#grimmstories

if its no bother, could i request a continuation from that; Something the involves the other Saja Boys reaction to the 'Reader' knowing Baby's a demon. Like, one day, the group finds themselves at the 'Readers' and Baby's house/apartment and he just casually switches to his Demon Form.

Ahh I’m so glad you liked the reveal!! 😭🖤 Here you go!💌

“Wait—You Let Them See?!”

 Sequel to: Little by Little

Summary: Baby’s been slowly revealing his demon form to you. You thought the others knew. Turns out—not like this.

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It starts with a knock and three bags of fried chicken.

You weren’t expecting company—at least not company in the form of all four Saja Boys—when you opened the door to find Jinu, Romance, Mystery, and Abby standing on your doorstep like a very attractive demonic boyband reunion tour.

“We brought food,” Jinu said. “Baby’s texts were vague.”

“I wanted banana milk,” Romance muttered, brushing past him.

“We’re out of soda,” Abby added helpfully, already kicking his shoes off.

Mystery said nothing, just dropped a tarot card facedown on your doormat and stepped inside.

The apartment filled fast—too fast—and you barely had time to throw a blanket over the couch pile of laundry before you heard the unmistakable sound of your boyfriend.

You turned just in time to see Baby walking out of the bedroom barefoot, shirtless, and completely, casually, demon-shaped.

Lilac skin. Jagged violet markings. Gold, slit-pupil eyes.

You’d gotten used to it. Loved it, even. He didn’t always shift around the others, but lately—at home, with you—he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

And now?

Well.

That comfort was about to backfire.

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

The silence that hit the room was instant.

Abby froze mid-drumstick bite.

Mystery tilted his head like an owl tracking prey.

Romance—halfway into your fridge—dropped a bottle of water and said, “I’m sorry, WHAT are we walking into right now?”

Jinu blinked. Slowly. Twice.

“...Is that a full skin shift?” he asked, sounding like he might need to sit down. “With claws?”

Baby looked up.

Paused.

Looked at you.

Then looked back at the boys.

“What?” he said, flatly. “I live here.”

Yes, of course! 💖 That’s such a soft and beautiful concept—I love the idea of Baby slowly revealing more of his demon form as he grows comfortable in the relationship.

Little by Little

Sequel: Wait—You Let Them See?!

Summary: Your boyfriend is slowly relaxing his hold over his true form — not all at once, but in quiet moments over time. As trust deepens, you begin to catch more glimpses of his real self: lilac skin, glowing eyes, and the soft vulnerability he never lets anyone else see.

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

The first time you see one of his markings, it’s by accident.

You're brushing your teeth, half-asleep in your shared apartment, when Baby walks in without a word. He’s always quiet in the morning—still bleary-eyed, still warm from sleep, the black sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his hands.

But today, something’s different.

He leans over the sink to spit out mouthwash, and when he straightens up, the edge of his collar dips just slightly. You catch it in the mirror, just a glimpse, no more than an inch, of patterned violet spreading along his collarbone. Geometric and jagged, like cracked glass under his skin.

Your toothbrush slows.

The air shifts slightly, as if the room itself holds its breath.

You don’t say anything.

Not because it scares you—it doesn’t. You’ve known what he is for a while now. But you also know him—the way he wraps his jokes around silence, the way he keeps a careful distance from vulnerability unless you’re patient enough to wait him out. Like everything that matters most to him is kept behind a locked door, and you’re still learning the shape of the key.

So instead of asking, you slide a hand into his and squeeze.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t pull away either. His fingers twitch once before curling around yours, warm and quiet.

Later that morning, you find that hoodie tossed near the laundry basket—half-on, half-off, like he didn’t care how it landed.

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

The second time is intentional.

You’re curled on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing in the background neither of you are really watching. Your head rests on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder, when he shifts and rolls up one sleeve.

You blink.

The skin beneath is no longer the pale peachy tone he wears in public. It’s lilac—soft and smooth, with a shimmer under the light. His forearm is crisscrossed with deep violet markings, the same jagged ones you saw on his collarbone. They trail up past his elbow, disappearing under his shirt.

He doesn’t draw attention to it. Doesn’t say anything. He just lets it be there—visible.

You lift your head to look at him.

“Pretty,” you say simply.

Baby makes a quiet sound, something between a laugh and a breath he forgot to hold. He tries to act nonchalant—tries to look away—but there’s a pink flush creeping up the tips of his ears.

You kiss his arm just once, near the darkest mark.

“I meant it,” you add, resting your cheek against his chest again. “You don’t have to hide things from me.”

He says nothing, but later that night he falls asleep on top of you, full weight, head on your chest, like he trusts you to hold all of him.

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

The claws come next.

You’re chopping vegetables in the kitchen when Baby comes up behind you and lazily wraps his arms around your waist. You’re used to the warmth of his hands, the quiet pressure of his chest against your back—but today, you notice something new.

His nails are longer. Sharper. Just enough to prick slightly when he drags them gently along your side.

You pause, glancing down.

His hand rests flat against your stomach—skin still smooth, still lilac, but now tipped in elegant, curved claws. Not monstrous, but definitely inhuman.

He notices you staring and starts to pull back, muscles tense.

You stop him with a hand over his.

“I like them,” you murmur.

He doesn’t respond immediately. You feel the moment where he debates pretending like it didn’t happen. But then—

“I file them down most days.”

His voice is low. Almost embarrassed. Like this tiny part of himself, something natural to him, needs an apology.

You hum. “You don’t have to around me.”

“…I know,” he says, but you feel the way his arms tighten around you, the small exhale against your shoulder. Like maybe he needed to hear it anyway.

When he holds your hand that night, his claws graze your knuckles gently. Purposefully.

You don’t let go.

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

Sometimes you wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror.

Does he only notice the claws, the cracked-glass skin, the glow in his eyes that sets him apart? Does he trace his markings and wonder if he’s too much—or worse, not enough—when he’s just being real?

Because when you look at him all sharp teeth and soft hoodie sleeves, glowing eyes that give too much away—you just see him. Baby. The boy who makes you ramen at 2am when you’re sad. The one who insists on watching horror movies but hides behind you at the jumpscares. The one who gets too hot at night but still clings to you like a second blanket. The one who hums off-key when he thinks you’re asleep. Who asks if you ate, then pretends he wasn’t worried when you say no.

The one who’s learning to let you see him, piece by piece.

And you love every one.

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

It’s a late Sunday morning when you finally see his full skin.

You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, folding laundry in the soft buzz of summer heat, when Baby walks in shirtless. Not just shirtless—bare-chested, relaxed, no hoodie, no long sleeves, no effort to hide.

Lilac from throat to waist. Cracked-glass markings running down his ribs. Collarbones like amethyst under sunlight.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over with a pile of socks in his hands and flops down beside you like it’s nothing.

But you can feel the quiet tension under his casual movements. The way he pretends not to be watching your reaction from the corner of his eye.

You lean in and kiss his shoulder.

“Still you,” you whisper. “Always you.”

This time, he doesn’t hide the way his hands shake for a second before he wraps his arms around you. Doesn’t hide when he exhales into your hair and says, raw and real:

“Thanks for waiting.”

You press your face against his neck. His skin is warm. Familiar. Yours.

“I wasn’t waiting,” you whisper back. “I was just walking with you.”

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

It becomes routine after that.

Claws click gently against his phone as he texts. You catch him half-shifted in the kitchen, markings crawling up his neck like vines. Sometimes his golden eyes glow when he’s laughing—full and bright and unbothered.

He doesn’t hide anymore.

You still remember the version of him from your first few dates—the hoodie up to his knuckles, that too-cool-for-school shrug, the shadows that followed him when he thought you weren’t looking. This Baby feels lighter. Not different. Just unburdened.

You don’t ask anymore.

He shows you because he wants to now.

And one night, curled up together under a blanket that’s too warm for summer but perfect for hiding in, he tilts your chin up and rests his forehead against yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“You—you’re not scared of me, right?”

Your heart tugs.

“Never.”

He nods once. Then slowly, carefully, he pulls off the last barrier: a glamour spell that softened his features. The change is subtle but stunning—his smile sharper, teeth a little longer, eyes glowing gold with slit pupils.

It hits you that this is the first time he’s let you see him like this—unguarded, spell-less, fully himself.

You press your forehead to his, breath warm between you.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He bites his lip. His claws flex once at your waist. Then, finally, he relaxes—melting into your arms like he was always meant to fit there.

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

Little by little, he let you in.

And now, there’s nothing he hides.

Not his markings, not his claws, not the fire in his eyes.

Not his heart, either.

And that’s the part you love most of all.

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Thank you for the request! This one was paw-sitively adorable. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Neko!Reader

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🧿 Jinu

You were trying to be discreet.

It wasn’t easy, though—especially when Jinu entered the room and your ears perked straight up like they had a mind of their own.

He froze mid-step.

"...Was that... a twitch?"

You sighed and rubbed your temple. “They do that sometimes. Instinct. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jinu blinked. “I thought you were wearing, like... cosplay.”

“I’m not.”

He blinked again, slower this time. Then his brain caught up and he practically leapt behind the kitchen counter.

"Wait. You're part what?"

“Neko. Half,” you admitted, flicking your tail idly. “It’s in the family. My mom’s side. It’s not that weird.”

“Oh my god,” Jinu muttered. “That explains so much. Like the time I caught you eating a raw egg with rice and you hissed when I asked if you wanted ketchup—”

“That’s normal,” you argued.

“Not the hissing!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re scared of a little tail and some teeth?”

“No!” he yelped, straightening up. “I'm not judging! I just—I need to recalibrate my worldview! Give me like, five minutes. Maybe ten.”

You tilted your head at him and let out a slow, challenging purr.

“…Make it fifteen,” Jinu said faintly, ears turning red. “I’m gonna have to rewatch that cat documentary.”

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

💪 Abby

You were curled on the couch with your tail wrapped neatly around your legs, twitching now and then like you were dreaming even while awake.

Abby peeked over from the kitchen, mid-snack.

“…You okay, kitty?”

“I’m fine,” you murmured sleepily.

He padded over, plopped onto the floor in front of you, and propped his chin on the edge of the couch. “You look like my cat used to when she wanted to curl up on someone’s chest.”

You gave him a slow, deliberate blink. “Maybe I do.”

Abby grinned wide and warm. “Well, lucky me.”

He tugged at your wrist. “Come here, then. You want the lap or the full bear hug?”

You hesitated. “You’re not weirded out by the tail?”

“Nah. I think it’s cute. Plus you flick it like a mood ring.”

You gave a startled little trill-laugh, and he lit up.

“There it is again! You do make little noises!”

“Abby—”

“Wait, do you knead blankets? Like this?” He mimed a cat pawing the air. “Oh my god, can I give you catnip tea? Would that work? Is that offensive?”

You collapsed against him, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “Stop. Please.”

But he just wrapped you up in his arms, strong and easy.

“I’m serious, though,” he said. “If you ever wanna curl up somewhere safe, I got you.”

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📚 Mystery

Mystery was doing his usual: lurking in shadows, pretending he wasn’t watching you. But today, you were on the rooftop railing, tail twitching behind you as you leaned into the breeze.

His gaze dropped once, then again.

“…It moved.”

You turned to look at him. “Yeah, it’s part of me. I don’t control it all the time.”

He studied it like it was alive. “It follows me.”

“It follows movement,” you explained. “And you do teleport in and out of the dark like a suspicious fly.”

He didn’t respond—just kept watching your tail with narrowed eyes.

Then he stepped closer and slowly reached out.

You turned crimson. “If you touch it, I will bite you.”

Mystery paused.

“…Would that be the worst thing?”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you flirting with me or testing if I have rabies?”

“I’m gathering data,” he said simply, crouching to meet your eye level.

You swatted him with your tail. “Creep.”

He caught it, just for a second. “Soft,” he murmured. “Warm.”

Then he let go.

You looked away, ears flattened in embarrassment.

From behind you, he said in a softer voice, “I think it suits you.”

You pretended not to hear—but your tail curled at the tip.

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

💋 Romance

Romance caught you halfway through pulling a hoodie up to hide your ears.

“Whoa, whoa, stop.” He grabbed your wrist with one hand and plucked the hood back down with the other. “What are you doing?!”

“…Covering them?”

“But why?!” He looked genuinely offended. “They’re adorable. I’ve been waiting for the right time to ask about them, but this—this is slander to the aesthetic.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s... cute?”

“I think it’s criminal that you’ve been hiding them from me this whole time,” he said dramatically. “Do they wiggle? Wait—do they flatten when you’re mad? Are they sensitive? Oh my god, is the tail prehensile?”

You flicked it across his chest in warning. “Back off.”

He gasped. “Whipped.” He clutched his chest. “You whipped me.”

“I grazed you.”

“And I will never recover.”

You started walking off but he chased after you.

“Wait, let me style your ears like accessories! I can make a whole neko-chic outfit for you. Little bows—”

“No bows.”

“Matching eyeliner?”

“…Maybe.”

He grinned like a cat who caught a bigger cat. “See? That’s the spirit.”

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

🔥 Baby

You yawned wide and stretched your arms over your head, tail flicking behind you lazily. Baby, sitting on the floor near your legs, eyed you like you’d just dropped a plot twist.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re not fully human,” he said smugly. “I felt it. I knew there was something weird when I saw you land on all fours that one time.”

You shrugged. “I told you I did gymnastics.”

“No. You pounced. There’s a difference.”

You narrowed your eyes, then smirked. “So what? You scared?”

“No. I’m just annoyed it took me this long to confirm it.”

Baby leaned back on his hands. “You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“I’ve been calling you ‘kitten’ as a joke. Now I’m gonna keep doing it, but mean it.”

You groaned. “You are the worst.”

“You like it.”

“I’ll bite you.”

“Hot.”

You whipped your tail at him, annoyed—but he caught it in one hand and smirked.

“That all you got?” he teased, voice low.

You yanked it back, ears burning.

“I’m just saying,” he added casually, “if you ever feel like curling up somewhere warm… I run hot.”

You didn’t respond, but your tail gave a single flick toward him as you walked away.

His grin widened.

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Requested by: 🃏 anon

Note: I left the costume choices intentionally vague so everyone can imagine them as whoever they want 💕

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Dick Grayson 

Dick is leaning against the counter when you walk out of the bedroom.

He looks up, already smiling—then pauses.

“…Oh.”

You’re wearing the jacket, the wig pushed back just enough to show your face, posture relaxed in a way that feels natural. The costume fits you like it was meant to.

“You’re staring,” you say.

He blinks, then laughs. “Sorry. I just—wow.”

You tilt your head. “Too much?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Actually… kind of perfect.”

You gesture toward the other half of the costume laid out on the bed. The skirt. The wig. The boots.

“So,” you say. “You’re wearing that.”

Dick follows your gaze. His eyebrows lift slowly. “Ohhh. I see what’s happening.”

You cross your arms. “I’m being the guy.”

A beat. Then he grins—wide, delighted, already imagining it. “Okay, but only if I get to be dramatic about it.”

You laugh as he grabs the wig, holding it up to his head. “You realize I’m going to absolutely commit to this.”

“That’s why I asked you,” you say.

Later, when he’s fully dressed—skirt swishing, makeup light but deliberate—he twirls once in the living room, striking a pose.

“Well?” he asks.

You look at him. Really look.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

His smile softens. He steps closer, fingers hooking into your jacket. “Guess that makes us a very confusing couple.”

You lean in, forehead to forehead. “Perfect.”

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

Jason Todd

Jason knows something’s up the second you won’t meet his eyes.

“What,” he says flatly. “Did you break something.”

“No,” you reply. “I just… have an idea.”

That’s never good.

You show him the reference photo on your phone. Then the costumes laid out on the bed.

He stares.

Then slowly looks back at you.

“You’re joking.”

You shake your head. “I’m being the guy.”

Jason exhales through his nose. “Absolutely not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jason.”

“Babe,” he says, rubbing his face. “I am not wearing a skirt.”

“You’ve worn worse,” you counter.

Silence.

“…That was different.”

But later—much later—you catch him in the mirror, tugging on the costume with a scowl. It fits better than either of you expected. He refuses to look at himself too long.

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” he warns.

You don’t. You just step closer, adjust a strap, fix a loose strand of the wig.

“You look good,” you say honestly.

He freezes. Then mutters, “Yeah, well. You better look convincing.”

You smirk. “I do.”

At the party, Jason sticks close to you the entire time, arm hooked around your waist, daring anyone to comment.

“If anyone says anything,” he murmurs in your ear, “I’m stealing their candy.”

You grin. “Protective girlfriend?”

“Shut up.”

But he doesn’t let go.

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

Tim Drake 

Tim agrees suspiciously fast.

“I mean,” he says, scrolling through costume references, “there’s no rule that says gender alignment has to match character roles.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “You’d pull it off better.”

You smile. “And you’re okay being—”

“The girl?” He adjusts his glasses. “Yeah. I’ve cross-dressed before.”

That checks out.

Later, he sits on the edge of the bed, wig half-on, eyeliner slightly uneven. He’s focused, serious, like he’s cracking a code.

“Can you help with this part?” he asks.

You step closer, fingers gentle as you fix the wig, adjust the collar. He looks up at you, eyes warm, trusting.

“This is kind of fun,” he admits quietly.

“You look cute.”

He flushes immediately. “Don’t say it like that.”

At the party, people do double takes. Tim notices everything—every glance, every whisper—but he doesn’t tense. He just slips his hand into yours.

 “You look very handsome" he murmurs.

“And you?”

He smiles. “Comfortable.”

Later, when you lean against him on the couch, he rests his head on your shoulder without thinking.

“Next year,” he says, “we should do this again.”

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

Damian Wayne

“No.”

You barely finish explaining before Damian shuts it down.

“I will not be the girl.”

You smile sweetly. “You’ll survive.”

He glares at the costume like it personally insulted him. “This is humiliating.”

“You agreed to couples costumes.”

“Yes. Not this.”

But eventually—after Alfred intervenes—Damian stands rigid in the mirror, fully dressed, arms crossed.

“I look ridiculous,” he says.

You step behind him, adjusting the outfit. “You look fierce.”

He scowls. “…Acceptable.”

At the event, Damian stays close, chin high, daring anyone to laugh. No one does.

“You are… compelling,” he admits later, grudgingly. “As the male lead.”

You grin. “High praise.”

He sniffs. “Do not get used to this.”

But when you reach for his hand, he takes it without hesitation.

Just don’t tell anyone.

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

The Robins x reader where reader is a scare actor, but their makeup sends the boys into a panic attack or something because they really look dead, they've seen too many people they care about dead already

just a thought, 🃏

Thank you for the request! I feel like this is the perfect one to start writing for these boys lmao. Here you go!💌

🦇Batboys x Reader — Scared Deathless

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Dick Grayson

It’s supposed to be fun; haunted houses and flashing lights, the scent of fake fog and popcorn. But when Dick turns the corner and sees you, everything inside him stops.

You’re lying still under the strobe lights, the flicker painting your face pale and motionless. The bloodless tone of your skin, the glaze over your eyes—it’s all too perfect, too real. His brain doesn’t register latex or makeup; it goes somewhere darker, older.

He can’t breathe. His knees nearly buckle.

“—hey,” he chokes, voice cracking. “No, no, no, you—” He’s already vaulting the low barrier meant to separate guests from actors, hands trembling as he drops beside you. “You’re not— You can’t—”

A staff member tries to stop him, but he doesn’t hear. His hands are cold on your cheek as he touches your face, desperate for warmth, for pulse, for anything that proves this isn’t another loss. His heartbeat pounds loud in his ears.

When your eyes flutter and you sit up — perfectly in character — it hits him like a gunshot. “Boo,” you whisper, voice pitched eerie.

And then you see his face. Not startled. Broken.

“Dick?” you breathe, the character fading away instantly. “Oh my god, it’s just— it’s just makeup, it’s fake—”

He steps back like you’re both ghosts. The lights flash again, catching the wetness on his cheeks.

The air is too thick, the noise too much. He can’t remember the exit, can’t even feel his own legs moving until he’s outside.

Later, you find him sitting on the curb, elbows on his knees, eyes still wide and wet. He’s pale under the streetlamp, hair damp with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, crouching beside him, gently touching his shoulder. “I didn’t think—”

He exhales shakily and finally meets your eyes. “You looked gone,” he says softly, voice cracking. “And I’ve already seen that to many times.”

You wrap your arms around him, and he clings to you like a second chance. His forehead presses against your neck, the faint tremor in his hands the only sign of how close he came to breaking.

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

Jason Todd

Jason’s used to horror—the real kind, the kind that doesn’t fade when the lights come on. Haunted houses are a joke compared to Gotham. But this one? This one makes his chest seize.

The second he spots you—your body sprawled across the fake morgue table, the name tag half-torn, makeup painting every scar you’ve ever earned back into you—he freezes.

No, not makeup. His brain won’t let him think that. He sees what it used to see: cold marble, silence, the sterile scent of death. His vision narrows, heart stuttering violently.

His gun’s gone before he even realizes he’s pulled it, the world shrinking to just you. “Don’t do this,” he mutters under his breath, throat raw. “Not again.”

You twitch, perfectly rehearsed, and the small movement snaps the fragile thread holding him together. He stumbles forward, shaking. “Stop. Just stop. Please.”

Your expression changes — recognition breaking through the act. “Jay?” you whisper, sitting up.

The word hits him like resurrection. His eyes go wide. The air in his lungs finally moves. “Holy—” He drops the gun, both hands gripping his hair. “Jesus, I thought— I thought I was back there—”

His voice cracks; he can’t finish the sentence. Every muscle in his body shakes, a low, half-laughed, half-sobbing sound escaping him. The other actors in the room freeze, unsure if this is part of the show.

You’re already climbing off the table, crossing the space between you. His jacket smells faintly of smoke when you grab him, grounding him. “It’s me,” you murmur, hand pressed flat over his heart. “I’m right here.”

Later, outside, Jason paces the sidewalk while you wipe off your makeup. His boots scuff the pavement, restless, heavy. When you step close, he flinches—then immediately apologizes.

You press his hand to your still-beating heart. “See? Not dead.”

He nods, jaw tight, swallowing emotion. “Yeah,” he says roughly. “Don’t ever look that dead again, sweetheart. Not for anyone.”

He tries to smirk afterward, to make it into a joke. It doesn’t quite land. His hand stays in yours until you both stop shaking.

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

Tim Drake

Tim’s exhausted—half-caffeine, half paranoia, the walking embodiment of “it’s fine.” He didn’t even want to come here, but you insisted. He trusts you, always has.

So when he turns a corner and finds you lying there, the breath just… leaves him.

It’s surgical, the precision of your makeup. The pale tone of your skin, the hollowing around your eyes — it’s not exaggerated horror. It’s accurate. Too accurate.

His vision fractures. The world tunnels into static. He remembers every morgue photo he’s ever cataloged, every time he’s seen someone he loves in a cold room they never left.

“No,” he whispers, stumbling forward. “No, you wouldn’t—you can’t—” His hands shake so badly he can’t even reach for you at first. The light flickers again, and you twitch, perfectly rehearsed, and he nearly vomits.

It’s a full-body reaction—his breath short, his throat burning, eyes wide and unblinking. He can feel the edges of panic clawing in, his brain trying to rationalize it away, to analyze, to detach. But it doesn’t work. Not when it’s you.

“Tim,” you say, voice soft, dropping character as soon as you see him.

His lip trembles, and for a second he looks like a kid again—the one who lost too much too young. “You— you can’t look like that,” he gets out, barely audible. “I can’t—”

You pull him into a hug, grease paint smearing against his shoulder. He doesn’t care. He clings like you’re real, and for a moment, that’s all he needs.

He stays like that longer than he should, shaking, grounding himself on your warmth. When he finally lets go, it’s slow, like he’s testing that you’ll stay.

Later, you sit together outside, sharing a soda in silence. The air’s cold, quiet.

He studies your clean face, every trace of the illusion gone. “You know what’s crazy?” he murmurs. “Even now, my brain keeps checking to make sure you’re breathing.”

You lace your fingers through his. “Then keep checking,” you say gently. “I’m right here.”

He nods, and this time, he actually smiles—small, tired, but real.

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

Damian Wayne

He prides himself on control—on discipline. Fear is a weakness, and weakness is not tolerated. But the second he sees you, that control vanishes.

You’re slumped against the wall, your body unnaturally still, makeup draining the warmth from your skin. The detail is exact—the shadows under your eyes, the faint blue at your lips. He doesn’t see fiction. He sees loss.

He stands frozen, sword-hand twitching like he could strike at whatever dared do this to you. “No,” he breathes, voice small, almost childlike. “No, no, not them too.”

The world tilts. His vision fractures into the same red haze he saw when his father died, when Jason, when Alfred—

“Damian!” you call, snapping him back. He stares as you rise, alive and confused, the illusion cracking with every movement.

“Beloved,” he manages, stepping forward. “You—why would you—” His breath shudders out, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t finish the question. He just grabs you, pulling you in so hard you lose balance.

Your hand curls against the back of his neck. “It’s just a costume,” you whisper against his shoulder. “I promise.”

He trembles, every muscle locked as he holds you. “It was too real,” he says, voice muffled. “You were cold. You—you didn’t move.”

Outside, Damian sits with his back against the wall, eyes down, expression unreadable. You sit beside him, letting the silence hold. His hand hovers near yours but doesn’t quite touch, restrained even now.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits finally, voice barely a whisper. “And I wouldn't survive that.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, heart steady against his arm. “You won’t have to,” you murmur.

For once, he lets the quiet comfort stay. When he finally looks at you again, it’s softer—a silent vow that no costume, no illusion, will ever catch him unguarded like that again.

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May I request a one-shot with Baby, where the reader(who's part of Huntrix) gets severely injured during a mission and left behind due to(idk) reasons

Like, enemies to lovers kind of trope

...I have a vision... that I may or may not have conjured at 5 am while listening to music...-

- 🦇anon

Thank you for the request! I had an absolute blast writing this. Here you go!💌

Kindling Sparks 

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, you’re left behind—wounded, alone, and convinced no one’s coming back. But Baby shows up, just as frustrating and smug as ever, dragging tension and fire in his wake.

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The rain had long since stopped, but the blood hadn’t.

You blinked blearily up at the ruined temple ceiling, wondering if the pounding in your skull was from the collapse or your body trying to give up on you.

Somewhere off in the distance, the comms crackled uselessly.

“Huntrix regroup at point Gamma. Gamma, copy?”

Static. Then silence.

You tried to sit up and failed. Your ribs burned, and your leg wouldn’t move—not crushed, but definitely broken. All that training, and what got you was a splintered floorboard and a missed leap.

You laughed bitterly to yourself. “What a joke.”

The mission had been a setup from the start—too many demons, not enough backup. Your team had split to draw attention, and Huntrix had trusted that everyone would make it back.

Only you didn’t.

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There was movement at the edge of the broken hall—crunch of gravel, faint hiss of steam rising from scorched ground. You tensed, hand fumbling toward your dagger.

But then you saw the silhouette.

Not just a demon.

Worse.

Him.

“Seriously?” you rasped. “You?”

Baby stepped into the fractured light, blood on his knuckles and soot on his shirt. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” You leaned back on your elbows, trying not to pass out. “You here to gloat or kick me while I’m down?”

He didn't answer right away. Just stared.

Then: “The others left already.”

“I figured,” you muttered. “Guess they didn’t notice I was missing.”

His jaw tightened, something unreadable in his eyes. “Or they figured you were already dead.”

That stung more than it should’ve.

You looked away. “Why are you here, Baby? Go back to your little demon frat. I don’t need saving.”

“I’m not here to save you,” he snapped. “I’m here to make sure you don’t turn into demon bait and mess up the ecosystem.”

You gave him a flat look. “Touching.”

He crouched beside you anyway. His hand hovered over your thigh. “Bone’s not through the skin, but it’s close.”

“Wait—don’t touch—!”

Your body jolted as pressure flared over the injury. His touch was rough but focused—digging through pain, bracing the break, binding it fast with whatever strips he had. It wasn’t healing, not really. But it was enough to hold you together.

You bit down on your own scream and dug your nails into the dirt. “You—son of a bitch—”

He exhaled. “There. You’ll still need a splint, but now you won’t bleed out like an idiot.”

You slumped back, breathing hard. “Don’t expect a thank-you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t want one.”

But he stayed. Even after you closed your eyes. Even after the pain swallowed everything else.

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When you came to again, it was darker, quieter. A makeshift fire glowed a few feet away, tucked carefully into a circle of broken stone. It cast long shadows on the walls, flickering like ghosts.

You blinked and turned your head.

Baby was still there.

Sitting a few feet away with his knees drawn up, absentmindedly clicking a dented lighter open and shut—open, flick, click, shut. Over and over like a nervous habit.

“Didn’t know demons could make campfires,” you rasped.

“Didn’t know hunters could bleed that much and still talk shit,” he muttered.

You let out a weak scoff. “Yeah? Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t bite back. Just stood and walked over, holding out a cracked water bottle. You eyed it suspiciously.

“Not poisoned,” he said. “I’d use something more creative if I wanted you dead.”

“Oh good,” you muttered, taking it and sipping. “Did you rehearse that line or are you just naturally insufferable?”

Baby crouched beside you again. “Are you always like this?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Like what?”

“Hostile. Ungrateful. Pissy.”

You bared your teeth in something that might’ve passed for a grin. “Only around you.”

“Funny,” he muttered. “I’m the only reason you’re not demon chow right now.”

You stared at him. “You want a medal? A sticker? ‘I helped the wounded girl and only insulted her five times’?”

He stared back, firelight flickering across his face, eyes sharp as ever. “No. I want you to stop acting like I left you behind.”

Your breath caught.

He went quiet too. Then: “I was in the area. I saw the temple collapsing. You think I wouldn’t come check?”

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

The silence stretched.

Baby stood and dragged over a beam of wood, setting it like a brace next to your leg. “Hold still.”

“I swear, if you burn me—”

“I won’t,” he said. His voice was lower now. Less sharp. “Let me.”

You didn’t stop him.

He re-wrapped the leg with surprisingly competent hands, using your torn sleeve as another makeshift binding. When he was done, he leaned back with a grunt and looked away.

“Thanks,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His brows shot up. “What was that?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you snapped, face hot. “It’s dark. You misheard me.”

Baby laughed—actual, full-on laughed. It was low and mean and completely delighted.

“Wow,” he said. “You really can’t stand me, huh?”

You groaned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But something in the air had changed—less acidic, more smoke and tension and that awful charged awareness. You were very aware of his knees brushing yours. His shadow overlapping yours in the firelight.

You looked away first.

He didn’t.

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You woke up at dawn to the sound of something cracking.

“Relax,” Baby muttered before you could grab your dagger. “It’s just wood. Fire’s out.”

You shifted. The stiffness in your leg was worse. Everything ached like you’d been beaten with a truck and then run over for good measure.

But he was still there. Sitting near the ashes, picking absentmindedly at the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours.”

“You could’ve left.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I didn’t.”

You swallowed and looked away.

He stood without a word and held out a hand. "Come on, let’s get out of here."

The walk out of the ruins was slow, painful, and full of bickering.

“You’re limping wrong,” he said.

“I’m limping because I have a broken leg.”

“And somehow still dramatic about it.”

You hissed through your teeth and elbowed him in the ribs. “And you’re smug about it!”

He laughed again—because of course he did—and you hated the way it made your chest twist.

You hated the way he kept walking at your pace, never ahead.

You hated how he offered you his arm without a word when the incline got steep.

You hated how steady he was.

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You both crested the final ridge around midday, the trees opening up to a hazy view of the city skyline in the distance. Safety. Contact range. Signal bars.

You let out a long breath, pain and tension and adrenaline finally giving way to something you weren’t sure you could name.

You turned to him. “This doesn’t change anything, you know.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I still don’t like you.”

He took a step closer, tension sharp in his eyes like a match about to strike. “Sure.”

“And we’re not friends.”

“Definitely not.”

“And if you ever tell anyone I needed help—”

He cut you off.

With a kiss.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was like everything else with Baby—hot, biting, stubborn as hell. His mouth was rough with heat and grit and frustration and god, you hated him.

You kissed him back anyway.

Because he came back for you.

Because he stayed.

Because deep down you knew the others had left you thinking you wouldn’t make it—but not him.

When he pulled away, both of you were breathless, close enough to touch foreheads if you wanted.

You didn’t pull back.

He didn’t either.

“…Still hate you,” you murmured.

His lips curved. “Sure you do.”

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M-List

Reader being freaky? creative liberty is all yours.

😛😛

-🥀

Thank you for the request! Obviously not going all the way there, but I’m sure your imagination will do just fine 😏 Here you go! 💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader — Dangerous Words

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🧿 Jinu 

Rain tapped the roof in steady rhythm, wipers swishing back and forth. 

Jinu drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw set in his usual concentration. 

The city lights spilled across his face in passing waves, highlighting the sharp line of his cheekbone.

You leaned back, lips curving. “Do you know what I was just thinking about?”

“Mm?” His eyes stayed on the road.

“Your hands.” You reached over, letting your fingers trail along his forearm before slipping down to rest lightly on his thigh. “They look so steady on the wheel… I can’t stop picturing what they’d feel like if—”

“Yah.” His voice cracked low, a warning, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

You smirked. “What? I’m just talking.”

“Not like that.” He cut a glance at you, ears flushed crimson, but he didn’t move your hand. His thigh flexed beneath your touch when you gave the faintest squeeze.

The light ahead turned red. Jinu shifted gears, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You’re trying to kill me,” he muttered.

“Not kill you,” you said sweetly, leaning close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Just distract you.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rain. 

Then, when the light turned green, Jinu pressed the accelerator harder than necessary. “You’re trouble,” he said softly, though the corner of his mouth curved up. 

And still, your hand stayed where it was — his silence permission enough.

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💪 Abby 

The gym echoed with clinks of metal and the low hum of machines. 

Abby was in his element — sweat slicking his temples, biceps flexing as he pushed through another set on the bench press. 

You spotted him from across the room, towel draped over your shoulder.

“You know,” you said casually, crouching at his side, “you make the most distracting noises when you lift.”

He huffed, bar lowering to his chest. “Distracting?”

“Mm-hm. Like… someone should check if you’re actually working out or auditioning for something else.”

His grin faltered mid-rep. “Wait—are you saying—”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Sounds kind of like you’d sound in bed.”

The bar nearly clanged against the rack. Abby scrambled it up with a startled laugh, cheeks flaming. “You can’t just say stuff like that when I’m under two hundred pounds of steel, babe.”

You smirked, handing him the water bottle. “Guess I should test my theory later.”

He coughed into his drink, sputtering. “You’re—unbelievable.”

“Flattered.”

His chest was still rising fast, not from the set but from your words. 

Finally, he wiped his face with the towel and leaned closer, voice low. “Fine. You win. But when I prove you right, don’t act surprised.”

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📚 Mystery 

The library was too quiet, too proper, too full of watchful silence. 

Mystery sat opposite you, hood drawn, flipping a page with lazy precision. 

His bangs cast shadows across his face, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch whenever you shifted in your chair.

Leaning forward, you rested your chin on your hand and whispered, “Do you know what I’d rather be doing than reading right now?”

His eyes flicked up, golden in the dim light. “…No.”

“Something that’d get us kicked out of here fast.”

A pause. He blinked once, then slowly leaned back, gaze locked on yours. “…Say it quieter.”

You did — breathy, barely audible, painting the words with just enough detail to make his ears pink under his hair. 

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even move. 

Just stared, frozen, as though committing each syllable to memory.

When you leaned back, grinning smugly, he exhaled through his nose, shutting the book in front of him. “You’re… dangerous.”

“Am I?”

“…Yes,” he said simply, pushing the book aside. His knee brushed yours under the table and didn’t move away. Then, softer: “…Later. I’ll hold you to that.”

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💋 Romance 

The café buzzed with soft chatter and the clink of porcelain cups. 

Romance sat across from you, stirring sugar into his latte with a flourish like he was hosting a cooking show. 

His hair caught the light, gleaming, and you couldn’t resist leaning forward on your elbows.

“Do you ever think about how easy it’d be to ruin you right here?”

His spoon froze mid-stir. “...Excuse me?”

“Table’s small. People close. All I’d have to do is lean across and—” You whispered the rest, voice low enough that only he could hear.

His eyes widened, mouth parting. 

A second later, he barked a laugh, covering it with his hand like he hadn’t just nearly spat latte foam. “You cannot just say that in public!”

“Why not? You love drama.”

“I love controlled drama,” he hissed, glancing around. “Not— not whatever this is.”

You smirked, tracing the rim of your cup. “Then admit you’re flustered.”

He leaned closer, smile curving sly now. “Flustered? No. Absolutely not.” But his foot tapped anxiously against yours under the table, and when you held his gaze, his ears burned pink.

“Adorable,” you teased.

“Dangerous,” he shot back — though his grin gave him away.

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🔥 Baby 

Evening traffic pressed in all around — neon signs flashing, people weaving past in noisy currents. 

Baby walked at your side, hood pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets.

You brushed against him deliberately, leaning just enough for your lips to hover by his ear. “If I told you exactly what I want to do to you tonight, right here, would you be able to keep walking?”

His stride faltered. “...What?”

You repeated it, softer, painting it in sharper detail this time.

Baby’s jaw clenched, eyes darting sideways. 

He kept walking, faster now, but his ears were a deep shade of red. “You’re insane,” he muttered, voice tight.

“You didn’t say no.”

He shot you a look, quick and sharp, before dragging you into the shadow of a shop awning. 

His hand pressed flat against the wall beside your head, his other curling lightly at your hip. “…Say it again,” he growled under the noise of the crowd.

You smiled, obliging.

This time, his eyes shut briefly, lashes lowering as he breathed out hard. “…You’re not making it home untouched if you keep that up.”

And from the way his hand lingered, he meant it.

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🐉

Thank you for the request! I was laughing so hard when writing this. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader — Snap, Crackle, What?!

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🧿 Jinu

It starts with your knuckles. Jinu doesn’t even look up from the laptop as you flex your fingers and pop-pop-pop. Normal. Background noise. He’s used to it.

But then you twist at the waist and crrrk—crk-crk-crk echoes through the room like someone just stepped on a bag of dry twigs. Jinu freezes mid-sentence, cursor blinking on his half-finished search bar entry.

Slowly, he looks over the top of the screen. “…Was that your spine?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching your arms overhead with a satisfied sigh. “Feels so good.”

“Good?” His voice hikes an octave. He sets the laptop down carefully, as though sudden movement might finish you off. “Your bones just made… noise. Multiple noises.”

“They’re joints,” you correct casually. “Perfectly normal.”

He blinks. “No. No, that sounded like when someone drops a chair down the stairs. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”

To prove your point, you roll your shoulders until they click-click-click. Jinu slaps his hands over his ears. “Stop, stop, stop! Please—my human anatomy charts did not prepare me for this.”

You laugh, reaching for him. “Want me to crack your back?”

“Absolutely not!” He jerks away, clutching the plush blue tiger on the couch like a shield. His eyes are wide, mouth somewhere between a grimace and awe. “…You’re not human. You can’t be. Humans aren’t supposed to bend until they sound like broken furniture.”

Still, when you curl back onto the sofa beside him, he eyes you like a scientist in denial — horrified but fascinated, whispering under his breath, “How are you alive…?”

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💪 Abby

The first time you crack your hip in front of him, Abby drops his dumbbell.

You were just stretching — arms overhead, leaning to one side — when a sharp pop ricocheted through the living room. Abby’s head snapped around so fast you thought his neck might go next.

“…What the hell was that?”

“My hip.” You straighten up, roll your pelvis, and it pops again. Relief floods your expression. “Oh, that’s better.”

His jaw drops. “Your hip?”

“Yeah. Perfectly normal.” You bend forward, palms brushing the floor, and crrrrk! your spine obliges with a chorus of crunches.

Abby staggers back a step like he just witnessed a crime. “That’s not normal, that’s possession! Did something crawl into your bones? Do we need a priest?”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe, but he’s dead serious — already scanning the room like he might actually call someone.

“Abby, no, I swear—it’s just pressure release.”

He narrows his eyes. “Pressure release sounds like what demons say before they explode.”

To prove your point, you crack your knuckles one by one. Pop, pop, pop. He flinches at each like they’re gunshots.

Finally, he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t believe my partner’s a glowstick. You’re just—snapping in half every time you move.”

You step closer, grin wicked. “Want me to crack your back?”

He bolts upright, waving his hands. “NOPE. I like my bones where they are, thanks.” But when you sit on the couch, he hovers protectively nearby anyway, muttering, “Swear to god, one day you’re just gonna snap and fold in half, and I’ll be the one explaining it to the ER.”

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📚 Mystery

The living room is quiet. You’re curled up with a blanket, he’s flipping through a battered paperback. Calm, domestic silence.

Then you stretch.

CRK-CRRK-CRK.

Mystery’s head tilts slowly, like an owl, eyes disappearing beneath his bangs. “…The hell was that?”

“My back.” You sigh, relaxed, rotating your shoulders until another click-click punctuates the air.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just watches. “…You sure you’re not dying?”

“Positive.”

“…Sounded like dying.”

You laugh, bending your knee until your hip gives a sharp pop. Mystery flinches. “Stop doing that!”

“It feels good!”

“That’s what people say before addiction.” He shuts his book, leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Humans aren’t supposed to make… sound effects. You shouldn’t be walking around sounding like a xylophone.”

You wiggle your fingers at him, deliberately cracking each knuckle. He makes a noise halfway between a groan and a growl, snatching up a pillow and chucking it at your head. “Gross.”

“Not gross. Just joints moving.”

“Yeah, joints moving like tectonic plates.” He sinks lower on the couch, muttering under his breath. “…One day you’ll sneeze and your whole skeleton’s gonna fall out.”

When you lean closer, offering, “Want me to crack your back?” his entire body stiffens. “…Touch me and I vanish.”

But later, when you roll your shoulders and sigh again, he watches with reluctant fascination, like he can’t decide whether you’re horrifying or invincible.

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💋 Romance

It happens while you’re brushing your teeth together. You lean to spit, twist your neck to the side, and crrk-crrk goes your spine.

Romance drops his toothbrush. Foam dribbles down his chin. “Darling—your neck!”

“What about it?”

“It just made a noise! A horrible noise! Like… like someone stepping on a violin!”

You snort, rinse your mouth, and roll your shoulders. Click-click. “Feels good.”

“Feels good?” His hand flies to his chest like he’s personally wounded. “Your bones are crying out for help, and you call it good?”

“They’re not bones. It’s just air in the joints.”

Romance paces the bathroom, dramatic even in panic, one hand in his hair. “No, no, this isn’t right. Humans are supposed to sigh or yawn, not… rattle like maracas!”

You laugh, bend sideways, and your hip pops. He gasps, clutching the counter for support. “How are you still standing?!”

“It’s normal,” you assure him. “People do this all the time.”

“Not people I know!” He drops theatrically to one knee in front of you, gripping your hands. “Promise me you’ll live to see tomorrow. Promise me your skeleton won’t abandon you in the night.”

You grin, leaning down. “Want me to crack your back?”

He recoils instantly. “Absolutely not! My body is a temple!” Then, quieter, eyes darting down your frame: “…Though if you must practice, I suppose I’ll allow supervision.”

Still, for the rest of the night, every time you so much as flex a finger, he winces like you’re seconds from shattering.

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🔥 Baby

Baby hears the first pop and thinks it’s your chair. The second, your phone case. By the third crrk-crrk-crk of your spine, his eyes cut sharply to you.

“What the hell was that?”

“My back.” You stretch your arms overhead, twisting until your hip pops.

He stares, face flat. “…No.”

“Yes.”

“You just broke your ass.”

“I did not.”

“You did! I heard it!” He sits forward on the couch, pointing accusingly. “Humans aren’t supposed to make snap sounds. You’re defective.”

“I’m not defective, it’s normal.” You roll your wrist until it clicks.

His expression twists into outright horror. “…That’s not normal, that’s bones begging for mercy.”

You laugh so hard you nearly fall off the couch, which only makes your knee pop as you adjust. Baby throws his hands in the air. “See? Even gravity’s cracking you in half!”

“Want me to crack your back?” you tease.

His eyes narrow. “…You touch me, you die.”

But when you lean back, stretching again, he mutters under his breath, “Disgusting,” even as his gaze flicks to your joints like he’s cataloging each sound. Later, he sits closer than usual, as if by proximity he might catch you before you actually fall apart.

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