[arachnidseyes]

🕷️ - - - The Spider's Web - - - 🕸️

🕷️ - - - 20's - She/her - this is a writing blog but expect other bullshit as well - Requests: closed - AO3 - - - 🕸️

🕷️ Most Recent - - - 🕸️ BLOOD AND SALT

🕷️ Author's Fave - - - 🕸️ Failed Propositions and False Proposals

🕷️ Fan Fave - - - 🕸️ We're Moving Out [+18]

🕷️ - - - Enjoy! - - - 🕸️

[pastabot]

today is not my birthday

[pastabot]

reblog if your birthday is not today

[arachnidseyes]

Wdym Jon Kent was only created in 2015?!

Wdym there were almost 10 years where Damian existed but not Jon?!? I read Supersons growing up so they've always been so linked to me, I just assumed they were created at around the same time. This is genuinely mind breaking to me.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

Batboys have a crush on reader who they know as a sunshine until they found reader old photo with tattoo and piercings, tounge piercing specifically

Batboys get an awakening after they saw punk style reader

Thinking that it should be spicy if that's alright

I Love your work sm ❤️

“P.U.N.K Girl.”

Batboys x Reader:Ex-punk/goth! reader

2 posts a day?? Who is this. I amaze myself.Wellll this wont last long.I WAS MEANT TO SAY,THANK YOU FOR EVERYONE CHECKING ON ME IN MY REQUEST BOX AND WISHING ME WELL🥲😭THANK YOU💛💛

Bruce Wayne

•Bruce has always known you as kind, patient, and quietly optimistic, so when an old photo of you covered in tattoos, multiple piercings, and a tongue piercing falls out of an album, he genuinely has to stop and look twice.

•He studies the picture for a long moment before looking back at you, clearly trying to reconcile the sweet person standing beside him with the unmistakably punk version in the photo.

“This was you?” he asks calmly, though there’s obvious curiosity in his voice.

You laugh. “A few years ago.”

•Bruce simply nods, but later you catch him glancing at the picture again, admitting quietly, “…It suited you.”

•Licks and sucks at every tattoo you have littered on your body,God help you if you have a nipple piercing.

⸻

Dick Grayson

•Dick finds the photo while helping you unpack, immediately blurting out, “No way, that’s you?” before looking between the picture and your very different style now.

•The tattoos surprise him, but his eyes inevitably land on the tongue piercing, and he goes suspiciously quiet for a second.

“Dick,” you warn.

“I’m thinking respectfully,” he replies, completely failing to sound convincing.

•You roll your eyes while he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ve officially become even more attractive somehow.”

•He gets a tongue piercing himself and watches you through half lidded eyes as you squirm and whine when his tongue drafts along his slit.

Jason Todd

•Jason picks up the old photo expecting something embarrassing and instead finds a version of you dressed head-to-toe in punk clothes with visible tattoos and a tongue piercing.

•He looks at the picture, then at you, then back again before letting out an impressed, “Well… didn’t expect that.”

•When he notices the tongue piercing, his eyebrows lift ever so slightly, and you immediately know exactly what he’s thinking.

“…Don’t,” you say.

• Jason smirks innocently. “I didn’t say a word.” Which is somehow worse.

•You get your tongue re pierced, because you can’t say no to him.He almost came on the spot as your tongue drags along his length and he can feel the small ball of your piercing.

⸻

Tim Drake

•Tim accidentally opens an old folder of photos and pauses when one of you appears looking completely different, with tattoos, piercings, and a tongue piercing that makes him blink twice.

•He quietly zooms in on the picture, processing the information like it’s an unexpected piece of evidence.

“You had a tongue piercing?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

• You groan. “Why does everyone notice that first?”

•Tim smiles into his coffee. “Because it stands out.”

•Convinces you to get your tongue repierced and when you stick out your tongue to show him,He immediately unbuckles his belt.

Nobody slept that night.

⸻

Damian Wayne

•Damian notices an old framed photograph in your home and immediately recognizes you despite the tattoos, piercings, and dramatically different style, though the tongue piercing catches his attention almost instantly.

“I was unaware you once had a tongue piercing,” he remarks with complete composure.

“Past tense,” you reply quickly.

•After a brief pause, Damian says, “Unfortunate.”

•You stare at him in disbelief while the faintest smirk appears on his face, making it painfully obvious he knew exactly how that sounded.

•He has a vivid image of you guys making out and feeling your piercing against his tongue,he clenches his jaw and subtly adjusts the growing tent in his pants.

[arachnidseyes]

Plssss they're all so whipped 😭😭

[chubbybuunyy]

18+ mdni, suggestive themes, spoiler free!

it’s early in the morning, the planet’s sunlight sneaking through the small cracks of the curtains that you not so subtly opened the night before to ensure you both woke up at a decent time. the small camper was still warm with last nights activity—its been kara’s birthday week celebration and almost every night ended with kara’s favorite drink—you.

you groaned softly as you attempted to stretch but the arm that was tightly wrapped around your naked waist wasn’t allowing such an action. “kara” you whispered, yet your words might as well have fell on deaf ears as the woman kept snoring.

“kara!” you said a bit louder.

“hmm” she hummed, her eyes still shut—partly covered with those sunglasses you struggled to get away from her the night before.

“i gotta pee, and let krypto inside” she sighed, turning on her side to give you the room to leave. you quickly took advantage of it before she changed her mind. you slipped on your underwear and a hoodie that was thrown on the ground before completing what you said you’d do.

kara was awake by this point, silently watching as you moved around the camper. you picked up clothes that had been haphazardly thrown, you made coffee, fed krypto and even started to make breakfast for you both.

it all seemed very domestic.

the scene made kara nervous, or at least it did in the beginning.

she was scared to settle down, to allow herself to have something good without the fear of losing it just like she did with her parents and her home. yet she found a new home—one that was in the form of you and her beloved dog.

“where did you get that hoodie?” kara asked as she noticed the symbol that mirrored the one on her suit.

“on earth, they are big fans of you and your cousin” you shrugged. she didn’t respond afterwards just continued watching and you tried your hardest to ignore her gaze but you felt her eyes burning your naked legs.

“i made breakfast” you tried to change the subject, trying to distract her from eye fucking you.

“mhm, i’m looking at breakfast” she smirked, looking you up and down. your breath hitched but you refused to give in—you needed a small break from her super stamina.

“after breakfast supergirl” you teased, purposely swaying your hips as you set the table for breakfast.

oh yeah, kara is definitely not scared of waking up to this every morning for as long as she breathed.

just watched supergirl today, knew i immediately needed to write about her. throughout that whole movie fic idea’s for some of the characters just kept coming to me 😭😭

[arachnidseyes]

No it was not on anon😭 but it was fine fucking poetry 🤌🔥🔥💯

[plagueislost]

painting study with tim (dont look at me like that we’re both at the devils sacrament)

[arachnidseyes]

--- Sorry idk who made this but I found it on pinterest and i have to show u cus i've been thinking ab it all day😭😭

[arachnidseyes]

The middle one is Damian. Reader and Jon could take either honestly, all I know is that Damian is the middle.

[one-step-at-a-time25]

Kara randomly repeating words in her head from English to Kryptonian just so she doesn’t forget them… Kara freaking out when she realizes that she thinks more in English than Kryptonian … Kara practicing writing in Kryptonian so she doesn’t forget…

[thowawayuntilfurthernotice]

Genuinely want to know what James Gunn loved so much about Supergirl’s script that he decided it had to be the second film in the DCU. Because every interview I’ve read with the screenwriter shows that she misunderstood so many elements of the graphic novel, that I’m kind of shocked her script didn’t raise any eyebrows at DC.

Maybe it did and nobody wanted to make a big deal out of it because they trusted Gunn’s judgement or whatever.

It’s mind boggling to me that Gunn not only believed that Supergirl’s cameo at the end of Superman would be more than enough to get audiences hyped for a Supergirl movie. But that getting someone who has zero experience writing films was the perfect way to tackle the writing.

Wouldn’t be surprised if WB panics and decides to fast track a Batman or Wonder Woman movie to make up for Supergirl’s disastrous box office opening.

[truelovevip-deactivated20190324]

being as i am an idiot, and having been one my whole life, i just wanna say that i find it very easy to do nothing, and go nowhere. i eat chocolate late at night in the dark. i stand in the garden also. and i’m often waiting for something to happen. and i’m stupid.

[heartfluttered]

── BOY WONDER, GIRL BLUNDER.

chapter 1: an olive branch. next┊masterlist ┊read on ao3!

pairing: art school!au damian wayne x f!reader. tags: art school!au. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian. ⓘ CW for gun use, description of injury & blood, stalking & violence in the first half. (robin saves you, though!)

summary: you're an art student walking home after a long day of working on your pieces. when you get into trouble, robin saves you. the next day, the stuck–up classmate you've always been jealous of starts looking your way.

Torrents of rain pelt down on your shoulders relentlessly as you brisk through the smog smothered streets. The wet stone tiles beneath your feet are oily black, like the sky above. If the brackish lamplight were any brighter, you’re sure you’d see your terrified face, staring back.

Doom breathes down your nape, its spindly fingers cinching your throat and choking the breath right out of your lungs. It spurs your hurried steps, and your legs strain as they grow wider and wider.

You blearily recall the weather report blaring from the television this morning. It was spot on. It's a cold, rainy night in Gotham. You’re walking home, alone, and you’re dead certain someone’s been following you for the past five minutes.

You’re not sure how close they’ve gotten to you. How far behind you they are. You can’t even see where you’re going through your rain–obscured spectacles, really. You’re just moving on muscle memory and naked fear.

In spite of yourself, you spare a glance over your shoulder. Soupy white smog hazes the horizon. You’re not sure what exactly you were hoping to see, but your heart drops to your stomach nonetheless.

The flaxen light from the lamp posts above flicker tremulously, rapidly, like the heart rabbiting behind your chest.

Why the fuck did I stay after school so late? you lament, though you know exactly why. The reason figuratively and literally weighs down on your shoulders, taking the form of your oversized art portfolio and the 18 by 24 inch newsprint pad within.

The straps of the bag scrapes your shoulder, and it burns like an open wound.

It’s an unwanted burden slowing you down, and every logical fibre of your being is urging you to throw it to the curbside to lose the weight. Yet, everytime the bag begins to slip, you still find yourself shifting your weight mid–momentum to jostle it back where it belongs.

You don’t want to admit to yourself that you stayed in school to continue practicing your art because of an insatiable desire to be better than your peers; for your professor’s approval.

You don’t want to admit that you’ll probably die tonight because your bag slowed you just enough for your stalkers to stab and murder you.

That you’ll die because of your pride.

You’ve never felt stupider in your fucking life.

Breathe, you attempt to reason with yourself. Breathe.

In an attempt to soothe your dry, wrung–kitchen–cloth of a throat, you swallow and your sand-paper tongue scrapes the roof of your mouth as your saliva struggles its way down like a mouthful of cement.

Your nose is running wet and unpleasant, and it feels so much colder against the unforgiving air of Gotham Winter.

Your eyes are darting around for any sign of company, but the sidewalk you stride down is beginning to look a lot more like the looming corridors of an asylum. Black–iron fences shunt off closed apartment doors like the gates of Hell, taunting you with dead end after dead end.

Your gaze diverts as something bright and sharp glints in the distance. You squint, and the light clarifies—it’s a glowing window, just a street ahead. And framed within that heavenly square of gold, you catch the blurry, pitch-dark silhouette of a person.

Hope blooms in your chest. Someone’s there. You think she sees you. No, you know she sees you—you can barely make it out, but you feel a gaze trained on you from behind those glass panes.

Surely she knows about the gangsters behind you. If she lets you in, and you’re praying she will, maybe you’ve got a chance at holding out.

You quicken your stride as much as you can without actively running. It’s common knowledge that one should never run in Gotham unless they have to. Because once you start running, they will too, and they’re taller and stronger and faster than you, and then they’ll catch you and it’ll all be over.

It’s okay, you reassure yourself, feeling your heart swell with something that invigorates you, propels you forward like a bird mid–dive. Somebody’s watching this happen. Somebody’s seen you. She’ll let you in. It’s going to be okay.

You’ve reached the stoop of her house, just close enough to meet her gaze and take in the weathered lines around her eyes.

When you watch her face morphs from concern into horror, your gut squirms with a foresight that your mind hasn’t stomached yet. Your blood knows what she’s about to do:

With a prompt swiftness, she pulls her curtains close, and the act feels like the fall of a guillotine’s blade.

The sprout of unendurable, unforgiveable hope in your chest curdles into acid and fucking burns you. The back of your eyes begin to burn.

Of course, you think. Nobody helps anybody, anymore.

Your previous momentum becomes a deadly mistake—you trip as you frantically pivot away from her doorstep.

Then, an incoherent bellow rings out from behind you. “Hey!”

Without needing to think, your body moves on muscle reflex for you. You kick into a run—your legs pound against slickened slabs as you run faster than you’ve ever gone in your life. The terraces surrounding you blur into tarry smudges, obscured by your speed and your tears of terror.

You don’t know where you’re going anymore, and you don’t care. All you know is that every molecule in your body, every fibre of your being fucking demands that you to keep running, and you can’t stop, so you keep running, and running, and running out of breath and your heartbeat is racing in your ears like a countdown to your demise—

You’re barely conscious when a long shadow stretches out from beneath, past your pounding feet. Before you can think it through, you turn to look.

That half–second of mindless instinct costs you everything.

In that moment of distraction, the tip of your loafer catches against a groove.

Your heart lurches as you fall forward, but before you meet the ground, a grasp strong enough to crush your skull digs into your hair and yanks.

A wrangled scream escapes your lungs as you thrash mindlessly against the iron tight hold on you.

A rough shove slams you against something, and hard.

Everything goes red, black and hot with pain as the world spirals out of control. You stumble to the ground, and a storm of dust and dirt whirls up around you.

You cough, rearing up to rise. Someone kicks your stomach swift and hard, and the air propels itself out your lungs as you crumble back into a coughing heap.

With your head throbbing, you’re only half–aware of the dead-end you’ve found yourself in. You head pangs like its been bashed in with a boulder, and it feels twice as heavy to lift. You’re met with the image of scuffed pantlegs—10 of them. You’re surrounded by five seperate men.

Distantly, you hear one of your pencils rolls against the gravel, before falling down the grating.

You make a hopeless half sob, half laugh of a sound. Funny; you’re about to die and all you can think about is your two dollar pencil, and how you’ll never get to finish the assignment due on Monday.

Whatever noise your throat was making peters out the moment you feel something presses against your skull. It’s metal; cold as death, and yet it burns like a branding iron.

You don’t need to look to know what it is they’re holding to your forehead.

“Don’t you move,” a man’s voice sneers.

Hot tears begin falling from your eyes, joining the ice cold ones from above.

Your bag is ripped off your shoulder, and the friction of the straps against your skin burns like wildfire. Your art supplies clang as they fall and scatter.

And, as one last ‘fuck you’ from the Universe, you watch in lurid detail as your flacid, oversized sketchbook flop out unceromoniously like a corpse. It lands right in a puddle, and you watch in dull somberness as it soaks up the putrid rainwater.

You watch the rapid percolation; the way the wet blooms outwards from the centre and transforms the oatmeal color into a dark, rotting gray.

Weeks of work, undone in a matter of seconds. You hadn’t even had the time to take photos of them for the final portfolio. You carried it all this way.

You try to steady your breathing so that they won’t shoot you right here and now because of how much you’re trembling, but it just makes you hyperventilate harder.

You wonder if anybody in your class will mourn you. Whether Anna, or Harriet, or hell, even Damian will notice you’re gone at all. God, would anybody care?

You flinch as you hear a cry of outrage from a man—probably because he’s realised you’ve got nothing of worth in your bag. You screw your eyes shut, praying that this is all just some fucked up dream.

But prayers don’t get answered, not here.

It’s Gotham City, and you’re alone in the dark.

Then, you hear your captor yell. “Jesus, what is that!?”

You open your eyes just in time to see something—someone—descending from the skies above.

Before you can register it, a bright–green boot finds purchase against the stomach of your tormentor. One good kick sends the pillar–man crashing against the wall.

You stand, molasses–bound in shock. A cacophony of chaos erupts—yells and clashes.

The figure ducks low. With a sweep of a slender leg, another criminal trips and teeters like a spinning top.

Flashes of fabric ripple before you as Justice incarnate takes on five men twice his size.

Deafening gunshots boom, and you’re vaguely aware you’re screaming, but the stranger dodges the shower of bullets and repays them in spades.

He throws an arm out—blood splatters the walls as a blade guts the shoulder of a staggering, screaming man.

Swift as the wind and quieter still, the figure fights on without pause, like a sword made sentient. His feet barely meet the ground. Every punch and kick, he executes flawlessly, effortlessly, like a blade gliding through water.

You blink, and the green boots of your hero strike against the last criminal standing. The thug topples to the floor, unconscious.

You stare. The atmosphere buzzes.

You realise how loudly you’ve been breathing, now that everything’s silent. Your chest still heaves from racing adrenaline and naked fear, but the stranger seems completely unaffected, as if he hadn’t exerted himself at all.

Your disgruntled hero stands and coolly dusts his clothes off in total disinterest.

He lifts two fingers to the side of his ear. Speaking aloud to nobody in particular, he says, “Five criminals, all apprehended. Civilian unharmed. Copy…”

A car rushes past the streets behind him, and the glaring light limns his silhouette just long enough for you to take in the cape, the red vest, that green mask—

You inhale sharply, recognition dawning on you.

Your savior is none other than the caped crusader of the night. Batman’s sidekick in the flesh.

Robin—the Robin—turns to face you. The moment his eyes meet yours, an unwanted shudder ripples up your spine like a shockwave.

With an asphyxiating gaze that bores past the mask he wears, he observes you in turn.

Not trusting yourself to look at him for too long, your eyes dart about his shadowed frame, thin and wiry.

You realise, with growing disbelief, that he’s probably around your age.

You saw his strength first hand, and yet, his muscles are understated. The oversized cloak he’s swathed in doesn’t help him look any older, either. He can’t be older than nineteen.

And then there’s his height… for some reason, you thought he’d be taller.

Absentmindedly, you wonder what it would be like to paint him.

You are shocked out of your daydream when suddenly, he snarls: “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

His glare stings like antiseptic, cutting straight to your soul. You instinctively bite down on your wobbling lip, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment.

With a wrecked, weak voice, you protest, “I just… I needed…there’s this assignment…”

Every few words you manage to choke out are interspersed between wracked sobs as tears resume falling down your face.

Ducking your head down, you attempt to calm your breathing. Instead, you end up coughing violently, folding in on yourself as you choke on tears and phlegm and unending rain.

That’s when the unforgiving rain falling down on you comes to a sudden halt. You lift your head in shock, and meet Robin’s gaze.

He’s holding an umbrella with dramatically arched ribs over you. His fury has all but dissipated, and while the canopy shrouds his expression, the way his eyebrows are furrowed makes him seem almost guilty.

“Bat-brella,” he explains, answering a question you didn’t ask. “It’s an umbrella, but…”

“But bat-themed, yeah,” you finish for him, glancing up at the umbrella’s bat-patterned underside. “Does he have to name everything he owns after bats?”

The corner of Robin’s mouth briefly twitches into something suspiciously smile-like. “It’s a pathology, at this point.”

And there’s something about his voice that sounds strained; forced into something deeper and lower than it actually is. What’s more, his Gotham accent is… well, it’s not bad by a long shot, but the intonement is practiced, artificial. Everything about the way he talks makes him sound he’s trying to conceal.

Before you can savor his smile, his smile flattens back into a line. You flinch as he crouches down to your level, handing you the umbrella before reaching for his utility belt.

He dishes a flimsy Kleenex packet out of a mustard coloured pouch. “Here.”

Unsure as to what to do with his sudden kindness, and numbed by what you’re certain is going to be a traumatic memory for at least a few years, you take it, and mumble your gratitude.

Robin gives you a firm nod before he moves away towards your macerated sketchbook. Your heart cinches at the sight of it laying there like a corpse in the puddle. “Just leave it, man,” you say bitterly. “There’s no saving it.”

With an unexpected gentleness, he lifts your macerated sketchpad, cradling it. “Perhaps. The chances of saving any pages at all are extremely low.”

A pause settles as he seems to mull over his words, before saying softly, “But you’ve worked hard on your drawings. Let’s not give up on them without a fight.” He doesn’t even know you. He’s the Robin, for God’s sake. He’s probably saved thousands of crying girls, and done much more difficult things than 30-second charcoal gesture drawings.

But there’s something about his quiet acknowledgement of your efforts that overwhelms you with emotion; that makes your eyes sting with tears once more. You tense your shuddering jaw, and blink your tears away.

The sound of sirens from the distance slowly crescends in volume until it’s blaring deafeningly loud. The police finally arrive—hurried footsteps follow the slamming of car doors, the clicking of metal hand cuffs ring out through the patter of rain.

Robin calls for you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped in an orange blanket. You sit silently in a car seat while Robin stands outside talking to a police officer, probably giving them a rundown on what happened to you.

You stare numbly down at your knees. They’re nothing short of wrecked; bloodied and cut up like shredded beef, with flecks of dust and sludgy dirt slathered over the wounds. Next to you, your sketchpad—a sopping wet mass of a rectangle—drenches the seat next to you.

Then, there’s a tapping at the window. Robin stands outside the car door.

As you roll it down, he informs you, “Officer Montoya will be driving you home. Tell her the address. She won’t leave until she’s debriefed your guardians, and knows you’re completely accounted for.”

Robin stares at you long and hard. Then, he tells you firmly, “You’re gonna be alright.”

And if anybody other than him had said that to you, you wouldn’t have believed them. ‘You’re gonna be alright’. A reassurance tossed around so often that it barely means anything, anymore. How could anybody truly be alright, living in a city like Gotham?

And yet, something about the certainty in his voice, the intensity of his gaze fixed upon you, convinces you.

It’s not hope that fills your heart, per say. You’d imagine hope feels a lighter, warmer, invigorating. But whatever it is, his words feel like an inevitable surety.

Your dip your head into a nod. You’ll be alright.

Even as Officer Montoya drives you away into the night, you can still feel eyes trained on you from behind, somewhere in the dark.

Only this time, it’s a reassurance. A promise that Robin is watching, and that you’re not alone.

The rest of your night is equally tumultuous. You witness your parents panic through Officer Montoya’s calm explanations. You watch your father cry, and feel like a ghost spectating from another plane.

You eat a cold dinner. Take a shower, even though you really don’t want to. You stand staring down at the drain, feeling like you’re being battered by the rain all over again.

In spite of your parents pleas, you end up going to school the other day. Art college is expensive as it is, and weekly assignments don’t wait for anyone.

You very quickly find yourself regretting your decision. Apparently, an article detailing last night’s incident made it into the newspaper. There’s no photos of you in the print, but it doesn’t matter, since everyone and their mother seems to know what happened to you. It didn’t help that Professor Kovick expressed condolensces to you first thing during the lesson, drawing even more attention to your sorry ass.

From the moment you walk past the gates, you’re swarmed by well–meaning classmates with glassy worry in their eyes, who ask you questions like:

‘Oh my god, are you okay?’ (No.)

‘God, your knees are fucked. Does it hurt?’ (Doesn’t really matter if it does.)

‘You must’ve been scared.’ (Shitless, yeah.)

‘Was it really the Robin who saved you? Which one?’ (You don’t bother answering this question.)

You know they mean well, but it’s overwhelming.

So, you slip away. After Professor Kovick dismisses everyone, you turn the corner instead of going to the cafeteria and begin walking to the studio your next class is held in.

Lugging up 200 dollars worth of school–mandated art supplies up seven flights of stairs isn’t exactly something you want to do. It doesn’t help that yesterday’s exertion has left an unrelenting burn concentrated in your thighs, which taunts you the entire time you lug your leaden body up the East Building.

But at the very least, you’ll get some alone time to do some final touches on your assignment for class critique.

You doubt anybody will be in two hours early, anyway.

By the time you’ve reached the top, you’re fully hunkered over, panting pathetically. You make an indignified noise of mixed relief and exasperation at the final step. The back of your blouse is entirely soaked, and it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to catch your breath.

You tiredly stumble through the doors of the sprawling art studio, expecting to find nobody.

You find a somebody, instead.

Against the pale brick walls, a boy dressed in neat blacks from head to toe arrests your attention.

The hairs on your neck prickle. You inhale sharply, lamenting your decision to come here as you realise the last person you wanted to see today is inside.

Damian Wayne sits primly at a table. He’s got his back facing you as he busies himself with what you assume is the assignment for today’s critique.

Sunlight melts down over him like butter from the sunroofs. You used to think that the sun softened everything under it, but it only makes him look more discordent against the haze. He doesn’t belong here, not in this homey, kitschy room, with its paint–stained tabletops or hole–perforated walls.

You’re almost convinced he’s just a hollow haunting the room when he drawls in that smooth voice, “Are you going to keep gawking at me? Or are you going to enter?”

Indignation runs down your spine, like static. His voice is clear and deep like a moonlit lake. Pretty to listen to, if not for the condescension that interlaces his every word.

Feverishly, you stride past his table towards the other side of the room, putting as much distance between you and him as possible.

Sorry the commoner looked at you for too long, you think. Dickhead.

Not that you expected anything else from him. With a myriad of accolades under his bejewelled belt, and the title of high school Valedictorian to boot, you can only presume that Damian’s university application was framed, gilded, and hung in the Principal’s office for everyone to see. It’s no wonder he acts the way he does.

Seemingly having spoken his fill, the room goes relatively quiet again, disturbed only by the scratchy sound of graphite against paper–grain as your classmate toils away at his work.

You didn’t expect him to be a late finisher. If anything, you’d thought he’d be the first person to finish.

Come to think of it, why is he here? Isn’t he rich? Why is he working on art here, instead of at the sprawling art studio he most definitely has at home?

As you walk away, your curiosity prevails. You sneak a glance at Damian just in time to watch him lean backwards to observe his work, keeping his pencil still in his hand. His poise gives him the general impression of a surgeon hovering over a patient.

Painfully ironic, given how he dropped out of the best med–school in Gotham to be here.

Oh, med–school. Now, that had been a scandal near the beginning of the school year.

For years, it was common knowledge that the youngest Wayne had been studying to attend medical school in his grandfather’s footsteps, with tabloids belauding that he was on track to becoming the greatest Doctor in Gotham or whatever.

He’d gotten into the best med–school in Gotham, and right before the beginning of his sophomore year, he dropped out.

It wasn’t long before rumours began to fester: he was taking a gap year to take some sort of journey, or writing a novel. Some people even speculated that he was leaving Gotham entirely because the top med school in Gotham wasn’t up to standards or something.

Nobody could’ve possibly imagined he’d pivot one–eighty and start attending art school, least of all your art school.

He’s one of the smartest, richest children alive. He could’ve become anything he wanted to. So why did the hell he have to go ahead and become an illustration major, when it’s clear that his artistic skills exceed everyone elses?

You reach into your bag for one of the few art pieces you hadn’t lost last night. You’d left it at home before you went out for school, having been eager to get back to work after class. At least you’re proud of this one.

Small blessings, you remind yourself as your throat cinches. It’s good to be grateful for the little things. Get yourself together.

You take a shuddering breath, fruitlessly attempting to blink away your tears before they form.

Then, you blindly reach to pluck out a few of the myriad push–pins tacked along the wall.

You jolt as the sound of Damian clearing his throat resounds throughout the expanse.

“Are you alright?”

You turn and stare, genuinely baffled. Just a minute ago, he’d told you off for looking at you too long.

You squint at him in suspision. To his credit, he faces your inspection head–on with an impressively steely resolve. With his eyes slightly narrowed in perpetual judgement, and his mouth settled into a fine line, he looks no more arrogant or annoyed than he normally does.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Damian rolls his eyes, elaborates, “I heard about what happened to you last night. Are you alright?”

“Are you seriously asking me if I’m alright?”

“Yes.”

“You. Damian Wayne,” you stress.

He promptly closes his eyes, as if trying to calm himself in the face of your idiocy.

“Yes,” he repeats, sounding very tired. “I’m Damian Wayne.”

You let out a laugh in amusement before you can stop yourself. The corner of his mouth twitches into a shockingly familiar smile.

Familiar, you think. How could his smile seem familiar to you, when you’ve never seen him smile before now?

It’s a nice smile, at that. Pretty. A little smug, but it makes him look less austere. You certainly prefer this to his scowls.

You clear your throat, looking away before Damian’s gaze can swallow you whole. Something about being subjected to his half–smile of his makes your heart flutter uncomfortably behind your ribs.

“I’m… yeah, I’m alright,” you say awkwardly.

Damian makes a noise at the back of his throat. Somehow, you get the feeling he doesn’t believe you. But he nods anyways, and resumes dilligently cross–hatching over the shadowy areas of his drawing.

You blink in the aftermath, pleasantly surprised.

Until now, every interaction with Damian has been strictly limited to ping–ponging snappy retorts at each other, and exchanging petty insults during art critique.

For a lack of anything else to do, you settle at the table next to his and pull out a scrappy Kraft sketchbook from your elementary school days.

You managed to scrounge it up before bed last night, considering what happened to your sketchpad for school. It’s… not ideal. Certainly nowhere near the size your Professor needs you to be working at, but it’s all you got.

Just then, the sound of a sudden rip resounds. You startle as several sheets of blank, flimsy paper get pushed into view from the other table.

Reverently let your fingertips brush over the pulp of the paper, and the only thing that stops you from gasping aloud like a total dork is Damian’s presence. The paper quality is excellent; perfectly smooth.

He doesn’t look up at you as he says, “Make no mention of it.”

So you don’t. And though his olive branch goes unacknowledged, you accept it with a secret smile none the less.

Good to be grateful for the little things, you tell yourself once again as you sit in silence with him, and get to work.

[arachnidseyes]

ᯓ★ Peeping Jon ★ᯓ

ᯓ★ Damian Wayne x reader (ft. Jon Kent) ★ᯓ

ᯓ★ +18! ★ Jon accidentally on purpose overhears his two best friends doing it. I'm aware this isn't how super-hearing works. Great title I know thank you. ★ᯓ

Jon’s always been a well-mannered young man. It’s been said by his parents, teachers, professors, bosses, random people he meets on the street, and he always believed that himself, until now. 

Because if that was the case, then why can’t he fly away? Far enough so he can’t hear his two best friends going at it like rabbits.

He’s just been floating a few feet above the roof of your apartment building, stock still ever since he zoomed over five minutes ago.  

He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t mean to, but when he first heard your groan he thought you were hurt. Then he picked up the quiet sucking and even the faint sound of your slick.  

You let out a sound that was far more lewd than the first and Jon’s hand shot up to cover his mouth, as if there was anyone around to hear the man’s sharp intake of breath.  

Sheets rustle and Jon imagines you clutching the fabric between your fingers. He hears a lewd slurp and imagines Damian right between your thighs, lapping and sucking at just the right places.  

Jon’s fists clench at his sides when he hears your moans grow louder and a little higher. Sheets shuffle and he pictures your back arching off the bed, grinding up into his best friend’s face. 

You groan his name so unabashedly, in a way Jon never dared to consider you could. You sound like you’ve been waiting for this all day and your boyfriend’s finally giving it to you and giving it well.  

Jon can almost see it, your fingers in his friend’s dark hair, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cum around his apparently deft fingers and skilled mouth.  

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of you two like this before. You were a hot couple and you were both such good friends to him.

You’d always ask him to tag along on what could’ve been dates between just the two of you; you invited him to sleep overs where you’d both squish him between you on the couch and you’d cook dinners with him at your apartment. You'd bring him along on vacations, to the park, the beach, the movies.

You've done an array of things with him that you could’ve just done as a couple but instead chose to invite him along because you’re both such good friends to him-- even if Damian can’t admit it outright most of the time.  

It’s only natural then, that he’d think about what other couple things you’d want him to participate in...right? 

How was he supposed to constantly see the way you look at Damian and not imagine you looking at him the same way? How was he not supposed to imagine Damian giving him gentle little touches like he did with you. Honestly, his restraint so far has been admirable.  

Now all that’s out the window. He just heard Damian make you cum on his tongue and as red as his face probably is, he’s not flying an inch further away from your apartment like he should.  

All he can hear are soft kissing sounds and you trying to even out your breathing, and suddenly, a new wave of guilt hits him.  

He doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll do with his hard-on but he has to leave. He runs his hands through his already wild hair, trying to will himself to move. The moment is so tender and quiet, he wants nothing more than to be in that room.  

Then he hears fabric shuffling and a belt buckle hit the floor.   

 “Look at me, Hayati.“ 

It’s such a simple, gentle command yet it has both you and Jon at attention. He hears the bed creak, a short silence. 

“Just keep your eyes on me.”  

You reply with a breathy, “'kay.“ 

There’s a pause before you let out a choked groan, and then a wet squelch. Jon has to squeeze his thighs together when he imagines his friend bottoming out in his other friend’s soaked heat, their eyes never straying from the other's.  

“So good to me, Beloved.”  

And now that his lips are free, Jon makes a new world-shattering discovery: Damian’s a talker.  

“Ya Rouhi, I’d be a happy man if all I ever lived for was to pleasure you.”  

His voice is thick, accompanied by your soft sounds of pleasure and the slow, slick plaps that make it to Jon’s red ears.  

“I’ll always give you everything, Hayati. You deserve more than I can give.“  

You both let out deep grunts in time with his steadily increasing pace. The sheets shuffle and Damian must have switched the position up because you curse and cry out. 

“I’m yours in every way and I know you’re mine.” 

It must be beautiful, Jon thinks, Damian’s lidded eyes matching yours, your hips matching his thrusts, bodies sticking together, shared breaths. Jon ignores the worsening wet spot in his underwear, his suit feeling tight on his growing hardness.  

He holds his breath so he can better hear the exact moment you and Damian cum together. Maybe you’re still locking eyes, maybe your foreheads are pressed together, but all he can hear is your mixed moans and the stalling of your hips as Damian fills you up.  

Once more, the only thing left to hear after the high is soft kissing and harsh breaths. Nothing but Damian’s husky,   

“I love you, Hayati.”  

Between kisses and your croaked hum in return, “Love you too, babe. S'good to me.” 

You mumble the sweetest praises in-between kisses and Jon can hear Damian’s heart beat a bit faster, can hear the sheets shuffle as he imagines the man shoving his face into his girlfriend’s neck at such sweet words being uttered to him. You always did say he was a secret sap, not that it was much of a secret between you three, but Jon only realises now just how true that really is.

As the moment grows quieter, Jon’s guilt only grows again. The sound of the city comes rushing back and his head spins around the various apartment buildings around him as if someone could’ve possibly known what he was doing.

Regardless, he can’t stay here, listening to your extremely private moment. There's no pretense of shock keeping him here anymore, he's just being a creep! No better than a criminal!

Unbeknownst to Jon, both you and Damian heard his distinct sonic boom when he flew off and you’re now staring at each other with matching wide eyes.  

You’re the first to break the silence with a laugh, shoving your face in your hands. “You don’t think he...?”   

Damian runs a hand through his hair with a groan that doesn't hide his embarrassment.

“I told him he should come over today.”  

“And you forgot?!” 

“I was distracted.”  

---Then poor Jon jerks off to his bffs and then cries because he feels bad about it. 😭💔

[arachnidseyes]

Oh ya I meant I disliked lobo being in the movie, I loved the comic!!

--- i have a new appreciation for the comic. which sucks cus now is not a time I want to be praising anything tom king has ever done but the movie is making me!! 😭

Could you imagine if they actually tried to adapt Bilquis Evely's incredible art onto the big screen? Could you imagine if they put even half the effort they put into superman to make it accurate to the source. 😭😞

[arachnidseyes]

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE WRITER OF THE SUPERGIRL SCRIPT MISINTERPRETED THE ENDING OF THE COMIC?!?!?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE THOUGHT RUTHYE KILLED KREM AT THE END??!?

ARE WE SERIOUS?!??

[thetrashthatsmilesback]

That is crazy since there's been confirmation otherwise

[arachnidseyes]

I reeeaally hope you're right because it looks pretty bad to me😭

(This is from the Variety interview)

[thetrashthatsmilesback]

Oh I meant otherwise in the comic. In the movie Kara kills Krem. Sorry for the confusion

[arachnidseyes]

Ah, no problem!😊

[arachnidseyes]

I would like to add on to the supergirl rant that I disliked lobo a lot in the book. It felt like the movie wanted to show a male character save the day when the female superhero PROTAGONIST couldn’t

--- I assume you mean in the movie and yes, pls rant to me i kinda need it.

It definitely feels like they didn't think Supergirl could pull in enough hype alone and needed a popular male character to help sell tickets. That's why Lobo was in more promo than Ruthye. (the main character and narrator in the comic)

I get that they tried making him a foil to Kara cus she's trying to save Ruth from becoming a killer and he wants her join the darkside or whatever but you wouldn't need that unnecessary plot thread if you just adapted the fucking comic you said you were adapting.

And why would Lobo care about this rando little girl in the first place? He didn't care about the other little girls trapped in the ship when he blew it up😭😭?

I think he saves Kara maybe once? I don't remember but yeah just totally unnecessary and it's obvious they just wanted to set him up for a future movie. (at least Jason Momoa was having fun ig)