ليالي 𝜗𝜚

19🪽 Arab Angel 🇵🇸

[layalidelreyy]

About me

Layali/Lulu. 19. Palestinian Princess. Arab Angel. Lana Del Rey, Haifa Wehbe, Fairouz enthusiast, Kali Uchis, Elissa, Ruby, Monster high, The Priscilla Movie, the DCU, Love island, Criminal Minds. Buffalo 66, Victoria Secret, Too Faced makeup, Brandy Melville, Hollister connoisseur. The Priscilla Movie and Polka Dot enthusiast!

Looking for mutuals!!

dividers from: @uzmacchiato and @dollywons (go check out their profiles they’re both so talented) and pinterest!!

[layali208]

follow my girlblog acc!!!

[estrixart]

ghost

[inadoves]

riding dean winchester’s face…

note: yes i HAD to include butt stuff. its a cow farm. you’re gonna find cows outside!!! also we’re so back oh gessss

You’re not really one to get on top, but tonight’s a special occasion. With Dean’s hands gripping your inner thighs and his mouth devouring your pussy, you have no choice but to sit up and take everything you possibly could.

He can’t breathe fresh oxygen when he’s here, his tongue buried between your folds and his teeth grazing your clit every chance he gets. Though, frankly, he’s exactly where he wants to be; when he’s beneath you like this, there’s nothing that makes him happier.

He breathes you in like it’s what he deserves, inhales the sweet, tangy scent of your dribbling cunt like it’s a flower. You gasp as he guides your hips to roll on his mouth, barely biting back a nervous giggle at the feeling of his stubble against your sensitive skin. The only time you stop holding in a breath is when he rips his head back to get air.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” He babbles. He’s breathless, thumb dipping between your folds and gliding through the soft, wet skin. Dean’s nose and lips are covered in your slick which he makes no effort to wipe off. “Can’t believe I get to suffocate under a pussy like this.”

“You-“ Barely managing to speak, you shudder out air. “You’re so dramatic.”

He looks up at you with his girlish green eyes and you watch as they crease when he grins. “I’m not.” His thumb comes back out and he slides his hands to your ass. He grips your ass hard enough to make you choke momentarily. “Give me some more, baby.” He rasps. “Put it all on me right now.”

Dean almost cums at the feeling of your weight back onto his face. He moans into your flesh and kisses your clit, bringing his tongue out to lick a thick stripe up and suckles your sensitive bud until you squirm above him. You reach to grab his hair and your breasts squeeze together uncomfortably, soft yet perked up nipples begging for the smallest amount of attention that, if he could see, would get devoured all the same.

You slide your knees outwards, toes gripping the sheets to the point they cramp in place. At your backside you can feel a single wet digit circle your asshole. He thumbs at your hole and slurps at your clit to distract you from any discomfort. One hand spreads open your asshole while the other’s thumb dips in until it’s at the knuckle.

Immediately your knees come inwards and knock against his head. The vibrations coming from his groaning immediately absorbs into your skin, your nails digging into his scalp at the rush. “Shit, Dean!” You moan, eyes squeezing shut. He flexes his thumb into you just to hear another sweet sound. Your eyes fill with tears at the pressure inside your ass. One single finger making every sensation more potent than the last.

You grind into his face, desperate to get that same rush from him that he immediately provides. He moans into you again and bites at your clit, twisting the nerves between his teeth gently before swirling it around his tongue and sucking on it like a lollipop.

“Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.” You babble, raking your fingers through his hair. “M’gonna cum soon, so soon, so don’t stop! Fuck!”

Dean is very, very good at taking orders in times like these. When you tell him to keep going, he keeps going no matter what.

Slowly but surely he pumps his thumb in and out of you, timing it with the way he licks your cunt and buries his tongue so deep his nose brushes your skin. He can’t help but moan and shudder at the warmth of your body against his, toes curling and knees bending to plant his feet on the bed. His lips wrap around your clit one more time, tongue darting out like a frog to give it a little extra.

With the way he’s devouring you it makes you see stars. Your vision blurs for a moment and without realizing it you’re cumming all over him, hands reaching behind his head and pushing him into you so hard it knocks the air out of him for a moment. He breathes heavily and takes in every sensation: the feeling of your nails in his scalp, the taste of your cunt deep in his throat, the smell of your wetness covering him, the warmth around his finger inside your ass. Everything is absolutely perfect.

He pops his finger out gently, making sure you don’t notice it with glances at your scrunched face. You don’t think you’ve ever came so hard just from someone eating you out other than this very moment.

Dean grasps at your hips, gently lifting you enough to wiggle out from beneath you and sit up. “That was perfect, sweetheart.” He exhales, hand grabbing your arm. His strong fingers curl around your tired muscles. When he leans in to kiss you, you lean and give into it without a second thought.

He tastes just like you, his wet nose bumping into yours and his plush lips forcing your mouth open to bury his tongue inside the same way he did to your pussy. You grab at his chest, moaning softly at the wetness of his tongue and the overwhelming taste of your own cunt. He pulls away and grins at you, his free hand coming to brush hair away from your face and wipe saliva from your lips.

“Beautiful lady, aren’t you.” He murmurs. There’s a glint in his eyes you always see in special moments like these, one that tells you ‘I love you’. You tilt your head and smile cheekily. It feels like cupid struck him with an arrow all over again. “I think I might be the luckiest guy alive with you in front of me..” When you laugh it’s pure music in his ears. “There she is,” Dean pecks your lips one more time for good measure. “My baby.”

[hearts4hughes]

jason todd taking care of drunk reader

jason has suffered for two hours too long at the party. how dick managed to get him here is still a mystery. he hasn’t been to a proper house party since…well never. being a masked vigilante your whole life does that to you.

he’s been standing against the wall for most of the night, nursing the same drink and pretending he’s actually interested in whatever roy is talking about. he isn’t. in fact, the only reason he’s still here is because of you.

you’re one of dick’s friends. sickly sweet—annoyingly sweet, actually. the kind of person who smiles at everyone and makes him feel warm and fuzzy when he can manage to hold a conversation with you.

jason doesn’t really know you. sure he’s stalked your insta a few times and memorized your birthday, but he doesn’t officially know you. you’ve talked before. usually just passing each other in dick’s apartment or at some stupid family dinner. nothing worth remembering.

except jason remembers everything. he remembers the way you smile when you see him. the way you always say hi, even when he gives you some half-assed response. he remembers your laugh—god, how could he forget it.

it’s stupid because what would someone like you see in him? you’re pure sunshine and he’s jason. so he keeps his distance. or, at least, he tries to. the universe doesn’t like to side with jason, though. which is probably why, three seconds later…thud. you walk directly into his chest.

jason barely moves. you, however, stumble backward like you’ve just collided with a brick wall.

“oops,” you slur, losing your balance and heading straight for the floor boards. before you can even come close to falling, he catches your elbow.

“you okay?” his eyes soften, pupils dilating like they always do when he sees you.

you look up at him. your cheeks are flushed, eyes a little glassy, and you’re smiling way too brightly. “mhm.” you nod.

“ok, good.” he nods back. a few moments pass and you’re still staring at him through your lashes. he furrows a brow.

“hi, jason.” you gape. liquor runs through your veins, making your vision wobbly and your judgement cloudy.

something warm creeps up the back of his neck. he clears his throat and murmurs, “hi.” two minutes he mentally notes. he’s been holding eye contact with you for two minutes.

you continue flutter your lashes at him. he waits. you don’t seem to have any intention of moving. “you just ran into me.”

“i know.” heat floods your cheeks.

“you sure you’re okay?”

“yes.” you nod again. then immediately sway sideways.

jason’s hand tightens around your arm. “right.” he looks at the red cup dangling loosely from your other hand. “how much have you had?”

you squint at it, swirling it in your cup. “this?” you ask, still swirling the liquid and coming dangerously close to staining your adorable white dress that’s been driving jason absolutely crazy. “i don’t know.”

“jesus,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose. you smile and giggle. he sighs, though there’s no real irritation behind it. “where’s dick?”

you immediately point across the room. “there.”

jason follows your finger. dick is passed out on the couch. or, more accurately, approximately half of dick is on the couch. his torso is sprawled across the cushions, one leg hanging over the armrest and the other somehow wedged underneath the coffee table. jason stares. “uh, is he alive?”

“mhm.” you nod, tucking hair behind your ear. “probably.”

jason looks back at you. you’re already staring again. “great.”

you smile up at him. “you look pretty.” you reach out and touch his cheek.

he coughs, nearly choking on his own spit. “what?” electricity shoots through his skin. hopefully you won’t notice that he’s burning up underneath your hand.

“pretty.” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “your hair.” your fingers stay on him, but drag up to his hair. goosebumps raise on his skin as you brush through his hair. “and your eyes.” your digits return back to his face, brushing his cheekbones.

jason’s expression goes blank. he opens his mouth a few times, but his throat is as dry as a desert. “you’re drunk.” he manages to sputter out.

“i know.” you reply absentmindedly, still running your fingers across his skin.

“very drunk.” he emphasizes. his pupils must be the size of the moon right now.

you lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “but it’s true.”

he swallows, looking to the side. his fingers drum against his pants. he could just leave you here. tuck you into dick’s guest bed and leave some advil and water. that’s that right thing to do. distancing himself is the right thing to do. instead, he motions his head toward the door, “c’mon.”

“where?” you ask, but you’re already following him like a lost puppy. when he starts walking, you grab onto his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

he looks down at your angelic hands intermingled with his. it should be a sin that he can touch you. “to my apartment.”

your eyebrows lift. “you have a home?”

he gives you a look. “yes.”

“i thought you lived in a cave.” you reply blankly. “like batman.”

“i’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.” he exhales sharply. you giggle again, bringing the plastic cup to your lips. before the liquor can touch your tongue, jason’s confiscating it. “give me that.” he mutters, setting it on a counter nearby. when he turns back, you’re staring at him like he kicked your puppy.

you jut out your bottom lip slightly, eyes filled with…sadness? “jason!” you exclaim, tugging against his hand and stopping him from walking.

“you’ve had enough.” he says calmly, running his thumb over your knuckles.

for a second you just stare at him. your eyes are doe and glassy. he swears you’re about to cry. he even squints his eyes, bracing for impact. then, you simply say, “okay.” and you’re smiling again.

“what?”

“you’re so nice.” you gush, stroking up and down his bare arm.

he looks down at you, completely puzzled, and just laughs. “sure.” he looks toward dick again. still unconscious. then back at you. yeah, he’s on his own. you’re swaying slightly where you stand, eyes following him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. his expression softens despite himself. “can you walk?”

“yes.” you say. then an amazing thought pops into your mind. “but can you carry me?” you’re grinning ear to ear.

he chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “c’mon, princess.” he leans down, scooping you into his arms bridal style. this is definitely not distancing himself.

you squeal as he lifts you up like you weigh nothing. now this is a real man. no argument or excuse, he just picked you up, no questions asked.

he walks toward his car trying to ignore the zoo in his stomach. focus, jason. one foot in front of the other. he’s repeating that in his mind when he feels pressure around his bicep. he looks down. “uh, are you squeezing my bicep?”

this was going to be a long night…but jason couldn’t say he minded.

[layali208]

this is so cutee

[jennifereatsfakemeat]

Pity Party • Jason Todd x Reader

Part 6! Previous/Full chapters (from Brandy series)

Summary: you stab the red hood by accident and he falls in love with you.

After someone put a movie on, Jason was able to relax, arm resting over the back of the couch. Slowly, you’d been inching over to his corner of the cushions, and nearing 3 in the morning, you were fully pressed against his side. You were content in your position.

Jason on the other hand was struggling to control his breathing and heartbeat. When was the last time he let someone be this close? He didn’t deserve good things. He didn’t get good things. But the evil, awful, part of him, was already wrapping an arm around you.

……………….

Cotton. Soft, jersey knit fabric, covered a denser object. Dragging your hand further down, you felt the ruffle of an elastic waistband, and a fluffy flannel. Probably plaid, you’d recognized this fabric in shops and notion stores. Again, underneath the cloth wasn’t a roll among others in Gotham Prints, it was something hard, but slightly squishy underneath your palm. And it was everywhere, in fact, you were lying on it.

You opened your eyes, noticing the white cotton t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants worn by the muscular figure beneath you. It was cozy, and safe, and he, whoever he was, was pretty damn buff, and incredibly comfortable, so you weren’t quick to get up.

The memories from the previous night returned to you, and tou turned your head up from Jason’s chest to look at his face. Jason was bright red, as he always seemed to be around you, eyes wide, the hand not incapacitated from you lying on it gripping the side of the couch. It made the veins on his forearm pop slightly, wrapping up his arm and leading to a juicy bicep.

“Morning,” you spoke softly, sleepy from just waking up. You seemed pretty content, unlike, Jason who was currently in hell. Or maybe heaven, he wasn’t sure which.

One, he had no idea how he ended up in this position, which he didn’t like. He remembers the movie from last night, and you getting close to him, but how did that lead to this? He was sure you were an agent, and drugging him must’ve been another one of your attempts to murder him. His advanced healing abilities must’ve saved him, courtesy of the Lazarus pit. But why would you stay then? He wasn’t feeling drowsy, or hungover, or sick. He felt like he’d had the best sleep in his whole life. He was warm, and wasn’t already dreading the rest of the day and the crushing reality of the world. He wasn’t thinking about his scars, and how ugly he was, or how he could never deserve a girl like you. Must’ve been a drug.

Two, you’d been feeling him up just a second ago, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react. Does he feel you up too? Is that how it works? You were smiling up at him softly, cheek smushed against his pec. It was a view he could get used to. But he’d only known you for a week. Maybe relationships moved this quick? He wouldn’t know.

“Hey.” He finally spoke.

“Hey. Sleep good?”

“Yeah-good.”

You chuckled, and he smiled. You watched his face and body relax, the arm clutching the couch unclenching. The hand you had on his thigh moved back up his waist to be placed under your chin, on his chest.

You were still looking at him. Did you want him to touch you like that too? Did you think he was a prude, or a wimp because he wasn’t? Or was touching you weird? Before Jason could think any better, the hand clutching the cushion of the couch moved down to your waist, rubbing it slightly. You were warm, and alive and real, and he sighed. When had he held someone like this? Or been held like this? Never. And certainly not with a stranger, because that’s what you were. His neighbour’s grand daughter, who he’d briefly met over the expanse of the weeks. In one of those moments, you’d tried to stab him. Look at him now.

“Is this okay?” He asked, needing reassurance.

“Course it is. Okay for you?”

Jason nodded. You pushed yourself off of him slightly, and he pouted, missing your warmth immediately. He held on loosely to your waist, thinking you were getting up and wishing you weren’t. But instead, you crawled over him slightly, before plopping back down on him. Your head was next to his now, arms wrapping around his neck and legs tangling with his. Jason closed his eyes, revelling in the embrace. You were so warm, and pretty and nice, and you smelled like honey and something salty sweet.

Jason’s arms wrapped around your waist, and he buried his face in your neck. He indulged himself in the little world that you had created. One where maybe he wasn’t mentally fucked, and didn’t sleep with a gun beside him. Where he was your boyfriend, and cooked for you every night and woke up with you in his arms like this every morning. Where on bookclub days, you’d come out of your room and give him a kiss on the cheek before leaving for work, and your Grandmother Beth would chuckle, and the other ladies would smile and tease him, but he wouldn’t really mind because he had you. One where he knew all your favourite things as well as whatever made you angry. Where the two of you would fight occasionally, but you would forgive him and kiss him before the day ended.

His hands trailed over your waist and back, his fantasy giving him an ounce more courage, before a knock on the door ruined the moment. Both of you groaned, and he whispered to you he’d ignore it, begging for anything to prolong the moment. But the universe liked hitting him around, clearly. And the knocks rang out again. He reluctantly detangled himself from your grip, and you watched him walk over to the door, where Dick, his brother, was waiting.

“Did you forget? You invited me over for case studies.”

Dick tried to push through the door and his brother, not noticing Jason’s tense posture. Until you poked your head up from the couch. It was you, the girl from the staircase, Dick realized, and Jason felt sick watching the other man grin. All he wanted was to be back in your arms again, and you were already walking back to the front door, putting your shoes on and greeting his brother. You only spared him a small smile before leaving. Jason didn’t have the time to think about smiling back, or to ask you to stay and shut out brother.

He watched you walk down the hallway, before he closed the door, leaning against it. He remembers inviting Dick over. He’d been reluctant to work on a case with him in the first place, and refused to go to Blüdhaven or to the bat cave, so Jason’s apartment was the meeting spot.

“Fuck.”

Dick could see his little brother getting overwhelmed, and started panicking himself to stop the spiraling.

“Jason—“

“Fuck! You just had to be here!”

“Jason you know I didn’t mean to–“

He knew it was unfair, that it wasn’t his brother’s fault, or responsibility, but he was angry again. And it wasn’t easier to blame that anger onto someone else. Dick stayed quiet, Jason could see him thinking. That he was fragile, and needed pitying. That being his family meant walking on eggshells around him. That being anyone to him meant the same.

Jason sat on the couch where you’d just been, burying his face in his hands.

Dick sat beside him, and waited for him to decide what he wanted.

“I just wanted something good for once,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t I deserve that? Something good?”

“Jason, of course you do. More than anybody.” Dick rubbed his back, and all the tears came out. It was irrational behaviour, and a little embarrassing. The whole morning had been a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, having his first taste of peace ripped away.

“She won’t want me when she sees who I am. What I’ve done,” Jason gasped for air in between his tears. “I just wanted that one moment. I never get that. I never get shit like that.”

Dick stayed around for the next hour. Jason eventually calmed down, and distracted himself with the case. His eyes were still red and puffy though. By the time Dick was leaving, he was back to grumpy gruff Jason.

“What’re you gonna do about her?”

“Nothing. She’ll be better off—“

“C‘mon man. All of us know it’s bullshit. All of us have engaged with civilians.” Dick crossed his arms.

“But it’s me.”

“It’s you. You’re allowed to want this.”

………

Jason didn’t seem too happy when you left. Well, he’d just been cockblocked by his own brother. He probably wasn’t aware he could get to that level, he was so shy. But, he could’ve at least smiled at you as you left. Jerk.

Now you were moping back in your grandmother’s living room, groaning while she pestered you about your night and where you came from in the morning. You didn’t say anything about Jason, you didn’t need her whispering about all your shit to the other ladies in the apartment. Apparently Jason hadn’t thought that far ahead when he came knocking at the door.

You were stuck on the couch, pouting, makeup and dirty clothes still on. No way you were getting up. Beth was sitting beside you knitting, side eyeing you expectedly.

“I’m not getting up, just ignore it.”

“You’re going to make an 80 year old woman get the door?”

“Aren’t you only like sixty?”

Beth huffed, and gave you a glare, making a show of hunching her back and trudging to the door.

“Stop the act, we both know you’re fitter than me!”

The door opened, and there he was, cute neighbour in the flesh.

“Jason! Come in, come in! I just put on tea dear, you’re in luck.”

“Um, that sounds nice Beth,” Jason said politely, before inquiring if you were here.

Oh, and the grin on Beth’s face. She’d definitely be telling the others about this later. Jason sighed. He entered the small apartment, shutting the door, and his eyes locked onto yours.

About a half an hour ago, Jason had decided that he did want you, and that he did deserve it. He liked how you made him feel more than anyone he’d ever met. Friends and fighting took the edge off, sure, but in your arms he had this fluttery feeling, where nothing in the world mattered, and nothing in the world could touch him.

It was a certain kind of safety he could see himself addicted to.

Beth ushered him to the couch before going back to the kitchen, and you sat up a little straighter, making room for him. He had that cute flushed face on, and looked at the carpet for a little while before turning to you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I was wondering, if, um, you would like to go out with me?” He looked at you hopefully, ears turning red.

Thank yew for reading!! Hope u enjoyed. Not proofread btw, and I’m kinda bad at writing angst so…. Ya.

Comment to join my Jason Todd taglist!! Or if I missed you please let me know!! 🥰🥰🥰

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[afictionalwhor3]

Community Service

Summary: you realized your neighbor was Red Hood and have been using it to your advantage

Warnings: None

When you graduated from University, you had big dreams about moving to a city like Metropolis. Somewhere that was the opposite of Gotham. Where people looked to the skies in hope of Superman instead of waiting til midnight for the Bat to show up. But when you could not find a job in your field post-grad, you ended up back where you grew up, Crime Alley. You thought going to school would be your ticket out, but instead, you lived in a shoddy apartment building with bad plumbing and a lot of crime.

Your neighbor across the hall was always a mystery. Coming in and out at odd hours. Somehow, you figured out that he was the infamous Red Hood. He denied it, of course, and called you crazy when you confronted him, but you knew you were right. Female intuition and all that. Since you knew the vigilante's identity, you decided you might as well take advantage of it. Because no matter how many times Jason denied it, when you asked for help, Red Hood always showed up.

Thanks to the paper-thin walls of your apartment, you had learned the sound of Jason's heavy footsteps. You jumped off your couch, and before Jason could get into his apartment, you stuck your head out of your door.

“Hey Jason, wanted to let you know I get off at midnight tomorrow, and I would really appreciate an escort home," you say

“And you are telling me that because..." he replies, giving you an incredulous look while you shrug.

“You know why. If the Red Hood is walking me home, no one will think of messing with me. And, isn’t it chivalrous for a man to make sure a lady gets home safe?” You ask rhetorically, giving Jason your best smile before closing the door.

The following day, you clocked out a little after midnight and stepped into the cold Gotham air. You looked around and were greeted with nothing but an empty street, illuminated only by the dim lamp posts. You sighed and clutched your purse a little tighter. You needed to steel your nerves if you were going to walk home. You have done this walk plenty of times and been just fine. Everything would be okay.

Once you start walking, doubt creeps in. Maybe you had gotten it wrong, and Jason wasn't Red Hood. Before your thoughts could spiral, Red Hood stepped out of the shadows in front of you. When he speaks, the voice is not that of Jason, which you had become accustomed to. However, those green eyes told on him. Told you deep down that it was Jason behind that mask.

“I was told you needed to be accompanied home,” the voice behind the mask says.

“And who told you that, hm?” You ask with a smirk, while he stays silent. You giggle softly and start walking again, this time with more confidence and Red Hood at your side.

Jason is helping you bring your groceries inside when you ask for help again.

“There is a bus stop at the end of the street. Whenever I go on my runs, I see this group of assholes that mess with the kids when they get off. They shove them around and take money off them if they have any”.

“You would like me to do what about the situation?” Jason asks, confused, holding the door open for you.

“Well, the Red Hood can’t only beat up criminals and walk me home from work. He should do more to help in his community's daily life. We all know how bad Crime Alley is. If he could help a group of kids get home from school safe, maybe he could start to make an actual difference around here," you say, setting your groceries down on the counter in your kitchen

"Yeah, that isn't really Red Hood's style, though. He is much more worried about taking out the real bad guys," Jason replies, which causes you to roll your eyes.

"Then the Red Hood is just as big an asshole as those guys. 'The real bad guys', those bad guys are very real to those kids. If I could talk to Red Hood, I'd tell him he's just as full of shit as the politicians who promise to make this place better. If he wanted to put his ego in check and actually make a difference, he would do something to help those kids".

The next time you go on a run, you watch the group of kids get off the bus. The fear is written on their faces at what they expect to come. When they step off, no one is there. They all look around in shock; a couple even break out in smiles. You watch them walk in all directions, a newfound pep in their step. When you get back to your apartment, you slip a thank-you note under Jason's door.

It would be rude to ask Jason, Red Hood, for help all this time and not repay him in some way. That is how you found yourself knocking on his door, a fresh pan of homemade brownies in your arms. When Jason opens the door, it is clear you woke him from sleep. He scratches his head and looks at you expectantly.

“I come in peace. I know I've been busting your chops, but I really appreciate all your help lately. I'm sure you do a lot of other stuff behind the scenes, I know nothing about too. So, here is my offering. I made these brownies fresh this morning, I hope you like them!" you smile, extending the tray towards Jason. He takes it, the warm bottom heating up his arms while he visually inspects them. “And since I’m here," you start, continuing through the sound of Jason groaning. "I will be going to the club tonight. The creepy guy who sits on the step always tries to touch me when I get back. I should be home around two if our red friend could do me a huge favor”

When you got back from the club, stumbling and digging through your bag to find your keys, it wasn't until you got to your apartment door that you realized the man was missing from the step. In fact, you hadn’t been catcalled all night.

Your relationship with Jason went on this way. Sometimes you asked for favors, but more so, you started telling him about the things you would see around Crime Alley that you thought he could help with. You knew Jason was a big softie. As much as he was focused on fighting the big evils, he took your words to heart. He was born in Crime Alley, too, and he wanted it to be a better place for the kids who are just like you and Jason.

You knew you played only a small part; you were just a relayer of information, an observer. But you still felt like you were making a big difference in Crime Alley. This was your home, and you wanted it to be safer not only for yourself, but also for all the people and families who also lived there.

Jason still would not admit he was the Red Hood. At this point, you believed he did it just to mess with you. He did not love the fact that a civilian knew his identity. But he did believe you would never reveal it, and you brought him great information. To make it all better, you kept bringing him desserts, and you were getting better each time. So, he decided he was okay with walking you home from work, or busting up the gang that took over the park, or making sure the old lady on the first floor didn’t steal your takeout.

[of-many-fandomss]

Jason Todd, who cannot stand to have you mad at him. You give him the silent treatment? Oh, it is over for that man. He wouldn’t last two minutes of you ignoring him and avoiding his eyes before he is dropped to his knees before you. He will beg and plead for you to forgive him without an ounce of shame or embarrassment. He would take multiple bullet wounds to the chest before allowing an argument to fester between the two of you. Still on his knees before you, his hands would be shaking at his side, fingers twitching as he had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to touch you before you were ready. But, when you caved- because you always did whenever you looked into those wide, pleading eyes- he would all but fall forwards. His head would rest on your stomach and his arms would latch around your waist in a firm, protective hold. Jason would continue to mumble muffled apologies into your shirt while you ran your fingers through his hair and it would take everything in him to hold back a shutter as he leaned further into your touch. If there is one thing Jason hates more than anything, it is making you upset, so he would go through any means necessary to keep you from being angry at him for long. Seven minutes is his personal record before groveling to you.

[myneighborkoo]

im sorry but you will NEVER convince me that fics w dead dove / rape / pedophilia / incest etc is normal or in tandem w personal preference. it is very clearly fetish content that perverts within fandoms use to justify their degeneracy bc tell me why there r rapist!character headcanons???? like these people are obv making this content for weirdos to jerk off to and it kills me that this is so normalized within fandoms bc its “just content”, it’s always deeper than that and you’re just using fiction as an outlet so you don’t go to jail, you all should be put on a list

[frostedorchard]

Jason Todd takes care of an overworked!reader quietly, but does it with intent.

You stopped even noticing the hours you spend cramming, forgetting to eat, hydrate or even stand up and go pee. When you’re in the zone? You’re in the zone. No matter what project, deadline or schedule comes your way—you just have to get it done. It doesn’t even have to come from being overly ambitious, no. It could easily be the fear of falling behind

And Jason? He notices immediately, feeling concern so intense that it eats him from the inside. But he knows to tread carefully, after all—telling you to take a break could easily throw you off your hyperfocus and stress you out more. However, he will never let you neglect yourself just because of some shitty project life threw at you again.

He’ll discreetly leave you water on the desk, within your vicinity; prepare food for a couple of days and organise it into containers so you don’t have to cook; he’ll set up alarms on your phone every couple of hours so you remember to stand up. He’ll buy you those blue screen glasses to protect your eyes and keep the headaches away. He’ll research which desk chairs are the best for long hours. He’ll leave sticky notes everywhere, send you a message every two hours and make sure you take vitamins.

You complain about your neck aching? Special pillow next day at your doorstep. Your pens stopped working? Quick visit to the stationery shop in his free time. The lights are too white and big? Two days later you’re surrounded by warm glow in every corner of your house.

And on weekends? He’ll make sure you two go out for a mandatory walk; phones turned off, just you and him.

When you apologise for being so absent or exhausted? He just shakes his head and kisses your forehead, because he understands. He understands you and he would never be angry. He just wants to keep you healthy, because you’re all he’s ever had and he loves you too much to see your burn out.

[pipluphue]

who else cares about tim and dami siblingism

[jaythes1mp]

Promises Branded In Ink

Yandere Tim Drake x Soulmate Reader (Warnings: very brief mention of past sh, unconscious groping, etc.)

Everyone had a soulmate.

It was simply a fact of life, as ordinary and inevitable as the tide rolling against the shore or the sunrise spilling gold across Gotham’s skyline each morning.

Most people shared pain.

A scraped knee for one meant a sting of sympathy for the other. Broken bones, headaches, paper cuts, small reminders that somewhere in the world existed another person tethered to your life by an invisible thread.

Others shared emotions, dreams, memories.

Tim Drake had words.

Two simple words etched into the inside of his left wrist in neat black script.

That’s mine

His mother had cried when she first saw them.

Not because she was upset, quite the opposite. Janet Drake had spent years documenting soulmate phenomena across the globe, and a verbal bond was extraordinarily rare.

His father had immediately started researching statistics.

Less than three percent of soulmates received words. Less than .5 percent remembered hearing them.

“You’ll know them the moment they speak,” his mother told him one evening as she adjusted the cuff of his tiny dress shirt before another charity gala. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Tim looked down at his wrist.

That’s mine

“I guess.”

His mother laughed softly. “You don’t sound very excited.”

Tim shrugged. At eight years old, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.

Soulmates mattered. Everyone knew that.

His classmates talked about theirs constantly.

Some compared phantom aches from their shared-pain bonds. Others spent recess imagining how their lives would be together.

Tim listened more than he spoke.

He preferred facts. Questions. Patterns.

How could words know who they belonged to before either person was born? Were they predetermined? Did people still have choices? What happened if soulmates never met?

His teachers rarely had answers.

His parents were usually too busy to discuss it.

The Drakes loved him. Tim knew they did. But love and presence weren’t always the same thing. His father spent most of his time working. His mother traveled constantly. Some months, he saw them more in framed photos scattered around the house than in person.

The manor was always full of staff and tutors and carefully planned schedules, yet somehow felt impossibly empty.

Tim grew used to eating dinner with adults paid to be there.

He learned early how to entertain himself.

Books, puzzles, documentaries, the small television in his room, where he rewatched recordings of the Flying Graysons until he knew every movement by heart.

People left. That was simply another fact of life.

His parents always came home eventually, but there was always another trip. Another meeting. Another promise of next week.

Sometimes, late at night, Tim would trace the letters on his wrist with his thumb and wonder.

That’s mine

Possessive. Confident.

The opposite of everything Tim felt.

Whoever they were, they sounded like someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Someone who would point at him without hesitation and say, Mine.

The thought warmed something quiet inside his chest.

Maybe one day there would be someone who chose him first. Someone who stayed.

“Timothy!”

He glanced up from his wrist. His mother’s assistant stood in the doorway.

“Your parents are leaving for the airport.”

Tim slipped his sleeve back down. “Okay.” He followed the familiar route downstairs.

His father kissed the top of his head absentmindedly while checking his watch. His mother promised she’d bring him something back from Singapore.

Three weeks, this time. Maybe four.

“We love you, sweetheart.”

Tim smiled because he knew he was supposed to. “I love you too.”

Then the front doors closed behind them. The house settled into silence.

Tim looked down at his wrist.

That’s mine

Someday, he thought, he’d meet the person those words belonged to.

Someday, there would be someone who wouldn’t leave.

He had no way of knowing that in less than a year, standing on a crowded beach with salt in the air and sand clinging to his toes, he’d hear those exact words spoken aloud.

Or that he would spend the rest of his life trying to find them again.

Everyone had soulmates.

You grew up with the knowledge the same way you grew up knowing the sky was blue and the ocean was deep.

It simply was.

Some people shared pain. Others shared dreams or emotions or marks or memories.

Your soulmate had words.

Four of them, written in dark script along the inside of your wrist.

Can I see that?

Your dad had laughed the first time you asked what they meant.

“I don’t know, Bub. That’s the fun part.”

You traced the letters with your fingertip. “Do you think they’re nice?”

“I think,” he said, setting down the book he’d been reading, “that someone who asks permission before touching your things probably has good manners.”

You considered that very seriously. That sounded nice. Most things about soulmates sounded nice.

You didn’t think about it much. Your soulmate existed somewhere in the world. Eventually, you’d meet them.

Until then, there were more important things to worry about.

Like whether you could convince dad to cut the crusts off your sandwiches. Or whether the stray cat behind your building would finally let you pet it. Or if you’d be allowed to stay up past your bedtime to watch Cartoon Network.

Life was small in the way childhood always was.

Warm hands on your shoulders. Stories before bed. The magical fairies who always put your favorite snacks in your bag. Someone waiting for you after school.

You never doubted that you were loved. Not once.

Even when your dad got busy. Even when money was tight. Even when life became messy in all the ordinary ways life tended to.

You were never alone.

So while other children treated soulmates like missing pieces, you thought of yours more like a surprise waiting to happen.

Someone to look forward to. Who would eventually become important. But not yet. For now, your world was made up of smaller certainties.

The comfort of home. The sound of laughter from the kitchen. The warmth of sunlight spilling across your bedroom floor. And the beach.

You loved the beach.

Especially during summer.

The wind carried the sharp scent of salt through the air as waves crashed against the shore in a rhythm you could never quite predict.

Dad sat further back beneath a striped umbrella with a book open in his lap.

Every so often, he looked up to make sure you were still nearby.

You always were.

You darted along the shoreline barefoot, collecting seashells and smooth pieces of sea glass in a small plastic bucket.

The ocean foam chased your feet. Seagulls cried overhead. Children laughed nearby.

Everything felt bright.

A stronger gust of wind swept across the beach. Something light slipped from your hands and tumbled away across the sand.

You gasped.

Then immediately took off after it, your laughter carried away by the ocean breeze.

Tim almost said no when his mother asked.

Not because he didn't want to go, but cause experience had taught him not to get too excited.

Plans changed. Flights got moved forward. Meetings ran long. Emergencies happened.

He'd learned years ago that disappointment stung less when he expected it.

So when Janet Drake appeared in the doorway of the study where he'd been working through a puzzle book and said, "Your father and I have the whole weekend free," Tim had looked up suspiciously.

"The whole weekend?"

His father leaned against the doorframe behind her, smiling. "The whole weekend."

No phones. No assistants. No business dinners. Just the three of them.

Tim waited for the catch.

There wasn't one.

"Anywhere you want to go," his mother promised. "Your choice."

For a moment, Tim considered museums. The aquarium. The planetarium. Then he thought about summer heat and salty air and waves crashing against the shore.

"The beach," he decided.

His parents exchanged a surprised look.

"The beach?" his father repeated.

Tim nodded.

He'd only been a handful of times before, always during business trips when his parents could spare an hour or two.

He liked it. The patterns of the waves. The seashells hidden in the sand. The endless horizon stretching farther than he could see.

Mostly, he liked that people stayed at the beach. No one seemed in a hurry there.

"Then the beach it is."

True to their word, they left early the next morning.

The drive felt strange in the best way. His mother sang quietly along to the radio. His father let Tim pick the music. Nobody checked their watches. Nobody took business calls. For once, Tim had their full attention.

The feeling settled warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

By the time they reached the coast, the sun sat high overhead.

The beach was crowded.

Children raced through the surf. Couples crowded beneath colorful umbrellas. The air smelled like sunscreen and salt.

His parents set up their chairs a short distance from the water.

His mother pressed sunscreen into his hands with strict instructions to reapply every few hours.

His father handed him a towel for swimming.

Tim smiled.

Then headed toward the shoreline. The ocean foam curled around his ankles as he walked.

He searched carefully through the wet sand, studying each shell before deciding whether it was worth keeping.

Behind him, he could hear his parents talking softly.

Every so often, he glanced back to make sure they were still there.

They always were.

A sudden gust of wind swept across the beach.

Something colorful tumbled through the air a few feet ahead of him.

A small shovel.

Tim moved before he thought about it, stepping forward and catching it before another gust could carry it away.

He turned it over in his hands. Bright plastic swayed lazily in the sea breeze.

Then he heard a voice behind him.

"That's mine!"

The world stopped.

His breath caught. Heat rushed through his body so suddenly it made him dizzy.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, Tim looked down.

The words on the inside of his wrist burned.

That's mine

Every sound around him faded beneath the rushing in his ears.

He knew those words. He'd traced them countless times. Dreamed about them. Wondered about them. And now they belonged to a voice. To a person.

Tim turned around and saw you.

You stood a few feet away, slightly out of breath from running, your bucket swinging from one hand.

You were younger than him. Seven, maybe.

Sand clung to your knees, your hair messy from the wind, and there was a tiny gap where one of your front teeth had recently fallen out.

You looked completely ordinary.

And somehow, you were the most important person Tim had ever seen.

You frowned when he didn’t say anything. “Um… my shovel?”

Right. The shovel.

Tim handed it back with shaking fingers.

Then, before he could lose his nerve, he blurted out the question you’d imagined hearing for years.

“Can I see that?”

Your eyes widened. Then, almost immediately, your gaze dropped to your own wrist.

Tim followed it.

When you looked back up at him, confusion and wonder mixed across your face.

Slowly, you held out your arm.

His words.

His exact words.

Tim stared. His soulmate. He’d found them.

You stared at him with equal fascination. “You’re my soulmate?” The question came out small.

Tim felt something inside his chest loosen for the first time in his life. “Yeah,” he whispered.

You grinned. Just like that. No hesitation or uncertainty. Just simply joy.

“Cool.”

Cool. As though the entire universe hadn’t shifted beneath his feet.

Like you hadn’t just become the answer to every question he’d ever asked late at night while tracing words on his wrist.

Your excitement was immediate and uncomplicated. Tim envied that.

Before he could think of what to say next, an adult voice called your name from further down the beach.

You waved in their direction.

“My dad’s over there!”

Tim glanced toward the striped worn out umbrella and the man watching the two of you with open curiosity.

You turned back to him. “Want to play?”

The answer should have been obvious. Still, Tim had never been asked that question with such easy sincerity before.

He nodded. “Okay.”

And somehow, that single word changed everything.

The two-year age gap disappeared within minutes.

You talked enough for both of you, filling every quiet moment with stories while Tim listened intently.

You showed him the smooth sea glass you’d collected.

He taught you how to tell the difference between oyster shells and clam shells.

You built sprawling sandcastles connected by winding trenches that the tide eventually claimed.

You chased waves until your shorts were soaked.

You buried his feet in the sand.

He let you.

When seagulls stole one of your crackers, you laughed so hard you nearly fell over.

Tim found himself laughing too. Really laughing. Not the polite smiles he wore at galas. Not the careful amusement he showed adults. Something warm and bright spilled through him every time you smiled at him. Like sunlight after weeks of rain.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel lonely.

It was strange. How someone he’d only known for a few hours could make the world feel different. Like he’d spent his entire life holding his breath without realising it. And now, sitting beside you in the sand while you proudly displayed a misshapen seashell you’d declared lucky, Tim finally exhaled.

This was what everyone talked about when they talked about soulmates. Not destiny. Not marks. Not magic. This.

The feeling that you’d found someone who fit beside you so naturally that being apart suddenly made no sense at all.

You looked up at him and smiled.

Tim smiled back.

Mine, he thought.

For the first time in his life, Tim knew exactly what he wanted.

And for the first time in his life, he believed he could have it.

→←↓↑

The sun began to sink lower in the sky far too quickly.

Tim noticed because your father stood from his chair and started packing away towels.

No. No, it couldn’t be that late already.

You were still explaining your very serious theory that seagulls were secretly spies.

“We have to go soon,” your dad called.

You looked up, your face immediately falling. “Aww.”

Something uncomfortable twisted in Tim’s chest.

“Can we stay a little longer?” you asked hopefully.

Your dad checked his watch and shook his head apologetically. “We still have to drive back.”

You sighed dramatically before turning back to Tim. “I guess I have to go.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Tim’s eyes dropped to your wrist.

Can I see that?

Then to his own.

That’s mine

Proof.

Even if you left, the words would stay. You couldn’t disappear completely. Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that. His mother had told him so.

You stood, brushing sand from your shorts. “Can we see each other again?”

“Yes,” Tim answered immediately. Too quickly. His cheeks warmed.

Your smile returned instantly. “Okay!”

Of course you would. You were soulmates. That was how this worked.

Tim stood too, suddenly aware that he didn’t know your last name. Or your phone number. Or where you lived.

Panic flickered briefly beneath his ribs. “We should-”

“Timothy.”

His mother waved from several yards away. “We need to get going soon.”

Not yet.

Please, not yet.

He looked back at you. Your father had already gathered your things.

Adults were always in a hurry.

The thought came suddenly and irrationally.

Adults ruined everything.

“Can I have your number?” Tim asked.

You blinked. “My what?”

Right. You were seven.

Your dad laughed as he walked over. “I don’t think they know our number by heart.”

Heat crawled up Tim’s neck. Of course you didn’t.

Think.

Addresses. Last names. Anything.

“Maybe we can write letters!” you suggested brightly.

Your father smiled. “That’s a good idea.”

Relief rushed through Tim so hard his knees felt weak.

Yes. Letters. Of course.

Your father knelt beside you. “Why don’t you get something to write on?”

You nodded enthusiastically and ran back toward the umbrella.

Tim turned to his parents, excitement bubbling in his chest so fiercely it almost hurt.

His mother was smiling.

His father looked amused.

“Soulmates, huh?” Jack asked softly.

Tim couldn’t stop smiling.

“Yeah.”

His mother squeezed his shoulder. “We’re happy for you, sweetheart.”

Everything felt right. Perfect. As if the universe had finally clicked into place.

You returned moments later with a purple marker and a wrinkled napkin.

Tim carefully wrote down his home address. Double-checked it twice, then handed you the marker.

You copied yours beneath it in large, uneven letters. Your handwriting tilted crookedly across the paper.

Tim thought it was the most important thing he’d ever held.

You tore the napkin in half.

One for you.

One for him.

Insurance.

Smart.

His soulmate was smart.

“I’ll write first,” you promised.

Tim folded the paper carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his shorts. “I’ll write back.”

You grinned.

“Deal.”

Then your father called your name again.

This time, you couldn’t delay. You waved at him. Then at Tim.

“Bye, Tim!”

His chest squeezed painfully. “Bye.”

You ran back toward your dad.

Halfway there, you turned around one last time and waved again.

Tim waved back immediately.

Only when you disappeared into the crowd did he lower his hand.

The beach suddenly felt quieter. Emptier. But it was okay. Because he had your address.

You’d write first. Then he’d write back. And this wouldn’t be goodbye.

Soulmates always found each other. Everyone knew that.

Tim pressed a hand over the pocket holding your half of the napkin.

The paper crackled softly beneath his palm. Safe.

Everything was going to be okay.

He had no way of knowing that by the time he sent his first letter, your family would already be gone.

No forwarding address. No phone number. Nothing.

Just two words inked onto his skin.

And the memory of a summer afternoon that would define the rest of his life.

The Batcave was quiet at three in the morning.

Not quite silent. Computers still hummed softly. Monitors cast blue light across polished metal surfaces. Somewhere overhead, water dripped steadily through ancient stone.

Most people would have called the hour late. Tim called it productive.

A half-empty coffee cup sat forgotten beside his keyboard.

Three different cases waited on adjacent screens.

An unsolved string of robberies. A League of Assassins weapons shipment. A missing persons report.

Tim ignored all of them.

Instead, he stared at a photograph taken twelve years ago.

The image quality was terrible. The edges were worn from use, the colors faded by time.

Two children sat cross-legged in the sand beside a lopsided castle.

A nine-year-old Tim grinned openly at the camera. The seven-year-old beside him was laughing.

Tim had memorised every pixel.

He knew exactly where the sunlight hit your face. Knew the shape of your smile. Knew the tiny crack running through the plastic bucket sitting between you.

The original photo lived in a fireproof safe upstairs.

This was one of the digital copies. One of hundreds.

His fingers drifted to his wrist.

That’s mine

The words had never faded.

Not after his mother’s death. Not after his father’s funeral. Not after becoming Robin. Not after being pushed into Red Robin. Not after years of searching.

They remained as dark and certain as the day he’d first heard them.

Proof that you existed. That you were still out there.

Tim had built entire investigations from less.

Over the years, he’d searched for you with a determination that bordered on insanity.

School records. Property databases. Archived census information. Social media. Facial recognition software. The Batcomputer.

Every new technology became another opportunity. Every dead end became another reason to keep looking.

He’d found international criminals more easily than he’d found you.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

But all he’d ever had was a nickname, a childhood address, and a photograph.

The apartment listed on the napkin had been empty by the time his first letter arrived.

Moved. No forwarding address.

The landlord hadn’t remembered where.

Your father’s phone number had been disconnected within the year.

After that, the trail vanished.

You vanished. Just like everyone else.

Tim pressed his thumb against the words on his wrist, digging in hard enough to sting. The area was crowded with thick, old scars, but the words were still clear. Even when things were at their worst, he’d never dared to slice through the letters.

Across the cave, laughter echoed from the stairs.

Dick. Jason. Damian.

Family.

People who stayed. Mostly.

Tim minimised the photo before any of them could walk over and see.

He’d made rhe mistake once.

Dick had found him at sixteen, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor surrounded by maps and newspaper clippings.

“What’re you working on?”

Tim had frozen for a second too long and Dick had seen the picture. Seen the soulmate mark. The pure desperation.

Tim still remembered the concern in his brother’s voice. “You know they’ll come back into your life eventually, right?”

Tim hadn’t answered. Because that wasn’t what scared him. Finding you had never been the problem. Losing you again was.

And what if, after all these years, you met Dick first? Dick, with his effortless charm and easy smiles.

What if you met Jason? Jason, who filled every room he walked into.

What if you met Damian? Brilliant. Confident. Unapologetically himself.

Fuck.

Tim rubbed a hand over his face. The thoughts were irrational. He knew that.

You were soulmates. His soulmate.

His.

The universe had written your first words onto his skin before either of you were born.

Still, the fear remained. Because soulmates weren’t guarantees.

He’d seen enough failed bonds to know that. People walked away from soulmates all the time. People chose other people. People left.

The words on his wrist proved destiny.

They didn’t prove love.

His computer chimed softly. A notification. Another failed search parameter.

Tim closed it without reading.

He’d check again tomorrow. Run new algorithms. Cross-reference new databases. Keep looking.

He always kept looking.

Because somewhere out there, you still carried four words on your wrist.

Words he’d spoken before he knew how much they would matter.

Words that had become the center of his entire life.

Can I see that?

You probably traced them absentmindedly while waiting in line for coffee. Probably laughed when people asked about them. Maybe you told the beach story sometimes. Maybe you didn’t remember it at all.

The thought hollowed him out.

He remembered everything.

The sound of your laugh. The way you buried his feet in the sand. The gap between your front teeth. The way you’d turned around to wave at him one last time.

He remembered because he’d never stopped needing to.

Because forgetting had never even been an option.

Tim opened the pic again. Zoomed in, just a little. As if getting closer to the screen could somehow bridge twelve years.

“I’ll find you,” he whispered into the empty cave.

The promise was soft. Certain. The same way those words had always been.

He’d spent more than half his life searching. And Tim Drake was not someone prone to giving up.

University wasn’t anything like you’d expected.

Everyone had promised it would be the best years of your life.

Mostly, it was just busy.

Assignments piled up faster than you could finish them. Your sleep schedule was held together by caffeine and wishful thinking. Half your meals came from the campus café because grocery shopping required a level of organisation you simply didn’t possess.

Still, you liked it. You liked the freedom. The independence. The way nobody cared if you wore the same hoodie three days in a row.

Your world had become pleasantly ordinary.

Evening lectures. Study groups. Late-night takeout with friends. Dinner with your dad every Sunday evening.

Life moved forward in small, comfortable routines.

Soulmates fit somewhere inside that routine. Not at the centre of it. Just… there. A fact of life. An eventuality.

You’d never been one of those people who obsessed over their soulmate mark.

Maybe it was because your bond wasn’t particularly unusual. Words were rare, sure, but not unheard of.

Or maybe it was because the words themselves didn’t tell you much.

Can I see that?

People asked about them all the time. Friends in high school had theories.

Maybe your soulmate worked in museums. Maybe they were an artist. Maybe they were just really nosy.

You usually laughed and changed the subject. Because the truth was, you didn’t know.

You’d heard the words once. Apparently.

You remembered flashes of a beach. A boy. Older than you, maybe.

The memory shifted every time you tried to hold onto it.

Childhood was like that.

Important moments blurred around the edges until you weren’t sure whether you truly remembered them or had simply heard the story too many times.

Your dad remembered more than you did.

Every few years, he’d bring it up with a fond smile.

“Remember when you met your soulmate at the beach?”

You always laughed. “Not really.”

His expression turned wistful every time. “You were inseparable all day.”

You believed him. You just couldn’t remember. Not properly. There were no photos. No letters. No evidence beyond four words inked onto your skin.

Sometimes you wondered if your soulmate remembered. Or if they’d forgotten too.

The thought never upset you.

Life was busy. If they were meant to come back into your life, they would.

You traced the words on your wrist absentmindedly as you sat outside the library, waiting for your next class to start.

Can I see that?

Around you, campus buzzed with life. Students hurried between lectures. Someone laughed nearby. A group passed carrying redbulls and complaining about an upcoming exam.

Your phone buzzed. A message from your dad.

Don’t forget dinner this weekend.

You smiled despite yourself.

I’m nineteen. I won’t forget the dinner we plan every week.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

You’ll still be my kid when you’re ninety.

Shaking your head, you slipped your phone back into your pocket.

You had a lecture in ten minutes. An essay due next week. Plans with friends on Friday. A whole life unfolding in front of you.

You stood and adjusted your bag over your shoulder.

Completely unaware that, less than twenty miles away, someone was running your photograph through facial recognition software.

Unaware that someone had spent the last twelve years searching for you.

That somewhere beneath Gotham, a man who knew the exact shape of your childhood smile was whispering your name to himself like a prayer.

To you, your soulmate was a pleasant mystery.

To Tim Drake, you had become an obsession.

←↓↑→

The Batcomputer chimed again. A different sound this time.

A match.

Tim froze.

The notification sat in the corner of the screen for almost three full seconds before he trusted himself enough to breathe.

Possible facial recognition match found.

Similarity: 91.3%

His chair scraped violently across the cave floor. “No…” The word barely made it out.

His fingers were already moving. Open. Enhance. Cross-reference.

The photo filled the monitor.

Not the child from the beach. An adult. Older. Nineteen.

Your jaw had sharpened. Your hair was different. You’d grown into your features the way children always did.

But your smile..

His heart stopped. It was you. It had to be. The same eyes. The same crooked little smile he’d memorised from a photograph so faded he’d reconstructed parts of it by hand.

He didn’t realise he was crying until a tear landed on the keyboard.

“I found you…” The words cracked apart in his throat.

Twelve years of dead ends. Of wondering if he’d imagined that day on the beach.

And here you were. Real.

Tim laughed. It sounded dangerously close to a sob. “You’re okay.”

His hands shook so violently he mistyped twice trying to open the source.

A public Instagram account. Must’ve been someone else’s, since you’d been tagged.

A university friend, judging from the captions.

He clicked.

More photos. You outside a café. You in the library. You wearing an oversized hoodie while holding a coffee nearly as big as your head.

You’d always hated crusts. You pushed your sleeves over your hands. You still smiled with your whole face. Every tiny detail hit him like another heartbeat.

He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop smiling.

“I found you.”

You looked… Happy.

His chest hurt.

You’d grown up. Without him. Without a single letter. Without remembering him.

Guilt settled somewhere deep inside his ribs.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.

I’m here now.

I’ll never lose you again.

He clicked the next post. His smile disappeared. You stood beside someone about your age. Their arms wrapped around your shoulders. They leaned over to kiss your cheek.

You were making the most exaggerated expression of disgust imaginable, nose scrunched, lips pulled away dramatically while the caption underneath read:

Admit it, you love me ♡

Anyone else would’ve laughed.

Tim knew it wasn’t romantic. He could see that. He understood body language. Read micro-expressions. Built psychological profiles from less. They were friends.

Just friends.

But then why were they touching you?

His breathing slowed. The cave suddenly felt much colder.

Their hand rested so naturally against your shoulder. Like they’d done it before.

They’d probably hugged you. Sat beside you. Heard you laugh. Been there while you were becoming.. you.

They’d lived twelve years Tim had been denied. Twelve years that should have been his.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word. It felt uglier than that. Hungrier.

Tim rested his forehead against his clasped hands. “That’s selfish.” His voice came out hoarse.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Of course you hadn’t. You deserved friends. You deserved people who loved you. People who looked after you. You deserved everything. He should be grateful someone had been there while he hadn’t.

He should.

…

But why did it feel like something inside him was being torn apart?

Why couldn’t he stop staring at the place their lips touched your cheek?

Why did he want to beat-

No.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt.

Don’t think that. They’re important to you. If they’re important to you…

Then they’re important to me.

The words sounded rehearsed. Like he was trying to convince himself.

Another notification blinked in the corner of the monitor.

“Replacement patrol assigned.”

Followed almost immediately by another from Bruce.

Where are you?

Tim didn’t even look. His eyes never left your face.

“I found you.” This time, the whisper wasn’t joyful. It was reverent. Almost prayerful.

“Please..”

His thumb brushed lightly across your smiling face on the screen.

“Please still want me.”

Months passed before he let himself stand within twenty metres of you.

Not because he lacked the opportunity. He just couldn’t risk ruining it.

You deserved a proper reunion. He’d rehearsed it hundreds of times.

“Hi.”

Too casual.

“You probably don’t remember me…”

Too pathetic.

“We met once, years ago.”

Too unbelievable.

So he waited. And watched.

He learnt your timetable before he ever learnt the sound of your adult voice.

Tuesday lectures started at one thirty. You always arrived a few minutes early.

You bought the same coffee every Wednesday, except during exam weeks, when you switched to doubles without even realising you were doing it.

You texted your friends while waiting for pedestrian crossings.

You hummed when you cooked.

You don’t lock your front window.

Tim fixed that after you went to sleep.

The first time he’d climbed through your garden to latch it from the inside, he’d almost laughed at himself.

This is insane. He knew that. He also knew the suburb’s burglary statistics.

The window stayed locked after that.

You never noticed.

Good.

You weren’t supposed to.

He never took anything. That would’ve made it real.

Instead he’d straighten the photo frame you’d knocked crooked. Move your forgotten wallet a little further from the edge of the kitchen bench. Replace the batteries in your smoke alarm after it chirped once at three in the morning.

Tiny enough things that you might’ve assumed you’d done yourself.

He wasn’t trying to change your life.

He was only… smoothing the edges. Helping. Protecting.

The files on the Batcomputer grew thicker.

Medical history. University records. Favourite takeaway. Allergies. Blood type. Emergency contacts. Your friends.

Every single one received their own folder.

It’s not like Tim distrusted them. It’s just that if one of them ever needed help getting to you, he wanted to know before they did.

He read their social media. Their public records. Their routines. Who they dated. Whether they drank too much. Whether they drove distracted. Whether they’d ever hurt anyone. If they were kind to you.

Tim found himself quietly grateful.

If they made you cry, he’d spend the rest of the night staring at their name.

His fingers hovering over keyboards. Databases. Background checks. One command. He could dismantle someone’s entire life before sunrise.

He never pressed Enter.

Because that wasn’t what you would’ve wanted. And your happiness mattered more than his anger. It always would.

←↓↑→

Bruce noticed first.

“You’ve stopped sleeping.”

“I’m busy.”

“You haven’t been running facial recognition software anymkre.”

Silence.

Bruce sighed. “You found them.”

Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Bruce’s expression softened for only a second. “I’m glad they’re alive.”

“So am I.”

Another silence.

“You haven’t spoken to them.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Tim looked back towards the glowing monitor. Your face smiled back from a candid photo one of your friends had uploaded that afternoon.

What if you looked at him and didn’t remember? What if twelve years had turned him into a stranger?

He could survive broken bones. Gunshots. The Joker. He wasn’t sure he could survive watching confusion replace your smile.

So instead, he watched from afar. Close enough to stop anything bad from reaching you. Far enough that you never had to know there had been danger at all.

If someone followed you home, they found another route. If your tire went flat, roadside assistance somehow arrived before you’d even finished pulling over. If your wallet went missing, it appeared at the nearest police station before you’d cancelled your cards.

Tim preferred it that way. Because heroes weren’t supposed to ask for thanks.

And if protecting you was the only place he still belonged, then that was enough.

It had to be.

Because wanting anything more felt unforgivably selfish.

Some nights, though, when he watched your bedroom light switch off, he’d rest two fingers against the computer screen.

“I miss you.” A tiny, tired smile.

“You don’t even know me.” His voice cracked. “But I know you.”

He swallowed hard. “And that’s enough. It has to be.”

You’d always considered yourself a pretty lucky person.

Not lottery-winning lucky. More ‘weird little coincidences’ lucky.

Like the time your car decided to die halfway home after a late shift.

You’d barely managed to pull onto the shoulder before an RACQ van rolled around the corner.

The bloke had laughed.

“Perfect timing.”

You’d laughed too. “What are the odds?”

Or when you’d realised you’d left your wallet at the café.

You’d panicked for all of thirty seconds before the staff smiled and held it up.

“Someone dropped it into us.”

No cash missing. Cards untouched. You’d gone home convinced there were still decent people in the world.

Then there was the time your smoke alarm had stopped making that awful chirping noise before you’d gotten around to buying batteries.

You assumed you’d imagined hearing it.

Then the dodgy latch on your bedroom window had somehow started working again.

Finally.

About bloody time.

You made a mental note to thank your landlord.

You forgot.

Life just happened like that. Little inconveniences solving themselves. Disasters never fully becoming disasters.

You figured everyone had stories like yours.

Didn’t they?

→↓←↑

“You are,” Your friend declared, pointing a chip at you across the table, “the universe’s favourite.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“I’m serious.”

“You spilled an entire iced latte over your assignment yesterday.”

He crossed his arms, dropping the chip into his mouth. “And then the professor gave us a forty-eight hour extension.”

“That was for everyone.”

“Exactly.” He grinned.

“You just benefit the most.”

You rolled your eyes. “I think you’re confusing luck with chronic incompetence.”

“I think,” he replied, “you’ve got some weird guardian angel following you around.”

You snorted so hard your drink nearly came out your nose.

“Imagine.”

“Oi, don’t laugh. Nan swears everyone gets one.”

“If mine exists, they’re exhausted.”

“They’re probably on stress leave.”

You both laughed until people started looking over.

Sometimes, though, there were moments.

You’d catch yourself glancing over your shoulder after leaving uni.

It always felt like someone had said your name. But there was never anyone there.

Just people walking. Cars passing. The breeze.

You’d shake it off.

Your friends called you observant.

You noticed when someone changed shampoo. When lecturers looked more tired than usual. When strangers were having bad days.

But somehow, you’d never notice the black motorbike parked half a block away. Never notice that it wasn’t always the same bike. That the familiar silhouette perched on rooftops when you walked home after evening classes. Or the pair of blue eyes lifting from a rooftop scope the second you glanced upwards. Because every time your gaze drifted a little too close, he was already gone.

Because why would you? No one expects to be the centre of somebody else’s universe.

Not without knowing it.

Somewhere in Gotham, Tim closed another file. Today’s entry was short.

Ate lunch.

Laughed with friends.

Nearly got hit by a cyclist while reading a text.

Smiled twenty-three times.

His lips curved despite himself. “Good.”

He closed the document. Another day where nothing bad had happened to you. Another perfect day.

Exactly as it should be.

Tim wasn’t looking for anything in particular. He never was anymore. Watching you had become as habitual as checking the weather before patrol or reviewing overnight reports from the Titans.

One monitor displayed Wayne Enterprises’ quarterly projections while another quietly cycled through public posts from accounts you’d been tagged in over the past twenty-four hours.

One of your friend’s account refreshed.

A new post. Six photos.

The first was all of you crowded around a tiny restaurant table littered with empty plates and cocktail glasses, your smile wide enough to crinkle your eyes.

The second was a blurry group selfie that looked like it’d been taken after far too many attempts.

The third showed someone holding up printed boarding passes.

The fourth made his stomach tighten.

It was you, sitting cross-legged on somebody’s lounge room floor with travel brochures scattered around your knees. You were laughing so hard your head had tipped backwards, completely unaware of the camera.

The caption was simple.

Can’t believe we’re finally doing it. Goodbye Gotham. Next stop: Europe!! ✈️

The comments underneath were worse.

You’re actually leaving us.

Don’t forget us when you’re famous overseas.

Still can’t believe you’re moving.

Going to miss you so much.

Tim reread that last one. Then the one before it. Then the caption again.

His cursor hovered over the screen.

“…Moving?” The word sounded foreign in his own voice.

He opened your calendar. Nothing.

Your university timetable. Nothing.

Your employment records. Nothing.

He searched airline databases. Nothing.

He frowned. That didn’t make sense.

If you were emigrating, there would’ve been paperwork. Visa applications. Employment sponsorship. Rental listings. Passport activity beyond an ordinary holiday.

Unless you’d only decided recently. If you’d kept it private. If he’d missed something.

Tim’s fingers were already moving before he’d consciously decided to investigate.

Searches multiplied across the Batcomputer. Passport usage. Banking activity. University enrolment. Rental history. Government databases. Public records. Flight manifests.

The cave filled with the quiet clatter of keys.

Hours passed unnoticed. Eventually, one search returned a result.

Three return tickets. Departure in eleven days. Return scheduled just over three weeks later.

Tim stared at the itinerary for a long moment. Three weeks. Not forever. Just three weeks.

His shoulders sagged so abruptly it almost hurt.

He laughed once under his breath, embarrassed by the sheer force of the relief flooding through him. “You idiot…”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re coming back.”

Of course you were.

He’d panicked over a holiday.

His heartbeat gradually settled.

He closed the flight information. Then his eyes drifted back to the Instagram post.

Goodbye Gotham.

Going to miss you.

Still can’t believe you’re moving.

They’d all thought it looked permanent too.

He wasn’t stupid. The wording was misleading. Anyone could’ve misunderstood.

But the thought of you leaving for twenty-one days was unfathomable. You’d be where every system he’d quietly built around your safety became useless.

Where there only needed to be one delayed ambulance, drunk driver, pickpocket in the wrong place, one stupid accident.. and he would be exactly where he’d been twelve years ago.

Too late.

His fingers folded together beneath his chin.

He remembered another disappearance. Another day he’d told himself he’d find you tomorrow.

Tomorrow had become twelve years.

He’d promised himself that would never happen again.

Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, he reopened your file. Thousands of pages. Medical records. Class schedules. Emergency contacts. Favourite cafés. The names of everyone you’d ever trusted. Months of observation. Years of restraint.

He looked at the date stamped across the oldest folder. All this time waiting, for what?

Permission?

A perfect reunion?

Some magical moment where you’d look at him and everything would make sense?

What a ridiculous fantasy.

You didn’t remember him. You never would. Not unless he made you.

He had mistaken absence for kindness. Distance for love.

He’d stood outside your life for months, convincing himself that watching you from the shadows was enough because it made you smile.

And where had that left him?

Watching another goodbye. Waiting for another disappearance. Still pretending he could survive it.

A quiet laugh escaped him. Ashamed. “I’ve been an idiot.” The words echoed through the empty cave.

He’d treated his own devotion like something shameful. Something to hide. As though loving you enough to dedicate every waking moment to your safety was a flaw instead of the truest thing he’d ever felt.

No one else loved you like this. No one else could.

Your friends loved the version of you they saw between lectures and dinners. Your family loved the child you’d once been. Tim loved every version.

The child on the beach. The teenager he’d reconstructed from scattered photographs. The adult who forgot to lock windows, who hummed while cooking, who laughed with your whole body when something was funny.

He loved the life you’d built without him. And perhaps that had been his mistake.

He’d mistaken love for spectatorship.

Love wasn’t standing fifty metres away making sure you got home safely. It wasn’t fixing broken latches in the middle of the night and leaving before sunrise. It wasn’t pretending he didn’t exist.

Love was being there.

His gaze drifted back to your smiling face.

“You’ve waited long enough,” he murmured.

For a moment, it almost sounded as though he was speaking to you. Then he smiled.

“No more.” The words weren’t a promise to himself. They were a decision.

He reached for his phone. For the first time in months, he wasn’t planning how to keep watching you.

He was planning how to finally walk into your life.

And this time, he wasn’t ever going to leave.

↑←→↓

The house had taken longer than he would’ve liked to build. Because nothing ever felt good enough.

Tim replaced every piece of furniture twice before he was satisfied. The mattress in the spare bedroom became a king-sized one after he remembered you tended to sleep diagonally whenever you had nowhere important to be the next morning. The kitchen cupboards were stocked with your favourite brands, each item selected with the quiet certainty of someone who had spent years memorising details you never realised you were giving away.

The coffee in the pantry was the same blend you bought every Wednesday.

The toothpaste in the bathroom was the brand you preferred.

The shampoo smelled exactly like the one you'd used six months ago before switching to something else.

You'd liked the old one better.

You just hadn't known it.

Fresh towels sat folded neatly on the shelves. Spare chargers waited beside every bed. Books you had once picked up in stores and put back down rested untouched on shelves already prepared for you.

Every room carried traces of you.

The wardrobe had been the hardest part.

Not expensive things. Not things he wanted. Things you would have chosen.

Soft cotton shirts. Oversized jumpers. Flannel pyjamas.

Comfortable clothes for quiet days at home.

A ridiculous pair of fluffy socks shaped like little sharks that you’d laughed at for almost five minutes in a department store before deciding they were “too expensive for socks”.

Tim had bought them the following afternoon.

There were plants in nearly every room because you’d once spent fifteen minutes helping a stranger rescue a dying fern from the clearance section at Bunnings.

Healthy, thriving ones.

Nothing in this house would be allowed to die. Not if he could help it.

Music speakers sat discreetly throughout the house.

A shelf waited half-finished in the study because you’d once mentioned you wished you knew how to build furniture yourself.

Tim had watched hours of woodworking tutorials that night.

Just in case you ever wanted to learn.

The entire house was filled with preparations for conversations that had never happened.

Future memories assembled in advance.

A life rehearsed over and over by a man who had spent too long alone.

The only parts that didn’t belong were the things that had never been negotiable.

The cameras. One in every room. Carefully hidden. The reinforced glass. The electronic locks. The steel shutters concealed inside the walls. The security system that could seal the entire house down in seconds.

The absence of anything sharp enough to become a weapon.

Tim stood in the middle of the lounge room long after everything was finished.

His gaze drifted slowly across the room.

The couch where you'd sit. The blanket folded over the armrest. The coffee mug already waiting in the cupboard. The spot beside him.

He turned slowly, searching for flaws.

His eyes landed on one of the cameras. A small black lens hidden in the corner.

His expression crumpled. "...I'm sorry." The apology came out quietly. Almost embarrassed.

"I know you'll hate these."

He stared at it for a long moment. As if he could already see the disappointment on your face. The fear. Anger. Betrayal.

His throat tightened.

"I know." His voice cracked slightly.

"I know you will."

His gaze dropped toward the front door.

Toward the locks. The barriers. The things that would keep you inside. The things that would keep you from leaving him.

His hand pressed against the wood.

"And those." The words barely escaped him.

"You'll think I'm a monster."

A small laugh escaped him. Broken and humourless.

The painful part was knowing that you'd be right.

His eyes burned. "You won't understand."

The house blurred slightly.

"You'll think this is about control."

His fingers tightened against the door. "It's not."

The lie sounded weak even to him. Because it was about control. Partly. But mostly it was about terror. The unbearable, suffocating terror of losing something he had never truly possessed.

"I just..." The words stopped. His throat worked.

He looked around the house again. At the rooms prepared for you. The meals he imagined cooking. The books waiting on shelves. The life built entirely around your absence. And suddenly the entire thing felt pathetic.

A shrine pretending to be a home. A love story with only one participant.

Tim swallowed hard.

"I tried doing it the right way." Years of restraint condensed into one broken sentence.

"I really did." His voice was barely audible.

"I waited."

For you to notice. For you to choose him. For one day to become the day. For years. Nothing.

His eyes closed. And for the first time since finishing the house, he looked genuinely miserable.

None of this felt like winning. It felt like surrender. The last desperate act of someone who had run out of ways to be patient.

His hand remained on the lock. As though he hated it. As though he needed it.

"I'll take them away."

The promise came quickly. Desperately. Like he needed you to hear it.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not anytime soon.

But someday.

If you stayed.

If you smiled at him.

If you stopped looking at him like he was something frightening.

"If you trust me."

Airport security had never made you nervous before.

Annoyed, sure.

You’d complained about taking your shoes off often enough, rolled your eyes at the queue crawling forward centimetre by centimetre, and wondered more than once why your bag was always the one selected for a random inspection.

But nervous?

Not until a woman in a navy security uniform approached with an apologetic smile. “Excuse me?”

You looked up from your phone.

“Would you mind coming with me for a moment?”

Your stomach dropped. “..Sorry?”

“There are a couple of questions regarding your luggage.”

“My luggage?”

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Your friends exchanged confused looks.

“What happened?” one of them asked.

The woman simply smiled again. “It shouldn’t take long.”

That wasn’t exactly reassuring.

You followed anyway, trying to ignore the dozen increasingly ridiculous possibilities running through your head.

Had someone packed something into your suitcase?

The further you walked from the terminal, the quieter everything became. The constant announcements faded. The crowds disappeared.

Eventually, the woman stopped outside an unmarked door and opened it.

“Someone will be with you shortly.”

You stepped inside. The room looked more like an executive meeting room than airport security.

Dark timber. Leather chairs. A wall of monitors. A coffee machine in the corner.

And someone already waiting.

He stood the moment you entered.

For a second, your brain failed to process what you were looking at.

People that attractive belonged in advertisements. On giant billboards. In impossibly expensive campaigns designed by teams of professionals whose entire careers revolved around manufacturing beauty.

Not standing ten feet away. Not breathing. Not real.

He was tall enough to seem imposing without trying, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked less worn than sculpted onto him. The cut was perfect. Every line sharp. Every detail precise.

Yet somehow it wasn't the suit that drew your attention.

It was him.

Dark hair, slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that should have looked careless but somehow only made him more devastating to look at. It softened features that would otherwise have been almost unfairly severe.

His face looked like something an artist would've spent months trying to get right.

Strong jaw.

Straight nose.

Cheekbones sharp enough to catch the light.

Everything balanced so perfectly it bordered on irritating.

But it was his eyes that made it impossible to look away.

Blue.

Not the bright artificial blue magazines edited into existence.

Something deeper. Cooler. The colour of the sky just before a storm.

The kind of eyes people wrote poetry about when they ran out of better ideas.

And they were looking directly at you.

As though the moment you entered the room, everything else had ceased to matter.

Your pulse skipped.

This was ridiculous. You weren't sixteen. You weren't the type to lose your ability to function because an attractive man happened to exist in your vicinity.

And yet, there was something profoundly unfair about the way he carried himself.

The quiet confidence. The effortless posture. The controlled stillness that made every movement feel deliberate.

Even standing up from a chair somehow looked elegant. Like he'd spent his entire life accidentally making everyone else look clumsy by comparison.

Then your brain finally caught up. Recognition hit like a delayed collision.

You knew that face. Everyone knew that face.

Interviews. Magazine covers. Business journals. Wayne Enterprises.

"...Tim Drake?"

Something happened to his expression after you’d said it. A subtle shift.

The carefully composed businessman vanished for half a second.

Enough to reveal something underneath. Something startlingly human.

Relief.

His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly. His gaze softened. And suddenly he looked less like the impossibly wealthy CEO you'd seen in magazines and more like a man who had been holding his breath for a very long time.

"Hi." His tone was lower than you expected. Warm. Gentle. The sort of voice that made people instinctively lean closer.

You found yourself staring again.

The newsletters had lied.

They captured the symmetry. The beauty. The impossible genetics. But they missed everything else.

The intelligence behind his eyes. The exhaustion buried beneath them. The strange sadness lingering at the edges of his smile. The tiny imperfections that somehow made him even worse. A faint crease near one cuff where he'd clearly adjusted his sleeve too many times. A loosened breath. The tension hidden beneath composure. Nervousness.

The realisation struck you so abruptly you almost laughed. Tim Drake looked nervous.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Men like Tim Drake weren't supposed to get nervous. Especially not around strangers. Yet there it was. Written in the subtle tightening of his jaw. The way his hands remained carefully still. The fractionally too-long pause before speaking.

As though meeting you mattered far more than it should. Far more than it possibly could.

Recognition fluttered strangely in your chest. An inexplicable feeling that you knew him.

That if you crossed the room and took his hand, it would fit.

You frowned at yourself.

What the hell was that?

“I’m sorry,” you laughed awkwardly. “This is probably a stupid question, but…”

Your eyes met his. For the briefest second, the entire room felt impossibly still.

“Have we met before?”

His breath caught.

As though the question alone had knocked the air from his lungs.

A thousand emotions crossed his face too quickly to name.

Hope. Relief. Grief. Love so overwhelming it almost looked painful.

Then he smiled. Small and beautiful. Heartbreakingly fragile.

“No.”

The answer came after a beat too long. “Not in a way you’d remember.”

You opened your mouth.

Before you could ask what that meant, a sharp, chemical smell drifted through the room.

Your head suddenly felt heavy.

You blinked hard.

The floor shifted beneath your feet.

“..What…”

Your knees threatened to give way. Strong hands caught you before you hit the ground.

Instinctively, you tried to pull away. You couldn’t. Your limbs refused to cooperate.

Panic surged through you.

“Hey-” Your voice came out slurred. “What.. did…”

The room blurred. You forced yourself to look up one last time.

Tim was already kneeling in front of you, one arm supporting your weight with impossible care, the other brushing your hair back from your face as though you were something precious enough to break.

The look on his face wasn’t triumphant nor cruel. It was devastated.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and his voice shook so badly it barely sounded like speech.

“I tried.”

His forehead rested against yours for the briefest moment. “I waited as long as I could.”

The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed everything was Tim Drake looking at you like a man who had finally reached heaven,

and hated himself for the path he’d taken to get there.

↑→↓←

The silence in the bedroom was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, shallow sound of your breathing.

Tim sat on the edge of the mattress, his weight barely making a dent in the expensive linens.

His suit jacket discarded on the floor, his shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal the tension in his chest. It was damp with sweat, clinging to the lean muscles of his back as he leaned into your space.

He looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a frantic, starving look in them that made the air in the room feel thick. He looked like a man who had finally been allowed to touch the altar after years of kneeling in the dark.

He watched you. Not looking away even to blink.

His hand reached out, his fingers trembling as they made contact with your skin.

He started at your ankle, his touch light, almost hesitant, as if he expected you to bolt upright and scream the moment he touched you.

He traced the line of your leg, his thumb brushing over the softness of your calf, moving upward with a slow, agonising patience.

He wasn't just touching you; he was memorising you. He was verifying that you were solid, that you were warm, and that you were finally, truly, here.

When his hand reached your hip, his touch grew a little more firm. He slid his palm under the hem of your shirt, the heat of your skin seeping into his calloused fingertips.

He let his hand wander, trailing over the curve of your waist and the soft swell of your stomach. He moved with a desperate kind of reverence, his eyes fixed on where his hand met your flesh.

He leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate, until he was hovering just above you.

He buried his face into the crook of your stomach, pressing his nose against the warmth of your skin. He took a long, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of you. The soap you’d bought, the skin he’d dreamt of, the reality of you.

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your abdomen, his breath warm against your skin.

He sounded broken, a low, jagged exhale escaping him every time he breathed you in. He gripped the fabric of your clothes, his knuckles turning white, as if he were terrified that if he let go, the entire room would dissolve and leave him standing in an empty house again.

He wasn't being careful anymore. He was greedy.

He let his hands wander upward, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs, his touch heavy and insistent.

He watched the way your chest rose and fell, his eyes tracking the movement of your muscles with a terrifying, hungry focus. He was memorising the architecture of you.

Then, he lowered himself.

He didn't just lean in, he collapsed against you. He buried his face in the heat of your skin, his nose pressing hard into your chest, inhaling you with a sound that was half sob, half growl.

His mouth followed the path of his hands. He pressed hot, wet kisses along your side, his lips dragging over your skin with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger.

He moved lower, his face pressing into the dip of your waist, his breath hitching as he felt the warmth of you.

He was acting like a man possessed, his movements frantic yet strangely worshipful.

He shifted, his heavy thigh sliding between yours, forcing your legs apart to make room for him.

He was pressing himself against you, the hard, insistent length of him straining against the fabric of his trousers.

He reached down, his hand sliding lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear.

He didn't hesitate. He slid his hand inside, his fingers seeking the heat of you. He wasn't being clinical, he was searching, his touch clumsy and urgent, his fingers trembling as they found you.

He let out a low, broken sound. A whimper when he finally made contact, the sound entirely too small for a boy of his stature.

He leaned up just enough to look at your face, his eyes dark and blown wide with a terrifying kind of devotion.

He looked pathetic.

Shaking, sweating, and completely at the mercy of someone who wasn't even awake to see him.

"You're so perfect," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It's not fair. It's not fucking fair."

He leaned back down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his tongue tracing a wet, hot line that made his own body shudder. He was worshiping you, and he was doing it with the desperate, starving energy of a boy who knew he didn't deserve a single second of it.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips hovering a fraction above your skin. The heat from his mouth a stark contrast to the cool air of the room, but he was trembling with the effort of not sinking teeth into you.

He looked up at your face, his eyes searching yours even though he knew they were closed.

"I should stop," he whispered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I should wait until you wake up. Until you can actually look at me."

But his hand didn't listen. His fingers were still buried deep in the waistband of your underwear, his thumb sweeping against your heat with a slow, rhythmic pressure that was meant to be soothing but felt entirely too hungry.

He watched your face, waiting for a frown or a groan, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

He wanted to worship you properly, but he has also waited so long that he was practically starving to death.

With a shaky, defeated breath, he leaned down again, but he didn't go for your core this time.

Instead, he pressed his cheek against your thigh, his eyes closing as he let himself simply be near you.

He moved his hand in a steady, agonisingly slow motion, a gentle friction that was almost a tease. He wasn't trying to make you finish. He was just trying to feel the life in you, the pulse of your blood beneath his palm.

"I'll be good," he promised, his voice a wrecked, low murmur against your skin. "I'll be so good for you. Just.. let me stay like this for a little longer."

He let his hips grind weakly against yours, a desperate, uncoordinated movement that was more about seeking comfort than seeking pleasure.

He reached up with his free hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head slightly toward him as if he could coax you into waking up just to tell him he was doing a good job.

He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the inside of your knee, his lips trembling.

"When you wake up," he breathed, his forehead resting against your hip, "everything will be different. I promise. I'll give you everything. Just.. don't leave me again."

↓→←↑

Consciousness returned in fragments.

The first thing you noticed was the weight on your mind. Everything felt slow, wrapped in thick cotton, every thought taking just a little too long to surface. Your eyelids were heavy enough that opening them felt like lifting something far larger than yourself.

The second thing you noticed was the silence.

No traffic. No voices outside. No distant hum of aeroplanes climbing into the sky. Just… Quiet.

Your eyes cracked open.

The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar.

Cream plaster. Dark timber beams. Soft morning light spilling through linen curtains that shifted lazily with the breeze.

For one impossible second, you wondered if you’d somehow slept through your holiday.

Then memories crashed back all at once.

Airport. Security. The room. Tim Drake.

Your body jerked upright. The room spun so violently you almost fell straight back onto the mattress.

A hand caught your shoulder before you could.

“Easy.”

You recoiled instinctively.

Tim immediately let go.

He stepped backwards so quickly it was almost clumsy, both hands lifting into the air like he was surrendering.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse.

“I just… you nearly hit your head.”

You stared. He looked different. Gone was the immaculate businessman from the airport.

He’d changed into a plain black jumper and loose track pants, sleeves shoved carelessly to his elbows. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles sat beneath eyes that hadn’t slept.

He looked exhausted. But he also looked terrified. Not of what he’d done.

Of you.

As though the expression on your face mattered more than the fact he’d just kidnapped someone.

“…Where am I?”

“My home.” The answer came quietly.

“Our home.” He sighed, taking his hand through his hair. “I should have said that. I meant our. Sorry.”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

“I bought it years ago.”

He glanced around the room almost shyly. “I.. thought you’d like it.”

Silence settled between you. Then he laughed. Not because anything was funny. He sounded like he was about to cry.

“I know how insane that sounds.”

Your breathing quickened. “You kidnapped me.”

“Yes.”

“You drugged me.”

“…Yes.”

“My friends-”

“They’re safe.” The response came instantly.

“They think you missed your flight and decided to stay behind. They’ll worry for a while, but they’ll stop. I’ll make sure they’re alright.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t denying any of it. He wasn’t making excuses. Wasn’t pretending this was for your own good.

He simply stood there looking unbearably guilty.

“I know what this is.” His voice cracked. “I know what I am.”

His eyes dropped to the floor.

“I stopped trying to convince myself I wouldn’t do this a long time ago.”

He laughed again, quieter this time. “I just kept hoping I’d be stronger before it came to this.”

You looked towards the bedroom door. It wasn’t locked. You were almost certain of that.

He noticed.

“You can try.” His smile was small. Heartbreaking.

“I’ll stop you.”

The words weren’t threatening. They were apologetic.

“I’ll hate myself for it.”

Another shaky breath. “But I’ll still stop you.” His shoulders sagged. “I can’t lose you.”

You looked back at him. For the first time since waking, you really looked. His hands were shaking. His breathing wasn’t steady. His eyes were fixed on you with such desperate concentration it was almost painful to witness.

Then your gaze caught on his wrist. The sleeve of his jumper had ridden up. Black ink curved around the inside of his skin.

Two simple words.

That’s mine

Your stomach lurched. Without thinking, you looked down at your own wrist. To the words that had always stained your skin. Words you’d laughed about with your mates.

Can I see that?

Your fingers slowly brushed over the faded script.

Tim saw where you were looking. His entire body went still.

“So..” Your voice barely worked. “It was you.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“You knew.”

“I’ve always known.”

“Since when?”

A long silence. “Since I was nine.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I met you once.” His smile was impossibly soft.

“On Gotham Beach. You thought I was trying to steal your shovel.”

His eyes shimmered. “And then..” Very gently, almost reverently, he repeated the words that had altered both your lives. “‘That’s mine.’”

His gaze drifted to your wrist.

“I don’t think..” He swallowed. “…I took another proper breath after that.”

The room was silent again.

“So all of this..” Your voice broke. “all these years… were you?”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation.

“It’s always been me.” He stepped closer.

“I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I know you’ll hate me.” His eyes finally met yours again. Filled with absolute, devastating devotion.

“But I need you to understand one thing.”

His voice became impossibly quiet. “I never wanted a prisoner. I wanted my soulmate.”

He laughed through tears.

“I just wasn’t strong enough to live in a world where I’d already found you.”

His lips trembled. “…and then had to spend the rest of my life pretending you belonged to somebody else.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek. “I’ve built companies. Saved cities. People think I’m clever.” He smiled weakly.

“But the smartest thing I’ve ever done..” His gaze softened with an affection so overwhelming it hurt to witness. “…was finding you.”

He looked around the room. “And the worst thing I’ve ever done was bringing you here.”

His shoulders finally gave out beneath the weight he’d been carrying for years.

He sank slowly onto his knees. His head bowed. His hands rested uselessly in his lap.

“You can hate me.” His voice was barely audible.

“You probably should.”

Another shaky breath. “But…”

He looked up at you with the same expression he’d worn in the airport. Like a man placing his entire existence into someone else’s hands. “…please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t know how to exist in a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees beyond the window. Somewhere, impossibly far away, a plane crossed the morning sky. The holiday you’d planned would go on without you.

Photos would be posted. Memories would be made. Life would continue. Just not yours. Not anymore.

Perhaps soulmates weren’t proof that fate was kind.

But simply proof that fate existed.

Please reblog and comment!! :)

12K+ words, 70K+ characters, 2K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 43 minute average reading time, 1 hour 7 minute average speaking time.

Read Dick Grayson’s part here.

Read Jason Todd’s part here.

Read Bruce Wayne’s part here.

Read Damian Wayne’s part here.

[morriganss-writes]

cw: afab!reader, sexual content, mentions of sex 18+ MDNI

Simon loved to shower with you, but he loved watching you shower even more. There was a certain intimacy and sensuality to showering with you. Watching the water sluice down body over the hardened peaks of your breasts, down the curve of your back and ass. Your hair darkened by the water, sticking to your face and neck. But there was something different in seeing you naked normally and in the shower. Simon can't explain it. It was hypnotic. Addictive. 

When Simon would come home after a long op he'd drop his bags and toe off his boots already calling out your name. Then he hears the shower running. He doesn't even bother with knocking anymore just opens the bathroom door, the sound muffled by the pattering of water against your body and bathroom tiles and just take in the view of you. 

The glass is a vignette of steam as you're lathering clouds of perfumed suds all over your body completely unaware your boyfriend is watching you like some pervert. Any other normal boyfriend would just make his presence known and probably join you in the shower. Not Simon. He would be content to watch with a half lidded gaze and half hard cock as you massage all those nice smelling shampoos, conditioners and shower gels in. He should get in the shower with you. God knows he probably smells like sweat and someone else's blood all metallic and musky, coppery and earthy.

"Jesus Christ-!" You shriek as you finally lift your gaze up and see Simon leaning against the door watching you. "Simon why don't you fucking knock?" "Nice to see you too, love." The corner of his lips tug upwards, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Don't stop on my account. You didn't do yer conditioner." Simon jerks his chin towards the shower shelf with your array of products.

You can't help but roll your eyes as you reluctantly grab the conditioner. "Fuckin' weirdo." You mutter under your breathe as you squeeze a dollop into your hand, glaring at Simon while doing it. "Did you even call me? Thought you were getting home later." Simon shrugs as he steps forward and leans against the shower door. "Wanted to surprise you." Those soft brown eyes of his are locked onto the way the water cascades down your sternum, how it drips off your pebbled nipples. Your drenched hair sticking to the back of your neck, forehead and temples framing your face into an image Simon wishes he could sear into his brain. The water glistens and highlights every delicious dip and curve of your body. He could take a photo. Then add it to his ever growing collection of lewd photos of you in his phone.

"Are you gonna shower too, Si?" You finger comb the conditioner through your hair as you turn to him, his eyes are still taking you in like you're a marble statue in a museum. All soft and perfectly shaped. He could drag you out of the shower and into the bedroom and stuff his aching cock into that cunt he missed so much. Or he could strip off his clothes right now, step into the shower and press you up against the cold tiles as he'd stuff you full of his thick fingers until your thighs started to shake. Tempting offers all of them, but he had to wait at least two minutes until you can rinse out your conditioner. "Take your time, love. I've got all night." Simon's length was starting to strain at his jeans now, but you know what they say. Good things come to those who wait, right?

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀sweet dreams

⏾⋆.˚ pairings: Jason Todd x reader, Fatson Todd x reader

⏾⋆.˚ summary: Jason needs your kisses and cuddles to have sweet dreams, but Fatson keeps getting in the way, and it’s making Jason very jealous.

⏾⋆.˚ warnings: none just fluff!

The soft, low hum of a lullaby had barely left your lips before a deep, aggrieved groan vibrated straight through the mattress, causing the edge of the duvet to shift violently.

You paid it absolutely no mind, carefully tucking the tiny, frayed edge of the blanket right up beneath a round, plush chin. You smoothed down the tiny felt tuft of white hair on the plushie's forehead, pressing a ridiculously sweet, gentle kiss right between its wide, embroidered safety-button eyes.

"Sleep tight, baby," you cooed softly, patting the absurdly sphere-shaped body. "You’ve had a big, long day of being perfect."

"You have got to be out of your fucking mind."

Jason’s voice came out as a low, gravelly rasp from the far right side of the bed. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of betrayal. His broad shoulders were tense, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and his lower lip was pushed out in a pout so profound it looked almost painful on a man built like a brick wall.

"Don't speak so loudly," you whispered sternly, casting a sharp look over your shoulder at him. "He's trying to wind down for bed. You know how sensitive he gets after eight o'clock."

Jason snapped his head toward you, his dark brows furrowing into a deep, furious line. "It’s a blob," he hissed, pointing a giant, scarred finger at the cuddled bundle in your arms. "It’s a literal stuffed doll, sweetheart. It doesn't have a sleep schedule, it doesn't have feelings, and it certainly isn't sensitive."

You immediately gasped, quickly cupping two fingers over the plushie’s embroidered ears to shield him from the harsh words. "Jason! Do not talk about him like that right in front of his face! He is a delicate boy!"

"He is polyester fill and cheap felt!" Jason groaned, throwing his hands up in the air before flopping them back down onto the mattress with a loud, dramatic thump. He rolled onto his side, propping his heavy head up on one giant hand, glaring at the plushie nestled securely against your chest. "I cannot believe I’m getting sidelined by that thing. Look at him! He doesn't even have neck features! He’s just a ball with legs!"

"His name is Fatson," you corrected him instantly, drawing the blanket up higher over the round plushie shoulders. "And you will address him with the proper decorum."

"Fatson," Jason repeated, his tone dripping with utter disbelief. He dragged a palm down his face, dragging his fingers over his heavy jawline. "You bought him off some shady internet listing that literally called him 'fat hood', and now he’s somehow usurped my rightful position in this bed?"

"When I ordered him, he was listed as 'fat hood', yes," you admitted smoothly, giving Fatson’s plush tummy a loving little squish. "Because the creators lacked vision. But the second he arrived in the mail, soft and squishy and perfectly round, I knew his true identity. He became Fatson. And he has been the light of my life ever since."

"I am standing—well, lying—right here!" Jason whined, his voice pitching up in a way that he would fiercely deny to anyone else in Gotham. He dragged himself a few inches closer across the bed, the mattress dipping under his broad frame, though he still kept a cautious, pouting distance. "I am your actual boyfriend! The guy who buys you late-night takeout! The guy who lifts heavy boxes! I am six-foot-two and made of muscle, and you're cuddling a stuffed potato!"

"Fatson doesn't steal the covers," you noted reasonably, resting your cheek against the plushie’s squishy head. "Fatson doesn't come home at two in the morning smelling like gunpowder and motor oil. Fatson doesn't kick in his sleep."

"I kick once because I’m having a dream about beating up the Riddler, and suddenly I’m worse than a plush toy?" Jason scoffed, his blue-green eyes narrowing with intense jealousy as you leaned down to plant another loud, smacking kiss on Fatson’s plush cheek. "Okay, now you're just doing that on purpose to drive me crazy."

"Doing what? Giving my sweetest boy his bedtime affection?" You stroked the soft material of Fatson’s little red felt helmet hood. "He works hard, Jason. He holds down the bed all day while we're gone. He deserves a loving home."

Jason let out a long, dramatic huff, throwing his head back onto his pillow and rolling onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling fan with a scowl that could wilt fresh flowers. He crossed his arms over his chest, his bicep bulging against his dark t-shirt, resting in supreme, petty silence for all of four seconds.

"I’m your sweetest boy. Not him. He doesn't even look like me," Jason muttered bitterly into the quiet room. "My chin isn't that round."

"It's an artistic interpretation," you replied softly, adjusting the blanket so Fatson’s tiny felt feet didn't get cold. "It captures your core essence. Round, soft, slightly grumpy, but overall completely harmless."

"Harmless?!" Jason sat bolt upright at that, looking utterly scandalized. "I am a Crime Lord. I’m the Red Hood! I strike fear into the hearts of Gotham's underworld! I am a dark, brooding lethal weapon!"

"Shh!" you hissed, glaring at him over your shoulder. "You’re going to wake him up! Look at him, he was just settling down!"

Jason looked down at the plushie. It sat there, totally inert, staring straight ahead with its black bead eyes and a perpetually stitched-on neutral line for a mouth.

"He's not asleep!" Jason yelled in a harsh, forced whisper, leaning over toward your side of the bed. "He's not awake either! Because he is cotton stuffing, babe! He doesn't have a nervous system!"

"You're just jealous," you said simply, pulling Fatson closer into your arms, tucking your chin over his round little head. "You're jealous that Fatson gets prime cuddle real estate without having to do any of the emotional heavy lifting."

"I am not jealous of a lump of fabric," Jason snapped, though his body language betrayed him entirely. He scooted even closer, his large frame practically invading your half of the mattress now, his chest just inches away from your back. "I just think it's ridiculous that I'm lying over here on the cold, lonely side of the bed while you're pouring all your warmth and affection into something that came out of a vacuum-sealed plastic bag."

"If you're nice to Fatson," you offered generously, "I might let him share a sliver of the blanket with you."

"I don't want a sliver of the blanket from Fatson," Jason grumbled, though his hand subconsciously reached out, hovering over the soft duvet. "I want my girlfriend."

"Fatson says he's open to sharing, but only if you apologize for calling him 'that thing'."

Jason stared at you like you had completely lost your mind. "You want me to apologize to a doll?"

You just held his gaze, unblinking, casually patting Fatson's back in a steady, soothing rhythm.

Jason let out a groan that sounded like a dying engine, rubbing his knuckles over his face in defeat. He leaned down until his nose was just inches away from the plushie's tiny felt face.

"...Fine," Jason muttered, his voice dropping into a deep, grudging rumble. "I'm sorry I called you 'that thing', Fatson. You're... a very structurally sound lump of stuffing."

"And?" you prompted softly.

Jason gritted his teeth, his cheeks flushing a faint, adorable pink in the dim light of the bedside lamp. "And... your white streak looks very handsome."

You tried. You really, truly tried to keep a straight face. You squeezed your eyes shut, bit the inside of your cheek, and buried your nose right into Fatson’s soft, velvety head to muffle the sound. But watching a giant, ruthless vigilante gravely apologize to a tiny, spherical plush toy was simply too much for your body to handle.

A small, choked noise escaped your throat, followed immediately by a sharp snort.

Jason froze. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer, catching the way your shoulders were violently trembling. "Are you... are you laughing at me?"

"I can't help it," you giggled, finally catching your breath. Very carefully, with exaggerated gentleness, you placed Fatson onto the nightstand right next to the lamp, pulling the edge of a stray coaster over his tiny feet. "There. Fatson’s asleep now."

You turned back around, flipping over to face Jason properly.

Before he could grumble another word, you slid across the sheets and threw your arms around his neck, tucking yourself directly against his chest. Jason didn't hesitate for a single second; his heavy arms immediately wrapped tight around your waist, hoisting you flush against him like he’d been starving for the contact all night. He buried his face right into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, heavy sigh of absolute relief.

"Finally," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin as his big hands smoothed down your back. "Felt like I was waiting in line at the DMV over here."

"You are such a big baby," you teased gently, running your fingers through the thick, soft dark hair at the nape of his neck, catching the faint texture of his own white streak.

"I am not a baby," Jason grumbled softly, though he nuzzled deeper into your warmth, resting his heavy chin on your shoulder.

"You were jealous of a seven-inch doll named Fatson."

"I wasn't jealous," he lied smoothly, his broad chest rising and falling against yours in a steady rhythm. "I was just enforcing proper bed distribution rules. He was taking up valuable real estate."

"He weighs four ounces, Jay."

"Four ounces of pure evil," Jason corrected, though his grip on you was loose and comfortable now, his thumbs lazily rubbing circles into your waist through your shirt.

You smiled softly into the dim quiet of the bedroom, tilting your head back just enough to look at him. His eyes were half-closed, long dark lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones, the faint line of his jaw finally relaxed.

You leaned up and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to his cheek, right over a tiny scar near his jawline. Then another one to the bridge of his nose. And finally, a soft, warm kiss right against his lips, holding it for a long beat until he hummed softly in approval, leaning into the contact.

"What's all this for?" Jason murmured, his eyes fluttering open, glistening with a soft, affectionate light in the dark.

"Just making sure my actual favorite boy gets his bedtime routine," you whispered back, tracing the line of his cheekbone with your thumb. "Since Fatson gets all the credit."

Jason hummed, a small, triumphant smirk spreading across his face as he tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a single breath of space left between you. He pressed his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your lips.

"Good," he murmured lazily, his voice thick with rising sleepiness. "Because I actually need cuddles and kisses to have sweet dreams, you know. It's a medical condition."

"A medical condition, huh?" you laughed quietly, kissing the corner of his mouth once more. "Did Alfred diagnose that one?"

"It's a very rare ailment," Jason insisted, closing his eyes contentedly as he tucked you under his chin, wrapping the heavy duvet over both of your shoulders until you were completely cocooned in his heat. "Only cured by staying right here all night."

"Well, we wouldn't want to risk your health," you murmured, resting your hand flat against his chest, listening to the steady, comforting thrum of his heart beneath your palm.

Jason let out a deep, satisfied sigh, his body melting completely into the mattress as he finally got his way. On the nightstand, Fatson sat quietly in the dark, but in the center of the bed, wrapped up in the arms of the biggest pouty baby in Gotham, you closed your eyes and let the quiet warmth wash over you both.

a/n: I love this fic sm!

Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistentribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505 @steadyclarityparadox @fireriyu @jaydennicole

[00tiger]

𓏲 nightwing as your obsessed knight and shining armor . nsfw hcs w/ fem reader!

( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ nightwing has a breeding & voyeurism kink!

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | WARNINGS ARE MARKED, PLEASE MIND THE TAGS!

Obsessed!Nightwing who tells himself he’s just ‘checking in’ on you after that night he saved you from a mugging. It was a routine rescue, but the way you looked at him tore through his defenses like a Batarang.

Obsessed!Nightwing who memorizes your route and schedule so well that he’s always ‘coincidentally’ in your neighborhood. He learns the sound of your laugh through your open window, the way you sing off-key to 80s ballads, and the exact time you turn your bedside lamp off.

Obsessed!Nightwing who, after a particularly lonely night, finds himself perched on the fire escape of your apartment building. He watches you through your balcony window, a dark silhouette against the city lights while you’re reading on your couch, completely unaware as a twisted and possessive warmth blooms in his chest.

Obsessed!Nightwing who pulls out his phone, the blue glow illuminating his domino mask as he captures a picture of you lost in your book.

Then another of you stretching.

And another of you smiling at something on your phone. It’s an invasion, a betrayal of everything he stands for, but he can’t seem to stop.

Obsessed!Nightwing who returns to his own apartment, his heart hammering. He scrolls through the photos on his secure server, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck in one, the way your hair falls over your face in another as he remembers the way you felt in his arms that night, the faint scent of your shampoo.

Obsessed!Nightwing who, driven by a need he can no longer contain, finally gives in. He’d back in his apartment, the city lights casting long shadows across his bare chest. His phone is propped against a glass of water, the screen displaying that photo he took of you last night.

Obsessed!Nightwing who lets out a shaky exhale as his hand drifts down his stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of his suit. He peels it down slowly, hissing as the cool air hits his overheated skin and his cock springs free, already half-hard, the tip glistening with need. He wraps his fingers around the base and pumps once, twice, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he imagines it’s your hand instead—smaller, softer, hesitant at first before growing bolder.

Obsessed!Nightwing whose grip tightens, his strokes becoming faster, more desperate. He envisions your lips on his neck, leaving marks that his suit would hide, your breath hot against his ear as you whisper his real name. “Dick,” you’d breathe, and he’d lose every shred of control.

Obsessed!Nightwing who moans as he pictures pinning you down on that very couch. He’d spread your thighs wide, bury his face between them, and taste you until you were crying his name, your fingers tangled in his dark hair, your hips bucking against his mouth. He can almost feel your legs shaking around his head, can almost hear your desperate pleas for more.

Obsessed!Nightwing whose hips begin to buck into his own fist, his rhythm sloppy and frantic. He imagines flipping you over, bending you over the back of the couch, and driving into you from behind. He’d watch your face in the reflection of the window as he thrusted into you, your lips falling open in a silent scream, your body yielding to his every thrust.

Obsessed!Nightwing who whispers your name like a prayer, his voice cracking. His movements grow more urgent, his breathing ragged, his abs clenching with every stroke. He imagines the way you’d feel around him as he pictures the moment he’d fill you, watching his semen drip down your thighs, marking you as his.

Obsessed!Nightwing who finally tips over the edge with a shuddering, broken moan, his body arching off the chair as thick ropes of cum spill over his fist and splatter across his stomach. His hand keeps moving, milking every last drop, his hips twitching with the aftershocks as he gasps your name into the empty room, the sound raw, a dark satisfaction flooding his veins alongside a deep, gnawing shame that he’s already learning to ignore.

Obsessed!Nightwing who, after the high fades, stares at the ceiling in disgust. He knows this is wrong, knows that he should delete the photos, stay away, and let you live a normal life far from the darkness he carries. But the very next night, he finds himself back on your fire escape.

Obsessed!Nightwing who hides in your closet while you change. He watches through the slats, his breath caught in his throat, as you peel off your work clothes. He catalogs every inch of your skin, the way your bra straps leave faint red marks on your shoulders, the soft curve of your hips as his hand drifts down to his own suit, palming himself through the fabric, biting his lip to stay silent.

Obsessed!Nightwing who discovers that you have a habit of touching yourself on quiet nights. He’s perched on your fire escape, the metal cold beneath his thighs, his night-vision lens pressed tight to his eye. Through the glass, he watches you on your bed, bathed in the soft glow of your bedside lamp as your hand slips beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, your head falling back against the pillows, and a soft, breathy moan escapes your lips. His jaw clenches, his own hand already moving to unzip his suit, freeing his aching length into the cold night air.

Obsessed!Nightwing who pulls out his phone with trembling fingers, switching it to record mode. He angles it through the gap in the curtains, capturing every single moment; your hips beginning to roll and your free hand gripping the sheets. The way your mouth falls open as you find that perfect rhythm as he strokes himself in time with your movements, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He bites down hard on his own gloved hand, the leather creaking between his teeth, desperate to stay silent.

If you heard him, if you looked up and saw him there, this fragile fantasy would shatter.

Obsessed!Nightwing who watches, transfixed, as your pace quickens. Your back arches off the mattress, a beautiful curve of sweat-slicked skin as your thighs began to tremble. You’re so so sososo close. His own hand moves faster, matching your frantic rhythm, his hips bucking into his fist as he imagines it’s his fingers inside you instead, curling against that perfect spot, drawing those desperate sounds from your lips.

Obsessed!Nightwing who nearly loses his mind when he hears it. Your lips part, and through the glass, muffled but unmistakable, you moan a name.

A name he knows better than his own. “Night— hnghh! wing…”

Obsessed!Nightwing who freezes as his hand stops mid-stroke. His heart hammers so loudly he’s sure you must’ve heard it. Did he imagine that? No. There it is again, softer this time, almost reverent—“Nightwing... please..”—as your fingers work faster, chasing your release. You’re thinking of… him, you’re touching yourself to him.

Obsessed!Nightwing who lets out a choked, muffled groan against his gloved hand, his eyes rolling back as a wave of pure, possessive ecstasy crashes through him as he strokes himself furiously now, no longer trying to match your rhythm. His hips snap into his fist, his breathing ragged and wet, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity of it all.

You like him. You like him.

Obsessed!Nightwing who rewinds the video the moment he gets back to his apartment, playing that one moment over and over again. Your lips forming his name as the desperate edge in your voice. He replays it on a loop, stroking himself again, and again, and again, until he’s raw and spent.

He can’t stop. He won’t stop.

Obsessed!Nightwing who now knows the truth. He’s going to step through that balcony door, slide into your bed, and make you moan his name until your voice gives out. Over and over.

Until the only name you’ll ever remember is his.

Obsessed!Nightwing who, one night, can’t just watch anymore. He sees you lying in bed, wearing nothing but a thin tank top that rides up to reveal the soft curve of your stomach, and a pair of lacy panties that leave almost nothing to the imagination. He picks the balcony lock with practiced ease, sliding the glass door open just wide enough to slip through, until he’s standing right beside your bed.

Obsessed!Nightwing who looms over your sleeping form, his breath caught in his throat. His gloved hand hovers over your bare thigh, trembling violently, his fingers aching to touch your soft skin. He fumbles with his suit, hands shaking as he pulls his aching cock free. It’s already painfully hard, a bead of precum glistening at the tip as he wraps his fingers around the base and begins to stroke himself, slow and deliberate at first, his eyes drinking in every inch of you.

Obsessed!Nightwing who imagines what it would be like to climb into that bed, to press his body against yours, to feel your warmth envelop him. He imagines sliding his hand up your thigh, beneath that tank top, palming your breast, feeling your nipple harden against his palm.

Obsessed!Nightwing whose strokes grow faster, more frantic, his breathing ragged and loud in the silent room as he bites his lip so hard he tastes copper, desperate to stay quiet.

Obsessed!Nightwing who wants to pull your tank top up, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and laving until you’re writhing beneath him, pushing your panties aside to slide two fingers inside you, feeling how wet and ready you are for him. He imagines your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, your walls clenching around him as he fucks you deeper into the mattress.

Obsessed!Nightwing who comes with a choked, desperate whisper of your name, his release spilling hot and thick over his fingers and dripping onto your floor as his body trembles with the force of it, his hips bucking into his own fist as he milks every last drop. He sits there for a long moment, chest heaving, his forehead pressed against the edge of your mattress.

Obsessed!Nightwing who can smell you and it nearly sends him over the edge again as he cleans up his mess with his own glove, wiping the floor until there's no trace of what he’s done. He leans down, so close his lips almost brush your forehead, and whispers, “Soon…” A dark promise hangs in the air as he slips back out onto the balcony, leaving you blissfully unaware.

Obsessed!Nightwing who has already planned your first ‘real’ meeting down to the very last detail, spending weeks orchestrating a fake threat with a paid mugger instructed only to corner and scare you (never touch you, because that privilege belongs to him alone) and from his rooftop perch, his heart pounding not for your safety but for the moment he gets to save you, dropping down with escrima sticks flashing, disarming the man with brutal efficiency and landing a few extra blows for good measure.

When the ‘mugger’ flees, he turns to find you trembling, your eyes wide with recognition—because of course you remember him, he’s been in your fantasies, in the name you moan when you touch yourself at night. “Nightwing!” you breathe, and his name on your lips is like a drug.

He steps closer, his gloved hand cupping your cheek with devastating tenderness as he murmurs, “You’re safe now,” before finally tasting your lips. He backs you against the brick wall, his hands roaming your waist, your hips, the curve of your ass—mapping every inch of you like he’s dreamed of for months—and he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “I’ve wanted this for so long. I wanted you.”

Obsessed!Nightwing who doesn’t care that he orchestrated your fear, your vulnerability, your desperate need for him, because he’ll make it real, he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to you by loving you, worshipping you, by never letting anyone else touch you ever again, and as he takes your hand and leads you out of the alley with his arm wrapped possessively around your waist, his voice drops low and dark against your ear, “Let me take you home. Let me make sure you’re safe,”

Obsessed!Nightwing who, hours later, has you pinned beneath him on your own bed, your clothes long since torn away and scattered across the floor, your naked bodies tangled and slick with sweat as he drives into you with deep, possessive strokes that hit so deep you see stars.

Obsessed!Nightwing who got your legs hooked over his shoulders, your ankles pressed to his ears, and he’s watching your face contort with pleasure, your breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust as he leans down, hips never stop pounding into you and each stroke angling to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch and your walls flutter around his thick, aching cock.

“Say my name again,” he growls against your skin, his pace quickening, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub rough circles over your swollen clit. “Say it, god please— ngh, say it again. Tell me who you belong to…”

You sob his name, your nails raking down his back, leaving red welts in their wake, as he feels your orgasm crash over you, your walls clenching and milking him so tight he can barely move as a groan tore from his throat, spilling deep inside you as his hips grind against yours, riding out every last pulse, his cock still twitching as he fills you to the brim.

est aug 2026 © 00tiger — all rights reserved.

[silkribbonfawn]

kinda vibe i want (still in denial that it’s summer)

[1nsignia]

boobs or ass? 18+ mdni, multi hc — dc men

—————————————————————————

BRUCE WAYNE — boobs

SUCH a boobs man i’ll literally fight to the ends of the earth to prove you wrong. 

bruce is sooo old fashioned that whenever you’re wearing a push up dress for a gala, his gaze would shamelessly lower to your boobs with his hands practically itching to cup and fondle them. to his defense, they were staring at him first

like i swearrrrrr his hands would be where your ribs were so he can press his thumbs on the lower part of your boobs

im also a firm believer that whenever this man would fuck you via doggy, the first thing his hands would be grabbing onto would be your boobs. his large hands would be groping them and pushing your body back on his over and over by your boobs, his thrusts rougher and burying his cock deeper in you

it would do nothing but make you gape your lips more and arch your back more into his cock with a moan. bruce let out a groan from your pussy walls clenching more as a response to his hands, his blue eyes darkened with desire and pinned on how his hips snapped at your ass repeatedly 

bruce’s lips would trail kisses on your neck until he reached the back of your ear, lightly biting it before whispering filthy things in your ear 

“fuck, look at my girls go” yes, he was talking about your boobs. “so warm—" thrust. “and soft--" thrust. “all for me”

—

DICK GRAYSON — both

dick grayson is a greedy man, he wants anything that he could grab

and YES, his hands would grip on your ass and push your pussy more to his length while you’re riding him, burying his face in your cleavage and letting out muffled moans absorbed by your skin from how good you were taking him

“attagirl” dick panted on your chest, his lips glistening with saliva and smeared all over your skin. “just like that— fuuuck, make this dick yours” 

you couldn’t say anything. all you could do was mindlessly moan with your head knocked back and lips fully parted, your head dizzy from how his cock was hitting all the right angles in you and how big he was in you

you arched your back and buried his face even more to your chest, making dick moan and push another deep thrust in you. the depth made your hips jerk a bit, but his grip on your ass made sure you stayed on his lap as he slowly took over your boobs were bouncing in dick’s face from how fast and deep he was dragging you in and out of his twitching cock.

 “cmon gorgeous” dick murmured, licking a clean stripe on your cleavage before moaning from your pussy clamping around him. “let me see you make a mess f' me”

—

JASON TODD — ass

now dont get me wrong, jason todd loves every part and curve of your body. but if he had to choose, it would be your ass a million percent— bonus point for thighs too

honestly, he loves when there is something for him to grab on. yes, his hands would slither down your ass whenever you were sitting on his lap and talking to him about your day. yes, his hands would just rest between your thighs when sleeping

and yes, he would bend you anywhere just to see that back of yours arch and press your ass to his hips

a moan of jason’s name left your lips when you felt his cock give you another slow yet deep thrust, your walls fluttering from his size and arching your back to press your ass more for his length

when i meant he would bend you anywhere, i meant anywhere— including the kitchen counter

he would purposely send slow yet deep thrusts just to admire your ass, mesmerized by the way it kept making contact with his hips. it was enough for him to let out sounds of his own

“that’s it, sweetheart” jason grunted with another roll of his hips to send to your pussy, gripping your thighs to keep them spread and pinning his eyes on your ass. “just keep that ass up for me”

—

TIM DRAKE — boobs

timothy jackson wayne-drake is a boobs man, no argument needed 

i mean, let’s be for real. it’s no stranger that tim was a workaholic and was often stressed from juggling his two secret lives as tim drake and red robin

but all it took to relieve himself off that stress was to have you sit on his lap and fondle your boob with one hand like a stress toy while the other was mindlessly clicking his mouse 

“tim” you whined to get his attention, making him hum back a response without looking away from the monitor and still fondling your boob.  the fact that he’s not paying attention to you made the heat between your legs unbearable

so unbearable you would start to slowly grind your clothed cunt on his thigh, biting your bottom lip to conceal your sounds as your eyes stayed focused on tim— blue eyes concentrated on the monitors, blue light reflecting the features of his face and lips pressed into a thin line from how focused he was

“tim please” you panted before a small moan left your lips, arching your back to press your boob more into his hand and trying everything you can to satisfy the aching heat in your core. “need you so bad”

you realized you finally caught his attention when his hand squeezed your boob a bit more, making you let out a whimper and place a hand on his cheek, wanting him to look at you and do something about your urge

“i know, love. i know” tim murmured softly, clicking another piece of evidence with his mouse and circling your nipple with his thumb. “im almost done with work. slide a finger in for me in the meantime, yeah?”

—

CLARK KENT — ass

guys, he’s a farmer’s boy. what else did you expect?

everytime you walked away from him to get or do something, clark’s eyes would always and i mean always trail down to your ass and how it swayed with your walk. and everytime, he would immediately fluster under his glasses and look away, pushing his glasses up as a nervous habit

but when you two were in bed and you were sitting on his face, the last thing this man would be was nervous

“more” clark blabbered on your cunt, gripping and squeezing your ass with your large hands as his mouth. only to bury your cunt more into his mouth and suffocate his face in the best way possible. “moremoremoremore—“

clark could be asking more for two things. more for your delicious pussy that he could never get over or more for his hands to continue fondling and squeezing your ass— knowing him, its both

you moaned from his nose now nudging your clit, tightening your grip on his hair and arching your back more on his mouth. “c-clark… oh my god”

your ass was spread more by clark’s hands that refused to let go and the angle his tongue reached in you made a loud moan of his name leave your lips, now grinding your clit on his nose for more

poor man couldn’t get enough that his hands on your ass kept pushing your soaked pussy more into his mouth, so much so that you thought he was gonna suffocate between your thighs

“taste so good, honey” this man was so pussy drunk it was pathetic. “wanna stay here forever”

—

SUPERBOY PRIME — boobs

clark kent may be superboy but he was still a #loser at heart, which was why he almost never let go of your boobs when he could. 

when clark came back home after his shift at the comic store? he let out a tired sigh and immediately walked towards you, already lifting your shirt up and murmuring about his tired day with his face shoved in your boobs

when he would hug you from behind? his hands would slide under your shirt and trail up to cup your boobs. and he’d let out a small whine whenever you’d take his hands off

it’s safe to say that clark kent was obsessed with your boobs. so much so that when your legs were around his waist and his cock was disappearing in and out of you, his hands were groping your boobs. gripping them and playing with your nipples between his fingers as your soft sounds were entering his ears like a melody “you’re so hot, babe” clark moaned with another thrust to keep up with his pace and depth. “feelin’ amazing, in and out” he gave your boobs another squeeze to make his point

the sounds were quick ‘clap!clap!clap!’ sounds repeating over and over and over in the room

his touch, his words, it was sending you into a frenzy. all you could do was moan and pant endlessly, arching your back and pressing your boobs more into his hands with a whine of his name leaving your lips, throwing your head back into the pillows with a pornographic expression on your pretty face

the new angle made him whimper out “shitshitshitshiiiit” and thrust his cock deeper in your pussy, feeling your pussy suck him in more and his cock already twitching. “im gonna cum already, baby”

—

ROY HARPER — ass

abosutely LOVES your ass its almost unhealthy

roy tries to keep his hands to himself whenever lian is in the same room as him (because he doesn’t play about his babygirl). 

but when he looks over her shoulder during their pretend tea time and sees you bending down while rummaging through a cabinet… don’t get me started on that

his eyes would go to your ass and he quietly bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin and those dirty thoughts of his— before lian would make him snap out of it by reminding him to finish his ‘tea’, innocently oblivious from how distracted her dad was

but the minute lian left for a sleepover, the first thing roy made sure to do was to drag you in the bedroom and have you do reverse cowgirl

“uh huh, just like that” he panted, hands gripping on your waist t and watching your ass bouncing back and forth on his cock. a groan slipped out of his lips. “fuuuck, i love this ass. could stare at her all day”

the drag roy’s cock was giving you felt so good it was making you arch your back and moan for more, the wet sounds so filthy and loud it made you thank god lian wasn’t home

“royyy” you whined, feeling the pace of your hips falter despite your orgasm just starting to build up in you. “c-cant… need you to t-take over” you didn’t have to ask him twice. immediately, roy’s hands on your waist took over by dragging your warm walls more onto his length. you felt so warm that he couldn’t help but move his hips back on your ass and knock his head back onto the headboard with a moan

“attagirl” he let out a breathless chuckle from your sounds, lowering his head to admire the view one more time. “just sit there with that pretty ass and let roy do the work, yeah?”

—

WALLY WEST — boobs

if there wasn’t a day where wally west didn’t show love to your boobs, i can assure you that is not him

he loved your boobs. the warmth, the softness, the size, everything. burying his face in your chest with a lopsided grin was wally’s favorite thing to do in the world; nothing sensual, just him absorbing your body warmth and keeping you close to him

can we say he loved them too much? .. maybe

“w-wally! fuck!” you moaned, knocking your head back and burying your hands more into his ginger locks. wally’s mouth was full with the swell of your boob, sucking it while using his super speed to flick your hard nipple with his tongue. his hand gave your other boob attention by fondling it

you can feel your boob practically drenched with his saliva, the sensation of his warm tongue going at such a fast pace driving you crazy. 

wally let out a muffled moan when you arched your back and pressed your boob more into his mouth, sliding another hand down to rub a slow circle on your clit with his thumb and hearing a breathless gasp leave you. 

“fuck, you’re soaked” he said on your boob. “and i didn’t even touch you properly.” the vibrations of his voice making your clit throb in anticipation. and of course, wally just had to grin from that

“wally…” you panted, bringing your head up to look down at him with pleading eyes. “please.. i need you...” “shh i know, beautiful” his fingers was tracing your entrance, feeling your folds pulse from how you need him in you. “let me finish giving my girls more attention and ill get back to her later”

—

—————————————————————————

(@patientofarkhamasylum enjoy <3) okay why tf did this take me three days to write bruh.. bring back the olden days where i would have finished this in one go

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae

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©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[bl00d-b4thh]

MORNING KISSES

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader.

Fluff, suggestive.

Summary: The morning after a tiring night with your big, dopey boyfriend.

The golden light of the early Gotham morning warmed your face, the hard, muscled body of your boyfriend pressed against you from behind. It was one of the few days that Gotham wasn't overcast or filled with that gloomy feeling of dread seemingly embedded into each and every inch of the crime ridden city. You loved the city, you truly did, but the truth was that this city was one of the least favored in the world to live in. The only reason people were attracted to Gotham was due to the generous billionaire who seemed to have a slight adoption problem.

The feeling of Jason's rough hands, calloused from countless years as Red Hood and protecting Gotham, running along your soft skin made you shiver. He pressed a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, taking a large inhale of the scent of your shampoo and conditioner. "Smell s'good." Jason murmured against your sensitive skin, his lips brushing against the soft skin, stopping when he got the junction of your throat connecting to your shoulders.

The only response he got was a quiet hum from you, the sound low and soft, vibrating the skin against his lips. Your body turned, Jason rolling you over until you were laying on your stomach, pressing kisses along your body as he slowly inched down, reaching the soft curve of your spine, poking his tongue out and licking his way back up to your neck, smirking at your squirming form underneath him, caging you in with his huge frame, laying all 225 pounds of himself onto your much smaller form.

"Jay!" You squealed, muffled by the soft pillow.

"Y'could always just give me a kiss." He coaxed, his rough hand gently grabbing your chin and turning your head to the side. "C'mon, pretty girl. Wasn't I good enough last night? Don't I deserve a reward?" He teased, giving you those puppy dog eyes he seemed to have perfected the minute he noticed you gave in every single time he did them. Your groan was muffled by the pillow, but Jason gave you enough room to squirm around and turn to face him, predicting you'd do exactly that.

He let out the softest noise as your warm lips pressed against his, the highlight to every morning he wakes up next to you. His hips twitching against yours under the soft, fluffy blanket you two were laying under. "Hey..." You scolded him between kisses. Once he had gotten one, you knew he wouldn't stop until you both were satisfied. "I've got time. Bruce isn't expecting me there till 10." He reassured, his large hand cupping your jaw, gently pushing his thumb between your plush lips, shuffling his way down to rest between your thighs, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

And you knew, you'd be in for a long morning. But you wouldn't change it for the world.