I'm french, my pronouns are she/her, and i'm sorry if i make mistakes. I'm not really active because of school and it's been a while since i wrote something so i'm sorry if it's bad <3
i don’t tolerate homophobia, racism, or any kind of discrimination, if i know you are homophobic, racist, or even pro life i will block you ???
requests
what i write is mine and i do not give you the right to copy it or republish it or translate it
some of them are really old and probably full of errors errors :(
they are open : no smuts, only subjective, angst and fluff or even headcanons
I DON'T WRITE FOR KPOP IDOL ANYMORE
i can write for :
911 (basic one and lone star)
NCIS
umbrella academy
top gun
DC (batman, titans, superman and lois)
motherland fort salem
criminal minds
hawaii 5-0
altered carbon
daredevil even if i ain’t sure i got the hang of the characters
masterlists :
last updated 21 august 2022
KIM JUNGWOO
post fight : your little crush patches you up after a fight (which you won)
JUNG JAEHYUN
cookies : your boyfriend makes you tasty cookies until they aren't
LEE DONGHYUCK
fratboy!au : jealousy, party, you are a sexy someone, he's cocky
ZHONG CHENLE
nerdy : popular!reader x nerdy!boyfriend!chenle super duper cute
JUNG WOOYOUNG
rumors : the rumor you're f-wording jung wooyoung is going around...
PARK SEONGHWA
camp counselor : enemies to lovers, camp counselor!au ,
NISHINOYA YUU
bf!au : you're taller than your boyfriend, and he's a little insecure :(
JAKE SERESIN - HANGMAN
"did she say no" ? : Jake returns the wedding ring he brought for you to the jewelry shop : fluff!!
PETE MITCHELL - MAVERICK
early meeting : headcanon sort of- meeting mav at the hard deck and f-wording him until boom he's your superior
call sign: rocky : you're retired but one of the fastest pilot alive - and cyclone needs you to save maverick's ass
NATASHA TRACE - PHOENIX
guard dog : based on this tiktok/post : natasha has a hot girlfriend and is ready to fight as long as she keeps wearing low rise jeans.
hiii! i love your work and i was wondering if you could do a damian fic where the reader has a personality like Deadpool? just very loud and outgoing haha it would be interesting to see how he handles her while falling for her thank youuu <3
WAS THAT FOREPLAY?
SYNOPSIS: The newest Titan is mouthy, unpredictable, and pissing him off. Damian wants her off the team. He also maybe wants to kiss her. Which is another reason she should go
PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader
TAGS: Alternate Universe, Banter, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (Kinda)
WARNING !! Due to the nature of Deadpool's characterization, there will be sexual jokes and innuendos
🜼 :: i hate action scenes. i'm never writing one again unless necessary
Damian Wayne had faced League assassins, alien warlords, and Gotham’s worst dressed criminals, but none of them prepared him for her.
The first time [Y/N] met Damian Wayne, she was mid-tour of the Tower.
She was a new Titans recruit. Still on probation. Still technically under observation. And if Damian had any say—which he did, being team leader—she would have been kicked out after day one.
But noooo, she had skills—“Unique approach,” Kori had said. “Good instincts,” Dick added. “Fun energy,” Gar said, heart-eyes practically bulging out.
And Raven? She just smirked. “Let her stay.”
Damian hated all of them.
[Y/N] was trailing behind Gar and Raven as they toured her through the Tower. She’d already asked three different people if ‘probationary’ meant she got a parole officer or an ankle monitor. Gar was the only one who laughed. Raven just kept walking.
“And over here’s the training room—” Gar had barely gotten the words out before the automatic doors hissed open, letting out the humid heat of sweat and testosterone.
And him.
Damian stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, damp hair pushed back, black compression shirt clinging to every single ridge of muscle, chest rising slow.
[Y/N]’s brain hit the emergency brakes. Her lungs forgot how to breathe. Her soul performed a dramatic stage faint.
“... Damn”
Gar blinked. “What?”
“Sorry, I meant damn”
Gar choked on a laugh. “Are you good?”
“Am I good?” she whispered, hand clutched dramatically over her combusting heart. “Does he come with a warning label, or do I just rawdog this experience with no prep?”
“That is Damian—Robin.” Raven said, with a distinct tone of warning.
“Does Damian consent to be ruined?” she asked, eyes wide with reverence and thirst. “Because I would—gladly. Voluntarily. Happily. I’d ruin him like a laptop in the hands of a baby boomer.”
Across the room, Damian’s gaze cut toward them.
He definitely heard.
Never one to waste a moment, [Y/N] smiled and gave a little two-finger salute. “Hey.”
“Hmm,” Damian said flatly, giving her one quick, scathing once-over. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Her grin only widened. “Noted. I’m already uncomfortable—in a good way.”
He muttered something in Arabic under his breath and walked off, leaving a trail of sweat in his wake.
She turned to Gar. “Damn. Are the rest of the Titans that hot, or is that a custom welcome package just for me?”
“Yeah, no,” Gar said, grinning. “You’re definitely gonna get stabbed.”
The stabbing happened three missions later.
To be fair, it was mostly deserved.
She’d gone off-book. Again. Which, in her words, was “just improvising, baby,” and in Damian’s words was “grounds for immediate expulsion, or execution, if we weren’t in a civilized country.”
In [Y/N]’s defense, the goon she tackled had a grenade.
In Damian’s defense, she hadn’t told anyone she was moving in and accidentally knocked into him mid-fight—which was why his arm got slashed in the first place.
“You’re bleeding!” she yelled as they returned to the Tower lounge, trailing behind him with quick footsteps and wide eyes.
Damian stared at her, shirt torn, bicep gashed, blood already dripping down into his glove.
“Yes,” he said, voice like a glacier. “Because you tackled me. Like a wrecking ball.”
She winced, hands raised like she was approaching a feral cat. She looked appropriately guilty… for about two seconds.
“Okay, but—was it cool though?”
Damian stared, blinking slowly. Like he was calculating whether breaking his father’s rules was worth the chance to bury her in the woods.
“I hate you.”
“Lies. You’re obsessed with me.”
“I am obsessed,” he bit out, voice rising with thinly veiled murder, “with surviving missions without you body-checking me.”
She only shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and pulled a juice box out of her pocket like a magician with a death wish. “Peace offering?”
He slapped it out of her hand.
The drink arced through the air, burst against the ground with a sad little splat, and started leaking fruit punch across the floor like blood from a tiny, sugary corpse.
She stared down at it, aghast. “Rude. That was a Capri Sun.”
“Raven!” Damian barked, already walking away. “Can we teleport her into the sun?”
“Can I at least bring snacks?” [Y/N] called after him. “I hear solar flares pair great with spicy chips!”
Damian didn’t break stride. “You’d burn before you opened the bag.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I made something explode in my hands.”
He stopped mid-step—like someone had yanked the power cord out of him. His shoulders stiffened. His head tilted slightly, as if he needed a second to process the words and decide whether homicide would be considered justifiable.
“Oh my god,” Kori muttered. The rest of the Titans were cackling in the background.
She grinned, completely undeterred, hands on her hips like she was collecting achievements. “What? Too soon? Too hot?”
“Enough!” Damian finally snapped
He turned—his expression was thunderclouds and murder, stalking forward with the kind of poise that made everyone in the room instinctively get out of the way. Except her.
[Y/N] just raised a brow. “What?” she challenged, stepping forward without an ounce of self-preservation. “Gonna write me a sternly worded email? Ground me? Put me in time ou—”
Steel flashed.
In one quick, fluid motion, she was pinned—flat against the back of the couch cushions. Damian moved like a storm, katana drawn in a blur, the flat of the blade pressed firm across her chest. His face was inches from hers, breath cold, controlled. The sword angled with terrifying precision—so precise that the very tip had nicked the skin above her clavicle.
Just enough to draw a bead of blood.
Her breath caught. The grin faltered.
The room went dead quiet.
Gar’s post-mission Pop-Tart slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sad little plop. Raven didn’t flinch—just arched an unimpressed brow from the armchair, already halfway regretting not hexing them both into another dimension.
The air stilled. Thick with disbelief.
And then—
She let out a sound—a soft, involuntary whimper that fell somewhere between surprise and something much, much filthier.
For one wild second, Damian’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if her noise physically knocked a circuit loose in his brain. Like he’d expected a fight and walked into a porno instead.
His jaw ticked. “...What the hell.”
[Y/N]’s lips parted slowly. She tilted her head, eyes glittering with something dangerous and delighted. “Was that foreplay?”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re so hot when you’re threatening me,” she breathed, gaze dragging down his front like a caress. “Wanna try that again, Robin?” Her voice dipped, syrupy and wicked. She licked her bottom lip. “Because I promise you’ll get a very different result if you move that blade about eight inches lower.”
“You need help,” he hissed, backing off like proximity itself was dangerous.
She leaned in, slow and smug, tongue flicking out to lick her lips. His eyes locked on the movement—caught, held, froze.
“Probably,” she said, voice like velvet. “You volunteering?”
He stepped back like she burned him, katana immediately sheathed—but not fast enough to hide the way his fingers trembled slightly on the hilt.
She pouted. “Aw. You’re no fun.”
Damian stormed off down the corridor, boots hitting the floor hard and fast, muttering something sharp and furious in Arabic that absolutely wasn’t appropriate for public spaces.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after him, “Hey, wait! Don’t go! I’m into you!”
“I know!” he barked over his shoulder without looking back.
She only watched him go, grinning like a devil. “Did anyone else feel that chemistry? No? Just me? Okay.”
Things did not improve from there. For Damian, anyway.
The Titans were training in the Tower—an ordinary afternoon drill. Combat exercises, sparring rotations, and teamwork simulations. The gym floor echoed with movement: punches hitting pads, bodies hitting mats, weapons clashing in synchronized rhythm.
Damian was already annoyed. Her presence always seemed to fray the edges of his patience.
She flirted constantly. Shamelessly. With everyone. But mostly him
“That shirt is so ugly. Take it off,” she said loudly, voice bright and teasing as she saw him walking past.
He didn’t even pause. “It’s my training gear.”
[Y/N] nodded solemnly, like she was doing him a favor. “Exactly. I’m trying to be supportive of your fitness journey. You’ve clearly worked so hard—why hide it?”
Vic choked on his water bottle. Gar let out a wheeze and nearly dropped his barbell. Raven, halfway through a drill, muttered something under her breath that definitely sounded like a quiet plea for death.
Damian didn’t respond. He kept walking, jaw clenched, grabbing a practice staff from the rack with far more force than necessary.
“Y’know,” [Y/N] drawled, twirling her own staff with lazy precision, “if you ever want another uniform, I can design one for you. I’m thinking sleeveless. Maybe some mesh. Definitely black. Slut—but make it tactical. That’s hot.”
“You’re deranged,” Damian muttered, not even glancing her way.
“I prefer bold,” she said cheerfully. “Or uncontrollably sexy.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose—sharp enough to be a warning. His shoulders were rigid, every step carrying the kind of restraint it took not to whirl around and throw his staff through the nearest wall.
Instead, he stalked to the center of the mat, expression thunderous.
“Gar. You’re up.”
Gar froze mid-lift. “I—me?” He looked between them, eyes wide. “But I was—can I—? Actually—maybe Kori should—”
“Now.”
Gar scrambled forward like his life depended on it. Which, judging by Damian’s face, wasn’t entirely off.
Meanwhile, [Y/N] perched on top a stack of gym mats like a bored cat, chin in her hand, eyes tracking Damian across the room like he was center stage at fashion week. “This is fun. I love when he’s bossy.”
Raven sighed. “Why are you like this?”
“Lack of supervision as a child. Deep-rooted attachment issues.” [Y/N] leaned forward, eyes locked on Damian with zero shame. “Also? Have you seen his arms?”
“Refrain from objectifying me,” Damian snapped from across the mat, eyes still on Gar but voice clipped and furious.
“Oh baby, I’m not objectifying,” she purred, teeth flashing. “I’m appreciating.”
“Can we mute her?” Damian asked the room, tone calm in the way that meant someone was probably about to die.
“I’ve tried,” Raven said.
Kori, floating upside down in a relaxed hover above them, beamed. “I believe this is called sexual tension, yes?”
Damian dropped his escrima sticks with a clatter. “That’s it. Training’s over.”
“But we just started—” Gar began, panting from nerves.
“I said it’s over.”
They were mid-mission in Blüdhaven—intel said a high-tech weapons deal was going down in the docks, and the Titans were on overwatch while Nightwing leads.
“Stay sharp,” Nightwing said, crouched atop a rusted container as his eyes swept the shadows between rows of metal crates. “They’ve got gear. Assume you’re being watched.”
From her perch on a nearby stack, [Y/N] scanned the ground below, fingers twitching in anticipation. The docks were quiet, fog curled at their feet like smoke from a loaded barrel.
“I’m always being watched,” she whispered, clinging to the shadows. “Mostly by Damian. He’s obsessed with me.”
“Shut up.” Damian hissed through comms. “Why are you always this exhausting?”
[Y/N] smiled to herself. She could practically feel the vein bulging in his temple from here—the same one that always pulsed whenever she breathed near him. She imagined he was gritting his teeth, probably clenching his jaw so hard he’d need physical therapy by the end of the mission.
“Only with people who clearly want to kiss me and are in denial about it.”
“Do you have an off switch?” Damian asked flatly.
“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “It’s right next to my G-spot.”
Dick choked so hard he nearly slipped. “OH MY GOD.”
“Please stop talking,” Raven begged.
Then everything exploded into motion.
Gunfire. Smoke grenades. Chaos.
[Y/N] ducked behind a crate, weapon drawn, as the team split to flank both sides. That’s when she saw him—Damian—move.
He was a blur of lethal precision—vaulting off a stack of containers, cape flaring like wings. He landed in the middle of a squad and took them out in three moves flat. Disarmed one, elbowed another in the throat, then he caught a thrown knife with two fingers. And flicked it back into the guy’s shoulder without blinking.
She stared. Mouth parted. Soul leaving her body.
“I’m having thoughts. None of them holy. Very vivid, very physical thoughts.” she whispered, awestruck. “I think I’m ovulating.”
Across the comms, Dick yelled, pure older-brother horror in his voice. “Time and place!”
“What?!” she called back immediately. “I’m appreciating! I’m supporting! This is team-building!”
Damian didn’t even turn. “Focus on the mission.”
The dockyard lit up with muzzle flashes and the crackle of electrified rounds, but even as she slid and took out two goons with clean, practiced hits, her eyes kept drifting back to him. The way he moved through the smoke—brutal and efficient. Someone tried to flank him and ended up crumpled at his feet in less than two seconds.
“I am! I’m focused on how good you look ending people!”
She ducked an arm swing, elbowed the attacker in the gut, and stunned him with a clean jab to the neck—never missing a beat.
But her focus was divided. Always a little off. Always on him.
“Can we mute her?!” Dick snapped. “Can we please mute her?!”
“No point,” Gar said through laughter. “She just gets louder.”
“Oh my god,” Kori whispered.
“I’m being oppressed,” [Y/N] declared dramatically “For being visually overwhelmed!”
Damian, somewhere in the distance, took down three more men with the seething, single-minded rage of someone trying very hard not to commit an actual felony. His foot slammed into a guy’s chest, dropping him like a sack of bricks, and he pivoted to catch another attacker in the ribs with his elbow.
His voice cut through the comms like a dagger. “Do not make me come over there.”
She inhaled, eyes glittering. “God, please do.”
“[Y/N]!!” the entire team shrieked
The Batcave was quiet—mostly.
Dick peeled off his domino mask with a sigh, stretching until his shoulders popped. His suit was scuffed, blood on one shoulder, but nothing serious. Damian trailed behind him, jaw tight, movements clipped and just a little too sharp.
“Hey, I gotta hand it to you,” Dick said, tossing his escrima sticks into the weapons locker. “You really kept your cool out there.”
Damian grunted, removing his cape.
“Even when [Y/N] was openly flirting with you mid-fight,” Dick added casually.
“I do not wish to discuss it.”
Dick smirked. “You mean you don’t want to admit you liked it.”
“Sounds like your type,” Tim said, appearing from the shadows like a sleep-deprived specter, coffee in hand.
Damian turned, scowling. “Why are you awake?”
Tim shrugged. “Why are you blushing?”
“I’m not—”
“He totally is,” Dick said, arms crossed, grinning like it was Christmas.
“It’s kind of sweet,” Tim added, taking a sip. “She drives you nuts, but you don’t push her away. Not really. You let her get under your skin. That’s... rare for you.”
“Classic enemies-to-lovers arc,” Dick said. “Except you’re not enemies. And it’s just you denying everything while she steamrolls through your walls.”
“I will end your life in your sleep,” Damian said darkly.
“I’ll schedule it in,” Tim replied, unfazed.
With a sharp exhale, Damian grabbed a cloth from the supply shelf and started cleaning his katana like it had personally offended him.
“I hate you.”
Dick grinned wider, like he’d just won a game Damian didn’t know they were playing. “That’s fair. But not as much as you don’t hate her.”
Damian clenched his jaw and muttered in Arabic—again.
Somewhere deep in his chest, his heart betrayed him by beating just a little too fast.
TWO YEARS PASS AS FAST AS THE FLASH WHITING A BLINK.
You don’t even see it coming. One moment, you’re peeling Dick off the carpet of your office, cradling his puffy face after he declared you “mom” to a screaming supermodel. The next, you’re watching him tie a tie by himself in front of the long mirror in the hallway of Wayne Manor, his hair a little longer and his face a little leaner, like he’s already trying to stretch toward something bigger.
Ten years old now. He’s ten.
Double digits. Growing fast. Almost reaching your chest, which he proudly announced to Alfred last week with a finger pointed directly at your collarbone. And though he still sleeps curled between you and Bruce on the nights the wind howls or the manor creaks just right—those moments are rarer now.
He’s still your baby bird. But he’s also becoming someone. Someone good.
And the three of you live under the same high, gothic roof. The Wayne Manor, timeless and tall, with more windows than your entire hometown and a history that still gives you chills when you walk through the old library. But it’s home. Truly.
Because of them. Because of him. Because of all of you.
You spend most mornings waking at dawn. Bruce rises earlier—he always has—but he stays in bed long enough to kiss your forehead, press his face to your collarbone, murmur something sleep-warm about staying in with you for five more minutes. Dick drags himself out of bed only after Alfred threatens to remove the curtains, and you all manage breakfast together more often than not.
It’s quiet. Domestic. Real.
Which is why, when the papers start referring to you as the youngest executive director Wayne Enterprises has ever seen, you don’t flinch.
You don’t have time to flinch.
You’re too busy preparing your own morning meetings. Signing contracts. Rerouting wasteful divisions and restructuring outreach initiatives. Because Bruce did what Bruce always does—he saw you, he trusted you, and he handed you more power than anyone expected. Not out of sentiment. Out of truth. You earned it.
You still remember the day he gave you the title.
“CEO,” he said casually, flipping through paperwork in his office. “It fits you better than secretary.”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
He looked up. “Of course.”
You sat back. “That’s… that’s huge.”
“You’ve been doing the work for months,” he said. “All I’m doing is making it official.”
You reached for his hand across the table. “I’m still wearing your ring, you know. You don’t need to give me a company to keep me.”
He smirked. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world. So they see what I already know.”
So you stepped into the role, high heels clicking across marble floors, all warmth in the middle of steel. You work harder than ever. But you’re fuller too. Of purpose. Of pride.
Of love.
But not every part of your life is centered on your life. No, no. You spend time on your friends as well: Diana and Selina, both so different yet so important to you. Although they are both very occupied persons, they reserve some time for you.
Well . . . Diana sees you whenever she's not training, or fighting against something terrible dangerous, which is not as much time as you would expect. But when you see her, you share a good tea, with a table full of food — because God knows that your friend has a stomach the volume of your own brother's — and laughing that attracts attention, despite that that may be because of how good the both of you look.
Motherhood sits you nice, what can you say?
Selina has a lot more free time . . . when she is not stealing from rich, old men . . . or being Catwoman. Because, yes, not only your husband, brother and best friend are people of the night, heroes, but your other best friend is a fantastical anti-hero type of vigilante.
But yeah, she spends quite more moments with you: at the office — snatches bites of your lunch, winks at your interns —, at the Manor, even going outside to simply share a coffee. Recently, she brought along a new friend.
A green friend that you very much know, but you prefer to keep quiet about the other identity.
It's not fair that Ivy is so interesting!
And, while you very much know about their whole relationship with Harley Quinn as well, you much keep outside of it, not wanting to get as close with Joker's girlfriend. You wouldn't do that to Bruce, not if she kept by that side.
You know better than to reach for someone who still dances too close to the Joker’s shadow.
Still, life is good.
You have your job. Your home. Your son.
And today, you have a wedding.
You grinned. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“Because I am!”
Lois’s hair was pinned in a perfect low bun. You helped her finish it yourself—quietly brushing, wrapping, then fixing a few strands when the hairstylist got a call halfway through. Her dress was classic—off-white satin with a soft curve at the shoulders and a wide, structured skirt that hugged her waist. She looked gorgeous. Radiant. And also a bit like she might leap out the nearest stained-glass window.
“Lois,” you said gently, “it’s Clark.”
“I know it’s Clark!”
“You’ve been together for over five years.”
“Exactly.”
You blinked. “You’re losing me.”
“That’s a long time to be with someone and still not be sure if you’ve properly traumatized them or not.”
You laughed and walked behind her, straightening her veil as it draped over her shoulders.
“Lois, he’s literally Superman.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Exactly. I don’t want to ruin Superman.”
You leaned down, pressing your cheek to hers, voice soft.
“You could never ruin him.”
She blinked quickly. “You think so?”
“I know so,” you said. “And I know because I’ve seen him fly straight into fires, fight aliens, take on the League of Shadows and Lex Luthor all before breakfast—but he gets mushy the second you call.”
Lois sniffed, clearly trying not to cry. “I don’t want mushy. I want stability.”
You handed her a tissue. “Then trust that you’re it.”
She dabbed under her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”
Then she paused.
“I didn’t forget to write my vows, but I forgot where I put them.”
“Top drawer,” you said without looking.
Lois gasped and opened the drawer. There they were.
You shrugged. “I know how you think.”
“You’re scary.”
You smiled. “I’m a mom.”
She leaned over and hugged you tight, her voice warm and fond against your shoulder. “You’re also my best friend. Thanks for not letting me implode.”
“Anytime,” you said, squeezing her back. “Now sit down and let me make sure your shoes aren’t going to kill you halfway through the aisle.”
The fabric shimmered—nothing showy, just enough to catch the light in delicate folds. The bodice was structured, elegant, sharp in a way only Lois could pull off.
“You look stunning,” you whispered. “Clark’s going to forget how to speak.”
“He already does that around me,” she muttered, gripping your hand tightly. “This time, it’ll be because I’m going to murder him if he bolts.”
“He’s not bolting.”
“You sure?”
“I helped pick the ring. He’s not bolting.”
She blinked, biting her lip.
You softened. “He loves you, Lois.”
“I know.”
You kissed her cheek, told her you’d be back in five, and slipped out into the corridor.
The groom’s room was quieter, in that unnaturally still way men’s rooms always were before weddings—no nervous laughter or shrieking, just muffled movement, the sound of cufflinks, and Bruce’s deep voice talking softly to someone down the hall.
Clark sat by the window, eyes cast outward, fingers loosely pressed together.
You knocked gently before entering. “Hey.”
He turned instantly, smiling the second he saw you. “Hey yourself.”
You stepped in, shutting the door behind you.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“She’s threatening to flee. I think that’s a good sign.”
He laughed softly. “Classic Lois.”
You walked toward him, careful not to wrinkle your dress—long navy blue, open-backed, soft satin that hugged your figure in a way that had made Bruce audibly grunt when you’d stepped out that morning.
Clark stood as you neared. His suit was hanging by the window. He was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a nervous shower, and there was a tie discarded on the floor like it had tried to strangle him.
You raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t exactly the image of a Kryptonian groom I had in mind.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Uh huh. Look at me.”
He did.
“Lois loves you. You love her. You’ve already done the impossible together. This is the easy part.”
He swallowed. “What if I screw it up?”
“You already did,” you said with a grin. “And she still wants to marry you.”
He laughed—soft, real. You kissed his cheek.
“You’re gonna be the best husband.”
Clark pulled you into a hug, arms tight. Familiar. Like home.
“You’re gonna make me cry on my own wedding day,” he murmurs.
“Then we’re even,” you whisper. “I already cried twice this morning.”
Sneaking off with your not-soon- to be husband is easy.
Bruce found you just before the ceremony, in the hallway outside the kitchen pantry. You raised your eyebrow as he pulled you in by the waist.
“This isn’t our wedding,” you whispered as he shut the door behind you.
“Which is why I thought it’d be safe to sneak a minute with my fiancée.”
You laughed as he backed you into the shelves, hands steady against your hips.
“You’re very inappropriate today,” you said, trying not to grin.
His hands slid down your back, catching at your waist, pressing you gently against the shelf. His mouth met yours like he hadn’t seen you all morning. Like two years of shared mornings and shared toothbrushes hadn’t dulled the sharp, desperate need between you.
He kissed your neck softly. “It’s your dress.”
You hummed. “You picked it.”
“Exactly.”
You turned and kissed him, long and slow, one hand curled around his tie. His lips moved lazily against yours, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t. But Bruce always kissed like that when he was content.
When he pulled back, his thumb grazed your cheek.
“You’re glowing,” he murmured.
“You’re soft,” you teased.
He grinned. “Only for you.”
The old pantry cupboard is small, dusty, barely big enough for two grown adults—especially when one of them is built like a Greek statue and the other refuses to stop clinging.
“I’ve been watching you all day,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You light up every room you walk into.”
Your chest tightens, warm and full. “Is that so?”
“Mmhm. And you’ve somehow become even more beautiful since I last kissed you.”
You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “That was seconds ago.”
“Too long.”
The ceremony was beautiful.
Soft strings played as guests settled in.
Bruce sat with Dick beside him, both dressed in tailored navy. Dick’s jacket had a tiny robin pin you’d bought for him in secret—a quiet nod. He tapped it twice for luck before heading down the aisle with a little velvet box in his palm.
You watch him from your place beside Lois, heart clenching with pride as he focuses on every step, holding the rings like they’re sacred. When he makes it to the altar, Clark gives him a grateful wink, and Dick puffs up like a balloon about to burst.
He grinned wide when he saw you standing by the bride, mouthing, “You look so pretty, mom.”
You blew him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then slips his hand into Bruce’s.
Lois was radiant. Clark was teary-eyed.
You watched your brother and best friend say their vows in front of friends and family, promising forever with laughter and love. And when they kissed, when the room erupted in cheers, when your father wiped a tear and your mother squeezed your hand—there was a glow in your chest that burned soft and golden.
You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Clark looked at Lois when they kissed.
It’s the kind of look you’ve only ever seen once before—on Bruce’s face, the first time he watched you walk barefoot through the Manor’s rose garden, a glass of wine in your hand, laughing at something Alfred said.
There’s something in it that strips away time, space, history. It’s not awe. It’s not even reverence. It’s something deeper. Something more anchored. It’s knowing. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shake, even when the world around it does.
The ceremony fades into the glow of golden-hour congratulations—tight hugs, kiss-stained cheeks, overexcited relatives taking blurry pictures with disposable cameras they barely know how to use. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else is already uncorking the second bottle of champagne. Kids chase each other through the wildflowers. The air smells like clover and frosting, and there’s something deeply sacred about it all, like time decided to stand still just for today.
And then the music starts.
Ma had insisted on hiring a local band. Clark helped with the sound setup early this morning, careful not to scorch the cables with heat vision. You remember watching him work with Dick on his shoulders, both of them laughing as they hung fairy lights around the barn door. Now, that very same barn has been transformed into a dance floor—strings of lights overhead, long folding tables lined with mason jars, centerpieces full of sunflowers and wild daisies.
It’s not Gotham. It’s not Metropolis.
It’s better.
It’s home.
The speeches come in between. Some of their colleagues talk first, your parents are next, and, finally, it's your turn. You rise slowly, smoothing your dress as you step onto the little platform. The string lights catch your hair and your smile, and for a second, you see yourself as everyone else does.
Not just a Kent. Not just a Wayne executive. But a woman standing in her home soil, proud and strong, with her family in the crowd and the man she loves watching her like she’s the sun.
You clear your throat, voice steady.
“When we were kids,” you begin, “Clark used to read to me at night. I’d crawl into his bed with my stuffed bunny, and he’d pull out a book—sometimes fairy tales, sometimes Ma’s old college novels—and he’d do all the voices. He always made sure the hero saved the day. He always made sure the villain had a chance to be redeemed.”
You pause. The crowd leans in.
“I used to think those stories were just stories. But then I grew up. And I realized Clark was never reading them for me. He was reminding himself that the world could still be kind. That love could still win. That happy endings were worth fighting for.”
Lois’s lip wobbles. Clark’s head is down, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
You smile. “And now, I get to watch my big brother marry the love of his life. Someone who sees his shadows and calls them beautiful. Someone who doesn’t need saving—but lets him save her anyway, because she knows that’s how he loves. Lois, Clark… thank you. For giving us a fairytale. For letting us believe in it.”
You step down to thunderous applause. Bruce is already reaching for you as you return to your seat, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You have a gift,” he whispers.
You smile. “So do you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
You motion to the dance floor, which is now being cleared for the first dance. “You’re about to show me whether you can dance without stepping on my toes.”
Bruce smirks, but he stands.
“I accept the challenge.”
The first slow dance feels like honey.
You fit against Bruce like you were made for this—his hand at your lower back, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his. The music swells around you, soft and rich, the kind of song you don’t know the name of but never want to end.
“I missed this,” he murmurs against your hair.
“We danced two weeks ago at the Wayne Gala,” you tease.
“That was for investors,” he counters. “This is for us.”
You tilt your head up, just enough to look at him. “So what does this mean, then?”
He smiles. It’s small, but the kind that reaches his eyes.
“It means,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “that I hope one day we’re on a dance floor like this, and it’s you in white.”
Your heart skips.
“I hope it’s you beside me,” you whisper, stunned by how much you mean it. “Always.”
Dick is spinning in circles on the edge of the floor, laughing with two of your younger cousins. He catches your eye and waves, cheeks flushed with joy.
Bruce leans in. “He’s going to sleep all the way home.”
“If he doesn’t pass out in the car,” you chuckle.
The music shifts again. A slow waltz. Ma cuts in to dance with Clark. Jonathan takes Lois’s hands with the gentleness only a father-in-law can muster. Couples rotate, change partners, laugh. The whole yard glows.
After a while, Dick taps your hip. “Can I have this dance, ma'am?”
You gasp, hand to your heart. “Sir! I would be honored.”
You and Dick dance slowly, swaying more than anything. He leads for the first few seconds, proudly trying to mimic what he’s seen grown-ups do. But when he missteps and nearly trips over your foot, he starts giggling uncontrollably, and you both fall into a rhythm of bouncing more than dancing.
His little hands are warm in yours, his smile endless.
“I did good today, didn’t I?” he asks.
“You were perfect,” you reply. “You brought the rings like a pro.”
“I practiced with Alfred,” he grins. “He made me walk up and down the hallway until I got it right.”
“I’ll thank him later.”
He grins, dimples deep. “Dad said I looked like a real gentleman.”
“You are a real gentleman,” you say softly, voice warm. “The best kind.”
Dick looks up at you. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
He shifts, suddenly a little more serious. “Do you think… do you think someday I’ll be like Uncle Clark? Like… good?”
You stop moving. You crouch down so you’re eye-level.
“Dick,” you say carefully, taking both his hands. “You are already good. You’ve got the strongest heart I’ve ever seen. You care so much about people. You try every day. That’s what makes you a hero.”
He swallows hard. “Even when If I mess up?”
“Especially then,” you whisper. “Because you keep going. And that’s what makes you strong.”
He throws his arms around your neck, hugging you tight. Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable—but his eyes are soft.
You scoop Dick into your arms and twirl him once before setting him down.
“Now go get some cake before it’s all gone,” you grin.
He dashes off. Bruce steps beside you.
“He needed to hear that,” he says quietly.
“So do you, sometimes,” you reply.
He chuckles, but there’s something weighty in the way he slides his hand into yours.
And you—
You let the world blur. You danced. You smiled.
You existed, happily, in the moment where your brother had finally married the woman he loved, where your son had carried the rings like a knight, and where your heart—your big, aching heart—was full.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Dick tugged your fingers and asked if he could dance with Aunt Diana.
You nodded. “Be polite, bug . . . And try not to step on her feet.”
He ran off. You turned back to Bruce, who was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“Ready to make our wedding the next one?” you asked, jokingly.
He smiled. “I already said yes two years ago.”
It started with silence.
The kind of silence that was too careful. Too constructed.
You noticed it when you came down from the upstairs study after three full hours of reviewing Wayne Enterprises expansion contracts. The clock had struck nine. The night air curled in through the windows in lazy waves, bringing the soft scent of pine from the woods, a trace of lavender from the garden.
The manor was still.
Too still.
You paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing the carved railing. Alfred had retired early to sleep. Bruce had gone down to the cave to finish running forensics on a weapons cache recovered near Crime Alley. And Dick?
You hadn’t seen Dick since dinner.
You glanced toward the drawing room. Sure enough, there was a glow behind the partially cracked door. Soft. Sneaky. Suspicious.
You knocked with the same voice you used to ask if someone had broken a lamp.
“Sweetheart?”
A pause. Then the shuffle of socks on hardwood.
“It’s open,” came the voice of your ten-year-old son.
You stepped inside.
Dick was on the floor, lying on his stomach, blueprints and sketches spread around him like a storm of colored paper. There were rulers, string, an old math compass, duct tape, a flashlight, and what looked like Bruce’s grappling gun partially disassembled next to a cereal bowl.
You blinked once. Twice.
“Baby,” you said slowly, “why does this room look like a Gotham PD evidence board?”
Dick sat up cross-legged, cheeks flushed, notebook in his lap.
“I have a proposal.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A proposal.”
He nodded firmly. “For you. And Dad.”
You crossed your arms. “Does it involve dismantling stolen Batcave tech?”
“No,” he said quickly. Then, “… not just that.”
“Uh huh.”
He stood up, cleared his throat, and held up a makeshift pamphlet.
It had a stick figure with a mask on the cover. It read: Sidekick Sttrategic Plan — Dick Grayson, Age 10 (almost 11).
You blinked again.
“… Okay. Go on.”
He straightened his shoulders, like he was preparing for a shareholder pitch.
“I want to be Dad’s sidekick.”
You stared at him.
He pressed on.
“I’ve done the research. And the training. You know I’ve been in the gym almost every night after homework. I can do fifty pushups. In a row.”
“I’ve seen you,” you said carefully. “They’re very impressive.”
“I read all of Dad’s old case files. The redacted ones. Well, except the ones with too much blood. Alfred said no.”
“Smart man.”
“I already know how to use the comms and the grid,” he continued, flipping pages. “And I’ve been practicing my flips. I’m faster than Bruce was when he was my age. And I can help.”
His voice cracked a little.
You softened.
He set the notebook down.
“Mom,” he said, suddenly quiet, “I don’t want to just watch anymore. I want to be a part of it. I want to protect people.”
You moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands found his, warm and a little sweaty from nerves.
“Honey,” you murmured, “you’re already a part of it. You’re part of this family. You don’t have to throw punches to matter.”
“I know,” he said. “But I want to help. Really help. You and Dad do so much. You save people. You make Gotham safer. I want to do that too.”
Your heart tugged.
There was so much of Bruce in him now. But there was also so much of you. That stubborn conviction. That desperate need to make things right, even when the world didn’t ask it of you.
“You know it’s dangerous,” you said softly.
He nodded.
“And scary.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
He looked up at you, blue eyes clear and wide. “But I’m not.”
You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.
“Does your father know about this?”
He shuffled guiltily. “… No.”
“Uh huh.”
“I was gonna talk to him after you,” he mumbled.
You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth.
“I’m the warm-up act?”
“You’re the boss,” he said sweetly. “If you say no, there’s no point in asking him.”
You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t butter me up,” you warned gently.
“I’m not!”
“You totally are.”
He smiled. Then, like it was sacred, he added, “You always tell me I’m brave. And I wanna be brave. Like you. And Dad. But I want to be useful too.”
“Dickie,” you said, cupping his cheek, “you’re the reason we even try.”
He leaned into your palm. You sighed, letting silence fall. And then, quietly, with a dry laugh you couldn’t hold in, you said:
“You look like a little robin when you puff your chest up like that.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Red sweater. Pointy elbows. All full of conviction and fluff.”
He stared at you. Then he lit up.
“Robin.”
You froze.
“No.”
“Robin! That’s it! That’s my name!”
“Oh, no, I was being poetic.”
“Mom,” he said breathlessly, “you named me!”
“That’s not what—”
“I’m gonna be Robin!”
You stood, both amused and horrified. “I’ve made a mistake.”
He tackled you around the middle. “I’m gonna be Robin! I gotta go tell Dad!”
“Wait, wait, wait!” you called after him as he bolted out of the room. “At least fix your spelling on ‘strategic’ first—!”
You found Bruce half an hour later in the Batcave.
He was hunched over a new cowl prototype, but the moment you stepped down the final stairs, he looked up.
“He’s very convincing,” he said dryly, setting his tools down.
You sighed and walked toward the console, arms folded.
“I should’ve known you were listening.”
“You were in the drawing room. The walls aren’t soundproof.”
You slumped into the nearest chair.
“He’s serious, Bruce.”
“I know.”
“He made pamphlets.”
Bruce arched a brow. “So did I. At twelve.”
You blinked. “What.”
“For my first pitch to Alfred.”
“… You made a business case for being a vigilante?”
“Yes.”
You sighed into your hands. “Of course you did.”
He leaned back, watching you.
“Do you want to say no?”
You looked up at him.
“Of course I want to say no. He’s a baby. He’s our baby. The idea of him dodging bullets and jumping off rooftops makes me want to throw up.”
Bruce nodded slowly.
“But?” he asked.
“But,” you exhaled, “I know him. He won’t let it go.”
“No,” Bruce agreed. “He won’t.”
“And if we say no… he might try anyway.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Because that was the truth. Dick Grayson, age ten, almost eleven, was already fearless.
And you couldn’t protect him by shutting him out.
So you stood, walked over to Bruce, and leaned against him with your head on his shoulder.
“If we do this,” you whispered, “we do it our way.”
“Absolutely.”
“No solo missions. No real combat until he’s ready. No special exceptions.”
“Agreed.”
You glanced up at him.
“You’re really okay with this?”
Bruce’s hand found yours.
“I’m terrified,” he said.
Then he smiled.
“But I think our little Robin just took flight.”
Dick insisted on a ceremony. Not a big one—just the four of you.
He had a fairly well-made costume, made of sturdy fabric, sewn by Alfred stitch by stitch.
You held back your laughter with the short pants.
But you still couldn't help but tear up a little, smoothing down the yellow cape that flew behind him with each turn. You caressed the R sewn on his chest—the one you'd put there, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Dick beamed beside you.
You took a photo. He posed like a champion.
And when the sun set, and the moon was high, and Gotham once again stirred in its shadows…
Robin joined the family business.
And your world—already full of love—somehow stretched even wider.
Tranquility in Marriage — Gojo Satoru x Reader (Part II)
WARNINGS: MDNI, heavy implications and talks of sexism, gender inequality because its in a more traditional setting, fluff, arranged marriage, quiet love, slowburn, distrust at first, elders acting like shit
SUMMARY: Getting into an arranged marriage with you was the only order Gojo Satoru had ever obeyed from the Elders and it was certainly not one he regretted.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is part two of the background of a mini-series for the arranged marriage au. Link to part one.
MASTERLIST & REQUESTS: Before you go, have a glass of wine or better yet, recommend a good bottle. any kind of message is always a delight. also, if you want to be in the taglist for other drabbles in this series, then just comment here.
You were close to breaking down.
Ever since the meeting with the Gojo clan, there wasn't a moment to breathe. Rather than praising you, or at the very least, give you a moment of rest, for the excellent impression you had left, your mother and your aunts doubled down on their lessons. She was constantly rambling on your tardiness--though you weren't late to the meeting--and blamed it entirely on your gluttony, as she put it delicately. Just because she saw you holding a sugar bun when you arrived to the meeting.
She wasted no time complaining to your father, who only raised his eyebrow and dismissed them with praise about how well you had handled yourself. Still, he couldn't help but feel confused about how you had ended up with a sugar bun when he had specifically instructed the servants to prepare only traditional desserts for the meeting. that you did well but he was rather confused as to how you got the sugar bun since he instructed for the servants on traditional desserts.
As harsh as it was to admit, your father became useless at that point, becoming more of a spectator to your mother's antics. Her insistence on molding you to be the perfect bride for the Gojo family--for you not to dishonor them--had grown stronger with each passing day. She became more demanding, barely letting you have space of your own. There was no time for you to think, to rest, and definitely not to explore the world beyond your clan's walls.
Even when you did have spare time at night, you were far too exhausted to do anything with it except sleep.
Every morning always starts the same; endless lessons, advices you never asked for, and lectures about how to please your future husband. All of them came from your mother and your aunts--not as if they had much experience in that area, seeing as their own husbands barely talked with them if not for the children.
You were tired of it all, and no one in your family seemed to notice how overwhelmed you are.
The servants did. They weren't blind to it. They saw the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped lower each day, how your smiles no longer reached your eyes. However, all they could do was offer looks of quiet pity, fleeting glances filled with sympathy they couldn’t speak out loud without getting punished. They were powerless in your household, just like you were.
Until one morning, you decided you’d had enough.
You woke up long before sunrise, slipping out of bed without making a single sound. The house was still wrapped in silence, only the faint rustling of wind outside. You didn’t care about the consequences anymore. Not about your mother’s rants, your father’s disappointed sighs, or the sharp gossip of your aunts.
You just needed to get out.
With nothing but a light shawl and the shoes you kept hidden under your futon, you crept down the hallways like a ghost, heart pounding against your ribs. The guards at the outer gates hadn’t changed shifts yet, and you knew the one blind spot in the patrol. You had memorized it long ago to sneak out at night.
The cold air hit your face the moment you stepped outside the walls of your clan, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you could breathe.
It didn’t matter where you went. You just needed to feel like you still belonged to yourself. Even if only for a few hours.
You didn’t stop running until the rooftops of your clan estate were nothing more than a blur in the distance.
The sun hadn’t even begun to rise, but the city beyond the walls was already humming quietly to life—street vendors setting up, lights flickering on in the distance. You ducked behind a wall, watching the outer guards from afar, heart racing as you calculated the last part of your escape.
You crouched low, just waiting for the moment they turned. One breath, two—
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around so fast you barely had time to think. Your instincts kicked in, and your fist was already flying toward the source of the voice, but before it could land, a hand caught your wrist mid-air with an alarming ease.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“No,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, “but I know what it looks like when someone’s suffocating.”
You hated how the words sank into you. How he said it so casually, yet it hit too close.
“I don’t need your pity,” you muttered, turning away.
“It’s not pity,” he said, following beside you now, steps light as ever. “It’s curiosity. And maybe a little concern. I mean, I kind of like the version of you that tries to punch people. That’s way more fun than the one sitting through lessons with that dead-eyed look.”
You didn’t respond, too stunned, too tired, too emotionally worn down. But you didn’t stop him from walking with you, either.
And when you finally crossed into the city’s edge, barefoot and free for the first time in what felt like forever, it was Gojo who walked silently beside you—hands in his pockets, grin soft, as if he wasn’t about to report you to anyone anytime soon.
Gojo Satoru, your fiancé, stood there in a simpler uniform, blindfold pushed up to rest lazily on his head, revealing those clear blue eyes. He looked rather amused.
“You almost punched me,” he said, as if you hadn’t just nearly attacked him. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”
Your breathing was uneven, both from the sprint and the sheer panic of being caught. “Why the hell are you following me?”
He let go of your wrist and stepped back, giving you space. “We haven't had a conversation since our meeting weeks ago. I wanted to visit tomorrow, but fate happened to get us to meet now.”
You stared at him, heart still racing. It was not just from the run but from the way he said it. Like this really was fate. Like this second meeting had always been planned. Like he'd been thinking about it.
“I wasn’t exactly trying to be found,” you muttered, looking away. “If my family finds out I left without permission—”
“They won’t,” he cut in smoothly. “Not if you’re with me.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping to something gentler. “You don’t have to explain. I saw the way you looked at the front gates—like they were a prison door, and I get it.”
"How can you get it when you live so freely?" you asked, voice low, bitter with exhaustion. “You don’t have to bow to anyone. People listen when you speak. You leave whenever you want.”
For a moment, Gojo didn’t answer.
Then he let out a soft breath and looked away, just briefly. “Freedom looks easy when people only see the surface,” he said. “But I didn’t get it for free. I had to fight for every bit of it—sometimes against the same kind of people you're still trying to survive.”
His voice wasn’t sharp, just quiet. Honest.
“I live freely now,” he added, “because I promised myself I would never let anyone else decide how I should live again. Not even for the sake of tradition.”
You stared at him, the fight draining out of your shoulders slowly. No one in your world ever talked like that. Certainly not with you.
Gojo rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the path you’d been eyeing. “So,” he said, casually, “you can keep running. Or you can let me take you somewhere for a while. Somewhere quiet. I won’t tell anyone.”
Your eyes searched his face. “Why are you always being kind about this?”
He smiled a little. “I know what it’s like to want to breathe and not be able to. I don't blame you for any of your actions, but I figured, if I’m going to marry you, you should at least feel like you have choices.”
That stopped you cold.
A beat passed. Then another.
“…Two hours,” you said quietly. “That’s all I can afford.”
Gojo’s grin widened, pleased. “Two hours is more than enough to make you feel like yourself again.”
And with a snap of his fingers and a twist of the air around you, you were gone, leaving behind the suffocating walls of your home, just for a little while.
—
You blinked a few times when you looked up to see the destination.
A quiet café stood in front of you, tucked between taller buildings, the faint buzz of a vending machine nearby and the low hum of early morning traffic in the distance. A glowing “24/7” sign flickered gently above the doorway.
Gojo led you in without hesitation.
“I usually hang around here when I have the time,” he said, pushing open the door with the familiarity of someone who’d been there a hundred times before. “The owner knows me well, so they always make sure to keep something warm around just in case.”
You looked around, the place small and cozy. Soft jazz played in the background, a few early workers sipping quietly in corners, steam rising from ceramic mugs.
“We’re in Tokyo right now?” you asked, eyebrows rising.
“Yeah,” he replied casually, scanning the menu. “Easier for others to not see us. And I didn’t know which shops were open in your hometown.”
He ordered two drinks without asking what you wanted but somehow, when the cup was placed in front of you, it was exactly what you would’ve chosen.
You reached into your sleeve for a few crumpled bills, ready to pay your share, but Gojo smoothly placed his money on the counter before the cashier could even look at yours.
“It’s my treat,” he said with a shrug. “You had a long day from lessons already.”
"I have the same ones being taught to me before our wedding," Gojo replied with a slight smirk, "but I suspect they’re not nearly as brutal as yours."
You let out a dry laugh. “They probably aren’t.”
“Your mother seems… strict.”
You nodded, eyes dropping to your drink. “She is.”
Your face warmed as a memory surfaced—one that still stung a little. "About the sugar bun..."
Gojo raised an eyebrow, sipping from his cup. “Ah, that bun. The one I bought for you before the clan meeting?”
You nodded slowly, half-hiding behind the cup of your drink. “She snatched it from me before I could take a bite. Gave it to one of the servants. I tried to get it back, but… they ate it.”
Gojo blinked, then broke into a laugh. “You’re telling me my peace offering was given and devoured by your household staff?”
“Tragically, yes.”
He grinned, leaning forward on the table. “That was a very rare sugar bun, you know. I had to bribe a very grumpy baker at 10 a.m.”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, quiet and genuine. “I figured it was something like that. It was still warm.”
Gojo’s voice softened. “Next time, I’ll bring two. One for your mother to throw away, and one for you to hide under your sleeve.”
You looked up at him, surprised at how easily he could tease your situation without mocking it—how he could take the heaviness and lighten it without dismissing it.
“…Thank you,” you said, almost shyly.
He only shrugged, smile gentler now. “It’s the least I can do for my fiancé.”
You looked up from your cup, caught off guard. Not by the word itself, but by how easily it left his mouth. No tension, no obligation. Just sincerity.
The two of you sat at a small table outside the café now, under the glow of a streetlamp that flickered every few seconds.
You tapped your fingers against the warm cup. “You make it sound so normal.”
He tilted his head. “Isn’t it?”
You gave him a look. “Nothing about us is normal. We met once, had a formal meeting surrounded by elders, and then I was told I’d be marrying the strongest sorcerer alive.”
“Strongest and most charming,” he added, raising his drink in mock toast.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. “You really don’t take things seriously, do you?”
“On the contrary,” he said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “I take your happiness very seriously.”
The way he said it was light, teasing, but not joking, and it made your heart skip just a little.
You glanced down at the half-finished drink in your hand. “…I don’t know what to do with that.”
“With what?”
“With someone who cares what I want,” you admitted, softly. “It’s not something I’m used to.”
Gojo leaned back in his chair, gaze thoughtful now, softer than before. “Well, that’s going to be a problem then.”
You looked at him, eyebrow furrowing. “Why?”
“Because I plan to care a lot.” He smiled, tilting his head at you like it was the simplest thing in the world. “So you better start getting used to it, my dear fiancé.”
You didn’t answer—not with words, anyway, but your shoulders relaxed, and your fingers stopped gripping your cup so tightly.
And when he suggested to split a pastry, laughing as he tried to guess which flavor you’d like most, you let him order without protest.
For the first time in a long while, the world didn’t feel so heavy, even with the prospect of an arranged marriage. Rather the opposite now.
—
The days blurred into one another after that night. Satoru had used his teleportation technique once again to bring you home. It was not out of doubt for your strength—rather admiring your skills and endurance throughout it all—but out of insistence to make sure you were safe. The special moment with him stayed with you longer than you expected. In the days that followed, as the wedding got closer, you began receiving small, secret gifts from him—mostly sweets and pastries you've only seen or heard in books, each one a new flavor for you to try. And when you weren’t too exhausted from preparations, he’d sneak you away for short escapes back to the small café, where the world felt a little easier.
However, not long after, the morning of the ceremony soon came.
Your mother had been up before dawn, already flitting in and out of your room with one of your aunts adjusting hairpins and the other tidying the outer layer of your ceremonial gown. You weren’t even sure you’d spoken more than five words before someone was patting powder across your cheekbones or muttering about creases on your gown.
"Lift your chin. No, not that much—you'll strain your neck," one aunt sighed.
"Did she eat anything this morning?" your mother asked sharply, not really expecting an answer. “She’ll faint halfway through if she doesn't eat.”
You sat obediently through all of it. Still, quiet, patient in a way that felt unfamiliar to you. Not from resignation, but calm. Like the storm had passed and now you were simply learning how to breathe in its stillness.
A maid brought you a mirror, and for a moment, you hardly recognized yourself. The ornate embroidery traced stories down your sleeves, pearls pinned in your hair like constellations. You looked like someone else’s daughter; distant, ideal, and perfect.
But when your father stepped, the illusion shattered for a moment.
He paused at the front of your room. His eyes, which rarely brim with emotion, are now quietly filled with it. And though he said nothing at first, the way he looked at you said it all. The little girl who once hid in his study during thunderstorms, crying for his comfort since your own mother scolded you for being dependent.
“I didn’t think I’d feel this sad,” he finally admitted, his voice becoming soft. “It’s tradition and it’s expected of you, but still… I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”
You stood slowly, careful not to let the gown drag, and reached for his hand. “I’ll still be your daughter, even if I’m someone’s wife.”
He gave a strained smile. “He better be good to you.”
You hesitated, but only for a second. Then you smiled, this time it wasn't for anyone’s benefit nor was it rehearsed. “I think I might just be fine with this,” you said honestly. “My future husband… isn’t all that bad.”
Your father exhaled, a laugh escaping his throat. “Such high praises for him already?”
“It’s the truth,” you replied, a hint of warmth in your voice. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt… and he’s done nothing but prove me wrong—in the best way.”
He squeezed your hand, then reached up to adjust one last strand of hair the way he always used to do when you were younger.
And then, the music began to play. Soft at first, ceremonial and slow, its weight settling over the room like a quiet promise.
Your heart thudded once—sharp and certain.
Your aunts reappeared to straighten the folds of your gown one last time, murmuring blessings beneath their breath. Your mother gave a tight nod from across the room, her expression unreadable, pride and control stitched into every line of her posture. But it was your father who offered his arm, his touch steady even as his eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation.
You took it, fingers curling around his sleeve as the doors opened.
Warm light spilled into the room from the ceremonial hall. The scent of incense, jasmine, and old wood lingered in the air. Every guest turned to look, a hush falling over the space like a held breath. The ceremony paid no expenses, both families going all out to show the union of two great clans, tradition filled the place, but it was the figure at the end of the aisle that made the rest of the world fall away.
Satoru stood tall beneath the ceremonial arch, draped in his own finery, still somehow effortlessly himself, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. However, his eyes were steady, fixed only on you, and for once, completely serious.
You felt your father stiffen slightly, like part of him wanted to turn you around and take you home. But instead, he gently leaned down and murmured, “If he ever makes you cry, you come straight back to me.”
A quiet laugh escaped you, but you knew he was serious.
“I’ll be alright,” you whispered back, more for him than yourself.
And then, step by step, you walked together—toward a future that no longer felt quite so distant or quite so heavy.
Every time Dick has introduced his little brothers to his friends, they get annoyed and snippy and act like they’d rather be literally anywhere else or with anyone else. They constantly treat Dick like he’s annoying and they can’t be bothered to be around him, and usually Dick can just put up with it, ignore it, laugh it off. Because he loves his little brothers. They don’t really mean it. He has to tell himself they don’t really mean it.
But after several years of this happening anytime he brings his brothers around the other titans, or some friends he made on a mission, or literally anyone he knows, it starts to get to him. He stop inviting them to things with him, thinking they must not want to go anyway. He stops asking if they want to hang out with him at all. He’ll go whenever they call him, he’ll always help them if they need it, but he’s tired of being the one to always ask first to do something.
He’s just so tired. It’s like no one wants him around at all. It’s exhausting, trying to put on a happy face all the time.
So imagine his surprise when Jason asks him to go hang out with him and a couple friends. When Jason’s face relaxes at the sight of Dick walking through the door, and he tugs Dick over to a couple new friends he’s been going on missions with and he tells them, “This is my brother, Dickie. You probably know him as Nightwing.”
And these two can’t believe they’re in the same room as Nightwing. Jason looks like he won the lottery. Dick’s just happy Jason actually called him his brother today.
Then the next weekend, Tim begs Dick to help out the Young Justice team with training. Dick agrees, because of course he does. He’d do anything to help his brothers.
“Guys! My brother’s here to help with training!”
“Which one?”
“The best one, obviously,” Tim scoffs, then he tugs Dick into the gym and looks back at him with a shy smile on his face. Dick thinks his heart might explode after hearing Tim say with actual seriousness that Dick is his best brother.
A week after that? Damian asks him to come to the manor, says it’s urgent, and Dick rushes there, only to find Damian sitting with a notepad, waiting eagerly for him.
“What’s up?” Dick asks, sitting on the couch across from him. “Are you alright? You said it was urgent.”
“I have to write an essay for school,” Damian says, his face very serious. “It’s supposed to be about my favorite role model.”
“I mean, Jason is really the one who’s good at essays and stuff-”
“Yes, but Todd is insufferable,” Damian says quickly, then looks down at his notepad. “And besides, he is not my role model. So his input would be useless.”
“Damian?”
Dick is so confused. Damian all but pouts at him.
“You are my role model, Richard. I thought that was obvious.”
“Oh,” is all Dick says, but a smile spreads across his face. “Oh, okay. Well, yeah, okay. Do you have, like, questions you want me to answer or something?”
Damian moves to sit next to Dick, and they go over the essay prompt, and Dick answers a few questions. Helps Damian figure out how he’s going to structure his essay.
A few weeks later, Damian shows off the A he got on his essay, a small smile hidden behind the paper as Dick looks on.
Dick keeps the essay up on his refrigerator with a magnet Damian got him from the zoo. It has an elephant on it. It’s right next to the postcard Jason sent him the Gotham Airport as a joke, and the punchcard for the boba place he goes to with Tim. Two more visits and they get a free drink.
Maybe his brothers don’t hate him so much after all.
Sister Lilith x reader (she/her), no names used.
request by @loaksmuntxa
fluff, some spoilers but it does not follow perfectly the plot.
1,7K words.
english isnt my first language!!
The bond you shared with Lilith was special.
Yes, she was clearly rude at first, and she still was, even with how close the two of you were. Both of you were “legacies”. Her family being the halo bearer for 6 generations before Ava took over, and yours being known to be the mighty-protector, the one who taught everything to the halo bearer. It may sound a little bit dumb, considering that they were the one bearing the halo, but it takes a lot: mentally and physically. But your little spanish family was known to have a pure heart. And all the women in your family were amazing at archery, so that did help. Naturally, both of your family were very close. You balanced Lilith’s family’s harsh nature, while she balanced with your too soft family. But being legacies had its problems. The pressure from both of your family was extremely intense and that may have contributed to Lilith’s downfall with Adriel. But anyways, you both bonded on that pressure, especially after Ava took over Lilith’s role and Beatrice kinda took over yours.
Don’t get it wrong, Lilith and you still had that bond before the incident, when Shannon was still the Warrior Nun. She was training all day, all night, and you can’t count on your fingers all the times you had to stop her from throwing an umpteenth knife around 3 am. Your hands softly touching her shoulder, before resting on it, while she nearly jumped from the contact of your hot skin against her cold one. You coaxing her to go to bed with pleading eyes, desperately trying to make eye-contact with her. Because that “damm fucking bond”, made her unable to resist to your sleepy eyes begging her to go to sleep. But every time, you would make eye contact, because that’s what you were good at, and she would end up cuddled against you in bed. Lilith would never admit that she was cuddling with you. It was more of her fulfilling her legacy-halo-bearer-duty, of course. She would never admit that she liked those soft touches, your fingers tracing the contour of her face-bones, that would always lull her to sleep. Or that she loved counting the moles and soft marks on your face when she thought you were asleep.
The bond you shared with Lilith was special, unique, soft, and intimate.
It all changed when she changed sides, obviously. You couldn’t deny it, it was hurting to see that woman whom you shared so many intimates and soft moments, trying to kill Ava. She had grown wings. And God, they were beautiful and you couldn’t stop looking at it when you saw them. It was impossible to hurt her, or even to try to hurt her. You were an amazing fighter, and you helped Lilith with her training for years. But throwing a knife or an arrow at her felt wrong. Maybe it was your mother speaking into your head. “God, I hate her mother, but please don’t embarrass us more by killing the one you were supposed to help.” Or maybe it was that bond, telling you this wasn’t YOUR Lilith. That she needed help. Killing Adriel was the only way. And you knew she needed help and wanted it. With those new powers, new abilities, she had the opportunity to kill you, more than one. But weirdly enough, her knives, her arrows, and everything that could hurt you always ended up a foot away from you. The bond was speaking, even in her corrupted mind.
Then, she disappeared for a while, but you didn’t stop fighting. You had your place next to Ava, Beatrice and that weird guy they found, Miguel. Your family had been fighting for years against devils, and killing Adriel would definitely bring back the honor in your family. So here you were, next to the portal, bow in your hand, and with the most cold face you could have put on. Facing Adriel and Lilith, the girl whom you shared soft kisses, shyly, in the dark, after a rough day. Lilith, who looked more and more unrecognizable, suddenly pulled Miguel’s heart, who was actually Michael or whatever, out of his chest, destroying the divinium bomb plan. Rising your bow, you throw a first arrow at Adriel, and you pray for you, and Lilith, as the fight begins. Everything is such a blur. Camila crying in Adriel mind’s, as she tells you, Beatrice protecting Ava from Lilith, you end up limping, bleeding nearly everywhere, a hand holding your left flank, stumbling every now and there, near the arch, your other hand bearing a sword, trying to stab as better as you could Adriel. His laugh resonates inside your ringing ears. “Miserable human…Fighting to protect the life of such an unknown person…Ava does not deserve this…Look at you, poor creature, putting your life at risk for her. You nuns are really mad.” Swallowing the blood in your mouth, you raise the sword once again, and God knows how, you actually touch him. And with the coolest smirk, that was so much like Lilith’s, you answered him weakly. “I am not doing this for Ava. I’m not saving Ava, but Lilith! I’ll try for centuries if she needs me to!”
He catches the end of your sword and throws it across the room, the shining weapon ending up into a wall. That ugly laugh gets to your ears again, and as you see him talk, Adriel raises his leg, and God, he’s going to push you in that fucking weird dimension. And God you were swearing like Lilith. Speaking of, a black ball comes towards you at lightning speed, and you realize it’s Lilith, who dropped Ava in the corner, coming towards you like a fury. When you lose your balance, your hair flies out of place, your hand leaves your side, and you turn your head, trying to make eye-contact one last time with your Lilith. Now questioning every bit of your sanity, you try to understand why you’re not dead yet, as Lilith’s burned arm holds you, just a little bit above the floor, as her other arm throws a kick at her “master”, punching him a few feet back. God, when has she become this muscular? Her arms weren’t this strong around your waist before. You didn’t know if you were hallucinating, dead, or alive, but you can hear the confusion in Adriel’s voice, and feel the stares of your sisters. “"Lilith, the supposed halo-bearer choosing that human over me, Adriel, when I have shown you the true world! I have given you wings, power, everything you needed to avenge yourself! You have shown your true colors and weakness by choosing love over loyalty. You will regret this betrayal as much as you will regret ever crossing me. I will make sure that you suffer for your treachery and that you never forget the price of betrayal."
Now, you were clearly hallucinating, your head spinning, ears ringing like there were bells in your head, vision becoming more and more blurry, but all you can do is focus on Lilith’s beautiful face, counting her eyelashes one last time as her arms hold your bleeding figure tighter. “You were about to take away the only person that I loved! The only person who loved me for who I was before you turned me into a monster! She means the world to me, miserable human or not! And me alive, you will not hurt her!” Rage echoes in her voice, and soft and cold tears falling on your cheeks are the last thing you can remember.
Everything's a blur, foamy memory. Everything but the pain that rushes to your nervous system when you move an inch of your body. A strangle moan leaves your body, and the door flies open. You want to scream, to run, to hide or even to fight. But you make eye-contact. With her. And she walks, not flies to you in a scared manner;like you were about to run away or even to disappear if she blinked too slowly. A smile falls on your face, and Lilith’s smile mirrors yours, and she sits on the chair next to the hospital bed. “Do you really think, after all this, I want you to sit next to me? I’m not made of sugar. I know, we are in public, and things have changed… You take a deep breath, eyes filling with tears as she abruptly stands up to wipe them as they only start to fall. Damm her and fast reflexes, and damn the way she so easily reads into you. Lilith's dark pink lips shushes you, but you nod softly, too scared to move your neck as you continue speaking. And if you knew better, you’d think her eyes were watery too. But right now, I just need you to hold me. How you want, where you want. I know this isn’t usual, but God it was so scary Lilith! I thought I lost you!”
And Lilith shushes you again, because she knew. She now knew what it felt like to nearly lose your most-loved one, and how scary it is. She settles to the edge of the bed, her long dark hair framing her face perfectly, and the nearly angel looking girl that she was, holds your hand as the other cups your face lovingly. Loving you was easy, you made it look like the easiest thing ever. She was ready to love you. It would take time for her to heal, for the both of you. Especially with the holy-war that was coming. But she would protect you. It was her legacy. Loving you never felt so easy when she realized. Bearing the halo or avenging herself were not her only reasons to live. You were the reason.
hello folks i need to write so drop requests : my love life is horrible and i just need to write some fluff about top gun characters (like phoenix!! or rooster or hangman or !!!) and matt murdock but nothing w the story line cause i ain’t finished w the seasons and i don’t wanna get spoiled!!
80% of americans wanted abortion to remain legal yet here we are. this is not the handmaid's tale this time, this is reality, the reality atwood warned us about. banning abortions only bans safe abortion because :
A WOMEN DIES EVERY 9 MINUTES OF CLANDESTINE ABORTION
making abortion illegal just to have kids dying in a school shooting (34 schools shootings in 2021, 27 for now in 2022) IS RIDICULOUS
heres what you can do :
Share Your Story - record a video or write your abortion story. It can be about having an abortion, supporting someone through an abortion, why you fight for abortion access, and more - #WhateverTheReason.
Support Abortion Funds - Abortion funds can help people pay for an abortion, as well as help with transportation, lodging, childcare, and other resources people need to access abortion.
Get Involved Locally - Planned Parenthood advocacy and political organizations are fighting for access to sexual and reproductive health care. Find out how you can make a difference at the local level.
SIGN THE PETITION -
for more information : click here
yes im going to add lots of tags fuck you if you are anti abortion
BE THE CHANGE DONT STAY QUIET
this is about you your family your friends your sisters your mom your neighbor
( @1800-fight-me @poemsforparker @ferxaniti I didn’t forget !)
It was rare to be born without a soulmark.
Most people had one, sometimes even several.
To be born without a soulmark, and therefore to live without a soulmate, was not easy.
People always asked why. Was the right person already dead? Not born yet ?
Or did you have no soul ? Were you unlovable ? Did you have a problem ?
Y/N’s parents didn’t ask these questions when they saw that their daughter’s body had no name on it.
They decided to be patient. Then later, when she still didn’t have a soulmark, they decided it didn’t matter.
They loved her anyway, with all their hearts, showering her with affection and making sure she knew she was perfectly normal, perfectly lovable, perfectly perfect.
People had to admit that the parents were right.
There didn’t seem to be a problem with the young Y/N. She was a child, then a joyful, pleasant, kind young woman. Few people disliked her, and many would have liked her to be their soulmate.
Not having a soulmark didn’t always mean being alone.
In addition to those who were born without a name, there were also those who had the misfortune to lose their better half, sometimes before even meeting them, sometimes after being able to spend some time with them.
So there were potential partners who gravitated around Y/N.
But none caught her attention.
Until Matthew Michael Murdock.
It was quite an impressive name. A beautiful alliteration.
The man was also impressive. Tall, handsome, funny, kind. A lawyer.
And blind. It wasn’t a problem. Not at all. Neither for him nor for her. It only underscored even more how special he was.
Like the day they met, it was a bit… strange.
She had met Franklin, Foggy, while having a drink with friends. The man had chatted with her a bit while she was ordering a new beer at the bar, she found him funny and friendly. He hadn’t tried anything weird, since he had already found his soulmate, Marci.
Without really knowing why, certainly because she felt that she could trust him and that he was a good person, they had exchanged their numbers, they had often discussed, they had become friends, and one day Foggy had invited her to meet his associates, Karen and Matt.
As she shook his hand introducing herself, she felt Matthew tense, grimacing as he looked up at her, as if his eyes behind his glasses were trying to perceive her, and he held her hand longer than necessary.
Then he quickly said his name, something odd in his voice, like shame, panic, despair.
Y/N thought he must be shy around people he was meeting for the first time. Even though he couldn’t see it, she smiled tenderly at him, trying to put him at ease.
Because, like Foggy, Matt seemed like a good person, with whom she hoped to become friends with.
He looked disappointed, a somewhat awkward silence settling in until Karen offered coffees and started talking about the case they were working on.
After that, Y/N and Matt talked. Very often. According to Foggy, it was the Murdock effect, with his smile, his shirt, his big charming phrases.
Chuckling, he told her to be careful, but she couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he was being a bit serious.
On the one hand, Matt really seemed like a seducer, he had already had a lot of conquests, and at the same time, he was also a true Catholic, which meant that for him, his soulmark was very important.
That was probably why none of his previous relationships had worked. And so there was a risk that it wouldn’t work between him and Y/N either.
Not wanting to lose him as a friend, she was therefore cautious.
Matt still acted weird sometimes. He would repeat his name to her without warning, his full name, leaving a long pause as if waiting for her to say something about it. Y/N once told him about alliteration, and that Matthew was a nice name, but nothing more.
She had nothing else to say. Each time, he made a sad little pout that she didn’t understand.
The explanation came after several weeks, and surprised her. As much as the kiss.
As usual, they were talking in Matt’s apartment, drinking tea on the couch, everything was fine, and then he kissed her.
It wasn’t that Y/N was against it. The kiss was wonderful. Matt was wonderful.
But she still freaked out a bit, which he felt, because somehow he always seemed to feel everything.
Looking ashamed, he leapt from the sofa and walked around the living room several times, stammering apologies, before turning to her.
"I need to know. I need to be sure. Are we soulmates or not ?“
”… What ?“
"Your name. Y/N Y/L/N. That’s the soulmark I have, on my left arm. I was… I was so happy when I met you. But you didn’t react when I told you my name, so what… I can’t figure out if we’re not soulmates, or if you don’t want a soulmate, or just don’t want me, and…”
"Matt.“ Y/N stopped him, rising to take his hands. "It’s not against you. I don't… I don’t have a soulmark. No name, at all. We’re not… It’s not me. I’m sorry.”
This seemed to reassure him, a little. He wasn’t rejected by his soulmate.
It also seemed to sadden him, a lot. Because they weren’t meant to be together.
Gently, Y/N took him in her arms, stroking his hair and his back. Even though he never talked about it and she didn’t ask questions, she had heard what had happened to Matt when he was a child, she knew he had been very lonely, and he deserved to be happy, to be loved, by someone good.
Even though they weren’t soulmates, they could be friends. Y/N would be there for him, to support and encourage him.
Like when she found out he was the vigilante everyone was talking about in Hell’s Kitchen, the Devil. Wounded, bleeding, half dead, he had no choice but to go to her place to ask for her help. His apartment was too far away and he was too weak to call anyone.
"You… aren’t you angry ?“ he asked with his sad puppy expression as she finished taking care of his wounds.
"Angry ? I’m surprised and worried, I don’t want anything to happen to you, but no, I’m not angry, Matt.”
"So… You’re not going to leave me ?“
He cried on her shoulder thanking her again and again.
Later, she learned what had happened with Foggy. With everyone, whenever they had discovered his secret.
Matt was very afraid of the reaction of those close to him. He didn’t want to worry them, he didn’t want to put them in danger, and he didn’t think they would accept who he was, abandoning him or forcing him to stop, to choose.
This was not the case with Y/N. She understood him and accepted him. She didn’t even ask him if he was really blind and how he was doing all this.
For the first time in his life, Matt was able to talk about everything to someone other than Father Lantom. Of course, Y/N couldn’t understand everything, but she listened to him without judging, without trying to control or change him, like Foggy and Karen, like Stick and Elektra, like everyone before.
This link went both ways. Matt was also there for Y/N whenever she needed something, whenever she wasn’t feeling well, whenever she just wanted to see him.
They became even closer than before.
”…Are you guys together ? Like, as a thing ?“ Foggy wanted to know, trying to speak as low as possible so that Matt wouldn’t hear him with his enhanced senses. "Not that it’s a problem. I think it’s awesome, you guys are awesome !”
"No Fogs, we’re just friends.“
"Yeah, ‘just friends’. I have eyes, you know. Working eyes I mean, and that are enough to know that there is something. No need to hear heartbeats or feel body heat. It’s obvious.”
"Well you’re wrong.“
"Hmm. Matt said that to me every time I asked him if something was up with a girl. And the girls said the same thing. So I know. But hey, I’m just the best friend, not need to put me in the confidence.”
Chuckling, Y/N gave Foggy a friendly pat on the arm, saying he was ridiculous.
Except he wasn’t ridiculous. It was true that she and Matt were acting more and more like a couple.
They hadn’t kissed since that time on the couch and they hadn’t had any intimate contact, but… They were still very intimate. Emotionally.
There were also certain small innocent gestures, holding hands or arms, touching their backs, staying very close to each other whenever they were together.
Y/N couldn’t help but admire Matt’s face, as he kept smiling at her.
Once, when he was walking her home because it was late, Matt didn’t let go of her arm as she went to open the door, keeping her close to him.
"I wish it was you.“ he whispered sadly.
She said nothing, she understood what he meant.
"At the same time…” he continued. “Maybe it’s better this way. It would be too risky, I don’t want you to suffer because of me. You deserve better.”
"Matthew Michael Murdock, don’t say nonsense. You’re a wonderful man and your soulmate will be happy to have you. I’m glad we’re friends.“
I wish it was you too, she wanted to say, I wish I had your name, but she didn’t say it. Her heart seemed to speak for her, as Matt smiled, before kissing her cheek and heading home.
They didn’t talk about it again, but nothing changed either. It was obvious that they loved each other.
But they couldn’t be together.
Well, they could have, but one day Matt was going to meet the right Y/N, and he would have to go with her, because it was fate, because it was better.
Because Matt was a nice man.
He certainly wasn’t going to make his soulmate suffer by announcing that he was rejecting her, without even trying to get to know her, leaving her alone, unloved, desperate. It would be cruel, and Matt, being the martyr that he was, was bound to sacrifice himself to avoid that.
At the same time, he wouldn’t want to hurt Y/N either.
So they weren’t together. Not really. So that it would be less hard when that moment came.
It was hard to wait for this moment to come, and to avoid making a mistake that would ruin their relation. But as soon as Y/N tried to see Matt less, as soon as he tried not to call her anymore, as soon as they made the decision to move away for the better, there was a kind of force that pushed them quickly towards each other, and they couldn’t be apart for more than a day.
Foggy and Karen did their best not to laugh at them, and even reassure them.
It was kind of sad, but beautiful, such a connection between two people who weren’t soulmates. It was something important.
During one of their party night, as Karen came out of the bar to answer the phone, presumably Frank, and Foggy went to get more drinks, Matt approached Y/N, smiling.
He was a bit drunk, he put his head on her shoulder, his hand behind her neck, and he purred like a little cat, just happy to be there.
Then suddenly, as he stroked her neck, he froze. Matt looked up, and like the first day they met, he stared at her behind his glasses, before going back to feeling her skin, more seriously.
"It’s my name.” he suddenly declared.
"What ?“
"There. That’s my name.”
"Matt, what are you talking about ?“ Y/N asked, putting her hand on his, so she could feel what he was touching exactly. "Are you talking about that ? The little spots ? I remember that my mum noticed them when I was a teenager, I don’t really know what it is, maybe eczema, but it doesn't…”
"It’s Braille. It’s my name. You have my name.“
It was Y/N’s turn to freeze.
A name. A soulmark. She had a soulmark, all this time, and it was Matthew Michael Murdock, her friend, the man she loved, and who loved her too, and that she couldn’t have, because they weren’t soulmates.
Matt was breathing rapidly, with difficulty. Like a wounded, worried animal. He was still waiting. He waited to know if she accepted him, since this time, it was the time.
She knew who he was, what he was doing, that his life was dangerous, that he wouldn’t always be there, that he would often be hurt, that he was at risk of being killed, that she would spend many nights in wondering if he was dead, that she might be the target of his enemies, and so, if she decided she didn’t want that, that she preferred them to remain friends, Matt would understand.
He had understood the first time. He had been a little disappointed that it wasn’t her, and reassured, and now he didn’t know and he was panicking again, not knowing what to say.
Y/N didn’t know what to say either, she hadn’t been prepared for this at all.
But she knew what to do.
The sound of the glasses that Foggy was dropping on the floor and Karen’s little cry of joy do not disturb their kiss.
As soon as their lips touched, Matt seemed to come to life again, wrapping his arms around her to pull her against him, clinging to her body as if his life depended on it. Y/N instinctively did the same. After all, they had been dreaming about it for months.
Being the smartest of the group, Karen understood what was happening, screaming "finally” and “congratulations” as she laughed and hugged them.
They laughed with her, even more so because of Foggy, still lost, who was making a weird expression and funny noises, before he understood too, and howled in turn, smiling, crying and hugging them, saying that he had always knew they would end up together, because it was obvious !
That day, it was then decreed that Franklin Foggy Nelson was always right, when he was already planning their wedding as a future best man. Matt and Y/N let him, because he was right indeed, Foggy would be their best man, as the best friend, the one who introduce them, and the one who said from the start that it sure they would end up together.
the next installment of wingman's best friend / follow up of hooked from hour one / coming soon!
“Well, are you in love with him?”
You tutted at his insistence, shrugging dumbly with your shoulders. Love was a big word. It wasn’t easy to find, especially with your line of work. Most people Bradley dated found his job exciting at first, until they eventually got upset with all his time away and the odd working hours. It was hard enough being his friend, you couldn’t imagine how hard it was dating a naval aviator.
But then again, your job wasn’t a cake walk either.
Suddenly, you regretted doing the “secret job” thing with Jake. Honestly, you hadn’t expected feeling about him the way you did, otherwise you wouldn’t have done it. What if telling him about your job now would scare him off?
“Hey, you still with me?”
You snapped out of your thoughts, smiling crookedly at Bradley. “I don’t know. I guess I could be? He’s… Kind of perfect, actually. He made me come with his tongue.”
Bradley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he stared at you, wincing in pain as his nose twitched involuntarily. “Oh shit. You gotta lock that man down right now. A summer wedding sounds nice. Obviously, I’ll be your best man.”
“Maid of honor, you mean.”
“That, too.”
“God, you’re stupid. All of that missing oxygen in your brain really is starting to show.”
“You literally just whacked your purse in my face, I’m pretty sure I have brain-damage.”
“Self-inflicted brain damage.”
author's note: are y'all as excited as I am????? sry, couldn't help but post this lil tidbit. SPREAD THE WORD! REBLOG! SECOND INSTALLMENT COMING SOON!
