since we’ve had a lot of news about “ai in the lit world” this week (literally three separate instances) im just going to reiterate that i don’t support the use of ai, i will never support a writer that uses ai (even as ‘tool’ for research), and i will always be loud and annoying about its use in artist spaces
on the same note, i also am against the ai witch hunt that specifically happens in social media spaces; if you suspect ai, cite your claims before harassing people pls. ai is already such a fucking drag let’s not go around pushing artists out of creating and sharing their work
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dcu masterlist | main masterlist | song-inspired fics
fem!reader x jason todd
summary: in which loser!jason gets a chance to see his favorite popstar on stage—you.
warnings: slightly suggestive, jason being downright pathetic for his celeb crush (aka youuu), jason is a little obsessive (but who wouldn't want a jacked, polite, and HANDSOME loser obsessing over them?), a bit of a parasocial relationship, he's a bit ooc but whatever
step inside my mind, you can see the shrine, got you on my walls, believe it
a/n: was gonna write this one for tim but the world needs a few more loser!jason fics out there. also lol this is inspired from the time i went to a madison beer concert with my sister and i asked, "why are there so many dudes here?" to which she replied, "dude, it's madison beer."
UNEDITED!
when he first saw the billboard, jason thought he was going to lose his mind. you were coming to gotham city of all places? to tour? here? you?
he didn't tell anyone he bought tickets. won't tell his brothers or his friends, because they'd make so much fun of him. because only girls buy your tickets, and if not girls, then some chronically online loser who's watched all your performances and has all your albums downloaded on his phone, remixes included.
and jason, unfortunately, knows very well that he falls into the latter category. or would if anyone found out about his massive—borderline parasocial—crush on you.
when he bought the tickets, he didn't even consider the price. he never spends money! not unless it's a necessity, right? why not treat himself to a front row seat? doesn't matter how much it costs.
he books the night off months in advance and ensures nobody is trying to make plans with him. not that anybody really is. and not that he's bothered by that.
gosh, he's just so damn excited. he listened to your entire discography all over again. relieved it. because you're an experience.
he feels like a fangirl shoving his big brother out so he doesn't see all his posters of you.
"what'chya hidin' in there, jay-bird?" dick would call from the other side of the room. "got something on your computer you don't want me to see?" he'd chuckle and walk off, thinking jason was just a pervert.
worse, jason isn't a fangirl. he's a fanboy. some loser locked away in ihs room, cherishing the vinyls he has of your latest album.
he's frugal with his money. but whenever you drop merch, whenever you drop a new album, he's all over it. then his brothers wonder what he does with his money.
"dude, you literally don't spend it on anything," tim would say. "then you drain an entire paycheck in one week. what the hell are you spending it on?" tim doesn't expect an answer. he knows jason is a little secretive.
truthfully, the moment you release an album, he's all over the pre-orders. limited edition vinyls and album covers, posters, cds. he even once bought a vhs tape just to tell people online that he has it. anonymously, of course.
so, in short—jason is ecstatic the night of the concert. he feels like he's been waiting forever. his legs are jittery as his classes wrap up for the day. dick keeps askin him what's wrong, and damian is giving him a bitter, judgemental side-eye.
nine p.m rolls around, and jason snatches his coat from the closet. "i'm going out."
the entire living room is stunned. jason, going out? jason, touching grass? jason, maybe meeting up with somebody?
dick doesn't know what to say. "uh, sure. see you...tonight."
jason slams the door behind him. he's lucky he came early, because the line is already trickling out the door. doesn't matter either way—he bought a front-row seat.
by the time he's checked in, jason couldn't care less how out-of-place he looks. there's a few other young men here. relatively his age, just as jittery. they give him tight smiles or pretend to ignore what they're here for. you.
the opener gets him warmed up. an artist he's not familiar for, but watches gleefully nonetheless.
then the white lights fade, pink ones replacing them. a hue of love and mystery fall over the arena and the crowd erupts with eager cheers. jason's heart is pounding. he's getting a little light-headed. a little giddy, like a child.
the backup dancers spin onto the stage, flexible legs darting upwards, then down.
your silhouette appears behind the curtain. more cheers. he's silent the entire time. the entire world fades away. it's like a dream come true watching you emerge from backstage.
you break out into your first song. you sound just as good live—no, better. way better. the rawness of your vocals. the way his ears ring from the bass.
he knows every lyric, every song, even the quiet harmonies layered over each vocal.
he loves you.
jason swears he loves you.
he's absolutely mesmerized. hypnotized. you keep him in a trance. he's overwhelmed by the pinky tones of the stage. the golden lights. your shimmering bodysuit.
he feels like he's glowing alongside you.
and then you bend down—at the knee, so polite and pretty—and end a song. more cheering from the crowd, and then your eyes catch on his. now, he's obsessed with you, but not quiet delusional. not yet, at least.
he knows your eyes have lingered on a million different people. you're touring the who damn world, after all.
but your eyes linger a bit too long, and he feels his cheeks heat.
his heart is just about to tear out of his chest when you lean down and say into your sparkly microphone, "what's your name, handsome?"
jason swallows as you angle the microphone to him. "i...uh. jay. i mean—jason."
"jay??" the crowd whoops and hollers at your flirtatious smile. "are you alone tonight, jay?"
he shudders at the nickname. a good, thrilling shudder. your gaze alone matches the stare of a thousand people. he feels like an ant.
no. he feels human, because you look like a goddess. he's small underneath your gaze. entirely helpless as his eyes worship you from head to toe.
"no," he says into the mic. "i'm...i'm not seeing anybody."
you cackle that boisterous laugh he's seen recorded so many times. he realizes suddenly that you asked if he was alone, not if he was seeing anyone. heat flushes his face red.
you take note of his embarrassment and pout. "jay, don't worry. i was hoping you weren't seeing anybody."
it's just a game! that's what he tries to remind himself of. that you're simply playing with him. it's your act, your image. still, he can't help but blush.
"jay," you ask, panting slightly. "will you request a song for me to sing?"
he lights up. you've already sung half the songs he wanted you to! then again, he wants you to sing all your songs.
so jason pipes up and politely asks you to sing one from an older album of yours—your debut, in fact. the first song he ever heard from you that sent him spiraling into obsession. a slow, romantic beat. sensual and just so lovely.
you sing it so much stronger than you do on your album. given, your voice has developed since your debut. he's noticed. of course he has.
as much as jason tries to convince himself you're playing with him, he can't help but notice your eyes flitting to his every few seconds. even after you've sung his requested song, you keep glancing over.
but jason doesn't want to hope.
no, he'd never.
but when the end of the show rolls around, when confetti blasts through the arena and everyone's voice is blown, you kneel down and give him a guitar pick.
not the one you were using to play. this one came from a hidden pocket in your bodysuit.
he flips it between his hands, hiding it in his palm until he's out of the arena.
he goes home with a big, fat, stupid smile on his face. he's thumbing your guitar pick in his pocket and ignores his brothers as he walks upstairs.
still, jason cannot stop listening to your music.
the experience becomes a memory, and eventually the excitement melts away. he cherishes the guitar pick and still watches all your performances.
but things are back to normal. and soon you vanish from the world's touring eye and take a couple months off.
he's not expecting new music from you anytime soon—nobody is.
but three months after your tour wraps up, you release a new song and the title has him starstruck.
it's titled jay.
and while he expects to hear the usual upbeat tempo of your songs, this one carries the same tone as the song he requested. low, husky alto range. fluttery notes in your falsetto.
though you never sing the name "jay" once in the song, the lyrics strike him as a little...odd.
you sing things like, "find you" and "miss you," and during the bridge, you sing, "it was a three-minute connection, and i loved every moment."
he thinks it's a coincidence. a stupid fantasy he's reading into.
until the end of the song comes and cheers fade into the audio. your voice, amplified by a microphone in an echoing stadium screams:
"goodnight, gotham city! i love you, and i'll be back!"
do people love loser jason as much as i do or am i constantly in a state of tweakery
۶ৎ | your boyfriend, Jason, doesn’t know you have depression. When he comes over—curious on your sudden withdrawal—the truth comes out. Fluff ensues. 🙀
𑣲𝓙 | no warnings — except for grammar errors and the fact that I use “long pause” a lot sorry abt that LOL 😹 (( hence the title ))
ps: hello !! I apologize for posting this so late. 😿 I’ve been struggling a lot mentally and I needed to prioritize myself and school over writing— I hope you enjoy this 😸 Tysm for 30+ followers !! 😼
∘˙ ✶ a warm cup of cocoa, topped with peppermint ᯓ✦∘˙
Jason notices it before he says anything.
At first he just thinks you’re busy.
You text back slower. Then not at all sometimes. Calls go to voicemail. When you do pick up, it’s short. Quiet. Like you’re trying to get off the phone without saying that.
He lets it go. For a bit. Then it keeps on happening over and over again. So he shows up.
You don’t answer right away. He knocks again, a little harder this time.
“Ma,” he calls, leaning closer to the door. “I know you in there.”
There’s movement. Slow. Then the lock clicks. You open the door just enough to look at him.
Bonnet on, hoodie too big—his—and your eyes look tired in a way he doesn’t like.
Jason frowns a little.
“You been dodgin’ me or somethin’?” he asks.
You shake your head, stepping back to let him in. “No.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
You don’t respond. Just close the door behind him. The place is quiet. No TV, no music. Just… quiet.
Jason looks around for a second, then back at you.
“You ain’t been answerin’,” he says.
“I know.”
“And you don’t text back.”
“I know.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“So what, you just don’t feel like talkin’ to me now?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
You shrug a little, like you don’t even have a good answer. That irritates him more than if you did.Jason shifts his weight, jaw tightening.
“If you’re done, just say that,” he mutters. “Don’t drag me through it.”
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
“I’m serious. If I did somethin’, just say it.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then why does it feel like you don’t wanna be around me?”
You don’t answer.
Jason lets out a quiet breath, looking off for a second.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Aight.”
“Jason—”
“No, I get it,” he cuts in. “I’m not exactly easy to deal with.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” he asks again, sharper now.
You look at him, really look at him, and something in your face makes him pause.
“I’m tired,” you say.
He frowns.
“…Everybody’s tired.”
You shake your head.
“No. Not like that. It’s like… it sits in me. Like it don’t go away after I sleep or eat or whatever. It’s just there.”
You rub your arm, eyes dropping.
“I’ve been like this for a while. On and off. And it’s not that I don’t wanna text you or call you… I just—” you let out a breath, frustrated. “I pick up my phone and it feels like too much. Like even typing a sentence takes everything outta me.”
Jason stays quiet, watching you.
“I don’t feel like doing anything most days. Talking, texting, going out… even getting up sometimes.” You glance away. “It’s not just you.”
He watches you closely and you can’t—for the life of you— tell if he’s judging or listening… You hesitate, then just say it.
“I have depression.”
The words sit there. Jason doesn’t react right away. He just nods once, slow, like he’s taking it in.
“…Alright,” he says quietly.
“I should’ve told you earlier,” you start—heart racing, your hands fidgeting with your sleeves. “I just didn’t know how to say it without it sounding… like an excuse.”
“It ain’t an excuse,” he says.
You scoff lightly, shaking your head. “It kinda feels like one.”
Jason shakes his head.
“Nah. Not that.”
You go quiet for a second, then your voice comes back softer.
“It’s like… I know what I’m supposed to do. I know I should text you back. I know I should get up, clean, eat, go outside—whatever. And I just… don’t.”
You swallow, blinking a little harder.
“And then I sit there thinkin’ about all the stuff I didn’t do. And it just makes it worse. Like I’m stuck in it.”
“I don’t try to ignore you on purpose,” you add quickly. “It’s not like I’m sittin’ here like ‘oh I don’t care about him.’ I do. I just…”
Your voice cracks a little, and you look away.
“I don’t feel like myself. Like I’m here, but I’m not really here. Everything feels… dull. Heavy.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“Some days it’s like I’m moving through mud. Other days I just don’t move at all.”
The room goes quiet again, but it’s different now. Jason exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face.
“I thought I did somethin’,” he admits.
“Thought you were just… pullin’ away.”
“I wasn’t,” you say quickly. “Or at least I’m not trying to.”
He looks at you for a second.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I see that now.”
There’s another pause.
“I get like that too,” he says. “Not the same, but… I shut down. Don’t talk. Don’t wanna deal with anybody.”
“Really?”
He shrugs.
“Yeah. World just feels like too much sometimes. Easier to just… not deal with it.”
You nod a little.
“I get that.”
Silence settles again, but it’s not as tense. Jason looks at you, slower this time.
“…You been eatin’?” he asks.
“A little.”
He gives you a look, clicking his tongue.
“A little ain’t enough.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he says, not harsh, just honest. You don’t argue. Jason steps closer, stopping in front of you.
“Next time,” he says, quieter now, “you don’t just disappear on me like that. You say somethin’. Even if it’s just ‘I can’t talk.’ Got it?”
You nod.
“Yeah.”
He reaches up without thinking, fixing your bonnet where it’s slipping.
“You don’t gotta deal with that alone,” he adds.
Your chest tightens a little.
“I know,” you say, softer now. “I just… forget that sometimes. Or it don’t feel true.”
Jason huffs softly.
“Well, it is.”
You look at him, really look at him this time, and your shoulders drop just a little.
“…It gets bad like this sometimes,” you admit. “But it don’t stay like this forever. I just gotta… get through it.”
Jason nods once.
“Then I’m gettin’ through it with you.”
You don’t say anything to that.But you don’t look away, either. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Jason shifts, glancing around like he’s deciding something.
“C’mere,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
“Just—c’mere.”
You hesitate, but step closer anyway. He doesn’t wait long after that—just reaches out and pulls you into him, one arm firm around your shoulders, the other coming up to the back of your head.
He leans back just enough to look at you.
“You got food in here?”
“…Maybe.”
He squints at you.
“Maybe ain’t an answer.”
You shrug, shoulders lifting a little. “I got stuff. Just… ain’t felt like makin’ it.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, like he already figured that. There’s a second where neither of you move again.
Then he nudges you, light. “Go sit down or somethin’.”
You give him a look. “bossy.”
“Says you,” he shoots back.
You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. No real attitude is behind it.
Still, you turn and drift toward the couch, dropping down into it, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands.
You hear him moving around in the kitchen—cabinets opening, closing, a quiet ‘tsk’ under his breath like he’s judging what you’ve got in there.
“Man… you barely got shit in here,” he calls out.
“I told you, I got stuff,” you mumble.
“This ain’t stuff ma.”
You huff a little, sinking further into the couch. You just sit there, listening to him move around. The noise fills the space a little—breaks up that heavy quiet that’s been sitting in here all day.
It’s… nice. Weirdly nice. Your eyes drift, not really focusing on anything.
For once, your head isn’t so loud. It’s not gone or anything. Still there. Still that weight sitting in your chest. Just not pressing as hard.
“Uh..,” he says. “We workin’ with somethin’.”He says from the kitchen— sounding somewhat unsure himself.
You glance over at him. “That doesn't sound convincing.”
“I’m not,” he admits.
That pulls a small breath outta you—almost a laugh, but not really. He notices. Doesn’t say anything about it.
“You’re gonna eat, though,” he adds.
There’s ANOTHER long pause.
“Thanks… for comin’ over.”
You don’t look at him when you say it. You don’t have to. He hears it anyway.
PAIRING: gyro zeppeli / reader
WARNING(S): fluff, biting, contemporary/modern au, punk band au, use of tesoro (treasure/darling) as a pet name, kind of ooc and plot-less, gender neutral reader
SUMMARY: you help dye your boyfriend’s hair ahead of his next show, but of course he gets distracted
NOTE: band au + medical student! gyro for like two sentences but not super prominent within the realm of this (other than in language), but it adds some context ; inspired by gyro’s stylized coloring for the new jojo magazine cover coming out in a few days - happy sbr day! ; 1.6k words
—
The pungent burn of chemicals colored the air a vibrant and sharp scent, burning slightly at your eyes as your gloved hands delicately worked through strands of Gyro’s dirty blond hair.
It was almost practiced how you approached the process, your hands replacing the brush you would massage through his hair on long-tired nights spent in respite from the hour-long performances and traveling to-and-fro venues and lights and sounds. You raked your fingers through his hair, grabbing at straying pieces to ensure that the dye of blue and green streaks reached the correct corners of his hair. It was intricate work trying to brush on and dab chemical-tipped hues in meticulous patterns to ensure they looked like beads of water, the Atlantic’s sea-foam crowning and waving through his cascading blond.
Of course, this was only made harder by Gyro’s incessant touches, as if he wanted only to distract you from the job he tasked you with, cheeky grin and mischievous glint illuminating his lovely features. His hands would sneakily skirt up your thigh, rubbing minuscule distractions into your skin as you sat still—at least, you tried to—on the bathroom counter. He would blow air at your face every time your eyebrows bunched together in intense concentration, even blowing air into your eyes before letting out swells of choral chuckles and laughs, the gleam of his golden grills playfully mocking your hard-at-work attention. It felt as if Gyro’s only purpose in life was music and poking you into traps of annoyance.
You grumbled in response every now and again whenever he picked up a side-quest of distraction that particularly annoyed you—how he would annoyingly tap his fingers in cascading succession before the chaos of his movements turned trained, building practiced rhythm as if the warmth of your skin served as a temporary replacement for his guitar; the movement, nonetheless, was ticklish against the bare of your leg. After a while, Gyro ended up singing about everything and nothing, playfully tuning around words that appeared in his mind, using the cramped environment of your apartment’s decrepit bathroom as his lyrical muse.
“What do you think of this number?” Gyro asked after a while, your eyes still very much trained on the streaking pattern you were trying to perfect. Without even waiting for your answer, he jumped into a random melody about the hair dyed gloves you were wearing, how their violently stained blues and emerald greens mixed and faded on the plastic. As usual, the melody was playful but the lyrics painfully, woefully unrefined.
“Oh,” you said with a sarcastic shade to your tone at the end of his impromptu performance. “I’m sure Johnny and the others would love to put this one in rotation.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I can totally see this as the opening number for your next show.”
“It’ll have to be the show after at least; we’ll need time to practice it before we can even perform it, of course,” he mused almost matter-of-factly, his smile wide and grills on full display at the learning that you liked his random melodies.
“Of course,” you repeated, laughter creeping up behind your words. As much of a playful jest Gyro is, he was terrible at picking up the sarcasm you and Johnny threw his way every now and again. He continued humming the melody while drumming his fingers to the freshly manufactured tune on the expanse of your thighs, as if to workshop it right then and there.
As he continued softly humming and polishing his new song—in hopes to present it to Johnny in the next few days—your eyes remained locked in focus on the delicate edge of his hair, ensuring the color matched the length and size of the other side’s pattern. While checking the alignment of the spots drenched in thick dye, you took a pause to admire the color work.
“Are you sure the hospital is going to let you work with your hair all funky?” you questioned suddenly as the thought appeared in your mind just as you were nearing the end.
“Who cares. I’ll just wear a scrub cap—they’ll never know,” he responded. One thing about Gyro, besides his charm, was his arrogance; as much as you loved him, he always found himself skirting along the walls of trouble, toying with the edge before the consequences rolled onto him. You both loved and hated this about him, but you knew his heart was much bigger than the arrogance he projected to the world.
You continued looking, bringing the dyed front pieces forward so you could carefully check their neatness. You felt Gyro’s sharp green eyes trained on yours, the weight of his gaze quickening your heart ever-so-slightly. He always managed to have this effect on you: the intensity of his eyes bearing pressure onto your form, as if searching for the patterns of Fibonacci melodied onto the contours of your skin, on the cusp of your rounded shoulders or your concentrated eyes. No matter what complicated geometries his mind was deciphering from your presence, he always left your heart beating rapidly to a rhythm that only he could invent.
As if knowing this, he leaned in—inching himself forward, feathering his stance just to barely be closer to you—before his cocksure voice pressed: “Like what you see, tesoro?”
“No,” you hummed as your lips betrayed you into a curling upward smile at the mention of his nickname for you. “Just proud of my expert handiwork on some messy wet dog.”
A smile graced his features, beautiful and effortless in how it illuminated the softened corners of his eyes. His attention was solely placed on you now—all tasks of distraction ceased into the seconds prior as his eyes, emerald and hypnotic, pierced into yours. It was a gentle gaze, still, but the intensity of his eyes latching onto contact with yours always left your soul and chest vulnerably exposed to whatever mysteries he was piecing together at the bridge of your pupil and iris, your iris and sclera, your sclera and the skin of your eyelid and the brush of lashes expanding forward into a calculus of imagined and performed beauty. You found that he would do this often, staring at you as if it was his first- and last-time witnessing science birthed at the breath of your skin: what geometries were revealing itself under his watchful, kind eyes?
“What?” you asked, finally, breaking the link between your eyes—as you always do first; you always crumbled under the weight of his gaze.
“You look cute stressed over hair dye,” he pondered aloud, the smile already on his face growing to reach his eyes.
“I’m not stressed.”
“Yes, you are.”
You grumbled: “I’m just trying to make it perfect for you.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s punk, tesoro.”
“I just don’t want to mess up your gorgeous hair.”
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
“Just your hair.”
He chuckled knowingly, his arrogance bleeding through the vibrato of his laughter, before he leaned in fully for a feather-like kiss against the landscape of your lips. His lips moved gently with yours, taking his time as if he was memorizing the softness of you, as if afraid anything more ravenous would dispel the music of quiet hums he was hearing butterfly from the back of your throat.
Only after a fraction of a second did he lift himself away from your lips, his breath still dangerously close before his hand finally moved from its dutiful place on your thigh to the edge of your neck. Turning your head quietly to the side, Gyro found his lips against yours once more, this time making complicated rhythms along the curvature of your shoulder, calculating the slope of your neck meeting clavicle meeting shoulder’s edge. He peppered kisses along your skin, mapping the world in tenderness with just his lips.
“Hey,” you called to him trying to get his attention at the realization of his dye-slick hair still reeking of chemicals. “You’re getting the dye on my face and hair.”
He hummed into another kiss, the contact of his lips electrifying against the delicate expanse of skin. At the edge of your shoulder, where your clavicle just slightly dips to meets your humerus, some spirit of mischievousness possesses him and he bites at your skin.
You yelped in response to the sudden sharpness after a trail of fifteen kisses soft: “Gyro get off me; you’re going to fuck with the dye.”
It was a mini-game now of defiance now, a playful and tender pattern that only urged him forward with another bite of your skin between his golden teeth—indents of Gs and Zs etching themselves into crowns against your gently marked flesh.
With your hands still covered in inky gloves, you tried to shove him off with your knees but Gyro’s hands swiftly grab them and move your legs to wrap around his waist—tender bites transformed now into delicate, ticklish, wet kisses.
“You’re going to make a mess!” you exclaimed, smiles and laughter clinging to your words, despite your attempt at seriousness, with every kiss he planted. “You’ll get the dye on me.”
“I like mess,” he said against your skin, his words vibrating into another well of kind, soft kisses.
Your dyed-gloved hands resigned to their hold in the air as he placed the last of his increasingly loud kisses against the absolute corner of your shoulder before lifting himself away from your warmth. In his version of concentrated work in decorating the tender stretch of skin, marked now by wet kisses and ghostly indents of golden hubris, laid streaks and splotches of your previous concentrated work: colors of blues and greens coming to embellish Gyro’s artistry.
His thumb came to your shoulder, rubbing at the stains as laughter escaped his lips breaking into his beautiful smile: “Oops.”
this was the dye job i was imagining as i wrote this! i imagine the one on the right would be for gyro and the left would be for johnny
Hello again everyone! My name is Arriah, and for Women’s History Month I’ve been highlighting and appreciating some of my favorite Black women writers across the fandoms I’m part of.
For Day 5, I wanted to spotlight writers in the comic fandom community, specifically Marvel and DC.
Comic fandoms are some of the most creative spaces in fanfiction. From Batfamily chaos to Avengers found-family dynamics, from angsty character studies to soft fluff and dramatic slow burns, Marvel and DC writers constantly find new ways to explore these characters and worlds.
Black women writers in these fandoms bring so much creativity, passion, and personality to their stories. Their work adds depth to these communities and helps make fandom spaces feel more welcoming and diverse for readers who want to see themselves reflected in the stories they enjoy.
Fanfiction has always been about creativity and community, and these writers put so much time and effort into sharing their ideas and love for these characters with the rest of the fandom.
So for Day 5 of Women’s History Month, I wanted to highlight some amazing Black women writers in the Marvel and DC fandoms whose work I’ve enjoyed and appreciated. If you’re looking for new writers to follow or new fics to read, I definitely recommend checking them out and showing them some love.
Remember if I forgot anybody they might be in the next part or I genuinely could not find them but if you know any black writers tag them in the comments.
Small PSA 💕
While putting this post together, I noticed something that honestly surprised me there aren’t as many Black writers in the Marvel and DC fandom spaces as I expected, especially compared to some other fandoms.
Because of that, I really want to encourage people to actively support the Black writers who are creating in these communities. Writing takes time, effort, and a lot of creativity, and engagement makes a huge difference.
If you enjoy someone’s work, please consider showing that support by liking their posts, leaving comments, reblogging, sharing their fics, or recommending their stories to others. Even small interactions can mean a lot to writers and help their work reach more readers.
Black writers contribute so much creativity and passion to fandom spaces, and their work deserves to be seen, appreciated, and supported.
۶ৎ | Jason can’t seem to understand why it’s important to tell you he got shot. Things escalate from there and end badly. Angst.
𑣲𝓙 | reader is implied to have BPD or an emotional issue. no happy ending ,, ill post fluff next as an apology </3 tysm for 30 followers !!
ps : lmk if u guys would rather have a get back together p2 to this or a separate fluff fic
∘˙ ✶ a dirty soda with barely any whip cream ᯓ✦∘˙
Jason’s leaning forward at the kitchen table when you walk in, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s trying to keep them from shaking.
You notice it right away, but ignore him to get to the stove.
Turning toward the stove, you flick the burner on. The clicking fills the quiet while you grab a pan from the cabinet and set it down.
For a minute neither of you says anything.
Then Jason speaks.
“You let yourself get upset over stuff that don’t matter.”
You stop moving.
“Things that don’t matter?” you repeat, turning around. “You got shot and didn’t tell me.”
Jason exhales through his nose.
“It was a graze.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It ain’t like I was dyin’, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
You lean back against the counter, folding your arms.
“I had to find out from Dick,” you continue. “Dick shows up asking if you’re ‘doing better,’ and I’m standing there like an idiot because I didn’t even know you were hurt.”
Jason shrugs like it doesn’t seem like a big deal to him.
“I patched it up. I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point!”
The burner starts warming the pan behind you, metal faintly ticking as it heats.
Jason drags a hand over his face.
“You’re blowin’ it outta proportion.”
You let out a short laugh.
“Out of proportion?”
“Yeah. It’s Gotham. People get shot.”
“You’re not ‘people,’ Jason,” you snap. “You’re—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t start that.”
“Start what?”
“With the whole vigilante bullshit—about how I should’ve told I got hurt like I owe you a damn report every time I get hurt.”
“I’m not asking for a report,” you say. “I’m asking you to be honest with me.”
Jason leans back in his chair, watching you.
“You keep your location off half the time.”
You blink, scrunching up your nose.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m sayin’,” he starts, voice rougher now, “you disappear for hours sometimes. Phone off. Location off. And I’m just supposed to sit there and not wonder where the hell you are.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It ain’t?”
“No,” you say sharply. “Because I’m not the one out there getting shot.”
Jason lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.
“Yeah. That’s exactly why I worry.”
You stare at him.
“You’re worried about me?”
“Course I am,” he mutters. “You think this city’s safe?”
“But you don’t tell me when you’re hurt.”
“Because you react like this.”
Your stomach twists.
“Like what?”
“Like every little thing’s the end of the world.”
“So now this is my fault. It’s my fault for being worried about my boyfriend being shot—would it not be fucked up if I didn’t care?” You asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Jason shifts in his chair, irritation creeping into his voice.
“I’m sayin’ it turns into a whole damn meltdown every time something goes wrong.”
“A meltdown?” you repeat.
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
“I think,” Jason says slowly, “you get worked up over stuff most people wouldn’t.”
The pan behind you pops quietly as it heats.
“You mean my feelings.”
“I mean the way you spiral.”
You feel your heart pang.
“Wow.”
Jason rubs the back of his neck, “Look, that ain’t—”
“No,” you cut him off. “Finish the sentence.”
He hesitates, then shrugs. As if what he’s trying to say is clear as day.
“You know how you get.” The words land harder than they should.
You laugh, but it sounds sharp.
“So that’s the excuse now.”
“It ain’t an excuse.”
“You’re acting like I’m crazy.”
“I didn’t say crazy.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jason stands up suddenly, pushing the chair back.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“What does that even mean?” You ask.
“It means every conversation turns into a fight.”
“Because you won’t just apologize?”
“I don’t need to apologize for every damn thing.”
“I’m not asking for everything, Jason. I’m asking for the bare minimum.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Well the bare minimum feels like walkin’ on eggshells half the time.”
“So that’s how you see me?” Your question lands like a statement. Jason looks away.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant…”
For a moment neither of you says anything.
The pan on the stove starts to smoke a little. Jason notices and reaches over, turning the burner off.
He sighs. “We can’t keep doin’ this.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re jokin’.” .
“I’m serious.”
“You’re just mad.”
“I ain’t mad,” he says, and somehow him not being upset makes it worse.
“You don’t mean that,” you say quickly. “You don’t just give up like that.”
Jason grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.
“I think we’re bad for each other.”
Your chest tightens painfully and you feel heat building behind your eyes, your words shakier than a few moments ago.
“You don’t mean that either.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Jason,” you say, your voice starting to shake. “You can’t just decide that.”
“I’m not decidin’ it for you.”
“Yes you are!” You shout, stepping towird him.
“You don’t get to walk away because things get hard!”
Jason’s jaw tightens, and you watch him stuff his shoes back on. “They’ve been hard for a while.”
“So we fix it!”
“Not everything’s fixable.”
You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—”
“I’m tired,” he sighs, pinching his nose bridge. “I don’t wanna keep hurtin’ you,”
“You’re hurting me right now.”
“I know.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, nails digging into your palms before you speak again.
“Jason, don’t,” you say quickly. “ We can talk about it, we can figure it out, just—”
“I already did.”
“You didn’t even try!”
“I did.”
Your hands shake, desperate to explain yourself - even more desperate to make him stay.
“You can’t just leave, can’t just decide I’m too much and walk away.”
Jason looks at the door. “I never said you were too much.”
“You implied it.”
He doesn’t argue. Your voice rises before you can stop it. “So that’s it? You’re just done with me!?”
literally sooo insane to write this omg but god the angst!!! like the way you paced this is genuinely such a masterclass in establishing and building up the angst it's so gradual and then it's burning before we even notice it and the way that u have this extended image of the pan on the stove, it's burning and crackling and smoking before jason finally shuts it off as a signal of the end of this argument, at the end of their relationship (for now👀)
but ofc the bulk of this is dialogue and it's suchhh a strong feat and showcase of ur skill as a writer imo like it perfectly carries the pace, the emotions, the tumultuous back and forth and pauses and speeds, etc. like so much is happening on the level of dialogue, so much is left unsaid or unable to be said, so much is implied!!!!
“So now this is my fault. It’s my fault for being worried about my boyfriend being shot—would it not be fucked up if I didn’t care?” You asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Jason shifts in his chair, irritation creeping into his voice.
“I’m sayin’ it turns into a whole damn meltdown every time something goes wrong.”
“A meltdown?” you repeat.
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
like this is such a perfect example at the crazy work that's happening just through the dialogue alone and it just speaks to how neither of them know how to communicate with one another in a way they understand!! the reader's repeated "you implied it" to jason's statements, jason's turn being him reframing his earlier statement to better clarify, the reader latching onto a different aspect of his attempt at communication with a question to further clarify etc etc like the way they fall into dialogue here just feels like im watching water circle the drain almost, it's a circular argument that clearly isn't going anywhere for either of them other than continuing to make them mad and frustrated at the situation and the world really. and its so clear from the argument that they want to communicate, and they care enough to want that, but they consistently keep hitting roadblocks in achieving it
its insane how u captured so much in the space of quick dialogue and how devastating the ending is because of it :( like we witnessed a terrible attempt at two people trying to communicate but they kept missing each other in the slightest ways and ofc jason would call it quits because that's just what he does! when the situation isn't favorable he will flee and escape until he can get a handle on the situation again but its so :( to see it play out in this context—insane level writing here tho bestie!!!!!
Girl I love the way you analyze everything so much even the tiny details , gen love your feedback on my fics, it makes me feel so appreciated as a writer especially when you add detail showing you read and understood it !!
I love how you noticed what I was trying to do with the pan in the stove — it makes me so happy that you realize the smaller details <3
I was trying really hard to make the dialogue quick, like an actual argument because when you’re arguing with someone you don’t take time in what you think to say — you just say it and then you have to reflect on it afterwards. I’m really glad you understood this thank you so much for your wonderful response <3
۶ৎ | Jason can’t seem to understand why it’s important to tell you he got shot. Things escalate from there and end badly. Angst.
𑣲𝓙 | reader is implied to have BPD or an emotional issue. no happy ending ,, ill post fluff next as an apology </3 tysm for 30 followers !!
ps : lmk if u guys would rather have a get back together p2 to this or a separate fluff fic
∘˙ ✶ a dirty soda with barely any whip cream ᯓ✦∘˙
Jason’s leaning forward at the kitchen table when you walk in, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s trying to keep them from shaking.
You notice it right away, but ignore him to get to the stove.
Turning toward the stove, you flick the burner on. The clicking fills the quiet while you grab a pan from the cabinet and set it down.
For a minute neither of you says anything.
Then Jason speaks.
“You let yourself get upset over stuff that don’t matter.”
You stop moving.
“Things that don’t matter?” you repeat, turning around. “You got shot and didn’t tell me.”
Jason exhales through his nose.
“It was a graze.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It ain’t like I was dyin’, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
You lean back against the counter, folding your arms.
“I had to find out from Dick,” you continue. “Dick shows up asking if you’re ‘doing better,’ and I’m standing there like an idiot because I didn’t even know you were hurt.”
Jason shrugs like it doesn’t seem like a big deal to him.
“I patched it up. I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point!”
The burner starts warming the pan behind you, metal faintly ticking as it heats.
Jason drags a hand over his face.
“You’re blowin’ it outta proportion.”
You let out a short laugh.
“Out of proportion?”
“Yeah. It’s Gotham. People get shot.”
“You’re not ‘people,’ Jason,” you snap. “You’re—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in. “Don’t start that.”
“Start what?”
“With the whole vigilante bullshit—about how I should’ve told I got hurt like I owe you a damn report every time I get hurt.”
“I’m not asking for a report,” you say. “I’m asking you to be honest with me.”
Jason leans back in his chair, watching you.
“You keep your location off half the time.”
You blink, scrunching up your nose.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m sayin’,” he starts, voice rougher now, “you disappear for hours sometimes. Phone off. Location off. And I’m just supposed to sit there and not wonder where the hell you are.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It ain’t?”
“No,” you say sharply. “Because I’m not the one out there getting shot.”
Jason lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.
“Yeah. That’s exactly why I worry.”
You stare at him.
“You’re worried about me?”
“Course I am,” he mutters. “You think this city’s safe?”
“But you don’t tell me when you’re hurt.”
“Because you react like this.”
Your stomach twists.
“Like what?”
“Like every little thing’s the end of the world.”
“So now this is my fault. It’s my fault for being worried about my boyfriend being shot—would it not be fucked up if I didn’t care?” You asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Jason shifts in his chair, irritation creeping into his voice.
“I’m sayin’ it turns into a whole damn meltdown every time something goes wrong.”
“A meltdown?” you repeat.
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
“I think,” Jason says slowly, “you get worked up over stuff most people wouldn’t.”
The pan behind you pops quietly as it heats.
“You mean my feelings.”
“I mean the way you spiral.”
You feel your heart pang.
“Wow.”
Jason rubs the back of his neck, “Look, that ain’t—”
“No,” you cut him off. “Finish the sentence.”
He hesitates, then shrugs. As if what he’s trying to say is clear as day.
“You know how you get.” The words land harder than they should.
You laugh, but it sounds sharp.
“So that’s the excuse now.”
“It ain’t an excuse.”
“You’re acting like I’m crazy.”
“I didn’t say crazy.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jason stands up suddenly, pushing the chair back.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“What does that even mean?” You ask.
“It means every conversation turns into a fight.”
“Because you won’t just apologize?”
“I don’t need to apologize for every damn thing.”
“I’m not asking for everything, Jason. I’m asking for the bare minimum.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Well the bare minimum feels like walkin’ on eggshells half the time.”
“So that’s how you see me?” Your question lands like a statement. Jason looks away.
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant…”
For a moment neither of you says anything.
The pan on the stove starts to smoke a little. Jason notices and reaches over, turning the burner off.
He sighs. “We can’t keep doin’ this.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re jokin’.” .
“I’m serious.”
“You’re just mad.”
“I ain’t mad,” he says, and somehow him not being upset makes it worse.
“You don’t mean that,” you say quickly. “You don’t just give up like that.”
Jason grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.
“I think we’re bad for each other.”
Your chest tightens painfully and you feel heat building behind your eyes, your words shakier than a few moments ago.
“You don’t mean that either.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Jason,” you say, your voice starting to shake. “You can’t just decide that.”
“I’m not decidin’ it for you.”
“Yes you are!” You shout, stepping towird him.
“You don’t get to walk away because things get hard!”
Jason’s jaw tightens, and you watch him stuff his shoes back on. “They’ve been hard for a while.”
“So we fix it!”
“Not everything’s fixable.”
You shake your head quickly. “No. That’s not—”
“I’m tired,” he sighs, pinching his nose bridge. “I don’t wanna keep hurtin’ you,”
“You’re hurting me right now.”
“I know.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, nails digging into your palms before you speak again.
“Jason, don’t,” you say quickly. “ We can talk about it, we can figure it out, just—”
“I already did.”
“You didn’t even try!”
“I did.”
Your hands shake, desperate to explain yourself - even more desperate to make him stay.
“You can’t just leave, can’t just decide I’m too much and walk away.”
Jason looks at the door. “I never said you were too much.”
“You implied it.”
He doesn’t argue. Your voice rises before you can stop it. “So that’s it? You’re just done with me!?”
thinking abt making a fic with reader being implied to have BPD ??
as smb with BPD myself i feel like there’s a lack of it ,, just unsure if people would read it or not or feel weird reading it if they don’t have BPD themselves
so far i have a small draft // outline for it so if anb wants to check it out for me lmk !!
"C'mon 'ma, you just gotta put one foot in front of the other."
Jason smirks, his green eyes shining in amusement as you hold onto the wall. Legs sliding out from underneath you, when your boyfriend suggested you two go roller skating, you thought it'd be a funny and sweet bonding moment seeing as you can't skate and you thought Jason couldn't either.
Oh how wrong you were.
You whip your head around to glare at your boyfriend, cheeks flushing in the dim lighting as you practically hug the wall.
"Says you, the one who's apparently got the balance of an alley cat." You huff. Slowly standing straight and moving on to grab the rail right besides the wall. Jason snorts, skating to your side and leaning against the wall besides you.
"Nah, you just have the balance of a toddler. On stilts." He grins when you narrow your eyes on him in warning, straighting up and stepping closer to you, his hands held out coaxingly.
"C'mon, I'll hold your hands until you're steady." Jason wraps a hand around your bicep and you clasp onto his arm tightly, legs sliding out from under you but Jason holds you up easily.
You focus on your feet, keeping them pointed towards each other and just when you think you've got the hang of it–
You shriek as Jason twirls you around, his hands holding yours tightly to make sure you don't fall. Your scream melts into a laugh as he pulls you into him, pressing his lips to your forehead lightly.
Even with the teenagers and other adults skating around you, you melt into your boyfriend's arms and sigh softly, fluttering your eyes shut for a moment before you feel his arms loosen around you until suddenly they're completely gone.
You gasp, hands reaching out to balance on something but there's nothing to hold onto. Your eyes lift to meet Jason's and he's just grinning at you and for a second you think about throwing something at him when you realize you're not sliding.
No. You're perfectly still, hands splayed out to balance yourself and yet you're doing it. Your eyes light up as your lips split into a beaming smile and Jason reaches a hand out, finger crooking you in gesture to come towards him and for a second you just stare before you slide your foot just slightly.
And then you're moving, slowly of course, but you're moving with no walls, no rails and no help from your boyfriend. You reach a hand out and when you're within reach he tugs you to him.
"You did it. Knew you had it in you." Jason wraps his arm around you loosely, his eyes glittering in the dim lighting with pride and he dips down to press a light kiss to your cheek, causing you to giggle.
"No help from you." You roll your eyes playfully and Jason just smirks at you. His arm tightening just slightly in response.
"You didn't need my help, I knew you had it all on your own."
a/n - based on a date I just went on with my bf ♡ he had to coax me onto the rink cause I was so scared of falling (which I inevitably did obviously) I'm so bad at roller skating but it's so fun!!
c. @.mrbusinessman, 2026. Do not steal, edit or repost my work.
It pisses me off that black women are so hipersexualized, absolutely everything in "x black reader" is all smut and thats it, no fluff no another thing. And the worts part is that its black women themselves who write all of this and choose to stay in that category.
You literally can get in the "x black reader" in any fandom and wont find anything else but sexual content.
I agree with this to a degree ,, it’s honestly one of the reasons I don’t write smut content for my x readers because when I search up an x black reader wanting fluff I get a shit ton of smut ?! 😭
And yeah this is common for just normal x readers too, but there’s an overwhelming amount of just smut when it comes to black povs