hi again. hi. hello. bonjour. salutations. or if it's the first time... then oh, you found me. congrats, detective. i’m probably doing something painfully mundane right now — staring at a wall, overthinking the concept of ... everything — but for your imagination’s sake, let’s say i’m sipping tea and reading sylvia plath’s collected works while pretending not to spiral. (sylvia & me are spiritually linked. i would slap & scold her for half her shit and then sob into her shoulder. duality.)
i’m 15. i go by dove — soft by design, featherlight. i liked the idea of being called something gentle. the world’s too loud and too much. i just wanted to be something calm and still. something that doesn’t take up space unless it’s invited to.
but if we’re already trauma‑bonded… if we’ve had breakdowns at 2am in the same digital trenches… if you’ve seen me type with shaking hands or confess things i should’ve journaled… then you can call me dovie, or angel, or aveliraix (yes that’s the birth name), or aveli, or or or whatever falls sweet off your tongue. but lets be honest even if we havent, i wouldnt mind the nicknames... wink wink
i shift. i believe in the law of assumption, i dabble in a bit of non-duality and in the strange, terrifying beauty of quantum mechanics. i believe that reality is bendable, that thought can make matter, that self is a word with loose borders. not because i want to sound profound ! im not. i dont have the answers to the universe. im not here to convince you i do.
this isn’t a gimmick. it’s just part of who i am and what i believe. i’m always happy to talk about it — curiously, honestly, even imperfectly — but not with people who treat open minds like something embarrassing. i’m not here to argue with someone who’s already decided i’m ridiculous. i’m not going to hand over my experiences for dissection. if that’s what you’re looking for, you won’t find it here. i don’t owe clarity to close‑minded people
but if you’re if you’re curious, if some part of you wants to listen — then pull up a chair
i’ve loved books and pencils and the smell of stationery since before i could afford any of it. i know what it felt like to trace the edge of a gel pen cap. to read a library book with cracked spines.
drawing, writing — i’m not the best. but i don’t care. i’ve lived through enough kitchen-floor lectures from my mother about pencil shavings and snapped pencils to have earned the right to say i love it anyway.
i love the scratch of pen on paper. the way a blank page looks. the tiny ceremony of picking which notebook deserves the next thought.
if you handed me a pack of color pencils or a set of new fineliners, i’d probably cry. because it reminds me of being 7 and building entire worlds out of dollar-store ballpoints.
i was born in syria (on a farm in a small village), then lived in lebanon for a bit, and moved to australia when i was four. those places never really left me. syria and lebanon still live in me, so do the sound of family voices in the distance. family. grief. the corner stores. the stories told through cracked phone calls and old photos.
ethnically, i’m half armenian and half assyrian, but i usually just say armenian because it’s simpler. i don’t speak armenian, wish i did! but i do speak english, arabic and one dialect of aramaic (not that good at aramaic though!)
and oh, olive oil. middle eastern olive oil has me every time. i used to just drink it straight, slurping that thick, peppery gold. nothing else tastes like home quite like that <33 oh how i love and miss my middle eastern home
special dedication to my first ever teacher (and my english teacher) . . .
there’s a teacher who’s always in my heart. when i first came to australia and started school at five, i didn’t speak a lick of english, but she was so sweet, so patient. i cried after that first day because i missed her, already grown attached. she brought me books, color pencils, markers, stamps, stickers — little treasures that made this strange new country feel like home.
i love her. she was the only teacher who really got me. she’s still with me, always in my mind. and then there was the redheaded angel of a teacher who would come into the class of 5 year old me and pull me aside to teach me english. also patient and kind, opening doors to words i didn’t yet know how to say <33
warnings: no warnings!! just damian wayne in agony (in-love)
content: damian wayne can't stop sketching you or thinking about you
dove's notes: this has been sitting in my drafts, waiting, begging to be released. also i was listening to artic monkeys when i was editing this. also this is my longest work yet .. lord.. enjoy!!
Damian Wayne has officially lost his mind.
(Or—at least, that’s what it feels like, which is almost worse than it being true.)
It doesn’t come on all at once. It’s not loud like breaking a door down a flash of gunfire. no, it creeps in slowly. subtly. It starts with the nausea, the quiet kind, not the kind that doubles you over or makes you rush to the bathroom. not food poisoning. not a training injury. nothing that can be pinned down to anything practical.
It's just this low, burning discomfort that curls in his gut and stretches upward, making a home beneath his ribs, curling around his spine. the kind of unease that originates from something deeper, something more inconvenient. something more emotional.
He can’t stand it.
His palms are sweating, and that alone is enough to make him scowl. his shirt sticks just a little too tightly at the collar, suffocating in a way it never has before. there's a feverish heat crawling up the back of his neck, winding behind his ears, and it makes his skin itch with irritation.
he’s already scanned himself for symptoms. checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility in his head. besides the nausea, he’s not actually sick. his pulse is as steady as it can be. reflexes are sharp. no bruises he’s missed, no toxins in his system. nothing out of the ordinary. on paper, he’s fine. perfectly functional. but something’s still off.
because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about you.
your face has apparently decided to move in and take up residence in his mind. your face has staked a claim on his sanity. It keeps showing up, again, again, and again. relentlessly. a ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.
there you are, when he closes his eyes. when he blinks. when he spaces out for a single second.
the image of you burns at the backs of his eyelids with a persistence that borders on cruel. It’s not just your laugh, though that’s bad enough. It’s the details, the things he shouldn’t have noticed. the things he has no business remembering.
The way you hold a pencil, balanced so precisely between your fingers like it grew out of your hand. the way you bite your bottom lip when you're focused, completely unaware of the way it softens your whole face. the furrow between your brows when you’re reading something the teacher assigned. the exaggerated eye-roll you give him when he’s being, as you so kindly put it, “uptight.”
he hated the word. he still does. but the memory of you saying it loops in his mind anyway. the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. the way you exist, so thoroughly and vividly, in every god forsaken part of his head.
He clenches his fists and holds them there, knuckles white and aching, like if he grips hard enough, he can force the thoughts out of him by sheer will.
Enough.
A breath hisses through his teeth, tight and thin and far more emotional than he’d ever allow himself to sound out loud. he throws himself onto the old leather chair shoved into the corner of his bedroom.
The thing groans beneath him like it’s just as exasperated with him as he is. It’s been his brooding chair since he was ten. It’s seen everything: blood, bruises, silence. tonight, it sees a kind of ache it's never seen before.
Rain drizzles down the windows in a soft, half-hearted rhythm. It’s the gotham kind of rain. but this time it's not the angry kind, not storming kind either. just tired. persistent. the sky outside is a smear of cold, colorless gray. he doesn't need to check the time. not again. he already has multiple times, it's 2:00 am.
Wayne Manor at night is its own sort of living thing. It breathes in silence and exhales memory. every hallway feels too long. every portrait watches too closely. the air seems too still. you can hear a clock ticking from three rooms away. even the shadows feel old. and when the house is this quiet, his thoughts get loud. they expand. echo. and right now, his thoughts are the last damn thing he wants amplified.
His sketchbook rests open on his desk. The page stares back at him-blank. waiting. taunting. page number... who knows. It doesn’t matter. he’s filled hundreds of these pages by now. but somehow this one feels heavier. more expectant. like it already knows what he’s going to draw. and like it’s laughing at him for trying to fight it.
It’s mocking him.
the blank page. the pencil in his hand. the silence of the room. all of it. mocking.
he would say it aloud-confess that he can hear it laughing at him. that would sound insane. and Damian Wayne doesn’t do insane. at least not the kind that makes you talk to paper. but sounding crazy isn’t even what’s bothering him right now. that’s how far gone he is. that’s how bad this is. right now, everything else seems like a minor inconvenience.
he’s not worried about sleep or the exam he has tomorrow in a class with the worlds most insufferable teacher. what’s getting under his skin is the idea that his own brain has decided this piece of paper knows him better than he does. and the fact that tonight you've followed your own yellow brick road right into his head and made yourself at home.
To be honest, quietly, bitterly honest, this isn’t the first time you’ve found your way into his head.
It started the day he met you. he doesn’t know why. you weren’t the loudest voice in the room. you didn’t chase the spotlight or try to charm everyone like the people he’s seen at his father’s galas. their perfect smiles and polished words. that kind of performance never worked on him anyway.
You didn’t demand attention the way those people did. didn’t perform for the room or try to catch anyone’s eye. but by some divine intervention, you slipped past his guard like it was nothing. beat the odds of staying in his head, like the kind of odds and luck people win the lottery with. only, he wouldn’t call it luck. it's not lucky for him though. If it were luck, you wouldn’t be there all the time. you wouldn't be there constantly, threaded through his thoughts, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind when he’s supposed to be focusing on literally anything else.
you showed up, a director to his brain, and announced action and his brain has been following your lead ever since.
you’ve been showing up in his dreams. in quiet moments between drills. between breaths. between the pages of books he doesn’t finish anymore because he ends up thinking about how you’d probably like them. he’s tried everything to push you out. he meditated until his limbs went numb. that didn’t work. tried ignoring you which lasted two days before he cracked and said something cold and clipped just so he could break the silence, he trained until his hands were shaking from exhaustion. that didn’t work either.
he also can’t talk to anyone about it. he has to deal with this on his own, despite having no experiences with feelings like this.
not grayson, who would tease and then say something ridiculous like “it's just a crush, it's okay to feel like this yada yada.” because it wasn't okay. and this obviously was way worse than just a crush.
he couldn't ask father, who would raise an eyebrow and say something vaguely wise and completely unhelpful. not todd or drake. and definitely not his mother. she’d sneer. call it weakness. maybe it is. maybe she’s right. maybe he agrees with her.
what kind of warrior gets undone by a girl?
the thought of therapy crossed his mind once. he’s heard of it. read enough reports to understand how it’s supposed to work. talk. process. heal. whatever. but it’s not for him. he’s Damian Wayne. he doesn’t talk about feelings to some stranger in a white coat. he gets through. he survives. therapy was never for someone like him. and even if he did try, what the hell would he say?
that there’s a girl stuck in his head and it’s annoying? that it gets under his skin in ways he doesn’t have names for? that some days, it feels like your voice echoes louder than his own thoughts, and no amount of training, of silence, of bruised knuckles can push it out?
he would never say that some part of him, some small, treacherous part, would give up the fight, the league, all of it, just to sit across from you in peace, to live a life where he never has to say the words “assassin” or “bloodline” again. nope. he will also never say that your absence leaves a sharper ache than any blade he's ever taken to the ribs.
It sounds weak. soft. pathetic, even.
something he would’ve scoffed at not long ago. something he might’ve called pitiful in someone else.
but it’s so very real.
because he’s been shot. stabbed. left in the dirt with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the sting of his own failures. he’s taken hits that shattered bone. fought through pain so sharp it made the edges of the world go white and still, none of it ever made him feel this exposed.
this unguarded. like someone cracked open his chest and left everything on display. every nerve, every feeling he never wanted to name. It’s not physical pain that unsettles him. he can handle pain. he can't handle the fact that you matter though.
somewhere along the way of all those thoughts, the pencil made its way into his hand. he doesn’t remember reaching for it. doesn’t remember curling his fingers around it. but it’s there now, resting lightly between calloused fingers, like it always does. he’s on autopilot. which is already a bad sign.
he tells himself to get it together. to sketch something practical. a bird’s wingspan. a new gauntlet modification. the layout of a building if he has to. something tactical. something with purpose.
but when the pencil meets the paper, it doesn’t obey. his hand moves on its own. long, confident strokes, trained muscle memory. a familiar line forms. then another. the slope of a jaw. the curve of a mouth. the arch of an eyebrow that always seems to rise whenever you’re being particularly annoying. and then, worst of all, the eyes. not just generic ones. yours. the ones that squint when you’re holding back a laugh. and the ones that widen when you taste something you really love, so much so that you’d swear it’s life-changing.
He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s already done.
he scowls, swears under his breath in arabic, and slams the sketchbook shut. the sound is loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, which seems to speed up at the thought of you. he tosses the pencil down with too much force. it rolls across the desk, hits the edge, falls. he lets it.
damian leans back in the chair and stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands pressed together. His arms are stiff. His spine aches. His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside him clawing to be let out.
he tells himself- no, commands himself to draw something else. anything else. a skyline. a katana. the curve of a rooftop edge, the silhouette of a bat against the moon, the outline of a fucking grapefruit. this time he doesn't care about drawing something tactical or practical. he just needs to get you out of his mind, or try to.
he should draw something safe. neutral. objective. Something that proves he is in control of himself and his brain and his hands. something that proves he is not thinking about you.
but.
of course.
you’re already in his head.
you’ve moved in and brought noise with you.
not actual noise. not your voice. he knows that much. he hasn’t quite crossed the line into hearing things that aren’t there. at least, not yet. but with how things are going, he wouldn’t be surprised if that happened soon.
you’re probably asleep right now, tucked away somewhere on the other side of the city, curled under a blanket with half your face smashed into a pillow. the same pillow you shamelessly drool on, though you’d deny it if anyone called you out.
he knows how you sleep and how you sprawl. it's in the way that looks like your limbs forgot they belonged to one body. arms flung this way, legs tangled that way, taking up every inch of the bed.
he’s seen it.
on movie nights you insisted on. when your eyes got heavy halfway through some old black-and-white film you were adamant on watching. you’d knock out leaning against him. mouth open, breathing slow, completely unaware of what you were doing to him. and he let you. sat there like a statue, an idiot statue. but letting you rest against him was a test he refused to fail. he could’ve nudged you off. could’ve cleared his throat, shifted away.
but he didn’t.
not once.
he told himself he didn’t care.
he told himself it meant nothing.
but that was a lie.
and he hasn’t stopped lying since.
back to the sketch. or the lack thereof. he's starting over.
he doesn’t bother picking up the pencil that rolled off the desk. just lets it stay there on the floor, like it’s exiled. maybe it deserved it for betraying him by drawing you in the first place.
instead, he grabs another.
the graphite scratches quiet across the page.
the first line is nothing. a curve, shapeless and vague. could be the edge of a rooftop. the arc of a blade. the bend of a cat’s back mid-pounce. it doesn’t matter. he keeps going. another line. then another. his hand moves on instinct, not intention.
It should be nothing. just muscle memory. just form and technique.
but it’s not. he knows where this is heading.
his wrist keeps moving. thoughtlessly. confidently. it seems his fingers have a map his mind hasn’t seen yet. and by the time he registers what he’s doing and really, truly looks down, it’s too late.
there’s your jawline.
crisp and familiar.
Your cheekbones begin to form, graceful and sloped in that way he won't admit he’s spent time analyzing. the bridge of your nose is there now, and worse, his hand has already started filling in the curve of your lips. he’s not even halfway done and his body has betrayed him once more. his heart beating fast and loud and infuriatingly alive.
no. no, no, no.
this is not happening. he’s not doing this. he cannot be doing this.
and yet, he is. he is doing this.
his grip tightens around the new pencil. of course, this one ends up turning on him too.
his stomach twists, it’s punishing him for something he hasn’t come to terms with yet. His shoulders lock out of habit, discipline digging in where softness tries to get through.
it’s really annoying.
his body already made a decision his mind hasn’t agreed to. he's feeling like every hour he spent learning control, precision, resistance-- every scar, every strike, every silence, meant nothing the second he laid eyes on you.
He shuts the cover of the sketchbook gently before he even finishes the drawing. the lines are still half-formed, the image incomplete, but he can’t bring himself to keep going. his hand stills, hovering for a moment like maybe he’ll change his mind and re-open the book, but he doesn’t. the pencil drops beside his sketchbook with a soft, final sort of sound.
he sits there thinking about how there’s something unkind about it. about what's happening to him. about what he's feeling. that even now, even with everything he knows about control, about restraint, about keeping his distance, his hands still choose you despite him not wanting them too.
maybe it’s karma. he wouldn’t be surprised. that would make sense, wouldn’t it? he’s not naive enough to think he’s owed peace, or grace, or anything soft. he can admit he’s made mistakes, though even that word feels too gentle, too forgiving.
“mistake” sounds like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. he wouldn't consider what he's done as "mistakes". they’re not mistakes. they’re choices. intentional. calculated. final. blood on his hands that no amount of training, time, or water can wash off. every decision, every action, feels etched into him in a way that no word can fully capture.
and then there’s the thought. an ugly, persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that won’t shut up: what would you think if you knew everything? If you knew the full measure of his deeds, the cold precision with which he carried out his orders, the blood and ruin left in his wake and also the way he’s thinking about you right now.
would you recoil in horror? Would you look at him with disgust, seeing in him a monster too far gone to be redeemed? the idea gnaws at him, twisting his insides until it feels like his stomach has tied itself in knots.
Why is he terrified of what you’d think? why would he care if you see him as a monster? Why is it that, at the same time, he thinks about the fact that you make him forget all of it? even if it’s just for a second. the way his mind turns to you, even when he knows he has no right to feel this way.
the guilt presses down hard, suffocating. But what hurts more is the disgust. the way he can’t stand the idea that he’s even capable of feeling this about you.
he tells himself he deserves every ounce of this self-reproach. he’s not innocent, not in the slightest. but despite all the harsh logic and unyielding discipline he’s clung to, there’s a softness in his heart that makes him long for redemption, or perhaps even forgiveness. every heartbeat is a reminder of his past, echoing the silent question: Could you ever see beyond the sins of his past to something different?
Would you? He knows you. or at least he thinks he does.
He knows the softness of your expressions. the curve of your smile. the light in your eyes when you’re teasing him. the exact tilt of your head when you laugh, and the way your eyes crease at the corners. he remembers everything.
and all of it has bled onto the pages of his sketchbook. line by stupid line.
there’s a dull throb behind his eyes. he blinks, finally, and swallows hard around nothing.
What the hell is happening to him? deep down he knows, but he won't accept it. so for now, he'll play the fool.
his body feels wrong. slow. off-balance. his thoughts are moving faster than his skin can keep up with. It's like he’s chasing something in a dream and keeps waking up just before he catches it.
And you are the center of that dissonance.
he shouldn't crave any of this. not for warmth that asks nothing of him. not for feelings that arrive uninvited. quiet, persistent things that slip beneath his guard in the dead of night and make a home out of the places he swore were impenetrable.
they settle in his chest like they’ve always belonged. but they can’t. because Damian Wayne doesn’t fall apart. he doesn’t lose focus. he can't afford to. he can't want something just because it makes him feel good.
He was trained before he knew what it meant to choose anything for himself. before he had a chance to want anything. and yet here he is, wanting. but at the same time not wanting to want. and it’s unbearable. he's so very conflicted.
there’s no margin for any of that in his bloodline. no one trained him to sit still with his feelings. no one handed him the cure for this kind of ache. there were no lessons on vulnerability. only on how to strike first, how to read a threat before it made itself known, how to shut every door that made him human. he was taught to break bones, not fall in love. he certainly wasn't taught how to navigate the tremble in his hands when he sees your name on his phone screen.
this thing he's experiencing takes up too much room inside him. this ache in his chest that spikes every time he sees you talking to someone else. this frustration that coils in his stomach when he can’t seem to find the right words to say to you.
no one gave him a blueprint for this.
and he never asked for one.
but now he thinks maybe he should’ve. despite whatever answer he would've gotten.
because whatever this is, this thing with your face tangled in every corner, this thing with your name written all over it, is not fading. not blurring. not leaving like it should. it’s staying.
He's angry. at you. at himself. at whatever cruel, laughing god decided this was his fate. why the hell is he here. sitting in the dark with a sketchbook on his desk that he closed after whatever just happened and your face living in every corner of his skull?
he forces his eyes shut. breathes in through his nose, slow and deliberate, he wants to believe discipline alone might save him from whatever the hell this is. He sits motionless for a beat, jaw tight, spine stiff, a soldier awaiting orders. maybe if he holds still enough, it’ll all fall away.
because he is not some moonstruck teenager. He does not sit around sighing at ceilings like an idiot with a crush in some poorly written teen drama.
his childhood was silence where there should’ve been comfort, order where there should’ve been chaos, expectation where there should’ve been choice. He was built to survive, not to feel. everything he’s ever felt, he’s learned to hide. emotions are weaknesses. vulnerabilities. and he’s always kept his locked away, sealed tight like volatile gas behind reinforced glass. out of reach. out of sight. contained.
he tells himself once more that he shouldn’t be feeling any of this.
He hates how much he does.
this entire spiral feels beneath him. It’s inefficient. irrational. weak. there is no function to this emotion. It doesn’t sharpen his aim. It doesn’t enhance his reflexes. It clutters his thoughts, derails his focus. and he prides himself on focus. discipline. efficiency. his brain has always been a fortress. impenetrable. calculated. he trains harder, pushes longer, endures more than anyone around him. because he has to. because he always has.
His breathing stumbles, uneven, shallow. and it disgusts him. he presses his fingertips to his temple like he could physically push the thoughts out of his skull. his other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails digging into his palm. he can feel the pulse in his jaw. fast. reluctant. he’s getting a headache, and he can’t even sketch his way out of it this time.
he tips his head back, eyes open now, staring at the ornate ceiling of his room like it might offer some sort of answer. It doesn’t. It never has. the silence in Wayne Manor is heavy and constant, stretching through the halls like a second atmosphere. He’s used to it. but tonight, it feels suffocating.
there’s no solution in the ceiling. no clarity in the walls. only this feeling. this wild, rising pressure inside him that he doesn’t have the words for.
“What the hell is happening to me,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and ragged.
He lets the question hang in the silence. no answers come, only the steady pulse of his own breath and the distant city sounds bleeding through the windows.
everytime i think about how cray cray it is that michael has only been in the naturals program for a few months before cassie joins……….ur telling me he's only been on and off with lia for a few months???? it feels they've been together for longer bc why tf do they act like an old married couple 😭😭😭
doveeeeeeeeeee i know ur a naturals fan and finished the series but have u read twelve yet (the novella) ??? if u have what did u think
AH DONT REMIND ME THAT I FINISHED THE SERIES ☹️☹️☹️ currently rereading it because im that in love with it. yes. and to answer your question, no i havent! i read like maybe 20 pages of the novella and just stopped. like i couldnt. this series will not end. no.
i will get to it for sure (after i finish rereading the series...promise..)
It’s late. Like... late-late. The kind of late that seeps into your bones.
Even Gotham—loud, wild, unapologetically feral Gotham—has finally surrendered, just for a moment, to something like stillness. The city glows in that soft amber-orange light, the kind that feels more at home in an old Polaroid than in real life. The sun is almost fully up now, low and golden, peeling the night away.
The usual chaos seems to fold in on itself, hushed by the light drizzle slicking the pavement, taming the streets into quiet. The rain isn’t a storm—just a gentle mist that turns the city’s sharp edges soft and blurry. Streetlamps still flicker with that worn-out, golden buzz—old, tired things that have been burning too long and just want to be left in peace.
Jason’s key slides into the lock with practiced ease, he turns the key just right, pushes the door so it doesn’t squeak, nudges it closed with the heel of his boot instead of the knob. and the door clicks shut behind him just as silently.
He doesn’t need to be sneaky here—not really. but old habits die hard, and years of slipping through shadows don’t shake off just because he’s home. His movements are practiced, second nature: helmet off first, carefully set on the shelf by the door. One boot, then the other—nudged off with the toe of the opposite foot, slow and quiet like the night depends on it.
The hardwood greets him with a low, familiar groan—right on cue. That same loose floorboard just past the entryway. The one he told himself he’d fix months ago. He meant to. Still does. He just... hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Too many nights chasing down people who make louder noises than floorboards ever could.
You don’t stir from the creak.
Turns out he was right.
You waited up for him.
He’d asked you not to wait up. Not in a demanding way—never like that—but soft and worn-out. He’d pulled you in earlier, arms snug around your waist, face tucked into your hair. Kissed the crown of your head and mumbled it into your scalp. “Get some sleep, yeah? please don't wait.” Low, rough, he didn’t want to spend the rest of the night worried about you too.
And you had nodded against his chest, mumbled something into his shirt that sounded like “okay.” And then you’d looked up, eyes squinting, and stuck out your pinky.
“Promise,” you said, voice soft but still holding that stubborn spark. “Double pinky swear. Triple. Triple pinky swear with a twist. and the secret seal, you know the seal.”
You wiggled your pinky at him like it was the most sacred of all vows. you made it seem like it would physically hurt you for him not to make it official. And when he tried to pretend he didn’t remember the "secret seal", you just poked him in the chest, right over his heart, with a dramatic little hmph.
“Seal it,” you said. So he did. He kissed your pinky, then your forehead, and said something grumbly about how ridiculous this was. But he was smiling when he said it, all soft around the edges. so you didn't take him too seriously.
He should’ve known you’d break the swear the second his back was turned.
he should know by now what your promises mean.
When you say, “I’ll sleep, I pinky swear,” what you really mean is:
“I’ll lie on the couch with something playing, just to fill the space. I’ll tell myself I’m not waiting, that I’m just resting, but I’ll keep glancing at the clock anyway. Keep listening for your key in the door without even realizing I’m doing it. I’ll stay like that until my eyes finally give up on me.”
And, well. here you are now, proving exactly that.
You're curled up in the corner of the couch, soft and still. One arm hangs off the edge, fingers loose and completely at ease. Your head's tilted in a way that would probably horrify a chiropractor, smushed against an old throw pillow that’s definitely past its prime. The blanket you meant to wrap around yourself is bunched awkwardly at your waist, halfway sliding off. Your feet are bare, sticking out at the end.
He shakes his head.
“You and the goddamn socks,” he mumbles, almost fondly.
You never remember them. He reminds you every time. Sometimes through gritted teeth, sometimes through a text sent from five rooftops away. Somehow, he always knows when you’re not wearing socks—even when he’s nowhere near you.
He swears you forget on purpose. Just to get under his skin.
He doesn’t care about Gotham winters—not for himself, anyway. But when it comes to you, suddenly it’s a national emergency. He’ll play the overbearing mom if he has to, lecturing you about cold floors and catching colds and how you’re definitely going to get sick if you keep this up. He just wants to make sure you’re warm and okay. And if that means telling you to “put on your goddamn socks” like it’s life or death—then yeah. He’ll do it. Every single time.
But it’s hard to be annoyed.
Looking at you like this, he can’t feel anything but softness.
The TV’s still playing. Some old movie you’ve seen a dozen times, maybe more. you’ve worn this DVD out. You’ve cried during it, laughed at it, talked over it. The dialogue is quiet, the music gentle, and he recognizes the scene even without looking—it’s the one you always quote, the one that always makes you cry, even when you say it won’t this time.
He doesn’t move right away.
Just stands there in the entryway, taking you in.
There’s a soft crease pressed into your cheek from the pillow. Your lips are parted slightly, breath slow and even. One leg’s folded beneath you, the other hanging off the couch like you gave up halfway through trying to find a comfortable position.
For a moment, his chest aches with the gentleness of it. from how soft it all feels. The quiet trust of being missed. Of being waited for. Of being loved in a way that's steady and patient and real.
Eventually, he moves toward you, his steps light. Careful not to jostle the couch.
He crouches down beside the couch, one knee down first. Then the other. resting one forearm on the cushion as he watches your sleeping face up close for a beat longer than necessary. There’s a smear of mascara under one eye from where you must’ve rubbed it in your sleep. He notices the way your eyelashes flutter. The soft puff of your breath when you exhale. The faint remnants of whatever lip balm you’d put on earlier, faded into a subtle shine.
His hand hovers for a second before brushing a loose strand of hair off your forehead.
“You forgot socks again, sweetheart,” he murmurs under his breath.
He nudges one of your toes, just to check if you’ll move. You don’t. You’re completely knocked out.
God, you look so cold. He can’t seem to shake that thought.
He moves carefully. He takes one arm beneath your knees, the other under your back. He lifts slow. Doesn’t rush it. Your body sags against his shoulder with a sigh, head finding its usual home in the crook of his neck.
He holds you for a second longer than he needs to. Just standing there in the middle of the dim living room, the flicker of the TV painting sleepy shadows across the ceiling, your heartbeat slow against his chest.
Then he walks.
He walks you to the bedroom in silence, letting the movie play on in the background like white noise.
He leans down slowly, careful not to rush as he lowers you onto the bed. Your body melts into the mattress with a quiet sigh, your arms falling loosely by your sides, completely surrendered to the idea of rest.
Once you’re lying there, he pulls the covers up gently, making sure the blanket doesn’t drag over your face. Without really thinking, he shifts your pillow just a little, tucking it closer so you’re comfortable.
Then he slips out of the room for what feels like no time at all—just long enough to dig out a clean pair of his thickest socks. The kind so ridiculously bulky they look like something your grandma would have knitted with all the love in the world but zero concern for fashion.
The fuzzy, wool-lined ones, way too big for anyone but somehow perfect, the ones he bought you during some crazy snowstorm. the same ones you refuse to wear because you think they look ridiculous.
He kneels at the foot of the bed like he’s about to propose to your frozen feet and carefully peels back the blanket, just enough to free your toes. They twitch a little when the cool air hits them. He smiles to himself, like yeah, cold. thought so.
He warms your feet first with his hands. Rubs his thumbs gently over the arch of one foot, then the other. His palms are calloused, sure, but warm—so warm. He murmurs something barely audible while he works, something like, “You're going to be sick if you keep this up.” but there’s laughter buried in the rasp of it.
Then he pulls the socks on—slow and careful, making sure they don’t tug or stretch out of shape. He slips them onto your feet one at a time, smoothing the edges gently, his thumbs brushing softly over your ankles.
And then, like he can’t stop himself, before he pulls the covers back over your feet, he leans down and presses a slow, gentle kiss just above your ankle bone. Right in that little space between where the sock ends and your skin begins.
Then he stands back up and carefully tucks the two thick blankets around you—one side, then the other—making sure you’re snug. He even folds the top edge down near your collarbone, just enough so you won’t get too hot, but still stay cozy.
He brushes some hair out of your face. Lets his fingers rest there for a moment, just above your temple.
He probably should’ve showered by now—still smelling like sweat, gunpowder, and whatever else Gotham threw at him tonight.
Not wanting to dirty your bed, he quietly slips off to the bathroom.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The shower lasts about twenty minutes. He keeps it quick. Not rushed, just efficient. Muscle memory, mostly. Hot water, steam thick in the air, the scent of soap clinging to his skin. He scrubs away the grime of the city, the kind that seeps into your bones even when nothing technically went wrong.
He’s not injured tonight. No bruised ribs, no split lip, no blood staining his knuckles. Somehow, it was a quiet patrol—so quiet it made the back of his neck itch with suspicion. But nothing happened. For once, Gotham gave him her version of a night off.
And he took it. Reluctantly.
Now, clean but still a little damp, his towel-dried hair curling at the ends, he’s wandering down the hallway barefoot and shirtless. Jason’s a total hypocrite—always fussing about you wearing socks and staying warm so you don’t get sick, then here he is doing the exact opposite. If you were awake and saw him like this, he’d never live it down. But honestly, you’re no different—you’re always on his case about being careful and responsible. Guess that makes you two just two sides of the same stubborn coin.
Every step slightly quicker than the last, the hum of the apartment settling into sleep around him.
The bedroom door creaks faintly as he pushes it open. You’re still in the same position he left you in—curled up beneath the blankets, your breathing deep and slow. He smiles to himself.
He pulls back one side of the blanket slowly, careful not to let the cool air wake you. Then he climbs into bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. The sheets are warm. You are warmer.
As soon as he settles, you stir—just a little. Your body shifts with the change, but you don’t wake. Not really.
Still, your hand finds his.
It’s slow and searching, like your body is half-asleep but still knows exactly where it wants to be. You don’t even open your eyes. Just reach out blindly, fingers brushing along his until they slot perfectly between his own.
He Just stares at your face in the low light filtering in through the curtains. His chest tightens—not in the bad way, not like panic or dread. In the way that makes him feel too full. Like there’s something blooming under his ribs and it doesn’t know where to go.
You tug his hand toward you slightly, not even aware you’re doing it. He shifts closer without thinking, until his chest is pressed to your back and his forehead is resting in that familiar dip just behind your shoulder. He exhales slow. Letting himself sink.
Your skin is warm beneath his touch, and your hair still carries the soft scent of your shampoo.
He presses the lightest kiss to the curve of your shoulder blade, actually not even really a kiss—more like a pause. A place to rest his mouth.
Night, sweetheart,” he whispers. His voice is rough, a little low and lazy from sleep he hasn’t let himself have yet. But there’s something softer underneath it.
You don’t speak. You just make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—something between a sigh and a hum. The kind of noise someone makes when they feel something good and safe and familiar settle beside them.
guys guys, tumblr is not showing me some of my asks, so if you've sent me an ask & i havent responded to it yet its not bc im ignoring you i pinky promise!!! tumblr is just being a lil shit as per usual!! now, to all the requests in my inbox (that i can see) i swear ill get to them 😭😭 im kind of in a writing slump rn BUT I SWEARRRRRR TO YOU I WILL GET TO THEM I PINKY PROMISE. i love u all my beautiful pookiesnookums. to the moon & back
ㅤㅤㅤTEXTS I THINK GOTHAMITES HAVE SENT ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ DURING A CRISIS
emma:
guys is it normal for my ceiling to be dripping green again or
is this like a joker thing or a plumbing thing
idk how to tell anymore
kevin :
if it smells like fear toxin it’s the first one
if it smells like mold it’s still the first one tbh
selena:
tell the landlord. and then figure out batmans number. then call batman. and then call your mom.
emma:
i already texted the landlord and he replied with “😬”
which like. valid. but not helpful. it smells like copper btw
kevin:
girl that man has one wrench and a dream
he’s not surviving another clown-based incident
selena:
ok but is the green drip glowing?? like are we talking nickelodeon slime or eldritch warning sign
emma:
it’s glowing a little??? but not like aggressively
like “i’m cursed” not “i’m immediately dying”
kevin:
mmm light radioactive. like a zesty haunt. got it.
selena:
did you taste it
emma:
NO???? why would i i touched it tho
kevin:
girl you’re gonna grow a second tongue or something
this is how metahumans happen. you’re gonna start glowing in the dark and join a vigilante gang
selena:
honestly. real.
call me when your origin story starts i wanna be in the flashback montage
emma:
i’ll make sure you’re played by zendaya in the dramatized retelling
kevin:
i want to be the friend who says “she was never the same after that leak” and then sips dramatically
selena:
anyway i googled it and apparently if it’s slightly glowing green and smells like copper), it’s probably leftover from the scarecrow thing last week. the city
emma:
so like. green vintage gas. cute.
kevin:
limited edition trauma drip
selena:
gotham-core
emma:
ok but real talk do i open a window or call 911 or
just go back to bed and let fate decide
kevin:
depends. do u want powers or not
emma:
u guys r so unserious...i’ll take a nap with the window cracked. compromise.
selena:
classic gotham response. proud of you
kevin:
text us if u start levitating or if a raccoon starts talking to u
just so we know
You’re in the zone. Full concentration. Headphones in. Sleeves rolled up. Spoon carving its path through a thick swirl of glossy cocoa and sugar and crushed Oreos. The bowl is warm from your own body heat, the scent is, of course, delicious, and you're already composing the victory text you’re going to send Steph. Something smug. Something bold. Something with at least four exclamation marks.
And then.
You flinch like you've just been struck by lightning. The spoon slips from your hand and lands in the bowl with a dramatic clatter, launching a perfect arc of brownie batter across your forearm and onto your sleeve.
You rip your headphones out. “Jesus Christ,” you shout, heart lurching. You spin around so fast you almost step on your own foot. “Dick!”
You didn’t hear the front door. You definitely didn’t hear footsteps.
But you do hear his voice. Right behind you. Where you didn’t even realize he was.
You’re clutching your chest when he smiles.
“They look delicious. I’m absolutely starving.”
You scowl, hand still pressed over your thudding heart. “Can you make some noise when you enter a house? You’re not Batman.”
He has the nerve to lean forward towards you. his hand against the counter behind you like he didn’t just knock five years off your life. His hair is damp, curls sticking to his forehead in soft, sweaty pieces. His suit is peeled halfway down and tied around his waist like a towel.
“Hi,” he says, with an innocent shrug and an added grin for effect. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t mean to—? You—!” You sputter, motioning wildly at the bowl. “You made me mess up my batter!”
“You’re welcome,” he says, is he kidding?.
You blink. “You’re home.”
“I noticed.”
“You didn’t text.”
“I was going to. But then I realized I liked the element of surprise better. more romantic”
You squint suspiciously. “that’s not romantic. that’s deeply annoying. I have brownie batter on my shirt now. you also could've given me a heart condition.”
He gasps. “Sorry, sergeant. Next time I’ll throw a rock through your window to let you know I’m coming.”
You don’t appreciate his tone of sarcasm. Not one bit. “Oh, fantastic. Your charming knack for breaking things really completes my day. Like you haven’t already wrecked enough. Just try not to break anything too expensive, alright? Because last time—”
He flicks your forehead before you can finish your sentence, His grin turns soft at the edges, curling deeper into his cheeks until his dimples show.
You hate that your face warms under the kitchen lights.
Damn his stupid perfect face.
You glance him over. He’s bruised. One big purple smear curling over his ribs and another blooming just above his hip. There’s a shallow scrape at his side, not quite bleeding, but still raw. He shifts his weight and you catch the faintest limp. He smells like gotham air and sweat and faint cologne, and honestly, it should be disgusting.
On anybody else, it would be, but not on him.
You cross your arms. “You’re bleeding. And you’re standing within blood-spatter distance of my brownies. I swear to God, if you get any blood on my batter…”
His eyes sparkle like that’s not even a threat. “Might improve the flavor. A little Grayson glaze.”
You groan. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
You really don’t.
“Also, I’m not bleeding,” he says, before you can threaten him again, gesturing loosely to his side, his grin faltering slightly. “It’s a superficial scrape. Barely leaking.”
“Dick.”
“I mean it. No drip risk. This is a sterile environment.”
“You are not a sterile environment. Look at you.”
He walks forward, hands raised in surrender. “I washed my hands. Rinsed. Lathered. I’m FDA-approved.”
“That is not how an FDA-approved person looks.” You give him a look. “And the limp?”
He hesitates. Looks down at his own legs like he has to double-check. Then nods once, very seriously. “Stylized walking.”
You deadpan. “Stylized walking.”
He nods, serious. “It’s called commitment to the bit. It’s my swagger.”
You reach for the spatula again.
“I’m going. I’m going.” He’s already retreating. “Message received. No bleeding near brownies. But I missed you. So. Had to say hi.”
You sigh. “Hi.”
He beams. “See? Worth it.”
You point toward the hallway with your spatula. “Shower. Go.”
He doesn’t move right away. Instead, he leans in just a little. Closer. He squints at your face.
“You have a little flour on your cheek.”
You start to lift your hand, but he stops you.
“No, wait. Let me.”
He blows gently against your cheek. Not enough to actually do anything. But enough to make you a blushing mess. You’re very aware of how close he is. How warm. How smug.
“Shower, Grayson,” you say through your teeth.
He groans like you’ve wounded him. “I nearly died for this country.”
“You were in Blüdhaven.”
“Details.”
He trudges off with the dramatic weight of a man being sent to exile. “No applause. No gratitude. No patriotic cookies. What has this world come to?”
You hear the bathroom door close behind him, then the water start a minute later.
You glance at the clock.
He’s never been under five minutes early before.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
When he reappears, he's wearing the soft cotton combo that makes you feel... things. That navy t-shirt hugs his torso a little too tightly, like it’s clinging for dear life, and the grey sweatpants hang low enough to show off the waistband of his Calvin Kleins. His hair is towel-dried and flopping into his eyes like he styled it to look that effortlessly perfect, even though you know he didn’t.
His socks squeak softly against the kitchen floor as he walks.
He leans against a wall. No greeting this time. Just, “That pan is calling to me.”
You don’t give in. “Tell it to call back later. They’re not ready.”
“I think I deserve one.”
“Mm. Did you get shot tonight?”
“No.”
“Stabbed?”
“Nope.”
“Thrown off a roof?”
He pauses. “...Briefly.”
You glare at him with a look that very clearly does not say yes.
He starts walking toward the counter anyway. apparently your silence was enough permission for him.
“They smell heavenly,” he says, in a tone just shy of reverent. “there's no harm in one slice.”
“I baked them for tomorrow.”
“I live in the now. tomorrow’s just a trap to keep us from eating brownies today.”
You shift your body to block the cooling rack, hands on your hips. “You want one, you ask nicely.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What are we, six?”
“Six-year-olds don’t track blood from fighting criminals into my kitchen. You want a brownie? use your manners.”
He doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you. then steps closer.
His hands find your waist, fingers warm as they slide just beneath the hem of your hoodie. The contact sends a slow chill up your spine. He dips his head, smile curling at one side like he already knows what he’s doing to you. Which he probably (most definitely) does. Unfortunately.
“Please,” he murmurs, voice low and syrupy. he tilts his head and grins, inching closer until he’s barely two centimeters away.
You blink up at him, trying not to visibly short-circuit. this boy. your face is warming fast, your heartbeat louder than it has any right to be, and all you can think is: rude. so fucking rude.
He closes the space between you.
Soft, sure, stupidly confident. he’s known all along you’d let him. His mouth brushes yours once, featherlight, then again with more purpose. He kisses like he knows what he’s doing. Dick knows exactly where and how you melt. And then, just to be mean, he makes it worse. This boy has not been taught manners.
Your fingers catch in the fabric of his t-shirt, curled there, maybe you’re anchoring yourself in a way. His hands settle more firmly on your waist, thumbs tracing small, lazy circles against your skin underneath the hoodie.
He grins against your mouth when you let out a tiny, involuntary sound. you know he heard it. you know he's going to let you know he noticed it. you feel his smirk. Mr. Raised-by-Gotham’s-Greatest-Detective notices everything.
You pull back, breathing a little too shallow, noses still brushing, eyes barely open.
“Convincing,” you whisper, lips still tingling.
He smiles, a little smug. “I’m motivated.”
You sigh like you’re over it. (you are not over it.)
Scooping a gooey, still-molten corner from the edge of the pan, you hold it up. He opens his mouth like you’re feeding royalty. One bite in and he actually groans, head tipping back like this is the first thing he’s enjoyed in years.
You don’t comment. you try not to think about it. but your brain is screaming.
Sweatpants. Forearms. Post-fight glow. Groaning over brownies.
totally unfair. ridiculous, even. weren’t you supposed to be the sensible girlfriend? the one with self-control? not this hopeless brownie supplier who apparently crumbles the second he so much as breathes and gets turned on just watching him eat oreo brownies. the same brownies he’d rather kiss you over than say please for.
But… it’s him. somehow, everything he does is hot. even this. stupidly, ridiculously sexy.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes closed. “I’d sell my soul for this.”
“You say that every time.”
He straightens, eyes bright. “Yeah, but I mean it more every time.”
You roll your eyes but your thumb reaches up instinctively, wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth. His lips are soft under your touch. And stupidly inviting. And yeah, you absolutely think about kissing him again. just for a second. just to see if he’d groan again for something that wasn’t food.
“Next time,” you murmur, “come home with fewer bruises.”
He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm.
“Only if you save me the gooey edge.”
You glance at the tray, pretending to weigh your options.
“Hm. You got lucky. I was gonna give it to Steph.”
He gasps, full betrayal in his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against him with no shame at all. “Betrayal. Treason. Actual emotional cheating.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
He nuzzles into your neck, not even pretending to be sorry. “Isn’t that your thing?”
thank you to everyone who sent me those lovely asks & dms. i cherish you all forever. ur words mean more to me than my birth certificate i will donate all my organs to you if u ask. ur love is better and more euphoric than morphine and heroin combined . i cannot. i feel so loved i might start glowing like i've been blessed. if i could i would buy you all first class tickets to the bahamas
i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you
i feel like if groot existed in the dc universe him & damian wayne would be friends
damian is raised by the League of Assassins and trained in eco-focused philosophies. tell me he wouldnt love this sentient tree-like alien species from planet X
AHHHH YOUUUUUUUUUUUU !!!!!!!!!!! UR THE REAL BEAUTY HERE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THANK YOUUUUUU SWEETEST SOUL ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️🤧🤧🤧🤧🤧 i continue cherishing you in my cold black evil heart
