This is one I really like. I used to keep a small bowl at the ready (refreshed weekly), though I now just make smaller bowls whenever the need strikes.
This is one I crafted for those days when my insecurities are a little too heavy. I am definitely my biggest critic and my own worst enemy some days. So, for when those negative thoughts are loud.
Materials
Small bowl
Salt
Crushed rosemary
Pinch of black pepper
Combine salt, rosemary, and pepper in a bowl.
Dip your fingers in the mixture, then flick it away from you and say, "Not mine to carry."
You may want to rest your fingers in the salt first, taking a moment to let those negative thoughts and feelings be absorbed. As you flick the salt away, visualize your insecurities being flung away.
Follow up with any self-care activity that feels right to you. Personally, I'm fond of having a cup of rose or lavender tea.
everyone on replies is terrified of this fact but i just think it's so sweet and heartwarming. she's holding our hand and leading us somewhere secret and we're both giggling like kids. i love her
Okay so idk if you’ve seen the trend in TikTok (it was a while ago) of people kissing their best friends but would you be willing to write something like that? Honestly for anyone but maybe Dick, Jason, or Wally???
⊹౨ৎ KISSING YOUR BEST FRIEND
˚ ｡ ft. jason todd, wally west and dick grayson .ᐟ
lizzie’s yapping 𐙚 : English is not my first language, so there may be some grammatical errors.
Jason Todd !
Your hands were sweaty and trembling slightly as you placed the phone on the coffee table, propping it up with a glass you'd used earlier. You were so nervous that your stomach was doing flips. Jason, sitting on the couch next to you, watched your every move, cautious and clearly confused by your behavior.
Once you finally got the phone positioned, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and turned to look at him. You didn’t say a word.
Jason's brow was furrowed; he kept glancing back and forth between the phone and you, trying to figure out what this was all about.
“The he—”
You didn’t let him finish. You placed a hand on his chest to steady yourself and kissed him. His lips were cold and slightly chapped, unlike the warmth and softness of yours. The kiss felt like a mix of relief—because you would finally know what it was like to have him this close—and a faint uncertainty about what it might stir between the two of you.
Jason froze in place, his heart racing and his cheeks faintly flushed, something quite unusual for him. Still, no one could blame him for feeling suddenly overwhelmed—he’d expected anything but this, anything but you placing a hand on his chest and kissing him so unexpectedly, yet so sweetly.
When you pulled back and he could finally see your expression, he swallowed, his head still spinning. He cleared his throat, but never put any distance between you. To your surprise, a smile slowly formed on his face.
“Knew you had a thing for me,” he teased, flashing a crooked smile. “Delete that shit,” he added, pointing at the phone.
You rolled your eyes and kissed him again—this time, he kissed you back.
Wally West !
You thought about it a lot. Too much.
The moment the trend crossed your TikTok FYP, your mind started spinning—ideas, possibilities. You still weren’t sure if doing it was the right thing, if it might cause a crack in your friendship, but there was nothing to lose by trying. Nothing more than a kiss. A kiss with a lot of power.
Your gaze was fixed on the redheaded victim sitting beside you, talking nonstop, rattling on about one of his latest exploits as the new Flash. You always paid attention—you loved listening to him because you didn’t have that nonstop chatter in you, so being the listener was your thing. Wally knew that too. Normally you’d at least smile at him, but today you’d done nothing but stare.
“Not to brag, but a ton of girls asked me for photos, you know,” he said with that cocky edge, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. But you weren’t listening. Why weren’t you paying attention?
Sitting right next to him, fists clenched way too tight to look casual, you shifted your gaze to the phone you’d strategically placed to capture the whole moment. He hadn’t even noticed.
Then, as he grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it to his mouth, you leaned forward, cupped his chin, turned his face toward you, and kissed him. Your lips stayed still against his—slightly warm and greasy from the pizza.
Wally blinked, way too slow to process what was happening. And just as quickly as you’d kissed him, you pulled back, leaving him even more confused.
“You kiss— Did you just — WOW!”, The words tangled on his tongue, his cheeks turning a deep red that matched his hair. In a flash, his whole vibe shifted. “Damn… Can you do that again? Nah, my turn now.”
And he kissed you. Surprisingly slow. His pizza-greasy hands smudging your face, as messy as he was.
Dick Grayson !
You’d always had a crush on him, even if you denied it every single time someone hinted at it—because you hated the idea of being that cliché best friend who stupidly fell for her best friend. But… how could you not fall for someone like him? You were totally justified, and by now you didn’t even care what anyone else thought.
You were also a little bit of a coward, to put it mildly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be using some random social media video trend as an excuse to kiss him. If things went wrong, you had a backup plan—it was just a trend, nothing more. He fell right into the trap. You’d planned it all out, orchestrated every step in your head. Now all you had to do was get close and kiss him. An innocent kiss loaded with all your feelings, but if he didn’t feel the same, it would just be that—a kiss.
On the other hand, Dick had already figured out something was up with you. His detective skills weren’t just one of the many things that made him so cool and attractive, after all.
The moment he saw your furrowed brow and tight lips, he knew you were nervous.
“What’s going on?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen island with his arms crossed and that crooked smile on his face. Then his eyes flicked to the phone you’d supposedly hidden so he wouldn’t notice it was there. “And why are we being recorded?” He waved at the phone, practically teasing you.
You threw your head back in resignation, but nodded toward one of the stools for him to sit. He obeyed, tilting his head to the side. He looked amused. And handsome.
“So?” he pressed, raising both eyebrows. Oh, he was having fun with this.
A little annoyed by his attitude, you stepped toward him. Since he was sitting now, his height wasn’t an issue, so with a mix of anger and shyness, you pressed your lips firmly against his, drawing a small, surprised gasp from him that melted into your mouth.
He kissed you back immediately, pulling you closer—one hand firm on your hip, the other gently cupping your cheek. He coaxed your lips apart to move in sync with his, giving his tongue access to tangle with yours. It was like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d anticipated your intention from the moment he noticed your strange behavior.
You pulled apart when you ran out of air, your cheeks flushed and his lips curved into a mischievous smile.
“Did you get the right angle? We can do it again if you want. As many times as you want.” And before you could answer, he kissed you again.
@ batletters ࣪ ִֶָ☾. don't take my work as your own.
Tw: yandere behavior, cringe (?) (I don’t think it is but yknow), I made it SOMEWHAT ambiguous as to whether this is romantic or platonic on purpose (other than for Dick)
(This one is inspired by… me, actually. Just read the replies I give to any commenter 💔 in the moment I don’t realize but I’m too aware of myself to not realize it after the fact.)
(Might be OOC!! I’m just saying this now so people don’t come in expecting canon characterizations!!)
Not sickly sweet in the way that they’re just so nice. But more so that they’re sickeningly affectionate. (Nauseatingly sweet.)
A reader who gives little soft names to the members of the batfam. Little nicknames that make them seem softer than they are.
And from any other mouth it would make them cringe but you are just so heart achingly you that it’s just… not in them to do so. An exception, almost.
Bruce Wayne, the Batman, the dark knight, is dubbed things like ‘Batty-love’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘sweet thing’ by someone who was born practically two decades after him and maybe he doesn’t really ‘melt’ more so… relax a tad. His jaw slackens just slightly, the straightness of his shoulders just a bit less domineering and ‘Batman’ and more so.. Bruce. Just Bruce.
(Bruce just kind of lets you do whatever you want with his face held carefully in your hands. The only way you could hurt him is by leaving and he’s not going to let you do that.)
Dick Grayson has to stop himself from giggling and turning into a puddle in the floor. Usually he’s the one making up silly nicknames, the one who has to come in and force everything together, he has to be the mature older brother and he has to never bend or break.
..And then you call him things like ‘lovely’ and ‘birdy’ and even ‘Richie’— which isn’t even really his favorite of the lot but it still has him softening— and it all fades away. Evil isn’t a thing anymore when you call him sweet things in a voice so casual as you smiled and brushed your noses together like he was just the cutest thing you’d ever seen, ever held in your two soft hands.
He’s the type that’ll snatch you up into a hug and spin you around just to hear you giggle. The kind of man that will have you caught and never let you free.
(Maybe he’ll let you go outside some time! Just give him a kiss first, okay? Maybe on the mouth this time—)
Oh and Jason first struggled with it at first. (He’s not really used to sweet things and he’s much less used to them staying—) But he eventually grew used to it.
(Sometimes he got a bit insecure, a bit jealous, that he wasn’t the only person in your life you call all those sweet things. The only one in your life who got pecks on the cheeks and was allowed to rest his head on your lap.
But he stamps it down quickly enough. You’re a sweet thing. He’s got to enjoy it while it lasts.)
You lock your hands with his, swinging them idly like they’ve not been drowned in bloodshed, like the callouses on his palm are a thing purely in his imagination and not what you feel when you brush your thumb over them like they’re precious. (Like he’s precious.)
Cass leans into your touch more often than not. You’ve got soft hands and an even softer heart. When you get mean you do it because of how much you care not because you don’t.
You have hands that have never touched blood. (Not quite like her own.) There lay no callouses, no scars, nothing but smooth and unmarked flesh.
And the little nicknames make her feel gentle. Like she’s just some pretty and dainty thing. You press a little kiss to her nose bridge with an exaggerated ‘mwah!’ and she’s putty in your hands, grinning up at you like a complete idiot.
You’re rather easy to read. It’s not a bad thing. But it does make her worry at times. Everything about you is so… open.
She’s handed you a blade to defend yourself with but you only blinked at her in response. Ah, Cass supposes she must teach you herself.
Somehow.
Tim is… less affected. Not because he doesn’t care or because he is apathetic to it but he’s used to such behavior. (He’s had countless girlfriends. The boy has enough game that he’s used to people being all over him.)
He still cares about you of course. (Still loves you.) He just doesn’t ‘melt’ like the others do. He, instead, goes limp.
Tim will simply crawl into your bed, pass out on your stomach, and sleep through your laughter. You’re a… safe space of a sort. You make him feel a little warm inside with each time you intertwine your fingers or pull him into a tight hug.
It’s sweet. You’re sweet.
(It’s why he’s got a tracker on you. Gotham is dangerous. A pretty thing like you could get eaten alive.
Don’t worry. He’ll keep you safe.)
Damian struggled with the concept of you at first. You’re… just like that? No ulterior motive? No secret agenda??
He was familiar with the idea that some people were simply good but it was different to see it. He’d met good people before but you were sickeningly sweet.
The kind of sweet that never made he feel judged or mocked. The kind of sweet that he’d always yearned for. (A peacefulness, a gentleness that Talia— for all her good qualities and for all her skill as an assassin— could not quite train into herself.
Love to her was in cleaning and bandaging the wounds that laid scattered over his back, not in preventing the punishment in the first place. It was in duty and it was in leaving him to his father.)
You call him sweetheart. You call him your love. (You call him yours.)
His mother loved him. But that love could not protect him, it could not shield him. And you… seem to only want to do exactly that. Protect him.
Love him, even.
But you don’t know how to protect yourself. (Haven’t learned how.)
So, he’ll do it for you. He’ll be your shield. Your sword and armor. Just until you know how to be one for yourself.
heyyy loved your bimbo gf x damian and i was wondering if you could do like an angst story of where she hears like someone in the fam or damian saying something about her personality/her in general, and she pulls back and tries to act “less stupid” IK SORRY I LOVE TJOSE calling their partner clingy and they start pulling away😖😖. all good if u can’t 🙂↕️🤚🏽
݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓡EBRANDING ( 𝓑AD 𝓘DEA ) !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x bimbo!girlfriend
꒰ 🎀 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian trying to figure out why the girl who never stopped talking suddenly won’t even look at him.
BY GOD’S GRACE —- OR ALFRED’S PATIENCE, WHICHEVER COUNTED AS THE BIGGER MIRACLE — NO ONE KNEW HOW DAMIAN WAYNE ENDED UP WITH YOU.
you, in your hot-pink mini skirt and glitter nails and perfume that could probably be classified as a biochemical weapon. you, who once asked if bats had “like… eyelids?” and said it with total sincerity. you, who got distracted mid-sentence because you saw a dog wearing a sweater across the street and immediately forgot what you were talking about.
he didn’t understand it. not even a little.
in public, he looked like he was enduring a hostage situation anytime you laced your fingers through his, and yet he never pulled away. even when your rings (all four on one hand, because of course) dug into his knuckles. even when your bracelets jingled like an incoming sleigh team every time you moved. even when people stared — and they did stare, because you were a walking neon sign next to gotham’s resident brood incarnate — he held on.
the part that truly terrified him was how natural it had become. you walked a half-step ahead of him, your attention flickering everywhere at once, like a very pretty, very distractible magpie. every few seconds you’d gasp softly, at a storefront display, or a pigeon, or a baby in a stroller, and damian would be forced to stop, recalibrate, and wait while you admired whatever had stolen your focus this time. he pretended irritation, checking his watch, sighing dramatically, muttering something about time management, but he always waited. he always looked back to make sure you hadn’t tripped over a crack in the sidewalk or wandered into traffic because you spotted a cat.
he didn’t like how instinctive that check had become. how protective. how fond. even now, walking beside you through gotham’s crowded winter market, he found himself cataloguing every variable: uneven cobblestones you might twist an ankle on, the man selling roasted chestnuts who had a suspicious glint in his eye, the group of teenagers he didn’t trust within a ten-foot radius of you.
meanwhile, you were enthusiastically informing him that hot chocolate “tastes better when you’re cold, it’s like a scientific fact,” and waving your arms enough that he nearly intercepted a candy cane you almost smacked someone with. damian endured it with the same expression he used during board meetings: thin-lipped, jaw set, eyes forward like he was marching toward an execution he’d personally scheduled. you didn’t notice. you never noticed. you were too busy being incandescent.
you tugged him deeper into the market, past the string lights dripping like molten gold from the eaves, past the vendors shouting holiday deals, past the speakers humming old carols warped by cold air. your boots clicked over the cobblestones, a rhythm at war with itself, but you walked like someone incapable of stumbling. pure luck, damian thought grimly. or some divine protection he absolutely did not trust.
you stopped every ten seconds. literally every ten. at a stall selling knit hats shaped like reindeer. at a booth offering “mood scarves” that allegedly changed color with emotion. at a stand where a man was playing holiday songs on wine glasses filled with water, and you stood there, enraptured, like you had just discovered music for the first time in your life. you pointed at everything. gasped at everything. oohed and aahed and squealed at everything.
damian — who had been dragged out of the manor under the pretense of “getting fresh air” — followed silently behind you like a highly disgruntled bodyguard, hands in his pockets, scarf wrapped too neatly. he looked miserable. he was miserable. the cold, the crowds, the noise. you, on the other hand, were explaining — loudly — that snow “should be illegal because it’s too pretty and also slippery and also cold and also sparkly,” and damian was trying to figure out how one person could hold that many contradictory opinions in a single breath. then you gasped. you always gasped. this time it was because a vendor had tiny mason jars filled with glitter suspended in clear gel, labeled aesthetic snow globes. you sprinted.
damian muttered something in arabic that was probably a curse, then sped up to keep you from accidentally joining a passing family and wandering home with them. you pressed your face so close to the jars your breath fogged the glass. “damian,” you whispered. “it’s like… the universe. but tiny.”
he stared at you, then stared at the jar. then back at you. “…it’s glitter.”
“IN A JAR,” you insisted, as if that changed the nature of the cosmos.
he pinched the bridge of his nose, which he did often around you, because loving you required full-body endurance. you were beautiful, incandescent, a human firework. but you also operated on a wavelength that fried ninety percent of his higher brain function on contact.
after several minutes of you debating which jar “felt like your aura,” damian became aware of movement to his left. teenage boys again. different group, same expression: wide eyes, slow grin, subtle nudge. damian didn’t turn his head, just let his gaze slide sideways with the precision of someone trained to kill you with eye contact alone. he assessed them like threats. measured distance, posture, intent.
then he exhaled, and in one smooth motion he unwound his scarf, his favorite scarf, the dark green cashmere one alfred bought him. you looked up just in time for him to loop it around your neck. it swallowed your collarbone, your shoulders, half your face. you blinked at him, startled, already forgetting the glitter jars existed. “oh.. but… this is your scarf,” you said, muffled behind fabric.
“it’s cold,” he said simply. “and you’re incapable of dressing yourself appropriately for winter.”
he did not mention the boys. he did not acknowledge the way they looked away instantly, suddenly very interested in a nearby churro stand. he just tugged the ends of the scarf tight, adjusting it so it framed your jaw the way he liked. “you’re so cute!” you said, beaming, patting his cheek with a glove that had sequins glued onto it in a pattern that made absolutely no sense.
he closed his eyes, breathed in patience, and opened them. “we’re going home.”
“nooo,” you whined immediately. “i’m not done seeing things.”
“you have been ‘seeing things’ for two hours.”
you crossed your arms, pouting so dramatically a small child walking by mimicked it. damian watched this happen from the corner of his eye and genuinely considered the possibility that god was punishing him for past sins. “i’m not cold.” you said stubbornly.
“you were shivering.”
“i’m fine.”
“your lips are turning blue.”
“blue is festive.”
damian stared at you for several seconds, long enough that you began to sway a little under the weight of his silence. then he sighed, one of those deep, despairing sighs that felt like he was exhaling his whole soul. “please,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “let’s go home.”
you paused. not because you understood, not because you perceived the emotional vulnerability behind the word please, but because your ears caught something else. “home?” you repeated, eyes lighting up. “can we make hot chocolate?”
“yes.”
“with the marshmallows?”
“yes.”
“AND whipped cream?”
“yes.”
you clapped your hands, delighted. “okay! we can go home!”
damian exhaled in relief so palpable the vendor at the next stall looked over, concerned. he took your hand, firmly, because you tended to wander, and began guiding you through the crowd. you were a lot. exhausting. irritating. distractible in a way that defied physics. but as you swung your joined hands happily, humming off-key, damian found — to his own horror — that he didn’t mind.
the manor came into view like a dark, brooding castle against the snowfall. you gasped again, you always gasped, as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times already. “it looks like a big chocolate cake with snow frosting,” you whispered reverently.
damian closed his eyes for a full second. “it looks like a historical landmark.” he corrected, pulling you toward the door before you licked the railing “just to see if it tastes cold.”
inside, warmth hit you instantly, along with the low murmur of multiple voices. the wayne family was gathered like some kind of chaotic holiday constellation. dick was the first to spot you. “HEY! sparkles!” he beamed, using the nickname he’d given you on day one. he swooped in for a hug and you squealed, throwing your arms around him. damian’s eye twitched.
“you’re freezing,” dick said, rubbing your arms. “why didn’t demon spawn give you his jacket?”
“i gave her my scarf.” damian said, clipped, already regretting coming home at all.
“awww,” dick grinned, “look at you being thoughtful.”
damian turned away before anyone saw the betrayal of warmth on his face. steph popped up next, nearly knocking you over. “BABE, oh my god, your outfit. you’re like a peppermint bimbo dream.”
you gasped. “do you think i look like a candy cane?”
“yes,” she said solemnly. “but in a sexy way.”
damian muttered something that sounded like a vow of vengeance. jason leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, wearing that insufferable half-smirk. “barbie’s home.”
you waved enthusiastically. “hi jay!!”
he winked. damian glared so viciously jason only grinned harder. bruce looked up from a conversation with alfred, hands tucked behind his back. “welcome home,” he said, in that quiet, unreadable bruce-wayne-trying-to-be-approachable voice. he always sounded slightly startled when he spoke to you, like he hadn’t adjusted to your presence yet.
and then: alfred. alfred, who you adored. alfred, who adored you right back. you sprinted toward him like a toddler and he caught you with the reflexes of someone who’d been catching vigilantes his whole life. “miss,” he greeted warmly. “i see you’ve survived another outing with master damian.”
“barely,” you sighed dramatically. “he won’t let me buy important things.”
alfred raised a brow. “important things such as…?”
you lowered your voice. “a spoon.”
“i see.”
tim, on the other hand, lingered near the stairs. he nodded politely, said a quiet “hey,” and retreated upward with a mug of coffee. he didn’t dislike you. he was just… overwhelmed by you. which was fair. you overwhelmed most people, including yourself sometimes.
the rest of the family, though, stayed gathered in the living room, one of those rare nights where the manor felt less like a museum and more like… a home. the tree lights glowed warm gold, the fireplace crackled, and someone (probably dick) had put on a playlist of aggressively cheerful holiday music that clashed horribly with gotham’s usual mood.
you plopped down on the rug with zero grace, legs out, nearly knocking over a stack of presents. “careful.” jason said sharply from the armchair, leaning forward as if ready to catch whatever catastrophe you might accidentally summon.
“i am careful,” you insisted, immediately proving yourself a liar by elbowing a decorative nutcracker so hard its jaw snapped shut with a click.
damian lowered himself onto the sofa with the expression of someone bracing for incoming shrapnel. “try not to break anything else.”
“i didn’t break anything!” you said, horrified. “it just closed its mouth. maybe it’s shy.”
jason snorted. “yeah, that’s what it is. the nutcracker is shy.”
“don’t tease her.” dick scolded lightly, tossing a pillow at jason.
“i just think he closed it on purpose. maybe he’s, like, alive.”
bruce, who had been reading the newspaper and trying very hard to pretend his home wasn’t a sitcom, slowly lowered the pages. “the nutcracker,” he said evenly, “is not alive.”
“we don’t know that.” you whispered.
alfred passed through with a tray of hot cocoa, perfectly timed as always. “refreshments,” he announced. “and master richard, perhaps turning the music down two notches might save my hearing.”
“yes sir,” dick said, already adjusting the speaker. then he plopped down beside you on the rug, handing you a mug. “careful, sparkles. it’s hot.”
“that’s okay,” you chirped. “hot chocolate tastes better when it’s hot.”
jason choked on his drink. steph buried her face into a pillow to muffle her laughter. bruce closed his eyes like he was in pain. damian pinched the bridge of his nose. alfred, however, smiled with the serenity of a man who had survived decades of wayne-family chaos. “very astute observation.” he told you kindly, handing you a marshmallow like it was a medal of honor.
conversation resumed, steph teasing jason about his inability to drink like a normal person, jason threatening to “accidentally” drop a gingerbread house on her head, dick explaining some bizarre titans holiday tradition no one asked about, and bruce pretending the sports section of the newspaper was suddenly a riveting masterpiece of literature. you sat on the rug beside the couch with damian on the couch behind you, his arms crossed, expression unimpressed by everything except maybe you, though he would rather perish than admit it.
for a while, you stayed where you were, humming absently, nodding along to dick’s animated retelling of “the time starfire tried to cook a turkey using only solar energy.” but then you noticed it. damian. on the couch. without you. your lower lip jutted out immediately, a soft pout forming like a storm cloud gathering over a cartoon sun. you twisted around, peeking up at him. he didn’t look back—didn’t even pretend to notice your growing distress. he just sipped his tea like this wasn’t the emotional betrayal of the century. so you rose to your feet, brushing off imaginary dust like you were preparing for something noble.
you stepped behind the couch. damian didn’t turn. maybe he didn’t think you’d actually do it. but you did. you leaned down, looped your arms around the back of his neck, and draped yourself over him like he was the most comfortable office chair in existence. your cheek pressed to the top of his head. his hair was very soft. you made a content sound—something between a hum and a sigh, happy and unapologetically attached.
conversation stopped just for a second. just long enough for everyone to register the image of gotham’s most glaringly intense son sitting rigid and red-tipped and tragically resigned while his hyperactive, glitter-brained girlfriend clung to him. “aww,” dick said. loudly. too loudly. “she loves you.”
damian glared at him so hard dick should’ve combusted. “i was sitting alone,” you murmured into damian’s hair, like it was a tragic confession. “and you were up here. and i didn’t wanna be down there. without you.”
steph silently mouthed koala to jason, who nodded like this explained everything.
damian huffed, annoyed, increasingly embarrassed. “you are incapable of functioning without proximity, it seems.”
“that’s not true,” you said, tightening your arms around him. “i just like you.”
jason muttered, “simp.” behind his mug.
damian’s head snapped up, eyes murderous. “what was that?”
“i said ‘sip.’ this hot chocolate? amazing.”
bruce hid a smile behind his hand.
“we’re leaving.” damian announced abruptly, standing so fast your arms slipped from around him in a startled little flutter. his ears were red. his cheeks, too.
you blinked up at him, confused. “leaving? where?”
“my room,” he said, already taking your hand, already pulling you up from the floor with a rushed, awkward gentleness, as if he was trying very hard not to look like he was trying very hard. “we are going upstairs. now.”
jason smirked. “wow. didn’t even last ten minutes.”
“quiet,” damian snapped without turning around, posture stiff, every inch of him radiating tightly wound embarrassment. “both of you.”
dick waved cheerfully. “have fun, you two!”
steph added, “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do!”
“that leaves very little.” jason murmured.
you didn’t catch most of it, you were too busy trotting after damian, your smaller steps hurrying to keep up with his fast, purposeful stride. his grip on your hand was firm, determined, like if he let go for even a second the universe would see its chance and steal you. the manor’s main staircase curved upward in a grand sweep, damian practically marched up them, trying to retain some dignity, but his composure cracked every time he heard muffled laughter drifting from the living room.
you tried to keep close—closer than close—your free hand finding the back of his sweater as if you needed the extra anchor. he glanced over his shoulder, huffed, and tugged you along faster. “they’re so mean to you.” you whispered sympathetically.
“they’re insufferable,” damian corrected, though his voice wavered with residual fluster. “and your commentary is not helping.”
“i thought it was.”
“it wasn’t.”
you reached the landing. damian inhaled deeply, the kind of breath someone takes when they’re trying to reset their dignity. he released your hand, just to straighten his sweater, and immediately you reached for him again on instinct. he caught your wrist mid-grab. “wait.”
you froze. “wait?”
“stay here,” he ordered, pointing to a specific spot on the landing as if you were prone to drifting into the walls. “i’m going back down.”
you took half a step to follow him. he gently pressed a palm to your shoulder to keep you still. “no. stay.”
“but—”
“i am getting more hot chocolate,” he said, like you were a skittish deer and he knew any sudden movement would send you spiraling. “you don’t need to follow me everywhere.”
you blinked. “…but i like following you.”
“yes, I know,” he muttered, eyes briefly squeezing shut. “i am… acutely aware.” you leaned forward again. he immediately held up a hand. “stay.”
you pouted. “but—”
“i will return in less than two minutes.” his tone took on that strict, no-argument cadence that only partially worked on you. “you will be fine. stand here. do not go downstairs. do not wander. do not attempt to hug me while i’m on the steps.”
“but you’re warm.”
he inhaled sharply through his nose. “i will be warm upstairs,” he said tightly.
“will you be long?”
“no.”
“…are you sure?”
“yes.”
“…but what if you—”
he placed both hands on your shoulders. “if you follow me, todd will never let me hear the end of it.”
you gasped softly like he’d revealed a national secret. “oh. okay.” you nodded, suddenly solemn. “i’ll stay.”
damian exhaled, relieved. “good.”
he released you, took one cautious step down the stairs, then glanced back again just to make sure you were still in place. you were. standing exactly where he told you to. swaying slightly, humming, waiting.
for about… twelve seconds.
that was the absolute maximum amount of time your brain could focus on standing still before it started whispering intrusive thoughts like i wonder if my phone is downstairs, and maybe alfred made cookies, and i want to hug damian again.
you looked around. nothing to do. nowhere to sit. no sparkly things to stare at. you fidgeted. tapped your fingers together. shifted your weight from one foot to the other like a restless cartoon rabbit. then it hit you like a tragic revelation: your phone. you had left your phone.
damian said to stay. yes, but he also said two minutes. and it had probably been two minutes. or close. or approaching the general vicinity of two minutes.
so you took a quiet step down. then another. just enough to peek around the railing, scanning for the pink sparkle phone case you left —- and you froze. damian’s voice drifted up toward you, low and sharp in that way he only sounded when he was frustrated and trying not to be. “—exhausted,” you make out. “she drags me all over the city, asks the most ridiculous questions, wanders off every five seconds—i swear, i spend more time chasing after her than actually speaking to her.”
you blinked. damian complained all the time—he got grumpy, he lectured, he huffed and sighed and called everyone inept—but hearing it like this, when he thought you couldn’t hear him… it stung.
then jason’s voice cut in, louder, rougher, crueler in that careless way he didn’t always mean but absolutely could be. “please. you knew what you were signing up for. shes dumb as a bag of glitter and even clingier.” a snort. “she’s probably losing her mind right now being, what, sixty seconds away from you?”
your stomach dropped. like the floor disappeared under your feet for a second, leaving you suspended in the shock of it. you backed up—one careful, trembling step—then another, until the voices blurred into an indistinct hum beneath you. they kept talking, but it all blended together, washed out, meaningless, like your brain had hit some emergency switch that dimmed the world to static.
your hands lifted slowly. you stared at them. glittery nail polish, tiny rhinestones you’d spent an hour arranging, a smudge of hot chocolate on your thumb. they looked… wrong suddenly. too bright. too silly. like something made for a different kind of girl, one who knew where she fit, one who wasn’t just taking up space she didn’t deserve.
clingy.
dumb as a bag of glitter.
exhausted.
the words looped, sharp and quiet and far too convincing. you curled your fingers in, palms trembling. for a heartbeat, you actually felt monstrous. like some overly loud, overly bright creature someone had accidentally let into a place built for competent people. did they ever want you here?
you tried to breathe, but your chest tightened instead, squeezing the air you needed. you took another step back, spine brushing the wall, grounding and suffocating at the same time. your own boyfriend had to leave the room just to vent about you. that part hurt the worst.
it made something in your stomach twist. damian always looked tired after spending time with you—had you been misreading everything? all the little moments, all the soft touches, the tiny smiles he pretended weren’t real?
maybe he was just putting up with you.
you squeezed your eyes shut. the staircase felt too narrow now. the ceiling too low. the air too thick. you felt cornered and foolish and painfully aware of every inch of space you took up. they were all downstairs being… normal. competent. sharp-witted. capable. they fit each other.
you didn’t fit anything.
you pressed a hand to your chest and tried not to imagine what else they might’ve said once you stopped listening, but imagination didn’t need permission. it filled in the silence fast—too fast—spilling over with every insecure thought you’d ever tried to ignore.
you talk too much.
you never shut up.
you make him tired.
you’re only good for your looks.
you’re embarrassing.
you’re not smart enough to belong here.
you don’t know when to stop.
you make everything harder.
you make him miserable.
you knew you weren’t smart, not in the way they were. not in the strategic, clever way that made the whole family feel like a universe made of constellations you couldn’t read. you knew your thoughts came out tangled, loud, too bright. you knew you got excited about things no one else cared about. you knew you filled space you didn’t mean to fill. you weren’t stupid. you just… weren’t them, and suddenly that difference felt like a crack running through your whole body.
your chest tightened again, frustration building hot and prickling behind your eyes. you hated that you were upset. hated that you cared. hated that you were fighting three different internal battles when, moments ago, you’d been fine—happy, even. you didn’t want to cry. not here. not over this. not when crying would only prove you were exactly what they thought—overreactive, fragile, childish.
that’s when damian came back up the stairs. the first thing you saw was the tension in his shoulders, jaw tight, knuckles red like he’d scraped them on something. his eyes snapped to you, scanning your face like he needed to make sure you were still in one piece. “let’s go.” he said, hand flexing once before he reached for you. you pulled away.
damian froze.
you’d never pulled away from him. not once. not even when he was irritated, or short, or lecturing you about “awareness” and “basic survival instincts.” you were a limpet by nature—sticky, clingy, gravitational, so the tiny step you took back immediately raised his suspicion.
his brows pulled together. “what are you doing?” he asked quietly, like the words were foreign in his mouth.
you swallowed, forcing your face into something bright. something harmless. “i think i’m just—uh—gonna go,” you replied, voice wobbling in a way you desperately hoped he didn’t notice.
“go where?”
you gestured vaguely with both hands. “away. you know. like… elsewhere. in the world.”
damian stared at you like you were speaking a language he knew but couldn’t translate. “what are you talking about?”
“anyway!” you said, nodding too fast. “phone. downstairs.” you sidestepped him before he could reach for you again, before he noticed how your eyes were glassy or how your smile didn’t reach anywhere near your eyes. your footsteps were too light, like you were afraid the floor would creak loud enough to force him to follow.
the living room felt too bright when you crossed it. everyone looked up. your phone sat exactly where you left it. you grabbed it without slowing, no one said anything. jason wasn’t there anymore. you didn’t look at damian’s family. didn’t smile. didn’t trip into a conversation you didn’t belong in. for once, you were silent.
then you walked straight to the front door and stepped out before anyone could ask where you were going or why your hands were shaking so badly. the door shut behind you with a soft click. for the first time since you’d met damian wayne—you left without waiting for him to follow.
THAT WAS THREE WEEKS AGO.
three weeks of quiet, of measured distances, of self-imposed walls that hadn’t existed before. you had pulled back from damian, massively, and the change wasn’t subtle. the way you used to lean on him, hang from his arm, brush against him with every opportunity, had dwindled to nothing more than casual proximity, a few polite touches that didn’t linger. the energy you used to spill in torrents, in bubbles of laughter, tangles of words, and endless questions, was now trapped somewhere in your head, swirling in loops of overthinking and guilt.
you tried to talk less. you weren’t… cold, exactly. not frozen. just cautious, careful, distant. it was easier this way, you told yourself. easier to manage the way your chest would tighten whenever he looked at you too long, the way your stomach twisted when you remembered the words that had come out of jason and damian’s mouth, the way the heat of embarrassment and self-consciousness would settle into your bones.
your energy had shifted, rerouted. the bursts of color, the endless chatter, the way you used to loop damian into every tiny moment of your day, gone. replaced with shopping trips, coffee with friends, scrolling endlessly through things that sparkled or made your brain go soft and bubbly. you stopped including him. little things, first: a funny text that once would have gone to him, now sent to a friend instead. small selfies, small stories, small jokes. everything you had once handed him first now filtered through other people, other spaces, other worlds where the intensity wasn’t suffocating, wasn’t steeped in the weight of knowing him too well.
you loved him. absolutely. you didn’t stop loving him, you just thought you needed to be less. less clingy, less loud, less hyper, less distracting. damian had never asked you to shrink yourself, had never told you to dim, and maybe that was what made this worse: you assumed he preferred it. you assumed that by stepping back, by quieting yourself, you were giving him the room he needed, that the less obvious, less vibrant you was somehow easier for him to manage.
and yes, you missed him. some mornings you reached for your phone to tell him a dumb thing, and then stopped, realizing you were… stopping yourself. he hadn’t reached out. not to notice the change, not to prod, not to tease you back into yourself. he noticed, of course he did. the weight of your absence pressed in on him in subtle ways, the way he scanned a room and didn’t see your usual bright energy where he expected it, the way he thought of you mid-task and almost smiled before realizing you weren’t part of it anymore.
he brushed it off. called it temporary, a mood, a phase, maybe even a test, something he didn’t need to fuss over, but his chest tightened anyway. his thoughts lingered where you used to be. the absence of your voice, your laugh, the way you dragged him into ridiculous distractions—it left a hollow spot, and for the first time, he couldn’t just fix it by putting you in arm’s reach or side-eyeing the world into submission.
it had been three days since you’d last spoken. three days. three whole mornings, afternoons, and nights without damian. three weeks ago, this would’ve felt unbearable, but now you let it exist.
your phone buzzed. damian. the name made your chest twitch in ways you’d fought to ignore for days. you stared at the screen, fingers hovering, trying to gauge if this was courage or a trap. you finally swiped. “hello,” you greeted, voice careful, neutral. no enthusiastic hi, no giddy ‘i missed you’ that would’ve given him too much.
there was a pause. long enough that you could hear him breathing through the line, waiting for something—maybe the enthusiasm he always got from you, the little giddy inflections. you didn’t give them. “there is a gala tonight.” he said finally. “you will accompany me.”
you blinked, caught off guard. gala. fancy. sparkly. the very thought made your chest flutter before your brain scrambled to caution: he’s probably going to hate how much i distract him, everyone will stare, i’ll trip or say something dumb.
“probably… not.” you decline, voice small, careful, almost mumbling. the words sounded foreign even to you.
“excuse me?”
“i said… probably not.”
silence. you could almost hear him processing. “i was under the impression—” he started, measured, but there was an edge. “—that this would have been agreeable.”
you swallowed. you hated that your chest felt tight. “i just… maybe next time,” you said, hoping it sounded casual even though your stomach sank.
“you love these events,” he said, almost accusing. “what is the matter?”
you fumbled, scrambling for something—anything—sensible. “i think .. the cat might be mad at me?”
“that is… hardly a valid reason to refuse a gala. do you have another?”
you chewed your lip, wringing your hands together, flustered. “well… um… i… my… my shoes, they… they might be too sparkly. it could blind people.”
another pause. he was quiet for a moment, and you imagined the pinched line of his mouth, the narrowed eyes. “you are speaking nonsense,” he said finally. “yet i can hear—” he hesitated. “something. you are hiding something. tell me.”
you swallowed, wishing—like, really wishing—you were smart enough to conjure a reason that sounded real, that would satisfy him, that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete disaster. but your brain was doing that thing it always did: looping through sparkly shoes, cats, and ice cream flavors, none of which helped. “uh… okay, bye!” you blurted, voice a little too cheerful, and clicked the end call before he could ask anything else.
phew. you totally nailed that.
you flopped onto your couch, fuzzy pajamas tangling around your legs, grabbed the nearest pint of cookie dough ice cream, and dug in. you flipped through streaming apps with the emotional depth of a goldfish, settling on the first movie poster that had pretty colors. something with singing. something where no one looked like they were judging you from across a mansion living room.
the opening song started and you tucked yourself deeper into your couch cocoon, blanket shaped like a giant strawberry wrapped around your shoulders. ice cream: half-gone. brain: mercifully vacant. you weren’t wallowing—you refused to wallow—because wallowing required staying on one thought for longer than eleven seconds, and you simply weren’t built for that. you tried once, earlier, to reflect on the past few weeks, but halfway through thinking “maybe i am too much,” you saw a commercial for sparkly lip gloss and forgot what sadness was entirely.
so you watched your movie. you giggled when the prince tripped over the scenery, gasped dramatically at every plot twist even though it was a kids’ film, and kicked your feet when the heroine got her magical dress. for a while, it was easy to pretend the world was simple and that your heart wasn’t bruised in places you didn’t know how to fix. and then—
“you didn’t answer my texts.”
you screamed. not like a cute scream. like a full-body, weaponized shriek. your spoon flew upward, brandished like a dagger, cookie dough chunk poised for battle. “WHO—OH MY GOD—DAMIAN? WHY ARE YOU—THAT—YOU CAN’T JUST—TELEPORT!”
he did not look amused. or apologetic. or impressed by your ice-cream-based defense strategy. “i used the spare key,” he corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose. “and you clearly need instruction in self-defense. that was pathetic.”
you were still holding the spoon like it was a sword. “i—i could’ve blinded you.”
“with dessert?”
“it has chunks.”
he stared at you, long and defeated, and only then—only after your heart slowed and your lungs remembered their job—did you realize he was here. in your apartment. beside your couch. shoulders tense, breath steady in that controlled way he used when something was wrong. something he wasn’t willing to ignore anymore.
you froze. frozen like a marshmallow left out in the snow, like a popsicle that somehow knew it had to impress a god and didn’t stand a chance. normally you would’ve launched yourself at him—arms first, lips trailing kisses, a flurry of glittering enthusiasm that left him winded just from being near you. normally, you would’ve clung. right now, you were… decidedly not normal.
damian’s eyes narrowed. “well?” he prompted, voice flat but heavy with expectation, the kind of expectation that made you suddenly hyper-aware of every corner of your apartment. normally, this tone would’ve made your heart skip in excitement. now it made it do a weird little hiccup of anxiety.
“uh,” you mumbled. “i just thought maybe… maybe galas are, like… too fancy?” you added lamely, as if words themselves could distract from the gaping void of uncertainty settling in your chest.
“too fancy? for you?” his shoulders stiffened as if the very suggestion was a personal affront. usually he would have let you flail a little, let you stumble through a hundred excuses. now… his chest tightened, frustration bleeding into something heavier. you stumbled back a half-step, then another, blanket bunching under your hands, your stomach doing that weird tumble-your-insides thing that always showed up when damian looked at you like this. tall. looming. imposing. “enough,” he snapped, and it was tight, like he’d been holding it in so long that the words barely cleared his throat before they landed hard. “you won’t even let me touch you. what is the matter?”
you froze mid-step. your mind spun. normally, you would’ve fallen into his chest without thinking, melting into the warmth of his hands and the press of his body. now… now your instincts screamed no, and the resulting flush of guilt and embarrassment made your chest feel too tight. damian’s brow furrowed, and then the corners of his lips tugged down in that small pout that made him look younger and frustrated all at once. “do you understand,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence filling every inch of the space around you, “how… difficult it is to… not feel you next to me?”
his chest rose and fell faster, not from exertion, but from the absence of contact, the starvation of closeness he’d been used to every time you had been your usual clingy, adorable self. the pout deepened as if the lack of your touch was physically weighing on him. he stepped closer again, unsure if you would flee or collapse into him. “i—” you started, voice trembling, then stopped. all your words felt stupid, worthless, inadequate. your brain short-circuited under the weight of his eyes and the sheer want radiating from him, and you pressed your lips together, biting the inside of your cheek, retreating another half-step despite every rational part of you screaming to just lean in.
you swallowed, words tripping out of you before you could stop them. “i just… don’t want to exhaust you. i don’t want to—” your voice faltered, a squeak barely audible, “—make things harder.”
damian froze mid-step, a slow inhale pulling the air into him as if he’d been holding it without realizing. his eyes widened slightly—not with anger, but with something more jagged: shock, confusion, and a flicker of… hurt. “what did you hear?” he asked, careful.
“i heard. what you said to jason. and… and what he said.”
the silence that followed was almost unbearable. the pout faded, replaced by a rigid line of restraint. you could feel it—the weight of all the emotion he’d been bottling for weeks. damian’s breath left him in a controlled exhale, the kind he used when he was forcing himself not to retreat behind pride or irritation. he lifted his chin a fraction, meeting your eyes head‑on, refusing to let you look away. “i won’t pretend i didn’t say those things,” he began. “i did. you do overwhelm me sometimes. you move fast, you talk fast, you feel fast—things i was not raised to understand.”
his hands flexed once, then stilled at his sides. “but that does not mean i don’t want you near me. it does not mean i’m… tired of you.” his jaw clenched for a moment before he forced it to ease. “i was frustrated. not with you— with myself. with not knowing how to keep up.” he took a step closer, the way he approached a frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. “but listen to me very clearly. i will never let anyone speak poorly of you.” another breath. “and when todd opened his mouth,” he continued, forming his words with visible disgust. “i struck him. immediately.”
your eyes widened, and he caught the flicker of shock before you could mask it. “i will not allow anyone—friend, brother, stranger—to demean you. even when i am frustrated. even when i am overwhelmed. especially then. you are…” he hesitated, searching for the correct word, something true. “you are too important.”
your mouth opened, closed, then opened again, nothing elegant, nothing clever, just a stunned scramble of breath. the words too important echoed through you like someone had rung a bell inside your ribs. warmth spread through your chest, an almost dizzy relief, ridiculous and overwhelming in the best possible way. “you… punched jason,” you said finally, voice disbelieving. “for me.”
damian’s expression barely shifted, but something in his eyes flickered—pride, irritation, stubborn protectiveness. “he deserved worse.” he mumbled.
you almost giggled. it was stupid, but the image of damian decking jason because of you made something in your stomach flip. of course damian would do that. of course he would. and yet knowing he actually had—that he hadn’t just stood there letting it happen—felt like someone had lifted a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying. you swallowed, voice wobbling as your thoughts spilled out. “but… am i not embarrassing? i mean—maybe this is better, right? i thought giving you space would help. that you’d… appreciate it.” you fiddled with your sleeve. “i thought maybe you’d finally get a break from me.”
the sound damian made was halfway between a scoff and an incredulous breath. “a break,” he repeated, as if the word personally offended him.
“i just thought—”
“no,” he cut in. “if i wanted space, i would tell you. i never asked for this.”
you blinked at him, startled by how quickly he closed the gap between you—two steps, maybe three, but enough that you had to tilt your chin up, enough that you felt the heat of him, the intensity he never tried to soften. “you think this is better?” he asked, voice tight. “you think this—this distance—is something i want?”
your breath caught. he shook his head once, the movement irritated. his eyes met yours, almost pleading. “it’s maddening.”
“you don’t exhaust me,” he continued. “you… unsettle me. in ways i am still learning to navigate. but i do not want you far from me.” his voice softened, but only barely. “i need you close. this distance,” he added, gaze flicking down to your hands before snapping back to your face, “is the only thing that has exhausted me.”
the relief hit first. then the warmth. then the stupid, overwhelming, giddy joy that flooded through you so fast it made your knees weak. then you were moving. “oh my god—damiiiii,” you squeaked, and whatever distance had been between you shattered as you launched yourself forward, practically colliding with his chest. his hands flew up on instinct, catching you like he always did, prepared even when you weren’t.
you wrapped your arms around his neck, squeezing him so tight he let out a soft, startled grunt. “you need me close?” you beamed, already peppering his jaw with quick, excited kisses. “oh my god, i was dying—i missed you so much—you should’ve just said something, damian, i thought you hated me—and i wanted to go to the gala so bad—”
“beloved—” he tried, but you were already cupping his face, kissing him again, soft then messy then eager, like you were making up for every second you’d held back. his hands settled on your waist, grounding but firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish again. you felt him breathe out slowly against your mouth, tension draining inch by inch. “wait—” damian tried again, voice catching somewhere between stern and breathless, but you were already kissing him for the fourth—fifth?—sixth time, you’d lost count, your hands on his cheeks, then his jaw, then his collar, like you were trying to make up for three weeks of starvation all at once.
“i need—listen—”
another kiss.
“i’m trying to—”
another, this one landing on the corner of his mouth because you mis-aimed from excitement. “you are impossible—”
you kissed the complaint right off his lips.
he exhaled hard against your mouth, a shaky sound that betrayed how much he’d missed this. “i got you something,” he finally managed, pushing the words out between soft, stolen breaths.
you froze—dramatically, predictably—eyes wide, lips still brushing his because you had absolutely no spatial awareness when excited. “you didn’t,” you gasped.
he gave you a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “i did.”
you almost shrieked, clutching his shoulders. “what is it? oh my god—damian, did you—did you get me the spoon??”
he blinked. “no. not the spoon. i knew you wanted to go to the gala,” he murmured when you finally pulled back for air—only because you had to, not because you wanted to. his voice was that low, almost-raspy softness he only ever used with you. “i know you.”
you were grinning so hard it was embarrassing. “you do?” you asked, glowing, practically bouncing in his arms.
he huffed—fond, resigned, completely undone—in the way only someone hopelessly in love could sound. “yes,” he said simply. “which is why i bought you a new gown.”
you gasped like he’d just offered you oxygen after drowning. “AWWW.”
“do not yell,” he muttered, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile.
“damian wayne,” you clutched his shoulders, scandalized and delighted and unhinged. “you bought me a gown and you didn’t even tell me??”
“i attempted to.” he gave you a look. “you hung up on me.”
you took forever to get ready.
not ‘a little long,’ not ‘fashionably delayed’—no. this was a questline. a saga. a biblical-length journey of outfit changes, makeup crises, and one thirty-second meltdown where you thought your eyeliner betrayed you (it did not).
damian waited.
or rather: he stood behind you with his arms crossed, pacing once, sighing twice, and then finally submitting to holding your hair clips for you. but when you stepped out—sparkling, glowing, wearing the dress he bought you—his entire posture changed. his breath literally hitched.
and at the gala? he didn’t let you out of arm’s reach once. every time someone’s eyes lingered too long, damian’s hand slid to your waist. the kind of possessive that said: look all you want, she’s going home with me. he guided you through the crowd. kissed your temple once when you made him laugh, glared at at least six people for daring to compliment you, absolutely threatened one guy with eye contact alone.
you thrived. you sparkled. for the first time in weeks, you felt entirely, stupidly, loudly like yourself again.
when the night wound down, you walked out with your heels dangling from your fingers, damian’s jacket around your shoulders, his hand loosely holding yours like he still wasn’t convinced you wouldn’t disappear. “where are we going?” you asked, swinging your joined hands dramatically.
“a detour,” he said simply.
the detour was the winter market.
the spoon—your ridiculous, rhinestone-encrusted, princess-coded spoon—was in a display window. damian walked inside without a word, bought it, and handed it to you.
you stared at it, serious as death. “damian,” you whispered. “i will treasure this spoon more than i will treasure any of our hypothetical future children.”
“that is—”
he paused.
“…deeply concerning.”
you nodded solemnly. “they’ll understand.”
he pinched the bridge of his nose. you hugged the spoon. somewhere in the back of your head, one final thought sparked:
when i see jason, i’m gonna… i’m gonna… unplug his phone charger. so he wakes up with like… 4%.
a terrifying threat.
damian exhaled, half-laughing, half in love, tugging you against him, “please never change.”
A/N: HAIII thank you for the love girl u already know i was on this shit the second i got this request ive been obsessed with the idea of bimbo!reader for some reason lately 😭💕💕 i hope this was okayyy
girlfriend keeps a kyubey plushie just to beat up when she's angry so sometimes i'm running down the list of questions to ask to help her figure out what would make her feel better and "do you want to hurt kyubey" is often one of them
A spell to make one’s words more desirable to listen to and to capture the attention of listeners. Helps them hold onto your every word and especially good for flirting.
You Will Need:
Red Lipstick
A Mirror
Sugar
(Optional) Rose Quartz to place before you
Steps:
Wash your face and do your make up as you normally you would.
“My words are as sweet as sugar, they attract and lure like a song”
Take your sugar and place it onto your tongue and close your mouth. Let it dissolve away, as it does think about how you want your words to affect others.
“I will captivate.” Say this three times looking into the mirror
Take your red lipstick and paint your lips with it. Hum during this part a melody that you associate with beauty.
Rub your lips together and do a ‘mwah!’ to the mirror. “May my song begin!” And close the spell as you see fit such as blowing a kiss or winking at the mirror.
Other Notes: this spell can be enhanced by pairing it with perfumes that attract love and represent beauty such as rose perfume.
Sources: @hymnfell on twitter // @wren-anastazia // “The Civil Guillotine” by Kait Rokowski // @inkskinned // @CanisInfernalis on twitter // Unknown // “I Am So In Love With You I Want To Lie Down In The Middle Of A Major Public Intersection And Cry” by Hera Lindsay Bird // @clownluvrr on Instagram // @lohver // @ohph0enixx on Pinterest
a/n: hi! hope you guys enjoy this fic, had this idea because of that scene where adrian was taking care of economos and i js feel like he would take care of you so well, pls i need him. crossposted on ao3
synopsis: after a chaotic hangout with the 11th Street Kids, you find yourself dangerously tipsy and tangled up in adrian chase’s quirks, care, and unexpectedly hot physique. wc: 4,650
tags: adrian chase/f!reader, fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, reader is really clumsy here for the sake of the plot, protective!adrian, soft intimacy, ooc adrian ( i mentioned he has healing abilities, not canon but im pretty sure he has them ), alcohol-induced confession c/w: mentions of alcohol/drinking, reader, and pretty much everyone else getting drunk, reader pukes in one scene, reader is a FREAK lowkey, suggestive
The party burned bright on Harcourt’s rooftop. Beer cans everywhere, music too loud, Chris shouting lyrics no one knew, and the 11th Street Kids were sprawled around mismatched chairs, laughing too loud for how late it was.
You were three drinks past your limit, but having the time of your life. Chris was trying to prove he could shotgun a beer faster than a twenty-year-old, Economos was heckling him, and Harcourt rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out.
Adrian was beside you, perched on the edge of his chair like an overexcited kid at a sleepover. He’d been rambling for twenty straight minutes, and you hadn’t stopped smiling once.
“—and technically, jellyfish don’t even have brains,” he said, waving a half-full beer can for emphasis. “Which is kind of terrifying if you think about it, because they still function perfectly fine. They sting, they float, they hunt. No brain required! Meanwhile, we have brains, and I can’t even cook rice without ruining it. What does that say about evolution? Nothing good.”
You giggled, clutching your drink. “You’re like obsessed with the weirdest facts.”
“They’re not weird, they’re practical! Like, if we ever have to fight an alien that looks like a jellyfish, guess who’s going to save all your lives? This guy.” He pointed to himself proudly. “Because I’ll know not to aim for the brain. Jellyfish don’t have brains!”
“Christ, Chase,” Harcourt muttered, taking a swig from her beer. “You’re exhausting.”
Adrian grinned, unbothered. “Exhaustingly prepared.”
You’d noticed it before, but it hit you sharper in the haze of beer and rooftop lights. The way Adrian never seemed to flinch when people tossed jabs at him. Harcourt could cut him down with a single sentence, Chris could roll his eyes, Economos could groan every time he opened his mouth (but you did notice that he would still humor him), and Adrian just…took it. Not even took it, just shrugged it off. Grinning, bouncing right back, like their words couldn’t touch him.
Maybe he didn’t even notice. Or maybe he noticed and genuinely didn’t care. Either way, it was kind of incredible.
You, who could spiral for days over one offhand comment, couldn’t wrap your head around it. And maybe that was why you always made a point to be nice to him. To laugh at his stupid jokes, to actually listen when he rambled on about owl facts, to see him. Because underneath the quirks and tangents, he deserved someone who did.
You leaned your head against the back of your chair, warmth bubbling in your chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
And then, your bladder reminded you of the three drinks past your limit.
You groaned softly, sitting up too fast. The world tilted. “Uh oh.”
Adrian leaned forward, alarmed. “Uh oh? What kind of uh oh? Vomit uh oh or…like, existential uh oh?”
“I need to pee,” you whispered like it was a state secret.
“Oh! Pee, uh oh. Got it. That’s manageable. I can handle that.” He hopped up so fast his chair toppled over. “Come on, I’ll escort you. Bathroom mission, let’s go.”
You tried to stand on your own, but your knees buckled immediately. Adrian darted in, catching you by the elbow.
“Whoa there! Okay, you’re like…a baby giraffe right now. Very majestic, very wobbly.”
You snorted, leaning into him. “You’re so loud.”
“Better than you face-planting into the concrete,” he said seriously, guiding you across the rooftop. Adebayo and Harcourt were deep in some hushed conversation, too distracted to notice your clumsy escape.
Adrian muttered to himself as you stumbled down the stairs. “Okay, left foot, then right foot. Yes, exactly, nailed it. You’re like ninety percent sober in my eyes right now. World record.”
You couldn’t stop giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He helped you to the bathroom door, bracing you with both hands on your shoulders. “You good from here? Do you need like…a spotter? Because I don’t think I’m allowed inside unless it’s a medical emergency. And even then, questionable.”
You waved him off, still laughing. “I got it.”
“Okay. But yell if you fall in. I’ll heroically rescue you.” And honestly, you don’t even think he’s joking.
When you emerged a few minutes later, he was waiting against the wall, humming to himself, arms folded like he’d just been guarding a priceless artifact instead of a bathroom door.
“Success?” he asked brightly, straightening the second he saw you.
His grin spread wide and unselfconscious, crooked at one corner, the kind of smile that looked like it belonged on a kid who just got picked first for kickball. It was goofy, earnest, and so Adrian, and yet, it hit you right in the chest.
“Success,” you confirmed, trying not to melt under the weight of how proud he looked just because you managed to pee without catastrophe.
He beamed even harder, like you’d just aced a final exam. “I knew you could do it. I never doubted you for a second. Well, okay, maybe for a second, but that was only because you walked into the doorframe before opening it. But after that, total confidence.”
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not, but you blurted: “You’re so nice. Like—so nice. Do you know that? You take care of me, and I don’t even deserve it.”
His face went crimson immediately. “What? No! Of course, you deserve it. You deserve, like, Olympic-level care. The highest quality care known to mankind.”
You swayed toward him, poking his chest clumsily. “You’re the best, Adrian Chase. The best.”
He swallowed hard, eyes darting around like he was looking for backup. “Okay, uh, you’re super drunk. Which means it’s hydration time!” He darted into the kitchen, returned with a glass of water, and pressed it into your hands. “Drink this. Doctor’s orders. And by doctor, I mean me, and I am definitely not a doctor, but still. It’s medically sound.”
You obediently sipped the water, lips puckering at the bland taste. “Boring,” you muttered, but drank anyway because his expectant look told you he wouldn’t let you off the hook.
When you handed the glass back, Adrian hovered for a second like he wasn’t sure if you’d actually done it, then nodded with exaggerated approval. “Good. Hydration levels restored. Now, rooftop adventure awaits.”
Back upstairs, the party was still going, Chris yelling about how beer tasted better from a boot (he didn’t own a boot, but was determined to find one), and Harcourt had taken permanent refuge on her phone. You dropped into your chair again, a fresh drink already in your hand before Adrian could stop it.
You plopped down in your chair, fumbling for your phone. “Okay,” you slurred, swiping until the screen blurred a little less. “I’m gonna quiz you.”
Adrian perked up instantly, practically bouncing. “Quiz me? Hell yeah. This is my moment.”
“It’s… owl facts. Or spider facts. If you’re wrong, you take a shot. If you’re right, I do.” You held up your phone like it was a sacred text.
Adrian hesitated. You’re drunk. You’re really drunk. But then your smile tugged at him, wide and conspiratorial, and the little (well, huge) part of him that always wanted to impress you whispered to play along and make you laugh.
“Deal.”
The first round was easy. “How far can an owl turn its head?” you asked, trying to sound stern.
“Two-hundred and seventy degrees!” he blurted instantly, and the confidence in his voice made you laugh out loud.
“Dammit,” you said, tipping back your drink.
Adrian’s chest tightened at the sound of your laugh, wild and unrestrained, bubbling out of you like champagne fizz. He wanted to bottle it, keep it, make it last forever.
Next question, spiders. “Which spider… um…” You leaned forward, nearly tipping your phone into your lap. Adrian caught it for you, steadying your hand. Your skin brushed his, and he froze.
You barely noticed. “Which spider can jump, like… a lot?”
“Easy! Jumping spiders. It’s literally in its name.” He said, a grin plastered on his face.
You groaned again and drank. “You’re cheating.”
Adrian gasped, hand flying to his chest. “Cheating? No. I would never cheat at owl-and-spider trivia. That would be a crime against nature. That’d be like, like faking a high score in Pac-Man. It cheapens the experience. And trust me, I respect owls and spiders far too much to betray them like that. They deserve integrity.”
You blinked at him for a beat, then burst out laughing so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
The next one tripped him. “Owls… can smell really well?” he guessed.
Your jaw dropped. “WRONG. They can’t smell at all.” You shoved a shot glass at him like you were handing down a sentence.
He tossed it back, grimacing, but secretly relieved it was him instead of you.
By the time you’d run through half your list, you were a mess of giggles, phone slipping from your fingers. Adrian snatched it before it hit the ground.
“Whoa, careful!” He cradled the phone like it was a fragile treasure, holding it up out of your reach for a second. “This thing’s basically your lifeline. What if you drop it and it shatters? Then you’ll have no maps, no music, no emergency spider facts. And then what? Total societal collapse. I’d have to personally escort you everywhere like your human GPS.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad,” you teased, reaching lazily for the phone.
His ears went red. “Well, uh, yeah, I mean—directions are kind of my thing. Left, right, up, down. North, south, spider, owl.”
You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth. God, everything he said was ridiculous. But it was the way he said it, so earnestly, like he wasn’t even trying to be funny. You leaned against him fully now, cheek brushing his shoulder, because your body felt like it was made of lead and warmth, and Adrian Chase was comfortable. Way too comfortable.
He stilled. The warmth of you against him almost short-circuited his brain.
He glanced at your empty glass, then at your flushed face, and decided before his nerves could talk him out of it. “Okay, I think the quizmaster is officially cut off. Hydration round two.”
You groaned but didn’t resist as he swapped your cup for the one filled with juice. You were too busy giggling into your sleeve to notice the difference, sipping happily like it was the best drink you’d ever had.
“See?” Adrian said, eyes sparkling with relief. “Still fun, zero percent liver damage. It’s what the pros call a win-win.”
And even as the rooftop noise swirled around you, his focus never left your face. Flushed, bright-eyed, smiling at him like he was the only one worth looking at.
The night air nipped at your skin, sharper now that the buzz from the drinks was settling in. You rubbed at your arms, trying to shake it off, but the thin straps of your cami didn’t offer much help.
“You’re cold,” Adrian said suddenly, already tugging at the hem of his sweater like he’d been waiting for an excuse to strip.
Your head snapped up. “What? No, I’m fine. Seriously, don’t—”
Too late. He was already halfway out of it, wrestling the knit over his head in a tangle of arms and curls.
“Adrian, stop,” you hissed, reaching out like you could shove it back down onto him, but he popped out of the neck hole with a triumphant grin and held the sweater out to you.
“Here. Put it on before you, like, get hypothermia, and I have to fashion a makeshift blanket out of beer boxes.”
You stared. Not at the sweater. At him. Bare skin glowing in the rooftop light, muscles more defined than they had any right to be, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t even aware you were staring.
He blinked at you, puzzled. “What? Do you not like sweaters? Is it, like, a texture thing? Because I totally get it, some fabrics feel like sandpaper, and it’s the worst.”
“Dude. You’re shirtless.”
“Yeah, duh.” He shoved the sweater at you again, determined. “I’m giving you my sweater so you’re not cold. That’s how clothing works. One person takes it off, the other person puts it on. Trade economy.”
You spluttered, “Well—what about you?”
Adrian just shrugged, unconcerned. “I run hot. Plus, worst-case scenario, I start doing push-ups until I’m warm again. Or sit-ups. Or interpretive dance. Point is, you’re cold and I’m not, so the sweater goes to you.”
You finally tugged it over your head, drowning in the oversized knit. It smelled like detergent and beer and something faintly metallic that was just him. And you couldn’t stop staring at him, even as he turned back to the group, laughing like nothing was different, like he hadn’t just stripped half-naked in the cold without a second thought because he noticed you shivering.
For some reason, every time your eyes flicked to Adrian, your stomach twisted into knots. You’d seen plenty of shirtless people before; it usually didn’t do much, but him? Him, right now? Your pulse picked up, your cheeks flamed, and suddenly your hands felt clammy.
So you tried to distract yourself. You leaned toward Harcourt. “You always this quiet at parties?”
Emilia glanced at you, sharp as ever. “You always this jumpy?”
Your mouth opened, ready to protest, but before you could, Adebayo’s voice cut through the night, high and gleeful. Economos shouted something back. You turned for what felt like a second, and suddenly Adrian wasn’t in his jeans anymore.
Just underwear. Standing on the rooftop with his arms spread like a victorious wrestler, while beer was poured over him like some ridiculous ritual, sliding in golden rivulets across the ridges of his chest and stomach.
Your breath hitched. Your eyes locked on him, tracing the curve of his chest, the line of his abs, the way the liquid clung to his skin, highlighting every curve, every flex, which made your stomach flutter and your heart beat like a drum. You should probably look away. Look at literally anything else. A bird, the sky, your own hands—just not him.
But you couldn’t. You can’t stop staring at the way the beer slicked across his skin, catching in the dip of his collarbone, tracing down the planes of his stomach. Your face burned hotter than the alcohol in your veins. Your eyes, despite your best efforts, drifted lower. Just far enough to take in the curve of his hips and the obvious outline of his crotch in those snug boxers. Your face burned hotter than the alcohol in your veins, and your stomach knotted with a cocktail of embarrassment and… something else entirely.
Next to you, Emilia smirked. “Wow. Subtle.”
Your head snapped toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, too casually. “You’re really enjoying the view huh?”
Your face burned. “I—I wasn’t—look, I need to—uh—pee.”
You scrambled to your feet, desperate for escape. But the universe wasn’t letting you off easy. Between the alcohol buzzing in your veins, the oversized sweater sleeves, and your stupid platform boots, you barely made it two steps before your toe caught on a chair.
You flailed, arms windmilling as you stumbled forward, and a warm, solid weight caught you before you could topple completely.
“Whoa—gotcha,” Adrian said, his voice calm but firm, hands landing on your waist to steady you. Your own hands instinctively pressed against his chest to keep your balance, and the heat radiating from him through the thin fabric of the sweater made your brain short-circuit.
You froze, heart hammering. His fingers lingered a second too long, brushing along your sides, steadying you in a way that made your pulse spike. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, and suddenly every rational thought fled.
Do you like Adrian Chase? The thought hit like a jolt of electricity, and your cheeks flamed hotter than before.
Adrian, for all his usual awkwardness and rambling, didn’t seem to notice the shift. He tilted his head, eyes scanning yours, maybe thinking you were just off-balance, not realizing your hands were still pressed against him. “You okay?” he asked, voice soft, almost conspiratorial.
You nodded, though your stomach twisted.
You finally eased down onto the edge of a chair, letting out a shaky sigh. Your eyes flicked across the rooftop, and that’s when you caught Adebayo’s gaze, one of those looks that said I see exactly what’s happening here. You froze, cheeks heating all over again. You quirked your eyebrows, suddenly aware that maybe you were the object of a little harmless teasing.
Before you could dwell on it, a warm voice broke through your spiraling thoughts.
“Uh… you know, you should really take these off,”he said, crouching down, hands resting lightly on your knees, “these boots? Absolute hazard. Let’s take them off before you need to get stitches from the ER.”
You glanced down at your boots, about to try to unstrap them yourself. “Oh… yeah, okay.”
Before your fingers could fumble with the straps, his hands were already there, gentle but firm. “Nah, I’ve got this. Trust me.” His touch was careful, deliberate, and your pulse spiked as he slid the boot off.
“Okay, much safer,” he said finally, pulling back just enough to give you space, eyes twinkling with amusement. “You can now navigate the treacherous rooftop without fear of platform-boot calamities. Consider me your… personal safety officer.”
You couldn’t help but laugh, heart hammering, though your thoughts were in turmoil. Do you really like him? or is it the alcohol in your system? The combination of his charm, his warmth, and the simple intimacy of him helping you was dizzying.
Adrian, blissfully oblivious to your mental chaos, leaned back on his heels and grinned. “Alright, hazard mitigated. You’re welcome. I’ll be expecting a formal thank-you card, or at least a handshake. Preferably both.”
The party had died down, and everyone had retreated to Emilia’s apartment. Economos and Adebayo’s voices were faint in the other room, bickering about UNO rules with the kind of energy that could last all night. In here, though, it was just you, the toilet, and Adrian kneeling on the tile beside you.
You gagged miserably, clutching the edge of the bowl like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.
“Easy, easy,” Adrian murmured, sweeping your hair back with one hand, palm warm and steady against your crown. He didn’t even flinch when you retched again, just kept rubbing slow, grounding circles on your back. His jeans had to be soaking up whatever cold lingered on the tile, but he didn’t budge.
You slumped forward with a groan, chest heaving. “Ugh. Kill me.”
“No way,” he said instantly, voice bright but soft. “You’re like… top-tier. One of my favorite people ever.”
That made your heart skip, a strange little stutter that had no business happening in the middle of you throwing up in Harcourt’s bathroom. You would’ve dwelled on it, replayed those words over and over, tried to figure out if he meant them the way you wanted him to, but your stomach lurched again, cruel and untimely, and you bent over the bowl.
Adrian didn’t flinch. He just tightened his hold on your hair, murmuring quiet encouragements between his usual rambling. “Okay, good, just get it all out. Not that throwing up is good, but, like, sometimes it’s part of the process. You’re basically detoxing. People pay hundreds of dollars for juice cleanses when this is way more effective. Not that I recommend it, because it sucks, obviously.”
You coughed weakly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “How are you okay, dude? I’m pretty sure you drank way more than me.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s ‘cause of my healing factor. My body burns through alcohol faster than normal, so it takes a lot more to get me sick. It’s like—uh, like my liver’s got a cheat code.” He tapped his chest with two fingers, almost proud. “Infinite lives. Well, liver lives.”
You rolled your eyes, rinsing your mouth out at the sink. “Lucky.”
The mirror fogged faintly from the hot tap you’d just run, and you braced your hands against the edge of the sink, catching your breath. When you finally turned, he was hovering a few feet away, like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer or give you space.
The bathroom wasn’t tiny, but the fluorescent light and tiled walls made it feel smaller, more intimate than it really was. Adrian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, eyes darting everywhere but yours. His glasses had slid a fraction down his nose, and he pushed them back up with his finger in that nervous, familiar way.
Your gaze traveled over him. His curls were messy from the rooftop wind, falling in uneven tufts across his forehead, soft in a way that made your fingers ache to touch them. The robe he’d thrown on hung loosely off his shoulders, the collar gaping just enough to reveal a strip of bare skin and the defined lines of his chest.
You tugged at the oversized sweater you were wearing, which was Adrian’s sweater, trying to pull it tighter around yourself, half for warmth, half because it felt like a flimsy shield against the heat rising in your cheeks.
And even though you practically saw him naked earlier, seeing him this close, like this, knocked the breath out of you. Heat crept up your neck before you could fight it, your body betraying you with the sudden rush of fluster.
Adrian’s cheeks were flushed too, a soft pink climbing high across his face. Whether it was from the leftover alcohol, the heat trapped in the tiny bathroom, or the fact that you were staring at him like you’d never seen him before, you couldn’t tell.
You thought about how he’d just spent the last half hour holding your hair, rubbing your back, taking care of you without a single complaint. You thought about the ridiculous, earnest things he’d said tonight that had made you laugh even when your stomach was twisting.
And now here he was. Just you and him, close enough that if you leaned forward an inch, your shoulder would brush his chest. Close enough that you could hear the way his breath hitched when your eyes lingered on him too long.
“Adrian,” you whispered, your voice lower than you meant it to be.
That finally made him look at you. Really look. His eyes found yours, and for once, he didn’t fidget or ramble to fill the space. He just stood there, pressed back against the door like it was the only thing holding him up, breath shallow like yours had stolen it away.
Something pulled tight in your chest. You swallowed hard, pulse skipping, and before you could talk yourself out of it, the words tumbled out.
“You’re my favorite person, too.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than they should’ve been, and Adrian’s lips parted like he wanted to say something back. But nothing came.
Your gaze slipped lower, unbidden, catching on his mouth. Just a second too long. You dragged your eyes back up, but not before he noticed. His throat bobbed with a swallow, and then, true to form, he panicked.
“Oh, uh—yeah? I mean, you’re great. Really great. Like, top-tier great. Honestly, if there was like a ranking system for people, you’d be way up there. S-tier. God-tier, even. Like, sometimes you even beat Peacemaker, and he's like my BEST friend. It's not just 'cause you’re funny and badass, but you're like so nice. To me. So nice to me. And sometimes I think maybe you don’t even realize it, but—yeah, it’s like… you’re just really, really good to me. And–”
“Adrian.”
Your voice cut through his rambling, sharper than you meant it to be, but he froze instantly. His eyes widened behind the faint flush on his cheeks, mouth still half-open like he’d been about to tumble into another tangent.
His rambling pressed warm against your chest, a soft, steady presence that had been with you all night as he took care of you, made you laugh, and somehow made the chaos of the party feel safe. After everything tonight, you didn’t just question it anymore. You knew. You liked him. Really liked him. And yeah, maybe it was the alcohol in your system, burning courage through your veins and making you reckless, but the truth was there, undeniable. Your chest was tight, your palms sweaty against the cool porcelain of the sink, but you leaned in just enough that he’d feel the shift in the air between you.
“I like you.”
His brain short-circuited. Full stop. Whatever words had been lining up in his head scattered like startled birds. “You—what?” His voice cracked embarrassingly on the single syllable, and he blinked, rapid and uneven, like maybe he’d misheard.
You nodded, throat thick. “I like you, Adrian. Like… a lot”
His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to the Batmobile. His grin was crooked, wide, and almost disbelieving. “Oh my god. That’s—that’s amazing. That’s like the best thing anyone’s ever said to me in the history of forever. Are you—are you sure? Like, you’re not just drunk-nice, right? ‘Cause sometimes people are drunk-nice and then they wake up and it’s like, ‘oops, didn’t mean it.’”
But you didn’t let him finish. Your body moved before your brain could catch up, leaning in, eyes fluttering shut. And for one wild second, he leaned in too. His breath ghosted over yours, the world tilting dangerously close to perfect—
Then he jerked back like he’d just remembered where he was. “Wait—no, nope—hold on!”
Your eyes snapped open, confusion stabbing through your haze. “What?”
His hands flailed uselessly, his robe slipping down his shoulder as he scrambled for words. “You’re, uh—you’re super drunk. Like, very drunk. And I don’t—”
The pit in your stomach dropped lower than any hangover could reach. “Oh.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, brittle at the edges. “Do you not…do you not like me?”
“What?!” He almost shouted it, panicked, arms waving like he was trying to physically swat the idea out of the air. “No! God, no, are you kidding? I—of course I like you. I’ve liked you forever. Like, you’re—” He cut himself off, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I just don’t want our first kiss to be in Harcourt’s bathroom while you’re drunk and still tasting like, y’know, tequila and stomach acid.”
Your cheeks burned hot, and you tried to laugh it off, even though the sound wobbled. “Fair. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna kiss me either, considering I just—”
“No!” He crouched slightly to meet your eyes, frantic. “That’s not it at all. You could puke on my shoes and I’d still wanna kiss you, okay? But not like this. You deserve better than this. Better than me screwing it up in a gross bathroom.”
“Okay,” you whispered, trying for casual but failing, the words trembling out. “So… you’ll kiss me tomorrow?”
Adrian blinked, then gave a short, nervous laugh. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Unless tomorrow you decide you hate me, which—uh, fingers crossed you don’t. Then maybe the next day.”
Your lips twitched despite the heat in your cheeks. “Idiot.”
He smiled, softer than you’d ever seen, and leaned down, brushing a quick, careful kiss against your forehead.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated, almost like a vow.
And even with the tequila fog still in your veins, your heart steadied at the sound.
General Batfam x reader stuff. Yandere/possessive family also. Autism coded reader.
But what if we implemented one of my favorite tropes.
Prompt: Dick (or one of the others) calls us (the reader) clingy and we are, of course, hurt.
But since we are in our early teens we don’t do our subsequent ‘avoiding them’ and ‘giving them space’ out of spite or anger. We do it because we think that’s what they need. We think we’ve made them genuinely uncomfortable.
Because that would make them feel a lot more guilty.
And when Dick said that it was like a switch flicked on. Maybe we had made him uncomfortable.
…Maybe we had made everyone uncomfortable.
In other words, Dick’s words have consequences on the entire bat-family.
And they’re not very happy about it.
(They like that we’re overly affectionate. But we don’t pick up on that. We only pick up on the fact that they flinch just slightly before every touch and how they brace themselves just slightly for hugs.
And we assume that we’re the problem. Because what is a kid going to do when there’s nothing else to blame other than themselves??
But, again, they love all the kisses and hugs and hand holding. Even the more touch avoidant members of the fam.
And now Dick (being true to his name) ruined that for them.
The prick.)
I love this even more… if we direct our affections elsewhere. Because we’ve gotta put this love somewhere.
CAN WE TALK? ╱ with THE BAT BOYS 𖬺𖬺 WALLY WEST 𖡎 smau .ᐟ ⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ after an argument.
‧˚꒰ৎ୭ 🗒️ — i tried my best w characterization consider this is more of a serious prompt, it wasn’t really specified if anon wanted something a little more silly or more serious.
‧₊˚🖇️✩ links — dc masterlist﹐more smaus.
̲ ̲ ̲ ̲🔗 ̲ ̲ ̲ ̲ ₍ DHAZEFAWN do not repost, copy or use my work for ai ...₎
˗ˏˋ🏍️ ─── REAL PEOPLE DO (YES, THIS IS REAL) .ᐟ ˎˊ˗
jason todd x fem!reader . . every day texts with gotham's resident anti-hero .ᐟ smau.
note: it's very hard for me to write for jason because of how complex he is as a character, although i hope i've done him justice because i do love him so ☹️
content: petnames as per ush (sweetheart, doll, baby, pretty), yearning jason, hurt (?) / comfort if you squint, ignore the timestamps in the left corner!
🏷️: @dulcet-aurora because i know you were looking forward to this 😚 if anyone else would like to be added to get tagged to any of my work send me an ask!!
Warning: mention of sexual act in the Drabble at the end.
Drabble word count: 600
Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Enjoy babe!
All characters are of age in this writing.
Bruce Wayne
Still trying to compute it.
You bite his bicep mid-cuddle and he just freezes like a computer with too many tabs open.
“…Did you just bite me?”
You: “Mhm. You’re built for it.”
He blinks. Then just sighs deeply and pulls you closer like, “Of course. Why not. Bite away.”
Secretly finds it endearing and a weird reminder that someone loves him even if you’re a bit chaotic.
Dick Grayson
Loves it, thinks it’s hilarious, flexes for it.
Literally offers his bicep. Rolls up his sleeves like, “Get a good one in, babe.”
“You gotta mark it, how else will people know I’m taken?”
Laughs every time and flexes dramatically like a bodybuilder. Makes heart eyes at you while doing it.
One time you bit him too hard and he moaned on instinct and now it’s a thing.
Jason Todd
Pretends he hates it. Secretly lives for it.
“What the hell- did you just-”
Groans, rubs the bite like it’s the end of the world, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Doesn’t stop you though. Ever.
Will never say it out loud, but checks his bicep in the mirror to see if the bite left a mark.
If it did? He’s smug all day.
Tim Drake
Glitches.
Literally just sits there after you do it, like, “…huh?”
“You bit me.”
You: “Yes. I do that.”
“Okay but… why?”
Eventually gets used to it. Starts bracing for it when you’re cuddling. Starts wearing sleeveless shirts more often… definitely not on purpose.
Acts exasperated but flushes red if you do it in public.
Duke Thomas
Doesn’t get it, but rolls with it.
“Okay, you do realize that’s technically assault… right?”
You: “Say that again and I’ll bite your other arm too.”
“I didn’t say stop, I just wanted to understand the rules.”
Starts calling you his “emotional support piranha.”
Teases you, but loves how unhinged and affectionate you are.
Damian Wayne
Absolutely feral response. He bites back.
“Tt. What are you, a feral dog?”
You: “You make a great chew toy, babe.”
Next thing you know he’s biting your shoulder with zero hesitation.
“Now we are even.”
It becomes a lowkey love language. Bites = affection. And bruises. But love.
Clark Kent
Deeply confused. Genuinely concerned.
“Honey… was that a love bite or are you hungry?”
You: “Just your muscles. They looked too good.”
“I- thank you?”
Doesn’t feel it because he’s Superman but pretends he does so you feel powerful.
“Ouch, that one really hurt…” (with a soft smile and big eyes).
Barry Allen
Screams (dramatically).
“Babe! Why would you do that!?”
“Why does your first instinct with affection involve teeth?!”
You: “Because you’re soft and I love you.”
“I’m gonna start wearing sleeves. Armor. Chainmail. I swear-“
But still offers his arm every time. Sucker for your chaos.
Wally West
Absolutely eats it up.
“You bite me like that one more time and I’m putting a ring on it.”
Loves the bite marks. Shows them off. “You see this? That’s my girl. She’s passionate.”
Purposely flexes around you. Does curls while you watch. Winks.
“This arm is 60% tricep and 40% bite marks, babe.”
Roy Harper
Equal parts confused, turned on, and amused.
“Ow. No seriously- ow. Again.”
Teases you: “Should I start bringing you chew toys?”
But then he’s like, “…wanna bite my thighs next?” with a smug smirk.
He’s into it. 100%. You’re the only one allowed to mark him up and he brags about it.
Bonus:
Roy x Reader x Wally
The three of you are tangled on the couch when it happens.
You’re lying half across Roy’s lap, feet in Wally’s. A movie plays on the TV, forgotten, something about a car chase and bad CGI, but it’s just noise now. You’re too comfortable, too warm. Roy’s arm is draped across the couch, and his other hand is on your shoulder thumb stroking idle patterns. Your head resting against his bicep, chin on his forearm. Wally’s socked feet are under your legs, his fingers spinning a fidget toy, head leaned against your shoulder like he might fall asleep there.
Roy flexes.
You feel it, the shift of muscle under your cheek where it rests on his arm, and before you can think twice about it, you sink your teeth in.
Just enough to mark.
“OW-“ Roy yelps, but it’s half laugh, half outrage, “Did you bite me!?”
Wally jolts upright, blinking. “Wait, what-“
You sit up slowly, grinning. “Your muscles are being rude.”
Roy rubs his arm and glares, “You’re lucky you’re cute. I’m gonna start keeping my arms holstered if you keep treating them like chew toys.”
“You love it,” you say smugly.
“Not the point,” Roy mutters, very much not denying it. He flexes again. Subtly. Like he wants you to do it again.
Wally throws his head back dramatically, “I knew this was gonna be a thing when you bit his shoulder last week. And then his thigh. I’ve seen your search history, babe.”
You turn your wicked grin on him now. “What, jealous?”
He scoffs. “Pfft. I have nothing to be jealous of-“
You lunge.
“AAAHHH-“
He flails backward on the couch as your teeth sink into his bicep. You barely leave a dent- he’s attempted to vibrate to avoid it, but you try. And then you blow a kiss at the mark you made and lay back across them both like you didn’t just attack them mid-cuddle.
Roy’s laughing now, full-on wheezing, “She’s feral. I told you.”
“She’s gonna eat us,” Wally says, hand over his fake-wounded arm. “I’m gonna start wearing kevlar.”
“I dare you,” you purr.
Wally glares, “I will get revenge.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Promise?”
There’s a tense beat.
Then Roy leans in close behind you and whispers in your ear, “Bite me like that one more time and I’m putting a ring on it.”
You pause.
Wally gasps, cause now it’s a competition, lWait. I want a turn. Bite me like that again and I’LL propose!”
“Y’all are down bad,” you say, snorting.
And then you lean forward, sink your teeth gently into Wally’s shoulder just above the sleeve of his tee, and while he yells in victory, Roy groans and throws his head back like he’s the one being attacked this time.
“God. She’s gonna kill us both.”
Wally grabs your face and kisses your cheek with a grin. “And we’re gonna let her.”
There are four new bite marks between them, Roy’s left arm, Wally’s side, Roy’s hip, Wally’s thigh, and you’re sprawled on top of them both in bed, smug as hell and entirely unrepentant.
“I’m gonna start a tally,” you mumble, half-asleep. “Bicep bites only. Whoever gets more wins.”
“Wins what?” Roy asks, voice muffled by your hair.
You snuggle deeper into his chest. “A blowjob. Obviously.”
Wally’s immediately like, “Okay, but can I sabotage Roy’s arms while he sleeps?”
Roy grumbles, “Touch me and die.”
You sigh happily, tangled in the limbs of your two very tired, very marked up, very in love boyfriends.
Your bite marks say “mine”, And they wear them like trophies.
