heidi

18 ⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆𓏲ּ𝄢

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

the moon’s library

heidi. 18. she/her. newjeans. mha. dc. marvel. wlw. mermaid princess. daughter of the moon. tigers. lana lang. taylor russell <3

navigation:

nothing here yet…

requests:

request guidelines coming soon…

status: open / closed

i am not obligated to do your requests and if they go against my guidelines then i will simply ignore and delete them. bare in mind that i am human and can only do so myc so requests may take a while

blog rules:

‼️ racism, zionism, misogyny, ableism, homophobia, transphobia or any form of hatred and bigotry will not be tolerated

‼️ this is a safe space; everyone is welcome

‼️ do not feed mine or any other author’s work into ai, i do not condone the use of generative ai

‼️ don’t copy, repost or translate my work

[njghtiee]

my baby girl owns me !

── .✦ dick falls in love all over with his baby girl

request ── .✦

The room is quiet in a way Dick Grayson has never quite known, not silence, not emptiness, but the kind of soft, reverent stillness that comes right after the storm of a miracle. Machines hum low, monitors blink gently, and the smell of antiseptic mixes with the faintest sweetness of warm skin and blankets. But none of it exists to him right now. His world has narrowed to one small bundle the nurse just placed in his arms, as if handing him the entire universe wrapped in a pale pink blanket. He doesn’t breathe at first. He can’t. His chest rises and holds, suspended in a single heartbeat that stretches forever. He looks down and the earth shifts under him, everything he’s ever been anchored by sliding away.

His daughter is so impossibly small. A tiny face, scrunched in sleep, lashes trembling like the lightest brush of a butterfly’s wing. Her skin is soft, impossibly soft, her cheeks full, her mouth the smallest rosebud he’s ever seen. She makes a little sound, a breathy sigh, and Dick feels something in his ribcage crack open. It’s not pain. It’s something overwhelming, blinding, tidal. Love. A kind of love he didn’t realize was possible until now.

The nurse says something, congratulations, maybe, or a reminder to support her head, but the words float past him, distant. He’s already supporting her head, one large hand cupped so gently under it that he’s scared to move even a fraction of a millimeter. His other arm wraps around her body, forming a cradle that feels like it was made for this exact purpose, like every muscle in him learned this position long before he ever knew he wanted to be a father. The moment she settles into him, tiny and warm, his breath finally releases, shaky, disbelieving, reverent. He whispers “Hi, sweetheart…” and then stops, his voice catching on the second word. Because it hits him then, she’s real. She’s here. She’s his. This little girl, this perfect tiny person with your nose and his mouth and a softness that seems impossible in a world that has hurt him so many times, is his daughter. Dick Grayson’s daughter. The realization shatters him. His throat burns. His eyes blur instantly, tears rising without permission, spilling before he can blink them away. He doesn’t even try to hide them.

He laughs through a sob, a sound broken by wonder. “Oh my god” he whispers, pressing his forehead the slightest bit closer to hers. “Oh my… oh my god.” You’re still lying against the pillows, exhausted, glowing in that incredible post birth haze, watching him with a smile that trembles as much as his voice. You’ve never seen him like this, never this undone, this soft, this purely overwhelmed with emotion. He’s always been expressive, affectionate, warm, but this? This is something deeper. Ancient, instinctual, a love that remakes him. He looks up at you once, just once, and the expression on his face nearly takes your breath too, a mix of awe, gratitude, disbelief, and something like falling in love with you all over again. But then his gaze returns to the baby immediately, because he can’t look away for more than a second without his heart physically aching. “She’s so…” He can’t even finish. Words fail him, dissolve into another quiet, helpless laugh. A tear hits the blanket near her little hand. Then another. He tries to blink them away, but they keep coming. He’s not embarrassed. Not even close. He lifts one hand, the one not supporting her head, and very slowly, very carefully, touches her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Her skin is warm. Silky. She shifts slightly in sleep, her mouth opening for the smallest second before closing again. Dick’s breath catches like someone punched him.

“I made her” he whispers, voice thin and watery. “We made her… she’s ours…” The awe in his tone is almost childlike. He shakes his head, swallowing a sob. “She’s… she’s so tiny. She’s so perfect. I— I didn’t know it would feel like this.” His shoulders tremble. He leans down and presses the lightest kiss imaginable to her forehead, soft, careful, like he’s afraid she’ll break from the weight of his lips. A tear falls onto her skin as he does it, gliding down to the corner of her hairline. Dick gasps sharply and wipes it off immediately with his thumb, whispering, “I’m sorry—sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry—daddy’s just…” He stops again, because saying “daddy” out loud twists something inside him. It’s real now. He is a dad. He is her dad. The idea hits harder than any villain ever has. His whole face softens, melts, his tears falling freely now. “I’m your dad” he says again, quieter. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise. I promise you’ll always be safe.” He doesn’t say it with the haunted weight Bruce used to, the quiet vow forged from trauma and loss. Dick says it with warmth, with certainty, with a love that pours out of him like sunlight, a promise made not from fear, but from devotion. His hand strokes the back of her tiny body in slow, featherlight motions, memorizing her, mapping her. Her breaths are so small they barely move the blanket, but he feels each one. He feels everything. “She’s… she’s so beautiful” he murmurs, voice cracking hard. You smile, exhausted and glowing. “She looks like you,” you whisper. Dick laughs through his tears, the sound crumbling at the edges. “No… no, she looks like an angel.” Then he glances at you again, softer this time. “Like her mommy.” But even as he says it, his gaze is pulled back down to his daughter, like gravity. He can’t stop staring. He can’t believe he gets to hold her.

His fingers tremble as he brushes one tiny fist, so impossibly small compared to his palm. When she curls her hand around the tip of his finger , uncoordinated, instinctive, Dick completely loses it. A full sob leaves him, sudden and quiet and raw. His knees nearly buckle even though he’s sitting. He bends over her slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes closed tight as he cries and laughs at the same time. “She—she’s holding my finger” he whispers like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world. “She’s holding my finger. She—she trusts me.” The sound he makes next is soft, strangled, pure emotion. He wasn’t prepared. Not for this. Not for how absolutely, overwhelmingly he loves her already. Not for how his heart feels like it’s expanding too fast for his chest to contain. He presses another kiss to her forehead, another to her tiny fist, another to her cheek. “I love you” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I love you so much. I didn’t know I could love like this.” He gently rocks her, the motion natural, instinctive, as if he’s been doing this his whole life.

Every time she twitches or sighs, his breath catches like he’s witnessing a miracle. “I’m gonna protect you. I’m gonna take care of you. You’ll never be alone. I promise.” He pauses, taking another shuddering breath he barely manages to pull in. “You’re my little girl.” The phrase, spoken aloud for the first time, seems to break him more than anything else. He closes his eyes, a new wave of tears spilling out, and lowers his forehead so it nearly touches hers, not quite, still careful, always careful, just close enough to feel her warmth. The nurse asks if you want to hold the baby again. Dick doesn’t even hear her. His world is a pink blanket, a tiny heartbeat, and the smallest, most perfect girl he’s ever seen. When the nurse repeats herself, Dick finally looks up, slowly, reluctantly, as if pulling himself out of a dream. His cheeks are wet. His eyelashes dark with tears. He looks dazed, euphoric, completely gone. You smile gently. “Dick… you can keep holding her.” Something in him softens even further, the impossible happening all over again. He looks at you with a love that could light every shadow Gotham has ever known. “Are you sure?”

“She looks perfect where she is.” His breath shakes. He nods. And then he looks down at his daughter again, and his voice comes out as a whisper, raw and tender and overflowing. “Hi, baby girl… Daddy’s right here. I’m not going anywhere.” And for the rest of the night, hours and hours that feel like seconds, Dick Grayson holds his newborn daughter like she’s the first and last miracle he’ll ever need, falling in love every time her tiny chest rises against his arm. He never stops crying. He never stops smiling. He never lets her go.

The apartment is warm in that soft, afternoon sun kind of way, light pouring through the blinds in golden stripes, catching dust motes in gentle floating patterns. It’s quiet except for the occasional car in the distance, the hum of the heater, and the gentle cooing sounds coming from the small blanket spread out on the couch. Dick sits cross-legged in front of her, his knees touching the edge of the cushion, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward like he’s staring at the most precious treasure he’s ever seen in his life. And he is. His daughter lies on her back on a soft pink blanket, her little hands waving aimlessly in the air, her legs kicking so enthusiastically that one foot almost, almost, catches him in the chest, and Dick laughs softly, catching the tiny socked foot between two fingers and giving it the gentlest squeeze. “You are way too strong” he tells her with exaggerated seriousness, his eyes sparkling with that warm blue glow they get only when he looks at you or the baby. “You’re gonna knock me out one of these days.” She kicks again, harder, like she’s testing him, and Dick lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh—! You did! That was an attack! Ah! Critical hit!” She squeals in response, not quite a laugh, but something bubbling at the edges, something that tells him she’s close. He feels it like electricity. He is already smiling so big his cheeks hurt. “Ohhh, you think that’s funny, huh?” he murmurs, lowering his face closer to hers until their noses are barely an inch apart.

“You are so lucky you’re cute” Her arms flail again, one hand smacking lightly against his chin, and Dick freezes in exaggerated shock. “You hit me” he whisper-yells. “The betrayal” But his smile is impossible to hide, the kind that curls slow and wide, softening every sharp line in his face. He looks younger like this, softer, happier than he has ever been. He leans even closer, brushing a kiss to her cheek. Just a small one. And the sound she makes, a little high-pitched chirp, lights something on fire inside him. “Oh my god” he breathes, voice cracking slightly even though he’s laughing. “You’re too much.” He kisses her again. Then once more, lower this time, right at the edge of her little jawline where her cheek meets what is unmistakably, adorably, multiple layers of baby neck rolls. “Look at this,” he whispers to you even though you’re just standing at the kitchen counter, watching with your heart basically melting into a puddle. “Look at this tiny marshmallow. Look at these rolls. How—how is this allowed?” He gently pokes one of the soft folds, his finger sinking into the plushness, and the baby kicks her feet and lets out another excited squeak.

Dick’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he says softly. “You like that, huh?” He brings his mouth to her cheek again, this time letting his lips linger for just a moment before he pulls back. She reacts instantly, her face scrunches, her little fists clench, and then… The laugh happens. That first laugh. That tiny explosion of sound, bubbling and bright and startlingly loud for such a small body. It hits him like a truck. Dick freezes. His eyes go wide. His mouth falls open. “Did you—” The baby laughs again. Bigger this time. Loud. Joyful. A full belly laugh, her whole body curling inward as if the happiness is too much for her little chest to contain. Dick’s hand flies to his heart and he gasps like someone just delivered him the meaning of life. “Oh my god” He’s laughing immediately, one hand covering half of his face, tears threatening, chest shaking as the joy hits him all at once. “Oh my god, baby girl, was that—did you just—?” She laughs again, louder, a high-pitched baby cackle that seems to echo in the tiny apartment like sunlight bursting through clouds. Dick completely breaks. His laughter becomes helpless, breathless, bordering on tears. “No—no, you can’t—” He bends over her, completely undone, forehead dropped to the blanket beside her tiny arm as he laughs so hard his shoulders shake.

“You can’t do that to me! I’m not built for this level of cute!” The baby’s arms wave wildly, her mouth open, her laugh rolling out again and again like she’s showing off. Dick lifts his head and stares at her with the expression of a man witnessing a miracle. “I’m gonna die” he says, voice cracking, laughing again. “You’re actually gonna kill me. I’m gonna die from cuteness and the coroner is gonna put it on the report.” She kicks her legs so hard her socks nearly fly off, and Dick’s eyes sparkle with something so warm, so pure it makes your throat tighten. He leans down again, slower this time, eyes locked on hers, and whispers, “Okay. If you liked that… I’ve got something even better.” And then he lowers his mouth to her belly. He blows the softest raspberry, his lips buzzing gently against her tiny stomach. She screams in delight, a full shriek of joy that cracks into another belly laugh so contagious that you start laughing too even from across the room. She wiggles, kicks, and squeals, her whole body convulsing with uncontrollable happiness. Dick pulls back with a scandalized gasp. “NO. NO WAY. That’s illegal. You are way too cute. I’m filing a complaint.” Then he dives in again, this time making a ridiculous growling noise as he kisses her tummy, raspberries mixing with exaggerated chomping sounds. The baby can’t handle it. She is losing her tiny mind, laughing so hard her face turns red, her nose scrunches, her tongue sticks out, her eyes disappear in happy little crescents. Dick breaks again, laughter erupting out of him in a pure, uncontrollable sound that fills the entire room. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, he’s crying from laughing, but also crying because he loves her so much he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I can’t—” he gasps, breathless. “I actually can’t. How is this real? How is she real?” He wiggles one finger at her belly, teasing her with the threat of another raspberry, and she kicks in excitement, anticipating it. Dick’s grin stretches to full brightness. “Oh, you know what’s coming.” He swoops down and kisses right under her chin, where her neck rolls are thickest and softest. “Nom nom nom—oh noooo, the rolls! The rolls!” She squeals and bursts into laughter again, louder than before, her tiny hands smacking his hair, her legs flailing with joy. Dick laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the couch, clutching his chest. “I’m—oh god—I’m GONE” he sputters, wheezing between laughs. “I’m never going to be the same. I’m ruined. I’m destroyed. I belong to this baby now.” He rolls back upright, scooping her carefully up into his arms, pressing her against his chest. She’s still giggling, small hiccupy laughs that shake her whole body. Dick kisses the top of her head, tears at the corners of his eyes, and whispers into her soft hair, “I love you so much, sweetheart. You have no idea. No idea what you do to me.” He pulls her back enough to look at her, brushing her chubby cheek with his thumb. “That laugh…” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “Daddy’s addicted. You’re gonna get anything you want. Anything. I’m done for.” She grabs his nose between two tiny fingers. Dick freezes. Then bursts out laughing. “She got me,” he tells you, deliriously happy. “She got my nose. My baby girl owns me.”

You walk closer, leaning over the couch with a smile that threatens to overflow into tears. Dick looks up at you, flushed, breathless,, and says in the softest, most heart-full voice you’ve ever heard from him “I’ve never been this happy.” He presses one more kiss into your daughter’s warm cheek, and she rewards him with another tiny giggle, the kind that bubbles up like magic, and Dick swears right there, in the middle of your living room, that he would do anything in the world just to hear that sound again.

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ ''Culture Day''

''You smudged my makeup'' ''Do you want me to smudged more?'' ''What if you shut up?'' feat. d.wayne x moroccan fem!reader wc: 1456

✶— Masterlist

Culture Day at Gotham Academy is always a little chaotic.

Tables crowded with flags. Posters taped slightly crooked to display boards. The gymnasium filled with the smell of food from a dozen different countries—spices, sweets, grilled meat, baked bread. Students half excited, half embarrassed to stand beside projects they rushed the night before.

Normally, no one pays much attention to Damian Wayne.

Or rather—people look, but they know better than to stare.

Today, however…

People are absolutely staring.

Because Damian Wayne in a white thobe is unfair.

The fabric is bright and perfectly pressed, falling cleanly along his tall frame. The long sleeves sit neatly at his wrists, the collar sharp against his neck. His dark hair contrasts starkly with the white cloth, and the overall effect is… striking.

He looks composed.

Elegant.

Like he stepped out of a royal portrait instead of a university hallway.

Jon elbows him as they stand beside their display board.

“You know everyone’s staring at you, right?”

Damian adjusts one of the small placards on their table without even glancing up.

“I am aware.”

“You look like a prince.”

“I am.”

Jon folds his arms, grinning.

“Yeah,you say that a lot.”

Damian ignores him.

Their table is simple but meticulous—because Damian refuses to do anything halfway.

Photos of architecture and historical landmarks are neatly arranged. Small descriptions are written in precise handwriting. There are images of ancient cities, mosques, markets, and landscapes.

A few small cultural artifacts sit carefully placed at the front.

Damian has already memorized every fact on the board.

But all of that momentarily stops mattering when the gym doors open.

Because you walk in.

And suddenly—

Half the room goes quiet.

You step inside wearing a pink Moroccan takchita.

Soft rose silk layered with delicate embroidery that glimmers under the overhead lights. The belt around your waist is intricately decorated, cinching the dress perfectly. The long sleeves move gracefully when you walk, and the fabric flows around you like liquid light.

Your hair falls loosely around your shoulders.

You look radiant.

Not just pretty.

Radiant.

The kind of beautiful that makes conversations stop mid-sentence.

Steph whistles loudly from across the gym.

“Okay! I see you!”

You laugh nervously, smoothing the skirt of your dress.

“I feel overdressed.”

“You look amazing,” Steph insists.

You scan the room.

And then your eyes land on Damian.

You stop walking.

Because wow.

The thobe somehow makes him look even taller.

Sharper.

More composed than usual.

Like he belongs in a palace courtyard somewhere, not standing beside a folding table with a poster board.

Your eyes lock.

For a moment the noisy gym fades away.

You walk toward him slowly.

Damian watches every step.

And that’s when he notices something else.

Other people are watching you too.

A group of students near the food tables whisper.

Someone openly turns their head as you pass.

A guy from another class nearly walks into a chair because he’s staring.

Damian’s jaw tightens.

Jon notices.

“Oh,” Jon murmurs, amused. “That’s new.”

Damian doesn’t answer.

You stop in front of him.

“Hi.”

For once—just once—Damian Wayne struggles to form a sentence.

He studies you from head to toe.

The embroidery.

The silk.

The way the belt rests against your waist.

“You look…” he starts.

You tilt your head.

“Yes?”

He clears his throat.

“…beautiful.”

Then, softer—

“Truly beautiful, habibti.”

Your cheeks warm.

“You look really good too.”

Jon leans between you both.

“You two are being disgustingly polite about how hot you both look.”

Damian shoves him aside without looking.

“Leave.”

Jon laughs and walks off.

But Damian’s attention is already back on you.

His gaze lingers a moment longer than usual.

“You should stand closer to the table,” he says.

You blink.

“Why?”

“So people stop staring.”

You glance around and notice several people doing exactly that.

You smile slightly.

“Are you jealous?”

“I am observant.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Damian exhales quietly.

“You are attracting attention, azizati.”

“And?”

“And I do not appreciate it.”

Your smile grows.

“That definitely sounds like jealousy.”

He mutters something under his breath in Arabic.

You catch part of it.

“Was that a complaint?”

“Yes.”

You laugh softly.

Their presentation goes well.

Mostly because Damian knows everything already.

Students stop by the table asking questions.

You explain Moroccan celebrations with enthusiasm—weddings, festivals, traditional clothing.

Damian talks about architecture and history with calm precision.

But the entire time—

He keeps noticing people looking at you.

A little too long.

A little too interested.

One guy lingers at the table and asks you three questions he clearly didn’t need answers to.

Damian answers the fourth question before the guy can ask it.

In Arabic.

Flawlessly.

The student blinks in confusion.

“…Okay.”

And leaves.

You elbow Damian lightly.

“That was rude.”

“He was staring.”

“He was asking questions.”

“He was staring while asking questions.”

You laugh under your breath.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He leans slightly closer to you.

“You find this amusing, ruhi?”

“Maybe a little.”

“You should not.”

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“I am not cute.”

“You absolutely are.”

Eventually the presentations end and the gym becomes loud again.

Music starts playing. Students wander between tables eating and taking pictures.

Damian leans toward you slightly.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That sounds suspicious.”

“Do you trust me, qalbi?”

You smile.

“Obviously.”

He leads you out through a side hallway.

The noise fades behind you.

The corridor is empty and sunlit, tall windows casting warm light across the polished floor.

You exhale.

“That was intense.”

“You handled it well.”

“You too.”

There’s a quiet pause.

You’re standing closer now.

Without the crowd.

Without the noise.

You look at him again.

“You really do look unfairly good in that thobe.”

“Unfairly?”

“It’s distracting.”

“I could say the same.”

He steps closer.

The silk of your dress brushes lightly against his sleeve.

“You are very beautiful today, hayati.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“That sounded serious.”

“It is.”

You fiddle with the edge of your sleeve.

“You look like royalty,” you say.

“I am not.”

“Still.”

You reach up and smooth a small wrinkle near his shoulder.

The contact lingers.

Damian’s hand settles at your waist almost instinctively.

His palm rests against the embroidered belt.

You don’t pull away.

The hallway suddenly feels very quiet.

You look up at him.

“You’re staring.”

“You started it.”

“I did not.”

“You walked into the room dressed like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a distraction.”

You grin.

“Is that a complaint?”

“No.”

His thumb traces the edge of the embroidery.

The touch sends a shiver up your spine.

“Damian…”

Your voice is softer now.

He leans closer.

Your foreheads nearly touch.

“You smell like jasmine,” he murmurs.

“That’s the oil my mom sent.”

“It suits you, hubbi.”

Your fingers grip the front of his thobe lightly.

The fabric bunches beneath your hands.

“People might come out here,” you whisper.

“Then we should be quick.”

You laugh breathlessly.

“You’re terrible.”

“Yes.”

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft.

Just lips brushing.

But the moment they meet, the tension that’s been building all day snaps.

You pull him closer by the front of his thobe.

The crisp fabric wrinkles between your fingers.

Damian’s hand tightens slightly at your waist.

The pink silk presses against his chest.

The kiss deepens.

Still gentle.

Still careful.

But definitely not innocent.

Your fingers slide along the collar of his thobe.

“You’re going to wrinkle it,” you murmur between kisses.

“I do not care.”

You laugh against his mouth.

He kisses you again, slower this time.

Like he’s savoring it.

When you finally pull back slightly, you’re both a little breathless.

“You’re impossible,” you say.

“You kissed me back.”

“True.”

He studies your face for a moment.

Then gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You look beautiful in this,” he says quietly. “My beautiful habibti.”

You glance down at your dress.

“I feel like a princess.”

“You resemble one.”

“And you look like a prince.”

He huffs quietly.

“That title is inaccurate.”

“Still.”

You kiss his cheek quickly.

“Come on. Before people start looking for us.”

Damian straightens his sleeves.

“You wrinkled my thobe.”

“You survived.”

He offers his arm.

You take it.

As you walk back toward the noise of the gym, the pink silk of your sleeve brushing the white fabric of his thobe—

Students immediately look up again.

Jon notices first.

He grins.

“Okay yeah,” he mutters to Steph. “They definitely snuck off.”

Steph smirks.

“Worth it. Look at them.”

Side by side.

White thobe and pink takchita.

Looking far too good for a simple Culture Day.

And Damian’s hand remains lightly, possessively at your waist the entire way back.

A/N: In my defense i'm ovulating 🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , @desertwhisperer . (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

i’m not moroccan but this was such a beautiful story, i love it when readers are diverse and inclusive

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

currently obsessed with the trope of bucky when he’s in ‘winter soldier mode’ and he protects you instead of hurting you 🤭

(if anyone has any fic recs of this pls send them my way plsplspls)

[sanguineterrain]

most normal thing in the world | jason todd

Summary: You get hit with a love spell. Naturally, the first person you seek out is Jason Todd.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings/tags: love spell (so potentially mild dubious consent but all the feelings are reciprocated), lovesick you, lovesick jason, repressed jason, LOTS of cuddling/lovie stuff, needles, magic, pining, happy ending.

the divider

Jason's having a good night.

He made himself an indulgent lasagna, and now he's got leftovers for tomorrow. He's off from patrol tonight, which, he must admit, was nice of Cass to offer.

Yeah, Jason actually feels pretty normal. Feels like any young person would. Hell, he might put on a movie he won't pay attention to, or finally adopt a cat, just to keep the normal streak going. That's what young folks do, right?

(He can think of some other things young people do, things that Jason won't allow himself to dream of.)

Knock knock.

Jason sighs. Well. The streak was good while it lasted.

He gets up, shuffling over in his sweats. He undoes the four locks and opens the door to reveal... you.

"Uh, hey," he says, cracking the door wider. "Everything okay?"

It's late. You shouldn't be out now, even if the sun hasn't gone down yet.

Jason frowns when you sway in the doorway and don't respond.

Then you flash him the sweetest smile he's ever been on the receiving end of. Wow. Sure, Jason's seen you flash your pretty teeth before. But not like this. And not at him.

"Hi, Jaylove. Hi."

"Uh." He watches you walk right past him, into his apartment. He shuts the door. "Hi... What's goin' on? You alright?"

You turn to face him. "Why wouldn't I be? After all, you're here."

"What?"

You walk to him and take his hands in yours. Jason's eyebrows rise.

"Hey...?" Jason says, looking at your joined hands. You lace your fingers together.

"My prince," you say happily. "Your eyes are beautiful. Like emeralds. And you have a beautiful mouth. Your whole face is beautiful. I'd like to paint you."

"Are you on drugs?" Jason releases your hands to hold your face. He gently pushes your eyelids up to inspect your pupils. You just smile.

"I feel high when you touch me," you say. "Just being near you is drug enough."

Yeah, Jason's now feeling a healthy amount of paranoia. It's not that you don't stop by or that you're not nice. No, you're the sweetest creature Jason's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

But wanting to touch him? Thinking he's beautiful? Calling him your prince? Either you're drugged or he's died again and found paradise.

Then again, he probably wouldn't still be in Gotham if this were paradise. You'd definitely be here, though.

"Right. Your eyes are fine." Jason lets go of your face. "You sure you didn't take anything? Drink anything? Run into anyone?"

"I drank tea," you say, gazing up at him. "And I petted a fat orange cat. Don't you want a cat?"

"I surely do. You drank tea?"

"Mmhm. It was almost as amazing as you."

Jason nods and takes your hand. "Okay. We're going to the Cave."

"How come?" you ask, but you don't protest as he leads you out and into the elevator.

"Because I wanna make sure you're okay," he says, pushing the button labeled one. You're definitely not okay, but he doesn't want to worry you.

"Oh." You lean against Jason's arm. He stiffens and looks down at you. You just burrow into his side. "'Cause you love me?"

Breath catches in his throat. You can't mean that. Do you even know what you're saying? No, impossible.

You look up when he's silent for too long. "Jay-Jay? Didja hear me?"

"Yeah," he says slowly. "Yeah, I did."

You look at him, big eyes sweet. "Don't you love me too? I love you."

Jason swallows hard. "I, um, don't think you're in your right mind."

Your lip quivers. Oh, God. No, please don't cry, please don't—

"You don't love me?" you ask, tears welling.

"I do love you," Jason says quickly, panicking at your distress. "I do. Shit. Please don't cry, honey. I do love you."

You frown, cheeks wet. "You're just saying that! You hate me!"

Jason shakes his head. "No, no! Oh, never, I could never hate ya, honest! I was just... um, this is the first time we've said it to each other, y'know? I do love you. Have for a long time now."

He strokes your cheek with his thumb, soaking up your tears. You sniffle but accept this, nodding.

"Oh. I'm sure I've told you that I love you before. I love you so much, Jason. I'll never love anyone the way I love you."

God, this is fucking torture. As the elevator reaches the ground floor, Jason takes a deep breath, lets you link your fingers with his, and leads you out to the street. The universe is intent in never granting him a normal night. Noted.

There's no way you're in your right mind. Jason's figured this from the start. But that doesn't make the way you look at him, like he's anybody worth looking at, any less painful.

He pulls out his phone, shoots a quick text to Dick. ETA 10 min.

Dick responds two seconds later. What's up?

Possible Code 12.

Jason pockets his phone, running through potential reasons for what did this to you. Ivy's not wreaking havoc tonight, as far as he knows.

Meanwhile, you're in another world, humming and holding his hand. Jason's thought about this many times, holding your hand and taking you for rides, you adoring him, hugging him, kissing him. He's nothing if not a masochist.

"Okay, sweetheart," Jason says, and you immediately turn to him, like a flower showing its face to the sun. Jason is no one's sun, though. He's more like the worm under your boot.

"Hm?" you ask, stroking his arm. Jason does his best to be normal about it.

"We're gonna, um, go to the Cave. You okay on my bike?"

You glance at his bike, and there's a tinge of apprehension on your face. Jason reaches for your shoulder, stops, then forces himself to touch you. You're not going to recoil from him, not in this state. And he's not doing it for himself; he's only touching you so that you'll let him take you to the Manor and figure out what's what.

He's not a bastard for holding your shoulder, right? He's doing it just so that you'll be safe.

(It doesn't matter. Jason knows he's a bastard for being in your life at all.)

You lean into him when he touches your shoulder.

"Never been on your bike, Jay," you say.

"I know. But I swear to you that you're safe. You know I'd never let anything happen to you, right? Never."

You nod. "Yeah. You always look out for me. 'S part of why I love you so much."

Good God. Jason's going to be a ball of self-hatred for the next millenia over this.

He puts his spare helmet on you, helping you fit the chin guard underneath.

"Okay?" he asks.

You give him a thumbs-up. Jason smiles and puts his own helmet on.

"You gotta hold on real tight, okay? As tight as you can. Don't worry 'bout hurting me."

"Mmkay!"

He helps you mount the bike first, then follows. As soon as he's on, you wrap your arms around his middle and smush your helmet into his back.

How long has he dreamed about this? Taking you on late-night rides, feeling you pressed against him, squealing as he floats through traffic (he'd never speed the way he does when he's alone; Jason doesn't give a shit about his own body, but your safety matters).

"The bike is loud, so I'm not gonna hear you if you say something, but if you want me to stop, tap my shoulder three times, okay?"

"Okay, Jaylove." You squeeze him in what's clearly a hug. "Ready."

Jason's not sure he is. It's been a long time since anyone's touched him, much less someone he's head over heels for. You're so trusting, it makes him ache. Jason's just glad he's the first jerk you laid your eyes upon instead of the magic you're under pushing you into the arms of someone dangerous.

He starts up his bike. Jason's had guests on his bike before, mostly his brothers and, once, the old lady who runs the tea shop down the block.

He's never had a lovely thing like you snuggled up to him, clinging to him. Jason feels rabid. He feels like he needs to be shot and put out of his misery.

He follows all of the road rules so you won't be scared. You don't tap his shoulder or shake, so Jason figures you're fine. He's good. He's being good for you.

Jason slows as he goes down the ramp to the Cave entrance. He stops at the mouth of the Cave and dismounts first, pulling off his helmet.

"You alright in there?" he asks, offering his hand.

You wrap your arms around his neck and Jason wobbles as he recalibrates and snakes an arm around your shoulders instead and helps you off that way. He removes your helmet. You blink at the new light, then look at him, moony-eyed once again.

"I was kinda scared," you admit. "But I trust you, Jaybee. Always."

"Got you here in one piece, didn't I?" he says, winking at you.

"Uh-huh!"

Jason sees what you're going to do before you try. He sees the way you look at his lips, how you rear back, ready to leap and kiss him.

He redirects you immediately, preferring that to making you cry again. He hates it when you cry. Your soft mouth lands on his jaw instead.

Jason smiles, strained. You're annoyed at the fact that you missed, and Jason can see that you're about to try again when Dick and Tim come into view.

He's never been more thrilled to see his brothers.

"Fellow bretheren," Jason says. He knows his voice is thin. "Funny seein' you here."

You're briefly distracted and wave to be polite. But then you force Jason's left ear to your level and catch the lobe between your teeth.

Holy fuck. Jason nearly buckles at the sensation. He's never understood the ears as an erogenous zone before—now he gets it. He's ashamed of how heat pools in his gut as you nip his ear.

Jason balances you with an arm around your waist, gingerly trying to both hide his reaction and separate you. He accomplishes neither. Tim's eyebrows are at his hairline; Dick's mouth is open, no doubt ready to make a smart-ass comment.

"Well, it's nice to see you two so... affectionate," Dick says, holding back a grin.

Jason rolls his eyes. "I need you to run tests. They showed up to my door like this, all over me."

"Yeah, that is weird," Tim says.

"Thank you very much for that, Timbit," Jason grumbles. You kiss under his ear and weave your fingers through his hair. Jason manages to get your hands off, but your mouth is still firmly planted on his neck. He clears his throat. Normal!

"I dunno, Jason," Dick says. "It's not that weird. People fall in love every day."

And, okay. Jason can do teasing. He can even do borderline psychotic remarks. That's part of having siblings. He's made a few in his day. They've all stabbed or shot each other.

But now Dick is just being cruel.

Jason scowls. "Take their blood so we can fucking get this over with. They're clearly under a love spell."

His scathing tone surprises Dick, but it really startles you. You've moved away from his ear (Jason is both relieved and disappointed) and return to cradling his arm. You're alarmed by his reply.

"Jaylove?" you ask. "What happened? Are you mad?"

Jaylove? Jason sees Tim mouth. He forces himself to focus on you, be gentle for you.

"Hm, no, not mad at ya, sweetheart. Sorry 'bout that. But we need to run some medical tests on ya, 'kay? Can we do that?"

"Sure," you chirp, linking your arm with his.

Dick and Tim slip into Work Mode. Jason appreciates that. His nerves are frayed. He senses a self-destructive episode coming on after you're cured. Maybe he'll throw himself into a bar fight tonight.

"Symptoms?" Tim asks, going to the computer.

"Being in love with me," Jason says dryly.

"Besides that. Any physical symptoms like dizziness or nausea? Recklessness?"

"No, didn't notice any sickness. Not reckless; they did everything I said." Jason swallows, says the next part quietly, fearfully. "Probably jump into the Hudson if I asked."

Tim nods sharply. Dick prepares to draw your blood. Again, you're apprehensive. But Jason soothes you, pets you, and you're leaning into him like a cat in its favorite patch of sun as Dick takes your blood.

"I wanna get married," you say as red fills the second vial.

Dick shoots him a sympathetic look. Jason looks away.

"Soon, honey," Jason says, ignoring how his stomach's a pit.

He didn't think about love or relationships when he came back. Didn't care, not when he had revenge to plot.

But after all that was over, after he met you, after he found a reason to keep living, Jason started thinking about it.

And what he realized is that he's never getting married.

By choice? Yes, sure. Jason loves pretending he has a choice in anything. Sure, he chooses to abstain from marriage, like normal people out there do. But really, he avoids attachment because it wouldn't be fair to anyone. He knows he's not made for that. His death made him unsalvageable. It's a miracle he's here at all. How dare he ask for more?

And inside, he chokes on a vine of hatred for everyone else who can find someone. Who's capable of loving and being loved. It even, to Jason's shame, has reared its head at you, whispered in his ear about how you're not damaged, so of course you'll find someone one day. Of course you'll leave him eventually. It would be stupid of him to hope otherwise.

"When?" you ask as Dick starts on the third vial. You don't even notice. Dick could probably drain you dry as long as Jason's in front of you. "When can we get married?"

"How 'bout next month?" Jason says without thinking. He would. He'd marry you tomorrow.

You think about this for a moment, then nod. "Yes, that would be good. I've always wanted a fall wedding."

"Yeah? I always liked the idea of marrying in the spring. All the flowers."

"No," you say. "Pollen's out. You'd be sneezing your head off."

Jason laughs, then wants to cry, because you know that he's allergic to pollen.

"Yeah, y'right," he says, voice thick. "Fall wedding's better."

"Alright, all done!" Dick says, forcefully cheerful. He removes the needle and puts a Bandaid on the inside of your elbow. You rest your head on Jason's arm. Jason tries not to boil himself in a fire of misery. You probably won't even remember this.

Dick watches you both, then tugs your hand. "Hey, you mind helping me fill out some info? For the tests."

Your mouth shrivels. You look at Jason, and he can't believe he's your North Star, magic or not.

"I don't wanna leave Jason," you say.

"He'll be right here," Dick says quickly. "Won't leave your sight for a second. But I need your help."

"Just for a minute?" you ask.

Dick nods. "One minute."

You sigh and turn to Jason. "I'll be right back."

Jason nods, tries to smile. "Sure. I'll be here."

He'll be here. Forever and ever and ever...

Wait a second. Tea. Jason jolts.

"Tim. They said they drank tea. Could be something there."

"On it," Tim says. "Dick, we need a mouth swab."

"Right." He turns to you. "Can I—"

"No," you say, and march back to Jason. "You said a minute."

Jason would laugh at the pout on your face, the way you plop yourself next to him and curl around him like he's a new toy. He would laugh. If he could find the humor.

Dick looks at him. Jason sighs.

"Honey?" You hum. "We just need one more test, yeah? Q-tip on your tongue. Not the most pleasant, but it'll be quick. Promise."

"Okay," you say immediately, hugging his arm.

Jason knows it's a spell, or maybe a lab-made chemical. But he's still awed by how quickly you acquiesce. How you show no worry when Dick approaches because Jason's right there, patting your hand.

Dick swabs your mouth. You cough three times after, most of your body on Jason.

"Interesting how they're not lustful," Dick says.

"What," Jason says.

"Okay, the ear thing was..." Dick shrugs. "But it's not mindless. It's actually the most reasonable love spell I've ever seen. Like, their desires for you don't feel manufactured, they feel—"

"Don't," Jason snaps. "Don't fuckin' say it."

Dick holds up his hands. "It was just an observation. You've seen Ivy's pollen doses. This one seems different."

"Fine. Ivy's taking a break from the orgies. Doesn't mean this is real."

Jason's not stupid enough to hope.

"It can't be Ivy," Tim says, and Jason almost startles. He forgot Tim was there, so wrapped up in you. "No reports of Ivy attacks. And the substance, whatever it was, wasn't inhaled. It was injested."

You wrap your arms around Jason's neck and smush your face against his. You're warm and smell good. Jason feels feral.

He holds you with a hand on your back, mind turning.

"Sweetheart," he says. You hum. "You said you drank tea after work. Where exactly did you go?"

"Dunno," you say, spacey. "Went into a tea shop that's never been there before. And an old lady invited me in. She said I looked so sad. And I was, Jaybee! How did she know?"

"I don't know, honey," Jason says quietly, even though he has a suspicion. He's never letting you walk home alone again.

Tea shop. That's what he gets for trying to be a good Samaritan. How dare she drug you?

"Hm. Well, she gave me a tea sample, said it would make all my problems disappear. Then I petted her cat named Darcy. Like that book you like!"

God, Jason just wants to hug you tight and kiss your face. It's awful of him to think of you as cute in your state, he knows.

"Track their routes," Jason says. "They take two different ones home. One crosses Bank Street, the other goes over the bridge."

"I'd call you a stalker but I really have no right," Tim says, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"No shit," Jason mumbles, letting you play with his fingers.

"Jason," Dick says quietly. He glances at you, then at his brother. "If it's too much, we can sedate them."

"No. We don't know how it'll react to the tea. It's not Ivy's brew."

Dick frowns. He knows Jason's right. Jason knows he's right.

"Okay, I got something. Magic signatures from a building on Tenth Street," Tim says. "And I think I'm onto an antidote."

"I'll check it out," Dick says, going to suit up. He looks at Jason. "Are you-?"

Jason nods. "I'm fine. Go."

So Dick does. Tim is able to make an antidote within the hour. He gives it to Jason who injects it into your neck. He feels guilty even though this is what’ll cure you. You wince at the pinch but you don't so much as whimper, endlessly trusting.

"They'll probably crash soon," Tim says, out of your earshot. "I don't know if you should risk the bike."

Jason sighs. Tim's right, and it makes him all the more agitated that his brothers have been helpful and even kind of nice during the whole thing.

You're going to crash soon. Jason has no choice but to bring you up to the Manor.

"Come on, sweetheart," he says, taking your hand and standing.

"Where're we goin'?" you ask, yawning.

"Goin’ t’bed, honey. Aren't ya tired?"

"Hmm. Mmhmm."

"Yeah, thought so."

Jason leads you up the stairs and out of the Cave. He helps keep you steady as you trip up the stairs. He's tempted to just carry you, but he feels like that might be overkill.

Once at the top of the stairs, Jason stops. Swallows.

He hasn't been up here in a while. He slept in his room once after he returned, after a nasty encounter with Scarecrow.

"Wanna sleep in your bed, Jay," you mumble, cheek against his arm.

Jason sighs. "Yeah. Okay, love."

You go to his room. It's clean, as usual—Alfred never let it get dusty. Jason had hoped that if you ever saw his room it would be in much different circumstances. Normal circumstances.

But, well. Here you are.

"Hmm, 's nice," you say as Jason pulls back the bedspread and helps you out of your shoes. You start to take off your pants and he panics.

"Uh! Uh, baby, maybe keep the pants on. You might get cold."

You frown in confusion. "Doesn't feel cold."

"Yeah, but, whew, Alfred blasts the AC! Jus' keep 'em on."

Jason cannot handle seeing you in your underwear. He draws the line there.

"'Kay," you say, and flop onto the sheets. You wiggle around, getting comfortable.

Jason sits in the fat armchair in the corner of the room. Immediately, you sit up.

"Why're you over there?" you ask, eyes wide.

Oh, boy.

"Oh. I was, um, gonna read for a bit. I'll come in in a while."

Your lip trembles. No—

"Don't leave me, Jaybee. Don't leave! Stay with me. I love you!"

Jason rubs his forehead. "Honey—"

"You hate me! You do! I annoy you." Tears gather in your eyes.

Jason hurries to the edge of his bed, climbing in in his jeans and socked feet.

"No, no, love, we covered this. I don't hate ya, hm? Where'd ya get a silly thing like that?"

You quiet as he scoots in beside you. Then you throw most of your limbs over him. Jason stiffens.

"Just got scared," you say, and kiss his chest. "Promise you won't leave?"

Jason breathes in. Breathes out.

"Yeah. I promise."

And he stays.

You wake up with a faint headache and a dry throat. Sunlight peeks through the blinds. You feel warm and safe and well-rested, despite the slight pains.

You stretch, expecting air. Instead, you touch skin. You open your eyes.

Oh. You're in a bedroom.

No, scratch that. You see framed pictures of the Bats, books on shelves.

You're in Jason Todd's childhood bedroom. With the aforementioned tucked under your arm and leg.

You jerk away so hard, you land on the carpeted floor below.

Jason's up instantly, head poking over the bed. His eyes widen.

"Shit! Y'alright? C'mere."

He gets up and practically scoops you into a standing position. Your brain short-circuits: big strong man strong big good nice. Then you recover.

"Um," you say. "Uh. Hmm. Hi."

Jason smiles tightly. "Hey."

"What... how-?"

"Right. How much do you remember?"

You try to think. You remember walking home, drinking tea, an affectionate orange cat. You remember hands on your face and your stomach swooping on a motorcycle and a gentle voice. So gentle.

"You were magicked," Jason says quickly. "It was a, uh, tea shop. Dick's checking it out. You, um, came to me and I took you here and you got an antidote and you didn't want me to, um, leave. So, yeah. Sorry."

You tilt your head. "Why are you apologizing, Jason?"

He sighs. "Just 'cause."

You have no idea what that means. But you feel like Jason's telling you a very condensed version of what happened.

"What was the magic?" you ask.

He winces. "Love spell. You thought you were... in love with me."

Jason says it like he's the one who charmed you. Like he's ashamed of it.

"Oh," you say. Well, you certainly didn't need a spell for that to happen.

"Yeah." Jason's staring at your and his shoes by the door. "But everything's fine now. I can take you home. Dick and Tim'll take care of the tea shop witch."

He doesn't wait for a response, darting to the door and slipping into his shoes. You rush forward and close the door as Jason opens it. He looks at you in confusion.

"Jason," you say softly. "What happened?"

"Whaddya mean? I told you."

"Jason. I've known you for three years. You think I don't know when you're not telling me something?"

He looks at his feet. One of his socks has a hole in the toe.

"There's nothin' to tell," he mumbles. "Magic stuff. Happens all the time. Business as usual."

You frown. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jay. I admittedly don't remember a lot."

Jason's expression is relief but there's a heaviness to his shoulders. "Well, 's for the best, really. Magic messes with your head."

"Did I make you uncomfortable, Jason? Not letting you leave and—God, I can't imagine how I was on the spell."

He shakes his head fervently. "No! No, no, my God, no. You didn't—you could never—I mean, I wasn't... fuck. No. You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"If you're sure," you say.

He nods. "Hundred percent."

Jason doesn't sound like he's lying. You're pretty good at detecting it, especially when it comes to his feelings.

So why is he acting weird?

Well, duh. A love spell. You probably freaked him out, especially since you really do love him.

"I hope we can still be friends," you offer.

Jason turns to the door.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "'Course we're still friends."

It shouldn't make you ache. Jason's perfectly in the right to not reciprocate how you feel. How can he reciprocate something he doesn’t even know exists?

"You, uh..." Jason scratches the back of his neck. He faces you once more. "You said last night that you were sad. When you were coming home. I just wanted to say, y'know... you can talk to me. 'Bout anything."

This will make all of your problems disappear, she had said. It'd tasted like kombucha—you hadn't had a lot of faith.

Jason begins to open the door. You slide in front of him and slam the door shut with your back. He steps back in surprise.

"Wh—"

"I have to tell you something!" you blurt.

Jason stills. "Okay."

"I adopted you a cat," you say.

He squints. "What?"

"Well, she's still at the shelter but I put her on reserve. Of a sort. I have a friend who works there. She's black and white and likes to cuddle and has two different colored eyes but she can't see very well. Her name is... whatever you want to name her. Because she's yours. And I think you'll love her."

He nods slowly. "I, uh, thanks. Thank you. I was thinking about adopting a—"

"I was sad last night because I kept thinking about how you're gonna love this cat I got you but you'll never love me, and how that's the fucking worst feeling in the world."

You've stunned him silent. Shit.

Seconds tick by. A minute. Two minutes.

"Okay," you say, wanting to jump out of Jason's two-story window. "I'm gonna go drop off the face of the Earth now. Bye."

You open the door. Jason closes it by caging you against it.

And then he kisses you.

Jason pours everything into the kiss. He's not a perfect kisser but it's good. It's magic. He holds your face completely, shuts out the entire world. Kisses the breath out of you.

Yes, you could go on. It's fantastic. It's fireworks. It's sunbeams.

And actually, it feels like the most normal thing in the world, kissing Jason Todd.

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ “inked in devotion”

''You're so blind sweetheart'' ''I was just playing along,habibati'' feat. d.wayne x f.reader wc: 946 words

✶—Masterlist

Your hands were still warm when the artist finally finished the last swirl of henna. Deep brown paste curled along your palms, weaving across your fingers, wrapping your wrists like delicate vines. The design was intricate, traditional, and stunning — little flowers, drops, constellations of dots, and fine-lined details that looked like they were drawn by a goddess herself.

Diana had insisted you get your henna done for the embassy gala. You had insisted on hiding one very specific letter in it.

The Arabic د — dāl. Damian’s initial. Hidden where skin met pulse. A secret stitched into your bloodstream.

Your mom had only smiled knowingly. “She’s in love,” she told the henna artist, who nodded as if she could see it in the way you kept giggling and kicking your feet.

By the time you made it back to the Manor, the paste on your hands had dried into rich dark shapes that clung to your skin like lace. You kept staring at your palms, smiling like a girl with a crush and a secret.

You didn’t even hear Damian enter your room.

He appeared silently — like usual — his presence slipping in like shadow, like smoke, like breath. His voice was low, soft, teasing:

“Habibti.”

You jumped so hard you almost hit the ceiling.

Damian sighed. “You must grow accustomed to my footsteps. I am not trying to assassinate you.”

“You move like you are!” you snapped, pressing a hand to your chest. “My soul left my body—”

Your hand froze.

Damian saw.

And his brows knit.

“You got henna.”

You brightened immediately. “Do you like it?”

He reached for your wrist — carefully, reverently — turning your hand over in his own. His gaze traced every curve and swirl with serious, almost analytical focus.

“It is beautiful,” he murmured. “It suits you.”

You tried not to smile too hard.

He kept looking, eyes sharp. Studying. Scanning. Searching.

Oh no.

You swallowed. Don’t find it. Don’t find it yet. You’ll combust—

“There is something…” Damian muttered.

He lifted your palm closer to his face. His frown deepened. His eyes narrowed. He tilted your hand toward the light.

You held your breath.

“…wrong with this section,” he said finally, tapping his thumb on the patch of patterns above your pulse. “The symmetry is off. Perhaps the artist—”

“NO!” you yelped, way too fast, way too high-pitched. “Nothing is wrong! It’s perfect! Amazing! Gorgeous! Don’t you have to, like, go sharpen a sword or glare at someone?!”

Damian stared at you. Suspicious. Very suspicious.

“…Habibti.”

Your face burned.

“You’re hiding something.”

You squeaked.

He stepped closer, the tip of his nose nearly brushing your cheek as he angled your wrist again. This time, his tone dropped, soft and dangerous in that way only Damian could manage:

“Do you truly think you can hide anything from me?”

Your heartbeat could probably be heard from space.

He traced the inside of your palm with his thumb — slow, deliberate, warm. Goosebumps erupted up your arm.

He found it.

He froze.

Then— Very slowly— Damian whispered:

“د.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can explain—”

But you didn’t get the chance.

Because he lifted your hand. And pressed his lips to the letter.

It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t shy. It was deliberate. Slow. A kiss meant to be felt.

Your knees nearly buckled.

Damian didn’t look up. His lips brushed the dried henna again, softer this time, a whisper of devotion.

“Mine,” he murmured against your skin. “Written on you.”

Your breath caught.

“And me?” you whispered. “Are you… are you going to pretend you didn’t spend five minutes pretending you couldn’t see it?”

His ears went red instantly.

“I was giving you time to confess,” he snapped.

You giggled.

“You couldn’t find it,” you said.

“That is false.”

“You were squinting.”

“I was analyzing the geometry of the design—”

“You put my hand under the lamp!”

“That is called thoroughness, habibti—”

You threw your arms around his neck, laughing as you pressed your forehead to his. He grumbled, but his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Habibti,” he muttered, annoyed but soft, “stop laughing at me.”

“I can’t!” you gasped. “You kissed the henna—!”

“That is what you wanted.”

You froze.

“…what?”

His voice lowered, becoming something warm, something serious, something that could melt bone:

“You wanted people to know you belonged with me.” A pause. “And I wanted to honor that.”

Your breath shook.

“You like it?” you whispered.

Damian didn’t answer with words.

He lifted your hand again and kissed the letter a third time — slower, lingering, like a vow.

“You carved my name into your skin,” he said quietly. “Of course I like it.”

Your heart felt too big for your body.

Then—

He suddenly stepped back, looking at you with the most serious expression in the world.

“We are going to take a photo.”

“What—”

“I want you to put your hand on my chest so the henna is visible.”

“Damian—”

“I am updating my lockscreen.”

You blinked.

“Your… lockscreen?”

“Yes,” he said, as if this were obvious. “People must know.”

“Know what?”

He kissed your wrist again.

“That you are mine,” he said softly. “And I am yours.”

Your whole face melted.

You lifted your other hand — the one without henna — and cupped his cheek.

“I love you,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink, didn’t hesitate, didn’t shy away.

“I love you more,” Damian Wayne said, and meant every syllable.

And when you took that picture — your hand on his chest, the د glowing dark over his heart — he stared at it like a treasure he’d kill for.

Which, knowing Damian, he would.

A/N:WE CAN TELL I FINISHED EXAMSSS 🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

[njghtiee]

i respect a woman capable of killing me

plot! you and damian have the mortisha and gomez kind of love, you act exactly like them and your love language is threatening of torturing each other. his family can't help but get slightly concerned because of how you're utterly obsessed with each other in a almost unhealthy way

a/n: thank you so much for the request sweetie hqjfisjjd i loved writing this!!

The rumor at Wayne Manor traveled in hushed voices down the marble halls and echoed through the Batcave like the faint hum of a secret too strange to be true. Alfred had overheard it first, Bruce’s youngest son was planning something romantic. Which in itself was already cause for concern. Damian Wayne didn’t “plan romantic things.”

He strategized.

He calculated.

He conquered. But apparently this… this was different. Because when you were involved, everything was.

You and Damian had been together long enough for the family to accept it, barely, but still not long enough for them to understand it. Because understanding the two of you was like trying to make sense of poetry written in blood and roses. You were elegance and quiet venom, a woman who wore dark lipstick and black lace like armor. There was something timeless in the way you moved, the way your voice lingered on syllables, your wit as sharp as a blade. Damian called you “beloved torment” and you called him “my little fiend.”

And on Halloween night, the world seemed to tilt just a little more in your favor.

The Wayne Manor’s annual charity masquerade had been transformed into something lavishly gothic, all deep reds and black candles, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft, haunting glow. It was supposed to be tasteful, elegant… but the moment you arrived at Damian’s side, the atmosphere shifted.

You wore a long, form-fitting black velvet gown, the sleeves flowing like dark smoke around your wrists. The neckline was daring, the fabric hugging your shape in a way that made more than one person forget how to speak. Your lips were painted the color of ripe wine, and your hair fell in soft waves that brushed the small of your back. Damian’s gaze had not left you since the moment you stepped down the stairs.

He stood at your side like he belonged there, perfect posture, suit tailored within an inch of its life, a black tie knotted neatly at his throat. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes gleaming with that sharp, unrelenting intensity that had always been his. But tonight… there was something softer behind it. Something dangerous and devoted all at once.

When you reached him, his gloved hand found yours immediately. “You are—” he began, but words failed for a fraction of a second. Damian Wayne rarely stumbled over words. But tonight, the sight of you was enough to rob him of composure. “—utterly, sinfully exquisite.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head, your voice a low purr. “Careful, my love. You’ll make me blush. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

His lips curved. “On the contrary, I find the idea thrilling. I would flay the stars themselves if they dared outshine that blush.”

Across the room, Tim choked on his drink.

“Are they—are they okay?” he muttered, glancing at Dick, who was watching with a mixture of amusement and mild alarm.

“Define okay” Dick said under his breath.

Bruce, ever stoic, merely exhaled through his nose and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘I should’ve known she’d encourage this side of him.’

But you and Damian didn’t care. You moved through the party like a dark waltz, two shadows perfectly synchronized. You laughed quietly at the way his fingers lingered at the small of your back, how his gaze burned when someone else dared to compliment you.

When one of the Gotham socialites, a man too bold for his own good, approached with a champagne glass and a smile that reeked of entitlement, Damian’s jaw tightened.

“Miss, I must say, you look—”

“Careful” Damian interrupted smoothly, his tone dangerously polite. “You are addressing my heart in human form. Choose your words wisely.”

You laid a hand on his arm, eyes glinting with amusement. “My darling, do behave. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

He turned to you, lowering his head so that his lips brushed your ear, his voice a dark whisper that made your pulse flutter. “But you know how much I enjoy making scenes with you.”

“Mm” you replied softly. “And I enjoy watching you try to restrain yourself.”

Tim groaned from the bar. “They’re flirting or threatening to kill each other, I can’t tell anymore.”

“It’s both.” Cassandra said simply, sipping her drink, eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. “They like the tension.”

And oh, there was tension. The kind that lingered in every word, every glance, every subtle touch.

Later that evening, after the guests had begun to drift away and the music had softened to a ghostly hum, you and Damian found yourselves alone on the grand balcony overlooking the manor gardens. The moonlight painted your faces silver, your shadows intertwined across the marble.

He stood behind you, arms circling your waist, his chin resting against your shoulder. His voice was low, smooth as smoke. “You know,” he murmured, “if I could trap this night in a bottle, I would keep it, so I could watch you haunt it forever.”

You turned slightly, smiling with that soft, dangerous affection that only he ever saw. “And what would you do, my love, if I refused to be trapped?”

He smirked faintly, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. “Then I’d follow you into whatever chaos you created. Torture me if you must, but I would die before I let you go.”

“Mm. Such devotion. You almost sound sincere” you teased, though your voice softened at the edges.

“I am” he said simply. “You are my chaos. My muse. My destruction. And I have never been happier to be undone.”

Your heart stuttered, just once, before you turned in his arms to face him. The look you shared could have set the night on fire. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as if memorizing the shape of your smirk.

“And you,” you murmured “are my favorite mistake.”

He laughed quietly, a deep, genuine sound that vibrated through his chest. “Then I’ll make sure you never regret it.”

When he kissed you, it was slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that made time bend. The wind caught the edges of your gown, and for a moment, the two of you looked carved from the same shadow, two beautiful, terrible creatures perfectly matched.

Down below, Dick whispered to Tim, “They talk about torturing each other like it’s foreplay.”

“Because it is for them.”

Inside, Alfred simply sighed. “At least Master Damian has found someone who shares his… intensity.”

Back on the balcony, Damian broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, whispering with that familiar mix of reverence and wickedness, “Cara mia, you drive me to madness.”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, your tone a dark velvet. “And yet, you never seem to mind.”

“I never will.” he promised. “If madness means you, I’ll embrace it.”

You reached up, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw. “Then perhaps, my darling, we should let the night swallow us whole.”

He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “After you, my love. Always after you.”

And as the last candle flickered inside the Manor and the moonlight bathed you both in silver, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only two souls hopelessly, beautifully, dangerously entangled in their own brand of devotion.

Somewhere inside, Dick muttered, “Okay, they’re terrifying.”

But Damian only smiled against your lips and whispered one last thing meant only for you.

“Let them be afraid, beloved. They’ve never known a love worth fearing.”

The morning after the Wayne Halloween Gala, Gotham was still sleeping under a soft layer of fog, but Wayne Manor was already awake, or at least trying to be. The sun hadn’t even fully breached the skyline when the first voices began to drift through the manor halls, carrying the familiar mix of amusement, exasperation, and barely concealed disbelief that only the Batfamily could muster.

In the kitchen, Alfred was serving breakfast with his usual composure, the calm eye in a storm of chaos. Bruce sat at the head of the table, stoic as ever, reading something on his tablet. To his right, Dick was stirring his coffee like a man trying to dissolve confusion instead of sugar, while Tim was slouched halfway over the counter, dark circles under his eyes. Cass was perched cross-legged on the countertop, nibbling toast and looking entertained by everything.

And then, the door opened.

Damian walked in, pristine as ever, wearing a dark turtleneck under a sharp vest, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. You followed a step behind him, dressed in black silk pajamas with a long robe trailing after you, looking like you had stepped straight out of a dream, or a victorian ghost story. Your hair was still loose, and your expression was calm, collected, and faintly amused.

The entire table froze.

“Morning” you said, your voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous.

“Good morning” Alfred replied warmly, unfazed, sliding a cup of coffee toward you as if he’d been expecting you to descend from the shadows at any moment.

Damian, meanwhile, moved with calculated ease to pull your chair out before you sat down.

He didn’t even ask. Just the smallest, quietest gesture of devotion. When you thanked him, his lips brushed your knuckles in a manner so natural it made Tim blink.

Dick leaned toward Tim. “Okay, so… this is serious, right?” he whispered.

Tim just stared. “Serious? Dick, she literally called him her ‘little fiend’ last night in front of Bruce.”

“Yeah, but he liked it.”

“He smiled, Dick. Damian smiled. That’s terrifying.”

Damian’s head tilted slightly. “I can hear you.” he said without looking up, his tone calm but edged with threat.

You smirked faintly, glancing at the boys. “He does have excellent hearing, darlings. Be careful, mockery is such an unattractive trait.”

Cassandra bit back a laugh behind her mug. “You’re fun.” she said softly, grinning.

You raised your brow with a smirk. “So I’ve been told.”

Bruce finally lowered his tablet, sighing in that way that said he’d already accepted this chaos as part of his life. “Damian.”

“Yes, Father?”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. “Explain.”

Damian folded his napkin neatly. “Explain what, exactly?”

“This.” Bruce gestured vaguely between you two, as though your entire existence as a couple defied the laws of his understanding. “You two spent the entire night talking about torturing each other, you scared at least five donors into leaving early, and at one point, someone swore they saw you carve your initials into her wine glass.”

“I was marking my territory.” Damian said evenly.

Tim dropped his fork. “You what—”

You reached over, calm as a cat, resting a hand on Damian’s arm. “He was being sweet” you said, smiling just enough to make Tim visibly shiver.

“He told me he wanted to leave a mark that would last longer than the glass itself.”

Dick blinked slowly. “Okay, that’s… definitely poetic. In a kind of please-don’t-kill-me way.”

“She inspires poetry.” Damian said without shame, tone smooth and absolute.

Cass was clearly enjoying every second of this. “He’s obsessed.” she said matter-of-factly, sipping her tea.

Damian turned to her with no hesitation. “I am. Entirely. And why should I not be?”

You smiled at him, softly this time, dangerously, with that slow, magnetic pull that could bend anyone weaker than him to your will. “You do have a talent for devotion, my love. It’s almost frightening.”

“Almost?” he murmured, lips curving. “You wound me.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry, I just, Damian, why is it always the goth girls? Every single time. Why do you keep going after the ones who look like they could literally stab you?”

Damian’s expression didn’t flicker. “Because,” he said smoothly, “I respect a woman capable of killing me.”

Dick spat his coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s his mother’s son” he muttered.

You smirked, tilting your head, your voice a whisper of silk. “Oh, he’s safe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Tim echoed, his voice breaking an octave higher than usual.

You sipped your coffee delicately. “I only draw blood when I’m bored.”

Cassandra snorted into her toast.

Damian turned his head toward you, a flicker of adoration and pride in his eyes. “You see why I adore her.” he said simply. “She’s chaos dressed in couture.”

You hummed contently. “And you, my darling, are the storm I always hoped to weather.”

The rest of the table just stared.

Dick whispered to Bruce, “You think this is like… healthy?”

Bruce didn’t even look up. “For them? It might be the healthiest thing Damian’s ever done.”

Tim groaned. “Okay, but what happens if they break up?”

Cassandra shrugged. “Someone dies.”

“That’s not—” Tim started, then stopped. “Actually, that’s probably accurate.”

You turned your head toward them with that serene, unblinking calm. “We don’t intend to part” you said softly. “There’s something quite eternal about our kind of madness.”

“Eternal.” Damian echoed, his voice dropping lower, like a promise. “And mutually destructive, if we’re fortunate.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. “Please don’t say that with a smile.”

But Damian did smile, that rare, dangerous curve of his lips that carried something almost feral underneath. “Don’t worry, Father. She’ll kill me with affection, not blades.”

“Only if you behave” you murmured, brushing your fingers down the back of his neck.

Tim set down his coffee, defeated. “You two are… something else.”

“Thank you.” you both said at the same time, voices perfectly in sync.

Dick looked between you and Damian, then grinned helplessly. “Okay, but admit it, they’re kinda perfect for each other.”

Cass nodded. “It fits. He needed someone like her.”

Bruce groaned quietly into his coffee. “God help us all.”

You leaned closer to Damian, your smile dangerous and affectionate all at once. “I rather think the opposite, darling. We’re far beyond help.”

Damian’s hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining effortlessly. “Precisely why I love you.”

And the room fell silent again, not out of awkwardness, but because for a brief, haunting moment, they could see it: the way he looked at you like you were his religion, the way your smile softened just for him. It was dark, yes. Unconventional. A little terrifying. But it was real.

Dick finally broke the quiet. “You two are actually kinda… romantic, in a supervillain way.”

Damian turned his head slightly, lips curling. “Romance is a matter of perspective, Grayson.”

You smirked, raising your coffee cup in a mock toast. “To perspective, then. And to the art of loving dangerously.”

Damian clinked his glass softly against yours. “To us, beloved torment.”

“Always, my little fiend” you replied.

And as the others looked on, confused, amused, maybe even a little envious, it was hard to deny the truth of it.

Damian Wayne and the gothic woman at his side were like fire and smoke, like poetry and blades, two souls too intense for the world around them.

And for better or worse, Gotham was yours to haunt together.

[invincibledc]

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 #FRY STEALER

fem!reader x Jason Todd

when a certain fry thief keeps trying to play in your face.

You and Jason were at a simple diner, a simple little snack since you and Jason were bored on a simple Saturday.

And what’s better than rotting in your shared apartment?

Eating.

You ordered a simple burger and fries, and this hunk of muscle ordered two burgers and his own side of fries.

So basically he had his own fries. So why in the hell every time you look away or look at your phone, your fries get to a lower fry count each time?

You raised a brow while you put down your burger that had a big bite in it. Jason had inhaled his burger in just two bites.

“Jay.. did you take my fries?” You asked, raising a brow when Jason gave you a veryyyy ‘confused’ look.

“No? I have my own set of fries.” He responded, gesturing to his own fries that lay perfectly ….

Actually, they aren’t even in the damn basket. He’d basically vacuum the damn string fries down his throat.

Fucking food dumpster.

“Jason.” You said sternly as he chewed his other burger as if he wasn’t going to finish it in two big bites.

“I ain’t do nothin' babe.”

“Mhm.”

You then looked outside, watching as people walked past the window. But your eyes caught movement.

There you saw Jason reach his hand quickly to your basket of fries.

Swiftly, you turned your head around and pointed to him.

“AH HA! CAUGHT YA!” You exclaimed and moved to grab the fry basket towards you.

But Jason was quicker. Of course he was.

He literally shoved a whole bunch of fries in his mouth and smirked at your bewildered face.

“You're not getting them back,” Jason said with his mouth full and muffled. You stuck your tongue at him.

“Just big and greedy!” You mocked the green-eyed male who just chewed your fries in pure victory.

[brinawing]

jason todd assembling an ikea bookshelf

fully based on tears by sabrina🫦 suggestive, language, short as hell

You had been sitting on the couch for about an hour now, watching your boyfriend screw in the pieces of a bookshelf you recently bought.

His shirt was off because of course it was, he was wearing a pair of black sweatpants as he sat on the floor with the manual open and a pencil in his hand.

He grabbed one of the pieces and looked down at the manual to see where it was supposed to go but scratched his head instead. He told you he would build you a bookshelf from scratch but of course you were too impatient to wait for it so you had just gone online and ordered one.

He let out a deep breath and got up on his knees to piece it together as best as he could while you just laid on the couch on your stomach, a lollipop in your mouth and your gaze shamelessly fixated on Jason’s abs but he was too busy to even tease you about it.

You watched as his biceps flexed each time he picked up a particularly heavy piece. A low grunt leaving his throat which left little to your imagination.

You bit the side of your lip and continued ogling him while he worked. He finally got up to do the upper pieces and as he stretched his body, you peered at the undone drawstrings of his sweatpants, causing them to loosely fall on his narrow hips, giving you a clear view of his happy trail.

He turned around, showing his back to you and bent down to grab a few screws to fix the last shelf and you almost choked on your lollipop as you saw the muscles on his back stretch and flex across his scars.

“Hey Jay,” you said finally, voice hoarse from being silent for so long.

“Yeah?” He asked absentmindedly, not looking at you.

You stood up from your seat and walked towards where he was, stopping right next to him.

“Want some candy?” You offered.

“Sure,” he mumbled, not even glancing at you.

You suppressed a giggle and pulled the cherry flavoured lollipop out of your mouth and rubbed it all over your lips. You grabbed his face next, making him let out a confused sound before you smashed your lips against his.

Your free hand raked in his hair while the other casually rested on his shoulder. Jason dropped the wooden plank on the floor with a thud and wrapped his arms around your waist. He licked and sucked the sticky candy off your lips with a gentle hum, making you chuckle into the kiss.

You pulled back but he leaned forward seeking your lips again but you smirked and put the lollipop back in your mouth.

“You think you’re so funny, huh?” Jason chided with a click of his tongue.

“Hilarious,” you replied. “You like cherry baby?”

“Hmm,” he hummed staring darkly in your eyes like his mind was somewhere else and he was not listening to a word you were saying.

“What?” You giggled, pulling the lollipop out of your mouth.

“Nothing,” he murmured, leaning forward to put his mouth on the candy in your hand as he let go of your waist.

“Hey it was mine,” you pouted when he stood up straight, sneaking the lollipop off your hands.

“Mhmm,” he hummed again.

“Words.”

“You’ll be hearing plenty once I’m done,” he murmured around the candy in his mouth and went back to assembling the shelf like nothing had happened.

likes reblogs and comments are appreciated! hope you enjoy <3

[strawberry-nugget]

Accidentally Seducing the Billionaire CEO

Summary: Bruce Wayne has game. Is it outdated and probably free-trialed by half of Gotham? Absolutely. Is it also stupidly charming and deeply, aggressively old money? Unfortunately, also yes. Are you falling for it? Uhhh, yes!?

Tags/CW: MDNI, suggestive, Bruce Wayne is well, himself, flirting, age gap (reader in her 20s, Bruce in his 30s), crack, fluff, the tile is for giggles

“Bruce Wayne is easy!”

Well, yeah, relatively, because if you really think about it, everyone and their mom actually has a story to tell about him and newsflash, they’re all intimate. Depending on the social status of the person telling it, however, the story always ends up with blurred lines as to what part of it is true and what is not!

“I know dude,”

“No!” Your friend’s voice calls from the other line of the phone “You assume you know, I know the actual extent of it.”

Sigh. In your defense, the only reason you’re calling this early in the morning is because Gotham Gazette interns sit around doing nothing until at least ten a.m., and you urgently need to talk through car insurance options after your insurer politely suggested that living within city limits of Gotham “adjusts your risk profile.”

Also, because your friend once hooked up with a woman who swore she’d spent an entire weekend in Bruce Wayne’s penthouse, only to later admit she never made it to the bedroom with him and mostly just drank expensive wine in a room with too many windows.

Which, honestly, still counts.

“Also,” your friend adds –uh-oh– suddenly casual in a way that immediately raises every internal alarm you have, “I’m gonna be on this podcast next weekend.”

You pause mid-task, phone wedged between your shoulder and cheek while your free hand continues to dig through a drawer that has never once contained what you were looking for. “Okay?”

“An exclusive podcast.”

Your fingers slow, skepticism creeping in before you even realize it. “Why do you sound ominous?” you drag your words, already bracing yourself.

“With Bruce Wayne.”

You stop rummaging. The drawer stays open, accusingly empty.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

She hums, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Yeah, yeah. It’s like—very low-key. Very invite-only. Very Gotham-esque. He’s apparently doing this whole ‘approachable billionaire’ thing because he’s funding this new healthcare program.”

You snort despite yourself, shifting your weight until your hip hits the counter. “That sounds fake.”

“It is fake,” she agrees immediately. “But the money is real.”

That tracks. You lean back against the counter, exhaustion settling in your bones even though it’s barely morning. “Why are you telling me this.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Too long. Long enough that you know you’re not going to like what comes next.

“Because,” she says brightly, “you should come.”

“No. Way.”

“Yes way” she says “You don’t even know why yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

She gasps like you’ve wounded her, dramatic as always. “I need you there.”

“For moral support?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes, staring at the chipped edge of the countertop. “Emotional grounding?”

“No.”

“For—”

“Because you’re pretty.”

You close your eyes, already regretting touching your phone today. “That is so not a reason.”

“It absolutely is in Gotham,” she says. “Everyone there will be either aggressively interesting or aggressively rich. I need balance.”

“I am not set dressing for Bruce Wayne’s podcast. I don’t have clothes that look good enough for that!” You push off the counter, pacing now, irritation sharpening into something defensive.

“You’re not set dressing,” she corrects without missing a beat. “You’re ambiance.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, thumb and forefinger pressing like that might physically squeeze out the headache forming there. “And what,” you ask slowly, carefully, “exactly would I be doing?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just… being there. Existing. Making him notice.”

“That sounds like a trap.”

She laughs. “Relax. Worst case scenario, you get free drinks and a story no one believes.”

You think about car insurance. About Gotham. About the fact that Bruce Wayne already feels like an inevitability you’ve been dodging via paperwork and gossip.

“I might be working this weekend though!”

“Girl!? Where? Bershka? I’m linking you to Bruce fucking Wayne right now.”

“Dude…”

“Dude! Hellooooooo Billionaire? Man of the year for 10 years in a row?”

“…Fine,” you say, reluctantly. “But if he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.”

She squeals. “Yay, i’ll come pick you up so you won’t be leaving!”

“God,” you mutter, hanging up. 

_________

The podcast is not where you expect it to be.

Which is to say, it’s not in a studio. It’s not even pretending to be accessible. It’s set inside a renovated industrial space downtown that used to be something illegal, then briefly artisanal, and is now apparently media. Exposed brick, polished concrete floors, lighting so soft it feels intentional, and just enough plants to suggest a PR team has been involved.

You hover near the entrance while your friend signs in with the kind of confidence that suggests she’s done this before. And she has, just not with a freaking billionaire in the building. You, meanwhile, are acutely aware of the fact that you are wearing the only outfit you own that could be described as “effortless,” which is deeply unfair because it took you forty-five minutes and one minor breakdown to achieve.

What is also very unfair is your friend saying “Girl what the fuuuuck are you wearing.” Because your outfit, is… Its–

It’s simple, really, more than you’d like to admit. A vintage DKNY denim skirt that you dug out of your mom’s closet years ago, a black bodycon shirt that screams Shein (which is unfair because you got it with your employee’s discount at Bershka), an oversized leather jacket you bought at a thrift store and tall cowboy boots. 

At least you did yourself a favor and visited a hair salon, for the first time in your life that is and that is only because your very cheap and very work from home hairdresser was booked, so you could get a haircut and a blow out.

As for make-up? You think that 60 second TikTok video of Uk girl glam has actually turned out good.

“Relax,” your friend murmurs, flashing her name at the clipboard girl. “You look great, I'm only joking.”

You don’t believe her, but you follow anyway.

The room hums with low conversation and expensive restraint. Everyone looks like they’ve been curated. Journalists pretending not to be journalists. Influencers pretending not to be influencers. People who smile too easily and laugh just a second too late. You immediately clock the aggressively interesting and the aggressively rich, and realize—horrifyingly—that your friend was not exaggerating when she told you all about what to expect when entering on your ride here.

You are, in fact, ambiance.

Free drinks are already being passed around, which feels less like generosity and more like a preventative measure, as an employee shows you to the room the Podcast will be recorded. You take one out of self-defense and position yourself on a couch near a high table, determined to remain unobtrusive. Existing. Balanced. Invisible.

It almost works.

Then the energy in the room shifts.

It’s subtle—no announcement, no dramatic entrance—but conversation softens, especially between your friend and her mentor, attention bending inward like a tide pulling back. You don’t turn right away, because you refuse to be that person.

What did Central Cee say in one of his songs? ‘It gives me the ick when girls are trying too hard to impress the guys’ Yeah yeah yeah, you’re not doing that.

You still know.

Bruce Wayne moves through the space like someone who is used to rooms adjusting around him. Not rushed. Not slow. Just inevitable. He’s dressed simply, infuriatingly so, like he’s deliberately trying to undercut the myth while benefiting from it anyway. Dark jacket, perfect pair of jeans, open collar, sleeves pushed just enough to look human.

Approachable billionaire or the opening lyrics of Lana Del Rey’s Blue Jeans, whatever it is, It’s, well, fake, but well-funded.

Your friend makes a noise beside you that sounds suspiciously like victory. “See?” she whispers. “Told you.”

You glare at her, smiling through words you mutter under your teeth. “If he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.”

She grins, already halfway gone, pulled toward the podcast setup and the cluster of people orbiting Bruce like it’s instinctive. You’re left standing with your drink and the sudden, unpleasant awareness that this man—this concept—is now in the same room as you.

You do not look at him. Or actually, you do, but very, very subtly.

You focus on your glass. On the condensation sliding down the side. On the fact that Gotham insurance premiums are probably higher within a five-block radius of wherever Bruce Wayne currently stands.

It’s only when someone laughs nearby—low, controlled, unmistakably his—that you realize something has gone very wrong.

Because you haven’t been looking at him, per se.

But he’s been looking at you.

__________

The podcast itself is exactly what you expect and somehow worse. First of all, it’s boring!

Everyone has settled into their seats with the careful choreography of people who know they’re being observed. Microphones gleam. Water glasses sit untouched. The host, your friend’s mentor, who by the way is trying to dethrone Vicky Vale, smiles like this is the most natural thing in the world—to be casually hosting Bruce Wayne while pretending this isn’t a career-defining moment.

You sit off to the side, technically audience, but functionally? Furniture.

Bruce Wayne speaks the way you imagine he would: measured, polite, saying just enough while revealing absolutely nothing. He talks about healthcare access, community investment, the importance of sustainability in Gotham’s infrastructure. Every sentence is smooth, sanded down, PR-perfect. Approachable billionaire, right on cue.

You try not to watch him too closely. You fail. Repeatedly. 

It’s not that he’s doing anything remarkable. It’s that he listens when other people talk. Tilts his head playfully. Holds eye contact just long enough to feel intentional. Laughs softly at the right moments, like he’s in on a joke no one else has heard yet. You hate that it works.

Momentarily it makes you wonder, is Bruce Wayne really easy, or does he have infinite game?

The latter is a possibility you refuse to actually consider, but since the thought has already spawned into your head, you refuse to let it actually dwell.

When the host announces a short break, the room exhales as one mass. People stand immediately, gravitating toward Bruce with drinks in hand and practiced smiles. Your friend shoots you a look from across the space—wide-eyed, thrilled, this is it—before she’s swallowed whole by the orbit.

You take that as your cue to flee.

The bathroom you tuck yourself into is mercifully quiet, cool tile and soft lighting, the kind of place designed to calm rich people down. You wash your hands even though you don’t need to, staring at your reflection like it might offer guidance. You look… fine. Normal. Too normal to be here. You dab at a nonexistent smudge under your eye and tell yourself that leaving early would be completely reasonable, if you had a way to leave, that is.

Sighing, you turn to go back to the studio, and before you even take another step you walk straight into a chest.

A very solid chest. As in, body builder solid chest.

“Oh—” you start, instinctively stepping back.

“Sorry—my fault,” a voice says at the same time, low and polite and unmistakably his.

You freeze. Then slowly, you look up.

Bruce Wayne is standing in front of you in the bathroom hallway, hands already raised in surrender like he’s afraid you might accuse him of something. Up close, he’s taller than he looked seated, broader too, less polished somehow. There are faint shadows under his eyes, like sleep is an ongoing negotiation he keeps losing.

For half a second, neither of you speaks.

Then he smiles, a little crooked, like he’s aware of how ridiculous this is.

“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m—well. Bruce.”

As if there were another option.

You blink once. “Oh… I know.”

Oops, you said that out loud.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, clearly relieved you didn’t say Bruce Wayne? like this was a meet-and-greet. “Right. Of course you do. That was… optimistic of me. And you are?”

You smile despite yourself while giving him your name, something small and polite that you hope reads as pleasant stranger rather than person internally spiraling. Your feet shift almost without permission, body already mapping out an exit route that does not involve further humiliation.

He hesitates, then gestures vaguely around you. “Not exactly the most glamorous place to meet someone,” he says. “I usually aim for rooftops or charity galas. Bathrooms are new territory.”

“That explains the ambiance,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows lift, amused. “See? You get it.”

Then—before you can fully process what’s happening—he reaches gently for your hand. It’s not abrupt, not presumptuous. He waits just long enough for you not to pull away. His grip is warm, careful.

He bows his head slightly and presses a brief, polite kiss to your knuckles.

What the fuuuuuuuck!? No one has ever kissed your hand upon meeting you! Not once. Not dramatically, not jokingly, not even as a bit.

Okay, yes, aaalright. Bruce Wayne has game. Is it outdated and probably free-trialed by half of Gotham? Absolutely. Is it also stupidly charming and deeply, aggressively old money? Unfortunately, also yes.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds lightly, “I promise I’m usually less awkward than this. The setting’s throwing me off.”

Your brain short-circuits, you’re sold, unfortunately. You are suddenly, painfully aware of your promise.

‘If he makes eye contact with me, I’m leaving.’

And also, veeery unfortunately, Bruce Wayne is looking at you like he’s already decided you’re worth staying for.

Too bad for him! Because a normal rich guy? You got it. Rapper? Athlete? You got it, you think. But world wide famous billionaire —because has this been mentioned enough?— who is like, a decade older than you? You don’t think you got it.

You clear your throat, finally finding your voice somewhere behind your ribs. “Well,” you say, shifting your weight back toward the hallway, “this has been… very on-brand for you Mr Wayne, but I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely past him, toward freedom. Or at least toward pretending this didn’t just happen.

Bruce straightens slightly, registering the movement immediately. Not alarmed, not offended—just attentive in a way that feels unfair. “Right,” he says, nodding once. “Of course. I didn’t mean to corner you, but call me Bruce.”

He steps aside to give you space, which only makes you feel worse about leaving.

You take the opportunity anyway, slipping past him with what you hope reads as polite urgency. The exit is right there. You can already picture it: rejoining your friend, grabbing your coat, vanishing into the upper Gotham outskirts like a responsible adult with self-control.

You make it exactly three steps.

“Hey—uhm, wait.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just enough.

You stop despite yourself, cursing internally as you turn back. Bruce hasn’t followed you, hasn’t closed the distance. He’s still standing where you left him, hands loosely at his sides, like he doesn’t want to push.

“I was wondering,” he says, and there’s a hint of uncertainty there now, like this wasn’t part of the plan. “If you’d want to… get to know each other a little better.”

Your brain helpfully supplies here? now? in the bathroom hallway? but you keep that to yourself.

“I don’t usually—” you start, then trail off because you don’t actually know what you don’t usually do. Talk to billionaires? Accept invitations framed like this? Sabotage your own exit strategies?

He smiles, small and reassuring. “Neither do I,” he says, and somehow you believe him. “I mean—like this. I’m better in neutral territory.”

“Neutral,” you repeat, skeptical. “Is that what this is.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that feels disarmingly human. “Fair. I was thinking dinner. Or a walk. Somewhere without microphones or… sinks.”

You glance past him again, your escape route still very much available, still calling to you. This was supposed to be simple. A drink, a podcast, a story no one believes. Not this. Not Bruce Wayne looking at you like you’re a choice he’s actively making. Plus you don’t have the clothes to go on dinner with him.

You sigh, defeated, because of course you do. “You realize I was trying to leave.”

“I know,” he says easily. “That’s why I asked before you got away.”

There’s no pressure in his tone, no expectation. Just an offer, held out and waiting and suddenly you’re think of how fast can Shein ship a dress to you.

“I’m not very interesting,” you say, half-warning, half-defense.

Is it like 21 days? Do they do emergency situations?

His smile widens just a touch. “I don’t believe that.”

And that’s the moment you know you’re in trouble.

The space between you shifts.

Nothing obvious happens. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for you again, doesn’t say anything else right away. And yet the air feels heavier, like the moment has decided to linger whether you want it to or not.

You become acutely aware of where you’re standing. Of how close he is without actually being too close. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and understated, not trying to be impressive, but probably insanely expensive. However, he’s close enough that if either of you leaned forward, even slightly, it would stop being hypothetical.

You clear your throat again, the sound louder than you expect in the quiet hallway. “You don’t know me,” you point out, because logic feels like a good anchor.

“No,” he agrees, then repeats. “But I’d like to.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes it feel less like a line and more like a decision already made. He shifts his weight, just a fraction, enough that his shoulder brushes the wall behind you, subtly narrowing your escape without actually blocking it.

You notice. You hate that you notice, but he’s too huge to ignore either way.

“And if I say no?” you ask, testing him, testing yourself.

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen slightly, attentive. “Then I let you go,” he says. “And I’d be disappointed.”

The honesty of it hits harder than anything smooth ever could.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, startling you. A message from your friend lights up the screen: WHERE ARE YOU. You don’t look at it again.

Bruce glances down instinctively, then back up, lips curving like he already knows the answer. “Your friend?”

You nod. “She has terrible timing.”

“She’s going to be a good reporter. She seems enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word for it.” Insane is the other, but you are, in fact, ten times more insane than her for considering accepting an invitation to dinner with Bruce Wayne of all people.

He smiles at that, then lowers his voice—not to be secretive, but like he’s aware of how close the walls are. “I don’t usually do this,” he says, and for once it doesn’t sound like a cliché. “I don’t approach people without an exit plan.”

“And yet?” you murmur.

“And yet,” he echoes. His gaze drops again, not lingering anywhere inappropriate, just enough to feel… intentional. Like he’s cataloging, not consuming.

Your pulse ticks up when you catch his eyes scanning your whole body up and down, traitorous thing as it is.

“I should go back,” you say, even as you don’t move.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “But before you do—”

He reaches into his jacket pocket slowly, giving you every chance to object. Instead of a phone, he pulls out a simple card. No flashy design, no unnecessary information. Just his name and a number.

He holds it out between you, not touching you, not insisting. “In case you decide you want dinner,” he adds, almost casually. “Or a walk.”

Your fingers hover for a moment before taking it, skin brushing his just barely. The contact is brief, but it lands heavy, like a punctuation mark.

You look down at the card, then back up at him. “And if I don’t?”

His smile is faint but sincere. “Then I’ll assume you escaped successfully.”

Something about that makes your chest feel tight.

You tuck the card into your bag, meeting his eyes again. “You’re very confident for someone who just got rejected in advance.”

He leans back slightly, giving you space at last. “I’m patient.”

Abort mission! Abort mission immediately! Why are your thighs crying in the middle right now? Is it because you’ve been getting no action? Or is it because Bruce Wayne is actually making your belly churn under the belt?

You scoff lightly, forcing the sound out before your brain can short-circuit completely. “And how will you know I'm calling? I’m not giving you my number!”

His mouth curves, slow and knowing, like you’ve just said something amusing rather than defensive. “I have my ways.”

You stare at him, heart doing something deeply inconvenient in your chest. “That’s ominous.”

“Only if you plan on hiding,” he replies easily, eyes flicking to your bag where the card disappeared, then back to your face.

The silence stretches again, thicker now, charged with all the things neither of you are saying. You suddenly feel very aware of how close he still is, of how his attention hasn’t wavered once, like he’s already memorized the shape of this moment.

You straighten, clinging to composure like a life raft. “I should really go back,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the podcast area. “Before my friend sends a search party.”

He nods, stepping aside fully this time, the path clear at last. “I’ll be there,” he says. “Trying very hard not to look.”

You snort despite yourself, shaking your head as you move past him. “You’re terrible.”

“I’ve been told,” he replies, warm and unapologetic “But you’re beautiful.”

Low fucking blow!

As you walk away, if that's considered walking and not olympic speed run, you don’t look back. You refuse to. You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing normally, on pretending your pulse isn’t still fluttering under your skin and that you didn’t just get extremely turned on by just meeting lil old easy Bruce Wayne.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // the second image in the banner is my own edit, do not steal!

A/N: You have no idea how funny this fic is to me, or how much fun i had writing it. The title gives me the giggles too, as it's a byproduct of one too many intagram reels watched. (If you liked this im gonna write smut for pt2 btw)

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

Dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

guys can we please stop using queer terms for straight fanfics 😭

as a bisexual woman, if i see one more fic of a male character x female reader that uses the term ‘pillow princess’, i will lose my mind

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

is it just me who can’t imagine jason todd as pale ? like i’ve always imagined him having a bit of a tan (and having a tan line around the domino mask bcs why not)

like i’ve always thought tim and bruce would be pale but never jason

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

guys i need help finding a dick grayson x reader fic, i literally can’t find it anywhere 😭

you’re dating dick grayson and he takes you to a gala, riddler ends up taking the gala hostage and reader manages to convince him to stop being a villain and have a different career path as an escape room owner

i remember it being so funny and i can’t find it anywhere 😭

[agnustar]

jason todd x f.reader | he's not usually this scared

contents :: established relationship. fluff. non-explicit sexual content. general panic attack / anxiety content. unspecified / implied trauma. text in bold + italics are meant to be jason's thoughts wc. ~1.8k

a/n :: if you've seen this same fic from two or three other accounts it's because i can't stay in the same place for more than five minutes apparently ^^7 that's my bad ..... i just really like this one.

Jason’s had sex with you plenty of times.

He wasn’t counting or anything. He could have, if he wanted to. He liked to count, liked to keep track of things. Numbers, patterns, things he could pin and file neatly into all the right spots. But intimacy wasn’t something he generally keeps a catalogue on. Being with you had never felt like it needed to be measured or tracked.

It was just something that simply was.

And there was nothing new about it. The sex, anyways. He enjoyed it. He liked the closeness, the heat, the release that felt both physical and mental. And, of course, he liked that it felt good.

So he wasn’t sure why all of a sudden it felt like his chest was being crushed.

It all happened too fast. One second his eyes were fixed on your, watching, hands firm on your hips, his breath steady, synced with yours like for just a moment the two of you were one. And then his breath stuttered. His throat felt like something had wrapped around it and pulled tight. The air felt thick, sticking like he was choking on molasses.

He blinked hard, trying to wipe it away, but it did nothing to put the room back in place, it only continued to blur around the edges. Your sounds – the pretty whimpers, and soft, breathy gasps of his name – sounded distant, like the sound was traveling through water to get to his ears.

It sounded far away. Too far away. Too far.

No, no, no —

He tried to force himself out of it, tried to force himself to think his way back to reality, to figure out why this was happening.

You’re home.

He latched onto the thought, mind digging its claws into it.

Apartment. Bedroom. Bed.

He could feel the sheets under his back, the weight of you on top of him, the smell of the room. He went through it all. Everything he could see, hear, smell, feel. The whole bit. None of it seemed to help.

No blood. No bruises. All my limbs.

His eyes darted down to your body, a quick, – an almost tactical assessment. And you were fine. No signs anything was wrong with you. No sign you were in pain, or in danger. Nothing was wrong. If anything, you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Completely unaware of what was going on in his mind and body. No fault of yours, of course.

She’s okay.

You’re okay.

So why did he feel like this ?

Was it because he had you on top ? No. That couldn’t have been it. He had you ride him all the time. He liked it. Very quickly it had become one of his favorite positions. Laying back and watching you use him to make yourself feel good, grabbing your hips to fuck into you when you got too tired.

He’d never had an issue with it before. He loved it.

His grip on your hips tightened before he realized it, nails digging a little too hard into the skin, leaving behind shallow half-moon shaped indents in the soft flesh. The sting made you flinch, small and sharp.

“Stop –”

The word tore from his throat, felt like it was dragging glass along the muscle and tissue inside it. He pressed down, slowing the roll of your hips against his.

“I need you to stop –”

The panic in his voice, the way it shook and cut through everything else, had you scrambling off him in an instant. No hesitation, no question. Just moving, leaving cold where your weight and warmth had been.

Jason stayed where he was, laying flat on his back, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath caught on the way in and burned on the way out. His body felt wrong, like it wasn’t really his anymore.

The room felt off, like it had gotten smaller and smaller around him.

“Jay …” Your voice was careful now.

He felt the mattress shift next to him as you moved, felt you get closer before he actually saw your hand reaching out towards him. And something in his chest spiked, his body moving before his mind could.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could reach him. Too tight, he hadn’t meant it to be.

“Don’t –” He gripped on you loosened, but he didn’t let go, still holding you away. “Please don’t touch me right now.”

The request came out rough, but not angry. He wasn’t angry, he was scared. And his body had a bad habit of mixing the two up.

Confusion flickered over your face, your brows creasing, but you didn’t argue, didn’t push at him. You lowered your hand, bringing it back to rest in your lap.

“Are you okay ? Did I do something ?”

Jason only shook his head, the motion small and quick, and you weren’t sure which of your questions he was answering. He didn’t elaborate.

He forced himself to sit upright, dragging his hand down his face before pushing his sweat damp hair back off his forehead. His skin felt too tight, and every touch felt like he was being stabbed. Everything in and around him felt wrong.

He shifted to the edge of the bed, planting his feet against the carpet. His chest was still tight, breaths still burned, the world still felt small. He didn’t understand it.

“I need –” He swallowed hard, “I’m just … gonna go shower. Real quick.”

He didn’t wait for a response before getting up.

The lock on the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, followed by the sound of the running water.

He stepped in the shower before it had time to warm up, letting it hit him cold.

It helped.

A little.

For a second.

He pressed his forehead against the tile wall, letting the water run down his face and back. His heart was still racing, everything still felt too wrong, and too loud. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“What the hell ?”

He didn’t move to grab the soap, didn’t wash his hair. He didn’t do anything but stand there.

You’re safe.

He knew that. There was no threat, no danger. Nothing was happening, to him or to you. So why did he feel like there was, why was his body reacting like he was in some sort of crisis ?

Why did it feel like the world had him pinned down, stripped bare, with no way to get away —

His chest squeezed again.

He forced himself to breathe in, held it until his lungs burned, and let it out.

Again

Again

Again.

He’d never admit how long it took him to even out his breathing, to force the panic into something quieter. Not gone, not by a longshot. But quieter.

He still didn’t have an answer when he shut the water off.

He dried himself off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, tying them low around his hips. When he left the bathroom, hair still dripping onto his forehead, the bed was empty. For a second that made the panic feel sharp in his chest again.

Then he heard the quiet sounds of movement, the faint click of ceramic. He followed the sound down the hall to the kitchen. He found you at the counter, your back to him, dressed in a pair of soft underwear and a bra. Your hair was messy, shoulders relaxed in a way that showed him you weren’t upset.

You were just waiting. Always waiting.

Jason stepped up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you back against him. His chin found your shoulder, taking its usual spot there.

You were making tea, and he could tell by the smell of it and the cup you were using that you were making it for him, not yourself. He watched your hands as you stirred honey into the cup, using that tiny spoon he always cracked jokes about. The one that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse, not a kitchen drawer.

You reached for the wooden salt jar next, stirring a pinch in with the same spoon. He remembered he cringed when you first showed him that. Now he can’t stand taking his tea any other way.

“‘M sorry …” He muttered against your cheek

Your free hand came up, fingers brushing against his jaw. It made his breath catch, softer this time. 

“No need to be sorry, Jaybie.” You assured him “Are you okay ?”

He shifted, tucking his face into the crook of your neck, pulling his shoulders in. A failed attempt to make himself smaller.

“Don’t know what happened” The admission made his mouth feel like it was full of sand and stones. “I’m sorry”

You didn’t rush to answer, letting the quiet linger comfortably as you finished his tea.

“It’s okay” You said gently, “You don’t need to know. Sometimes things just –”

“Don’t.” He didn’t mean to cut you off, and he didn’t mean to sound so snappy either. He forced himself to take a breath, forced his body to relax into yours before he tried again.

“I’m sorry. Just … Don’t do the feelings thing. I can’t –” He took another breath when he caught his tone again. “Just not right now.”

“Okay.” You nodded, “Habit.”

Apology.

Jason hummed against your skin.

Acceptance.

“Did you finish ?” He asked after a moment of quiet

“No.” You answered, no hesitation, no embarrassment or shame. Just a fact.

“But that’s okay.” You added, “I don’t need to finish every time”

Jason grunted against your skin, and that was enough to tell you that he did not agree with that statement.

“We can try again,” he suggested. But his tone was cautious, like he wasn’t quite sure.

And you picked up on that. Of course you did, it was how you were, how you’d always been.

You turned around in his arms, he raised his head to let you move, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours once you faced him.

“Hey …” Your hands came up, holding either side of his face between your palms. You tilted his head up until his eyes were on yours. It took more effort than he’d like to admit to hold them there.

“We don’t have to” You continued, “We can. But only if you’re okay.”

He was quiet for a while. Checking in with himself, his teeth biting into the skin inside his cheek as he thought it over.

He felt better. A little. Not good, but better

But there was still that lingering feeling. Something biting under his skin. There was a quiet squeezing in his chest still that hadn’t fully gone away, like a memory only his body seemed to remember, that his mind couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“Maybe tomorrow ?” He whispered. He paused, letting out a soft, slow exhale. “Yeah … Yeah, maybe tomorrow.”

You smiled, bringing his face to yours to press a firm, gentle kiss against his cheek.

“Alright. Tomorrow then.”

[raysome]

In a world of AO3 warriors, I'm forever a Tumblr Trooper...

[mostlymarvelgirl]

I really miss those old avengers tower fics

1. Clint in the vents

2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros

3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"

4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah

5. Thor and his poptarts

6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie

7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky

8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.

9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.

10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader

11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.

12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.

13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.

And the list goes on....

[mermaidinthemoonlight]

this was a rant/analysis on bob reynold’s character that i posted (and eventually privated) on my old account but i feel like i should repost it here

i feel like a lot of fic writers misunderstand bob’s character a lot and i’ve noticed there’s a lot of misinformation and infantilisation of his character.

firstly, bob is a grown man, not a baby. i think people seem to baby him due to his mental state but in reality he isn’t that at all. he isn’t an “uwu baby who can’t do anything”, he’s a man with mental health issues and a history of addiction trying to get control over his life and it feels very counterproductive to infantilise him because of this. (plus we’ve seen him call out john walker for being an asshole and he’s had moments where he can be sarcastic, #sassybobtruther).

secondly, when it comes to his powers, people definitely misinterpret what they actually are. his powers can’t just happen out of nowhere from what i know. it’s very implied that bob is bipolar and the sentry and void are manifestations of different states in bipolar. the sentry is meant to represent the mania whereas the void is meant to represent the depression. bob himself is just the middle ground between the two. the sentry doesn’t just appear, from what the film portrayed, his ego and delusions of grandeur have to be fed to put his mental state into that position (for example, val feeding into his god complex by saying he was better than all the avengers rolled into one), when he was the sentry, he had a moment of insecurity after ava questioned his hair and told val about it but switched up once he started to challenge why he needed to listen to val if he was so powerful and mighty.

now, iirc, the void is what follows after the sentry. it’s the crash after his mania (bob himself says he has extreme highs followed by extreme lows). from what it looks like, the void comes out after bob experiences the sentry. like a hangover after getting drunk, you’re really happy and wild while drunk but absolutely depressed and tired once the hangover kicks in. it seems to be the same kind of concept. and then, as we know, once the void is “gone” he doesn’t remember anything.

in conclusion, the thunderbolts* wouldn’t walk on eggshells because “the void” will appear randomly whenever bob feels any negative emotion because that doesn’t seem to be the case at all. bob even says in the post credits he can’t be the sentry without “the other guy” showing up. meaning that the void only happens after the sentry.

i also believe how people treat bob is very indicative of how people view those with mental health problems, especially problems that are harder to romanticise such as bipolar.

anyway this was a lot of yapping but i was tired of seeing the mischaracterisation and infantilisation of bob and felt like i needed to say something. if i got anything wrong please correct me as i’m only going off of my own interpretation and research.