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crazyfoxyarcade · 3 days ago

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Now THIS was good 😏

honeymoon phase — gojo satoru

synopsis. the elders have always warned you that men lose interest over time. that they’re bound to find a younger, prettier toy years down into the marriage. you think your day has come.

contents. hurt/comfort, established relationship, husband!gojo, pining (so much of it), insecurity, miscommunication, mentions of pregnancy, gojo is a freak for his wife, shoko is the voice of reason as always

notes. im back n this is not proofread. what’s new!!! anyways, enjoy yet another self indulgent piece!

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

The walls of the Gojo compound were made of wood and paper, thin enough for you to hear secrets that weren’t made for your ears. You had grown up used to tuning out the constant noise from footsteps on tatami and shuffling robes to muttered curses from sorcerers-in-training. But today, the voices were just close enough, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Still no heir after five years?”

“What a shame. All that potential, and she retires to become a housewife.”

“They marry young these days, but if a woman can’t carry on the clan, then what’s the point?”

“She’s not a wife. She’s a waste.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern.

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention.

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you.

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto.

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate.

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

“I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet.

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!” Your voice breaks.

“Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky.

“So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk angst #angst/comfort

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crazyfoxyarcade · 4 days ago

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This was so cuteee 🥺

what goes unsaid

synopsis: you started to notice small things todoroki does, but you’re not sure what they mean just yet.

pairing: timeskip!todoroki shoto x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: i listened to you guys

the buzz of the office fades into background noise as you shuffle through the latest batch of mission reports.

your shoulders ache from a particularly rough day in the field, and the stiffness in your neck only serves to remind you of the long hours stretching ahead.

you rub your temples, trying to stave off the impending headache.

“rough day?”

the voice pulls you from your thoughts, low and calm with a subtle edge of concern. shoto todoroki stands in the doorway to your shared agency’s common room, his presence as composed as ever.

his hero uniform is slightly scuffed, evidence of his own busy day. still, his mismatched eyes fix on you, quiet but observant.

“yeah, you could say that,” you reply with a weak smile, closing the folder in front of you. “I’ll be fine, though. just a few reports to finish up.”

without another word, todoroki crosses the room. he places a paper cup on the desk beside you, the warm aroma of your favorite coffee wafting up immediately. you blink, glancing between him and the cup.

“thought you could use this,” he says simply, his tone casual but laced with that understated sincerity that’s so distinctly him.

your lips twitch upward despite yourself. “thanks, todoroki. you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice steady as he turns to leave.

it’s not the first time he’s done something like this—little gestures that seem small on the surface but hold a surprising amount of thoughtfulness.

you’ve chalked it up to his polite nature, the way he’s always been one to notice when someone needs a hand.

but lately, those gestures seem to happen more often, and each time they do, you can’t help but wonder if there’s more behind them.

a few days later, the intensity of the work begins to weigh on you again. a gruelling mission left you feeling physically and emotionally drained, and your muscles protest every movement you make.

you collapse on the couch in the break room, still in your hero gear, too tired to even think about a shower.

todoroki walks in, fresh from the shower, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. he eyes you for a moment before disappearing into the adjacent kitchenette.

you don’t think much of it until he returns a few minutes later, setting a small ice pack on the table beside you.

“for your shoulder,” he says, nodding toward where you’d been absentmindedly massaging your arm.

you blink, caught off guard by the quiet care in the gesture. “oh, thanks. you didn’t—”

“you overextend that side sometimes,” he interrupts, his voice calm. “you should be careful.”

your mouth opens, but no words come out. instead, you nod, pressing the ice pack against your shoulder as he sits in the chair across from you. the silence that follows is surprisingly comfortable.

you can feel the weight of his gaze occasionally flicking over to you, but it’s not heavy or demanding—more like a quiet understanding, the kind that doesn’t require explanation.

there’s a certain ease between you two, even when neither of you says much.

it’s in the way todoroki always seems to anticipate what you need, how he quietly adjusts the environment around you without ever making a show of it. and for reasons you can’t fully explain, it feels…right.

the moments continue to add up, each one more subtle than the last.

after a long patrol, you find a bottle of water placed carefully on your desk with a note—drink up, you’ve been dehydrated all day.

it’s an obvious thing, but the gesture still feels personal, like he noticed something you hadn’t even considered.

the next day, you’re struggling to get through a particularly difficult set of paperwork when your phone buzzes on the table. you glance at the screen to see a message from him: how’s the report going?

you smirk at the simplicity of it. he knew exactly what you were doing.

when you reply that you’re about to hit a wall, todoroki doesn’t respond immediately.

but later, when you make your way into the break room for a quick break, there’s a sandwich on the counter—your favorite kind, carefully wrapped in a napkin.

no note this time, just the quiet understanding that he had noticed, even from across the building.

it’s when you’re sitting on the rooftop of the agency a few weeks later that the weight of it all really hits you. the city sprawls out before you, the lights twinkling against the night sky.

you’re lost in your thoughts when the sound of footsteps pulls you back.

todoroki appears at your side, a familiar calmness in his expression. he doesn’t say anything right away, just leans against the railing beside you.

the silence between you is surprisingly comfortable, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled. you’ve shared enough of these moments that you don’t feel the need to say anything.

“figured you’d be up here,” he says eventually, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.

you glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “needed a breather. what about you?”

“same,” he admits. “it’s been a long day.”

there’s something in his voice, a small shift, and for the first time, you realize just how much of an emotional weight he carries.

you’ve always known him to be calm, calculated, and collected, but there’s something more underneath, a pressure he doesn’t always show.

when he looks at you now, there’s something in his eyes—something softer, more open than usual.

“thanks for the coffee earlier,” you say, breaking the silence. “and…everything else. you don’t have to do all that, you know.”

he turns his head slightly, his gaze meeting yours. there’s a flicker of something in his expression, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. “I know,” he says simply. “but I want to.”

his words hang in the air, quieter and more vulnerable than usual, and for the first time, you see the full weight of what he’s been doing all along.

these small gestures, these little acts of kindness, have been his way of showing something he’s never been able to put into words.

weeks pass, and despite everything happening around you—missions, deadlines, late-night training—there’s a steady rhythm to the way shoto treats you.

he’s never one to speak loudly about his emotions, but the small things he does start to stand out in a way that feels undeniable.

there are days when you catch him looking at you from across the room, his expression slightly more intense than usual.

he doesn’t say anything, but you notice the way his eyes linger a little longer than they should, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

he’s quiet around you, often lost in his thoughts, but when he speaks, it’s always with a softness that’s impossible to ignore.

it’s as if every word he says carries the weight of more than just friendship—though, he’ll never admit it outright.

it’s late one evening when the two of you find yourselves standing side by side in the agency’s common room.

the glow of the lights is soft, the building nearly empty after the day’s work. you’re both exhausted, but neither of you is quite ready to head home.

shoto hands you a fresh towel as you come out of the shower, his movements slow and deliberate. you notice how carefully he looks after even the smallest details:

making sure the towel’s warm and that the temperature in the room is just right.

you take it from him with a soft smile. “you’ve been really nice to me lately.”

shoto pauses, his eyes flicking to yours. there’s an emotion there you can’t quite place, something quiet and unspoken.

“I don’t mind,” he says, his voice steady. “I want to.”

the words hit you harder than you expect, and for a moment, you’re both silent, the air between you charged with something that hasn’t been said aloud but feels clear all the same.

you’ve always known shoto in pieces—quiet, introspective, deeply caring in his own way—but this is different. this is more.

when you step closer, your heart thumping louder than it should, he doesn’t pull away.

instead, he looks down at you, his mismatched eyes soft with something that’s not quite a confession but feels like one all the same.

“I’ve always wanted to be there for you,” he adds quietly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I just…couldn’t figure out how.”

the quiet honesty of it leaves you breathless, and for a moment, you let the words come freely.

“you’re doing it, shoto,” you say. “you’ve been doing it.”

before either of you can say another word, the space between you seems to shrink of its own accord.

his gaze lingers on yours, and there’s a long moment of quiet before you close the small gap, your breath mingling with his.

his hand lifts, brushing against your cheek, and it’s the gentlest touch, but it sends a warmth through you that settles deep in your chest. without a word, he leans in.

and when his lips meet yours, it’s not forceful, nor is it rushed—it’s as natural as everything else that’s happened between you.

when you pull back, there’s a soft smile on his lips, a look of quiet satisfaction as he rests his forehead against yours.

“guess this makes it official,” you chuckle.

he hums, “yeah.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

#mha x reader #mha #myheroacademia #shoto torodoki #shouto todoroki x reader #fluff

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crazyfoxyarcade · 4 days ago

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So cuteeee

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #ryomen sukuna #jin itadori #itadori yuuji #not my art #unckuna

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crazyfoxyarcade · 4 days ago

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the slap echoes louder in your heart than on your cheek. your baby’s tiny palm had connected with your face with all the might of a god in training—soft, pudgy fingers, yes, but wielded with the strength only an infant could mysteriously summon.

“ow—!” you blink, more startled than hurt.

satoru freezes, blue eyes widening as if he just watched a tragedy unfold before him. “did… did you just hit my wife?” he gasps, tone horrified.

your baby—his baby, his precious little bundle of love—just gurgles, waving those dangerous little fists around again.

satoru clutches his chest like he’s been betrayed. “unbelievable. the one woman who carried you for nine months, who feeds you, rocks you, sacrifices sleep for you—and this is how you repay her?!”

you’re laughing now, but he isn’t. he takes the baby from your arms, holding them up eye-level like a man about to deliver a stern lecture. “listen here, kid. i don’t care if you’ve got my genes—especially because you’ve got my genes—you should know better. that’s my wife. my sugarplum, my sweetheart, my absolute angel. nobody lays a hand on her, not even you, my own flesh and blood.”

the baby just blinks, then drools.

you snort. “satoru, they don’t even understand words yet.”

“oh, they understand,” he insists gravely, bouncing the baby slightly. “they understand fear of consequences. i’ll tickle you silly if you ever dare raise your hand at your mama again.”

the baby squeals—half from delight, half from the gentle onslaught of his long fingers wiggling against their belly.

and you, still rubbing your cheek, can’t stop smiling. “sometimes i wonder who the real baby is.”

“no, i’m the best husband in the world,” he corrects smugly, leaning down to kiss your cheek right where the baby had slapped. “and i’ll protect you from anyone. even this tiny traitor i helped make.”

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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crazyfoxyarcade · 9 days ago

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rage baiting g. satoru / crack, fluff, suggestive

"so like, do you ever wish you were taller?"

You had to hold your own breath to stop yourself from laughing, watching your boyfriend gojo satoru halt his entire self. He was peacefully preparing some food in the kitchen, before pausing at your question. Knife mid chop, body stiff like a statue. You swear that he even stopped breathing for duration of time.

A few beats pass, and Satoru puts down everything in his hands. He's still facing away from you, but you can only imagine his face right now. Your boyfriend steadily turns his head to your spot in the living room, which reminds you of how owls slowly turn their heads. He finally breaks the silence.

"I.. w-what?"

He. fucking. stammered.

Somehow by the strength of God alone, you maintain a straight face.

"You know, have you ever imagined having some extra inches in height?"

Your gaze meets his, and his sharp blue eyes are absolutely unreadable. In less than a second, Satoru strides to stand right in front of you. While you may not necessarily be the shortest or tallest, Satoru always towered over you.

Your boyfriend, and his six foot three/190 cm tall person, towering over your own figure.

"Baby..." he speaks, voice low and steady, "what, and I mean, the absolute fuck do you mean by 'do I wish I was taller'???"

Screwing with him was too easy, it almost makes you feel bad.

Almost.

"I dunno, I was just thinking what if you were a bit taller? Like maybe if you were as tall as Nanami?" You smirk fully knowing that Nanami was just short of Satoru's height.

All hell breaks loose.

"WhAT??! No, no no no! First off, I AM tall. I don't need to be 'taller'. Also, the fuck? Nanami is shorter than me. SHORTER.THAN.ME. Here, look at this picture of us. See, he's shorter. Look see-"

The gates holding back your amusement breaks, and you let out the most boisterous laugh. Full on cry laughing. In between your feats of laughter, you manage out some broken words of "I was joking" "you make it so easy" "you don't need any more height to you".

Satoru is watching you lose it, before realizing that you had just successfully baited him.

Well, two can play that game.

Before you can process, Satoru picks you up, throwing you over his shoulder. You flail and kick your legs in his hold, before he lands a nasty smack! on your ass.

"'Toru- where are we- why are we going to our room???"

You can't see, but Satoru has the meanest smirk on his face.

"Hmm? I might not be taller, but I'll show you where those extra inches went too."

You really should rage bait Satoru more often.

a/n : inspired by me rage baiting my guy friends about their height (I have 5'1 ft /155 cm

@deserteddreamscape 2025 - do not copy or translate

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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crazyfoxyarcade · 12 days ago

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Ho did you just STAB me

Alucard… or sum… i dunno. just finished season 3

#artists on tumblr #alucard castlevania #alucard #adrian tepes #fanart #not my art

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crazyfoxyarcade · 16 days ago

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"i had a really good time tonight," you say as you come to a stop at your doorstep. gojo doesn't even look like he heard you — too busy staring at you like you hung the moon.

eventually, he snaps out of it. "o-oh yeah, me too. we should totally do it again sometime. if you'd like." he looks down at his feet, cheeks already flushing a pretty pink.

"i'd like that very much." you smile up at him and he thinks he's going to pass out. slowly, you lean in until your lips were only a hair's breadth away from his.

"are you sure about this?" gojo asks you as if the answer wasn't already obvious enough. "what does it look like?" you deadpan and he huffs out a laugh before closing that nonexistent distance between you.

your arms loop around his neck and he grabs your waist to pull you closer. "been wantin' to do this for a while now," he murmurs against your lips. your mouth parts for him and he delves deeper, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. his hands flex at your waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.

beep. beep.

you both freeze.

gojo pulls back just enough to glance down, and you follow his gaze to his smartwatch, glowing innocently in the dark.

“abnormal heart rate detected.”

you blink. then bite your lip.

gojo glares at it like it betrayed him personally. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

you burst out laughing. “are you okay?” you sputter between giggles. “no, actually,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “this thing’s a snitch.”

“you’re really that worked up over a kiss?”

“i’m really that worked up over you,” he mutters, clearly not meaning to say it out loud. he covers the screen with his palm like it’s embarrassing. “no, i’m just—” he clears his throat. “—very fit. obviously. peak condition.”

your eyes flick back up to his—his ears are a little red. “right,” you say, smiling. “so this had nothing to do with the kiss.”

gojo stares at the watch for a second. “…it’s broken. has to be.”

you raise a brow. “you sure? you looked a little...flushed.”

he scoffs. “flushed? me?” he waves a hand. “please. my heart rate didn’t even budge. if anything, i’m probably clinically dead. that’s how calm i am.”

without another word, you reach up again, hands curling around the collar of his jacket as you pull him back in. this kiss is slower. a little deeper. you don’t rush it—and you feel the exact moment he melts into it, hands settling on your hips like he’s forgotten all about trying to act composed.

beep. beep.

you pull back just slightly and glance down. the screen glows again. gojo lets out the quietest “oh my god.”

you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “still very chill?”

he drops his forehead to your shoulder. “i’m never gonna hear the end of this, am i?”

“nope,” you say brightly, arms winding around his neck. “but i do appreciate the honesty. from you and your watch.”

“i'm breaking that thing first chance i get."

author's note. inspired by this

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

#satoru gojo fluff #jjk satoru #jjk #jujustu kaisen #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #tooth rotting fluff

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crazyfoxyarcade · 28 days ago

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Speechless. 😧

💽 - DARK BUT JUST A GAME 🪽° . 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 🦢

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ♪ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ the best one's lost their minds ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ♪

pairing: balletmaster!sukuna x ballerina!reader

synopsis: it was all perfect—the esteemed award, the stentorian crowd, the accomplishment of a lifetime. perfect... until it wasn't. suddenly, you were back in the suffocating and walled studio that reeked of sweat and desperation—responding to each barking demand of your coach and bending over backwards, literally, to dazzle him. you were no longer the focal point of his career, the perfectly malleable danseuse he could rave about until he was aged. what were you supposed to do now that he's got his expert eyes trained on another, swiftly moving on to the next show girl and leaving you to unfurl your pointed toes on your own?

contents: slight black swan film au, explicit smut, unprotected sex, piv, hurt/no comfort, angst, descriptive panic attack, mentions of dieting and exercise/intense ballerina lifestyle, sukuna is an asshole.

a/n: this oneshot titled after dark but just a game is part of @nanamisbbygirl 2k followers collab event, go check them out and the other authors for some cool LDR inspired fics :') ! also, my actual knowledge of ballet or the industry is limited so if anything is inaccurate, don't jump me and give me grace.

cover art found here

tags: @sophiethelesbian @msrinnnn @bloodb3nders @paradisestarfishh @ykimobessed @misserabella @nialovessatoru @madamechrissy @indiewritesxoxo @gojoswaterbottle @riveredmoon

The price of fame.

Your cheek was buried into supple black leather—mascara muddy and scarlet lipstick smeared across your heated cheeks flushed with need. His rough and textured hands roamed the globe of your ass, squeezing and grabbing at the flesh as his ruts picked up a cadence akin to a metronome clicking at 180 BPM that had you bracing for impact.

“Mmm, you did good tonight, darling,” he purred out, a deft finger coming up to loosen his black tie, ivory dress shirt coming unbuttoned. His knees knocked into the side of his Chevrolet Corvette, feet planted on the concrete ground of the empty parking lot, your reddened ass on full display and sticking out of the backseat, gown hiked up to your midriff.

He would never say he was proud of you.

You worried your lip between your teeth, sinking them in with enough pressure to nearly break skin. Your mind flickered back to the boisterous roar of the crowd at the utter of your name into the microphone. You walked up onto the stage, eyes nearly bulging out of your face and doing everything in your power not to trip over your black satin gown.

With trembling hands and pure adrenaline coursing through your veins at full throttle, you’d accepted the Benois de la Danse after an industry shattering performance on a worldwide stage—and you were perfect.

So fucking perfect.

Pointed toes, shoulders down, chin lifted. Not a single pirouette a degree more or less than 360, your ashen face painted white contorting with purity and longing, like a miffed Victorian librarian.

Years of brutal training, dieting and consistent exercise prepared you for such a performance. Most crumbled under the ruthless demands of tyrannical Ryomen Sukuna, a man who pushed each trainee to the brink. Your fingers couldn’t count the number of aspiring ballerinas he’d throttled into giving up on their fantasies, deeming it unrealistic right to their faces.

But you, oh you. You were his prized possession, his darling dancer.

He bent you, molded you, broke you. Ruined you and marked you as his sole creation, until you were his most coveted possession.

And you were now awarded with one of the most renowned awards for ballerina’s alike, an achievement of a lifetime after your lead role in Swan Lake.

You stood on stage like an idol does their pedestal, yet you searched the audience for his gaze, for his validation. Maybe a grin of acknowledgement for such a reticent man, or his hands clapping in your direction as an attestation that this was all worth it. That it all meant something.

But there he sat, arm lazily perched over her, the kind of smirk curling upon his snarled lips akin to when he first scouted you.

Her roseate hair cascading down her smooth and elongated shoulders and toned biceps that an athlete would have.

Or more specifically, a ballerina.

Manami Suda.

You’d heard the whispers of her name backstage—how her art had been so perfectly crafted in such a short time that any ballet director would stand on bleeding toes to have her join their company.

You could feel your heart lurch at the sight, his finger dotingly brushing her bare shoulder as he whispered something to her. Even her laugh was poised, delicate. The impact was devastating, a charmed grin from him that wasn’t even pointed towards you making your knees nearly give out from beneath you, hoping the cruel world would shed misery upon you and swallow you whole right before the audience.

Your fingers pressed into the icy, plasticky finish of your award, knuckles paling under intense weight. It felt flimsy—as if it could crumble into nothing right before your eyes.

You inhaled sharply, your feathers being plucked from your skin like daggers being avulsed from you, leaving you with endlessly bleeding wounds scattered across your tense form.

The lights were scintillating, the cheers of the audience was head-splitting. You stumbled through your acceptance speech, clothespins carrying the seams of your lips into an uncanny grin as you thanked everyone who made the very statuette in your grasp possible. Made sure to mention how you’d be taking a break from the arts to spend time with family, just as PR had directed you to.

Just like Sukuna did, too.

You swallowed the steadily rising bile souring the back of your throat.

Your heels clicked down the marble steps as you found yourself rushing past the audience, chest tightening as the press flashed their cameras in your face, asking you questions that muddled into a blurry montage in your mind.

They followed you out until you cornered yourself in the bathroom, promptly shutting the door and placing your twitching hands against the cold tile.

Your breaths rushed in far too quickly, your lungs doing anything but filling up properly. Your cheeks flushed as the edges of the world frayed and closed in on you, hands flying to your back to undo your suffocating corset that pressed against your ribs like a leaden weight.

Desperately clawing at the fabric, your breaths shallowed into rickety sounds echoing off of the empty and dim restroom that seemed to feel smaller by the second. Sweat beaded your forehead, the cold perspiration clinging to you as your body worked overtime.

You don’t know exactly how long you struggled until you felt him—his warmth pressing into your back as his digits undid the ties that refused to snap under your duress.

You immediately hunched over, inhaling sharply and clutching your chest as oxygen seeped into your brain, nostrils flaring with each intake of air.

His calloused palms found your bare biceps, turning you around and eyeing you. The same expression he donned with professionalism, lacking any sort of real personal concern.

“What happened out there?” He pressed, crimson eyes narrowing to slits as you struggled to catch your breath.

You. You happened out there.

You couldn’t say that.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, watery eyes peering up at him, pleading with the kind of desperation akin to a bleeding swan on the side of the street would.

Roadkill.

His eyebrows drew in, skeptical yet patient. But he didn’t press on.

You wished he would—gleaning your grief with his consolation. Pity.

He simply pulled you into a tight hug, eyeing the prize that rested on the bathroom counter, abandoned and forgotten within moments.

Your arms snaked around his chiseled waist, sniffling into the crisp fabric and inhaling the scent of him, his chin digging into your scalp.

You could smell the cologne you’d bought him for his birthday that he threatened on tossing out, but still wore on special occasions. Like today was supposed to be.

He rubbed tight circles into your shoulders, the kind of tender touch you believed that he’d reserved for only you, but you sorely found out otherwise tonight.

With slow deliberation, you pulled away, gaze peering up at the stocky man. You couldn’t read the expression he bore, but something primal flickered in his eyes as he felt your hand find his, intertwining your fingers like you wished your souls would.

His gaze flickered to your velveteen lips, bringing a thumb up to press against the plush feel, then smear your lipstick across your cheek, lacking the kind of precision he usually maintained.

Your breath hitched as his pupils slowly expanded, a throaty hum leaving the deep recesses of his chest.

And the same hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head back as he slowly leaned down, then parted his lips over yours. He inhaled the sudden whine you let out, pushing you backwards and pinning you against the counter.

You were a coward.

His freehand tapped your thigh and you responded immediately, like you did anything he asked of you, jumping and allowing him to carry you.

He set you against the cold counter, pushing the award off to the side and gripping the plush underside of your ass. You groaned, giving him access to slip his tongue into your mouth.

“You almost done in there?”

He immediately pulled away, irritation flickering in his eyes as he gazed at the shut door, before huffing under his breath.

You raked your fingers through his hair, a touch so gentle, so full of longing, that you were surprised you’d done so.

He peered back at you, eyes pressed into narrow slits as he tried to read you, before leaning his forehead against yours.

“Wanna get out of here?”

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖🦢 ִֶָ་࿐

The drive wasn’t too long, a spot he knew the two of you wouldn’t be interrupted. Where no one could hear your cries in the night.

Your hands sprawled across his backseat as he leaned over your twitching form, lapping a long and languid stripe over the slope of your ear that had your knees trembling and digging into the backseat. He grinned at how responsive you were to his touch, how pliant you were.

He relished in how you crumbled under his guise, adorned in his blazer atop your dress.

“W-who was she?”

You don’t know where the sudden burst of confidence came from.

His ruts stilled for a moment, head slowly tilting, before he picked up the rhythm. “What?” He grunted out, jaw tensing under the crushing pressure of his sudden vexation.

“You know who.” You panted out, wiping the sweat tears from beneath your heavy eyes. You knew who she was, too. Everyone did. And he knew you knew, but he watched you torture yourself and feign ignorance like a skulker.

He hated skulkers.

A frustrated growl left his mouth, cock spearing you as he buried himself to the hilt with each thrust. “An old friend.” He muttered, dismissing the notion that they were anything more.

But you knew it was a lie, blatant and distasteful.

She was new scout material, meaning she was his new flame that he’d watch set the world ablaze.

You also knew what this meant for tonight—with your contract running out in mere hours, and you were unraveling beneath him like it was your last night alive.

Part of you was thankful you couldn’t see his face, abject orbs tracing his features to memory, something you’d likely only see on screen as he showcased his new stargirl.

The veins of his shaft, protruding and bulging, dragged against your gummy walls, treacly juices dripping from your throbbing folds as he chased your high like a finish line, going out with a bang literally.

You were actively trying to commit the feel to memory, a pathetic means to an end. The future nights you’d spend in your childhood home, missing the life of being his precious puppet, fingers slipping beneath your panties as you writhed for his touch again.

His hand pressed into the small of your back, pushing you into a mean arch as you cried out, movements mirroring the way he directed your turns and twists back in that studio.

“Faster.”

“Harder.”

“Sharper.”

You winced, toes curling as his hand came up to your nape, tethering you to the seat like a lithe doll. He groaned, something about how tight you were, mind slated of your near argument as his shaft twitched between your slick walls.

He continued to bully himself inside your cunt, girth splitting you with no remorse and swollen head brushing right against that sweet spot.

“Mmf, S’kuna!” You squealed, walls fluttering around him as that familiar knot curled in your gut, each thrust a jab to your wounded heart.

He was crashing into you now, no longer holding back his huffs as your juices began to leak from your sopping pussy, pounding you with a sloppy and desperate need.

“You were perfect,” he mumbled out, eyes fluttering shut as pearly seeds of ribbon shot into your narrow cavern, filling you to the brim with his cum.

Were.

You shrieked out as he shot his load into you, fingernails digging crescents into the fabric of the backseat that would fade with time.

He stilled for a moment, cock twitching with the remnants of his high, before he pulled out.

You crumbled immediately, chest hitting the seat as your glossed-over eyes fixed on the center console, or more like what was perched upon.

A small box, with a gift ribbon and a tag hanging lackadaisical from it.

Sukuna’s chest heaved as he shoved his cock back into his briefs and adjusted his dress pants, fishing out a cigar and leaning against the car.

You clung to his black blazer that you barely managed to fill in, nearly slipping from your shoulders as you held it with a pinched hand, eyes dancing across the stiff cardboard between your quivering fingers.

i really enjoyed our practice session. wear this during our rehearsal for the next meeting ;)

ardently, suda.

Fancy fucking cursive engraved in black pen on the card, the ink staining your mind as your vision blurred.

It had to have been the end for quite some time now, and you hadn’t even taken notice.

You opened the box, not even caring if Sukuna would scold you for it. Your eyes met the same rosette pink of her hair, in the shape of a pocket square that he could stuff into the hollow cavity of his blazer above his heart.

Your stomach lurched, peering over at Sukuna, just to see him eyeing you with a vacant stare, nothing behind his dull expression.

And there was a sudden understanding between the two of you. A disgusting, hopeless one for you, and a content and satiated one for him.

He was done with you, tossing you aside like a used toy for a shiny new doll.

You glanced back down at the pocket square, your tongue thick in your maw.

There was nothing left to say.

He got into the driver's seat, you sitting in the back like a stranger as if he hadn’t cultivated you from nearly nothing.

The drive back home was quiet, the kind of silence that hung in the air after the dust had settled.

He didn’t even look at you when he arrived at your place, finger tapping against the steering wheel as if he was wasting his time hanging around you for a moment longer than necessary. As you trudged your way out, you discarded his blazer like a forlorn lover, shuffling to your feet and allowing the chill of the night to nip at your bare skin.

You watched his car drive off, your mind cleared as you could barely process the events of the last couple of hours.

Because you were perfect, so fucking perfect.

But in the end, it wasn’t about perfection. It was about letting go. Letting your obsessions leave like the harsh change of seasons, migrating to leave the frost creeping upon the backs of your heels ready to swallow you beneath the chill.

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jujustu kaisen #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader

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crazyfoxyarcade · 28 days ago

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Yeahhhh this was peak. 😏✋🏽

bitten vampire hunter!Geto x f!reader x vampire!Gojo

synopsis: the best way to get over a breakup is under someone else. except - your one-night-stand wants to be with you for an eternity

content: mdni. smut and angst, vampire au, breakups, revenge/rebound sex, piv sex, biting, misunderstandings, transformations, regret, both guys are a lil obsessive in this one

Inevitability had a funny way of sneaking up on you.

You knew this couldn't last. Knew there were only so many times you could patch up his broken skin and kiss his bruises. Knew there were only so many lonely nights you could live through. Where you would fall asleep in a freezing cold bed and try not to dream about your boyfriend dying to some bloodthirsty vampire. Where you'd wake up crying and checking your phone to see if he'd so much as messaged you. And still, you were still surprised when the final blow came.

"It's just one night," You hissed at him.

"It's not safe," Geto calmly insisted, arms folded across his chest, muscled and littered with faint scars from years of hunting vampires down. He hadn't killed one in two months though - hadn't so much as scratched the one he swore he was trailing nonstop.

"You always say that," You glared at him. All you wanted was to go out for a few drinks with some of your friends. He wasn't even supposed to be here to stop you. But he had some weird sixth sense, showing up every time you were about to go out somewhere without him.

"Because it's true," He scowled. He never raised his voice. Didn't shout or yell. But he expected you to listen.

You were tired of it. Tired of living in limbo waiting for him to come home and wondering if it'd be the night where he wouldn't.

All you wanted was his affection.

It hurt to look at him sometimes. To see all the places he'd been hurt and know even the spots that were unmarked now would probably be scarred later.

"All I care about is keeping you safe," He murmured, trying to stop the fight in its tracks, trying to take all of it back down before everything broke.

But you couldn't bear the brunt of the tension anymore.

"I don't think I can keep doing this."

You kinda thought he'd stop you. Grab your wrist or throw you over his shoulder. Drag you back to the bedroom and wash away your words with kisses and promises that this wasn't over, would never be.

But when you walked out the door, breakup hanging in the air, he let you leave.

And someone else found you.

You were a few drinks in, nursing something strong enough to make the world sway, but everything was already off-kilter. Your friends were drinking, distracted with hot guys or getting ready to call it a night. But you stayed at the bar, unable to admit to any of them you finally broke up with your boyfriend like they'd been telling you to.

"This seat taken?" A warm voice murmured in your ear.

And it was stupid, but the second your eyes snapped over to meet his, the second his intense stare slid over your figure, sizzled through your skin, you knew you'd be going home with him.

Splayed out on his sheets like a feast ready to be devoured, to be savored, just a couple short hours later. Your thong was on the floor, his fingers slotted inside you while his mouth left starving kisses, affection you'd sorely missed.

"You wanna get back at that asshole?" He whispered in your ear, white hair tickling your face while his sharp teeth nipped at your skin. You nodded, lost in the thrusts of his thick digits and the way his tongue dragged over your skin.

You didn't even remember telling him about your ex, but you didn't blink. Didn't stop to consider what he might mean.

There was a sense of wrongness in the air though, but it was the type that only sent a shudder down your spine, made your core pulse.

"Yeah, fuck," You panted, back arching up off the bed and lashes fluttering when his teeth sunk into your throat.

And when the pleasure burned hot enough, you forgot about the pain.

You woke up to the buzzing of your phone on the nightstand. But when you went to sit up, you had to lay back down. Your head was throbbing, your throat parched and sore, all your muscles fried and aching. It was only when you blinked and rubbed your eyes that you realized you were staring up at the wrong ceiling.

"Lay back down." A cold hand wrapped around your wrist, pulled you bak against his hard chest.

Fuck.

Last night was blurry, cast in a dreamy haze from the drinking and the dancing and the handsome man who actually paid you attention. You only sort of remembered what happened after - but you could piece together the missing bits from where your clothes were scattered across the floor, the bruises and handprints decorating your body beneath the blanket. The sex was the kind that fried your brain, set all your nerves on fire until all your senses could do was beg for more.

But guilt had started to overwrite the memory, painting the edges sinister instead of sinful.

"I should go," You muttered, trying to untangle yourself from him. Your stomach was rumbling, and you were acutely aware just how starving you were.

But he held on tighter, grumbling at your attempt to pull free.

"The sun's still out," He huffed.

You blinked, squinting around the dark room, trying to make his warning make sense. It wasn't until you glanced over at where your phone was sitting on his nightstand and tapped on the screen that you realized you slept in far past your usual wake up time.

"Shit," You scrambled to stand now, immediately regretting it a fresh wave of dizziness almost sent you face-first on the floor. He caught you though, pulling you back on the bed. You glanced back at your phone, at the messages already piling up on it and the clock ticking past noon. Something wasn't right. Like some invisible itch had dug its way deep into your skin, puppeteering your body and refusing to let it cooperate the way you wanted it to. "I was supposed to be at work hours ago."

He was the one that stared at you confused now, white brows furrowed as his pretty lips parted.

"Work?" He echoed, his hand slipping back down to squeeze your hip. "You don't need a job anymore."

Your stomach churned when every possible conclusion you came to for why the fuck he'd say that was weirder than the last.

Had you agreed to be his fucking sugar baby or something last night? Sure, he was hot, and rich too, judging by the expensive penthouse he'd brought you home too, but seriously?

"Look," You started, and then you felt it. The razor sharp tips of your canine teeth. The dryness in your throat. The dull throb of your throat.

Your face went pale when the realization set in, freezing right as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Catching a glimpse of the matching fangs behind his lips.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" You demanded to know, just for him to throw you an innocent pout. Pull you in like this whole thing was romantic.

"You said you wanted to get back at him," He shrugged.

This was not what you meant.

"And you thought I wanted you to turn me?" You incredulously asked. Geto had always warned you vampires were dangerous, that they would drain you dry or just slice your throat for fun.

He hadn't mentioned that they could be fucking idiots too.

You squirmed out of his grip, huffing as you hurried over to where you vaguely recalled the bathroom being when you cleaned his cum off of you last night.

Trembling fingers flicked the switch, the light flipping on, but your reflection was still in the mirror.

"I can still see myself." You weren't even sure if you were talking to yourself. Or if it even made you feel better. Because, yeah, it was you - just a new one. With two distinct indents above your collarbone.

"The mirror's not backed with silver," He huffed like it was obvious, walking over to join you.

You poked the fangs in the mirror. Stared at yourself and tried to study the differences in the you there'd been yesterday.

Pinched yourself to make sure you weren't dreaming. But it didn't hurt.

"So what now?" You only asked because you were too terrified to think of the options yourself.

Were you just supposed to go back to your apartment and find a job you could work at from home? Start stocking your fridge with blood bags instead of groceries? Would Geto hunt you down?

The thought of him sent a pang to your chest. At least you could still feel pain somewhere.

"Whatever you want," He shrugged, running his long fingers through wispy white hair. "We could travel, sleep stay here. Y'know, I know a little place off the coast of-"

"I don't even know your name," You exhaled, struggling to catch your breath just to realize you didn't even need to breathe anymore.

It was just a habit.

You didn't know what was more horrifying - how he said we or the fact your life was over, and you were here trying to salvage the remnants of it, unable to even feel the air entering and exiting your lungs.

"Satoru," He frowned, leaning against the door frame. "Thought it was weird you weren't screaming it last night, sweetheart. Didn't Suguru tell you?"

"What?" You felt dizzy again, staggering against the bathroom counter, gripping it hard enough the marble cracked. How'd he know his name?

And why would Suguru-

Oh.

The vampire your boyfriend has been trying so hard to track found you first.

"I thought he told you about me," He whined.

Great, so you weren't just stuck with a vain vampire forever, but a self-obsessed asshole who really thought you'd just agree to be turned for something as stupid as revenge.

You were just a pawn in Geto's game after all. Becoming a player when you tried to bow out of the show.

"This isn't what I wanted," You murmured, heart collapsing in on itself.

It was too late to do anything. There wasn't a cure. Not one Geto ever mentioned. And he was more of the murder now, fill in the blanks later type.

Forget getting back together. You'd be lucky if he attended your funeral once he knew what you were.

"It's better than being human," Satoru chuckled, clasping a hand on your shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

Would you though?

"Besides, you have me."

You automatically scrunched your nose up, scowling up at him. But there was only amusement glittering in his eyes, excitement at getting his hands on a new toy.

"This was just supposed to be a one night stand," You shook your head, but you didn't think you'd be able to make it back to your apartment with how lightheaded you still felt.

"You can learn to love me," He murmured, running his fingers over the bite mark he left on your skin. "Can't you?"

You weren't sure you had any other options.

The next few days blurred into weeks, months maybe. You quit your job. Told most of your friends and family you'd taken a new one overseas. Made sure the news spread back to Suguru too.

The last thing you needed was him looking for you.

And funny enough, you did get used to living on the night shift. Moving from city to city, drinking mostly from blood bags or the occasional stranger you coaxed into letting you have a sip. Returning back to whatever hotel or safe house Satoru had, letting him buy you clothes and spoil you with his never-ending supply of attention.

Suguru had never been around enough and Satoru refused to stay away.

He acted like he adored you.

And you tried to convince yourself that was still all you wanted.

Until you felt the familiar burning of your throat when you'd gone too long without feeding or when you watched Satoru lure some pretty girl out into a back alley just for a little drink.

You didn't know what possessed you to call him in the bathroom stall of some shitty bar in a city you didn't know the name of.

"Where are you?" His voice was gruff, grainy over the phone. You wondered where he was. If he was off in some city hours away himself or in bed, head on the same pillow where you used to rest your head. Your throat was closing up, your chest straining like everything inside was being squeezed. "Are you okay?"

"I just miss you," you managed to whisper, leaning your head back against the cold brick of the alley.

There was a heavy pause on the other end. You wished he'd said it back.

"Where are you?" He asked again, the first sliver of panic seeping through.

"I shouldn't have called," You exhaled, shaky as the first tear fell. You wiped it away, but it was useless when more just kept coming. "I should've listened to you."

"It doesn't matter, okay? Just come back," Suguru spoke firmly, far more urgent now.

You wished you could. Wished that it wouldn't end in a stake in your heart.

Or maybe that would be for the best. If anyone was going to kill you, you'd prefer it'd be him.

"I can't." Your voice broke.

"Fine," Suguru scoffed. "I'll just have to find you then."

the xxx files

a/n: so tempted to write a part two of what would happen if Geto did find reader hehe :p

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #geto x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #getou suguru x reader #vampire

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crazyfoxyarcade · 1 month ago

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So this one had a kick to it…😃

Rated PG (for potentially gut-wrenching)

Summary: Your boyfriend cries at kids’ movies, and you fall in love a little more each time. Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

The first time it happens, you think he’s messing with you.

You’re sitting in a mostly empty theater, paper bucket of popcorn between you and massively oversized soda cups balanced in the armrests. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the movie is meant to be background noise. Something soft and harmless to fill the space between brunch and bedtime.

But somewhere around the part where Miguel sings “Remember Me” to his great-grandma, you glance over and catch Satoru swiping at his eyes.

“Are you..” you whisper, leaning in.

He turns just enough for you to see his lashes, wet and catching the light. “Shut up.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re crying?”

“I said shut up.”

Except his voice cracks on the last word, and now you’re laughing quietly, clutching the armrest like it’s keeping you grounded.

“Babe,” you murmur, fiddling through your purse to get him one of those compact tissues you keep on hand. “It’s rated PG.”

He sniffs. “I’m a kid at heart.”

And maybe that’s the moment. The one that melts itself beneath your ribs and attaches to your heart. Because Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, absolute menace of a man, is crying over a boy playing guitar for his great-grandmother.

And you’re not even surprised. Not really.

Not when you know the way he talks to old women like they’re royalty. The way he puts your phone on the charger when you forget, or leaves painkillers beside a glass of water when he hears you muttering about a headache. Not when he insists on holding your hand through every flight, even though he doesn’t mind turbulence, just because he knows you do.

He does plenty of grand gestures, too. Stands on the street outside your apartment window, waiting for you to look outside and see the absolutely gigantic bouquet held in both of his arms.

But it’s more than what he does. It’s who he is.

You lean over and kiss his cheek.

He lets out a shuddering exhale. “If I die, promise me you’ll remember me. And you’ll write me a song with a guitar that people will listen and cry to so I’ll remain super popular forever and ever.”

You snort.

On the ride home, he asks you to play the song again.

You make a habit of it after that.

Once or twice a month, when the world gets too loud or his shoulders start to carry too much, you buy tickets. Always animated. Always sweet. No gritty realism, no grey areas. Just magical families and memories and robot hugs.

He plays it cool in line. Wears shades like he’s not going to stack 3d glasses on top of them in five minutes. Acts like the arm around your waist is for your protection, and not to guide you to the concession stand.

Acts like he's not going to cry. He will. He does.

Sometimes, it’s a single tear, rolling down his cheekbone like it has somewhere to be. Sometimes it’s a slow unraveling, a shaky breath, a hand that searches for yours in the dark. One time it’s full-on sobs, shoulders trembling while Bing Bong fades into the nothingness of the Memory Dump.

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back without a word.

But on the drive home, he’ll talk about it.

“He let himself disappear so Joy could get back,” he mutters, eyes on the road.

You glance at him. “Did you like it when he said ‘Take her to the moon for me’?”

He shakes his head, brow furrowed as if he’s processing a detrimental, life-changing development. “No. Because what kind of animated fever dream has the audacity to hit you with a cosmic metaphor for life, death, and self-sacrifice disguised as a pink elephant in a cotton candy wagon? What were the writers smoking and where can I get some so I can finally understand my feelings?”

You laugh and take his free hand, intertwining your fingers, arms resting on the center console. “You’re soft.”

“You love me.”

You do.

He hesitates, then speaks again, quieter. “You’re the Joy to my Bing Bong.”

You turn to him, eyes trailing over his expression. “..you’re Sadness, Toru.”

“Hey!”

You start to notice it after the third or fourth movie.

The way he sighs a little too long at the happy endings. The way his hand lingers on yours just a second more than usual when the lights come up. The way he stares straight ahead without a word when the credits roll. No laughing. Not even a tear. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment, the feeling, before it fades.

“Hey,” you say once, nudging him gently. “You okay?”

He blinks, smiles, and holds your hand a little tighter. “Yeah. Just.. thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “Time. People. Stuff.”

You raise a brow. “Ominous.”

“You’d hate if I got specific.”

You don’t push. You figure it’s just a bad day. One of those lingering shadows from missions he never talks about.

But later, when you’re back home and he’s watching the city lights through the window instead of sleeping, you hear him whisper, like it’s not meant for you at all. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

You don’t understand what he means. Not yet. But you feel the same way.

Sometimes, when you have free time and don’t want to go to the movies, you sit on the couch with him and put on his favorite. Big Hero 6.

He tries to hold out. Really, he does.

But the moment Baymax says, in that soft, robotic voice, “Are you satisfied with your care?”, and is left in the portal, Satoru lets out a broken little hiccup that turns into a full-body sob.

You blink. “Babe–?”

He lifts a hand to cover his eyes, the other still wrapped tightly around you. “He just wanted to help.”

You bite back a smile. “I know.”

“That’s all he wanted,” he says, voice thick, and now he’s sitting up and wiping his face with the hem of his hoodie. “That’s literally the only thing he was made for, and he still– he still–”

“Died,” you finish gently.

He wails. “And he didn’t even get to finish his sentence, are you kidding me?”

You press your hand to his forehead and lie his head down on your lap, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re gonna short-circuit if you keep crying, Toru.”

He settles into your lap before responding. “That line should be illegal.”

“It should, Toru.”

A beat passes. Then he whines. “Like, am I satisfied with my care? No! I’ll never be satisfied again! He was a robot, baby! His brother made Baymax for him to help, and he just– he kept helping, he went out helping–”

You smile and pinch his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous for making me watch this again.”

“You asked me to put it on.”

“Because I forgot how much it hurts.”

You laugh. “He’ll rebuild Baymax, babe.”

“..I know.”

And maybe he’s still blubbering a little, and maybe you’re still laughing. But the way he clings to you, like the ache of the world softens when you’re close, is the real ending. The quiet epilogue.

So when he mutters, all teary and trembling, “I just want to help, too,” you whisper, “I know.”

Because he does.

He always has.

And when he leaves for that Shibuya “work trip” – the one he swears won’t take too long, the one he jokes about, promising to bring back weird vending machine snacks – you still play the songs. Still buy the tickets. Still keep the tissues in your purse, even if the reason for the habit is gone.

The theater lights go dim. The screen glows to life. A boy strums a guitar, or a robot hugs a child, or a princess finds her way home. You watch and smile, just barely, like you're saving the moment for his hiccuped sobs. You like to imagine he's somewhere in the emptiness of the seat beside you, somewhere you can't reach or see.

Sometimes, you reach over anyway. Just in case. Hoping your hand will catch something, anything, to prove he's still right beside you.

And when the movie ends, you stay seated.

A part of you hopes that if you wait long enough, he'll turn to you again, eyes shining as he says something like "the pink elephant is a metaphor for self-sacrifice."

But he doesn't.

So you whisper it for him.

Because now, love is nothing more than a lingering echo of his voice in the dark, asking are you satisfied with your care?

And no, you don't grab a guitar. You don't write a song.

But you remember him. You always will.

And when the lights come up and no one's there to squeeze your hand, you cry. As if the grief can bring him back, somehow, somewhere in the breath between the last scene and the credits.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #angst #what was that ending #im not crying you are

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crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

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the bet — jason todd

synopsis. it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)

notes. ooc. tooth. rotting. fluff. like 3k words of it and im sick. my first time writing for jason ever yay!

“You know, if you stare any harder, you might actually burn a hole through her head.”

Dick’s teasing voice slices through the comfortable silence between the two brothers, save for the distant sirens and the low hum of Gotham’s never-ending nightlife below them. They’re perched on a rooftop across from an upscale bar, the neon sign casting a soft glow on their suits. Through the massive glass windows, you sit at the bar, leaning in with an easy, disarming laugh as the suspect, some sleazy drug trafficker falls right into your trap.

Jason, crouched beside Dick with his elbows on his knees, grumbles beneath his mask. “I’m not staring.”

Dick lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. Then I must be hallucinating.”

“I thought we got you checked out for that already,” Jason shoots back, his voice sharp.

Dick winces, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Low blow.”

“It was pretty funny.”

Dick doesn’t argue, just settles into a knowing silence, watching as Jason’s hand unconsciously flexes against the holster at his hip.

Jason exhales through his nose, his jaw ticking. “I don’t understand why she has to flirt to get intel. We could just beat the answers out of these guys. Hell, we’d probably get it faster.”

The older vigilante shakes his head. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘covert op’ like bashing heads through walls.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker to the way Jason’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun. “Relax. Your sweetheart can handle herself.”

Jason freezes, but only for a fraction of a second. His heart, though, does that annoying thing where it skips a beat, both traitorous and stupid.

Your sweetheart.

Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know. As much as he wanted to grab you by the waist and kiss you breathless after missions, he wasn’t about to hand his family more ammunition for their relentless teasing.

Dick, for one, was proving exactly why this relationship stayed a secret.

The silence should have been Jason’s first warning. The way Dick just sits there, absently swinging a batarang between his fingers, watching the bar with an all-too-pleased expression.

“You know,” Dick hums, as if lost in thought, “it’s important to let that special someone know how you feel. Your twin flame. That one person you’ve been pining over since– oh, I don’t know, your youth.”

Jason doesn’t move.

Dick pauses for dramatic effect, then casually props his chin in his hand, his gaze flicking to Jason. A slow grin tugs at his lips.

“Hm. You’re blushing.”

Jason’s breath stills. His eyes snap to Dick, but his head remains stubbornly forward.

“I am not blushing.” His voice is gritted steel. “And I haven’t been pining over her for that long.”

Dick tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Huh. Funny.” He leans back with an exaggerated stretch. “I never said who.”

Jason’s fists clench.

Damn it.

His mask covered his whole damn face. There was no way Dick could have seen a blush, no way he could have known.

Jason grits his teeth as realization dawns.

He walked right into that.

Like a lovesick fool.

The next time Jason’s nearly caught is at one of Bruce’s galas.

Jason had grumbled and rolled his eyes when you insisted on attending—something about not wanting to spend the night in a “stuffy ass ballroom pretending to care about Gotham’s elite.” You had countered that it was for a good cause, something you actually cared about, and that Bruce would appreciate the support. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

But, of course, he couldn’t just let you go without making things complicated.

“Matching colors,” Tim observes, arms crossed, his sharp blue gaze flickering between you and Jason.

You school your expression into something neutral. Jason, standing entirely too close to you, does no such thing.

“What a coincidence,” Tim drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“It really was,” you force out a laugh, silently screaming at Jason for his careless mistake.

He had seen your dress before the gala, made a gruff noise of disapproval, and then—without a single word—had left only to return an hour later with a tie in the exact same deep shade of red.

You had almost thrown a shoe at him.

As endearing as the gesture should have been, it was infuriating. He was the one insisting that your relationship remain under wraps, but he was awful at hiding it.

Right now, you can practically feel his warmth radiating onto you, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to settle on your waist. His entire presence screams possessive, yet he’s standing there trying to play it cool.

“Right, Jay?” you prompt, hoping begging he plays along.

“Total accident,” he deadpans.

You mentally facepalm. He is not selling it.

Tim’s smirk deepens, thriving off Jason’s obvious discomfort.

“Well then,” Tim shrugs, barely suppressing his amusement. “If she’s not your date, do you mind if I steal a dance?”

Jason’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.

“Go ahead.”

His tone is flat, but you know better. His hands may be in his pockets, but you can see them clenched into fists. His entire body is rigid, like he’s forcing himself to not grab your wrist and pull you back to his side.

You want to laugh. It’s so obvious.

Tim takes your hand and whisks you away onto the dance floor before Jason can change his mind.

He’s is a smooth dancer, you’ll give him that. He moves with confidence, leading you effortlessly through the slow, sweeping steps of the waltz. The ballroom around you is a blur of glittering gowns and dark suits, the music swelling in a soft, romantic rhythm.

You try to focus on the dance, but you can feel Jason’s stare.

It’s burning into you from across the room, a weight against your spine that makes your pulse spike.

Tim notices. Of course, he does.

“I know I have a grand total of one song before your guard dog comes back,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he spins you. His fingers press lightly against your back, his mouth close to your ear. “So, between you and me… you can just tell me if you’re dating.”

You groan. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this?”

Tim pulls back just enough to give you a pointed look. “Because the two of you have been dancing around each other for years. I’m in pain just watching.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Buzz off and focus on your own romantic life, Drake.”

Tim just grins. “Yours is so much more interesting.” He spins you gracefully, his smirk growing as he catches sight of Jason still watching. Still fuming.

He tugs you back in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “So tell me… are the two of you together? Because I’ve been sensing–”

“You’ve been sensing jack shit, Drake.”

The voice is low, sharp, and pissed.

You barely have time to process Jason’s arrival before you feel a hand—his hand—on your waist, warm and grounding and claiming.

Tim barely gets a breath out before Jason smoothly steps in, seamlessly taking his place as if he had planned this from the start. His movements are precise, natural, possessive. The transition is so smooth it’s like the dance was meant to end like this—with you in his arms.

Tim watches, looking utterly delighted.

“Wow,” he muses. “Not even a full song? Possessive much?”

Jason doesn’t acknowledge him. His grip on you tightens, and you feel his breath against your temple as he leans in just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You should step back. You should do something to break the illusion.

But you don’t.

Because his hand is on your waist, his other hand holding yours just right. His body is solid and warm against you, moving with you effortlessly like he was made for this. The scent of leather lingers on him, comforting and intoxicating.

He is looking at you like you are the only person in the room.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he speaks.

“I don’t like how low his hands were.”

The words are gritted out, low and quiet, meant just for you.

Your heart stumbles. You should not find that as attractive as you do.

“Jason–”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “He knows. He’s just trying to het under my skin.”

You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Jay, it was just a dance.”

His fingers flex against your waist.

Your breath catches in your throat. The words send something electric through you, something dangerous. You don’t have time to respond.

Because Tim, damn Tim, is still standing there, watching the whole exchange with way too much satisfaction.

“Well,” he muses, rocking back on his heels. “That was interesting.”

Jason finally acknowledges him by glowering in his direction.

“Get lost, Drake.”

Tim grins. Because while he may not have gotten a confession, he definitely got confirmation.

After your encounter with Tim, you and Jason had agreed to lay extra low. No unnecessary risks, no slip-ups. No feeding into their suspicions. That plan, of course, went up in flames, quite literally when you almost lost a damn arm.

Jason had nearly lost his mind.

Now, standing in the training room with Cassandra, you tug absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your arm.

Cass, however, does not.

“That’s one nasty burn,” she winces, crouching slightly to get a better look at the angry, blistering wound.

You shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “It’s nothing, really,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just reaching into the oven to grab some muffins, and my arm accidentally hit the hot rack.”

Jason, standing beside you with his arms crossed, snorts.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Told you to be careful this morning.”

The second the words leave his mouth, his body goes rigid. His eyes widen slightly, realizing his mistake.

Shit.

Cass doesn’t even blink before zeroing in.

“What was that?”

Jason schools his expression into mock confusion. “What was what?”

“Don’t play coy, Todd.” Cass’s voice is sharp, her dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that could crack glass.

Jason ever so stubborn and entirely unwilling to admit defeat, doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He doesn’t flinch.

Cass tilts her head, unconvinced. “I heard the two of you were on patrol pretty late last night.” Her gaze flickers between you and Jason, noting every shift in body language, every subtle tell. “So tell me, Todd… what were you doing with [Name] this morning too? Did you, perhaps, sleep together?”

Silence.

The tension in the room thickens, settling over you like an impending storm. Your pulse spikes. Jason’s jaw locks. Cass’s eyes remain unmoving, sharp as a blade.

The stalemate stretches too long.

Before Cass can press further, you jump in.

“What Jason meant,” you say quickly, forcing an easy laugh, “is that our patrol ended at around six in the morning. I invited him over for a snack, is all.”

You will her to believe it.

Jason exhales subtly beside you, relaxing ever so slightly at your quick save.

Cass, however, is not satisfied.

“You never invite me over for snacks,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.

You frown. “I’m sorry, Cass. How about next time?”

She considers for a moment, expression unreadable, before nodding.

“I’ll be there at sunrise.”

You smile, nudging her shoulder. “It’s a deal.”

Cass eyes the two of you for another long second before finally, finally, grabbing her bag and exiting the room.

The moment the door clicks shut, Jason lets out a heavy breath.

Without warning, his large frame topples over yours, his solid weight pressing against your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he mutters, lips brushing the sensitive skin near your ear. His voice is low, gravelly, full of something raw and unguarded.

His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him.

You bite back a smile, leaning into his warmth.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” His lips graze the nape of your neck, lingering.

“Not nearly enough,” you murmur.

It’s a lie.

Because Jason tells you every single day.

If not with his words, then with the way he looks at you. With the way he touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. With the way he freaks out over every little injury, over every near miss, like the thought of losing you would be enough to unmake him.

And God, if he wasn’t so damn obvious about it.

Your charade finally comes to an end on a rare night. The entire family gathered around the Wayne Manor dining table. It had taken weeks of convincing, countless rescheduled plans, and Alfred’s unshakable will to make it happen. You silently applaud him, watching as he moves seamlessly around the table, topping off glasses and making sure everyone eats.

The conversation is lively but controlled, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air: no fights. Bruce was actually eating rather than brooding, Damian had only thrown out two insults so far, and Tim was at least half-awake. For a Wayne family dinner, this was practically peaceful.

No one notices that you and Jason are sitting a little too close, they’re all too engrossed with the hearty meal and a rare opportunity of having a civil conversation with each other.

Jason, ever the attentive boyfriend, wordlessly reaches for the serving platter and places another thick slice of roast onto your plate. Then, he carefully spoons asparagus onto your dish, making sure it’s coated just enough with hollandaise sauce just the way you like it.

“Eat up, sweetheart.” His voice is low and smooth, meant just for you.

Your heart does a little flutter at the name, and your lips tug into a smile as you pick up your fork.

But then a familiar voice turns the entire night around.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Damian’s voice cuts through the table, as sharp as one of his throwing knives, “but doesn’t ‘sweetheart’ have romantic implications?”

Silence.

A few forks hover mid-air. Bruce pauses as he cuts into his steak. Dick, who had been talking to Cass, freezes mid-sentence. Tim, who had been half-heartedly scrolling through his phone under the table, suddenly looks very awake.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Dick leans back in his chair, grinning like he just hit the jackpot. His eyes flicker with amusement as he clasps his hands together.

Jason’s chewing slows. Your eyes flicker to his face, trying to gauge his reaction. This was it. The moment he always dreaded.

“Todd just called [Last Name] ‘sweetheart,’” Damian supplies, ever helpful, pointing at the two of you with his fork.

Cass and Tim share a knowing glance, both nodding in quiet confirmation.

Dick gapes. “In front of my salad?”

Jason, rather than looking panicked, looks entirely unbothered. Too unbothered. His jaw moves as he stuffs another carrot into his mouth, chews deliberately, and then–

“It’s our one-year anniversary next month.”

Chaos erupts.

“WHAT?”

“I KNEW IT!”

“Called it.”

“Took you guys long enough!”

Tim smacks the table, rattling the silverware. Dick throws his hands in the air. Cass laughs silently, shaking her head as if she’s just been vindicated after months of waiting.

Stephanie, meanwhile, grabs Tim’s arm and shakes him. “You owe me fifty-bucks, Drake.”

Bruce, to his credit, looks unfazed, save for the slight twitch of his eyebrow. He sets his knife down and looks at Jason with a measured expression.

“Well done, son.”

Jason stares at him for a moment before giving him a single nod, as if they’re discussing business strategy rather than his romantic relationship.

You’re still flustered under the sheer weight of all the attention, but then Jason’s fingers interlace with yours under the table. Warm. Steady. Protective. He gives your hand a light squeeze, and just like that, your nerves settle.

The chatter continues, voices overlapping.

“I suppose that means I won the bet?”

The room stills.

Jason’s head snaps up. “Wait. What?”

Tim, not even looking ashamed, shrugs. “Technically, nobody won. We all knew already.”

Damian scowls. “The condition was that someone had to prove it. I did that tonight. Therefore, I win.”

Jason straightens in his chair, voice dangerously low. “Hold on. You had a bet?!”

You grimace, bracing yourself as the night takes a turn.

Tim leans back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, yeah. This has been going for months.”

“How much?” Jason demands, his eyes narrowing.

Dick, grinning, raises his glass. “A hundred bucks.”

Jason turns to you, betrayed. “Did you know about this?”

You shake your head furiously. “I would’ve rigged it to win if I had.”

“Unbelievable,” Jason mutters, rubbing his temples.

But then he feels your thumb brush gently over his knuckles, and suddenly, the noise fades into the background. He turns to you, the frustration melting from his features as he takes in the warmth of your smile, the way your eyes are only on him.

You squeeze his hand. “Well,” you say softly, just for him. “At least we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Jason exhales a low chuckle, shaking his head before turning to you fully. There’s adoration in his eyes, open and raw and entirely unguarded. His lips form the silent words, ‘I love you,’ and though no sound escapes, you hear it in the way his eyes soften, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly around yours. Your breath catches, warmth blooming in your chest, and without thinking, you smile radiantly, mirroring the love on his face.

thank you for reading! comments n reblogs are appreciated 💋

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood #dc #batfamily #this was hilarious

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crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

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This was hilarious

Proof of Existence

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader Summary: You were used to waiting up for Jason after patrol, but you weren’t expecting Robin to be the one to climb through your window instead. Damian Wayne is determined to prove that Jason was lying about having a girlfriend, and unfortunately, that means invading your apartment at an ungodly hour. Things only escalate when he calls in reinforcements, and by the time Jason actually arrives, he finds you in the middle of a full-blown Wayne family interrogation.

Warnings: Fluff, sleep deprivation, Batfamily chaos, Jason being grumpy but soft

[Masterlist]

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you glanced at the clock. 2:37 AM.

Jason was late. Again.

You weren’t exactly worried he was Red Hood, after all but you hated waiting up for him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs while the city lights flickered outside your window.

You barely had time to close your eyes before you heard a rustling noise near the fire escape. Immediately alert, you tensed, but before you could reach for your phone, the window slid open.

A small, caped figure landed silently in your living room.

You blinked. “You’re not Jason.”

Damian Wayne Robin, Gotham’s tiniest menace straightened up, arms crossed over his chest as he scrutinized you with a critical gaze.

“So you are real,” he muttered.

You stared at him, still half-asleep. “Excuse me?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Todd claims he has a girlfriend. I assumed it was a delusion. But…” He took a step closer, inspecting you like a rare specimen. “You exist.”

“Uh… yeah?” you said slowly, watching as he started pacing around the apartment.

“This is unfortunate,” he muttered to himself.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It’s almost three in the morning, Damian. Did you break in just to confirm I’m not imaginary?”

“I could have waited for Todd to bring you to the Manor, but that would’ve taken forever.” Damian wandered over to the bookshelf, tilting his head as he scanned the titles. “Hmph. Your taste in literature is acceptable.”

“Oh, thank God, I was really losing sleep over that one,” you deadpanned.

Damian ignored you, already moving to your kitchen. He opened the fridge, scowled, then closed it again. “You don’t eat enough protein.”

You groaned, flopping onto the couch. “Jason is going to kill you when he finds out you’re here.”

“Tt. I doubt it.”

Unfortunately, before you could kick him out, he pulled a communicator from his belt.

“You’re not—”

Too late.

“Drake, come in. I have urgent news,” Damian said, voice completely serious.

There was a brief static crackle before a groggy voice responded. “Damian, it’s late. What could possibly—”

“She’s real.”

Silence.

Then—“No f**ing way.”*

You groaned loudly, covering your face with a pillow.

A few minutes later, your front door actually opened, this time with a key Tim Drake, still in his Red Robin suit but looking like he regretted every decision that led him here.

“Oh my God,” Tim breathed, staring at you like he’d just seen a ghost. “Jason actually has a girlfriend.”

“Why does everyone think I’m fake?” you demanded.

Tim grinned. “Because Jason refuses to let us meet you. Honestly, I thought you were just an excuse for him to leave family dinners early.”

Damian huffed. “As if Todd would be clever enough for that.”

You sighed. “Okay. Great. Mystery solved. You guys can leave now—”

Knock knock.

Oh, come on.

The door opened again, and in strolled none other than Dick Grayson—Nightwing himself—looking far too excited for this hour.

“Ohhhh, this is fantastic,” he said, beaming as he took in the scene. “We finally have proof! Jason’s not making it up!”

“I hate all of you,” you grumbled, pulling Jason’s discarded hoodie over your head as if that could make them all disappear.

“Are you being held against your will?” Dick asked, only half-joking.

“No, but I will commit a crime if you don’t let me sleep.”

Before Dick could respond, the window slammed open again.

“What the hell is going on?”

Jason stood on the fire escape, mask half-off, hair a mess, and murder in his eyes.

“Oh, hey, Jason,” Tim greeted casually. “Nice place.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “Are you—why—” He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “It is three in the goddamn morning.”

“Yes, I noticed,” you said dryly.

Jason turned to you, taking in the way you looked tired, wrapped in his hoodie, blanket half-falling off the couch. His jaw tightened. “Baby, why are you still up?”

You gestured vaguely to the three idiots in your apartment. “Ask them.”

Jason’s glare could’ve set the building on fire. “What the hell are you all doing here?”

“Confirming she’s real,” Damian said simply.

Jason groaned. “Are you kidding me? You—” He pointed at Damian. “Go home. You—” Now at Tim. “Stop enabling this. And you—” Dick raised his hands before Jason could finish.

“Relax, Jaybird,” Dick said, smirking. “We’re just excited to meet the girl you’ve been hiding.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you.”

“Are you two really dating?” a new voice cut through.

Stephanie Brown Batgirl was standing by the window now, her blonde hair messy from a night’s patrol. She crossed her arms, raising a brow at you. “I’m sorry, but I had to see for myself. I really thought it was just some weird ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m just here for the popcorn,” Duke Thomas The Signal grinned from the doorway, joining the chaos with his own brand of enthusiasm.

Jason stood frozen, arms crossed, looking like he was about to explode. “This is not happening.”

“Oh, it’s happening,” Dick teased, leaning in and nudging Jason. “You can’t hide her anymore.”

Jason groaned, rubbing his face. “I swear to God…”

“Jason, relax,” you said, trying to calm him down, but your voice still laced with amusement. “Your family’s just a little... excited.”

Jason turned to you, his expression softening just a little. “I’m sorry, baby.” He pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t expect them to turn up like this, but…” He shot his family one last glare before pulling you closer. “I think I need some alone time with my girlfriend now.”

Everyone groaned in unison.

“You know what, fine,” Tim sighed, pushing himself off the wall. “We’ve gotten the proof we need. No more interruptions. You two have a good night.”

“You guys are the worst,” you muttered, laughing as Jason huffed beside you.

And when they finally filed out, leaving you alone with Jason, you sank back into his arms, letting the chaos of the Batfamily fade into the background.

Jason chuckled softly, kissing the top of your head. “Well, at least they like you.”

You smirked. “Yeah, I think I’ve officially been inducted into the Batfamily now.”

Jason snorted. “They’ll never leave us alone again, will they?”

“Not unless we’re really convincing at family dinners,” you teased.

Jason sighed, but there was a fond look in his eyes. “Maybe we’ll make a run for it next time.”

You laughed softly. “Sounds like a plan.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood #dc #batfam

4K notes · View notes

crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

Text

I don’t even know what to say this was peak. ✋🏽

baby daddy (j.t.)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: Some blood and stuff

Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: I'll be so honest, this was way better in my head lol my execution needs work because aint no way this is 7k words and im still not satisfied perhaps this would be best as a series? but tbh i dont think i can write much more than this

It's based on this post from @batbusiness-schooldropout

"Alright, who the hell snitched?"

Jason stormed into the Batcave, helmet tucked under his arm, pissed.

Tim barely looked up from the Batcomputer, "What are you talking about?"

Jason gestured wildly, "I just had a fun little run-in with a couple of GCPD officers who very politely informed me that I have an outstanding legal matter that needs my attention. Which is news to me because I don’t exactly file taxes or have jury duty, so what the hell are they trying to pull?"

Tim blinked, "You have a warrant?"

"That’s what I’m asking you!" Jason snapped.

Tim, now curious, spun back to the screen, "Alright, let’s check."

He typed in Red Hood and cross-checked it with Gotham’s legal system. A few minor infractions came up—nothing serious—but then…

There it was.

Tim frowned, "Huh."

Jason narrowed his eyes, "What?"

"It’s… not a warrant," Tim said slowly, "It’s a summons."

Jason crossed his arms, "For what?"

Tim clicked on the file. A scanned document popped up, the words 'LEGAL NOTICE' at the top.

"Looks like someone filed you as a legal guardian," Tim muttered, "Gotham’s courts have been trying to notify you for a while now. They probably flagged it to GCPD just to get it on your radar."

Jason scoffed, "Guardian? Of who?"

Tim clicked again, "A kid named Aria (L/N)."

Jason frowned, "That name means nothing to me."

Tim went still.

Jason’s stomach sank, "...What?"

Tim very slowly turned the screen toward him.

Jason stared.

Child’s Name: Aria (L/N) Mother: (Y/N) (L/N) Father: Red Hood

His brain just stopped working.

Dick, passing by with his coffee, glanced at the screen, "Oh, damn. Jay, you finally settling down?"

Jason whipped around to glare at him, "I don’t know this woman! I don’t have a kid!"

"Legally, you do." Tim pointed out.

Jason turned back to the screen, rubbing his temples, "Why is my life like this?"

Tim scrolled further, "Looks like the mother put your name down instead of the real father’s. And since Gotham courts don’t do DNA tests without permission from both parents… that guy got screwed out of custody."

Jason clenched his jaw, "And now they’re trying to find me because I’m on record as the dad."

Tim squinted at the file, then choked.

Jason looked at him warily, "...What?"

Tim covered his mouth, trying so hard not to laugh, "There's a comments section."

Jason leaned over his shoulder, eyes scanning the document. Then he saw it.

Additional Comments: "He kept the helmet on the whole time."

The Cave went dead silent.

Jason stared. Tim bit his lip. Dick was turning red trying not to lose it.

Then—

Tim wheezed.

Dick howled.

Jason smacked his forehead against the Batcomputer, "I hate everything."

He then exhaled sharply, cutting off his mental breakdown before muttering, "Okay. Fine. I’ll go find the mother and figure this out."

Dick snickered, "Tell Aria Daddy’s coming home."

Jason threw a batarang at him.

***

"Hi, honey, I'm home."

The distorted, robotic voice from his helmet made you freeze in place. Your pulse thundered in your ears, dread settling like a stone in your stomach. You knew exactly why the Red Hood was in your apartment.

You turned slowly, keeping your hands in sight as if that would make a difference, "Please, don't. My daughter is in the next room. She only has me."

"Don't you mean our daughter?" He bit out, sarcasm cutting through the voice modulator.

Despite whatever anger he held toward you, he hesitated, feeling pity. You must have looked terrified.

"I'm not here to hurt you," He said after a beat, "I just want an explanation."

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm, "Her father is an asshole. I couldn’t let him have any rights over her, so I wrote your name down on all her documents. Gotham has no way of verifying, so they just had to take my word for it."

You met his gaze, your voice steady despite the situation, "I’m sorry if I made things complicated for you, but this was the only way I knew to keep his hands off her."

Jason exhaled sharply, shifting his weight, "How long did you think this would go unnoticed?"

You hesitated before answering, "Well… 'our' daughter turned five last month, so I figured you weren't going to find out anytime soon. Guess I was wrong."

You knew of Red Hood. You knew what he stood for. No matter what, he would never hurt a child. Ever. And if the rumors about him were true, then he would realize that you had only been acting in Aria’s best interest.

He studied you, the lenses of his helmet unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his scrutiny. This was an invasion of privacy—probably illegal, even—but instead of anger, he seemed... intrigued. You weren’t what he expected. You were clever, maybe even reckless, but clearly devoted to your daughter.

And—if he was being honest—pretty. Definitely pretty.

"Why me?" He finally asked, "Why not any of the other Bats?"

You shrugged, "Of all of them, you seemed like the least likely for civil court to track down." That much was true—any time someone tried to drag Red Hood into Gotham’s legal system, he either ignored it or laughed in their face before firing a warning shot.

"You're also the scariest, aside from Batman. And I didn’t want him getting any ideas about recruiting Aria for his next child vigilante project once Robin retires again." You smirked, "Lastly, having a baby daddy without a no-kill rule seemed like a great way to keep that deadbeat asshole far, far away from us."

Jason flat-out laughed at that. The sound, even through the voice modulator, carried warmth.

"You make an excellent argument," He admitted.

You relaxed slightly, "I am sorry. If I knew it was going to bother you, I never would have done it."

He shrugged, completely unbothered, "Doesn’t bother me. You were doing right by your kid. I can respect that."

Relief washed over you, and you smiled. You didn’t push the conversation further—if he wanted to be taken off her documents, he’d ask.

Instead, he surprised you.

"Can I meet her?"

Your breath caught, "Who? Aria?"

"I mean, legally, she’s my kid, right? That means I have visitation rights."

Apprehension prickled at the edges of your mind. Had you just swapped out one danger for another? You had gone to great lengths to keep Aria safe from one man—had you unknowingly invited another into her life?

Jason seemed to sense your hesitation. "You can say no," He said, almost gently, "But I just found out I have a daughter today. I’d like to meet the girl who made you pull a stunt this reckless and brave."

You could say no. You probably should say no.

And yet, as you looked at the masked man standing in your too-small living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

"...Okay," You said at last, "But you might want to take off the mask. She scares easy."

Jason chuckled, low and amused. You half-expected him to refuse, to make some offhanded comment before declining the invitation and leaving, but instead, you heard the soft click as he unlocked his helmet and pulled it off.

Dark, slightly messy hair with a single white streak. Stormy blue eyes. Sharp cheekbones and full lips.

"Wow," You breathed before you could stop yourself.

He raised a brow.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warming, "I can see where our daughter gets her good looks from."

Jason snorted, shaking his head.

"Aria, honey!" You called, turning toward her room, "Come out for a second, please!"

The door creaked open, followed by the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet. Aria emerged in a pink tutu, a plastic wand in her hands, and a sparkly tiara perched on her head.

She blinked up at Jason with wide, curious eyes.

"This is Mommy’s friend, Red Hood," You told her, "He wanted to say hi."

Aria beamed, "Hi, Mr. Hood!" She grabbed the edges of her tutu and curtsied, just like the princesses in her favorite cartoons.

You glanced at Jason. His expression had softened, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. For a man who had probably seen the worst the world had to offer, he looked completely in awe.

Jason, the Red Hood—the most terrifying name in Gotham’s underworld—cleared his throat, gripping his helmet a little tighter.

"Uh. Hi there." He said, voice definitely shaking.

You bit your lip, looking down to hide your smile.

This huge crime lord, who had probably seen more murders tonight than you had in your entire life, was nervous talking to a five-year-old.

Aria giggled, "You talk funny."

Jason blinked, "I do?"

She nodded, "Your voice is all rumbly! Like Batman!"

Jason made a very undignified sound, "I am nothing like Batman, princess."

Aria gasped dramatically, "You know Batman?!"

***

Jason didn’t know exactly how he ended up in this position.

After that first meeting with Aria, he’d been more than ready to let you both get back to your lives. You had only put his name down as Aria's father to scare off her real father; he had no place here.

And yet.

When he found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling, or in the rare moments of silence while working on cars, his mind drifted. He’d think about Aria—her wide, innocent eyes staring up at him, the way she had curtsied like a damn princess, completely unafraid of the man Gotham whispered about in fear.

An unfamiliar squeeze tugged at his heart.

He had a daughter.

And the more he thought about her, the more he wanted to protect her—to keep that innocence untouched, to make sure she was safe and happy. He wanted to be a father.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to you.

You hadn't spoken for long, but somehow, you’d managed to stick in his mind. Despite it being the end of the day, exhaustion tugging at you, there had been a light in your eyes—something warm, something alive. He found himself drawn to it.

The confidence in your posture, the way you had no trouble meeting his eyes, the sheer sass you had thrown his way despite knowing exactly who he was. And above all, the love and protectiveness you had for Aria.

You were nothing like anyone he had ever met before.

A couple of days later, he found himself knocking at your door again.

He had told himself it was just to check on Aria after a Joker attack. That was reasonable, right? He had to make sure she was safe. That’s all it was.

You had offered him dinner. He declined.

Then, a couple of days after that, he found himself there again—this time after a Poison Ivy incident.

You offered him dinner again.

This time, he obliged.

That night, he sat at your dinner table with you and Aria, listening as she excitedly told him about school. He learned about your job, about the little details of your life, and—much to his amusement—was introduced to what Aria called the greatest meal in the entire world.

Hello Kitty-shaped pasta.

He raised a brow at you.

You shrugged, "It’s expensive, but it makes her happy."

Jason huffed a small laugh, "What’s the special occasion?"

Aria beamed, practically vibrating in her seat.

"I got made line leader today!" She announced proudly.

You glanced at her with a mix of amusement and pride, eyes warm, "It’s a big deal."

Jason turned to Aria, his chest tightening at the way she puffed herself up with pride. Without thinking, he reached out and ruffled her hair like it was second nature.

"Good job, princess," He murmured.

Her entire face lit up.

And just like that, Jason Todd was done for.

It had been two months since Jason first met the both of you, and now, sitting at the dinner table, he was experiencing his first real parental crisis.

It was obvious that Aria was in a bad mood.

She barely touched her food, half-heartedly pushing it around her plate. Even when you suggested ordering takeout—usually a foolproof way to lift her spirits—she just shook her head. You and Jason exchanged a concerned glance over her head.

Something was clearly wrong.

You sighed, resigning yourself to the hope that she’d tell you before bed or at least over breakfast tomorrow.

"I'm just gonna go take a shower, do you mind?" You asked, gesturing toward Aria.

Jason didn’t hesitate before nodding.

You smiled gratefully, pressing a kiss to Aria’s crown before leaning over and doing the same to Jason.

A month ago, that would’ve made him jump out of his skin. Now, after two months of shared dinners—some planned, others happening more naturally—he only sat there, heart racing in his chest, pretending that wasn’t the highlight of his day.

When he heard the shower turn on, he turned to Aria with a mischievous grin.

"Okay, Mom’s in the shower. What do you say to ice cream for dinner?"

Jason liked to pretend you had no idea whenever he and Aria snuck ice cream together. But ever since he convinced you to let him make homemade ice cream with protein shakes and sneaky healthy ingredients, you had stopped putting up much of a fight. Besides, he wasn’t exactly subtle. If he didn’t outright tell you, the dirty dishes in the sink were more than enough of a giveaway.

More than anything, though, he just wanted Aria to eat something.

But tonight, instead of the excited little gasp she usually gave, Aria just frowned.

"Mommy doesn’t like that."

"Princess," He said more gently, shifting in his seat, "is something wrong? You love ice cream. And Mom made one of your favorites tonight, but you’re not eating, and…" His voice softened, "That makes me sad."

Aria hesitated for a few seconds before pushing her plate away and sliding off her chair. Jason tensed, heart thudding slightly faster. Shit, did I upset her? Is she about to cry?

But she didn’t.

Instead, she ran off, returning moments later with her pink Barbie backpack. She unzipped it and rifled through its contents before pulling out a slightly crumpled piece of paper and handing it to him.

Jason smoothed the paper out.

And felt his stomach drop.

Daddy-Daughter Day!

"My teacher told us to give it to our parents," Aria said quietly, her lip trembling, "So our daddies can come visit one day."

She fidgeted, looking down at her hands.

"But… I don’t have a daddy."

And just like that, Jason Todd’s heart broke in two.

***

When you came out of the shower, towel-drying your hair and now dressed in your pajamas, you immediately looked around for Aria.

"She didn’t really want to eat, so I just put her to bed," Jason informed you.

You sighed, sinking into a chair at the dining table, "Do you think I should call her teacher tomorrow and ask if something happened? Maybe someone was being mean to her at school?"

Wordlessly, Jason slid a folded piece of paper across the table toward you. You furrowed your brows and picked it up, unfolding it to read.

Your face immediately darkened.

"This can’t be right!" You hissed, voice sharp with anger. "I thought schools had outfashioned practices like this! What happened to inclusivity and all that crap? What about kids with two moms? Or no parents at all? I’m calling up the school. I’m gonna be a full-blown Karen. I’m gonna—"

"(Y/N)—"

"No, Jason, this isn’t okay!"

Despite your fury, you kept your voice down for Aria’s sake. Jason wasn’t sure if you were about to explode or just strain your vocal cords with your whispered screams. But then, just as suddenly as your anger had flared, you seemed to fizzle out.

You slumped back into your chair, rubbing your face with trembling hands.

"I’ve done everything I can to make sure Aria never feels the absence of a father," You murmured.

"I’ve tried. I’ve—" Your voice cracked.

You let out a shaky breath and shielded your face with your hands, "My poor baby. I can’t believe she held onto this all day without telling me."

Jason think twice before he pulled you into his arms, letting you rest your head against his neck as you composed yourself.

After a moment, he spoke, "Look, I know it might not be the same, but… I was thinking. What if I attended the event with Aria?"

You stiffened, then slowly pulled back, meeting his eyes. Your expression wasn’t hopeful—it was guarded.

Jason’s stomach soured.

"Jay, I know we’ve been having a good time lately, but you can’t do that to Aria," You said, shaking your head, "If you go to this event as her dad, she’s going to see you as that. And you can’t—you can’t do that to her."

Jason swallowed hard. His voice was quieter when he asked, "What if I wanted to? To be seen as her dad? Would that really be so terrible?"

You didn’t answer.

You just stood up from the table and walked away.

Jason almost would have laughed at how much you resembled Aria in that moment if he didn't feel his stomach sinking to his feet.

But just like Aria, you also came back.

Clutched in your hands was a camera. You placed it in front of him, watching as he stared at you with unsure eyes.

"I record all of Aria’s school events," You said softly. "Don’t miss a second of it."

Jason blinked. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Before you could react, he grabbed you and twirled you around the kitchen.

You let out a surprised squeal before bursting into giggles, clinging onto his shoulders. But then, realization hit.

You were definitely not wearing a bra.

Your giggles faded, and Jason froze as well, both of you suddenly very aware of how close you were. You stared at each other, identical blushes creeping up your cheeks.

You cleared your throat.

"You can—um—you can put me down now."

***

It was almost comical how small the classroom was.

Jason had to duck his head to step inside, barely squeezing through the low doorframe. The room was packed—about fifteen other dads crammed into tiny plastic chairs that looked like they could barely support one ass cheek. Jason didn’t even bother trying. Instead, he just lowered himself to the floor, crossing his legs as he settled in.

The dads around him nodded politely as they all waited for the teachers to finish setting up and taking attendance.

"I don’t think I’ve seen you around before," A man beside him said, shifting his son in his lap, "I’m David."

"Jason," He replied, shaking his hand with a firm but polite grip.

"This is Harry," David continued, gesturing to the little boy who peeked up at Jason shyly before quickly burying his face in his dad’s shirt. Jason chuckled.

"So, which one’s yours?"

Jason glanced across the room, "Over there, in the book corner."

David followed his gaze. In the far corner, a little girl in denim dungarees rifled through a stack of picture books with a very serious expression, clearly determined to find a specific one. Jason had picked out her outfit today—he’d even let her wear the tiara she refused to take off, despite your insistence that it was an inside toy.

No doubt, she was making a mess that her poor teacher would have to clean up later.

David frowned, "Who?"

"The one with the tiara," Jason said.

David's confusion deepened, "Aria?"

Jason’s brows furrowed, "Yeah."

"Aria (L/N)?"

"Yes."

David blinked, "I—I didn’t know you were—I thought (Y/N) was single."

Jason’s expression darkened. A phantom of a scowl flickered across his face before he forced himself to relax. He wasn’t about to scare off the other parents at an event that was supposed to be important for Aria.

"She isn’t," He said simply.

David paled, "Oh. Uh—sorry." He quickly bowed his head, clearly embarrassed.

Jason smirked, barely hiding his haughty attitude. So what if he told a little white lie? It wouldn’t do any harm for Dave—or Dan, or whatever his name was—to keep his sights off you.

Really, you deserved better than some average, boring guy who probably filed his taxes early and grilled chicken without seasoning. Someone like that wouldn’t know how to handle you. He wouldn’t know how to make you laugh when you were stressed, wouldn’t know how to handle your sass, wouldn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.

No, you needed someone confident. Someone strong. Someone who could protect you and Aria. Someone with a soft side, sure, but also someone who wasn’t afraid to fight for you. Someone who would go to hell and back if it meant keeping you both safe.

Someone like…

Oh.

Jason's smirk faltered for half a second before he recovered, clearing his throat and forcing himself to focus on Aria, who was still knee-deep in her book hunt.

Well. That was something to unpack later.

***

"Now, all together, everyone! On the count of three—one, two, three!" the teacher announced cheerfully.

A chorus of tiny voices rang out.

"I love you, Dad!"

It was loud, chaotic, a jumble of high-pitched shouts that somehow blended into something warm and sweet. Parents chuckled, kids giggled, the room filled with laughter and joy.

But Jason’s heart sank.

While the other kids beamed up at their fathers, Aria clutched the handmade card in tight fists, her knuckles white. She kept her head down, lip wobbling, shoulders trembling as she struggled to say the words.

Jason knelt in front of her, his heart twisting. God, she’s so small. Both of her tiny hands barely covered his palm as he gently took them in his own.

"You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to, Aria," He told her softly, "I’m not going to force you to do anything. Just know that I love you very much, princess. That’s enough for me."

She finally looked up at him, somehow seeming even smaller despite the fact that he was kneeling. Her big, glassy doe eyes searched his face.

"You really love me?" She asked in the quietest whisper.

"More than anything, baby."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, before he could think about the weight they carried. About what it might mean for a little girl who had spent her whole life without a father.

For a moment, she just stared at him. Jason barely had time to register the emotion in her eyes before she launched herself at him, tiny arms wrapping tightly around his neck. She burrowed against him, her small frame pressing against his chest as she whispered into his ear—

"I love you, Daddy."

Jason felt his breath catch in his throat.

Oh. Oh.

He squeezed her tighter, pressing his face into her soft curls, "I love you too, princess," He murmured, voice thick with something he wasn’t ready to name.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd felt like he belonged.

***

Aria had been absolutely beaming after Daddy-Daughter Day, her excitement carrying her through the evening—especially since Jason had taken her to the park afterward. She had barely managed to get through telling you about her day, slurring her words sleepily as you tucked her into bed.

You pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, smoothing down her hair before stepping away, only to find Jason waiting for you in the doorway.

You smiled at him, reaching for his hand and leading him back to the living room. Without a word, you poured him a glass of wine, knowing that, even though he wouldn’t admit it, the day at her kindergarten had probably exhausted him. The proof was in the way he let out an almost comically heavy sigh the second he sank onto the couch.

You settled beside him, resting your head on his shoulder like it belonged there, both of you staring at the very much off television in comfortable silence.

“She has a lot of energy, doesn’t she?” You murmured, amused.

Jason huffed out a laugh, “Yeah. I like to think I’m somewhat athletic, but Aria put me to shame today.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly to look up at him, “Thanks for going today. It meant a lot to her. And to me, too.”

There was a beat of silence before Jason reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours like second nature. His grip was warm, grounding.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

Living in Gotham, you considered yourself one of the lucky ones.

Sure, you weren’t immune to the constant calamities that plagued the city, but you had managed to avoid being caught in the worst of them. Your bank had never been robbed while you were there. You had never been held hostage. You were one of the few people left who had never fallen victim to Joker venom.

Sure, your house had been broken into before—before Aria—but you were never home when it happened.

Really, you should’ve known your luck was going to run out eventually.

You had gotten too comfortable with Jason’s late-night visits, so when the knock came at your door, you didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t check the peephole. You didn’t ask who it was. You just…opened it.

Rookie mistake.

The man standing on the other side was a stranger. Tall. Built. And he made no effort to conceal the gun in his pocket.

Your blood went cold.

A smirk curled at his lips, sending goosebumps crawling up your skin. Your throat tightened.

“Hello, sweetheart. Did your baby daddy stop by?”

Your voice barely came out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man tsked, stepping forward, making you instinctively press yourself against the doorframe.

“Now, now. Don’t lie,” He murmured, “It won’t end well for you—or the little runt back there.”

Your heart stopped.

Aria.

Terror clawed at your chest, your breath shuddering. Tears burned your eyes.

“Please,” You whispered, “Don’t hurt her. She’s just a child.”

“The child of the infamous Red Hood.” He tilted his head mockingly, “You can’t possibly think that means nothing.”

You shook your head violently, “She doesn’t know anything. I don’t know anything. Please.”

Your hands were iron on the doorknob, but it meant nothing.

With a single sharp shove, he flung the door open.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

***

Jason had been having a good night.

He had just finished his patrol and was on his way to your place, eager to see you and Aria. Maybe he’d bring her some hot chocolate, tuck her into bed, and spend the rest of the night with you, pretending—for just a little while—that the world outside didn’t exist.

Then he saw the door.

Wide open.

His blood ran cold.

Jason didn’t think—he moved. Gun drawn, he stormed inside, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. The second he stepped into the apartment, his stomach dropped.

The place was trashed.

Aria’s toys were scattered across the floor, your coffee table overturned, and the framed pictures on the wall had been knocked down, the glass shattered.

There had been a struggle.

Jason’s throat tightened as his eyes landed on a streak of blood smeared across the hardwood floor.

His world tilted.

No. No, no, no, NO.

His hands shook, but his grip on his gun only tightened. His pulse was pounding in his ears, deafening, drowning out everything but the rage that ignited in his chest like an explosion.

His vision blurred with fury.

Someone took you. Someone took Aria.

His family.

Jason turned sharply and stormed out of the apartment, his movements lethal and precise. He going to hunt down the bastards who thought they could take his girls and live to tell the tale.

They were going to pay.

***

"I need you to find two missing people."

That was the first thing out of Jason’s mouth the second he entered the cave. His urgency didn’t seem apparent enough to anyone, judging by the way Dick and Bruce didn’t even look up from sparring.

Tim, who didn’t bother glancing away from the Batcomputer, simply asked, “Who?”

“(Y/N) and Aria (L/N).”

At this, Dick perked up, “Your fake baby mama and kid? She might not be missing, Little Wing. Maybe she’s just at Superman’s baby shower.”

Dick wasn’t expecting boisterous laughter, but at least a huff of breath or a chuckle would have been appreciated. Instead, he suddenly found himself grabbed by the collar, yanked forward until he was forced to look Jason in the eye.

Jason’s expression was thunderous—fury on the surface, but something even more unsettling lurked underneath.

“The mother of my child and my daughter are missing, and you want to make jokes?”

Dick raised a brow, forcing himself to stay calm, “I thought you didn’t know them?”

Jason’s grip tightened for a second before he let go, stepping back. His voice was low, unwavering.

“I do now.”

***

The world felt like it was spinning in slow motion. Every breath was a struggle, your head pounding from the blow you’d taken earlier, your body screaming in pain with every movement. You tried to focus, tried to tell yourself it was going to be okay—that Aria was okay—but you weren’t okay.

You had been firm in your resolve, refusing to reveal anything about the Red Hood, willing to die on the hill that you knew nothing. But you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it up. So far, they had only hurt you—because when they had turned to Aria, demanding answers, she had wailed and sobbed until she peed herself. The memory made tears well in your eyes.

Your poor girl might walk out of this untouched, but she wouldn’t leave unscathed. This would haunt her for years to come.

And you knew—the second they turned back toward her, the second they so much as raised a hand in her direction—you would break. It didn’t matter how much you loved Jason. You couldn’t, wouldn’t, ever put anyone above Aria’s safety.

Her terrified little eyes stayed locked on you, watching as a trail of blood ran down the side of your face.

Then the door slammed open.

The sound echoed in the empty space, sharp and deafening. Your body tensed, your breath catching in your throat. The man holding you captive turned toward the entrance, a sneer curling his lips.

“Well, well,” He drawled, his voice sickeningly amused. “Looks like Daddy's finally joined us for the party.”

Your heart leaped in your chest. But you couldn’t show it. Not when Aria was still in danger.

With the momentary distraction, she crawled into your lap, and despite the blinding pain searing through your body, you pulled her in. She trembled against you, clutching onto you as if her life depended on it—and in a way, it did. You shielded her, wrapping your arms around her tiny frame, covering her eyes with your bloody hand.

You whispered sweet nothings into her ear, pressing weak kisses to her temple, hoping—praying—that it would be enough to comfort her.

Then came the first gunshot.

You didn’t dare look. You knew what was happening. You could hear it in the crack of bone, the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor, the sharp gasps of dying men. Jason was swift. Merciless. Tearing through the people who had dared to lay a hand on you and his daughter.

He was here.

He was going to save you.

Another body collapsed nearby, and your breath hitched. You felt yourself slipping, your limbs numb, your eyelids growing heavier by the second.

Then, his voice cut through the haze—low and desperate, but still gentle.

“Sweetheart?”

You wanted to look up at him, to reach for him, but your body was betraying you. Your vision blurred, the pain making it impossible to move.

His hand cupped your face, his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you. You tried to focus on that, tried to hold on.

“Talk to me, baby,” He murmured, his voice tight with worry.

But you couldn’t. You could barely breathe. The only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness was the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder—the scent of Jason, of safety, of home.

You felt him shift, carefully lifting you into his arms, cradling you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You instinctively leaned into him, letting his presence surround you.

Aria clung to him just as tightly, her tiny voice muffled against his chest.

“Daddy!”

Despite everything, despite the agony consuming your body, your heart swelled at hearing her call him that. When had she started calling him Dad?

Then Jason’s fingers brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. His voice was softer now, almost breaking.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.”

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his—those intense, unwavering blue eyes that had pinned you to your place the first time you had met in your apartment.

That day you had been apprehensive at best when he had asked to meet Aria, second guessing every choice you made but in the end choosing to follow your gut when it said it had a good feeling about him.

Now, you were sure of it.

“Jason,” You rasped, barely above a whisper. His head snapped down toward you instantly, his grip tightening as if he were afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“I need you to promise me something,” You murmured, your breath shallow, your chest tight.

His brows furrowed. “Anything,” He said, but the hesitance in his voice told you he already knew where this was going.

“I need you to promise…” You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to keep going, “If something happens to me… you’ll take care of Aria. Promise me, Jay.”

He froze.

For the first time since he’d stormed in, tearing through your captors like an avenging angel, he looked terrified.

His lips parted, but no words came out. You could see the battle raging inside him—the part of him that refused to believe he could lose you and the part that was too afraid not to make that promise.

“Don’t you dare say that,” He finally whispered, voice trembling, “I’m not losing you. I won’t—”

“Promise me,” You urged. You barely had the strength to grip his jacket, but you pulled weakly at the fabric anyway, needing him to understand.

His eyes glistened with unshed tears, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. But he wasn’t crying. Not yet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he swallowed hard and nodded.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” He swore, his voice breaking. “I won’t let her grow up without you. I promise.”

The relief that washed over you was instant. Even as your vision darkened at the edges, even as your body started to give out, you felt… safe. At peace.

With your last burst of strength, you reached for Aria’s tiny hand, wrapping it in your weak grasp. You gave her a faint squeeze, managing the smallest of smiles.

“I love you,” You whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, “Both of you.”

Jason's breath hitched. His grip around you tightened, as if he could physically keep you here, tethered to him, to Aria, to the life he couldn't bear to lose.

“No, no, sweetheart—stay with me," He pleaded, his voice cracking, raw with panic. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, "You don’t get to say that like it’s the last time. You don’t—Please (Y/N)—" His voice broke completely, and for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd was afraid.

Because he knew what loss felt like. Knew it too well.

And he couldn't—wouldn't—survive losing you too.

Aria let out a whimper, squeezing your fingers with her tiny hand. "Mommy?" Her voice was so small, so scared, and it shattered something inside him.

He shifted you in his arms, holding you closer, keeping you upright even though your body was limp.

“I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered, but the words felt hollow, like a plea rather than a promise.

Aria began to sob loudly, little hands grabbing at your sleeve, trying to shake you awake, “Mommy, wake up! Please!”

Her wails were raw, desperate, but Jason had to hold her back, had to keep her from accidentally hurting you any further. His grip on her was gentle but firm, even as his own body trembled with barely restrained terror.

He buried his face in her hair, biting back the sob threatening to claw its way out of his throat. He held you tighter, as if he could physically keep your soul tethered to him, as if just holding you close would stop the light from fading from your eyes.

He had never felt this helpless.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the man who had clawed his way back from the grave, who had survived horrors most people couldn’t even imagine—he was useless when it mattered most.

He was holding the broken pieces of this family.

A family that had been good, that had been safe before he came into the picture. A family that had welcomed him with open arms, treated him as though he had never been missing in the first place.

And what had he done in return?

He had ruined it.

He had brought his war, his bloodstained hands, his cursed existence into your lives, and now you were paying the price for it.

If he had never been selfish enough to stay, to want this, to think—even for a second—that he could have something good, that he could deserve you, this never would have happened.

This was his fault.

It was always his fault.

His mother’s betrayal. His death. His resurrection. The people he killed. The people he couldn’t save.

And now you.

Jason clenched his jaw, his breath coming out in ragged, uneven gasps. His heart slammed against his ribs as guilt and fury warred inside him. His hands, hands that had broken men, hands that had torn Gotham’s underworld apart, could do nothing but hold onto the only two people in the world who had ever made him feel like he was worth something.

But what was he worth now?

What good was he if he couldn’t even protect the people he loved?

Jason let out a shaking breath, pressing a kiss to Aria’s head, squeezing his eyes shut as he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

He never should have stayed.

***

Jason kept his head down as he exited your hospital room, feeling his heart break under the weight of his own resolve—to stay away from both of you.

He spotted his father waiting at the reception, handling the paperwork and payment. As much as Jason felt like the lowest he had ever been and didn’t want anyone to see him like this, he was a little relieved. At least Bruce was here. At least he could leave knowing you were taken care of. He could go home, lock himself in his apartment, and spend the next few weeks trying to forget you. Trying to convince himself that he had been an idiot for ever thinking he had a place in your family.

Because thanks to him, your family had almost been destroyed.

With his head down, he walked up to Bruce, hands stuffed in his pockets. His father gave him a sympathetic pat on the back, but Jason didn’t want to talk. If he opened his mouth now, if he let himself breathe wrong, he knew the lump in his throat would break, and the tears would come pouring out.

"Daddy!"

The sound of Aria’s voice snapped his head up just in time for her to crash into him, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck in a desperate grip. Before he could even think, he was holding her, hugging her tight, feeling her little body shake.

"Daddy, don’t leave! Mommy and I need you! Please don’t go!"

Jason looked at her tear-streaked face and felt something deep inside himself crack. He beat himself up for even considering walking away. How could he? How could he leave while you were still lying in a hospital bed? How could he abandon Aria when she needed him most?

His baby girl.

She needed him. And the truth was—he needed her just as much. He needed both of you.

Right then and there, he made a promise to himself. He would protect you both more than anything. He would love you both more than anything. And he would stop at nothing to make sure you were happy and safe.

Pressing his nose against Aria’s wet cheek, he kissed away her tears, "I’m not going anywhere, princess. Daddy’s not going anywhere."

He stole a glance at Bruce, who gave him a small smile and a nod. With a steadier heart, he carried Aria back to your hospital room.

The second she saw you, Aria gasped, "Mommy!"

You gave Jason a tired smile from your place on the bed, the cut on your lip making it painful to do so, but you still reached out for his hand.

"I thought you would’ve left, wallowing in your guilt. Your masochistic streak and all that," You teased softly.

Jason let out a shaky breath, giving you a glassy-eyed smile before pressing another kiss to Aria’s temple.

"Our girl knows how to keep me grounded."

You grinned at that, exhaustion clear in your features but warmth shining in your eyes.

"She’s her father’s daughter, alright."

***

State of New Jersey Department of Family and Child Services Official Adoption Certificate

This document certifies that on 17/03/2025, Jason Peter Todd has legally adopted Aria (L/N), hereafter known as Aria Todd, and is recognized as her father with all parental rights and responsibilities.

Adoptive Parent: Jason Peter Todd Child’s Name (Amended): Aria Todd Birth Mother: (Y/N) Todd Previous Father Listed: Red Hood (Alias) — Amended

Additional Comments: "I’m not the stepdad. I’m the dad who stepped up." — Jason Todd

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@tchatso

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

@that-one-fangirl69

@el-hrts

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd oneshot #red hood x reader #red hood #dc

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crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

Text

W angst 🫡

blink. satoru gojo. angst.

All it takes is a second.

One blink and your life is irrevocably altered into some twisted amalgamation of all the pieces you previously cherished. For you, it wasn't the crash. Not the phone call where you found out your husband was in the hospital recovering. Or even when you showed up and saw him lying there, white hair still tinged pink and lashes fluttering shut, tubes and needles and machines everywhere.

It was the moment he woke up and saw you sitting there holding his hand, when you saw the empty stare behind his eyes as he cocked his head and threw out some cheesy line about buying him dinner first.

Retrograde amnesia.

Gojo didn't know who you were. Not a fucking clue. The last thing he remembered was almost four years ago - far before you had met him. He didn't know your favorite color anymore - what flowers he used to buy on his way home. Couldn't remember how he locked both of you out of his car on the first date, how you stayed up talking for hours on the street instead, his jacket draped over your shoulder and his fingers interlaced with yours.

But he just blankly looked back at you, and you realized for him, he'd pretty much woken up living someone else's life.

You brought home a stranger a few days later.

Someone who scrunched his nose at the furniture he picked out in the place you used to sleep together, who looked at old photo albums and barely blinked. You showed him the one of your wedding, something small and intimate, just his best friends and yours. Told him how he had proposed in the middle of the bedroom the day he bought the ring, too eager to hide it and wait to ask when all he wanted was for you to be his wife.

He tried to love you again.

It was a weak imitation of something that used to be strong.

There was no need burning behind his eyes, no heat in his touch when he held your hand. He didn't even fucking laugh.

For all his proclivity for self-sacrifice, for obligation, he couldn't fake love. Not the type you used to have. Not once it'd been lost.

You slept in the guest room. He didn't have to ask. But you couldn't stand to sleep next to someone who looked at you like you were a mildly inconvenient puzzle he couldn't figure out.

"I'm sorry," He cleared his throat one day, standing in the doorframe while you folded laundry.

"What?" You glanced up at him, and he still made your breath hitch. Still handsome, a new faint scar stretching down near his hairline that you'd seen him frowning at in the mirror.

"For not remembering."

"It's not your fault," You mumbled back, shrugging. Nausea curled in your stomach, and you could feel the spit pooling in the back of your throat, bile threatening to rise next.

"You're easy to love."

But he didn't love you anymore, did he?

You stiffened, nodding and barely able to keep the tears from falling. It felt weird to cry in front of him. This him. Like it'd somehow be unfair. He was the one hurt - you were supposed to be his support system.

Even if he seemed happier with everyone other than you.

When his birthday came, you stupidly assumed maybe he'd be in better spirits if you invited all of his friends over - that maybe it could still feel like it used to.

But none of it did.

Watching from the corner while he warmly greeted the ones he did remember, hugging them and grinning, excitedly chattering and catching up. Blowing out his birthday candles and laughing loudly when Geto made some stupid comment.

You doubted he was wishing for you.

And when you were cleaning up plates, as the last guests were leaving, you heard them.

"It just fucking sucks," Gojo groaned, and Geto tried to say that he still had you, still had the rest of his life, but you could feel your husband's eye roll from the hallway. "Sometimes I wish I hadn't been married, y'know?"

You filed for divorce a week later. Hired movers and got all your stuff out while he was hanging out with him again. Made a binder with all the medical and legal information he might need. Left a note saying that you didn't expect anything, didn't want his money. Just wishing that he was happier without you, that he could heal and choose a new life for himself.

One where you didn't have to be a hope he had to crush.

Why would he mourn a marriage he couldn't even remember?

It would've been easier for you to forget him if you didn't end up staring a positive pregnancy test a few weeks later.

a/n: the evil voices in my head tell me to once again have Sukuna steal his girl and raise his baby and only remember her when it's too late

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo angst #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo

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crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

Text

My heart is SHATTERED (in the best way possible)

THE FALLOUT OF US ❀ tim drake

CW: smut, angst, kidnapping, violence, breakups

it starts quietly. no grand gestures, no music. just the soft chime of the bell above the door, chiming against the wind as a stranger steps into your half-forgotten bookstore on a rainy tuesday night. you didnt look up right away, your focus is on a stack of returns, barcode gun clicking rhythmically, the smell of wet asphalt and paper glue settling in the air. the kind of peace that only comes in the awkward lull between the closing time and the last customer. you barely register the sound of footsteps— soft, careful, as if hes trying not to disturb anything. eventually, you glance over the counter. hes soaked through, hoodie clinging to his shoulders, dark hair plastered to his forehead in a lazy curl-like pattern. tired eyes scann the shelves like hes searching for something. you wonder what book he reads. you speak first. something casual, peeking your head out behind the counter “we close in ten”

he looks up, and then there is a pause. hes handsome, undoubtably so. he looks at you like he is seeing something he didnt expect, as observant as he looks, he didnt seem to notice you behind your desk. he has this light in his eyes, “do you have crimes and punishment?” he asks. you nod, aisle four. he finds it without further help, a few minutes pass. then hes back at the counter, sliding the book across. its a worn paperback, but he acts so delicate with it— handled with such care.

you ring him up, and when you give him the total, he says your name out loud— maybe he read it off the name tag, but wanted to try it on his tongue. it sounds good when he said it. “thanks,” he says, eyes soft, half a smile tugging at his lips. “youve got a great shop.” you dont think about him again until he comes back two days later. then again the next week and again after that.

each visit is small talk. literature, coffee, weather. his name is tim, he has good taste in books, reads them like hes memorizing every sentence. sometimes you catch him staring, but not in a creepy way— in a curious way, youre a puzzle hes still trying to figure out. you dont know when it shifts. maybe the night he brings you a coffee, says it looked like you needed one. maybe the time he lingers past closing, helping you reshelve without being asked. or maybe when you find a note tucked inside one of the books he returned: if you ever want to get dinner instead of pretending were strangers who talk about tolstoy… just say the word

you laugh when you read it. your stomach flips in that stupid, giddy way. you say the word the next time he comes in. dinner turns into more dinners; coffee that lasts until sunrise, his hoodie in your laundry basket, him asleep on your couch with a book on his chest and your cat curled on his stomach. you dont ask too many questions. he works odd hours. disappears for days sometimes but when hes with you, hes with you. he listens like every syllable matters. remembers everything. the way you take your tea, the kind of movies that make you cry, the specific point in your childhood where your heart cracked and never fully healed. he kisses you like youre made of glass, touches you like hes starving. he never stays the night at first. always kisses you goodnight with something unsaid in his eyes. you think maybe hes just scared of getting close.

the headboard slams against the wall again, loud enough that your neighbor might complain later— if they werent already used to the sounds of your love life echoing through thin apartment walls. your breath catches. his fingers are tight in your hair, his name falling from your lips over and over again like a prayer. your breath catches. your fingers are tight in his hair, his name falling from your lips over and over again like a prayer and then its over. the world slows. your skin still buzzing, his body warm and heavy against yours as he collapses on top of you with a satisfied groan. “jesus,” you murmur, voice hoarse, nails tracing lazy shapes into his back. “youre gonna break my bed” he grins into your neck. “wouldnt be the first time.” you laugh. he kisses your collarbone. its perfect, hes perfect and for a long time, thats all that matters. the relationship is a ember that never stops glowing.

you spend your weekdays wrapped in domestic softness— coffee in chipped mugs, shared playlists, folding laundry while he tells you stories in that quiet, sleepy voice of his. your weekends become sacred: friday nights at your favorite diner, saturday evenings spent tangled in bed or curled up watching old noir movies, sundays sleeping in until noon and the sex— god, the sex. its always fantastic. sometimes sweet. sometimes rough. sometimes he touches you like youre a miracle, like he doesnt know how he got this lucky, like hes scared itll disappear if he blinks.

you feel safe, wanted, seen. he listens like nobody else ever has. he calls you sweetheart, angel, babe— his voice gentle even when hes teasing. he brings you your favorite snacks when youve had a bad day. he holds you through your nightmares like hes anchoring you to the earth. you think you could love him forever but there are little things. things that dont quite make sense. hes strong— too strong. that night in february when someone tried to rob the grocery store while you were both inside, you froze. he didnt. within seconds, the guy was on the ground, groaning, knife skidding across the floor. tim didnt even look surprised. just grabbed your hand, muttered, “lets go,” and pulled you outside like it was nothing. you shouldve been scared. but instead, you were turned on. adrenaline mixing with awe. he was calm, efficient, protective in a way that made your chest ache. and when you asked how he knew what to do, he just shrugged. “self-defense class, took it a couple years ago in college.”

you believed him, correction; you wanted to believe him. his sleep schedule was another thing, erratic and fractured. hed disappear at midnight, then show up again at 3am, tapping on your window like some kind of lovesick raccoon. “couldnt sleep,” hed whisper, lips brushing your jaw. “just wanted to see you.” sometimes hed stay long enough to fall into bed with you, trailing kisses across your skin and leaving before dawn. other times hed leave as soon as he came, brushing your hair back and mumbling something about a night shift at his adoptive fathers company.

“just paperwork,” hed say. “boring stuff.”

you never saw him some days. he didnt talk about work. didnt bring you around his family. didnt post anything online but he was always there when you needed him— late night calls, early morning visits, days where you felt like your lungs were full of glass and he showed up with your favorite tea and didnt ask questions. you let the inconsistencies slide because you were happy. because he made you feel like the center of something and maybe, deep down, you didnt want to pull at the thread that would unravel everything. maybe you already knew the truth was going to hurt. but for now— hes kissing your shoulder, fingers tracing circles on your thigh, murmuring something soft and sleepy about staying just a little longer.

you notice it before he even says hello. the bruise blooms dark and ugly across the edge of his cheekbone, purpling beneath one eye, angry and swollen like someone took a sucker punch to his face. he walks through your door like its nothing, the same tired smile on his lips, hands in his jacket pockets like hes not hurting, like this is just another tuesday. but your stomach drops. “tim” you whisper, rushing toward him. your hand lifts before you can think, instinct pulling you to cup his face, to check the damage, to hold him like that would somehow take the pain away.

but he stops you. fingers close gently around your wrist. not rough. not cold. just firm enough to make you freeze. his eyes meet yours— tired, a little hollow, but soft in a way that makes your heart ache. “…if i was keeping something from you,” he says slowly, deliberately, “to protect you… would you forgive me?” the words land heavy in the air. heavier than the bruise. heavier than his silence. your brow furrows. “what?” he swallows, doesnt let go of your wrist. doesnt look away. you try to smile, lighten it— because thats what you do when things feel off. “well… that depends. what could you possibly be hiding?” his expression shifts, just slightly. guilt. something unspoken. something trembling behind his eyes.

“…just answer, please.”

you pause. and despite the confusion swirling in your chest, despite the whisper of fear curling up your spine, you nod. “i think i would. if it was for the greater good. if it was really about protecting me.” his shoulders relax just a little. he finally releases your wrist, but takes your hand instead, holding it with both of his, bringing it up to his bruised cheek. he presses his face into your palm. and your heart breaks for him, just a little. “thank you,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “thats all i needed to know.” you dont ask what he means, he would tell you when he is ready. that was the comfort you told yourself.

after that night, things feel heavier. not in a bad way— more like gravity started pulling a little harder. like the world shifted slightly, just enough to notice, but not enough to break anything. he doesnt talk about the bruise. doesnt explain where it came from. and you dont push. not because youre scared of the answer— but because of the way he held your hand to his face like it was a lifeline. like your touch was the only thing keeping him grounded.

that kind of vulnerability is rare. you dont dare treat it carelessly. so life goes on. you fall into a rhythm again. small, tender rituals that belong only to the two of you. he brings you coffee before work, the order memorized to the exact amount of cream. you drag him to the farmers market on sundays, mock-bickering over fresh herbs and overpriced jam. he leaves little notes in your books when he borrows them— quotes underlined with messages in the margins, things like “this line reminded me of you” or “i hope you never doubt how loved you are.”

hes not big on social media. doesnt take pictures often. but one night, when youre brushing your teeth, you catch him watching you from the bed— shirtless, half under the blanket, hair messy from your fingers. “what?” you ask around your toothbrush, cheeks puffed. he shrugs, but theres that little smile again— the one that never quite reaches his eyes, but still makes you melt.

“just thinking,” he says, “how lucky i am.”

you roll your eyes, spit into the sink, and say, “you should feel lucky. im amazing.” he laughs, and its the good kind— the kind that crinkles his eyes, the kind that makes you feel like you just won something you didnt even know you were competing for.

he pulls you back to bed and wraps himself around you like youre his entire world. sometimes he sneaks in at night. always through your window, never your door. it should be strange, but by now, its normal. part of the charm. youre half-asleep when you hear the soft click of the lock and the gentle creak of the windowsill, followed by the familiar weight dipping the mattress beside you. “hey,” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. “miss me?”

you hum, eyes still closed. “always.”

he kisses you slow. like hes got nowhere to be, even though you both know he does. sometimes he stays long enough to fall asleep. other times, he just holds you, murmurs that he loves you, that youre beautiful, that he dreams about a life where hes just tim, and youre just his. he never tells you what hes running off to. only that its important. that hell be careful. that hell always come back. you believe him. because he always does. and in the daylight, when he makes you breakfast in your kitchen shirtless, humming under his breath as he burns the toast, everything feels right.

safe. warm. full of laughter. you curl up on the couch together afterward, legs tangled, coffee cups resting on your knees. he reads to you sometimes. voice low, smooth, a little hoarse from lack of sleep. you listen, fingers tracing absent patterns on his forearm, wondering how you got so lucky. he was perfect in every way. at least, in the way that matters most. sure, he had flaws or odd habits— but who didnt?

but then it happened. it starts small, a mere sliver of doubt, a slant in the light.

youre looking for your phone charger— swearing you left it plugged in beside the couch— when you notice the drawer to his nightstand is slightly ajar. you wouldnt normally snoop. you trust him, you love him but something about it makes you pause. you hesitate, then open it wider. and there it is; a black domino mask. matte, thin, simple. the kind youve seen on tv. on news clips; on heroes. you pick it up like its going to bite you. its real, flexible, smooth in your hands. molded to a face you know better than your own. tims. your stomach drops. your first instinct is denial. maybe its a costume. maybe its a joke.

your second instinct is sharper, and you were no fool, it tells you something youve been ignoring for a long time: hes lying to you. you put the mask back exactly where it was. close the drawer. sit on the bed and stare at your hands for what feels like hours. you just think. you dont say anything that night when he comes through your window, late and breathless. his hoodie smells like cologne and gun powder. he kisses your cheek. holds you like nothings changed. you let him because you still love him. he must have a good reason, to protect you, to put you at ease— anything. you smile and ask about his night. he lies through his teeth and you let him.

the next afternoon, you go looking for answers. hes at “work,” which could mean anything now. the words echo in your head with a bitter edge. work. as if the man who climbs through your window at two am with bruised ribs and blood on his knuckles is just filing spreadsheets or attending board meetings.

you start slow. the bookshelf, the kitchen drawers, the pockets of the old coat he keeps on the hook near your door. nothing. his phone is face-down on the counter, locked with a passcode youve never been told. his laptop requires a fingerprint you dont have. everything about him— so careful, so locked down— starts to feel less like mystery and more like walls. your stomach twists. you check the bathroom, open the cabinet beneath the sink. razors, first aid supplies, aspirin, a few things out of place. bandages with red stains shoved in the bottom of the trash can. a bottle of antiseptic nearly empty. bruises you never asked about, explanations that never quite added up. your hands start to shake.

you move to the bedroom. check the nightstand again, the drawer with the domino mask— the one you put back exactly where it was. its gone now. the silence in the apartment is unbearable. youre standing in the living room, pacing. pulse loud in your ears. you glance toward the door. the windows. you feel watched. exposed. like maybe you already crossed a line you shouldnt have. the door creaks behind you. you turn, but not fast enough. a hand slams over your mouth.

strong fast; gloved fingers press against your jaw as your body is yanked back hard against a firm chest. your scream dies in your throat, muffled. your eyes go wide. adrenaline surges as you twist, kick, try to break free. your nails dig into cloth, then skin you hear someone hiss, a curse under their breath. “shhh, shh, shhh,” a voice purrs at your ear. smooth. unfamiliar. cruel. “youre gonna ruin the surprise.” you struggle harder. your hearts racing, lungs burning then something sharp and wet is pressed against your nose and mouth. it smells sweet. sickly. chemical. you know instantly what it is. your limbs go weak. your hands slow. the fight drains from your body like water slipping through cracks. the room starts to blur. the ceiling tilts. your knees buckle but the arms around you hold you up.

your vision doubles, triples. the world spins like a carousel on fire. you try to scream, but its too late. “there she goes,” the voice whispers, and then someone else laughs. high, wild, unhinged. a sound that doesnt belong in your apartment. a sound that doesnt belong anywhere. you feel fingers brush hair from your face. almost gentle. “pretty little thing,” the voice drawls. “hes going to be so upset.” the last thing you hear is your name— spoken like a mockery, followed by a giggle that spirals into hysterics. and now; darkness.

tim knows somethings wrong the second he steps through the door. the lock clicks too easily. the lights are off, but not in the way you leave them when youre out. your keys are on the counter. your mug— still half-full with cold tea sits beside the sink. the smell of your lotion hangs in the air. you were just here but the air feels wrong. off. like a ghost passed through. he calls your name. quiet at first, then louder. his voice echoes back to him.

nothing.

his blood goes cold. his steps are careful, measured, but his heart pounds in his ears like gunfire. he starts checking corners, scanning for signs. the apartment looks untouched, too neat. like something cleaned up fast. he spots your phone first on the floor near the couch. screen cracked, lying face-down. he crouches beside it, heart in his throat. checks for messages. nothing sent. no missed calls.

you didnt even have time to scream.

then he notices the rug, the way one corner is curled slightly, and the faint scuff on the wall. like someone was dragged. then, near the edge of the coffee table— something glinting white against the hardwood. a playing card. at first, he doesnt move. his brain stops. but then he reaches for it slowly, like its radioactive. its from a cheap deck— one he remembers seeing in your kitchen drawer, something you used for card games on rainy nights. fifty-two cards, red and black. this ones different. this ones been marked.

the joker card. smiling wide. smeared faintly with something red— ink, or maybe worse. and on the back, written in a messy scrawl that makes tims blood run cold: “dont worry, shes still smiling” his grip tightens. the card bends beneath his fingers. he stares at it for a second too long— until he feels the sharp burn of panic fighting through the calm. he doesnt realize hes shaking until he tries to pull out his comm. “oracle,” he says, voice lower than it should be, flat. a beat. then static, then her voice, sharp and immediate. “what happened?” he holds the card in front of him, breath shallow. “he has her.” barbara doesnt need to ask who.

“…joker?”

“yes. he left a message.”

“tim—”

“i need eyes on every street cam within a ten-block radius. freight yards. shipping warehouses. anywhere hes used before. pull old maps. contact selina if you have to. anyone who knows his movements. he wouldnt just vanish— he wants me to find him.” his tone is clipped, surgical. but underneath, hes burning. screaming.

he disconnects before she can say more. he tears the hidden compartment open beneath your couch. the emergency suit is there, black and red, waiting like a second skin. he changes fast. he doesnt have the luxury of taking his time. he only has rage and purpose. he stares down at the joker card one last time before slipping it into the compartment of his gauntlet. when he finds joker, there will be no mercy. not this time, he doesnt care what bruce thinks.

tim moves through the shadows like hes part of them. the warehouse is old, condemned on record. too far out from gothams usual chaos to draw attention. no power on the grid, no guards at the perimeter. but tim knows better. he finds the first lookout posted on a catwalk. silent takedown. one hand over the mouth, one press to the nerve cluster in the neck. the body crumples quietly behind a stack of rotting crates.

the next one doesnt even see him coming. every motion is clean, efficient, rehearsed. but this time theres no detachment— no cold professionalism. every step, every takedown, brings him closer to you. his scanner flickers with movement signatures. nothing, just hired muscle, a few goons with more bravado than brains. its almost insulting. jokers not here anymore. the deeper he gets into the warehouse, the quieter it becomes. no music or laughter. just the hum of overhead lights and the occasional echo of dripping water.

its too quiet. tim turns a corner and the sight stops him cold. there you are. tied to a metal chair. slumped over, you cant even hold your weight anymore. your arms are bruised, rope cutting into the skin at your wrists. blood drips slowly from your nose. one eye swollen shut. lip split. your shirt is torn near the shoulder, smudged with dirt and blood. his knees nearly give out.

“no no no”

he doesnt remember crossing the distance. one second hes staring, paralyzed— the next hes dropping to his knees in front of you, hands trembling as they reach for your face. “hey— hey, baby, im here,” he breathes. “im here, youre okay, youre safe now. ive got you.” your head lifts slightly at the sound of his voice, like youre underwater. one eye cracks open. you try to speak, but the words dont come out. he cups your cheeks, being careful of your eye. his eyes are filled with regret— he hated this. seeing you hurt because of him. realistically, he knows youll never blame him, but he will always blame himself. what kind of hero was he if he couldnt save the one person he loves? he scans the area as he cuts through your restraints, eyes darting for traps, clues, anything. but theres no sign of joker. not even a shadow. hes already gone.

coward.

as soon as the last rope slips away, you fall into him. tim catches you instantly, wrapping his arms around your body, pulling you into his chest. he shields your head with his hand, fingers splayed protectively over your hair. his breath hitches against your temple. “im so sorry,” he chokes. “im so sorry. i shouldve— i shouldve known. i shouldve told you.” youre too weak to answer.

he presses his lips to your hair, your temple, anywhere he can reach that isnt bruised. “im gonna get you out of here, okay? then were going to the cave. youre gonna be safe. i swear to god, i wont let him near you again.” he picks you up slowly, gently, like youll shatter if hes too rough. you curl into him with a sound hell hear in his nightmares forever.

youre in his bedroom. not the sterile guest suite down the hall, but his actual room— the one that barely looks lived in. it smells faintly of clean laundry, old books, and something sharper underneath. like he doesnt sleep here often. like the space resents being disturbed. but the bed is warm. soft sheets. heavy comforter. a thick silence that settles over you both like snowfall.

youre curled on your side, back against his chest. your body still aches, but its bearable. better than it looks. the bruises will fade. the swelling in your eye is down. youre not bleeding anymore. but theres a hollowness in your chest you dont know how to fill. tim lays beside you, one arm draped over your waist, fingers trailing up and down your spine in slow, steady lines. like hes memorizing your shape. like if he stops touching you, youll disappear. his breath is warm against the back of your neck. youre the one who finally speaks. “…so youre red robin, huh?” your voice is dry. raw. not as light as you want it to be. his hand pauses. then moves again. slower now.

“yes,” he says, simply. just that. no excuses. no qualifiers. your eyes sting. you press your face harder into the pillow, trying not to think too hard about how different everything feels now. like someone pulled back the curtain on your perfect little life and showed you the war outside the window. “you lied to me.” hes silent for a long time. when he answers, his voice is quiet. small. “i didnt want this to hurt you” you inhale through your nose. your ribs twinge.

“it still did.” he lets out a breath like hes breaking open. you shift onto your back, turning your head toward him. the room is dim, the curtains drawn. moonlight cuts through the gap, painting stripes across his face. he looks younger like this. not red robin. not the strategist. not the soldier. just tim. and he looks wrecked. you reach up slowly, fingertips brushing his jaw, tracing the dark stubble there. his eyes close like the touch hurts. then, wordlessly, you kiss him. its not hard. not desperate. not passionate. just real. soft. slow. trembling. a way to forget. his hand finds your waist, but he doesnt pull you closer. he just holds you like that, mouth against yours, breathing through the ache in both your chests.

but the longer your lips linger on his, the more the quiet dissolves into something heavier. more aching. more real. your hand drifts up, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing over warm skin. his stomach tenses under your touch, muscles taut, like he didnt expect it. but he doesnt pull away. he kisses you again, deeper this time. like hes trying to memorize the way your mouth moves against his. like youre both on borrowed time. your palm rests on his chest now, right over his heartbeat. steady. strong. still human, despite everything you know now. your other hand finds its way to his back, slipping under the fabric there too, fingertips tracing the ridges of old scars. you feel him shiver against you. he breaks the kiss with a soft, shaky breath. his eyes search yours in the dark.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low, rasping. you freeze for a second. just breathing. his hand is on your waist, steadying you like hes afraid you might slip away again. you close your eyes. “…yes,” you whisper. “i just want to forget, okay?” your voice cracks at the end. “make me forget please”

he doesnt say anything. just nods. then he climbs on top of you, slow and careful, bracing his weight so he doesnt press against any of your bruises. the way he looks down at you is so full of love and guilt and desperation it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. his lips find your throat, kissing down the side of your neck with a reverence that breaks your heart. you gasp quietly when his mouth grazes a bruise near your collarbone, yet he doesnt rush. he just stays there for a moment, lips lingering like an apology.

your fingers tangle into his hair, soft and messy from the cowl. you pull him closer— not hard, not urgent— just needy. your chest rises beneath his with every shaky breath. his hand trails down your side, over the curve of your hip, grounding you. this isnt about sex. not really. its about closeness. about having something solid to hold onto when the world has torn everything else away. about pressing your bodies together like maybe you can shut out everything outside this room.

for a little while, you do.

his hands are gentle— oh so gentle— as he helps you out of your clothes. you let him, breath shaky as he peels away the layers. his fingertips brush against your side and you whimper— sharp and instinctive when he accidentally grazes a deep bruise just below your rib. he freezes instantly. his eyes flash to yours, wide with guilt, voice hoarse. “sorry— im sorry—”

but before you can answer, he lowers his head and presses the softest kiss over the mark. another, slower one just beneath it. like hes making amends. like hes trying to kiss away the pain he couldnt stop. you close your eyes, hand still in his hair, chest fluttering with something you dont quite have the words for. your body aches, but not in the way it did before. now its warm. tender. trembling beneath the weight of being seen and held and wanted, even like this— bruised and shaken and imperfect. he tosses your shirt aside, then your underwear, discarded quietly to the floor, but theres no rush in his movements. just this soft, breaking kind of worship.

tim shifts down the bed, settling between your thighs with a slow breath like hes grounding himself in you. his hands trail up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing tenderly over the inner skin as he looks up at you. his face is close. you feel his breath first— warm, reverent and your stomach tightens. your fingers tighten in the sheets, your hips twitch just slightly, needing something. anything. his voice is low, wrecked. “tell me if its too much,” he murmurs. “if anything hurts— tell me.” you nod, already breathless. his hands settle on your hips. and then he leans in slow, as if he has all the time in the world to make you forget every bad thing that ever touched you.

his breath is warm against your skin— close, deliberate, patient. you feel the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in his hands as they anchor your hips gently. his eyes flick up, locking with yours, and something in your chest folds in on itself. this isnt about lust, not really. its about comfort. letting yourself be touched in a world that just tried to break you apart. “tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, voice low, steady. you shake your head, breath catching. “dont stop.” he nods once then lowers his mouth to you. your fingers tangle in the sheets, breath stuttering as his tongue brushes over your most sensitive spot— soft, slow, careful. your bruised body tenses, then melts. his hands dont hold you down. they cradle you like hes not doing this to take— hes doing it to give. to soothe and he does. he works you open with his mouth, the world narrowing to the heat of him between your thighs, the tenderness in every movement. you arch with a gasp when he finds just the right pressure— his name slipping from your lips like prayer.

you let him love you this way first. let the tremble in your legs and the sting in your throat fade into the heat building inside you. your thighs squeezing his head, fingers tangled in his hair as he suckled on your clit. you threw your head back, cumming on his tongue. he lapped it all up, pulling away with a few stings of cum connecting him.

his weight settles over you slowly, carefully. hes all warm skin and soft kisses, trailing up your ribs, your shoulder, your throat. his hands never stop moving— stroking, steadying, making sure you feel held. loved. safe. you do, you really do, at first. the rhythm is gentle, nothing rushed. every movement deliberate. he moves like hes still making up for all the bruises you shouldnt have, for every second he was too late and it feels good. your body responds like its supposed to. the friction, the warmth, the breathy sighs he presses into your skin. your thighs squeeze around his waist, your fingers dig lightly into his back. you kiss him and it feels like something sacred.

your mind slips. you dont mean for it to.

but something in your chest starts to close. not from pain, not from fear— just distance. like your body is there, still moving, still responding but your thoughts are far away; blurred floating, youre looking at the ceiling. theres a smudge up in the corner. dust maybe or paint. you cant tell. your eyes lock on it, and your ears start to ring faintly. the sound of his breathing grows muffled. his voice, whispers against your skin. “you okay, baby?” you dont answer right away. your throats too tight. his hips roll again, and your body shudders but not from pleasure this time.

he doesnt notice.

his head is buried in your neck, mouth brushing the curve of your jaw. he thinks the stutter in your breath is part of it that the silence is overwhelmed ecstasy. you want to say something. but the words get stuck behind your teeth and you dont want to ruin this. ruin him. hes trying so hard. you asked him to help you forget, but your mind keeps torturing you. your body doesnt feel your own. your brain is gone. floating somewhere just behind the memory of the ropes, the laughter, the helplessness. the way your wrists had burned when you fought and couldnt get away. your bodys still here but youre not, and he doesnt see it. to busy on making you feel good. your gaze is still fixed on that smudge in the ceiling corner. its nothing— just a stain, a shadow but your mind clings to it like an anchor. has that always been there? everything else is fog. distant, muffled. like youre watching yourself from across the room. his breath is hot against your neck. his voice low, broken with love. “god, you feel so good…”

you hear him, but it feels like its happening to someone else. the movement, the rhythm. your hands still in his hair, your legs still wrapped around his hips. youre reacting, but not present. you float. you remember the way the chair groaned when you shifted. the sting in your shoulder. the laughter behind you— bright and high and inhuman. you blink, and the image is gone.

just him now. tim, whose body is warm and solid and real. you blink again and suddenly— you feel it. the way your muscles tighten. the way your hips twitch without you meaning to. the soft, involuntary gasp that slips past your lips as a wave of sensation crests fast and sharp, shaking you from the fog like ice water to the face. your body arches. your nails press into his back. “tim,” you breathe. your voice cracks on the second syllable and it hits you how long its been since you said his name like that. he lifts his head instantly; eyes wide. worried. breathless. “im here— im here, baby. you with me?”

you nod. desperate. frantic. “dont stop. just— just stay with me. im here now.” his expression shifts, softens into something so devastatingly tender it makes your throat close. he kisses you— slow, grounding, like he wants to feel every second of you coming back to him.and when you finally unravel, gasping, trembling, real, its with his name on your lips and his arms around your body like a shelter. youre not floating anymore. youre right here and hes still holding you. your breathing comes in slow, uneven pulls. your body still shakes beneath him— not from pleasure anymore, but from something else. something you only just clawed your way back from. tim kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your eye where tears threaten to slip loose.

“youre okay,” he murmurs. “ive got you. ive got you.”

you nod, but your throats tight. everythings tight— your chest, your shoulders, your hands clenched in the sheets like youre bracing for something that already passed. he notices. his hands go still, then shift gently, one cradles your waist, the other brushes the hair from your damp forehead. “…hey,” he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. your eyes flick up to meet his. and he sees it. the look. the lingering haze of dissociation, of fear not fully processed. the way you werent really with him until the very end. “you left me for a second,” he whispers. not accusing. not hurt. just… understanding. deeply, heartbreakingly understanding. you try to speak your voice catches. you swallow it down. “i didnt mean to,” you say quietly, fingers clinging to his arm like its the only thing tethering you to earth.

“i know,” he says instantly. “i know. its okay.” hes already pulling the blanket over both of you. already easing you into his chest, wrapping you up like he can protect you from the memory. like warmth and weight and steady breath can undo what happened hours ago. “youre safe now,” he says again, almost like a lullaby. “youre safe, baby. you did so good.” your forehead presses to his neck. a few tears slip out anyway, wetting his collarbone. his hand strokes slowly down your back. up again. again. a rhythm. a reminder. “im here. ive got you.” he doesnt try to talk too much, doesnt try to fix it. just stays. solid. steady. you stay like that for a long time— wrapped in sheets and skin and silence. and eventually, when the shaking stops, when your body relaxes just enough to breathe without fear, you whisper against his skin, “thank you.” he kisses the crown of your head. “always.” you fall asleep in his arms. your body, still aching but sated, finally lets go. exhaustion pulls you under; warm sheets, steady heartbeat, the low hum of his breath against your hair. for a while, the darkness is kind. it wraps you up in quiet, no pain, no fear— just peace.

but it doesnt last. not for long. the dream starts slow. youre back in that chair but this time, tim isnt coming. the ropes bite harder. your arms burn. your throat is dry, too dry to scream. the lights overhead flicker and buzz, too bright, and you squint through the blur of blood dripping into your eye. joker is laughing again. closer this time. “hes not coming for you,” he sing-songs. his voice echoes like a childs music box, too bright, too sharp. “our little birds probably dead. how tragic.” you thrash, panic bubbling in your lungs like acid. the ropes wont budge. the more you struggle, the more everything burns. and then you see him.

tim. you see him standing just across the room— Red Robin. blood on his suit. his mask cracked. eyes wide, breathing hard but he doesnt move. he doesnt come. you scream for him. beg. please, timplease— joker lifts something silver, grinning. “lets see how well your boyfriend handles guilt.” the last thing you feel is cold steel against your throat and then darkness.

you wake up choking on a sob. your body jerks upright in the dark, breath shattering as the nightmare clings to you. your skin slick with sweat, your heart punching through your ribs like its trying to escape. your hands shake. you press your palms into your face, trying to hold yourself together, but youre already unraveling.

you cry. not soft, not quiet— you break. the sound that leaves you is jagged, raw. it rips through the silence like a wound splitting open. tim wakes instantly. “hey— hey, its okay—” he moves to sit up, arms reaching for you instinctively, voice still thick with sleep. “im here, ive got you—” you slap his hands away. harder than you mean to. he freezes mid-motion, eyes wide.

“…baby?” his voice cracks, barely above a whisper. you cant even look at him. youre still shaking. still curled in on yourself like something inside is splintering, one piece at a time. your chest heaves with every breath you cant quite take. “tim…” your voice is hoarse. you drag your hands down your face. your throat is tight. you swallow the next words but they come anyway. “i— I think we need to break up.” the silence that follows is unbearable. he stares at you like you just tore out his heart. his face goes pale, mouth open, like he wants to speak, like he has to say something but nothing comes out. he just sits there. breathing. not blinking.

“…what?” he says finally, so quiet it doesnt sound real. you look at him now. really look. and it hurts. his hair is a mess. there are dark circles under his eyes. his shirt is rumpled. he looks like a boy who hasnt slept, who hasnt stopped blaming himself since the second he found you tied to that chair. but none of that changes what you saw in the dream. what almost happened in real life. what will happen again, if you stay. you shake your head slowly, voice trembling. “i cant keep pretending this is normal. that what happened wasnt... youre out there every night risking your life. and now im part of it. i didnt sign up for this. i didnt know. im not like you, strong like you. what if joker goes after me again? what if he kills me” his lips part like hes going to fight, argue, beg. “i would never let him hurt you again” he looks like hes breaking. you feel your heart cracking straight down the middle. he reaches for your hand and you let him.

but you keep going. because if you stop now, youll never say it. “i love you,” you whisper, like an apology. “but im not safe with you.” his hands curl into fists in the sheets. jaw clenched. still not speaking. because what could he say that would make this okay? to make you stay with him. he knew he fucked up, knew he caused you pain by lying and then failing to protect you. still, he was selfish. he didnt want you to leave but he couldnt see you cry knowing it was from him. so that was it; you were both over forever. you dont pack much. you hadnt really brought anything to the manor in the first place. just the clothes you were wearing when he carried you in. everything else— your toothbrush, your favorite sweater, your half-finished book on his nightstand. it all feels… wrong now. like it belongs to someone else. a version of you that believed in soft secrets and safe love. you pull on your jeans with shaking hands. the bruise on your hip twinges when you move too fast, but you dont stop.

tim doesnt move. he sits on the edge of the bed, silent, watching you from across the room. he doesnt say your name. doesnt reach for you again. just watches, like his heart is cracking behind his ribs, and he doesnt want to make it worse by begging you to stay. you zip your jacket. wipe your face one last time. your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “…i dont hate you nor do i blame you.”

his eyes lift. you dont know what youre expecting. a nod? a plea? a broken whisper of your name? but all he does is blink and say so quietly it almost hurts “i know.” you bite down on your bottom lip to stop it from trembling. your fingers twitch by your sides. you want to touch him. one last time. his hair, his hand, the corner of his mouth, where you used to press soft kisses after waking up tangled in his sheets. you want him to hold you, but how can you? you just broke his heart and now youre planning to leave over something that was out of his control. but if you do, youll never leave. so you dont.

you step toward the door. your socks are soft against the hardwood. the doorknob is cold. “goodbye, tim,” you whisper, voice barely audible. his throat works around the words he doesnt say. “…goodbye.”

you close the door gently behind you. no slamming, no yelling, just silence. and youre gone and hes alone in the room where you made love last night. where you cried in his arms, where he held you through your nightmares and its never felt so empty. tim presses his hands to his face and finally lets himself fall apart.

✿ MASTERLIST

🐥 taglist;; @zhentheraven @justannie18 @vdkaredbullsblog

#tim drake x reader #dc comics #dc x reader #red robin x reader #tim drake #red robin

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crazyfoxyarcade · 2 months ago

Text

SHE DOES, MINE

SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Alternate Universe, Romance, Fluff, Implied Dick x Kori, Implied Tim x Kon

🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself

🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it

🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.

There’s something in her—

Something radiant.

It’s not loud or dramatic.

Not desperate or flashy.

It’s just… bright.

The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.

Damian fell in love with that brightness.

And the moment he did?

He made it his job to protect it.

One Year Ago

He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.

So she didn’t.

She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.

They weren’t dating then. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.

They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.

He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.

She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.

Both were right.

But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.

He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.

One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”

When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.

He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.

They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love

There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.

But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.

For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.

It drove him insane.

He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.

He kept coming back. And she let him.

Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.

She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”

He stared.

She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”

Now

Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not in battle. Not in love.

So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.

He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.

He didn’t accidentally fall in love.

He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.

And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.

So yes.

The only logical next step?

Move out. Take her with him.

“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”

She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.

“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.

“It’s Dior.”

“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”

She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”

“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.

“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”

He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.

The residence is technically still in Gotham.

Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.

A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light.

The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.

There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.

Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

She’s silent for a long moment. Then:

“You decorated.”

“Tt. I’m not a savage.”

The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.

Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication.

He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.

Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.

It starts small.

She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Damian walks in.

Pauses. Frowns slightly.

“Beloved.”

“Hmm?”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”

“Still.”

Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.

No explanation.

Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.

“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.

“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”

She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.

Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.

Avocados? Already sliced.

Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.

Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.

She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.

The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs.

“You know I can cook, right?” she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent.

Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.”

She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to.

The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.

The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?

Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?

Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?

It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it

—or Damian Wayne.

He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing.

There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.

“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.

“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”

She doesn’t clean.

Not because she’s lazy.

Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.

The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.

The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.

There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen.

The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.

She tried to vacuum once.

He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.

“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.

“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”

“Priorities?”

“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”

She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”

“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.

The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.

She asked him once.

“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.

“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”

He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.

“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.

“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”

“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You protect me.”

He said it like a fact.

And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.

It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.

But the thing about Damian Wayne was—

To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.

If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.

“But Damian—”

“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”

One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.

Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.

She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.

“We are having words,” she said firmly.

“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.

“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”

He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.

Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—

But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.

And she always did. Every time.

“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.

She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”

It makes her happy, he knows.

To help.

To protect him the way he protects her.

To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.

And because he has her…

He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.

He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.

“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”

So he does.

Because she keeps him steady.

Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.

From the silence that used to follow him home.

It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.

She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”

The Gotham Partners Support Group™ hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice

KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!! KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades DICK: lies, you love it

She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.

Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.

Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”

Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.

There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.

And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.

Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.

“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”

Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”

Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.

Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”

“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”

Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”

“I like options.”, she beams.

Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.

Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.

Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.

And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.

They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.

Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.

“So you really don’t cook?”

“Nope.”

“Or clean?”

“Not once.”

“And Damian doesn’t mind?”

Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.

“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”

Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.

“So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”

The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.

Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.

“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.

Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”

“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”

Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”

Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”

Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—

But the foundation of his worldview?

That was all Talia al Ghul.

“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”

His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.

“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”

Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.

Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”

Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”

“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.

Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”

Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:

Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”

“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”

And somehow, that was the final punctuation.