ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

[marip0saaaa]

Jason as a velcro bf imagine/ideas:

Big tsundere vibes, will come up with a “logical reason” on why he HAS to come with you to your doctors appointment. He HAS to stay close to you on the sidewalk. He MUST stay within your perimeter because "anything could happen..." Very common when he first started catching feelings, over time, he was more honest.

Has a BITCH FIT if he wakes up alone in bed and you’re gone. Mr. Grumpy quietly standing at the entry way of the kitchen as you cook breakfast. Groggy and sleepy. In the end, he has you back in bed with him, wrapped tightly in his arms (and one leg). Gives grumpy kisses before he passes out again but you're not leaving anytime soon.

Your conversations don't end if you need to use the bathroom or have to shower. He’s sitting on the toilet as you wash your hair, chatting about his weird dream last night all to venting about Bruce being an ass (again). He’s a chatterbox with you because of how well you listen and how safe you make him feel to express himself. That's very precious to him.

Casually plays with your hair when waiting in line. Twirling your hair or brushing his fingers through your scalp. This isn’t PDA, at least not intentionally, he doesn’t think about it as that. He just fidgets a lot and playing with your hair happens to calm him down, nothing more....(bombastic side eye)

Randomly puts his hands in your pockets, either your hoodie or your jeans, it’s the best feeling ever to Jason yet it makes you flustered that someone needs THIS MUCH physical contact with you. Especially someone as tough and edgy like Jason who keeps to himself from everyone! When cuddling, Jason likes to listen to your heartbeat as you hold him. It's his favorite song that he can listen to for hours. No one has ever made him feel this way. He occasionally glances at your sleeping face and it only fills him with determination to protect you. You weren't someone with superpowers, mastery of martial arts, or special abilities like others he had known. But you've kept him more safe than any hero he's ever met.

And that's worth fighting for.

[sutancha]

[marip0saaaa]

imagines:

jason todd being a velcro boyfriend. You wake up from your long nap and stretch till you feel a weird heavy weight on top of you under your blanket. You were still groggy and slightly panic out of confusion. You lift up your comforter and see Jason is resting on your pelvis as he doomscrolls on tiktok. You can hear the stupid memes he swears aren’t funny from his phone. He looks up and his scarred lips softly grins.

“G’mornin, sleeping beauty! How’d you sleep?”

“How long have you been down there?” you chuckled, still holding up the blanket.

[Jason does not answer the question but flutters his eyes]

“So, are we grabbing food later? I was thinking sushi or something spicy-” His casual tone makes you giggle in amusement.

“Baby, how long?” You glance above the blanket and can clearly see the other half of jason sticking out of the blanket.

“Not long enough. What are you craving for dinner?”

“I just woke up, babe. Um, I don’t know.” You rubbed your eye.

“How’s some pho?” Jason’s green eyes smiled.

“That’s fine…”

“But how did you sneak in without waking me-“

Jason kissed your thigh and slowly pulls the blanket back down and turns back to his phone, opening up Yelp for a nearby restaurant.

[munsster]

gold-skinned eager baby

A/N: touch tank was written for billy and i'll die on that hill

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader

Summary: “He tells me he’s gentle when he wants to be/So I think he wants to be gentle with me.” 3.3k.

Warnings: this song is a riot, billy hargrove, enemies to lovers, pet names (sweetheart, babe, peach[es]), cursing, bullying(?), an accidental clueless reference 🫣

"You're an asshole."

You'd done a lot of shoving in your lifetime: other kids down the slide, cackling friends' shoulders, handsy creeps. But you haven't done nearly as much shoving as Billy has. So when you shove him—two fingertips to the chest—he takes a step back and scoffs.

"You wanna try that again, sweetheart?"

It was supposed to be a birthday party. It was supposed to be your birthday party, but Billy found you crying over him in the backyard and immediately made it known how drunk and horny he was. You poured the rest of your glass of red out onto his leg—albeit on accident, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

"Get the fuck away from me," you spit, shoulder-checking him on your way inside. But he grabs your wrist and stops you for a second. And the cold air seeps in, a sheen of frost creeping over your bones when he really grips your arm. "Let go of me—"

"You ungrateful little bitch, I'm here for you, the least you could do is say something fuckin’ nice.”

"Oh, I'm sorry you took time off your busy panty-dropping schedule to be here, but I'm not in the mood to suck you off, alright? Let me go."

There’s a huff of dissatisfaction and rejection on the tip of his tongue. It turns stale in the cold, bubbling up into a fog and through the cloud he sees the glimmer of heartbreak gracing your waterline. When his stomach turns, he can’t tell if it’s the ambrosia in the punch bowl or the vomit-inducing heartache you leave him with. Either way, he feels like dying.

—

He watches you from the driver’s side of his car. The dark red stain on his thigh turning his jeans into a watercolor of self-loathing.

Then you look at him. With something like disgust and pity, though you can’t exactly bring yourself to look away when he stamps out the butt of his cigarette and whips his car door open. He glances at you just before he ducks in and peels out of the lot. He’s exasperated, and he can’t put his finger on why.

“What are you looking at?” the girl on your right chirps.

And the girl next to her says, “Not a what, a who.”

“Nobody,” you huff.

“It’s Billy—!”

“Nobody.”

—

“I lost Max. Can’t fuckin’ find her.” He’s panicked over the phone. You’ve never heard him so sick. Shaky, that’s what you’d say. He sounds nervous and cold, and he called you, of all people, to find his little sister.

“So what? She’s not with me.”

“I—” he sighs, “I know. That’s obviously not why I called.”

“You asking me for help?”

He can tell you’re tugging on your sleeve by now. You used to do it when you got too cocky. Manicured nails picking at the hem. A compulsion. It’s compulsive. But it takes the weight off, and he takes a deep breath.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

He’s nursing a deep regret in the pit of his stomach, but he’ll call it resentment. That’s it; he hates you. And you hate him. And that won’t change tonight, and it certainly won’t make him any less stubborn. Not even when you get into his car with a casserole dish in your hands.

“Leftovers,” you mumble, “She forced me out here with the tupperware, couldn’t stop her.”

“‘S fine. Shut the door.”

And you do. “Real nice, Billy.”

“Compared to you, I’m a ray-of-fucking sunshine.”

“Are you implying that you’re nice?”

“When I want to be.”

“Yeah, okay,” you scoff.

“I can be nice.” He nearly whines, but he’s not that desperate. He doesn’t want your approval that bad. He doesn’t want it, and he’s not getting it. But despite everything—the loathing, the foaming at the mouth—it makes him feverishly starving for it

“I’d like to see you try.”

—

Billy’s been stewing over you for weeks. It’s become a mantra, and his friends spare each other glances every time he utters your name.

And honestly, he forgot you worked here. It was an accident, and it wasn’t even his suggestion. Some shitty diner, that was the criteria. Cheap food, low lighting, and the hostess making eyes at him. It’s just what he needed until he saw you in that sorry excuse for a uniform. As if a miniskirt could ever be company policy.

“Look, Hargrove, it’s your girl.”

“Not my fuckin’ girl, dumbass.” Oh, but does his heart flutter at the idea. Somersaults when you smile at a customer. When you could be his girl. He could brand you his and keep you safe from the old guys at the bar and sneak through your window on Friday nights. But that’s where it begins and ends: an idea. It would never happen. He’d die before letting it happen.

“Well, in that case, don’t mind if I do—Ay, sweetheart, grab me a coke, would’ya?”

Your head whips around, and you smirk at the sight of his freckles. Almost old friends. Just a familiar face, really.

“Hi, Tommy,” you coo, and Billy puts his cigarette out on the white vinyl table with a grunt. “Billy.”

“Actually, how ‘bout one for my friend, too, huh, babe?”

“No problem. Anything else? How ‘bout you, Billy? Want a side of fries with all that brooding?”

“Atta girl,” Tommy howls, “lay one on me before you go, sweetheart.” Billy watches you dip down and plant a soft kiss on Tommy’s cheek, and it gets him green. Zaps the color from his face until he’s clenching his jaw into a frown.

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole, Hagan.” He pushes off from the table and storms out without another word. You watch him from the kitchen, his soft curls ruffled at the back of his neck. In a way, it made you happy to see him leave. Though, it also made you impossibly frustrated. You felt thwarted—defeated and you couldn’t pinpoint why. Neither could he.

—

“Max, where’d you put my lighter?”

“I didn’t take it, I don’t know,” she hollers, winding up to shut the door to her room. His palm stops it before it can slam, and when it creaks back open, the air is punched from his lungs.

You’re perched at the foot of Max’s bed, peering up at him sweetly and yet devoid of care. All friendly. He licks at the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking back to Max with a half-sneer.

“Well,” he sighs, “if you find it, would you let me know?”

She cocks her head back like she’s confused. This is usually the part where they toss threats back and forth until it turns into a screaming match. So why was he being so calm about this? He had just accused her of stealing and then took it back in the blink if an eye.

“I… yeah, sure.”

“Thanks”—he’s about to leave when he taps on the door frame and glances at you over her shoulder. You take her headphones off and set them around your neck, doe-eyed and demure so much so that it takes him off-guard. Cranks up the elevator music and makes him feel dislocated in a way that makes him thrilled—“How long is she staying?”

You butt in, “we were gonna watch a scary movie. You’re welcome to join if you’d like.” God, does he want that. Like his life depends on it. Like he can feel your head on his shoulder and his palm on your knee and his nerves alight at the sound of your breathing. But Max puckers her lips at the sour taste in her mouth, and it makes him shake his head.

“I think I’ll stick to Neil’s six pack of pale ales,” he says.

You chuckle. The soft sound makes him nervous beyond belief, so he backs into the hallway and slumps to his room.

—

Billy had raced up to your porch, and for once in his life he didn’t know what to say. His mouth felt glued shut. He felt weighed down. Yet here he was, cemented to your welcome mat, knuckles rapping hard against your door.

And you open it groggy, in your pajamas, and glowing nonetheless. Beautiful, but he’d never say it. He shoves his hands into his pockets, mouth hanging open like he’s a flytrap. He feels sticky like one, at least. There’s a faint orange glow haloed around you, and maybe he’s dead. No.

He’s standing on your porch drinking you in just to spew you out. Days have gone by, weeks, months, and not a minute has passed. You squint at him when he shuffles around in his big boots. He makes a lotta noise and it makes him cringe.

“Earth to Billy?” you coo, waving your soft palm in front of his face, tilting your head to the side when he puffs up his chest. He put on a new shirt for this. And it makes him feel like a child. He drove to the store for a brand new goddamn shirt just to impress you. Just in case you noticed and thought a little sweeter of him. It’s futile, and yet it makes him feel better when you peer at the flat-ironed collar in stunned silence.

“I just…” he grumbles, shrugging. The words escape him like his fingers are covered in oil and he’s grasping at straws. He has so much to say, so why can’t he. “I was just stopping by.”

“Okay,” you nod, glancing behind you at the clock. He’s just stopping by at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday. When you turn to look at him, he’s got these puppy dog eyes that catch you by surprise. Wide and blue and pleading. Like he’s got something sick to hope for. “D’you wanna… come inside?”

“Oh—no. I, uh… I gotta go,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck, not taking his eyes off you. His stomach churns, and there’s a lump in his throat when he turns and treads back to his idling car. He hears your door click shut, and he exhales from so deep in his chest it aches.

“Who was that, honey?”

“Billy.”

“What did he want?”

“Dunno. Looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

—

The next time you saw Billy, it was summer. Indiana’s hottest and grossest. But he looked cute in those swim trunks, and the whistle dangling from between his teeth had all the pool moms swooning. You couldn’t care less, of course. He’s just another lifeguard. But you have to admit his hair looks softer now. Taken care of. And when his eyes sweep over you, you have to look away for fear of grinning about it.

“Hey, stranger.”

It comes up from behind you and sweeps your feet out from under you. Suddenly, you’re smiling at him and you guess he’s right. Stranger. You’ve been to his house, been to your shared classes, been to Tommy’s parties, but Billy always found a way to avoid you. And maybe you missed it. The way he used to hang around. Even the scowl on his face was better than nothing.

“Been a while, huh?”

You nod, and it feels a little silly to be so casual. But you can’t stop your jackhammering heart and the way he shuffles closer.

“You look good,” you huff, raking over his damp skin and drowning in it. Forcing your mouth shut when you catch how sun-kissed he’s gotten. Freckled softly across the nose, evenly tan head to toe, though the tan line peeking out at his hips would imply otherwise

“Thanks, peach. I like your suit. Strappy” Oh, and the way his brow cocks upward is unfair. He’s all supple and dewy under the sun and slathered in tanning oil. He smells sweet like warm vanilla or toasted coconut. And he compliments you like nothing. Like it’s not heart-stopping and world-ending and fire-starting.

“You’re making me sick,” Max groans, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, boo-hoo,” he teases, “I shut my mouth when you bring Sinclair around.”

You freeze. You know Max and Lucas are dating. She brings him up every possible moment, so why on Earth would Billy compare them to now. It gets you honeyed and melting, but that could be the solar radiation. Billy puts his hands on his hips when Max shrugs.

“Yeah, well, at least we’re not gross about our flirting.”

Flirting. She thinks you’re flirting. She thinks you’re both flirting. But Billy flirts with everyone, so it would be silly to leave you out, right? And that look on his face is probably from heat exhaustion anyway. But he grins, and you feel yourself growing fonder when sweat pricks across his chest and he winks at you.

—

Max had passed out sprawled across the couch cushions, popcorn bowl tucked under her arm, snoring into her other hand. And you sat at her feet, pressing the power button on the remote. You sigh and pat her calf before standing.

“Hey,” Billy whispers, softly reaching into the crook of your elbow when you stumble across the carpet in the dark and into his chest. And his fingers go pliant where skin meets skin and his heart-rate verges on heart attack.

“Sorry, can’t see shit,” you mumble, nose still hovering mere inches from the warmth of his body. You never noticed how warm he ran until now. Breathing this close, his palm sliding to your wrist, his lips parted in a smile.

“I noticed,” he teases, “C’mon, I’m thirsty.” You follow him close to the kitchen, the cold tile and the moonlight and the breeze against the old window plaguing you with goosebumps. You rub at your eye when he reaches for two glasses from the cabinet.

“Time is it?” you coo, staying close though you can see where you’re going. It’s just easy warmth, and you’re a heat-seeking missile.

“‘Bout one in the morning. Want ice?”

“Mmh.”

He turns the tap handle, and the water splashes out into the cup and sloshes around the bottom until it’s filled to the brim. He holds it out for you, and you take it in your cupped hands.

“How was the movie?”

You swallow a mouthful of the liquid, and it cools the pit of your stomach and makes you feel real in your socks in his kitchen.

“Alright. Probably wouldn’t go out of my way to watch it again.”

“Alright,” he says, peppering a chuckle in behind it, and when he lifts the glass to his lips, you feel giddy at the sight of his bare arms. You realize that he’s in a wife beater and plaid boxer shorts and the conversation falters under your tongue. You snap your mouth shut and take a long sip of water.

“I gotta admit something. And you gotta hold me to it or I’ll back down.”

You take a soft breath in when he turns to face you, hip leaned against the counter. “Deal.”

“I’ve been…” he sighs, “an idiot.”

You scoff, “Yeah, to say the least—”

“Hey, I’m trying to be serious over here.”

“Sorry, sorry. Continue.”

“Alright—”

“But you did kinda disappear without warning—”

“Listen, I was dealing with something. Didn’t feel like sticking around.” He sets his glass down, and even in the dark you know he’s glaring at you.

“Yeah, well, seemed all too willing to completely cut yourself off from everyone. I mean, from your own sister, Billy. From me.”

“But I’m here now—”

“Not even a goodbye, Billy, we were all confused and hurt—”

“God, don’t you get it? I couldn’t stay away from you,” he huffs, hands on the edge of the sink and facing the window. His head is slightly tilted back, enough to bare his neck to the night. To drench himself in gentle moonlight and take a deep breath. He barely gives you time to process, and you’re stuck still, head and heart rolling over and desperate.

“I can’t stay away from you. Believe me, I tried. All it did was give me fuckin’ withdrawals”—he chuckles heavily, all hot air and panic when he blinks at you—“I missed you. I missed your voice and your laugh and the way you’d look at me like I meant nothing and everything at the same time. I felt so fucking pathetic listening to you and Max talk about random shit from the other room. Tommy used to call and tell me every time you asked where I was. And it used to happen everyday. I got so sick of hearing about you. But then week after week passed and it wasn’t everyday anymore. And then he stopped reaching out, and I felt like a piece of shit.”

You feel small. Collapsed when you rest your glass in the sink.

“It was kind of a dick move,” you whisper.

“I know!” he huffs, “I know.”

He’s watching you like a hawk when you finally look up at him. And there’s that look. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from frowning. He’s embarrassed. If the lights were on he’d look sunburnt and out of breath. But it’s dark, and it makes you nervous to look at him for too long.

“You know I missed you, too,” you say, “Felt so stupid looking everywhere for you. Even went to parties just to see you. Never did, of course, but I wanted to. God, I wanted to see you. You’re such an asshole.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I fucked up, I know it.”

“Good.”

Billy’s fired up enough to bury his face in his hands. When you shuffle closer, he thinks you might deck him for your troubles. But you poke his side, and wait for him to lift his head. You smile.

The sweetest thing he’s seen in months. Your eyes twinkle when you tilt your head, fingers slinking up to tug the curled piece of hair drooping at his brow-bone. He swears your hip presses against his just then, but maybe it’s wishful and a waste. You’re still smiling, though, and it makes him giddy.

“Don’t go feeling all sorry for yourself over it. I’d hate to have to take pity on you,” you tease, swiping an innocent thumb across his cheek but the pull away can’t come soon enough. You’re just stepping back when his eyes go wide, and he catches you like fireflies in the late spring. Oh, if only he could keep you in a jar. If only it were that easy.

“Well, I’d hate to cause you that kind of suffering, peach.” You tuck your chin—demure enough to get a rise out of him. With his big hand on your hip, you’re feeling shy, but he’d call you coy for fun. He’s never seen you so reduced.

“Guess I better put you out of your misery then, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Got any ideas? I’m at a loss unless steak knives will suffice.”

“Here, I’ve got a better idea,” he hums, “C’mere, it’s a secret.”

“Were the only ones—”

“Just play nice. It’s my misery, isn’t it?”

“Touché, Hargrove,” you say, and you lean in to where he beckons you, where he brings you close with the palm of his hand. You’ve never been near enough to smell his cologne until now, and you’re glad it lingers on his skin the way it does. The way it seeps in until the scent is so purely Billy you don’t know the difference.

When you lean in, cheek-to-cheek, he can’t hold back any longer. His index finger swoops under your chin, and he catches your bottom lip between his. Sure, he ducks a little, but he doesn’t mind. And the way you purr and melt under his touch is delightful.

His stubble scratches your mouth softly until you’re giggling about it, and he pulls away drooling and dizzy.

“What’s so funny? Taste weird or somethin’?”

“No way—just… glad you got tired of waiting ‘s all.”

masterlist

the coveted:

[sutancha]

HES SO PRETTY

[munsster]

shut-eye

A/N: i siimply love sleepy boys and their puppy dog tendencies

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x GN!Reader

Summary: Billy Hargrove loves sleep and you. 0.8k words.

Warnings: implied smut and kissing, cuddling, lots of sleeping + snoring, general fluff!

The second you get your hands on Billy, he's snoring. His cheek is smushed against your thigh, and your fingers are soft on the back of his neck. Soft enough that he's humming in two minutes flat. You never knew your boy could be so tired. Every time you tell him to work less and sleep more, he tells you he's saving up for your future together and then immediately passes out on the couch.

He doesn't even know it's happening until he's snoring softly and draped across your lap, all deadweight with his boots heavy strapped to his feet. You usually give him a couple minutes to blink awake again. It borders on Pavlovian when he waits five minutes to stand silently in the hall and let you lead him to his bedroom.

Though he's practically unconscious, he insists on stripping down to his underwear to sleep comfortably. Which has become your job because he says he likes how gentle you are. You never really mind anyway, and he's always polite about it—sure to huff out those pleases and thank you's. You're careful to keep him at peace while you slowly unbutton his shirt or push the jacket from his shoulders. It's rare that it gets him riled up when you push his jeans to the floor, but rare doesn't mean never. You know you've got him revved up when he groans and his eyes flick open. And sleep has evaded him with his hand in your panties.

There is nothing more important to him than you. When you tell him he's sweet and special and worth it, he feels content enough to kiss your neck and breathe you in until he's all drained and humming. It means so much that you take the time to make sure he's tucked in at night. He's never had anyone keep track of him like this. Even with work kicking his ass, he's happy to wake up to you after you insist he gets all eight hours of rest.

Sometimes, the day and its people will make him groggy. Worse than overtired and overworked, he gets explosive until he slumps through the front door. One time he couldn't find you, and he nearly tore the whole house apart just to find you curled under the covers. And the small, sleepy smile that graced your face made all that grievance worth it. The bad days are the worst until he's warm under four different quilts and tucked into your side with a peck lingering on his forehead.

If you’re not careful, he’ll beg you to sing to him. He’ll crawl onto your tummy and bat his lashes and beg and beg like he can’t do without a lullaby. Doesn’t matter if you can sing, you will end up singing. Some sickly sweet jazz tune, but really you could sing your grocery list and have him cooing like a little baby by the end. And if you’re not in the mood and he really can’t sleep, he’ll ask you to read to him. It knocks him out like a sedative. Forget warm milk, spit some Murakami and wait for the snoring to sink in.

He doesn’t even have to be tired to fall asleep across your lap. If he sees you looking comfortable on the couch, he will simply squirm under the blanket next to you (or on top of you) and blink up at you until you smile and run your fingers through his hair. He’s so puppy dog coded. But at the same time SO orange cat. He could be running on six cups of coffee and still be sound asleep to your heartbeat tender against his cheek.

He's cursed without a goodnight kiss. Won't get a wink of sleep 'till he gets a kiss from you. It gives him nightmares just thinking about it. He can't—he won't fully conk out until he's wrapped around you, your palm resting in the crook of his own, kiss settled on his forehead or cheek or lips or eyelids. He refuses because it's not safe. He needs the bedtime routine of you to keep him weighed down and promise forever in dreams.

When he's especially tired, you'll whisper things like, "You are the sleepiest boy in the whole world,” or calling him “sleeping beauty,” just to rouse a half-hearted reaction from him. It's usually a mumble of some gruff protest or a coo of laughter before he's out cold with his hands tethered to you. He's always so determined to stay good and awake for you, but it's usually a futile effort that ends when he wakes up with the sun the next morning.

Do not try to make him sleep without you, it won't end well. Seriously, his solution to a fight is not "I'll sleep on the couch"; it's "I'll kiss you until we're both feeling better," and when that doesn't work, one flash of that deviant smile and soft blue bedroom eyes will stop any train in its tracks.

He spends all of his free time sleeping and loves to call a cat nap across your tummy ‘date night’. It might’ve annoyed you if you didn't love him so much. Plus you never really mind the extra shut-eye. That kind of forgiveness is part of what fuels his obsession with you. If your smile is the last thing he remembers before bed, it's a good day.

How can you be mad when he purrs like a kitten and finds you like a heat seeking missile. He doesn't remember when he got so tired, but he's glad he found someone to keep him healthy. And maybe a sixty-hour work week won't be so bad once he can buy you that pretty silver ring and make you happy for the rest of your lives.

masterlist

[sutancha]

[gothamgraveyard]

Nightwing x reader

Summary: you accidently called Nightwing a "good boy". In your defense, you're used to working with dogs..not people!

“C’mon,” you sigh, crouched halfway under the Batmobile while Dick attempts to hand you a wrench that is very obviously the wrong size. “Not that one. The— yeah, there you go. Good boy.”

Silence.

You slide out from beneath the car slowly, confused as to why Dick stopped talking.

Nightwing is frozen.

One knee bent where he’d been crouching, blue eyes blown wide behind the domino mask, wrench still dangling from his fingers like his brain has temporarily disconnected from his motor functions.

Bruce asks, “What exploded?” knowing that the only time his kids were quiet was if someone fucked up.

Dick clears his throat.

Then immediately chokes on absolutely nothing.

“You okay there?” you ask carefully.

“Fantastic,” he says instantly, voice cracking straight through the middle of the word.

Oh no.

Oh no.

Jason, seated nearby cleaning one of his guns, looks up with the slow delight of a man witnessing the beginning of a natural disaster.

“…Did she just call you a good boy?”

Dick points at him violently. “Don’t.”

“OH my God,” Jason breathes, eyes shining. “OH, this is bad.”

“It was a joke,” you say quickly.

Dick nods too fast. “Totally. Obviously. Completely normal joke. Happens all the time.”

“Right,” you agree.

“Totally unaffected.”

“Clearly.”

Dick stands up so abruptly he slams his head directly into the underside of the Batmobile. CLANG.

There’s a beat.

“…Fantastic recovery,” Jason starts.

Dick, still folded in half from the impact, gives a weak thumbs up.

The problem should’ve ended there, and it would've given any normal circumstance. But you work with vigilantes, so your normal is pretty different from most people's.

Nightwing proceeds to lose every remaining shred of composure over the next three weeks.

Not in obvious ways, but Dick Grayson’s problem is that he’s trying very hard to act normal. Which makes him one thousand times worse.

Because suddenly he’s everywhere.

You mention being hungry once? Dick appears holding your favorite takeout sheepishly. You casually say your phone’s about to die? Charger lands in your lap before you finish the sentence. You offhandedly mention liking a sweater in a store window? Three days later it mysteriously appears folded on your bed in Titans Tower with no note except a sticky tab reading:

'saw this :) '

Which would already be suspicious enough. Except every single act of service is followed by this unbearable look on his face. It's that wide-eyed look of hope.

Like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t understand it until the fourth week.

It’s movie night at the Tower. Everyone’s there.

Garfield is upside down on the couch, and Kory is attempting to explain why alien horror films are scientifically inaccurate and this is not how her people act. Tim is asleep sitting upright somehow. Jason’s eating cereal directly from the box with a serving spoon.

Dick walks in carrying snacks for everyone.

“You remembered the chocolate-covered pretzels?” you ask.

Dick brightens instantly. “Yeah.”

You grin. “Aw. Good boy.”

Dick stops moving entirely.

The bowl of popcorn slips from his hands.

Jason drops dead onto the floor laughing before the popcorn even hits the ground.

“Oh my GOD,” he wheezes. “HE LIKES IT.”

“I do not—”

“You practically wagged your tail!”

“I DID NOT WAG ANYTHING.”

Kory tilts her head thoughtfully. “Actually, your posture did become notably more eager.”

Dick looks like he wants the earth to open beneath him.

Garfield is crying laughing into a throw pillow.

Tim wakes up just long enough to mumble, “Knew it,” before immediately falling back asleep.

And you stare at Dick, who is now aggressively avoiding eye contact while turning the color of a fire hydrant. He is suddenly very interested in cleaning up popcorn one kernel at a time, as he mutters, “It’s not my fault,” under his breath like a man on trial.

Oh.

Oh, this is hilarious.

“You know,” you say slowly, “this explains a lot.”

Dick points a popcorn kernel at you accusingly. “You explain a lot.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It made sense in my head.”

Jason is still dying on the carpet. “He’s so pathetic. This is the best day of my life.”

“Jason,” Dick snaps.

“No, no, keep going,” Jason says delightedly. “Maybe he’ll do a trick. Wanna fetch, good boy?”

Dick throws popcorn at his head.

Jason throws it back.

Garfield joins in.

Within thirty seconds, a full-scale food fight erupts across Titans Tower.

Kory starts launching popcorn, and Tim wakes up again solely to throw an M&M directly at Jason’s forehead before passing out for a second time. Someone knocks over an entire soda.

In the middle of the chaos, Dick grabs your wrist and pulls you backward out of the war zone.

“Come on,” he says, laughing despite himself.

You stumble after him into the hallway, both of you breathless.

The noise from the living room muffles behind the closing door, and suddenly it’s quieter.

Dick’s still holding your wrist ridiculously tight.

You look up at him, amused. “You know they’re never letting you live this down.”

“I know,” he groans.

“You’re kind of making it worse.”

“I know.”

“You literally dropped the popcorn.”

“In my defense,” he says solemnly, “you treated me like a dog!”

You laugh. Dick looks at you for a second too long. Then a fond expression sneaks onto his face before he can stop it. And there it is again, that look of hope.

Like he’s waiting.

You raise an eyebrow.

Dick immediately looks away. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

You absolutely do.

Which is why you grin and lean slightly closer.

“Good boy.”

Dick Grayson actually, physically malfunctions.

His head drops against the wall with a quiet thud.

“Oh, you are NEVER surviving this,” you inform him cheerfully.

From the other room, Jason’s voice echoes

“DID HE SHORT-CIRCUIT AGAIN? CYBORG! ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE THE HUMANOID?”

A/n: men yearn to be lap dogs and I know it

[sutancha]

i don’t mean any harm in this! but the dialogue is reminding me of my chatgpt fics 😭

[tw1sters]

Taste of Heartbreak

Heartbreak isn’t loud — it’s quiet, creeping, and cruel. You thought letting Dick Grayson go would break you. You never imagined it might kill you.

▸ PAIRING: Dick Grayson x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: so many reader insecurities (it's that kind of angst), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, probably non-canon compliant things bc im new to this world, reader gets extremely hurt, hospital scenes ▸ WORD COUNT: 7.2K ▸ A/N: this is actually the first dick fic i ever wrote but didn't post until now! i seem to have a thing for exploring insecurities in relationships when im writing a new character (see clark and bucky). i love him so much, he is sooo loverboy. tom taylor's is also such fine shit jfc. i hope you enjoy <3 if you do, all likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated :)

The movies always describe heartbreak as devastation. A tragedy. A travesty. They talk about the feeling of their hearts being ripped out of their chest, beating bloody until they cease completely. They speak of the way their hearts stop suddenly, abruptly; a flare of panic only momentary before everything stills. 

What they don’t tell you is that that’s not at all how heartbreak works. Heartbreak is oftentimes dramatized for the sake of entertainment. An exaggeration of the moment a heart splinters into a million pieces, parts that are impossible to glue back together into a whole.

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

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[froggibus]

 — Press Pause

Includes: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Wally West & Hal Jordan

Summary: stopping them during sex for a 'silly' reason

Content/CW -> gn! reader + afab! reader (wally's), mentions of blood/periods, suggestive/slight nsfw, reader has hair (hal's part), mostly just funny silly

 — requested by the amazing lovely talented @gothamorphosis (go check out their smaus they EAT!)

froggi yaps -> had this in my inbox foreverrr ;-; so happy im finally getting to it cause its such a fun idea :p couldn't decide on characters so i just went back to my roots <3 also huge content dump today teehee

Dick Grayson:

You thought you were being slick, taking your hand off the back of Dick’s neck and inching it towards the nightstand. 

Dick stills inside of you, tilting his head at you in confusion. There’s a goofy smile on his face. “What’s up?”

You blink at him, wiping a hand over your sweat-slicked forehead. “I need water,” you smile sheepishly. 

He chuckles, grabbing the comically large water bottle he keeps on his nightstand and flicking out the straw. You prop yourself up on your elbows, Dick holding up the bottle to your lips. 

You sip on it, the water instantly cooling you down and fixing the dry ache on your tongue. 

“Good?” He asks and when you nod, he puts it to his own mouth and chugs about half the bottle in one go. 

You watch him chug it, his throat bobbing and water glistening on the corners of his mouth. His own hair is sweaty, stuck to his head and dangling over his forehead. 

You reach up and swipe a strand away. Dick puts the water bottle back down, letting his body sandwich you against the mattress again. 

“You know,” he mumbles in your ear, “I didn’t realize I tire you out so much you needed a water break.” 

You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

He rolls his hips into yours, a smirk on his face. “Are you sure you want to have an attitude right now?”

You swallow, shaking your head. 

Jason Todd:

Jason’s off you the minute the word slips from your lips, pulling himself back with his hands raised in surrender. His lips are parted slightly, dark brows furrowed in concern as he analyzes your body. Your legs are shaking, face twisted in pain.

“Everything okay? What’s going on?”

Oh god. He hurt you, he was too rough and he hurt you and you’re in pain and you’re never going to trust him again and—

You arch your back on the bed, twisting and stretching your limbs. “Leg cramp.”

He blinks. “Leg…cramp?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pulling a knee to your chest. 

The hammering in Jason’s chest stills, his face blank in that way it gets when he’s not sure what to think. 

“Jay?” You cock your head to the side, looking at him through your lashes, “you alright?”

“I thought,” he frowns, “I thought you were hurt, or something.”

You laugh, pressing a hand to his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. You ghost your lips over his, smiling into him, “you think too much.”

He cups the back of your neck, laying you back down on the bed. “Maybe, wanna help me with that?”

“Gladly.”

Wally West:

“Wally.”

The redhead hums, head sunk low in the dip between your shoulder and neck, giving no indication of stopping. You shove at his shoulder. 

“Wally!”

He pulls away, eyes glassy and pupils blown, hair a total mess. He blinks, “sorry, fuck, is everything alright?”

“I think…I just started my period.”

“Okay,” he says, pursing his lips and leaning back in to kiss your neck again. 

“Wally—I’m gonna stain your sheets.”

He shrugs. “So? I’m not scared of a little blood.”

“I’m gonna make a mess.”

“It’s just blood,” he repeats.

“But—“

He cups your face, squishing your cheeks together. “Look, doll. If you’re in pain or you don’t want to keep going, say the word. But if you’re stopping because of me, cause you think I’ll be grossed out or something, don’t.”

You sigh, falling back into the sheets and tentatively parting your legs. “You swear its fine?”

Wally grins ear to ear. “Swear on my sheets.”

Hal Jordan:

Hal stares at you blankly when you pull away from him with a wince, rubbing the side of your head. One minute, you seemed to be enjoying yourself, your hands on his chest and head against his shoulder while he thrusted into you.

“What’s up?” He asks, still breathless.

You point to his hand, specifically the ring sitting on one of his wide fingers. In it rests a small chunk of your hair, strands splayed out every which-way. Hal holds it in front of his eyes, eyebrows shooting up as he realizes what happened.

“Is that?”

You nod, “my hair? Mhm.”

He smiles sheepishly, plucking it out from where it’s gotten caught on the band and discarding it over the side of the bed. “Jesus,” he shakes his head.

“Yeah,” you frown, scrunching your nose. “Hurt like a bitch.”

“Aw,” he teases, a huge grin on his face, “need me to kiss it better?”

And to his surprise and delight, you nod, leaning your head in so Hal can run his lips over your temple. He catches you in his arms then, pulling you back into his chest.

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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡

[ems-typewriter]

Friction

pairing: jason todd x reader

summary: jason and reader go for a ride on his motorcycle, but end up getting into a crash

word count: 2.2k

warnings/tags: sfw, cursing, car crash, angst, comfort, fluff, fem!reader, mentions of injuries, no y/n

The low light of the lamp lit the room enough for you to make out the words inked onto the page of your book. The TV playing in the background was loud enough to fill the quiet of the apartment while you waited for Jason to come home from patrol. He was supposed to be home 2 hours ago, but the door has remained locked since he left this morning. 

You’ve been on the same page of your book for the past ten minutes–none of the words truly sinking in because you’ve been stuck worrying about your boyfriend's safety. Usually he’s able to let you know if he’ll be late, but tonight, there wasn’t even a text. You give up, tossing aside the book and instead choose to sit on the fire escape to watch over the city with hopes of seeing a glimpse of his familiar red. 

The wind nips at your cheeks and you pull the hood of Jason’s old hoodie over your hair to protect from the cold. His scent envelopes you as you gaze at the broken city below your feet. You whip your head around at the sound of a lock turning from inside the house, and crawl back through the open window, and toward the front door. 

Jason steps inside the quiet apartment and catches your eye immediately. His shoulders are hunched, his brow set in a furrow, and overall looks utterly defeated. You don’t care to wait for him to toe off his boots before walking into his arms to mold your body against his.  

“You were gone.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers as he pressed a gentle kiss to your hairline, “it was a shitty night and things kept coming up.” His voice holds a hint of frustration behind it. 

You look up, resting your chin on his chest. “Bad night?”

“Very.”

You stay quiet as you try to read his expression. He’s always been bad at asking for help from anybody, so you’ve learned to adapt to his needs and figure out what he wants instead. However, it's difficult to do so when his face stays set in the grim expression like he’s holding all his emotions behind that brick wall he's forced around himself. 

“I’m gonna go for a ride.” 

You let your hand run down the length of his arm until your fingers brush his before stepping back from him and nodding. You’ve learned that when nights are really bad, he’ll go for a ride on his motorcycle by himself to clear his thoughts. He never asks you to go and you never push to go either. 

You watch as he walks to the bedroom to grab his helmet and keys before walking back out to where you now stand in the kitchen to make a cup of tea. You feel his gaze burn on your back as you turn on the stove for the kettle to warm before turning to face him again. 

“Come with me?” His voice is so quiet, that you barely hear him.  

“You want me to go with you?”

He nods once, and that's all the confirmation you need to turn off the stove and walk into the bedroom to change into the riding gear Jason bought you–he’s made it very clear from the beginning that you won’t get on the bike without it. He’s never told you how much he spent on all of it, but when you looked up the brand Alpinestars one night, you found it was the most reliable, but expensive gear on the market. 

You walk back out and let him lead you out the door and toward the usual spot where his bike is parked. He helps you into your helmet, like he always does, and then throws on his own with much less care than he did for you. As you throw you leg over the bike and wrap you arms around his chest, you decide to remain quiet for the ride to give him the chance to sort out his own thoughts. 

It doesn’t take long to get onto the highway where Jason speeds up to merge on and you keep your arms tightly around his torso as the wind hits your helmet harshly. A quick glance at the speedometer tells you he’s being vigilant about the number and choosing not to speed, likely because of you being on the back of the bike. 

It’s quiet this late at night. You don’t pass many other cars as you drive down the street, most establishments that you can make out don’t have any lights on to invite customers, and you’re left with your thoughts. You think about Jason mostly–about how some nights you selfishly wish he didn’t have a double life to fulfill that leads, more often than not, to danger.

About twenty minutes have passed before he's slowing down to take an exit then turning around to get back on the highway, but this time to go back home. There's a few more cars on the road going this direction, which you only notice because Jason has to weave around them more often than he did previously. 

You were looking up at the sky, when you heard Jason for the first time through the comms set up on the helmets as the bike sharply move to the left. 

“Shit!”

You barely process the car on your right moving into the lane Jason is riding in, before it's too late. Jason tried to avoid the car, but the sharp movement sent the bike out of his control and into the concrete barrier on the side of the road. The bike flips from under both of you, bucking you off and throwing you across the shoulder of the road. You faintly feel your back slam into something painful, but the world quickly falls out of focus and then into nothing.

—-------------

Jason tried to correct the movement in time, he really did, but the car forced him to turn so sharply that he just couldn’t get the bike to pull away from the barrier. He felt every tumble against the asphalt as he was thrown off. 

He’s disoriented, but that's nothing new for him, so he locks the pain into a different part of his mind, and pushes himself to a kneeling position. The now mutilated bike rests on the side of the road with scraps of the motorcycle trailing from where the first collision had happened. As he looks further, his eyes lock onto you, laying on the asphalt, unmoving. His mind narrows to this moment and for the first time since his death, he feels genuine fear.

He pushes himself up the rest of the way, ignoring the protest of his legs, and runs to you as fast as he can while yanking his helmet off so he can see better. Every step he takes feels like he's trudging through mud and can’t get to you fast enough. He’s begging and praying to every God he doesn’t believe in for you to be breathing. He’d give his life again if it meant you could live right now. 

Please. Not her. Not my world. 

Finally, he's standing before you and dropping unceremoniously onto his knees and pulling your helmet off as quickly as he can while still being gentle. Your eyes are shut, your lips barely parted, and skin indented from the helmet staying securely on you. His fingers make quick work of finding the pulse at your neck, and he could cry at the solid and steady life he feels beating against his fingers. There’s a couple scrapes on your hands, but the gear did good work of keeping you from getting any roadburn like he did. 

You likely blacked out from hitting the concrete barrier harshly and having the breath knocked out of you or maybe a concussion depending on how harshly your head collided with the wall. That doesn’t matter to Jason right now though. All he cares about is the fact you're alive. 

His forehead drops against yours, and he whispers broken apologies that you can’t hear against your skin. He pulls back to adjust you carefully so your head rests on his lap, then he reaches for his helmet he set aside to rip out the comm inside. He changes the channel from the one he uses when biking with you to the private channel the Bats use. 

“Babs?” His voice breaks only slightly as he speaks.

“Red Hood? I thought you were off patrol, what's going on?”

He stares down at your unconscious body, “We got into a wreck on my bike. She's unconscious. She needs medical. Please.” 

“Shit, okay I’m on it.”

—-------

The faint sound of steady beeping pulls you from your sleep. Your limbs feel too heavy for your body, your head is fuzzy, and as you slowly push your eyes to blink open, everything is five levels too bright. All you see is a plain ceiling and panic rushes through you at the unfamiliar space, and you move to sit up, but a warm hand lands on your shoulder to keep you down. 

You quickly look to the side, ready to fight the stranger, but instead you catch sight of the familiar white tuft of hair and emerald eyes. Jason. Your body relaxes against what you now realize is plush bedding beneath you as Jason watches your every move.

“You’re safe.”

“Wh– What happened?” your voice is raw from not using it for a while.

His eyes harden slightly as he blows out a harsh breath through his nose, “I swerved to avoid a car about to hit us, but I lost control of the bike and we crashed.” His voice is gentle as he asks, “Do you remember that?”

Pieces fall into place in your memory as everything comes back to you. The quiet. The car. Swerving. Being thrown off. Hitting the barrier. You nod carefully.

“Good. That's good.”

“It’s bright in here.” You mumble quietly as you blink against the harsh light hitting your eyes.

He lifts his hand to run it across your brow carefully, “You got a concussion. The helmet did what it could, but with the speed you took that hit…,” he trails off. “You’re lucky to have worn the helmet.” 

He steps away from you and walks to the light switch, flipping off the light. You're left with the much more tolerable glow of the moon shining through the window to illuminate the room. “Thank you.”

He takes the seat next to the bed you're laying on and you take a moment to glance around the room. There's a desk pushed against the window that's piled high with books that look well loved and some other clutter. A dresser across the other wall with two picture frames: one of Jason, his brothers, and Bruce while the other is a photo of you and Jason. Then as you look to your right, against the bed is a machine that was making the rhythmic beeping–you now realize as your pulse–that pulled you from your sleep. 

It slowly hits you that you’re in Jason’s room at Wayne Manor, which is why it wasn’t instantly familiar, because you don’t stay here very often. You turn back to Jason and he's staring at you with watery eyes.

“Jay?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I– I couldn’t protect you. I should’ve done something different. Should’ve tried harder.”

You quickly shake your head, but stop when it makes you feel a little dizzy. “No. Jason this wasn’t your fault. You did what you could.”

“I thought you were dead,” his voice is barely a whisper, almost haunted by the memory. 

“But I’m not.” 

His forehead drops to where your hands are intertwined. “I’m sorry.”

“Jay, honey.” You lift your free hand to run through his soft waves. “It’s not your fault.”

He just clings onto your hand more desperately. 

“If it weren't for the gear you bought me, I wouldn’t be here. If you didn’t notice the car coming toward us, this would’ve been worse. You can’t change other people's actions, only how they affect you. You did that for me. I’m here because of you, okay?”

He nods ever so slightly against your arm. 

“Thank you for keeping me safe.” 

He lifts his head and rests his chin on your arm. A lone tear falls down his cheek and you quickly wipe it away. 

“Come here,” you whisper, “the bed’s cold without you.” 

He stands up and slides under the covers to wrap his arms around you gently, not wanting to hurt you where you might have bruises. His warmth soothes you immediately as you curl against his side. 

“What happened to the driver?” 

“Tim’s working on it.”

“Don’t do anything too severe.”

“No promises.” He leans down to press another kiss to your brow as a laugh bubbles from you, even though you know he’s likely not joking. 

He holds you through the night and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until you do, wanting to ensure you really are here, alive, in his arms. Once he felt your breathing even out against his chest, he brushed some of the stray hairs from your cheek to gaze at you. He leans in, pressing a feather light kiss to your brow as he whispers, “I won’t fail you again.”

A/N: soooo one of my friends now knows about my account and it's very weird to know she's probably reading this so... hey!

[sutancha]

sooo good and soo underratedd

[fancy-possum]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 || 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

masterlist || please check out my 1k event! || based on this request!

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

You’d come to the manor to surprise Jason after a long patrol — cookies you’d baked earlier still warm in the container, his favourite hoodie of yours draped over your arm like a peace offering. The boys were in the cave, voices carrying up the stairs. You’d paused at the top, smiling, ready to head down when you heard your name.

“…and her,” Jason was saying, voice tight with frustration. “She keeps trying to fix me. Like I’m some broken project. I don’t need her worrying about me every night. It’s exhausting.”

Dick’s voice was calmer. “She cares about you, Jay. That’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want someone who looks at me like I’m one bad night away from falling apart again. I’m not her charity case.”

The words landed like punches.

You stood there, frozen on the stairs, the container of cookies suddenly too heavy in your hands. Your chest tightened, breath shallow. You weren’t supposed to hear that. You weren’t supposed to know that’s how he saw you — as exhausting. As someone trying to fix him when he didn’t want to be fixed.

You turned around quietly and left before anyone could see you.

The next few days were quiet.

You didn’t text him back right away. You didn’t show up at his apartment like you usually did. When he called, you let it ring. You needed space. You needed to stop feeling like you were a burden he tolerated because he felt guilty.

On the fourth day, he showed up at your door.

It was pouring rain. He was soaked, leather jacket dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide with something close to panic.

You opened the door in your pajamas, arms crossed. “What are you doing here?”

He looked at you like you’d stabbed him. “You’ve been avoiding me. What did I do?”

You stepped aside, letting him in. Water pooled on your floor as he stood there, dripping, looking lost.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “In the cave. Talking to Dick. About how I’m exhausting. How I treat you like a project. How you don’t want me worrying about you.”

Jason went very still. The colour drained from his face.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice cracking. “I know.”

He ran a hand through his wet hair, looking wrecked. “I was angry. At myself. At the mission. At everything. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… venting. I didn’t mean you were exhausting. I meant that I hate making you worry. I hate that I come home bloody and you have to see that. I hate that I can’t be the guy who makes your life easier instead of harder.”

You hugged yourself tighter. “It still hurt.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you but was afraid you’d pull away. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know I’m not a project. You’re the best thing in my life. You make me want to be better. You make me want to come home. I was an idiot. I was scared. I push people away when I feel like I’m too much. And I took it out on you. I hate myself for it.”

His voice cracked on the last words. He looked so small suddenly — the big, scary Red Hood reduced to a man standing in your doorway, dripping wet and terrified he’d ruined the only good thing he had.

You swallowed hard. “I love you, Jason. All of you. The angry parts. The broken parts. The parts that come home bloody. I worry because I care. Because losing you once was enough for a lifetime. I don’t want to fix you. I just want to be with you. Even on the bad nights.”

He let out a shaky breath and crossed the distance, pulling you into his arms. He held you tight, face buried in your hair, body trembling slightly.

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice rough. “So much it scares me. I don’t know how to do this right. I get angry and I say shit I don’t mean and I push you away because I’m terrified you’ll finally see how fucked up I am and leave. But I don’t want you to leave. I want you here. I want you worrying about me. I want you baking cookies and leaving notes and making my apartment feel like home. I want all of it. Please don’t go. Please.”

You held him back just as tightly, fingers threading through his wet hair. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and vulnerable. Then he kissed you — desperate and soft all at once, hands cupping your face like you might disappear. You kissed him back, pouring all the hurt and love into it until the ache in your chest eased.

When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll do better. I’ll talk to you instead of shutting down. I’ll stop pushing you away. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”

You smiled, small and teary. “I won’t. I love you too much to give up on you.”

He held you tighter, chin resting on your head, arms wrapped around you like a shield. “I love you more. Even when I’m an idiot. Especially then.”

The rain kept falling outside. In your apartment, with Jason’s arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the hurt started to fade.

He wasn’t perfect. Neither were you.

But you were choosing each other anyway.

a/n : I was gonna last this a few hours ago but I’ve been reorganising my comics. gulp.

[fancy-possum]

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 || 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

masterlist || follow for 1k event :3 || based on this request

CW: emotional angst (insecurity, miscommunication), light suggestive tension, fluff and reassurance. No smut.

The penthouse he bought you was too big, too quiet, and too perfect.

You stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering far below like scattered diamonds. The silk robe Bruce had bought you last month whispered against your skin as you shifted your weight. Another gift. Another reminder that this — whatever this was — had a price tag.

Six months ago, Bruce Wayne had walked into your life like a storm in a tailored suit. You’d been a broke college student working three jobs, barely keeping your head above water. He’d offered an arrangement: his money for your company. No strings. No expectations beyond discretion and time.

You’d said yes.

At first, it felt like a dream. Designer clothes. Private drivers. Tuition paid in full. A beautiful apartment he’d “insisted” on getting for you because “it’s closer to campus.” Dinners at restaurants with waiting lists years long. Jewelry that cost more than your yearly rent.

But lately, it felt like a cage made of gold.

You weren’t his girlfriend. You were his kept thing. His pretty distraction. The girl he showered with gifts so you’d stay quiet and available when he needed company after long nights as Batman.

You turned away from the window when you heard steps approaching.

Bruce stepped out, still in his suit, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes found you immediately, softening the way they always did when he saw you.

“You’re still awake,” he said, voice low and warm. He crossed the room, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of the couch. “I brought something for you.”

Of course he did.

He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a delicate necklace — white gold, with a single sapphire pendant that caught the light like a star.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he said, almost shy. “The colour matches your eyes when you’re happy.”

Your chest tightened. You took the box, fingers brushing his. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He smiled, small and genuine, the kind of smile the tabloids never got to see. Then he stepped closer, hands settling gently on your waist.

“You look good in the robe,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Better than I would.”

The touch was soft. Affectionate. But your mind whispered the same thing it always did: This is what he pays for.

You forced a smile. “You don’t have to keep buying me things, Bruce. I’m already here.”

He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. “I like buying you things. I like seeing you smile when you open them.”

You looked down at the necklace, thumb tracing the sapphire. “I know. But sometimes… it feels like that’s all this is. Gifts. Compensation. Like I’m just… something you pay for.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Bruce went very still. His hands tightened on your waist for half a second, then loosened like he was afraid he’d hurt you.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, voice quiet. Too quiet.

You swallowed. “I don’t know what to think. You give me everything. The apartment. The clothes. The car. The tuition. But you never… you never say what this is. What I am to you. And I’m scared that if the money stopped, so would this.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and painful.

Bruce stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He looked lost. The great Batman, reduced to a man who didn’t know how to say what he felt.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough. “Words. Feelings. I’ve spent my whole life hiding behind money and masks. I thought… if I gave you everything you needed, you’d stay. I thought actions would be enough. I didn’t realize I was making you feel like a transaction.”

He took a shaky breath, eyes meeting yours — raw, vulnerable in a way you’d rarely seen.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, the words tumbling out like they hurt to say. “I have been for months. Maybe since the first time you looked at me like I was just Bruce, not the billionaire or the mask. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought if I gave you the world, you’d understand. But I was wrong. I was scared. Scared that if I said it out loud, you’d leave. Because who would want someone as broken as me?”

Your heart cracked open.

You stepped forward, taking his face in both hands. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, like he’d just handed you a weapon and was waiting for you to use it.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I love you too, Bruce. Not the money. Not the gifts. You. The man who stays up all night making sure the city is safe. The man who remembers I like my coffee with two sugars and extra foam. The man who looks at me like I’m the only real thing in his world. I love you. Not what you can buy me.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. His hands came up to cover yours, holding them against his face like he was afraid you’d let go.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted. “But I want to try. No more gifts if they make you feel like this. No more hiding. Just… us. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’ll have you. All of you. Broken parts and all.”

He kissed you then — slow and deep, full of months of unspoken love and fear and hope. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, but there was no rush. No expectation. Just Bruce, loving you the only way he knew how: completely.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing steady.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like he needed to say it until it felt real. “Not as a sugar daddy. Not as Batman. Just as me. And I’ll spend every day proving it to you. No more transactions. Just us.”

You nodded, kissing him once more. “Just us.”

The penthouse felt warmer now. The gifts on the shelves felt less like payment and more like love notes from a man who didn’t know how to say the words until he was forced to.

Bruce Wayne had given you the world.

And tonight, he’d finally given you his heart.

And that was worth more than anything money could buy.

a/n : idk what to put here im so sleepy on this train brah @imgoinglococrazy ty for proofreading x

[heartkaji]

nerdjo’s high maintenance gf is his prettiest distraction !

I. DISTRACTION #1: NO KISSING IN THE LECTURE HALLS !

time: 8:46 am location: Curtis Lecture Hall I (CLH-I)

gojo satoru is typing one handed because his other hand is pressed between your thighs.

not that he minds. 8AM thursday means excel sheets & a cup of hot coffee to keep his bleary eyes open. gojo satoru is trying—trying to focus, but his pretty girl is talking a mile a minute and he’ll be damned if he didn’t reply to your every word.

“it was so hard getting out of bed today, toru,” you pout up at him, chin on his shoulder & gloss sticky on his sleeve. “i told kento to stop by and wake me up on his way to class. can you believe he didn’t?”

“i’m very proud of you for getting out of bed regardless.”

“thank you. it was very hard.”

you sigh against his shoulder. “he’s probably still mad i cussed him out,” you huff, reaching up to twirl the hairs on his nape. “all because i put him on cherry crush and he tried to act like he discovered it first.”

satoru’s eyes are still on his screen, so you squeeze his palm between your thighs to bring him back to you. “he’s so petty, toru.”

“very petty, baby.”

you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

so you block his view.

“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”

he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”

oh, that’s enough.

“toru.”

“hm, baby?”

“kiss me.”

gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.

“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”

your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.

“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”

you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—

gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.

he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—

“ahem.”

you both freeze.

in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?

he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.

“this is not a love nest.”

you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.

II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅

time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence

⎚-⎚

gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.

an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.

you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“

“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”

gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”

you nod sweetly, patting his cheek dismissively when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“

“satoruu,”

thirteen words this time. fairs.

“yes, sweetheart.”

“my feet hurt,” you state, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being totally dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”

he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”

satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. dramatic as always, talking like it’s the end of the world with your eyes glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. but gojo’s heart only goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?

he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”

he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”

you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.

“they’re huge, toru,” you tease, twirling around for him to watch. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.

knock knock.

one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”

satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you strut around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.

right.

he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”

you’re still admiring yourself in his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.

——

the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.

have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.

but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.

the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.

satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.

gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.

III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…

time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.

⎚-⎚

“who discovered the americas ?”

“Martin Luther King.”

You are going to fail this exam.

“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”

“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”

no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”

your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”

he blinks, “done?”

“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”

satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”

“i have a very strong brain.”

satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”

you frown in his neck.

“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”

“good job.”

“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”

“oh.”

satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).

you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.

“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”

“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.

“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.

satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”

“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”

there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.

you are going to fail your exams.

you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.

you are going to fail your exams.

gojo lets you have his card.

you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.

“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.

gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.

ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu

DISTRACTIONS, end.

HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

[sutancha]

WHERE can i find more of this

[fancy-possum]

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 || 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

masterlist || follow for 1k event :3 || based on this request

CW: emotional angst (insecurity, miscommunication), light suggestive tension, fluff and reassurance. No smut.

The penthouse he bought you was too big, too quiet, and too perfect.

You stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering far below like scattered diamonds. The silk robe Bruce had bought you last month whispered against your skin as you shifted your weight. Another gift. Another reminder that this — whatever this was — had a price tag.

Six months ago, Bruce Wayne had walked into your life like a storm in a tailored suit. You’d been a broke college student working three jobs, barely keeping your head above water. He’d offered an arrangement: his money for your company. No strings. No expectations beyond discretion and time.

You’d said yes.

At first, it felt like a dream. Designer clothes. Private drivers. Tuition paid in full. A beautiful apartment he’d “insisted” on getting for you because “it’s closer to campus.” Dinners at restaurants with waiting lists years long. Jewelry that cost more than your yearly rent.

But lately, it felt like a cage made of gold.

You weren’t his girlfriend. You were his kept thing. His pretty distraction. The girl he showered with gifts so you’d stay quiet and available when he needed company after long nights as Batman.

You turned away from the window when you heard steps approaching.

Bruce stepped out, still in his suit, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes found you immediately, softening the way they always did when he saw you.

“You’re still awake,” he said, voice low and warm. He crossed the room, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of the couch. “I brought something for you.”

Of course he did.

He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a delicate necklace — white gold, with a single sapphire pendant that caught the light like a star.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he said, almost shy. “The colour matches your eyes when you’re happy.”

Your chest tightened. You took the box, fingers brushing his. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He smiled, small and genuine, the kind of smile the tabloids never got to see. Then he stepped closer, hands settling gently on your waist.

“You look good in the robe,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Better than I would.”

The touch was soft. Affectionate. But your mind whispered the same thing it always did: This is what he pays for.

You forced a smile. “You don’t have to keep buying me things, Bruce. I’m already here.”

He pulled back slightly, brow furrowing. “I like buying you things. I like seeing you smile when you open them.”

You looked down at the necklace, thumb tracing the sapphire. “I know. But sometimes… it feels like that’s all this is. Gifts. Compensation. Like I’m just… something you pay for.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Bruce went very still. His hands tightened on your waist for half a second, then loosened like he was afraid he’d hurt you.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, voice quiet. Too quiet.

You swallowed. “I don’t know what to think. You give me everything. The apartment. The clothes. The car. The tuition. But you never… you never say what this is. What I am to you. And I’m scared that if the money stopped, so would this.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and painful.

Bruce stepped back, running a hand through his hair. He looked lost. The great Batman, reduced to a man who didn’t know how to say what he felt.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough. “Words. Feelings. I’ve spent my whole life hiding behind money and masks. I thought… if I gave you everything you needed, you’d stay. I thought actions would be enough. I didn’t realize I was making you feel like a transaction.”

He took a shaky breath, eyes meeting yours — raw, vulnerable in a way you’d rarely seen.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, the words tumbling out like they hurt to say. “I have been for months. Maybe since the first time you looked at me like I was just Bruce, not the billionaire or the mask. I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought if I gave you the world, you’d understand. But I was wrong. I was scared. Scared that if I said it out loud, you’d leave. Because who would want someone as broken as me?”

Your heart cracked open.

You stepped forward, taking his face in both hands. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, like he’d just handed you a weapon and was waiting for you to use it.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I love you too, Bruce. Not the money. Not the gifts. You. The man who stays up all night making sure the city is safe. The man who remembers I like my coffee with two sugars and extra foam. The man who looks at me like I’m the only real thing in his world. I love you. Not what you can buy me.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. His hands came up to cover yours, holding them against his face like he was afraid you’d let go.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted. “But I want to try. No more gifts if they make you feel like this. No more hiding. Just… us. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’ll have you. All of you. Broken parts and all.”

He kissed you then — slow and deep, full of months of unspoken love and fear and hope. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, but there was no rush. No expectation. Just Bruce, loving you the only way he knew how: completely.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing steady.

“I love you,” he whispered again, like he needed to say it until it felt real. “Not as a sugar daddy. Not as Batman. Just as me. And I’ll spend every day proving it to you. No more transactions. Just us.”

You nodded, kissing him once more. “Just us.”

The penthouse felt warmer now. The gifts on the shelves felt less like payment and more like love notes from a man who didn’t know how to say the words until he was forced to.

Bruce Wayne had given you the world.

And tonight, he’d finally given you his heart.

And that was worth more than anything money could buy.

a/n : idk what to put here im so sleepy on this train brah @imgoinglococrazy ty for proofreading x

[cece693]

Haii! I would like to request Jasper hale with gender neutral! Reader who’s a lot smaller than him by A LOT, fluff? Have a great day!

HEIGHT DIFFERENCE

Jasper Hale x Gender Neutral Reader

authors note: So....book accurate height difference between Alice and Jasper???? Nah, just kidding. I feel like the reader would be somewhere between 5'' 2 and 5'' 5 while book accurate jasper is 6'' 3. Any other height makes me feel uncomfortable (4'' 10 is jarring.) It's short but I like how it turned out.

The first time you stood next to Jasper after your transformation, you realized the height difference wasn’t going anywhere. Even with the strength of eternity in your limbs, you still had to tilt your head back just to meet his golden gaze. At 6’3, Jasper was all broad shoulders and soldier’s posture while you barely reached his chest.

It didn’t bother him. In fact, he relished it. If anything, your smaller frame made his protective instincts burn brighter, though he knew you were just as unbreakable as he was now.

“Y’know,” Emmett had once said, a smirk tugging at his mouth, “if they stand in front of you, Jazz, they block about as much danger as a shoebox.”

You had rolled your eyes, about to snap back, but Jasper only turned his head slowly and gave Emmett that infamous, icy stare. The room went quiet real quick. After that, no one commented on your size again.

Despite the teasing, there were perks. Jasper often slid an arm around your waist in one effortless sweep, lifting you onto countertops when you lingered in the kitchen with Alice. Sometimes, he’d pull you onto his lap with one hand as if you weighed nothing at all. The Cullens pretended not to notice how naturally you fit there.

But what you loved most were the quiet moments. Like now, sitting in the forest, high up in the trees. You perched on a branch, swinging your legs, and Jasper leaned casually against the trunk below.

“Thought becoming a vampire might even things out.” you teased, grinning.

His drawl wrapped around you, warm and unhurried. “Sugar, you could be ten feet tall and I’d still find a way to look down at you with all the fondness in the world.”

You scoffed, though the venomous blush rising to your cheeks betrayed you. He moved before you could react and plucked you from the branch, holding you easily against him.

“Jasper!” you yelped, though you clung to him instinctively.

He smirked, leaning down until his lips brushed yours. “What? I like havin’ you right here. Feels natural.”

You huffed, though your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt. “I could’ve gotten down on my own, you know. I don’t need a six-foot-three cowboy hauling me around like a sack of flour.”

“Mmh,” he hummed against your lips. “But you look awful cute when you’re mad about it.”

Your retort died in your throat when he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple with infuriating tenderness. His hands settled under your thighs as he adjusted his hold, keeping you cradled against his chest like you weighed nothing at all. For all your vampire strength, you weren’t immune to the way his arms felt like they’d been made to cage you in.

“You’re impossible.” you muttered, but the words softened into a laugh when he dipped his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“And you’re tiny. My tiny terror. Can’t even climb a tree without me comin’ after you.”

You swatted his chest. “I could knock you on your ass if I wanted.”

He raised a brow, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. “Is that a challenge, darlin’?”

Before you could answer, a loud wolf-whistle split the clearing. Emmett was doubled over laughing a few yards away, Rosalie watching with thinly veiled irritation. “Get a room!” Emmett hollered. “Or a ladder for them, Jazz!”

The growl Jasper gave in response was low and dangerous, causing Emmett to throw his hands up in mock surrender. Still, Jasper didn’t set you down. If anything, his hold tightened, as if daring the world to try and take you from his arms.

“See what I put up with?” you grumbled against his chest.

“Long as I get to keep you right here, darlin’, they can say whatever they please.”

[mattsundaes-interact]

Oh to sneak into Jack's bed on a cold night. Dont want to be alone with your issues that lingers in your head. He understands what you are going through.

A contented noise slips out past Jack's lips when he feels you slide under the covers, his arms instantly reaching out to pull you closer to him. The cold from outside still lingers on your skin, licking a chill up his spine when your toes brush against his ankles, but as you eagerly burrow into his embrace, you breathe out a sigh of relief as you soak in the warmth of his body heat.

The street lamp outside his window casts a dull, orange glow into his dark bedroom, just barely illuminating enough of your features to show the stress and anxiety etched into the downward curve of your lips and the furrow of your brows. Jack runs his thumb across the curve of your jaw, along the shell of your ear, eventually letting his hand stop to linger at the base of your neck, placing gentle pressure against your skin one fingertip at a time. It's a soothing gesture, his way of telling you he understands without yet breaking the delicate silence punctuated only by the sounds of your breathing.

His lips brush against your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

A whimper escapes you before you can stop it, and Jack's fingers caress your chin, tilting your face upward as he softly brings his mouth to yours.

[sutancha]

give me MORE OF HIM

[patientofarkhamasylum]

"Bruce..."

He doesn't even look up from the mission reports spread across his lap, jaw set in that stubborn line you know too well. "No."

"But Bruce—"

"I said no. The board meeting is important. They're expecting me." His tone is final. Or at least, he thinks it is.

You let a beat of silence pass, then shift on the couch, drawing your knees up. When you speak again, your voice comes out softer, with the slightest edge of a pout. "I don't want you to go…"

His hand stills on the papers.

"It's just a few hours," he says, but there's less conviction now.

"A few hours in some boring conference room, talking about budget allocations…" You draw out the words, adding a little whine to your tone. "Can't you just stay in? Please?"

His jaw clenches. He's fighting it; you can see the battle playing out across his features. The mighty Batman, completely defenseless against the sound of you getting bratty.

"Sweetheart—" He tries for stern, but it comes out strained. "I'll buy you anything you want. That bag you were looking at? The one from Hermès?"

"I don't want a bag. I want you." You tilt your head, soften your voice even more, let it get a little breathy and petulant. "Please, Bruce? Just stay with me today."

You can see the exact moment he breaks: the way his jaw unclenches, the slight slump of his shoulders, the resignation that floods his eyes. He tosses the reports onto the coffee table.

"You're impossible," he mutters, but he's already pulling out his phone. You scoot closer, shamelessly peeking at the screen as he types a message to Alfred: Something came up. Reschedule the meeting for tomorrow morning.

Victory tastes sweet.

You bite back a smile as he sets the phone aside and turns to you. Despite his best efforts, amusement flickers across his face. He knows exactly what you just did. Knows you played him like a fiddle.

"Happy now?" he asks.

You let the bratty tone drop, replacing it with pure innocence. "Very."

He makes a low sound in his throat, half frustration, half fondness. "You know I can't think straight when you use that voice."

"I know." You grin up at him, shameless. "That's why I do it."

"You're dangerous," he says as he's reaching for you, pulling you across the couch into his lap.

"Says the Batman," you tease, walking your fingers up his chest.

His hand catches your wrist, gentle. He's always gentle with you, even when he's trying to regain some semblance of control. "One of these days, that's not going to work on me."

You lean in close, letting your breath ghost over his ear. "Yes it will."

The way he exhales, sharp and defeated, tells you you're absolutely right.

Because Bruce Wayne might run Gotham, might make grown men tremble with a look, might be the most feared vigilante in the city. But when you get a little whiny, a little bratty, a little pouty?

He's completely and utterly yours.

navi | m.list | © 2026 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since december, and i just rediscovered it yesterday… apparently i wrote it, formatted it to publish, and then completely forgot about it??? 😭 lmfao. this is also part of the sugarbaby!reader x bruce series, which i guess is being revived (kind of)!!! i really thought i was gonna do so much more with this concept ngl 😅 if anyone has ideas or requests pls hmu, i’d love some suggestions

[sutancha]

[vixen-dc]

Dramatic much? ✮ Hal Jordan x Reader

summary: Hal comes back from patrol with a small cut on his cheek. You patch it up for him, but of course he’s whiny about the whole ordeal. Ending with some well deserved affection at the end.

a/n: first time writing for Hal! Hope I have him character. I’m quite new to writing so I may have made some mistakes. Mostly Fluff maybe suggestive towards the end? Not sure what counts as suggestive

______________________________________________

Nights like this were always your favorite, the nights where he actually comes home in one piece, and you get to fall asleep with your boyfriend instead of staring into nothing wondering where in the galaxy- or in what galaxy he is in.

The vanilla candle burns softly in the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of Hal’s shampoo, which you’re almost certain is yours, though he denies it every time. But that’s a separate issue.  Hal sits in the chair, tilting his head up so you can inspect the small cut on his cheek.

“For someone whose whole job is handling intergalactic threats” you say while wiping away the tiny streak of blood, “I wouldn’t expect some basic street thug to land a hit.”

“This is basically your fault,” Hal states.

You blink. Now confused “What?”

He raises an brow like it should be the most  obvious thing ever. “If you weren’t so hot, I wouldn’t have thought about you mid-fight and gotten distracted. So really  this injury is on you.”

You don’t even encourage that with a response, just reaching for the cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. Before you can touch him, Hal leans back and grabs your wrist just before it makes contact .

“Is that really necessary?” he asks, suddenly tense and uneasy “It’s barely even a scratch.”

“I don’t want it getting infected, even if it is a small cut” you say. “Are you just afraid of disinfectant?”

“Don’t look at me like I’m the  dramatic one.” he whines “you know that stuff hurts.”

“It’ll just be a second. And you won’t have that kissable of a face anymore if it gets infected.”

“…Fine.” The possible consequence makes him reluctantly give in. 

You lightly start dabbing the antiseptic onto the cut.

“OW—OW—OWWW!” Hal complains as if you’ve just burned him alive.

You laugh slightly. “Hal, it’s antiseptic. You’ve battled aliens probably made of fire at this point.”

“Yeah, but none of them burned like that.”

You grab a bandage,unwrap it, and lay it onto his cheek. “There. Was that so hard?”

“It was, if you must know” he says almost arrogantly. “I think I deserve some kisses after all that suffering.”

“Your ‘suffering’ is you being a grown man whining over disinfectant. Also- if anything I had to deal with you of all people so I think I’m the one that deserves compensation for suffering” 

“Well.”  he says, a smug grin forming “as long as I’m getting your love, I’m satisfied.”

His hands slide to your waist, gently pulling you toward him. You sigh, mostly with affection, and lean down to kiss him. Basically melting into his touch at this point. You can feel him smiling into it the second he realizes you caved.

When you pull back slightly just enough to speak, you murmur “Has anyone ever told you you’re needy?”

“All the time.” he says, immediately leaning in for another kiss.

As often as you worry when he’s off on missions in some distant part of the universe, moments like this make everything worth it. No threats, no end of the world scenarios, no emergencies. Just you and Hal, close and together.

[ems-typewriter]

Snapping Into Place

pairing: jason todd x college student!reader

summary: with the stress of exams, reader snaps under the pressure at their boyfriend and now has to find him and apologize

word count: 2.4k

warnings/tags: sfw, established relationship, mention of weapon (once), hurt/comfort, use of pet names, no y/n, mention of reader failing to take care of themself, cursing

With exams being this week and how you do on them could be the difference between passing or failing, the library has become not even a second home, but a first. You’ve ate, slept, and cried in this place more this past week than you have your apartment. After awkwardly waiting for the students who overstayed their time for the study room you booked to leave, you’ve been in the flow going back and forth between paper notes, the whiteboard, your laptop, and taking a five minute break to stare at the wall every hour. No matter how much you go over your material, you cant help but feel like you’re gonna fail the exam. 

Staring at your laptop till the words blur together trying to figure out how to do what your professor claimed “a simple question,” a quiet buzzing pulls you out of your haze. You blink a few times, before glancing at your phone and see Jasons familiar contact crossing your screen, pulling a small smile to your face. Grabbing your phone and clicking accept, you bring it to your ear. 

“Hi, baby,” you say, not realizing how strained your voice sounds from not using it. “What’s up?”

“Thought you were gonna be home at 9:00?” 

Your brows furrow, “…I am?” You bring your hand to cover your forehead, which you’re now realizing how bad the pain behind your skull is getting.

“Do you realize it’s 9:45?” He asks, his voice laced with the faint concern that he reserves for few people.

You immediately turn your head to your clock and sure enough, you watch the 45 change to a 46. Shit. Somehow that alone makes your headache start to pulse. “No, I didn’t realize that actually.” I sigh quietly. “I still gotta finish this up though, I don’t feel confident on the material.”

“If you don’t know it now you won’t know it in the next hour. You’ve been there since noon. You need sleep and real food, which I know you haven’t had either.” 

“I gotta try Jay, if I don’t and I fail, then I’ll know there was something else I could’ve done—“

He cuts you off, “I know you wanna keep going, but you’ve been working for the past week and barely taking care of yourself. Just—just come home,” He pauses, “Please.”

“I can’t. I don’t know this stuff and my test is at eight in the morning, so I cant study before and I need to keep going.”

“Baby—“

This time you cut him off not even realizing your voice has pulled a harsher tone you almost never use, “No Jason. Don’t act like you understand what this is like. You don’t understand this feeling and you never will, so just stop.” You’re in such a haze, you don’t realize how harsh your words are until the beeping of the ended call breaks the silence. 

“Fuck,” You cover your face with your hands and take a breath, “Fuck, why did you say that?” You don’t even think as you start packing everything back into your bag, guilt pushing you through the actions. Jason and you never fight. Even through your frustrations, it’s easy to bridge the gap because he’s scared to snap at you and lose you and you’re scared to say something that hurts him—but you just did. 

You try to call him again, but it goes to voicemail, so you try your hopes with that. “I'm sorry, Jay. I—I’m stressed and didn’t realize what I was saying I just—please just call me back.” Deep down you know he won’t listen to it, but you still gave it a shot. 

With a newfound motivation you didn’t have while studying, and two peach Alani’s running in your body, you get into the car and drive home as fast as you can. It doesn’t take long before you’re hauling your backpack with you to your shared apartment with Jason. You know he doesn’t have patrol right now because he intentionally switched shifts with Dick so he could stay with you tonight. You didn’t even ask him, he just did it because he knew you’d be anxious and you always slept better when he was in bed with you. As you walk through the apartment though, you quickly realize he’s not there. 

You swing open the closet, expecting to see the familiar gear, but it’s gone. The realization is like a punch to the gut. I upset him so much, he’d rather fight crime instead of be with me. 

What if I ruined everything?

Am I supposed to just wait till he comes back? 

What if he doesn’t come back?

No. Don’t go down that rabbit hole. You can fix this, you just have to find him first. You walk back to the kitchen where you threw your phone on the counter and go through your contacts till you find who you were looking for, putting your phone on speaker as you put on your coat. 

“Hello?” Barbara’s familiar voice cuts through the static. 

“Hey, Babs. I have a favor I need to ask,” you say feeling very thankful for the fact Wayne family dinners include non-family members and you got to connect with everyone—including the one and only Barbara Gordon. 

“Like civilian help, or ‘I just killed someone and need to hide the body help’?

Silence crosses the phone for a second until you speak again, “Just wanted to know if you could track Jay’s suit, but thats mildly concerning thats your first assumption about me calling.”

“You’re dating into the Wayne family. It’s not a concerning assumption.” She says bluntly before quickly changing the subject, “Anyways, Jason isn’t on patrol, he switched with Dick.”

“No, I know, but I think he went back onto patrol. Could you check just incase? Please?” 

You hear faint typing on the other end as you step outside, locking the door. “Uh, yeah okay he is on patrol. He’s currently in Crime Alley.”

Just my fucking luck. You have to try though, because you won’t let this anger fester between you and him. “Okay thanks Babs, I owe you one.” You say as you start the direction to crime alley with just your phone on you. You think maybe you should’ve grabbed your pepper spray, but you’re on a mission and can’t get distracted. You’ll deal with Jasons lecture about that later. 

Babs calls your name through the phone just as you’re about to hang up, making you pause. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna go to crime alley.”

“…Im not gonna go to Crime Alley.” You mutter into the phone, but you roll your eyes at how obvious the lie sounds.

“Im serious. Its not saf—“

“Gotta go Babs, bad connection,” You make a fake static noise, “Bye!” Pressing the end call button quickly because you cant be talked out of this. You have a relationship to fix.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

The walk there is cold and quiet considering it’s now 10:30 at night and prime time for crime in Gotham. You shove your hands in your pockets to protect them from the harsh winds before remembering all the times Jason would reprimand you on not doing that when you’re walking alone because it can make you a more susceptible target. You keep scanning the rooftops waiting to see the familiar red, but still nothing.

Maybe he moved and went to another area to patrol? Or maybe Barbara told him you were coming and he left so he wouldn’t have to see you? No. Jason wouldn’t do that to you. He loves you even if you snapped at him. You keep walking around the area for 10 minutes and with every breath you watch rise into the night air, you lose more and more hope you’re gonna find him. 

Just as you’re about to make the loop to leave and go back home dejected and filled with guilt, a hand wraps around your bicep pulling you into a darkened alleyway, hidden from possible onlookers. Your brain stalls for a second as you try to process the reality of what’s happening: you’re gonna get robbed, except the only thing you have on you is your phone and the two nickels in your jacket pocket you’ve been fidgeting with on the walk here. Your back is pressed into the alley wall, and before you get the chance to try the minimal self defense Jason taught you, his mask comes into view. 

“What on earth are you doing here? Do you even have any weapon on you? You’re lucky Babs warned me you were coming or you would’ve gotten yourself killed.” You can’t see his face, but his tone eludes to his anger—whether from the phone call or you coming here, you’re not sure yet. 

“You weren’t home.” His grip on your arm isn’t harsh, never with you, but it’s firm enough to keep you from moving from the wall. 

“So what? You walk into the most dangerous part of Gotham to check on me?” He gives you a once over looking from you face to your shoes of choice for this walk. “And did so completely defenseless.”

“Im not defenseless—“ you start, but quickly stop when he tilts his head and cuts you off.

“You barely have the proper coat on, so don’t even start.” 

You huff quietly and drop your head to stare at your shoes, but decide not to push. You’re here to apologize not make things worse between y’all. Neither of you say anything because now that you’re here, everything you practiced to say leaves your head and now you drowning in shame. “You weren’t answering my calls.” You whisper before finally looking back up at him. You wish you could see his face—the familiar furrow of his brow or the scar on his cheek. Anything to know what he’s feeling right now. But he’s keeping his mask on. 

“I was busy.” His voice is low, almost like it’s painful to talk. 

“You weren’t supposed to be though. You were supposed to be home and you weren’t and I wanted to talk to you—apologize to you but I couldn’t because you left.”

“Thought you’d be studying all night. Didn’t want interrupt what I don’t understand.” He throws your words right back in your face, but he might as well taken his knife and shoved it into your side. 

You lift your hand slowly, like you’re reaching for a skittish animal, for where you’ve learned the mechanic is to take off his helmet. When he doesn’t pull away, you carefully click the button so you can see his face. He’s staring down at you with a small frown on his lips that you wish to kiss away. His eyes shine with agony and you want to worship him till he forgets the concept of pain. “I’m sorry,” You whisper as you cover the jagged J scar on his cheek with your palm. “I’m so unbelievably sorry Jay.”

He doesn’t say anything, but instead grabs your wrist gently. You worry he’s gonna push it away, but he holds on and presses your hand closer, so you continue. “I—I was just so stressed and scared. I’m so scared of failing, but it was wrong to say you wouldn’t understand when you’re the person who understands best. You choose to protect the city—the people—and I know you’re scared to fail—To fail the city, the people, …your family.” You bring your other hand to run through his curls and watch as his eyes fall shut in this moment of whispered apologies. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you or taken my anger out on you Jay. I’m sorry.”

He drops his forehead against yours and pulls you flush against him. “You, too.” He whispers against your lips, so closely you feel his breath fan across your face.

“What?”

“I’m scared of failing you, too.”

“Jay…” 

“I don’t want to just sit there and watch while you run yourself dry for a stupid exam you’re gonna pass if I can do something about it. I just can’t let it happen, I cant.” He pulls back to look at you, but it feels as if he staring into your soul. 

You nod carefully, “I’m sorry.” You mutter again and bite your lip with the unconscious intent of picking at the chapped skin, but he quickly runs his thumb across your bottom lip and the pulls it back from your teeth to stop your habit. 

“Stop apologizing. Just don’t snap at me like that again when I’m only looking out for you.”

“But I am sor—“ 

He mutters your name, stopping your repeated apology. “I know you are. Just promise me you won’t.”

Your eyes fill with tears but you blink rapidly trying to get them to disappear, because you shouldn’t be the one upset right now, he should. However, you can’t stop the singular hot tear that slips down your cheek because how did you have get so lucky to have someone who truly cares about you and understands that you truly didn’t mean what you said in the heat of the moment. “Pinky promise,” you whisper not fully trusting your voice to stay steady. You lift your pinky for him to take, something you’ve slowly acclimated him to over the course of the relationship. His gloved finger links with yours and you kiss your thumb, him following suit, and then press them together to lock it. 

He leans down and kisses away the tear that lingers on your cheek before gently kissing your lips. You immediately turn into putty in his hold not even realizing how tense you were from the idea he wasn’t going to want to hear you out. You wrap both your arms around his neck, and shove every lingering apology into the kiss, hoping he understands how deeply sorry you are. He almost reluctantly pulls away, and murmurs quietly against your lips, “And don’t walk around at night defenseless again, baby.” 

You laugh before pulling him impossibly closer, now trying to steal some of his warmth. “I’m never defenseless because I know you’ll always be there to save me,” you whisper before kissing the corner of his mouth gently, “Now let’s go get some Bat Burger and go home.” 

A/N: my first fic ever so im sorry it's bad. i really only wrote it to get it off my mind, and figure id put it out there because why not? :) and yes the inspiration did come from the fact i have exams and im insanely nervous

[sutancha]

SOOO underrated like?? it’s so good 😭😭