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[mewnbuns]

A MORE INTIMATE INITIATION | DAN HENG + SUNDAY

⸺ ⟢ synopsis. despite his past mistakes, sunday is trying his best to blend in as a new member of the astral express. so when a particularly surprising opportunity arises for him to get even closer to you and your boyfriend dan heng, well…. who is sunday to refuse your generosity.

dan heng x fem! reader x sunday ( wc. 8.1k words. ) genres. smut. minors do not interact. | warnings. threesome. reader is dan heng’s gf + sunday is an outsider. inexperienced! sunday. reader is an empath. wing play + oral receiving + alternate position spit roast. a tasty sprinkle of possessive dan heng. astral express! sunday and reader is also a part. switching povs; going between reader + sunday | return to masterlist.

⸺ ⟢ notes. giving my thanks to kai again for making the line divider for me ilu! i actually ended up changing the position last minute but i was so pleased to finally write my sunheng x reader fantasy! ⚡️

You've always considered yourself to be a particularly empathetic person, acutely aware of other people’s emotions and always wondering whether or not they’re as happy as they make themselves out to be.

Perhaps that’s why you’d taken a special interest in the new member of the express as soon as he arrived. Sunday, was a peculiarly special case— an abnormality considering the circumstances in which he was joining your little group, but you found the man to be especially… intriguing.

Immediately, you had noticed the way that Sunday would spend time alone around the ship rather than allowing himself to mingle with the rest of the group. But in that same breath— he would help out where he could aswell, even to the point where Pom-Pom had run out of things to keep him busy. It had made you think at first, whether or not it stems from his guilt or perhaps it's his way of repayment, but then maybe there's an even deeper part of him that's doing it in the hopes it'll make him feel as if he belongs. 

Dan Heng had filled you in on the background of everything that had went down while the group was on Penacony, but even then— you could never really find it in yourself to hate Sunday. Even after all of the trouble that he put your friends through, you couldn't help but somewhat pity him. 

Especially when you would often times roam around the Express at night to find him curled up in one of the arm chairs instead of snuggled up in a bed. Sure, new members never really got the luxury of their own bedroom right away but… surely the guy must find it difficult sleeping in some of positions you stumble across him in.

Maybe that's how this all came about to begin with. After a particularly late night in the Party Car, spending one of your rare moments with all of your friends letting off some steam with a few drinks before the next jump. 

You had been curled up in Dan Heng's side, enjoying the quiet conversation going on around you while March 7th went back and forth with your boyfriend. You had been speaking to Sunday at that point, asking the questions that you often did— if he was having a good time, if he was settling in, if he believes that Mr Yang is handsome for an older man.

He hadn't answered the latter question but you feel like the answer is obvious. 

"Where are you sleeping tonight then?" Had come out of your mouth without you even realising it, and Sunday seemed almost embarrassed to answer. It was really quite cute. 

"I'm sure I will be able to find space around the Express somewhere. I tend to favour places that allow me to admire the cosmos at any given moment, and there is quite a particularly comfortable arm chair in the Parlor Car."

"So… not in a bed then?"

Sunday's ears had turned pink. 

"Well, I do not expect you all to offer me considerable luxuries when I have hardly proven myself worthy of such just yet." Sunday explains, "Nevertheless, I am grateful for the opportunity to travel with you as is." 

You think for a second, then shrug. 

"Well, there's space in me and Dan Heng's room, why don't you bunk with us?" Dan Heng turns around at the sound of his name and you continue. "Sleeping on the arm chairs must be terrible for your neck, surely you're cramping by now?" 

"Ah… there is no need to go out of your way for me." Sunday shakes his head, then appears to hiss at something. "Though, I admit the arm chairs around the Express have been… unforgiving as of late." 

That was enough for you, you clap your hands together and try not to look too happy about helping Sunday out. "It's decided then!" You turn to Dan Heng. "It's fine with you, right?" 

Your boyfriend shrugs, "Its no trouble with me either, I do not mind it." 

Then back to Sunday, who's staring at you both— looking wide eyed and albeit a little flustered, but he appears to take in the excited expression you're wearing before seeming to revert his own to something much more polite. 

"Very well then, it would be impolite for me to turn down your generous invitation, I'm sure…" 

"Yey!" 

But now, circumstances have unfortunately… changed. And by that you mean that Dan Heng has been looking particularly handsome ever since all three of you returned back to your bedroom for the night and now you feel like you just cannot keep your hands to yourself. 

You had atleast waited until the conversation between you three had died down, leaving Sunday in a little makeshift bed thrown together with extra blankets and pillows before retreating to your own with Dan Heng. You waited until his breathing had settled and lights were out, and then you had all but pounced on your boyfriend after that. 

You're trying your best to hold it together, but when you're straddling Dan Heng as you are now and having him kiss you deep and slow— you're hardly to blame for not being able to hold back. Your hands reach for any and every part of him you can feel, from his hair to across his shoulders to down his abdomen, brushing intimate touches over his skin until you're pulling at his shirt and only then does he say something. 

"We should not do this." Dan Heng murmurs against your lips, "We might wake him."

But neither of you stop, your bodies all but grinding against one another. His hand is tight around your wrist and the other wraps around your hips, pressing them close to his. 

"We can be quiet, I promise I will." 

Dan Heng stops for a moment, but then he shifts beneath you, deliberately— until he's able to press his thigh up between your spread legs and without even thinking about it, a soft whine slips from between your lips. It's louder than you wished it was and he swallows it eagerly, but still pulls back to give you a straight look after the fact. 

"That was not entirely convincing." 

"That was hardly fair, you caught me off guard." You click your tongue. "If I'm actually trying to be quiet then I'll be able to." 

"I'm having a hard time believing you." 

You roll your eyes, but in reality you're trying not to laugh at the blank expression Dan Heng's giving you right now. Even with his flushed cheeks and messy hair. 

"Please?" You decide to beg, in a tone that's deliberately soft and airy and as much as Dan Heng knows exactly what you're trying to do; both of his hands rest flat on your hips, and he breathes out a sigh that tells you he's going to do exactly what you're asking anyway. 

"I suggest you try harder this time around then." 

You would've cheered had you not been reminded of your company. So instead, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and lean into give him a peck that doesn't last nearly as long as you wished it to. 

But you know you have to check something beforehand. So from your place still on top of Dan Heng, you angle yourself back— peering over the side of the bed in hopes of catching a glance of Sunday in his makeshift nest. 

You have to squint into the dark to see. 

You nudge Dan Heng. "Do you think he's asleep?" 

"It is doubtful." 

"Really? But he's been so quiet." You try to focus your eyes a bit more in the darkness until you're finally able to catch a glimpse of him. Sunday looks asleep— nuzzled up against one of the thicker blankets with his ear feathers resting softly around his cheeks. His eyes are closed, his breathing is soft. 

You frown. "He looks so serene. Seems pretty asleep to me." 

"I believe he just looks like that." He shrugs. 

"Well that's hardly fair."

You both turn to look at eachother for a beat. Then for a second. 

Until by the third, your lips are slamming against Dan Heng's once more and your hands are back in his hair; he welcomes you eagerly, his hands squeezing into your hips until you're pressing flushed and tight against him. You already feel so incredibly flustered, twisting yourself up in your boyfriend's lap despite the way your friend is sleeping only centimetres away. It's risky— but you can't help it, you need him. 

You atleast do as you said you would, trying to muffle every blissful sound your body wishes to cry out by pushing them behind Dan Heng's teeth. 

It almost works, almost— but a few break through against your will, driven by his insatiable kisses and it's enough to make your boyfriend's hands squish into your thighs as if to try and get your attention. 

"Perhaps we should—" Dan Heng starts but you cut him off. 

"He's definitely asleep."

"You would be mistaken actually." Sunday chooses that moment to respond from his place on the floor, and his voice is sudden enough to almost scare you off of Dan Heng's lap entirely had he not been holding you so tight. 

Your boyfriend looks at you. Face falling flat, but still flushed. 

"I told you."

You think you would've launched yourself into the cosmos out of embarrassment had Sunday not shifted in his sheets and distracted you, drawing both of your attentions as you timidly crawl off of Dan Heng's lap and sit by his side instead. 

"Apologies, I did not mean to startle you. And it was not my intention to easedrop either." Sunday starts, fidgeting with his hands. 

"You could've said something sooner, Sunday." You begin to do the same. "This is so embarrassing." 

But it seems Sunday isn't doing too well himself. When you look up to glance at him, you can just about make out the flush of his face— half obscured by the feathers of his wings curling around his cheeks. But even in the dim lighting of your room it's obvious he's red, which says enough about just how deep of a shade it must be for you to be able to notice. 

"We apologise if we woke you." Dan Heng eventually speaks up, ever the calm one. "It was not our intention to make you uncomfortable." 

But one look in his direction shows off the impression of his half-hard cock in his pants, and even that is too much for you to deal with. You bury your head in your hands and grumble, not only incredibly humiliated but now even hornier having been interrupted. 

Before you can say anything more, Sunday clears his throat— barely able to look at you. 

"I do not wish to intrude, I will easily excuse myself to elsewhere around the Express should you prefer. After all, you were already generous enough to offer me the opportunity to sleep here but you owe me no such kindness should.... circumstances change...."

You stare at him then. Really stare at him. And maybe that's when it clicks— the circumstances of Sunday resting on the floor while you made out with your boyfriend in bed. You don't know how long he's been listening but considering the expression he's wearing, you assume it wasn't all of a sudden. 

You blink and Sunday seems to grow uncomfortable beneath your gaze. A slight enough movement to bring your attention to something much more condemning— because now that you're suddenly aware of the bulge he's obviously trying to hide, you can't find it in yourself to ignore it. 

"Have you ever kissed a girl before, Sunday?" You blurt out, the question sudden enough for even Dan Heng to whip around and look at you. 

"I- I think that is hardly appropriate to share, I mean..." Sunday stammers. "I have had certain relations in the past, nevertheless I believe that—" 

"You're a virgin, aren't you?" You cut him off again. 

Sunday's cheeks appear to flush even pinker. 

"Perhaps." 

Dan Heng's palm rests down on your thigh after that, a wordless plea for you to take it easy and when it makes you notice the way Sunday's burying his face behind his wings, you think maybe he's got a point. 

"What? You don't have to be ashamed about it, I think it's cute," You try to comfort instead. "There's no way you didn't have offers, look at you— halovians are well known for being handsome, aren't they? Then what's the problem?"

"It... simply was not my priority, that is all." 

"So you admit it then? You're a virgin?" 

You gape, because you just can't help yourself. But when you turn to Dan Heng— half expecting him to be just as taken back, he only offers you a shrug. 

"I thought it was quite obvious, was it not?" 

Your attention is drawn back by the sound of shuffling blankets, and then in a moment Sunday is pushing himself to stand and brushing down his clothes. 

"Perhaps I should take my leave."

"You've never been curious?" You call after him. 

You have no idea what you're doing. You can even feel Dan Heng staring at the side of your face as if he's asking you the same thing, and perhaps it's to do with how horny you are right now, or maybe it's because you do feel a bit of pity for Sunday not having felt intimacy before. 

But now you can't stop. You're not sure you even want to. 

You admit he's handsome, sure he's no Dan Heng, but you had meant it when you said it earlier. From the way that he carries himself to his features— his wings, his eyes, his halo. Even now that he's staring at you with such an…. unreadable expression you can't help but want to kick your feet. 

"What?" Sunday looks almost perplexed. 

"Curious?" You repeat, because you're in too deep now. "You've never thought about what it would be like to touch a girl?" 

Sunday doesn't answer right away, he fidgets a bit more. He scratches a hand through his hair, fluttering the feathers of his wings at the same time and then a sudden realisation dawns on you. 

"Wait— You didn't take a vow, right?"

You swear you hear Dan Heng huff out a laugh at your panicked voice. Sunday's palm rests over his face. 

"I really shouldn't overstay my welcome, I- I am sure Pom-Pom will have somewhere in mind for me to-" 

"You staying here isn't an issue." Dan Heng is the one to cut him off this time, earning a look from you aswell. You had thought yourself to be digging your own grave with your insistent questions knowing your boyfriend was right there with no intervention. 

But when Dan Heng turns to meet your eyes after a moment, he seems to be thinking the same thing as you are. 

And it looks like he's on board. 

You turn yourself back towards Sunday, who's frozen in his spot. "But you're not trapped here either, you can leave right now if you want. I'll pretend this conversation never happened and then we'll go back to normal, there's always an armchair waiting for you somewhere, right?" 

Sunday appears to think on that for a moment, and you wonder what sort of things are going on in his mind. You're sure it seems as ridiculous to him as is sounds to you— the night has went from an innocent sleepover between friends to well…. an implication of something to come that holds much more weight… should he decide to stay that is.

You watch as Sunday shifts from one foot to the other, and then with a delicate flutter of his wings he's looking away from you again. 

"If… if it is truly no trouble…" 

You don't respond to that, but you clasp your hands together as if pleased with his answer. It's quiet for a moment then, aside from the shift of the comforter beneath you as you push yourself onto your knees and you catch Dan Heng's gaze in the movement. 

He looks at you— in that grounding, beautiful way that he always does. And then he nods, as if giving you silent permission. 

"Do you two do this often then?" Sunday asks as he watches you get comfortable. 

"No." You say, "Maybe you're just special."

He flushes at that, and you're surprised that the same man who was once so powerful within Penacony would be so easily undone by a few compliments. Pleasantly. 

You can tell that he's out of his element, most likely due to his own inexperience but you're not above taking the lead in this moment— deciding to start with something soft first to test the waters. 

Your hand outstretches towards the man opposite you, and at the same time you feel Dan Heng's arm loop around your waist. 

"Come here." You beckon Sunday closer, a command that he obeys with ease. He moves with a strange grace, his shoulders pulled back, his steps steady and confident. But you notice the furrow of his brows, the curiosity in his gaze. 

When he comes to stand just off the side of the bed you're kneeling on, you look up at him through your lashes. 

"Can I touch them?" You ask, motioning to the wings that elegantly extend from his throat. "I'll be gentle." 

The grey feathers appear to shudder out at the question before Sunday nods. 

"If you would like." 

Dan Heng remains silent behind you, but you can feel his eyes on your features from where he's tethered at your side. His thumb is stroking at the points in your waist where his hand rests, and when you reach out to brush your fingers through Sunday's ear feathers for the first time— you feel him squeeze. 

"They're so soft, you must take great care of them." You say, combing your hand through the nerves of Sunday's wings as his lips part wordlessly. You don't point out the way his whole body seems to clench. "Are they sensitive?" 

"At certain times." Sunday whispers, "Halovians do not often allow others to touch them without reason. Lest it stir an unwelcome reaction." 

"Is this one unwelcome?" 

Your question deliberately accompanies an experimental squeeze of your fingers against the base of Sunday's wings, making them flutter.

"N-not at all." Sunday's next breath shudders out of him. "Quite the opposite."

"That's good." 

The flush on the tips of his cheeks deepens slightly as his wings appear to bend into your touch. 

Sunday looks at you then, and Dan Heng gives your waist another stroke in response. Then you hear his body shift behind you— until you feel him come to kneel at your back and he steadies you against his chest with a touch that's grounding and safe. 

You continue to massage your hands through Sunday's wings, squeezing and applying pressure to certain spots that he seems to favour. With every brush of your fingertips, he appears to get more confident— his lips parting as sounds of lithe and quiet pleasure appear to threaten to spill from behind his teeth. 

He's rocking slightly where he stands, and perhaps you'd be doing the same were Dan Heng not holding you upright— allowing you to use his chest to lean against as Sunday's body tries to sway closer into your touch. 

But Dan Heng’s hands on your waist tether you to reality, despite the way anticipation makes you feel lightheaded and giddy. You press yourself back a bit further, curling into his chest and you feel him lean forward to smear his lips against your neck— pressing a few delicate kisses up the column of your throat as you bare more of your weight back into him.

It's incredibly erotic, having Dan Heng kiss his way up your neck while you're massaging Sunday's wings. You feel pinpricks of pleasure begin to gather beneath your skin as your boyfriend's lips press against the sensitive places he knows you like, and Sunday watches you as you dig your hips back into Dan Heng's crotch— humming when you feel his bulge greet you in return. 

As for Sunday himself, well it’s safe to say he’s pretty overwhelmed right now.

He’s always thought you to be kind, and he’s acutely aware of the possibility of you always appearing during his quieter moments because you feel sorry for him. 

It’s not that he deliberately isolates himself from the Express in the moments you happen to come find him. But it’s more so, Sunday just feels like he’s finally able to exercise his freedom to take a moment of repose whenever he requires it. Back when he was the head of the Oak family, he often found himself chained to the grandeur banquets— forcing himself to socialise even when he felt like he was due to collapse due to his own exhaustion, forcing a smile and a laugh just to keep up appearances. 

But now, as he’s come to find himself a member of the Express— it’s much the opposite. In fact, Mr Yang actually encourages him to get more rest than he ever would’ve considered to take himself. Always insisting that a proper night of sleep would do him good. 

Though it seems tonight, especially now, will be another sleepless one. 

"Are you certain you want this?" Dan Heng interrupts Sunday's train of thought with his question. When he snaps back out of it, he realises you're both staring. "You can stop this at any time." Dan Heng assures him. 

"Apologies, it seems I… lost my train of thought is all." Sunday shakes his head. "I'm fine." 

"Don't overthink it." Dan Heng says again, lips still pressing against your throat and Sunday appreciates the advice as he's drawn back to the pressure of your fingers on his wings. 

He wonders if you can both see how hard he is— how damp the inside of his slacks have become since this all started. If he were to be honest, he's been hard since way before you even touched him; turned on by the simple sounds of your desperation when you believed him to be asleep. 

But he's never been one to feel so… out of control. And as much as Sunday would usually crave the feeling of taking charge in most moments— he can't help but feel particularly out of his depth right now. 

You stroke your fingertips across the top of Sunday's wings and it's so sensitive and good that he feels his body almost crumble; it's concerning actually, he believes he could cum with just this. He moans at that, the pleasure outweighing his embarrassment as he watches Dan Heng continue to kiss at your neck— his hands roaming your body, palming at your breasts and waist at the same time as you curl and back yourself up into his touch. 

It's a spur of the moment thing, the way Sunday reaches out to do the same; to perhaps try his hand at spurring that same reaction from you himself. But when his fingers lift and tilt within even an inch of your direction, Dan Heng's eyes rise again to meet him.

"That would not be wise." Dan Heng says, his voice so absolute it almost chills Sunday as he hesitates. 

"I—" 

"Are you ready for more now, Sunday?" You cut him off, looking at him through long lashes as Dan Heng stays watching from his place behind you. Your dreamy tone is a stark contrast to the almost uncharacteristically rougher tone that just came from your boyfriend, but he doesn't think too much into it. 

"Yes." Sunday responds anyway, "It appears I am at your mercy."

Dan Heng moves from behind you first, resting himself down on the mattress and then he looks at Sunday again. "I suggest you do not get carried away then." 

And he feels vaguely like he's being scolded. 

You follow after him, sitting between your boyfriend's legs with your back to his chest. You angle your hips up a little higher before quickly kicking off the bottoms of your pyjamas and your underwear and getting yourself comfortable. It catches him off guard, the sudden glimpse of your pussy so unfiltered and already so… slick. Your folds are glistening even in the dim lighting of your room on the Express and Sunday wants nothing more than to reach forward and swipe his fingers through it. 

He feels the angle spur a response in him, one that's deep in his lower abdomen as his cock strains against the fabric of his slacks once more and his mouth feels suddenly dry. 

But despite your faux confidence you're feeling just as overwhelmed as you can imagine Sunday is. From your position in Dan Heng's lap you can feel how hard he is, bulge pressing up against your lower back as his breathing makes goosebumps burst across the flesh of your shoulders and neck. 

Not to mention the way Sunday's looking at you, the gold of his eyes appears to shine as he takes you in— admiring your intimate skin is his entirety and it takes everything in you to not close your legs and shy away from it. 

Maybe it's because you know Dan Heng's got you, and it seems he's enjoying this just as much as you are— despite his cool exterior, the warmth of his palm as it rests on the inside of your thigh feels incredible and that alone drives you to keep up whatever game you're playing. You press your back further into his chest before looking up at your new partner from beneath your lashes. 

But Sunday doesn't seem to notice you bringing your foot up until it's pressing beneath the hem of his shirt and you use it to drag the fabric upwards before pressing the sole against his chest. He can't help himself from wrapping his hand around your ankle and squeezing it tight, suddenly feeling like he can't breath at the action. 

"Your turn." You say, acting innocent like you're not showing him your pussy and teasing him with your touch. "Or do you want me to help you?" 

You giggle, so sinfully cute that Sunday feels lightheaded again at the idea of you undressing him. He could lose himself in the image of it, your hands tucking beneath his waistband before pulling it down, blinking up at him as his cock springs free; he feels almost bewildered by his own want. 

It's only when Dan Heng's arm wraps around your shoulders from behind does he find himself on solid ground again and your foot falls back onto the mattress with a soft thud. 

"I am sure he can handle it." Dan Heng assures you, his lips pressing against your ear as your tugged closer to his chest. 

"Yes." Sunday says the same. "You needn't worry about me." 

Sunday's a bit clumsy in the moments after— quickly discarding himself of his slacks and shirt before folding them up neatly and placing them aside. Even in these moments, he cannot skip on his habits but when he feels that first sting of sexual freedom that comes with pulling off his boxers he can't help the way he sucks in through his teeth. 

It leaves him bare in a way he's never felt before, standing infront of you and Dan Heng as you lie back against your boyfriend's chest on the mattress. Your eyes on Sunday's cock. 

"It's so beautiful, Sunday." You say, authentically sweet. "It suits you."

The praise still makes Sunday feel suddenly self-conscious. 

"My apologies if my inexperience hinders this for either of you." 

But it is Dan Heng that responds to him first. His hand comes over to rest on your inner thigh as he spreads your legs wide enough to hook them over his own, and it almost seems like an offering. 

"You need not apologise, though perhaps it's best if you follow my lead." 

"Yeah, Dan Heng's right." You agree. "It's supposed to be fun anyway, so don't worry about it, okay?" 

That does a little for Sunday's anxieties but still he finds himself feeling rather awkward. He swallows heavily for a moment, and then with another glance at your glistening folds his wings shudder again. 

"What's wrong?" You smile, beckoning him closer with a simple blink rather than an outstretched hand this time. "I think you're past being shy now, come closer."

"Let me guide you, okay?" You watch as Sunday does, spreading wide so he has enough space to settle between your legs. "It's really easy once you get the hang of it." 

Your eyes lock on the space below his hips, and he feels his wings instinctively curl around his cheeks in that way they often did whenever he was flustered. 

Sunday watches Dan Heng loop an arm around your waist as he holds you steady, allowing you to rely on him as you turn all of your focus onto Sunday's cock. The first time he feels your fingers reach up to graze along his shaft, he almost cums right there and then, already finding the sensation to feel miles better than his own hand. 

You suck your lower lip between your teeth as you reward Sunday with a few more strokes of your fist, and he feels his expression break into something much less controlled than he's used to as his legs threaten to buckle beneath him. But he can feel Dan Heng staring at him from over your shoulder and his gaze is enough to keep him in check. 

You appear to find a pace quite quickly, though it remains slow and steady, as if you can already tell what he likes. You leave soft touches up the sensitive veins on the side of Sunday's cock and brush your thumb along the sensitive tip, allowing your hand to wrap all the way around him as you easily pinpoint and squeeze at the spots that make him shake. 

"Does it feel good?" You ask, continuing that rhythm along his cock as you send him a heated look from beneath your lashes. 

He feels like he can barely think, but somehow he manages to find words as he readjusts himself between your spread thighs. 

"Astoundingly so." Sunday responds, though he doesn't think that even comes close to just how incredible you're making him feel. "Nevertheless— it is not only my own enjoyment I desire, but that of yours too." 

"You're so thoughtful." 

You seem to giggle again at that, a sound he's growing quite fond of, though it's not mean-spirited and sounds more as if you're pleased. Your free arm blindly reaches back to anchor yourself against Dan Heng and as if the action was a wordless request, your boyfriends hands begin to move against you. 

Sunday can't take his eyes off the way Dan Heng's fingers pull back the folds of your pussy at first— bathing you in tenative, soft touches that despite their litheness seem to spur such a reaction from you it makes your hold on him almost waver. 

But at the same time, it makes Sunday's mouth water and his cock twitch, watching the way two fingers being pressed against your clit is enough to make your back arch— your lips parting to moan as your pussy is spread wide again on Dan Heng's next touch and he takes in the delicate softness and warmth that he wishes to feel for himself. 

His wings flutter at his neck and he looks at you again, a depth to his gaze that you could surely swim in. "Is there something more you require of me, such as…." To have him inside of you, that's what he's implying. His eyes glance down between your legs as if to signify it. 

But with another particularly drool-worthy twitch of your thighs and another few pumps of your hand along Sunday's cock, you lean back into Dan Heng's chest and smile, twisting into your boyfriend's arms as you shake your head and he continues to massage at you with two fingers. 

"This is fine for now." Your lashes flutter as you take a moment to gather the precum from Sunday's tip and smear it along him; making everything feel much more soft and wet. But he doesn't know where to look— trying to decide whether he should admire your beautiful expressions, or watch the way Dan Heng's fingers are drawing another sticky circle through the delicate petals of your pussy and noting how your body twitches in response. 

Your neck turns to look over your shoulder as Dan Heng's eyes finds yours. "And you?" 

The look he gives you in response is so intense, Sunday almost feels it. His fingers come forward to tilt up your chin, “I can handle that part.” 

“Are you sure, I—“ Sunday interjects but Dan Heng's looks at him again, with that same sharp gaze that he had met him with earlier.

“Quite certain.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. 

“Ofcourse.” Sunday says, though his words are wound tight. "It is not my intention to overstep nor take your generosity for granted.”

Dan Heng helps you to your knees easily as he shoves his pants down from beneath you, leaving you hovering above his lap as you face Sunday, allowing him to take in the way your pupils are blown wide and your lips are swollen. He wishes he could kiss you, just to feel what it's like; but there's a part of him that tells him not to take advantage of your kindness; as if your hand is not wrapped around his cock. 

But perhaps that opportunity will come eventually. 

Though for you, you feel like you're already in heaven. 

It only takes seconds, before Dan Heng's cock is springing free and resting against the inside of your thigh; smearing precum along your skin and only moments before he's got it wrapped in his own fist— angling you in a way that has it pressing up against your entrance. You watch as Sunday bites on his lower lip as he watches, and you're not sure if it's all of the attention you feel like is on you right now, or the way Dan Heng lets his cock swipe through your folds; but you're utterly soaked. 

“It’s okay, Sunday. You feel good so far— this is only the first time." You say with such kindness it makes Sunday shudder, but your voice breaks off when you begin to lower yourself down on Dan Heng as he all but splits you apart. 

You don't think you'll ever get used to the stretch, even in this form— it never seems to subside, splitting you apart as your head rolls back but you still manage to push more of Sunday's cock into your tightly wound fist until your hand is squeezing at the base. 

"Do… ah— you want me to put my mouth on it?" You say through fluttered lashes. 

You're certain you hear Sunday gulp. 

"If…. if you're sure and— it is not too much trouble." 

"I want to." 

You lean forward quickly following his permission, forcing Dan Heng to have to hold you steady as he sinks another few inches inside of you— particularly deep this time as your toes curl from where they're folded up beneath you, making your head swirl. You exhale across the sensitive glands in Sunday's cock at first— half to tease him and half to keep yourself coherent, but then comes the first, gentle little kiss that you smear against the tip and he helps you with your reach by taking a step closer. 

And it does help. It helps so much, because by your next sharp inhale you're able to wrap your lips around the tip and suck— and that pressure alone is enough to make Sunday's wings shiver out as he rests his hand on your shoulder. 

You try to keep your focus on him, but as you continue to sink down on him and Dan Heng at the same time— feeding yourself another inch of Sunday's shaft while your boyfriend presses more into your pussy, you feel so incredibly full it's overwhelming. It feels like you're out of body, pleasure making your head feel thick and heavy as your tongue begins to tease the underside of Sunday's cock and your hand is continuing to pump what you can't fit in just yet. 

You gag around him, taking a little too much at once as your throat tightens up all of a sudden and then you begin your withdrawal; leaving spit coating along the flushed veins of his cock as Sunday's hips lean forward to follow your movements. It's as if he's beckoning you not to leave. But when Dan Heng chooses that very opportunity to sink all the way inside of you, you can't help but whine from where your lips are still wrapping around him and Sunday almost breaks. 

You feel like you might pass out. So full and stuffed as your mouth and pussy are both kept busy, thankfully— Dan Heng gives you a moment, letting you get used to the stretch and when you try to blink the stars from your eyes, you notice the way Sunday's staring down at you. Its beautiful really, the way he's watching you twist your hips on top of your boyfriend; his halo just visible over the top of his head as his messy hair frames his flushed cheeks— he looks like he's absolutely enamoured by you. 

But Sunday's cock remains tight against your palm, and despite your current state you still find it in yourself to press a few sensitive kisses up the sides of him, blinking at him as you do so. 

"How does it feel?" You steel yourself enough to ask, breathing hard. Despite how full you feel, despite your eagerness to be stuffed from both sides— your need. 

"Your technique is sure enough …. q-quite impressive."

"So you don't want me to stop?" 

You feel the way Sunday's cock throbs against your palm at your question; as if answering for him, and part of you wonders if he's going to begin to beg. But it appears he's able to keep some semblance of himself at least when he responds. 

"Without a doubt, I do not wish for this to end so soon."

"That's good." 

Dan Heng's voice sounds after that, a soft "Are you ready? Let me know if it gets too much." as his hands stroke up and down your back. 

And as if answering for you; your body begins to shake in anticipation as Dan Heng offers you a few gentle, test thrusts— making sure you're ready before he leans over to smear some soothing kisses along the back of your shoulder. You watch Sunday's lips move with a fluttering blink, and you assume he might be cursing beneath his breath were it not drowned out by the way you're back to suckling at the head of his cock. 

You feel like your ears are ringing and Sunday's hips stutter as he tries so hard not to thrust into your throat. But that same moment, is when Dan Heng begins to find a his pace, and nothing could've ever prepared you for how good it feels to be fucked from one side while taking cock from the other. 

You've never quite felt anything like it. You readjust your knees on the mattress before Dan Heng's hands come to squeeze at your hips and he finds a rhythm to rock up into you. Its slow at first, each thrust long and deep, pushing up against the spongy, sensitive spots inside of you with such an ease that you don't even notice that you're suddenly bouncing on his lap to chase more of it. 

But you use that same momentum to stuff even more of Sunday's length even deeper into your mouth, feeling him hit the back of your throat before he lunges forward and your walls shudder tight around Dan Heng at just how desperate the man above you seems to be. It spurs you on, so you continue to suckle and kiss all over his cock until Dan Heng's voice appears to draw both of your attention. 

"How are you holding up?" He asks, part breathless as he continues to fuck up into your pussy, but still sounding far more composed than you feel.

Sunday thinks he's talking to him but he's not, he's speaking to you. With your mouth stuffed full of cock and your dazed expression— you hardly manage a Mhm. So you pull off for a moment to answer him, replacing your mouth with your fist in the meantime, but Dan Heng tilts your head back to face him and then he hums, murmurs something beneath his breath and kisses you instead. 

You don't see it, but Dan Heng looks at Sunday then, locks his gaze as his mouth moves with yours and the look he gives him almost feels predatory— like the way an animal would guard their resources. Sunday's never seen Dan Heng in such a way; used to his more friendly, but relaxed personality. 

But this, how he is now as he bounces you on his lap and at the same time; watches you stroke at Sunday's cock, makes Dan Heng appear much more dangerous. Possessive even, when his tongue presses its way between your lips and his sharp eyes narrow at the halovian opposite him. 

Sunday makes a mental note of that behaviour, but he doesn't cease his slow, back and forth movements either, thrusting into your fist with an eagerness he would normally be ashamed of. His hips stutter as he rolls the head of his cock through your closely gripped fingers again and this time his lips part, his voice hitching with the exhale that you breath into Dan Heng's mouth. 

You gasp as you break the kiss, and as if Dan Heng can feel something Sunday can't he begins to reach around your hips to rub at your pussy again. It makes your head drop back to moan for a second— so incredibly broken and lost in mindless pleasure but still you find it in yourself to lean forward, allowing Sunday between your lips again as you go back to suckling on the tip of his cock. 

Its like something from one of his most sinful fantasies; to have Dan Heng fucking you while you suck Sunday off and he almost feels guilty for having you in such a position. But there's a part of him, a past part of him that wishes it were he that was getting to feel the sweet hug of your pussy right now— and as he watches your body clench and stutter with every wet slap against Dan Heng's hips, he can't help himself from touching you. 

He ignores the look it earns him from behind you, but he's still respectable enough to not take it too far. Sunday brushes the hair back from your face and watches as you take more of his cock, your eyes fluttering closed at your obscene pleasure as your throat relaxes and you swallow around him. It earns you a moan, then another trembling pump of his hips before you glance up at him through your lashes and that seems to send him hurtling towards his orgasm with a speed he was not expecting. 

Though it appears he's not alone, from where your lips wrap around him— Sunday can feel the way you're moaning around his cock, drooling all over his shaft as Dan Heng continues to rub at your pussy with two fingers while he fucks you. Even your boyfriend has began to moan himself, groans that appear more controlled but rougher in comparison to Sunday's more desperate sounds. 

Sunday feels tension begin to pinch at his shoulders, his thighs shaking as you begin another wet withdrawal and then all of a sudden— with a particularly deep thrust of Dan Heng's cock it sends you forward. Your nose presses against the base of Sunday's cock so suddenly it knocks the air out of him, sending him curling forward as he feels those first tendrils of pleasure begin to take root in his body as his orgasm suddenly blooms. 

It floods into your mouth until you choke, forcing you to draw back so you can really taste his load— though it only takes a few more seconds before you're following him off that edge and having to break away. Dan Heng continues to fuck you through your own organs as he holds you steady, one arm looping around your waist while the other stays between your folds. 

You pump Sunday's cock to draw out his pleasure at the same time, causing a few of the remaining drops of his cum to fall and splatter over your bottom lip and chest and Sunday feels like he might actually pass out at the way his load appears to pearl on top of your skin. 

As your body begins to seize and twitch on top of Dan Heng, Sunday notices the way his pace also does the same— soon followed by a clipped grunt of his own before he can see the sticky ring that appears to form at the base of Dan Heng's cock. 

Everything feels so wet and warm in the aftermath. The long strokes of your fist along Sunday's cock have turned to slow pets, fingers dancing along the now flushed skin until he's shuddering and taking half of a step back. You finish it with a kiss against his tip, as if bidding his pretty cock farewell and then you all but collapse back into Dan Heng's chest as he catches you. 

"How do you feel?" You ask as you take in Sunday's completely roused state. He's much different now compared to how you're used to seeing him; with his incredibly flushed expression and his messy hair, his slacks around his ankles and his wings curling around his cheeks. 

It's quite cute you think, miles from the man you're sure everyone once thought him to be. 

"You held up quite well." Dan Heng offers to Sunday first. 

Followed by your voice as you find yourself comfortable on his softening cock. "Soooo…. how was it?" You murmur, drawing Sunday's gaze to you this time and there appears to be a dull glow to it that wasn't there before. 

"Yes, it was… quite remarkable." 

"I like that compliment." You smile back, watching Sunday's wings spasm in the aftermath of his orgasm as he fumbles to pull back on his underwear and clothes. "But one more thing, come here one more time!" 

It takes considerable effort to push yourself up, still plugged up by Dan Heng's cock but you manage to grab at the chest of Sunday's shirt before all but pulling him into you. Its quick and catches him off guard, the way your lips are soft against his— as if rewarding him with a kiss that is so utterly sweet that he almost melts into you. 

You think he actually might when you feel his body relax, and when you tease along his lips with a press of your tongue— you take pride in the dazed expression it leaves him with when you suddenly pull away. You sink back into Dan Heng's chest with a little kick of your feet, and try not to smile too hard at the way Sunday seems so utterly perplexed and…. blissfully dazed. 

"Maybe you'll have a much better sleep tonight compared to when you first got here." 

You joke, shattering the tension in a lighthearted way that seems to bring Sunday back. He clears his throat. 

"Heh, perhaps that may be the case." He says, but fidgets. "Though I should most likely clean myself up first, I dislike making a mess at the best of times." 

There's a lull of silence after that, and you can tell by the look on Sunday's face that he appears to be thinking. He gathers up the rest of his things, albeit not much, before turning to leave the room before you can stop him. 

"You know, you can still sleep in this room." You say before he can go, causing Sunday to still in his step out of the door before he turns. 

"She is right." Dan Heng agrees, hugging you tight. "Our offer still stands despite what has just taken place." 

You don't know for certain, but you think Sunday seems to relax at that. He exhales a breath, then sighs— as if suddenly remembering how to breath. 

"Then I will see to it that I shan't wake you both on my return." 

You laugh, knowing that no matter how loud he is you're definitely too spent to wake up for anything tonight. "We'll consider it your revenge for earlier." 

"Heh. Perhaps I am owed that much." 

[boobilater]

It's the way I was just thinking about them when this popped up on my fyp... universe works in mysterious but delightful ways.

[boobilater]

There's a batfam x neglected!reader fic where the reader has a heart condition. She has a group of friends who look after her and so does Alfred. I think there's someone stalking her aswell. I was obsessed with it but I've lost it😭 Does anyone know what I'm talking about??

[scorpiomoon-444]

how you end up dating lucas and max (and ruining your brother's sanity)

pairing: lucas sinclair x may mayfield x f!harrington!reader

word count: 9.6k

warning(s): brief use of Y/N, slightly aged-up characters (aka high school setting), polyamory!!!, mild use of explicit language, over protective and dramatic older-brother!steve, romantic content & mild danger

It starts in third-period Physics.

Lucas Sinclair sits at the front of the class—back straight, pencil tapping, eyebrows drawn together in this permanently determined expression, like the physics equation has personally offended him.

If you ask Steve, he’ll say you’ve always the quiet sibling. Which is ironic, considering Steve Harrington has never been quiet a single day in his life.

But you guess compared to him—the hair, the confidence, the king of Hawkins High—you’re the quiet one. The studious one. The one teachers actually like.

You don’t feel like the calm one; you just prefer observing people instead of talking to them. It’s easier. Comfortable. Safer.

Anyway, all of that is just to explain why, on the first Tuesday of October in tenth grade, you are sitting in the back of Mr. Clarke’s class, doodling hexagons in the corner of your notebook and minding your own business, when your life quietly shifts without you realizing.

Lucas Sinclair sits at the front, beside his friends. The loud ones, you've labeled them over the course of the semester. They've always been that way, especially in middle school. Not loud in an obnoxious way, but they always have questions for Mr. Clarke. It's quite amusing, really. 

You have always noticed Lucas Sinclair.

Maybe not in any grand, life-changing way, but in that small, secret way where you register how cute someone is before you can stop yourself. He's focused, pencil tapping, eyebrows knitted. His back is straight, and his hand shoots up more often than half the class. He's… determined. You admire that in a quiet, distant way.

He doesn’t look at you. He rarely, if ever, looks back here. To be fair, most people don’t—unless they're looking for a Harrington. Steve has made your last name loud. You keep it soft. So you sit there—doodling, invisible, perfectly content—until Mr. Clarke clears his throat in the way that means trouble.

“Miss Harrington?”

Your head snaps up, the way a cat does when a toaster pops.

Every head in class turns. Including Lucas Sinclair’s.

“Yes?” You ask, trying to sound like you haven’t been drawing geometric flowers for the past ten minutes.

Mr. Clarke gestures to the board. “Would you mind walking us through number five? I noticed you weren’t taking notes, so I want to be sure you’re following.”

Translation: I think you’re distracted. Prove me wrong.

You swallow, push your chair back, and walk to the front. Your heart hammers, but your voice—thank God—comes out steady. You explain the problem. Step-by-step. Clear, concise, maybe a little too soft-spoken, but correct.

When you finish, Mr. Clarke’s eyebrows lift the way they do when one of the loud boys, like Dustin Henderson, asks him a question that makes an impression on him.

“Excellent work.”

You nod, cheeks warm, and turn back toward your seat.

That’s when it happens.

Lucas looks at you.

Not the casual glance you give someone walking by. A real look. Surprised, impressed… almost curious. It's small. A flicker. But little did you know it's the start of something bigger—friendship, crushes, chaos, heartbreak, healing—all of it, tangled together like the messy physics of your teenage lives.

But you don't know any of that yet.

All you know is this:

Lucas Sinclair has just noticed you. And for reasons you wouldn’t understand until much later—your heart stammers and your stomach flips upside down.

The next couple days are full of quiet glances. Not dramatic ones—just the kind that linger half a second too long. A smile exchange when you pass in the hallway; a soft nod across the cafeteria; a moment in English class when you catch him watching you and he looks away so fast he shifts nervously in his seat.

And then you realize something embarrassing:

You are waking up in the morning and combing through your hair three more times than usual.

Not because you care that much about school. Not because you have anywhere special to be. But because of him. Because maybe—just maybe—you hope that Lucas Sinclair might keep noticing you.

Apparently, you aren't subtle.

“Who’s got you all dolled up today, hm?” Steve asks one morning, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smirk. He bites into the chocolate chip waffle he holds.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, but he reaches out and flicks the scrunchie in your hair lightly.

“You always wear your hair down. You never wear this unless you’re trying to impress someone.” His eyes narrow. “Is it Dustin? Please tell me it’s not Dustin Henderson.”

“It’s not Dustin.”

“So it is someone.” He persists. “Is it Mike Wheeler? It'll be good if it's Mike, because—”

“It’s no one, Steve.” You shove past him, cheeks warm. “It’s called personal grooming.”

He grins like he’s caught you red-handed. “Oh, my little sister has a crush.” He places a hand over his chest dramatically.

“I hope Jonathan Byers gives you another punch. And on the mouth this time, so that you shut up,” You mutter on your way out.

He laughs—because his teasing definitely worked.

The universe must’ve thought that was funny, because on your way to third block, Dustin Henderson collides with you like a human wrecking ball.

“Sorry—sorry—oh crap—!”

Your folder slides across the hallway. Your pens scatter everywhere, and Dustin scrambles like he’s defusing a bomb. Then, another pair of hands appear on the floor beside yours.

Lucas.

“Hey,” he says softly, picking up your notebook before you could reach it. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t watch where he’s going when he’s excited.”

As he lifts the notebook, the cover flips slightly and Lucas’s eyes catch on your doodles spilling across the front page in pen and pencil, revealing the half-finished sketch you’d been working on earlier: a roller skater, mid-jump in the air, motion lines curling like smoke.

His eyebrows lift, soft and earnest. “You drew this? It’s… really good.” You freeze—because compliments aren’t usually delivered to you, and definitely not in warm, chest-deep voices by boys with unfairly pretty eyes.

You nod, heat crawling up your neck.

“Oh, um… thank you,” you manage, the words tripping out softer than intended. Lucas smiles like he genuinely means it before closing the notebook gently and handing it back.

“Yeah, Dustin...” you say, brushing hair from your face—finally replying to his earlier apology. “He’s… always excited.” You're an observer, of course you’ve seen that over the years.

Lucas laughs quietly—a warm, chest-deep sound. When he hands you your notebook, he hesitates before letting go.

“I… like your hair.” His eyes flick upward, shy. “It looks nice.”

Your heart does an acrobatic somersault. His smile and brown eyes are distractingly gorgeous, and you have to remind yourself to say something. Anything.

“Thanks," you breathe. "And you—you always look nice.”

It’s a vague thing to say, the kind of compliment that tumbles out before you can think, but it lands—it makes his smile tilt gentler, like your words hit somewhere he wasn’t expecting.

You walk to class feeling lighter than air.

That's the same day she shows up.

Max Mayfield.

Mr. Clarke introduces her with the kind of cautious tone teachers use when they’re not sure if a new student is going to be polite, or throw a desk.

Red hair drapes over her shoulders, with a skateboard tucked under her arm. Her expression is fierce and unimpressed by the entire state of Indiana.

Lucas sits upright like someone has just yanked him by invisible strings.

You shouldn’t care. You barely know Lucas, but watching him watch her stirs something sharp in your chest, something unfamiliar, and uncomfortable...

Jealousy?

Max walks past him. Past the front row of rowdy boys. Past the next couple rows entirely. Despite some of the welcoming, empty seats.

She sits next to you, way in the back; and your breath hitches. Because up close, she looks… different. Not just cool or fierce—but kind of gorgeous. Soft around the edges in a way you wouldn’t notice unless you really looked.

You did. One good look.

You smile at her.

She blinks, surprised—like she didn’t get many warm expressions from girls her age.

Then she smiles back. It's small, but you see it—it's real, and almost hesitant. Something flickers in her eyes—something curious. Then she fixes her gaze on Mr. Clarke again.

Both of you try not to think too much about it. But later, you’d realize that this moment—this tiny shared smile—is the beginning of something neither of you have the words for.

Throughout the lesson, she keeps glancing at you, like she's trying to figure you out. Lucas keeps glancing back at her.

And at you. Then back at her.

And you sit there with a scrunchie in your hair, doodles in your notebook, a heart beating too fast, and absolutely no idea what kind of beautiful chaos you are about to fall into.

Max Mayfield didn’t talk to anyone on her first day—except you. Not much. Not loudly, but enough that when the bell rings, she lingers beside your desk instead of bolting for the door.

“Hey,” she says, shifting her skateboard under her arm. “Um. Thanks. For… earlier.”

“For what?” You ask, shoving your doodle notebook into your bag.

“You know.” She scratches her cheek. “For not looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

“Oh.” You shrug. “I don’t think you’re a freak.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re the new girl, everyone sort of looks at you like you are.”

You both stand there, with small smiles, until she nods once—sharp, and decisive.

“You’re cool.”

You laugh softly. “No one’s ever said that to me before.” 

She follows you out into the hallway to your locker. “There’s a first time for everything,” Max declares, chin lifting.

“Well, thanks." Your cheeks warm. "Max, right? My name is—”

Dustin’s voice thunders down the hall, before you can properly introduce yourself. “HEY—!” He skids to a stop, nearly crashing into Max, then notices you. “Oh. Uh. Hi, Harrington.”

“Hi… Henderson,” You say, because you still aren't sure how to talk to him. Especially after his collision into you this morning. That's the most he's ever spoken to you, really. It's almost like he avoids you purposely, but you've always shrugged it off.

He turns back to Max, dramatic. “I’m Dustin—you wanna hang out with us tonight? For Halloween?”

Lucas rushes up behind him, breathless. He notices you, and his whole expression warms.

“Hey,” he says to you softly.

“Hi,” you reply, hoping the blush blooming on your cheeks isn't as obvious as the heat you feel creeping up your neck. Then he looks at Max. “I’m Lucas.”

Max looks between all of us, then shrugs like she doesn't care.

“I’ll consider joining… if she can come too.” She jerks her head toward you.

Dustin’s face twists like she’s suggested inviting the school principal. “Uh… I mean—” He stalls. “We kind of already have the group—”

“Of course she can come.” Lucas cuts him off instantly.

His smile toward you is shy but certain. Your heart practically skips a beat.

“Cool. Um, thanks,” you say, trying not to sound too thrilled. “If… if that’s okay,” you add, quietly.

“It is,” Lucas says so surely it makes Max grin. And that was that.

Hanging out with Max and the boys is loud, chaotic, borderline dangerous, and somehow the most fun you’ve ever had.

Sure, going trick-or-treating with Steve was always fun. He's an amazingly awesome brother, though, you’ll never admit that to him. Steve always dresses up with you, and you’d both put on a scary movie and stuff your faces with all the candy you’d collected from the night.

At least until it got too late. Steve always had a Halloween party he’d leave for. Every year. 

You never understood how he manages to be invited to one every single Halloween. It was always easier for him. To make friends. To talk and hang out with other people his age. 

Max walks beside you the whole night. Lucas keeps glancing back at you, always slowing down until he ends up on your other side. 

Dustin suggests ending the night with a movie, to which you all agree. Mike and Will argue about which Halloween movie is the best of all time. And you… feel included. For the first time in a long time.

But after that night, things grow complicated.

Mike doesn't love the idea of Max being in their circle. Dustin loves the idea of you being in it even less. You don't understand what you ever did to Dustin for him to approach you the way he does.

For Mike, it isn't personal. He just doesn't trust easily—and the boys are dealing with secrets bigger than school projects and physics homework.

And slowly, you could feel the shift.

Whispers you weren’t included in.

Side conversations that stop when you and Max approach. Huddled plans at the lockers that never include your names.

“Seriously?” Max hisses one afternoon when she catches Lucas, Dustin, and Mike whispering without you. “You guys are acting like little kids, excluding us the way you do."

Dustin and Mike look at each other before rushing off somewhere.

"So, they're just gonna ignore us?" you ask, trying not to sound too offended. But Lucas hears the hurt in your tone.

He winces. “It’s not—look, it’s complicated.”

“It always is,” Max snaps. “We're only your friends when it's convenient for you, right?”

You hover behind her, wishing you could disappear into your backpack.

“It’s fine,” you whisper. “We don’t have to be involved—”

“No,” Max says sharply, turning to you. “You’re smart. You care. And you’re here. You don’t get to back out.” Her voice softens. “We’re in this together.”

Lucas rubs the back of his neck. “I… didn’t mean to shut you both out,” he says, voice low and guilty. “Really.”

You could see in his expression that he's being sincere. Still, you don't understand all the secrecy.

Max crosses her arms. “Then prove it.”

Later that day, he does.

Lucas pulls you aside near the bike racks, eyes darting like he's about to confess to a crime. “Okay, listen.” He takes a deep breath. “You want in? Fine. I'll tell you everything.”

“What, like… everything everything?” Max challenges.

“Yes… but it comes with risks.” He looks at you both like it’d hurt him to tell you. After you and Max agree to his terms, he tells you about it all. The Demogorgon. The Upside Down. The labs. El. All of it—messy, terrifying... ridiculous.

By minute four, Max is squinting, skeptical. By minute five, you're certain he's joking. By minute six, both of you burst into disbelieving laughter.

“Lucas, that’s... something,” you say, fighting a smile. “You’re telling me my brother—Steve—fought a monster with a baseball bat?”

Lucas nods emphatically. “With nails in it!”

You stare. “My Steve?”

Max laughs. “‘The hair’ Harrington?”

“Yes!” Lucas insists, eyes hopeful.

You shake your head. “Lucas, Steve couldn’t take on Jonathan Byers in a fist fight. And, I'm sorry, but the monsters—?"

“Ask him! I can prove it.”

Max exchanges a look with you, her expression softening into something almost protective. “We’ll… think about it,” she says, grabbing your wrist. “Come on, Harrington. Before he tries to convince us there are zombies, and thinks we're stupid enough to believe that too.”

"I don't think you're—"

She tugs you away, but you glance back.

Lucas stands there watching you, hopeless. His shoulders slump in defeat.

You give him a small, apologetic smile.

And the way his face lights up—even just a little—tells you everything you aren't ready to admit.

Later, the wind is cold enough to nip at your cheeks as you glide down the sidewalk on your rollerblades, backpack bouncing lightly against your spine. You’re still not technically allowed to go far from school on your own, but Steve is working through a fatal Wheeler heartbreak, and… well, if he didn’t want you venturing out, maybe he should have remembered to wait for you before speeding over to Nancy's house.

Besides, you're a high schooler now. You're not a little girl; Steve knows that.

You brake at the Hargrove-Mayfield driveway, gravel crunching awkwardly under your wheels. Max’s house feels… a little intimidating. You practiced what you were going to say at least twenty times in the bathroom mirror, but now every possible script evaporates.

You ring the doorbell.

You hear loud music blaring from inside. Then, you hear footsteps, and a lock clicks. The door swings open, and Max Mayfield stares back at you.

Her face softens immediately. “You skate?”

You glance down at your rollerblades, sheepish. “Yeah. It’s… different from your kind of skating, but I, um, noticed you did too.”

Max follows your gaze to her snapped skateboard leaning against the wall. A shadow crosses her expression.

“Yeah. I do. But my stupid brother broke it.” She gestures at him working out in the living room.

You blink. “Older brothers are totally annoying. Mine left me at school to go beg his ex-girlfriend to take him back.”

Max gives you a slow look—something like recognition, or maybe relief. A tiny, appreciative smile lifts her mouth.

“C’mon,” she says, stepping aside. “Get in here.”

You hover just inside her bedroom door, taking in the neon poster on the wall, the mess of cassette tapes, the comics on her desk. Max grabs the broken board and starts aggressively taping the deck back together.

“So,” she says without looking up, “you skating on those things in grass, or…?"

You snort. “I make it work.”

Max grins, shaking her head. “You’re weird.”

“So are you.”

She seems to like that answer. “Does your brother always forget you at school?” she asks.

“His mind has been somewhere else lately…” you reply. “Does your brother always break your stuff?”

“He breaks things when he’s mad.” You can tell that the topic makes her uncomfortable.

A second later, the doorbell rings again.

Max groans, still aggressively trying to tape her board. “Not again.”

You open your mouth to offer help when— “MAX!” a male voice calls from down the hallway. “MAX, YOU GONNA GET THAT?”

Max groans dramatically and hops off her bed. You contemplate following, but she says, “I’ll be back.”

Max cracks the door open. Billy is in the background, smoking, lifting weights with loud music blaring.

Lucas stands outside, out of breath, hopeful, clutching his bike handlebars like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“I can prove it,” he blurts. “Everything I told you. And Y/N.”

Back in Max’s room, you’re startled to find Lucas outside her window. Max walks in then, closing the door behind her. She opens her window door.

Lucas smiles at you, a little shy, but bolder than before. He turns to Max. “If you wanna know the truth, you both should see it.”

Max crosses her arms, and turns to you. “What do you think?” 

You nod. "Let's check it out."

“Come on,” Lucas urges. Max jumps onto the back of Lucas’s bike like she’s done it her whole life. You take off on your rollerblades beside them, wheels wobbling in the grass but you refuse to fall behind.

Lucas looks back at you just once.

A small, relieved smile. And you try not to melt into the ground right then and there.

Metal clangs somewhere in the distance. You see two figures behind a pile of trashed car parts. Gravel spits under your wheels as you roll to a stop beside Max and Lucas.

Dustin pops up from behind a pile of junk. “Dude, seriously?”

Steve emerges next, holding that spiked baseball bat like he was born with it strapped to his back. “Who’s that?” he asks Dustin, nodding toward Max, as she emerges with Lucas first.

But then his eyes land on you.

He stops dead.

“…What the hell are you doing here, Y/N?”

You cross your arms. “I can ask you the same thing.”

“No—no, I’m the older brother,” he says, pointing at himself. “Plus, I asked you first.”

“You're the one who forgot about me at school!”

Steve blinks hard—like he’s buffering—and drags a hand through his hair in that stressed, borderline-melodramatic way of his. “Okay—okay, first of all? I didn’t forget you. I just… got distracted.”

“By what?”

“I—” His jaw works, eyes darting away. “—had something come up.”

“Oh really? Something came up?” you shoot back. “I thought you were at Nancy’s. Since when are you friends with Dustin Henderson?”

Steve throws his hands out like that’s somehow the most outrageous part of this. “I was at Nancy’s! And Henderson just—he was just there!” He gestures vaguely at Dustin, like he appeared out of thin air. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

You narrow your eyes. “What the hell are you doing with Dustin?”

Steve shuts his mouth like he just realized he walked straight into a trap. He points between the two of you. “No—what the hell are you doing with Dustin?”

"I'm not with Dustin. I came with Lucas." You gesture at the bat next. “So then, it is true? He told me everything.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “He told you—?”

“You told her—?” Dustin and Steve say in unison, both sounding personally betrayed.

Lucas lifts his shoulders helplessly. “I… thought they deserved to know…”

Max nudges your arm, a little proud. You nudge her back.

Steve drags a hand over his face. “Oh my god. I’m never gonna hear the end of this. Seriously, Y/N. You shouldn’t be here. And you, Sinclair, what are you, out of your damn mind?”

You blink at your older brother, still trying to fully process everything.

"I told Dustin: Keep. Y/N. Out of this. Then you go and tell her!?"

It doesn't take more than a second for you to place it together. It wasn't Dustin giving you the cold-shoulder, it was Steve asking him to avoid you.

“Steve, don’t blame this on him. What were you thinking? You really fought a… demo-thing?”

“Demogorgon,” Dustin corrects.

“Well whatever it is — are you insane—?!”

Steve cuts in firmly. “We’ll talk about this at home.”

You don’t get a chance to argue. Because Dustin and Steve seem pretty set on carrying out the plan Lucas told you about. So, you all get to work setting up a trap—to capture, what Dustin called, a demo-dog. You couldn’t believe it, really.

But that’s not what you remember most about the night.

That night is different than any you’ve experienced before.

Not just because you see an alien monster for the first time.

Not just because you watch your older brother almost get attacked—not just by one, but by three—nearly sending you into cardiac arrest.

And not just because Lucas holds yours and Max's hand in a moment a fear.

But because you talk. Like, really talk.

For the first time.

Because while Steve and Dustin fuss with raw meat and nail-bats, while the junkyard settles into a waiting silence thick enough to choke on, the three of you end up huddled at the top of the abandoned bus—anticipation buzzing so hard you swear it could light the whole yard.

Max tells you about how she misses home. How she misses her dad.

“My mom and stepdad, they wanted a fresh start away from him. As if… as if he was the problem, which is total bull. And things are just worse now. My step brother’s always been a dick, but now he's just angry… all the time. And… well, he can’t take it out on my mom, so..."

“So he takes it out on you?” Lucas' voice is gentle, cautious.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s just... I know that I can be a jerk like him sometimes, and I do not want to be like him. Ever." She bites down hard and you see it—the anger, yes, but the hurt underneath it. Something vulnerable. Something she doesn’t show anyone. "I guess, I’m angry too, and I’m sorry."

Her eyes look almost glassy. "Jesus! What’s wrong with me?" She laughs lightly to compensate for her emotions.

Luckily, Lucas is great at comforting, you learn. Better with words than you have ever been.

“You're nothing like your brother, Max. Okay?” His voice is reassuring.

“Yeah. You’re different. And kind." You add softly, your gaze fixing on hers for more than three seconds for the first time. You want her to know you're being sincere, even if holding eye contact is hard for you to do.

Max looks over at you, startled—like no one’s ever said that to her before.

Then Lucas speaks, but it’s different this time. His voice is lower, honest. Like something he’s been holding close.

“People treat me differently sometimes,” he says. “Not my friends—not Mike or Will or Dustin. They’re… they’re the only ones who treat me like I’m normal.” He hesitates. “But others? Kids at school. Adults. It’s not the same rules for me.”

Your breath catches. You think of things you’re only now old enough to understand.

Lucas picks at a loose thread on his zip-up jacket. “Sometimes I don’t know if I’m fighting monsters or… just the world.”

Max stares at him like her heart breaks a little.

“Monsters or the world, you have us now too,” you assure him.

Lucas grins softly at you both, his brown eyes sparkling under the moonlight.

You swallow, throat tight. “I don’t… really have anyone to compare that to. I’ve never had friends. Like, real ones. People only knew me as Steve Harrington’s little sister. I was just… background noise. A loner. Easier to ignore.”

Saying it out loud feels like peeling skin. Like exposing something raw.

You look away. “It took me a while to know for sure if either of you really wanted me around. If you really liked me.”

Max nudges your knee with hers, and says softly, "I do. You know that.”

Lucas’s voice is gentle. “I do too. A lot.”

You look up.

And they’re both looking at you with this… open, unguarded sincerity. Like you’re not background noise at all. Like you matter. Like you belong here with them, in this place you never expected to be.

A strange heat flutters under your ribs.

For a moment, the world shrinks to just the three of you—sharing secrets in a rusted junkyard, leaning close in the dark while something snarls in the distance.

You startle, and the night tilts back into danger.

But you’re not alone anymore.

Not after this. Not ever again.

That summer tastes like cherry icees and movie-theater air-conditioning. Like neon lights reflecting off the shiny floor tiles. Like meeting a new friend named El. Like Max and Lucas aiming french fries at each other's mouths in the food court. Meanwhile the rest of you laugh over other matters—like a movie you just watched together, or an arcade game you beat Dustin at.

And like confusion. A lot of confusion.

Because somehow, without any of you agreeing on it, the three of you become… a thing. Not a relationship thing. More like... a gravitational thing.

You, Max, and Lucas—you move together. Sit together. Laugh together. No matter how the day starts, you always end up side-by-side.

The first time you’re truly confused, you’re not prepared for it.

El grabs your hand while you’re walking through the mall—the way girls do when you’re excited, pulling you toward a store with a gasp about some outfit on display.

And before you can blink, Max is suddenly right there.

“You okay?” you ask, a little confused. She’s smiling, but it’s the tight kind. A step closer than usual, her arm brushing yours.

Almost like she’s… intercepting?

You try not to think too much into it, but you see it again a couple days later.

Mike tells a joke, El laughs, you laugh, and then El loops her arm through yours. And Max—in one quick motion—slips between you two, gently separating your arms with a casual, “Come on, we’re getting pretzels.”

She does it so naturally you almost think you imagined it.

Almost.

But you start to think Lucas notices it too.

Because you catch him staring at Max afterward, head slightly tilted, and she glares at him in that “shut up” way. Then he glances at you, a shy grin on his lips, like he’s trying to decode something.

You swallow a sip of your Coke and stare at the fountain to avoid thinking too hard about it.

As for Lucas, he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

He’s had crushes before—of course, on Max, and okay, maybe, definitely on you—Harrington’s sister—since like the sixth grade—but both? At the same time? 

That’s… not normal, right?

Every time Max smiles at him, his stomach flips. Every time you smile at him, it drops in a different direction entirely.

And when the two of you laugh together? He’s done.

Absolutely gone. Goodbye.

He tries to act normal. (Fails.)

Tries to pick one person to like. (Fails.)

Tries to pretend he’s not imagining holding both your hands. (Fails spectacularly.)

He tells himself this is a problem for Future Lucas.

Present Lucas just tries not to blush every time either of you look at him.

You start to notice something is… shifting. It creeps up on you slowly. How Max sometimes walks closer to you than necessary. How Lucas’s voice softens a fraction when he asks if you want to split fries. How their small arguments occasionally end with both of them glancing at you, like your reaction secretly matters.

Like you’re suddenly the axis they’re orbiting.

You’re not sure what it means. And you’re not sure you’re allowed to ask.

But you like it. You really like it. Even if you don’t understand it yet.

One Friday evening, Steve leans against the kitchen counter, half-watching you pace back and forth. You’re supposed to be “getting snacks ready,” but all you’ve actually done is re-adjust the same hair scrunchie in every reflective surface available. Making sure your hair-do looks perfect.

The same scrunchie hair-do Lucas complimented last time.

Steve finally squints at you. “Okay, what’s going on? You look like you’re about to meet the President. Or… I don’t know… Tom Cruise.”

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, fluffing your hair for the eleventh time.

But Steve’s your big brother. Against his will. His powers of perception are annoyingly sharp when it comes to you.

He straightens. “Hold on.”

And you freeze.

He eyes the scrunchie. The lip gloss. The nervous pacing. The fact that you keep checking the clock as if lives depend on punctuality.

“…Who,” he demands, “are you doing all this for?”

You open your mouth—but then the doorbell rings.

When you open the front door, Max and Lucas stand there, smiling, holding a stack of VHS tapes. And Steve watches your entire face light up like someone plugged you into a wall.

He instantly points at Lucas. “No.”

You blink. “Steve, what—”

“No,” he repeats louder. “Lucas Sinclair??? Why not—I don’t know—someone who can’t get eaten or taken or attacked by a demon monster on a random Tuesday?!”

Lucas stares at him, offended. “Dude, what—”

“If anything alien comes near you, I’m throwing him at it first.” Steve points at you, then Lucas.

"Will you calm down? We're just hanging out, Steve."

He throws a dish towel at the wall. “I can’t do this right now. I’m walking away.”

But later, when you’re sitting beside Lucas on the couch, knees touching, whispering jokes while Max tries to untangle the VHS tape, Steve watches from the doorway.

He sees the way Lucas glances at you.

And despite all his dramatics, his expression softens.

As the days pass, you don’t realize it, but you’re doing it now too. Acting the way Max did when El got too close to you. 

One afternoon, Max careens down the ramp at the skate park too fast, wheels skidding. She tries to turn—fails—and slams straight into another skater, and they both tumble.

“Max!” you yell, taking large strides on your rollerblades to meet her side.

The girl Max collided with sits up, brushing gravel from Max’s elbow. “Hey, hey—are you okay?” she asks gently, touching Max’s arm.

Max blinks at her—and blushes, just slightly.

Something flares in your chest. Sharp and unexpectedly.

You step forward, quicker than you mean to, fingers curling around Max’s wrist.

“She’s fine,” you blurt, pulling Max gently but firmly away. The girl looks confused, and Max looks even more confused.

You don’t stop until you’re both near the sidewalk, out of earshot.

"Are you okay?" your voice finally softens, looking over her for any other injuries.

Max raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

You swallow. “I—just didn’t want her touching you. I mean—she collided into you!“

Her gaze lingers on you. A little too intense. A little too knowing, you think. Then she laughs. “It was an accident, Harrington.” 

“You don’t know that,” you say dryly. “Come on. Can't keep Lucas waiting for us.” You brush it off, and skate away, but she only shakes her head, amused at your defensiveness.

That same day, Starcourt Mall is crowded, loud, neon-soaked.

Lucas holds up a velvet scrunchie. “Here, this one looks like your vibe.”

Your pulse quickens, and feel a flush blossoming on your cheeks. “You bought this for me?”

He shrugs, pretending to be casual but very much not, then slides it over your wrist. “Yeah. It just… reminded me of you.”

You’re about to respond when— “Harrington!”

You turn, and recognize it to be a guy from your English class, jogging over.

Lucas' smile instantly melts away, eyes narrowing at the him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling brightly. “I was gonna call you, only I didn't have your number—uh, do you maybe wanna go out sometime? Maybe get a milkshake?”

Lucas steps forward so quick, you jolt. His posture shifts—shoulders wide, one foot sliding half a step ahead like he’s quietly drawing a boundary. He doesn’t touch you, but the message is clear: you’re not standing alone in this conversation.

“She already has plans,” he says, voice calm but firm.

You blink at him. “I—I do?”

Lucas nods without breaking eye contact with the boy. “Yeah, we're hanging out today. And tomorrow."

Your brain short-circuits. “We—we are?” you whisper up at him, heat flushing your ears.

Lucas meets your eyes just long enough for you to feel it in your stomach. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “We are.”

The guy shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything.”

“You didn’t,” Lucas says politely enough, but his stance doesn’t budge.

The boy hesitates, then backs off. “Right. See you around, Harrington.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, you turn to Lucas, heart pounding. “We have plans?”

He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—but his cheeks are warm. “Well… we do now.”

“Then, I can't wait,” you admit, softly.

So, the following day at the mall, the plans go through, like Lucas said.

The plan is to grab ice cream, and check out the arcade. Sure, you're in high school, but the guys insist on video games. You suppose that's the price you pay for being friends with dweebs, and having a crush on one. You really don't mind it at all, so long as Max and Lucas are there.

When you walk into Scoops Ahoy a couple minutes later with the others, Steve notices that lately, you put more effort into dressing nicely, or looking pretty. At first, he thinks it's because his little sister is getting older, but he can't help his intrusive thoughts. “Do you like someone? You can tell me. Actually—don’t tell me. Actually—tell me. It's Sinclair, isn't it?”

“Will you stop that, Steve? You're embarrassing me. Seriously, stop.” And you thank Robin for nudging his side when he says too much.

He puts himself between you and any teenage boy who looks your direction for longer than two seconds.

Especially Lucas. He remembers you’re still seventeen and decides Lucas counts the most, knowing how close you two have grown over the summer.

“Sinclair!” he calls across the food court one day. “Remember the code: arms-length or I break yours.”

“Steve!” you hiss. Lucas nearly drops his smoothie.

Max just rolls her eyes. “You are literally insane,” she tells Steve.

“Thank you,” he replies proudly.

The mall is crowded enough that no one really notices—or cares—when Max threads her fingers through yours.

To anyone else, it probably looks normal. Girls do that. Friends do that.

But Lucas sees it. And you feel it.

Because Max’s thumb brushes the side of your hand in a slow, absent stroke while she leans in to point out something in a store window. Her hand stays in yours even after the moment passes.

Dustin glances back. “Cute,” he says, shrugging. “Girls always do that.”

Mike shrugs in agreement, already complaining about the line at Hot Dog on a Stick.

But Lucas…

He keeps walking, but he doesn’t take his eyes off your joined hands.

Not in a jealous way. Not confused. Just… soft. Like he’s surprised to witness a moment he wasn’t included in, but somehow still warmed by.

Max notices him watching and releases your hand slowly—almost reluctantly.

It’s late June when you show up at the Wheeler backyard with something hidden in your closed fist.

Max is sitting on the picnic table, one foot tapping to the beat of whatever’s blasting from the boombox. Lucas and Mike are arguing about whether New Coke is a crime against humanity.

You walk straight toward Max.

“Got you something,” you say, suddenly shy.

Her head tilts. “Really? For me?”

You hold out your hand and reveal a thin, braided bracelet — red and purple, knotted unevenly but made with real effort.

Max freezes for a moment.

Lucas notices and stops mid-sentence.

Mike keeps trying to make his point because he’s Mike.

“It’s nothing big,” you add quickly. “Just noticed your old one was fraying and… I don’t know. Thought you might like this.”

Max takes it from your hand like it’s breakable.

“Wow,” she breathes. And then—there it is.

A tiny blush. So faint you think you imagined it. A soft pink climbing her cheekbones, gone as soon as it appeared.

But you saw it.

“Put it on me?” Max asks, voice quieter than usual.

Your fingers brush her wrist as you tie the knot. She doesn’t pull away. Not even a little.

You swallow nervously. You still don't fully understand why your pulse hammers when you're around her.

Across from you, Lucas tries not to stare. But he fails miserably.

He watches the whole exchange—the blush, the whisper-soft smiles, the way your hands linger.

He tells himself he’s totally, absolutely fine. Still, he finds himself flustered—heart pounding, hands sweating, almost like, he likes seeing how close you and Max are. He really likes it. He finds the feelings weird, but tries to ignore it.

Later in Mike's basement, you glance over and catch Lucas watching Max—something warm and admiring in his expression.

You don’t know what to call the feeling it gives you: a flutter in your stomach, a rush in your chest, not jealousy exactly…

… it's something else. Something you don’t have words for yet.

That following week at the movies, the lights dim as the film starts, and you settle in—Lucas on your right, Max on your left, all three of you sharing the same massive tub of popcorn.

When Lucas reaches in to grab popcorn and his hand brushes yours, Max notices, and you swear you see her blush behind the shy smile she throws your way.

At this point, Lucas knows he’s in trouble.

Like real, actual, Hawkins-level trouble.

Because Max laughs at something on screen and he swears he feels it in his spine. And then she hands the popcorn to you—and your fingers brush and Max smiles at you, and his stomach does something weird and traitorous.

But then you lean into him—just barely—and his heart does a different weird thing.

Great. Cool. Awesome.

He likes you. Both of you. Like, a lot.

It's overwhelming, and confusing. It makes him want to walk into the woods and scream into a tree.

And what’s worse? This isn't just some small crush anymore. It feels like something permanent, something that anchors itself inside him and refuses to leave. A quiet, steady tug towards both of you.

He's doomed.

After the movies, all of you are on the rooftop of Starcourt after closing. Dustin rambles about magnetic anomalies and cosmic energy. The others are focused, asking questions, trying to follow.

But you're not listening.

How could you?

You're lying on your back between Lucas and Max, arms touching, warmth soaking through the thin summer shirts.

Max’s pinky brushes yours for a second too long, and for a minute, you think it might've been intentional. That thought disappears quickly when Lucas hooks his pinky around your other hand—a silent, secret gesture in the dark.

You feel like you want to do the same with Max, and the thought confuses you. And it scares you.

So you don't.

But for right now, this is enough. Having both of them on either side of you. Breathing slow and steady under the summer stars.

And for the first time… you think you understand why your heart has felt so strange lately.

Why it feels so full.

Your feelings... they're different, and that terrifies you. You don't fully understand them, and that scares you even more.

After some time, the mall has finally gone quiet, and the others have have gone home, except your two favorite people.

No chatter, no neon buzz, no Scoops Ahoy bell ringing every five minutes. Just the warm hum of summer, a distant car stereo echoing somewhere across the parking lot, and the three of you sitting on the Starcourt roof like you belong there.

Lucas is lying back, arms tucked behind his head. Max sits cross-legged beside you, rhythmically tapping her skateboard wheels against the concrete. Your legs dangle over the ledge, swinging lazily in the evening breeze. Max leans her head on your shoulder.

You take a long breath, tasting the leftover sweetness of the ice cream Steve smuggled out for you before going back to finish locking up.

“I wish every night felt like this,” you admit.

The moment you say it, Lucas sits up and blurts before he can stop himself: "Me too. I like you both. A lot. Like— too much.”

Your stomach drops. And there's a heart-stopping, breathless silence.

Max turns fast, surprise painting her beautiful features. “Lucas—”

“I know it’s stupid,” he rushes, panicking now, “And I know that it's weird, okay? I don’t wanna mess anything up. I’ve tried to stop it, I swear— but I like you—” he points at you, face flushed, “—and I like Max—and it’s confusing, but I can’t help it anymore. I'm sorry—I just—I can’t keep pretending I don’t.”

His face falls into his hands, defeated. Like he's ruined everything.

But you and Max share a look. And the whole world seems to pause, the distant music fading into a soft static.

Over the time you've spent getting to know Max, you learn that she's scared to open up sometimes; to be honest about how she feels. But you also learn she's fiercely brave. She shows it when she reaches across the rooftop and gently pulls Lucas' hands down so that he lifts his head again.

Her eyes are gentle in a way you’ve never seen before.

"Lucas you're not the only one who's confused," she admits, quietly. Her voice isn't guarded—it’s honest. Max swallows hard, "I like you too... And her."

She looks at you, and the expression on her face is so raw, something warm blooms in your chest.

Lucas’ breath catches.

Your pulse hammers, and your throat goes tight all at once.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You've always been the quieter one. And this moment is too intense, too precious for words. So you say it the only way you can.

You take both their hands, and whisper. "Me too."

Lucas stares at your intertwined fingers like he's afraid to blink. Max bites the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to smile too hard.

None of you move—not for a long moment—afraid the whole thing might shatter.

It’s Max who moves first. Very slowly, she shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, and then, you realize she's so close to you that her breath mixes with yours in the warm night.

“Is this okay…?” she asks.

All you can do is nod simply, heart hammering against your ribs harder than it ever has before. Your gaze flicks to her lips briefly.

Max leans in—shy and slow—then presses her lips to yours.

It’s barely a kiss. A hesitant brush of her lips against yours, like asking a question. A brush that sends heat up your neck.

You kiss her back gently.

Her hand flutters at your waist, as if afraid to hold on too tight. When you part, she looks dazed. You probably do too.

Then, you hear Lucas' voice from your right. “…Can I?”

Both you and Max nod, your cheeks flushed.

He steps closer to you first, and at this point, your heart is trying to escape your chest. He brings himself to cup your face, and his eyes drop to your lips, then slowly, his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, drawing you closer.

He leans in slowly—painfully slowly—and kisses you like you’re something fragile he’s terrified of breaking. You kiss him back, slightly more confident than the first kiss you gave Max. It's warm, and sweet. It's perfect.

When he pulls back, he’s breathless. A subtle, yet contagious grin on his pretty face.

Then Max nudges him with her shoulder. “My turn,” she mutters, there's a playful, anticipatory tone in her voice.

Lucas smiles, and Max kisses him too, with a little more confidence than she had with you. He pulls back looking like someone unplugged his brain.

You all look dazed, and your hands link again in the dim glow of the rooftop under the parking lot lights.

You’re a mess. A happy one.

“What… does this mean?” you whisper.

Lucas turns his head first.

“I don’t know what to call it,” he says softly. “And I don’t know how it works. But I know it means something to me.”

“Me too,” you and Max say at the exact same time.

You all laugh quietly—breathless and shaky. None of you say it out loud, but the fear is there. That no one else will understand. That adults won’t get it. That the world won’t get it.

So you lift your pinky, voice tiny:

“Secret? Between us?”

Lucas’s eyes soften. He hooks his pinky with yours immediately.

“Between us,” he promises.

Max lifts hers too, looping it with both of yours.

“Our secret,” she echoes.

Your three pinkies link. Three hearts thudding. And all three of you sit there afterward—like you’ve just discovered the world is bigger than you ever knew.

That night, after a long mall shift for Steve, he drives you home. But you’re not alone in the backseat.

Max is asleep on your shoulder, and Lucas is asleep leaning into your other side.

The AC hums and Steve watches the rearview mirror with raised eyebrows but says nothing for once.

And you think:

If I don't know how this works… I don’t mind not knowing.

Because it feels right. All of it.

Them. You. Together.

The next couple days blur together. You’re wrapped up in that blissful stretch where you want more of each other all the time. It’s that addictive early stage where being apart feels impossible—that giddy, all-in part of a relationship where you’re basically glued together. Except it's not a relationship... none of you are sure what to call it.

You spend your days at Lucas' house or yours, but never at Max's because Billy couldn't stand any of you. You spent the days mostly at yours, given you're the least supervised at your house.

Or, at least you thought you were.

Your door is cracked open a few inches. You don't notice, because well... you're a little distracted.

Because Lucas’s hand is cupping your cheek in that soft way he does now, warm and gentle as he’s kissing you softly—the kind of kiss that makes your stomach flip and your brain go warm and fizzy.

Max sits on your bed beside you, legs touching yours, brushing hair out of your face with her nails painted chipped blue.

You’re holding her hand without even realizing it. It’s soft, and steady. It's comforting.

Lucas pulls away, smiling at you—then leans over to press a quick kiss to Max’s lips.

She responds nervously, startled but quietly pleased—then she turns back toward you, brushing your hair behind your ear again, as if it’s your turn—

“WHAT THE HELL, SINCLAIR?!”

All three of you detonate into chaos.

Lucas literally FALLS OFF YOUR BED.

Max yanks her hand out of yours so fast she almost falls backwards.

You whip your head toward the doorway—and Steve stands there. Frozen. Eyes unblinking saucers of horror. Mouth hanging open. Hand still on the doorknob.

He looks like he just walked in on a demon summoning.

“STEVE!” you yelp. “KNOCK!”

“Knock?!” His voice cracks. “KNOCK?!”

He points at Lucas on the floor, sputtering outrage. “He had— your face— his lips—and YOU—I JUST SAW YOU KISSING MY SISTER—AND MAX?!”

Lucas, still on the rug, shrugs, surprisingly calm. “I— I slipped...?”

You roll your eyes at Lucas' lame attempt at lying.

“You SLIPPED? ON WHAT?!” Steve screeches. “LOVE TRIANGLE GREASE?!”

Max steps in, “It wasn’t what it looked like, Steve—”

“You KISSED him back!” Steve accuses.

Max chokes on air. “I— I panicked!”

“You panicked? YOU panicked?!” Steve shrieks. “I walked in and saw SINCLAIR SWAPPING SPIT WITH TWO GIRLS LIKE HE’S JAMES BOND—”

“Steve!” you shove him into the hallway, hands to his chest. “OUT!"

“This is ILLEGAL. You’re not allowed to have boys in your room!”

Lucas, finally stands from the floor, and croaks, “So Max gets a pass, but I don't?”

“YES!” Steve fires back without thinking. “BECAUSE MAX DOESN’T GO AROUND KISSING MY LITTLE SISTER—”

He whips toward Max, accusing. “NOW, DO YOU, MAX?!”

Max turns so red she looks radioactive. You think it's cute. But right now isn't the time for distractions. You re-focus, and see she opens her mouth, then closes it. “…Um,” she swallows.

Great. That’s it. You’re going to be grounded for eternity.

“I AM NOT GOING ANYWHERE,” he declares, slurry with betrayal. “Not until someone explains why Lucas Sinclair is tonguing BOTH OF YOU!”

Lucas shakes his head, lifting his hands in the air, cautiously. “I wasn’t tonguing—"

"YOU SHUT IT!" Then Steve wheels on Max.

“And YOU— what were YOU doing holding my sister’s hand?!”

“We’re— it’s— it’s complicated,” you finally say, stepping in front of Max.

“COMPLICATED?! Is THAT what this is?!” He flails his arms, gesturing a huge circle around all of you.

“Oh my GOD,” Steve mutters, shoving his hands through his hair, pacing in tiny, hysterical circles. “Oh my god, oh my god. When did babysitting become THIS?!”

“STEVE!” you grab his shoulders and force him still. “Stop freaking out!”

“I WILL NOT STOP FREAKING OUT,” he cries, pointing at Lucas like a courtroom attorney. “NOT UNTIL SINCLAIR EXPLAINS WHY HE KISSED MAYFIELD AND THEN MY SISTER LIKE HE HAS A SCHEDULE!”

Lucas watches him pace, eyes wild. “I—I like them!”

Steve screams internally. “No. No, no, no. Don't say that, Sinclair. Don’t make this real.”

Max interlaces her fingers with Lucas and gives his hand a squeeze, fully supporting his decision to be honest with him. “Steve, it’s— complicated.”

“COMPLICATED?!” Steve shrieks. “DO YOU HAVE A SPREADSHEET FOR THIS?”

You all stare at him.

He stares at you.

Then—he turns around, and nearly walks straight into the wall.

The next day, the Scoops Ahoy uniform does NOTHING to keep your older brother emotionally stable.

Steve is confused, traumatized, and VERY sure Lucas Sinclair is double-dating you girls.

He’s supposed to be scooping samples and ringing up customers, but instead he’s leaning against the counter with his head in his hands, muttering.

Robin taps a cone against his forehead. “Okay, Steve. Spill. You’ve been glazed-over all morning. What happened? Did your hair betray you? Did a customer call you ‘sir’ again?”

Steve lifts his head slowly.

“I walked in on them," he whispers.

Robin blinks. “On who?”

He makes a circle motion with his hands. “Them. The thing. The triangle. THE… SITUATION.”

Robin squints. “Steve, you're going to need to use actual nouns.”

He inhales sharply through his nose. "My sister was kissing Lucas Sinclair."

Robin nods slowly. "Okay. I mean. Teenagers. Not surprising."

"And Max was holding her hand."

Robin blinks.

Steve throws his hands up. “EXACTLY!”

“Wait wait wait— Max? Quiet, scowly Max? She held your sister’s HAND? Like romantically?”

Steve throws his hands up. “I don’t KNOW! I don’t know ANYTHING anymore! Am I losing my mind?!”

“Uh—okay,” Robin says. “So… maybe your sister likes girls too?”

Steve stares at her, unblinking. “That’s not why I’m upset, Robin. THE PROBLEM IS I ALSO SAW SINCLAIR KISSING MAX.”

Robin freezes, head tilting. “Oh.”

Steve waves his arms like a malfunctioning windmill. "YEAH. Exactly. OH.”

Robin’s mouth twitches. “So you’re saying… Lucas is… two-timing?”

“TWO-TIMING?!” Steve squeaks. “I THINK HE INVENTED A WHOLE NEW CATEGORY.”

Robin cackles. “Oh my god. Your face. Steve, breathe.”

“I SAW BOTH OF HIS LIPS ON TWO DIFFERENT GIRLS IN UNDER TEN SECONDS.”

“That’s… efficient?” Robin offers.

“ROBIN.”

She pats his shoulder, dying laughing. “Steve, look. Maybe they’re all—you know—figuring it out... together?”

"What is there to figure out? CHRIST! LIKE MY SISTER IS IN SOME LOVE GEOMETRY PROBLEM?”

Robin leans in. “Do you want the good news?”

“Does it remove yesterday from my memory?”

“No,” she says, "but you're being dramatic."

Steve sags onto the counter, and the bell rings. Robin glances over his shoulder.

“Oh,” she says, biting a grin. “Speak of the devil.”

You walk in. Then Max, followed by Lucas.

Max looks at the ice cream board. Lucas looks anywhere but at Steve, and you look like an awfully innocent teenager, batting your lashes at your older brother with a shy smile.

Robin whispers fast: “Stop staring like you’re about to pass out—”

“Hi,” you say softly. “We… wanted cones.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says, somewhere between monotone and threatening. Robin nudges him with her knee under the counter.

“Act normal,” she hisses.

“I AM acting normal!”

“You’re sweating.”

“I SWEAT WHEN I’M NORMAL.”

Robin beams. “Hey guys! Don’t mind Captain Breakdown here. He’s had a rough morning.”

Lucas looks away, Max sighs, and you shake your head at your older brother.

Steve jabs a finger toward Lucas. “We’re talking later.”

Lucas doesn't argue, just pays for everyone's cones.

Robin elbows him again. “Harrington, stop it.”

Steve grumbles under his breath while scooping Max’s cone like it personally offended him.

Steve sits the three of you on the living room couch. He stands in front of you with a notepad.

A literal notepad.

Max leans toward you, and whispers, “is he serious?”

Lucas leans the other way. “If we run now, we can make it through the backyard back to my house.”

You whisper, “He’ll chase us.”

They know you’re right. Steve clears his throat loudly.

“Okay.” He lifts the notepad dramatically. “GROUND. RULES.”

You all groan.

Steve glares. “Shut it. This is important.”

He flips to page one.

RULE #1: NO KISSING IN THIS HOUSE. EVER.

“You will NOT kiss in bedrooms. Or kitchen corners. Or hallways. Or stairwells. Or closets. Or ANY rooms in this house. Got it?”

You raise a hand. “So… no kissing?”

“Right.”

“Anywhere?”

“You heard me.”

Lucas squints. “Like… ever again?”

Steve blinks, then hesitates. “…Not— not NEVER. Just— NEVER WHERE I CAN SEE IT.”

Max lifts a brow. “So we can kiss outside?”

“NO— I— THAT’S NOT—” He sputters. “STOP FINDING LOOPHOLES.”

Robin walks in from the kitchen with a soda. “What’s happening?”

“PARENTING,” Steve says.

Robin snorts. “Oh yeah, this is definitely going well.”

He flips to page two.

RULE #2: MAX AND LUCAS KEEP THEIR HANDS TO THEMSELVES

Max starts, "but—"

"NO."

Then Lucas, "what if—"

"STOP."

"But Steve—" he interrupts you.

“I JUST DON’T WANT ANYONE TOUCHING ANYONE ANYMORE.”

Robin: “He’s spiraling.”

Steve whirls on her. “THE KIDS ARE TOUCHING EACH OTHER, ROBIN.”

“Yeah, that’s usually how kissing works.”

“ROBIN.”

She shuts up, laughing into her soda.

Another dramatic page flips to page three.

RULE #3: THE DOOR STAYS OPEN.

“Three inches,” Steve declares. “Like Hopper said. But since you three—” He gestures wildly at the group, “—have created… whatever this is—your door stays open…”

He thinks and calculates, “—eight inches.”

“Eight?” Max repeats. “That’s not open. That’s invite-people-to-spy open.”

“GOOD.” Steve slams the notepad shut. “If I hear ONE weird sound? I am THROWING WATER.”

Lucas deadpans, “Like we’re feral raccoons?”

“Yes,” Steve says without a blink.

You lean forward and gently take the notepad out of his hands.

“Steve,” you say softly, “we’re not doing anything wrong.”

He deflates. Completely. Like someone let all the air out of him.

“I know,” he mumbles. “I know. I just— you’re my kid sister. And Lucas is Lucas. And Max is— Max. And I walked in on—” He waves both hands in the air like the memory physically hurts him. “—whatever THAT was. And I don’t have a manual for THIS. This is advanced-level parenting!”

Max’s voice is surprisingly soft. “You don’t have to protect us from each other.”

Lucas nods. “We’re not going to hurt her.”

You look between them. “We just wanna be... together. We'll be hanging out in my room, that's all.”

Steve rubs his face. “…I know.”

Robin pats his back like he’s a stressed-out single parent. “See?” she tells him. “They’re more mature than you think. They've got it handled.”

Steve sighs heavily. “Fine,” he says. “But I reserve the right to freak out at ANY moment.”

“Noted,” you say.

“And?” Steve adds.

“And we’ll… keep the door open,” Lucas says reluctantly.

Steve raises a finger. “EIGHT inches.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Oh my god.”

You spend the rest of the the month glued at each other's sides. And by the end of July, everyone’s given up trying to figure you three out. You arrive places together. You leave together. You move like planets caught in the same orbit.

“Package deal,” Mike mutters one afternoon.

Dustin shrugs. “They’ve been like this all summer.”

He’s right. They’re absolutely right. And you're enjoying every second of it.

hope you enjoyed :) - you can find part 2 HERE! 🩷

[bat1nsignia]

DRINKS IN PROGRESS ! ⤷ 1k event

here are the 10 drinks chosen! + moots ofc <3 i tried to pick different ones since a lot of them were the same characters/trope and i spinned a wheel too LOL so yeah! these are in no order so do bear that in mind! thank you so much to all of you who ordered and participated 🖤

mojito on the rocks with martini ⤷ wally west x fem!reader (rivals with benefits + nsfw)

old fashioned wine on the rocks ⤷ talia al ghul x fem!reader (arranged marriage + nsfw)

sake in a highball with wildcard (daiquiri) ⤷ kyle rayner x fem!reader (friends to lovers + angst)

bourbon manhattan in a coupe ⤷ jason todd x fem!reader (established marriage + fluff)

whiskey margarita in a coupe ⤷ bruce wayne x fem!reader (soulmates + fluff)

vodka martini in a highball ⤷ conner kent x fem!reader (rivals with benefits + angst)

daiquiri on the rocks with bourbon ⤷ jason todd x fem!reader (friends to lovers + nsfw)

martini on the rocks with rum ⤷ dick grayson x fem!reader (friends with benefits + nsfw)

manhattan on the rocks with whiskey ⤷ bruce wayne x fem!reader (established marriage + nsfw)

beer on the rocks with wildcard ⤷ clark kent x fem!reader (college roommates + nsfw)

ORDERS BY THE BAR'S BELOVED PATRONS!

tequila daiquiri on the rocks ⤷ hal jordan x fem!reader (friends to lovers + nsfw)

many thanks to our patron, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger !

old fashioned rum on the rocks ⤷ dick grayson x fem!reader (arranged marriaged + nsfw)

many thanks to our patrons, @kh4dij7 and @sweetpeasosweet !

daiquiri gin in a coupe ⤷ tim drake x fem!reader (friends to lovers + fluff)

many thanks to our patron, @moviecritc !

wildcard bourbon on the rocks ⤷ jason todd x fem!reader (hero x villiain + nsfw)

many thanks to our patron, @starr-jazz !

wine manhattan in a coupe ⤷ talia al ghul x fem!reader (established relationship + fluff)

many thanks to our patron, @bloomcissaa !

highball margarita with rum ⤷ dick grayson x fem!reader (soulmates + angst)

many thanks to our patron, @batslvrr !

margarita on the rocks with whiskey ⤷ bruce wayne x fem!reader (soulmates + nsfw)

many thanks to our patron, @t1mbits !

manhattan sake in a coupe ⤷ kyle rayner x fem!reader (established relationship + fluff)

many thanks to our patron, @champagnesbiggestproblem !

soo i may have underestimated this haha.... gulps. buut ANYWAY not the point-- this acu might take me a whole month to finish, maybe longer since finals are soon 😰 and thats IF i continue to post daily. but fret not ill try my best!! and to the other requests that didnt get chosen, thank you for requesting!! <33 there will be more events soon so dont lose hope!!

(also i just have to note this out but half of this being smut tells me a lot about all of you.... (hypocritical coming from me) )

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work.

[girl-wnder]

Batfam Fic Recs

Jason Todd

Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.

Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.

Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.

How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.

Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.

Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.

Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)

Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!

A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.

Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.

Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.

Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.

The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.

Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.

Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.

So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)

The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him

Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.

Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.

The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.

Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.

Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.

When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.

Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.

Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?

La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.

Random blurbs Old habits Revealing Secrets I'm still right though Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée Interrupted Dates First Time

Dick Grayson

Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.

The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.

Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does

The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)

Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.

Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.

Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.

Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.

Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.

Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.

Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.

Random blurbs Take him back, please! Revealing Secrets Interrupted Dates

Damian Wayne

Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.

Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.

When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.

When The Spite is Desire (sequel)

The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic

Tim Drake

If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.

Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.

Random Blurbs Interrupted Dates

Bruce Wayne

The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.

Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.

The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.

Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.

Random blurbs Revealing Secrets

[vianawaits]

Took one day off and now I’m clocking back into Word

Jason Todd x Clark’s daughter here we come 😛

[boobilater]

Jason Todd x Clark's daughter, you say...

[gothamwing]

WHO YOU GONNA CALL?

Hiii! This is my special 1k followers! I decided to already open it while I am still writing the special 500 followers (5 more and then I finish it) BUT anyway, the requests for this event will be open till March 31st, so you'll have 15 days to send your asks with the request! Now lets read a bit more about this event.

character name + dial [___] what's your emergency? = request.

example: Bruce Wayne + 104 (and tell me if you want something specific)

100 Ex! Husband/Boyfriend (and tell me if they'll be back together at the end)

101 Brother's Best Friend

102 Rivals/Enemies to Lovers (both heroes)

103 Hero x Villain dynamics

104 Fake Dating

105 Gala trouble (reader x chosen character in a Wayne Gala) - if you want Gala Trouble + Fake Dating, press 1055

106 Forced Proximity (during a mission)

107 Superhero x Civilian

108 Platonic!Reader

109 Secret Relationship

110 Your choice (describe your idea in the request)

* Even if you chose a number, I would like if you describe a bit of your idea/prompt in case you have any preferences❤️

Characters accepted

𖦹 Bruce Wayne

𖦹 Richard Grayson

𖦹 Jason Todd

𖦹 Tim Drake

𖦹 Damian Wayne

𖦹 Duke Thomas

𖦹 Clark Kent

𖦹 Roy Harper

𖦹 Wally West

𖦹 Conner Kent

𖦹 John Kent

Rules:

- As long as you follow my guidelines, you can ask anything you want, please be polite and kind! Rude asks will be ignored.

- ATTENTION: combo (fics that has multiple povs like this and this) and smaus are not included in this special event.

- I don't know how many requests I'll be taking, since I don't even know if this won't flop jdsncjk but anyway...

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Do NOT repost, copy, translate or use my texts on AI!

🍰Main Taglist: @fromrory @demigod-jack-hearth @maaaahhhiii @sixtoads @astraeasworld @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @lulasgna

Divider: @uzmacchiato

[dictearchive]

[underoospeterparker]

coming home ☆ steve h.

Steve Harrington x fem!reader, 5.4k words

Summary: Steve thinks about you a lot. His childhood best friend, the girl who moved away ten years ago when he was in fourth grade. Logically, he knows he's never going to see you again. So when Robin introduces him to her new friend at Family Video, he's not prepared for it to be you.

The last time Steve saw you, you were nine years old, covered in mud, holding up a frog you'd caught with a triumphant grin while he gagged a couple of metres away.

You'd been inseparable back then. The kind of kids who built forts during sleepovers, who had secret handshakes, who swore they'd be best friends forever.

Your parents moved away the summer before fourth grade because your dad got a job in another state, miles and miles away from Hawkins, Indiana, and Steve remembered crying about it for a week.

He'd gotten over it, eventually. Kids do. New friends, new schools, new versions of himself. By the time high school rolled around, you were a distant memory. A Polaroid tucked away in a box somewhere.

He thought about you occasionally.

Maybe a little more than occasionally, really. He wondered what you looked like, if you were different, if you still liked Starbursts and fudgy chocolate brownies. He tried not to linger too much on it. It was no use, anyway. He would probably never see you again.

That is, until he does.

It's a Tuesday. Nothing special about it. The kind of Tuesday that bleeds into every other Tuesday, gray and unremarkable.

Steve is behind the counter at Family Video, spinning a pen between his fingers, half-listening to Robin chatter about something that happened at the coffee shop.

"—and she was just sitting there, Steve, drinking her coffee like a normal person, and I thought, I have to talk to her. I have to. So I did."

"You talked to a stranger. Shocking. Do you want a gold medal?"

"Shut up. She's amazing. Like, actual sunshine. You're gonna love her."

"You say that about everyone."

"No, I mean it this time. She's new in town and she doesn't know anyone and I invited her to hang out with us tonight." Robin checks her watch. "Actually, she should be here any minute."

Steve sighs. "Robin."

"What? She's nice! You'll like her. Just... be normal. For once."

"I'm always normal."

"You're really not."

The bell over the door chimes. Steve looks up.

And the world tilts sideways.

You're standing in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun, and for a second, you're just a silhouette, both familiar and not, a shape his brain can't quite place. Then you step forward, and...

It's you.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same way of tilting your head when you're nervous, a habit you've had since you were six years old. You're older now, taller, your face different in a hundred small ways — but he'd know you anywhere.

You haven't seen him yet. You're looking at Robin, waving, crossing the store with that easy walk you always had.

"Robin! Hi! Sorry I'm late, I got turned around. This town is so different than I remember."

Robin laughs, pulling you into a hug. "You remember Hawkins? I thought you just moved here."

"I did. I mean, I re-moved here. I grew up here." You pull back, grinning. "A long time ago. Like, elementary school ages."

"No way." Robin's eyes go wide. "That's crazy."

"I know, right? I haven't been back since my parents moved us away. It's so weird being here." You glance around the store, taking it in. "This place used to be a bakery, I think. Or maybe I'm making that up."

Steve can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stand there, gripping the counter, staring at you like you're a ghost.

Robin notices. "Oh! I'm being so impolite. This is Steve. He's my work bestie. Be nice to him, he's sensitive."

You turn, and your eyes finally, finally, meet his.

You tilt your head. Study his face. Your brow furrows slightly, like you're trying to place him, then your eyes go wide. "No." The word comes out barely a whisper. "No way."

Steve swallows. "Hi."

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up, hovering, like you want to touch his face but you're not sure if he's real.

"Steve?" Your voice cracks. "Steve Harrington?"

He nods. Can't speak. Can't do anything except look at you, drink you in, try to reconcile the woman in front of him with the little girl who used to steal his crayons and share her snacks.

You slap a hand over your mouth. Then you're laughing, God how he missed that laugh, and throwing your arms around him.

Steve catches you on instinct, pulls you close, holds on like you might disappear. You fit. After all these years, you still fit perfectly against him.

"Oh my god," you mumble into his shoulder. "Oh my god. Stevie."

The nickname that no one has ever used since you breaks something open in his chest.

"You're here." His voice is rough. "You're actually here."

"I'm here." You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still on his arms like you're afraid he'll vanish. "I can't believe — you're so tall. You were such a shrimp last time I saw you."

He laughs despite himself. "I was not a shrimp."

"You were absolutely a shrimp." You punch his arm, light, familiar. "I used to beat you in races every single time."

"You tripped me!"

"You tripped yourself," you retort, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

Robin is standing behind the counter with her mouth hanging open. "Okay." She holds up her hands. "Okay. I need someone to explain what's happening right now, because I am very confused."

You turn to her, still smiling, and Steve realises he hasn't stopped staring at you. Can't stop. Doesn't want to stop.

"We know each other," you say. "Childhood best friends."

"Like, best best friends," Steve adds, because apparently he's incapable of letting you tell this story alone. "We were inseparable."

"Until my parents moved us away." You shrug. "Fourth grade. We lost touch."

Robin's eyes bounce between you like she's watching a tennis match. "You're telling me that my new friend—the one I literally just met at a coffee shop—is your childhood best friend? Who you've never mentioned, somehow?"

"I mentioned her."

"Once. Vaguely. With a lot of staring into the distance."

Steve's ears go pink. "I didn't stare into the distance."

"You absolutely stared into the distance. It was all very dramatic."

You laugh, and the sound does something complicated to Steve's insides. He watches the way your nose crinkles, the way your whole face lights up, and his heart goes to mush.

"So," you say, turning back to him, "what have you been up to for the last fifteen years? Besides growing a foot or two?"

He shakes his head, still smiling like an idiot. "I don't even know where to start."

"Start with the highlights." You lean against the counter, making yourself comfortable. "I've got time."

You end up talking for an hour.

Robin chips in occasionally, but mostly she just watches, fascinated, as the two of you fall back into a rhythm that shouldn't still exist after all these years. But it does. It's like no time has passed at all.

Steve tells you about high school—the edited version, the one that doesn't make him sound like too much of a jerk. You tell him about your high school, about the cities you've lived in, about the jobs you've had. He asks questions, genuine questions, because he actually wants to know. He wants to know everything.

"You look good," he says at one point, and then immediately wants to take it back because that was too much, too forward, too—

You smile. "You too, Stevie. You look really good."

His heart does a backflip.

The afternoon stretches on. Customers come and go. Robin handles most of them, throwing knowing looks at Steve every time she catches him staring at you again.

Which is often.

He can't help it. You're right there. After all these years, you're just right there, leaning against his counter like you never left, and he can't stop looking at you. The way your hair falls over your shoulder. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.

He's got it bad. He knows he's got it bad. He doesn't care.

"So," you say eventually, glancing at the clock, "I should probably head out. Let you two actually work."

"You don't have to." The words come out too fast, too eager. Steve tries to play it cool. "I mean, if you want to stay. But also if you need to go, that's cool too. Obviously."

You tilt your head, that familiar gesture, and smile. "I could stay a little longer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Another hour passes. Then another. By the time the sun starts to set, you've covered everything — jobs, relationships (or lack thereof), favourite movies, least favourite foods, the time you both got in trouble for trying to build a raft out of scavenged wood and nearly sank in the creek.

"You remember that?" Steve asks, delighted.

"You nearly drowned! Of course I remember!"

"I did not nearly drown. I was swimming."

"You were flailing and screaming for help. I had to pull you out."

"I was playing."

"You were drowning, Steven."

Robin laughs, leaning against the counter. "Your legal name is Steven? Dingus, how did this never come up?"

"He's only called that when he's in trouble," you grin at Steve. "Which was often."

He should be embarrassed. He's not. He's too busy watching you, memorising the way you look in the fading light, the way your presence fills up the whole store.

"Hey." The words come out before he can stop them. "We're having a movie night tonight. At my place. Nothing fancy, just some friends hanging out. You should come."

You blink. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean—" He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous. "Only if you want to. No pressure. It's just... it'd be nice, to have you there."

When you smile and say, "I'd love that, Stevie," and Robin mimics gagging, Steve doesn't even care that he probably looks like a lovesick puppy. He's too busy floating six feet off the ground.

You show up at his house that night with a bag of Starbursts.

"I wasn't sure what to bring," you say, holding them out. "But I remembered you liked these. The blue ones especially. You'd always trade me for my blues."

Steve's eyes flicker from the candy in your hand to your eyes. "You remembered that?"

"Of course I remembered." You shrug, a little shy. "I told you. I remember everything."

He takes the bag, fingers brushing yours. "I still like the blue ones best."

"Good. I... um, I picked out all the others. So there's only blue ones in the packet."

He blinks. "You—" His voice comes out weird. He clears his throat. "You picked out all the non-blue ones? For me?"

You shrug again, but your cheeks are growing warm. "Yeah. I wanted you to have them. The good ones. Without having to pick through the packet."

He doesn't know what to say. You remembered. You remembered his favourite candy, and you took the time to pick out all the other flavours just so he could have exactly what he liked.

No one does that. No one has ever done that.

Except you.

He says your name softly. "That's—" He stops, because he doesn't have words big enough.

You shift on your feet, suddenly looking unsure. "Is it weird? I thought it might be weird. I just—when I saw them at the store, I thought of you, and—"

"It's not weird." He steps closer, still holding the bag like it's something precious. "It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time."

Your face softens. "Really?"

"Really."

You're standing in his doorway, backlit by the porch light, and Steve thinks you might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant hum of cicadas.

You're wearing a soft sweater that's slightly too big, jeans that fit just right, and you're looking at him like he's someone worth looking at.

He wants to remember this moment forever.

"Come in," he says finally, stepping aside. "Everyone should be here soon."

You duck past him into the house, and he catches a hint of your perfume, something he already knows is going to haunt him for weeks. "Am I too early?" you ask, glancing around his living room. It's empty for now, just the two of you and the soft glow of the lamps Steve always keeps on.

"No." The word comes out too fast. He tries again, softer. "No, you're perfect. I mean.... perfect timing. You have perfect timing."

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "Smooth, Harrington."

"Shut up." He's grinning though, can't help it. "Make yourself comfortable. You want something to drink? I've got soda, water, probably some beer somewhere. Do you drink?"

"Yeah, sometimes." You settle onto the couch, curling into the corner. "I'm not a huge fan of beer, though. It's just kind of... bitter? I don't know. Not my thing."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I feel like everyone our age is supposed to like beer or pretend beer is amazing."

You laugh. "Right? I've never understood it."

You end up talking again. For twenty minutes, without stopping. It's not even awkward, at all. It's easy. You're easy to talk to.

The door bursts open soon enough.

"Steve! We're here! And we brought snacks, so you better be grateful—"

Dustin stops dead in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Mike, Lucas and Will pile in behind him, nearly crashing into his back.

"Oh," Dustin says. "Who's this?"

Steve stands, suddenly protective in a way he can't explain. "This is—"

"Robin's new friend," you supply, standing with a smile. "And Steve's old one, as we've realised."

Dustin's eyebrows shoot up. "Old friend?"

"Childhood best friends," Steve clarifies. "We knew each other when we were kids."

"Childhood best friends," Mike repeats slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Huh."

"Don't start, Wheeler."

"She's pretty," Lucas observes. "Really pretty."

"Sinclair!"

"What? I'm just stating facts."

You laugh, bright and easy, and Lucas grins like he's just won a prize. "Careful," you say, tilting your head at him. "I might start thinking you're trying to flatter me into sharing my snacks."

Lucas's eyes light up. "Is that a possibility?"

"Depends on how good your flattery is."

"I'm very good at flattery."

"He's really not," Mike mutters.

"Shut up, Mike."

Dustin is watching you with narrowed eyes, like he's trying to figure you out. You meet his gaze and smile.

"You're Dustin, right? Steve mentioned you."

"Did he." Dustin's voice is flat, but there's curiosity underneath. "What did he say?"

"That you're the brains of the operation. And that you once convinced him aliens were real for three months."

Dustin's face breaks into a massive grin. "He told you about that?"

"He left out the best parts, I'm guessing."

"Oh, the best parts are legendary. There was this one time—"

"Dustin's insufferable enough already," Mike interrupts. "Please don't encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging. I'm gathering intel." You wink at Dustin. "For blackmail purposes."

Dustin stares at you for a beat. Then he turns to Steve with something like reverence. "I like her. She stays."

"Glad you approve, Henderson."

Steve tunes out the rest of the conversation. He's much too focused on you. You're laughing at something Dustin said, your whole face lit up, and Steve realises he's been staring again.

He can't help it. You're just—you're here. After all these years, you're sitting on his couch, talking to his weird adopted family, fitting in like you've always been part of it.

The door opens again, and Max walks in with El.

Max takes one look at you, eyebrows raised. "Who's the newbie?"

"My childhood best friend," Steve explains for what feels like the hundredth time. "Just moved back. We haven't seen each other in like ten years."

"Huh." Max gives you a long, assessing look. "I'm Max. This is El."

"Hi, Max. Hi, El. Nice to meet you."

El peers at you with big, curious eyes. You smile at her, warm and genuine, and Steve feels his chest tighten.

"I like your necklace," you murmur.

El glances down at the pearl necklace Mike bought her last year, then back at you. A small smile touches her lips. "Thank you."

You're sandwiched between them now, Max on one side and El on the other, and Steve watches from across the room as you somehow fit right in. He can't look away.

"What's your favourite movie?" El asks.

"That's a hard one. Depends on my mood, I think."

"Scary movies?"

"Sometimes. I like the special effects. They're pretty cool, right?"

El's eyes light up. "Mike likes those too. The... special effects."

"Mike has good taste, then."

"Debatable," Max mutters.

"She's good with them," Robin says, appearing at Steve's side. "Really good."

"Yeah." His voice is soft. "She is."

"You look kinda sad about it."

"I'm not sad." He pauses, watches you ruffle El's hair gently. "I just—I wanted to talk to her more. And now she's been stolen by the gremlins."

"Don't tell me you're jealous of a couple of teenagers."

Steve shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches you pass out the other coloured Starbursts to the kids. At one point, Dustin asks where the blue ones are, and you just smile.

"Sorry, Dustin. The blue ones are spoken for."

Dustin's eyes narrow. "Spoken for? By who?"

You glance at Steve, just for a second, and something warm passes between you. "They're someone's favourite."

Dustin follows your gaze, lands on Steve and grins. "Oh. Oh. I see how it is."

"You don't see anything," Steve says quickly.

"I see everything." Dustin leans back, arms crossed, looking insufferably pleased with himself. "The blue ones are for Steve. Steve gets special treatment. This is huge."

"They're just candy," you protest, but your cheeks are pink.

"They're not just candy." Dustin turns to the others. "Do you understand what this means?"

"That Steve has a favourite colour?" Will offers.

"No, dumbass," Dustin sighs.

You're laughing now, and Steve wants to die but also never wants this moment to end. You catch his eye across the room and smile.

He's in so much trouble.

After the movie, Max and El leave first. They offered you to join their sleepover at the Byers' house, which you'd declined, much to their disappointment, but you'd promised to hang out with them later this week.

Dustin's next, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "Good job, Steve. She's a keeper."

"She's not—we're not—"

"Sure." Dustin grins, that knowing look firmly in place. "Whatever you say, Steve."

Mike and Lucas follow, throwing casual goodbyes over their shoulders.

Robin hugs you goodbye, whispers something in your ear that makes you blush and swat at her arm. She cackles, throws Steve a wink, and disappears into the night.

And then it's just you and Steve.

You're still on the couch, curled into the corner, looking around at the scattered popcorn bowls and empty soda cans. "This was really fun."

"Yeah?" Steve's leaning against the back of the couch, watching you. "You're not just saying that?"

"I never just say things." You stretch, catlike, and Steve absolutely does not stare at the sliver of skin that appears between your sweater and your jeans. "Your friends are great. Weird, but great."

"That's the best way to describe them." He pushes off the couch, starts gathering empty cans. "You don't have to help, by the way. You're a guest."

You're already standing, collecting popcorn bowls. "I know. I want to."

"You want to clean up after a bunch of teenagers?"

"I want to help you." You say it simply, like it's obvious, and Steve doesn't know what to do with that. So he just nods, and the two of you move around his living room in easy silence, tidying up.

It's domestic in a way that makes his chest tight. You fitting into his space, picking up cushions, straightening blankets, tossing trash.

You belong here. That's the thought that keeps circling in his head. You belong here, in his house, with his people, in his life.

"You know," you say, dropping a handful of napkins in the trash, "I was really nervous about tonight."

Steve pauses, an empty soda can in each hand. "You were? You seemed totally comfortable."

"I'm good at faking it." You shrug. "But yeah. New town, new people, new... everything. Even though I did live here, I don't know. I wasn't sure how I'd fit in."

"And now?"

You smile. "Now I'm really glad I came."

Steve sets down the cans, crosses to where you're standing by the kitchen island. "Me too." You're looking at him with those big, warm eyes, and Steve thinks he could get lost in them.

"Hey," he says, before he can lose his nerve. "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

You tilt your head. "Depends. Why?"

"A few of us are gonna hang out. Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. "Just a smaller group. More low-key. I thought maybe you'd want to come?"

"You want me to come?"

"I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. But yeah, I'd like it if you were there." He pauses, steels himself. "I'd like to spend more time with you. If that's okay."

You're quiet for a moment, and Steve's heart hammers in his chest. Then you smile — that same smile from when you were nine.

"I'd love that, Stevie."

"Okay," he murmurs. Watches the strand of hair that's fallen in front of your face and reaches up before you can, tucking it behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

You leave, promising to meet him and the others tomorrow at the diner for lunch.

Steve closes the door behind you and leans against it, eyes shut, hand pressed to his chest like he can physically slow down his racing heart. He pushes off the door eventually, walking over slowly to the couch, sinking into the spot you just left. It's still warm. He tells himself that's not weird, that anyone would notice that, that it doesn't mean anything.

He's lying.

His fingers brush the cushion where you were sitting, and he thinks about the way you looked tonight. He thinks about the Starbursts. The blue ones, all picked out just for him. The way you'd shrugged like it was nothing, like it wasn't the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done.

Steve scrubs a hand over his face, exhausted and wired at the same time. He should go to bed. He has work tomorrow, and then lunch with you. But his mind won't stop spinning, caught in a loop of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're happy.

He remembers that from when you were kids. The way your whole face would light up when you were happy, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. It's the same now. Brighter, even.

You haven't changed much, he thinks. He can see the little kid in you still.

He thinks about the years you were gone. All the moments you missed, all the things he wishes you'd been there for. He thinks about the person he used to be — King Steve, asshole extraordinaire — and wonders what you would have thought of him if you'd seen him then. Would you have recognised him? Would you have wanted to?

He thinks about the person he is now. The person you seem to see when you look at him. He hopes you think he's good. That maybe, just maybe, someday he might be worthy of you.

He falls asleep on the couch. He dreams of forts in the woods and secret handshakes and a little girl with mud on her face, holding up a frog and grinning like she'd just found treasure.

Steve's the first one at the diner the next day. He grabs a booth near the window, where he can see the parking lot. He orders a coffee he doesn't really want, just to have something to do with his hands.

Robin's the first to arrive, sliding into the booth across from him with a knowing grin. "You're here early."

"Traffic was light," Steve mutters, taking a sip of his coffee even though it's still too hot.

Robin snorts. "It's a five-minute drive from your house." She steals his coffee, takes a sip, then slides the cup back to him. "She's coming, by the way. I ran into her at the grocery store this morning. She said she'd be here."

Steve's heart does that stupid flip thing again. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to. Your face did." Robin grins. "Relax. She likes you."

"She doesn't—we're just—"

"Steve." Robin's voice is flat. "She picked the blue ones out of a whole bag of Starbursts. For you. That's not 'just' anything."

He doesn't have an answer for that.

The diner is quiet this time of day — the lunch rush hasn't started yet, and the breakfast crowd is long gone. Robin orders her own coffee, stirs sugar into it when it arrives.

"You know, you could just tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"How you feel." She shrugs. "It's not complicated. 'Hey, I've known you since we were kids and I think you're amazing and also really pretty and I'd like to kiss you.' Simple."

Steve chokes on his coffee. "I am not saying that."

"Why not? It's true."

"It's—" He runs a hand through his hair. "We just reconnected. I don't want to rush anything. What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I scare her off?"

Robin considers this. "Okay, fair. But also, have you seen the way she looks at you?"

"What way?"

"You're clueless."

Before Steve can respond, Nancy walks in, Jonathan right behind her, both of them looking slightly windswept from the walk.

"Sorry we're late," Nancy says, sliding into the booth next to Robin. "Jonathan lost track of time developing photos."

"I didn't lose track of time," Jonathan protests, sitting beside her. "I was in the zone. There's a difference."

Steve's eyes drift to the parking lot again. Still no sign of your car.

"So," Nancy says. "This new friend of Robin's. Also apparently your childhood best friend. The one you've been staring at all week."

"I haven't been staring."

"You've been staring. Jonathan noticed too."

Jonathan nods without looking away from the window. "It's impressive, actually. The level of focus."

"I hate all of you," Steve mutters.

"You love us. And you're nervous because she's late and you're worried she changed her mind."

"I'm not—" He stops. Sighs. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Steve. She showed up at your house with a bag of candy she specially prepared for you. She's not going to change her mind."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have eyes." Nancy's voice is dry. "And because Robin told me about the Starbursts. That's not nothing."

"She's right," Jonathan adds, finally turning from the window. "People don't do that for people they don't care about."

Steve wants to believe them. He does. But his eyes keep drifting back to the parking lot, watching for your car, waiting for you to appear.

Ten more minutes pass, during which Robin and Nancy get into a heated debate about something Steve's not listening to and Jonathan takes a picture of the salt shaker.

And then, finally, your car pulls into the lot.

Steve sits up straighter, watching you park, watching you step out, watching you pause to look around with that familiar tilt to your head.

"See?" Robin nudges him. "She's here. Told you."

You push through the diner door, and the little bell above it chimes. Your eyes scan the room, land on their booth, and you smile — but it's different this time. Apologetic. Embarrassed.

"Sorry I'm late!" You slide into the booth next to Steve, close enough that your arm brushes his. "I got lost again. I swear, this town is trying to confuse me on purpose."

"You got lost coming to the diner?" Nancy asks, amused. "It's literally a straight shot from your apartment."

"A straight shot with, like, four turns and no street signs and a really confusing intersection." You blow out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face. "I ended up near the old mill somehow."

"The old mill?" Robin's eyebrows shoot up. "That's, like, twenty minutes in the wrong direction."

"I know!" You laugh, embarrassed. "I'm hopeless. I should just start leaving breadcrumbs."

Steve's heart, which had been racing with worry, finally settles. You're here. You're okay. You just got lost.

"I was starting to think you'd changed your mind," he says quietly, before he can stop himself.

You turn to him, your expression softening. "No, Stevie. I wouldn't do that." You bump your shoulder against his. "It takes more than a confusing intersection to get rid of me."

"Okay, okay, enough with the eye contact," Robin interrupts. "Some of us are trying to eat."

Nancy laughs. "Robin, let them have their moment. It's cute."

Lunch is fun, easier than you thought it'd be. Afterwards, you all linger outside the diner, reluctant to let the afternoon end.

Robin stretches her arms above her head. "I gotta get to work. Some of us have actual jobs."

"You work at the same place as Steve," Nancy points out.

"Exactly. Which means I have to deal with him and customers. It's exhausting."

Steve flips her off, but he's smiling.

Nancy and Jonathan head off toward his car. He's got an arm around her and she's smiling into his shoulder, looking disgustingly cute.

Robin hugs you goodbye and shoves Steve's shoulder a little before disappearing down the street, too.

You're standing close, close enough that he can see the way the sunlight catches your hair. You're fidgeting with the strap of your bag, looking anywhere but at him.

"So," you say. "That was fun."

"Yeah." He shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly awkward. "Really fun."

A pause. You bite your lip.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering..." You trail off, cheeks warming. "I mean, if you're not busy or whatever... do you maybe want to hang out again? Soon? Just us?"

His heart stops.

"I know we just hung out," you continue quickly, words tumbling out. "And you probably have stuff to do, and I don't want to be annoying or anything, it's just—I really like talking to you, and I feel like we have so much to catch up on, and—"

Steve says your name to stop you. You stop, looking at him with those big, warm eyes.

"I'd love to hang out again." He's grinning, can't help it. "Any time. Just say when."

Your face lights up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay." You're smiling now, that bright, sunshine smile. "How about tomorrow? We could go for a walk or something? If the weather's nice?"

"It's supposed to be nice." He's definitely grinning like an idiot. "I could pick you up around one? So you don't get lost."

You laugh, that bright sound he's already addicted to. "Wow. Rude. But also... fair. One o'clock sounds perfect."

"Perfect," he echoes.

You're both just standing there now, neither quite ready to leave. The afternoon sun is warm on Steve's shoulders, and you're looking at him with that soft expression, the one that makes his chest feel tight in the best way.

"I should probably go," you say eventually, but you don't move.

"Yeah. Me too. Probably." He doesn't move either.

"Thanks for today. And last night. And... everything." You shrug, a little shy. "I know I just showed up out of nowhere and turned your life upside down, but you've been really great about it."

You hug him again — longer this time, your arms around his waist, your cheek pressed to his chest.

When you pull back, your cheeks are flushed. "Okay. Bye, Stevie."

"Bye."

You walk to your car, and Steve watches the whole way, committing it to memory. You glance back before you slip into the drivers' seat, smiling before you disappear inside.

He stands there for a long time after you're gone, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. He thinks this might be the beginning of something.

Something good.

Something real.

Something that feels a lot like coming home.

[unreasonablerobin]

Polaroid Love

Wally West x Reader / Dick Grayson x Reader

Synopsis: Dick and reader are dating but he's always busy so she needs someone to satisfy her, in comes Wally West, his best friend. Unfortunately, Dick discovers your secret through a pile of scandalous Polaroids...

W.C: 4.1k

Tags: Smut ❀ Infidelity, Fem!Reader, picture taking, oral (f & m), masturbation (m)(vague f), voyeurism, overstimulation, handcuffs, mention of spanking & lingerie, cowgirl, 69, edging, grinding, face sitting, "good boy", hair grabbing

"Where is it?" Dick wondered aloud. He was currently rummaging through Wally's room looking for the charger he had stolen. He checked the wardrobe, the sockets, under the bed, and in the bed, but found nothing. As he thought of where else he could check he slowly turned to the bedside dresser.

'Would it be an invasion of privacy to snoop through his drawers?' Dick thought.

'Nah, we're best friends!'

And with that, he made his way over to the table in a few strides. There was a lamp, an empty glass, and a protein bar wrapper on top. Three drawers where his charger could potentially be.

He opened the first to see painkillers, bandages, more food wrappers and crumbs.

The second drawer was full of random pens and pencils, his headphones and a handful of guitar picks.

Finally, the last drawer contains a pile of condoms, his charger, and a stack of photos... of you?

Why does Wally have photos of you? You're his girlfriend.

Dick picked up the first few photos. They were innocent—nothing wrong with them, but it was still weird. You were smiling and laughing in all the photos. You also seemed to be in Wally's bed or clothes in a lot of them. A sinking pit formed in his stomach. You and Wally were good friends, naturally you're his girfriend. The two of you getting along was a requirement. The photos were innocent; you laughing in bed, wearing his jumper whilst playing a video game, Wally teaching you how to play guitar. It couldn't be what he was thinking. You two would never do that to him, right?

His hopeful thoughts were burst as he flipped to the next picture; your bare back on display, covered in hickeys. Your hair was tousled and you were face down in a pillow.

You giggled as Wally gently placed you onto your bed. He leaned over and captured your lips in a sweet kiss, you couldn't help but smile into it. As another soft laugh left you his hands found their way to your waist, sliding over your the waistband of your jeans and under your t-shirt (Dick's t-shirt).

If you had been wearing that the first night you two got involved with another like this, it probably would've never happened. The guilt of taking his best friend's shirt off of you, his best friend's girlfriend would have eaten him alive. But now, a whole month after that first night together, a whole month finally noticing how desperate and unsatisfied Dick left you, there's barley an once of guilt in him.

Wally continued to make out with you as your hands roamed eachother's bodies. You nails clawed at his back through his jumper. He broke away from you and sat up, graciously removing the barrier between you and his bare skin. When the jumper came over his head he was met with the sight of your smile. Your eyes roamed over his abs and biceps. They certainly weren't as grand as Dick's but he made up for it with the legs and speed. And most notably being there whenever you needed him.

You sat up and snaked an arm around his neck and the other hand took a fistful of his hair. The kiss was passionate and hungry. His hands landed on your waist again but only briefly before he went to tear off your jeans. It was a swift motion, you barely registered him removing your belt before you were left in your panties. His hands caressed and massaged your ass. One hand snaked it's way up to fiddle with the clasp of your bra. He pulled it back and let it snap against your skin. Breaking away from fhe kiss you gasped and he snickered. He went to undo your bra but you slapped his hand away. He pouted and you smirked as you shuffled back to give him a but of a show. Your hands found the hem of the t-shirt as your eyes found his. You removed the shirt over your head and tossed it to the side. Wally lowly whistled at the sight of you in your underwear. In a pornographic manner you crawled foward, never breaking eye contact. Wally's breath caught in his chest as your hands and mouth slithered up his body. Your hands felt up his muscles while your lips and tongue worshipped the rest of him. He couldn't help but groan. Eventually you reached his collarbone, then his neck—you made sure to give his adam's apple special treatment—before heading to his jaw and finishing at his pouty lips. You hummed into the kisses as he leaned foward, pushing you back down onto the mattress. He positioned you to rest your head on the pillows.

"Fuck, youre beautiful." He sighed at the sight of you, lying half-naked beneath him with smudged lipgloss. He kissed you deeply and cupped your breasts. He shivered as your nails raked along his back. You moaned into the kiss as his thumbs brushed over your nipples. Your body arched into him as you reached your arms around to unclasp your bra.

"Need a hand, baby?" He asked. You grunted in annoyance when the bra wouldnt unclasp. You rolled over, your rear brushing agaisnt Wally just right. He quickly unclaspped the bra and bent down to kiss your shoulder blades.

"Wally—fuck." You moaned as he kissed all over you and grinded hastily. He pushed you into the mattress causing your clit to rub agaisnt the sheets. You groaned as Wally massaged your body and covered your skin in heavy kisses...

You were covered in kiss marks and sweat, now resting your head on Wally's chest. Your breathing was ragged and your mind was a haze. The heavy feeling if sleep started to overcome you until Wally moved out from under you. You childishly groaned in annoyance as you fell into the pillows beanth.

"Sorry babe, just got an idea!" You lifted your head to see Wally walking over to the vanity. An eyebrow raised as you watched him pick up your pink polaroid camera.

"Whatcha doing genius?" Wally laughed at your question as he turned and walked back over. You stared up at him dreary-ly, and suddenly—SNAP—you covered your squinting eyes from the flash. Wally pulled the dark photo out and shook it a bit.

"You have to wait with these don't you?" He asked. You nodded with your face buried in the pillows. He placed the developing photo on the nightstand, right beside the open condom packet. They were like his trophies. He scooted closer and positioned himself above you.

"Hold still baby." Wally said as he snapped another photo. He placed the new photo on the nightstand and grabbed the first one. It was already developing. He grinned.

"Awesome!" He commented. You shot on hand out to smack his leg at his remark.

"Ow! What was that for?" You laughed to yourself.

"Nah, seriously babe you have to see this." He held the picture up for you. You shifted your face out of the pillow and holy shit—you looked awesome.

"You look like a pornstar!" You fully shifted and elbowed Wally in the stomach.

"I meant it as a compliment!"

Dick felt like he could be sick. How could you do this to him? The both of you. His girlfriend and his best friend. As much as it pained him Dick's curiosity got the best of him. He continued going through the photos.

There was one of your ass with a prominent red hand mark. Another taken by you whilst straddling Wally of him covered in lipstick and scratch marks. An up-close picture of your bare chest. One of you on your knees dressed in Lacy blue lingerie, that Dick had bought you. He had seen enough. He tossed the photos back into the drawer angrily, before realising he'd need them as evidence of your affair. And he also didn't want Wally to have these photos. He stormed out of Wally's room and headed straight for yours.

Meanwhile, you were in your room, not alone of course. Wally was with you too. It was as friendly as a meet-up can get. Except you were both naked and making out. But you have to understand that he's just helping you! God knows Dick's barely ever around and when he is nursing a horrid injury, he's in no condition to satisfy you. You and Dick do have sex but it's every now and again. Like once a month maybe. That's a generous outlook. And in your time of need, Wally was there for you. Did the initial night go a lot further than you thought? Definitely. You found yourself looking foward to waving Dick goodbye and waving Wally hello.

You were in the Med Bay with Dick. He'd just come back from a long mission, you haven’t seen him in nearly three weeks. Dick got a nasty injury though; a deep stab wound in the abdomen. He was in a dreary state when you were let in to see him.

Now you were sitting at his side brushing hair out of his face. You felt so bad, partly because he was injured and you loved him, but another part of you was mad though. Mad that he was gone for so long and now that he's back you don't get to spend proper time together. And you felt so guilty about it. You'd felt this way for a while, but never found the time to bring it up. Probably because most of your talks are texting or phone calls these days, and this is an in-person conversation.

"You feeling any better?" You asked quietly, afraid to disturb the little peace he had.

He groaned through gritted teeth, "I'm fine." Even though he clearly wasn't he continued to try to adjust his position.

"Let me h—"

"I don't need to be coddled Y/n!" He slapped your hand away from him. That was the final nail in the coffin of your relationship.

"Fine." You replied coldly before leaving the room.

On your way out you bumped shoulders with someone. You were too busy glaring at the ground to notice who.

Wally was never too busy to notice you though. Ever since you joined the team he hasn't been able to keep his eyes off you. You dont even want to imagine the despair he felt when the team found out about your and Dick's relationship. He was all "congratulations man!" in the moment but he cried most of the night. Kept giving out to himself for not making a move, then for thinking you would've even considered saying yes.

"Dude, everything alright?" Wally asked.

"Yeah, it's just..." Dick trailed off. "She can be so clingy."

Wally was taken aback by the annoyance in Dick's voice.

'Your girlfriend is clingy? And that's a bad thing how?' Was all he could think. What he would do to have someone like you cling to him.

"I thought this would be easy, our relationship. She's a part of the team she understands what I do and there's no secrets—yet she clings to me every second she gets like I don't have a job to do!" Dick ranted and Wally stared in confusion. He just truly couldn't see what the issue was. You two spend so much time apart of course you're going to be all over him when you finally see him. Wally would kill to have that.

Later on, the team had all returned to their rooms for the night, except two. Dick was still in the Med Bay and Wally was heading back to his room after getting a midnight snack. As he passed your room he stopped in his tracks. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear faint noises. A buzzing sound and moaning. He knew he shouldn't be eavesdropping on something so private, but he couldn't help it. He felt his cheeks grow hot and his pants get tight. All of a sudden the buzzing stopped.

"Oh for fuck sake!" You whined. Wally peaked through the crack of the door to see you furiously clicking the button of your vibrator.

"Oh c'mon!" You cried, actually. He could hear the waver in your voice and see faint tears in your eyes. All the tension between you and Dick paired with your sexual frustration was getting to you. Wally doesn't know what came over him but all of a sudden he was gently knocking on your door.

"Hey Y/n, you good?" He asked with a weird tone. A mix of nervousness, embarrassment, and faux sauve. You jumped at the sound of his voice, quickly shoving the vibrator under the blanket. You pulled the blanket over your chest even though you had a top on.

"Uh—W—Wally hey!" You stuttered. Your knuckles were white from clenching the blanket so hard. Your face was burning hot.

You sniffled, "Yeah, im fine! What are you doing up?"

"I was getting a snack and—um—" he swallowed thickly. "—I-I don't mean to intrude, but um..." he paused to choose his words carefully. "I know you and Dick aren't...going so strong at the moment," you raised a brow waiting for him to finsh. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm always here."

You stared at him with wide eyes. Was he saying what you think he was saying?

"Okay, thank you." You nodded and fidgeted with the blanket.

"I mean it I'm always here...for anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Inevitably, Wally ended up at the foot of your bed. His hands gripping your bare legs and slowly kissing his way up your legs, until he was face to face with your pussy. He took a helpless breath at the sight of your body, begging and pleading for attention. Attention he knew he could give you. Wally looked up to you, and he subconsciously licked his lips. All you did was nod with a guilt-ridden expression. Your head was screaming no, but the rest of you was screaming yes. With your consent, Wally wasted no time diving in. His lips attached themselves around your pulsing clit.

The warm sensation of his mouth made you sigh in relief, only for you to suddenly gasp. "Oh—" You clasped a hand over your mouth and whimpered into your palm as your back arched.

It hadn't crossed your mind that super-speed worked for all of his body. He was a human vibrator.

Wally detached himself from you. "I know it's a lot b—" Wally was cut off by you shoving his face back down.

"Don't stop!" You begged. "Please!"

What was Wally to do? Say no? When you're arching into him like that, there was no way he could. A groan slipped out of him as you pulled on his hair. He gripped your thighs tightly and threw them over his shoulders. They held him in a headlock but they were spasming. He could barely breathe but not a single complaint would ever escape him. He was living the dream; head between your thighs, listening to your muffled screams of ecstasy. You sucked and kissed your clit like his life depended on it. Like this was his legacy and he'd hate to disappoint anyone.

"Oh—fuck!" You bit down on your fingers and squeezed your eyes shut. Wally was about to ask if something was wrong but a wave of sweet cum spurted out. He left your clit for licking up your juices like a starved puppy. The leaking cum wasn't enough for him, he needed every drop of it. Your hand gripped his hair as you shoved his tongue into your sopping hole. His tongue lapped up every drop of cum, rubbing along your walls just right in the process.

"Oh my—Wally!" You cried, your free hand occupying itself with your breast. Wally felt his cock throb in his sweatpants. The sight of you throwing your head back, touching yourself and screaming his name. It's something he thought only existed in his wet dreams. Your thighs were chocking him and he fucking loved it. He moaned at the feeling of you rutting up into him. The fact that he could make you feel this good made him proud.

Wally continued eating you out for what felt like hours. And it probably was, considering the speck of sunlight that was peaking through your curtains. He was so pussy drunk. He couldn't stop. He rode you through all of your highs, not once giving you a break. He had lost time to make up for. All those nights he jerked off alone to the sounds of you touching yourself in the room below. Or the once in a blue moon occasion you were being dicked down by Dick. At some point, you ended up sitting on Wally's face. Suffocating him even more. You tried to pull that hovering bullshit on him but he just pulled you straight down.

"Holy shit..." you wobbled from your spot on top of him. He's just ridden you through probably your fifth orgasm? You've lost count. A whine escaped him as you manoeuvred. You hovered above, now facing the other way. Your shaking hands reached for his soaked sweatpants. You pulled them down and kissed his hard beanth his boxers. His breath stuttered and his fingers dug into your hips.

"You don't have to..."

"I want to please..." you pathetically begged looking over your shoulder at him. Your face was wet with tears from overstimulation. He nodded and you wasted no time removing his boxers and deep throating his cock. Wally let out an almost pornographic moan. It was quickly muffled by your weight as you sat back down. Your tongue slided along his cock perfectly.

"You're so hot." He muttered into your dripping pussy. Your legs squeezed around his head in response. He slithered his hands down to massage your ass. A satisfied moan elicited from you, sending vibrations through him, causing his cock to twitch frantically.

Your tongue stroked the side of him and flicked against the tip. To be honest, you don't think you've ever tried this hard for someone. He has given you several orgasms though so it's the right thing to do. It didn't take long for both of you to come, considering you were putty in his hands and he was desperate for you. Wally dug into you as you began to squirm, your moans and whimpers were getting him off earlier but now that your mouth was around his cock and every little thing sent vibrations, he was gone. You let go of Wally and shrieked out a moan as he came right after. Cum shot up onto your face and some leaked down himself. You lifted yourself off Wally, balancing on shaking legs, but leaned down to clean him up. He groaned. He sat up and grabbed your waist, turning you to face him and he almost came again at the sight of you. You were drunk on your high(s) and covered in sweat and cum. He grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and cleaned your face.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered. You said nothing in response, you're brain was to fucked out to form a sentence. So you just lightly giggled before dropping your head onto his shoulder. Wally laid you down. He made sure your pillows were propped up right and your blanket covered you before slipping out.

"Wally..." You took his hand in yours and stared at him with pleading eyes. Your body felt like jelly but you used all your might to pull him back into bed with you. He carefully embraced you and brushed your hair out of your face. He really wanted to kiss all over your face but decided that was too couple-y for now.

Dick's footsteps were heavy but unheard by you and Wally, to caught up in your dirty laundry activities. Dick was seething in rage. How could you do this to him? His hand reached for the doorknob but halted. All he could hear was his uneven breathing along with giggles and moans. He carefully twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Just a bit, enough to see in, but not enough for the two of you to spot him peeking. There you were, his girlfriend, straddling his best friend. Wally's hands were restrained by handcuffs. The chain was wrapped around part of the headboard, detaining him from touching you. His head occasionally banged off the headboard in agony due to your teasing movements. He wasn't able to put his hands on you and your riding him so slowly that it hurts. All you did was giggle.

"Baby please!" He whined. He would just thrust into but when he tried that earlier you got off him. His fingers twitch, aching to carress your skin, and his cock twitched inside you begging for faster momentum. You laughed as you began to bounce a little. Wally arched into you and grinded ever so slightly. He needed more movement but he didn't want to risk you getting off him.

"Easy cowboy," You teased. Your hands lay flat on his abdomen and you ceased all movements. He whined again. "Be a good boy and you'll get what you want!"

His hands curled into fists. He was trying to hold back and do as you said.

"Wait—hold still," you commanded as you reached for your nightstand. Dick grimaced at the sound of Wally groaning as you lifted partly off him. "Say cheese!" A flash lit up the room as you captured Wally's torment on Polaroid, as always.

You put the camera and the developing picture down and cupped his face. He looked drunk. A dopey grin, rosy cheeks and baby hairs stuck to his sweaty forehead. Both of your lips were glossy and swollen. You leaned in and captured his lips. Dick felt his heart drop. The realisation had dawned upon him that you and Wally weren't simply sleeping together, you loved him and he loved you. The kiss was passionate and not in a lustful way. The sweet and silly gesture of taking photos together, sexual or not, spoke a lot more than words.

Dick backed away from the door and entered his own bedroom, next door. He slid to the floor after softly closing the door. The Polaroids were crumpled in his hands. He spilled them onto the floor. His vision was clouded with sweet images of you and another man, his best friend. Dick couldn't even cry out his frustrations in peace as the sounds of you and Wally making love got louder. And Dick couldn't ignore the painful boner in his pants any longer. He swiftly pulled his sweats down and reached into his boxers. Even if you were cheating on him, he still loved you to some extent and fuck, seeing you top Wally was honestly really hot. He groped himself to the sound of you and Wally through the wall. He felt like a pervert. Dick slowed at the sound of muttering. He couldn't pick up what you and Wally were saying in whispers.

"You've been good, c'mere." You stopped your grinding and took the key for the handcuffs off the nightstand. You held back a laugh at Wally's satisfactory 'yes!' that he sighed to himself. Once the cuffs were undone he launched himself at you. The cuffs and key fell somewhere on the ground as Wally pulled you close. His face buried in your chest, pressing and licking kisses along your skin, and his hands roamed everywhere.

"Thank you baby, I'm going to make you feel so good!" Wally held your close and rolled over. Landing with you on your back beneath him. He stayed close, hugging you. He began to thrust into you. His inhumanely fast pace still catching you off guard.

Dick's dick throbbed and twitched in his hand when he heard you squeal. His hand was covered in pre-cum. Your squeal was followed by moans and more moans. He rutted up into his fist pathetically. Here he is jerking off alone while his girfriend has sex with someone else. What a story to tell. It didn't take long for Dick to cum, you and him were having issues for a while and he'd been super busy so he had a lot of sexual frustration. As he was coming down from his high you were both reaching yours.

"Oh—fuck!" You whined.

"I've got you baby!" Wally caressed your hair and kissed at your neck. You were almost there, just a few more. As Wally felt you orgasm he sat up and pulled out. Your stomach was coated I'm his fluids.

"Sorry, I'll clean you up." Wally pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading towards the bathroom.

He came back with a warm cloth and cleaned you up. He settled beside you with his arms around your waist. Your fingers played with his hair and it felt like heaven.

"I love you." Wally mumbled.

Dick felt his heart shattering.

"I love you too."

A/N: please let me know if I missed anything in the tags. I kept changing them throughout the writing process so I could be missing something. Haven't posted a piece in a hot minute, I promise I'm trying😭🙏

[froggibus]

— Hocus Pocus

pairing: Diana Prince x f! reader (has a pussy + fem pronouns) x Clark Kent x Bruce Wayne x Barry Allen x Hal Jordan (at the same damn time!!!)

summary: when you get infected with a mysterious substance on a mission, there are only two options: die, or fuck your coworkers

cw: 4k words, dubcon, mentions of blood, mentions of death, sex pollen/aphrodisiacs, gangbang/orgy, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy eating, fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, voyeurism, creampies, lots of cum, doggystyle, stand & carry, double penetration, praise/degradation, reader gets passed around like crazy

froggi yaps -> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! i have been SO SO SO EXCITED FOR THIS ONE!!! from the start i knew i wanted to do a crazy gangbang & it was either gonna be the JLA or if I was feeling lazy, Dick/Roy/Reader/Wally. anyway please enjoy my JLA insanity <3

not ready for halloween to be over yet? come trick or treating!

Of all the stupid things you’ve done in your life, walking directly into the glowing purple room on a hostile spaceship definitely ranks first.

You’d just finished fighting your way through the horde of robots that occupied the ship when you spotted it. Bruce had been in a heated discussion with Hal, scanning something in the alien-robot helmets that you didn’t quite understand. Barry had scratched his neck, trying to play mediator.

No one but you seemed to notice the glowing, whispering room only a few short steps down the hall. No one seemed to notice the incredible scent—oddly reminiscent of Diana’s perfume—or the way it beckoned you in.

No one noticed as you shuffled your feet towards it in a trance, picked up an ID card from one of the deceased robots, and scanned yourself into the room.

It was Clark that noticed first, his superior hearing perking up the minute he heard the soft click of the door. “What are you doing?”

Barry’s on his feet in an instant, tearing away from the argument. It’s a millisecond, maybe two, before he gets to you. But he’s too late. 

Dazed, you’d already stumbled into the purple mist, the door sealing shut behind you.

The minutes after that were a blur. The mist had wrapped around you, invaded every pore, filled every breath until you weren’t sure if you were breathing or drowning. The burning in your lungs snapped you out of your trance and you immediately spun around to pound on the glass door in front of you.

It didn’t give. Even through Clark and Diana’s joint efforts, through every construct Hal could build and every plan Bruce could think of, the door didn’t give. You were trapped. Utterly helpless, suffocating.

The room only got hotter from there, the perfumey scent that had once been enticing now made your stomach churn. Your muscles weakened and you let yourself slide against the door, resigning yourself to dying on an alien-robot spaceship.

You were unconscious by the time the door opened three minutes later. Diana had immediately grabbed you and dragged you out, scrunching up her nose at the scent coming from the room.

Bruce checked your pulse, Clark scanning over you with his xray vision to make sure you weren’t injured. For all intents and purposes, you were fine. Sure, your core temperature was a little elevated, and yeah, you were unconscious—but you were fine.

Which brings you to now: waking up on the cold metal floor, a horrible ache rattling the back of your skull. There’s a scratch in your throat, a new sort of heat pulsing through you.

You blink up at the five faces above you, forcing yourself to sit up. The pain in the back of your head sharpens to a point as you sit, a trickle of blood leaking from your nose and over your lips.

You wipe it on the back of your hand without thinking, looking groggily around the room. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Bruce says gruffly.

Diana crouches down next to you, brushing a thumb over the steady stream of blood coming from your nose. “How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy,” you admit. “Everything hurts.”

You open your mouth to apologize for wandering off and to warn them about the trance-like state the gas from the room put you in, but freeze when a wave of warmth rolls over you. It starts in your chest, radiating out through your veins and pooling in your lower stomach.

And then it burns, like acid is eating through your organs. You double over, gagging from the pain, pulling your knees into your stomach. Short, gasping breaths leave your lips.

Barry crouches on your other side, laying a gentle hand on your back. “Easy now, easy.” He looks at Diana over your head, frowning, “she’s a thousand degrees.”

The Amazonian nods solemnly though she doesn’t dare open her mouth lest her words make you feel even more anxious.

Somewhere off to the side, while you’re trying to keep your stomach from flipping inside out, Hal and Bruce are trying to figure out just what exactly was in that room. The purple coloured smoke was unlike anything either of them had seen before, and though neither of them want to admit it, that doesn’t bode well for an antidote.

The pain in your stomach subsides, narrowing down to your core. Your eyes shoot wide at the all too familiar feeling. You swallow, casting your gaze down. 

“How’s the pain?” Clark asks, lips pursed in a frown. 

His eyes lock with Diana’s in a silent conversation, Clark assessing your vitals as subtly as he can. You’ve only grown hotter since you woke up, the pain you once felt all over localizing to your lower half.

You double over in pain again, your stomach cramping the way it would when you’re on your period. Heat pools in your underwear, leaking through to the inner seams of your suit. Your lungs ache for air but every breath feels warm and shallow.

Diana rubs a hand over your lower stomach and the minute her palm makes contact, the pain briefly subsides. The sweet relief of a deep breath expands your lungs.

You lean into her touch, tilting your head to rest on her broad shoulders. The closer you are to her, the more of her that fills your senses, the better you feel.

At the same time you make this revelation, Bruce and Hal are joining back with the group.

Though it’s rare to see Bruce smile in his Batman persona as it is, the deep frown on his face feels like a bad sign. “We’ve figured out what the toxin was.”

Next to Bruce, Hal is an equal mix of concerned and flustered. The pair of them only makes your anxiety spike, the pain you’d staved off coming back. 

“What is it?” Barry asks, his own hand resting comfortingly on your knee.

“The good news is that it’s not exactly a poison.”

You look up at Hal through your lashes, waiting for him to say more, about how this could possibly be good news. 

It’s Bruce that speaks up. “It’s a lab made chemical, meant to help with population regrowth on near-desolated planets.” 

No matter how horribly, desperately you don't want it to be true, you know that it is. Before he even continues speaking, a part of you knows what he’s going to say next. Knows what’s coming to you.

“It inflicts damage on your body, staying in your system until you either satiate it or…” He trails off and you swear the frown lines on his face deepen.

No one dares ask what comes after ‘or’.

It’s Diana that breaks the silence. “How is it satiated?”

“Population regrowth,” your voice cracks on the word. “You fix it by reproducing.”

Bruce nods solemnly, confirming what you already knew.

You lay your palms flat on the floor, trying to push yourself to your knees. The minute Diana and Barry’s hands fall off of you, the pain comes back tenfold, radiating up your spine until you’re dizzy.

The blood drips faster from your nose now, a metallic taste filling your mouth. You swallow it back, “if I can just—if we get back to the ship, I can take care of it.”

Barry’s hand finds its way back into your palm, the other one wiping away the blood that spills over your lip. “She won’t make it that long,” he looks up at Bruce with desperate eyes, “will she?”

Again, he shakes his head.

The drop in morale at that moment is so severe you can feel it, tensions rising around you. It’s only now that the gravity of the situation really settles into your chest.

Fear rises to your throat like bile. You’re going to die here, you’re going to die because you made a stupid mistake. And the only way you can stop it, the only way you can fix yourself, is to strip down in front of your friends—your coworkers—and fuck yourself like an unfixed dog.

“How long does it last?” Your voice sounds weaker now.

“We don’t know,” Hal admits. “From the scan Clark did on you, it could be hours, it could be days.”

Hours. Though you’re practically soaked through with arousal, though your pussy flutters in anticipation, the thought of masturbating with them in the room for hours makes your heart drop.

“I can stay here and you guys go back to the ship and I can meet you there—”

Please, god, do not let me have to touch myself in front of my coworkers.

You’re surprised when it’s not Hal or Bruce that speaks next, it’s Barry. “It doesn’t work like that, does it?” 

Spoken like a true scientist. 

“It’s for repopulation,” Bruce reiterates. “If you stay here alone, you will die.”

Hal’s eyes find yours from behind his mask. “You feel it, don’t you?” He gestures to the way Barry’s holding you, “the way touch makes the pain go away. The way the pain triples when you try to pull away.”

He speaks on the experience so eloquently, you can’t help but wonder if he’s gone through this before. There’s an expression on his face that you can’t quite read, one beyond the concern. One that looks an awful lot like understanding.

“So…” Clark begins. 

“I either have sex with someone, or I die.” You look around the room, at each of the people around you, “it’s not fair. I can’t ask any of you to do that.”

The chorus of voices surprises you, though it probably shouldn’t given who you’re with. “I’ll do it.”

Damn heroes, always trying to rectify situations at the cost of themselves.

“I’d be taking advantage,” you frown, the pain in your stomach starting to come back again. “It’s unfair.”

Diana cups your face, turning your head to face her. “How is it that you’re the one in danger, and yet you’re worried about us?”

The feeling of her fingertips on your skin ignites something in you, simultaneously soothing the pain that lingers at the back of your spine.

You shrug your shoulders. “I just…don’t want any of you to do something you don’t want to.”

Again, they begin to protest, heads shaking at your antics. 

Leave it to Hal Jordan to ask the hard questions. “So, who do you want to do it?” 

“I—” You suck in a breath, Diana and Barry’s touch not chasing away the pain as well as it was before. “I don’t care, I trust you all. Just don’t let me die. Please.”

Right now, you’re not sure there’s anyone you trust more than the people in the room. You’ve dealt with countless problems by their sides, confided in them about all of your problems, grabbed beers with them after saving the world.

Your trust in them is unshakeable, absolute. 

Immediately, the room dissolves into discussion. There’s arguments on who does it, on what they need to do, how careful they need to be. They discuss the possibility of the chemical spreading, of someone else being inflicted. Barry rises to his feet, dropping your hand to join the discussion.

And while the men argue, Diana cups your jaw and pulls you in for a dizzying kiss. Her lips are soft on yours, and despite the blood that’s dried to your own lips, she doesn’t seem to mind. 

Her other hand finds the small of your back, drawing shapes over your spine. Her grip on you is strong, reassuring, a total comfort. You fall into her completely, letting her guide you onto your back, the cold metal of the floor staving off some of your heat.

Her tongue swipes across the back of your teeth, that familiar taste of hers filling your mouth. Her other hand trails down to the seam of your pants, dipping inside to rub at your heat. 

For a minute, she’s surprised at how wet you are, how swollen your clit already is. But then she pushes past her shock, her thumb rubbing circles with just enough pressure to have wave after wave of ecstasy rolling over you.

She pulls away—just for a second—to pull your pants down to your knees, giving herself easier access to you. Her mouth greedily swallows every moan before it can hit the air, muffling it from the men still arguing around you.

Every touch is intentional, every swish of her tongue in your mouth synchronized with her finger on your clit. You’re sure the drug must be heightening your senses, making you all too sensitive to her touch.

She’s barely slipped a finger inside of you when you’re already coming undone, electricity bolting up your spine as your walls pulse around her finger. The aftershocks of your orgasm chase away the pain, the fear—everything.

"Good girl," she praises. "I'll take care of you."

And then she’s kissing down your chest, lips sucking at your neck. She starts to slowly move her finger inside of you again, her other hand leaving your face to push the fabric of your shirt up. She kisses further down, lips getting closer and closer to where she’s fucking you with her finger.

Just as her mouth attaches to your clit, another finger pushes inside of you. A particularly loud moan slips from your lips and without Diana there to muffle it, the cacophonous arguing stops.

“Holy shit,” Hal breathes, and suddenly you’re way too aware of four sets of eyes watching the two of you.

Diana looks up at you, long lashes framing her eyes. “Let them watch,” she says, “maybe they could learn something.”

Her fingers curl inside of you and you moan again, the sound rattling the room. You arch your back, whining. Your eyes flutter shut, that knot in your stomach building up almost as fast as it did the first time.

Your thighs shake on either side of her head, nails digging into your palms. You try to close your legs but then they’re being forced apart by a pair of floating green hands.

You blink at Hal, who’s since discarded his mask. He grins in return.

And then you’re finishing again, slick coating Diana’s face and tongue as she eats you through it. You can feel their eyes on you even through your orgasm, even as your eyes flutter closed and your muscles all twitch.

Then Diana is pulling her mouth away, taking deep breaths as she gives you a minute of rest. It’s only a minute, but already the pain starts to come back as a dull ache.

“How are you feeling?” Clark asks.

“It’s starting to hurt again…”

He doesn’t ask another question before he’s replacing Diana on the floor in front of you, adjusting his suit until he can free his cock. He’s already somewhat hard—the two of you had put on quite the show.

Clark and Diana’s willingness to fuck you in front of everybody almost has you feeling guilty for your hesitance earlier. You trust these people, you love these people. How could you doubt that?

“Come here,” he opens his arms to you, “I got you.”

And then you’re crawling into his arms, letting him pick you off the floor. With his strength, he does it with ease, slowly lowering you down onto his cock. The minute his head pierces your entrance, you have to bite down on your lip to keep from being too loud.

You take him inch by inch, your body adjusting much more easily than it usually would. Despite your aching need, Clark’s gentle with you. He takes his time, watching every twitch of your body for a sign he should stop.

When you’ve finally taken all of him, the two of you gasp in sync. You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair. He tightens his grips around your thighs and then he’s lifting you up and dropping you back down on his cock.

With every motion, he pierces deeper inside of you. Your walls suck him in, beg him for more, beg him to go deeper. You’re so close to him, you can feel the beat of his heart, hear every tiny hitch in his breath.

He guides you up and down his cock like a toy, and you let him, going boneless in his arms. Lurid sounds leave your lips but you’re long past the point of caring. You drag your hands from his neck down to his back, scratching at his shoulders, though Clark doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re so warm,” he groans. “So hot.”

Maybe it’s the toxin or your own overstimulation but it only takes a few minutes before you’re finishing again, muscles clenching up, pussy tightening around Clark’s cock like it’s trying to milk him dry. He fixes his lips against yours, bearing your weight completely while you orgasm.

“That’s it. Let it all out, sweetheart.”

It’s only a few more thrusts for Clark before he’s finishing too. Both the heat and the sudden tightness of your walls is too much for him. He presses his hips flush against yours, the head of his cock kissing your cervix as he comes. He fills you up, the warm fluid slowly leaking out of you. 

He kisses you again, softly. “Do you need more?”

You feel horribly greedy as you nod your head yes, barely registering what’s happening as Clark passes you to Hal and Bruce.

The two men take you between them, holding you up despite the way your knees shake and threaten to buckle at any second.

Hal pulls you in for a tantalizing kiss. It’s needy and sloppy, punctuated with the desperation he feels after watching you get fucked by his teammates. Bruce’s hands make quick work of your uniform, finishing what Diana had started earlier. 

Being free from the fabric cools you down only slightly, the heat from their bodies immediately making up for it. There’s a flash of green light and then there’s a bed only a few feet away from you.

Bruce grabs you, practically throwing you on top of it before the two men and Barry join you. 

It’s a blur of hands and lips from there, the three of them somehow wrestling you onto your knees. Bruce is behind you, lining his cock up with your entrance, while Hal and Barry both sit on their knees in front.

Bruce taps your back, just once. "You're still okay?"

You weakly hum in agreement, arching your back to encourage him.

Bruce doesn’t waste a second before he pushes himself inside of you, Clark’s leftover cum acting as lube. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, Barry slipping his fingers inside. You don’t even think, your lips just close around them and you start sucking.

Bruce’s thrusts are aggressive, rocking both you and the bed, sending Barry’s fingers further down your throat. And then he’s replacing his fingers with his cock, your jaw aching at the sudden stretch.

You let your eyes flutter closed, letting the two men use you. Every thrust sends you further against the other, a perfectly choreographed dance between them. One goes deep and sends the other deeper, Bruce’s thick cock filling you so much that it’s hard to breathe.

Meanwhile, Hal rubs the hair away from your face and the sweat away from your forehead. “You’re like a pro,” he jokes. “You’re taking them so well.”

Barry gasps as you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock. “Fuck, Hal, you gotta try.”

And then they’re switching places, Hal’s cock replacing Barry’s in your mouth, Barry’s lips attacking the side of your neck instead.

Bruce digs his fingers deeper into your hips, fingertips sure to bruise you the next day. He slams himself deeper against you, every thrust punctuated with a cock muffled moan from you.

“That’s it,” his gruff voice calls out. “Just keep taking it.”

Barry’s teeth graze the side of your neck, his hand slipping down to rub circles on your clit and that’s all it takes for you to come undone all over again. Your arms shake violently, sending you pitching forward on the bed. Lucky for you, Barry catches your head, keeping you up the best he can while you get spitroasted on their cocks. 

Bruce fucks you through your high and then he’s falling apart with you, his cock twitching in your walls. With one final, rough thrust, he pushes himself in balls deep and lets himself cum inside of you.

Hal pulls his cock out of your mouth, letting you breathe freely while you fight the aftershocks of your orgasm.

When you’ve finally come to enough, you blink up at the man. “Want you next,” you declare, “you and Barry.”

And after the show you’ve put on, neither man is in any place to argue. Barry holds you against his chest while Hal moves away, repositioning himself where Bruce was only a minute ago.

Hal helps you move your quivering thighs on either side of Barry’s, grabbing the man’s cock and slipping the head inside of you. Bruce and Clark’s cum drips out, sliding down his shaft and onto his thighs.

Barry’s tip slips inside of you easily, his arms wrapping around your back to hold you still while Hal positions himself. The Lantern grips your hip with one hand and slowly guides his cock to your entrance with the other.

There’s pressure, your aching hole struggling to accommodate both of them, but Hal Jordan is not one to give up. 

He rubs a hand up your back, “breathe, baby. Deep breaths.”

You try to do as he says, letting yourself go limp against Barry. With your muscles relaxed, his cock slides inside of you easily. You’re full, so full you can barely move, but fuck it feels so good. That constant gnawing heat that’s been plaguing you dissipates into almost nothing, every thought in your head clears away.

Barry thrusts first and it’s such a tight fit that that alone has your eyes rolling back. Hal goes next, the friction of their cocks inside of you making your mind go blank. They continue in that rhythm, sloppy at first as they try to find a suitable pace.

"F-fuck, it's so tight." Barry curses.

Barry kisses at your cheek, your temple, the side of your head, trying to soothe you as both men fuck into you. Your pussy aches, your walls shaking sheerly from the fullness.

Hal digs his nails into your skin, crescent marks of his fingers matching Bruce’s from only a few minutes ago. His thrusts are frantic and fast and nearly violent, sending you further into Barry’s chest with every single one.

Barry is only slightly better, faster than Hal and just as punishing, but much less desperate.

"That's it, baby," Hal praises. "Let us take care of you."

You let yourself fall against them, let them fuck you while your mind goes entirely blank. That knot inside of you builds and builds and builds, heat radiating from your core until you finally snap and cum.

It’s already a tight fit with both of them inside of you but with your walls clenching up, it’s almost painful. Hal comes first, his cock twitching and filling you up pretty much the second you finish.

Barry’s next, the combined heat of your slick and Hal’s too much for him. He squeezes you tightly against his chest while he finishes inside of you, hot cum filling you to the brim.

You’re left sweaty and gasping, laying against Barry’s chest on the construct bed that Hal made.

Barry kisses the side of your head. “How are you feeling?”

“G-good, I think.” 

It’s a few minutes before the three of you untangle from each other, both Hal and Barry climbing off of the bed. Barry offers you a hand, helping you onto your feet and keeping you up despite the exhaustion plaguing your body.

“I-I’m feeling better,” you announce to no one in particular. “Thank you guys for helping.”

“That’s good,” Bruce says, gesturing over his shoulder. “But we have another problem now.”

You squint, following the line his finger points to to see Diana, flushed and naked, and Clark, on his knees and eating her out.

Fuck, you think to yourself. It must have been contagious after all.

dc masterlist | navigation | kinktober 2025

tysm for reading & happy haunting ! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹

[suigenerisisadiva]

Nightingale...

Pairing: Solo Batsis!Reader fic, slight batfam x batsis!reader

Summary: You never told your family about the women you saved. You didn’t need praise, or headlines, or approval. But when survivors begin speaking out, when the media uncovers the truth behind Nightingale, your family— and the world — finally understand who you really are.

CW: Reader goes by the alias Nightingale. Mention of DV, Sex trafficking and abuse, please click off if these will trigger you, they are not described but are mentioned.

Word Count: 1.08k

You never really kept count.

You never counted the doors kicked in, or the locks quietly picked. Never counted the women who cried into your shoulder, or the ones who didn’t cry at all—just stared at you like you weren’t real.

You never counted how many times you stood between someone and the worst day of their life.

Because if you counted, it would hurt more.

So you just… did it.

Nightingale was never about spectacle.

Nightingale wasn’t about fear the way Gotham expected her vigilantes to be.

You didn’t leave criminals dangling from gargoyles or broken on rooftops.

You left lights on.

You left women alive.

Domestic violence calls that never reached the GCPD because the system had failed them too many times already. Trafficking routes traced through shell corporations and fake charities—quietly dismantled, money frozen, victims relocated before anyone could “disappear” them again. Women whose bank accounts had been drained, whose names were blacklisted, whose abusers were powerful enough that the law “couldn’t do anything.”

You could.

So you did.

You paid hospital bills anonymously. You funneled Wayne money through three layers of shell foundations into women’s shelters, legal aid funds, relocation programs. You personally escorted survivors to safe houses at three in the morning, sitting with them until they fell asleep because they were afraid the quiet meant danger.

Sometimes you stayed all night.

Sometimes you left behind your jacket because they were cold.

Sometimes you'd leave a couple hundred dollars behind.

And you never told your family.

Not because you didn’t trust them—but because this wasn’t about being a Bat. This wasn’t about legacy or justice or the symbol.

This was about women.

And then one night, it broke.

It started with a single video.

A woman sitting in her car, phone propped against the steering wheel, voice shaking but determined.

“I don’t know if she’ll ever see this,” the woman said, “but Nightingale saved my life. Gotham City isn't the greatest and I'm so glad that there is a woman out there helping her fellow women.”

The clip spread faster than anyone expected.

Then another. Then another.

A nurse who talked about the night you stopped her husband from killing her and waited with her until the paramedics came. A college student who described being pulled out of a sex trafficking ring two hours before she was supposed to be shipped overseas. A mother of three who said you paid for her divorce lawyer and never once asked for thanks.

They didn’t know your face. They didn’t know your name.

They just knew the symbol on your chest and the way you spoke softly when everything else felt like screaming.

The headlines exploded.

WHO IS NIGHTINGALE? THE VIGILANTE GOTHAM’S WOMEN TRUST SHE SAVED US

Bruce found out when Alfred quietly turned up the volume in the Batcave.

Displayed upon the mega screen of the Batcomputer. Fox News, NBC, GNN, every news network in New Jersey had your symbol aired.

Dick was halfway through a joke. Jason was leaning against the console. Tim had his tablet out. Damian was pretending not to listen. Then Cass pointed to the screen, and everyone's gaze followed.

The screen showed a female news anchor, expression serious.

“Reports confirm that the vigilante known as Nightingale has been operating a parallel network focused specifically on protecting women from domestic violence, sexual exploitation, and trafficking—often succeeding where the system failed."

Her partner went on to speak, "With great triumph, sex crimes in Gotham have been on a steady decline over the past few months, and with more and more women coming out about their personal experiences with the super heroine, Nightingale's impact on women's rights cannot be understated.”

Bruce didn’t speak.

He just… stared.

Each new testimony hit like a punch to the chest.

Dick’s smile faded first. Jason’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Tim stopped typing entirely. Damian’s eyes flicked to Bruce, then away, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion swelling in his chest.

The male anchor turned to his female counterpart, witnessing her hesitation, she went on to confess her personal experience with you, how she was nearly mugged outside the station, and you protected her.

"I will forever be indebted to her." She said solemnly.

“She did all that,” Dick murmured. “Without backup.”

Jason swallowed. “Without telling us.”

Bruce’s hands were shaking.

Not with anger.

With awe.

The report ended with a statistic: millions donated anonymously to women’s shelters over the past several years—funds traced back to Wayne-adjacent accounts.

Bruce exhaled slowly.

“That was her,” he said.

Not a question.

A fact.

At the Watchtower, it was worse—in the best, most devastating way.

Black Canary watched the report with her arms crossed, eyes shining. Wonder Woman’s expression softened into something reverent. Hawkgirl nodded once, sharp and proud.

“She did it the right way,” Dinah said quietly. “She didn’t centre herself.”

Diana looked at Bruce. “You raised her well.”

Bruce couldn’t answer.

He was too busy realising that while he had been teaching his children how to fight crime, you had been teaching yourself how to heal damage the world refused to see.

When you finally walked into the Cave that night, still in civilian clothes, exhausted and unaware—

Everyone turned to look at you.

The silence was loud.

“…There something on my face?” you asked, blinking.

Bruce crossed the room in three long strides and pulled you into a hug so tight it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I’m proud of you,” he said into your hair, voice breaking. “I’m so proud of you.”

Dick hugged you next, then Jason, then Tim. Even Damian stepped forward, stiff and serious.

“You protected them,” he said quietly. “As a warrior should.”

You didn’t know what to say.

At the Watchtower the next day, the women found you first.

Dinah hugged you like family. Diana clasped your hands between hers. Kendra bumped her shoulder against yours with a smirk. “Guess we’ve got competition.”

The League commended you—not as a vigilante, not as a Bat—but as something rarer.

A woman who changed lives without demanding credit.

And online?

Women loved you. They painted murals. They shared stories, whispered your name like a promise.

You never asked for the spotlight.

But when it found you, it didn’t burn.

It illuminated.

And your family—your father, your brothers, your sisters—stood behind you, hearts full, knowing something new and unshakable:

You weren’t just fighting Gotham’s darkness.

You were giving women their light back.

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Dividers - @bbyg4rlhelps

Icon Header - pinterest

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty

[batletters]

Okay so idk if you’ve seen the trend in TikTok (it was a while ago) of people kissing their best friends but would you be willing to write something like that? Honestly for anyone but maybe Dick, Jason, or Wally???

⊹౨ৎ KISSING YOUR BEST FRIEND

˚ ｡ ft. jason todd, wally west and dick grayson .ᐟ

lizzie’s yapping 𐙚 : English is not my first language, so there may be some grammatical errors.

Jason Todd !

Your hands were sweaty and trembling slightly as you placed the phone on the coffee table, propping it up with a glass you'd used earlier. You were so nervous that your stomach was doing flips. Jason, sitting on the couch next to you, watched your every move, cautious and clearly confused by your behavior.

Once you finally got the phone positioned, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and turned to look at him. You didn’t say a word.

Jason's brow was furrowed; he kept glancing back and forth between the phone and you, trying to figure out what this was all about.

“The he—”

You didn’t let him finish. You placed a hand on his chest to steady yourself and kissed him. His lips were cold and slightly chapped, unlike the warmth and softness of yours. The kiss felt like a mix of relief—because you would finally know what it was like to have him this close—and a faint uncertainty about what it might stir between the two of you.

Jason froze in place, his heart racing and his cheeks faintly flushed, something quite unusual for him. Still, no one could blame him for feeling suddenly overwhelmed—he’d expected anything but this, anything but you placing a hand on his chest and kissing him so unexpectedly, yet so sweetly.

When you pulled back and he could finally see your expression, he swallowed, his head still spinning. He cleared his throat, but never put any distance between you. To your surprise, a smile slowly formed on his face.

“Knew you had a thing for me,” he teased, flashing a crooked smile. “Delete that shit,” he added, pointing at the phone.

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again—this time, he kissed you back.

Wally West !

You thought about it a lot. Too much.

The moment the trend crossed your TikTok FYP, your mind started spinning—ideas, possibilities. You still weren’t sure if doing it was the right thing, if it might cause a crack in your friendship, but there was nothing to lose by trying. Nothing more than a kiss. A kiss with a lot of power.

Your gaze was fixed on the redheaded victim sitting beside you, talking nonstop, rattling on about one of his latest exploits as the new Flash. You always paid attention—you loved listening to him because you didn’t have that nonstop chatter in you, so being the listener was your thing. Wally knew that too. Normally you’d at least smile at him, but today you’d done nothing but stare.

“Not to brag, but a ton of girls asked me for photos, you know,” he said with that cocky edge, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. But you weren’t listening. Why weren’t you paying attention?

Sitting right next to him, fists clenched way too tight to look casual, you shifted your gaze to the phone you’d strategically placed to capture the whole moment. He hadn’t even noticed.

Then, as he grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it to his mouth, you leaned forward, cupped his chin, turned his face toward you, and kissed him. Your lips stayed still against his—slightly warm and greasy from the pizza.

Wally blinked, way too slow to process what was happening. And just as quickly as you’d kissed him, you pulled back, leaving him even more confused.

“You kiss— Did you just — WOW!”, The words tangled on his tongue, his cheeks turning a deep red that matched his hair. In a flash, his whole vibe shifted. “Damn… Can you do that again? Nah, my turn now.”

And he kissed you. Surprisingly slow. His pizza-greasy hands smudging your face, as messy as he was.

Dick Grayson !

You’d always had a crush on him, even if you denied it every single time someone hinted at it—because you hated the idea of being that cliché best friend who stupidly fell for her best friend. But… how could you not fall for someone like him? You were totally justified, and by now you didn’t even care what anyone else thought.

You were also a little bit of a coward, to put it mildly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be using some random social media video trend as an excuse to kiss him. If things went wrong, you had a backup plan—it was just a trend, nothing more. He fell right into the trap. You’d planned it all out, orchestrated every step in your head. Now all you had to do was get close and kiss him. An innocent kiss loaded with all your feelings, but if he didn’t feel the same, it would just be that—a kiss.

On the other hand, Dick had already figured out something was up with you. His detective skills weren’t just one of the many things that made him so cool and attractive, after all.

The moment he saw your furrowed brow and tight lips, he knew you were nervous.

“What’s going on?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed and that crooked smile on his face. Then his eyes flicked to the phone you’d supposedly hidden so he wouldn’t notice it was there. “And why are we being recorded?” He waved at the phone, practically teasing you.

You threw your head back in resignation, but nodded toward one of the stools for him to sit. He obeyed, tilting his head to the side. He looked amused. And handsome.

“So?” he pressed, raising both eyebrows. Oh, he was having fun with this.

A little annoyed by his attitude, you stepped toward him. Since he was sitting now, his height wasn’t an issue, so with a mix of anger and shyness, you pressed your lips firmly against his, drawing a small, surprised gasp from him that melted into your mouth.

He kissed you back immediately, pulling you closer—one hand firm on your hip, the other gently cupping your cheek. He coaxed your lips apart to move in sync with his, giving his tongue access to tangle with yours. It was like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d anticipated your intention from the moment he noticed your strange behavior.

You pulled apart when you ran out of air, your cheeks flushed and his lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Did you get the right angle? We can do it again if you want. As many times as you want.” And before you could answer, he kissed you again.

@ batletters ࣪ ִֶָ☾. don't take my work as your own.

[wings-of-angels]

How it feels to be a hater but u only hate in private with ur best friend so it hurts nobody

[strangergraphics]

victorian dividers part three:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[njghtiee]

you belonged with me

plot! you and damian grew up together in the severe life of the league of shadows, both of you taught with violence and brutality, but somehow learning together what love was and felt like. things changed when damian had to leave, he promised he'd come back but he never did. he left you alone and you never heard from him again. years later you find yourself in gotham, his city, for a mission, and there you meet him again after all those years: taller, more muscular and wearing the cape of robin

shadow fem!reader, reader hates damian, happy ending

a/n: thank you so much for the request sweetie i loved writing it!! and i love the league so much so argiajd this was just perfect

The mountains were always cold at dawn.

The sharp wind rolled down from the peaks and into the courtyards of the League’s compound, carrying the smell of stone dust and the faint metallic tang of sharpened blades. The grounds were alive with movement, rows of trainees sparring, blades clashing, bodies slamming against the hard stone floor. Above them, assassins watched from the balconies, black eyes tracking every slip of form, every weakness.

And there, in the midst of it all, was Damian.

He was smaller than most of the older trainees, but he moved like water through their strikes, his short sword flashing as he parried, twisted, and struck back with precision that betrayed his age. His tunic was streaked with dust, his hair damp with sweat, but his jaw was set in that familiar, proud determination.

You watched him from the opposite circle, where you had just finished your own round of sparring. Your arms ached, your wrists burned, but the ache felt alive, it was the kind of pain that meant you were surviving, keeping pace in a place where weakness was unforgivable. You wiped your brow with the back of your hand and caught Damian’s eye just as he disarmed the boy in front of him with a swift kick to the wrist.

He smirked. Just a flicker, quick as a knife’s glint, but it was meant for you.

That was Damian, sharp edges, but soft in the quiet moments, the ones no one else ever got to see.

Later, when the drills ended, the two of you slipped away as you always did.

It was dangerous, deviation from the day’s schedule was punishable, but the compound was sprawling, and the shadows gave cover to those who knew how to use them. You had learned to be silent at his side, the both of you slipping through narrow corridors and out into the hidden garden at the edge of the grounds.

It wasn’t a garden in the way outsiders might picture. No flowers, no lush greenery. Just a cracked courtyard with a dry fountain and stubborn weeds pushing up between the stones. But it was private, and in the League, privacy was as rare and precious as gold.

Damian tossed a pebble into the empty basin of the fountain and folded his arms, chin tilted with that little aristocratic defiance he carried from his mother.

“You were sloppy today.” he said, his voice low, almost too formal for someone his age. But you knew him well enough to hear the concern threaded under the words.

You arched a brow, dropping your training sash onto the stones before lowering yourself to sit. “I still won”

“Barely.” His eyes narrowed, but there was no heat in it. Only sharp focus. “You left your side open twice. If it had been me in that circle, you’d be bleeding out by now.”

You leaned back on your palms, lips curving. “Then it’s a good thing it wasn’t you”

His mouth twitched, irritation, maybe, or maybe amusement he refused to admit. Finally, he sat beside you, his movements crisp, practiced.

But once seated, the tension melted just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. He didn’t move away.

Silence stretched between you, but it was never uncomfortable. The garden had become your world, a little rebellion carved out from the iron structure of the League. Here, Damian wasn’t just Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson, the heir, the prodigy. He was a boy. And you weren’t just another weapon being forged, you were you.

So, together, you could breathe.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s for?” you asked one evening, when the sun was sinking behind the mountain and turning the stone walls orange.

Damian turned his head slightly. “What what’s for?”

“All of this.” You gestured toward the compound, the endless training, the bruises lining your arms. “The fighting. The discipline. The constant—” you struggled for the word “—expectation.”

Damian was quiet for a moment, eyes on the horizon. He had that look again, the one you’d come to recognize when his mind wandered somewhere deeper than his words could go.

“It’s for power.” he said finally, though his tone was flat, as if repeating something he’d been told too many times. “Strength. Legacy.”

“Do you believe that?”

His jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

You studied him, the hard line of his cheek, the way his hands curled into fists on his knees.

Then, carefully, you reached over and covered one with your own. His skin was warm, his knuckles scuffed raw from the day’s fights. For a heartbeat, he went rigid, as though even this small softness was foreign. Then he exhaled, his hand loosening under yours.

“I believe you’re wrong" you said softly. “I think… it’s for survival. That’s all”

He glanced at you, and there it was again, that fleeting softness, the part of him no one else got to see.

“Then we’ll survive together” he said.

The nights were the hardest.

The compound was always silent after curfew, the halls patrolled, the doors barred. But on the rare nights when you were both restless enough, Damian would sneak to your chamber.

You never asked how he avoided the guards; he was Damian, and he always found a way.

He’d tap against the wooden frame of your door, one sharp, two soft knocks, the code only the two of you shared. And then he’d slip inside, closing the door with careful silence.

You’d lie awake side by side on the narrow mat, whispering in the dark. Sometimes it was talk of training, of strategies and techniques. Sometimes it was stories Damian half remembered from books, retold in his clipped, precise way. But sometimes, when the shadows were thick and the world felt far away, it was softer things.

“Promise me” you whispered once, your fingers barely brushing his as you lay facing each other.

“What?” His voice was rough from sleep, but his eyes were sharp, green even in the dim light.

“That no matter what happens here… no matter what they turn us into… we won’t forget this. Us.”

For a long time, he said nothing. His stare was steady, unwavering, as though weighing the weight of your words like a blade in his palm. And then, slowly, he nodded.

“I promise.”

Your heart tightened. You believed him.

The League demanded perfection.

They demanded loyalty, blood, silence. But in the cracks of their world, in the shadows of their walls, you and Damian had carved out something forbidden, fragile, and real.

It was love, though neither of you ever dared name it aloud.

It was in the way his eyes always searched for you in the training circle.

The way your hand always found his in the dark.

The way you both held onto those stolen hours as though they were the only truth in a life built on lies.

The morning was different.

You could feel it before you even opened your eyes, something heavier in the air, thicker than the usual cold bite of mountain wind. The compound was quieter than usual, too quiet, as if everyone knew something you didn’t.

And then you saw Damian.

He stood at the edge of the training yard, already dressed, already armed, his posture stiff and guarded. His green eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, his jaw clenched. At first you thought he was preparing for an early spar, but there was no circle drawn, no opponents waiting. Instead, Talia stood a few paces away, speaking in hushed tones with two of the higher assassins. Behind them, a small caravan of League operatives was being prepared, horses saddled, packs loaded.

Your chest tightened. This wasn’t routine.

You made your way across the stone floor, ignoring the stares of the other trainees. When you reached Damian, you caught his sleeve before he could turn away.

“What’s going on?” you whispered, voice low, urgent.

He froze, shoulders tense under your touch. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He wouldn’t look at you. Finally, he said, clipped and sharp, “It doesn’t concern you.”

It was a lie. You could hear it in the way his voice cracked ever so slightly at the end.

You stepped in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet yours. “Damian. Tell me.”

His jaw flexed. His hands tightened into fists. He looked at you the way he sometimes did when sparring, calculating, weighing whether to fight or yield.

But this wasn’t the sparring circle. This was you. And after a moment, the mask cracked.

“My mother…” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “She’s sending me away.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

“Sending you away?” you repeated, numb. “Where?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t want to say it. But Damian had never been a coward.

“To Gotham. To him.”

You didn’t need to ask who he meant. You knew. The man whose shadow stretched even here, in the League. Bruce Wayne. Batman.

Your stomach turned. “When?”

His silence was answer enough.

He was leaving today.

The weight of it settled over you both. Around you, the compound carried on as if nothing had changed. blades clashing, boots pounding, commands shouted. But the world had shifted, and no one else seemed to see it.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Damian, you can’t just—”

“I don’t have a choice.” His tone was sharp, defensive, like a blade snapping up to deflect a strike. But his eyes… his eyes were softer, clouded with something that looked too much like fear for someone who was never afraid. “She says it’s time. That I’ve learned what I can here. That I need to…” His lips curled around the word like it was poison. “…bond. With him.”

You reached for him again, fingers brushing his wrist. He didn’t pull away this time, but his hand trembled under yours.

“What about us?” The question left your throat before you could stop it.

Small, desperate, more vulnerable than you’d ever allowed yourself to sound in this place.

Damian flinched. His pride warred with the truth he didn’t want to speak. He turned his face slightly, jaw set. “I… I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the answer you wanted. But it was honest.

The hour passed too quickly. Before you knew it, the caravan was ready. Talia stood by the gate, her presence commanding, her beauty like the sharp edge of a dagger. She called Damian’s name, and he straightened, his face hardening into the disciplined mask he wore for everyone else.

But you weren’t everyone else.

He turned to you one last time. For a moment, the mask slipped, and you saw the boy beneath, the boy who had shared your stolen hours, whispered promises in the dark, the boy who had sworn you’d survive together. His throat worked, as if words were fighting to break free.

“Remember what I promised.” he said finally, his voice low and fierce, meant only for you. “No matter what they make me do, no matter where I go—you’ll remember. And I will come back.”

Your breath caught. You wanted to believe him. You had to.

Before you could speak, before you could ask him for more, he did something he had never dared before, not in the garden, not in the dark, not when the walls might be watching. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours. Brief, fleeting, but real.

And then he was gone.

You stood in the courtyard as the gates closed, the sound echoing like finality through the stone walls. The mountain wind bit at your skin, colder than ever. The League carried on around you, unshaken, unchanged.

But for you, nothing would ever be the same.

The rooftops of Gotham were nothing like the mountains.

Here, the wind carried the smell of smoke and oil instead of pine, the streets below buzzing with neon and sirens instead of silence. It was alive in a way the compound never was, chaotic, endless, dirty. But none of that mattered. You weren’t here to admire Gotham.

You were here on a mission.

The League’s presence in Gotham was carefully veiled. Operatives moved like shadows through alleys and sewers, completing tasks that never made the news. You hadn’t asked why you were chosen; in the League, questions only slowed the blade. Still, part of you knew. You were sharp, efficient, merciless when needed. And you knew the city already held someone they once claimed as their own.

Damian.

You hadn’t spoken his name in years.

Not out loud, not even to yourself. But you carried it with you like an old wound, one that never fully healed.

He had promised you he’d return. He hadn’t. He’d left, just like everyone eventually did. And when the whispers reached the compound that he was alive and wearing the mask of Gotham’s Robin, something in you hardened even more.

The mission was simple: intercept a shipment at the docks. A rival syndicate had stolen something belonging to the League. Retrieval was necessary. Failure was not an option.

You moved across the rusted beams of the dockyard cranes, your body silent, your steps balanced. The night air was heavy with salt and diesel. Below, men moved crates onto trucks, laughing too loudly, unaware of the shadow above them.

Your knives slipped easily into your palms. You dropped soundlessly into the darkness, dispatching the first two guards before the others even noticed.

It should have been clean. It should have been fast.

But then—

“Stop.”

The voice cut through the chaos. Sharp. Familiar.

Your blood went cold.

From the shadows of the shipping containers, a figure emerged. Shorter than the men, younger, but the way he carried himself, the precision in his step, the confidence in every line of his body…you knew instantly. Black and red armor gleamed under the sickly yellow lights. A cape trailed behind him, and a domino mask covered his face. But the eyes, green, piercing, were unmistakable.

Damian.

Robin.

You froze, knife still in your grip. The years between you collapsed into this single moment. His presence hit you like a blow: older now, taller, sharper, but still undeniably him.

He looked at you the same way, like the sight of you had pulled the ground out from under his feet. His chest rose and fell quickly, but his voice, when it came, was steady.

“It’s you.”

Something inside you cracked at the sound. But you didn’t let it show. You straightened, blade firm in your hand, your tone colder than the Gotham night.

“You should stay out of this, Robin.”

The title was venom on your tongue.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that. Not you.”

You scoffed. “Why not? It suits you. Obedient little soldier, following orders like a good heir.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you’re still doing their bidding, aren’t you? Still spilling blood for the League.”

Your grip on the knife tightened. “Don’t act like you’re any different. You left me there for this? To wear his symbol? To be his shadow?”

For a moment, the mask slipped. Pain flickered across his face.

But Damian was Damian, he rebuilt the walls in an instant.

“I didn’t choose to leave.” he said, voice low and fierce. “You know that.”

The words twisted in your chest. You wanted to scream, to throw the knife at him, to pull him close and make him prove it. But the years of anger burned hotter than the ache of missing him.

“You promised me,” you spat. “You promised you’d come back. But you didn’t. You abandoned me.”

His composure wavered. He took a step forward, hand half reaching before he stopped himself. “I never stopped thinking of you. Not once.”

The confession tore something open inside you. But you held your ground, teeth clenched, eyes hard.

“You don’t get to say that” you hissed. “Not after all these years.”

The men at the dock had scattered, forgotten in the storm between you. The night was silent but for the crash of waves against the pier.

Damian studied you, really studied you.

The coldness in your eyes, the edge to your voice, the walls you had built where once there had been stolen gardens and whispered promises. He looked like he wanted to tear those walls down with his bare hands.

“I don’t care how much you hate me.” he said finally, his voice steady, sharp with determination. “I’m not letting you vanish into the shadows again. Not this time.”

The words struck deep, but you forced yourself to smirk, masking the ache with venom.

“Try to stop me, then.”

You turned, leaping onto the shipping container, disappearing into the maze of steel and shadow. You didn’t wait to see if he followed. You already knew he would.

Above the docks, Gotham’s skyline loomed: towers of glass and steel lit against the night. And somewhere, the game had just begun again.

Two children of the League. Two weapons sharpened in the same fire. Two hearts that had once belonged wholly to each other, now on opposite sides.

And neither willing to let go.

The night swallowed you as you leapt from container to container. The cold air burned your lungs, but you didn’t slow. You had spent years in the League sharpening yourself into a blade, and you would not let him blunt your edge now.

But you heard him. Always one step behind. The rhythmic pound of boots on steel, the scrape of a grapnel line, the hiss of his cape cutting through the wind. Damian was on your trail, and he wasn’t holding back.

“Stop running!” his voice cut sharp across the dockyard.

You didn’t answer. Your knives flashed in the dim light as you spun, hurling one toward him without hesitation. It whistled through the air, fast, precise. He deflected it with a flick of his collapsible staff, sparks flying as metal clashed.

“I won’t fight you” Damian said, landing in a crouch on the container opposite yours. His mask caught the glow of the floodlights, but his eyes, those piercing green eyes, were fixed only on you.

“Then you’ll lose” you hissed, and launched yourself at him.

The clash was instant.

Your blade darted for his throat, but he caught your wrist, twisting until pain jolted up your arm. You used the momentum, spinning low and sweeping your leg under him.

He vaulted over it, landing behind you, staff raised but angled away, always away from your vital points. Always holding back.

It infuriated you.

“You think you can choose now not to fight me?” You whirled, striking again, fury fueling each blow. “Where was this choice when you left?”

Damian gritted his teeth, parrying with his staff. “I didn’t leave you! My mother—”

“Your mother doesn’t wield your blade,” you snapped, voice sharp as steel. “You do.”

Your knife nearly grazed his side, but he twisted just in time, catching your arm and forcing it upward. For a moment, your faces were inches apart, breaths harsh, eyes locked in battle and history and pain.

“You think I wanted this?” His voice broke through clenched teeth. “You think a day passed where I didn’t—”

You shoved him back before he could finish. Anger surged like fire in your chest, burning over the cracks in your heart. You lunged again, this time not for a wound, but for destruction, for proof that you could cut him out of your life.

You both fell, air ripping past, the black water of the Gotham harbor rising fast. For a split second, panic seized you.

And then—

Arms around you.

Strong, unyielding, wrapping your body as if you were the only thing that mattered. Damian had followed without hesitation, twisting midair so his cape flared wide, his body curling around yours. His back took the brunt of the impact as you hit the water, the shock of it exploding across your skin, your breath ripped from your lungs.

You broke the surface, gasping, hair plastered to your face, water searing your throat. Damian held you tight, even as you clawed at him, even as anger still burned through your veins.

“Let go!” you sputtered, shoving against him.

“Stop it!” His voice was raw, strained with exertion, but fierce. His grip didn’t falter. “You could have died!”

“I wanted—” The words tore from you before you could stop them. You bit them back, chest heaving, salt water and fury choking you. “You should have let me fall!”

His eyes widened, wet hair dripping down his face. And for the first time since you’d seen him again, the mask of Robin cracked wide open.

“I will never let you fall.” His voice was steady, fierce, absolute. “Not then, not now, not ever.”

The conviction in his tone struck deeper than any blade. For a heartbeat, the fight drained from you, replaced with the weight of years, of promises broken, of nights in the garden, of all the things you both had lost.

But you shoved the weakness down. You forced the ice back into your veins.

“You’re too late” you said flatly, even as his arms kept you above the dark waves. “Whatever you think you’re saving, it’s already gone.”

The sirens wailed in the distance. Police or Batman, you didn’t know. Damian’s eyes flicked toward the sound, jaw tight.

“This isn’t over” he said, voice low, firm.

You tore yourself from his grasp, kicking back toward the edge of the dock.

“No.” you spat, pulling yourself onto the slick concrete, water dripping from your clothes, knives already back in your hands. “It ended years ago.”

By the time you vanished into the shadows, Damian was still in the water, chest heaving, watching you go.

He let you slip away, not because he wanted to, but because he knew forcing you would only drive the blade deeper between you. Still, his words clung to the night air, even as you disappeared into it.

The next mission was supposed to be clean.

You were in Gotham again, slipping through the back alleys of the Narrows, the city’s pulse beating around you, cars blaring, neon signs flickering, shouts echoing from the rooftops. You moved through it like a shadow, blending into the grime and smoke. The league’s orders were clear: retrieve information, vanish, leave no trace.

You had no intention of being seen.

But Damian had other plans.

The moment you ducked into the abandoned clock tower to stash the stolen drive, you felt it: the shift in the air, the silence too complete. You drew your blade instantly, heart hammering, every muscle tense.

And then he stepped from the shadows.

Robin. Damian.

“Enough running” he said, voice low but firm.

You clenched your jaw, turning toward the exit. “Stay out of my way.”

His grapnel line shot out, latching to the door before you could reach it. The steel cord snapped tight, blocking your path.

“Damian—” you started, but his name burned your tongue, so you spat it differently. “Robin. Move.”

“Not until you hear me.”

You whirled, knife flashing. “I don’t want to hear you.”

“You don’t have a choice.” His tone sharpened, but his eyes betrayed him, pleading beneath the mask of command.

You struck first, because anger was easier than grief. The knife whistled through the air, but he dodged, catching your wrist mid-swing. He didn’t twist this time, didn’t strike back. He only held on, tight enough that you couldn’t break free without hurting him.

“Let me go!” you snarled, fury lacing your voice.

“Not until you listen.”

You shoved against him, your free hand slamming against his chestplate. The impact rattled, but he didn’t budge. He was taller now, stronger, and the stubborn set of his jaw was unyielding.

“What could you possibly say?” you hissed. “That you’re sorry? That you didn’t mean to leave me rotting in the league while you were here—” your words broke into a bitter laugh “—eating dinners in mansions and sleeping in silk sheets?”

His face twisted, hurt flickering across his features.

“You think it was like that?” His voice rose, sharp and wounded. “You think I lived in luxury while you suffered? I was dragged here, forced into a life I didn’t understand, surrounded by strangers who looked at me like I was a weapon, a burden, an enemy.”

You froze.

“They didn’t want me,” he continued, his grip trembling now. “Not at first. I didn’t fit. I was too violent, too ruthless, too much like her.” His eyes flashed with the shadow of his mother’s name. “I trained every night until my body gave out, because if I didn’t, I’d drown in this world of capes and rules and a father who barely knew what to do with me.”

For a long moment, the clock tower was silent but for the tick of gears and the city’s distant hum.

You wanted to scoff, to tell him his struggles meant nothing compared to what you endured. The missions that broke you down, the years without warmth, the endless cycle of violence. But when you looked at him, at the cracks in his armor, you saw something you hadn’t expected: truth.

And it made you angrier.

“Do you know what it was like for me?” Your voice shook, your knife quivering in your hand. “Every day after you left, I was reminded that you were chosen. That you were special, the heir, the one worth sending to the great Batman. And me?” Your throat tightened. “I was just another blade to sharpen. Another shadow to throw at the world.”

His eyes widened, his grip loosening on your wrist.

“They broke me down” you whispered, the words spilling like blood from a wound. “Over and over. And I let them, because I thought—” You stopped, breath catching. “I thought you’d come back for me. But you never did.”

Damian’s hand trembled as it hovered, unsure, before he finally cupped your cheek. His glove was cold, but his touch was gentle, grounding.

“I wanted to” he said, voice raw. “God, I wanted to. I begged her to let me return. I planned to escape, more than once. But she—she made sure I couldn’t. She told me you were stronger without me. That if I came back, I’d only weaken you.”

Your breath hitched. His eyes searched yours, desperate for something, understanding, forgiveness, anything.

“She lied to me.” Damian whispered. “And I hate her for it. But I never stopped—” His voice faltered, rare for him. He swallowed, steadying himself. “I never stopped being yours.”

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor.

You wanted to shove him away, to spit venom, to rebuild your walls. But the way he looked at you, unmasked, vulnerable, the boy who once sat with you under the mountain stars, broke through every defense.

And that terrified you more than any blade.

“I already told you, you’re too late” you whispered, though the words trembled.

He shook his head, leaning closer, forehead nearly brushing yours. “No. I’m right here. And I’m not leaving again.”

The city outside roared on, blind to the storm breaking inside the tower. Two children forged in shadows, standing on opposite sides of a life they never chose, but bound by something neither could kill.

Love. Rage. Loss. Hope.

All tangled together in the space between your heart and his.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself believe, just for a breath, that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.

It went on like this for weeks.

Your missions in Gotham pulled you into shadows and alleys he knew too well, and each time you tried to disappear, he reappeared, sometimes as Robin, sometimes only as Damian, stripped of the mask, hoping you'd hear him as himself. Each time you rejected him. Each time he bore it with a patience that grated against the steel of his League blood.

And then came the night that changed everything.

A League cell had followed you here.

He should’ve expected it; he berated himself afterward for not predicting it sooner. But the ambush was brutal.

You fought with a ferocity he remembered, blade flashing silver under the streetlights, movements honed and merciless. But there were too many. Damian joined the fray without hesitation, his staff snapping bone, cape whipping like a banner through the rain.

It wasn’t enough.

One assassin’s strike slipped past your guard, the blade catching your side. You stumbled.

Damian’s world narrowed to that moment, to your blood dark against your black suit. Without thought, without hesitation, he threw himself between you and the next strike, taking the blow across his arm, twisting to drive his attacker to the pavement.

By the time the rest scattered into the night, leaving bodies and blood in their wake, Damian was on his knees beside you.

“You’re injured.” he said, breath ragged.

You tried to shove him off, fury still burning hotter than the wound. “Don’t touch me.”

But he didn’t listen.

He caught your wrist, not to restrain, but to steady, to stop the way your hands shook as you pressed them against the gash in your side. His gloves grew slick with your blood, but he didn’t flinch.

Your eyes met his then, truly met his, for the first time since Gotham had thrown you back together.

And for a heartbeat, you saw it: not the League’s heir, not Bruce Wayne’s son, not Robin. Just Damian. The boy who once sat with you under the stars on temple roofs, whispering futures neither of you believed you'd live to see.

You looked away quickly, like the sight had burned you.

“Why?” Your voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “Why throw yourself in front of me? After everything?”

Damian’s chest rose sharply. His arm throbbed with pain. The rain stung in his cut. But he said the words anyway.

“Because I would rather bleed beside you than watch them take you from me again.”

Silence. Long and heavy, broken only by the hiss of rain on concrete.

You shook your head, lips parting as if to argue, but nothing came out.

And in that silence, something shifted.

He moved carefully, cautiously, as if approaching a wild creature ready to bolt, and touched your shoulder.

For a moment you tensed, every muscle ready to lash out.

But then, inexplicably, your body didn’t move. You let him steady you, his hand warm and solid through the chill of Gotham’s night.

You had never been taught softness. Neither had he.

The League had given them blades, not embraces. Commands, not comfort. But as you sagged against him, just slightly, just enough, Damian realized that maybe this, this small surrender, was more trust than either of you had ever been offered in their lives.

His arm went around you, awkward at first, armor scraping leather. But then it held. Firm. Protective. Unyielding.

Your head tipped forward, resting against his shoulder, and though your breath was uneven, though your body trembled with anger and exhaustion alike, you didn’t pull away. Not this time.

Damian closed his eyes for the briefest second, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years.

No words passed between you. There didn’t need to be. The hug was clumsy, fragile, hesitant, two weapons learning how to be human in the space of a heartbeat.

The rain slowed. The city hummed below, a thousand voices uncaring of the two shadows clinging to each other on a forgotten rooftop.

You pulled away first. Your shoulder brushed hard against his chest as you pushed yourself upright, refusing to let him see how much effort it took. Your hands pressed against your side where the blood had slowed but not stopped. Damian rose with you, silent, watchful.

“Don’t.” you said finally, voice flat, almost brittle. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was calm, too calm, as if he could will her words not to cut.

“Like I have a place here. Like you want to keep me” You turned your face away, hair dripping into your eyes. “I don’t. And you don’t. I go back to the shadows. It’s all I know”

Damian’s chest tightened, sharp as the blade still sheathed at his belt. He stepped forward, forcing you to face him, his hand brushing your wrist before you could pull away.

“You think Gotham has no shadows?” he asked, his tone low, controlled, but dangerous in the way it always became when emotion threatened to surface. “I walk them every night. And I will not let you disappear into them. Not again.”

You laughed, but it was a harsh sound, nothing like joy. “You think you can just pull me out? Damian, you had an escape. You had a father, a family, a home. I had the League. And when you left—” Your voice caught, just for a breath, before you sharpened it again. “When you left, they kept me. Used me. Do you know what it’s like to bleed alone, night after night, while you were learning how to smile in a millionaire’s mansion?”

His jaw clenched.

He wanted to argue, to tell you you didn’t know the war inside him, the war with Bruce, with the mantle, with the boy he was supposed to be.

But the truth burned too close to his heart: you were right. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t bled with you.

“I never smiled” he said at last, voice low. “Not once. Not without you.”

The words hung there between them, stark and unpolished.

You stared, anger flickering in your eyes like the last embers of a dying fire. Your lips parted as if to retort, to drive him back again, but the fight faltered.

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him bled into you through damp fabric. Close enough that the smell of rain, blood, and smoke filled the air between you.

“You are not going back to them.” he said, firmer now. “If you vanish, I will find you. If you fight me, I will fight back. But I will not—” His breath caught. He swallowed hard. “I will not lose you again.”

You shook your head, though the motion was weak. “Damian… you don’t understand. I don’t belong here. I've never belonged anywhere.”

Something raw cracked through his discipline then. His hand caught your chin, gently but unyieldingly, tilting your face toward his. His green eyes locked on yours, fierce and unflinching.

“You belonged with me.”

The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of a blade. You froze, breath shallow, every instinct telling you to recoil, but you didn’t. Because beneath the words, beneath the steel, was something you had never heard from him before: plea.

Your throat worked, but no sound came out. For the first time in years, silence didn’t feel like armor. It felt like exposure.

And then, slowly, haltingly, as if navigating a battlefield you'd never been trained for, he leaned in.

Not the league’s precision, not a calculated strike. Just a boy who had never been taught softness, daring to try anyway. His lips brushed yours, tentative, uncertain, the faintest collision of two people who had known nothing but violence and yet somehow found this moment untouched by it.

Your breath caught. Your hand trembled at your side, aching to push him away, to remind him of all the years he had left you. But instead, it rose. Against every instinct, every scar, every piece of your training, your fingers curled into the front of his damp tunic, holding him there.

The kiss was brief. Awkward. Fragile. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that erased years of anger. But it was the kind that cracked the surface of it.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Your breaths mingled, ragged, uneven.

“I am not asking you to forgive me.” Damian said softly, voice almost breaking. “I am only asking you not to go.”

Your eyes closed.

You hated him. You wanted to hate him.

But in that moment, with the city rumbling beneath them and his warmth steady against the cold, you realized you couldn’t. Not completely. Not anymore.

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Only with the faintest nod, so small he might have missed it if he weren’t watching you with every piece of his soul.

[cryoculus]

— WHITEOUT ⟢

you live at the foot of a mountain with your husband, where there is nothing more for you to want in the peace you’ve cultivated together. until he comes home after a blizzard that should have killed him, bearing a smile that does not belong to the man you once married.

★ featuring; rerir x f!reader | flins x f!reader

★ word count; 7.2k words

★ tags; alternate universe, eldritch horror, kyryll gets offscreened and rerir hijacks his life ykwim, grief/mourning, SMUT (MDNI)

★ notes; this is lowkey a tshd au but i have only seen a grand total of two episodes from that show, so i kinda just winged it LMAO please do heed the tags and the warnings utc ! i wanted to try writing smth out of my comfort zone fr and here we have it :/

p.s. thank you to my lovely roc @rocwylde for quite literally sponsoring this fic LMAO in their wisest words "i like varka more than rerir, but i like eldritch monster fucking more than varka"

READ ON AO3

★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!

★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie

The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.

You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.

The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:

This is not the man you married.

Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.

You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.

The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.

You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.

Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…

Was Kyryll ever really gone?

You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.

Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.

Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.

Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.

The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.

Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.

Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.

It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.

So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.

These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.

“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”

But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.

“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”

Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.

You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”

“You always think about work first,” you sigh.

“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”

You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.

Almost.

Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.

All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.

“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.

“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”

Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”

Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.

“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”

Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.

You were taught to count time in threes.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.

Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.

The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.

Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.

Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.

Wait for me.

Three days pass before Kyryll returns.

The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.

Finally, he is there.

Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.

“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”

He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.

“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.

Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.

He does not kiss you back.

Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.

“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?

You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:

“What lamb?”

“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”

But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.

Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…

You do not ask.

You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.

The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.

That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.

Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.

But today, there is nothing.

Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.

Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.

For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.

Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.

You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.

At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.

But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.

They are replacements.

The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.

You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.

But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.

The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.

You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.

The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.

He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.

You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.

In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.

Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.

It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.

That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.

Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.

Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.

Instead, he walks toward you.

Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.

For a moment, you cannot breathe.

He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.

The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.

He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.

And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.

That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.

From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.

The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.

It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.

There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.

But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.

Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.

But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.

At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.

You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.

In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.

The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.

Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.

And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.

It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.

Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

One night, the dream takes a turn.

You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.

For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.

The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.

You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.

You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.

Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.

Winter eventually gives way to spring.

The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.

You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.

At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.

Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.

And that is when you turn.

Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.

The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.

He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.

It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.

For the first time, it is not a dream.

And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.

By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.

You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.

You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.

The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.

Not in fear. In want.

The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.

His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.

They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.

The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.

A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.

And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.

The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.

Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.

His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.

And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.

When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.

The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.

Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.

Even if you know it’s not.

His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.

You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.

And he notices.

The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.

You see it. You know.

But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.

It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.

Still, your body betrays you.

A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.

You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.

His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.

You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.

Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.

“Mine.”

The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.

Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.

It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.

Only the monster.

Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.

Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.

When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.

When the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Outside, the wind stirs the fields. Inside, his shadow lingers at your back, warm and heavy, his hand brushing yours as he takes the last dish to dry, wedding bands glinting in the waning light.

You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.

You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.

Now, it is you, and Kyryll.

And the thing that wears his face.

⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO

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