“Well, atoms never touch each other. Since we are made of atoms, we have never touched anything our whole lives. So to answer your question, no I didn’t take the cupcake you were saving.”
"O-Oh shut up! Trying to use such a “convenient” excuse... now I know for sure you took it!! Do you know how much I was looking forward to it?! I had it specially ordered and everything and mnnnngghhhh!!!”
Kaede is pouting very hard, and reaches to firmly tug Kokichi’s cheeks. “Take this! What do you have to say for yourself, Kokichi Ouma?!”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ dilf! bunny iglesias knows he shouldn’t feel this way—especially not towards the woman taking care of his precious daughter…
but he really, really likes you, the new babysitter. his little girl means the world to him—even if her mother is out of the picture and all the love he had for her replaced itself with utter hatred.
he has a little condo in barcelona where he lives with his kid, just the two of them since his little girl’s been less than a year old. but with that, comes issues regarding her mother. sometimes, he doesn’t know how to really answer her questions about her mom.
questions like: “why did mami leave? does she not love me? does mami have another kid she loves more than me?” got him, and it hurt him to say anything, so he just said that hopefully another better and prettier ‘mami’ will come, and not another elderly nanny that he’s always gotten for her.
truth be told, he’s grateful for the nannies he’s hired as they help with his daughter, but he can’t help but wish for someone to stick around with more commitment—for his daughter and for him.
but fuck, the moment you entered their lives, it was like the world turned a little brighter. you were just so… amazing.
you had been recommended to him by the previous nanny, who had to take a leave to take care of her husband in hospice, and introduced you as one of her nieces. you barely graduated college—babysitting to pay off loans and have a little boost on your resume for experience in ‘hospitality and communications’.
and the moment you showed up, bunny felt his mouth go dry. you had the cutest little summer dress; puffy little sleeves, nicely fitting, long, flowy skirt—and that damn cleavage… bunny was no pervert by any means, but jesus you looked good as hell. you always did—wearing similar dresses in that fashion. even his daughter referred to you as “la señora que se ve como princesa”. [the lady who looks like a princess].
but he hired you because of your kindness. his daughter was spoiled…a bit too much. and you were able to handle her attitude and behavior without even raising your voice—something he himself can’t do.
he even caught his daughter call you ‘mami’ by accident, and he swore he almost lost it.
you baked treats occasionally, sang little lullabies to her that knocked her out, treated his little girl with such gentleness and kindness. you even showed up to parent events if he couldn’t make it—and his daughter never complained once.
but he can notice things. he isn’t dumb. you’re kind to his daughter…but to bunny, you seemed different.
he can notice the way you purposely began wearing slightly provocative clothing the moment he dropped that he had no wife. you still looked modest, sure, but when you bent down or crossed your arms…jesus, your tits looked amazing.
how whenever you were given any food that required sucking and licking like a lolly or a cupcake, you’d do it with direct eye contact with him. then how you’d have a habit of staring at…his crotch when he’d wear sweatpants or tight fitting pants. and that was all the time.
then you’d avoid eye contact when he did look back.
he’s bunny iglesias; he was literally named ‘sexiest man alive’ last year; of course he can tell you’re into him.
and the final straws? you just had to suck on the ice lolly he gave you with such intensity while staring straight at him and making some crude joke about being a virgin. then “oh! i’m so sorry, sir!”
and then before his little daughter fell asleep to his bedtime story, she stopped him from leaving, asking if you were going to be her new ‘mami’… fuck. you really have such a damn effect on him.
“s-sir—! not s-so rough!” he laid you on the couch, immediately going down on you the moment his daughter went to sleep upstairs.
bunny smiled, placing his index on your quivering lips. “shhh, wouldn’t wanna wake her up. keep quiet, okay?”
oh he was torturous—absolutely mean and slow with it. he had you in some type of missionary prone-bone, putting his weight against you while you took his cock with your legs wrapped around his waist. you were so fucking tight, wrapping around his fat cock like a vice.
“mmm—f-fuck!” you were so fucking loud too—and not even your voice rather your damn cunt. all bunny had to do was talk and you were instantly soaking wet down there. your panties were clinging onto your labia by the time he even got to attempt foreplay.
but it was worth it; it was better than anything you could’ve even imagined. you yourself knew bunny iglesias—one of the most famous people in spain—hell, the whole world. never in your dreams did you think you were gonna be fucked by him.
then when he switched positions? jesus, it felt like he went deeper; he kneeled, angling your hips upward on him. you had to bite your lower lip from stopping yourself from whining. he had you in such an embarrassing manner: your tits spilling out of your dress, skirt lifted all the way to your ribs and face insanely hot.
“awh, no llores, preciosa. c’mon, honey. come for me, please?” [don’t cry, dear] he pinched your clit, rubbing it and causing your legs to squeeze his waist.
oh, he was so domineering, it was insane. he was insane. he kept fucking you like that in that position for some time—
only bunny iglesias could fuck you in that damn position for various amount of time, still jackhammering into you and bringing you to tears without it getting boring.
oh he knew it was over the moment you pulled him down, adjusting yourself so that you’d be straddling him on the couch, and aligning his cock to your overflowing hole.
“why don’t we give her a cute little sibling, yeah?”
-
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MY MAN IS BACK IN THE MANGA YAYAYAYAY also this is a #repost nyehehehe
“Jean is team mom” “Ororo is team mom” SILENCE. Enough of you reducing women to maternal archetypes because you can’t be bothered to explore deeper meanings to their character.
LOGAN is team mom.
“Logan, can you buy us—“ “no” (buys the thing anyway)
Is constantly scolding his kids students for putting themselves in danger
Plans fun activities (life threatening danger room drills)
Handles the rebellious phases. You think Scott has the mental strength to deal with the fury of a teenage girl who can throw fireworks when she’s mad? I think not.
Hank can barely convince Jubilee to do her homework. Charles mentally checked out a long time ago.
Takes Jubilee, Kitty and Laura shopping. If he doesn’t like something, he’ll give them the blankets ‘that’s cute. I wouldn’t buy it.’ In the world
“What do you think, I’m made of money? We’re getting milk and that’s it.” — leaves with half the store
Is the kid’s emergency contact AND attends everyone’s PTA meetings.
No, ELIZABETH, He won’t be staying up all night cooking vegan cupcakes for your precious angel. He’s gonna buy them like a normal person.
Mom Stare (tm) that can turn you to stone
Will assign kids chores, complain they don’t do it correctly, proceeds to do it himself, then says no one helps around.
“You’re EXACTLY like your father” “…Are you talking about Scott—“ “of course I’m talking about Scott!”
Kitty wants to learn how to drive. He’s holding that safety handle till his hands get purple. “Check the mirror CHECK THE MIRROR—“ “it’s CHECKED :(( “ “CHECK SOME MORE”
Laura is his baby. Holds her everywhere. Will talk about her 24/7.
“Logan, do you know Bobby’s birthday? I need it for—“ “June 28th, Tuesday, 10:34:03 AM, blood type A, his nurse’s name was Susan, —“
Is in charge of birthday cakes. No one else.
If the kids feel down, or need someone to talk to, he’s got a 6th sense for it. Knocks on their door, Leland’s against the frame with his arm crossed, ‘wanna talk about it’ on his face.
summary: penelope attempts to launch a full-scale baby shower campaign before the baby is even done marinating.
includes: part 14, no use of y/n, overenthusiastic best friend behavior, premature baby shower planning, weaponized stationery and glitter-based intimidation, mild secondhand stress from event planning spirals, found family dynamics, quiet grief, references to deceased child, sentimental gifting tied to past loss
Penelope bursts through the office doors like a one-woman confetti cannon, hands flailing and sparkle in her hair.
“The woman carrying my precious little niece or nephew deserves to be celebrated!” she declares, voice ricocheting off the walls like an overenthusiastic foghorn. “We're having a baby shower!”
Ten weeks.
Ten weeks. That’s barely the age of a decent sourdough starter, let alone a human being with expectations.
“Pen…” you begin, already bracing.
“NO EXCUSES!” she cuts you off, tapping a clipboard with the force of a gavel. “We’re doing games, decorations, themed snacks, a baby hat for every conceivable occasion—and yes, I’ve already scheduled the tiny cupcakes with personalized frosting. Someone’s making a banner, I assume?”
“Penelope. My dear. My radiant, overachieving Penelope,” you try. “It is way too soon to—”
“—decide on a theme? Absolutely. Unicorns? Dinosaurs? Both? A beautiful hybrid? I say yes.”
“It’s too soon—”
“—for diaper-decorating? Nonsense. Babies thrive on preparedness.”
“Pen—”
“—and I need everyone’s aura colors by end of day. Because the cupcakes are color-coded to the auras. And there will be a reveal cake for baby’s aura! So we have to figure out the aura, like, now.”
“Penelope, please, it’s only been—”
“—ten weeks! I know! But that’s practically an eternity in gestational time. Babies evolve quickly, and we have to be prepared. Prepared!”
“Ten weeks. That’s really—”
“—the perfect amount of time to start a Pinterest board. And I’ve already assigned everyone colors for the baby hat stations. Morgan is blue, JJ is pink, Emily is sparkly green, and you, my precious preggo, are chartreuse.”
“Penelope, chartreuse is—”
“—the most celebratory shade of all! And coordinating it with cupcake frosting is an art form. Art! I’ve even drafted a flowchart.”
“I just… it’s really way too—”
“—early! And that’s why I need a life-sized papier-mâché stork. I’ve contacted an artisan. Three quotes came back already. One even included LED eyes. We’re going with LED eyes.”
“Penelope, LED eyes are a little—”
“—fabulous! And necessary! The baby deserves spectacle. Spectacle! Every baby deserves spectacle.”
You take a deep breath. “Pen… can we maybe, I don’t know, slow down—just a little?”
“Slow down? Darling, we’ve already scheduled the ‘Guess the Baby’s First Word’ game and the ‘Socks on a String Relay.’ Morgan has volunteered to be the starter pistol. Starter pistol! Can you believe it?”
Spencer shifts nervously behind you, half crouched, half frozen, hands hovering over a stack of paper plates. “Well, maybe we don’t need all the games at once?”
“You think too small, Spencer!” Penelope snaps, and somehow she’s pointing a glittered index finger at him. “We are going full, full, full-on celebration mode. You are on the ‘teamwork activities’ committee. Step one: coordinate with the guest of honor.”
“I… Do we coordinate…?”
“Yes! And step two: do not panic. It is vital you do not panic. Panicking would be catastrophic.”
“I… can do that,” he says, voice tight, hands already clasping and unclasping like he’s prepping for defusing a bomb.
You glance at him, half-amused, half-sympathetic. “Spence… I think we’re both about to get over-celebrated to death.”
“Nonsense,” Penelope declares, spinning in a circle that somehow doesn’t knock over the chair. “This is tradition! This is joy! This is necessary!”
You rub your temples. Somewhere nearby, Spencer makes a small, distressed sound—half cough, half existential crisis.
“I just… it’s really early,” you say, softer now. “I’m still wrapping my head around it. This is just spectacularly, excessively, absolutely… premature.”
“I disagree,” she says. “It's never too soon!”
You tilt your head, trying to match her energy without summoning the kind of catastrophe her enthusiasm thrives on.
“What if,” you offer carefully, “we did something small? Simple. Just… us.”
Penelope blinks once. Twice.
“Define… small.”
“No storks,” you say gently.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“No tiaras.”
A visible tremor.
“No charts. No relays. No starter pistol.”
Spencer exhales like a man spared the gallows.
Penelope just stares at you. “You want… a celebration… without… anything?”
“Yes. A small one. Simple. Quiet.” You smile gently, hoping she gets it. “Just… people together. Cake, maybe. No chaos.”
Penelope's shoulders slump, then she straightens, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Fine. Fine. Tiny, tiny chaos. Just a smidge. You win… for now.”
Spencer exhales audibly, relief washing over him in a visible wave, and you can’t help but smile at the mixture of panic and gratitude etched across his face.
“And,” Penelope adds, tapping her clipboard with authority, “we will still have cupcakes. Color-coded frosting optional.”
You laugh softly. “Okay. That I can handle.”
Spencer mutters under his breath, “Miracle achieved…”
A few days later, the team gathers at Rossi’s house, a quiet Sunday afternoon punctuated by the faint scent of baked goods and sun through the blinds. Penelope has mostly kept her word: a few balloons float on curling ribbons, a small banner drapes across the mantle, and the table is lined with cupcakes, their frosting pastel with just a whisper of gold and silver sprinkles. It’s… almost normal. Almost.
“Well,” Penelope declares, hands on her hips, “behold! The Teaser Shower!” She spins, careful not to knock a balloon free. “Tiny. Manageable. Mostly safe. But still celebratory!”
Morgan raises an eyebrow at the banner that reads Tiny Human, Big Dreams. “Mostly safe, huh?”
Rossi clears his throat—the soft, old-wood kind of sound that means something real is about to happen.
“I, ah… may have gotten you something,” he says, straightening his cuff with exaggerated nonchalance.
You grin. “Please tell me it’s not a papier-mâché stork with LED demon eyes.”
Penelope’s distant shriek of ‘they wouldn’t be demonic!’ echoes from the kitchen, but Rossi only smirks.
“No stork,” he says. “Come on.”
He tilts his head toward the hallway, and something in his expression—quiet, fond, strangely careful—makes your pulse slow. You follow him into the dimmer part of the house, where photos line the walls and the air smells faintly of cedar and memories.
He opens the door to a small den and steps aside.
The room is calm, lived-in. And right in the middle of it sits a wooden rocking horse.
Not just any rocking horse.
This one is carved from deep, warm walnut, its surface polished until it looks like old honey. The grain ripples like muscle. The rockers curve smooth and steady. Tiny brass studs glint along the saddle. It is clearly, unmistakably, made by hand.
And loved.
Your breath stutters. “Dave… oh.”
He stands with his hands folded loosely in front of him, eyes on the horse, not your face.
“I made it,” he says quietly. “A long time ago.”
There’s something in the way he says long—a gravity, a soft ache—that tugs your ribs inward.
“I, uh… made it for my son, James.” His voice is steady, but gentled. “He never got the chance to use it. I kept it anyway.” He clears his throat. “Thought maybe… the right home might come along someday.”
Your vision blurs instantly. The rocking horse stands there like a relic of a life that never had time to grow, polished with hope and grief and years of quiet keeping.
“Oh, Dave, I couldn't possibly–” Your voice breaks cleanly in half.
He lifts a hand—not quite stopping you, not quite reaching for you—just a quiet, steadying gesture. “It’s alright,” he says. “I want you to have it. Both of you.”
You step toward the rocking horse, fingertips brushing its smooth flank. The wood is cool, impossibly real. Your tears spill before you can stop them.
“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, voice wobbling. “It’s… God, Dave, it’s perfect. I can’t believe you’d give us something so—” Your breath trembles. “So personal.”
Rossi smiles—a small, tired thing, like a lantern left burning in a window long after the storm has passed.
“It was meant to be rocked,” he says softly. “Meant to be worn in. Meant to squeak a little when the years get into the joints.” His eyes trace the curve of the saddle, then flick up to you. “It was meant to be loved. And it’s… not getting any of that sitting in a storage unit.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold in the wave cresting behind your ribs. “It means more than I can say.”
He gives a slow nod, like he’s accepting something sacred—not gratitude, but understanding. “Good. Then we’re square.”
△ “Make sure the ornaments are properly aligned or I’ll make sure coal are in your stockings…”
△ “Chill out, Dumpling Cookie. This is a holiday party, not an important meeting!”
△ “Yeah, go easy on me, will ya?”
△ “Um…yeah, figures like the Ancient Heroes will be coming over and we need to be up to standard. Especially Golden Cheese Cookie.”
△ “She won’t say anything, not with Mx. Popular over here, heh.”
△ “You have a point, but I still want it to look its best. Crowned Cupcake over there has barely hanged up that mistletoe.”
△ “And give ANY of them a chance to smooch Y/N on their precious lips? Nuh uh!”
△ “Well, why not just hang it above your head so you aren’t constantly checking that doorway all the time?”
△ “Salsa, don’t!“
△ “That’s…not a bad idea actually. I’ll be right back.”
△ “Wait a second, I was just joking! Ugh…”
△ “You know all too well that she’ll take any chance she finds…”
△ “Sheesh, tough crowd…”
Cookie Kingdom guards hurried into the area, informing you that guests started arriving.
△ “Crumbs, come on now! We need to get these decorations wrapped up!”
△ “Don’t rush me! I need precision with this stuff!”
△ “Use precision faster.”
△ “I’ll leave you two to settle your quarrel, I gotta go get the castle doors. Time to set the mood.”
You turned on the speakers before you left for the front.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
It's the best time of the year.
I don't know if there'll be snow,
But have a cup of cheer.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The Ancient Heroes were the first to arrive as you gave them a warm welcome. You exchanged greetings and hugs with all of them, but you were a little hesitant with Hollyberry Cookie.
She saw that as a challenge and chased you around the room with her arms out open, determined to (unintentionally) crush your bones in one big hug as the others shared laughs at the scene.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
And when you walk down the street,
Say Hello to friends you know,
And everyone you meet.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Jagae Cookie gestured outside a window for you to check out. Her crew was bringing out a load of gifts, a proud look on her face as she reveled in the surprised look on your face.
Manju Cookie simply chuckled and turned your attention to his docked ship, showcasing a just as large amount of gifts being loaded onto your dock. This would cue another bickering between him and Jagae over who brought you the best and the most gifts!
Meanwhile, the Citrus gang and Marshmallow Bunny Cookie ended up being the ones to get your attention as they handed you a homemade gift they all made together.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Oh, ho, the mistletoe,
Hung where you can see;
Somebody waits for you;
Kiss her once for me.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Crowned Cupcake sat down on the couch next to you, her plan going ahead of hanging a mistletoe above her head from her crown. She did not make it subtle that she wanted you under it with her.
You rolled your eyes with a smile before you held her chin to make her kiss you. She could barely control herself as she fanned her face with her hands and kicked her feet in the air!
So much motion that the mistletoe flew off her crown and landed between Dumpling and Salsa. Both eyed the plant and then each other, before looking away in silent embarrassment. You slipped in between them with the mistletoe on your head, the two Cookies eyed each other again before shrugging their shoulders and kissing each side of your cheeks.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Have a holly, jolly Christmas,
And in case you didn't hear,
Oh by golly, have a holly, jolly,
Christmas this year!
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Salt Cellar Cookie chose to stand outside the door and guard the entrance to the party, away from it all. This didn’t sit right well with you as you gestured to Charcoal Cookie and came outside with a cup of hot chocolate. You gestured to her the cup as Charcoal advised that she take it.
She refused at first, but your insistence made her relent shortly. She insisted she stay outside to guard the party of any threats, but you assured her that this was a time of cheer and you weren’t going to leave her out. As you walk back into the room with her, she can’t help but smile to herself a little…if only her Lord Commander were here to see this…
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Have a holly, jolly Christmas;
And when you walk down the street,
Say Hello to friends you know,
And everyone you meet.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Agar Agar Cookie was happily eating some of the food that was made for the party, it can’t help but to leave you with a smile on your face as well. She looked up at you and gave you some too, of which you accepted.
She did have her shy streak still, when she huddled close to you when the other Cookies greeted her and wanted to talk to her like Chess Choco Cookie. It took a while and a little encouragement to get her to speak to them. Slow, but it was progress!
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Oh, ho, the mistletoe,
Hung where you can see;
Somebody waits for you;
Kiss her once for me.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The (all but one) Beast Cookies wallowed in your mindscape, their plans of consuming you in mind and body had been halted by an unknown force and it left them just lying about waiting for the next opportunity. That was until a bright light shined on them, too bright for them to see directly as they covered their faces and closed their eyes. When they open them, they found themselves in the party. You took a moment to recover yourself from the forceful ejection as Pure Vanilla Cookie gave you water, thanking you quietly.
The four Beasts immediately turned to you, ready to pounce and Silent Salt ready to step in until you quickly gestured to the literal gods, guardians, and the Ancient Heroes that were also in attendance. It wouldn’t be a wise idea for them to get their hands on you right now! Shadow Milk tried to protest with a pun on being partypoopers, but found himself getting a (regular) cookie stuffed in his mouth by PV. Burning Spice wanted to fight you here and now, but you promised that if he behaved that he can fight you and every other powerful Cookie here afterwards. Soon enough, he was on the couch with Nutmeg Tiger as they took an interest at the hot chocolate here.
Mystic Flour could’ve easily just tried to turn everyone here to nothingness, but then you swore to be a disciple to her teachings of Apathy if she behaved. She didn’t care for that outcome nor for your promise, you were going to awaken and learn it either way, but she was satisfied with that answer and went to mediate on the couch. Eternal Sugar didn’t really care, so long as it brings you joy and that she gets to be close to you as much as she can, her heavenly. Say, isn’t that mistletoe on her wing? What a surprise! She was just starting to feel romantical!
Silent Salt calmed down and lowered his sword, taking a breath of relief as he saw how quickly you deescalated the situation. He never would’ve thought that his…old friends would be easily swayed like that. He was brought out of thought when Salt Cellar Cookie and White Lily Cookie gave him a cup of hot chocolate, of which he accepted and took a drink of. Sweet.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Have a holly, jolly Christmas,
And in case you didn't hear,
Oh by golly, have a holly, jolly
Christmas this year!
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Overlooking the whole party alongside you was Millennial Tree Cookie, Cookies of different walks of life and their own goals and values being able to set every difference aside to spend the holidays together. It was the most interesting, yet memorable thing that Millennial Tree has seen in a while. You couldn’t believe it either, being the glue that held everyone together like this…it made everything you endured throughout the year worth it…
You clanked your cup of hot chocolate with Millennial Tree’s as you drank from it. You had to give your kudos to Wedding Cake Cookie for making them this good!
During his captivity in the Arkham Asylum, The Joker doesn’t just torture Jason. He teaches him what caring and being cared for costs.
Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, Ageless blogs DNI, AK!Jason x fem!Reader, hurt no comfort, heavy angst, imprisonment, abuse, torture, reader is under the effects of fear toxin, panic attacks, implied SA(both on Jason and reader), dissociation, blood and injuries, Wonder girl reader, 2.9k words
On Jason’s eighteenth birthday, Joker is brighter than ever. He says he’s got a gift for him. “The most perfect gift of them all. A pet if you may. And you’re going to looooooove it boy wonder.”
That horrendous maniac laugh chirps and echoes through the walls of the Asylum.
So Jason expects another gun, a new one, a bigger one. He expects a torture device. One that cuts fingers off or blows up on his face. Or one of these glass boxes that wizards use to emerge themselves underwater only to get out seconds before they drown, just so Harley can water board him twice a week instead of once.
He expects merely pain. Total and utter and destructive.
What he doesn’t expect is, Joker, dragging you by a disheveled pigtail into the room and thrown under that ridiculously bright spotlight over his head.
He eyes you up and down like he can’t believe it.
You’re dressed into some torn, dirty and fuzzy, two piece outfit, with a collar and a leash around your neck. The latter, you're desperately holding onto, like you’re trying to rip it off of you, your eyes wide and unfocused. Your breath whistles out of your mouth as your chest is heaving.
Joker barks at him playfully.
“Figured Gotham’s got a cat already doncha think?” He says when he throws you entirely at Jason’s feet. “Cheer up my boy! She’s having a panic attack! That’s as happy as she can get!”
Jason tries to stand, but his restraints bite into his wrists and ankles, metal scraping metal with a sound that makes Joker giggle. Jason yanks again, harder, like brute force might magically snap industrial chains, but all it does is make his muscles tremble with exhaustion and numbing pain.
Joker claps like he just watched a toddler take their first steps. “Aww, cupcake! Look at you, still fighting the good fight! Isn’t he just precious, sweetie?”
You let out a small, broken sound —a whimper or a plea, Jason can’t tell— and your fingers scrabble at the floor with bloody force, pushing yourself backwards until your spine hits his shin. You don’t even notice him. You’re just trying to escape something only you can see.
Jason’s stomach sinks. Something hot and ugly coils in his throat.
“What did you do to her?”
The Joker tsks. “Aww, don’t go spoiling the surprise, kiddo! She’s still marinating.”
“What did you do to her?” Jason repeats, his voice is a low rasp now, pure panic barely held together.
“Just a teensy bit of fear toxin!” Joker chirps, blinking his eyelashes up and down like rapid fire “Enough to make her see the things she’s always been afraid of. Abandonment, death, rejection, spiders— I dun know! I didn’t read her file.”
“She’s terrified,” Jason hisses.
“Yeah!” Joker beams, his hands rest on the side of his face, clasped together in excitement. “Ain’t she adooooorables?”
Jason’s chest feels like it’s caving in. He can’t stop staring at you — the way your hands shake, the way your ribs stutter with every breath, how your eyes never land anywhere safe because there isn’t safe. Not here. Not with him chained and Joker standing free.
If he was free, if he could get free, he’d help you. God knows how much he wants to put his arms around you and ground you right now. He wants to change you out of this humiliating outfit, put something warm around you like a blanket. Just hold you till you calm down.
And suddenly it snaps in his head! A clear picture of what’s presented to him. That sick and twisted bastard—Joker knows that Jason wants to help you and he, he—
“You want me to hurt her,” Jason says quietly, as if acceptance is the only choice.
Joker tilts his head, grin stretching wider. “I want you to understand, Jaybird.”
“Understand what?”
Joker leans in until Jason feels his breath on his ear. “That everything you love screams when I touch it.”
Jason’s fists clench uselessly in their restraints.
“And you?” Joker adds, tapping Jason’s chest with one lazy finger. “You’re gonna listen to every. Single. Sound.”
Between them, you whimper again —small, lost, breaking.
And Jason can’t even turn his head to help you. He just forces the words out between clenched teeth.
“How did you get her?”
The question cracks something in his throat. Because if Joker could get you, then who else? What else? Where had you been when he got you? Why had no one come for him?
Joker pretends to be surprised —hand to chest, eyebrows flaring up. “Oh! Oh, that. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.” Joker stops mid-twirl, freezes like someone pressed pause on him. Then he turns his head slowly —too slowly— like a marionette whose strings are being yanked.
“Ohhh, you’re gonna love this part,” he purrs.
Jason’s heart stutters. His wrists burn where the restraints dig deeper, but he pulls anyway. He can’t help it. You’re still on the tile floor, breath tripping over itself, fingers scraping uselessly at the leash like you’re trying to peel your own skin off.
Jason glares, jaw tight.
Joker leans down, tapping Jason’s cheek twice with two cold fingers. “She found me, Jaybird. Us.”
Jason’s stomach drops.
You’re still curled up on the dirty tiles, trembling, eyes darting at corners like shadows are crawling toward you.
Joker continues, sing-song. “Came swooping through Arkham all high and mighty, ‘Wonder Girl’ this, ‘hero’ that, with her shiny powers and shiny morals and shiny—well—everything.” He twirls a finger in the air. “And I just thought… How rude. I just hate nosy girls that sparkle— yah know me pumpkin.”
Jason’s eyes are raw, bloodshot with tears he doesn’t want to allow himself to pour.
Every nice word Joker uses to degrade you with his tone, feels like a bullet to the stomach. They way hatred drips down the clown’s mouth when he talks about you infuriates him.
Jason hates, hates, that Joker’s got you in his mouth and talks down on you. He hates the ugly thought that someone changed you into this outfit you’re wearing. He hates that it’s probably him.
For all the beating that he’s taken, he isn’t stupid. He knows what happens when inmates are out in Arkham and there’s a hero tied somewhere in the vicinity.
His throat burns like he just swallowed barred wire —even that thought is dangerous, if Joker could read his mind, he’d make him do so— he hates himself for every flickering image, that spurts from an intrusive thought, of you being tortured in the way he has been.
Rage. Rage. There’s only ever rage inside him. Rage and hurt.
His lips wobble, his vision is now blurry. He can’t even glance at you without those thoughts pouring in.
“Oh don’t pout, Jaybird. She made it easy! She poked her head into all the wrong doors. Down the wrong stairwells. Through all those spooky little maintenance tunnels where the echoes sound like little birds crying—”
Jason freezes, his thoughts snapping in half.
Joker tilts his head, watching Jason’s reaction like a delighted child. “Oh? That got your attention. Hah! She was this close—” he holds his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart “—to finding your little holiday home.”
Jason’s vision tunnels fast. “She almost found… me?”
Joker beams. “Mm-hm! Popped open the wrong hatch like a curious kitten! Do you know how hard I worked to keep this place off the books? Don’t even get me started on the real estate paperwork.”
Jason’s breath catches. Where were you? What if you had walked five more steps to the left? To the right? If you had pushed a door on your way a little harder… If Joker hadn’t been there—
Joker leans in, eyes wild. “She heard you, you know.”
Jason goes completely still.
“She heard you screaming. Oh, you should’ve seen her face. I thought her heart might explode! Would’ve saved me the trouble. But nooooo, she thought she could have taken me down with her powers!”
Joker crouches before you, grabs your chin between his fingers and forces you to face him. You flinch so violently you slide half an inch across the floor.
Your screaming’s nothing but a choked sound that betrays you’re still unresponsive to the real world.
“Ohhhhh big scary girl” Joker deadpans, “Superpowered tourists really grind my gears. Gotham is my little playground, and I don’t like caped freaks cluttering it up.”
Then he turns to Jason with raised eyebrows and pouty lips, voice softening into something sickly sweet “I wanted to forgive her, mah boy. But.. well… Yah don’t even wanna know what the others did to her. Oh they couldn’t forgive her.”
Jason jerks forward so hard the metal cuffs slice open the skin on his wrists but he doesn’t wince in pain like he normally would. Adrenaline is spiking in his body, shielding him from the discomfort.
Rage. A feeling of panic that feels white and hot through his stomach. It churns and bubbles, like he’s going to throw up.
He’s going to kill all of them. Cut off their hands, nice and slow until they're nothing but a bloody pulp. For what they did to him and you both. Joker will be the first.
Joker finally stands, pacing in a slow circle around your shaking body. He tries a kick, a slow shag of his foot to laugh at your petrified reaction.
Jason’s pulse hammers. He can’t stop staring at you, his eyes throbbing. The way your eyes track something invisible crawling up to you. The way you choke on your own breath. The way you fold into yourself like you’re trying to disappear.
He wants to do something, anything, to help you.
There hasn’t been a day in here where he hadn't thought of you.
And maybe, this is all just a thought too.
Maybe if he closes his eyes and shrinks his thoughts just enough, then this would all be a dream. A lie. Something he crafted in his need to see you at the verge of his death.
He needs to believe this is fake. For his sake. For your sake. He’s so used to being the one who suffers and endures that it’s borderline lunatic to imagine you going through the same.
But it doesn’t matter— no matter how hard he wants to believe this is a lie, when he closes his eyes and opens them again, his truth is most horrid. Worse than a nightmare. It makes his core shiver in tremor.
Joker straightens like he’s just delivered the punchline of the century.
“Ohhh don’t give me that look,” he croons. “You’re acting like I kicked a puppy. Oh! Wait. I did. But she’s still breathing, ain’t she?”
Jason doesn’t answer to the disgust in Joker’s tone.
He can’t, actually. Because suddenly he remembers you before this. Before the way your body is folding in on itself like it’s trying to disappear between cracks in the tile.
He remembers the first time he saw you on patrol—too bright for Gotham, too earnest. You had hovered a little when you landed, boots not quite touching the ground, like the city hadn’t earned your weight yet. You smiled at him like you weren’t afraid of operating without Wonder Woman, like you weren’t afraid of anything.
He remembers teasing you, saying you were going to get yourself killed. You teased him all the same.
He remembers hoping—quietly, stupidly—that neither of you wouldn’t.
And now you’re here.
Jason swallows hard, jaw locking as Joker keeps circling you like a shark that’s already fed but isn’t done playing, ready to bite into carcass and rip and shatter.
“She thought she was strong,” he says. “Thought powers made her special. Thought she could help.”
He snorts. “Same thing you thought my little birdie.”
Jason flinches.
The words slide in easy, almost gentle. Joker doesn’t need to shout. He’s already inside Jason’s head.
“She heard you screaming,” Joker repeats, softer now. “And instead of running—like a smart person—she came closer.”
Jason squeezes his eyes shut. Because that’s the part his brain won’t stop replaying. You choosing to come closer. It’s so dangerous to have hope, but you had been there for him.
“You know what that makes her?” Joker asks.
Jason doesn’t answer.
“It makes her stupid.”
The word lands heavy. Just because it’s true.
“But, y’know what I liked most?” Joker goes on, conversational. “She kept saying your name.”
Jason’s head snaps up. “You’re lying.” He yells.
Joker gasps, offended. “Me? Lie? On your birthday?”
He squats down beside you again, tapping two fingers against your collar so it jingles softly. The sound makes you flinch so hard your knees knock together.
“She’d scream it, ‘Jason, Jason’” Joker continues, grinning. “Begging you to answer. Thought maybe you were on the other side of the wall. Thought you’d hear her.”
Jason’s chest heaves once, sharp and painful.
You make a sound—barely audible—but his name slips out of you like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s the last solid thing your brain knows how to reach for.
Jason goes so cold. He can’t even imagine what you’re possibly hallucinating right now that compels you to call out his name. What sort of twisted nightmare takes place before your eyes that he fits in.
What part of your brain does he inhibit at the moment.
Joker snaps his fingers right in your face, maniacally laughing when you flinch again. He seems to love that you do, so much that he grabs you by your pigtails again.
The lights hum louder. The spotlight seems harsher somehow, pressing down on you until you curl inward with a strangled sob, hands clawing at the leash, then Joker’s wrists as if each contact is burning your skin.
Jason yanks against his restraints so hard his shoulders scream. “Stop it! She didn’t do anything—she was just trying to help me!”
Joker tilts his head. “Exactly!” He spits “You don’t need help, I'm training yah here!”
You cry out again—louder this time—and Jason’s heart splits straight down the middle because every instinct in him is screaming move, protect, do something—and he can’t.
Not yet.
One day, one day he thinks, he’s going to burn down the world for what it’s put both of you through.
But as you gasp and tremble and whisper his name like it’s a prayer you don’t even believe in anymore, something else settles into him. Not hope. Not rage—Of the latter he has plenty anyways.
But only a promise of revenge and violence.
Joker lets the silence rot, as hatred visibly boils inside Jason’s eyes.
He doesn’t rush it. He knows better. He knows Jason’s brain is tripping over itself, dragging old images forward—snapshots he never meant to keep. You laughing once on a rooftop, wind catching your hair. The way you always hovered a little too close to the edge. The way you never looked at him like he was just a kid.
“You know,” Joker says eventually, almost disgusted, “I was gonna give you a gun. Like the other time.”
Jason doesn’t react. He knows better too.
“I really was! Big one, too. Something with kick.” Joker sighs theatrically. “But then she fell into my lap and I thought—why waste the opportunity? I got you your puppy before Christmas.”
He nudges you again with his foot. Not hard. Just enough. Your body jerks like you’ve been shocked with electricity.
Jason’s jaw tightens and tightens until his temples ache.
“She doesn’t even know you’re here,” Joker continues. “Isn’t that funny? All that effort. All that care. And she’s too scrambled to look at the right monster.”
Jason stares at the floor, because if he looks at you too long, he’s going to break.
“You liked her,” Joker says, suddenly sharp.
It’s not a question and Jason doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
Joker hums. “Yeah. I could tell. Always the quiet ones. Always the ones you don’t touch.”
He crouches, fingers brushing the leash, letting it drag across the floor with a faint metallic scrape.
“Besides… she was already terrified. Crane’s fear juice just helped her see what was coming for her. So when she wakes up screaming in the middle of the night?” Joker grins. “When she flinches at shadows? When she can’t stand to be alone in a room without panicking?” He straightens. “She won’t think of you.”
Joker leans in close enough that Jason can smell the antiseptic on his breath.
“But you?” he whispers. “You’re gonna remember everything.”
He taps the side of Jason’s chin once. Tap. Then, he gives him a playful slap.
“Because that’s the trick, Jaybird. Heroes forget. Victims move on.”
His smile stretches.
“But sidekicks?”
Joker steps back, spreading his arms wide as the lights hum overhead and you curl tighter into yourself on the floor.
“They remember.”
Joker steps close enough to whisper in Jason’s ear, voice low and terrible. “And you’ll always remember…”
He points at you, curled, shaking, barely conscious.
“…That Batsy came for none of yah. That you were the one who dragged her here.”
Jason shuts his eyes because opening them hurts worse. Because you’re on the ground suffering for something he caused. Because Joker’s right. And because he’s never felt more trapped. More helpless. More terrified.
Joker laughs, loud and jagged and triumphant. “Oooh, that look. That’s the one I wanted!”
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //
A/N: I was supposed to post the sweetest smut tonight but this had been sitting in the drafts for so long and ughhhhh. Jason and reader here are loosely inspired by guts and Casca ifykyk :(
No taglist this time only! Because this was pretty dark and I didn’t want to trigger anyone
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3
Dividers by @/solitary-serendipity (except for the lace one, i cant find the creator so i can tag them)
Hmmm the lads men visiting reader who they find building a cabinet, mowing the lawn, plunging the toilet, etc etc and them going "pretty girl??? why are you doing physical labor???"
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, crack, this is so funny, rafayel would totally have a wardrobe of different costumes for him and you for sexy time lol
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They find you cleaning
𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
He comes home humming, fingers still stained with pastel from whatever eccentric chaos he was up to (was it painting the koi pond pink? Who knows), and steps inside with a lazy smile, until he sees you.
You’re on your knees. In one of your softest, frilliest nightgowns. Elbow-deep in a soapy bucket, hand-wiping the skirting boards like some tragic princess cursed to clean her own castle.
Rafayel drops the canvas he was holding. Just lets it fall.
“…Baby.”
He sounds so gentle. Too gentle. His eyes are wide. “Are you… doing chores?”
You blink up at him. “The cleaning staff is off today, so I just thought—”
“You thought?” His voice cracks. “You thought my precious baby cupcake sugar-dumpling should be on the floor? Like some tragic unpaid intern in a drama?”
He’s on the floor beside you in seconds, gathering you in his arms like he’s rescuing a drowned kitten.
“I wasn’t even gone long, and look what happened,” he whimpers dramatically, nuzzling into your neck. “I left you unsupervised for five hours and you’ve become a Victorian servant girl.”
“But it’s not a big deal,”
“It is. Look at your little fingers!” He holds them up. “These are for holding diamonds and stirring tea, not scrubbing baseboards! What next? Shall I let you do taxes? Shall I allow you to fold laundry?” He gasps. “Oh my god, I’ve failed you.”
He picks you up, bridal style of course, and carries you straight into his art studio where he plops you on a heart-shaped chaise and wraps you in a sparkly throw blanket like a burrito.
“You’re grounded,” he says. “From labor. Forever.”
“…Can I at least clean the fish tank?”
“No. They can live in filth. But you? You live in luxury.”
Then he calls thomas and yells: “Send someone. My wife touched the floor. We’re in crisis.”
From that day forward, any time he catches you trying to lift a single feather duster, he gives you a scandalized gasp and clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded.
Also buys you ridiculous princessy cleaning outfits just for bedroom play purposes. But if you ever actually touch a mop again?
He’s “filing for an annulment in protest” (he won’t, he’s just dramatic and in love).
𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆
He comes home from a 12-hour hospital shift, already loosening his tie, only to freeze in the entryway.
“…what are you doing?”
His voice is low. Dangerously low. You glance up from scrubbing the floorboards on your knees, smiling, your nightgown soft and slightly slipping from one shoulder.
“The staff’s on leave for the week, so I just—”
“No.”
Zayne’s kneeling beside you in a heartbeat, pulling you up and inspecting your delicate fingers like you’ve just survived a minefield.
“You’re not scrubbing floors like a maid,” he mutters, furious but quiet. “You’re a wife, not a housekeeper. You make tea. You sit and look pretty. You kiss me when I get home.”
You pout. “But the baseboards were dusty.”
He lifts you into his arms bridal style. “So is my tolerance for this,” he mutters. You don’t touch another rag for the rest of the week. He even wipes down surfaces with medical-grade wipes himself, grumbling the entire time.
𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
The door hisses open. He walks in silently… and stares. You’re dusting. In a sheer white nightgown with ribbons. On a stepstool.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares.
“…Xavi?” you say sweetly, dusting the top shelf. “You’re home early.”
You step down. He still doesn’t say anything. Just slowly walks over, takes the feather duster from your hands, and throws it out the window of the penthouse without a word.
“Why were you doing that?”
“The staff took leave.”
“So you decided to risk death and dust inhalation?”
“Not death, I was just—”
He’s already picking you up and setting you on the bed like you’re made of crystal. “You dusted. With your soft hands. In that. That.” He gestures vaguely at the nightgown like it personally betrayed him.
“You’re too pretty to clean. You were made to be spoiled.” He climbs into bed with you, pulls the covers up, and calls the replacement staff himself. While spooning you. While still in his coat.
𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩
You’re on your knees wiping the marble floors of the safehouse, a pink ribbon in your hair, humming softly. You don’t hear the door open. But you do hear his voice:
“…Are you cleaning?”
You look up. He’s in a fitted suit. He’s just walked in and taken off his sunglasses. And he looks betrayed.
“The housekeepers are out,” you explain.
“So you thought you’d take their place?” He raises a brow. “You’re my wife, not the help.”
“But it was dusty—”
“You’re the one who deserves dusting in diamonds, not whatever this is.”
He snaps his fingers. One of his guards silently walks in with a custom velour chaise longue.
“Sit,” Sylus commands. “Now.”
“But—”
He picks you up effortlessly, places you on it, drapes you in a fur throw, and tosses a card your way. “Buy something outrageous while I fix this mess.”
“What mess?”
“The one where my princess thought she was average enough to mop floors. It’s humiliating. For me.”
𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆
He walks into the Skyhaven penthouse, jacket slung over his shoulder, already calling your name.
And then he sees you.
On your knees. With a mop. In one of his favorite frilly nightgowns, the one that rides up when you lean forward.
He drops his jacket.
“WHAT are you doing,” he says, panicked, running over. “Pipsqueak. Hello?? No—stop—give me that mop.”
“I’m just cleaning,” you giggle. “The housekeepers are on break.”
“Then the house can be dirty. I don’t care. What if you slipped? What if you got a splinter? You’re in a nightgown. You’re supposed to be lounging. Doing skincare. Being kissed!”
You blink up at him as he wrenches the mop away. He’s full dad-mode now, grumbling as he tosses it into a closet. Then he’s scooping you into his arms and carrying you to the couch.
“You’re not allowed to do things like this. You’re my wife. Not a house elf. God, I’ve failed you.”
He sits you in his lap and force-feeds you strawberries from the fridge to soothe himself.
(platonic) Yandere Bruce Wayne & Single Parent Reader (Gn)
Brucie's actions backfired on Bruce
I don't know, I should be asleep by now. Have a nice read!
Warnings: Reader has a daughter but they are gender neutral; Reader is a single parent; Usual yandere stuff; Abuse of power;
Bruce knew his Brucie Wayne persona would backfire on him someday, this was the last way he had expected it to happen
An email, a single, rapidly written email that spun his world upside down
"Mr. Wayne
I know you probably do not want anything with me but I'm desperate enough to try. I'm your child, my mother said she reached out to you and you wanted nothing to do with me. I understand that, I wasn't planned. But please, sir, I really need help. If not for your child, for your granddaughter whose other parent abandoned her and I with nothing
Please reach out back;
Sincerely, Your child"
Not want his child? Bruce Wayne not wanting a child is laughable. His kid's mother had lied to them and told them Bruce didn't want them while he didn't even know he existed. And if he did, he would absolutely have wanted to have them around if he knew of their existance! That's his kid, his baby that now had a baby of their own and was struggling
He responded right away and scheduled a meeting with his child on a cafe he liked for the next day, a Friday. He was livid when his kid asked to change to Saturday because they couldn't afford to miss a day of work. Not at them, of course, never at them, this wasn't their fault, they could never do anything wrong. No, he was mad at the world, at their employer, at anything that made his baby not be able to take a day off
Bruce offered double the money they would've lost if they missed work that day. He wanted to give more, give his everything to them to make up for all of these years of being absent, but that could scare them away and he could not have that. Bruce wouldn't lose his own child again
Next day, Bruce had a huge smile in his face, his kids were suspicious and curious about his sudden good mood but he didn't tell yet. They would find out eventually, of course they would, they were his kids. But for now, he wanted to enjoy his time alone with his kid while he can
He was the first to arrive to the cafe, asking for a black coffee and small cupcake as he waited for his kid. And oh how precious they were. They were an adult, probably between Dick's and Jason's age, but their face was a copy paste of his, same nose and chin, same shape of eyes. And the baby girl they were holding in their arms was just adorable, more than Bruce could handle. She was probably a year or so old, wrapped in a nice blanket and sleeping peacefully on her parent's arms
He made small talk at first, they were very nice to talk to, a good person that didn't deserve any of what happened to them at all.
Bruce: "Don't you want to order something"
Reader: "Oh it's… It's alright, this is an expensive cafe, I can drink something at home"
Bruce: "I can pay for you anything you want."
Reader: "No..there's… no need for it"
Bruce: (slightly irritated because why can't his child let him pamper them?) "And what about the little girl? Can she eat yet? I'm sure she'd love a little muffin"
Apparently that was what Bruce needed to see his kid crack a little bit. If he can't pamper his kid, he'll gladly pamper his granddaughter
Weeks went by, Bruce would send weekly payments, enough money to make them not worry about anything. But they kept working, tiring themself out every single day.
It wasn't enough for Bruce, if all of his family lived in the manor, or at least went there regularly, why can't his kid and grandkid live there too?!
He used his power and money to have his kid fired. Bruce wasn't proud of it, not at all. But it was the only way. And, of course, when his kid came crying desperately to his arms, he offered a room in his home, with him and their siblings. They didn't had many choices
The other Bats already knew about Bruce's kid, but somehow managed to hold themselves back. Well, except for Damian. You're gonna judge him? That's his blood sibling and nephew, he has the right
He was the first to talk to the newest in the manor (who at this point still didn't know about the family's second life)
Damian: "So, you're my father's love child?"
Reader: "You could say that, little guy"
Damian: "Don't call me that. And her? Where's her other parent? Or is she a clone and you're the only DNA donor"
Reader: "You are a weird little fella aren't you? Well, no, she's not a clone. Her other parent… left"
Damian head the pause and the soft voice. He was annoyed, why are they talking to him like he's 10? He's gonna turn 12 next week! But that annoyance was washed out by anger. How dare that other person just abandon his sibling?!
It took both Dick and Tim to make him stay in the manor instead of going after that person
Bruce was happier than he had been in a while. His kid, his baby and his grandbaby finally back with him. And he'll make sure it stays that way. They already depend on his financially and he is not afraid on making them dependent in more ways.
