shot of espresso

ᢉ𐭩 ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ mutual lover

[jtoddsbaby]

Hi! I hope you’re doing well. Can I get Dick Grayson x f!reader fluff oneshot where he’s dating a civilian who is a teacher?

THE KIDS LOVE NIGHTWING

SUMMARY: the topic of superheroes comes up in your elementary class...safe to say you know who they're favorite is.

warnings: fluff, crack, f!reader, established relationship, r is an elementary teacher, YLN = your last name, pet names, bruce wayne cameo

wc: 621

You thought having your 1st graders write about their favorite superhero would be a good exercise. It'd help them learn to write in full sentences, to offer a because when sharing their opinion…

The last thing you expected was to find out just how popular your boyfriend was.

You're sat at you and Dick's couch, a pile of colorful worksheets covered in messy handwriting on the coffee table. Your blue-light glasses are perched on your nose, brows furrowed behind them.

"What's wrong, babe?" Dick asks curiously from the kitchen. "I can feel your frown from over here."

You sigh, staring at a student's paper in your hand like it holds all the answers. Which, evidently, it doesn't. "It just doesn't make sense."

His footsteps grow louder as he approaches with two mugs full of tea. He places yours—chamomile lavender with an obnoxious amount of honey—in front of you before rounding the table to sit beside you. 

His warm hand finds its place on the small of your back, rubbing the skin through your soft cashmere sweater. "What doesn't?"

After taking a sip of the tea, you read aloud the student's work.

My favorite superhero is Nightwing because he is really cool. I think he is cool because I like the blue and black suit he wears and he has nice hair.

Your gaze snaps to Dick when you hear his low, amused laughter. "Ah, that's gold." He smiles. "Let's keep that one, baby. Hang it on the fridge."

"We can't just keep her work, Dick. I have to give it back to her."

He chuckles, taking a sip of his own tea. "Read me another one."

And so you do.

"This one says 'Ms. YLN asked us who our favorite superhero is. My favorite superhero is Nightwing. I like Nightwing because he is funny and keeps our city safe!'"

Dick's laughter has only intensified…as has your scowl. "Ah, love," he sighs, patting your cheek. "Turn that frown upside down, babygirl! Your students love me."

You continue to peruse through the pile, becoming increasingly dumbfounded by how enamored your little 7-year-olds are by your boyfriend.

I like Nightwing the best! This is because of his cool suit and his great fighting.

Nightwing is my favorite superhero because of his smile and his batons.

My favorite superhero is Nightwing. I like him because he seems kind and he cares about Gotham.

"Oh, look, this one's about Bruce," you giggle, finally finding a sheet in the pile that isn't about Dick. "'I like Batman as my favorite superhero because he has an awesome cape and I like the color yellow.'"

"Tt," Dick tuts. "Blue goes better with black than yellow does. I'm much better than the old man. Tell me I'm better, baby."

You hadn't even realized how your boyfriend had wormed his way under your arm and into your lap, his dark locks splayed out over your legs.

"Ugh, I hate you. My kids love you more than me," you complain playfully, carding your fingers through his hair. A low groan resounds from your lap. 

"What can I say? The kids love nightwing," he shrugs, flashing you his stupidly cocky smirk. "Now, cmon, love on me, sweet girl."

You laugh, swatting him softly. "You get enough love, judging by these writings. Don't get greedy, Grayson."

He shakes his head "You're mistaken, sweetie. Your tots love Nightwing. But Dick Grayson here doesn't get nearly enough affection. My baby needs to provide some." He peels one eye open to look at you, smiling. "Pleaseeee?"

Your eyes roll, though you're not really annoyed. You set the final worksheet down and engulf your lover in a tight cuddle, sighing contentedly as his face burrows into your chest. "Obnoxious boy."

"Pretty girl." 

a/n: SOO CUTE UGH! i love this

taglist: @celestium-ambrosium @notyouraverageloser-13 @laneythebug @nalah-whimsy @uglyandrotten @starz-boy @ruiboo @goobfeels @pinklyred @magmamaya @sunnylikesreading

comment here to be added!

[liabiamiakiawia]

and if i said one of the cutest things i’ve ever read ????

[filmgifs]

I'm, uh, MJ.

[noonsrocky]

How far we’ve come

[glowinasia]

[liabiamiakiawia]

oh mymgod

[zendeyas]

Zendaya wearing MATIERES – New York premiere of The Odyssey

[tealovingdreamer]

broken promises ;; richard j. grayson

in which... this was the story of how dick lost you.

꒰ contents ꒱ dick grayson x fem!reader. dual pov. major angst. no use of y/n. major character death. profanities. blood and wounds. brief kissing. reader’s vigilante name is nyx. established relationship. italics galore. dick grayson crashing out (again). the author is very sorry. 5k words. prologue to my fic one last hug, please?

✎ᝰ. a letter from jj . . . actually fell to my knees with tears. here it is my friends, the long awaited fic. this work has gone through about fifty seven rewriting sessions, major back and forth editing cause i realised how badly structured my previous fics were (thank you mother rebecca ross for your writing wisdom🙏🏻) and this might be the longest and most time-consuming fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy and has prepared you tissues and sad playlist beforehand. i hope you enjoy🤍

As soon as you got the alert, you knew it was going to be another night of cancelled plans and unattended dinner reservations.

Tonight’s plan was originally for you to go on a date with Dick, yet Blüdhaven had other plans for the two of you. You were a little upset, and you could tell Dick was, too. For it was to be the first date that you have since your engagement and a small break from everyone's hustling and bustling about the wedding planning.

Alas, it was another date night lost to the city’s safety.

Suits’ on, gear up, steal a few kisses, part ways— Nightwing goes to one side of the city, while Nyx goes to the other. Just the same old story replayed all over again. And you didn’t mind it, not if it meant keeping innocent civilians safe.

You just wished the alert would go off some other night that was not a date night. Which, unfortunately, happens more often than either of you appreciated.

“You, Grayson,” You patted his spandex-clad chest, glaring playfully at his eyes that were covered by his domino mask, and demanded, “have to promise take me dancing on our next date.”

Your eyes playfully casting a longing glance at the pretty blue dress on the bed that you’ve picked out for tonight’s supposed date, along with your fiancé’s dashing black suit.

His brows rose, a lilt of an annoyingly charming and amused smirk lips, glittering with a tell you couldn’t decipher. “Yes ma’am. I promise…” He paused only for a moment, then cheekily added, “… Mrs. Grayson.”

Butterflies.

You rolled your eyes, a flustered smile taking place on your mouth, though hidden under your mask. “Yet.”

“Ehh, it’s a month away, so we’re practically already married now." He grinned, and it sent the butterflies to fly around your ribcage— you could look at that smile and never be bored of it.

“That’s not how it works.”

“It is, ‘cause I said so,” How could he look so endearing, but so infuriating at the same time?

You were not impressed.

(Lies, you absolutely were impressed.)

Nevertheless, you rose to your tiptoes and nuzzled his cheek, just on the corner of his lips, a move that would’ve been a kiss hadn’t your mask been in the way.

When you pulled away, you couldn’t help but laugh at the unimpressed look he's got on. “Oh, put the pout away, Gray, I’ll kiss you properly later.”

“How about you kiss me properly now?” He blinked innocently, when he knew damn well that he was anything but.

Embarrassingly, you complied without a fight; removing your mask, and tiptoed again to plant a quick, but proper kiss to his lips, pulling a pleased sigh from his throat. His arm instinctively winding around your waist.

Foreheads touching, his gloved hand threads through your hair, “Careful out there, okay?” he whispered, breathless from your kiss. Even through the white filters of his mask, you could feel his stare, his unspoken need for you to assure him that you’d be careful. “I gotta take my girl dancing still.”

You nodded, lips twitching ever so slightly. “Always.”

Inside the filthy walls of the warehouse where you were slumped in, there were only two coherent thoughts that circled inside your increasingly dizzying mind.

One: While the date for today is inevitably cancelled, the next few dates will have to, unfortunately, suffer the same fate, too. Due to all the physical souvenirs you’ve acquired tonight.

And two: that you should've expected the thug—one of Penguin's, if you remembered correctly— to pull out a gun before the bullet embedded itself in your guts a second later. You were not proud of that. You were better than this.

Though, you kept thinking about the dinner you missed— if today hadn't turned out the way it did, you'd probably already be home from the restaurant by now.

Curled up on your bed with Dick, while he teasingly calls you ‘Mrs. Grayson’ just to see the flush on your cheeks.

And how you'd correct him that it wasn't your name yet. And that he'd have to wait patiently until the wedding to call you that.

The image of him pouting brought a small upturn of your lips.

Inhaling sharply, you winced then after, the rancid smell of oil, rust and iron had penetrated your nose for a while, each second making breathing feel impossible.

Or maybe it's because of the blood loss.

Right, there was a bullet hole in your stomach. Right under where your hand laid, bare as you've discarded your gloves, pressed firmly on your wound.

As if to remind you, your comm went off, and the voice of the one you loved reached you. “Nyx?”

Eyes closing momentarily with relief, you exhaled, shuddering and sharp. “‘Wing?”

“Hang in there, baby.” he panted, like he was running, or grappling over to your location. If you hadn't known him, you wouldn't have been able to detect the fear in those syllables. “I'm almost there.”

But you did know him. Better than anyone.

Breathing out a chuckle, you immediately regretted it when the small action brought a tenfold amount of pain through your body, replacing your laugh with a groan.

“Love?” He sounded panicked.

“You make me sound like a damsel in distress.” you mumbled instead, lips pulling to an unconscious smile. Love. You loved it when he called you that.

A breath of a laugh was pulled from Dick's throat, light, beautiful. It made you forgot, for a moment, that you were hurt. “You are.” he replied, though his voice faltered before he added on a: “You're my damsel in distress, though. So, it’s okay.”

You smiled lightly, then after, bit on your lower lip to stop a pained whimper from flowing out your lips as another wave of pain shoots up your stomach.

Your eyes prickled, and you shut it tightly. “Gosh, I should've punched them harder.” You swallowed thickly, the words coming out more sulkily than you intended.

“It’s okay.”

Seconds went by in silence. The throbbing pain came and went, and gradually, your eyes grew heavy.

The words ‘I'm tired’ were just at the tip of your tongue, your fiancé, as though he'd read your mind, hurriedly said to you, “Stay awake, my love. Please.”

Eyes drooping in protest, you slowly nodded, but soon realised that Dick couldn't see it. “Mhm.”

“Good, that's good.” You heard him breathe. “Please keep your eyes open. I'm gonna be there in a minute.”

“Thirty seconds.” you countered quietly, feeling the midnight chill slowly curl into your skin through your suit. Though, you refused to tell him to worry him even further.

Casting your eyes down, you caught a glimpse of the ring on your finger, the diamond that shone as it reflected the dim yellow light overhead. Still shining, even amongst the pool of blood that continued to flow, seeping between your fingers, staining the silver band a dark crimson.

He went along with it seamlessly. “Fifteen.”

“Did you know...” you said, suddenly abandoning the previous subject, “Spoiler called me Mrs. Nightwing last time we patrolled together?”

His chuckle was quiet through the comm, you noticed. “Did she?”

“Uh-huh.”

The doors of the warehouse bursted open. And you would've let out a cheer if you were able. So, you settled with keeping the relief in your mind.

From a distance, you heard your name being called repeatedly, desperately. Not Nyx. Your given name.

Dick was here.

It took everything in you to pull the strained “Here,” from your throat. You could only hoped that it was loud enough for him to be able to find you.

You didn't notice when your eyes had closed, yet the next second you hear someone's knees slamming against the dirty concrete floor beside you, they snapped back open.

His mask was discarded, and you've never been happier to see those crystalline pair of blue eyes staring back at you.

“Hey,” Dick whispered gently, placing a gentle hand on your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth in a soft caress. “I'm here. I'm gonna get you out of here, yeah?”

The whisper was soft as a fallen feather.

(You missed the way his face rumpled and a tear flowed down his cheek when his eyes fell to the unmistakable wound under your bloodstained hand.)

You could've cried.

Blinking to clear your vision, you briefly saw Dick reach for his comm, saying something about ‘an emergency’ and ‘medic’ and you hear a response from someone on the other line, but the words faded when your eyes zeroed in to the gash on his shoulder, beneath his torn suit. Then your gaze drifted to another wound on his side.

He's hurt.

Swiftly, your eyes lifted back to his face, where you saw the patches of blue and purple that were scattered across his paling face.

He's hurt.

Even then, he was as beautiful as ever.

“You're hurt.” you croaked, your half-lidded eyes glued to his wounds and bruises as he was with your own.

But Dick shook his head. “I'm okay, sweetheart. Stay with me, okay? I'm gonna get us home.” Not giving you a chance to protest, he carefully snaked his hand around your shoulders, the other slipping beneath your knees as he tried to haul you in his arms with a grunt; muttering an apology every time you whimpered painfully.

Making a move to stand, he stumbled, hands tightening his hold on you, letting out a low, pained groan—you faintly realised he didn't mean to let out from the way his arms stiffened—that had your brows pulling in concern.

“Dick-”

Somewhere between your consciousness, you thought, he wouldn't be able to grapple along with you in his arms when he's just as injured as yourself…

“I’m fine.” he insisted stubbornly before repeating it once more in panted breaths, trying his best to keep you in his trembling arms without toppling over. “I’m fine.”

You weren't sure if he was trying to convince you or himself.

He took one step after another, holding back his own pain for your sake. And each step settled you deeper into a conclusion.

You weren’t going to make it out of here alive.

It wasn't that cataclysmic realisation, perhaps you already knew even minutes before.

Precisely five stuttered steps later, you start, whispering weakly, “Dick,” attempting to get his attention, your hand slipping from the bullet wound.

The man blinked, repeatedly, no replies slipping out his mouth, nor did he faced you like you wished he would. You knew he'd heard you, but he was ignoring you. It made you sad.

You longed to see those eyes, just in case it was going to be the last time you'd be able to.

“Please look at me.”

His throat bobbed as he gulped, responding with a quiet desperation that split your heart in two. “I can’t. I have to- I have to hurry.” he took another wobbling step towards the exit, continuing to mutter about help being here soon.

You called his name once more, finally, he relented, and turned his head towards you. “Stop.”

His eyes widened, wild, like you’d just said the most unforgivable thing, like you’d betrayed him with your words.

“What do you mean?”

The single sentence trickled out of his lips slowly, and hesitant. You knew he regretted the words as he said it when all you did was give him a look in response. Brows knitting together, he blinked, a brief flicker of realisation in those blues. Then shook his head resolutely.

“No.” he rasped, voice thick, how it usually would when he was about to cry.

Your lips parted for a... a what? You didn't even know what. Words of comfort? A wake up call that announced that you were fading in his arms?

The words died on your tongue; not that you had any that were well-thought-out.

So, you stayed quiet. If only for a moment. A moment where you had to hear him struggle to drag you and himself out of this damn place. Every groan, every whimper, every sign of ache that managed to bleed through the cracks of control and focus he had— all of it shattered your heart.

Until you couldn't take it anymore.

With what little strength you had left, you used to cup his cheek and lead his eyes to you, “My love...” Your brows arched as you plead. He'd only hurt himself even more if he went on. “Stop...”

His eyes told you everything he couldn't say out loud as they met yours.

Don't say it.

An apologetic smile crossed your lips. “I'm not gonna make it-”

“Don't.” He cut you off sharply, his eyes welling with tears despite the glare he pinned you. You supposed you deserved that.

Not a second later, his expression dropped, softening, though not in a way that you were used to seeing; the lovely, warm softness that made him glow, no.

He looked desperate. Defeated. In the way that you couldn't fix because you were the cause of its appearance.

As much as you hated yourself for hurting him, you didn't wish to take it back even if you could.

Because despite your desire to console him, the last thing you wanted to do was lie to him in your final moments; it didn’t matter if it was to comfort him. You weren’t going to give him false promises to remember. 

You felt his chest rumble under your head as he heaved a mournful sigh, his back collapsing against one of the many pallet shelves, sliding down with you in his arms slowly, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He punctuated the words with a featherlight kiss to your forehead. He tenderly slid his palm below yours, unavailingly trying to staunch off your blood, the blue of his gloves slowly tainted with your red.

You wondered why he was sorry; the hurt had dwindled, replaced by a dull ache. But still, you said: “It’s okay,” as your eyes trained on him, studying his sullen features for what seemed like the millionth time.

There's no telling whether you felt betrayed or thankful when your memories brought you back to the day he proposed to you at the beach. The day you felt like you were soaring high when he went down on one knee and asked you to be his forever as the setting sun painted the sky an array of beautiful colours, as if it was putting on a show to celebrate your love.

You remembered thinking that you'd always been his, even long since before he asked. Just as he was yours.

You remembered the way his blue eyes held the uncertainty they did, the way his voice shook when the question ‘will you marry me?’ flowed from his precious lips, like there was ever going to be a world where you would turn him down.

The way those same eyes, and the same pair of lips shifted to the most lovely look of joy you've ever seen on anyone upon your answer. The way he swept you off your feet and twirled you around, with your laughs, incoherent words through your squeals, and tears all muddled together into the perfect melody.

Dick looked much different now, yet all the same.

He was badly hurt, and so were you. And if there was even the slightest chance where one of you is to make it out of here, you wished it was him.

“You’re gonna be okay…” Some sick part of you were glad, happy that between the two of you, you were the one who got to leave first. You were incredibly selfish to think that, but you couldn’t help it. There was never a day that you could pass without Dick, and you didn’t think you could live with him not being next to you.

Your lover slid his arm behind your neck to bring you closer, and placed his chin above your crown, his mouth pressing on your head.

“Don’t talk like that,” You heard him mumble against your hair. “Please hold on a little longer for me, okay? Please, I just– I really want to see you walk down the aisle, in that pretty white dress you picked out, I want you to hear the vows that I wrote down for you,” he rambled, as though his words could make you stay. To save you.

“I want to be your husband.”

The shattered sob finally broke through his composure.

Hastily reaching for his comm again, his voice bore frustration and plead as he spoke. “B- Goddamn it, anyone! Please.” His chest was heaving, panic, exhaustion, pain, all swirling together, the breaths exiting his lungs as time ticked by.

You’ve never heard his voice carry such agony.

The crackly response sounded distant in your ear, you didn’t catch it, but you were conscious enough to recognise Jason’s voice. You heard him speak to you, “Hang in there, sis.” before his comm line went out, and the silence took over.

It dragged on for a while, only wisps of shallow breaths could be heard echoing throughout the space.

You hadn’t taken your eyes off of him once. Silently admiring as life slowly slipped away from you.

“I love you.” you told him, trying to put all the love you could into those three words, fingers twitching in an attempt to grab hold of his hand.

His palm trembled. “I love you.” he muttered your name lovingly. He removed his hand from your wound and took your hand, bringing it to his lips, his eyes dropping closed. “Please stay for me. Please.” he kept pleading, the streams of his tears falling down to your palm.

Only then did you let yourself give in to the tiredness that was pulling at you relentlessly.

The last thing you saw was the most beautiful shade of blue you’ve ever seen before it went dark, a serene smile etched on your features.

The first thing Dick woke up to was the aches that spread through his whole body, along with the feel of someone holding his hand in theirs; larger, calloused, almost entirely enveloping his.

It wasn’t you.

And then it was the voices; hushed, careful, overlapping with the beeps of a monitor. He could make out three (or was it four?) voices conversing with one another.

None of them were yours.

He managed a weak twitch of his hand. A small movement that stilled every voices in the room, creating a silence that felt wrong, stifling.

Disoriented, he called for you still, dry and broken syllables stringing together to form your name.

“Dick…?”

It wasn’t you that answered, it was Bruce.

Finally, he had enough energy to crack open his lids, wincing as he did, as the stark white light of the medbay stung his eyes.

Trying to squint through the blinding light, he repeated to call for you. Where were you? You—

You were hurt.

Your blood on his hands, so, so much of it.

I love you.

His eyes flew open as he jolted up from the bed, your name a heaved gasp from his throat as wild blue eyes scanned the room for you.

A few pairs of hands gripped his shoulders, coaxing him to lay back down, synchronised voices chastising him, worried, but he barely paid attention.

He fought against those hands, ignoring every stab of pain that erupted throughout his body. “No-!” He whirled to his left, locking eyes with his father. “Bruce- Bruce, I need to see-”

“Dick, you should lay down.” Bruce interjected, lightly and cautious. He looked tired, older. The pity in his eyes were clear even as his hand was still trying to push him back.

But he hadn't let go of Dick's hand with the other. If anything, he squeezed his hand tightly.

The younger man shook his head, eyes still frantically searching for you amongst his family who are scattered around the room. Though his lids screwed shut as his head began to pound. “No- no, where's-”

“Christ, just lay the fuck down, Grayson, you're busted up pretty bad.” barked a voice to his right.

He turned away from Bruce, now seeing Jason standing the other side of the bed. Opposed to his harsh tone, his hardened green-tinted eyes were red, but unlike Bruce's, Jason's eyes lacked the pity.

Rather, they were filled with a mix of anger and rare sadness staring back at Dick's blues.

“Jay, is she okay?” His tone changed to urgency, searching those green eyes for an answer before his words could give it.

Slowly, his little brother's eyes softened, his calloused hand squeezed his shoulder, and for once, he didn’t pull his hand away.

“I’m sorry.”

Dick faltered, his breath catching in his throat. “What?”

Jason’s face twisted. His rough façade crumpling as if looking at him brought him pain. “I’m sorry,” he repeated once more, words wavering like ash in his mouth, his hand on Dick’s shoulder tightening just as Bruce’s had.

“Jason, what?” He had rarely ever seen Jason lose his composure like this. The last time he’s seen his little brother cry was when the boy was thirteen and freshly adopted by Bruce, when he got too overwhelmed from the crowd of paparazzis that was chasing them both one time.

When he realised that that chaos was the world he stepped into.

There was only one reason Dick could think of that would evoke this reaction from him—

“She’s gone.”

The following silence fell heavily, yet deafening at the same time.

“No,” Dick lets out a disbelieving whispered. “No, no, no,”

He shook his head, swallowing thickly. His brain wracked for a reason, a possibility, an iota of a chance. Because there was never going to be a world where you’re not there by his side. He couldn’t think of that scenario, and he didn’t want to.

“No, that- that’s impossible. We were almost out. You got me out. There has to be a mistake. You got me out of there and- I survived and she has to survive, too, I can’t-”

His words got choked up in his throat.

You had to be okay. You had to have survived like he did. He was going to be wed to you. A month from now. You were going to make him the happiest man to ever exist, and he would love you. He will love you. However long or short time he had left of his life, if he had been broken and all he could do left was to love you, he would. He made a promise to you. And to himself, too.

He couldn’t make do on his promises— his vows if you were gone.

It was then he realised that he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.

He tried to pull the air forcefully to fill his lungs. But a strangled sound wrenched itself clear from his chest instead.

He was sobbing. Loud, raw and crippling sobs were blocking his airways, reserving his breaths to sharp little shards of glass that penetrated his throat.

Dick felt like his mind hadn’t aligned with his heart or actions. His own voice didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

This time, someone—Bruce or Jason’s, he couldn't tell— wrapped their arms around his shoulders and gently coaxed him forward to their embrace, and Dick leaned weakly against them, his wails still holding power over him.

Then came the gentle pats upon his back that told him who it was.

Jason hadn’t hugged him in a long time. Ordinarily Dick would’ve grinned with joy, tease him until Jason threatened to punch him, only if it hadn’t been under these circumstances.

“No,” His voice a rasp, as though he’d gone years without speaking a word. “No, she can’t, Jay. We were supposed to get married- twenty-seven days. I was gonna marry her in twenty-seven days. She’s not- she can’t leave me now, Jason.” His words dissolved to tired gasps, tears continued to run down his face.

It’s ironic. The last time Dick had been in this scenario, it happened in this very room. Difference was: years ago, it had been you who held him in your arms as he cried his heart out, mourning over the loss of Jason, his brother who he couldn’t save.

Now, it was Jason who held him as he mourned over you.

The familiar saccharine scent of your apartment entered his nose the moment he pushed the door open. More prominent upon his absence. It made Dick want to turn away and run back to the manor.

It’s been a month since he’d been here; since your funeral.

It didn’t feel real. The past month of your absence felt like he was floating though a bad dream. Time passed by without him noticing.

His family—mostly Alfred— insisted that he should stay at the manor for a while. When he agreed to stay, Stephanie and Cass went back here to pick up Haley and brought her over to the manor.

They hadn’t wanted him to be alone. And Dick didn’t think he’d be able to return here without you. For a split second he had the idea to never step foot in this house again, preserve the space that you left as it was.

But he quickly shoved the idea down after a few weeks, mustering up the courage to go back home.

He almost laughed at the thought. Home. It wasn’t really a home anymore, was it? His home was you.

A quiet whine from Haley had him snapping out of his thoughts. Reminding him that he was still standing at the doorway, his feet rooted on the spot, as if afraid to take a step inside.

He looked down at her, tucked in her carrier, a touch of a smile appearing for the first time in weeks. “Okay, let’s go in, shall we?” he whispered softly, earning a huff of agreement from her.

When he finally entered, he shut off his mind for a bit, letting his limbs move on their own accord; remove his coat, hang it next to yours; slip off his shoes, place them next to your on the rack; crouch down and let Haley out of her carrier.

The sweet pittbull has always been a cheery one. But today, she was quiet, timid. Trailing after her dad at his feet as he walked further into the house.

Dick didn’t spend much time gazing around. He passed the living room, and the kitchen, and instead made his way over to the master bedroom.

He thought the smell of the house was bad enough, but as he opened the bedroom door, the smell of your favourite perfume hits him like a punch that made him physically recoil.

Inhaling a deep breath, bracing himself, he forced his legs to move.

He walked mindlessly around the room, eyes roaming and catching every detail like he hadn’t lived here, made a thousand memories here for two years.

He caught the sight of the book on your bedside table, the one you were reading together, the photobooh strip sticking out between the pages. He wasn’t much of a reader, but he wanted to go wherever your mind had drifted with you, so he’d often ask you to read together.

His gaze then stopped at the bed. Where the blue dress and suit laid were out nicely on the sheets side by side.

Stepping towards it. his fingers gently brushed over the satin fabric of your dress. And the memory came rushing, your voice echoing in his head.

“You, Grayson, have to promise to take me dancing on our next date.”

He never got to take you dancing like he promised.

The revelation had him dropping to his knees at the end of the bed, fingers clutching tightly to your dress, and pulling it to his chest like he would’ve held you.

“I’m sorry.” A loud sob tore through his heart, the wound opening and flooding his senses with the same grief he’d done so well to ignore. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so fucking sorry.”

It finally made sense, the mysterious letter.

Dick, it wrote in his very handwriting, the second that you read this, I only have one request: tell her the truth. Tell her that you love her, that you have loved her as long as you’ve known her. Please don’t waste your time, any other second Tell her that she’s beautiful every day and night. Love her with everything you have. Cherish every memory you have with her. Make her smile on her bad days, like she always did with you. Give her the happiest memories to remember. You might think that you’re not enough for her, and the truth is, I agree. But she doesn’t think that. She’ll call it bullshit, just like when we’re you’re being self-depricating. She deserves all the good there is in the world and you are the one who can give them to her. The person that she wants to share her happiest days with. Believe me, she told me that herself.

Don’t ever let her go. Don’t make her cry. Don’t push her away even on your worst days. You were meant to be together. Again, don’t waste another moment where she doesn’t know how you feel. Eventually, this letter would make sense. But for now, tell her how you feel.

The letter had no sign-off. At first he thought that you were pranking him. “You told me to give this back to you.” you’d said, with the same furrow of your brows that told him that you weren’t lying.

He let you walk him through the scene. You’d explained it all perfectly from memory, how he knocked at your door the night before, and that he seemed sad and he cried in your arms.

The memories he didn’t recall having.

But something in his gut strongly told him to listen to what the letter has said; that it was all true that you loved him like he loved you. That he shouldn’t spend any second longer without telling you how pathetically he yearned for you.

So, he did. That night he pushed through his fear and laid his heart bare to you.

It turned out to be one of the best desicions he’d ever made.

At the present, though your love story ended the way it did, he had no regrets, loving you fiercely as he was able to. And to feel the love you gave him in return.

He’d go through it over and over again for you if he had to.

© TEALOVINGDREAMER . . . i do not consent my works to be copied, plagiarised, translated, or be fed into any form of ai media.

[liabiamiakiawia]

im back reading this again… heartbroken and in love

[pittsick]

A MISSING PIECE.

summary: patrick never meant to be a dad. too much responsibilities, freedom disappearing, all the fun gone. no, really, he didn’t meant to. but it took one night with one of his old girlfriends and poof, nine months later, he was one. he didn’t want that, so he did what he thought was best, leave. and now he was to watch his child trying to find the missing piece of an absent dad.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

Patrick never meant to be a dad.

It wasn’t a plan. Wasn’t even a mistake he saw coming. Just another night, another girl, another blur. She’d been nice. Melanie was her name. Pretty. Her laugh made him forget for a few seconds that his chest felt like it had been hollow since Tashi.

He stayed with her longer than usual. A few months. Her apartment smelled like eucalyptus and cheap wine, and she let him fall asleep with the TV on. Sometimes she ran her fingers through his hair when he got quiet. They never talked about feelings. Not really. She didn’t ask about tennis, or Tashi, or Art.

Maybe that’s why he lasted six months.

Then she got pregnant. And Patrick left.

She was eight weeks along when she told him. “I’m keeping it,” she said, not looking at him. Patrick sat at the edge of the bed, shirt half-buttoned, like he’d frozen mid-motion. “You’re… you’re sure?”

“I’m not asking you to be part of it,” she added. “I know you’re not that kind of guy.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then nodded. Relief. Shame. Something murky in between. Something he couldn’t deny but couldn’t deny.

He kissed her cheek when he left that night. Didn’t come back.

The kid is ten now. Patrick doesn’t know how he found the Instagram. Probably one of those long nights where he drank too much and scrolled too far. She had posted a photo—black-and-white, some birthday cake with ten candles. The caption read:

“Double digits today. My heart walking outside my body.”

The kid had his eyes. Same gray-green shade, too light to be called hazel, too stormy to be warm. There was something in her expression—like she was thinking too much for someone his age. A little lost, a little wary. Patrick’s stomach clenched.

He closed the app and stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Patrick watches from a distance. He tells himself it’s just curiosity. He doesn’t have the right to do more than look.

They live in the same city still. He’s seen her, his ex-girlfriend—older now, tired in the eyes, strong in the shoulders. The kid walks beside her, holding her hand without looking up. She talks. The kid nods, distracted. Doesn’t smile much.

One day, Patrick watches from the car as the little girl walks alone up to her school. He’s parked far enough that she doesn’t notice. She wears a backpack almost as big as her. Hair messy. Shirt a little too small. She reminds him of himself when he was her age. His heart clench at the thought.

She turns at the school doors and glances back. Like maybe she’s hoping someone’s still there.

Nobody is.

Not even him.

He didn’t come to the hospital. after the birth. She didn’t ask him to. When they handed her the baby, her arms shook. The nurse asked if she wanted to call anyone. Melanie said no.

The baby didn’t cry right away.

But when she did—sharp and angry and loud—it felt like a firework splitting the silence in two.

And Patrick drinks too much now.

It’s a pattern. The weeks leading up to the kid’s tenth birthday, he spirals. His apartment gets messy. He cancels on friends. He dreams about tennis courts flooded with water, rackets slipping from his fingers. About Tashi turning her back on him. About Art leaving too. About a little girl calling for someone who never comes.

Sometimes he wonders what he’d say if he saw her. The kid.

“Hi, I’m your dad,” sounds stupid. Cowardly. Ten years too late.

He rehearses apologies in his head.

“I wasn’t ready.”

“I didn’t know how to be anything but selfish.”

“I didn’t think I’d be good for you.”

They all feel like lies, even if they’re true. But if only he could tell her how scared he had been. How selfish he still was.

The kid asks questions to her mother. He knows because she posted once, late at night and he was scrolling through her Instagram account once again.

Just text on a black background:

“Hardest question in the world is ‘Why doesn’t my dad want me?’”

Patrick stared at the post until his vision blurred. He opened a blank message box. He didn’t send anything.

Melanie remembers the first steps. She stood with her phone in one hand, the other outstretched as the baby toddled unsteadily toward her. Laughing.

She caught it on video. Sent it to no one. But during that moment, she thought of Patrick, of what he was missing and how he’d never understand that joy. She cried.

Patrick tries to date. They always end it. Or he does. They say he’s distant. He won’t open up. He sleeps with the TV on.

He doesn’t tell anyone why.

He thinks of his kid during the quiet moments after waking up, when he feels most hollow. He thinks about being ten and wondering why someone you came from doesn’t love you enough to stay. Why they don’t love you enough to be there. Why does it hurts so much?

He thinks about her wondering if she’s somehow unworthy, when really, he was just weak.

During her first day of school, the little girl wore new sneakers and mismatched socks. She didn’t cry. Just held her mother’s hand until the teacher called her in.

“She must look like her dad,” one of the other moms said in line.

Melanie smiled. Said nothing. But they were right, the girl looked so much like Patrick that it hurt.

They ran into each other, once. It happens fast. Grocery store. Middle of the day. He turns down an aisle and she’s there, pushing a cart, the kid helping load cans into it.

He freezes.

She looks up. Eyes widen. There’s a full two seconds where neither of them breathes. Then her mouth sets. Tight.

The kid looks up at her. “Mom?”

“Go grab some cereal, baby. Over there.” She points. Once the kid’s gone, she looks back at Patrick. “You have five seconds to leave.”

“I just—” His throat’s dry. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Right,” she says. “Because you didn’t know we were living in the same fucking city.”

He can’t speak. She looks the same—older, stronger, angrier. More beautiful somehow. And she’s right, he knew. He knew and never tried to contact her, never tried to meet his daughter, never tried enough.

“She looks like you,” he manages.

“She cries like you, too,” she snaps. “Alone. When she thinks I’m asleep.”

That breaks something in him.

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns away.

On her seventh birthday, they had a party in the park. Face paint, cupcakes, a bouncy house. She kept asking if her dad was coming to her mom.

She didn’t cry when Melanie said no again. Just stopped asking.

Later that night, her mom found her folding her drawings and hiding them in a shoebox with little trinkets, like shells from the beach, postcards from vacations with her grandparents and even a polaroid picture of her with her first teeth missing.

“For him. If he ever comes,” she said.

Her mother kissed her forehead and turned away so she wouldn’t cry in front of her.

Patrick goes to therapy. Once.

The therapist asks why he came.

“I think I ruined a kid,” he says. The therapist is quiet. Then: “Do you want to fix it?”

Patrick doesn’t answer.

Because wanting it doesn’t feel like enough. Not when it’s this late. Not when this kid already has a hole in their heart, one she’ll probably never know how to fill. Something missing, something wrong. And it’s his fault.

On her ninth birthday, she asked to know his name.

Her mom told her, because it felt like she deserved to know.

That night, the girl Googled him. Watched videos of him playing. Interviews where he smiled, all charm and swagger. She saw herself in his eyes, his hair, his mannerisms. In his laugh, and the eyes his eyes shined so bright. Her heart clenched and for the first time, she understood why.

She turned the laptop off and cried into her pillow.

“He looks happy,” she whispered.

Patrick leaves a letter but he doesn’t send it. But he writes it.

I wasn’t ready. But that’s not your fault. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve tried. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just scared. And stupid. And selfish. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just want you to know I think about you. Every day. I’m proud of you, even from far away. I’m sorry I never gave you more than that. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t enough or worthy of my love because you are. I’m sorry that I didn’t know how to love or care for you the way your mom did. I’m sorry.

He folds it. Stares at the envelope for an hour. Then hides it in a drawer.

She’s eleven now.

Patrick still watches sometimes. From afar. At school drop-off. On sidewalks. Once, at a piano recital where he sat in the back, hidden behind a row of other parents.

She played well. Better than he expected. Her fingers moved with purpose, like she was chasing something she couldn’t name.

When she finished, the crowd clapped. She scanned the audience—hopeful. Her eyes passed over him. Didn’t stop until she saw Melanie and smiled with all her teeth.

He clapped. Quietly.

And left before she saw him.

Maybe one day, he tells himself. Maybe when she’s older.

Maybe when he’s better.

Maybe when the ache of missing her outweighs the shame of having missed so much.

Maybe. But for now, he just watches.

And hurts. And wishes he'd stayed.

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?

Pairing: Jason Todd x reader

Summary: you come home, very drunk, and see a very hot guy sitting on your couch… so naturally you ask him out!

It starts with a simple, high-pitched gasp in the middle of your living room.

Jason is sitting on the couch in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, laptop on his knees, mid-snack, when you stumble through the front door. You’re wearing one of his oversized jacket slung over your shoulders, your cheeks flushed red from two too many margaritas with your friends, and your hair a complete, chaotic masterpiece.

He sets his laptop aside immediately, a half-amused, half-concerned smirk already forming on his lips. "Hey, sweetheart. How was girls' night—"

He doesn't get to finish. The moment your eyes land on him, your hands fly to your face, covering your red-hot cheeks. You freeze in place, staring at him through your fingers as if you’ve just spotted a celebrity in a coffee shop.

"Oh," you whisper loud enough for the whole apartment complex to hear. "Oh my god."

Jason blinks, pausing. "What?"

You kick off your shoes—completely missing the rack—and take three deliberate, overly cautious, drunk steps toward the couch. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and completely starstruck.

"Who are you?" you ask, leaning over the back of the couch, resting your chin on your folded hands. You beam at him, giggling softly. "Because you are... so pretty. Like so hot. Has anyone ever told you that? You look like a whole movie star."

Jason slowly looks down at his faded t-shirt, then back up at you. A playful glint flickers in his blue eyes as the reality hits him: You have completely forgotten you're already dating him.

"A movie star, huh?" Jason drawls, leaning back against the cushions and crossing his arms over his chest. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. "Can't say I hear that one often. I'm Jason."

"Jason," you sigh, the name rolling off your tongue like a melody. You sway slightly where you stand, blushing down to your collarbone. "That's a nice name. I'm... well, you know. I'm me."

"Nice to meet you, Me," he says softly, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register he knows makes you melt. "What's a girl like you doing flustered in my living room?"

"I live here! I think?" You look around the apartment, thoroughly confused for a split second, before your focus snaps right back to him like a magnet. You lean in closer, whispering conspiratorially, "Listen... I know this is crazy, but... are you single?"

You pause, then giggle, “wanna know a secret? I actually wanna marry you but I think asking you if you’re single is less advanced.”

Jason bites his lower lip, trying—and failing—to hide a massive grin. "Am I single? Well... that's a tough question."

Your face falls instantly into a dramatic, adorable pout, and you genuinely look devastated. "Oh no. You have a girlfriend?"

"I do," Jason says softly, watching your reaction.

"Is she pretty?" you ask, sniffling just a little bit, clearly heartbroken.

"She's gorgeous," Jason says, his voice softening. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist gently, and pulls you over the back of the couch until you tumble right onto his lap. You gasp, your hands landing flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. "She’s got this ridiculously cute laugh, gets super giggly when she drinks, and is currently sitting on my lap looking at me like I hung the moon."

You stare at him, your brain slowly churning through the alcoholic fog.

1... 2... 3 seconds pass.

"Wait," you whisper, your eyes going wide. "I just drank and I am fairly giggly."

"You are."

"And I'm on your lap."

"You are."

"...I'm the pretty girlfriend?!"

Jason couldn't hold it back anymore; he threw his head back and laughed, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating through his chest against your palms. "Yes, dummy. You're the pretty girlfriend. We've been together for over a year."

A look of pure, unadulterated triumph washes over your face. You kick your feet up, burying your burning face right into the crook of his neck, muffled giggles spilling out against his skin. "I scored so hard," you mutter into his collar. "He's huge and he's mine."

"Yeah, yeah, you hit the lottery," Jason chuckled, his broad arms wrapping snugly around your waist, pulling you close so you wouldn't slide off. He kissed the top of your head, resting his chin on your hair. "Come on, baby. Let's get you some water and into bed before you try to ask me out again."

"Wait!" You pop your head back up, cheeks still bright red, poking his chest with a single finger. "So... does this mean you won't go on a date with me?"

Jason shook his head, a soft, fond smile softening his rugged features. "I'll take you on a date every single day of the week, sweetie. Now go to sleep."

[jtoddsbaby]

a pillow? really?

IN WHICH... after a fight with your boyfriend, you force him to sleep with a pillow between you. here's how he handles it.

featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne, damian wayne, and tim drake.

warnings: fluff, crack, f!reader, established relationship (wife!reader for bruce, gf!reader for everyone else), EXTREME mommy kink!tim—dni if this is "too freaky" for you!!

inspired by this ask

dick grayson:

dick definitely would be upset and would try at least 3 times to ditch the pillow.

but each time he yanks the item from between you and tucks it under his head, you yank it right back and lodge it between your bodies.

he gives up on removing it after attempt #10.

you're turned on your side away from him, seeming way too unbothered for his liking. he's probably pissing you off even more, but attention from you is all he wants.

he pokes your shoulder repeatedly, arm draped over the barrier pillow. "baby, baby, baby, baby," he repeats with each poke.

he grins big and wide when you finally turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. "do i need to get a bigger pillow?" you scoff.

"no. this one's perfectly fine," he chirps. "though i'd prefer no pillow at all. i can't feel my baby up like this!"

you roll your eyes. "you don't deserve to feel me up, richard. go to sleep." you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, juuust far enough that he can't reach you.

he groans dramatically, flopping down on his side with a huff. "fine, whatever. you don't love me, i get it. goodnight, i guess."

he falls asleep with a big, babyish pout on his face, his lip jutted out like a toddler's rather than a 20-something year old's.

his spirits are definitely raised in the morning, though, because he wakes up to his body being draped over the stupid pillow barrier, head nestled against your chest.

jason todd:

jason would take it much worse than dick. he'd feel personally offended, undoubtedly.

he'd glare daggers at the pillow separating his body from yours, wishing he could burn it to ashes with just his eyes. his arms are crossed over his beefy chest like a child told no to dessert.

finally, he tears his eyes from the pillow and onto your sweet body. your beautiful, worship-worthy body. "can i touch you yet?"

"no, jay! that's the whole point of the pillow. no cuddles allowed, i'm angry with you."

he grumbles. "no cuddles isn't the same as no touching. can't i at least hold your hand, ma?"

"no."

"ma, please?"

"jason peter," you snap, giving him the look. "i said no. goodnight."

his eyes remain trained to your back, watching it rise and fall as you breathe. "...night."

you feel much worse about how you spoke to him when you wake up the next morning. his side of the bed is cold, and the pillow in the middle looks as if it hadn't moved once since it was placed.

you get up, padding to the kitchen where jason is flipping pancakes at the stove. his shoulders are slumped, head swaying as if it's too heavy for his neck. he lets out a deep sigh. you frown.

your arms wrap around yourself as you approach. "jay?" you call softly, standing beside him at the stove. no touching, not yet. he doesn't look at you, so you tilt your head to get a look at his face and oh...

his eyelids droop with exhaustion, eyes a bit red from straining to stay awake. his under-eyes are dark bags. his lips are chapped. "baby? what's up with you?"

alas, he looks at you, his lips don't smile, eyes don't soften. he holds out your plate of pancakes and you accept it. "i did not sleep."

"...why?"

he looks at you as if it's obvious. "well, i did not have you to hold, and i can't guarantee your safety without holding you. i tried to sleep, but then i had a nightmare that i'd...lost you. every time i shut my eyes i saw the same thing as the dream. so, i decided to just stay awake."

you've never felt like a shittier person. you throw your arms around him, feeling him slump against you. you vow to never but him on a touch ban again, no matter how angry he makes you.

bruce wayne:

personally, i feel like bruce just...wouldn't even put up with it lol.

unlike how dick and jason kept the pillow and respected the rule (to an extent), bruce would just laugh in your face when he comes in for bed.

he stands at the foot of the bed, looking at your scowling face and the fluffy pillow at your side. "what's with the barrier?"

you huff. "no touching, bruce. i'm not in the mood."

he places his glass of water on his nightstand, casually crawling into bed and tossing the pillow across the room.

"bruce!" you glare, but you can't do much when he snakes his beefy arms around your waist and tugs you close until your back meets his chest. "i said no touch—"

"—i know what you said, darling. and—no offense—i don't give two fucks," he chuckles, the sound low and deep in your ear. fuck, why does he sound so good when you're so upset? "if i want to hold my wife, i'm going to hold my lovely wife."

you grumble, fighting his grip, but to no avail. "bruceeee," you groan.

"g'night, honey," he only croons, kissing your jawline so sweetly. "i love you."

moments of silence pass.

"i said i love you," he repeats, pinching your waist.

you squirm. "ughhhuh, i love you, too."

"good girl," he grins into your neck, holding you closer. "get some beauty sleep, i'll have alfred prepare you a spectacular breakfast tomorrow morning—y'know, as my apology."

true to his word, you wake up to his arms still locked around you like chains. however, the delectable scent of pancakes, waffles, berries and cream, eggs, and coffee wafts into the bedroom.

"ugh, i hate you, you promising, handsome bastard," you grumble, relaxing into his arms with the assumption that he's still sleeping. "i can never stay mad at you."

you feel lips curl into a grin against your shoulder. "yes, yes, you hate me," he mumbles sarcastically. "my wifey hates me and my lovely arms and the breakfast i make her."

"you didn't make anything. alfred made it."

"i made him make it. lovable by association, honey."

damian wayne:

when damian's told that you'd be sleeping with a pillow between you, your sweet baby's signature scowl is tainted with unshed tears. you feel bad, but your anger from the fight overpowers your remorse.

"a...pillow barrier?" he mumbles. "really, habibti?"

you nod. "a pillow barrier. i'm so upset with you, dami. i don't wanna cuddle."

he nods his head once. "i'll try to cope," he sighs, climbing into bed and throwing the covers over his head.

all of damian that shows is a little peek of jet-black hair from under the sheets. despite yourself, you have to bite back a smile. so cute.

"night, damian," you murmur.

his voice is muffled by the comforter. "goodnight, habibti. i love you oh so dearly, my world."

you're glad that he's hiding under the sheets, that way he can't see your grin breaks through—can't see your walls cracking. "i love you too, dami."

dami. the nickname makes your boyfriend smile. dami rather than damian, that's progress.

what you don't see is damian tossing and turning for hours until the clock strikes 2 am. he just can't sleep without his beloved woman in his arms, without your hair tickling his cheek as you drool into his neck.

so, he crawls out of bed and into the cool nighttime chill of the manor. if you won't cuddle him, he shall find a replacement. he returns to the bedroom a bit later with alfred the cat tucked under his arm and titus trailing lazily behind him.

he reunites with the warm blankets, holding alfred close under his chin. titus climbs into bed, sprawling comfortably over damian's legs.

you awaken the next morning the most adorable sight. your dami, arms (and legs) full of his cherished pets.

his hold on the cat is tight, the animal purring softly into damian's neck. titus has since inched his way up the bed, his head level with damian's—the dog is nearly spooning your boyfriend, doggy drool coating his sleep shirt.

well, at least he found a way to get his fix of drool and warmth. your walls finally crumble, and you reach over the pillow to stroke your knuckles against his cheek. that wakes him up.

he peels one eye open, grinning at the gooey look on your face. "what? i needed something to hold."

tim drake:

mommy kink!tim is activated almost instantly, and he tears each and every one of your walls down until you forget why you were even upset with him in the first place.

his face falls when you announce the pillow's presence. "what?!"

"you heard me, tim. pillow stays."

"no...no, no, no, no," he whines softly, feeling helpless. he tosses his phone haphazardly onto his nightstand, flopping onto the bed. "please, no."

you huff. "i'm upset, tim! i can't cuddle with you tonight, i just can't."

"mommy, please!" he begs pathetically, shoving the pillow out from where it's lodged between your bodies. he nuzzles up into your side instantly. his dark locks brush your cheek. "can't sleep without my mommy...need her to hold me, and love me, and tell me i'm a good boy."

you arch a brow. "but you're not a good boy."

he whimpers, eyes drilling shut in regret at your words. "o– okay, then to tell me i'm a bad boy. that i'm such a bad boy and don't deserve my mommy's affection."

"okay, fine. you're a ba—"

"—no! i change my mind. don't tell me any of those things," he whines, big blue eyes looking apologetically up at you through thick lashes. fuck, the eyes. "i'm so so so sorry, mama. i wasn't a good boy, but i can be! a good boy, that is."

you run a hand through his hair, and he whimpers—loud and desperate for more touch. "you promise you'll be good? you're not lying to mommy so she'll cuddle you?"

he keeps his eyes on yours, so melty and gentle. "i'd never lie to you, mommy. i swear."

"okay, then. if you say you can be a good boy, timmy, then i'll cuddle you tonight. but don't make me mad again, understand?"

"understand, mommy," he coos, smiling happily now that he's won you over. he snuggles into your chest, sighing contentedly. "thank you."

a/n: anyone peep the reference at the end of bruce's headcannons?🫣

[liabiamiakiawia]

CAN WE WRITE TIM LIKE THIS MORE IH MY GODODODOD

[jtoddsbaby]

a pillow? really?

IN WHICH... after a fight with your boyfriend, you force him to sleep with a pillow between you. here's how he handles it.

featuring: dick grayson, jason todd, bruce wayne, damian wayne, and tim drake.

warnings: fluff, crack, f!reader, established relationship (wife!reader for bruce, gf!reader for everyone else), EXTREME mommy kink!tim—dni if this is "too freaky" for you!!

inspired by this ask

dick grayson:

dick definitely would be upset and would try at least 3 times to ditch the pillow.

but each time he yanks the item from between you and tucks it under his head, you yank it right back and lodge it between your bodies.

he gives up on removing it after attempt #10.

you're turned on your side away from him, seeming way too unbothered for his liking. he's probably pissing you off even more, but attention from you is all he wants.

he pokes your shoulder repeatedly, arm draped over the barrier pillow. "baby, baby, baby, baby," he repeats with each poke.

he grins big and wide when you finally turn over your shoulder, glaring at him. "do i need to get a bigger pillow?" you scoff.

"no. this one's perfectly fine," he chirps. "though i'd prefer no pillow at all. i can't feel my baby up like this!"

you roll your eyes. "you don't deserve to feel me up, richard. go to sleep." you shuffle closer to the edge of the bed, juuust far enough that he can't reach you.

he groans dramatically, flopping down on his side with a huff. "fine, whatever. you don't love me, i get it. goodnight, i guess."

he falls asleep with a big, babyish pout on his face, his lip jutted out like a toddler's rather than a 20-something year old's.

his spirits are definitely raised in the morning, though, because he wakes up to his body being draped over the stupid pillow barrier, head nestled against your chest.

jason todd:

jason would take it much worse than dick. he'd feel personally offended, undoubtedly.

he'd glare daggers at the pillow separating his body from yours, wishing he could burn it to ashes with just his eyes. his arms are crossed over his beefy chest like a child told no to dessert.

finally, he tears his eyes from the pillow and onto your sweet body. your beautiful, worship-worthy body. "can i touch you yet?"

"no, jay! that's the whole point of the pillow. no cuddles allowed, i'm angry with you."

he grumbles. "no cuddles isn't the same as no touching. can't i at least hold your hand, ma?"

"no."

"ma, please?"

"jason peter," you snap, giving him the look. "i said no. goodnight."

his eyes remain trained to your back, watching it rise and fall as you breathe. "...night."

you feel much worse about how you spoke to him when you wake up the next morning. his side of the bed is cold, and the pillow in the middle looks as if it hadn't moved once since it was placed.

you get up, padding to the kitchen where jason is flipping pancakes at the stove. his shoulders are slumped, head swaying as if it's too heavy for his neck. he lets out a deep sigh. you frown.

your arms wrap around yourself as you approach. "jay?" you call softly, standing beside him at the stove. no touching, not yet. he doesn't look at you, so you tilt your head to get a look at his face and oh...

his eyelids droop with exhaustion, eyes a bit red from straining to stay awake. his under-eyes are dark bags. his lips are chapped. "baby? what's up with you?"

alas, he looks at you, his lips don't smile, eyes don't soften. he holds out your plate of pancakes and you accept it. "i did not sleep."

"...why?"

he looks at you as if it's obvious. "well, i did not have you to hold, and i can't guarantee your safety without holding you. i tried to sleep, but then i had a nightmare that i'd...lost you. every time i shut my eyes i saw the same thing as the dream. so, i decided to just stay awake."

you've never felt like a shittier person. you throw your arms around him, feeling him slump against you. you vow to never but him on a touch ban again, no matter how angry he makes you.

bruce wayne:

personally, i feel like bruce just...wouldn't even put up with it lol.

unlike how dick and jason kept the pillow and respected the rule (to an extent), bruce would just laugh in your face when he comes in for bed.

he stands at the foot of the bed, looking at your scowling face and the fluffy pillow at your side. "what's with the barrier?"

you huff. "no touching, bruce. i'm not in the mood."

he places his glass of water on his nightstand, casually crawling into bed and tossing the pillow across the room.

"bruce!" you glare, but you can't do much when he snakes his beefy arms around your waist and tugs you close until your back meets his chest. "i said no touch—"

"—i know what you said, darling. and—no offense—i don't give two fucks," he chuckles, the sound low and deep in your ear. fuck, why does he sound so good when you're so upset? "if i want to hold my wife, i'm going to hold my lovely wife."

you grumble, fighting his grip, but to no avail. "bruceeee," you groan.

"g'night, honey," he only croons, kissing your jawline so sweetly. "i love you."

moments of silence pass.

"i said i love you," he repeats, pinching your waist.

you squirm. "ughhhuh, i love you, too."

"good girl," he grins into your neck, holding you closer. "get some beauty sleep, i'll have alfred prepare you a spectacular breakfast tomorrow morning—y'know, as my apology."

true to his word, you wake up to his arms still locked around you like chains. however, the delectable scent of pancakes, waffles, berries and cream, eggs, and coffee wafts into the bedroom.

"ugh, i hate you, you promising, handsome bastard," you grumble, relaxing into his arms with the assumption that he's still sleeping. "i can never stay mad at you."

you feel lips curl into a grin against your shoulder. "yes, yes, you hate me," he mumbles sarcastically. "my wifey hates me and my lovely arms and the breakfast i make her."

"you didn't make anything. alfred made it."

"i made him make it. lovable by association, honey."

damian wayne:

when damian's told that you'd be sleeping with a pillow between you, your sweet baby's signature scowl is tainted with unshed tears. you feel bad, but your anger from the fight overpowers your remorse.

"a...pillow barrier?" he mumbles. "really, habibti?"

you nod. "a pillow barrier. i'm so upset with you, dami. i don't wanna cuddle."

he nods his head once. "i'll try to cope," he sighs, climbing into bed and throwing the covers over his head.

all of damian that shows is a little peek of jet-black hair from under the sheets. despite yourself, you have to bite back a smile. so cute.

"night, damian," you murmur.

his voice is muffled by the comforter. "goodnight, habibti. i love you oh so dearly, my world."

you're glad that he's hiding under the sheets, that way he can't see your grin breaks through—can't see your walls cracking. "i love you too, dami."

dami. the nickname makes your boyfriend smile. dami rather than damian, that's progress.

what you don't see is damian tossing and turning for hours until the clock strikes 2 am. he just can't sleep without his beloved woman in his arms, without your hair tickling his cheek as you drool into his neck.

so, he crawls out of bed and into the cool nighttime chill of the manor. if you won't cuddle him, he shall find a replacement. he returns to the bedroom a bit later with alfred the cat tucked under his arm and titus trailing lazily behind him.

he reunites with the warm blankets, holding alfred close under his chin. titus climbs into bed, sprawling comfortably over damian's legs.

you awaken the next morning the most adorable sight. your dami, arms (and legs) full of his cherished pets.

his hold on the cat is tight, the animal purring softly into damian's neck. titus has since inched his way up the bed, his head level with damian's—the dog is nearly spooning your boyfriend, doggy drool coating his sleep shirt.

well, at least he found a way to get his fix of drool and warmth. your walls finally crumble, and you reach over the pillow to stroke your knuckles against his cheek. that wakes him up.

he peels one eye open, grinning at the gooey look on your face. "what? i needed something to hold."

tim drake:

mommy kink!tim is activated almost instantly, and he tears each and every one of your walls down until you forget why you were even upset with him in the first place.

his face falls when you announce the pillow's presence. "what?!"

"you heard me, tim. pillow stays."

"no...no, no, no, no," he whines softly, feeling helpless. he tosses his phone haphazardly onto his nightstand, flopping onto the bed. "please, no."

you huff. "i'm upset, tim! i can't cuddle with you tonight, i just can't."

"mommy, please!" he begs pathetically, shoving the pillow out from where it's lodged between your bodies. he nuzzles up into your side instantly. his dark locks brush your cheek. "can't sleep without my mommy...need her to hold me, and love me, and tell me i'm a good boy."

you arch a brow. "but you're not a good boy."

he whimpers, eyes drilling shut in regret at your words. "o– okay, then to tell me i'm a bad boy. that i'm such a bad boy and don't deserve my mommy's affection."

"okay, fine. you're a ba—"

"—no! i change my mind. don't tell me any of those things," he whines, big blue eyes looking apologetically up at you through thick lashes. fuck, the eyes. "i'm so so so sorry, mama. i wasn't a good boy, but i can be! a good boy, that is."

you run a hand through his hair, and he whimpers—loud and desperate for more touch. "you promise you'll be good? you're not lying to mommy so she'll cuddle you?"

he keeps his eyes on yours, so melty and gentle. "i'd never lie to you, mommy. i swear."

"okay, then. if you say you can be a good boy, timmy, then i'll cuddle you tonight. but don't make me mad again, understand?"

"understand, mommy," he coos, smiling happily now that he's won you over. he snuggles into your chest, sighing contentedly. "thank you."

a/n: anyone peep the reference at the end of bruce's headcannons?🫣

[soulsforsales]

no one will ever ever fathom how much i love jason todd

[fawnindawn]

in a hundred lifetimes.

summary: landing in an alternate dimension—you're certain this version of damian who finds you should hate you as much as your damian does. but when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before.. you realise he isn't so willing on letting you go.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: alternate dimension damian who finds you which makes the yearning 1000x worse, 'ill choose you in every lifetime' trope, angst-comfort

It's been twenty minutes since you ended up in another dimension. A stupid argument. An accidental trigger. Of course, none of that comes close in comparison to the complete shock of Damian Wayne crushing you with his embrace.

No. Embrace is too soft a term for how tightly squeezed you are—the lack of space making it easy for you to detect how his body is physically shaking.

You're covered in soot, dust particles still emanating from where your form had materialised—from where your first instinct had been to press the emergency contact on your comms. Damian had found you not long after. You still remember how quickly your fury had been extinguished the moment you caught sight of his pale expression, the sheer disbelief in the open gape of his lips.

Damian hates you. That fact is precisely the reason you ended up here, in a whole other dimension. That instinctive reminder is what forces you to push yourself out of his embrace, and his own hands go slack as he stares at you wordlessly.

"Why'd you follow me in—you idiot!" You snap, trying to brush off how taken off-guard you are. "I can't believe we're both stuck here."

He blinks once. "Stuck?"

"You should've pieced this together faster than I did." Gesturing to your surroundings, your arms still ache from having crashed through a construction site. "We're stuck in another dimension all thanks to you."

He blinks again, slower this time. Processing. "Where exactly did you come from?"

"Did the fall injure your head?" Your impatience brims over your exhausted features. "Isn't it enough that you had to start something in the lab? We wouldn't have ended up here if you hadn't been so insistent on triggering the portal."

His features remain stoic, but there's a familiar calculation in his gaze. His lips part after a moment. "Portal."

It's infuriating how long he's taking to catch onto the reality of what's just happened. You give a short nod, your growing panic stuck between your teeth. If Damian's here with you, there's no telling if you'll be able to make a connection back to your dimension.

"I suppose you are right." His brows remain furrowed in consideration. "But there is one thing you're missing."

Leave it to him to counter every point of yours, needing to be right as always. A heavy sigh leaves your lips. "And what is that?"

"I'm not your Damian."

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @fandom-fae @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @mydeliciouscookies @fea-tastic @starr-jazz @yourclutched-pearls @bearhug120 @devilslittlehelper @izumi0708 @prettysweet02 @spideyskywalker (to be added, check masterlist)

[blondlew]

you cannot spell heart without art so happy birthday to my heart baby puppy art donaldson love you !

[imaginaryjedi]

horrible daughter | batsis!reader

cw/tw: angst, mentions of death

mentions of violence, confusing father/daughter dynamic, miscommunication (kinda), unhappy/ambiguous ending, platonic relationships (no romance)

a/n: inspired by a terrible falling out (if you’d even call it that) with my own father. more of a vent fic then anything

synopsis: you admit that you are a horrible daughter, but bruce finds a way to love you despite it all

w/c: 1215

You are a horrible daughter. A rotten, no good, absolutely unlovable woman with the inability to show even an ounce of compassion for the man who had given you house and home.

You don’t lie, or cheat, or steal. No, you do much worse.

You speak to others in a manner unbefitting of a woman with money. You dish respect as though it were a scarce commodity, unwilling to part with it regardless of time or place. You deliver hit after hit, physically and emotionally, to those who matter most to you. You care little for their feelings, knowing that at the end of the day, they don’t care, so why would you?

Your brothers, however many you have now as you’ve seemed to lose count, can attest to this. They can agree, and you’re sure they will, in the sole fact that you are a horrible person and an even worse daughter.

You harbor an instinct to kill, unlike your youngest brother. You abide by your own codes and conduct as closely as your father does his own, with only a touch more of your own womanly conviction.

You regret nothing. You wish and pray to whoever is willing to listen that your greatest enemies will die by your hand, that they suffer tenfold what they have caused, and that their deaths have purpose. That their deaths mean something beyond the end of their lives.

These urges show blatantly on your face, in cold, dead eyes, and a bloody grin that unnerves those around you. You are not like your brothers. You are much worse.

Your father wishes you were like him, enraptured by his own moral code, the same way you have become so concerned with your own. You think that for all the pain he has caused, the divine has sent you down to earth as punishment for his wrongs.

He must think the same of you.

You are a horrible daughter. Always bathed in blood that isn’t yours, going too far and yet not far enough. You stand there, watching and waiting for a kill that will never happen because you are too scared, too loyal to a man who hates you to your core, you’re sure.

You are a horrible daughter, and in this moment, as you lie in a pool of blood that is finally yours, you become absolutely positive of that fact. Doubts that have previously plagued you, ones that involve your father’s conditional love and care, have washed away, flooded into the same Gotham city drain that your livelihood has trickled down.

He will not come for you. He does not want you.

You are a horrible daughter. Bruce knows it. He lives by this fact. You know, you will die by this fact.

Bruce Wayne, the Batman, admits that you are a horrible daughter, and though not having done so to your face, you feel it in every breath he takes and in every move he makes. Eyes of a bat, not of a father, follow you keenly, watching and waiting for something to give and break.

You find that in your hour of giving and breaking, he is absent. His love, his watchful gaze, and perhaps his hate are lost on you now.

And as you look up to the dim lighting of the room you know you will die in, you can admit wholeheartedly that you were a horrible daughter.

Bruce Wayne is your father, and he loves you. He thinks the world of you.

He has watched you grow, held you tightly as a baby in a way that he never had the chance to do with his other children.

Since your birth, you have been wholeheartedly his own child, a pride and joy that he carried on his shoulder earnestly. To show off to the world with a new sense of purpose. You were loved, you are loved.

You are his daughter, though no longer his only one. You are his and his alone.

He’s since resigned to the fact that he has shared his children among many parents. Richard, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian, and however many more he’s seemed to pick up in his lifetime—he knows that they hold onto families far outside of his own, positive or otherwise.

Damian, who he knows is his child by more than just blood, still bears the weight of Al Ghul on his shoulders.

You are special, you are nothing like the others.

You are a Wayne and a Wayne alone. You carry the name with a grace Bruce has never seen before, perhaps has never acted upon himself. You do not bear the emotional baggage of a long-lost parent, nor do you find yourself craving that belonging to one. You are Bruce’s, and Bruce is yours.

You are his daughter, and he is your father, mother, confidant, and friend.

And yet in the ocean of faults and stresses cracking along the surface of his double life, he’s let you slip through the cracks.

You no longer watch shows together, no longer poke fun at the small and insignificant areas of life as you once did. No more do the two of you go out to the store in uniform and return home with a haul of snacks for the family.

Life has taken a toll on the both of you, and Bruce fears that he’s let you carry the brunt of that weight.

Bruce Wayne loves you. You are his daughter, there will never be anyone like you.

So when he sees you faltering, letting your hits connect heavier than usual, your posture curling in like a cryptid in the night as you wreak havoc on a dime-a-dozen criminal, he must say something.

He cannot let you fall into the same cycle of abuse and selfishness that he once did. Vengeance, or whatever it is that you seek, is what he makes it out to be. He knows this, it must be true.

The look in your eyes as he admonishes your actions throughout that night and the ones that follow will haunt him forever. They are not the kind eyes he’s seen in photographs and paintings, rather they are cold and calculating, filled with hate and a lust for blood. He fears what they mean, what they foretell for you and for him.

He wonders when you started looking at him like you hated him.

Yet, he finds himself missing those eyes as he stares at the blank ones on the cold slab of surgical steel before him.

Bruce Wayne loves you. He will pick your broken body up from the concrete floors, stitch you back together, and pray to a god he isn’t even sure he believes in. He will clean you, prepare you, clothe you, and keep you at the end of your life just as he did at the beginning of it. He will hunt down who has done this to you, hurt and betray his code a hundred times over if it means that you will look at him with hatred once more.

Bruce Wayne loves you, he is your father, of course, he does. But today, he wonders if perhaps he did not love you enough to keep you alive. If any of it mattered anyway.

[rizzanon]

hey!!….heyy… how yall doing…😬😓

ok but on a serious note, being transparent with everyone here, i don’t know if people lowkenuinely remember my fics but if you do ilysm and i hope you guys are doing well 🫶

for those asking what happened, why was i gone, why didn’t i update?

i guess the only thing i can say is that life happened.

i got busy, exams just came and went and came again. interests changed, i wasn’t as into dc anymore as i was when i first started posting dc fics here. not that i’m saying that i’m completetly out of the loop and not into dc anymore. i still am, but i suppose as time passed, some other hyperfixations took over or i got back into some other fandoms and because of that, i wasn’t as into dc anymore. i don’t know if it’s just me who’s had this feeling but this was what happened to me. life got busy, i just chose to focus on the more “important” stuff in my life.

and yeah, on my part, to those who’d been patiently waiting for me to update or being concerned about my wellbeing, i’m sorry. as a writer, maybe i could have at least put down a hiatus post to inform you guys that i’m fine.

it’s been well over a year since i last posted here and honestly, i don’t think i would have posted if i didn’t talk it out with a friend of mine who’s also a fic writer and has genuinely great ideas. in a way, seeing how passionate she was and how much effort she was putting into her fics and ideas inspired me in a sense?? i guess it opened my eyes and gave me back the encouragment i needed to be even posting this right now. thank you to those who sent sweet things to my inbox and posted your theories about undoing fate or how much the mc/reader in it reminded them of a song that resonates with it, because that too gave me motivation to post here and complete the series.

so yes, i can finally say i’m semi-back. i had chapter 8 half-done the last time i logged onto here, so i doubt i’m gonna post it anytime this week. probably next week at best😅🥲

i also don’t want to half-ass this series because i honestly enjoy the concept of it a lot but i also don’t know if the world-building aspect of it is a bit too much (especially with the addition oc characters that aren’t in the canon dc universe iykwim. but then again the reader itself is a self-insert so i probably shouldn’t be thinking too much or dwelling about this.)

i’m definitely thinking about making the chapters a bit longer so i probably won’t be posting as “frequent” as i used to (if i can still call it frequent lmao 💀💀)

so yeah, that’s kind of all i have to say. (typed this all out in one sitting, i’m not even kidding. lowk kinda sleep-deprived as well so don’t mind any mistakes in this post 😭)

[liabiamiakiawia]

WE ARE SO BACK

[deadendsociety]

“it's been a long day without you.”

"when did we even put those up?"

tim had been lying on his back longer than he realized, now staring up at glow in the dark stars that seemed to blink back at him in his tired state. his eyes flickered between them, tracing along his ceiling like he was connecting the lines of an evidence board that lacked the red string; it was dumb. you didn't answer but he didn't think too much on it, the hand on his stomach shifting to tap some nonsensical rhythm on his stomach.

down on the floor you sat cross legged, back against his bed, surrounded by books and notes, studying for some exam you hadn't said much about. he could hear the turn of pages and how your teeth caught around the cap of your pen - familiar sounds of concentration and annoyance over whatever you were trying to figure out. neither of you had said too much outside of your occasional, incoherent mumble and his dry comment when the room got too quiet. it was oddly domestic for two people who often found every exit to such types of moments.

"you know," he sighed after a while, shifting to tuck his arm more comfortably under his head. "it's been a long day without you.. now, we're just sitting here like the other doesn't even exist."

your response was distracted, barely audible, probably an insult and a threat to leave, but he wasn't too focused on translating your mumbles. he knew you well enough to let it hang.

he rolled over onto his side, arm stretching out as a small smile caught the corner of his lips, the top of your head finally in his view. he let himself breathe finally, reaching just enough to ruffle your hair with his fingertips, just enough to annoy you. you didn't respond much; he didn't think much of it.

tim let his eyes fall shut, listening to everything around him; the rain outside, the sound of your pages turning below. just as he was dozing off, he noticed they stopped and he frowned, lids fluttering as he opened his eyes again. "hey," he called when he didn't see you anymore, glancing around the room with slightly furrowed brow as he sat up.

it didn't take long for him to force himself back to reality, looking at the empty floor below. no books, no pens, no you, and for one far too long, ugly second, he looked away, throat tightening before he could stop it. "right," he said, voice thin as he turned and dropped back on his bed. he pushed his hair back and squeezed his eyes shut, furious at himself for letting the appearance of you drift back into reality, even two years after he'd let go. the stars above him turned into blurry smears when he opened his eyes again, briefly catching his bottom lip with his teeth a little too hard.

"long day," he repeated to himself. part of him hoped your voice would suddenly sound something about how he usually made his day worse than it needed to be, but it never came. of course it didn't.

[amoebadue]

It’s Complicated

Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Loving Peter Parker is literally killing you, and if that’s not bad enough, you also have to put up with Spider-Man asking for dating advice during missions.

Contains: throwing up, arguments, hanahaki (but my only understanding of it is from other fanfics so bear with me), reader is an avenger with unspecified powers (I think…I don’t actually remember), rivals to lovers, kind of fake dating, peter is in love with you and you’re in love with peter but you do NOT like that Spider-Menace

@thceseus ignore the fact that it took me like…a month to write this :) but it’s finally done <3

NOT PROOFREAD

It was supposed to be an easy mission. Supposed to be.

Unfortunately, nothing is ever easy when Spider-Man is around. At least, not for you.

Whether it’s webbing up a bad guy right before you can knock them out, rewriting your reports whenever he deems them incoherent, or offering to pick up pizza for team dinners, he’s always trying to upstage you.

His latest crime? Pushing you out the third floor window of an abandoned warehouse, just so he could download a file instead of you.

Honestly, you’d feel bad for the guy and his debilitating need for approval, if he wasn’t such a jerk about it.

“Need a lift?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he lowers himself down beside you. He’s upside down, as always, but still seems to be looking down at you.

“Just go away.” You’re stuck to the wall, a thin web holds your shoulders against it. Stupid spiders and their stupid webs and stupid—

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Really? You had no problem shoving me out a window.” You huff, wanting nothing more than to smack off that stupid smile that you know he’s hiding under his mask.

He gulps and you fight the urge to stare at the way his throat moves, the imprint of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the fabric. His weight shifts as he reaches to rip the webs off you.

“No, wait—”

“Relax, I’m not going to let you fall.” His voice is softer now, dropping the teasing tone it held earlier. Your throat tightens.

Coughing suddenly, your head falls forwards, smacking into his shoulder as he wraps his arm around you.

He’s flipped over now, finally right side up as he holds you. His other hand rubs slow circles on your back, the eyes of his mask narrowing as you continue to cough.

“Are you dying?” The thinly veiled concern in his voice is missed by you as you scoff.

“Ha ha.” You push away slightly, wanting to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. “You wish.”

He freezes, arm tightening around your waist as his voice drops an octave. “I don’t want you to die.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, a dumbfounded grin tugging at your lips. “Yeah, obviously. You’re a superhero, you don’t want anyone to die.”

“That’s not true.” He grumbles, keeping a grip on you as he lowers the both of you to the ground.

“Really?!” You can barely contain your enthusiasm. The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man wants someone dead? Shocking. Appalling. Intriguing. “Who?”

He pulls away as soon as your feet hit the ground, putting several meters of distance between the two of you as he takes off for the Quinjet.

“C’mon, Spidey! Tell me!” You chase after him.

He grumbles something under his breath as he darts between trees. Unfortunately for him, you’re much faster than he is.

Quickly tackling him to the ground, or at least—that’s what you try to do. Instead, he doesn’t budge as you slam into him, which leaves you clinging to him as he stands frozen in the middle of the clearing.

“Are you guys done? Some of us have jobs to get back to.” Coulson snaps at you, making you lunge away from your former victim, your cheeks warming.

Spider-Man stares at you, lenses wide as you stomp away from him.

“This isn’t over.” You whisper, knocking your shoulder against his as he catches up.

He rubs his neck sheepishly, watching you walk to the back of the ship.

As the jet takes off, his eyes trail back towards you. You’ve fallen asleep, cheek smushed against the side of the seat as you breathe heavily.

Maybe you have asthma.

Not that you’d tell him if you did.

His stomach flips, fingers drumming against his leg as he thinks back to earlier.

He doesn’t think you even realized the way you clung to him outside the building, the way your fingers clenched in his suit. His skin itches where you’d held him, missing the feeling of your warmth against him.

And anyways, it’s not like he wanted to push you out the window, but there was some kind of gas leaking from the vents. He’s immune to most toxins by now, but you—he doesn’t even want to think about it.

Is that why you were coughing? He’ll have to make sure you get checked by medical before going home.

He groans, covering his face as he sinks into the seat.

You’re going to be even more upset with him if he insists you be treated when you’re fine.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s overstepped—as you vehemently argued last time.

It’s not the end of the world if you get upset, after all, you’re always mad at him.

He stares at you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep.

You’re a superhero, you can protect yourself. He knows that. He just…worries. And you shouldn’t need to protect yourself if he’s there to protect you, right?

—

Your lungs burn as you dry heave over the toilet.

You can’t breathe.

Maybe Spider-Man was right—maybe you should’ve gone to the medbay when you got back.

Nothing is coming out as you cough, leaning helplessly against the bathtub. It cools you down slightly, a fever slick against your skin.

Your suit has long since been torn off, too much of a hassle when you feel this sick.

Your throat burns, full of something that you can’t remove. It scratches along your esophagus as it comes up.

Blood splatters against the porcelain.

Your eyes widen as you cough more—which only brings up more blood.

Wiping the sweat from your palms onto your thighs, you try to focus.

Stay calm, stay calm.

You can’t.

It’s hard to be calm when you’re gasping for air, desperate for just one breath.

It finally comes after one last cough, but it doesn’t bring any relief. Only dread—as you watch the blood stained petals fall into the water.

You really should’ve gone to the medbay.

—

He’s sleeping beside you, his body fully slumped over onto his books that lay scattered across the table.

He’s snoring almost painfully loud in the otherwise quiet library. Every few minutes, a couple scowls will be thrown your way and a librarian will shush you before moving on.

Every time, you have to fight the urge to wake Peter up. But you don’t.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

That alone makes the discomfort of everyone’s glares worthwhile.

He shifts beside you, humming softly as he sleeps. Your fingers reach out, seemingly of their own accord, and brush his hair away from his eyes.

“Awww,” you startle at the voice, snapping your head over to see a girl from your Econ class as she coos at you, “you two are so cute together.”

She smiles widely as you stammer.

“Oh, uh…I’m, we’re—”

“Thanks.”

Your stomach drops as Peter sits up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. You meet his gaze. He winks.

Your stomach sinks, this cannot be good.

“How long have you been together?”

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowing as he pretends to think. “Oh, a couple months now.”

You don’t hear the rest of the conversation, too focused on his grin to hear it. The ringing in your ears drowns out anything you would’ve heard anyways.

“Peter.” You hiss, too stunned to say anything else once he turns to you, the girl long gone.

He smiles sheepishly, the arm that was around you now falling limp at his side. You hate how much you miss the feeling.

“Sorry,” he rubs his neck, “I just thought it was funny.”

“Yeah, lying to a girl about us dating. That’s really funny.”

His cheeks burn as you scowl at him. The redness spreads the longer you stare.

“Okay, yeah, not that funny. But it’s fine. It’s just a harmless joke.”

—

Step 1: Kill Peter Parker

The marker squeaks as you write on the whiteboard. Peter groans as he buries his head in your pillow, attempting to avoid your glare.

It’s been two days since that day in the library, when he decided he just had to open his mouth and say the two of you are dating.

His stomach flips at the idea, pulse quickening slightly. He’s grateful you don’t have superhearing, so you can’t hear the way his heart races every time he sees you. Or talks to you. Or thinks about you.

Yeah, he’s doomed.

“Peter, I’m serious.”

“I am too!” He tries, finally peering up at you. You’re pouting, lips jutted out just enough for the shine of your lipstick to catch the light. He’s going to die in this room.

Not the worst place to die, surrounded by the smell of your perfume as he lays on your bed.

“Peter.”

He repeats your name back, swinging his legs over the side of your bed so he’s sitting.

“Literally everyone we know on campus has been messaging me about our secret relationship.” You whisper the last part, eyes wide as you gesture.

His cheeks grow redder as you continue, pacing across your room.

“I’ve been tagged in at least 57 different posts of pictures of us! Everyone is claiming they knew something was happening between us!”

His face pales, feeling the sudden urge to vomit. He hopes his feelings haven’t been that obvious. But he can’t help the sick feeling of satisfaction about the pictures.

Good. Maybe now everyone will back off.

He hasn’t spent the past two years scaring off any guy that comes within ten feet of you for nothing.

Maybe that’s wrong, but come on, he can’t be a hero all the time. He’ll deal with the guilt later—if the feeling ever catches up to him.

An idea forms in the back of his head, forcing its way to the front. He’s a genius.

He hops off the bed, snatching the marker from your hand.

You gape at him, spluttering as you reach for it. He’s bats your hand away, fixing your board.

Step 1: Date Peter Parker

“You’re insane.” You finally land on, after several more moments of spluttering.

He turns to you, fully convinced that this is his chance to win you over, and his is going to take it.

“Look, everyone thinks we’re dating anyways, right? Just keep up the ruse. This way, you don’t have to worry about going to parties alone or that guy in your civics class.”

“How do you know about that guy—”

He waves you off. “I’ll buy you dinner, flowers, show you how you should actually be treated.”

You open your mouth, finally able to get a word in. “Seriously, Peter? You’re still upset about that?”

He scowls at the floor, the memory of your senior year of high school still makes his blood boil.

“Brad Davis is a loser and you never should’ve gone out with him.”

“Peter!” You gasp, holding back a laugh.

“Look, it’s nothing serious.” He redirects. “At least it’ll be fun, right? Just casual fun.”

He mumbles the last part, more as an attempt to calm his nerves than anything.

“Casual fun?” You blink at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Casual fun.” He repeats, holding his hand out for you to shake. You grip his hand and he can’t tell whose palm is sweating. He hopes it’s not his.

And just like that, a plan was formed.

Casual. He can do this.

—

Peter Parker has never been casual about anything ever.

You were skeptical at first, and you still are.

But there’s no way you could pass up dating Peter, no way!

Even if it isn’t real.

But what if it could be? What if this is your chance to prove how good you’d be for him?

That’s why you agreed, anyways, to show him how good of a couple you’d make.

Even still, you’re not sure why Peter’s doing this. Casual fun? Casual is not a word in his vocabulary—a fact you’ve known for years, ever since he insisted you help him build an arc reactor for the science fair.

“What’re you thinking about?” Natasha peers at you skeptically, studying you. You pay her no mind.

“Peter.” You answer absentmindedly, still trying to figure him out. Your chest burns but you pay it no mind, having grown use to the feeling over the past few weeks.

She grins, lips curling with mischief as she leans in. Her hands clasp in front of her as she invades your space.

“Oh, right. I heard about that…your boyfriend.”

You finally look at her, heart dropping into your stomach. If Nat knows, then Stark knows. And if Stark knows, everyone knows.

“What?”

“Peter Parker? Brown hair, stupid science tshirts.”You should’ve seen this coming. Peter always talks about his Stark internship. You can’t think of any reason why he’d have to meet the Avengers though. Maybe just in passing?

“They’re not stupid.” You huff, feeling inclined to defend him even if he’s not here.

“Uh huh.” She hums, glancing behind you. You follow her gaze.

Steve leans in the doorway, eyebrows pinched together. “You have a boyfriend? When do we get to meet him?”

“Never.”

Nat snickers beside you, laughing harder as Cap pulls up a chair.

“We have to meet him.”

“No, you don’t.” You argue, attempting to wave them off dismissively. “It’s nothing serious. Casual, even.”

“Nothing serious? Casual? I don’t think you’ve been casual about anything ever.” Steve frowns.

You groan, throwing your arms in the air. You just can’t win with these people. “I can be casual!”

“Then introduce us.” Natasha’s grin widens as she leans back, crossing her arms. It sets your skin ablaze, the challenge evident in her tone.

“That is the opposite of casual!” You snap, stomping out of the room. You just hope you don’t run into Spider-Man on your way out.

—

“Hold this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Please, hold this.” He stresses the word, growing impatient. The entire building is on lockdown, some alarm must’ve been tripped when the rest of the team entered.

“Sure, no problem.” You grin, accepting the disarmed bomb he hands you.

“You’re the worst teammate ever.” He grumbles, turning back to the computer that should—hopefully—disarm the remaining explosives lining the building. Then you’d just have to hope Stark does his part in un-locking down the building.

“You’re the worst teammate ever.” You mock, turning the bomb over in your hands. “At least I’m helping.”

“You are not helping. You’re just annoying me.”

“Well, you’re annoying me too.”

“At least I’m helping.” He spits your words back at you, making you roll your eyes.

“Whatever.” You hum, glancing around the room before looking at him. His shoulders are tense, foot tapping impatiently against the tired floors. “What’s got you in a mood, anyways? You know, aside from being trapped in close proximity to your arch nemesis.”

“You’re not my arch nemesis.” He scoffs.

“You’re mine.”

He rolls his eyes, accepting that this is a losing battle. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously something, if it’s got you this worked up about it.”

“Why do you care anyways?”

“I care, because I’d rather not have my teammate losing focus in the field.”

“Right, of course that’s what you care about.”

“Duh.” You deadpan before softening. “Seriously, though. What’s up?”

“I’m supposed to go on a date later.”

Okay, you were not expecting that.

“Who would want to date you?”

He groans, casting an annoyed glance back at you before shaking his head. “Not helping.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

He huffs, “That’s part of the problem, anyways. She’s…well, she’s perfect. She’s smart and funny and cool. And way out of my league.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Can you just listen?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“She’s amazing and I’m…me. And I mess things up. All the time. I don’t want to mess this up with her. I don’t even know if she feels the same.”

Your heart drops hearing that. But you ignore it. The last thing he wants is your pity—that’s the last thing you want too.

“How do I convince her I’m worth it?” He sighs, casting you another look—one that you can’t read—before mumbling, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

You sit beside him, sighing. “As the world’s leading authority on unreciprocated feelings, just go for it. Tell her everything you told me. That she’s smart and funny and cool. And way out of your league.” He groans as you laugh, nudging his shoulder. “Just treat her like you love her. If she’s worth it—she’ll feel the same. If not, that sucks.”

He’s quiet for a minute, considering your words, before he looks at you. “What do you mean you’re the leading authority on unreciprocated feelings?”

Oh, just that every time you think about him, you start coughing up blood and flowers.

“There’s this guy—I love him so much it makes me sick. Literally.” You don’t even know why you’re telling him this. Maybe it was something about the impending doom. Or maybe you’re just scared.

He looks at you, face unchanging. Not that you’d know, since he’s wearing a mask that covers the entirety of it. “For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine him not loving you back.”

The weight in your chest shifts, easing slightly.

“What?”

“You’re…” He groans, head dropping backwards, “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’re great. I mean, you’re an Avenger!”

“So are you.” You argue, heart racing.

“Yeah, but you’ve been an Avenger. And you have super cool powers.”

“Aren’t you literally part spider?”

“Shush.” He hushes you, “Anyways, you’re super cool and whoever he is, he’s just some guy.”

“He’s not just some guy, though.”

“Compared to you, I think anyone would be just some guy. He’d have to be pretty amazing to compare.”

A beat passes. Then another as you stare at each other.

“Wow.”

He groans, standing up. But this time, he offers you a hand. You take it, ignoring the way your fingers burn as they brush against his. “I know, I know. You don’t need to mention it.”

“Who knew Spider-Man has such strong opinions about me?” You laugh, making his face burn even more. “Wow.”

He huffs at you, “I’m leaving now.”

“Uh huh. Have fun on your date, Spidey!” You tease.

For once, being stuck with Spider-Man for a mission didn’t seem so bad. In fact, it felt a lot like how hanging out with Peter does.

Ironically, you also have to get ready for a date.

—

Something is wrong with you. Something is very very wrong with you, but Peter can’t quite place it.

Every couple minutes, you have a coughing fit. He’s started timing them—seven minutes apart. Then they started getting closer. Five minutes. Three minutes.

Then you excused yourself, rushing towards the bathroom. He wanted to give you privacy, but every passing minute, the dread in his stomach weighed heavier.

“Are you okay?” Knocking on the bathroom door, he listens for your answer.

“Go away, Peter. I’ll be out in a—” You don’t finish your sentence, instead, a choked garble fills the space.

He knocks again, worry gripping him like a vice. “Are you okay?” He repeats, pressing his forehead against the door.

You must be really sick. Like really really sick, if you’re throwing up and coughing. Gross.

“I’m coming in.” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he pushes through the door. It’s unlocked, which makes his job easier.

You’re knelt over the toilet, grumbling something about stupid boys. He doesn’t know what stupid boy you’re upset about, but he doesn’t like them.

Oh, wait.

“Sorry. Are you okay?” Stupid question, Peter. A girl’s throwing up repeatedly and you’re asking if she’s okay?

Idiot.

“Go away.” You moan, coughing again. Red splatters paint the toilet bowl. You move to conceal the sight with your body but Peter has already seen it.

“What—” He stammers, horrified by the sight. “Is that blood?”

Yeah, he should not be allowed to be Spider-Man anymore. Worst detective ever.

“It’s fine.” You mumble, attempting to wave him off, but he isn’t having it.

“It’s not fine! You need to see a doctor.” His hands are freezing against your skin as he pulls you up. You’re burning. “Come on.”

“Peter,” you mumble, attempting to turn away from him, “I’m fine. Just go back to the table. I’ll be out in a minute.”

You seem awfully calm about this. What if you’re in shock? Oh no. What if you die?!

His stomach twists as he tightens his grip on you. “We’re going to see a doctor. You need help.”

“Quit manhandling me.”

“I’m not, I’m sorry, I just—” He freezes, guilt settling in his chest as he loosens his grip. “You’re sick, really sick. You need to see a doctor, please let me take you to see a doctor.”

You can barely look at him, just being this close makes the urge to throw up worse. “Okay.” You relent, letting him lead you towards the door.

You don’t make it very far before you’re pulling away, rushing back to the toilet.

You really didn’t want him to see this.

Petals soaked in blood scatter from your lips, one by one, falling into the porcelain bowl.

Your vision blurs as the pressure in your head worsens. Do not pass out, do not pass out.

Soon, you’re coughing up an entire dead carnation. It falls on the toilet seat, staring at you.

“What the—”

—

You wake up in a familiar room, surrounded by several of the Avengers.

“What—?” You can barely speak, an oxygen mask covers your mouth, blocking any sound from coming out coherently.

“How long?” Stark pulls the mask from your face. You’re expecting air to fill your lungs but it doesn’t, instead you feel like your getting punched repeatedly in the chest, the wind knocked out of you.

You reach for the mask again, holding it tight to your face as you take a couple breaths.

He repeats his question after a moment, looking at you expectantly.

“What?” You ask, brows furrowed.

He grabs a rolling cart with a screen on top of it. There’s an MRI of what you assume is your lungs on it. Flowers and vines are intertwined, taking up at least a third of the organ.

“You’re dying.”

“Stark—”

“Tony!”

Your other teammates finally decide to speak up, attempting to stop him from worrying you further.

Nat brushes a finger over your cheek, “What he means is, why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s—I don’t know.” You can’t breathe, but this time you’re not sure if it’s from the flowers or the interrogation. Probably both. “Where’s Peter?” You look around, wracking your brain for what happened.

“I kicked the kid out when he started yelling at the doctors. Figured he needed a nap.”

“But—” You relax into your hospital bed.

“But nothing.” He glowers at you. “Why aren’t you getting better?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Peter? You’re dating. So why aren’t you getting better?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid!” You argue, heart monitor beeping frantically as your patience wavers.

“Really? I think hiding an illness like this is stupid. Every time you go in the field, you’re endangering yourself and all your teammates. That’s stupid.”

“Tony—” Steve places himself in between the two of you as your monitor beeps rapidly.

You hadn’t thought about it like that. If something had happened to the team because of you…

Your stomach twists. You need to get out of here. You need to leave. You need to—

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. Nobody can hear you, at least none of the fully human members of the team can.

A nurse comes in, ushering everyone out as you cough. You hate the emptiness of the room, suddenly feeling much more alone.

A couple doctors rush in after her, filling the space back up again as your vision darkens once more.

—

Two days. You’ve been in the hospital for two days.

Stark insisted he has the best doctors working on your care but he can’t help but feel like it’s not enough.

Peter has taken to pacing outside the medbay, ignoring the annoyed looks he gets from some of the medics. He deserves it, he’s sure, after yelling at them.

But he was worried about you! Especially when you passed out.

He had to carry you out the back door and then swing you to the tower without waking you up.

Then he wasn’t sure if you should’ve been swinging like that, never mind his secret identity, what if he hurt you more?

His chest tightens.

“Kid, go home.” Stark finally leaves your room, arms crossed. “She’s sleeping. I’m sure you can talk to her when she wakes up.”

“Why isn’t she getting better?”

Tony frowns at him, his own worry evident. “She’s really sick.” He settles on his words, regretting them as soon as the air in the room grows heavier.

“But we’re—” Peter stammers, heart pounding in his chest. “She’s can’t die.”

“I hope not.”

“No, she can’t.” He stresses, “I can’t live with that, I won’t.”

“Then fix this.”

Stark leaves him to worry on his own, continuing to pace.

They’d told him about your affliction. Rare, life threatening. He couldn’t focus on the rest of their speech after he heard about your prognosis.

Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell him?

“There’s this guy—I love him so much it makes me sick. Literally.” He thinks back to that mission, the words ringing in his ears.

Are you? No. You can’t be. You would’ve told him.

Then again, he hasn’t told you about being Spider-Man.

His thoughts race as he thinks of all the missed hangouts, unread messages, unexplained bruises.

He’s an idiot. How could he not have seen it before?

Dread settles in his bones at a sudden realization. If you don’t get better, if you die—he’s going to lose you both.

—

“Peter. Stop pacing, you’re stressing me out.”

“I’m stressing you out?! You’re dying!”

“Yes, and stress isn’t good for me right now.” You roll your eyes, arms crossing as he rips at his hair.

His eye is literally twitching.

“Are you on drugs?” You ask, peering up at him skeptically.

He finally stops pacing to gape at you. “What?!” You raise an eyebrow and he splutters. “No! I’m not on drugs. Just…realizing I don’t know you at all. Or maybe I know you completely?” He groans, slumping into the chair beside your bed.

“What are you talking about?” He’s giving you a headache, the throbbing behind your eyes worsening with every unexplained sentence.

“You’re—” He huffs, shaking his head before stating your Super Hero identity. “You’re her?”

“What?!” You squawk. Of everything he could’ve said, that was the least expected.

“You’re an Avenger.” He states plainly, an almost annoyed expression pinching his face.

“How do you know that?” There’s no use denying it. You’re certain having the Avengers rotate in and out of your hospital room would’ve given it away earlier.

If not, the pile of flowers, cards and games from them that are stacked messily on your bedside table would’ve.

“I love him so much it makes me sick.” He quotes your words at you.

“You’re Spider-Man?!”

“What? No!” He groans, covering his face with his arms. “Yes, maybe. That’s not important right now.”

“That is very important! My best friend is Spider-Man. I can’t believe you’d keep that from me!”

“I can’t believe you’d keep this from me!” He shouts back.

Your heart monitor ticks upwards, beeping steadily as your heart rate quickens.

Hopefully you can pass it off as being mad at him and not the fact that he looks really good like this. Jaw clenched, eyes dark. His hair has gotten longer, falling into his eyeline. You want to brush the curls away, but you don’t.

“Peter.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“You can’t just say my name like that and expect everything to be fine.” He huffs, crossing his arms and looking away.”

“Like what?” You press, growing more exasperated with word.

“Like that!” He gestures at you, effectively clearing up none of your confusion.

You raise an eyebrow and he groans, gripping his hair tightly before looking back at you.

“Like you’re flirting with me or something, I don’t know!”

“Flirting with you?!” You cough, trying to cover it with a laugh.

But he doesn’t miss it, jumping up to pat your back as your cough worsens. His face sets in a worried line as the bucket he shoves in front of your face fills with petals.

“Ew.” You murmur, leaning back into his chest once you’ve finished coughing.

His heart races at the feeling, at having you this close, and for the first time he’s grateful he’s not the one hooked up to the heart monitor.

“Peter.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you want me to be flirting with you?”

“I don’t know.” He mumbles, cheeks turning redder, if that’s even possible.

“Oh, okay.” You start to pull away but his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you closer.

“That’s not what I meant. Of course I wanted you to be flirting with me. I just…I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

He groans, face dropping into the crook of your neck. Your perfume is gone now, only small hints of your body wash are left. He breathes you in, the familiar scent relaxes him slightly. The feeling doesn’t last.

“Why aren’t you getting better?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re…well, I had hoped, I mean…”

“That I’m in love with you?”

He tenses at your words, shoulders locking up. You laugh shallowly, not bothering to turn to look at him, you can’t.

He wishes you would, though.

“Yeah.” He breathes out. “Tell me you’re in love with me.”

“Peter, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not making fun of you. I’m in love with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!”

“No, Peter. You’re not. Don’t try to convince me that you love me, just so I’ll get better. I can’t do that, Peter. Don’t do that to me.” Your voice breaks at the end, hands shaking in your lap. You hove them beneath your thighs, hoping he won’t see.

“I am!” He stands up, pacing again as he grows frustrated. “I’m in love with you! I’ve always been in love with you.”

“Peter…”

“No, let me say this! I’ve been falling in love with you since the day I met you. And I’ve loved you every day since then. Even when you tripped on my science project and destroyed it. Even when you refused to answer my texts after I missed movie night—that I’m now realizing you also had to miss.”

He frowns slightly, looking at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “I love you. All of you. Even when you threw me into a group of Hydra soldiers. Even when I pushed you out the window.”

You stare at him, eyes wide as he kneels in front of you, clasping your hands in his.

“Even now, knowing that this won’t be enough to save you.”

“Peter…”

“I don’t know who the other guy is, or what he did to deserve your love, but I need you to know that if it was me, I’d never let you doubt that I love you for another second.” His head falls, pressing his face into your thigh as he pleads with you.

“Peter, there is no other guy. It’s just you, it’s always been you. I love you.”

His eyes widen as he looks up at you, scanning your face. You smile softly, brushing a lick of hair out of his eyes. He can’t take them off you, not even to blink.

“You love me?”

“I’ve been in love with you since you punched Brad Davis at prom. But probably longer than that.”

“Awesome.”

“Peter, this is serious!”

“I am serious! That’s awesome! I got to punch my arch nemesis and make you fall in love with me in one night? That’s pretty awesome.”

“You’re such a dork.” You scoff, shaking your head.

His grin widens as gets up from the ground, setting beside you on the hospital bed.

“You love me?” He asks again, eyes locked in on yours.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

“Again.” He mumbles, lips pressing kisses against your collarbone as he pushes you down into the mattress.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Peter.” Your voice takes on a warning tone, a shiver running down your spine.

“Say it.” He insists, smiling wolfishly.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as he settles over you. “I love you, Peter Parker.”

He groans, forehead dropping against yours. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

“I think I might have an idea.” You tease, pulling his mouth down to meet yours. His lips curl up against your own as he’s unable to fight the grin taking over his face.

Finally.

[liabiamiakiawia]

precious beautiful amazing i love this