Welcome to my writing corner! Here you’ll find all my works, series, oneshots, posts, incorrect quotes, and anything else. I made this to help you navigate my blog! Dive in and enjoy the chaos!
Note: I added genres to help you know a story's vibe or theme, they also help with locating types of stories based on what you feel in the mood for.
Last Updated: October 26, 2025
✨- my favorites
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
Batfamily:
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
Bruce Wayne / Batman🦇🖤:
Oneshots:
🦇When The Fight Is Over
Summary: You take care of your Bruce after a long, bruising mission. Bath, soup, cuddles, and love.
Genre: fluff, post-mission
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
Richard 'Dick' Grayson / Nightwing🤸♂️🌃:
Oneshots:
🤸♂️ Frosting and Flirting
Summary: Decorating cupcakes at sunrise was supposed to be peaceful—until a rogue piping bag explodes, a stranger takes a vanilla buttercream torpedo to the butt, and you’re left staring at a very attractive man covered in frosting and zero shame.
aka: a Dick Grayson meet cute
Genre: fluff, meet-cute
SMAUs:
🤸♂️ Texts With Your Boyfriend, Dick
Summary: random texts between dick/nightwing and his gf.
Genre: Fluff, comfort, soft, SMAU
Summary:
You're an outlaw. He’s in denial. They’re in love (probably).
Mutual pining? Check.
Tooth-rotting fluff? Also check.
Horrifying trauma backstory that will haunt you in the shower? Triple check.
She has healing powers. He has commitment issues.
Together, they fight crime, avoid feelings, and accidentally cuddle. Frequently.
Meanwhile, Roy and Kori are losing their minds because just CONFESS ALREADY WHAT THE HECK
TRIGGER WARNINGS: PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU PROCEED WITH THIS STORY:
Graphic torture and abuse (physical and psychological) - Child abuse and child torture - Family separation and loss - Death of family members - Scientific experimentation on minors - Forced restraint and captivity - Electrocution and physical violence - Blood and bodily injury descriptions - Depictions of extreme suffering and helplessness - Food and water deprivation - Emotional and mental breakdown - Animalistic/inhumane treatment of humans - Mentions of non-consensual medical procedures
Genre: fluff, mutual pining, angst, slow burn, trauma, found family, hurt/comfort
✨
Oneshots:
📚Grocery Run
Summary: Jason Todd hates grocery stores. But he’ll follow you anywhere, even the cereal aisle.
A.N.: This can be read as a standalone or part of the "Can't Help Crushing (On You)" series
if you are reading this as a oneshot, the only context you need is that reader is an outlaw with Jason and they're in an established relationship
Genre: fluff, slice of life, established rlt
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
Timothy 'Tim' Drake / Red Robin💻☕:
Headcannons:
💻When He Has A Crush On You ✨
Summary: what Tim is like when you're with him in high school and he likes you
Genre: cuteness, fluff
✨
☕Random Things He Does In His Daily Life
Summary: a series of headcannons and things I think Tim does in his day-to-day life
Genre: slice of life
Summary:
It starts with Jon Kent's horrible lies.
It ends with three grown (only physically) men in tactical gear, desperately clinging to a rooftop, watching Damian Wayne get his cheeks squished (!!??) by a girl (WHAT!!???) in a pink hoodie.
The Batboys started to notice something was off with Damian, all because of Jon. Damian would come up with weird excuses. Disappearing. Showing up with a weird look in his eye. (??) So naturally, they did what any loving brothers would do: launched a full-scale spy mission.
The DSSS includes but is not limited to:
- Unauthorized rooftop stakeouts
- Theoretical witchcraft accusations
- A whiteboard
- Red string
- Glitter glue
And many more. Stay tuned for the emotional rollercoaster Damian unknowingly sends his brothers on ;).
Genre: crack, fluff
✨
Oneshots:
⚔️"Rest Now, Beloved."
Summary: Can't sleep? It's okay, let Damian soothe you. In other words: the one in which Damian leaves patrol early to comfort his beloved who needs him.
Genre: fluff, comfort
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
BatFamily Incorrect Quotes💬🦇:
💬Threatening You Into Self-Love - Damian Wayne X Reader
🦇Subject: Damian. Status: Whipped. - Damian Wayne X Reader
💬Peace? I Don’t Know Her. - Alfred Pennyworth
🦇Nightwing vs. The Moth - Dick Grayson X Reader
💬Geniuses Don't Sleep - Tim Drake X Reader
🦇Data Breach of the Heart - Tim Drake X Reader
💬Even His Breathing Is Dramatic - Jason Todd X Reader
🦇Borrowed Brilliance - Batfam
💬Stitches And Snark - Jason Todd & Doctor!Reader
🦇Between Stubborn and Self-Destructive - Jason Todd X Reader
💬Acts of Love and Acts of Pest Control - Duke Thomas X Reader
🦇The Snack Will - Duke Thomas X Reader
💬Code Red: Dick Has A Plan - Batfam
🦇"Protectively Enveloping" - Dick Grayson X Reader
💬Jumping Off A Bridge - Batfam
🦇Deserving Of A Batarang - Batfam
💬If You Left - Dick Grayson X Reader
🦇Emotional Stability? Who Is She? - Batfam
✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧ ——— ✧🦇✧
OTHERS:
Civilians🌐🌍:
SMAU (social media au):
🌐Gotham vs Metropolis (Civilian Edition) 💥 - PART 2 - PART 3
Summary:
ok so imagine if regular ppl in gotham and metropolis had twitter accounts and started arguing over which city is better 😭
it starts w the joker blowing up someone’s nail salon and spirals into a full-on civil war between two cities who’ve never known peace
(they’re unwell. they’re sassy. they’re posting through it.)
genre: smau, twitter au, humor
OMG I MISSED U I JUST FINISHEDREADING AAAAAAAAAAAAAA I LOVE SEEING DAMIAN'S POV AND THE PANIC FROM TIM LMAOOO
AND BRUCE. How come U OUT OF ALL PPL DONT KNOW???? world's greatest detective💀 ANYWAS OVERALLAAAAAA I LOVE IT SM THANKU AND TAKE CAREEE MWAH MWAH
HIII I MISSED YOU OMG 😭💞 thank YOU for coming back to read ily mwah mwah take careeee
I’m so glad you finished it!! and yesss Damian’s POV againnn😭 Tim’s panic is always sooo fun to write LMAOO and BRUCE??? BRUCE BEING CLUELESS IS MY FAVORITE THING 😭😭 world’s greatest detective WHERE?? 💀
Chapter 11: The One in Which A New Variable Enters The Game AKA DAY THREE (part two)
⸻
A.N: IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG AND ITS SO SHORT OML. I LOST ALL MOTIVATION AND I STARTED SCHOOL AGAIN AND I HAVE 11 HOURS OF MATH A WEEK AND 7 HOURS OF PHYSICS SO MY BRAIN IS KINDA MALFUNCTIONING EVERYONEE. AND I BROKE MY PHONE. ANYWAY ITS A BIT SHORT BUT I WANTED TO POST THIS, I HOPE YOU LIKE T ILL TRY TO WORK MORE ON WRITING THANK OU ALL FOR YOUR SUPPORT!!<3
⸻
previous chapter -
⸻
DAY THREE:
AGENT: A-03
CALLSIGN: Red Robin
OBJECTIVE: Damage Control
TIMESTAMP: 21:17 HOURS
LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Command Post Alpha (Tim’s Bedroom)
Tim’s stomach was still doing backflips from dinner. He’d barely tasted Alfred’s roast, which was basically a sin, but every forkful had been drowned in sweat and paranoia.
Because across the table sat the bane of his existence: Damian Wayne, The Main Suspect.
Damian’s eyes hadn’t left him once.
Not in an obvious way—Damian never did obvious. No, it was the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, sharp and clinical, dissecting him like a frog under a scalpel.
Tim had glanced up once, twice, seventeen times. Each time, there he was: green eyes narrowed, chin tilted, calculating.
And Tim knew that look.
That was the I’m connecting the dots look.
That was the you’re screwed, Drake look.
And then came The Question.
“Tell me, Drake,” Damian had said, voice silky with faux innocence, “are you… distracted this evening?”
Distracted. Distracted?! Damian didn’t do casual questions. That wasn’t concern. That wasn’t politeness. That was a scalpel dipped in poison, testing the flesh.
Tim had nearly choked on his water.
Now, back in his room, he was replaying it over and over, pacing so furiously he was wearing a trench in the carpet. His hair looked like it had survived a small electrical fire. His pulse still hadn’t gone back down.
“Oh god. He knows. He knows. He definitely knows.” Tim’s voice cracked like a bad WiFi signal. “This is it. This is the end. Damian’s going to gut me in my sleep and write ‘case closed’ on my forehead.”
His monitors glowed faintly behind him, clean logs, no evidence trail He’d scrubbed them within an inch of their lives. But it didn’t matter. Alfred already knows all. Now Damian was circling too. They were sharks, and Tim was bleeding.
If he didn’t act fast, the whole DSSS would collapse under exposure. This was DEFCON ONE.
There was only one option left. His last resort.
With a shaky exhale, Tim grabbed his phone and opened the group chat.
He typed with military precision:
GROUP CHAT MESSAGE: THE DSSS AGENTS
[AGENT A-03]:
URGENT. DSSS MEETING. NOW.
LOCATION: Wayne Manor, East Study.
Dick is already at the manor, now JASON GET YOUR ASS IN HERE.
CODE RED. I REPEAT. CODE RED.
He hit send.
The phone buzzed back almost immediately.
[A-02]:
lol what did demon spawn do now
[A-01]:
wait is this like… fun urgent or bad urgent?
[A-02]:
tim’s using caps. it’s bad urgent.
[A-01]:
omw 🏃💨
Tim stared at the chat, heart pounding out of his ribcage. He muttered aloud, to no one but the walls:
“…Yeah. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about at all.”
He was lying.
⸻
DAY THREE:
DSSS – CODE RED MEETING
TIMESTAMP: 21:42 HOURS
LOCATION: Wayne Manor, East Study
The East Study had been converted into a war room.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
Evidence baggies littered the desk like shattered glass, each one carefully labeled in his neat block handwriting: Exhibit A, Exhibit B, Exhibit C. A corkboard leaned against the wall, a scattershot of sticky notes and half-formed diagrams. Across the center of the table was a hastily scribbled header sheet: “BACKUP CONTIGENCY PLAN: SAVE MY ASS.”
Tim was pacing holes in the carpet, muttering under his breath, already halfway into a breakdown rehearsal when the doors banged open.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dick announced, sweeping inside with a bag of popcorn balanced on his hip like contraband, “welcome to the emergency summit of the DSSS: Detective Stalkers of Suspect Spawn.”
He tossed himself onto the couch, stretching out like he was front row at a comedy club. “Attendance mandatory, snacks optional. You’re welcome.”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is serious, Dick.”
“It’s always serious with you, little man,” Dick replied, popping a kernel in his mouth. “But fine, fine, I’ll respect the vibe. What’s our catastrophe of the week?”
Before Tim could answer, the window creaked open. Jason swaggered in, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He didn’t even glance at Tim, just plucked a bright neon sticky note from his pocket and slapped it onto the corkboard above.
In his messy scrawl, it read: “THE PLOT THICKENS ONCE AGAIN.”
“Classy,” Tim muttered.
“Timmy, you wound me.” Jason leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head like he’d been invited. “Alright, Replacement. You rang. This better be good.”
After a blur of frantic muttering and coffee-fueled pacing, Tim launched into the briefing — dumping every single detail about Damian’s dinner behavior, suspicious eye contact, and that cursed “distracted” question. He laid out data, body language analysis, and psychological threat levels like he was presenting a war strategy.
By the end of it, the room was chaos.
Dick was halfway through shouting about “unprecedented emotional warfare” . Tim kept gesturing wildly toward his corkboard, insisting this was a “containment breach of biblical proportions.”
Jason let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. My turn.”
Tim froze mid-ramble, the corkboard marker still in his hand. “What did you do?”
Jason leaned forward, forearms on his knees, tone dark and flat. “Saved your suspect’s girlfriend from getting stabbed, that’s what.”
Both Dick and Tim went still.
Jason’s voice stayed calm.
“She was leaving that art store downtown, right? Some creep tried to grab her. He had a knife. Came outta nowhere. I was on a rooftop, keeping tabs, and I-” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Didn’t even think. Just dropped down and handled it.”
Tim blinked. “Handled it?”
Jason shot him a look. “You really wanna ask that question?”
“Right. Nope. Got it. Handled.”
Dick leaned back in his chair, eyes widening. “She’s okay though, right?”
Jason nodded once. “Shaken, but physically fine.” He clenched his jaw. “Damn kid didn’t even realize she was about to get gutted. If I hadn’t been there-”
He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Point is, Damian’s lucky I was there. And when he finds out, he owes me. Big time.”
He meant that statement as a joke, to lighten the mood, but it only served to add even more tension.
Silence lingered for a moment — thick, uneasy.
Then Dick finally spoke, his usual humor gone from his voice. “Well at least my findings aren’t as gloomy as yours. I have got some good evidence, and I know we agreed not to share our findings but this is too good not to share.”
Both heads turned toward him.
Dick pulled a folded paper from his jacket and flattened it onto the table. A patrol map, neatly highlighted in red ink. “I was reviewing Damian’s nightly patrol logs,” he said, tapping the pattern with his finger. “At first, I thought it was coincidence. But…”
Tim leaned over the table, eyes scanning. “That’s not his normal sector.”
“Exactly,” Dick said. “Every night for the past two years, he’s been circling the same street. The residential street.”
A beat of silence.
Tim whispered, “That can’t be…” He scrolled through his mental database. “That’s not even a high-crime area.”
“Nope,” Dick confirmed. “Every report says the same thing.” He pointed to the attached note on the patrol file, voice dropping into mock-gravity:
‘No incident.’ (Repeated 562 times.)
Jason stared, dumbfounded. “He’s literally doing love patrols.”
Dick nodded gravely. “Guardian angel-ing it. Every. Single. Night.”
Tim slumped back in his chair, dazed. “He’s circling her house.”
Jason groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes. “This family needs therapy.”
“Correction,” Tim said, spinning around to face the corkboard like a man possessed, “this family needs containment. Damian’s emotional recklessness is now a confirmed operational hazard.”
Dick crossed his arms, nodding sagely. “He’s showing all the classic signs of attachment-driven patrol fixation. Textbook case.”
Jason blinked. “You just made that up.”
“Yeah,” Dick said cheerfully, “but it sounds smart, doesn’t it?”
Tim ignored them both, scrawling a giant circle around the map pinned to the corkboard. “This is the pattern of obsession. We’re talking nightly surveillance, consistent route repetition, geographical focus on a single target-”
Jason leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “You mean love patrols?”
“Don’t say it like that,” Tim snapped.
“Oh, I’m gonna say it like that,” Jason grinned. “Love. Patrols.”
Dick snorted into his popcorn. “Honestly, it’s kind of romantic. Creepy, but romantic.”
Tim spun around, finger pointing like a prosecutor. “Romantic? He’s out there circling her house like a bat-powered drone with emotional damage!”
Jason shrugged. “Still better than Tinder.”
Tim smacked his forehead. “We’re doomed. We’re actually doomed.”
Dick was now pacing dramatically, voice rising with the fervor of a man narrating a documentary. “Gentlemen, we may be witnessing the first case of Bat-Infatuation Syndrome. Symptoms include brooding, territorial behavior, and chronic denial.”
Jason leaned back in his chair, gesturing lazily with his hands. “You’re forgetting the worst symptom—explosive family drama.”
“Oh, please,” Tim said, snapping his pen. “It’s already exploding! I’m halfway through a caffeine overdose, and if Damian so much as breathes near my files, I’m calling witness protection.”
Jason smirked. “Relax, Replacement. He’s probably out there right now, writing poetry about her windowsill.”
“Jason!”
And that’s exactly when the study door creaked open.
Every head turned.
Bruce stood in the doorway. Silent. Staring.
The room froze instantly. Jason mid-lean, Dick still holding up the patrol map like it was exhibit A in a trial, and Tim sweating so hard he looked like he’d just run a marathon through hell.
Three full seconds of silence.
Then Tim whispered, “Abort mission.”
Jason straightened in his chair like a soldier caught sneaking cookies. “Bruce. This is uh… private. Classified. You don’t have clearance.”
Bruce blinked once, slowly. “…If this is another one of your board-game-roleplay-bet things,” he said flatly, “don’t set the house on fire.”
He turned and walked out without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Dick exhaled first. “…He doesn’t know.”
Tim slumped over his desk in relief. “Thank god.”
Jason smirked, kicking his boots up. “Oh, he doesn’t know jack shit.”
Dick grinned.
And with that, the DSSS spiraled right back into their conspiracy like nothing had happened - with popcorn, paranoia, and all that.
⸻
SUSPICIONS
SUBJECTS: Grayson, Richard – Todd, Jason – Drake, Timothy
OBJECTIVE: Strategic Counteraction
TIMESTAMP: 23:15 HOURS
LOCATION: Wayne Manor – Private Quarters of D. Wayne
The manor was quiet.
Not peaceful (never peaceful) but quiet in the way a battlefield becomes still before the next strike. The air carried the faint hum of the security grid, the soft mechanical whir of hidden cameras repositioning under automated command, the whisper of winter wind slipping through century-old brickwork.
Damian sat at his desk, posture perfect, back straight, pen poised over the same black notebook that had chronicled every suspicion, every betrayal, every fragment of deceit. The ink on the previous page was barely dry. He stared at it a moment, expression unreadable, then turned to a clean sheet.
Across the top, he wrote in crisp capital letters:
COUNTER-SURVEILLANCE: PHASE II – STRATEGIZING
He tapped the pen twice against the page. The rhythm matched his breathing—steady, deliberate, and controlled.
His brothers thought him oblivious. They had forgotten what house they lived in, what blood ran through their veins. They had mistaken patience for ignorance, stillness for compliance.
Fools.
He could forgive naïveté in civilians. But not in them. Not in the so-called “Best Detectives In The World.”
Damian allowed himself a humorless smile. “Amateurs.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, gaze flicking across his notes.
He had mapped every blind spot in the manor years ago.
By 22:00 hours, he had located all potential monitoring devices, tracing digital signals through the internal network until he found the exact encryption signature of Drake’s handiwork.
He had smiled then. Not because he was amused, but because it confirmed what he already knew.
They were watching him.
They had been watching her.
And that, Damian Wayne decided, was their first and final mistake.
He opened a new section in the notebook. Three names, written in sharp strokes.
His allies. His constants. The only three individuals in this godforsaken universe who would not treat his affections like a joke, a scandal, or a mission briefing.
PENNYWORTH, ALFRED – CODE: AGENT A
Alfred knew. He had always known. The butler’s silence was its own form of loyalty, an unspoken alliance bound by discretion and tea. Damian knew that the old man approved, quietly, strategically, in the way one approves of spring after a harsh winter. Alfred had seen the way Y/N softened him, had perhaps even encouraged it in those subtle ways only Alfred Pennyworth could.
He would not directly interfere. But he would assist if asked.
Still, Damian would not ask. Not yet. Alfred’s involvement was too visible, too risky. The others would smell it.
CAIN, CASSANDRA – CODE: ORPHAN
Cass would understand the sanctity of privacy better than any of them. She moved through silence, spoke through motion. She did not gossip, did not pry. She observed. If anyone could help him eliminate traces of external surveillance without arousing suspicion, it would be her.
He imagined the conversation briefly— her standing in the hallway, head tilted, the faint flicker of amusement behind her eyes when he told her what his brothers were doing. She would not laugh, but she would understand. She always did. She probably already knew. Cass always seemed to know, almost as if she was omniscient over this household.
He would need her help soon enough.
KENT, JONATHAN – CODE: SUPERBOY
A wildcard. Jonathan’s loyalty was fierce, but his moral compass inconveniently rigid. Damian trusted his strength, but not his restraint. Still, Jon’s access to non-Bat networks—satellite communications, League channels, Kryptonian tech— would be invaluable, because if Damian were tot access them on his own, it would arise suspicions. If manipulated (asked) correctly, Jon could be guided into providing assistance “for safety reasons.” A partial truth.
Damian’s lips curved faintly. “For her safety,” he murmured.
He flipped the page. Drew a neat line down the center, dividing the sheet into two columns.
On the left, he wrote:
ALLIES
On the right:
ENEMIES
Under enemies, he listed them:
Grayson. Todd. Drake.
He studied the names as if memorizing a spell.
Grayson: overly emotional, predictable, too sentimental for his own good. His weakness was empathy; he couldn’t lie to his loved ones to save his soul. Damian could manipulate that softness easily. A few well-placed words, a hint of disappointment from Alfred and Bruce, slight sadness from Damian, and Grayson would fold.
Todd: volatile. Dangerous. The only one besides Damian himself willing to cross moral lines. But Jason lacked patience. His anger burned fast, bright, and sloppy. If Damian could provoke him—just enough to redirect his suspicion elsewhere—the entire “DSSS” operation might implode from internal friction.
Drake: Timothy. The most dangerous of the three. Intelligent, methodical, obsessive. But Damian knew him better than Tim suspected. Knew that beneath the caffeine and arrogance lay insecurity; a desperate need for validation from Bruce, from the family, from himself. Damian could weaponize that too. A few crumbs of false data, a hint of self-doubt, and Drake’s house of logic would collapse under its own paranoia.
He could see it all unfolding like chess moves on a grand board.
Three pieces. Three weaknesses. One inevitable victory.
He rose from the chair, moving toward the window. The moonlight bled through the curtains, silvering the edge of his hair, casting the room in a cold, spectral glow. Outside, the city pulsed like a living organism: sick, loud, breathing in crime and exhaling fear.
And somewhere in that chaos, you existed: bright, innocent, unaware, blissfully untouched by the shadows that clawed at his world.
He would keep it that way.
No matter what.
Damian’s reflection in the window stared back. He looked like the perfect blend of his father and mother. Dark hair like his father, but with texture and a slight wave like his mother’s. Sharp eyes the shape of his father’s, but green, the color of his mother’s irises. Smooth skin with calloused hands and muscles that looked like his father’s, but with his mother’s olive skin tone.
The perfect blend of an heir to an enterprise and a cowl, and an heir to an assassin organization.
The perfect blend of a ‘Wayne’ and an ‘Al-Ghul’.
The perfect blend of a bat and a demon head.
The perfect blend of a seeker of justice and a seeker of vengeance.
He sat back down and began to write again, new objectives, sharper than the last:
1. Identify and dismantle DSSS surveillance network.
2. Redirect suspicion through misinformation.
3. Protect Y/N’s privacy at all costs.
4. Punish interference.
The last line he underlined twice.
The clock ticked past midnight. Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed—faint, cautious. Tim, most likely, doing his usual late-night 'system checks'. Damian smiled, closed the notebook, and slid it into the false bottom of his desk drawer.
Let them think they were winning. Let them think their little spy ring was invisible.
Tomorrow, the hunters would become the hunted.
And Damian Wayne would finally remind them who they were dealing with.
⸻
Somewhere in one of Wayne Manor's many hallways, Duke Thomas was heading toward his room, the echo of his footsteps bouncing softly off the polished floors. His mind wandered lazily, another long night, another early morning.
Then something caught his eye.
A crumpled piece of paper on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and froze. A small plastic bag, labeled neatly in block letters: “Evidence Bag C.”
Duke frowned. “Evidence Bag C…? Wait. Weren’t we out of these?”
Curiosity piqued, he glanced around. Another bag, half-hidden under the edge of a rug. A Post-it note stuck to the wall. A trail of paperclips and crumpled wrappers led down the hall like breadcrumbs.
His brow furrowed. “What the-?”
He followed the trail, each step slower, more cautious. The hallway grew quieter, almost intentionally. At the end, a slightly ajar closet door caught his attention. Heart rate quickening, Duke pushed it open.
Inside: a shrine to paranoia. Empty Ziploc bags, neatly stacked; Post-it pads, each page still blank but pristine; Sharpies lined up like soldiers. Some were labeled with small sticky notes of their own: “Exhibit A – Do Not Touch.”
Duke blinked. He picked up a bag, turning it over in his hands.
“Hey,” he said slowly, raising his comm, “who the hell ordered a case of evidence bags and didn’t say anything?”
Silence.
He waited. No response. Only the soft hum of the manor settling around him.
Duke lowered the bag, a mixture of awe and unease settling over him. Whoever had been behind this… they were serious.
He closed the closet door carefully, stepping back. The hallway was still, but Duke couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, or studied.
He shook his head. “Yep. Definitely going to need more coffee tomorrow.”
⸻
A.N: a bit short but i wanted to kinda post SOMETHINGG
taglist❤️: (red means it didnt let me tag you for some reason?)
@zomqiez @spidermanfang1rl @chiizuluvr @maymaymarch @maaaahhhiii @cupid73 @nyxisnotok @astrililu @mmentallyelsewhere @pennepastalegit @amandjslpz @burnthecheshirewitch
GURLL ALL IS GREATTT IM WORKING ON A ONESHOT AND THE DSSS CHAPTER BUT SCHOOL STARTED AND THEYRE HAVING A LOT OF EVENTS AND IM A WRITER FOR THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE SO I GOTTA FOCUS ON FINISHING IT😭 AND IM A SENIOR THIS YEAR SO WE ARE HAVING LOTS OF EVENTS BUT LIKE YEAH
SO THAT KILLED MY MOTIVATION TO WRITE BUTT IM WRITING A BIT IN CLASS ON MY NOTEBOOK BUT I JUST GOTTA TYPE THEM INTO MY COMPUTER 😭
WAITT CAN YOU PLEASE LIKE MAKE A QUICK DRABBLE OR A ONE-SHOT MOMENTS BETWEEN JASON AND READER RELATIONSHIP???? and of course pleaseee take your time if youre going to write it no pressure hope your feeling better. i love your writings soo much i could dieliterally. i know im late if i said i hope your leg is feeling much much better! ilysm <3
HEY GURL
you can find your request here❤️❤️
it was soo fun but it needs some editing honestlyy😭😭
gurl im currently writing a LON|GLON|GLONGG Damian oneshot and also the next chap of DSSS so this was a much needed break from that i hopw i didnt disappoint
YOURE SO CUTE TYSM IM SO GLAD YOU ENJOY MY WRITINGGGG❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Summary: Jason Todd hates grocery stores. But he’ll follow you anywhere, even the cereal aisle.
word count: 846 words
⸻
A.N.: This can be read as a standalone or part of the "Can't Help Crushing (On You)" series
if you are reading this as a oneshot, the only context you need is that reader is an outlaw with Jason and they're in an established relationship
you can find the series in my masterlist or look up the tag #chc(oy) in my profile
requested by anon:
"WAITT CAN YOU PLEASE LIKE MAKE A QUICK DRABBLE OR A ONE-SHOT MOMENTS BETWEEN JASON AND READER RELATIONSHIP???? and of course pleaseee take your time if youre going to write it no pressure hope your feeling better. i love your writings soo much i could dieliterally. i know im late if i said i hope your leg is feeling much much better! ilysm <3"
gurl my leg is feeling greatt tysmm it was so fun to write <3
⸻
Jason Todd hated grocery stores.
No, scratch that. Jason Todd loathed grocery stores.
The harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the aisles packed with too many strangers, the squeaky carts with wheels that never rolled straight, the cheap pop music on loop.
It was torture.
It was hell.
And yet, somehow, here he was.
Pushing a cart. In public. In broad daylight.
Like a normal person.
(He was not a normal person. He would never be a normal person. And yet, here he was.)
All because you asked.
Correction: all because you smiled.
That was really all it took.
He could face down armed gangs without flinching, but the second you tilted your head, eyes soft, voice lilting with a “Come with me?”… he was done. Gone. Over. Hook, line, and sinker.
It was like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger.
Yeah that smile.
You wielded it like a weapon, and Jason, the big scary Red Hood, had absolutely zero defenses against it.
So now? He was following you through the cereal aisle, scowling at a display of Pop-Tarts like it owed him money, while you hummed happily to yourself, comparing nutrition labels with more focus than you ever showed on an actual mission.
“Which one do you like better?” you asked, holding up two boxes of cereal like you were presenting evidence in court.
Jason blinked. “They taste the same.”
You gasped like he’d just committed treason. “Excuse me? Cinnamon Crunch and Honey Crunch are not the same.”
“They’re literally just sugar in different shapes.”
“Jason Todd,” you said, scandalized, jabbing a finger at him, “you take that back.”
He smirked, enjoying how your nose crinkled when you were annoyed. “Nope. Gonna stand by it.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes and tossing both boxes into the cart with unnecessary force. Jason didn’t comment—just filed it away in his head. He made a mental note that you wanted both.
(He also made a mental note that you’d probably forget the cereal existed after eating half a bowl, but he wasn’t about to call you out. He liked the way you got excited about little things. He’d buy you ten boxes if it made you smile like that again.)
He loved when you got bossy with him. Loved that you acted like you could keep him in line. (Spoiler alert: you could.)
The trip went like that. You bouncing from aisle to aisle, hair swishing, muttering to yourself about prices, Jason pretending to complain but really just watching you.
He didn’t need to talk much. You filled the air with easy chatter—asking his opinion on pasta sauce, complaining about Roy’s weird obsession with off-brand energy drinks, telling him about the stray cat that had followed you two blocks yesterday.
Jason, meanwhile, was on a mission of his own: stealth-snacking.
Every time you turned your back, he slid another pack of Pop-Tarts or a box of snack cakes into the cart.
“Those are not on the list,” you scolded when he dropped in three packs of Pop-Tarts.
“They’re mission essentials,” he said, deadpan.
“For who?”
“For us?? Obviously.”
You gave him the world’s most dramatic eye-roll. “You’re impossible.”
Jason didn’t reply. He just smirked and kept pushing the cart, pretending he didn’t notice the way your shoulder brushed his arm every few steps. Pretending he wasn’t cataloging every little thing you reached for. Pretending he wasn’t quietly memorizing your grocery list like it was a tactical briefing.
Because here’s the thing: Jason Todd could go toe-to-toe with armed thugs without blinking. But seeing you pause in front of a shelf, tapping your lip thoughtfully while you debated between two brands of tea? That was what really took him out.
He was screwed. Utterly, completely screwed.
And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
By the time you got to the checkout line, the cart was an absolute mess. Half practical groceries, half Jason’s chaos additions. You stood on tiptoe to unload everything onto the conveyor belt, muttering, “Unbelievable,” under your breath when you unearthed a suspicious number of snack cakes.
Jason leaned lazily against the cart, pretending not to watch the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder. Pretending not to notice the way you bit your lip while trying to fit everything onto the tiny counter space. Pretending not to think about how easy it would be to just step forward, brush your hair back, kiss the curve of your neck.
He swallowed hard. Looked away.
(He wasn’t doing that here. Not in public. Not with strangers watching. You deserved better than that. When he kissed you—really kissed you—it was going to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere you could both breathe. Somewhere he could actually say it first.)
So instead he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and let you huff and puff about “irresponsible snack purchases.”
He wanted to help you unload the things onto the conveyor belt, but he knew that was your favorite part.
He knew his duty was to carry all the bags onto the car for you.
HELLO I CAME OVER FROM AO3!!! IM SO EXCITED TO KNOW YOURE ON HERE LMAO
GURLLLL HELLOOO AND WELCOMEE❤️❤️❤️
i was literally JUST replying to your comments on ao3😭😭
I AM SOO GLAD YOU ARE HEREE
Anywayyy the only difference between my tumblr and ao3 posts is that I have posted 2 SMAUs (aocial media aus) on heree that i havent posted on ao3 thats all!!!
Bruce Wayne twerks during galas so thats why no one suspects he is Batman
Dick Grayson, as a retired crash out, is the chillest guy whom you can spill all your secrets to bc no matter what you have done... he has probably done worse
Jason Todd posts on ao3. He writes 100k word fics and posts them and then mid-fic he leaves for a couple months then comes back all like "sorry guys i had a fight with my dad and then one of my apartments blew up again and i had to beat up a couple guys... anyways enjoy this chapter :)!!"
Tim Drake is the biggest crashout in all of the batfam. Most times infront of strangers he looks composed but his mind? The most feral person ever. Absolutely batshit crazy and insane.
Damian Wayne when he falls in love? Whipped. Completely obsessed. And if it is a civilian? Has complete meltdowns over what is normal behaviour. His search history would include things like "what do normal teens do when in love"
Duke Thomas kept getting more and more shocked (and pranked) his first few months in the manor that he completely lost his ability to flinch. He can not be fazed anymore.
Stephanie Brown is secretly depressed. She also needs validation 24/7.
Cassandra Cain is sick of being able to read body language because it makes her feel like a tool.
