hey, lover

side blog (following from fina1girls) | anything and everything 🍉

[l0vergirls]

hi! im yan — they/them, 20!

i dont have a certain set of characters i write for, just whatever and whoever im interested in atm!

requests are open, and anons are always welcome!

i may occasionally post/rb dark content, so please watch out for that if it isn't your cup of tea. mdni for those, as always.

note: this is a sideblog, so i interact from my main! (@fina1girls)

masterlist

DC

bruce wayne

a day with bruce (nsfw)

dick grayson

mornings with dick grayson

jason todd

college au!jason todd

some jason todd comfort

bf jason todd loves watching you play video games

being ak!jason's s/o

meeting jason in the suburbs

watching fireworks with jason <3

tim drake

i think i'm in love with you.

kissing tim drake under a mistletoe

yandere tim drake with a manipulative reader

sugar daddy tim drake

halloween with tim drake

tim comforts you through your cramps

damian wayne

nothing yet!

the bats

batboys + their petnames for their s/o

yandere!batfam

if yandere batfam kidnapped the reader

a look into yandere batfam's darling

yandere!batfam sending you gifts

munchausen syndrome by proxy

fiance bruce <3 (yandere batfam)

yandere batfam and an isekai'd darling

yandere batfam and a spider-man darling

yandere batfam thinking darling escaped (you did not!)

take the reins

you've dug too deep, but there doesn't seem to be a downside to that. hacker!reader

MISC.

something about an older man

to new beginnings

royal darling + their yandere harem

last updated: 24/02/2025

[goodzebra]

— COMFORT SHOW ･ ˖˚ ✩

PAIRING: yandere!jason todd x gn!reader

DESCRIPTION: when jason can’t sleep, you’re the one he turns to. just… not in person.

WARNINGS: descriptions of violence, blood, injury, and trauma, typical yandere behaviours, stalking, swearing

The ropes bind Jason’s body to the wooden chair like a python strangling its prey. They suffocate his limbs, burning roughly onto already beaten skin. Tears in the red spandex adorning his form only reveal more red - except this red is warm, and pours onto concrete stained with splashes of crimson so dark they’re nearly black. Jason thinks back to a few months ago, when the stains were lighter. Or was it a few years ago? He shudders as much as the ropes will allow, hunching his back and hanging his head low, as if it would shield him from the derelict, barren hellscape he’s in.

He cautiously raises his head, bruised eyes scanning the warehouse and mapping the exits for the nth time. His stare bores into the main door as he pictures Batman kicking it off its hinges and running towards him with both relief and rage flooding his veins. He pictures being untied and finally being in Bruce’s arms - his father’s arms - instead of ropes. Jason’s chest relaxes in response to the mental image, a small smile forming on his bloodied face and a shaky, wistful breath escaping from his struggling lungs.

But the relief wouldn’t last long. A maniacal laugh echoes in the distance, and his imagination evaporates as the sound forces him back into reality. His cold, dark, dirty, bloody, and lonely reality. His heart sinks as the laughter grows closer, and plunges completely when the door slams open. It gives entry to a monster in human skin; a pale, green-haired monster with eyes blown wide and a smile carved from ear to ear outlined in red. One would naturally assume it was face paint but, knowing this creature, it could easily be blood from the quivering Robin before it. That, or from one of the many victims that precede him.

In its claws is a crowbar. Its smile only grows more sinister when it sees Jason glance at it in fear.

The monster’s mouth starts moving. Talking. Except, no sound is coming out. All Jason can hear is his quickening heartbeat, pulsing in his ears and his chest. Beating so hard that it feels too big for his body and is desperately trying to escape from his broken ribcage.

Maybe that was the problem, he thinks amongst his dread. I was too soft. Too forgiving. Too weak.

The monster’s grip on the crowbar tightens as it raises the weapon above Jason’s head. Jason’s vision is blurred through the tears streaming down his cheeks, seeping into the open gashes and mixing with the gore. He can’t see the monster’s face, but it’s grin is stretched so wide that he doesn’t need to see the details. He knows what it means. He also doesn’t need clear vision to see that Batman isn’t here. Gotham’s saviour isn’t here to save him. He should’ve known; Gotham always comes first.

“Please…” he splutters out in a pitiful attempt to stop the inevitable. He only gets a hysterical shrieking in response, accompanied by a grin that doesn’t fit human teeth; it better fits a starving lion that’s finally found its prey.

I never should’ve trusted my mother, he thinks.

I never should’ve trusted my ‘father’, either.

Family only lets you down.

The crowbar flies down towards him and-

Jason shoots up from his bed, sitting upright only for a moment before clamouring out of the sheets. The duvet became just as restrictive as those damn ropes. He tumbles to the floor with a jolt and hurriedly crawls to the corner of his bedroom, curling up with his knees to his chest and burying his head in the gap between them. He digs his elbows into his knees, reaching his arms up to shield his head and grip his hair. His hands become damp from the sweat soaking the dark strands, while the hairs on his arms stand up in terror. His breathing quickens into shallow gasps; his mind replaying the horror again, and again, and again, unaware the nightmare is over.

As he trembles in the corner, his sniffling and hyperventilating muffled by his knees, he frantically searches his mind and his surroundings for an anchor; an escape from the neverending torture. Static starts swarming his vision, flickering and dancing like the stars in the night sky outside his window. His racing heartbeat thumps in his ears and he desperately begs himself to think over the nervous drum.

He just manages to catch an unopened package next to his bookshelf despite his sight being obscured by a visual snowstorm; a medium cardboard box still sealed with tape and decorated with a large postage label. A box, he thinks. Box breathing, he realises. In your nose for four, hold for four, exhale through the mouth for four, hold for four. Like Bruce taught you.

Like Bruce taught you.

Bruce.

The thought of that man still fills him with resentment, no matter how many times they heal things between them. Except, their version of healing things was more akin to putting a band-aid over a bullet wound: they know their relationship needs resuscitation, but neither of them have a defibrillator. Or the life support machines to try and keep it alive afterwards.

Jason forces himself to push down his simmering outrage and just create the goddamn boxes. He begins with a shaky inhale and uses it to trace the first side of the box, visualising the line travelling - albeit unsteadily - across his mind. He holds that breath despite the stuttering from his chest, tracing the next side of the box, and then exhales, drawing the third line. When his lungs empty, he holds that emptiness to complete the outline. The wobbly lines create a flimsy box that definitely wouldn’t be fit for purpose, but it’s a box nonetheless. He assembles another one, but with steadier lines this time. The lines become smoother with every box he mentally constructs, and his breathing starts to slow.

Hell, he thinks, I’m making enough boxes to fill a delivery warehouse-

Wait, no, not a warehouse! Anything but a damn warehouse!

With that internal slip of the tongue, his progress unravels: his breathing rises once more, and the tightness in his chest returns, the familiar tension mounting all over again. The ghost of the warehouse and the crowbar sprints to the forefront, but it’s now mixed with Bruce leaving him to die, his betrayal stabbing him in the back. Jason swears he can feel that metaphorical batarang becoming physical, plunging into his back and tearing into his skin. The wound still agonises him no matter how much time passes. It never fully heals; only scars until the strain splits it open again, blood flowing out as if it were freshly cut.

An abrupt noise rings throughout Jason’s bedroom and cuts through his climbing panic. He flinches at the sound before identifying it as his phone buzzing, vibrating on something. The bedside table - he realises. He notices the buzzing taking on a certain ringtone and his thoughts pause. Them. That ghost of the painful nightmare begins floating away like a cloud blown by a summer breeze, his mind gaining lucidity as it evaporates.

I’m not there. I’m with them. I need them. They’ll save me.

Jason lifts his head up, his glassy eyes peeking out from under his arms, tears still brimming. He blinks them away, despite his sore eyes being exhausted from the sobbing, and battles through the heaviness in his bones to move to towards his bed. His limbs tingle as he rises from the floor; his body shocked at the abrupt movement. Pins and needles prickle at his skin, and he places a hand on the wall to steady himself. The static begins dissipating from his eyes and his mind becomes more grounded in reality through his sheer concentration on his phone and, by extension, you. He ambles over to the bedside table and attempts to pick up his phone, but his legs had other ideas: he slumps onto the edge of the bed, his hand clumsily resting on the table to balance himself. He lets out a huff of frustration and he rubs his eyes with his palms, wiping away the leftover tears and dizziness before grabbing his phone.

The screen lights up, illuminating Jason’s face in a soft blue glow, and displays a notification: Movement detected on Bedside. Speedily inputting the passcode, he taps the hidden camera app and a menu appears upon opening, displaying a list of cameras and a preview of what each one is recording. He selects the camera labelled ‘Bedside’ and it engulfs the screen. It shows a close-up view of you sleeping in your bed from a camera hidden in your bedside lamp. Jason installed cameras around your apartment, aside from your bathroom, when you weren’t in. He needed to make sure that you’re healthy, happy, and not in any danger from burglaries, health emergencies, dodgy electrics, kitchen fires, and anything else that could take you from him. You silence his mind - your presence putting a silencer on his synapses that insist on quick-firing like the guns he uses at night. You placate them, tame them, and protect him from his mind when he can’t manage to protect himself. So, he has to protect you in return.

His gaze stays fixated on your sleeping form as he lays down in his own bed and takes the coiled-up earphones from the table, letting them unravel on his stomach. He grabs hold of the earphone jack and plugs it in, his eyes never leaving you. He picks up each earphone individually and slots them into his ears before raising the audio volume with quick presses.

He begins to listen to your soft breaths, and he can already feel his muscles relaxing; the tension in his chest loosens its grip on his heart and his lungs are no longer being suffocated by fear squeezing his breaths out. He syncs his breathing to yours to form a calming harmony and becomes absorbed by you, lovingly admiring your peaceful state. You’re snuggled up in your duvet with your hair sprawled across your pillow in a tangled mess thanks to your tossing and turning: the same unconscious movements that triggered the camera alarm in the first place. If you could see yourself now, you’d probably be embarrassed at how disheveled you are, but Jason doesn’t care. To him, you’re the dictionary definition of a sleeping beauty.

You were already his comfort person, but the cameras have transformed your life into his comfort show: his safe space after a difficult day, or a brutal night, where he can shut off the outside world and be part of yours, even if it’s from a distance. Your life is different from a tv show, of course. Each episode is slightly different every time and there’s no canned audience, theme songs, or jingles to fill any silences. It’s alright, though - his laughter at your silly moments makes up for it. Besides, he doesn’t need any of those gimmicks to help his concentration. Nothing about you is boring to him; you keep his attention even when you’re sleeping. The unpredictability of your daily life is manageable, too: he’s learned your routine over time and can accurately predict your next steps. He doesn’t mind the small daily deviances you make since it means there’s more to learn about you, and he wants to learn everything there is to know. The best thing is that there are unlimited episodes, though, ‘episodes’ isn’t really accurate. That implies a beginning and an end to the footage, which there isn’t. The cameras run 24/7, meaning there’s no restrictions to when Jason can watch you. That especially comes in handy in times like this, when the night is tormenting him and he needs your sunlight to save him from its darkness.

There’s still one big difference between your life and a tv show. You don’t know you’re in a tv show. You don’t know your apartment has become a studio; a set with cameras catching every angle of you. More importantly, you don’t know you have an audience. An audience of one, but that one is a superfan who watches with unwavering dedication. Who screenshots his favourite moments for his evergrowing album of you. Who knows your habits and your quirks better than you do. Who is your hidden protector, silently shielding you from the pain the world can bring; the pain he knows all too well.

Jason pulls his duvet over him, turning on his side and awkwardly propping his phone up on his pillow with the screen facing him, still showing your precious sleeping self. He sinks into his bed and pretends you’re sleeping next to him, turned towards him in your slumber. Your imagined companionship makes his eyelids heavy, and your shared breathing creates a soothing rhythm that radiates through his body as his lids close, rapidly blinking to catch as many glimpses of you as possible before fully closing. Jason finally surrenders to your calming effect and he drifts off being enveloped not only by his duvet, but by your breathing in his ears, your picture in his mind, and his love for you cradling his heart softer than any duvet or blanket ever could.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: AAAAAAH MY FIRST LONG FORM FIC!! this became so much longer than I intended, I hope it’s not too long! I’ve always had this headcanon about yandere Jason where he, before making himself known to darling, watches them through hidden cameras after he has a nightmare to calm himself down.

TAGS: @l0vergirls @luludeluluramblings also I got inspo from @jade-zzz for the layout! ❤️

[l0vergirls]

here it is, a wip of 'take the reins' chapter 2!! hope you guys enjoy <3 any and all feedback is appreciated <3

-

You lied. Of course, you were going to do it again. Only this time, you leave a little message to ease their panic a little.

no need to freak out, it’s just me. plz don’t bug my place again you weirdos. thx for the new job though. c u monday.

Yeah, that should do the trick.

It’s been a couple days since you had received the job offer from W.E., and you haven’t lifted a finger to do anything about it until now. You thought it was best to keep them on their toes. Never let them know your next move and all that crap.

Though you suspect– no, you know they’ve got eyes on you now. Why wouldn’t they? You just broke into what could be the most secure system in the country, hell, maybe even the world. Which is also why you did it again. Your prediction (or was it paranoia?) had been right, as always. In the short time the two vigilantes had been in your living room, they had bugged it with tiny microphones (no video feed to be found, thank god).

Two little devices hidden on the fake plant in the middle of your coffee table, three scattered in some corners, and one on your window sill. Thankfully, you hadn’t spilled anything incriminating. You weren’t much of a talker, not even talking to yourself when you’re alone. You preferred to keep your thoughts to yourself, fearing situations exactly like this.

You let out a sigh as you disabled the intrusive little things, rendering them unusable.

Well done, crime-fighters, you’ve just made another citizen even more anxious.

Wanting some peace and quiet tonight, you find some more organized crime to anonymously tip to the cops, figuring the shootouts that were bound to happen would keep them busy.

Flopping onto your bed, you feel the exhaustion taking over and let yourself slip away.

<>

No amount of floor plans could prepare for just how tall the ceilings in this building were.

It would be good to come prepared, you thought. ‘Prepared’ meant looking at the floor plans that were public record and mentally devising an easy escape route should you need it. Closest elevator, bathrooms, and if you really needed it, the server room.

You’ve never felt smaller in your life.

From the high ceiling to the business jargon being thrown around, it all reeked of pretentiousness.

At least at LabyrinthTech, the majority of the people were all tech nerds. Nobody was really better than anybody; to other people, you were all the same.

Shaking your head, you head to the elevators.

‘Level 18,’ the email said. They sent you an email the morning after your second hack. No nightly visit, you presumed. You were asleep long before they’d have the chance to anyway.

A hand on your shoulder jolts you from your thoughts.

You turn around to see Bruce Wayne standing behind you with a small smile on his face. Forced, no doubt. He most likely wasn’t happy that you went against your word.

Sorry, big guy. But also, not really.

“Good morning, you’re the new hire, right?” he said.

Not trusting your words, you give him a small nod.

The elevator doors open and you step in, with Bruce following behind you. You move to press the 18 embedded on the button until he beats you to it, instead moving to press the 50th floor.

What the shit? To his office?

“I figured we need somewhere more private to speak, so we’ll be heading to my office. I’ll let your supervisor know you’ll be a little late,” his eyes hardened for a split second before going back to the playful glint it had.

“Right. Yeah, sure,” you mumbled. The doors close as you speak, “If you do it again, I’ll still end up finding them, y’know.”

Bruce let out a sigh, “Yeah, I know.”

A tense silence fills the space as you wait impatiently for the ding! of the elevator. You almost let out a sigh of relief when you hear it.

You keep your head down and eyes low as you follow the billionaire to his office.

The floors are insanely polished; you think you see your reflection in them.

It’s not until you reach his office that you finally look up, and see two figures sitting on one of the pristine couches.

Timothy Jackson Drake, aka Red Robin. Date of birth: July 19th. 5’9. IQ of 142. Highly analytical, you think. College dropout. Former Robin.

Richard John Grayson– most commonly known as Dick Grayson, aka Nightwing. Date of birth: March 20th. 5’10. Used to be part of the Flying Graysons in his childhood; highly skilled acrobat. The first Robin.

Dick must have noticed your nervous demeanor, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. Not that much trouble, at least. It’s nice to finally meet you,”

It almost made you sick; he’s so good. You wonder how much of it is a front. A lot of it, you presume.

Tim continues staring at you with beady eyes.

Considering his background, he’s most likely in charge of a majority of the tech stuff– security included. Barbara Gordon, aka Oracle, also handled that area of expertise; she must be their ‘guy in the chair’. Well, ‘girl in the chair’ would be more accurate. You briefly saw her file, too, the first time you hacked them. Her father, Commissioner James Gordon, was one of the few of Gotham P.D. you trusted, so you gave her some grace and left her alone.

Your little break-ins must have humbled Timothy quite a bit, you think. For a civilian to do it not once, but twice, must be a spectacular feat for him.

[l0vergirls]

oh you’re back for one post!!

yes i amm!

on an unrelated note, ive got a little bit of chapter 2 of 'take the reins' written but until that point, i hit a standstill 😵 i will post it in a little bit, since i dont really know when i'll get back to developing it all <3!!

love you all!!

[l0vergirls]

happy new year my babies!!

[l0vergirls]

atp we should start putting up missing posters for you

im here im here !!.... sorta ..... kinda .....😓😓

[l0vergirls]

“anyone alive in there?” i say, words echoing into the void

alive and kicking! (somehow!)

[l0vergirls]

Me reading your small reader ask like : 🧍‍♀️

Also me googling the shortest height of the batfam which could be wrong is 5’0 while I’m 4’5: 🥹🙃🫠

Me coming to the realization that I am small or really small compared to them and that they can carry me like a sack of potatoes (and they think it’s adorable and amusing that I’m so small): 🥹😅☹️😟😕🙁🥺😨😰😭

Anyway I enjoyed your work thanks for writing it! Have a nice one!

in the nicest way possible, anon you're so tiny😭😭😭 too cute!! the batfam will have a field day slinging you around </3

thank you !! and im glad you enjoyed it anon<3!

[l0vergirls]

finals szn is over !.!!!.!!!!! hello again everybody :)

[l0vergirls]

you just know if yan batfam had a reader that was small they’d carry them around soooooo much, not to mention they’d prob be on their laps all the time. do NOT try to escape your ass will NOT succeed!!!

nonono exactly this!!!!

you'd think being as small as you are is an advantage, fitting into any nook and cranny there is, but when you're in the same household as the greatest detectives in the world, there's nowhere you can hide that they won't find you.

you learned quickly that hiding or trying to escape is useless, with their eyes on you constantly and a hand always laying on your body somewhere. you can't pinpoint exactly when, but it's escalated to you always sat on their laps or being carried around like you weighed nothing. and to them, you probably didn't.

it's demeaning, dehumanizing even, being dragged around like a rag doll. but what can you do? sometimes it even feels a bit nice, getting cradled in big strong arms all the time. it might be onset stockholm syndrome, but you're just making the most of your situation, right?

[deadendsociety]

† colors. : various.

⋆˙⟡ Their love is not just a feeling; it’s a color, a spectrum, a living, breathing hue that wraps around you, soaking into your bones. It lingers in the air they leave behind, in the spaces they carve out for you, in the way they love differently, but fully.

⋆˙⟡ featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, selina kyla, harley quinn, bruce wayne, diana prince, clark kent, oliver queen, barry allen, bart allen, kon-el, dinah lance, rachel roth, koriand'r. ↦ kalico note: some of the colors are a tad bit bright, a heads up.

dick grayson is cerulean. the kind of blue that belongs to an open sky on a summer evening, warm and vast and endless. his love feels like movement, like momentum, like wind rushing against your skin when he pulls you into a spin, laughter tangled between you. he is the color of freedom, of unwavering light, of open arms that never hesitate to catch you. his love is the kind that fills every corner of a room, every empty space of your heart, without asking for anything in return. but there is depth to it, too—a weight, a shadow, an ocean underneath the sky. a grief he carries, a loyalty so deeply ingrained that it aches. he is the kind of blue that never fades, never leaves, never stops shining, even in the dark.

"love me with the lights on. with the sun shining, with my scars visible, with my past still tangled in my shadow. love me when it’s easy, and love me when it’s not. because if you do? i will love you the same - every day, every second, for the rest of my life."

jason todd is deep carmine. not red - not just rage, not just fire - but something darker, something richer. a color that runs thick and heavy, like spilled ink, like a love that stains and refuses to wash away. his love is fierce, protective, the kind that fights first and asks questions later. it’s in the roughness of his hands, the sharp edges of his affection, the way he never says the words but makes sure you feel them in every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every time he puts himself between you and the world. he is the color of a love that refuses to be forgotten, that will never let you slip through his fingers - not again. because jason does not lose the people he loves. not if he can help it.

"i don’t say things i don’t mean. i don’t love halfway. if i love you, it’s because i have decided, with every part of me, that you are worth every risk. every fight. every heartbeat."

tim drake is slate grey. a shade caught between dusk and dawn, the color of quiet love, of soft devotion tucked between layers of exhaustion. his love is subtle, never loud, never demanding. it lingers in the extra cup of coffee waiting on the counter, in the way his hand finds yours under the table, in the way he memorizes the little things - how you take your tea, the way you tilt your head when you're thinking, the songs you hum under your breath. he is methodical, logical, always one step ahead, but when it comes to love? he is hesitant, uncertain, afraid of what it means to need. but the grey of him is not cold—it is steady, grounding, a presence that does not waver, even in the storm.

"i don’t know how to be reckless with my heart. if i let you have it, it’s because i trust you to keep it. and i’ve never trusted anyone like this before."

damian wayne is viridian. a green so rich, so deep, it feels alive. his love is not soft - it is sharp, unyielding, an armor forged in steel and fire. he does not love lightly, does not waste his affections on those who have not earned them. but when he does - when you are his - there is no force in the world that will stand against him. he is the color of loyalty that does not falter, of tradition and honor woven into something new, something his own. his love is in the careful way his fingers brush against yours, in the way his blade is always sharper when he knows you're near, in the way he watches, watches, watches - as if memorizing you is as important as breathing. because to damian, love is not just a feeling. it is a choice. a duty. a promise. and he does not break promises.

"if i love you, it is not a fleeting thing. it is not a moment. it is not a choice i can unmake. it is something written into me, something that cannot be undone. it is forever."

duke thomas is goldenrod. a color that stretches between yellow and orange, caught between light and warmth, a sun that never fully sets. his love is effortless, easy, slipping into your life like he was always meant to be there. he is the color of laughter after a long day, of an arm thrown around your shoulders, of the way he leans into you like you're gravity itself. he loves without hesitation, without fear, without any of the walls the others build so carefully around their hearts. his warmth is something real, something tangible, something that does not fade even in the darkest of nights. because duke has seen the worst the world has to offer and still, he chooses to shine.

"the world gets dark sometimes. people lose their way. but if you ever need a light, if you ever need something steady, just look for me - i’ll be shining for you."

stephanie brown is orchid. a shade that is bright and bold and impossible to ignore, yet soft in the right light, a bloom that refuses to wither. her love is wild and untamed, spontaneous and reckless, laughter bursting through the cracks of her own hardships. she loves the way she fights - all in, no second-guessing. it’s in the way she teases, the way she nudges you with her shoulder, the way she makes everything feel lighter, even when the weight is unbearable. but there is depth to it, too. a stubborn, relentless kind of devotion. because steph knows what it is to be left behind, to be overlooked, to be told she is too much or not enough. and she will never let you feel that way. not as long as she’s here.

"i know what it feels like to be forgotten, to be left behind, to be looked over like i was never there. and i swear, i swear - i will never let you feel that way. not as long as i’m here."

cassandra cain is onyx. not black - not empty, not void - but deep, endless, full of something unspoken. her love is silent, but it is there, strong and steady and never uncertain. she does not say it - she does not need to. it’s in the way her hands linger at your wrist, in the way she moves in sync with you without a word, in the way she touches you like she is learning a language she already knows by heart. she is the color of a night that does not threaten but protects, a shadow that wraps around you, shielding you from the world. she does not love halfway, does not love lightly. when she loves, it is complete. absolute. unbreakable.

"i don’t say much. but if you listen, really listen, you’ll hear it in everything i do. the way i touch you. the way i stay close. the way i always, always find you. that is my love. that is my promise."

selina kyle is midnight violet. dark, sultry, untouchable - a color that lingers on your fingertips but never lets you hold it completely. her love is elusive, teasing, something you have to chase, something that keeps you on your toes. it’s in the smirk, the way she flicks her gaze over you like she knows exactly what you want and delights in making you wait for it. but when she loves? truly, deeply, completely? she loves like a huntress watching her prey, like a shadow curling around the edges of your life - silent, steady, always there, even when you don’t see it.

"i’m not easy to keep. i am not soft, or tame, or made for cages. but if i choose you - if i stay - it means more than words ever could."

harley quinn is electric magenta. too bright, too bold, too much, and she doesn’t care. she never dims herself. she loves like she laughs - wild, reckless, with both feet off the edge of the world, daring gravity to stop her. she pulls you into the storm of her, wraps you up in neon pink chaos, makes the whole damn world feel louder, bigger, messier, but she never lets you feel lost in it. because beneath all of it - the teasing, the mischief, the madness - is a love that is unshakable. a love that says, "you and me, babe, against the world. whaddya say?"

"love shouldn’t be boring, sugar. it should be a mess. it should be fireworks and chaos and a goddamn adventure. and i wanna spend every second of that adventure with you."

bruce wayne is obsidian black, laced with traces of dark blue. the color of midnight just before dawn, of the sky when the city lights flicker against it, of something that swallows the light but protects it, too. his love is quiet but absolute, a presence you feel even when you cannot see it. he does not love in grand declarations - he loves in actions, in protection, in the way he never lets go even when he convinces himself he should. his love is the kind that waits in the shadows, unwavering, always watching, always ensuring you are safe even when you don’t know it. and when he finally lets himself have this, have you - he loves with a devotion that nothing in this world could ever shake.

"i do not say it often. i do not say it easily. but if you asked me a thousand times whether i loved you, the answer would never change."

diana prince is deep azure, edged in gold. the color of the sky before a storm, of ancient oceans untouched by time, of something that exists beyond human understanding. her love is a battle hymn and a lullaby in the same breath - ferocious, all-encompassing, endless. she does not love softly, nor does she love halfway. she loves like the gods themselves carved it into her bones. it is in the weight of her shield when she stands before you, in the warmth of her hands when she wipes away your fears, in the absolute certainty of her voice when she swears - "i am here." because to diana, love is not just an emotion. it is a duty. a purpose. a promise. and her promises never break.

"you do not need to earn my love. it was yours before you even knew to ask for it."

clark kent is golden wheat, kissed by the afternoon sun. the color of home, of open fields stretching far beyond the horizon, of something warm and steady and unshakable. his love is gentle, but never weak. it’s in the way he cups your cheek like you are something fragile, in the way his arms feel like the safest place in the universe, in the way his voice drops to something softer when he says your name. he loves like the earth loves the sky - without question, without hesitation, as if it was always meant to be. his warmth is endless, a constant light even in the darkest nights. because clark doesn’t just love you. he believes in you. and that is a kind of love that never fades.

"wherever i go, however far, however long - i will always come back to you. because you are my home."

oliver queen is autumn ember. the color of burnt orange leaves caught in the wind, of bourbon in a crystal glass, of firelight flickering in the distance - warm, rich, untamed. his love is bold, unapologetic, teasing in the way only he can be. he loves with a smirk, with a wink, with the ease of someone who has lost before and refuses to waste another second. but beneath all of it - beneath the sarcasm, the charm, the devil-may-care attitude - there is something real. something certain. because oliver may be reckless, but his love is not. his love is deliberate. his love is permanent. his love is yours.

"you’ve got my heart, sweetheart. don’t be gentle with it. i can take the hit."

barry allen is lightning blue, streaked with white-hot energy. the color of the sky when a storm breaks, of the spark behind a smile that comes too quick, of something brighter than it has any right to be. his love is movement, laughter, fingertips brushing against yours before disappearing just as fast. it’s breathless, effortless, a spark that never quite goes out. but it is steady, too - because no matter how fast he runs, no matter how time bends, he always finds his way back to you. barry allen’s love is the kind that makes you feel alive, that makes the whole damn world feel like it’s going at your speed for once.

"you are the only thing in my life i never had to chase. because somehow, you were always waiting for me."

bart allen is honey-gold, edged in sunrise. the color of mischief, of boundless energy, of something that refuses to be contained. his love is bright, reckless, untamed, the kind of love that crashes into you at full speed and never looks back. it’s in the way he grins, in the way he pulls you into his orbit, in the way he never lets go. but beneath the playfulness, beneath the endless motion, there is something softer. something aching. because bart knows what it is to be alone, to be out of place, to be too much, too fast, too loud. but you? you are something to hold onto. something that doesn’t slip through his fingers. and he will never let you go.

"you slow the world down for me. no one’s ever done that before."

kon-el is deep ultramarine, edged in silver. the color of a sky just before nightfall, of something caught between two worlds, of something searching for where it belongs. his love is bold, brash, obvious in a way that demands attention. he loves like he fights - all in, no hesitation, no regrets. but there is something else to it, too. something quiet. something in the way he leans into you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, in the way he lingers in your space without needing a reason, in the way he never quite stops watching you, like he’s trying to memorize you just in case. because kon-el has always been a copy, an almost, a question. but with you? he is real. he is whole. he is home.

"i don’t care what i was made to be. i only care that i’m yours."

dinah lance is sapphire, deep and electric. the color of a voice that can shatter glass, of a storm that has learned to hold itself back, of something powerful even when it is still. her love is fierce, protective, unapologetic. she loves like music - a melody that lingers in your bones, a song that stays long after the sound fades. she is the kind of woman who could break the world if she wanted to, but she chooses to hold you instead. and when she does? the whole damn world could fall apart, and she wouldn’t let go.

"the world is loud, but my heart is louder when you’re near."

rachel roth is amethyst dusk. the color of the sky just before it surrenders to night, of deep waters that hold their own secrets, of something silent but never empty. her love is not loud, not overwhelming - it is something you feel in the quiet, in the space between words, in the way she lingers near even when she says nothing. it is cautious, careful, because she has been taught that love is dangerous, that emotions are something to fear. but when she lets herself feel, when she lets herself love - it is something unlike anything else. it is not a wildfire, not a storm, but something deeper, something eternal.

"you make the world quieter. you make the shadows softer. you make me believe that love does not have to hurt."

koriand'r is solar flare gold. the color of burning suns, of radiant warmth, of something too bright, too boundless, too full of love to be contained. she loves without hesitation, without question, without fear. she does not hold back. when she loves you, it is in the way her hands find yours instinctively, in the way she lifts her face to the sky and laughs, in the way she speaks your name like it is something precious. she does not just bring warmth - she is warmth. she is light and fire and every good thing the universe has ever given.

"i have loved many things in this world - the stars, the sun, the way the ocean reflects the sky. but you, you are my favorite thing the universe has ever made."

[imbatman-imtired]

Mainly because I’m Batman.

that’s a lie i would rather die than lose my kids

[ciricearts]

I giggled doing this hehe

[ciricearts]

PLUS reference

[l0vergirls]

i feel like changing my user but im too lazy to change my masterlist links

[l0vergirls]

whats the protocol on adopting a stray cat

[l0vergirls]

update !!! it took a while but she is officially taken in 🥸 !!!

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

warrior! jason todd x fairy! reader⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪.

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ jason todd x reader ಿৎ

mentions: size difference, tummy bulge, unprotected sex

──────────•~❉✿❉~•──────────

warrior! jason who found you out on the flower field, your tiny frame blending into the rows of colourful flowers swaying with the wind. your hands gently picking the flowers from the earth turning them into a bouquet. in a world where jason only knew of violence you were such a gentle delicate creature, ears slightly pointed with your iridescent wings. he stuck out like a sore thumb, slightly dirty and disheveled from hunting and even slightly bloodied.

warrior! jason found himself visiting the flower fields more often, hiding near the tree’s shadows as he observed your frame dancing around the field twirling and spinning like nothing mattered. he took note of everything, your favourite flowers which he assumed were the ones you picked the most, how you spent majority of the afternoon laying around sometimes even napping.

warrior! jason had fallen asleep under the tree one day, only to wake up to your face staring at him like he was the most fascinating creature. you were significantly smaller than him, but not the smallest fairy he’s ever seen. some fairies were the size of his pinky, but you were significantly taller, maybe just reaching his chest.

warrior! jason who showed you off proudly as his pretty little thing, the back of his hand gently guiding you as you navigated the village, a display of possession. “this is her, pretty little thing ain’t she?” he spoke lowly as he introduced you to his friends, staring in awe at how someone as rough and brooding as him found someone so delicate and radiant.

warrior! jason always bought you the homemade pie from the markets when he visited you, remembering how your face lit up with your delicate wings fluttering behind your back when you first saw it. he made it a mission to greet you with your favourite things, he spent sometime in the library doing some reading, finding out that fairies loved little trinkets. so whenever you saw him, he had the homemade pie in his hands, a bouquet of your favourite flowers and small little jewellery from the market place.

warrior! jason who worshipped you during sex, never making you work, all you had to do was put your head on the pillow and he’ll abuse your cunt until you were a sobbing drooling mess. he loved the way he could see the tiny stomach bulge when he was in you, it acting as a visible reminder of the size difference between you two.

warrior! jason loved manhandling you, bending you to his needs to hit your most sensitive spots inside your gummy walls. there was something about your small pathetic whines and moans that motivates him even further, the jingle of the little trinkets he’s collected in you as he pounded into your cunt.

warrior! jason loved filling your cunt up, having his hot sticky mess flow out of you was something that made him want even more. the sight of your belly slightly swollen due to the sheer amount of cum he had made him want to fill your womb up. “fuck darlin’ will you let me fill you up again one more time?” before you could even respond, he already had his tip nudging in between your sensitive cunt.

[chewii-404-deactivated20250612]

“ 𝐆𝐎 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐑𝐘, 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵 ”

そんな無垢な目で見つめるな... 汚したく なるだろう?

# 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘠𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘽𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ☆

# 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 : 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦? 𝘏𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦. 𝘖𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦...

# 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 : 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳/𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘋𝘕𝘐.

# 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺 : 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦.

Bruce remembers the first time he met you.

You were five years old. A tiny thing, too small, too delicate, all bright eyes and soft hands, clinging to his leg like a lifeline.

Your father—one of his most trusted business partners—had laughed, shaking his head.

“She’s taken a liking to you,” he had said, ruffling your hair.

And then, with all the confidence of a child, you had beamed up at Bruce and declared,

“I’m gonna marry you one day!”

The room had erupted in laughter. Your father had chuckled, his business partners had teased him. But Bruce—

Bruce had only smiled.

It was harmless. Just childish innocence.

Or at least, that’s what he had told himself.

You grew up fast.

Too fast.

One moment, you were that little girl clutching his hand at charity galas, giggling when he lifted you into his arms. The next, you were nineteen, standing in his home like you belonged there, a young woman too beautiful for her own good. all soft curves and knowing smiles.

Bruce didn’t know when it started—when his affection for you twisted into something ugly.

All he knows is that one day, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you were beautiful.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

And Bruce—he was not a good man.

He tried to be. God, he tried.

Bruce tried to ignore it. He told himself it was natural—a fatherly protectiveness over the daughter of his closest friend.

But a father wouldn’t think about you the way he did.

A father wouldn’t ache like this.

A father wouldn’t watch you when you weren’t looking.

Wouldn’t stare when your nightgown slipped off your shoulder.

Wouldn’t feel his throat tighten when you called him “Mr. Wayne”, your voice so sweet, so innocent, so cruel.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

And that was the worst part.

You make it impossible.

Because you’re thoughtless. Careless.

You touch him too much. Press yourself against him in hugs that last too long, your fingers curling around his arm, your breath warm on his neck.

He told himself it was innocent. That the way he watched you wasn’t wrong. That the thoughts in his head were just passing moments of weakness—nothing more.

It gets worse when you start talking to him about boys.

You sit on the couch in his study, curled up in one of his expensive leather chairs, talking about your boyfriend problems while he nurses a glass of whiskey, fingers tightening around the crystal.

“Ugh, I don’t know,” you sigh. “Liam’s being so... needy.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

You don’t notice the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers tighten. The way his thoughts turn ugly.

You just keep talking.

“He wants to have sex, but I don’t think I’m ready.” You stretch your arms above your head, your crop top rising just enough to show a sliver of your stomach. “I mean, I don’t want my first time to be... disappointing, y’know?”

Bruce stares at you.

His blood boils.

Your first time.

With some boy.

Some child who doesn’t know a damn thing about you.

He hates it.

The thought of your soft little body under some clumsy boy, of you making those sweet little sounds for someone who doesn’t deserve them—someone who doesn’t know you like he does—it makes something inside him snap.

He wants to tell you the truth.

That boys don’t know how to take care of a girl like you. That they’ll use you. That you need a man—someone who can be gentle, who knows how to take care of you, how to teach you.

He wants to say all of it.

But instead, he just takes a slow sip of whiskey and says,

“Be careful who you trust.”

You don’t see the way his eyes darken.

You don’t hear the warning in his voice.

And the worst part?

You ask him for advice.

“Mr. Wayne,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your palm, “why do men always want one thing?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists under the table.

You don’t understand what you’re playing with.

You don’t see the way his eyes darken when you talk about them. The boys who touch you. The ones who don’t deserve to even look at you.

You don’t understand the filthy thoughts he has when he imagines you with them.

You don’t understand that he wants to ruin you.

Bruce stares at you, at your bare skin, at the way your lips part as if waiting for him to take.

And God help him.

He does.

His hands clench against the couch. He leans in, close enough to breathe you in.

Close enough to claim.

Close enough to ruin you.

He doesn’t remember when he started following you.

Not just in the manor. Not just in his home.

Outside. In the city.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe you like knowing he’s watching.

Watching as you go on dates with boys your age—pathetic, fumbling boys who don’t know how to take care of you the way a man like him would.

You always seem disappointed after those dates.

And Bruce tells himself it’s because you know.

You know they aren’t enough.

That they’ll never be enough.

That no one will ever love you the way he does.

But then, one night, he looked at you—really looked at you—and something inside him snapped.

Because you weren’t a child anymore.

You were soft curves and bright smiles and whispers of silk.

And it was wrong.

So, so wrong.

He tries to ignore it.

To pretend that nothing has changed. That you’re still just the daughter of his friend—a girl he has known since childhood.

But you make it impossible.

Because you’re cruel.

You don’t even realize it, but you are.

The way you hug him just a little too long. The way you press against him, your body warm, your scent too sweet, too intoxicating. The way you laugh—tilting your head back, exposing the soft skin of your throat.

The way you call him “Mr. Wayne” in that sweet, teasing voice—like you know exactly what it does to him.

But you don’t.

You don’t understand how dangerous it is to tempt a man like him.

But you will.

Soon.

He thinks about it too much.

The way you look at him. The way you look for him at every party, every event. The way you light up when he pays attention to you.

He shouldn’t.

You’re too young. Too innocent.

He should be ashamed of the way his fingers tighten around his glass when he sees you in those short dresses, the way his breath hitches when you cross your legs, letting the hem ride up—just enough.

And he knows, deep down, that you aren’t doing it on purpose.

That you trust him.

That you have no idea how sick he is.

That you have no idea how long he’s been watching you, how long he’s been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t.

That you have no idea how badly he wants to ruin you.

It happens late one night.

You’re staying at the manor while your father is away, wandering around in nothing but a silk nightgown that barely reaches your thighs.

And Bruce is watching you.

He shouldn’t be.

But God help him, he can’t look away.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware of the monster lurking in the shadows.

Then, without looking up, you murmur,

“You’re staring, Mr. Wayne.”

His blood runs hot.

You’re doing it again. Pushing him. Testing him.

You don’t even know what you’re playing with.

“What are you doing up?” His voice is calm. Controlled. But there’s an edge to it, a tension that wasn’t there before.

You stretch, your nightgown riding up, exposing too much skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. Then, you turn to him, eyes dark, playful. Inviting. “But maybe you could help with that.”

Silence.

A long, dangerous silence.

Then, Bruce is in front of you, his hands gripping the couch on either side of your body, caging you in.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low, deadly.

But you just smile.

And Bruce?

Bruce finally snaps.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not soft.

He grips your wrist, too tight, dragging you forward until you gasp, your balance thrown off.

You fall against him, your body flush against his, and he hates himself for how good it feels.

For how warm you are. For how easily you fit against him.

His breath is hot against your ear, his hands shaking as they hover over your skin.

He shouldn’t.

He can’t.

But he wants to.

So, so badly.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is hoarse, strained.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

And for the first time, you see it.

The way he looks at you.

Like a starving man staring at his last meal.

Like a man at war with himself, a man who has spent years trying to fight something that was always meant to consume him.

You blink up at him, lips slightly parted.

His breath shudders. His grip tightens.

Then, he’s kissing you.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate. A collision of heat and teeth and pent-up want that’s been festering inside him for too long.

You gasp against his lips, and he drinks it in, pressing you deeper into the couch, caging you with his body.

And when he finally pulls back, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged—

And Bruce—Bruce knows he’s going to hell for this.

But maybe he was always meant to burn.

And maybe you were always meant to burn with him.

© stxrkiss ☆ don't copy, translate or use my works here or any other websites.