Greetings from a world beyond your understanding....
I am called Katarah. take any abbreviation of that and call me by it. I am female and I am 22 earthly rotations.
I may engage in conversations that are not suitable for all ages so anyone not of age please let the door slam you on the way out. I don't want to emulate the old American Southerners by yelling at you to get the hell off of my lawn.
Again minors DNI
What I write...__
I am a patron of the arts and I enjoy multiple fandoms but like my blog name I don't enjoy the order of things and I will write when the inspiration hits.
I will try to have a list but if you want to whisper to me about a particular character then just ask and I will see if I like them of not.
Which brings me...
The whispers...__
Is what I will call my asks. I am comfortable with many topics of conversation. If I am not comfortable with what you whispered I will just tell you. However, I have some limits and the include bodily fluids , pedophila, transphobia, racism and any kind of unjustified hate towards anyone with something that they can't control. I will not entertain you at all I will simply block you.
Let the record show, Jason Peter Todd did not intend to fall in love. Especially not with you. It’s not because you are not great. You are. It is just that he never thought he will be ever capable of love. Not after the things that had happened to him. Not after the things that he has done. And not after the lifes that he has taken.
He is incapable of it.
Or that is what he keeps telling himself.
the thing is he knows, theortically what love is. He knows that. He has never experienced it before. The purest form of it. But he felt loved, once upon a time where love was easier to notice than hate and neglect. And where love was anything that resembles basic care to a child that had non. His father loved his mother, once, in a fucked up way.
the only forms of love that Jason experienced were the ones that hurt him in the end.
you are a joy. Being with you is as easy as breathing. The both of you have been friends for a long time. You know everything about him and he about you. The both of you have an easy dynamic where you don’t push him and he doesn’t nag you.
You know everything about him, even the darkest thoughts and the darkest moments. This is maybe why that he is terrified of actually acknowledging the fact that he is in love with you. He doesn’t let the thought linger much in his brain because if it did then it will dig its way out of his inner psyche and it will refuse to be buried anymore.
The time he realized what he felt for you was in a random day where you just came to his place after a one of comment on how shitty his day was, it was not even a rant, just one miscellaneous comment. You just came, dropped his favorite food and left. He kept staring at the bag after the fact, thinking that he wants to open up his chest and keep you there.
jason Todd is afraid that if he allows himself to acknowledge the fact that he loves you, that it will destroy him. That it will be his second death. What if something happens to you, what if you just leave him, what if you don’t love him they way he does you and that it will kill your friendship, they only stable thing he had in his life. But more importantly, what if it will destroys you. He doesn’t know how to love gently. Never had a role model who taught him how. What if what he counts as love is not the thing that is healthy. He saw that first hand with his parents. Worse yet, what if he kills your spirit.
what if everything, against all odds works out right. What would that mean for his way of life, right now that he feels finely comfortable enough that he doesn’t jump at the slightest sound.
jason Todd is not a gambling man. He keeps the thoughts buried and locked. What is not acknowledged, does not exist.
So it’s just another day on tumblr when a beloved mutual suddenly DMs you (or a random stranger) claiming that someone impersonated you and has scammed them out of $900 be it art or crypto or because of content related to CP. They tell you they’ve accidentally reported you by mistake and that the only way to clear up this issue is to contact someone on discord. They even show a screenshot claiming your account was reported for fraudulent activity and action must be taken within 24hrs or else your blog will be terminated. You just need to contact the “official” report dispute discord account in a timely manner and clear everything up!
You panic! You don’t want to lose your blog so you immediately DM the discord account who begins asking you questions before ultimately asking you to change your email address to theirs so they can ‘fix’ the flag on your account. All is well, and you assume that the false report is going to be cleared up…Right?
Unfortunately no. That’s not what happens.
You get locked out of your account and now the scammer logs in as you and starts to send the same message to anyone and everyone they find. The same message that now you accidentally reported the receiver and you need them to contact the same discord account to repeat the same process over and over again and you yourself seem to have no way of accessing your blog to stop the phishing. But don’t fear! You can fix this! Just contact the real support email and let them know you’ve been hacked and give them any information they may ask to confirm your the real owner of the blog.
Here are things to keep in mind:
- There is no official report dispute discord account ran by tumblr that isn’t a thing and has never been.
- Any discord account claiming to an official tumblr report dispute staff account is a scammer.
- You do not need to ever contact Discord for a tumblr related issue no matter how official the screenshot looks.
- This scam can affect anyone, even your friends. Keep them informed and if you can contact them offsite to let them know they’ve been hacked please do so they can get their account back faster.
- Reports are handled through the official tumblr tech support line and will never be through discord. (Link is to tumblr help center)
This one happen to me, the blog blocked me, I had a laugh when the guy on discord told me it was monitored by the feds. Thought it was a one off incident. Only to find out it is a fully fledged scam that happens to a lot of people.
When you wake up, it is to the stars that shine above you, to the soft sound of vegetation brushing together and the hard ground beneath you. The air is cleaner than you have ever felt and the quiet is very noticeable. The kind that makes you realize how loud silence is.
You pause...
stars?
You open your eyes wider, squinting slightly as everything comes into focus, to see them clear as day, this is the hunter and his belt. The dipper. There is the Capricorn.
Now that you think about it, why is there hard ground under you, and......corn? Tall stalks of the vegetable surrounding you at all sides, swaying slightly to a rhythm that is not know to you.
You sigh and sit up. It appears that it happened again. Your little habit of waking up in other places aside from your bed has not stopped. Not like Bruce and Alfred have predicted. The small lull in the frequency of it lured all of you into a sense of safety.
You stiffen lightly.
Dick.
dick was sleeping next to you because of a nightmare, You glance instinctively to your side, heart lurching, and exhale shakily when you remember, he’s not here. He’s safe. Back in Gotham.
you hope that he won't wake up freaking out.
It is no matter now, you think. Worrying won't get you home.
You rub the sleepiness from your eyes and look around you, even though it is very dark around, the full moon still illuminates plenty to confirm that it is corn that is around you. Which also confirms that you are a long way from home. There is no vegetation growing in Gotham. There is not a lot that grows there at all. You stand up and walk.
Stumbling, really. Moving around for a while, because trying to move in a cornfield in the dark is a task and a half, Dry leaves scrape against your arms, the ground uneven beneath your bare feet. Eventually, you find a long pole with a scarecrow on it. You shiver a little at the remembrance of the one you know back home.
"I am sorry buddy, I hope you are not as half bad as the other one." You mutter as you climb it, wood rough on your palms. It gives you as much visibility as expected, which is non, since it is still dark. But there is hope to your situation after all. Because north of where you are, you see lights, house lights. Your salvation. It is very close.
*******
It is not close. You have been walking for what seems like hours, bugs everywhere on your body, shivering because your pajamas do nothing to shield you from the cold. You try to rub your arms in hope of warming yourself up a bit, teeth chattering, but it is in vain.
After more walking, you feel exhaustion filter through your body. Your bare feet ache and protest your movements, soles raw, but you are finally here. You knock on the door, feeling half dead, and you hear shuffling and the door swings open, in front of you stands a gentleman. No really, he looks very gentle, he has very kind eyes and a sharp nose. He gives you a once over and his eyes narrow in suspicion.
you don’t blame him.
You must look downright disturbing.
“Can i help you miss?” He asks.
“I am sorry but can i use your phone" you say, voice hoarse. "I need to call my cousin. it seems that i have gotten lost.”
“You don’t say.” He hums. Furrowing his brows.
“John? Who is it?” A feminine voice sounds from the inside and the man turns around and calls back,”put the shotgun down, Martha, it is just a lost girl.”
A woman comes to the door and she looks at you and makes a sound of distress. Huh, do you look that bad?
“Let’s get you inside by the heater hun, you must be freezing.”
They have no idea how much.
********
Later, warmed by tea and the fire place,the man, john, asks.“How did you end up in here miss? You are obviously not from around here.”
The lie comes easy, after living with Bruce the white lies and half truths become second nature,
”i was partying with some friends, I don’t remember much after that.” You take a sip of your tea.
You feel bad, obviously. These two let you interrupt their night, ruin their sleep. They let you into their home and you are lying to them.
“These wont fit you, but it is better than my smaller clothes.” Martha says, returning with clothes.
“I hope it is no trouble.”
“Not at all, we love having guests over, right john?” The aforementioned man just grunts in agreement.
“It is just until tomorrow, I promise.”
“It is no trouble really. Take your time.”
You feel even guiltier for lying.
She leads you to their spare bedroom and you change into the clothes that she gave you. When you finally look around you realize that it is not a spare bedroom like you have in the manor, where it is just an unlived in room. This room obviously belonged to someone, you can see their personality all over it, movie and band posters line the wall, trophies litter the shelves. There is a small library of well loved comics. This room saw life, it saw childhood. You fall in love with it all, even when you feel a strong bang of loss.
The clothes are very large on your frame, and you need to roll the pant legs several times so you don’t trip when you walk. Martha drops by again to give you a tooth brush and an extra blanket for warmth. Eventually you settle down in the bed and let sleep take you, praying that this time, you wake up where you slept.
******
Your breath is knocked out of you. In a single moment few things happen in quick succession, first, you are startled awake by a heavy weight slamming into you on the bed, this leads to all the air leaving your body in a choked oomph. Second, upon your soul leaving you body in fear and shock, the heavy weight yelps in what seems like surprise before lefting off of you, and you with the grace of a cat just falling into water push yourself off the bed and on the ground, your instincts kick in, the drills Bruce ran you through coming in full throttle, in an instant you take the lamp on the bedside table and you break it over the intruders head. Taking one of the shards and preparing to finish the job. But he catches your wrist before you can even do anymore damage.
You are surprised he is still standing. There is a shocked on his face and for a moment you are mesmerized by him. The blue eyes and the sweet curls. Then you take the rest of him in and....oh. Oh no.
That's Superman.
That is really...really bad.
"Who are you?" He asks.
And correct, because who are you even, in the grand scheme of things?
You really need to get out of here before Bruce comes.
You don't get to answer because there is rapid footsteps running down the hall and the door bursts open, revealing Martha.
She frowns at the scene in front of her, at the broken lamp and you and Superman standing there.
"Well, this is bad."
You don't say...
******
The breakfast that Martha made is hearty. There is waffles and eggs and warm coffee. You can tell that the toast is homemade and the butter is so soft it is melting at room temperature.
You can also cut the tension with at knife.
You can't really blame them. Now that you had a minute to calme down, you realized that the room that you slept in is his room.
You were sleeping in Superman's bed.
You are at Superman's home.
You are at Superman's childhood home.....
Off the top of your head, you can name a large number of people that would kill for this information. Have killed for this kinda of information.
And the bat may not kill people. But he too would like to know where the strongest man on earth grew up. For contingency purposes of course.
How did you even get into this mess? Nevermind that, you really need to get out of here. The tracker you wear is binging your location now. And it would be very bad.
You look around the table, and Martha is clutching her coffee cup tightly. Superman is sitting very stiffly across of you and you can tell that he is very nervous about this whole thing. You don't know what exactly you could say that could elevate their worries without sounding vaguely threatening. So you go for the obvious thing.
"Is Mr. John not going to comedown for breakfast?" You ask, keeping your voice even.
Martha relaxes her hold on her cup, barely.
"Oh, dear. He will be here shortly, that man wakes up at the crack of dawn. He is trying to fix that tractor of his."
You can tell that she tries to sound okay, but you guess that county people have a hard time being deceiving. Or that is what you believe at least. But you perk up at the mention of machinery.
"Is it giving him trouble?"
"It doesn't work very well. Ever since he bought it. And he is too stubborn to take it to the mechanic."
At the mention of the man, he practically materializes out of nowhere.
"I grew up around tractors, I can damn we'll fix one."
All of you jump at his voice, and Martha gasps out something about him minding his language. He sits down and sees Superman.
"Ah Clark, we weren't expecting you son." And then he seems to catch on to the fact that his son, which now you know as Clark, is pretty much still wearing is suit, While you are still here. He looks at you and then at Superm-Clark, and just slumpes in his chair.
"Ah shit." He mutters.
"Language!!" Both mother and son exclaim.
John lifts his hands defensively, already gearing up for an argument. “In my defense,Martha, this is a situation.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says sharply, lips pressed thin. “You do not forget your manners just because things are stressful.”
“And you shouldn’t have said my name,” Clark adds, rubbing a hand over his face. “Or called me your son. In front of a stranger.”
“Well excuse me for being surprised that my boy dropped out of the sky into the kitchen before breakfast,” John snaps back.
And what a thought that is. Superman is raised by human parents. Kind, down to earth people. Literal farmers who hate cursing and argue about manners over breakfast. You think about the stroke of absolute luck that the universe aligned in such a way that he didn't end up with evil, out of touch humans.
Instead, he ended up here. With warmth. With love.
You also can't get that tractor out of you head.
"Can I take a look at that tractor?" You ask.
All three of them stop talking at once.
The silence that follows is eerie, thick, almost physical. Chairs creak faintly as they all turn to look at you, three pairs of eyes boring straight into your soul. The moment stretches uncomfortably and you feel yourself shrink just a little under their collective scrutiny.
“I don’t mean to offend,” John finally says, genuinely baffled, “but what would you know about tractors?”
"I am very handy with mechanics" you shrug, taking another bite of your eggs like this is the most normal conversation in the world. "I handle the research and development part of my cousin's company."
"And who would that be?" Superman asks.
"Bruce Wayne."
All of them look at you like you are crazy. And honestly, yeah. That is a reasonable response.
"Bruce Wayne doesn't have any cousins."
"Actually he does." Superman interjects.
"It's a long story. So Can I?" You ask again, looking at John.
"Sure. Why not." The man shrugged.
*******
It's been a while since you saw something like this. The tech you usually work with is very advanced and specialized. This is....simple.
You still can’t believe that the universe decided this was funny. Of all places. Of all people. Superman’s parents’ house.
You stand here, under the heavy cover of the tractors hood contemplating that possibility of such a thing. You heard of Superman, that is for sure. Ever since you emerged from your pod. But this whole thing feels surreal. Especially when you can feel him glaring holes into the back of your head.
Not subtly. Not politely. Just full-on, focused attention drilling into the back of your skull.
That is funny. Superman glaring. You snort out loud, unable to stop yourself.
"What's funny?" Comes the question from the man behind you.
You drop the hood, having figured out what's wrong with the machine, and you turn around to look at him,"I can feel you staring at me, if I did not know any better I would say it is quite....lazery." You say, smirking slightly.
"I do not glare!" His eyes widen and he sputters, His cheeks taking a pink hue.
"You should see yourself back there at breakfast."
He turns his head slightly to the side, his stance taking a more serious expression. Arms crossing at the chest, making his biceps bulge.
You drool mentally. He is very pretty up close. Eyes blue and face shape very pleasant.
“Can you blame me?” he asks, voice firmer now. “A person I don’t know knows who I am. Knows where I live. Knows who my parents are.”
His words sober you up.
You grab a rag and wipe the grease from your hands. The wind carries the earthy scent of soil and hay and old machinery. The farm is well-maintained, lovingly cared for despite its owners’ age. You don’t think Superman actually lives here, not with the way the Kents reacted to his sudden appearance. You drag your eyes to him and you feel a little intimidated by him, he is an intense presence, even if he tries to project otherwise. Your hind brain can definitely detect him as other.
"I won't say anything. No one would benefit of knowing your identity. Least of all me." You keep the eye contact as you say this. Trying to convey your sincerity.
"You can't possibly expect me to believe that."
You see his logic, he has no reason to trust you. You think the only way that he would is if you told him a secret that is identical to his own. That is catastrophic, not only you would be putting dick in danger. But Bruce will never forgive you. Not currently when he hosts distrust towards the man standing in front of you. The secret is not your own to tell.
Unless...
"You know who I am?" You ask.
He seems surprised by the question and his take an inquisitive look as to why you asked that. But He nods,"Bruce Wayne's cousin from Thomas Waynes illegitimate brother. You work at his company. You keep a low profile but you are active in the social scene. The more proper Wayne to your cousins constant scandals."
"That is correct. I am also not a normal person."
"Are you about to confess that you eat people of something?"
You laugh, a real laugh, surprised out of you, and it echoes softly in the open air. He smiles despite himself, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop it.
“Is that what you think rich people do?” you ask between giggles. “Just… casually consume the lower class?”
“Don’t blame me,” he shrugs, lips twitching. “Gotham has all sorts of weird.”
"No, I don't eat people." You replied, taking a serious tone,"I just wake up in strange places."
He freezes. "What?"
“I go to sleep,” you explain, voice steady, honest, “and I wake up in strange places. It’s been happening for a while. Cornfields. Roofs. Abandoned buildings. Other people’s houses. The ocean.” You glance at him pointedly. “That’s how I ended up here.”
"Why are you telling me this?"
“Because even if it’s not of the same magnitude as your identity,” you say, “it’s something I keep secret from everyone except Bruce.” You shrug lightly, trying for casual. “Tit for tat and all.”
Then his shoulders drop, tension easing out of him in a way that feels almost startling. He exhales and moves to sit down on the ground, elbows resting on his knees. After a brief glance around, because sitting next to Superman in the middle of a farm feels surreal, you sit beside him.
“This is not great,” he says.
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. The wind shifts. Grass rustles. Somewhere behind you, the old tractor ticks softly as it cools.
“I fixed it, by the way,” you add, breaking the silence. “The oil line’s cracked. Starving the engine. It’s a miracle it ran at all.”
He glances at you, surprised. “You’re serious.”
“You can replace the line,” you nod. “Or patch it temporarily. But it’ll work again.”
A small smile curves his mouth. “Thank you.”
You shrug, but your heart does something strange at the way he says it.
Another quiet moment settles between you.
“Let’s be friends,” you say then, voice lighter, hopeful in a way you don’t usually allow yourself to be.
He turns toward you fully this time. His knee brushes yours,
so I'm seeing this take around on Tumblr and other social media, that people worry about comments, asks etc as being annoying for creators
and I'm here to say as a directly personal response, no it's not!
I fucking love random asks, comments, send me a DM if you wanna chat and don't want it all over a post. Don't be scared to be enthusiastic about things you love!
Clark had been hovering all day. Not in the literal sense, though you wouldn’t put it past him, but in that gentle, quiet way of his. He lingered in doorways, offered you tea three different times, and kept asking, “Are you mad at me?” in that low, tentative voice that made your heart ache.
By the fourth time, you turned from the kitchen sink, eyebrow raised. “Clark. Why on earth would I be mad at you?”
He shifted, large hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel, eyes dropping to your bare left hand. “You’re… not wearing your ring. I just- I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off, the unspoken fears tumbling around in his mind as plainly as if he’d said them.
Your expression softened instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.” You dried your hands, crossing the room to take his. “It’s at the jeweler’s, remember? I wanted to get it cleaned before our anniversary.”
His head lifted, eyes wide behind his glasses, as if you’d just told him the world wasn’t ending after all. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” You smiled and pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heartbeat. “I’m still married to you, ring or no ring.”
Clark’s relief came out in a shaky laugh, and he ducked his head to kiss your forehead. “I thought I was losing my mind. I’ve been trying to make you happy all day, just in case.”
“Well, you’re succeeding,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. “But if you really want to make me happy…”
His grin was immediate, boyish and bright, dimples flashing. “Dinner out?”
“Dinner in,” you said, resting your cheek against him. “As long as it’s with you.” And that was all Clark needed to hear.
Summary: everyone thinks your relationship with the Batman is weird. They don't know what you are to him. A friend, a colleague, a lover?. The both of you are close and very attuned to each other. Imagine their shock when they find out.
Notes: this is part of my genetic daughter au.
-----------------------------------
Ever since the Justice League was founded (and especially since Batman joined)there’s always been an unofficial member in the mix. You.
Every strategy meeting, every crisis, every long night of planning, you were there. Unmasked except for the glasses perched on your nose. No cape, no armor. Just you, in the Hall of Justice. Even when the others were gone, you stayed. Updating systems, running diagnostics, cataloging artifacts, tracking threats. The place wasn’t just a headquarters to you—it was something you nurtured like it was your own creation.
There was only one problem: no one could figure out what you were to Batman.
The two of you moved together like clockwork, so attuned it was unsettling. You knew when his mood was about to dip into that dangerous, brooding silence. You cut him off before exhaustion set in. And the most shocking part? He let you. He didn’t argue, didn’t growl, didn’t give that infamous Bat-glare. He listened.
The League noticed. They couldn’t help it. Batman listened to no one, except you.
The whispering didn’t help either. The way you and Bruce would duck into a corner mid-mission, murmuring contingencies no one else got to hear. Always in sync. Always just a step ahead.
Theories spread like wildfire.
Barry was the first to speak it out loud, he figured you were Batman’s friend. That theory was shot down immediately. Batman didn’t do friends.
Hal took it further, insisting you were some kind of construct, a living weapon Batman had cooked up in some underground lab.
Diana, though, Diana tilted her head, watched you with that piercing gaze, and said simply, lover. Which sparked the most arguments, and annoyingly the most agreement. You were close in age, familiar, almost too comfortable with him. From their limited perspective, it made sense.
But one person never weighed in. Not once.
Clark.
So when they gathered around the table one day and the speculation started again, the spotlight inevitably landed on him.
“You’re awfully quiet, Supes,” Hal drawled, leaning back in his chair. “What do you think?”
Superman shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck, avoiding every pair of eyes.
“What are you hiding, Kal?” Diana asked.
“Yeah, come on, spit it out,” Hal pushed.
“I’m not hiding anything,” Clark said, but his voice lacked conviction. Superman had never been a good liar.
“Tell us what you know,” Diana pressed.
“I don’t know anything,” he insisted, too quickly.
“Oh, but you do,” Hal countered, grinning now.
And just like that, Superman backed away, muttered a half-hearted “see you later,” and bolted out of the Hall like a man fleeing a burning building.
The mystery lingered. For weeks. Months. Years. A running joke, a source of endless conspiracy theories.
Then the day came when the masks came off. Bruce Wayne, revealed as the Bat of Gotham.
And yet the question remained.
“Just who are you?” someone asked at last.
The room quieted. Every eye turned to you.
You blinked, caught off guard, and pointed to yourself. At their nods, you gave your name, simply.
“The name you told us,” Oliver pressed, “that’s your real name?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” you said with a shrug.
“Then how do you know Bruce?” he asked, frowning.
It took you a second to realize what he meant. With a small sigh, you removed your glasses. The faint shimmer around them dissolved, and your features came into full clarity.
Oliver’s eyes widened. “You’re his cousin.”
“That’s the story we gave the press,” you admitted. “But since we’re all being honest here… I’m technically his daughter.”
The silence was so thick it could’ve been cut with a batarang.
“Sorry,” Diana said carefully, “did you just say daughter?”
Barry’s voice piped up, incredulous. “No way. That’s impossible. You’re what? five years younger than him?”
“Seven, technically,” you corrected.
Hal gawked. “You… you see the issue here, right?”
“I was made in a lab,” you explained, calm as ever. “Not exactly a clone, not exactly natural either. They used Bruce’s DNA and a donor egg. So, yeah. Daughter/clone.”
Barry dropped his face into his hands. “What the fuck.”
You gave a little shrug, half amused. “Yeah. I’d be shocked too if I’d spent years convinced I was his wife.”
Bruce groaned softly beside you, already rubbing at his temple. He’d seen this headache coming a mile away.
"Wait a minute!" Barry exclaimed Turning around to face Clark,"you knew about this?"
"I knew her since before they joined the league." Clark shrugged.
"Oh yeah. Where do you think I got the hypno glasses from."
The fire place roared and everyone can hear a pin drop.
The booted heels of the intruder click-clacked on the marble floor of the ancient lestrange home, and everyone in attendance turned to look at who could be foolish enough to interrupt the meeting. The cane that they used halted to a stop and the intruder stood there watching the crowd and apparently looking for something... or someone.
This someone could be seen trying to hide themselves and consequently, in a crowd of will dressed, will mannered people, they drew attention to themselves.
"Regulus Arcturus Black the third. I can see you. Step up right now or there will be consequences." The intruder said, clicking the cane loudly in emphasis.
Her name was uttered in shock, and she turned around to see her cousin, Bellatrix lestrange.
"You can't just come in here, cousin. This is a meeting for the dark lord." Bella whispered worriedly.
The woman hummed, looking at her cousin with fondness "I know."
Then she turned around and spotted the bane of her existence,"Lucius, can you be a dear and point me to the trouble maker?"
But Lucius malfoy was looking at her with a troubled expression, looking behind her with an even more troubled expression. Matter of fact, Bellatrix also averted her gaze and stepped back.
"I don't think we have been introduced?" A soft, rich voice sounded from over her shoulder.
She swiftly turned around to see a tall man, in his twenties no doubt, looking down at her. She found his features pleasant, an aristocratic nose, gentle sharp eyes, and a lovely mouth. His hair was swept back in an elegant motion. There is a lot that could be said about his presence. Foreboding, strong, elegant.
But she could simple settle on powerful.
His shoulders were set in a confident pose, his stance was of someone who held power and knew how to wield it. He looked like he owned the place. Which is absurd, since the owner is standing right behind her.
"No I don't believe we have." She spoke. Unbothered by the murmurs that swept the crowd.
She knew who he was, of course she knew. Who didn't know the silent war that is happening right now. Oh how the ministry tries to act like it's nothing, that it is just rouge groups and not organized crime. That everything and everyone is fine. But she knew better, her family is involved in both sides after all. It will escalate, that she remembered, there is no if because she knows it did. She knows that it will no longer be silent, she knows it will get bloodier and more deadly, with a body count that will devastate the wizarding world.
All because the individual in front of her will never quit. She doesn't need to be a seer to know. Historically it always goes that way.
He presents his hand to her and she puts her gloved one in it, "Lyra-ceres Juno black."
He looks her in the eyes, those dark, sharp eyes and brings her hand for a kiss.
"Miss Black." He breathes and releases her hand,"i apologize for saying this but this is a private meeting."
"I am deeply sorry for intruding on a very important meeting I am sure, but I am here to collect my ward and leave. If that is alright with you."
Gasps shutter the crowd again and she barely can contain her eyes from rolling at the dramatics.
"Your ward?" He hums, with a hint of amusement shining in his eyes. And she has to wonder, how much of it is manufactured, because of what he told her her about the emotionless state of the dark lord.
"Regulus Black."
"I did not know that young regulus had a guardian, miss Black."
"Well, young regulus is a minor and under magical law, he is the ward of the head of house until he or the heir to the house comes of age."
"And why is it that you wish to remove him from our company or that of his eldest cousin, Miss Black. He is perfectly safe." He questioned.
"You know why, dark lord." She answered.
"Lyra" she heard Bellatrix hiss from behind her, and felt her nails-no talons digging into her arm."please forgive her insolence, my lord. She doesn't know about our noble cause."
Oh, but she does. More than anyone. She knows where all of this will lead.
The both of them paid Bella no mind, locked in whatever this was.
"Do you not agree then, with our cause?"
"It doesn't matter what I think, truly. But as I said, he is a minor. And I don't like the idea of children participating in things they don't understand. Regulus is fifteen, and he deserves to make an informed decision. When he is an adult." She emphasized the last word.
"Do you think he is incapable of making that decision now, as intelligent as he is?"
"Do you honestly believe he can?" She said, staring at him dully, and a hint of recognition swiped in his eyes before he locked it down.
"he is a teenager, honestly I wouldnt trust them with handling the family grimoire, no matter a secret operation." She continued drily.
He hummed, amused. He looked at her attentively, like he is trying to study her.
"And you are the head of house Black?."
"Until he comes of age, yes."
He hummed again but this time thoughtfully then he called out, "regulus."
The aforementioned boy steps out from the crowd, and she turns around to see him. She quickly goes to him and inspects him for non existent injuries, "you are in a world of trouble."
"You are embarrassing me, please stop." He whispered urgently. Then he sidestepped her and stood in front of the dark lord.
"Yes my lord." He said, hopeful.
"You will go with your guardian and will not comeback unless her permission is granted, understood." He said kindly to the boy.
"But my lord-" the boy argued.
"Regulus?"
And at the look in the dark lords eyes, all protests died within minutes.
"I understand." He muttered reluctantly.
And that was that.
She walked to her little brother and whispered to him to go wait for her near the fireplace and he all but dragged his feet to it.
She looked again at the man.
"Thank you. And I apologize again for intruding."
He smiled at her, and that smile although warm and welcoming, did not reach his eyes.
"It is no trouble."
She nodded and she turned around and joined her brother at the fireplace.
"Miss Black?"
And when she turned around, ash in hand, he said.
"We will be seeing each other again."
And as the fire burned around them, she could help the shiver that went down her spine at how ominous that sounded.
After all, when she and hermoine did that spell.
She had no idea that she will be standing in front of tom riddle as a daughter of house of Black.
I just finished my finals and tell me why I feel like I already graduated?
Like I know I have a semester left but I feel bone tired. This was the worse finals season I have ever endured academically and that is saying something.
I haven't been active on here that much because I graduated(yay) so between my ceremony and my finals and finding things for my ceremony I have been very busy. I also sprained my back and wasn't able to move that much.
The point is I graduated finally and I plan on being more active on here.
Y'all know what would be funny?(its not I am morbid) reader who can see dead people being friends with Jason before he died. Then he dies and she can see his ghost every but can't talk to him like the rest of the ghosts.
That's all fine and dandy, until the ghost suddenly disappears and she becomes worried because she came to find him a comforting presence even tho she can't communicate with him not speak to him. So she becomes very sad.
Jason, as per canon, comes back to life with the vague memory of her as she grows older but with no idea where this is coming from so he thinks this is just post pit hallucinations. He completes his training and the first person he comes see back in Gotham is reader.
The catch? She still thinks he is dead and that is his somehow bigger older ghost. He tries to tell her otherwise but she still doesn't believe him. Cue Jason trying to prove to her he is real.
"Look I am touching you. That's gotta mean something."
"Not really no."
"I am interacting with the environment, how would o do that If I am a ghost?"
Bruce truly hates magic with every pump and beat of his heart.
What kinda curse is Slang, anyway?
“This is the best day of my life.”
“You thought you ate that.” Bruce physically feels a full body shiver, charged with nausea and cringe. “This is level 10 cringe. Can’t have shit in Gotham.”
Dick is his earth bound angel, but he laughs like a demon at him, holding onto Jason for support, pledging his eternal loyalty to Zatana and her pettiness.
—
“Hey, old bat, hook me up with an adrenaline shot.”
What he wants to say is Jay, do not try and fight with 6 bullets in your stomach.
What comes out instead, through Bruce’s grit teeth and intense, fierce glaring, “Not you trying to go back to your corpse era. See how I only took 2 shots? Very demure. Very mindful.”
Jason passes out from blood loss, but mostly laughter.
—
“Chat, is this real?”
Stephanie barely bites back a full belly cackle. “I think he just asked us if we copied.”
“I wish I was Jason, 15.”
—
“This is not a slay environment. Killing is flop behavior.” He keeps his eyes shut and buries his face in his hands. Trying to convince Damian not to stab someone doesn’t seem to work.
Damian gives him a pat like he’s a pitiful cat. “I’ll only stab the non lethal areas.”
Tags: [mlw][crack][fluff][reader is an asshole][this is their karma for some shit they did in the past]
Includes: Damian Wayne; Bruce Wayne; Dick Grayson
A/n: a lil' drabble to broaden my horizons and see if I should stick to smut :3
"Okay, listen here, Sulu, I don't take orders from you. I take orders from your mother. So if she says I need to keep you safe, best believe, I'm doing my job to the best of my ability."
You're off-putting on your best day.
Alfred and Jason love to call you Damian's karma for him being a massive dick, and Bruce likes to call you.... Well... When Damian's not on his best behaviour.
"Listen, Cobra Kai, you better get your shit straight and listen to Batman." You stare at Damian, your eyes narrowing at him with distaste, upper lip curling in disdain before you look up at Bruce, your expression warm and your eyes fucking sparkle like a supernova.
"Huge fan." You reassure Bruce before looking back at Damian, finding those emerald eyes simmering with barely contained rage and he just about has it when you take two fingers, pointing them at your eyes and then, pointing them at his.
And almost as if to drive in your point (which you definitely do not have), you take a hefty bite of the nearest edible thing to you as you stand in the centre of the kitchen.
The nearest thing being an onion. Freshly peeled.
Your teeth sink into the flesh of the vegetable, and your throat burns but you don't waver, simply retreating back to your assigned bedroom and Jason lets out a whistle, muscular arms crossing over his broad chest.
"I expected her to start tearing up at the taste." Jason comments, taking a bite of the orange in his hand, the fruit already peeled and missing a few bites, which suggests that he didn't even cut it.
"I don't think she can cry." Bruce mutters quietly, before letting a shiver run down his spine and he visibly shudders. "She's intense."
Meanwhile, you're in the en suite of your room, coughing your lungs out your ass and trying not to gag as you feed yourself palmfuls of water from the bathroom sink. The water's clean, clear enough to be drinkable and you rinse your mouth. Your lashes are wet with unshed tears as you allow yourself to sink to the cool bathroom tiles, resting your back against the wall and you wipe the water droplets from your chin, letting out panted breaths.
"Holy shit." You mutter quietly.
Talia had trained you personally, wanting you to be her son's bodyguard when he needed it the most. And she deems him 'needing it the most', as now. When he's been living with his father for about 9 years. When he's 6 foot 2. When he's jacked and a fucking ninja who quite literally, is like...
Have you ever seen that movie? Ninja Assassin?
That's Damian.
Moving organs and shit.
It's barely midnight when Damian clomps into your bedroom, arms folded across his chest and he stares at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes glittering like jewels in a cove as he spits out.
"What do I have to do, to make you leave?"
His expression is tight, eyes narrowing and the muscle in his jaw is wound tighter than... Well a wire. That's wound super tight around a thing.
Damian's fingers tap impatiently on his bicep as he waits for you to answer his question, the fabric of his T-shirt stretching tightly around the muscles of his torso, extending past the waistband of his pants. And he runs his tongue across his teeth, stopping at the sharp point of his canine.
"I'm waiting, vermin."
You scoff.
"Calm down, Beverly Hills Ninja." You watch Damian's jaw tick in annoyance at the nickname.
Somehow, they always seem to get worse. Even when they're... Awful.
"I'm not gonna be here for any longer than you need me to be."
Your voice is as grating to his ears as nails to a chalkboard, but that stupid cadence and the lilt of your tone have his mind wracking for ways to put your stupid mouth to better use.
"I don't need you to be here." Damian grumbles.
"Listen, Kung Fu Hustle," you roll your eyes, readying yourself to go to bed as the back of your head makes contact with the puffed up pillow, the satin pillowcase making you let out a sigh of relief, "I'll tell you what you need."
Bruce would actually rather be in that alley again than work another case with your dumb ass.
Commissioner Gordon's protege, the only officer that somehow seems like a combination of Spencer Reid and Jake Peralta. But more Jake, than anything.
"Come on, Sherlock Homo." You snap your fingers in front of Bruce's cowl-covered face, but you watch as his eyes narrow while he stares down at you. But he doesn't speak, simply glancing back towards the clues laid across the surface of the desk in front of you two.
In the archives of the GCPD building, Bruce and you remain working silently. His wards having taken over his patrol, giving him the time for a physical breather but God, his jaw finds itself clenched tighter than Arthur's fist.
The air smells like musty books and ink, a hint of pine cleaner and you settle into your seat, lifting the clue to your eyes, scanning over the parchment for any kind of spot that could mean something.
"I think we should refer to previous riddles." Bruce hums softly, biceps bulging beneath the Kevlar of his suit, his cape fluttering in the breeze that creeps through rusted vents.
"Or we can use Chat GPT?"
Bruce watches, his expression falling to one of incredulity as he watches you grab your phone from your bag, the device just so...
He's distressed, on your behalf.
15%. A few cracks in your screen guard and that bright notification that says your storage is far too full for your phone to be functioning optimally.
And Bruce watches as you type the riddle into the AI app, and he watches as those dots appear, signalling a response being formulated. And Bruce nearly groans aloud when he sees an ad light up your screen.
And he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration when he watches you screenshot the name of the stupid widget app, saving it for later when you can download it.
"Should we use my phone?"
Bruce's question is unexpected and you crease your brows, shaking your head.
"Nah, I just need to connect to the wifi."
And Bruce wipes his hands over his face, a low groan rumbling in his broad chest before he drops into the seat beside you, and he waits for you.
Each minute seems like a lifetime, and he hears that little beep.
"Did you get an answer?" Bruce questions, his voice tinged with barely contained annoyance, frustration. Almost everything that points to him yanking out his luxurious, inky hair.
"It says I used up my free messages." You purse your lips. "I'm gonna make a new email really quickly."
Half an hour passes before you get an answer. Which is, that there is no answer.
"This...—" Bruce let's out a shaky breath. "Have you ever been told that you're disorganised?"
And you scoff, raising a hand in Bruce's direction to dismiss him.
"Listen, Karate Kid, who went to police academy?" You question Bruce. "Not me, but still. I've still got the badge, American Ninja."
"You're not a legal officer?!"
"License and registration, Mr Wing."
Dick can't believe this.
He's getting a speeding ticket for chasing a fucking criminal on his bike.
"They have my secret identity on them, so I can't give it to you." Dick answers, pulling his bike onto the curb and cutting the engine, and he rests his forearms on the space between the handlebars. Because he just knows this is gonna take a while.
"So you're impersonating right now?"
Dick rolls his eyes behind his mask, and his lips part to protest.
"Listen, officer, I'm in a bit of a hurry and it'd be really nice if you could just... Not do this right now."
Dick's trying to be nice, really. Trying to respect the law and act like a model citizen, like the kind of citizen he'd be happy to protect and serve.
"Well, too bad Britney Allen, justice... Isn't nice. Justice is messy, hard and fast. Like a creampie." And you pull the notebook out of your back pocket, the action of tilting your body just a bit draws Dick's attention to your body.
Perfect hips, only accentuated by those stupid cuffed, cargo pants and that bulky holster belt.
Dick clears his throat.
He seriously cannot be finding you sexy right now.
"So, Twinkle toes, you wanna tell me why you're going 130 in a 80 zone?" You hum, eyes lowered to the notebook in your hands, continuing to scrawl his parking ticket before you glance towards the number plate of the sportbike.
Or more accurately, the lack thereof.
"Oh, Pom Poms," you muse, laughter in your voice as you continue to scrawl, "riding without a number plate? That's an 80 dollar fine."
Rummaging through a hidden compartment, long gloved fingers wrap around a hundred dollar bill before handing it to you. And you pocket it.
grieving as an adult is so funny it's like. im sobbing my eyes out i'm laughing like a maniac im pondering the mortality of everything around me. ok glad thats out of my system because i have a dentist appointment in an hour
Summary: For six days, you’ve teased and tested John’s patience, pushing him to his limit. But now, he’s done waiting. You wanted a reaction? You’re about to get one—and he’ll make sure you feel exactly what pushing him gets you.
Cw:spanking, bratty reader?, suggestive.
A/n: I am baaackk. Sorry for the long absence, I am here now and this is like an apology gift for you all. Enjoy. Ps. I am taking requests if anyone is interested.
Price love your fire. He loves that you challenge him, keep him on his toes. You change the monotony of his life as the man of absolute authority save for the higher ranks in his life.
You are generally patient. You have an edge to you that doesn't come out often. But it is there. You manage to always find your cool before you get to the point where you start losing your temper with him. You recognize that shouting and whining and stomping your foot doesn't get you far and so you don't do it. Preferring to just talk about it or ask him directly. That is another thing that John loves about you. You are blunt and unafraid to speak your mind. You always check him when he starts behaving like a bastard. So you are generally patient and understanding and you have a level of mental strength that you can wait for along time.
But sometimes.
Sometime you like to get testy.
You, John realizes, get bored easily. And when that happens to you, you usually try to find something to occupy your time with. But sometimes, your various hobbies, in which you have many, can't satisfy you. So, you start on your hunt to get his attention. Now don't get him wrong, he gives you plenty of it. But there is something about you when you get this kind of bored, something that John would like to call a feral animal that wants to get out. You start biting at him, poking him in the sides, making fun of him, annoying him. Oh how much you annoy him when you start getting into one of your moods.
Now price is not an idiot. He knows that you are doing this on purpose. Trying to rile him up and get under his skin, so he just tries to wait you out, he tries to give no reaction to whatever you are doing in hopes that you stop doing it and move on to another thing, but you are also not an idiot and you know he is trying to wait you out, unfortunately for him, you are way more patient than him.
That's why, now after exactly six days since you started, he is at his wits end. Quite possibly seething. And you are showing no end to your bratting. You were talking his ear off on something while he sat at his home office, trying to work on important documents that required his immediate attention, and your insistent chatter is making him unable to focus. He was ignoring you but all that did was make you speak more, and while he loved you and loved your talking, he has gotten a little annoyed and much less tolerant because of your six days straight torture. And now you had began another topic, great.
"Can you quiet down for a moment." He sighed, rubbing his temples.
You paused for a moment, seemingly mulling over his word, then you just said,
"no."
And continued on talking.
He sighed again, now more frustrated, and just dropped his pen and leaned back, chair squeaking under his weight, he got comfortable and spread his thighs, something that didn't escape your notice, judging by the way your eyes sweeping down and over him. Still you didn't stop talking.
"Can you please be quiet for a moment, love?"
"I don't want to." You simply replied.
"I have to get these done and I can't focus with your chatting."
"That is really not my problem, is it?"
He inhales sharply from his nose, trying to calm himself. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. He shouldn't be so frustrated with you. This whole thing is by his design. He was the one that told you couldn't have gotten under his skin even if you tried. vicious, competitive little you, accepted the challenge. He hear the padding of your feet on the floor getting louder, and you are here in the room with him now.
"You are being impossible."
"If you admit defeat then I will stop." You say simply. But his silence is telling enough. You left yourself up the counter, plopping your body in it and you sit there, looking so pretty and inviting. You continue talking, now reciting his mother's cookbook from memory. He feels frustration build within him. He is so unbelievably turned on right now and that pisses him off beyond measure, Pressure builds on as he leans his hand on the counter and his nostrils flare, he moves from his spot and to you, bullying your knees apart and planting his thick torso in between, he grabs your face with one hand, squishing you cheeks together forcing your lips in a pout.
"Don't make me take you over my knee." He threatens, watching your expression closely. There, will you look at that, your eyes flutter and your body relaxes.
"Is that it? You want someone to put you in your place?"
At your silent stare, John's thumb presses gently against your cheek, keeping your face angled towards him. He presses closer to you, his face drawing nearer, breathes fanning against your lips. Your thoughts hitch a bit, but you don't break eye contact, not when he is looking at you like this-like you have pushed him a step too far and he is savoring the consequences you've worked for.
Your lips part, but the words are caught in your throat. Instead, all you manage is a small, defiant hum, the sound vibrating against his palm
"Answer me,” he demands, his voice low and gravelly, simmering with restrained tension. "Are you going to be good now? Or do we have to resort to less savory measures?"
You press closer to him, lips impossibly closer to his, you smile showing your teeth and that is all the answers you will give.
His grip tightens for a fraction of a second, then releases as he shakes his head in mock disbelief. “You’re absolutely impossible, love,” he mutters, his tone laced with a begrudging fondness. But there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it, that sharp current of authority he rarely lets loose on you.
Before you can react, John’s hands move to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulls you off the counter and onto your feet. You barely have time to process the sudden shift before he sits himself down in one of the sturdy kitchen chairs, dragging you effortlessly over his lap.
Your heartbeat thunders in your ears as his large hands settle over the small of your back, keeping you pinned. He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “You wanted to test my patience? Now you'll see what happens when it runs out.”
He lowers your pajamas shorts, rubbing your ass cheek in an almost fond touch if not for the context of it. His hand lifts, slow enough to build the anticipation that has your body humming with electricity. When it finally lands on the curve of your backside, the sound is sharp, a clap that echoes in the quiet kitchen. The sting blooms beneath your skin, but it’s quickly followed by a heat that pools low in your belly, making your breath hitch. Your tingling skin is a testament of his strength. But you know this is only the beginning.
He hums thoughtfully, rubbing his palm over the spot as if to soothe it. “Was that enough to settle you, or are you still feeling difficult?”
You bite back a smile, knowing full well that you’re playing with fire as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You call that a spank, Captain? I expected more from you.”
The grin you flash him is still all teeth, the challenge sparking in your eyes unmistakable. For a moment, he just stares at you, his jaw tightening and a flicker of something dangerous passing over his features. Then he lets out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head like he can’t believe the nerve you have.
“Fine,” he says, his voice calm, dangerously so, though the roughness underneath sends a shiver down your spine. “If that’s how you want to play it, sweetheart.”
His hand comes down again, harder this time, much harder, with a precision that makes your whole body jerk in response. The heat spreads, the burn sinking deeper, almost unbearable, and your fingers clutch at his thigh for balance.
“Still feeling testy?” he asks, and there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when you glance back at him again.
But instead of answering, you lower your head, biting your lip to stifle the little noise that threatens to escape. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
He leans forward, his hand splaying over the small of your back to keep you steady as he murmurs, “That’s what I thought.”
Another sharp smack lands, then another, his rhythm slow and deliberate, giving you enough time between each strike to feel the weight of his hand, the roughness of his callouses. Your body is caught somewhere between the delicious sting of it and the unbearable tension building in the air between you, each moment drawn out like a string pulled taut.
By the time he stops, you’re breathless, your skin buzzing under his touch. He runs his palm over the curve of your backside one last time, almost tenderly, before pulling you upright and into his lap.
You settle there, your legs draped over his thighs and your head resting against his shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and the warmth of his body feels grounding, soothing.
“Did you have fun? Get it out of your system?” he says softly, almost condescendingly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “No more games for now, yeah?”
For a moment, you stay quiet, relishing the weight of his arms around you, the quiet steadiness of his presence. But as your breathing slows, a mischievous glint flickers in your eyes.
“No promises, Captain,” you murmur, and you feel the rumble of his laugh against your cheek as he pulls you closer.
jason todd is the kind of boyfriend who not only understands but actively encourages your weird and vaguely cannibalistic tendencies when it comes to him.
whether it’s sucking on his fingers, biting his bicep, or gnawing on his forearm, he’ll allow it, because it’s his darling girl who wants a taste of him.
you’re half asleep, sucking on his thumb before pulling it out with a pop of your lips. you groggily murmur, “jay…jay bird.”
“yes, baby doll,” he’d say immediately, turning his attention to your form.
“if it didn’t hurtcha… ‘nd if you let me…” you mumble, voice coated with sleepy thoughts, “i’d cut open your chest cavity and live there. you could keep me in your pocket… you’ll let me be in your pocket, huh jay?”
“o’course i would, sweetheart,” he answers easily, not unnerved at all by the dark turn in your sweet voice, “i’d keep your right next to my heart.”
