Jun 11, 2025
Born to receive handwritten love letters, forced to wonder if I’ll get a text back.
seen from Maldives
seen from Venezuela
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from Paraguay
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Ecuador
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Kyrgyzstan
seen from Australia
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
Born to receive handwritten love letters, forced to wonder if I’ll get a text back.
"ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ꜱᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇʜᴏᴡ, ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴ ꜱᴏꜰᴛᴇʀ ʜᴜᴇꜱ." - @a-momentofsonder
History books often overlook a deeply human habit of Barack Obama during his presidency. On some of the most pressure-filled nights, he would retreat alone to the Treaty Room on the second floor of the White House residence—not to strategize or take calls, but to handwrite letters to ordinary Americans.
Every single night, he personally selected messages from the roughly 40,000 letters the White House received daily. His correspondence director, Fiona Reese, later shared that he would sometimes become emotional reading them, quietly folding certain letters before sitting down to respond. The replies were deeply personal, written with such care that many recipients described receiving them as one of the most meaningful moments of their lives. One steelworker from Ohio even wrote back saying Obama’s letter changed the course of a life-altering decision for his family.
What makes this practice even more powerful is the way he approached it. Obama refused to use a computer. He wrote first drafts on yellow legal pads with a black felt-tip pen, then rewrote each letter by hand on official White House stationery. As he later told historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, the physical act of writing forced a level of attention and presence that typing simply could not replicate.
That belief was shaped by his years teaching constitutional law at the University of Chicago from 1992 to 2004. He came to see democracy as something that only works when leaders stay closely connected to the real, often uncomfortable weight of individual human experiences—rather than viewing them from a distance through institutions or screens.
Say less. Mean more.
BONTEN HEADCANONS
A/N: I don’t support any of these actions and I’m not excusing their actions. My opinion on them that nobody asked for.
TW: implied cannibalism (they aren’t eating anyone but seen it), trafficking, drug usage, suicidal tendencies
Part2
STARRING: Mikey, Sanzu, Kakucho, Ran
Mikey (Manjiro Sano)
Kinda of weak. He isn’t muscular in the slightest, and if anything has a sleeper build. The guy doesn’t work out and he’s pushing 30, also has a heavy reliance on weapons. (In my head he’s 27)
Has to take daily supplements to meet his health needs which he neglects and Sanzu has to maintain the schedule for him.
Hairless everywhere, not because he shaves but simply because he can’t grow anything. I also believe he if he did have hair, it would be damn near translucent because he’s a pale blonde
he takes showers a few times a week but his hair gets greasy very fast and he has a bad habit of not ironing his clothes so he looks gross but actually doesn’t smell bad. I feel like he doesn’t really have any scent because he’s hairless and hair is what normally holds scent.
Probably smells like sleep, laundry detergent, vanilla, and old closet because he doesn’t air out his house and dust has collected in numerous spots
Only meal he’d eat would be omurice, and that’s assuming he’s in the mood to eat. His go to snack is always Taiyaki. Doesn’t eatDoriyaki as much anymore. He still likes red bean flavored anything. Reason being, he’s a picky eater.
Actively a virgin, not because he can’t pull but I don’t think he has (or had) any type of sex drive. (I personally feel like some girls think he was gay at one point). Also never really had any interest in a relationship. I feel like he’s one of those “She’s pretty” or “She’s kinda hot” and then does nothing about it because he doesn’t feel like it.
Threatened everyone to join Bonten, highly doubt anyone was willing to do this shit. Except for like Sanzu maybe and Takeomis bitch ass.
Sanzu
Probably has had a case of cocaine nose. (Your nostrils start to collapse and what not). Get surgery to get it fixed and switched to being a pill popper.
Doesn’t pop pills irresponsibly as he has to be alert.
I like to think he’s schizophrenic and pops extra pills because he sees Mucho’s walking corpse a lot. But eventually got a prescription to get the hallucinations treated.
Doesn’t fuck around. I’ve seen his character where he wipes his bike down and in the Puzzreve game refused to take water out of someone else’s water bottle despite being hot. I believe he is germaphobic to a degree and doesn’t like being touched or touching anyone. I also believe that when he “tortures” people like he’s written down in the fandom, its physiological. Either way he isn’t messy and very precise as he doesn’t want to catch anything from blood spills or stain his clothing.
Believably calm, I don’t think he has manic episodes OFTEN. He can be giggly and very tickled at times but normally gets straight to the point.
Didn’t want the Bonten tatto because he thinks tattoos make people look dirty but what Mikey says he will do.
Doesn’t abuse his authority unless it’s got something to do with Takeomi
Sanzu has a small caution around Ran simply because he feels as if his heart isn’t fully in the game. He believes that Ran doesn’t have that much loyalty to Mikey. Doesn’t bother too much because if something was an issue he’d know.
Kakucho
Is actively trying to find where Izana was buried at, Japans death records come up empty everytime.
After the death of Izana he was planning to live his life out normally as he wasn’t in a good mental space.
Never had a girlfriend because he was busy running his own gang and didn’t want anyone getting hurt and because he was always with one of his friends so girls never rlly mattered romantically or sexually.
His moral compass has always been strong (eh) he doesn’t participate in the sex trafficking unit of Bonten and when sent on missions he does it the best, other than Sanzu.
His missions are normally quick and precise because it’s either face to face when he has a gun and because he’s a good Sniper. I also feel like the missions he goes on are the most dangerous. When I say dangerous I mean the missions are damn near considered suicide.
Doesn’t do anything in his free time besides work and meditation. He goes to therapy here and there.
A minimalist, I feel like his home is in a secluded area and has little to no decoration.
I feel like hes vegan because he’s seen multiple dead bodies drop and be used for meat.
Ran Haitani
Big mama no kids
He don’t even wanna be here. I’ve seen his character book and he is a raging homebody.
Always wakes up on the wrong side of bed, because who the fuck wants to live like this.
I feel like when he carries out missions there are a handful of casualties. Which is why he isn’t assigned to any unless it’s like negotiations because he’s very persuasive. I feel as if he’s the easiest executive to talk to so many negotiators tend to side with him all the time.
Looks out for everyone aside from Takeomi and maybe Mikey since Mikey threatened him and his brother. And ran does not play about his brother,
Circles to Kokonois office pretty frequently to chat about mundane things. They probably vent to one another. In my head they’re best friends. (Argue with my ass)
His brothers safety is his priority overall, probably still kissed Rindou’s forehead every now and then but Rindou doesn’t like it because he’s overly grown
Doesn’t have a partner as he doesn’t have the mental capacity to care for someone other than himself, Rin and Koko. And I’d assume if he was busy with a woman he’d go for someone older. Not because he has mommy issues (he does but that has nothing to do with it) but because he likes mature women and most women his age or older got their lives together. Also he’s like what, 32? He has no business with anyone under 28 anyways.
Eyesight is shit, aim is even shitter. He’s sent to negotiate because he’s the reason Bonten has headlines due to his stray bullets hitting people. I feel like he accidentally shot a comrade once.
Won’t wear glasses because he thinks he’ll look ugly
Either he’s comfortable with himself or a bit insecure on how he looks. I feel like he’d be the type to be touchy about his age since in the character book or whatever he wanted to be a model in a forgiven country.
Now that he has adult money he’s probably always in Vietnam or the USA.
He doesn’t know it yet but he has a thing for older black and Latina women.
Probably dated a forgiven woman once because he was tryna secure citizenship to be a model in a forgiven country. I’d argue he has a fetish for foreign women but it’s a stretch.
Part two ?
money is made so i can buy this edition of Pride and Prejudice that contains all of the letters sent between the characters throughout the book.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗𝕮𝖔𝖔-𝕮𝖔𝖔 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖗˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
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F!reader x Damian Wayne
~ What if the bat boys are in a LDR series ~
3k words, Established relationship, Tooth-rotting Fluff, Long-Distance, Mutual Pining
Author's Notes:
This will be the last one for this series. I also had a lot of fun writing this. Hopefully, I get to concentrate of my other ideas now٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ Enjoy the fic!!
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“ Coo-coo! “
F/n’s head turned to the source of the sound, her e/c eyes landing on the familiar silhouette of a grey pigeon perched on the windowsill. The feathers on its neck shimmered under the sunlight—a purplish metallic sheen that always caught her eye.
A soft laugh escaped from her lips as she stepped forward, holding a couple of bird seeds in her hand.
“ Good afternoon Iris, Damian made you deliver another letter? “
The pigeon cooed, tilting her head as she angled her eyes to look at her. She pecked on the glass window— impatient as her chest puffed out, cooing again, almost smugly.
“ I think that's a yes, “ The girl murmured fondly.
F/n remembered the first time Damian sent a carrier pigeon to her apartment. The sounds of cooing waking her up, the beady orange eyes peering through the glass as she wondered why it wouldn't leave her window for the past few days— until he messaged her if she received his letter.
“ You sent a pigeon to deliver your letter to me? You could have just messaged me right here. “
“ Beloved, technology is efficient, but it is not sincere.”
She could still hear his voice in her head—measured, slightly indignant, and unmistakably Damian.
Back then, she’d been half-awake, phone pressed to her cheek as she stared at the stubborn pigeon perched on her windowsill like it owned the place.
“Beloved,” he’d continued over the call, tone softening just a fraction, “a message disappears the moment you close the screen. Ink endures. And so do my intentions.”
She had laughed then, burying her face into her pillow to muffle the sound. “You’re unbelievable.”
“On the contrary,” Damian replied, “I am being very believable. I wish to be remembered.”
The memory made her smile now.
She slid the window open, letting the warm breeze spill into the room. Iris hopped inside without hesitation, wings fluttering once before settling neatly on the sill. A familiar cream envelope was strapped gently to her leg, secured with a thin red ribbon. F/n’s smile softened immediately at the sight of it.
She gently removed the letter, laughing softly as her fingers brushed against her soft feathers.
“ You're such a hardworking girl. “ She whispered, offering her the bird seeds as she scattered them on the windowsill. Iris accepted them proudly, pecking away as if she was feasting on a buffet.
F/n gently unfastened the envelope, a smile tugged on her lips as her fingers brushed against the familiar handwriting against the paper. The sight of Damian’s name in black ink made her chest squeeze—in a good way.
She pulled out a letter, folded alongside a sketch of what seemed to be her bedroom window– this exact window– the sunlight pouring in, the curtains drawn the way she liked it. She spotted a small sketch of Iris, on the windowsill, giving her signature side-eye.
F/n giggled, grinning so wide that she felt her cheeks hurt. She was amazed at how he was able to capture the pigeon's expressive eyes. At the corner, Damian wrote:
“ I imagine she greets you like this every delivery. Correct me if I'm wrong. “
“ She does.” The girl murmured, her thumb brushing on the sketch.
F/n glanced up, her eyes meeting with Iris, who already finished her snack. The pigeon shot her an unimpressed look, feathers slightly puffed.
She shook her head fondly, grabbing an envelope sitting on her desk. She placed it inside Iris’s messenger’s bag.
“ Can you bring it to Dami, Iris?” She whispered, patting her head.
Iris blinked at her slowly, as if weighing the request.
Then the pigeon gave a short, decisive coo.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” F/n said with a quiet laugh.
She adjusted the small pouch gently so it sat securely against Iris’s side. Inside the envelope was her reply—three neatly folded pages and a small surprise for Damian tucked inside.
F/n stroked the top of Iris’s head softly, careful not to ruffle her feathers too much.
“Be nice to him when you get there,” she whispered conspiratorially. “He pretends he’s intimidating, but we both know you run that manor now.”
The pigeon puffed up proudly, clearly pleased with that idea.
With one last affectionate pat, F/n stepped back and opened the window wider. A breeze drifted in, rustling the curtains Damian had drawn so carefully in his sketch.
“Alright, go on.”
Iris hopped to the edge of the sill, wings twitching as she prepared for flight. For a moment she turned her head, giving F/n one last sharp look—as if confirming the mission.
Then she launched into the air.
F/n leaned against the window frame, watching the small grey shape grow smaller against the sky until it disappeared between the buildings.
Her gaze drifted back to Damian’s sketch still resting on the windowsill. The careful shading. The tiny drawing of Iris judging her existence. The sunlight pouring through the exact angle of her curtains.
Her chest warmed.
“Ridiculous,” she murmured softly, though the fondness in her voice betrayed her.
~~~
Back in the manor, Damian sat in his room, his fingers smudged with charcoal from the hours of sketching.
Soft afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, illuminating the scattered papers across his desk. Some held unfinished studies—birds in flight, the curve of a tree branch, a careful attempt at recreating the way sunlight filtered through curtains. Others were far more deliberate.
Sketches of a familiar apartment window.
Of a pigeon with an unimpressed expression.
Of her.
Damian leaned back slightly in his chair, examining the latest drawing between his fingers. The charcoal had left faint shadows along the side of his hand, a smudge across the edge of his wrist where he had absentmindedly brushed it.
A soft flutter echoed from the open balcony doors.
Damian’s head lifted immediately.
Right on time.
Iris glided through the air with practiced familiarity, wings beating once before she landed gracefully on the railing. She strutted inside like she owned the place, claws tapping lightly against the polished floor.
Damian rose from his chair.
“You took longer than expected,” he noted calmly, though the subtle shift in his posture betrayed the relief in his chest.
Iris gave a short coo.
His sharp green eyes immediately spotted the envelope tucked into her small pouch.
“Ah.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward—barely there, but unmistakable.
“Your return is justified.”
He approached slowly, careful and composed, as if the moment required precision. With practiced fingers, Damian unfastened the small pouch and retrieved the envelope.
The moment he saw her handwriting, something warm flickered in his expression.
“…Beloved,” he murmured quietly.
Iris hopped onto his desk, watching him expectantly as he opened the letter.
Damian unfolded the pages with almost ceremonial care, charcoal-stained fingers pausing only briefly before smoothing the paper flat. A small smile tugged on his lips as he read the letter, his finger brushing against the familiar handwriting fondly.
He flipped to the last page and immediately froze.
A ticket.
A plane ticket to be exact.
His chair scraped loudly as he stood up, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the ticket as if it wasn’t real.
The paper trembled slightly between his fingers.
For a long moment, Damian simply stared at it, his sharp green eyes scanning the printed details again and again as if repetition would somehow prove it real.
Departure.
Date.
Destination.
Gotham.
His breath left him slowly.
“…Impossible.”
Yet the evidence sat plainly in his hand.
He lowered himself back into the chair almost mechanically, gaze drifting back to the final lines of her letter.
You once said ink endures longer than a message on a screen.
So I thought this would be better written than texted.
For once in his life, Damian Wayne had absolutely no immediate response.
His mind, usually so precise and disciplined, scrambled through possibilities. Had something happened? Was she moving? Was this temporary? Why hadn’t she mentioned it before?
Then realization settled slowly in his chest.
She was coming here.
To Gotham.
To him.
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped him—soft and breathless in a way that would have shocked anyone who knew the usually composed Robin.
“Iris,” he murmured, looking toward the pigeon perched on his desk.
The bird tilted her head.
“…You were aware of this.”
Iris puffed her feathers proudly.
Damian ran a hand through his hair, charcoal smudging faintly along his temple without him noticing. The strict composure he carried like armor had cracked in the most unexpected way.
He looked down at the ticket again.
The arrival time.
Today.
His heartbeat quickened.
Then as if the world was teasing him, the sound of the manor’s doorbell rang.
Without another word, Damian folded the ticket carefully—far more carefully than necessary—and slipped it back into the envelope and rushed out of his room.
His footsteps were quick—far quicker than the composed, measured stride he usually maintained.
The halls of the manor blurred past him as he descended the staircase two steps at a time, the envelope clutched tightly in his hand. His heartbeat hammered in his chest, each chime of the doorbell echoing through the house like a countdown.
It couldn’t be.
It was too soon.
Yet the possibility pulled him forward like gravity.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang once more.
“Master Damian?” Alfred’s voice drifted from the corridor as the butler emerged, eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of the young man moving with such urgency. “I was just about to—”
“I will answer it,” Damian cut in, already crossing the foyer.
Alfred paused.
He had served the Wayne family long enough to recognize something rare when he saw it.
Excitement.
Damian reached the door, his hand hovering over the handle for half a second. The usually fearless vigilante suddenly found his breath catching, the reality of the moment settling over him.
If it is not her…
He pushed the thought away and opened the door.
There she was.
F/n stood on the front steps, a small travel bag slung over her shoulder, the afternoon sun glowing softly behind her. Strands of hair shifted in the breeze, framing the familiar smile that had lived in his letters for months.
For a moment, Damian Wayne forgot how to speak.
The envelope slipped slightly in his grasp.
“…Beloved.”
The word came out quieter than intended, almost disbelieving.
F/n tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Hi, Dami.”
The distance that had stretched between them for months suddenly felt very, very small.
F/n looked at the boy in front of her, a shy smile tugging on her lips as she clutched her travel bag.
“ I’m sorry for umm-” She gestured towards the letter on his hand- “ Not giving you ample time to process this. I kind of wanted to surprise you.”
The envelope in his hand crinkled slightly under his grip.
For someone who had faced assassins, supervillains, and entire armies without hesitation, he suddenly looked… uncertain.
His eyes flickered from her face to the travel bag in her hand, then back again, as if confirming she was truly standing there and not simply another product of imagination after too many nights spent sketching.
“You succeeded,” he said finally, voice lower than usual. “The surprise was… effective.”
A faint pink dusted the tops of his ears, betraying him completely.
F/n shifted her weight awkwardly on the step, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Yeah… I figured showing up was better than texting ‘Hey, I’m outside Wayne Manor.’”
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Damian stepped aside abruptly, the motion stiff but purposeful.
“You should not remain outside,” he said quickly. “Gotham’s air quality is unpleasant and the temperature is dropping.”
It was a very Damian way of saying come inside.
F/n smiled softly and stepped past him into the manor. The massive foyer stretched around her, just as grand as she remembered from the few photos Damian had reluctantly sent her months ago.
Behind her, the door closed quietly.
Damian stood there for a moment longer, still gripping the envelope before finally turning back to face her.
Up close, the charcoal smudge along his temple was more obvious now.
F/n’s eyes brightened with amusement.
“You have charcoal on your face,” she said gently.
Damian immediately frowned slightly, lifting a hand to wipe it away—only managing to smear it worse.
“…Unfortunate.”
She laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet hall in a way that felt strangely natural.
Without thinking too much about it, F/n stepped closer and reached up, brushing her thumb lightly across his temple to wipe the smudge away.
The contact was brief.
But it made Damian freeze.
His breath caught just slightly.
Months of letters, drawings, and careful words suddenly collapsed into a single moment of real closeness.
“…You traveled a considerable distance,” he said quietly, still looking at her. “You should have informed me.”
Her smile softened.
“And ruin the surprise?”
For once, Damian didn’t have a counterargument.
He simply looked at her—really looked at her—as if committing the moment to memory.
“…No,” he admitted softly.
“…This was acceptable.”
And then, after a brief pause, his voice grew quieter still.
“…I missed you.
F/n blinked, not expecting to hear the quiet confession.
But hearing it—from him—made her chest tighten.
Her shy smile softened into something warmer.
“I missed you too, Dami,” she said gently.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything but his mind refused to form a coherent thought.
Then, an amused chuckle sounded behind him.
“ I didn't expect a surprise visitor.”
Dick emerged down the stairs, his eyes shining with amusement as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.
Damian’s shoulders stiffened immediately.
He didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.
“…Grayson.”
F/n peeked slightly around Damian’s shoulder just as Dick reached the bottom of the stairs. He paused mid-step, taking in the full scene: Damian standing rigidly in the foyer, an envelope clutched in his hand, charcoal still faintly dusting his fingers—and a girl with a travel bag standing just inside the door.
Dick’s grin grew wider by the second.
“Well, well,” he said lightly, crossing his arms against the railing. “So this is the famous mystery correspondent.”
Damian closed his eyes briefly, already regretting every life decision that had led to this moment.
“Your presence is unnecessary,” Damian stated flatly.
“Too late,” Dick replied cheerfully. “I live here.”
F/n shifted a little awkwardly but smiled politely.
“Hi…?”
Dick’s grin softened immediately, switching into his much more welcoming older-brother energy.
“Hi,” he said warmly. “You must be F/n.”
Damian shot him a sharp look.
“You will refrain from interrogating her.”
“Interrogating?” Dick scoffed. “Relax, little D. I’m being friendly.”
His eyes flicked down to the envelope still in Damian’s hand.
“Oh my god,” Dick added, realization dawning. “Did you literally get her letter five minutes before she showed up?”
Damian’s ears turned red.
“That information is irrelevant.”
Dick leaned closer, absolutely delighted.
“You sprinted downstairs, didn’t you?”
“I did not sprint.”
“You definitely sprinted.”
“I moved with efficiency.”
F/n pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to hide her laughter.
Dick noticed and immediately pointed at her like he had just found an ally.
“See? She believes me.”
Damian looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“Grayson,” he warned.
“Relax,” Dick said, raising his hands in surrender—though the teasing sparkle in his eyes remained. Then he turned back to F/n, offering a friendly smile.
“ Welcome to Wayne manor.You’ve officially witnessed something incredibly rare.”
F/n tilted her head curiously.
“And what’s that?”
Dick jerked a thumb toward Damian.
“Him being completely flustered.”
Damian inhaled slowly, the way someone did when deciding whether or not violence was socially acceptable.
“…I will push you down the stairs.”
Dick laughed.
“Worth it.”
Alfred cleared his throat, stepping in just in time before Damian decides to tackle his oldest brother.
“ Master Damian… I believe you shouldn’t keep our guest waiting.”
Damian froze mid-step.
The subtle reminder settled over him like a splash of cold water.
He straightened immediately, clearing his throat as he forced his composure back into place—though the faint pink still lingering on his ears betrayed him.
“…Right.”
F/n was still standing near the doorway with her bag, clearly amused by the entire exchange but trying to remain polite.
Damian turned toward her, expression softening again.
“You must be tired from your flight,” he said, voice quieter now. “I will escort you to a guest room.”
Dick leaned casually against the staircase railing, watching the interaction like someone enjoying a live comedy show.
“Wow,” he muttered dramatically. “Did you hear that, Alfred? Escort. He’s being so polite.”
Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
“Grayson.”
Dick raised his hands in surrender again, though the grin never left his face.
“I’m done, I’m done.”
Alfred, meanwhile, stepped forward with his usual calm grace.
“If Miss F/n will follow me, I can have one of the east wing rooms prepared,” he offered kindly.
Before F/n could answer, Damian spoke again.
“I will show her.”
Alfred’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Of course, Master Damian.”
F/n adjusted her travel bag again and glanced between the three men before smiling sheepishly.
“Sorry for showing up so suddenly.”
“On the contrary,” Alfred replied warmly. “It has been quite some time since Wayne Manor has seen Master Damian this… animated.”
Dick snorted.
Damian turned sharply.
“I am not animated.”
“You ran downstairs like someone set the manor on fire.”
“I did not run.”
F/n couldn’t hold it in anymore—she laughed, the sound light and bright in the quiet foyer.
Damian paused.
The irritation faded almost instantly from his face.
“…Come,” he said softly, gesturing down the hallway.
This time his voice carried none of the stiffness from earlier—just quiet relief that she was actually here.
F/n followed him, her footsteps echoing softly beside his.
Behind them, Dick leaned closer to Alfred and whispered:
“Five bucks says he’s been sketching her face in that room for months.”
Alfred gave a small, knowing smile.
“Master Damian has always been… dedicated.”
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏
