leonsgirl

[leonskennedyforlife]

I like cutesy stuff! Favorite color is pink! I wish I had more pink clothes but my previous job only allowed black, blue, and grey. Which didn't make any sense in a daycare, but I digress.

Just so you all know, I am 19 years old. And no boyfriend,

unfortunately...

I'm also obsessed with Dih Grayson and Leon Kennedy.

I don't write stories but I do like to share my opinions. I also love to make up stories in my head that I wish to share with people! Mostly about Leon Kennedy!

[leonskennedyforlife]

Which college in Rochester NY should I do for Crminal Justice??

[leonskennedyforlife]

This goes to the batfam fics. Especially batsis reader. Why is it that whenever she has a date or boyfriend, her brothers aka the batboys have to interfere?

They never know boundaries, they always talk to that significant other with no respect at all. Like you cant at least try to be respectful?

And the reader never actually pops off. Like that's her significant other that she's not defending 😭

She's always for some odd reason calm about it. Like she can't speak up. Coming from someone that has a bunch of siblings and that is the eldest sister! It's really irking my nerves.

AND DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED WITH OLDER SIS READER WITH DAMIAN!!!

Like he's talking so much disrespect and you're just like "oh don't worry you just haven't met them yet💅🏽" LIKE GIRL HES A CHILD WHY ARE YOU LETTING HIM TALK A CERTAIN WAY TO YOUUUUU!!

Like i want the reader to be more hard one. More cold. Not necessarily rude or mean to her brothers but more so speaking up for herself especially if she wants to date.

Cause why are they trying to control your life????

You're a grown adult or sometimes a teen with decisions!

[leonskennedyforlife]

What's it like having an older brother?

Cause I'm the oldest of 5 siblings and 5 cousins...

I'm 19 and everyone else is under

[leonskennedyforlife]

You are on point with the daddy post, some incest lover was obviously mad about it lmao.

I hope that anon stops sending u hate, tell them to fuck off and continue gooning to their lowly porn rotted shitty incest fics or block them <3

Thank you very much

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: platonic!damian wayne x batmom!reader / bruce wayne x wife!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Damian doesn't like you, he barely tolerates you. But when the museum you work at comes under attack, things change.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fluff, crack, insults, bruce and reader are disgustingly in love, like a lot, Damian HATING your ass, 5k words, tried to not make it too ooc #keywordtried, and ik the sun is at Oslo university but for the sake of the story lets pretend it isn't

An abrupt squeal cuts through the air; Damian pinches his brows and sneers at his eggs.

One would expect that a woman of a certain age wouldn’t do something as stupid and childish as squealing. You’d be wrong. Because you, his new step-mother, the harlot who has his father bewitched, does strange things like squealing.

The kitchen of Wayne manor had been peaceful (Damian can’t believe he’s having breakfast in the kitchen of all places, and not the dining room--- the proper way. This was probably your idea).

The sizzling of eggs on a pan, soft notes of bacon overpowered by brewing coffee and a sweeter something else Alfred had baked for after patrol. His father was at the head of the table— reading his paper and every thirty two seconds eyeing Damian— usually you and father came together for breakfast, but as of lately it’s just him and Damian for about fifteen minutes alone. He suspects this is one of your ploys. Every so often, Damian could hear the brushing of thin paper against the wooden table and the ping of a toaster or another kitchen device.

Just peaceful, quiet.

Steps come from the depths of the manor, quiet and sharp, these are not yours. Instead Tim Drake— his new step-brother— comes in, he scrapes the chair against the floor and sits left to his father, leaving one empty chair between him and Damian. The younger boy did try to kill him, so maybe that’s why. His eyebags aren’t as pronounced as last week’s but still prominent, he mumbles a quiet good morning that only Alfred returns good naturedly. He pours himself half of the coffee jug in front of him into a Wonder Woman themed mug.

The silence resumes; most mornings are like these— the days Drake is here— the quiet opens itself to introduce a new piece and then it restitches itself.

“Goodmorning!”

But you come and rip it apart.

The way his father lifts his head to look at you makes him want to boke. Really, that man needs to get a grip around you. Despite none of them being morning people (except Alfred), Drake and father greet you in varying tones of good morning. 

You make your way to Drake, ruffling his hair and pressing a kiss on his forehead. Drake mumbles something that just makes you smile wider, he re-adjusts his hair and stretches his neck to be able to kiss you on the cheek. You then go to Alfred, and ask if there’s anything else you can do— this always happens, his answer is always the same.

“Please, sit down and enjoy breakfast, miss.” 

You let him win and go to Damian; you smile and ask how he’s slept. You never kiss or hug or coddle or rub or ruffle or anything that involves touch. You maintain a healthy distance and always wait with a smile for his reply. 

“Hm.”

You always linger for a second longer in case he wants to add something else (he doesn't), but eventually go to Bruce. He settles his hands around your waist and presses a kiss against your lips. You always give him one back and sit down.

Damian still remembers the first week of breakfasts at the manor, your kisses with Bruce lasted far longer, Damian suspects they’re chaster know because of him.

Cassandra— another resident of the house—usually counteracts your ever present loudness with her calmness. Why did she have to go to that mission?

“I have amazing news!”

Alfred sets a plate of still sizzling bacon in front of you, you take two pieces and two scoopfuls of scrambled eggs. Mixing everything together. Alfred then sets a warm batch of golden brown toast and replenishes the jug of orange juice. You pile things on your plate, while the others wait to hear these amazing news.

Your breakfasts are anything but healthy and balanced. Just another of your many faults.

“I managed to convince Ingrid— you know Ingrid, the curator at Oslo, great woman, amazing hair.” Damian hates ramblers. You ramble when you’re excited. “Sorry, anyways, she said the Sun will arrive today!”

You look at the rest of them in expectation and excitement practically brimming out of you. 

Bruce smiles. “That’s great, darling. When are you planning on opening the exhibition for it?”

Oh yeah, because if you weren’t gaudy enough, you’re an art museum curator. Art museum curator. You have a nine to four job, at a museum. Where did Damian’s mom send him again? Ah, that's right, New Jersey.

“Next week definitely, I’m still wrapping up some stuff but everyone at the museum is super psyched for it."

Drake smiles at you. “We’ll be the first there.” He pours himself more coffee. “I’ve never seen it in person actually.”

“It’s Miss's favourite painting,” Alfred says from behind Damian.

All eyes snap to him, he hates this part. When they break away from their circuit to switch onto him, their eyes are always saying something. Damian knows, despite being his father’s only blood son, that he’s not really part of their tight knit group. But he doesn’t care. 

“Oh, yes!” You finish swallowing a bite. “That and…”

“The Ninth Wave.” Bruce finishes.

You smile at Bruce, and he doesn’t really smile— but he does this thing with his body, his shoulders slump and it’s like he physically feels you, making him feel lighter. He doesn’t smile like you do, but it’s his version of it; up-turned lips and softening eyes.

It’s disgusting to witness.

Judging by Drake’s groan, he feels the same.

"Please, no goo-goo eyes this early."

You ignore Drake's protest. “Bruce and I went to see it while we were dating, I had only seen it in pictures, I fell in love with it.” Damian doesn’t really care, but because he hasn’t interrupted with one of his usual nasty comments, you continue. “We bought it a couple of years back at an auction, but gifted it to the original museum after a week.”

Drake replies with something witty and you laugh.

Alfred picks up an empty bacon plate.

IF Damian’s day at Gotham Prep hadn’t been long and tedious enough, it was about to become a lot worse. The moment he saw that familiar black SUV, he knew he was done for.

Inside your car the heating was on, the leather seats pristine and warm, a sweet scent floating around, a faint song in the background. Damian wants to jump out the window.

You drum your fingers on the wheel, looking at him from the driver’s seat and then to Gotham’s usual afternoon traffic. “Damian, I know you don’t like me much—“

“Understatement of the century.”

“But,” you continue, seemingly unaffected, “I wish we could reach a truce. I’m not trying to become your mother, or make your father love you any less. I just want you to be happy here.”

Damian scoffs. “You clearly couldn’t substitute my mother even if you wanted to.”

You don’t say anything again, but he notices the way your shoulders slump a little. The way back to the manor continues as it always does, but just when you have to take the turn towards Old Gotham you switch to the left lane.

“Where are we going?” He demands.

“The museum, I still have stuff to do but I had to go pick you up from school.”

Damian humphs and stares at the window, taking in the new streets and buildings. The city sometimes feels like a painting, one you slowly discover with time, details and colours revealed to you the more you stay to look at it. Amidst the greying day and Gotham’s usual streets, Gotham Museum stands proud and tall. Bright, white and with several greek columns framing a massive entrance. There are two banners put up, and on the left side of the building a big bulletin board where different pamphlets are stuck on. There’s trees dotting the area, several benches where only a handful of older Gothamites are seated.

In the usual gloominess of the city, that area seems particularly bright.

You quickly park behind the building and enter through a backdoor, Damian follows you silently but at a generous distance. You two enter a sort of work place, it looks like an ordinary office but with far more colour and pamphlets and two large tables with all sorts of devices. You greet the people there, introduce them to Damian and vice versa and then usher him into your office.

It’s not that big, but it’s okay. Nothing is amiss, except for the back wall; it’s brimming with books of all shapes and colours and fonts, pictures, so many pictures of Grayson— young and old— Drake, Cassandra, Alfred, Father, Clark Kent (alias Superman) with Lois Lane, and the second robin, Jason Todd. There’s some others but Damian doesn’t recognise them. 

Then there's him.

It’s blurry, Damian remembers it’s because he caught his father taking it and tried to move out of the way. Damian is dressed in Gotham Prep’s uniform, holding tightly the straps of his backpack and sporting a nasty scowl. The picture is there, next to a family one and another from one of yours and Bruce’s trips.

You catch him looking. “Oh yeah, there’s a tradition at home that when it’s your first day of school year you get your picture taken, and then we compile an album”

“That’s a ridiculous tradition.”

You leave your coat on a chair. “I’m going down to the lobby, if you need anything. If not, you can stay here and do your homework.”

Damian sits at your chair, rather than the two opposite ones and stares at you with a brow raised.

“Ookay.”

You give him one last smile and disappear, the sound of your heels clicking off into the distance.

Damian snoops a little. But just a healthy amount. He doesn’t bother hacking your computer. Father probably has it protected from even the government. He stares at all the pictures individually, rummages through cabinets, opens some books, and doesn't leave them as perfect as before. H doesn't care if you know.

Then came the gunshots.

They’re three, sharp and booming through the air. Damian peaks through the blinds of your office, there’s only a girl in the work space— the rest must’ve been helping you at the exhibition.

The museum had been closed this afternoon to the public for the installation of the painting and removal of the current exhibition. Okay, so no other civilians aside from you and the other three workers.

Damian creaks the door open, the girl’s head snapping to him. Her eyes are bleary and there’s snot running down her nose.

“No— don’t go, they’re armed—“

He shushes her with a glance, the girl cowers under the table and murmurs something.

Damian creeps out of the office and into a long hallway that probably leads to the main rooms of the museum. The noises are getting louder; loud talking, some crying. This is not good at all, and he doesn’t even have a Robin suit to be able to properly save the day! He’s reduced to being another useless civilian. Tt.

He finally gets to the source of the noise. In the lobby of the museum, three armed men hold you and three other staff members at gunpoint. Your employees are frozen in place beside half-unpacked crates and rolled banners announcing next week’s exhibition, you are the picture perfect image of calm.

He hides himself in the depth of the hallway, and spies their movements.

“Where is it?” Gunman One cocks his machine gun at you.

You don’t flake, and instead raise your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man shoots the air, the noise like an explosive pop that ricochets against the marble. The youngest intern— a boy— whimpers, Damian realises it's him who was crying. 

“The painting.”

These are probably the stupidest thieves ever to exist.

You must be thinking the same, because you raise your brow. “Uh… this is an art museum?”

“The one that arrived today!” Gunman Three has gotten tired of all the chit chat. 

“The storage room,” you reply calmly, “at the back.”

Damian knows he has to intervene. But how? He has no weapons to eliminate them (temporarily), and his position is too tight for him to move to a better angle. He could go for help, but it would take too long.

He makes a small noise from behind the wall by purposely stepping on one of his laces and then prepares his best I’m-just-ten face. As predicted, the gunmen approach, and he stumbles out.

This is humiliating. So much that if they shot him, it would take him out of this misery.

The gunmen drag him by the arm and toss him against the same wall as the others, your eyes widen briefly as you scan him up and down. Are you worried? That can’t be right.

“Now,” Gunmen One says, “one of you is going to come with two of us, the rest stay here until we say so. No one has to come to any harm, just listen and follow our orders.”

Gunmen Three steps toward Damian, pressing the cold barrel of his gun against his temple.

“Take me,” you suddenly say to Gunman Three, your voice not even anymore, “I know where the painting is exactly, the passwords to the storage room and how to get there as fast as possible."

No! Stupid! You're going to ruin the plan!

Gunmen Three moves his eyes from Damian to you, back to you and then Damian again. He forcefully releases Damian, pushing him against the wall again.

And honestly he’s too dumbfounded to think quickly enough. Why did you take his place when you’re neither trained and Damian treats you anything but kindly? Why do you have his picture in your office? Why do you skip work to come pick him up so he doesn’t have to take the bus? Why do you ask every single morning how he’s slept and every afternoon how school went? Why?

Damian doesn’t like what he can’t understand. And you’re far too confusing.

Gunmen Two pushes you forward and you begin walking towards the storage wing. Gunman Three flanks you, slightly pressing the weapon against your back.

The moment they and you are out of sight, Damian acts.

With a sharp kick he disarms Gunmen One, with another quick maneuver he’s on the floor. He kicks the gun away, towards the reception desk while Gunmen One finally reacts.

In just a few maneuvers Gunmen One is on the floor where Damian used to be. Talk about poetic justice.

The same intern that whimpered before, now screams. The other two just stare with wide eyes, huddling each other.

Damian’s eyes flick toward the security panel near the front desk.

A small red light blinks once.

The civilians look at the two unconscious men then at Damian, then again and slowly back to Damian.

“I do karate after school,” is what he offers in response.

The eldest of the bunch, a dark skinned woman with curly hair shakes his hand, though it trembles slightly. “Thank you.” She nudges at the security panel near the front desk. “She activated it before they put us against the wall.”

A duress code.

Of course you wouldn’t walk into the storage wing without triggering some sort of protocol. His father probably installed it there for you.

Damian tilts his head slightly, listening past the blood rushing in his ears.

Faintly in the background he can hear sirens approaching, distant but they’re there. Response time in this district averages four to six minutes. Less, if the signal is flagged under Wayne security clearance.

That gives him three approximately to finish executing his plan.

He casts one final glance toward the lobby and the civilians— and the bound man still unconscious where Damian left him— then slips into the corridor.

Voices echo ahead.

“Code. Now,” Gunman Three demands.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

A brief pause.

Beep.

The reinforced storage gate does not open.

“Why isn’t it working?” Gunman Two snaps.

“It has a delay,” You balance your feet, fingers barely ghosting over the number pad. There’s a slight tremor in your index finger, Damian notices.

He scans the hallway in a single sweep; no apparent exits, weight distribution of display plinths, overhead lighting fixtures, a maintenance cart left improperly secured against the wall.

He shoves the cart carelessly. It crashes down the corridor with a metallic shriek, tools scattering.

Gunman Two whips around. “What was that?!”

Damian lets his shoes scrape just enough against polished tile for them to hear and get nervous.

“Don’t get funny ideas, missy,” Gunman Two warns you as both men peel off, leaving you momentarily alone beside the secured cage.

Idiots.

The instant they round the corner—

Damian explodes forward.

He doesn’t hesitate. Hesitation is inefficiency.

Gunman Two reaches first. He would say it had been the wrong choice, but the wrong choice had been to think they could try to steal and get away with it.

Damian stomps down on the man’s instep with surgical force; not enough to shatter bone, enough to collapse balance. As the man folds, Damian pivots inside his guard and drives his elbow upward into a nerve.

The gun discharges with a deafening crack, the bullet embedding uselessly into the ceiling.

The weapon drops and Damian kicks it away without looking.

Gunman Three is faster. He brings his rifle up—

Too slow.

Damian rips a fire extinguisher from the wall and hurls it low across the tile. It skids violently into the man’s shins. Momentum does the rest.

The gunman pitches forward.

Damian meets him mid-fall.

Two precise strikes to his wrist and throat.

Gunman Three crumples to the cold floor, gagging.

Gunman Two charges wildly, abandoning form entirely. Desesperation makes people sloppy.

Damian pivots, seizes the man’s sleeve, redirects his weight and slams him face-first into the reinforced wall.

A sharp crack.

Then, the body goes limp.

Silence returns and the adrenaline slowly ebbs away,  broken only by approaching sirens and the faint buzz of the storage panel.

Damian inhales once.

Exhales slowly.

He retrieves heavy packing straps from a nearby crate ( industrial strength, designed to secure shipping frames), and binds both men efficiently. Tight enough to prevent circulation without long-term damage.

He ties them together and leaves them towards the end of the hall.

He knows the positioning matters so it looks chaotic and accidental. To make whatever story he puts out is believable. For that same reason, he scuffs his blazer sleeve against the wall. Loosens his tie. Roughs his hair with deliberate carelessness.

Then— and only then— does he allow his breathing to quicken.

He walks back toward the storage entrance.

You are still standing there.

Of course you are.

Your eyes sweep over him once — shoulders, face, hands. You step forward and Damian steps backwards, you freeze but keep your eyes on him.

“I am unharmed.” He states.

You keep assessing him. “Alfred will check you out just in case.”

The sirens get louder in the background and for the first time, Damian doesn’t know what to do. You look so… frazzled. It’s unbecoming of you. Your fingers twitch, almost as if they want to hug him.

“You should’ve stayed hidden,” you say.

Your voice is controlled, but your index twitches again. Damian is satisfied to finally have found one of your tells.

“You shouldn’t have volunteered,” he counters.

A beat passes.

The fluorescent lights hum above.

“I wasn’t going to let them take you,” you say.

Damian studies you, but not in the usual way he does; You are not trained or participate in the family’s nightly activities— not in the action at least, you’re not hardened by that life like his father is. And yet you walked forward without hesitation. For him.

He looks away first. “…Tt.”

It is the closest thing to a concession he will offer.

The sirens have gotten impossible to ignore, they must be already coming up the street.

“Damian?” You ask.

He looks up at you, already prepared for something insufferable. His expression settles into its usual sharp-edged scowl. “Yes?”

“You can say no, of course— no pressure, but, can I hug you?”

He blinks once.

Of all the tactical maneuvers he’d anticipated today, this was not one of them.

“A hug,” he repeats flatly, as if testing the word.

You nod. Not stepping closer or reaching, just patiently waiting.

He studies you instead of answering. As if by looking close enough he’ll be able to uncover a crucial piece about you. Something that will finally ease the… strangeness, he’s been feeling since he saw you held at gunpoint. There’s nothing in your expression that is faux, and whatever Damian is searching you, he does not find it.

It's just a question.

“That is unnecessary,” he says automatically.

“Probably,” you agree. “Saddly,” your tone is absolutely sarcastic, “I’m a hugger.”

He exhales through his nose, irritated — not at you (well, maybe a little at you. You keep putting him in complicated positions), but at himself. Physical affection is inefficient, it distracts you and makes you more vulnerable.

…But you did stand in front of a gun for him. And you’re looking at him the same way you look at his father, or Drake, or Cassandra, or Grayson, when they come back hurt from patrol and you’re practically vibrating to be able to take care of them.

(Have you looked at him like that before?)

His jaw tightens.

“You are exceedingly dramatic,” he mutters.

“Occupational hazard,” you reply lightly.

Silence stretches.

He could walk away.

He should walk away, back to where the other workers are and no doubt the police are barging in.

Instead—

He steps forward.

Stiffly and controlled, because he does not know how to do this. So he approaches it with what he does know, and that’s a stance ready for whatever is thrown at him– a stance for battle.

You do the rest; moving carefully, as though approaching a skittish animal, and place your arms around his shoulders; light, brief, warm. You pull him in. 

He is stiff at first, all contained strength and careful distance, his body held upright as though affection were something to be endured rather than received. But you’re warm (surprisingly so), slow heartbeats against his, soft hands that clutch him with infinite tenderness. You hold him like who holds a precious creature in the palm of your cupped hands. 

For a moment Damian does nothing, simply feels it. He closes his eyes for a second. His hands settle against you but not clutching, just there. He doesn’t lean fully into it, but he doesn’t retreat either. The warmth lingers between you, shared and steady, and for a blink  he allows himself to remain held, the rigid lines of him softening just enough for you to seep through, to soak him with your warmth just enough.

Grayson always says your hugs make everything better, and while it is far too hyperbolic, Damian sees where he’s coming from.

It lasts three heartbeats.

Four.

That is the maximum he will allow.

He steps back first.

“Do not make this habitual,” he says, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his sleeve.

You smile softly. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

A brief silence, or well between you two; because the noise at the lobby has just increased. The cops are here.

“…You may,” he adds, without looking at you, “request permission again in the future.”

It is, for Damian Wayne, an extraordinary concession. And he does not miss the way your smile brightens.

Before you can say something else, agents come flooding down the hall, weapons drawn.

“What happened?” an officer asks, taking in the tossed cart, scattered items and the two Waynes.

Two of the officers move down the hallway; they’ll find the other men in mere seconds.

Damian looks at you and opens his mouth to answer, but you gently place a hand on his shoulder. With an impressive performance of a disarrayed victim, you tell the officer what happened—carefully fitting the narrative to protect him. One in which Damian doesn’t overpower three armed men. 

“McGrath!” comes a voice from down the hall. “Check this out! We’ve found the other two!”

McGrath hums but instead of going with his colleagues, he looks at you a little longer. At first Damian doesn’t understand what is happening.

Then he does.

McGrath scratches the back of his head and sheepishly looks at you. “Uh… if you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, you’re far more beautiful in person.”

Damian stiffens immediately, his scowl sharpening. Really? Now? This is extremely inappropriate. A woman just got taken as a hostage and an officer is… is… flirting! It’s unprofessional. He steps slightly in front of you, hands twitching at his sides, ready to interject.

But then he sees the gentle, amused smile you give— not mocking, not teasing, just… okay. And somehow, even through his scowl, Damian feels himself relaxing just a fraction. You’re not uncomfortable, if anything you look used to it. “You’re too kind, officer.”

“No, seriously,” McGrath continues, oblivious to Damian who is quite literally standing there. “Could I… could I get a picture?”

Damian freezes. And then he catches your small nod. He checks your index finger, it’s not shaking anymore.

“Fine,” Damian mutters, voice clipped, almost under his breath. “…You may.”

McGrath’s face lights up. Damian steps back, absolutely refusing to participate. The officer takes the picture— profusely thanks you— and goes down the corridor to join the others. 

Damian exhales quietly, a ghost of relief passing through his chest. The episode at the museum is over; in the grand scheme of things, or even just Gotham, this is just another attempted robbery. But for some reason, it feels different to Damian. Something has shifted. And Damian for once is not displeased with change.

He glances at you. The scowl is still there, but the heat it used to carry doesn't burn the same way. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, low and gruff.

“And you’re ridiculous,” you reply, smile warm and steady.

He doesn’t answer. He simply walks beside you, allowing you to herd him to the lobby. Statements are taken. Photographs snapped. The criminals are hauled away on stretchers, and then Bruce Wayne appears.

YOU’RE talking to your fellow workers, but this time the girl that was hiding at the office is there too. You’re moving your hands quickly but the others don’t appear nervous, if anything they appear more at ease. 

Damian and his father stay on the other side of the lobby, Bruce picking up some pamphlets that the gunmen had thrown when barging in.

“That one,” Damian says, “the red-head wasn’t one of the hostages. The police came because of the silent alarm— not a call. It 's suspicious she didn't call given that she had a chance to. And the painting had just arrived today, how could they have known if it hadn't been announced yet? And she said to me 'be careful, they're armed'. How could she know it's more than one person?"

Bruce quietly assesses the girl. “You’re right.” He pauses, probably running a thousand possibilities in his mind. “I’ll deal with it.”

Bruce neatly stacks the pamphlets, but his eyes keep drifting toward you, as they always do; as if it’s another bodily function like breathing or moving a finger, so deeply embedded it’s unthinkable for it not to happen. Then they return to Damian.

“You know,” Bruce begins, voice calm but deliberate, “the Sun is also my favorite painting.”

Damian tilts his head, expression skeptical, tone clipped. “But you’re not a lover of the arts.”

Bruce shrugs slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s true. I don’t appreciate it like she does. But that’s the thing about art— it’s not always about the painter, or the medium, or technique. It’s about how it makes you feel. The Sun… it makes me feel something every time I see it.”

Damian narrows his eyes slightly, studying his father. “Feeling things is… inefficient,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Emotions get in the way of logic.”

Bruce’s smile softens but doesn’t fade. “Sometimes, son, that’s exactly the point.” He pauses. “When I took her to Oslo to see it, she looked at me, really looked at me and said; this, this is how loving you feels. It’s how loving her feels too. Feelings don't make you weak Damian, some of them can become a strength."

Damian freezes, jaw tightening. He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, his scowl deepens; not in anger, but in quiet calculation.

“I’m proud son, you managed the situation well.”

Damian stiffens at the praise, jaw tight, gaze straight ahead. “It was… not difficult,” he mutters, voice low and precise, each word measured.

Bruce’s smile softens. Damian doesn’t return it, but the corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. “Good,” he adds finally, voice still flat, “I expect nothing less.”

He slowly makes his way to you, Damian only a few steps behind. 

Immediately all the heads turn towards him, but you’re still talking. “So yeah,” you conclude, “I will absolutely understand if you wish to resign or take a break after what happened today.”

No one answers, they're far too on edge with Bruce there. But slowly, one by one they all answer they won’t be quitting— and actually, only one of them will take off a week from the museum. You say your goodbyes to each other and take Bruce’s outstretched arm.

“Let’s go, my dear,” he places a gentle kiss on the top of your head. You snuggle closer to him and walk towards the car. 

The sun is sinking in the horizon, painting the sky in bold orange streaks amongst the grey. The street is more muted; less cars, less children, more adults rushing to get home before night falls.

You look at Damian and smile, for once, his scowl doesn’t deepen.

[leonskennedyforlife]

https://www.tumblr.com/leonskennedyforlife/820292787548389376/um-so-i-feel-like-the-word-daddy-is-extremely

No one cares about YOUR daddy issues, who made u to spokesperson for who can do what, with their daddy issues.

Another flop post about complaining yet so little posts about you actually writing anything

Is this all u do

Do you always go on people's posts and hate?

Like genuinely shut up.

[leonskennedyforlife]

I’m not surprised u don’t have a boyfriend, you seem fucking insufferable to be around

Do you have a boyfriend or anyone that loves being around you?

[leonskennedyforlife]

https://www.tumblr.com/leonskennedyforlife/820227885585580032/why-does-reader-always-have-doe-eyes-like-why

Sooo fucking annoying, if what other ppl choose to write bothers you. THEN WRITE IT URSELF

The rise in these kind of shady complaints on this app is why so many writers get fed up, it’s always ppl complaining. And neverrrr wanting to do it themselves. People write for themselves/for free.

Remember that when ur on ur flop of a blog, writing flop posts, constantly complaining

Well yeah I complain about it because I see it everywhere and people actually agree with me🫤 I'm not saying i don't like what they write, I just want them to use more eye shapes so that people that aren't doe eyed feel included.

And because I genuinely wanna know why they always use doe eyes as their only eye shape in their stories

[leonskennedyforlife]

Why is it that in mostly every R2 fic the reader has to somehow know how to handle a gun? Like why can't she ever use a trusty pipe or even a pan!

WHYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!

Like why does she have to have a dad that was a cop? Or was friends with Chris Redfield?

LIKE SHES SUPPOSED TO BE A CIVILIAN!!! NOT A SECRET COP OR SOMETHING!

Let her have a trusty normal weapon that isn't supposed to be used as a weapon!!

[lostdreamsx]

self moodboard

thank you to my love @midnightsummerrain for tagging me 💗

omgg the fact i got iced coffee, miss dior perfume (my fave), that pink cardigan i have the exact one and the outfit I would wear !! pinterest does really know me 🤭

look up on Pinterest: lyrics, color, character, place, outfit, and aesthetic.

no pressure tags :- @monacofiles @lanadelreyylover @jqsjournal @steelandvibranium @starberrymatcha @mrskennedy-07 @iheartchrisredfield @shesmycollaarr @key201303 (once again i tried tagging people who I haven’t seen been tagged before! sorry if you already have done this!!)

I absolutely LOVEE seeing you guys do these tags because I get to know more about you !!

[key201303]

Thank you @lostdreamsx for tagging me, this is so cute 😭❤️

The fact that Pinterest gave me a library when I started playing librarian: tidy up the arcane library before I started working at the summer camp is crazy 😍 also Leon as my character, did anyone have any doubt? LMAO

Tagging (just if you feel like doing this) @rednnedy @like-gh0sts-in-sn0w @symphony4444 @kl0ng5ki3 @eyesofophelia ❤️❤️

[eyesofophelia]

WAAAAAAH THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME!!! this is such a cute idea!! also i literally just redownloaded pinterest for this, so it’s actually crazy that all of these fit so well. barely back for a minute, and it already knew i loved leon LMFAO

tagging (and only do it if you want to!!!): @slvrbnshee @blinkingame @fat-daisies @sorenissoaring @reposeforthedamned @argella1300 @a-mongoose

[blinkingame]

I LOVED THIS GAME SO MUCHHHHH tysm for tagging me hun @eyesofophelia, kinda cheated with color but it was really pretty idk hehehe

tagging (only if you want to!!!): @brunosbambina @forbidden-hanyou @themistexpress @mcr-are-on-top @leonskennedyforlife

look up on Pinterest: lyrics, color, character, place, outfit, and aesthetic.

[leonskennedyforlife]

Oh my gosh I got tagged😭😭 thank you!!

[leonskennedyforlife]

Why do people keep writing male characters with their sweatpants low on their hips. Like please stop. I would immediately tell him to pull his pants up.

I don't always wanna see his hips out. I dont wanna see his pubic hairs all the time. He's gonna have to pull his pants up and tie those strings together.

[seribun]

leon accidentally becomes the neighbourhood dad. fluff.

it started really simple.

every friday after work, leon grilled in the backyard, which he was absolutely amazing at, not to mention how hot he looked while grilling stuff—sleeves of his shirt rolled over, tong in one hand, the other on his hip, focus completely on the grill. ooof.

at first, though, it was just for you and your daughter. sometimes it was burgers, other times, steak with some vegetables on the side. whatever he made, you and your daughter would enjoy a little too much, and it made leon incredibly happy, so the weekly tradition continued.

a few weeks later, your daughter brought over a friend. next week, after that, three more kids came, and so on, because “mr. kennedy makes amazing burgers.” how could leon say no to that?

soon enough, friday became the unofficial burger night at the kennedys’. and you didn’t send out invites either; whoever wanted to come just came.

someone would bring soda, and someone would bring chips. and you’d set extra disposable plates without saying anything. having kids around was always great, made the place feel more lively. leon never questioned it either, of course. he just threw another pack of burgers on the grill.

by the end of summer, there were at least a dozen teenage kids (along with your daughter) sprawled across the backyard. their voices, coupled with the music playing over the bluetooth speakers and the quiet hiss and sizzle of the grill—it was loud and chaotic.

leon stood at the grill wearing the apron that said kiss the cook, the one you’d gotten him as a joke when the weekly grill night tradition started, flipping burgers with laser focus.

“mr. kennedy, these are the best burgers ever!” one of the kids called out.

leon didn’t look up from the grill but still replied, “thanks. grab another before they’re gone.”

soon after, it wasn’t just the burgers kids appreciated leon for. it was because he’d become the neighbourhood’s unofficial helpful guy.

somebody’s bike chain has fallen off? leon would flip the bike upside down on the grass, pop the chain back in under thirty seconds, wipe the grease off with an old rag and say, “there you go. try not to shift while you’re pedaling uphill.”

your daughter has a friend over for a study session, and they can’t figure out percentages? leon would grab a napkin and a pen, draw a pizza, and explain it in under five minutes.

somebody need a ride home? he’d be texting the kid’s folks first, and then, without interrogation, drop the kid off at home. respectful and matter-of-fact.

brakes of some kid’s bike keep squeaking? instead of fixing them all by himself, he’d teach them. because if he fixed it, they’d forget it within a day. but if he taught them, they’d remember it for years.

oh yeah, also because he remembered how everybody liked their burgers and hot dogs and would make them exactly to their liking.

and after what feels like a lifetime of fighting monsters, leon ends up becoming the thing he never would have expected—father figure to dozen kids in the neighbourhood. the one everybody could count on.

© seribun.

[leonskennedyforlife]

I wish I had that🥺 I want a neighborhood dad

[leonskennedyforlife]

Yall Milf reader has me on a choke hold so bad. She's so bad. I know she's supposed to be us but gosh.

AND Dilf reader😝 give these male readers what they deserve! Gosh!

[iydiamartinx]

'TIL DEATH DO US APART

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Wife! Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.4k synopsis: Bruce knows his wife is trying to kill him but the problem is, he just can't prove it. a/n: I’m not full sure what this is but this idea hit me at 5 in the morning, which probably explains why it’s so weird—but it made me laugh, so here we are. Enjoy! 

Bruce Wayne had been electrocuted, nearly impaled, and almost poisoned—all in the span of six weeks. That wasn’t even counting the four separate stabbing incidents over the past three months. Each time, the blade was unique. One had even been laced with a neurotoxin so obscure, Bruce had to dig through Cold War archives just to identify it.

The common denominator? You. His wife.

You never admitted it. You didn’t have to. You never left a fingerprint, never stepped out of character. To the world—and even to Alfred—you were perfect. The devoted spouse. Gotham’s sweetheart. And as far as Bruce could tell, you hadn’t tried to kill anyone else. Just him.

Take last Thursday.

Bruce had walked into the Batcave only to find a pressure-triggered stake embedded in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile. His seat. The one no one else ever touched. The trigger had been subtle—clever, really—buried just beneath the custom leather cushioning. If he hadn’t scanned the seat before sitting (as he now routinely did), he’d be pinned to the interior like a kebab.

He’d climbed back upstairs, singed, sore, and furious, only to find you in the kitchen like a scene out of a vintage ad. Apron tied neatly around your waist, hair pulled back in a messy bun, humming a familiar tune as you piped icing onto cupcakes.

“Chocolate with raspberry filling,” you chirped brightly when you saw him. “Your favourite.”

Bruce had only stared. The cupcakes were pristine, beautiful… and decorated with a pattern that made his eye twitch.

Each one was a tiny bat… skewered.

Alfred passed by with a pleased hum, lifting one from the tray. “She’s so attentive, sir. You’ve gotten quite lucky.”

Attentive. Yes. That was one word for it.

Then there was this morning.

Bruce sat at the breakfast table, eyes flicking from the half-finished crossword in front of him to the steaming cup of coffee you’d just set down beside it, punctuated by the warm press of a kiss to his cheek. It was your usual gesture of affection to maintain your domestic facade. Yet, as he brought the mug up to his face, he caught the faint trace of something… foreign in the aroma.

“Colombian roast?” he asked casually, not looking up.

You smiled, soft and sweet, as you settled across from him in a silk robe the exact colour of dried blood. “Costa Rican,” you replied. “I know you’ve been cutting back on caffeine.”

“Thoughtful,” he murmured.

You hummed in response, already scrolling through your phone with a content, peaceful expression. One that did not belong to someone who had definitely tried to suffocate him in his sleep just a few hours earlier.

Of course, there had been no prints. No witnesses. No cameras. Just Bruce, waking with a sharp gasp at 3:07 a.m., a silk pillow pressed firmly and definitely deliberately against his face.

There was a slight, unmistakable dip of the mattress as you slid back beneath the covers beside him with a whisper soft enough to be sickeningly concerned.

“Nightmare again, love?”

He hadn’t answered. You hadn’t pressed.

You never slipped. Not once. Not in public. Not at home. Not even in the bedroom—which, maddeningly, remained incredible. Your touch was always warm. Your affection, believable. Your moans, real…he hoped. And it was that balance—between the loving wife and the likely assassin—that was driving him slowly, methodically insane.

He’d triple-checked the Batcave’s systems. Gone line by line through the security feeds. Rerun every log for the toxin releases, the mechanical malfunctions, the pressure-sensitive traps woven into the vents and walkways of his own home. Each incident, without fail, pointed back to one inevitable truth.

It wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t an intruder. It was someone with access to his home. Intimate, unfiltered access. Someone who knew the layouts. The passwords. Him.

Someone who brought him homemade soup when he returned battered and stitched together. Someone who watched him sleep with the serene calm of a lover… and the silent patience of a predator.

You wanted him dead. Only him. Not Alfred. Not Gotham. Not even his enemies. Just Bruce.

And the lengths you’d gone to, to achieve your goal?

Frankly were impressive. Terrifying. But undeniably impressive.

The problem was—no one believed him.

You were perfect. Too perfect. Gotham’s golden girl. The city adored you. You did charity work with orphans, hosted elegant galas for the Wayne Foundation, and once, personally, pulled a kitten out of a sewer while wearing four-inch heels. You’d handed the soggy creature to Damian with a smile, and now it lived like a prince in the manor, nestled in his bed most nights. Even he adored you.

Meanwhile, Bruce was starting to look… unhinged. More paranoid than usual. And if he was being honest, maybe just a little insane.

“Bruce,” Clark had said gently over comms last week, “you’ve been muttering ‘she’s trying to kill me again’ during Justice League meetings. Barry and Hal think you’re losing it.”

“I’ve told you, Clark. She is,” Bruce insisted.

There was a pause. Then Clark sighed. “She brought you dinner.”

“In a bento box,” Bruce snapped. “Hand-delivered. To the Watchtower.”

Clark made a soft, confused sound. “Isn’t that… thoughtful? Lois and I do that all the time. It’s romantic. A way to show we care.”

Bruce stared at the comm. He could practically hear the smile in Clark’s voice, like he was just waiting for Bruce to admit how lucky he was. As if that bento box wasn’t laced with enough trace chemicals to warrant a full Bat-lab analysis.

It was hopeless. No one took him seriously.

Even Jason, of all people, had the audacity to laugh. “Look on the bright side, B,” he’d said with a wide grin, clapping Bruce on the back. “You always said you’d go out alone in the dark. Just didn’t think it’d be at the hands of someone who irons your shirts.”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because it was starting to feel true.

He even tried to test you one evening. He slipped into the kitchen quietly, just as you were finishing up dinner. The scent of rosemary chicken filled the air—warm, familiar, homey. And then… something else. It was subtle, but unmistakable. A hint of bitterness beneath the herbs. Arsenic, maybe.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Need a hand?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a pause in your slicing. “You’ll ruin the plating,” you teased, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Go sit. I want this one to be perfect.”

Of course you did.

Dinner was served shortly after. Alfred complimented the tenderness of the chicken. Damian—traitor—asked for seconds. You poured Bruce a glass of wine yourself, smiled as you set it beside his plate, and took your seat as if you hadn’t laced his entrée with slow-acting poison.

He took one cautious bite.

Nothing happened.

Then another.

Still nothing.

But midway through dinner, as the conversation rolled on and laughter echoed faintly through the dining room, Bruce began to cough. Not a small, casual cough—no, this one clawed at his throat, chest tightening as the burning sensation took root.

And before anyone else could react, you were already at his side.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you cooed, slipping an arm around his shoulders, your voice full of concern. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

You rubbed his back, pressed a glass of water to his lips, wiped at his mouth with a napkin. The doting wife, playing your role to perfection.

Everyone watched the scene with passive interest, no one truly alarmed.

Because this was just how things were now.

Even as Bruce sat there, coughing and glaring holes through you, no one questioned a thing. Deep down, he knew the rest of his family must have suspected something. Tim had hesitated before biting into his own piece of chicken. Dick had watched Bruce too closely. Even Damian’s gaze had lingered a moment too long.

But no one said a word.

Because compared to Bruce’s previous love interests—cat burglars, assassins, thieves—you were considered the best of the bunch.

So they let it go.

Believing, perhaps foolishly, that Bruce could handle it.

And somehow… he knew. Even if he boxed the remains of the chicken and sent it to three different labs across Gotham, the test results would somehow come back clean.

Just like they always did.

And he’d look even more paranoid than before.

And so, silently, Bruce accepted the water without any complaint or accusation. He waved you off with a tight smile, reaching under the table the moment your back was turned before slipping the capsule from the inner pocket of his jacket—a fast-dissolving antidote he now kept on him at all times—and swallowed it with a swig of wine.

Then, politely, he excused himself from dinner.

Later that night, you found him in his office.

He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled over a file he wasn’t reading. You drifted in without a sound, but he felt you coming—could always sense when it was you.

“How are you feeling?” you purred, your voice like warm honey. Your hands slid over his shoulders from behind, graceful fingers working into the tension in his neck. His eyes fluttered—damn you—and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

But then you were gone again, floating across the room toward the bar. You poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, humming softly, and returned with a smile that was all teeth and silk.

“Nightcap?”

Bruce took the glass but then he paused. Eyes narrowing, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

You sighed, utterly unbothered. “Too paranoid,” you chided gently, tsking under your breath. “It’s just whiskey.”

“With an aftertaste of cyanide.”

You held his gaze—and took a sip yourself and smiled. “Only a drop.”

He stared.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his jaw, breath warm against his skin. “It builds immunity,” you whispered.

And just like that, you pulled away.

Bruce remained still, watching your retreating figure as you sauntered out of the room. The silk of your dress shimmered with every step, clinging perfectly to your curves, your hips swaying just enough to make him forget—briefly—that you’d tried to kill him again tonight.

You glanced over your shoulder with a smile that could’ve fooled the gods. “Don’t stay up too late, love.”

The door closed softly behind you, and Bruce let out a long, slow exhale. He stared at the untouched drink in his hand, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment before he finally rose, dragging a hand down his face as he left the office and followed after you.

When he entered the bedroom, the lights were already dimmed and you were curled beneath the covers, the picture of elegance and ease. As he moved around to his side of the bed, you shifted, stretching like a satisfied cat before curling against his side with a contented sigh.

“Did I tell you Alfred loved the lemon tart I made?” you murmured, your voice warm and sleepy.

Bruce didn’t move. “You replaced the sugar with ammonium nitrate.”

“Only half,” you replied breezily. “He has a strong constitution.”

Silence stretched between you.

You hummed lightly, as if this were just playful banter between newlyweds. “You’re just too fun to play with,” you said, tracing a finger along the line of his ribs.

“You could just divorce me,” Bruce muttered, dry as ever.

You gasped, genuinely offended. “And break my vows?”

He turned his head to look at the ceiling, expression blank. “You said ‘in sickness and in health,’ not ‘in mortal peril.’”

You giggled, snuggling closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder like the conversation hadn’t just included the topic of chemical agents. Your voice was soft, almost teasing. “You’re being dramatic,” you said sweetly. “I haven’t technically killed you yet.”

Bruce let out another sigh, eyes closing. “Yet.”

“I mean,” you murmured, nuzzling into his chest, “if you insist on surviving, that’s kind of on you.”

He huffed through his nose. “I have contingency plans for everything.”

“I know,” you replied, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. You yawned, your breath warm against his skin. “I’ve been disabling them one by one.”

He turned his head slightly to glance down at you. “…You’re insane.”

You smiled, serene and unbothered. “You married me,” you whispered, tracing lazy circles along his ribs. “You also know the contract I’m under.”

And he had.

After the twentieth attempt on his life, Bruce had finally done what he should’ve done from the beginning—he investigated you. Dug into sealed files, chased whispers through black markets, and pieced together a name no one dared speak aloud in full. The Black Widow assassin. 

Someone had put a contract on Bruce Wayne’s head. And you—his wife, the beloved darling of Gotham—had taken the job.

And for some reason—some maddening, utterly ridiculous reason—he still hadn’t stopped loving you.

Maybe it was because, deep down, he knew you’d never actually intended to kill him. Not really. You were far too skilled for the constant failures to be anything but deliberate. Every “attempt” had been just close enough to say you tried, but somehow failed.

He’d begun to slowly accept his new reality, even if you had tried to push him down the stairs last Tuesday.

He could still hear your voice, feigning shock as he clutched the railing.

“Oh no, love! You must’ve slipped.”

Now, as you drifted in and out of sleep beside him, you spoke again—so softly, he almost missed it.

“You’ll also never be able to prove it’s me.”

His eyes opened

You didn’t look at him. But you smiled—that same serene, public smile. The one you wore at galas, arm wrapped around his. The one you gave reporters when praising your husband’s philanthropy. The one you wore while sharpening knives in the kitchen—knives that always seemed to go missing right before each new “accident.”

“I don’t need to,” Bruce said quietly. “You’ll slip eventually.”

At that, you turned, propping your chin on his chest, gaze playful and unreadable in the dark. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But until then… wouldn’t it be a shame to ruin our marriage over some silly little suspicion?”

He stared at you, unmoving.

She only smiled before leaning in to kiss him. Long and deceptively sweet. 

And damn it… he kissed you back.

His hands slipped around your waist, guiding you atop him as the kiss deepened. His hands wandering along your body.

Because the truth was—he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop you.

Because beneath all the perfection, all the poison, all the blades hidden in soft glances and honeyed words… there was a terrifying truth he could never say aloud:

He’d rather be killed by you than live without you.

And you knew it.

Jason Version | Damian Version | Tim Version | Dick Version

[shoyosreblogs]

THIS IS LITERALLY ONE OF MY FAVORITE BRUCE WAYNE FICS

[leonskennedyforlife]

Why can't the readers ex boyfriend or ex husband ever be a good person? Why does he have to be evil? Like genuinely it makes no sense how the ex is always the villain when the character the reader is potentially getting with is low key not much better.

Like yes...i know most of these characters are genuinely good people and are amazing partners. But like...people like Toji and Sukuna and Albert Wesker are not good people. They're toxic if they ever be in a real relationship.

I genuinely feel like Toji will never lose feelings for his wife and will never change for another partner. If he can't change for his kids he won't change for a girlfriend.

Sukuna is just an evil person like that's said enough.

I know it's all fiction, but i feel like people also genuinely think that most of their fictional crushes won't act like the readers "evil" boyfriend or husband.

Only a handful of stories where I've seen the exes are really nice and the reader and them break up on mutual terms.

[sukunastoenailclippings]

until I have at least 15 of them black & blonde biracial babies

[leonskennedyforlife]

So real😭