a stop. “Hey! Over here!” Eddie and Robbie yelled in unison, fists pumping the air.
Max was the first to tumble out of the car, laughing as she grabbed Eddie in a playful headlock. “You can’t escape the chaos now!” she shouted, spinning him around gently as he squealed with laughter. Robbie tried to sneak past her, but Max caught him too, and soon the three of them were in a pile of giggles on the grass, Max teasingly ruffling their hair.
Lucas followed behind, grinning as he carried several colourful gift bags decorated with balloons and birthday patterns. “We brought presents too!” he said, setting them carefully on the kitchen table. “Can’t let your special day go underdressed.” He winked at you, clearly pleased with the arrangement.
The twins scrambled back inside after a few more spins and tickles, eyes darting to the pile of gifts and treats now accumulating on the tables. Katie, still clutching her package from Nancy, squealed with delight and ran to see what Max and Lucas had brought.
Max crouched to Katie’s level, giving her a quick, playful hug. “Ready for the ultimate birthday chaos?” she asked, and Katie nodded emphatically, bouncing on her little feet.
The kitchen and living room were now alive with movement, laughter, and the smell of breakfast mingling with the sweetness of pastries and decorations. Outside, the yard glowed under the morning sun, waiting for more little feet to scatter across the grass.
=
By noon, the final group trickled in. Mike, Eleven, and Will arrived together, the crisp sunlight spilling through the front door behind them. Eleven carried a neatly wrapped gift bag with a bright bow, carefully setting it down on the growing pile of presents without letting Katie notice too early. Her eyes flicked toward the little birthday girl, soft and warm, already catching Katie’s attention.
“Happy birthday, Katie!” Will said shyly, his voice gentle but full of affection. His eyes sparkled as they scanned the room, taking in the chaos of flying streamers, syrup-smeared pancakes on the dining table, and the twins already tussling over whose turn it was with the toy frisbee.
Mike, sensing Will’s quiet hesitation, nudged him playfully with an elbow. “Hey, no hiding back there,” he said, grinning. “This is a birthday.” Will laughed, ducking his head, and Mike threw an arm around his shoulder as they moved further into the kitchen.
Eleven, meanwhile, crouched slightly to make herself smaller in Katie’s line of sight. “Look, Katie,” she said softly, lifting her gift just enough to peek inside the ribbon, “I brought something special for you.” Katie squealed in delight, bouncing in place as the other kids noticed the new arrivals, their curiosity momentarily pausing the pancake chaos.
The moment was interrupted by the cheerful jingle of the doorbell again. You exchanged a quick glance with Steve, raising your eyebrows as the cupcakes balanced in your hands threatened to tip. You hurried to the door and opened it to find Hopper and Joyce grinning at the threshold, carrying an assortment of juice boxes, small snack trays, and a few extra plates.
“Backup’s arrived!” Joyce announced, stepping in and setting down her haul on the counter with an exaggerated flourish. She winked at you, already aware that her timing was perfect to join the chaos.
Hopper shuffled in behind her, muttering in his gruff, familiar voice. “I’m ready handle rogue kid if needs be." he said, glancing at the floor where syrup was still glistening in patches from the earlier breakfast.
=
The house was alive with movement and sound. Streamers hung crookedly from the ceiling, some brushing against the swinging ceiling fans, and balloons bobbed gently in corners, bouncing when children ran past. Laughter echoed from the living room to the kitchen, overlapping with the occasional squeals of delight and mock protests as the kids chased one another around tables and across the hardwood floors.
Out back, the white picket fence framed a backyard alive with colour and activity. The tire swing on the old oak tree creaked as it swung gently in the breeze, sometimes nudged by an excited little foot or hand. Dustin darting after Eddie, Robbie, and Katie, tossing a frisbee here, catching a runaway ball there, and laughing so hard that it sounded like it might split his chest.
The twins shrieked with joy as they zipped around the yard, dodging one another and Katie, who squealed gleefully as she ran with reckless abandon.
Inside, the adults were scattered throughout the house, each corner buzzing with conversation. Jonathan and Nancy were leaning near the kitchen counter, animatedly discussing something while keeping an eye on the kids. Lucas and Max were crouched on the floor by the living room rug, setting up a game for the kids, and having a playful argument on how it works. Mike and Eleven hovered near the kitchen doorway, smiling softly as they watched Will attempt to quietly eat a cupcake without getting frosting on his shirt, which, of course, failed. Hopper and Joyce had claimed a spot by the kitchen table, arranging drinks and snacks while joking with each other about the inevitability of pancake- and syrup-related disasters.
From the kitchen, you and Steve moved closer to the sliding glass doors, drawn by the joyous chaos outside. Steve’s arm slid around your shoulders as you both leaned against the frame, watching the backyard scene with a shared smile. “Look at them,” he murmured softly, his eyes following Eddie and Robbie as they darted around the yard, Katie trailing a few steps behind but laughing just as hard. “Look at all this… our little mess, our little chaos.”
You rested your head lightly against his chest, letting his warmth ground you amidst the sensory overload of birthday madness. “I think they’re having fun,” you said, voice soft, a mixture of awe and relief. “And everyone else seems to be… well, surviving it.”
Steve chuckled, his cheek brushing the top of your head. “Surviving and loving it,” he corrected, eyes twinkling. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening slightly around you. “I couldn’t imagine doing any of this with anyone else. None of this, Y/N… you, me, all of it. You make it perfect, even when it’s absolute chaos.”
You smiled, heart swelling with love, contentment… and a little secret you’d been carrying close, one that made your chest flutter in a way only he could. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, fingers brushing lightly over his hand resting on your shoulder. “Steve…” you murmured, voice soft but tinged with excitement, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
Steve’s brow lifted, curiosity and warmth mixing in his expression. “Oh? What’s that?” he asked, still holding you close, the chaos of the backyard glowing in the morning light behind him.
You took a slow breath, letting the words roll gently across your lips, almost like testing them in the air first. “I think… there is going to be a little more chaos,” you said, letting a small, nervous smile tug at your mouth. “Looks like our little nugget number four is on the way.”
For a heartbeat, Steve froze, eyes widening slightly as the words registered. Then a slow, stunned grin spread across his face, and he cupped your face in his hands, tilting his forehead against yours. “Wait… really?” he whispered, voice cracking with awe and joy. “Another one?”
You nodded, laughing softly at the expression on his face, the mixture of disbelief and pure happiness. “Really,” you said, resting your hands against his chest. “Another little chaos machine joining the crew.”
Steve laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, eyes shining. “Y/N… we’ve really done it, huh? We’ve built a little world, and now it’s growing even more.”
You leaned into him, the warmth of his arms around you grounding you amidst the noise and laughter outside. “Exactly,” you said, smiling against his chest. “A little more chaos, a little more love… a little more us.”
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love this,” he murmured. “All of it… and all of you.”
Outside, the kids and Dustin continued their mayhem, oblivious to the quiet, perfect moment you shared. And in that instant, standing together in the sunlit backyard, hand in hand, heart to heart, the past and the chaos of the world felt impossibly far away, replaced entirely by this, by family, love, and the bright promise of what was still to come.
You leaned against him, letting the noise, laughter, and sunshine wash over you, feeling the life growing inside you and the chaos of your family surrounding you. And for the first time in a long time, the past, the nightmares, the towers, the darkness, felt impossibly far away. Here, in this sticky, messy, beautiful day, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.
Katie shrieked in triumph as she tumbled into a pile of leaves with the twins and Dustin, who mock-gasped dramatically at being “crushed by a giant.” Max and Lucas joined in with laughter, and the house erupted into full, glorious chaos once mor, and you and Steve, hand in hand, watched it all, hearts impossibly full.
The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, scattering thin, golden stripes across the bedroom floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, catching the light like tiny stars suspended in air. You yawned, stretching beneath the soft sheets, savouring the warmth of the bed and the weight of Flambae pressed lightly against you.
He was still half-asleep, curled up beside you like a living flame, one arm thrown across your waist, the other tucked beneath his head. A faint wisp of smoke drifted lazily from the tips of his hair, a quiet reminder of the constant, simmering heat that radiated from him, so intense the blankets barely made a dent in it.
You shifted, trying to slide out of bed to start the day, but immediately felt his hand tighten on your hip. “Mm… don’t go…” he mumbled, nuzzling his face into your shoulder. His voice was low, rumbling, vibrating through your body like a tiny furnace coiled in human form.
You froze, feeling the warmth of him clinging to you, almost too cozy to leave. “Good morning to you too, Firestarter…” you murmured, half amused, half exasperated.
He let out a soft groan, tightening his grip. “Stay… just… five more minutes…”
You tried to wriggle free, but his hold was surprisingly firm, insistently warm, almost magnetic. “Sorry, babe. But someone has to make breakfast, or we’ll be surviving on coffee and whatever crumbs are left in the couch cushions again,” you said, laughing softly as you leaned down to press a quick kiss to his temple, careful to avoid the slightly singed tips of his hair.
He let out a reluctant sigh, his amber eyes fluttering open just enough to give you a sleepy, crooked grin. “Fine… fine,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
=
You slipped into the kitchen, stretching your arms as you surveyed the ingredients. The morning sunlight poured through the window, painting the counters in gold. Before you even reached for the eggs, you felt it—the subtle, almost magnetic wave of heat radiating off Flambae. It washed over you in a gentle, insistent pulse, warm enough to make the air feel thick, like standing near a fireplace.
A small laugh escaped your lips as a familiar, mischievous voice murmured behind you. “Trying to escape me, huh?”
Before you could turn, he was there, pressing against your back. One arm snaked around your waist, the other draped casually over your shoulders, pulling you flush to his chest. His body was like a living furnace—warm, steady, comforting, yet teasing in the way only he could be. You could feel the faint crackle of residual sparks against your skin, harmless but impossible to ignore.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, leaning back slightly into him, already feeling his heat seep into you.
“Not ridiculous… irresistible,” he countered, nuzzling the side of your neck, and you nearly dropped the spatula from the sudden warmth of his embrace. “Now, what’s on the menu for breakfast, chef?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re making it very difficult to cook anything,” you said softly, letting his weight press against you as you carefully began cracking eggs into a bowl. His chest pressed against your back, the heat of him radiating through your clothes, settling into your muscles like a second layer of warmth, so much that the kitchen almost felt smaller, cozier, and entirely his.
Flambae hummed softly, leaning his chin near your shoulder, and you could feel the slow, rhythmic pulse of him against you, half-teasing, half-protective, as if he had claimed this morning, and you, entirely.
Breakfast became a chaotic but intimate ritual. Toast burned slightly, eggs scrambled in uneven shapes, but the laughter spilling from the kitchen was worth every tiny mishap. Flambae leaned back in his chair, fork in hand, watching you with a soft, almost tender expression. “You know… I could get used to this,” he said. “Just… us. Normal mornings. Doesn’t sound so bad at all.”
You perched on the counter edge next to him, nudging your shoulder against his. “It’s the little things, isn’t it? Doing nothing together, yet somehow it feels like everything.”
=
After breakfast, the two of you migrated to the living room. Flambae stretched languidly across the couch, one arm thrown over your legs, the other tucked beneath his head. The blanket barely touched him, unnecessary against the natural furnace of his body. You scrolled through your phone, fingers occasionally brushing his, feeling the comforting warmth that always seemed to radiate off him in waves.
He reached out lazily, flicking tiny sparks at a candle on the windowsill, then toward a plush toy that had been carelessly left on the floor. “Show off,” you said, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple, carefully avoiding the singed tips of his hair.
“And you love it,” he countered, a lazy, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours, body heat pressing through your jeans and the thin fabric of your shirt. It was a furnace against your own warmth, a heat so deep and constant it made blankets almost unnecessary, though the couch cushions muffled some of it, giving it a tender softness instead.
=
Evening came, slow and gradual, the city outside beginning to glow with golden streetlights reflected in the windows. He turned to you, eyes catching the candlelight as well as something softer, something deeper, a glimmer of vulnerability that only came in moments like this.
“You make normal feel… extraordinary,” he said quietly, wrapping an arm around you and drawing you close. His warmth pressed against you, steady and comforting, a furnace contained in the form of a person, radiating affection and heat equally.
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath the warmth of his body. “We make each other extraordinary,” you whispered back. His hand slid down to rest over yours, fingers interlacing naturally, sparks flickering faintly but harmlessly against your skin.
You spent the rest of the evening in the quiet glow of the apartment. Flambae hummed softly, fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm, occasionally flicking tiny sparks into the air, just enough to create little golden fireflies dancing in the room. The blanket lay forgotten across the arm of the couch, more symbolic than necessary; with him pressed against you, you didn’t need it. His heat, constant and soothing, enveloped both of you in an intimacy words could never fully capture.
And in that small, chaotic, fire-warmed space, surrounded by the lingering scent of breakfast and tiny traces of brimstone, everything felt perfectly, beautifully, and utterly normal.
Firstly, thank you so much for answering my questions and with so much patience 💕 I get confused easily so I ask a lot of questions to make sure I didn't misunderstand 😅
Secondly, you cleared things up well! I'm glad to know you would write for these characters if requested! I love side characters a lot and I couldn't resist asking because of how good your writing is 😍
I would understand if you don't accept requests for them though so I'm pleasantly surprised! Have a nice day/evening/night!
It’s no problem at all dear! I would rather you ask a hundred times until you understand completely, than be confused! And I’m glad you now do!. Have an amazing rest of your day/night too! Xxx
Sorry for disturbing you but what do you mean by you can give writing them a go for the occasional one? I don't know what you meant so I want to understand first before requesting!
I also don't want to accidentally do/request something you said you won't do all because of my misunderstanding! I have accidentally annoyed writers because of my misunderstanding or something I didn't understand properly before so I don't want to repeat it again 😅 Thanks!
Oh goodness no no don’t worry, you haven’t annoyed me. I should have worded it better!
What I meant to was that I will basically write anyone from a fandom. But certain characters (like the ones you requested), I will only write if they are requested.
So for example. On my Arcane, I put under who I would write for. That being Jayce, Viktor etc. But I get requests to write for people like Steb (a character not on that list).
So, I will happily write for ANY character that I get requested for. But when I come to write my own stuff, I won’t write for them.
This is because the characters ,for who I write for, are characters that I feel confident, that I could portray them well in the writing!
So in other words, yes, I will happily write your request and any characters you wish! And I love expanding my capability in writing for other characters all the time!!
P.S, do forgive me if this confuses you more! And please don’t be shy to ask questions. I invite any and all! 💜💜
Just curious but would you accept requests for Wyll, Cal, Dark Urge, Haarlep, Geraldus, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor from Baldur's Gate 3? Only if you don't mind of course! Thanks!
Hello!
So, I can give writing them a go for the occasional one! So feel free to send them in!
hii can I request Hughie x butchers daughter reader, where Butcher finds out and is a bit mad at first but then eventually accepts it (fluffy and angsty)
You learned early that being Billy Butcher’s daughter meant two things.
One, you were loved with a ferocity that bordered on violence.
Billy never said it outright. He never sat you down and told you he was proud, never wrapped things in softness. Instead, he showed it in the way he checked the locks twice before bed, sometimes three times if the day had gone particularly bad. In the way he mapped exits the moment he stepped into a new place, murmuring directions under his breath like a mantra. In the way he always positioned himself half a step in front of you when things felt even remotely off, broad shoulders squared like a shield.
If you ever pointed it out, he waved it off.
“Habit,” he would grunt, lighting a cigarette. “World’s shit.”
But you knew better.
Love, in Billy Butcher’s world, was not gentle. It was sharp. Vigilant. Always braced for impact. It was protection honed into something dangerous, something that could hurt anyone who got too close to what he cared about.
Which led to the second thing you learned early.
There were things you simply did not tell Billy Butcher unless you were prepared to watch the world burn.
Hughie Campbell was the biggest of those things.
=
It did not begin with fireworks or declarations or anything dramatic enough to justify how badly it could all end. It started quietly. Almost accidentally. The way most dangerous things do.
The base had a way of compressing time until it barely existed. Days melted into nights under fluorescent lights that never quite shut off. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil, stale coffee, and something metallic that lingered no matter how often the place was cleaned. People came and went in waves, running on exhaustion and spite, carrying trauma like extra gear they never took off.
Hughie was a constant presence in all of it.
He was always there when you passed through the common areas, hunched over a keyboard, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, tie long abandoned. His brow stayed furrowed like he was personally offended by whatever problem sat on the screen in front of him. He muttered to machines like they were sentient.
“Come on,” he whispered one night, fingers flying. “Don’t do this to me. We talked about this.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
The sound startled him. He jumped slightly, then looked up, eyes widening before he smiled. Not big. Not loud. Just soft and a little crooked, like he was surprised you existed every single time you walked into a room.
“Oh. Hey,” he said. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“At this point,” you replied, leaning against the doorway, “I think you wouldn’t notice if the place caught fire.”
He snorted. “Yeah. That checks out.”
=
At first, that was all it was. Talking.
You sat on the floor with your backs against opposite bunks, legs stretched out, sharing takeout cartons because neither of you could be bothered to find plates. Hughie always pushed the last dumpling toward you without comment.
“You sure?” you asked once, eyebrow raised.
He shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah. I’m good.”
You knew he was not. You took it anyway, smiling when he pretended not to notice.
Conversations drifted easily, without pressure. Missions turned into music. Music turned into childhood. Hughie talked about New Jersey, about his dad’s little store, about the smell of fresh bread in the mornings. When he spoke about Robin, he slowed down, careful, eyes flicking up to gauge your reaction.
“It’s okay,” you told him gently one night when he faltered. “You can talk about her.”
“I know,” he said, voice soft. “I just… don’t wanna make things weird.”
“You won’t,” you promised.
You shared pieces of yourself in return. Stories you rarely told anyone. Your mom's death. Homelander's involvement. Learning early how to read a room, how to tell when Billy was about to explode and when he was just tired and needed space. Hughie listened like it mattered.
“That sounds… lonely,” he said once, after a long pause.
You shrugged. “It was normal.”
He frowned at that, like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to tell you it should not have been, but did not know how without crossing a line.
With Hughie, you did not feel like Billy’s daughter. You did not feel like a liability or a weakness or the thing that could get everyone killed if Butcher lost focus. You felt like a person. Just you.
=
You started noticing the small things before you noticed the big ones.
The way Hughie checked your expression before cracking a joke.
“Too much?” he asked quickly once, already pulling back.
“No,” you laughed. “It’s fine. I like it.”
The way his shoulders tensed when voices rose, how he instinctively shifted closer to you without realizing he was doing it. The way his hand hovered near yours sometimes, fingers twitching, like he wanted to reach out but did not think he was allowed to want that.
He was gentle in a world that thrived on cruelty.
That gentleness slipped past your defenses before you even noticed they were lowering.
The first touch was almost nothing. Both of you reaching for the same fork in a shared container of noodles. Fingers brushing. Skin against skin.
“Oh, sorry,” Hughie said immediately, pulling back a fraction.
“It’s fine,” you replied, not moving away.
Neither of you did.
Hughie’s breath caught, sharp and quiet. When you looked up, his eyes were wide, uncertain, searching your face.
“Is this… okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
That was all it took.
=
After that, everything shifted in tiny, incremental ways. You sat closer than necessary. Knees bumped under tables and stayed there.
“Your leg’s in my space,” he whispered once, lips twitching.
“Then move,” you murmured.
He did not.
When he passed behind you in narrow hallways, his hand lingered at your waist just a moment longer than polite, like it belonged there. Every time, he whispered, “Sorry.”
Every time, you smiled and told him, “Stop apologizing.”
It felt dangerous. Exhilarating. Like balancing on the edge of a blade and trusting it not to cut you yet.
=
MM noticed first.
He clocked the way Hughie’s attention followed you around a room, the way your posture softened when Hughie spoke. One day, when Hughie stepped away, MM leaned in.
“You’re playing with fire, kid,” he said quietly. "God knows what your dad will do when he finds out."
You exhaled. “I know.”
He studied you for a moment, then nodded. “Just… be careful.”
Frenchie figured it out next, because Frenchie figured out everything.
He caught Hughie smiling at his phone one afternoon and sing-songed, “Ahhh. Mon cœur, you look like a man in loooove.”
Hughie nearly dropped it. “What? No. I mean. I don’t-”
Frenchie only grinned. “Relax. Your secret is safe. Mostly.”
Kimiko said nothing. She just smiled at you once, warm and knowing, and squeezed your hand when Hughie was not looking.
They did not tell Billy.
They covered for you instead.
=
When it finally happened, Billy was gone on a run. The base was quiet in that eerie way that made every footstep echo too loudly. Hughie came by to check something on your computer.
“Shouldn’t take long,” he said, hovering awkwardly.
It took all night.
The kiss was inevitable. Everything that had been building for weeks finally broke.
“Can I?” Hughie asked, barely breathing the words.
You answered by closing the distance.
He kissed you carefully at first, like he was afraid you might vanish if he pressed too hard. His hands were warm, trembling slightly where they rested.
“We really shouldn't,” he whispered against your cheek, like he needed to say it out loud.
“I know,” you murmured, pulling him closer. "But I can't stop."
After that, pretending nothing was happening became impossible. You dated quietly. Carefully.
“How long do we have?” Hughie whispered more than once.
You checked your phone. “An hour. Maybe less.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling anyway.
Sometimes it was Hughie’s room, door locked, lights low, the two of you curled together on his narrow bed, whispering and laughing like teenagers breaking rules they knew they should not.
“Your dad is gonna murder me,” Hughie said once, half joking, half terrified.
“You’re not wrong,” you replied, kissing him anyway.
Sometimes it was your space, the risk sharper, adrenaline buzzing in your veins.
MM stood guard more than once. “You got ten,” he muttered. “Make it count.”
Frenchie invented errands. “Billy, mon ami, we need milk. Urgently.”
Kimiko learned your schedules by heart and guided Hughie out side doors without a word when footsteps echoed too close.
There were nights you fell asleep pressed against Hughie’s chest, his arm around you like it had always belonged there.
“I could stay like this forever,” he whispered once, drowsy.
You smiled into his shirt. “Me too.”
There were mornings where you slipped away before dawn, straightening your clothes in hallways that felt like stolen time, exchanging quick kisses that felt like promises.
Hughie was always nervous. Always checking in.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.
“Yes,” you answered. Every time.
Because with him, you felt safe.
And that was exactly why your father could never know.
Until the day he did.
It happened in the quiet hours. The kind Billy rarely noticed because his life existed in sharp edges and constant motion. Chasing leads that went nowhere. Drinking until the ache dulled. Crashing in cheap motels that smelled like regret and stale smoke. The base, to him, was just a stopover. A place to reload.
To you, it was home.
Your room reflected that. It was small, tucked away from the main operations floor, but it felt lived in. The light from a single lamp softened the concrete walls, turning them warm instead of cold. A hoodie hung over the back of a chair. Boots kicked off near the door. A half-empty mug on the desk that had long since gone cold.
And the smell. Hughie had noticed it early on, even before he realized what it meant to him. Something clean and familiar, layered with detergent and you. He had learned it without trying. Learned the way you gravitated toward warmth when you slept, how your body instinctively shifted closer, like it trusted him to be there. Learned the way you fit against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist, fingers spread like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
You were awake. Thoughts still humming. He was drifting, that half-asleep state where exhaustion softened his edges. The closeness between you was quiet and easy, earned through late nights, shared fears, and the unspoken understanding that the world outside that room was brutal.
You were tucked into him, cheek resting over his heart, listening to the steady thump beneath your ear. It always surprised you how fast it beat. Nervous, earnest. Hughie Campbell in a heartbeat.
This had become normal.
Too normal.
Hughie’s thumb traced slow, absent circles against your back, a grounding habit more than anything else. He was just about to murmur something half-formed when the door opened.
Not knocked.
Opened.
"Y-/"
Billy’s voice was already shaping your name, rough and familiar, the tone he used when he was trying to sound casual and failing. The word never made it out.
What he saw stopped him cold.
There was no ambiguity. No space for doubt. Hughie in your bed. Your bed. Close enough that the intimacy was unmistakable. His arm around you like it had learned the shape of you. Your hand resting against his chest like it belonged there.
For one suspended second, the world froze.
You felt it before you heard anything. The sudden pressure in the air. The way your stomach dropped as if gravity had shifted. Hughie felt it too, his body tensing beneath you, breath hitching.
Billy saw red.
He crossed the room in three strides, rage propelling him faster than thought.
Hughie barely had time to sit up before Billy’s hand fisted in his shirt, yanking him out of bed with brutal force. The mattress lurched. You scrambled upright, heart slamming as Hughie hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Dad, stop!” you shouted, voice sharp with panic as you lunged forward.
Billy did not stop.
He hauled Hughie up by the collar and dragged him across the room like he weighed nothing. Hughie’s hands came up instinctively, not to fight, just to protect himself, to keep his head from cracking against furniture as the door slammed open against the wall.
“Let go of him!” you yelled, feet hitting the cold floor as you chased after them, bare and shaking, fear clawing up your throat.
The noise carried.
The base stirred to life.
Mother’s Milk was on his feet in an instant, eyes already hard as he took in the scene. Frenchie froze mid-step, shock flickering across his face before concern took over. Kimiko appeared beside you silently, like she always did, her hand gripping your wrist firmly before you could throw yourself between two men who were about to destroy each other.
Her grip was strong but gentle. A warning. A promise.
Billy slammed Hughie into the nearest table, the impact rattling equipment and sending a sharp metallic clatter echoing through the room. Hughie gasped, breath knocked out of him, palms braced against the surface as Billy loomed over him, chest heaving, eyes wild.
“I trusted you,” Billy snarled, each word vibrating with betrayal.
“Billy, come on man, let him go” MM said, moving closer, hands raised. His voice was calm, but there was steel under it.
Billy whipped his head toward him, fury blazing. “Stay the fuck out of it.”
You strained against Kimiko’s hold, tears burning, chest tight. She shifted closer, placing herself partly in front of you now, one hand still anchoring you, the other ready if Billy turned that rage your way.
“You knew better,” Billy continued, eyes locked on Hughie. “Sneaking around. Sleeping in her bed like you had any right.”
Blood ran from Hughie’s split lip, streaking his chin. He didn’t raise his fists. Didn’t lash back. He just lifted his head, meeting Billy’s gaze, shaken but resolute.
“She’s an adult,” he said, breathless but steady. “And she chose me.”
The room seemed to suck in a breath.
Billy’s hand clenched again, fist drawing back, rage trembling through him like a live wire.
“Mon ami!” Frenchie lunged forward, grabbing his arm. “you hit him again and this ends badly.”
MM stepped closer to Hughie, positioning himself just enough to make a point without escalating further.
Kimiko tightened her grip on you when you surged forward, her eyes meeting yours, sharp and protective, silently begging you not to get hurt.
“She’s my daughter,” Billy spat, voice cracking under the fury. “You don’t touch her. You don’t lie to me. You don’t crawl into her bed behind my back.”
You forced your way forward as much as Kimiko would allow, voice breaking as it tore out of you. “We didn’t tell you because I knew you’d do this.”
That landed.
Billy froze for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack. Something fractured flashed behind his eyes, fear, loss, the terror of history repeating itself.
"Daddy, please, don't hurt him," you whispered, your voice trembling, fragile, yet sharp enough to cut through the storm of rage.
For a heartbeat, it almost worked. You saw a flicker of hesitation in Billy’s eyes, that tiny crack in the armor of fury he always wore. But then the anger slammed back into place, heavy and unrelenting, sealing every soft feeling behind walls of heat and muscle. His protective instinct twisted into something sharper, more violent.
Hughie’s eyes widened, chest heaving. Fear mixed with determination in his gaze. He held his hands up slightly, not to fight, not to challenge, but to show he meant no harm, that he only wanted to defend you.
“I love her,” he said quietly, voice low, trembling but steady. “I care about her more than anything. I would never hurt her.”
Billy’s reaction was instantaneous. He shoved Hughie with brutal force. Hughie staggered back, catching himself with one hand on the table, but he stayed upright, legs wobbling slightly under the sudden push. His breaths came fast, shallow, and his face flushed, not from exertion, but from the sharp impact of Billy’s fury.
“Stay the fuck away from her,” Billy growled, voice low, dangerous, vibrating with barely-contained rage. “Or next time, I won’t stop.”
Silence fell heavy over the base.
No one argued. The air hung heavy, thick with unspoken words and the aftertaste of violence.
Hughie wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers trembling slightly. He looked at you one last time. Something unspoken passed between you, a tangle of grief, love, and desperation, and then he turned and walked away, shoulders stiff, steps careful, like each one carried the weight of both your hearts.
"Hughie," you whispered, voice barely audible, caught somewhere between hope and despair. You wanted to call him back, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, to beg him not to leave, but the words lodged stubbornly in your throat.
You spun to face Billy, eyes blazing, chest tight with a fury that hurt as much as it scorched. “I hate you,” you spat, voice raw, sharp. “Why do you ruin everything?”
For the first time in a long while, Billy froze. The words cut through the air like a knife. He stared at you, open-mouthed, as if he hadn’t even recognized the voice, the words, coming from the girl who had always clung to him, the girl who had always been his shadow, his little girl.”
A storm of shock, anger, and something softer flickered behind the rage, hurt. Real, raw, stabbing hurt. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing, but it was tempered now by disbelief. You had always been the one who looked to him, trusted him, believed in him. And now… those words hung between you, heavier than any punch could ever be.
“You think this is just about your happiness?” Billy growled, voice low and dangerous, trying to mask the crack in his chest. “You think I’m the one wrecking it?”
You flinched at the volume, anger and fear twisting together like fire and ice. “Yes! Every time you step in, every time you can’t just… trust me, you destroy it! You push everyone I care about away before they even have a chance, and you don’t even see it!”
Billy’s fists flexed at his sides, knuckles whitening. His whole body trembled with barely-contained fury, but underneath it, raw hurt burned hotter than any anger could. This wasn’t just rage anymore. This was betrayal. You, his daughter, saying you hated him. The girl who had laughed at his terrible jokes, who had curled into his chest during storms, who had always been his shadow, you. You were the one who believed in him, and now you were tearing him apart with words.
“I’m trying to protect you!” he snapped, voice cracking just slightly around the edges. “Trying to keep you safe from people who would, who could, use you against us!”
You pressed forward, voice sharp and trembling, eyes blazing. “From him?” you spat, throat tight, heart hammering. “From Hughie? You think he’s the enemy? He’s the only one who’s ever made me feel alive after mom. And you…” You broke off, a hot sting of tears threatening. “You just… you just can’t stand it because you’re scared! You’re scared of losing me to someone you think can’t protect me, but I can make my own choices, Dad!”
Billy froze for a heartbeat, chest heaving. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked away, shadowed by the monster he feared more than anything, Homelander. The thought of you being used, manipulated, weaponized, turned into a target simply because you were Billy Butcher’s daughter twisted something inside him that he couldn’t fight. Every instinct screamed to shield you, to control the situation, even if it meant crushing someone else in the process.
“You don’t get it!” he barked, voice raw, trembling under the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “I can’t… I can’t risk it! You being close to someone, anyone, that could be used against you. I can risk you being getting hurt. You’re already a target, you know that, don’t you? Being my daughter puts you right in the line of fire!”
You swallowed, chest tight, forcing your voice to stay steady despite the tremor inside. “I know why you’re protective, Dad. I know it’s because of Homelander. I know you’re terrified of what he could do to me, or what could happen to us if he finds a way in. I get it. I understand that fear.”
Billy’s fists flexed again, shoulders hunched, but now there was a flicker in his eyes, something between relief and shock. Relief that you understood, shock that you still defied him.
“But I’m not a child!” you continued, stepping closer despite the tension crackling between you. “I can make my own choices. I can love, even if it scares you. Even if it’s dangerous. Hughie makes me feel loved. And I’m not going to apologize for that. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
Billy’s eyes flickered at your words, the storm of fury warring with the ache of hurt, the weight of fear, and the desperate, raw love he felt for you. For a fraction of a second, the world slowed. He saw you, not his shadow, not the little girl curled in his chest, but you, standing tall, defiant, and unafraid.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Billy wrestled with the storm raging inside him: the fear of losing you, the rage at being defied, the hurt of being hated by the girl he had spent a lifetime protecting.
For a while after that, the base felt smaller, tighter. Every corner seemed sharper, every shadow heavier. Billy hovered constantly. He watched every glance, every interaction, every fleeting touch, guarding you like the world was a loaded gun aimed straight at your chest. He loved you in the only way he knew how, fierce, rough, suffocating, sometimes to the point of driving everyone around him mad.
You did not see Hughie again, not for weeks, not until the day everything changed, when the storm of fear, anger, and hurt would finally collide with reality.
You were out alone, running a quick errand. Just a short trip to pick up supplies for the team, a little breather away from the base, away from the constant hum of tension, adrenaline. The streets were quiet, the sun low on the horizon, painting the city in bruised golds and purples. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had slowed down just for you. You let yourself take a deep breath, letting the small, almost imperceptible calm wash over you, a dangerous illusion you didn’t dare fully trust.
Then you felt it, the air itself seemed to shift. A subtle, almost imperceptible change, but it carried a weight that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Shadows deepened unnaturally, your stomach knotted, and your chest tightened as though invisible hands had wrapped around it.
Before you could even blink, you knew he was there.
Homelander.
He stepped out from behind a parked car like he had always been there, as if the city itself had been waiting for him to emerge. Hands relaxed at his sides, shoulders casual, head tilted slightly in that infuriatingly calm, perfectly composed way that made everything around him feel wrong. Everything.
Your stomach twisted, your pulse spiked, and every instinct screamed at you to run, to vanish before he could notice you. But something rooted you in place. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the same foolish defiance that got your father tangled up in dangerous messes. You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the small knife you had tucked at your side. You just stood there, heart hammering, trying to remember to breathe.
“Well,” he said lightly, voice soft, smooth, too smooth. The faintest, almost impossible smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make you uneasy. “Billy Butcher’s little girl.”
The words seemed casual, almost polite, but each syllable dripped with power, with menace, with something you couldn’t name. You felt it through your bones, the way a predator might feel its prey’s hesitation before striking. Your pulse throbbed painfully in your temples.
Your mind raced. Keep calm. Don’t speak. Don’t give him a reason.
“You look just like her,” Homelander continued, tilting his head, eyes studying your face as though committing it to memory. “Your mum. Same eyes. Same… softness.”
Softness. The word clung to the air around you like a warning. You felt a surge of something, anger, fear, disbelief. You had spent your life being the daughter of a man who fought monsters, both human and otherwise, and yet here you were, staring at the most literal monster of all, whose smile promised devastation, and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t even respond.
Homelander took a deliberate step closer. Your chest constricted as though the air itself had been stolen from your lungs. You could feel the weight of him, his presence pressing against your skin, bending the space around you in a way that made the world feel impossibly small. Every instinct screamed that this was dangerous, that one wrong movement could make him snap.
“You know,” he said, silky smooth, teasing, his voice curling into the space between you, “if things had been different…”
The words hung there, loaded with unspoken threats and impossible possibilities. Different how? If you had been easier to manipulate? If your father hadn’t been such a thorn in his side? If you had been alone, vulnerable, a little less defiant? The thought made your stomach churn.
“Back. Off,” came a sharp, urgent voice, cutting through the tension like a knife through steel.
Hughie.
He was suddenly there, standing between you and Homelander, chest forward, fists clenched tight, trembling but unyielding. You felt the warmth of him, the resolve in him, and a wave of relief hit, though it was drowned immediately by the fear that had Homelander’s gaze still fixed on you both.
Homelander’s smile widened almost imperceptibly, unnervingly, as if he had expected this, as if the boy in front of you was part of some game he’d been planning. “Wow,” he said softly, voice low, almost intimate, he holds his hand up in surrender, stepping back a little “Okay, backing up.”
He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face with that impossible precision that made your skin crawl. “I was just having a little conversation with little Butcher here.,” he said, his voice now almost conversational, eerily calm, “You’ve grown up since the last time I seen you. All this time, still hiding behind daddy's shadow, thinking you’re untouchable. But you’re not. Not really. You’ve got fire in you. I can see it. You’re… interesting.”
Your stomach dropped. Interesting. The word carried weight. Approval. Threat. Desire. All of it at once, and your body couldn’t decide whether to freeze or run.
“You know,” he continued, each word carefully measured, “I could take advantage of that. Could play my cards… make you useful. Make him, ” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Hughie stood, “helpless. Wouldn’t even know what hit him. And in the process, hurt dear old dad.”
Hughie bristled, stepping slightly forward, but his trembling hands stayed at his sides. “You don’t touch her,” he said, voice quivering but steady, “you don’t look at her, you don’t come near her. Ever.”
Homelander’s smile didn’t falter. It widened. That smile that promised you could die at any second, and that made it impossible to tell if he was joking. “Such spirit,” he said softly, almost admiring. “But don’t you see, Hughie? Being Butcher’s daughter, she’s already… marked. And I could use that.”
Your stomach lurched. Every word felt like a blow. Every syllable was a threat. You wanted to run, to vanish, to scream. You couldn’t. You were frozen, caught between fear and the overwhelming presence of someone who could crush you without effort.
Hughie’s hands shook as he moved to cover you, as if his mere presence could shield you from what came next. “I said back off,” he repeated, voice louder, trembling but unyielding. “I don’t care what you think you can do. You don’t touch her.”
Homelander’s eyes lingered on you one last moment, cold, calculating, scanning your face, your posture, your reactions, as if cataloging every weakness and every defiance. And then, with the same impossible ease with which he had appeared, he stepped back.
His voice drifted down to you, softer now, almost casual. “Take care of her,” he said lightly, lifting into the sky. “People like her… people like you… don’t survive long in this world. Be careful.”
The sudden rush of wind as Homelander lifted off left you trembling, knees weak as if the world itself had tilted beneath you. Your chest heaved, each breath shallow and uneven, and your hand flew instinctively to your heart, trying to calm the hammering that threatened to crack your ribs. Every nerve in your body was still thrumming with panic, the lingering terror of his presence curling into your bones like ice.
Hughie turned to you immediately, and the sight of him made your chest tighten further. His face was bruised, dark purples and reds blooming along his jaw and cheekbone, a subtle split on his lip. The fight with your father earlier had left its mark, but his posture, still tense and trembling slightly, radiated a determination you couldn’t help but lean into.
His hands cupped your face, warm and grounding, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. “Are you okay?” he whispered, voice thick with adrenaline, worry, and the raw edge of pain. "He didn't hurt you did he?" You could feel the stiffness in his jaw, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he held you, partly from his own injuries, partly from the tension of the moment.
You leaned into him, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world. The heat of his bruised cheek against yours, the faint metallic tang of blood from his split lip, grounded you in the present. “No...no he didn't touch me” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of fear and relief. “I… I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do.”
He tightened his arms around you, rocking you gently, murmuring reassurances that somehow reached you through the chaos in your chest. “You’re safe now,” he said, his voice rough, low, protective. “I’ve got you. I won’t let him hurt you. Not while I’m breathing. Not while I can stand.”
You let yourself breathe into his shoulder, feeling the faint thrum of his pulse beneath your ear,.
Finally, you pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing against his jawline, still tender from his father’s blows. Your voice was barely more than a whisper, shaky from fear, exhaustion, and relief. “Thanks… for standing up to him. For protecting me… even like this, even hurt.”
Hughie’s gaze softened, bruised but unwavering. He reached up, letting his fingertips rest gently against your cheek, thumb lingering over the tear-stained skin. “Always,” he said simply, voice low and full of something heavier than words, loyalty, love, determination. “Always.”
You let yourself lean into him again, burying your face against his chest. Every small ache from the fight, every lingering heartbeat of fear, melted into the safety of his presence. And even with the bruises marring his face, the blood he hadn’t even tried to wipe away, you knew, this was where you were meant to be. Safe. For now.
You pushed open the door to the base, still trembling from the encounter. The adrenaline hadn’t fully left your system; your chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, and your hands clutched at Hughie’s arm as if letting go would mean losing your lifeline entirely.
And then you saw him.
Billy. Standing near the central table, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at the sight before him. Hughie’s arm was draped protectively around you, the two of you pressed close together in a way that spoke of more than comfort, it spoke of possession, of fear, of relief, and of love.
Billy’s jaw tightened. The anger flared instantly, violent and familiar, ready to explode. But this time, you didn’t let it. You straightened, putting yourself between your father and Hughie, your chest high, your voice steady despite the tremor underneath.
“He saved me,” you said immediately, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Homelander cornered me. Hughie stood up to him. He didn’t run.”
For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Billy froze, every muscle rigid. The words sank in slowly, and the storm in his eyes wavered for a fraction of a second, uncertainty piercing through the anger.
“What do you mean, he cornered you?” Billy asked sharply, voice low and tense, but now laced with fear that you hadn’t seen before.
You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself. “I was out alone, Dad. Just a quick errand. I didn’t think anyone would be there. And then… he was. Homelander. He stepped out from behind a car, like he had been waiting for me. He… he started talking. You know the way he talks, like it’s casual but every word is a threat. Like he’s playing with you.” You shivered at the memory, gripping Hughie’s arm tighter. “He was getting closer, trying to get to me, and I—I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”
Billy’s expression darkened, his protective instinct flaring hotter than his rage. You could see him imagining the worst, picturing you helpless under Homelander’s shadow.
“But then,” you continued, urgency breaking into your voice, “Hughie stepped in. Right between us. Chest to chest with him. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t run. He just… stood there, told him to back off. He risked himself. My God, Dad, he didn’t even flinch.”
You paused, letting the words sink in, letting him see your fear and your awe. “I’ve seen him fight before, I’ve seen him try to survive, but this, this was different. He wasn’t thinking about himself. He was thinking about me. About keeping me safe.”
Billy’s eyes flicked between you and Hughie, the anger now tangled with disbelief and a growing sense of gratitude, buried under the layers of fear he always carried for you.
“You can’t always be there,” you said, your voice softer now, but steady, resolute. “I know you try. I know you’re always watching, always protecting. But I can’t stay in your shadow forever, Dad. I need to live. I need to make choices. Sometimes, that means I’m going to be in danger, and… I can’t be protected from everything. Hughie… he proved that he would stand up for me when I needed him the most. He’s not just some liability. He’s… he’s someone I trust with my life.”
Billy’s chest rose and fell quickly. His fists flexed at his sides, tight with lingering tension, but the fire in his eyes had shifted. There was still worry, still fear, still that protective edge, but now there was understanding creeping in, buried under all the layers of a lifetime of trying to keep you safe.
For a long moment, silence hung between you. You could feel the tension in the air, the weight of the fear and anger still simmering beneath the surface. Billy’s gaze softened fractionally, the edges of his rage blurring as he absorbed your words. His hands relaxed slightly, though his shoulders were still stiff.
Finally, he exhaled, a long, low sound that seemed to release some of the tension coiling inside him. “Christ,” he muttered, voice rough but quieter now. “You’re… you’re lucky. The both of you.”
You nodded, letting yourself relax just a little against Hughie, still clutching his arm. “I know, Dad. And that’s why… you have to trust me sometimes. And trust him too. He won’t let me down.”
Billy’s jaw tightened, then loosened slightly, the battle within him raging quietly as he considered your words. The protective, suffocating instinct would never fully leave, but maybe… maybe he could start to see that sometimes, trust was its own kind of protection.
=
Later, after the storm had passed and the base had quieted, Billy found Hughie alone in one of the dimly lit corners of the compound. The tension from earlier still clung to the air like smoke.
Billy didn’t move quickly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t throw a punch. Instead, he stopped a few feet away, letting the silence stretch long and heavy, thick with unspoken words. His eyes locked on Hughie’s, searching, measuring, testing. Hughie met that gaze as best he could, bracing for the anger he knew would come, but it was different this time. The storm had shifted.
Finally, Billy extended a hand, not aggressively, not as a challenge, but deliberately. Hughie blinked, caught off guard. He hesitated, the weight of what this gesture meant settling over him. Slowly, carefully, he took it. Their handshake was firm, almost reverent in its simplicity, and it carried more meaning than any words could. It was a test, an acknowledgment, a temporary truce.
But the gesture wasn’t over. Billy stepped closer, closing the small space between them, and pulled Hughie toward his chest, his voice low and dangerous, almost a growl whispered directly into his ear.
“You hurt her,” Billy said quietly, every word heavy with warning and protective venom. “I’ll kill you.”
Hughie’s throat tightened. The bruises on his face stung, the memory of Billy’s earlier fury still fresh in his mind, but he swallowed, meeting Billy’s intensity without faltering. “I know,” he admitted, voice hoarse but steady.
Billy’s grip on his shoulder loosened slightly, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. A tense beat passed, the kind that stretched time thin. Then Hughie’s voice came, firm and resolute, carrying his own weight, his own warning.
“But if anyone tries to hurt her,” he said, chest rising and falling with determination, “they’ll have to go through me first.”
Billy studied him for what felt like an eternity, reading the lines of his face, the bruises, the way he held himself despite the fear and pain. He was looking for truth, for resolve, for the kind of courage that might justify letting Hughie anywhere near you again.
Finally, Billy exhaled, the sound low and almost reluctant, and took a small step back. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. But there was a weight lifted, a quiet acknowledgment that the kid could hold his own in the fight that mattered most.
Without another word, Billy turned and walked away, leaving Hughie to process the unspoken agreement between them. There was no final victory, no absolution, no pats on the back, just a silent understanding that boundaries had been drawn, that respect had been earned, and that for now, you were safe in Hughie’s hands, and that was all that mattered to Billy.
The quiet of the base seemed heavier afterward, the hum of electricity and machinery filling the space where words could not. Hughie ran a hand over his bruised jaw, letting out a slow breath.
=
Over time, things eased. Slowly, painfully, but surely. Billy still glared. Still muttered threats under his breath when he thought no one was paying attention. Still hovered a little too close when you walked past, eyes sharp, fists flexing, body taut with that familiar, unshakable protectiveness. But he stopped throwing Hughie out entirely. He stopped making every moment a battle.
Hughie sat beside you on the couch more often. He stayed in the base when you were around. He held your hand without flinching, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, whispered jokes that made you laugh despite the tension. He protected you, quietly and without fanfare, in ways Billy had started to notice, and begrudgingly, silently respect.
And the two of you? You didn’t let Billy’s shadow stop you.
You went on little dates, the kind that didn’t require leaving the base because the world outside was too dangerous, too unpredictable. Takeout boxes balanced on your laps, movies playing on a cracked laptop screen. Shoulder brushes became hand-holds, tentative touches became fingers laced together. You whispered about nothing and everything at the same time, laughing softly when you thought Billy might peek around the corner, only for him to mutter something about “kids these days” and retreat when MM or Frenchie gave him a pointed look.
Sometimes, Billy’s glare would slice across the room, sharp and heavy, but you and Hughie ignored it, leaning into each other anyway. And sometimes, late at night, when the base was quiet and the others had gone to sleep, you would hear Billy mutter, almost to himself:
“…could’ve done worse.”
From Billy Butcher? That was acceptance. It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t a high-five or a hug. But it was acknowledgement. Approval in his own, rough, gruff way.
Hughie noticed it too. He held your hand just a little tighter after that, like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew that even in the shadow of Billy’s vigilance, you two had carved a corner of safety and normalcy for yourselves, and that nothing, not even the world outside, could take it away.
And so you laughed, you whispered, you held each other close in the small, messy ways that love demanded. Billy still hovered, still glared, still whispered threats under his breath, but you and Hughie? You didn’t let it stop you. Not then, not ever.
